Lost: Finale

Quite the two-hour finale. Only twenty minutes in and the Others have already dispatched Sgt. Slaughter and the dirty half-dozen, with a little help from Sayid and Kate. Seems a little early on to be dispensing with the main threat, doesn’t it?

Oh well, not to worry. The tanker’s about to blow up and the helicopter is rapidly leaking fuel. Talk about up the ocean without a paddle.

Meanwhile, back at the Orchid, it turns out not only is Keamy McSteamy still alive, he’s pissed, and he’s channelling Christopher Walken. He peels off his jacket and tries to blind everyone in striking range with his humungous triceps and six-pack abs. Ben soon puts a stop to the testosterone-fest, blowing up the tanker along with any sympathy he’s earned over the last few episodes by reverting to his sociopathic default persona.

Locke: You just killed everyone on that boat.

Ben: So?

OK, Ben’s mad as a hatter. He reminds me of Patty McCormack in The Bad Seed, hopped up on Dharma amphetamines. Keep him away from the matches.

Sawyer gets all noble again and leaps out of the chopper in order to save his friends. It’s not entirely an altruistic move. He gets to snog with Kate first and then he gets a nice long swim. And he loses his shirt. We later see him lounging on the beach, helping a soused Juliet polish off a bottle of rum. People pay big bucks to spend a week’s vacation that way.

Somehow I get the idea Frank wanted Hurley to be the one doing a cannonball into the ocean but the big guy pretends not to get it and Jack puts on his “I’m too sick to bail from a chopper ‘cause I just had my appendix out” face.

Poor Sun has to watch Jin re-enacting the pivotal scene from “Platoon” just before the tanker blows up. Poor Sun. I’ll say it again, Poor Sun. Now the Oceanic Six are all on the chopper, plus Desmond and Frank. So we know this baby is about to wrap up.

The helicopter hits the water like a dragonfly hitting a rotary fan. Yikes, haven’t these poor people been through enough? I’m worried about baby Aaron, even though I know he’s going to be fine. Desmond seems about to kick the bucket but Jack gives him mouth-to-mouth and saves him. All the bars on Church Street go wild. Then Desmond finds Penny. Awwwww. At least one couple ends up happy.

One question keeps gnawing at me. Who the hell is Jeremy Bentham? The name sounds vaguely familiar but I don’t remember any character with that name. So I look it up. Another philosopher. I still don’t get it.

Surprise! The person in the coffin is not Ben, as I had suspected. It’s Locke. Also known as Jeremy Bentham. Now I’m really confused.

So anyway ...

After several months of these pointless efforts, I tell my therapist about all the freaks I’ve been finding on the dating scene. I tell her how most of them are not worth the time I’ve had to spend meeting them. She tells me it usually takes about 45-50 or more dates before people find the right person. I tell her I’m barely up to 10 dates so far and each one’s worse than the last. She tells me I give up too easily. I tell her I don’t care. She tells me I’m too negative. I say I’m just the right amount of negative, considering what my experience has been. I’m wondering if the next person who should get dumped is my therapist.

Crackers and Orchid

Last night’s episode started out kind of slow but was pretty exciting by the end. Best line of the night goes to Ben (again) for this nonchalant aside after watching Hugo scarf a package of crackers: “You know those are 15 years old.” Hugo’s mother comes in second with this gem: “Jesus Christ is not a weapon!” Honorable mention goes to Sawyer for calling Miles “Ghengis” and Frank "Shaggy."

A couple of things that struck me:
-Jack’s mother looks a lot like an older version of Kate.
-Aaron seems amazingly aware of everything around him. An old soul? A special one, obviously.

Now I have to wait two weeks to find out what happens next. Dang.

One more dating story

So following all these assorted dating misadventures, I think I’ve finally hit the jackpot. I go to a singles mixer and find my perfect match. She’s gorgeous, she’s smart -- she’s even my age.

We meet for coffee a couple of times and things seem great. We’re both writers by profession, musicians by hobby, and have a lot of shared interests.

