Pet Cobra

Lost: The End

Over at DadCentric, I talked a bit about "The End", the possibly-aptly-named last episode of Lost. It's still on my mind - I spent an inordinate amount of time over the past few years thinking (and writing) about the show. I wrote a lengthy comment on my own post about it, then realized that I still had a thought, tickling the back of my head. So here's the Director's Cut of that comment. 

I'm STILL really torn over the finale. Over at Slate.com, Chadwick Matlin makes the case that without the Flash-Sideways plot, the episode works: it's tense, we get enough answers to the Big Questions, and Jack's sacrifice (and that great, sad, beautiful closing shot) still work.

The biggest problem I had with the whole Purgatory thing was that it served no purpose, other than to make the audience feel better about Jack's death, and to a lesser extent the deaths of Locke, Sun, Jin, Charlie, and Sayid. (Shannon - meh. Good riddance, I say.) "Lost" played around with the notions of faith versus science, but only as it applied to THIS life, not the next. I don't even mind that the Island's power was never really explained. I was thinking of Arthur C. Clarke's quote, that once it reaches a certain level, science becomes indistinguishable from magic - I was really digging the idea that Jughead's explosion cracked open another dimension, and that the Sideways world and the "real" world were colliding (again, taking a cue from Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series). What I did mind was that in the span of 5 minutes, "The End" lurched awkwardly into a "12 People You Meet In Heaven" Hallmark Movie of The Week.

That said, I don't see the finale as being a Series Negater, in the same way that the series finale of Battlestar: Galactica was. And I think that there was some real power behind the idea of giving these characters some peace and resolution. I tweeted last night that what we got was thematically trite and emotionally manipulative - but you know, I really, really loved Ben's final moments. I read a comment on another site that said that at heart, Ben was simply looking to be loved, and to belong; he never stopped being that little boy who offered Sayid a sandwich in prison. I said that the show's Purgatory - and Jack's subsequent Reunion with his people - served no purpose. As far as the mechanics of the show went, with it's tropical polar bears and tattooed sharks and mysterious Others and giant four-toed statues...no, it didn't speak to any of those. We don't even get to know the bad guy's name, fer chrissakes. And yet, I'm glad we got to see that reunion. I liked those people, warts and all. For an hour a week, they were good company. I'm glad we got to see them go out of their world with smiles and light hearts.

I think about death, if not a lot, then enough. I'm 41 in a few days. The days when I can remember being incredulous over the fact that one day I'd be in my forties - well, they're starting to get fuzzy. I remember a conversation I had with a friend, who told me that she didn't really believe in an afterlife. But she did believe - and Einstein will back this up - that we're vessels of a sort, carrying and ultimately becoming energy. Maybe that energy's a soul, maybe it's something infinitely less, maybe it's something infinitely more, but it's in there, and it never really goes away. Energy doesn't, you see. It gets transferred, reformed, absorbed, compressed, stretched. And per the laws of physics, similar energies attract each other. And it's the damnedest thing, contradictory, born of free will and compulsion. It happens when we're alive: that reassuring smile, those compassionate tears, that resolute handshake, the laughter borne on sunny winds, all tendrils of power that reach out and draw us together. We're born, we live. We have questions, most of which never get answered. Then we die, we go away, and yet we never do. It's science, and it's magic. It's comforting. 

Sir Ian McKellan as Gandalf Doing The Theme From The Fresh Prince of Bel Air

Paul Simon was eerily prescient. These ARE the days of miracle and wonder. Example: a guy doing...well, I think the title of this post sums it up quite nicely.

Lost Me

Another Tuesday, another round of  "whaddayawannawatch". A couple more hours until 10:00, and Justified. ("Can you keep it down? I didn't order assholes with my whiskey." Raylan Givens is the best-written character on TV right now, in arguably TV's most entertaining show since...) 

Oh, yeah. Lost.

The DVR sags with the weight: 8 - now 9 - episodes of what used to be my favorite show. Ever? Yeah. Hell, I used to write a weekly thing about it, and it was an absolute joy, diving into that strange and thrilling world and seeing what sense I could make of it. I used to engage in long, sometimes spirited, and always nerdy discussions about giant statue feet and disappearing Walts. And even now I avoid Twitter on Tuesday nights, so as not to be Spoiled. One of the Internet Geek sites I frequent informed me that last night's ep was the show's ANTIPENULTIMATE (all caps, lots of exclamation points, from which I will spare you). 

Two left. I should really get caught up, I thought. If nothing else is on.

I scrolled through the DVR's listings...wait. Friday Night Lights! The season premiere! ("East of Dillon" - even the title feels like end-of-the-road Texas, dusty and forlorn, and a nod to Steinbeck, who would have been a fan.) 

So we watched the folks of Dillon wrestle with the ordinary. The convoluted myth/mess of time/space hopping mysterious Islands, alternate universes, the Man in Black and Jacob, and Hurley and Sawyer's pat one-liners would have to wait.

I'd say that it pains me to write this...but really, it doesn't. The last season ended with a stunning finale, one that promised a final season of Holy Shits! and WTFs?! to surpass anything that had come before. The End, though, began with a whimper, a bizarre riff on It's a Wonderful Life that felt slapped together. Three episodes in, and I found myself disengaged. Locke's dead? Or he's the Smoke Monster? Jacob's dead? Or not? Sayid's dead? Oh, wait,  he's not quite dead - he feels happy! He feels happy! Claire is infected? With what again? And why is there two of everybody? The more I watched, the less I cared. One of the chief complaints about the show is that it long ago became it's own monster, all red herrings, no bluefin tuna. I love a good mess, and certainly the best thing about Lost were the riddles within riddles within riddles,  but at some point, I love a good ending. 

