Pale Rider

Oh, Eastern Cowgirl Fern, you saucy, spangled temptress...!

Luring wine-soaked businessmen to their dooms as you writhe onstage to ZZ Top; stretching your lanky legs into configurations few thought possible; ruthlessly abrading the metal pole with the scales on your stretchpants; insouciantly tossing your collar tips to select "rough-riders" whom you'll meet later, and secretly; dazzling the crowds with the strobe-light concealed within the ludicrously-tall crown of your cowgirl hat; smiling only seldom, because of your embarrassing overbite; ignoring the numbness in your feet after cinching your "ankle bandana" too tightly; doggedly removing all alcohol and bodily fluids from your tiny daughter's pageant vest before placing it back in her closet right before she awakens (for she must never know how the two of you can afford to live in this respectable brownstone -- that is your solemn vow)...!

Oh, Eastern Cowgirl Fern... why do you fascinate me so?

UPDATE: Holy shit. She's an actual person. Real Eastern Cowgirl Fern, I offer you my sincerest apologies.

Prophecy and Loss

Friends, I extend to you the warmest of greetings. My name is Leopold "Sturdy" Sturdevant, also called "Stockade Boy" by my fellow mountain men. I may also have been called by another name, in another place, and perhaps some day I shall learn it.

The man and woman who reared me were not my true parents. They told me I was found as a babe within a great hole in the ground, near the ruin of a cyclopian Engine, the origin of which they dared not guess. In childhood I was blessed with a miraculous gift: through mere thought, I could transform my body into any manner of wall, be it sod, plank, log, stake, or even brick! At twelve years of age, I looked to all who saw me like a man of twenty-one, and so I left my rustic home to make my way in the world. At fourteen I met an Indian soothsayer who told me I would one day espy a double, and that another day I should come to his aid, when my journey would at last lead me to a realm beyond the tread of mortal man. In this manner, quoth he, I should be of service to his own people, who called themselves the Wolf Clan. Much of his prophecy has already come to pass; the remainder will very shortly occur.

I saw my lookalike, your captain, six years ago, through the window of a telegraph agent's. He was attired as a dandy and conversing with a band of adventurers from another Era, one of whom had seen fit to imitate me. This mimic was of a garrulous disposition, and despite his many skills as a storyteller, he could not long hold the attention of your Captain, who doubtless possesses as active and restless a mind as myself. Indeed, his gaze wandered with great frequency from the mimic's clownish gesturing and gamboling to the buttocks of a ranch hand, namely a young Mister Oswald "Acorn" Oakley. In this I cannot blame him, for Acorn's firm, taut posterior has oft brought great comfort to myself as well, albeit in more intimate circumstances. It occurred to me that I should introduce myself to your captain, but alas, a sudden cramp in my bowels forestalled me. By the time I'd sufficiently recovered, he had vanished. Today I am able to give him my aid, and I do so joyfully, for to help those in need is my dearest pleasure.

I should perhaps explain at this point how my voyage to this distant age was accomplished. My life's path brought me often into the company of the Wolf Clan, and through my good deeds they came to accept me as a friend. At the last they bestowed upon me the greatest honor they can offer to one not of their blood: I was to join a host of Spirits, thereby to assist in the selection of the tribe's new Saganowahna (or "Super-Chief" as the white men call him). I was made to remove my weapons, buckskins and furs, and my hair and beard were alike unbraided and stripped of their many charming adornments. In this plain fashion I was led into a lodge, there to join in the chanting of their most holy and reverent elder, and to draw frequently from a ceremonial pipe, so as to prepare my senses for the Spirit Realm. After a period of time unknown to myself, my Soul slipped my rude, hairy form and flitted into the Ether, there to search for its new vessel. The earthen floor below my feet spun like a child's top and dropped away, the firmament swept over me in a shower of sparks, and peculiar beings paraded themselves before my newborn eyes. Again I saw my double, now a jolly brigand, piloting his craft between the stars themselves, and I saw within him a cancer. I looked ahead, precisely one year beyond your own, and I saw him dead, eaten from within by this metal blight. And so I sent my Soul within him, both accelerating and devouring the disease, until only this shell and the invisible spark of his own Soul were left.

I will now take the shell into the Infinite, thence to test the mind and mettle of the prospective Saganowahna and, the Fates willing, enjoy many further adventures. As repayment for your captain's suffering, I give to him my own fleshly form, and he may take it with my compliments, to do with however he pleases.

Farewell.

...And from what they tell me, tobacco smoke poured out of the metal body's mouth, filling the room. When it cleared, the metal body was gone, and there I was, in a daze, lowering an ancient pipe from my mouth, bare-ass naked. Er, not that you could see anything, what with the hair and the beard. Meanwhile, everybody else was hacking up their lungs.

Storm Boy broke the tension by shouting "Huzzah!" and although I was still kind of out of it, I instinctively slapped him -- albeit kind of weakly. It didn't even make any noise! (Damn it.)

As for the business with Weight Wizard... well, you'll excuse me if I don't feel like talking about it right now. I don't blame Plant Lad for what he did, though. I mean, it was one of those situations where it's him or you. Except I was already kind of dead. I don't know. Sorry. I'm not making a ton of sense, am I?

One thing's for sure, I'm hella thankful to have a 100% genuine organic body again, and the fact that it's from my home planet is just gravy. And Stockade Boy was right about that time way back in Ye Olde Weste. Chameleon Boy was so long-winded and that ranch hand was so hot that I missed the part where Cham said he'd been imitating a real person. Go figure, huh? I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him. He sounded like a cool guy.

I do have some issues with the ridiculously impractical length of my new hair and beard but I don't want to cut them until I can figure out what my bangin' new look will be. Which could take a while. My brain's kind of a total mess at this point.

Still, Cootie seems to enjoy the long beard. She climbed into it and she's asleep right now, just above my knee area.

And I'm standing up!

It's Fun to Stay at the J-A-I-L

As a former inmate there myself (from my travels in the DC Universe's Ye Olde Weste) I'm proud to give you a tour of the Red Gulch City Gaol (or "Jail" as you 21st Century people spell it nowadays back then). Here is their one jail cell... and that's about it. The sheriff and his deputy don't even have desks. All they get is a single chair and they have to play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to sit down. The cell, however, has all the amenities a fashion-conscious felon would ever want. There are pegs on the wall so you can hang up your chapeau, stubble razors (remember them?) only since it's Ye Olde Weste they're powered by steam, a goodly selection of hair pomades and alcohol rubs and boot polishes, a little iron so you can press your kerchief, and a complete manicure/pedicure set. I loved that little cell! Too much, actually! It got to where I couldn't pass by the Red Gulch Citibank without at least trying to rob it, just so I could get sent to the "pokey"!

And what's this dumb shmoe in for, you ask?

Voyeurism.

Anorexic Get Your Gun

Eating disorders of the OOOLLLLD WEST!

Well, it's not so much a smile as it is a rictus but still. I guess she's smiling because she managed to avoid nibbling at that gigantic pancake somebody had temptingly placed on the eastern slope of Mount Hood. She's still troubled by how much bigger her thighs are, but that's only because no one bothered to explain to her that she's wearing jhodpurs.

Saddle Eyesore

In "Marvel Team-Up" #97 (September 1980) Spider-Woman blows into New Mexico, all gussied-up in her tightest slacks and her loosest sleeves.

Yes, she'd sincerely wishes she could help stop the Hulk's destructive rampage. If only she was some sort of superhero! Ah, well. Maybe Paladin or Devil-Slayer is available.

I know, I know. I'm being unfair to Spider-Woman (and Paladin and Devil-Slayer). Why should she drop everything to chase after the unstoppable Hulk? She is technically on vacation. And she's not going to let anything ruin her one opportunity to visit the grave of the world's first astronaut chimp, in Alomogordo! She bought some candles and silk flowers just for the occasion, and she's going to make the daring simian's tomb look grander than Jim Morrison's!

