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WellRed
BY WEB EDITOR KARSEN PRICE
Losing Sleep Over Lost
Are you tired today? Like me, did you stay up all night watching the two-hour Lost season premiere, and then have a heck of a time going to sleep for worrying about black smoke and the epitome of bald evilness, A.K.A. John Locke? And, like me, did you think the black smoke was awfully reminiscent of the cheesy black smoke that drug off the bad guys in front of Patrick Swayze’s very eyes in Ghost?
 Let’s face it, fellow Lost fans: There is a real good chance we are going to be disappointed when (if!) we finally make it to the end of the show’s sixth and final season. I’m talking cataclysmic disappointment. Kind of like marrying Sawyer, and waking up six years later to find he’s metamorphosed into Ben.
All along, I’ve been convinced that the Island was an intricate metaphor for the afterlife, despite my fears that we would find out in the very last show that the whole thing was one of Hurley’s bad dreams. Talk about a “Who Shot J.R.?” snafu. If that happens I think it would be just cause for all Lost fans to collectively sue J.J. Abrams and the gang for time bad spent.
Now, after watching the premiere, I’m sure the Island is Purgatory. I just don’t know how Genghis Khan is going to play out in that scenario. I mean, come on. How many new characters can we possibly meet in the sixth and final season? Wasn’t Jacob’s sudden (physical) presence in the end of last season a large enough pill to swallow?
Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a fan of the show. The fact that I am a fan is what allows me the luxury to criticize its shortcomings. If I didn’t love it, I wouldn’t care enough to complain my very best.
My husband refuses to watch the show anymore, after putting in four seasons of hard time. “Lost lost me,” he likes to say. Even his love of Kate couldn’t keep him watching — and, hello, that is saying something. Is there any man alive who does not drool over that woman? It doesn’t help that she’s always shimmying around on expansive (and phallic-symbolic) tree branches like her life depends on it, or wearing tight wife-beaters in various shades of dirt, reminding me of Bruce Willis in DieHard.
I admit that Lost has gone hard-core kooky, but I refuse to give up. How can I? I’ve invested nearly as much time into the show as I did graduate school. Which, honestly, was a sight bit easier on my brain. To get a master’s in English, I didn’t need to know anything about physics or time travel or Flux Capacitors. Oh, wait, that was Back To The Future. My bad.
I do have one bone to pick, however. I can accept that there is now yet another version of my favorite characters walking around Los Angeles, (in what is being called a flash sideways) — a sect unaware of the Island and all its crazy goings on. I can accept that Juliet lived for seconds, only to die. I can accept that Locke isn’t Locke and that Richard still hasn’t aged one bit. (What moisturizer is that guy using? Because I want it!) I can even accept that Sayid came back from the dead 10 minutes and 45 commercials later, after swimming in a hot tub that needs to be condemned by the health department.
But I cannot overlook one thing.
That. Was. Not. Boone.
Or was it?
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