I Glove You to Death

Storm Boy's cloud is finally gone.

Yesterday, I went looking for the guy, with the plan of clobbering him about the head and shoulders until he cried "Uncle!" (Or "Daddy!" I'm not particular.) But he wasn't at home. I decided to check out his favorite haunts. I looked in dance halls, milk bars, Pottery Pod, Evolvo Lad's Gym, Prairie Maw Funnybook Downloaders. Nobody had seen him. Hours later -- and soaking wet -- my route swung back towards his apartment. Now, there were scores of media lorries pulled up all around it, and a throng of people with cameras. A long red carpet snaked from a rocket-limo up to Storm Boy's door. That could mean only one thing: Eyeful Ethel was there!

I pushed my way through the mob, growling, "Give me some privacy, you vultures!" But nobody was taking any photos of me. Even though I took care to strike several intimidating/sexy poses! What the hell--?!

When I used my special "pirate knock" (so they'd know it was me), a portion of the door shifted into transparency, revealing Ethel. "Not yet," she said. "Maybe come back later. I'll call you." From somewhere behind her, Storm Boy wailed, "LEAVE STORM BOY ALONE!" (Yikes.)

The cloud dissipated by the time I'd made it back to my own place.

Late last night, Storm Boy showed up at my door, looking nervous, his eyes downcast. He cradled a big box in his arms. I didn't know if the box contained roses or a tommy-phaser, but I decided to let him in, regardless. He stammered a few incomprehensible words at me, his eyes red with tears. The box hit the floor. The next thing I knew, he had thrown his arms around me and was sobbing into my beard. "I'M SO SORRY!" he cried. His voice quavered, Mary Tyler Moore-like.

I sat him down on a fur-strewn slab of rock, and poured us some space-java. "I didn't even realize what I had done, when I started seeing Ox," he said, sheepishly. "I thought I was over you! I honestly didn't notice how much the two of you looked alike until that stupid white hair showed up in your beard. It looks really hot, by the way."

"I'm glad you think so," I chuckled. "'Cause I'm keepin' it."

He took a sip of space-java, and smiled haplessly at me for a moment. "Oh! I made you something. To make up for the storm cloud." He presented me with the box.

Inside was a pair of golden metal force-field gauntlets, both of them emblazoned with a light-up display in the shape of a white-and-purple crest.

"They're like your bracers," he explained. "Only the force-fields are shield-shaped, and they shoot out of the palms. Also? You can project a shield and then move it around by moving your hands. The shields maintain their integrity for up to six seconds, although I'm working on ways to make them last longer."

I pulled them on and strolled over to a mirror to admire myself. Through an open window I could see a stray vran digging a hole in my yard. I slid a force-shield under the beast, and flipped him like a pancake over the fence. He ran off, yelping. I grinned at Storm Boy. "These are kick-ass! I'm gonna design a whole new costume around them!"

"That'll be... nice," Storm Boy offered. I could see by his face that he was still feeling uncomfortable.

I sat down next to him, and put my arm around his shoulder. "Listen, buddy. I'm gonna get you through this. I know plenty of beefy, furry dudes. And a lot of them would love to meet you, I bet! Say! Ox has this friend who calls himself "Stink Bug", maybe we could double-date, if you don't have a problem with short guys, and--"

"No, no!" Storm Boy exclaimed, laughing and crying all at once. "I've had enough of smelly men. I mean, it was hard enough when I was just dealing with your odor!"

"Ha, ha, ha! Wait, what?"

"Never mind." He wiped the snot from his nose, and got up to leave. "See you at the office tomorrow?"

I showed him to the door. By then, Cootie had curled up inside the open box and had fallen asleep. I spent some time playing with mastering my new gauntlets. Then I grabbed some fabric and some leather, and sat down at my sewing machine.

(And a larger view.) I wanted to show off my sweet new tats, so this outfit is topless. (You're welcome.) I continued the crenelation them on a snappy new metal belt. The boots feature my signature "calf spats", plus a cut-in on the front that mirrors the crest on my gauntlets. A domino mask completes the look. As for my hair, well, I had been thinking of growing out my goatee even before I got assigned that "Undercover Santa" mission. I had hesitated, though, because I was worried it might start to block the nifty castle cut-out that Silvercat had designed. With the castle shape moved to the left, I can let my beard get longer and still show off my logo. Y'know, I might have trimmed my whiskers back just a tad too much, but I can grow them back out quickly enough. If I feel like it. And I buzzed my hair both out of necessity -- because Storm Boy's cloud had zapped multiple bald patches into it -- and just because it looks more bad-ass.

