Island Packet - A new “Star Wars” film opened that week, though you might not have noticed – and judging by the box office take, you didn’t – yet this strange bald Lucas apologist at work thought the film was gonna be the cat’s pajamas, leading to my contributing the following essay on Why You Couldn’t Drag Me To “Clone Wars” Unless I Was Made Recently Dead, At Which Point My Corpse Would Jump Up And Start Saying Something Like, “Whoa Whoa Whoa I Didn’t Consent To This.” (Pictured above: A bearded wooden tree fires lightning out of its rectangular man-hands.)
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If “Star Wars” represented the pinnacle of my generation’s love of sci-fi — if not cinema — the three prequels served as the protracted breakup, the supreme letdown, the note you get from your prom date saying she’s breaking up with for your brother, but thanks for a nice time or whatever.
