Clothes Make The Menace: The Best Costume Of All Time

This has been my number one favorite costume ever since I saw it back in the summer of 1980, in "Spider-Woman" #31. And as you can see, it's been a big influence on my work.


Why do I love the Hornet's costume?
1. The color scheme: purple and orange. Eye-catching and weird. But it works. I still don't see this combination used very often in super-costumes. Of course, I had to use it for one of my own costumes.
2. Depending on what the colorist felt like doing in a particular panel, it had an Aquaman neckline. Show off those hunky shoulders, Hornet!
3. None of that "underpants on top of spandex" business.
4. The arrow motif. Striking but not too busy. It also works as a subtle tie-in to the similarly winged Janet "The Wasp" Van Dyne. Janet loved using arrows on her own costumes back then. And just like the Hornet, she made sure that every single arrow on her costume pointed directly at her crotch! I believe that's called "playing to your strengths."

The Hornet was really Scotty McDowell, a criminologist who was temporarily mutated and hypnotized into becoming a bad guy by one of Spider-Woman's enemies. This was especially hard on Spider-Woman given that he was the only member of her supporting cast. He was back to normal by the end of issue #32 and disappeared completely from "Spider-Woman" (and from comics in general) not long after. It's a real shame, too, since he had one kick-ass costume.

Nation's Capitol Unprepared For Latest Outbreak Of Bird Floozy

'Cause she lives in Washington DC, y'see, and she's dressed like... well, hell YES, it was a long, convoluted set-up for a lame pun. So? You wanna fight about it?

I think we just found the Black Condor a girlfriend! Not that he's into that. But let's move on. In your time period, when sexless nerds want to gape at statuesque, lingerie-clad females with feathers on their backs, they just Google images from the Victoria's Secret "Angel" collection. In 1982, they had to read "Wonder Woman" #288. The gal with the loquacious brain and the vivacious everything else is the Pre-Crisis Silver Swan, or as I like to think of her, "the good one." Whereas the two Post-Crisis versions were, respectively, a victim of domestic abuse with zero personality, and a mindless assassin (with bad hair), this Silver Swan knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. What she wanted was to stay beautiful forever. And to get it, all she had to do was fulfill her deal with the god Mars and kill Wonder Woman. Like Poison Ivy, she was irresistible to men, and like Killer Frost, she was a vicious man-hater. And she had a great costume. The paradox is that individually, none of the parts really work -- the Scarlet Witch-style headdress, the puffy sleeves with attached cape, the lacy collar -- but dad-blast it if it doesn't look swell all put together! Well played, Swan. Well played.

Vigilantism... On Ice!

Holy cats, that is one pissed-off competitive figure skater!

Naw, I'm kiddin'. Actually, it's the Golden Age hero, Firebrand. Like the Red Bee, Hydroman, and Neon the Unknown, Firebrand firmly believed that Gauzy Baggy Shirt = Terror. How girly was Firebrand's costume? It was so girly that in the 1980's, when his sister took over his codename and superhero job, she could wear pretty much the exact same outfit and make it look like it was designed especially for her. Except her version showed less cleavage.

I suppose Firebrand was going for a Zorro-type thing with this ensemble but it just doesn't work. Maybe if he'd taken it the whole nine yards, with a flat-brimmed hat and and an embroidered coat and a sword or a whip and maybe a horse or something... but even then? It's pink. It's freaking pink. There are plenty of colors he could have chosen which are manlier than pink, like seafoam green and robin's egg blue and canary yellow. Hell, even magenta or dusty rose! Or coral! That's manly. But no. He went with pink, and pink simply does not impart menace to the criminal mind. I just don't know what he was thinking. Let's see... Firebrand was from the Bored Millionaire school of superheroing, where he had unlimited resources and no superpowers. So, he was kind of like Batman, but without the angst. And as inspiration, instead of a bat flying through his open window, it was... what? A flamingo? A marshmallow Peep? A bottle of Pepto-Bismol?

Then there's the whole kerchief mask thing. Lord knows, I loves me some kerchief masks. I've used those twice so far in my designs. But the difference is mine didn't have pleats. Pleats are fussy, and they don't usually translate well to line drawings. As you can see, the pleats conspire with the red color to make Firebrand look less like "swashbuckling daredevil" and more like "Dumb Donald from 'Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids.'"

He sure looks pissed off, though. I'm guessing he finally looked in a mirror.

After the Fugpocalypse

Remember how fun the clothing was in the 1970's version of the Apocalypse? Before "The Matrix," or "Mad Max," or "The Day After Tomorrow" or even just "The Day After?" Sure, civilization had crumbled, but everyone got to wear kooky, colorful costumes made of the shiniest synthetic fabrics ever dreamed up by a bong-addled DuPont engineer! Yeah, there'd be the ruins of some modern landmark over there in the distance, but you didn't care! You'd just unzip your groovy velveteen jumpsuit a few more centimeters, run your hands through your feathered hair, and pretend you were merely on an extended camping trip! Of course, there was always some mind-bendingly existential bummer to deal with. But you sure as hell looked good doing it!

The gentleman with the schoolmarm bun -- er, make that "samurai-influenced hairstyle" is M'shulla from "Amazing Adventures" #39 (Marvel Comics, November 1976). Even though the Martians have destroyed everything and he's fighting for survival in the middle of the Okefenokee Swamp, he still takes the time to glue a bindhi to his forehead and starch the astoundingly wide fringe on his shoulders. In fact, he seems to have way too much time to starch them, because they're sticking straight outward like a porcupine's quills. Maybe they're not part of the costume at all, but his shoulders' natural defense mechanism. When you see M'shulla's shoulder flaps quiver, it means he's agitated! Take a few steps back and mellow out!

His pal Killraven -- that's him horning in on M'shulla's closeup in the second panel -- has an outfit that's also Very Seventies, what with the disco headband -- er, make that "princely circlet." But I like that one, so I won't dog on it today.

Hostile Blogover

Hey, kids! You've probably noticed the ridiculous lag time between posts. Well, that nonsense is going to stop right now. I sat Jeremy down and gave him a good talking-to. He said he didn't have time to publish my posts on his blog because he had an unexpected couple of weeks at work where he was logging twelve-hour days, and also he had a paying freelance job doing artwork like this:

Which looks okay, I guess, but I don't know why he likes drawing stuff like that. I mean, where are the bulging muscles? The billowing capes? Feh! Feh, I say to you now. Anyhow, I strong-armed the little guy into giving me his Blogger password, plus full use of his scanner and his comic book collection. Turns out it didn't take much -- I just lowered my voice another octave and gave him a couple of rabbit punches and a Dutch rub.

So now you can expect much more frequent posting. The mega-posts with the two costume designs and the massive backstory will still only come once a month or so, but between them will be lots of little posts about costumes I like and ones I hate -- with scans! Plus, I'll show you some costume challenges I set for myself -- like the Gender Reassignment Challenge, where I take a really girly outfit like the Black Canary's fishnets-and-bustier number or Saturn Girl's classic pink bikini, and I re-imagine them for a male superhero. The difficulty comes in keeping as many elements from the original outfit as possible while still making them look butch. Just wait'll you see "the Scarlet Warlock." And "Mister Marvel!" Male-to-female? I dunno. That might be too easy. But there's also the "Good-to-Evil" and the "Evil-to-Good" challenges, where I design villainous versions of heroes' outfits and heroic versions of villains' outfits. And the challenges where I take era-specific costumes and redesign them for a different period. Like Silver Age versions of 90's Image characters, or Funk-a-delic 70's versions of the stodgiest Golden Agers. It'll be great!

Shawl That Heaven Allows: The Black Condor

What's his deal:
Viva la plot contrivance! When Richard Grey Jr. was a baby, his parents took him with them on an archeological dig in one of the numerous remote locations in Mongolia. (Fun fact: remote locations account for 93% of that enchanting land!) Marauding bandits wiped out the entire expedition, save for Baby Richard. The infant was left alone in the desert and would have died of starvation and/or exposure, had he not been adopted by a flock of giant birds. You heard me. These mysterious black condors -- which may be related to the genuinely Mongolian "black vulture" or "steppe condor" or perhaps the author just yanked them out of his ass -- somehow managed to raise Richard to adulthood without killing him. In fact, Richard taught himself to fly just by watching the condors do it. You heard me. Later accounts of Richard's story threw in a radioactive meteorite to make this part of the story more plausible. No, seriously.

Richard didn't encounter another human being until he was a full-grown man. Did I mention he was in a remote part of Mongolia? This fellow, a hermit (remote!) taught Richard to talk and act like an actual person. The hermit pointed out that most people don't possess the power of flight. He suggested that Richard could use this ability to help Mankind. Upon the hermit's death, Richard returned to America. His timing was perfect! It just so happened that Richard was an exact double of a freshly murdered senator named Thomas Wright. Senator Wright's death was so recent, in fact, that Richard was easily able to steal the man's identity without anybody noticing -- not even Wright's fiancee! Ew.

During the few hours of the day that Richard wasn't practicing politics in an office to which nobody had elected him, and when he wasn't busy macking on a dead man's unsuspecting girlfriend, he found time to slip on a ridiculous costume and fight crime. He armed himself with a "black ray" gun that could both stun his enemies and make that Iron Maiden poster in your bedroom look totally groovy, man. Oh, and he didn't wear a mask. I think you all know my opinion on superheroes with secret identities and no masks, so let's just move along, shall we? (Grinds teeth furiously)

Richard/Thomas/The Black Condor battled evil during the 1940's, mainly, and then in the 70's he wound up on "Earth-X" where the Nazis had won WW2. Good one, jerk. A second Black Condor got his own comic in the 1990's and Richard guest-starred as a ghost, sort of watching over the new guy. And now the new guy's dead, too. Stick to your day job, Richard.

First appearance: Crack Comics #1 (May, 1940).


Crimes against fashion:
Hot pants! The sash with the meaningless diamond symbol on it! But mostly the goofy shawl-cape-thing with the attached cuffs. Criminals don't see you as a threat when you're dressed like a Ziegfeld Girl.

Our meeting:
I had just finished infiltrating a committee meeting on Capitol Hill, where I'd slipped a rider onto a tax bill, declaring that the first Tuesday of every other month should henceforth be known as "Blockade Boy Day." (It has the same frequency as my blog entries! Ha ha! Heh... sigh. Things will get better soon, I promise.) I spied a man atop the Senate steps holding the corners of his trench coat in each hand. He sprinted down the steps, causing the fabric to billow outward like a cape, and making flapping motions with his arms. I knew it could only be Richard "Thomas (The Black Condor) Wright" Grey Jr. I chased him down and confronted him. He was surprised I knew his real identity but I explained I was from the future, plus how he didn't wear a mask and also the whole trench coat deal. "What trench coat deal?" he sputtered, looking genuinely confused. His fingers nervously played with the ends of his coat. "Flap... flap, flap," he whispered, avoiding my gaze. I asked him to stop doing that but he repeated that he didn't understand my meaning. Luckily, he was interested in seeing some costume designs, so we met again that night at a very nice French restaurant. Richard requested a table "wherever there are curtains." While we talked, Richard constantly toyed with the draperies, and I constantly slapped his hands away from them.

My presentation:

For the first design, I made your costume more bird-like than what you've got now, because what you've got now is frankly horrible. I didn't want to make it look exactly like a bird costume, because that would have been goofy instead of weird and intimidating. Still, I wanted to suggest a bird. So there are big yellow lenses on the cowl, layered feather shapes on the torso and shoulders, ribbing on the cape and legs that gives the impression of feathers and scales, respectively. Hey, quit that. Okay. There's a cutout on the stomach to show off your killer abs, and that shape is repeated on the backs of the gloves. And I think this look works better with shorter, spikier hair. Stop it, I said! Okay, next design...


When I think of the name "Black Condor," I don't just think of birds. I think of a highwayman or a pirate... brigands, outlaws, high adventure on land and sea! I'd love to see you take your superhero act in this direction. So, this is an 18th Century style pirate's costume made of various dark fabrics, with a bright crimson sash around the waist for a spot of color. The mask is-- hey, quit it! The mask is a kerchief that ties in the back. You could top it with a three-sided hat, if you want. For the wings, I figure I could swipe a pair from a guy named Hawkman. He lives in another dimension, so he'd never think to look for them here. I'll paint 'em black and they'll be perfect. HEY! What did I just tell you about the drapes? Now, the facial hair... I suppose I could rig up some kind of crepe hair and spirit gum deal for the beard, but the whole effect would be ruined if a bad guy yanked it off you in the middle of a fight. You'd be a laughing stock! So, I think it would be best if you'd just grow an actual beard. The bonus is you'd look all professorial and smart in your civilian life, so it'd be doing double duty. And people would never connect the bearded Black Condor and the bearded Senator Wright because of the Condor's long hair. Now, that part would be fake -- a wig, basically, that's built into the kerchief. In the future, this same technology will be used in baseball caps that folks order from novelty catalogs. Yes, it's a startling new world in 1993. For the "black ray" gun, you just duplicate the mechanism and put in two flintlock pistols. It's too cool, am I right? I mean, just imagine this badass motherfucker swooping down at you in the middle of the -- STOP PLAYING WITH THE CURTAINS, GOD DAMN IT!

