Star Wars in Concert!



By all that is good in holy in this universe, Star Wars in Concert was quite possibly the coolest thing I have ever seen live. That is a huge claim to make I am aware; I’ve been blessed with some pretty cool performances in my life, but Star Wars in Concert--in the same room as Anthony Daniels (CP30 for all of you non-geeks out there)--is like stumbling upon the promise land when you didn’t even know you were looking. I mean, it feels like I’ve been wandering the desert for about 40 years so I guess it is about time, but it was just so awesome!

I’m going to geek out now. Geek out in ways that non-geeks might find both disturbing and legitimately fear-inducing.

I cried before the Star Wars theme was done being played. That’s right. Big, wet tears pouring down my face smudging my makeup. Why? Because I should have been playing those gosh darned timpani. I was born to play those timpani! But I also cried because the 13 year old inside of me that (possibly maybe) lay on her bed upset, listening to Star Wars music wishing it were real, has never gone entirely away. I still sometimes (though I cannot confirm nor deny) try to use the force when I’m really, really bored.

You can judge. I saw Star Wars in Concert and you didn’t. I win.

But here’s the thing: Star Wars is part of my soul. No, I’m not being hyperbolic here. I grew up watching those movies over and over and over again. I distinctly remember one summer when my dad would give $2 and tell me to ride my bike to the video store and rent two movies. I would, inevitably, come home with Star Wars and Return of the Jedi. Why he continued to let me pick the movies I will never understand, but I have, literally, never gotten sick of these movies. My notions of morality and heroism were shaped by these movies. My desire to be a musician was fueled in no small part by the music.

I still giggle every time, every time, Luke Skywalker jumps off the plank in ROTJ, spins around in mid-air and jumps back up. Seriously, Jabba the Hutt is ordering his death, Luke gives R2-D2 the nod, the music tenses, then Luke jumps! Spins! Somersaults! It’s the sort of exciting most people need mind-altering drugs to experience. Me? I got Star Wars.

But a person can’t live their life with that amount of geek all over the place or said person would never get a job, a boyfriend with a job, or shower regularly. Trust me. I went on the gk2gk dates. This I know. So you tamp it down, put it away. Grow up and leave your dreams of being a Jedi behind in favor of homework, bills, and responsibility. You don’t really talk about it all that much, and you might even convince yourself that you don’t care that much. It’s something you love, sure, but love in the way you love all nostalgic things of your childhood.

But sometimes--sometimes you get to find Neverland all over again. That’s what Star Wars in Concert was like.

I remembered just how much I like these movies. All 6 of them. (Yeah, I said it.) I remembered just how good the music is. I remembered just how much of what makes me happy is personified in this story. All concerts should be performed this way. The Star Wars Symphony plays while a giant screen plays scenes from the movies and Anthony Daniels narrates. They retell the story through music, lights, and clips. It’s fan-freaking-tastic!

And I also have high hopes that after seeing this a whole group of people that just didn’t get it when they watched episodes 1-3 will catch on. I’m not going to defend them whole, clearly there are parts that are indefensible, but episodes 1-3 are a tragedy, not an adventure story. And episodes 1-3 change the focus of the story from Luke to Anakin/Vader. Once 1-3 came out Star Wars wasn’t about Luke anymore; it was about Vader’s redemption. People can still hate on it, but they should at least understand what they’re hating instead of accusing it of “not being Star Wars.”

Right or wrong (and, like I said, I won’t disagree that Mr. Lucas had some wrong) it’s a really good story. I mean--it’s a really good story. I’m so glad I got to see this. I wasn’t sure I wanted to because I think I was afraid I wouldn’t really care that much. I think I was afraid that the 13 year old had actually died. How wonderful to discover she’s still very much alive, and very much a geek, just waiting for the right opportunity to pop out once again.

Star Wars healed my black little heart!

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

May the force be with you.

McSteamy = McBadforme

For those of you perplexed by my title it is a reference to Grey’s Anatomy. I have recently become a fan (read: rabidly addicted) of this show and, having reached season 3, I am now blessed with regular appearances by McSteamy.

I mean…wow. Just…wow.

But despite the wow factor this character is bad news. We’re talking sleeps with everybody, just looking for a girl to save him, but can’t help but be a manwhore bad news. This is the guy that promises to never cheat on you again and he really, really means it--until he just can’t stop himself. Serial cheater this one.

Now, with that being said I’m not quite as ashamed of my new found McSteamy love as, oh say, Guy of Gisborne--at least McSteamy isn’t leaving his newborn child to die in the woods as bait for Robin Hood. But, here I am, a little bored, avoiding work, hanging out at my parents’ house watching my tv show and all of a sudden IT was there. No--not the clown. Grey’s Anatomy did not suddenly sprout fangs and attempt to pull me down to the deadlights. Or it did and I just never realized it; my integrity and pride does seem to be missing of late, but I think that’s just a side effect of the show.

No--there on my father’s shiny new HD TV Flatscreen in full crystal clear color was IT. The look. The look that says, “Hey baby, I know I’m bad news, but I’m just so hurt deep, deep down and I really, really want you to be the woman to heal me. Fix my broken heart; teach me how to love. I want to love you. Let me love you. I promise I’ve never felt like this before.”

