I Love Shirley Hemphill

I realize you may have come here seeking solace, closure...some type of justification for what happened last night. If so, you're missing the point.

I don't care.

No really. Sure, you think that since I write weekly updates praising all things Probst and capturing the pixelated private frillies of the contestants that I am obsessed with Survivor. As such, you think that after a season of trumpeting the evil prowess of one of the most interesting contestants ever, capped with an embarrassing. gutless final vote that put a forgettable no one in the winner's chair that I'm going to let loose with an endless spew of barbed insults at society.

Not so.

You see, the point isn't that Survivor is a great show, the point isn't that it's a microcosm of real life...it isn't even that it's a good respite for women to bask in a sea of glowing abs or men to bask in a sea of eye-magnet silicon (granted - both good reasons, just not THE reasons)...

It's because it's a vehicle to sing the praises of Jesus playing basketball, herald the brilliance of hanging meat, and bask in the innate perfection of the essence of Shirley Hemphill.

Yes, you read that right. Let me explain.

I've been writing these updates now for what, 18 seasons? I remember watching the finale of season 1 with a group of friends and the room absolutely exploding in shouts, cheers, jeers (OK, and yes, perhaps a smidge of flatulence...) as the unique drama unfolded. It was...fun, captivating, filled with delicious drama. Yes even a little stinky.

Believe me, I know the score. Survivor - the show - is fun, but the true fun is in experiencing it with others, sharing the outlandish drama, and, of course, in poking fun at every possible opportunity.

As a long-time viewer, I can't help but gravitate toward contestants or drama that are...different, new, unique - because over time you learn that the the "good guys" are simply forgettable, fleeting, one in a million.

However, it's never just good vs. evil, ethical vs. unethical, asshole vs. saint; I judge how good a contestant is by one simple criteria: who has played the game the best.

Because that's all it is: a game. A game show, to be even more precise. And the motto of the show is "Outwit, outplay, outlast," ...it's not "Be nice, don't lie, praise Jesus," (although maybe I should pitch this concept to "The Word" network...).

So when Russel's speech says exactly that: "If either of these contestants has outplayed me, you should vote for them. If either of these two contestants has outwitted me, you should vote for them." ...he is, of course, right.

This is a GAME SHOW. People don't come onto this show to make friends; they come to win cash.

Does it surprise me still that the jury is upset when a contestant lies?

Yes.

Does it surprise me still that the jury is surprised when a contestant lies?

Of course.

Does it surprise me still that the jury has expectations that the ultimate winner accomplish the award by being straightforward, honest and strong at all times?

Sigh. Yes yes yes. Because the ultimate hypocrisy is that the second any contestant displays any of those attributes, they are targeted and swiftly booted off the show.

Erik's speech last night could not have been more wrong. The jury wouldn't have been "rewarding" bad behavior by voting for Russel, they would have been acknowledging his ability to beat them - plain and simple. So he lied to John; had he not, he would have been on the jury. But here he was in the final tribal council instead. That's called strategy. That's called outwitting, outplaying, outlasting...

The jury didn't vote for Natalie, they voted against Russel, and as such, they made a fool of themselves. They target the strong for elimination, but reward the weak for their bad conscience. It's atrocious, but I have to say, it is definitely consistent throughout the years on this show. The best players do not always win - in fact, I'd say it's probably 50-50 over that time.

Do I think Russel is a good guy? Who cares? It doesn't matter. He played the game the best - maybe the best ever. And THAT was the point of the game.

So Natalie goes home with a million dollars - good for her. As Probst said, her strategy of attaching herself to Russel and leeching off his power is an absolute legitimate strategy. Russel's one mistake was in not realizing that the jury's votes could (and would) be arbitrary. He was clearly shaken for not winning - it looked like the man was going to blow up - and, just like the jury, his expectations were too narrow minded.

Do the best professional sports players make the All-Star teams? Of course not (for god's sake, Tracy McGrady is leading right now and hadn't played a single minute all season long). Do the best people get promoted/elected/recognized/etc.? No, no, no and no.

So what's the lesson here? What do we take from this? How do we go on without something like this weighing on our minds, holding us back, festering in a fecund swamp of flim-flam?

The answer is simple:

Look to Shirl.

Bite down on some frog jerky.

Invite Mr. Excitement over for Beatles trivia night.

Defend the honor of Mrs. Cunningham.

Dream of the day when your neighbor's lot will be razed.

Stir some mushroom gravy in your Cream of Wheat.

For god's sake people, have a piece of friggin' pie.

Because when you're a passive audience member watching a formulaic TV show populated with countless contestants whose IQs rival the wattage of my fluorescent light bulbs, there just has to be a way to have fun, make it interesting, enjoy life.

Serve it up. Add some smarmy wit. Frown and smile at the same time. Pull that half-chewed pencil from behind your ear and write down our order: make us forget how much this can suck.

That's right, look to Shirl.

Hay hay hay.

Probst Beef

Hell is for Chillin'

"Prayer warriors?!"

People, do I really even need to write an update for this episode? I mean, c'mon, doesn't it just write itself?

Is this what humanity has come to? Rallying Jesus to help a yellow pantied-exhibitionist bimbette and a hairless manchild to "guide their hands" in pulling strings from a giant coconut-filled Ker-Plunk! game?

Sheesh.

I'm not sure I can go on. And I'm not talking continuing with this blog, I'm talking life here. If I am truly the same species as these two mushheads, is there really any point to my own existence?

Sigh.

OK, let me go through this strategically so I can get my thoughts in order...

1. Let's put aside - for the sake of this discussion - the god/Santa/Tooth Fairy debate, and focus on the critical point here: this was a REWARD challenge. Rule #6 when summoning Jesus to help you while you're a contestant on Survivor is "Don't waste Jesus's time by asking Him to assist you with a reward challenge; save your summons for the Immunity challenge, and only when absolutely necessary (i.e. when the other tribe members have been super bitchy)." Of course, there is an exception to that rule, but alas, Probst was not giving out a free car to the winners of the reward challenge last night...
2. If Jesus really wanted to help someone last night, shouldn't he have first answered my prayers to have Natalie's dress malfunction...? 
3. Jesus watches Survivor? 
4. Jesus clearly prefers Shamwow over the Prayer Warriors. Right after Natalie and the manchild prayed for Jesus's assistance, Shamwow predicted 58 coconuts dropping - and Lord Almighty: He delivered 58 friggin' coconuts. What's the lesson here? Easy: Jesus doesn't like it when people are whiny babies, asking for Him to do everything for them. Stand up, take control of the situation, wear your mullet loud and proud, and spew vitriolic hatred toward your opponent. Believe me, Jesus melts at such fortitude of character and follicle prowess.
5. Wait a sec, I thought Probst was a diety? Isn't that what we learned in CCD back in the 3rd grade? "This is the day Jeff Probst has made - let us rejoice and be glad." What am I missing here...?
6. There's a guy named "Brett" on the show?

