I dashed off a quick joke, a pun in reply to one of author Chuck Wendig’s many very funny tweets: Wendig mentioned the Broadway musical Hamilton not actually being about ham, and I opined that it was actually about Mark Hamill. Who then liked the tweet.
For me, it was huge. For him, it was a Tuesday. (Literally. This happened on a Tuesday.)
His like took maybe a second, and probably was forgotten a second later. But me? Well, I grew up a little towheaded blonde boy in a hot, desolate environment without many prospects on the metaphorical horizon. Not a whole lot of friends, either. When a movie came along about a towheaded blonde teen in a hot, desolate environment yadda yadda yadda, well… it made a connection. My first action figure may have been Leia, but boy did I relate to Luke.
Do I say the movie had a huge effect on my life? It did, as much as most children of the Original Trilogy generation. And yet I still watch it, and tear up when Luke turns off his targeting computer. From that desert planet, he has found *home* with the Force and the Rebellion and in himself. I found a home in movies and as a father to a towheaded little blonde boy totally in love with Star Wars.
For a split-second, the man who so ably played Luke was aware of my existence.
What a Tuesday.