You Can't Fly!

And so the saga of Gravity Girl draws to its inevitable (for 1961) conclusion. Superboy, would you care to sing us the story's moral to the tune of "You Can Fly" from "Peter Pan"? Thank you.

Think of the burn on your arm
And of boulders doing harm
Think of splinters, think of pain
Worst of all, your stupid brain
If you only were a guy--!

You can’t fly! You can’t fly!
You can’t fly! You can’t fly!

Soon you’ll walk all around the town,
Keep your feet upon the ground
But a bicycle is no fuss
Or if riding trolleys make you cuss
Take the municipal bus

You can’t fly! You can’t fly!
You can’t fly! You can’t fly!

Fly with a belt on your waist
Crash and turn your ass to paste
Don’t take the job of a man
You can’t do what the fellas can
Now go make me a pie

You can’t fly! You can’t fly!
You can’t fly! You can’t fly!

At Last, None of It Comes Together

The belt can't repel wood? Like, for instance, a whole big pile of it? And she was able to snap the rope that tethered the balloon (with super strength!) because why, precisely? Listen, I'm not trying to be a jerk about this (although it does come naturally to me) but would it have killed them to at least honor the continuity within their own story?

Also, the belt is a rare artifact from a now-extinct and possibly extraterrestrial civilization but Professor Lang the archaeologist (who discovered the damn thing) thinks it should be destroyed. He's probably gonna head back down there right now and blow up the giant chia pet, Taliban-style!

Be Healed!

Is he going to rub the table back together, too?

From the Archives of the "Skartaris Times-Tribune":

THERA MOURNS LOSS OF HIGH PRIEST
As the week-long funeral ceremony of popular Theran High Priest Seraphos comes to an end, the citizens of that city-state are still baffled as to the cause of his death. The cleric was found dead in his office on May 3rd in what local guardsmen are terming a homicide. In a statement given to scribes yesterday, Chief Guardsman Brutalos said that his department had no leads in the case as of yet, and that the crime scene showed no signs of forced entry, save for a small hole in the ceiling, a second one in the floor, and a third running the length of Seraphos' body. With no official answer, conspiracy theorists are actively circulating their scrolls, including one that claims Seraphos was felled by a "magic missile sent down by a capricious boy-god and an orange-haired gorgon in a metal mask."

In his all-too-brief career, Seraphos dedicated himself to ridding Thera of the strife and poverty that had plagued it for centuries. He brokered peace treaties among warring local tribes, raised funds for schools and hospitals, ended the local custom that allowed any victim of a bad break-up to punch his or her ex-lover in the face up to three times without reprisal, and freed all ponies from servitude. He was especially hailed for his "Puppies for Orphans" program, in which suitably adorable orphans are given equally lovable dogs. The orphans may then use the canines for companionship, transportation, racing, gladiatorial combat, or food.

Theran law dictates that Seraphos be succeeded by Thera's Archdeacon Deimos, who made his first public address this morning. (See related story in crumbling yellow parchment scroll 6F, "Theran High Priest Promises 'New Skartaran Order.'")

Now We Play the Weighing Game

Aaaannd in the final panel, Satan's unholy legions emerge from the steaming pit, bringing about the Apocalypse. The End!

*heavy sigh* If only!

Here's where the story starts to fall completely apart. (And believe me, this yarn's gonna wind up making less sense than a David Lynch film.) In this panel Superboy tells Lana "I figured you wouldn't realize that although the metal ball had been super-compressed, it would still weigh two tons!" And yet Lana had said as much, out loud and right in front of his smug face, two panels earlier:

Superboy (the comic book)... what the hell? Explain yourself, mister! No, don't bother. I can see what's going on here! It's gotta be one of two possibilities.
A. Our Hero was preoccupied with his internal gloating and couldn't pay attention to Lana (quite likely), or...
B. The offices of 1961 DC Comics were practically swarming with dope fiends who were too krunked-out on the chronic (as you young people say) to remember their own names, much less recall what had transpired on the same page of the comic book they were producing. (Those same people are currently in charge of continuity at Marvel.)

The way this story will nosedive into sheer incomprehensibility, I'm leaning towards "B."

Next: things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.

The Idiotic Table

Yes, Professor Lang knitted himself a cute pink "microscope cozy." The microscope itself sits on a doily. And his hyperbaric chamber is covered by a colorful crocheted afghan.

(Also, I'm pretty sure that table was erased, then redrawn by Carmine Infantino.)

Compressed Dare

Lana--! Don't tell him how you're going to-- and you're admitting that you're going to your own house?! (What, you can't think of anyplace else in Smallville that might have a freakin' microscope, of all things?!

(I guess you were right... you are as smart as Superboy!)

Actually, Professor Lang's house just might be the only structure in town with a microscope. Shortly after the broadcast of a documentary about those little creatures that live in people's eyelashes, Smallville's current town council and school board have both outlawed the devices, claiming they are "abominations" and "the devil's work." Why, just the other day they held a big rally and burned Anton van Leeuwenhoek in effigy. In really tiny effigy.

Challenge of the Superdick!

She's onto you! Quickly, into the escape pod!

Also, not enough super-heroes call one another "silly." It doesn't have to be an affectionate "silly" either. The Hulk once called Wolverine "silly" and it caused the latter to pee himself (just a little bit).

He Could At Least Say "Excuse Me"

Yeah, Superboy often lets one during his "feats of strength." And they typically smell of sauerkraut.

Maybe You Should Put a Tap on Her Phone

Well, this is a pleasant turn of events! Superboy is going to use his friendly and sympathetic personality along with the respect he's garnered as a longtime crimefighter to approach Gravity Girl in an open and honest manner and persuade her she--

Oh.

He's going to use deceit. Of course. What the hell was I thinking?

And the trickery begins when, Superboy? Because you just stated exactly how you feel about her. Only it's out loud, for once. Truth = Falsehood! How Orwellian!

Less than Zero

That's how I felt when I read all those hateful comments about myself and my awesome new threads.

Uh, Storm Boy here. Although I guess I should have started with that. See what you're doing to me? I'm a wreck! And it's all your fault! First off? YES I'm a little heavier than the other guys on the H.M.S. Exquisite. But for starters? I'm way thinner than I used to be. I'm on this amazing new liquid diet where the pounds just disappear (along with many of my memories of ever having them)! So I'm not hunkalicious as of yet. SO WHAT. And for one thing? I bet a lot of you dudes don't look so hot yourself.

...You do look so hot yourself?

Crap.

Okay. To begin with? That drawing Blockade Boy did of me? Was totally unfair. And not accurate at all. He exaggerates! And he's like, my best pal in the entire universe but the poor dope fancies himself a "social realist" like Goya when in reality he's more like Don Martin from "Mad Magazine." I mean, SERIOUSLY. Look at this guy!

I've never seen this person before in my life. I mean, that sweaty-looking space-carney up there? With the bags under his eyes and the flabby arms and the icky smirk on his face? The one who looks like Johnny Knoxville plus a hundred pounds and minus all his muscle tone? That's not who I see when I look in a mirror. No sir.

This is who I see when I look in a mirror!

CHECK IT, YO! YEAH, BOY! COME GET SOME!

The above is a sample of my own artwork, a-thank-you very much. Yeah, I like to do self-portraits sometimes.

No kidding, I see this guy in reflective surfaces a lot and I sure as shit hope it's me, because he's wearing my clothes! God damn but I look fine. Dig the hot pink power sword! Okay, so I don't actually own one of those. But I always wanted one. (Only without the ginormous human ear on the hilt. I'm not sure what that's all about.)

I anxiously await your various apologies.

Yes, Clarkie Dearest

Hey, I once spent an entire weekend playing "Kaboom!" Let me have a crack at those things!

Remember that scene from the "Take Your Daughter to Work Day" episode of the Office, where Toby's preschool-age daughter Sasha asks the Party Planning Committee if she can help them, and Angela says, "No thanks. We'd have to explain everything; it's probably just easier if we do it ourselves." Yeah. Superboy is like Angela. He could have somebody helping him take care of the non-stop crime and natural disasters that seem to plague Smallville on a daily basis and maybe he'd then have more time to relax or develop a social life but NO. Because he has this sick need for everything be freaking perfect he drives everybody away. No wonder he winds up living alone in an arctic wasteland.

What? Me?! Oh, hells no. I'm not nearly as uptight and demanding as Superboy. Why, I have lots of friends nearby right now! ...All of whom I, er, happen to, uh... pay.

Aw, shut up.

(Side note: Weight Wizard once gave me a "glancing blow." So I yanked on his hair and demanded that he try again and put some freaking effort into it.)

Gravity Girl Vulnerability Checklist:
1. Wood (like the Golden Age Green Lantern and most other super-heroes)
2. Fire (like the Martian Manhunter and most other super-heroes)
3. Rock (again, just like every superhero who doesn't possess some level of decreased vulnerability, such as a tough hide or a forcefield -- which is to say, most superheroes)

By the way, Storm Boy isn't happy with some of your responses to his new costume, so now he wants to post a rebuttal. So you might want to brace yourselves for that.

