tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9893352733559953372024-01-12T04:48:18.950-05:00Heroes In My ClosetFormer Marvel Comics Personal Appearance actor discusses his ten years of adventures as Spider-Man, The Hulk, Green Goblin, The Thing, Dr. Doom and others.Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-34714186383254445482013-08-23T11:31:00.000-04:002013-08-23T11:31:00.588-04:00Ceiling Fans or My Movie with the Man Who Killed Spidey<div style="text-align: center;">
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I have to thank former Marvel colleague, writer Dan Slot, for this posting. It was he who reminded me of the incident, when I stopped by his table at a Big Apple Con a while back. I was a bit taken aback by the lack of attention the comic scribe garnered. It’s not as if he were secluded in a corner of the floor. His table was located just to the right of the main entrance—you couldn’t miss him!<br />
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Well, maybe you could! A cross between Danny DeVito and a minion, Slott isn’t much taller, and no less stocky. He has an endearing cherubic face and a Muppet eyebrow, which belie the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. It was sinful that Slott wasn’t fronted by a horde of fans. He’d been writing for Marvel and DC, since 1992, with a successful revival of <i>She-Hulk</i> and a Great Lakes Avengers limited series. Unfortunately, his attempts at relaunching a Thing—the rocky member of the Fantastic Four—comic were not as good, despite a snarky attempt to rally readers with a “Pull my Thing” campaign (in comic-shop vernacular, frequent buyers create “pull” lists, from which the store reserves selected titles before they’re put on the shelves).<br />
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The momentary low didn’t deter Slott, however. He went on to become one of a rotating crew of scribes on <i>Amazing Spider-Man</i>; wrote <i>Avengers: Initiative</i>, which led to his picking up the writing duties on <i>Mighty Avengers</i> after fan-favorite Brian Michael Bendis’s departure; and had recently become the sole regular scribe on <i>Amazing</i>, when I saw him.<br />
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Had anyone realized the 380º turn the diminutive writer’s reputation would take less than a year later, they not only would’ve been mobbing his area, but also clamoring for his head! Dan is now one of the hottest and most notorious, writers in comics, as much beloved as he is vilified. <i>Why?</i> Perhaps you heard in the news recently about the death of everyone’s favorite neighborhood Spider-Man. That was dastardly Dan’s doing. <br />
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And merely offing Peter Parker wasn’t good enough for the whimsically wicked wordsmith. Oh, no… As he lay dying, Dr. Otto Octavius, better known as the Web-Spinner’s multi-appendaged foe, Dr. Octopus, transferred his mind with Parker’s at the exact instant the Grim Reaper swung his scythe. In essence, Octavius became both Parker and Spider-Man, destroying his hated nemesis, while also depriving him the respect and mourning of his loved ones. That’s just plain nasty!<br />
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To add insult to injury, Marvel canceled Webhead’s signature title, <i>Amazing Spider-Man</i>, first released in 1962, and replaced it with <i>Superior Spider-Man</i>. <i>Superior?!</i> As if to say Doc Ock’s super-arachnid, whose only accomplishment at the time was ending the life of one of Earth’s greatest heroes, is better than the original model, he who’d only saved the planet and countless lives for more than five decades. Why not just spit on Spidey’s fans and piss on his grave. Oh, wait. You can’t. He doesn’t have a grave!<br />
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Contrary to the seeming vitriol of my previous paragraphs, I’m far from joining the Slott-Hater bandwagon. Sure, I consider the radical writer my friend, but I honestly don’t have a problem with the way he’s treated the Wondrous Web-Swinger. After all, one of the character’s signature aspects is his continued heroism, not only in the face of overwhelming odds, but also whilst his unmasked Regular Joe self deals with a life seemingly crumbling around him.<br />
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<i>But Spidey’s dead!</i> you’re thinking. What greater obstacle to overcome? His demise also calls into question the hero’s <i>raison d’être</i>, that being “With great power comes great responsibility.” Does that sacred creed hold true after death? And how does a once nefarious ne’er-do-well like Dr. Octopus deal with the onus of such responsibility. Will Webhead’s legacy ultimately prove to be Doc’s undoing?<br />
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I also don’t believe for a second that Peter Parker is gone for good. <i>Seriously, people?!</i> Fellow comics cognoscenti should be ashamed of themselves. Have we not learned anything in the past fifty years. Times were, if there wasn’t a body, you could be assured the character wasn’t dead. Marvel’s obituary section stood at three entries for decades, encompassing Parker’s Uncle Ben; first love, Gwen Stacy; and Captain America’s Golden Age kid sidekick, Bucky. In fact, whenever a character “died,” the cynical response was, “But are they <i>Bucky dead</i>?” meaning truly having entered the Pearly Gates. Even that rule was shattered during writer Ed Brubaker’s run on Cap a few years back when the scribe brought Bucky back as the Winter Soldier, the storyline of which will be featured in the upcoming second film of the Red-White-and-Blue Avenger. Suddenly, “Bucky dead” meant bupkes.<br />
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More heinous was the resurrection of Uncle Ben a few years back. Ben’s death at the hands of a burglar, whom Peter had allowed to escape due to his selfish intention of using his newly acquired spider abilities for fame and fortune, led to the youth’s realization about the relationship between power and responsibility. His uncle’s return was a slap in the face of the Wall-Crawler’s basis for being!<br />
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So to all you so-called Spidey-o-phile nay-sayer’s, I say, “Get over it!” Enjoy the ride. The character’s been mired in mediocrity for years, and hasn’t raised this much contentious behavior since the ignominious Clone Saga of the 90s. Heck, it’s not as if our woebegone Web-Swinger hasn’t been killed and replaced before. Kraven the Hunter did the deed in the epic six-part “Kraven’s Last Hunt,” which ran through all three of the awesome arachnid’s titles, <i>Amazing</i>, <i>Spectacular</i> and <i>Web of Spider-Man</i> back in the late 80s. And in that scintillating saga, our bedeviled hero actually was buried!<br />
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The death of Gwen Stacy, the original clone story and its more notorious sequel thirty years later, the infamous black costume, Peter Parker’s wedding, the “One More Day” storyline; these and many others have been some people’s excuse to bellyache and bemoan the demise of <i>their</i> Spider-Man, when, in fact, they have done no such thing. All the stories still exist, and will long after the Web-Slinger has truly “shuffled off this mortal coil.”<br />
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As for the members of the hoi polloi who are grabbing their torches and pitchforks to storm the Marvel offices over the death of Spider-Man, you are no better than your geek counterparts in your misplaced hysteria. I have three words for you: DEATH… OF… SUPERMAN. Given all the import of a terrorist attack with no less the sensationalism, the media stoked into a conflagration what would normally be a minor news item buried in the celebrity gossip segment of their broadcasts on any other day with a modicum of activity. DC wasn’t just offing a fictional superhero, they were killing baseball, hot dogs and Mom’s apple pie, the American Dream, in one fell swoop. <i>HOW DARE THEY?!</i><br />
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At the same time these Superman aficionado wannabes were descrying DC, they were buying up and hoarding copies of the seminal issue like gasoline in <i>Mad Max</i>, thinking they could parlay their purchase into tuition for their children a few years thence. I tried to explain the worthlessness of this Man of Steel milestone to the colleague of a friend of mine I was visiting during the height of the hullabaloo. She had just come into the office exalting her purchase of a copy, like she’d been one of the first to snag a Cabbage Patch doll.<br />
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Released in 1938, the sacred tome introduced Superman, the first ever superhero. Born in an age when comics were in their infancy and viewed as little more than cheap entertainment, and then sacrificed by the boatloads during the paper drives of WWII, there are few more than a dozen copies of <i>Action Comics #1</i> in existence, never mind the one or two copies in better-than-shitty grade. Contrarily, DC shipped between 2.5 and 3 million copies of the “Death of Superman” issue, a large percentage of which were being hermetically sealed in Mylar and boarded with archival materials. To equate the two would be like comparing the Holy Grail to a Dixie Cup.<br />
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My calm rationale was greeted with the kind of look Homer Simpson gave Lurleen Lumpkin as she suggestively sang “Bunk with Me” to him. But unlike the famous animated Fox patriarch, my target never got the subtext of the message. “But this is the ‘Death of Superman’” she blurted with sudden finality as if I were the one who didn’t “get it,” before turning away and ending the conversation. I would imagine she’s since discovered that the only educational institution she can afford for her children from her “wise” investment is the School of Hard Knocks!<br />
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Which brings us back to Slott, whose career began in the early ’90s at Marvel, first as an intern, then as an assistant under Editor Fabian Nicieza. “Under” would not be an exaggeration. The young wannabe scribe followed Nicieza like Marley padded after his master. He was equally as loveable as exasperating, incessantly yammering story ideas and humorous anecdotes whether the beleaguered editor was listening or not. No wonder he was pegged as the writer for the <i>Ren & Stimpy</i> comic, which debuted in 1992, bagged with a scratch ’n’ sniff air “fouler.” The rascally raconteur proved the perfect fit for the popular animated pair, and the title’s subsequent success launched Slott’s career.<br />
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We’d begun reminiscing about out days at Marvel, when I’d asked him if he were interested in contributing something to the “Closet” as a guest writer. It was at that moment, a fan stopped by, and having overheard our speaking of working at Marvel, understandably asked if I’d worked at the House of Ideas, too.<br />
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“He was Spider-Man,” Slott chimed in.<br />
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Ever wary of people’s reactions when my former alter-ego is revealed, I quickly and succinctly explained that I was a character actor for Marvel at the same time Slott was interning.<br />
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“Cool!” the fan responded, genuinely impressed.<br />
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Our short exchange, however, prompted Slott’s recollection of his own “favorite Steve/Spidey story.”<br />
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<i>Cue flashback graphics and sound effects... </i><br />
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When I wasn’t on the road Web-Spinning or at the gym, I was hanging out at Marvel, kibbitzing with editors and trying to get writing assignments. Sure, being the company’s mascot helped in my getting more than a foot in the door, but it also proved to stigmatize my being seen as anything but “the guy who plays Spider-Man.” I often felt I wasn’t taken as seriously as others, whose vocation was strictly “writer.” Still, I cajoled my way into steady work penning articles for <i>Marvel Age</i> and eventually sold a Spider-Man story, which is an epic waiting in the wings.<br />
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More important, my Marvel colleagues were also my friends. So when someone snagged a block of tickets to an advanced preview of <i>The Babe</i>, starring John Goodman as the legendary Yankees slugger, I was asked if I’d like to go. A free movie? With my cohorts? Hell, I’d go to a documentary on quilting if it meant hanging out with friends (I’m just asking for it from the Etsy crowd!). The pass was actually a baseball card featuring John Goodman as the titular baseball star. It was a neat souvenir and hoped I wouldn’t have to cede it at the door to get in.<br />
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The cinema hosting the screening was several blocks further east than the Marvel offices on Park Ave. South. Anyone familiar with braving such an event knows the promoters give out far more passes than there are seats in the theater to ensure a full room. Entry is determined on a first come, first serve basis, so one has to get to the theater at least an hour beforehand, depending on the movie. Films with more buzz will draw an earlier and far greater crowd, but even the most obscure pictures usually have a mob waiting to get in… <i>usually</i>!<br />
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The Marvel group convened outside the theater at 6 PM for the 7 PM screening, and there wasn’t another sole in sight. In fact, the usher didn’t even bother to look at the passes, never mind take them as we entered. The disinterest in a free movie in a city of ten million people did not bode well for the quality of the pic. The internet was still a few years off, but the film’s reputation was such that, even in an age of relatively primitive word-spreading, its awfulness carried like wildfire, and this was without online trailers, <i>Ain’t It Cool</i> and its ilk, social media of any kind, email or texting; literally word-of-mouth. Considering The Babe hadn’t opened yet, I can only assume Siskel and Ebert gave it an enthusiastic “thumbs down” on <i>At the Movies</i> earlier in the week, and their opinions were gospel.<br />
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<i>“We'd walk out on this movie in an airplane.”</i></div>
<br />
The cinema was empty. Our party traipsed in and centered ourselves, leaning back and draping our legs over the seats before us, like we owned the place. Only two other people arrived: a pair of teenage girls who plopped their asses in the row in front of ours. Fortunately, they were short enough and the seats reclined enough that their obstruction was minimal. But the fact, they would choose the seats that they did should have alerted us to the type of people they were.<br />
<br />
As is the wont of comic geeks whenever there is so much as two seconds to rub together, we began talking about our obsession. We weren’t especially loud, but the movie hadn’t started yet, so we weren’t exactly whispering either.<br />
<br />
“Y’all talking about funny books?” asked one of the teens, spinning around to face us. It was only then we noticed the Southern drawl, because unlike her, <i>we</i> were not eavesdropping on the conversations of strangers. Her question was full of the kind of disgust four-color aficionados used to endure when exposed by the hoi polloi. I’m not sure if she was actually curious or was just trying to shut us up in a backhanded way. Her BFF may not have had the audacity to comment, but her complicity in her friend’s behavior was clearly evident in her unabashed giggling.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In the late 90s, I worked as
the Marketing Manager for the second coming of Valiant, purchased by
Acclaim Entertainment soon before. Just prior to the home office closing
the comics division only a few years later, editorial planned on
releasing “Varmints,” written by Dan Slott with art by Mike Kazalah, as
part of a children’s digest-size anthology series.</i></div>
<br />
Bless his naïve little heart, Slott perceived only interest where there was vitriol, and boy, do nerds love to share their passion. No less Slott, who proceeded to introduce himself as though he were filling out an application for eHarmony.<br />
<br />
“I’m Dan and I’m an assistant editor at Marvel Comics,” he replied cheerily.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, what does that do?” Again with the attitude, this time mixed with a generous helping of skepticism, the grammatical cluster-fuck of the sentence not withstanding.<br />
<br />
Slott was undeterred, like a Mormon undertaking his assigned mission in a particularly adverse region of the world. “I basically help the editor in getting the books out on time; assist in gathering the artwork, send it to the inker, then to the letterer; I read fan mail for the books I work on, then pull the best ones and piece them together for the monthly letters page; I field calls from prospective talent…” The diminutive Slott seemed determined to kill this harpy and her mute mate with kindness.<br />
<br />
“My <i>butt</i>!” the girl snarked.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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Perhaps it was that playful twinkle in Slott’s eyes; the oh-so-pinchable cheeks; the ever-present friendly demeanor, more pronounced in the face of such hostility; that inspired his office mates, but regardless, without prompting, the next Marvelite in the row piped in, taking up the baton Slott so ably handed them.<br />
<br />
“I’m Pat Garrahy. I’m also an assistant editor, as well as a colorist…”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, what does that do?” Apparently, we’d covered the breadth of the girl’s vocabulary, if not her ill-manner.<br />
<br />
But again, my colleagues were exemplary. Pat proudly discussed his duties without the faintest nuance of annoyance.<br />
<br />
And again, “My <i>butt</i>!” was the answer to his generous efforts.<br />
<br />
This continued down the line. One after another—Renée Witterstatter, Tim Tuohy, Mark Bernardo—my comic compadres persevered, introducing themselves and sharing their respective tasks and the comics on which they worked, to the ungrateful whelps before them. Each name and job title elicited a dubious “Yeah, what does that do?” and each description prompted a venomous “My <i>butt</i>!”<br />
<br />
As fate would have it, I was seated at the endcap of the row and closest to these hillbillies. I didn’t share in the enthusiasm of my friends toward them, who increasingly showed that their worth added up to little more than a central position in the “Evolution of Man” charts one sees on classroom walls and in natural history books.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
My mood grew darker as the dog and pony show progressed, seeming to accelerate as it drew closer. The tap of the <i>t</i> from the penultimate “butt” still hung in the air when, with palpable inevitability, the demon seed twins turned their vindictive gaze toward me.<br />
<br />
“I’m Spider-Man and I web little shits like you to the ceiling…”<br />
<br />
In stunned silence, the harridans slowly turned back in their seats. They didn’t move, nor <i>peep</i>, for the entirety of the film, and scurried out of the theater as the final frame before the credits flashed upon the screen.<br />
<br />
In costume, hero I may be, but Vroom! suffers fools lightly!
Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-51314348164243029292013-04-22T17:31:00.000-04:002013-05-08T11:43:42.104-04:00Poster Boy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiIxsYSAcHdFCuT_DCaDzF60Ktu_e4e_ldLiGQrdLcAMMYoIQ4yXC2tGQFgbMfw7N-0Oz4_K8El3_6fdxB08FJSSV153xj8m2M3Q4ZhQR_4n6nZsmZzW7DPzLczGPZi2S5b4OpMh5zu0/s1600/charliesangels1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiIxsYSAcHdFCuT_DCaDzF60Ktu_e4e_ldLiGQrdLcAMMYoIQ4yXC2tGQFgbMfw7N-0Oz4_K8El3_6fdxB08FJSSV153xj8m2M3Q4ZhQR_4n6nZsmZzW7DPzLczGPZi2S5b4OpMh5zu0/s400/charliesangels1.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>
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<i>Chucky</i><i>’s cheesecake</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Despite my own room and a great deal of privacy—one might argue neglect—growing up, the posters that festooned my walls were not what one would call traditional for your average tween/teen. Absent were the pop idols of the era—no Steve Austins, Morks or Sweathogs; any interest in automotive-alia was confined to the hundreds of Matchbox and Hot Wheels vehicles in the half dozen dedicated cases under my bed; my appreciation of all sports Boston remained on the small screen; and though I certainly enjoyed (read: salivated over) Farrah, Kate and Jaclyn, the thought of putting any or all of the Angels of Charlie on my walls mortified me.<br />
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Not that I had a choice in my early childhood. My parents installed new wallpaper when I was about five, ultimately selecting an olive-green nautical print over my choices, which all contained some variation of anthropomorphic cartoon animals. Only the wall against which the bed was placed would feature the seafaring design; the remaining three were covered with a rudimentary pattern of an accompanying color. It sounds more ghastly than it was, but the scads of stuffed toys which occupied every inch of dresser, bookcase, bureau, chair, side table and desk supplied more than enough color to overcome the ennui of the walls. My bedroom looked like the storage warehouse, which serviced the entire Toys ‘R’ Us chain.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I loved these reproduction circus posters! </i></div>
<br />
Hanging, taping or tacking anything on the new wallpaper was strictly verboten until one day my mom gave me a set of three vintage Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus poster reproductions, which she allowed me to thumbtack to one of the bare walls of my room. The “menagerie” one with the various animals was my favorite, though I loved ’em all, even the scary-clown one. But it wasn’t just the subject matter. I was taken with the classic design, muted colors and sepia tone, which hearkened to a more romantic, bygone era. <i>Cripes, I was old school before the term even existed!</i><br />
<br />
Once my bedroom’s pin-up cherry was popped, other items made their way to my walls, though still only that which my mom gave her blessing. I was an avid jigsaw puzzler, and could put together one of more than 500 pieces in a single sitting. Two of my faves—one of a gumball machine bursting with a kaleidoscope of chewy chicles within its glass globe and surrounding its base and the other of a bald eagle’s head—my mom glued together with a large sheet of construction paper attached to their reverse sides, creating cool wall hangers. The pressed incision lines of the individual pieces made for a nifty overlay, transcending the images from the merely cool to provocative.<br />
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<i>Springbok led a resurgence of puzzle mania in the 70s with sets that combined brilliant graphics and sharply cut, interlocking pieces</i></div>
<br />
By the time I’d reached my teens, my mom ceded her control of my bedroom décor. My funny book fanaticism was in its infancy—I was late bloomer when it came to the pleasures of the 4-color world—but no less insane than that of a seasoned geek. Fortunately, my parents didn’t impede its progress. They’d been separated for several years by then, and cared only for my grades, which remained good. Not that they understood my love of “funny books,” the only term they used when referring to my passion. My father would always accompany his mention with the type of look usually reserved for smelling bad mayonnaise. There was no disgust from my mom, and though she never bothered to learn the names of any particular titles which I collected, she would occasionally bring me home comics she’d picked up the store, but only if they were on special—<i>God, that woman loved a sale!</i><br />
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<i>A surprise from Mom one day, this issue began my love for Ghost Rider, a love which Nicholas Cage will not diminish no matter how hard the actor tries!</i></div>
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It was she who gave me <i>The Mighty World of Marvel Pin-Up Book for Christmas</i> in 1977. I was fourteen, and would spend every waking moment not spent at school or doing homework perusing, reading and re-reading my modest comics collection, which amounted to a few two-foot stacks piled in a side dresser. At 17" by 11", with each page bursting with a huge action shot of a single superhero or group on über-colorful, high-glossy poster paper, I’d be able to sneak a peek at my hobby regardless how short the visit to my bedroom. The editors wisely left the backsides of each image with nothing more than a pithy write-up of the hero on its opposite, so one didn’t have to choose a side to display… They were all presentable! I wasted no time peeling all 21 images off the binding and putting them up. And that’s where they stayed until my mother moved during my senior year of college.<br />
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<i>Ghost Rider by the under-rated Ernie Chan, a melange of Avengers by John Buscema, Dr. Doom by Jack Kirby, and Doc Strange by Frank Brunner were but a smattering of the twenty-one-derful pin-ups featured in the book.</i></div>
<br />
I certainly never considered myself a Betty Grable, and I’m sure Farrah’s red bathing suit would not have fit me as well, though at the time it premiered, my man-boobs probably bested her female ones—<i>I was a hefty prepubescent!</i> But an adolescent growth spurt and combination of cutting out the Yodels and Devil Dogs for lunch and becoming more active helped trim the fat. Still, no one could have guessed I’d emerge as a pin-up idol.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Your Rambling Raconteur circa 1976</i></div>
<br />
My debut as everyone’s favorite wall-hanger occurred at the mock Spider-Man wedding ceremony at Shea Stadium in the summer of 1987 as part of a gift bag given to all attendees. That historic happening was recounted in my past postings, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/04/wedding-photo.html">“Wedding Photo”</a>—about the actual photo shoot for the poster—and the epic trilogy <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/08/to-thee-i-web-part-i-idol-banter.html">“To Thee I Web”</a>—relating the tantalizing tale of the nuptials itself. I was a relative super-newbie at the time and shared the spreadsheet spotlight with some of my 4-color friends, as well as a quartet of Mets. As a local amenity available only to those at the event, the pin-up’s notoriety was finite. It wouldn’t be sharing the black light section of your local Spencer Gifts any time soon.<br />
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The true test of my pin-up pulchritude came about a year later. In 1987, spear-headed by then Editor-in-Chief Tom Defalco, Marvel released a high-quality line of books, which reproduced the original issues, in order, of some of its most iconic characters. Marvel Masterworks debuted with three volumes, presenting “remastered” (if you will) collections of the first ten issues of <i>Fantastic Four</i>, <i>Amazing Spider-Man</i> and <i>X-Men</i>. Some—the bean counters and business experts—considered it folly. Comic collections to this point were packaged cheaply—paperbacks of crappy paper with no extras—and regurgitated the same dozen or so “Best of” stories in every volume. It was the equivalent of an oldies radio station playlist. These haters had no understanding of what the comic book marketplace had become and didn’t think anyone would pony up the dosh for the type of book DeFalco envisioned.<br />
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<i>Marvel-ites have Tom DeFalco to thank for Marvel Masterworks. Despite internal opposition, he pushed for and oversaw their genesis.</i></div>
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There were no electronic files of these vintage tales and somehow finding the original artwork, if all the pages existed, was impractical if not impossible. Thus, scans of the original comic books were made and then the dot-matrix color pattern, which created the hues, was washed out. The resulting art had to be repaired—since the color was saturated into the lines, the integrity of them was greatly diminished when the color was excised—and then the story was recolored. Everything was collated and printed on high-end white paper with all the touches one would expect from a coffee-table book, i.e. dust jacket, end papers, title page, table of contents, introduction, etc. At $40, the volumes were more than four times what a standard trade paperback was at the time.<br />
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DeFalco got the last laugh. The first flight took off and Marvel Masterworks has continued to expand ever since. There are hundreds of volumes with most, if not all, still in print and new ones arriving every year. <i>Thank you, Tom!</i><br />
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<i>Through the years since their debut, the Masterworks line has expanded to include classic tales from the company’s Golden Age and Atlas Eras, and B-list characters, such as Iron Fist.</i></div>
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But at the time, there were more than a few Marvel Nabobs biting their nails and watching the sales reports during the initial release. The books out-performed even their wildest expectations, which lets face it, given their grim forecast, wasn’t all that wild. A second flight, expanded to four books was announced. But the Suits’ pleasure was never more evinced than when they actually decided to put a few shekels toward marketing the unexpected second stage of the line. By the standards of any other industry, the promotional efforts for the second coming, so to speak, were small, but they were something at least. And I was to be a fortuitous benefactor, so I wasn’t complaining!<br />
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A high-quality sales poster, which would be distributed among comic book retailers across the country, was commissioned. Now Marvel has ever produced retailer ephemera—signs, sell-sheets, shelf talkers, among others—for decades. 99% of them feature clip-art of their signature heroes—if it were a generic “Buy Marvel Comics!” type item—or feature new art from an upcoming debut of a title or character. Yet, even in the latter scenario, the art was “clipped” from the forthcoming ballyhooed product or merely displayed its cover art, thus reducing the cost to just design, production and distribution. Rarely was any “new” money invested in custom art for such sales materials. The second-wave Masterworks signage would surpass even the rare extra expenditure of original illustration, catapulting into the realm of live-photography, which meant the aforementioned costs plus studio fees—lights, sets, props, scenery, and shutterbug, of course—and model.<br />
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That’s where I came in…<br />
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Personal Appearance Department Manager Babs just gave me fresh Spidey threads and the basic 411 on the gig, which directed me to a loft studio in the Chelsea area of Manhattan early one weekday morning. One of the things I love about New York City is how elevators can take you up a hundred stories and open out onto a wondrous new world. Anyone only familiar with free-standing bowling alleys the size of supermarkets with ample parking, for example, should visit Bowlmor Lanes in The Village section of Manhattan. At street level, you enter into nothing but a lobby the size of a closet with an elevator. Step in, and after a few moments and several floors, the doors open and you’re in a bowling alley. It’s like the moment when Dorothy enters the colorful world of Munchkinland from her crashed home after the tornado.<br />
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I was experiencing a similar moment as I entered the photography studio directly from the freight elevator, which, from the sidewalk below, looked fairly skeevy. The one indication that it was functioning was the vertical row of gold business nameplates affixed to the chipped painted brick wall beside it.<br />
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The only New York loft I’d seen to that point was the one Tom Hanks buys in <i>Big</i> and this one may not have been as up-to-date, but it was certainly as tall. The ceilings had to be at least twenty feet high. A balcony office was built at the back, opposite the awesome floor-to-ceiling windows fronting the street side, which provided plenty of natural light. The studio had a fly system, like a theatre, fer cryin’ out loud! Scaffolding concealed by heavy navy-blue curtains framed what looked to be the area in which the shoot would take place, and an unrolled white screen draped down and along the floor with spots shining their beams toward the set-up’s center.<br />
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I dropped my bag and army jacket, and made a beeline to the bathroom to change into my Spider-Man togs. Upon my egress, three young women in little black dresses had joined the small party of Babs, the photographer, his assistant and me. Their similar wardrobe suggested they would be part of the shoot, and my suspicions were confirmed moments later when they joined my in the shooting zone. But what the concept behind the picture was, I couldn’t fathom. I was instructed to strike the usual Web-Slinger fan poses, albeit professionally staged and lighted. Plus, the caliber of the “models” was far from what one would expect from a fashion shoot; less runway, more <i>Am</i>way. I guess, the generosity of the Marvel Mucky-Mucks only went so far.<br />
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<i>Robert Palmer... Eat your heart out!</i></div>
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Test Polaroids were taken in order to get a proper feed on how the scene would appear in print before switching to film. You don’t want to discover the lighting was wrong after shooting three rolls! And no, my young readers, Polaroids is not a problem, which Inuits contract from long hours of sitting on a frozen block while ice fishing (<i>rim shot… so to speak!</i>). Polaroid cameras allow instant photos to be created from the device itself using a picture cartridge. For all I know, studios may still employ them, though I would bet many simply photograph into a computer via cable and print the shots immediately thereafter.<br />
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The camera used was more advanced than those generally employed at the time. The photo didn’t roll out immediately upon clicking the picture. Rather, it was pulled free of the camera and its development timed before the chemically-treated contact paper was peeled back—old school, but still effective in producing crisp, vibrant photos, far sharper than those that pop out of its cheaper brethren. And, no, you new-schoolers, viewing the prospective pix onscreen will not provide an accurate rendering of their print appearance, since computer images are backlit; paper products are not.<br />
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Surprisingly, the session took less than thirty minutes. <i>Huh? I was told to keep the whole day open. </i>Then, the trio of ladies thanked the photographer—some giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek—and walked out. I soon learned they were from another business in the building and the last half hour was merely a favor to them.<i> Ooh, let’s get a professional photo with Spider-Man. I know, we’ll wear matching outfits and pose like we’re models! </i>Either the shutterbug was double-dipping—making a little extra dosh on Marvel’s dime—or he was trying to impress one of the gals. Regardless, I felt like a prop in a department store photo area.<br />
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The stage for “Three Women and a Spidey” was struck and a new was constructed, one that made better sense. The scaffolding was maneuvered more closely together and a thick plank—what appeared to be a door, except there was no hole where a knob would have gone—was placed between. The deep grain and dark veneer suggested a desktop. Secured to its underside were a lamp, of the ubiquitous sort found in the reading rooms of libraries and law offices, and selection of Masterworks volumes, stacked flat with four notable exceptions, which were standing. The covers displayed what I presumed to be the forthcoming books in the series, collecting the second ten issues of <i>Amazing Spider-Man</i>, and the inaugural ten of the <i>Incredible Hulk</i>, the <i>Avengers</i>, and the legendary 1975 revival of the <i>X-Men</i> by writer Chris Claremont/artist Dave Cockrum.<br />
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I nearly fainted; <i>Avengers</i> was my favorite comic series, issue #148 of which indoctrinated me into the 4-color wonders of superheroes, when I was eleven. My comics reading to that point was reserved for the more appropriately delineated “funny books” variety of the genre, published by the likes of Gold Key, Charlton and Harvey. <i>Hot Stuff</i>, <i>Spooky</i>, <i>Little Monsters</i>, <i>Sarge Snorkel</i> and <i>Pink Panther</i> were among my faves.<br />
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The inaugural issue of “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes” had been reprinted ad nauseam in various arenas. I think I may have first read it in one of the great Fireside Publishing collections of the 70s or <i>Dynamite</i> magazine, the early volumes of which featured classic Marvel and DC superhero origins, taken directly from the source material among its monthly slate of pop culture articles and games. Ditto with issue #4, which introduced Captain America, the star-spangled hero of comics Golden Age, to the Silver Age. The other eight stories were hard to find outside the actual issues, which for an eleven-year-old of very modest means were too expensive even in poor condition.<br />
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<i>There’</i><i>s nothing I could put here that wouldn’t get the site shut down by the FCC</i></div>
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The books in the set dressing were bolted to the faux desktop; L-brackets utilized for the four free standing ones. It pained me to see the collections maligned so, especially those, which weren’t even available yet. The backdrop of white was replaced with one depicting a home library, the sort one might envision in a Victorian novel. The idea of the poster was simple: Spider-Man hangs from the ceiling of an athenaeum, enjoying the latest Masterworks volume, the stories therein worthy to stand alongside other literary classics.<br />
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I was impressed with the ingenuity of the prop people. Their slight touches helped strengthen the sense that Spider-Man was truly suspended, such as gluing a wire behind the lamp’s on/off chain, so it appeared to hang naturally. A closer examination reveals its angle being slightly askew, but an observer would have to be looking for errors. The fact that it is lighted with its bulb plainly visible furthered the illusion. The wire snaked down the scaffolding into the wall plug with the aid of an extension cord. The first question any one of my friends and family members asked upon seeing the completed poster was, “How long did you have to hang like that?” I can’t think of a finer compliment to the scenery designers.<br />
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The whole thing was leveled about ten feet above my six-foot figure. I was given an undamaged copy of what appeared to be one of the new <i>Fantastic Four</i> Masterworks, with which to appear reading, to complete the tableau. I ravenously opened it, excited to be one of the first to savor the stories therein. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered, it was nothing more than a mock-up. The dust jacket was in truth taken from one of the first flight’s books, a high-quality graphic of one of the new wave covers carefully glued over the gilt-framed image.<br />
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In fact, none of the erect volumes were real, merely props cobbled together for the shoot. Look closely at the desktop titles in the test shots I’ve provided. The cover reproductions of the legendary Marvel issues sit atop the aforementioned gold framing, the sculpted figured of which extend over the image edges of the actual Masterworks.<br />
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Comics cognoscenti will also notice a discrepancy with the depicted second wave books. The Hulk collection shown on the left wasn’t released until the third flight, volume #8 of the entire series. The <i>X-Men</i> Masterworks on the far right is also incorrect on several levels. Not only <i>doesn’t</i> it feature the original team’s second ten issues—a volume which was indeed a part of the follow-up line-up as volume #7—it displays issue #94, one of the issues of what would become Masterworks #11, the aforementioned resurrection of the title, which combined a couple of original members with new ones, such as Wolverine, Storm and Nightcrawler. But when released in what would become the third stage of Masterworks, <i>Giant-Size X-Men #1</i> would be on the cover of this mondo volume in which the origin of this fresh batch of genetically advanced super-teens is revealed. It hit the stands in May 1975, three months prior to #94 in August. And if you understand anything of that, you get a gold star. <i>I wrote it and I’m confused!</i><br />
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I don’t believe all these to be mistakes on the part of the marketing or editorial departments, but rather forward-thinking decisions. Given the tremendous response of the initial wave, they were confident that the program would continue past its second, thus catered the staging of the poster, so it would have legs beyond those releases. <i>Ever frugal even in the face of success!</i> The X-Men cover mix-up? No <i>X-cuse</i> for that, I’m afraid.<br />
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Notice, too, that the credits, which normally appear under the cover graphics in the actual editions, have been airbrushed out of the final poster image. As mock-ups, they don’t correspond to the cover displays, and although you can’t make out these incorrect credits on screen, they are legible on the approximately 27" x 20" retailer hanger.<br />
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<i>Masterworks photo shoot: Take 563</i></div>
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It seemed to take forever before the tableau was prepared and ready for its featured star. After every few test shots, production stopped while the photographer conferred with his assistant. Lighting adjustments were made, scenery minutely shifted, and then I was directed back to the hot zone for more preliminaries. I didn’t even bother with the top half of the costume. These pix were all about fine-tuning until the correct levels were achieved.<br />
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Just as the photographer seemed to have everything to his expert liking, his helper noticed what would have been a major faux pas in the scenery. The library background was hanging right side up, where it should have been upside down like every other element on the set… <i>except me, of course</i>. I can’t imagine what would have happened had no one realized the error before the photos were taken and sent to the Grand Poo-Bahs at Marvel for approval. And what if they hadn’t noticed and the ad went into production?!! It could’ve been a disaster of the same magnitude as <i>Battlefield Earth</i>.<br />
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Instead, it added several more hours to the shoot, a minor inconvenience when considered against the aforementioned <i>what ifs</i>. Of course, I would’ve been a lot less <i>inconvenienced</i> had I been getting paid by the hour like a real supermodel! At least, I was getting a free lunch, which had just arrived. Though, as starved as I was, I couldn’t dig-in like I wanted too. I was half naked in a skintight spandex bodysuit, and about to have my picture taken for a retail poster and comic-book ad, which millions of people would see. I stuck to the fresh fruit and a small salad. Still, with every swallow, I felt my hips widen and my stomach distend. <i>Ladies, I feel your pain!</i><br />
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It was back to square one upon completion of our midday meal. With the library scrim correctly hung, more test photos were taken. I’d begun to get stir crazy, standing in one place for so long without anything to show for it, which explains my irreverent poses in some of these shots. Even the props were getting restless, it seemed, the flower and vase preferring suicide to enduring another minute of inertia. It simply dropped to the floor at my feet amidst the set-up pix. “Just leave it,” was the photog’s reaction. Thank goodness. Securing it back onto the doppelganger desk probably would’ve added another hour to the session, and with every moment, the sunlight shifted in the loft, which meant an accompanying tweak to the Kliegs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4p5YWX_nGNdVAYJshjEL8yn5yvyJDP9AM7eCbNvBy7ir2gtBa1QewZZGFSG_qtfdtJIESInemqE1tdB-oWKTV7hcyawCN4AETSD85cU3vIS0O44Fg3Gipe7-vbLzm13MiYbzhjbwDJGU/s1600/SMPhotoShoot3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4p5YWX_nGNdVAYJshjEL8yn5yvyJDP9AM7eCbNvBy7ir2gtBa1QewZZGFSG_qtfdtJIESInemqE1tdB-oWKTV7hcyawCN4AETSD85cU3vIS0O44Fg3Gipe7-vbLzm13MiYbzhjbwDJGU/s400/SMPhotoShoot3.jpg" width="392" /></a></div>
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<i>This gig is driving me up the walls! Aaaahhhhh!!!</i></div>
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When the shutterbug was ready for my close-up, I was ready to go home. Fortunately, with his pronouncement of readiness came a renewed vigor—there was finally light at the end of the tunnel. Plus my intimacy with the powers of the costume gave me the advantage. After patiently suffering the mundane suggestions of his and the assistant’s (see the test shot of me reading with my free hand in Web-Shooter mode—<i>yawn</i>…), I countered with a bevy of exaggerated Spidey poses that would’ve made Webhead progenitor extraordinaire Steve Ditko blush. Granted, I would only be seen from the midriff up, but it seemed an utter waste to the awesomeness which the suit brings, to have me simply standing there, like a commuter on a bus with the latest bestseller (or Kindle, if you prefer). And the unusual torso twist is evident enough in the resultant poster to magnify the ad’s impact.<br />
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<i>One of the exciting shots composed by the photographer</i></div>
