We'll Always Have Sturgis

So, are there any websites out there with slashfic about characters from the 1971 Gold Key series, "Mod Wheels"?

Because there totally should be. (Haw, haw!)

Doctor Tectonic

Here's fellow blogger Doctor Tectonic, in a little ensemble designed by yours truly. See? I can do formal wear! This is the picture I did in exchange for using the Doctor's tattoo ideas. It depicts the Doctor in a classy outfit of trousers, vest, top hat, and exoskeleton control harness. I wore something similar to court when I had to contest a hoverbike speeding ticket. I was forcibly ejected from the proceedings when I threatened to "destroy [them] all." Er, oops.

Doctor Tectonic is a steampunk-styled genius inventor, who owns both an earthquake cannon and a battlesuit, the latter of which I'm told resembles an egg with a handlebar mustache. Not that there's anything wrong with that. His otherdimensional alter-ego, Seth McGinnis, has the Doctor's glorious facial hair and goggles, but not the cannon or battlesuit. Which is kind of lame. Gee, I'm glad I don't have an otherdimensional alter-ego! (Jeremy who--?)

Once More, With Follicles

Star Boy freaks out over Darkling's unbridled sexfulness: take two! By special kind-of-request by Bill S., I have a whole passel of alternate reaction shots, not by the timid and beardless mid-teens Star Boy, but by the confident and slobber-worthy bearded late-teens/early-twenties Star Boy! (I'm not sure how old he is in these. Damn sliding timeline!) Sadly, only the above picture features his mustache in handsome "handlebar mode."

Let the multi-stage spooge-fest commence!

Stage one: Sits violently upright, spilling absinthe.

Stage two: Imagines doing the horizontal Shurg with Darkling. And then with both Darkling and current girlfriend, Dream Girl.

Stage three: Realizes was talking aloud about stage two. Ignores catty comment from friend who doesn't even have his own penis. I mean, seriously. What the hell?! Cram it, space-eunuch!

Stage four: Logical portion of brain held down and mercilessly pummeled by own horniness.

Stage five: Gives up fighting, "enjoys the ride."

Stage six: Symbolic ejaculation.

Stage seven: Body spontaneously fractures in four-hundred places.

Stage eight: Lengthy recuperation. Tries to rub bits of shattered pelvis against cast.

Power to the Purple

On last Wednesday's "Project Runway" (your time), the designers had to create an outfit to be worn by Tiki Barber on an episode of the "Today" show. I liked Kevin's design the best...

...but Tiki didn't. Madness! Madness, I say to you now. I would have worn it. Because there is not one thing wrong with this ensemble. ...Well, maybe it could use more orange. And I think the model up there would look kick-ass with a sweet biker 'stache, or maybe even a handlebar. Also, he should wear a rakishly-tilted bowler hat, for just the right touch of insouciance. And boots! ...In fact, Kevin should have just outfitted his model like this.

Of course, I may be a bit biased.

Artificial Hair Transplant

"Honey, a huge envelope filled with hair just arrived for you! Do we know anyone who's being held for ransom?"

For some reason, I'm picturing horses on a conveyor belt, being fed into a machine that snips their tails off. (Then it's off to the rendering plant!) And I love that the long, blonde braid ends in a handlebar mustache. But the little 'stache really ought to have an equally dainty Meerschaum pipe dangling from beneath it. Or perhaps an adorably miniature frothy stein of German lager (or a micro-brew)! Huh. I'm getting kind of pissed about their negligence, now I think about it. The fuckers! Honestly, they just should have turned over the entire ad campaign to me.

Rescue Me Bonus: the Annihilator

Here's a costume redesign that doesn't fit into one of my regular categories: 1960's Superman villain, the Annihilator. One of my many cultured and tasteful commenters* suggested I tackle this joker's apparel, mainly because his nose pokes through his mask! I'd forgotten all about him until last week. That's when a laser-guided demolition crew disintegrated a museum to make way for a new Bismoll MacMattercuddy's family restaurant (try the copper-plated breakfast burrito!) and discovered an ancient comic book shoppe underneath! It turns out the whole thing had been engulfed in lava while the inhabitants were in the middle of a HeroClix tourney. Thank goodness mylar and cardboard proved to be the perfect protection against surging, molten death. Size XXXL Vampirella t-shirts? Not so much. All that was left of the humans in that crowded death-box was some Pompei-style rock statues studded with candybar wrappers and the occasional ingrown beard hair. Long story short, the development company claimed the store's merchandise through some arcane landlocked salvage law and auctioned the whole deal off, cheap! I snagged a ton of them, including a copy of Action Comics #356 (November 1967). It was perfectly legible once I chisled the rock off of it.

