Some of us have to come out twice — once as gay, and then again as gay geeks.

Whenever Comic-Con rolls around, I realize what an awkward and ungainly social path I tread. Geekery is still thought of as a heterocentric — and exclusively male — subculture that’s the antithesis of urbane gay culture: an underworld of homebound, social anxiety-ridden malcontents who have virtual girlfriends and chronic asthma.

Shiftless. Graceless. Sexless.

That stock character from an ’80s teen comedy is seeming old hat as of late; as geekdom moves aboveground, we now know that there are cute geek girls who look like twee Anime characters and typical suburbanites who desperately want to spread for vampires and werewolves, while the mythological gay geek has been revealed to actually exist as he walks camouflaged among his more standard-issue homo brethren. (read the full article)

Youngest member of Congress, Conservative Wonderboy, oh-so-eligible-but-still-unhitched bachelor, and categorically not gay (didn’t his poolside Details spread or getting his tight little ass handed to him on camera by Rachel Maddow convince you?) Aaron Schock at Tuesday’s White House picnic. The Schocker — who’s so red-bloodedly Republican he was in real estate and raking in the Free Market dollaz at a mere eighteen — opted here to eschew the expected relaxed fit Levis and American flag windbreaker and instead went with a breezy ensemble that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Roddy McDowall or Tab Hunter on Fire Island or at an Allan Carr megaparty circa 1970. What clinches it all? The rolled-up pink-on-white gingham button-down? The white jeans? The hands-down gayest belt I’ve ever laid eyes on this side of a New Wave Ken Doll. Yes, Schocky is known for being typically ahead-of-the-curve, and once again he knocks it out of the park, one single outfit hereby making his inevitable outing thanks to a tryst with a disco bunny, mid-priced escort, or visor-wearing internet gay porn starlet effectively anticlimactic.

Forget Bruno.

We haven’t enjoyed a gay persona on TV this much since Paul Lynde’s center spot hegemony of the old Hollywood Squares game show.

Of course we’re talking about Saturday Night Live’s Bill Hader and his outrageous club kid creation Stefon.

Announced as Weekend Edition’s latest city correspondent, Stefon took his seat aside Seth Meyers once again, ready and willing to supply Meyers with a list of hot Hot HOT spots for the soon-to-be roaming masses of New York tourists.

Seth of course wants to know all of the great family-friendly destinations the rubberneckers might explore. But a three-day sleep-deprived Stefon can only suggest his kaleidoscopic array of kink-themed discotheque events. Late night gay raves that include a netherworld of K-holed denizens: Twinks, gypsies, dreadlocked midgets, puppets in disguise and a black George Washington.

Did we reveal too much? Nope, Stefon is inexhaustible and we love him for it.

So as a director, you hire a witty, randy, gay Scottish actor to slum it up in your Z-grade, mostly-dubbed over monster epic. He likely takes the job as an excuse for a vacation in an exotic setting, and he’s obviously laughing during sequences that are supposed to be tense and harrowing. The time comes to shoot a key moment of romance between he and the film’s wooden leading lady after the horrible demise of another character. He’s a pro in the kiddie pool, so you let him improvise his dialogue in order to ratchet up his costar’s performance. He deadpans an ab-libbed line he assumes is destined for the cutting room floor, but because the project’s a total howler anyway, you opt to leave it in the final cut, thus ensuring Shark Attack 3: Megalodon’s ascension into immortality and the coining of a douchey come-on that’s since been used countless times but has never actually scored.

Hat tip to Michael Adams

OK, so as a sport, curling may rate up there with shuffleboard, and the exhilaration of watching men sweep may be lost on us, but goddamn if the Norwegian curling team’s incredible, triptastic, kaleidoscopic hipster pants don’t suddenly make it all watchable.

Is it simply a daring fashion statement? A gloriously Scandinavian sartorialism that’s all the rage in the streets of Oslo? A sly means of distracting opponents?

Some blessings are better left unquestioned.

Hat tip to Tara

Hat tip to Dwightsupremcacy.com