Home > Switching Channels
Lost 3: Where’s mom?
With special guest appearance by Amanda DeLuca…
So it’s been a while since we’ve heard from Karla and I have a lot of spare time on my hands so I thought I’d contribute my own entry for Switching Channels. We have the same last name, no one will ever know the difference right? Well except that my mother and I have different tastes in television shows. She prefers the “true-ish to life” shows and I prefer shows like LOST. Now there is a reason Lost was one of the top T.V. shows on ABC when it came out. It was different and mysterious and slightly bizarre. I tried numerous times to get her to watch it with me but she always refuses. She just can’t suspend disbelief enough to even try.
I don’t see why it is so hard. I mean black smoke monsters, giant electromagnets, time travel, are these things that far fetched? Ok maybe a little. Part of the fun is theorizing why something happened and how things fit together, and a show like Lost is a sky’s-the-limit show in terms of possibilities.
The creators of Lost have taken great care in providing clues to help viewers. I did in fact read all of the books that were presented in the course of the show including the manuscript that was found by one of the Losties. It’s a silly but entertaining book called “The Bad Twin.” I’ve explored all the websites put up by ABC, called the phone numbers in the fake commercials and read the very numerous theories posted by other fans on message boards. This show is nothing if it isn’t interactive.
The season 3 finale was on this past week and of course I cleared my schedule to watch it. This year we finally got to see who actually got off the island and how. But in true LOST fashion, we get left with more questions than answers. I actually prefer that though, unlike my mom. We get to see the continuation of the final scene from the Season 3 finale with Jack and Kate, and who is in the casket that Jack goes to visit. All great answers to questions from last season, but we are left wondering how any of it could be possible and the new question, now that they got off the island, are they going to go back? And my own continuing question, can I get my mom to watch even one episode? The saga continues…
[Karla enters the scene]
OK, first of all … I totally watched it. I watched an entire episode, sitting right there beside my lovely daughter, as an expression of love and dedication to spending some “quality time” with my family. Even though, I might add, it was killing me to do so. Still, being the dedicated mom that I am, I sat there and watched, praying that I would make it to a commercial break before the urge to roll my eyes overcame me. I can see now that my sacrifice went totally unnoticed, because she doesn’t even remember that I totally watched it. All of it, and to the bitter, bitter end. I’m not surprised that she prefers quizzical entertainment, as she was rarely content with any answer I supplied to her to her numerous questions, many of which were about as logical as the story line of Lost. But I digress.
I will admit to anybody who asks (and honestly, she’s the only one who ever has) that I can’t get into the show. Even if I could suspend disbelief enough to acknowledge black smoke monsters and giant electromagnets, it wouldn’t do any good. I love a mystery, mainly because I like to try to figure them out. There is no figuring this show out. None. It’s like trying to complete a crossword puzzle when the answers are words in a language known only to the person who created the crossword puzzle. And if by some miracle you did figure out a word; the next time you tried to use it, they’d make up a new one … like the Eskimos and their 53 different words for snow. But back to her plea. What if I said I have been watching Lost, but she didn’t see me, because I was in another dimension? Or because I was wearing a cloak of invisibility? Or because I ordered one of those Men In Black amnesia things off eBay, and after we finished watching the show, I used it to wipe the memory from her mind? There’s some suspended disbelief for you.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Post your comment |
Fairy tales
Imagine that you’ve been invited to a party by a fabulous man who looks just like your boyfriend, if he were the man you always thought he could be, if only he’d listen to you. And after you get to the fabulously decorated apartment, which looks just like the apartment you wish your boyfriend lived in, instead of that grimy hovel he calls home, this fabulous man with impeccable taste suddenly reveals himself as your boyfriend, tells you this is his apartment, gets down on his knee and pulls out a fabulously tasteful solitaire ring and says “Will you marry me and live in this fabulous apartment?” You’re thinking this has to be a fairy tale, but eventually, you realize the fairy tale has come true. It has happened to you! Queer Eye has found your straight guy! You don’t have a fairy godmother. You’ve got five fabulous fairy godfathers. I have to say, it could have happened to a better woman. Her reaction was pretty much limited to … well, it was limited in just about every way. But then, this was a woman who was willing to sleep in an apartment that was basically a bar with a bed, and not like those chic bed bars with rooftop views and lots of netting and subtle lighting, like they’ve got in Manhattan. We’re talking a sleazy dive with a mattress. I mean, the guy had his own Jagermeister tap. She was also used to going over to his apartment, taking the sheets off the bed and washing them before she’d sit on it. I think it would have been safer to bring new ones every time and burn the old ones. If I had been enduring those conditions, and then walked into a bedroom that not only looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog, was large enough that the bed that didn’t touch both sides of the wall and wasn’t permeated by the stench of dirty laundry, I would have fallen to my knees and wept tears of joy. Not her. She just said, yeah, looks nice. Anyway. I’m glad the Fab Five are back, even if it’s the last season and Bravo canceled in favor of that tired show with the guy from Project Runway.
