The 'Lost' of its Kind

After six long years full of mind-bending, and often times torturous, twists and turns, Lost finally reaches its swan song on May 23rd, 2010. A show that took the world by storm in 2004 and then completely reinvented the way people looked at prime time television with its prolific concept and unparalleled character development. Lost didn’t just defy the methodology behind a successful network show, it grabbed it, chewed it up, spit it out and dropped a giant smoke monster on it in an effort to bring an imaginative and thought-provoking show built around a cage match between faith and reason.

Of course this unique premise did not come without a price tag: Patience. To intricately weave such rich plot advancing storylines AND deep back stories of pre-Oceanic 815 life required viewers to contemplate their own test of faith. Each week, Lost asked more and more questions while only answering them gradually over a slow burn. In some extreme cases, questions raised in season 1 weren’t finally answered until season 6. It was due to this bold creative decision that Lost inevitably alienated a hefty portion of their once mighty audience. Complaints that the show was “too confusing,” or that the writers “didn’t know where the show was going” became common place and many fans simply turned away in favor of more easily digested programming. Unfazed, the Lost team continued telling the story that they wanted to tell with the blessing of ABC.

Though the show did temporarily lose steam after a couple of seasons, it was rejuvenated after the eventual end date was decided upon and the writers knew exactly how much time was left to craft and complete their opus. Once their momentum had been regained, the pacing stabilized and the story became extremely rewarding for those that decided to stick around and channel their inner-Locke. Better yet, the answers to questions that had been looming over our heads were starting to unfold with hard-hitting satisfaction.

Like most long running shows, Lost was not without its fair share of both ups and downs. For every Jack, there was a Libby and for every “Through the Looking Glass,” there was an “Expose,” but no matter what side of the debate you were on, it was clear that Lost continually provided something worth talking about come Wednesday morning. For me personally, I will always look back at the Desmond and Penny focused “The Constant” as the single greatest moment in the show’s six years, though the gut-wrenching last few minutes of season 5’s finale “The Incident” ranks right up there alongside it.

However, the highly anticipated series finale represents not only the end of Lost, but also the end of an era. The end of epic, five-year plan structured sci-fi storytelling as a successful recipe for broadly watched television. While a handful of high concept programming remains, such as Fringe, V and Caprica, there is no mistaking that it’s becoming a lost art. As apparent by the cancellations of shows such as Flash Forward, Dollhouse, Firefly, Jericho, Journeyman, Heroes and so on, the audience for this type of concept is continually shrinking. Even ABC’s newly added show Happy Town debuted to low ratings and was officially put on the bubble after only two episodes. Two episodes? Is this how impatient our society has become? Is anything short of instant explanation just too much to ask of today’s TV watching audience? And more interestingly, is Lost actually to blame? Did Lost tax the patience of viewers so much that they’ve decided to never invest in a high concept program again? Whatever the reason, these types of shows are too expensive to produce without the high ratings to back it up, so instead studios feverishly look to cheaper programming options, such as reality and game shows, as a quick replacement to fill a time slot. I don’t know about you, but I fear of a world full of television programming hosted by Heidi Montag and Kate Gosselin. I can already see Kate’s “Plus 8” turning the lit up squares on Wheel of Fortune in my nightmares.

I have no doubts that no matter how Lost wraps up its grandiose tale, there will be debate on both sides as to what the show runners decided to do. Some will be happy and fulfilled, while others will be extremely upset and lash out in public forums. Quite honestly, unless it ends with the screen fading to black in mid-sentence, or the castaways winding up in jail after video taping an assault, I probably won’t have too much to complain about. I’ve come this far and am very happy that I have chosen to do so. I don’t anticipate the finale being a giant cluster that skews my opinion.

Like most dedicated viewers, I want so badly to have my questions answered, but wish the show didn’t have to end for that to happen. My Tuesday night dance card certainly becomes a lot more open going forward. Whatever the outcome, Lost has changed what it means to be compelling programming and has certainly set the bar for me personally when it comes to quality production and writing. So I say goodbye to you, Lost, and hello to the rebuilt walls that you helped to knock down. Cheers… and thank you.

Chapter Four: "The Article"

Ashley Falls Post

Body of Local Teen Found

By Clancy Scott
Ashley Falls Post Staff Writer
Thursday, February 1st

The body of a teenage girl was discovered by police late Wednesday night near the base of Sunset Hill along the outskirts of town. The body was later identified as local student Jessie Fryman, 17, whom according to police, had a history of running away from home.

The police are still combing the area for evidence, but Fryman’s death is being treated as an accident and not a homicide, said Ashley Falls Sheriff Douglas Coleman.

“It would be impossible to rule anything out at this point, but based on the evidence at the scene, it does not appear to be a homicide,” said Coleman. “Sunset Hill is a popular hangout for teenagers, but it can also be quite dangerous under the right set of circumstances. It’s very possible that she tripped and fell all the way down, which would be consistent with the injuries we have observed.”

Coleman also noted that an autopsy would not be necessary, however a thorough external examination of the body would still be conducted this weekend.

Fryman’s parents could not be reached for comment.

Chapter Three: "The Plea"

January 26th

Dear Mr. Brinkman,

I know that you asked me to go directly to the police, but I’m getting nowhere with them and I just don’t know what else to do. They look at me like I’m crazy. I followed your advice and did exactly what you suggested, but something just didn’t feel right when I visited my friend’s house. Her parents don’t seem to me like they’re all that concerned about the whole thing. Why? I know that they didn’t always get along and that she caused her parents a lot of grief over the past few years, but how do you just one day stop loving your kid?

Mr. Brinkman, I am begging you for your help. I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in my friend’s bedroom, but I did find a journal hidden in her mattress. I didn’t even know she kept one to be quite honest. I started to flip through it and most of the entries were pretty standard stuff. I might even go so far as to say boring, especially for someone who lived the way she did. What’s strange though is that within the past couple of months worth of entries, it sounds like the fights with her Mom were starting to escalate. On one occasion, she even noted that the fight got physical. I can’t believe she never told me that. She must have been so scared.

There is one more entry that seemed to stand out, but I’d love for you to take a look at it and give me a second opinion. It was from about a month ago and she wrote that she was awoken by someone at the front door early on a Saturday morning. She said that she saw her Mom talking to a man in a black suit and he flashed some type of badge, but she couldn’t make out what it was. She went on to write that when she asked about it later, her Mom said that it was an officer going door-to-door searching for a person of interest who reportedly fled a scene in the area. Mr. Brinkman, I read the papers every day and I don’t remember hearing about anything like this. Do you? I mean, what kind of crime can go unreported in a town this size? When I sneeze I feel like even everyone down at the diner knows about it.

Something doesn’t add up, Mr. Brinkman, and I’d really appreciate it if you would reconsider your decision to help me. I can’t just let my friend disappear off the face of the earth. She’s out there somewhere and she needs help, I know it. I don’t know how, I just do. I just have to find her!


Sincerely,

Jessie Fryman

Chapter Two: "Miller Brinkman"

From the Desk of Miller Brinkman, P.I.

January 13th

Dear Ms. Fryman,

Thank you for your letter. Allow me to extend my deepest sympathies to you during this time of sadness. Though I appreciate it and am flattered that you would seek me for help with your crisis, I’m afraid it may just be a little above my pay grade. You see, Ms. Fryman, I typically get calls for simple things like cheating spouses or blackmail attempts. Things that the average person can’t, or won’t, go to the cops for. It’s true that I have been involved with the occasional missing person case during my career, but from the sounds of your letter, your friend may have been involved in a situation she didn’t want anyone to know about. Of course that’s just speculation. For all we know, she just got bored of this town and ran off with the boy that Mommy and Daddy didn’t like. It wouldn’t be unheard of for someone her age, but even as I write this, I know it’s probably not likely.

I don’t know, Ms. Fryman, I just think you should go to the proper authorities on this one. I know you said in your letter that you’d already tried that and they were less than helpful, but I think your grief may be clouding your vision a bit here. Sometimes people do just seemingly vanish without foul play being involved. Are you certain she wasn’t hiding anything? Have you tried contacting her parents to see if they’d allow you to take a look through her things? If you two were as close as you say, then you would have the best chance of recognizing anything out of place or finding any clues hidden within her room. The first thing I’d do in your situation is see if she kept a diary or journal of some kind. I know it can feel intrusive, but it may contain some idea of where she is. Just some free advice for you.

Keep your chin up, Ms. Fryman. It may not feel like it right now, but I’m sure everything is going to turn out just fine. Please consider what I’ve said and perhaps conduct your own mini-investigation. If you do uncover something of interest, try the authorities again. They won’t be able to ignore you if you’ve got a lead. I wish you the best of luck and I hope your friend shows back up soon.


Yours truly,

Miller Brinkman, P.I.

Chapter One: "Excavation"

The following is a transcript of a previously recorded message that was recovered from a government issued digital recorder at Location 2208-C during an excavation attempt on October 16th. Neither the authenticity nor its origin can not be verified at this time. There were no apparent signs of life within the area.

Property of the United States Special Task Force

[Crackle]

“(Heavy breathing) My name is Jane Petr—“ [Crackle] “and if you’re hearing this… please… I beg you to help us. They brought us… here… but I, I… don’t know where here is. They told us that they were--” [Section missing] “… but they didn’t tell us why. Something about... fuck, I can’t remember! We were chosen or something like that? Why? They didn’t tell us what that meant or what we were chosen for. They rarely told us anything at all, just… had to do what we were told to. But… but it doesn’t make sense. Ph—“ [Crackle] “did exactly what he was told to… but they just… they let him die. It was awful! They didn’t even try to help him. They had to have known what would happen somehow. Those fuckers, they knew! They knew all of this was going to happen!!” [Pause] “Mom… for what its worth to you now… I’m sorry. If I had any idea it would ever come to this, I… I would’ve… I… (Sobbing)… how could you do this to your own child, Mother?”

[Section missing]

“We were brought here in blindfolds and cuffs. They didn’t speak at all until we arrived. I remember getting on an airplane and a bus of some kind before finally arriving… here. It seems like ages ago when I first met Alyssa. She was so strong and refused to break down and cry. She said it would only give them the satisfaction they wanted, but I couldn’t keep myself from falling apart. We were so scared, but not Alyssa.” [Pause] “Alyssa was part of the second group that was sent in to this… this place. I don’t even know how to describe it other than its like left over from some type of anci---“ [Section missing] “—ion. Despite how frightened I am, I can’t help but feel a sense of awe when I look at it. The architecture is like nothing I’ve ever seen. How could something like this exist underg—“ [Crackle] “I told Alyssa that, but she was always so focused on our escape that she didn't care much about our theories. The rest of us never felt like we had a chance. She wouldn't give up though." [Pause] "God, I miss her so much.” [Pause] “When they came for her… I think we all knew what was about to happen... and we simultaneously lost hope. Still… there was a part of me that believed she would come back. I refused to believe that anything could stop Alyssa. She was no soldier, but she was just… I don’t know… she was different than any of us. Phil used to call her Bitch on Earth because he thought she was scarier than hell. (Laughs) And yet… she wound up disappearing too… like the rest.” [Pause] “And those sounds? Oh my God… those awful sounds! And that glow... Please be alright, Alyssa… please be alright…”

[Section missing]

“How can any of this be legal?? I thought there were rights to protect this type of treatment to human beings?? That’s why I took this recorder. They would kill me if they knew I had it… but I don’t care. Maybe that would be better than this. They take new ones every night and they never return. Night? Maybe its day? Fuck, who can tell anymore…?” [Pause] “If they come for me soon, I just hope this is found one day. Someone has to know about this and stop it from happening again! If we can’t be saved, then I hope our story can help to save others like us. I just don’t know much about any of this and I think that’s what is scaring me the most. What is happening to us when they send us into that… that thing? And the screams… (Crying)… are they real? I hear them inside my head all the time now. So much pain in those sounds…”

[Section missing]

“Shit! Shit!! Here they come… they’re outside the door… I need to—“ [Crackle] “Wait... No way!!! Is that really you??” [Crackle] “Aly—“ [Crackle] “(Screaming)”

End of transmission.

Running with the Shadows of the Night

I don’t mean to come off sounding like a grumpy old curmudgeon, but you know what really pisses me off? Trends. Don't get me wrong, I can respect a person’s decision to subscribe to a trend that truly compliments their life, but I absolutely can not stand people that hop on the bandwagon strictly for the purpose of peer perception. For example, I have an iPhone and I love it. Yes it’s trendy, but it does genuinely compliment my needs at this stage of my life. It’s handy and convenient, it’s sleek and attractive and even better, it provides all the functionality that I could possibly want from a phone. As much as it pains me personally, I can even respect a person’s decision to deck out their wardrobe with the latest brands and fashions. To them, trends in style compliment their needs and desires. Though I can always detect a hint of vinegar and water in the air when a dude walks by in an Ed Hardy t-shirt and Rockin’ Republic jeans, at least he’s living how he wants to.

Maybe you're wondering what has got me so irritated in regards to the topic of trends? Running. Yes, the very same physical motion that we’ve been doing since we were kids, running. It’s something that most everyone can do. The only qualifications are having two legs and a desire to move faster than walking. So at what point did it become so fucking trendy to run? If it were just a matter of trying to stay fit and exercise, I’d completely understand, but with the way people boast about running these days, you’d think they were auditioning for the roles of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader in a cock saber fight.

Look, I myself am an overweight dude and I understand the importance of needing to develop an exercise routine. It’s commendable, quite frankly. What has me so agitated however is that three months ago, I knew of one dude who decided to take up running as a hobby and boy was he proud. It’s all he talked about. Each morning he challenged himself with longer distances than the day before and he would train for marathons then post his best times on the internet for his friends to see. From there, seemingly overnight, I was surrounded by born-again runners as if a casting call for Chariots of Fire 2 extras went out on the wire. Suddenly “this guy” was bragging about running three miles last night, “that girl” was bragging about running five miles this morning and “these people” were all signed up for marathons and subjecting themselves to an intense training regimen. It's worth saying again, if I felt like any of these people were doing this as a measure of simply trying to stay in shape, I’d pat them on the back, but there is something else going on here. It feels more like a group of people that just want an “atta boy” from their peers more than anything else.

Honestly, I can’t say I blame them. We all like a nice pat on the back every once in a while. All I ask is that you go out and find your own niche. Sure, you could argue the point that all of these people who miraculously discovered running at the exact same time are legitimately discovering their niche, but I’m calling bullshit. I’d discuss this whole thing further, but I’ve recently taken up skipping and I have some training to do if I’m going to be ready for the big Skip Off event coming up in April. In summary, just be yourselves, people. That’s hard enough without trying to live like someone else.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

So forgive me in advance for a relatively disturbing topic of discussion today, but let’s face it, one of the most unpleasant scenarios you can find yourself in on a daily basis is needing to take a shit a work. Am I wrong? While perfectly acceptable in an intimate environment within your own house, something about this basic human function takes on a completely different level of awkwardness at your place of business. Though it’s a process that every human being must engage in at least once per day, we feel shamed when the call of nature hits us at work.

First comes the untimely and seemingly ear-deafening roar of your stomach. Next is the cold sweats that bead up at the top of your brow and roll down. With every movement you make, it’s as though every eye in the building is suddenly thrust upon you.

“Hey buddy, where you off to?”

“Um… nowhere… I, uh… just need some supplies from the mailroom.”

You can’t grab a magazine from your desk because somehow that boring old generic rag of no significance, when picked up, will glow like bioluminescence in a pitch black cave. No sir, you’re going to have to fight this battle on your own and as soon as you can make it out that door to the main hallway, you’re home free! That is… until you actually enter the bathroom. Welcome to the seedy underbelly of your company. The Red Light district.

Unless you’ve got a great job and work in a more upscale building, chances are that you’ve got approximately three stalls with which to conduct business. There’s generally two generic stalls and then the holy grail of pooping, the handicap stall. That’s the silver tuna, but the competition is fierce. For reasons beyond any comprehension, you’re up against two other co-workers at all times for the rights to the handicap stall. Seriously, it’s like Jamie Lee Curtis personally came to your work and dropped off 100 cartons of Activia to rival departments in your building. If luck is on your side today and you do manage to secure this “executive” stall, then you have little to fear… except for the threat of the dreaded “center staller.”

The “center staller” is the jerk who wanted the “executive” stall and now is going to exact their revenge by skipping over the open stall on the end and proceeding to take the stall directly next to you. You, sir, have just been “center stalled.” Unfortunately you’re in this for the duration. What you’ll typically find in this situation is that while trying to maintain some discretion and relieve yourself in a private and respectful manner, the “center staller” cares not and immediately begins to unload with great force as if years of anger management issues are now being expressed through his asshole. No one would think any less of you if you mused that the “center staller’s” projectile deucing bared an uncanny resemblance to the drum solo from “Wipeout.”

The good news is that while this experience has been utterly traumatic, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. A reward, you might even say. Chances are that the “center staller” won’t be done by the time you are ready to head back to work, so this leaves you with a tiny window to exact some revenge. Once you’re ready to depart, why not go ahead and just give that bathroom light switch an angry flick on the way out to send a message loud and clear to the “center staller.” The message simply reads as this: “You may have struck first in this battle of wits, friend, but you’ll now be pooping in the dark for your efforts.” If you’ve performed this veteran maneuver flawlessly, you’ll now be sporting a bright smile on your face for the rest of the day. Bask in this glory, kid, you’ve earned it.

Environmental Racism

Martin Luther King said, "I have a dream..." Well I have a dream also. My dream is for an America where racist recycling receptacles are no longer. Where the fuck am I supposed to put "colored" paper and why does it have to be segregated from the white paper? I guess we haven't come that far at all.

I Don't Believe I Can Fly. I Don't Believe I Can Touch the Sky.

One of the things that has always irked me is the reaction of people after they discover that I don’t fly. I’ve heard every comment you can think of at least 100 times. “Statistically, you’re more likely to die in a car crash than a plane crash.” “You know, they make drugs for that kind of thing.” “We should just B.A. Baracus you and get you on a plane.” “Have you ever even been on a plane before?” Ok, no, I have never been on an airplane before, but in my defense, I also have never tasted shit, but I’m quite certain that I don’t want to eat it.

