On 'Dallas', on Cupid, on Donder, on Blitzen!

All of my emotions about the new Dallas can be summed up in one single noise: it's a mixture of a long, disappointed sigh; the grunt of a pregnant woman in the throes of her final push; and the Bill Lumbergh "Yyyyyyyyyyyeahhh....", all made with a facial expression that screams, "Oh, shit—I just locked my keys in my car, didn't I?" That is how I feel about the remake of Dallas.

I understand that if anyone should be happy about the new Dallas, it should be me. The original Dallas is one of my all-time favorite shows, Larry Hagman is my personal Lord and savior, and if anyone loves trashy night time TV more than me, I'd like to meet them. (So I can destroy and sex them.) (NOT IN THAT ORDER.) However, I would like to take this time to officially state that I am not on board with Dallas 2.0. I actually got drunk and wrote a really long post about why not when Larry Hagman agreed to join the cast, but it was uncomfortably serious and kind of embarrassing for us all, so I ended up scrapping it and going outside to breathe this "fresh air" that everyone speaks so highly of. Here is what I will say, briefly:

1.) So much of why I love 70's/80's soap operas is because of the fashion: big hair; nude pumps; spangly, spangly gowns; my beloved gold lamé; tight, high-waisted Gloria Vanderbilt jeans; pantyhose!; nylon and lycra and pearls—oh my! It's borderline pornographic. But squeeze a meh-list actress fresh off a run on Desperate Housewives into a Herver Leger bandage dress, give her a spray tan and I'm sorry, but I'm not poppin' wood. You feelin' me?

2.) I want to remember JR Ewing as a s-s-sex machine, not a s-s-stroke victim, thank you.

Nip/Tuck. You assholes.

3.) My concern is and always will be for Larry Hagman's health. I'm actually CEO of a non-profit called "Focus on the Hagman". We sponsor T.G.I. Hagman's across the country, run uncomfortable Super Bowl ads and make it rain with pairs of TOMS. It's all very exciting. But we, as an organization, are not comfortable with the attention Larry Hagman is inevitably going to get from Dallas 2.0. Because on some small level, I truly believe that the Grim Reaper got distracted the day he was supposed to collect LH because he had to pick up more mulch at Home Depot or some shit and oops—it's 2011 and Larry Hagman's still alive! I'm nervous he's going to curl up on the couch one night with a bowl of kettle corn and a Zima, turn on TNT and be like, "FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK..." and that will be the end of that. I didn't invent the rainy day; I just own a Hagman-shaped umbrella.

4.) My biggest argument is this: remember that scene in Practical Magic when Sandra Bullock freaks out and demands that Stockard Channing and Dianne Wiest bring back her dead husband, but they won't do it because "even if we did bring him back, it wouldn't be Michael. It would be something else. Something dark and unnatural,"? Well, that's exactly what this new Dallas is going to be—something dark and unnatural that just shouldn't be. Don't believe me? Knock, knock. Who's there? Melrose. Melrose who? MELROSE PLACE WITH SPECIAL GUEST STAR ASHLEE SIMPSON. That's fucking who. And 90210! I mean, why don't we just dig up the body of George Washington, throw him on a vibrating bed with Brittany Snow, smear a used menstrual pad down your TV screen and call it the new Love, American Style while we're at it? Christ.

Which is why up until now, I decided to adopt the same strategy my dad used when he got his draft lottery number and ignore the entire situation until it just kind of goes away on its own. It worked for him, so why shouldn't it work for me, right? (And yes, this is my 'Nam.) But then TNT gave the show the green light and now it's happening for realz for realz and I can't ignore it anymore. My inbox, Twitter, and Facebook were all bombarded last week with people linking me to the TNT story and asking if I was psyched. This made me start to doubt myself. Maybe I'm overreacting and should embrace the show? Gah, but it feels so wrong! I need answers. I need someone to guide me. I need the one who turned me into the Hagmanite I am today. My sire—Original Co-Blogger Eddie. Oh, wise one! Show me the ways of the Old World! (Or, this is some shit, right?)

