The Day Tony Soprano Died

Fatherhood. For a single guy with no prospects, it sure is something I like to think about. My dad. I see the man two ways. First, in my childhood as the archetype, Jack Arnold from The Wonder Years kind of Dad. You know, he was busy working a lot and seemed to have a gruff demeanor. I knew he loved me but we just weren’t very close. Of course, I realize now that this was mostly due to my perception as a child. How is an adult supposed to be close to their child? He was playing a role. He provided. He guided us through life. He made sure we became adults in our own right. As an adult, having gotten to know him better it’s been easier to see who that true person was and realize he was always there. I watch old family movies and the man at 45 wasn’t much different than he was at 70. I was the one who was different. Now that he’s gone, all I have of him are memories. Some always stand out more than others: the speech he gave at my sister’s wedding, the last time he played with his band, The Corvettes. The day James Gandolfini died.

That last one sounds kind of weird. Considering my father was one who generally eschewed celebrity worship, it was weird. But upon reflection, it makes perfect sense.

It was June 19th, 2013 and the news broke that James Gandolfini dropped dead of a heart attack in Rome at the age of 51. My father began to cry. I was taken aback. I’d be lying if I said I never saw the man cry before but I’d certainly never seen him upset over something like this. This was different. Was it because of Gandolfini’s relatively young age? Was it because my father, having undergone bypass surgery nearly a decade earlier, was forced to reflect upon his own mortality? Was it because Tony Soprano just died? I think it’s all of the above but somehow, it’s the connection to The Sopranos that is most meaningful.

That show was everything. It was funny, the acting was good, and it was New Jersey. Oh boy, it was New Jersey. Gandolfini, a child of the Garden State, somehow managed to pull off a New Jersey accent that was more believable than his own. It was a show about family. Yeah, a crime family but also actual family. An episode devoted to AJ or Meadow was just as likely as one that featured Paulie Walnuts. There was so much to explore about the people in our lives and our interactions with them. This wasn’t Goodfellas or The Godfather. It was something else entirely.

At the Palmucci homestead we’d developed something of a tradition surrounding this show. We’d do the normal Sunday gravy earlier in the day but we’d surely need to eat again by the 9:00 PM Eastern Standard Time. So we begun to make homemade pizzas. It became our thing. My dad made a hell of a pizza. I don’t know what I looked forward to more, the show or the pizza. Perhaps I’d gone Pavlovian and just always came to associate one with the other.

It wasn’t just the pizza though. I’m named after my father yet I have no knowledge of him ever referring to me as “Junior” until after The Sopranos became a thing of ours. There were the references to places like Nasto’s (a New Jersey Ice Cream institution) that we felt were thrown in there just for us. We even started making Johnnycakes for breakfast. Of course, we’d go around quoting the thing. To this day, whenever a sensitive subject is brought up I have reply with, “It’s a difficult situation!” in my best (meaning worst) attempt at a Tony Soprano impression.

Eventually, the tears having dissipated, my father handed me some cash and sent me to the liquor store to buy a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. The man loved that swill mixed with water. We spent the rest of the day drinking with each other. Toasting to James Gandolfini. Getting day drunk. My mom wasn’t happy, but despite the tragedy, my father and I were. We’d created another memory. One that I cherish. For some god awful reason, I’ve even come to develop a taste for Johnny Red.

In the last scene of the final episode of the series, AJ says to Tony something about how we have to “focus on the good times”. Tony takes it as sarcasm but, in a rare moment for AJ, it was a genuine recollection of something his father tried to instill in him when he was younger. Here’s what Tony actually said all the way back in the Season 1 finale:

“Someday soon you’re gonna have families of your own. And if you’re lucky, you’re gonna remember the little moments…like this…that were good.”

He was right.

