Put Your Cat Clothes On

Back in February, Ryan Eldridge (of Westchester is for Lovers fame) asked me to redesign the costume of one of the X-verse's blandest, most generic mutants (and that's really saying something): Rusty Collins.

I remember reading about Rusty in some of Jeremy's old "X-Factor" comics. My impression of him: a nondescript, red-haired "nice guy" with pyrokinetic powers and a pleasant disposition, and that's about it. He and his equally bland girlfriend, "Skids", were like an even less-exciting version of Justice and Firestar, if you can imagine such a thing.

According to the Font Of All Wisdom (Wikipedia), Rusty later adopted the mucho Image-y moniker of "Firefist." *snicker* He got brainwashed by Stryfe -- y'know, the guy with the helmet that looks like a Cuisinart attachment. And then he aligned himself with Magneto. And then he got killed. Because he's boring.

Well, I don't think Rusty would have ended up as just another dead Marvel mutant (there's roughly a bajillion of them at this point), if his creators (Bob Layton and Jackson Guice) had just bothered to toughen his sorry ass up in the first goddamn place. In other words, they could've made him less like Howie Cunningham and more like Fonzie. [Edited to add: As Captain Nice Guy points out in the comments section, I meant to refer to Richie Cunningham, and not his dad. Still, I'm leaving my goof intact, since Rusty was a mite -- to borrow a phrase from Captain Nice Guy -- "Tom Bosley-esque".]

Which brings me to my styling choices. I knew I wanted to make him more like a runaway "street kid" (minus the prostitution) than the square he actually was. That way, he'd be somebody who could handle himself a little better, score a more interesting girlfriend, and not get stuck hanging out with melon-headed twelve-year-olds (Artie and Leech, I'm talking to you). After considering a "grunge" theme for him, I decided to hew to a musical subculture that was actually around when he debuted in the mid-1980's: rockabilly! After all, Layton and Guice had once "humorously" dressed the Beast in a retro-themed suit and glasses, a la Elvis Costello. Why couldn't they have styled Rusty like Brian Setzer?

Now, this guy has a yen for twanging guitars, curvaceous dames, and "car culture." Maybe Marvel could have gotten Coop to draw a miniseries about him! And I can guarantee he wouldn't be stuck looking after a couple of macrocephalic twerps. Naw, he'd be too busy scoring.

As you can see, the new-and-improved Rusty has a wicked 80's pompadour (it's fluffy!) and muttonchops, plus some kick-ass arm tattoos. The tattoos are designed like the stylized flames found on the sides of hotrods back then. The silhouette of the boots mirrors the pear shape of the flames. And the entire outfit is leather, natch. The studded belt has a nifty "devil's head" buckle, and it hangs low, just like some actual rockabilly musicians used to wear them in the 1980's. Note also the chain, going to his wallet. I've designed a devilish "R" logo for him. And -- since it makes more sense with his powers, and it just sounds tougher -- I bet he'd change his nickname to "Red." A Spirit-style mask completes the look.

There ya go, Ryan! And it only took me about four months! *chuckles nervously, then looks down at floor*

Dracula: Prince Of Dorkness

...And my hair is perfect. Nope, this isn't a mask. Unfortunately. AAAARRROOOOOO! *clears throat* Sorry, I'm prone to doing that now. Anyway, take my advice: don't stand in front of the microwave at QuikTrip while you're wearing Zuunium cuff links. I'm afraid I caused quite the ruckus -- a half-dozen fashion victims mauled, and not a stick of beef jerkey left in the place. Grrrrroowwwlll AAARROOOOO! *ahem* But fear not! Such a low dosage of irradiated Zuunium should wear off by tomorrow. For now, though, I have yellow eyes, horrifying teeth, and there's so much fur on my face you can barely make out my facial features. Thank God this is Wichita, Kansas, or else I might stand out. (Halloween, hell! I could walk the streets of this redneck burg on freaking Arbor Day and not draw a crowd.) But enough about my personal problems. You came here for the costumes! Well, I'm in a Monster Mash kind of mood today, so I decided to redesign Dracula's superhero costume.

You heard me.

This is Dell Comics' Dracula. He's not a vampire, but he has ultrasonic hearing (I'm not sure how that's helpful, unless criminals communicate with one another through a series of high-pitched chirps and whistles) and he can turn into a bat and control bats. And yet he looks like a total goober. So here's how I would have dressed him:

I changed the motif from "bat" to "dragon" based on Vlad Dracul's membership in the Order of the Dragon. And since it looks a bit like a rib cage, I added designs that look a bit like bones to the arms and legs. And I replaced the dopey bat-belt with a sash to break up all the red and to add a little historical flavor. No cape, you ask? Damn skippy! My goal was to really emphasize the superhero aspect. My first sketches wound up looking too much like historical costume, with old-timey capes and leather armor and pirate boots and such. Those designs looked fantastic, naturally, but they didn't scream "superhero." That's why I based the final design around a monotone body suit, and just embellished it with the sash and the dragon/bone detailing. For just a pinch more drama, I gave him corpse-like makeup, a beard and long hair. The hair provides the motion that a cape would have, and it contrasts with the angular silhouette of the suit. And yes, I suppose he looks like the old Marvel villain, the Tarantula, but I didn't notice that until I was inking it. Swear to God.

So forget ol' bat-ears up there. This is a guy I'd let sink his teeth into me. Or vice-versa! AAAAAARRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! *ahem* Sorry.

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.

Shawl That Heaven Allows: The Black Condor

What's his deal:
Viva la plot contrivance! When Richard Grey Jr. was a baby, his parents took him with them on an archeological dig in one of the numerous remote locations in Mongolia. (Fun fact: remote locations account for 93% of that enchanting land!) Marauding bandits wiped out the entire expedition, save for Baby Richard. The infant was left alone in the desert and would have died of starvation and/or exposure, had he not been adopted by a flock of giant birds. You heard me. These mysterious black condors -- which may be related to the genuinely Mongolian "black vulture" or "steppe condor" or perhaps the author just yanked them out of his ass -- somehow managed to raise Richard to adulthood without killing him. In fact, Richard taught himself to fly just by watching the condors do it. You heard me. Later accounts of Richard's story threw in a radioactive meteorite to make this part of the story more plausible. No, seriously.

Richard didn't encounter another human being until he was a full-grown man. Did I mention he was in a remote part of Mongolia? This fellow, a hermit (remote!) taught Richard to talk and act like an actual person. The hermit pointed out that most people don't possess the power of flight. He suggested that Richard could use this ability to help Mankind. Upon the hermit's death, Richard returned to America. His timing was perfect! It just so happened that Richard was an exact double of a freshly murdered senator named Thomas Wright. Senator Wright's death was so recent, in fact, that Richard was easily able to steal the man's identity without anybody noticing -- not even Wright's fiancee! Ew.

During the few hours of the day that Richard wasn't practicing politics in an office to which nobody had elected him, and when he wasn't busy macking on a dead man's unsuspecting girlfriend, he found time to slip on a ridiculous costume and fight crime. He armed himself with a "black ray" gun that could both stun his enemies and make that Iron Maiden poster in your bedroom look totally groovy, man. Oh, and he didn't wear a mask. I think you all know my opinion on superheroes with secret identities and no masks, so let's just move along, shall we? (Grinds teeth furiously)

Richard/Thomas/The Black Condor battled evil during the 1940's, mainly, and then in the 70's he wound up on "Earth-X" where the Nazis had won WW2. Good one, jerk. A second Black Condor got his own comic in the 1990's and Richard guest-starred as a ghost, sort of watching over the new guy. And now the new guy's dead, too. Stick to your day job, Richard.

First appearance: Crack Comics #1 (May, 1940).


Crimes against fashion:
Hot pants! The sash with the meaningless diamond symbol on it! But mostly the goofy shawl-cape-thing with the attached cuffs. Criminals don't see you as a threat when you're dressed like a Ziegfeld Girl.

Our meeting:
I had just finished infiltrating a committee meeting on Capitol Hill, where I'd slipped a rider onto a tax bill, declaring that the first Tuesday of every other month should henceforth be known as "Blockade Boy Day." (It has the same frequency as my blog entries! Ha ha! Heh... sigh. Things will get better soon, I promise.) I spied a man atop the Senate steps holding the corners of his trench coat in each hand. He sprinted down the steps, causing the fabric to billow outward like a cape, and making flapping motions with his arms. I knew it could only be Richard "Thomas (The Black Condor) Wright" Grey Jr. I chased him down and confronted him. He was surprised I knew his real identity but I explained I was from the future, plus how he didn't wear a mask and also the whole trench coat deal. "What trench coat deal?" he sputtered, looking genuinely confused. His fingers nervously played with the ends of his coat. "Flap... flap, flap," he whispered, avoiding my gaze. I asked him to stop doing that but he repeated that he didn't understand my meaning. Luckily, he was interested in seeing some costume designs, so we met again that night at a very nice French restaurant. Richard requested a table "wherever there are curtains." While we talked, Richard constantly toyed with the draperies, and I constantly slapped his hands away from them.

My presentation:

For the first design, I made your costume more bird-like than what you've got now, because what you've got now is frankly horrible. I didn't want to make it look exactly like a bird costume, because that would have been goofy instead of weird and intimidating. Still, I wanted to suggest a bird. So there are big yellow lenses on the cowl, layered feather shapes on the torso and shoulders, ribbing on the cape and legs that gives the impression of feathers and scales, respectively. Hey, quit that. Okay. There's a cutout on the stomach to show off your killer abs, and that shape is repeated on the backs of the gloves. And I think this look works better with shorter, spikier hair. Stop it, I said! Okay, next design...


When I think of the name "Black Condor," I don't just think of birds. I think of a highwayman or a pirate... brigands, outlaws, high adventure on land and sea! I'd love to see you take your superhero act in this direction. So, this is an 18th Century style pirate's costume made of various dark fabrics, with a bright crimson sash around the waist for a spot of color. The mask is-- hey, quit it! The mask is a kerchief that ties in the back. You could top it with a three-sided hat, if you want. For the wings, I figure I could swipe a pair from a guy named Hawkman. He lives in another dimension, so he'd never think to look for them here. I'll paint 'em black and they'll be perfect. HEY! What did I just tell you about the drapes? Now, the facial hair... I suppose I could rig up some kind of crepe hair and spirit gum deal for the beard, but the whole effect would be ruined if a bad guy yanked it off you in the middle of a fight. You'd be a laughing stock! So, I think it would be best if you'd just grow an actual beard. The bonus is you'd look all professorial and smart in your civilian life, so it'd be doing double duty. And people would never connect the bearded Black Condor and the bearded Senator Wright because of the Condor's long hair. Now, that part would be fake -- a wig, basically, that's built into the kerchief. In the future, this same technology will be used in baseball caps that folks order from novelty catalogs. Yes, it's a startling new world in 1993. For the "black ray" gun, you just duplicate the mechanism and put in two flintlock pistols. It's too cool, am I right? I mean, just imagine this badass motherfucker swooping down at you in the middle of the -- STOP PLAYING WITH THE CURTAINS, GOD DAMN IT!

Richard's response:
Try as I might, I couldn't convince him to wear the pirate costume. (Barnacles!) But he liked the first idea I had, so we scheduled a fitting at his hotel suite.

Well, the minute he had the cape on, he started playing with the damned thing. Once again, I had to slap his hands away. "What if you sew the ends of the cape to the gloves?" he suggested, innocently.

"No," I explained, "because that would look stupid. As I've told you about a dozen times before."

"Oh." He stared at the floor for a while, biting his lips. His head jerked back up, his eyes alight with a new hope. "It's okay if I hold onto the cape while I'm flying, though, right? After all, it is my costume!"

I dismissed that idea, Richard pouted some more, and I continued to work on the outfit. "Flap, flap," Richard whispered to himself. "Flap." I kept shushing him and slapping his hands away from the cape for another ten minutes or so.

Finally I had to put my foot down. "Richard," I said sternly, "you are not going to wear this costume unless you first accompany me to a notary public and sign a legal and binding document promising you won't hold the cape like that or by any method attach it to any part of your hands or wrists. In fact, I may even require you to get a post-hypnotic suggestion to that effect."

"But why?" he demanded. "Why can't I attach my cape to my wrists?"

I was ready to scream. "Because, you fucking crackpot, YOU ARE NOT A GOD DAMN BIRD!"

He flew at me -- literally -- and we brawled, pounding the everloving shit out of each other and destroying most of the hotel suite. The bout ended when he located his "black ray" gun and fired it at me, point blank. I turned into a nice, shiny steel wall and reflected the beam back at him, rendering him unconscious. Bruised and bloodied, I stripped the incomplete costume off him and slipped out the window before the hotel detective could get to me.

The upshot: the Black Condor wore his dopey old costume for the rest of his natural life, and I can't visit his dimension again without him tracking me down and pooping on my car.

Full Motto Jacket: Mister Terrific

What's his deal:
Terry Sloane was a child genius who entered college at age twelve and graduated within a year. In addition to his intellectual acumen, he was a top athlete, specializing in the martial arts. By his twenties, he had parlayed his talents into the business world and become ridiculously wealthy. But success bored him. Yeah, that's the kind of problem you want to have. Spiriling into a deep depression, Terry decided that since he was so good at everything that there were no challenges left to overcome, and so he vowed to take his own life. Just then he saw a woman hurl herself off a bridge. He dove in after her and rescued her from drowning. The distraught lass told Terry that her kid brother had joined a gang -- and not the cute, beanie-wearing, wagon-pulling, opera-singing "Our Gang" type of a gang, either. No, this was an honest-to-goodness criminal enterprise that was recruiting disadvantaged kids and turning them to a life of crime. Terry's solution was to whip together an awfully square-looking super-hero costume and give the gang leaders what-for, so as to impress the little tykes. It worked, and the youngsters dubbed their tights-wearing savior, "Mister Terrific." Terry went on to create the Fair Play Club, a youth center along the lines of your contemporary Boys & Girls Club of America. He joined the Justice Society of America and also had a long-standing romance with the lady he saved from drowning. Doubtless her kid brother was thrilled about that. ("Wow, my own sister is getting boned by the Mister Terrific!")

Mister Terrific died a chump's death, unfortunately, at the hands of a D-list villain named the Spirit King, who had possessed one of Terry's super-hero friends. No fair! First appearance: Sensation Comics #1 (DC, January 1942.)


Crimes against fashion:
The color scheme, for one, which was apparently inspired by Mexican stoplight candy. There's the dainty pixie boots, which look oppressively precious even on actual pixies. But the worst part is the jacket. The "multi-colored leather jacket with crap drawn all over it" look wouldn't come into fashion until circa 1990 (even Chuck Woolery had one!) and even then it was only popular for about a week.

Our meeting:
I was visiting Gateway City in the summer of 1943. After a long day of searching for just the perfect homburg hat, my stomach was growling. The smell of chicken a la king led me to a banquet hall. I spied through one of the windows a massive charity dinner for the Fair Play Club. At the far end of the room was a long, elevated table with an assortment of super-heroes... and a few empty chairs. So naturally, I slipped into one of my super-hero outfits, busted into the joint through the service entrance, and sidled up to the table like I belonged there. Well, I had only gotten a few bites of food down my gullet when Mister Terrific showed up and asked just what the hell I was doing in his seat. (The biggest chair, by the way, and right in the center... I mean, which one would you have chosen?)

He was pretty upset, but I managed to calm him down with a big cash donation to the Fair Play Club and a suggestion I do some costume designs for him. "After all," I said, "you may be the Man of a Thousand Talents," but you're no fashion designer!" He agreed -- a bit sadly, I thought. We agreed to meet again a few days later.

My presentation:

For your first option, I tried as best I could to retain your current color scheme. But I just couldn't make it work. So, I replaced the green with a deep battleship gray. It makes the red and yellow really pop. Plus, the combination of all three colors is reminiscent of fighter planes and machinery -- it's really masculine. I kept the shape of your "Fair Play" logo but removed the words. Honestly, I don't think you need them.


The second option is specifically designed to make you look more like a lug -- a palooka, if you will. You're doing great right now but I figure you can lure even more kids onto the path of righteousness if you look like somebody from their neighborhood -- like one of those big, brawny types who delivers ice or who hauls around sides of beef. See, you can wow 'em with the biceps and the tough guy tattoo, and then bust out the old "don't be a fool; stay in school" speech by demonstrating your genius I.Q.

Terry's response:
Terry wasn't too keen on the tattoo (darn it!) but he really liked the first design. He gave me a hefty cash advance and told me to get to work. The next day I received a telegram from him, cancelling the order. I tried to get him on the phone. No luck. So that very same night I marched into his brownstone and asked him what the deal was. He was suprised I knew his secret identity, until I explained I was from the future, and also since he didn't wear gloves his fingerprints were all over the place.

Terry said I'd inspired him to try his hand at fashion design. He showed me piles of drawings, all of which -- and I'm loathe to admit this -- looked way better than anything I could do. I asked him if he was going to wear one of the great new costumes he'd designed for himself. He said no, because he'd decided his original costume was too closely associated with the Fair Play Club for him to change it at this point. And besides, he added, he wanted to concentrate more on women's wear. In fact, just a few hours previous, he had started his own clothing line, which was already turning a three hundred percent profit and was going to be cover-featured in the next month's "Mademoiselle." And, he said, he had me to thank for it!

I have to admit I didn't take this very well. I hurled as many invectives as I could think of at him, including 30th century ones like "sprocking." Terry calmly put his hand on my shoulder. Then he pressed down on a certain nerve cluster and I collapsed like a pile of rotten tomatoes. Terry snapped his fingers and two beefy footmen appeared. They carried my paralyzed body out the back door and into the back of a waiting taxi, which unceremoniously deposited me at the entrance to a garbage dump on the outskirts of town.

Ingrate.

Tiaras of a Clown: Fury

What's her deal:
Oh, lordy! It's a big ugly mess, but here goes: Lyta Trevor Hall's mom used to be the original version of Wonder Woman (from the WW2-era comics) and her dad used to be the square-jawed war hero and frequent hostage Steve Trevor. Lyta inherited all of her mom's super-powers and started doing the super-hero bit under the codename, "Fury," after the mythical Greek vengence demons. Then Lyta's home dimension ceased to exist and she was shuffled off to a different Earth where her mom was another superheroine named "Fury" and her dad was, well, nobody knows. As so often happens, Lyta married a super-powered teammate -- Hector Hall, a.k.a. "the Silver Scarab." Hector, who is essentially the Hank Pym of the DC Universe, pretty quickly lost his shit and turned into a literal monster, died, came back as a new version of the "Jack Kirby" Sandman, was unceremoniously booted back into the afterlife by the "real" Sandman, and came back again as the latest version of Doctor Fate. Lyta, for her part, had a son by Hector, lost the son when the kid became the new "real" Sandman, lost her shit, and got spells placed on her by not one, but two separate god-like magicians. Hector and Lyta finally found each other and everything was wonderful for about fifteen minutes. Then Hector got stripped of his powers and the both of them were teleported against their wills to a mountain range in the middle of a blizzard. And you thought Nick and Jessica had it rough! Oops, almost forgot. First appearance, Wonder Woman vol. 1, #300.


Crimes against fashion:
The only parts of her costume I can stand to look at are the cape and that fire-engine-red body stocking. The rest of her ensemble is fugly on a galactic scale. The tiara: ridiculously large and convoluted. The boots and bracelets: thigh-high/elbow-high monstrosities that are ancient Egyptian by way of "George Perez segmented robot arm." The WWE Smackdown Championship belt -- er, I mean, "girdle": like something Elvis would have rejected as being "too tacky." And the very best, very stupidest part of all: that shoulder-pad-type-thing on her left side that moulds completely around one breast. (Comfy!) Our Lyta was quite the trendsetter. She anticipated by years the kind of huge, asymmetrical, completely unnecessary costume accessories that Rob Liefeld somehow managed to popularize.

Our meeting:
I was vacationing in my secluded ski cabin in the DC Universe, time-wise between issues #77 and #78 of JSA. The next thing I knew, Hector Hall showed up on my doorstep, looking ruggedly handsome as always with his prematurely silver, Caesar-cut hair and his sweet-ass Vandyke beard. Oh yeah, and he was carrying Lyta's unconscious body. I welcomed Hector inside and did my best to make the star-crossed couple comfortable. Hector feard Lyta was in a coma until I pointed out that she was snoring quite loudly and making occasional pawing motions, like she was dreaming about chasing rabbits. I got them both out of their soaking wet costumes (Hector fit into my clothes perfectly!) and then I bundled Lyta in some blankets. I offered to help Hector warm up by spooning with him but he declined. So, to pass the time and get Hector's mind off his troubles, I got out my sketchpad.

My presentation:
First of all, can I just say that I love what you've done with the Doctor Fate costume. That Egyptian collar is boss as all hell. But Lyta could definitely use my help. I mean, her super-persona is named after the mythical furies, but she looks about as intimidating as a Vegas showgirl. Wanna see my ideas? I've been tinkering with this for a while, ever since my pal Scipio pointed out how god-awful Lyta's costume is, so I've got the drawings all made up! You sit there, and I'll stand here and turn the pages. Gosh, you look tense. Let me just knead some of those kinks out of your shoulder muscles... no? Okay.


The first costume could be worn by Lyta or her mom. It's based on the "old school" Wonder Woman outfit. I replaced the stars with moons, the eagle with a bat, and I altered the color scheme. I retained the red and gold from Lyta's current outfit and added a heaping helping of black. That's because black costumes are always spooky (unless you're Havok). I also made three big changes to the old Wonder Woman design. One, I replaced the tiara with a helmet because helmets hide more of the face and that's more mysterious and menacing. Hey, where are my manners? Can I get you a drink, Hector? I've got vodka, scotch, brandy, you name-- no? Very well. So... the second thing I did was to change the old bustier-style breastplate into an infinitely more practical chest plate. It hides the cleavage and it has straps, so there's no way Lyta's boobs could pop out and flop around -- since, let's face it, nobody wants to see that. Lastly, and this part is optional as it's extremely theatrical, I gave the costume a huge cape made from grizzly fur. It adds a barbaric flavor. And also, to quote Ann Miller in "On the Town," I simply love bear skin! What? Oh, sure! Go right ahead and check on her. I'm sure she's just fine...

[Later...]
Thanks for joining me in the hot tub, Hector! God damn, but you're a hairy man. Not that I'm complaining, mind you! Oh, the drawings? Fine, fine. Are you sure I can't interest you in that drink? No? Alrighty then.


Here's an emerald green dragon-themed number made out of leather, with a jagged-edged cloak of some thinner material. Chiffon, maybe, I dunno. Huh? Sorry, I didn't realize I'd put my foot there. Where were we? Oh, yeah. I figure we could use a pearlescent paint on the leather detailing, like the scales and the dragon logo. The mask has horns and red lenses that look like reptilian eyes. And to really set the colors off, we'd have to get Lyta to bleach her hair almost completely white. Mmm, those bubble jets feel fantastic, don't you think? Well, you can really feel them over here, where I'm sitting. Aw, c'mon! I won't bite! There you go. Careful, don't slip! Yikes! No, no, I'm pretty sure that's just a big fiberglass tube for one of the bubble jets. Go ahead and put your hand back on it. Hey, wait!

Hector's response:
Was to leap out of the hot tub and slip back into the dry clothes I'd given him. He dressed the still-sleeping and otherwise naked Lyta in one of my smoking jackets and bolted for the door. I tried to reason with him, even pointing out how I'd seen a horde of bloodthirsty hell-beasts in the area just that morning. Still, he insisted on heading back out into that blizzard, without even a coat or mittens or even one of those little knit caps with the pom-poms on them. Ah, well. He'll be back.

They always come back.

The Sweatsuit Competition: Miss America

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Oh, it's on NOW, honey.

The Loincloth Sleeps Tonight: Atlas

What's his deal:
Jim Randall was a skinny bespectacled scarecrow of a man who experienced a complete psychotic break with reality... er, make that "a celestial visitation from the Greek god, Atlas." Naked save for a blue cape, his mythical nether regions tastefully tucked into a billowing cloud, Atlas bestowed upon Jim not wisdom or invulnerability or even a lousy magic trinket, but instead gave him an exercise routine. Jim spent weeks working out in secret, building himself into a brawny he-man. Atlas appeared to him again and ordered him to don a superhero costume and battle gangsters. Jim took his superhero name from the inspiring hallucination and set out to vanquish evil in a ridiculous get-up that seemingly appeared from nowhere, i.e. Jim was in a fugue state when he sewed the damn thing. First appearance (and last appearance, because he sucked): Choice Comics #1 (Great Publications). Reprinted for no good reason in Daring Adventures #18.


Crimes against fashion:
Three words: leopard skin diaper. Or "trunks." Whatever. Adding insult to injury is the combination of sleeves with bare legs. (Gah! I hate that look on men! Who is he, Cathy Rigby?) Then there's his superhero symbol, which adds red and green to the already copious amounts of blue and orange in the uniform. Forget masturbation; looking at Atlas' costume can make you go blind! The cherry on top of this shit sundae? The very tall, very stiff collar and braid with no cape attached. Is it at the drycleaners? Or better yet, invisible?

Our meeting:
As you may have gathered from my other posts, I have a powerful curiosity, and I don't let piddling things like locks or restraining orders or a sense of propriety get in my way. So, I was visiting a bustling (yet oddly nameless) metropolis in late 1941, and I chanced upon the most beautiful little park. (Had to burrow under a rather high, barbed-wire-topped fence to get there, but oh well.) Anyway, I'm not there five minutes when I realize that most of the other visitors apparently have a real yen for shapeless white gowns. Even the men! I tried to chat up one lady about them, but she shushed me with the excuse that salamanders from Neptune had placed a listening device in her cervix. Then, a woman in a nurse's uniform (that wasn't doing her any favors, if you ask me) tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You must be Doctor MacTavish. Welcome to the Hillside Sanitarium for the Criminally Deranged!"

I figured that I had a little time before the actual Doctor MacTavish showed up so what the heck? I thoughtfully stroked my sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops and ordered the nurse to take me to my first patient... who turned out to be Atlas! It seems that not long after he started adventuring, he heard that the cops were looking for a maniac who had broken into the local zoo. This person throttled a leopard to death with his bare hands and partially skinned it. Atlas went straight to the police commissioner and announced that he was on the case. The commissioner took one look at Atlas' costume and bang! Hillside Sanitarium.

I had an orderly retrieve Atlas' outfit from storage so I could take a gander at it. My prescription? Art therapy!

My presentation:
"Jim, there's nothing wrong wi-- beg pardon? Oh. Sure, why not? 'Atlas,' there's nothing wrong with wanting to be a superhero. But I couldn't possibly sign your release papers if you're just going to wear that again! I've got a couple of ideas here that I think you'll like. No, give me that. Give me--! Orderly? Kindly restrain the subject so I can get my pastels back. Thank you. Well, yes, Atlas, I said we'd be doing art therapy but I'll be the one doing the art. Stop sulking. Or I'll smack you. There, better. Alright, first order of business: you have a secret identity, but no mask. That's just crazy! Um, no offense. So here's your first option.

"It's your standard superhero outfit with a nice Flash-Gordon-style cowl that reveals your gorgeous head of hair. The belt's nice and big, like a wrestler's belt or a laborer's truss, and it has the added advantage of hiding unwanted belly flab that you may develop as you grow older. I replaced your old symbol with this combination of lightning bolts and laurel leaves and see? It makes the shape of an 'A'! I wanted to emulate the feel of a classic superhero costume, in case you don't want to stick out from the crowd too much. But... what if you do want to be an iconoclast? I'm right there with you, buddy, but there's a wrong way and a right way. That pile or rags over in the corner is the wrong way. This is the right way.

