NOT Nightwing. For Realsies. (UPDATED 2:06 PM, CST)

From the "International Hero" website and the paella-scented beaches of Spain comes "Gavilan", whose name means "sparrowhawk", and who looks nothing at all like Nightwing.

See, Gavilan's costume is red. Yeah. And his cape is longer and more festively-pointed. And, and, there's those little bird claw/animal tusk/crescent roll thingies on his wrists. So that's different. Plus! He carries around that big bo staff or stripper pole or what-have-you. Nightwing doesn't do that. Not all the time, anyway. Not to mention, he has that ponytail. Nightwing doesn't have one of those... er, anymore. And Gavilan's mask is birdlike in a completely different way from Nightwing's.

So I think you can see how Gavilan's costume is not at all a rip-off of Nightwing's. AND I'LL FIGHT ANYBODY WHO SAYS IT IS! *glances around menacingly, while stuffing invoice for designing Gavilan's costume into back pocket* (Shut up. I wasn't feeling well that day.)

UPDATE: So, I'm guessing you were having trouble swallowing the notion that Gavilan's hideous togs were designed by me. Yeah, I can relate. I didn't even remember doing it! All I had to go by was the fact that Gavilan contracted my services, some time back, and, of course, this invoice. I was baffled! Still, I have my pride. I wasn't about to admit a mistake.

And then, Storm Boy showed up on my doorstep.

I asked him what the occasion was for his visit. And he smirked at me, and said, "The occasion is, I'm here to get paid, BEYOTCH!" And so I punched him in the face.

"Sorry," I demured. "Reflex."

Choking back tears (and blood), Storm Boy whined, "What the hell?"

"No," I retorted, "That's what I should be asking you. I'm glad you've got your confidence back to the point where you can josh around with me, but I draw the line at 'beyotch.' Reel it back in a couple of meters; you're getting annoying."

He grinned, impishly. "Oh, fiddle-faddle! If the crowning of Christian Siriano last night (your readers' time) as 'Project Runway Fan Favorite' has taught me anything, it's that everybody loves a finger-snapping, trash-talking, in-your-face bitchy queen. I've got 'attitude' now! Deal with it."

Naturally, I punched him in the face again. "Oops. Looks like my fist has an 'in-your-face' attitude!"

"God! Uncle already, you freaked-out maniac! Just give me my cut from the 'Gavilan' costume design so I can get the hell out of here." He wiped the blood from his nose with his palm, and then he held out the crimson-stained paw, in expectation of payment.

"So that explains it," I said, with a massive sigh of relief. "I didn't think that looked like my work."

"That's because I did the whole thing," Storm Boy sniffled. "You were all feverish and shit from that depilatory the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad had slipped you, so I worked on it while you tried to shout directions at me from your sickbed. We had kind of a Mozart/Salieri thing goin' on. If Salieri had completely ignored Mozart's idiotic ravings, that is."

"Wait, so you want to be Salieri...?"

"I want to get paid," he shrugged. "Fork over the space-cheddah, shaggy man."

And so I did... gladly. I just didn't want to be held responsible for that costume!

Curse Yore Beautiful Hide

Thank God for his boner, or else the belt would just fall right off.

As memorialized by the nice folks at the International Hero website, this is "Zagor", a woodsy Phantom/Tarzan type who is popular in Italy and Brazil. Born Patrick Wilding, or maybe that's his porn star name, Zagor lost his folks to vengeful Native Americans at a pretty young age. He managed to raise himself and did a pretty darned fine job of it to, by the looks of him. He acquired the name, "Za-Gor-Te-Ney", which means "the Spirit with the Tomahawk."

Zagor headquartered himself in a forest near the Great Lakes, some time between 1820 and 1840. Which doesn't explain why one of his enemies was a Druid, but what the heck.

So, how do I like Zagor's looks? I... don't. He's too pretty. When I think "backwoodsman", I think of Howard Keel in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers": tall, mighty, and scruffy as hell, not to mention, simply brimming with all kinds of intriguing musks. This glamorpuss is too smooth by half. Howard Keel or any of his brothers -- even Russ Tamblyn! -- would take this joker apart.

And they'd sing you a rousing tune while they did it!

The costume is unremarkable, especially in how it cleaves so predictably to four-color super-hero conformity: primary colors, insanely tight fit, the chest armor/symbol with the "which way is it pointing?" bird/thing on it... it all adds up to a big "yawn" from me. Yeah, so he's baring his muscled, sinewy arms. Big deal. There's nothin' on em! No hair. No tats. No cool bracelets or other adornments. Just a lot of smooth pink skin. Go away, Zagor. You're bothering me.

Go back to working as a bouncer at a gay squaredance, or whatever the hell it is you do.

Nipples, Italian Style

Well, of course, he'd dress like that. He's a hypnotist. (I remember when a traffic court ordered me to see an anger-management therapist. The doctor was dressed only in combat boots and a jockstrap... by the time I'd gotten done with him, anyway.)

From the extensive files of the International Hero website comes "Argoman"! This strapping (if disappointingly hairless) specimen of manhood is the star of an Italian film from the 1960's. But hey! Check out them nipples! Rrrowr! I'm guessing the actual costume worn by the actor was some sort of spandex deal, so you couldn't really see his nipples. A guy can dream, though. Can't he?

Alias "Sir Reginald Hoover", Argoman has super-strength, super-hearing, telekinetic powers, and a "These are not the cannoli you're looking for" type of hypnotic suggestion, which is to say it only works on really stupid people. Bonus: he loses all his powers for about six hours after having sex. Sound familiar, guys? Not to me, of course. I'm so dad-blamed virile, I wear dudes out in their efforts to satiate me. I often find myself in a "Prince of Space" scenario, where my weary partners will try to tire me out with some newfangled sex toy (or three), and I'll bellow, "Your weapons are useless against me!" Then I'll let fly with a deep, thundering chortle which terrifies/thrills them.

"So, other than the nipples -- and might I add, 'enough already!' -- how did you like the costume, Mister Blockade Boy?" Thank you for asking. And don't sass me! Once I tore my eyes off his nipples -- which took a while -- I saw that it was a pretty lame costume. Sort of a mash-up among the Black Condor, Hourman, and Cyclops. I hate it when capes are attached to the wrists. The belt is the most interesting thing about him. And it sucks. So no, I don't like the costume. But since it's Italian, I'm sure the tailoring is impeccable.

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*)