Carrie Fisher died today. I wasn’t surprised…even though they’d been reporting her condition in the ICU as “stable,” they weren’t using the words “awake” or “alert.”
Liz and I watched her in When Harry Met Sally before bed tonight, and I spent a good chunk of my day trying to put the De-Specialized versions of Star Wars onto blu-rays so I could watch that. I wasn’t able to figure that out, sadly…but I do have a backup plan now. A backup plan that allowed us to watched a few minutes of Return of the Jedi together.
It’s a horse that’s been beaten to death, surely…but 2016 has been a rough year for the pop culture icons. I think pop culture icons get a bad rap, actually. That word, especially. Like, if something is “popular” it becomes meaningless somehow instead of -usually- meaningful. Carrie Fisher was meaningful to me when I was young because of her work. She became meaningful to me later in my life because of her outspoken-ness with it came to mental illness, addiction, social double standards, and most of all her sense of humor. I wish I’d known her personally…but I didn’t. The only way I knew her was through pop culture, and that was enough for her to mean a lot to me.
Princess Leia was a hero; she kicked ass, she was a badass, she was one of the good guys. She fought for the rest of us, she fought for me when she was on that screen, and only now that I’m older can I appreciate just how much of Carrie Fisher went into Princess Leia. The snark, the wit, the bravery. Leia was my introduction to the real Carrie Fisher, who was so much more than just Princess Leia.
Ms. Fisher, I will miss you. To her family, my condolences. I loved your mother/daughter/friend very much, and I will miss her very, very much.
Good night everyone. See you guys tomorrow.