For the Write Reason

Sunburns are full of mixed messages. I mean, on the one hand, a sunburn is painful, unattractive (especially if it’s at that peeling stage), and unhealthy. It indicates that its bearer is careless in the skin care arena. On the other hand, a sunburn is indicative of that quintessential all-American summer. A sunburn tells the world I had a good weekend playing in the sun. It suggests that I’m physically active, even if I’m not. Even if I all I did was lay out in my backyard, my Indiana sunburn says I was at the lake all weekend the way that a New Jersey sunburn would say I was at the shore all weekend.

This time, my sunburn isn’t lying. I really was at the lake all weekend. There are a lot of lakes in this part of Indiana and each lake goer has a tendency to refer to the lake of his or her destination as “the lake,” as if there is just one. It’s one of those colloquialisms that we don’t notice until we are forced to think about it from the outside. Andy and I were guests at a friend’s lake cottage. We don’t even have a lake property that we own or members of our family own, and we still fall into that “I’m going to the lake” pattern whenever we discuss a lake excursion.

I’m not an outdoorsy person and before last weekend, I hadn’t been to the lake in years. Honestly, the last time I can remember really spending time at the lake was the summer I turned eight. What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t expect to like it so much. I’m a city person. I like the closeness of the buildings and the smell of hot asphalt in the summer. I like having neighbors so close I can hear them cough in their sleep but I don’t need to know their names. I like restaurants and bars and parks within walking distance. I didn’t have some kind of personality transformation over the weekend but I did have an excellent time during which I developed an appreciation for the lake and an understanding for why people want to go to there.

For two solid days, I didn’t check the time except out of pure curiosity. I read and swam but mostly I listened to other people’s conversations. I heard a lot of stories—mostly funny but some serious and few heart-breaking. Not once did I wish for something to hurry up. I didn’t even bother to wish away the oppressive heat because I knew it would go when it was ready. That’s what intense relaxation did to my brain. I was even willing to give the weather the benefit of the doubt.

The truth is, when I woke up Friday morning and saw this outside the door of the cottage, I would have cut Glenn Beck some slack.

I spent the weekend with people who are voracious consumers of pop culture.

This is the new M.I.A. album. Have you heard it? I was so upset when The Sarah Silverman Program got canceled. I know! My favorite episode is the one where she drives around in her car while she’s drinking NyQuil from the bottle. We were at Lilith Fair this week and Mary J. Blige blew my mind. I mean, I never really considered her before and now I think I’d pay to see her alone. Did you know that The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is on Netflix instant? I tried to read the first book but I just got bogged down at the beginning. Yeah, it starts off with a lot of unnecessary back story, information about Swedish politics and stuff. The story really starts about 100 pages in. Hey, what’s your favorite Dar Williams song? I don’t really listen to Dar Williams. I mean, I’ve heard of her, but… But what’s your favorite Brandi Carlile song? “Late Morning Lullaby,” no contest. Did she do “The Story”? I like that song but that album was kind of “meh.” No, I think that’s her best album. Oh! This is Florence and the Machine. I love this song! You know, I always want to say Florence and the Henderson. I heard that the StoryCorps people are staying next door to you. I heard a long interview with them on NPR a couple weeks ago. During Midday Matters? I don’t know. I just have NPR on all day and sometimes I lose track of what show I’m listening to. Who does “O Captain, My Captain”? What movie is that from? No, it’s a poem. Hey, Katie! It’s Tegan & Sara. I JUST WANT BACK IN YOUR HEADDDDD.

This is not a criticism. This is an expression of astonishment. Not every reference went over my head. I participated in probably 40 percent of the conversations, but my scope is rather…um…I want to say “limited” but I’m going to give myself “specific.” TV is my main thing, although I can shoot the shit about a lesbian movie or two. The truth is that my sponge soaks up culture more slowly than other people’s sponges. I mean, I’m still working my way through the 1970s.

