Put Your Cat Clothes On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Blockade Boy, and I Approved These Whiskers

Storm Boy let me try out an invention he's working on. It's called the "chronophone", and it lets you contact people in other eras/universes, via their cell phones. Storm Boy says he wants to prank-call Oscar Wilde. (I didn't have the heart to break it to him. Just like I didn't have the heart to tell him that the Legion already has a Time-Telephone, which doesn't require the person you're calling to have their own phone.) I could only remember one 21st century phone number, and it was my old roommate's, Jeremy Rizza's. You know... the guy who deluded himself into thinking he writes this blog instead of me! But what the heck. I reached him on the evening of February 17, 2008. That was just over a year since I'd left him in your crummy time period (and dimension). It turns out that he'd been struggling with technical problems and an illness, just like I have! What are the odds? Anyway, he thanked me for helping him figure out that he was gay (I get that a lot) and then he started to gush about how sexy I was, but then he caught himself and said something about not wanting to be the Dorothy L. Sayers to my Lord Peter Wimsey, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Supposedly, in the year since I'd last seen him, his life had improved a great deal (I get this a lot, too). He'd moved out of that sorry rental of his into a condo, plus he'd lost some weight and gotten contact lenses. He also had joined the Kansas Equality Coalition, which lobbies for GLBT rights in Kansas. In fact, he'd traveled with a whole passel of other folks from the KEC to the state capital, just that past Wednesday. He had seen some portraits of old whiskery legislators, one of whom looked kind of like me! But he neglected to find out who it was. (Er, okay...!) After I signed off, I did some research on Kansan legislators of Ye Olde Weste. I never did find my lookalike (the beard would have been too short for Stockade Boy) but I did find these guys:

This is Samuel Johnson Crawford, the third governor of Kansas. He's got some sweet imperial/Van Dyke action goin' on with the beard... but just look at that hair! Merciful Jeebus! From what I can gather, the late nineteenth century was a haven for the "skullet", i.e. "party out back, going-out-of-business up front." It distracts from the whiskers. For shame, my good sir! Have you no sense of decency? Also, I'm pretty sure you're actually Robert Duvall.

Here's Charles Lawrence Robinson, Kansas' first governor, sporting an alarming combover/flip-do, as though some mad hair-burner tried to arrange Donald Trump's paltry locks into a semblance of Mary Tyler Moore's. And yet the beard is to die for. Observe the magnificent sweep of that mustache! My heart is pounding like crazy! Of course, I did just eat an entire cured ham. So it might be the sodium. Historical trivia: Robinson was also the first zombie to be elected governor. But he wasn't the last! (I apologize if my political humor is too pungent for you.)

Preston B. Plumb: not only the civilian identity of a Gerry Conway villain (I presume), but also a United States senator from Kansas! Plumb is the first guy on my list to combine a cool beard with a sensible -- albeit nerdy -- hairstyle. Bravo, Plumb! Plumb's hobbies included snowboarding; attending Linkin Park concerts; and wearing droopy, baggy pants with marijuana leaves embroidered on the sides.

The eighth governor of Kansas was John Pierce St. John. He's famous for inventing the faux-hawk, but I think his mustache is pretty darned nifty as well. One quibble: the way it diminishes into a few lengthy gossamer fibers. That tells me he's so desperate for length, that he's willing to forgo density. And that smacks of desperation. It's the same way with some handlebar 'stache wearers. They let the tips grow on forever, so that it looks like they have two curled-up pieces of wire stuck to their faces. (My handlebar mustache icon? Dum-Dum Dugan. Of course.) Trim that nonsense back, brothers! Give the rest of your mustache time to catch up! Otherwise, it looks like your 'stache just got rescued from Mount Hood after being separated from the rest of its hiking party for two weeks. In other words, it looks emaciated. So cut it out. Also, lose the panama hat. You look like a tool.

John White Geary was a governor of Kansas Territory, although he's probably better known as the first mayor of San Francisco. (As if this blog wasn't gay enough already.) What a glorious tailback beard! A mustache would have been a nice addition, but it's just dandy without one. As you can see from the curling forelock, Geary was born one-quarter Kewpie Doll. But he never let prejudice against his ancestry stand in his way. He lived long enough to see the birth of his legendary grandson, the Shoney's Big Boy.

