I'm Blockade Boy, and I Approved These Whiskers

Storm Boy let me try out an invention he's working on. It's called the "chronophone", and it lets you contact people in other eras/universes, via their cell phones. Storm Boy says he wants to prank-call Oscar Wilde. (I didn't have the heart to break it to him. Just like I didn't have the heart to tell him that the Legion already has a Time-Telephone, which doesn't require the person you're calling to have their own phone.) I could only remember one 21st century phone number, and it was my old roommate's, Jeremy Rizza's. You know... the guy who deluded himself into thinking he writes this blog instead of me! But what the heck. I reached him on the evening of February 17, 2008. That was just over a year since I'd left him in your crummy time period (and dimension). It turns out that he'd been struggling with technical problems and an illness, just like I have! What are the odds? Anyway, he thanked me for helping him figure out that he was gay (I get that a lot) and then he started to gush about how sexy I was, but then he caught himself and said something about not wanting to be the Dorothy L. Sayers to my Lord Peter Wimsey, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Supposedly, in the year since I'd last seen him, his life had improved a great deal (I get this a lot, too). He'd moved out of that sorry rental of his into a condo, plus he'd lost some weight and gotten contact lenses. He also had joined the Kansas Equality Coalition, which lobbies for GLBT rights in Kansas. In fact, he'd traveled with a whole passel of other folks from the KEC to the state capital, just that past Wednesday. He had seen some portraits of old whiskery legislators, one of whom looked kind of like me! But he neglected to find out who it was. (Er, okay...!) After I signed off, I did some research on Kansan legislators of Ye Olde Weste. I never did find my lookalike (the beard would have been too short for Stockade Boy) but I did find these guys:

This is Samuel Johnson Crawford, the third governor of Kansas. He's got some sweet imperial/Van Dyke action goin' on with the beard... but just look at that hair! Merciful Jeebus! From what I can gather, the late nineteenth century was a haven for the "skullet", i.e. "party out back, going-out-of-business up front." It distracts from the whiskers. For shame, my good sir! Have you no sense of decency? Also, I'm pretty sure you're actually Robert Duvall.

Here's Charles Lawrence Robinson, Kansas' first governor, sporting an alarming combover/flip-do, as though some mad hair-burner tried to arrange Donald Trump's paltry locks into a semblance of Mary Tyler Moore's. And yet the beard is to die for. Observe the magnificent sweep of that mustache! My heart is pounding like crazy! Of course, I did just eat an entire cured ham. So it might be the sodium. Historical trivia: Robinson was also the first zombie to be elected governor. But he wasn't the last! (I apologize if my political humor is too pungent for you.)

Preston B. Plumb: not only the civilian identity of a Gerry Conway villain (I presume), but also a United States senator from Kansas! Plumb is the first guy on my list to combine a cool beard with a sensible -- albeit nerdy -- hairstyle. Bravo, Plumb! Plumb's hobbies included snowboarding; attending Linkin Park concerts; and wearing droopy, baggy pants with marijuana leaves embroidered on the sides.

The eighth governor of Kansas was John Pierce St. John. He's famous for inventing the faux-hawk, but I think his mustache is pretty darned nifty as well. One quibble: the way it diminishes into a few lengthy gossamer fibers. That tells me he's so desperate for length, that he's willing to forgo density. And that smacks of desperation. It's the same way with some handlebar 'stache wearers. They let the tips grow on forever, so that it looks like they have two curled-up pieces of wire stuck to their faces. (My handlebar mustache icon? Dum-Dum Dugan. Of course.) Trim that nonsense back, brothers! Give the rest of your mustache time to catch up! Otherwise, it looks like your 'stache just got rescued from Mount Hood after being separated from the rest of its hiking party for two weeks. In other words, it looks emaciated. So cut it out. Also, lose the panama hat. You look like a tool.

John White Geary was a governor of Kansas Territory, although he's probably better known as the first mayor of San Francisco. (As if this blog wasn't gay enough already.) What a glorious tailback beard! A mustache would have been a nice addition, but it's just dandy without one. As you can see from the curling forelock, Geary was born one-quarter Kewpie Doll. But he never let prejudice against his ancestry stand in his way. He lived long enough to see the birth of his legendary grandson, the Shoney's Big Boy.

Nehemiah Green (no extra "e") was the fourth governor of Kansas, and all I can say is, "Who is that handsome devil? WOOF!" Perfect hair all around, facial and otherwise. Good show! Green had some serious crosses to bear, since he was a mutant with the power to spray sarsparilla from his eyes, and was blackmailed into joining the Hellfire Club. He was disembowelled by Wolverine.

This modern-looking gent is Thomas Andrew Osborne (yes, with an "e") and he was the sixth governor of Kansas. The beard is simple, but it's full, which I appreciate. I love it when mustaches are allowed to grow past the upper lip. They look so much more rugged that way. And he seems like a very friendly fellow. I can picture him in baseball cap; and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off; behind the wheel of a semi; his massive biceps tanned by the unforgiving Kansas sun; a pipe in his mouth; his firm, round gut spilling over his chunky belt buckle as I laze in the passenger seat, and his warm, coarse hand reaches over and undoes my... er, anyway, I think it's a nice-enough beard. Let's move on, huh?

*sighs contentedly* Aw, hells yeah. Here's William Alfred Peffer, United States senator from Kansas. The beard is glorious. I give Peffer extra points for wearing it in the waning years of the nineteenth century, when Dame Fashion's gay brother had turned up his nose at such ravishingly extravagant feats of whiskerdom. (Although to be honest, he didn't have anything else going for him, looks-wise, did he? Can you imagine how the rest of that mug must look? *shudder*)

Anybody Here Look Familiar?

*ahem* Well? ...Redheaded guy, third bubble from the left, next to the moon-faced blonde gal? No? Seriously? Oh, COME ON--!

It's me, motherfuckers! From back when I looked like this. I remember that day. I'd decided that morning that I'd try growing a mustache. It was coming in pretty good by 11 AM. By 4 PM it was Sam Elliott-sized, and then I got sick of it and shaved it back off. Anyhow. You might think the above panel is some sort of symbolic mental montage, but it most assuredly ain't. Nope! Y'see, Blondie up there lives in Central City, where the impossible vastness of the streets necessitated the invention of tesseract-based communication. Telephones? Those antiquated devices are decidedly out in Central City. It would take twelve days for the signal to cover the distance of even one city block! And cell phones--? Not that they had been invented yet, but feh! Feh, I say to you now. All the phones would need those giant CETI dishes on top just to capture the weakened signals. Forget it, brother! Tesseracts are the way to go. Want to talk to somebody? Just open up one of these miniature gloryholes wormholes and stick your head right through! It's easy! Although it gives a sinister "third dimension" to obscene calls, if you know what I mean.

So, the lady with all the dirt and grit in her hair (seriously, what is that crap?) thinks all these swingin' young squares are macking on her. If she would have let me finish talking (instead of flipping the fuck out) she would have heard my full sentence as "I need you, sweetheart, to tell me where all the best boutiques are!" Because I had some hand-made jewelry I was going to try to sell. And for some reason, the only guys in 1971 who were interested in huge chunky orange-and-purple jewelry were the ones without any money. So I thought I'd try the chick market instead. But it never worked out, because somehow I managed to get in a screaming match with every boutique owner in town.

But I'm sure it wasn't me. It was them.

Rescue Me Bonus: Son of the Annihilator

I'd like to start out with a belated tip of the cap to Sleestak for suggesting yesterday's post! Thanks, pal! Now, let's get down to business.

The main story in "Action Comics" #356 (November 1967) starts out on a bizarre note, as the Annihilator, a doughy Eurotrash doofus in an absurd costume, orders Superman to leave the Earth within forty-eight hours... and Superman agrees! Because the Annihilator is a dangerous individual. And he's obviously, unpredictably bat-shit crazy... a man who would willingly dress like that is capable of anything!

But the proceedings take an even freakier turn when the Annihilator decides to do what any publicly-loathed celebrity does to improve his image: adopt a kid who can show up in a few newspaper photos before he's handed over to the nanny for the rest of his natural life! His new son? A smart-mouthed teenage delinquent. Because, really, isn't that the obvious choice? Let's take a look at the irrepressible little scamp, starting with the cover.

What's wrong with this picture? (And no, the Annihilator's "Nostril Libre" mask doesn't count.) Here's a hint: it was published in 19-freaking-67. And yet the Son of the Annihilator is dressed like Marlon Brando in "The Wild One" (a film from 1953!). It's yet more proof of how DC was getting thoroughly drubbed in the Coolness Wars by Marvel Comics. Sure, Stan Lee was a middle-aged crypto-fascist conservative, but at least he could pretend to get his grooviness on! DC wore their John Birchian squareness right on their covers where every hippie could see it. But wait! It gets worse! Thanks to the cover artist (I'm guessing Neal Adams?) the Son of the Annihilator appears to be a darkly handsome "bad boy" whom any teenage girl (and more than a few teenage boys) would swoon for. So far, not bad. But let's see how interior artist (Wayne Boring, I think) depicts him!

Yipes. Kinda homely. (And he stole all his insults from old "Dead End Kids" films.) Well, maybe he looks better when he smiles.