I’m seriously well passed the point of being entertained by this situation. At first it was kind of funny to say that I preferred travel by ostrich or sea turtle because I find my humor to sway towards the absurd at times, but now it’s become quite obnoxious. While not as personal as asking someone if they’ve ever masturbated to hentai, it’s still quite offensive to make such a production out of my fear. It’s certainly not something I broadcast, so I don’t appreciate the interrogation. There are plenty of irrational fears in life, so why is my fear of flying such an improbable mental defect for people to process? Would they be any more put off if I was afraid of plastic, or perhaps if I was afraid of feline zombies with a penchant for ball hair?

So it’s time to put this bullshit to bed and be done with it. You want to know why I’m afraid of flying? Well, the first thing to understand is that I’m not afraid of flying. I’m afraid of crashing into a mountainside and exploding, more specifically, or any variation of a scenario where a plane comes to a sudden and unexpected stop. Statistically, it may very well be more likely that I would die in a car crash than a plane crash, but statistically I’d also be more likely to encounter a garden variety fender bender than a fatal crash. And guess what? I can walk away from a fender bender. If a plane gets into a fender bender, th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks. Behind the wheel of a car I at least have some control over my fate. In a plane, an unlucky roll of the dice just means you’re dead. I have no interest in playing with those odds, thank you very much.

But where did my actual fear come from? I never tell this story, but the truth is that this fear came to life on January 28th, 1986. As a school project, our class gathered around the TV in our room to watch the launch of the Space Shuttle Challenger. It was so exciting! We were going to watch the launch and then spend a day doing special projects centered on outer space as our theme. 73 seconds into its launch, the Space Shuttle Challenger suffered from an O-ring seal failure and exploded into pieces on live television. Say what you will about costume malfunctions and Britney Spears music videos, but I can assure you that nothing warped my mind as a child more than this. From that day forward, I knew that I would never fly. Certainly I am now old enough to realize that airplanes and space shuttles are apples and oranges, but unfortunately the fear has been implanted with little hope of ever being uprooted.

So in summary, just give me a break, that’s all I ask. While whisking away on an airplane at a moment’s notice may be as easy for you as flicking a light switch, to me it’s more like having sex on a unicycle. Possible, but not necessarily a great idea.

Cha Cha Changes

Direct TV’s new slogan is “get Direct TV, It’ll change your life.” They are not the first to use this slogan. Books, cars, beds, diets, religions, and self help gurus have all intimated as much, but none seemed as preposterous as when Direct TV made a commercial declaring it.

How would getting Direct TV change my life? I’m not really sure. The suits at Direct TV must know something about me that I don’t. I have Comcast cable right now and I thoroughly disgusted with not only how much bad programming there is, but how much of it I find myself watching. It’s always been a held belief that expanding a sports league with more teams means adding more players of a lesser caliber. I guess the same principle applies to television. More channels means more time slots to fill up with shitty programming which in turn creates more ad revenue.

Maybe the ad execs for Direct TV meant my life would change this way when they said “It’ll change your life.” Watching Direct TV makes me spend even more time sitting in front of the tube which in turn cause me to gain weight, eat more potato chips and develop three blocked coronary arteries. As a result I need to get an emergency angioplasty procedure complete with stints put into my main arteries. This health scare forces me to reexamine my life. After a brief recovery period in the hospital, I change my diet, start to exercise and take up Bikram yoga.

At some point I wake up in my bed sweating and determine that I‘ve wasted thousands of hours watching other people live their lives instead of going out and living my own. With this new found lease on life, I travel to a spiritually rich/ poverty stricken country like India to find out that we are all connected, poverty stinks, cows are sacred, hot food makes you shit shards of glass and that living in the good ole USA is indeed a privilege. I then start a foundation that turns people’s old winter coats into recycled water receptacles for the poor to carry potable water in.
For a while, I notice every sunset and sunrise. I’m polite to waiters, rude drivers, DMV workers and even phone solicitors. I donate my time to local homeless soup kitchen on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I take up salsa dancing and run my first marathon. While on a trip to Italy to learn my true heritage, I sit in a posh bar sipping a bellini and glance up at the television. I shake my head and think inside how strange Italian television really is.

After 30 years of Direct TV changing my life, I develop early Alzheimers and I am lovingly forced into a nursing home by my wife of 40 years. My daughters visit me and kiss my forehead, then cry when think they are out of my sight. I forget they visited the day before only to ask them why they hadn’t visited me recently. They give me sad smiles and go back to their hectic lives. After lunch every day, the orderlies drag me into the “rec” room where myself and other vegetables(patients) are all positioned directly in front of a Television airing the latest programming via Direct TV. Yeah, you really changed my life Direct TV. Thanks for the memories.