*I'm embarrassed and chagrined to admit that I can't remember who precisely. I even spent a couple of hours last night poring over my older costume redesign posts looking for the exact comment. I couldn't locate it, but I got many a hearty, booming, basso profundo chuckle from reading my own writing. Good heavens, but I'm clever! Er, anyway... maybe the person I'm thinking of sent me an e-mail instead. I dunno.

The Annihilator's power is cool enough. He's like an evil Human Bomb, powered by chemicals somehow left on the Earth by the Kryptonians (the Kree of the DC Universe... just dropping their untold scads of power-inducing crap all over planet Earth, like it's their own personal landfill). But that costume--! The main part of it is ugly, but in a completely boring way -- just like most characters that show up in your typical Superman story. But then... there's the mask. It does indeed have his nose sticking through it, all naked and nude and uncovered, with a frankly insoucient attitude reminiscent of Berlin in the 1920's. But wait! That's not the best part! The real beauty of the mask is that it covers up his upper lip... because the Annihilator's civilian identity, "Nobel Prize-winning biochemist" Karl Keller, has a handlebar mustache!

See? And he's not even drawn by Herb Trimpe! Honestly, I think the Annihilator could have had a much more illustrious career if only he'd dressed better! So here's what I'd do:

See, Annihilator? That's how you can enjoy both a supervillainous secret identity and a handlebar mustache while not getting laughed at! Well, at least they won't laugh at you in your villain costume, anyhow. I make no guarantees for how you dress in the privacy of your own lab. Because his powers are Kryptonian-based, I made his costume a riff on Superman's. That's why it's primarily red-and-blue, only darker, natch, 'cause he's a baddie. Instead of a cape, the red is supplied by the accessories, like the nifty shoulderpads. The Anime-style hair has one extra-long lock as a tribute to Superman's famous (and equally ridiculous) "spit curl." Except it's sticking straight up in the air and it's all spiky, to impart menace. No, for reals. Plus, he can just slick it back down while he's out of costume. The Annihilator's logo is an inverted Superman shield (evil!) with the alchemical symbol for the planet Pluto inside it, symbolizing upheaval and violent change. And sure, it looks like the intergalactic sign for a well-hung gentleman who's doing the splits, but so what? I checked out 21st Century industrial explosion symbols online but it turns out they're not designed very well at all. I could have done better, but none of you vacuous cavemen bothered to ask me while I was living in your idiotic time period. Feh. Your loss!

Tomorrow (you heard me): the Son of the Annihilator! Plus, Weight Wizard news.

Next week: Moral Reversal Challenge: Starfire and Psimon!

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania

Grampa in a Bottle

In "Marvel Team-Up" #77 (January 1979) belly shirt-wearin' oldster Silver Dagger escapes from the mystic orb that had imprisoned him and goes on a full-tilt rampage against Spider-Man and Ms. Marvel... Claremont style! Yup, it's a Chris Claremont script so it's a given that Silver Dagger will be supremely powerful. But to quantify it further, even his armpits project rays of eldritch energy.

The battle of the century: Spider-Man versus b.o.! Although I must take issue with Silver Dagger's ensemble. A belly shirt? Kinda girly. In fact, completely girly. And the no-sleeves thing combined with the big round plate on the chest makes me think he raided Moonstone's closet for this get-up. I'll give him points for the bitchin' white mustache -- almost as nice as mine! Almost. But I have to take those points back off again for the Stephen Wright haircut. There's nothing wrong with male-pattern baldness but you don't gotta flaunt it. Honestly, he looks like Bozo the Clown's abusive uncle.

Elsewhere in this issue, Doctor Strange's girlfriend Clea is transformed into a being of pure strawberry jam.

Told you it was a Claremont story!