Gah! He's hideous! Who's his biological father? The Prankster? Criminy! I can forgive a lot in a guy (evidenced by my continuing relationship with Weight Wizard) but a deficient personality and an ugly mug? Good night male nurse!

All that aside, I must say that "Action Comics" #356 had an intriguing undercurrent. Leather-loving outsider "caught... with the meat in his mouth" approached by a brawny, elaborately-moustachioed older gentleman who wants to be called "Dad"? (Haw! Your father's mustache, Pocketbook Pete!) I dunno. It just really resonates with me for some unknown reason.

Anyway, like a lot of father-son relationships, Annihilator and Son hit a rocky patch when hijo ingests some contraband substances.

"All right, son! I'm glad to share my super-power with you." Which of course the Annihilator is going to say, since his own super-power has worn off, and the smirking little shit he calls "son" would punch his goofy noggin off his fat neck if he so much as looked at him funny. ("Daddy-o." Aw, for chrissakes, DC Comics of 1967--!) You know what I would have liked to have seen in "Infinite Crisis"? Son of the Annihilator and Superboy Prime going all "Rock'em Sock'em Robots" on each other. Just get rid of both of those annoying dillweeds at the same time.

So. The Son of the Annihilator is a lot of things, but one thing he's not is cool. He needs one of my patented Blockade Boy makeovers, pronto!

Ah, that's better. The Son of the Annihilator... wait, he needs a name that's not so clunky... I believe I'll dub him "Kid Annihilator" or KA for short... anyway, Kid Annihilator has a shagadelic rawk 'n' roll haircut now, complete with muttonchops. He doesn't bother to cover up his facial hair with a mask like the Annihilator does because he doesn't care about protecting a secret identity. He has the Annihilator's logo on his chest, but it's bordered by three orange shapes that hark back to the radioactivity symbol. That relates to the glow of his powerful fists. His boots are fringed because it's current and groovy and youthful (for 1967) and also because I like the contrast between supercostumes and street clothing. (When it's not overpowering or overdone, I should add. Like trenchcoats... ugh!) In my sketches he had a fringed vest to match, but I decided it covered up too much of my design. And the color scheme is all secondary colors because it compliments the Annihilator's primary scheme and it's more far-out, maaaannnn! Now this guy would look at home battling the Teen Titans... who are as hip, sadly, as 1967 DC ever would get. In my head I can see a dynamic Nick Cardy cover with Kid Annihilator smashing his way through the Titans in front of the words "Make War, Not Love!"

What else do I see in my head? Oh, you don't wanna know. You couldn't handle it! What? You're sure? Okay, I'll share one more thing: I can see Weight Wizard's face after I disrobed in the Conjugal Visit Pod at the addiction treatment center. I take it he'd never seen a robotic dingus before. And he'd especially never seen one with my self-designed Robot Hand with Pimp-Slapping Action attachment! Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sharing too much. Suffice it to say Weight Wizard learned his lesson. For now! And inbetween visits, he can think of me while he tries to scub off the huge motor oil stain I left on his back. Er, I'm sharing too much again, aren't I? See you next Monday!

Rescue Me Bonus: the Annihilator

Here's a costume redesign that doesn't fit into one of my regular categories: 1960's Superman villain, the Annihilator. One of my many cultured and tasteful commenters* suggested I tackle this joker's apparel, mainly because his nose pokes through his mask! I'd forgotten all about him until last week. That's when a laser-guided demolition crew disintegrated a museum to make way for a new Bismoll MacMattercuddy's family restaurant (try the copper-plated breakfast burrito!) and discovered an ancient comic book shoppe underneath! It turns out the whole thing had been engulfed in lava while the inhabitants were in the middle of a HeroClix tourney. Thank goodness mylar and cardboard proved to be the perfect protection against surging, molten death. Size XXXL Vampirella t-shirts? Not so much. All that was left of the humans in that crowded death-box was some Pompei-style rock statues studded with candybar wrappers and the occasional ingrown beard hair. Long story short, the development company claimed the store's merchandise through some arcane landlocked salvage law and auctioned the whole deal off, cheap! I snagged a ton of them, including a copy of Action Comics #356 (November 1967). It was perfectly legible once I chisled the rock off of it.

*I'm embarrassed and chagrined to admit that I can't remember who precisely. I even spent a couple of hours last night poring over my older costume redesign posts looking for the exact comment. I couldn't locate it, but I got many a hearty, booming, basso profundo chuckle from reading my own writing. Good heavens, but I'm clever! Er, anyway... maybe the person I'm thinking of sent me an e-mail instead. I dunno.

