Mikel Andrews's Blog

2021 was not better than 2020. But we’ll get to that in a bit.

Sometimes I think I only come back to this blog to post a year-end review, and even that tradition is spotty at best. I’d like to change that in the new year. Definitely said that before. But here I am, trying to hash out something relevant, starting sentences with but, and all that.

Don’t get me wrong, 2021 had a lot going for it. For one thing, we didn’t have Trump to deal with (much). It was nice not to have the incessant, belligerent tweeting, fueling dumpster fires from the iPhone he keeps by the toilet. In his absence, however, we learned the problem wasn’t entirely him. Turns out, an uncomfortably large sect of the American population is just inherently racist, entitled pricks no matter who’s in charge. And while I haven’t necessarily ben wowed by Biden, I know all too well the oft overlooked contributions of someone working efficiently behind the scenes.

Biden has a lot on his plate, and unlike some of my fellow liberals, I didn’t expect him to solve it. I expected things to get better–and they have, marginally–but I don’t anticipate definitive change. America is a an experiment that has lost its control. We are a moon circling a planet with poor gravity, wobbling, slowly breaking orbit.

Which brings me back to my harsh truth: 2021 was not better than 2020. At least not for me. 2020 was a scary, untethered thing, but within the chaos, I knew my place: stay inside, watch old DVDs, and don’t get Covid-19. Wait it out.

2021 was much less clear. There were vaccinations and boosters and parties and breakthrough cases and dinner reservations inside restaurants. Some people wore masks, some didn’t. Some people got to see how the other half lived, pretending the virus wasn’t around anymore. Some people got the virus, survived it, said sweet, and had the best summer of their lives. No lines, no waits. The world was their oyster because people like me stayed inside. I did go into stores this year, which was new compared to 2020, but I can count the times I dined indoors on one clammy hand.

It was a taste of hope. A sample of normalcy that will never be back. And it made giving those things up twice as hard when The Variants Came (in Technicolor!). When the cases started to rise again, and the ICUs became clogged, I did what I do best: stay inside, watch old DVDs, and don’t get Covid-19. Wait it out. 2020 Mode engage.

But my friends didn’t, and I had to watch from my social media accounts how the world went on without me. I had a couple get-togethers, sure, usually demanding negative rapid tests to get in the door. A lot of fun, right? People obliged (which I’m truly grateful for) but a chill party host of me it did not make. Although they ended like my usual pre-Covid parties: with people losing my proverbial number.

It’s fine. I’m at the Acceptance stage now. I wouldn’t want to hang out with me either, and with the virus never going away, the purpose of friendships change.

I guess what I’m saying is, 2022 and beyond is just going to be more of the same. I’ll watch my old acquaintances go on trips and take masks off inside breweries and my blood will hopefully boil less as time goes on. At the end of the day, it’s not their fault–they believe something I do not, they have hope that I do not–so they are allowed their days in the sun. For most of them, the virus will be a non-issue. It’s also my choice how long I scroll through Instagram, I suppose, so acting as if it’s being shoved in my face is unfair.

Anyway, if you’ve slogged through this petty, self-indulgent pity party so far, I can at least reward you with some positivity. I had a lot of fun this year, plenty of highlights to, er, highlight.

For starters, 2021 was my first full year of having a dog. My roommate Mimi was a lot to handle, still is actually, and was a nice constant to stay tethered to. Once again, my amazing partner Kate proved me wrong: we did need a dog. Kate is right about a lot of stuff.

Another positive of 2021: it was an additional year with her in my life.

Speaking of proving people wrong, I proved a ton of people wrong (including myself) by writing a sequel to Coming of Mage. I knew if I couldn’t write it during a pandemic, I never would. So I hit it hard, meeting my goal of writing, editing, and publishing the sequel in under a year. A War for the Mages dropped in June, providing proper closure to the story of Quinn, Emma, et al. Only took about a decade too! I doubt you, reader, have been pining for more of my quirky alternate 80s wizard world but it’s out there. And, as much as I try to play it off, I am proud of it.

Another highlight related to that was getting to collab with my pal Aaron Thweatt on the cover. He knocked it out of the park on both the sequel cover and the new edition of the original. I also got to guest-host on an episode of his podcast, APDC, and we were both guests on the Mike Seibert Radio Podcast to talk about “the craft.”

A highlight within a highlight: getting to throw my mic back into the podcasting ring. It’s addicting and I hope I get more opportunities to do it in the future.

What else, what else? Oh! We rented out an entire movie theater to see Ghostbusters: Afterlife. Admittedly a lot of my bandwidth over the last couple years went to worrying if that movie was going to be good–and it was! Both nostalgic and new, with a big-budget-meets-cool-indie vibe that I can’t wait to rewatch. And seeing it in a setting I actually felt comfortable in, with the best of my Ghostbusters-fan friends was an experience that ended in joyful tears. If that was my last movie theater experience, I’m okay with it.

There was also my birthday. I was once again spoiled (and spoiled myself) with Transformers, pizza and the finest of craft beers. This year was especially memorable because I finally got to have the Transformers Trading Card Game tournament of my dreams, complete with a trophy crafted by my main man Dustin (swipe through the pics below). And even though I didn’t win it (grrrrr) it went to a deserving home. For now. Until next year. When I win it back, if that wasn’t clear.

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In its short life, the TF:TCG made a big impact on me. To commemorate it, I did something I *never* thought I would do: got inked. Gaze upon my pale shaven wrists if you dare!

And, of course, along the way there was laughter and cocktails and pizza and BOARD GAMES and comics and Star Wars books and little pockets of elation that can’t be remembered exactly but were there and real and left an impression. In short: it was another year of life. As much as 2021 was a confusing struggle to redefine my already-cloudy social norms, it was another opportunity to live. Another year I didn’t get Covid. I have no idea what comes next, but as long as I keep waking up, I’ll keep doing.

Stay inside. Watch old DVDs. Don’t get Covid-19.

I’ve thought about writing this post many times. I thought about what I would call it. I thought I’d landed on “My Year Inside” but it reminded me too much of Tobias Funke’s novel from Arrested Development.

Truthfully, I didn’t think I’d make it to a year without going into a public place, but I went about a week further. March 16th marked my one-year workiversary; I went in for orientation day, requested to work from home, and watched the entire world fall apart from my rear window. It was the last day I went anywhere. The last day I drove a car. The last day I had to.