Oh, and the white in my beard? I'm guessing some of you might complain that it makes me look old. You know who doesn't think it makes me look old? Everybody else from my home planet, where it's the norm for twenty-something dudes to have white in their beards. HONOR MY CULTURE, JERKS! Er, sorry. I guess I'm just a little sensitive about these things.

Finally, since I got the crenelation tattoo idea from "Extreme Blockadeover" finalist, Dr. Tectonic, I'd like to offer him the same prize I gave to Silvercat: I'll draw a picture (or two) for him. Whatever he wants! (He knows how to get in touch with me.)

Pasha Doble

You know why I never wear a cape? Because I wouldn't be able to stop myself from doing this with it, all day every day. For example, a typical conversation with a crew member would go something like...
Rainbow Girl: Captain, I need your approval on this revised duty roster.
Me: No problem! Just give me two minutes to knee-walk over there... *flap, flourish, twirl*

Yo-Ho-Ho, Check Me Out

New headshot! Because the old one made me look like Axel Rose, as delineated by Margaret Keane. My new mask/do-rag gives me a nice swashbuckling look, plus it helps me to *click* strike terror in th' craven hearts o'me enemies, me hearties! There's none 'at sail the spaceways wi' a mask so orange nor a beard so purple as ol' Brigadier Blockade! YAARRRGH!!! *click* Sorry. Stupid robot voicebox. Anyhow, I'm not the only one aboard the H.M.S. Exquisite with an exciting new look! This week, along with the ongoing adventures of Lana Lang and her hideous new belt, I'll be showing you my makeovers of my crew: Weight Wizard, Tusker, Rainbow Girl, and Plant Lad. I never mentioned Plant Lad before because he's in a hyper-dormant state right now and has actually petrified like an old Sequoia, so I strapped him to the prow. His official title is "Kick-Ass Figurehead." When he wakes up he'll get a share of all the loot we've plundered. Which right now is about 80% ankle socks and banana clips, but hey! A job's a job.

Also, I have an important announcement to make. The "request line" for makeovers is closed for now. I need to concentrate on finishing up all the series I started before I can promise to do anything new. I've made some serious dents in the "Rescue Me" makeovers and I've gotten a good start on the Fearless Five/Teen Tyrants "Moral Reversal" makeovers (and I'll also get to that "Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends" version of it) and the "Legion of Substitute Costumes" makeovers, so that's something, but it's still a ton of artwork and I only have so much time. I'll do Steven's "Criminal Accessories" idea (i.e. giving classic villains funny hats and such) at the end of this month. Everything I've promised to do up to this point, I will do. But I can't promise anything beyond that. Fair enough? Alrighty then.

Nineteen Years Later...

Ahoy from the year 2987! This be yer ol' brother-in-bloggin', Blockade Boy... or as I'm called now, Brigadier Blockade, the most fashionable space pirate in all the Seven Galaxies! But perhaps ye know me by one o' me other aliases, such as Blockade Brigand, Purplebeard, the Closet Raider, or Three-Legged Phyl. YAARRRGH!

Ah, but me starsalt-crusted ears can hear ye askin', "By Satan's compass, boyo, how did ye come to such a pass?" Then gather 'round, lads and lassies, for I've a tale to chill the very marrow in yer bones! But first, allow me to adjust the dial on me accursed cybernetic throat from "Pirate" to "Drinking Buddy." *click* Yeah, that's better.

Sorry about all that yo-ho-ho crap, but it's all part of the job. Hoo-boy! I've got a lot to explain, don't I? For starters, I'd like to point out that even though it's been nineteen years since my last post, I'm still in my early twenties. My secret? No, it's not a miracle anti-aging cream. It's this era's kooky sliding timeline! Remember how dorky all the Legionnaire's costumes looked, way back in 2068? Lightning lad with the big orange diapers and Colossal Boy's "Some People Call Me a Space Cowboy" get-up? That now occurred in 2084. Thanks to all my time travel and dimension-hopping, I'm the only one here who notices that the years keep hurtling forward at an alarming rate while everybody and everything stays pretty much the same. Oh! Also? I spied on some other Legion-era timelines and it looks like my dimension dodged a real bullet! I guess back in 1986 the whole multiverse was threatened with destruction and in one of those timelines it actually got all blowed up, leaving just one version of Earth! Not in my dimension, though. For instance, Superboy's still around! And Supergirl! We can't seem to get rid of them, actually! They're like the sexless squares you invite to a party just to be nice and then it's 4 AM and they're the last two guests at your pad and even though you're busy cleaning up they're just sitting on their asses talking about some boring nerd shit and then they wanna play Spaceopoly for Chrissakes and you really have no choice but to hoist them up by their scrawny nerd necks and boot their asses out the door.

Oh, and just the other day the Legion teamed up with both Earth-2 and Earth-S versions of themselves against Earth-3's Crime Legion. Fun fact: my Earth-S counterpart is a two-fisted crime buster who can turn into a moderately-sized ambulatory steel wall! And for some reason he just won't stop smiling which is a little creepy. He's still damn good lookin', though. Anyhow, to bottom-line it, a whole ton of depressing nonsense won't happen in my dimension! And thank God! 'Cause really, I'd rather not have to see:

• Mordru take over the universe
• Earth's moon get blown to bits
• the Earth itself get blown to bits (Jesus! Enough already!)
• Timber Wolf's nose vanish without a trace
• Dawnstar's gorgeous wings get amputated
• Shrinking Violet -- well, actually, I never gave a flying fuck about Shrinking Violet
• the typical Legion mission consisting mainly of wearing puffy jackets and standing around in a pile of rubble, looking depressed

The only downside? I'm a space pirate.

Woo! Check me out! I ain't wearin' no pants, y'all! But shhh! That'll be just between us. For modesty's sake, I've covered my robo-dingus with a magnetic codpiece. I mean, I'm not a pervert.

It wasn't my first choice, I'll tell you that. But my clothing line went belly-up. (Apparently most men don't want shirts with cut-outs for their nipples.) I was looking at bankruptcy! Then I heard about this United Planets program that was giving out grants to aspiring space pirates, and the only requirement was to be missing a certain percentage of body parts. And everything below my waistline is cybernetic, so I was a shoo-in. What's that--? You look shocked and appalled. Feh! Whatever. Get used to it. And I wish I had some kind of heroic, self-sacrificing tale about how it happened but to be perfectly honest I caught a techno-organic virus from a toilet seat at a rest stop. The pernicious germ latched onto my robo-dingus and really went to town! The cybernetic voicebox implant was a mandatory surgery I had for the job. And here I am, sailing the solar winds in my ship, the H.M.S. Exquisite. I raid fabric warehouses and shoe stores, and I track down unfashionable people and forcibly make them over. It's kind of like that show "What Not to Wear", only with more gunfire. And if I happen to destroy the occasional Khundian trading vessel, well, the U.P. gives me a bonus check!

I've got a terrific crew! Weight Wizard is my cabin boy, of course, and might I add that it's nice having him trapped on a spaceship where I can keep my eyes on him. Rainbow Girl is my gun-toting sexpot second-in-command. Tusker is the big stupid muscle who doesn't talk -- mainly because I told him "shut up" so many times he's afraid to even open his mouth -- for anything... for reals, he takes all his meals intravenously. And of course, my dear friend Storm Boy is here. Ol' Stormy's been kind of a downward spiral since his nervous breakdown back in '85... or was it '77? Or '71? Damn sliding timeline! But my point is, he's in an even worse financial state than I am. And it doesn't help that he's been hitting the space-wine pretty hard lately. That's why I mainly keep him down in the ship's cargo hold, guarding all the crates of buttons, notions and assorted frippery. Still, a job's a job, right?

And for those of you who are just completely losing your shit at these developments, might I respectfully suggest you calm the fuck down. This too shall pass. Trust me. Since the last time we talked, I've been turned into a Balinese shadow puppet, the abominable snowman, a voodoo doll, a merman (fish part on top), a living butter sculpture, a locomotive, and a caterpillar with my head on it. Oh, and once I was split into two different beings, Blockade Boy Orange and Blockade Boy Purple. And if you'll recall, even before I returned to the 30th Century I was turned into a packet of artificially flavored drink mix, a baboon and a wolfman. It never lasts. So cool it. Now if you'll excuse me... *click*

Batten yer hatches, me hearties, for I've a timber-shiverin' tale to tell ye! 'Tis all about me sartorial victory o'er the pernicious Starfinger!

(He be not near that size, by the by.) *clears robotic throat, which produces the sound of static* Me intrepid band infiltrated Starfinger's lair under cover of a cosmic storm and surprised the tacky mongrel whilst he was takin' a bubble bath. Afore he could call upon his she-devils, Starlight and Starbright, we yanked the rings from his soapy fingers and shanghaied his arse back to our ship. Into the irons he went! "Do with me what ye will," he spat. "I'll never cede ye control o' me empire o' crime!"

Me recently glossed lips parted in a smile. "'Tis not yer empire I'm lookin' to control, young feller me lad. 'Tis yer wardrobe!" I whistled, and Tusker's mighty form appeared in the doorway, brandishing a measuring tape. I placed me manicured hands 'pon Starfinger's throat. For the first time in me imposing presence, Starfinger's imperious face registered true fear. "Tusker!" I growled. "Start with his inseam."

I'll spare ye the grisly details of what occurred in the brig that grim night. I'd sooner talk o' why ol' Brigadier Blockade and his stylish band chose Starfinger for a makeover. 'Tis but a simple matter! His powers and the basic idea o' his costume intrigue me fevered brain with their potential. But to this weary seadog, in execution Starfinger is a "hot mess" (as we space pirates say). The pointy cape, the pointy loincloth, the yellow-and-red star theme that uncannily mimics the flag o' the People's Republic o' Mexico (er, has that happened yet, back in yer backwards era? No, ye say? Er, oops.) -- the whole lot o' it we pitched off the starboard bow. A new costume was in the cards for Starfinger!

Seein' as how Starfinger is a crimelord and all, I decided to attire him along the lines o' an ancient Oriental Earth Potentate. This called fer voluminous trousers, pointed slippers, and a heavy robe -- open at the front, as that's me signature style! But 'twas to be no turban, mind ye. That would've made the whole thing "camp." And this spacefarin', purple-bearded, half-mechanical pirate fashion designer will darn socks in hell afore he goes camp! A turban--! Bah! The very idea of it--! Starfinger's energy bubble helmet dealie be his turban, do ye not see, ye blasted idjit?! To give Starfinger's head a more interestin' silhouette, I forced 'im to grow out his hair and beard, and to gel it up into pointed, star-like shapes. Fer jewelry, I gave 'im a king-sized waterfall necklace just drippin' with bling, and a forehead piercin' with a mammoth star. After untold months (durin' which the crew o' the Exquisite and meself had countless adventures and isolated incidents o' daring-do) the project was at last complete! I led Starfinger in front o' me finest full-length mirror, slapped 'im on the back, and said, "Now then, boyo, ain't that better than the way ye used to look?"

Still confounded by the fact I'd not killed 'im yet, Starfinger shrugged and replied, "'Tis okay, one supposes."

"Alrighty then!" I cried. And while I roared with a pirate's savage laughter, Tusker and Weight Wizard whisked Starfinger away, into an escape pod programmed to rocket him right back to where we'd found 'im.

Ah, 'tis a fine thing to be a pirate! YAARRRGH!

Bonus Post: My New Swim Trunks are No Merry Marvel

Next week's post will be on Tuesday instead of Monday, so I'm giving you all an extra, early post this week. After all, it's the polite thing to do.

Don't you just hate it when this sort of thing happens?

Still confused? It's a long story, but here goes. Remember when I said Weight Wizard had faked his death again? Well, I tracked him down to the space spa on the light side of the moon, where he'd finagled a job operating the cellular trim ray. His name tag said "Lorenzo LaFontaine" but I could tell it was him, even behind the eyepatch and the cheesy fake mustache. Well, the first thing I did was to rip that mustache right off his face, and that's when I saw that it wasn't fake, and after he stopped screaming and we got most of the blood sopped up, I hustled his sorry ass out of there and we had a man-on-top-of-man talk. Weight Wizard confessed that he'd faked his death this time not because he had fallen out of love with me, but because he'd developed a hopeless shopping addiction and he was up to his eyeballs in debt. (I'd wondered how he'd been able to afford all the crap he was always hauling back to our swing-a-delic pad, like the fossilized brain-globe and the radio-controlled saucer made of real spectrium and the kangobronc-skin pants and the android replica of Noel Coward. Turns out he couldn't!)

Since the sweet l'il degenerate couldn't help himself, I forcibly enrolled him into a five-step program. I suppose I should explain here that the decisive disproval of the existance of God back in 2737 (Haw! Eat it, Immanuel Kant! Also, I suppose I should have prefaced this with a "spoiler alert.") knocked seven steps out of most addiction-recovery programs. It's a real time-saver! The only downside is that when you die, you're swallowed by a black nothingness. I hope you're all okay with that. Aaannyway, on one of my conjugal visits to the treatment center, Weight Wizard gave me these really cool-looking swimtrunks he'd made for me in metal shop. They're based on a costume I had designed for Lightning Lad (but which he was too chickenshit to wear) and they had this nifty gold-plated codpiece deal. They were pretty snazzy, and they fit like a glove.

So I decided to show off my new togs down at ritzy California Island (located some ways off the coast of Nevada) and I don't mind telling you I was getting a lot of envious looks! Sure, I had to wear a shirt because I'm prohibited by Presidential decree from entering the water with a bare torso -- all the back hair I shed when I swim forms this Sargasso-Sea-like mass and it traps dolphins and sea turtles, not to mention the occasional Olympic swimmer -- but I still cut a fine figure if I do say so myself. I was having a space whale of a time flirting with this brutally handsome lifeguard when suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, a ginormous lightning bolt zapped me right in the crotch! YEEOW!!! Not only did it sting like a mo-fo, but it seared my junk clean off!

You heard me.

Luckily, like all the men of my home planet of Amadus, testosterone is generated by pretty much every cell of my body. So I'm as manly and hairy as ever. More so, actually, since my body's overcompensating for the loss of my "stuff." Anyhow, at the hospital they fitted me with a hydraulic prosthesis. It's cutting-edge technology, studded with vacuum tubes, and you can program its action with a punch card, and to get it started you just pull a little lever on the side, like on a slot machine. Oh, and I can't forget to replenish the oil reservoir every three hours or so, or else it starts smoking like a son of a bitch. Still, I'm a little bummed about having a robotic dingus. I mean, first my pinky toe and now this! Sizzling comets, at this rate I'll wind up looking like Tharok before I'm thirty!

Now, where was I--? Ah, yes. My hospital visit. While the brawny physician's assistant was spending a suspiciously long amount of time adjusting my prosthesis, the doctor held up a still-smoldering scrap of metal from the trunks' codpiece and said, "Why in space would a smart young man like you go to the beach with duralim swim trunks?"

I believe my exact reply was something along the lines of "You have got to f***ing kidding me."

I don't know why Weight Wizard acts out like this. It's like he wants me to be filled with rage. Or maybe he's still harboring some resentment about my putting him in that program, or maybe he's bitter because he'll never be able to grow another mustache, ever, ever again. Yeah, probably that last thing. Well, the two of us are going to have another "talk" when I see him again -- a good, long, painful, debilitating "talk." (I'll let you all know if there's anything left of him.)

Next Tuesday: Gender Reassignment Challenge: Mantis!

Rude Toff's Shiny New Gear

There's nothing sadder than a man in a sexed-up, nipple-baring Santa suit... after Christmas, natch. Before then? Why, it's the epitome of elegance! Which is my little way of saying I've got a new costume!

I thought I'd take advantage of my current obsession with hair bleaching to design some kick-ass black-and-silvery-white togs. I never would have worn something like this when my hair was brown... or orange. Anyway, this is my most favoritest costume yet! It's a bit "Fantastic Four," I grant you. But the little spots of color in the goggles and in the superhero logo make a big difference. Also, I trimmed my hair a little shorter than before, to put more emphasis on my killer biker 'stache. I think it's a pretty sweet look for me. And if any man disagrees, we can settle things the old-fashioned way: with fisticuffs. Or better yet, a drinking contest! In fact, forget the "contest" part, let's just meet at your place for drinks. And if we get in an argument that escalates into a full-contact brawl with the both of us wrestling on the floor until our clothes get torn off and we're all sweaty and dirty and naked, I'm totally cool with that.

I'm just sayin'.

Joyeaux Nipple

As you know, I've been wearing the same old-timey Western outfit for several weeks and it finally occurred to me that I was being a bit ridiculous. So now I've decided to wear this Santa costume twenty-four hours a day!

Ho, ho, homoerotic! Who could have guessed that "Santa's beard" would turn out to be Mrs. Claus? Oh, I sleigh me! ...Sorry. I'll stop now.

I started with the silhouette -- I knew I wanted a reindeer head embossed in leather over my unjelly-like belly and I knew I wanted the top half of my torso to be exposed and to be framed by the white fur trim on the jacket. At first this design involved a big wrestling belt. But I've worn one of those before, so I modified it into a leather corset/unitard deal. I paired it up with tall pirate boots to help focus the eye on the reindeer symbol. The boots have a stylized Christmas tree with branches that mimic the reindeer's horns. I toyed with several different lengths on the jacket, but I settled on mid-length because, again, it wouldn't distract too much from the reindeer head. (I thought about matador-length, but dismissed it as too cutesy.) Instead of my usual goggles, I went with a domino mask. It doesn't obscure my gorgeous green eyes and it doesn't get in the way of the Santa hat. The gloves are flared in a 17th century Russian style.

And to finish the look, I "fell off the wagon" and changed my hair color. All my hair is bleached out to pure white now. You heard me. All of it. I had to get Jeremy to help me with some of the hard-to-reach areas. The poor lad passed out at one point -- presumably overcome by my raw sexuality, although I wouldn't rule out the bleach fumes or my gassiness from all that turkey I'd consumed... I sounded like a Phillip Glass score, played on a tuba.

Oh, and FYI I won't be posting again until Tuesday. Jeremy is visiting his folks in Arkansas this weekend and like usual I'm banned from using his computer while he's away. That's okay. I think I'll hop in my time bubble and go mess with Clement Moore's head.

Have a great weekend, everybody!

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.

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

Do-over!

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

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



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

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



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

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

(For now.)

All Glory To The Highfather!

Dig my sweet-ass Donegal!

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Here, I'm Wearing Purple & Orange Together, Get Used To It.

Before I get to the costumes I designed for other heroes, here's another one of mine.

Now, that's a high collar! How does it stay affixed to my head like that? Sorry, but I'm from the future and if I told you it would create a time paradox that would destroy the universe.




Okay, okay. I just dab some spirit gum on my temples. [cringes, waits for universe to end]

So you're probably wondering, if I said in my last post that I thought my shoulders were so incredibly great, why I am covering them up with shoulder pads. It's not covering. It's a little something called emphasizing, people. I don't want people to get distracted by the ultra-high collar. The costume as a whole is based on certain athletic uniforms from my time. The chestplate features a double "B" symbol I designed myself, based on an ancient Earth alphabet. Well, it's ancient to me, anyhow. All you (adorable) savages probably still use it. And those yellow doo-dads all over eveything?

They contain snacks.

Little Blog on the Prairie: A New Beginning

To give this blog a distinctive focus, I'm turning it over to Blockade Boy himself! That's right, the one from "Adventure Comics" numbers 344 and 345. Blockade Boy wants to use this space to post his redesigned versions of various superhero costumes. The following is a transcript of a recent interview I conducted with the man himself.

Me: I'm sure this blog's readers (all two of them) are wondering: what qualifies you to tell other superheroes how to dress? Your own costume looked just like regular clothes. Also, aren't you dead?

Blockade Boy: [laughs] Ouch! To answer your first question, that wasn't my superhero costume you saw in those comic books. Here's the deal... my former friend Weight Wizard and I were trying on t-shirts and cargo pants at Old Space Navy, when Nardo's android henchmen stormed the changing rooms, zapped us senseless, and spirited us off to that remote prison camp. We were actually the first two superheroes he captured! We didn't know what he had planned. That's how Weight Wizard talked me into shaving off my sweet-ass muttonchops and goatee, and buzzing my hair real short. He said that Nardo would just shave us completely naked anyway -- he said he saw the same thing happen in an old holo-movie. Well, I panicked. I hate it when somebody else tries to do my hair -- they never do it right. So anyway, there I was, looking like the world's biggest square, and I asked him, did he want me to shave his hair off, too? See, I used to style Weight Wizard's hair for him all the time, plus I'd coordinate his outfits. But at any rate, he said no, he was just kidding about me having to shave all my hair off. So I beat the everloving crap out of him. Not much later he cozied up to Nardo and basically became his bitch. All becaused he was scared of me.

