Let's Get This Over With...

Ugh, I have so many housekeeping issues to discuss with you and none of them are all that funny or interesting, but we can't move on and talk about the shenanigans Chris and I got up to this past weekend if we don't address them, so let's just get this over with:

1.) That was horrible sentence structure.

2.) As I'm sure you've noticed by now, we're trying out a new way to visually differentiate my posts from Chris'. From now on, both of our blog posts will be in gray text and the little bird icon at the beginning of each post will correspond with the author. (<--- I could not mathematically figure out how to word that so it made sense for a solid five minutes. That felt like taking a test for Autism.) We can always go back to the old format if you decide you really don't like it, but as with anal sex or a friendship with your dad's new girlfriend, I urge you to give it a chance.

3.) In updating the first page of the blog with the new formatting last night, I accidentally deleted the version of Chris' post from last Friday with all the comments. I 100% apologize and assure you that it was a complete accident and I wasn't trying to censor any negative opinions to protect Chris' fragile little ego or anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. I say bring 'em on! The more the merrier! I like watching him get riled up because it makes me feel slightly less crazy about that time I called him curled up in the self-help section of Barnes and Noble having a full-blown panic attack because someone left an aggressive comment saying that I was the most self-involved blogger they'd ever read. In retrospect, I may have overreacted slightly. Oh, me. Let's talk about my reaction to that comment some more. And then a lot more.

4.) Speaking of comments, I'd like to address this old one:

I mean, I get it. Times are lean. You're here to read about our awkwardness and flatulence and gentle love affair with Megan's Law jokes; not get harassed for money while taking a much deserved break from your day. I get it. (Specifically because I was BOMBARDED by kids trying to get me to donate to the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Washington the other day when I was on the metro taking my laundry to my parent's house to do it for free. I mean, don't get me wrong—the Boys & Girls Club is a very worthy cause. Let's not pretend like I've never had to use an ill-strung badminton racket or like I wasn't the laughing-stock of field hockey camp because I always had to use my sister's hand-me-down CranBerry stick when everyone knew it was all about STX® that year—I speak your jive, kids. I get it. But I got hassled by kid after kid after kid when we offloaded at Brentwood Ave, and it's like, look Junior—what part of me standing on this metro platform in 100-degree weather holding an Ikea bag stuffed with my dirty underwear makes you think I've reached a point in my life where I have disposable income? Was it the Chipotle-stained Hall and Oates t-shirt that just tumbled out and onto your shoe? Because that was a gift.)

The point I'm trying to make here is that I find the business side of the blog just as boring and irritating as you do. So much so, that I tend to just ignore it completely and cling to the hope that Scrooge McDuck will one day waddle into my apartment, quack, leave two sacks of gold coins on my bed, shine his monocle on my blouse, and waddle his way back out. That being said, I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that that might not happen, and every now and then we have to remind you how much it helps us when you follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page, forward the blog to a friend, and "like" and buy our book(s) on Amazon. It makes me uncomfortable, but then again so does debt and having to snort fresh cracked pepper for $5 a line as my father's post-dinner entertainment. (True story.) (Sadly.)

We're also eager to schill our book because, well, we're proud of it. Writing it with Chris was probably one of the most fun things I've ever done in my life and as cheesy as it sounds, we're just really excited to share it with you. Because (and I know I'm biased here) it's a really fucking funny book. The following is from an email one of our editors sent us after her first read-through of the manuscript:

"Without sounding like a gushing dork, I have to say that I haven't read a manuscript that I've enjoyed this much in EONS. You guys pulled together one helluva book. You should be really proud. It was hilarious! [...] Again, loved the manuscript! I was laughing out loud and I think my landlords (who live upstairs) are probably wondering what kinds of drugs I've been doing...."

It's exciting! I also feel like it's a good sign that despite having analyzed, torn apart, re-written and slaved over pretty much every line in the book, Chris and I still found ourselves laughing-out-loud every read-through during the editing process. There's an excerpt available online on our publisher's website, should you feel so moved. It's the introduction and the first half of the first chapter, which we wrote first, so we were still in a relatively healthy mindset. I wish you could read the shit we wrote when it was three o'clock in the morning and we hadn't slept for a few days and suddenly helper monkeys, Cincinnati Bowties, and Rod Roddy's ghost were in the mix, as well as The Most Racist Joke We've Ever Written And Are Still Shocked (And Appalled, Quite Frankly) It Got To Stay In, and more thinly veiled Jessica Walter shot-outs than you can shake a stick at. I mean, you can read them. You just have to buy the book. Which I promise I won't nag you about every day, but try to keep in mind that this is our career and we need to buy pants 'n shit. (So much pants...)

SO IN CONCLUSION:

5.) I think I caught the flu from Chris when he was here this past weekend because I feel completely God-awful right now. That's what I get for splitting a hummus platter with a homosexual.

6.) Also, if you buy the book for an e-reader, you get bonus material.

OK! We're all caught up to speed. Thank you for sitting through that. And if you have already made moves to support us, I would just want to say: thank you, thank you, thank you! We truly appreciate it. (I was going to say, "And so does Evie!" and post an adorable picture of her, but, frankly, she doesn't, and she really wasn't cooperating during the photoshoot:

But thank God her hinders are clean. Christ. Oh well, new 2 Birds Investigations tomorrow! ZIG-A-ZIG-HA!)

WE GOT A NEW LOOK!

More on that later. Sleep first.

Chris vs. Jezebel

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It feels extra important this week...

T.G.I. Hagman, gang!

As of 3:42am on July 15, 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive! Watch the beat go UH.

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.

Where Is My Mind?

(You know a blog post is going to be awesome when it begins with this gchat conversation:


Sent at 5:44 AM on Wednesday

 Dan:  sigh

 Sent at 5:58 AM on Wednesday

 Dan:  how's the post coming?

 me:  sorry, i was reading this really intense ghost story

so...not well, i guess.

Jesus Christ...Let's try to move past it.) 

 

- So that's happening. That's a very real problem in my life right now. It feels like fucking Barbados in my apartment and I'm sweltering despite the fact that it's physically impossible to be any more nude than I am right now. I don't know what to do about it. I mean, buy a fan, I guess, but the thought of getting up, putting layers of clothing on my person, walking to CVS, interacting with human beings, and walking all the way back to my apartment is exhausting. I had to walk to the bathroom to get my phone earlier and by the time I got back to my bed, I might as well have just been doing jazzercise in Dubai for all the sweating and wheezing that was going on. Because it's not just hot in here; it's humid. The air is heavy and wet and dank and horrible. I feel like I'm living in a terrarium. So I just lay here all day trying really, really hard not to move. And wait for someone to feed me crickets. Again: it's a problem.

- Ughhhhhh, the battle of Meg vs. Antidepressants has taken an obnoxious turn. As mentioned, I've been on 360mg of Effexor for a little over three and a half years and am currently attempting to wean myself off it. (Fun fact!: 360mg is 10mg over the maximum dosage. I found this out via the Google shortly after my doctor in New York prescribed it to me in 2007, but I never brought it up with him. Wanna know why? Because his office was down the hall from Flyleaf's record label. I swear to God. I didn't ask about my questionable dosage of medication because I was impressed that my doctor's office was down the hall from the record label that represents Flyleaf. And I'm sorry, self, but WHAT KIND OF FLAWED FUCKING LOGIC IS THAT?! I don't even like Flyleaf! And yet I distinctly remember being like, "Oh, shit. Flyleaf. And there's a Dean and Deluca directly next door. Meh—he clearly knows what he's doing. DOO-BE DOO-BE DOO! POPPITY-POPPITY-POP! WHO NEEDS A LIVER?! LA LA LA!" I realize I have an anthropomorphized camo hat and a soft spot in my heart for confederate flags, but it's still shocking how country I am when you get right down to it.) I managed to work my way down to 37.5mg over the last several months without any problems, but I started 25mg last week and it's not going well. I'm withdrawing hardcore, and let me tell you guys something—Effexor withdrawal is no fun.

One of the many Christ-awful withdrawal symptoms of Effexor (you know, besides brain shivers) is rage. I swear to god: straight-up rage. I sit here in my little humidor and I rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light! Except yesterday, the dying of the light = a brochure I got in the mail for a technical college in Philadelphia. The brochure is for CHI Institute (Franklin Mils campus) and it came addressed to the informal Meg Rowland in a handwritten envelope and had a business card stapled inside with the recruiter's name and phone number highlighted. I was so confused. To my knowledge I hadn't consumed a box of wine and decided to pursue a career in insurance processing (although, to be fair, that wouldn't be completely out of character), so I assumed someone must have put my name on an info request list as a joke. And if mail shenanigans are in play, there's really only one suspect—Tulane Chris.

