Friday, February 09, 2007

The Deadwood Dare - Parental Guidance Suggested

Deadwood, the television series on HBO, has become my absolute favorite thing that can be seen on the little black box. I didn't think Tony Sporano could be supplanted, or Denny Crane on Boston Legal, or anything by Aaron Sorkin, but those fucking cocksuckers on Deadwood have done it. David Milch is a fucking writer and a half. Maybe two.

Of course it doesn't hurt that the History Channel runs back-to-back episodes, those Yankdom sonsofbitches who would soon as make a dollar as any whore dropping her drawers for a dollar to be found at the Gem, or that I generally drink whiskey - preferably Kentucky bourbon or perhaps a little Jameson's or Bushmill - while watching Al Swearengen and EB Farnum and Sheriff Seth Bullock scheme and connive and sweep aside any onerous cunt that impedes their life's pursuit of the simple pleasures of drinking, whoring, fighting, empire-building and finding true love. Or a gold nugget.

The profanity on the show is Homeric in its poetry, a linguistic melange of Oxford and Harvard English and dockside crudity. It is profanity that you can positively wallow in with joy at its unfettered elegance. It is beautiful excrement, fragrant feces, perfumed piss. Deadwood is the best fucking writing on fucking television. And you can take that to the fucking bank.

The mano a mano showdown between Al and Seth over the honour of Alma Garret may have been one of the finest set pieces ever seen on televsion, and was then topped by watching Doc Cochran attempt to discern if Al had bladder stones by inserting a metal rod up Al's urethra and listening for the click of metal on mineral. That is fucking genius. I nearly wept at the perfection of it...

However, I digress.

I was so tired on the morning that Deadwood came on a few nights ago, that I forgot to shave while in the shower. Then, as I watched the show late that night and sipped good Kentucky bourbon, I realized while scratching a chinful of stubble that I could have passed for most of the men on the screen, most of whom were rather hirsute. Facially speaking of course.

The number of Jack Daniel's I had quaffed made the next segue to the Phoenix Suns and their recent consecutive game winning streak, relatively easy. My mind has a tendency to jump around even when sober and when half-cut, well, I can hardly be held responsible for the erratic trail of my train of thought. The Suns had stopped shaving during their winning streak. They went seventeen games and set a new franchise record. I desperately NEED a winning streak. So I have stopped shaving. And drinking - well, maybe a little. At least until after the Boston Marathon.

Everything else in my life may be out of whack, off balance, and way off kilter, but of all the things I can actually control in this mad, mad universe, one of them is whether I have whiskers. And my resolve to get to one hundred and eighty blistering fast pounds.

Behold the Boston Barbarian!


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