All weekend, amid the flurry of iPods being shuffled, books being discussed (some were laying around as if being read but very little actual reading seemed to be taking place), movies being quoted, and TV shows being reviewed, I didn’t once hear about something that I didn’t want to listen to, read, or watch—with the glaring exception of a certain website involving cake and farts. This isn’t all that surprising considering that these people are my friends. We’re likely to have something in common. Still, because I am used to thinking of myself as having very limited taste, I was in fact surprised by how much pop culture exists that I didn’t even know I could be liking.

What I learned is that I could branch out, if I wanted to, but it’s doubtful that I will. More than once last weekend, I described myself as a “square,” and it’s true that I’ve never thought of myself as cool enough for most of the kind of pop culture that I actually enjoy. Part of the problem could be that I have here, in this post, referenced NPR as part of pop culture. Even my NPR habits are evidence of my non-coolness, though. I basically ignore all the cool public radio stuff—Radio Lab, Jesse Thorn, etc.—because I’m too busy listening to The Diane Rehm Show, which I honestly love.

See what I mean? Total square. Time to watch Rhoda.

I used to think that the hardest part about growing up is realizing that the things you love are likely stupid and/or boring. Now, I am starting to suspect that the real hard part exists not in realizing this truth but in accepting it and allowing yourself to like stuff that is stupid and boring. Please note that I am strictly talking about stuff here, not people. (Although giving yourself permission to like stupid and boring people may be the actual hardest part about growing up, I am not there yet.)

Yes, this is another post about General Hospital.

This afternoon, I was in the kitchen doing the dishes while GH was on in the living room. It may have appeared that no one was watching it. Even the cat was sitting on the rug with his back turned toward the TV. However, because the show is inherently stupid and boring, I am able to watch it from the kitchen. Today, for example, I was listening for the ominous music because that would signal that Nikolas and Elizabeth’s baby had been kidnapped. What is the point of watching if I already know what’s going to happen?

You see, GH is like turkey at Thanksgiving. Turkey is one of my favorite things to put on a sandwich (the way that TV is one of my favorite things to put into my brain), but Thanksgiving-type turkey is kind of boring. It even looks boring. What color is that? Grey? Brown? It’s really a brown-grey, which is not a recognized blend of colors the way that blue-grey is. Furthermore, turkey at Thanksgiving is always the same. Its moistness and dressing may vary from year to year, but when we refer to “Thanksgiving turkey,” we can be sure we’re all talking about the same thing. You can count on turkey that way.

That’s how I feel about GH. Is it the most interesting thing on Earth? No. Do I look forward to it? Not really. Do I expect it to be there at the same time, behaving in the same way every day? Yes, I do. Just like I expect turkey to be the same each and every Thanksgiving, I expect GH to be stupid and boring in exactly the same ways each and every day. Do I watch it every day? Hell no. But it’s nice to know that it’s there even if I’m not watching it.

A lot of soaps are ending lately. Guiding Light ended last fall and As the World Turns is ending in September. Days of Our Lives narrowly escaped the same fate last year. Naturally (if you’re me), I’ve been thinking about the future of the genre. GH has been making some obvious and deliberate moves in order to stay relevant. Let’s say the switch to high-definition was awkward and leave it at that. What is really making me cringe is this James Franco business.

GH has essentially allowed a movie star to run amok in Port Charles in order to get ratings. James Franco’s “vision” for his stint on GH is both stupid and boring, but his presence on the show is something else entirely: it’s pathetic. First of all, the whole thing smacks of a desperate ratings ploy, and that sort of grab for attention is never appealing. I recently learned that James Franco himself paid for the elaborate shoot at MOCA in Los Angeles that serves as the “exciting conclusion” to his storyline. This means that, no, GH could not afford him, which I had kind of suspected all along. I don’t know if Franco approached GH or vice versa, but the relationship between the two parties seems mutually beneficial on the surface. Basically, Franco is using GH as his artistic playground, trying out an idea (murder as performance art), and GH gets a big time movie star to draw viewers.