Love Shack Pegasus

TGIF, turkeys! Greetings from 1982! So, how'd you spend last New Year's Eve? No wait, let me guess... you drank alone and then masturbated while sobbing hysterically. Well, mine was far-out. My girlfriend, Candace, was out of town. Again! Or so she claimed. And it's really getting to be drag considering we've been dating (as far as I'm concerned) for about a year and the last time I actually laid eyes on her was the day before Valentine's day. So I thought I was just going to do my usual New Year's Eve thing: selectively dry-hump some choice booty in the throng at Times Square. It's perfect for me because the crowding is so dense they can't really turn around to slap you. Although you can tell they really wanna. But on December 31st, this bouncer I know, Leopold -- he's like, 6'6 and built, like he's chiseled out of granite or something, and he always has the grooviest suits and a ton of gold chains and this handlebar mustache that looks fantastic, I mean, he's just so cool, he probably has like a billion girlfriends -- anyway, Leopold actually invited me to his pad for New Year's Eve "to see the ball drop" as he put it. I told him I bet his apartment would be literally swarming with chicks and he said "I can think of one bitch who wouldn't miss it for the world" and I said, "Well, sign me up!" It turned out that I was the first person to arrive but Leopold put a drink in my hand as soon as I walked through the door, just to make me feel at home. I don't remember much after that but I do recall waking up the next morning naked on a garbage barge and there's a peculiar new wart on my pecker so I assume I had a blast. But enough about me! I'm here to help you losers score more foxes!

Did you know that your home is one of your best tools for winning the mating game? It's true! If even one aspect of your domicile is a turn-off, it's good night nurse for you. I learned that one the hard way! I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. (Although that would be pretty hilarious.) As a sort-of "worst case scenario" let's look at my first date at my first apartment, illustrated by scenes of something equally pathetic: Dazzler's visit to Project Pegasus!

I picked up my date, a gorgeous former teen model, let's call her "Patsy", under the pretense of being a limo service. When I veered off the prescribed route, she began to get nervous. And to be honest I didn't have any good answers for her. But I flashed my thousand-watt smile and flexed my pecs and she seemed to be satisfied with that.

My place was pretty big, for New York, but it was also in the top floor of a butcher's shop. That caused Patsy some alarm, let me tell you. But once we got up the stairs (and once that mook Gino got the slaughtered veal calf off the landing) I figured it would be smooth sailing.

One of my roommates was a good-looking actor and we walked in just as he was putting on his "Burger Clown" costume for an appearance at the opening of a fast-food joint. And even though he was covered in polka dots and clown white, he wasted no time in flirting with Patsy. And she was flirting right back! It must have been the tight clownpants. I was losing her! I had to act fast. So I hustled clown boy out the door and offered to give Patsy "the tour."

When we got to the kitchenette, we found one of my other roommates and his girlfriend sitting on the counter dunking donuts into a big bowl of bong water. And the donuts were covered in chocolate already so I don't think that even did them any good! Christ. The girlfriend started getting in Patsy's face, saying "You, you're that girl in that thing, you're that girl, I saw you, you're in that thing" and then one of her legs gave way and her head banged against the stove and she started laughing her ass off so I took that opportunity to get Patsy out of there. "Oh, this is such an adventure!" Patsy giggled and then she looked at me and said, "Lance, was it?" And I said yes and then I kicked myself for not giving her a fake name. Oh well.

I'd forgotten about that telescope I keep in the TV room and Patsy didn't buy my story about checking out the night sky with it since it was New York and you just plain can't see any stars at night and the fact it was pointed squarely at a boxing club didn't help my case at all. But then I explained that I was ogling the boxers' wives and she seemed to be cool with that. It was time to head for my bedroom! But first I had to make it through what I like to call "the gauntlet."

My bedroom is at the end of the hall so first we had to get past the two roommates who almost never leave that section of the apartment. First there was "Goo-Goo" Goolagong, an Aborigine body builder who's always tying up the phone talking to his mother in Australia and throwing wall-punching temper tantrums when he doesn't get his way. "Goo-Goo" was standing in the hallway with the super-long phone cord wrapped around his biceps. "Sweet ass," he smirked as we squeezed by him. And then he said into the phone, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Yes. No, I do have a filthy dustbin mouth. Yes, mum. I'm getting the soap right now..." and then he dropped the phone and bolted for the bathroom.

My other other roommate is a creepy little guy who lined his bedroom with foil gum wrappers so the government couldn't spy on him and who spends all day typing up newsletters he gives to the rest of us to Xerox and hand out on streetcorners. And we all tell him we do it, too, but since he never gets past the hallway we just use 'em for coasters and paper airplanes. He tried to slip Patsy a copy of his latest screed but I grabbed him by his nose and shoved him back into his little hole.

Finally we made it to my room and if I may say so, it wasn't bad. Patsy let out an amazed gasp because I'd done my damnedest to make it female-friendly. I figured a lady would want to feel like she was making love in her own bedroom, so I had a four-poster bed with a frilly yellow canopy and lots of stuffed animals and the walls were covered in paint-by-numbers horse pictures (nothin' but). Also I had the most bitchin' stereo system, like, ever ready to crank out some David Cassidy at a moment's notice. But here's the thing. When I put the headphones on Patsy's adorable head, I forgot to check the voume knob.

Patsy swore like a sailor as she ripped the headphones off her head. She looked at the room again with these kind of crazy eyes and she looked at me like I was a cockroach or something. Her face fell. She kind of whimpered "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" and she tore off into the hallway. I ran after her just in time to see her throw "Goo-Goo" (who still had a bar of soap in his mouth) out of the bathroom and slam the door. And then I heard her puking and I finally figured out she was drunk this whole time.

So naturally I started throwing myself against the door, over and over and over. When it finally busted open she looked at me with her face all shiny and tense and weird. She pushed me down and pretty much stepped on me to get out of there. And I wound up following her out the building and down the street, pleading with her to calm down but she just freaked and said "You take one more step and I'm calling the cops on your ass, you fat, slimy queen!" Which was just bewildering to me on account of my not being even close to gay but hey, it was said in the heat of the moment so I forgave her. Anyway, I walked back to my apartment in a daze and I wound up spending the whole night puzzling over what had happened, trying to figure out where I went wrong. And then it struck me.

Not enough paint-by-number horse pictures.

The Sting

In "Marvel Team-Up" #106 (June, 1981) we find Stingaree the Scorpion safely incarcerated behind the walls of the "Brainsen Psychiatric Center" (no, seriously). So naturally he fakes a psychosis (which looks suspiciously like rabies) until one of the idiot doctors gives him his super-suit back.

"The costume itself is as dangerous as my daughter's designer jeans." That's where you're wrong, doc. As the victim of a freak Bedazzling accident, I can tell you that designer jeans are often more dangerous than any weapon-equipped Furry costume could ever be! I mean, sure, when you're fourteen years old it's fun to attend a sleepover at Plant Lad's house and stay up late and sneak into his dad's sewing room and try out all the cool antique machines he keeps in there, but when you're a little tipsy on Boone's Space Farm maybe you shouldn't talk Plant Lad into bedazzling your super-cool jean jacket while you're wearing it because maybe his hand-eye coordination isn't what it should be and he'll fall to his knees and start drunkenly bedazzling the pockets of your dungarees and it's not like you can scream or anything because you'll wake up Plant Lad's folks and they'll find out you're both wasted out of your minds on Boone's Space Farm and so you whisper through gritted teeth for him to stop but for some reason he can't hear you and he just keeps stabbing your ass with the Bedazzler. And finally you have to turn around and do this sort-of karate chop thing to a nerve cluster in his left shoulder and then he's out like a light and you have to drag his sorry ass back to his bedroom without anybody noticing, not even his slutty sister Plant Lass and that creepy old fertilizer salesman she snuck into the house and Plant Lad is really sore with you the next day and he won't even talk to you for like a month but what the hell is he so pissed off about, I mean, you're the one with the line of pinprick-sized scars in your buttcheeks in the partial shape of a unicorn head. Er, but I digress.

Okay, so who else dearly wants to see the Scorpion try dance therapy? Show of (jazz) hands!

By the way, guess who drew this. There's an important clue in this panel. Have you figured it out? Shall I give you a hint? Okay. Handlebar mustache! Yup! It's Herb Trimpe. (The poor dope. )

Y'know, I'm no expert but maybe the Brainsen Pyschiatric Center would have more success if all the walls weren't completely bare. In fact, I think some redecorating is in order. Scorpion, would you like to start?

"Ka-wassh!" Aw, the letterer must have a harelip.

I should also point out that it's never a good idea to entrust the care of a supervillain to someone given to exclaiming "Goodness!" That's a sure sign of weakness. Always get somebody who swears. Whatever their age or strength-level. (Even the kids on "Nanny 911" could do a better job than this guy! They'd at least freak the Scorpion out with their sheer evil-ness. I mean, I'd hate to cross 'em.)

Finally... "second-rate cracker factory?" Ah, so he's at Bob Jones University.

