Deadwood, Dead Trees, and Dear God, Dead to Mes

I got my shopping spree at the library book store last week. Said spree turned out to be three books for a grand total of five dollars because for all their grand talk of getting forty-two boxes of books, it looks like they kept almost none of them. I'm fairly certain I already own a copy of one, but so what? It was a beautiful copy for two dollars, and if I ever find the other copy, I'll donate the duplicate to a thrift store or drop it at the small pop-up book swap at the grocery store.

I watched the Deadwood movie last night, and it made me nostalgic for the show. Everyone fell into their roles as though they'd never left, and the dialogue was exquisite and a reminder of what was lost when HBO axed the show. I wish we could have seen how these characters got from where they were to where they are when the movie opens, and I'm sad that we were deprived of more exquisite performances from Ian McShane, Brad Dourif, and Robin Weigert, the latter of whom so clearly delights in the role.

And Al Swearengen crushed my heart with a single line. Television so perfect is a rare gift. My only regret is that there will be no more.

And may it sustain me through the Lovecraftian horror that is Quentin Tarantino getting his grubby, guffawing, slur-spewing ethos all over the Star Trek franchise.