When I was twelve George Lucas was God. I worshipped the Force and lived by the Gospel of Star Wars, impatiently awaiting the Rapture of the sequel.
One Saturday afternoon, as I left the barber shop, I saw a mass market paperback of The Empire Strikes Back in the window of the bookstore next door, months before the movie was released. I begged my father to buy it for me.
I stayed up all night to read the book, only to discover that Han Solo gets the Princess.
How could this be?
In the original movie, Leia gave Luke a kiss for luck.
What an awkward moment!
My action figures had been “going together” for the past three years; sometimes they parked under my bed and made out in Luke’s landspeeder.
What is an adolescent to do?
“Bring me the head of George Lucas!” I commanded, although I possessed no army of minions to carry out my bidding. Instead, I threw a tiny, plastic Han Solo in a shoebox and exiled him to the top shelf of my closet, guilty by complicity.
In time, I learned that the trouble with living in a Universe of Good and Evil, is that there is no place for shades of gray. With each new year, I became aware that both Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader live inside all of us. I also kissed a scoundrel or two.
Eventually, I pardoned Han Solo and he shacked up with the Princess in the shoebox, but I never forgave George Lucas.