I notice that on the phone she has this weird speech pattern where she speeds up the first part of a sentence, then draws out the end of it. Like that sketch on SNL where the woman is always trying to top whatever the other person says. “I-have-a-coat-just-like tha-a-a-a-a-a-a-t. I-have-a-thousand coooaaaaats …. A-thousand-coats-just-like-that onnnnnnne. Yesyesyes-I-dooooooooo.

Quick, quick … slowwwwwww, slowwwwwww. Quick, quick ….slowwwww. It’s like doing the country two-step with a narcoleptic cheetah. I’m practically getting whiplash just listening to her. But I tell myself, it’s not a big thing. So she has a weird way of talking – so what? We all have our idiosyncrasies, right?

I can live with the odd speech patterns because, well, out of all the dates I’ve had, she’s by far the best-looking and she’s got a great body and she’s well-educated and not stuck up or nasty or a control freak. Yeah, the quick-slow talking is weird but it’s tolerable, I assure myself. Maybe she just gets nervous talking on the phone.

Then it happens. The deal-breaker. We go to a movie and as she sits down next to me she exhales in my general direction. I try to tell myself that horrific stench didn’t come from her mouth but deep down, the truth is slapping me in the face like a giant, stinking hand of decaying flesh holding a mitt-ful of feces.

I don’t know what the exact word is to describe her breath. OK, yes I do. The word is shit. Her breath smells like shit. And not in a good way. I stifle the urge to hurl and as soon as the movie is over, we go to a nearby bistro where I order the strongest martini I can find, just to blunt the sense memory. A few days later, Death Breath calls and dumps me over the phone, quick-quick slow. The reason: we don’t have anything in common. Well I can think of one thing I’m glad we don’t have in common. I’m simultaneously relieved and insulted but I get over it.

Dickie comes home, worse for wear

The missing bear arrived back home yesterday, squashed into a Fed-Ex box. We were ecstatic to have him back but a little disappointed about how he looked. He shrunk. They must have put him through the washer and the dryer. So he looks like he's been on a starvation diet with teddy boot camp. My son was thrilled to see him but then he began to cry when he saw Dickie was half his previous size and rather twisted up. We told him Dickie had a big adventure and now he's home. He took Dickie to bed with him and cuddled him all night. Poor little guy.

Dickie Lives!

Great news -- They found Dickie!!! The Disney Resort called and said a teddy bear matching Dickie's description was found at the laundry service and sent to Lost and Found. They also said his name was on the tag. So it's definitely the right bear. They're sending him back and he should be here by week's end. Hooray! My son will be so happy. He's been having trouble sleeping and misses having his favourite cuddly toy for security.

Lost: New revelations

Another intense episode, laden with meaning. Although I really could have done without the discovery of Carl and Rousseau's semi-buried corpses. How interesting that Sawyer was taking the role of "big brother" and being so protective of Claire just before we learn that Claire is actually Jack's half sister.

Now I just knew there was something between Charlotte and Daniel. That scene when Jin starts speaking Korean to Charlotte was incredible, especially when he threatened to hurt Daniel. You could see the expression on her face change as he said it. Then she gave up trying to convince Jin she didn't understand, and began answering him in Korean.

Watching it, I was marvelling at how smart both Jin and Charlotte are. Then it struck me that most of the people on this show are incredibly smart. They are either intellectuals like Daniel, Charlotte and Ben, or wise-from-experience types like Sayid and Locke, or street-wise manipulators like Sawyer, Kate and Miles. Not only is it the Island of the Gorgeous People, it's also the Island of the Brainy. Seriously, what are the odds? Dozens of people stranded on the same island and not one stupid person in the bunch?

Having said that, I'm going to have to nominate Jack for the dummy of the week award. First, he insists on staying awake while his appendix is removed. Bad idea, Jack. Don't you know that if you keep screaming like that, they'll have to chloroform you?