If you couldn’t tell, I’m talking about Covid-19. But of course you could. What else is there?

Yesterday (March 27th) I received my first dose of the Moderna vaccine at a Wal-Mart in my old college town. After several anxiety attacks, I made it to my appointment about fifteen minutes late. I mostly leapt from a moving vehicle, not sure if I even had all my paperwork, because my dog was about to follow me out of the car door.

Oh yeah, I got a dog during my year-long self-quarantine. She’s great.

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Anyway, I walked into Wal-Mart and I was surprised how normal it seemed. I thought I would have this surreal “through the looking glass” experience going into a store again, but it was about the same as I remembered it. Except I had to practice social distancing. I hadn’t had to before this moment. It wasn’t just something I scolded people about on Facebook—I had to actually stay 6 ft. away from others.

I’m serious when I say I haven’t been in anywhere in a year. All my groceries and Target runs have been curbside or delivery (and thank you, sweet Jesus, for the means and ability to be able to do that for an entire year).

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As much as I thought I had a handle on pandemic etiquette (pandemiquette?) I had to school myself pretty quick.

So what’s it been like basically not leaving my home for a year? I wish I could say it was terrible, and that I longed for the days of in-person communication with someone other than my partner and my dog (I know what I said), but actually it wasn’t the worst experience of my life. Certainly the longest and most concentrated, all under the duress of *literally* my worst fear…but not the worst.

There were lots of highlights actually. I, for one, took to Zoom/Skype/Hangouts/etc very quickly. Perhaps it was my podcasting days, but every virtual call felt like an episode of nameless show. My own personal Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. 

Minus the comedians. And cars. And replace coffee with bourbon.

But it was great for awhile. I could wear whatever I wanted as long as my face was on point. I got to have calls with people from out of state, that I hadn’t talked to in literal decades in some cases. Why it took a pandemic to make that happen is beyond me (aren’t we weird creatures, us human beings?). My old college pals and I started doing Wednesday Night Movie calls where we’d watch a movie together, MST3K-style, rotating whose pick it was. Sometimes it was just what I needed. Sometimes the topics were too raw, the wounds too fresh, that it was anxiety-inducing, but definitely wasn’t going to chance missing a session. I celebrated my birthday via Zoom. Out of 120 invites, 20 people showed up—and almost all of them unmuted at least once before logging off. That was kind of a low spot, but at least I had flooded my mailbox with Transformers in the weeks prior—my own personal toy shopping spree to make up for the TFCon that got cancelled in October due to the pandemic.

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What else, what else…

Oh, I got super into Power Rangers. Started collecting the toys, reading the comics, buying the merch. Kate (my partner) was a good sport, rewatching almost the entire original series with me, a tradition I look forward to picking back up this summer.

By the way, the comic book Go Go Power Rangers! is honestly one of the most well-written stories I’ve ever read. If you had even a passing interest in MMPR growing up, this is a MUST READ.

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Let’s see….oh. Here’s a good one: I ate with reckless abandon. We had barely been in our new house a year when the pandemic hit, and we barely got to try out the food in the surrounding area, let alone the nearby Twin Cities. Grubhub allowed me to sample some of the finest wares from nearby eateries and I indulged every weekend, for better or worse. Sometime, I broke all social norms and ordered food from multiple places. Imagine pizza and tacos AT THE SAME TIME. I know. Mind blown, right?

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But I also upped my baking game:

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I even baked for my dog:

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I co-hosted a May the 4th Clone Wars viewing party with my buddy Gentry on Twitter:

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I rekindled my love affair with building Star Wars Lego sets:

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I built Gundam model kits like whoa:

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Another highlight? In September, I got off my proverbial ass and started writing the sequel to Coming of Mage. Only about 7 years late, but it’s almost done actually. Why? I dunno. I think I just wanted closure. I think some people really enjoyed my first (and, so far, only) novel and I felt bad for leaving it on a cliffhanger. No, that makes me sound too noble. What it really was: I hated the thought that people thought I was a one-trick pony when in actuality I had a trilogy planned. Before North Star Mess crushed my dreams (but that’s a story for another day).

So I sat down and hammered it out. It’s not going to be a trilogy, but it is a loaded sequel; a strong, surprising finale. The closure I needed to give Quinn, Emma, Tristan, Selia and all the rest. And as this tale has unfolded, and I miraculously worked in every zany idea I’ve had over the last decade, I was glad I waited this long. This is the story I wanted to tell. In my heart, Coming of Mage was never a young adult wizard book. It was an indie story about growing up in the 80s, dealing with hard shit with humor and, yeah, magic. I guess.

So I’m doing it my way. Self-published. First, a “director’s cut” reissue of Coming of Mage, followed by the sequel, and then a third unrelated novel I finished a couple years ago but was desperately trying to find an agent to represent. But is it really a book if nobody reads it? Life’s too short to wait for someone to see what you’re trying to accomplish. Too deem you worthy, or to at least think they can mold your exposed guts into the formula of a bestseller. No thanks. I’m finally doing this for me.

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I think that was the theme of My Year Inside (ugh, fine, I’ll go with it). “Life’s too short.” And maybe that’s why this was such a hard thing to write. Because all the amazing things I experienced, homebound, despite (in spite) of Covid-19, were based on the belief that I was living the last year of my life. Every enjoyable thing I did—every board game I played, video game I downloaded, Transformer I bought, pizza I ordered, shot I pounded, piece of fine China I ate off of—was part of a sort of muted hedonism. The kind of party you throw at the end of the world. 

I lived like that. For a year. Inside. Between crushing anxiety attacks and migraines and nihilism. I know most people didn’t live like this. I know even the most die-hard, true-believin’ radical lefties still went to stores, went to other people’s homes, brunched on patios, stopped bleaching their groceries at some point, and didn’t twice-bake their takeout for an additional half an hour at 300 degrees. Every. Fucking. Time. 

But I did. And still will for a while, to be honest. I know Covid-19 isn’t over. I know that even when it is over, the mental health issues it created (or exacerbated) in me won’t be over. How do you rejoin society after a year of telling yourself there would be no need to? This is the shit I have to work through still.

But that jab in my arm was a start. It was a beacon of hope. Within an hour of that little prick, I was looking forward to things again. For the first time in a year, I was able to project myself into the future. See myself doing something beyond the nearest weekend—and honestly believe there was a chance I’d get there.

It’s a little scary, tbh. But it’s also real. And possible. And everything at once.