Enlightening, no? 

Look, good for Miss Yellow Panties for being so committed to her beliefs, but you can't have it both ways. You can't ask for Jesus's help for you and Manchild to win the reward challenge, and then immediately go and tell Russell that you're excited to stab Manchild in the back and boot him off as quickly as possible. Not that I don't love the hypocrisy and deception, just that you can't conveniently justify the contradiction. 

Well, OK, you can - what do I care? It's good TV.

And Russell - holy geez - the man is truly a blessing. Not only did he get cocky, but he allowed his cockiness to sway his good judgment and threw his power right in his tribemates faces at Tribal by saying, "I think I'll keep my immunity idol for a souvenir," when told it was his last week he could play it. 

Literally 100% of the time in the past, this level of cockiness results in getting voted out, but Russell is clearly Svengali to the rest of these lunkheads. IF he gets to the final tribal, and IF he doesn't win (I would say unanimously, but we all know there are too many idiots out there who may cast a vote based on something completely insulting and moronic as "choose a number")...I vow, right here and now, that if that happens, I will...turn off the reunion show with at least 10 minutes remaining. I'm not kidding people! This is serious stuff!

We're down to the wire - here's how this should go down to make Survivor Samoa one of the best seasons ever:

1. Vanilla/invisible Mick gets booted next.
2. Natalie summons Jesus to help her win the final Immunity Challenge.
3. Natalie's clothes strangely get torn to shreds in the challenge, which she then loses, resulting in her getting voted out.
4. Russell, Jaison and some guy named Brett go to the final tribal council.
5. Russell tells the entire jury they're embarrassments to the human race, weak and pathetic, simply tools for his own benefit...although none of them could benefit him in the least, as they're so useless. He commands them to both vote for him and start praying to him.
6. Some guy named Brett winks at his old tribemates during his speech, then weeps openly as he thanks Jesus because Jesus told him that he would singlehandedly lead him to to final tribal council and then guide the jury's hand in writing his name down for the million dollars.
7. Russell wins 9-0; the real Jesus winks at Brett.

I'm going to Hell...

But no worries - it's warm, I can kick it with Ghandi, and besides, Pat Benetar had it all wrong, Hell isn't for children, Hell is for chillin'.

Until Sunday,

Probst Beef

Bacon Panties

Calculated risk.

It's a terse, anxiety-laden option with absolutely no guarantees. In many cases, it doesn't even mean the odds are with you; it simply indicates that the outcome you may be hoping for is one of perhaps many possibilities. But you consider it because at some point in the future it has the potential to make a big difference - a bigger difference than the alternative: taking the easy route.

In Survivor, calculated risk is typically bullshit. Nine times out of ten, it's simply a game of chance, because contestants really don't have enough (or any) information to truly weigh possible outcomes. Everyone's in it for themselves, and the moment you think you have a bead on the tribe's temperament, that's when you're gone.

However, our hero, Russell, took his first risk last night...and it paid off. Bigtime.

Russell's successful risk got me thinking about the success rate of my own strategic moves in 2009:

• Voted for an American Idol contestant for the first (and only) time: Lambert lost.
• Climbed Mt. Whitney: success!
• Ate a pork chimichanga from El Palmar the night before a big race: apologies to a random lawn.
• Purchased a giant Chocolate 150 pack from Costco: 6 kids showed up on Halloween.
• Confronted a loud, obnoxious teenager at 3am in front of my house: it was actually a loud, obnoxious, shirtless, beer-bellied meth addict...
• Left my job after 7 years: happiness!
• Switched back to caffeine after a year of decaf: more happiness!
• Ordered Paige a 3rd Irish Car Bomb on her birthday: loofah.
• Ran nearly 400 miles in Oct/Nov: personal record at the California International Marathon!
• Dutch-ovened my daughters during a bedtime story: heartfelt daddy-daughter bonding!

So, with that small sampling, it appears my success rate on calculated risks this year is approximately 50%. Not bad, but would that be enough to risk a million dollars?

Russell is a beast. A friggin' steamrolling, terminating, atomic-wedgying beast. Each episode he seems to get more cartoonish, more of a freakshow, more bizarrely callous, calculating and pinpoint focused on the end prize.

This general strategy simply does not typically work. If you're adept at the game, even if you have a history of numbers and alliances, you will be the main target in the final weeks. Russell's time was coming, and last night it came. He was dead on right about Mick's waffling, completely in tune with Jaison's potential flipping, and hyper aware to all of the scheming occurring behind bushes and down by the water.

Russell is no idiot.

And kudos to Monica; this was the sole episode in the entire season in which she wasn't a complete, useless slug. Her arguments were perfect - even if there was no chance of her sticking around - because they stirred it up: exactly what she was hoping to do.

But none of you were fooled into believing that Russell was seriously going to consider booting Shambo before Dave, right? I mean, that argument was exactly what Russell had used the past few tribals to boot the other tribe - he wasn't going to throw it all away now!

In the end, the two boots (Dave and Monica) were predictable and vanilla, but they were the right moves. Nine times out of ten in past seasons, the tribe in power absolutely would have risked their numbers to boot someone like a Shambo - and it would have bitten them in their sorry asses.

But not Russell. He's on target. He realized that while it would be preferable to go to the final jury against someone whom he could easily beat, he first has to get to the final jury. Worry about today first, worry about tomorrow tomorrow.

However, when he didn't play his immunity idol, I have to admit that I was amazed. This was seemingly the first, only, and perhaps last mistake that he would make. Why take the risk? If Mick and Jaison truly wanted to play this game they absolutely should at least flush the idol out. Sure it would be brutal back at camp with Russell - but he wouldn't have any more numbers with him - he would be gone 100% the next tribal.

