Sexy-people-take-action

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It’s 1977. I’m sitting in the theater watching the movie Star Wars. This is my first recollection of realizing that a man could be sexy to women. Forget Luke Skywalker. It was clear who got more chicks. Han Solo did - no question. He strutted through a spaceport and was full of shit - all the boys my age wanted to be like him. During recess at school no one wanted to pretend to be Luke Skywalker.

“I’m Han Solo. You’re Luke.”

“Can I at least be Chewie?”

“No. You’re perfect for the part of Luke.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a pussy.”

Soon us kids had Luke Skywalker on the ground pummeling him with our knees and fists. People idealize childhood. They forget that children, left to their own devices, are hyenas.

“That scar on his chin makes him sexy,” I heard a grown-up woman say as I exited the theatre after seeing the movie for the fifth time.

I shook my head. She was wrong. What made Han Solo sexy were his actions. Sure he bitched the entire movie, but he smuggled illegal space stuff right under the nose of the imperial fleet, he stuck his hands into the guts of his ride and welded new parts in there himself, he shot Greedo under the table in a cantina, then flipped the bartender a coin.*  He didn’t hire people to do his dirty work. He did it himself.

Han Solo’s must have had a heck of a back story. Probably orphaned. All us kids wanted a horrendous back-story to give us something to rally against, to inspire us to action. I used to pray in bed that my family would die in a car crash. But they didn’t. My life was so boring.

Advice based on this principle:

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