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

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.

Clark Svent

I hear he used to play for the Vikings! From "Thor" #373 (November, 1986) it's the Thunder God's "secret identity," Sigurd Jarlson. Really, Odinson? That's the best you could come up with for a name? How 'bout Lars Kent? Bror Wayne? Hal Jurgens? Dierk Grayson? Jansen Storm, which gets bonus points for use of the word "storm"? Mike Hammer? No, wait, wait... I got it! Chuck Norse!

This is a very simple look for Thor. It was 1986, so I think he really could have worked a cream-colored Italian suit with a sky-blue t-shirt and some nice Nordic-themed silver jewelry. For a slight edge, I'd match it up with some alligator-skin boots. I'd also either keep the hair in the ponytail but slick the whole thing down with something appropriately greasy, or undo the ponytail and fluff the hair up into a perfectly 80's mane. He'd look just like those brawny, monosyllabic characters who work as bodyguards for the drug-dealing bad guys in 80's action films. Still, I suppose Thor is trying to not stick out of a crowd so the plainclothes thing is a good idea. Although I feel sorry for anybody who tries to help him with that duffel bag. 'Cause it has Mjolnir inside it! "Jeebus, Sigurd, what do you got in this thing? An anvil? I can't even pick it up!" "That's because thou be not worthy, mortal-- er, I mean, don't sweat it, buddy! I'll take the bag, you grab us a couple a' cold ones!" Which reminds me: apparently Thor can talk like a normal human being when he sets his mind to it. (I always knew he was a poser.)

Let's go to a close-up, shall we?



Yikes. I think he might need to cut back on the cortisone injections. Or the cheese fries. Say, fellas, here's some fashion advice I think you might find helpful: if you want to avoid a case of "fat face" like ol' Sigurd here (and you're not already fat everywhere else) try not to do all of these things at the same time:

1. Have a large, fluffy hairstyle.
2. Grow a big, bushy beard.
3. Wear enormous, cheek-covering aviator spectacles.
4. Be drawn by Sal Buscema.

In "comics nerd learns to appreciate football" news, Jeremy watched the Vikings/Redskins game. He decided to root for the Vikings since he liked their uniforms better. And they won, barely! Some of the adorable tyke's observations:

• When a Redskins player crumpled to the ground in a non-contact injury at kickoff, he said "That's why you don't wear five-inch stilletto heels in a football game."
• On the news that Minnesota starting safety Dwight Smith had been "deactivated": "Ah, so he's kind of like the Vision... if S.H.I.E.L.D. had caught the Vision doing something indecent to a lady in a stairwell."
• Darren Sharper, with his hyperbaric chamber, invited comparisons to Jack Of Hearts. And neither of us could figure out why the chamber looked like a cross between a sleeping bag and a cartoon race car.
• In the fourth quarter, Washington incurred a five yard penalty for an "incidental facemask." Which is a good description for this thing. Y'know, when the eyeholes are that big it renders the mask completely ineffectual, Schumacher.
• Going by ESPN's preshow graphics, certain players have the ability to glow radioactively and grow to half again their normal height, then shrink back down again, all in a matter of seconds. Jeremy hopes the league is testing their urine for Pym Particles.

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.

Not Your Friend, But An Incredible Simulation

One of the weirder things in Roy Thomas' most recent run on "Thor" was the "Godpack." And I'm not just talking about the crazy sub-Liefeld costumes and hair (although I'll get to those momentarily). I mean the whole concept is kind of batshit insane. Because the Godpack consists of apparently random shmoes who were transformed by the High Evolutionary into super-beings with no memory of their old names or, I suspect, anything else. Which is just creepy. And here's the kicker: their new super-powered bodies were designed to emulate various Norse gods. And Thor became the leader of the group. Which means Thor spent a lot of time bossing around artificial versions of his close, personal friends.

Of course, Thor is used to bizarre crap like that. Just imagine what it must have been like in the Wundagore Gift Shoppe!

High Evolutionary: Janice? I've decided to promote you to manager.

Janice: Oh--! Well, thank you, Mister Evolutionary! So did Laurie quit, or did you promote her too, or--

High Evolutionary (darkly): Laurie's services were no longer needed.

Janice: I... see. Well, I'd better put in a classified ad for a new sales clerk!

High Evolutionary: No need! Behold, Janice O'Malley, for I now present to you... FUR RED!

Janice: The hell--?! He looks just like my friend Fred, only...

High Evolutionary: Only much, much BETTER! The creature you see before you is indeed based on the Fred you know, but is a wholly separate being with a myriad of genetic improvements! I trust you don't mind.

Janice: I just want to make sure the registers are covered. Still, it'll be kind of weird working with a guy who has Fred's face --

High Evolutionary: And his habit of whistling snippets of music from "Candide."

Janice: Really? Yikes. The main thing is... it'll be weird for me to, say, see Fred in the laundry room of our apartment building and then see his face again on a seven-foot-tall creature with a bright red lion's mane.

High Evolutionary: And tail.

Janice: Ew. Well, "Fur Red," let's find a company polo shirt that will fit you.

Fur Red: FUR RED NEEDS NO SHIRT! GRRRARRGGHH!

Janice (warily eyeing the broad, triangular thatch of red fur on the creature's chest): Trust me. You do.

[The two of them head for the storeroom, with Fur Red huskily whistling the opening bars of "Glitter And Be Gay."]

OKAY! Time for individual evaluations!



Back row:

"Anak." Son Of Thunder! (Kidding. And boy, is that ever a joke for comic book nerds!) Ridiculously gigantic and strong bald Black guy. Because that's not a sad, demeaning cliche, honest and for true. His outfit is actually the most demure of the bunch, except for the daring use of Seafoam Green, a color normally found on vacationing grandmas.

And that's it for the back row. Because he's big!

Front row, left to right (we'll skip Thor):

"Bellam." You know what I love about comic book ponytails? I love that they can grow to four, five feet long and still bounce around in complicated snaking patterns without a single strand out of place. I wonder what Bellam's hairdressing secret is. Some kind of xtreme-hold gel? Or Crisco, maybe? Also note that the High Evolutionary spent most of his shoe budget on everyone else so when he got to Bellam he only had about five bucks left and had to buy a pair of flimsy sandals from some hippie out on the street. Also, the poor dope has an axe for a hand. Not that he lost his hand in an accident, mind you. Nope, the High Evolutionary designed Bellam's current body to lack one hand. It cannot be said enough: the High Evolutionary is a creepy bastard.

"Luminor, Lord of Light." Which is funny, since I would have guessed from his breastplate that he was Lord of Corrugated Cardboard. Got enough kneepads, Luminor? You do? Then could I borrow a couple? No? Yeah, I didn't think so.

"Blitziana." Nothing screams "ready for battle" like a chrome-plated sports bra, huh? Check out the gloves. I'm thinking Blitziana is dressed to go to the opera. Providing that opera is being performed by the Celestials. (I've heard that Exitar is simply smashing as Madame Butterfly.) Bonus Creepy Points: the Norse god that Blitziana is based on? Is Thor. I guess the High Evolutionary was thinking, "Yeah, I like Thor and all, but you know what he needs? A fabulous rack. And maybe Wolverine's hair." News flash, honey! Nobody needs Wolverine's hair. Not even Wolverine needs Wolverine's hair.

"Loga." What a clever way to reuse those old red curtains in the sitting room! Bravo, High Evolutionary! And those tights look like they'd pinch. Just a bit. Just a teensy bit.

"Zefra." I don't think my eyes can take this much magenta. Notice how if she poses just so it looks like she's nude below the waist! Which is totally not on purpose, I'm sure. And there's more segmentation on the accessories, which, I'm sorry, is just stupid. Once Weight Wizard got his foot stuck inside a Slinky. (Yes, they'll still be manufactured one thousand years from now. Hey, stock tip!) If those arm-deals are anything like that Slinky, Zefra should be bawling like a baby and accusing Thor of taking her for granted. Oh wait, I guess he wasn't really blaming the Slinky for that second thing. Also, check out her hair. At this size, I can't tell if she's wearing a really goofy Zatanna hat or if it's a dye job. But one thing I do know is that her Medusa Lite mane would have been sexier if somebody hadn't snipped off the last two inches of it. I'm guessing Bellam got tired of being shown up in the hair department and took a little revenge. Bellam, you little bitch!

I Thank Thee, Nay

Mine Worthy Ally and Friend, The High Evolutionary,

It please thee, find attached with this missive the costume thou hast provided me. Though it pain mine warrior soul, must I confess thine superlative garment be too grand e'en for the Odinson. The immoderate use of gold and silver alone be more than enow to redden the cheeks of Hela's pale subjects. The sublimely mysterious accessories, such as the "bicep clasps" -- of which both function and purpose not e'en the All-Father himself might discern -- be o'er-worthy of this simple god. The symbols on the garment's severely abbreviated tunic, resembling naught so much as two Midgardian traffic signs, are of such an alarming shape and color that e'er had I mounted mine goat-chariot, Toothgrinder and Toothgnasher gazed upon mine newly-costumed form with much startlement and forthwith bolted from their stable, past noble guardsmen into the palace of Odin himself! (After much searching the beasts were located within one of Sif's boot closets. They maimed twelve men afore they could be persuaded to leave.)



Think thee not that the Thunder God mislikes thine miraculous gift! In truth, it is mine own body which is shamefully unfit to bear such finery. Mine lowly skin hath chafed fitfully 'neath its segmented trousers; likewise the mere act of donning the costume hath clipped mine bodily hair in a wondrous manner: though it be plentiful (if patchy) enow, each follicle individually hath been reduced to the length of a Midgardian gnat's phallus and I knoweth not if it might e'er return to its once-remarkable length. (The lone exceptions being the hair above mine knuckles, 'though why I knoweth not.) The helmet, a reproduction of mine original helmet in charming and dainty miniature and with an intriguing "widow's peak" added, be too tight for mine sensitive cranium, and the aches I suffer be more terrible than the teeth of accursed Fenris. (It may interest thee in addition to know that the helmet's very design hath a strange property of instilling mirth in all that view it -- e'en Hogun the Grim made merry, with a laugh so much akin to a horse's whinney that the Prince of Asgard was sorely discomfitted, with no choice other than to yank up his jerkin and make sport of his third nipple.)

Ne'er wouldst I knowingly bring dishonor 'pon mine father nor 'pon mineself, yet in good conscience must the Odinson return to thee this handsome armor, which be too grand e'en for a god.

In all respects,
Your humble servant,
The Mighty Thor

P.S. The kneepads shall I send thee in a fortnight. They presently reside somewhere on the snow-capped peakes of Jotunheim, as the younglings of Asgard hath mistaken them for toboggans.

[A special Blockade Boy thanks to SpiritGlyph for sending me the scans, and a hearty Blockade Boy apology for sitting on them for nearly two months until I could devise a post I thought would do them justice. Tomorrow: the essence of 90's fug, a.k.a. "The Godpack."]

The Mighty Fugly Thor

First of all, I'd like to second the "?!" the off-panel lady used in her word balloon, and I'd like to add, if I may, "??!!!?!???!!?!?!!" There, that should cover how I feel. Which is hurt. I feel like somebody took my eyes and gave them an Indian burn, a swirlie, and about twenty power sit-ups.

This is from "Avengers: The Crossing" #1 (September 1995). Those were dark days for superhero costumes, my friend. I really don't like Thor's original outfit (now there's somebody I could help, if he didn't kill me first) but this thing is a mess. Let's break it down:

1. The straps, MY GOD, the straps! What is their purpose? And why are there so many of them? He strapped his boots, for Pete's sake. Why, was there some danger of them falling off of his feet? Plus, he strapped his gloves! Also, there appears to be a fan belt on his thigh. Of special note is the Barney Rubble lace-up action between the spikes.

2. The spikes. And on his thighs, yet. Were there a lot of people attacking the sides of your thighs, Thor? Is that why you put the spikes there? On the shoulderpads I can kind of understand but even so, the spikes are so fat and far apart from one another (more obvious in other panels, I admit) that they lose all effectiveness. To illustrate that fact, I'd like to present a little one act play I've written, called "Triumph Of The Troll King!"

(Curtain rises on a bleak Asgardian plain. Standing amidst scores of dead, two final opponents face off. They are Geirrodur, King of the Trolls, and Thor the Thuder God. Geirrodur is heavily armored and weilds two axes. Thor holds his legendary hammer and is dressed in a ridiculously convoluted outfit.)

Thor (waves his hammer menacingly): Thou dost hesitate, Troll King! Know, then, that the Mighty Thor shall show thee mine godly mercy, provided thou dost drop thy weapon and surrender to Asgard!

Geirrodur: Naw, see, I was just looking at your armor and my first thought was "Oh shit, spikes" but then I got a better look at those puppies and I thought, "Well, hell, not only are they kinda chunky and non-threatening looking but really, I could probably fit my whole hand between 'em. Like this! (With alarming speed, Geirrodur's axes sever both Thor's arms at the shoulder.)

Thor: Not cool, dude.

(Curtain falls)

3. Belly shirt! Mind you, I did something similar with my Black Condor redesign, but with the preponderance of spikes, the exposed abdomen seems more like a gaping flaw in Thor's battle armor than a "design element." As a side note, I'd just like to point out that this was in 1985 when the whole idea of a belly shirt actually seemed fresh and fashionable. Which makes the current Supergirl's costume seem even more dated and whore-ish.

4. Introducing: chastity belts for men! How uncomfortable does that thing look, huh? And what happens if he has to pee? (Aw, who am I kidding? He's a god! He can hold it in. For eons.)

5. The hammer now has a big fat chain on it. Not for any practical purpose, but because it looks kewl. Not "cool," mind you. "Kewl." Which is considerably less cool than "cool."

6. Get a haircut, hippie! Yes, our Thor went out and got himself some hair extensions. The hair is even longer, fuller, more lustrous, and gravity-defying in other panels and on the wraparound cover of this comic, especially. While he's obviously spending a lot of time taking care of those extensions, they just seem like they'd get in the way during a fight. And imagine what he looks like when it gets wet. That's right. He looks like Janice from "The Muppet Show."

If I remember right, Thor had this look in about four issues of his own comic before it was finally cancelled. Turns out their target audience was only going to purchase books with ugly, strappy costumes and sketchy anatomy if they had a big "i" on the cover.