Star Wars Day

Twenty years before the opening of the movie Star Wars: The Force Awakens, I had already deemed December 18 as Star Wars day.

You might be thinking, ‘But wait a second Jason, are you a prophet? A fortuneteller? Or did you have any inside knowledge from Lucasfilm itself? Why would you deem that day, of all days, Star Wars Day?’

I wish that any of the three questions above were real, as it would've made the story much more interesting. But my story is a little more humble, but one that has stuck with me for the rest of my adult years.

Back in December 1993, I had decided to move back up to my home in the quad cities Illinois, from Durham North Carolina. It was a quick decision, and probably one that I should've thought out a little bit more, but I can't change the past, can I?

But you're probably wondering, why December 18? Why that day out of all days I considered it to be Star Wars Day way before there was even an announcement of an episode seven.

You see, back in spring of 1993 the radio drama adaptation, of the original Star Wars movie came out on audio cassette. For those of you who are unfamiliar with an audio cassette, imagine it being like a VHS tape, but only for audio. And if you don't know what a VHS tape is, look it up on YouTube, or ask anyone over 40. I won't be offended if you don't bother though. It was pretty archaic.

Anyway, I knew that the drive from Durham, was going to be a long one. And I wanted to make sure that I was entertained for the ride. The first Star Wars radio drama was about seven hours long in length. Which was perfect. But there was still another seven hours or so of my ride that I would need to fill. So, on December 17, 1993, I dropped in to South Square mall, in Durham, for the last time. It was on the bottom floor of a two-story mall, right the beneath Spinnakers, a restaurant that I had worked in as a waiter. And it was there, that I picked up the newly released version of the Empire strikes back radio drama on audio cassette. 

And it was on December 18, 1993 when I hopped in my 1987 Buick Skyhawk, and hit the road.

And for anyone out there who drives long distances for a living, I don't have to tell you what it is to have something to listen to while on the road. I have started out early that morning, and immediately popped in the first cassette.

I had been a fan of Star Wars ever since 1977, while I was still three years old, but even after months of having their original Star Wars radio drama on cassette, I had yet to even listen to all of it.

And the drive from Durham, to Moline, was not a short one. But, let me tell you, it flew by. The episodes were in half hour increments. And I was glued to them.

It certainly didn't hurt that familiar Star Wars actors such as Mark Hamill, Anthony Daniels, and Billy Dee Williams, were among the actors in it, but with the amazing music of John Williams in the background, and Ben Burt's sound effects, it was like watching the movies in my mind. And what was also special about it, was that the scripts, written by sci-fi fantasy author Brian Daley, had additional scenes that were not in the movies.

The whole thing was utterly fantastic.

And keep in mind, this was 1993. Star Wars was just on the edge of coming back into fashion. Because, between the years 1984 and 1991, no one really cared about Star Wars. All the kids that grew up with it at the time thought it was beneath them. Something they enjoyed as a child. 

Even when I was in high school, people, other classmates my own age, would say, “Oh Star Wars? Yeah I love Star Wars!” Almost as if it was something from way back when. Something that had gone by the wayside.

And that was exactly what it was like. People loved it, but there is nothing new about it anymore. It was a science-fiction and fantasy that was no longer entertaining, and became more like a legend. It was recognized as a “once was”.

And that all started to change back in 1991 when the book, “Heir to the Empire” was released. The Timothy Zahn book was the first new Star Wars tale ever to be put out after Return of the Jedi was released in 1983. But even then, there was a long time to wait even before there was Episode I.

I'm not sure why the radio dramas were released when they were. The first Star Wars radio drama came out in 1980, coming out the same year that The Empire Strikes Back came out. In fact, I remember going over to a friends house back in 1982 and him saying, “Hey, do you want to listen to Star Wars?”

I remember giving him a strange look. Obviously he was a little crazy. “What do you mean, listen to it? How can we listen to it?”

Keep in mind this was the early 1980s, and VCRs weren't even mainstream yet. How could we even listen to Star Wars at all? I didn't understand. It wasn't until late 1992 when my local NPR station had an ad stating thatthey were replaying the Star Wars radio drama 

that I realized my friends father just recorded it off the radio when it originally aired. And suddenly, I was jealous of my younger self, wishing that I had believed him, and listened to it then. I would've loved it.

But had I listened to it then, I would've never had enjoyed it on my road trip. As I mentioned, I listened to each episode back to back to back. And I was saddened when the last episode of Empire strikes back played, because, at the time, they hadn't produced the return of the Jedi radio drama yet.

I felt exhilarated when it ended. Almost as if the young elementary school age Jason suddenly came back out wanting more. While Star Wars itself was on the edge of becoming popular again, it had already hit its stride with me.

And even though the ride from Durham to Moline was a long one, I look back at that ride and remember how energized the radio dramas made me. And I'll admit, there are times I wonder where my life would've taken me had I not moved from North Carolina back to Illinois. But that's a story I guess I was never meant to know.

And now, here I am 23 years later and I'm about to go see Star Wars Episode Seven with my wife and my 12-year-old son. Back in 1993, December 18 was only special to me alone, but now how lucky am I that I get the share of the day now with the people who I love the most.

TinTin Day

Four years ago, right before the new Steven Spielberg movie of Tintin came out, my son and I headed over to Best Buy to browse for something new to watch. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and we were looking for something new to binge watch.

We strolled around the DVD section but nothing really jumped out at us. But as we moseyed over to the kids section we noticed, facing out in front of us, the animated version of Tintin that came out in the early 1990's.

We both noticed it at the same time, and both of us picked up a copy to look at.

To be honest, up until that point I had never heard of Tintin. I had seen drawings that Herge, the creator of Tintin, had made, but I had never experienced any of the stories before. And even when I heard that Steven Spielberg was making a movie on it, I still didn't have a handle on what even Tintin was.

So as my son and I were looking at the DVD case, I couldn't help but think that it looked like a good deal. A whole season for ten bucks? Sign me up. Apparently in preparation for the new movie they had we released the cartoon and it was at a good price. So it was a win-win situation for us.

We got home and unwrapped the cellophane from the case, and got things ready to watch.

Starting off with, “The Crab with the Golden Claws”, we watched as a man in a trench coat peered around the corner and watched as a man emerged from the fog. The two men met in a clandestine sort of way, and were soon ambushed. And eventually you see in silhouette the men throw a dead body into the sea.

To be honest, this was not exactly what I was expecting. As an animated children's show, I wasn't expecting good storytelling. But that is what we were experiencing. And from then on out, after that prologue, we were both hooked.

With the exception of taking a break to make dinner that night, we watched the first out of two discs all the way through. We watched the high adventure, and the slapstick comedy. It didn't take long for either one of us to become a Tintin fan.

But wait! You might not know who Tintin is either. As I mentioned, Tintin was created by author illustrator Herge, back in the late 1920’s. And it follows the adventures of a young reporter named Tintin and his little white terrier dog, Snowy. In fact, after the release of Raiders of the lost Ark came out in 1981, some of the reviews from Europe had mentioned that Raiders reminded them of Tintin. And Steven Spielberg, at the time, wasn't familiar with the stories either. And had soon afterward he obtained European copies of the the books and became an instant fan as well.

But for a father and son who love good stories, high adventure, and slapstick comedy, this was absolutely perfect for us. And the next day, as I rattled my way through our small kitchen, to get our Thanksgiving dinner ready, my son put in the second disc and eagerly ate the stories up.

The following year, the night before Thanksgiving, we ended up getting the fourth season of Star Wars clone wars to watch. Which was something that we were both looking forward to. And pretty much like the year before, like we did with Tintin, we binge watched the adventures the continuing adventures of Anakin Skywalker, Ben Kenobi and Asoka.

But even though we both had a great time catching up on these episodes that we hadn't watched before, there were something special about the year before in the awesome adventures that we watched in Tin Tin. And after we binge watched the clone Wars, we put in Tintin that next morning as I got our Thanksgiving dinner ready.

And he's been a part of our Thanksgiving day, and our holiday ever since. I can't tell you why we took to it like we did. Or even why we always end up talking about it late fall of the year. But we do.

And as a divorced father of an only child, you have to get used to splitting your time up during the holidays. You have to get used to taking the time that you have and making it everything you can. And you have to get used to how quiet things get when your child isn't around. It never gets easy, for anyone who lives through the same thing. But we make it work.

And it wasn't until this year that, while we still acknowledge that is Thanksgiving time, we've lovingly adopted the day as Tintin day. Which seems to honor, at least to us, our little family, and own traditions.

And, no doubt, my son will grow up, and maybe have a family of his own one day. And from there he will develop his own traditions. But I hope, in the back of his mind--even years from now--he will always think back on this holiday and remember all the adventures that we had.

A Kruel Opportunity: Chapter 1 #lifechanger

A Kruel Opportunity

By Jason Platt

Chapter 1: #lifechanger

Dad was gone.

Well, maybe not gone gone. Not dead gone. Although, I’m sure if you asked my mom, she would tell you that she wished he was. I could hear her say, “Oh, Tommy, if only murder was justifiably legal” and then she’d chuckle, and then laugh-- waving it off --as in a ‘I was only kidding” sort of way. But I knew her better. The laugh would be added to dilute the true feelings.

Since my dad had left with some skank (Mom’s term, not mine), my mom hasn’t been--well… mom. I don’t know how to talk to her. It’s hard to talk to someone who’s constantly in ‘angry/sad mode’. And whenever I walk into a room and find her mumbling things to herself, I just step back, out of the room, slowly. Hoping she doesn’t notice me. To get out of the way before she takes any of that anger out on me. The “mom mumble”, much like the foaming mouth of a rabid dog, is nature's way of telling you back off.

People keep telling me that I shouldn’t take sides. That I need to stay out of Mom and Dad’s crossfire, and just keep out of it all. Stay neutral. Sweden. But it’s hard not to be involved. I mean, how can you not? Especially when you pass by your mom’s room and hear her crying night after night?

One day when Dad came home to pick up a couple things from the house--a box of his fishing gear, the gear he and I would use would use on weekends--I saw his girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat-- mom’s seat---checking her make-up in the mirror.

I think Dad said her name was Candi.

Candi.

God, I hope I heard him wrong.

As if my own world wasn’t already falling apart; a few days later my mom sat me down in the kitchen and told me point blank that we were moving from our home in Davenport, Iowa, to some place in Rhode Island. She gave her notice at the school, and we were moving as soon as the school year was over..

I just about flipped out.

Okay, okay. Truth be told, maybe I did flip out. I don't know if it's a technical term for what I did, but flipping out is what my therapist wrote down in his journal. Okay, so maybe I looked at it when he stepped out to talk to his receptionist for a second. It was all there, double underlined in red. “Thomas, Flipped Out”. Like somehow tossing your mattress out on the lawn, and lighting it on fire has suddenly turned into an "emotional disturbance". Dr. Tomlin, my therapist, arranged for a colleague of his, who lives in the town we’ll be moving to, to take me on as a new client. Apparently I’m also “very unbalanced”. Oh, and also, as punishment for burning my mattress, my mom said she wasn’t going to get a new bed for me until we got to our new place. #CouchTime. One less thing to pack I guess.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

Really.

My therapist said… or wrote, he wrote it; I may have looked at the book more than once, that I will be fine. I will eventually become a solid citizen. When I’m thirty.

#confidence

Now with the exception of Jenny (The only person I would consider to be a close friend of mine) no one else knew about the move. Sure the teachers knew, they worked with my mom, but I wasn’t going to have all this negative attention thrusted at me. Having people I barely knew tell me that they were going to miss me and stuff. I couldn’t put myself through that.

I was, however, able to finish out my 8th grade year at school (thanks mom). But (again, thanks mom) by the time school was over, our house was completely packed up ready to be loaded onto the Mayflower van. So there wasn’t any "time wasted". None. Zero. She wanted to get out. The ink on my yearbook was barely dry when we packed up the car. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Dad or Jenny. When I complained about not seeing Jenny my mom simply said:

“Why do you want to say goodbye to your little friend? Trust me, twenty years from now you won’t even remember her name.” She unlocked the car with her keychain. The doors pa-popped. “Don’t you guys text everything anyway? Don’t you Instagram and things and stuff? We gotta go, come on.”

She got in the car.

I bolted.

I ran.

I heard her screaming for me as I ran through the neighbor’s yards. Cut through the Jamison’s front yard and through the back. Mr. Jamison was mowing. And as I went by he yelled something at me. But I didn’t care. I kept moving. I went down through the ravine, caught a couple spider webs in my mouth, jumped the creek, and ran up the hill--feeling the tree branches scratch and poke my body, and muscled my way up to Jenny’s back yard.

I grabbed a hold of the chain link and pulled my body up over the fence, heading to her back porch. Her little terrier, Snowball, saw me and followed me up to the sliding back door yipping at me the whole way. I ran up to the porch and knocked. Even as I was knocking, the door was sliding open. Her dad--Mr. Cue Ball, Jenny called him-- must have seen me coming. He was holding a piece of jellied toast in his hand, his tie draped over his shoulder.

“Tommy--? This is a little early--”

“Is Jenny here?”

He was about to say something else. About to say ‘no’, that I might ‘try coming back at a decent time’, I could see it in his face. The ‘Dad Look’. Old Cue Ball. But Jenny’s mom came up behind him. Placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked over at her and shrugged, mumbling as he went back to read the news on his iPad.

“Tommy--What’s going on?” At least she had some sympathy. I forgot what it looked like on a grown-up’s face.

I swallowed, spitting the words out between heaves, “Is--Jenny here? I need to see her. I’m--”

“Tom?”

Looking over her mom’s shoulder I could see Jenny. She was tying her robe closed as she squeezed past her mom up to me. The look of worry on her face.

"Tom, what is it? What's going on?"

Before I could say anything, her face drooped as she answered her own question, "you're moving today." It wasn't a question. I nodded. She knew me better than--well--anyone really. From behind her, beyond the kitchen, I heard the doorbell ring in three quick bursts. Then hard knocking followed it. Jenny's mom looked at me with sorry eyes and reached up and squeezed my shoulder before heading to the door. Jenny took my hand and led me out on the porch, sitting on one of the benches.

“You’re leaving now aren’t you?”

I nodded.

"What? Now?"

I nodded.

"Now, now?? But I thought it was going to be--"

“On Friday, I know, right?” I was starting to control my breathing, but the sweat was starting to bead up. “Got up this morning, and she had most of the car already loaded--”, I took a breath, “Had me help and then--” I gestured to the ravine and then to her porch.

From inside, we could hear Jenny’s mom at the front door. Voices. My mom. I knew I only had a few seconds left, "she wasn't even gonna let me say good-bye. And I couldn’t leave without--"

Jenny, with her sad eyes, gripped the shoulders of my shirt, and pulled me into a hug. I felt her arms wrap around me tight. I could feel her cheek against my neck and her warm tears against my skin.

She had never hugged me before.

I leaned in to it, resting my hands on her shoulders.

"I couldn’t leave without telling you good--”

Before I could finish I could hear the all too familiar snapping coming from my mom's fingers. Behind the smile I could tell that she was super pissed. "Thomas. We have to go."

Jenny pulled away, but kept her eyes on mine.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

"Thomas. Now."

I could feel the red rising up and could feel the heat on my cheeks. I would not cry. I would not.

Jenny squeezed my hands, and whispered in my ear.

“This isn’t good-bye.”

And then she kissed my cheek.

At first I didn’t know what it was she even did. I didn’t know it was a kiss. With all the TV and movies I’ve would have expected it to be something a little bit more dramatic. The swelling score behind us or something. The moment was gone before I even realized what it was. Before I could even react, or say anything else the Snap. Snap. Snap. cut through it all.

“I gotta go.” I said.

“Yeah,”

I got in the idling car, slamming the door behind me. I looked back at the house of my best friend, Jenny standing at the doorway. She started to cry when her mom came up behind her, holding her shoulders. Like a caged animal I put my hand on the glass. Hot tears, silently rolling down my cheeks as I could see my breath on the glass.

As the car started to back up, I could feel the knot in my stomach twist. This was it. This was the end. And as my mom put the car in drive it was though my seat belt, that I hadn’t even realized I put on, felt more and more like a restraining harness. I rolled down my window, and twisted my body out of it as far as it could go. My mom’s voice yelling. I could feel her tug at the waist of my jeans, trying to pull me back in. But I wasn’t budging. I wouldn’t let her. Jenny saw me and she ran out in the street waving. I waved back as we shouted out promises of staying in touch.

When Jenny disappeared behind the summer leaves, I sunk back into my seat furious. As soon as my body was clear I could hear the electric whir of the window going up and then heard the door ka-klunk locked. My mom looking at me as if I had grown horns out of my head and asking my why I would do something so stupid.

I’ll be honest, I can’t remember what else she said. It was all a blur. White noise. I just let the verbal beating continue. It didn’t matter. Let her get it out of her system. She couldn’t hurt me anymore than she already had. Because all I could see was my friend Jenny standing at her door crying as we pulled away. And, almost like a voice-over in a movie, all I could hear was my mom's voice saying, ‘Trust me, twenty years from now you won’t even remember her name.’

I was sitting in the passenger seat, a shell of who I was six months ago, and watching the only home I’ve ever known go by for the last time going 70 miles an hour. It was going to be a long ride to the east coast.

Remember when I said I wasn’t taking sides?

#iwishiweredead

Cupcake Catastrophes

From an early age I have realized that Hostess Cupcakes and I have a rocky relationship.

That's right. The delicious devils cake topped with the chocolate frosting with the curly Q flare of white icing and the creme filling on the inside? You know what I'm talking about. Even my co-worker, who's actually allergic to gluten, would probably slam one if these babies down if there was an opportunity (actually that's a lie, she's been really good at keeping away from the stuff, but I think you get my point.)

Don't get me wrong, I love the things. And if you know me--and believe me this blog is only available for you, my closest and dearest of friends--you know that if someone hands me one of those things I'm more likely to gnaw off that hand while devouring it than turning the thing down. 

Which is why when bad things happen to good Hostess Cupcakes, I'm likely to either throw a fit, or cry.

Like when I was three.

STORY ONE:
The Tail of the Toddler Tantrum

Imagine a three year old Jason sitting at the kitchen table watching the tail end of his weekly dose of his Saturday Morning Cartoons. You got the image in your head? Good (If you went "D'awwww!", then you are not alone. I was a pretty cute kid).

Now, I always knew when the Saturday Morning Cartoons were nearing their end. The last two of the day were Bugs Bunny and then, straight to yawnsville, with Tarzan. Not that there is anything wrong with Tarzan, it was just not my cup of tea. 

The only thing that I found remotely interesting was during the credits. I know, that's not the best compliment out there. It's equivalent to saying to someone, "the best part of seeing you is when you leave." I know. But in this case it was true. There was this point when, during the credits, the producer's names rolled around Tarzan's head. I can't tell you why, but I thought it was pretty cool. 

It was during this moment of watching the end credits when my mom (God bless her), gave me a Hostess Cupcake as a snack.

(This is where the clouds parted and thick beams of sun light broke through and the joyful cries of angles were also heard)

I looked down at the white icing and admired the way it loopty-looped within itself. Only a monster would even consider eating something as beautifully made like that. A cupcake monster that is (steeples fingers and laughs maniacally). And I picked the cupcake up, was about to take a bite when the frosting, the whole top part of it, all fell off and landed flat on my plate.

*thump*

The angles stopped singing and the clouds rolled on in.

My cupcake was dead.

Tears filled my little Jason's eyes and I wailed. 

My mom came running up to me.

"Oh my God, what's wrong?"

Tears rolling down, I pointed at the dead cupcake and at the decapitated frosting that lay lifeless on the plate.

"Oh," she said through my wailing,"it's okay. It's okay. I can fix that."

While it didn't stop me from crying, I did quiet down a little as I watched her as she was about to do some of her mom magic on the cupcake. I tried to control my sobs as she leaned in and picked up the hardened disc of frosting on the plate. 

