Belly Shirt State Penitentiary

Let's go-go to prison!

Here's the Dazzler, from issue number 13 of her own comic (March, 1982), bralessly fighting for her very life against the Grapplers! Not to be confused with the Gropers, whom I'm pretty sure are Chuck Austen characters. And this titanic tussle takes place in Ryker's Island! ("I've read about that place", Dazzler exclaims to her permed-and-mustachioed lawyer. "It's a JUNGLE!" No, dear. It's a prison.)

Now, you might assume from the tomato-red hue of Dazzler's top (with matching clam-diggers, and I apologize for how dirty that sounds) that she's wearing an actual prison uniform, and maybe she found the time to alter it into something trashier, and also she removed the numeric I.D. patch, and really that's an awful bunch of assuming, and I have to wonder at this elaborate dream-world you've created for yourself.

But NO.

In fact, HELL NO, because these are the Dazzler's own clothes. See, the Dazzler apparently decided that this flimsy get-up -- sans bra! -- would be just the thing to wear to a rough 'n' tumble prison! Criminy. And yet, it's far from the most salacious ensemble worn by a female prisoner there! Let's flash back to a few pages earlier, when the Dazzler is unceremoniously dragged onto what appears to be the set of a Jim McMahon courtroom drama:

Yes, in 20th-century American prisons, the inmates just saunter around in their undergarments. ...DAMN IT! How come I never was told this? I could have volunteered to teach some brawny, nearly-nude he-hoodlums how to read, or some shit. And then somebody would have made an inspirational movie about me. For Colt Studios. ...Wow, my whole life could have been different. Holy BALLS!

Judge, Jewelry, and Executioner

Normally, I'd excoriate Judge Carter Blaire for being so snippy about his daughter's accessories. I mean, the Dazzler is a grown-ass woman; if she wants to tramp it up with glow-in-the-dark plastic crap, that's her prerogative!

But I was once sent into a sulky, weekend-long drinking spree over one of Storm Boy's belts, so I'm not about to throw stones.

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Dazzler to Sundog

With the Gender Reassignment Challenge, I take a reasonably feminine costume and reimagine it for a male version of the character. This week I chose everyone's favorite 80's Disco Queen... the Dazzler! The Dazzler's comic outlived Disco -- by quite a few years, actually -- and her formerly fabulous sequined togs had to be dropped in favor of something more "rad." In between the two costumes was a long stretch where she just wore plain clothes... assuming you consider ankle warmers and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt-dresses "plain."

My He-Dazzler (and no, Scipio, I refuse to call him that) is no Disco King. As amusing as that might be, I figure Marvel would have positioned a male Dazzler (Ellison Blaire!) as a rocker. Sure, he'd be one of those ill-defined fictional rockers favored by out-of-touch, aging Baby Boomers in the early 80's. You know the type I mean -- he'd front an allegedly "Punk Rock" band, but his attire would be mostly Glam, Funk, and Alice Cooper/KISS face-paintin' metal. But he'd wear bracelets with spikes on them! Certainly that would be "Punk," right, you granola-chugging, social-security-gobbling dinosaurs?

Here's Dazzler in her original outfit:

And here's the "edgy" "hard core" "bad-ass" version... Sundog!

Why "Sundog?" Because "Dazzler" just isn't ROCK 'N' ROLL!!! Also, it gives me the excuse to change Dazzler's goofy facepaint butterfly into something more like Peter Criss (or Eric Carr) might wear. I changed the one-piece into a tailored vest and slacks with no shirt. It's very Glam Rock. And/or Chippendales. The disco ball pendant is now a sun pendant, and the rollerskate boots are now stylized boots with teeth on the bottom. And he has Ozzy Osbourne's hair. Now, this is a guy who might debut in a gender-reversed "X-Men" comic, at a rock concert attended by She-clops, Wolverina, and Colossess.

Six issues before her book's cancellation, Dazzler got a snappier, more superhero-y costume, with assymetry gone berserk and, apparently, Supergirl's old headband.

Sundog's version would reflect, and maybe even foretell, metal trends of the 80's... and 90's!

The headband is a bandana, worn low over the eyes, a la Male Pattern Baldness-Era Axel Rose. Not that Sundog has any such problem, natch. The Aztec-style sun symbol from his pendant is now writ large on his chest. And on one of his calves, for reasons unknown even to myself. Except Dazzler did it. Most importantly, the assymetrically exposed skin is now hankerchiefs, and plenty of 'em! That's a very 80's rock thing to do. Hey, it was either that or Swatches. And Swatches were waning in popularity at that point. I think. Aw, what the hell do I know, I live in a glorious future paradise that you primitive losers can't even begin to comprehend! Oh, I'm sorry. I'm lashing out again. It's just that Weight Wizard and I had another fight, and I think he's broken up with me because he faked his own death again. That's always a warning sign, right? Anyway, enjoy the costumes!

Previous Gender Reassignment Challenges:

• Saturn Girl
• Scarlet Witch
• Looker (and a slight revision)
• Storm
• Marvel Girl
• Black Canary
• Phantom Lady
• Snowbird

Next week: Moral Realignment Challenge: Wonder Girl and Mammoth!

Love Shack Pegasus

TGIF, turkeys! Greetings from 1982! So, how'd you spend last New Year's Eve? No wait, let me guess... you drank alone and then masturbated while sobbing hysterically. Well, mine was far-out. My girlfriend, Candace, was out of town. Again! Or so she claimed. And it's really getting to be drag considering we've been dating (as far as I'm concerned) for about a year and the last time I actually laid eyes on her was the day before Valentine's day. So I thought I was just going to do my usual New Year's Eve thing: selectively dry-hump some choice booty in the throng at Times Square. It's perfect for me because the crowding is so dense they can't really turn around to slap you. Although you can tell they really wanna. But on December 31st, this bouncer I know, Leopold -- he's like, 6'6 and built, like he's chiseled out of granite or something, and he always has the grooviest suits and a ton of gold chains and this handlebar mustache that looks fantastic, I mean, he's just so cool, he probably has like a billion girlfriends -- anyway, Leopold actually invited me to his pad for New Year's Eve "to see the ball drop" as he put it. I told him I bet his apartment would be literally swarming with chicks and he said "I can think of one bitch who wouldn't miss it for the world" and I said, "Well, sign me up!" It turned out that I was the first person to arrive but Leopold put a drink in my hand as soon as I walked through the door, just to make me feel at home. I don't remember much after that but I do recall waking up the next morning naked on a garbage barge and there's a peculiar new wart on my pecker so I assume I had a blast. But enough about me! I'm here to help you losers score more foxes!

Did you know that your home is one of your best tools for winning the mating game? It's true! If even one aspect of your domicile is a turn-off, it's good night nurse for you. I learned that one the hard way! I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. (Although that would be pretty hilarious.) As a sort-of "worst case scenario" let's look at my first date at my first apartment, illustrated by scenes of something equally pathetic: Dazzler's visit to Project Pegasus!

I picked up my date, a gorgeous former teen model, let's call her "Patsy", under the pretense of being a limo service. When I veered off the prescribed route, she began to get nervous. And to be honest I didn't have any good answers for her. But I flashed my thousand-watt smile and flexed my pecs and she seemed to be satisfied with that.

My place was pretty big, for New York, but it was also in the top floor of a butcher's shop. That caused Patsy some alarm, let me tell you. But once we got up the stairs (and once that mook Gino got the slaughtered veal calf off the landing) I figured it would be smooth sailing.

One of my roommates was a good-looking actor and we walked in just as he was putting on his "Burger Clown" costume for an appearance at the opening of a fast-food joint. And even though he was covered in polka dots and clown white, he wasted no time in flirting with Patsy. And she was flirting right back! It must have been the tight clownpants. I was losing her! I had to act fast. So I hustled clown boy out the door and offered to give Patsy "the tour."

