It's 1984. I'm ten years old, and I still can't get Star Wars out of my system, even though Return of the Jedi has been gone from theaters for a year. It doesn't matter; I want to be Boba Fett for Halloween.

I make gauntlets and chest plates out of cardboard as my mom makes a papier-maché helmet by wrapping strips of newspaper around an inflated balloon. I carried my old Han Solo blaster with me as I went door to door. "Oh, a space man!" one old couple cried after another. I don't think I could have explained to them who I was.

I probably couldn't have explained the Boba Fett Underoos I had, either.