Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Whew. Okay. Glad that's over.
I don't have to deal with LOST for a while.
It's kind of like a troubled relationship. There are problems...I'm losing interest...but when it's good, it's really good so I think there's something salvageable there. And there's no denying the physical attraction. I mean. You know. Let's be honest, this relationship is mostly physical.
Plus I know what the alternative is and I'd rather be in a mediocre relationship than none at all.
What I need is a couple new vices to give me the strength and confidence to end things with LOST.
That's really what the issue is for me. Vice.
I used to have some good vices. I kept the list short in order to really indulge in the vices. Really wring the most vice out of them. If you have too many vices it's difficult to dedicate yourself to them as fully as necessary to make them, well, vices. Better to have a short list and indulge in them with passion and zeal.
I enjoyed my vices. I was proud of my vices. I embraced my vices virtuously.
Loud rock and roll. Decadent (scandalous) shoes. Lusting after men. Vodka.
Often all at the same time.
I like speed, too. Fast cars, fast boats, fast bikes, fast ice skates. I used to have two speeds: Fast and off. Then my gearbox was updated to include neutral. Which was good. The speed thing was, um, well, not always safe. And learning to accept and embrace neutral came in especially handy when I broke my ankle and foot. And since then I've come even further in seeing the merits of a more steady, even pace.
Ahhh, maturity.
Though.
I still like to drive fast. And if my foot were magically healed I would lace up the blades and hit the ice faster than you can say Chuck Yeager.
But I have more gears, now, and I'm happy with that.
Yep. I kissed the speed vice good-bye.
Shoes? Yeah, well. Not so much. I took three boxes of decadent shoes with scandalous heels to the charity shop a few months ago. 18 months post-surgery with another surgery looming it was obvious those shoes with their three and four inch heels, straps and balance challenging designs would not make it out my door anytime soon, if ever. One day I realized they were mocking me. Sad reminders of another woman, someone who is no longer me. And poof! just like that, away went my decadent scandalous shoe vice.
I have long feet so my gift to the charity shop in a predominantly gay neighborhood was surely well received. I feel alternately happy and sad that my former instruments of delight and passion are undoubtedly on drag club stages. I mean, you know, someone should enjoy them, it would be a shame to let them go to waste. And not that there's anything wrong with that. But. I dunno. They're my shoes. They made me happy. Sublime, even. No matter how ugly I looked or felt, no matter how utilitarian my clothes were, I put on a pair of my decadent shoes and I felt baaaaaad. I felt confident. I felt worthy. I felt a lot of things. Yes. My shoes made me feel things. I know that's wrong. Passions "shouldn't" be stirred, self worth should not be gained, and confidence should not be had from things, inanimate products bought at stores.
But that's vice for you. Which is why my shoe vice was perhaps my truest, purest vice. It was just wrong on every level. And it encompassed many of the deadly sins: Lust, gluttony, greed, envy, sloth, and pride. Find a way to throw in some wrath and you've got a vice full of sin.
Funny, though, I don't feel virtuous now that my shoe vice is no more. Though it's given way for another vice and wrath is coming into play.
I'm not sad someone else is wearing them, I'm jealous. The shoes I wear now are best described as sensible, sturdy, supportive and comfortable. They have to accommodate my orthotic insoles. Mainly I wear the same pair of industrial strength supportive sneakers. They're not cute or funky or hip or fashionable. They're industrial strength sneakers. Serious shoes for serious support, balance and shock absorption. If I were a runner I might get some nods of approval from other runners. But I'm not. I'm a limper whose biggest marathon is the trek to and from the train station.
I'm jealous of the girls I see wearing decadent scandalous shoes. And I resent the drag queens undoubtedly wearing my shoes. I'm mad that I can no longer wear my shoes. And I'm mad that someone else gets to enjoy my shoes. Wrath: The other vice.
I take a lot of medications, now. I try to keep them to a minimum but unless it's the weekend and I can spend the majority of the day with my foot elevated on ice, medication is required. I don't think I'm addicted to pain killers - I can, and do go without them. I wait until the pain is absolutely unbearable before I take them. Acupuncture was helping, a lot. Acupuncture rocks, by the way. But it's too expensive to have done a regular basis so pain meds and anti-inflammatories are the alternative. My foot runs a fever, yes, my foot has a climate all its own, so I have to ice it and/or take something to reduce the fever. The reason I'm sharing all this is that it's the reason why my booze vice has come to a screeching halt.
Mixing alcohol with those kinds of medication (almost any kind of medication for that matter) just ends up causing more problems. So as long as I need those medications there's no alcohol crossing my lips.