I actually don’t know if it is working. I do know that “Franco” (the cleverly named character that James Franco plays) is annoying, and I have been mostly taking a break from GH while he has been on. If the ploy is indeed resulting in higher ratings, then I don’t begrudge GH this success. However, when Franco leaves, I’ll be back. I doubt the Franco-inspired viewers will stick around for more stupid and boring once Mr. Famous Movie Actor is gone.

Soap opera viewers are a difficult breed to cultivate because we give the impression of always having been this way. I can remember vividly the day I decided to be a GH fan, but I am not typical in this way. Most soap fans have just always been watching their show and can’t quite remember why or for how long. That makes it difficult to figure out what hooked them in the first place, but I bet it wasn’t a movie star. Maybe GH should concentrate on keeping the viewers it has instead of finding a new audience in a sea of people who 1) think soaps are stupid and boring but don’t love them anyway, 2) work for a living (which is really the point), and 3) spend the day watching people make cakes that cost $1,000 on the Food Network.

I have no doubt that GH is trying to keep me. You see, I do remember what initially hooked me. Her name is Brenda Barrett and she is coming back next month. Brenda is neither stupid nor boring, though her show will likely remain so. When it strays away from this formula—when it strives for something more—that is when it really fails.

And I don’t want it to fail, because I love it. My usual metaphor for GH is that it is like my family. If The L Word is my bad boyfriend, GH represents my extended family, all the people I love out of habit and obligation and the sort of buried fondness and leftover adolescent affection that defies contemplation (though I of course try to understand it anyway).

One day last week, I was having a rather rotten day, the sort of day where you question all the choices you’ve made up until that day and wonder why you don’t have the guts to make your dreams come true, and I was trolling the internet, feeling sorry for myself, and probably eating cheese, when I stumbled upon the details of Brenda’s return. I already knew that she was coming back for at least a year starting August 11. It turns out that, in what feels like a specific gift from GH to me, the day before her return, there will be a Brenda retrospective, taking up the entire ABC daytime afternoon block, including the times usually occupied by All My Children and One Life to Live. Now, in all honesty, there is really nothing stupider or more boring than rewatching something stupid and boring, but in the part of me that loves the soaps, there is nothing I like more than this sort of sloppy nostalgia. This is what frustrates me. In a lot of ways, GH knows me very well, almost too well, and then in other ways, it acts like we’ve barely ever even been in the same room together. What made it think I wanted James Franco on my show?

This whole conversation I’ve been having with GH in my head has been made temporarily moot by the plans for some hardcore Brenda fanfare next month. I will forgive and forget. I always do. And next Thanksgiving, when I’m eating turkey with my family alternately knowing me and confounding me, I’ll feel that same comfort in the pit of my stomach that the stupid and boring soap opera gives me.

I’m sure you were expecting this post. Yes, I bought Chely Wright’s new Big Gay Album, Lifted Off the Ground. It is my first Chely Wright album. Perhaps you will recall that pre-coming out, I had just lukewarm feelings about her. I’m not too proud to admit that I am more interested in Chely Wright now than I used to be. If I didn’t say it, people would assume it anyway so I might as well be honest. Lesbianism makes people more interesting to me. I’ve been sort of re-processing Chely Wright’s whole existence in light of this new information, and some things are starting to make sense. For instance, maybe that silly “Single White Female” song (and even sillier video) was so cheesy and empty because Chely wasn’t really feeling it.

Even though I had what can be called an enthusiastic response to Chely Wright’s coming out, I didn’t intend to buy the album. I just wasn’t interested. Instead, I bought Melissa Etheridge’s new album. (Don’t even get me started on that situation.) See, I’m on a budget, folks—a lesbian entertainment budget, apparently.

Then I watched about a thousand talk show interviews where Chely talked about how gay this one particular song on this album is and I started to wonder. Wonder turned to abject curiosity. Then I had an extra $10 and, well, you can guess what happened.

When I first started listening to this album, I recalled what it was I liked about “Shut Up and Drive” all those years ago. While Chely Wright isn’t the world’s most talented singer, she has an adorable speaking voice that translates almost completely to her singing voice.

The song in question on this new album is called “Like Me” (which is coincidentally the name of Chely’s memoir, which I haven’t read because it’s apparently popular at the library). It’s a quiet song, just her and the guitar sort of squeaking in that country music way. I like country music so I like these songs on Lifted Off the Ground, but make no mistake, despite the incompatibility of the gay and the country music, this is a country music album. However, “Like Me” has a specific intimacy about it that keeps it from being generic. This song contains details about this estranged lover that feel real: “You won’t eat a tomato on a double-dog dare” and “Your closet is cluttered with dress pants and Levis that you wish you’d never bought” and (my favorite, for its awkwardness) “You’d rather make-out than make love all night.” That’s personal stuff, right?

Is the song gay? Kind of. If I heard it without the coming-out context, without Chely herself telling me how gay it is for weeks before I ever heard it, what would I think? I’ll tell you what would have caught my attention regardless of the context. This song has what can only be called a positive (refreshingly non-sleazy or attention-whorey) portrayal of bisexuality. Check out the chorus: “And who’s gonna end up holding your hand?/ A beautiful woman or a tall, handsome man/ There’s no doubt they’ll love you/ But it’s yet to be seen/ Will anyone ever know you like me?”

So, yes, it’s more queer than most country songs.

My favorite song on the album, though, is “Hang Out in Your Heart.” I like the way it sounds. It has some of that quietness that “Like Me” has, but it’s tone is a bit lighter. Whereas “Like Me” is all melancholy and longing, the separation in “Hang Out in Your Heart” feels temporary. What I like best about this song is that while there is some sort of unsatisfying romantic situation going on, there isn’t any desperation. There is even this line: “I know you don’t really need me/ But still you opened up/ And I guess that’s why this all feels so damn good.” It’s a healthy relationship! That’s rare in all avenues of pop culture, but especially in music.

Speaking of desperate, though, there is “Notes to the Coroner.” This is one of my favorite songs on the album and it doesn’t take its desperation seriously. Basically, the premise of the song is that she has left notes for the coroner in case she doesn’t make it because “I lost too much love and then I fell apart/ Official cause of my death.” Most of the songs on Lifted Off the Ground are quiet and solemn in the way that I described “Like Me,” and Chely herself seems that way, too, lately. “Notes to the Coroner” is fun, though. It’s important not to take things so seriously all the time.

When Logan was born, one year ago today, I was probably sick. I was pretty much sick all last summer until I had that troublesome gallbladder removed so during his first two months of existence, I barely saw Logan. I still don’t see him as much as I’d like, but I no longer feel like he doesn’t know me. Sometimes, when someone else (*cough* Bethany *cough*) is holding him, he reaches out for me. Basically, we’re tight.

When Logan’s sister was born, it sort of changed my life. Suddenly, I had access to all these warm-and-fuzzy feelings I didn’t even know I possessed. I loved Madeline instantly and completely. When I learned there was to be a Logan, I was nervous. What if he wasn’t as special as Madeline? What if he had to grow on me instead of just capturing my entire heart right away? And, frankly, what if he wasn’t as cute as Madeline?

Well, obviously, I wasted a lot of time worrying over nothing. It’s really embarrassing to admit now.

This kid is equally as captivating as his sister. I suppose that the sibling relationship naturally invites comparison and their age difference doesn’t help the situation. Here, though, such comparison is just utterly useless. Already, these are two distinct types of people. Logan is very serious and very quiet, making him very much my kind of person. He doesn’t really talk, unlike his hyper-articulate, spotlight-stealing sister, but he doesn’t really need to talk. I almost always know what he wants and how he feels. He is curious, which is probably why he’s been walking now for two months. Don’t believe me? I have proof!

