R E A L L Y L O S T
I am a loser. I am a serial television downstreaming addict. I have lost my grip on reality and the linear measurement of time. I am sleep deprived and useless. I can’t stop watching LOST.
I have watched 93 episodes in the last 28 days. That’s three and a half episodes a night. At 43 minutes an episode, that’s approximately 65 hours of my life gone forever, not including download time, break-to-pee time, re-fill wine glass time. I’d throw in another 15 minutes per night for that, which brings us to a solid 70 hours of my life gone forever.
I’ve amassed a mental list of what I could have done with that time. I could have read at least five very big novels. I could have written a screenplay. I could have watched 35 really great documentaries. I could have started a business. I could have made photo albums. I could have tightened my ass, abs and thighs. I could have built a greenhouse, installed a wood-burning stove in my living room, visited my grandmother, cleaned out my filing cabinet, found true love, flown to Europe and back at least twice. I could have learned a language, become a baker. I could have stalked Javier Bardem, in Spain. I could have slept for three days. I could have found THE ISLAND.
I never used to watch LOST. I prided myself in not watching LOST. Too violent, too creepy, too sci-fi, too hard to follow. And then, five years later, a lot of really intelligent people started saying, “Oh man – what do you mean you haven’t seen LOST?” And that’s when I sold my soul to Benjamin Linus and Netflix. That’s when I climbed aboard the baby blue VW bus headed for crazy town.
I think I get it, actually. It’s the human condition in all its raw, stunning, ugly, desperate, survivalist glory. It’s mythology and redemption. It’s the modern-day comic book. It’s primal, baby. It’s archetypal. It’s all that we fear and all that we fantasize about. Plane crashes, the bogey man, starvation, predation, explosion. Hand-to-hand combat, time travel, betrayal, conspiracy. Guns, being impaled, being eaten alive. Sharks, bears, ghosts. It’s about losing our grip.
But where did they get the tarps? Since when is an airplane equipped with tarps? And why aren’t they really, really sunburned? Why aren’t their clothes dirtier? Why haven’t they all died from dysintery? Why are the women still wearing wonder bras and thong underwear? Are you kidding me? I would have ditched the undergarments DAY 1. And are you telling me a bunch of freaked out folks trapped on an island with ALL that heroin wouldn’t have snorted just a little? Come on. And why aren’t all of those sexy narcissists in deep emotional pain not having more sex? And where are all the bugs? And how do those torches stay lit? And where does all of that nice dry firewood come from? Jungles are wet.
Now Rousseau – that’s my girl. Dirty, ratty, tooth decay, badass, bra-less. She hasn’t been doing a lot of freshening up, and she clearly ran out of sun screen some years ago. No one’s told her about the super modern, high-efficiency washer and dryer down in the hatch. (Apparently the Maytag Man, too, is able to leap through time in his very own Sears delivery submarine.)
I am starting to believe that LOST is real and this is the dream. Give me my Dharma Initiative jumpsuit and a shotgun. Toss me a mango and a papaya and some ranch dressing. Lock me in the polar bear cage with Sawyer. Or Desmond. Or Sayid. Just don’t tell me how Season 5 ends.