Okay. Full disclosure. I'm a cheap drunk. I enjoy a glass or two of wine because I like the flavor. Ditto champagne. I've never imbibed in those libations with the purpose of getting drunk or even buzzed. The second I start to feel a little zippy on wine or champagne is the second I stop drinking it.
Vodka and rum on the other hand...see...the thing is...I like mixed cocktails. And the problem, the vice, in that is that by the time you realize you're feeling the affects of the alcohol in those drinks you've probably had one too many. Fortunately for me one too many is typically the third one. So. While I wholeheartedly enjoy throwing back a few drinks on a night out in my decadent shoes at a loud rock concert, three or four is my outer limit. And it doesn't require a lot of alcohol to get falling down drunk in those shoes. So my booze vice was actually kind of lame.
But I miss it. I've never needed alcohol. It doesn't give me confidence or lower my inhibitions. But I like it. I enjoy a drink or two now and then. I didn't think it would be a big deal to forgo alcohol. And it's not - I don't crave it or get the shakes when I see a Captain Morgan billboard. But it's a simple pleasure of life that's been taken away from me.
So that leaves loud rock and roll and lusting after men. Unfortunately standing around for three- four hours at a small, dingy concert venue is problematic for me, now. Even in my sensible, sturdy sneakers with orthotic inserts. Consequently my loud rock and roll vice is limited to blaring it in a car or through my headphones. (I would never in a million years blare my stereo to annoying levels. I'm not that kind of neighbor.) My friends, even my died in the wool rocker friends, are all mature adults, now. They don't like to go to concerts much these days. Even when they forget they're mature adults and consider going to a concert, the reality of their mature adult lives imposes itself on them and limits their ability for a night out at a concert. Let's say my foot is feeling okay and I'm packin' medications. The likelihood of my friends being able to get a babysitter and the desire to come "all the way" into the city is slim. If I want to go to a loud rock and roll show I'm on my own. And while there's a certain intrigue in the aloof chick on her own at a dingy club with a loud rock band, I'm not that chick. Especially not with my sensible sneakers and bottled water and fever reducing medication.
Poof! There goes another vice.
Men. Lusting after men. Well. There it is. One of the few vices I have left. I used to do a lot of my lusting at concerts. (see above, dingy bars, alcohol) Nothing makes my libido thump like a guy with a loud guitar and attitude. I know, I know. But I'm talking purely about lust. It's porn for me. Personality, stability, ability to function before 2 in the afternoon are not factors. And I don't act on that lust. It's a visual treat for a few hours. Then I go home and forget about him. Or them. Life porn.
LOST, for all it's stupidity and frustration, has filled that void. It's man-o-rama. Every week it fills my lust bank. And that makes me feel like me. One of my vices, one tiny piece of me still exists. So I cling to it. I cannot wait for LOST to end because, well, it's trying too hard and I'm bored with it. Yes. Really. For all the twists, turns and weirdness of this season, I'm bored with it. It's just, well, overkill. The big "Jacob" issue? Meh. Whatever. And much as I like me some grimy Josh Holloway, bloodied and swollen Josh Holloway just doesn't it do it for me. Sayid's intensity, which used to be soooo beguiling, is turning annoying. The Jin and Desmond scenes have been great this season, but they've been too sparse to really sink my libido into. (well, okay, there was that one Desmond episode that fueled my lust bank for a few weeks...but more would have been better...keep in mind I'm very, very, very single and it's, um, been a long time, so it doesn't take much to fill my lust bank, other women, normal women, surely are not getting enough Desmond and Jin) And Charlie, poor Charlie, gone. Charlie arrived in my life at the perfect time. Just when I had to curtail my loud rock shows at grimy clubs, along came Charlie. A grimy, guitar slinging rock and roll guy. Like an angel sent from Saint Hendrix himself. And then they killed him.
So. Yeah. LOST. I love it and hate it. And it's over for several months.
And poof! there goes another vice.
So now I'm thinking I need to either forgo vices altogether or come up with some new vices.
The thing is, I need to be passionate about them. And in trying to sort out my passions I realized: I'm boring. Virtuous, but boring. My passions are, well, not exactly sinful. Some of them are even, gasp, healthy.
So I'm shopping for vices.* I don't have enough money (or desire) to gamble. I hate cigarettes. Snarkiness? Yeah, I could be a mean girl. Any given day in my life presents enough material to last me a vice-filled lifetime of snarkiness. I come in contact with lot of stupid and irritating people. But I dunno. Doesn't that put me on the express train for bitterness? And bothersome as some of these people are, I'm not passionate about snarking out most of them. We'll put it in the maybe column. If all else fails, if no other vices pan out I'll revisit snarkiness.
I could get on board with sex but, um, well, that vice requires a partner in vice and this is me we're talking about. So. Yeah. So much for that. If the fate of my vice lies in sex I'm doomed to virtue.
