May 13, 2005
Sledgeweb's Lost...Stuff
A man once told us that no man is an island But I know a man that thinks he’s an island Drifting out to the sea, sand in his ears and lies on his tongue. Jungle grows in your mind when you’re an island. Welcome to the Island of Fear
- Pain
Yeah, I know it's tacky to follow up a heartfelt entry with a cheese sandwhich link. So sue me.
For those of us hooked on ABC's Lost..., this site by Sledgeweb offers some interesting facts (timelines, profiles) that would have taken too much time for most of us to bother compiling. Gotta love the net for giving us time-wasting entertainment manna like this.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 08:56 AM | permalink | talkback (0)
May 11, 2005
Sipping Saki
A little inaccuracy sometimes saves tons of explanation. ~ Saki
Being a recovering English Lit major means that there is a lot of stuff taking up room in my head I will never be able to use. The Canterbury Tales, or Beowulf, for example, take up hard disk space on my gray matter that I'd like to defrag and reclaim.
You know how you get a piece of music stuck in your head all day and can't get rid of it? That happens to me with dialog, or snippets of prose. It's maddening. The Internet has, I think, gone a long way to keeping me from being a clinically insane person up to my chin in tomes muttering things like "I bet it was Dickens! Now, where is my copy of The Pickwick Papers?"
But every now and then a ghost whispers in my shell that takes on a life of its own and cannot be Googled. Not enough data retrieved from the source code for a valid search. Something like: "it was his to take." Yeah, Goggle that. Or I'll have a key word wrong, or only remember the gist of the phrase but not the wording.
This was the case in recent conversation while trying to recall Saki's short story "The Open Window." I remembered the gist of the infamous last line, and the impact it had on the rest of the tale -- completely transforming it from the type of story you thought it was when you started reading it. But the actual line of impact eluded me. As did the author. Or anything else about the fucking story.
Then, randomly, I was listening to a little TMBG and the song "Window" came on and -- just like in the movies, it hits me -- "The Open Window." One Google search later and it's on my screen, mocking me.
These brain candy reward discoveries should really be more satisfying. It should top orgasms. But it's more just a moment or two of intense "AH HA" followed by a very dull feeling of "Okay. One less mystery in life. Now if I can just find out what happened to Amelia Earhart..."
At any rate, the story is now in the public domain, so I'm posting it after the cut for you to read should you so desire. May it live on your hard drive and haunt you forever.
The Open Window
By: Saki (H. H. Munro)
"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me."
Framton Nuttel endeavored to say the correct something which should duly Hatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing
"I know how it will be," his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice."
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.
"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
"Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child; "that would be since your sister's time."
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
"It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favorite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--"
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Framton.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?"
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Framton was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
Romance at short notice was her speciality.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 05:42 AM | permalink | talkback (1)
April 27, 2005
Walk Down the Right Back Alley in Sin City, and You Can Find Anything...
Burt Shlubb and Douglas Klump. Two any-dirty-job-there-is thugs with delusions of eloquence. ~ Bruce Willis as Hartigan (via Frank Miller)
For a long time now geeks like me have had to watch our beloved comic books and graphic novels churned out into a celluloid holocaust of trash. Hollywood has, by and large, never understood the medium and rarely bothered to try. They see the bright colors that depict gritty explosions and their coal-lined hearts translate them into dollar signs before they bother to think about the subtext or the core of the stories and characters. We've seen a horrendous succession of mediocrity thrust at us. Ben Affleck as Daredevil being perhaps the lowest moment we had to suffer. And if the cast is right, the script is vomitus (can you say X-Men, boys and girls?).
Hollywood sees these as million-dollar jerk-off fests to showcase popular stars and special effects. And it's always the GREAT ones they rape. There are a LOT of bad comics out there. Do they go and fuck those up into film fodder? Nope. Bastards.
For years now I've been holding my breath in terror that Neil Gaiman's Sandman would come up on the block. That it hasn't is perhaps one of the last remaining possibilities of evidence that there may be a benevolent God. I think if I had to endure seeing some flavor-of-the-month star like Ashton Kutcher play Morphus, I'd really lose it and end up climbing a bell tower with a hostage and some automatic weapons. And I'd be justified.
So, when Sin City was announced there was that familiar dull sick feeling that cued Queen in the back of my mind ("Another One Bites the Dust").
I'm fiendishly, wickedly delighted to be wrong.
Sin City got it right. Rodriguez/Miller/Tarintino NAILED IT. They didn't make a movie about a graphic novel. They recreated a graphic novel using film as the medium. Every moment of the movie is poetry translated into visual splendor. The acting is spot-on. The atmosphere is eerily effective and from the opening to the ending you are on a journey that doesn't play by rules or phrases like "Hollywood ending" or "plot arch" or "star time."
It's gritty. It's dank and dark and dismal. It's hopelessly fragile and painfully beautiful. It's passion and loathing. It's goddamn glorous.
The moments of elegance in the film are of gut-wrenching beauty. And, like in graphic novels and modern comics, happiness is tentative, hard-won and often nothing more than a random gesture from a stranger. As with many in real life, the characters in Sin City find their joy to be fleeting and the rest of life is just about pacing the cage. Yeah, there are caricatures and bad-asses, but they are true to the form and not simple guns ablazin' white hats. Sweet complicated twisted webs are woven in the inner thoughts of the main characters and you are privy to them all.
The good guys aren't nice guys. Sometimes they're just the least maniacal of the maniacs. The bad guys aren't always criminals, but senators and cardinals and people in positions of power gone terribly corrupt. Because in the real world criminals can cause a little trouble, but we all know corrupt individuals in places of power do the real harm with their puppet-master mindsets. Take that game to the extreme and you have the basis of Sin City.
And the women! The woman are all that is right and wrong with graphic novels and comics. They are sympathetic and brutal and often both on a whim. They are on pedestals as angels, or wallowing in recesses with the darkest of devils. They are goddesses and Valkyrie; easy to get for a dollar, or unattainable for any dime. They are worth killing for, dying for, going to hell for...and sometimes that's just the prostitutes. They are the best and worst of the female animal as seen through the eyes of men. Sure it upsets a few feminist feathers in my soul to watch the damsel in distress card get pushed even further at times by this type of story-telling, but that's the way it goes. When a man tells the story, it's his eyes you see the world through. Doesn't make it right or wrong. It just makes it the story.
This film is brutal and bloody and unapologetic. It's also carnal and venereal. The sexuality isn't cheesed out of it like with Cool World and it isn't diluted to nothing for a PG-13 rating that will allow more under-aged asses into seats. It is the bar by which all others that follow it will be judged. And for those of us that have been waiting too damn long for someone to get it right, it is a welcome fucking relief.
And, for those of you who might have motivations far less complicated than mine, let me just say that Carla Gugino naked is worth the price of admission all by her scrumptious self.
Seraphs and saints with one great voice
Welcomed that soul that knew not fear;
Amazed to find it could rejoice,
Hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer.
~ From "A Ballad of Hell" by John Davidson
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 07:43 AM | permalink | talkback (2)
April 21, 2005
Zombie Jamboree
The purpose of man's life...is to become an abject zombie who serves a purpose he does not know, for reasons he is not to question. - Ayn Rand
What is it about zombie movies? Why do they have a higher creepiness factor on the baseline of my mind than any other incarnation of Hollywood horror?
Now before you start thinking I'm just some shriek queen girly girl, allow me to present my credentials.
I grew up in the heyday of hack and slash cinema; the years when Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, and Michael Myers embodied the term "unholy trinity." I *still* remember being in my bed one night as a wee lass and hearing the theme music from Halloween for the very first time (emanating out of the Betamax in the living room). It gave me gooseflesh from toe to crown and I loved it.
It started out innocently enough with Creature Feature on Saturday afternoons. A Bride of Frankenstein here - an Invasion of the Body Snatchers there. But before long, I was on the hard stuff: The Omen, The Exorcist, The Fly. Then I graduated to the big leagues renting stuff like Suspiria from the back shelves of video rental stores (back when video stores had porn and gore in seedy back rooms and no one had ever heard of Blockbuster). I was still in pigtails when I got into a furious argument with some idiot clerk who didn't want to let me take out Faces of Death 2 without my parents present.