Richard's response:
Try as I might, I couldn't convince him to wear the pirate costume. (Barnacles!) But he liked the first idea I had, so we scheduled a fitting at his hotel suite.

Well, the minute he had the cape on, he started playing with the damned thing. Once again, I had to slap his hands away. "What if you sew the ends of the cape to the gloves?" he suggested, innocently.

"No," I explained, "because that would look stupid. As I've told you about a dozen times before."

"Oh." He stared at the floor for a while, biting his lips. His head jerked back up, his eyes alight with a new hope. "It's okay if I hold onto the cape while I'm flying, though, right? After all, it is my costume!"

I dismissed that idea, Richard pouted some more, and I continued to work on the outfit. "Flap, flap," Richard whispered to himself. "Flap." I kept shushing him and slapping his hands away from the cape for another ten minutes or so.

Finally I had to put my foot down. "Richard," I said sternly, "you are not going to wear this costume unless you first accompany me to a notary public and sign a legal and binding document promising you won't hold the cape like that or by any method attach it to any part of your hands or wrists. In fact, I may even require you to get a post-hypnotic suggestion to that effect."

"But why?" he demanded. "Why can't I attach my cape to my wrists?"

I was ready to scream. "Because, you fucking crackpot, YOU ARE NOT A GOD DAMN BIRD!"

He flew at me -- literally -- and we brawled, pounding the everloving shit out of each other and destroying most of the hotel suite. The bout ended when he located his "black ray" gun and fired it at me, point blank. I turned into a nice, shiny steel wall and reflected the beam back at him, rendering him unconscious. Bruised and bloodied, I stripped the incomplete costume off him and slipped out the window before the hotel detective could get to me.

The upshot: the Black Condor wore his dopey old costume for the rest of his natural life, and I can't visit his dimension again without him tracking me down and pooping on my car.

Chairman of the "Sword"

Now it can be told! Here's the super-duper, triple-reverse secret project I've been working on. It's a grand parody of that "Sword of Aquaman" picture that's cracked the internet in half, or at least chipped it a little. It was the idea of my internet pal Scipio, of Absorbascon fame. That's him in the center, in a stunning costume designed by yours truly (to Scip's specifications), gladly replacing the mysterious pseudo-Aquaman (or "Arthur Curry Joe Dorita," as I like to call him). Instead of a big heavy sword, he's holding a fencing foil and his pet dog! In place of the original pic's be-tentacled sorceror is Starman; in place of King Shark is Orca the Whale-Woman. And lounging seductively at Scipio's feet is the throbbingly powerful Vibe, looking right at home despite having been choked to death by a robot about twenty years ago... oops! Hope I didn't spoil any old comics for you. Anyway, they're all Scipio's favorite characters, and truth be told, I'd rather read a comic about them than this tedious-looking Conan knock-off DC is about to foist on us all.

I drew the whole thing myself. Well, Jeremy helped. A little. Mainly in plastering his surname on it, even though he didn't have a damned thing to do with it. Hey, just like Edith Head with the costume designs for "Sabrina!" Also, he insisted on crediting the original artist, Jackson "Butch" Guice... even though I personally happen to think it's abundantly clear that this is a perfectly legal parody. I'm not a "swipe artist," and I'll fight any man who says I am! (Preferably after dinner and drinks.)

'Til Death Us Do Party

In a week or so, I'll post some new costume designs. (Two words: "Black Condor!") I'd have done it sooner except I've been working on a super-secret project for pal Scipio, and also? It's the holidays! Or as I like to call it, "the party crashing season." Thanks to my time bubble, I can slide myself into any superhero soiree I wanna! Here's a roundup of my festive exploits over the last few weeks:


Hyper threw a hat party, and his was the grandest of all!


Although Peacemaker's was a close second.


Stardust and his longtime companion had one of them barefoot, outdoor hippie weddings. Everything was made out of hemp. Even the wedding cake.


Dart threw a bitchin' hootenanny, but he monopolized all the available guys! Of course, now I'm looking at them without my rum goggles on, I'm thinking he can keep 'em.

Here's what happened when the Falcon's housewarming party got a trifle out of hand:

Now granted, that's the biggest, most elaborate fondue set I've ever laid eyes on, and yes, Falcon, it sucks that he didn't keep the receipt, but that's no reason to attack the poor mofo.

I consider myself something of a "playa," but even I have to draw the line somewhere. I intercepted an invitation for a "key party" thrown by the Red Dragon. And here's what I saw when I opened the front door:

At which point, I slammed the door shut again and got the hell out of there.

Have a happy 2006, everybody! (I've already seen it and trust me, it won't be that bad.)

Full Motto Jacket: Mister Terrific

What's his deal:
Terry Sloane was a child genius who entered college at age twelve and graduated within a year. In addition to his intellectual acumen, he was a top athlete, specializing in the martial arts. By his twenties, he had parlayed his talents into the business world and become ridiculously wealthy. But success bored him. Yeah, that's the kind of problem you want to have. Spiriling into a deep depression, Terry decided that since he was so good at everything that there were no challenges left to overcome, and so he vowed to take his own life. Just then he saw a woman hurl herself off a bridge. He dove in after her and rescued her from drowning. The distraught lass told Terry that her kid brother had joined a gang -- and not the cute, beanie-wearing, wagon-pulling, opera-singing "Our Gang" type of a gang, either. No, this was an honest-to-goodness criminal enterprise that was recruiting disadvantaged kids and turning them to a life of crime. Terry's solution was to whip together an awfully square-looking super-hero costume and give the gang leaders what-for, so as to impress the little tykes. It worked, and the youngsters dubbed their tights-wearing savior, "Mister Terrific." Terry went on to create the Fair Play Club, a youth center along the lines of your contemporary Boys & Girls Club of America. He joined the Justice Society of America and also had a long-standing romance with the lady he saved from drowning. Doubtless her kid brother was thrilled about that. ("Wow, my own sister is getting boned by the Mister Terrific!")

Mister Terrific died a chump's death, unfortunately, at the hands of a D-list villain named the Spirit King, who had possessed one of Terry's super-hero friends. No fair! First appearance: Sensation Comics #1 (DC, January 1942.)


Crimes against fashion:
The color scheme, for one, which was apparently inspired by Mexican stoplight candy. There's the dainty pixie boots, which look oppressively precious even on actual pixies. But the worst part is the jacket. The "multi-colored leather jacket with crap drawn all over it" look wouldn't come into fashion until circa 1990 (even Chuck Woolery had one!) and even then it was only popular for about a week.

Our meeting:
I was visiting Gateway City in the summer of 1943. After a long day of searching for just the perfect homburg hat, my stomach was growling. The smell of chicken a la king led me to a banquet hall. I spied through one of the windows a massive charity dinner for the Fair Play Club. At the far end of the room was a long, elevated table with an assortment of super-heroes... and a few empty chairs. So naturally, I slipped into one of my super-hero outfits, busted into the joint through the service entrance, and sidled up to the table like I belonged there. Well, I had only gotten a few bites of food down my gullet when Mister Terrific showed up and asked just what the hell I was doing in his seat. (The biggest chair, by the way, and right in the center... I mean, which one would you have chosen?)

He was pretty upset, but I managed to calm him down with a big cash donation to the Fair Play Club and a suggestion I do some costume designs for him. "After all," I said, "you may be the Man of a Thousand Talents," but you're no fashion designer!" He agreed -- a bit sadly, I thought. We agreed to meet again a few days later.

My presentation:

For your first option, I tried as best I could to retain your current color scheme. But I just couldn't make it work. So, I replaced the green with a deep battleship gray. It makes the red and yellow really pop. Plus, the combination of all three colors is reminiscent of fighter planes and machinery -- it's really masculine. I kept the shape of your "Fair Play" logo but removed the words. Honestly, I don't think you need them.


The second option is specifically designed to make you look more like a lug -- a palooka, if you will. You're doing great right now but I figure you can lure even more kids onto the path of righteousness if you look like somebody from their neighborhood -- like one of those big, brawny types who delivers ice or who hauls around sides of beef. See, you can wow 'em with the biceps and the tough guy tattoo, and then bust out the old "don't be a fool; stay in school" speech by demonstrating your genius I.Q.

Terry's response:
Terry wasn't too keen on the tattoo (darn it!) but he really liked the first design. He gave me a hefty cash advance and told me to get to work. The next day I received a telegram from him, cancelling the order. I tried to get him on the phone. No luck. So that very same night I marched into his brownstone and asked him what the deal was. He was suprised I knew his secret identity, until I explained I was from the future, and also since he didn't wear gloves his fingerprints were all over the place.

Terry said I'd inspired him to try his hand at fashion design. He showed me piles of drawings, all of which -- and I'm loathe to admit this -- looked way better than anything I could do. I asked him if he was going to wear one of the great new costumes he'd designed for himself. He said no, because he'd decided his original costume was too closely associated with the Fair Play Club for him to change it at this point. And besides, he added, he wanted to concentrate more on women's wear. In fact, just a few hours previous, he had started his own clothing line, which was already turning a three hundred percent profit and was going to be cover-featured in the next month's "Mademoiselle." And, he said, he had me to thank for it!

I have to admit I didn't take this very well. I hurled as many invectives as I could think of at him, including 30th century ones like "sprocking." Terry calmly put his hand on my shoulder. Then he pressed down on a certain nerve cluster and I collapsed like a pile of rotten tomatoes. Terry snapped his fingers and two beefy footmen appeared. They carried my paralyzed body out the back door and into the back of a waiting taxi, which unceremoniously deposited me at the entrance to a garbage dump on the outskirts of town.

Ingrate.

Bleak and White and Dead All Over

So, according to the latest issue of JSA, my kick-ass mountain cabin is actually located in Hell. Well, that explains why the Red Bee was there. And the T.G.I. Fridays. I'm going to send my real estate agent a strongly-worded letter. Or better yet, I could use my time bubble to ensure he's never born! Yeah, definitely that second thing.

"Big Monkey" Business

My pal Scipio has a cool new venture with Big Monkey Comics, a one-stop shop for all your comics needs! You can get comics, cool tie-in merchandise, peruse the latest comics news and make your voice heard on the forums. It's pretty damned nifty already, and it promises to get even niftier. Check it out!

And in honor of Big Monkey, I want to relate my own "big monkey" experience. First off, I want to say that I should probably just stay the hell away from Central City, after the whole Abra Kadabra/Safeway incident and now this. So anyway, I was touring the Flash Museum. (I had to evade multiple security measures to get inside at 11 PM on a Sunday, but what can I say? I hate crowds.) I headed straight for the display of Flash's Rogues and got a deep, booming laugh from all the "fashion don'ts." Next thing I know, Gorilla Grodd smashed through a wall, in search of some weapon in the museum's collection. (And yes, wiseasses,I know gorillas aren't monkeys. Shut your pieholes for ten seconds and let me finish talking.) I flung off my $400 Kenneth Cole peacoat, revealing my kick-ass superhero togs, and shouted, "Stop, in the name of--" and then Grodd nailed me with a weird-looking raygun, and then this happened.

Say hello to Blockade Baboon. (Baboons are monkeys, see?) I think you have to admit that even with a prehensile tail, I was still pretty stylin'. I started hurling things at Grodd, like the replica weaponry on the Rogue mannequins. And the replicas were all fully functional. (When it comes to safety, those Central City folk... well, let's just say they're not the sharpest knives in the drawer.) So, I started battering Grodd left and right with electro-shock boomerangs and exploding yoyos, and every time he came after me, I just leaped nimbly out of the way or turned myself into a monkey-sized steel wall. As for Grodd's "mind powers," well what do you think the yellow things on my costume are for? Snacks? Okay, they're for snacks too, but mainly they're mental deflectors that bathe my whole nervous system in a warm, comforting blanket of anti-psychic energy. Plus the ones on my shoulders can each hold, like, three Milky Way bars. But I digress. I finally managed to take Grodd down with Heat Wave's flame pistol, but my monkey fingers couldn't work it exactly right. I was trying for "lightly toasted" but I ended up with "charbroiled." The smell of burnt gorilla dingleberries... not pleasant! I'd stopped Grodd, but his monkey raygun didn't have a reverse setting. (And frankly, why would it have?) And I couldn't talk, or even write legibly! When the Elongated Man showed up, I had to work my baboon ass off to seem adorable as freaking possible, just so he'd take me home with him instead of sending me to a zoo or an animal shelter. Three long, grueling months later, he and his wife took me with them on one of their interminable road trips, I got my monkey hands on a wish-granting Navajo totem, and ker-POW! So long, suckers! There's just one thing, though...

You know how when somebody loses a hand or a foot, they can still feel phantom pains? Sometimes... I can still feel that tail. [shudders]

New, Improved Blog: Now With More Fugly!

I took Phillip's suggestion that I show the original costumes of all those poor dopes I try to help out. So now you all can check out the regular duds of Atlas, Miss America, and Fury right on this very blog! I'm still looking for a decent image of the Red Bee. (Apparently he doesn't photgraph well. Must be the gauzy sleeves.) Anyway... enjoy!

Update: I finally got some good scans of the Red Bee. By the way, I was so worried about Hector getting frozen in that blizzard that I waded out into the blinding whiteness myself to look for him, bringing along with me an extra jacket that he could keep. And I ran into the Red Bee! I guess he popped up along with that extra Lex Luthor due to that Infinite Crisis nonsense that's going on right now. Well, the Red Bee promised me he'd get the jacket to Hector right away, and then he gave me directions to a T.G.I. Fridays that was apparently situated right on the mountaintop!

Tiaras of a Clown: Fury

What's her deal:
Oh, lordy! It's a big ugly mess, but here goes: Lyta Trevor Hall's mom used to be the original version of Wonder Woman (from the WW2-era comics) and her dad used to be the square-jawed war hero and frequent hostage Steve Trevor. Lyta inherited all of her mom's super-powers and started doing the super-hero bit under the codename, "Fury," after the mythical Greek vengence demons. Then Lyta's home dimension ceased to exist and she was shuffled off to a different Earth where her mom was another superheroine named "Fury" and her dad was, well, nobody knows. As so often happens, Lyta married a super-powered teammate -- Hector Hall, a.k.a. "the Silver Scarab." Hector, who is essentially the Hank Pym of the DC Universe, pretty quickly lost his shit and turned into a literal monster, died, came back as a new version of the "Jack Kirby" Sandman, was unceremoniously booted back into the afterlife by the "real" Sandman, and came back again as the latest version of Doctor Fate. Lyta, for her part, had a son by Hector, lost the son when the kid became the new "real" Sandman, lost her shit, and got spells placed on her by not one, but two separate god-like magicians. Hector and Lyta finally found each other and everything was wonderful for about fifteen minutes. Then Hector got stripped of his powers and the both of them were teleported against their wills to a mountain range in the middle of a blizzard. And you thought Nick and Jessica had it rough! Oops, almost forgot. First appearance, Wonder Woman vol. 1, #300.


Crimes against fashion:
The only parts of her costume I can stand to look at are the cape and that fire-engine-red body stocking. The rest of her ensemble is fugly on a galactic scale. The tiara: ridiculously large and convoluted. The boots and bracelets: thigh-high/elbow-high monstrosities that are ancient Egyptian by way of "George Perez segmented robot arm." The WWE Smackdown Championship belt -- er, I mean, "girdle": like something Elvis would have rejected as being "too tacky." And the very best, very stupidest part of all: that shoulder-pad-type-thing on her left side that moulds completely around one breast. (Comfy!) Our Lyta was quite the trendsetter. She anticipated by years the kind of huge, asymmetrical, completely unnecessary costume accessories that Rob Liefeld somehow managed to popularize.

Our meeting:
I was vacationing in my secluded ski cabin in the DC Universe, time-wise between issues #77 and #78 of JSA. The next thing I knew, Hector Hall showed up on my doorstep, looking ruggedly handsome as always with his prematurely silver, Caesar-cut hair and his sweet-ass Vandyke beard. Oh yeah, and he was carrying Lyta's unconscious body. I welcomed Hector inside and did my best to make the star-crossed couple comfortable. Hector feard Lyta was in a coma until I pointed out that she was snoring quite loudly and making occasional pawing motions, like she was dreaming about chasing rabbits. I got them both out of their soaking wet costumes (Hector fit into my clothes perfectly!) and then I bundled Lyta in some blankets. I offered to help Hector warm up by spooning with him but he declined. So, to pass the time and get Hector's mind off his troubles, I got out my sketchpad.

My presentation:
First of all, can I just say that I love what you've done with the Doctor Fate costume. That Egyptian collar is boss as all hell. But Lyta could definitely use my help. I mean, her super-persona is named after the mythical furies, but she looks about as intimidating as a Vegas showgirl. Wanna see my ideas? I've been tinkering with this for a while, ever since my pal Scipio pointed out how god-awful Lyta's costume is, so I've got the drawings all made up! You sit there, and I'll stand here and turn the pages. Gosh, you look tense. Let me just knead some of those kinks out of your shoulder muscles... no? Okay.


The first costume could be worn by Lyta or her mom. It's based on the "old school" Wonder Woman outfit. I replaced the stars with moons, the eagle with a bat, and I altered the color scheme. I retained the red and gold from Lyta's current outfit and added a heaping helping of black. That's because black costumes are always spooky (unless you're Havok). I also made three big changes to the old Wonder Woman design. One, I replaced the tiara with a helmet because helmets hide more of the face and that's more mysterious and menacing. Hey, where are my manners? Can I get you a drink, Hector? I've got vodka, scotch, brandy, you name-- no? Very well. So... the second thing I did was to change the old bustier-style breastplate into an infinitely more practical chest plate. It hides the cleavage and it has straps, so there's no way Lyta's boobs could pop out and flop around -- since, let's face it, nobody wants to see that. Lastly, and this part is optional as it's extremely theatrical, I gave the costume a huge cape made from grizzly fur. It adds a barbaric flavor. And also, to quote Ann Miller in "On the Town," I simply love bear skin! What? Oh, sure! Go right ahead and check on her. I'm sure she's just fine...

