When faced with the option of deciphering upwards of sixty odd pages of Said and Spivak's post-colonial theory or mindlessly watching three hours of a television show that has ceased to pretend--even to itself--that it makes sense, apparently I'll take the television.
Don't worry, folks: no spoilers here. You wouldn't even believe me if I tried to spoil it, to be honest. Polar bears? In the South Pacific? Really?
It seems odd and slightly shameful to--in the same week--witness the sad, premature end of one of the better-written shows on television (RIP Dollhouse) and also the season premier of a too-long running television show. According to Ian, who denigrated and derided me for my intense interest in Jersey Shore (fist pumps!), it is people like me--the people who watch the bad television--who force shows like Dollhouse off the air. If only I had watched Eliza Dushku kick more tush, and less Snooki getting socked in the face, Joss Whedon wouldn't be searching for airtime once more. I have news, Ian. It is people like us, in fact. You can't get yourself out of this one. It's people who can't get enough of Flavor of Love, it's people who devour four seasons of Lost in under 2 months.
I, for one, despite my inability to pull myself away from Evangeline Lilly's troubled eyes or Josh Holloway's strong chin, am relieved that this is the final season. I hate Lost. I can't stop watching it, but I know it isn't good television. I am still undecided if it would be worse to believe in Lost as good tv, or watch it knowing that it isn't. Either way, I'm there, knitting through the recap as well as the two hour long season premier.
And unlike last semester, with my marathon sessions of Madmen, I can't even pretend that last night's three hours were for homework. If Madmen was questionable in terms of academic potential, there's no way I'll be able to sell Lost to these East coast academics. Or even to myself, frankly.