PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

I suppose we have to talk about it. If we don’t, we’ll be the only

people on Earth who haven’t. Let’s do it together. It won’t be as painful

that way.

“Survivor.”

There, I said it. I know, I know, you’d rather eat glass than hear

another word about “Survivor.”

But once again, a program has struck some sort of primordial nerve

with people around the world. And once again, I don’t get it.

There are tribesmen in the jungles of Brazil who aren’t sure if they

were created by the giant butterfly who lives beneath the earth or if

they fell into the Amazon from the clouds, but they are fully aware of

who Rich, Kelly, Rudy and Susan are.

By the way, Rich, the corporate trainer from Rhode Island, won. Wow.

Let’s review.

The show chronicles the adventures and misadventures of 16 hearty and

not-so-hearty souls who were plopped on a small island somewhere between

Borneo and nowhere. The last man or woman standing at the end of the 13

weeks wins a million clams.

Get it? They’re stranded on a tropical island. A “million clams.”

Forget it.

Anyway, their character and endurance are tested by doing jungle stuff

like eating gross things and playing jungle games. One of the games is an

“immunity challenge.” If you win, you are immune from being booted that

night, which can occur as follows.

Every night, the group convenes as a “tribal council” complete with

campfire and torches, and votes to boot out one member of the group.

Some will tell you that the word “melodramatic” has been around for a

while, but I swear it was invented for this show.

Everybody has their own little torch. If you get booted, the host

calls you up, front and center, and snuffs out your little torch with a

hollowed-out coconut. The host, former “Access Hollywood” reporter

(perfect) Jeff Probst, calls up the most solemn tone he can muster and

declares, “The tribe has spoken. It is time for you to go.”

The boot-ee then walks slowly into the jungle night, shoulders

slouched, torch doused. The remaining players stare at each other and

wonder who will survive the next night’s tribal council, hence the name,

“Survivor.”

Wait, it gets sappier.

In a series of vignettes, each survivor tells us why he or she voted

to boot him or her. It’s like election night analysis with bikinis and

sandals.

“When we first got here, I thought she was nice. But then I found out

she made an alliance with him and they made a pact to boot me if they got

the chance. There’s like, no hard feelings, except now I hate her. I’m

glad she got booted.”

Oy. Couldn’t we just go back to “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” It’s

so much simpler.

“What was Richard Nixon’s dog’s name?”

“Hmm, I think it’s, ahh ... Ch, -- Rin Tin Tin.”

“Not exactly. Here’s your thousand dollars. Now get out.”

What impresses me most about “Survivor,” though, is how utterly

unlikable these people are. It is no easy task to find 16 people as

off-putting as this crew. If they had held a challenge to see which of

the “final four” -- Rich, Rudy, Sue and Kelly -- was the most obnoxious,

bitter, and unpleasant, the tiebreakers alone would take another 13

weeks.

Be that as it may, “Survivor” has been so popular (51 million

Americans were glued to their sets Wednesday night) that “Survivor II” is

already scheduled to begin taping in Australia in a few weeks.

Frankly, if this is what America craves, I think we should do our own

version, right here in the land of Newport-Mesa.

I don’t have all the details worked out, so let me know what you

think. This stage is called “development” in television talk.

We drop 16 people on Balboa Island. Everybody wears Speedos or

bikinis, jelly sandals and T-shirts that say “I’m Not From Here.”

Everyone gets a frozen banana (no sprinkles) and one bottle of Evian a

day. Other than that, they have to live off the land and their wits.

They gather at different times during the day to compete in island

games like, I don’t know, “find a parking space” or “find a latte made

with whole milk.”

If you win an immunity challenge, you are not only immune from being

booted, but you’re also immune from hearing another story about Dennis

Rodman, his love life, or his “party house.”

Every night, the tribal council convenes at Amelia’s. The city would

never allow open torches, but we can probably find some nice oil candles

at Anthropologie or Restoration Hardware.

We either drag whoever gets booted that night to the bridge and throw

them off, or take them down to the ferry and keelhaul them.

Too over the top? Maybe, maybe not. Never underestimate the public

appetite for the bizarre.

“The Balboa Challenge.” If people watch “Survivor,” City Council

meetings and wrestling, this thing might get legs.

I gotta go.

Editor’s note: Although Peter Buffa -- out of touch, as usual -- was

not aware of this, Costa Mesa’s own Oscar Santoyo, director of the

nonprofit Save Our Youth, was a semifinalist for “Survivor.”

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.

He can be reached via e-mail at o7 [email protected] .