A Long Lonely Time

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The old saying goes, “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” Of this I sometimes have my doubts, as you might be able to imagine. It’s entirely dependent on the kind of loss that’s been experienced. People fall into and out of love like clockwork and eventually will figure out how to get over a former lover as those two paths that once converged split off towards something new. It’s a serious undertaking, the gravity of which I don’t seek to diminish, but it’s a lot easier than when they die. I’m 33 years old and when I want to see my girlfriend I have to visit her grave. I know what I’m talking about here. I don’t wish it on anyone. You don’t get over it. That’s not the point. You get to live again, but it’s different than what it was before. You pull a rickshaw with you everywhere. Sometimes the weight of it is such that you might only be able to take a few meek steps. Other times you don’t even notice it. You’re always pulling it, though.

Each and every day is replete with reminders, memories, their ghosts. That’s right. Their ghost. At times you feel haunted but you learn to like not being alone in a sense. It all coalesces together into this entity that you can’t see or hear but you can feel it. I feel it.

There’s no knowing how or why this feeling manifests itself, it’s just about feeling it when it’s there.

I feel it every time I hear Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers. Fuck, that Patrick Swayze movie where he played a ghost got a lot right. Wish I could remember the name of it right now! But yeah, that song, a song that had absolutely no relevance to our relationship…it helps me feel her.

I feel it on the lonely car ride to work. She’s right there next to me, her hand on mine.

I feel it in Mittens, her 14 year old cat. Mittens has this way of staring into your eyes and penetrating your soul. She’ll run her paw through my beard sometimes. Sometimes I think that cat is her.

I feel it whenever I do something stupid. There’s a disappointment. She expects better from me.

I feel it when I succeed, like a cheerleader eternal on the sidelines of my life.

It’s been a long, lonely time these last few years but these days I don’t feel so lonely. I’ve come to learn that I’m never alone. Friends. Family. Potential Romantic Partners. Her. It’s been a long, lonely time because I didn’t know how to feel what I was feeling. I’ll always hunger for her touch. If I’m being honest, there’s no getting around that. That was when the light at the end of the tunnel began to flicker like a beacon in the night. When I realized that I was finally able to take more than a few meek steps. As I seek to establish connections with the new, the slow walk has become constant and brisk.

As I welcome new people into my life they need not worry about filling her shoes. They’re already full. I can feel it. Sometimes I can even hear the footsteps.

Waiting for the Great Leap Forward

I was pouring it all out to a friend recently and I guess I must have been feeling particularly disenchanted with my romantic life because they tried to reel me in a little bit and tell me my perspective was somewhat clouded. Fair enough but I responded, “You know what? I’m entitled to some bitterness!” I think they understood that what I was waxing on about was a feeling in the moment rather than an underlying philosophical approach towards dating in my 30s. I am not a bitter person but I think I’m allowed to be in a given moment. The moment we feel these things is the moment that feeling justifies itself, to a point anyway. I’m a firm believer that things like companionship, intimacy, and love are things that are earned rather than owed. Showing interest doesn’t entitle you to anything. Being nice doesn’t entitle you to anything. But I think you’re allowed to feel a certain way, in a given moment, provided it’s part of a healthy processing of your own feelings. So here am, 33, in what I feel may be my prime. Standing at the edge, looking towards the horizon, just waiting to leap.

How does one prepare themselves for such a leap, you ask? By downloading a shitload of dating apps, of course! There’s an episode of Master of None that really quite aptly demonstrates the dating app experience. Presented as something of an episode length montage of dates, we watch as the protagonist meets roughly a dozen different women. Most dates are forgettable though some stand out. Some dates are terrible from the get go, some go pretty well, yet it always ends the same way: he goes home to his apartment, picks up his phone, and gets back to swiping. We love to swipe. It’s almost like we’re convinced that regardless of what’s in front of us, something better is just a right swipe away!

I said earlier that I feel like I’m in my prime. I’m not just saying that. I look pretty alright, I dress well, I have a healthy and realistic amount of confidence. So why all the disillusionment then? The process just wears on you after awhile. Maybe you meet someone and you think to yourself, holy shit, there’s something here! Then you realize you’re wrong! Or maybe you go out with someone a few times and you try and try but something just isn’t clicking, as much as you want it to. Sometimes you just talk yourself out of something good because that’s the kind of ridiculous shit that people do. I’ve experienced it all and from both sides. The world isn’t out to get me here, this is all just a product of being human, I think. Nonetheless, it is something worth putting some thought into in order to navigate it better.