**Shout out to all my friends that answered my texts at all hours, put up with my dumb questions, listened to my rants about everything from 90s cartoons to racial injustices, and so much more. You know who you are, but not sure you realized you were my only communication with the outside world <3**

**Too busy writing Coming of Mage II to do a proper spooky story this year, but hopefully a preview of my future bestseller will suffice. Submitted for your approval, the start of something spooky that takes place in 1997. Enjoy and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!**

1: The Case of the Girl That Nobody Knows

There are monsters in this town, but not all of them have teeth.

That’s what I’m thinking as I snap awake, peeling my face away from the bus window and leaving behind a cheekprint almost as unique as a snowflake. I must’ve been dreaming about…something. Hard to say. It was just a few winks before my stop. I don’t always sleep on the bus—honestly, I don’t usually even take the bus—but it’s raining, and not lightly. Rain has two unique properties: first, it renders my skateboard inert as a transportation device. Second, it makes me sleepy. That’s what we call a left and right hook. TKO. Goodnight, folks.

Also, sure, I’m a little exhausted from the week it’s been. From the week it’s about to be, if I’m being honest. 

For starters, it’s Homecoming next week. Don’t get me wrong, I tolerate organized sports as much as the next gal, but Homecoming is particularly taxing for the popular-adjacent crowd such as myself. It’s nothing but assemblies and button sales and dress-up days and smashing a junker car with a sledgehammer. Seriously, what is that? Nothing like getting school pride barfed in your face for a week straight.

Second (and I probably should’ve opened with this) another kid disappeared. I know you’re thinking Whoa, Tiff, a human being is missing and you’re complaining about pep rallies? but hear me out. There is some precedence for this sort of thing in Coldwater. In fact, we don’t usually get more than a year without someone running away or dropping off the grid entirely. Some are found, some aren’t. Does that make it okay? Of course not. But is it unusual? Maybe it would be in some other town, but as a 13-year resident of this one, I can safely say I don’t blame anyone that tries to make a break for it. If you’ve ever been part of a population this small, you know the reality. Everyone’s up in your business, every adult is your authoritarian figure, and churches outnumber takeout joints 3 to 1.

So it’s judgey, is what I’m saying.

The bus squeals to a halt in front of my house and the bus driver, Cindy, engages the stop arm with a grunt. I shoulder my backpack and step out of my seat, my board extended in front of me like a dowsing rod. I’m being careful not to bump it on anything, like it’s a big game of Operation, but the immature little shits with their endless gauntlet of sneakers popping out don’t make it easy. Luckily I was only in one of the middle seats. Not cool enough for the back, not 8-years-old enough for the front. 

Just before I exit, Cindy nods at my board and says, “I wish you wouldn’t bring that thing on the bus.”

“Okay,” I say.

And that’s the extent of our relationship, Cindy and I. Usually this dynamic back-and-forth starts later in the school year but, again, the rain. I flick her a little wave and smirk as I step out onto the wet sidewalk. The rain has let up a little but still soaking my denim jacket. Every fiber of my being wants to run for my front door, but I know everyone’s watching from the windows. So I get soaked.

Just before I reach the front door of mi casa, I look up the street, past all the identical homes, perfectly-aligned like their kids’ teeth, and see a little girl walking down the sidewalk. Pink dress, no umbrella, no parents in tow. It’s the saddest, creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Like a little ghost that doesn’t know she’s dead. Poor thing. Don’t these Parents-of-the-Year know a kid went missing?

I shiver and hurry inside.

I slam the door and let my backpack slip off my shoulder onto the floor with a thud. My brother, Donald, stares at me wide-eyed from the sofa. A dribble of milk clings to his lip from the cereal bowl hovering just below his chin. I should also note he’s ten-years-old and wearing full-on footie pajamas.

“What the flork happened to you?” he asks. Flork is the super-subtle word we came up with when we were younger to swear in front of our mom. It still slips out every once in a while.

“Outside has weather,” I tell him. “You should try it some time.”

“Har.”

He stayed home sick today. He does that a lot. He’s not actually sick, nor is he usually, but our mom babies the hell out of him. I mostly let it slide considering he grew up entirely without our dad. I at least got 3 years with the guy. That’s good enough for a couple defining memories, but mostly I don’t think about him. Mom’s got her shit together enough for all of us. She works super hard (hence why she’s not home at the moment) to let us keep living in this part of town. Granted the outside of our house is a “one of these things is not like the other” situation. We don’t have the cobblestone walkways like the Sanderses. Or the flamingo pond like the Olmscheids. And, yeah, maybe some of our garage has found its way out onto the lawn, but, hey, it’s home.

“Do you want to watch Power Rangers with me?” Donald asks.

“No,” I say, breaking his line of sight with the television as I make for the stairs. Thinking about it, I sigh. “Yeah. I’ll be down in a minute.”

I hustle upstairs to my bedroom. I think people would assume it’s all black curtains and pentagrams but honestly it looks like Lisa Frank threw up in here. What can I say, neon tigers in sunglasses do it for me. There’s also pages from Thrasher tacked up everywhere and a lava lamp that doesn’t work anymore. Other than my bookshelf splitting at its seams, my favorite part of my room is this weird angular wedge that juts out near the peak, caused by the roof or attic or something. Either way, it’s reserved for Devon Sawa posters. He also does it for me.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror leaning against one wall. Yikes. The ripped black leggings under my frayed jean shorts are still fashionably negligent, but my pin-covered jacket is dark with rain and my mascara is running down my face. Admittedly, it looks pretty cool but I can see why it scared Donald.

I strip off the wet stuff, getting tangled in the headphones I forgot were around my neck. “Sing it, Gwen,” I tell the CD still spinning in my Discman. Before I even open my closet, I’ve already settled on my black Volcom hoodie. It’s two sizes too big and therefore perfect. I swim into it like a stage curtain.

Lightning crashes outside my window, giving my dark room a momentary splash of color. I think of the little girl again getting rained on in her pink dress. I should’ve done something. Should’ve ran over to her and put my board over her head and offered to escort her home. Just because this town loses kids like spare change in a couch doesn’t mean it’s okay to let them wander around in the rain unsupervised.

But that holier-than-thou mindset only lasts until I’ve successfully cleared my face of the KISS paint job. After that, I head to the kitchen and any thoughts of the girl are dumped out into the plastic bowl with my Froot Loops. 

