So Lost

Like millions of other saps, I've gotten sucked into "Lost." I managed to resist for a good stretch, missing most of the first and second seasons. But my valiant, ill-fated rebellion is currently biting me in the ass, since every new episode contains frequent allusions to the mountain of crap that I missed.

As a result, I've been forced to text and call "Lost" savants during commercials. Indeed, when my confusion overwhelms me, I've resorted to interrupting with my inquiries mid-scene. (Who is that? How the hell do they know each other? Where did he get those chopsticks? Is that a nipple?) This has made me unpopular.

My weakness for "Lost" notwithstanding, I tend to stay away from fictional TV dramas. Comedies are fine -- if you've got me laughing I'm all yours. I'll even allow myself to be jerked around by literary giants such as, say, a Vonnegut, or a Hemingway. No shame in bending to their will.

But there's something I find distasteful about allowing myself to be played like a marionette by hack TV writers angling for a tear, a sob, and, when their manipulation comes full-circle, a contented sigh of relief at the resolution of some artificial dilemma. This aversion has possibly prevented me from enjoying what, by most accounts, might be some entertaining shit -- "24" and "Law & Order" come immediately to mind.

The problem is that I can't shake the following image: a geek-squad of bespectacled wannabe Hollywood screenwriters gathering around a conference table, chewing on pencils and brainstorming the plot twists most likely to provoke oohs and aahs from their gullible, malleable audience. Call me a curmudgeon, but I don't want to be those douchebags' Play-Doh.

This compulsion of mine to peer past the fourth wall predictably seeps into my attitude towards movies. I don't really know anyone else who does this, but while I rarely make it out to a theater, I never miss a major film's reviews. It makes sense: movie critics, a notoriously skeptical lot, consistently affirm my own skepticism. More often than not, a review (at least the good ones) can be summed up as follows: "Did these assholes really expect us to swallow that crock of shit?" Indeed -- I believe they did.

I talk a big game, though, because as I type this entry I'm sporting a half-woody in anticipation of tonight's new "Lost" episode. These freakin' egghead writers have definitely got me dancing on a string, and are most likely getting a kick out of hiding the ball from clueless, salivating puppets like me. How the hell did the old dude's dad end up on the island? And is he finally going to kick his pop's ass for ganking his kidney? And won't that doctor guy also want to open up a can of whoop-ass now that the submarine went kaput? And how long must we wait before the hot chick poses for Playboy?

Answers to all these questions, and more, on tonight's episode of "Lost."

Maybe.

Eh, probably not.