Nehemiah Green (no extra "e") was the fourth governor of Kansas, and all I can say is, "Who is that handsome devil? WOOF!" Perfect hair all around, facial and otherwise. Good show! Green had some serious crosses to bear, since he was a mutant with the power to spray sarsparilla from his eyes, and was blackmailed into joining the Hellfire Club. He was disembowelled by Wolverine.

This modern-looking gent is Thomas Andrew Osborne (yes, with an "e") and he was the sixth governor of Kansas. The beard is simple, but it's full, which I appreciate. I love it when mustaches are allowed to grow past the upper lip. They look so much more rugged that way. And he seems like a very friendly fellow. I can picture him in baseball cap; and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off; behind the wheel of a semi; his massive biceps tanned by the unforgiving Kansas sun; a pipe in his mouth; his firm, round gut spilling over his chunky belt buckle as I laze in the passenger seat, and his warm, coarse hand reaches over and undoes my... er, anyway, I think it's a nice-enough beard. Let's move on, huh?

*sighs contentedly* Aw, hells yeah. Here's William Alfred Peffer, United States senator from Kansas. The beard is glorious. I give Peffer extra points for wearing it in the waning years of the nineteenth century, when Dame Fashion's gay brother had turned up his nose at such ravishingly extravagant feats of whiskerdom. (Although to be honest, he didn't have anything else going for him, looks-wise, did he? Can you imagine how the rest of that mug must look? *shudder*)

Rescue Me Bonus: Son of the Annihilator

I'd like to start out with a belated tip of the cap to Sleestak for suggesting yesterday's post! Thanks, pal! Now, let's get down to business.

The main story in "Action Comics" #356 (November 1967) starts out on a bizarre note, as the Annihilator, a doughy Eurotrash doofus in an absurd costume, orders Superman to leave the Earth within forty-eight hours... and Superman agrees! Because the Annihilator is a dangerous individual. And he's obviously, unpredictably bat-shit crazy... a man who would willingly dress like that is capable of anything!

But the proceedings take an even freakier turn when the Annihilator decides to do what any publicly-loathed celebrity does to improve his image: adopt a kid who can show up in a few newspaper photos before he's handed over to the nanny for the rest of his natural life! His new son? A smart-mouthed teenage delinquent. Because, really, isn't that the obvious choice? Let's take a look at the irrepressible little scamp, starting with the cover.

What's wrong with this picture? (And no, the Annihilator's "Nostril Libre" mask doesn't count.) Here's a hint: it was published in 19-freaking-67. And yet the Son of the Annihilator is dressed like Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" (a film from 1953!). It's yet more proof of how DC was getting thoroughly drubbed in the Coolness Wars by Marvel Comics. Sure, Stan Lee was a middle-aged crypto-fascist conservative, but at least he could pretend to get his grooviness on! DC wore their John Birchian squareness right on their covers where every hippie could see it. But wait! It gets worse! Thanks to the cover artist (I'm guessing Neal Adams?) the Son of the Annihilator appears to be a darkly handsome "bad boy" whom any teenage girl (and more than a few teenage boys) would swoon for. So far, not bad. But let's see how interior artist (Wayne Boring, I think) depicts him!

Yipes. Kinda homely. (And he stole all his insults from old "Dead End Kids" films.) Well, maybe he looks better when he smiles.

Gah! He's hideous! Who's his biological father? The Prankster? Criminy! I can forgive a lot in a guy (evidenced by my continuing relationship with Weight Wizard) but a deficient personality and an ugly mug? Good night male nurse!

All that aside, I must say that "Action Comics" #356 had an intriguing undercurrent. Leather-loving outsider "caught... with the meat in his mouth" approached by a brawny, elaborately-moustachioed older gentleman who wants to be called "Dad"? (Haw! Your father's mustache, Pocketbook Pete!) I dunno. It just really resonates with me for some unknown reason.