[Later...]
Thanks for joining me in the hot tub, Hector! God damn, but you're a hairy man. Not that I'm complaining, mind you! Oh, the drawings? Fine, fine. Are you sure I can't interest you in that drink? No? Alrighty then.


Here's an emerald green dragon-themed number made out of leather, with a jagged-edged cloak of some thinner material. Chiffon, maybe, I dunno. Huh? Sorry, I didn't realize I'd put my foot there. Where were we? Oh, yeah. I figure we could use a pearlescent paint on the leather detailing, like the scales and the dragon logo. The mask has horns and red lenses that look like reptilian eyes. And to really set the colors off, we'd have to get Lyta to bleach her hair almost completely white. Mmm, those bubble jets feel fantastic, don't you think? Well, you can really feel them over here, where I'm sitting. Aw, c'mon! I won't bite! There you go. Careful, don't slip! Yikes! No, no, I'm pretty sure that's just a big fiberglass tube for one of the bubble jets. Go ahead and put your hand back on it. Hey, wait!

Hector's response:
Was to leap out of the hot tub and slip back into the dry clothes I'd given him. He dressed the still-sleeping and otherwise naked Lyta in one of my smoking jackets and bolted for the door. I tried to reason with him, even pointing out how I'd seen a horde of bloodthirsty hell-beasts in the area just that morning. Still, he insisted on heading back out into that blizzard, without even a coat or mittens or even one of those little knit caps with the pom-poms on them. Ah, well. He'll be back.

They always come back.

Off the Rack

Sorry about the long wait between posts, but I hope it will be worth it. I've been busy creating new costumes for my highest-profile client yet: Wonder Woman('s daughter, Fury)!!! I'll post those in just a few days. And to tide you over, here are two generic outfits I made for sale. And they sold! See, some people actually do like my costume designs. I guess they just don't like it when I tell them what's wrong with the clothes they're wearing at the time. Attention, dumbasses: I'm doing you a freaking favor! (clears throat) Sorry, got a bit off-track there. On to the outfits!

First up is your basic "omnipotent overlord" armor. I'm keeping one suit for myself, on the off chance that I ever get possessed by some ultra-powerful evil entity. (Heck, it happens to one of the X-Men every other Thursday.) You'll note I added an Interlac "B" to the helmet.

Yes, it's the evil version of me, saying, "Stop in the name of Dark Blockade Boy, destroyer of worlds and monarch of all that is unholy! Hey, I said 'stop.' Wait, where are you going? Come back here right now or I'll, um, turn into a really big steel wall! ...Aw, the heck with it." (Granted, it's not much of a battle cry.) I sold one of these babies to the Toad, who figured all his leaping and gadding about would look much more imposing in a suit of armor with a huge holographic purple flame around it. I must admit I have my doubts.

Ooh, here's a good one!

It's a paramilitary number with a spot for "your super-logo here" on the vest. The kicker is the Tron-style metal gauntlets which project energy in both shield and "vibro-force" configurations. Yes, whether you're a patriotic super-hero or a faceless henchman, you can kick ass in style! Mask sold separately! (That's where you can really make a profit: accessories!) The Taskmaster ordered three hundred of these, but a week later he tried to reduce that number to twelve. Apparently most of his men had been defeated by Captain America (That bitch again?!) and now they're in a S.H.I.E.L.D. concentration camp or something. Hey, maybe I should design prison uniforms!

The Sweatsuit Competition: Miss America

What's her deal:
In 1943, Madeline Joyce's uncle sponsored a research scientist who kept a laboratory in an old lighthouse. A lightning bolt struck the tower while Madeline was inside it. Instead of electrocuting the intrepid lass, the massive voltage sent her into a coma. The scientist was consumed with guilt. He destroyed all of his machinery and himself along with it. A week later, Madeline recovered. Awesome timing, doc.

The accident, as it happened, had endowed Madeline with a veritable cornucopia of superpowers, such as flight, super-strength, super-intelligence (which one presumes would prevent her from doing any more snooping about in tall structures during electrical storms), x-ray vision and invulnerability. She designed a baggy, figure-concealing but mightily patriotic costume. Her alias: Miss America. Madeline at one point joined a super-team calling itself "The All-Winners Squad" -- a supremely ironic moniker considering the number of losers on the roster. Later she married one of those losers, Bob Frank, a.k.a. "The Whizzer." (He had super-speed. Why, what did you think it meant?) After the war, she lost most of her powers, due mainly to the fact she was being written by sexist male dickweeds. Her firstborn child was a radioactive supervillain named "Nuklo." Madeline died giving birth to a second child, who was stillborn. The end! Cheery, huh? First appearance: Marvel Mystery Comics #49 (Timely, October 1943).


Crimes against fashion:
Nearly the entire outfit. It looked like a track suit more than anything else, and it shouldn't have surprised me to learn it was made of terrycloth. The superhero emblem on her bosom looks like it should say "Phillips 66." And the teeny red cap! That misshapen yarmulke crept steadily forward over the years until it was practically over her eyes. Like most superheroes in her dimension, she had a secret identity but no mask. (Jeebus! C'MON!) She occasionally added harlequin glasses, which made her look less like a superhero and more like a really flamboyant librarian. Her hair ranged from blonde to black to brown, finally settling on brown. I think.

Our meeting:
It's a long, complicated story, so kindly bear with me. I was in the Timely/Marvel dimension circa 1944 when I approached Captain America with some great ideas for improving his dorky costume. Cappy barely let me get a word out before turning me down flat (and calling me "son" in the process, which really ticked me off). His parting shot? Telling me to shave off my sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops, which he termed "ridiculous." It was on. Not in the physical sense, mind you, because Captain America could clean my clock nine ways to Sunday. No, my plan was to hightail it to California and the studios of Republic Pictures so I could surreptitiously redesign the costume for the Captain America serial they were planning to shoot. Then he'd see how right I was! Mwuh-hah-hah-hah!

Well, yes, it's a terribly passive kind of revenge. What's your point?

I donned one of my superhero outfits. Then I snuck onto the lot, posing as an extra in a science fiction film. I quickly located the costume department, seized the Captain America designs, and set to work. I had only got as far as erasing those goofy wings from his cowl and penciling in a handgun when I heard a mob of people hollering about something or other. The huddled masses helpfully exposited that...
1. A director who craved realism had wrangled a genuine mummy for his latest picture.
2. Some sort of chemical mishap had brought the mummy to horrifying life!
3. The mummy had slung starlet Vera Hruba Ralston over its shoulder like a shapely sack of potatoes and taken off running, and...
4. It was headed this way!

