“There’s a short story by the writer Annie Proulx called ‘Brokeback Mountain,’” the erudite, socially awkward New York writer tells the cowboy he has stumbled into romancing. “I think you should read that.” “Saw the movie,” the cowboy responds. “Was good. Good enough that I don’t think I need to read the story.” The exchange, which David Cale acts out midway through his solo performance Blue Cowboy , triggers a cascade of laughs, as well as a satisfied exhale—from those anticipating the title from the first mention of Proulx, to those both amused and relieved that the cowboy isn’t nearly as oblivious as the writer imagines. Cale has, by that point, laid out the tropes of a typical coastal interloper’s gay fantasia of the Mountain West. But there are more mysterious forces at work here, a

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