Springsteen in ’16: An Argument for The Boss

           

           As Americans, is it not our duty to do what we believe is best for the future of this nation? Even if that means running for President of the United States? If you truly believe that you are the best person for the job; that you will be a better leader than anyone else currently running; don’t you have a responsibility as a citizen to campaign for the position? So, I ask, Bruce Springsteen, why haven’t you declared your candidacy yet?

            Listen, Bruce, I think we can all agree, that at this point, you are a better choice than anyone else in the race. Let’s begin with your credentials. You are a celebrity! A much more popular celebrity that Donald Trump and look how good he’s doing. And not only are you a celebrity, but you are a celebrity who’s been outspoken about political issues in the past. When Reagan name dropped you in his 1984 reelection bid, you didn’t hesitate to speak out against him. You were on the forefront of charity songs when you performed on “We are the World.” In the 1990’s, you fought for gay marriage long before it was popular to do so. And you campaigned for Barack Obama, our country’s first African American President, in both 2008 and 2012. Isn’t it time to start campaigning for yourself?

            Who else can sing about the plight of blue collar workers while selling out stadiums whose cheapest seats are $93? These are the same kind of supporters you’ll need when raising taxes is inevitable. Who else can sing about “Girls in their Summer Clothes” as a man in his late fifties and not sound creepy? If anything, you made it sound sincere, even romantic. Who else can perform in front of millions of people at the halftime of the Super Bowl and not rely on dancing, props, or sex to sell it? Think about it Bruce—nobody doesn’t like you. Sure, people might say things like, “I don’t care for his music.” But nobody has ever uttered the words: “I hate Bruce Springsteen.”

            And for Christ’s sake, your nickname is “The Boss.” The Boss! What better nickname for the President of the United States? And you have countless songs at your disposal to use for your campaign. “Born in the USA,” anyone? Hell, when you’re debating these other clowns on national TV, just break out your acoustic and dive into something off of Nebraska. You’ll instantly win over half of America with a stunt like that.

            And I know what you’re thinking: It’s too late to run for president this year. Why not wait until 2020. Three words: Springsteen in ’16! This is the only year that works. The only year your name rhymes perfectly with. Never again will you have a better motto. Say it again: “SPRINGSTEEN in ’16!” Awesome! The best political slogan since “All the Way with LBJ,” way back in 1964.

            So, Bruce, what do you say? We need you. For lack of better words, you were “Born to Run!”

The Grind

           The slick steel groove in the railroad crossing snags Jim’s front wheel like a predator snagging its prey—instantaneously and without warning. The outcome of the ill-fated incident is the same as always—the bicycle stops abruptly and the rider hits the pavement hard. Watching it happen in front of me, I immediately slam on my brakes and make sure that my friend is not injured. But even before that, my body makes an involuntary movement. I cringe. I cringe because I know the feeling. I cringe because I’ve been there before.

            There’s not much that I haven’t done on a bicycle. The time I was taken down by a set of railroad tracks, I was actually in a much worse situation than Jim. My friend Blaine was following directly behind me, right on my wheel, so when I went down, he went over, leaving a pile of bikes and bodies in the middle of a major thoroughfare. We were lucky that the cars behind us slammed on their brakes. Another time I was bombing down a hill, pedaling as fast as I could around a turn, when my left pedal clipped the asphalt, throwing me clear over my handlebars, ripping open my upper lip, knocking out my two front teeth and leaving me with hefty medical bills. Another time I took so much skin off my left arm that I could barely bend at the elbow for over a week. Another time I rode down a mountain in such extreme cold that my hands went completely numb and refused to work correctly for the next several months. I thought for sure that I had permanent nerve damage. And then there are all the little things, like the chipped kneecap and the bruised tailbone and the countless bumps, bruises, scrapes, and scabs. And I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I know so many people who’ve had it so much worse. When it comes down to it, if you’re going to ride a lot of bikes, there’s eventually going to be some pain. No doubt about it. I know, because I’ve ridden a lot of bikes. At one point, you could have almost called me obsessed.

