how very lucky to be a girl

I know this has nothing to do with my dating life in New York.  Or my time in Los Angeles.  Or the guy who tried to pick me up at the Backstage in Culver City last night. Incidentally, he’s already called.  He walked me to my car.  I think he thought he was getting in it.  He wasn’t.  So he called as I pulled away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, looking befuddled.  And then again this morning.  Perhaps that will be another story.

Because today is dedicated to another topic.  I’ve been posting a countdown to LOST every day for the past five days, so it seems only appropriate that I give some commentary on the long-anticipated finale.  Stay with me here.  I think even if you didn’t watch the show, it’s possible you may enjoy this.

I had this theory about LOST. Back when I used to give a shit about it.

After every episode, I’d read The Fuselage (and everything else I could get my hands on) to see what theories were out there.  Did they match my own? Inspire new ones? Anything to crack the code.

What were the numbers?
What was the island?
Who were the others?
Blah. Blah. Blah

Anyway, my theory was this:
Each week, like me, the writers read these blogs.  Both of us would come up with new theories.  The difference is that the writers would use them.  In the show.  The fans were writing the story.  It’s only a theory, but I think it’s a brilliant concept, really.  And if they didn’t do it, I’d like to.

How better to get an audience engaged than by allowing them to be right?  And they’re sure gonna be right if they wrote it.

So, NO WAY the island was purgatory.  Nope.  Clearly it wasn’t heaven or hell.   We, the audience, were too smart for that.  We had great theories.

Oh wait.  We were wrong.  Yes it is.
But with a twist.

The alternate realities were purgatory.
The island was real.
With the exception of pretty much everything that ever happened there.

But, there is one thing that I do believe now.

I believe the writers when they say they always knew how it was going to end.

So here’s my new theory.  And I’m kind of excited about it.
Because, you see, I’ve never written fiction.
I never really thought that I could.
But now I know that I can.

I owe this knowledge to the writers of LOST. And here’s why:

All I need is a beginning and an end.
I can take anything at all and stick it in the fucking middle.

For instance:

An equestrian’s horse gets spooked, tossing her into the air, and landing her in the hospital in a coma.  She lay there, kept alive by machines and monitors and feeding tubes.  Feeding tubes connected to pouches full of liquid life.  It was a far cry from Beef Bourgignon.
Boeuf Bourguignon was originally a peasant dish but has experienced a resurgence as haute cuisine, which is weird because it’s basically stew.  Of course, this stew is larded with bacon, and everything is better with bacon. Here’s Julia Childs’ recipe. Isn’t it delicious?
The equestrian’s family held vigil by her side for months. After much thought and struggle, they decide it is best to pull the plug.   And in that moment, she wakes up.

OR

This guy, we’ll call him “Kevin Bacon”, moves to a crazy town where you’re not allowed to dance.  He is offbeat. A rebel of sorts.  He challenges the status quo.  He invokes the displeasure of a pastor.  Sort of like the epic of Gilgamesh.
Gilgamesh was a king who became distracted and disheartened by his rule. He and his companion Enkidu undertook dangerous quests that incurred the displeasure of the gods, and after Enkidu died, Gilgamesh goes on a quest for eternal life, only to learn that he will never find what he seeks.
“Kevin Bacon” went on a quest, too.  A quest for the freedom of dance.  And he finds it.  Because “Kevin Bacon” has a prom and there’s dancing.

I’ve got this thing down and am clearly gonna be a great writer.

Oh, and fuck you, LOST.

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