Blame It On George Lucas
I was a product of the 70s, raised up in the 80s.
We didn’t have anything, then. I grew up in a tiny po-dunk town in upstate New York. In the hills ; the country. Our school had everyone from four surrounding counties attending. Kindergarten through 12th grade in one small schoolhouse.
In 1982, we got a VCR. One of the first ones around.
And a copy of Star Wars.
My new babysitter.
I watched that fucker over and over.
When my mom and step-dad were upstairs arguing, us kids just huddled around the TV, pushing play and rewind, play and rewind.
It was no mere movie.
It is many things, to many people, and it is much more than seems possible for some movie to ever be.
It is a comfortable blanket.
It is a soft woman.
It is a chilled shot of bourbon.
It is whatever you want it to be.
It is a legend ; an amazing story of easy connection and undying love ; a great tale that we are all chasing.
Millions of young men born between 1970 and 1980 grew up the same as me, with the original films ingrained in their minds, adopted as their own secret histories.
There is an army of us.
Disillusioned and tricked.
But, somehow, still hopeful.
We are all searching for our own Princess Leia.
It is a sad truth, and a fool’s errand.
We all wanted to be Han Solo.
He was cool under pressure.
He was a poor slob who thought there was nothing wrong with hitting unmercifully on a high-maintenance Princess.
He was a man who went with the flow.
A guy who could sit back comfortably in a freak bar crowded with deformed, multi-racial weirdo’s. He could take a guy out if he was being fucked with.
He was too cool to be real, but we all grew up wanting to be him.
Not to be like him.
To be him.
Too bad no one told us that it is simply not possible.
Ask any dude who is now serving 20-to-life for shooting some asshole in a strange bar for talking shit.
Ask the high school loser who relentlessly hit on the head cheerleader how he likes his restraining order.
Ask any guy in his thirties how it feels to be slapped across his mouth when he responds to his girlfriends heartfelt confession “I love you,” with Han’s classic bad-ass line, “I know.”
He will remember that slap.
All of the children of that strange decade grew up with the rising popularity of the new Home Video Cassette Recorder, a huge, gray top-loading machine precariously balanced on top of an old wood-paneled bulging TV set. And, inevitably, on top of that, next to the rabbit-ear antenna, a new best friend in the form of three well-worn videotapes.
Princess Leia gave all of us our first taste of lust.
The heavenly sight of her, all gold plates and skin (so much glorious pale skin), chained to the giant, evil slug.
The memory was burned into fragile, over-stimulated young brains all over America.
You know who you are.
Even if they don’t remember it, or admit it, a whole generation was conditioned and, effectively damaged by these movies.
Every one of us is now wandering around, lost, looking for our very own Princess Leia.
Deny it all you want.
Just ask any 30-year-old guy you know with a real live girlfriend if he has ever had her dress up as Leia for Halloween. If he has, he will try and give you a clumsy high-five.
If he hasn’t yet, watch his eyes glaze over with the thought of it, and the smile crawl onto his face. Watch him tell you what a great idea that is.
Don’t believe me? Try it.
I am still looking for my own Princess.
And I will never find her, because she doesn’t exist.
Ever since my very first girlfriend I have been on this quest, I didn’t even know it.
No one is ever good enough.
For whatever reasons, as soon as I’ve ever got what I thought I wanted, I didn’t want it anymore.
I always wanted more.
I wanted to kiss a different pair of lips.
I wanted to touch another cheek with the back of my hand.
Feel the heat of a blush swell up from every girl.
See every pair of downcast eyes look up at me.
Even from the very first one, I wanted them all.
I wanted to make every girl look at me that way, kiss me hard and wide-mouthed.
Even if the one I was with wasn’t her, I was never unconvinced that she was still out there somewhere in a gold bikini tied to some monster, waiting for me to come and rescue her.
My very own Princess Leia.
Everybody wants one.
I wonder if Carrie Fisher knows.
If she knows that she was (and still is to a whole new generation) the biggest turn-on for a whole crop of lost, confused man-children. A whole generation of disillusioned dudes who still actually think it is possible to find a fantasy life like the movie relationship that still floats around in their heads.
If I ever had the chance, I would give Carrie Fisher an eight-ball, then ask her to strap on that rusty old gold bikini, bend her old ass over the nearest reasonable surface, and fuck her like it was my first and last piece of ass all at once.
And, I would probably still be disappointed.
Yes, there is something wrong with me.
And every other guy who grew up in the 80’s.
But it is not our fault.
Blame it on George Lucas.
Faithfully submitted by Darth Biscuits.