If I should die in a wombat zone

      The year was 1983, and 6 year old me walked out of the theater after Return of The Jedi amazed, wanting nothing more, with all my body and soul (the way only a 6 year old boy can) than to see the next film, to see what happened next. They were going to make a next film, right? Hadn’t Lucas supposedly already mapped out the next three? My Dad said it could take a while.       32 years later, I was walking into that film. No pressure, JJ Abrams.       So much had happened, in my life and in the world, in the interim. Star Wars became the backdrop, the set piece, for my entire generation of geeks, reinforced by the Kevin Smith movies and undimmed even by the idiocy of the prequels.   At least as you were cringing to Jar Jar, you knew that eventually, the timeline would catch up to the “Holy Trinity” of legitimately good films.       But now?      ...