To be honest, I didn't know what it was that she was going to do. But surely this, whatever it was going to be, was going to be magnificent. She picked up the frosting, and then simply put it back down on top of the cake.

That's all she did.

She picked up the frosting...

... and plopped it back down on the cake.

That was it.

That was all.

There was NO MAGIC. None. Zip.

Just a pick-it-up and plop-it-back-down.

I don't know what exactly I was expecting her to do. But I do know what my reaction was. I didn't wail like I did before. No sirree bob. I wailed even harder. I'm fact I want to say I kicked and screamed to make it even worse. I was unable to see reason beyond how my cupcake was treated.

"Look," she said, putting the cupcake down in front of me, "I fixed it. See?" She held the cupcake up. The frosting she replaced was crooked and loppy. "See? It's as good as new." 

I reached over, and lifted the frosting up.

Disgusting.

I didn't want it.

It was dead to me.

I had a full out tantrum. I know that. Heck, I even knew it at the time. Deep down, while I was having my melt-down, I knew I was being unreasonable. But I couldn't stop it. 

But even to this day... if I see a Hostess Cupcake that's been unloved, I feel sorrow.

Which leads me to...

When I was a junior in High School, down in Durham, North Carolina.


STORY TWO:
The Tail of the Last Cupcake


There are those days when you don't know you woke up on the wrong side of the bed until it's too late. When a series of events lead you to believe that the universe has somehow pin-pointed you in particular and misaligned all the planets on purpose and to sit back just to watch your day come apart in front of you. And laugh.

You know the days. You've had them. I've had them. They suck.

But this day in particular was my day. Where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

So what were they? 

To be honest, I can't remember.

While I take pride in my long term memory, the bits and pieces of that day are vague and foggy. All I know is that from the moment I woke up and heard my friend Joyce knock on my door to pick me up for school, my day was off to a bad start. I might have woken up late or had forgotten to do my homework. I don't know. But it just started off bad and nothing I did was right. 

But one thing I did know was that there was one more single Hostess Cupcake left in the 8 pack that we had bought.

Mmmm. That's right, one more Hostess Cupcake.

It was there in the box on top of the refrigerator. I saw it before I left. And that cupcake was what kept me going that day. I know it sounds stupid, and might even sound like it's made up. But it's true. And that lone cupcake soon became the focus of my sanctuary for that day. 

And as that day went on, it only proved to me time-and-time again that things weren't going my way. And with every hit that I took I would think, 'Crap, could this day get any worse?' And then by the next period in school I would realize that it could. It could get worse. In those fequent moments I kept saying to myself, 'At least I have that cupcake waiting for me. At least I got that.'

I wish that I were exaggerating on this. Because it seems so simple, doesn't it? To just get home from the day, and eat the last of the Hostess Cupcakes that we had? And then it would all be better.

So simple.

When school got done my friend Joyce drove me home in her little yellow Datson and dropped me off at my home at the British Woods Apartments. I got out of the car, walked through the breeze way and let myself in. I b-lined for the kitchen, dropping my back-pack on the floor and reached up for the box above the fridge.

Usually this is where people try and guess what had happened. And they usually say, "annnnd you found out that your mom did take it."

Which is a good guess. And it would have been a nice twist in the story. But that's not what happened.

Because it was there.

The cupcake.

I pulled it out of the box and unwrapped it from its cellophane. And in that brief moment I had the cupcake in one hand, and the cellophane in the other. Unwrapping that cupcake was a symbol that my day was over and my just reward was about to be had. 

I deserved it.

And in one motion, as I was about to take my first bite from it, I tossed the cellophane into the trash. But I suddenly noticed that the cupcake was no longer in my hand. Because the wrapping was still crinkling in my grip. I looked down. And there, lying on top of the trash can was my cupcake.

I had thrown away the cupcake instead of the cellophane. 

'But wait!' You ask, 'You had such a bad day! Couldn't it have been saved? Couldn't it be salvaged?'

Trust me, I looked.

As I looked at it I was instantly reminded that my mom had emptied her ash tray before she had left for work that morning. And my cupcake--was lying on top it.

(Add deadpan look to the camera: here)

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something.

But I didn't. 

The damage was done. The milk was spilt and there was nothing I could do about it.

I have had plenty of Hostess Cupcakes since then, but none of had such an impact as those two occasions had on me. The only other time that I've faced any pathos concerning a Hostess Cupcake is when I haven taken the last bite of one.

I can only hope that there isn't a tragic trilogy finally in my future. 

Trailer Man

So there's apparently some new Star Wars trailer out there that has swept up this Thanksgiving weekend into a--wait, was it Thanksgiving? Because I just got Jedi Mind Trick'd.

#boom.

It's apparently called Episode VII The Force Awakens or something like that. That's right...

It's here.

It's really happening.

And it hit social media like white-on-rice and making all my friend's jaws drop collectively at the same time. Which led them, I can only assume, even if the slightest bit, to pee in their pants with no shame.

