Tag: Star Wars

A Closed Loop

The Air and Space Museum at night. From the Mall side.

“The museum is closed,” said the disembodied voice broadcast from the ceiling. I tossed my 3D glasses into the big box as I passed through the exit doors. I walked underneath the electronic gate, a sentry that would beep or screech or burp an alarm if the encoded goggles were still in my pocket.

I was close to holding on to them to set the alarm off. But I had the use the restroom. I found the recycling bin, past the guard station, and dropped my empty beer bottle into its mouth. No popcorn or raisenettes in the museum theatre, but a choice of beers and a hard cider. Weird. But I was on a mission. 

The cavernous voice reminded me, again, about the closed museum. I headed toward the bathrooms. That is until I was stopped by a crisply white-shirted museum officer. There was a shiny ribbon along the seam of her trousers, and she had a shiny plastic badge above her crisp white breast pocket. “The museum is closed.” I nodded. 

“Yup, just need to use the facilities,” I grinned and pointed at them, just nine or ten yards ahead. 

“The museum is closed.” She pointed solemnly the down escalator like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. The speakers from the ceiling backed her up, “The museum is closed.”

“I just can’t…” I started, but she just looked at me without mercy and pointed with a hint of “no exception” dripping from her pointing finger. “Is there one underneath here?” She silently nodded, her directive arm like a street sign. I stepped onto the moving stairs, away from the closest relief station. 

I stepped off the escalator and turned around. To see a long line snaking its way from the door. The museum is closed, except for the long line for the bathroom. And the other long line for the next screening of the movie. Didn’t seem closed to me. I was walking to find the end of the line as the regular refrain “The museum is closed” played across the PA system. I was shocked by the sudden vibration from my left back pocket. The sound from my phone was still muted from the show. “Hey,” I said after seeing The Big Guy’s image.

“You just walked by us. I’m going to punch someone if we don’t leave now.”

“I need to use the bathroom and there’s a ridiculous line.” (The museum is closed.)

“No seriously. Someone will be punched by me if I stand here another minute.” He was serious. 

“Where you at? We’re gonna need to stop somewhere else, you know.”

(The museum is closed.) “That’s fine. Just turn around. I can see you.” I couldn’t see him, even though I strained to see around the crowd of people who were not getting the message, either. Despite the near monkish chant, “the museum is closed.” I wished it rhymed. Then I saw him on his phone and put mine back in my pocket.

There was another museum cop standing a few feet away from him, offering the news that the museum was closed. “Wait, so are you saying that the museum is closed?” I couldn’t tell if the cop was ignoring or unaware of the sarcasm. 

“The museum is closed,” he replied. (The museum is closed.) I think that this was not the first part of their exchange, and I could feel The Big Guy getting riled. 

“You can’t go there, unless you get in line for those IMAX tickets. The door is there.” He pointed. These folks sure did point a lot. 

“But I want to go there,” I pointed to the exit on the other side. The side much closer to where I parked. 

“The museum is closed.” 

“So I can’t use that other exit?” (The museum is closed.) We were walking to my preferred exit. 

“The museum is closed.” I was starting to understand that punching feeling.

“We can’t leave through that other side?” I was going to scream if I heard that stupid overhead call and response.

“You can go out that way. The museum is closed.”

The Big Guy couldn’t hold himself back, “So the museum is like, closed!??!” The museum police put his hand on his club. (The museum is closed.) He repeated his line, the one about the museum being closed as we rushed each other out of that nightmare.

As we walked past the last of the guard gauntlet, the final line of defense said, “Have a good night,” and I thought that the Big Guy was going to kiss him. Instead he thanked him for not telling us that the museum was closed as we pushed out the door into the fresh, cool night air where we all asked each other the most important question. You know what we asked. It was funny, now.

Posted on by docthink 1

Nooooooo!

 Two cinnamon rolls. Did you ever notice how Princess Leia's hair looked like two cinnamon rolls on the sides of her head? Just in the first movie.