And it wasn't just all about the movies (or the, erm, predecessors to rotten.com). In my pre-teens I was a well-established horror genre veteran likely to be spotted reading King, Koontz, Higgins-Clark, Straub, and anthologies with titles like “Year’s Best Horror Stories: 19XX” (I did manage to grow out of all those authors except King). You have no idea how many times some random adult looked at the cover of the book I was reading and then glanced at me and shook their heads muttering something along the lines of, “you shouldn’t be reading that kind of thing -- you look like such a nice girl.” Heh. If only they knew. Of course I learned creative ways to hide those covers (which came in handy later when I discovered Nancy Friday books).
I couldn’t get enough. You have to remember -- horror films were interactive in the 80’s (RHPS experiences aside - that’s a whole other entry). There were screams and lurching in seats and funny comments shouted at the screen in a very "got to break the tension" way. No one minded. You were, in fact, expected to yell "don't go in there!" at least once per film. It was pre-MST3K, but community interaction was born into the experience. The formula was well-established. In fact, I distinctly remember going to see Candyman in the theater and thinking “not enough time after the scare for the start of that dialog.” Because if you were going to pull the gross card or try the “something’s gonna getcha -- oh, no, it's just the cat" routine you had to allow for the screams and laughter to die off before having meaningful conversations between characters. Kinda like the way you let the sniffles die down in E.T. type tug-at-yer-heartstrings movies by cuing the John Williams music before moving on to critical dialog.
All of this is just a long-winded way of explaining that I earned my "you'll have to do better than that" indifference to most horror venues a long time ago. A director/writer/monster make-up artist has to work to scare me or trigger my "ewww" reflex. You have to try something I haven’t seen before (or do something classic VERY well). Gore doesn't affect me in movies and the fake-out bathroom-curtain billowing trick was old when I was six. It's not always a good thing. Thrillers that terrify the hell out of other people merely interest me and I don't get that feel of a roller coaster scare-thrill like I did as a kid. The Ring? Loved it, but it didn't scare me. Sadly, most films have a maximum chance of barely tipping up to “slightly creepy” on my personal scare-o-meter. The vast majority don’t even skirt my edges.
But zombie movies and stories have always been different. Other than the original 1963 film, The Haunting, no movie has ever scared the piss out of me that wasn't a zombie movie. And the grand pappy of them all is still 1968’s Night of the Living Dead did (aside - fuck the remakes of both Haunting and NOTLD, they suck). As far as books go, Pet Sematary remains the only King book that scared me to shivering. I actually stopped reading it halfway through and vowed not to read another word (a resolve that I obviously broke).
Now, yes, you can always argue in favor of the disturbing social statement made by Romero, adding real-life horror to the mix of movie-horror. But it’s more than that. There is something fundamentally disturbing about zombie stories. Even when they’re stupid-silly (and, let’s face it, the vast majority of them are) they have a disquieting scene or two that just triggers my creep meter. Hell, just playing Resident Evil freaked me out to the point where I had to pause and walk away more than once.
Why? Do they set off some deeply buried human taboo reflex against cannibalism? Is it the violation factor? They aren’t merely going to kill you, they’re going to infect you and thus make you drink from the ultimate bowl of Kool-Aid. Brainwashing is for pussies as far as these monsters are concerned. Is it because we all fear losing the few ticks of intellect we are allotted? Eternal life with eternal knowledge equals sexy vampire juju, but undead sacks of flesh behaving like rabid animals is just jeepy creepy. Maybe there is some human instinct to by appalled by such a display of reverse evolution. Some ancient kick in the head that forces us to live in fear of losing that which keeps us reared up on two legs and able to conjugate verbs.
Maybe I'm just over-thinking an irrational fear, or maybe it’s a combination of all these things.
Whatever the reason, in 2002 28 Days Later re-introduced me to the horror fetish of my childhood by chilling me to the bone; it rekindled (just a spark or two) the love of all that was gnarly and horrible. All that tragic horror cheese that I’d placed on the back burner of my entertainment fare. I couldn’t resist it. These were not Romero’s “limping along doing the zombie shuffle” critters. Garland/Boyle’s highly infectious zombies could hunt you, run you down, and end you before you even knew what was happening. 28 Days Later maxed out my creepy meter and pushed me to that “maybe I'll sleep with the light on tonight” high. And, as with Romero, the film cultivated the real horrors of the dark side of humanity within the film horror to yield just that perfect resonating pang of "even if the monsters go away we're still fucked."
I was sorta hoping for another 28 Days Later when I watched 2004’s remake of Day of the Dead. Watching the film inspired this entry because even though it managed to trigger my zombie creepy reflex, it just isn’t anywhere near as powerful. Compared to the original spin on the genre of 28, it isn’t even a blip on the radar.
Which reminds me: who is Ving Rhames’ agent and WHY does said agent still have a job? This movie is so beneath Ving I spent most of the movie assuming it had to be a look-alike. Sorry, I digress...
But even as I sat watching this cheesed up action/horror monstrosity (barely interested and completely aware of the formulaic plot development), I could feel myself getting the chills. I instinctively turned on a light or two more than I normally have on in the house. I ridiculously double-checked to make sure I’d locked the front door when returning from the little girl's room (because zombies would bother with testing the knob rather than just kicking the damn thing in, right?). I found myself in that state of hyper-awareness that only fear triggers. That moment in all the horror books when the person about to die says to themselves “this is ridiculous, why am I frightened when X can’t be happening.”
It’s a dumb movie. Lackluster horror at best. And still, it got under my skin.
Fucking zombies.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 09:38 AM | permalink | talkback (2) | trackback (0)
April 04, 2005
Monday Morning Deadwood
I'm going to just start posting my favorite Deadwood quotes on Mondays. It's my blog, I can laud if I want to.
From the lips of Al Swearengen:
“You got gall – coming before me prettier’n ever.”
“Bedridden I know more’n you.”
Contender for Jane’s best insult:
“You frog-faced fuck.”
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 04:10 PM | permalink | talkback (1)
March 12, 2005
Movies I Shouldn't Like and Soundtracks I Shouldn't Love
No fishing like fishing in the sea. ~ French Proverb
I have a soft spot for certain bad films. Those who know me understand and forgive that while I expose myself to a healthy portion of foreign and world cinema, I also indulge in the occasional inexcusable Hollywood drek. I have no excuse or explanation. Film is art, but movies are entertainment and sometimes I just want the escapism factor. And I think Hudson Hawk is really fucking funny, okay?
So enough pre-apology.
French Kiss is one of those movies that I can't hate the way I should. It's pretentious. It's vile. But it's got Kevin Kline speaking French. Christ, I'm only human.
However, while I have guiltily enjoyed this movie (much the same way I guiltily enjoyed Milli Vanilli in my youth) I never gave any notice to the soundtrack which is lovely (you can actually hear Ray's ears bleed if you listen close).
There are a few known treats such as:
Van Morrison's Somone Like You
Louis Armstrong's La Vie en Rose
Ella Fitzgerald's I Love Paris
Plus a few unknowns and instrumentals. It's an amazingly wonderful in-the-background while blogging or cooking collection of ditties.
There is also a track that has Kevin Kline singing La Mer (the original French version of Bobby Darin's Beyond the Sea). I'm only human.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 05:29 PM | permalink | talkback (0)
Have You Seen Dan Rydell?
I've been through alcohol, marriage, and network television. If you want to kill me, you're gonna need kryptonite. ~ William H. Macy as Sam Donovan (via Aaron Sorkin)
Has ANYONE seen Josh Charles lately?
Those of you who might have missed one of the best television shows ever -- Sports Night -- aren't alone. I missed it on first run. But, luckily TV on DVD now exists because this show was BRILLIANT.
The majority of the cast (including main players and many regular guest stars) have popped up in new projects this season or bigger and brighter things before this season. But Josh remains the one major exception. What's going on? Aliens? Abu Ghraib? I'm putting out a phone slut APB -- we've got a Dead Poet MIA! Suit up, people.