            I’ve always ridden bicycles, since I can remember, but didn’t get seriously into the two-wheeled machines until I moved out west in 2008. And like I oftentimes do, I went absolutely gung-ho. I started with cyclocross and that quickly evolved into cross-country and short track mountain biking. On the road, I’ve done criterions and circuits. I’ve raced fixed-gear and single speed. I’ve done 24-hour solo road and mountain bike races. I’ve ridden tall bikes and swing bikes. I’ve bombed little kids bikes down mountains. I’ve battled homemade chariots with urban gladiators. I’ve ridden nude with 10,000 other naked cyclists. I’ve biked across the United States twice. And then, in 2014, I really got into it. I bought some top of the line equipment. I hired a coach. I quit my job and started training full time. I competed in 52 races—one for each week of the year. And by the time I won the award for the Best All Around Single Speed Rider in Oregon, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to ride a bike again, let alone race one. As it turned out, sometimes there really can be too much of a good thing.

            I decided to take some time off, limiting my races to a select few, but even those I didn’t really enjoy. And then I injured my back and could barely ride for about six months, but I still didn’t miss it. But then I rehabbed my back and made it strong again and decided to go for my first long ride in a long time. And now I watch as Jim’s front wheel abruptly stops. I watch as his body hits the pavement like a sack of concrete.

            We are riding in the Salem Gravel Grinder, a yearly event that takes place each February. Of all the cycling activities I’ve done throughout my life, this is—somehow—my first gravel grinder. The weather is crap, causing rain to sting my eyes, and the wheel in front of me to spray grit into my mouth. The gravel causes my bike to slog, making each mile feel twice as long, each foot of elevation more like ten. I’m cold, wet, and hungry. Yet I can’t remember being much happier on a bike. Because it’s not a race. It’s just a ride. Like they all used to be. I’m reminded of before 2008, when I rode bikes for the simple enjoyment of it. There were no races or competitions or bragging rights. It was just me and my two wheels, exploring the outskirts of Buffalo, NY, and before that, commuting to class in Potsdam, and before that, circling the block in my hometown of Elma, and before that, circumnavigating Redhouse Lake, and before that, learning to balance in my parent’s dirt driveway.

            As Jim pulls himself off the pavement and hops back on his bike, he’s in good spirits, and says something that immediately strikes a nerve with me. “I’m glad I crashed,” he says. “It reminds me that I’m human. It reminds me that I’m alive.” And I can’t agree more. For the first time in a long time, I’m glad to be back on the bike. Even though I’m cold and wet and hungry. The rain, it stings my eyes. The gravel, it sprays into my mouth. And never has it tasted so good.

Our Greatest President

In just over seven years in office Theodore Roosevelt protected more wilderness than all the other presidents before him combined, but it wasn’t just his conservationism that makes him the most extraordinary president that this country has ever seen. He established the first child welfare laws, introduced worker’s rights, prescription drug regulations, and the Pure Food and Drug Act. Though Roosevelt was born into wealth he turned against his own class, creating an inheritance tax on the rich; he returned a $100,000 campaign donation from Standard Oil back to the corporation; and when an Oregon senator was found to be involved in a land scheme, he sent him to prison.

Roosevelt was the first American to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, for his mediation that ended the Russo-Japanese War, which might have evolved into a world war if he hadn’t intervened. Henry Adams called him “The best herder of emperors since Napoleon.” King Edward VII said he was “the greatest moral force of the age.” And H.G. Wells wrote that “Never did a president so reflect the quality of his time.” Roosevelt was the first to invite an African American to dinner at the White House. He was influential in the building of the Panama Canal. He ended the Coal Miners Strike of 1902 and gave Cuba its independence. The United States had its best economic status thus far while he was in office. With all of these accomplishments it’s of little surprise that Theodore Roosevelt had the most popular approval rating of any president and won the 1904 election by the largest landslide up to that time.

The most incredible thing about Theodore Roosevelt is that his two terms as President of the United States were probably the least interesting years of his life. After leaving office he travelled overseas and became a great African hunter. When he returned and saw that his handpicked predecessor, the pathetically obese William Howard Taft, was reversing policies that he had implemented while in office, he quickly turned against his old friend and challenged him for the Republican candidacy of the 1912 election. When Roosevelt didn’t get it, he started his own “Progressive Party,” more popularly known as the “Bull Moose” party, and though he knew he couldn’t win the general election as a third party candidate, he made sure that the Republicans split their votes, assuring that the fat Taft would not be reelected. After that he travelled to Brazil to be the first to explore an unknown waterway that ran through the Amazon. Measured in today’s standards, it would be similar to George W. Bush being the first to explore Mars, if the planet had hordes of dangerous aliens that could kill human beings at any moment.

