From the moment Lost came on the air, I knew there was a distinct possibility it would go the way of Twin Peaks. After all, artfully constructing a mystery is no mean feat, but artfully dismantling it is damn near impossible. I always kind of thought Lost would succeed where Twin Peaks had failed, but I’ve since revised my opinion. Last night’s episode was a return to form in some respects, but it’s still going to take one mind-blowing extravaganza of a finale for Lost to redeem itself.
The first time I really allowed myself to acknowledge the show’s failure was after last week’s episode, which I found upsettingly reminiscent of Avatar. For those of you fortunate enough to have missed Avatar, it’s essentially a remake of Fern Gully aimed at a less mature audience. Three hours of blue hominids with fetal alcohol syndrome gallivanting about an Earth-like planet, set against a backdrop of ham-fisted environmental allegory. It is undoubtedly the goofiest flick to be up for a Best Picture Oscar since Titanic. James Cameron should probably stop making movies.
Anyway, I could rant about Avatar for hours, but since I’m having trouble coming up with any concrete similarities between the Lost episode in question and that 3D calamity of a movie it would probably behoove me to show a little restraint. Perhaps the only real similarity is that both sucked.
And Jesus Christ did that Avatar-esque episode suck. I don’t even know where to start. I suppose the episode’s introduction of the light at the center of the island would be a good jumping off point. On a purely visual level it looked astonishingly amateurish. Pair that with the fact that its only real property thus far appears to be the ability to transform a weird human into a weird monster and you have a recipe for viewer disappointment. This is the center of the island, the impetus behind everything that’s happened over the past 6 seasons, the very reason anyone is on the island at all, and it yet it’s the answer to nothing.
Yes, we now know on a basic level what Jacob means when he talks about protecting the island and after last night’s episode we know that Jack has volunteered (what a fucking surprise) to be the new Jacob, but the writers have evaded all of the fundamental questions. What is the light? Why is it important? If humans are trying to steal or destroy it, why? If they’re trying to mine it for resources, what exactly are those resources? What is the light’s relationship to the electromagnetism? Who discovered it and how? And most importantly, where did it come from?
Where did it come from? That’s the question I keep asking myself. Lost has fallen into an infinite regress trap and I don’t think they’re going to be able to pull out. A few weeks ago, we were all wondering where Jacob and the Man in Black came from. Now we have a sense of their past, but we don’t know where the fuck that bitch from the West Wing came from. This is as frustrating as debating a theist.
Q: Where did the universe come from?
A: God.
Q: Where did God come from?
A: Always has been, always will be, blah, blah, blah.
That answer conveniently wraps things up since it invokes the incomprehensible concepts of both eternity and infinity, but reveals the nature of neither. So where did that bitch from the West Wing come from? Always has been, always will be.
OK, I’d like to wrap up by moving away from all this esoteric mumbo jumbo. The real honest-to-god reason the show has failed is that they’ve spent five seasons procrastinating. So many questions remained after season 5, and now they’re just shooting answers at us whenever and wherever they can. In this litany of resolutions, each individual answer has fallen flat. Whispers? Dead souls that can’t escape the island. Thank god Hurley pieced that one together based on absolutely no evidence. Man in Black, did you pose as Jack’s father? Yes. Try a little suspense next time.
One last unanswered question: Did Ben and Rousseau get it on in the alternate timeline?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Boat People
If you’ve spent any appreciable amount of time near a body of freshwater, you know the boat people. Very basically, a boat person is someone who owns and enjoys a boat of the non-yacht variety. That which follows is a highly unscientific anthropological breakdown of this particular subset of the human species.
Habitat
Natural lake dwellers, the boat people come ashore frequently as they retain certain human characteristics (i.e. lungs) that require them to periodically seek terra firma. In fact, like their fellow humans the vast majority of boat people actually reside on dry land, the only difference being that a boat person’s home must be in close proximity to his native body of water. Although exceedingly rare, full-time residence in an aquatic abode is not unheard of. As you will recall from grade school, not all rectangles are squares, but all squares are rectangles. Similarly not all boat people live in houseboats, but all people who live in houseboats are boat people.
Social Strata
Although humans of all classes enjoy various forms of aquatic recreation, the boat people are defiantly working class. This is not to say that all boat people are of the same class; as it is among all groups of humans, class among the boat people is measured along a spectrum. The higher classes gravitate toward the blue collar professions, while the lower classes gravitate toward the unemployment office. Those boat people who fall outside of the traditional social orders are often involved in the production and distribution of methamphetamine. Far from being scorned, the methamphetamine professional possesses a certain cachet within his community. Like their biker brethren, the boat people inherently distrust authority and thus glamorize the outlaws among their ranks.
Visual Aesthetics
On matters sartorial, the boat person takes his cue from the early 1990’s. Neon-colored shorts are a perennial favorite, as is the Margaritaville t-shirt. Pragmatic to a fault, the apparel and accessories of the boat people often reflect their constant struggle to avoid sun damage. As such, boat people seldom remove their wraparound shades, and consider a daily application of brightly-colored zinc oxide to the nose to be vital. In spite of these precautions, the skin of a boat person is invariably deeply tanned and leathery. Mustaches are a common sight on both men and women.