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part Three

So there I was, kidnapped to floating, space-bound "Exposition Arena", and none of those stuck-up Marvel super-bitches would give me the time of day. Eh, screw 'em. I'm perfectly happy just wandering around and eavesdropping. Perfectly happy! And I'll fight any man who says otherwise! *fists clench anxiously*

Even a youngster like Kitty Pride can detect the smoldering sexual undercurrents in the conversation between Colossus and... whoever the hell that other guy is. I'm thinking it might be Major Ursus, a.k.a. Ursa Major, the Russian guy who turns into a big bear-monster. (Dang it, I forgot to ask for his number.) "Perhaps I feel I can best serve the Motherland by serving the world... as an X-Man!" Oh, kind of like how American freedom is somehow protected by bombing the holy bejeezus out of a foreign land. When I was younger, I really liked Colossus' original costume, but later on I decided it was too busy. Especially with those three random triangle-things on the knees. I liked the John Romita, Jr. red-and-white redesign better -- although it could definitely use less buckles. But it was the 80's. All new super-hero costumes were required to have a minimum of eight buckles. It was in the Comics Code! Kitty is wearing the old, boring original X-Men uniform, which I kind of hate, but I see she's tried to spice things up by flat-ironing her hair. Not that it worked too well. It's about a half-percent change in humidity away from sproinging back into its normal shape. In the background, Texas Twister (sweet handlebar!) lights a celebratory cigar after giving Razorback a thorough, blood-spattered rogering behind the refreshment stand (Razorback's ass gets so much action he might as well give it a velvet rope and a couple of bouncers). Texas Twister's costume is flashy but I think it works for him. It's hard to go wrong with an Old West theme. Ursa Major (or is it?) is wearing the Marvel version of a standard Soviet military uniform so it doesn't count as a costume. So I shan't speak of it.

Hey, Captain America! Do you interrupt all foreign monarchs, or just the African ones? If you read my "Miss America" post way back when, you'll recall that I utterly loathe Captain America (mock my whiskers, will ya! Grrr...!) so I'm not going to talk about his costume, either. I've always liked the Black Panther's duds -- simple, but classic. It's got a good silhouette, too, which is important. In the background, there's muy macho Gorgon, whose costume I like just fine, although I'm mystified by the horned chrome goggle things on his forehead. Can he see though those? And if so, does that make Gorgon one of those tools who walks around with their sunglasses pushed up on their foreheads, even when it's overcast? Well, that would explain the sweater tied around his neck. I think that's the Torpedo in the back, between Black Panther and Cap. The Torpedo had a cool helmet but that was about it. Plain blue super-suit, no logo or styling of any kind on the chestal region, and the goofiest jet-gloves I've ever seen -- and I've seen a lot of jet-gloves. (I'm from the future!) And in the far right corner of the panel... the Silver Banshee?! But she's from DC! And she wasn't even created yet! And why is she wearing a Saturn hat? Hang on, Jeremy is tapping me on one of my brawny, muscular shoulders. What's that, child? Hmm? ...Oh. He says it's actually the Night Rider. Yeah, I never heard of him.

Why, here's Spider-Woman, who has one of the best super-hero costumes ever designed, and Spider-Man, who has one of the worst (although many would disagree, right, Steven?) As you can see, Spider-Woman's glider-wings (which have the magic power to appear and disappear from one panel to the next) have chosen to remain invisible. They're quite fickle, those glider-wings. Oh, and on a more vulgar note: that's not a web line.

The Son of Satan and Doctor Druid are swapping eyebrow-shaping tips! They should have asked Sasquatch. He's considered an expert by those "in the know." Actually, Daimon Hellstrom's eyebrows are naturally Satanic -- he gets them from his dad! Doctor Druid resorted to a mystical bargain to achieve those awesome Spock-brows. The price? The rest of his hair. There's a shadowy demi-god out there right now with a thick, wavy pompadour. It was totally worth it, though. I mean, who's going to hire a magician who has eyebrows like Whoopi Goldberg?

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part One

Did you know that I was part of the "Marvel Super Hero Contest of Champions?" (Above panels from issue #1, June, 1982.) That's the time the Grandmaster kidnapped what appeared to be every single super hero alive on Earth-Marvel and forced a mere handful of them into Olympic -- er, scratch that! I meant to say -- "gladiatorial" combat. (Yup, it's that super-sized special originally intended to coincide with the 1980 Olympic Games, chopped up and redone as a limited series.) I was just in the wrong dimension at the wrong time. What do you mean you don't see me anywhere? I'm that one guy in that one panel in that one crowd scene, way in the back... in silhouette.

I'll admit, the situation was giving me some nasty "Super-Stalag of Space" flashbacks but I managed to keep myself together. Before we heroes found out why we were there, we mainly just milled around and made awkward smalltalk. ("Aren't these vast, windowless rooms phony?") Sadly, there was no alcohol available to make them seem funny or interesting to me. So, I just kept my mouth shut and made notes on what everybody was saying... and wearing!

Ikaris is wearing more than the minimum amount of "flair", which is sure to please his manager, Zuras. By the way, is he wearing pantaloons? I haven't seen "overpants" that baggy since Lightning Lad's day-glo orange depends! This has to be one of Kirby's worst costume designs, which is saying something. Orion's costume may be plain and ugly, but that's better than complicated and ugly. You already know how I feel about Thor's costume, so we'll skip him -- other than saying that's got to be one of the queeniest "landing poses" I've come across in quite some time. In the background, meanwhile, Rom: Spaceknight puts the moves on Jocasta ("Oh, I'm not all robot, baby! Wanna feel?") Christ, I hope Starshine and Ultron don't run into each other at Cinnabon and put two-and-two together. By the way, I always liked Jocasta's look and I thought it was a shame when she got blown to pieces. But Rom's supposedly high-tech cyborg armor is one step removed from being a Halloween costume.

"Uh-oh! Alpha Flight!" Subtext: "I hope these losers aren't going to latch onto my awesomeness and follow me around the whole time we're here. Let's see, how can I ditch them...?" I really liked the original Alpha Flight costumes -- okay, maybe not Shaman's, which had the hideous color combo of orange and green -- but for the most part they were a good example of how to carry a design theme throughout a super-team while still keeping them looking like individuals. Behind Guardian you can see the taut buttocks of Northstar, who was totally checking me out. Sorry, pal, I don't date prettyboys.

In the final panel today, the Beast and Sasquatch argue about which one is going to be the top, before going on to share grooming trips. Sasquatch swears by "Mane N Tail" horse shampoo, and uses "Clubman" mustache wax for those tricky handlebar eyebrows. The Beast was considering changing his hairstyle. But then A Flock Of Seagulls released "And I Ran" that summer, so that delayed things quite a bit. In the background you can see Iron Fist (love his costume -- LOVE IT) standing next to... a mummy? Nope, that's just Janet "Fashion Skank" Pym, who was getting a seaweed wrap at the spa the moment she got zapped over there. Aw, now she'll never tone up those flabby arms.

Handi-CAPE-able

How do you know your supervillain costume is over-the-top?

When even your midget henchman is laughing at you. (Why do you think Doctor Doom prefers to employ robots?)

The tool in the metal underpants is named Kogar (from "Master of Kung Fu" #68, September 1978). Kogar has his own army and his own city and he doubtless fancies himself master of all he surveys. But he dresses more like a "Masters of the Universe" action figure. That goofy prosthesis even has different interchangeable bits he sticks on the end. I wonder if it has an electric toothbrush attachment. That'd be kinda cool.

Let's break this shit down into its component parts:

1. Eyepatch, which only partially conceals a long, curving scar with clumsy Frankensteinian stitching. Feh. I would have at least gone with a Phantom Of The Opera mask. Or if I had Kogar's ugly mug? A cloth sack thingie with one eyehole -- the Elephant Man made that thing rock.
2. Off-the-shoulder Captain Marvel cape. How very Viennese operetta of him. Hell, why not go with a lovely knitted shawl, or a gauzy chiffon wrap, or a stylish mink stole? Seriously, I would have just scrapped the damn thing entirely. Kogar's got a great body (aside from the head part... and the "missing one hand" part) so he might as well show it off.
3. Big honkin' orange harness with conspicuous rivets. What's the point of this? Is he going to pull a locomotive on ESPN2?
4. Segmented crotch armor. Look, Kogar, if you want your midget henchman to stop punching you in the nads, all you have to do is ask.
5. Clunky toy-like prosthesis. I know it has James Bond appeal, since it's motorized and you have a drill-bit attachment which you can hold against the temples of brawny, handlebar-moustachioed sailors, forcing two martial artists to fight to the death. But honestly... how practical can it be? All that machinery is resting against a busted stump of an arm. Isn't it kind of sensitive? How much force can you really apply with it? My guess is "not very much before you start wincing and screaming for Mommy."
6. The boots are unremarkable. But at least they match, Gareth.