At 42, Theodore Roosevelt was the youngest person ever to become President of the United States. I believe the years leading up to that moment are his most interesting. At the age of 23 he was minority leader of the New York State Assembly. By the time he was 40 he would be the state’s governor. In between that time he co-founded the Boone and Crocket Club and created the National Zoo in Washington D.C. He was the New York City Police Commissioner, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, and when the Spanish-American War flared up, he formed his own volunteer regiment to fight on the front lines. Borrowing the name from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, Roosevelt’s “Rough Riders” were influential in the victory at San-Juan Hill. Believing that no politician should send boys to war without experiencing combat themselves, Roosevelt thought he was “unkillable” as he rode in to battle, bullets whizzing by him, but none hitting his flesh. Measured in today’s standards, it would be similar to Ted Cruz traveling to Afghanistan to personally fight the Taliban.

On top of everything we’ve already discussed, there was one profession that Roosevelt worked at his entire life. If making a living refers to earning an income, then Theodore Roosevelt made his living as a writer. If he never became president he might still very well be remembered as one the greatest authors of his day. At the age of 23 he published The Naval War of 1812, which just happened to be the most comprehensive book on naval history that the world had ever seen at the time. He would go on to write 36 more volumes of history, natural history, biography, political philosophy, memoirs, and essays. Never being an economically intelligent or business savvy man, he sometimes wrote books to pay off debts and to provide his family with the comfortable lifestyle that they had become accustomed to.  He once took a month long vacation, which to him meant writing a 63,000 word book on Oliver Cromwell.

I could go on and on about Theodore Roosevelt. In fact, there have been tens of thousands of pages of academic study devoted to the man. But I will wrap things up with my own personal observation concerning the man who considered it an “outrageous impertinence” to be called “Teddy” to his face. Engraved on the front of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City are the following words to describe Theodore Roosevelt: “Ranchman, scholar, explorer, scientist, conservationist, naturalist, statesman, author, historian, humanitarian, soldier, patriot.” I believe they left something out, a single word that could sum up all the others—adventurer.

I’m pretty sure the reason that Theodore Roosevelt did anything in his life is because he thought it would be a “bully” good adventure. When he was a child he suffered from many medical ailments, including severe asthma. A doctor once told him that he would have to live an easy life, staying indoors, participating in very little exercise. He thanked the doctor for his advice and then told him he would, from that moment on, do the exact opposite of what the physician recommended. He became a successful boxer while at Harvard, and throughout his life would challenge certain guests of his home to friendly matches of boxing and then wrestling. He was an expert hunter, and as confident riding a horse as climbing a mountain. While president he was accustomed to 20-mile hikes and swimming naked in the Potomac River, even in the dead of winter. While on a presidential visit to Yosemite he escaped into the wilderness with John Muir, and while at Yellowstone took off alone, neither time telling anyone where he was going. When he was campaigning against Taft in 1912 he was shot in the chest by a would-be assassin. Luckily, the bullet was slowed down by a rolled up manuscript in his pocket. He refused to go to the hospital before delivering his speech, saying to the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know whether you fully understand that I’ve just been shot; but it takes more than that to kill a “Bull Moose.” When America joined the Great War in Europe, the ex-president, then in his mid-fifties, begged the government to allow him to lead another volunteer regiment, but was denied. But the sense of adventure never left him, and neither did the fight. When he died in 1919 at the age of 60, he was the favorite to win the next presidential election.

To find out more about Theodore Roosevelt and other interesting American icons, 

read The Road and the River: An American Adventure. 

Now available at jonpenfold.com and on Amazon!

The Truth about the NFL

ROGER: Good morning, Martin. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat.

MARTIN: Thank you, Mr. Goodell.

ROGER: Please, call me Roger.

MARTIN: Okay then, Roger, I’d like to begin by saying how surprised I was when you contacted me. I didn’t even apply for a position with the NFL.