Anyway, like a lot of father-son relationships, Annihilator and Son hit a rocky patch when hijo ingests some contraband substances.

"All right, son! I'm glad to share my super-power with you." Which of course the Annihilator is going to say, since his own super-power has worn off, and the smirking little shit he calls "son" would punch his goofy noggin off his fat neck if he so much as looked at him funny. ("Daddy-o." Aw, for chrissakes, DC Comics of 1967--!) You know what I would have liked to have seen in "Infinite Crisis"? Son of the Annihilator and Superboy Prime going all "Rock'em Sock'em Robots" on each other. Just get rid of both of those annoying dillweeds at the same time.

So. The Son of the Annihilator is a lot of things, but one thing he's not is cool. He needs one of my patented Blockade Boy makeovers, pronto!

Ah, that's better. The Son of the Annihilator... wait, he needs a name that's not so clunky... I believe I'll dub him "Kid Annihilator" or KA for short... anyway, Kid Annihilator has a shagadelic rawk 'n' roll haircut now, complete with muttonchops. He doesn't bother to cover up his facial hair with a mask like the Annihilator does because he doesn't care about protecting a secret identity. He has the Annihilator's logo on his chest, but it's bordered by three orange shapes that hark back to the radioactivity symbol. That relates to the glow of his powerful fists. His boots are fringed because it's current and groovy and youthful (for 1967) and also because I like the contrast between supercostumes and street clothing. (When it's not overpowering or overdone, I should add. Like trenchcoats... ugh!) In my sketches he had a fringed vest to match, but I decided it covered up too much of my design. And the color scheme is all secondary colors because it compliments the Annihilator's primary scheme and it's more far-out, maaaannnn! Now this guy would look at home battling the Teen Titans... who are as hip, sadly, as 1967 DC ever would get. In my head I can see a dynamic Nick Cardy cover with Kid Annihilator smashing his way through the Titans in front of the words "Make War, Not Love!"

What else do I see in my head? Oh, you don't wanna know. You couldn't handle it! What? You're sure? Okay, I'll share one more thing: I can see Weight Wizard's face after I disrobed in the Conjugal Visit Pod at the addiction treatment center. I take it he'd never seen a robotic dingus before. And he'd especially never seen one with my self-designed Robot Hand with Pimp-Slapping Action attachment! Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sharing too much. Suffice it to say Weight Wizard learned his lesson. For now! And inbetween visits, he can think of me while he tries to scub off the huge motor oil stain I left on his back. Er, I'm sharing too much again, aren't I? See you next Monday!

Rescue Me: Commander Kraken

Greetings from the 30th century! I have good news and I have bad news. What's that? You want the bad news first? Man, are you a downer! Alrighty then. The bad news: due to time constraints (i.e. my old/new boyfriend Weight Wizard is insatiable) I have to reduce my posting to once-a-week. The good news: every post will feature a new costume redesign. I have a huge backlog but I'll get to every one I promised I would.

By the way, how do you like the new muttonchops? They're even bigger and muttonchoppier than the old ones! And the hair? It's eminently mussable. And Weight Wizard loves to muss it, believe you me! And I love the red. I decided to splurge and get myself a professional coloring job -- from Color Kid, natch. The man is an artist.

Okay, okay, enough about me. For now! Let's get down to business. Last summer (your time) I started redesigning the costumes of every supervillain ever killed by Scourge, based on my theory that they would have been spared by the vigilante and gone on to live rich, fulfilling lives, if only they'd dressed better. This week, I solve a problem called "Commander Kraken."

Kraken was a modern-day (your time) pirate. Just by definition he should have been cool and boss and rad as heck, but no dice. He was just a goober with complicated facial hair (quiet, you!) and a pathetic little three-pronged prosthetic hand. On the plus side, he also had a squid and said things like "Squeeze, my beauty -- squeeze!!" But take away the squid, and what do you get? A big, hairy, three-pronged zero.

So here's how I would have spruced him up.

You all know how much I adore historic costume -- waistcoats and thigh-length boots and tricorner hats and trapeze dresses and hoodies and such -- but that solution would have been too easy. So instead I went high-tech. The modest li'l prosthesis is gone, replaced by a way-cool robotic squid-arm with lashing tentacle action! (Insert lascivious comment from Scipio here.) Instead of pirate garb I have an ocean-themed wetsuit. I added a few traditional outlaw elements, like the Zorro mask-scarf-thing and the hair. When the Commander reappeared, in an issue of "The Cat," he had a squid-like beard, but I trimmed that down to a long, dangly biker 'stache so it wouldn't distract from the suit. Or the squid!

The Breakup

Last night I met with Jeremy at the nicest restaurant in Wichita (the Pizza Hut Italian Bistro on south Ridge Road) and we had a good long talk. Jeremy's not mad at me anymore, and we both agreed that I'd overstayed my welcome. With me underfoot all the time, it was hard for Jeremy to get anything done. For instance, he'd just been able to afford to buy Quark Express 7 for his computer, and with me monopolizing it all the time he would never have time to teach himself how to use it (and eventually parlay that into some extra income). Plus there are a lot of other things he needs to do to get out of this rut he's in, and I was "cramping his style" (such as it is). And the feeling was mutual, believe you me. Jeremy's not exactly a party animal. So we both decided it was time I was on my way. At the end of our talk, I grabbed his hand from across the table, looked directly into his eyes, and whispered, "Become who you are."

Yeah, I don't know what that was supposed to mean either.

But enough about Jeremy. What about my needs? I'm going to go look for my future boyfriend, ValXan, and that goofball worldship of his. And I think I'll grow out my muttonchops again, and ditch the 'stache. And dye my hair red. I just can't decide what style I want to wear it in. If you have any suggestions for a hairstyle that looks good with muttonchops, I'm all ears. Like Antennae Lad! The dumb jug-eared bastard...

Oh, and as a gesture of goodwill, Jeremy loaned me the oldest comic book he owns: "Star Spangled Comics" #36 (September, 1944). Yeah... he's never getting that back. Say, let's take a look!

Nobody could rock lemon-yellow jodphurs like Liberty Belle. She was tall enough that it didn't make her ass look big. And her hair was always gorgeous. It's just a shame about her face, huh? She was often mistaken for a thoroughbred Creamello filly, which explains the time I saw a policeman mounting her in Central Park.

You'll notice she doesn't wear a mask. Which makes zero sense, considering she doesn't wear a wig or glasses or nothing in her civilian identity. I think we can thank Roy Thomas for the mask idea. (Finally, something I can thank Thomas for.)

Golly, but her face sure looks familiar. Where have I seen it before? That harsh, bony face, that mane of blonde hair...

Holy shit! It's Super Ann Coulter!

Gah! Let's move on. And quickly!

The Star Spangled Kid's "manservant"* (WINK!) Stripesy also never bothered to wear a mask. I guess his secret identity depended upon there being a surplus of Frankenstein-skulled, slab-like, redheaded goons with bad haircuts in his hometown. (I'm guessing he lived somewhere in Minnesota. Saint Paul, maybe.)

*Yeah, yeah, comic nerds. Technically he was the Kid's chauffeur. So he really knew how to handle a stick... shift. Ye Gads, I am in a positively filthy mood today.)

Case in point:

Here, private detective and closet pervert Penniless Palmer uses a stakeout at a taxidermist's to indulge in some Furry fun. I love how his assistant is all like, "Why do I have to be the walrus? (Again?)"

And now for a snack. *reaches into glove compartment of time bubble*

Aw, yeah! Nothin' like a candy bar from World War 2, I tells ya. They're good and good for you. Just check out the label! In fact, that's the problem with you kids today -- or I guess I should say "back then" since I'm currently speeding through the 2480's -- anyway, that's the problem with you twenty-first century folks.

Not enough dextrose.

Tomorrow: more Star Spangled goodness, and I'll let you know how it goes with ValXan!

Jettison My Heart From the Airlock At Wounded Knee

Jeremy still won't let me in his apartment. I tried to reason with him, helpfully pointing out that he'd acted like a hysterical sissy-mary but for some bizarre, unknown reason this actually made him angrier. He said the problem was I was "inconsiderate" and had "a vicious tongue" and that I "never pay anything towards rent" and that I "eat all [his] food." At that last accusation I stuck my finger through the narrowly open door and poked him in the belly and with my most charming smile, said "We both know that one's a baldfaced lie, Bouncing Boy!" But Jeremy wasn't having any and maybe I shouldn't have used the word "baldfaced" on account of Jeremy's hairline. Then Jeremy said I should give him "some kind of warning" when I'm "going at some guy on [his] bed" so he doesn't just walk in on us after "a hard day at work" and that maybe I should try covering the bed with "towels." And I said, "What, am I living in Iran all of a sudden?" and that's when he started to close the door in my face. "Wait, wait!" I pleaded. "Can I have my shaving kit?" (which is technically a steamer trunk filled with various moisturizers and exfoliants) and he said he'd already thrown it out! Holy balls! The door closed. "Can I at least borrow some more comic books?" I shouted. From behind the door I could hear him say, wearily, "I'll think about it."

Sweet!

For now, I still have his copy of "Wonder Woman Annual" #5 (1996). It'll do. Let's take a gander at the book's heroine: a futuristic, noncommitally Native American-esque lass living on one of those ancient spaceship worlds that use to be all the rage. You know the kind -- the original passengers are long dead, and their descendants have no idea they're on a spaceship anymore? Blech. That nonsense is so 2660's.

Her name is AlyXa, and she dresses like a slut. But her hair and jewelry are to die for.

Spinabifidalicious! I guess her people have evolved past the need for an intestinal tract.

Anatomical abnormalities aside, isn't she the cutest thing? I wish I'd seen this ensemble back when I was in my Space Goth phase. I would have been simply dripping with handmade bangles and clasps and clusters of dangly earrings and shit. Oh well.

It's just too bad about her outfit. Slutty? Oh, just a tad. But the bigger crime in my eyes is that it's so damned impractical. There's so little material, and it's all fastened together so tenuously, it's not worth the trouble of putting it on. One strong gust from an air duct and WHAM! It gets knocked right off. And the cut of that skirt... yikes. It makes the current Supergirl look positively Victorian.

The guys on the ship don't wear much either but at least they have an excuse: they're hot! Well, besides that, they're warriors. So they dress kind of like gladiators in a "Mad Max" kind of way, with copious doses of "New York art student" and just a dash of Glam Rock.

And the winner for "Most Ridiculously Convoluted Spear" goes to--! (And now I play The Waiting Game. Sooner or later I'll get a pissy e-mail from some martial arts nerd informing me about exactly what kind of ancient Thai weapon or whatever this "spear" is based on. Ah, the internet!)

By the way, have you guessed who the penciler is? No? Here's a helpful clue:

Nobody else draws muttonchops like that. They're so pert! So full-bodied! This can only be the work of... Dave Cockrum! *thoughtfully strokes killer biker 'stache* Man, I miss my sweet-ass muttonchops. And my red hair. *sighs*

But never mind all that now. I've found a new boyfriend! Not that he knows it yet. Check him out, yo.

His name is ValXan. Which I've decided to pronounce like "Valjean" (from "Les Miserables"). Because it's French. Ooh-la-la! God damn but he's gorgeous! And he's sensitive! I can tell. Because he's wearing mascara -- oodles of it, in fact. He has a lot on his mind. Poor fella. Let me relieve you of your burden, ValXan.

Not that he spends all his time brooding, mind you.

Slap fight! So ValXan's voice is "a roaring bellow" and he prefers to resolve conflicts through violence? Gosh, but we have a lot in common!

Okay, now let's skip through all the blah-blah-blah in the middle of the comic and get to the end, where AlyXa mediates a conflict between ValXan's rugged band and the grotesquely-mutated humans who also live on that ginormous spaceship.

Yikes. That is the homeliest chick I've seen wearing a Wonder Woman costume since Cathy Lee Crosby. But back to my future boyfriend...

Aw, ValXan! Even humiliated, you're a cutie-pie! (And that's an important qualification in my boyfriends, believe you me.)

Doctor Strange:Master of the Pimpin' Arts

In "Doctor Strange" #52 (April 1982) the title hero demonstrates many times over why he's Earth's Clotheshorse Supreme.

By the bilious bowels of Bill Blass! Doc looks aces in this classy three-piece number sans coat, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up for a touch of sexfulness. In lieu of a tie, Strange has accessorized with a stethoscope which can be yanked dramatically from the neck whilst ordering people about. In fact, the whole thing's so sexful that it's aroused him! And there's only one way to satiate his urge: "Hello, Wong. There is an emergency here..."

But of course that's not the ensemble Doctor Strange is famous for.

Hey, what's the big deal? I can conjure up a weird outfit with just a snap too. Anyway, I've always liked Doc's costume, even if it makes him look like a cross between Ming the Merciless and a ballerina. Now let's see how he dresses for... oh, let's say 15th century Spain.

Suh-WEET! I love those two-layer cloaks. It's why I used one for my He-Looker design. And of course he brought along some boxes for his extra hats. Right? I mean, that's what I'd do.

I think he looks terrific. Like a bad-ass Pilgrim. ("Charles Bronson is Myles Standish in "Thanksgiving, Bloody Thanksgiving!") I'd love to see him in a steel cage match with Solomon Kane. Let's get that hat off his head and see how he styled his hair.

Muttonchops?! I'm in heaven. Why can't he always have muttonchops? Why can't every superhero have muttonchops? (Batman could have muttonchops. He could glue them to the outside of his cowl!)

Also, it's hard to tell from this panel but Doc's wearing his hair longer and he's tied it back in a little ponytail. Like, a dinky one. Three inches at most. Like Patrick Swayze. So that part's kind of lame. But the muttonchops more than make up for it.

Y'know, that hat looks awfully familiar. Hey, Doc! Put it back on so I can get a better look at it. And spin around a few times. Really work it.

A-ha! Now I remember. Looks like Doc's all gussied up for breakfast. At Tiffany's.

Spider-Woman's Super-Disguise Kit!

With Michael Fleisher as writer, Marvel's "Spider-Woman" series took on a very DC-esque tone. Namely, it turned into a cross between the "Supergirl" and "Jimmy Olsen."

Incog-NEATO! So that bent, bedraggled old lady was really the shapely Spider-Woman! Let this be a lesson unto you, young (straight) men: any old woman you meet could turn out to be a foxy super-babe! So take time to check them out. Really, give them a thorough going-over. Don't be afraid to peek under their hems for telltale signs of spandex. Pinch their bottoms to see if they're padded out. For reals. It could be totally worth it. But how on earth did Spider-Woman come across this fantastic disguise?

Oh. Okay, so I feel a bit cheated, but I'm sure Fleisher will make good on his promise to tell that wonderful story. Hmm? What's that, Jeremy? He never did? Huh. Well. Now, of course, I'm going to have to kick his ass. *makes beeline for time bubble*

*emerges from time bubble with a blackened eye, a dislocated jaw, and a pronounced limp* That could have gone better. Er, where were we? Oh yes. Here's Spider-Woman disguised as a cheap trollop. Or maybe Marcia Wallace. I'm not quite sure. Oh, and by the way, I think I saw that exact same ensemble on Tommy Tomorrow. I liked it better on him.

Fishnets and a blonde wig? It doesn't get more DC than this, folks! Except for the next page, where Spider-Woman goes on a date with a smarmy creep while wearing her Spider-Woman costume.

Also: "Momo?" The hell-?!

Sometimes Spider-Woman would disguise herself as a man! In a zoot suit! As part of a zoot suit-wearing gang. You see what I mean about how "DC" this all is? It's like they escaped from an old "Green Arrow" or "Black Orchid" story.) "I'm dreadfully sorry I had to let them get so close to you and your wife, Mr. Ambassador...!" Thank God she wasn't following a masher, huh? ("I'm so sorry I had to let him fondle your wife...")