Vices, anyone?
*For those playing along at home: Score another band name. That's two in one week. I'm on a roll. "Friday, May 15, Shopping for Vices with Transistor Radio Discontentment Doors open at 8."
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Ripped from the headlines:
“Particle collider fires, no black holes form.”
Whew.
We lived through another page of history.
That gives me a sense of accomplishment.
I didn’t get sucked into the infinite vortex of a black hole.
No matter how bad the rest of the day, or even the week is, s'all good. No black holes formed.
Where can I get an "I survived a proton particle collision and all I got was this stupid t-shirt" t-shirt?
It does make the rest of the day seem so trivial, though. After avoiding black hole consumption everything else is just a hastily written denouement. Work, meetings, the gym, a bowl of cereal for dinner, brush teeth, bed… I mean, it all pales in significance. It’s all so, so, meager. So mundane. So pointless.
No, I’m not mocking the collider. I’ve been in rapt anticipation and excitement about it and I’m excited beyond articulation about what it means for the scientific community, physics, life, the Universe and everything. There’s hope for the human species. Not all of us are selfish, stupid, and preoccupied with appearance and celebrity gossip. (As an apt asidebar, will someone, please, please, for the sake of the human race, please make The Hills stop? Please? Or, failing that, explain it (and it’s popularity and the apparently limitless fascination with the actors) to me?)
Funny how one successful firing of an atom collider throws me into an existential funk. I’m so small and stupid and insignificant and the Universe and it’s mysteries are so big… What’s the point? Why bother?
Which is why I’m trying to revel in the success of avoiding being sucked into a black hole. It's that or get sucked into the infinite vortex of an existential black hole.
I can’t take any credit for being remotely clever enough to develop something like the collider. Cripes, I can barely understand its basic principles. But I’m patting myself on the back on behalf of my species. We’ve been so preoccupied with scoring points against the Universe that we haven’t scored any points for the Universe in a while, so let’s bask in our glory. We spent a ton of money, messed around with protons and physics and Really Big and Really Cold Vacuums and not only did we avoid creating earth sucking black holes, no one got hurt in the process. And, here’s the icing on the cake, it worked. I mean, really, for us, our species, that’s pretty monumental. (Hubble Telescope fiasco, anyone?)
Though, heh heh, if the collider had, um, you know, created black hole(s) and wreaked havoc on the fabric of the entire Universe the whole Global Warming thing would have become a moot issue. The few remaining polar bears, as they whirled into the vortex would have looked at humans, put their paws on their hips, smirked, shrugged in an accusatory “what do you expect from humans?” kind of way. Dolphins would have put a jocular flipper on the polar bears’ shoulders, then also would have smirked at the humans but added a roll of their eyes and a “we tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you? You just had to do it your way. Well, now look what you’ve gone and done” kind of look.
But we (our species) messed around with protons and vacuums and heavy machinery and we didn't disrupt the fabric of the Universe. (Or did we...perhaps this all happened four years ago. LOST debuted September 22, 2004. The Hadron Collider was originally supposed to be completed in 2005. Coincidence?? Suspending logic and all credibility, one theory could be that LOST isn't merely a serial television drama. Perhaps it's a documentary of what happened when they tested the Hadron Collider in October, 2004, before it was, you know, really ready to be tested. That would explain the back and forth and back and forward in time issues. The Darma Initiative could actually be CERN. The whole series could be transmissions sent from inside a dimensional ripple just prior to being sucked into the black hole. Four years ago. And we're just now receiving them. It would also explain the ripple-y atmosphere when the plane crashed. It would also explain everything on the island heretofore dismissed as wacky island psychotropic drug related halucinations. Speaking of Polar Bears.)
Here’s what concerns me. After spending way too much time in the past few months trying to get my head around how the collider works and all the reasons why it wouldn’t create a planet sucking black hole, I decided to allow myself to ponder the “what if” questions. I read up on the Schwarzschild radius event horizon, Einstein’s theory of relativity, gravitational physics 101 and every episode of Star Trek I’ve ever seen. Scary bit indicating I really, really need to seek professional help in 3-2-1: Here’s what all that reading and pondering left me wondering: So, let’s say a black hole of planet sucking infinite vortex proportions were manufactured in France. Or Switzerland. Whichever. Okay. They fire up the old collider and whoosh! away we all go, sucked into a black hole. Since the collider is in the Northern hemisphere would it suck us in clockwise, or counterclockwise, or straight in, no swirl? Are black holes just giant toilets using atomic vacuum energy instead of water?
Further, if a planet sucking infinite black hole collider was built in the Southern hemisphere (shout out to Australia), and it was fired up at the exact time as the Hadron collider in France. Switzerland. Whichever. would the two (hypothetically) opposite direction swirling planet sucking infinite vortex black holes cancel each other out, basically suck each other up to a point of nonexistence, leaving everyone standing there wondering what happened and checking the power outlet to make sure the things were plugged in?