Yep, he’s pretty special. I guess I will get him something other than this blog post for his birthday, after all.

It is Father’s Day and I am therefore moved to talk about my dad.

Dad likes to build things. On the one hand, he’s pretty cheap and doesn’t like to pay for things he could allegedly make himself. This is why my parents have a cinder-blocks-and-boards entertainment center. On the other hand, he genuinely enjoys the planning, designing, and executing of these projects. I have a bookcase that he made for me shortly before my sister was born. His initials and the date are carved into the back of one of the shelves. That’s how I know that he likes this work. Why else would he want to make sure that, wherever this bookcase ends up, people know that he made it? His pride makes me proud to be the recipient of his work, and I know I will never get rid of that bookcase.

When I was a freshman in college, my roommate Kari and I took a class together in which we had to write biographies of other people in the class. She randomly was assigned me, which seemed unfair because we had gone to high school together and were good friends so Kari already knew a lot about me. Still, she did some research. She emailed both my parents to ask what I was like when I was a kid.

Kari let me read the email response she got from my dad, and I wish I had kept it because I can’t remember it very clearly now. What I do remember is the first sentence: “I believe that every child should have a sandbox.” This statement set up his email to be a grand metaphor about childhood and playing in the sand, but Dad isn’t really the metaphorical type. His point was just as he had stated it. He thinks sandboxes are very important and so it was very important to him that I have a sandbox.

And I did have a sandbox. It was the best one in the neighborhood. Dad made it (obviously). It was slightly larger than one of those plastic sandboxes you can buy at a store. It was rectangular and on the longer sides were benches so that we could play in the box without sitting in the sand. Of course we still sometimes sat in the sand, but it was nice to have options. My sandbox was the most popular one in the neighborhood. Even our sand was better—softer. smoother, and prettier—than everybody else’s.

We have never discussed it, but I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t have a sandbox when he was growing up. In this way, his focus on the sandbox is indeed a metaphor for how deliberately and consciously he wanted my childhood to be different from his.

Last week, I read a short article in The Atlantic called “Are Fathers Necessary?” The article was prompted by a recent study that found that the children of lesbian parents might actually do better (in school, life, etc.) than children from all other situations, but the main point is that children from two-parent homes are better off than children from single parent homes regardless of the gender of said parents. Of course, I am anxious for this “regardless of gender” angle to become mainstream because I don’t believe that heterosexual couples are the only ones qualified to be parents, and of course there are so many other factors (socioeconomic status at the top of that list) that affect kids that this brief article ignores. Even though I understand and even subscribe to the ideology that treats all parents equally in regard to gender, I was uncomfortable the entire time I was reading this article that was telling me that technically speaking, fathers are not necessary.

Because mine is totally necessary.

If you’ve spoken to me much in the past month or so, you’ve likely already heard about The Desk. If not, here’s some background.

About two months ago, when the reality that I was not going to be leaving the Fort in the Fall in pursuit of even higher education began to sink in, I abruptly decided that I hated my desk. It was a perfectly fine desk in that it performed its function of holding up my computer, various books and papers, my purple stapler, purple tape dispenser, etc. just fine. It was big, though, and took up a lot of space in my office. Its size and clunkiness made it rather visually unappealing. I got it from my sister-in-law for exactly $0.00, which was a great price, but because it had been Kelly’s, I didn’t choose it, which explains why it was never my style.

This, apparently, is my style:

If it looks like some boards painted purple resting on top of some lime green shelves, that’s because that’s exactly what it is. Shortly after my desk-hating epiphany, Andy showed me this desk at Apartment Therapy and I decided that I would make one, too. Only mine would be purple, of course, to keep it from looking as classy as the example.

It was the biggest home improvement type project we’ve ever tackled, and while it seemed cumbersome at the time, in retrospect, I can see that it didn’t really take too long.