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“That’s a wrap!” Three of the most wonderful words I’d ever heard. It was approaching six in the evening and the shadows had given the loft a film noir appearance. I’d no idea how many rolls were shot, nor which of the myriad poses were favorites. But as I grabbed a banana for the road, I noticed a few test photos strewn about the festering buffet area and asked if I could keep them. I felt like Dorothy asking the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle guards for the half-burnt broom—how could they refuse after all I’d done? The photographer’s answer wasn’t inane like the guard’s—“Please. And take it with you.” (<i>No, I thought I’d leave it here and pick it up later!</i>)—but the result was the same. I grabbed them and scurried home.<br />
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<i>“As a token of our appreciation for releasing us from the Wicked Witch’s servitude and saving Oz, here’s a broom...”</i></div>
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A couple of months later, I saw the handiwork of my modeling session. I’d since forgotten about the episode and was quite surprised when I saw the full-page ad in a comic whilst flying to a gig. My initial reaction was to share my moment with everyone around me, but in a plane surrounded by strangers, that type of public exaltation may’ve gotten me restrained. Besides, I couldn’t rightly reveal that it was I in the Spider-Man togs—secret identity and all. So my celebration was reduced to merely beaming in my seat, 30,000 feet in the air.<br />
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Soon thereafter, I espied the actual poster in a comics shop. True to form, I zeroed in on an egregious blemish in the composition, a pit stain beneath the outstretched arm holding the Masterworks. <i>Sheesh, they took the time and effort to excise the creator credits beneath the mock-up books, but couldn’t remove the sweat under my arm?!! </i>Still, I had to admit, the overall result was excellent. Okay, so I wasn’t going to unseat the popularity of Farrah and her one-piece anytime soon. But at least I wouldn’t become the object of every prepubescent’s fantasy either!<br />
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<i>Does this suit make me look fat? </i></div>
Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-88935782359178964502013-03-10T14:02:00.000-04:002013-03-15T11:53:30.003-04:00Charles Durning and Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqnweS7LrRJDcN45twljiqgX6wN8mQwa7RZI6xkqQfYCWM-XO2FvvA8ja4zhjBKrYudmzlKSi1I8_Kl1p69qb2AQfhLiFY8uLUmerY6vMHFgSbQwO5njbXFR7LmEH7bZrd3sdl3NF6x4/s1600/DeadCanaries-Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqnweS7LrRJDcN45twljiqgX6wN8mQwa7RZI6xkqQfYCWM-XO2FvvA8ja4zhjBKrYudmzlKSi1I8_Kl1p69qb2AQfhLiFY8uLUmerY6vMHFgSbQwO5njbXFR7LmEH7bZrd3sdl3NF6x4/s400/DeadCanaries-Poster.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
I was saddened by the news of actor Charles Durning’s passing last Christmas Eve. More than just a performer whose work I admired, he and I co-starred (Read: Durning starred and I made a cameo) in the 2003 straight-to-video smash-hit <i>Dead Canaries</i>.<br />
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During my four years as Promotions Manager at the <i>New York Post</i>, one of my duties was serving as the paper’s television and movie studio liaison. Founded more than two hundred years ago by Alexander Hamilton, <i>The Post</i> is recognized all over the world. Though more notorious than noteworthy, the infamous New York daily’s snarky reporting style—no more clearly exemplified than through its provocative, often controversial, yet always clever, headlines—in-your-face trade dress and scandalous gossip pages—Page Six, Cindy Adams, Liz Smith—have made it the newspaper every New Yorker loves to hate. It’s the newsprint equivalent of a Kardashian, derided as often as it’s embraced, building a reputation more on spectacle than substance. And like those aforementioned celebrity bottom-feeders, the infamous New York daily is laughing all the way to the bank, at least in so much as a newspaper can sustain itself in a world of dwindling print.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wcx7J4J4dp0p6VYRj04wR0tgHkhwC_6pMT8PMt6McYmWU0RJdKyIpyVZLXciD5DUMan36OhiXnM9p4-RskUGjLYQb1Aaes8qgru_3Wpod-OZBrStTRkViLnHi3PsRyVh5zck4uLsp44/s1600/Kardashian-post-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wcx7J4J4dp0p6VYRj04wR0tgHkhwC_6pMT8PMt6McYmWU0RJdKyIpyVZLXciD5DUMan36OhiXnM9p4-RskUGjLYQb1Aaes8qgru_3Wpod-OZBrStTRkViLnHi3PsRyVh5zck4uLsp44/s400/Kardashian-post-cover.jpg" width="368" /></a></div>
And yes, the <i>New York Post</i> is a tabloid as is the <i>New York Daily News</i>, <i>Boston Herald</i>, <i>Chicago Sun</i> and many other newspapers throughout the world. Tabloid is a format and has nothing to do with content. The <i>New York Times</i> by contrast is a spreadsheet. Unfortunately, such questionable newspapers as <i>Weekly World News</i>, whence such laughable stories as “Bat Child Found in Cave,” and “I Was Bigfoot’s Love Slave,” have made <i>tabloid</i> a derogatory term. Whether <i>The Post</i>’s classification extends beyond the technical definition into the perceived realm of sensationalistic hoo-ha is up for debate.<br />
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The television and movie studios certainly didn’t seem to mind—which may go toward supporting the latter argument—as the provocative paper was often the go-to periodical whenever a TV show or film taking place in the Big Apple wanted a representative daily for set dressing or beyond. The <i>New York Times</i> may be more prestigious or arguably more widely known, but <i>The Post</i> has the attitude. No other paper screams New York City as heartily. Plus, with its trademark marquis—instantly recognizable from afar—<i>The Post</i> surpassed its highfalutin brethren in the recognizable-at-a-glance category. A mere hint of the front page—an observer need only a flash of the iconic red-striped banner—and New York City was in the house! So whenever a studio, production company or some other was jonesing for a Gotham smack upside the head for their vehicle, they called <i>The Post</i> seeking permission for the tantalizing tabloid’s use. And all such inquiries were routed through Yours Truly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75l3WTPwzpzonp8dvpXIROnee0gixzl2hVfjXtcML09utMXuyDMTCzacMsQ0XsBlioPGHbqXEQpklIGhKTbBazlC_mDUWOMLbIsqswqJ0I8MpUg_JL5EuiQ168NsdrZ4O5jv0PZwhM80/s1600/NYPostFrontPage_Osama-Bin-Wankin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75l3WTPwzpzonp8dvpXIROnee0gixzl2hVfjXtcML09utMXuyDMTCzacMsQ0XsBlioPGHbqXEQpklIGhKTbBazlC_mDUWOMLbIsqswqJ0I8MpUg_JL5EuiQ168NsdrZ4O5jv0PZwhM80/s400/NYPostFrontPage_Osama-Bin-Wankin.jpg" width="357" /></a></div>
Studios seemed surprised when <i>The Post</i>, not only condoned its use, but also agreed to foot the expense for several copies of the daily to be delivered as long as the show needed them. <i>The Sopranos</i>, for example, which filmed at Silver Cup Studios in Queens, had a standing order. At the beginning of each season, someone from set decorating called to ensure the paper’s delivery and gratefully acknowledged my services, i.e. guaranteeing <i>The Post</i> appeared every day for filming.<br />
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Hell, it was a no brainer. Even if an episode does nothing more than pan a room in which an issue of the periodical lay on a coffee table during a scene, that instant equals thousands of dollars of branding airtime, more so with such popular shows as <i>The Sopranos</i>. As long as the storyline didn’t feature <i>The Post</i> being used to toilet train a dog or in some other disparaging way, Rupert Murdoch’s North American media darling was cool with its use.<br />
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Sometimes I’d be surprised with a token of appreciation by the studio personnel. The people at HBO, for example, sent me a personalized autographed photo of series star James Gandolfini, and I received a fleece jacket from the short-lived TV show, <i>Queens Supreme</i>—Oliver Platt, Robert Loggia and Annabella Sciorra as judges in a courthouse of the eponymous NYC borough—which I often wear around <i>The Closet</i> on chilly winter days.<br />
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Occasionally a movie or television program wanted to employ the tabloid in a scene, complete with a custom-designed front page, as was the case in the 1994 Nicholas Cage/Bridget Fonda romantic comedy, <i>It Could Happen to You</i>. In the film <i>The Post</i> is featured bearing the headline “Cop Weds Waitress,” which is later referred to at the end of the movie when the happy couple begins their honeymoon, taking off from Central Park in a hot-air balloon, on the side of which is emblazoned the headline. The studio—TriStar Pictures in this instance—had to submit an outline of the paper’s use in the movie, the parts of the script in which <i>The Post</i> is mentioned, and the creative vision of their planned custom edition, complete with proposed artwork/photo, headline and any ancillary copy.</div>
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Most often than not, however, the periodical’s part is a cameo, a flash of the front page, customized to comment on a plot point. A cut to a bundle of papers thrown from a moving delivery truck outside a newsstand with a momentary glimpse of New York’s naughty news rag; a montage of Gothamites perusing the morning’s tabloid; perhaps a character disgustedly plopping <i>The Post</i> before a surprised colleague with a “Have you seen the morning’s paper?”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QDj_-CyqLhUJJXbJZ8aF6V8gfzJd_Jp-pRMQwfAvFtH6vGIZZj7fIgBMNtLRXAKi-S94QCDmcJsZwzG4zhrJcvBPdmhkTpirRgm__mUS4187hCfNGqZYwDJIqSNkvGNJ-9x5c7MC6yg/s1600/ItCouldHappenToYou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QDj_-CyqLhUJJXbJZ8aF6V8gfzJd_Jp-pRMQwfAvFtH6vGIZZj7fIgBMNtLRXAKi-S94QCDmcJsZwzG4zhrJcvBPdmhkTpirRgm__mUS4187hCfNGqZYwDJIqSNkvGNJ-9x5c7MC6yg/s200/ItCouldHappenToYou.jpg" width="131" /></a>Again, unless the plotline put the periodical in a bad light, as determined by <i>The Post</i>’s legal department, permission was granted with the stipulation that the custom cover be designed and created in house, using the iconic logos and correct typography, thus ensuring the paper’s (<i>ahem</i>) integrity. This might include suggestions of alternative headlines, if <i>The Post</i> deemed those provided by the studio inconsistent with the brand. More often than not, the proposed copy was on target. After all, if a production chooses <i>The Post</i>, there’s a reason. They understand the Gotham gazette’s rep and snarky style—it’s exactly why they pursued its use—so they cater their copy accordingly. Others may not have had quite the knack, but were grateful when presented with a more appropriate alternative.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPkHWZbJTfCqN26GxOJXugSN-SZaauQ_J5wh3JvJ6YN3FJhAn6vfAqqm9RYETVaQXbKazNM2oflnDuS-s8EuyvDFai2xo8Nh7w2SMieNxknWcQ0Q8HtoayGZ6ebgonl2JrqgRV9hDu1Yw/s1600/The-Paper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPkHWZbJTfCqN26GxOJXugSN-SZaauQ_J5wh3JvJ6YN3FJhAn6vfAqqm9RYETVaQXbKazNM2oflnDuS-s8EuyvDFai2xo8Nh7w2SMieNxknWcQ0Q8HtoayGZ6ebgonl2JrqgRV9hDu1Yw/s200/The-Paper.jpg" width="138" /></a>Then there were those rare instances when some ambitious director wanted to actually film on site to get that authentic newsroom vibe. Such was the case in the 1994 Ron Howard–directed Michael Keaton/Glenn Close caper, <i>The Paper</i>, which I was informed was filmed at the venerable tabloid’s old headquarters on Water Street in the Financial District of Manhattan shortly before the offices were moved to the Fox Broadcasting building on the Avenue of the Americas in Midtown, where it continues to reside. The new digs did have the crew of the short-lived Oliver Platt television series <i>Deadline</i> pay a visit to take pictures and make notes in their pursuit of realism. A fictional great metropolitan paper, called the <i>New York Ledger</i>, was created to fill in for <i>The Post</i>, but the series was less than shy about its inspiration, as evinced by the show’s title card, which mimics the paper’s branding.<br />
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<i>Short-lived TV series </i>Deadline<i>’s title and episode cards used a design inspired by The Post</i> </div>
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In 2003, independent writer/director Robert Santoli had this crazy idea to film part of a movie in the newsroom of the tabloid. Arguably nuttier still was his intent to film the whole thing in hi-definition video, an unheard of maneuver twenty years ago, though <i>de rigueur</i> today. The movie, <i>Dead Canaries</i>, was a whodunit surrounding a series of killings of former police informants placed in the Witness Protection Program. In gumshoe parlance a canary, like a rat, is an informer, someone who “sings” to the police about the dirty doings of dirty-deed-doers. Some are placed in the program, when the information they delivered placed their lives in jeopardy of retaliation from those miscreants they fingered.<br />
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<i>Durning as Jimmy Kerrigan in </i>Dead Canaries</div>
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The movie’s main character Jimmy Kerrigan, played by Charles Durning, was a gritty, old-school reporter in the newspaper’s crime division, who hounds the investigation to uncover the truth. With more than two hundred roles, Durning’s career spanned stage, screen and television. He won two Tony’s, a Golden Globe, and received nine Emmy and two Oscar nominations. In 2008, he was presented a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Screen Actor’s Guild and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Hell, he even appeared in a Shania Twain video and voiced a recurring character in <i>Family Guy</i>.<br />
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<i>Jon Favreau co-created and hosted IFC’s </i>Dinner for Five</div>
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But unbeknownst to most of his fans is Durning’s impressive service record. I first heard about it on an episode of <i>Dinner for Five</i>, an original Independent Film Channel (IFC) weekly program, which featured and was co-produced by Jon Favreau—<i>Iron Man</i>, <i>Elf</i>, <i>Rudy</i>, <i>The Replacements</i>—from 2001–2005. Every week, movie Renaissance Man Favreau hosted a dinner for four colleagues—actors, directors, comedians—during which they spoke about the business. <a href="http://youtu.be/J2JbpeA2d6I?t=11m47s">The episode</a> in question featured Durning, Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise and Charles Nelson Reilly. Burt Reynolds, who starred with the late actor in the ’90–’94 TV series <i>Evening Shade</i>, talked openly of Durning’s military exploits, of which the late actor was reticent throughout his life.<br />
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Drafted in 1944 at the tender age of 21, Durning was among the first soldiers to land in France during the D-Day invasion. His group actually overshot their landing zone, and he had to fight back to the beach alone. In the ensuing months, he suffered severe injuries to both thighs, right hand and head, but returned to fighting in time to take part in the Battle of the Bulge in December of that year. He was also rumored to have been the lone survivor of the Malmedy Massacre. After being wounded again in the chest, he was discharged with the rank of Private First Class in January of 1946. He was one of the most-decorated soldiers ever, awarded three Purple Hearts, a Silver Star, Bronze Star and WWII Victory Medal. In 2008, he received National Order of the Legion on Honor from the French consul. The actor was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.<br />
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<i>Burt Reynolds talks of Durning</i><i>’s military exploits on </i><br />
Dinner for Five<i> </i></div>
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<i>Dinner for Five</i> was always entertaining regardless of who was supping with Favreau, and unique in that it was an interview show without an agenda. Though naturally centered on their craft, the celebrities talked about anything and everything, whilst sharing a good meal and a drink or two. All the episodes are available on YouTube and well worth watching. <br />
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As for <i>Dead Canaries</i>, it was Santoli’s intention to film part of the movie in <i>The Post</i>’s newsroom at the height of an evening’s deadline crunch. The director was granted only a single day to shoot, and he planned to continue shooting well after, into the wee hours of the next morning. It was an insane request, especially since Santoli’s only other movie was an obscure, badly reviewed 2000 film, entitled <i>Growing Down in Brooklyn</i>, which starred such potential <i>Dancing with the Stars</i> contestants as Vincent “Big Pussy” Pastore and Tina “Ginger” Louise.<br />
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Surprisingly, his request was granted.<br />
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I met Santoli and his assistant when they visited to scout the offices. I set their appointment for the early afternoon, as it would be quiet on the floor. Most of the editorial staff arrived around 3 PM to put the next morning’s earliest edition together for the 7 PM deadline and stayed late into the evening to get the latest edition of the following day, the Late City Final, prepared. Santoli was down-to-earth with a calm demeanor. I couldn’t picture him doing a lot of hand wringing regardless of the circumstances. He seemed like the type that would just go with the flow.<br />
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<i>Replace the typewriters—the boxy mechanical devices, behind which the reporters are seated—and the </i>Lou Grant<i> newsroom looked much like </i>The Post<i>’s. EIC Col Allan’s office would be the glassed-in one at the back with the editorial offices running the breadth of room on the right.</i></div>
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Much like the one in the <i>Lou Grant</i> TV series of the late 70’s/early 80’s, <i>The Post</i>’s newsroom was approximately a half-block, wide-open area of desks. Located at the floor’s central core, along one side were individual, floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted editorial offices, with Editor-in-Chief (EIC) Col Allan’s at the far end. His über-office, however, was opposite the others, at the outside corner of the building, providing the ornery EIC with an amazing view of the city.<br />
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Santoli decided that he’d run the rails for the steady-cam down the aisles along the offices; not that he had any choice. The fact that he wouldn’t have the luxury of relaying the track elsewhere during the shoot due to time constraints, so he was forced to choose a vantage point, which would afford the greatest view of the newsroom, had nothing to do with it. The corridor was the only continuous swath on the floor.<br />
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I couldn’t stress enough to the director the amount of hysteria which consumed the newsroom as the daily dreaded deadline doom approached. He promised to stay out of the way and work around the frenzy. My perplexity over Col Allan’s acceding to have a film crew in his newsroom at any time, never mind the craziest part of the day deepened as I listened to Santoli and his assistant plot their shots. The EIC was known as a cantankerous, misogynistic Aussie personally plucked from the same position at Sydney’s <i>Daily Telegraph</i> by NewsCorp’s Overlord Rupert Murdoch. The previous EIC, Xana Antunes—the first female EIC in the two-hundred-year-old paper’s existence—was unceremoniously fired after holding the job for less than a year, despite the tabloid’s circulation figures steadily climbing during her short tenure.<br />
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Allan’s reputation preceded him, especially one Sydney story wherein during a particularly long meeting he allegedly urinated in a sink at the wet bar of a conference room in front of everyone, male and female. Soon after his arrival at the tabloid, he fired two beloved and respected editors for disagreeing with him. He oversaw the newsroom like the Commandant of a concentration camp. People walked about on eggshells, never knowing what might set him off. The promotions department often had to bring ads to Allan for approval. The first time I did so, I was terrified and wondered if I should’ve updated my resumé beforehand. I presented myself in abject fealty—slow approach, slightly bowed, eyes downcast—which seemed to be enough to appease his ego. It was an act I repeated throughout my <i>Post</i> career.<br />
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I just couldn’t fathom how Santoli was able to convince the EIC to play in his sandbox. Were there compromising photos I was unaware of? Did Allan owe Santoli money? Was Santoli secretly Allan’s bastard son from an Aussie affair? The traditional extortion techniques seemed to fall far short of anything, which might influence the paper’s ill-tempered EIC. Far from curbing his bellicose behavior, Allan’s notoriety served merely to fuel further offenses.<br />
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Mere days before the scheduled filming, Allan showed his hand.<br />
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It was a brilliantly evil maneuver. He nonchalantly revoked his blessing and told my boss, the VP of Marketing, he no longer wanted anyone shooting a movie in his newsroom. A flat-out refusal from the start would’ve been a mere inconvenience, whereas aborting at the last moment royally screwed Santoli and his crew who’d spent weeks storyboarding and planning around a location to which they no longer had access. To his credit, the unflappable Santoli accepted the pronouncement with understandable disappointment, but not defeat. Showing the resilience and ingenuity all struggling indie auteurs must display to survive, he asked about filming at <i>The Post</i>’s printing facility instead.<br />
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<i>The</i> New York Post<i> printing facility in The Bronx</i></div>
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Only two years prior to the indie director’s request, the <i>New York Post </i>opened a state-of-the-art printing facility in the South Bronx. The new presses brought color to the paper, which previously had been black-and-white, save for its iconic red banner. The tabloid’s lurid headlines never looked so good. Other than four presses, a reception area and a small section of offices and a meeting room, there was little else in the facility, certainly nothing of the palpable newsroom aura of the headquarters. What Santoli lost in that regard, he hoped to more than make up for with the sounds and spectacle of running presses replacing the keyboard-clacking and human hullabaloo on the editorial floor.<br />
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Before the egg on his face could dry, my boss agreed to the movie’s change in venue. It was out of Allan’s jurisdiction, so to speak, and the Marketing VP was tight with his executive colleague in circulation who was in charge of the facility. Santoli was alerted that he wouldn’t actually be allowed to film on the floor of the presses. Only union workers and official personnel were granted access while they were rolling for obvious safety reasons. But catwalks looming over the machines provided excellent shooting opportunities and arguably more interesting shots than those taken from a ground perspective. Santoli had done his homework well and prepared for the more-than-likely malevolent machinations of <i>The Post</i>’s EIC. <i>Well played, my friend…</i><br />
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As liaison, I was given nanny duty during the filming, which meant working my usual 9 AM to whenever—any time from 5:30 PM to just prior to the 7 PM deadline—schedule at the main office; then taking a car service to the printing facility, where I would babysit the production until the next morning at shoot’s end. Fortunately, I was given the following day off. Far from minding, I was excited. <i>Dead Canaries</i> would be popping my movie-shoot cherry... and I’d meet Charles Durning!<br />
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<i>Durning played a Colonel Sanders–inspired fast-food chain owner who sold frogs legs in</i> The Muppet Movie</div>
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I arrived just before seven, and the <i>Dead Canaries</i>’s crew was already in full-swing setting up for the first shot in the reception area. The track was laid for the steady-cam and the finishing touches were being applied to the lighting. All they needed was their star. As if on cue a dark mid-size sedan pulls up and out pops Charles Durning. It was his wife driving him. She’d earlier cooked dinner for the venerable actor, which they enjoyed before she drove him to the set.<br />
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Durning had turned 80 a few months earlier and it showed. The rotund thespian moved slowly, though without aid, and emitted an air of warmth and congeniality, which made you want to give him a big hug. I was in awe just the same. And yet, I doubted whether the octogenarian had any chops left as I watched him shuffle about as if he carried the weight of eight decades on his back.<br />
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Little did I suspect that the seasoned movie veteran was merely pacing himself. The moment the slate cracked and Santoli yelled “Action!” the Durning that painstakingly ambled out of the sedan moments earlier was replaced by the vibrant character actor I knew from the screen. It was a revelation. If I hadn’t borne witness to the transformation, I would’ve testified that he’d been replaced with a younger double in exceptional makeup. This was not the metamorphosis of Lon Chaney becoming a werewolf in <i>The Wolfman</i>. Durning’s was an on/off switch, which put the second it took The Robot in <i>Lost in Space</i> to come back to life after replacing his power pack seem like waiting for a new bottle of Heinz ketchup to pour. Then “Cut!” Just as instantly, the actor returned to grandpa mode.<br />
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I never realized how much waiting was involved on a movie set. Between every take, the crew had to reset everything to the exact conditions as when the scene began: cameras repositioned, props put back in order, lighting recalibrated, actors returned to their opening marks. Nothing was taken for chance. A set photographer carefully took shots of every scene beforehand, so the crew could reference them for each take. It was a good fifteen minutes before the next “Roll ’em!” and the scene was nothing more than Durning speaking with another character, both merely standing and facing each other. The ratio of action to stoppage in a football game is greater. I couldn’t see how Santoli expected to get anything filmed during what now appeared to be too little time.<br />
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<i>Durning and Mel Brooks in </i>To Be or Not To Be</div>
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Any notes Santoli had were directed to the crew. There may have been a few to the talent, were they less seasoned, but Durning needed no pointers. He was mesmerizing. Each take, I noticed the subtlest changes. A nuanced smirk in a spot where once before was a slight grimace; a narrowing of the eyes taking the place of an understanding look; varying pauses and phrasing of lines; all legitimate and true to his role as Jimmy Kerrigan.<br />
<br />
Each time, the director abruptly broke the magic. <i>Wha—? No!</i> I’d silently shout. <i>Keep the cameras rolling. He’s perfect!</i> It was like falling victim to someone with ADD controlling the remote as you’re trying to watch television. Finally, the directorial blue-balling was too much for me to handle and I retreated to the conference area to read. But before I did, Santoli asked me if I’d like a photo with Durning. The magnanimous auteur understood I was volunteered to serve as movie caretaker, extending my workday by twelve hours, and wanted to thank me in some regard.<br />
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“Yeah, if it’s okay with Mr. Durning,” I replied.<br />
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“Sure, kid. C’mover here,” the legendary thespian said, waving me to one of the plush seats in the lobby. He probably welcomed the opportunity to sit for a spell as I crouched next to him and put my arm around his shoulders. To complete the tableau, Durning held up the custom edition of <i>The Post</i>, created for <i>Dead Canaries</i>, the design of which I oversaw in the promotions department. I couldn’t speak through the shit-eating grin on my face as the set photographer took the shot. It took all of two minutes, but it’s a moment I still treasure.<br />
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<i>Santoli supplied the staged photo for the custom </i>New York Post <i>cover, the creation of which I oversaw, featured in</i><br />
Dead Canaries</div>
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Midway through the evening, we broke for, uh… dinner, I guess you’d label it, if your usual routine calls for working from approximately 5PM to 5AM. A chafing dish of lasagna was put out with paper dishware and plastic utensils, and a plate of cookies alongside a selection of sodas, water, coffee and tea. I’m sure the fare on the set of big studio movies is geometrically better, but it was more than I expected for such a small, low-budget picture—I’m sure union rules dictated a certain level of quality when it came to the food provided on set. The lasagna was delicious and the treats were of the Pepperidge Farm variety, as opposed to some generic box-store cookie brand. I was more tired than hungry, but hoped eating would help keep me awake. I’d been up 18 hours and overcome with fatigue.<br />
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During the break, Durning sat at the conference table with everyone else and chatted. There wasn’t an iota of vanity, pretension or aloofness in his manner. The young women of the cast and crew flocked to him like seagulls to a garbage scow. The smile and twinkle in the legend’s eyes clearly showed his fondness for talking to the ladies, but there wasn’t any lascivity behind it on either side. He exuded charm and was loveable in the way of a beloved uncle.<br />
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<i>Durning with Dustin Hoffman in</i> Tootsie</div>
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The second half of the filming would take place on the catwalk overlooking the printing presses, which were in full swing. This meant moving the equipment and relaying the steady-cam track. As Durning waited, to the ladies as they walked by he sung romantic ditties of a bygone era, which featured their names in the lyrics. I just marveled and thought, <i>How could anyone not fall in love with this man?</i><br />
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Shooting started anew. I’d gained a couple of hours wakefulness with the food I’d eaten, especially the cookies and coffee one-two combo, but I was suddenly crashing. I was dead on my feet. <i>How much longer?</i> I felt like George Clooney at the end of <i>From Dusk Till Dawn</i>, down to just he, Juliette Lewis and three silver bullets against a dozen or so remaining vamps with sunrise the only hope of escape. Even the rumble from the presses couldn’t penetrate the exhaustion. The actors were unintelligible over the din. I nearly mentioned the problem to Santoli. Then I realized the script would be dubbed in later. Besides the effort to intercede during a lull in the action seemed too much. Suddenly, the director turned in my direction.<br />
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“Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to try to get you into the next scene.”<br />
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<i>WHAT?!! </i>Suddenly I was as alert as a prairie dog. Sure, I’d spoken to Santoli of my acting education when I gave him the tour of <i>The Post</i> headquarters, and perhaps subconsciously I’d hoped he might give me a walk-on. But no mention of his doing so ever entered our conversations, and what with the shoot wrapping up soon, I’d forgotten all about it. I must have looked a sight; I felt like a wet rag. I tucked on my shirt and straightened my tie to look as presentable as possible, and wondered about makeup.<br />
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I needn’t have worried. My walk-on was simply that. During a conversation betwixt Durning’s Kerrigan and another character, me and one of the crew, also making a cameo, greeted our workmates as we strolled past and continued down the catwalk. A quick appearance of my side and slightly longer view of my back was all the audience would see. Still, Santoli took take after take. Apparently, the hours had finally caught up to Durning. But the veteran thespian eventually came through on the sixth take, and my moment of celluloid, uh, videotape was in the can.<br />
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Soon thereafter, Santoli yelled, “It’s a wrap,” and my virginal movie shoot had come to an end. My nanny duties, however, were not yet complete, not until director and crew packed their equipment and drove off into the dawn. Durning had no such stipulations. The sedan reappeared as if by magic, and the venerable actor and his devoted wife left the scenes of the crime drama. Blessedly, the <i>Dead Canaries</i> contingent’s striking the set didn’t last nearly as long as the set-up between takes. And soon, like the cheese, I stood alone, waiting for the scheduled car service to take me home.<br />
<br />
A few weeks later, Santoli invited me to the Wrap Party at a neighborhood bar in Manhattan. It was terribly kind of him to do so, and he graciously allowed the Wondrous Audrey to accompany me. There, he presented me with the photo of me and Charles Durning who was sadly not in attendance.<br />
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<i>Your Nattering Narrative with Charles Durning on the set of </i><br />
Dead Canaries</div>
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An advanced screening videotape of <i>Dead Canaries</i> arrived at <i>The Post</i> a week later, but I never got a chance to see it. The VP of Marketing had first dibs, followed by the Promotions Director. I was then on vacation for two weeks, and a few days after my return, I was laid off. I never got the opportunity to see my screen debut or a single frame of the movie for that matter. But at least I had the picture of me and Charles Durning, a true hero among heroes... in my closet!
Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-71981898681462853532013-02-07T14:46:00.003-05:002013-02-14T08:55:55.521-05:00Fall Guy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">[It has come to my attention, via my Ever-Faithful Bloglodytes, that users of Internet Explorer (IE) may encounter problems in viewing Heroes In My Closet. Whether this is due to recent changes in Blogger or IE is unknown. Regardless, to enjoy the full Heroes In My Closet experience, open using another browser (Firefox is a freely downloadable and endorsed by Your Nattering Narrator). I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. Now, without further ado...]</span></span></span></div>
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<i> “Yeah, I</i><i>’m gonna bungee jump... What</i><i>’s it to you?!”</i> </div>
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Spider-Man bungee jumping makes about as much sense as Fred Astaire line-dancing. But then again, there’s little sense in everyone’s favorite Webhead riding the hood of a racecar or using an elevator (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2012/07/web-stock.html">“Web Stock”</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/08/i-slept-with-stan-lee-part-i-cleveland.html">“I Slept with Stan Lee,”</a> respectively). It’s just that when you have a character whose preferred mode of travel is swinging from a strand of homemade webbing, the idea of him plummeting with an industrial strength elastic band tied to his ankles seems a bit… well… anti-climactic.<br />
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But of course, I speak from a position of being Spider-Man. In a world where the beloved Web-Slinger doesn’t exist, where the average Joe has no hope of actually witnessing the red-and-blue idol of millions spanning the skyscrapers of the Big Apple at the end of a silk thread, then being privy to a bungee-jumping man in a Spider-Man suit may be the next best thing. In the case of my performing the stunt as the Wondrous Webster, I was more of a puppet on a string. I had little, if any, say in the matter. And quite frankly, I was scared shitless, which may not sound surprising until you learn that I’d jumped out of a plane less than ten years prior!<br />
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<i>Spider-Man skydiving?! Crazy? Not so much, as evinced by this panel from </i>Amazing Spider-Man #1<i>, penciled by Steve Ditko</i> </div>
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Toward the end of my senior year at Boston University, my best friend Chris and I made a pact to go skydiving. Whence the idea came remains hidden in the deepest recesses of my memory. Neither one of us was a daredevil or extreme sports enthusiast—Chris more so than I by far. My greatest life-changing experience since entering college was quitting the use of the hatchway for peeing in my cotton undies for the more convenient and sensible maneuver of simply pulling down the waistband! This revelation came via an otherwise forgettable two-man improv piece by my room- and classmate, David, during sophomore year. At one point in the acting exercise, David, held up a pair of the ubiquitous briefs—often sold in three-packs at chain stores, such as Bradlees (now out of business) and Sears, and I would guess today at the likes of Target and Walmart—poked his finger through the penis trapdoor and asked the audience, “Does anyone actually use this?”<br />
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Fortunately, I stopped my hand before it was fully raised and hunkered in ignominy, questioning my existence. How else does a guy pee?! Isn’t that why the hole is there?! Later I confronted my roommate in the privacy of our 10' by 15' prison cell… uh, I mean dorm room. I appreciated his not reporting me to the authorities, though he couldn’t suppress a look of incredulity at my questioning his ability to pee whilst cotton-undie–clad without employing the manufacturer’s penis portal. Finally, he blurted in exasperation, “Just pull down the waistband!” My next trip to the urinal I did just that, albeit with more than a smidgen of skepticism…<br />
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<i>Cue angel chorus. </i><br />
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It was shockingly simple. Using the manhood manhole was like trying to coax a cat out of a tree. I felt like such a fool… All that time wasted… <i>sigh…</i><br />
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The idea to jump out of a plane may have come from a New School catalog. Unsure whether these exist throughout the U.S. or only in larger metropolitan areas, but they can be found in New York City as well. The New School catalog is a magazine-size listing of learning opportunities—for lack of a better way of explaining the catalog’s kaleidoscope of offerings—available in the city. On average, the teachings are of the more esoteric variety, like theoretical canoeing or pet psychology, but there were also adventures such as white water–rafting and skydiving. The catalogs are free—though the courses therein are not—and freely distributed via boxes similar to newspaper-vending machines.<br />
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As I dredge the murky depths of this story, a clearer vision of Chris excitedly bringing my attention to the sky diving class in the New School’s pages manifests. An outfit in southern Maine, called Skydive Lebanon, offered the course, which included training and one static-line jump, for $156. The fee wasn’t cheap for a graduating college student in the era shortly following Orville and Wilbur’s historic flight at Kitty Hawk, but soon Chris had my promise to join him in the endeavor after graduation before we began our lives in the real world as adults.<br />
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</style><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Prices circa 1986</span></i></div>
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Graduation came and went. Chris went back to his hometown of Armonk, NY, where he prepared to move to the city. Determined to work throughout the summer to raise enough cash with which to pursue my acting career in the Big Apple in the fall, I moved in with mom, who’d permanently relocated to our summerhouse in Cape Ann, MA. But I never strayed from my pact with Chris. Unfortunately, the distance between us was unfeasible for organizing the promised skydiving trip, and I soon realized it would never be… at least not with Chris. So I booked a date.<br />
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A few days later I received confirmation in the mail, along with the outfit’s typewritten handout, a far-from-professional, double-sided flyer, which featured crude drawings and handmade directions. At the time, I didn’t think much about the quality of the flyer, that it might be indicative of <a href="http://www.skydivenewengland.com/">Skydive Lebanon</a> service or expertise… or lack thereof. Perhaps, since New School featured them among their courses, I felt comfortable with the company. Or maybe, my hard-on to jump from a plane blinded me to what may have been a fly-by-night operation. You’d think I’d be a little more concerned. It’s not like I was entrusting my life to someone teaching me the ins and outs of needlework!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78KrkLnnbQDIUhwWzv6U653fSwmy4vNpUuluwesvYbr9S7S1mYEQLpG37Ygis1SUC0e03hlHIa2MdLmxiZzfSzNkxm-lfzMDH5E2nKXOmKdVd_livX6LaHIlFLjJrF3khKNl9BjffWeg/s1600/SkydiveLebanonFlyer002_B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78KrkLnnbQDIUhwWzv6U653fSwmy4vNpUuluwesvYbr9S7S1mYEQLpG37Ygis1SUC0e03hlHIa2MdLmxiZzfSzNkxm-lfzMDH5E2nKXOmKdVd_livX6LaHIlFLjJrF3khKNl9BjffWeg/s400/SkydiveLebanonFlyer002_B.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
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<i>With its top-notch typesetting, stunning graphics and cartographer’s map, the Skydive Lebanon flyer exuded professionalism and confidence</i> </div>
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My parents were not happy, and their response had nothing to do with the shabby-looking handout, which I wisely kept to myself. They were just being parents. My mother, whose overly dramatic reactions are legendary, was nearly in tears. The day she learned that I occasionally smoked marijuana, her hysterical diatribe culminated with, “I don’t want you ending up like Judy Garland!” <i>Huh?!</i> When I confessed my plans to jump from a plane, she all but ordered a casket for me. My father, who served in the army during the Korean War, was in complete denial. “What the hell would you want to do that for?” he spat with complete disdain, like I’d committed some heinous act. He cut me off mid-reply, telling me he didn’t want to hear anything about my escapade until <i>after</i> I’d landed. Their reactions merely strengthened my resolve.<br />
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<i>Stop recreational marijuana. Don’t let this happen to you! </i></div>
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The reactions of friends ranged from similar to awe. You’d think my decision to trade six years in one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country for a degree in acting would have prepared them to some degree for my unorthodox approach to life. Some were envious; oddly, many of the call-me-crazies, defended their positions with “I’m afraid of heights.” I found this strange, because at 10,000 feet, there is no height; that is to say, there is no frame of reference with which one’s mind can compare in order to experience that type of fear, as opposed to when one stands atop a ladder or chair, where the distance is accessible to the senses and the crash zone is clearly visible.<br />
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Jumping out of an airplane—crazy? Not in the least. Now, skiing? You have to be insane to propel yourself down a tree-dotted mountainside with nothing but an insulated bodysuit. Not to mention the cost. After the skis, poles, boots, gloves, goggles, various other winter wear—which, granted may be rented, but that still isn’t free—there are travel expenses and the lift ticket. If you are a beginner, you’ll need instructions.<br />
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More importantly, schussing takes skill. You could devote hours of practice and point to one run down the bunny slope without falling as your greatest achievement. Now, skydiving. All you need is a heartbeat; you don’t even need legs. Anyone can fall—gravity doesn’t discriminate. A sporty thrill with little instruction, relatively little economic outlay and no skill required? I’m there!<br />
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I understand skiing is an internationally popular pastime/sport, the fans of which find thrilling and fun. I wouldn’t be poo-pooing it, if those skiing aficionados with whom I spoke of my wish to jump from a plane hadn’t disparaged me my choice of adventure. To each his own. One man’s crazy is another’s idea of fun.<br />
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Overall—even outside the aforementioned Jean-Claude Killys—I received little support. Chris, the rare enthusiast to my cause, was too distant to make more than a faint impact.<br />
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No matter.<br />
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On Friday, July 18, 1986, I left home for my date with destiny. It was a clear summer day free of haze and humidity. My jump was scheduled for 5 P.M., which by the standards of early summer would leave a few hours until dusk. It should be noted: my mom was not home upon my departure, even though she was well aware of where I was going. She was in denial, which would prove a common refrain whenever I or one of my sisters did anything with which she disapproved. A few weeks later when I left for New York to pursue my acting dream, she couldn’t be bothered to tear herself away from washing dishes to say good-bye as I drove away in the U-Haul truck. I don’t think she ever truly relinquished the thought that I would be returning home at some point.<br />
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Lebanon, ME, is approximately 75 minutes from Boston. Manchester, MA, is 40 minutes north of Beantown. It wasn’t a straight shot, however, since Cape Ann sticks out from the mainland. Still, even with the southern backtracking to access Route 95 from Ipswich, I arrived at base camp about an hour later. The leaflet described Skydive Lebanon as an airport, which would be like comparing an episode of <i>Green Acres</i> to <i>Gone with the Wind</i>. A large homestead and separate storage facility sat beside a single airstrip, nestled in the backwoods of Maine (The business has since grown to include a pro shop, café, overnight accommodations and nightlife). Fortunately, the runway was paved, though I don’t think a dirt track would’ve swayed me from my goal.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOEzIFnCNQKzlY8NV2OY8FUXUhVWkuH_9ZL3ZXQqk73mcvb49AgjnLLiy7peO-sJMPwGrWmIyfP5I5rPb0Wa0mM8o7UBG6kNiXJE_eAs37xQW4wPGowZOaP0wHMpFPjrsx7XfYQYTH6dw/s1600/SkydiveSign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOEzIFnCNQKzlY8NV2OY8FUXUhVWkuH_9ZL3ZXQqk73mcvb49AgjnLLiy7peO-sJMPwGrWmIyfP5I5rPb0Wa0mM8o7UBG6kNiXJE_eAs37xQW4wPGowZOaP0wHMpFPjrsx7XfYQYTH6dw/s320/SkydiveSign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>This larger sign greeting thrill-seekers did not exist when I made my dive. Nice to see the smaller one survived.</i> </div>
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This was no high-falutin’ corporation, but rather a small business—I hesitate to use the word—started the same year of my escapade and run by like-minded lovers of skydiving who decided to turn their passion into a career. It reminded me of the male cliché of owning a bar, wherein after much imbibing, one of a group of buddies enthuses, “Hey, if we bought a bar we could hang out and drink together forever!” These guys were truly living the dream of doing what they loved. Much of the talk among the base campers was how many dives they’d already fit into the day and what that number did to their lifetime total. Perhaps it’s just my memory exaggerating the moment for effect, but I remember the tallies being in the thousands. “Enthusiasts” would have been woefully inaccurate to describe the Skydive Lebanon personnel. They fit a jump into their mornings before peeing.<br />
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<img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMVdhse8p_O4OpPSvsvPF58dzQdIhINOh7Hd76BvSS-EYGb8-oMgSIa0Bshj5kHyd2B1KmGBkCz2CArZCnhOKk6uJ9xltP3Pe0LQtlm1Lmonq50KCw6lnbknSvyLDq5tIQM5wfknTruI/s400/SkydiveNewEngland_logo.jpg" width="400" /><span id="goog_125507998"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_125507999"></span></div>
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<i>Though the official name may have changed, <a href="http://www.skydivenewengland.com/">Skydive Lebanon</a> in Maine flourishes. And why not? They</i><i>’re consummate pros whose love for jumping ensures a high level of safety and fun. </i></div>
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There were three of us scheduled to take the plunge, and as it was already late afternoon, the crew was anxious to get into the air while conditions were good. One member led us to the storage building, where we were outfitted with jumpsuits and parachutes. From the look of an area containing an easel fronted by dual desk/chairs, it appeared the squat structure doubled as a classroom. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later when our instructor decided to test us on skydiving procedures, which we learned at the course a few weeks earlier.<br />
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<i>Huh?! What course? When? Where?!!</i> My heart dropped as my senses reeled. Somewhere along this ride toward destiny, I’d missed a turn. I was so fixated on the brass ring, I forgot to get on the horse. And the evidence of my screw-up was clearly delineated in black ink on the shabby little handout: <i>10:00 AM 7/6</i>. There were no other notes, but the time and date’s meaning suddenly clarified. That was the date of the skydiving class! All I noticed were the scribblings alongside the directions to base camp.<br />
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While my guts Ping-Ponged in my chest, outside I kept a cool veneer. Already that BFA in Performance was paying dividends! Now understand: I’d just discovered that my plans to hurl myself from an airplane at 10,000 feet necessitated my having taken a course, which would allow me to perform said plans successfully, i.e. without becoming a bloody stain on a remote field in Lebanon, Maine, and my only thought was fooling my instructors into thinking I’d passed the course and was ready to go.<br />
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<i>What was I, a f***ing idiot?!! </i><br />
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And no, I wasn’t high… yet!<br />
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It’s funny how age alters one’s perception of mortality. I gave no thought at the time about the ramifications of skydiving without knowing the basics. I just wanted to do it. Only in my calling forth these thirty-year-old memories, when the awareness of death is more prominent, seemingly hanging more precipitously over me like the sword of Damocles, have I realized what a young, naïve fool I was.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxv8RowpdVlHgTkkasVVkxI1mVvMbJZrZ8humlW29eDkEuj5_qFt_NQbONpiXUf_DbDDFy4uNGzBpImM1y_IAopIqFjy7EE_hwGwmtcV6H587FmZmtJWBFumWawi0BUCXXsWUilF2nU8/s1600/moodoggy_and_gidget_surfing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxv8RowpdVlHgTkkasVVkxI1mVvMbJZrZ8humlW29eDkEuj5_qFt_NQbONpiXUf_DbDDFy4uNGzBpImM1y_IAopIqFjy7EE_hwGwmtcV6H587FmZmtJWBFumWawi0BUCXXsWUilF2nU8/s200/moodoggy_and_gidget_surfing.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Fortunately, the Skydive Lebanon instructors were not so easily flimflammed. They may have presented themselves as the jumping equivalent to Moon Doggy and the other surfers in <i>Gidget</i>, but they were consummate professionals. After fumbling through a couple of questions, one of them asked me, “Didn’t you take the course?” I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar and could do nothing more than confess. My heart sank. Surely, I’d be sent home, my only hope was a quick rescheduling for taking the course and jumping at a later date.<br />
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But no! As if it’d been their mistake, the teachers seemed equally crushed that I’d somehow missed the course and thus be unable to experience the thrill with which they’d devoted their lives. They unilaterally decided there was enough time to verse me in Skydiving 101, so I could go on with the jump. Apparently, it wasn’t rocket science... or skiing for that matter.<br />
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The maiden skydiver had only two options when jumping, at least as far as Skydive Lebanon was concerned: “Tandem” or “Static Line.” With the former option, an instructor jumps with the parachuting preemie, literally harnessed to the individual. The advantages range from experiencing a longer fall before chute deployment to literally not needing to know a damn thing. Static line choosers jump alone, but the pull cord is attached to the aircraft, thus deploying the parachute once the newbie’s descent reaches the end of its tether. Those of the latter variety may not plummet as far, but their skydiving experience includes the thrill of going it alone without the relative comfort of a professional literally at your back; although there would be one in your ear!<br />
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Along with the jumpsuit, each Static Line diver wore a helmet, which did more than protect the head. A receiver inside ensured that an instructor was with a jumper at all times, whether Tandem or Static Line. Each would be carefully monitored from the ground and talked to if the case warranted.<br />
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I’d signed up for the static-line option—I never did play well with others…<br />
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Although in both cases, the onus of popping the chute was not left entirely in the hands of a neophyte, other problems could occur. There were only a handful of these, however, the most pressing of which was the absolute failure of the parachute. Without an expert to lead the way, the static-line jumper needed to know how to respond to each. True, the ground crew could supply instruction and guidance via the helmet, but the individual still had to perform the necessary maneuvers themselves. And there was always the possibility of a malfunctioning headgear.<br />
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One other literally drop-dead failsafe was in place, if the primary parachute didn’t deploy and the emergency ripcord fizzled as well. There was also the possibility the jumper—realizing their canopy hadn’t opened—totally freaks to the point where they can do naught but flail about like a piece of Samsonite luggage in a gorilla cage or is so terrified they freeze or simply pass out. In any of these extreme cases, an automatic activator attached to the back-up chute would trigger. The device measures the air velocity at which the skydiver is plummeting. If a certain speed is attained, one indicative of a body plunging unimpeded for hundreds of feet, the gadget releases the emergency canopy.<br />
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<i>[Count.] Look. Look. Pull. Pull. </i><br />
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That was the mantra instilled in all potential divers before take-off. The count was eight one thousands, if I remember correctly, begun as soon as one’s body leaves the aircraft. After the eighth, the jumper looks up to gauge the success of the chute’s deployment—the initial “Look.” A series of simple drawings was used to exemplify the possibilities that might occur. Of these, a perfectly formed canopy was the ideal, but even the most expertly packed chute occasionally suffered twisting or entanglements when opening. Each of these had a sketch and method of troubleshooting. Encountering any of the aforementioned would negate continuation of the mantra. The skydiver would either enjoy the descent—a properly deployed parachute—or take the simple, necessary steps to amend the canopy and then fall as intended.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqp_WvObVo_JuflDe2qvTmVuoNYWnRLvSCeOxvNrZtLAQz8epszQ1dLRyGlSmboToZm9p2MYgEcgCJBnxSsyNmHmxH59VuOCE_Bx_yVzhEHVodObR1exhKok683uWi_No0TdpaKXjsXo4/s1600/SM-Parachute-Toy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqp_WvObVo_JuflDe2qvTmVuoNYWnRLvSCeOxvNrZtLAQz8epszQ1dLRyGlSmboToZm9p2MYgEcgCJBnxSsyNmHmxH59VuOCE_Bx_yVzhEHVodObR1exhKok683uWi_No0TdpaKXjsXo4/s400/SM-Parachute-Toy.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
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<i>“Spidey don</i><i>’t need no stinkin’ fail-safe measures!” </i></div>
<br />
The second “Look” instructs the diver to direct his eyes to the emergency chute-deployment handle, which sits over the left breast, where one would put their right hand when making the Pledge of Allegiance. A diver would only pull the emergency cord if there were nothing but sky—depicted with a blank card—or a torn non-functioning parachute upon initial look. Then, the final order of the mantra—“pull”—would be followed. The echo is there to punctuate the directive, a slap in the face should the first be ignored.<br />
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Once the parachute was properly opened, the jumper was then instructed to reach up and pull down the toggles, which controlled the steering, found at the base of the chute. As a newbie to skydiving, I knew little of the advancement in the hobby’s technology. I’d initially been informed of the then relatively new rectangular chutes in the literature provided in the New School offering. Otherwise, I would’ve expected the traditional round ones most people associate with the sport.<br />
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Steering was easy. Want to turn right? Pull down on the right toggle. Left? Pull down on the left one. In this way, divers could stay clear of trees and power lines and direct themselves to the landing area indicated by a ginormous traffic-cone orange arrow on the field next to the airstrip. Employing both toggles created a leveling and slowing of one’s descent, a maneuver we were instructed to use when we got to within ten feet of the ground. This technique ensured a comfortable landing.<br />
<br />
The Skydive Lebanon instructors flipped the cards before me in ever-increasing succession, as I deftly described the situations depicted on each and the best measures to take. I have no doubt that the staff would’ve prevented my jumping if my troubleshooting knowledge weren’t up to snuff or I showed the least bit of trepidation or hint of hysterics. They were also sure to explain that I was under no obligation to skydive that day, but could take the course and jump at a later date.<br />
<br />
I wanted to dive and felt confident of my abilities to counter any problems should they occur. I didn’t even blink when they presented me with the release form to sign.<br />
<br />
The plane was small, the only seat being that of the pilot. Even the instructor was on the floor. I’m not sure what I expected—perhaps something along the lines of the D-Day scenes in <i>Band of Brothers</i> and <i>Saving Private Ryan</i> without, of course, the enemy fire—but it certainly didn’t prepare me for the way the parachutists were stuffed into the aircraft’s cabin, like clown in a circus car.<br />
<br />
Our positions were predicated on weight to ensure equal distribution. There wasn’t any chance of being coy about one’s heft either. Everyone was weighed before take-off. Thank goodness for that! I’d hate to be the victim of someone’s lying about their poundage because of their embarrassment at no longer being a Size 10. All three of us had chosen the Static Line option. I’m unsure how the staff would’ve configured us had there been a single Tandem Jumper, with the participating instructor, included in the arrangement.<br />
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<i>Best not to grab a bite at the Ripcord Café until after your jump </i></div>
<br />
As fate would have it, I was the first to get in, which meant I would be the last to go out. Squished on my knees with my head facing toward the tapered rear of the plane, I rued the big lunch I’d eaten hours earlier. Thankfully, a pair of small, round windows bookended the sides of my head. Otherwise, I might’ve gotten sick. Facing forward, the other two debutante divers sat at my back, the second jumper behind the pilot, numero uno facing the instructor who rode shotgun sans seat.<br />
<br />
It didn’t take long for the plane to take off and reach the proper altitude. The instructor opened the door beside which he sat and signaled the first diver to take their place, which meant sitting with legs outside the vehicle, as if no more than hanging out on the stoop of a building. After a final check of the jumper’s chute and static line, the instructor gave the thumbs-up—the roar of the engines made shouting instructions useless. Through one of the portholes from the cramped rear of the plane, I watched the perfect deployment of the Number One’s chute. Like cans in a Coke dispenser, my fellow rookie and I shifted into the respective openings left by our colleagues.<br />
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<i>“You go right ahead; we’ll be right behind you!” </i></div>
<br />
The plane circled and soon I witnessed the second skydiver take flight, a properly formed canopy marking their smooth departure. I skootched into the hot spot. It was at this point, with my legs outside the aircraft, circling into position that I began to second-guess my decision. In my head, I tried to reassure myself. The odds of anything going awry during a dive were enormous and those of actually plunging to my death were astronomical. I knew this, but all I could think about was the fact that with the successful jumps of my two colleagues, the odds of something, <i>anything</i>, going wrong just went up!<br />
<br />
I concentrated on checking my equipment, reacquainting myself with the emergency pull and ensuring my static line was secured, as if I could somehow delay my departure. Too soon, the instructor put up his thumb. I looked out the door at the greenery far below, turned back and shook my head. It wasn’t the height. Again, unless one has experience falling from a particular altitude, the brain can’t comprehend its meaning. But at that moment, I was face-to-face with mortality, and my survival instinct had finally been bitch-slapped awake. The instructor ignored my response and once again gave me the go-ahead, this time more intently with a shake of his thumb as if I’d somehow missed it the first time. I knew if I jumped I was dead <i>UNLESS</i> everything went according to plan. With that thought, I shut off my brain and let fly.<br />
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<i>“… eight, one-thousand… Look. Look. Pull. Pull.” </i></div>
<br />
I immediately went into the mantra: one, one-thousand; two, one-thousand… By four, I was yanked upward as my parachute deployed. Of course, my descent hadn’t suddenly changed direction, but rather considerably slowed. The mind and body, however, seemed to continue their descent for a moment creating the illusion of abruptly shooting upward. Still, I maintained my training and completed the count to eight, one-thousands, before checking the canopy above me. But I couldn’t access the steering toggles. My lines were twisted! Still, contrary to what the exclamation point might suggest at the end of the previous sentence, I was cool as a cucumber. Maybe too cool, as I finished the mantra—looking down at the emergency cord and uttering <i>pull, pull</i>, only without actually carrying out the action—before returning my attention to the tangled lines above my head.<br />
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<i>“To everything, churn, churn, churn...” </i></div>
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Again, my training smoothly kicked into gear. I began churning my legs, as if I were peddling a bicycle. I looked the fool, but damn if it didn’t instantly result in my spinning out of the entanglement. The ground crew hadn’t chimed in, allowing me to handle the situation without assistance, most likely not wanting to disturb me during the preliminary countdown for fear of causing greater damage. Once twist-free, I activated the toggles, at which point I heard a voice in my ear. “Good job, number three. Enjoy yourself while we land number two. We’ll check back as you get closer to the ground.” With the assurance of the pros watching my back, I basked in the awesomeness of skydiving.<br />
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I floated, turned right, then left, flattened out to a seeming hover, even corkscrewed and all the while exulted in the experience. <i>“THIS IS F***ING AMAZING!”</i> I screamed several times with interstitial <i>whoops</i> for good measure. Never again would I look dubiously at a skydiver when they mention having made thousands of jumps. I can’t imagine another drug, which provides the same euphoria. If I were they, I’d be popping Ambien and sleep-diving, so as not to have to wait until morning for the first jump of the day.<br />
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True to their word, the ground crew piped in as I neared Mother Earth. I didn’t want the feeling to end, praying for a sudden updraft to lift me back into the sky. No such luck. As I approached the touchdown area and a better perception of my distance from the grass, I discovered that what I perceived as wafting slowly, gracefully, downward was in reality falling at a frightening pace. As the ground rushed up to greet me, I wondered what the Skydive Lebanon guys were waiting for in giving me the signal to employ the toggles for landing. Finally they gave the word and I pulled both down in unison. I leveled out mere feet from the soil.<br />
<i> </i><br />
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<i> “THAT WAS F***ING AMAZING!”</i> </div>
<br />
A moment later, I hit, stumbling forward a step onto my knees. The landing wasn’t hard at all, like stepping off a bus; it was the sudden reacquaintance with gravity, which caused the misstep—more of a surprise, really. I renewed my chorus—albeit understandably altered—of <i>“</i>THAT WAS<i> F***ING AMAZING!”</i> My heart was thumping liking the drum machine in a disco tune, threatening to burst from my chest with every excited beat. The Skydive Lebanon personnel appeared in an instant. I was fine—there was no reason for them to think otherwise—but it was nice to see them so professional in the care they displayed for their charges. One held a video-recorder, which had been filming my entire jump from my plane departure to touchdown, including every excited epithet.<br />
<br />
My one regret of the experience was hurrying off. I didn’t even see the video—something the crew and jumpers share at the end of each skydive session—never mind purchase it for posterity. Now that I’d successfully performed the greatest thrill of my life, I felt it prudent to get home to let my mom, at least, know I wouldn’t be returning to her through the mail slot. Hell, the company offered additional jumps at a special price, and I would love to have taken advantage, but I didn’t want to press my luck. And no, I didn’t have a cell phone with which to alert my mother of my survival—they didn’t exist.<br />
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<a href="http://denbeauvais.com/"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRLqEkeUwsnMy24CZkKbew8HRHq6tYPthMGCcFf6zfn25DUGRnZ-u4fdhN94n_XUd_BBSL5Z235PkcNYIt7TC5StFaHCaRFTHF5VBtdZxOnaJpG15loUz5ar0D9l_OxVmjrTCQ_ReRBs/s400/AliensPoster.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
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<i>The incredible artwork for this Aliens poster is by my insanely talented friend, <a href="http://denbeauvais.com/">Den Beauvais</a> </i></div>
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As it happened, she hadn’t come home, yet, and I was still so hopped up on chemicals my endocrine system hadn’t released since I lost my virginity, I couldn’t stand still, never mind retire for the evening. I moved through the house like a caged animal, wondering what to do with myself. My salvation came in the form of a phone call. I leapt upon the device, answering it before the finality of the first ring. It was my friend Peter, who had just returned from seeing <i>Aliens</i>, which had opened that day. He was as similarly charged and itchin’ to tell someone about the movie, as I was to relate my skydiving experience.<br />
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Enthusing about the best of the quartet of <i>Alien</i> movies proved unfulfilling. He wasn’t yet ready to let it go, and suggested we go to the midnight screening. I was in the car and heading to pick him up before you could say…<br />
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<i>“Get away from her, you bitch!”</i> </div>
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So much for letting my mom know I was okay.<br />
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It was just the diversion I needed. The movie was amazing, and although my awe of <i>Aliens</i> now mingled with the residual effects of the jump, the duality of both experiences seem to lessen the impact of each. A heightened equilibrium replaced the nigh-paralyzing thrill of the first. Not that I was ready for bed. A Grand-Slam Breakfast run at Denny’s was in order.<br />
<br />
I didn’t get home until the early morning hours. The lights were off and Mom was asleep. I soon followed her lead, exhaustion finally overtaking me. Some time later, I discerned the faint glow of the bathroom light as my mom shuffled to the toilet. As the house returned to darkness I thought I heard her enter my room. Her hand making its way across the blankets along the baseboard confirmed my suspicions. When she got to my leg, she took but a moment to lightly squeeze it in reassurance. There was an audible sigh of relief before she stumbled back to her room.<br />
<br />
<i>Where was that bold adventurer of yore?</i> I asked myself as I donned the red-and-blue for another gig, spun from the fertile marketing mind of Eric, the Canadian wunderkind, who’d engineered the successful custom Spider-Man comic promotion of the early 90s (see “Northern Exposure”). I’d been filled with the sort of dread that greets a high schooler when informed of a semester’s final exam schedule ever since Eric had chimed, “I have you bungee-jumping this afternoon at the Canadian National Exhibition (CNE),” after my flight touched down in Toronto. Had I grown so old and cynical in the scant seven years since I foolishly rushed to leap from a plane?<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto</i> </div>
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Dating back to 1879, the CNE comprises approximately 192 acres, situated along the shore of Lake Ontario directly west of downtown Toronto. The venue is home to more than a hundred annual events, trade and consumer shows (Think World’s Fair Pavilion). At the time of my visit, an Australian bungee-jumping outfit had rented space in the area. The extreme activity seemed just the sort of thing for Eric to continue the hype of his popular Spider-Man custom-comic program, which, in conjunction with The Canadian Association of Chiefs of Police and such high-powered sponsors as Proctor & Gamble, had already distributed millions of comics across the country. This particular event wouldn’t be tied to generating publicity for the release of the new book in the proposed ten-comic series, but rather maintaining the excitement of the promotion as a whole.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Spidey shows Canadian P&G president how he uses the company’s hair-care products</i> </div>
<br />
I’d been Eric’s go-to Spidey since the campaign’s genesis and had already racked up thousands of miles across Canada in promoting it, including a whirlwind coast-to-coast press tour (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/06/northern-exposure-part-i-who-was-that_22.html">“Northern Exposure”</a>) and an appearance at a Blue Jays game, where I threw out the ceremonial first pitch (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2012/05/how-can-these-guys-lay-off-pitches-that.html">“How Can They Lay Off Pitches That Close”</a>). It had gotten to the point where the master marketer simply called Marvel with nothing more than a date, and the gig was a go and I was the Man. No other Web-Slinger would do.<br />
<br />
Eric’s request (read: demand) superseded any other job for which Marvel might’ve needed or wanted me. I’d missed out on joining a cadre of colleagues to appear at the New York Stock Exchange when Marvel Entertainment went public and another time taking part in a character falderal at Ron Perelman’s birthday party on the grounds of his palatial estate in Miami, because of conflicting events with Eric. But also I was working when other actors were not, traveled throughout Canada, got to do some amazing, crazy-ass shit and developed one of my dearest friendships gigging for him.<br />
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want me to what? From up there?!!”</span></i></div>
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So it wasn’t unusual for the Director of Personal Appearances, Alison, to be clueless about Eric’s intention to have Marvel’s most important property risking its life in Toronto. I don’t recall what made me more nervous: bungee jumping or doing so without clearing it with Alison/Marvel beforehand. I certainly didn’t want my tights confiscated for corporate misconduct. Plus, it gave me the perfect excuse to bow out of the stunt without culpability.<br />
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Alison was as ignorant as I about Eric’s intentions. But when it came down to rendering a verdict, she neither condoned nor condemned the act. “I expect you to do whatever you think is best for the character,” was her final ruling.<br />
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<i>Isn’t that just f***ing great?!!</i> Backing out would most assuredly look bad and prove fertile fodder for the merciless media. But were anything to go wrong… <i>Brrr</i>… I didn’t want to think about how that might damage the character, not to mention little ole me!<br />
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Eric was equally noncommittal, also foisting the onus of the decision onto my shoulders. Passive aggressive machinations were the last thing I needed. Understand Marvel’s concerns about the possible tragic consequences of the stunt and cancel it. Or rant and rave about how much work you’d put into the event; how the negative publicity from aborting would disgrace and do irreparable harm to the program. Just don’t give me your best Eeyore, despondently acceding to whatever my judgment may be!<br />
<br />
I decided to do the deed; no spoiler warning required. This posting would be a colossal waste of time had I turned tail and swung back to the airport my webbing between my knees. The negative feedback of the press and resultant harm to the campaign combined with the damage to Eric’s reputation and my desire to do right by my buddy overrode the remote odds of my—Spider-Man—falling to my—his—doom.<br />
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<i>“Spider-Man? Yeah, that’s it. I'm Spider-Man... And my wife is Morgan Fairchild... uh, I mean, Mary-Jane Watson Parker...”</i></div>
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Now I was <i>really</i> nervous! I don’t think the fact that
I was hurling myself from a metal cage, hoisted fifty feet in the air by a crane over a giant airbag situated underneath on the cement walkway of the exhibition grounds helped. The height was easy for my mind to fathom; this wouldn’t be like hurling myself from a plane 10,000 feet in the air. But as the stalwart idol of millions who’d saved the world once or thrice and battled the likes of Thanos and Dr. Doom, I wasn’t allowed to display my trepidation. I had to remain my flippant, irreverent, laugh-in-the-face-of-danger, Web-Slinging self. Which became increasingly more difficult the closer I got to launch.<br />
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<i>Worst match.com date… </i>ever<i>! </i></div>
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I signed a release form, but can’t remember whether I put my real name, Peter Parker’s or Spider-Man’s. I would never reveal the former, so it had to be either of the latter; yet the crew proceeded with the jump nonetheless. At least my loved ones could sue the pants off the company once they identified the smear on the concrete. There was a slight delay when they had to adjust the bungee after weighing me in. The pros had double-guessed the answer I’d given, only to be proven wrong in their assessment of my honesty.<br />
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<i>“I have got to cut down on the flies!” </i></div>
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The aforementioned flippant part was easy. I truly understood the character’s incessant nattering whilst facing danger. I was a blathering idiot, taking it out on the young woman manning the check-in table and the bungee boys securing the canvas leg manacles with which the elastic cord would be attached. I spewed pop culture references like a preemie on Epicac, paying homage to <i>Cool Hand Luke</i> and quoting Bob Euker.<br />
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Once the cage started its ascent, my breakdown worsened exponentially with every yard. I was fast approaching Martin Sheen’s Captain Kurtz in <i>Apocalypse Now</i>. I actually broke character—<i>I never break character!</i>—alluding to my mom and revealing Spidey’s relationship with Mary-Jane, an egregious faux pas. Fortunately, the videographer worked for Eric and I’d be getting the only copy.<br />
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The bungee company had a mantra, too, only theirs was one keyed for take off not after. Nor do they give the client time to think once the cage is in place. At least I retained enough sense to realize I was an addled mess and thus review the procedure. It also helped me focus and diverted my attention just long enough from envisioning the fall to actually going through with it<br />
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<i>“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh…!” </i></div>
<br />
<i>“Three… Two… One… Bungee…!”</i> With that I was off. I planned the high-pitched scream beforehand. If he were to take part in such an inane stunt, Spider-Man would be as unfazed as a sea lion diving into the icy waters of the Arctic. Screaming? Hah! He’d be yawning! But I wanted to make it good for the crowd, so I took a deep breath and let out a blood-curdling, banshee yell as I propelled myself from the hanging metal deck. The wail also eased my jitters. It was my plan (PLANNING = COGNITIVE THINKING ≠ HYSTERIA = RESULT). And my admiring throngs loved it.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_xoy6SYLH7Q" width="420"></iframe>
As for me, the experience was no way near that of skydiving. Yes, endorphins were released, but in comparison it was the difference between firing a bullet and throwing one. I’d parachute again in a heartbeat. Bungee jumping? Been there; done that…<br />
<br />
A few weeks later, I was speaking with Eric and he revealed that the Australian bungee jumping outfit stole away one night without paying the business fees they owed the CNE. <i>Looks like a job for Bungee-Ma— er, I mean, Spider-Man!
</i>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-44578175292929040122012-08-02T14:43:00.000-04:002012-08-04T09:28:40.727-04:00Mine's Bigger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaiveAHXBmO5aJ2HVxoD4cq7Or8YGK_aTcyUHS36JvhU8l2CSfvSOM1mGpp6xyGJTQicKkQtKWsXBAAs7fqvpU6yqKX4qNefb-Bo6Z1X2tGi3pib35hFrkrP0E4Xk5yjOd-Xru-9mYKcc/s1600/Aragones_Edmonton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaiveAHXBmO5aJ2HVxoD4cq7Or8YGK_aTcyUHS36JvhU8l2CSfvSOM1mGpp6xyGJTQicKkQtKWsXBAAs7fqvpU6yqKX4qNefb-Bo6Z1X2tGi3pib35hFrkrP0E4Xk5yjOd-Xru-9mYKcc/s400/Aragones_Edmonton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>MAD artist and Groo the Wanderer creator <a href="http://www.sergioaragones.com/">Sergio Aragonés</a> </i></div>
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It was apparent by the way he was struggling to rise and steady himself with a cane that he was in a great deal of discomfort. But as I rushed to his side to help with a concerned “Are you okay; what happened?” escaping my throat, he was quick to explain.<br />
<br />
“Nothing serious. I had an operation on my back…” And then he gave me a mischievous grin and a sideways glance, his eyes atwinkle. “I was playing Spider-Man and swung into a building!”<br />
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That’s when I knew the world-famous cartoonist of Mad magazine fame was going to be all right. I was attending this year’s San Diego Comic-Con International in my occasional role as exhibitor for Fanfare/Ponent Mon, UK-based publisher of translated graphic novels. It was Wednesday, Preview Night, and I—having little interest spending the first night of the greatest show on earth (with apologies to Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Baily) in line to drop a fortune on an exclusive Jar-Jar Binks cookie jar, Willie Lumpkin action figure (<i>his ears wiggle!</i>) or Steuben glass vial of Stephenie Meyer’s drool—forded the crowds to the Small Press area where Aragonés has set up shop for decades.<br />
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To my delighted surprise, the playful Spaniard was signing an <a href="https://shop.idwpublishing.com/art/artisteditions.html">“Artist’s Edition”</a> of <i>Groo the Wanderer.</i> Introduced by publisher IDW in 2010, these tomes, measuring an impressive 12 x 17 inches, feature the art form’s most distinguished comics at their rawest, each page scanned directly from the penciled and inked pages and including all corrections, blue-pencil lines, paste-overs and such. They’re like having a complete book of original comic art. The inaugural volume, “Dave Steven’s <i>The Rocketeer</i>,” celebrated the late artist’s signature creation and won an Eisner Award. Later editions spotlighted John Romita’s Spider-Man, Walt Simonson’s <i>Thor</i> and Wally Wood’s EC work.<br />
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I was unaware of IDW’s new crop, but pleased to see the comic-book equivalent of a Blue Ray Director’s Cut was going strong and downright giddy to see my ole buddy Aragonés so honored. He is probably the most known <i>unknown</i> cartoonist on the planet, whose risible renderings have delighted generations. Anyone who’s ever picked up an issue of <i>MAD</i> magazine has seen the mustachioed maestro’s work.<br />
<br />
My introduction to <i>MAD</i> came in the early 70s by way of a young man who worked for my father at his ice-cream stand. Not knowing what to do with the towering—to a wee lad of ten it was <i>staggering</i>—stack of the satirical serials messing up his room, he gave them to me (<i>OMG!!!</i>). As I vociferously pored over the volumes, I couldn’t help but be chagrined by their state. Even then, a ding on the corner of a book kept me up at nights. You’ll be happy to know I’ve learned to control my idiosyncratic penchant for publishing perfection and have been able to live a full, happy life despite the occasional smudge on a page or tear on a cover (<i>eye begins to twitch uncontrollably</i>).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWSgTmEtqtjDZWl0gWZAbTa2jHIcHpRYGTJdQ4qmJPgOruo_pmd-qPvcDK_bC9jkViGq8QLhRFYibmJG7uxG7WKCKhPbUOb82wSXsEMEJ8Bic5nMzXDUo-tZ2Dd9zk_ePQS4X0JH9woc/s1600/feldman.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWSgTmEtqtjDZWl0gWZAbTa2jHIcHpRYGTJdQ4qmJPgOruo_pmd-qPvcDK_bC9jkViGq8QLhRFYibmJG7uxG7WKCKhPbUOb82wSXsEMEJ8Bic5nMzXDUo-tZ2Dd9zk_ePQS4X0JH9woc/s200/feldman.jpg" width="177" /></a>Anyway, what I mistakenly tried to brush away as dirt in the gutters of the pages turned out to be wee witticisms; cartoons created by Aragonés. And they were hysterical, not simply endearing because they were minuscule, the way some things are, like Chihuahuas. I mean, seriously people, they look like the sodomitic result of Marty Feldman and a rat. And please don’t be sending “Chihuahua Council” after me. I love the dainty doggies; they’re cute (<i>ahem</i>).<br />
<br />
Since 1963, Aragonés’s “marginals”—those teeny, tiny ticklers, abounding the edges and betwixt the borders of the parody-packed periodical—have graced every issue except one, due to the misplacing of that month’s submission by the postal service. The enjoyment of reading them is only matched by fun in searching for them; it’s like a treasure hunt. And if the dozen or so Lilliputian laughers per volume weren’t enough, the artist’s monthly segment, “A Mad Look at…,” which skewered the pop-culture trends of the day in single panel and sequential strips, always delighted.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllk6-MXlT741YUYz_JNKGNFiTRICZJSkq49uGLMPm09d6Fcf1QTQVPtG7_GLvqJmxblMd0ApJtW1mQhKhmAac0Wl5kYQFGwv3SZRD57yli172ab4h1xpniU-ZxMVjobNaiYWItclQZ14/s1600/MadLookAtSpidey001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllk6-MXlT741YUYz_JNKGNFiTRICZJSkq49uGLMPm09d6Fcf1QTQVPtG7_GLvqJmxblMd0ApJtW1mQhKhmAac0Wl5kYQFGwv3SZRD57yli172ab4h1xpniU-ZxMVjobNaiYWItclQZ14/s400/MadLookAtSpidey001.jpg" width="387" /></a></div>
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<i>From Sergio’s “A Mad look at Spider-Man”</i></div>
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Not long after my initiation into <i>MAD</i>’s fraternal order of frivolity, I discovered the first issue of <i>PLOP!</i> at a pharmacy, back when the establishments featured a soda fountain where one could purchase such delectable offerings as Lime Rickeys and root beer floats with real seltzer, not that bottled crap. I hadn’t yet been bitten by the superhero bug. My comic purchases to that point were of the funny animal, Harvey Comics—<i>Hot Stuff</i>, <i>Spooky</i>, <i>Richie Rich</i>—variety. My mania for <i>MAD</i> showed I had a penchant for parody, which extended to Alfred E. Newman’s bastard children <i>Cracked</i>, <i>Sick</i> and <i>Crazy</i>. So the explosion of my brain upon perusing <i>PLOP!</i> should not have been a surprise.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Py2k38yMj-u4A_AxpDreGEAH4FQ8KSZ_8r7Y4QhhuntuGOh4_eO5mX8mETw5Dsfk0uw-Zcu5j1n1_8DuCIY_GeDoxm-ck2gNiGIAi2l_U6HUsACnwROwfHB_uiHsJpjgbQ-Va-jkLeo/s1600/Plop1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Py2k38yMj-u4A_AxpDreGEAH4FQ8KSZ_8r7Y4QhhuntuGOh4_eO5mX8mETw5Dsfk0uw-Zcu5j1n1_8DuCIY_GeDoxm-ck2gNiGIAi2l_U6HUsACnwROwfHB_uiHsJpjgbQ-Va-jkLeo/s200/Plop1.jpg" width="135" /></a><i>PLOP!</i> was a DC Comic of “weird humor,” as stated in its marquis, but it was like nothing I had seen before. For one thing, the cover featured a single image, a grotesque mockery of humanity designed by the singular artist, Basil Wolverton. The aberration’s name, with short description, accompanied each. The debut spotlighted “‘Arms’ Armstrong” and read as follows: “‘Arms’ Armstrong has divulged to a <i>PLOP</i> reporter that he was forty years old before he realized that his arms were outgrowing his legs. ‘I’m proud to say that I have never had either broken pins or arch trouble,’ he added.”<br />
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Surrounding the cover grotesquerie was an ivory border of pure Aragonés mayhem, a “Where’s Waldo” of the Spaniard’s signature silliness. The artist’s work also served for the framing sequence of the cartoons and comics therein, a buffet of the bizarre, off-beat and chilling, by a variegated assemblage of the genre’s best. The final story of the inaugural issue, “The Gourmet,” written by Steve Skeates and drawn by Bernie Wrightson—wherein an obese, slobbering gourmand of the Mr. Creosote type gets comeuppance for his fondness for frogs’ legs—still gives me the creeps.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrxfZTlHOBLdSQ_xrfCs_XyImeZe8hS8CaQmZJd0rBhfcBJ-WHsTwIopjTttCbi7geZHhyhop7sLyhYglk1rIMfKUIOu6Ljd5ZbKRnoUDSqDp3UGJ9EJ0y91sjQYcq19jkzf6YIL2CHg/s1600/plop1_GourmetPg1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrxfZTlHOBLdSQ_xrfCs_XyImeZe8hS8CaQmZJd0rBhfcBJ-WHsTwIopjTttCbi7geZHhyhop7sLyhYglk1rIMfKUIOu6Ljd5ZbKRnoUDSqDp3UGJ9EJ0y91sjQYcq19jkzf6YIL2CHg/s320/plop1_GourmetPg1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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By the time <i>PLOP!</i> was canceled in 1976 after 24 issues, I was a true Aragonés adherent. So in 1981, when I espied his work in the back of <i>Destroyer Duck #1</i> after a five-year fallow period of his genius in funny books, I was agog. Published by the late-but-still-sorely-missed Eclipse Comics, <i>Destroyer Duck</i> was a parody of Marvel’s <i>Howard the Duck</i>. It, too, was created by the late Steve Gerber as a means to help defray the litigation costs of suing the comics giant for ownership of the latter fowl. The four-page back-up feature by Aragonés introduced <i>Groo the Wanderer</i>, and I’ve been a fan of the character ever since.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7B6GuO7EeM9xb4JmLo1gTiQzpzrFuBSWdLfwh6gekOoSt1wHPiUM38sK0D0t2Xc06xVlWujOacBGuHk_ht7ZiHf89W1Qvi-0u3ZkaItcXpvcdHhR-nj09iPEzTSZHGBOjBcvfWot_swY/s1600/Destroyer-Duck-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7B6GuO7EeM9xb4JmLo1gTiQzpzrFuBSWdLfwh6gekOoSt1wHPiUM38sK0D0t2Xc06xVlWujOacBGuHk_ht7ZiHf89W1Qvi-0u3ZkaItcXpvcdHhR-nj09iPEzTSZHGBOjBcvfWot_swY/s200/Destroyer-Duck-1.jpg" width="129" /></a>Groo was Conan the Barbarian by way of Jerry Lewis, a stout-hearted misanthope, whose enthusiasm for joining a fray is only matched by his ineptitude and stupidity. The loveable brute is a walking disaster waiting to happen. At least, that is to what he quickly evolved—or perhaps <i>devolved</i> is more apropos. Initially, Groo was no less a heroic barbarian than his inspiration. It was the outcome of his attempts that proved his undoing. The aforementioned inaugural 4-page foray, for example, has Groo valiantly confront a monstrous giant in order to save a damsel. He succeeds in gutting the beast only to watch in horror as the dying behemoth crushes the fair maiden upon its collapse.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqumiBYKV09gMVOaHlUzVvuYnSGo4uNgDcHYLubu8MzTFjjAKy8J2yt4W-D-E_t3oNCcgfBSGnHTq0WJl4VneRI_bDfd32KfBpsZV0qfVK0BHf8fgojiSLXh7SmrUH0ld7mWLi2HjN6qE/s1600/Groo_1st_Pg1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqumiBYKV09gMVOaHlUzVvuYnSGo4uNgDcHYLubu8MzTFjjAKy8J2yt4W-D-E_t3oNCcgfBSGnHTq0WJl4VneRI_bDfd32KfBpsZV0qfVK0BHf8fgojiSLXh7SmrUH0ld7mWLi2HjN6qE/s400/Groo_1st_Pg1.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>
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<i>Aragonés created his bumbling barbarian in the 70s, but there were no avenues to publish the character and still retain the rights at the time, so Groo languished in the artist's files until the 80s and the advent of such creator-friendly comic book publishers as </i><i>Pacific and </i><i>First</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYM5qj_XmbXC63XIg39Otk1iIsBGJocteuAjd3qVMprrkaIZFCGxJ2x-7t76mMf5FHV2Rf5ATyHpEOGJzIE3HbrL1DemG3ZH23IcJoSOax31q_pEs5ASAdL-Kkb6rHim4TrlBZ-MHlps/s1600/Groo1_Pacific.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYM5qj_XmbXC63XIg39Otk1iIsBGJocteuAjd3qVMprrkaIZFCGxJ2x-7t76mMf5FHV2Rf5ATyHpEOGJzIE3HbrL1DemG3ZH23IcJoSOax31q_pEs5ASAdL-Kkb6rHim4TrlBZ-MHlps/s200/Groo1_Pacific.jpg" width="133" /></a>The wayward Wanderer’s misfortunes seemed to haunt the title’s publishing schedule, as well. In 1982, Pacific Comics launched <i>Groo</i> as series, but after a mere eight issues, the company shuttered its doors. A one-shot special, collecting the completed work that had yet to see the light of day, was released by Eclipse in 1984. Luckily, Aragonés found a home for Groo a year later, signing a deal with Marvel’s Epic imprint, where the bumbling barbarian found his stride, cementing his anemic cerebral activity and obsession with cheese dip. The title ran for an impressive 120 issues before moving to Image Comics in 1994. Dark Horse picked up the baton in 1998 and has published Groo’s exploits on and off ever since.<br />
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I’d first met Aragonés in Edmonton, Canada, at the third comic book convention staged by husband-and-wife team, Darwin and Lola (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/07/survival-of-fittest-part-i.html">“Survival of the Fittest,” Parts I</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/07/survival-of-fittest-part-ii.html">II</a>). Their previous two funny-book festivals, which respectively featured notable Spidey artist of yore and <i>Spawn</i> progenitor, Todd McFarlane, and equally renowned former <i>X-Men</i> artist and <i>WildCATS</i> creator, Jim Lee; and Marvel Universe über-architect Stan Lee and legendary Hulk and <i>Not Brand Ecch!</i> artist Marie Severin; were resounding successes, and this sequel promised to top even those stupifying shows with a slate that included pioneering S.H.I.E.L.D. delineator Jim Steranko and Aragonés, among others.<br />
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<i>Your nattering narrator speaking with Marie Severin as I perch between Stan Lee and artist Paul Ryan</i></div>
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As my Faithful Bloglodytes may recall from my <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/03/who-could-forget-superpro-oops-sorry-i.html">“Football Hero”</a>
post of the Paleolithic Era, my first published work as a writer appeared in 1990 in <i>Marvel Age #96</i>, a one-page article, which would serve as a predecessor for <i>Heroes In My Closet</i>.
In it, I reminisce about my exploits as Spider-Man, including my 1988
appearance at the first Darwin and Lola extravaganza, where I met the
aforementioned Todd McFarlane. In fact, the photo of Yours Truly and
Monsieur McFarlane accompanying the piece was taken at that show.
Aragonés provided the cover for the ’zine, which also featured a Groo
article. So it seemed fitting that my initial encounter with the
world-famous cartoonist occur at the crazy couple’s con two years
later.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJg2Wm46eb5G9vUkGlusfkS9-VZMHtcFhlLWu5MDmGbWQ4LpNqemN00DdN-ShNctq6oXBfb7NqD5PGMGiAIf7ZmQ5odKHaI9hEHFqr7E05Jh9FBTDiQDwSEjWLpdXVgv8Zce3sH9PpRoQ/s1600/spidey_Edmonton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJg2Wm46eb5G9vUkGlusfkS9-VZMHtcFhlLWu5MDmGbWQ4LpNqemN00DdN-ShNctq6oXBfb7NqD5PGMGiAIf7ZmQ5odKHaI9hEHFqr7E05Jh9FBTDiQDwSEjWLpdXVgv8Zce3sH9PpRoQ/s400/spidey_Edmonton.jpg" width="336" /></a><i> </i></div>
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<i>Long overdue big thanks to Faithful Bloglodyte Steven Gettis who sent me this pick of my signing at the Edmonton Convention (circa 1989) more than a year ago. </i></div>
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In what had become a tradition at the Luxford’s funny-book fests—basically because there wasn’t anything else to do—the opening night of the show was devoted to a field trip to the Edmonton Mall, a massive Mecca of merchandise and merry-making. On my first jaunt to the Canadian Canaan of capitalism, I braved the facility’s indoor loop-de-loop rollercoaster, marveled at the water park, which included a man-made beach and wave machine, and scratched my head at the submarine ride that traverse the canal running through the concourse. Aragonés had heard of the mall and was most excited to see the “authentic Spanish Galleon” heralded in its marketing literature; not surprising for the native of Castellón, Spain.<br />
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<i>Please tell me that’s YOUR hand Lola!</i></div>
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I tagged along like Marley, nipping at the heels of one who’d brought immense joy to my life with his work. With the dark features and swarthy complexion traditional to his home-country, the hirsute Hispanic appeared as if he’d just stepped off the set of an Errol Flynn swashbuckling epic. Although I was taller by two inches, Aragonés’s six-foot frame and exuberant spirit overshadowed all, with a charismatic personality, warmth, and playfulness, which was far more huggable than imposing. I don’t believe I’ve met anyone who was more endearing.<br />
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I had no recollection of this nod to the Spanish Armada, but given the mall’s mind-boggling acreage and numerous wonders, an aircraft carrier could be easily overlooked. Aragonés had done his homework, which was impressive in an age a decade before the Internet, when the research tool of choice was the <i>Encyclopedia Britannica</i> and one had to pay a visit to a brick-and-mortar travel agency for such info. He walked with purpose, navigating the complex’s labyrinthine causeways as I strode beside him.<br />
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The artist’s obvious love of classic sailing vessels is no more exemplified in his character’s adventures. As certain as the sun arises in the East, any vessel Groo boards will sink. The Wanderer’s capsized whole fleets in complete ignorance of his doings until only after he’s gotten his own feet wet, and then he’s still scratching his head as to what happened. It is said you only hurt that which you love, and this adage is no truer than in the works of humorists.<br />
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“Mira esa fillette; yo comiendo pan aqua nada…” I uttered as a particularly attractive woman passed. By no means am I fluent in Spanish, as anyone with a passing knowledge of the language could attest from my bastardized spelling of the phrase above, which translated should read, “Look at the filets and here I am stuck with nothing but bread and water.” (<i>I welcome corrections from any Spanish-savvy Bloglodytes in the audience</i>) The saying was taught to me by a good friend, an émigré from Caraças, Venezuela, who was a fellow waiter at Tavern on the Green. He explained that it was a common lament in his country when a man espies a fetching female. The moment seemed right to test my usage of the maxim on an honest-to-goodness Spaniard.<br />
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“You speak Spanish,” Aragonés responded in surprise.<br />
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<i>Result!</i><br />
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My facility in mastering the language would later be off-set, when Aragonés talked of his daughter who was starting a career in modeling. He pulled a picture from his wallet that would’ve made any Man of the Cloth rue his vows; a tall, curvaceous creature with sultry dark features held in abeyance by the signature Aragonés smile. As the cartoonist explained of his progeny’s plans to move to New York City in pursuit of her dream vocation, I <i>casually</i> remarked that she could crash at my place while she searched for a more permanent residence.<br />
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“I don’t think so,” Aragonés snorted with a smirk and a “what-do-you-think-I-was-born-yesterday?” type of look. The photo was quickly secreted back into his billfold.<br />
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Note to self: refrain from making lewd comments about women before discovering about a person’s knockout daughter. <i>Yeah, like Aragonés would never have seen through my ruse otherwise!</i><br />
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The so-called “authentic Spanish Galleon” was about as authentic as “New-York-style bagels” outside of New York. And it didn’t take an expert to come to that conclusion. The fact that the boat was about the size of the S.S. <i>Minnow</i> was a clear giveaway. The ships in Disneyland’s “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride were more credible. Aragonés was visibly and audibly annoyed. “This is what they say is an ‘authentic Spanish Galleon?’” he grumbled before about-facing in disappointment. The instant lasted about as long as a heartbeat. Aragonés is not one to dwell on the negative, instead embracing the positive, finding wonder and excitement in every new thing he confronts regardless of how small. I half-expected him to abruptly stop and blurt, “Look, squirrel!” at any minute.<br />
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About a year later, I bumped into Aragonés again at the 1991 Mid-Ohio Con (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/08/i-slept-with-stan-lee-part-i-cleveland.html%20">“I Slept With Stan Lee, Part I”</a>)
The Roger Price-produced annual comics cavalcade—one of the best in the country—was celebrating its first year away from the Mansfield, Ohio, fairgrounds. I couldn’t be happier. The hangar in which the shows transpired had all the ambience of the DMV and its cement floors were easily felt through the nigh-existent leather foot pads of my Spider-Man suit, freezing this itsy bitsy Spidey’s tootsies and stiffening my agility, so I moved like a Ray Harryhausen stop-motion dinosaur.<br />
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The new venue was the ballroom and anterooms of a hotel in nearby Columbus. The space was blessedly carpeted. I was so happy. Upon making my entrance I almost hit the floor and began squirming on my back the way some dogs greet their masters. Along with the new environs, RAP Productions—Price’s media company, which ran the conventions—also redirected its charitable efforts. The proceeds from the event’s customary art auction would now benefit Ronald McDonald House.<br />
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Once again, Spider-Man would aid in this noble endeavor, assisting auctioneer Price as the Carol Merrill to his Monty Hall, presenting each item as it came up for bids. I had no qualms about being the event’s mobile easel. It was fun, gave me a opportunity to see everything up close, and allowed me a way to share in the excitement without losing my shirt… or <i>webs</i>, as it were. At least, that was the theory. I wasn’t exempt from partaking in the bidding if I so chose—my money was as good as the next person’s!<br />
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The yearly bidding bonanza was always a highlight of the show and featured lots from all the guests, whether pages of original comic book art or custom items created especially for the affair. Internationally-renowned “duck” artist, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Rosa">Don Rosa</a>, painted a jaw-dropping Scrooge McDuck, with Donald and nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie, playing in a treasure-filled room of the sort one could envision Aladdin discovering his legendary lamp. I would have attempted to win this tour de force myself had I not been saving my shekels for another prize, one that would encompass both the thrill of an extraordinary piece of artwork with the unforgettable memory of watching its creation.<br />
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Upon the far side of stage left/audience right was erected an easel, on which was placed a huge sheet of Foam-Cor, measuring approximately 41 x 31 inches. At the auction’s start, Aragonés climbed to the stage to much ballyhooing by the attendees. With his back to the audience, he planted himself on the chair set before the awesome art board and was presented with a half dozen black Sharpies. The minute the first lot went up for bid, Aragonés put marker to matte. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation, a period of taking in the canvas; Aragonés proceeded as he always does, as if his stream of consciousness and hand were one. No pauses; just drawing. It’s a remarkable thing to watch, the illustrative equivalent of a ballet. I often find myself agonizing over the construction of a single sentence. Aragonés’s ideas and manifestation thereof are just shy of <i>instant</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtZlzW2AhNWYCrmStPKTxcvwJHo7uKF4WtCJ2mC3a2pc2zHj2IPt2ji5gpA3uConogdZMsAzt4oUVUOFyBTi7AfWnQJ4SQKua4N5vGJju5fDY0Y7Qb0N2b23g8mVs97-_sRKXHpgrVfg/s1600/Aragones_GrooArt001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtZlzW2AhNWYCrmStPKTxcvwJHo7uKF4WtCJ2mC3a2pc2zHj2IPt2ji5gpA3uConogdZMsAzt4oUVUOFyBTi7AfWnQJ4SQKua4N5vGJju5fDY0Y7Qb0N2b23g8mVs97-_sRKXHpgrVfg/s400/Aragones_GrooArt001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Five minutes later...</i></div>
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Even while carrying out my duties, I watched the uncanny cartoonist create magic. And given my position to the left of Aragonés, a right-hander, I had the best seat in the house. The audience was none the wiser. And it’s not as if the audience couldn’t see the whites of my eyes. That’s all they could see. It was the pupils behind the whites of the Spider-Man costume’s occipital region they couldn’t make out, and they remained askance, watching the <i>MAD</i> illustrator most of the time. Heck, I’d have been able to keep my peepers closed and no one would’ve noticed… until I fell off the stage, that is.<br />
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<i>Aragonés doing what he does best</i></div>
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Aragonés began in the board’s center, and immediately I recognized the prominent proboscis and googly eyes of Groo. It was soon evident that the witless Wanderer was in the midst of a fray, his dual swords afrenzy. I cheated over to where Aragonés was working. “You may as well sign that to me when you’re done,” I whispered.<br />
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“You want it signed to ‘Spider-Man’?” he replied with a devilish grin.<br />
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The Don Rose <i>pièce de résistance</i> came up for bid and was stolen for a mere $210! I bit my lip under the mask at the low-ball figure and silently <i>tsk-tsk</i>ed the attendees for not recognizing Rosa’s talent. <i>Damn!</i> If I’d had the slightest idea how much Sergio’s piece would go for, I might have tried to capture the duck masterwork myself as well as the grandiose Groo.<br />
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Aragonés, meanwhile, had exhausted one Sharpie, and was quickly heading toward his third, which he’d made ample use of before abruptly standing. “What should I do with these?” he asked, holding out the remaining Sharpies.<br />
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A dumbfounded Price held out his hand, taking the writing instruments from Aragonés as he stepped off the stage and headed back to the main floor and his booth, where a line of fans awaited him. There weren’t more than a couple dozen lots total, and Price worried that wouldn’t allow enough time, even for the quick-drawing cartoonist. But with a fair number of items still awaiting the auction block, Aragonés had completed his masterpiece. And what an eye-opener it was: Groo slicing, dicing and making julienne fries of a mass of miscreants—although knowing the brain-dead barbarian, they very well may have been innocents—accompanied by faithful dog Rufferto, taking a chunk out of one victim’s leg, and witnessed by series regulars witches Arba and Dakarba.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6APDYAqICaAB1ZMbTsis_t3FNQawa1AXil5fi0ggZdQ0HtgTwt78skYp-zS-Dg-6IfdEAnJ4aSat9Xq2z9MNvL-JaAIhr2DOOXnj0aNGYvBj4z-MXi2f0cubm2jJcssPm7lyz1tCtJM/s1600/RogerStern.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6APDYAqICaAB1ZMbTsis_t3FNQawa1AXil5fi0ggZdQ0HtgTwt78skYp-zS-Dg-6IfdEAnJ4aSat9Xq2z9MNvL-JaAIhr2DOOXnj0aNGYvBj4z-MXi2f0cubm2jJcssPm7lyz1tCtJM/s200/RogerStern.jpg" width="139" /></a>Finally, the last lot standing was Sergio’s Groo, which seemed appropriate since the character was often the only one still on his feet by the end of his stories! As the bidding progressed it quickly became apparent that my biggest opponent for the lot would be comic book writer Roger Stern. Soon we were in a bidding war. I love Stern’s work. I believe him to be one of the best Spider-Man scribes ever. I was also fortunate to know Stern, the person, through my frequent appearances at Mid-Ohio Con at which he was a beloved perennial guest; a sweet, unassuming man, whose stellar work is only matched by his humility. I would rather my rival for the Aragonés have been a complete stranger, someone I could resent had I lost the battle.<br />
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The bidding flew past the hundred-dollar mark; two hundred, then three. I wondered whose bank account would falter first, mine or Stern’s, as the price crept toward four hundred. But suddenly Stern blinked, hesitating just long enough for the gavel to land, making me the highest bidder. Price thanked everyone and the auction was officially over. I’d been in the suit for more than two hours and long overdue for a break. But instead I carried my new acquisition to Aragonés’s booth.<br />
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“You got it!” he enthused.<br />
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“I told you it was mine,” I asserted, before asking for his autograph.<br />
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<i>Vroom! and Aragonés, San Diego Comic Con 2011</i></div>
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Aragonés deferred adding anything more to the art, on which he’d already bestowed his John Hancock. Instead, he created a fresh piece for me: Grew and Rufferto skulking through the jungle, tracking something. Behind them stands Spider-Man about to tap the mindless misanthrope on the back (<i>And as soon as I find the piece, I will post it—UGH!</i>). Curiosity eventually got the better of the artist and he inquired about the winning bid. He seemed nonplussed. I couldn’t determine from his reaction whether he was satisfied with the result or not. For me, $400 was a hearty chunk of my savings, but an expense I’ve never regretted.<br />
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So as I watched Aragonés sign the IDW tome exalting Groo, I couldn’t help but think of my own oversized artwork of The Wanderer, which the cartoonist had assured me was the largest work he’d ever done. Sure, <i>The Artist’s Edition</i> was impressive… but mine’s bigger!<br />
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<i>Getting this home was NOT easy! </i></div>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-85058105701025657982012-07-04T03:00:00.000-04:002012-07-20T11:11:20.804-04:00Web Stock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What does stockcar racing and abused children have in common? Setting aside those twisted individuals who might venture a punch line (no pun intended) to such a question, you’d be hard pressed to answer unless you lived or visited the Bradenton, Florida, area in the latter part of the eighties, early nineties. For it was in this lesser-known Sunshine State city, located along its western shore about an hour and a half north of Tampa, that you’d find the DeSoto Speedway, owned and operated by Tom D. Stimus.<br />
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<i>The DeSoto Speedway</i></div>
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Stimus was a highly successful used car salesman with several dealerships in the Manatee County area; a local legend along the lines of P.T. Barnum, whose showmanship and crazy stunts rivaled that of the celebrated circus legend. Stimus, however, kept his piquant persona primarily pent in the television ads he splayed across the area airwaves. The formula was simple. Tom strode by a bevy of buggies, slamming his palm on each as he proclaimed the prices to his audience much like a vehicular evangelist. His oratory would culminate in some sensational fashion.<br />
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<i>Poking fun at himself, Stimus aired a series of ads, featuring a stereotypical southern sheriff who charges the pre-owned pitch man with disorderly conduct—being overly obnoxious and loud—in his commercials!</i></div>
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In one such spot the hawker of horseless carriages finalized his fulminating freneticism with a warning that any car buyers shopping at his competitors’ would be burned by high prices, at which point he set a stuntman ablaze to illustrate the point. Of course, this particular strategem may have been self-defeating. After all, there must have been many who opted to get figuratively scorched rather than risk facing the loon who <i>literally</i> sets people aflame!<br />
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No surprise these theatrics, reminiscent of the grotesque grapplers’ verbal tête à têtes featured between World Wrestling Entertainment matches, led Stimus to employ one of the faux-sport’s own, Dusty Rhodes, to assist in his carny acts. The wrestling icon, who resembles what might have resulted from cross-breeding the monster from Thomas Edison’s <i>Frankenstein</i> with a bean bag chair, took to hustling autos the way volcanoes take to virgins.<br />
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In 1986, Stimus took out full-page ads in the area newspapers designed as “Wanted: Dead or Alive” posters, featuring the mug of Moammar Gadhafi, after the Libyan dictator threatened the United States. Rumors circulated that a ten-million–dollar bounty was raised and Stimus promised a reward to anyone who dispatched the Arab ruler.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TQLDjFDI0fs" width="420"></iframe><br />
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As aforementioned, this mockish behavior was only evident in the motorcar merchandiser’s colorful TV and radio spots. Off-camera, Stimus was a genial gent—beloved by most, loathed by few—who cared deeply about children… and stockcar racing! His love for the latter led Stimus to purchase and refurbish the DeSoto Speedway, while his conviction for the former couldn’t be more evident than by the establishment of the Tom’s Kids Foundation, which worked toward helping victims of child abuse in Manatee County. To that end, the speedway was outfitted with a picnic and playground, so families could enjoy racing together in a fun and safe atmosphere.<br />
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It was only a few months ago that I revealed to you, My Faithful Bloglodytes, Marvel’s joint venture with the National Committee for the Prevention of Child Abuse (NCPCA) to use Spider-Man as a means of educating youngsters about recognizing the three forms of abuse: sexual, emotional and physical (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2012/03/ounce-of-prevention.html">“An Ounce of Prevention”</a>). Unfortunately, despite the good intentions behind the program, there weren’t a whole lot of funds for promoting it beyond the confines of America’s various school systems. Further outreach came from whatever media attention Spidey’s visit might elicit. And let’s be honest, as important a story as educating kids on abuse may be and regardless of how cool us nerds may find our hero being used in this manner, covering such events would depend on whether it was a slow news day or not.<br />
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Even if it were a day deprived of shootings, robberies, rape or any number of perceived meatier fare, a guy dressed as a superhero—even one as iconic as Ye Olde Web-Swinger, flown in directly from said character’s corporate HQ—speaking to area students about this subject would rarely make the front page and most often be buried in the same section as the local woman who collects potato chips, which look like famous people. Some more conservative parts of the country may veer away from the matter altogether, fearing reprisal from its readership who embrace the antiquated and dangerous notion that children should be protected with ignorance <i>not</i> education!<br />
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<i>Holy Spud!</i></div>
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Stimus only learned of the program when he saw an article in a Dayton, Ohio, newspaper while on a trip to that enlightened state. He immediately contacted Marvel to find out how he could enlist Spider-Man to visit schools in Bradenton as well as appear at the DeSoto Speedway. Now I’d gigged in Dayton on several occasions during my Webhead tenure, so it’s possible that the appearance which caught Stimus’s attention could very well have been one of my own. But since I didn’t keep records of the hundreds of Marvel jobs I did every year, I’ve no way of knowing. But I’m fairly sure the trip to the DeSoto Speedway was my first gig in Bradenton.<br />
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To access the town one must travel on Route 275 south from St. Petersburg over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, a nearly four-mile span that arcs gracefully over Tampa Bay and makes travelers—this one at least—feel they are ascending to Heaven. My host for the trip, a minion of Stimus, felt it prudent to relate the wonder’s tragic past as we traversed its cabled arch. I was surprised to learn that this was the second bridge. The first, a cantilevered design that opened in 1971, had a mere 150-foot clearance. One morning in May 1980, the span was struck during a blinding rainstorm by the ship <i>Summer Venture...</i> during rush hour no less. The center section toppled and thirty-five lives were lost. Those poor victims simply drove into oblivion. I still shudder to think about it, and for the rest of our trip over the Skyway, my stomach was in my throat.<br />
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The next day I visited three schools, delivering a message about Emotional Abuse—later NCPCA gigs would feature a presentation, which incorporated all three types of abuse—to students ranging from kindergartners to third graders. There weren’t any admissions afterward to either myself or the on-site expert, John Hobbs, from Tom’s Kids Foundation as we greeted the kids and signed comic books, nor were children running screaming from the auditoriums after being exposed to such reprehensible teaching. And I’ll bet they grew up without the least bit of stigmatism because of it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-wPpk7D6f6sIdegh0o_9J5FN6988zsBVou663THqoxHWBKi3U2-Bumy5-RlHl6utbfmmsR2ax7o2UH2jJoTozR6MVo_-wlnjLNeuBeIrANs7PvABifpPeR1dIosvGfQPZkG4hnQimts/s1600/SM_BradentonHerald.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-wPpk7D6f6sIdegh0o_9J5FN6988zsBVou663THqoxHWBKi3U2-Bumy5-RlHl6utbfmmsR2ax7o2UH2jJoTozR6MVo_-wlnjLNeuBeIrANs7PvABifpPeR1dIosvGfQPZkG4hnQimts/s400/SM_BradentonHerald.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
At the final school in my schedule, a reporter from the Bradenton Herald asked a couple of first graders to remain behind, so his accompanying photographer could take pictures while I spoke with the kids about Emotional Abuse. To keep the li’l ’uns focused, I made the discussion into a game, asking them if they could give me examples of “words that hurt.” I was always gladdened by the result of these personal encounters. The knowledge that the children retained about the heady subject matter showed me that my message wasn’t getting lost, but rather was reinforced by the costume, and more importantly, wasn’t creating petrified prepubescents. The wee ones were always smiling and happy and seemed appreciative that they learned something so substantive. To quote John Candy from <i>Home Alone...</i><br />
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<i> “They get over it. Kids are resilient like that.”</i></div>
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When I noticed the photo and article in the next morning’s paper, I was both pleased and annoyed. Unsurprisingly, the reporter asked Hobbs about the man behind the mask. Like every other newsperson before him, he hoped to get the scoop of the century and expose everyone’s Favorite Neighborhood Web-Slinger. <i>The feelings and affect on the child population of Manatee County be damned… We’re talkin’ Pulitzer, here!</i> I’d long come to expect such unethical behavior from the unprincipled press. Just once, I would love to have been shocked by a reporter who did more than give lip service to the idea of “journalistic integrity.”<br />
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But what rankled me more were the responses given to this poor man’s Kolchak. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo from Marvel about how to treat questions about the Spidey portrayer, which is basically as you would if he were the genuine article, i.e. a superhero with a secret identity, based in New York City. This interview-challenged Cretan replied that he did not know the name of the man in the suit (<i>okay so far…</i>) “because Marvel will not allow the actor’s name to be released (<i>Aarrgh!</i>).” Bad enough, Hobbs referred to me as an “actor,” but to then infer that there was a conspiracy behind my anonymity was deplorable. Of course, the salacious member of the media ran with it. He probably had to change his underwear on the way home, he was so excited. I certainly hope Hobbs was better at speaking about issues dealing with child abuse!<br />
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Hobbs went on to explain one of the goals of the Foundation: “…to build a complex of single-family cottages for abuse victims on a property near the DeSoto Speedway…” I’m all for creating a haven for victims of abuse. But outside a car-racing stadium?!! Isn’t planting people within the confines of the deafening engines’ roar of a speedway a different form of abuse? I’m sure—<i>I hope</i>—the idyllic enclave would be far enough away for its inhabitants not to suffer from the noise, but Hobbs could have been clearer about what he meant by “near.”<br />
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I finally met the man himself, Tom Stimus, at the track the next evening. Had I been privy to his outrageous media personality, I might have been intimidated, certainly wary, when meeting him. All I’d heard about the man to that point was that he had built a used-car empire and invested some of the monies earned to purchase and rejuvenate a stagnant local raceway as well as establish a charitable organization to help abuse victims. Far from trepidation or skepticism, I held nothing but esteem for the man.<br />
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Stimus turned out to be more jolly than crazy, with a physique and face that would make Mrs. Claus proud. He didn’t smile so much as beam, his eyes condensed to a pair of crescents by the press of his pudgy cheeks. His hair and wardrobe were an anachronism, representative of a different era. The former was a pomade–sculpted, perfectly symmetrical and prominently side-burned coif, ideal for a touring company of <i>Jersey Boys</i>.<br />
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As for his ensemble, at least Stimus was consistent. It suited his ’do to a tee, the type of outfit seen on appliance salesmen in the fifties. It was a look last seen in <i>Revenge of the Nerds</i>, only without the pocket protector. He reminded me somewhat of my dad, except Stimus’s was a face wrinkled and formed by a lifetime smiling, not scowling.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Anyone who knows my father will see the irony in this picture</i></div>
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Unsurprisingly, he had a meaty paw, matching arms and a hearty handshake. I feared my phalanges would by mangled and visibly throb like Fred Flintstone’s after Bamm-Bamm had gotten a hold of it. But Stimus’s grip, albeit firm, was respectful. He didn’t need to affirm his manhood with an immature display of machismo, i.e. crushing handshake.<br />
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The track was already bursting with fans when I arrived at 6 pm, though the racing wasn’t set to begin until an hour thence. The crowd certainly didn’t develop in minutes and I’d guess the attendees flooded the gates well before they opened at 5. It was a testament to Stimus’s success with the speedway that the place was packed so early. It was also a savvy business move to open the park at dinnertime, ensuring good concession sales, as fans wouldn’t want to risk eating elsewhere for fear of arriving too late to get a seat.<br />
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The early-evening opening and start time also made it more conducive to families, who could enjoy a meal and entertainment and still get the kids home and in bed before 9, if they so desired. To foment the family-friendly atmosphere, Stimus had a picnic area and playground built inside the complex, thus providing plenty of activity for children while they awaited the races to begin.<br />
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Stimus proceeded to take me on a quick tour of the facilities. Without a frame of reference—I’d never been to a race track before—I can’t comment on its standards, but it was in pristine condition, clean, freshly-painted and uncluttered; it seemed like it had only been built a few days before. I was informed I’d be transforming in his office underneath the stadium, which was ideally situated for my intended signing area, the locale of the picnic tables.<br />
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We then entered a spot where parked a lone stock car over which a trio of men were tinkering. More precisely, they were emphatically discussing something as they gesticulated about the car’s backside. I couldn’t fathom what the issue was, but had little time to ponder the situation when my thoughts were interrupted by Stimus, who was in a quandary as to how to introduce me to the crowd. Sure, he could’ve simply announced my arrival over the PA system, but such an unspectacular entrance was anathema to the showman that was <i>Tom Stimus</i>. He suggested my arriving in a racecar, to which I was agreeable, envisioning my Spidey self positioned in the passenger seat, waving to the fans as I cruised by. Again, Stimus interrupted my musings, only this time far more abruptly.<br />
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“The only problem my boys are having is how to secure you to the top.”
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>What?!!</i><br />
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“We were thinking of rigging a rope to the trunk and extending it upward with a piece of wood you could hold onto,” said one of the men.<br />
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It was at this moment that I realized I’d misheard Stimus. He wasn’t proposing I enter the track <i>in</i> the vehicle, but rather <i>on</i> it! These gents wanted me to arrive atop the stock car, mounted to the trunk with nothing but my grip on a makeshift tether, like a performer at Cypress Gardens. And here I was nodding my head like Dopey. <i>What have I agreed to?! Had I acceded to how fast I’d be traveling, yet!</i> I pictured myself flying off the back as the car hit the first turn, holding on for dear life as I bounced along the tarmac like the cans behind a wedding limousine.<br />
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The one time I attempted to water ski, I actually rose successfully on my initial try, only to immediately plunge face-first in the water and swallow half the Atlantic before letting go of the handle. All attempts thereafter faired even worse. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the mischievous side of me wanting to whiz by the stands like Fonzi in the infamous “jump-the-shark” episode of <i>Happy Days</i>, only without the eventual notoriety that continues to live on in infamy.<br />
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<i>“This stunt is going to make my career!”</i></div>
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Stimus’s “boys” had strapped a rope through the trunk, following the base of the rear window, where the ends were tied at its center, a single cord dangling a few feet away and secured to a chunk of wood to be used as a handle. The cable hearkened to the type ubiquitous to jungle adventures, vital to the construction of bridges across vertiginous chasms, which inevitably confront the hero when fleeing angry tribesmen. The thick, fibrous braids prove nigh impossible to sever as the imperiled paladin races desperately to drop the span before his inexorable pursuers overtake him.<br />
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I had to admire their ingenuity, guilt welling up inside me as I contemplated telling them about nixing the ambitious plan. <i>Oh, who the hell was I kidding?</i> I leapt onto the car without pausing to discard my jacket before trying the cobbled tether. The rope was certainly strong enough—I imagine its use to this point was for towing disabled vehicles—and the length felt right as I posed à la Spider-Man, enacting my grand entrance and subsequent spin around the raceway. The dowel was a bit thick for my arachnid appendages to grip as firmly as I would have liked—the “boys” probably predicated my paws on Stimus’s when they fabricated it—but enough so that I could still keep from falling off even while waving to my adoring public… just so long as the speed was kept to a minimum.<br />
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With assurances of the vehicle moving no faster than an octogenarian and zero hour looming, I hustled back to Stimus’s office to change. The tinkering triumvirate promised to have my spider-mobile ready to go upon my return ten minutes later.<br />
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By the time I reappeared in the red-and-blue, the corrugated door had been raised and the Webhead wheels aligned before it, prepped for my coming out party. One of my three inventive motorheads sat behind the wheel, ready to drive me to glory. A cacophony of engines, a stampede of revving horsepower, filled the space from outside the portal. It sounded as though the race had started without me. I could barely hear my screamed query of concern as to whether my fears had merit. My “pit crew” seemed quite amused, their smirking miens saying, “This here Yankee don’t know nothin’ ’bout racing.”<br />
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The explanation had me thinking I was every bit the moron they believed me to be, especially since the noise continued unabated during the few minutes we chatted, meaning that the cars were not moving, yet! <i>Duh!</i> The deafening din was merely the sound of idling motors, albeit mega-powerful ones. But still, had I two brain cells to rub together, I would have realized the sound would have modulated in volume as the cars circumnavigated the track had they been in motion. The competitors were in position awaiting the signal that Spider-Man was ready. They would then proceed around the circuit at a leisurely pace, my vehicle bringing up the rear.<br />
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“So how many times will I be traveling the track,” I asked.<br />
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“Just two,” one of the men replied.<br />
<br />
“Then you’ll bring me back in here, right?” I said, directing the question to my erstwhile chauffeur.<br />
<br />
“Heck, no! The race’ll be starting by then, and the gate’ll be closed. You’ll have to hop off and come through the side door at the starting line while I drive the pace car into the pit area.”<br />
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<i>In a Spider-Man suit, no one can see your jaw drop...</i><br />
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Apparently on the second loop of the oval, the race would begin, the stocks putting pedal to the metal as the green flag signaled the event to begin. I’d be helpless atop my no-longer-so-funny car until the entire field had entered the race before we reached the point where I could hop off and skedaddle out some door I’d never seen before, all whilst a couple dozen automobiles—thousands of pounds of steel—careen back around the speedway at a dizzying velocity toward me.<br />
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“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to get off the track before the cars reach you.”<br />
<br />
<i>Maybe they did notice my jaw drop…</i><br />
<br />
Where I was nervous before, I was scared shitless now. <i>Fuck a slow, steady pace. I don’t care if I appear as nothing but a red-and-blue blur as I speed past the stands. Just get me out of there STAT!</i> I didn’t want to end up roadkill, later to be the main ingredient in Granny Clampett’s arachnid equivalent to ’possum stew.<br />
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<i>“Boil, boil, toil and trouble...”</i></div>
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I clambered aboard—I couldn’t exactly renege on my commitment at this juncture—and the vehicle entered the speedway. The roar of the crowd the minute I breached the entryway drowned out the turbulence of the motors and for a moment I forgot about what lay ahead. I needn’t have worried about my balance; the speedway surface was smooth and I stood firm, seemingly gliding past my screaming fans.<br />
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Visions of an earlier trip to Florida my family took when I was twelve filled my mind. My father had surprised us at Christmas with what would be my first ever trip to Walt Disney World. En route from the airport a billboard advertising Sea World caught our collective eye. It dually featured legendary comedian Bob Hope’s appearance at the venerable aquatic theme park and what made my heart skip a beat, the “Superheroes at Sea World Show.” I was a relative newbie to comic books, a late blooming Marvel Zombie. But when I saw the promo shot of rival publisher DC Comics stars Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash—among others—water skiing atop one another’s shoulders in a pyramid, I forgot all about why we were in Florida. <i>Mickey who?!</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONmxtTQU7bjH9x54uMThbmp0xljPeM_pdis8_GtVYpIouYTqbt-_BLHHd-E_lyor-nrz242JsGjn6UR8sa5k_6xAo1SDedOwbkQ2_uXwoCPMZ8wSy1QH1KP0KyRvmawu2mRJu7OpnRCg/s1600/SeaWorldSuperheros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONmxtTQU7bjH9x54uMThbmp0xljPeM_pdis8_GtVYpIouYTqbt-_BLHHd-E_lyor-nrz242JsGjn6UR8sa5k_6xAo1SDedOwbkQ2_uXwoCPMZ8wSy1QH1KP0KyRvmawu2mRJu7OpnRCg/s400/SeaWorldSuperheros.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>
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To a comics geek of the 70’s, a time when the licensing of our beloved characters was a barren landscape, this type of exposure transcended allegiances. I heard nothing in the rental beyond the huzzah of my brain cells, and it didn’t surprise me one iota when my mom and two sisters detoured to Sea World to secure tickets on our way to the hotel. Even they realized the gravitas of the moment; a once in a lifetime occurrence not to be missed. And like me, wanted to waste as little time as possible seeing this historic event; the very next night we headed back to see the show!<br />
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<a href="http://www.plaidstallions.com/waterski.html"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ4_qnXLbiczU1k9k1bm_tyncReWwTzSoioxOjOklasimTVZJuX62ChrVpkgBARn68-BH10SPoYq3LkVlO29ussHLhv2PsGCjGcAx4UAJ1TlKjOjSgH_VKtIKd4F24lFGumV0hVl5EXg/s400/jokerseaworld2.jpg" width="400" /><span id="goog_1937530488"></span></a><span id="goog_1937530489"></span></div>
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The seats were midway up the bleaches of the open-air amphitheatre where the water-skiing stunt extravaganzas took place. To either side were ramps and other props, festooned in stars and stripes; painted a panoply of vibrant colors; and accessorized with giant ballooned sound effects, the kind ubiquitous to the superhero slug-fests in funny books. I was shaking with excitement. Had I been the Flash, I would’ve vibrated through my seat. Suddenly, the lights went down and the PA announcer introduced Bob Hope! The crowd went wild. I politely clapped. He was obviously just the warm-up act, which explained his mention on the billboard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc7vDs-yWT12Svse1E9ciyueXlGJWZqnhsPWxHahPKHRO3Hpt_OF0OsAlQ5IJp2lzI6veNI1YY-LLUWeiV8duhNRs0Kzp7wUR8nC7bTy8HUo3LRr87sVDvCg2rZJ2RuR0ZF_vuaFhdqc/s1600/BobHope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc7vDs-yWT12Svse1E9ciyueXlGJWZqnhsPWxHahPKHRO3Hpt_OF0OsAlQ5IJp2lzI6veNI1YY-LLUWeiV8duhNRs0Kzp7wUR8nC7bTy8HUo3LRr87sVDvCg2rZJ2RuR0ZF_vuaFhdqc/s200/BobHope.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>
Hope’s routine seemed to go on forever, and I finally asked my mother when the superheroes were going to be coming out. I was crushed to find out they weren’t. We were there to see Bob Hope! I couldn’t have been more disappointed. Here, I was experiencing a National Treasure—BOB-FUCKING-HOPE—and I’m dwelling on missing an aquatic stunt show; not even a Marvel-themed one!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxnacyAVnfgkO330KiuxF5gJgcuCaJaK9k0WL013Jwm3bT5dRNEFwmkfvP9kVMLELR_Cs0bqKbzC9fV3F8H6_CFciFirC-_4cR0THtpps4DAWDbP84jWqpmfoLVUPrB27HcqFB2rU38k/s1600/BobHopeTicketStub001.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxnacyAVnfgkO330KiuxF5gJgcuCaJaK9k0WL013Jwm3bT5dRNEFwmkfvP9kVMLELR_Cs0bqKbzC9fV3F8H6_CFciFirC-_4cR0THtpps4DAWDbP84jWqpmfoLVUPrB27HcqFB2rU38k/s400/BobHopeTicketStub001.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>This is</i><i> the actual ticket stub from the Bob Hope show... </i></div>
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<i>SIX BUCKS!!! I would’</i><i>ve paid twice that to see the Justice League water ski!</i></div>
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My revelry was suddenly broken by a pronounced increase in engine noise before me. I swiveled away from the stands and saw the green flag waving as the racecars burst into high gear across the starting line. From my point of view—the final turn in the circuit—the vehicles in the lead vaulted around the initial turn and would catch up to my car in seconds. <i>C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… MOVE!</i><br />
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But of course I had to wait until the rest of the field in front of me entered the fray. It was like standing at the back of a green light, edging toward an intersection when you’re in a hurry; the only difference was someone’s life was at stake: <i>MINE!</i> I nearly hopped off the car and pushed. Blessedly, we got to my point of departure, but the pack was entering the third turn and baring down on me. I couldn’t have moved more quickly had I been on fire. I skirted through the door and kept running toward the autograph area, ignoring the two amigos—of the three who weren’t driving—awaiting my egress from the track.<br />
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“Hey, how was it?” they asked as I vaulted past.<br />
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“Can’t talk now. Got to get to the picnic tables,” I called back. “Wouldn’t want to keep the children waiting!”<br />
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Despite my hurry, there was already a mob awaiting my arrival, every one of them holding a copy of the custom NCPCA/Spider-Man Emotional Abuse comic book. During the two-hour signing, I must’ve been asked by every other child in line how it was to ride atop the stock car.<br />
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Piece o’ cake,” I replied, though my heart was still pumping in my chest like a jack hammer from the experience. “Sure beats going toe-to-toe with Dr. Octopus.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_a7UsClcczZXWbLgW5WlaBrTYZJFS-UA68GYiyOcNyDjQgnb469wUElWPTnV2ofbPy7aAIlM7yzryXPf2Ru9JWZelpCY5q4dbuP2rSZnk8WkcecqqrN-OG9-rtIQ_jnX_nvZkO_en_w/s1600/snakemongoose1_copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_a7UsClcczZXWbLgW5WlaBrTYZJFS-UA68GYiyOcNyDjQgnb469wUElWPTnV2ofbPy7aAIlM7yzryXPf2Ru9JWZelpCY5q4dbuP2rSZnk8WkcecqqrN-OG9-rtIQ_jnX_nvZkO_en_w/s400/snakemongoose1_copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
The remainder of the evening was spent watching the races, more than a half dozen featuring various types of automobiles. I wouldn’t know a stock car from Stockard Channing and was about as interested. Notwithstanding my love of Hot Wheels cars as a child—I even had the famed Mongoose & Snake Drag Race track—I never got into auto racing. Even the advent of Danica Patrick couldn’t sway my interest (although my URL provider is GoDaddy. <i>Hmm…</i>).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eWbmYRwcc8n0UhdW9WBtAHqQp0ZB4MreWsG96EkiTIrlKBMKJF9qQkyaRxWTOjD5hpVJcj28D7f2FVVUAZzA9zjT06EvYS1UhlRbNkB87MU1JtaV4mLtc8bmik1wmSkEKe7lPcZxf9U/s1600/Danica_Patrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eWbmYRwcc8n0UhdW9WBtAHqQp0ZB4MreWsG96EkiTIrlKBMKJF9qQkyaRxWTOjD5hpVJcj28D7f2FVVUAZzA9zjT06EvYS1UhlRbNkB87MU1JtaV4mLtc8bmik1wmSkEKe7lPcZxf9U/s400/Danica_Patrick.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Nice trunk...</i></div>
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The sport barely projected a blip onto the Boston sports radar screen, and other than the Indianapolis 500, was never broadcast in the area in my youth. Stimus and his crew tried to explain the basics and pointed out impressive moves that certain drivers were making, but to me, it was just a bunch of loud vehicles going endlessly around a giant asphalt oval… <i>yawn</i>.<br />
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Maybe if they put superheroes atop the cars as they sped past…Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-27982647553123756142012-05-30T14:05:00.000-04:002012-05-30T14:08:00.110-04:00“How Can These Guys Lay Off Pitches That Close?”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivD8zFmq_0J5D3iqTCM91nfvuBxlh2jFR3X9EFUHAfkC7VlILzqr80NDSmVRFK4mupBU3L_diT-aF5QGSVJPJB4rXeVuHQPKL7TZ70yxkHlLKsVgLm9DbX6Lv8fmvPo6O9THaf9xaFGSo/s1600/BobEuker_HarryDoyle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivD8zFmq_0J5D3iqTCM91nfvuBxlh2jFR3X9EFUHAfkC7VlILzqr80NDSmVRFK4mupBU3L_diT-aF5QGSVJPJB4rXeVuHQPKL7TZ70yxkHlLKsVgLm9DbX6Lv8fmvPo6O9THaf9xaFGSo/s400/BobEuker_HarryDoyle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>“Here's the pitch. Ball four, and he walked him. <br />That's going to bring the tying run to the plate for the Toronto Blue Jays. A little excitement here at the end. <br />I know I wouldn't have it any other way, <br />and I'm sure you folks feel the same.” </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYy1mI7Ehoo_rCYY9BK6zGLXHnHCLJWxeQcyNxwLRe85DaOr9kQgSOQoA8BHoHfp9EsiYlJYqSFsvsYFCJOPE6Q3QV_nAquHYoAPm_s69Mtec4LvhuD3Qtvfv8rQmTHAo6M-A3OP71gsI/s1600/SV_Age8(-).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYy1mI7Ehoo_rCYY9BK6zGLXHnHCLJWxeQcyNxwLRe85DaOr9kQgSOQoA8BHoHfp9EsiYlJYqSFsvsYFCJOPE6Q3QV_nAquHYoAPm_s69Mtec4LvhuD3Qtvfv8rQmTHAo6M-A3OP71gsI/s200/SV_Age8(-).jpg" width="158" /></a>Faithful Bloglodytes of Heroes need not be reminded of the narrator’s physical ineptitude. To call me <i>athletic</i> would be akin to calling Kim Kardashian <i>talented</i>. Oh, I played the occasional game of kickball or what was referred to as “squash”—same as the former, only the man up hit the oversized rubber ball from their own mitts before running the bases—in grade school. I was never a powerful hitter or booter, but I was small and quick, which helped in getting on base and served me well when escaping the clutches of class bullies.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeE57oebcmLOGNjJwGe2xxjBfXblfqTfsGk3cFOuQ2DcDfu114cUlTtFO8MfaQmejG3QnHvD8lEVXwlzArVR3CdOb9Ph7TO1CfPmmanWvDeCGbSE3mI8exTDVFdqdVKp4od7kCZO9AY4/s1600/MaryAnnWojner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeE57oebcmLOGNjJwGe2xxjBfXblfqTfsGk3cFOuQ2DcDfu114cUlTtFO8MfaQmejG3QnHvD8lEVXwlzArVR3CdOb9Ph7TO1CfPmmanWvDeCGbSE3mI8exTDVFdqdVKp4od7kCZO9AY4/s320/MaryAnnWojner.jpg" width="124" /></a>I was one of the smarter kids, though the blue ribbon would probably have gone to Maryann Wojner, she of the shoulder-length dirty-blond curls and iridescent blue eyes… not that I (<i>ahem</i>) noticed. Of course, being tops in school is like being public enemy number one: you’re everybody’s target. Living apart from my classmates only exacerbated the situation. I grew up in a house on the main commercial street of town—between an Oldsmobile dealership and a funeral parlor and across from a gas station, long-forgotten cemetery and supermarket—too far for a young boy to walk to play with his peers. Thus, I didn’t have the after-school interactivity of my classmates, which contributed to my alienation and shyness.<br />
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My dad was never around much before he and my mom split—when I was eight—and less so thereafter. He was always quick to criticize me, though, with the length of my hair being a particular favorite point of contention. Then there was his keen interest in my athletic activities, or rather, my lack thereof. “Why don’t you play (<i>insert sport here</i>),” was a typical refrain following the opening verse on the measure of my mane. The remarks were made with such vehemence as to be more of a shakedown than an absentee father’s interest in his son’s life. All that was missing was the fizzling bare light bulb above my head. It’s as if I’d somehow offended him.<br />
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Not once did he play catch with me, show me the proper way to hold a football or take me to a game. He actually gave me a football, helmet and shoulder pads for Christmas one year, as if the mere ownership of the proper equipment was all that was required to induce a person to participate in a sport. I’m sure Mario Batali’s career as a chef began when his father dumped a couple bags of groceries on his lap one day before leaving the house.<br />
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Shunning baseball was harder. The car dealership’s lot may have wrapped behind our backyard, but just beyond that was the park where the area’s yearly Little League tryouts were held. The weeks leading up to them I was pelted, prodded and verbally assaulted by my dad to partake in America’s pastime. Did he offer to take me over to the fields himself? What, and elevate his status from sperm donor to father?!! <i>Hell, no!</i><br />
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It wasn’t until a few years later that I picked up a bat for the first time. By then fate had decided that the one ray of hope I had growing up—my skinniness and speed—had expired. I’d ballooned to two hundred pounds, though my height remained constant: a scant 5' 7".<br />
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My mother blamed the Prednisone that I was put on after suffering a bout of Bell’s Palsy in sixth grade. True, one of the side effects of the drug is weight gain, but that just happened to also be one of the unfortunate genetic underpinnings of being a Vrattos.