I told you our species is in big trouble. I’m not appearance or celebrity obsessed but I’m not exactly putting my gray matter to significant use, either. Mysteries of the Universe are being unlocked and I’m laying awake at night wondering if the direction of swirl in a planet sucking infinite vortex of a black hole is dependent upon which hemisphere the collider resides. You know, like a toilet.
I also spent waaaaaay too much time musing on how best to find out the answer. I’m guessing when you get sucked into the infinite vortex of a black hole things are kind of frantic. You know, there at the edge of the Schwarzschild radius you probably tend to get a bit panicky. And then oops, away you go. Over the event horizon. Never to be seen again. I’m guessing given those circumstances it’s easy to get a little directionally turned around. There you are swirling in infinity, probably being stretched and particulated all over the place, and then you think, “hey, am I being swirled, stretched and particulated clockwise, or counterclockwise? Oh crap, I can’t even tell up from down. Wait, let me take a look at my watch. If I’m swirling the same direction as the second hand I’m swirling clockwise! And that will be helpful information because then I can begin to triangulate and figure out up (and out) from down (and into the infinite absorption of a black hole). Wow. I never imagined I’d be able to think these sorts of thoughts in the midst of being stretched and particulated in the infinite vortex of a black hole. My sophomore physics and trigonometry teachers were right! I am glad I paid attention! I am using this in real life! Oh but wait. Time. Movement. Gears. Momentum. Vacuum. Crap. What was that I learned in physics? Shoot. How does that go again? I knew I should have worn my Casio digital calculator watch today, I knew it!”
Yep. After laying awake nights thinking about the direction of the swirl of black holes, or if there’s any swirl at all, the best game plan I could come up with is: Wear a digital watch. Preferably one with a calculator. The analog (gear) style watch is (presumably) of no use whatsoever in a black hole, but a digital watch might at least keep counting accurate Earth time. Sure, once you’re sucked into an infinite vortex of a black hole Earth time is pretty much pointless. But. It is a familiar frame of reference.
And that leads us neatly back to Einstein’s theory of relativity. It is all relative. You’re in a black hole. Sucked into its infinite vortex. Earth time is relatively pointless in comparison to your new time zone in an infinite vacuum. It’s a point of familiar reference, but it’s all relative to your new v. former realities. You’re being sucked into the infinite vortex of a black hole. Do you really care what time it is in Earth increments? Trust me, this much I know, if Earth is sucked into a black hole The Hills will not be showing at its regularly scheduled time. Not even tears, drama, cute accessories and a lame soundtrack can change that. Time as we know it on normal Earth truly is irrelevant once you're sucked into the infinite vortex of a planet sucking black hole.
So. Yay us. "Particle collider fires, no black holes form" Life as we know it, water swirling in the directions we've come to expect and time marching along the way we know it, sans planet sucking black hole vacuum, continues. We deserve a t-shirt.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
So, my affair with LOST is on the rocks.
Oh, it was nothing it did or said. It's not LOST, it's me. I'm just not in a place in my life where I can give LOST what it needs.
It needs two more years of viewership and I no longer feel like I can commit.
It's been needy and trying my patience lately. I've been understanding and sympathetic. I've cut a lot of slack. I thought we were working toward an end goal, that all this work and effort would be worth it. I was there for LOST, really there, you know? But I'm starting to feel kind of used. At what point do my needs get some air time in this relationship? I give and give and give and what do I get in return? A lot of promises that it will all be worth it in the end. Well, those promises are starting to feel empty and meaningless.
And I'm not sure I have the stamina or compassion to deal with all this drama and volatility. I mean, the mood swings alone, geeze, take some Midol or Prozac, would ya?
Oh sure, LOST still looks great. I mean, really great. It's been working out, eating healthy, doing yoga to get limber. Hooo boy, you should have seen it the other night. Sweet mother of GQ, Sawyer fueled enough fantasies to keep me sated well beyond 2010. Thank you, Universe, for giving us Josh Holloway's DNA. The primordial ooze, the Neanderthal period...it was all worth it, all evolving to this one organism, a specimen of cells so artfully arranged that even a devout Darwinian screams out "Sweet blessed Jesus son of Mary, thank you God for what we are about to receive" when he's on screen.