For some reason, I have a reputation as being a “relationship guy”. I’ve always found this amusing given the fact that I’ve had one real relationship as an adult. I wonder, is it because at times maybe I’m more intense than I realize? Is it because I share my feelings a bit too much? Do I give off some aura that I’m unaware of? I don’t ever talk about getting married or having kids. In fact, I don’t do much thinking about that stuff at all. I almost never have that “what are we?” conversation with anyone I date. My concept of love is very much inspired by the Talking Heads masterpiece, This Must Be The Place. It’s a song full of non-sequiturs that I always understood to be about a person coming to the realization that they’ve finally discovered love. The line “Home is where I want to be but I guess I’m already there” hints at that search for something that you might already have. You realize it on your own time, of course. That’s the whole point. It’s like, “oh so this is what it feels like”.

I realize that I do have some kind of philosophy towards how I wish to foster any kind of a relationship with someone as I move on with my life. It’s a line from the same Talking Heads song, “The less we say about it the better, make it up as we go along”. We have this way of frankensteining in our heads the ideal romantic partner and perhaps we waste to much time chasing that without ever acknowledging that it’s something that doesn’t exist. Sure, I want someone to eat cheese with. Someone to binge watch The Office with. Someone with a kissable face for me to smooch. Someone who gets me. I could go on. No one just drops into your life like that, wrapped up in a neat little package and topped off with a pretty little bow on it. Nah, it’s just like, an inkling I think. This little something that drives you to say to yourself, “Hmmm, maybe”. And then you go from there and don’t get caught up in wondering what else. If I get caught up in anything else, maybe I never take a great leap forward. Maybe I die standing still, worthy of love but never allowing it.

I find myself more open to taking that leap than I have in years and it’s because I’ve finally come to understand how to time it. The leap doesn’t come when the romantic ideal finally materializes in front of you. It doesn’t come when you match with someone on bumble. It’s when you have that shred of an idea that this is someone worth exploring life with. This is someone worth getting to know. And it comes with the knowing that it may not be the final leap home, so to speak. It may just be one of many that life has in store for you.

I’m not as disillusioned anymore. I’m no longer waiting for that great leap forward. When it feels right, I’m just gonna take it.

Throwing Copper

I sat in a movie theater in Linden, New Jersey one August afternoon in 2016. The film was Suicide Squad. Lesley Gore’s You Don’t Own Me cues up, Margot Robbie’s character, Harley Quinn, appears on screen. I begin to sob. She hated going to the movies but wanted to see this one. Harley Quinn was her favorite character from comics. You Don’t Own Me could have been Melissa’s mantra in song form. But she wasn’t here by my side to see it with me. She died a week earlier.

I dread August 1st. This will be the second one since she’s passed and while many things get easier as time goes by, this day will always be this day. The day haunts me, but the truth is that every day haunts me. I like to say that we weren’t put here to write our own life stories. We don’t have final edit on the script. We are merely audience participants in the improvised tragedy that we call life. I couldn’t have written this one if I tried.

Our first date is chiseled into the granite of my mind. After talking on the phone for weeks I finally get to see her for the first time in over a decade. Yeah, we had some kind of history having been classmates in all throughout adolescence. She answers the door and she’s even more beautiful than I ever remember. I could sense my childhood stutter about to return. I’m exaggerating, I did fine. We got sushi, then coffee, then she invited me back to her place. She fired up her Super Nintendo and summarily handed me my ass in Mortal Kombat II. A mutual love of old video games was one of the things that got us talking in the first place. And then she leaned in and kissed me. My god, those lips.

Kissing would be the last thing we’d ever do, some ten months later. I’d visit her at the hospital on the evening of July 31st, 2016. After a tumultuous couple of months we found ourselves together, in Robert Wood Johnson Medical Center, talking about our future. For the first time I could see a future with her that I was certain I wanted. I loved her. I was finally sure. We said goodbye. I kissed her goodbye. Those lips.

The next day she was dead.

I drive home from the hospital that August afternoon, chainsmoking. I sit alone with my thoughts for a few hours. I call my oldest sister knowing she wouldn’t be at work or anything like anyone else I could have called. My mom comes home. I tell her. We collapse into each other’s arms. Earlier that day, at the hospital, I was allowed in to see her, Melissa, my girl. Somehow, even with her body robbed of all life, no longer possessing that unique soul I’d grown accustomed to, she looked beautiful lying there. At peace. Any pain no longer being felt. This did little to provide solace in the moment. If there is a God, and because of this experience I’m not entirely sure that there is, he heard every god damned word I had for him. So did the rest of the heavens. And so did anyone within a half a mile radius. What kind of fucking plan was this?

From their seminal album, Throwing Copper, Live’s All Over You has begun to play on repeat in my mind. At some point she had decided that it was to be considered our song. I mostly hate grunge music but I went along with this. Listening to lyrics, I begin to realize that she cherished me in ways I never realized, in ways perhaps she couldn’t express herself. She was more deep than anyone ever gave her credit for. She was right, our love is like water.

Later that evening I returned to her apartment, taking anything of any importance to me, anything I feel like she’d be ok with me having. She had no will. Yeah, I took that Super Nintendo. I keep it in a big old wooden chest that she’s restored. The next day I’d go back for her three cats Mittens, Puma, and Lacey. I don’t keep them in the chest though, they get to roam the house, much to my cat Columbo’s chagrin. She never got to have children. Maybe I never will either. But I have her cats. I love them as much as one can love an animal. Maybe somehow I love them even more because they were hers.

And so the rest of my life began. It blurred a lot but memories stand out. I’d go shooting with friends at an outdoor gun range. I don’t own any myself but I do like handling one on occasion. Not an easy thing to admit in times of such pronounced violence. I stood there, AR-15 in hands, quite literally throwing copper. For me the catharsis lies not in the wielding of such power but in taking aim at the target, pulling the trigger, and making the mark. This would come to be a metaphor on how I learned to start living again. I haven’t gone shooting again and don’t really care if I do again. However, if I was going to continue onward I’d eventually have to target the things in life that I wanted, throw some figurative copper at them and hope to make my mark.

I’ve been dating for the last year. Recently it was suggested to me that I don’t even mention Melissa to anyone, the idea being that as soon as I do they’ll think that I’m still not over her.

I’ve got something to tell you.

You never get over it. You add a room to the home that exists within your heart and that shit stays there even when they die. All that fills the room doesn’t just dissipate into the aether. It remains everlasting, tasking you with the challenge in how to proceed onward with it rather than moving on with out it. And when you find someone else you just build a new room, that other one is still occupied.

I struggle with the search for meaning in all of this. Maybe she needed me to help usher her off into her next phase of existence. Maybe I needed her in order to grow in ways I never would have otherwise. I can’t say I know for sure but I do know something:

For whatever reason, she chose me as her target. She threw her copper. I stand here today a more complete person because of it. She made her mark.

Stop Looking For Your Dare To Be Great Situation

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I’m a sucker for a good romantic comedy. Hell, I’m a sucker for the bad ones too! There’s just something about a love story unfolding before your eyes with some requisite laughs along the way, you know? I grew up on movies like When Harry Met Sally and Say Anything. They’re really good movies! But through no fault of their own, romantic comedies rarely depict true romance with any kind of accuracy. They’re just movies, fantasies, if you will but when you grow up watching these fantasies they can have an influence toward the way you think. Let’s face it, for many of us, our first idea of how to navigate love and relationships is formed from watching these movies.

Oscar Wilde once said, “Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life”. Aristotle be damned, Wilde was right. Love is abstract. Without first experiencing it one’s first impression of it might be influenced by the music they listen, the books they read, or the movies they watch. Are we born with a fully formed and healthy concept of love or do we learn it ourselves through our own interpretation of all its expressions? I prefer the former but that’s wishful thinking. We’re human after all. We live to be influenced. This says more about how we consume the art than it does about those creating it. Do the artists, in this case the filmmakers, bear some responsibility? Of course they do but we must consume and interpret responsibly as well. This is difficult during the more formative times of our lives and what leads me to these thoughts as I have them.