But Russell took the calculated risk. He knew that Mick and Jaison are spineless ninnies who now don't even deserve the honor of basking in the warming glow of Russell's dutch ovens.

And Russell is nearly assured to be in the final episode.

One more week to go; many more things still to be determined:

• Who will make it to the final tribal council?
• What will Shamwow's Andre Agassi's mullet look like all "cleaned up?"
• How come Natalie's yellow dress is a filthy mess but her yellow panties are crystal clean?
• What was Natalie wearing under her miniskirt when she ran those yellow panties up the tribal flagpole?
• How much will Natalie's yellow panties go for on ebay after it's all over? (anyone else want to chip in?)
• (I have a hundred additional questions about Natalie, but I'll leave them to my impending stalking deposition)
• Will the jury respect Russell's aggressive play, or berate it?

Ah - the biggest question of all, right? Because in the end, do you go for the clean cottons, or the dirty dungies? The pristine panties or the soiled sacholders? The beautiful bun huggers or the dilapidated dutch-oven filters?

Not which one is less offensive...but which do you respect more?

OK, maybe I could have used different metaphors...but you get the point.

Russell has worn his skivvies with pride - wearing them down to their fibers and using every means possible to make them work for him. They're not pretty, but they don't need to be. They work. Hard.

Natalies skivvies are...OK, they're just plain tremendous. Really, if there is a way to improve upon those underpants, I want to know...

What was the point I was making again...?

Oh, right: don't be distracted by life's yellow panties. Honor resides in used and abused underwear.

Until next week,

PB

The Girl Who Refused to Eat Pie

I once knew this girl who had never had a piece of pie in her entire life.

Not a taste of berry, no hint of apple, never a single bite of lemon meringue, not even a smidge of pumpkin. Never a need for an "a la mode." Even cobblers were too close to "pie" - so no dice. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure about hair pie, but let's not split hairs (no pun intended) - that's more of a colloquialism than an actual cooked fruit dessert (sexual food fetishes aside).

This anti-pie stance wasn't because she had had some horrible, unfortunate pie-related accident in her past or anything. She simply refused to eat pie.

Of course, we were absolutely fascinated by this, albeit in an extremely judgmental and, let's be honest: personally offended manner. I mean, who the hell doesn't like a good piece of pie? It's friggin' pie for god's sake! How could something so intrinsically beautiful and delicious cause someone to go on a personal crusade never to let single crumb pass their lips?

It's nearly beyond belief bizarre.

I can't remember how we discovered this, although once we did it was all we could ever talk about with Pie Girl. Had her mom ever made pie growing up? Yes. She just wouldn't try it? No - it didn't look good. Did she eat other desserts? Yes. Was there any other dessert that she wouldn't eat? No, she loved desserts. Was she opposed to cooked fruit? No. Would she eat ice cream pie? Yes - that wasn't pie; it was ice cream.

This was nonsensical; if it were true, then how could anything else about her be legitimate? How could we take Pie Girl seriously as a human being? This girl was an absolute freakshow! The whole thing threw the entire universe out of whack...

We all had to do something about it: we could not go on unless we were able to get Pie Girl to try a bite of pie. This simply wasn't natural. Millions of years of evolution did not lead us to develop an organism that was opposed to pie. It wasn't right.

Pie Girl, obviously, was not happy to discover that we had made it our quest to get her to try a piece of pie. It wasn't a joke to her. But it wasn't a joke to us either. This was serious business. We wouldn't be able to continue on with our lives unless she tried pie.

At first Pie Girl adamantly refused to try any pie whatsoever. "Why? Why is it so important that I try pie? Why can't you just let it go? I'm not going to."

"Why is it so important to you that you won't even try a single bite?" we responded. "What is it about pie that causes you so much disdain that you won't so much as even try it?"

"I. Just. Don't. Want. To."

Unacceptable.

Of course, a few weeks later, the concerted effort to get Pie Girl to try a bite of pie - any pie - did finally wear her down. One evening a group of us were at dinner and, spiritually defeated, she agreed to do it. "Do you have a preference?" we asked.

"No - whatever you choose," she tiredly answered.

We were elated. This was it! Finally! The end of this inexplicable nightmare was near!

We selected a fresh piece of berry pie and waited in baited anticipation for the waitress to bring it. This was going to be like watching your first born child start their first day of school: a definitive first step toward open-mindedness and an expanded worldview. We were going to make a difference.

The pie came and the waitress set it down in front of Pie Girl. Eight people watched with hearts fluttering as she took a deep breath, cut the tip of the pie off with her fork, and raised it to her lips. She gave one last glance around the table - in hatred or gratitude, we couldn't quite tell - then popped in into her mouth.

She chewed once. Twice. Three times slowly, then swallowed. The restaurant suddenly get very quiet; all of the patrons universally connected in watching Pie Girl admit she was wrong in every facet of her belief system. Finally she put her fork down and pushed her plate forward.

"I don't like it," she said.

"You don't like the berries?" someone asked...

"No," she responded angrily, looking him right in the eye, "I don't like pie."

Look, I realize that by sharing this story with you I am putting into question every foundation you may have for understanding, categorizing and coping with this world. But there is a point in here. You, like I have learned to do, have to let it go. You can't control Pie Girl; not Pie Girl herself, and not the theoretical "Pie Girls" you may encounter in other facets of your life. Don't fight Pie Girl. Don't challenge Pie Girl. Don't try to make sense of Pie Girl. Just let Pie Girl flow over and through you like the wind.

You see, I was reminded of Pie Girl last night while watching Survivor. Here we have - perhaps without question - the greatest Survivor of all time: Russell. He's taken us from outwardly hating him with every fiber of our being to basking in his every sneer, his every scheme, his every thick patch of unkempt back hair. But we also see the writing on the wall...

His greatness is surely fleeting. He's on everyone's radar. 18 previous seasons of Survivor have clearly shown that anyone who tries to control and/or force things will get what's coming to them - and usually sooner rather than later. We want to enjoy the show...but we know that once he's gone, we'll have to root for someone like..Brett (wait, there's a guy named Brett on the show?). This causes us angst. We're unsettled. We want to do something about it...

