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Sunday, April 17, 2016

If I wrote the next Star Wars film...

STAR WARS:
Max Rebo, Sithym and Blues

Some days you get the blues, and some days, the blues get you.
See that sexy, blue pachyderm, banging away on the keys, feeling the music flow through him like nothing else matters - because it doesn't? That's me. That's Max. Once, I was the hottest night club act in the Outer Rim. Now, I'm playing platform six in the Coruscant subway. No credits, no love, just a scar across my trunk where a hooker slashed me, and a parade of ex wives who would have paid her for the privilege.

I had a pretty good gig on Tattoine, back in the old days. I played Jabba's palace. Our music was so good, that when we played, Jabba would even let his girlfriends get down and funky with the Rancor. If they'd run off with it, he'd just shrug, and get a new one. Can't be jealous when there's good music. That was Jabba. Then, some teenagers and their droids came in, and shot the place up. Why? Everyone in this galaxy gets so caught up in masks, who froze who, who's whose daddy... light side, dark side- who cares? There's always going to be someone swinging a light saber, always going to be guys in armor shooting... that's not what this story is about, because that's not what life's about. It's all about the music. There ain't no good guy, there ain't no bad guy, there's just you and me, and Sy Snootles can kiss my blue trunk.

You want to tell me about love? I was in love, once. She was so fine, Wookies used her face to comb for lice. We just used to talk and talk, until the morning birds yelled at us to shut up. Every morning, when I hear birds, I think of her. I wish I could tell her that I think she is good, I'll alway hope her life is good, and that I'm all good. But I can't, because she found religion, and ran off to get sacrificed to a Mynock cult. That's the way it goes. One day you're in love, next day, she's Mynock kibbles. I even wrote a song about it, called, "One Day You're In Love, Next Day, She's Mynock Kibbles." But I was down on my luck, and I sold the rights. Then, Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes covered it, upped the tempo, and changed the name to "Mad About Me." No soul, man, no soul.

Because in the end, all you have is the music. You want to know what loneliness is? It's not being some green, big-eared Muppet, all alone on a swamp planet, waiting for some kid to show up and get his ass wupped into shape. Loneliness is being a drop of oil in an ocean, surrounded by water drops who all want to be together, all laughing and playing and being at home - because they're water. And here you are, in the middle of them, but you're a blue blob of oil, so you're never really a part of it. All you can do is watch through your impermeable surface tension, and pretend, because they're perfectly happy whether you're there or not. That's what the music is. It's a way to make me forget I'm pretending.

So there I was, just out of a job, because, like I said, some uppity kids burned Jabba's palace to the ground. Sy had left me to go solo, and I was feeling lower than a Nerf herder on Life Day, when who should come knocking on my door, but the glamorous Mon Mothma herself. Now, don't tell anyone I told you, but Mothma liked to slum around on Tattoine, whenever her wife would go away on business. Just another high-class girl who needed her regular, nasty fix of Big Blue. She gave me a long, deep kiss on the trunk, looked down at me with her big, elegant, arrogant eyes, and said "Max, how would you like to make a dishonest living?"

(To be continued...)