"MY FEELINGS ON DALLAS", by Original Co-Blogger Eddie

1.) Holy shit. When I picked the Dallas as the topic for my senior history thesis I did it because I wanted to watch lots of TV. Like Pigman in PCU. I found out that watching TV is hard, and I ended up with lots of useless knowledge about a TV show very few people under the age of 27 knew about. Our age group knew that some dude named JR got shot and all the adults wanted to know WHO SHOT JR. BUT NOW I FEEL LIKE I WAS RELEVANT, I was saying and observing important things about America and pop culture. I want to thank the remake for allowing me to feel like the history degree I earned has some value. (Aside from talking to people's moms/the older ladies at work. People's moms and older ladies at work LOVE talking about Dallas.)

2.) I'm scared Larry Hagman will die now because this cursed him in some way. JOCK died during the show's run; who's to say that will not also happen to JR?

3.) Rumor has it Victoria Principal isn't coming back as Pam because she CHANGED HER FACE SO DRASTICALLY to look young that she now looks like a monster pretending to be Victoria Principal. So no Pam on the new show, which is sad because she made moments like this in a disco so awesome.

HELLO A WHITE TURTLENECK, WHITE PAINTS AND A FUR TO A DISCO, that will not happen in the new show. She is sexy and yet very covered up...

This leads me to my next feeling:

4.) I also worry that the world of the Ewing family on Southfork belongs at a time and place. Maybe, just maybe, those characters need to stay in 1978-1991. You can't go back to the past, but thanks to DVD's and books, you can revisit at your leisure. A TV show like Dallas is intimately bound to the time frame it was created and consumed. Sure, it was an over the top prime time soap, but it still was an important piece of TV trash. I'm scared that this remake will tarnish the memory of one of the most influential pieces of television ever created and exported outside of the United States. Dallas changed the look of the 1980's, and changed television, but it was also influenced by that era. Giving JR a computer, information about GREEN JOBS and putting him on Facebook will alter the TV show. I like that TV shows don't change, that I can re-watch them and they stay the same even if the time period is different. Like little time capsules where someone playing Miss Texas could have HORRID teeth and drink when she is knocked up and it's only "maybe bad for the child." This remake will not be the Dallas I love, it will be something very different with the same actors playing semi familiar parts. This remake has the possibility of being a hallow memory of what Dallas was and never will be again, and that makes me very sad.

Chances are I have many more feelings and thoughts and lucky for me I have a whole year to process them. It's been sometime since I watched Dallas, I needed a big break (for obvious reasons) and I have no doubt re-watching the DVD's will stir up emotions I didn't even know I had.

OK, so it's some shit. Good to know we're on the same page.

Well, here we are. I finally shared my Dallas emotions. I feel naked. I feel vulnerable. I feel exposed. I also feel like it goes without saying that none of this is going to stop me from watching it and recapping it for the blog. BUT I'M NOT GONNA LIKE IT.

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries:

- First and foremost, I didn't forget about last Thursday's cracked out promise to do a "Spit in Porn" entry; it'll go up tomorrow. I need one more day to gather my thoughts on the subject matter. Because I have a lot of them. But like, a lot of them. To the point where the thought of organizing them into a cohesive blog entry is completely overwhelming. Thus, I've decided I shall spend all day today in a dark corner of a quiet coffee shop, pair of bifocals perched slightly below the bridge of my nose, brow furrowed while I flip through old leather-bound books on human sexuality, biology and...spit..., feverishly taking notes and yelling at the waitress for interrupting my train of thought to do something as pedestrian as clear my cup away, a-thank you. Because tomorrow's entry isn't going to be just your run-of-the-mill blog post—it's going to be my opus.


- Only 10% of me is shocked that my opus involves spitting on genitals.


- Based on my interest in "Nip/Tuck" and Louis C.K. stand-up, Netflix has recommended that I watch Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico.

That dog better be in Mexico to get cheap botox or because he deeply resents his children; anything less and Netflix and I are going to need to have words.


- There is no other music in the world that toes the line between "jolly" and "I'm going to kill myself tonight" like Christmas music. While I was waiting for Teresa to come over and drink wine and Christmas-ify my apartment with me last night, I put on my Pandora Christmas music station and started tidying up a bit. At first it was playing swingin' Michael Buble "Holly Jolly Christmas" type stuff, but somewhere along the line it slowly progressed into like, recently orphaned children singing through their tears about Christmas trees and songs comprised of a single, haunting bell echoing through the night that forgot you. I didn't even notice the progression happening; one minute I was making my bed and the next I was curled up in it, hysterically crying and wailing, "I'M SO FUCKING ALONE!" into a pillow.


- That being said, the Christmas spirit has arrived in the old Meg McBlogger residence!




My Christmas tree is kind of anorexic. And fake. And casting spooky shadows on my wall in that picture. And up until a few hours ago was covered in Luna bar wrappers and old US magazines in the crack between my bed and the wall—or my Shame Hole, as I call it. And by Luna Bars, I obviously mean empty ice cream cartons. And it's now standing on an old H&M pashmina covering a Jäger cooler. Basically my Christmas tree is the antithesis of Alex's fancy-pants real person Christmas tree:
Whatevs. Mine's got moxie.


- Speaking of Teresa, I never thought I'd say this to anything but the mirror as I gaze at my Thrillhouse tattoo (which, for the record, I do quite often), but this is probably the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen:
If Maryland pride is gay, then I'm the Old Line State's Bruce Vilanche.


- If all goes well this year with HannuClaus, I will soon be making the switch from a duvet to a comforter. I'm kind of bummed about it though, because truthfully I find duvets more comfortable than comforters. My problem with duvets, however, is that I'm an incredibly active sleeper and as I toss and turn all night, the duvet separates and gets pushed down to the bottom of the cover and I somehow manage to tangle myself in the entire apparatus and all of a sudden I'm having nightmares about being in a straitjacket and feh. I feel like it has to just be easier to get a comforter. I'm tired of not getting enough sleep because the ratio of duvet to cover is off.


Speaking of my odd little bed neurosis, there was a solid month in 2004 when my sister's best friend, Rachel, would sign into AIM for the sole purpose of featuring a new "Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day" on her profile. I completely forgot about this little gem until it was a featured EMMFOD: 

Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day: When Meghan was a little girl, her parents used to have to safety pin her pillow to the center of the bed.

Uh, A.) that's incredibly true and although safety pins aren't in the mix anymore, the odds of me being able to sleep if my pillow is off-center is still slim-to-none; B.) That being said, just the fact that safety pins were even involved in my bed time growing up makes me feel so Aspie's I'm shocked there isn't a social worker reading this over my shoulder as I type.


- You know what I've come to realize? If God forbid I ever run out of things to write about, all I need to do to get more material is simply go down into the metro. I don't even necessarily have to take it anywhere! I just need to physically enter the human cesspool that is the Washington, D.C. metro system and within 30 seconds, I guarantee you I'll have a story about how society is crumbling in upon itself and I want to set 98% of everyone I see on fire. Case and point:


I had the great displeasure of taking the metro to my parent's house during the peak of evening rush hour the other night. I entered the metro from Dupont south and from the top of the descending escalator I could see that the platform was packed everywhere except for the far end. "HUZZAH!" I thought to myself. Still reeling from Ren Fest. Apparently. "That's the side where the train pulls in; the first few cars are normally pretty empty anyway. I'll stand there!"


I slowly worked my way through the crowd and eventually arrived at the opposite end of the platform. As I stood there waiting for the next train, I felt very content with my situation as I had about five feet on either side of me free of Other Person. Which is exactly when an older woman walked over and stood directly in front of me. Let me repeat that: Bitch stood DIRECTLY. IN FRONT. OF. ME. She had more than enough room to stand next to me, but she chose to stand in front of me. And you know what pissed me off most about that situation? It wasn't that she was poaching my prime platform real estate; it wasn't that her person was about three inches away from mine and very clearly invading my privacy bubble; it wasn't that she was going to board the train before me although I got there first—it was that what she did was the equivalent of the people on "The Price is Right" who graduate from Contestant's Row by bidding one-dollar more than the highest bidder. You people are the fucking scum of the earth and if I'm sure of anything in this world, it's that there's a Hell and there's a special place for you in it. In my mind, here's the pecking order of Hell:

1.) Hilter

2.) Pol Pot

3.) An army of child molesters

4.) "The Price is Right" —and one, Bob! bidders

5.) Osama bin Laden

That's right, —and one, Bob! bidders come before Osama bin Laden. You people are collectively worse than the mastermind of 9/11. I am genuinely shocked that murders haven't been committed as a result of someone betting one-dollar more than the highest bidder, winning, and going on to play Plinko. Because Lord knows I'd kill you! I'd kill you, pry that fucking bedroom set from the Ashley group out of your cold, dead hands, and dance on your grave! And you can say, "Oh, that's just the way you play the game. Those people are being smart," but I completely reject that. You know why? Because there's a little thing called dignity in sport. I mean, we'd all win a few more football games if we went around shaking members of the opposing team, but nobody would actually do that because there's no dignity in that win. If you're going to walk into "The Price is Right" studios, come correct—know the prices of shit. Go to Safeway and do some recon; it's not that hard. A bottle of Garlique is $15.99. There. Have some god damn respect for yourself. Don't just wait until the fine Americans who actually did their homework place their bids and then bid one-dollar more. It's disrespectful to me, it's disrespectful to them, it's disrespectful to Bob Barker and his Beauties, and it makes a mockery out of what is undeniably the finest game show of the 20th century.

And that's why I hate the metro.

What I Learned From 43 Episodes of Nip/Tuck

So I've been sick recently. So I've been sicker than normal recently. I wasn't going to get into it because I'm pretty sure if I discuss one more health issue on this blog, the Make-A-Wish Foundation is going to step in and send me to Disney World, and frankly the only reason I'd go to Florida is to learn how to bake with Kevin Yang or force Helena to watch a shuttle blast-off because she's scared of space and we have a sadistic friendship. But, I mention it now because recently I haven't really felt up to venturing into the outside word, so I've been spending a lot of time inside watching TV on Netflix instead. (NETFLIX: YOU SICK ADDICTIVE BEAUTIFUL BITCH, YOU.) I got into Nip/Tuck late in the game, so I decided it would be a really "good" idea to go back and start from the beginning, especially since I've always wanted to see the episodes about the illusive and grim serial killer, "The Carver." And I did this at 12:30 in the morning. By myself. To help me go to sleep.

Things I've also deemed a really "good" idea in the moment: buying, and subsequently wearing, a John Deer baby-tee at the age of 20; going blonde; not wearing sunscreen in Arizona while laying out for 8 hours because "I don't tan"; deciding that Apple Care is for hippies and billionaires; getting an eyebrow piercing at 24 because I had feelings; topping off the large meal I ate at Anna's goodbye BBQ last month with a sausage link and a bloody mary (and not in that order, by the way; simultaneously.) And what do all of these things have in common? They all seemed like a good idea at the time, but were horrible, horrible, horrible decisions in the end. My little Nip/Tuck marathon was no exception.

Not only did it scare the shit out of me because the majority of episodes in seasons 2 and 3 are about a serial killer who viciously rapes and disfigures his victims, it's also addictive as crack and I could not stop watching. And the thing is (and no offense, Mr. Murphy. You gave the world Mr. Schuester and the tale of an effeminate, football playing twink who Mike O'Malley finally learned to accept. You pretty much get a free pass at this point.), you wouldn't think I'd be so addicted to Nip/Tuck. I mean, it's a great show, don't get me wrong, but every time I watch it, I'm distracted by the fact that Julia's always crying and Matt a.) has a vagina or my name isn't Meghan C. McBlogger (....oh) and b.) is the most irritating character in FX programming history. But despite this, I was addicted. I couldn't stop watching. I ended up watching 3 seasons in 2 days and have burn marks on my thighs from my charging laptop sitting in my lap for so many hours. (And when it got too hot, I'd take a break and move it to my stomach. So good day to you, chances of conceiving.)