Kidding. She's actually there to track down a criminal in her job as a bounty hunter. So of course she's not going to waste her time with the Hulk. That nonsense doesn't pay jack. Also, she'd have to pry herself out of those pants, and that takes a good three-and-a-half hours (and two economy-sized jars of Miracle Whip). Say, let's get a better look at her duds.

Ouch. It's not exactly Dale Evans, is it? It's not even Katherine Hepburn. Kate Jackson? Maybe. In other words, it's a mite mannish.

Yes, she's turning heads. Oh my yes. Sadly, they're the heads of potbellied gun nuts who are startled to realize they have those very same buckskin pants in their closets. And the matching vest! Maybe their eyes linger on the hot pink satchel, and they realize how fetching it looks with the tan leather and the cranberry plaid, and they wish they had the cajones to pull that kind of thing off. And they know in their heart of hearts they don't... not in public.

And then they run to the local Woolworths to search for a pink satchel.

Howdy You Like Me Now?

Yippee-Ki-Yay, fashion lover! Woo! Check me out! As you can see, I spent quite a bit of time in DC's Old West. Long enough for me to grow my hair back out and exchange my dashing Donegal for this bitchin' biker 'stache. Why, you ask? Simple. People were always mistaking me for a Mormon or a Mennonite or Abe Lincoln's hotter brother and after a while it really started to stick in my craw. And I noticed that all the really badass gunfighters, like f'rinstance every single one of the Earp brothers, had these sweet biker 'staches (and by biker, I mean some random dude on a velocipede). And then I remembered that the second-runner-up in my facial hair poll was the "Doctor Strange." So that cinched it. And of course, it gave me the excuse to get new clothes!

Y'know, as rugged and manly as I am, I just can't help playing the dandy. No dusters and cowboy hats for yours truly! Nope, I was going to be the swellest swell that ever swelled. I still had my hoodie stashed away, so I cut it into shreds and made it the front part of this fancy new vest! The rest of the outfit was mainly bought but I think I really can assemble an ensemble if you don't mind my tooting my own horn. I'm especially fond of the lavender kerchief. It even smells like lavender, thanks to the sachet I sewed into it. Which was handy given that your typical cattle town smells like seven flavors of ass. I fashioned a matching hatband for my derby, which I tilted rakishly, but of course. Now that I've returned to your time period, I'll probably have to design myself a new superhero outfit but that can wait for a while. I'm still digging on these Western duds!

I've got plenty of stories to tell about my Old West exploits, but I'll save most of 'em for some other time. For now, I'll just mention that I was shocked to discover that I had an Old West Earth ancestor named Stockade Boy. He had the power to transform into a 7' high by 5' wide fence made of sharpened timber. Looked just like me, too, if I had been a fur trapper who had never ever shaved. Or bathed. I was even more shocked to discover that Stockade Boy was, in fact, Chameleon Boy, playing this imaginary character as part of an elaborate ruse by the Legion to foil the Time Trapper, who himself was actually a disguised Mopee the Heavenly Help-Mate, who himself was, in fact, an evil double of Princess Projectra accidentally created by the chemical reaction of an experimental element and her lip gloss. And I'm pretty sure there was more to it but I really lost track after that. Honestly, as soon as Chameleon Boy revealed himself, I said, "Ain't no thing, pal, I'll let it slide," but he just kept talking and talking and I swear the Legion's master plan had about five hundred different moving parts and no matter how many times I tried to excuse myself he just would not shut his yapper. Luckily there was a lanky ranch hand nearby with the tightest chaps I'd ever seen, so at least I had something to look at.

Oh, and that format change Jeremy mentioned will be put into effect over the next week or so: all I'm doing is adding a few graphics to make it more obvious that this is a self-contained "team blog." That way, my associates* can post without any kind of confusing preamble from myself and they'll get their own little headshots at the start of the posts, like a byline, kind of.