Before you call social services on me: this isn’t dinner. I’m not even hungry really, but a sugary blast of cereal with the little bro has become something of an after school tradition. We have plenty of nutritious leftovers to heat up later. Sometimes our mom gets cut from her shift if it’s slow and will cook for us despite being exhausted, but Homecoming Week is like Spring Break for the Coldwater ER so I don’t count on it tonight.

“Hurry, the monster’s about to get big,” Donald tells me as he scoots over. There’s plenty of couch for me but I make sure to squeeze in next to him, big-sisterly-like.

I spoon the Loops into my mouth like an assembly line, watching the color-coded teenagers on the tube TV get in their Zords, which are basically just cars now. I liked the old show better. Donald and I are both too old for this but neither of us admit it out loud.

A scuffle on the front stoop makes me drop my spoon into the bowl harder than planned. Donald hears it too, the scuffle not the spoon. It’s way too early for Mom to be home, even if she got cut. No neighborhood kids are ever looking to hang out with either of us. Sometimes their parents come by to tell my mom to clean the birdbath or straighten the mailbox, but they’ve mostly given up on that stuff. I guess what I’m trying to say is nobody should be out there right now. 

Donald uses the clicker to shut off the TV. Without the strobing action scene, we both realize how dark it is for barely 4 p.m.

“Probably just the wind or leaves or something,” I tell him, but I still whisper it. Both our gazes are locked on the green door now, it seems to grow bigger until it’s right in front of my face.

Another scuffle. It’s undoubtedly shoes on the chipped, uneven concrete. I have to face the facts: someone’s out there. Most days I think of myself as an adult, or at least too old to be abducted. Donald too. But now, sitting here with the last swallow of Froot Loops on my tongue and him in Spider-man long underwear, I feel vulnerable. 

I can’t remember if I locked the door. I should’ve locked it. I usually lock it.

Go away. Just go away.

There’s a sharp knock, bony if a knock can be described that way, followed by two more. And they’re not in the spot you’d expect.

“Don’t answer it,” Donald begs.

“Go upstairs for a minute.”

“Don’t answer it, Tiff.”

I glare at him and he scampers away, bowl and all. I don’t like to use the glare so haphazardly, but it works. He’s right, though, I shouldn’t answer it. There’s no need and, honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing as I get up off the couch and approach the door. Maybe I’m just going to check the deadbolt. 

When I get to the door, I gently rest my hand on it, like I’m waiting for it to breathe. Then I press my ear to it. I can’t hear anything except the rain outside. Eventually I pick out the twang of the screen door rocking on its hinges.

Whoever it is knocks again. Faster, more urgently. I pull away from the door and gasp lightly, sure whoever’s out there heard me through the keyhole.

Now I’m pissed at myself. This is stupid. It’s probably somebody running for mayor or someone that wants to put a sign in the yard and here I am, quaking like I’m in a horror movie. Predators don’t knock, right?

Without answering that question, I open the door. Turns out I did leave it unlocked. 

The visitor is definitely not a predator, but in a way, it’s scarier.

It’s the little girl in pink, dripping like a freshly-washed poodle. Her reddish-blond hair is pasted to her face. She’s shivering.

“Can I help you?” I manage to say.

“Are you Tiffany Trang?”

“Tiff,” I correct her. And there goes my chance to say Never heard of her.

“Tiffany Trang,” she repeats through watery lips, “the girl detective?”

I blink. 

Flork me.

To be honest, I don’t know what to say here. This is a weird time.

It’s weird time to be a writer. It’s a weird time to be starting a new job. It’s a weird time to have anxiety that’s specifically triggered by disease and public health crises. And it’s definitely a weird time to be all of the above.

And yet here I am. Existing.

I know I should write. I’ve been gearing up for sure, teetering between a couple new projects and writing a sequel to the current book I’m shopping around. And then I had this epiphany that I was going to have a Quarantine Project. Just something fun, for me, that wasn’t about pushing my career forward and I would start and finish it within this little hiatus from society we’re all taking.

I’ve trickled out about a page and a half over two sessions so far. I know I’m rusty. Out-of-practice in that subtle art of hunkering down with a big idea and making substantial leaps in word count. But a lot has to do with how [expletive] sad I am. Sad, like most others I suspect, at the state of the world.

The story takes (would take?) place in the 90s and it’s hard not to wish I was back there. Or to wonder if anything the character does matters because in 20 years a plague is going to put everyone in lockdown.

Another story I want to write takes place in the future, but….what does that future even look like now? How can I imagine life after COVID-19? Will my characters be able to go on a quest? Go to the movies? Meet another character at a diner? Or will whole scenes have to play out over Zoom as they munch on a reheated DoorDash order?

And don’t get me started on the present. I wouldn’t even bother setting a story in today’s timeline. Do I reference the virus? Do all my characters need masks? Or do I write some alternate history fantasy where this never happened. And if I do reference it, do I get into the minutiae of people taking sides and making it political? Do I mention that some people don’t even believe that this virus exists? That some people social distance by only having their *really* good friends over for game night? Will the term “social distance” have to make an appearance in everything I write from now on?

Truthfully, I don’t want to incorporate this virus into any narrative…but how can I ignore it? It’s literally rewriting history as I type this.

A social worker friend of mine told me I need to write about this stuff. To get it out there and acknowledge my fear. That’s probably good advice, but I think most people in her shoes (and most people in general) are operating under hope. Hope that this is just a few weeks or months of new best practices. That it’s just a “weird time” and we’ll all be back to dinner parties by summer. But is that thinking any safer? Is being just baseline sad, hopeless, through this whole thing any worse than being overly-positive that this crisis will end soon? The people treating this like a staycation are the ones I’m worried about. I don’t think they have context for an event like this–but us perpetual worriers? We know what’s up.

This is only beginning here in the US, and we’ve already surpassed where the origin of the virus was after 3 months. China is only starting to get back to new normalcy–and then I read yesterday that some people that finally tested negative for the virus tested positive again. So…WTF?

And I cannot even begin to describe the added chaos of starting a new job right now. You can’t shadow anyone, no hands-on training, your coworkers have never even met you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very lucky to have a position that I can do from home–my partner was not so lucky–and to work for a company that is taking this crisis very seriously. But onboarding is tough enough under normal pretenses. Tack on that it’s a HIGHLY TECHNICAL position that requires loads of brainpower and bandwidth. And every piece of training material I read is just surface at this point. Deep down, I’m not committing any of it to memory. The world has bigger fish to fry.