Do Not Attempt to Adjust Your Computer Screen

My scan is perfectly fine. The problem is that you forgot to take off your 3-D glasses after reading "Action Comics" #851.

Yeah. That's the problem. *flop sweats*

Anyway... as you see here, the speed of Lana's stimulus-response mechanism is on par with Frankenstein's.

Gravity Girl Vulnerability Checklist:
1. Wood (just like the Golden Age Green Lantern)
2. Fire (just like the Martian Manhunter! And Batman, and Green Arrow, and most of the Legion of Superheroes, etc.)

Baby Steps

It would sound more like an idle comment if he wasn't looking directly at her ass, wouldn't it? Superboy has that goody-two-shoes reputation to uphold, but every so often his true bitchiness seeps out. The thing to remember about Superboy is that on any given moment, he's this close to sounding exactly like a catty Southern debutante.

Not that Lana comes off much better here. Her big and utterly myopic plan is to move people from one part of the Rolling Inferno to another section of the same coaster. Which in a Chuck Jones cartoon would cause them to roll back into the flames. How's about just getting them completely off of the roller coaster, Lana? No? That would be too emotionally jarring for them? They need to "decompress"? Huh.

(Future headline in the Smallville Gazette: "Gravity Girl Unwilling to Set Deadline For Pullout of Passengers From Burning Roller Coaster.")

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Storm Boy (by special guest columnist Storm Boy)

BLOCKADE BOY IS A BEAUTIFUL PERSON. Fact. I'm sorry if you don't "get" that. That's your problem. Myself? I didn't really "get" Blockade Boy either. At first. He's... how can I describe him? He's beautiful, but like a beautiful monster, a beautiful gargantuan gilded goblin gargoyle golem that could kill you with a flick of its tail. You know? And you shouldn't look at him. Not directly. Weight Wizard looked. And look what happened to him. He's like a puppy, that guy. Which? Was cute when he was seventeen but now that he's twenty-two? Is beginning to look a lot like madness. And who could blame him? No, seriously. Shut up. Yeah. You heard me. SHUT UP.

You just don't know him like I know him. At first I was unconsciously uncomprehending, muddling middling maddening uncertain of what I saw. I hated Blockade Boy. What was revolutionary in him, I found revolting. But. There's -- oh, how do I make you understand? -- I'm sure there's a food you like now that maybe you didn't like once upon a time. Maybe you even hated it like I hated Blockade Boy. Stomach-turning. Churning. Sphincter burning. And now? You can't get enough of it. And it's good for you! Like Blockade Boy!

Blockade Boy's eyes? See the world as it should be, which is beautiful. And his missionary position is to make it that way. Beautiful. I just didn't get it before. But now I do. But now enough. About Blockade Boy. And more. About. Me.

My first fatal post-natal memory is seeing my face in a mirror. I was already wearing glasses. And I was one. Month? Year? Decade? No one knows. All I know? Is a round face deformed undefined nose bulb rubberband mouth floppy ears GLASSES. And I saw it was bad. And the others, the children, the teachers, the parents, they saw it was bad also. And they left the clouded stormy boy alone. And the boy in his terrible tumult tore the spectacles from his face and he broke them. The fear came then. The boy had to fix the glasses, the glaring glazing lazing lens. Before it was too. Later, the boy quivered cowering glowering under the steely stare of the Parental Unit but! Nothing happened. Nobody noticed. It was all right with the world at large. The boy plucked the glasses from his knob-nose, carefully this time, and inspected them. They looked good as new. Better even. And a swell of Feeling bubbled in his gut. It was LOVE.

The stormy boy was handy with his hands, he could make anything he might make, even new eyes and glasses goodbyes. But? That would be treason. He didn't not make glasses, no. He made more glasses, alas. Yes. He got good. He made more. Not just glasses. Machines. Dreams. He imagined God, ordering storms, swirling whirling winds with his finger and so he knew how to do it too. He shrunk God, severed his hands, and trapped him in a box. He knocked on the rocket, yellow, distended, upended, from there to join. Or purloin. No boxes! they cried, for we are one-hundred-percent genetically gallant with talent and you? So proud? Are not allowed. Ejected, rejected, dejected and the hate came again and he drank and he ate and his fate was fat. And he met? A threat. A fabulous wide-awake all-night-long nightmare knight in purple and orange. (BLOCKADE BOY.) How he hated the purple and the orange!