According to a recent study in the UK, Every hour spent watching television each day increases the risk of dying from heart disease by almost a fifth. I’m not sure I understand this. According to my math, there are some days where I am seven fifths more likely to have a heart attack. http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2010/jan/11/watching-television-increases-death-heart-disease

The Social Networking Effect

I read somewhere recently that attendance for high school reunions is starting to dip significantly. Somewhere to the tune of 40% down from the previous average. Event planners seem to believe that the decline can be linked to the emergence of popular social networking sites such as Facebook, MySpace and Twitter, though to be fair, no one on MySpace is old enough to qualify for a high school reunion. I find this statistic very interesting because it confirms a suspicion of mine that I’ve had for quite a while now: People suck.

I myself have been part of an increasingly sedentary lifestyle for several years now all predicated on the fact that most people aren’t worth the time and energy it takes to develop and sustain meaningful ties. Need proof? Take this quick pop quiz and see if you qualify.

Q: When it comes to reality TV, I __________

A). keep up with the Kardasians
B). enjoy the spunky competitive nature of Survivor, The Biggest Loser, or The Bachelor
C). like to deploy a little Kell on Earth
D). watch TLC and have decided whether I’m Team John or Team Kate

If you answered A, B, C, or D to the question above, I hate to break it to you, but you are the enemy. It doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends, it just means that I will inevitably piss you off at some point because I don’t care and will feign attention when you attempt to tell me why this week’s episode of Pit Boss was the most epic one yet.


Am I an asshole because of my line of thinking? Probably, but I’d like to go back to the statistic above once again regarding high school reunion attendance. Those numbers don’t lie. They prove that I am not alone in my thinking. How can I be so sure? Think about your Facebook account for a moment. You know you’ve got one. Now, think of the last friend you either sought out on your own, or that found you. Did you exchange the initial “Hey so and so, it’s so great to find you! How’ve you been” private message? Was that the last time you corresponded? Maybe you thought you’d totally keep in touch, but now the only correspondence you get is when they either need three nails and a horseshoe for their stable, or they took the ultimate 80s movie quiz and missed the one about Back to the Future. Admit it, when you saw that, you wondered what the point was of connecting on Facebook in the first place?

Luckily for you, I have the answer. It’s because deep down we all remember what it was like to have so many friends in our youth, but as we’ve gotten older and developed our personalities, only a select few people can match up to our quality threshold. These are the people that become our best friends and significant others and once we have established them, do we really need anyone else? But like most people, you’ll always wonder whatever happened to so and so, you just wouldn’t put your close friends on hold for a night on the town with friends from the past. If you believe you would, then congratulations because you’re part of the 60% of people that still attend reunions. For the rest of us, we enjoy seeing what you look like now, how you ended up in life and will even interject the occasional witty barb in response to your status update, but otherwise we’ve had our fill of you and love the ability to keep tabs on you without being forced into awkward sessions at a coffee house. I am guilty of this myself. I will accept friendship requests from people I haven’t seen for over 20 years, but only because Facebook allows me to keep them at an arm’s length where ultimately conversation is optional. No high school reunion could ever offer me that.

The Sex Game

I have just spent the first half of my day at my daughter’s preschool. My three year old daughter invited me to be her special guest at the Valentine’s Special Person Tea Party. I originally thought it would be rather interesting if by “special” they meant retarded. No such luck. Not a Mongo in the room. And NO, this was not a Toddler’s version of the Republican grassroots political movement. This was primarily a collection of moms, overdressed grandmas and a couple of unenthusiastic dads peppered in. I was part of none of these teams. As always, there were an overabundance of various forms of sweets including cookies, fudge, cake, candy and fruit. There was also Pirate’s Booty. I still am waiting to find a toddler party that doesn’t include this staple item. There are things you just expect to see at these functions and Pirate’s Booty is one of them.

You can also expect to see moms. This is the point in the story where I share a little secret with you. The reason I didn’t put myself into the “dads suffering from ennui” category is because my mind is working overtime at these functions. On the outside what people see is Daddy, who cracks dry jokes and gives his daughter little kisses on her cheek while she sits on his lap. I am that person without doubt and my daughters lease more of my heart than the rest of the world combined. But…I wonder if any of these moms look at me the way I see them, which is that they all fucked someone to get to this exact point in their life that I am. The knowledge of this is enough to keep my dirty cabeza running various scenarios for hours. It’s kind of funny how private people are with their lives, but when you have children you share one of the most fundamentally closeted aspects of your life: You fuck or did fuck at least once.

At these type of events, my mind usually warms up with some light calisthenics by wondering the last time these mommies had sex. Was it a quickie in the shower while the kids were still asleep? Maybe it was two nights ago after she was a little tipsy from her second glass of wine at dinner. She’s usually too tired for nookie after taking care of the kids all day, but the imbibing had made her a wee bit randy.