And I love my new desk. I really do. Is it a tad too tall? Yes. I am currently searching for a taller chair. Does my cool orange solar-powered desk lamp from IKEA not really work? Yes. None of the issues really overshadow the fact that I had a vision and now I have a desk. It’s no PhD, but it’ll do for now.

Outside of college basketball, I am not a sports fan. What I am, though, is a band wagon fan. I’ll watch the Superbowl. I won’t know what’s going on, but I’ll watch it. I have a kind of philosophical objection to professional sports that keeps me from enjoying the NBA, but I’ll give the World Series a glance or two.

So in light of this newly-revealed character trait, it won’t come as a surprise to learn that I have been watching the World Cup. What is surprising is how appealing I find soccer. It is, for lack of a better word, refreshingly un-American.

The first thing I noticed is not how slow the game moves, but how attractive the uniforms are. I know. Go ahead and roll your eyes, but American football uniforms are chunky and awkward. Baseball uniforms are cute but look dirty after just a few seconds. Basketball uniforms are all right, but the shorts are so long that they lose the clean-and-trim, well-tailored aesthetic of a soccer uniform.

Another charming aspect of soccer is how simple and clean the field is. Soccer isn’t a flashy game. That’s what I like most about it. There are certainly standout players—stars, if you will—and a lack of flash doesn’t translate into a lack of crazy in the fans. Soccer fans are some of the craziest people on Earth. What I enjoy is that these zillions of crazy fans are hooting and hollering over such a civilized game.

There has been a lot of discussion lately about how increasingly popular soccer is becoming in the U.S. I hope the American embracing of the game doesn’t affect its style.

Stay classy, soccer.

I’ve suspected that Tammy and Melissa’s marriage was on the rocks for awhile. I am a careful (read: obsessive) reader of Tammy’s blog, and there have been subtle hints and vague references. There was one post that was neither subtle nor vague but it was soon removed. Its removal gave me hope, actually. I figured whatever was going on had been resolved, and everything was good again in the Etheridge family. It matters to me that everything be OK because Tammy’s happiness is important to me. She is, after all, my fake best friend.

Well, it turns out that everything is not all right. My suspicions have been confirmed. Tammy and Melissa have split up. There’s even an official statement asking for privacy and all that. I’ll give them their privacy. I don’t need or want to know what happened, and I firmly believe that only the people in a relationship can understand what goes on in it anyway.

But what does one do when one’s fake BFF encounters major emotional turmoil? I never know what to say to people I actually know so even if I did know Tammy, I likely wouldn’t know what to say to her.

You see, I’m no good in a crisis, not an emotional one like this. If you need me to run errands, pick stuff up, clean, or do something like that, I’m adequate in a crisis. But while I am more than willing to be a shoulder to cry on, I’m not very good at it. Usually I just get mad. Who did this? Just give me a name! I’m not afraid to cut a bitch! JUST TELL ME WHO TO CUT.

But I don’t know what happened with Melissa and Tammy. I don’t know if Melissa deserves to be on the business end of my metaphorical switchblade. Probably, she doesn’t. Probably, it was just one of those things. They drifted apart. They grew apart. Apart, apart, apart.

On top of my innate ineptitude, I would be bad in this particular crisis because I’m just so damn disappointed. I liked them together so much. Melissa’s music has always been intensely, almost uncomfortably, personal, and I like to think that The Awakening‘s calm, content, and self-assured vibe (distinctly lacking that thread of desperation that weaves through her previous albums, not that there’s anything wrong with that) has something to do with how well it was working with Tammy. Maybe it was working then and now it isn’t.

I guess it’s time to just cut to the chase. My long-held dream of having dinner at Tammy and Melissa’s house is dead. This is how it was going to go: Andy and I were going to show up a little late because we got lost (we don’t live in the neighborhood, you know), but they wouldn’t care because they’re very chill. We would eat dinner with them in what I imagine is one of those open and airy California dining rooms, then play outside with their kids, and then sit around the living room drinking whiskey and talking about politics once the kids had gone to bed. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Well, it’s dead.