When we got to the kitchenette, we found one of my other roommates and his girlfriend sitting on the counter dunking donuts into a big bowl of bong water. And the donuts were covered in chocolate already so I don't think that even did them any good! Christ. The girlfriend started getting in Patsy's face, saying "You, you're that girl in that thing, you're that girl, I saw you, you're in that thing" and then one of her legs gave way and her head banged against the stove and she started laughing her ass off so I took that opportunity to get Patsy out of there. "Oh, this is such an adventure!" Patsy giggled and then she looked at me and said, "Lance, was it?" And I said yes and then I kicked myself for not giving her a fake name. Oh well.

I'd forgotten about that telescope I keep in the TV room and Patsy didn't buy my story about checking out the night sky with it since it was New York and you just plain can't see any stars at night and the fact it was pointed squarely at a boxing club didn't help my case at all. But then I explained that I was ogling the boxers' wives and she seemed to be cool with that. It was time to head for my bedroom! But first I had to make it through what I like to call "the gauntlet."

My bedroom is at the end of the hall so first we had to get past the two roommates who almost never leave that section of the apartment. First there was "Goo-Goo" Goolagong, an Aborigine body builder who's always tying up the phone talking to his mother in Australia and throwing wall-punching temper tantrums when he doesn't get his way. "Goo-Goo" was standing in the hallway with the super-long phone cord wrapped around his biceps. "Sweet ass," he smirked as we squeezed by him. And then he said into the phone, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Yes. No, I do have a filthy dustbin mouth. Yes, mum. I'm getting the soap right now..." and then he dropped the phone and bolted for the bathroom.

My other other roommate is a creepy little guy who lined his bedroom with foil gum wrappers so the government couldn't spy on him and who spends all day typing up newsletters he gives to the rest of us to Xerox and hand out on streetcorners. And we all tell him we do it, too, but since he never gets past the hallway we just use 'em for coasters and paper airplanes. He tried to slip Patsy a copy of his latest screed but I grabbed him by his nose and shoved him back into his little hole.

Finally we made it to my room and if I may say so, it wasn't bad. Patsy let out an amazed gasp because I'd done my damnedest to make it female-friendly. I figured a lady would want to feel like she was making love in her own bedroom, so I had a four-poster bed with a frilly yellow canopy and lots of stuffed animals and the walls were covered in paint-by-numbers horse pictures (nothin' but). Also I had the most bitchin' stereo system, like, ever ready to crank out some David Cassidy at a moment's notice. But here's the thing. When I put the headphones on Patsy's adorable head, I forgot to check the voume knob.

Patsy swore like a sailor as she ripped the headphones off her head. She looked at the room again with these kind of crazy eyes and she looked at me like I was a cockroach or something. Her face fell. She kind of whimpered "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" and she tore off into the hallway. I ran after her just in time to see her throw "Goo-Goo" (who still had a bar of soap in his mouth) out of the bathroom and slam the door. And then I heard her puking and I finally figured out she was drunk this whole time.

So naturally I started throwing myself against the door, over and over and over. When it finally busted open she looked at me with her face all shiny and tense and weird. She pushed me down and pretty much stepped on me to get out of there. And I wound up following her out the building and down the street, pleading with her to calm down but she just freaked and said "You take one more step and I'm calling the cops on your ass, you fat, slimy queen!" Which was just bewildering to me on account of my not being even close to gay but hey, it was said in the heat of the moment so I forgave her. Anyway, I walked back to my apartment in a daze and I wound up spending the whole night puzzling over what had happened, trying to figure out where I went wrong. And then it struck me.

Not enough paint-by-number horse pictures.

Mento: The Lovemaker!

Y'know the best thing about my new gig with Blockade Boy? Besides the fact that we can wear each other's clothes, I mean! Which reminds me! BB, or "bro" as I like to call him, has the grooviest leather pants -- in crimson, yet! They hug his buns perfectly and since we have similar body shapes I know that I'd look good in them too. Haven't had a chance to wear them yet, but for now it's just cool watching him walk around in them. ...Huh. I feel all funny inside now. Um. Anyway! The other best thing is getting to observe the love techniques of other dimensions! Here's a real pro I've discovered from the DC Universe. His name is "Mento" and I think all you turkeys can learn a lot from him.

Okay, so you see a fox you want to do the diagonal polka with, but she's already talking to two other guys! Don't be spooked! Walk right up there and announce yourself as loud as you can without actually yelling. And don't slouch, damn it! Observe Mento here. He's in a pose I like to call "the rooster." Hands on hips, neck straight... in my version I actually flap my elbows like they're wings and do kind of a forward-head-bob thing, but Mento's style isn't bad either.

The other guys may try to distract you by inviting you to a pickup basketball game. Don't be deterred! Brush those losers off! They're just turkeys in wolves' clothing!

Okay, so you announced yourself already. Too bad, because you may have to do it again. Several times, in fact. You may have to remind your target of shlongmantic conquest of your name, over and over and over. So say it whenever possible! Talk about yourself in the third person! Like I do! ...I mean, "Like Lancelot Steele does!" Try wearing one of those old-timey mayor sashes with your name emblazoned on it! In gold! Buy a parakeet and teach it to say your name, and then give the bird to her as a gift! Spray-paint your name all over her house, and then blame the deed on an admirer! Got it? You want to burn your name in her brain. Not literally, of course. Because then you'll wind up in prison, and you'll find yourself pinned beneath some huge brawny psychopath, his long wiry beard scratching against your cheek as he whispers obscenities in your ear, his fingers probing ever deeper inside your... well, the point is that you don't want that sort of thing to happen, now do you? I know I don't. It's one of my biggest worries! I think about it all the time.

See what he just did there? He took an insult and turned it into a compliment! Like this one time at the talent agency, when I casually mentioned to Dazzler that I wasn't wearing underpants and she said, "Really? Then how come it looks like you have no penis at all? Do you keep it tucked between your legs like one of those she-males, or what?" And I said, "So you want me to wear tighter pants! No prob, babe! Say, maybe you can help me change into 'em!" And then she slapped me and walked away and sure, I had to hide in the copy room with the door locked so nobody could see me crying and Cassandra kept pounding on the door and yelling about how she needed to use the machine and how it was the third time that day I'd holed up in there and how she was going to get Harry to fire me but it was totally worth it

Yeah, man! Flirtation, Steele-style! Mento's got the right idea. Always be lifting something. In his case, a cage full of wild animals. I might have to borrow that idea. And he gets right to the point, doesn't he? That's key. Just tell the girl who you are and what you want to do to her. Focus. Even if, as in Mento's case, you really need to pee just then.

Sometimes the turkeys you shooed away from your love-target will come back, angrier and drunker, and they'll start a fight with you. They'll probably try to punch you in the babymaker -- a beautifully Darwinian move, and one I've used many times myself. The moral here? Maybe you should wear a cup. But don't worry, because your confidence will get you the girl, every time!

Oh, and it helps if you're a multi-millionaire.

The Dazzler, Woman Of Steele

I'm back, turkeys! The last time, I treated you all to some primo dating advice from my great new book, "Be Steele, My Heart." (Now available on audiocassette! Buy one for the horny illiterate in your life!) I presume you all took the gauntlet I threw down and made a solemn vow to transform yourselves into slobbering he-beasts of dynamic sexual power -- and failed miserably, being nerds and all, but at least you tried and I respect that. But I thought I'd better warn you of a frightening new phenomenon I've encountered: women who act like me! These women bristle with a mannish sort of confidence, and they conduct their love affairs with a carefree breeziness formerly reserved for certain U.S. presidents and members of the Dallas Cowboys football team. Let's take a look at one of the worst offenders (and my close personal friend) the Dazzler, as she goes through a typical day in November, 1984.

Here, she leads a group of her fellow women (and a few woman-y men, if you know what I mean and I think you do) in a set of suggestive exercises which strengthen the Naughty Regions and promote more informed and therefore enjoyable intercourse. I have a serious problem with this. One of the key parts of the Lancelot Steele Bedroom Experience is the element of surprise, as in "No, baby, it's supposed to feel like that! No, no, sweetheart, no, don't cry! No, I never said it was your fault! You're just new at this, is all. Look, you get yourself untangled, maybe wipe that one part off with some of those Kentucky Fried Chicken wet-naps I keep piled by the bed, I'll go turn that Journey album over to side "B" and we'll try again." See, keeping the weaker sex "in the dark" about certain matters assures you the upper hand in the bedroom. You'll be more confident, she'll sense your confidence and get even more turned on, and that will give you yet more confidence, and so forth in a vicious, sexy circle. Heck, you might not even have to actually get it on! You could just lay there and cuddle for a while! Nothing wrong with that. In fact, I kind of prefer it!

Do the Hustle! Here, the Dazzler takes a cue from the Steele-man and scurries a potential rival out of the general area as soon as she spots a couple of hot prospects. She even stole one of my pickup lines! ("All right, you two-- hold it right there!" which I normally address to a woman's boobs but I suppose it could work just as well when talking to two people.) Look at her! She's even dressed mannishly! Y'know, it's odd, but I've never been more attracted to her. Huh.

So here's Dazzler on the Moon, and she immediately scopes out the room for suitable bed-partners... Steele-style! And she also looks for any infants she could kidnap and use in a paternity scam. She does that a lot.

But she doesn't waste too much time on that last thing. Because she's a new kind of woman. A single-minded woman. A Steele woman. A woman who's not afraid to enjoy sex!

And sure, making love to a Steele woman is like nothing you've ever known. But as soon as you're done she's out the door, and she won't call you the next day.

And that may sound like the perfect hook-up. But if you're anything like me, it'll leave you hiding out behind the gauzy drapes of your four-poster bed, stuffing Reece's Pieces into your mouth, doodling "Mr. Lancelot Dazzler" in the pages of your Trapper Keeper, and sobbing hysterically.

Married men, beware! The sacred bonds of matrimony are but as tissue paper to the Steele woman! Armed with nothing but an unblinking stare and a startling directness, she can initiate hump-making with any man at any time!

And now for some bonus advice: you know what always impresses the babes? (Except for the Steele women but we shall speak no more of them.) Technology! I have a whole wall of my awe-inspiring bachelor pad devoted to video games! I have all the computer and console monitors labeled, and when I really want to show off I play the same game on all of them at once! Dig it!

Ohhhh, yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh.

Donna Bummer

The superheroes had no idea what they were in for. Sure, they've battled giant monsters and techno-armored dictators and armadas of spaceships, but that's nothing compared to a Dazzler concert!



So, just half an hour in that Wasp-designed fashion bungle and the heat from the She-Hulk's radioactive rack is causing the cheap red dye to dissolve and drift through the auditorium in a deadly fog. What's that strange smell? Why, it's the acrid stench of a class-action lawsuit! Say, maybe the Dazzler's attorney ex-boyfriend, a.k.a. Gerald McBrainy (from the law offices of Simon & Simon) can lend a hand!

In case you never read "Dazzler" #21 (and may the Good Lord bless you and keep you if you have) I'll just say that the Dazzler is onstage for two whole freaking hours, rollerskating and thrusting and shaking her ass and putting her legs behind her head and, not that anybody really noticed, "singing" if you can call it that. And then it's time for her to get serious and do a syrupy ballad, while all the men in the 1982 audience start to put on their Members Only jackets or maybe just awkwardly sit there and wish somebody would invent a miniature portable telephone/computer they could use to play video blackjack and check the basketball scores.



"You see, I'm totally hyper tonight..." But that's probably just the diet pills talking. The lyrics make Diane Warren seem like Trent Reznor by comparison, but at least letterer Janice Chang has done her level best to make them illegible. Either that, or the jaunty kerning is meant to convey just how dreadful the Dazzler's singing really is. I'm guessing she manages to cover several octaves with each syllable.

Middle panel: guest-starring as the Dazzler's father, it's cult film star Bruce Campbell! Behind him, I think it's that kid with the stupid "heart" power from the Captain Planet cartoons.



Best. Reaction shot. Ever. Even the most battle-hardened superhero recoils in horror at the Dazzler's singing. I bet if Wolverine had been there (the X-Men missed the concert because they were "in space"... or at least that's they claimed) there would have been a little trickle of pee running down one of his furry legs. Oh, and Hawkeye seems to have been replaced by a bad guy from a Jonny Quest cartoon. And yes, the Dazzler's backup band did indeed consist of "Beefer, Hunch, and Marx." I suppose Hardrock, Coco, and Joe had another gig. And with the final three panels, writer Danny Fingeroth transduces the script into...

hackneyed...

overwrought...

maudlin...

stomach-churning...

crap.

