- Right up front: this is a high-context post.
- If you haven’t watched all three seasons of Deadwood, then none of this will make any sense.
- For example, one of the bullet points will, for a moral certainty, be composed in its entirety of: Hey, it’s Con Stapleton!
- And I will not explain:
- Who the fuck Con Stapleton is.
- Why the fuck he merits an exclamation point.
- In the plainest words I can muster: this is inside baseball, and unless you know which character was always bitching about the newspaper not carrying the baseball scores, you will not enjoy the following writing.
- Also: spoilers.
- Okay, show’s starting.
- A train!
- A Jane!
- A drunken monologue!
- And the winner for “Fakest CG Train of 2019” goes to…D: TM!
- Holy shit, Al looks terrible.
- Not Ian McShane.
- He looks as though he’s been getting facial treatments for fifteen years.
- Charlie’s here, and so is Jewell the Gimp, and Doc Cochran.
- The last of whom, you’ll recall, was puking up blood regularly by the end of Season Three.
- I guess his tuberculosis got better.
- I will try not to keep repeating this, but: All these fuckers look old as fuck.
- Charlie Utter, for example, has aged a billion years in 13 years.
- (It’s been 13 years in the real world, but in the Deadwood Cinematic Universe, a decade has passed.)
- Bullock!
- And Mrs. Bullock!
- They are all hot to trot: the man can’t keep his hands off her crinoline.
- E.B. is still at the hotel; he is identical in appearance, but the building is not: brick has replaced wood.
- Hearst!
- You murdering, conniving cocksucker.
- You know he’s up to no good.
- I mean, he’s a U.S. Senator now, so obviously he’s up to no good.
- Trixie is enormously pregnant and HOLY SHIT, STARR GOT OLD.
- Did John Hawkes contract progeria recently?
- Fucker looks like he’s defending the Holy Grail.
- We’re on page 17, roughly, of the screenplay; we’re gonna need an Inciting Incident here, fellows.
- Oh, there it is.
- Trixie calling Hearst a cunt and a murderer during a parade.
- That’ll do it.
- Hearst doesn’t enjoy being called a cunt in private, but he simply won’t abide it in public.
- There is also a new hooker in town, and she is deeply symbolic.
- The production designers deserve an award for so cleverly disguising the ridiculously giant teeth that Timothy Olyphant installed in his mouth several years ago.
- Hey, it’s Alma Garrett-Ellsworth.
- Missed you, you junkie slut.
- A complication!
- Hearst has made an offer on Charlie Utter’s land so as to string his telephone poles through it.
- You cant fuck the future.
- Future fucks you.
- Charlies a goner, man.
- On second viewing, Hearst’s plots seem a bit off.
- AUNT LOU!
- She’s midwifing Trixie.
- Aunt Lou, apparently, does know about birthin’ babies.
- Ah, everyone’s favorite show biz bullshit: the three-month old newborn.
- Calamity Jane is now asking Charlie Utter for romantic advice.
- Remember how Calamity Jane got all Sapphic with Joanie Stubbs?
- The lesbianism took, I guess.
- And now she’s back in town and she wants her Joanie back
- But Joanie is–and this will shock fans of Deadwood–mopey.
- Hearst is wearing the same sort of magenta gloves (proudly) that Ellsworth (whom he had murdered) begrudgingly donned for his wedding.
- Oh, God, N—-r General.
- Why the fuck are you still in Deadwood?
- Go somewhere else.
- Go anywhere else.
- I mean, nowhere in America is safe for you, N—-r General, but there must be locations that are safer.
- WU!
- HANG DAI, COCKSUCKER!
- Never really learned English, did you?
- Good for you, Wu.
- I’d watch a show that retold the stories from the series from Wu’s POV.
- Hey, that new whore is back.
- Being symbolic and saying meaningful shit and all that.
- Oh, God, N—-r General.
- Why did you stay at the scene of Charlie’s murder?
- WHY WON’T YOU RUN AWAY, MAN?
