Have any of you ever been trapped in a room with a cat in heat? It’s not fun. Aside from the ball-shriveling noises tunneling out of their little kitty throats, they tend to get a tad “frisky” with various objects; both mobile and immobile; both living and inanimate. Without getting too graphic, let me just say that I am never using my toaster oven again.
So, the other night, while I was busy toweling off my lampshades and disinfecting my appliances, I began zoning off; my mind dissipating into the ether, exploding into a cacophony of previously unheard of sounds and a kaleidoscope of previously unseen images. As my consciousness soared higher and higher, I eventually encountered a blinding light that stung my senses, filling my floating being with wonder. And answers. Answers to everything that had stumped the world since the Big Bang. Revelations so overwhelming that my earthbound body shuddered. I soon realized that, for once in my miserable life, I had the answers to everything.
Then I caught a whiff of stagnant cat shit and was brought back down to earth.
But, in those brief moments of higher consciousness, I was shown the secrets to all of life’s mysteries. Through some sort of cat-piss-induced Astral Projection, I had traveled across multiple planes of reality and, most shockingly of all, I had completely figured out everything that had confounded me about the television show Lost. Solving every mystery and every maze-like story arc. I knew everything. No stone was left unturned.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember any of it. But boy, do I ever remember that stench of cat shit!
Anyway, since I cannot relate to you any of my stunning revelations, I’ll just talk about my experiences with the show and the strange, magnetic pull it has had on me.
For the uninitiated or for those who have a life, Lost is a sci-fi, horror, romance, drama, cooking show about a bunch of fucked-up people who get in a plane crash and land on a mysterious island. Those are the only types of islands nowadays. Mysterious ones.
The show is crammed full of shit that every man, woman and hermaphrodite can get behind. For instance, the show has a big fat guy, polar bears, time travel, flashbacks, flash-forwards, a smoke monster, hot chicks, hot guys, bloody noses, lottery numbers, one half of comedy legends Cheech and Chong (here’s a hint: it’s not Chong), pregnant chicks, a dog, Tom Cruise’s cousin, the stepfather from the movie The Stepfather, the Lawnmower Man from the movie The Lawnmower Man, Peggy Bundy, a donkey wheel, dead people, ghosts, ghostly dead people, a heroin-addicted Hobbit, alcoholism, con-men, con-women, a guy who never ages and who might have permanent eyeliner on, a guy named Ben Linus who never blinks, people getting shot, people getting hung, people falling out of windows, people hooking up and people getting tortured. Did I also mention there’s a big fat guy?
What’s not to love?
The show is alternately and sometimes simultaneously, engaging and infuriating. With every question answered, there are at least twenty questions asked.
And yet, I keep watching. I even watch the reruns, which, as far as I can tell, are shown out of order. This makes things even more confusing, since I cannot wrap my head around the show even when it’s aired chronologically.
For the most part, the characters are interesting and, when they’re not, they usually end up being killed off. Unfortunately, not all shows are produced this way, since I’d give my left ass-cheek to see those annoying skanks on Rock of Love get thrown out of a window.
I love Lost.
My infatuation with the show blossomed about three years after it premiered. Like many fans, I rented the first season out of boredom and was quickly hooked. I’d get to the end of an episode and think, Okay, just one more, then I’ll eat some beans.
I never ate those beans.
Why? ‘Cause I kept watching.
Just one more episode, then I’ll brush my teeth.
I never brushed my teeth.
Days went by and my hygiene faltered. I stunk. I lost weight.
Then came the Season 2 set. And then the Season 3 set.
Weeks drifted along and my hair became a nest of nappy clumps, where small woodland creatures roamed and copulated between my tangled follicles. Eventually, I sprouted a thick, voluminous beard that offset my dainty, girlish looks. While switching discs in my DVD player, I began noticing how long and jagged my fingernails were growing; jutting out from my fingertips like yellow razors.
Phone calls went unanswered. Knocks at the door were ignored.
Somewhere towards the end of Season 3, my mind started calculating various facts; making note of how many times Sawyer arbitrarily removed his shirt and how many times Desmond said “Brother,” and how many times Sayid talked about not killing people…then killed somebody. And how many times John Locke had been shot and paralyzed…then was miraculously healed. And how many times Michael screamed “Walt!” and how many times Claire screamed “My baby!” And the list went on…
Between episodes, I drew up charts and graphs. I consulted notes that I had scribbled on pieces of toilet paper from the bathroom and had carved into my coffee table with blunt butter knives. Piles of labyrinthine information that I poured over with horrifying obsessiveness.
Who are Adam and Eve? Why does Richard Alpert never age? Is Michelle Rodriguez actually a man?
At one point, I put Disc 2 of Season 3 on pause and quickly scavenged my apartment for sustenance. My food supply had dwindled and luckily, I found a crusty Cheeto under the cushion of my couch, as well as a fuzzy french fry that was stiffer than a porno star’s hard-on.
Just one more episode.
Eventually, I pried open my front door and shielded my eyes from the harsh glow of the mid-morning sun. On sore, atrophied legs, I wandered the streets in a daze.
People cowered in fear at the sight of me. Children ducked behind their parent’s legs as I shambled by. Senior citizens pointed at me and stared; terror and shock written on their wrinkled faces.
Somehow, I made it to Blockbuster Video. With pocketfuls of change in my tattered pants, I shoveled out dimes, nickels and quarters onto the front counter. Then I left with Season 4 tucked underneath my arm and stumbled back to my hermetically-sealed apartment.
That was months ago. I’m much better now. I finally caught up with the seasons and am no longer a slave to the discs. Now I’m a Wednesday night slave, which is when current episodes air.
Thankfully, I have begun eating real food again. I also resumed cleaning myself and my legs no longer wobble when I stand or walk. No more crawling on the floor for me!
Sadly, Lost, Season 5, is coming to an end (as is the series next year). If you haven’t seen the show or aren’t caught up, be sure to stock up on supplies before renting and/or buying the DVD sets. Trust me, you’ll need them.
During the summer hiatus, I plan on dealing with more horny cats. And maybe this time, when my mind drifts off into other worlds, I will remember all the important things.
Like what the fuck is going on with Lost.