Permalink | |
Charmed, I’m sure
Some of you (hopefully, many, many of you) may be unfamiliar with a reality show called Flavor of Love. As one who believes in keeping entertainment real by keeping it unreal, this show got really high marks from me. For starters, the show’s “love interest” Flavor Flav (which I suspect is not his given name) is not only as plain as a mud fence, he’s living proof that black does, indeed, crack. The premise of the show is that a dozen or so women are madly in love with Flav, and are willing to prove their undying devotion and worthiness as a life partner by calling each other names while trying to pull each other’s hair (real or imagined) out by the roots.
That show was apparently so successful, it spawned another unreal reality show, I Love New York. Now, some of you (hopefully, many, many of you) may be wondering what a show promoting the Big Apple has to do with any of this. New York isn’t a city. New York (which I suspect is not her given name) was a woman who apparently came in second to Flav’s affections, but made such a good impression on the show’s producers, they gave her her own unreal reality show of her own. I can’t really comment because I didn’t really watch it, unless you count pausing briefly on VH1 during the I Love New York marathon to see if I could tell what was tattooed over her left breast. I couldn’t. I might have been able to if it hadn’t been for the glare from all that body oil. Not that she needed it - her headlights were already on high beam.
Anyway, back to Charm School. Flavor of Love Charm School brings together all of Flav’s rejects where they will vye for the chance to win $50,000 by NOT calling each other names or trying to pull each other’s hair (real or imagined). Some of you (hopefully, many, many of you) may be wondering how hard could that be?
Well, apparently it is very, very hard for people who have been forced to accept improperly spelled nicknames such as “Toasteee” and “Bootz” and “Pumkin.” They’re not even clever misspellings. They’re just lame.That alone would cause me to rebel.
Fortunately, the instructor and taskmaster, Mo’Nique, releases the burden of these lame names first thing. Well, except for Saaphyri. Turns out, that is her real name.
I like Mo’Nique. She knows unreality when she sees it and doesn’t hesitate to say things like, “Baby, that’s your real name?” then rip her name tag off anyway and throw it into the fire. Now that’s keepin it real.
Permalink | |
gettin down with Girlfriends
Actually, it’s the Girlfriends’ boyfriends who need to be getting their act together here. If you haven’t seen Girlfriends, it’s kind of a black Sex in the City. So last night, the girls get together for a dinner party, and the conversation turns to who the guys think is a “10.” The consensus is that it’s Halle Berry. No surprise there. It’s no surprise either, that after everybody leaves, Joan asks her boyfriend what he would rate her.Uh oh.
Foolishly, he tries to answer the question literally, which was, of course, the last thing he should have done. Actually, that’s not true, but we’ll get to that later.
