Bareback Hill

I was surprised to hear Willie singing an old Dylan song as the credits started to roll. But what better voice to place over the fading background of snow capped mountains and a hustling stream rinsing over stones who were once immovable parts of those mountains. Between the choir of hardship in Willie’s lone voice and the lapping of the water is the faint sound of a cowboy hero known as “the Duke” saying in his draw, “Put that man’s rear down, son!”

I want to say I lost a bet, but I don’t remember gambling with the devil. Somehow, either I was trying to make up for something I did, or Lin slipped me a roofie, but I found myself in a theater preparing for “Brokeback Mountain.” It is not that I’m insecure about my sexuality. I just don’t like westerns. All right, I like some westerns, I just don’t really like to watch guys … do it. Hey man, if you’re reading this and you do, that’s fine. Whatever gets your jollies ringing. But it just ain’t my thing you know. Though I guess if you were going to make a movie about man lovin’ and put it in a genre of film that had been left untouched by manicured male hands, then someone gets a stroke for originality.

The film's story was decent, and the love scene could have been worse, yet, it was enough to make a straight man, or any man who's ever had a case of hemorrhoids, flinch. But there is one flaw that I can't stop thinking about. Two men are alone in the mountains hearding sheep and the only thing they can find to poke is each other? What about all them sheep? I think the main question this movie should have asked is, "What would John Wayne Do?" And I'll tell you what he would have done. And I'll tell you after he'd done it, there'd be lamb chops for dinner.