Habitat
Natural lake dwellers, the boat people come ashore frequently as they retain certain human characteristics (i.e. lungs) that require them to periodically seek terra firma. In fact, like their fellow humans the vast majority of boat people actually reside on dry land, the only difference being that a boat person’s home must be in close proximity to his native body of water. Although exceedingly rare, full-time residence in an aquatic abode is not unheard of. As you will recall from grade school, not all rectangles are squares, but all squares are rectangles. Similarly not all boat people live in houseboats, but all people who live in houseboats are boat people.
Social Strata
Although humans of all classes enjoy various forms of aquatic recreation, the boat people are defiantly working class. This is not to say that all boat people are of the same class; as it is among all groups of humans, class among the boat people is measured along a spectrum. The higher classes gravitate toward the blue collar professions, while the lower classes gravitate toward the unemployment office. Those boat people who fall outside of the traditional social orders are often involved in the production and distribution of methamphetamine. Far from being scorned, the methamphetamine professional possesses a certain cachet within his community. Like their biker brethren, the boat people inherently distrust authority and thus glamorize the outlaws among their ranks.
Visual Aesthetics
On matters sartorial, the boat person takes his cue from the early 1990’s. Neon-colored shorts are a perennial favorite, as is the Margaritaville t-shirt. Pragmatic to a fault, the apparel and accessories of the boat people often reflect their constant struggle to avoid sun damage. As such, boat people seldom remove their wraparound shades, and consider a daily application of brightly-colored zinc oxide to the nose to be vital. In spite of these precautions, the skin of a boat person is invariably deeply tanned and leathery. Mustaches are a common sight on both men and women.
Aural Aesthetics
- Skynyrd
- Buffett
Monday, May 17, 2010
RIP Ronnie, and may Satan have mercy on your soul.
I am writing today to honor the life and work of Mr. Ronnie James Dio, the elfin aberration recently known as a touring member of Black Sabbath and currently known as dead. I haven’t been this broken up by the death of a rock star since the guy from Quiet Riot vacuumed up enough cocaine to take down someone half as old and twice as relevant.
Lovers of hard rock the world over, you’re faced with a golden opportunity. As a Bananarama enthusiast, I don’t have license to break from business as usual, but you do. Throw caution to the wind. Blaze your own trail. Call in sick. Pile into an unemployed friend’s Trans Am and pick up a couple cases of High Life. Cruise to a parking lot on the outskirts of town, fucked up on hairspray and gasoline. Recreate "Heavy Metal Parking Lot." Find yourself in the right place at the right time, and I would imagine you’ll happen upon a veritable metal orgy: 1 part amphetamines, 2 parts beer, 3 parts “Holy Diver,” and 0 parts sex.
Lovers of hard rock the world over, you’re faced with a golden opportunity. As a Bananarama enthusiast, I don’t have license to break from business as usual, but you do. Throw caution to the wind. Blaze your own trail. Call in sick. Pile into an unemployed friend’s Trans Am and pick up a couple cases of High Life. Cruise to a parking lot on the outskirts of town, fucked up on hairspray and gasoline. Recreate "Heavy Metal Parking Lot." Find yourself in the right place at the right time, and I would imagine you’ll happen upon a veritable metal orgy: 1 part amphetamines, 2 parts beer, 3 parts “Holy Diver,” and 0 parts sex.
Jury Duty: Civic Responsibility or Inhumane Torture?
I started jury duty yesterday, and it's worse than I ever could have imagined. Basically you sit around hoping to lose consciousness, while a cop periodically selects a group of 20 potential jurors for a "panel." The panel is whisked upstairs to be vetted by a pair of lawyers who either select you for their jury or dismiss you, sending you back into the juror pool. I'm not especially concerned with how the panels are chosen; as far as I can tell it's random. What I am concerned about is leaving and never coming back, but I can't seem to figure out how to make that happen. My current best guess is that after being dismissed from a certain number of
panels, you're branded unfit to judge and sent home. If I'm right, I'm fucked. I found out this morning that of the hundred or so people who started jury duty yesterday, I am quite literally the ONLY one to have not been selected for a single panel. To put it another way, I spent 7.5 hours yesterday contemplating suicide in the waiting room while *every single other person* got a panel or two out of the way.
At about 11:30 this morning I finally made it upstairs, where I was confronted with two cringe-inducingly slimy trail lawyers, one of whom was in possession of a combover and a facial structure disarmingly similar to that of Eliot Spitzer. They were intentionally vague in describing the case, but from what I could gather it involved a car accident between two drivers, one of whom is seeking damages from the other. My goal from the get-go has been dismissal from all panels, and to that end I've been posing as a lesbian, hoping to appear dyke-y and altogether unappealing. Although I'm confident that my faux-lesbianism has thus far worked in my favor, my
trump card was an admission that I'm dubious that a car accident involving two people could be entirely the fault of one driver; even if one driver involved in an accident appears to be in flagrant violation of traffic laws and common sense, the other driver, more often than not, could have avoided the accident had he been more attentive. I was amped up and all set to inform them that personal injury lawsuits are almost invariably frivolous and a waste of tax-payer dollars, and that, as someone who once sustained a broken neck, I'm not easily impressed by injuries that don't result in death, but they'd heard enough from me already. I was tossed back into the juror pool within 20 minutes, accompanied by a fellow queer.
