When ’70s Babies Trust the Force

I was speeding north to Hawthorne today from Brooklyn when my GPS abruptly punked out. Totally flatlined. Since I’m still not iPhoney (they’ll have to pry my Blackberry out of dead fingers), I was plum out of luck; I’d only driven to my destination once before, and had given my car atlas to a friend’s kid as an artifact of the primitive 20th century. So how did I find my destination? I used the Force, of course. Seriously, it was as if I were hurtling toward the Death Star in my tiny Rebel X-wing with a recently deceased Obi Wan Kenobi whispering in my ear, and, in a trance, I had finally pushed away my targeting device. Only the spacecraft in this case was Sadie, my increasingly compromised 2001 Hyundai, and the Imperial Death Star littered with murderous storm troopers was the Saw Mill Parkway littered with murderous Sunday drivers. Whatever, man, it worked. I arrived just in time to tackle the complicated French lesbian movie du jour with the delightful Westchester Cinema Club and afterward celebrated in the Mos Eisley Cantina aka Enchantments. Mawing french fries proffered by the brilliant ladywitch Michelle, I kept one eye peeled on the door lest Han Solo cross the threshold. Appear he did not but I think Yoda would have approved of my imperfect journey. It’s like I used to warble as a little girl climbing into her Star Wars sleeping bag: “Say la veeee.” At that, I’m off to braid my hair into two perfectly coiled puffs, Princess Lisa style.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy