Have you ever wondered about the rampant gayface you see on professional homophobes?

Take a look at this gallery of “manly” faces — the simpering Gary Bauer, the Golly Gee eyed Peter LaBarbera, the pudding-faced Robert Knight — all of them spokesman for organizations that freak out regularly over gay civil rights — the so-called “gay agenda.”

In point of fact, it is these spokesman for Christian-front organizations with names like Americans for the Truth about Homosexuality (a one-man operation by nutjob LaBarbera) and Concerned Women for America (odd isn’t it, for a man — pudgy-wudgy Robert Knight — to be the head of a woman-specific organization)… it is these Concerned Morons for Homophobia that have the agenda — a theocratic one.

But that’s not all they have. These Prisoners of the Inappropriate Gayface also possess an oddly fine tuned gaydar that goes off — in full, flaming four-alarm mode — at the first breath of a whisper, at the teeniest hint of gender “confusion” in Barbie dolls, at the “blatant gay militancy” to be found on the cardboard cups at Starbucks , at the softest rustling in the bushes … (read the full article)

It seems like we scan a thousand blogs each week. Queer blogs especially. It’s an occupational hazard. We understand that. But does the process need to be so painful?

Not everyone, god love ‘em, has the creative wherewithal to pull something together that warrants regular eyeballing — be that journalistically or graphically. Given that folks don’t really read anymore, the importance of an original visual theme for a blog is doubly important. That was our criteria this year for choosing Nightcharm’s second annual Queer Blog of the Year Award.

And the winner for 2007 is: (read the full article)

Types. Everyone has one. Everyone is one.

The Boy Next Door. The Dreamboat. Mr. Right. Mr. Vain. Big, Dumb and Slutty. Every cliche exists in life. Some lose ground and become merely quaint. Others gather stream and become iconic. The It Type of the moment: Douchebags. They’re everywhere and this emerging new type is easy to nail but hard to nail down. Not soulful, tortured or cool enough to be true Bad Boys and too oversexed to be geeks, it seems to be sheer unwarranted self-belief in all-consuming ego that drives then. Hollywood — the lodestar of all that we love and loathe sexually — is churning these dipwads out by the bucketful. With a sea of Summer’s Eve to wade through, how ever does one choose the pioneers?

Now, for your pleasure and edification, the definitive Top Ten Guide to the Douchebag Pantheon featuring a dazzling array of deluded D-bags not soon forgotten:

10. Wilmer Valderrama: Fun-Sized Douche

Like technically hot-from-the-neck down Dax Shepard and Sean “I couldn’t decide on a first name” William Scott, Wilmer is yet another Ashton-Kutcher douche protegee. Wilmer really went against type on That ’70s Show by playing a petite, fey man-child with a strange name who could only get young women who had terrible emotional problems to spread for him. His real claim to be fame is his role as Hollywood’s preeminent Virgin Surgeon. All manner of unsuspecting young starlets are drawn to his magnetic douchiness. Either that or his immense tool, which Wilmer is always happy to boast about. Quoth the douche: “Honestly, I’ve been very blessed. This is the place where I will tell you, yes, I am cursed with this gift. It’s over 8 inches.” Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be deflowered by this sawed-off lothario so that he can later rate you on a scale of 1 to 10? Fate has smiled again on Wilmer as he’s now essaying the role he was born for: portraying Francis “Ponch” Poncherello in the upcoming C.H.I.P.s remake, a part once made famous by his predecessor douche equivalent Erik Estrada. (read the full article)

Titian. Red Blond. Ginger. Strawberry Blond.

Orange Red. Auburn. Copper Blond. Burnt Orange.

Redheads may come in a variety of shades, but we’ll never mistake that for being prosaic. Only an estimated one to two percent of the earth’s population can say they boast natural red tresses. Scarcity breeds a fetishistic cred.

That’s why we love our Copper Tops.

Running your fingers through a fiery red brush cut. Clasping rippling porcelain flesh. Beholding a golden red trim line south of the navel (now forever known as the Fire Crotch). Having a pair of glacial blue eyes gaze up at you … or down at you … or back at you with wild carnal abandon. These are the few moments in life that can truly be called rapturous.

Though it’s often bemoaned that women are the ones typed by hair color in popular movies, literature and culture at large, men are ultimately just as branded by their locks. Brunets are sultry and intense, while blonds are vivacious and doe-eyed ingenues. Just a passing glance through the last bastion of every hoary pulp convention — the daytime soap — will suffice to evince that maxims are deathless.

But redheads? They’re the wild cards that break from the pack and run the gamut. Down through the epochs they’ve been cast as firecrackers with blazing tempers, fearless and brazen non-conformists, comical rogues, formidable heroes, deviant tricksters and tarty jesters. (read the full article)

A killer physique. A physique killer…

Few genres can boast the instant familiarity and immediate gratification of the Slasher Film: flat-as-cardboard characters, depthless locales where phones and car engines never function at pivotal moments, masked killers with impossibly convoluted modus operandi and the ability to be in multiple places at once.

It’s a world that thrives on its predictability. Rarely is the formula turned on its head and even less frequently is it even asked to.

The latest variation: hot, ripped bodybuilders in mortal peril.

It’s the inspired premise for Sceamkings.com’s Beef: You Are What You Eat.

The independent studio — known for its focus on young men as predators and prey — dispenses with standard-issue sorority girls and cheerleaders who utter lines like “A job at a summer camp plagued by a history of murders where no one can possibly hear me scream? Where do I sign up?!” and “We’ll never get our comeuppance for that prank we played on that emotionally fragile freshmen!”.

Here the victims are statuesque musclemen short of clothes and on the make for their big breaks. Gone are the slumber parties, prom nights and dorms that drip blood in favor of the amateur bodybuilder arena and aspiring fitness model meatrack.

Even the movie’s resident maniac is neither a masked boogeyman nor a spindly twerp, but a collegiately-handsome (if non-anabolically enhanced) head case hacking his way through an assortment of doomed hard bodies, his identity unconcealed by Whodunit? red herrings.

That scantily-clad male models and a murder motivation that centers around frustrated bodybuilding dreams play integral roles in the plot are enough to propel this low-budget wonder into the narrow Queer Horror niche. (read the full article)