May 4: Zaphod Beeb, "Star Wars" Day, the Force

Ford and Arthur are about to meet Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government . . .

"Yeah, just show them in, would you, Marvin?" came another voice.

Arthur looked at Ford and was astonished to see him laughing.

"What's . . . ?"

"Shhh," said Ford, "come on in."

He stepped through into the bridge.

Arthur followed him nervously and was astonished to see a man lolling back in a chair with his feet on a control console picking the teeth in his right-hand head with his left hand.  The right-hand head seemed to be thoroughly preoccupied with this task, but the left-hand one was grinning a broad, relaxed, nonchalant grin.  The number of things that Arthur couldn't believe he was seeing was fairly large.  His jaw flopped about at a loose end for a while.  

The peculiar man waved a lazy wave at Ford and with an appalling affectation of nonchalance said, "Ford, hi, how are you?  Glad you could drop in."

Ford was not going to be outcooled.

"Zaphod," he drawled, "great to see you, you're looking well, the extra arm suits you.  Nice ship you've stolen."

Arthur goggled at him.

"You mean you know this guy?" he said, waving a wild finger at Zaphod.

"Know him!" exclaimed Ford, "he's . . ." he paused, and decided to do the introductions the other way round.

"Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent," he said.  "I saved him when his planet blew up."

"Oh sure," said Zaphod, "hi, Arthur, glad you could make it."  His right-hand head looked round casually, said "Hi" and went back to having its teeth picked.

Ford carried on.  "And Arthur," he said, "this is my semicousin Zaphod Beeb . . ."

"We've met," said Arthur sharply.

Two semi-relatives, trying to outcool each other at a chance meeting.  It's happened to me before.  I've written about it in this blog before--a run-in with cousins at Disney World.  Zaphod and Ford, both from Betelgeuse Five, thrown together millions of miles from home, in a stolen spaceship with an Improbability Drive.

You know, I've been a science fiction fan since I was a kid.  I remember reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy when I was a teenager.  I got the original trilogy for Christmas one year and spent the rest of the day reading it.  I think I got through the first two books by the time I went to bed that night.  Zaphod and Arthur and Trillian and Ford and Marvin were pretty good company that holiday season.  Like semi-cousins from Betelgeuse Five.  That was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .

You've probably figured out where I'm headed with this post by now if you're a Star Wars fan.  It is Star Wars Day--May the Fourth, as in "May the Fourth be with you."  This became a thing many years ago.  A time for all the Solos and Skywalkers and Vaders and Oganas to let their geek flags fly high.  My love of Star Wars goes all the way back to 1977.

I was ten-years-old when the original Star Wars appeared.  This was before it was known as A New Hope, when it was just this little, weird science fiction film that hit movie theaters in May.  I saw it for the first time in June.  I remember the day distinctly.  It was an incredibly hot summer.  The kind of heat where the bugs start sawing the air at 7 a.m. and don't stop until ten or eleven at night.

A whole crew of my siblings and I piled into my parents' van and drove the twenty minutes to the movie theater.  When we got there, the line for the show was already over 80 or 90 people deep.  Before we even got to the ticket booth, the movie was sold out.  We piled back into the van and drove back home.

The next day was just as hot.  We got to the theater two hours early and were the first in line.  The smell of buttered popcorn was in the air, and that original Hildebrandt poster--the one with Luke holding the light saber above his head and Leia by his leg, showing her leg suggestively and brandishing a blaster in her hand,--was in front of me.

I was the first person in the theater and ran down the row to one of the front rows.  It was 45 minutes before showtime, and I sat there, craning my neck around, watching the auditorium fill up.  By the time the lights dimmed, we were packed into the seats like droids in a Sandcrawler.  The lights went down.  The curtain in front of the screen opened.  Darkness.

Then, the initial blast of John Williams' theme.  Buuuuuummmm-ba-ba-buuuuuummm-ba-ba-bummmmmm.  The Star Wars logo blasting yellow against a field of stars, and the crawl of words began.  It was ah-mazing.  I was hooked.

That summer, I returned 27 times to see the movie.  When I sat down in my seat, I would look back at the projectionist (this was still the celluloid era) and wave.  He would wave back.  And then, my dose of Star Wars for the night.

I have nothing deep or profound to say today.  My geek side is exposed for all to see.  I am wearing my Star Wars tee, listening to a Star Wars radio station on my laptop,  basking in his Yoda-ness.

May the Force be with all of Saint Marty's disciples.

February 17: Another Dead Wrestler, W. Todd Kaneko, "Captain Lou Albano Says He is the Guiding Light"

Yes, I'm giving you another dead wrestler poem from Todd Kaneko tonight.  I think the reason I love these poems so much is because they're about wrestlers, not van Gogh's brushstrokes or Mozart's cello concertos.  Poetry can be about Flash Gordon and Andre the Giant.  I'm actually thinking about writing a book of poems based on Star Wars.  I think the world needs a few Wookie odes and Bantha sestinas.