Okay, my friend also said I need to pick something I’m grateful for. Oh! The Rise of Skywalker blu-ray is out in the mailbox right now. And once I feel motivated to go get it, and move it into its quarantine pile, and decide on an actual time I feel comfortable that any remnants of the virus living on it are destabilized (even though those numbers seem to change every day) THEN I’m going to have a marathon. The original trilogy on Saturday, the sequel trilogy on Sunday. Maybe Rogue One in between. Piping hot pizza in front of me (if takeout is still deemed safe and delivery is still allowed by then).

*take a breath*
*make sure it wasn’t too short of a breath*
*check for fever*

But I am really excited to see Rise again, and to see it back-to-back with the rest of its trilogy proper. The novelization is out in the garage too. And, despite the other installments being duds, I’m looking forward to reading it. I think Rae Carson is the best thing to happen to Star Wars literature in a long time.

That’s all. I don’t know who will read this, or who the intended audience is even. I wish I could offer you a happier ending but, honestly, I’ve never been known for those. I wish you luck in this apocalypse movie we’re living through. Most of all, I wish you good health. Keep stimulating that economy as best you can. Support local as long as you can. Disinfect everything that comes into your house. Most importantly, stay the F#$% inside! And God help you if you think this will be over by Easter. In a way, I envy you.

I saw The Rise of Skywalker the same way I did the other post-Disney films: opening night, first showing, @ my local theater with my two best buds, Dustin and Kell. It’s become a tradition, grown to encompass beer and a couple hands of sabacc. This year, though, was pretty different. We saw it at a different theater, Dusto had a wicked sinus infection…and we all left the theater with a feeling of uncertainty.

While Dusto slipped away silently to nurse his cold, Kell and I took to a nearby pub to unpack the final installment of the Skywalker saga. While we discussed both its merits and shortcomings over apps, he flat out told his girlfriend it was “disappointing.”

While I wasn’t ready to go that far, I was having some mixed feelings. I.e. “Well, I’m not sure I want to see this again.” At home, I didn’t have much to say about it, nor on social media. I already had tickets to see it again the following Saturday, though I wasn’t sure I’d be ready.

Why? To Kell’s point, it seemed to bite it’s thumb at the previous chapter, The Last Jedi, at every turn. On top of that, the plot was all over the place, the pacing moved like a bump of coke and the action was Marvel-esque–something I never wanted from a Star War.

I felt betrayed in a way. I thought JJ took the low road and sucker-punched the choices made by Rian Johnson in TLJ. I thought writer Chris Terrio had hacked another franchise fanfic.

But, much like Luke Skywalker hiding on Ahch-To, I was wrong.

The second showing was like a completely different film. Surrounded by my whole squad, I laughed, I cried and, more importantly, I saw a thought-out, cohesive, subtle, complicated, challenging film that didn’t just celebrate Last Jedi but repaired the story arc of the post-Disney saga.

Now, here come the SPOILERS.

Let’s discuss.

Kell and I spent the last 2 years worshipping Last Jedi for its bold, almost meta, take on the galaxy far, far away. Rey was nobody, Snoke was nothing and the Resistance was reborn to fight Supreme Leader Kylo Ren. Awesome.

But Rise of Skywalker opens with Kylo answering to a decrepit Emperor Palpatine…and worst of all, we find out [I’m serious about spoilers now] that Rey is his granddaughter.

This was by far the toughest thing to swallow in TROS. Not just because it muddies the lesson of TLJ that said you don’t have to be of a special bloodline to be a hero, but because Rey was my favorite because she was so purely good.

How could they do this??

But I see now that it’s a strong story arc. Last Jedi gave us the answers that we needed in 2017–and I for one never took them as concrete. Rey had to come to terms with a sad truth. She was nobody. Her parents were nobody. It allowed her to move forward with her Jedi training and become the clear-headed prize fighter of the Resistance. It was a beautiful message.

But that was only the middle of a trilogy. Rey’s next test was bigger than accepting her parents weren’t coming back: accepting that she came from the galaxy’s greatest evil. And it was true. It’s real, it happened…Rey is a Palpatine.

But as strong as I thought Rey was rising from nothing, she’s so much stronger fighting her compulsion to the Dark Side. We saw her go right to it in TLJ, but she found away to let the past die. Like Kylo, she killed it. And like Luke she found a loophole to do it in her own way. If these things don’t honor Rian Johnson’s masterpiece, I don’t know what does.

Like a true Jedi, Rey found a way to win without sacrificing her beliefs. And along the way, we get to see a true quest, awesome aliens (Babu Frik!!!

Like a Boss is the first sequel to Windswept and hopefully not the last. As it’s now billed as a novel of Occupied Space, one must assume the talented Adam Rakunas isn’t done with his protagonist Padma Mehta just yet.

And I say: bring’em on!

Elevator Pitch



Source: Angry Robot Books

Quick rundown: Like a Boss catches up with Padma not too long after her—spoilers for Book 1—purchase of the Old Windswept distillery, a rum production facility on another planet. This was the ticking clock of Windswept and, like any great sequel, Boss disrupts the feeling of ease we all felt at the end of the previous installment. Padma needs Old Windswept rum to continue production exactly as it always has. Why? Because of the saddest, most relatable reason in all of science fiction. Needless to say, Padma’s need is threatened once again, brilliantly and unexpectedly and heart-breakingly.

One thing readers can agree on: Padma Mehta is that rare character that deserves a break, but will probably never get one…even when she gets one.

Make no mistake, though, Like a Boss is so much more than just the Empire Strikes Back of the Occupied Space series—but we’ll revisit that after another movie connection.

Genre Jumper

Like its predecessor, Boss taps into that rare, lightning-in-a-bottle genre that encompasses Firefly and, dare I say, Ghostbusters. Hear me out.

I think there’s a niche genre that falls through the cracks of the biggies: sci-fi, fantasy, thriller, etc. Ghostbusters, for example, remains this unique, special story because it goes all in on two big themes—scary and funny. The ghost story/conspiracy stuff is there in full-swing (thanks in no small part to Dan Aykroyd) along side its witty, dry humor. Most of this humor is derived from the human condition, specifically the blue collar variety. After all, it’s hard to top a pack of scientists being reduced to working class stiffs overnight.

Ghostbusters touches on things that typcial sci-fi flicks leave out—the practical. Things like wages, politics, having to work overtime. It takes all those taboo issues that we all experience but rarely talk frankly about and airs them out to dry.