And of course, there's the little matter of his hair. Let's take a gander at it from the back, shall we?

Hairstyle by Krispy Kreme! Say, what if it really is a donut? That damn midget henchman! Can't you just see Kogar stomping around at the daily Motivational Morning Meeting Of Evil, demanding to know who took the last chocolate-covered donut, and meanwhile the other henchpersons are laughing their asses off because Sklar the wiley midget henchman had just stuck it to the back of Kogar's bald pate?

About Sklar: okay, so he's not really a midget. But he is rather petite. And in this issue he has an inexplicably prolonged giggle fit, which only ends when a brawny, handlebar-moustachioed sailor nails him in the face with a beer bottle. Ouch. Nice hat, though.

Blockade Boy Needs You!

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

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

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

A. The "Doctor Strange"

B. The "Dum Dum Dugan"

C. The "Wolverine" and...

D. The "Highfather."

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

Full schedule for next week:

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

Have a great weekend!

Rescue Me: Turner D. Century

Yipes! I'm late with the post! But I still posted. Because I love you guys. For what it's worth, tonight the Rizza apartment was in quite the uproar. I had to spend hours calming Jeremy down after the vet told him his oldest, fattest cat had a yeast infection. And that he'd have to apply medicine to it every day for the next ten days. What Jeremy was too busy hysterically sobbing to understand is that the infection is in the cat's ears. Anyway, my method of calming him down involved a lot of pimp-slapping and screaming "stop it" but I think I finally got through to him. I'm typing this while he tries to get the swelling in his cheeks to go down.

Okay, let's get this party started.

Many years ago, Marvel's editors -- er, I mean "Scourge" -- killed off a whole slew of their lamer villains. I think these bad guys would have been more popular and therefore still alive if only they'd dressed better. So starting with this post and continuing sporadically in the future I'm personally redesigning the outfits of every villain Scourge ever killed! Even if it was revealed later that the villain survived, which undoubtedly happened in a case or two, this being comics. Just because I'm so gosh-darned thorough. Now, if I was Bizarro Blockade Boy (who turns into a solid steel welcome mat) I'd use my time bubble and actually give these new costumes to the villains themselves, causing the fanboys to adore them and sparing them from Scourge's wrath. But I'm not that guy so I'll just settle for theorizing.



Say, here's one of Scourge's victims, right now! Isn't that handy? Say hello to one of comic blogdom's favorite whipping boys: Turner D. Century! I have an irrational fondness for Turner. It's probably the handlebar mustache. And the name, with its lip-smackingly delicious pun. But in all other respects he sucks hickory-smoked donkey balls. The suit, the flying bicycle, the rip-off Penguin umbrella, and above all his personality, which makes him essentially Super Bill O'Reilly minus the dirty phone calls. Turner needs a makeover, like, yesterday. Because he's dead!

My idea? Ditch the barbershop quartet outfit and get him something like you'd see on the cover of a circa-1900 science fiction dime novel (ex. "Pluck & Luck").



Here's Turner, in my idea of a Victorian idea of a space suit. Which would look something like a diving suit. Rugged, huh? Slung over his back is his gold-plated Electric Blunderbuss, which packs quite the whallop! His helmet (on the ground next to him) I designed to give him an eerie, inhuman appearance. So the lenses are on the sides, like Black Manta. How does he see out of it? By a series of mirrors, like a periscope. (Of course.) I think Turner would have worked well as a Jules Verne type of villain, raiding the outside world in some sort of strange, majestic airship, and taking his plunder to a high-tech Victorian Utopia on an uncharted island. And of course he'd have henchmen. (Another job for Lenny!) With these enhancements, he'd be a fine villain for Iron Man or Captain America. Just for starters!

I won't be redesigning Scourge's victims in any particular order, so if you have any favorites just let me know and I'll work on those first.

America's Next Top Deformed Murderer

Two decades before "The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency" and "Project Runway," the dark side of the fashion world could be found within the pages of "Detective Comics" #506 and #507 (September and October, 1981). In those issues, the Dark Knight squared off against the Manikin, a statuesque fashion model with a burn-scarred noggin and an exoskeleton...