ROGER: Well, we don’t advertise our career opportunities to the public. We actually prefer finding our own candidates.

MARTIN: And I assume you found my resume on LinkedIn?

ROGER: No, to be honest, we found you in an old online news article from 2012. Are you familiar with the one I’m talking about?

MARTIN: I haven’t the slightest clue.

ROGER: (laughs) The Omaha Times reported that you were running quite the cheating ring. They claim that not only did you cheat on the Nebraska State Bar Exam, but you were also charging fellow law students to help them cheat.

MARTIN: I can assure you that that was all just a big misunderstanding.

ROGER: It’s quite alright, Martin, you can tell me the truth. I won’t hold it against you.

MARTIN: I swear, Sir, I was set up.

ROGER: You’re a good liar.

MARTIN: But I’m not lying.

ROGER: A man that sticks to his story. Exactly what we’re looking for.

MARTIN: But Sir…

ROGER: Martin, it’s okay, we know you cheated. We know you helped others cheat. We know that you’re a liar. We know that you’ll lie about being a liar. That’s exactly why you’re here. How do you think we found you? Why do you think you’re here in the first place?

MARTIN: I’m sorry, but I don’t think I quite understand.

ROGER: You see Martin, we’re in the business of lying and in order to keep this machine running, we need more people like you—people who are willing to lie through their teeth. Let me ask you a question: what is your favorite professional sport?

MARTIN: Well, football of course…

ROGER: Wrong!

MARTIN: Excuse me?

ROGER: Football can’t be your favorite professional sport because professional football is not a sport.

MARTIN: I don’t follow.

ROGER: Professional football is not a sport because it is illegal in the United States to fix sporting events. Now do you follow?

MARTIN: You’re telling me that the NFL is fixed?

ROGER: In 2004, there was an antitrust lawsuit brought against the NFL. We were able to win the case because the NFL does not actually consider itself a sport, but rather an “entertainment marketplace.”

MARTIN: Why did I never hear about this? I mean, why wasn’t it a big news story?

ROGER: Because nobody really wants the truth, Martin. People want to believe that their team has a shot. That their favorite player is a standup guy. That everything is fair and balanced. But, I think we both know that’s not how a successful business is run.

MARTIN: So, you’re saying that the NFL is fake? Like the WWE?

ROGER: More or less.

MARTIN: But that’s impossible?

ROGER: Why? Why is it impossible?

MARTIN: There are too many players involved. There’s no way you could convince all of them to keep their mouths shut.

ROGER: Who said the players know anything about it?

MARTIN: But how could you pull it off without the players’ involvement?

ROGER: Let me ask you, Martin: have you ever seen an interview with a referee after the game?

MARTIN: I can’t say that I have.

ROGER: That’s because they’re bound by a mandated gag order that prohibits them from talking to the media. What you must understand is, almost any NFL game can be determined by just two calls. Why do you think some overt facemask penalties are ignored, while other, less obvious holding penalties are immediately flagged? You see, in football, a penalty can be called on every play. We decide which ones are called and which ones aren’t.

MARTIN: And you can determine the outcome of every game this way?

ROGER: There are always going to be circumstances beyond our control, but we do have a 93% success rate.

MARTIN: But why? Why rig the outcomes? Why not just let them play?

ROGER: Simple. One word—money. We used to “just let them play,” but we didn’t make any money. You don’t remember football from back in the 60’s and 70’s, but it was a different game. Quite frankly, it was kind of boring. We just gave the fans what they really wanted. We gave them entertainment. And it goes way beyond what happens on the field. We have turned the NFL into a 24 hour a day, 365 day a year spectacle. We’ve convinced people who wouldn’t even think about tuning into a game to spend their mornings talking about us around the water cooler at work. I mean, think about it, it’s better than a soap opera. We’ve got running backs beating their wives and kids. Linebackers and tight ends murdering people. Quarterbacks being investigated for taking PED’s.

MARTIN: And deflating footballs.

ROGER: (laughs) Ha, you liked that didn’t you. I have to be honest. That was my baby. I orchestrated that entire fiasco. Quite proud of it too. Super Bowl 49 was set to be the lowest rated Super Bowl in over a decade, but then Deflategate happened, and we ended up smashing every record.

MARTIN: So, how do you determine who wins?

