Too Hot To Handlebar

"Its giant crotch will kill us all!!!"

Y'know what amazed me the most about the startling high-tech world of the Shogun Warriors? The sheer metric tonnage of handlebar mustaches. Granted, it was 1979 and men in general were hairier back then, but in my many travels to that era, I don't recall seeing a lot of handlebar mustaches. And it's no wonder, really. It takes the better part of a year to develop a decent handlebar mustache, and you have to use a special wax and a liliputian comb to keep it groomed. And who has that kind of time? Besides Oliver Queen, that is. But in "Shogun Warriors" #7 (August, 1979) the handlebar mustache has penetrated all levels of society!



Scientists have them, of course. This fellow has the biggest, grandest handlebar mustache in the "Shogun Warriors" comic -- it's the Alpha 'Stache, if you will. It's so brawny, I'd love to see it in a steel cage match against Egg-Fu's mustache! Even if it lost, it would put up one helluva fight.



Movie directors have handlebar mustaches! I suppose that's logical; the eccentricities of artists are often indulged, or at least tolerated. Fun fact: when Jeremy was in high school, a TV movie was filmed in his hometown. ("The Parade," starring Rosanna Arquette and Maxwell Caulfield. That one guy from Toto showed up to visit!) The director, no lie, wore a safari outfit with a pith helmet the whole time.



What th'? Even the parking valets have handlebar mustaches! Are you freaking kidding me? I'm sorry; I'm just not buying that one.

So what's going on here? I have a theory. The penciller is Herb Trimpe, a middling-to-downright-crappy artist who managed to eke out a career at Marvel by doing a Jack Kirby imitation (just like his co-worker, Ron "Marvel Two-In-One" Wilson). Therefore he uses a lot of Kirby motifs, including Dum-Dum Dugan's facial hair, even when it's completely outdated and nonsensical. But he got a lot of work doing it, up 'til the early 80's.

Epilogue: unless I dreamed this, I could have sworn I saw a Marvel comic in the late 90's that was pencilled by Herb Trimpe -- but this time he was doing an imitation of Rob Liefeld.

It was the most depressing thing I'd ever seen.

Nineteen Hate-y Four

So I bought the first issue of the new Eternals comic yesterday. And I used one of Jeremy's credit cards, which means I also treated myself to a pedicure and a massage and brunch at a nice restaurant. Really, I made a whole day of it! Anyway, when I saw John Romita Jr.'s depiction of Sersi, with the Suzanne Somers bangs and the great wads of mascara, I suffered a flashback to my very own Vietnam -- namely the X-Men comics he drew over twenty years ago! The feminine portion of the X-Men have always been burdened with god-awful costumes, and Junior was responsible for more than his share. How many different costumes did he design just for Rogue? Twenty? Three hundred? And each was fuglier than the last. That's quite an accomplishment. Let's take a glance at a few frightful designs from John Romita, Jr.'s Galleria of Horrors.



(From "The Uncanny X-Men" #177, January 1984.) You think my fashion criticism can be merciless? At least I don't kill people. I wonder if Wolverine dispatched her with an 80's movie-style quip, like "Disco is dead. *snikt* And so are you."

To be perfectly honest, this isn't Wolverine; it's Mystique. And it isn't Kitty Pryde, either; it's one of Arcade's Murderworld robots. So I don't know if Kitty really had an outfit like that, or if it's something a guy in an oversize novelty bowtie thinks she might wear. (He's right on the money if you ask me.)

Oh, and inside the comic the costume is colored a reasonably tasteful blue-and-white. But yellow, magenta and brown is also a fine combination. If you're a chocolate cupcake.



(From "The Uncanny X-Men" #282, June 1984.) It's Rogue-y the Flying Squirrel! I suppose that blinding orange is to keep hunters from shooting at her. How do you know when a woman doesn't like people to touch her? When she's wearing a cowl neck over a turtleneck. It makes her sweater look like it's been circumcized. This ensemble also features two of Romita The Lesser's favorite things, like, ever: tights and a sash. Lotta tights in the 80's X-Men comics. Ditto for sashes. This sash isn't as brazenly huge as a Dave Cockrum sash, but it's still grandly pointless. The down side? If Rogue flies backwards it snaps up and smacks her in the kisser. Although she's really kind of asking for it.



(From "The Uncanny X-Men" #189, January 1985.) It's Rachel Summers in "The Trampiest Gun In The West!" Hey look, a sash. What complimentary things can I say about this look? Er... um... at least she doesn't have her signature mullet. Okay, I'm done. The part I cropped out had Amara "Fire Crotch" Aquila wearing nothin' but lava, and Selene in her insanely slutty "Black Queen" costume (leather bondage gear, approved whole-heartedly by the Comics Code Authority.)

Wait a gol-dang minute... I thought Rachel had a buzzcut! What's with the sensible "farm wife" 'do? Is this a continuity error? Nope! It's all a hallucination.



See, this is what Rachel dreams of wearing. Kind of like how Jeremy dreams of having a 32" waist. Can somebody explain the sash to me? Because I don't understand the point of it. At least on Rogue's get-up it cinched that gargantuan sweater she was wearing and gave her an hourglass figure, but with Rachel the color doesn't coordinate and it interrupts the lines on her bodice without providing an interesting contrast to them. In fact, it's like she doesn't even realize she's wearing it. Maybe it's police tape, and her vagina is a crime scene.

That concludes our tour of the Galleria. The exit is to your left, and please take care not to slip in the vomit of your fellow patrons as you leave. Good day to you all!

The Composite Doorman

(From "Mad About Millie Special" #1, Marvel, November 1971.) What a horrifying apparition! And what awesome power he must wield in this odd, amalgamated form! From top to bottom I count:
1. General Zod's hat
2. Wolverine's sideburns
3. Ultimate Wolverine's fey little beard
4. Captain Nazi's epaulets
5. The Phantom Stranger's gold-plated disco medallion
6. Gorilla Grodd's torso
7. Little Dot's favorite pajamas, and
8. Jesus' sandals

Any additions or corrections will be welcomed with open arms.

The Asgardian Hillbilly!

Fashion in Asgard is anything but subtle. And Asgard's ruler, Odin, is probably the flashiest dresser of them all! The above image doesn't really do him justice, but it's from one of the few comics Jeremy owns with Odin in it. Still, I clearly remember some Jack Kirby panels that showed the Big Pimpin' All-Father sprawled on his throne with a godly grimace on his whiskery puss as he was slowly crushed to death beneath a massive helmet that looked like a wedding cake crossed with a jet engine. I puzzled over how Odin might dress when he wanted to relax. Three-foot-tall platform moccasins, perhaps? Or a terrycloth robe with a twenty-foot train and a big finned collar? I honestly couldn't picture it. So, you can imagine my surprise when I thumbed through Jeremy's copy of "Die Spinne" #23, a collection of Marvel reprints published by der Condor-Verlagsgruppe in Germany back in the 80's. I don't know why Jeremy even has this comic, considering he doesn't speak German, the ignorant American pig. Okay, I can't speak it either but I'm from the future where the only languages are English and Interlac (which is just English with a cooler font) so I have an excuse and Jeremy doesn't, so there. Anyway, the back-up to this Teutonic "Amazing Spider-Man" reprint was a partial reprinting of "Thor" #236. And there to my wondering eyes was Odin himself, looking remarkably like... "The Dukes Of Hazzard's" Denver Pyle.



And in this corner, facing off against Triple H, it's Man-Mountain Grampa! I have to say, overalls are probably the best bet for Odin. Lord only knows how his vaunted Odinpower would have wreaked havoc on a belt. The pipe is a nice touch. It makes him look like Santa Claus -- a Santa Claus with a serious pituitary defect, but still--! So it's a very accessible look. Very approachable. I want to climb on his lap and tell him all my wishes! Of course, there is such a thing as "too approachable" but Odin knows how to handle the touchy-feely types.



Kick their asses, Santa! You may have noticed that Odin has used his special power of changing an assailant's race -- just by touching them! This insures that his attacker will face a stiffer sentence for the exact same crime. Odin's no fool. But the best part is, he barely looks put out by all those redneck idiots swarming all over him. I don't think he's even paying attention to the matter at hand. I wonder what he's thinkin' about.

Probably biscuits 'n' gravy.

Masquerade Smarties

Next Jimmy's headed to the Byrne boards to really start some shit!

Everyone's favorite boneheaded, er, redheaded cub reporter has donned "The Helmet of Hate!" -- which is also the title of this reprint story from "Jimmy Olsen" #113 (Aug.-Sept. 1968). Like a lot of Superman Family stories from its era, it's filled with so many SHOCKING TWISTS and STARTLING REVELATIONS that it chokes on them, and dies an exceedingly moronic death. The primary plot element here is deception. Sure, the reader thinks one thing is going on, but it's actually something entirely different! And they'll explain with excruciating detail how everything was done! I wonder sometimes if the Superman comics were edited by Julius Schwartz or the Amazing Randi. (The closest modern example I can think of is the first couple years of the JSA comic, in which every seemingly unbeatable villain had a fatal Achilles heel -- which the JSA knew about all along! Or any Warren Ellis/Garth Ennis/Mark Millar story where the "hero" is a deceitful wiseass.)

Suffice it to say that everything that seems to be happening to Jimmy and Superman is all a ruse in order to foil an alien invasion. Got it? Swell. Now I'm free to talk fashion!

About that helmet -- I'm not sure why so many sci-fi helmets from the 50's and 60's were transparent. You'd have to make sure your hair was flawless before you put it on -- and then the weight of the helmet would smoosh it down. So you'd be screwed! The Hate Helmet doesn't seem as bad, since the glass or what-have-you is kept away from the top of your coif -- as long as you keep your hair reasonably close to your scalp. A pompadour might be a bad idea. And just imagine the grease marks all over the glass!

But Jimmy didn't just accessorize with a Hate Helmet. He's also brandishing a red Kryptonite gun! Or is he? ...Okay, he's not. Hope that doesn't spoil the story for you.



Uh-oh! The red-K has turned Superman into a devil! Not! That costume looks kind of familiar, doesn't it? I'm guessing he popped into the Phantom Zone and borrowed Mon-El's tunic.

Mon-El: Superman! At last, you've come to free me from this dreadful prison!

Superman: Um... yes! That's precisely why I'm here! But you'll have to remove your top first.

Mon-El: Sure, I-- what?

Superman: I'll need a sample of your clothing in order to match your exact molecular frequency. So hurry up and get nude.

Mon-El: I've got a button here that popped loose. Can't you just take that instead of the entire tunic?

Superman: Oh, I'm sorry, Mon-El, I thought you were serious about wanting to get out of here. But obviously you'd rather stay in the Phantom Zone getting phantom dry-humped by General Zod than enjoy untold freedom in the outside world. Tell you what -- when you grow the fuck up and decide to act like a man, you give me a call. 'Kay? Bye.

Mon-El: Wait! I'm a grown-up! I'm serious! [he hurriedly removes his tunic]

Superman [snatches the tunic from Mon-El's hands]: Yoink! See you in 990 years, sucker! [he vanishes]

Hey, pixie boots! I didn't even know they made shoes like that in Superman's size. He really went all-out on this devil costume! For him, I mean. I don't hold Superman to an especially high standard when it comes to costume design. I would have spruced it up with some nice gauntlets, maybe with talons on them, and a much longer and nicer cape. Or a cloak! I just watched Michael Powell's "The Tales Of Hoffman" this weekend, and I think Leonide Massine's "Schlemil" costume in a shade of crimson would have been nice as well. It was a military number with these big silver hawks or owls or something on the shoulders. Very striking. Superman could have used bats instead, or some kind of lame-ass Kryptonian fauna that only some nerdy loser would be familiar with. Like a rondor! (Oops.) And now for the shocking conclusion!



Oh, for--! Now he'll never be able to return those things to Hot Topic.

Evil Was Doughier Back Then

The Royal Flush Gang Daily Regimen... Of EVIL!

10:00 AM: Wake up and have your first cigarette. While smoking, shave face and/or legs. Splash on some Aqua Velva and/or Jean Nate.

10:10 AM: Breakfast! 32-ounce T-bone steak, six poached eggs, one whole coffee cake, two baked potatoes with all the trimmings, one of those big wooden salad bowls (filled with meringue), and three fingers of bourbon.

10:45 AM: Nap time.

11:00 AM: Have a cigarette. Use "stellaration" machine to irradiate some more playing cards and see if it can maybe beam last night's Dodgers game into the television set.

12:00 PM: Lunch. (Finally!) One entire roasted chicken, swordfish steak, two loaves of sourdough bread drenched with melted butter, Boston cream pie, a punch bowl (full of pork gravy), two gallons of clam chowder, a fudgey bunt cake filled with Miracle Whip, and a vodka tonic.

12:50 PM: Smoke break.

1:00 PM: Throw Royal Flush costume into the washing machine. Discover washing machine is broken, then remove costume and in lieu of cleaning it, spritz it with Hi Karate. Attempt to remove wrinkles by flattening the costume beneath a pile of Playboy and/or Glamour magazines.

1:05 PM: And now for some "me time!" In floor length mirror, admire self. Primp bouffant hair-do or false beard. After about half a minute of this, realize you're feeling a bit faint from standing and do the rest of your primping while reclining in bed.

1:45 PM: Another cigarette. No, make that two.

2:00 PM: Briefly wonder about what's causing the numbness in your left arm. Then forget all about it.

2:01 PM: Notice amateur film footage of Superman on TV. Make cutting remark to teammates about the Man of Steel's barrel chest and burgeoning double-chin. And then it's fondue all around!

2:15 PM: Strategy meeting. (You may smoke.)

2:42 PM: Awaken to the stench of melting polyester and discover that everybody at the table has dozed off and someone's cigarette has started a fire in the shag carpeting.

4:00 PM (or whenever the firemen say it's okay to re-enter your headquarters): Exercise! Three jumping-jacks, four push-ups, then jog in place for one minute. Reward yourself with a cigarette.

4:05 PM: Nap time.

5:00 PM: Dinner. Rack of lamb (deep-fried), two ham hocks, garlic mashed potatoes served in a reclaimed oil drum, a small salad (kidding!), cherry pie, strawberry milkshake garnished with a candy cane, raw cookie dough, and a boilermaker. Do your best to ignore the stabbing pains in your chest.

5:55 PM: Smoke break!

6:05 PM: Conference call with Felix Faust. Suspect he's trying to work some kind of hex on you and abruptly hang up the phone. When he tries to call you back just let it ring.

6:20 PM: Play that Monopoly-themed drinking game Amos came up with. Accuse Jack of hiding advantageous "Community Chest" cards in his wig. Have a cigarette. Or three.

8:37 PM: Pass out.

Cat-Man Fancy!

I think I'm falling in love with Cat-Man. Not the modern version from "Villains United" and "Secret Six." Although he ain't too shabby, either. (Love the stubble, dude!) No, I'm talking about the Silver Age version, and it's all thanks to his appearance in "Detective Comics" #318 (August, 1963). Why do I find him so appealing? Well, there's the obvious, that he's a hunky guy in a classically handsome costume. I'll even forgive the underpants-over-tights thing -- but only for him! Also, he's a "bad boy," which has a certain appeal. But the main thing I love about Cat-Man is his sense of style. Sure, he drives a car with a freakin' tail on it, but that same car has spring-loaded "legs" that can pop out and allow the vehicle to leap over crevasses and ravines. What else? Well, here's how he'd kill you.



Death with a smile. Might I suggest this as a suitable punishment for the Mad Hatter if he gets out of line in the current "Secret Six" series? (You're welcome.)

And the topper? He's a costume designer! You know how I normally feel about rivals, but I just can't stay mad at Cat-Man! He sure as heck chose a good candidate for a costume redesign, too... but I'm getting ahead of myself. First some backstory: On page two of this comic, Bruce Wayne and Kathy Kane are going through the same old rountine in their grotesquely unbalanced relationship:



Criminy, Kathy! Bruce is a first-class creep. Him and his sycophantic l'il ward. Kathy should dump his sorry ass. And Cat-Man agrees with me, because he wants to give Batwoman a total lifestyle makeover!



A ginormous granite throne in an abandoned subway tunnel? Apparently Shazam is subletting his old crib. But check out the new costume! Quite the improvement over Batwoman's frumpy old togs. The cheesy bat-ear mask has been ditched in favor of a feline cowl, and the cutesy pixie gloves have been replaced with sultry opera gloves -- if opera gloves can be though of as "sultry" and I believe that these certainly can be. Like the old costume, this one has a purse. Cat-Man thought of everything! Even new earrings! And they're Cartier, no doubt. Really, the whole look is sleek and sexy. I'm just not sure how he got Batwoman's measurements. Perhaps he made one of his thinner, more slope-shouldered henchmen act as a model. ("Hold still, blast you, or I'll seal your sorry ass behind a brick wall! Like I did with Bernie!") At any rate, I heartily approve of this costume design! But what will Batwoman think?



Why, she seems perfectly delighted! She can't wait to undress that shapely female mannequin! Er... anyway. She pretty much immediately betrays Cat-Man to Batman and Robin. And then Cat-Man seemingly dies in a boat explosion, but... where's the body? (Cat-Man, you clever scamp! *sigh*) So I guess Kathy didn't really take to the costume redesign after all...



...or did she? "Trophy room" my ass! Some Saturday night, after Bruce Wayne has stood her up for the umpteenth time, Kathy's going to get drunk on box wine, eat about a gallon of butter brickle ice cream, slip on the Cat-Woman costume, grab some battery-powered accoutrements from a secret compartment in her armoire, and... uh, reminisce.

Mark my words.

Out In Space

In his "Starman" series, James Robinson made it his business to somehow include every single DC character who had that name -- even this guy right here. And up 'til then, this was the only comic book appearance he'd ever made! ("First Issue Special" #12, March 1976.) He's an alien, with the isn't-that-convenient name of "Mikaal Tomas" and he's the rebel outcast of a warmongering culture that's established a secret base on Earth's moon. I wonder if they brought a covered dish to the Inhumans when they moved next door. Oops! Wrong universe! Annnyway, over in Robinson's "Starman" it turned out Mikaal was gay or at least bi or something, and he even got himself a boyfriend. Good for him! Mind you, I'm always a bit wary when a comic book character suddenly turns out to be gay, because it can feel phony and tacked-on if it's not done right. With Mikaal, he'd only had one appearance that was written by somebody else before Robinson decided to use him, so it wasn't nearly as jarring. And if I remember right, Robinson had Mikaal explain to his boyfriend that his people don't have strict definitions of sexuality. Although Robinson's actual dialog was undoubtedly more florid and pretentious. (Like I should talk--!) But to get to the matter at hand, having just perused "First Issue Special" I now understand that the gay subtext was there in Mikaal's world all along. Observe!

Here's the standard guard uniform on the alien moonbase:



Our model, An'twon, is wearing the latest see-through chapeau from the Space Ranger line of haberdashery for whisper-thin young space rangers. The sleeves of his pistachio blouse are fetchingly puffed, while his coordinating cigarette pants hug every contour of his spindly legs. A hand-tooled skull belt completes the ensemble. I'm pretty sure he's not holding that gun right, but oh well.

Now, let's take a look at what the elite guardsmen get to wear:



I'd like to dedicate this panel to everyone who complains I draw my superheroes with "packages" that are too big. 'Cause I think Mike Vosburg and Mike Royer here have me beat in that competition by a country mile. Jeebus. What's Turran Kha got stashed away in that thing? Two of 'em? Y'know, if my stuff was that prodigious, I sure as hell wouldn't have a skull mounted over it. A "happy face" maybe, but not a skull. Now, if you can be bothered to tear your eyes away from Turran Kha's manhood for a few moments, get a load of the boots. This must be the earliest example of superfluous straps in a superhero comic, predating Rob Liefeld's fashion grotesqueries by at least twelve years. Are the boots going to fall off if Turran Kha doesn't strap them to his knees? And get a load of the dainty little spikes on his jogging shoes. Simply adorable.

How gay is Mikaal Tomas' culture? Well, as soon as "First Guardsman of the Worldstone, Turran Kha" shows up, his boss orders him to... redecorate.



Turran Kha's thinking, "I'm pretty sure this is a table but whatever floats your boat..."

Also, I had no idea that wood was so flexible. I think I'll mold Jeremy's buffet table into a sculpture of an elk.

Near the end of the comic, Mikaal Tomas is sentenced to death by a tribunal that features a sexy lady (why couldn't Ruth Bader Ginsburg dress like that?), the Ming the Merciless rip-off bad guy, and... I'm not exactly sure who or what the third person is.



Death to the man who made this hat! I don't know what "Uncle May's" problem is, but he/she/it looks pissed. I bet they're the "Janice Dickinson" of the panel. And they look like a cross between Christopher Lee and my gramma. Kinda disturbing, to be honest.

So in light of all this, I'd say writing Mikaal Tomas as gay or bi or whatever makes total sense to me now!

Bride And Grooming

Karnilla took a sip of mead, then casually smashed the goblet in the little satyr's face. "Pray tell me why you be not pleased, my betrothed?" she purred.

"Many reasons have I," replied Baldur. "For one--!" Abruptly, Baldur wrenched the slobbering imp from his left leg and threw him against a nearby cavern wall. "Thou hast 'measured mine inseam' enow, wretch! Think me not ignorant of thine attempts to 'cop a feel.'" The silver-maned god of light smoothed the wrinkles from his garish raiment and strode purposefully toward his soon-to-be-wife. In a deep, clear voice, strangely reminiscent of church bells, he unburdened his heart. "For one, mine legs be so constrained by thine straps and buckles that mine very circulation be impaired, so very much so that I fear I should lose a toe afore our wedding night! Secondly, I recollect with much clarity seeing this self-same skirt on professional figure skater Michelle Kwan. Thirdly..."

"Thou dost enjoy women's figure skating?" inquired Karnilla with a tiny smirk.

"That be beside mine point!" Baldur snapped.

"No, thou has made me curious as to thine other interests!" Karnilla grinned. She leaned forward, like a panther appraising an unsuspecting fawn. "What else might thou do for fun? Shoe shopping? Body waxing? Gossipping about Jared Leto?"

Baldur's shining eyes glared balefully at his betrothed. "Queen of all that is evil," he swore, "thou shalt not get mine goat!"

A rueful titter escaped Karnilla's cruel mouth. "I be not sure I'd want thine goat! I knowest not how thou might have made sport with it!"

"To continue," sighed Baldur, "These gloves be most passing strange. The orange pigment rubs off to reveal a hue as red as roses. And what be the purpose of these so-called 'repulsor rays?'"

"The gloves I found at a garage sale," Karnilla smiled. "Vintage, see? Be they not cool?"

"But mine most pressing complaint," continued Baldur, "is in reference to the chest plate. I see not why mine nipples need screen doors."

Karnilla shook her head. "Silly godling," she clucked. Regally, she arose from her couch and advanced on the white-haired god. She placed her hands on his chest, causing him to recoil in alarm. "Tis no ordinary chest plate, my lord, but a stereo! One dost only work the skull like this...! Her slim, taloned fingers carressed Baldur's chest. As if by magic, a tinny rendition of Wagner's "Fire Music" flitted through the speakers and wafted about the cavern. Baldur winced, his square jaw tightening. And then, fresh tears brimming in his eyes, he softly sighed and submitted himself fully to the Norn Queen's ministrations.

"And besides," Karnilla added, "thou hast not seen it with the hat on yet! Not that the Queen of the Norns wishes to hide her king's gorgeous silver hair, but it dost be traditional, mine love! And hark! Turn it upside-down, and it doubles as a foot-stool!"

No Huggy No Kissy 'Til I Get A Disintegrator Ring

So, I've been reading Jeremy's copy of "The Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe" Volume 2, #8 (July, 1986) and I feel I need to point out a major error. The descriptions of what the Mandarin's rings do are totally incorrect. It's clear to me that the writers were just pulling this nonsense out of their asses. Thank heaven I'm here to set things right!



We'll just go down the list, starting with the left column.

Left Hand

Little finger:
OHMU says: "ice blast"
I say: "materializes a set of novelty store hillbilly teeth for a quick, easy disguise"

Ring finger:
OMHU says: "mento-intensifier"
I say: "spritzes Elizabeth Taylor's 'Diamonds and Sapphires' perfume. Contains notes of ylang ylang, lily of the valley, rose, jasmine, and spice. Aim it at your foe's eyes or apply some to your pulse points for a romantic evening with that 'special henchman.'"

Middle finger:
OMHU says: "electro-blast"
I say: "instantly pickles anything, from cucumbers to millionaire playboy industrialists."

Index finger:
OMHU says: "flame blast"
I say: "gives your opponent 'hogdog fingers.'"

Thumb:
OMHU says: "white light"
I say: "so-called 'earring ray' can actually pierce any part of your enemy's body, from their eyebrows to their scrotum."

Right hand:

Little finger:
OMHU says: "black light"
I say: "makes pancakes! But it usually burns them."

Ring finger:
OMHU says: "disintegration beam"
I say: "Post-It Note ray is helpful for reminding yourself of evil errands you need to run."

Middle finger:
OMHU says: "vortex beam"
I say: "lobs a frisbee at your enemy's head. Can be countered with: a bandana-wearing golden retriever."

Index finger:
OMHU says: "impact beam"
I say: "hypnotizes anyone into writing a long, boringly academic blog entry about Starro the Starfish Conqueror."

Thumb:
OMHU says: "matter rearranger"
I say: "don't tell anyone, but... it's a clitoris."

There you go!

Turtleneck Of Righteousness

Simon "Wonder Man" Williams was way ahead of the non-costume trend for superheroes. Sure, the original Mister Terrific wore a jacket, but did he pair it with a comfy sweater? I think not. After debuting in a hopelessly complicated red-yellow-green Jack Kirby number, he switched to this tasteful ensemble -- seen here on the cover of "Avengers" #203 (January, 1981). When I was younger, I absolutely hated this costume. I think part of it was that the jacket seemed dated, and I also wasn't ready for the concept of superheroes in casual wear. As a grown-up Blockade Boy, though, I think it's boss as hell.



(Above panels from "Avengers" #207, May, 1981.) It holds up from all angles, doesn't it? The safari jacket and the boots say "I'm off for a dangerous advenure in the great outdoors" while the turtleneck and the tight black pants say "But meet me in my tent for martinis later -- and come alone!" Comic fans liked Simon because he was shy and self-effacing, and his fear of death was a very human flaw that others could relate to. These qualities, combined with his movie-star good looks and his sheer physical power, made for an irresistable combination.

In a two-year story arc in "West Coast Avengers," Steve Engelhart had Simon overcome his insecurities and "blossom" into a raging asswipe. No longer ashamed of his goopy energy eyeballs, he ditched his trademark sunglasses and traded in his Banana Republic duds for a new costume. Which sucked donkey balls.



God DAMN but it's an eyesore. Note the "old school" zig-zag edges on the boots and gloves. Just because Kirby did it doesn't make it right, people. And the massive, wrap-around logo, with the pointless yellow diamond in the middle? Very nasty. Maybe if the letters were thinner, and if they didn't touch, it could work. But as it is, it's too bulky and clumsily proportioned. But in any event, the costume would still be sunk by its color scheme. It makes Simon look like a Christmas elf on steroids. Thankfully, my opinion was shared by legions of comic book fans, who inundated the letters pages with complaints. And so, at the end of "West Coast Avengers" #24 (September, 1987) we were treated to this little scene:



I love how that tacky little creep is giving somebody else directions on how to dress. (Nice sunglasses, jerk. What did those things cost you, three bucks at Spencer's Gifts?) And so on the very first page of the very next issue, Wonder Man appears in a new costume!



It's a leather bar pile-up in the Mighty Marvel Manner! This outfit isn't terribly interesting but at least it doesn't give me a headache. Red and black are always a good combo for a superhero -- it's one of the things I like about the new Batwoman costume. But I'm not thrilled about the overly blow-dried hair. Didn't it used to be naturally curly? Don't tell me Simon has taken to getting it chemically straightened. Like Ryan Seacrest. (Ew.) Well, let's get a side view of his new look.



It's the Abomination! Oh, and there's some kind of scaly green monster as well. What? "The Abomination" is my nickname for Simon's mullet. I think he kept this look for quite a while, until he died the second time. And then he came back. And the last I remember, his superhero look was kind of a bubbly lavender coating of ionic energy with a red "W" on the chest. *sigh*

I miss the safari jacket.

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."

Glass Holes

If you're a supervillain, and male, you're probably not going to be one of the "beautiful people." Odds are, your mug is going to fall into one of two categories:

1. Long and narrow, with a knobby, pronounced chin, a high forehad, eyes that are way too close together, arched, pointy eyebrows, and possibly some sort of ill-advised facial hair, like a pencil-line moustache. Sinestro, Felix Faust, Loki, the unrejuvenated Vulture and the pre-Robinson Shade all fall into this category. (Although Loki was quite the looker in his very first appearance; remind me to post about that some time!)

2. Broad, fleshy, and brutish, with a squashed-in, bulbous nose (optionally broken), a full square acre of space between the nose and the upper lip, and either no eyebrows at all or comically bushy ones that meet over the bridge of the nose. That'd be your Kingpin, Sandman, Hydro Man, Blockbuster, Hammerhead, Attuma, Blastarr type of face.

Ironically, a lot of these villains would look infinitely more intimidating if we couldn't see their faces. Facelessness, be it complete or partial, lends an air of mystery to a villain -- and more importantly, it makes them seem less identifiably human. That taps into mankind's primal fear of "the other" and ratchets up the intensity of their threat in our minds.

Case in point: old Aquaman villain, the Scavenger (seen here in "Who's Who" #20, October 1986).



Scavenger's costume was no great shakes to begin with. Pretty blah. Although I like the belt... I could match that thing up with some leather pants and a pirate shirt and have a mind-blowing night out on the town. But the rest of Scavenger's outfit basically sucks. It's a leech costume.* Leeches aren't scary. A little gross, maybe, but not frightening. He may as well be dressed as a tapeworm. But the worst part is the goofy helmet. Because it's a diving helmet, with the window part all dolled up to look like a leech's mouth. With Scavenger's big, ugly mug peering out of it.



It doesn't make him look like a leech. It makes him look like he's being devoured by a leech. His battle cry should be "This thing is eating me alive oh dear God why won't anybody help me!"

Another good example of this phenomenon is Firefall, from "Rom" #4 (March, 1980). The Firefall armor used to belong to Rom's "special friend" Karas. (Greek, huh? Sexy!)



Note how the only indication of facial features on Firefall's noggin is the two flashing lights for his "eyes." Not a bad piece of alien cyborgery, huh? But then Karas dies, and the evil Dire Wraiths get ahold of his cyborg body. The Wraiths somehow excise all of Karas' fleshy bits out of the armor, probably using those big metal cracker deals they give you at lobster restaurants, and then they stick it on a criminal named Archie Stryker. Archie has one of the worst cases of Sal Buscema Face I have ever encountered. Sal gave him the Deluxe Package: pug nose, beetling forehead, teensy-weensy eyeballs, a mouth like a rockfish, and as a bonus, an intricate web of stringy drool is visible whenever he screams at somebody. Which is often. And this bleary, sweaty, "angry drunk" face is fully visible through the Firefall armor's visor.