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.

Steele, Crazy After All These Years

What's shakin', poindexters? Lancelot Steele again, with more excerpts from my stupendous new how-to book, "Be Steele, My Heart." That's the one where I transform you, the lowly nerd, into an irresistable love beast. All you have to do is follow my easy-to-understand rules! Here's a web-only exclusive rule: stop wasting your time reading comic book blogs! ...Hey, come back here! Hey! Where are you-- goddammit!!! I didn't mean right now! No, don't cry. Don't -- what? No, I'm not mad at you. I'm not! Jesus Christ, you are a freaking mess. Thank God I'm here to help, huh? Shh. Shhhh. It'll be okay. Daddy loves you.

We alright? Great. Now, on to rules that actually appear in my book. Like the ones illustrated by the above panel...

Rule #54: Be muscular, somehow. I don't care how you achieve this. Illegal steroids, expensive and dangerous plastic surgery, or even that tired old workhorse, exercise. Just be muscular. And once you do that...

Rule #55: Make sure other people know about it! Tell everyone you know. And when you've done that, tell complete strangers! If they try to change the subject, subtly steer the conversation back around to your body. Also, remove all draperies and Venetian blinds from your home and office and keep the lights on at all times. Teach yourself to sleep standing up, facing the largest window on the front of your house. Start a chain letter where people have to mail a photo of you to ten of their friends or else their pet will die. If your local homeowners' association will allow it, paint a realistic mural of yourself (naked if possible) on your roof, so your beautiful muscular form is visible to airplanes and med-evac helicopters and hang-gliders and people with jetpacks. Have sexy, nearly-nude photos of yourself printed on all of your checks. Or if you prefer to bank online, find a way to send your creditors a video file of yourself dancing around topless and/or bottomless to some hot, sensual song. I recommend "Crocodile Rock."



Read Cassandra's dialogue again. Did you all catch that? I wasn't even flirting with that four-eyed popsicle stick but she automatically visualized herself doing a lap dance for me! As if I'd even let her! Which brings me to...

Rule #62: Everyone will want to sleep with you. Don't let them. Now, I know this sounds like crazy talk, but bear with me. Here's the deal. Aside from all the time management issues full-time lovemaking would cause, you have to maintain some standards. Hmm. How can I explain this to somebody who has never had sex before? Huh. Okay, it's like this: let's say you live in a mansion. A tall, broad-shouldered mansion with huge "guns" and washboard abs. Sure, you could let a Puerto Rican come inside -- but if a neighbor saw, it would devalue your property. Oh, I'm sorry. That's a terrible analogy, and offensive to boot. Because the phrase "come inside" makes me sound gay! Again, my apologies. But you get the idea.



Rule #77: Always be lifting something. And make sure it's heavy! So-called "experts" will say that you shouldn't work every single muscle group every day, and that "rest periods" are necessary to avoid stress and strain. This is 100% pure b.s. promulgated by some whacked-out women's libber chick who wants to keep all us men down. She's the same person who secretly instigated such feminizing man-fads as beard dyes, eyebrow shaping, and bathing. Personally, I do none of those things. But I digress. The above panels show the devastating results from when I took a day off from exercising. Look at it! Blech! Disgusting! I'm practically a skeleton. I could barely hold that plant! And Cassandra had to help me up the ladder. We were just like Jimmy Stewart and Barbara Bel Geddes in "Vertigo!" ("I look up, I look down. I look up, I look down...")



Rule #80: Technology is for turkeys! If you're reading this on a computer screen then I've just proved my point. So get in touch with your caveman side! The foxes may say they want a sensitive, hairless nuturer with the heart of a poet, but way deep down inside their woman-parts they crave a horny neanderthal. With a paycheck. So never pass up an opportunity to demonstrate any skill that would serve you well in the wild. Like yelling! See that panel up there? Here's what really went down: I have powerful lungs to go along with my powerful everything else, so I pretended I couldn't work the phones. For added sexuality I loosened my tie and touseled my perfect coif (just a tad). Also, between panels I ate that entire pencil! Sideways! Made the Dazzler wetter than the flume ride at Six Flags. Not that I slept with her, mind you. (See Rule #62.)