So Joan’s boyfriend says she’s a 7. Like many women, Joan can’t believe that he’d rate her that high. How can she be a 7, if Halle Berry is a 10? Surely she’s not that good, she says. And then like an idiot, he AGREES, and downgrades her rating from a 7 to a 5. Naturally, this doesn’t go over well because Joan didn’t want an honest answer here.
Sensing he’s made a mistake, he upgrades her - to a 5 and a half. Now, I realize this is television, and they’ve got to move the plot along with these little conflicts, and the episode wouldn’t have gone anywhere without it. And of course, it’s entirely true. That’s exactly what most men would have done.
But in case you’re a man, and you think you might someday be in this position, and I think you probably will - here’s the answer.
“You’re an 11.” Or 10 is fine. Just don’t say anything over 12, because she’ll know you’re just trying to get her off your back. Better yet, preface it with an endearment, like “Baby, you’re an 11.” That should stop any further questions. But if the “But I’m not as beautiful as (insert No. 10’s name here)” question follows, just say “You are to me.” or “I think so.” or “That’s crazy talk.”
It’s that simple.
The last thing a man should do when asked this question is to say “I don’t know,” or refuse to answer. It’s like saying her ranking is somewhere in the negative numbers. Even if it’s true, and you can’t bring yourself to “lie,” picture Halle Berry as a 10 on the Celsius scale and use the Fahrenheit scale to rate your sweetie. Believe me, it’s better that way.
Permalink | |
Mayberry Misses
Ever wonder why, of all the women Sheriff Andy Taylor dated, he picked Helen? I was making a pass through the self-help/relationship area of the bookstore the other day and when I saw one entitled “Why Men Love B**.” I was sure there would be a chapter on the mystique of Helen Crump. There wasn’t. I guess there are some things that just can’t be explained.
Freedom through television
Responder “John” says that if I kill my television, I will free my mind. Well, I have to disagree, wholeheartedly. Not only does television free my mind, it does a very thorough job of it. I rarely have a serious thought while watching television, which is why I watch television in the first place. I want to be totally and completely disengaged from reality, because let’s face it - reality is pretty depressing stuff. I don’t watch anything that contains depressing, scary or angry people, but that’s not a problem for me, since I get enough news and politics during the day, through legitimate means. So John, trust me if you want your mind to be truly free, turn on the television.
Alas, poor Yorick
You know Michael C. Hall well, or at least better than I.
You’re right. Michael C. Hall is the gay brother. Peter Krause is the one I was thinking of. Actually, I believe I was confusing him with Anthony Michael Hall, who is not to be confused with Michael J. Fox.
Six feet under, six seasons behind
I really like this show, except for the fact that I spend most of my time wondering what’s going on. Or rather, what’s been going on since I saw it last. First show, the mom is newly widowed. Next show, she’s got a boyfriend. Next show, she’s got a crush on some young guy. Now she’s married to some guy named George. Where did he come from? And the character Michael J. Hall plays - he’s engaged to one girl. Next time I see the show, he’s married and has a kid. Next show, I pick up hints that the wife is now dead. Last night, I find out he’s dead and the first girl he was engaged to is having his baby and apparently there was some hanky-panky with the first wife, whom I thought was dead. Anybody got a Ouija board?
Judgment Day
Or maybe that should be judgment night. All night long. Night after night. People judging, judging, judging how other people walk, dance or decorate a cabana. And they aren’t ordinary judges, either. They’re smart alecky, condescending, hateful judges. Where do these producers find so many people suffering such severe inferiority complexes? You can experience more rejection in one night than a normal person suffers over the course of a lifetime. Are tribunals really that entertaining?
I hate to single out any one show, but America’s Next Top Model? Please. Who is Miss J. Alexander to judge? The man is 40 if he’s a day and he’s still wearing school-girl skirts and pig-tails. I say that anybody who doesn’t know how to dress his age has no business judging others on their fashion sense.
