Sunday and HBO: veg heaven

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?