With a loud sigh, I dropped everything and ran outside to face the menace head-on. I planted myself firmly in the path of the bandaged bandito and shouted my catchphrase, "Stop, in the name of Blockade Boy!" And then I turned into a steel wall. And then, as per usual, my foe ran around me and kept right on going. Have I mentioned that I don't turn into a very big steel wall?

To her credit, Miss Ralston was a champion ice skater and quite strong; at that point she had pounded on the mummy so hard that a good-sized hole had appeared in its lower back. Suddenly, a crimson meteor smashed down upon the mummy, reducing it to smithereens, and sweeping Miss Ralston away to safety. The red blur resolved itself into a dowdy lady in a stupid hat. It was Miss America! Seeing that I was a fellow super-powered adventurer, Miss America took me into her confidence. From there it was a simple matter to convice her to let me redesign her costume.

My presentation:
For your first option, I've merely tweaked your original outfit into something that's actually flattering.

Red is a strong color. It can be overwhelming when used in large quantities. So, I've eliminated your leggings. To compensate, I've lengthened the tunic into a short, pleated dress, just like ice skaters wear. It's practical yet feminine. To match your blue cape, I've added blue boots and blue gloves. You may have noticed that the boots are not high-heeled. That's because high-heeled boots are an absurd thing for a superheroine to wear. I remember getting into an argument with Princess Projectra about why she shouldn't wear heels, and she was all, "But my power is illusion-casting, I don't have to move around when I fight, and anyway I look really sexy in heels, blah blah blah, I'm a princess!" And then while we were just standing there talking, one of her ankles snapped in two. Heh! Um, anyway, I've trimmed the dress and the gloves in gold. I've also altered the symbol on your chest somewhat. The heart shape is more becoming to the female bosom. Plus, it represents how you love America, and this way it no longer resembles a highway marker. Finally, I've added a mask, because believe it or not, you need to conceal at least part of your face if you want to maintain a secret identity. No, really. No, REALLY. I'm not kidding. Well, I don't care what the Whizzer told you. Or the Thin Man. Or Red Raven. Or Dynamic Man OR the Human Top. Or-- look, these people are idiots, okay? Just trust me on this! Jeez! Okay then. Next!


Your second option is so fashion-forward it doesn't even exist yet! Or something like that. I wanted to give you the look a fighter plane, since your fabulous powers allow you to rain death upon all who oppose you. I've even borrowed the star from a Navy fighter for your new symbol! Well, yeah, I know they changed it last year. Well, it looks better this way. Moving on... in lieu of a mask, I thought we could put a bold, blue stripe of makeup right across your eyes, the way the Aztecs did! It matches your blue lipstick. It's all very intimidating! For the costume itself, we have a silver body suit with red-and-blue body armor on the shoulders, calves, and hips -- not that you need armor, being indestructible and all, but it's important for the look. Your waist is so thick it makes this outfit something of a gamble, but I think we can get away with it provided you lay off the fatty foods. Now, I'd like to draw your attention to the thick red lines over the crotch and across the thighs, which subtly frame your "lady business" -- OW! Hey, knock it off!

Miss America's response:
... was to slap me, which fractured my jaw and caused a couple of teeth to fly out of my mouth. "You are the rudest, most vulgar young man I have ever met in all my life!" she fumed. She stomped out the door, but before she disappeared from my life forever, she spun around and snapped, "And lose the sideburns and the nanny goat beard. You look like an idiot."

Oh, it's on NOW, honey.

"I've Got The Strangest Feeling I'm Being Turned Into A Packet Of Artificially Flavored Drink Mix!"

Have I ever mentioned the time back in '74 when I was in the Central City Safeway and my shopping cart accidentally bumped into Abra Kadabra's?

Why he couldn't have made my flavor "Blockade Boysenberry" is just beyond me.

(And be sure to visit the Imaginary World for more groovy drink packets!)

The Loincloth Sleeps Tonight: Atlas

What's his deal:
Jim Randall was a skinny bespectacled scarecrow of a man who experienced a complete psychotic break with reality... er, make that "a celestial visitation from the Greek god, Atlas." Naked save for a blue cape, his mythical nether regions tastefully tucked into a billowing cloud, Atlas bestowed upon Jim not wisdom or invulnerability or even a lousy magic trinket, but instead gave him an exercise routine. Jim spent weeks working out in secret, building himself into a brawny he-man. Atlas appeared to him again and ordered him to don a superhero costume and battle gangsters. Jim took his superhero name from the inspiring hallucination and set out to vanquish evil in a ridiculous get-up that seemingly appeared from nowhere, i.e. Jim was in a fugue state when he sewed the damn thing. First appearance (and last appearance, because he sucked): Choice Comics #1 (Great Publications). Reprinted for no good reason in Daring Adventures #18.


Crimes against fashion:
Three words: leopard skin diaper. Or "trunks." Whatever. Adding insult to injury is the combination of sleeves with bare legs. (Gah! I hate that look on men! Who is he, Cathy Rigby?) Then there's his superhero symbol, which adds red and green to the already copious amounts of blue and orange in the uniform. Forget masturbation; looking at Atlas' costume can make you go blind! The cherry on top of this shit sundae? The very tall, very stiff collar and braid with no cape attached. Is it at the drycleaners? Or better yet, invisible?

Our meeting:
As you may have gathered from my other posts, I have a powerful curiosity, and I don't let piddling things like locks or restraining orders or a sense of propriety get in my way. So, I was visiting a bustling (yet oddly nameless) metropolis in late 1941, and I chanced upon the most beautiful little park. (Had to burrow under a rather high, barbed-wire-topped fence to get there, but oh well.) Anyway, I'm not there five minutes when I realize that most of the other visitors apparently have a real yen for shapeless white gowns. Even the men! I tried to chat up one lady about them, but she shushed me with the excuse that salamanders from Neptune had placed a listening device in her cervix. Then, a woman in a nurse's uniform (that wasn't doing her any favors, if you ask me) tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You must be Doctor MacTavish. Welcome to the Hillside Sanitarium for the Criminally Deranged!"