ROGER: Well, there are many factors involved. It all really comes down to how we can make the most profit. Like, take 2001 for example. 9/11 had just occurred, so it was only natural that the Patriots would win the Super Bowl that year. And then, after Hurricane Katrina, The Saints were the obvious choice. And then, this year, with Payton Manning retiring…well, let’s just say that the storyline kind of wrote itself.

MARTIN: Wow!

ROGER: I know, it all seems so obvious when somebody sits down and explains it to you. So, what do you think? Would you be interested in working with us?

MARTIN: Tell you what, you tell me who’s going to win the Super Bowl this Sunday, and we’ve got a deal. You do know who’s going to win the Super Bowl, don’t you?

ROGER: Of course I do. And it sounds like we’ve got ourselves a deal. The winner of Super Bowl 50 will be…

About that Time I Occupied a Federal Wildlife Refuge, by A. Bundy

About that time I occupied a federal wildlife refuge, I was only doing as I was instructed by God. And everything that has happened since the initial idea to occupy a federal wildlife refuge is clear proof that what we did, are currently doing, and will do in the future is exactly as God intended. Let me make this absolutely clear: I did not choose to occupy a federal wildlife refuge. God chose me to occupy a federal wildlife refuge. And on that first day, when nobody really took notice, when the media asked, “What is the point of occupying an uninhabited building on a federal wildlife refuge in the middle of nowhere?” and, “How is that a news story?” That was God telling us that we were doing the right thing. And then, on the third day, when the media did take notice and asked “What are you looking to prove by occupying a federal wildlife refuge in the middle of nowhere?” That again was proof that we were doing God’s work. And then, a week in, when the media forgot about us because there were better stories to report, that was definitely a sign from God. And then, when we started receiving dildos from all over the country, that was most definitely God sending a message to us. I’ll be damned if he don’t work in mysterious ways! And then, when we went to that town meeting and the citizens yelled at us to “Go home!” Yep, that was God telling us to stay. And then, a week later, when we tried to go to another town meeting and we were pulled over by the FBI and my good friend was shot to death—that was absolute proof that we were doing exactly as God wanted us to do. Gosh darn it God, if you’re not a crafty one. And then, when we were arrested and charged with federal crimes, again, God. And now, as we sit in jail cells awaiting our fate. You guessed it—God’s path. Now, let us pray…

Tornado Island

            The wind awakens me from my sleep. A gust pushes against the thin walls of my tent; then another; and another. Each is stronger than the one before. The hard smacking sound of air against fabric becomes louder with each blast, like a giant flag violently flapping high on its mast. The structure collapses in on me causing the small area inside to compress into an even tighter space. Tiny particles of sand blow through the tiny holes in the screen and into my eyes, making them itch and burn. I close the rain-fly, but it does little to help; the sand is stubborn and finds a way in.

            What the hell is going on? I listened to the weather report just a few hours ago and the voice on the radio clearly said it would be a “mostly clear night with a slight chance of scattered rain.” And now the wind is even stronger than before. A powerful gust flattens everything around me, snapping my tent poles like they’re twigs; my carbon-fiber tent poles that aren’t supposed to snap. I unzip the fly and hurry outside, for my tent is useless right now. It has transformed into nothing more than a large kite ready to take air with whatever is inside it. I’ve been through strong winds before but nothing like this. From the direction in which the wind is traveling the sky is dark. I look in the opposite direction, to the north, and see a clear night sky with a thousand stars twinkling in the warm summer air. Turning my head back the other way I see nothing but darkness. It’s as if the wind is visible, and the stronger it blows the darker its color and I’m staring at the blackest black that black can be.

            I bundle the tent in my arms, with most of my possessions still inside it, and run for the only cover available. There sits a plot of young trees, looking more like bushes, none over ten feet high and covering ground maybe fifty feet squared. There is nowhere else to go; I am on island in the middle of the Mississippi River with a half-mile of water on either side. I squat down between two trees and hold on tight, gripping each trunk like the thin end of a baseball bat. Before I fell asleep the temperature was over 90 degrees with the thick Midwest humidity making it feel well over 100. So now I’m completely naked and my bare skin stings from sand and leaves and the wind itself. And I’m chilled, not so much from the temperature dropping but more from the fear that has infected my mind.