Like a Boss is the same way. Occupied Space is a rich example of sci-fi world-building (much like Firefly—callback!) and yet the real conflicts and tension of the story come from Padma’s struggles to receive and provide a livable wage. Don’t get me wrong, the action and sci-fi stuff is there, big time. But the things you’ll remember from Rakunas’ tale is the very personal, very identifiable struggles of a hardworking woman who’s spent her life against the ropes…and never given up.

And it’s funny. Honest-to-God, laugh out loud funny. Do you know how hard it is to write humor? Let alone humor based in a futuristic space narrative that you created? Hollywood: call Adam Rakunas!

This guy has to be hilarious in real life—and I bet he’s always on at parties. However, like many of the great comedians, he has incredible depth. The things that inspired Like a Boss are ripped right from today’s most serious headlines, but Rakunas weaves the two together like a….master…weaver. Seriously, though, you can’t help but hold Like a Boss up to today’s darkest timeline like a mirror—the mark of exceptional speculative fiction.

Like a Boss is as fun/sad/interesting/hopeful/devastating/digestible as Windswept, but somehow so much more polished, more reserved—which is incredible considering how quickly Rakunas claims he wrote it. The story will leave you not only wanting more from sci-fi stories, but from our society.

Seriously, folks, if Padma’s planet can work together, why can’t ours?

Grand Finale

I’m a little late to the game on this one, but only because I wanted to savor the first book. But unlike so many sequels, Like a Boss does not disappoint and, in fact, makes you wonder how you could’ve ever considered stopping after just one.

Pickup a copy via Amazon or B&N here in the States, or directly from Angry Robot across the pond. Follow @rakdaddy on Twitter and help me bug him for official Old Windswept label artwork already!

For the record, I hate that this is becoming a once-a-year blog.

My job and lifestyle were both very writing intensive this last year…something had to take a hit. But 2019 is the year my blog makes its big comeback! Woot! (Do people still stay woot? See what happens when you take your finger off the pulse?!)

When I think back to my 2018 as a whole it was mostly uneventful. But maybe taking it month by month will prove otherwise. Here’s what I would’ve (should’ve) been writing about all year.

January: Well, I began the year unemployed. Not completely unexpected and not unwanted either. The end of my contract allowed me time to wrap up my super secret writing project. I’m slowly shopping it around to agents. I also launched my @casual_tf Instagram page (formerly brews_and_bots).

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February: And just as fast as unemployment came, it went! I found myself tackling a massive technical writing contract which allowed me to buy more Transf—to save money very economically and financially. Of course. Oh, and I did Trivia Weekend. Don’t worry.

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March: Smarch. Nothing too exciting. I started attending Toy Swaps which was a real roller coaster for my wallet. Also there was a very delicious uncured Corned Beef from Trader Joe’s that was of note.

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April: More toys. Still riding high on Last Jedi.

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May: Solo arrives in theaters! My wallet continues to drain! As always, I saw it with my boys, Dustin and Kell. We played Sabacc while we waited for the theater to start seating. The movie is a lot of fun but, relatively, nobody sees it. I ponder Is Star Wars dead? It probably isn’t. Also: I query my first agent.

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June: June is the turning point (signified by a change in tense, you see). Everything changes. A group trip to Duluth triggers memories of a North Shore Mikel. A few tears are shed, but mostly I am rejuvenated by a long weekend of trekking around Canal Park. A few weeks later, I’ll be back in my old stomping ground, staying overnight at my old lodge in Lutsen, celebrating the ‘retirement’ of a former coworker. It is my triumphant return. Everybody remembers me fondly (a miracle!) and I am reborn as I walk the streets of Grand Marais once again. I am home, if only for 24 hours. There is also an awakening…of the Pokemon variety. See: July.

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July: I suddenly remember I haven’t played Pokemon GO in 2 years. So I check in with my old account and see an opportunity to get out and about and walking again. I’ve let myself get too sedentary. But what stars as a very personal Poke-journey becomes an explosion. My awesome coworker Vushi and I get the bug hard, it spreads to my friend group, pretty soon everyone is playing this thing I used to love. Heavy. But let’s not forget the traditions: I volunteer at the big Triathlon in my hometown (almost missed it, glad I didn’t) and Dusto and Kell and I take to the mean streets of Mini Apple for the 2nd Annual Dudes Brew Tou(r).

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August: This month is a blur of Pokemon. I shed some L-Bs, feeling pretty great about myself, I start biking. I see a coyote on an early morning ride. I stop biking. Summer is winding down. I realize I’ve spent the last 3 months with my face in my phone.

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September: As Fall sets in, I dial back the PoGo. I do my yearly traditions of visiting the State Fair and the Renaissance Festival. It is weird, it is different. For example, for the first time in my life I don’t visit the State Fair on the first Monday. I go on Friday. Evening. Totally different ball game. Oh, also, I officiate the wedding of my two friends! Legitimately!

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October: Back to basics. My favorite time of year. The Transformers card game launches and I go all-in (Pokemon-what-now?). I’m featured in a new anthology, Chaos Cocktail. Halloween traditions kick-in with my partner-in-crime, Kate. We go as big as we can, all the while saving for the big finale: a trip to Chicago for TFCon Chicago 2018. I’ve been listening to this Transformers podcast pretty religiously. They’re going to be there. I run into 2/3 of the hosts of the perfectly-named Autopod Decepticast in the registration line. It’s my dream come true. We chat, we hit it off, we hang at the bar. Best. Con. Ever. I buy a shit-load of Transformers in anticipation of…

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November:….my birthday! *trap horn, trap horn* It is a quiet riot to some folks’ surprise: an intimate board game evening. A visit to Frankie’s Pizza and a mini-spree at my fave comic book shop. The local board game store starts hosting Transformers card game open play and tourneys. For a time, it is good.

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December: Well, here we are. Caught up to present time, as it were. My contract is winding down. My wallet is not as plump as it should be. My plan to throw myself into this job for a year and take some time off with the money I’ve saved has not gone exactly as planned. But…I had a good year. I was #soblessed as they say. No, truly, I was. Am. With this job ending, new doors open. New opportunities to explore more creative options. Time to shop the manuscript and revisit old projects. Pivot to board game design. Looking to get back into podcasting. Collaborating on an upcoming web comic.

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You know, the usual.

Oh, and Bumblebee is out! Go see it!

And bring it on, 2019!