- Oh, for fuck’s sake, now Bullock has called Hearst a cunt in public.
- It’s like they want him to burn the camp down.
- I cannot, for the life of me, feature on the meaning of New Whore.
- (She’s got a name now. It’s New Whore.)
- Did HBO demand that someone on the screen not look grizzled?
- YEEEEEESSSSSS!
- BULLLLLLLLLLLLOCK!
- I’m not explaining what those last two points refer to.
- If you watched D: TM, then you’ll know.
- If you didn’t, then you stopped reading 600 words ago.
- Either way is okay by me.
- “That is a goddamned gold commemorative worth twelve-to-fifteen dollars.”
- You know about David Milch, right?
- Can’t tell you the day of the week, but can write lines like that.
- Which makes it worse.
- That’s the worst way to go.
- Knowing that it’s happening.
- Watching it as an onlooker.
- Seriously, how the fuck is Doc still alive?
- FREDERICK DOUGLAS!
- That’s the haircut N—-r General has.
- Been bothering me all night.
- I preferred the old style:
- You remember this scene, right?
- I think was Season Two.
- How many times has Franklin Ajaye played “Guy Who Shouldn’t Have Gone In That Bar?”
- And Farnham gets a mini-monologue.
- Here’s how good D:TM is: the fan service doesn’t feel like fan service.
- Why is George Hearst–who is, I remind you, a sitting U.S. Senator–directly dealing with the assassins?
- In his fucking hotel room?
- Doesn’t he have a guy?
- A majordomo?
- Literally every single time a character on Deadwood refers to the town of Lead, I say to myself “It’s pronounced Leed, but it’s spelled Lead.“
- Every.
- Single.
- Time.
- I am a simple man with small and common thoughts.
- PEACHES!
- FUCKING PEACHES!
- That’s the fan service I was talking about.
- Generally, fan service is distracting and, at worst, embarrassing.
- One recalls the “Ladies Kickin’ Ass” shot from the climax of Avengers: Edamame.
- But here, it is like a sweet gift from the creators of the show.
- Jeffrey Jones.
- Jeffrey fucking Jones.
- He’s back.
- That’s a choice by the producers, I suppose.
- Dunno if I would have made that choice.
- MRS. ELLSWORTH SLAPPING HER MASSIVE COCK ON THE GEM’S BAR!
- Auctions are a great place to be rich.
- There’s no place it’s bad to be rich, honestly, but auctions are a fun place to be rich.
- Harry Manning, you asshole.
- I’m glad you got so fat.
- YES!
- THE BULLOCK SPECIAL!
- Straddling a cocksucker in the Thoroughfare, and punching that cocksucker repeatedly in the face!
- That’s his signature move.
- It’s like when Jimmy Snuka would do the Superfly off the top rope.
- You’d leave upset if you didn’t see it.
- Okay, I had to pause it just so could get the lines right.
- “I expect you believe that a badge insulates you from certain untoward consequences?”
- “Much as you being a U.S. Senator will insulate you from jail.”
- Trixie had the baby around 18 hours ago; she is now up and about and flat-bellied and running back to Al.
- LOOPY CUNT!
- You know you’re watching a dark teevee show when “Loopy Cunt” is an in-universe term of endearment.
- I’m in love with the cinematography.
- I wanna make sweet love to the cinematography of this movie.
- And then flip it over and make horrible love to it.
- Holy shit, why is Al Swearengen allowed to hold a baby?
- That’s just unholy.
- Even dying of cirrhosis, Al looks cool.
- His hair is…well, you know.
- Calamity Jane and Joanie are way more public with their lesbianics than I would have imagined would have been acceptable in 1890.
- Also funny to imagine: Al is, of course, missing the middle finger of his left hand.
- Well, it’s not missing.
- He left it on Hearst’s table when Captain Turner chopped it off.
- So I would assume that they digitally erased it, but to do that, Ian McShane had to wear a green finger condom during shooting.
- That, to me, is funny.
- Hey, it’s Con Stapleton!
- Wedding, wedding, pig and froggy wedding.
- SOL STARR STOMPED ON THE GLASS!
- FUCK ME, HE STOMPED ON THE GLASS!
- Seriously, Jane and Joanie are dancing and making out right on the dance floor at the wedding.
- Now, obviously, I have no problem with it.
- But–again–it’s 1890.
- A black guy was just lynched that afternoon.
- The offices of the Deadwood Pioneer have been relocated across the Thoroughfare, from their previous abutment against the Gem.
- Here it comes.
- Here’s the money shot.
- Give the people what they want, Milch.
- Hearst, finally as defenseless as was the camp to his murdering machinations.
- But we are not satisfied.
- No.
- Give it to us, Milch.
- GIVE US WHAT WE WANT!
- …
- BAM! Bullock takes Hearst by the ear
- And Calamity Jane was the Secret Hero all along.
- Knew it was in her.
- And now the second (major character) death of the film: the N—-r General.
- I can’t understand a word he says, and Bullock gets to cry and act.
- Black man gets fucked again.
- And now it’s Al’s turn.
- You know he had to die.
- The slaving cocksucker gets a better end than most on this planet.
- He is at home, the home that he built.
- With his own two hands.
- And he is surrounded by his community, even the ghosts who won’t fuck off.
- Ghosts never know when to fuck off.
- Bullock gets his happy ending, which he did not deserve; Al gets the last word, which he did.
- And then the dragons burned everyone in the camp to death.
- So good night, all you hoopleheads, and all you cocksuckers; good night to the livery and to Wu’s pigs; good night to the faro dealers, bartenders, and junkies; good night to the stage arriving presently on the Spearfish Road; good night to the Pioneer, the Bella Union, the Number 10, the Grand Central Hotel, and the Gem Saloon.
- Pussy’s half-price for the next twenty minutes.
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Fine, goddammit. I’ll watch Deadwood: The Movie again and do the real-time bit. It’s either that or sit here with my fucking thoughts, and we both know that’s unacceptable.
See you in an hour and fifty-two minutes.
Posts will be light or non-existent for the next several days. I rise with the sun tomorrow to begin the move (assuming the sun gets up at around 8-ish). The recap of Deadwood: The Movie will not appear immediately, but I will make it up to you by finally finishing up the recap of the third season along with TotD:TM.
Anyone wishing to welcome me into my new home with a housewarming gift is directed to the Donate Button. Anyone wishing me to go fuck myself can do so, also via the Donate Button. Those who are indifferent to me may also give me money.
TotD: Okay, this is somewhere in the late ’80’s. What do we think, girls?
Monet: This was before we were born. I feel like I would have put a stop to it. Tried to, at least.
Chloe: Are those Bobby Shorts?
Monet: I don’t think so. I think Bobby Shorts are strictly jean shorts.
Chloe: So what are those?
Monet: They’re just shorts.
Bobby: Now, uh, what you gals aren’t realizing is the amount of storage space those babies had. I could carry a dozen peoples’ stashes in ’em. A solid short. Obviated the need for a fanny pack.
TotD: Obviated?
Bobby: Yuh-huh.
TotD: Chloe, these are Bobby Shorts:
Chloe: Dad.
Monet: Dad.
Chloe: Dad.
Monet: Dad.
Chloe: Mom!
Monet: Moooooooom!
…
Natascha Monster: Oh, my God. Snake Tee-Shirt! He’s still around here someplace, isn’t he?
Bobby: I think he’s in the room where you wrap presents.
Natascha Monster: We don’t have one of those, hon. You’re thinking about the Spelling Mansion.
Bobby: You got a room just for wrapping presents, you live in some swanky digs. We live in a nice neighborhood, but that’s real high-end.
Monet: Dad, concentrate. This was before you married Mom, and way before we were born. So, like, we didn’t know this guy. Tell us about this guy. And help us understand his choices.
Bobby: So, uh, as you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s wife-beater, it’s pretty hot.
Chloe: Don’t say “wife-beater.” It’s a problematic term.
Bobby: Okee-doke. As you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s spouse-beater, it’s pretty hot. And I just wilt in the heat, man. Much prefer a temperate clime. And, uh, don’t gimme any of that “dry heat” horseshit. Humid heat is worse than dry heat, but any kind of hot is awful. That’s where the shorts came from. Plus, you know: someone had to be the eye candy.
Monet: Daaaaaad.
Chloe: Ew. Did girls in the crowd ever, like, throw their underwear at you?
Bobby: Not that I recall. And that seems like something I would recall. And, uh, a lot of the women who came to our shows couldn’t throw their underwear cuz they weren’t wearing any.
Monet: The boots, Dad.
Chloe: Dad, the boots.
Bobby: You see the circumferential bulges? Those boots were an experimental temperature-regulation system called Podiatherm. They wick sweat away from your feet, distill the water from the sweat, then cool and circulate the water. They were based on the stillsuits from Dune. But, uh, just for your feet.
Monet: Did they work?
Bobby: Very well, very briefly. Then they heated up to an alarming degree. Which you’ll recognize as irony. Precarious had to cut me out of ’em right onstage. As you’d imagine, none of your uncles shut up about it for months.
Nixon: Dammit, boy, who taught you to dress yourself?
Nixon: This is how you wear shorts. Genie-style! Never let your enemies see your bellybutton. That’s not an option for men like us.
Chloe: Dad, where did Nixon come from?
Monet: WHAT THE FUCK?
Nixon: Silence your daughters, Bob. Join me in Puerto Rico. You don’t even have to change your money. They take the dollar here. By God, they take the dollar here. Other islands, tropical locales, they’ve gone straight Red. Terrible situation. But the, uh, Puerto Rican is by nature family-oriented. Familia is their word for family, I’m reliably informed.
Bobby: Girls–
Chloe: AHHHHHHHHH!
Monet: Where’s the gun!?
Bobby: –are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?
Enthusiasts, I have decided to withdraw my support for the latest Bobicle, appearing in this month’s GQ magazine. In fact, I denounce it and demand that it be exhumed and put on trial like Pope Formosus. SYNOD! I CALL FOR A FUCKING SYNOD!
Hey. Slappy. What’s going on?
You heard me. We’re having a Cadaver Synod. What do you even wear to a synod?
There will be no ecclesiastical jurisprudence on this site.
Mmm. Such long words. You know what they say about a guy who knows long words, right?
Just like literary society, I’m ignoring you. What particularly aggrieved you about the article.
Bobicle.
I can’t be forced to say that word, as it’s not a word.
It’s a Bobmanteau.
Why are you shrieking?
Okay, first of all: goofing on Bobby’s outfits is my shtick. I invented that.
You did not.
Second of all: this “Brett Martin” fellow linked to me to prove a point, but he linked to the old site and seemingly at random.
Why is his name in quotes?
Pseudonym.
For?
The ghost of Salvador Allende.
That guy hated September 11th before it was cool. But it wasn’t him.
Why not? You can’t be sure. The ghost of Salvador Allende would naturally want revenge on America, and there’s no motherfucker more American than me. I piss freedom and shit murdered abortionists, man.
Uh-huh.
And I’m close with President Nixon. Allende was not a fan of RN.
No. But it wasn’t him. Brett Martin is a real person. He mostly writes about food.
Ew. People who write about food should be forced to write about the food after they’re done with it. For every paragraph about the kohlrabi with Bayonne ham, there’s a corresponding graf about the doody it became 12 hours later.
You a little cranky, fella?
I can’t move anymore. My next move is going to be into a casket. Or a monastery. Somewhere I don’t have to carry 1,000 pounds of books upstairs.
Well, don’t take it out on nice GQ writers.
Fuck him. He doesn’t even follow me on Twitter. How much can he possibly know about the Dead?
…
You have a point.
I know.
“Guys? Hey, guys? Why is my piano set up so my back is to the crowd? Is it cuz I’m ugly?”
