Deadwood fans, you know that our show is so goddamn good that they haven’t even invented an award distinguished enough to do it justice. You might as well create The Deadwood Award.
Doc Cochran’s little conversation with god — we might call it the What Conceivable Godly Purpose? Speech — was one of the most compelling performances you’ve ever seen on your television, bar none.
And how about the exquisite complexity of Al Swearengen’s character? He has always striven to be as cold, calculating, brutal and self-interested as possible, because he had a horrible childhood, and his cruel ways have been rewarded with material prosperity. Now, in spite of himself, and although he’s certainly still a violent hard-ass in his business affairs, he sees in himself disturbing tendencies in the direction of becoming a regular human being with normal feelings like love (e.g., for Trixie) and compassion (for the reverend). Despite his uncommonly dark, sardonic sense of humor, the man is incapable of smiling — even at the sight of Jewel the Gimp waltzing with Doc Cochran. A psychotherapist could hang an entire career on Al’s head.

I have complete confidence that E. B. is a more worthy candidate for president of the United States than either Kerry or Bush, and his chances are at least equal to Nader’s.
Think about it. The current Mayor of Deadwood has amply demonstrated integrity, honesty and leadership qualities that far surpass George W.’s, and cowardly though he may be, has he more balls than Kerry. Al Swearengen could be the power behind the throne as VP; A.W. Merrick, with his media savvy, would make a splendid press secretary; maybe a Farnum administration could recruit Eddie Sawyer from the Cy Tolliver organization and put him in charge of Treasury. I’m not sure whether Dan Dority would be more effective at the top slot in the Pentagon, or as Chief of Staff. But I know I’d rather have a principled, upstanding lad like Seth Bullock enforcing the law of the land than that fascist looney tune John Ashcroft. Mrs. Garret would surely make a fine replacement for Condi at National Security. And we all know Doc Cochran is a no-brainer for Surgeon General.

Goddamnit I’m sick and tired of you pathetic fucking cocksuckers who fancy yourselves literati constantly holding forth about pointless shit on my fucking blog. I like to swear. I disagree with the administration’s policies. For the love of christ won’t you please shut the fuck up? If you don’t get your useless asses over to the Gem and start drinking, gambling and buying some cunt, I’m gonna have Dan slit every one of your fucking throats for you and feed you to Wu’s pigs. How would you like that?

There are those who say that the use of gratuitous profanity is symptomatic of weak powers of expression, laziness, poor self-discipline. Well you know what? I happen to enjoy swearing. Some argue that the promiscuous use of our friend the F-word, for example, diminishes its expressive power. Well guess what: that’s one fucking trade-off I can live with.

I predict that Johnny Sac will crush that malapropism-using, pretentious prick Little Carmine.
I predict something bad is gonna happen to our good friend, that homocidal genius, the erudite murderer, that clever assassin and would-be massage therapist known as Tony B. I think Johnny Sac might take his revenge on him for wacking Joey Peeps, and tell Tony S to just deal with it.

If you were Snapple, would you want to have an empty bottle from one of your products smashed into someone’s face on the Sopranos? Seems to me that smashing people’s faces with a bottle is kind of negative.
Then again, what do I know about marketing. Perhaps they’re thrilled to get their brand in front of those eyeballs regardless of the context

Required equipment:   whiskey, a TV, and an episode of Deadwood.
Number of players:  a minimum of one.
Rules:   Play begins when the Deadwood episode starts. Every time a character on the program does a shot, players are required to do a shot. Last player standing is deemed the winner.

I know I wasn’t the only one who got a little teary when Bob said his goodbyes.
On literally thousands of mornings I’ve stood there trying to cut through the fog, pondering my coffee, my day, my life, and listening to Bob and to whomever he was interviewing. And I have almost invariably enjoyed listening. There’s something about his voice, his style, his technique, and the workings of his intelligence that make you genuinely like the guy. Or at least, you’re sure you would if you knew him personally. It seems inconceivable that the man is an asshole in real life.
I should note that I am not unconditionally in love with NPR. They often provoke my more-radical-than-thou leftist wrath with their pussy-liberal establishment optic and spin. But still I’m a habitual listener.
Let us digress. Because I live where I do, a real lefty radio alternative is available: WBAI. Problem is, their production quality and indeed their content is often just too shitty, and I lose patience. I recall one morning turning them on and hearing some guy chanting and playing bongoes. When he was done, the host of the show was like, thank you man that was really good. Guess what: no it wasn’t. It sucked. Then came a woman reading dreadful poetry in a 1960s jive voice that was supposed to make us think she was cool. That’s when I said fuck this I’m outa here, I’d rather listen to white males discuss the stock market.
Back to the matter at hand: you did a helluva job, Bob Edwards. We’ll miss you buddy.

I’m already euphoric just thinking about watching The Sopranos tonight.
Then there’ s that new western, Deadwood. I was already favorably disposed to it from seeing the promos, but when the opening sequence started, and I heard that music and saw those images, I knew I was in love.
Perhaps it’s a generational/sentimental thing. The western genre is practically dead; no one does it any more in this age of bullshit so-called reality shows. When I was a kid growing up in the sixties, there were plenty of westerns in film and on TV. I was fascinated by the macho atmosphere, the hokey-folky wisdom, the horses, guns, cards, whiskey, violence. The saloon doors, the player piano with that clinky sound…
Now comes this ultra high qualiity show where the creators went to the trouble of researching the shit out of the history of Deadwood, Montana, to bring you a beautifully produced work that de-romanticizes the old American west in the manner of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. (For the record: I won’t be suprised if some critic has already compared Deadwood to Cormac McCarthy, but I haven’t read or heard any such comparision, so maybe, just maybe: you heard it here first.) And so you have a character named Ellsworth who stands at the bar, having just traded his $170 gold piece for bar credit, and proclaims: I may have fucked my life up flatter than hammered shit, but I stand before you today beholden to no human cocksucker.” How can you not love it?