About a year ago there was this story that went viral about a guy that got dumped by his girlfriend. He bought a piano, stationed himself in a public park, and decided he would play this piano until she took him back. The first image that came to mind for me was that of Lloyd Dobler standing outside his ex-girlfriend’s bedroom window, boombox held over his head, blasting Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes. Both of these are forms of emotional blackmail, attempts to force someone into loving them again. Yet, Cameron Crowe shouldn’t have to apologize for including that scene in his movie. Yes, it is demonstrative of stalker-like behavior and it is clear that grandiose gestures such as this have influenced people in real life to engage in similar behavior, but Crowe at least provided context. First of all, Lloyd Dobler is a teenager and as such his decision making abilities have yet to fully form. His girlfriend, Diane, is basically forced to end the relationship at the insistence of her father. The boombox scene happens but what most of us seem to forget is that all this other stuff happens in between that scene and the rekindling of their relationship. Looking back at the boombox scene through a modern lens, we shouldn’t encourage such expressions of love but at the same time we do need to consider that it is exactly the kind of stunt that a teenager who is likely still trying to develop a healthy conception of love would pull. The aforementioned “piano man” lacks such context, though. He was 34 years old and an asshole, which is probably why his girlfriend broke up with him. All “piano man” did was put himself on display because that’s all he cares about. The guy was a self-centered creep, Lloyd was still a child. Lloyd isn’t the problem so much as the real life people that try to emulate him. We shouldn’t condone the boombox scene but enough context exists so that we might try to understand and process it.

I sit here thinking about which one of these “romcom” protagonists I feel a personal kinship towards. Yep, it’s another character played by John Cusack, because of course it is. In High Fidelity, Cusack plays Rob Gordon: record store owner, music junkie, everyman. He also doesn’t understand women at all and it’s entirely his own doing! Every time something goes sour he has an existential crisis! An important sub-plot of the film involves Rob looking up old girlfriends in search of some kind of post-mortem of their respective relationships with him. I’ve done this before, sans the encouragement Ron received from Bruce Springsteen. I start to wonder what it all means. Rob was definitely a bigger asshole than I am, I feel comfortable saying it’s not even close. By the end of the film it becomes clear to Rob that he never tried to understand the women in his life, least of all his girlfriend Laura. Ultimately, he figures it all out and it does seem as though he is truly a more complete and better person. I learned a lot from Rob Gordon, but it was mostly on how not to behave. Being able to relate to such an asshole didn’t mean I should try to be more like him. I would have missed the point completely. This is what we do when we consume art. We get it or we don’t and the trouble lies in how much we our behavior ends up being influenced.

Manic Pixie Dream Girls aren’t real. Women don’t need saving. Over the top expressions of love are creepy. A makeover isn’t going to fix everything. Duckie didn’t deserve to get the girl, he was an asshole. “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.” You are owed nothing. Movies aren’t real and what works in the movies rarely does in real life.

When we watch these movies, whether they be romantic comedies or any other genre, we miss the fundamental point. We’re just supposed to sit back and enjoy the ride we’re being taken on. We can sit in front of a screen and do this but as audience to our own lives we fail over and over again. We view ourselves as writers and directors but we’re not. We are our own audience, an audience with a modicum of control over how things play out but our power is not absolute. If we could write our own lives, it wouldn’t be real, it would just be another fantasy. When we develop our emotions and behaviors via the art we consume, we give in to fantasy yet again. We have to stop looking for the dare to be great situations…they’re never as great as you’d like to think. We don’t get to write our own personal romantic comedies but we do get to be audience to them. We get to learn from our own experiences.  Sit back and enjoy it. That’s all we’re supposed to do.

Big Fish: Telling the Truth Your Own Way

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It was a Thursday night one January when I arrived home from a trivia night with some friends. Everyone was asleep, everyone but my father. He sat me down and asked me a question: What was I going to tell people about him when he’s gone? What a heavy thing to ask your 29-year-old son after a night of drinking. Nevertheless, I answered and he liked what I had to say though he made some suggestions which I took to heart. Less than two days later he’d die in his sleep. I would go on to eulogize him and afterwards I received many remarks about how similar I was to the man. I’ve always felt like I took after my mother but could it be that in death I’d finally begun to embrace my father?

