I love Star Wars. My first crush was on Han Solo. What a hottie. Love that cocksure attitude, the way he handled the Millennium Falcon, the way he answered Princess Leia’s confession of “I love you” with “I know,” as he’s being lowered into carbonite.
The movies are fantastic with the classic good guy/bad guy stuff. Redemption. Father/son drama. Lovers quarrels. So earnest in their story-telling. And I love that they are so entertaining for all ages, with no swearing, sex, or intense violence. Not an ounce of blood or a gratuitous boob shot. Cinematic masterpiece.
My sisters, my dad and I would watch a Star Wars movie or Indiana Jones or Disney movie (a rotation of Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, or Lion King) pretty much every weekend. My dad lives in Georgia now, and I have two little brothers, ages 9 and 5, and whenever we get together, we all plop down and watch all of them in a row, marathon style, complete with snacks like Diet Pepsi and Cheetos. We stay awake until two am, eyes bleary, just to see the Ewoks.
Fact: I do a dead-on Ewok impression.
Some of our biggest family jokes come from Star Wars. Calling someone a “nerf-herder” or telling them to “Laugh it up, Fuzzball” always draws a laugh. “These are not the droids you are looking for” really does it for me, too.
One of my favorite memories of my little brother Drew, as my dad and I are discussing Chewbacca’s species, turning around and yelling “He’s a WOOKIE!” with the subtext clearly “you idiots.” He was four years old.
Whenever I’m in a really dense forest, I look up in the branches for Ewoks. Part of the motivation behind my workout kick is to dress like Princess Leia in the steel bikini for Halloween this year.
Thanks for the memories, George Lucas.
These people wrote way cooler blogs about today: