Searching For Signal: #172 - “Survivor: Nicaragua” - Episode 2

We start off with a review of the developments on the last episode, where the mostly-clueless Survivors where divided into tribes of the Old (Espada) and the Young (La Flora). We see reaction shots of the players being all surprised by this move, but none of US are surprised because the promo ads all summer have been bellowing about this. Oh, and we see enough scenes with the Younger Tribe that I’m basically convinced that I can’t stand anybody on that team. Sue me.

Cut to the Espada camp, late at night after Tribal, with all of them marching back home after sending crazy Wendy back to Montana or wherever it is that she does things with goats. The focus is on Holly, who is “feeling on the outs” with the rest of the tribe, and “needs to re-think” her strategy. (Let’s start with re-thinking your hairdo, honey.) We see enough of Holly to realize that maybe Wendy wasn’t the only insane person running about in the jungle.

Roll opening credits. As the cast members are splashed across the screen, we see that they’ve already changed Jud’s name to “Fabio”. That’s special. Wonder how long it will take them to change Shannon’s name to “Chauvinist Pig”?

Next morning in the Espada camp, everyone’s whining about not getting enough sleep, so Jimmy J gathers everybody around and starts organizing activities to rebuild their crappy shelter so they can all slumber more peacefully. This is a wise thing to do. But Jimmy T is all up in arms that people are paying attention to Jimmy J. First, Jimmy T has already shown that he’s on the Wendy end of the Crazy Stick, and second, I can’t take anybody seriously that looks like Jimmy T. He’s one butt-ugly Missing Link.

Cut over to the La Flora camp, where Sash and NaOnka are chattering away on the beach. Sash wants to bring only Minorities to the end. (In a sidebar, Sash says that minorities “have a bond that no one else can share.” Really?) During this, NaOnka is flipping her hair around and trying to act all street. I’m not sure what street she has in mind, but I don’t want to visit.

Back to the Espada camp, where Holly completely freaks over the fact that Jill is eating snails. Holly actually snatches the container of snails that people have worked hard to collect, runs off, and dumps out the snails. What the hell? That’s FOOD, you lunatic freak. Jill runs to tell the others, and then we have several shots of other tribe members expressing dismay over Holly’s grasp on reality.

Holly comes back from the Snail Liberation Festival, and overhears Dan talking smack about her sanity. (Everybody was, but Holly apparently has selective hearing.) So she sneaks into camp, steals Dan’s shoes out of his bag, fills them with sand, and sinks them in the ocean. Not making this up. Girl has issues.

Dan soon discovers that his footwear is missing, and is none too pleased. (Let’s put aside the fact that he was an idiot to bring these shoes on Survivor, since they are special alligator-hide shoes that cost $1,600. Somebody who brings something like that to a jungle deserves to face some disappointments in life.)

Another sidebar with Holly, where she admits that she’s “struggling emotionally”. (Ya think?) So she calls a tribe meeting, and fesses to Dan about what she did. She just wants to be honest, and now she’s ready to focus 100% on the game. Loser Jimmy T, because he’s from another planet with too much methane in the atmosphere, says “I accept that.”

Dude, Holly filled Dan’s shoes with sand and sank them in the ocean. That is SO many kinds of not right. And they weren’t your shoes. Shut the hell up.

Back to the La Flor camp, where NaOnka is in a tizzy, thinking somebody “moved her socks“. Because she’s as grounded in reality as Holly and Jimmy T, she decides that it’s perfectly fine if she takes a pair of Fabio’s socks and starts wearing them. Fabio, very confused because he’s dumber than a rock, approaches NaOnka to deal with this, but before he can even say anything, NaOnka goes ballistic and tears into him.

What is WRONG with these people? Did they only recruit at mental hospitals this season? I’m all for equal opportunity, but when did schizophrenia become a requirement to get on Survivor?

Over to Espada again, where Holly wanders up to Jimmy J and asks to talk to him privately. They mosey out to the beach, where Holly fesses that she’ “having a hard time”, and she starts crying. Jimmy tries to be supportive and all, since he’s had experience with football players who take too many drugs and get confused on the field. Holly decides to buck it up and stick around for a while. Then she wanders off to talk to a nearby tree, so I’m thinking rehab might take a while.

Time for the Immunity Challenge.

La Flor comes marching in doing another one of their stupid dances, once again not taking things seriously and firmly convinced that their mere youthfulness will rule the day. At this point, that entire tribe could be swept away by a hurricane and I wouldn’t shed a tear. Can’t stand them.

Anyway, we have a muddy obstacle course that people have to run through, and then attack a pile of hay looking for a ball. Once four balls are found, other tribe members have to bounce the balls along using shields and work them into a barrel. And by the way, offers Jeff, this is also a Reward Challenge. The winner can pick from a tarp/rope combination, or some nice fishing gear. The tribes make appropriate lustful noises.

Jeff also explains that the Golden Medallion thing (currently held by the Espada tribe) is really super special this time. If you use it, one of the four balls is automatically placed in the barrel, thus giving you a great advantage. The Espada tribe takes roughly 1.5 seconds to decide they probably should use it this time. (Of course, it also means that they have to give the Medallion to the other tribe. So one of the Espada peeps carries it over and hands it to NaOnka, who looks horribly offended that someone would expect her to hold something, and she quickly throws it at another tribe member. Hate her.)

And off we go. It’s very close at first, until it’s time for Holly to look for the ball in the haystack. She takes forever, probably because she can’t decide which of her personalities should actually conduct the search. But she eventually finds it, and things progress. During the ball-bouncing part, the Espada tribe catches up to the youngsters and eventually surpasses them, winning Immunity. They decide they want the fishing gear for reward as well.

When the happy Espada tribe marches off to their camp, several of them make little whoops of victory, nothing too extreme. But the teenage La Flora tribe takes offense. Oh, come on. You rugrats marched in here all confident and cocky, doing your Cirque du Soleil tribute, and now you’re going to get an attitude?

Cut to the Espada camp, where everyone is very joyous and celebratory. Even crazy Holly seems to have found a second psychotic wind, and is now ready to conquer the world. As the tribe digs into the fishing gear, they find a clue for a hidden Immunity Idol. (It’s in the same cryptic language that youngsters Kelly B and Alina received in the tree-mail that they didn’t tell anybody about.) The tribe works on the clues together, figuring out most of them, and then everybody scatters to track the Idol down.

Scenes of people running all crazy-eyed and pawing in the sand.

Jill, trotting along on the beach, suddenly has an inspiration and figures out the part of the clue the tribe hadn’t fathomed yet. But instead of running to claim the prize, she goes up to Marty (and Dan, because he’s standing right there) and tells him where to look. This is an interesting move. Why would she willingly give the Idol away?

Marty and Dan race to the area that Jill mentioned, and start digging. They hit the failblog, showing that perhaps they aren’t the best and the brightest. (Well, we already knew this about Dan, because he brought those damn shoes along that cost more than 5 of my car payments.) Jill finally has to waltz into the scene for assistance. She points at a spot on the ground, Marty digs, and finds the Idol. At first, Marty bellows about HIM being safe. Then he glances at Jill, sees her upraised eyebrow, and changes his tune to “WE’RE safe”. (Memo to Jill: You better keep an eye on Marty. I’m thinking he doesn’t really understand the solid you just gave him.)

Back to the La Flor camp, where folks are discussing who should go home. As opposed to last week, when everybody wanted to send Kelly B home so she wouldn’t get the sympathy vote for her leg, Kelly B now seems safe because she kicked ass in the challenge, and nobody can deny that. Most of the clueless kindergartners think NaOnka should go, but then Kelly B hatches a better plan. Let’s send Brenda home. Several heads nod, except for Chase, because he’s kinda tight with Brenda. (In a sidebar: “I’m torn. I have no idea what to do.”)

Next we have NaOnka and Brenda, wallering around in the surf and assuming soft-porn erotic poses. NaOnka: “Let’s get Shannon out. Then Fabio.” Brenda thinks this sounds like a sweet deal, so they plot, thinking they can get Sash, Chase and Purple Kelly to join their cause.

A bit later, Chase comes running up to Brenda and lets her know that half of the tribe has fingered her for eviction. Brenda is clearly startled by this revelation. Brenda: “Who’s behind this?” Chase: “Shannon.” Brenda: “Then let’s take him out.”

This conversation, because nobody in the La Flor tribe seems to have any sense and they don’t take precautions to plot in secret, is overheard by Alina. She immediately runs to tell the Shannon alliance everything, which leads to Shannon in a sidebar: “I don’t know who to trust!” (Good, because I can’t stand you.)

Time for Tribal.

Jeff to Shannon: “Is it difficult being out here?” Shannon starts out benignly, mumbling about it being much more difficult living in the wild than he expected. Then he completely jumps the shark, saying that if Chase “goes with his girlfriend”, then Chase is going home next. This opens up a firestorm of accusations and threats. It gets wild. It’s clear that Shannon does not understand how to play this game, alienating even his own alliance members.

Jeff: In 21 seasons of Survivor, I have never seen an opening question at Tribal “lead to that much whoop-ass.”

Jeff to Brenda, and I quote: “While Shannon loses his mind behind you,” what do you think? Brenda politely tries to remain civil, but Shannon keeps bellowing the entire time.

Jeff to Shannon: Do you not understand that what you’re doing is not the wisest thing to do? (Jeff is clearly over Shannon.)

Shannon suddenly turns on Sash: “Are you gay?”

Every single person in the tribe is mortified by this. Except for Alina. She seems to think it’s perfectly fine to bring orientation into the mix, despite the fact that it has nothing to do with anything. Let’s add her to the “can’t stand” list, shall we?

Sash: What the hell are you talking about? I’m straight.

Shannon: “There’s a lotta gays in New York. Not in Louisiana.”

Jeff is completely fed up: “They’ve got a lot of gays in New York?” THAT’s your strategy?

Then NaOnka pipes up, ripping at Fabio, stating “Fabio, I don’t like you”, and whipping her hair around some more.

This mess is just unbelievable.

Fabio: “Can we just vote?”

Jeff to Kelly B: “Your thoughts on all this?”

Kelly B: We need to work for unity.

Duh.

Time to Vote. If they don’t send Shannon home, I’m done.

Eventually, Jeff traipses in with the carefully-sequenced votes.

Shannon, Fabio and Alina vote for Brenda.

Everybody else votes for Shannon. He’s gone.

And he stomps out, totally stunned, which pleases me.

Jeff: “It’s very clear that the biggest threat to this tribe is the tribe itself.”

Word.

The Bubble Bath, Part 9

   Editor’s Note: After sitting quietly for a while on the beach at Atlantic City, we finally decide that it’s time to move back into civilization, mainly because the sun is quickly dropping over the horizon, and we all know that horrible things happen to innocent people on beaches when darkness descends. Since we still have several places to visit on this vacation, it would throw a kink into things if one of us should perish unnaturally near a decaying pier…

  We gather our bags of souvenirs and various footwear, heading toward some nice wooden steps that will give us access to the Boardwalk. Halfway to our destination, we realize something shocking: The sand is evil.

  Oh, sure, the sand was our friend back when we were playing in the water, dashing about and splashing, or just standing there while the waves rush back out, creating that delicious sensation of the sand disintegrating under our feet. We loved the sand at that point in our lives. But now our relationship has changed, as relationships always do if you spend too much time with someone and get glimpses of unsavory behavior and questionable activity. Everyone disappoints you in the end.