I might not have a Star Wars tattoo, or have legally changed my name to Qui Gon Jinn, but I am--as those who know me--a pretty big Star Wars fan.

And, no, I haven't seen it yet. 

I know.

I know. I should turn in my vintage 1978 Millennium Falcon to some fan who apparently deserves it more than I do. 

I know.

But before you start screaming at me with your refound adolescent cries, let me explain. 

I have been burned by trailers more often than I can count. When I see a trailer (especially one I'm looking forward to) I can't help but try and decipher the story and then start to piece, with what I've been given, together. Speculate and guess. As a creative person that's just what I do. It's something natural and organic that just happens with me. And you have to admit that these days they show more of an abridged version of the whole movie than a generalized feeling of what the movie will be like anymore. More often than not, when you're watching a trailer, you might see something really cool. But that thing, that awesome/cool/maybe funny bit you just watched is probably a big moment in the final film, thus spoiling the moment when it actually happens. Because you're seen it. And there was no surprise in it. They expect you to "ooooo" when you already "ahhhh'd" six months earlier.

There will be no doubt that I will see it in good time.

But while I mentioned all the points of being disappointed by trailers in the past, there is one thing that will probably get me excited to see it. And pay the price of possibly being disappointed in the long run.

To watch it with my son.

There are a lot of things that I think about when  I think about Star Wars. But none other than my guy. And while he's older now, and doesn't play Star Wars like he use to, he'll still reference it with fondness. When my wife surprised the two of us to tickets to see John Williams conduct the CSO last year, he and I both realized how important his music is to the both of us. Especially when he started playing Yoda's Theme from The Empire Strikes Back. That was a great moment.

Last night, after I picked him up from his mom's, I told him about the trailer. He didn't know about it and asked if I had seen it yet.

"No, I haven't, Mister. Not yet."

"We should watch it together."

And we are... Tonight.

I hope I don't pee.

A Thanksgiving Mystery

"Hey Buddy, what'cha doin' for Thanksgiving?"

As a divorced person (I say that like we have our own special section at the zoo or something), you become keen with your instincts when a friend asks you that question.

It could be that they are just asking to ask. You know, much like how that co-worker who you bump into in the kitchen of the office. It's easier ask them about the upcoming holiday opposed to having the co-worker-to-co-worker awkward silence. You know, the easy topics to pass the time and to fill in the gaps. But every now and then the question isn't asked to fill in any gaps but actually asked with a purpose. Where a good friend, or family member will invite the reclusive divorced person over to their house to spend [add particular holiday here] with them and their family.

And when they do it's almost like they are asking you out on a date or something. You see the approach, and you feel the awkwardness in their delivery. You can actually see the timidness from them because they don't know what luggage, if any, you might associate with that particular holiday. They don't want to be the reason for any of that regressed luggage to suddenly some spilling all over the floor.

Gut instinct, from the rare/near-extinct divorcee is that the friends are probably feeling sorry for them and the friends don't like the thought of them being alone and watching a marathon of Firefly eating a bag of Double Stuff'd Oreos.

(Not that I did that. Not without a glass of milk that is.)

But the holiday's are rough. I admit that. While I have my son throughout the school year, he spends the majority of the holidays with his mom. So during those stretches of celebration, I don't see him too often. And the home becomes eerily quiet.

So when my good friend, James asked, "Hey Buddy, what'cha doin' for Thanksgiving?" I was happy to tell him that I didn't have plans after  my son and mom had our Thanksgiving together.

"Wanna come over to our house after? Kristen's family is coming over for dinner. We'd love to have yah over."

I said yes.

This was early November when my friend James asked me over to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his family. Little did I know, at that time, that my life was just on the verge of turning completely head-over-heels.

I had met a girl.

In fact we had a date set up for the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Now, I usually hold my cards pretty close when it comes to stuff like this. And while I have no problems when close friends tease me, I just don't like to be teased when I talk about how I might feel towards someone. It's a vulnerability that seems to cut easier than other things.

While I spent the morning cooking our Thanksgiving lunch for my family, I was texting said girl. When we were all done eating, my son and I took a walk to his school's playground and then afterwards I took him over to celebrate Thanksgiving with his mom.

After I arrived at James and Kristin's house, with 3/4's of a pumpkin pie in tow, James and I caught up at the dinning room table as things were finishing up.

"So what's going on man?"

"Well," The involuntary smile coming through sneaked through, "I kinda have a date this weekend."

"Oh yeah?" He smiled that way only a friend can when hearing something like that. You know that kind, the 'isn't that cute/tell me more' smile.

Now you have to understand that most of my friends have only known me as divorced/single/dad Jason. The funny guy and his little side-kick. And throughout the years my friends have seen me go on dates with Miss Wrong, and Miss Wronger and even Miss Whyintheworld. But they all wanted to see me with Miss Right.

So when James had leaned in, hoping to hear more, I froze for a split second unsure if I should indulge his curiosity or not. When his wife, Kristin came through the kitchen and said that she needed help finishing things up.

So I got out of it.

For the time being.