            The wind becomes even stronger and my mind begins to comprehend the circumstances at hand. Could it be? I think it could. The worse of all possibilities, the most severe weather condition known to man—tornado! All right, stay calm. Think! I evaluate the situation and try to figure out the best course of action. What do I know about tornados? I know that just a few months ago a tornado ripped through a town not far from here, killing 159 people in Joplin, Missouri. I know that tornados are not very predictable and sometimes appear out of nowhere; otherwise those 159 people in Joplin, Missouri would not have been where they were when the destruction hit. And I also know that it isn’t the violent wind that actually kills people but rather the debris that the wind carries with it. I have a flashback of something that I once saw on television: a drinking straw shoots out of a machine, simulated to travel like it’s in the midst of a tornado; the small plastic tube penetrates a piece of wood like a bullet through Styrofoam. Somehow this brings about the slightest bit of reassurance. Because being on an island, surrounded only by water, there appears to be very little debris in the vicinity. Maybe my situation isn’t as bad as it seems.

            And the winds picks up. And the trees begin to bend. And I consider talking to God. But I think about Joplin, and all those dead, and how they must have talked to God just before the end and how God did nothing to save them, and unlike myself they genuinely believed in God. So instead I talk to the trees. I talk to them as if they are a higher power and understand my language. “Ok little trees,” I say, “I know that you’re not that old in plant years and you’ve probably been on this earth about as long as me, and over that period of time your roots have held strong and you haven’t been ripped out of the ground yet, so if you think you can hold on for just one more day, I will be forever grateful.”

            But wait. What if the trees can hold on to the ground, but I can’t hold on to the trees? What if my grip isn’t strong enough and the wind carries me off and drops me into the river? Is the water a wise place to be during a tornado? Or are waves going to crash on me until I’m pushed underwater and drown? I should put my lifejacket on.

             I release my grip on the tree trunks and take off towards the canoe. The wind knocks me to the ground and in all my 28 years on earth I don’t remember this ever happening before. I proceed forward in a diagonal stance with my upper body leaning forward, trying to find the perfect balance between falling on my face and being blown over on my ass. I reach the spot where I left the canoe but it’s not there. I look around frantically, my forearm pushed against my brow to stop the sand from stinging my eyes. But it’s no use; there is nothing to be found. I know where I left the boat, and I know that it is gone, along with everything inside it, including my life-jacket. So now I’m standing cold and naked on an island in the middle of the Mississippi River staring directly into a “darkness” that might or might not be a developing tornado. And all I can think is: How the hell did I get myself in this situation?

Will I live? Will I die? The answer can be found in my new book, The Road and the River: An American Adventure. To purchase a copy, simply click on the link below!

                                      https://www.createspace.com/5935714

My Star Wars Life: The Making of a Fan

            I was not a fan of Star Wars. Before you get all up in arms, notice the word “was.” The following is a story/essay about my conversion.

            In retrospect, my early objections to the Star Wars movies probably had little to do with the actual series itself, but rather, could be more properly attributed to a sibling rivalry. Josh, my older brother, was an absolute fanatic when it came to not only Star Wars, but anything in the Science Fiction genre. I, always trying to find an identity of my own, was not much of a fan of either. For me, outer space was boring. For me, Science Fiction consisted of Back to the Future and Jurassic Park, segments of the genre that took place entirely on Earth and that had nothing to do with outer space. And so, even though we came from the same blood, and shared a bedroom, we were entirely different people. Josh was in another galaxy. I stuck to Earth. Josh was a Star Wars kid. I prefered Indiana Jones. And that was the way it stayed, until about a month ago…

            My good friend J.R., a huge Star Wars fan, was recently married, and for their first Christmas as newlyweds, his awesome wife Megan got him a private screening of The Force Awakens. When I heard about this incredible gift, I thought there was a 50/50 chance that I would receive an invite. On one hand, me and J.R. are really good friends, so naturally, he would invite me to experience this once in a lifetime opportunity with him. But, on the other hand, I had voiced my disinterest over Star Wars—as well as cracking numerous distasteful jokes—so many times, that it wouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest if I was not invited. So, when I did receive the invitation to view The Force Awakens in a private screening room, I knew it was only right to revisit the original trilogy.

