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Volume 3 #31 July 14, 2006
Deadwood. Some sort of force has "kazed" me to trod 'round the last few f'n days talkin' as if I were caught somehows betwixt devil dirted streets and Shakespearian theatre. I am a regular watcher of the show. So's I reckoned it was throwin' a persuasion at me. My quill was readyfied. So, here I am committin' it to parchment. Let us, if it pleasures you, begin with Alan Swearingen. I know he stated his name to be Albert. Sides, when does he ever bring the truth forwards? Ian McShane. Aw...the ultimate Hamlet. Hey! The dude stands on a balcony that overlooks that wretchified town and talks to a Native American head that he keeps in some sort of box. Alan, to prevent the stench, I would suggest you throw a little lye upon it. Shakespeare, for reasons known only to him, gave the Dane his father's skull for him to converse with. Anyways, back to Deadwood. Why did they kill off gorgeous Keith Carradine? Aka Bill Hickcock. I am aware there are, at least, three of them Carradine bros who weren't ejected by the same mothers. And now we have poor Calamity Jane. She loved Bill Hickock. I maintain he wanted to die. Why else would an experienced gunman sit with his back facin' the open air, clean shot, barroom swingin' doors? Bless Jane. Even in her mournin, she does love that little, blonde Swedish girl. Ian McShane, I've not lost my bead on you. I first saw you years ago, which dates us both, in a film called: "If It's Tuesday, It Must Be Belgium". You sang and danced my heart away. But I love "LoveJoy". You are the ultimate "Scam Man". I suppose you're not that way in real life. But I am a dreamer, Ian McShane. You must be. All actors are. I am leadin' with a prophetic punch, here. Because you helped me to nurture my gift to dream.

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©2006 Carol Ann Carson
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