…
…
…
“Uh, no. No, definitely not. Nuh-uh.”
“Nah, man.”
“The ol’ Pig don’t think you’re ugly, KG! It’s just that your looks is an acquired taste!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re scaring off the skank, Sloth! Hide your face!”
Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?
“Trying to get free shrimp.”
You can yoink shrimp?
“You can yoink anything if you put your back into it. Or, you know, no one’s looking.”
Mickey, Steve Aoki is a respected deejay.
“Oh, yeah. I respect the shit out of the way he plays other peoples’ records. I don’t give a fuck about deejays. What I do give a fuck about is that the guy’s dad owns Benihana. I want one of those ‘eat-free-for-life’ cards.”
Like Carvel gave to Lindsay Lohan and then had to take back because her mother was abusing the system?
“That didn’t happen.”
“That family’s a mess.”
Oh, yeah.
“I wouldn’t do that. I would be courteous. I’d tip well. But I’ve got a Grammy, I’m in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I porked Joan Baez…there are no more mountains to conquer except eating my weight in free shrimp. And it’s gotta be flipped into my mouth by a Guatamalan dude pretending to be Japanese.”
You’re a man with a plan.
What could I possibly add? Just press “play.”
When did your nose get that big?
“It’s the angle.”
If you say so. Talking to journalists again, Bobby?
“Well, the fellow had questions about mortality, and art, and bus customization. Felt it was impolite not to answer.”
Sure.
“And, you know, I’d never been in GQ before. I was on the cover of GB a while ago.”
GB?
“Guitarist’s Balls. I don’t know if it’s on the newsstands anymore. Hell of a masthead, though. Joan Didion wrote 10,000 words about Jimmy Page’s potato salad. And informative, too. You remember Leslie West?”
The guy from Mountain?
“Yeah. Astounding things going on with his balls.”
I don’t want to know the specifics.
“Good choice. They haunt my dreams.”
Right. Bobby, you need to stop recounting your dreams to reporters.
“Do I do that often?”
Literally every profile written of you in the past ten years contains a passage wherein you describe your dreams in detail.
“Hey, dreams are important. Imagine how boring sleep would be if you didn’t dream. It would be like taking a plane ride without a book.”
I don’t think that’s why we dream.
“That’s my explanation and I’m standing pat.”
Okay. Would you like to talk about the poncho?
“Serape.”
Whatever.
“I got it in Mexico. Well, a resort within Mexico, but technically that’s still Mexico. A small batch of communist rebels from Tarahumara ran it over from their village. They brought me this garment, along with greetings from Sub-Commandante Marcos.”
You know Sub-Commandante Marcos?
“Big fan.”
You of him, or him of you?
“Anyway, I tried on the poncho–”
Serape.
“–and was blown away. Checks off every box: comfort, durability, you can smother a fire with it. And, uh, storage capacity. I’ve got three bottles of pinot noir stashed in this sucker. Pockets within pockets, man.”
Sounds great.
“This is the kind of thing you can wear to a fancy restaurant, or the zoo, or a fancy zoo. Like, where all the animals are wearing bow-ties. You could wear this to the Oscars. They’d sit you right next to Jack Nicholson. This baby goes anywhere. It’s the Swiss army knife of Mexican blankets.”
I don’t know, Bobby.
“And, uh, I loved it. Lots of bliss in these folds. So I thought that maybe the fans would also love it, and so I told the merch guys–”
Slap a Stealie on it.
“–to slap a Stealie on it and see what the market would bear. I think we’ll sell a lot of ’em if we can keep Mickey from yoinking the stock.”
That’s a big ask.
From the Comment Section, Tor Haxson pitches in with some highly useful videos from the In Concert With AIDS show. Above is Garcia and Bobby trying, in their way, to cut a donation spot. The efforts are typically bush league, with Garcia winning the “Quotables” competition with “Send money, and anything else you got.”
Then, Bobby and his chest thatch get interviewed. It goes poorly, as Bobby cannot seem to find a happy medium between single-word answers and logorrhea.
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