But as I grappled with these demons last night (well, it was either demons or my third Celebration Ale...), Pie Girl popped into my head, and I remembered how I felt when she pushed that pie plate away: defeated. Useless. Confused, depressed and hopeless. And I did not want to feel that way again. I knew I had to bask in the moment. Enjoy things as there are right here and right now. Don't worry about what may happen, or about people that I can't control. Have another Celebration Ale damnit.

So I did. And wow - what another great episode! Multiple people voted for at Tribal Council. Yet another blindside. Foa Foa 100% intact since the merge, and now with 100% of the power. Shamwow shammed and wowed by both tribes voting exactly opposite of her. Tremendous stuff. As Jeff said, "I can't wait to see what happens next."

Let Pie Girl refuse to eat pie.

In the end, it only means more pie for the rest of us.

Until next week,

Probst Beef

Reign Spider

Lurking. 
Waiting.

In control.

Ready to kill, devour, consume...at the most opportune moment...

No no no...I'm not talking about Lana from Three's Company...

Paige and I had been relaxing and recovering from a horrible parasite while on Likoma Island in Lake Malawi: an isolated, obscure, remote place. Our respite was a beach hut – literally on the beach – with a grass thatch “door” and a bed right on the sand. It was idyllic living, minus the frequent vomiting and constant diarrhea.

With no running water anywhere on the island, it was imperative to boil lake water for drinking purposes. The only problem was that during that act of boiling on a huge wood burning fire, the water would get a deep smoky flavor that was impossible to remove. Needless to say, when you’re completely parched and wanting nothing more than an ice cold swig of crisp, clean, clear water, tepid liquid smoke just doesn’t quench that thirst. 


Bleh.

The lake water itself was actually pretty clean; in fact, the locals simply wade into the water and drink it straight from the lake. But, after watching the local women washing all their clothes, pots, pans and bodies right at the shoreline, we enthusiastically embraced the smoky drinking water.


We’d actually planned ahead and had packed a virus filter from home that finally came in handy at the perfect moment: extreme sicknesses. Nothing more important than forcing water down when it’s coming out everywhere else, and if it doesn’t taste good – tough. We found that filtering either lake water straight or the smoky boiled water produced a decent enough tasting water, especially when mixed with salty orange rehydration packets.


We woke one morning at dawn underneath our mosquito net to the sound of the locals at the lake. Our hut was a bed and mosquito net surrounded by four grass-woven walls and a woven roof with sand as the floor. The “door” was a grass mat that rolled up and down – this was primitive at best, but perfectly suited our miniscule needs. We had filtered a bunch of water the night before and left a pan with about an inch of water on the sand in the middle of our hut


As Paige got up to go out, she noticed something inside. “What the hell is that?”


Not exactly the best sentence with which to wake one’s husband.


I crawled out of bed and looked inside the pan. It appeared that some huge skinny crab-like thing had somehow ended up in our shallow pan and drowned. It had eight legs and two enormous claws, resembling something in-between a crab and a giant daddy long legs spider.


But how could a crab drown? This thing was about as big as my head. We brought the pan with us over to the kitchen hut by the mango bar and grabbed Peter, the cook.


“What the hell is that?” I asked, deciding that Paige’s wording of the situation was appropriate. He leaned his head over the pan, smiled, and, reaching inside and grabbing the thing by one of its pencil-long legs, held it up in the air.


“Aw, it’s just a rain spider,” he proclaimed, tossing it over his shoulder and turning and walking back into the kitchen hut.


He was obviously non-plussed. But as his words sank in, we started to get a little freaked out, thinking that we had narrowly avoided a nasty confrontation with an enormous spider inside our hut. I mean, how the hell did this thing end up in the pan? 


Do they drop from the roof? And why did it drown in the shallow water? Wouldn’t the name “rain spider” indicate that it was associated with water? But the more we pondered this, the more we both agreed that Peter had probably not meant “rain” spider, but “Reign” spider, with a capitol “R.”


One of the owners of the backpackers’ haven also shrugged it off when we told him the story. “That’s nothing,” he nonchalantly said, “you guys should hang around until mango season. That’s when the mango spiders come out. They’re as big as plates and you can hear them running around on our roof under the mango tree. They’re incredibly poisonous and they can catch birds. A lot of times you can hear them fighting large rats up in the branches – you never want to have one of those things jump on you.”


Personally, I felt that last statement was superfluous.


Still, any spider that fights rats and eats birds is just not right. We suddenly felt pretty fortunate to have only a measly little Reign spider visit the confines of our hut.


Russell is a spider...kind of alternating between an angry, dangerous mango spider and an all-bark, no bite Reign spider. 


In the beginning, he was simply annoying: misogynistic, vitriolic, distrustful...clearly a short-timer. 


What happened?


Now the kid may be the single greatest contestant ever. Three times finding the hidden immunity idol - and all three with NO CLUES? Amazing. (By the way, how does Russell lose Dave when Dave is trying to tail him, but a CBS cameraman with huge, heavy equipment has no problem keeping up? Isn't Dave even a personal trainer?)


On one hand Russell is simply hanging on by his fingernails from tribal council to tribal council. As soon as the dust settles around the old tribes worrying about numbers, won't he continue to be the main target, the main threat, one of the first one's off?


Sure, he's like that mango spider right now, aggressively attacking, pouncing, sinking his fangs in his opponent and joyfully sucking the life right out of them.


Who wouldn't?


But now that he's on the side of power again after John flips in a second tribal council vote and boots Laura, leaving Foa Foa in control, won't he end up like that Reign spider: ominous and scary, but ultimately tossed by Probst over his shoulder when the tribe realizes that it's better to get him out of the way rather than have to inevitably encounter him somewhere down the line?


Won't they be setting their proverbial pots of filtered water around camp in the hopes that Russell will step in and drown himself?


Look, Russell is fantastic, without a doubt, and he's singlehandedly made this season one of the best ever. But his real test is coming soon. Has he peaked too early? There are nine contestants left; there's a lot more scheming to come.


Which one will you be Russell?

  

Until next week...

PB 

Dark Spirals in Her Cream of Wheat

As much as it inflicts deep, tangible pain into the core of my soul to admit it, I once uttered the words, "The Beatles suck; Journey rules."