Wow, seems like just a couple posts ago I was saying Peace Out, 2016.

Oh. I was.

So 2017 was not a very productive year for the ol’ blog. Let’s see. There was one complaining about the Transformers movie, one telling Star Wars fans not to complain about The Last Jedi, and one about Christmas episodes of The Office.

How topical, right? Finger on the pulse, I tell ya.

Well, let’s dissect the ‘look ahead’ portion my 2016 post, shall we? Maybe I fulfilled some destinies there:

I want to write more, create more.

Actually, nailed that one. Knew this was a good idea!

Get away from Netflix, and get back to board game design.

Got closer to Netflix (Thanks, Stranger Things) and I think I went all of 2017 without playing a significant board game, let alone developed one.

I miss hosting a podcast.

My cousin and I actually recorded an episode of 2 Dudes!!! The final one. Hmm— 

Next!

Blog more.

Salt in the wound.

Experience more.

Debatable.

Eat less sweets (starting Tuesday—I’m not an animal).

Oh! So this one, I actually….probably ate more thanks to my sedentary office job. The doughnut and bagel access was at an all-time high and everyone gets a free cake on their birthday. Ouch.

Okay, so 2017 was a tough one. For everybody, I suppose. Seemed like  a bad time to muster my voice to say something about the state of the world. Especially for me, a guy who notoriously steers clear of being overly political, opinionated, etc. Promoting my writing career or my growing Transformers collection just didn’t seem appropriate for 2K17.

But I did focus on my writing. A lot. In fact, I’m in the final stretch of a novel I quietly began last April. It was a very different experience for me, in a lot of ways actually. For one, I kept quiet about it. Mentioned it to only a handful of people, told nobody the title. That’s weird for me. The Classic Mikel move is to think up a story idea, write 3 pages, send it to everyone, then give up on it. But this time I’m keeping it close to the vest, I’m writing it without chapter breaks in mind, and it’s a story that is very un-Mikel. Which is to say it’s not about a 18- to 25-year-old white male struggling to become a writer and/or dealing with burgeoning wizard powers. I’ve worked on this project very diligently, nearly every weekend, since I began and I’m finally glimpsing that light at the end of the tunnel.

A lot of my free time went into my WIP, and my weekdays were mostly consumed by my desk job (and a very long commute). But that ends today. Maybe I’m in a reflective mood because it’s the last day of the job I started around the same time as I started the book. Much like COM going out of print, this is a good thing. I’ve been ready to part ways with this contract for awhile, and I look forward to finding something I’m more passionate about to pay the bills. Should I have saved up more? Yes, of course, but what else is new?

For it being such a sucky—can we just say Trumpy now?—year, it wasn’t all that bad. My TF collection grew exponentially. I was able to go the Star Wars Celebration convention in Florida with my besties. A phenomenal trip, exceeded what I thought a vacation could be. The only downside of it was that my Star Wars enthusiasm really didn’t kick in until Last Jedi hit theaters. Think of how much more money I could’ve spent on souvenirs!!! Instead, I pretty much just got this guy:

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But there is no light without the dark—learned that from Star Wars too—and this year hasn’t been immune. While last year’s major bummer was mostly political, this year things got a bit more personal, in the form of my father having a stroke. I can’t say it’s been a burden on me, as he’s very self-sufficient and my awesome aunts do a lot of the heavy lifting (sometimes literally), but there’s definitely been sorrow in my heart since. That ‘everything’s going to be okay’ bubble got popped and it took me a long time to regroup, especially creatively. I’m still not 100% from the ordeal, and the anxiety it triggered has been next-level, but I’m alive, my dad’s alive, and we just move forward. Everyday.

Well, that’s 2017 in a nutshell. 2018 will be a true mystery, a true reinvention of myself, forced upon me by, if nothing else, my surprise unemployment. But there’s hope. I have no real deep words of wisdom here. No profundities. Just be good to each other in 2018, see The Last Jedi, and don’t complain about franchises you love.

my year in photos

 

 

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Newsflash: I love The Office. Long before I even had an office job, I loved The Office. (In fact, it’s possible I loved it more before I had an office job. Things that I thought were outrageous and fantastical are now too real.)

I rewatch the entire series every year…except this year. With less free time during my day—and the fact that I now live in a household with actual live TV—I didn’t do my yearly tradition. To keep the show top of mind, and keep myself primed for any Office pub trivias, I’ve started a new tradition of watching all the Halloween episodes around Halloween and, arguably more famous, all the Christmas episodes around the holidays.

Your Christmas gift from me, the self-proclaimed aficionado, is this list ranking all my favorite Christmas episodes, counting down to my favorite of all time! Now officially you’ll have the answers to your burning questions about my favorite episodes and, as a bonus, you’ll have quick reference to which episodes count if you want to adopt this tradition for yourself.

So dust off your dvds (or your Netflix account), mix yourself a Nog-a-sake (season 3, not offensive), and make sure that YouTube comes down to tape this.

The Office Christmas Episode Countdown Rundown
#7) s5 e11 – “Moroccan Christmas”

In my opinion, Season 5 was the strongest season of The Office. You had the Michael Scott Paper Company arc, one of the greatest season openers of all time, the infamous Superbowl special 2-parter, Idris Elba, and probably the most tension-filled episode of not just The Office, but television in general (The Steve Carell-directed “Broke”).

Unfortunately, it also had the weakest Christmas episode. Lots of gold in this one still—Andy on the sitar, Stanley’s Lewis Black-esque rant about holiday parties—but the downer main plot of taking Meredith to rehab for alcohol addiction slows down the laughs. Also, the “Princess Unicorn” stuff is one of my favorite Office references.

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#6) s9, e9 – “Dwight Christmas”

The final Christmas episode of The Office will always have a special place in my heart. Yes, it’s post-Michael Scott and, yes, it’s hard to find an Office fan that has seen the last season, but “Dwight Christmas” is a worthy send-off. We see a very passionate Dwight excited to share his Christmas traditions with his best frenemy, Jim, in an episode that delivers the laughs, the feels, and will have you deeming people “impish” or “admirable” for weeks beyond the holiday.

