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Wasn’t going to let go without a look back at some of my remaining memories from the series, those weird aliens with bowler hats, the kid in the mirror world saying he doesn’t have a reflection to break (which I really could’ve sworn wasn’t from the Black-and-White season), and the awesome way they’d abruptly lead into the next episode after an almost disappointing lack of epilogue at the end. Lesson I should’ve learned was that you’re never lost when you’ve got each other? And apparently some of the From showrunners worked on Lost, but I stick by what I recently said that whatever it is they’ve put together so far and dangle for as long as their budget lasts reminds me less of it and more of Land of the Lost.

There was a brunette stewardess with an eyepatch; a vest hanging on the wall moved, indicating the presence of a ghost, whose solid but invisible body the boy and I proceeded to hit with poles, but weren’t sure what effect it was having. Oh, and I had a bunch of floppy diskettes I packed into the only available box, folding some of them in a way that at least the 3½-inchers couldn’t and definitely shouldn’t be. It was his birthday, and Rush were guests, Geddy Lee offering a wall display of their cables and adapters for his friends to pair with their electronic equipment, then finishing with a set where Neil Peart (RIP) set up his kit outside the screen door, he and Alex Lifeson (whose name I got right, but they insisted was “Eric”) used exotic pedals and keyboards instead of directly handling their guitars. To my bewilderment, our young player added “Thunderstruck” to the jam, which the group surprisingly incorporated deftly, equipment levels flickered, and I scrambled for my phone to capture the moment.
But maybe it took being wowed by a Constant-caliber bottle episode of The Last of Us to trigger truly once-in-decades appearances by Elaine Benes and Clara Oswald in our best ages, the former way out of my league though she deigned to lead me as she stomped through the huddled masses of the university halls; I stopped for a quick greeting as we cross paths with the latter, then later received a call from her jealously (!) asking me if that was “Lucille from the restaurant.”

In the furor over the 1899 cancellation a Reddit poster suggested a much cheaper and renewed Epix series From, which I binged in but a day or two and might have something more to say about (I honestly don’t, other than to hope this incarnation of Lost delivers at least one “[The] Constant”—what’s with these four-letter titles; Evil, too), for an opportune upload on Nyaa led me back to Netflix and overlooked drama 방법 from a few years ago. Brilliant villianess and some nice ideas like the gathering of shamans from around the world like Street Fighter, one of them being a manga artist like Lovecraft’s Pickman, though the best part was undoubtedly the craziest zombie chase scene, ever, in the follow-up film. If only Inspector Koo‘s 12 episodes could’ve received such treatment! …The thought got me started on a rewatch, and with that in mind, there certainly is enough material seeded for a similar short sequel, one that pits the team against a challenging enough one-off opponent but in the process, of course, must solve the mystery behind her husband’s suicide, which K was right, involved 산타씨, but maybe not as she described. “Santa’s Secret” could be the subtitle.

I made it.

I’ve been fairly vocal on Reddit (my forum of choice lately) about my disdain for Joss Whedon’s approach for the Avengers—after all, what’s even the point of live-action superheroes if they’re not even going to try to make them believable—so I can readily forgive the handheld and emphasis on wholesale destruction, which is the least I’d expect were gods to walk the earth.I might as well commit my hope for the sequel to writing, because as surprisingly pleased as I was by this introduction (my reaction to Batman Begins, conversely, couldn’t prepare me at all for the majestic follow-up), I’m almost certain to be disappointed by any let-up in the breakneck pace. Nothing save the Justice League will top the Marvel squad now, so instead of spending $300 mil trying to convince us it can be done with Metallo or Brainiac or Luthor in ludicrous armor, I suggest the monomaniacal multi-billionaire use his resources to round up the world’s finest challengers to the alien threat. That pilot who was inducted into an intergalactic police force might be hailed back with enough investment in the right technologies. Rumors of vigilantes in Central City and Gotham investigated. He could even Charles Widmore a trip to a legendary lost island of the Amazons. And Atlantis. They’d all go at him, of course, which is what I’d rather have seen between Thor, Iron Man and the Hulk than them squashing that incompetent army Loki skimped on, then realize that he’s the real deal, the Man of Tomorrow.

As much as I enjoyed the HBO series, the books (I’ve Kindled the fifth, no less) have been a disappointment. I read them as spoilers more than anything, but if the following seasons are paced like this, author George R.R. Martin might have to take back what he said about Lost. Using the word “fuck” as an adverb is inexcusable for a Tolkien—and seeing Monty Python in so-called high fantasy is like Wayne’s World in myth—and only adds to my growing realization that the best of all things is behind us.

Season’s over as fast as Sherlock’s. At one point I felt the parallels with Lost, too, but the arc’s looking less curved as the gang moved on at the end. These motley castaways may seem the more likely, but maybe six episodes weren’t enough to make them promising. Then again, had JJ been in charge, the CDC doc might’ve been on the verge of a cure (which doesn’t strike me as too great a challenge for a facility equipped with a Tony Stark-like computer), but killed by one-handed Merle, whose ravenous rampage would only be stopped by the surprise return of the father-and-son team from the beginning.

…Outnumbers my storage of actual junk, and here’s an example, a story I began after an outing to a state park almost 15 years ago. The Smashing Pumpkins dates it horribly, but there are some gems (“If you eat poison and die, take consolation knowing that whatever—or whoever—eats you, will, too.”), cryptic references between old friends and no idea how things would turn out for them. I could care less about Facebooking to catch up, or even Electric Dreams on DVD anymore. But really, I didn’t know where I was going with this at all. I think I meant for where I left off in fact not to have been a dream, and a sexy Chaka-ette to join the cast, cause somewhat of a stir by snuggling up with the one guy who was married back then, which who knows, might have matured the source material to predict more Lost-like drama. Update: Wiki about the second series says it’s been done, and before me, though not quite how I imagined. I prefer the concept version of a Holly Marshall return. Jungle girl shows up in cave with horny Asian guys and nothing happens? This wasn’t supposed to be real life, after all.

There was a moment in my catching-up of Lost last night (or would that be catching-back, as the show’s already over), during a fifth-season episode called “LaFleur” where Sawyer’s trying to convince Juliet to stay on the island and the next scene’s of them living together three years later—as confusing as the back-and-forth must’ve been to temporal laymen, I for one found the dating transitions unnecessary and an artistic hindrance—I realized the appeal to me, the idea that time is not so much an illusion, but more a matter of perspective; my memory takes me back to a point when I pitched far less charming proposals to the woman who is now feeding our child. Sure, you say, it’s narrative manipulation to the tune of omitting bathroom breaks on 24, or just catering to my attention deficit, but knowing that each excruciating second of him crying will lead someday to his graduation from school and beyond makes them all so bearable.

…While we’re on the subject of islands: uh-oh, Chongo!