I'm 35 years old. Not 35 years
young. 35 years fuckin'
old. And you know what? I'm OK with that. I'm not vain. At least as far as my physical apperance goes, I'm going to age gracefully. I'm not going to be one of those guys who gets hair plugs, has a bad comb-over, or uses the male equivalent of hair coloring. The hair on the top of my head is going to fall out, and the hair on my chin is going to turn grey. They're both off to a damn good start. My forehead is the most rapidly growing part of my body. I don't really mind; it used to be my stomach, so I consider this a good trade-off. I suppose in my heart I'd like to have a thick mane of long hair, but it's not in the cards. My hair is, by nature, both fine and thin. I had long hair 12 years ago, but it decided it didn't like being long and started falling out en masse. Now I go for a nice short buzz cut. Eventually I'll probably cut my losses and shave my head. Actually, I'm pretty curious about how I'd like that. It'll probably happen sooner than strictly necessary.
For the most part I don't even mind feeling old, or at least feeling
older. I'm very afraid of death and of the medical indignities of aging, but as far as not being a hip guy in his early 20s goes, I could give a fuck. At an early age
The World According to Garp taught me to look back at the arc of my life before I turn old and grey because, as Garp said, "Oh, to hell with that! When I'm old and grey I probably won't remember my past. You've got to do it while you're still young." I like having some history to my opinions and perceptions, and looking back to see how they formed and changed with time and experience. Actually, I enjoy that a great deal.
Two things have happened recently that have made me feel old. One I laughed off with my typical good-natured snarkiness, and one provided--continues to provide--some good life-arc rumination.
The first thing is the junk mail I receive. Over the past couple of weeks I have received two separate offers to join AARP, the American Associacion of Retired Persons. First of all, I'm unemployed, not retired; I only
wish I could retire, preferably to my own south Pacific island nation where the sole customs requirement is that you present me with a gift of nice high-test weed. (My parents would be excluded from this requirement. I owe them that much.) Second of all, the minimum age to join the AARP is 50. The first time I got their kind offer I made a few mock-enraged comments to my fiance and round-filed it. The second time I returned the membership form with a barbed note addressed "Dear fools," inviting them to re-add me to their mailing list in 15 years. Hey, that's what they get for sending me a postage-paid reply envelope. I hope some underpaid prole got a chuckle out of it and deleted me from their mailing list. Time will tell. In between AARP mailings I also received an offer to check out The Scooter Store. They don't sell Segways or any "alternatively mobile" devices like that which could be mildly interesting if I could get the state to pay for it for me. No, they sell those motorized adult tricycles with the big wire grocery basket in the back that can be out-paced by a well-fed house cat. Now, I may have a couple medical conditions that give me some serious foot pain and mildly limit how long I can be on my feet (You mean I have a valid medical reason why I'm unfit to mow the lawn? Aw, dang!), but I'm a hell of a long way from needing one of those fucking things! Send me another postcard when a personal jetpack is part of your inventory. You may have noticed I didn't add hyperlinks to either of these entities. That's because I'm not encouraging you, Loyal Reader, to check them out. Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em in the ear! Fuck 'em in the
other ear! But I digress...
The second recent thing to make me feel my years is
Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, which my fiance and I saw for the second time today. I was 7 years old when the first Star Wars exploded into theaters like a supernova, and my diet of monster movies, Planet of the Apes, and Star Trek made me an ideal candidate for first-generation Star Wars geekdom. I saw Star Wars in its first theatrical run about as many times as Luke whined in the movie, and for that reason I've always been a bit of an elitist fuck when it comes to Star Wars. Are you in your 20s and want to tell me what's what about Star Wars? Blow me, bantha fodder! Come talk to me when you can actually
remember Han shooting first.
George Lucas' original plan was to make nine films, but he's now saying the series is complete. That means that, in a sense, a 28-year period of my life has come to a close. It's very hard for me to process the fact that it was 28 years ago that I first sat in a darkened theater watching Luke, Obi-Wan, Han, Chewie, Leia (my first love), and Darth Vader tear up the galaxy. It seems like it can't possibly be that long ago, just a hair shy of 30 years. Am I really that goddamned old? I guess I am. Thankfully, I've made peace with it, and in my own Zen-of-Garp way, I actually enjoy it.
