. . . And a happy Brokeback Mountain new year

Ha, you think it's been weeks since I've written anything, but au contraire, mon Hollywood Square.

Actually, I've drafted several postings of late--some on paper while waiting at O'Hare (my new, default "third place," apparently) for planes to the Plains; some in my head while driving to and from work (my old, default third place); and others still in the bits and bytes of Bloggerworld (which, coupled with Microsoft Word for processing the occasional story or article, and accompanied by Lavazza espresso roast brewed in a lovely stainless steel, Frieling French press by courtesy of Vivian Leigh and Weaver's Department Store, Lawrence, Kansas--simply the best department store ever--represents my preferred third place these days).

Now that we've cleared that up . . .

None of these postings, however, have I deemed complete or even readable. True, a lack of anything to say, intelligent, coherent or otherwise, has not stopped me from posting before, but, hey, it's a new year. Why not establish a new standard for blog postings, along with all those resolutions to exercise more, get to work on time, use the "f" word less generously in daily speech, and have more fun in 2007?

If truth be told, every now and again, I get a case of "blogger's block," this mild panic that seizes my psyche and makes me start to wonder whether I'll have anything else to say ever again. What if--horrors!--my life is as it should be--reaonably normal and, thus, deadly dull? What if I become, dare I say it, contented with my existence? Surely then my inspiration would dry up quicker than Kevin Federline's line of credit at the back bar at [fill in trendy-trashy L.A. nightspot here].

But I haven't lacked for inspiration of late. (I suspect as long as the war in Iraq continues and Britney Spears continues to ride Lady Godiva-style from the waist down in Paris "Celebutard Barbie" Hilton's dream car, I'll always have something to write about.) Some of the silence is due to a lack of time, and perhaps some of it is due to a holiday malaise of "no, I couldn't possibly have another piece of cake and open another present . . . oh, what the f***?" More significantly, though, my "inside voice" has been shushed considerably by the fact that none of the topics or themes playing out in my head has lent themselves to holiday cheer, even of my most cynical, snarky variety. A rewriting of the pop classic Christmas tune, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" as "I Saw Lindsay Lohan Giving Santa Claus a Lapdance and an STD" is cute but not really in keeping with the spirit of the season, even for me.

A Brokeback Mountain calendar doesn't exactly scream "Season's Greetings" either. Yet it is what I now choose to write about. Go figure.

I was browsing the new calendar section at the Borders in Camp Hill the other evening, and this is indeed what I spotted for sale--a Brokeback Mountain calendar for 2007. A month-by-month collection of stills from the motion picture that, despite some initial misgivings, I have come to respect and recognize as a much-better-than-I-originally-thought piece of modern filmmaking. Still, despite my newly found admiration of the movie, plus any particularly photogenic moments--real or imagined--of the Wyoming mountains the season's first snow, a nekkid-except-for-his-boots Heath Ledger, or a buttless-chaps-bedecked Jake Gyllenhaal, I can't really say that I would cherish reliving every month each moment of Brokeback Mountain.

My friend Sophia and I discussed some months back how, despite the best efforts of movie marketeers, Brokeback really isn't a romantic love story. You can populate the cast with cowboy versions of McDreamy and McSteamy, you can set it down among the glorious sun-and-snow-dappled peaks of the American West, you can film it all in a shimmering light and through a gauzy lens, and you can set it all to a haunting, swooning score. But when it comes down to it, mostly Brokeback is a sad, tragic tale of love between two men who, given their upbringing, the culture, and the times, never had a chance. Heck, it's even hard to describe the movie as a love story because love, at least the love that Ennis feels for Jack, is never explicitly voiced until it's way too late to do anything about it.

The calendar tends to focus on the boys' enchanted time outdoors, huntin', fishin', and sheepherdin', on the land, in the woods, on the mountain--the more idyllic aspects of the Brokeback Experience. It's a lovely souvenir--but is Brokeback really suitable for the glossy, wall calendar treatment?

It seems like an odd choice. I mean, while we're at it, why not turn Crash into a calendar, or maybe Monster with Charlize Theron, or Boys Don't Cry with Hilary Swank? Hey, shoppers and New Year celebrants, let's relive those special moments of celluloid-captured human behavior at its worst with monthly reminders from your favorite, gritty Hollywood dramas! Now you can keep track of all your hair appointments and pick-up-kids-from-soccer-practice days with scenes of tire irons against Jake Gyllenhaal's skull, a menacing Matt Dillon's hands up Thandie Newton's skirt, Charlize Theron plugging another brutal john, and Hilary Swank enduring what has to be the longest, most disgusting rape scene ever committed to film! You'll never look at your life the same way again--or your money back!

I'm not offended by the Brokeback calendar; more than anything, I'm just puzzled by the audience for it. Given my sporadic, self-induced, homophobic fear of drawing attention to myself and my sexuality, I might not be the most likely consumer for this merchandise. I mean, nothing says "I've thought about that scene in the movie when Jack and Ennis first discover the pleasures of each other's bodies--a lot, in fact" to a holiday-surly store clerk than buying a Brokeback Mountain calendar. I suspect a few other members of Team Homo have the same concern, but, granted, with my particular brand of social anxiety (see DSM IV--cf. "foolphobia," the fear of looking like an extreme goofball in public), I may remain the dilled Havarti standing alone on this one.

Thus, I probably won't be buying the calendar, even when it goes on sale at 50 percent off at the end of the month. Nonetheless, if you want to mail me one in a discreet envelope, in care of "Nervous Nelly Occupant, Harrisburg, PA," I will consider finding a place for it on a wall somewhere in my apartment.

Probably in my closet.