...an exoskeleton plated in genny-wine gold! 'Cause it's classier that way! It's certainly Trumpier! But you know what would have made it even better? If it had been Faberge! All crusty with jewells and enamel and crap. And if you could order it from the Franklin Mint. But here's the weird thing about this scene: a few panels before this, the Manikin was wearing a floor-length gown, cinched at the waist, with long sleeves. And Batman somehow managed to pull it off her, over her head, while she was punching him in the face. I guess that's a skill he picked up in his "Bruce Wayne" identity.



As part of his investigation, Batman shows up unannounced (as is his wont)at the apartment of Catwoman. He finds her all dolled up for her Aquaman fantasy session with Dane Dorrance. Oh wait, Frank Miller hadn't retconned her into a former prostitute yet. My bad. I'll start over.

He finds her chilling in her sequined pajamas and casual lounging heels. Take a look at the floral arrangement. Cattails! Oh, for... give it a rest, woman.



"When I'm not wearing my Catwoman costume, I like to dress well." But if she thinks her costume is tacky, then why does she wear -- gah! It's Gerry Conway logic; I'm not going to waste time trying to think about it. Just like I'm going to stifle my disbelief that she could identify the maker of that dress so quickly.

Batman uses this info to track down the Manikin's next victim, "Hoston." I love his Fruit Pies! (And that's the least dirty-sounding Hostess product I could think of for that joke. I just wanted to make a joke on his name, but it keeps unintentionally veering into Sex Country. But I guess "Fruit Pies" is marginally cleaner than the alternative. Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, Sno-balls... they're all filthy! ...That's what she said.)



Here's how you know it's pre-Crisis Batman: "I guessed wrong!"

I also like this part: "A weighted golf-club can kill." This message brought to you by the Coalition Against Weighted Golf-Clubs.

The Manikin only hospitalizes Hoston (good job, Batman!) but then she decides to show up there and finish him off. Luckily, Batman has a brilliant plan.



"The Brave And The Bold" presents: Batman and Tom Selleck's Mustache! What an awesome crime-fighting team! Batman... seriously. Dude. That's it? That all you got? Not even a curly blonde wig or some big Charles Nelson Reilly glasses? I'm severely disappointed in you.

You could have at least made it a handlebar.

Too Hot To Handlebar

"Its giant crotch will kill us all!!!"

Y'know what amazed me the most about the startling high-tech world of the Shogun Warriors? The sheer metric tonnage of handlebar mustaches. Granted, it was 1979 and men in general were hairier back then, but in my many travels to that era, I don't recall seeing a lot of handlebar mustaches. And it's no wonder, really. It takes the better part of a year to develop a decent handlebar mustache, and you have to use a special wax and a liliputian comb to keep it groomed. And who has that kind of time? Besides Oliver Queen, that is. But in "Shogun Warriors" #7 (August, 1979) the handlebar mustache has penetrated all levels of society!



Scientists have them, of course. This fellow has the biggest, grandest handlebar mustache in the "Shogun Warriors" comic -- it's the Alpha 'Stache, if you will. It's so brawny, I'd love to see it in a steel cage match against Egg-Fu's mustache! Even if it lost, it would put up one helluva fight.



Movie directors have handlebar mustaches! I suppose that's logical; the eccentricities of artists are often indulged, or at least tolerated. Fun fact: when Jeremy was in high school, a TV movie was filmed in his hometown. ("The Parade," starring Rosanna Arquette and Maxwell Caulfield. That one guy from Toto showed up to visit!) The director, no lie, wore a safari outfit with a pith helmet the whole time.



What th'? Even the parking valets have handlebar mustaches! Are you freaking kidding me? I'm sorry; I'm just not buying that one.

So what's going on here? I have a theory. The penciller is Herb Trimpe, a middling-to-downright-crappy artist who managed to eke out a career at Marvel by doing a Jack Kirby imitation (just like his co-worker, Ron "Marvel Two-In-One" Wilson). Therefore he uses a lot of Kirby motifs, including Dum-Dum Dugan's facial hair, even when it's completely outdated and nonsensical. But he got a lot of work doing it, up 'til the early 80's.

Epilogue: unless I dreamed this, I could have sworn I saw a Marvel comic in the late 90's that was pencilled by Herb Trimpe -- but this time he was doing an imitation of Rob Liefeld.

It was the most depressing thing I'd ever seen.