But I mean, c'mon, if our relationship is reduced to just a physical thing, I mean, what kind of chance do we have? It's always been so much more than that, you know? Oh sure, there's always been a physical attraction, but what really mattered to me, what really turned me on, was that we had a deep cerebral connection. And now that that's waning I feel kind of, I dunno, cheap? bad? shallow? guilty? to stick around just for the sex. Sure, it's good sex, but without the cerebral connection it's starting to leave me feeling unfulfilled. I haven't strayed outside the relationship yet, but I got an Amazon gift card for my birthday and there are a lot of books on my wish list. The temptation to stray outside the relationship to fulfill some of my needs is there and I'm being seduced by a very alluring suitor.
I thought it was just the natural course of a relationship. The excitement and passion of a new relationship always wanes and you settle into a comfortable routine. I understand that. I'm cool with that. I need stability and prefer reliability over sporadic bursts of crazy excitement. But lately all I hear is a lot of whining and me, me, me and psychobabble. That's become what's reliable - the whining and complaining. I don't mean to be insensitive but sometimes I don't care about feelings or why, I just want to get off the island. Heck, we're all messed up. We all feel isolated and persecuted. We're all scared. We're all scarred. That's life, baby. And we're all yearning for an escape, a way out. We all need and yearn for some acceptance and validation that we matter. (And a pizza and a comfortable pair of jeans that make our ass look good also top the list of things longed for, and I gotta believe after all this time on the island people other than Hurley are longing for pizza and a comfortable pair of jeans.)
I've been in relationships like this in the past. Maybe that's the problem. I try really hard to learn and move on, take experiences, good and bad, as life lessons and apply them rather than keep repeating the same mistakes. I thought I was prepared for this relationship, thought I knew how to deal with it.
You may as well know the truth. My first relationship was with H.R. Pufnstuf. Week after week I plotted and hoped along with Jimmy. I wanted him and Freddy to get off that wacky, horrific mushroom laden island and home to his parents. I felt so sorry for him, this kid trapped on an island of weirdness and mean creatures with nothing but a magic flute and memories of home to call his own. The end came, but nothing was really resolved. Deep in my soul I carry a sadness and concern for little Jimmy still trying to escape Living Island.* Aren't we all trapped on Living Island? Jimmy is me and I am Jimmy and you are me and we are altogether. Ook koo ka choo.**
While I have good memories of that relationship, and I really grew, you know, as a person, from what I learned from that relationship, there was a lot of negativity and drama complicating things. It was my first experience, we were all so young... I finally put a lid on it and moved on with my life.
Then came re-runs of The Prisoner. Oh boy. Now that was a relationship that took me by surprise. I was young but more experienced thanks to Pufnstuf. Some time had passed, I thought I was ready to take on a more mature and deep relationship. And I was. But I was looking for something fun, carefree, too. I wanted something more mature, but I didn't want anything heavy or serious, you know, just a little fling...get back in the game...see where it leads. But I have this thing about intellectual, creative, slightly weird quirky types. I'm drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Always to my own detriment. I do resist, fluttering around, trying to fit in, smiling like I mean it with the normal, easy to understand, less broody types, trying to ignore the light. But in the end it beckons and I can't resist the seduction.
The Prisoner was demanding. Really demanding. At one point I recognized the themes of isolation, persecution, injustice and fear, saw the warning signs...I knew I was on familiar but unhealthy Pufnstuf ground. But at that point it was too late, I was already too far gone, too committed, and consequently too weak to leave the relationship. Even though deep down I knew it was Jimmy all over again.
I held out to the end and was "rewarded" with the break-up line: "We thought you would feel happier as yourself." What the...???? That's it??? I gave you everything, forsook all others, faced chastisement from my friends for being faithful to your weirdness, I turned over my mind, my soul and let you have your way with me, change me, forever alter my perspective on, well, everything and then you leave me with nothing but, "We thought you would feel happier as yourself????"
And now LOST is starting to behave a bit like that demanding Prisoner. It hit me the other night. I was just enjoying the physical moment, you know, enjoying "the show," (wink wink) when, for a moment, my brain kicked in. A lot of repressed memories swept over me and I realized: Sawyer is just a modern version of Number 6. He's bad but he's good. He wants to escape but there's this girl... crimony.
I've been had.
I was hit with a difficult realization, something that may take me a while to sort and get past. At least this time around I know when the end will arrive. 2010. I mean, I have grown, at least now I enter into relationships with set boundaries, finite time spans. I know what to expect, or at least when to expect the end.
Unlike Pufnstuf who left Jimmy, and me, (and apparently J.J. Abrams) hanging in limbo and needing closure, unlike the Prisoner who left me and Number 6 with more questions than answers, the promise on LOST is that it will make sense in the end and, more importantly, that there is an end.
The question I'm facing is whether to get out now, before resentment creeps into the relationship, or stick around for the sex.