  First, the sand beguiled us with innocent-appearing patches of sand that seemed to be devoid of broken shell pieces that could lacerate your unprotected feet. This was a lie. There was actually a fine layer of the sand hiding daggers of death, silent slicers that would leave you with bloody stubs. The trust in our budding relationship was completely destroyed because of this, and once the trust goes, it’s only a matter of time before the bitter catfight which ends in tears, with one of you being forced to pack your bags and find somewhere else to live.

  Next we have the odd behavior of the sand itself. Just lying on the beach, the grains were a nice off-white, perhaps a very light gray, but definitely on the white end of the spectrum. Yet once the grains had transitioned from relaxing on the beach to hitching a ride on your dampened legs and feet, an astonishing transformation took place. The grains turned an ugly dark gray, and they stayed that way even when things dried off, the sand now a paste of crackling darkness.

  With my pant-legs rolled up, I looked like a shoeless hillbilly coal miner.

  Well, no worries, I initially thought. After all, during our earlier trek along the Boardwalk we had spied little ocean-side showers where happy, tanned swimmers had been professionally rinsing off the beach debris. We’d just find one of those, right?

  So there we were, traipsing along the boardwalk, fully convinced that we would soon run across one of these comfort stations and could wash away our sins. This did not immediately happen. In fact, it never happened. Apparently, while we were frolicking in the water and completely distracted, someone had come along and stolen all the showers. They were nowhere to be found.

  And since we were still barefoot and slightly damp, our feet were now attracting other hitch-hiking parasites. Road tar, used bubble gum, cigarette butts. All of the world’s detritus was making a beeline to our coal-encrusted tootsies. From the knee down, we looked like some scaly monster from the deep who had arisen from his flooded cave of despair, and was now determined to snack on common sense-challenged coeds who were stupidly standing around and thinking about having sex with the star of the movie instead of fleeing for their lives and thus making it into the inevitable sequel.

  Bubbles finally had enough of that mess. She trounced off to a nearby concession stand, intent on purchasing a bottle of water so we could take impromptu sponge baths. Without the sponge, or a nursing assistant who could do the work for us. While she bartered with the proprietor, probably scaring him into giving her a discount since she wasn’t going to actually drink her purchase, Terry and I just stood there and pretended like we meant to look like walking road kill, and we were just fine with our lives, thank you very much, so quit staring, you ugly people who can’t wash away your nasty appearance.

  Bubbles returned, and we commenced splashing liquid on our feet, doing our best to make things pretty again. This was mostly successful, though I could still feel grittiness when I finally slipped back into my tennis shoes. I would probably greatly regret this condition at some point in the near future, but at the moment I was quite pleased that my feet were no longer in direct, intimate contact with bird poo, unexplained saliva, and various crime-scene fluids on the sticky surface of the Boardwalk.

  All of this hygienic activity proved to be very taxing, thus resulting in slight hunger on our parts, so we then headed to another nearby shop where they were serving the ultimate in healthy, nutritious fare: funnel cakes.

  Now, everyone loves funnel cakes, so I don’t really need to go into the specific pleasures of such. (Seriously, have you ever met anybody who took a bite of one, spit it out, and swore to never touch the powdered-sugar mess again? No, you have not.) Bubbles obtained our treat, and then we retired to a nice patio table so we could people-watch as we consumed grease-dripping bread.

  Night had fully fallen, so there was a definite change in the parade of humankind on the Boardwalk. Most of the children had disappeared, although there was still an alarming number of the little urchins running about and doing irritating things, each of them a firm example of why state-enforced birth control is not necessarily a bad idea. Likewise, a big chunk of the Blue-Hairs had gotten back on the buses and returned to their assisted-care living facilities.

  Which mostly left people about our age, some a little older and some a little younger. And 97% of them were drunk.

  Of course, you can’t really blame them for being such. After all, Atlantic City was an entertainment destination, with gambling all over the place, enough massage parlors to soothe the entire populations of certain Western states, and thinly-veiled “ladies and gentlemen of the evening”, prowling up and down the Boardwalk and waiting for rich, horny old men to stumble along so they can offer personal tours in the comfort of a hotel room of their choosing. Alcohol was available everywhere. You couldn’t throw a piece of funnel cake in any direction without hitting an establishment with a liquor license.