I can't presume to know what's going on in the minds of Mr. Cuse and Mr. Lindelof. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt (I've heard from a few trusted folks that the show has picked up), and I'm sure that at some point I'll watch the rest of this last season, out of obligation if nothing else. At this point, I wonder if the writers have painted themselves into a corner. I wish had Locke's faith. The old, good Locke. Who's now dead. Or not.

The White Stripe

Kids, your high school guidance counselor was right: you need to have goals.

Four weeks in to my return to martial arts training, and I was floundering. It had a lot to do with the fact that when you're forty, your instructors are half your age, and most of your classmates are half your size, you feel your age. Acutely. On my best days, I feel competent. Bob, one of my classmates, is my bitch - I can snap his head back with my sidekick, or crush his ribs with a front snap kick. (Of course, Bob never blocks me, and never moves out of the way, as he's a rubber sparring dummy.) On my bad days, I feel slow and lost, tripping over my own feet and tangling myself in my arms, my bones filled with cement instead of marrow.

Last night's class: seemingly endless repetitions of Basic Form # 3, a cycle of middle blocks, low blocks, and side punches. Some tweaks to my stance, but otherwise, I had it do. "Looking like a Black Belt!", one of the instructor kids told me. "Thank you, SIR!", I replied, without a hint of irony. Then on to my 45 Degree work: stepping out from your attacker at a forty-five degree angle, block his punch, knife-hand jab to his ribcage. Repeat from the opposite side - and that's where I got flummoxed. I'm sure a neurologist could explain why I can step RIGHT/block LEFT seamlessly - stylishly, even, like Neo - but when I'm required to step LEFT/block RIGHT, I suddenly become early 1960's Jerry Lewis. Work through it, I thought. Again, repetitions - step left, block right, step right, block left. Again. Again. Again. Show that Left Brain who's boss. 

Martial arts classes with a bunch of kids: at once deadly serious ("You don't ever want to start a fight - that's what bullies do, and being a bully is against everything a Martial Artist stands for - but if a bully starts one with you, you want to be the one who finishes it.") and sublimely goofy. The class concluded in the goofy vein: we took turns pairing off against each other in a silly melee'. Foam pool noodle in hand, we stood in opposite corners, were told to close our eyes and keep 'em shut, and spun in a circle fives time fast by the instructors. The goal: in pitching, wheeling blackness, find your opponent and bop him on the head with the piece of foam. First one to do this wins the match. Everyone took turns staggering around like drunks at sea, foam tubes flailing wildly, to the cheers and laughs of their classmates. (I lost.) 

Goals. We end each class with a formal salute: line up, bow to the senior instructor, bow to the senior student. This time, our senior instructor had something for us. "You guys did GREAT today. Everyone worked hard. As you work towards your next belt, you get something when you show us that you've mastered certain techniques. Something that shows you've reached a goal. Anyone know what that is?" A bunch of small hands and one big one shot up. A small voice - Lucas' - answered. "Belt stripes, ma'am!" The instructor approached each of us and wrapped a piece of white electrical tape around one end of our belts. "Three more of these, and you guys will be ready to test for your next belt. Good job! Keep it up!" 

Lucas and I drove home; I stripped off my sweat-soaked uniform (another painful difference between me and those kids - to me, Tang Soo Do is a friggin' workout) and wandered into the kitchen in search of Gatorade. "Mom!", Lucas yelled. "I got a white stripe! So did Dad!" "That's great, honey! I'm really proud of you! Both of you!" A month in, and some tangible progress. I gulped down the Gatorade, and patted myself on my stiffening back.

Methadone

We live about 5 minutes away (by car) from the kid's school; today, like every other day, I drove him there. The cars were lined up, dozens of them. It's too far to walk for most of  'em - in our case, he'd have to cross a freeway and hike up a mile's worth of hills. Tall order for a six year old - for any kid, really. But since his school does not offer bus service, I need to drive him. 

Driving home, the surfers were out in force. The water's still too cold for trunks; everyone was in wetsuits. Neoprene is cheap, at least the standard variety - the good, environmentally conscious folks at Patagonia and Matuse do produce limestone-based neoprene suits, but those would set me back at least $350. Mine's treated me well - I got a deal on it, $150. It's got a few more winters in it. Maybe by the time I go to buy a new one, "green" wetsuits will be cheap enough for the average Joe.

We're thinking about taking a trip to Costa Rica this summer. Eight days of surfing and exploring the rain forests. The kids will dig it. We'll have to fly, of course.

A bunch of countries whose governments hate us made $573 billion in oil revenue last year. They stand to make close to $800 billion next year. They'll do so laughing at us, with their knives at our throats.

The coasts of Louisiana, Alabama, and Florida are fast becoming an abattoir. But, statistically speaking, offshore drilling is much safer than shipping oil in tankers. But along with the environmental damage, there's industries and livelihoods that stand to be destroyed, in a region that's still reeling from Katrina. But right now, and for the foreseeable future, there are no realistic alternatives for me, for you, for most of us. 

The slick spreads. 

We're all covered in oil.