Now look. Understand that I was 11 years old. And, without question, I didn't know shit.

I was feeling competitive with my older brother's musical opinions, and my words were purely intended to piss him off. (It backfired - if you hadn't already noticed...)

So, within the context of the situation, I hope you'll agree - it doesn't matter: I still don't deserve to be forgiven. I've accepted that. But from that point forward, I forged a path of musical knowledge and understanding that ultimately has made that 30 year old statement not only embarrassingly trite, but incredibly ironic.

As I entered my teens I immersed myself in music, exposing myself to as many styles, artists and genres as I could find. In college I hooked up with a couple friends, one of whom could play the guitar, and we would sit around for hours (every single night...and some entire days as well) writing songs and working harder and harder to make them clever, professional and sophisticated.

Granted, it's difficult to accomplish this when (a) I couldn't play an instrument (well, a musical instrument...), and (b) the subject matter of every single song we constructed was an unfortunate guy we worked with who had bad teeth, a bad afro, and made minimum wage at the over-the-hill age of 30 (which, in defense of our situation, felt ancient to us at the time, as if his life had long ago come to a definitive conclusion: failure)

...but even within that regrettable inspiration, there was something there...some promise of creativity within such an offensive, adolescent, Beavis & Buttheadish mentality...

After I graduated from college, my guitar-playing friend, Anthony, moved to New York, and I realized that if I wanted to continue down a path of musical exploration and creativity, I would need to take things into my own hands. I bought a guitar, started teaching myself chords, played for hours every day, and soon found myself actually carving out some interesting progressions. I was elated.

But my road was rough. With visions of Beatlemania soon knocking on my door, I aimlessly continued playing, stretching, learning...creating bizarre chords and believing I'd found the next Sgt. Pepper. My musical future was not promising...

A year or two later, Anthony came back west for a week, and we decided to write and record some songs for a whole album. Sitting in the front room of a house I rented in Belmont Shore at the time (south of Long Beach, close to the ocean) at noon on a weekday, I set up my amp and began playing Anthony this song I had been working on - one of the first things I'd ever written. It was a beautiful day: the sun was shining brilliantly, the seagulls were scavenging triumphantly, the ocean air was softly caressing our naive young faces through the front screen door as the first chords from my song crunched through my amp as loud as it would go, blasting out into the heavens.

Literally three seconds later, we were interrupted by a growing, rumbling sound...

"aaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!" 

...building somewhere out front in the street...


"STOOOOOOOP IIIIIIIIIT! STOOOOOOOOOOP!!! TUUUUUUURRRRRRN IIIIIIT DOOOOOWN!!!!"

Through the haze of pure distorted volume, Anthony and I turned to see a short, fat, waddling old lady come puffing helter-skelter up my stairs from the street and, nearly hyperventilating with emotion, shimmy up towards my door with her flabby arms waving over her head as if trying to take flight.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!! TUUUUUURRRRRRRN IIIIIIIIT OOOOOOOOOOOOFF!!! WAAAAAH!!! WAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!!!"

Shocked, I reached over and calmly turned the amp down, turned back toward the door...but the lady had already turned and was now quietly waddling away. Within seconds, she had completely disappeared. Anthony and I looked at each other, wordlessly wondering if we had truly just experienced the same thing, numb in the realization that we couldn't say for sure that it had actually happened.

I didn't know what to make of it. Clearly this lady, and maybe the world, had a problem with my music. A big problem.

But I was undeterred. I had confidence in my passion, my drive, my will, my twisted and unique sense of anti-humility.

I must forge ahead.

That afternoon, I sat down and wrote lyrics to the song I had been playing. They came to me effortlessly, and seemed to fit the chords perfectly, as if I was simply reciting something from memory... I sat down at the 8-track reel-to-reel machine and laid my vocals down in one take. Done.

"Shoreline and around the corner
Sit back and relax until the
Old lady from seemingly nowhere
Cuts loose in the middle of my street


She's running crazy
She likes her mushroom gravy
I don't mean maybe
Dark spirals in her Cream of Wheat


Shoreline and around the corner
Short pants and getting shorter
Eclipse from her big goiter
She's screaming bloody murder"

...there's more, but, well, you get the point...

Two months later, album complete, I mailed a single copy of the cassette to BAM Magazine - a staple in Los Angeles in the 70's, 80's and 90's. Two weeks after that, my phone started ringing: bars wanted to book our "band"; promoters wanted to talk to our "manager"; and a production company even wanted to purchase one of our songs - in particular, the song I had written about the crazy old lady.

What the hell...???

I asked one of the callers how they had heard of us and he said, "I read your stellar review in BAM; I'm dying to hear it myself!"

I rushed out to the nearest store and picked up a copy of BAM: there we were - the lead review, and the critic LOVED it. After going through a few of the songs in detail, he wrote, "The tape's highlight may be a chuckle-inducing look at an old lady titled, obviously enough, 'Old Lady.' Sample lyric: 'She's lumbering up my stairs / Four tummies worth of eclairs / Been years since she used Nair / Old lady, old lady.' Pure poetry!"

As I watched last night's Survivor, I couldn't help but imagine that Russell must have felt exactly the same way last night as I did that day reading that review. Adversity overcome. Irony twisted back on itself. Unexpected success. Delicious Vengeance.

Pulled from the nadir of hopelessness...perservering in the face of hairy legs...tramping on life's goitered obstacles to live yet another day...

(I bet you had no idea how I was going to tie this all together...)

Last night's episode was monumental. Not only the best we've seen in a long while, but indisputably one of the best of all time.

Since the day CBS concocted the hidden immunity idol, THIS was what they had in mind.

And how many times have I complained over the years how frigging USELESS these Survivors are when they find the immunity idol and then refuse to play it? How many times have we seen them get booted because they think they're safe?

Russell was badmouthed by the tribe for playing the idol last week when he wasn't in danger of being targeted (which is, of course, ridiculous - it was 100% the right move). And for him to pre-emtively search for another idol without any clues, any disclosure whatsoever that there would even be another idol...

Tremendous.

People: forget the ire and disgust you felt for the man earlier this season. Embrace the journey we've taken together. Laugh in the face of wild, ranting psychopaths scrambling to quiet the noise and control their own sad, depressing environment. Appreciate the relentless drive, focused determination, unwavering desire to continue...

