September 22, 2010
I am drunk in Deadwood, South Dakota. I will admit this freely, as I am without inhibitions. Granted, that is not a very secretive or sinister thing to admit. To some, though, it may be as to sin. Frankly, I follow Raymond Chandler's advice about getting drunk at least twice a month so as to maintain my ego in check and establish grounded humility. It's best not to boast too highly, and drinking is a way to level these peaks.
The 'Number 10 Saloon' is where it's at in Deadwood. It's a recreation of the original one most popularly seen in the Deadwood television series, and it's the only bar not completely after your family tree and your genitals at the same time. It has that "western feel" with the sawdust on the floor and the old woodworking most dumb fucks attend this town for, grazing across America to fulfill an image and boast about a lifestyle they doll themselves up to emulate. Unfortunately, few realize it exists as its shadowed by big names like 'The Gem Saloon' and other echoes of the past.
The drinks are relatively cheap in Deadwood. A Guinness goes for $4.25 a piece in this town. It's a blessing and a curse, as I am drunk, stumbling down the streets past casino after casino, seeking the crap game which does not exist in Deadwood, even though it exists in the HBO television show. It's a pity too, as I do not gamble much, but I, like many other idiot Americans that hound this place, enjoy emulating the media in any form I can. It's how I was raised, suckling off the advertisements to compile a duplication of that image implanted in my head by sinister beings across the digital and radio air waves.
But enough about that.
I visited the Badlands today. It was beautiful. It's interesting as once you cross the Missouri River, what once was boring flat lands becomes something slightly (but not much) more interesting. Hills exist beyond this river, and it is very evident five minutes after crossing this seemingly innocent, innocuous boundary that there is much more to South Dakota than open plans, abandoned homesteads, and Wall Drug signs.
As I said, I am in my hotel room, and I'm still drinking. Heineken right now. Earlier it was Fat Tire and Guinness, and now I'm on my nightcap - prodding along the keypad slowly, often backspacing and correcting my very poor spelling at this time. Don't be surprised if you see something I missed. It happens. Call me out on it if you wish. We'll play cards. For money. Victor earns bragging rights.
It's true what I mentioned earlier though. This town is ripe with booze and casinos. That's the backbone to this caucasian paradise. Yes. You heard me. I said it. Caucasian Paradise. I have seen no other ethnicity or color beyond "white". Even the cleaning women in the Holiday Inn Express are white. Not that I'm complaining or trying to make some social point about Deadwood's make-up. I honestly don't care. I just found it odd that I haven't even seen a small smudge of diversity upon this beautiful city. Usually companies will try to save a buck here or there and hire illegal help in their hotels, and I haven't seen signs of this either. Who are these people? Where have they taken the standard, under the table business practices I am accustomed to?
Anyway, Deadwood is laced with history beyond the liquor and gambling, if the seeker knows to find it. Wild Bill Hicock is buried here. As are Calamity Jane and Sheriff Seth Bullock. They're here, under the dirt of steep hills of Mount Moriah that I hiked before indulging myself in Raymond Chandler's advice. This is what this town's about though. Liquor. Booze. Gambling. A drunken stupor perpetrated to push this agenda of losing money at rigged slot machines in little hole-in-the-wall casinos where chesty women with beautiful bodies offer you drink after drink.
It's hard to resist when they are part of the scenery too. The image. The indulgence.
I take a swig of Heineken to remember the Guinesses and Fat Tires I indulged in, let alone the expensive cigar. It was worth it though. I was creating memories with my father - a man who fears he won't be around much longer to enjoy the idea of existing and living in this earthly world of ours. It's a beautiful thing, even if Deadwood is a tourist trap of hyper sensory proportions.
A sin and a curse - that's what this place is. Like most places. A toss-up. A gamble. A shot in the dark for the working man looking for a mystery world full of intrigue and learning curves. It's that unique place that exists outside of Chicago but tries to be Chicago, even though it can never be. The civilians may be nicer. Our bar maid was very kind (granted, she was tipped very well) and beautiful. The kind of woman I would have loved to bed for a night. She had well-kept blonde hair, a decent figure, wonderful tits, and a height comparable to my own (which is strange). I would have introduced her to the popular Chicago brand of love. The ensnaring trick. A lie. One that holds all the crumbling social layers together but just barely. In this realm, I imagine that I am the second Daley. Talking about nothing but cleverly hitting emotional points most "human" hearts sympathize with. The question is not answered, but it doesn't need to be. What I said was beautiful. A sweet little nothing meant to soothingly envelope.
But it wasn't meant to be.
Cheap pitchers of Fat Tire were my burden at the Number 10 Saloon. Draft. Inexpensive. Enough to give me the hiccups while I sit and write this update.
But it was worth it.
Even if big shot Jews from Florida raid this town for their petty vacations and accessible fucks (I believe I saw an ancient traveler with a middle-aged call girl) - Deadwood is worth it. It's the beacon of the Old West - the example of what happens when one takes a famous town, rapes it for an excellent television show, and markets the shit out of it for rich vacationists.
One day I will return again, and I will indulge again, and I will play my role as the stumbling ant in the mechanics of a town that survives mainly off of tourism.
Deadwood, I love thee.