Now, under normal circumstances, I probably would have thought to myself, "Ha ha. Oh, Chris! That delightful little scamp," and gone on with my day. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Instead, I grabbed the brochure, raised it heavenwards with a shaking fist and thought to myself, "That son of a bitch! HE DOESN'T THINK I CAN BE A WRITER?! HE THINKS I SHOULD PURSUE THE FINE ART OF PRIVATE INVESTIGATION OR RESIDENTIAL/COMMERCIAL/INDUSTRIAL WIRING?! Well, I'll show him. Oh, I'LL show him. Baha. Ha. HAHAHA. HAAAAAAAA HAAAAAAAAAA!!!" and kind of continued to cackle like that for a few minutes until I thought I was going to pass out from heat stroke and had to take a cold soak in my bathtub with a grape-flavored Freezepop until I calmed down. BUT THEN...I retaliated. 

About an hour later when I was feeling somewhat less, you know, crazy, I thought I'd confront Chris and see if he was indeed the culprit. Aaaaaaaand as it turns out, he was not. In retrospect, I probably should have been an adult about the whole thing and confirmed that fact before I retaliated. Which is another way of saying: Chris, I'm very sorry that I gave all of your private information to the Church of Scientology and told them on your behalf that you've quote, "got more questions than Catholicism will ever have answers." **~~~~Love you, biffles!!!1!~~~~** ;) ;) ;)

- I made this image of the DC flag with NBC news 4 anchorman Jim Vance heads instead of stars for no reason other than I just genuinely feel more comfortable living in a world where it exists:

I'm a hardcore Vance-head. My sister and I like to play a game called, "What Do You Think Jim Vance is Doing Right Now?" It's fairly self-explanatory. We get together and occasionally turn to the other and pose the question, "What do you think Jim Vance is doing right now?" More times than not he's playing golf or doing sudoku. If you catch me when I'm in an especially good mood, he's listening to Waka Flocka and writing in his dream journal about what a bitch Doreen Gentzler is.

- We've officially reached the point in the summer where I give up on trying to look attractive when I leave my apartment! I've retired my blow dryer, flat iron, and genitals until October. We're all excited.

- Tulane Chris' full name is Chris Turner-Neal, but I said it really fast the other day and it accidentally came out Chris Turtle-Neal. This small mistake has changed my life in ways that another human being never could. I can not express to you how funny the concept of Chris as a cartoon turtle going about his daily business is to me. Chris Turtle-Neal loading the dishwasher. Chris Turtle-Neal going to Wawa to buy an energy drink and scratch-offs. Chris Turtle-Neal avoiding eye contact in the elevator. Chris Turtle-Neal writing an angry letter to the postmaster general about not receiving his phone bill on time. Chris Turtle-Neal making a fresh batch of Crystal Lite. Chris Turtle-Neal all pissed at me because I turned him over to the Scientologists. It's just never not funny to me. Mostly because in my head, it looks like this:

The Asinine and Completely Realistic Adventures of Chris Turtle-Neal—what will he do next?! (Answer: drink port, play Xbox, and somehow work a joke about the Battle of Verdun into casual conversation. God damn I love him.)

Well, this post fucking sucked and I don't have a conclusion (although I did write a song called "Who Needs a Conclusion?" to the tune of the 1981 Men at Work song "Who Can It Be Now?", which I won't subject you to), so I'm going to go punch holes in the wall until I fall asleep. XOXO!

Worst of Netflix: The Corndog Man

First of all: they did make a sequel to The Human Centipede, and it did get banned in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I’m going to go to Norway next month, stock up on copies, and try to smuggle them in on a fishing boat. Meg will stick some in her brassiere and take the Channel ferry from France, and the ever-loyal Kevin Yang is going to fly helicopter sorties from the Isle of Man. Don’t worry, British readers. We’ll make sure you get all the butchery and coprophagia you can handle.