How can't you just love this man?!

OK, fine - he is an asshole. But, damn, he makes good TV.

So now, assuming Shamwow goes with Foa Foa, we're looking at a 5-5 tie.

Glorious. Let the backstabbing drama escalate!

By the way, has anyone else noticed that Shamwow is wearing Andre Agassi's weave?

Coincidence...or crystal meth?

So, as I think fondly on that jiggling tub of octogenarian goo lumbering up my stairs 15 years ago, I can't help but think about those dark spirals in one's proverbial Cream of Wheat.

Russell can play my guitar and turn it up to 11 any day of the week.

Until next week,

PB

That Vacant Lot In My Eyes

I have the most evil neighbors on the planet living behind me.

OK, OK...true (thankfully), I don't live next to the Dugard clan or anything; I'm defining "evil" here as annoying, spiteful, cluelessly venomous...and let's be honest: assholish.

The day we moved in ten years ago, I saw the husband over the fence and said hi. He ignored me. I tried a little small talk, mentioning that I'd be happy to help repair or replace the fence (which was leaning badly in places and clearly needing to be fixed) if he was interested as well. "I'm never doing that," he spat at me. I was, obviously, a little confused, and didn't reply, being a little stunned at his response. "It's your fault anyway," he continued after a beat. "Your dogs jumping on the fence. I'm not paying a f*cking dime to fix the fence."

I didn't even have a dog at that time, the previous owner had never had a dog, and we'd just moved in that day.

Welcome to the friggin' neighborhood.

Over the years, I've had some pretty baffling encounters with these people:

• Our backyard in on a slope lower than theirs; one day a pipe broke in their pond and we had a river - literally - flowing from our back fence, all the way across our back yard to the front gate (fifteen feet wide and 6 inches deep), all the way across our front yard, down the sidewalk and then past three houses to the sewer drain. I called over there to let them know, and he grunted part skepticism, part disinterest with my story. The next day: no change. And the next day. And the next. I called again, left a message. No change. Our backyard was a swamp. Bushes and plants were dying. I called again: nothing. Finally after two weeks, I called the city - they said they'd check it out. Nothing happened. Weeks after it started, we came home from work one day to find a notice attached to our front door: we were going to be fined if we didn't fix "our" water runoff problem. The city, in their brilliance, saw the water running freely out of our front yard and assigned blame to us - even though I had formally lodged a complaint. My neighbor was winning; this was no good. I called the city and left a message...that afternoon I saw my neighbor poking around in his backyard, and got his attention. "It's not my problem," he said offhandedly when I reiterated the repeated phone calls to him and pointed out the swamp I was standing calf-deep in from the river running straight from his backyard. "It's not flooding MY yard." Wow. Ultimately, I got the city out, got them in the neighbor's back yard, had them threaten to turn off their water entirely until they got it fixed (and get hit with a huge fine to turn it back on), and then go on their merry, clueless, bureaucratic way. It was soon fixed. But three days later: swampland. I called the city again - they came out...same process. Over the next three years this happened eight more times, and each time I informed my neighbor he had a broken pipe, he would get pissed off at me for bothering him. 
• Picture beautiful, warm, sunny summer evenings...friends sharing cold beers, good wine, delicious food, easy conversation...then suddenly: "SHUT UP YOU F*CKING B*TCH!" Silence. Then, "I TOLD YOU TO GET THE F*CKING PHONE!" "HOW MANY F*CKING TIMES?" "YOU'RE A GODDAMNED IDIOT!" Ladies and gentlemen: my f*cking neighbors. Fighting. Again. In their backyard.
• These dolts have three yappy, annoying, rat-sized dogs. They bark all. frigging. day. Every day. Any time we even go into our back yard: yapyapyap! Raking leaves: yapyapyap! Kids playing on the swingset: yapyapyap. From 6am to 10pm. Our dog, thankfully, isn't a barker, but he is a herder, and when those rats start yapping, he starts running back and forth along the fence in a frenzy wanting nothing more than to eat them. I absolutely feel his pain. Over the years, the rats and my dog have taken advantage of the dilapidated fence (worsened during that time by the water rot from his seasonal river) to find holes that they had scratched and clawed into weak spots. One saturday morning, 6:33am, my phone rings. What the hell...? I answer and before I can even get out a "hello," I hear, "I'M GOING TO F*CKING SUE YOU! I'LL SEE YOU IN COURT! YOU'RE TRYING TO KILL MY DOGS! YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS!!!" I'm barely awake, but suddenly my blood pressure spikes as I can obviously tell it's my evil neighbor's evil wife; thankfully I have enough sarcasm in me to say, "Hi, who are you trying to reach? I think you have the wrong number..." I had to actually hold the phone away from my ear as the tirade of curses and screaming was overwhelming. Apparently, a weak spot in the fence has been opened up by her vermin, repeatedly launching themselves at my fence while yapping incessantly over the years. That morning, when I had let my dog out, the rats had gone ballistic, throwing themselves at the hole...and one of them had, brilliantly, hurled its face directly into the nail, apparently breaking it's jaw and causing a bloody mess. My dog was calmly sitting on the back porch. I asked her why she would threaten to sue someone for something her dogs were 100% responsible for, and the screaming turned into a single, frustrated, high pitched wail. I was loving this. "Thanks for calling," I interrupted, "...it's a beautiful morning. Have a wonderful day!" 

Are you getting the gist?

So keep this in the back of your mind as I relate this back to Survivor...

I've been feeling...(gasp!) disinterested in Survivor recently. C'mon, admit it - it's been boring. Yes, the weather has been taking a brutal toll on the action and scheming. Yes, the single tribe dominance has been predictable. Yes, it has seemed like CBS has run out of ideas to shake things up in its 19th season.

But the formula should have been working - one part abs, two parts fake boobs, one part smarmy dimples: it should be flawless!

 + + =

The winning combination...

Combined with someone hacking into my Facebook account, pretending they were me and asking my friends for money because I was apparently overseas and mugged of everything I owned (except, of course, easy access to my Facebook account)...I haven't even had the energy to write these updates for the past couple weeks.

But last night...oh baby!