“Difficulty in controlling emotion,” “depression,” “mania” and “psychosis” are also listed as possible results of using Prednisone, but you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference in my level of mental instability before using the drug and after!<br />
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Thankfully the partial paralysis of my face that resulted from the affliction went away—like I needed another obstacle in my treacherous climb toward adulthood—but the additional girth in my midriff remained. Gone was the elusiveness that had saved my life more than a few times in elementary school, just in time to have organized sports foisted upon me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTMlv5ib9E7BU9TyNKFDJAbI00DFNcWaU3LKzLIa_J6bI2L_NWSL5RqY_qS0298yJaCNLzHFpjpv5SEHBY49O_SturJCH6EusaaiYBJd_05r2l8QDWxbms7KXUjHstI2X0rckAX4xbyNc/s1600/Roxburylatinschool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTMlv5ib9E7BU9TyNKFDJAbI00DFNcWaU3LKzLIa_J6bI2L_NWSL5RqY_qS0298yJaCNLzHFpjpv5SEHBY49O_SturJCH6EusaaiYBJd_05r2l8QDWxbms7KXUjHstI2X0rckAX4xbyNc/s400/Roxburylatinschool.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The private all-boys school my parents enrolled me in, and to which I was accepted and studied from seventh to twelfth grades, had a strict policy of every boy participating in sports the fall and spring seasons of the school year—the winter season was optional. One’s choices in the spring were tennis (<i>Sh’yeah, right!</i>), Lacrosse (<i>Isn’t that what they nailed Joan d’Arc to?</i>) or baseball. Unsurprisingly, I picked the latter.<br />
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There was such a turnout for America’s pastime in my sixie year—newbies who faced half a dozen years ’til graduation—that two teams were established, the “adepts” and the “inepts.” Guess which category I fell into? I didn’t mind. The thought of displaying my total lack of athleticism in front of anyone, never mind my peers, terrified me. Having to do so in front of my class’s baseball elite would only have heightened my failings.<br />
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I took up position in right field, perennial home of untalented ball players. The few times the coach hit to me in practice, I zigzagged the field like I was being shot at, only to arrive too late to catch the ball… <i>if</i> I was near it at all. I wouldn’t have made the roster of the Bad News Bears. My right-field play made Lupus look like a Gold Glover.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zkzR3MaHELcjt4XJyqOhOZsK4-kfGZqBK32p-un5_VdV4dk5P361MNVjcEEXqC8cNIGNBWPvwT3PYmSWonM65dnD3klyw7akpvSNU2B1lVg5qYIdQlSJLVdFZ9-V6DGypjoEffwTXm0/s1600/BNB+1977+04+Timmy+Lupus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zkzR3MaHELcjt4XJyqOhOZsK4-kfGZqBK32p-un5_VdV4dk5P361MNVjcEEXqC8cNIGNBWPvwT3PYmSWonM65dnD3klyw7akpvSNU2B1lVg5qYIdQlSJLVdFZ9-V6DGypjoEffwTXm0/s400/BNB+1977+04+Timmy+Lupus.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
As for hitting, they changed the name to <i>missing</i> when it was my turn at batting practice. I don’t think I could’ve hit a T-ball, if that were even an option. My “talents” were only put to the test one time: the final game of the season. I think the coach was obligated to play everyone at least once. Fortunately, the season-ender wasn’t a nail-biter. I swear I heard him sigh in relief as the opposing team increased the lead to the point where it would’ve taken Murderer’s Row for us to have any hope of a comeback. At least he could utilize me safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t <i>lose</i> the game.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8AOpCQfgw2j1A2lq3LnoLCLcRiPMS9s7mzWcmeIPgpHP-UXcijnbWYzW1yK5AHJ2afrZc-AGCx60MUtxc9Vo456uKSt6o1z04jzI6pI25cyh2soS0lSi0A6WgCmQbZA__qLtSzPbP5uM/s1600/Casey-at-the-Bat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8AOpCQfgw2j1A2lq3LnoLCLcRiPMS9s7mzWcmeIPgpHP-UXcijnbWYzW1yK5AHJ2afrZc-AGCx60MUtxc9Vo456uKSt6o1z04jzI6pI25cyh2soS0lSi0A6WgCmQbZA__qLtSzPbP5uM/s200/Casey-at-the-Bat.jpg" width="200" /></a>I made a single plate appearance and struck out in three pitches. I take solace in knowing that I only swung at the third one. At least my opponent had to earn the first two strikes himself. Thus endeth my baseball career. All of which made throwing out the first pitch at a Major League Baseball game <i>so-o-o-o-o-o</i> sweet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2lFjKrPgl-2GSAB8zE1NISZpGE4xfg-JYC-jZZ7wZsUTPKTXbMFn1x6PoStpKC7xhSPMiHUFq2bf5HQc575JHpK2PKSs4NCRDuAGc2io97-Eb1rEk5tklj4stOeY0_jEs2Rz_-chTZ7c/s1600/asmdt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2lFjKrPgl-2GSAB8zE1NISZpGE4xfg-JYC-jZZ7wZsUTPKTXbMFn1x6PoStpKC7xhSPMiHUFq2bf5HQc575JHpK2PKSs4NCRDuAGc2io97-Eb1rEk5tklj4stOeY0_jEs2Rz_-chTZ7c/s200/asmdt.jpg" width="132" /></a>I’d barely defrosted from my trip across Canada for the countrywide kickoff press tour for the Canadian Association of Chiefs of Police’s custom Spider-Man comic book program (see “<a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/06/northern-exposure-part-i-who-was-that_22.html">Northern Exposure, Parts I</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/06/as-you-my-faithful-bloglodytes-may.html">II</a>”), when the second book in the series was released. “Double Trouble” sported both cover and interior art by Herb Trimpe and was written by Dwayne McDuffie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtQ4XSus1qpW3EekUb5sWnvTID49Lbp-7VDhUoLWZMh0ABoZuG5fPJMyFa9I612V5zaWvM5BzRfNOCgKAsGm-SUUc3kuftP6IIKni3UKwbco5Vxkatzy15TbnuWsqiR4tpUU6Sd10ZRmc/s1600/HitAndRun_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtQ4XSus1qpW3EekUb5sWnvTID49Lbp-7VDhUoLWZMh0ABoZuG5fPJMyFa9I612V5zaWvM5BzRfNOCgKAsGm-SUUc3kuftP6IIKni3UKwbco5Vxkatzy15TbnuWsqiR4tpUU6Sd10ZRmc/s200/HitAndRun_Cover.jpg" width="130" /></a>Continuing the anti-drug theme of the inaugural book—“Skating on Thin Ice”—the Chameleon infiltrates a science fair in Fredericton, Ontario, interested in one of the students’ projects, one that he believes could lead to untold fortunes. To get closer to the object of his desire, he takes on the aspect of a student, one dabbling in drugs. As luck would have it, Daily Bugle photographer, Peter Parker, is sent to Canada to take pix at the fair. <i>What are the chances?</i> Our Web-tastic Web-Slinger exposes the culprit and foils his nefarious plans, serving up a few lessons about the evils of drugs in the process.<br />
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Even given the tighter scripting and storytelling of the era—as opposed to many of today’s comics penned in the “decompressed” style, which would tell the same tale over the course of twelve issues, each of which could be read in five minutes—one would be hard-pressed to have finished “Double Trouble” before the initial triumvirate of Canadian PSAs was completed with the release of “Hit and Run.”<br />
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Steering away from the serious subject of drug abuse, the Toronto-set tertiary tome presents the issue of bicycle safety as the subtext to its Spider-Man adventure. To replace the excitement that may have been lost by switching from the creepiness of drugs to the less sensational, yet no less important, topic of bike safety, scribe Dwayne McDuffie includes Ghost Rider in the mix. The scene when the flaming-skull–benoggined motorcycle-riding demon warns a group of youngsters to “wear your helmets… Or you will see me again” is all-at-once unsettling and funny. After all, the Harley Hellion never dons one himself. True, it could be argued that he’s already dead—what’s the worst that could happen—but there’s still the point of his threatening the children. Heck, I’d be wearing a helmet 24/7 after that!<br />
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As with the first two books in the series, “Hit and Run” is peppered with Canadian personalities and Spidey’s signature web-slinging takes him swinging by, over and from the landmarks of the city, including a nice shot of the Wall-Crawler swinging from the city’s preeminent skyline feature, the CN? Tower. No surprise, since the brunt of the adventure is set within the Skydome—now Rogers Centre—home of the twice champion Blue Jays, located at the base of the towering edifice.<br />
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All but forgotten Canadian comic-book artist Jim Craig, who had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth—certainly the face of the funny book industry—was rediscovered by oft-mentioned Eric Conroy (see “<a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/06/northern-exposure-part-i-who-was-that_22.html">Northern Exposure, Parts I</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/06/as-you-my-faithful-bloglodytes-may.html">II</a>”), the marketing brains behind the program. Craig's limited funny-book resume includes the interior penciling chores for Marvel’s <i>What If... #1</i>: “What If Spider-Man Had Joined the Fantastic Four?” He took over the art chores for the series with issue three and his dynamic, quirky style—reminiscent of Todd McFarlane and Bernie Wrightson—makes one wonder why he ever left the 4-color world.<br />
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After the relatively subdued release of “Double Trouble”—a WaWa signing here, a Tim Horton appearance there—the third issue was heralded in spectacular fashion: Spider-Man throwing out the first pitch at a Toronto Blue Jays game! And the honor of donning the red-and-blue befell to Eric’s favorite man in tights: me, the anti-Mr. Baseball. Fortunately, I wasn’t expected to hit the ball or field. Otherwise, it would’ve been a long night indeed, though a fitting punishment, emphasis on the <i>pun</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Av1ucnDpN1zFdCa8JZJZ_stmJ_2efIdVZmyb3DhQlN62_-8KEC34YHkaAGd9ci5SnAu3g9E19FuOaxYkTLDKTpM3D3GHAeROohGy4PwupC2iW8lzgGFZasT7hryAXjosHH7kFC4N6rw/s1600/foghorn_leghorn3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Av1ucnDpN1zFdCa8JZJZ_stmJ_2efIdVZmyb3DhQlN62_-8KEC34YHkaAGd9ci5SnAu3g9E19FuOaxYkTLDKTpM3D3GHAeROohGy4PwupC2iW8lzgGFZasT7hryAXjosHH7kFC4N6rw/s200/foghorn_leghorn3.jpg" width="147" /></a>Y’see, I frequently quipped with those young charges at gigs who were obviously fans of America’s favorite pastime—whether it be apparent from a hat or T-shirt they wore—about what a good ballplayer I was. Before they could respond I’d mention how exceptional I was at fielding because I was great at catching flies. <i>Get it? Spider…? Catching flies…? I keep lobbing them to ya, son, and you keep missing them. Boy’s as sharp as a bag full of wet mice.</i> Anyway, The kids would stare while their parents simultaneously groaned and chuckled. T’would serve me right to be to have to prove it!<br />
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Despite my dismal credentials, it wasn’t like I couldn’t throw a baseball. I enjoyed the occasional game of Pickle (aka Squeeze) and participated in softball games. It also helped that my oldest sister was the athlete that I wasn’t, so we engaged in a game of catch now and again, in between our one-on-one street hockey matches in the backyard.<br />
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Still, though the inaugural throw of a ballgame is more of a ceremonial toss to the catcher than anything resembling a pitch, there is the onus of having one and only one shot at it. Oh, yeah, and thousands of people are watching you from the stands with millions more across the continent. There was also the certainty of making the highlight reel—not in a good way—of ESPN, never mind the various local sports telecasts, if I pulled an “epic fail.” If the pressure of the situation weren’t enough on its own, I had to contend with a skintight spandex outfit, which afforded skewed depth perception and zero tactility in my fingers.<br />
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So the last thing on my mind was throwing a strike; my main concern was simply getting the ball to the catcher without his having to perform some gymnastic maneuver to keep it from flying into the stands. I could always play a soft lob as me just being careful not to use my Spidey strength for fear of hurting the catcher, if so questioned by the reporters splayed out behind home plate and along the first and third baselines, with their shutterbug and camera man entourages, all there to get a good view of Spider-Man’s historic throw. But missing the target completely was out of the question. I was a superhero, after all, with powers and abilities far beyond those of the hoi polloi; not some octogenarian political figure or long-retired local sports hero. <i>They</i> could be forgiven; Spider-Man would not.<br />
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Is it any wonder my memories of the event are foggy at best. I have no recollection of donning the red-and-blue, although I must have at some point and somewhere within the Skydome facility. It may very well have been a janitor’s closet in the access corridors, which surround the field under the bleachers. I was escorted directly from the dressing room to my entrance point. Along the line I put on a Jays baseball hat. There was barely enough time for me to be nervous, never mind practice my pitch, though I recall being terrified as I waited in the wings for the PA announcer to introduce me to the thousands of fans, which filled the arena.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54cZGdfE-0BpqdM1DKYkMtKmIfgpFUdj93yDNe9DkryU_3ejyT-UpPGuy58Wcz174eOAp28zQU3gIzIpoxe67K35ofxB_IFLo1QQ6DwKlvPKlwkF3I21sfOaxcHU8zjBqeVHScH2445w/s1600/Rodney_Dangerfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54cZGdfE-0BpqdM1DKYkMtKmIfgpFUdj93yDNe9DkryU_3ejyT-UpPGuy58Wcz174eOAp28zQU3gIzIpoxe67K35ofxB_IFLo1QQ6DwKlvPKlwkF3I21sfOaxcHU8zjBqeVHScH2445w/s200/Rodney_Dangerfield.jpg" width="142" /></a>Somehow I got onto the field. I didn’t screw around; just trotted to the mound, as I would were I relieving the starter. My body was a tingle, and I felt as exposed as those dreams where you enter the classroom without any clothes on. “All we need is one pin, Rodney,” a quote from the successful Lite Beer commercials of the 70–80s, looped in my mind. The <i>Rodney</i> in question was <i>Dangerfield</i> and he indeed missed hitting a single bowling pin in the classic ad. I ignored the voices in my head and concentrated on the Blue Jays catcher, Pat Borders.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibju_1uRj5M4Bvs39-sWYZ0zOVu-BJIBUqPd_1hCIb_VjMR7B9JdWMWfzgOnm4XA5zslHUUK9CyDuCe_W7iSf56kDrtNOG0V0uakT_z1R9yqfETxhr2f1OYNIrrsfdbsQnOgoRoZLwlsg/s1600/jonathan-papelbon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibju_1uRj5M4Bvs39-sWYZ0zOVu-BJIBUqPd_1hCIb_VjMR7B9JdWMWfzgOnm4XA5zslHUUK9CyDuCe_W7iSf56kDrtNOG0V0uakT_z1R9yqfETxhr2f1OYNIrrsfdbsQnOgoRoZLwlsg/s200/jonathan-papelbon.jpg" width="138" /></a>Thank God for the Jays cap. One thing I hadn’t counted on was the stadium lighting, which had the affect on me of snow blindness when I raised my head to any degree. The hat’s brim shielded those unforgiving beams as long as I tilted my head down, like former Red Sox reliever John Papelbon trying to garner a save. I “stared down” Borders to get a bead on where he was and affected a wind-up. Again, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone; I just didn’t want to make a fool of myself.<br />
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I released the ball and prayed that I judged the distance correctly. The ball did indeed arc toward the plate, but I hit the mark with little more than Borders having to adjust his mitt about a foot higher than its starting point. I needn’t be told what to do next: I jogged to home plate where Borders met me with a hearty handshake and praise for a ball well thrown. I apologized if it was a little hard, citing the excitement of the moment making me forget to ease up on using my powers. He seemed tickled by the exchange.<br />
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But now what do I do. I felt like Rudy after he’s finally allowed into the last Notre Dame game of the season. No one directed me off the field so I joined the players in the singing of both the Canadian and American national anthems. As is their wont, the fans cheered during the final measure and the game was afoot. As the home team, the Blue Jays would be hitting last, so they trotted out to the field, while their opponent, the Kansas City Royals prepared to bat. I kept expecting the umpire or other baseball Nabob to direct me off the field, but no such person materialized.<br />
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<i>Of all the dugouts in all the ballparks in all the world, he has to be seated in mine!</i></div>
<i> </i> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBqINyRi2QK-XPGxFe4wdEviIfABunmqzcS-gkuWmAZvNVrhXpke8VpKjVdVok0dDRw8s-d7kgBhnhbr3xjpBVTIrFPsPxG4hx1sdv67Bjx5CEk7TW6iOkEi_6CHQDAOjPFSk5DdYMPc/s1600/mookie-buckner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBqINyRi2QK-XPGxFe4wdEviIfABunmqzcS-gkuWmAZvNVrhXpke8VpKjVdVok0dDRw8s-d7kgBhnhbr3xjpBVTIrFPsPxG4hx1sdv67Bjx5CEk7TW6iOkEi_6CHQDAOjPFSk5DdYMPc/s200/mookie-buckner.jpg" width="155" /></a> So naturally I headed for the Blue Jays dugout where I’m greeted by Mookie Wilson, former New York Met and beloved Red Sox nemesis, whose infamous game-winning hit trickled through Bill Buckner’s legs in legendary Game Six of the 1986 World Series. Portraying the idol of the Big Apple, I betrayed not a wit of my Beantown roots. On the contrary, I was beside myself with effusiveness, heartily praising my “hometown” hero and perching next to him on the bench.<br />
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Next thing you know, Mookie and I are up on the stadium jumbo-tron, the fans screaming in delight as I playfully struck a pose and Wilson joined in with his own Spider-Man maneuver.<br />
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Our antics proved too much of a distraction, however—apparently there was a ball game going on—and the aforementioned arena henchman appeared to ask that I accompany him from the park. I waved and bowed, relishing my remaining moments in the Big Show, as I headed for the exit.
The Blue Jays went on to beat the Royals 4–2 on their way to the best record in the American League Eastern Division. They would eventually lose in the playoffs, but win back-to-back Major League Championships in ’92 and ’93. Coincidentally, future New York Yankees pitcher, David Wells, got the win, inspired no doubt by sharing the mound with Spider-Man!Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-31385589962115505142012-03-08T13:22:00.005-05:002012-04-08T11:44:07.770-04:001991: A Spider Oddity<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguq04b814HHn-ZWRjAYIc9higSQFRvyKr5OUYS6zJ38Z3ahyphenhyphenNges1o36yVPjmPFX4qjC7F-XW8EQ2OuahqZZXI7dtw9m7l64hFF-gcaQ5jJ_r2_hJlsSKgmxg5aR4MMYn4mE8Un2VCTY/s1600/SM_CityTV1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguq04b814HHn-ZWRjAYIc9higSQFRvyKr5OUYS6zJ38Z3ahyphenhyphenNges1o36yVPjmPFX4qjC7F-XW8EQ2OuahqZZXI7dtw9m7l64hFF-gcaQ5jJ_r2_hJlsSKgmxg5aR4MMYn4mE8Un2VCTY/s400/SM_CityTV1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717964388034447282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Good morning, Toronto!”</span><br /></div><br />I received an unexpected email from my buddy Eric Conroy this week which serves as further proof that as the internet has expanded mankind’s horizons around the world, so too has it proven how small the planet actually is. Eric, as My Faithful Bloglodytes may recall, was the evil marketing genius—said with equal parts adoration and jealousy—that concocted the successful custom Spider-Man comic campaign that infiltrated Canada in the 90s.<br /><br />I loyally served as his Web-Swinger du jour on many appearances—recounted in past postings and many to come—across the Great White North during that time and came to appreciate how downright balmy my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts, was in comparison. I was the Igor to his Baron von Frankenstein, the Minion to his Megamind.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg690PZ_3m5r6gS8_SdNV2noFYVA4COzyxVg0aH2ClcpVXOfomCglMWs8sBWsMAiysUUPmWxAQRGsX7Trh8xTkm707cw3W4Q95hMZmuAeP6l3tTVuK4nmP65GJV7bkD7R_smJ7JSjjK5B0/s1600/megamind_minion.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg690PZ_3m5r6gS8_SdNV2noFYVA4COzyxVg0aH2ClcpVXOfomCglMWs8sBWsMAiysUUPmWxAQRGsX7Trh8xTkm707cw3W4Q95hMZmuAeP6l3tTVuK4nmP65GJV7bkD7R_smJ7JSjjK5B0/s400/megamind_minion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717957439597573890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Okay, Minion, you were right, and I was... less right!”</span><br /></div><br />Recently, his eldest, Ed Conroy, founded <a href="http://www.retrontario.com/">Retrontario.com</a> after amassing a collection of used videotapes from the 80s and 90s. The site’s mission, “to celebrate the neglected corners of Ontario’s rich televisual history; to put back into circulation material which rightly or wrongly had fallen into a black hole and was for all intents and purposes, lost,” does so by converting these lost gems of esoteric Canuck visual ephemera to the web and making them available for all to enjoy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.retrontario.com/about/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 387px; height: 351px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7Xnxh1QcFfwAuugj4wJMHBp7aLWGzQDCopJbkvDz0M3HxdVFViDpOUjaKzM_cF2VlQxwaQ9K75S-uOTgN32UIE56m3e2B_KiXOD4pHrbY9mjOq-mlya4qAzTbA9AMVp4Bi2B5iiwZYg/s400/Ed_Treasure.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717958923148810210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Retrontario.com</span>’<span style="font-style: italic;">s founder with his find</span><br /></div><br />Local ads, show teasers, network promos—the sort of material most would have taped over or edited out—have been mined from obscurity, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEeObwxMmSXN_e-lOYKk1L-wEzpNcgL0WHIf-EKXyHKJkAwUBArdIFu6gAyeI49YBD-KZwEqfBnx-eDupeRdy8QLKrVLV2NHKTCBx8hEDeAq1rIDBXNpMQCKPFfKhrWHpqLaUsjN_Ekg/s1600/FelixJugglingMice.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEeObwxMmSXN_e-lOYKk1L-wEzpNcgL0WHIf-EKXyHKJkAwUBArdIFu6gAyeI49YBD-KZwEqfBnx-eDupeRdy8QLKrVLV2NHKTCBx8hEDeAq1rIDBXNpMQCKPFfKhrWHpqLaUsjN_Ekg/s200/FelixJugglingMice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717962174881873602" border="0" /></a>including those fade-in and fade-outs ubiquitous to morning TV. You recognize the type: area wake-up talk-fest host ends segment, then hints to what’s to come with a shot of the particular guest awaiting their fifteen minutes of fame on the studio couch. “When we come back, a girl who juggles kittens…” Cue shot of girl, waving to viewers with an armful of tabbies, as the show fades to commercial.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitF3q6qb3NS4i1fSXbPkajKxDbanixSpAInFTRU5axqKfhHlV3R1TXxlrkIjKtLTbbjmzubhaS8lPd_O_CJaeGQBw15QaE9LLSBcwxmTl2miTTFNBq4_6E2UEVbWWbhaFAKHs8UenMQeU/s1600/kraken.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitF3q6qb3NS4i1fSXbPkajKxDbanixSpAInFTRU5axqKfhHlV3R1TXxlrkIjKtLTbbjmzubhaS8lPd_O_CJaeGQBw15QaE9LLSBcwxmTl2miTTFNBq4_6E2UEVbWWbhaFAKHs8UenMQeU/s200/kraken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717963225228809490" border="0" /></a>I appeared on Toronto’s City-TV morning show as part of the kick-off for the Canadian Spider-Man comics. I’d long forgotten the instance, now deeply buried among the detritus of my mind, which at this point resembles one of the homes on <span style="font-style: italic;">Hoarders</span>. This brief segment, though, roused the memory of the gig like the Kraken of Greek myth.<br /><br />As with any spot on a live telecast, guests are instructed to arrive at the studio hours ahead of time. The producers have a general idea when each segment will run—top of the second hour; bottom of the first, etc.—but bits get shuffled as other stories play out, breaking news comes in or celebrity guests run late, early or cancel at the last second. There’s also the issue of makeup, which the studio hustles people into as soon as they arrive, so they’ll be ready whenever, <span style="font-style: italic;">if ever</span>, their spot happens. I needn’t have been there as early as I was if for no other reason than the fact that I didn’t need makeup!<br /><br />City-TV’s Toronto studio was located in a hip commercial area just outside the major metropolitan district of the city. It was fronted by a large window, which allowed passers-by to watch the telecasts live. Of course, I entered in my civvies, the red-and-blue in a small over-the-shoulder gym bag.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKqPRfnIviF3qW_9HxTGficZ-0B_3WyJGR78Syr-70Oa0XnIey1QLz2zXUBBHrUXvuRfg_ZDOysyln2i-8A7xrYtPUBGWkEUYPRTqLCmCgiBR_J_UFzXE-eiyC07GIy0crX6E_Ext1o8/s1600/SM_CityTV5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 341px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKqPRfnIviF3qW_9HxTGficZ-0B_3WyJGR78Syr-70Oa0XnIey1QLz2zXUBBHrUXvuRfg_ZDOysyln2i-8A7xrYtPUBGWkEUYPRTqLCmCgiBR_J_UFzXE-eiyC07GIy0crX6E_Ext1o8/s400/SM_CityTV5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717963839622512418" border="0" /></a>“<span style="font-style: italic;">You really ought to get those bicuspids checked!</span>”</div><br />“You don’t look like Spider-Man,” the producer remarked when I was presented to him by the show runner. And he wasn’t trying to be funny. Certainly not the first time I’d received that reaction, and it wouldn’t be the last.<br /><br />“Well, I don’t have the suit on, yet,” I’d reply, good-naturedly. At least I attempted to be good-natured, but given the hour I had to wake up in order to arrive at the studio at the requested time, my level of social graces was dangerously low. Fortunately, the sarcastic tone of my voice went unnoticed, and I was quickly escorted to my dressing room, i.e. the bathroom, and told to change <span style="font-style: italic;">tout de suite</span>.<br /><br />When I bounded from the loo—not to be confused with <span style="font-style: italic;">skipping to my loo</span>—I was greeted with smiles and laughter. <span style="font-style: italic;">How’s my appearance now Mr. Producer?!</span> Obviously, he, too, liked what he saw. He directed me to the set and explained how the show needed to first present the local news, after which came a station-identification and sponsor break. Upon return I would be introduced to speak with the hosts about the Canadian custom-comic campaign. They wanted Spidey, however, in the background during the fade to commercial.<br /><br />“We’ll have you sitting on the couch,” the producer explained, pointing in the general direction of the furnishings by the makeshift kitchenette.<br /><br />I then hopped onto the set and leapt upon the counter. “I feel more comfortable up here. Gives me a chance to be at my most spidery,” I suggested, knowing full well how cool I looked and how much better a shot it would be for the viewers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjPKms9z054zYSjbX_JJ0nyscwlTn4aCM9T33lPUZUHNc3StuSDmvWcMwsQQm-wDBu4tcKRvrgAC9WUoqZmu0ruTRDYSW5kgDKGACZqzotlPKZojuk9A7Qg5xFxoxfzde2t_qc35QyXI/s1600/SM_CityTV3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjPKms9z054zYSjbX_JJ0nyscwlTn4aCM9T33lPUZUHNc3StuSDmvWcMwsQQm-wDBu4tcKRvrgAC9WUoqZmu0ruTRDYSW5kgDKGACZqzotlPKZojuk9A7Qg5xFxoxfzde2t_qc35QyXI/s400/SM_CityTV3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717964647913004194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“</span><span style="font-style: italic;">I</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">m ready for my close-up!</span><span style="font-style: italic;">”</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Lo and behold, he agreed, and I remained crouched in position while he changed the staging, moving the hosts from the couch to bar stools sidled up by <span style="font-style: italic;">moi</span>. And it was there I stayed for another half hour, while one thing after another pushed my segment further back in the rotation. I believe my smart idea backfired on me, as the producer was milking his Spider-Man set-dressing as long as possible, Finally, the news was reported and the show faded to commercial, the scene discovered by Ed/Retrontario.com and presented here.<br /></div><br />Whether the actual interview still awaits unearthing or is lost forever remains to be seen, but after the teaser was posted, the sudden appearance of Spider-Man partaking in a coffee Klatch with the Matt Lauer and Katie Couric of Canada as the cameras went to sponsors, prompted the question <a href="http://andoneshallsurelydie.wordpress.com/2012/03/06/a-retro-mystery-why-was-spider-man-on-city-tv-in-1991/">“Why was Spider-Man on CITY-TV in 1991?”</a> on Evan Anett’s Canuck superhero blog, <a href="http://andoneshallsurelydie.wordpress.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">And One Shall Surely Die!</span></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://andoneshallsurelydie.wordpress.com/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOY38dwt35s-FJVcu03G-rczypc2oHqlJ9QEzHT8b2qdl9o14PpKXipj7o9R9nGcGzeR74YlpqgWxyRgy0q1mE3UohyphenhyphenZ80TdV4s5BDd_xFeh7RaNu7T3ThKA0SpyDTIZyk5hodRxGtioE/s400/AndOneShallSurelyDie_HeaderArt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717959925347034418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">And One Shall Surely Die!</span><br /></div><br />Ed, responding to the strand of spaghetti that stuck to the wall, i.e. one of the multitude of rare taped tidbits he’s uploaded that sparked feedback, notified his dad, who in turn told me. I, as I’m sure most of the people who view Ed’s stash of uncommon video goodness, was tickled red-and-blue to discover this televised pearl of one of my performances and straightaway resolved the mystery for Evan and his Followers in the comments section of the posting.<br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jL6I7bcBCOo" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-24086110136085057282012-03-01T14:57:00.022-05:002012-03-17T10:15:02.439-04:00An Ounce of Prevention<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDDf8ajub9gjnaS5LeZWeep5GNx1_ZYFdm8GcLn6_orntCI6Gq2S-tsOvSSHViS17WIglKYIz8zhwXc8VxAH6ylD_dsnl3FzonTUKfQdNgZaGn83aoMlE1MA2DD4jf78C-QN1qwGo3UM/s1600/SMAbuseComic1Front001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDDf8ajub9gjnaS5LeZWeep5GNx1_ZYFdm8GcLn6_orntCI6Gq2S-tsOvSSHViS17WIglKYIz8zhwXc8VxAH6ylD_dsnl3FzonTUKfQdNgZaGn83aoMlE1MA2DD4jf78C-QN1qwGo3UM/s400/SMAbuseComic1Front001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715058829199312610" border="0" /></a>There were two major newspapers in Boston when I was growing up. Sadly, that’s two more than most cities in the U.S. have remaining. But at the time, the paper trade was still a thriving business. Our family did not subscribe to either, though we faithfully picked up the Sunday edition of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Boston Globe</span>. I’ll never forget the first time I was tasked to get the paper for the family one Sunday. I was about ten-years-old and the mercantile—affectionately called “The Corner Store,” though I never learned its actual name—was a stone’s throw away, literally on the corner of the block on which I lived.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81l0x4XOINIPj7itRy4p9gusPYf6J4-6wA3_drjptHRca0k4OPxKYL8mnPwpfvrH5nKIdQlhIP337QKbv-kkNV6C7JXltolfUeBves96bJKEQ9z7UvTM_x696t3ZwtsdebLNjeVGMChw/s1600/BroomHilda.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81l0x4XOINIPj7itRy4p9gusPYf6J4-6wA3_drjptHRca0k4OPxKYL8mnPwpfvrH5nKIdQlhIP337QKbv-kkNV6C7JXltolfUeBves96bJKEQ9z7UvTM_x696t3ZwtsdebLNjeVGMChw/s200/BroomHilda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715045620739838322" border="0" /></a>I dutifully purchased the paper and scampered back home, only to get a tongue-lashing from my parents and endless berating from my sisters, because I had picked up the <span style="font-style: italic;">Boston Herald</span>, the other aforementioned major metropolitan newspaper. In my naïvete, I bought the one with the best funnies. I mean, the news was the news, right? But not every paper had <span style="font-style: italic;">Peanuts</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Broom</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Hilda</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Moose Miller</span> and <span>the</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Amazing Spider-Man</span>. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8RzYAbGIrkJ2JPKYlo5Oacx1fKrPkT8AcEtzPp6FfmELlcO2dWm-EyQ55VEvXszYXOtjM9lMFBLDQ2XGfPMwlLPLKdGSAC1WuYdDwswhNWfXTWf6d_dD0r4WeDofppOb66_vnjQQUe0/s1600/FredBasset.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8RzYAbGIrkJ2JPKYlo5Oacx1fKrPkT8AcEtzPp6FfmELlcO2dWm-EyQ55VEvXszYXOtjM9lMFBLDQ2XGfPMwlLPLKdGSAC1WuYdDwswhNWfXTWf6d_dD0r4WeDofppOb66_vnjQQUe0/s200/FredBasset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715045766951166866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Globe</span> had less comics and crummy ones—to my young mind—like <span style="font-style: italic;">Fred Basset</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Brenda Starr </span>(Over time, I came to love <span style="font-style: italic;">Fred Basset</span>, the subtle humor of which was lost on my wee mind). I took the abuse and enjoyed my funnies and wasn’t asked to get the paper for some time thereafter.<br /><br />Jump forward a decade and my family is still loyally buying the <span style="font-style: italic;">Sunday Boston Globe</span>, and that periodical still had an inferior comics section to that of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Herald</span>’s. Imagine my surprise, though, when I opened the comics spreadsheet to find myself face-to-face with my future alter-ego. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Amazing Spider-Man</span> had swung into the pages of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Globe</span>. My excitement, however, was short-lived as I dove into the strip. WTF does not begin to describe my reaction. <span style="font-style: italic;">Peter Parker, a victim of childhood sexual abuse?!!</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ltw4rJ1JP9drUQgYkVbaoQyUXjWAsjtxwes2rIYdXJhhz_Sye5L9FYEQCwHNu8UDJ3Q6sbmawSd_8ZJZnOjgDHtCAl6Wzyq3l_TGCCp54op8o9jiwVdwDIYKtTpJO_9JwI68s-7lVN4/s1600/ChildAbuse_NewspaperComic.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 397px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ltw4rJ1JP9drUQgYkVbaoQyUXjWAsjtxwes2rIYdXJhhz_Sye5L9FYEQCwHNu8UDJ3Q6sbmawSd_8ZJZnOjgDHtCAl6Wzyq3l_TGCCp54op8o9jiwVdwDIYKtTpJO_9JwI68s-7lVN4/s400/ChildAbuse_NewspaperComic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715046094426328738" border="0" /></a>The year was 1985 and Marvel Comics had teamed with the National Committee for the Prevention of Child Abuse (NCPCA) to bring awareness and educate parents, teachers, guardians, children, <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone</span> on the terrible crime. Their approach was to reveal that the famous iconic superhero was himself a victim. In so doing, the NCPCA hoped to crack the emotional shell of other such unfortunates who blamed themselves for suffering abuse and subsequently fled the world by building a psychological fortress in which to hide, thus doing terrible damage to their lives.<br /><br />Youngsters are taught from the first that when they do something wrong they are punished. Abuse is a heinous act, one that a child views as a punishment—<span style="font-style: italic;">Why else would it happen to them?</span>—so they see themselves as having done something wrong; that they somehow deserved the abuse. Think of it this way: if you think it’s mind-boggling that anyone could abuse a child. How do you think the youngster feels?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi88n1dOxOczFQVIogjBX22u9uAbVVqP_8W13KW3P4uP19mjxQjE29RKnhYC2AB9hZuIhWixpJGIQN5iXyH_ZG1Q3qp9Q17OrmGxhSH0uKkDdNqQKVDTzrPUq1Ht29cuww9qAvlW9cJQmE/s1600/SMAbuseComic002.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi88n1dOxOczFQVIogjBX22u9uAbVVqP_8W13KW3P4uP19mjxQjE29RKnhYC2AB9hZuIhWixpJGIQN5iXyH_ZG1Q3qp9Q17OrmGxhSH0uKkDdNqQKVDTzrPUq1Ht29cuww9qAvlW9cJQmE/s400/SMAbuseComic002.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715046437458473890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The second book in the NCPCA series of Spider-Man comics<br />dealt with emotional abuse</span><br /></div><br />Comic aficionado that I was, the newspaper strip seemed an oddity to me, a jump-the-shark moment that strangely was never mentioned in the mainstream Spidey comic books at the time or since. It was only a couple of years later, after I’d worked as the Wondrous Web-Slinger for a year and been deemed worthy of officially ascending to the pantheon of performers in Marvel Personal Appearance Department, that some light was finally shed on the subject.<br /><br />The newspaper strip was hardly an anomaly, but rather a public service announcement that ran in every paper across the country—regardless of who had the Web-Swinger’s comic strip license—the initial salvo in a nationwide campaign that included three custom comic books. Each comic dealt with a different form of abuse. The first, which was released in conjunction with the program’s kick-off, concerned sexual abuse. The cover sported nifty John Byrne art and a vignette box by artist June Brigman, exalting the inclusion of Power Pack, Marvel’s kid super-team. The subsequent editions in 1987 and 1990, handled emotional and physical abuse and featured art by John Romita and Alex Saviuk, respectively.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCQlbyYnfiKcGwm__P0E5lT0FPbrQ4VLT6QLWa5io6DOm0Gg4_tniKYdKuNpvKKV8aM5MPAi7fwU4pVhMhcpS25DxSOLZSoK_TtFmBvUDARtFPmp8wotlOPnKS0rb0r99o1bK_ARsd8s/s1600/SMAbuseComic3Back006.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCQlbyYnfiKcGwm__P0E5lT0FPbrQ4VLT6QLWa5io6DOm0Gg4_tniKYdKuNpvKKV8aM5MPAi7fwU4pVhMhcpS25DxSOLZSoK_TtFmBvUDARtFPmp8wotlOPnKS0rb0r99o1bK_ARsd8s/s400/SMAbuseComic3Back006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715047685961871730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The back of each NCPCA comic presented tips and featured art not necessarily representative of the cover artist. This example from the third issue uses John Romita Spidey clip art and a depiction of Skids, a forgotten </span>New Mutants<span style="font-style: italic;"> character by the title’s then artist Bret Blevins.</span> </div><br />According to comics industry guru Jim Shooter—as reported on <a href="http://www.jimshooter.com/2012/02/untold-tales.html">his blog</a>—Marvel covered the entire cost of the premiere book in the series. But their reasons were far from altruistic. They expected the comic’s foreign rights sales to go through the roof. Quite the contrary. When the company pitched the book to its overseas publishing licensees at the Frankfurt Book Fair, they were greeted with blank stares and yawns. For the subsequent two issues, The House of <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> Deals, i.e. Marvel who prided themselves on being the <span>“</span>House of Ideas,<span>”</span> wasn’t taking any chances of losing their shirts. They got the money up front by way of sponsorships. A banner ballyhooing 7-Eleven’s and Kmart’s participation sits prominently at the bottom of each of the two follow-up covers, respectively. This may explain the delay in getting these comics published. After all, what’s more important: saving children’s lives or the company’s bottom line?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjibujCLeJ1rEA_FDetJ6zuhOf7hXh-fKGrs8r8MV-h9WDh8ggNL69x2a9uIANYcXauEd0V6wU0yTRHNU1CA08N_UDiUYRs_x0zuNF3GRCTx2rBRRlBx9bD8W6d90Z5bnLKs-YBWKZf3YI/s1600/SMAbuseComic3Front005.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 363px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjibujCLeJ1rEA_FDetJ6zuhOf7hXh-fKGrs8r8MV-h9WDh8ggNL69x2a9uIANYcXauEd0V6wU0yTRHNU1CA08N_UDiUYRs_x0zuNF3GRCTx2rBRRlBx9bD8W6d90Z5bnLKs-YBWKZf3YI/s400/SMAbuseComic3Front005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715047105358245074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The third and final book handled physical abuse </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and was sponsored by Kmart</span><br /></div><br />The initial print run for the first comic in the series was a million copies. It was freely distributed to “schools, service organizations, community groups and concerned individuals,” according to the article in <span style="font-style: italic;">Marvel Update</span>, the company’s in-house newsletter. More important, the books were handed out at live appearances by Spider-Man who would speak directly to kids about abuse and his coping with being a victim himself.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7bL2XLUW5HgBR0tWpzJEYTEBajyAqsn8vZhsnOkpSy7rBLQeBN1kLYwbu_SPE-qcwcoZyfMyc5WngLpGn8APYGXtblgOYvUsR-dqfHHTxtGil3RBIPxBaaTH08eY4qJtZ45HaHi5a-CA/s1600/MarvelUpdateSpring1985007.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7bL2XLUW5HgBR0tWpzJEYTEBajyAqsn8vZhsnOkpSy7rBLQeBN1kLYwbu_SPE-qcwcoZyfMyc5WngLpGn8APYGXtblgOYvUsR-dqfHHTxtGil3RBIPxBaaTH08eY4qJtZ45HaHi5a-CA/s400/MarvelUpdateSpring1985007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715048889304487058" border="0" /></a>Unfortunately, during the program’s first forays, the reaction by parents and self-serving locals in the areas Spider-Man visited was more knee-jerk than sympathetic. The Web-Swinger’s arrival was greeted with placards, emblazoned with such bon mots as SPIDEY GO HOME!, because the media outlets were—<span style="font-style: italic;">surprise!</span>—more concerned with creating a fervor than reporting facts and created the impression that Spider-Man’s visit was part of some vast conspiracy to brainwash the nation’s yutes.<br /><br />Still, barring these initial growing pains, in the short time since its inception, the campaign was deemed a success. Many youngsters across the country had come forward after hearing their hero reveal that he was no different than they. Peter Parker had overcome his brush with abuse and grown up to be a superhero! If nothing else, the message that bad things don’t just happen to bad people or kids, was powerful and empowering. Spider-Man was giving these young ’uns the courage to speak up and get the help they needed.<br /><br />What’s more, I was to be one of those crusading crime-fighters! I must say, I was more than a little apprehensive to shoulder such an awesome responsibility. These gigs would be as far away from the bantering Webster as one could get. I was honored to even be considered, but this wasn’t an Academy Award nomination; this was delivery nitroglycerin in a chuck wagon over open terrain.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADWUJui6n_D4q_VF481uAVsO-1ei5dI6PixTCucvw4ChSt9nmsItsQ21RmLeRqbMY0jhNHYOh2SitD-sDa1mlFf0t8GcKTCQ78C3MfrYJnT6jknmyB1A1mgfSHgqjaWzEqFepEBUYGM0/s1600/SMClimb_NeylandHeadStart001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 279px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADWUJui6n_D4q_VF481uAVsO-1ei5dI6PixTCucvw4ChSt9nmsItsQ21RmLeRqbMY0jhNHYOh2SitD-sDa1mlFf0t8GcKTCQ78C3MfrYJnT6jknmyB1A1mgfSHgqjaWzEqFepEBUYGM0/s400/SMClimb_NeylandHeadStart001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715049287192387058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Not one of my better poses, but the sponsor wanted the shot with the signage and I wasn’t about to step on<br />the hood of somebody’s car</span> </div><br />It’s important to note that the actor was at no time left to his own devices at these appearances. A specialist, a trained professional, was required on site during the presentation, ready to intercede when/if a child opened up about a possible problem. Spider-Man was merely the vehicle with which to deliver the information, and introducing the people to which the children could speak—even after the Web-Shooter swung off to resume fighting crime—was an integral part, reiterated several times throughout.<br /><br />The hosts were urged to distribute the comics and discuss the issues therein with the students beforehand. They were also given detailed guidelines and a copy of the script, the preamble of which noted the following:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“Sponsors should be aware that while the basic content is as scripted below, each actor paraphrases the material in his own style. It is not verbatim. Sponsors should also be aware that actors cannot deviate from the basic content of the script except for warm-up and closing ‘meet and greet’ conversation with the audience.”</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY60pN_2YIQ29QUYo8lk3VG3rfSv0yeovG3wDHOlGR0XmuKENXr9OVHJtJQTsYrgE8FUrZkwa9baNiMiZgJrrDm0NlvUhyphenhyphenplIakV7bWRUNBG_VnC_OQC3-CGWWN8k_Wm0-aJlqqJYxRc4/s1600/SM_JFKElementary001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY60pN_2YIQ29QUYo8lk3VG3rfSv0yeovG3wDHOlGR0XmuKENXr9OVHJtJQTsYrgE8FUrZkwa9baNiMiZgJrrDm0NlvUhyphenhyphenplIakV7bWRUNBG_VnC_OQC3-CGWWN8k_Wm0-aJlqqJYxRc4/s400/SM_JFKElementary001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715050641179083298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Preparing for my dramatic entrance</span><br /></div><br />Each venue and every audience were different, and even though the demonstration was targeted at children in grades 4–6, oftentimes the kids were younger or older. There was no way for the performer to predict what type of intro would work until he arrived and got a feel for the assemblage. The script began with a tried-and-true gimmick to engage the kids:<br /><br />Spider-Man:<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">“Hi!”</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>(some response)<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">“I said ‘Hi!’”</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>(huge response)<br /><br />This approach worked pretty much as written a majority of the time, the response inversely proportional to the age of the kids; the younger they were, the greater the outcome. All bets were off, though, once the audience exceeded the suggested grade limit. If lucky, one’s reply went from lackluster to slightly less so. But heckling was more likely. And it only took one radical, shouting out “Hey, Spidey, how’s it hanging?!!”, in a group of older youth for his or her peers to suddenly feel sanctioned to join the ridicule chorus with their own puerile quips.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PWJn6hhuGnoTt1JcVQ6aZI83Es-9Xj-CStxBnzD-vU6rPQrz541Vl9iKrkBdvGvyqMVzDKrbQmWoLgv_P2dLpm8ypQPByJ9apgtfQCwIoGmNbXZ38FUJWdLkOS_vyCGa_IdBPdmjKEg/s1600/SMAbuseComic1Back004.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PWJn6hhuGnoTt1JcVQ6aZI83Es-9Xj-CStxBnzD-vU6rPQrz541Vl9iKrkBdvGvyqMVzDKrbQmWoLgv_P2dLpm8ypQPByJ9apgtfQCwIoGmNbXZ38FUJWdLkOS_vyCGa_IdBPdmjKEg/s400/SMAbuseComic1Back004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715057461187633282" border="0" /></a>This adaptation to one’s listeners extended to the abuse portion of the script as well, not so much in altering the subject matter—the crucial bits remained—as in the shaping of the delivery and phrasing. A younger audience needed a gentler approach—it was not unusual to be speaking to kindergarten classes—while older groups were confronted more directly. The program wisely allowed these varying conditions, while also respecting each actor’s Web-Swinger portrayal. NCPCA and Marvel trusted the performer’s expertise—their experience of successfully navigating the vagaries of people and places across the country—in this regard.<br /><br />Having portrayed Spidey for a little more than two years helped allay my fears and calm my nerves on my inaugural adventures for the NCPCA. Though, given the added weight of these appearances, my agita facing them never disappeared completely throughout the years. I trusted the character to carry me through. If an actor’s investiture in a role is as all-encompassing as it should be, the onus of reacting to the happenings of the script becomes second nature. The allowance to massage the script to fit the needs of our individual interpretations of the Web-Spinner facilitated the process.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcca4Vgls4cviOBhVUwyUr2Yp-k8-qwtD-Vi4D4qh8hX1KftceYkmbYcZgALnmRL6ZgF8KYT6hpwT5BT_rbv2-5YqheQgscHBUALp2sMW0rMdLuA386sJM7E8ctNQ98e53oriK5Od4cg/s1600/SMAbuseComic2Back003.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcca4Vgls4cviOBhVUwyUr2Yp-k8-qwtD-Vi4D4qh8hX1KftceYkmbYcZgALnmRL6ZgF8KYT6hpwT5BT_rbv2-5YqheQgscHBUALp2sMW0rMdLuA386sJM7E8ctNQ98e53oriK5Od4cg/s400/SMAbuseComic2Back003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715057891332961106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The back cover to the second book in the NCPCA series was the only one to feature original art, this by John Romita</span><br /></div><br />Still, I notated the emotional beats in the script the way I would had I been studying a Shakespearean role. I wanted to ensure the information received as great an impact as possible and didn’t get lost behind the mask. To that end, I had to find the truth of the subject matter within myself. I cannot begin to understand the emotional and psychological damage of being sexually abused. But I certainly empathize with being an outcast among my classmates and feeling somehow that I was the cause. It was with those feelings that I built the dramatic core of my role within the context of Peter Parker’s character. I’m relieved to say, I never experienced a disclosure, but I received a lot of hugs, something I needed after every presentation.<br /><br />It might be argued that Peter Parker was never a victim of abuse, and there are certainly more than enough geeks—purists—who find it easier to cover their ears, close their eyes and shout “La-la-la…” whenever a writer comes along who does something they regard anathema to their view of the character, which they deem as sacrosanct. There are factions of this ilk that traverse the entire history of the Web-Slinger, citing such events as The Death of Gwen Stacy; Peter’s marriage to M.J.; The Clone Saga; or “Brand New Day” as the moment that Marvel pulled the trigger and killed the one, true Spider-Man. Everything thereafter doesn’t exist for these individuals.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQM4Ihghl7vazncRQ2T19daJNN1EKW4rjPrmX6NgxvO9xVXWvbb4fJXaxDlD7F42itz8I43hUQVh_Ca3OqoE79cbe8EBdBCjuau3J3wKDsBW2LGX1AEo09VpfJE_jndkNjq6IUO1H5dyY/s1600/Spider-Man_TriggerCovers.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQM4Ihghl7vazncRQ2T19daJNN1EKW4rjPrmX6NgxvO9xVXWvbb4fJXaxDlD7F42itz8I43hUQVh_Ca3OqoE79cbe8EBdBCjuau3J3wKDsBW2LGX1AEo09VpfJE_jndkNjq6IUO1H5dyY/s400/Spider-Man_TriggerCovers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715056097970839650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Four jump-the-shark moments in the Spidey’s history: (l. to r.) “The Clone Saga,” “Brand New Day,” Peter Parker’s and Mary-Jane’s wedding and “The Death of Gwen Stacy”</span> </div><br />So how—they would contend—could I possibly perform the character faithfully with the uncharacteristic albatross of abuse around his neck? The same way Tom Hanks makes us forget he was never an astronaut in <span style="font-style: italic;">Apollo 13</span>; Leonardo di Caprio fools us he’s actually explored people’s dreams in <span style="font-style: italic;">Inception</span>; or Kevin Spacey makes us believe there really is a Keyser Söze in <span style="font-style: italic;">Usual Suspects</span>. Put another way, a person gaining the powers to cling to walls and lift Cadillacs bare-handed is believable, but imbuing that person’s back story with the reality-based pain of abuse is not?!!!<br /><br />But then again, I don’t necessarily dismiss events in the Spidey universe as some do. I believe any story that is true to Webhead’s nature can work if written well. When introduced in <span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing Fantasy #15</span>, Peter Parker is ostracized and bullied as a nerd by his classmates; he wears glasses and dresses in unfashionable attire; his parents are long dead and he has no siblings; he is being raised within a lower income by his aunt and uncle. Saddling him with the victimization of sexual abuse is but another obstacle that makes his emergence as a hero that much more pronounced. And what could be more heroic than not only overcoming the hardships of the past, but also using them as a means to protect or help others from suffering the same.<br /><br />After all, “with great power comes great responsibility” and what could be more true to Spider-Man than that?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_WdX44V9Sf6RdrMoaQ29uvX-5rXK-SMgRmZhvwt2Ga8N8908cChWMzM8bjgNWqZVk6B_z7LVqEaIDNJMiso2uBQRrypLhKBZMw4evP5IDe8-xJ-HQcBI9PedxVUEcWz9VQIfpSGA2Pg/s1600/SMHug001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_WdX44V9Sf6RdrMoaQ29uvX-5rXK-SMgRmZhvwt2Ga8N8908cChWMzM8bjgNWqZVk6B_z7LVqEaIDNJMiso2uBQRrypLhKBZMw4evP5IDe8-xJ-HQcBI9PedxVUEcWz9VQIfpSGA2Pg/s400/SMHug001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715058519818357266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The best part of the job!</span><br /></div>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-77078979334675164852012-02-23T10:35:00.004-05:002012-03-03T18:03:23.431-05:00Going to Court, Final Quarter: And All That Jazz<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNM3fes-Bq5x7o1zX6vaGtQ7o4ZeJK6aPwPzSu2TFxS_U5P_Lxq1yAEZamUWbXd48RDXPBaRfUkAZNmeqysDO1wbD3Babq3L0-5OPjM5YVPK6i__Mn08FEUUD8lqchL-e4q2Hr_jYgcMM/s1600/NBAAllStar93_JamPass.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNM3fes-Bq5x7o1zX6vaGtQ7o4ZeJK6aPwPzSu2TFxS_U5P_Lxq1yAEZamUWbXd48RDXPBaRfUkAZNmeqysDO1wbD3Babq3L0-5OPjM5YVPK6i__Mn08FEUUD8lqchL-e4q2Hr_jYgcMM/s400/NBAAllStar93_JamPass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712124635661563970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Barely surviving a head-spinning two-hour forty-five minute stint in the incubating Incredible Hulk costume, our weary wayfarer looks forward to a well-deserved morning off and an evening of NBA’s finest flaunting their phenomenal physical faculties…</span><br /></div><br />After an appearance-packed three days of rampaging, web-slinging and doing the best there is at what he does, Yours Truly, Jeremy and Joe—Hulk, Spider-Man and Wolverine, respectively—were treated with a morning of unfettered bliss… or at least what goes for bliss in the wilds of Utah. My tortuous tour from Hell the day before was nought but a distant memory, with nary a raised eyebrow from Director Alyson for my abrupt walk off the set.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BVw6WRH1ru4qx2EX4sexbt2nPjhFSiXKA8EHKyK9xixK_BJkqPu4JUBdCDfNzMTIaLY8tazFORk6XXZdrXucIN4ZcbOvNJZJpyJk4XZkR3rJ9q0Gk6FX3uLHVNzCpjz7selIrLjO6gk/s1600/HulkSpideyWolvie_BigHeads.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BVw6WRH1ru4qx2EX4sexbt2nPjhFSiXKA8EHKyK9xixK_BJkqPu4JUBdCDfNzMTIaLY8tazFORk6XXZdrXucIN4ZcbOvNJZJpyJk4XZkR3rJ9q0Gk6FX3uLHVNzCpjz7selIrLjO6gk/s400/HulkSpideyWolvie_BigHeads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712363315168428482" border="0" /></a>Okay, that’s not entirely true. I was numb; the type of deep exhaustion one usually experiences after a week of working doubles or a triathlon, I imagine. A single night’s sleep, no matter how restful, wasn’t going to come close to rejuvenating the body to its full potential. In fact, it was less an evening of sleep than one of weariness-induced coma. I awoke yoked with the grogginess that comes from strong cold medicine. And from the looks on Jeremy and Joe’s faces, their physical and mental states concurred. A morning off was essential to our being able to perform our final foray as the Marvel Universe triumvirate at the NBA Fan Fest appearance later that afternoon. It was a scant couple of hours, but we looked upon it with dread. Even the carrot of comp tickets to the All-Star Game after that did little to energize us.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtwEJRgW37kSx2NpWUT_s6Ci2NaKAOaVPP-fCzXVSclttndY22MPc-ffmSF9kezosDtr3Nw0KayJLJgCDlJLVxPTDsrCLaLdJUKJQ3HYyvWyc3gYXV68D6PJj_HwULI4IjveMqg7h7Zo/s1600/NBAAllStar_JoeJeremyCar016.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtwEJRgW37kSx2NpWUT_s6Ci2NaKAOaVPP-fCzXVSclttndY22MPc-ffmSF9kezosDtr3Nw0KayJLJgCDlJLVxPTDsrCLaLdJUKJQ3HYyvWyc3gYXV68D6PJj_HwULI4IjveMqg7h7Zo/s400/NBAAllStar_JoeJeremyCar016.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712126056174729442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Not quite the Spider-Mobile...</span><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopEFNOV9eMDPX1TggrvmOnJtdonefPzbjrKWK2dXmd7dBFPbsVIBKRw0l2dTjw21NWsxM-hwDMw_0hr70VT2BybiLcIRf5D7fsRfcOq-sSgociSFsnjLyA1FdWSRe__qPHfFY4ntcZeM/s1600/SpidermobileSpidey.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopEFNOV9eMDPX1TggrvmOnJtdonefPzbjrKWK2dXmd7dBFPbsVIBKRw0l2dTjw21NWsxM-hwDMw_0hr70VT2BybiLcIRf5D7fsRfcOq-sSgociSFsnjLyA1FdWSRe__qPHfFY4ntcZeM/s200/SpidermobileSpidey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712128077744375010" border="0" /></a>Added to the mix was the use of the rental car. Alyson didn’t need it, so once we dropped her off at the Salt Palace, where she would continue monitoring our Dunkin’ Spidey doppelgänger and glad hand any remaining corporate yahoos who hadn’t yet gotten their asses adequately kissed—no rest for the weary—we were free to enjoy the wonders of the area… which wasn’t much. Admittedly, we weren’t exactly prepared to sightsee during our stay in Salt Lake City. None of us had done any research, drawn up a “must-see” list of the environs or purchased a guidebook. And with so little time, there wasn’t inclination to do so.<br /><br />Three days cooped up inside the basketball facilities, in which we were, in turn, ensconced within character costumes—some more cumbersome than others—and us three amigos were happy to simply be outside breathing fresh air, albeit frosty fresh air. Jeremy—he of the backwoods of Maine—suggested going to a ski resort, having seen signs to such along the highway during our drive from the airport to the hotel after our arrival. Joe and I were complicit. It was either that or… well… it was pretty much that. So we loaded into the vehicle and headed out of the city.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsK5VC16WFih8dB3Xc6xWsa9PgDRw_9tynepDXetL4MKoi_xXX0XnTybDbDJobn3BwGOzNejAyMaaCYE8-R65RWW-cFl3LBOwEVyfxDpDL3XXT2HOEsXs1UKdL7lIasWAkazZ_FMQOEwM/s1600/NBAAllStar_UtahVista011.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsK5VC16WFih8dB3Xc6xWsa9PgDRw_9tynepDXetL4MKoi_xXX0XnTybDbDJobn3BwGOzNejAyMaaCYE8-R65RWW-cFl3LBOwEVyfxDpDL3XXT2HOEsXs1UKdL7lIasWAkazZ_FMQOEwM/s400/NBAAllStar_UtahVista011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712113898167300498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“THIS IS A TRUE STORY. The events depicted in this story took place in Utah in 1993. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.”</span><br /></div><br />Late February was just as one would expect in Utah: a panorama of mountains and snow overcast with gray. It was a bit <span style="font-style: italic;">Fargo</span> for my tastes. Growing up in the ’burbs of Boston, I was no stranger to ice and frigid temperatures, but at least civilization was always within spitting distance, or in this case, snowball-throwing distance. Skiing was as foreign to me as jai alai. Sure, there were plenty of trails within a couple of hours of Beantown, but the recreation entails a bit of monetary outlay in which to participate and thus out of reach for those of us born of meager incomes. I was content to be as far away from The Hulk suit as possible. Making snow angels in my birthday suit sounded like Heaven to me. But given the conservative atmosphere of the state, a quick trip to a ski lodge was an ideal secondary diversion.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqvWYoexHA2aupUfOeA0MHYr92fiGOCZl8pPZul6eg1DXuN3x-xA7DNmDRmZZhlwencVXuaR6AxwW4gokyy4abHKs0bUkdOv22qnPMiffRJsioxipQVM9SYWtyK6y_6bkeoZAljtCu7I/s1600/NBAAllStar_SkiLodge1003.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 382px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqvWYoexHA2aupUfOeA0MHYr92fiGOCZl8pPZul6eg1DXuN3x-xA7DNmDRmZZhlwencVXuaR6AxwW4gokyy4abHKs0bUkdOv22qnPMiffRJsioxipQVM9SYWtyK6y_6bkeoZAljtCu7I/s400/NBAAllStar_SkiLodge1003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712115187948408690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Yours Truly rubbing up to Utah’s moguls</span><br /></div><br />The journey up the mountainside was no picnic. Navigating the switchbacks along the route wreaked havoc with my internal gyroscope. Had I been driving—as veteran of the group, Jeremy took the wheel—the effects wouldn’t have been as severe, and riding shotgun was certainly better than being in the back. Still, nausea soon set in, and I wondered if I’d reach the resort before vomiting. Wouldn’t that have been funny? On the verge of heat prostration and severe dehydration less than twenty-four hours prior without so much as a puke-burp and here I am the next day about to lose my breakfast over a scenic thirty-minute drive up a mountain. I kept my stomach’s churning to myself. I knew if I could just make it to the top before hurling I’d be fine.<br /><br />I did, and I was.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3JgDX7xXxLVUrHz6Xy-D2o7fl1o0ZSIrhezo_JhuGkbvGKUaLtTHaDQPPCX3ruVvWqToCcNfFyBmkQbczXEGy9qG4yYaRvWGrAgFGzK8VzCvJpKT8rODuN00RmpkIvg70GEUTga-NRE/s1600/upwall_ski_lodge.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3JgDX7xXxLVUrHz6Xy-D2o7fl1o0ZSIrhezo_JhuGkbvGKUaLtTHaDQPPCX3ruVvWqToCcNfFyBmkQbczXEGy9qG4yYaRvWGrAgFGzK8VzCvJpKT8rODuN00RmpkIvg70GEUTga-NRE/s200/upwall_ski_lodge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712123448623758930" border="0" /></a>I’d love to be able to tell you that cresting the final turn into the ski area was a life-changing experience. The car broke through the cloud cover and the Heavens opened up with the Hallelujah chorus as we emerged into a Winter Wonderland of happy trails and snow bunnies. Nope. Where was the exotic Swiss chalet with the size tens in their magenta ski togs and Nordic wool hats, scurrying to the lift or back inside the lodge to sidle up to the Bunyonesque stone hearth with steaming mugs of spiked cocoa or hard cider? Where was <span style="font-style: italic;">anyone</span>, for that matter? The place was deader than a Student Union during spring break. And the building was about as appealing as a storage shed in a lumber yard. Norm Abram’s <span style="font-style: italic;">New Yankee Workshop</span> held greater allure. Okay, the vistas were pretty enough, but it was no more breathtaking than the Blue Mountains in Massachusetts, up which I hiked as a teen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtYx0u1jkqkka9P-s9D38kR_yPPpIuUArJwwlC1ktN14QJuId30EXVaGGgzf8tBIcouRHgHTL6PX642gTAn56GLTeML9qFQZKNPQRWYzhJpC4S7zYdtEX3a5A9hsP4vP8UZ2Y2cQ6jpw/s1600/Niven_PinkPanther.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtYx0u1jkqkka9P-s9D38kR_yPPpIuUArJwwlC1ktN14QJuId30EXVaGGgzf8tBIcouRHgHTL6PX642gTAn56GLTeML9qFQZKNPQRWYzhJpC4S7zYdtEX3a5A9hsP4vP8UZ2Y2cQ6jpw/s200/Niven_PinkPanther.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712123307517201890" border="0" /></a>Jeremy seemed disappointed as well. Could he have been expecting that same ski-resort scene as depicted in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Pink Panther</span>? Unfortunately, the surroundings hearkened more to the town Annie Wilkes called home in <span style="font-style: italic;">Misery</span>. Still, I felt compelled to record the trip with a couple of photos, which look as depressing now as the place was back then. One good thing did come out of our expedition: We were more than ready to return to the arena and retake our heroic mantels.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5GZHrOKUntH9w1medyZ1WrE-PncjjWUjZPzrGBWwyTeWUSFznAOwtn-3MZ44IosvyXEb6WzoE-X39S0Fl8zE8lDeVRuEOC4Iz10BHt2eIwalLcKil_7H8OTYKbWAemqiwJStD-qKMs4/s1600/NBAAllStar_SkiLodge2004.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5GZHrOKUntH9w1medyZ1WrE-PncjjWUjZPzrGBWwyTeWUSFznAOwtn-3MZ44IosvyXEb6WzoE-X39S0Fl8zE8lDeVRuEOC4Iz10BHt2eIwalLcKil_7H8OTYKbWAemqiwJStD-qKMs4/s400/NBAAllStar_SkiLodge2004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712116692066084818" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5GZHrOKUntH9w1medyZ1WrE-PncjjWUjZPzrGBWwyTeWUSFznAOwtn-3MZ44IosvyXEb6WzoE-X39S0Fl8zE8lDeVRuEOC4Iz10BHt2eIwalLcKil_7H8OTYKbWAemqiwJStD-qKMs4/s1600/NBAAllStar_SkiLodge2004.jpg"></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Annie Wilkes’s biggest fans</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Back at the courts, the Jam Session was winding down, as the Salt Palace prepared for the All-Star Game a few hours hence. Donning the verdigris epidermis of The Hulk again was approached with as much vim as a convict picking up a sledge hammer on his way to the prison yard to break rocks. We were bone weary. Our Von Trapp Family escape up the mountain failing utterly to fill us with the sound of music. Yet, the show must ever go on. We put on our brave faces—literally—and entered the festival for our last go-around. Blessedly, our final tour of duty was short. And, hey, being grumpy was the Hulk’s M.O.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jPh4Tr6LhveNwdooGkdnuPXvnV8K6BF-RK17GuXTfSSrSZ79A9uYrkTDxmV39eYssFuxSBnRO_Fug4ra_MVQ5yWFx6sXLbuWBQCWAU3C01kURFBRYzBKHqXy_xUkf9b4tsmpLz597M0/s1600/NBAAllStar_Hickman014.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jPh4Tr6LhveNwdooGkdnuPXvnV8K6BF-RK17GuXTfSSrSZ79A9uYrkTDxmV39eYssFuxSBnRO_Fug4ra_MVQ5yWFx6sXLbuWBQCWAU3C01kURFBRYzBKHqXy_xUkf9b4tsmpLz597M0/s400/NBAAllStar_Hickman014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712128836019901618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The narrator with sportscaster Fred Hickman</span><br /></div><br />The Jam’s swan song was the big game’s practice session on the main court. Ole green britches was crated and readied for shipment. Strangely, despite the fatigue and sweat, I enjoyed my debut dalliance as the Green behemoth and looked forward to future rampages, though a few months of Web-Swinging would be welcome in the interim. An advantage to portraying The Hulk is that I was finished before my heroic colleagues. And with my all-access Jam Session pass dangling from neck, I took a leisurely stroll to the main court to catch some of the highlights of the practice for the all-star spectacle to follow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMPnRhJIyDKF6LUvXWlDL-HQq8GlTqvCf8vcryUAJgLJKLIkn4UXgPQn_-E3XXxDo3gCfTVQboY9oHGB1I4-cnt51zMIc24ASHhbhxhNB30GcZYqQ72EY9bEBocy0vJAAld1_qQEp75c/s1600/Boston-Celtics.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 184px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMPnRhJIyDKF6LUvXWlDL-HQq8GlTqvCf8vcryUAJgLJKLIkn4UXgPQn_-E3XXxDo3gCfTVQboY9oHGB1I4-cnt51zMIc24ASHhbhxhNB30GcZYqQ72EY9bEBocy0vJAAld1_qQEp75c/s200/Boston-Celtics.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712123112276626226" border="0" /></a>Growing up in Boston and being a sports lover go hand-in-hand. As mentioned in previous posts, my parents had season tickets to the Bruins, and as a product of the 70s and 80s, the Celtics were front and center on my sports radar. Havlicek, Cowens and Jo Jo White led the team to a pair of championships in the former, and Bird, Parish and McHale, arguable the greatest frontline in the history of the game, championed three more in the latter. But by the early 90s, the team was mired in mediocrity: always competitive, yet never exceptional enough to make it past the first round of the play-offs, if making the post season at all. In fact, not a single Celt was in the All-Star line-up in 1993. Still, I loved the sport and followed it religiously at the time.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrctHSsUr2z7C4pI72ORmVRuLUqfXBL7aGHYvdKqYylJ5FXLO818nXWtShNQURzxothENLhudHjBMuTwBqt6JdnhnTrWz4pogobbH9Y61mGL8N7V4BlV1DL2VuAlQTgiUpVMtvLNhXge4/s1600/NBAAllStar_Jordan1005.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 237px; height: 362px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrctHSsUr2z7C4pI72ORmVRuLUqfXBL7aGHYvdKqYylJ5FXLO818nXWtShNQURzxothENLhudHjBMuTwBqt6JdnhnTrWz4pogobbH9Y61mGL8N7V4BlV1DL2VuAlQTgiUpVMtvLNhXge4/s400/NBAAllStar_Jordan1005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712117691628329570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">His Airness</span><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc24WtBCm7AMJ3yLpEdtClKSjQSFUFwu2BBkscpXGPU_lkQ7HcpZTIqS8lflL-w66PyqxVsXtd5s-TTErPWZl54JFuFtgqnNEbVz_4-Dws3MMHG2O8qj7DarL9hV-sluiDR_DlRsLU_JI/s1600/farrah-fawcett.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc24WtBCm7AMJ3yLpEdtClKSjQSFUFwu2BBkscpXGPU_lkQ7HcpZTIqS8lflL-w66PyqxVsXtd5s-TTErPWZl54JFuFtgqnNEbVz_4-Dws3MMHG2O8qj7DarL9hV-sluiDR_DlRsLU_JI/s200/farrah-fawcett.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712122762586718498" border="0" /></a>Imagine my reaction when Michael Jordan waltzes toward me soon after his arrival to the Salt Palace. Not since my first encounter with the famous Farrah-Fawcett one-piece bathing suit poster of my youth had I suffered such a lapse in control of my bodily functions. My underwear needed changing, but my NBA geek experience had only just begun. Look, there’s Clyde “The Glide” Drexler; Jordan’s partner in crime, Scottie Pippen; the “Round Mound of Rebound” Charles Barkley. I barely had enough self-control to snap shots with my camera as they paraded by.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFf5QwjfWNGHFeK_V_rhBcuJ9Dtx4fuEauIPqeV__FLZtNPgGDP-oY3g_dSAOrlpHuStEQn1YWax7TLp0XvQd4MIHvQ-4k91qc7l4orENKixxbpvMjmz7wJmcS2yWbp21P5S_Cvt-n_Ro/s1600/NBAAllStar_Pippen006.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 353px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFf5QwjfWNGHFeK_V_rhBcuJ9Dtx4fuEauIPqeV__FLZtNPgGDP-oY3g_dSAOrlpHuStEQn1YWax7TLp0XvQd4MIHvQ-4k91qc7l4orENKixxbpvMjmz7wJmcS2yWbp21P5S_Cvt-n_Ro/s400/NBAAllStar_Pippen006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712118255652532450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“We’ve got magic to do… just for you</span><span style="font-style: italic;">...</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />We’ve got miracle plays to play...”</span> </div><br />A short time later, as Sir Charles was making his way to the court from the locker room, he was surprised with a birthday cake. It was February 20 and the Phoenix Sun power forward was celebrating his 30th… and I was there! Exciting to watch, the future Hall of Famer and eventual winner of the league’s MVP that year was always a favorite of Yours Truly. He began his career with the Philadelphia 76ers—mentored by the amazing Dr. J. in his final seasons—a well-respected, perennial rival and always tough opponent of my beloved Celtics. Considered short for his position, his physique defied the laws of the sport, which favored the long and lanky. Nearly as famous for his big mouth, the outspoken hardwood antihero never shied from speaking his mind and was as humorous as he was controversial in his commentary. I normally don’t take to the type, but there was something about Sir Charles that captured my attention.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qnt62jHqQlQbr9RhK2fV0gV5ggqe4YviCsWQC-kT5k4ljTTCO6ZMaY04J2xoE98ZTTy5ITpLkZLE_O6gZl_e0NGO7KzEKqSIivcPQj6Gglu6cAhYNrYWDm4yvCQ7_n_wjrwIbVXlT98/s1600/NBAAllStar_Barkley1002.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 368px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qnt62jHqQlQbr9RhK2fV0gV5ggqe4YviCsWQC-kT5k4ljTTCO6ZMaY04J2xoE98ZTTy5ITpLkZLE_O6gZl_e0NGO7KzEKqSIivcPQj6Gglu6cAhYNrYWDm4yvCQ7_n_wjrwIbVXlT98/s400/NBAAllStar_Barkley1002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712119471369052386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Sir Charles takes the cake</span> </div><br />The eventual eleven-time all-star seemed more tolerant than actually appreciative. Perhaps he didn’t like surprises or hated to be reminded of his mortality. Maybe the garish likeness on the cake spawned his less-than-enthusiastic response. More likely, he was simply being Sir Charles. I guess those of us in attendance should be happy he didn’t flip the confection in the air and storm onto the floor. Although, there was the occasional slight lift to the side of his mouth that would indicate a smile. It was a cool moment nonetheless, one I was fortunate enough to shmooze a bystander into capturing with me on my Kodak.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWTToSPXPRCX0gODR8WeV6xmMEd7rrzmLoktE9LCoZHB-eH-4pVTMIEnEXAOY1PadyjgLv8Ex6hB_hMci4XOFFr0_TYWHZzWg_09MmVbtKM07KBfalRxTpFVPMekBAMV2OCZeLktJPT4/s1600/NBAAllStar_Barkley2015.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWTToSPXPRCX0gODR8WeV6xmMEd7rrzmLoktE9LCoZHB-eH-4pVTMIEnEXAOY1PadyjgLv8Ex6hB_hMci4XOFFr0_TYWHZzWg_09MmVbtKM07KBfalRxTpFVPMekBAMV2OCZeLktJPT4/s400/NBAAllStar_Barkley2015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712119824377844850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Quick, take the shot before security pulls me away!”</span> </div><br />I spent the remainder of my time watching Jordan and co. warm-up. My All-Access pass would only last up until just before the game began, at which point I would have to take my seat. No prob. I certainly couldn’t complain. But my good fortune had yet to run out. Absent of any Celtic on the roster, the All-Star affair held meager hope of my encountering any player from my home team. Of course, these league showcases oft attract legends from the past, but after spending three-plus days without so much as a whisper of green in my sights—barring that encompassing my body—I’d given up on the prospect. That attitude was about to get a wake-up call.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4gXgKoXKsQ8T7yu8RoarzM9zZh8ScYggn0aYGxXhyphenhyphengtKm2-u62uu_jM3M7UdETLJzz2PiasGCmvhLaO5Y52cXCgO4UVjla1S0yAOeo2xdxH_t7iHkxUKdgc3PNHX_QFnpUlgzJdCupU/s1600/NBAAllStar_Jordan2013.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 330px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4gXgKoXKsQ8T7yu8RoarzM9zZh8ScYggn0aYGxXhyphenhyphengtKm2-u62uu_jM3M7UdETLJzz2PiasGCmvhLaO5Y52cXCgO4UVjla1S0yAOeo2xdxH_t7iHkxUKdgc3PNHX_QFnpUlgzJdCupU/s400/NBAAllStar_Jordan2013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712120399034450674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Nothing but net</span><br /></div><br />As I stood under the basket, at which Jordan was shooting field goals, a familiar figure caught my eye. There, before me, as if in a dream was Celtic legend Kevin McHale. <span style="font-style: italic;">Jordan who? </span>You might Like Mike, but as far as I was concerned, All Hail McHale! Any hope of salvaging my jeans were lost in the moment I espied the thrice NBA champ, twice-awarded Sixth Man of the Year, seven-time all-star, among many other accolades. I blurted something to him about being from Boston—the rest would’ve confused the cast of <span style="font-style: italic;">Quest for Fire</span>—before handing (read: <span style="font-style: italic;">forcing</span>) my camera to the nearest person, emphatically gibbering for them to shoot a picture of us. McHale was gracious and bemused, perhaps sensing I was a bit touched—the drool didn’t help. I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t Larry Bird; I’d have gone into apoplexy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivawTmUe4OgjDhPnD1Ci_Z5qHxtSIH3StrDzlUf4otB0H5_U7lH7gJUntEz3K9zVZNUcTrPAxUmCgif8fnE-4hmCrGRMVe57gUQSTvUMy4e9rNYIGr34HewmJsNYDpjTxh2r1rNq1AirE/s1600/NBAAllStar_McHale001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivawTmUe4OgjDhPnD1Ci_Z5qHxtSIH3StrDzlUf4otB0H5_U7lH7gJUntEz3K9zVZNUcTrPAxUmCgif8fnE-4hmCrGRMVe57gUQSTvUMy4e9rNYIGr34HewmJsNYDpjTxh2r1rNq1AirE/s400/NBAAllStar_McHale001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712120656773287746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“</span><span style="font-style: italic;">Watch the drool, kid.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">”</span><br /></div><br />By this point, the game itself was gravy. I joined my fellow thespians and Alyson in our seats three quarters of the way up the first section. They may not have been floor seats—we weren’t exactly Ron Perelman—but excellent ones nonetheless, with a central view of the whole floor and close enough to still make out the individual players. I was impressed by the Salt Palace. For an arena with stadium seating, it was intimate and offered great sight lines. The affair opened with a beautiful arrangement of the “Star-Spangled Banner” sung by my peeps (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2012/02/going-to-court-part-ii-you-wouldnt-like.html">“Going to Court, Part III: You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry”</a>), Boyz II Men; a classy, sophisticated rendition and perfect prelude to the annual basketball celebration.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3czF5L9KiglRk-aiTrtOcrWrAX7YlevVcSR75LcG_qtbbTsllZTC3oLEoB_VWTJfjcd90F_Ld72jM5MvT-dqqj3oqAsX-2OPUOC6-aKt_UKM27j4GKaHlnYneBppIXaB2n6-C2nibAI/s1600/NBAAllStar_BoyzIIMen012.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 355px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3czF5L9KiglRk-aiTrtOcrWrAX7YlevVcSR75LcG_qtbbTsllZTC3oLEoB_VWTJfjcd90F_Ld72jM5MvT-dqqj3oqAsX-2OPUOC6-aKt_UKM27j4GKaHlnYneBppIXaB2n6-C2nibAI/s400/NBAAllStar_BoyzIIMen012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712121396079669538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hitting the chord</span><br /></div><br />All-Star Games tend to be high on the scoring and low on the defense for several reasons. As a nation, Americans derive more pleasure from offense than defense, even though, as the saying <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-S-z6_SN5HHvw6ANlCKZ0UMOxkhdn4i27VH7lU81g7jBDYZGvyEjVYfgRXUozywfVwkKTDoy3tWcWP88boNi5To-fJYenm-JxK0akbPkDFANAo6FWGkyH4YUtxaKHYhUIqqEtV5-OA8/s1600/AlleyOopComic.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-S-z6_SN5HHvw6ANlCKZ0UMOxkhdn4i27VH7lU81g7jBDYZGvyEjVYfgRXUozywfVwkKTDoy3tWcWP88boNi5To-fJYenm-JxK0akbPkDFANAo6FWGkyH4YUtxaKHYhUIqqEtV5-OA8/s200/AlleyOopComic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712355509538468450" border="0" /></a>goes, defense wins games. But defense ain’t pretty. You’ll find more people impressed with a center mugging an opponent with a slam dunk than a savvy guard drawing a charge. A steal may earn in a certain degree of bally-hooing, but the resultant alley-oop quickly erases any memory of the defensive gem that caused it. A nail-biting pitcher’s duel in baseball, which ends in a 1–0 score, is less desirable than a blowout. It’s the prime reason soccer—wherein matches rarely score more than a goal or two total—is having such a hard time taking hold in The States.<br /><br />There’s also a more practical explanation for these seasonal player showcases being such high-scoring events. Understandably, the players and their teams and coaches do not want to get hurt or overextend themselves. There’s a whole second half to the season to which these all-stars must return. An honor it may be, but an invitation to the All-Star cavalcade is a mere fizzle to the conflagration of an NBA title. So it is understandable that athletes would give less than their all to these lavish, vanity affairs and not risk possible injury, which could in turn jeopardize their team’s chance at a title.<br /><br />Add up these factors and the result is more a street-ball competition of one-upmanship than an actual battle for victory; a spectacle of fancy moves, crazy shots and professional b-ballers screwing around and having fun. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. Without the pretense of importance that comes with a win or loss, why not make the game a highlight reel of basketball’s greatest performers? The fans don’t seem to mind—they love it!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_D8-fqB5xt2uuWKbuzJNQd1Sma4NUPizoaoFR-zmJQzIXK_XdFokZ0ji4us6mULdtfApcVFj99CYLJ20DLm5bkB1ZXNAAhq0wUUozGbb4wY312MGcIrl_0pALtkO5_prxSXXSkHnu8cg/s1600/NBAAllStar_BallSpin010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 273px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_D8-fqB5xt2uuWKbuzJNQd1Sma4NUPizoaoFR-zmJQzIXK_XdFokZ0ji4us6mULdtfApcVFj99CYLJ20DLm5bkB1ZXNAAhq0wUUozGbb4wY312MGcIrl_0pALtkO5_prxSXXSkHnu8cg/s400/NBAAllStar_BallSpin010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712343864662662178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Taking my official ’93 Jam Session basketball out for a spin</span><br /></div><br />Despite the seeming anarchy on the court, the players are ever mindful of their host city and endeavor to cede personal glory to its hometown heroes. Regardless of the standings, whether <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpD_SIFS4tWzcY3hLxjl6qV4jQoDmJVGJakW-_vaBPffnUPv40NWHdclPAe6Q5oZ-r3T3cLNTjgZ64Nw5SvADjBPiLvNV64Wy4jK0zI-ckyV7s-1WVt-t-0rUOX3YsW51g1c_oNwgbQwo/s1600/1993NBAAllStarLogo.gif"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpD_SIFS4tWzcY3hLxjl6qV4jQoDmJVGJakW-_vaBPffnUPv40NWHdclPAe6Q5oZ-r3T3cLNTjgZ64Nw5SvADjBPiLvNV64Wy4jK0zI-ckyV7s-1WVt-t-0rUOX3YsW51g1c_oNwgbQwo/s200/1993NBAAllStarLogo.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712360535761347026" border="0" /></a>celebrating in the house of one the league’s premiere franchises or bottom dweller, the stars graciously spotlight the town’s own. this was no less true in Salt Lake City. The offensive juggernaut of John Stockton and Karl Malone—one of the greatest tandems in the sport’s history—were featured throughout the game. And it was a doozy, the lead oscillating like a metronome and resulting in overtime. The West finally won by a hefty score of 135 to the East’s 132. When the dust cleared, big man Malone had 28 points and 10 rebounds, while teammate Stockton had 9 points, 6 rebounds and 15 assists, which means he was directly responsible for 30 points! No surprise the Jazz duo were awarded co-MVP.<br /><br />By the end of the epic confrontation, it was well past seven P.M. Alyson, my fellow actors and I had eaten little, if anything, for lunch and were starving. One nice thing about being on the road with your boss is not having to worry about the per diem. This is the preset traveling expense devoted to meals. When I began my Web-Swinging career, the per diem was $30 a day. That’s the amount the performers were given for breakfast, lunch and dinner, cumulatively. Certainly meager by today’s standards, at the time it was serviceable in areas with a lower cost of living, like Tuscaloosa, Alabama, or Elkton, Maryland; less so for major metropolitan ones, such as Washington, D.C. or Atlanta, Georgia. Working Canada translated to receiving approximately a double stipend as the exchange rate with the U.S. was about two-to-one at the time, but it evened out when factoring in the additional beer you had to drink.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTDNu-bPG019UFgfAE5UISJ1-566e3FmunqSOT1_eWD-XSX5VyD3NDYWdqgOC6YFC4zWZcBieXJr8nJJxnXGTQbkPdyzZvyP9PLKCTRFqfSTkwtl7kFPVwh9GZgGJtWDOT07wpaFWn9U/s1600/SpamSkit.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTDNu-bPG019UFgfAE5UISJ1-566e3FmunqSOT1_eWD-XSX5VyD3NDYWdqgOC6YFC4zWZcBieXJr8nJJxnXGTQbkPdyzZvyP9PLKCTRFqfSTkwtl7kFPVwh9GZgGJtWDOT07wpaFWn9U/s200/SpamSkit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712350435934169378" border="0" /></a>The modest allotment meant us characters were relegated to fast food purveyors, food carts and snacking in lieu of a meal in order to stay within the per diem’s limitations. Woe to those trapped in remote accommodations that offered no dining alternatives to the always pricey hotel restaurant in the area. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hello, Dominos?!</span> Being treated by the sponsor or host was always appreciated. That day’s per diem could then be divvied between two meals instead of three. One could actually experience the rare treat of eating healthily: the nutritious muesli with fresh fruit for breakfast instead of a choice of specials #1–6, which featured “spam, spam, spam, fried eggs and spam—that’s only got a li’l bit ‘o spam innit”—with a selection of side meats. When I hung up my webs a decade later, the per diem had soared to a whopping $40 a day! <span style="font-style: italic;">Rachel Ray, eat your heart out!</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFnU_6l8VwPf-xbop1gxi4-4kuW-W6L4aGl_Nh0Vwkb5zTXOCbF3nDWBcEdJI8cXWyDRRsNCXw1RFHuP1Bh8ng3NX54Xuj7hdX5X99jMvX-c9SHOxXwHj6Jo9a3xNCctM4OQrpzhP9EU/s1600/NBAAllStar_JoePhone007.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFnU_6l8VwPf-xbop1gxi4-4kuW-W6L4aGl_Nh0Vwkb5zTXOCbF3nDWBcEdJI8cXWyDRRsNCXw1RFHuP1Bh8ng3NX54Xuj7hdX5X99jMvX-c9SHOxXwHj6Jo9a3xNCctM4OQrpzhP9EU/s400/NBAAllStar_JoePhone007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712342848040203394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I remember when cell phones were as big as a candy machine... Tell that to the kids today, they won’t<br />believe you...</span> </div><br />Still, Joe and Jeremy politely declined Alyson’s offer, preferring instead to spend their final evening in Salt Lake free from under official auspices. Me, I enjoyed my time with Alyson, and no, I was not simply playing Eddie Haskell to her June Cleaver. Alyson was full of interesting war stories from her early days as a showgirl treading the floorboards of Magic Mountain to her event marketing days with Macy’s. Considering what she’d put me through the day prior during the photo shoot with The Hulk, my feelings would have to be genuine.<br /><br />The eatery du jour was across the street from the Salt Palace. It was quite expansive with various rooms and levels, with a contemporary (read: <span style="font-style: italic;">austere</span>) décor. I’m unsure whether it was the restaurant’s closeness to the arena, it’s upscale, upper-echelon conduciveness or the dearth of anything on par in the vicinity, but the place was packed with NBA wags and celebrities. I couldn’t understand it, because the place had all the ambiance of a high school cafeteria. Patrons were seated so close to one another as to be obscene in certain parts of the South and the noise was deafening. Surprisingly, there was a wait—<span style="font-style: italic;">must be the only place open in the state</span>—so Alyson and I took the opportunity to hit the head.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimu1wAjQOKhuDoIR4ZkViq6j0w2GKEYzFOQBds4UkOv2-aICYD7MWx6__d5pJEayOFSK5EDIYFd7S45rzE6goSlKLaal1r-WDzgH_qBaBMZW7Uly9oKxZMlWujmXAjxYRWAuO1znWNpUs/s1600/magillaRecord.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 10pt 10pt 0px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimu1wAjQOKhuDoIR4ZkViq6j0w2GKEYzFOQBds4UkOv2-aICYD7MWx6__d5pJEayOFSK5EDIYFd7S45rzE6goSlKLaal1r-WDzgH_qBaBMZW7Uly9oKxZMlWujmXAjxYRWAuO1znWNpUs/s200/magillaRecord.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712349238426607666" border="0" /></a>The Men’s and Ladies’ rooms stood abreast one another beneath a staircase—the type with no perpendicular backing to the steps, which was meant to convey modern and accentuate the open floor plan, but truly looks stupid and makes using them a vertiginous nightmare—to one of the upper dining levels. Right angled to them was the entrance to a private room, in which a large party sat at a single table. As I glanced in, my jaw dropped. At the head of the table was then Celtics coach Chris Ford, former Celtics guard who helped lead the team to their first championship of the 80s. Lesser known than colleagues Larry Bird, Robert Parish and the aforementioned Kevin McHale, Ford was no less important; a stalwart defensive master, who is credited with hitting the first three-pointer in the team’s history. He was an unspectacular player whose hustle and work ethic made him a champion… and I loved him!<br /><br />“Omigod, Alyson… Do you know who that was?” I blurted.<br /><br />“STEPHEN!!!” Alyson’s shocked response snapped me out of my reverie, and I noticed about a half dozen women staring at me, frozen in various stages of bathroom activities: drying hands, adjusting clothing, touching up makeup… In my excitement, I failed to veer off into the little boys room, instead following Alyson into the Ladies’.<br /><br />“Uh, sorry,” I stammered before spinning around and exiting, not before careening into a confused pair of females, questioning whether it was they who were walking into the incorrect room.<br /><br />Fortunately, the rest of the evening proceeded gaff-free. Alyson quite enjoyed herself retelling the blunder to Jeremy and Joe the next morning on the way to the airport. I was just happy to be heading home. I don’t know what could’ve possessed me, barreling into the women’s lavatory without thinking, like a mindless brute. I guess you can take the actor out of The Hulk, but you can’t take The Hulk out of the actor.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzF12wDpM2CNAUryRCN-XYeoT-FnoBYAandi8Tm6RwIAeQFRIi-ZZ4H2R_k67MtXeQV5_wUkX_n1q3qDJzKS5FJ5ia8ptGEjJSbMHkdiDmWIAu_L-mpNCs60_J3QMA8FCjs5EV8cBspM/s1600/NBAAllStar_UtahSucks009.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 349px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzF12wDpM2CNAUryRCN-XYeoT-FnoBYAandi8Tm6RwIAeQFRIi-ZZ4H2R_k67MtXeQV5_wUkX_n1q3qDJzKS5FJ5ia8ptGEjJSbMHkdiDmWIAu_L-mpNCs60_J3QMA8FCjs5EV8cBspM/s400/NBAAllStar_UtahSucks009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712358452518691106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Upon Jeremy’s, Joe’s and my return from our ski lodge excursion, this vehicle pulled out in front of us on our way to the Salt Palace.<br />NOTE: The views expressed by those in the car do not necessarily reflect those of </span>Heroes In My Closet<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /></div>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-16519170841430600092012-02-14T10:31:00.003-05:002012-03-03T17:58:00.425-05:00Going to Court, Part III: You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDcrZ81sWVC1ogCedEPE7fC6CkUsjYp71_VUxvBY9WOQBIBO4jqLxyritI6hzFd_7XN8voEFs5PRFQrdpjBVjS0l9ehyCm0qssuSzV5EORBqHj6NznKVQ9JuTzjkhwjuE1n2NOEDJcCI/s1600/hulkAngry.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDcrZ81sWVC1ogCedEPE7fC6CkUsjYp71_VUxvBY9WOQBIBO4jqLxyritI6hzFd_7XN8voEFs5PRFQrdpjBVjS0l9ehyCm0qssuSzV5EORBqHj6NznKVQ9JuTzjkhwjuE1n2NOEDJcCI/s400/hulkAngry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709454541449602258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Say </span>CHEESE!<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">With Marvel Personal Appearance Department Director Alyson’s search for a Dunkin’ Doppelgänger complete, the stage is finally set for The Incredible Hulk’s coming out party at the 1993 NBA All-Star Game Jam Session in Salt Lake City, Utah. But will our nattering narrator’s inaugural stint as the lime leviathan be a “Hulk smash!”?</span><br /><br />Unlike other costumed characters, The Hulk necessitated a minder, someone to serve as escort while he performed his ambassadorial duties. Improved though the new suit’s visibility may be, the sheer bulk of the ensemble made it impossible to maneuver without the constant threat of barreling into someone or something. Plus, walking as the Jade Giant was akin to doing leg extensions on a weight machine; it took real effort to lift each leg, given the costume’s heft and limited mobility. It was like walking underwater.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RhDuvO9vVmW_i0a8G9MGgJB8q816uuoj3KjuA9_jIxZOIB0qPpVKsO4-d0qe6VcPRn1Go1TcMADJyHi8-6rvL5YqlKvApwU9tDri2ZPTHEHspDpwEcHP9iidtBC-KjdOgTCXk6YV9zo/s1600/NBA93_WolvieSansCowl001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RhDuvO9vVmW_i0a8G9MGgJB8q816uuoj3KjuA9_jIxZOIB0qPpVKsO4-d0qe6VcPRn1Go1TcMADJyHi8-6rvL5YqlKvApwU9tDri2ZPTHEHspDpwEcHP9iidtBC-KjdOgTCXk6YV9zo/s400/NBA93_WolvieSansCowl001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709071056251311938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Mr. Hulk, your escort is here!</span><br /></div><br />In fact any movement, regardless of how minute, was met with staunch resistance. Add the heat and lack of the body’s breath-ability—the only openings were the mouth and eye sockets—and it wasn’t long before the wearer was awash in his own sweat. Even the thin bodysuit I wore beneath the Hulk exterior offered little by way of capturing perspiration; it was sopping minutes after donning the suit. This was the reason behind the twenty-minutes-in, ten-minutes-out policy for Hulk performers. To spend much longer in the costume dared the actor’s passing out.<br /><br />Of course, this all depended on the person and the circumstances. Oftimes a wearer o’ the green, as it were, would stretch the costume’s temporal edicts. Perhaps, there was an especially long line of children waiting or the gig itself was a one-off of thirty minutes—to shoehorn a break therein would be a bit “letter of law”—or the particulars surrounding the job necessitated the Hulk portrayer to remain in character beyond the stated limit. The policy was emplaced more to protect the actor from unsympathetic sponsors who might not be willing to understand the importance of the schedule and insist the performer work well beyond the conservative safety margins.<br /><br />With Alyson’s time split between overseeing Sam’s dunking escapades and glad-handing the Marvel Mucky-Mucks at the festivities, the job of Hulk-sitter fell to Joe, our Wolverine. Jeremy’s status as tenured Spider-Man precluded his taking on such menial tasks outside his Web-Swinging duties, although he did pal around on occasion. The job didn’t devour a whole lot of hours. Most of the time, I was on the show floor along with my stalwart superhero companions, so there wasn’t a need for a minder. When I needed a break, Wolvie would escort me back to the locker room and help me out of the suit before rejoining Webhead, since their stints between respites were greater.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxnp74L1g7ozV2b8zCZJQnGmeOSd7bMCTaPQ64iP-ZLP6KmueK-FEEdBZYtAbzqk1QU7v7QGzvzXioEWS4Jy-zy9uQVbNOXD8OVyLiTf3SFn2cbElm0d7IkdfqaWq23jtWkpl9d9ebXQ/s1600/NBA93_HulkSMWolvie003.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 387px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxnp74L1g7ozV2b8zCZJQnGmeOSd7bMCTaPQ64iP-ZLP6KmueK-FEEdBZYtAbzqk1QU7v7QGzvzXioEWS4Jy-zy9uQVbNOXD8OVyLiTf3SFn2cbElm0d7IkdfqaWq23jtWkpl9d9ebXQ/s400/NBA93_HulkSMWolvie003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709411745624387026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Dream Team</span><br /></div><br />My activities as the Jade Giant were relegated to the secondary court just outside our dressing room. The area, which held various other b-ball frivolities and vendor stalls, could be found at the end of a long corridor leading from the B court. It ran approximately fifty yards, traversing the length of the main arena and tiered seating surrounding it. A straight shot of smooth cement it may have been, but it might as well have been the <span style="font-style: italic;">Wipeout</span> qualification obstacle course as far as The Hulk was concerned. Simply strolling from the lockers into the B court pavilion was exhausting, like doing a hundred reps of forty pound leg lifts.<br /><br />Not that there weren’t enough fans to entertain where I was. The B court was always active. Sure, the slam dunk exhibition with special guest Spider-Man was certainly a highlight, but there were also clinics on how to improve one’s basketball skills, trick-shot showcases; us heroes even had some friendly competition from the NBA mascots, who performed their own dunking display… with a trampoline no less! Out of mutual respect, though, we ceded the floor to the mascots during their show and they graciously allowed Spidey and friends their privacy when we were doing our thing. Not only did this result in a nice chunk of off time to Hulk, but also it allowed me to watch the league’s court jesters perform.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzq4swgihGjseMX461gYLM11ZlpheCsw69eBJz3yftJF8H-R4rPNV1ZFs8DHLljpKmceL9GSTM77vvZ94Rtthr4Rz55TqJMmZwSkyHUDcWSFAmZteIub8CK8Pzbr1KYP94dZqW4b1YYY/s1600/NBA93_MascotRocky009.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzq4swgihGjseMX461gYLM11ZlpheCsw69eBJz3yftJF8H-R4rPNV1ZFs8DHLljpKmceL9GSTM77vvZ94Rtthr4Rz55TqJMmZwSkyHUDcWSFAmZteIub8CK8Pzbr1KYP94dZqW4b1YYY/s400/NBA93_MascotRocky009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709067543429052914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Denver Nuggets’ Rocky the mountain lion takes flight</span> </div><br />Here was character appearance work on a whole ’nother level. To be able to barrel along the hardwood at a full tilt while holding a basketball, hit a three-foot square trampoline at the top of the key and slam the ball through the hoop would take a fair bit of athleticism. I’ve seen my fair share of superjocks on <span style="font-style: italic;">Ninja Warrior</span> miscue the trampoline on the show’s signature Jumping Spider obstacle and they’re clad in the height of athletic apparel. But to do so wearing a furry animal head and matching costume was insane.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNittf6zV4txyo5hvYQZ4a5ShtC1obV9sWID8fEr49uDRyPrlnNrvLDYqqobx9Ytf4-Pd55IoPqr8mfOu55UShPqvAAXi0w3muZbTFSBQsQI0KwQV8KW83BIAz7dM1CH2FK3rToceZ3o/s1600/NBA93_MascotBoomer010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNittf6zV4txyo5hvYQZ4a5ShtC1obV9sWID8fEr49uDRyPrlnNrvLDYqqobx9Ytf4-Pd55IoPqr8mfOu55UShPqvAAXi0w3muZbTFSBQsQI0KwQV8KW83BIAz7dM1CH2FK3rToceZ3o/s400/NBA93_MascotBoomer010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709068541448217538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Indiana Pacers</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Boomer flips out. The extra trampoline lower right gives you some idea the size of the area the NBA mascots had to strike to perform their dunks.</span> </div><br />And these guys were flipping and somersaulting in the air like the Flying Wallendas… only they survived! When they weren’t performing on the court, they were in the stands, climbing up the tiers, on the backs of the seats at times. It was awe-inspiring. Their duds may not have been as onerous as The Hulk’s, and they may have been designed to allow the wearer to move as expected, but the actor/athlete therein still had to prove himself.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvQRY4evRcxe1g_jnk7gPp2jsb_wZwScL8nqN8nIh_R7_OuBMq8H9ghwWTpBTYGDS4VVWuATMOM8TutHn8yeyNabFboy3jlTRFzmo2Ev1YZdi9DltM-S9GJs_DpoUI02AvjIA3JEzvJ4/s1600/NBA93_MascotTimber011.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvQRY4evRcxe1g_jnk7gPp2jsb_wZwScL8nqN8nIh_R7_OuBMq8H9ghwWTpBTYGDS4VVWuATMOM8TutHn8yeyNabFboy3jlTRFzmo2Ev1YZdi9DltM-S9GJs_DpoUI02AvjIA3JEzvJ4/s400/NBA93_MascotTimber011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709069199162198514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Minnesota Timberwolves</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Crunch attempts to dunk<br />over seven people</span><br /></div><br />Truth be told, I wasn’t completely floundering while wearing the green. I could actually walk at a decent clip and the double-width concrete stairs of the bleachers, which surrounded the B court, proved no match for The Hulk’s prodigious tootsies much to the delighted surprise of then Marvel President and CEO Terry Stewart who I encountered upon my inaugural debut at the show. Alyson stole me away from my adoring public during a lull to escort me to where Marvel Comics Numero Uno was seated in the stadium, most assuredly there to catch our Web-Swinging Ringer in action. In her excitement to present me to Stewart, Alyson didn’t think that I might find navigating stairs a problem.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPB_O4wVCEo66BEmDAPl2U7OCJkIiaXScpfD7jXN_Ou_s1v5NNpT9PAJFswkiRO6uQE_Q3HS3-5u2_uZ-i06rU0vvWuP-g5tTRxuh0w3iBAt-pBTvnmbJWMhZAKB3w7WbIVmH-vZQH5Q/s1600/TerryStewartCard001.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPB_O4wVCEo66BEmDAPl2U7OCJkIiaXScpfD7jXN_Ou_s1v5NNpT9PAJFswkiRO6uQE_Q3HS3-5u2_uZ-i06rU0vvWuP-g5tTRxuh0w3iBAt-pBTvnmbJWMhZAKB3w7WbIVmH-vZQH5Q/s400/TerryStewartCard001.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709073402614790194" border="0" /></a>“Are you going to be okay getting up the steps, Hulk,” she intoned, always professional when it came to speaking with the characters when among the rabble. I could see the mix of realization and worry on her face when we reached the base of the section above which Stewart was seated.<br /><br />“No problem,” I growled. “Just clear the way. I’d hate to make a scene my first night in Utah!”<br /><br />Typical to stadium seating, the steps alternated from normal depth to extra wide as one climbed past each row with their height being less than that of the usual stair. The feat would’ve been treacherous had they all been of the mundane variety, but the levels on which the rows were situated afforded plenty of space for my humongous hooves. Without skipping a beat, I hauled one leg, then the next, up the section, vaulting two steps at a time. I nearly barreled over a surprised Alyson who was staying close to give me a hand if needed. She adjusted quickly enough to scramble ahead, leading the way.<br /><br />“Gangway… Coming through!” I bellowed.<br /><br />The move was not out of character for the bullish behemoth, whose common mode of transport was propelling himself on his muscular legs, leaping leagues at a time. And the words <span style="font-style: italic;">shy</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">unassuming</span> would never be used to describe the simplest of actions taken by the Jade Giant. Fortunately, the Marvel President and CEO was only a third of the way up and positioned along the aisle. My thighs felt like Jell-O and shaking as much by the time I’d finished the climb. Any further, I may have been in trouble.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSvEyhiblKHXtRlbWhSnvgDuxBhlRFsbQY2rPORzzF4hKRLICWvm5sN-Crsl5jIKKt2iRrkO_yngnj7Hl22iaCbMLBhmWErgzRFo7Yx_-uNgCBtvBHrYbI6KNy8-O6wI4gewAhY6zZknI/s1600/NBA93_HulkBoyzIIMen007.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSvEyhiblKHXtRlbWhSnvgDuxBhlRFsbQY2rPORzzF4hKRLICWvm5sN-Crsl5jIKKt2iRrkO_yngnj7Hl22iaCbMLBhmWErgzRFo7Yx_-uNgCBtvBHrYbI6KNy8-O6wI4gewAhY6zZknI/s400/NBA93_HulkBoyzIIMen007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709442313904541730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Beastz II Men</span><br /></div><br />“Hi, Hulk,” Stewart said upon my arrival.<br /><br />“Mr. Stewart! Sheesh, they’ll let anyone in here. Bad enough when I waltzed in… not that they had any choice.”<br /><br />There was a twinkle in his eye and a smile crept over his face as he leaned toward Alyson. “Stephen?” he asked under his breath, inquiring as to my concealed identity.<br /><br />“How’d you guess,” Alyson responded with a hearty laugh.<br /><br />“Nice to hear my reputation precedes me,” I added.<br /><br />“What do you think?” Alyson asked Stewart, who always enjoyed watching the characters in action. But it wasn’t my performance about which Alyson was asking.<br /><br />I hadn’t realized up to this point in the gig that it was the Hulk’s coming out party. The Personal Appearance Department’s Spartan budget had spiked briefly in 1987 when thirteen new costumes were commissioned in conjunction with an awesome float and the famous Spider-Man balloon, all in celebration of the Web-Spinner’s 25th anniversary, at that year’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-love-parade-part-i-theres-no-need-to.html">“I Love a Parade,” parts I</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-love-parade-part-ii-eeny-meeny-miney.html">II</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-love-parade-part-iii-isnt-it-iron-ic.html">III</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-scream-float.html">IV</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/01/and-away-we-go.html">V</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/01/i-love-parade-finale-what.html">VI</a>). It returned to a level only slightly higher to accommodate the added production of Wolverine costumes, the only character to have appearance longevity after that Turkey Day coming out party.<br /><br />But the cranky Canuck’s togs’ costs ran along the same lines as Captain America’s signature red-white-and-blue, a far cry from the expense of re-envisioning The Hulk, a safe bet at ten grand. Also, with neither an impending live-action film, nor new cartoon on the telly, there was little reason for the Powers That Be to green light (pun intended) a fresh ensemble for Bruce Banner’s fearsome second self. To keep the costume cabbage coming, it was paramount for Alyson to dazzle, cajole and kiss the collective asses of every and any exec even remotely associated with the MacAndrews & Forbes Holdings group, the Ronald Perelman led über-corporation that purchased Marvel Entertainment in 1989, and all it’s ancillary acquisitions, including Fleer trading cards, the sponsor of the Jam Session.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Qt4Zl8AMJjlqMzmcuJ6VfKD-Zg_5J3EK9dN1ZvPuEaE6PATa1rKV6xKW_qBqApLxtmA7Y1JDbNuX7A1IOJlxlE_79C2QKJ0sihrPuL5_cy8WJ1BjxptTgkJJqTC0wrQevbUwnR6f8WI/s1600/NBA93_HulkJazz006.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 373px; height: 352px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Qt4Zl8AMJjlqMzmcuJ6VfKD-Zg_5J3EK9dN1ZvPuEaE6PATa1rKV6xKW_qBqApLxtmA7Y1JDbNuX7A1IOJlxlE_79C2QKJ0sihrPuL5_cy8WJ1BjxptTgkJJqTC0wrQevbUwnR6f8WI/s400/NBA93_HulkJazz006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709449926239294642" border="0" /></a>Alyson was fantastic at running the department, no less this soulless aspect. Her success at the helm can be evinced from the prestigious partnerships she fostered, such as those with the NFL and NBA, which resulted in an increase in gigs, especially such cool highfalutin ones as this and Super Bowl XXV (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/03/who-could-forget-superpro-oops-sorry-i.html">“Football Hero”</a>) and subsequent commission of a parcel of brand-spanking-new costumes for such heroes as Cyclops, Storm, She-Hulk, The Fantastic Four and Iron Man (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-i-grimm-beginning.html">“The Thing Is,” parts I</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-ii-i-knew-i-should-have.html">II</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-iii-man-makes-suit.html">III</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-iv-don-we-now-our-gay.html">IV</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/06/thing-is-part-v-universal-appeal.html">V</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/06/thing-is-finale-i-do-rock.html">VI</a>) in the years she spearheaded the department.<br /><br />Stewart was an exception to the stuffed suits with which Alyson usually had to hob knob. He not only understood the potential of the Personal Appearance program, he enjoyed and more importantly respected the actors who made Marvel’s superheroes come to life. In fact, Stewart was somewhat of a pop culture aficionado. In 1999, he left Marvel to become the <a href="http://rockhall.com/visit-the-museum/learn/staff-bios/terry-stewart-president-and-ceo/">President and CEO of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame</a> in Cleveland, Ohio, a post he continues to serve today. His solid relationship with Alyson and the department was crucial for its health and good standing with Perelman’s people, since he was closer to them in the company’s hierarchy.<br /><br />A positive report on the re-incarnated Hulk was more than certain to rise upward and osmose into the corporation’s executive ranks, securing a bit of insurance for future endeavors. It was evident from the bemused look on Stewart’s face that he liked the new look.<br /><br />“How’s it feel in there,” he asked.<br /><br />“It’s a hot time in the ole costume tonight,” I grumbled, and truer words had never been spoken. It was my first stint as the lime leviathan and mere minutes encapsulated within his skin, I was awash in sweat. But the laughter, which greeted my response, was enough to keep such paltry discomforts at bay. Alyson seemed pleased with my efforts, as well, and making one’s boss happy is never a bad thing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSpX_1KSc3SD1fXiEI8TP8Z2W_rBs66oSbSy7GebOHD3iBOkUalEWh7WmfqIWvMziilcVGYGJNXf2iCXqEhmBAWuCB2XcV0gjGP18YxoAVHFPlpsfJgDDYtPvygfnSUCDIRjmKlc2yXc/s1600/Hulk401.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSpX_1KSc3SD1fXiEI8TP8Z2W_rBs66oSbSy7GebOHD3iBOkUalEWh7WmfqIWvMziilcVGYGJNXf2iCXqEhmBAWuCB2XcV0gjGP18YxoAVHFPlpsfJgDDYtPvygfnSUCDIRjmKlc2yXc/s200/Hulk401.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709454232485569570" border="0" /></a>It also boosted my confidence. Actors are a notoriously unsure lot, ever questioning their performances. The historic disrespect of the profession is certainly a contributing factor. Choosing the career is oft met with ridicule from family and friends alike; as if the decision is a phase the person is going through. Why else would one enter a job force with a ninety-percent unemployment rate and so little security? So every scrap of positive reinforcement is devoured like an oreo in the hands of Cookie Monster. This being my first time portraying the titular antihero, one of the founding pantheon of Stan Lee–created Marvel Universe characters, was unnerving, especially since I was embracing a different direction—one represented by Peter David in the character’s eponymous title to be sure, but perhaps a persona unfamiliar to the masses nonetheless—than that which previous Hulk performers had taken in the past.<br /><br />I needn’t have worried. The fans—young and old—loved me. <span style="font-style: italic;">They really loved me! </span>And I had a blast with the Green Goliath’s playfully snide character, especially with the celebs that roamed the area, including Mayim Bialik (see “Yours and Mayim”), a cappella group Boyz II Men and model/actor/MTV VJ Karen Duffy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7W-wy_FmOeQLo4u0xetXeDa8wyRnXnwxOt4wL0xck1n5wT7j8xERQO7UF-QZ98NF_yTQUu1vYW_xDXKvagqDAInawvlM80WQxctf65glpWjIHwI90H8J_Jm_qdBkveQxVdkT_lDa4N8/s1600/NBA93_HulkDuffy002.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7W-wy_FmOeQLo4u0xetXeDa8wyRnXnwxOt4wL0xck1n5wT7j8xERQO7UF-QZ98NF_yTQUu1vYW_xDXKvagqDAInawvlM80WQxctf65glpWjIHwI90H8J_Jm_qdBkveQxVdkT_lDa4N8/s400/NBA93_HulkDuffy002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709408966119089250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I want my MTV!</span><br /></div><br />Still, I would’ve loved to have played with the fans in the carnival area, but even had I managed to survive the journey there and remained lucid, I didn’t trust that I’d get back on my own volition, and The Hulk being wheeled out of the stadium on a gurney wouldn’t have gone over to well with the company VIPs, never mind the wee Hulkophiles. It just wasn’t going to happen…<br /><br />Then it happened.<br /><br />Three days into the four-day event, Alyson had scheduled a photo shoot with Spider-Man, Wolverine and The Hulk. Joining us were a handful of Fleer executives, which only made sense; they were the sponsor for the event, after all.<br /><br />I’d been involved in other photo shoots in the past, all of which spanned hours, usually an entire day, regardless of how seemingly small or mundane the project for which the session was scheduled. They’d also been conducted in a studio or at Marvel HQ, where a momentary removal of one’s costume to catch a breather between shots was permissible—no fear of exposure in the eyes of the public. Plus, since they were private, enclosed affairs, there wasn’t a need to constantly be in character. All in all, though the photo shoots may have taken longer than an average gig, they were less tiring.<br /><br />Alyson made it clear that the photographer was booked for only three hours. Already this was sounding less severe, what with necessary breaks. Even ceding a mere fifteen-minute respite each hour so she could max her time with the shutterbug would be okay. A few pix on the court with Spider-Man and Wolverine; some nice cross-promotional shots with the Fleer Nabobs; perhaps a few solo efforts to highlight the new suit… <span style="font-style: italic;">badda bing, badda boom</span>… done!<br /><br />“I want to start with some shots of the heroes in the festival area,” Alyson chimed as soon as my colleagues and I exited the dressing room. Before you could say “heat exhaustion” she was leading her posse into the mouth of the endless tunnel that lead to the other end of the Salt Palace where the fan carnival was located. I dutifully followed, not that I had a chance to voice any concerns. Besides, it wouldn’t have looked good.<br /><br />“Uh… excuse me, Alyson,” I’d grumble with an upraised green paw. “I have some concerns with my ability to make the trek. I fear I may pass out before we get there.” Yeah, that’d go over well and pretty much ensure my never getting another Hulk job.<br /><br />In actuality, I was feeling fairly confident about hauling my purple ass to the fan fair section of the complex. During the previous two days within the walking green sauna, I’d acquired a sense of how best to regulate my breathing and conserve my energy to maximize my time as the Green Goliath. Four years of extensive vocal training—which included deep breathing exercises—and relaxation technique had attuned me to my body, and I was confident in my ability to push the boundaries of stamina, performing until the last possible moment. Had this been the start of the gig, before I’d had a few days of Hulking under my belt, I don’t think I would’ve handled the situation as well.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxotI_OB5MlvGx0-bMMbkmkAIsBNJcoaAUXT1gmvkh5PO7pDyNJcEchx25W0w2gPYw_F3hiBS5n2vQDFZrnID5FAi3NG5DYD_KnH1raqfSLp4vh8n1w8Z61O81-zu3jJ4dr7ZU7kcj7Qo/s1600/Wicked-Witch-Guards.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxotI_OB5MlvGx0-bMMbkmkAIsBNJcoaAUXT1gmvkh5PO7pDyNJcEchx25W0w2gPYw_F3hiBS5n2vQDFZrnID5FAi3NG5DYD_KnH1raqfSLp4vh8n1w8Z61O81-zu3jJ4dr7ZU7kcj7Qo/s400/Wicked-Witch-Guards.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709410817359841826" border="0" /></a>The journey was about putting myself into another state. I established a cadence to my footfalls and repeated a mantra in my head—I chose the marching song of the witch’s guards in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard of Oz</span>: “oh-wee-oh… woh-o-o-o-h-oh…”—in conjunction with each inhalation and exhalation. I all but ignored any attendees, NBA personal or workers that I passed, despite their greetings. A characteristic grunt was my reply as I traversed the corridor, that merest of sounds in accord with the rhythm of my breathing. I may have been at the back of the pack, but I kept in stride with them nonetheless. It was actually better not to be amidst the group, given the unwieldiness of the costume.<br /><br />Finally, we emerged into the festival area, like navigating the tight confines of the wardrobe into the wonders of Narnia. The room was as expansive as a gymnasium; a cacophony of sounds—the hubbub of fans, bouncing balls, screeching sneaker soles on hardwood, carnies promoting their wares, loudspeaker announcements—and explosion of colors, plastered on banners, posters, clothing, bags and all manner of paraphernalia, from every team logo in the NBA. It hardly registered as I took stock of my condition. There was a moment of lightheadedness—a runner’s high, if you will—as I slowed my respiration and refocused my attention to the surroundings.<br /><br />I was soaked—<span style="font-style: italic;">big surprise, there!</span>—and winded, but otherwise good to go. The excitement of getting the opportunity to play the myriad NBA activities providing the boost of adrenaline I needed. The shoot was only just beginning, after all; there was a ways to go yet.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2xNkiFz13pCzVILNCT_UZpwFrftX2HragiMgk1kl0J3akt_Z3kd-2OBDj69qA3lSFEpM2IRhiBWGEtSS94FYSlcKhtjlf2UqfVmfd9stpPZMWpOFF4ZFv_0Diq-G4zJ-AP-Mre0_LCc/s1600/NBA93_HulkArmStretch005.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 351px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2xNkiFz13pCzVILNCT_UZpwFrftX2HragiMgk1kl0J3akt_Z3kd-2OBDj69qA3lSFEpM2IRhiBWGEtSS94FYSlcKhtjlf2UqfVmfd9stpPZMWpOFF4ZFv_0Diq-G4zJ-AP-Mre0_LCc/s400/NBA93_HulkArmStretch005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709076717686903314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hulk loves you this much!</span><br /></div><br />So much for my prediction of a few pix of Hulk and co. There wasn’t a photo op that Alyson missed. Match your wingspan with that of basketball’s greatest big men… Check! Pose in your very own personalized locker betwixt those of All-Stars Karl Malone and John Stockton… Righty-O! Take part in hometown Utah Jazz’s team picture… Done! And of course, each shot went through a dozen takes. <span style="font-style: italic;">Okay, Spider-Man first… Now, Wolverine; you join him… Can you strike a different pose, Spidey…? Hulk, get in there… Let’s do one with Hulk alone… Now Hulk and Wolverine… What haven’t we done…? Oh, yeah; just Spidey and Hulk… </span>We were going on two hours without a break, and any chance of one brought up images of the agonizing Death March to Bataan return trip to the B court.<br /><br />Finally, Alyson directed us back to the secondary gym. I was delusional, seeing NBA cheerleaders beneath a bevy of swaying palm trees by an inviting pool, beckoning me… The prospect of traveling to the dressing room and getting this 500lb green gorilla off my back snapped me out of it. I actually led the way, moving more quickly than before, determined—<span style="font-style: italic;">Hulk smash… Hulk smash… Hulk smash….</span> Women and children fled before me. Hot dog carts pulled over. To those handful of poor souls oblivious to my approach I elicited an angry roar (They moved!). I was Godzilla razing Japan, Tokyo Bay my target, and nothing was going to stop me. Alyson had enough photos to fill the Hermitage. There was nothing more to shoot.<br /><br />Apparently, there was.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvKx_CoqsK5ieX1JmKXbw5uYfWayVjacTK1gMcuyqeuz3rIVyTjdmGljVoGssYUJpIzyWv3LXC_oJaXcajexlbaMH2wYIv8rYnvRae6WKoTkJEcF3_t4hf-cqv-wCMB2q3p4FP-ZMgNc/s1600/NBA93_HulkLocker004.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvKx_CoqsK5ieX1JmKXbw5uYfWayVjacTK1gMcuyqeuz3rIVyTjdmGljVoGssYUJpIzyWv3LXC_oJaXcajexlbaMH2wYIv8rYnvRae6WKoTkJEcF3_t4hf-cqv-wCMB2q3p4FP-ZMgNc/s400/NBA93_HulkLocker004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709076369542295698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, these aren</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">t Hulk</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s sneakers!</span><br /></div><br />“Let finish up with some shots on the floor by the Jam Session logo,” Alyson announced directly behind me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Aargh!!!</span> I’d forgotten about the Mucky-Mucks from Fleer. We hadn’t taken a single photo featuring them. I was dying, but I couldn’t walk away from the people responsible for my being at the show. The tank was on empty, though, and the engine was in the red. I was teetering on the brink of collapse. It was the classic scenario in Hulk comics: the bestial behemoth, racked with fatigue after some cataclysmic battle, fighting his inner self—the formally dormant aspect of Bruce Banner—struggling desperately to re-seize control of his savage alter-ego, while the monster holds on vainly. <span style="font-style: italic;">Just… a few… more… shots…</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaW7KkbQCn2yPxzOYN6kBF1gUeKHk2xHq-E7i8OdDDrfGLXbGhp1_aNvSVErB8HOHnOKUp9JuG4Ynn2pU9Pdzld7ISBRhvx2y9YGxFGgpvOG6KFH49hJGDi5eWBmIiG9ONwuVfvz7U6s/s1600/NBA93_HulkFleerLogo008.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaW7KkbQCn2yPxzOYN6kBF1gUeKHk2xHq-E7i8OdDDrfGLXbGhp1_aNvSVErB8HOHnOKUp9JuG4Ynn2pU9Pdzld7ISBRhvx2y9YGxFGgpvOG6KFH49hJGDi5eWBmIiG9ONwuVfvz7U6s/s400/NBA93_HulkFleerLogo008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709073936561531250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Screw you, guys. Hulk taking ball</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> and going home!” </span><br /></div><br />A handful of additional pix I could have handled, but Alyson returned to her litany of endless poses, beginning with those highlighting the superheroes. She went through more combinations than possible patterns on a Rubik’s Cube. And that was before she even invited the Fleer Poo-Bahs to participate. A dozen snaps with them and there was still no indication that Alyson was anywhere near finished. I was literally in danger of heat prostration. Flanked by Fleer execs and fronted by Spider-Man and Wolverine, I stepped out of the frame and headed for the lockers. My mind was a blur; blood pounding in my ears; my breathing a ragged whisper. And somewhere in the distance, I heard Alyson’s voice… <span style="font-style: italic;">Hulk… Hulk… Where’s he going…? Hulk…</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8DNeozV9_b7bafJDB4HPmjflUZ8U3bLZyT_PajGQmycGllpj0-6gzspPMZA-TiC7qeRXhdbthiMJsocYa01H2kfMIbb3X6Zjr-4OqhGK79-1TXEpqyTueaz01GcF_FkOtR0EADHPw7o/s1600/gorillaman.gif"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8DNeozV9_b7bafJDB4HPmjflUZ8U3bLZyT_PajGQmycGllpj0-6gzspPMZA-TiC7qeRXhdbthiMJsocYa01H2kfMIbb3X6Zjr-4OqhGK79-1TXEpqyTueaz01GcF_FkOtR0EADHPw7o/s200/gorillaman.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709075470005411890" border="0" /></a>I don’t know how, but I made it. I barely had enough left to navigate myself onto a metal folding chair, when I realized I had no way of getting out of the costume without someone to unzipper the back—Houdini couldn’t have done it! The arms allowed just enough movement for me to sandwich the head ’tween my massive mitts. But did I have the energy to free it from the neck folds tucked into the chest cavity? There was no way I was going to die as The Hulk. That thought was the impetus I needed to rip off the mask. I was still trapped—resembling the leader of the funny-book felons The Headmen—but at least with the noggin off, my body was able to breath.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_EMxVmmjMn5RkJnVGszI7rZRCzev8vjMIGXqLVBn0GxIMvGMPOQTMX6-Vk0EiDNKR7aIY4QLQPPRwQzK0W90ay3VIpNhX6qsGRD8YpXFqmUwhY3BhVy2dKTj-D9iy-_t8tDgx8pPfAA/s1600/Tom-Turkey-WB-Cartoon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_EMxVmmjMn5RkJnVGszI7rZRCzev8vjMIGXqLVBn0GxIMvGMPOQTMX6-Vk0EiDNKR7aIY4QLQPPRwQzK0W90ay3VIpNhX6qsGRD8YpXFqmUwhY3BhVy2dKTj-D9iy-_t8tDgx8pPfAA/s400/Tom-Turkey-WB-Cartoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709410436468042242" border="0" /></a>I envisioned my body being ridiculously emaciated when I was finally unfettered from my jade jail cell, like cartoon characters who have been trapped inside those reducing cabinets of yore. I looked at the wall clock, taking a moment to bring it into focus. I’d been in the suit for two hours and forty-five minutes, and suddenly felt like a passenger on the Minnow … “a three-hour tour… a three-hour tour…” looping in my brain. I knew then I was going to be fine. Lucky for Alyson I wasn’t really The Hulk. She would never have made it to pose thirty-seven!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Next: The Three Caballeros</span>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-63429157060517962552012-02-03T11:56:00.008-05:002012-02-07T12:06:43.416-05:00Going to Court, Part II: Dunkin’ Treasure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyvQY1OPJEicVWi01f9Ufnyf3-gkkHeGWfuKd0EUA6ofZSk3ZoE_BsM2iAabAnX9Uh_abdnzoRgMMbHXhGEuBl4Ov-hZiMjJx0t7_l3ePLjy6omSqM53AskGOH9VyQZKLfEgjHWPUG7g/s1600/DunkinSpidey_ActionFigure1_Silhouette.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyvQY1OPJEicVWi01f9Ufnyf3-gkkHeGWfuKd0EUA6ofZSk3ZoE_BsM2iAabAnX9Uh_abdnzoRgMMbHXhGEuBl4Ov-hZiMjJx0t7_l3ePLjy6omSqM53AskGOH9VyQZKLfEgjHWPUG7g/s400/DunkinSpidey_ActionFigure1_Silhouette.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704966617019446210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">After successfully fitting into the brand-spankin’ new Hulk costume, our intrepid hero is off to Salt Lake City, Utah, for a gig at the NBA Jam Session, a b-ball-centric fan fair leading up to the All-Star Game. Accompanying him on this epic adventure are Spider-Man and Wolverine… and Marvel Personal Appearance Department Director, Alyson…</span> gulp!…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBHIoRU7YfYPpSAOavN1kI6ujjIGGqh8lZkKqeIrzfCH1VIrIsqlXzqkbIvpHdnIvospsP_lLYDvVutzJITUC4r1HRZXQw28kwl9r-vHBAotDuLHLStyurBUsC3a9y_ZqHg7DAQZtcOA/s1600/SpiderMan149.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBHIoRU7YfYPpSAOavN1kI6ujjIGGqh8lZkKqeIrzfCH1VIrIsqlXzqkbIvpHdnIvospsP_lLYDvVutzJITUC4r1HRZXQw28kwl9r-vHBAotDuLHLStyurBUsC3a9y_ZqHg7DAQZtcOA/s200/SpiderMan149.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704935056532206306" border="0" /></a>What none of the actors realized until we got to the Salt Palace—home of the Utah Jazz and venue of the NBA Jam Session—was that weeks prior to the event Personal Appearance Nabob Alyson was hard at work preparing the infiltration of another Spider-Man to our ranks upon arrival! This was no clone—that saga was more than a year off. No, this web-slinging dopplegänger would have powers unlike any of the Spideys in the Marvel offices, talents that would be showcased for all to see at the basketball bender, i.e. court <span style="font-style: italic;">skillz</span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLb8-pWOIqJxJ5od6vtXJvSn5P05_lrUQxJCmkcnO4A-Iex_50wurh7HsM2NORGi4JV6HO5JrLKuH1kFg7HzYAL9wxziQnQrCE5DUkS8Uk-vyBJYXFuj4kSb8HilXt3KwqnmDUu9atiU/s1600/BirdLaughing.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLb8-pWOIqJxJ5od6vtXJvSn5P05_lrUQxJCmkcnO4A-Iex_50wurh7HsM2NORGi4JV6HO5JrLKuH1kFg7HzYAL9wxziQnQrCE5DUkS8Uk-vyBJYXFuj4kSb8HilXt3KwqnmDUu9atiU/s200/BirdLaughing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704672862289287506" border="0" /></a>That’s right. Marvel was hiring their own Spider-Jordan to dribble, shoot, and most importantly, slam dunk during the basketball Bacchanalia’s daily dunkin’ displays. Paradigms of pectoral pulchritude we heroes may be, each with the athleticism of the above-average Joe, but none of us in-house Webheads were on par with professionals. Sure, I played b-ball—<span style="font-style: italic;">badly</span>—in the cages of New York City. Hell, I was even on a championship team when I was eleven—someone had to get water for the others—but I had about as much elevation as a Buick. Larry Bird would laugh at my vertical leap. Thus, a ringer need be found.<br /><br />To accomplish this goal, Alyson contacted a local talent agency in Salt Lake City. I know what you, my Ever-Faithful and Canny Bloglodytes are thinking: Why enlist a middle-man? Call up the local colleges yourself. There’ll be possibilities aplenty from which to choose. Ah, but collegiates taking a paying basketball-related job while in the hallowed halls of academia would be in violation of NCAA rules, which could result in suspension, losing one’s scholarship, disqualification from the NBA Draft and/or dismissal. Fortunately, the agency had a bead on the next best thing: post-graduates; those hardwood heroes falling shy of the pros.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5tot5IMo8_jWO5GOPs5yhqB5BbQr2KHyvfJJyojA1qwDPoefgXnxQrrjEblZQc8d-pwXG4IdYiKs1F4DD96waHE_KWa8H2I6bxIE_is0dGpH51pZy0iype5xhXeqa6ie-PN1wrUcDTI/s1600/DunkinSpidey_Cartoon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 311px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5tot5IMo8_jWO5GOPs5yhqB5BbQr2KHyvfJJyojA1qwDPoefgXnxQrrjEblZQc8d-pwXG4IdYiKs1F4DD96waHE_KWa8H2I6bxIE_is0dGpH51pZy0iype5xhXeqa6ie-PN1wrUcDTI/s400/DunkinSpidey_Cartoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704938922969881938" border="0" /></a>But not just any former basketball superstar would do. There were certain criteria beyond the facility to dribble, shoot and dunk that the candidates would have to meet, if they were to be considered for the role of Web-Swinger ringer. First, they’d have to fit the costume. Six-foot-two would be ideal; six-three, tight; six-four would be stretching it (pun intended). Plus, the prospective performers had to look good in the red-and-blue. Spidey’s signature togs appear differently on everyone. It all depends on where the webs fall on an individual’s musculature.<br /></div><br />Ambassadorial aptitude was secondary, since the eventual selection would not be interacting directly with the fans. They’d be performing as part of a dunking display, switching roles with Jeremy, who’d appear before and after the show to meet and greet the fans in person. Of course, total a-holes were out of consideration. But Alyson left the personality decisions in the hands of the agency. She’d still have ultimate say from a triumvirate of finalists, which she’d choose before arrival.<br /><br />To that end, weeks prior to the gig, Alyson shipped the agency a passel of retired Spider-Man threads. Photographs were taken of a bevy of b-boys—who fit the Webhead-thespian criteria—outfitted in the iconic regalia. Said pix were then Fedexed—email was a few years off—to Alyson for consideration. She chose her three favorite candidates before leaving the Big Apple and auditioned the finalists when we touched down in Salt Lake City. All this done under the noses of her hero elite without any of us the wiser.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdrm-bXK53p8elqFctLsD32UxAQUIMuoarObinChZoYBXrSCqum7vanzXtKSf_oKIEEBnTiamCqLJuPyg89LI_OdpwQvMz5mDSY95_RtCh-7rXdznzqcNyDBXRDy-5sm0afzejeu4A0k/s1600/SpiderManChorus.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdrm-bXK53p8elqFctLsD32UxAQUIMuoarObinChZoYBXrSCqum7vanzXtKSf_oKIEEBnTiamCqLJuPyg89LI_OdpwQvMz5mDSY95_RtCh-7rXdznzqcNyDBXRDy-5sm0afzejeu4A0k/s400/SpiderManChorus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704939230006154946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“God, I hope I get it.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> I hope I get it.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />How many Spideys does she need?”</span><br /></div><br />Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the family sports center where Alyson put the prospective Dunkin’ Spideys through their paces. An awesome display of the three Web-sketeers dribbling, passing shooting and slamming on the court; a clone pick-up game, as it were, or Web-Swinging version of Three-Card Monte with the victim trying to select the true Spider-Man once they’ve stopped moving. Of course, anyone who’s seen the Broadway production of <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark</span> with its multiple Web-Slingers musical numbers might find observing the audition as more “Been there; done that,” and less “Wow, totally cool!” but back in 1993, there was no precedent.<br /><br />We met Sam, the eventual winner of the Slammin’ Spidey Sweepstakes at the Salt Palace on the sidelines of a basketball court—perhaps a practice one the Jazz used—in another part of the facility. Jeremy, Joe and I had just finished moving our hero togs into one of this “B” court’s locker rooms and meandered onto the floor when Alyson approached with Sam in tow. He was approximately six-foot-four and had a body type that was more “Round Mound of Rebound” Charles Barkley than Clyde “The Glide” Drexler, though his manner was conversely more quiet, yet affable. We wished him luck and told him how much we were looking forward to seeing him dunk the ball as Spidey.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoIHmVcxE7DrKgt3eegaFGzQSLJnJrn_1IvLctP14hXYt252mKaQmawhgpqHhuhri6ciDXzBiEy3sF5S-h2xY2TqyywWE-TV4JuYQUl9ImDmlA46pzuK3oV321IfXs7qIk3vQlrMclIM/s1600/NBAAllStar93_Barkley_vs_Drexler_LORES.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEoIHmVcxE7DrKgt3eegaFGzQSLJnJrn_1IvLctP14hXYt252mKaQmawhgpqHhuhri6ciDXzBiEy3sF5S-h2xY2TqyywWE-TV4JuYQUl9ImDmlA46pzuK3oV321IfXs7qIk3vQlrMclIM/s400/NBAAllStar93_Barkley_vs_Drexler_LORES.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704959495165590322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Round Mound of Rebound” Charles Barkley vs. Clyde “The Glide” Drexler</span> </div><br />That first day was spent acclimating ourselves to the areas we’d be plying our trade, i.e. meeting and greeting our adorees. The Jam Session would take place within the environs of the Salt Palace. Various basketball exhibitions, like the slam dunk contest, were scheduled throughout the day at the B court. A long corridor led to an open area where an assortment of appropriately-themed activities were set up. It was an indoor carnival as if run by the NBA, including hawker stands by the likes of Converse and Champion, selling everything from sneakers to hoodies. The main court, the one on which the Jazz played their home games was off this area. Major competitions, such as the old-timers’ and rookies’ games took place there, culminating in the All-Star Game, the finale to the whole week-long megillah.<br /><br />We also had time to watch Sam familiarize himself with wearing the costume while working the hardwood. I envied not the onus of our Dunkin’ Double. As the worldwide idol of millions, whose alter ego was fabled to have the proportional strength and agility of a spider, he’d be expected to perform à la Michael Jordan, accomplishing the most amazing maneuvers, a veritable Bboy b-baller. It was a difficult task alone, never mind while wearing the signature webs of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIe-6_4ziEWiDV7b1eby-J6bkox1oEvgib_yJklnC6mZb25Ij4ovnOjApxbkVZ9s4LW0gB6GE_iWrEMeJQT8AygUzeW3p-EQZArbXVxcUppcnxjxOoDgbwLrV35H7RAbj6CXRSkPDP1VA/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk7.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIe-6_4ziEWiDV7b1eby-J6bkox1oEvgib_yJklnC6mZb25Ij4ovnOjApxbkVZ9s4LW0gB6GE_iWrEMeJQT8AygUzeW3p-EQZArbXVxcUppcnxjxOoDgbwLrV35H7RAbj6CXRSkPDP1VA/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704961016918398738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“</span><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, who moved the net?!!</span><span style="font-style: italic;">”</span><br /></div><br />For those of you new to the wonders of <span style="font-style: italic;">Heroes in My Closet</span>, let me take a moment to catch you up on the visibility of those donning the red-and-blue: It sucks! A milky haze constantly veiled the wearer’s vision, which not only caused a decrease in clarity—<span style="font-style: italic;">duh!</span>—but also severely curtailed one’s depth perception. The actor’s peripherals were also impeded, but used to be worse before the suit design was updated to reflect the marked increase in the whites of the Web-Spinner’s eyes (see<a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/04/my-what-big-eyes-you-have.html"> “My, What Big Eyes You Have”</a>), due to the overwhelming popularity of artist Todd McFarlane’s interpretation of the character. But for the purposes of our Dunkin’ Double, difficulty in accurately judging the precise location of the basket was a major hurdle to overcome in order to perform successfully.