Preparing for such a reveal visit is stressful.  I have an image to maintain as the soul behind the “shoe”, so I am hastily planning my wardrobe…and working out.  Hey, you can never make a second first impression, so I am doing my best to get rid of the residuals from the previously Tweeted peanut butter fudge brownie cupcakes with Reese’s cup centers.  Damn you, Paula Dean.  I know, I know, I have to forgo my plan to get Jillian Michaels to move in with me for a week, but this is more important.  Did I just say that?

Meeting a friend I have never seen before carries with it an obvious conundrum.  Will I recognize her at passenger pick-up, or will I be circling the airport in some kind of indiscriminate holding pattern while continually referring to a printed-out email picture taped to the steering wheel?  And I know that picture is at LEAST ten years old!   Facial recognition software would come in handy, but there is no app for that.

There are considerations about the house, too.  If you are a regular reader, you know I have several DIY projects in the works.  I’m trying to finish as many as possible.  I went to the hardware after work yesterday, and yep, you guessed it.  I went from last week’s male/female coupling to sockets and nuts…I can’t win.  Which bedroom for my friend?  Downstairs?  Upstairs?   Upstairs.  Smoker.  6,400 feet.  Note to self:  rent oxygen tank.  I wonder if they come in any color other than green.

Now, what to do?  It’s Pride weekend, and since the gays are in full bloom, we can take in the mile high parade of homos.  Surprise, there is no Chely Wright even though new this year is a country stage.  After her pronouncement this week “I’m super, duper gay!”, perhaps there is a special parade for uber-gays that I am not aware.  Oh, well, I will just have to free my mind (not a large stretch) to the ladies of En Vogue instead.

So, for those of you bellied up to the world wide watering hole this weekend, I’m sure we will be stopping in for a glass or two.  Let’s discuss the World Cup, our newest conquest, did she actually just Tweet that crap?, I do know how to pick a lock, and yes, maybe a hint or two about the soul behind that shoe.

Well, the big gay news came out today; country music singer, Chely Wright, revealed she is a lesbian.  OK.  I have to admit, I am not a new country music fan, so last night when a good friend and her reliable hotline of gabbin’ gays speculated with certainty the name of the heavily hyped celebrity homo, I said, “Who?”  My bad I guess.  The way the media has been carrying on, my money was on Oprah…or at the very least, Hillary.  Condoleeeza Rice?  Sarah Palin?

Other than providing a news cycle of actual gay content to the niche entertainment sites (don’t worry Megan Fox, you’ll be front-page again real soon), what does this really mean?  I give Chely Wright deserved credit and high praise for living her personal truth, but the stark truth is that thousands of men, women, and teens make this very difficult decision daily without the political cover of People magazine.  Make no mistake, there is a definite correlation between her book, her new CD, and her sexuality all coming out at the same time.  And I say more power to you…work it if you got it.

Some are saying that by Chely Wright coming out, those ultra-conservative country music fans can now say they know a homosexual because her music is played in their car, their home, and their honky tonk.  And that may be so, but before you and I make repeated trips to the post looking for that next tea party invitation, two words…Dixie Chicks.  Natalie Maines was practically plucked by merely mentioning that George Bush was an embarrassment, something nearly 70% of the country eventually agreed with in 2008.

My point is, celebrity coming out stories make for fun media speculation and girl gossip, but when used as a barometer to test the frontal boundaries of everyday people, it just doesn’t measure up.  Sure that sweet little lady from Mississippi will dance for America with a  dykey daytime talk show host, but don’t ask her to extend her tax dollars for a home town high school senior dance that includes a lesbian in a bad tuxedo.  And on a much smaller scale, “You know, Schmootz, you are kind of amusing sometimes, but I’m never going to vote to allow you to get married.  It’s just not right”  And that’s my next door neighbor who borrows the big gay cup of sugar, the occasional big gay beer, and shovels my big gay sidewalk every other time.  She knows me…I hum 80’s tunes while riding in her car, I sing stuck-on-the-brain Glee selections in her home, and at times, I even get Haggard in her honky tonk.  I’ve done the Wright thing, but it just hasn’t made a difference…I’ll keep trying.