"We provoked the 9/11 attacks." It was the statement that sent Tony Bennet's name across the web in a flurry of hate speech. Anger and denial. The two go hand-in-hand. It's part of that egotistical and insecure mentality that's swept America. No one wants to be wrong, and these people go to great lengths to avoid the biting reality underneath the illusory veil.
Behind every fantasy, there is a businessman. Behind every advertisement, there is a trained marketing guru. Always hidden behind pretty colors and savory, fantastical lifestyles they remain - vampires feeding off of us as we sleep. To them, life itself is a commodity that can be bought and sold. It is expendable, and in some cases, life need not exist. It's all at their choosing as they run the casino we find ourselves shuffling about in, succumbing to the alluring, flashing lights of the games. Sometimes they let chance throw us a bone, but in the end, they're robbing us. We cannot leave the casino unless we die, and the longer we stay, the better the odds are for the house winning.
"His luck ran out. Yours is just beginning," read the billboard of Wild Bill Hicock just outside of Deadwood, South Dakota. It was one of the first signs of life driving down 90. Most of the land for miles and miles was flat prairie. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. No pulse. No curvature to the pummeled Earth until Deadwood nears, until the Black Hills muck up the terrain with color and ludicrous landscaping.
There used to be gold in those hills that gave rise to many of the towns out here, further giving rise to the legends of rampant lawlessness in the Old West that are mere whispers today. Nobody likes that genre anymore unless "Old West" is a term meant to embody the current culture in the future post-apocalyptia we often fantasize about.
The end. The end. That neurotic beckoning call for our own dismal demise trumps all other calls - even the highly advertised mating call that permeates the air waves like so much sleazy jazz on a radio station that's hijacked all frequencies. Sex. Sex. The end. Sex. THE END IS NIGH!
Deadwood is Las Vegas for those looking for a more homogenized, white-bred, straight-shooter sort of crowd. It's the place where cross-national tour buses dump their geriatrics like useless rubbish. It's the Mecca of death for those wrinkled, gray-haired sacks of broken bones to wheeze their final breaths.
Then why was I here? I am only twenty-four years of age, born on the twenty-first day of July in nineteen eighty-seven. Today is the twenty-first day of September in two-thousand eleven. Exactly one year ago to the day I was also in Deadwood, passing through the more scenic route on my way to a mass family gathering in Utah. This happens once a year.
No, I am not Mormon. While I have respect for faith and spirituality, I staunchly oppose supporting institutions run by snarling businessmen, especially those seemingly founded as a means to guilt underage girls into sexual romps under God's watchful eyes.
"Deadwood: Where Legends Begin." This sign is more ornate than the last. Curved of stone, it is the first greeting to the actual town once one has slithered through the winding pass in the glorious Black Hills. Like Alice's trip in Wonderland, this snake-like canyon is the portal to a world of its own.
Matching jackets. The old geezers parked in front of me both had two pairs of matching jackets. Seemingly signifying an undying brotherhood, the mustachioed riders took off their "No. 10 Saloon" leathers for denims of the same design, smiling like gleeful children at each other during the process.
"It's going to be a fun night," the shorter, thinner one said to his husky, clean-shaven companion as they put their leathers away in small compartments on their motorcycles. Upon locking their bikes away for the evening, would passion seize them over the night of free inhibitions and endless spirits? Would they ride each other?
Not since J.R.R. Tolkien's words hit print have we seen the Frodo and Sam relationship fleshed out before us like a stage play, arising inconsequential questions in even the most supportive and open of us. Regardless of our stalwart opinions, we have to know. Advertisers have sold us clearly divided, niched, and marketable camps to identify with. In that case, sex is important, just like G.I. Joes are important to a child who knows not what violence is.
The End.
Beautiful. The waitresses at the No. 10 Saloon are always beautiful. Innocent and fearful, they arouse that protective spirit even amongst those who have only ordered one beer. Navigating the calm waters of the soon-to-be-deceased, my spirited eyes gazed majestically at these white-tailed nymphs. Their smiles were genuine, and their eyes were of a beaming, hopeful Nature that Walt Disney borrowed for years to subtly warm the hearts of his victims.