Sometimes you see a movie and something about it resonates even if at the time of viewing you can’t really relate. I remember seeing Big Fish for the first time at a movie theater in Edison, New Jersey with some friends who were home for the holidays from college. I remember leaving the theater and it was snowing, and I had left my headlights on, and miraculously my car’s batter hadn’t died. I remember a film about a father with a larger than life personality who told many tall tales and his son who struggled to accept this. I remember a film about the stories we tell and the truths behind them. I get now, why it resonated. In telling the story of your life you’re afforded a good deal of poetic license as long as the truth is in there somewhere.

Towards the end of the film the father character is on his deathbed, his son by his side. The father asks the son to tell him how he’s going to die. The son, for the first time, goes on to tell his own tall tale. A frantic escape from the hospital, a car chase, and a burial in a river among loved ones. The father likes the sound of that and then dies. A proper memorial service follows and the film ends. Sounds about right. Death truly is the end of a story and of its teller and someone has to actually bury it all.

I sit here today thinking about what I have in common with the son in Big Fish and it’s obvious. We were both afforded the opportunity to eulogize our fathers before they passed. Through this we were both able to demonstrate our own embrace and understanding of the men, allowing them to stop telling their story, as it was time to let the boys tell their own. My father made his mark on the world and he left it all with us. We were to pick up where he left off.

These are all gifts. This movie. That moment with my dad before he died. My embrace of him, my understanding, and how he is reflected through me. I think of what stories I might want to tell and the truths behind them. I think of the truths. The truths my father spoke. The ones I need to realize. I think of them too much. The truth does hurt, but it’s the stories that help…not to mask it, but to process that hurt and heal of it. Words, thoughts, stories…they swirl over my head like a cyclone. I realize my own purpose: to keep discovering these truths and figuring out how to talk about them, how to write about them, how to sing about them. One day I’m going to want someone to pick up where I left off and leave them a piece of me to embrace. I suppose that’s going to have to start with embracing the truth. I could make the rest up as I go along.

 

I’ve Seen The Last Jedi Twice. Let Me Answer All Of Your Burning Questions!

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Hey everyone. Did you know that I’ve seen The Last Jedi twice??? You know all those questions you have? Well, I had them too…until I saw it for a second time. For the benefit of those of you with considerably less time on their hands than yours truly I will now answer all of those questions in no particular order.

  1. What was the significance of the old guy with the binoculars on Crait?

 

Oh, you mean General Caluan Ematt? Yeah, he’s a General so he’s a pretty big deal and here you are asking about him. With the loss of Vice Admiral Amilyn Holdo due to her immense courage, General Ematt is kind of king shit in the Resistance. I mean, everyone else who didn’t have secret force powers already died when the command bridge of the Raddus got all blown up. And well, Holdo is a complete badass so she’s dead too. General Ematt, the “old guy with the binoculars”? This wasn’t even his first fucking movie. He was in The Force Awakens. He was in the first one! Were you all asking who the fuck Wedge was when you saw Empire Strikes Back? No, you weren’t, because he was in the fucking first one. Pay attention, I have more important questions to answer.

2.  We’re going to find out who Rey’s REAL parents are in Episode IX, right?

I’m pretty sure we found out who they were in Episode VIII. They’re in a pauper’s grave in the Jakku desert! They sold her for drinking money! Rey is a nobody! I guess there exists a remote possibility that Kylo Ren was lying to her but I don’t think so. Her parents were real fucking shitheads, he knows it…she knows it, and he decides to prey on that by suggesting that she is somebody but only to him. Hmmm, seems to fit character-wise and it makes sense from a narrative standpoint…which is why it’s obvious that her parents are really someone else and Kylo really is lying! Who could her parents be, then? All the likely candidates are already dead. Han, Luke, Ackbar, Leia (I don’t even want to think about how they kill her off). I guess it could be Nien Nunb. You’re looking for that “Luke, I am your father” moment where it doesn’t exist. Jesus christ, weren’t you the same people complaining that the The Force Awakens was too similar to the old movies and now here you are two years later clamoring for all of the same beats. Speaking of which…