            Naturally, I watched original Star Wars first and to be honest, all I could think was: this movie was once the highest grossing film of all time? How? Why? But then I gave it some deep consideration and came up with a theory—it was just the right movie at just the right time. It was the late 1970’s, our nation was in the midst of a recession, we had only recently pulled out of the Vietnam War, and Hollywood was in an era of producing realistic, often-times artistic, sometimes tear-jerking, dramas. Though this era produced some of the greatest films of all time—The Godfather, The Exorcist, Jaws, Rocky, etc.—these films were often an exhausting experience. Star Wars, on the other hand, was fun. It was colorful. It didn’t take it itself too seriously (though its fans eventually would). It had robots and aliens and light sabers. It was exactly what the public needed at the time. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it at the time of its release—mostly because I wasn’t born yet—and when I returned to it as a child in my early thirties, I found myself, surprisingly, entertained. Sure, Luke is a whiny brat, plot holes are used to conceal larger plot holes, and that trash compacter is much smaller than I remembered as a child, but all in all, I found it to be a pretty decent movie experience. I was actually excited to see the next installment…

            I wasn’t exactly thrilled with The Empire Strikes Back. Quite frankly, I was a bit surprised that the filmmakers followed up Star Wars with such a dark sequel. But, trying to find a bright spot—always trying to find that bright spot—I did consider the special effects, and though they might not be deemed that impressive today, at the time, they must have been absolutely mind-blowing. So, the movie did have that going for it, until…

            I did something I probably shouldn’t have done. In the midst of my viewing of the original Star Wars trilogy, I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was already in this Sci-fi state of mind, and it was playing in its original 35mm format at my neighborhood theater, and I had never seen it before. (I know what you’re thinking: How has someone with a college degree in Film Studies never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? The answer: I went to a state school. They practically give degrees away.) So, I watched the movie, which was filmed in 1968, and its special effects were light years ahead of The Empire Strikes Back. I was suddenly starting to question whether or not this whole Star Wars saga was really as good as everyone so desperately wanted me to believe. But then…

            Along comes Return of the Jedi—with its Ewok villages, and Jaba the Hut’s strip club, and those awesome hovercraft skidoos—to save the entire franchise. Wow, what a fun film! And Hans Solo gets the girl in the end. Speaking of which, if I could sum up the greatest part of the Star Wars films in just two words they would be: Harrison Ford. For much of the same reason I love the Indiana Jones movies, I found myself becoming a fan of Star Wars. There’s just something about Ford’s acting that makes the audience feel like he’s an old friend. The way he can express any emotion with just the look in his eyes. The way he can be rude and charismatic at the same time. The way he can take over a scene in which he only has a few lines. It’s no wonder that his combined films have generated more money than any other actor in the history of Hollywood. Come to think of it, I wonder if the Star Wars movies would have been any good at all without him in them.

            The day finally comes to see The Force Awakens and I find out that not only do we have an entire screening room to ourselves, but we also have $250 worth of food and drink that we have to spend. Suddenly, it’s steak and champagne. It’s personal pizzas and White Russians. “Did I say a pitcher of beer? I meant two pitchers of beer.” “Well, if she’s having a glass of whiskey, I guess I’ll have one too.” This is how Danny Devito must feel everyday of his life. Hell, with this kind of royal treatment, I’d even watch Ride Along 2. I’d even watch The Danish Girl. I’d even watch…

            The lights go down and the film begins. At first, I’m skeptical. After all, I do have very high expectations. This is the biggest movie of all time. But then it delivers—Harrison Ford enters the movie and all is saved. He’s still got it—that smile, those eyes, that charisma. I drink another beer. It is extraordinary! I take another sip of whiskey. It is thrilling! More beer. It is at the same time a sequel and a remake—brilliant! More whiskey. It is the greatest movie ever made! And then it ends. The credits roll. And we have to leave. And suddenly our high-roller status is gone.

            The next day I realize that I was so intoxicated during the movie that I can’t even remember the last 45 minutes. I literally have no idea how it ended. But it doesn’t matter, because I remember loving it. And as long as they keep making them, and as long as Harrison Ford is still starring in them, I will definitely buy a ticket.