*I want someone to fund me, give me a huge grant, to research and report on the affects of H.R. Pufnstuf on the kids who watched it. I've done a little preliminary research. Sure enough, J.J. Abrams (LOST) falls smack in the Pufnstuf zone. I suspected Wayne Coyne (Flaming Lips), Stephen Hillenburg (Spongebob Squarepants), and Kurt Cobain (Nirvana) were all influenced, rightly or wrongly, by H.R. Pufnstuf. Thanks to the internet (thanks to Al Gore) I learned that all three were of the impressionable age to be influenced, subliminally or overtly, by H.R. Pufnstuf. Coyne and Hillenburg seem obvious, but why Cobain? Isn't the longing, yearning, and ultimate disillusionment obviously rooted in the fact that he was left hanging with Jimmy and Freddy on Living Island? I mean, we all do it for Jimmy, in our own ways, but in Kurt's sensitive case, how can you go out there and be happy making great music when you know Jimmy is still stuck on that island being terrorized? Eventually it eats you up inside and you either get therapy, take mood enhancing drugs or form an awesome band and then kill yourself. Maybe someday I'll find peace with Kurt's final decision, but I can't help but wonder if Pufnstuf is somehow part of the equation that lead to the end. (As for a young Frank Black, well, the influences of one Sigmund Seamonster are obvious.)
** Oh. And. Speaking of innocent children sacrificed to drug induced weirdness of the ‘60s and ‘70s, you know the blog rules. I hate the Beatles and there’s to be no argument about it. It doesn’t make me a bad person, it doesn’t make me “wrong,” and there’s no point in firing off angry missives at me when I dare speak of the Beatles in less than reverent tones. I don’t hate people who like the Beatles, hey, whatever gets you through the night. It’s not a personal attack on Beatles fans or even against the Beatles. It’s most of their songs I hate, not them personally. As for their kids, whatever, okay? Whatever. I have nothing but sympathy for them unless/until they move to exploit or profit from their parents’ name. And yes, I actually like a lot of Lennon’s solo stuff, though I firmly believe Imagine has been overused and exploited to the point that it’s lost its power. It’s become a trite cliché, which is a shame because it was a good, powerful song until it was rammed down the world’s throat one too many times. It’s sad – Lennon gave us that one great song and it’s been reduced to an annoying, tired cliché and the guy’s not even around to defend himself or his song. (yes, me defending a Beatle and his song, shock, horror, the end of days must be nigh.)
As a result of a comment I made about my irritation with the Beatles, I was sent a link to a “news” article about a recent court fight over some home video footage of John Lennon, Yoko and their kids back in the ‘60s. (did you know Yoko had a kid other than whatshisname? Did we care?) That home movie must contain some kind of crazy ‘60s kookiness because big sums of money, court injunctions and an apparent united fight from the Lennon and Ono camps is raging. My mind does wander to what could possibly be so shocking, horrific, disturbing or salacious that 40 years later everyone involved is fighting mad over its release rather than just dismissively laughing it off with, “Eh, it was the ‘60s” - like everyone else who has some ‘60s skeletons in their closets and scrapbooks. If it is disturbing, well, the true tragedy is that there were children involved. And that really sucks. The ‘60s and ‘70s were really sucky times to be a kid. Just. Freakin’. Weird. Confusing and weird. (See above, H.R. Pufnstuf, magic flutes, et al) Add the Beatle/Ono component to these spawn of the '60s kids’ lives and I have nothing but pity and sadness for them.
What strikes me as particularly and especially sad and disturbing about this, and why I'm mentioning it, is that the film came to light when a teacher wanted to present it to a class of kids as a way to teach them about the ’60s.
Um.
Huh?
Lessee. The ‘60s. We had a presidential assassination, a civil rights movement and assassination, a manned space trip to the moon, an horrific war in Viet Nam, a cold war raging with a détente with the Soviet Union, birth control, psychotropic drugs, and there’s a teacher who felt a great way to teach youngsters about the ‘60s was a home movie of John and Yoko? Seriously, people, seriously? Pardon my incredulity, but things other than the Beatles happened in the ‘60s, and perspectives other than the Beatles might actually contain some historic validity.
You wonder why I hate the Beatles? Okay, okay, you’re right. It’s not just the irritating songs. It’s because people like this teacher feel everything can be explained by, for, or because of the Beatles. Unless what’s so important and sacred about that home video is that Lennon is single handedly ratifying a peace treaty for Viet Nam and soothing tensions with the Soviet Union while the kids launch themselves on a space mission to the Moon and Yoko single handedly brings about a plan for women’s rights to birth control and equal pay for equal work and the potential negative aspects including fatal overdoses of LSD, I fail to see the significance of this home movie in a classroom as a way to “understand” the ‘60s.
