I love Star Wars as much as the next girl pretends to. As the older sister of the coolest siblings this side of the Outer Rim, the saga was prominent in my childhood, and the cursory knowledge I’ve sponged from it is pretty sharp. I know that the Ewoks live on the second moon of Endor (not the planet itself), that Greedo didn’t originally shoot anything and that the entire plot of the first movie hinges on the fact that while the galaxy has discovered faster-than-light travel, somehow e-mail passed it by. Seriously, the smartest place Leia could think to hide the stolen Death Star plans was in the chest of a diminutive repair droid? Copy. Paste. Send. But for all the plot holes and factual errors (sound in space… the fuck?), I’m gonna accept Lucas’s science on its own terms, and instead wonder why you boys invest so much stock into a particular character:
When Russell and I took our respective daughters to Legoland a few weeks ago, he purchased a small, blocky keychain of said bounty hunter. When I asked why, he couldn’t quite articulate to my satisfaction. Well, I’m gonna spell it out for you nerds: his costume is neat. That’s it. What other reason makes him deserving to be among the top five best-selling action figures of the series? He neither captured Han, nor froze him in carbonite—he hid in some garbage, then tattled to the Empire. His big speech? “What if he doesn’t survive? He’s worth a lot to me.” Worthy of Dickens. Tear. Perhaps it’s the stylish way he dies, when a blind Harrison Ford accidentally sends him hurtling to his doom by tapping him with a stick. (A jet pack that faulty, you’d swear Imperial rockets were imported from Mexico. Si fly.) Even his dad went out like a bitch.
Time must be hanging heavy on my hands if these are the nits I’m picking. But you know I’m right, fellas: Boba Fett simply represents your inner twelve-year-old’s need to play dress-up without looking all queer. (I promise I say that with nothing but gentle, tolerant affection.) With no discernible personality or memorable dialogue, it’s impossible to do a bad impression… just make sure you get the stitching on the cape right. Admit it, a woman talking any kind of shop about this is sexy. Luke, at that speed, will you be able to pull out in time? Dirty.
Quinoa Fetta Salad
- 1 1/2 cup quinoa
- 4–5 cups fresh spinach
- 1/2 red onion, finely chopped
- 10–12 basil leaves, chopped or torn
- 1/2 cup toasted pine nuts
- 1/2 cup dried cranberries
- 1/2 cup feta
- 1 tsp (more or less) good balsamic
- salt & pepper
Cook quinoa according to instructions. Add hot quinoa, fresh spinach, onions and basil to a large bowl. Stir and allow hot quinoa to wilt spinach. Once wilted, fold in pine nuts, cranberries, feta and balsamic. Salt and pepper to taste. Cool in fridge at least 2 hours or overnight. Serve with a sprinkle of feta and drizzle of balsamic.
That Mexico jab is of course ridiculous—there are no Mexicans in Star Wars, and not because everyone is technically alien. Jimmy Smits is half Puerto Rican, and the only character with an authentic nickname, Chewy, is a space ape. And, yes, this is an example of “hipster racism,” something about which my sister recently enlightened me. Just because I’m aware of my political incorrectness, and convey it ironically rather than hatefully, does not mean I’m somehow being less offensive. But if I’m aware that I’m aware, am I half as racist or doubly so? Don’t answer that.
TWTG says, “They better not be in the panty dark hole!”