It doesn't convey "evil" so much as "seriously pissed because the bartender cut me off plus that bitch in the corner booth won't give me her phone number, aw she's prob'ly a lesbo anyhow C'MON BUDDY JUST ONE MORE SCOTCH ROCKS I SWEAR I'M GOOD FOR IT." After his battle with Rom, he's probably going to make some harrassing calls to his ex-wife, punch another hole in the wall of his crappy hotel room, pass out drunk on the floor and wake up the following afternoon soaked in urine.

Call me old-fashioned, but I think Firefall looked better with just the two little blobs of light.

*I have since been informed that the Scavenger is meant to look like a lamprey. I think my point remains valid.

Um, We Can Still See Your Entire Head

More techno-woes at Jeremy's creepy little bachelor apartment. After his Pre-Cambrian Macintosh had its little meltdown, I decided to "borrow" his wallet and buy a fancy-shmancy new PC with all the trimmings! Including a 21" flat-panel widescreen monitor. Which worked great for about a week. But last night, it decided to stop taking any input from the PC and just do its own thing instead. Which was to rest. A lot. As soon as I pressed the power button, the monitor would flash the message Monitor going to sleep now for about half a second, and then it would slip blissfully away into energy-saving mode. (I've dated a few guys like that.) The good news is that the manufacturer's technical helpline was fantastic and they'll be sending me a new monitor in just a few days. The bad news? Right now I'm having to use the old 13" CRT Macintosh monitor, and the computer's in "widescreen" mode, so it's like watching a Cinemascope movie from about two miles away. I think I'm slowly going blind just typing this post. I need to use super-magnifying goggles and a tweezer to operate the mouse. But it'll be totally worth it, I promise! Now, on to business. Space Ranger! What's his problem?



What's wrong with this picture? (Besides the walking affront to human decency that is Cryll; I'll get to him in a moment.) Give up? The dialog makes it clear that "Space Ranger" is a secret identity -- of shipping heir Rick Starr, to be precise. And yet the helmet is see-through. I'm baffled! Does Rick know the helmet is completely transparent? What the heck is going on here? Some theories:

1. Someone is playing an elaborate "Emperor's New Clothes" type practical joke on Rick.
2. When Rick ordered the helmet at the space-haberdasher's, he requested one-way glass. But they put the mirrored part on the inside by mistake. Rick's effectively blind as a bat, but he does get to admire his Clooneyesque visage all day long! Sweet!
3. Rick's drunk off his ass right now, and on a lark dumped out a bowl of pretzels and put it on his head. In fact, he's so hammered that "Cryll" is merely a nightmarish hallucination. (If only, huh?)
4. It's a giant contact lens.
5. In the future, draconian health codes require all citizens to wear individual "sneeze guards."
6. Rick's honestly just kind of stupid.

The rest of the costume is pretty blah. Too dull-witted to think of an icon for your chest, Rick? Yeah, I thought so. The baggy Firestorm sleeves are a charming touch, but Rick'd be better off loosening up the fit in the crotch region where it could do him some good. Because the fabric down there is stretched tighter than Saturn Queen's facelift ("32" my ass, honey) and it's definitely a case of "move along, there's nothing to see here" if ever I've seen one. Dude's package is smooth. Like, "post-Photoshop Brandon Routh" smooth.

And then there's a hero's ultimate fashion accessory, his sidekick. Selected and costumed properly, a sidekick is a miniature version of oneself, dressed in a complimentary color. Space Ranger, on the other hand, has Cryll. Who is deeply disturbing. I don't know what that obscene protuberance on his puss is and I don't know what it does (besides talk, which is bad enough) and you know what? I don't want to know. And to top it off, he's wearing underpants. For, I presume, modesty. Jeezum Pete! What new horrors could be lurking under that electric blue spandex? Oh, he's just awful! He's like a highly sexualized scoop of strawberry ice cream. I think I once saw a scanning electron microscope photograph of him, lurking in a cow's eyelashes. I bet he makes squishing noises when he walks. And he smells like a vinyl patch kit. You know what? I hate him. I've never even met Cryll, but I loathe him with every atom of my body. And I hate Space Ranger for associating with him. At least the Martian Manhunter's imbecilic sidekick "Zook" looked cute. Providing you think a naked dwarf version of Chameleon Boy with Bat-Mite eyeballs and a Beatle's wig is cute. Cryll, though... eeugh. I don't feel so good. Kind of urpy, really. I'm going to take some Alka-Seltzer and have a little nap.

Blockade Boy going to sleep now!

This Town Isn't Fabulous Enough For The Two Of Us

Shootout at the "Oh, gay!" corral! Hawk, Son of Tomahawk, is beyond a doubt the queerest-looking western lawman I have ever seen. Yes, more so than Bat Lash. Or even the Rawhide Kid, when he's wearing that weird floor-length nightshirt. Observe Hawk's exquisite chartreuse embroidery, done in an Art Nouveau botanical pattern. (Quite remarkable, that, considering Hawk was born about a century before the advent of the Art Nouveau movement). Note also the perfectly coifed hair, described in "Who's Who" #10 (December, 1985) as "brown, with a blond streak." And I'm sure that's completely natural. He keeps a bottle of peroxide in that beaded man-purse, er, Native american pouch, doesn't he? Oh, sure, his pop was a natural blond and his mommy was an Indian princess, but human genetics don't work like that. He's a frontiersman, not an alleycat. Naw, ol' Hawk just wanted some bangin' highlights. I completely understand; I also like to express my feelings through my hair. Sometimes I get so mad, I just wanna punch something, but then I take a deep breath and touch up my roots and I feel all better. And then there's Hawk's limp little scarf -- no bandanas for him! -- and of course the tight-fitting, open-to-the-navel shirt. At least, I assume it's a shirt. The way Frank Thorne draws it here, it could very well be a one-piece. All that's missing is the ice skates!

