Since I live in a city with a large gay population, a gay-friendly mayor, and two neighborhoods heavily populated by my fellow 'mos, it's sometimes easy to forget that not every gay person has it so easy. Granted, my boyfriend and I know not to hold hands in certain neighborhoods, and there's always going to be some bigoted asshole who has a problem just to have a problem, but Chicago has its advantages. There are plenty of stylish gay bars, gay publications and even Hamburger Mary's, a national gay burger chain (the waiters are actually ponies and the burgers are made out of glitter and Cher's old noses).

It's not like I live in, oh, say, Mississippi. When you open a gay bar there, it's right down the block from a Confederate-flag-decorated straight bar where the patrons say things like, "If [the queers] fuck with me, I'm-a bust their heads wide open." Obviously, he's never tasted a queer burger. Chicago 1, drunk redneck 0.

Luckily, that guy doesn't get too much air time in Small Town Gay Bar, a new documentary out on DVD August 7. The film, a grand jury prize nominee at the 2005 Sundance film festival, documents the struggles to open and maintain a gay bar in rural areas of the "Bible Belt." Faced with prejudice that sometimes leads to violence, the owners and patrons of these establishments risk social alienation and physical harm just to toss back a few Bud Lights.

The film starts by interviewing many of the customers, who endlessly reiterate how much they need Rumors, the local gay bar - how it creates a sense of community, how it's the only place they feel safe and comfortable (once actually inside), how they'd have to travel up to two hours away to the second-closest gay bar without it. It then jumps, somewhat jarringly, to the tale of Scotty Weaver, a local boy who dressed in drag. He was tied up, strangled, mutilated, partially decapitated, then dragged to the woods and set on fire. The filmmakers tie this to the danger rural gay men and women face by being themselves. Anyone who follows the news knows that many gays are the victims of hate crimes all over the country, even in such gay-friendly cities as Chicago. But the film reminds us that the large scale of cities offers an element of anonymity, whereas everyone knows who you are in a small town. Sure, the local gay men and women could flock to a larger, more accepting city, but whether for personal or financial reasons, they choose to stay and live in the place they call home.

In the film, we meet Rick, the owner of Rumors, who isn't even out to his parents ("I know they love me and accept me, but if I told them that I don't think they could accept that"). There's Rumors' "show director," the fantastically glamorous, sharp-tongued drag queen Jim Bishop, aka Alicia Stone ("Let us be the grown adult taxpayers that we are and make our own decisions"). There's also Lori and Ruby, the lesbian couple that buys the abandoned, dilapidated gay bar Crossroads and puts all their time and money into opening it up as a new gay bar, Different Seasons.