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.

Wanted: Deep Pockets

One day, when  I was about eight or nine years old, I picked up one of the many paperback mysteries that was lying around our house.

My mom, who was an avid reader, had paperback novels everywhere. I'll admit that, at the time, I wasn't all that interested in reading. Reading was on par with brushing my teeth and eating broccoli. It was something that I thought as being a chore. But I did follow what books my mom read, and the characters that the authors had created. But, at the time, what really fascinated me was the book covers and the paintings that were on them.

They say you shouldn't buy a book for its cover. But when I was a kid, I did just that. Hardy Boys, Bad News Bears: Breaking Training or even, dare I say, a copy of Star Wars all drew me into the cover and the stuff that was in the middle was all filler to me. Because the covers for the books were the movie posters for it, and how I loved looking at movie posters back in the day (I'll let this natural segue slip by this time and geek out on movie poster art later. Lucky you).

So when I saw my mom's copy of Agatha Christie's, "The Body in the Library" lying on the side table, it had intrigued me enough to pick it up and look at it.

On the pale pink cover was a woman who seemed to be sleeping within the shelves of the library, surrounded by multicolored hardback books. At the time I didn't think it made much sense, and had probably even laughed at it. I mean how'd she get in there in the first place?

And up in the top right hand corner there was the familiar publisher's logo. I liked how the letter "P" swooped down into what was a kangaroo running off to the spine of the book. And underneath that it said the word, "Pocket". 

Pocket Books.

POCKET.

And then like a bright light, brilliance happened. And I thought, 'Hey... Wait a second, I have pockets.'

And suddenly I became fascinated by the idea of...

wait for it...

...putting the book IN my pocket.

Now I was a weird kid. I admit that. And for those who knew me then, or even those who know me now are probably all nodding their heads in unison. I've accepted it many years ago. And I'm alright with it. But when I saw the Pocket Book logo I became intrigued. And suddenly the thought of walking around with a book in my back pocket seemed amazingly AMAZING. The skies opened up, sun beams came down on me and a chorus of angles sang. And the world suddenly became a whole lot bigger and it's possibilities were endless.

Now let me break in here for a moment.

I know mentioned the skies, sunbeams and the angels thing, but I don't know if you completely understand the concept on how amazing I thought it would be to be able to put a whole book in your pocket.  A book. In your pocket. A whole book in your back pocket!

AMAZING!

I wanted to try it. And the only thing that was stopping me from doing just that was me. Only me.

So I took the book in one hand and placed it behind me. And slowly, with concentration, fit one of the corners into my back right hand pocket. Step one to book-in-my-pocket mission: Complete. Second corner of book into pocket: Commencing.

But...

It didn't fit.

The book was too wide for my eight year old jeans. And no matter how many times I tried, it just wouldn't fit. The only way it would fit was if I crammed the book in, where it would inevitably bow out. And, trust me, that just looked downright silly. And it wasn't comfortable at all. And walking around?  Forget about it. Chickens have more grace.

Frustrated, I took the book out and put it back on the side table. Was I disappointed? Absolutely. But not as disappointed as I was....

TWELVE YEARS LATER
(or something close to that)

It was late summer 1994 and I was preparing to go back to college (There's a longer story here. I'll just skip it for you for now. So just go with me here). And I was really excited. I had so many things ready to go. Some new clothes, new and horribly expensive books, and art supplies for what was going to be my major: Art. And... what any decent/normal/not-weird student would have: A back pack. But not just any regular back pack. No. A black back pack that had two wide pockets on the back of it.

That's right.

POCKETS.

(add in widening eyes and widening tight-lipped smile: here)

And suddenly I was fantasizing about my days as a college student. Walking around. Going to class. Carrying around stuff. And in between all that I daydreamed that I would go to the student center, reach into one of the wide back pockets of the back pack and pull out... that's right... a book. But, not no ordinary book. No. A Star Wars book.

It was the mid 90's and there was a new re-surging interest in Star Wars. And since the 1991 publication block buster "Heir to the Empire" by Timothy Zahn, there was a multitude of new Star Wars novels and comics that had come out. And by that time I had been transformed from not only being a Cover-Only book buyer to an all around book lover. And the thought of carrying around my book with me, sitting comfortably in my back pack, thrilled me.

And I'm my excitement I even hand stitched the Star Wars logo onto one of those pockets. 

Yup.

Hand stitched. Right. I know. That's equivalent to saying, I self tattooed "place-nerd-icon-here" with only a needle and a Bic Pen on my shoulder. All on my own! Won't the girls swoon now! 

I admit, even though I thought that the stitching could have been better...

(No! Really??)

... I was pretty proud of it. And I already had the perfect book picked out. They had republished Brian Daley's Han Solo trilogy and it was deemed to be the first book for the official (I say that loosely) Star Wars Pocket. If there was a winning moment I had in college, I was living it dear readers.

I.was.LIVING IT.

And when the moment came to place the Star Wars book in the Star Wars back pack pocket, I found out quickly that the book didn't fit.

I can almost see the shock on your face. 

And when I say "it didn't fit", what I mean to say was that I managed to make it fit with a lot of elbow grease. And taking it out was even worse. So the whole idea of having a pocket...

POCKET *swoon*

...for a book was nice. It just wasn't practical if I couldn't store it, or take it out easily. 

So for the second time my book/pocket dreams were destroyed. And with some deep soul searching (and two interventions) I finally came to admit that my book/pocket spacial awareness wasn't as keen as I had hoped or dreamed. 

My book/pocket days were officially over. I had retired.

Finished.

TWENTY YEARS LATER

My eleven year old son is wild about the Erin Hunter cat clan series "Warriors". And as of today he started his thirteenth novel this year.  He has been reading the Warrior series consistently, back-to-back-to-back since the winter of 2014.

I took him out of school today for a doctor's appointment, and while he finished eating the Arby's sandwich I got for him, he asked me if I thought that taking the book in was a good idea.

"I don't think it would be a bad idea, Mister. You don't know if we'll have to wait awhile or not. It'll be nice I have. You know, just in case."

When we got out of the car I saw him trying to put his newest Warriors book in the right hand pocket of his winter coat.

It didn't fit. 

Never did I see something that disappointed my son make me so proud.