#5) s7 e11,12 – “Classy Christmas”

Speaking of send-offs, “Classy Christmas” is a special two-part episode and Michael Scott’s last Dunder-Mifflin holiday party. This one is special for two reasons. One, because we see the return of Holly Flax, Michael’s once-and-future lover, to Scranton. Two, because this episode is so perfect in terms of characterization. One of the great things about the later seasons is that the characters are so thoroughly conceived. I think it would almost be hard to write for this show at this stage since a single nod at the camera could replace, like, six jokes. Example: the episode starts with everyone telling Michael (in Santa garb) that everything’s good in their lives. For once, it seems there will be no holiday drama. The look on Michael’s face as he realizes this is priceless.

Plus! this episode has the infamous snowball war between Jim and Dwight, where we learn “the greatest snowball isn’t a snowball at all: it’s fear.”

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#4) s3 e10 – “A Benihana Christmas”

Like most episodes of The Office, this one really tows the line of racial tension, but it’s too charming to miss. Michael Scott, devastated by his break-up with Carol—Carell’s real life wife and SNL alum Nancy (Walls) Carell—takes his boys to Benihana for some food-and-drink therapy. A few too many “Nog-a-sakes” (see?!) leads to Michael and Andy bringing a couple waitresses back to the office party. Michael loses track of which one he’s supposed to be with, and ultimately marks her with a Sharpie. A lot of uncomfortable laughs and one of those great/rare moments between Jim and Michael where they appear to be true friends.

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#3) s2 e10 – “Christmas Party”

The OG Christmas episode, it should almost be #1 just for that. Michael Scott, still trying to strike a balance between s1’s asshole boss and the lovable dope he becomes, nearly ruins the Christmas party when he buys a too-expensive gift for his Secret Santa. It turns into a game of “Yankee Swap” where Jim’s love letter-stuffed gift to Pam nearly ends up in the clutches of Dwight. (This moment ultimately ends up being a major player in the series finale.)

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#2) s8, e10 – “Christmas Wishes”

This one almost took first, but the absence of Michael Scott cannot be denied! However, “Christmas Wishes” is a hilariously genius episode where we see new boss Andy scolding Jim and Dwight for their constant one-upsmanship. In order to give them consequences, Andy promises the next pranker will lose their holiday bonus to the prankee. It’s almost an 8-year punchline as we see Jim and Dwight trying to reverse-prank themselves in order to steal the others’ bonus.

Bonus highlights: a monster Dwight/Creed/Nate/Gabe rock-out to Carol of the Bells, a very well-portrayed fallout between Andy and Erin, and Robert California being Robert California.

#1) s6 e13 – “Secret Santa”

An episode so funny even the cast can’t stop laughing. Jim finally grants Phyllis her wish of being the office Santa. This is news to Michael Scott, who also dresses up as Santa, and in a scene that mirrors the last presidential election—and, well, all of 2017 really—we see an arrogant, embarrassed businessman trying to steal a role belonging to a woman. But the Scranton branch has spoken: Phyllis is the official pick. Michael handles this pretty well…by changing his Santa costume into a Jesus costume, to remind everyone the true meaning of Christmas: pride.

This is the quintessential episode of The Office. All the characters and inside jokes are on point, and the discomfort level is only rivaled by the final scenes of season 3’s “Gay Witch Hunt.” For an Easter egg, watch the background of the scene where Kevin sits on Michael’s lap and drink every time you notice one of the actors nearly lose it, SNL-style.

Final Thoughts

Rewatching the Christmas episodes was 100x more rewarding than watching the Halloweens. The writers really brought the warm fuzzies to the party, as well as some of the best jokes. It was also interesting to see that nearly every holiday episode featured Angela as both villain and victim. She’s almost the Scrooge of these episodes. Right off the bat in season 2, she’s brought to tears as her party-planning is overlooked and undermined—and slapped in the face when Kelly kisses Dwight. Season 3 sees her teamed up against by Pam and Karen throwing a rival party to spite her. Season 5 she’s blackmailed by Phyllis into doing humiliating chores, Cinderella-style.

I wondered as I watched if this was done purposely as a motif, or if it was just natural for the character within each season’s arc. With each rewatch I like to take the entire show into context of one character. Last time, I was watching for the story of Angela and now see her as one of the most tragic characters on the whole show. Truly! Go back and watch right now and tell me I’m wrong!

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This time around, I’ll be watching for Kevin.

In the words of Jim Halpert: there it is. Thanks for letting me wax poetic about my favorite TV show for a bit. It’s one of the few fictional obsessions I have that isn’t animated, doesn’t contain spaceships, and isn’t driven by the sales of toy robots.

Happy Holidays!

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George Lucas often said not to be so precious about Star Wars.

Rian Johnson listened.

Last night, surrounded by my oldest pals, I watched in awe as The Last Jedi unfolded in front of my eyes. The lead-up to these films is somewhat embarrassing for me. I’m always more stressed than a human should be about a movie. But I grew up with SW, it’s such a massive part of my childhood—a massive part of me still today—that it’s hard not assign it so much gravity. So essentially I can’t relax until it’s over, so I’m sort of in love with a new Star Wars movie like Anakin loved Padme: I’m in agony for 2+ hours, it’s in my very soul, tormenting me….but then I decompress and love it. And I always need at least one rewatch to fully process (and usually it’s a lot more than that).

For context, however, Force Awakens was like love at first sight for me. Last Jedi took some time to warm up to. But ultimately, what makes a better relationship? A lusty flash in the pan, or substance and intimacy?

And that’s what Last Jedi is. Meaty. Up close and personal, shining a spotlight on some hard truths of that galaxy far, far away. The warm blanket of Force Awakens has been cast aside for this installment and we are forced to forever canonize our beloved heroes making tough choices, doing the unthinkable, and ultimately making mistakes. Failing, even. The story goes to places that are so right and so honest, if not hard to understand. The writer in me is at odds with the fanboy—the plot went exactly where it needed to, where it had to…but how could you do this to our, let’s be honest, friends? The fictional folk we care so much about? We can’t go home again, Chewie!

But it’s a remarkable film, no doubts there. It’s a feast for the eyes, with visuals that literally had me gasping. There are a thousand gut-punch moments, a thousand feels, and I left the theater wondering when I started crying and if I ever stopped. To echo other reviews, it’s not perfect—but what is? Rian Johnson is a fan, that didn’t talk down to us by paying fan service. Star Wars needs to grow and change. Nobody wants to be the director that says it, let alone does it, but RJ stepped up to the plate and took one for the team. After Force Awakens, we all begged for answers, and he gave us them. For better or worse.

10/10. Will have to see again. Will gladly see again.

Star Wars, fans: we have a lot to talk about.