You know who I feel sorry for? The Cowboy from the Village People. Oh sure. He’s got high cheekbones, a cool gun and a wardrobe to die for. But it seems to me the man(?) was cursed with being ahead of his time.
You all know what I’m getting at. It’s this new movie, Tent-Pole Mountain, or whatever the hell they call it, the one featuring two gay cowboys as romantic leads. You read it right: two cowboys -- and they’re queer. And by “queer,” I don’t mean “odd.” I mean beanbags-across-a-stubbly-chin gay. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem with gays or cowboys. And I suppose it’s possible that both things can happen to a guy at the same time -- being responsible for the day-to-day operation of a cattle farm and somehow finding a penis to be just the right object to insert in a rectum. Fine.
I wonder what this movie is about. Is the bunkhouse in desperate need of window treatments and these two cowboys rise to the challenge? Is the Indian Chief not a bloodthirsty savage, but merely a misunderstood loner in need of some male companionship? Maybe our two cowboys can be the bread for the Chief’s beef jerky sandwich? Before paleface make sandwich, must smoke peace pipe. You tell’em, Chief Twinkle Eye.
Now back to the Village People Cowboy: can you see why I feel sorry for him? This guy was poking his ass out of those chaps on stage for 30 years before the protagonists in Tent-Pole Mountain witnessed a desert sunset in each other’s arms. He never got the attention and media hype this movie is getting. Heck, most guys didn’t even catch the subtle fact that the Cowboy et al. were advocating a gay lifestyle. I didn’t realize it myself. Of course I was only a kid. But even the older kids didn’t notice. The local bully would sing “In the Navy” while kicking the crap out of us. Somehow, it just worked. Think about it. You feel more macho when you hear a Village People song. Don’t you? Those guys could have done the soundtrack for Manhood itself. Gay? Nonsense. Back in the 70s, those guys were men’s men. Even Hitler-Revival groups sang along to the Village People. That was good, clean, white, Anglo-Saxon, Christian stuff. Heil Felipe the Indian! I’ll bet there were some blushing neo-Nazis around 1983 when it dawned on us that the Village People were the 1970’s equivalent of Boy George!
The Village People Cowboy must be kicking himself through his ass-less chaps. I’ll bet he’s storming around his classic-six apartment, delivering a soliloquy to the effect of:
“What the hell do I have to do to get some media spotlight? So now gay cowboys are hip? Now Oprah’s telling everybody to go see a couple ambiguous cowboys fasten each other’s saddles in a movie? Where the hell was all this pomp back in 1978? I paved the way for these two breeders. I’m the pioneer. I’m the trailblazer. Me. I’m the one who lubricated the way for these two cowpokes to hump their way into America’s hearts. And it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been dodging the clumsy advances of that greasy Indian. I’ve been poking fake pistols into my package. I’ve dropped thousands of dollars into moustache wax and leather cleaner. And this is the thanks I get? Screw that Donnie Darko Dipstick. You know the producer did. How else do you think he got that part? Ooh, Cowboy, you still got it!”
So I feel sorry for The Cowboy. This should have been his day in the tanning booth.
Oh, now I remember the name of that movie. It’s called “Brokeback Mountain,” or as critics will soon dub it, “The feel-good movie of the queer.”
[Rimshot. Fade out.]