Brilliance.

Like sunlight bursting through the clouds after a long storm...

Like sudden freedom after endless incarceration...

Like the return of a long-lost friend... 

OK, bad example.

From the get-go, Russell is infecting the few remaining members of his tribe with plans to stick together at the merge. They meticulously work the contestants, trying to gain trust, discovering cracks, formulating strategy.

Prior to the immunity challenge, Russell even works it well enough to seemingly ensure a boot of backstabbing, two-faced, scheming, distrustful, lying, bible-thumpin' Laura, much to the chagrin of backstabbing, two-faced, scheming, distrustful, lying, bible-thumpin' fans everywhere...

But, in a glorious unexpected show of prowess, Laura and her God win the immunity idol, sending the tribe into an unprecedented cauldron of bubbling, spewing, psychotic, non-stop scheming.

Tremendous.

It's absolute, chaotic pandemonium among the contestants as the drama and tension builds into something akin to that high-pitched whine my evil neighbor emitted when threatening to sue me for her dog inflicting pain upon itself.

I was suddenly feeling all warm and cuddly inside...

And when Eric definitively states how sorry Russell, Jaison, Natalie and Mick are at tribal council, brutally demeaning, berating and trivializing their entire existence and lack of self worth on this planet, you could just sense greatness was in the air.

"I will be SHOCKED if a single person on my tribe votes against one of my own," he decrees.

And - of course - EVERY member of his tribe (except for Shamwow of course - who appears to be in an entirely separate time and space continuum) not only votes for one of his own...they all vote for HIM, and his world absolutely implodes in front of our eyes.

Pure, perfect, unadulterated satisfaction. All is well again with my world...

...and then my phone rings.

I pick it up, and before I have a chance to even say "hello," the whiny, loud voice on the other end moans, "IS YOUR DOG ALLLLL RIIIIGHT?!"

I, of course, immediately know who it is, but am reveling in the blindsided boot to Eric...I have to have a little fun, "Hmm, who might this be?"

I sense instant irritation, as if my world should be revolving around my evil neighbors' every whim. "It's your neighbor behind you, is your dog alllllllriiiiiight?!"

I suspect why she's calling; my sister is over and her dog is in the back yard, currently barking to be let in...is it possible my evil neighbor actually has the gall to call and complain about a dog barking for a couple minutes when her dogs have barked for 16 hours a day for the past 7 years?

This could be fun...

"He's fine, why?"

"Are you sure he's all right?"

"Yup."

"I'm hearing a lot of barking..."

"Hmm...I hadn't noticed," I innocently replied.

"It's a LOT of barking, it needs to stop," she spat.

"Well, " I began, winding up and preparing to let one go, "my sister's dog is here right now...but I haven't noticed any barking even remotely on the same scale as your dogs do every day from morning to night..."

Silence.

"I know my dogs bark," the now defensive, defeated and extremely put-out voice responded. She took a breath and then in the whiniest tone possible, went for the passive-aggressive hail mary: "I was just checking to make sure your dog was allllllllllriiiiiight."

Sure you were. Touche.

Or, perhaps more appropriately: douche.

I hung up with a smile on my face. Survivor was fantastic again. My evil neighbor had shamed and embarrassed herself again. All was right with the world...again.

Oh, wait...what's that - something outside my window? There's a...river coursing through my backyard...

Shit.

I dream of a vacant lot behind me...

PB

Mrs. C Wouldn't Last a Day Here

As a child of the 70's and 80's, the way I process events today still tends to get filtered through three different but intricately intertwined philosophies:

1. Bad TV sitcoms (my childhood even jumped the shark in 1985)
2. Bad popular music (I admit it: I had a couple of Huey Lewis albums. I live with that knowledge every day of my life...)
3. Recovering Catholic guilt

...most of the time, all three somehow work their way into my subconscious as I take the kids to soccer practice, empty the dishwasher, or catch the latest episode of Survivor. I bring this up, of course, because last night's episode drew heavily on all three of my childhood vices.


We saw the crest of Mick's forbidden pubes fuzzed out for the betterment of us all. I thank god each and every day that cave-dwelling, frustrated, overpaid losers with way too much power decide what I should and shouldn't see in the comfort of my own living room. Don't get me wrong - it's not like I have a huge desire to gaze upon the pubic pastures of Mick's treasure trail, but then again, what's the fear that drives the sensors to fuzz this out in the first place? Pubic protests? Racy riots? Supreme Court treasure trail trials?


Of course, it's MORE than OK that CBS shows us sea slug guts blended with rotting octopus tentacles and warm milk as contestants chew, gag, vomit and wince the slew down their gullets as chunky parts and pieces dangle from their chins.


Life was so much easier in those sitcoms from 30 years ago. There was no controversy, no sensationalism...heck, there wasn't even any thinking at all. But we get everything all twisted and tied up together today, and can't get past how things used to be. Where's the quick solution? Where's the problem that not only gets resolved within 30 minutes, but is never spoken of again - ever? Where are the khakis and blue button down shirts covering all those nasty private parts?


Yeah, yeah - it's a trade off. We get beautiful bodies, scantily clad model wannabees, taut sinewy muscle-bound hunks... But geez - all the cutest contestants are getting booted early, leaving us with...friggin' Russell!


Not much happened in this episode as nearly three straight days of rain forced the tribes to stay huddled up, shivering, under their sieve-like "shelters," with no opportunity to scheme, create drama or inspire some CBS fuzzing.


I searched for meaning that I could filter through my triumverate of philosophical engines, but for some reason my quest seemed to remind me of an experience Paige and I had in Ireland...

“Far-el.”

“Pardon me?”

“Far. El.”

It was our first hour in Ireland, and I was being corrected with how I pronounce my own name: Farrell (fair-el). We’d found a bed and breakfast (B+B) in Dublin after a long ferry ride over from England and wanted nothing more than to dump our packs and sleep. But the owner of the Marion House B+B was telling me that the way I had been pronouncing my name for the past 29 years was…wrong.

Well, who was I to argue? My heritage was Irish; the pronunciation had undoubtedly been bastardized in the hundred and fifty years since my ancestors had headed west to New York. Just give us a room; you can call us the Yeasty-McTwiddle family for all I cared.

