Does This Dress Make My Hippie Look Big?

Beware! Big Hippie is watching you! Yes, it's a Cory Doctorow wet dream, where high-powered executives are continuously monitored by hippies! (And to be honest, that doesn't sound like a bad idea, right now.) If only the comic itself was that revolutionary!

In a typical romance comic, a hippie comes in one of two not-so-groovy flavors. He's either a mixed-up "pretty boy" who shows up in the last two panels with a suit and a shave, in order to sweep his blissfully relieved sweetheart to a life of stifling conformity, OR he's a lout who dares to lightly pet the heroine before marriage and who is summarily sucker-punched by the square who really loves her. In this story from "Girls' Romances #136 (October, 1968), the leading lady is faced with a swing-a-delic "Sophie's Choice" and she finally goes with... the hippie! Sure, it's because he's going back to college and has told her parents he's going to marry her "whether they like it or not" (I'm guessing "not"), but he's also made a name for himself as a rock star, and there's no talk of him getting a haircut or a shave (or taking a bath) so that's something. I guess.

Okay. Enough hippie talk! How about that dress? It's not a good look for her, because it makes her look like a Pringles can with arms. She enjoys crocheting, doesn't she? Maybe a little bit too much! Because it looks like that dress just keeps going, all the way to the floor and beyond, like she's Morticia Addams Barbie. Or a humanoid tea cozy! It's unsettling! It makes her look boneless, like there's nothing under there but undulating white pulp that just sways back and forth, making little bleating noises. Like she's growing out of the floor! She's like some mythical creature, some siren that never moves, but waits for men to fall in love with her, so she can mealy-mouth over which one she loves best, until they finally get bored with her, or die. And still she'll wait, gently swaying. And bleating. *manly shudder* Wow, I creeped myself out with that one!

Puttin' on the Ritz

Busy day today, so I'm going to turn the fashion criticism over to some other nancy. Take it away, Miss Ritz!

What the--?! Aw, now you've gone too far! Don't give me that look. Listen, little missy, I happen to know for a fact that you've made some pretty tragic fashion decisions yourself. Exhibit A:

In a desperate bid to impress that cute teacher (not that I blame you) you tarted yourself up like a cheap French whore. And that Lilt home perm is out of control. (Or is it a Jheri curl?) Why don't you just marry Jim Baker and get it over with? And now for Exhibit B:

Yeah, I think I saw this look on one of the Olsen twins. And Courtney Love wore this ensemble to a custody hearing. That's mighty poor company, Ritz. So how dare you presume to judge one of the most important cultural icons of the 1970's and 1980's? HOW DARE YOU?!!

Great, now I'm in a saliva-frothing rage. Time to go Christmas shopping!

Tweed Christmas!

Yesterday, we looked at some of the gorgeous gowns from "Power Man & Iron Fist." Today it's the men's turn. Sure, we all know that the title characters' costumes look like finale outfits from "Dancing With The Stars." But what else do they like to wear?

Magnum, T.M.I.! Why, I'm enjoying watching you enjoying listening to Iron Fist enjoying himself, Power Man! I suppose the Hawaiian shirt looks okay, but to be honest I'm having trouble tearing my eyes away from his forearms. *Rrrowr!* The glasses add a hint of vulnerability. Although he'd look even more vulnerable if they were hornrims with tape on the bridge. And maybe the Hawaiian shirt should have a pocket protector. Still, well played, Power Man.

Uh-oh! Looks like some of these hooligans might have a little trouble Stayin' Alive! Iron Fist was just trying to drink A Fifth Of Beethoven but then some Jive Talkin' troublemaker had to go and ruin his good time. So Iron Fist put on his Boogie Shoes and Open Sesame! He goes all Calypso Breakdown on their asses.

...Sorry about that, but I didn't know any good Fantasy Island references.

Here, actor Bob "Dustin" Diamond gets his red-spandexed tail kicked by Colleen "Sometimes I Worry My Sleeves Aren't Voluminous Enough" Wing. Y'know, I want to like Bob, what with the sweet jade "tiger's foot" pendant and the lucious blonde VanDyke. The latter being kind of daring for 1981 -- I mean, who still wore a VanDyke back then? French Ambassadors and NASA technicians, that's who! In other words, LOSERS! So kudos for still rockin' it, Bob! Sadly, when those little touches are combined with the score from your hideous scarlet karate costume, you still end up with a negative total. My solution? Shirtlessness! (Of course, my solution is usually shirtlessness.)

As we've seen, the clothing budget for "Power Man & Iron Fist" is quite extravagant. In fact, they spent so much time and money on the fashions, the supporting cast was kind of hastily cobbled together. Case in point: these two guys. Toby is blind "but he sees more than most people." Oh, so he's like Daredevil. Got it. Toby also appears to be a shabbily-dressed jazz musician. Apparently his playing sucks. Honestly, why couldn't he have been a successful, well-dressed jazz musician? Would that have killed anybody? And then there's the weasel-faced hippie on the right, David Griffith. Nickname: "D.W." (Really? You want to go there, writers? Yikes.) Looks like Kamandi is all growed up! His clothes aren't worth my attention but I did notice something interesting. David is insanely muscular for a hippie film student from 1981. I presume that's because it's a comic book. Check out any TV show or movie from back then. Muscular guys were few and far between, and they were usually athletes or hired goons. Your typical 1981 protagonist had spindly little arms, sloped shoulders, and a belly like a pregnant lady in her second trimester. And a perm! But I digress. In real life, almost nobody from 1981 was in shape! Not even in the fantasy worlds created by Hollywood. But look in any comic book and every background character is built like Captain America. It is a puzzlement.

Excellent three-piece suit, D.A. Hao! Those things always make a man look like a million bucks. The only thing that would make him look better? Shirtlessness! (You knew that one was coming, right? No? C'mon, keep up!) Lieutenant Scarfe, however... wow. What is that outfit, a salute to the Mexican flag? Was this picture taken at the precinct Christmas party? Does the Lieutenant suffer from red-green color blindness and it all looked gray to him? And what's with the half-melted happy face button? What's that, you say? It's a badge? Yeah, I'm not buyin' it. And why is his hair bright blue? What is he smoking? What kind of crazy freaked-out universe did I wind up in? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

Prankly Speaking

Because I'm a fun, light-hearted sort (concealing a black little heart just boiling over with hate and resentment) I thought it would be a hoot to prank-call one of my many arch-enemies, Captain America. To catch him at the height of his squareness, I set the wayback machine time bubble for 1968.

Using the kind of inside knowledge only a time-traveler can obtain, I conviced the big dope I was his long-lost partner, Bucky Barnes, all growed-up and living "underground" in a deep-undercover mission amongst anarchist hippies. I told him I'd never fogotten our days in World War 2 Europe, and especially the "training sessions" he'd treated me to in our personal tent after the rest of the troops had dozed off. I got some entertainingly filthy sex-talk out of the old war-horse, which I recorded for use in a later prank on Iron Man. I was just about to let Cap in on the joke when this happened:

( I should probably take a moment to explain that he'd gotten the notion I was a cocaine addict.) At this point I had two options:

1. Prank him by having him go to a false address with nobody there.
2. Prank him by having him go to a false address with me there in disguise and we'd have punch-throwing, kick-boxing, bombastic super-soldier-serum-powered sex (therefore living out a secret fantasy of thousands of Marvel fanboys).

Naturally I chose the latter. I mean, I can't stand the guy on a personal level but hey! It's Captain Freakin' America!

So I gave him the address of a cheap hotel, the kind where they keep old dressers in the hallways and where everything on the room service trays is composed of jade. Now if you'll recall, the only other time Cap saw me I was in my sweet-ass goatee-and-muttonchops phase, plus it was dyed bright red. Right now I've got my killer biker 'stache (in my naturally handsome chestnut brown) and my psychodelic goggles, so those would help me look the part of an anarchist hippie. Still, it wouldn't be enough. So I dug into my "quick-disguise kit" (which I carry on my person at all times) for something else that would support my flimsy ruse. I donned a long blonde wig and some love beads, unbuttoned my paisley shirt another couple of inches, and I was ready to go.

A gentleman never kisses and tells, so they say, but I will admit that the sex was mind-blowing. (Although I never would have guessed he was a bottom.) It lasted a solid five hours, destroying much of the hotel room in the process, and leaving me with some deep bruising which still hasn't healed. And to think he gave a stirring filibuster on tolerance the whole time! Finally we just lay there, and Cap told me "I've missed this, old chum. You always were the best!" I figured that was a good cue for me to reveal myself, so I started to take off my blonde wig, when suddenly Cap chuckled, "Boy-oh-boy, I'm hungry enough to eat the nuts off a Nazi! What say we have dinner at that little Italian place down the street?" And then I got the idea for the perfect way to end my prank.

As Cap wolfed down his lasagne, I casually mentioned that I had access to secret government time-travel technology. "Like Doctor Doom's time platform?" Cap asked. With some annoyance I answered, "Yeah, only it's like, a billion times better, so there's really no comparison! Gah!" And then I let drop the fact that in the year 2006, same-sex marriage is legal in many parts of the world.

And then he proposed to me.

And then I yanked off the wig and said "Because I'm not Bucky, you idiot! I'm actually the guy you told to shave off his sweet-ass facial hair back in '44! Also? I've had better. Who looks ridiculous now, Cappy? Who looks ridiculous now?! SUCK IT! AGAIN!" And then I flipped him the double space-bird. And, um, then he punched me square in the kisser, dislodging four teeth and shattering my super-cool goggles.

But it was totally worth it.

Hot Town, Cimmerian In The City (Part One)

Wow! So, an entire cult has sprung up from the Milton Bradley game "Sorry!" (Salvation is completely random, depending on whether or not you land on a slide -- but any other cult member can bump you back... to hell!)

Naw! I'm kiddin'! Actually this is the guy from "What If" #13 (February, 1978) who put Conan the Barbarian into a huge bucket and lowered him into a time-well. Conan burst through the ropes that had bound him through sheer awesomeness, but wait! Before he could climb all the way out, the rope he was climbing broke (gotta control the awesomeness, dude) and he fell down, down, down... all the way to Greenwich Village in 1977.



Is it wrong that I covet that necklace on the gal in the lower center of this panel? I think I could seriously work something like that. Hmm... dig the pseudo-hippie at the lower far right. A ponytail and a headband? Is your hair really that out-of-control? Hell, why not add some barrettes, a hairnet, a snood, one of those monks' hats, a shower cap, a do-rag, and a couple of Ace bandages? Just really clamp that shit down. Either that or you could just get a haircut, you goddamn hippie!!! On the left side of the panel we have an alarmingly gray-haired hippie (in 1977?! Curse you, LSD!) sporting a perky flip-do that Laura Petrie would have killed for. And in the back, a curvacious -- if somewhat man-shouldered -- female street performer wearing a mesh t-shirt! You give that back to the Puerto Rican man you stole that from this instant, little missy! It's certainly one way to draw a crowd, I will admit. Although they may be somewhat confused about where to put their dollars. Also, if she lets that guitar drop a quarter-inch she's officially committing a felony.



"Hey, look! Some guy's doing the naked-but-for-a-loincloth bit." "Nice way to beat the heat, huh? Wish I could try it!" "But you could try it! I mean, you are a guy, right? 'Cause I really can't tell sometimes, but I was kinda leaning towards 'guy' on account of how flat your chest is and also that little mustache you got happening... Hey! Where are you going?!"

Apparently 1977 was the hey-day of the tank top. Why, everybody who was anybody wore 'em! Michael Douglas, Al Pacino, Burt Reynolds, Truman Capote, Jack Klugman, Red Buttons, Walter Mondale, Henry Kissinger... y'know. All the "sex symbols." Pretty much the only guy who isn't wearing one here is that snide economist in the plum-colored polyester. "With such happenings, it is small wonder the yen gains daily on the dollar!" Really, pal? That was the source of America's economic stagnation? Too many time-traveling fantasy barbarians? Huh. Come to think of it, I remember Jimmy Carter giving a speech on just that very thing. I think his solution was to give the time-traveling fantasy barbarians the Panama Canal.

You know what the worst part of this comic was? The continuous assertions of bystanders that Our Hero looks just like Sylvester Stallone. Yeah. You know what, Roy Thomas? That's not a compliment. I'd prefer to think he looks like Christian Bale or -- ooh! -- Jason Statham, but that's just my deal. And of course, your 1977-self wouldn't have the first notion about those two gentlemen. Hey, how 'bout Harrison Ford? He's tall, handsome, brooding, he's got the shelf-like forehead action goin' on... and unlike Stallone, he doesn't look hopelessly inbred.

Tomorrow: Conan vs. Glam Rock!

