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.

"Wow, Shock Absorbers!"

The next day at school, all three of these drama club nerds received the beatings of their young lives.

The icing on the cake for me is the top hats. I get the feeling the kids already owned the hats, which they probably purchased themselves, no doubt with money earned from working in a tea room. Why, they were just itching to wear these debonair chapeaus out in public! Before, they'd mainly used the hats for impromptu stagings of "A Chorus Line." Am I right, kid?

Well, okay then.

(Finally: Parade-Hater Horace and Jeremy Rizza: separated at birth? It's an uncanny resemblance, if you ask me. I never did see both of them at the same time.)

The Sneerness of You

See, this is why "Moose" from Archie Comics should never be allowed to dress himself.

...Okay, so the mesh t-shirt was my idea. But then that big dumb dope had to accessorize it with a three-sizes-too-small fedora, a woolen suit coat (Who does he think he is? Sonny Crockett?) and his mom's scarf. GAH.

Meanwhile, the three points of the Universe's Most Boring Love Triangle don't realize that they're sitting in the mouth of a giant parasitic plant, which will soon snap shut and dissolve their stupid, quarreling bodies.

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--?)

Two Funerals and a Wedding

From "Secret Romances" #27 (Superior Publishers, July 1955) comes this charming tale of Andy the brain-parasite. Andy's soft, boneless form luckily resembles a limp little army hat. Nobody will be the wiser when he feasts upon the gray matter of a shady soldier boy, and then rides the corpse like a pony at the state fair! Nobody, that is, except the soldier's sister, who happily consents to become Andy's wife! All the couple has to do is change their identities and move to some backwater town where nobody knows them. Perhaps they will take up alligator farming on the bayou. Andy will be known (and beloved) by the locals as "Old Shep", the sweet (if somewhat bloated, greenish, and foul-smelling) eccentric who utterly refuses to remove his old army hat, no matter the circumstances! Anne, meanwhile, will dutifully give birth to a litter of hybrid children, who totter about on rubber-boned stumps, and who generally resemble half-filled colostomy bags.*

*Disclaimer: I might be making all of this up.

Liar, Liar, Hat on Fire

Look, it's Captain Atom!

No, the first one. From Australia!

Wow, this is turning into a theme, isn't it? Another Australian hero, another flamboyant hat, another sad effort at hiding a boner with some prop -- in this case, a hyperbolic "blurb box". I know that Australian men are uber-butch and all, but what the hell?! Do they all have boners, 24-7? On second thought, don't answer that. On third thought, please do. And be sure to support your argument with photographs.

I don't know what Captain Atom's deal is. I presume he's atomic-powered. One thing I know for sure is that his hat is dopey-looking and on fire. That explains why all those teenage girls are taunting him, and why he's running around like a rabid dingo. Seriously, how do you piss off somebody so badly that they set fire to your hat? And the fact that the flames are blue indicates that the afflicted haberdashery is hotter than hell. What did they use as fuel? Phosphorus? That is some serious anger, folks. Is Captain Atom the victim of a really bad breakup? Or is he just a total rat-bastard summumabitch? If it's the latter, maybe this thing happens to him all the time. At any rate, he's certainly taking it well. Of course, if you're enough of a bad-ass to rivet your clothing to your body, a little flaming hat isn't going to make you lose your cool.

Final verdict: stupid costume, but it's worn by a hard-core Aussie manly-man. You tell him to take it off. ...On second thought, allow me. *winks lasciviously*

And By "Flame World", They Mean "Styling Salon"

The dude's name is "Silver Starr", and I don't know anything about him, other than the fact he's Australian, and he looks like a gay version of Travis Morgan. Okay, okay... make that "an even gayer version of Travis Morgan." Happy? Sheesh!

To be frank, I'm kind of digging on his outfit. Especially the winged sweatband or whatever that thing is. And his hair is prematurely silver...! Heavenly... just heavenly. The only thing I'd add is a beard. But as you can see, he already has one... and he's holding her right in front of his crotch. Subtle! I'm sure Tom Cruise would do that with Katie, if he had the upper body strength. It doesn't matter, though, does it? Silver Starr could charge into battle while dry-humping his comely sidekick, and it still wouldn't keep him from "descending into the Flame World."

Deerstalked!

I can't wait to see Tub's face when Mister Angst explains how he can pay him back for the ice cream. (The Esquire Magazine mascot is out cruising! I'll be damned!)

But honestly... "Ivan Angst"?! Who came up with that ham-fisted moniker? Steve Ditko? ...Naw, with Ditko it would've been something even more goofy and even less probable, like "Iv Nast" or "Vag Naiv". (For some reason, the typical Ditko character's name always seems more appropriate for a pixie, a caveman, or a Martian.)

He's Not the Perfect Fighting Machine; He's Just Big-Boned

"Tub"? So that's where I've seen him before! It's just that I didn't recognize him, without that undersized sailor cap hovering over his noggin.

Yes, the Perfect Fighting Machine is, in reality, one Mister Tubby Tompkins... a.k.a. Little Lulu's special friend.

(A special thank-you goes out to Michele Maki's "Little Lulu" page, which was the original source of all these covers.)

Ulp!

You may recall this fine bit of imitation Stan Lee dialog from my final "Invincible Iron Man #41" post.

I'd repurposed it as criticism for Young Gerry Conway, but who was Fly Man (formerly and later known as "the Fly") actually talking to?

Some portly old German gal with a lace doily on her head? For shame, Fly (Man)! You know how old folks like to ramble when they meet a younger person! The poor dear is probably stuck inside her dilapidated Victorian Gothic mansion most of the day, with no one but her twenty-seven cats to keep her company, and sure, sometimes the Senior Center Activity Bus will stop for her so she can visit the mall, and purchase more quilting supplies, and then she meets you, the famous Fly (Man), and you just look so much like her grandson, Mortimer, so would it kill you to just shut your yapper and humor her? I mean, for Pete's sake, Fly (Man), can't you let this sweet old lady have her say for a couple of minutes, and HOLY SHIT IT'S A DUDE.

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet "the Spider", from "Fly Man" #31 (Archie Comics, May, 1965). This story is written by Jerry "I'm Helping to Mess Up the WB's Legion of Super-Heroes Cartoon from Beyond the Grave" Siegel in his idea of the Marvel Method, which results in the characters blabbing on and on, for pages at a time, saying the same thing twice in a row, only phrased differently, with loads of bombast and fancy vocabulary words (like "bombast"). So, while Jerry Siegel tries for "Stan Lee", he winds up with something more along the lines of Chris Claremont, which is especially astounding considering that "Alien"-obsessed Limey masochist wouldn't get anything published for another ten years, at least. Which is my own blathering way of saying that yes, the Spider tends to run off at the mouth, but then, so does Fly Man, not to mention every single character in the gol-dang book.

But forget this imitation Mighty Marvel dialog for a minute. I'm marveling, mightily, at the Spider's costume. He's a "mastermind" type, with mirror-maze deathtraps, and jet-powered flying metal claw robots, and henchmen, and what's essentially a "dirty bomb" if you can believe it, so he really shouldn't have to even bother venturing out in public. Or if he does, he should consider wearing a well-tailored business suit, or at the very least, Shiwan Khan's windbreaker. Because he doesn't have the shape for a supervillain costume. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but there it is. I mean, as ass like that, and he's wearing pantaloons? It's madness! And that floppy, size XXL beanie hat has got to go. You know what might have worked for this guy? Exchanging the tights for a robe -- I know, he's still pudgy, and chubby guys in robes look godawful, but bear with me for a second -- and ditching the micro-snood doily hat for a hood, the kind that drapes completely over the head with just a couple of eye holes cut out. Just cover the bastard up from head-to-toe. That way, he can lounge all day long in a souped-up La-Z-Boy recliner (with metal spider legs or sumpin' sticking out of it) and issue his threats via television, in between scarfing down entire cans of Pringles.

There's a lot of fun to be mined from "Fly Man" #31, and while I won't be giving it the Gravity Girl Treatment, I will be delving more deeply into it for a couple of weeks. For instance, how would you like a dramatic reading of the Spider's unmuffled monologue, complete with fight scene sound effects?

Yup, I thought so!

Deborah Whitman, This Will Be Your Life

I guess boys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses! They just invite them as "dates" to Broadway shows. Wise up, Deborah! Pete doesn't have any exam to study for! He's making a bee-line straight for the nearest leather bar... where he will be "tested" by a guy named "Bone-Breaker."

(Meanwhile, an unemployed Dan Didio is forced to peddle his comic book ideas on the streets.)

Poor Deborah is so busy marinating in her own self-pity that she doesn't even notice who's sitting just across the aisle from her. No, it's not Estelle Parsons of "Roseanne" fame. It's the Spirit of Future Deborah Whitman! Oh, if only Deborah would take heed of this crocheted-hatted omen before it's too late! Check it out, Deborah... this is you in twenty years: your hair prematurely gray and styled in the classic "I don't give a shit anymore" tomboy cut favored by nihilistic grannies, your "signature" white scarf tattered and mended so many times it's barely long enough to qualify as a choker, your Harvest Gold wardrobe darkened by age and windblown grave soil into a dull orange, a teeny flowered hat and a scruffy fur collar the only signifiers of your gender, and riding a bus for all eternity. Sure, you won't need glasses anymore, but that's only because you'll be blind from reading Harlequin romances all day long. Get off the bus, Deborah! Get off and live!

She's Not Kidding

Lana wants to take the mask along when she and the other girls of the Smallville High School Auxiliary Welcome Wagon visit that nice "colored" family that moved to town.

(Notice how I'm avoiding the "pearl necklace" joke inherent in this panel. You're welcome.)

Anybody Here Look Familiar?

*ahem* Well? ...Redheaded guy, third bubble from the left, next to the moon-faced blonde gal? No? Seriously? Oh, COME ON--!

It's me, motherfuckers! From back when I looked like this. I remember that day. I'd decided that morning that I'd try growing a mustache. It was coming in pretty good by 11 AM. By 4 PM it was Sam Elliott-sized, and then I got sick of it and shaved it back off. Anyhow. You might think the above panel is some sort of symbolic mental montage, but it most assuredly ain't. Nope! Y'see, Blondie up there lives in Central City, where the impossible vastness of the streets necessitated the invention of tesseract-based communication. Telephones? Those antiquated devices are decidedly out in Central City. It would take twelve days for the signal to cover the distance of even one city block! And cell phones--? Not that they had been invented yet, but feh! Feh, I say to you now. All the phones would need those giant CETI dishes on top just to capture the weakened signals. Forget it, brother! Tesseracts are the way to go. Want to talk to somebody? Just open up one of these miniature gloryholes wormholes and stick your head right through! It's easy! Although it gives a sinister "third dimension" to obscene calls, if you know what I mean.

So, the lady with all the dirt and grit in her hair (seriously, what is that crap?) thinks all these swingin' young squares are macking on her. If she would have let me finish talking (instead of flipping the fuck out) she would have heard my full sentence as "I need you, sweetheart, to tell me where all the best boutiques are!" Because I had some hand-made jewelry I was going to try to sell. And for some reason, the only guys in 1971 who were interested in huge chunky orange-and-purple jewelry were the ones without any money. So I thought I'd try the chick market instead. But it never worked out, because somehow I managed to get in a screaming match with every boutique owner in town.

But I'm sure it wasn't me. It was them.

Nipples Are for Pussies

Then Jimmy turns around and she sees he has no nipples and she throws herself screaming off the nearest pier.

Just kiddin'! Jimmy knows that most women prefer their men to have smooth, hairless, feminine bodies. That's why he gets his chest waxed! But first and foremost, Jimmy is a man. A man's man. So when his latest round of waxing pulled his nipples right off, Jimmy didn't so much as grit his teeth! Because that would be a sign of weakness. And does he cover up his curious amputation? HELL NO. Because that unlicensed and probably illegal Brazilian waxer had played right into Jimmy's hands! Because Jimmy's been around. And Jimmy knows. If the ladies love a hairless chest, they'll go apeshit over a chest with no hair and no nipples! Finally, Jimmy's vast, rotating coterie of girlfriends can run their busy fingers over his slab-like body without hitting the "speedbumps" as they used to call them. No, it's "smooth sailing" for old Jimmy Banion from here on in.

(Myself, I'd rather die.)

!emutsoc ykcus a em eviG

I have to admit I'm not really thrilled with how my Night Girl costume design turned out. I might have to try again. With something skimpier. And maybe a poncho or something for when she's surprised by sudden sunrises or whatever. Oh, and while we're on the subject of superheroines with butt-ugly costumes, how 'bout that Zatanna? "Secret Origins" #27 (June 1988) showcased all of 'em! And more! Let's start with what she likes to wear for investigating spooky French castles in the rain.

It's an interesting look for her: the top half is suitable for the local Christmas pageant, while the bottom half is perfect for servicing a muff-diving crack addict. Although the fumes would indicate some serious douching is in order.

And here's Zatanna in action, sort of, wearing her "classic" costume with the top hat and the fishnets. Because nothing screams "superheroics" like dressing as a cocktail waitress. It's not bad, I suppose, but I think it looks better without the top hat. Top hat + long hair = Gary Oldman in "Bram Stoker's Dracula." In other words, it looks ridiculous. Next!

Zatanna is all smiles after getting the Justice League's mandatory breast augmentation and lobotomy. My problem with this one is the ponytail. It's too youthful. I hate it when grown women put their hair up like that with the intent of looking sexy. I'm aware I'm not exactly their target audience, but still. I suppose she had to do something with her hair to keep it out of that monstrous collar she's wearing but really, anything would have been better that that. Hey, why not a beehive? (Kidding.) I wonder if this costume change came about because Black Canary was on the team back then, and they were afraid of having two women on a superteam dressed like hookers. These days that kind of thing isn't so much of a concern, is it, Chuck Austen?

Ah, the Cootie Hat Era. You know a costume is hideous when your body would rather self-destruct than be seen wearing it. (It happens. I once bought a pair of zip-up ostrich skin boots dyed cornflower blue, and they caused me to lose a toe. True story. Although it may have been due to poor circulation.) But enough of the past! This story introduced what was intended to be Zatanna's new, permanent costume, for ever and ever and ever. Ready? *plays opening chords of "The Final Countdown" on a synthesizer*

Ya duhn da duhn-da-dah! Slacks! Didn't last too long, did it? The fanboy fetish for superheroine skin torpedoed this modest little number. Of course, the fact that it made her look like a vampiric theater usher may also have had something to do with it. Personally, I love the cape, but that's about it. And that yellow vest is ridiculous. Bah! Bah, I say to you now.

Hey, bonus panel!

Rrrowr! You wouldn't think anybody could look like a badass in a jinglebell hat (with a feather!) but I'll be darned if Cagliostro didn't pull it off. Hell, he's rocking that jinglebell hat! I mean, I always figured Cagliostro was a pimp, but goddamn. He can read my palm, anytime!

Hot Town, Cimmerian In The City (Part Two)

Concluding Conan's time-traveling misadventures from "What If" #13 (February, 1978).

First panel: Conan looks down at the dog and thinks "Hey, dinner!" Also? It's nice to see that even the most jaded, hardened Greenwich Village hipster isn't above wearing a tasteful string of pearls. Hey... wait a minute! Those are my gramma's! Stop! Thief!

Second panel: the mellow musical stylings of GROPE! Honestly, Roy Thomas and John Buscema (Ernie Chua, you're just the inker so I'll leave you out of it) -- "punk rock?" I think not. I'd buy "glam" but in no universe do these pretty boys and their frilly frocks qualify as "punk." And I doubt any punk rocker tried to intimidate a rival with a "double-hex whammy smile." Christ, Conan himself is more "punk" they are.



See?

Anyway, that's what happens when middle-aged folks try to depict a current musical fad, Madonna. Or to put it another way, Grope is the Marvel equivalent of Ernie Bushmiller (of the comic strip "Nancy") drawing any and all hippies with ukuleles and flower necklaces.

Whoa. Looks like the alley cat got to the dog before Conan did! (New York is rough.)



Too bad this story wasn't in-continuity, huh? 'Cause I really wanted to see Conan wearing that beret in, like, every story published after this one, forever. I wanted to see Arnold Schwarzenegger wearing a beret in the Conan movies. I wanted to read Conan novels that described the character as "black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, and a kicky little beret." Is that so much to ask?

I leave you with this piece of advice:



Never offer to help Conan move. He'll be stressed out and drunk and belligerent before you even get there, and to top it off he won't even spring for pizza afterwards. (Conan the Dickweed!)

Captain Comet's Very Fashionable Day

In "Strange Adventures" #22 (July 1952) Adam "Captain Comet" Blake attempts to enliven his dull civilian job as an information clerk by dishing out wholly spurious information to gullible young nerds. And if that doesn't work, there's always the completely edible suit he's wearing. The jacket and trousers? A delicate black truffle mousse. The shirt? Stitched together from only the finest cuts of veal. And the tie? A salmon. Blocked by Captain Comet's knee (um, that is a knee, right? I know he's a mutant and all, but GODDAMN!): the salmon's head, which still has the skin on it, and which gazes balefully out at the knickers-wearing preteen loser before it, knowing full-well that the moment the kid sets foot outside the library, a bottlecap beanie-wearing ruffian will punch him in the gut and steal his milk money.

Despite his best efforts, Captain Comet allows his futuristic mind to drift away from the situation at hand, and reminisce about the exciting events of the previous day, when he was summoned by a bunch of wizened old extraterrestrial men in floor-length blue robes.



Screw jeans and Hawaiian shirts! This is a what I call "Casual Fridays", my friend! Plus, they've installed a small roller derby rink in the middle of the room. Too cool! And do those desk chairs look comfy or what? I bet they recline.

I understand they've already instituted the robe policy at the headquarters of American Express. Floor-length robes for everybody! Whoo-hoo! The only downside? If a guy chooses to "go commando," it leaves a funny smell on the chair. Check out the orange guy's hat. Nope, he's not wearing a backwards baseball cap. Although I admit that would be kind of awesome. Let's look at another one of those charming chapeaus, in more detail.



Remember that hip-hop trend of wearing a sun visor backwards and upside-down? This is kind of like that. (Side note: is this still a trend in your time period? I can't always keep the fashion trends straight, what with me being a time traveler and all. Say, have, tall, pointy wizard hats become popular for men yet, in your era? No? Oh, right, that's next year. Something for you to look forward to!)



On the icy world of Lukan, the only natives we ever see are fully grown, male, and shirtless. Yay! And they're all made out of some crystalline substance. Boo! In a grand old sci-fi tradition, there seems to be a planet-wide uniform, and it's black underpants. The guards wear the tighty-blackie numbers you see here, while the leaders wear longer, baggier versions. I guess instead of asking for your rank, a Lukanian crystal man might demand, "Boxers or briefs?!"

Side note: I can understand that if you were a crystal man and you saw a fleshy pink alien creature rushing towards you, that you'd feel a mite anxious. But really, dude, did you have to pee your pants like that? I mean, that puddle is freaking huge! How many cups of coffee did you drink this morning?



Belly shirt sighting! In 1952, yet! Okay, so it's not quite the same thing, but still. This is a little closer to the get-up Lana Turner wore in "The Postman Always Rings Twice." Check out the high-water panties. Don't want to expose the belly button, now do we? That would be utterly pornographic. Just imagine if Jim Balent had designed this outfit. It would look like about three strands of mint-flavored dental floss.

In the exciting climax of the story, Captain Comet takes one look at the metal circlet on Radea's head and says, "Oh, honey... no. Just... no. You look like a Renaissance disco nightmare in that thing. Here, allow me...!"



See, there's bad jewelry, and then there's really bad jewelry. But you scoff. Who ever heard of a piece of jewelry that could control someone's behavior? *rolls eyes* Such a thing exists in your own time! It's called a wedding ring, people! Gah! (Not that it's foolproof, I'll admit.) Okay, now that Captain Comet got that circlet off Radea's head, I really want to do something about her hair. Oh, well.



Back at the library, Captain Comet has to deal with an antagonistic blonde. Lucy Lane's cousin, perhaps? As you can see, the haughty hottie has been engaging in the ancient Chinese practice of hand binding. Her right paw is now utterly useless, but I'll be darned if it isn't a tantalizingly delicate little thing. Do you think these two might secretly have a thing for each other? I mean, they did decide to coordinate their wardrobes that day. (Just like Weight Wizard and I used to do. *bittersweet sigh*) On the other hand, check out Captain Comet's expression. His words may be casual, Hugh Grant-style dithering, but his face says, "I don't care how many flowers you stick in that bleached-blonde rats' nest you call your hair, it still ain't gonna distract people from the mustache, bitch."

I Wear Green And Purple And A Punctuation Mark. Who Am I?

Guess who that guy is. Yup! It's the Riddler! Believe it or not. This image is from "Detective Comics Annual" #8 (1995) by Chuck Dixon and Kieron Dwyer. It's the story that made me love the Riddler. Which was a feat tantamount to sending a manned spacecraft to Pluto, since before I'd always hated the guy. Dixon and Dwyer managed to make the querying l'il irritant sympathetic with this origin story, which chronicles the Riddler's arduous journey from the small time to the big leagues. And it's reflected perfectly in his costumes.

That was his first attempt at a costume, up there. I love the stocking cap. So low-rent, it's kinda charming. And the question mark was painted on. Beautiful. It puts me in mind of the DIY badguys in Bob Burden's comics. It looks like any second now, Bondo-Man or Jumpin' Jehosaphat is going to plow into him and beat him senseless.

The Riddler tried a little harder for his next job.



Here we have the introduction of purple into the Riddler's costume. And how 'bout those accessories? He's bolstered his confidence with not one, but two phallic symbols! (And he then touches the tips of them together. I don't think Freud had a chapter on that one.) But white for the question mark? Oh, honey, no.

And now a little sumpin' for the breeders!



The Riddler's costume here -- *ahem!* Eyes to the center of the panel, buster! I'll get to the Skanks of Prey in just a sec. Anyhow, this is the first version of the costume that most folks associate with the Riddler. Thanks to the old TV show, natch. Although I'm pretty sure that one didn't have a big leather belt holding up the tights. Not seen in this panel: black boots with really thick soles. And you just know those gloves are Playtex. Like I said, first attempt. But the crudity of it all is almost sweet. If you're wondering about why the Riddler's nose looks so odd in this panel, it's because it's bandaged. Because it keeps getting broken, because the Riddler keeps mouthing off to brawny thugs and they keep punching him in the face. Example dialog from the previous page:

Denglar (brawny thug): The police will be on to us like stink on fish.
Riddler: Well, Denglar, I've got a riddle for you. How do you keep an idiot waiting?
Denglar: I dunno.
Riddler: I'll tell you later.

And then Denglar punches the Riddler in the face.

Still, I never cared much for this outfit, especially in its refined, unitard version. Maybe because it was almost too theatrical -- and I know it appeared in comics first, but it really seems to me like the product of somebody who never read comics, and it was their idea of a SUPER! (in a Big Gay Al voice) costume.

Oooohhhkay. How 'bout those floozies, fellas? The one on the left needs to unbuckle a couple of things, because they're cutting off the blood supply to her head. Nice heart-shaped earrings, by the way. This is what the Care Bears cartoon would have been like, if it had been produced by Vince McMahon. Also, check out the spiked thigh-band or whatever that thing's supposed to be. She'll puncture a vital artery if she puts her thighs too close together -- like that's ever going to happen! Nice Devo sunglasses on the other gal. Either that, or somebody pulled an "X-23" with Cyclops' DNA.

I tried to picture what these ladies would look like if they'd been drawn by Dick Sprang. It gave me a tummy ache.



YEAH, BOY! There's the Riddler I love! Finally, a dapper, dandyish look to go with the cocky attitude! And so generous! When he was at the haberdashers and they gave him his bowler hat, he said, "Y'know what? I'd like to buy a round of bowler hats for the house! Bowler hats for everybody!" And then the place went apeshit.

It's a great look for the guy. Very crisp, very polished, and it's all about creating an impression -- right down to the painstakingly pomaded hair with a single loose forelock for a bit of boyish charm. (It worked for Superman and it works for the Riddler.)

His hench-gals still look like whores, but hey, whatever works for them.

Starman: Pimp Of The Spaceways

Starman (a.k.a. Prince Gavyn of Throneworld) has two of the most classically handsome superhero costumes I've ever seen. One is red and yellow; the other is blue and yellow. The symbol on his chest is a simple five-pointed star. There's no unnecessary embelishment. I would never design something that simple myself, but only because Starman has worn that sort of costume already. And he's done it so well, it cannot be improved upon. When I see Starman's costume, I think, "That is the mark of a great hero."

When Starman decides to accessorize, however, it's with such flamboyance that I start to wonder if he's working a second job.



That job would involve him strutting down conveyer-belt sidewalks in the skeevier parts of the galaxy, sweet-talkin' the alien ladies into joining his stable of astro-hos, and screaming at hapless star-johns through the windows of their primer-gray space shuttles. For one thing, there's the staff. Not just a fancy walking stick, like a regular pimp might have. No, it's a huge crooked shepherd's staff which he carries with him everywhere he goes. (Compensating for somethin', Prince?) And then there's the fur cape. Or maybe it's "capes," plural, since as a show of just how fantastically dope and fly and crunk and what-not he is, he'll throw a cape away while he's flying off.



Some pimps like to wear expensive chapeaus. Some of these same pimps like to brandish gem-encrusted chalices. Only Starman is cool enough to display that much bling... on his head.



Of course, the sheer crushing weight of the thing gives him a tension headache to beat the band, but Starman would never let you know it.

He's crunk like that.