*The recurring columnists of Team Blockade Boy: Myself (natch), Jeremy (sports commentary), Lenny the Marvel Henchman, Manny the DC Henchman, Lancelot Steele (our relationship expert) and Membros the Bearer of Bad Tidings. For starters. I might add more later on.

My Most Disjointed Football Post Yet

Jeremy here again. I got the scanner to work, so woo-hoo! Oh, and Blockade Boy showed up around dinnertime (like usual), covered in dust and stinking of rawhide, mesquite, sasparilla, pomade, and exotic massage oils. As a souvenir of his trip, he brought me a picture... of himself. I guess he'll post it tonight (late) which is also when he'll tell everybody about a "very, very slight" format change for the blog "which kind of already happened, months ago, really" whatever the hell that means but at least it doesn't sound worrisome. I'll find out what it is with the rest of you! Right now, BB is wolfing down baked beans, right out of the pot, with a big wooden spoon. And it's 6:30 in the morning! Gross. He never used to do that before. Huh. Why, it's almost as bad as the time he came back from Asgard craving salted cod.

...So, how 'bout that football game last night? (That's the kind of thing I can say to my coworkers now. And do. Even on Wednesdays!) Yesterday I was faced with one of those "wisdom of Solomon" dilemmas because the Chiefs and the Steelers were playing at the same time on different channels and I only really have time to watch one whole game. I chose the Chiefs since I'm apparently morally obliged to be a Chiefs fan, if you ask anybody in this state. I recorded it (in hi-def) so's I could watch it in the evening. So you can imagine my surprise and slight nausea when it turned out to be the Jets-Jaguars matchup instead. Oh, the "info" button on the remote still told me it was the Chiefs game but that sure as hell wasn't what I was seeing. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd at least given a crap about either team.

My notes:

• Ref Tony Corrente needs to join "Toastmasters" so he can get better at public speaking. He just doesn't have any conviction. Sorry, Tony, but the way you said it, I'm just not buying that #95 was offsides.
• Bizarrely random comment from Dick Enberg (is he always like this?) on Jaguars #27, Rashean Mathis: "...With a long hair-do and... one of the outstanding players in the league." That's not edited. He really did put a Shatner-esque pause after "and."
• The Jaguars' Brian Williams' interception in the first quarter made me holler "YEAH!!!" and crystalized which team I wanted to root for. Um, the Jaguars, that is.
• That Meester guy on the Jaguars (#63) has a serious case of Dan Spiegle face: double chin, fleshy lips, teensy eyeballs and strait, bushy brows. Also known as George Tuska Syndrome, this facial deformity afflicts two in five NFL players.
• Enberg on Jaguars #32, Maurice Drew-Jones: "Only 5'7 but weighs 210. We asked him, "How big are those thighs?" He said, "about 40 each." I'm 5'8 and I used to be close to 210 pounds but I sure didn't carry the extra poundage in my thighs. Mainly my belly and my ass.
• Always an easy source of gay inuendo, that NFL: in the first quarter the viewers were treated to a rear view of the Jaguars defensive line, all crouched down with their asses in the air, and bing-bang-bong, red, numbered circles appeared over three select posteriors. Announcer Randy Cross: "Here's three... tight ends." (He learned all about nonsensical pausing from Enberg.)

Near the end of the first quarter, the recording suddenly switched over the the start of the second quarter in the Chiefs game. Only it wasn't in hi-def. "My team," the Jaguars, had been leading the Jets 14-0. Now my team, the Chiefs, was trailing the Cardinals 0-14. WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?!

• A retrospective of 1st career starts for Hall of Fame quarterbacks elicits this comment about Dan Marino: "And Dan had a tremendous head of hair as well!" What is it with NFL announcers and hair?
• Sidelined with a hamstring injury: the Cardinals' #11, Larry "The Wreck Of The Edmund" Fitzgerald.
• 2nd quarter: receiving a pass from Huard, Parker pretty much hurls himself backwards, into the waiting arms of professional ballroom dancer Louis van Amstel, and the two perform a simply electrifying cha-cha to "Do You Believe In Love" by Huey Louis and the News. Judge Carrie Anne Inaba gives them a 10! Okay, so I made some of that up.
• Note to the Cardinals player who tackled Dante Hall in the second quarter. Okay, he's flat against the ground and the refs have been blowing their whistles for like a minute now. Slide your ponderous bulk off the poor guy already. Seriously. You're practically teabagging the dumb S.O.B.
• Near the end of the 2nd quarter, Larry Johnson fumbles the ball while being tackled by a slew of Cardinals. Announcer on the play: "It will be reviewed." I give it "two thumbs down."
• Spotted on the sidelines on the Cardinals staff: Flea, of the Red Hot Chili Peppers! Or maybe it's some other short, gaunt, bug-eyed guy with angry pointy eyebrows and my haircut.
• Nice synchronized tumbling from the Chiefs' Kennison and the Cardinals' Green when they both dive for the same ball. Maybe they'll break out some ribbon dancing next.
• Cool "first": KC's Jeff Webb made a 50-yard kick return in the first time he's had his hands on a football in the NFL. Jeezum Pete, you'd at least think they'd let him practice with a real football. What'd he use before? A wad of newspaper held together with duct tape?
• Also cool: the longest reception of Larry Johnson's career, right before he almost got his entire head ripped off his body. Facemask penalty ahoy!
• KC squeaked out a win thanks to Tynes' late fourth-quarter field goal and also thanks to the crummy failed field goal attempt by the Cardinals kicker, y'know the one, the guy with the Slavic eyebrows who looks like he must have to shave three times a day (and that's just his balls). So it was KC over Arizona, 23-20. There were some serious problems with this game. For one thing, the football must have been extra-slippery because everybody kept dropping it. My solution: coat in in hairspray! Also, just about every play had a flag thrown on it. Sometimes two. Or even three! (I'm not sure how that last one happened. It might have just been a kicky neckerchief.) My solution: take away their flags! Flags should be a privilege, not a right. If they want to overuse their flag, we'll just see how they like it when they don't have any flags at all! In fact, send the refs home! Who needs 'em? We'll settle all disputes through armwrestling. That way there's no loss of action when a play is called into question. Or maybe they could just rig up all the stadium seats with "yes" and "no" buttons. Yeah, that'd work.

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!

Shoot-Out At The "I Can't Believe It's Yogurt" Corral

In "DC Challenge" #2 (December, 1985) Jonah Hex discovers three would-be bankrobbers trying to make off with a mysterious slab of rock. He stops them -- by shooting them stone-cold dead, natch. Oh, relax. They'd drawn their guns and it was Ye Olde Weste so that makes it completely acceptable on a moral level. Thinking the rock to be valuable, Hex tucks it in his shirt. That turns out to be a mistake. Let's go to the expositoritastic word balloons for the play-by-play! Jonah, in your own words, tell yourself what's happening.

"This chunk'a rock they wuz stealin' -- alluvasudden, it's glowin! An' it's got some kind'a writin' carved all over it -- lahk one'a them museum pieces--! Think mebbe ah'll jest hold on tuh this fer a while -- till ah can find out who owns it--! Might be an extra ree-ward in it fer me if'n ah-- ah -- ah ain't feelin' so good--! Startin' tuh get cold-- dizzy--!"

Really, couldn't all that wordy mess have been conveyed in thought bubbles or in caption boxes? Okay, scratch the caption boxes. When they're busy vomiting bombastic, hackneyed dreck like "Welcome to your nightmare!" they're obviously not up to the task.

