Monday, May 24, 2010

LOST Just Gave Me a Penguin

With the final season of LOST coming to a close with the book-ended eye flutters of Dr. Jack Shephard, somehow I feel like most of the general populace as I watched a plane fly over the island, made it through the first commercial, and said... "what?". For those of you who don't like spoilers, I promise I won't give anything away... anything at all.

(But let's be honest, it could have looked more like this:)

Ok, so everybody dies and all dogs go to heaven, except for Michael because he's a jackass and his son is apparently eight feet tall. The ending was actually the end... and then another end after the ending, where Mr. Echo was no where to be found. I have no idea why the writers of LOST make it apparent that black people (except for Rose because she's a sweetie) don't get to go to church, but if you ask me, whenever I go to Golden Corral Sunday afternoon, that's obviously a lie. From about 7 in the evening, to 1:05 in the morning I hogged the television to watch a 2-hour review special, a 2 and a half hour finale, and a 1-hour Jimmy Kimmel LOST farewell show. Needless to say, I wasn't the only one scratching my head that night. They certainly did name the show appropriately. After I mulled over what happened, it made more sense to me what just happened, but only time will tell how long my brain will hold on to that. That, and I'm still pissed I never found out what happened to Shannon's inhaler.

A lot of questions, however, were answered during the final episode(s) last night. With the phrase, "You made a great number 2", we find out that all this time, Ben was a giant turd that came out of Hurley, most likely early into the first season, which would give him time to grow. Benjamin Linus himself was beaten more times than Pee Wee Herman's junk in a theater. I'm fairly certain it was symbolic of how hard it was to pop a squat in the jungle. Women can't have babies, and the men can't drop the kids off at the pool.

The "flash sideways" (which is how it was explained earlier on) wasn't actually an alternate time line showing what would happen if the plane hadn't crashed, but a flash WAY forward after all involved characters in the series had kicked the bucket ( insert Mr. Cluck Cluck joke here) and were experiencing a play-through of their lives up until they remembered they died so they could move on to the "real" afterlife in which Drive Shaft opens for Spinal Tap. Everyone that did the nasty on the island or wanted to do the nasty on the island is reunited in their own little after life and those crazy kids with the diamonds are still in the ground waiting for Miles to come back and snatch 'em up. All I want to know is, what happens to Mr. kung fu from the temple? Last but not least, why the hell didn't someone tell me Black Gandhi wasn't gonna be in the show.

Dude, why don't you ever say Hi to me?

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Tim Burton Defines "Recycled Crap"

I realize I haven't been completely active within my responsibilities of filling the internet with true stories about fast food prostitutes and anecdotes involving mating rituals between white rabbits and Burt Reynolds' seamstress, but sometime between my last post and now, I received another baby girl to train in the arts of ruling the universe via hemorrhages. My wife walked in, laid down, pushed her out, smacked a nurse and chased a bottle of vodka with a bottle of tequila in a matter of 4 minutes, 18 seconds. Of course I'm being generous with the term "smacked". It all seemed to go as planned, except for the monkey that stormed in wearing a bikini, but we all got a good laugh from that... Then it threw the rabbit against the wall... Yeah, that wasn't so funny.

I've been looking at a lot of books lately. Why? Well, I'm in the middle of writing a book myself and I'm oh so amused by the way people perceive how it should be written. You see, this book is good because it follows a formula. It follows this formula because other good books follow the same formula. If it does not follow the formula, or one similar, it is not good because it is not like all of these other books. There's my dilemma. I don't want to write anything that's like any other story, but the kicker is, apparently it's not good literature because it's not a carbon copy of other good literature... kind of like how my poop isn't healthy because its red, unlike everyone else's poop. I guess you can't win the game unless you follow the rules (who were made by idiots). Isn't that what TV's like now?  Everything is a remake of something else, it's the same recycled crap from ten years ago, or it's reality television which is bad enough. People hate it, but it keeps selling. It's not just the money either; There are lots and lots of yuppie college know-it-all hippies that think they know good writing because they read 10-20 stories from hundreds of years ago that all follow a single pattern and since theirs does as well, it must be good. This philosophy can be best described as the ol' "douche bag of tricks" (I think that was a before and after on Wheel of Fortune). Here's how a conversation between two douches might look like:

"Hey, did you see Iron Man 2 yet?"

"No, it's nothing like the new Alice in Wonderland."

"Oh, I love Tim Burton"

"Oh, me too."

"Let's go suck each other off and talk about Tim Burton!"

"Great idea, my douchy gay hippie lover!"

Okay, maybe it doesn't have to involve Iron Man 2, but that part's pretty interchangeable. As long as you follow the same pattern, all douches basically sound like this.