When you're 7 you don't view movies the same way you do when you're 35. You don't notice minor defects like Luke's tendency to whine or the fact that a parsec is a unit of distance, not time. You fall in love, and that love is absolute; its radiance glows brightly enough to obscure those blemishes, like Clearasil that actually works. One thing that doesn't change, regardless of age, is that absolute love is hard to shake. Episode I had more than its share of forehead-slapping faults (If you
say "Jar-Jar Binks" meesa gonna be crunchin' you mooey mooey bad!) and is my least favorite film of the series by a wide margin, but as a whole I still like it, despite its big hairy bleeding warts. Once in a great while I even take the DVD off the shelf and watch it. Even during the deservedly harsh backlash against Episode I, when fanboys near and far were braying that George Lucas had utterly lost it, I still had faith. Despite some acting that was so wooden you could build a bridge out of it, Episode II showed that my faith was justified. I won't go into a full review here (because it's 5:28am and I need some sleep), but I think Episode III is just plain awesome. Yes, there are still some warts there, but for the most part they've stopped bleeding and somebody's plucked them.
What I enjoyed most about episodes I-III was watching Chancelor Palpatine spin his meticulous web of deception and manipulation, mastermining Anakin Skywalker's tragic fate and the political intrigue that some MTV-addled attention-span-lacking nitwits claim bogs down the movie. (If you think Episode III feels bogged down you should probably limit yourself to sitcoms and Michael Bay movies.) It's a subtle, adult-oriented plotline that probably would've passed largely over my head 28 years ago. In that sense, the 2nd trilogy was written with 1st-gen fans like me--who are now adults-- in mind, aforementioned Gungan aside. Yes, I just said I like Star Wars for the plot. Hand me down my walkin' stick, sonny! Oh, there were also some dogfights and light saber duels mixed in there too (you know, pap filler for the kids) that were kinda cool, if that's your thing.
At some point during the 2nd Star Wars trilogy I stumbled into becoming a stepfather. The first time I watched Episode III was the first time I've ever evaluated a movie for appropriateness for my 6-year-old stepson. (Item #563 on my Things I Never Thought I'd Do list.) As far as movies go I was a pretty unusual kid; I started watching midnight monster movies when I was about 4, and by age 6 I probably could've tackled Poltergeist without long-lasting trauma. My stepson isn't so thick-skinned, so the question I had in my mind was: Will he get through this movie without bursting into tears in the theater? If you've seen Episode III, you know the exact point at which my mental voice bellowed, "Nope!!" George Lucas has gotten a lot of flak for making III the only Star Wars movie to bear a PG-13 rating, mostly from lazy parents who are losing a battle of wills with their single-digit children. Shame on them on all counts! Episode III is necessarilly dark, and I'm glad Lucas didn't sugar-coat the necessary violence just to pander to young kids. (Didn't Episode I do that enough to prove it's a bad idea?) To do so would have been, as Michael Caine said in
an Oliver Stone movie, "like cutting the balls off Superman." I'm thankful that George Lucas made the movie he wanted to make, the way he felt it needed to be made. No, he's not the best at directing actors and writing dramatic interpersonal dialogue isn't what he'll be remembered for (at least not fondly), but you can't blow up the Death Star--
twice--without killing a few innocent contractors, now can you?
Thanks, George. Thanks for countless hours of entertainment over the past 28 years. You made me feel a little old today, but it was worth it. You are, and have been for nearly 30 years, a permanent entry in my Cool Book.
The arc of my life, as illustrated by AARP, The Scooter Store, and Star Wars. Time to get started on the next 28 years, which I know from experience will go by even faster. Such is the rule of aging. "Get busy living, or get busy dying. That's goddamn right."
By now you've probably had a look at the American Film Institute's Top 100 Movie Quotes. I have mixed feelings about the list. There are some obvious choices, some shrewd choices, and some that aren't necessarilly stand-out lines but became popular catch phrases. (I'm a big fan of A Few Good Men, and it should be remembered for more than "You can't handle the truth!") To me, the most glaring oversight is that not a single quote from Joel & Ethan Coen's masterpiece Miller's Crossing graces the list. In my humble opinion (which, of course, is always right) the entire script is worthy of inclusion, but I admit that bends the definition of "quote" to the point of breaking. An addendum is obviously needed. Specifically, a collection of 21 Miller's Crossing quotes in chronological order. By frightening coincidence, I just happen to have such a list. This is what it looks like:
