So, Tub... How Are You Likin' That New Haircut?

Suck it up, Tub. You just have a couple of "razor bumps." Admittedly, they're each the size of a Storck Chocolate Riesen. But still.

Now, you just have to grow out your body hair and adorn your pudgy mug with a killer biker 'stache, and the people from Colt Studio will be knocking down your door! (Also, you might want to get a pair of nipples grafted to your chest. In size XXXL.) Of course, you'll need a trustworthy agent to manage your affairs. Here. Take my card.

Hey, this ice-cream tastes like high-powered rifle!

The blocking here baffles the hell out of me. Angst was holding a rifle just a couple of panels earlier, with no indication of him being anywhere near a refrigerator or kitchenette, and then he's suddenly holding a solid gold cafeteria tray with a heapin' helpin' of ice-cream on it. Where did it even come from? And is he still holding the rifle? Perhaps, between his legs? Lovingly? Because -- barring the addition of a caption box that reads "Five minutes later" -- I can only imagine one way for this panel to make any sense at all, and it requires the rifle to be a kick-ass "sundae gun" that discharges cherry-vanilla ice-cream.

Kee-rist. O'Neil's writing gives me a headache. An ice-cream headache. I think I'll let my gaze wander over to the Hostess ad on the facing page.

Ah! Much better.

Some Live Like Ozymandias

Yesterday, my coworkers and I went up to the First Planetary Bank of Lallor, so we could all enjoy seeing my brutally handsome countenance forever immortalized as a giant... um... art... thing.

Eyeful Ethel's rocket-limo pulled up in front of the bank, just as Gadfly Lad and I were nearing it on our humble feet. Tusker, Rainbow Girl, Dentata Damsel, and Frigid Queen quickly piled out. They were followed by Nightmare Boy -- who was wearing his mobile visi-phone headset, which resembles a motorcycle helmet. He didn't say much the entire time, aside from the occasional, drowsy-sounding "Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency, please hold" and some muffled snoring. Finally, Ethel herself stepped out of the conveyance, onto a red carpet she keeps for such occasions! And sure enough, the moment she emerged from the rocket-limo, a jetpack-wearing paparazzo zoomed by, and snapped a photo of her. She tilted her head coquettishly, and smiled for him.

I thought it was awfully nice of Ethel to take the time to join us, considering how busy she is with her public speaking engagements, and her book club, and her signature line of gourmet tabasco sauces.

I wondered where Storm Boy was, but I decided to keep that to myself. Too many people already have the misguided opinion that I'm seething with jealousy over his entirely hypothetical romance with this "Ox" character. But no, I just regret making him mad at me. Even though I can't figure out how I even did it in the first place! Heck, just two nights ago I showed up at his apartment, about 1:30 AM, unannounced and heavily fortified with space-wine... to make amends! And if I just happened to catch a glimpse of Ox, well, that would have been a convenient coincidence. But Storm Boy refused to even let me inside! (Blockade block!) I started in on the little speech I'd prepared, but Storm Boy interrupted me, and said, "I'm sorry, Blockade Boy, but I can't even look at you when you're... like this." And of course, he was making this sour, wincing face, and only looking at me from the corners of his eyes, with his head all twisted sideways, the whole time I was there. Just like I used to do with him! WHAT THE HELL?! I tried again to talk, but he just said, "Goodbye, Blockade Boy," and (gently) shut the door in my face.

On the slow-moving X-ray treadmill that takes you into the lobby of the bank itself, the eight of us chatted excitedly about what sort of medium would be portraying my magnificent visage. I envisioned a mega-sized, working diorama of my skull, made out of swords, and axes, and other cool weapons. Spiky maces for my eyeballs, perhaps. Ethel surmised it could be a dynamic holo projector. Tusker imagined -- or maybe he was just hungry for -- a butter sculpture. Dentata Damsel wondered if it might be inflatable, like those bouncy fortresses they have at kids' birthday parties, and the art patrons could enter it through the back of my head, and exit through my mouth (sliding down my beard). As with most of her ideas, her complete lack of vocal modulation made it impossible for me to tell if she was serious. After what felt like days, the treadmill jerked to a halt, and deposited us into the bank's spectacular lobby.

And then I saw it.

A mobile.

It was a fucking mobile! With a big red clown nose! Gah!

I'm pretty sure Gadfly Lad, Ethel, Tusker, and Rainbow Girl all managed to hold their tongues. Frigid Queen had her hand over her mouth, but audibly tittered, plus she was shaking all over, like Michael J. Fox on crack. Dentata Damsel's blandly agreeable mug barely moved, while it emitted a percussive, congested snorting. And Nightmare Boy laughed so hard, he hyperventilated and briefly passed out. I can't be one-hundred percent sure of any of this, however, because I was too busy screaming "MOTHERFUCKER!" over and over.

I'm afraid I made a real scene. I must have ranted about that goofy mobile for a good twelve minutes, at least! I think everybody else was mainly amused by me at first, and then they got kinda terrified, and towards the end, boredom set in. When I'd finally run out of invectives -- and steam -- I was left just standing there, all red-faced and panting, fixing the mobile with a goggle-eyed stare. Behind me, I could hear my coworkers muttering in exasperation.

"Up on the housetop, bitch, bitch, bitch, 'Santa,'" sighed Tusker. (Like he should talk--!)

"Drama queen...!" mumbled Nightmare Boy.

"The mobile, as an art form, has enjoyed increasing prominence on Lallor ever since the Atomic Wars," droned Gadfly Lad to nobody in particular. "Why, in the Modern Museum of Lallor alone, there are..."

It was Rainbow Girl who clasped my shoulder and said, gently, "You know Klup meant well, right?"

With no little amount of resignation, I conceded that point.

Rainbow Girl pointed out that it was a rare thing to be the inspiration of such a prominent piece of art, and she added that nobody had ever made any artwork because of her. The others chimed in to say pretty much the same thing -- except for Eyeful Ethel. She just grinned at me and said, "Remind me to show you the holo-painting I posed for. That no-talent doofus made my hair look like Spider Girl's."

Heh. It's strange: I put up with Weight Wizard's constant murder attempts for umpteen years (exactly how many years I can never be sure, thanks to this dimension's damn sliding timeline) but I was more upset by Klup's artistic hackery. As one of Amadus' greatest anonymous poets once said, "I have a heart of steel, but an aesthetic sense as tender as the hairs of a child's biker 'stache." Hmm. I'm going to have to ponder that one for a while. Seeing as how I'm so deep and wise and shit.

*philosophically puffs on pipe*

Power to the Purple

On last Wednesday's "Project Runway" (your time), the designers had to create an outfit to be worn by Tiki Barber on an episode of the "Today" show. I liked Kevin's design the best...

...but Tiki didn't. Madness! Madness, I say to you now. I would have worn it. Because there is not one thing wrong with this ensemble. ...Well, maybe it could use more orange. And I think the model up there would look kick-ass with a sweet biker 'stache, or maybe even a handlebar. Also, he should wear a rakishly-tilted bowler hat, for just the right touch of insouciance. And boots! ...In fact, Kevin should have just outfitted his model like this.

Of course, I may be a bit biased.

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Double-Header

Double-Header: what is he good for? Absolutely nothin'. (Say it again.)

The Legion auditions are like your 21st Century reality shows. It's a cattle call. And alongside the talented folks who get turned away for not being good-looking dickweeds, there is another class of rejects. That would be the no-talent opportunists who know perfectly well there's no way no how they'd ever get into the Legion but they show up and make a scene so their names will get into the evening's holo-papers. Which is my way of saying that Double-Header is to the Legion what David Kenneth "Sex" Soller was to "So You Think You Can Dance."

Look, I know Double-Header. He's not a bad guy. And he's not dumb. And I've certainly never seen his left and right heads fight... like that anyway. Naw, they get along just peachy. (The left one is the dominant personality... the "Mary-Kate Olsen" of the pair, if you will.) It's an act, and Double-Header only auditioned in the first place to impress a girl. It didn't work, but he still gets called up by the media for a juicy quote whenever the Legion holds another round of auditions. I guess it wasn't a total loss.

How could I have made Double-Header a viable Legion prospect? It stumped me for a while, but then I found my hook: Triplicate Girl's Tri-Jitsu.

As seen in Double-Header's subsequent appearances, he had surgery to separate his fused skulls and give them independent mobility. So he can now look in opposite directions simultaneously. I think that'd make him a real boss martial artist. He could even invent his own fighting style! Like "Juduo" or "Kung-Two." The only catch is that he'd have to be a better fighter than Karate Kid to actually make it in! ...Or else Karate Kid would have to meet with a terrible debilitating accident. (I'm sure that could be arranged.)

Double-Header's costume incorporates the Yin-Yang symbol. I made it black-and-red instead of black-and-white because you don't see that as much, and it makes him look more like a tough customer. And yes, I suppose it's asymmetrical even though I've railed against asymmetrical costumes in the past. Criminy, I'm never going to live that down, am I? In my defense, I'd just like to say that by making the dominant color a neutral I keep the design from looking garish or clown-like, and also that rules are meant to be broken -- but only by a professional such as myself. I experimented with some hairstyles for Double-Header, most of them of the mohawk variety, but I finally decided he looked best with the shaved thing he already has going. However, I gave one head a killer biker 'stache and the other a sweet-ass goatee to help define them as individuals. Both sets of stylish shades were going to be red but I accidentally started inking one in and I decided I liked it better that way. He still might not get accepted by the Legion, but I bet he'd make for a cool bouncer at a nightclub!

Rescue Me: Blue Streak

The Scourge of the Underworld: if there's a lame-ass villain, he'll lamely assassinate him! Blue Streak: an evil rollerskating spy who dresses alternately like Evel Knievel or an immunodeficient baseball umpire! Their paths pretty much had to cross one day, huh? And so they did (in "Captain America" #318) when Blue Streak was forced to hitch-hike. (Lame!) And who, disguised as a trucker, offered him a ride? No, not me! Have you been paying attention at all?! Criminy.

So that was the end of Blue Streak, exactly one-hundred-and-one issues of "Captain America" after he was introduced. But did Blue Streak deserve to die? That's a rhetorical question, natch. You already know my answer. Which is "No, he didn't. Because there are no lame characters; there are only lame writers." I think the idea of an evil rollerskating spy is just dandy in the proper context. And "Captain America" is not the proper context. "Rocky and Bullwinkle"? You bet! I think Blue Streak's basic concept just needed a little tweaking to make him a decent Captain America villain. Get rid of the roller skates and just concentrate on his being a super-fast evil spy and "wham-bam, thank you, Weight Wizard" you have a great start.

Blue Streak was a redheaded guy, real name unknown, who got his superpowers from technology. First it was just a pair of amped-up skates. Then he upgraded to better skates, a suit that protected him from friction burns (quiet, Scipio), a laser, and caltrops (spiked jacks). Which was fine, sort of, except he was still getting around on skates and the new suit didn't look any cooler. It just looked differently goofy. I say he could have upgraded again to the comic book science equivalent of "a wizard did it": nanites! Sure, why not? I think he could have used nano-robots to bestow super-speed upon himself, along with a fancy blue frictionless "skin." And since he was a redhead, maybe he had some Celts in his family history. So maybe his villainous look could have been based on the blue-painted Celtic warriors who fought the Romans! If I recall correctly, the Celts also did something to their hair to make it spikier and more horrifying. (And a lot of them had big mustaches, which isn't necessarily scary but I thought I'd better point it out before I showed you the picture.) So Blue Streak could have resembled a stylized Blue Celt.

The tattoos could glow, if you're into that sort of thing. And the facial tattoos symbolizing a mustache and eyebrows (y'know, like Little Richard has) are meant to be Kirbyesque. With the hair, it makes him look more than a little like Lobo. Which wasn't on purpose, since I honestly can't stand Lobo. Of course, I was well into this design before I realized that blue + spiky hair + really fast = Sonic the Hedgehog. So what, I say. SO WHAT! Er, anyway, his weapons could have been replicas of a Celtic spear and shield ('cause he was a Cap villain) that were made of energy. And for a power limitation, maybe he could only have manifested the spear and shield when he wasn't accessing his superspeed. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3
• Black Abbott
• The Wrench

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Mantis

Before we get down to business, I'd just like to say how much I appreciate the generous outpouring of support I've received after my last post. The mountains of letters and sympathy cards, the bushel baskets of orchids, the scented soaps in the shapes of prancing unicorns, the steamer trunk filled with Italian shoes, the gift certificate for twenty-five credits off the all-u-can-eat steak and potato bar at Space Sizzler, the kryptonite-encrusted rocket sled, the Shetland pony that's trained as a personal shopper...! Why, you're the best friends a 30th Century other-dimensional fashion designer who can turn into a moderately-sized steel wall and who is cursed with an ungainly yet strangely handsome mechanical dingus could ever have. *weeps openly*

*wipes eyes and deeply inhales, producing a wet snuffling noise like a gut-shot kodiak*

Okay! So... Mantis! What's her deal?

She's Vietnamese, kind of, only her dad is some guy with a German name who was the original Libra in the supervillain group, the Zodiac. And she married an alien tree, basically, only it was in the body of her ex-boyfriend, and they had a son named "Sequoia" (I shit you not) and she managed to travel to other universes under various aliases like "Willow" and "Lorelei" where she'd mainly just say enigmatic crap, and she hooked up with Kang, only not really, as in that Mantis was a hyp-mo-tized Space Phantom which you have to admit is pretty funny. Also, she has the power of "total body control", like one of those conditioners you can only buy at a salon. Not to mention, she has some kind of super-empathy and she can astrally project herself across the whole freaking universe and build a host body out of vegetation. So she's kind of like the Swamp Thing, only sluttier. She loves to refer to herself as "this one", which is the spoken version of never capitalizing the word "I". Oh, and somehow the Kree are involved. Of course. Also? Ugh. Suffice it to say, I'm not a fan. But if you like her, hooray for you! No, for reals! Go get 'em, tiger! *gives thumbs-up sign*

Girly clothes? She's bustin' out of 'em! For starters, there's the aerodynamic and way off-the-shoulder bustier, the Bettie Page bangs, and the cutesie-poo antennae made of God-knows-what but is probably just hair. And she's wearing a hula skirt!

So how do I butch that up?

Thanks for asking!

Starting from the top down, I had a heck of a time figuring out what to do with Man-Mantis' hair. I figured the hair-antennae would look manlier if they were more substantial. So I altered them into Quicksilver-style forelocks -- only longer, natch. I also gave him Ra's al Ghul's facial hair, to symbolize mandibles. I toned down the shoulders on the goofy fly-away bustier and made it into a vest. The belt and the wrist-bands were neutral enough, so I could leave those alone. The skirt is now ventilated, extremely breathable genie pants -- and not pantaloons, wiseapples! Unlike those ballooning antiquities, my Man-Mantis man-pants are tailored to gently hug the crotch and buttocks areas. It's only below those parts that they flair out, open up, and do their funky thing. Due to the shape of the pants, I had to change the ankle bands a little. So I inverted them. That's all. Simple, see?

I think it works okay. I'd never give one of my paying clients "hair antennae" or a vertically bisected yellow-and-green vest. Or that belt! But they were key elements of the original design and I felt I had to honor that. Man-Mantis would fit right in with 1970's sock-choppy heroes like Shang-Chi and Iron Fist. Right away I can envision a book-length novel where the three of them team up and go to town on a bunch of bad guys, and that part would be over with in about three pages, and the rest of it would just be them relaxing in one of those Japanese communal baths, talking about foot lotions.

I mean, I'd buy it.

Previous Gender Reassignment Challenges:

• Saturn Girl
• Scarlet Witch
• Looker (and a slight revision)
• Storm
• Marvel Girl
• Black Canary
• Phantom Lady
• Snowbird
• Dazzler

Next week: Rescue Me: Titania! But before that is April Fool's Day. I certainly hope nothing untoward happens to my blog.

The Breakup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit! It's Super Ann Coulter!

Gah! Let's move on. And quickly!

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

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

Not enough dextrose.

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

Jettison My Heart From the Airlock At Wounded Knee

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

Sweet!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor Strange:Master of the Pimpin' Arts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rude Toff's Shiny New Gear

There's nothing sadder than a man in a sexed-up, nipple-baring Santa suit... after Christmas, natch. Before then? Why, it's the epitome of elegance! Which is my little way of saying I've got a new costume!

I thought I'd take advantage of my current obsession with hair bleaching to design some kick-ass black-and-silvery-white togs. I never would have worn something like this when my hair was brown... or orange. Anyway, this is my most favoritest costume yet! It's a bit "Fantastic Four," I grant you. But the little spots of color in the goggles and in the superhero logo make a big difference. Also, I trimmed my hair a little shorter than before, to put more emphasis on my killer biker 'stache. I think it's a pretty sweet look for me. And if any man disagrees, we can settle things the old-fashioned way: with fisticuffs. Or better yet, a drinking contest! In fact, forget the "contest" part, let's just meet at your place for drinks. And if we get in an argument that escalates into a full-contact brawl with the both of us wrestling on the floor until our clothes get torn off and we're all sweaty and dirty and naked, I'm totally cool with that.

I'm just sayin'.

Like A Thing Unto Cashmere

Do you know the best part of any issue of "Power Man & Iron Fist"? It's not the non-stop action or the playful banter or the complex characterization. It's the gowns. The pretty, pretty gowns.

Here's Colleen Wing, enjoying a formal dress freakout in "Power Man & Iron Fist" #70 (June 1981). Colleen's gown has the elegance required for an evening at the opera, with just a hint of wanton sluttiness that's just perfect for an intimate night at the local sex dungeon. Everyone who's anyone wants this gown! Top-knotted immortal sorcerors, tattooed male ballerinas, dirty hippies (with utterly gorgeous biker 'staches... er, but I digress) and of course, Angela Bassett. In fact, the only one who isn't interested is Captain Kangaroo, and that's only because Colleen just put a stiletto heel in his left eye. Yeeeowwch! But it was too late for him anyway, because Clint Eastwood just used his lasso skills to rope hisself a prize filly! Thar'll be some tender cuts o' veal fer his vittles tonight! Yeeee-haw!

Baubles, bangles, and BAZOOMBAS!!! Here's busty Harmony Young, who's so enchanted with her gown that she doesn't mind at all that the giant disembodied head of her lover's old girlfriend floats above her noggin at all times. (Although why the old girlfriend is wearing little packets of allergy medicine for earrings is beyond me.) Harmony's gown has a generous slit (just like Harmony!) that gives her an unprecedented freedom of movement and 24- hour E-Z access to her cooter. Harmony has accessorized the look with a selection of rubber bands, Lance Armstrong "Live Strong" bracelets, the beaded chain from a pen at the bank, and some of those little zippy plastic deals that come off the lids to milk cartons.

Tomorrow: menswear!

Joyeaux Nipple

As you know, I've been wearing the same old-timey Western outfit for several weeks and it finally occurred to me that I was being a bit ridiculous. So now I've decided to wear this Santa costume twenty-four hours a day!

Ho, ho, homoerotic! Who could have guessed that "Santa's beard" would turn out to be Mrs. Claus? Oh, I sleigh me! ...Sorry. I'll stop now.

I started with the silhouette -- I knew I wanted a reindeer head embossed in leather over my unjelly-like belly and I knew I wanted the top half of my torso to be exposed and to be framed by the white fur trim on the jacket. At first this design involved a big wrestling belt. But I've worn one of those before, so I modified it into a leather corset/unitard deal. I paired it up with tall pirate boots to help focus the eye on the reindeer symbol. The boots have a stylized Christmas tree with branches that mimic the reindeer's horns. I toyed with several different lengths on the jacket, but I settled on mid-length because, again, it wouldn't distract too much from the reindeer head. (I thought about matador-length, but dismissed it as too cutesy.) Instead of my usual goggles, I went with a domino mask. It doesn't obscure my gorgeous green eyes and it doesn't get in the way of the Santa hat. The gloves are flared in a 17th century Russian style.

And to finish the look, I "fell off the wagon" and changed my hair color. All my hair is bleached out to pure white now. You heard me. All of it. I had to get Jeremy to help me with some of the hard-to-reach areas. The poor lad passed out at one point -- presumably overcome by my raw sexuality, although I wouldn't rule out the bleach fumes or my gassiness from all that turkey I'd consumed... I sounded like a Phillip Glass score, played on a tuba.

Oh, and FYI I won't be posting again until Tuesday. Jeremy is visiting his folks in Arkansas this weekend and like usual I'm banned from using his computer while he's away. That's okay. I think I'll hop in my time bubble and go mess with Clement Moore's head.

Have a great weekend, everybody!

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.

Howdy You Like Me Now?

Yippee-Ki-Yay, fashion lover! Woo! Check me out! As you can see, I spent quite a bit of time in DC's Old West. Long enough for me to grow my hair back out and exchange my dashing Donegal for this bitchin' biker 'stache. Why, you ask? Simple. People were always mistaking me for a Mormon or a Mennonite or Abe Lincoln's hotter brother and after a while it really started to stick in my craw. And I noticed that all the really badass gunfighters, like f'rinstance every single one of the Earp brothers, had these sweet biker 'staches (and by biker, I mean some random dude on a velocipede). And then I remembered that the second-runner-up in my facial hair poll was the "Doctor Strange." So that cinched it. And of course, it gave me the excuse to get new clothes!

Y'know, as rugged and manly as I am, I just can't help playing the dandy. No dusters and cowboy hats for yours truly! Nope, I was going to be the swellest swell that ever swelled. I still had my hoodie stashed away, so I cut it into shreds and made it the front part of this fancy new vest! The rest of the outfit was mainly bought but I think I really can assemble an ensemble if you don't mind my tooting my own horn. I'm especially fond of the lavender kerchief. It even smells like lavender, thanks to the sachet I sewed into it. Which was handy given that your typical cattle town smells like seven flavors of ass. I fashioned a matching hatband for my derby, which I tilted rakishly, but of course. Now that I've returned to your time period, I'll probably have to design myself a new superhero outfit but that can wait for a while. I'm still digging on these Western duds!

I've got plenty of stories to tell about my Old West exploits, but I'll save most of 'em for some other time. For now, I'll just mention that I was shocked to discover that I had an Old West Earth ancestor named Stockade Boy. He had the power to transform into a 7' high by 5' wide fence made of sharpened timber. Looked just like me, too, if I had been a fur trapper who had never ever shaved. Or bathed. I was even more shocked to discover that Stockade Boy was, in fact, Chameleon Boy, playing this imaginary character as part of an elaborate ruse by the Legion to foil the Time Trapper, who himself was actually a disguised Mopee the Heavenly Help-Mate, who himself was, in fact, an evil double of Princess Projectra accidentally created by the chemical reaction of an experimental element and her lip gloss. And I'm pretty sure there was more to it but I really lost track after that. Honestly, as soon as Chameleon Boy revealed himself, I said, "Ain't no thing, pal, I'll let it slide," but he just kept talking and talking and I swear the Legion's master plan had about five hundred different moving parts and no matter how many times I tried to excuse myself he just would not shut his yapper. Luckily there was a lanky ranch hand nearby with the tightest chaps I'd ever seen, so at least I had something to look at.

Oh, and that format change Jeremy mentioned will be put into effect over the next week or so: all I'm doing is adding a few graphics to make it more obvious that this is a self-contained "team blog." That way, my associates* can post without any kind of confusing preamble from myself and they'll get their own little headshots at the start of the posts, like a byline, kind of.

*The recurring columnists of Team Blockade Boy: Myself (natch), Jeremy (sports commentary), Lenny the Marvel Henchman, Manny the DC Henchman, Lancelot Steele (our relationship expert) and Membros the Bearer of Bad Tidings. For starters. I might add more later on.

Blockade Boy Needs You!

I'm sure many of you are wondering -- although none of you have asked -- how I can get away with my sweet-ass goatee and muttonchops when I'm travelling in an era that frowns on such follicular extravagance. It's really quite simple. I just make sure my civilian identity comes from whichever walk of life justifies big, bold facial hair. Here are some of the aliases I've used, along with the time period in which I've used them:

• The Vicomte Bloque-DuBoise, a nobleman (1937-1949). Accessories: monocle, top hat, enormous medal-bedecked sash. Accent: French.
• Bucky Attaboy, 4-F character actor specializing in cowboy sidekick roles (1941-1945, 1950-1953). Accessories: plaid shirt, boots, cowboy hat with the front of the brim bent straight upward. Accent: nearly unintelligible.
• Doctor Blake Boyd, high-priced psychoanalyst (1948-1982). Accessories: tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, straight-stemmed bulldog pipe, thoughtful expression. Accent: Connecticut.
• Blockade Doggie, tormented beat poet and occasional surfer (1959-1967). Accessories: sweatshirt, bongos. Accent: mumbled Southern Californian.
• "Bulky" Boynton, motorcycle enthusiast and professional bouncer (1968-present). Accessories: leather jacket, sunglasses, WWI German army helmet, sneer. Accent: Midwestern whiskey-throated growl.
• Bob Kane-Hoyt III, trustfund radical (1969-1973, 1988-present). Accessories: pants woven by Central American Marxists, copy of Das Kapital, platinum American Express card. Accent: never really settled on one, since I spent most of my time sighing and making disgruntled clucking noises.
• Boris "The Steel Wall" Arkady, professional wrestler (1976-1989). Accessories: leopard-skin tights, satin cape, bullhorn. Accent: Russian.
• Bill K. Poindexter, Nasa engineer (1977-1985). Accessories: hornrimmed glasses, short-sleeved white dress shirt, clipboard, bad posture. Accent: nasal Floridian.
• Blox-Boi, struggling Nu-Metal keyboardist and cube-gleaming sk8er (1995-2002). Accessories: baggy pants, tuke, the stench of failure. Accent: whiny Brookline.
• Bollocks Kapow, snooty techno DJ (1993-present). Accessories: hoodie, mirrored shades, busted glow stick. Accent: really bad faux-Swedish.

I hope that clears things up. And now for the matter at hand: It's been just over a year since I took over Jeremy's blog, and I think it's time for a makeover. (For myself; not for the blog.) For starters, I'm going back to my natural hair color. I know that sounds like no big deal to you folks, but my hair has been dyed some color or other pretty much continuously since I was six years old -- not counting that unfortunate business with the Super-Stalag of Space. And now I have to do something about my facial hair. Since it was dyed to match my hair I'll have to shave it off and regrow it. Which is fine by me, since I feel like switching to a new style. And that's where you, my charming and handsome and/or beautiful friends come in! You see, I can't make up my mind! I've narrowed it down to four styles:

A. The "Doctor Strange"

B. The "Dum Dum Dugan"

C. The "Wolverine" and...

D. The "Highfather."

I need you guys to vote for which style you'd like to see me adopt. Use the handy mini-poll box located over the links section. (You can vote as many times as you want; it's cool by me.) Whichever look gets the most votes by 10 PM Central Standard Time on Monday, that's how I'll wear it for the forseeable future. Through the magic of time travel, I'll be able to show you my new look, along with a brand new costume, on Tuesday's post!

Full schedule for next week:

• Monday: Rescue Me: Bird-Man
• Tuesday: My new costume and facial hair!
• Wednesday: Rescue Me: Steeplejack
• Thursday: Time-Travel Challenge: Grunge to Rockabilly
• Friday: I present two costume redesigns to the Mighty Thor.

Have a great weekend!

Rescue Me: The Fly

Or "The Human Fly" as he was sometimes called. Which must have been confusing for that 70's stuntman guy with the same name and his own Marvel comic. His costume was kind of boring, that's for damn sure. But I don't agree with Marvel's decision to mutate him and make him even more insect-like, and give him a preference for eating garbage. (Like Tostitos and Ding Dongs.) I guess Marvel finally realized he was more disgusting and pathetic than menacing. And so down came the swatter.

Well, I call shenanigans. He was a powerful guy in his prime, with some pretty cool powers, like the ability to generate explosive force by "buzzing" his wings at a certain frequency. And he was strong, fast, and could stick to walls. I think he would have made a great enforcer-type character -- y'know, badass muscle hired by crime bosses to rub out their enemies. And I would have dressed him like so:



Forget the traditional costume -- with those big bug eyes and wings, he doesn't need anything else that could make him look campy. So we have green leather pants and boots and some tattoos that are based on the shape of flies' legs. I shaved his head and gave him a fu-manchu. Which is dyed black, since his natural haircolor is a strawberry blonde. It's more of a down-to-earth, rough-and-tumble look for the guy. He fought Moon Knight at one point; I think he would have been a good villain for other street-level heroes, like Daredevil or Power Man.

What do you guys think?

Moral Realignment Challenge: The Flash And Murmur

How might Wally "The Flash" West look if he was a villain? And how might Murmur look if he was a hero? Let's see!



Excerpt from "DC Nation" in the back of all DC comics with a cover date of August 2006, on Earth-Bajillion:

"With the Trickster's heroic sacrifice in the pages of CRITICAL INFINITY, his legacy is in the hands of his mute former sidekick, MURMUR. But the grim, daring acrobat is about to find out that for every legacy hero, there's a legacy villain! And there's none deadlier than the new Flash! Bigger -- and faster -- than his late namesake, this Flash is a brutal drug lord who's determined to rule Peripheral City. Is Murmur agile enough to defeat the fastest thug alive? Or will he end up as a stain on Flash's boots? Geoff Johns and Cully Hamner provide the answer in the pages of MURMUR.

...Fun fact: I almost gave Evil Flash a beer belly. Thank God I came to my senses.

I already knew I wanted to make Good Murmur a motley-clad hero, because Evil Murmur wears a jester outfit already (only it's black leather bondage *yawn* gear). I got rid of the stupid facemask because I've always freaking hated it. It just bugs the shit out of me. Simple as that. So instead I carried the clown motif through with a pale face and with dyed hair that is arranged to looks a bit like a jester's cap -- not completely, since I didn't want him to look like Sideshow Bob, but enough to convey the idea. When he's still, it would be lank and a few locks would hang over his face. I also figure that as part of his gimmick, Murmur would have a morose demeanor and never smile. Which makes total sense since he's a Geoff Johns character, and therefore has nothing to smile about.

I designed Evil Flash to be a stark visual contrast with Good Murmur. Good Murmur wears a costume, so Evil Flash wears street clothes. Good Murmur is kinda slim, so Evil Flash is brawny. And (although you can't really see it here) Good Murmur never smiles, so Evil Flash always smiles. Which is kinda creepy.

And again, no, that's not me as "Evil Flash."

Questions? Comments?

The Startling Secret Origin Of Doctor Strange's Funky Biker 'Stache!

At some point in the early 80's, artistic license or editorial fiat mandated that Doctor Strange be drawn with a more fanciful Ted Nugent biker moustache instead of his traditional pencil-line number. (I say "biker moustache" instead of "fu-manchu" because technically a fu-manchu features a clean-shaven upper lip and the only hair is on the sides of the mouth. I'm a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to facial hair, so I know these things.) Nobody knew why Doctor Strange switched to this groovier style of face fuzz until "Doctor Strange" #54 (August, 1982). The issue begins with Doctor Strange moping about his student/girfriend Clea leaving his eldritch ass (her stated reason being that she thinks another woman loves him MORE but seriously, come fucking ON.) And then, doodly-doodly-doop! Cue the harp glissando and the swirly effect on the TV screen, we're transported into a flashback sequence by a different writing and art team. In other words, it's a cut-up filler issue that never got published, and they'd better go ahead and print the damn thing because Clea is still Strange's girlfriend in it! It starts with a biker 'stache-free Doctor Strange and the buxom Clea enjoying a stroll in Washington Square Park. And who should they run into but Shaggy of "Scooby Doo" fame!



Zoinks! Shaggy sports a "My First Goatee" (by Playskool) and as Jeremy likes to quip about such dodgy facial hair, "A little club soda and it wipes right off." Note also the pseudo-braid on the back. All you need is a half-dozen rubber bands and forty-five seconds of free time and voila! Your unruly mane of dry, hopelessly damaged hair, which has never seen a bottle of conditioner, is arranged in an unreasonable facsimile of a braid. This look is wildly popular with roofers and carpet installers. "The psychic emanations pouring from his body are almost palpable!" thinks Doctor Strange. No, honey, that's just the heady melange of patchouli and B.O. But yes, it is quite palpable.

Since the filler story is written by J.M. "Starbaby" DeMatteis, it ends with a bunch of hippies passed out on the floor. Then the regular team of Roger Stern and Paul Smith tack on a new last page, in which Clea makes an interesting request:



This should have been Doctor Strange's first clue that his relationship was in trouble. Clea's basically telling him, "I want to start seeing other people, but for now I'll settle for you just looking like other people." And Doctor Strange, still so gooey-eyed in love with her and yet so self-centered he's not really listening to what she's saying, goes along with it. Kind of sad, really. That said, I think Doctor Strange looks cooler with the biker 'stache than he does without it. The VanDyke's pretty nice, though. Does he still have that? Now, if only he'd do something about his hair. Really, if I had my way he'd look like one of those Ultimate Fighting guys, with the crew cut and no shirt and a lot of tattoos and... sorry, I kind of drifted away for a second. Um. Heh. Anyway...!

Bonus! In "Doctor Strange" #71 (June, 1985) we find out what Doctor Strange would look like with a full beard and Shawn Cassidy hair.



And the answer is, "Like a suicidally depressed llama."