Blockade Boy's tongue was sharper than a serpent's ruthless tooth but in truth beneath the teeth there was LOVE. The stormy boy didn't couldn't wouldn't see the love. He could only see a strange hairy horrible thing he could hate more than he hated himself. Blockade Boy was mysterious (lascivious) mercurial inimical (but not meaning it) and so he vanished. Feeling an emerging urge the stormy boy followed after. Months (Years? Decades?) slipped through the stormy boy's fitful fat fingers and fickle celebrity cuddled and caressed him. For the genetically blessed changed their minds and? They deigned to wear his designs. He was high on the hog, heroic, heady with hedonism and unheeding of the headaches ahead. Dame fashion, bored, flippantly flipped him the bird, slid the lever, clever, and the floor slid open and the stormy boy slipped down as it all slipped away. Job/Home. Money/Honey. The stormy boy's boy stormed out. Honey loved money, none other. Nope. No hope. Everything was broken and the stormy boy couldn't fix it.

Time to go. Too slow, the stormy boy jimmied open the jettison tube at the space-port and squeezed inside. One last ride. Straight up up up into space, no mask on his face, no suit, no use, just skin on cold black nothing at all, chilling zero filling spilling into his lungs scraping digging hollowing him out and there would be. No. More. Me. But a hairy heroic hand yanked the stormy boy out at just the last moment. And the stormy boy dared to look at the burgeoning baroque behemoth beast-man, squinting, as at an eclipse. It was Blockade Boy. And the Feeling welled up again in his inner gizzard. LOVE.

[later] What the fuck?!! Goddamn. I must've been drunker than I thought last night. Maybe I should edit this thing? Naw. Screw it; you all get the gist of it, am I right? I was doing great, then my designs went out of style and I lost it all. Including my husband, Dynamo Kid. I guess a shared love of small, electricity-generating devices isn't the best thing to base a marriage on. And I apparently had signed a pre-nup (which I don't remember doing at all) because he got everything. The impecunious little turd. ...Are you reading this, Dynamo Kid? 'Cause I've got a revelation for you, Dynamo: if you've got such a hard-on for money, maybe you should have spent the last three years giving half-hearted handjobs to Gold Boy instead of to me. Also? Drop dead!

Fuck. My head is killing me. What the hell was I talking about? What? How shitty my life got? Oh. Yeah. It got bad, man. So bad I wound up in the really run-down part of Rimbor (i.e. the Western Hemisphere) begging at space-ports and holding a tattered cardboard sign that read "Will repair spectacles for Space Wine." (Mmm, Space Wine!) Finally I tried to kill myself but Blockade Boy was there to stop me. And he asked me to join his crew. It turned out he's actually a pretty decent guy once you get past the back hair and the temper tantrums. He's like one of my best buddies now!

What's left? The costume? Oh. Yeah. I think it's the best thing I've done. Way better than my early stuff. Hey, I'll be the first to admit that my "taste level" wasn't always where it shoulda been. But you know. A guy's aesthetic sense matures if he spends enough time around other artists. Eventually. So. Here goes.

Dig my fearsome fu-manchu! It's fierce! You can look but don't touch, ladies! (Gentlemen, the line forms on the right.) This is based on a concept sketch by me, and of course I designed all the weather-controlling gizmos. Then I handed the drawing to Blockade Boy, or he yanked it out of my hand, I forget which, and he put some finishing touches on it. As in, he filed down all the sharp edges. Also, he insisted on putting those stylized angular symbolic wing doodlybobbers on the helmet. I think he'd wanted to use something like them on another costume but his client wouldn't go for it. (No surprise there! Hee!) But what the hell. He's been a great pal to me; I have no problem with indulging the crazy fucker every now and then. I still miss all the pointiness, though. Yeah, so I like pointiness! So sue me! (Just kidding. Don't sue me. Please.) So I designed a super-pointy kick-ass costume for Timberwolf one time and he lacerated his face so badly during the fitting he had to be sent to a hospital satellite for major reconstructive surgery! SO WHAT.

Sorry. God, it's hot as a crotch in here. Does anybody else here think it's too hot? Guys? Rainbow Girl? ...They're ignoring me.

So anyway. I still have a yen for pretty-but-impractical costumes, kind of like that one guy from around your era. Erté. Sometimes I think I'd be better off designing for the space-burlesque, where all the hot guys just pose with their arms stretched straight out from their bodies and they don't have to fight each other. Unless you pay them extra, heh, heh. Anyway, enjoy! Or don't! No skin off my nose. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a little "hair of the dog." And I don't mean that godawful marching music my good pal Blockade Boy insists on blaring at full volume at six a.m. every Wednesday morning. *fumbles for flask* What? Oh, don't look at me like that. I can quit any time I want.