Contrary to popular belief, I did not emerge from the womb gay. Nor did I deem the lighting in the hospital too unflattering and thus attempt to return from whence I’d come.

No, I would have to say that my true origin as a gay man, both pre and post closet, is tied to my love of pop culture – those TV shows and movies that defined my formative years and near-wholly determined who I was destined to become.

While pop culture didn’t necessarily “make me gay,” it certainly didn’t impede the process. Those celluloid images flitting across my screen most definitely flung my closet door wide open.

And in the spirit of Pride, where I’m free to be you and you’re free to be me (or is it vice versa?), I would like to celebrate the stuff and things (I just love stuff and things, and can never pick one over the other) that helped me steer queer of becoming a card-carrying heterosexual.

Yes, I avoided that fate, even though I did own a Blue Oyster Cult tape, surely a sign of hetero tendencies, according to my best gal pal. (Lord, how saying “Blue Oyster Cult” and “tape” in the same sentence dates me – but I digress.) The rest of my collection was decidedly homo, however.

I would have to say that Sid and Marty Krofft shows may have single handedly been my intro into the world of gay sensibility. “Electra Woman and Dyna Girl” thrilled me on Saturday mornings with their female brand of heroics, sporting skin-tight spandex costumes and those very innocuous “ElectraComs” (their communication devices, which were frickin’ huge!). And it was one of the first shows that showed me the difficulties of maintaining a dual existence – something that would come in handy when trying to mask my proclivities at a later age.

The obvious drug-related connotations of “H.R. Pufnstuf” (oh, now I get it!) were all but lost on me as a child. But with a cockney-accented young hero, Jimmy (Jack Wild), his talking flute named Freddy, who was always being snatched by Witchiepoo and her co-horts, Orson and Seymour (who, in retrospect, seem a bit light in the loafers department), I was in gay kid heaven. Plus, a healthy abundance of songs was worked into each show, and that got me hooked from the get go.

“The Bugaloos” was most likely my first glimpse of a drag queen in Martha Raye’s character of Benita Bizarre, who had a penchant for wearing Vegas showgirl-like headdresses festooned with feathers, and she lived in a fabulous jukebox lair. You go, Miss Gurl!

My most distinct remembrance of “Lidsville,” a show with talking hats as characters (what were those Krofft boys smoking?), is of the theme song that proclaimed the titular town to be the “kook-kook-kookiest” and the “kick-kick-kickiest” place around! Unfortunately, it wasn’t all shits and giggles in the ’ville, as the late, great Charles Nelson Reilly harassed the chapeau citizens under the moniker of a magician named HooDoo. He had the nelliest laugh this side of Queersville, and was the gay-gay-gayest villain ever on a children’s TV show.

Even though “Josie and the Pussycats” was not a psychotropic Krofft production, but, rather, an animated production from Hanna Barbera, I would be remiss in not mentioning the big influence it held over me with its mystery and music! Although my favorite character never donned a long tail or had ears for a hat, she did have a skunk stripe in her raven hair, and an even wider bitch streak! That would be Alexandra, whom I could relate to, with her pining and scheming to land the swarthy Alan away from Josie. (I had a slight ping on my gaydar about him, too. Must have been his muscles and neckerchief!)

I have always gravitated toward strong female characters (I know, crazy for a gay man), and it seemed that most of these women were on TV shows in the ’70s. (Since I am only 26, I caught them all on TV Land reruns…. Who’s laughing? I’ll get you!)

Did you ever notice that “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” was a forerunner to “Sex and the City” without the sex? (It wasn’t called “The Mary Tyler Whore Show,” after all!) Think about it, Mary Richards (Mary Tyler Moore) and Rhoda Morgenstern (Valerie Harper) were career-minded gals who didn’t need a man to make them complete.

As was the case with Ann Romano (Bonnie Franklin), who took life “One Day at a Time,” raising two daughters (Valerie Bertinelli and Mackenzie Phillips) – given that girl’s, um, proclivities, she really should have been living the title of the show on her own.

“Alice” (Linda Lavin) was another single mother who worked as a waitress at Mel’s Diner, which was, conveniently, run by a gentleman named Mel (Vic Tayback), who seemed like he might have been comfortable wearing a harness and being called ‘sir.’ He had such a bear-like quality about him. Unfortunately, I recently caught a rerun of the show, and it has not held up well.

Of course, no list of awesome ’70s ladies would be complete without “Charlie’s Angels,” “Wonder Woman” and “The Bionic Woman” – the updated version coming to NBC in the fall actually looks good!

Movies also provided me with fuel for the burgeoning gay fire flaming inside of me. Mommie Dearest scared me upon first viewing; I couldn’t believe the wire hanger and cleanser beatings doled out by Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford. Upon subsequent viewings, I realized the movie was mismarketed; it should have been a comedy, and thus I was introduced into the world of camp. The ladies workin’ 9 to 5 showed me that you don’t have to put up with any crap from a man – can I get a “Sisters are doin’ it for themselves?” Amen!

The film Deathtrap starred Michael Caine and Christopher Reeve as covert gay men who kill Caine’s wife (Dyan Cannon) to be together. It was the first time I saw two men kiss on screen. Too bad one of them was Caine. (There is just something nasty about him. I can’t put my finger on it; nor would I care to, thank you!) Reeve could have done much better!

There are also two celluloid ladies who bear mentioning. Both Sigourney Weaver in Aliens and Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2: Judgment Day made me start working out – I was afraid they would kick my ass!

I often find it not-so-ironic that the first record I purchased with my allowance at age 9 was the soundtrack to Grease. Why exactly did I need to come out to members of my family? I mean, my love for all things Madonna and her envelope-pushing sexual ways should have been the biggest clue that I was “otherworldly.” Ya didn’t see any of my four older brothers riding a cherry-red Honda Elite 150 scooter up and down the street singing “Holiday.”

And, more than likely, none of the aforementioned siblings pitched a bitch fit at the Wherehouse after calling to see if Debbie Gibson’s Electric Youth had been released as scheduled. Told it hadn’t (and convinced I was being lied to), I stormed down to the store, found the cassette and bitched out the counter person! Don’t mess with a gay teen and his desire for a diva-lite fix!

Once upon a closet, there was a boy who knew he was different from the rest, and he found solace in flickering images on the big and little screens, where entertainment spoke to him in a language he would come to adopt as his daily out-’n’-proud lexicon. Thank you for indulging me in this walk down memory lane, and, until next time, that’s all the news that’s fit to print.