A Pair of Jacks

First let me begin fittingly, with a sidebar: have you noticed the preponderance of TV (and for that matter, film) heroes whose names are Jack, Chuck, Mack, Rick, Buck, Mack Truck, etc? What is it that is so suggestively masculine about names ending in the hard K? There are certainly no feminine names ending in hard K. It's some kind of Jungian association, I guess (though in Comedy, the hard K is very valuable to start jokey words like Kalamazoo and Cucamonga).

The name Jack, in fact, is somewhat bogus, since it is a derivative of John, a name not quite as suggestively bold. If the hero of "24" were named John Bauer it would not strike nearly as much fear in his enemies and associates. As for Jack Shepherd of "Lost," well John Shepherd may have had a more pleasing quasi-Christian aura, just as his father's name "Christian Shepherd" was specifically created to define his ultimate series function.

So the two seminal action shows of the Aughts, "24" and "Lost," produced their series finales this week, and it's taken me a while to process them. Well, not so much for the straightforward "24", which was quickly erased from my DVR as soon as it concluded. I had been a fan of this show as a broad kinetic rollercoaster concoction with laughable inconsistencies that were necessitated by the program's real-time premise. It would have been just another innocuous lark if so many neo-Cons had not taken its reverence for torture so seriously, but that's waterboarding under the bridge.

Throughout the series' run, though,I always assumed that Jack would be dispatched in the end. Especially this season when his cold-blooded thirst for vengeance led him to several brutal murders and his main focus was to destroy an historic peace agreement. Well, he was dispatched, but only by a sympathetic president who sent him packing after he sent her a video full of claptrappy idealism from a very cynical heart. In fact this season he ended up healthier than in most, the better to prep for the movie version. My own cynicism makes me knee-jerk bemoan the prospect, although frankly, the 24-hour conceit will make much more sense in a two-hour film.

And then there was "Lost." Oh my. I am sheepishly confessing to be a "Lostie," one who fell under the spell of the enigmatic story, and I anticipated the finale with the relish of a tweenie girl about to get to see the finals of "American Idol." And amazingly, I was NOT disappointed. It was sad to see Jack/John die, though it was sacrificial and appropriate and symmetrical with the show's opening scene, which had him open his eyes to the horrific beauty of the Island. (If the Island had a name, what would it be? Another unresolved mystery). The final shot of Jack in the same spot, ending his earthly existence while Vincent the dog sat vigil, was a a real throat clutcher. Boy did I hug Sammie when it was over.

Then there's the matter of the "Sideways" plot, which culminated in the happy reconciliation of all the characters who were actually creating their own little communal Limbo throughout the season. That the Sideways world was an afterlife projection of the hopes and dreams of the characters ought to have been obvious from the first, but we viewers really wanted it to be the "real world." Why? Because we cared so much about the characters. The show's creators, JJ Abrams, Carlton Cuse and Daryl Lindelof made sure from the first that character was to be primary in the series, and spent half the script time delving into their characters' pasts (and futures). Very successfully so, because we really came to know them.

Though at first puzzled and uncertain at the bittersweet conclusion, I watched for a second time and found the episode to fall very nicely into place. For a program that still left many plot elements unresolved, the Sideways theme tracked quite well. My only objection was the pain that a few characters (Sun and Locke, especially) had to endure in their way station to Heaven. For most of them, they achieved their dreams or romantic reunions in a sweet, nearly saccharine series of audience-pleasing moments. And I was also moved, but I was more moved by the fact that I was moved. After all, this was as wild and improbable a fiction as TV has ever seen. And when it was done, I lay in bed ruminating about it. It's just a fucking TV show! But boy, was it a good one.

Congratulations, JJ, Carlton and Daryl. I may be an atheist, but I appreciated that this was at heart a spiritual show and kept faithful to that creed. Thanks for the ride, and here's hoping you enjoy your own epiphanies when the time comes.

Now They've Shot Bugsy in the Other Eye

I am currently in my third day of an extended trip to Las Vegas. I usually don't post while on a lark, and am here only because of the miracle of Wifi. This entry is only being posted to waste time on Tuesday morning because I refuse to gamble in the A.M., with all the other diehards trying to get one last bet in before they depart. It's kind of creepy.

The gambling so far has been fairly neutral, so I am not in a vituperative mood, but I have one major observation--the casino is really going cheap. Yada yada, the economy and all, but really.

I am staying at the Flamingo, the hoary old gambling mecca founded in the '40s by Ben (Bugsy) Siegel. It has been expanded and revamped over the many decades, and I have stayed here during many of its incarnations. But somehow the life--and its retro appeal--are being squeezed out of it.

My current room assignment is, for lack of a better word, laughable. Granted, it is a comp room, reserved many months ago with a friend who is attending a seminar here. So we were sent away to the bowels of the hotel, a walk from the front desk that lasted nearly as long as the drive from Los Angeles. Here are some of the good things I can say about the room:

1. The thermosat works.

That's about it. I imagine there are worse rooms in Vegas, but I have rarely seen one so poorly appointed. To wit, there is was no welcome magazine, or pad or pencil when we arrived. (There is a Bible, of course, in case Sarah Palin should ever inspect the place). There is no sign that says "Do Not Disturb." When I tried to get one from a wandering housekeeper she sighed and said she had no idea where they were any more. Another more enterprising maid stuck a hole through a cardboard and wrote on it "No disturbo" for my benefit.

The light bulb on my desk is out. The pillows (only two small ones were provided) are the unpleasant feather variety that always has feather ends sticking out through the pillow case to puncture little holes in my cheeks. The bathtub drain plug is sitting in the soap dish. The sink drain plug doesn't work either. And the bathroom door squeaks so loudly that all the oil in the Gulf of Mexico couldn't remedy it. A coffee maker? Hah. The walls are as thin as crepe paper. The first night I listened to a lively argument next door and could hear every fucking word. And I mean that almost literally, for every other word was "fucking!"

The ice machine in the hallway doesn't work either. And did I mention the dead body in the hallway outside my door? Well, he wasn't really dead. Just a dead drunk snoozing at 9 P.M., whom we had to nudge to be sure that he was alive. Honestly, you'd think this area was reserved for prisoners who had been temporarily furloughed because of state budget cuts, and sent up here.

Okay, it's comped, so I get what I pay for. But why the petty cutbacks to the point of lunacy? The poor Harrah's company, which owns the Flamingo and all the properties on this part of the Strip, has to have made these spartan decisions to save a few cents on its bottom line. Is this penny-wise and pound foolish? Depends. Would I ever come back to stay at this hotel? Certainly not for a paying room. I might go to another Harrah's property, though, that is more accommodating, in which case Harrah's does not suffer. Except for its reputation.

To be fair to the hotel, its main casino and public areas displayed much better upkeep; the marble floors were always shiny, even if the elevators were scuffed up and in semi-disrepair. And the garden area, with the avian wildlife, was charming. The restaurants, though, were quite mediocre, and a small hamburger cafe called "The Burger Joint" served up the worst burger this side of the White Castle.

Addendum, after the trip: For all their penury the Flamingo did not profit from me. On an up-and-down gambling visit, all the big wins I got were at the Flamingo. But I still won't stay there again.