      1. Ok, but who exactly is Snoke?

He’s some 7 ft tall force wielder in gold slippers that got bisected by Anakin Skywalker’s lightsaber (RIP btw, I guess we’ll never know how it ended up in the bowels of Maz Kanata’s castle). Or he’s Darth Plageius. Except that he’s not because no one would give a flying fuck about that reveal. Remember Emperor Palpatine? Remember how we had no clue who he was? Then the prequels came along and we all wished we still had no clue who he was. See what happens when we start asking ridiculous questions? We get ridiculous movies as a reward. Snoke was the leader of the First Order. Kylo Ren killed him and took his place. Then in an ultimate act of bravery, Vice Admiral Holdo piloted a Mon Calamari Cruiser through his flagship at light speed. But he was already dead so I doubt he cared. He was just some old powerful guy that looked like he should be dead and now he is. I hope he takes that Ric Flair robe to whatever hell he’s currently residing in. I can’t believe I just spent this much time talking about Snoke when there are much better characters like Vice Admiral Amilyn Holdo to talk about.

      1. Why didn’t Vice-Admiral Amilyn Holdo tell Poe what her plan was?

The question that’s on everyone’s minds. If she had just told him the plan, he would have went along with it, so why didn’t she just tell him? I mean, let’s just ignore the fact that he just sacrificed Cobalt Squadron in its entirety just so he could take down a Dreadnought, right? He was demoted from Commander to Captain. There’s something else too…wait, it’s coming to me. Oh yeah, he’s a fucking sexist piece of shit. The first time he sees Holdo he’s gets all “Her???” like she’s fucking Ann Veal. Yeah, she’s got purple hair and a turtleneck that goes on for days. So what? The leader of the Resistance is a fucking Princess…we should be beyond this crap at this point. You’re part of a resistance against a fascist military junta, you’re supposed to believe in things like gender equality by now! Holdo didn’t have to tell Poe the plan because he hadn’t earned it yet. She didn’t owe it to him. She was an Admiral and he was just a Captain, he should have stayed in his lane. He was really an asshole about the whole thing too, what with the mutiny and all. And after all of that bullshit he put her through, she still forgave him! He tried to mutiny her and she still liked him! She got over having a blaster pointed at her very quickly. Poe should be thankful, fucking ingrate that he is. I don’t know, maybe he learned something about leadership through the whole ordeal but I’m pretty sure he just ended up stealing her speech about how the Resistance will be the spark almost verbatim. You know, he just adds some of his trademark male bravado to make it his own. If fedoras existed in the Star Wars Universe , Poe would be wearing one. It’s ok though, really, some of our heroes can be total fucking assholes like Poe just was. We’ll always have the Amilyn Holdo’s of the galaxy to balance him out.

      1. Fair enough, but why didn’t Luke tell the Resistance he was just trying to buy them time to escape?

Do any of you even watch movies? I’m not even going to dignify this one with a response.

      1. Are Poe and Rey going to become an item?

Jesus christ. They just fucking met. They said hello. There’s one movie left. It’s not happening. Neither is Rey and Finn or Finn and Poe.

      1. You’re probably right but Kylo and Rey are totally going to kiss?

Ok, fine, I’ll bite. Kylo Ren and Rey aren’t just the Force sensitive power couple that we deserve, they’re the one that we need. Before going any further let’s keep in mind that Kylo isn’t entitled to a date with Rey just because he killed the Supreme Leader of the First Order for her. Doing nice things for her isn’t enough! There has to be something deeper, a real connection, ya know? Luckily for them (and us) that their connection is as real as it gets. They can see each other in their minds! That’s literally a real connection! She knows what he looks like without a shirt! Their hands touched! They killed all those red guys together! They are totally going to smooch and we are going to get to enjoy every minute of it. I wonder if using the Force makes you a better kisser? Were those really Ancient Jedi Texts or were they Ancient Jedi Books About Kissing? I can’t wait to find out!

      1. Porgs tho, amirite?

Yassssss, Porgs 4 Life.