This Just In: Rob Liefeld's "Captain America" Model Located

Easy Go, Easy Come

...Hey. So... what's goin' on? Yeah, yeah... that's cool, that's cool... yeah, nice. Good for you, man... ANNNNYWAY... it turns out I'm actually a Gay. Yeah, I know. I couldn't believe it either. But I did a lot of soul-searching these last few weeks. And yesterday, as I was cutting the backside out of a pair of leather pants, it finally occurred to me that I was a Gay. And not only am I a Gay but I've apparently been having the Gay sex for quite some time now. So... I'm gonna take some time off here and get my head together. I guess I have a bunch of things to do now, like move to the Village and get an earring and watch a lot of Joan Crawford movies and practice things like saying "fabulous" in a sing-song tone and snapping my fingers a lot. And I have to write a sequel to "Be Steele, My Heart," only for us Queers. (I think I'll call it "The Man-Love of Steele.") To bottom-line it ("bottom"... heh) I don't know when I'll get the time to do another post, if ever. But it's been fun... um, "girlfriend." (Did I get that right?) Don't worry, though: I lined up a replacement: the Empathoid! He can solve all of your emotional dilemas, romantic and otherwise. Okay, I've really got to go now. *melodramatically wipes tears away* See you at the Steisand concert, turkeys!

Greetings, denizens of the internet! I am the Empathoid, a being from a far-flung dimension, with a mind one thousand times more receptive to emotional activity than yours could ever be, and a bodyily consistency certain superheroes have compared to "Silly Putty." All shall bare their souls to the Empathoid! No, for reals. I'm not shitting around, here. You... yes you! The one in the XXL "Red Sonja" t-shirt! I sense within you doubt and suspicion. And gas. But mostly doubt and suspicion. Then behold! In the mere seconds it took you to read this paragraph, I have already garnered a sack full of letters from across the Marvelverse! Let us peruse one right now!

Dear Empathoid,

I lost a good friend while serving in World War 2. I still think about him every day. A while back I made a copy of his costume uniform. Sometimes I meet teenage boys who kind of look like my friend and I bring them home with me and I have them put on the sexy costume uniform. And then we wrestle. After I've paid them and sent them on their way I feel kind of guilty. My friend Iron Man Tony Stark Joe says I'm trapped in the past. What do you think?

Steve R.

Dear Steve R.,

Whoo boy! That's kinda creepy. I really don't know what to say here. I wish I could help you but I can't.

Regretfully,
The Empathoid.

Okay, so that one threw me. A mere fluke, I assure you. Let's read another one.

Dear Empathoid,

I am the headmaster at a prestigious private school in New England. For many years now I have had a crush on one of my students. Although we work together every day and she's a friggin' telepath quite perceptive, she is unaware of my true feelings. She's in love with another of my students, a real stick-in-the-mud type guy with zero personality. He has an eye condition and has to wear sunglasses all the time so maybe that's given him the illusion of "coolness." I really don't think the two of them are right for each other. Should I speak up or would that be overstepping my bounds as an authority figure?

Charles X.

Dear Charles X.,

Go for it, dude! What's the worst that could happen?

Encouragingly,
The Empathoid

Okay, now I'm just stirring shit for the hell of it. Have I mentioned that I thrive on human emotion? I actually eat the stuff -- the more screwed-up the mind, the better! It's-- how can I explain this so you'll understand? Ah! It's like when you-- yes, you in North Carolina with the scrubbly sideburns and the lip ring and the "Deadpool" tattoo -- it's like when you order a large Meatlover's Pizza even though your parents are out of town and you're the only one in the house and you wolf the whole thing down in one sitting. Okay, so your stomach cramps up pretty much immediately and the sodium give you heart palpitations and your stools are all screwed up for like a week but it's so damned good. It's kinda like that.

Here, let me try one more. I'll get the hang of this, I swear. No mere letter shall defeat the Empathoid! *laughs maniacally*

Dear Empathoid,

Since time immemorial, mine father hast had it in for me. Many are the grievous punishments he hast inflicted upon mine godly form, and countless be the moments in which I had no greater wish than to tell him "Lay the fuck OFF me, old man!" Yet always have I held mine tongue. For know ye this: his punishments are MOST UNJUST and are doled out, to my eyes, AT RANDOM. My heart is heavy indeed. I feel within my soul a fearful rage that, should it explode, might break fabled Bifrost in twain! The only thing staying my anger is the faint hope that I might replace him in his seat of power. Otherwise, I would be SO out of there. Verily, this is a vexing problem. What say you, Empathoid?

The Mighty T.

Dear The Mighty T.,

You clearly live in a dysfunctional home. You need to get out of there, A.S.A.P., and start living your own life! What's the worst your father could do to you? Call the cops? (Er, you are over eighteen, right?) And if you ever get your hands on the Living Eraser's dimension-spanning palm-bands, be sure to pay me a visit! Your anxiety sounds delicious!

Hungrily,
The Empathoid

Prankly Speaking

Because I'm a fun, light-hearted sort (concealing a black little heart just boiling over with hate and resentment) I thought it would be a hoot to prank-call one of my many arch-enemies, Captain America. To catch him at the height of his squareness, I set the wayback machine time bubble for 1968.

Using the kind of inside knowledge only a time-traveler can obtain, I conviced the big dope I was his long-lost partner, Bucky Barnes, all growed-up and living "underground" in a deep-undercover mission amongst anarchist hippies. I told him I'd never fogotten our days in World War 2 Europe, and especially the "training sessions" he'd treated me to in our personal tent after the rest of the troops had dozed off. I got some entertainingly filthy sex-talk out of the old war-horse, which I recorded for use in a later prank on Iron Man. I was just about to let Cap in on the joke when this happened:

( I should probably take a moment to explain that he'd gotten the notion I was a cocaine addict.) At this point I had two options:

1. Prank him by having him go to a false address with nobody there.
2. Prank him by having him go to a false address with me there in disguise and we'd have punch-throwing, kick-boxing, bombastic super-soldier-serum-powered sex (therefore living out a secret fantasy of thousands of Marvel fanboys).

Naturally I chose the latter. I mean, I can't stand the guy on a personal level but hey! It's Captain Freakin' America!

So I gave him the address of a cheap hotel, the kind where they keep old dressers in the hallways and where everything on the room service trays is composed of jade. Now if you'll recall, the only other time Cap saw me I was in my sweet-ass goatee-and-muttonchops phase, plus it was dyed bright red. Right now I've got my killer biker 'stache (in my naturally handsome chestnut brown) and my psychodelic goggles, so those would help me look the part of an anarchist hippie. Still, it wouldn't be enough. So I dug into my "quick-disguise kit" (which I carry on my person at all times) for something else that would support my flimsy ruse. I donned a long blonde wig and some love beads, unbuttoned my paisley shirt another couple of inches, and I was ready to go.

A gentleman never kisses and tells, so they say, but I will admit that the sex was mind-blowing. (Although I never would have guessed he was a bottom.) It lasted a solid five hours, destroying much of the hotel room in the process, and leaving me with some deep bruising which still hasn't healed. And to think he gave a stirring filibuster on tolerance the whole time! Finally we just lay there, and Cap told me "I've missed this, old chum. You always were the best!" I figured that was a good cue for me to reveal myself, so I started to take off my blonde wig, when suddenly Cap chuckled, "Boy-oh-boy, I'm hungry enough to eat the nuts off a Nazi! What say we have dinner at that little Italian place down the street?" And then I got the idea for the perfect way to end my prank.

As Cap wolfed down his lasagne, I casually mentioned that I had access to secret government time-travel technology. "Like Doctor Doom's time platform?" Cap asked. With some annoyance I answered, "Yeah, only it's like, a billion times better, so there's really no comparison! Gah!" And then I let drop the fact that in the year 2006, same-sex marriage is legal in many parts of the world.

And then he proposed to me.

And then I yanked off the wig and said "Because I'm not Bucky, you idiot! I'm actually the guy you told to shave off his sweet-ass facial hair back in '44! Also? I've had better. Who looks ridiculous now, Cappy? Who looks ridiculous now?! SUCK IT! AGAIN!" And then I flipped him the double space-bird. And, um, then he punched me square in the kisser, dislodging four teeth and shattering my super-cool goggles.

But it was totally worth it.

Ticketbastards

Before we were so rudely interrupted (by Jeremy's primitive computer) I'd promised to give you my red carpet coverage from Dazzler's glitteringly horrendous concert at New York's Carnegie Hall, as seen in "Dazzler" #21 (November, 1982). And here it is!



Conveniently cropped out of the panel: the huge banner that reads "FREE HOTDOGS."

Say, who is that couple in the front with their backs turned? It can't be... is it? Holy crap, it's Ned Leeds and Betty Brant! C'mon, it has to be! Oh, I'm so proud of myself right now. I'm guessing Ned's right hand is locked in a death grip around Betty's left wrist, as he drags her deeper, deeper into the claustrophobic concert hall where she'll be forced sit perfectly still for two-and-a-half hours while she listens to the Dazzler's nasal screeching. And all the while she'll have a grotesque smile plastered on her mug, and occasionally she'll turn around to glance at Glory Grant in the seat behind her and she'll simper, "I think it's so very important to take an interest in your loved one's needs!" And Ned will squeeze her wrist even tighter because GODDAMMIT HE WAS LISTENING TO HIS MUSIC and Betty will dutifully shut most of her brain down once more.

The Fantastic Four was the first group of heroes to arrive, but they didn't wear or say anything interesting so I won't waste your time with that panel. I was afraid the night would be a total bust. But then this happened:



Oh my yes. Sure, she could hardly pry her way out of that sartorial abomination last time, but the She-Hulk somehow let the Wasp talk her into wearing it again! Then again, this may have been during She-Hulk's "pre-costume" period. Remember when she'd ditched the white rags she' always worn in her old book, and had taken to battling crime while attired as an aerobics instructor? With ankle warmers and everything? Now, that was a golden age! Meanwhile...

• Hawkeye's right arm has been horribly dislocated but that doesn't stop him from working the crowd! Sadly, nobody has any idea who he is.
• Captain America is wearing a trenchcoat so no one will figure out that he's willingly attending a Dazzler concert. Or maybe being frozen in a block of ice has given him Heat Wave's cold-phobia and the slightest draft sends him running for the coat closet. Okay, so I'm stumped. I could see him wanting to accessorize with a floor-length mink number (hey, it was 1982! Fur wasn't murder yet) but I just don't get the trench. Oh well. Just one more reason to hate him, I suppose.
• Iron Man really should get back on the treadmill or sumpin' because the man-boobs are getting entirely out of hand.
• Thor's wasted already. Of course, if I knew I was going to have to hear the Dazzler sing, I'd probably want to fortify my nerves with a little liquid courage as well.
• And the Wasp has chosen this occasion to wear one of her frumpiest costumes ever. But she threw an untied kimono over it and, if challenged, she would design an entire line of sportswear around the concept. Mind you, she's also blitzed out of her mind right now on pain pills, as the morning's dermabrasion session resulted in her nose being sandblasted right off her face.

"I'd heard so much about Dazzler's talents, I didn't want to miss the show." In other words, he'll be echolocating the hell out of her rack from just inside a janitor's closet. That billy club's getting a workout tonight! Also... earplugs? I have to admit that's a genius idea.

First panel: man, now there's a metaphor for a closeted/out relationship if ever I've seen one. "I told you, you can only call me 'Wondy" when we're at home!"

Second panel: package for Mister Quasar! And the Angel brought his "gramma." Dude, c'mon! Has it really come to that? You're a millionaire! Where'd all the money go? Gambling? Coke habit? Italian shoes? My mind is freaking out just trying to imagine the personal ad that led to this pairing. Giving commentary from behind a sawhorse is Namorita and Vance Astro! Or maybe it's the two kids from the Space Ghost cartoon. And I have to agree, Vance. One's grandmother is never worth wearing a costume for, or, y'know, a necktie.

Breathlessly, the caption boxes descend into online fanfic quality...

"Ali would've killed me!" ("Ali" being the slim young Morroccan poolboy at his country club. Ali couldn't afford a ticket but Ken promised to tell him, oh, just everything!)

If anybody ever wanted to know why the Dazzler comic never really caught on with any segment of the human population (aside from Jeremy), I'd like to present this guy as Exhibit A. For a while, he was the Dazzler's love interest. No, seriously. And that's the problem! Y'see, Dazzler's comic was, at its core, a superheroic mutation of "Millie The Model." Lancelot Steele = Clicker (the himbo), Cassandra = Chili Storm (the acid-tongued romantic rival), Vanessa = Toni Turner (the pretty friend), and Harry Osgood = Mr. Hanover (the well-meaning boss). So despite its X-pedigree, it seemed like it was targeted more at girly-girls than at tomboys. And yet Marvel handled the idea so clumsily! (Like usual.) I mean, I'm no expert, but I suspect that typical adolescent girls of 1982 didn't really go for guys with porn star mustaches, aviator-style glasses, and man-perms.

Tomorrow: inside the Dazzler concert! And before that, Jeremy will post his comments on last night's game, along with the debut of my little cartoon headshot of his balding noggin.

The Sweatsuit Competition: Miss America

What's her deal:
In 1943, Madeline Joyce's uncle sponsored a research scientist who kept a laboratory in an old lighthouse. A lightning bolt struck the tower while Madeline was inside it. Instead of electrocuting the intrepid lass, the massive voltage sent her into a coma. The scientist was consumed with guilt. He destroyed all of his machinery and himself along with it. A week later, Madeline recovered. Awesome timing, doc.

The accident, as it happened, had endowed Madeline with a veritable cornucopia of superpowers, such as flight, super-strength, super-intelligence (which one presumes would prevent her from doing any more snooping about in tall structures during electrical storms), x-ray vision and invulnerability. She designed a baggy, figure-concealing but mightily patriotic costume. Her alias: Miss America. Madeline at one point joined a super-team calling itself "The All-Winners Squad" -- a supremely ironic moniker considering the number of losers on the roster. Later she married one of those losers, Bob Frank, a.k.a. "The Whizzer." (He had super-speed. Why, what did you think it meant?) After the war, she lost most of her powers, due mainly to the fact she was being written by sexist male dickweeds. Her firstborn child was a radioactive supervillain named "Nuklo." Madeline died giving birth to a second child, who was stillborn. The end! Cheery, huh? First appearance: Marvel Mystery Comics #49 (Timely, October 1943).


Crimes against fashion:
Nearly the entire outfit. It looked like a track suit more than anything else, and it shouldn't have surprised me to learn it was made of terrycloth. The superhero emblem on her bosom looks like it should say "Phillips 66." And the teeny red cap! That misshapen yarmulke crept steadily forward over the years until it was practically over her eyes. Like most superheroes in her dimension, she had a secret identity but no mask. (Jeebus! C'MON!) She occasionally added harlequin glasses, which made her look less like a superhero and more like a really flamboyant librarian. Her hair ranged from blonde to black to brown, finally settling on brown. I think.

Our meeting:
It's a long, complicated story, so kindly bear with me. I was in the Timely/Marvel dimension circa 1944 when I approached Captain America with some great ideas for improving his dorky costume. Cappy barely let me get a word out before turning me down flat (and calling me "son" in the process, which really ticked me off). His parting shot? Telling me to shave off my sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops, which he termed "ridiculous." It was on. Not in the physical sense, mind you, because Captain America could clean my clock nine ways to Sunday. No, my plan was to hightail it to California and the studios of Republic Pictures so I could surreptitiously redesign the costume for the Captain America serial they were planning to shoot. Then he'd see how right I was! Mwuh-hah-hah-hah!

Well, yes, it's a terribly passive kind of revenge. What's your point?

I donned one of my superhero outfits. Then I snuck onto the lot, posing as an extra in a science fiction film. I quickly located the costume department, seized the Captain America designs, and set to work. I had only got as far as erasing those goofy wings from his cowl and penciling in a handgun when I heard a mob of people hollering about something or other. The huddled masses helpfully exposited that...
1. A director who craved realism had wrangled a genuine mummy for his latest picture.
2. Some sort of chemical mishap had brought the mummy to horrifying life!
3. The mummy had slung starlet Vera Hruba Ralston over its shoulder like a shapely sack of potatoes and taken off running, and...
4. It was headed this way!

With a loud sigh, I dropped everything and ran outside to face the menace head-on. I planted myself firmly in the path of the bandaged bandito and shouted my catchphrase, "Stop, in the name of Blockade Boy!" And then I turned into a steel wall. And then, as per usual, my foe ran around me and kept right on going. Have I mentioned that I don't turn into a very big steel wall?

To her credit, Miss Ralston was a champion ice skater and quite strong; at that point she had pounded on the mummy so hard that a good-sized hole had appeared in its lower back. Suddenly, a crimson meteor smashed down upon the mummy, reducing it to smithereens, and sweeping Miss Ralston away to safety. The red blur resolved itself into a dowdy lady in a stupid hat. It was Miss America! Seeing that I was a fellow super-powered adventurer, Miss America took me into her confidence. From there it was a simple matter to convice her to let me redesign her costume.

My presentation:
For your first option, I've merely tweaked your original outfit into something that's actually flattering.

Red is a strong color. It can be overwhelming when used in large quantities. So, I've eliminated your leggings. To compensate, I've lengthened the tunic into a short, pleated dress, just like ice skaters wear. It's practical yet feminine. To match your blue cape, I've added blue boots and blue gloves. You may have noticed that the boots are not high-heeled. That's because high-heeled boots are an absurd thing for a superheroine to wear. I remember getting into an argument with Princess Projectra about why she shouldn't wear heels, and she was all, "But my power is illusion-casting, I don't have to move around when I fight, and anyway I look really sexy in heels, blah blah blah, I'm a princess!" And then while we were just standing there talking, one of her ankles snapped in two. Heh! Um, anyway, I've trimmed the dress and the gloves in gold. I've also altered the symbol on your chest somewhat. The heart shape is more becoming to the female bosom. Plus, it represents how you love America, and this way it no longer resembles a highway marker. Finally, I've added a mask, because believe it or not, you need to conceal at least part of your face if you want to maintain a secret identity. No, really. No, REALLY. I'm not kidding. Well, I don't care what the Whizzer told you. Or the Thin Man. Or Red Raven. Or Dynamic Man OR the Human Top. Or-- look, these people are idiots, okay? Just trust me on this! Jeez! Okay then. Next!


Your second option is so fashion-forward it doesn't even exist yet! Or something like that. I wanted to give you the look a fighter plane, since your fabulous powers allow you to rain death upon all who oppose you. I've even borrowed the star from a Navy fighter for your new symbol! Well, yeah, I know they changed it last year. Well, it looks better this way. Moving on... in lieu of a mask, I thought we could put a bold, blue stripe of makeup right across your eyes, the way the Aztecs did! It matches your blue lipstick. It's all very intimidating! For the costume itself, we have a silver body suit with red-and-blue body armor on the shoulders, calves, and hips -- not that you need armor, being indestructible and all, but it's important for the look. Your waist is so thick it makes this outfit something of a gamble, but I think we can get away with it provided you lay off the fatty foods. Now, I'd like to draw your attention to the thick red lines over the crotch and across the thighs, which subtly frame your "lady business" -- OW! Hey, knock it off!

Miss America's response:
... was to slap me, which fractured my jaw and caused a couple of teeth to fly out of my mouth. "You are the rudest, most vulgar young man I have ever met in all my life!" she fumed. She stomped out the door, but before she disappeared from my life forever, she spun around and snapped, "And lose the sideburns and the nanny goat beard. You look like an idiot."

Oh, it's on NOW, honey.