I’ve missed doing Worst of Netflix, but I’ve had a bear of a time finding the right movies to use for it. It’s a delicate balance: you have to find movies that aren’t very good, but that tried to be good, and are also eventful enough that you can actually write about them. I had high hopes for the homoerotic Japanese samurai drama Taboo, but most of the movie was aching glances and bland intrigue, all with the grainy color of a 1970s BBC drawing-room sitcom with a title like “Her Majesty’s Loyal Breeches.” The Gingerdead Man 2: Passion of the Crust knew it was terrible and loved it. You can’t really make fun of a movie in which a haunted dildo fights a haunted gingerbread man. Horror of the Blood Monsters was actually too bad to review, although God willing they’ll bring back MST3K and do that old dog up right. With commentary, it would be funny, but written it would just be “And then for some reason we’re looking at stock footage of baboons through a red filter…” over and over again. Jefftowne, a Troma documentary (yes) about an alcoholic with Down syndrome who sexually harasses women, was too depressing to review; ditto I Think We’re Alone Now, a documentary about two dangerously obsessive Tiffany fans. (I do, however, totally recommend that you watch I Think We’re Alone Now, especially the special features.)

Thank God for The Corndog Man. 

I have a special history with this movie. My freshman year of college, I spent a lot of time with “Sue,” a girl who ultimately had a The Da Vinci Code­-themed nervous breakdown in which she realized that she was a direct blood descendent of Jesus, despite being almost as much of an overbred WASP as I am, and needed to have a baby with her friend’s boyfriend, also a descendent of Jesus, in order to… something. She had a conversation with the color green, according to the hospital orderly. Anyway, before all this happened, Sue was good friends with The Prisons, a trio of guys from Maryland who had gone to jail their first night at college. This group of people was a lot of fun, and actually came up with the best idea for liquor marketing I’ve ever heard: “Russe face.” Crown Russe is a brand of plastic-bottle, college-cheap booze that makes Scotch, gin, and vodka. They insisted everyone who came around them take a shot of the Scotch, because “everyone has a Russe face!” Madison Avenue couldn’t have done better.

Another of their obsessions was The Corndog Man.

Sue: “Oh, God. Chris. Oh, God. It was awful. Ugh. There’s all this… ugh.”

Me: “I WANT TO SEE IT.”

Sue: “I’ll watch it with you, just not… yet. I need to heal. It’s very… much.”

Prison Joe: “Hey, Sue! I’M THE CORNDOG MAN!”

Sue: “Oh God.” (vomits in trash can.)

I finally saw it, and it was. Very. And now I’ve watched it again for you. I feel compelled to say that The Corndog Man isn’t objectively bad, really. It very much is what it is, like mayonnaise-based fruit salad or Star Wars. You’re either into it or not.

The first line of the movie is “I’ll sell a colored man a boat faster than a cat can lick its ass,” and you better believe I’m embroidering that on a sampler. We then cut to a “new guy in town montage,” in which a man in dingo boots rents a room, hooks up his phone, and unpacks a couple of photographs. His car has Florida tags that read C DOG MAN. He then calls Buford, the boat salesman of colored man/cat ass fame, to ask about buying a boat. Gradually, we become aware that ninety percent of the movie will be increasingly ominous phone calls between these two men.

Summarizing a phone conversation is about as boring as retelling a dream, so I’ll give you the high points. C DOG MAN calls Buford over, and over, and over again, harassing him to the point of lunacy. Buford lives on a houseboat with a long-haired white guinea pig and drinks a lot. He also has a black transsexual girlfriend about twenty-five years his junior who calls him “Daddy” and has the best line in the movie: Buford gets falling-down drunk and tries to piss against a wall, causing the girlfriend to shout “You are in front of a lady!” Alcoholism, star-crossed romance, whatever: just don’t let women see you urinate. Later, Buford and the girlfriend pull over by the side of the road to dance in the light of the car headlights; Buford projectile vomits, causing the girlfriend to fling up her hands in an oh-it’s-one-of-those-nights-God-damn-I’m-wasting-my-life gesture and walk off.

C DOG MAN continues. He tells everyone about the black girlfriend, sinks the houseboat, and one night when Buford is insensibly drunk paints him in blackface and sets his unconscious body in front of the store where he works. There’s also an odd little scene where C DOG MAN tricks Buford into smashing up a pink Cadillac with a hammer, and all the while calls Buford a dozen or more times a day.

I won’t go into details in case you want to watch it, but as you may have guessed, C DOG MAN is deliberately driving Buford mad in revenge for Something Terrible That Happened Long Ago. Ain’t that always the way in movies about the South? We don’t get good satellite reception, so we spend all our time doing Terrible Things so that we can entertain ourselves by waiting for them to come to light – and, of course, discovering Terrible Things other people did and bringing them to light.

Oh, and you never find out what the corndog thing is about. Either that or it’s too subtle for me.