Our acceptance and embracement of the Irish (and Gaelic) accent over the next couple weeks was fairly (farly) uneventful, until we had circled around the country and were finally heading back to Dublin. Due to our earlier stay, I called information to reach the Marion House again to book a room for one night before heading across the sea to Liverpool. It was high season, late summer, and most places were booked solid throughout Dublin.

I gave them my credit card number over the phone to seal the reservation, and we endured the travel day from Galway by anticipating the familiar, comfortable room and a nice dinner out. We were thoroughly exhausted by the time we made the long walk from the bus station in Dublin to the Marion House just as dusk was starting to set in, and stood gaping in disbelief when the lady answered the door and told us that she didn't have our reservation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I believe were the exact words she used. She asked if perhaps we had called the "Merrion House" instead of the "Marion House," which was on the other side of the town, and was actually a hotel instead of a B+B (and therefore much more expensive). We sensed looming disaster.

The hair-curlered proprietress quickly suggested we use her phone to straighten the whole mess out, so we trudged into her back office as we formulated a plan: Paige would take control, hoping to reason with some logical business person who would undoubtedly release our reservation without a fee, and shower ample apologies upon us for the unfortunate miscommunication.

We were so naïve.

“Hi, my name is Paige Farrell...” she began.

“Far-el,” came the voice on the other end.

“Oh, uh, yeah, right, Far-el. Do you have a reservation for a Far-el for tonight?”

“Let me check, please hold…” we held the phone, and our breath. “Yes, a double room, correct?”

“Well, there appears to be a terrible mistake that the information operator made…” Paige proceeded to explain the whole story, attempting to give them an opportunity to understand the honest mistake made by the information operator earlier that day when we had called asking to be connected to the Marion House. But they adamantly refused to care and chastised us for attempting to make them. They told us that it was £80 (about $130) a night there, and that if we cancelled our reservation they would still charge our card £40, case closed. Paige explained further how we had called the operator for directory assistance and she must have mistaken our American accent and given us the number for the Merrion House instead of the Marion House. The bitter old lady on the other end of the phone actually laughed at Paige and said, "No. NO ONE would ever mistake 'Merrion' (Mare-ee-un) for 'Marion' (Mar-ee-un)."

Stunned, Paige resorted to the crying routine (usually a stellar and reliable tactic), but the Merrion House wench would have none of it, and hung up. I was absolutely livid. I immediately called back and reintroduced myself, “Hi, you just spoke to my wife, my name is Farrell…”

“Far-el,” the bitter old callous hag adamantly replied.

I began calmly, wanting as much to simply straighten this whole thing out as I wanted to hear her deny logic to enter into the equation. But she jumped right in, “Nobody would mispronounce ‘mare-ee-un,’ not even foreigners.” Acid bubbled in my throat.

I asked her if she’d ever seen the TV show "Happy Days."

“Excuse me?” she spat.

“Happy Days, you know, with the Fonz and Richie?” She was silent. “You know Richie’s mom? Mrs. C.? Her first name is spelled ‘m-a-r-i-o-n’ and pronounced ‘mare-ee-un.’ They live in the U.S., just like us. Furthermore, we even reserved under the name ‘Fare-el,’ not ‘Far-el.’ It’s actually pretty easy to see how accents can cause honest miscommunications.”

She was quiet for a good ten seconds, and then finally said, “I’m completely booked and I’ve had to turn people away many times today. Sorry. It’s £80, or £40 if you cancel. Good bye,” and hung up.

We stood there in shocked silence, but agreed on the spot that there was no way we were going to patronize any place that didn’t show the proper respect for such an American iconic mom as Mrs. C. Thank god that the proper Marion House had a small space for us to sleep in that night: a tiny alcove literally big enough to fit one single bed with absolutely no floor space whatsoever. Since we were leaving first thing the next morning and were physically and emotionally spent, we were grateful for the opportunity to take it.

It took awhile to put all the negative feelings behind us, but we were able to do so by immersing ourselves in a towering microbrewery nearby, gently calling to us from within. Although we had agreed that we had no choice but to accept the £40 fee that was being unfairly forced upon us, I couldn’t let it go, and slipped out at one point to make a quick phone call.

“Hi, is this the mare-ee-un house?” I innocently asked.

“Yes! Would you like a room?” she proactively offered.

“Do you have multiple rooms available by any chance?” I probed. “My party may need three or more…”

She nearly kissed me through the phone, “Yes! We have as many rooms as you need!”

I hung up, not sure what I had just accomplished. Sure, I’d proven her a liar…and a cheat, and not a very nice person on top of that. But I was still paying £40, and Mrs. C’s honor was still in an unfair state of disrespect.

I didn’t feel very good about myself. Had I really expected this whole episode to be tied up with a nice red ribbon like a thirty-minute sitcom flanked with an inane life lesson as a definitive ending to it all? Was I that delusional? That immature? That removed from reality? What was the lesson I was learning?

Later, back in the brewery as we sat there talking, laughing and enjoying some live Irish music, a bartender approached our table. “Interested in doing a free whiskey tasting?”

“Uh, sure, I guess,” I answered, not really knowing anything about whiskey. But in the moment, I stepped up to the plate - actually a placemat lined with 6 full shots of different kinds of whiskey, surrounded by a table of half a dozen additional patrons doing the same.

Unfortunately, as they attempted to explain the process over the din of blaring music, I guess I just didn't hear them say, "You only have to taste each sample." I, on the other hand, proceeded to shoot the first four in a row before one of the guys leaned over and asked me if I knew what I was doing.

Wasn't it obvious?

But I was in Ireland. With my girl. In the moment. I was happy. And through my haze, I looked up and saw the Fonz smiling at me with his thumb in the air…


You see, sometimes there just isn't any life lesson. No bows. No learnin'. And that's OK. It's a hard lesson to learn when you plod through the trial and tribulations of every day life...or the constant scheming and glorious backstabbing of Survivor Samoa. 


Just look for that bone they throw us every now and then.


Mick's pubes. 


Natalie and Ashley's near lesbo experience on the beach. 


Shamwow's bitter extradition. 


Take it when it comes, don't be shy, don't beat yourself up, and then look past your need for meaning for the approval that's always waiting for you if you just open your mind enough to acknowledge it...

Until next week,

PB