Me: And not long after that, he was devoured by an enormous extraterrestrial water lily.

Blockade Boy: Seriously? That is so weird, because that's exactly how he wanted to die. We got really drunk this one time and spent the whole night talking about the most perfectly beautiful way to die. I said I wanted to be trampled by unicorns, and he said he wanted to be eaten by a huge flower.

Me: You didn't know that Weight Wizard is dead?

Blockade Boy: No! You're not joking? He's really dead?

Me: I'm sorry, but yes.

Blockade Boy: [sobbing] Can... can we stop for a sec?

[Later..]

Me: So, I guess you didn't read those comics all the way through.

Blockade Boy: No, I stopped after they killed me off. Now, about that... I was just pretending to be dead. It was the only way I could think of escaping. I mean, my power is changing into a wall, for Pete's sake. Not a lot of offensive capability, y'know? Defense, that's a different story. When I'm a wall, nothing can hurt me. Anyway, Matter-Eater Lad and I were pretty far away from the prison at that point, so when Nardo and his hench-bots showed up, I "took a bullet" as you filthy cavemen like to say, and I play-acted my balls off. Once everyone was gone, I scrammed out of there. It took awhile, but I finally made it to civilization. I went straight to the nearest Science Police station. But by that time, the Legion of Superheroes had freed everyone.

Me: And now you redesign superhero costumes. Why?

Blockade Boy: Well, it all started when I snuck into the Legion of Superheroes Clubhouse and, shall we say, "borrowed" one of their Time Bubbles. I went back in time to 1940's Hollywood to meet my idols, like legendary MGM costume designer Adrian. Adrian and I had each other's backs in a barroom brawl with Orry-Kelly and Edith Head. Adrian threw a handful of sequins in their eyes and then I bludgeoned them senseless with the unconscious body of Coco Chanel. But I digress. I couldn't return to the 30th century after all because of some kind of time distortion. Apparently since I left, all of reality was completely destroyed and rebuilt... twice! At least! So now I just hop around the timestream and all sorts of dimensions, and generally have a great time. And you know what? There are tons of superheroes out there who need my help. And I'm happy to give it. What can I say? I have a heart as big as all outdoors. When I see an ugly superhero costume, I go to work, imagining what it would look like with some improvements. If only they would listen to me! Anyhow, I usually do two redesigns for each superhero. One design retains as many elements from the original costume as humanly possible, and with the other one, I just go nuts. I'll post them here so everyone can see how great I am! But for starters, here's a picture of me in one of my actual costumes, not that get-up I was wearing in the prison camp.

I call this pose, "Stop, in the name of Blockade Boy!" And do you love that neckline? I always say, if you have broad shoulders, show 'em off! And as you can see, I like things to be fairly streamlined. The only piece of bling-bling is my beltless buckle, which I made in the shape of the Interlac language "B."

Me: Very nice. So, what do you like to see in a superhero costume?

Blockade Boy: I like all sorts of looks. The Aquaman neckline, of course. High collars are good, too. Domino masks. Hooded cloaks. I like almost any kind of gloves and boots unless they extend past the elbows and knees. I'm pretty broad-minded.

Me: What do you hate?

Blockade Boy: For starters? No man should wear puffy sleeves unless he's a pirate, Firestorm. I also hate cut-outs, bell bottoms, and clunky, furry boots. I hate extraneous armbands, straps, and pouches. Shirts that are open to the navel or beyond. Chain-link anything. Metal bras, panties, and bustiers. The combination of bare thighs and covered arms, but only on men. High heels and fishnet stockings, with a special exemption for magicians. And I despise underwear worn outside of the clothes. What is up with that? Are these people worried they'll forget to change their underpants unless they put them on last? C'mon!

Me: You certainly know what you want! Thanks for talking with me, and for taking over this blog.

Blockade Boy: Thank you! And all you superheroes out there, flying around in your ugly-ass costumes? You're welcome. (In advance.)