Permalink | |
Book him Dan-O
I’m not how the television industry got the notion that television characters could wear the same thing over and over again, without anybody ever noticing. You might could understand why Matt Dillon would wear the same pink shirt and leather vest day in and day out. After all, he was a government worker and probably didn’t have a lot of money to spend on clothes. I’m sure Doc gave him a discount, but you’ve got to figure that getting bullets cut out of your hide on a regular basis had to be pretty expensive, even with a good medical plan. It’s a little less understandable with the Cartwright family, who were supposed to be one of the wealthiest families in Nevada, yet wore the same clothes year after year, for more than a decade. The only time the wardrobe varied was when they’d pull out a suit for an engagement party or wedding, then again shortly thereafter for the funeral of the bride. One explanation could be a lack of clothing stores. It’s not like they had a lot of selection. Certainly there are plenty of stores on the Big Island, which makes it really difficult to understand why the man who heads up the state police would wear the same tacky blue suit day in and day out. It’s a good thing Danny wasn’t a fashion cop, or McGarrett would surely have been looking at doing five to ten on a sartorial sentence.
Afghanistanism
Afghanistanism used to be a term employed by journalism teachers. I’m pretty sure it’s lost it’s meaning now, as it meant paying too much attention to obscure subjects in which your readers have absolutely no interest. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it meant. The point is, Afghanistan used to be a place that nobody had ever heard of, cared about or had any reason to be interested in reading about. Of course, now everybody’s heard about Afghanistan and many people know its general whereabouts, i.e. somewhere in the Middle East, down around Iraq or Iran or Israel, where them Muslim boys is stirring up all that trouble. I hate to admit that I probably shared that mentality until I watched a National Geographic special last night on public television. I don’t know what came over me, but I actually sat there and watched the entire thing. I believe the absence of commercials helped. Anyway, I was amazed to discover that Afghanistan had some pretty sophisticated culture going on back in the olden, olden days. Made me want to join up with the Afghan archeologist who is hoping to find a 1,000-foot-long sleeping Buddha as a kind of
in your faceto the Taliban, who blew up the giant smiling Buddhas. But I suspect life in the Bamyan Valley isn’t quite as idyllic as it looked through the lens of a National Geographic camera. In any case, I know a lot more about Afghanistan now than I did 24 hours ago, although its precise geographic location still eludes me. If I remember right, you take the Silk Road from India and it runs you right smack dab into Afghanistan.
Deja vu all over again
I used to wonder why networks run the same episodes of the same shows over and over again. You’d think they’d be afraid of losing viewers, because you’d think people would prefer to watch something they haven’t already seen. But apparently there are enough people like me, who have neither the time nor the inclination to watch a show in its entirety, to make running a show over and over again more like a service to viewers instead of what it really is - an easy way to stretch 8 hours of original programming over a 24 hour period. Thanks to the rerun policy, I was able to catch the first part of an episode of the Real Housewives of Orange County I had missed on Monday, thus enabling me to gain insight into what has caused Jeanna’s marriage to go to the dogs (pun definitely intended) and has triggered her husband’s descent from a mild-mannered misogynist to a total misanthrope- the death of his dog. He revealed that his well-trained Labrador retriever had been killed after it ran into the street and was struck by a car after Jeanna’s irresponsible friends left the door open. And of course, it’s all Jeanna’s fault for having friends and to a lesser extent, for being his wife. Mitch was very proud of his dog-training skills, pointing out how his smart dog stayed out of the kitchen like he’d trained him to do, unlike the stupid dogs his wife owned. I’m thinking the dog would have been better off if Mitch had trained it to stay out of the street instead of the kitchen. In any case, Mitch didn’t seem to see the irony in the fact that his smart dog was dead because it did something stupid, while the stupid dogs were alive because they didn’t.