I figured that I had a little time before the actual Doctor MacTavish showed up so what the heck? I thoughtfully stroked my sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops and ordered the nurse to take me to my first patient... who turned out to be Atlas! It seems that not long after he started adventuring, he heard that the cops were looking for a maniac who had broken into the local zoo. This person throttled a leopard to death with his bare hands and partially skinned it. Atlas went straight to the police commissioner and announced that he was on the case. The commissioner took one look at Atlas' costume and bang! Hillside Sanitarium.

I had an orderly retrieve Atlas' outfit from storage so I could take a gander at it. My prescription? Art therapy!

My presentation:
"Jim, there's nothing wrong wi-- beg pardon? Oh. Sure, why not? 'Atlas,' there's nothing wrong with wanting to be a superhero. But I couldn't possibly sign your release papers if you're just going to wear that again! I've got a couple of ideas here that I think you'll like. No, give me that. Give me--! Orderly? Kindly restrain the subject so I can get my pastels back. Thank you. Well, yes, Atlas, I said we'd be doing art therapy but I'll be the one doing the art. Stop sulking. Or I'll smack you. There, better. Alright, first order of business: you have a secret identity, but no mask. That's just crazy! Um, no offense. So here's your first option.

"It's your standard superhero outfit with a nice Flash-Gordon-style cowl that reveals your gorgeous head of hair. The belt's nice and big, like a wrestler's belt or a laborer's truss, and it has the added advantage of hiding unwanted belly flab that you may develop as you grow older. I replaced your old symbol with this combination of lightning bolts and laurel leaves and see? It makes the shape of an 'A'! I wanted to emulate the feel of a classic superhero costume, in case you don't want to stick out from the crowd too much. But... what if you do want to be an iconoclast? I'm right there with you, buddy, but there's a wrong way and a right way. That pile or rags over in the corner is the wrong way. This is the right way.

"Here's my idea: we go all-out Greek. With armor and everything. Most of the outfit is based on the armor of an ancient Greek hoplite but we jazz it up with a muted version of the color scheme from your original costume. You can get some auto body places to do some amazing things with metal coatings, I might add. Yeah, you're diggin' it, right? I thought you'd like this version because it keeps the leopard skin but now it's in loincloth form, like from an ancient Greek theatrical 'rustic' costume. And we'll put a metal codpiece underneath in case some wiseapple tries to kick you in the 'little Atlas.' Instead of a mask to hide your identity we have a helmet. I've also thought about how you could look when the helmet's off, like when you've just beaten a bunch of hoods into a bloody pulp and you steal away into the night with that freshly rescued 'special someone.' The laurel crown is painted metal so you can whip it out at a moment's notice and not worry about it wilting. What are you giggling about? And now, about your hair. I know that you can't get away with wearing it too long in this antiquated, backwards era -- um, I mean, nowadays. So this is basically Johnny Weissmuller length: longer than normal but not outrageously long. Can't you just imagine how you'd look all dolled up like this, posing on a gargoyle or crouched atop a streetcar or a lamppost or something? You'd be stunning, am I right? Of course I'm right! So, tell me what you think!"

Jim's response:
He said he liked the second option but he wanted to consult with his "patron god" on the matter. Then he went into an epileptic seizure. And then the real Doctor MacTavish walked in. I made a break for it. I had to bloody the noses of a few orderlies (and one of the beefier nurses) but I managed to lose them and slip back under the fence. Atlas was never heard from again.

I Like Bee Belts And I Just Can't Lie: The Red Bee

What's his deal:
D.A. Rick Raleigh fought crime during the early 40's with the aid of trained bees secreted in his belt buckle (first appearance: Hit Comics #1, July 1940). He had no superpowers, but he was a good fighter and detective, plus he had a small, red, armored car with which to tool about. Originally a brunette, he mysteriously became a redhead later on. Just like Lucille Ball! His finest moment: trapped and freezing in a Limbo-like dimension, he scammed Animal Man out of his jacket by pretending to cry (Animal Man #25, July 1990.)


Crimes against fashion:
Mainly? The gauzy, billowing pink sleeves protruding from a turtleneck vest with flared shoulders. And the yellow-and-red striped leggings didn't help matters.

Our meeting:
I was on the hunt for cravats in WW2-era Superior City when I "accidentally" walked into the wrong changing room (broke the lock in the process). There, I discovered the aforementioned godawful costume inside a briefcase (broke the lock in the process). Then Rick himself showed up. Long story short: my face is still a little puffy from all the bee stings, and I promised to make things up to him by redesigning his costume. We met again over drinks in a swanky nightspot.

My presentation:
"Rick, as I've done with all my clients, I've created two different options for you.

"With the first, we butch you up so folks will take you more seriously. The puffy sleeves and turtleneck are gone, replaced with a leather pilot's jacket. It's emblazoned with a bee insignia of my own creation. I made your belt a lot larger, and the buckle is now shaped like the cell of a honeycomb. I downplayed the stripe motif by moving it from your legs onto your boots. I also added gloves with rolled-down cuffs, which are all the rage nowadays. Your old domino mask is a keeper, except I made it blue to balance out all the red. Voila. Now you fit in with all the other mystery men.

"And here's my second option, where we just go nuts.

"Let's face it, pal, your modus operandi is quite frankly bizarre. So why not play into that? You like to wear a turtleneck, Rick? Fine, now it goes up to your nose. You're keen on stripes? Swell, now you're covered in 'em. Check out those pointy pixie toes on the boots! And the big flared gloves! The front of the buckle is made of green tempered glass, just like the goggles. The wings are silk, stetched over intricate metal frames. They're hinged, so that any sudden movement -- like a dramatic jump from rooftop, for instance -- will cause them to flap upward and hang there for a few seconds. The crowning touch? The haircut, which anticipates the punk rock movement by a good thirty-five years. (The what, you ask? Don't worry about it.) Now, this means that in your civilian identity, you'll have to wear a wig. Don't gripe at me; if Supergirl could do it, so can you. (Who's that? Don't worry about it.) The one downside with this outfit: you won't be able to get into it without the help of a second person... or at least a trained bee."

Rick's response:
He muttered something about "mulling it over," made an excuse about running to the men's room, and never returned, sticking me with the check.

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

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

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




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

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

They contain snacks.

Little Blog on the Prairie: A New Beginning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: I'm sorry, but yes.

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

[Later..]

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

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

Me: And now you redesign superhero costumes. Why?

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

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

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

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

Me: What do you hate?

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

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

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