The Big Blockadeski

Fade in.

Setting: the H.M.S. Exquisite. Rainbow Girl drags a sober and visibly healthier (if still chunky) Storm Boy down a metal corridor.

Rainbow Girl: We've had some terrible news. Brigadier Blockade is in seclusion in the port side of the ship.

She presses a button, and two heavy wooden doors slide open to reveal Blockade Boy's latest cabin, formerly the crew's lounge. In a corner, Weight Wizard dozes nudely on a liobear-skin rug. Nearby, Cootie the cat contentedly grooms herself. And Blockade Boy himself sits dejectedly on an ottoman, facing a crackling atomic fire which emits little black Kirby-esque bubbles in lieu of smoke. A somber, dirge-like rendition of "Hair of the Dog" reverberates through the room.

Rainbow Girl (softly): Brigadier Blockade.

Blockade Boy waves Storm Boy inside without looking at him.

Blockade Boy: It's funny. I can look back on a life of blogging, costumes bettered, deadlines overcome. I've accomplished more than most pirates-slash-fashion designers, and without the use of organic legs. What... what makes a hero, Storm Boy?

Storm Boy: Myke.

Blockade Boy: Huh?

Storm Boy: My real name is Myke Chypurz, wow, I can't believe I've never told you be-

Blockade Boy: Yeah, I'm not calling you that. But the "hero" stuff. Is it... is it being prepared to do the right thing? No matter the price? Isn't that what makes a hero?

Storm Boy: That and some kick-ass spiky shoulder pads.

Blockade Boy: You're hopelessly tacky, but perhaps you're right. Maybe I'm just not "kewl" enough.

Storm Boy (laughs nervously): Uh-huh. You have a purple beard and metal legs, which practically makes you an official X-Men character, so I really don't think that's your problem.

He thumps on his uniform pocket.

Storm Boy: Mind if I eat a protein bar?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero.

Blockade Boy turns to face Storm Boy. In the flickering light of the atomic fire, glistening tears roll down his cheeks and disappear forever within his thick Donegal beard.

Storm Boy: 'Scuse me?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero. The internet "reality show" for super-heroes. I got voted off. In a freakin' landslide. What am I, Hate Face?! GODDAMN! ...Are you surprised at my tears, Storm Boy?

Storm Boy: More like alarmed and a little squicked-out, but okay...

Blockade Boy: Amadan men also cry... Amadan men also cry!

He clears his throat, which sounds like a waterlogged outboard motor.

Blockade Boy: I received the news just a little while ago.

He hands Storm Boy a print-out of an image from an ancient Earth computer screen.

Storm Boy: Well, that blows.

Blockade Boy: Rainbow Girl will fill you in on the details.

He turns away and stares into the atomic fire once more. Rainbow Girl taps Storm Boy on the shoulder and leads him out of the room. Storm Boy speaks over his shoulder to Blockade Boy as he exits.

Storm Boy: No, I'm good, you don't have to... I don't-- why do I need to know any details?!

Out of Blockade Boy's cabin, Storm Boy tears the wrapper off a protein bar and devours it.

Storm Boy (crumbs spilling from his mouth): What in space was that all about?

Rainbow Girl: Oh, he's had me drag everybody in there. First Tusker, and then I had to cart Plant Lad's zombie carcass in to see him, and now you. It all goes in order of rank.

Storm Boy: I'm outranked by Plant Lad?! He's the ship's figurehead! He does absolutely nothing at all...

Rainbow Girl smiles wryly, one eyebrow raised.

Storm Boy: ...and I do less than nothing. Got it.

Rainbow Girl: Thanks for not making me say it myself. But here's the main thing you need to know: the Brigadier will be holed up in there feeling sorry for himself for quite some time. I can't see him snapping out of it until Thursday at the earliest. That means no marching--

Storm Boy: Thank God.

Rainbow Girl --and no piracy and certainly no blogging.

Storm Boy: No blogging? Say, in the meantime, could I maybe post some of my poems?

Rainbow Girl: Absolutely not.

Storm Boy: Says Blockade Boy or you?

Rainbow Girl: Does it really matter? And think hard before you answer me.

Storm Boy (cowed): ...No.

Rainbow Girl: Good kid. Now get out of here.

Blockade Boy's hoarse, whining bellow is carried through the dense wooden doors.

Blockade Boy: Rainbow girl? ...RAINBOW GIRL?! Can you make me another Orando Sling? Weight Wizard doesn't know how to do it right...

Rainbow Girl (mutters): I swear to God, if he doesn't stop this shit by Thursday I'm going to stop it for him...

Fade out.

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Rainbow Girl

Rainbow Girl is my second-in-command on the H.M.S. Exquisite and she's truly my finest crew member. Granted, it's not much of a competition. Tusker is a dim-witted behemoth who spends most of his time playing fantasy magno-ball on his Omnicom, Plant Lad is a badass but completely immobile, my dear friend Storm Boy is an emotionally unstable lush (bless his heart), and my "cabin boy" Weight Wizard is really only good for "swabbing my deck" if you know what I mean and I think you do. So praise the Luck Lords for Rainbow Girl! She really rides stays on top of cracks the whip on disciplines CRIMINY! I'm mired in accidental sexual innuendo here! Rainbow Girl makes sure the other crew members ("Members"? CRIMINY!) do their jobs! She's diligent and smart and also witty, just a real charmer who can put you at your ease right away. She's also in constant need of validation, so if I let, say, three hours pass without thanking her effusively and in person for the work she's doing, she gets ticked off at me and stops working which creates a domino effect which causes the ship to grind to a complete halt.

So with her personality, I bet her Legion try-out was even more scarring than usual. Because the Legion didn't tell her why they rejected her!

That's it. That one panel's all she got. That's her fifteen femtoseconds of fame as chronicled in "Adventure Comics", the Legion's companion magazine (a profusely illustrated pamphlet in which the details of that organization's doings are heavily dumbed-down for its dumb, heavy fans). There was no embarrassing flub caught on tape, no near-death accidental misuse of her powers, no anything. Just the Legion's typical "take a belt and beat it" shove-off. The United Planets Freedom of Infotainment Act of 2973, or was it 2979, or 2981? Damn sliding timeline! Anyway, that legislation opened the Legion's bits of business to the general public and it was from those formerly sealed records that I found out why the Legion rejected Rainbow Girl. (And then I blabbed it to her). But it's complicated, so bear with me for a minute. Rainbow Girl can split into four separate energy-beings*, each a different hue. Rainbow Girl Red projects heat rays, Rainbow Girl Yellow projects a blinding light, Rainbow Girl Blue projects a freezing ray, and Rainbow Girl Green projects an enervating ray. Which is not Kryptonite, I hasten to add. But the Legion thought it was and they hustled Rainbow Girl out of their tacky clubhouse in two shakes of a borlat's tail. With no explanation and no chance for her to defend herself. But you know the Legion... they're hell-bent on protecting their own personal Mark McGuire and Marion Jones, a.k.a. a certain Kryptonian pair who are so hopped up on yellow sun radiation they can't even recognize a cool facial hair style when they see it. (I had a sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops and they called me "Pappy Yokum"! HOW DARE THEY. Besides, I've always pictured myself as more the "Earthquake McGoon" type. Only hairier.)

Wait, what were we talking about?

Rainbow Girl! Right! Thank you! So. Rainbow Girl might not have received such a hasty farewell on that fateful day if only she'd opted for a more striking costume. And hairstyle! Here's Rainbow Girl today in an outfit and coif I designed especially for her:

Once Rainbow Girl trusted me enough to take me on as her fashion adviser, I had her toss out every bit of rainbow-patterned apparel in her closet. Which was a lot. Her very noggin emits pulses of rainbow-colored light at all times so I don't think she needs anything else competing with that. Her hair doesn't have a lot of body, so I counseled her to switch to a short, layered spiky 'do which gives it more lift. I also lightened it a bit to bring out her natural purple undertones. (And I thought it looked so bangin' I decided to make my own hair that color!) The costume itself is in a silver-gray metallic fabric with hints of violet and turquoise. The silhouette features a scalloped top to evoke a cloudbank. Rainbow Girl is a helluva fighter both hand-to-hand and in her energy forms, so I designed this as a "working" costume. That means the neckline, while feminine and flattering, is also high enough that her bosoms won't pop out in the middle of a scrap. And there are no high heels or dangling jewelry. It's a business suit, and her business is kicking your ass!

*When I interviewed Rainbow Girl for the job of First Mate I asked her if she could do the work of four people. She said yes, not knowing the four people I meant were Tusker, Plant Lad, Storm Boy, and Weight Wizard.

Booting Up...

Jeremy here! I got my computer back from Wherever and it's working! I'll spare you all the boring details, except to say when I phoned the service center last Tuesday to check on it, the guy had the gall to tell me that if I didn't have my warranty the repairs would have cost me around $350.00. And then he tried to sell me an extended warranty. Hey, here's a tip, pal: don't make me go to Hell and back trying to get my computer repaired a mere four months after I bought the damn thing and then act like you're doing me a favor by not charging me. (Needless to say, I didn't take him up on the extended warranty offer.)

Yesterday I was cleaning my apartment and under one of the love seat cushions I found a 150-year-old letter from Blockade Boy informing me he'd be returning from the Old West sometime today. Why, it's almost like he knew all along my computer would crash and that he'd have all this extra time on his hands! And then he somehow arranged for a letter to wind up in a love seat that was manufactured within the last year. No small feat, especially considering he wrote that letter in an alternate universe! The DC one, to be precise. Here's an excerpt:

The people of the DC Universe Old West are a fun bunch, although with my sweet-ass Donegal beard they keep mistaking me for an especially flamboyant Quaker. Last week I traded hair care tips with Hawk, Son of Tomahawk. Turns out natural dyes like beet root are just the thing for a fun, temporary new look. I beat him in a poker game, and one of the things I won off him was this killer little manny-pack. Hand-tooled leather and simply dripping with beads and fringe. I'm saving it for a special occasion. The other thing I won... well it wasn't exactly an object but let's just say he'll have to ride side-saddle for the next couple of weeks. Oh, and the other night I had a walk-off with Bat Lash. Girl can work it.

On the artistic side, I've been working on redesigns for the Legion of Substitute Heroes and various Legion Rejects. I've even found a way for Polecat to look good! (One word: pants.) Still kind of stumped about Double Header. Maybe just a burqa for him. And I'm also readying the first installment of the New Teen Titans/Fearsome Five moral reversal challenge: Nightwing/Shimmer. Plus, I've got Rescue Me redesigns for Titania, Commander Kraken, and the Wrench all worked out. I should be able to start posting some of this stuff within the next week. Not day after day, mind you, but still.

Wow! Sounds like he's been a busy little bee. Now I just have to get my scanner software working properly. (Don't worry. I'm on it.)

Now... are you ready for some (of last week's) football? As seen by someone barely familiar with the sport? Well, too bad, 'cause I'm posting about it anyway.

10/1: I watched the Chiefs/49ers game. As a Kansan I'm somehow required to be a Chiefs fan, but I don't mind. Especially when they crush SF 41-0. My observations:

• Looking at the mugshots -- er, headshots of KC's defensive line, I'm pretty sure their heads were all warped horizontally by Kai's SuperGOO. Somebody on the production staff has a cruel sense of humor.
• An announcer, quoting SF's Jeff Ulbrich on his team's linebackers: "When they see a hole, they have to hit it up in the hole." Oh, I have a filthy, filthy mind.
• Remember those shiny leggings designed by Jeffrey Sebelia in the "Black & White" challenge on Project Runway? A lot of the players appeared to be wearing those... on their arms. Still fit, though.
• The crowd noise in Arrowhead Stadium was like listening to a jet taking off, so it made it hard for the players to hear the refs' whistles. Which led to that great moment in the first quarter when a Chiefs player knocked the ball loose from a 49ers player's hands, creating a mad, confused scramble that ended with a Chiefs player wandering around, holding the ball out from his chest like he's just won an icecream cake at a raffle but he can't eat it because he's allergic to dairy.
• An instant replay at the end of the first quarter began with a row of cheerleaders in the upper portion of the frame, with everything above their crotches cropped out. Special guest cameraman: Howard Chaykin!
• A freaky moment in the second quarter: the Chiefs' Derek Johnson basically twirls the 49ers' Alex Smith down at the 40 yard line... horizontally. When Smith hit the ground it looked like he'd been put on a rotisserie.
• 49ers kicker Andy Lee looks like the love child of Gareth Keenan and Dwight Schrute.
• Remember at the start of the third quarter when SF's Maurice Hicks fumbled the ball after a fifty-three yard return, and KC's Jared Page recovered it? I just about lost my mind, I was so pumped about that. It felt like I was personally responsible! And I was just sitting on my ass eating a pizza!
• Commentator Chris Myers on the Chiefs' Trent "My Brain Hurts" Green: "Said he tired of sitting around at home, wrote up some plays and gave them to Herm Edwards and offensive coordinator Mike Solari and they told him 'These are actually crayon drawings of you riding a unicorn. Why don't you go back home and just stay there for a few more weeks? 'Kay? Bye.'" Alright, so part of that quote may have been fabricated.
• How sweet was that sixty-yard put return made by Dante Hall in the fourth quarter? I have no wiseass remark here; I just thought it was hella cool.

10/2: The Eagles beat the Packers, 31-9. I wasn't rooting for either team especially, but my early sympathies were with the Eagles, since they have that nice soup-loving Donovan McNabb. Plus he had to prove he could still lead his team to victory without the controversial T.O. Morrow or whoever that was. Although I later felt kind of bad for the Packers' Bret "The Grizzled Old Prospector" Favre. He's a sassy senior! Now, get off the field, wipe the excess Ensure off your lips, turn off your blinkers for God's sake and finish filling out this AARP form. Some additional thoughts:

• Somebody was actually paid money to make Tony Kornheiser's hair look that way. Try wrapping your mind around that.
• Spotted in the stands: the Hulk's evil future identity, the Maestro! (Bulky guy with a bald green head and a massive white beard. Pretty disturbing, really.)
• Green Bay's fifty-four yard field goal in the second quarter: effing sweet.
• Not precisely football related (not that it's ever stopped me before) but I really have to get this one off my chest: judging from their commercials, Bud Light's key demographic is dull-witted, smarmy asswipes, ages 18-34.
• Michelle Tafoya's jacket was handcrafted from the skin of Ernie from Sesame Street.
• I did not know they were allowed to do that: in the third quarter, Donovan McNabb slid to the thirty yard line. Then he checked Bret Favre into the boards, slam-dunked the football over the goal (nothing but net!) and drove off the field in a stock car.
• One of the announcers -- the scratchy-voiced one, Theisman maybe? -- on Brian Dawkins: "[He] becomes Weapon X when he gets on the football field." I have to wonder if he even knew he was referring to an X-Men concept when he said that. Or maybe Dawkins really does slash at opposing players with adamantium claws while wearing a big chrome hairdryer with telephone cords sticking out of it.
• Missed the ironic contrast by this much: an announcer said "The Eagles suddenly look very healthy in this game" about three seconds after the camera cut away from a mob of morbidly obese fans.
• Oh, so that's a "pump fake", Steven: McNabb's "the hell with it, I'll just run the damn ball myself" maneuver at the start of the fourth quarter.

Well, that's enough babbling from me. I have to work on the scanner thing. I don't anticipate any problems. And I guarantee there will be weekday posting for the foreseeable future. Hooray!

Hammer Pants: The Mighty Thor

Greetings, gentle readers. It saddens thine most favored costumer, aye, with grievous groans and rendings of his brightly-hued garments, that his post should be late. Know only this: mine trip to Asgard was of long duration, owing to differences in the passage of time 'twixt that fabled land and lowly Midgard. Mayhap thou hath noted also that my speech be wondrous strange. Mine sincerest apologies be thine, but I was compelled to enter Asgard 'neath a false identity and the shedding of certain aspects of that masquerade hath proven to be most difficult indeed. Still, 'twas in the service of that noblest of goals: to redesign the costume of the Odinson himself, the Mighty Thor!

What Doth Be His Deal:
Doth thou jest? I speak of the Mighty Thor! All who breathe sing of the glorious form of the Thunder God. And those unfortunates who live in miserable ignorance of the Odinson need but consult the font of all knowledge, the Wikipedia.

Foul Deeds 'Gainst Fashion Itself:
Some superhero costumes withstand the changing tastes of the inexorably passing decades because they be true classics, without need of improvement. Thor's raiments belong not in that category. Like most costumes, Thor's hast limped along with either minor or temporary alterations because of a sickly nostalgia among the Odinson's fans. The changing of the merest stitch be enow to set the pasty, unwashed horde to howling like nigh unto terrible Fenris. Their gibbering electronic protestations to the contrary, Thor's costume sucks donkey balls.

I take umbrage firstly with the boots, with their ace of spades/cow-catcher tops and their strappy/stripey middles. Thor's pre-Christian muscle shirt also sticks in mine craw. 'Twould look most appropriate on a body builder from Long Island circa 1988 -- but it be not worthy of the Thunder God. Thor's winged helm finds disapproval in mine eyes, as the shape of it flatters his divine features not a whit, and resembles not so much as a silver-plated stocking cap... with wings glued on. His overly-starched cape, attached without fanfare to his muscle shirt, is likewise a point of contention. But of all the many abominable qualities of Thor's garments, the six yellow discs 'pon his midsection vex me the most. What, pray tell, are they meant to be? Frisbees? Pancakes? I knoweth not -- and if thou claimeth to have the answer, I call thee a filthy liar, good sir. Truly, Thor be in need of mine artistic talents.

When Titans Meet!
Having attained the most divine fur and leather raiments from a Renaissance Faire booth (whilst the propriator's back was turned) I reinvented mineself as an Asgardian costume maker with the noble appelation of "Bloga the Impeding." Then, 'twas a simple matter to distract Heimdall ("Hey, but look yonder!') and sneak past him over Bifrost into gleaming Asgard.

The Odinson I found in brooding reverie (i.e. trying to get the tiniest synapse in his brain to fire) in the back of a tavern. I ordered two steins of mead and then took the foamy beverages to Thor's table. I announced mineself with mine deepest, most booming voice: "Thor, great friend! Oh, Bloga the Impeding hast found thee at last!" Mine eyes detected in Thor's visage the strenuous calculating of his feeble brain as he attempted to recognize the handsome figure before him. I pressed on. "Surely thou must know thine old compatriot, Bloga the Impeding, most fashionable of the gods! Mayhap thou hath seen mine needlework in the stylish garments of your friend, Fandral the Flaming."

"Fandral the Flashing," Thor mumbled, his speech slurred by many tankards of ale.

"Precisely," said I, and hurriedly sat beside him.

Behold: Mine Presentation!
"Thor, mine brother-in-arms, very much should I like to regale thee with mine many blood-curdling adventures whilst away from Asgard's comforts -- but it shall suffice to say thine friend hath learned even greater skill in his chosen trade of fashion design. And thou, should it please thee, are to be mine next client!"

The dimmest of lights gleamed in Thor's drowsy eyes. "Art thou,' he queried, "as skillful as mine Midgardian friend, the Wasp?"

The untalented harlot's name caused mine anger to rise with startling swiftness but I restricted mine comments to this: "That mine talents surpass the Wasp's there can be no doubt, as mine many successes can attest! Why, only recall how I hath arrayed thine good friend, Fandral the Fabulous!"

"Flashing," said Thor with a hint of annoyance in his low, gurgling voice. He seized the stein and drained it in one gulp, regarding me with great suspicion.

"But of course," I stammered. "Mine absence from this great land hast been of, um, such a duration... er, certain names escape mine, um... MORE MEAD HERE!"

A buxom Asgardian barmaid speedily presented us with an entire pitcher, which the Odinson drained forthwith. With a casual gesture of his tree-like forearm, he swept every item from the table: the pitcher, the steins, a half-eaten turkey leg, several cocktail napkins emblazoned with amusing runes, and an inebriated pixie. I laid mine drawings before him.



"Regard!" I exclaimed. "This sassy, streamlined little number takes thine image boldly into the twenty-first century! Thine perplexing yellow discs hath been mightily reimagined as a series of large, gold studs on a navy-and-red leather costume. Thine most kind and considerate friend hath also taken it upon himself to simplify thine boots, and to give thee gloves to match. So as not to overpower thine handsome new costume, 'twould be wise to trim thine golden hair a smidge. A Donegal beard wouldst be just the thing to frame thine strong jawline and add a touch of the warrior spirit.

"But if this ensemble catches not thine lordly fancy, feast thine eyes on this!



"Here thee may behold a costume steeped in tradition -- half leather, half chainmail and all kick-ass! In this ensemble, thine long-lost friend Bloga the Impeding hast replaced the blinding blue-black of thine current raiment with somber tones, the better to highlight the gleaming gold detailing and the bold crimson cape. With a stylized helm and a thick blonde beard, thou wilt be a potent vision of Norse masculinity! What say thee, Odinson?"

All Shall Tremble At The Words Of The Mighty Thor:
Thor grasped both drawings in his mighty hands and peered at them for quite some time, holding them at various distances from his red-rimmed eyes, as though unable to focus properly upon them. At length he flung them back on the table and slurred, "Thou hath confounded the Odinson, Bloga the Impeding. I thought thou said thou had more talent than the Wasp...?"

T'was at this juncture, gentle readers, that thine fashionable friend totally lost it. "Now see thee here, Miss Thang, Bloga the Impeding suffers not the mead-soaked insinuations of--!" But mine protestations were interrupted by a lengthy belch from Thor's beautiful lips as he forthwith lost all consciousness. He slumped to the floor, his divine noggin rebounding off the oaken table with a terrible noise. For mine own part, I managed to get out of the tavern without paying mine tab ("Hey, but look yonder!") and high-tailed it back to lowly Midgard and Jeremy's lowly apartment.

Enjoy thine stupid yellow pancakes, thou jerk.

Because It Made Me Look Like A Goddamn Leprechaun, That's Why

Do-over!

Sorry, no Steeplejack 2 post yet. I just haven't figured out an interesting redesign for the guy yet. My best effort so far wound up looking a lot like my Shellshock design. I don't want to fall into a body armor rut. But I'm gonna keep trying. If I can't come up with something I absolutely love for him tomorrow, I'll go ahead with my Time Travel post.

In the meantime I've redesigned my costume again. Because I decided to cut my hair. Because as much as I love my new Donegal, when seen in concert with my youthful Shoney's Big Boy haircut I look like I'm an extra in a gay porno version of "The Shoemaker And The Elves." So I razored my hair super-short and sewed myself a vaguely more badass costume. (It's as badass as pro wrestling, anyhow. Hey, that means new duds for Boris "The Steel Wall" Arkady! Whee! Oh, badasses don't say "whee." I meant to say "HELL YEAH!")



I redyed and slightly altered my boots from my last costume (frugal!) and I combined them with some tights, a wrestling belt and a spankin' new hoodie I sewed up to create a sort of hip-hop/Tekken 2 look. And although it caused me deep, spiritual pain to do so, I shaved my chest. The costume just looks better this way. I take my one consolation in the fact that my arms still look like an ape's, praise be to God. I love the goggles. They add some 21st century superheroic flair, since they're a bit like a mask, and they also give some needed color to my "head shot" now that I've foregone hair dye. And the bubble shapes on the hoodie were inspired by comic book thought balloons, since assisting other comic book folk is my stock in trade. Also, they soften the look and help keep it from looking all grim 'n' gritty.

This costume is based on one I'd designed in case the "Wolverine" look had won the poll. I did three costume designs for the poll choices -- one for the two mustaches, one for the muttonchops and one for the Donegal. Here they are:



That's right, my initial costume sketches are little cartoony guys, about two inches tall! Sweet Jesus, but I'm fascinating.

The original Donegal costume was going to have black tights and shoulder patches with side-by-side orange and purple on the top and boots. Once I drew it full size, though, I realized it looked like something Duo Damsel would have worn for cardio boxing. That darned bustier shape on the top...! I might as well have worn a sports bra, too. So I decided to switch to my muttonchop design. Which was just okay. It didn't seem to go that well with my ultra-dramatic Donegal though. And the more I thought about it, the more I didn't want to have to see it on my blog page every day. I'm pretty happy with this new one, though!

(For now.)

All Glory To The Highfather!

Dig my sweet-ass Donegal!

When I closed the polls -- nominally at 10 PM last night, although it turned out to be barely 10:01, with somebody getting in one last vote at that time, the "Highfather" vaulted into a decisive lead over the second-place finisher, the "Doctor Strange." Here's the voting breakdown:

• 1st: The "Highfather," 75 votes, 38% total
• 2nd: The "Doctor Strange," 55 votes, 28% total
• 3rd: The "Wolverine," 36 votes, 18% total
• 4th: The "Dum Dum Dugan," 31 votes, 16% total

So that's 197 votes in all. (Coming from probably five people... heh, heh!) Now, I love all these looks -- or else I never would have offered to grow them -- but I will admit that y'all surprised me. I had a feeling that the "Dum Dum Dugan" would be a front-runner, after all my gushing about it in my earlier posts. But somebody out there was hell-bent on my growing the "Highfather." And I'm more than happy to oblige. It's a splendid beard, if I do say so myself: luxuriously long and thick, yet beautifully trimmed and shaped, and it looks boss as hell. I have a real "circus strongman" thing going now. I only hope Brother Bicep doesn't get too jealous.

I sketched various costumes to go with the different facial hair configurations. For the "Highfather" -- which is actually a Donegal, and here's a page showing a rather handsome young man wearing one -- I went with a low, square neckline and short sleeves. With such a gloriously leonine beard on display, I thought it would be best to show a little skin. It goes with the strongman/tough guy/fantasy barbarian feel of the beard. (I've taken to monopolizing Jeremy's churchwarden pipe, since I look so much better smoking it than he does.) And the costume is purple and orange. But of course.

Thank you, everyone who voted. Have a terrific day!

Blockade Boy Needs You!

I'm sure many of you are wondering -- although none of you have asked -- how I can get away with my sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops when I'm travelling in an era that frowns on such follicular extravagance. It's really quite simple. I just make sure my civilian identity comes from whichever walk of life justifies big, bold facial hair. Here are some of the aliases I've used, along with the time period in which I've used them:

• The Vicomte Bloque-DuBoise, a nobleman (1937-1949). Accessories: monocle, top hat, enormous medal-bedecked sash. Accent: French.
• Bucky Attaboy, 4-F character actor specializing in cowboy sidekick roles (1941-1945, 1950-1953). Accessories: plaid shirt, boots, cowboy hat with the front of the brim bent straight upward. Accent: nearly unintelligible.
• Doctor Blake Boyd, high-priced psychoanalyst (1948-1982). Accessories: tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, straight-stemmed bulldog pipe, thoughtful expression. Accent: Connecticut.
• Blockade Doggie, tormented beat poet and occasional surfer (1959-1967). Accessories: sweatshirt, bongos. Accent: mumbled Southern Californian.
• "Bulky" Boynton, motorcycle enthusiast and professional bouncer (1968-present). Accessories: leather jacket, sunglasses, WWI German army helmet, sneer. Accent: Midwestern whiskey-throated growl.
• Bob Kane-Hoyt III, trustfund radical (1969-1973, 1988-present). Accessories: pants woven by Central American Marxists, copy of Das Kapital, platinum American Express card. Accent: never really settled on one, since I spent most of my time sighing and making disgruntled clucking noises.
• Boris "The Steel Wall" Arkady, professional wrestler (1976-1989). Accessories: leopard-skin tights, satin cape, bullhorn. Accent: Russian.
• Bill K. Poindexter, Nasa engineer (1977-1985). Accessories: hornrimmed glasses, short-sleeved white dress shirt, clipboard, bad posture. Accent: nasal Floridian.
• Blox-Boi, struggling Nu-Metal keyboardist and cube-gleaming sk8er (1995-2002). Accessories: baggy pants, tuke, the stench of failure. Accent: whiny Brookline.
• Bollocks Kapow, snooty techno DJ (1993-present). Accessories: hoodie, mirrored shades, busted glow stick. Accent: really bad faux-Swedish.

I hope that clears things up. And now for the matter at hand: It's been just over a year since I took over Jeremy's blog, and I think it's time for a makeover. (For myself; not for the blog.) For starters, I'm going back to my natural hair color. I know that sounds like no big deal to you folks, but my hair has been dyed some color or other pretty much continuously since I was six years old -- not counting that unfortunate business with the Super-Stalag of Space. And now I have to do something about my facial hair. Since it was dyed to match my hair I'll have to shave it off and regrow it. Which is fine by me, since I feel like switching to a new style. And that's where you, my charming and handsome and/or beautiful friends come in! You see, I can't make up my mind! I've narrowed it down to four styles:

A. The "Doctor Strange"

B. The "Dum Dum Dugan"

C. The "Wolverine" and...

D. The "Highfather."

I need you guys to vote for which style you'd like to see me adopt. Use the handy mini-poll box located over the links section. (You can vote as many times as you want; it's cool by me.) Whichever look gets the most votes by 10 PM Central Standard Time on Monday, that's how I'll wear it for the forseeable future. Through the magic of time travel, I'll be able to show you my new look, along with a brand new costume, on Tuesday's post!

Full schedule for next week:

• Monday: Rescue Me: Bird-Man
• Tuesday: My new costume and facial hair!
• Wednesday: Rescue Me: Steeplejack
• Thursday: Time-Travel Challenge: Grunge to Rockabilly
• Friday: I present two costume redesigns to the Mighty Thor.

Have a great weekend!

The Zaniac Craves The Perfect Tanning Lotion!

I am the Zaniac! You may remember me from "Thor" #319 (May, 1982)! But probably not! I am here to tell you about my new tanning lotion! I call it "Tanhunt!" It is the choice of professional makeup artists everywhere! I remember the old tanning lotions I used to buy! They smeared and dripped and left finger marks on my beefy, hairy legs! The pretty-pretties laughed at me! I hated the old tanning lotions for that! The hate built up inside me, festering! And I knew that one day that hate would explode! That's when I decided to create "Tanhunt!"

I am going to explain the difference between the old-style lotions and "Tanhunt!" First of all "Tanhunt" comes in a wide range of colors! Including David Berkowitz Bronze, Karla Ho-mocha, You'll Never Get Me Copper, and Tantan Macoute! Also including Jaundice Wayne Gacy! That is my favorite one! I crave it! But there is an even better feature of my tanning lotion!

Suppose for a moment you are wearing my new tanning lotion in a movie role and you are filming on location! Suppose for another moment that a cigar-smoking amateur movie critic with unbelievable aim manages to ignite a crate full of TNT and also just a pinch of uranium (don't ask)! Suppose also that years later another writer realizes that what happens next is too big of a load of b.s. even for "Thor" readers to swallow and so he ret-cons some mystical parasitic vermin-type thing into my origin! Is that okay? Sweet! Let us continue!

Suppose the residual radiation and/or the mystical parasitic vermin-type thing (if you are so inclined) packs a couple hundred pounds of muscle onto your arms, legs, and torso, and adds several inches to your... er, height! Only "Tanhunt" moves with your mutating form, giving you continuous smooth coverage with no streaks or thin patches! No other tanning lotion can do this! Only "Tanhunt!" The pretty-pretties will love you! So you won't have to stick your knife into them! Buy it today!

I AM THE ZANIAC!!!