Sports Night Roll Call:
Peter Krause = Six Feet Under;
Felicity Huffman, Brenda Strong = Desperate Housewives;
Joshua Malina = The West Wing;
Sabrina Lloyd = Num3ers;
Robert Guillaume = semi-retired (understandable, he had a stroke during Sports Night's run) but still all over the place compared to Josh Charles;
Teri Polo = Many things including West Wing and naughty photos;
Ted McGinley = continuing to make shows jump the shark;
William H. Macy = bigger and better things (read: film);
Lisa Edelstein = House;
Jayne Brook = working steady, various projects;
Megan Ward = Ibid;
Clark Gregg = Ibid.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 03:15 PM | permalink | talkback (0)
March 11, 2005
What's It All About, Alfie?
People listen to the music and sense what it is about. Sometimes they know exactly what the songs are about, sometimes they interpret their own meaning to the music... ~ Enya
THIS might be an interesting way around copyright law for song lyrics. Fair use does give a great deal of leniency for academic endeavors.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 01:25 PM | permalink | talkback (0)
March 10, 2005
Don't Fear The Reavers
They'll rape us to death, eat our flesh and sew our skin to their clothes. And if we're very, very lucky, they'll do it in that order. ~ Gina Torres as Zoe (via Joss Whedon)
An interesting article on buffy.nu about a band of Scottish pirate-like bogeymen called "Reivers" that some people thought might have been the inspiration behind Whedon's Reavers in Firefly (the best show you couldn't watch because the fucking network aired it OUT OF ORDER).
What's most enlightening about the article is the somewhat depressing / somewhat comforting realization that there are throwback thinking freaks everywhere. I wonder how long until the religious right starts finding cursed stones in our backyards.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 06:13 PM | permalink | talkback (0)
March 05, 2005
He Was a King and a God in the World He Knew
It was beauty killed the beast. ~ Carl Denham aka Robert Armstrong aka whichever of the four script writers came up with the line
There is a new fan-made trailer for Peter Jackson's King Kong. I'm looking forward to the film (though not nearly so anxious of many others I've become aware of) because like most MySTies King Kong was one of those first tastes of the genre. For amateur effort, it's a nifty trailer, even if it includes mostly footage of the original film.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 06:33 PM | permalink | talkback (0)
February 27, 2005
Join The Fuckin' Club Of Most Of Us
In life, you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times that's what the fuck life is -- one vile, fucking task after another. ~ Ian McShane as Al Swearengen (via George Putnam)
The new season of Deadwood is going to start soon. There are approximately ten million good reasons to watch this show. I will explain a few of them:
1. The writing and dialog is, hands down, some of the finest that has ever been. I hesitate saying “the best that has ever been in television” because it’s not just that it’s good for TV. It’s amazing writing without the qualifier. And, although a great deal of bru-ha-ha has been made over the constant use of profane expression, it isn’t foulness for foulness’ sake. The profanity is necessary and damn near poetic. It’s a character of the show – much like the mud and dust that constantly cakes and coats the players over the course of their charade.
2. The acting is unmatched. Some of these actors are newcomers, some of them not, but each person delivers their performance with layered complexity. Ian McShane is a brutal villain/not-quite-villain full of woe and vice, and Timothy Olyphant is the sublimely conflicted I-don’t-want-to-be-a-hero who was fucking BORN to wear old west costuming. Powers Boothe portrays an evil cocksucker I would not have thought him capable of from his previous roles, and Brad Dourif and Molly Parker deliver stand-out supporting roles that are quirky, disquieting, deliciously morose and just frickin' flawless.
3. Ricky Jay has a recurring support role and you know any show that has Ricky has GOT to be cool. Ricky even wrote an outstanding episode and you get to see a little slight of hand here and there. Ricky rocks.
4. Luscious, scantily clad women and damn fine men. Two whorehouses are key locations in the show and we get to see a lovely selection of their privy parts. Alongside the ladies are some displays of masculinity that make the Marlboro Man look like a pussy.
5. You don’t need a number five. I could go on and on. Just watch the fucking show already. The first season is out on DVD and the second season starts March 6th. You’ll thank me later.
Note:
1. The Soundtrack is also a-fucking-mazing.
2. There is a Wild West Tech episode that focuses on the real-life Deadwood. It's a nice compliment to the show to contrast the history with the drama.
Blather d'Art by Doxy at 02:11 PM | permalink | talkback (0)