The theatre was crowded for the opening night of Star Wars. The auditorium was big, but the only available seats were in the first five rows. When the lights went down, we needed to throw our heads over the back of the seats to take in the monster screen. After reading the famous scrawl–you know a long time ago, far away galaxy–the blank screen was slowly, and most impressively, filled by an enormous space freighter. The subwoofers emitted low rumbles as the ship took over all of the space above my thrown back head. It was thrilling. But that wasn’t the most breathtaking.

No. It was the moment when Luke and Han “rescued” Leia and she realized they didn’t have an escape plan. When she grabbed Luke’s blaster and blew through a grate to create an exit, covered herself to get to the chute and led her “rescuers” out of their foolhardy self-trap.

She took charge. She just needed to be released. God, I was totally in love with her. From that moment.

A few movies later a masked operative came into the bad guys’ lair to rescue Han Solo. I’ll never forget the reveal–it was Leia. Whuh? Really? Her? Yay! Here’s my favorite hero. The brave, competent hero who a few scenes later strangled her captor. Yeah, she killed that enormous muther-fukcing slug. With her wits. And her bare hands. Baller.

While Star Wars doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test (there’s not a single scene in any of the first three movies in which two female characters have a conversation about anything at all besides men), it was a liberating experience. Princess Leia was a hero in her own right.

In a Rolling Stone interview last month, Carrie Fisher said

I like Princess Leia. I like how she was feisty. I like how she killed Jabba the Hutt. That’s my favorite thing she did.

Carrie Fisher, who was Princess Leia. Carrie Fisher whose jilted bride character carried a rocket launcher to off her former fiancé Jake Blues, this was after she set explosives to blow up his apartment. Carrie Fisher whose gal pal to Sally who met Harry would not put up with that horrid wagon wheel in her house. Carrie Fisher who brilliantly reprised her role of Leia, but this time as a rebel general and a heartbroken mom.

Carrie Fisher who was funny and honest. Who was a terrific author and one of the best script savers in Hollywood. Carrie Fisher who told us all about her struggles with addiction, depression and being bipolar with authenticity and wit.

I liked Carrie Fisher. I liked how she was feisty. I like how she killed Jabba the Hutt. But the favorite thing she did? She blasted a path by showing us what it’s like to be herself. She worked on a script for me to embrace myself at all of my ages. I am sorry that she left us so soon. I would have liked to see her as an old lady.

Peace, General. And thanks.

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Who You Gonna Call?

an old Kodak camera kit with magic cube!

People can be very sensitive about their nostalgia.

My Sib refused to see the Starsky and Hutch remake with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson. In her tween memories it was a serious drama, not a comedy and it was WRONG to make fun of her memories. Frankly, I might be able to watch an old episode if I thought they were trying to be funny. That’s just me. I think my Sib didn’t think that Huggy Bear should be skinny, either.

People got mad when Cap’n Crunch changed the shape of their crunch berries. Or Coke updated it’s can. More than one person declared the end of rock and roll when Walk this Way was sullied with hip hop. Having Aerosmith participate in this outrage was just shy of Bob Dylan going electric.

Robert Plant’s refusal to sing Stairway to Heaven at a Zeppelin reunion tweaked fans since that’s all they wanted to hear. All eight minutes of it. For the encore, thank you very much. Then there’s the destruction of Star Wars, the three that were the second three, because, well, Jar Jar Binks. I get the disgust. I prefer to pretend it didn’t happen, but I’m not angry.

It’s people going back to their high school and becoming hostile because they added a wing, moved the trophy case and put new bleachers in the gym. It’s the lawsuit over the beach houses that got built on the bluff that you used to play pirate on. Childhood officially ruined!

Did the Lego Movie disturb your memories of blocks? The Pirates of the Caribbean film wreck Disneyworld?

Then there’s remaking a movie with a different cast. Never mind that the first time they got Spider-Man right was last week’s Civil War. I get that it’s jarring. Maybe disappointing. But it makes you mad because your perfect Pleasantville memory is disturbed?