Casual Fridays At 177A Bleecker Street

Lazy, rainy Fridays at the Sanctum Sanctorum of Doctor Strange... could it get any better? I imagine it would be like living in a Pier One. Cool foreign knick-knacks everywhere, the air permeated with a sublime, musky incense, and lite jazz blasting from hidden speakers. But unlike Pier One, you can stroll about in your bare feet and a cool robe and the salespeople won't scream at you or call the cops. Uptight bastards... but I seem to have gotten off track. Where were we? Oh yes.

Here's Clea, the Vili Fualaau to Doctor Strange's Mary Kay Letourneau, in a fetchingly convoluted penoir-and-genie-pants ensemble. It's very nearly see-through (the shameless hussy!) and features a stiff orange collar that would have done the Karate Kid proud. The very best part? The collar doubles as a dry-erase board. That way, when you're done doodling on it, you can jot down helpful messages. Like "Buy more incense" or "Exorcise cats." If it weren't for that way-out collar, Clea's "satanic milkmaid" up-do would overpower the gauzy frock -- but with the collar, the hair's practically a necessity.

And what would Hep Cat Supreme, Doctor Stephen Strange wear? Dig it!



Suh-weet! I covet that robe. Profoundly. Knowing that such a glorious robe exists and that I don't have it makes me die a little inside. And you know me; I'm an expert at sneaking into places and taking whatever I want, er, need. (Like "my" time bubble. Haw!) But I'm sure Strange's crib is fortified to the rafters with spells that would turn me into a bunny rabbit (with bangin' highlights) or hurl my taut white ass into a shadowy limbo-realm if I so much as tapped on a huge round window. So I guess I'm just going to have to deal with it. Hey, let's look at the back of the robe...



Gah--! Hang it all, now I really want that robe! And you just know it's the most comfortable robe, like, ever. Probably micro-woven out of the silken moustache hairs of teenage satyrs and hand-dyed with the hypo-allergenic inks of Polynesian octopus-spirits. And yet it's machine washable. Because it's magic. Check out the bottom half of it. There's even a scary crimson bat-creature on it to guard against people yanking it up when you're not wearing any underpants. Which is the case here, I'm sure. Oh, I must have that robe! Unless... maybe the robe itself is guarded with spells. Like, if anybody else tries to wear it, it eats them or maybe it transforms into an abbreviated terrycloth number, rendering itself unfashionable. Yikes. I guess I'd better leave well enough alone. No doubt, the bathrobe of Doctor Strange is not intended for mere mortals.

And You Smell Like One Too!

The man whose brow is all a-wrinkle is Bruce Wayne; the lady with the fifty-cent garland from Hobby Lobby on her head is, of course, Poison Ivy. This is her very first appearance (Batman #181, June 1966). Happy 40th birthday, Ivy! Although technically the comic was probably published in March 1966. Nevertheless, you still look positively ravishing. Must be that brow lift you got back in '02. Sure, at first you resembled a Romulan but I think it's settled quite nicely.

Could Bruce be any cattier about Ivy and her makeup? Yes. Yes, he could, and I'd like to help. I think you've got a good start with the passive-aggressive tone of your remark, but you need to follow it up with something bigger. Here are some ideas:

"And frankly, I'd applaud anything that will distract them from how limp and stringy your hair looks. Seriously, when was the last time you washed it? During the Eisenhower Administration?"

"Nice eyebrows, by the way. What did you use, a magic marker?"

"And you're asking your cigarette because... why?"

"You've got a mouth like a catfish and your eyes are way too far apart. Practically on either side of your head. I don't know if makeup is going to get the job done. Have you considered just wearing a ski mask all the time? Or maybe never leaving your house?"

Feel free to take any or all of these, Bruce. It's my free gift to you! Just for being so darned square-jawed and rugged.

Now let's look at Ivy's former rivals, who first and last appeared in this same comic. Unless you count their cameo appearance as a godawful "Riot Grrrrl" band in some retelling of Ivy's origin a few years back. Which I sure as hell don't. Presenting... the three most dangerous people in the entire world! They're not just random tarts in showgirl costumes. Honest.



On the left we have Dragon Fly, with her innovative "crotch louver" bathing suit. Say goodbye to yeast infections forever with adjustable slats that give your cooter an air of Film Noir mystery!

In the center, we have Silken Spider, who is wearing the standard nurse's uniform for the Tommy Lee Memorial STD wing at Cedars-Sinai. It's also what the maids have to wear at Charlie Sheen's house. I don't know why she's posing with a garbage can. Probably full of busted sex toys and empty bottles of lubricant.

And on the right we have Tiger Moth, who has just returned from yet another daring faux-fur robbery. Now she has enough to make some capri pants! I wonder if anyone explained to her that moths don't have bird wings. Of course, former "Top Model" contestants have believed that all birds are blind and that elephants are related to dinosaurs, so anything's possible.

Meanwhile, in the lower right-hand corner, the Alfred clone just cannot believe the size of that lolly-pop.