Permalink | |
Real Housewives, not so real problems
I happened to be home for lunch today, and being the kind of person that feels compelled to fill up every minute of my day, I sat down to watch television as I ate a rather pathetic lunch of smoked turkey, American processed cheese and Fritoes. I had a real opportunity to feel sorry for myself, as, just moments earlier, I discovered that for the umpteenth time, my son had not managed to perform the one chore he was asked to do - drag the trashcan to the curb. Instead, I found myself thinking how truly fortunate I was after watching less than 10 minutes of The Real Housewives of Orange County. Now there are some truly downtrodden gals. They’re dealing with some really serious issues - kids with little ambition, husbands with little involvement, alcoholic beverages with a high calorie count. According to a annoying little pop-up for Bravo’s trainer from hell series, they’ll have to spend 50 minutes in an aerobic work-out to burn off those festive little martinis. Unlike this lucky Nacogdoches County single mom, who is home drinking water, which has no calories. And unlike the Orange County single mother who was spending $5,000 a month to support her ungrateful high-maintenance daughter, at least my kid’s got a job, is paying for his car AND his insurance, and doesn’t spend money on highlights and French manicures. Looking at it that way, I’m not so bad off.
The Man with Exploding Arms
First off, I found the title very misleading. When it said the man had exploding arms, I took it literally. I thought it meant his arms were going to burst. Pop like a balloon.
I think that was a natural assumption. After all, there have been documented cases of people spontaneously combusting, literally burning to a crisp even though they weren’t anywhere near an open flame.
Compared to that, I’d say a muscle exploding from being pumped up too much doesn’t sound that unlikely.
And if ever you were going to see a man’s freakishly large muscle explode, it would be on The Learning Channel. I’ve never been to a carnival side show, but substitute a British scientist for a carnival barker, and I think it’s pretty close.
In any case, Gregg certainly contributed to the idea, by talking about how he had developed an infection and a hematoma and that his arm had become filled with unpleasant fluids, which he tried to release by poking it with a needle. It didn’t work.
I finally gave up waiting on Gregg’s arms to explode. I thought about going to the TLC Web site to see if he ever managed to deflate, but decided it was too much trouble. I’m sure it will be on again. And again. And again, sometime soon.
Karla’s Klever Kommentary on Krummy TV
I used to be one of those people who didn’t need a remote.
Pick a show. Find the channel. Watch it. That was pretty much it.
Lately, it has occurred to me that I spend more time looking than watching. Actually, it’s not even looking. It’s more like passing by a number of accidents. It doesn’t matter if it’s a minor fenderbender, a multi-car pileup or a fiery crash and burn — you know you shouldn’t, but you just can’t keep from stopping to slow down and take a look.
And after you’ve looked, the next thing you have to do is tell somebody about it.
Naturally, the worse it is, the more you want to look and the stronger the desire to tell.
Which is why I’m starting this blog.
Am I the only one who wonders how on earth David Caruso gets work?
Does anybody else wish they could push a cream pie in Nancy Grace’s smug little face?
And it pains me just to type these words — Anna Nicole Smith.
Not everything I watch is bad. There’s Andy Griffith (but not the ones with that goof, Warren) and Gunsmoke and Medium and Law and Order, but only Criminal Intent.
So stay tuned.
Latest comments
Good to see you back.
... read the full comment by a fan | Comment on Lost 3: Where's mom? Read Lost 3: Where's mom?
karla
i have to agree that when you really think about it Helen was a what you could call “special” in that way. i have come to the conclusion that andy was most likely physically scared into Helen’s arms by the “2 blonde
... read the full comment by Mountain Man | Comment on Mayberry Misses Read Mayberry Misses
karla,
i have to wholeheartedly agree with you on this tv issue. i also use it mainly as a conscience diversionary activity. there are times when a man just needs a little “barney, goober, gomer, and floyd” fix. it cleanses the sole—so
... read the full comment by Mountain Man | Comment on Freedom through television Read Freedom through television
Kill your TV and free your mind!
... read the full comment by John | Comment on Alas, poor Yorick Read Alas, poor Yorick