Tag Archives: cosplay

She’s Asking For It

She slides along the aisle in stilettos, a sexualized wave that parts the sea of sweaty, sordid lepers like the goddess embodied in her physique. A familiar emblem bulges from her bust with a voluptuous gravity that curves with the earth, drawing everything towards her with the density of a supermassive black hole. Symbols have power, as all magicians know, and the double stacked double-you that frames her clavicle easily indoctrinates the masses. Her lips, lavish and ambrosial, stay pressed in a tight line across her cleanly shined face, which effortlessly reflects the flashes from camera phones and men. Still, she keeps on stalking, never stopping for a smile, as if on a vaguely detailed mission full of danger, sex, and spandex heroics.

A man fumbles towards her, tripping on the laces of his ill-fitting sneakers. When he finally recovers and returns to stand erect, his hands are already deep in the pockets of his oversized khaki cargos gripping for something for something hard about four inches in length. “I love your costume! She’s my favorite superhero. Can I get a picture?” he asks, spitting excitement as he whips out his iPhone and readies it in his hand, pausing eagerly as he awaits her response.

She sighs, rolls her eyes in an arc like her hips and turns to face her fan. She lets out an exasperated “Fine,” keeping her eyes glued toward the skies where such a super human form was surely born, and strikes an exhausted and uncommitted pose for the briefest moment, just enough for him to snap a single picture.

I subtly suggest that she’s not in the mood for photographs, to which he responds: “But she dressed up in a superhero costume! Of course she wants her picture taken. I mean, look at her — she’s asking for it!” He turns his attention back to fire and says, “Hey, can you do the —” but she’s already turned away, escaped into the shadows just as swiftly as she came.

Villanelle for San Diego Comic-Con Regrets

I will not be at San Diego Comic-Con this year,
and every time you ask me I’m reminded
that instead of standing in long lines I’ll just be sitting here.

I will not be the very first to hear
the latest comic news, at least not until it’s tweeted.
I will not be at San Diego Comic-Con this year.

I will not see the costumes that appear
on the awkward and undeodorized
standing in long lines. I’ll just be sitting here.

I wish that you and I could grab a beer
after getting all 160 issues of Ultimate Spider-Man signed,
but I will not be at San Diego Comic-Con this year

Think of me when you are hanging out near
Joss Whedon, or Katee Sackhoff, who you think you spotted
while standing in long lines; I’ll just be sitting here.

On the bright side, I don’t have to worry about finding a tear
on my rare exclusive SDCC variant cover. So to everyone who asked:
No, I will not be at San Diego Comic-Con this year.
Instead of standing in long lines, I’ll just be sitting here.

Jabba’s Palace — San Diego, 2010

Her hair is French braids, not Cinnamon Buns
wrapped warmly around her small elfish ears,
and her snow white skin glistens, a new kind
of hope, exposed to the heat of two suns.

But soon I see beyond her bright breast,
whose curves are lined with serif’d gold,
and the flow of maroon, like a cape from
her waist, and I can’t help but notice the rest:

a belly with rolled yellow flesh that would seem
to be more at home on a Hutt, with bulges that
spill out from the top of her way too small boots.
You’re not the Slave Leia I saw in my dreams!

Cosplayoff Season

Alan showed up at the scene in a blue body condom that hugged and accentuated his dreadfully average build. He wore a thick black belt around his waist, pinching his spandex shirt and allowing it to fall freely over his groin like a tunic. “So I wouldn’t have to wear a dance belt,” he said. “Hides the junk. My huge super junk.” Deadpan. The spandex hood covered his head, and he hid the rest of his face with a plastic domino mask — the cheap kind you find at dollar stores, with an elastic string to keep it in place, which he hid beneath the hood. A golden A-shaped emblem adorned his unremarkable chest. He worked in the film industry, or so he said, which is how he financed this and his other costumes — including the supposedly infamous “White Deadpool,” and the “Super-Soldier” Captain America/Superman mash-up from the late 90s. “Oh yeah. I’ve worked on a whole bunch of films. Haven’t really made any money off of them, but I’m getting there. I’m up to 9,000 plays on YouTube.”

After berating Captain Planet for his homemade mullet wig, with its sticky straw-like consistency from that awful green spray paint, Alan decided it was time to shoot for the big leagues. Between takes, he managed to slip by security, and approached Jason Schwartzman, waiting off-camera.

“So? What do you think?” he asked, striking a generic hands-on-hips superhero pose.

Jason Schwartzman looked around a moment, unsure of how to react. “Um. That’s cool, man. Yeah,” he said, once he realized that the costumed creep couldn’t possibly have been speaking to anyone else.

“Yeah, you like it?” Alan baited.

“Yeah, sure. Um, who are you supposed to be again?”

“AVENGER!”

“Avenger.”

“Yup. AVENGER.”

“Okay.” Silence. Awkward, awkward silence of the most awful kind. Jason looked for an exit — a cameraman, or a costume PA to fix his hair or something equally arbitrary. No such luck. Despite his reluctance and general level of comfort, he felt obligated to continue the conversation with the Blue Wonder. “Um, who’s Avenger? Like, the Avengers, or —”

“Nope. Just AVENGER.” Once again, Alan awaited the moment of recognition. Nothing. “He’s an original creation.”

“Oh. Okay. So you made him up?”

“He’s an original creation,” Alan emphasized, irritated. He thought that an fellow artist like Jason Schwartzman would understand the difference between an original creation and something that was simply “made up.”

After a few more moments of silence and frozen time, Jason finally turned to walk away. Alan worried that he had missed his chance, and tried one last time to capture his attention. “I based the costume design on the original Blue Beetle. His costume is actually in the public domain now, so…it’s pretty similar, you know, except I added the ‘A’ here,” he said, pointing at the emblem on his chest.

“Oh. That’s an ‘A’? Weird. I thought it was a carat. Like the arrow carrot sign, not the food.” With that, Jason Schwartzman walked away, and headed back to set, forever relegating AVENGER to background status, more likely left forgotten on the cutting room floor.