So, we have a western character soliliquizing, but it sure doesn't sound like David Milch. But it does sound like Len "Remember how much you enjoyed Swamp Thing?" Wein! Wein is at his Weiniest in this comic: overbaked prose, "humor" that never rises above the level of a "Three's Company" episode and an overall cloying, elbow-jabbing, infuriatingly smug tone. So it's like Peter David, only stupider. Much, much stupider.

But of course, you come here for the fashion talk. My reservations about Wein's writing aside, I have to agree with him that the year 1985 is indeed a nightmare for time travellers. It was a time of Quantum Fashion, in which the old rules no longer applied. Women's necklines plunged, but only over one of their shoulders. Vast herds of mullets roamed the earth. Fluorescent pink was the new black. Everything was way too baggy -- except, for some reason, at the ankles. And you couldn't even get into a fancy restaurant unless you were moussed, gelled, or scrunchied to within an inch of your life. Those were dark days. So you know how I feel about 1985. And the caption box just told you how Jonah Hex feels about 1985.

But how does 1985 feel about Jonah Hex?



Christ, another Vibe wannabe? America was simply crawling with those guys in 1985. Worse than the pseudo-Madonna girls. Oh, and "nice threads?" He's a gun-toting redneck running stark-screaming bonkers through New York while dressed in a Confederate Army uniform. Sure, Len Wein, who wouldn't love that?

"That horse -- mah only chance --!"

Oh, Jonah--! Sodomizing a horse won't help you forget your troubles! Believe me. And anyway, if that perspective is to be believed, the animal is about twenty-five feet long and it's guarded by a seventeen-foot tall policeman. I know you're the baddest hombre in Ye Olde Weste but I have the feeling those two could seriously eff you up.

Dead Wood

The American West: a rugged, unforgiving environment fit only for gaunt, sophisticated, slim-ankled fifty-something bachelors. Or at least, that's the order of things according to this Lee Riders jeans ad from"Adventure Comics" #390 (March-April 1970). I agree; nothing says "roughing it" quite like sitting in a faux wood-paneled basement, reading aloud from "Us Magazine" and making catty remarks about Lindsay Lohan.

Man. It's like they want to role-play but they just can't muster the enthusiasm for it. "You look like a real cowboy, Lee." "And you look like Noel Coward, 'Uncle Frank.' No, 'Uncle Frank,' I really don't feel like wrestling with you right now. Maybe after I finish this crossword puzzle. And probably not even then. But I still get to keep the five hundred bucks... right, 'Uncle Frank?'"

And now, a worrisome juxtaposition of images from the end of the advertisement:



It's like an instruction manual for illiterate serial killers.

This Town Isn't Fabulous Enough For The Two Of Us

Shootout at the "Oh, gay!" corral! Hawk, Son of Tomahawk, is beyond a doubt the queerest-looking western lawman I have ever seen. Yes, more so than Bat Lash. Or even the Rawhide Kid, when he's wearing that weird floor-length nightshirt. Observe Hawk's exquisite chartreuse embroidery, done in an Art Nouveau botanical pattern. (Quite remarkable, that, considering Hawk was born about a century before the advent of the Art Nouveau movement). Note also the perfectly coifed hair, described in "Who's Who" #10 (December, 1985) as "brown, with a blond streak." And I'm sure that's completely natural. He keeps a bottle of peroxide in that beaded man-purse, er, Native american pouch, doesn't he? Oh, sure, his pop was a natural blond and his mommy was an Indian princess, but human genetics don't work like that. He's a frontiersman, not an alleycat. Naw, ol' Hawk just wanted some bangin' highlights. I completely understand; I also like to express my feelings through my hair. Sometimes I get so mad, I just wanna punch something, but then I take a deep breath and touch up my roots and I feel all better. And then there's Hawk's limp little scarf -- no bandanas for him! -- and of course the tight-fitting, open-to-the-navel shirt. At least, I assume it's a shirt. The way Frank Thorne draws it here, it could very well be a one-piece. All that's missing is the ice skates!