Losers of Mass Destruction

Yesterday, we looked in on a meeting of the Zodiac, undoubtedly one of the worst-dressed groups in supervillain history. Cancer, a.k.a. Baron Crabclaw Von Shortshorts, was doing a piss-poor job of chairing, and most of the other members were either anxious or about to nod off. Fortunately, Scorpio made an announcement that really livened up the proceedings:




Yes, as that famed 22nd century cyber-clone Hank Williams 8.5 once sang, "All my android friends are coming over tonight." If you're wondering what the holy bejeebus an "LMD" is, it stands for "Life Model Decoy." If I recall correctly, SHIELD would use them to throw would-be spies and assassins off the trails of their secret agents. So that's where the "decoy" part comes in. It's still a stupid name, though.

It turns out Jake Fury (Nick's brother!) was resurrected by the magical talking Zodiac Key as a BLT -- er, I mean, "LMD." I'm sorry, but does that make the least bit of sense to anyone? Highly classified government technology being used by talking magic keys? That's a hell of a security leak. Next thing you know, the Wand of Watoom will have its own Helicarrier.

And now Android Jake has made eleven other androids to replace his criminal teammates. And all because they laughed at Jake's idea to raise money with a bake sale. (An evil bake sale!) You could have just resigned, Jake, but no! Seriously, dude, sometimes you just have to let that kind of shit go.

One thing in Jake's favor is that the all-new, all-robot Zodiac has better costumes (mostly) than their fleshy predecessors. Not all of them, mind you. The very idea of a female Taurus "the bull" is kind of alarming to me, but on the other hand she'd make a good girlfriend for the Serpent Society's equally chunky and mannish Anaconda. The new Capricorn is a furry, goat-like female, so again, big aesthetic turn-off for yours truly. Talk to me after you've had a thorough waxing, dear. The new Virgo bores me to sobs with her plain pink jumpsuit, and the new Aquarius looks just like this one guy who tried to sell me a hand-knitted poncho in the parking lot outside a Phish concert. He even had a gun! (He really wanted me to buy that poncho.) I like the new Aries, though, with his sleek, red-and-silver Kirbyish armor. Nicely done, Aries! The new Leo is only middling for me, but I do appreciate how all his teeth had been filed down to razor-sharp points. Not that we ever saw him bite anybody. It wasn't the 90's yet!



Hey, it's Taylor Hicks as Wolverine as the Phantom of the Opera! As an android! Soulless Patrol! You all know how much I dig prematurely silver hair, but not when it's styled to resemble a hang-glider. Fun fact: after he died, Sagittarius willed his gold-plated shoulder pad to Aquaman, his mini-crossbow to the Huntress, and his hair to the Fadeaway Man.

The next panel describes one of the weirder and least necessary features of Jake's STD's. I mean LMD's! LMD's! What is wrong with me today? Where was I? Oh, yeah. To quote:

"They know it's a Life Model Decoy, but it moves like a man-- moans like a man-- dies like a man!"

Whoa, back up there. It... moans... like a man? Huh. So, just hypothetically, if a fella wanted to buy one of these android guys, would he have to pay up front, or is there some kind of installment plan? And does it arrive fully-assembled, or is it like a kit or something? I'm not asking for myself; there's this friend of mine, see...! *sweats profusely*



One annoying habit of the Zodiac androids was their incessant chatter about their individual star-signs. Even in the middle of a battle, they just babble on and on about why they're performing a particular move and how it relates to the symbolism of the Zodiac, and blah, blah, blah. (Special dialogue by Chris Claremont!) Imagine spotting some sexy guy or gal in a bar, and you say "Hey, beautiful, what's your sign?" and suddenly their reply ends up being a five-day filibuster and the doors are all locked from the outside and the restrooms are closed and there's no AC and the juke box is stuck on "A Moment Like This" and after the first day all the beer is gone and the only thing left to drink is creme de menthe. That's what it's like fighting the Zodiac. And Libra? I know it's the 80's, honey, but not everything needs flared shoulders. Especially not a robe. Unless you're on Orando, and then it's required under penalty of death. I really dig Gemini's outfit, though. Too cute! It's the pointy skirt that really sells it for me. Very Ditko-esque. Thumbs up, Gemini! Thumbs up.



The other problem with the Zodiac MMORPG's -- sorry, LMD's -- is that their personalities were designed to match the supposedly standard personalities of everyone born under their particular sign. And not all of those personalities were predisposed to fighting. Like with ol' Pisces here. (Looks like somebody exposed Pamela Anderson to the Terrigen mists, huh?) And seriously, hon, you need to tone down all the dorsal finnery a tad. One strong gust of wind and you'll wind up on a rooftop next to some kid's frisbee. New Improved Cancer gets my vote of approval by evoking a crab with -- gasp! -- armor, and purple-and-orange armor at that. (Bonus points!) He looks a little clunky, though. His boots could be beer kegs. And if they were, that would be just awesomely cool but somehow I doubt it. Also? I'd love to see how he runs in that get-up. I'm guessing it would be like when I was Blockade Tot, playing with my action figures, and I'd make the stiff plastic bodies "run" by rocking them back and forth while sliding them forward.

As for Scorpio, I appreciate that he's trying to improve the overall look of the Zodiac cartel, but "Physician, heal thyself." You've got a cowl over a red facemask, plus the most convoluted underpants I've seen since Lightning Lad. Not to mention the bug on your head. Not even Zatanna could pull that look off.

Okay, I'm done with you. Everybody dance now!

Farrah Fawcett Grampa

In the Marvel Universe, there is a family of timeless, god-like beings called the Elders of the Universe. Among these is the Gardener. The Gardener dresses simply, in a robe and sandals. Ostensibly it's because he's a deeply spiritual man who is One With Nature... but if you ask me, he's just trying to put even more visual emphasis on his spectacularly feathered hair. I mean, look at that glorious mop! Sure, he pulls the old "humble hermit" act when he's around other people, but you just know the moment he's alone, out comes the hairspray, a brush, and a hairdryer that runs on the Power Cosmic. Better yet, he accessorizes with Adam Warlock's soul gem and a bird with an identical hairstyle! (Lookalike pets... what is this, a Marvel comic or a Hanna-Barbara cartoon?)

And now, a completely imaginary romance between the Gardener and the Incredible Hulk, hastily cobbled out of random panels from "The Incredible Hulk" #248 (June, 1980).



Angry sex! Yes, Gardener, the Hulk really knows how to work over a guy's "staff." The Hulk and the Gardener were quite the couple after that. They went everywhere together -- quarreling constantly but just as often stealing away for more furious lovemaking. The Hulk moved into the Gardener's ashram and took to wearing (tattered) hemp pants and restricting himself to a macrobiotic diet. He'd only eat whole, live deer and yaks and manatees and such. For his part, the Gardener started going around shirtless, and he learned to appreciate the simple pleasures of leaping over the Grand Canyon in a single bound, pounding military vehicles into unrecognizable lumps of steel, and referring to himself in the third person. But such volatile romances rarely last. Annoyed by the Hulk's absolute refusal to either do his share of the housekeeping or to go out and find a damn job, the Gardener accepted Xemnu the Living Titan's invitation to join him in a glamorous ski vacation, and summarily kicked the Hulk out on his ass. The Hulk was devastated, and even contemplated suicide.



The Hulk couldn't go through with it, however. Because he weighs 1040 pounds and has skin like rhino hide, so the rope just snapped in two. Still, he was mopey for a long while. Love had died in his heart.



Aw! A happy ending! Turned out Xemnu had also invited Quasar and the Living Tribunal on that ski trip, and was apparently expecting some kind of "four-way" to occur. The Gardener was humiliated. Finally, he returned to the Hulk, because he knew their love was meant to be. Also because he's an enabler, and in some dark corner of his mind he gets off on taking care of someone who doesn't appreciate him.

(Okay, so maybe the ending's not that happy.)

What The World Needs Now Is Embroidered Cloth Patches

From "Doom Patrol" #123 (March/April 1973):


I presume this is the sort of thing the average comics fan of 1973 would wear... on his or her bongwater-soaked jean jacket, of course. A few random points:

1. The advertiser certainly tried to cover a wide demographic base, by including both a "Black Is Beautiful" emblem and the Confederate battle flag. They're the Switzerland of embroidered cloth patch distributors!
2. Does the "Help! I need lovin'" patch actually work? Yes, but only if the other person is "Budweiser Powered."
3. I count no less than five peace symbols and one specifically anti-war slogan among the patches. And yet the world is still wracked by military conflict. Obviously, the damn patches are defective. I want my money back.
4. It was 1973 and they were still selling Woodstock patches. What, had they run out of patches commemorating the 1893 Chicago World's Fair? Also, where's my Altamont patch?
5. I'm tickled by the notion that somebody wearing the "pollution" skull-and-crossbones patch would probably get their heads dunked in the High School boy's room toilets by somebody wearing the regular skull-and-crossbones patch.