Don't Shoot the Messenger
Namaste. And buy a Jeep filled with Sprite and Verizon phones.
Epth is a state of mind, not a place. Reading this will give you a virtual drivers license in that state, but you'll still need to be 21 to purchase alcohol. And you can't get any there anyway, so stop asking.
I loved the way the show answered a bunch of questions while adding new mysteries to the mix. Contrary to some people's belief, the writers haven't lost their way. My wife said it best last night: "I feel like I now know what's going on, but I have no idea what's going on." We know why the plane crashed, but we don't know why the plane went off course or why all those connected people were on it. We know the Others are led by "Henry," but we don't know what their goal is or why they think they're so "good" all the time. We know what happens when you don't press the button, but we don't know what happens when you turn the key to the failsafe (except, of course, that everybody doesn't die.) We know who Kelvin was (and he was awesome, btw), but we don't know who his predecessor was. We know that the outside world exists (in a great Lynchian noir phone shot), but we don't know what the purpose of the island is, or why there's a giant foot there.
Gonna be a looooong summer.
Well, the torture is finally over, and the good groinpunchers won for once. There will be no NBA Armageddon II (a second Detroit-San Antonio finals), and we won't have to watch Tim Duncan sulk down the court after not getting a foul call until next year. Since Dallas loves only winners, this town is abuzz with Mavs affection. If only it were abuzz in selling me good houses at discount prices. Anyway, we here at This is Epth Nation wish to congratulate Dirk, Jet, J-Ho, Keeezie, Crackhouse, Na-Jop, Damp, The White Barry White (ever hear Keith Van Horn talk?), Griff, DJ Moose Benga, and the greatest player ever to come out of my hometown. You've earned the adulation of the masses of Dallas, but don't enjoy it for very long because if you lose to Steve Nash and the Suns this town will view you as total failures again. Welcome to Big D.
I could break down the game, but I will spare you that injustice. I will, however, point out how much a real coach can mean to a team. Avery Johnson has been awesome, and is already one of the best coaches in the NBA. What he has done with this formerly soft team is amazing. And what did Terry Stotts do with a formerly soft team? Make them a currently soft team. Grr.
Anyway, I keep getting sidetracked here, and I'm sorry for that. The important thing is I delivered a pizza to a woman named Sheila Barf last night, and now my life is divided into B.B. (Before Barf) and A.B. (After Barf). I mean, her last name was Barf -- it was on the ticket, and she signed it on the charge slip. Or at least it looked like she signed "Barf." What am I supposed to do with that? Was she born that way or did she change her name or (gasp) marry into it? The mind, dear reader, boggles.
Oh, and I haven't been able to get my VCR working to watch the Alias finale (read: it's not on bittorrent yet). I will have much to say, I think, about it. Don't worry -- I've heard all about it already. I'm horrible at staying away from spoilers. I will say that the rumors I mentioned yesterday were about the death of Jack, and at least he got to save the day a couple of times before he kicked the bucket. And I think everyone is happy with what happened to Sloane, no matter how overdone the whole "eternal hell" thing is.