Face it: No one really understands the ‘60s. Some Lennon/Ono home movie is not going to explain it any more than a home movie of my dad and uncles, cocktails in hand, attempting to surf in the backyard swimming pool, while their wives, two of them very pregnant, sit puffing away on cigarettes and drinking cocktails or Tab in their mod Summer outfits and big, flippy hair and false eyelashes. (Though. Actually. That does kind of explain a lot about the ’60 in the suburbs and explains even more about two of my cousins who’ve never been, um, “quite right.”)
What got to me about this "news" article is the way it was written. Reverent and all important sounding, as if it was a legal battle over the Zapruder film, complete with footage of a grassy knoll which will explain everything about the '60s.
Once again, as always, it’s the children who suffer. The kids in that classroom who were almost “taught” about the ‘60s via a Lennon home movie, and the Lennon/Ono kids innocently involved. My hope for them is that whatever’s in this home video stays private.
Yes. Twice in one day I not only defended a Beatle, but the spawn of a Beatle. The end of days must truly be nigh.
Back to my typical cynical stance, the article sent to me had links to other "Lennon News." (News? This is news? Really?) One of the links was too rife with comedic potential to not check it out. Apparently John Lennon is sending signs to people from beyond the grave. I would leave this alone, these sorts of things are very personal and I'm not going to judge something that personal to his friends and family. We all yearn for signs or hope (see above, LOST) particularly after losing a loved one. I have a friend who is sane, sound, logical and very anti-mystic who had an extremely strange experience after her father died. She knows it can't have really happened, yet it was very real to her. So, you know, once again, we don't know what we don't know and gray matter is a very, very complex and complicated substance.
BUT.
Apparently along with son Julian as well as McCartney/Harrison/Starr during their reunion, Lennon's been in contact with Liam Gallagher. In Gallagher's bed.
Okay. See. That's just funny. Sorry Beatle's people, but really, that's just ridiculously funny and I sooooo want SNL to do a skit about it.
Let's just say for the sake of discussion we suspend our disbelief in all things mystic for a second or two. Lennon (senior) has somehow been given the power to reach out from death to contact people.
Liam effing Gallagher? Seriously? Lennon's been given the power to reach out to people from beyond the grave and he's bothering to show up in Liam Gallagher's bed??? I dunno, I realize I'm the last person who should speculate on this, but it seems to me John Lennon's got bigger fish to fry in the way of haunting and sending signs, and if he's going to drop in on someone in bed I kinda doubt it would be Liam Gallagher. Kids: Just say no. Drugs are bad.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
I openly admit I watch Lost. It came along at a time when (un)reality TV was at it’s peak of raging its war on American intelligence. It was different. Clever. Thought was given to the words in the script. Thought was given to the plot. Obvious thought was given to the characters…the casting…set…the camera angles…the production technique. And even the acting showed signs of actual trained actors with true talent. At the time of its debut those were rare qualities in a television show. Especially on network television.
ABC! ABC for crying out loud! Why I watched it and why I’ve hung in there (even through the abysmal and heavily repeated second season) is as much about supporting the creative effort involved as it is about my interest in the actual show.
And the marketing, o glorious happy day, the marketing. It’s genius. Truly brilliant. Sure, they’re using some of the oldest tricks in the book, but they’re putting their wacky Lost spin on them. Bravo, boys, bravo. Take that and shove up your phony faux reality formulaic formatted musical diarrhea ass, American Idol. One of the things I love about Lost is their “product placement.” They use the gimmick of product placement as clues, but I think, I hope, it’s also a bit of a joke. A wink wink joke about the overbranding so ubiquitous on “reality” television. I could make Orwellian parallels about the societal message behind the Dharma products and their placement shots all over The Island(s). The cult/communistic overtones of the Dharma products (Dharma food, Dharma shampoo, Dharma jumpsuits for the drones…) shown in reality television product placement format could be seen as a warning. It makes us flinch when we see it on Lost, we don’t know who or what this whole Dharma thing is, exactly, but we know it can’t be good. It has serious cult/communism benchmarks. But yet when we see Coca-Cola logo-ed cups strategically placed in front of the judges on American Idol most people don’t flinch. Scarier to me is that a lot of people don’t even “notice” the cups, or that the Coca-Cola logo on all the cups is always, always completely visible. It’s hardly subliminal, but it’s become such a normal and accepted occurrence that a lot of people don’t notice. Which is sad. They’re being accosted with marketing and they’re unaware, at least on a conscious level. Is it subversive? No. But it’s invasive. And it’s expensive. If even a small percentage of the money Coca-Cola has spent on making sure Simon, Randy and even Paula’s liquor spiked cups are front and center were given to charity the world would be a better place. I’d like to teach the world to sing that song. That’s the real thing.
But if I go off all "Lost is deep, socially significant, smart and relevant," that makes me one of Them. The people who spend a lot of time thinking and speculating about the show. The people who spend as much time as they can poring over every detail, freeze framing each second of every episode, and spending time on Lost themed message boards, blogs and chat rooms. You know, Lost geeks.
