***

Someday when we wake up and all our dreams come true
No one will be lonely, and I won’t be missing you
Someday all our questions will be answered when we pray
The tears on all our faces shall be wiped away
Someday

Someday peace will break out in the world of men
Lambs lay down with lions and never fight again
Someday we will stop and think and we’ll wonder why
We ever lived in hatred and children had to die
Someday

Someday love will happen and we’ll all make amends
And even Cain and Abel will walk along as friends
Someday sons and fathers will take each other’s place
Words we said in anger will be resolved in grace
Someday

Someday hearts will open in every girl and boy
The trees will shake with laughter and the hills will shout for joy
Someday we will meet again the ones we can’t replace
And someday you’ll be with me and I will see your face
Someday

***

(Inside The Gem, Al is behind the bar while Jack Langrishe stands with his back to him looking around.)

Al: "Known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake."

Langrishe: "You know I'm not one to be fussed over."

(Al pours and raises his eyebrows.)

Langrishe: "Rough places like this inspire my muse. Most impressive. The Gem. Most impressive."

Al: "Some of us ain't allergic to hard work, to which you'd be a stranger in them duds."

Langrishe: (laughs) "I cannot dig. To beg, I am ashamed. (Langrishe turns to face Al.) Hard work, it seems, has taken quite a toll."

Al: "My appearance ain't none of your concern. Leave all such matters well the fuck alone."

Langrishe: "It would appear the times are out of joint."

Al: "Fuckin' complex. That's all I'll say on that."

Langrishe: "I'm here to entertain. The play's the thing."

Al: "Thinkin' like that'll keep you above ground, graceful, and not incurrin' wrath from one who would be king."

Langrishe: "Hearst?"

Al: "Yeah. George fuckin' Hearst."

As a new day dawns in Deadwood, a recovering Cy Tolliver looks out his window and takes in the thoroughfare.

Cy: "Fucking elections. New faces in camp. Deals made, fuckin' money changing hands. And, here I stand like some snot-nosed orphan, face pressed against the window, lookin' in on cocksuckers who think they can hoist sail and fucking navigate the winds of change. Do you hear me, Lord? Are you listening? They say in Heaven streets are paved with gold. That true, Lord? Tell me, is that fuckin' true? Streets here are paved with horse-shit, piss, and blood. My blood, Lord. My blood on the thoroughfare. Forgive that if you will, I fuckin' won't. What's that, Lord? What? You say, revenge is yours? Well, take a number, get in fuckin' line. I don't forgive, Lord, and I don't forget, and I will not stand outside looking in. Change don't scare me, nor does George Fucking Hearst. It's time old Cy declared whose side he's on - shoulder the burden, help carry the cross, and wait to drive the fuckin' nails in. You listening, Lord? Never fuckin' mind. You'd best avert your eyes and turn away. Send your four horsemen. I'll greet them and smile, and tell them, welcome to fuckin' Deadwood."

Interior location - The Grand Central dining room.


Merrick: "May I say, Mr. Langrishe, that I am much in your debt for taking of your time to keep the readers of The Pioneer informed about the finer things of life such as the theater, art, and acting in which, with all due modesty, I must confess to having dabbled in the past, though strictly as a budding amateur."

Langrishe: "Yes, Mr. Merrick, I seem to recall you making mention of this when first we met on the day our weary troupe arrived, slowly descending from these great Black Hills."

Merrick: "And a great day that was for me as well."

Langrishe: "You are too kind."

Merrick: "I simply speak the truth."

(Richardson arrives, silently places plates of food on the table, and obsequiously backs away.)

Langrishe: "Such a face!"

Merrick: "Richardson?"

Langrishe: "He has the look of a character born in Shakespeare's time."

(Merrick glances at Richardson and is for a second at a loss for words.)

Merrick: "May I ask, Sir, if you might be so kind as to offer some insights into the creative process - in particular, how authors and actors are so inspired?"

Langrishe: "That, Mr. Merrick, is a question which I have considered now for many years. The ancients spoke of daimons which inspired. There is no amusement without the muse. Writers create, and their words proceed forth and are made flesh by actors who become the incarnate expressions of those words, so much so, I am left to wonder if there is a moment when characters become living creatures independent of their creator. And might such a creature become in its own right a living thing?"

Merrick: And cry "Subsisto!"

Langrishe: "Yes! Yes, I exist. Most writers will allow that they are led by characters that in turn drive the plot, the creature becoming the creator."

Merrick: "And might such characters continue to live on long past the final curtain call?"

Langrishe: "I think they do. In fact, I think they must, to be enjoyed forever and anon."

I haven't written much about the sad turn of events regarding Deadwood. I've been digesting the news and I've got a stomach ache. Or maybe it's my heart. And yet, because to not take a position is to grab ankle, I'll share these few thoughts.

I have no idea what results all the letters, emails, protests, and other efforts to save Deadwood shall bring about. However, I believe it's the right thing to do. I applaud everyone's work. It's the right thing to do because what HBO is doing to Deadwood is wrong. It is wrong from an artistic point of view. Such a quality series should not end in this way. As a work of art, the series deserves a proper conclusion. If in fact art doesn't matter to this cable channel then they should change their slogan to HBO - It's just TV. What they are doing is wrong because they have verbally betrayed the actors, an outstanding ensemble cast who have been gut-punched by this decision. What HBO is doing is wrong because it treats the fans in a shabby and inconsiderate manner. While the actors on Deadwood have treated the fans with enormous deference, kindness and thoughtfulness, HBO is treating us as mere living capital. This is both wrong and just plain stupid. HBO has to know that sooner or later these actions are going to have consequences and a dire result. The people who made this decision are showing themselves to be bean counting pencil pushers with dollar signs where their hearts should be. These are the actions of Nietzsche's "last men" who do not care about art and who aspire to nothing more than basking comfortably in the warm glow of their bank accounts. I don't know if this rises to the level of irony, but it is one hell of a coincidence that just as the characters on Deadwood struggle to save their community from the forces of unrestrained corporate greed, fans of the show face a very similar situation. It always saddens me to meet people whose only bottom line is the bottom line. They can worship at that altar if they choose, but they shouldn't expect fans to follow like mindless acolytes. In fact, they should tell their god to ready for blood.

PS.,

I use the term "blood" only in a metaphorical, poetical sense. The people who made this decision might remember blood. It's what would have flowed through their veins had they once been young and thought art important. It's also similar in color to red ink, which they'll be seeing a lot of if they keep pulling this kind of shit.

Howdy. Life sure is hectic these days. I've been spending a lot of time on the thoroughfare away from my office and computer.

Random thoughts:

I think I've figured out why I find it difficult to relate to the characters on Big Love. It's got nothing to do with polygamy as such. It has to do with the fact that living alone has made me too idealistic about relationships between men and women, husbands and wives. For years I have found myself shaking my head in wonderment when I hear a man being invited somewhere and told to bring his wife, or when a guy speaks of taking his wife somewhere. I still hear older guys inviting someone to dinner and saying that they'll tell their wife to set an extra place at the table. I always want to say, "You mean you'll ask her, right?" Now, I'm not a Republican, but I am an old fashioned, martini sipping, 1928 Prayer Book Episcopalian whose attitude to change can be summed up by the words of Al Swearingen: "I don't want anything done that can't be undone five minutes after this fiasco concludes." It's not that I'm "Mr. Sensitivity" or anything, it just sounds jarring. It's like when I hear adults complaining about kids with long hair. I mean, what the fuck? Have I been put in a time machine and taken back to the 1950's? Similarly, when I hear Nicki on Big Love tell Bill that he "gives" Barb "too much power" or when I hear husbands like Bill and others speaking of "giving their wives" an allowance, like they're children, I have the same bewildering "what the fuck" experience. Don't husbands and wives sit down together and discuss their finances and as partners decide how much they have to spend on what?

Jon Stewart wears the nicest, most tastefully understated suits of anyone of TV, IMHO. Great ties too.

Stephen Colbert is fucking talented.

I think Bill Maher is rather stupid. For the most part, so are his guests. There are exceptions, however, and last week, Jason Alexander and Reza Asian proved to be such. It fell to "George Costanza" to tell Maher why adults raping children is bad. Jason, the father of two boys, explained why we mustn't confuse mere physical capability with emotional and psychological readiness. Of course, this argument assumes that men actually do develop emotionally beyond the age of 14. I know of women who think the jury's still out on that.

In a related matter, Larry King should stick to interviewing other old farts like Himself. He just doesn't get what younger people say to him. Watching Larry is painful - not "Mind of Mencia" painful - but pretty fucking painful all the same.

My God, The Sopranos is a great show.

That is all.

Below is a sketch I wrote and posted on one of the Deadwood threads on June 23 of last year, long before I knew anything about the third season or had heard of theater owner, Jack Langrishe, who will be showing up as played by the talented Brian Cox. We were talking about what Season Three might bring and we were still reeling from the finale in Season Two. As a joke, I decided to write the opening scene of Season 3 and bring back a character, Wolcott, who by season's end had reached the end of his rope. I believe I was touched by a moment of prescience. Or maybe I'm just touched. You decide.

(Warning: This episode contains adult language and sexual situations.)

(Interior location: Al’s office at the Gem. Al sits behind his desk while Wolcott stands at the entrance of the balcony looking out upon the thoroughfare. Wolcott shifts nervously on the balls of his feet, not making eye-contact with Al.)

Al: “In all my years upon this fuckin Earth, and I have traveled, seen a thing or two, England, Australia, fucking hot that was, all the way to this shithole we call home, the one thing I have never seen before is a man, Judas like, who hung himself, only to walk away when the rope broke, as if hell wasn’t ready for him yet. How’s your neck? I bet it still hurts some, huh?

Wolcott: “Thank you for asking, Mr. Swearingen. But, please allow me to change the subject. Since I’m no longer under the employ of Mr. Hearst, I am somewhat surprised that you would send for me, with urgency, implied by your man’s impudent demand that I should follow him at once and leave off the matters at which I was engaged.”

Al: “Dan can be pretty fuckin insistent. Jesus Christ, Dolly, what are you doing?”

Dolly: “Sohee ma ees ah soah, I guah I ipped.”

Al: “Don’t talk with your mouth full you stupid whore.”

Dolly: (Popping up from under Al’s desk.) “Sorry, my knees are sore. I guess I slipped.”

Al: “And bit my prick off in the process, huh? Get up now and go take your ass downstairs.” (Dolly collects herself and leaves. Al rearranges his Johnson and buttons up.) “The matter for which I have summoned you concerns the future of this sorry camp and the manner in which we live our lives and entertainments which might keep us sane. I have decided that The Gem should take another course and direction which might be more in keeping with the changing times and morays which advance upon us. Drink?” (Al removes two glasses from his desk drawer.)

Wolcott: “No, thank you, it’s too early in the day.”

(Al puts one glass back and pours himself a drink.)

Al: “Fortunately, I’ve lost all track of time. You, being a man of letters, can help me in the transformation that I seek. If you’ll read this, and read it out loud, huh.” (Al slides a manuscript across his desk. Wolcott approaches with caution, never removing his eyes from Al. He reads the manuscript.)

Wolcott: (Still reading) “Clang, clang, clang went the trolley …what is this?”

Al: “It’s called fucking musical theater.”

Wolcott: “I’m not sure that I understand your point.”

Al: “The fucking point is simple, straight and clear. The Gem will soon be a fine theater catering to the need all hooples have for culture and the finer things in life. For this purpose, I’ll write and soon direct a musical for which I now require actors who know their left foot from their right and can recite their lines from memory.”

(A voice calls out from the thoroughfare.) “Limy cocksucker, there’s no fucking way that I will play a part writ for a man.”

Al: “Please ignore the tomboy and let me know if you will play the part I have in mind.”

Wolcott: (Walking swiftly out of Al’s office.) “I am afraid that you have the wrong man.” (Stopping at the door, Wolcott turns and looks at Al, smiling slightly.) But, I will wish you nothing but success, and may I add that you have surprised me, but I do not count myself past surprise.”


...Okay, so it's not Milch, but what is? At least it's written in meter. I think.

I have come to the conclusion that it is not a good idea for me to attempt enjoying a vacation at home. The thing is I hate traveling. I don’t like airports and I do not find driving for hours at a stretch enjoyable either. Trains bore me. And yet, staying at home has its drawbacks as well, especially when my office is just five minutes away.

LAST HOME VACATION RECAP:

Monday: I get to sleep in today, and would have if I didn’t wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed at 5:45 AM. I eat breakfast and decide to enjoy my morning coffee on the front stoop where I can enjoy the day’s beginning and commune with nature. A wasp buzzes by me and I decide to go inside. I remember that I don’t like nature all that much. I read for a while and then have a nap. I have lunch at my favorite Italian restaurant and return home for another nap. I read until 4:00 PM, realize that it’s 5:00 PM Eastern time, and decide to have a cocktail. I cook dinner – chicken with peaches – and watch TV.

Tuesday: I’m up at 5:45. I put the coffee on and exercise vigorously until 6:00 AM. I have breakfast while watching Don Imus who is nearly always as grouchy as I am at this hour in the morning. I decide to enjoy coffee on the front stoop. There is a reported bee sighting three streets over and I take cover indoors. You can’t be too careful. I drive to the range and shoot my new .38 with which I am quite accurate as long as I don’t aim. I am better at point shooting.
11: 45 – 12: 45: Lunch at a wonderful French Café.
1:30 – 3:45: A brief nap.
4:00 – 5:00: Reading.
I cook dinner – steak and fries – and watch some movies I rented on the way back from the range.

Wednesday: I have a lot to accomplish today. Being on vacation has allowed me the time to devote to domestic duties in the form of yard work. The lawn needs mowing, the trees and bushes need trimming, and there are leaves which have gathered in piles at various locations which need raking up. I roll up my sleeves and write three checks – one for the guy who mows my lawn, one for the guy who trims the trees and bushes, and one for the kid who will rake up the leaves. Exhausted, I decide to have another nap. The phone rings and it’s one of the secretaries asking if I can come in to the office to deal with an emergency. She explains the nature of the emergency and my week long vacation is over.

I think I need to bite the bullet and accept that there’s an airport in any future vacation plans I might have. I’ll only fly first class and so the plan is to find out which airline can get me to a city somewhere near Deadwood, South Dakota. The plan is to fly to that city and have a limo take me to Deadwood. I’ll stay at a nice hotel, enjoy room service, spend a little time at the casinos, have a drink at The Number Ten, and explore the historical district. I’ll walk where Seth Bullock walked. I’ll drink where Calamity Jane drank. I’ll see Wild Bill’s grave, unless it’s too close to nature. I’m not yet sure whether any of this is possible, so stay tuned. Why am I writing this? It’s my blog. I can write anything damn stupid thing I want to, within reason. I just need to remember Al’s warning to Doc Cochran: “Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh.”

One of the nicest surprises I encountered upon first logging in and posting on the Deadwood threads was the fact that several of the actors from the series post comments from time to time and talk with the fans. W. Earl Brown, Keone Young, Ashleigh Kizer, and Garret Dillahunt post fairly frequently. Dayton Callie also posts from time to time as well as a few others. Without exception, these actors have been gracious and kind. They themselves are fans of the show as well as participants. While these actors are careful not to give away anything which would spoil the plot, they do tell us of some moments in the making of the series which take place off camera and comment upon the process. They are a very intelligent and highly articulate bunch. They could not be further removed from Valerie Cherish, the character Lisa Kudrow played so well in The Comeback series. It was after watching The Comeback that I couldn’t help composing a fake interview with a fictitious actress who would be in my view the complete opposite of the fine actors who kindly take the time to talk with us over on the Deadwood threads. I wrote it because I am wicked. I hope you enjoy it.


INTERVIEWER: “We are being joined tonight by an Emmy nominated actress who has distinguished herself on stage and screen. She has mesmerized audiences with stunning performances for more than twenty years since making her debut as a young cast member of the daytime drama, “Chatsworth”. Please welcome Minnie Desmond.”

MINNIE: “Thank you, how sweet.”

INT: “You have achieved a level of fame which must make…”

MINNIE: “Oh, no. I didn’t achieve fame. Fame has been thrust upon me. I’m an artist. For me, truth is beauty and beauty is, you know, truth, as I believe Bob Dylan said so well. I’m about the art, not the fame. I’m merely the voice through which great art speaks through. I’m just a bird on a wire, a drunk in a midnight choir, as one of the Coen brothers said famously. I would do what I do for free if I had to. For me, acting is my life. I am attracted to great art and have been all my life. It’s like, here I stand, I can’t do it any other way, as Martin Luther King once said. But it’s not for the fame. The fame scares me a little.”

INT: “But you’re so courageous.”

MINNIE: “Well, I don’t like to talk about me. But I find that for me, in my case, courage is inspired by great art.”

INT: “Which leads me to your last film, ‘Ninja Princess from Space II’, considered a masterpiece by fans and critics alike.”

MINNIE: “That project is very close to my heart, yes. I’m happy that the fans like it, but it was a film which compelled me and which I could not not make. The fans do frighten me sometimes, but I regard that as a price to pay for creating something lasting and permanent.

INT: “How do you deal with obsessed fans, of which, I’m sure you have many?”

MINNIE: “I have a small network of friends, a couturier, if you will, who keep me grounded. They include my agent, my publicist, my manager, my four wonderful therapists, my personal trainer, my accountant, my bodyguards, my driver, and of course the wonderful nanny to my two children, Nelova and Demulen, who are, by the way, the very love of my life”

INT: “How old are they?”

MINNIE: “Who?”

INT: “Your children.”

MINNIE: “Oh, now let’s see…Nelova was born three months after my first Emmy nomination, so that would make her eight, and Demulen was born five months before I started work on ‘Miss Julie Meets Dracula’, so that would make him four.”

INT: “In ‘Miss Julie Meets Dracula’ you played a blind, deaf, manicurist with AIDS. How did you prepare for such a difficult, and if I may say, courageous role?”

MINNIE: “Well, at first, I had no idea what a difficult life manicurists have…”

And so forth…

One of my great joys in life is reading. Murder mysteries are the novels I tend to enjoy most these days, especially ones with great dialogue. I prefer funny mysteries to the darker ones. I encounter enough darkness every day in what I do for a living. I do read the darker stuff and am a big fan of Michael Connelly, Robert Crais, Harlan Coban, and James Lee Burke among many others. And yet, I prefer novels that makes me laugh. Of course, when it comes to writing great dialogue, no one does it better in my view than Elmore Leonard.

My initial attraction to HBO and The Sopranos had to do with the writing. Those great actors are given wonderful dialogue. HBO’s Deadwood takes this to yet another level. The writing on Deadwood often has been likened to Shakespeare. Sometimes, the dialogue on the show is written in meter – iambic pentameter, to be exact, and that is, of course, splendidly Shakespearian. The meter is 10.10.10.10. Below is a little sketch I wrote for the Deadwood Boards. It features E. B. Farnum, a character played so well by William Sanderson, and his soliloquy is written in iambic pentameter. I hope you enjoy it.


(The Honorable E. B. Farnum, Mayor of Deadwood, walks along the thoroughfare in great pain.)

E. B.: “Where in the annals of recorded time, when in the history of all mankind, has there been one who has done so much good only to be ignored and vilified? Such is my fate as Mayor of this camp where I must tread through mud and piss and shit, message in hand like some goddamn servant to be delivered to Al’s muscle man. I, the Mayor of this benighted place, have overseen the Camp’s development, governed in ad hoc / temporary times, brought wealth and commerce and civility. And yet when I, our leading citizen, seek a physician’s care to ease my pain, he tells me that my tooth must be removed, ripped out of my mouth by his bloody hand. No, I tell him. Just give me laudanum. But, he refuses, betraying his oath. He tells me that extraction is my cure, treatment fit for a common vagabond. I tell him that I’ll get a ball of dope. He writes his message and dispatches me. Why must I endure such ignominy? Truly, life is but a valley of tears.”

(E. B. is now at the entrance to The Gem. He pauses.)

“Someday, I’ll resign from public office. Like Cincinnatus, return to the plow, or in my case to honest industry, and for a change, look after my own needs.”

(E. B. walks briskly into The Gem and without a word hands Dan Dority the note written by Doc Cochran. Dan unseals the envelope.

The note reads: Dan, as your Mayor, I must inform you that The Gem Saloon is a dump, Al Swearingen is an asshole, you are a cocksucker, and baseball is a stupid, fucking waste of time. Sincerely, E. B. Farnum, Mayor.

Moments later, E. B. awakens on The Gem floor. His jaw is swollen, but the infected tooth has been knocked out and is on the floor beside two other infected teeth on either side. Doc Cochran stands over E. B. looking down, and smiling.)

In Deadwood, I love the tableau of scenes during the opening credits along with the haunting music. There is something primitive about the guy in the creek biting down on the small gold nugget and the shots of butchering fresh meat as life-blood drips down against a white backdrop. The yellow gold dust harvested from nature's veins dissolves into yellow whiskey poured into waiting glasses as all around human greed and toil and commerce conspire in continuing acts of matricide waged against the fertile earth.
The poet, Hopkins, wrote:

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed.
Why do men then now not wreck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And against all this, a wild horse runs freely in the background as a symbol of nature yet untamed, surveying the wreckage while refusing to be fenced in, galloping in an ever shrinking wilderness with majesty and power. Welcome to fuckin' Deadwood.