When I started this whole mishegoss, I just wanted to see The Carver episodes and for some reason thought they would be spread out over like, 4 episodes, tops. So, I got emotionally invested and and vowed to ride it out to the end. But I didn't know the end would be two seasons later. And by that time, I just couldn't stop watching until I knew who The Carver was. And Christ! I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually sick of TV. I kind of want to eat a celery stalk and toss a ball around. Outside.

Now, I know you're thinking that I could have just stopped and looked up who The Carver turned out to be on The Google, but don't you get it?—That would have been cheating. I got myself into this mess and it was up to me to get myself out. Honorably. And I did. By watching 43 episodes of Nip/Tuck back-to-back until The Carver's big reveal. And let me tell you, watching 43 episodes of anything is enough to drive you insane.

Speaking which, I would like to apologize to those of you who follow me on Twitter for accidentally live-tweeting the end of season 3 tonight. I realize my thoughts on those episodes probably would have been slightly more interesting in 2006, but in 2006 I was watching a lot of 1980's Degrassi Junior High and Clone High DVDs. And frankly, I have no regrets. I'd also like to thank Alan Zilberman, the movie reviewer at Brightest Young Things, who I don't actually know, but did briefly serve as a helpful sounding board for my Carver theories. And to Teresa's boyfriend, Dave, who stepped in at the last minute and told me which episode the big reveal was so I knew when I'd be getting my life back. Aaaaaand to everyone who didn't unfollow me for manically tweeting about 4-year-old episodes of Nip/Tuck. Because that did happen.

But this little Nip/Tuck-a-thon gave as well as it took. True, I lost some followers because of a spike in my usual Twitter obnoxiousness, but I learned some very important lessons as well. Lessons, which I will gladly share with you now:

What I Learned From 43 Episodes of Nip/Tuck:

1.) Dame Helen Mirren really has the market on hot-older-distinguished-Lady cornered, but in my opinion, Vanessa Redgrave deserves an amen. Because, I said god damn:

2.) VANESSA REDGRAVE IS NATASHA RICHARDSON (R.I.P.)'S MOTHER AND JULIA'S REAL MOM!

Actually, I think my mom repeatedly told me that when Natasha Richardson died last year as a little, "Oh did you know...?" fun fact, but it went in one ear and out the other because I couldn't visualize who Vanessa Redgrave was and kept picturing Robert Redford, which then made me think of Katharine Hepburn and I was like, didn't Katharine Hepburn die six years ago? I don't know. Writing this blog has taught me a lot about myself; specifically that I'm not that smart.

3.) I am never getting surgery. Ever. According to popular medical opinion, I currently need three procedures: a tonsillectomy, wisdom teeth extraction and a breast reduction. And to those three surgeries, I have three words: No. Fucking. Way. Why? Because there's an episode in Season 3 where The Carver screws with the anesthesia so the patient seems under, but can feel the entire procedure! And when I expressed concern about this to Tulane Chris tonight, he calmly said, "Oh. Well, that happens." WHAT?!?! Dropping your popcorn at the movies happens. Bad cell reception happens. Spotting during pregnancy happens. Being paralyzed while you feel the agonizing pain of surgery can't just happen. Christ. So big tonsils, big teeth and big booths, ahoy! I'm like a walking cubist painting.

4.) Similarly, I'm never flying again. Ever. Thanks to an incredibly graphic episode about the aftermath of a plane crash in which Mac's mom from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia gets burnt like a pop-tart and Julia has to slice her dead back flesh off to wrap around other burnt survivors who have a chance of making it and I. SAID. GOOD. DAY.

