Oh, man. This is exciting, but I also feel a sense of creeping dread, as though I’m trapped in some sort of interdimensional cineplex of televisual entertainments and, after strange ages of wondering among endless theaters showing long-form serialized dramas of violence and disturbance and vague supernatural malevolence, I’ve just brushed aside yet a crimson curtain and walked into the room where I first met that backwards-talking dwarf.
Over New Years’, Coeur d’Alene made national news when the barista at a roadside espresso stand thwarted an armed robbery by pulling out the pistol her husband had given her for Christmas. In a true Twin Peaks moment, the teenage robber was arrested by a deputy sheriff who had just picked up his morning coffee at the same place moments earlier.
That pretty much encapsulates the neck of the woods I live in – the trappings of the Pacific Northwest (viz, ubiquitous drive-through espresso joints) mingled with the last dregs of the Wild West. Twin Peaks is closer to being a documentary than anyone from other parts of the country can ever understand.
David Lynch directed Return of the Jedi. In our universe, he turned down the job when George Lucas offered it to him.
The mind reels. Would the forest moon of Endor have been covered in Douglas firs? Would Luke have had visions of midgets? Would there be vague references to Eastern mysticism, and gruesome exploitation of women? In short … would it have been all that different? Meanwhile, in this universe, someone is probably working on a Jedi–Blue Velvet mashup at this very moment.