  Thusly, people were drinking. A lot.

  There are three basic types of public drunkenness. In our first group, we have the people who are just feeling really good. You might not even know that they are somewhat tipsy, except that they are giggling just a wee bit too much, and they are talking with a little more force than is normally required to activate one’s vocal cords. These people are generally fun to be around, because giggling is infectious and talking loud has its merits, especially if they are babbling about your outfit or a certain skill that you might possess. It’s always nice to be flattered in a vociferous manner. And at this level of civil inebriation, even the most boring sober person in the world can manage to appear interesting once they’ve had a shot of tequila.

  Next we have the people who have consumed enough liquor that they are starting to forget about things like personal boundaries and the legality of their actions. They share TOO much, and it’s hard to find their “off” button. These are the people who will show you the tattoo on their butt, even though all you wanted them to do was pass the salt. They are usually more obsessed with sexual activity than one would find appropriate, often digging a small photo album out of their purse to illustrate exactly what they mean. They are firmly convinced of their own amazing sexual desirability. And they don’t stop talking, ever, even when you leave the room.

  Finally, we have the people who have completely lost their minds. Decency is gone, humanity has been sucked out of their pickled soul. In the chemical madness, they will do or say anything. Well, they will try to say it. Sadly, motor skills are weakened and anything coming out of their mouths will contain harsh consonants, too many vowels, and slobber. Likewise, they cannot stand still, swaying to the beat of some imagined conga drum. And they are mean, yelling at people and waving their arms and proving once and for all that man really did evolve from the apes.

  And the mean drunks travel in pairs, often with one of them slightly less smashed than the other, and burdened with the responsibility of screaming “Po-Po is comin’!” at the appropriate moment. The pairs will often turn on one another, their little society falling apart after one of them says something unsatisfactory to the other. Then the rest of the world gets to watch them holler and sway and point and do their slurry best to destroy civilization as we know it. Happily, in Atlantic City, you’re on a Boardwalk, and you can effortlessly shove the mean drunks in the ocean and let them float away. No one will care or dare report you. In fact, the remaining crowd might just build a temple in your honor.

  Then it suddenly hit me. In my current state, I did not qualify for any of the three stages of public drunkenness. I had committed the ultimate vacation sin, allowing myself to become sober while it was still early in the evening. The utter shame.

  I turned to my companions. It’s time for more cocktails, bitches. Move.


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Backup Dancers From Hell: Taylor Swift - “Mine”

We start out with fashionable Taylor wandering into some diner, her hair all strategically messy and wearing a little-girl dress that would look awkward on anybody else. She sits at one of the tables, where there’s a lone flower in a tiny vase, so we can know that she’s unattached but pretty. She glances over and sees a couple arguing at another table, which causes her to flash back to her life as a Little Taylor, when she had parents who argued while she stood in another room and looked sad. But her hair is still pretty.

Then we cut to Big Taylor in some forest, where the trees bear fruit that are glossy pictures, showing scenes from Taylor’s life. Taylor fondles one of the pics, but we can’t see it so we don’t really care. Back to the diner, where a cute waiter struts up, ignoring all the other diners because they aren’t pretty and single, and locks eyes with Taylor. They instantly fall in love while the smell of patty melts fills the air.

More shots of Taylor flitting about in the picture forest, pausing here and there to paw one of the glossies while making sure that the woodland breeze caresses her hair in a wafty manner. Then we’re in the diner again, with Taylor and the waiter ogling one another and planning a life together. Cut to the pair on a random beach somewhere, and we see that some clueless stylist has convinced Taylor that wearing one of those headbands you normally see on babies would be really hip. It’s not.