Last time I found myself perched upon a stool in the corner of the wooden bar, my feet grazing the sawdust floors, there were different servers. Yet, they were the same nymphs, eagerly awaiting a satyr to steal them away from this mausoleum. Am I that satyr? The spirits tell me yes.
Sex.
A lone woman sits at a bar hidden in the dark corner of one of the dozens of casinos lined up on Main Street in this town - population: one-thousand three-hundred and eighty. Lipstick circles her lips like a vulture as she gazes over at me. I have just walked up, drawn to the darkness by an advertisement for discount beer. Two dollars for Samuel Adams Octoberfest.
Deep ravines line this woman's face. Age has not been kind to her. Neither have cigarettes, but you need those to grow up in this town, watching all the bus loads of doddering corpses shuffle around, listening to their gurgles and wheezes past the midnight tolls. Secondhand smoke can be a killer, so they say.
Lipstick retracts into its cigar-shaped UFO, and hidden orbs follow me, shrouded by thick eye shadow. The wolf stalks its next meal, and the spirits have opened my inhibitions enough to where my defenses have been rendered a moot point - only if Johnny Appleseed is still awake.
The End.
The rivers of booze flow tonight. Gambling has been kind to me. Twenty-one hit twice on roulette, and four of a kind dealt into my hand at poker. I drink in your honor tonight, Lady Fate, as I smoked in your honor earlier, ashing my cuban Churchhill on the cemetery grounds of Mount Moriah.
Hiking up the steep slope of the Black Hills is beautiful in the Fall as it is in all seasons. Watching over the town from a plateau are the spirits of the Old West, whispering through the trees and down the rocky inclines.
Most tour buses stop at the gravesite of Wild Bill Hicock. Pictures are snapped, wheezes are echoed, and the geriatrics take solace in a historical monument they so fervently take pleasure in thinking about: graveyards.
Teevee told me that Hicock was a stand-up, no-nonsense gunslinger murdered by a punk kid with a nasty attitude. That was all I needed to know. Besides, the geriatrics don't like my presence at his grave. They fake cough at my stogie.
Did you know that the United States has exploded three-hundred and thirty-one nuclear devices in the atmosphere? This does not include the countless nukes on land, underground, or in the sea. It also does not include Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Those cannot, for the sake of sensitive humans, be considered nuclear tests, even though they were.
The most interesting grave at Mount Moriah is for some poor soul named 'Baby Cox'. Baby Cox died on August twenty-sixth, nineteen fifteen. I drink also for you, Baby Cox, for I understand the nature of your pain.
Another grave reads: "Child of Fee Lee Wong".
The moon passes its peak, and my stature has grown poorly. I have voluntarily succumbed to the mantra that seizes the tourists. It is in the casinos I now find myself firmly grounded, playing all sorts of games meant to bleed me dry.
Consume. Consume. Another beer sir? Keep the spirits high, and the highly spiritual will never question the intentions of the bloodsucker. Skinwalkers roam in the society of men, well-blended in a sea of tumultuous advertisements.
Was Tony Bennet right? Was our overbearing military presence around the globe more of a global occupation? In order to save his career, the lounge singer apologized. The news anchors can stop harassing him now.
Awaking from a coma, I promptly packed my bags and left Deadwood the next morning. My sobriety allowed the icy chill outside to pummel my pale face. A cold front had descended on the Black Hills, and I was without a jacket.
Climbing into my car outside the antiquated brick hotel, shadowed by the relics of a boom town gone mad with gaming and trinkets, Tony Bennet called to me. "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" echoed from the outside speakers in front of the main doors. Through the glass, doddering geriatrics bumped into each other, spilling styrofoam plates loaded with powdered eggs and processed ham. While the glass was thick, I could still hear them coughing and gurgling - the perfect audience for a lounge singer looking beyond the painted facade.