Did a live Mowgli disrupt your baby memories of cartoon Mowgli? Outraged by not your favorite Spock? And seriously, did you really prefer the dull original Ocean’s 11 to the delightful remix?

Which leads me to this. Really, really, really don’t pitch an internet fit, lamenting loudly and rudely, that your childhood is trashed–trashed, ruined, destroyed, extinguished, ravaged and wrecked–because of an upcoming Ghostbusters reboot. You didn’t even see it, yet. And if the awful GB cartoon didn’t ruin your life, why the hysteria?

Because women? Ugh. I didn’t need to know that about you. Some days I hate the Internet.

 

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Spoiler Alert!

Three or four pretty ripe bananas. Not quite spoiled, though.

I asked the Big Guy if he watches Game of Thrones. He said he has, but not yet this season. And before I could form another word, he said he knew what happened. It wasn’t like I was going to tell him–although I heard about it, too. From the innerwebs.

He wasn’t concerned that I would tell. He just wanted to release that part of the conversation. Anyway, he said he doesn’t care about spoilers. He’s amused that fans get worked up. For him, the value of GOT is not plot–he says it’s all predictable and not that compelling. He watches it for the way it looks, the world created and the acting.

I met up with some friends who were in town from the middle of the country. We got together for a beer after they finished their Lincoln tour. Actually, the “Lincoln Assassination Tour.” The tour routes around a small circle between the White House and Fords Theatre and the house where he died.  In two hours they covered a mile and a half. They loved it.

The guide made it worthwhile. He was incredible. He told layers of stories with intricate and interesting details about Lincoln and the Civil War and John Wilkes Booth and probably some medical stuff, too. They definitely recommend it, and might even do it again. Even though, without a doubt, they knew how the story ended.

There definitely is something about being surprised at the reveal that Darth Vader is Luke’s father. Even more of a twist–perhaps even a twisted twist after Leia planted one on his lips–when we learn that Luke and Leia are twins. But while you can only be surprised that first time, you can still enjoy Mark Hamill’s lousy acting when he overacts his reaction. You can even find yourself licking your lips in anticipation of his howling, “Nooooooooooo, nooooooo.”

I have read and reread the Harry Potter books and have watched and rewatched the films. I don’t like them any less on return. In fact, I reread them and rewatch them because I DO enjoy the story. Knowing the plot frees me from frenzied page turning and lets me focus on the characters, their relationships and motivations and the themes of loss, friendship and power.

Frankly, not knowing how a bad movie turns out doesn’t make it any better. It’s still a waste of time. Actually, if you knew how it ended you might throw in the towel earlier and keep that time for yourself.

The topic of spoilers came up when I recommended that the Big Guy watch a hysterical White House video. I couldn’t tell him about it. I could, but then it would ruin it. Jokes are like that. You can spoil a joke. That is wrong. We agreed on that. You either tell the joke, or you don’t. Sure, you can retell a joke, but it’s never as funny as the first time.

Now a STORY, on the other hand…

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Matter Does Disappear

On today’s lunch hunt, I walked past the building I jokingly call The House That Doc Built.

I looked at the wall of glass and steel and concrete. Not gonna lie. I felt a prick of pride as my mind floated to creators, builders and fixers. Thinking about people who have a big impact and then fade away. In fiction, Harry Potter modestly worked in the bowels of a bureaucracy after setting the world free from evil. Katniss went back to the rubble of District 12 to anonymously raise a family with her co-victor.

If you look for “impact investing” and “social entrepreneurs” you’ll find names that once meant something. Scores of people who wore the green White House badges now toil away on whatever the next job is. Many still making a difference, just on a different, less sexy, stage.

Looking around the lunch place, I wonder how many of these people work in the building That Doc Built? They don’t know that the nondescript Doc eating the humana tahina salad in the corner knocked together a king-sized income stream that allows their revenue sucking programs to exist.

And I realized that sometimes things are from a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. Nobody remembered Luke anymore, either.

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