That's my idea, anyway.  I would enjoy doing something like that.

Saint Marty hopes the Force will be with him.

Captain Lou Albano Says He is the Guiding Light

by:  W. Todd Kaneko

I'm like a snake, baby, I move and groove!  I can be the guiding light!  I can watch, I can look for weaknesses!  I can turn Mr. Saito into a maniac killer!

----Captain Lou Albano, WWF Wrestling Manager

Don't be a hero if you don't have to--

be the snake if you need to hurt

someone, the eagle if I tell you to be

a pair of scissors and a tattered flag.

A man can be a pistol, the tip of a razor

for those chumps up in the cheap seats.

Be the beard, wired with rubber bands

and gristle.  Be roughneck, bareback

so you can learn to talk to a woman,

hijack her telephone number, her name

if she has one.  I am your guiding light

in hours of gloom.  I speak with the bygone

snarl of a carnival barker, that salty tongue

spouting from the lips of an exorcist

drunk on church wine.  I swallow bees

to hone my bluster, wear my shirt open,

the hair on my chest raked with loco

weed and thistles.  A boy is a switchblade

in my pocket, a man a brand new suit

unleashing havoc in the dark.

Listen:  you be sabretooth and supernova,

an El Camino charging blind at oblivion.

Be a young stallion, cocksure and lurid

in a fight.  Bear skin, bulldozer, broken

bottle brandished in a back alley brawl--

it's your choice.  You don't have to 

want to be the killer.  Just be the killer.

March 23: Saint Toribio de Mogrovejo

I thought of titling this blog "The Nasty Bitch Strikes Back" (start humming the Star Wars theme with me), but I decided to take the high road. You may remember, Faithful Reader, the last time Nasty Bitch (henceforth referred to as NB) made an appearance in a post. She said and did some not-so-Christian things to my wife, so I went to her house and said and did some very not-so-Christian things is response. The ensuing guilt and remorse I experienced from my outburst ruined the better part of a week for me (think Luke after Darth cut his hand off). I finally ended up apologizing to NB, and, armed with the knowledge that I had done the right thing, the thing both Jesus and Yoda would have wanted me to do, I moved on to my next opportunity to make an wookie of myself.

Well, yesterday, when I spoke to my wife on the phone, she told me NB had said some more not-very-Christian things to her and my daughter and pretty much slammed a door in my wife's face, literally. Of course, my first response was to go to the Dark Side. I had this out-of-body vision of myself screaming at NB again, but the vision that immediately followed was of me having to suck Bantha butt again and apologize. Neither vision gave me much pleasure.

My wife and daughter were at home, out of harm's way, so I decided to pray about the situation on the drive home. I prayed for NB. Her mental state has not improved since my last outburst. In fact, I would say she has gotten worse. She looks like she hasn't slept in about two weeks, and , on a good day, her mood is sullen. On a bad day, she's just, well, a nasty bitch. Since she hasn't had an appointment with her psychiatrist, I know she hasn't started taking any medication to improve her condition. That means that she's still experiencing auditory and aural hallucinations. The last time she was like this, the voices were telling her to kill herself.

As I drove, I prayed for NB. I asked that she be made well, that she gets the help she obviously needs. I prayed that she be happy, really happy--no seeing figures standing in the mirror behind her or sneaking into her bedroom at night, no hearing voices whispering her name or telling her to harm herself. I prayed that she would turn back into the person I used to like, the person I remember going on vacations with. I prayed that she just be a whole person again. Wholeness. I've prayed similar prayers for my wife when she was in the throws of mania or addiction.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I felt peaceful. I wasn't ready to charge over to NB's house and challenge her to a light saber duel. I was calm and accepting. I saw NB for what she is right now--a sick individual in need of compassion and understanding. That doesn't mean I shouldn't protect myself and my family from cruelty and pain. That does mean that I recognize the source of that cruelty and pain as a symptom of NB's broken mind/heart/soul. And I can pray for her.

That's pretty much what Toribio de Mogrovejo did for a good portion of his life. A 16th century Spanish professor of law, he was appointed bishop of Lima, Peru. For a quarter century, he walked through jungles, forded rivers, wrestled gigantic alien Rancors (just making sure you're paying attention), and exposed himself to things like malaria, leprosy, and heatstroke. Instead of expecting broken people to come to him for help, he went out, met people where they were, and brought them the love and compassion of God. By the time he died in 1606, he had confirmed and baptized nearly one million people.

I probably didn't go as far as Toribio would have gone for NB yesterday. Toribio would have walked to her house, sat down with her, maybe held her hand. He would have asked her how she was doing, listened to her talk about her illness, her anger, her sadness. He would have led her to a better place.

I, on the other hand, patted myself on the back for not calling NB a nasty bitch to her face. I just prayed for her, handed her over to the likes of Saint Toribio, and hoped for the best. Sometimes that's what it's all about: A New Hope.

May the Force be with you.