For the rest of my rules, you'll have to buy my book! That's "Be Steele, My Heart" by me, Lancelot Steele, available in all fine coffee shops, stripper clubs, church lobbies, and Amazon.com, just as soon as I figure out how to work the "collate" function on the copy machine.

Steele This Book

How's it hangin', turkeys? Not good, I bet. Hi. Lancelot Steele here. I'm sure you remember me from the first three years of the "Dazzler" comic, specifically issue numbers 3 through 31 (May 1981 to March 1984). And I'm here to tell you about a fantastic opportunity!

• Are you a miserable, sexless loser? But of course you are... you're a comic book fan!
• Do you long to become a rampaging sex magnet who spends every night atop a sweaty, greasy, writhing pile of the opposite or homogenous sex?
• Are you easily gulled by "get rich quick" schemes and shady, fly-by-night internet merchants?

If you answered yes to any of these questions then you'll want to buy a copy of my latest and greatest self-help guide, "Be Steele, My Heart." If you answered yes to that third question I highly recommend purchasing several copies of my book! I guarantee it will quintuple in value within six months! So lay your eyes on this, dudes and dudettes! The following is just a sample of the bonertifically-proven advice I'm offering you, my loyal fans.

Rule #22: We all know there are two kinds of women: dogs and foxes. But did you also know that there are two kinds of foxes? It's true! There are winners and losers, and you have to know the difference before you can score! So how can you tell? Easy! Try putting the moves on her. A loser fox will hem and haw and mumble something about "not wanting to lose you as a friend" or "being married to the Lord" or how she's "over ninety years old and quite fragile" or how she's "just a voice in your head and what you're flirting with is actually a role of carpet somebody leaned up against the wall." A winner fox? Will be on you like cheese on a steak sandwich, and she won't take your wallet when you're not looking, either!

Rule #35: Dress for action. You want steamy, violent, underpants-destroying sex (or as the more sensitive types call it, "romance"). You need to send a clear message. Do it visually! I'm not saying wear a jacket with the phrase "Horny Now" embroidered on the back of it (although I do own one). That's actually too literal. Use pictures! I had a series of t-shirts emblazoned with simple pictograms -- like the kind you see on traffic signs and restroom doors -- indicating whichever sexual position I was most interested in that day. But I kept getting carted off to jail so I had to go with the more ambiguous "heart' symbol. It still works!

Rule #46: Don't tolerate competitors! You're a horndog. You need to mark your territory. No, not like that! That will also get you arrested. (Learned that one the hard way.) And not only are the turkeys in the above panel sniffing around one of my favorite hunting grounds (the hallways being used as a makeshift tornado shelter at the mall) but the way they're dressed is positively stomach-churning. Setting the mood is key when you're on the make. I go for total ambience. If anybody else around is wearing something that crimps the love vibe I'm sending out, I hussle their asses through the door. Sometimes they resist. Then you have to get physical. See that lady in the dowdy green Lois Lane dress? I just punched her in the face. Didn't want her "hassling the talent!" And to answer your question, yes, I do refer to my penis as "the talent."

Rule #47: Sometimes turkeys you think are competitors don't have the same sexual interests that you do! And sometimes they think you "need to be taken down a peg or two" and that you're a "pretty boy" with a "whorish mouth" and they drag you into a broom closet! Listen up: it is vital that you learn to identify which turkeys are after the foxes and which ones aren't. I still have trouble with this one -- sometimes I run into the same non-competing turkeys week after week and they smirk at me and they say "Look who's back for some" and I try to run but they grab me and pin me down. I don't know how that keeps happening. But my point I'm trying to make is that when it comes to this situation, you losers are on your own. I'm just giving you fair warning, is all.

I'll be back with more excerpts from my book on Monday. Until then, hang loose... and go for it!