Then Taylor’s new beloved does this really nelly hop-skip thing while they’re walking along the shoreline, and it’s very clear to me that the boy is gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but Taylor, honey, don’t be surprised if you find a copy of “Dreamgirls” in pretty boy’s backpack. But they keep up the pretense, nuzzling on the beach and clutching at each other.

Then we “flash forward”, according to the lyrics, and we have Taylor and RuPaul moving into a house together. She’s carrying more boxes than him, so all the warning signs are there if Taylor would just see them. Taylor proceeds to unpack some of the boxes, and she finds a picture of Little Taylor with her parents. So she has another flashback. Actually, it’s the same flashback, parents arguing and Little Taylor looking sad. What’s the big deal here? So her parents had a fight and she heard it. If that’s the worst thing that happened to her, she probably won’t even need medication or counseling. Move on.

During the unpacking ceremony, RuPaul comes in to help with one of the boxes. He smiles excitedly while he pulls something out that looks like a giant metal flower, waving it about like his prayers have been answered. Wake up, Taylor.

Well, she’s awake, but she’s back in that stupid forest with the pictures hanging everywhere. I really don’t like this place. Seriously, if you were strolling along in the woods and came across that mess, you wouldn’t think “this is really nice and soothing”. You would think “there’s probably a serial killer right around here somewhere and I don’t have my cell phone.”

Another quick shot of Taylor and Pretty Boy in their new house, dancing around with the lights out. If that’s not a euphemism for their sham relationship, I don’t know what is.

Then here comes that dang Little Taylor again, still looking sad and still listening to her parents have that same argument. This is an unhealthy obsession, Big Taylor. Let it go. I mean, it’s nice that it inspired you to write a song and all, but I’m starting to get bored. My parents fought all the time, about a variety of pointless things instead of just the one argument, and I got over it. Just ask my therapist.

Now the couple is on a slim little boat somewhere, looking all “Vanity Fair” circa 1920, and Pretty Boy pulls out a ring and proposes. This is SO Elton John during his Denial Period when he married that odd woman with a penchant for lace. I guess Taylor likes lace and denial as well, because she accepts and hugs her little chorus boy.

Oh look, now that they’re living together, Taylor and Ricky Martin are having a big fight in the kitchen, just like the one Little Taylor overheard back in the day before she was a pop star. (This always happens. You shack up, and you instantly hate each other.) It’s not clear what the fight is about, but my guess is that Ricky called her “Bruno” whilst playing slap and tickle in the bedroom.

Anyway, Taylor runs out of the house and into the night, just like she did as Little Taylor after hearing that one disagreement her parents had when she was still impressionable and hadn’t learned how to play a guitar. Neil Patrick Harris runs after Taylor, grabs her by the hair, and then mashes her face together with his hands so that she will look more masculine if he has to kiss her. This causes Taylor to remember the good times she used to have with her sexually incompatible mate, back when they were running along the beach and she was wearing the dumb-ass headband. All is forgiven.

Cut to scenes of Taylor and George Michael getting married, while their friends stand around and place bets. Two seconds later, Taylor gives birth, and we have a shot of Pretty Boy holding up the wee one and trying to figure out who the Baby Daddy might be. Then Taylor spits out another kid, so somebody’s getting some action, but I don’t think Pretty Boy’s name is on any birth certificates. Maybe the UPS man delivered more than just a package.

Then we have scenes with Taylor and Pretty Boy playing with their equally-blonde children. The kids like to jump maniacally on the bed while Taylor laughs and thinks they’re cute, which is SO not reality. Any normal parent would be spanking some hyperactive little bottoms. We also have the family splashing around on the same beach where the whole lie of a marriage began. Appropriately, everyone gets salt in their eyes, and we have an image of the little boys all alone on a rock, presumably while their parents are busy dating outside the marriage.

We wrap things up with another shot of Taylor back at that fateful diner, when she selected something that wasn’t on the menu. If she had just ordered the beef instead of the quiche, none of this would have happened…

　

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