Now that my mind has had adequate time to warm up, it moves on to the real exercise. I start to ask the tough questions, only in my head of course. How many of these woman have completely shaved pudendums? On a sidenote, I would suspect a lot. I haven’t seen a proper bush on a woman in a long time. Maybe it is nostalgia, but I kinda miss the late 70’s/early 80’s penthouse lack of shaved goods look.

Anyway, after I have surveyed the room and played the hair or no hair game, I move onto which of these moms I would like to be with in the biblical way. All of this is taking place between my ears while I carry on conversation and interact. It goes something like this:

Mind: I bet she has really nice nipples that are the color of diet coke?
Outside Me: “Sure I’ll help you grab a sandwich board from the dark attic.”
Mind: I wonder if she is thinking about having sex with me?
Outside Me: I missed a step and almost turned my ankle, “yeah, I’m okay. Just go for help if I can’t make it. Haha”
Mind: Am I limping? OMG, I have a half boner.

I wonder if I’m the only person who’s mind is occupied with thoughts like this when they go to a birthday party with their three year old daughter. I don’t care either way. It makes these events something that I can look forward to. I don’t want to forget to mention my mind showed some restraint at this party. It only played the sex game with one grandma in mind. I must say she was a fit little bird. I imagine she plays tennis in a retired citizens league on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

So the next time you see a pregnant woman walking down the room, don’t think that’s soooooo sweet. Realize that this woman has allowed some man to not only have sex with her, but also finish inside her. Happy Valentines Day.

I'm the frickin' God of War

If I’m the frickin’ God of War, then why have I been stuck in this room for the last two hours trying to find a way out? I had absolutely no problem finding my way in here. Not only can I not find my way out of this room, but I was met by some very unfriendly inhabitants. Maybe they were unable to find their way out also, which ultimately made them more bitter than Mary Decker Slaney. I should have tried talking to them instead of immediately eviscerating them. I am a bit of a meathead that way. I get in a fight every time I go out on New Year’s Eve. I thought it was just trouble looking for me, but maybe it’s me looking for trouble.

Anyway, I don’t see me getting out of here anytime soon. I have swung my sword in every direction hoping to break through a wall. Not going to happen. Construction is solid. This building’s definitely is up to code. I guess this is not the worst room to live out my days. There are some nice sculptures and I have my own personal swimming pool. I am unhappy with how the pool is maintained though. They are using an archaic chlorination system when they should be using the more environmentally friendly saline system. The salt water is just so much softer on my skin. I don’t know if you have seen any of my recent facebook posts, but my skin is definitely looking a bit pale. However, I will say that I am looking quite ripped. It might have something to do with those red orbs.

While I’m being honest, I might as well tell you I’m addicted to ingesting red orbs. These things make me feel incredible. I haven’t eaten in days, but who the fuck cares my body looks as if it is chiseled from stone. Damn I look good, I wish I could get out of this room and find a few Greek women to show my big sword to.

If only I had brought my netbook with wifi capabilities. I think I saw a sign that said this room was a hotspot. I could go to gamefaqs.com and see how to get out this room. Those nerds (no disrespect intended) will know how to solve this puzzle. I’m no good at that kind thing unless the puzzle has something to do with killing everything in my path. GOW knows how to kill some fools. I started calling myself GOW and talking in third person. I watched sportscenter before this trip and it’s all the rage. By the way, GOW likes Secrets of Aspen…guilty pleasure.

Well, all this heady stuff has made me want to drop the kids off at the pool if you know what I mean. I’ll be taking the Cleveland Browns to the Super Bowl in a minute, so feel free to come look for me if you get a chance.

Thank you Brady Games for helping me get Kratos out more than a few binds in God of War 1. Without your help, the God of War would have been destined to live his life out swimming in an oversized pool while waiting to be rescued. It would be an understatement for me to say I couldn’t have done it without you.

Popping the Question

New love is exciting. Back when every time something happens, it’s “the first time,” and you take the time to point out and celebrate every first as you encounter it. Or at least you do in the good relationships. It’s cute though, in that observing a newborn puppy from behind the glass of a pet store in the mall sort of way. After a while though, you gradually start to notice that your amount of firsts are piling up, which signifies that you’re with someone awfully special and loving every minute of it. You know that soon you’re going to have some big life-altering questions to ponder. The days start passing by quickly and suddenly you’re holding hands while walking into a grocery store, then celebrating Valentine’s Day together, then exchanging “I love you’s” for the first time and then moving in together all within the blink of an eye. You know in your heart that one of the most terrifying questions in your life is bound to come up soon and you don’t think you’re ready to face it yet. Sure, you’ve seen friends in this situation before and they’ve come out unscathed, but alternatively, you’ve also seen relationships crash and burn over the very same question. One day, without warning, she senses your hesitation and becomes tired of waiting. She then proceeds to bring up the most fearsome question in all of coupling: “What did you want to do for dinner tonight?”

You’re stricken with fear. Sweat begins beading high up on your brow and slowly trickles down your face before you ever know what’s hit you. No amount of relationship advice could have prepared you for this day, but alas, here you are at Defcon 5. Your friends had always told you that you were afraid of commitment and now that’s the only thought rattling around in your subconscious. Suddenly she’s giving you options: Burgers? Chinese? Sandwiches? You’re reminded of that scene from A Christmas Story where Ralphie comes face-to-face with Santa only to draw a blank on what he wanted to ask for Christmas. “Football? What’s a football?”


The future of your relationship hangs in the balance. Is she testing me? Is there one that she’d prefer over the other and she’s trying to find out if I’d choose the correct answer while under pressure? In a snap decision, you only slightly coherently blurt out “burgers!!” and wait through the uncomfortable pause while she evaluates your answer. These next few moments feel like an eternity. Did I choose correctly? “Yeah, burgers sound good to me too, I’ll pick some up on the way home.”

YEEEEEES!!!!!!! You did it, ole’ champ!! You managed to survive this particular round, but don’t go getting all cocky now because this is the first of many more conversations just like this one. The answer could have just as easily been: “Hmm… I did burgers for lunch yesterday, maybe I’ll get Chinese tonight.” If that had been the case, then you’d have been saddled with the task of choosing dinner for the next few nights without any suggestions… and yes, you would have been graded. The minor leagues are over now, kid. Welcome to the show. You won't be needing that supportive cup any more.

Lemons

Making the best out of a bad situation. Sounds so simple, right? That whole when life gives you lemons, make Gatorade bullshit. Not that I mean to come across as cynical mind you, I’m merely pointing out that some times its easier said than done. When is it ever easy, you may ask? When you’ve got Star Wars, would be my reply. Now don’t go thinking that I’m your average “Internet Joe” who is currently broadcasting from his parent’s basement while simultaneously debating whether Uhura or Seven of Nine was the greatest space hottie of all time. My name is not Joe, it’s my parent’s attic, not their basement, and clearly Kirstie Alley as a Vulcan was the greatest space hottie of all time. But, I digress.

 

About five or so years ago, I was in a fairly unhealthy relationship with a chick. Of course at the time, I thought it was grand, but when a relationship is unhealthy, that’s typically how it works. Any way, we had a major blow out one Saturday and I’m talking, like, epic. As with most fights in unhealthy relationships, it was over something ridiculously stupid and quickly turned into a battle of one-upmanship. You know, where you put your foot down, then they put their foot down, so you put your other foot down and they bust out an axe? Yeah, one of those. It was simple: She wanted to buy a rat, I didn’t want her to. Why? Because anyone who has ever owned one will tell you that they may be cute, but they bring with them an unholy smell that would even make Mr. Clean refuse to come out from under the sink. Since we had just spent our life savings on this brand new home, I figured why not preserve it for a few years before investing in a rat. Of course, using logic on a crazy person is generally your first mistake. I said no, so she retaliated by leaving the house in a huff and coming back with a rat. You can likely imagine my irritation, so I chose the only defense that a man in an unhealthy relationship can take: Retreat.

 

I locked myself in my man cave and plotted how I could go the rest of the day avoiding her while I cooled off. That’s when I saw it: After years of hoping and praying, the Star Wars original trilogy DVD box set had been released and it just so happened that I was storing it in my man cave rather than downstairs with the rest of the DVDs. A brilliant maneuver on my part, I must say. This was perfect! At my fingertips was the very thing I needed in order to pass the time without being forced to leave my room and interact. I started with “A New Hope” and it was glorious, but I was still angry as the credits rolled some two hours later, so I moved on to “Empire.” Empire is my favorite, so I felt happier as the credits rolled and felt ready to go downstairs and make amends… until it occurred to me that I still had “Jedi” left to go and when, oh when, would I ever have the uninterrupted time again to enjoy sweet Star Wars bliss?? But I knew that I needed to make the right decision for my relationship, so against my better judgment… I put in Jedi.

After the holy trilogy had been completed, over seven hours had gone by without a single word spoken to my then girlfriend. It was now after 11:00pm and she had already gone to bed, so apparently cooler heads were going to have to wait to prevail until Sunday. What I find odd about this story, as I tell it now, is that for the life of me I can’t recall what happened on that Sunday. I presume that we made up because we managed to stretch our farce of a relationship out for another year afterwards, but I can’t recall what angle I took in order to seek forgiveness. Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. The moral to the story is that when you have lemons, you don’t always need to feel pressured to make Gatorade. Sometimes all you really need for a clearer head is Star Wars and the Gatorade will make itself… or something like that. In the words of the immortal Eazy-E: “Don’t quote me boy, cuz I ain’t said shit.”