Fifty-one seasons, one manually tuned television, and a relationship that has outlasted several generations of electronics.
The Riff. September 24, 2026
When Survivor started, I was the swing shift manager at Allstate Ticketing. I had a little television behind my desk that you had to tune manually.
You turned a knob until television happened.
This was before you could watch a Tribal Council on your refrigerator. Your watch told you the time. Your refrigerator kept the cheese in a condition you could defend.
Although who really KNOWS when blue cheese goes bad?
I’d sit behind my desk, typing old computer codes on an IBM screen to make magic happen, while people on the little television figured out how to live together without becoming a problem.
One chose nakedness as an answer. Perhaps a problem.
Watching required antenna origami. You adjusted everything until you had the least snow, then hoped nobody tapped it.
There was no pausing. You got your snack beforehand or accepted that somebody might form an alliance while you were gone.
I thought I was watching a television show during the swing shift. Nobody explained that I was beginning a relationship that would last more than twenty-five years.
But here we are. Season fifty-one began last night.
At this point, Jeff Probst should be listed as an emergency contact. I’m not sure what he could do, but he would arrive with excellent questions about how badly I wanted to stay.
Now I can watch practically anywhere, and most of my preparation involves deliberately not watching yet.
I need to build a buffer.
This is a critical part of my Survivor strategy because I do not want to watch political commercials.
I’m watching people lie to each other for a million dollars. I don’t need a second competition during the commercial break.
On the island, somebody explains why their closest ally can no longer be trusted. Then a man standing in front of a flag explains why another man cannot be trusted near a school, a budget, or possibly a sandwich.
He could THROW it.
At least Jeff eventually makes his people vote. No mail-in voting, although once he carries the urn somewhere else, I’d argue we’ve introduced a delivery service.
So I let the recording get ahead. Enough room to skip the ominous music and the black-and-white photograph of somebody apparently destroying America by walking out of a restaurant.
Or some bearded carpetbagger proving he’s STRONG because he can tinkle on a piano and talk about Chinese water stealing at the same time.
The danger is catching up.
You skip a few breaks. You think you’ve managed your resources properly. Then the fast-forward stops working and somebody is approving this message directly into your living room.
I would deserve to lose my flint.
What keeps me coming back is how reliably people become people.
Make them hungry. Give them something to win. Wait for someone to announce that they’re taking charge.
There he is. The man who has known everybody for forty minutes and already has concerns about productivity.
You can hide enough advantages in the jungle to open a branch of the DMV. Eventually, somebody is still going to get irritated by how another person handles the rice.
I understand that part. I have been in kitchens.
And I remain fully qualified to judge from home.
Why are you trusting him? Why did you volunteer for the puzzle when we just watched you struggle with the bag containing the puzzle?
Strong opinions from a man who sometimes enters a room and waits for the room to tell him why.
The contestants change. The rules acquire additional rules. Apparently, this year, the rules are no longer rules.
Jeff keeps finding people willing to crawl through mud while he describes their shortcomings at a volume normally reserved for a loading dock.
And I settle in.
For a little while, I’m back behind that desk at Allstate Ticketing. Typing codes. Glancing at the little television. Wondering what these people are going to do next.
I didn’t know that ordinary evening at work would stay with me this long.
Of course, the television is bigger now.
I’m still working on the reception.
Mostly by fast-forwarding through anyone running for office.
Don’t Pick What I Pick
Yesterday: 3–1. The Brewers won 4–1, the Braves won 3–2 in ten innings, and the Dream beat New York by eighteen. Our +1.5 spent the evening with its feet up.
The Dodgers were the lone loss, falling 5–1. After recently accepting credit for adding them, I would now appreciate some privacy. I blame them for sending down the De Paula kid. He was pure energy.
ALL SPORTS: 1,089–1,106–7 · 17 net wins from .500.
TENNIS: 1–1
Today’s four, using consensus lines:
- Diamondbacks ML at Rockies — around -195. Eduardo Rodriguez against Tanner Gordon gives Arizona my favorite starting-pitching matchup on the card. Just win.
- Braves ML vs. Reds — around -220. I prefer Tyler Mahle against Brady Singer, with Atlanta also bringing the stronger recent offense.
- Red Sox ML vs. Guardians — around -135. Ranger Suárez is the more established starting option. Boston’s day-to-day hitters keep this third on the list.
- Falcons +4.5 at Packers — around -105. Atlanta’s pass rush against Green Bay’s depleted offensive line is the attraction. I fully anticipate that Green Bay will figure out a way to add the “Oh” to offense.
This isn’t called Pick What I Pick.
It’s called Don’t Pick What I Pick.
Please wager accordingly.