The Annihilator's power is cool enough. He's like an evil Human Bomb, powered by chemicals somehow left on the Earth by the Kryptonians (the Kree of the DC Universe... just dropping their untold scads of power-inducing crap all over planet Earth, like it's their own personal landfill). But that costume--! The main part of it is ugly, but in a completely boring way -- just like most characters that show up in your typical Superman story. But then... there's the mask. It does indeed have his nose sticking through it, all naked and nude and uncovered, with a frankly insoucient attitude reminiscent of Berlin in the 1920's. But wait! That's not the best part! The real beauty of the mask is that it covers up his upper lip... because the Annihilator's civilian identity, "Nobel Prize-winning biochemist" Karl Keller, has a handlebar mustache!

See? And he's not even drawn by Herb Trimpe! Honestly, I think the Annihilator could have had a much more illustrious career if only he'd dressed better! So here's what I'd do:

See, Annihilator? That's how you can enjoy both a supervillainous secret identity and a handlebar mustache while not getting laughed at! Well, at least they won't laugh at you in your villain costume, anyhow. I make no guarantees for how you dress in the privacy of your own lab. Because his powers are Kryptonian-based, I made his costume a riff on Superman's. That's why it's primarily red-and-blue, only darker, natch, 'cause he's a baddie. Instead of a cape, the red is supplied by the accessories, like the nifty shoulderpads. The Anime-style hair has one extra-long lock as a tribute to Superman's famous (and equally ridiculous) "spit curl." Except it's sticking straight up in the air and it's all spiky, to impart menace. No, for reals. Plus, he can just slick it back down while he's out of costume. The Annihilator's logo is an inverted Superman shield (evil!) with the alchemical symbol for the planet Pluto inside it, symbolizing upheaval and violent change. And sure, it looks like the intergalactic sign for a well-hung gentleman who's doing the splits, but so what? I checked out 21st Century industrial explosion symbols online but it turns out they're not designed very well at all. I could have done better, but none of you vacuous cavemen bothered to ask me while I was living in your idiotic time period. Feh. Your loss!

Tomorrow (you heard me): the Son of the Annihilator! Plus, Weight Wizard news.

Next week: Moral Reversal Challenge: Starfire and Psimon!

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

America's Next Top Deformed Murderer

Two decades before "The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency" and "Project Runway," the dark side of the fashion world could be found within the pages of "Detective Comics" #506 and #507 (September and October, 1981). In those issues, the Dark Knight squared off against the Manikin, a statuesque fashion model with a burn-scarred noggin and an exoskeleton...



...an exoskeleton plated in genny-wine gold! 'Cause it's classier that way! It's certainly Trumpier! But you know what would have made it even better? If it had been Faberge! All crusty with jewells and enamel and crap. And if you could order it from the Franklin Mint. But here's the weird thing about this scene: a few panels before this, the Manikin was wearing a floor-length gown, cinched at the waist, with long sleeves. And Batman somehow managed to pull it off her, over her head, while she was punching him in the face. I guess that's a skill he picked up in his "Bruce Wayne" identity.



As part of his investigation, Batman shows up unannounced (as is his wont)at the apartment of Catwoman. He finds her all dolled up for her Aquaman fantasy session with Dane Dorrance. Oh wait, Frank Miller hadn't retconned her into a former prostitute yet. My bad. I'll start over.

He finds her chilling in her sequined pajamas and casual lounging heels. Take a look at the floral arrangement. Cattails! Oh, for... give it a rest, woman.



"When I'm not wearing my Catwoman costume, I like to dress well." But if she thinks her costume is tacky, then why does she wear -- gah! It's Gerry Conway logic; I'm not going to waste time trying to think about it. Just like I'm going to stifle my disbelief that she could identify the maker of that dress so quickly.

Batman uses this info to track down the Manikin's next victim, "Hoston." I love his Fruit Pies! (And that's the least dirty-sounding Hostess product I could think of for that joke. I just wanted to make a joke on his name, but it keeps unintentionally veering into Sex Country. But I guess "Fruit Pies" is marginally cleaner than the alternative. Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, Sno-balls... they're all filthy! ...That's what she said.)



Here's how you know it's pre-Crisis Batman: "I guessed wrong!"

I also like this part: "A weighted golf-club can kill." This message brought to you by the Coalition Against Weighted Golf-Clubs.

The Manikin only hospitalizes Hoston (good job, Batman!) but then she decides to show up there and finish him off. Luckily, Batman has a brilliant plan.



"The Brave And The Bold" presents: Batman and Tom Selleck's Mustache! What an awesome crime-fighting team! Batman... seriously. Dude. That's it? That all you got? Not even a curly blonde wig or some big Charles Nelson Reilly glasses? I'm severely disappointed in you.

You could have at least made it a handlebar.