There is an art to having two Thanksgiving meals so close to one another. You have to pace yourself, try not to be tempted by any 'seconds' and limit what you intake during that first meal. So by the time I was half way through on that second meal I was starting to feel the pull. The tightening of the stomach that is filled with such yummie food and going through the internal struggle of knowing you should stop. But its so good that you find yourself getting that other helping. And then maybe one more.

It was sometime after the meal when the inevitable food coma came and we played a round of Apples to Apples (which is where I amazed everyone with my uncanny ability to perform as both Casey Kasem and John F. Kennedy. Who, despite the feelings of that night, are 'not' the same person). And then we all retired to the living room and stretched out.

It was then that said girl and I exchanged a few texts back and forth. The, what was normally an inconspicuous action, became noticed by my good friend.

"Is that her?" He had that same smile spread across his face.

I paused, shot a side ways glance, "Maybe."

"Who's who?" asked Kristin.

"Somebody," said James, throwing a thumb in my direction, "has a big date this weekend."

Kristin's eyes widened and immediately became curious. "What? You do? With who?"

"Is it anyone we know?"

"When are you guys going out?"

"Where are you taking her?"

"How'd you guys meet?"

"Is it so-and-so?"

"it's not so-and-so, is it?"

I couldn't help but smile at the scene that was laying out in front of me. Eventually, not only was James and Kristin eager to find out who I was going to go out with, but her family was too.

Now you have to understand that the Quad Cities, where I live, has a pretty big theatrical arts circuit. Everyone either knows one another, seen them in shows or has at least heard of them. So when someone finally asked the break out question of, "Does she do theatre?" it started the unraveling of who this mystery girl was.

She did do theatre.

Names were thrown out of women we all new and who were available. But, with each guess... they were wrong. James hunkered down in thought for a second and asked if she was ever in a show with him.

"No."

Which resulted in a 'we're getting closer' looks between them all.

"Has she ever been in a District Theatre production?"

"Yes."

"This year?"

They were getting closer.

"Yes."

From there it became like the end of "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World" and all of them were shouting out the names of the past shows within the District Theatre's repertoire.

Parade? No
Xanadu? No
8? No
Next to Normal? No
Rocky Horror? No
Avenue Q? No

They were weeding it down... and even Kristin's mom, who I hadn't met before that night, had whipped out her ipad and went to the theatre's facebook page.

And then they hit it.

Company?

A smile.

"It is isnt' it?"

They then started to name off the company members in the Sondheim musical. Which then became a race between James and Kristin, who trying to remember the cast from memory, and Kristin's mom who finally brought up the theatre's poster that conveniently listed the names of all the actors and actresses on it.

And then James said,

"Erin Lounsberry?"

Again... I smiled and nodded.

They cheered in the success of solving the Thanksgiving mystery, but it was followed immediately by wide smiles and the "you GO boi's" or the "Way to go's!" from them.

I was already excited about the date. Erin and I were already having marathon talks on the phone every night. But it was in that moment that I realized that something was different about this girl while I was sitting there with my good friends. That my normal vulnerability, that  I normally have in those type of situations, was substituted with pride.

That Thanksgiving, the one that I've dubbed the Thanksgiving Mystery, will come up in conversation from time to time. And it always brings a smile to my face. It was the best. It is also known, but only to me, as the last divorce invite that would be offered, and the last one I would accept.

That next year, in the following December, not only would I be standing on a church alter with that beautiful Mystery Girl, but the wienermobile would be waiting for us outside to whisk us away.

But that's another story for another day.

A Turkey of a Dinner

I was seventeen years old--a senior in high school--when my mom sat me down and told me some information that would become a source of topic, and laughter, for years to come.

With enthusiasm she announced that she would be cooking us a Thanksgiving dinner.

My jaw probably dropped.

Normally something like this probably wouldn't be anything to even bat an eye at. Thanksgiving coordinating with a Thanksgiving dinner? It almost seems to go hand in hand right? It wasn't a ground breaking idea or anything.

But you have to understand the reason why I had to pick my jaw up off the floor after she told me this was because my mom never really made a Thanksgiving dinner for us. Not that there wasn't a desire to, but as a single parent with an only child, it probably seemed like a daunting task to make a huge meal for just the two of us.

But also--and I realize that this might make me look like a horrible son... But--my mom *cringe* isn't that great of a cook.

I know, I know. Me = Horrible.

But before you light the torches and grab the pitchforks, it might help you to know that she is a self proclaimed bad cook.

FUN BACK STORY
(popcorn time)

When my mom was a little girl, living in a farm house in Taylor Ridge, IL, the first meal that she ever made for her family were grilled cheese sandwiches. A) Who doesn't like a good grilled cheese? and B) When you think about it, grilled cheeses are perfect for a first time cook. She wasn't alone in her journey though. My grandma was there to oversee everything as my mom carefully made the sandwiches for my grandpa and her two sisters, who were all waiting in the dinning room.

When she finished grilling them all on the stove, she carefully placed them all on the serving tray. Pride filled her little self as she picked up the tray and watched in horror as they all slid off and onto the kitchen floor.

Time stood still and my mom's heart was in her throat.