You know the look I’m talking about. You know exactly that look. IT. No matter how old we are, no matter where we grew up, no matter how strong we think we are none of us is a match for IT. You can’t fight IT. You can’t withstand the full force of that broken, pining, beautiful please-love-me-pain even if you long since died inside and now pump your dead shriveled heart through sheer force of hate.

McSteamy gave that look and suddenly an avid appreciation for his steaminess turned into something much, much more intense. I (possibly) said out loud, “Oh! He’s just so broken!”

Me. I. I said that. (Possibly.)

I mean what is wrong with me?! What is it about broken, destructive, please-love-me faces that makes me want to forgive them? This is why if any of my fantasies came true it would be a murder mystery and not a romance novel. I don’t want the Cowboy or the Veggie Vampire. I want the psychopath who lives under the Opera and has a thing for strangulation. I want the husband whose so intense he may or may not lock me in the attic with his first wife while attempting to marry a third. I want the young jedi knight who is just so passionate he can’t help but kill all the little jedi babies.

Because clearly someone who commits genocide is excellent marriage material. (In my defense the attraction to that last one mostly stops after he loses all his limbs and gets burned by lava--that’s something, right?)

I’m just so incredibly screwed. My happy ending is not getting my happy ending so that I have a hope of living past the age of thirty-five.

But it’s not my fault. Isn’t McSteamy a step up at least? Isn’t it an improvement that I worked my way up from sociopaths to serial cheaters? At least the cheaters won’t kill me right? Right?!

DAMN YOU GREY’S!!! TV on DVD will be the death of me.

Dissertation Wars: An Intermission

Oh my goodness--the introduction is up and running kids. It’s crazy! It’s neat! It’s everything your mother warned you about when she said don’t take candy from strangers!

I live in perpetual fear that it also marks my inability to graduate. NGES strikes again. (That’s Not Good Enough Syndrome for those of you who forgot.)

But! I’m smart enough. I’m clever enough. And gosh darn it people are scared of me. Wait…(I also may, or may not, be clinically insane.)

Serially--the thing is as a grad student, or anyone that reads a lot of hoity-toity books, you read a lot of people using big words, sounding important, and acting for all the world like they have done something brilliant. You accept it because, let’s be honest, they are a tenured professor and you…you’re a lone grad student hoping no one notices you’re a crazy anarchist feminist who (not so) secretly believes in superheroes.

Short digression: I honestly have grad school PTSD. I carry constant anxiety that my professors are going to drunkenly email me and accuse of my wasting their time, being egotistical, and otherwise blackening the space-time continuum around me. I wonder if this anxiety will ever go away or if I will respond to every email from a person in charge with a wince, an elevated heartbeat, and a tentative click of the mouse? I would say it’s my NGES, but my NGES is due, in part, to my PTSD.

At what point should someone seek professional help?

End digression.

The thing is I had a bit of a health scare and my future was in pretty serious question (believe me, I wish I were being hyperbolic). Suddenly I was all like, “Can I get this done? If everything goes south can I finish this thing before I run out of time?” Somewhere in my mind the impulse to get the thing written overwhelmed the fear that I would fail and I just knew I had to start writing immediately (again, I wish I were making this up).

I had a friggin’ existential out-of-body experience. Another sign professional help is in order?

I didn’t even know I could sit and pontificate for pages on end, but I wrote twenty pages (single spaced) without citing anybody in about ten hours. For you non-writers out there that is C.R.A.Z.Y. That’s like Batman smiling. It just doesn’t happen.

But the meth addict in my brain (metaphoric not literal) that kept whispering “you aren’t smart enough,” disappeared and, for better or worse (please don’t let it be worse) I managed to put what I was thinking into logical, coherent order. I really, really hope someone else hasn’t already done this and I just missed their book.

Right after I finished I immediately thought, I can’t believe you did that. You are sooooo not smart enough to act that confident. But I think I need to stop that behavior. I think at some point, if you are going to write a gosh darned dissertation, graduate with a PhD and make your brother refer to you as “Doctor” for the rest of your natural lives you have to believe--deep, deep down in the place where you think superpowers are real but don’t tell anybody--that you are smart enough and anyone that doesn’t agree with you just doesn’t get it.

I mean, what other option is there?

To do what we do (academics that is) you have to believe and have faith, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the dissertation you write will someday be a book. And that book, even if it only sells 100 copies, will change the world. I mean seriously. Because if you don’t believe that then all the heartburn, the headaches, the eye twitches (those are my favorite as they increase my attractiveness tenfold) and mental breakdowns are pointless.

I refuse to believe that the irreparable mental damage I have done to myself over the last five years has been pointless.

We’re talking M. Night Shyamalan--Lady in the Water quality arrogance. Or…self-confidence. I like self-confidence better. Sounds more positive.

So we’ve finally had our first “aha!” moment. I credit this silly blog and all you poor sods who get suckered into reading it. Afterall, I’ve been using the internet to pretend my thoughts are brilliant and worthwhile for years.