I shuddered with pleasure when a few days ago I was invited to a party at the Dutton ranch, that of the Paramount series Yellowstone, elevated to the rank of a place as legendary as OK Corral, La Ponderosa or John Wayne’s own ranch, La Joya, in Durango (hum here Romance in Durango, by Bob Dylan, “we’re going to dance the fandango soon”). Unfortunately, the festivities did not take place at the actual Yellowstone Dutton Ranch (YD), which does not exist per se but is the Chief Joseph Ranch in Darby, Montana, named to commemorate the 1877 passage of Nez Perce Grand Chief José during his famous revolt, in which the leader received the nickname “Red Napoleon” from Sheridan (General and President of the United States William Tecumseh Sheridan: Please do not confused with Yellowstone screenwriter Taylor Sheridan.) My party was famous to say the least but with a long history to which I myself contributed to the worst at notable parties at Club Viladrau, and the organizer, in place of Kevin Costner (the John Dutton patriarch), Santiago Bofill, a great follower of the series and whose enthusiasm for it reaches levels of fanaticism just a little below my own. Santi has created a magnificent scenography in the club – otherwise an honest equipment of vigelliattura very traditional bourgeoisie in whose pool the first bikini of the sixties caused many members to leave -: she filled the porch with bales of straw, the ceilings with small flags with stars and stripes as at the funeral of Emmet Walsh, she lined the walls with cowhides and even placed the stuffed head of a calf which looked like a Hereford cattle like Vindicator, the protagonist, with the pardon of James Stewart, of A lady for a cowboy. A few plastic horses (appallosas and palominos), which seemed to come from the Four Sixies (6666), completed the decoration.
I had a hard time deciding who I would play at the party because there are so many characters I adore, including Beth Dutton (who, admittedly, would have been difficult for me to play) and Mo, the laconic Oglala driver and bodyguard to Thomas Rainwater, the leader of the reservation attached to the ranch (the latter is more physically suitable for me, but I had just cut my hair). I decided to hybridize the personalities of Rip Wheeler, the tough taskmaster but, like me, so sensitive, and Kayce Dutton, the capricious son, predisposed to altered states of consciousness and former SEAL, with whom I also identify a lot, especially because he is handsome. In a burst of verism, I tried to make the mark that identifies the conspirators neo-cowboys of Yellowstone with a chestnut pan but it hurt a lot. However, my outfit was great: I took the hat as a given (and I was right: the party looked like a caucus in Austin, Texas) and I wore the official Dutton Ranch cap that I found on Amazon; I put on a sleeveless quilted vest over a denim shirt, jeans, jackets and a belt with a large rodeo buckle into which I inserted a holster with a blank Glock 19 pistol. I completed my outfit with a police badge and a realistic Spike’s Tactical Punisher assault rifle that I bought at an old toy store. It was impressive. As soon as I entered the club, a guy dressed as Jimmy Hurdstrom, including a Stetson and leggings, whistled in amazement and blurted out at me in an Iowa accent, “Wow, an agent for the Montana Livestock Association!” I showed him the badge and lovingly said, “Are you a cowboy or did you suck someone’s cock to get this hat?”
The feast, which included large hunks of meat served with barbecue sauce and lots of beer, was phenomenal. There were a lot of Beths whispering sweet things in your ear like, “All I ask is that you survive me so I don’t have to live a day without you” or “Every once in a while you say something that makes me think you’re smart, and then I look at you and that thought fades,” to which I invariably responded kindly, “All my mornings are yours, darling.” » A couple of musicians livened up the day country who performed live songs such as Farewell Ashokan, he Take me home, country roads by John Denver (sung a lot) youl Ring of fire by Johnny Cash. We all ended up dancing in a group, the inevitable Don’t break my heart of Coyote Dax, something difficult to do if you don’t drop the assault rifle.
Very late and while some people were going to collapse in the ditches of the Station on the Wyoming highway, I went to the end of the garden of the Dutton ranch to breathe the wild air and contemplate the profile of the mountains like a shadow silhouetted against the night sky, studded with stars. Then I heard a very soft voice whisper behind my back, “Do you want to get drunk and watch wolves kill a moose in the park?” It was my home and I would never sell it.