"Here's my idea: we go all-out Greek. With armor and everything. Most of the outfit is based on the armor of an ancient Greek hoplite but we jazz it up with a muted version of the color scheme from your original costume. You can get some auto body places to do some amazing things with metal coatings, I might add. Yeah, you're diggin' it, right? I thought you'd like this version because it keeps the leopard skin but now it's in loincloth form, like from an ancient Greek theatrical 'rustic' costume. And we'll put a metal codpiece underneath in case some wiseapple tries to kick you in the 'little Atlas.' Instead of a mask to hide your identity we have a helmet. I've also thought about how you could look when the helmet's off, like when you've just beaten a bunch of hoods into a bloody pulp and you steal away into the night with that freshly rescued 'special someone.' The laurel crown is painted metal so you can whip it out at a moment's notice and not worry about it wilting. What are you giggling about? And now, about your hair. I know that you can't get away with wearing it too long in this antiquated, backwards era -- um, I mean, nowadays. So this is basically Johnny Weissmuller length: longer than normal but not outrageously long. Can't you just imagine how you'd look all dolled up like this, posing on a gargoyle or crouched atop a streetcar or a lamppost or something? You'd be stunning, am I right? Of course I'm right! So, tell me what you think!"

Jim's response:
He said he liked the second option but he wanted to consult with his "patron god" on the matter. Then he went into an epileptic seizure. And then the real Doctor MacTavish walked in. I made a break for it. I had to bloody the noses of a few orderlies (and one of the beefier nurses) but I managed to lose them and slip back under the fence. Atlas was never heard from again.

I Like Bee Belts And I Just Can't Lie: The Red Bee

What's his deal:
D.A. Rick Raleigh fought crime during the early 40's with the aid of trained bees secreted in his belt buckle (first appearance: Hit Comics #1, July 1940). He had no superpowers, but he was a good fighter and detective, plus he had a small, red, armored car with which to tool about. Originally a brunette, he mysteriously became a redhead later on. Just like Lucille Ball! His finest moment: trapped and freezing in a Limbo-like dimension, he scammed Animal Man out of his jacket by pretending to cry (Animal Man #25, July 1990.)


Crimes against fashion:
Mainly? The gauzy, billowing pink sleeves protruding from a turtleneck vest with flared shoulders. And the yellow-and-red striped leggings didn't help matters.

Our meeting:
I was on the hunt for cravats in WW2-era Superior City when I "accidentally" walked into the wrong changing room (broke the lock in the process). There, I discovered the aforementioned godawful costume inside a briefcase (broke the lock in the process). Then Rick himself showed up. Long story short: my face is still a little puffy from all the bee stings, and I promised to make things up to him by redesigning his costume. We met again over drinks in a swanky nightspot.

My presentation:
"Rick, as I've done with all my clients, I've created two different options for you.

"With the first, we butch you up so folks will take you more seriously. The puffy sleeves and turtleneck are gone, replaced with a leather pilot's jacket. It's emblazoned with a bee insignia of my own creation. I made your belt a lot larger, and the buckle is now shaped like the cell of a honeycomb. I downplayed the stripe motif by moving it from your legs onto your boots. I also added gloves with rolled-down cuffs, which are all the rage nowadays. Your old domino mask is a keeper, except I made it blue to balance out all the red. Voila. Now you fit in with all the other mystery men.

"And here's my second option, where we just go nuts.

"Let's face it, pal, your modus operandi is quite frankly bizarre. So why not play into that? You like to wear a turtleneck, Rick? Fine, now it goes up to your nose. You're keen on stripes? Swell, now you're covered in 'em. Check out those pointy pixie toes on the boots! And the big flared gloves! The front of the buckle is made of green tempered glass, just like the goggles. The wings are silk, stetched over intricate metal frames. They're hinged, so that any sudden movement -- like a dramatic jump from rooftop, for instance -- will cause them to flap upward and hang there for a few seconds. The crowning touch? The haircut, which anticipates the punk rock movement by a good thirty-five years. (The what, you ask? Don't worry about it.) Now, this means that in your civilian identity, you'll have to wear a wig. Don't gripe at me; if Supergirl could do it, so can you. (Who's that? Don't worry about it.) The one downside with this outfit: you won't be able to get into it without the help of a second person... or at least a trained bee."

Rick's response:
He muttered something about "mulling it over," made an excuse about running to the men's room, and never returned, sticking me with the check.