People are filtering back in from lunch, and the place smells overwhelmingly of liquor. I can't say I blame them.
I'm now of the opinion that jury duty is designed to be as painful as possible. This morning some decrepit judge came in to talk to us, and this old freak babbled inaudibly for almost an hour, during which time computers and ipods were off limits; this torture wasn't necessary, but they just couldn't resist. I didn't catch most of his unyieldingly tedious monologue, but here's a short list of the topics I know he touched on: junior high school, the draft, the Depression, Barbara Stanwyck (!) and Philadelphia.
Why, why, why are we not allowed to tell old people to stop talking? Is it out of concern that they'll die feeling shunned and alone? That's how they die as it is. Strangers may be superficially polite to the end, but their loved ones eventually lose patience. They can't bear to hear another story about eating ketchup soup in a dirt shack or making trips into town to visit the nickelodeon, so they toss their geriatric relations into homes where they can bore paid staff members until they eventually die. Wouldn't it be kinder if we leveled with them? I've compiled a brief list of statements (and one question) the elderly, particularly the long-winded elderly, need to hear. They're harsh, but I do believe they might just make the world a better place:
"Your old timey stories are bullshit, so if you can't think of anything
modern or relevant to say, don't say anything at all."
"Who the fuck is Barbara Stanwyck?"
"They're black people, not 'darkies'."
"Our present economy is disintegrating, so stop trying to impress people
with yarns about the 30's."
"You smell like pee."
Anyway, I've just been given my discharge papers, so I'm headed home to eat waffles!
panels, you're branded unfit to judge and sent home. If I'm right, I'm fucked. I found out this morning that of the hundred or so people who started jury duty yesterday, I am quite literally the ONLY one to have not been selected for a single panel. To put it another way, I spent 7.5 hours yesterday contemplating suicide in the waiting room while *every single other person* got a panel or two out of the way.
At about 11:30 this morning I finally made it upstairs, where I was confronted with two cringe-inducingly slimy trail lawyers, one of whom was in possession of a combover and a facial structure disarmingly similar to that of Eliot Spitzer. They were intentionally vague in describing the case, but from what I could gather it involved a car accident between two drivers, one of whom is seeking damages from the other. My goal from the get-go has been dismissal from all panels, and to that end I've been posing as a lesbian, hoping to appear dyke-y and altogether unappealing. Although I'm confident that my faux-lesbianism has thus far worked in my favor, my
trump card was an admission that I'm dubious that a car accident involving two people could be entirely the fault of one driver; even if one driver involved in an accident appears to be in flagrant violation of traffic laws and common sense, the other driver, more often than not, could have avoided the accident had he been more attentive. I was amped up and all set to inform them that personal injury lawsuits are almost invariably frivolous and a waste of tax-payer dollars, and that, as someone who once sustained a broken neck, I'm not easily impressed by injuries that don't result in death, but they'd heard enough from me already. I was tossed back into the juror pool within 20 minutes, accompanied by a fellow queer.
People are filtering back in from lunch, and the place smells overwhelmingly of liquor. I can't say I blame them.
I'm now of the opinion that jury duty is designed to be as painful as possible. This morning some decrepit judge came in to talk to us, and this old freak babbled inaudibly for almost an hour, during which time computers and ipods were off limits; this torture wasn't necessary, but they just couldn't resist. I didn't catch most of his unyieldingly tedious monologue, but here's a short list of the topics I know he touched on: junior high school, the draft, the Depression, Barbara Stanwyck (!) and Philadelphia.
Why, why, why are we not allowed to tell old people to stop talking? Is it out of concern that they'll die feeling shunned and alone? That's how they die as it is. Strangers may be superficially polite to the end, but their loved ones eventually lose patience. They can't bear to hear another story about eating ketchup soup in a dirt shack or making trips into town to visit the nickelodeon, so they toss their geriatric relations into homes where they can bore paid staff members until they eventually die. Wouldn't it be kinder if we leveled with them? I've compiled a brief list of statements (and one question) the elderly, particularly the long-winded elderly, need to hear. They're harsh, but I do believe they might just make the world a better place:
"Your old timey stories are bullshit, so if you can't think of anything
modern or relevant to say, don't say anything at all."
"Who the fuck is Barbara Stanwyck?"
"They're black people, not 'darkies'."
"Our present economy is disintegrating, so stop trying to impress people
with yarns about the 30's."
"You smell like pee."
Anyway, I've just been given my discharge papers, so I'm headed home to eat waffles!
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