5.) Oh holy mother of god—I will lock my apartment door from now on. OH MY GOD, I KNOW, I KNOW. IT'S HORRIBLE! I LIVE ALONE IN THE ONCE MURDER CAPITAL OF THE UNITED STATES AND I DON'T LOCK MY DOOR! I'M SORRY! It's my dirty little secret. In fact, I think Andrew was recently like, "Did you know that X% of people in this city don't lock their doors?" and I judged them just like everybody else did, when secretly that X% is 100% ME! My mother is reading this and having a small heart attack right now somewhere. I'm sorry. It all started in college when I developed an intense phobia of locking myself out of my dorm room when I went to take a shower. You have to understand! I didn't want to prance around the dorm in my robe looking like a wet cat. THERE WERE MEN FROM TEXAS THERE. MEN FROM TEXAS.

Anyway, one day sophomore year, I went out to meet my parents for dinner and actually did remember to lock the door behind me. When I got back from dinner, the entire floor was a-buzz that somebody had broken into my room and stolen a bunch of shit. BUT GET THIS! The robber stole my roommate's laptop, TI-83 calculator and phone but didn't touch anything of mine (despite totally having shit worth stealing, thank you very much.) I was like, YES, HORNBERGER!!! And from then on, I took that as a sign that I'm invincible to break-ins; doors locked or otherwise.

So now sometimes if I'm lying in bed and see that my front door is unlocked, I'll be like, "Meh. I live in an apartment building. We have front desk security. I live on the 4th floor. Someone will hear me scream. I took kick-boxing for a semester in college. Five feet is so far. NIGHT!" roll over and go to bed.

BUT NOT ANY MORE! Because I'm like a juicy Thanksgiving turkey just sitting on the dining room table, begging to be carved. So from now on, I promise to lock my door at all times. (Oh my god, I never locked the door when I lived in Brooklyn either. Diane, I am so, so sorry.) (And I never used conditioner until I got to college and realized it was weird that I didn't. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!)

6.) I owe Anna and apology. Anna's a huge Nip/Tuck fan and she was the one always telling me how good The Carver episodes were. Well, one time we were staying in this random hostel in Bruges (because we're both white, upper middle-class and east coast college educated, so of course that sentence just happened,) and I walked past the hall bathroom and saw Anna bent over washing her face in the sink. As a goof, I snuck up, stood in the doorway behind her and stared at her in the mirror, so when she looked back up she'd see me and have a little...scare. BECAUSE THAT'S FUNNY! We were in Bruges. Well, apparently it was not funny. She looked up, saw me, literally froze in fear and said, "GAH." But like, G-A-H. GAH! It's the only noise that she could produce. It was so perfect; it was like a cartoon. I thought an anvil was going to fall on her next. I never understood why she was so pissed at me for doing that UNTIL I saw the episode where Sean is washing his face and when he looks back up in the mirror, THE CARVER is staring back at him. Jesus. I've been cleaning my face like a cat for two nights now. So Anna, I humbly apologize. But if it's any consolation, my paws hurt.

7.) I thoroughly enjoy the sound of someone putting latex gloves on and snapping them off. I realize I'm standing backwards on the slippery slope that is, "Meg has a latex fetish!", but it's just honestly an incredibly satisfying sound. There's nothing sexual about it. It's like tires driving over gravel or sassy black women snapping their gum at the post office—it just sounds good. And yes, those of you personally know me know that there's a blatant latex cat mask hanging up in my closet, but it was an ironic prop for a photo shoot. BUT NOT THAT KIND OF A PHOTO SHOOT. It was for Washingtonian magazine. But we didn't end up going with those pictures. But the photo shoot really happened, I swear. 'Ehh...It's times like these I allow myself to remember that my parent's friends read this blog and just cringe ever-so slightly.

8.) The name "Kimber" drives me up the wall. Because not to get all Andy Rooney on you, but where's the —ly? Kimber. It's just such an unsatisfying name. If I had a friend named Kimber, I'd spend our entire friendship being like, "OH, HEY KIMBER!.......ly." Kimber just feels so...unfinished. Like when you feel like you have to sneeze and then you don't. Or when you have a sex dream but can't come for the life of you, so you wake up and try to finish but you're like, well great, I'm actually not horny at all, I'm too tired to even try and it's 6:45 on a Saturday morning. That's Kimber.

9.) I should probably get out of the house?....Yeah. I should get out of the house.