Still Lost

Hurley from Lost has a blog! It's like we're the same person!

Oh, and for even more fandom, check out the New York piece on how Lost has bitch-slapped its viewers into totally masochistic adoration.

Lost and Found

Lost is back! Lost is back!

Just when the writers' strike was about to encourage a return of conversation and literacy into your home, the greatest WTF show in television history is back.

Last night ABC aired last season's finale and tonight there is a tutorial for those of you who need to be schooled in the ways of Lost. This will be followed by the launch of the new season.

Between going to the theatre and meditating (damn you writers) I have had to set the PVR for all four hours of promised Lost goodness. Hubby and I have a date for the couch this weekend and I can. Not. Wait.

This is as geeky as I get and I am so not ashamed. Bring on the weirdness!

American Idol Meets ANTM

Thanks to the writers' strike, I have been reduced to reality television and HUGE expectations for the premiere of the new season of Lost.

Excuses aside, I have to admit I've always enjoyed watching the American Idol auditions. This year Simon seems nicer, Paula more sober and Randy more plump (don't gain it all back, dawg!)

Anyway, last night there was a great moment on Idol when a contestant waved her gold ticket to Hollywood in the camera's lens and hooted, "Simon, I'm gonna prove to you I am America's Next Top Model. Oops. I mean, Idol."

Keeping with the theme of blurring two reality show worlds together, the dude in the photo above showed up in Saleisha's hair cut.

Love on an Escalator: Stepping it up When it's Heading Down

Ewwww, girl, Biggest Losers got good last night!

Seems the producers clued in that the whole, working-as-couples thang completely did away with good old Lord of the Flies group scheming so it is back to every big man and woman for him and her self!

The black team is now blue. The blue team is now black. And the rest were allotted according to Bob's first draft picks (he greedily picked up the top three teams without one downward dog of a hesitation).

Highlights include Paul noting his black team of losers is "David versus Goli-lath." (I love adding random letters to names! I'm officially now calling myself Lamber. See? It's like I'm French!)

But the best line of the night? When Maggie sourly notes that Bob had not only taken the best players but that it is obvious he "likes to surround himself with big beefy boys." Um, you think?

Bob is my all-time favourite ambigiously-inclined southern gent. Is he gay or is he just really happy? Who cares? He'd be the greatest pal to work out with on Saturday mornings.

In the end, Jenn, formerly of the purple team, was sent home where she now eats salad and hopes to be trim in time for her summer job at Camp Shane, a fat camp. I am not sure what is more perturbing: that a girl her size was employed at a fat camp, or that a girl her age stills works at a camp.

Nigella Makes a Mean Mom

Nigella Lawson doesn't want her children to inherit any of the fortune shared by her and her husband, advertising baron Charles Saatchi.

In an interview with British magazine My Weekly, Nigella says, "I am determined that my children should have no financial security. It ruins people not having to earn money."

Of course Nigella's statement makes absolutely no sense since her husband is worth more than a hundred million pounds and Nigella still opts to continue putting her name on cookbooks and robin-egg blue mixing bowls.

This all points to what appears to be an increasing divide in the parenting styles of folks heading into retirement. Either your parents hand you a downpayment on your house and wish you luck or they call you from the Mercedes dealership to let you know just how awesome their new wheels are.

Group one takes pleasure from spending their money on their kids. Group two takes pleasure from spending their money on themselves. Whose offspring will make for better humans? Who knows. But I know I'd rather be debating the issue in the warmth of my own home rather than cramped in the backseat of a Roadster.