Don't judge a drunk book by its seemingly out-of-touch cover

While in Strahan, Tasmania, my husband and I had the privilege of meeting a charming local character at a pub. His name was Grant, but he preferred to be called Granto. Dressed in red flannel, he had scraggly dark hair and a mid-length black beard extending from his chin. It appeared that everyone in the pub knew him, much to their chagrin, and some displayed considerable ennui at the prospect of having to get Granto home from the pub again.

Husband and I were sitting along the back wall, drinking Cascade, watching footy and generally keeping to ourselves. It was about 8:30 p.m. when Granto stumbled over to us, can of VB in hand, and introduced himself. He asked us if we were from France and -- perhaps because we didn't recognize potential sarcasm from a wasted Tasmanian -- we told him we were from the U.S. He replied earnestly that he'd always wanted to go to the U.S. and visit Dallas, because of the TV show.

This struck us as particularly hilarious because: (1) the real Dallas is, I'm sure, not much like that depicted on Dallas, so unless he wants to loiter around South Fork impersonating an oil baron he's likely to be disappointed; and (2) how strange to make such an earnest popular cultural reference 20 years after the show's heyday. It would not have been surprising if he had told us he really wants to visit Wisteria Lane, or Springfield. Those references are current. But, Dallas? To see the Ewings? What?

So anyway, today I came across this little tidbit: apparently, a production company is currently casting for the big-screen adaptation of Dallas, a la the recent Dukes of Hazzard. John Travolta is being considered for the role of J.R. and, naturally, Jessica Simpson for Lucy. It is clear that Granto knew something that we didn't, and that Dallas is perched on the brink of world domination once again.

The moral of this story: even though they are completely pissed, unhygienic skirt-chasers who work two jobs to support their 12-year-old sons and swear they don't like to offend women only seconds before calling someone a "cunt," Tasmanians, at the end of the day, seem to know what's going on.