We flash forward and find that Jack has managed to get Kate to accept his marriage proposal. Awwwwww... so sweet. Even though I prefer Kate with Sawyer, I have to say awwwww. The next evening, when Kate seductively invites him upstairs, Jack responds by downing a few Valium with a beer chaser. Good way to make sure neither one of them has a good time. No wonder she throws him out.

In any case, by the end of the episode it's Juliette who really blows me away. Perceptive enough to see the bond between Jack and Kate, and unselfish enough to let them both know the truth they can't see themselves. She has to be the most noble person on the island, and maybe also the bravest and the smartest.

The search for Dickie: Just the (bear) facts ma'am

I don’t want to tell my son that Dickie’s gone for good. But I’m worried that he probably is. So I come up with a plan. I’ll just buy another Dickie and if the real one isn’t found, I’ll replace him with a new one. Of course, I’ll have to try and make the new one look older, somehow.

This is not as easy as it sounds. And before I can figure out how to make a new bear old, I have to figure out how to get the new one. My son has had Dickie for at least four years now but nobody can remember what make he is, or where he came from.

My ex thinks he’s a Gund but she’s not sure. So I go on the Internet and start looking for Gund teddies. None of them look like Dickie. I try eBay. Scads of teddy bears for sale there. I lean in closer to my screen, examining their tiny faces, their stuffed bodies. Nothing even vaguely Dickie-like jumps out at me. Maybe he’s a Ganz, I wonder. Nope, doesn’t look like one of those either.

Maybe if I could find a store that specializes in teddy bears, someone there might be able to tell me what make he is. I could take a picture of Dickie with me. Just like on one of those TV shows where the cops walk in with a picture of the perp and stick it in the clerk’s face. “Have you seen this bear?” I’d ask.

OK, so maybe that’s not a great idea. I begin methodically combing the Net for manufacturers: Russ Berrie? Nope. Boyd’s? Nope. Hermann? Ty? Playful Plush? Nope. Nope. Nope. Nothing.

There are dozens of bear-makers, it seems, churning out multitudes of teddies. White bears, blue bears, pink bears, brown bears. Large and small; plush and mohair. Bears with strangely distended abdomens and bean-filled bums for sitting upright. Who knew there were so many nuances to teddy-hood?

I scan each picture, quickly eliminating those with the most obvious un-Dickie features like big feet, round heads and goofy smiles. Any deviation from a uniform tan colour is also grounds for disqualification.

Sometimes, the description under a particular teddy leaves me oddly charmed.

“Cuddliest-ever” one coos.

“Fully jointed,” boasts another, whatever that means.

Driven, I press on. Teddy faces stare back at me with bright eyes and shiny noses, some wearing happy, goofy grins and others the more traditional nose-and-mouth stitched together.

For hours, I ponder their inscrutable faces, wondering what cosmic secrets they might yield. Before I realize it, several hours have passed and I’m no closer to finding Dickie.

But I have learned this much: If you ever want to know what it’s like to go insane, try staring at teddy bear mug-shots for three hours. Talk about punch drunk.

After a while, all their faces begin to look strangely similar, so that they seem to melt together into one giant teddy face: The Buddha Teddy. I’m mesmerized.

Finally, the Buddha Teddy speaks to me, in a soft, plush voice.

“Close your eyes,” the Buddha Teddy says. I do.

“Think of Dickie,” the Buddha Teddy instructs me.

I clear my mind of all thoughts except Dickie. In fact, I become Dickie. I’m one big blob of Dickie-consciousness. And there I am: face down, in a dark, cold cardboard box. Being driven in a truck, maybe? Yes, I’m being driven somewhere in a truck.

OK, so either Dickie has been kidnapped and is being whisked across the state line, or he’s in a Fed-Ex truck, headed for the Orlando airport, with its immaculate carpets and gum-free cigar shops. He’s on his way back home. I just know it.

My neck is sore, my back aches from being hunched over a keyboard for three hours. But I’m at peace.