Once, Spider-Woman disguised herself as supporting cast member Lindsay McCabe, masquerading as Spider-Woman. My brain is bleeding just thinking about it. Luckily, nobody noticed Spider-Woman's man-hands.

Such ravishing muttonchops! Er, but I digress. That vacant pile of boobery in the background is none other than Spider-Woman! I call this look "Vanna Frost": part ditsy "briefcase babe" and part icy ballcutter. With barrettes!

Ack! Another man-guise! You can't tell me your stomach didn't jump back up your throat a bit when you saw that panel of her lifting that screaming man-head off her comely visage. Okay, so you could tell me that, but I wouldn't listen to you. In fact, I have my hands over my ears and I'm humming a jaunty little tune this very instant. La la la la la...

And in my last example, the tables get turned on Spider-Woman when somebody disguises themselves as her.

Apparently the carpet didn't match the curtains! Because the whole roll of it got returned to the warehouse. Why are you snickering? What did you think I meant? Why, that's filthy! For shame. Let me start over.

Woo-woo! It's Spider-Woman's very own Etta Candy, complete with a "Spider-Woman" sorority. Which we never got to see, goddamn it. You'd think the follow-up writer, Chris Claremont, would be all over that shit. Except he'd make them mind-controlled ninja assassins or somethin'.

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!

Haunted Hos!

"The Warlord" # 45 (May, 1981) is all about scantily-clad women being grabbed by scary monsters, but I'm the one who had to deal with the horror of their outfits. In the main story, elaborately VanDyked "man of action" Travis Morgan must stop a trio of giant cyclopes from abducting the womenfolk of a race of tree-dwelling dwarves. I've only glimpsed the tree-dwelling dwarf society and I've never visited them, so I guess I'm pulling a "Lars Van Trier" when I say that they're undoubtedly the worst people ever to have existed on or under the planet.



All the dwarf women we see in this issue -- and it's a lot! -- are busty skanks clad only in skimpy rags, while the only two dwarf men we see are dumpy, pot-bellied, and covered in layer upon layer of garish Elizabethan/Victorian clothing. Apparently tree-dweeling dwarf society is divided into two unequal strata: the pimps and the hos. Look at that diminutive, big-headed tramp, desperately angling for the attention of beefy hunk. (And succeeding, I guess! Ew.) It's like the Skartaris version of "American Idol." Any moment now she's going to slowly clap her hands with her fingers splayed apart and tell the hunky guy he has "a beautiful spirit." And then she'll invite him back to her dressing-tree and deny the whole thing later.

Later, the Warlord -- who is all about delegation -- arranges for the captive tree-dwelling prostitutes to be rescued by a woman who could really use a Brazilian wax.



Yeah, yeah, it's a furry bikini. Still, when the fur is an exact match for your own hair, is it really a good idea to wear something like that? And again, look at the tree-dwelling dwarf women and their ripped clothing. The cyclopes didn't do that to them when they kidnapped them -- that's just how the dwarf ladies happened to be dressed at the time. Creepy!



Aaaannnd creepier.

In the "Omac" backup story, penciller Greg LaRoque hopes nobody who sees this has ever read an X-Men comic and will therefore think that the carnival barker's hairdo is kooky and original! Ah, youth! But the lady in the lime green is the scariest part of the story. Radioactive earrings, boots that are literally painted on and puffy-yet-ventilated sleeves. And the hair! All that hair, and the monster, sight unseen, somehow manages to bypass it and grab her by her waist. Well, it was probably all sticky with Alberto VO5, anyway.

Hey, want to see something really scary?



Cool your jets, Poindexter. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you're a hyena-faced spaz and nobody likes you. (There, better.) Also, I'm going to have to revoke your muttonchops. You're just not cool enough to carry them off. *RRRRIIIP!!* Yes, I know it stings. Stop crying and take it like a man. What am I going to do with them? Not that it matters to you, but I'm going to preserve them in brine and keep them on a shelf. Next to Cliff Carmichael's.

(I can't 100% guarantee a post tomorrow -- 95% but not 100%. I'm helping someone install laminate flooring in their house and computer access is an unknown quantity. Everything will be back to normal for Monday, though.)