The grand finales

by RAF KATIGBAK

I know I was supposed to review Ednör, the new ride at La Ronde, but there is something more immediate that I need to address (long story short: the ride totally rules. It feels like you’re riding a dragon at a million miles an hour and will almost certainly make you puke. Especially if you ride it three times, like I did). A strange and tangible sadness settled over Montreal early this week as everyone mourned the disappointing endings to two distinctly annoying cultural phenomena. Meanwhile, I am ecstatic. In fact, I’m not sure what I’m happier about: The Habs being ousted from the Stanley Cup playoffs or the end of Lost.

I’m happy Lost is over because, well, as anyone who’s never really watched the show can attest, Lost fans can be the most annoying people to try and have a conversation with. For a while, all my friends could talk about was their theories on time and space and bombs and parallel universes, namedropping characters who meant nothing to me and talking about some smoke monster, underground bunker thingy and someone called FakeLocke. Even if the conversation had nothing to do with the show, they’d find a way to work it in.

Me: Hey, I heard you had to go to the clinic today, how was it?

Lost Friend: Lame, I had to wait for five hours. The waiting room sucked. It reminded me of the sideways world in Lost which I think is really just a temporal waiting room for the characters to get together before they move on to the afterlife. Know what I mean?

Me: No, and goodbye.

So yeah, I’m happy the Super Bowl of geekdom is over. Lost is finished and I’m ready for us to move on. And yes, I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t just a teensy bit giddy that the final episode was, as one friend described it, “a heap of nonsensical crap that hardly explained anything and just made everyone angry.” That is of course until the winter, when I actually get into the show and join the chorus of pissed off annoying people.

As for the playoffs, I’m happy they’re over for Montreal not because I hate the Habs—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Like many of you, I was sucked into the Habs’ Cinderella story. During the first round, when we started winning against an impossible foe, my interest grew. When we actually beat the Washington Capitals that seventh game, I was hooked.

From then on, I watched every game I could, and when I couldn’t, and they happened to lose, I blamed myself for not being there. It’s like they needed me to watch for them to win. Short of painting my face, smashing windows and setting a cop car on fire, I became the consummate Habs fan. I not only fell in love with the team—the small, speedy upstart David who downed two hockey Goliaths—and the cast of characters within—the tenacious prodigy Subban, the scrappy Lapierre, the modest yet deadly Cammalleri—but also what their story did for Montreal community. I felt the rush of jumping up, screaming and hugging strangers at a crowded bar when we scored a goal. I would yell at the refs on every bad call. I’d boo every time Crosby or Ovechkin touched the puck and believed Halak had some kind of lucky amulet up his ass. Every penalty kill felt like life or death and every game would leave me and everyone else around me exhausted. In short, I fell in love with the camaraderie of hockey fans in the city. That’s why I’m glad it’s over.

In the weeks since the playoffs started, my mood was dictated by the outcome of the last Habs game. If we lost, I would walk around completely bummed, feeling like someone in my family had been diagnosed with a terminal disease. Of course, winning wasn’t that much better, as my momentary high would just be followed with anxiety for the next game. I became obsessed. Now that it’s over, I can finally get stuff done. My mood isn’t linked to the performance of a sports team, I no longer need to make up random wild excuses to get out of social obligations because a game is on (“I’m sorry I can’t come to your baby shower, my um, cat has a uh, prostate issue”) and perhaps most importantly, I no longer need to wonder what having erotic dreams about naked Canadiens defencemen crosschecking me says about my sexuality.