I’m not one of Them.
I’m just along for the ride. I tune in every week. Well. When possible. I admit, I’ve missed a few episodes, I’m not among the faithful who arrange their social and professional lives around Lost or any other television show for that matter. (Well, except for Flight of the Conchords equally brilliant for entirely different reasons.) I’ve only randomly looked at online forums, and then only because a reader or friend sends me a link to something I might find humorous or interesting. I like the parodies and jokes as much as I love the actual show. (Jim Meddick did a great Monty series, culminating with the Lost island being Gilligan’s Island. I think he was the first to make this joke. If not the first, certainly the best I’ve seen. Sorry, I can't find that particular story thread online. But in general Monty is pretty darned funny.)
And sure, the eye candy for the women is certainly a draw. Finally someone in casting realized nerdy girls like men, too. Sawyer, Desmond, Jin and lately, Sayid, have been “doing it” for me. I’m not hot for Jack or Charlie. Though, I was very sad to see Charlie (presumably) die. I liked his character and I thought Dominic Monaghan did a bang up acting job in making Charlie, the heroine addicted rock star has been desperately wanting a come-back, stupid enough to provide comic relief, smart enough to know he has some redemption to do (read: Liam Gallagher) believable. Shy of actually getting Liam Gallagher to "act" that role, Dominic Monaghan did the best job possible to make Charlie's character ring true. Yes, okay? Yes! It’s a weekly visual feast for us geeky girls whose libidos engage when our brains are tickled. Make us keep up and think about what’s happening on screen and throw in some really good looking men, and, well. It’s must see TV for us lonely single dork girls who can’t find dates or anything better to do with our evenings. And the chicks aren’t bad, either. The same nerd mentality applies to the men in the audience. There’s something for everyone.
I digress. My mind wanders a lot lately. Typically it wanders to men. Pent up frustration and loneliness for $500, please.
Right. So. The long awaited return of Lost is coming up and I’m glad. Not excited, not anxious, not in rapt anticipation, but glad. Glad to have a diversion from my weary life, glad to have an hour of watching a truly creative process. Glad that in spite of the writer’s strike several episodes will offer a respite from the ho hum tediousness and insult of “reality” television. (Seriously, do we really care about Brett Michaels "choosing" a date from a group of skanky women half his age? Really? Wasn't one round of this bad enough? Did we really need Rock of Love II? Haven't we suffered enough?) Do I expect to find out who’s in the coffin? No. Do I care? No. The thing with Lost is that almost everything means something, and eventually it becomes apparent. Tune in next week, or the week after, eventually a hint or clue becomes apparent. We will find out who’s in the coffin. Probably not in the first episode, probably not next week, and probably not even in this season. Does that bother me? No. It does not. Do I spend that time speculating about it? No, not really. Maybe a little when I’m watching the show, but not much of my cognitive time is spent on Lost when it’s not actually playing on the television screen in front of me.
I’m satisfied with the story arc thus far. I’m content knowing I don’t know. They’ve established trust and I feel secure in the knowledge that they’ll let us know when they want us to know. This is careful storytelling. Let ‘em craft their plot on their terms and just sit back and let it unfold in front of us. This is entertainment, after all. Sit back and enjoy the show. Then resume your regularly scheduled life. We’ve been promised the end will in fact come in 2010. (More brilliant planning and marketing.) All will probably not be revealed in the show finale. And I’m okay with that, too. Not all stories are wrapped up in a tidy package in the last chapter. In fact many great stories leave you asking questions, pondering, putting the whole thing together in your own mind, using your own intelligence to sort out what’s meaningful or significant to you.
The writers of The Twilight Zone knew this theory and consequently Twilight Zone stands up to the test of time. We all have a favorite episode. We all come away with our own ideas, wisdom, insight and intrigue from each episode. Why? Because more often then not we're left kind of hanging on the precipice of conclusion. Our intelligence (and sometimes morality) was given enough respect that we were left to sort it out on our own. Presumably we could handle that responsibility.
Life doesn’t get wrapped up in a tidy package. It usually ends abruptly with characters left to sort out their situations and some unanswered questions. So in that sense, Lostis reality television. Thankfully most of us don’t survive horrific plane crashes only to be stranded on a creepy island with a cult of inbred freaks with weapons. (Though there are days my workplace parallels that scenario…minus the eye candy) But we’re all lost in respect to the fact that we don’t know what’s going to happen next. Sure, some of us lead predictable lives, routines and all that, our lives have a formulaic story arc, but all it takes is one deviation from what we expect to happen and blam! we’re as lost as the survivors of Oceanic flight 815.