My mom looked up at my grandma with a "what do I do??" look. Without hesitation my grandma simply reached down, picked them up, placed them back on the tray and leaned into my mom and said in a whisper, "They don't need to know about this."

Now, I don't want you to think that everything that my mom makes instantly becomes black and ashen, because it's honestly not like that. My mom's homemade chicken and noodles and chocolate chip cookies are outta this world. And when I was in grade school she would always make a homemade pizza topped with hamburger every Friday night. Yum, right? They were always good and I always looked forward to them.

There are just times when the kitchen might as well be a chemistry lab.

There is part of me that will always remember how the house smelled when she burnt the mashed potatoes. It was a smell that just seemed to linger for days. < < shiver > > And I'll never forget when I finally brought up the courage to tell her that her fried chicken always gave me a stomach ache. You have no idea how it pained me to go to her and tell her. But after years of cramping indigestion I just couldn't let it go on anymore. She took the news well. She just looked at me and simply said that she was sorry and that, had she known, she wouldn't have made it. But promised she wouldn't make it again.

And she hadn't.

While my stomach has been forever thankful for going up to her, a part of me has always felt guilty about it too.

But in that early November of 1990, she seemed so excited as she told me what she had planned. No, she wouldn't be making a turkey, that would be just too much. But instead she was going to roast two small Cornish hens (which was better for our small family), and she was going to make us some mashed potatoes, corn and dinner rolls. I want to say there was a chocolate pudding pie on the list, but I can't remember exactly.

So the count down to Thanksgiving had begun.

There were only a couple weeks until then and she was growing more and more excited. And, throughout the whole time, I didn't have any doubts or worries.

None.

Really.


SIDE STORY

I was currently in the regional competition play at my school (there will, no doubt, be an entry on this at some point. So I'll get back to this soon. I know... You = Pins-and-Needles) and we had just won regional competition and were busy rehearsing it for state. And the Wednesday before Thanksgiving my good friend and polka-partner, Julie Totten, gave me a lift home that afternoon. I jumped into her little silver car with the reddish/purple interior and she played a James Taylor cassette on her boombox that lay on the floor board of her passenger side (her car stereo wasn't working). I straddled the boombox with my legs and she drove me home.

Now British Woods Apartments, where my mom and I lived, kinda wove in and out a little bit and I didn't want to bother Julie and have her take me all the way to my building. So, as I had done with other friends of mine, I had her drop me off at a parking lot that was parallel with my building. We wished each other well, and said we'd see each other on Monday.

But I ended up getting a call from her early the next morning.

Apparently I had left my back pack in her car and she was calling me to let me know that she dropped it off. But since she didn't know exactly where I lived, she dropped it off at the only place she knew of. The parking lot. But not just out willy-nilly anywhere in the parking lot, because that would look too suspicious even for 1990. So she did the next best thing. Left it near the dumpsters.

Now before you start judging her, keep in mind that this was pre-cell phones. So she had left it there and couldn't let me know until she had gotten to a phone of some sort. So after we talked for a minute, I got up out of bed to retrieve the back pack, and as I walked out in the hall I noticed that my mom was already hard at work in the kitchen.

When I got back in with my back pack my mom said with a big smile on her face that the hen's were in the oven! And promised to announce when they were expected to be done. She couldn't wait. She was so excited. Going back into the kitchen she wielded the pots and pans like a professional circus performer and began to work on the sides.

During this time I may have started to watch a movie. And I say this without exaggeration, started what may have turned out to be a second.

By the time I started to watch the third my mom poked her head into the living room.  She looked confused. "I'm not sure why," she said, "but it doesn't look like they're getting done." she scrunched her face, and went back into the kitchen. About forty minutes later she came back apologizing, "I don't know what's going on. I don't think that they should be taking this long. Should they?"

I shrugged.

"I don't know, Kath. I've never made them before."

Forcing a smile she headed back into the kitchen. I heard the oven door open again and heard her say, "They shouldn't take too much longer... I don't think."

During this time we started to set up the table. The mashed potatoes, the corn, the rolls and maybe the mysterious (if really present) chocolate pie.

She checked in on the hens again. And again.

About an hour later she looked defeated.

"How does peanut butter and jelly sound?"

"It sounds great, Kath."

I know that it wasn't the Thanksgiving dinner that my mom had imagined for us that day. And as I've grown older I think that her persistence and excitement about it all was because she was seeing it as, what might have been, the last Thanksgiving we would spend together. It was an end of an era. And she wanted something nice to remember it by. A perfect Thanksgiving. And I can only imagine what her disappointment was like on that Thursday.

As we sat down and looked at our plates--the PBandJ surrounded by the traditional Thanksgiving sides staring up at us--we started to laugh. We laughed though the dinner and poked fun at it all. The whole time as the Cornish hens were still stewing in the oven.

They never did get done.

Sometimes life might not go as you had hoped or planned. Which can be disappointing or heart breaking. But in the effort to find a solution, no matter how simple the solution might seem, the end can make some of the best memories. And those memories can often overshadow what would have been perceived as being perfect at the time.

My mom might not be the world's best cook. But if it were any better, we would have never had a fun memory to share with each other every year.