First—the taste! Oh sweet, sweet taste, like a warm and gooey Pop-Tart® on an oatmeal-less morning. Like Sarah McLachlan fumbling towards ecstasy, only to find that it’s not really Sarah McLachlan or ecstasy, but the Great Somnambulist eating a warm and gooey Pop-Tart®. Finally the long wait draws near an end. Soon, oh so soon, does it begin anew, afresh, again. I’m talking about Lost’s final season, folks, and I think it’s obvious I’m excited.
Here on Rememorandom I’ll likely be postulating my theories on each episode. For those of you that read my blog and don’t like Lost, you’ll likely not read these posts, and that’s fine by me. I’d rather you not than have the greatest show on television ruined for you. For those of you that watch Lost religiously, like I do—where you demand absolute silence, high-definition, crisp audio, a bag of popcorn, a comfy seat, a beautiful spouse, and a wonderful puppy—then I hope you find it in your heart to postulate with me.
That’s the beauty of Lost. The fandom is huge. The enthusiasm of the fans is overwhelming. The creativity of the fans is inspiring and wonderful. Check out The Lost Underground Art Show if you want to see some awesome fan art, which was commissioned by Lost’s producers.
Hoist up the John B. Sail! (Is that an acceptable transitional phrase?) I went to the gas station yesterday and bought a pop. The lady in front of me bought a lottery ticket. She won $500. The cashier gave her 25 $20 bills. The winner, an elderly lady, didn’t look very excited. If I’d’ve been her, I probably would’ve been jumping around the gas station like an excited bunny rabbit, glad to be emancipated from the vile clutches of the Evil Cage. But she didn’t seem like she cared. I cared.
Hoist up the John B. Sail! (Uh?) I got my guitar fixed. For free. I took it to a different shop and the guy looked at it, fiddled with it, turned some knobs, plugged it up, and it worked. He said dust was likely the culprit. And to think, the local guy wanted to charge me $50 just for looking at it. Sheesh.
Hoist up the John B. Sail! (I still don’t know if that’s an ok transy phrase.) My love affair with parentheses (totally the coolest of all punctuation marks) will never end. (Why should it? Supplemental, useless information is always welcome here.)
Hoist up the John B. Sail! (I don’t care. It’s a great transition.) I did something last weekend that I haven’t done since The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, which was 2006. I reserved a video game. Final Fantasy XIII. The game looks beautiful. And it’s enormous. And it’s Final Fantasy. I bought XII but I’ve never had time to sit down and play it. One day, hopefully. Anyway, I’m looking forward to playing the game.
Hoist up the John B. Sail! Jai guru deva om. Nothing’s gonna change my world. I finished Firefly last night. So sad. I know I’ve already said it, but I can’t see why the show was canned (other than Fox’s horrible choices of airing episodes out of order, among other things). Each character was memorable and intriguing. There was humor. There was camaraderie. There was a vast universe to explore and a load of story to uncover, but it all vanished. There’s nothing to do about it now except watch Serenity and hope it wraps up some of the loose ends.
Hoist up the John B. Sail! I took the test to get on Jeopardy last night. I made homemade shrimp scampi, which wasn’t the best ever, but definitely not the worst, either.
Hoist up the John B. Sail! Goodbye JD Salinger. Thanks for making a great and inspiring novel. Catcher didn’t have a huge impact on me, like it did so many others, but it did help some world-view thoughts start a-churning in the head. And reading it as a teenager was perfect.
Hoist up the John B. Sail!