When I read this post at Dorothy Surrenders yesterday morning, I was utterly shocked—not because I have no idea who Chely Wright is but because I know exactly who she is.

You see, I am somewhat of a country music fan. This tidbit might surprise people who only know a certain side of me, but those who know the me who secretly wants to drive a Mustang, claims Miller Lite is her favorite beer, has seen Martina McBride in concert four times, watches American Idol, and thinks chip and dip is a food group, those people know that I sometimes listen to country music.

My passion for the genre peaked in the late 1990s, and I spent many a late night watching country music videos in my bedroom. Don’t feel sorry for me. I wasn’t a lonely kid. I had friends and stuff to do. I was just weird and I didn’t sleep much. Plus, country music has always fascinated me because, perhaps more than any other genre, it is a brand. It has a distinctive look and feel and a finite set of themes it works from. For my purposes, there are three categories of country music: serious, fun, and offensive. In the first category, I’ve got my beloved Kris Kristofferson and his contemporaries like Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings. Then, there’s also the Dixie Chicks, the aforementioned Martina McBride, and Alison Krauss, who might really be a bluegrass artist but I don’t really listen to bluegrass so I’ll just keep thinking of her as a country singer.

Sometimes the lines between the categories are blurry. I mean, what do you do with Joe Nichols? On the one hand, he has this song called “She Only Smokes When She Drinks,” which I think is just flat out a good song, but on the other hand, there’s “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off,” which is, well, not exactly a masterpiece. Brad Paisley presents a similar dilemma, with songs like “Whiskey Lullaby” (with assistance from the lovely Alison Krauss) and “Alcohol.” (I’d also like to note that being fun in content doesn’t keep a song from being serious as in a good song that I seriously like instead of just dismissing as fun. Martina McBride’s “When God-Fearing Women Get the Blues” is a good example of this.) Notice the similar elements between the serious songs and the fun songs. Regardless of the artist’s style or level of talent, the country music brand pervades, drawing from a small pool of inspiration. You know what isn’t in that pool? The gay.

In her post about Chely Wright, Dorothy Snarker referred to her as a “major mainstream country star.” Even though she had a number one song about ten or so years ago, I wouldn’t call Chely Wright “major” or “a star.” In 1999, she was a star, but in 2010, she is just somebody who used to have songs on the radio, somebody only people like me who have weird brains still remember.

Despite my instant recall for her name and her face and that cloying “Single White Female” video that played every ten minutes on GMC and CMT in 1999, I wasn’t exactly a Chely Wright fan back in the day. Although I recall being quite fond of the first Chely Wright song I ever heard, “Shut Up and Drive,” you might have noticed that “Single White Female” kind of annoyed me and then she basically lost me altogether with “Bummer of My SUV” in the 2005. I have no patience for overly sentimental, forcefully poignant, self-righteously indignant country songs. There was this one video, though, during that magical 1999 year. The song is called “It Was” and is in my estimation her best one, perhaps tied with “Shut Up and Drive,” but I have notoriously bad taste in music so don’t take my word for it. More than the song, I recall that my sister and I were endlessly fascinated by the video. I can’t imagine why.

Despite my lukewarm feelings about Chely Wright as an artist, I am feeling quite enthusiastic about her coming out. Of course, I believe that the more lesbians in the world, the better, but this announcement is also significant for country music. I’m glad she feels like she can be who she is, and I hope it works out better for her than it did for the Dixie Chicks. But if it doesn’t, if she gets ostracized from the genre and the all-powerful commercial radio stations don’t play her music, then maybe it’s time for a new genre, with the same old sound and a new sensibility. Or maybe she should just cross over into folk. I think she would find the company there to be quite friendly.