<br /><br />Moving our way down to the hands, imagine trying to palm—grip and maneuver without gravity forcing from one’s grip—a basketball while wearing silk gloves. Granted, the Spider-Man costume wasn’t made of spun silk—wouldn’t <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> be apropos?!—but the effect was similar. Unlike rubber or leather, the fabric was slick, offering no grip to the user. Dribbling and passing would be trickier, but dunking without palming…? it wasn’t essential, but inability to do so made the act far more challenging.<br /><br />Plus, there was the issue of Spidey’s powers, those being the ability to adhere to any surface. He wouldn’t necessarily have to palm the basketball; it would stick naturally via his superhuman talents. So the b-ball slipping from his grasp, whether it be while dunking or dribbling or passing was not an option.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6ckCXzBJT7IWeQ9wWKzX9Ck0oQe40_7rWCmvY_lcaF3EjLkluCQRHSBB7_OnStenBVuVHGzNDzvaSyV-WMuISOAwcKVft4ml9MfwOv2dcsH_4QPnSrcOBc4asVlYI1gCqhcUb7omy3U/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi6ckCXzBJT7IWeQ9wWKzX9Ck0oQe40_7rWCmvY_lcaF3EjLkluCQRHSBB7_OnStenBVuVHGzNDzvaSyV-WMuISOAwcKVft4ml9MfwOv2dcsH_4QPnSrcOBc4asVlYI1gCqhcUb7omy3U/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704963458423069250" border="0" /></a>Okay, thus far, we’ve basically poked the eyes and broken the fingers of our Dunkin’ Double. Why not go for the triple threat? Let’s hobble our poor hero, too! The soles of the Spidey costumes were not but slender leather pads, approximately the same size as Dr. Scholl’s inserts, only the padding was thicker and looser; less firm. Simple ambulatory function caused the performer’s feet to slide. Anything more athletic than that risked serious ankle injury.<br /><br />I’m hardly an expert, but I’m confident in stating that good foot traction is a plus when dunking. I won’t say it’s essential, because there are plenty of players whose height and/or jumping prowess makes them able to slam dunk a basketball from a standstill under the hoop. But for the more height-challenged, like guards who are typically several inches shorter than their teammates—usually around the same height as our victim… er, <span style="font-style: italic;">hero</span>—it is nigh impossible to make the move without building up some speed and launching toward the net.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyZ81me0GxbfqAyCzewijxVnrm5G5e3x_oSAUbaw6S52_Aqt30unGQdlKOI4mG6pXx8sjD0y7QC31tisMUi7FGXa0bkaYi4-uypQg8JlWW5N7eiR11MNhc35lS4g8lfPTJ6ZanmgcZt0/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 389px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyZ81me0GxbfqAyCzewijxVnrm5G5e3x_oSAUbaw6S52_Aqt30unGQdlKOI4mG6pXx8sjD0y7QC31tisMUi7FGXa0bkaYi4-uypQg8JlWW5N7eiR11MNhc35lS4g8lfPTJ6ZanmgcZt0/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704941715976850770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Up, up and away...!</span><br /></div><br />Taking these problems in turn, the only solution to improving a performer’s visibility and depth-perception while wearing the Spidey suit was tried-and-true practice, i.e. there was no ready fix. The costume was what it was. Neither time nor funds were available to play with the eye construction, i.e. test different substances in lieu of the mesh used in the current design’s occipital region to find a better alternative. Sam had to simply acclimate himself to his new perception on the court as Spider-Man, which meant trial and error.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4yDHb5yNhB9F4apweQPeTBlPZG-hQfUF_NC_upXmeTSZtPQSZHCymRhI5-fzHeR7wQJRFk2IIqgwBAPCIMPSnrlJlOQYROh_KEzPJrk6RBfujFcjmjKUP_0xfii1-lyX7bRfmwUz4Dk/s1600/Stickum.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4yDHb5yNhB9F4apweQPeTBlPZG-hQfUF_NC_upXmeTSZtPQSZHCymRhI5-fzHeR7wQJRFk2IIqgwBAPCIMPSnrlJlOQYROh_KEzPJrk6RBfujFcjmjKUP_0xfii1-lyX7bRfmwUz4Dk/s200/Stickum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704964080789738354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Stickum</span> was the answer to the grip problem. It’s the same stuff wide receivers use in football to make their hands sticky so as to better catch the ball, especially in bad weather. One negative side effect to employing the gummy substance, however, was that dirt adhered just as readily to the surface to which it was applied. Dust from the ball quickly transferred to one’s hands, creating a layer that reduced the efficacy of the Stickum, resulting in its further implementation, which attracted more dirt, increasing the need for additional Stickum, and so on and so forth.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxvMwdDGMYypEqXJ4F-kg2mdNnY7M9APCYDOQ6ErfIbonivPPuelesKYu6MAECobn63qZEZFW4fkf3kiU67e7-P5T3WO9FHQblTKjZCxWCNArZHDsLtsyIFGS1Pp_1Ma05JCEdYfJLMQ/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxvMwdDGMYypEqXJ4F-kg2mdNnY7M9APCYDOQ6ErfIbonivPPuelesKYu6MAECobn63qZEZFW4fkf3kiU67e7-P5T3WO9FHQblTKjZCxWCNArZHDsLtsyIFGS1Pp_1Ma05JCEdYfJLMQ/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704962432654107794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Excuse me while I touch the sky...”</span><br /></div><br />Fortunately, the stuff comes in an easy-to-use spray can. And worked wonders for the first dozen minutes or so after application. Sam could actually hold his arm out, palm down, and the ball would remain affixed to his hand, defying gravity, as if by magic… <span style="font-style: italic;">or spider powers!</span> Sam must have gone though a couple of cases by the finish of his stint as the Webbed Wonder. And by week’s end, Spidey’s paws had stained to burnt sienna, similar to a skid mark on one’s tightie whities after an unfortunate fart with extras.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Z4NeN5tf8FAyLp3sNdYSsXu_a5GjXUNMzi8RdDVl2j0quzi-Cl8Ox6WNAjKjxeXqKctl8MavUcOGjOyqKzb_9enPJLiTWWznV-dRawXE8ab1VIpIMgPJ4M20-1ax3w_WrnVMngVisPQ/s1600/raw_burnt_sienna.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Z4NeN5tf8FAyLp3sNdYSsXu_a5GjXUNMzi8RdDVl2j0quzi-Cl8Ox6WNAjKjxeXqKctl8MavUcOGjOyqKzb_9enPJLiTWWznV-dRawXE8ab1VIpIMgPJ4M20-1ax3w_WrnVMngVisPQ/s400/raw_burnt_sienna.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704964597649133378" border="0" /></a>As for Sam’s traction risks, again, there was no way of altering the red-and-blue. He’d need sneakers. Yeah, I know, Spider-Man would never wear shoes of any type. After all, they’d inhibit the use of his powers to stick to walls, which the thin fabric of the costume does not. His excuse, or rather Jeremy’s for it would be he who would have to answer the clamoring questions of the hoi polloi once Sam’s duty was done, was that A) he wasn’t expecting a visit from any of his nemeses, so wouldn’t need the use of his powers to walk up walls, and B) he was getting into the festivities and wanted to show-off his own cool, personally-styled sneaks—Jordan has <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span>, after all. To that end, Alyson decided to get Sam some. One problem: he was a size 14!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8HB4fAWkwP_piLKy-kZIZl645lMhqYbaWxS4UWFIaKkJMCTYWHCoIbCGQUVAoJ81TVA9MgHfUTnfTfSRXF6OsxrrfQcSYXMJQ-0VsrXSg_TmEk2s5N-PjlMH0ek7o2WRlkgXJJAXpMM/s1600/ChuckTaylors.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8HB4fAWkwP_piLKy-kZIZl645lMhqYbaWxS4UWFIaKkJMCTYWHCoIbCGQUVAoJ81TVA9MgHfUTnfTfSRXF6OsxrrfQcSYXMJQ-0VsrXSg_TmEk2s5N-PjlMH0ek7o2WRlkgXJJAXpMM/s200/ChuckTaylors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704964411348855010" border="0" /></a>The call went out to Beverly, Marvel Personal Appearance Department costume maven, to scour Manhattan for red-canvas Converse All-Stars. Checking the internet was not an option; it didn't exist yet! The desired sneaks—<span style="font-style: italic;">Chuck Taylors</span>—were relatively inexpensive and, more importantly, could be sketched upon. As long as Beverly could locate a pair and overnight them to Utah, Alyson could break out the Sharpies and channel her inner Michaelangelo to cover them in webbing before Sam’s debut.<br /><br />In the meantime, Sam donned his own sneakers over the costume, so he could at least start practicing—daylight was a-wastin’! Nice shoes they might have been, but they were predominately black and stuck out, like a fuchsia bowtie on Batman, diminishing the cachet of the iconic red-and-blue. It became immediately apparent that custom-treads were no longer just a nifty idea; they were crucial.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTctu6iKK7i8oH3TKkNs-tEodNhTLelqqpiOhVmX3uCOpCfGW0VmONSR2dFgpwpSnIzaDDTIaYNglGObfUFDof26B3Zd8sXPtmubrFZAzOGglj6pWBaiwi3oS9hyphenhyphenJXtiaJhclZtQU_3c/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDribble.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTctu6iKK7i8oH3TKkNs-tEodNhTLelqqpiOhVmX3uCOpCfGW0VmONSR2dFgpwpSnIzaDDTIaYNglGObfUFDof26B3Zd8sXPtmubrFZAzOGglj6pWBaiwi3oS9hyphenhyphenJXtiaJhclZtQU_3c/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDribble.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704937820942290978" border="0" /></a>Jeremy help Sam with Spidey pointers; explaining certain characteristic moves and poses that he should strive to emulate betwixt dunks. I had my own opinions—hard as that is to believe—but kept out of the conversations—<span style="font-style: italic;">harder</span> as that is to believe! It would only confuse Sam to have gotten differing views on how to perform as the Web-Spinner. Luckily the suit, combined with the natural moves and crouched stance of a basketball player, did most of the work. He looked great—aside from the footwear—and was soon getting the knack of dunking the ball within the webbing.<br /><br />Of course, there was the issue of Sam’s body size. As aforementioned, Spidey’s togs best fit a personage of no more than six-foot-three. Sam was literally bursting at the seams, including an unfortunate area just above the gluteus maximus that would have fans wondering if our erstwhile Web-Slinger was a plumber in his off-time!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEi4sgDUupkkvtGV7g88RwNhohryILEbBADzAJaoPAy7ADwMR1CnvFSLdFtvywloFl5SeFDpUUoRiAlC7cc0SN9r9ObKVISmTbIwlxAWns19GH41YO-3phAJIrGItylpTXq2w7lbrKZ4/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SM_Plumber.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEi4sgDUupkkvtGV7g88RwNhohryILEbBADzAJaoPAy7ADwMR1CnvFSLdFtvywloFl5SeFDpUUoRiAlC7cc0SN9r9ObKVISmTbIwlxAWns19GH41YO-3phAJIrGItylpTXq2w7lbrKZ4/s400/NBAAllStar93_SM_Plumber.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705036576176247554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man’s dreams of being a plumber<br />were well behind him!</span><br /></div><br />This weakness in the tensile strength of the suit’s stitches could have been a lot more embarrassing had it manifested after the doors to the Jam Session had opened to the public. As it was the day before, Sam had to suffer only the good-natured ribbing from the members of the NBA’s dunking exhibition team, which amounted to nothing more than the humorous tête à tête of a “Your mama’s so fat…” contest. As long as the costume was repaired before the next day’s inaugural start of the festival, the public would be none the wiser. That unfortunate task would also fall upon Alyson’s shoulders, and with the beating Sam’s ensemble was taking on the court, she’d be pulling a lot of late hours as Betsy Ross.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6P1dCXN2ZeTeVKWbBNBAC1Bz-6FZUj07gQqnNW5itda_yOZgLUo7ObAv5S-Mrv-a6jEFhTziIVOS1AZIrldb_uuCG-KgZ6rAy4LmdOhYBZF8adXzqkHeCBdg7cYUJseiRaSxzOXF5C0/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 274px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6P1dCXN2ZeTeVKWbBNBAC1Bz-6FZUj07gQqnNW5itda_yOZgLUo7ObAv5S-Mrv-a6jEFhTziIVOS1AZIrldb_uuCG-KgZ6rAy4LmdOhYBZF8adXzqkHeCBdg7cYUJseiRaSxzOXF5C0/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704965062988620866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">America runs on dunking</span><br /></div><br />As for accommodating Sam’s size 14 flippers… Try as she might, Beverly could not find a New York City purveyor who carried that size in stock. She called Alyson in tears explaining her predicament. To her credit, Alyson was not one to get upset over “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” The woman came from Macy’s where she worked on organizing the annual Thanksgiving Day Parade, an event of Brobdignagian proportions, fraught with speed bumps throughout its 364 days—their one day off a year was Thanksgiving—of preparation. You’d have to be Zen-like in your approach to the daily tribulations of the job or you’d soon be fitted with a white coat and dragged to the nuthouse.<br /><br />So the greatest city in the country, known for its thousands of street-ball courts, couldn’t produce a size 14 Converse All-Star. What to do… The answer was pretty much a no-brainer, one of those “Wow, I could’ve had a V8” moments for Alyson. She spoke with the guys running the Converse booth at the show—<span style="font-style: italic;">duh!</span> Lo and behold, they had the shoe… only not in red! One sleepless night—during which she painstakingly colored and copied the pedal webbing pattern of the suit—and several red and black Sharpies later, Alyson presented Sam with a pair of custom Chuck Taylors perfect for even the most discerning Web-Swinger.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1dmdhPnhvvHP2aP8pvjW-pDNlkwozg9M0n9JE84jihd0R6GLR5sLg1zS-XHKOcKlBgv1q4B0qYTcBqN25dPiz5NVl2AlFV9DfQvJij-sGM8qpHWkxmDp-y6FVDqmabSVsrPRUJ-LV-A/s1600/SpideySneaks1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1dmdhPnhvvHP2aP8pvjW-pDNlkwozg9M0n9JE84jihd0R6GLR5sLg1zS-XHKOcKlBgv1q4B0qYTcBqN25dPiz5NVl2AlFV9DfQvJij-sGM8qpHWkxmDp-y6FVDqmabSVsrPRUJ-LV-A/s400/SpideySneaks1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705012598434416866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here they are: the infamous custom Spider-Man sneakers, nearly twenty years later. </span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAi2lD00AfK1zfXQGJurKb_5y9KTZ_doPaMgZZCcy-tV_VeWO7zalNKmmC4loyZJR77KpfxALUGIWFzoKI5hyrPugikGmQZrIA0C04wWutwKUgPqvIBuZkawZUyid2mVHUnsz3Sp3Xuo4/s1600/SpideySneaks2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAi2lD00AfK1zfXQGJurKb_5y9KTZ_doPaMgZZCcy-tV_VeWO7zalNKmmC4loyZJR77KpfxALUGIWFzoKI5hyrPugikGmQZrIA0C04wWutwKUgPqvIBuZkawZUyid2mVHUnsz3Sp3Xuo4/s400/SpideySneaks2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705013511039918498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Alyson got Stan Lee’s autograph on one of his East Coast visits. Needless to say, he wanted his own pair!</span><br /></div><br />It wasn’t long before Sam, proudly donning a pair of sneakers worthy of a winning <span style="font-style: italic;">Project Runway</span> challenge, was showing off some hardwood heroics alongside his envious peers. Dunkin’ Spidey was ready to go!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs15sbhhNLfoNNc9riP8b7EYFOjI_WjUz1vyLFraNrvWLvPdOyNXr2ZkweW6Ri58XlFp9Zpr0eUwoNpxHlIrrHgkCVMb4x8DkjryUZcP059aCCaiWAgxWiXN-ByydOQwUp0tFXRi-a2HY/s1600/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 273px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs15sbhhNLfoNNc9riP8b7EYFOjI_WjUz1vyLFraNrvWLvPdOyNXr2ZkweW6Ri58XlFp9Zpr0eUwoNpxHlIrrHgkCVMb4x8DkjryUZcP059aCCaiWAgxWiXN-ByydOQwUp0tFXRi-a2HY/s400/NBAAllStar93_SMDunk3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704936944672146210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Air Spideys!</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">NEXT: Hulky Goes a Courtin’…</span>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-12179098720492413002012-01-27T11:29:00.018-05:002012-01-31T08:56:26.465-05:00Going to Court, Part I: If the Mask Fits, Wear It!<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Y2CxBBtZ7XM8Fa9Zx_BZywaPwTlRHnVepBF57a9t_lL7pVMrH_0eLYK-1joAhvwRTiwGaRlKpS0PVkX27FMMVds2O0q8HgpxCCpGNi-Q9ytaQL7Z7LHA4p2UV11Dd_22PFemrw6BJuM/s1600/SaltPalace_NBAAllstar001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Y2CxBBtZ7XM8Fa9Zx_BZywaPwTlRHnVepBF57a9t_lL7pVMrH_0eLYK-1joAhvwRTiwGaRlKpS0PVkX27FMMVds2O0q8HgpxCCpGNi-Q9ytaQL7Z7LHA4p2UV11Dd_22PFemrw6BJuM/s400/SaltPalace_NBAAllstar001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702364331298246274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Salt Palace, home of the 1993 NBA All-Star Game and Jam Session</span><br /></div><br />I wasn’t even aware Marvel’s Personal Appearance Program had commissioned a new Hulk costume. Not that I was surprised. The one in use looked like a Muppet on steroids with a facial expression like that of someone who’d just had their first good dump in more than a week. Wearing the thing was akin to being swallowed by a giant teddy bear, its innards molding itself around the user like a memory-foam mattress.<br /><br />But the worst part was the odor, a faint combination of vomit, old mayonnaise and musk that became geometrically more acute the longer someone portrayed the character. The suit was dutifully sent out for professionally cleaning following every gig, but the bacteria that accumulated after four hours of wear—the standard Hulk business day—entrenched itself so firmly in the depth of the costume’s padding that even the most Spartan treatment couldn’t extinguish every trace of the cause. And that remaining ember simply multiplied between each washing, so the results steadily worsened over time. Fortunately, the stench was contained within the suit. Still, the Jade Giant reeking wouldn’t necessarily be out of character. He wasn’t the sort to take baths, after all.<br /><br />There were only two actors—Mark Grayson and Gary Schneider—who played The Hulk since I started at the company. But neither expressed a hint of the onus that accompanied the donning of the green. The way they clambered into the get-up without the least bit of hesitation or complaint, then interacted with their adoring public, you’d suspect the experience was downright euphoric. Maybe the heady bouquet that enveloped them while in the costume made them high. It had to be something. I tried the mask on once and felt as if I’d walked into a frat house the night after a toga party. <span style="font-style: italic;">No thank you, sir; I will not have another!</span><br /><br />Imagine my surprise when I was asked into the office of the department’s director, Alison, and on her desk sat a glowing fluorescent-green head. Though the hue was more akin to tennis balls than that of the character’s signature color, the mask’s cement-block cranial structure, unkempt shock of black hair and menacing mien told me at once that this was the Hulk. Its presence could only mean that finally Marvel had ponied up the money for a new costume. And a hefty chunk of change from the look of the updated head.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscNwAJ_CrpOK7UEThgNjotGftNKU5MPnHfBXG8FBAqjCWHDEHpOEJPlk1IIMFrAohm9-mlIr2l8oavTywAq0_Cs_4mqvQ1R3ROSX8F3NWWOuVyaUPLNbHfV7gyx5vonE2vQ53khn7p_0/s1600/HulkHead_old_vs_new.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscNwAJ_CrpOK7UEThgNjotGftNKU5MPnHfBXG8FBAqjCWHDEHpOEJPlk1IIMFrAohm9-mlIr2l8oavTywAq0_Cs_4mqvQ1R3ROSX8F3NWWOuVyaUPLNbHfV7gyx5vonE2vQ53khn7p_0/s400/HulkHead_old_vs_new.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702361414873195954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Face-Off!</span><br /></div><br />“Cool!” I exclaimed, the reason for my summoning overwhelmed by the moment of “geek” I was experiencing.<br /><br />“Try it on,” Alison instructed as she handed me the chartreuse noggin. She seemed as giddy as Carrie showing off a new pair of Manolo’s to Miranda and the gang. Little did I suspect the sinister underpinnings of her excitement.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n5h-v6zdgX0-naJuOlVX6qP8YrvOD0ilCLwWQLxvRpMxURKlIMPSaiHnAPXfmTJmCD_mgY-0aMb9dTS3f7aV1Q__Zr1r1tpVmr27STVzNqZgfEMXF6x_4SU89YrgG5qyOMN2rQv_bGc/s1600/DuelingBanjos.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n5h-v6zdgX0-naJuOlVX6qP8YrvOD0ilCLwWQLxvRpMxURKlIMPSaiHnAPXfmTJmCD_mgY-0aMb9dTS3f7aV1Q__Zr1r1tpVmr27STVzNqZgfEMXF6x_4SU89YrgG5qyOMN2rQv_bGc/s200/DuelingBanjos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702360355194806066" border="0" /></a>The head was constructed of a molded foam latex—soft to the touch and pliable—a far cry from the hard, sculpted, cloth-covered topper of the original suit. The hair and eye brows were either real or an amazing simulation, a more authentic alternative to the frayed yarn-like substance used before. And its teeth—yes, Virginia, the Hulk has teeth—were solid; I’m unnerved thinking about what they may have been made out of or from whom or what they were obtained! Regardless, their mere presence bumped the latest Green Behemoth’s IQ several points. No banjo playing on a porch in the Ozarks for him!<br /><br />There was the merest hesitation as I raised the mask to my head; a sudden flash of the old skull’s unpleasant aroma. I suppressed the urge to duck behind the desk yelling “Incoming!” and slipped it on. A vertical slit along the back of the neck facilitated the job. The green bean fit perfectly, and unlike its predecessor which offered limited vision through its goofy toothless grin, this design’s eyeholes lined up evenly with the wearer’s, offering excellent sight. My nose conformed nicely with the nasal niche, too, the mask’s nostrils matching my own. This meant breathing fresh air as opposed to the stuff tainted by the effluvium of the former suit’s cranium. It was as if the thing were fashioned from my own skull.<br /><br />“Well, how does it feel?” Alyson asked with anticipation, her eyes a twinkle like a grifter closing in on a mark.<br /><br />“This is great,” I replied. “Much more comfortable than the old costume.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJvKoBAapO8_mkPW93W5yvUNIkrVSB1iAOYdDjdnh2HGt_OW9DUzLHcjSFwWMnwyB1UrGH28jzhH7ljbSyb4S2NE0-1JqpC2UoSY55WG0dCWNdsUcwCMSq2BlGCenrtKt2eZpepLiQVE/s1600/MarkNHulk-w-JeremySpidey.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 341px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJvKoBAapO8_mkPW93W5yvUNIkrVSB1iAOYdDjdnh2HGt_OW9DUzLHcjSFwWMnwyB1UrGH28jzhH7ljbSyb4S2NE0-1JqpC2UoSY55WG0dCWNdsUcwCMSq2BlGCenrtKt2eZpepLiQVE/s400/MarkNHulk-w-JeremySpidey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702357510294022690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Nutting as the Green Behemoth with veteran Spidey Jeremy</span><br /></div><br />I was surprised when Alyson revealed that the mask was molded from Grayson’s head. Sure, he was one of Marvel’s go-to Hulk actors, but his head was rounder than mine, which is more narrow. Then a couple of years ago—after re-connecting with another former Marvel character actor, Mark <span style="font-style: italic;">Nutting</span> on Facebook—I discovered that it was he on whom Bruce Banner’s infamous alter-ego’s noggin was fashioned. I’d only assumed it was Grayson’s, because Nutting most often portrayed Captain America—a damn fine Cap he was too—and had never performed as The Hulk to my knowledge. It’s a wonder us character thesps never suffered from multiple-personality disorder!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZ42yavpfNq8Y68PbHAB3Ut6zk59KmXNXiQFw2x5FyHj8ezy1F0O4wZlvsWGt5fiH-LS1ngCz5rVfB_Zlv0KX_DDcBgm5rqAazwpkpWHWQ65GpL5VGVJnXEVYuEBcAi5T7LSFXyHiLuw/s1600/DireStraits_MoneyForNothing.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZ42yavpfNq8Y68PbHAB3Ut6zk59KmXNXiQFw2x5FyHj8ezy1F0O4wZlvsWGt5fiH-LS1ngCz5rVfB_Zlv0KX_DDcBgm5rqAazwpkpWHWQ65GpL5VGVJnXEVYuEBcAi5T7LSFXyHiLuw/s200/DireStraits_MoneyForNothing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702360565759726354" border="0" /></a>Nutting’s face was prominently vertical and angular with a chiseled, manly jaw—much like the thinner character in the classic, computer-animated Dire Straits video for “Money for Nothing”—which made him perfect for the Star-Spangled Avenger. While also shaped more north-to-south than east-to-west, the mien of Yours Truly would be described as less manly, more Muttley. And my jaw line appeared as if it were molded from Play-Doh. There was a reason they kept me in a mask!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRW9F7koUCGfJ_KUSlLsyE3EmmeZ8Lmqi3IZHa5OKVPCnTOyjbxK9TjgGK0IvVKjtmYwsAYIvpSFJJtc4hDRL91LElmPrWJUmdHk-wQRR5Us0w0zYhr4tMp-R-Kft4zkaHr-r_MJ1iN1s/s1600/Snoopy-dancing.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRW9F7koUCGfJ_KUSlLsyE3EmmeZ8Lmqi3IZHa5OKVPCnTOyjbxK9TjgGK0IvVKjtmYwsAYIvpSFJJtc4hDRL91LElmPrWJUmdHk-wQRR5Us0w0zYhr4tMp-R-Kft4zkaHr-r_MJ1iN1s/s200/Snoopy-dancing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702360878384070386" border="0" /></a>It was then that I noticed Alyson’s over-the-top enthusiasm. She’d always enjoyed showing me cool new things the department was working on because, as the only comic-book geek among the performers, I got downright giddy whenever she revealed the latest, and she’d get a thrill from the inevitable Snoopy dance I’d go into. But she was nigh-salivating and on the edge of creepy upon discovering the updated Hulk topper fit me.<br /><br />“Why?” I finally asked, narrowing my eyes.<br /><br />Turns out my suspicions were correct—she was up to something—but the fears that accompanied them were unfounded. Alyson was looking for an actor to portray The Hulk at that year’s NBA All-Star Game in Salt Lake City, Utah, and Nutting was unavailable. It hadn’t dawned on me until later, that much like the prince’s attempts to find the damsel with the foot that fit the glass slipper in <span style="font-style: italic;">Cinderella</span>, Alyson had gone through a string of my fellow performers before getting to me. How else to explain her intense relief when I slipped on the Hulk head so effortlessly? Okay, so I wasn’t Alyson’s first choice… or second… or third… But I didn’t care; I was the one going to the NBA All-Star Game!<br /><br />More precisely, it was the “NBA Jam Session”—a week of basketball-themed festivities leading up to the big game—at which the Hulk, along with fellow superheroes Spider-Man and Wolverine, would be appearing. But it was an important event nonetheless. No surprise, veteran Jeremy would be donning the webbed red-and-blue. And although I can’t recall the name of the Wolverine performer—I’ll call him “Joe” for the purposes of telling the tale—I do remember his portrayal of the feisty Canadian mutant as being spot-on. Out of costume, Joe was funny and a pleasure to hang with. The fact that we were hand-chosen by the director of the department for this auspicious appearance spoke volumes. Alyson would also be on hand, further proof of the gig’s gravitas. Us heroes were to be on our best behaviors. Not that we were ever anything less.<br /><br />I know what you’re thinking my ever astute Bloglodytes: my selection had more to do with fitting the Hulk costume. But truth be told, Alyson was not about to jeopardize this major undertaking with anyone less than someone in which she had the utmost confidence. She would’ve dropped the character from the gig entirely had she not found the right person for the job. I’d been with her as Spider-Man two years earlier at Super Bowl XXV (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/03/who-could-forget-superpro-oops-sorry-i.html">“Football Hero”</a>), so my worth at VIP affairs had been proven. Still, I had more than a few years as Spidey under my belt when I was selected for that job and this would be my virginal portrayal as Bruce Banner’s Gamma-irradiated alter-ego.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZtFzkyCt93wld2B4bT5kKE_SZZwaQYX0P8kp_IHSwmpJYz594RmiE1j7mN6Ml-fxeBW7-I3gOlSh2RE4dEk_3koO1Sk4s5mdhHcKBZK3kNIc-Yb-ALG7c4xUEIU3R0IigL5-qwF8weM/s1600/HulkMarkN_Wolvie_NBAAllstar.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZtFzkyCt93wld2B4bT5kKE_SZZwaQYX0P8kp_IHSwmpJYz594RmiE1j7mN6Ml-fxeBW7-I3gOlSh2RE4dEk_3koO1Sk4s5mdhHcKBZK3kNIc-Yb-ALG7c4xUEIU3R0IigL5-qwF8weM/s400/HulkMarkN_Wolvie_NBAAllstar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702358285270843122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Yours Truly as ole Jade Jaws, posing with Wolvie before hitting the court. The nifty NBA bag at lower left was awaiting each of us heroes when we checked into the hotel;<br />it was filled with All-Star Game souvenirs,<br />including caps and t-shirts.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>There was less worry about the fit of the rest of the costume. Like the walking sofa that preceded it, the new Hulk suit was one size fits all, that size being the one all the actors—except the Wolverines who were noticeably shorter—conformed to. The torso was much like Iron Man’s chest piece, a hard molded shell which rested upon the wearer’s shoulder’s, but otherwise barely touched the performer therein. Thus, one did not feel like the meat stuffed into a sausage casing as was the case with the suit of old.<br /><br />Once donned, the performer’s hips shared in carrying the weight of the piece, which included the shoulders and extended to the elbow joint. From that point the forearm and hands—each combined in single pieces—were sculpted from the same rubber used in the facial construction. These lower ulnal segments were removed only at the cleaners, meaning the actor stepped into the upper body maneuvering his appendages down the arm cavities much like a doctor being helped into his surgical gown.<br /><br />The chest cavity encircled the neck base—the rear slit of which could not be seen behind the mask’s thick mullet—which extended a few inches past the collar bone. It connected with an eyehook at the top and a heavy-duty zipper running down the spine. The Jade Giant’s hands fit like a glove… <span style="font-style: italic;">literally</span>. The actor’s fingers slipping into their psychedelic verdigris counterparts, enabling movement of the digits. I wouldn’t be playing the piano as the character, but I could open and close my fists.<br /><br />Covered segments on the chest, sculpted to emulate musculature, effected the Hulk’s massive irradiated physique. The rubber areas were also designed as such—there was even a large artery running down the underside of each forearm—and accentuated with airbrushing. A frayed shirt—fastened with well-placed and minuscule transparent snaps—ably cloaked the spinal zipper and the connective openings at the elbows.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-0US03DgxCTNurpYiT6QJZhiWs61Ilpl_Y7VrNyp2tfOcH-mOFIgggH0QDBlu488bTGCP_4gpjPyShDqEeIo77WbbGwhehOpWcccVs2b9Obw4HuE3Er7-cQYRSltIHudqE5n5cmbFwY/s1600/IncredibleHulk_Vol_1_402_Feb93.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-0US03DgxCTNurpYiT6QJZhiWs61Ilpl_Y7VrNyp2tfOcH-mOFIgggH0QDBlu488bTGCP_4gpjPyShDqEeIo77WbbGwhehOpWcccVs2b9Obw4HuE3Er7-cQYRSltIHudqE5n5cmbFwY/s400/IncredibleHulk_Vol_1_402_Feb93.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702362339103598930" border="0" /></a>The Incredible Hulk <span style="font-style: italic;">issue</span><span style="font-style: italic;">—#402, cover dated February 1993—which was on sale at the time of the NBA All-Star Game</span><br /></div><br />Since the dramatis personae needed mobility, the butt and upper leg area was not rigidly constructed, but rather similar to the costume of yore: padding, cleverly camouflaged by the character’s signature concord capris. No belt was needed. An adjustable set of two-inch-wide canvas suspenders affixed to the pants held them in place and aided in carrying the weight of the torso. The female side of a strip of Velcro sewn into the waistband of the Jade Giant’s Jordaches attached to its male counterpart, which circumnavigated the base of the torso, concealing the gap where the two body segments met.<br /><br />Only the femoral section of the leg was padded. The wearer’s knees were left unimpaired for maneuverability but again hidden by the pant legs, which extended several inches past the patella. Back to the hard molded material of the torso for the calves and feet, the bottom of which were lined with heavy rubber treads, which elevated the wearer three inches, ensuring the hero’s <span style="font-style: italic;">hulk</span>ing over most everyone around him. But the Great Green Galoot’s massive tootsies were designed in such a way as to appear actual—albeit gigantic—without so much as a hint of industrial sole showing.<br /><br />The brilliant Hulk design came out of California-based costume creators, <a href="http://www.shaftoninc.com/">Shafton, Inc.</a>, the same company that later created the awesome Thing suit and less-than-perfect re-imagined Iron Man ensemble (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-i-grimm-beginning.html">“The Thing Is” Parts I</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-ii-i-knew-i-should-have.html">II</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-iii-man-makes-suit.html">III</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/05/thing-is-part-iv-don-we-now-our-gay.html">IV</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/06/thing-is-part-v-universal-appeal.html">V</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/06/thing-is-finale-i-do-rock.html">VI</a>). The whole enchilada was massive and would needed crating; a mere duffel bag would not do. But it was a tremendous costume, far cooler than its predecessor. Unfortunately, it was no less heavy. Still, the new suit wouldn’t be sopping up the performer’s sweat, increasing its mass as a gig progressed. And thankfully, the breathing was vastly improved over the previous model—no vomitous stench!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckyYp-XT86FOObcECglFHKrnGQJnEIxnc28ri-qxnDYYPOm94HjVPG9gvyy8tY_PQmV16tQDg2kM9ldGTxSSOuPn-NUIU5vf2g3GWYdkUZu4akSIWdrqqoi8WX1qJ_oP51FYmSaQKxCY/s1600/sleestak2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckyYp-XT86FOObcECglFHKrnGQJnEIxnc28ri-qxnDYYPOm94HjVPG9gvyy8tY_PQmV16tQDg2kM9ldGTxSSOuPn-NUIU5vf2g3GWYdkUZu4akSIWdrqqoi8WX1qJ_oP51FYmSaQKxCY/s400/sleestak2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702356004970831842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Shafton, Inc. crafted this Sleestak ensemble for the release of the the </span>Land of the Lost<span style="font-style: italic;"> movie</span><br /></div><br />Now I had to find my inner Hulk; how would I interpret the character?<br /><br />Gary stuck to the naïve, child-in-a-giant’s-body approach most remember from the comics: a simple-minded keg of dynamite, easily set off by the grandest attack or the merest misunderstanding. Of course, his portrayal never encompassed the former aspect and worked well with the previous suit’s stuffed-toy design and bubble-headed visage. Grayson’s Hulk was similarly child-like, but more of a youth with a severe case of ADD. He’d barrel through throngs of kids and wrestle them like a full-grown Bull Mastiff that had retained the wits of a puppy.<br /><br />As with my characterizations for other heroes I’d portrayed, my Hulk would draw inspiration from the costume and the Green Behemoth’s current representation in the comics. Temper that with the general public’s perception of the character, which was part 70’s TV series—Lou Ferrigno’s savage unspeaking id to Bill Bixby’s calm scientist super-ego—and Stan Lee’s early “Hulk smash!” representation, and you can envision my take on the Jade Giant.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKEy8zNmscFxRwgNqHEBnVZNBkOqWKZ3gtFG9oboZMB49tC034E9Tdeu7KMMu7ZHbNhf6DvfGUhgrmpyqklBkl_z8oW6eYQdwZpr8blMRmq2q5xhmQz9sRR_2CkSH5W6K6xy91JjVAdQ/s1600/Hulk_Lou%2526Bill.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKEy8zNmscFxRwgNqHEBnVZNBkOqWKZ3gtFG9oboZMB49tC034E9Tdeu7KMMu7ZHbNhf6DvfGUhgrmpyqklBkl_z8oW6eYQdwZpr8blMRmq2q5xhmQz9sRR_2CkSH5W6K6xy91JjVAdQ/s400/Hulk_Lou%2526Bill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702354960701747250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Much like the creature in the TV series, the updated<br />Hulk costume sported a mullet</span><br /></div><br />By 1993, under the deft hands of popular scribe Peter David since the 80s, The Hulk had gone through a series of personality alterations, from deep-green, mindless, super-rampager to charcoal-gray, less powerful canny schemer to a melding of all that’s gone before, including Bruce Banner, the root from which the other’s bloomed. He’d become a lime-green—emulating the new togs—intelligent powerhouse who you still wouldn’t like when he was angry. Unfortunately, the hoi polloi were unfamiliar with this aspect, so I occasionally spoke in the third person and threw in some bad grammar to boot to satisfy the ignorant. The voice was gruff, but not evil; pure Grover when confronting wee ones, but with a trace of Oscar the Grouch’s snide tone when dealing with adults.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjZio-jUKSdvpRuwUnxi_FR-PuiPBKwuXv-kivVrcVGjMU0rOcLP65pYGcf1dFdeBXDyrjnSXxZTxD-XnCQKGsp7IbiqhjDdT53wxpe_OrBDFjS59aNmfFgkKRGglJWbK39QUJ_PmiTs/s1600/Hulk_KnocksOff_IronMansHead.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjZio-jUKSdvpRuwUnxi_FR-PuiPBKwuXv-kivVrcVGjMU0rOcLP65pYGcf1dFdeBXDyrjnSXxZTxD-XnCQKGsp7IbiqhjDdT53wxpe_OrBDFjS59aNmfFgkKRGglJWbK39QUJ_PmiTs/s400/Hulk_KnocksOff_IronMansHead.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702354096350375410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Hulk think Tin Man is pain in groin!”</span><br /></div><br />More unwieldy and less graceful than Daisy Fuentes, portraying the Hulk would be far removed from playing Spider-Man. Gone was the freedom and agility of the Web-Spinner. Normal stairs were out and I’d have to be vigilant in confined spaces. I’d also be dealing with heat issues for the first time . . . heft! Moving about with an additional thirty pounds or so was the type of workout to which I was unaccustomed. But at least the suit wasn’t painful to wear, like Iron Man’s, and surprisingly, it offered arguably the best vision of any of the costumes which included headpieces in their designs.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pshaw!</span> Piece o’ cake!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">NEXT: A Stranger Walks Among Us!</span>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-52412177198869625662011-11-06T12:39:00.006-05:002012-02-02T11:51:28.863-05:00One Moore Time<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjerF_XXXoMhTRmqyqnd9VPIwX7i_Jp9lRy3EWxXya-leZ6HwREYlqYKHIfm0Nu5rhw3CcpfnoLa66FrpsCsiIfzzDrMXsmBJhRGJqdXTUaAmHUfYii1t-TqfpydXjxtruiwlFKFR6FU90/s1600/Macys89_Finale.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 332px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjerF_XXXoMhTRmqyqnd9VPIwX7i_Jp9lRy3EWxXya-leZ6HwREYlqYKHIfm0Nu5rhw3CcpfnoLa66FrpsCsiIfzzDrMXsmBJhRGJqdXTUaAmHUfYii1t-TqfpydXjxtruiwlFKFR6FU90/s400/Macys89_Finale.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672031729413692162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">1989 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade: Marvel Universe float</span><br /></div><br />Oh, the weather outside was frightful, like my disposition at five a.m., as I trudged through six inches of snow on my way to the subway station. It was Thanksgiving morning in 1989, and I’d already been up a half hour. The hurried shower did little to assuage my foggy, sleep-deprived brain, and I needed coffee… <span style="font-style: italic;">bad</span>, but had decided to go cold—emphasis on the <span style="font-style: italic;">cold</span>—turkey this particular morning so as to (a) allow as much sleepy time as possible and (b) stave off the need for urination until after the completion of my role in the Macy’s Parade, some six hours later.<br /><br />As during the previous two turkey days, I was again slated to participate in the historic event as a character on the Marvel Universe float. This would be the last year the company would be allowed to feature in the hallowed tradition because of Macy’s three-parades-and-you’re-out float policy. Marvel had commissioned it’s mobile, fantastical, urban skyline in 1987 as part of Spider-Man’s 25th Anniversary (see “I Love a Parade,” <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-love-parade-part-i-theres-no-need-to.html">Part I</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-love-parade-part-ii-eeny-meeny-miney.html">II</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-love-parade-part-iii-isnt-it-iron-ic.html">III</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-scream-float.html">IV</a>, <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/01/and-away-we-go.html">V</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/01/i-love-parade-finale-what.html">Finale</a>)—along with the original Web-Swinging balloon—so this was the third and subsequently final year they could engage in the festivities.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqmwdGisOaEfMimoaN-dSBn9zCxVrWUM1mkCcgvr0an19g0R1ivirPlS2LLK7vclsP1PUrZNzS_aC_Sp7nxaEKbx-iitBSLjAJFYNk11qOoPdU3lFvsFmA3O00dQ3Rmb7trojIiUC0VQ/s1600/SM-Balloon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqmwdGisOaEfMimoaN-dSBn9zCxVrWUM1mkCcgvr0an19g0R1ivirPlS2LLK7vclsP1PUrZNzS_aC_Sp7nxaEKbx-iitBSLjAJFYNk11qOoPdU3lFvsFmA3O00dQ3Rmb7trojIiUC0VQ/s400/SM-Balloon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671953390903877522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Marvel Universe float may have only lasted three parades, but the Spider-Man balloon flew for nearly a dozen</span><br /></div><br />There were no such restrictions on my inflatable alter ego, however. Each year’s balloon roster was based on audience popularity and unsurprisingly Spidey’s helium-filled doppelgänger would be a fixture for the next half dozen years, it’s eventual retirement necessitated by the balloon’s age rather than any decrease in the world’s love for the airborne arachnid.<br /><br />The float stipulations are based on keeping the parade fresh each year with a rotating line-up of recent and new entries, the former being put out to pasture before they became stale. At least this is Macy’s public explanation, and there is a modicum of truth behind it. But the bottom line is, well, the <span style="font-style: italic;">bottom line</span>. The department store giant makes some mighty hefty lucre from its client sponsorships, and that charge does not include the money to build the floats—or balloons.<br /><br />Nor does it include the annual entry fee for inclusion. Basically, businesses are buying a three-year option to be in the parade, which isn’t a guarantee. Each still must have their designs approved by the Nabob’s of the department-store behemoth before entry is granted. Once given the thumbs-up, companies receive three years of unprecedented international exposure, spotlighted during NBC’s broadcast of the event, along with those warm, oogy feelings associated with Thanksgiving. The same idea applies to baking something during an open house. The aroma of home-cooked goodies conjures up happy familial thoughts, making a property more enticing to prospective buyers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4kseBJLURaCVHLAaBn7lqtfz06c5p1CuqvYb0Z-nA8E0iu2gFOJrvW093oD7VevRjM3IqWRsLOFV8PXJlNAPGosC3PvUryhJFlpq-1F6l18OJUhDisin245Fu3q8Y6RWNpkWMHKcLheA/s1600/SesameStreetFloat.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4kseBJLURaCVHLAaBn7lqtfz06c5p1CuqvYb0Z-nA8E0iu2gFOJrvW093oD7VevRjM3IqWRsLOFV8PXJlNAPGosC3PvUryhJFlpq-1F6l18OJUhDisin245Fu3q8Y6RWNpkWMHKcLheA/s400/SesameStreetFloat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671955524366076578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Sunny day? Not so much in 1989</span><br /></div><br />Want another three years? Just pony up the fees for another option, submit the necessary plans, receive approval, and construct a new entry. It’s that simple. Which is why such venerable, perennial participants as the Children’s Television Workshop are there year in and year out with a brand-spanking-new <span style="font-style: italic;">Sesame Street</span> float every triennial.<br /><br />As for those floats forced into retirement, they’re deconstructed for whatever parts can be reused and the remaining bits scrapped. With its large buildings, there’d be quite a bit of salvageable wood from the Marvel Universe, as well as hardware—slide poles, railing—including a metal staircase from the bell tower to Dr. Doom’s dungeon. I can’t help but wonder whatever happened to the Gulliver-sized comic books, specifically their covers, which adorned the back corners of the vehicle at the base of the skyscraper (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/12/i-scream-float.html">“I Love a Parade, Part IV: I Scream ‘FLOAT!!!’”</a>).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxxiePRU5V7tTsAqFtb6imn29FJx9a5GkO0v9ZUfBUPQv_Ez6EW1wo23tLT7wSrpjDHQrNzZTS8eJnYyuAFvGjNAbmi66VhLy6jUnEqqHc-OJDf7lvbamFidk7J8xztTYL5k6YV4leuY/s1600/XFactor17.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxxiePRU5V7tTsAqFtb6imn29FJx9a5GkO0v9ZUfBUPQv_Ez6EW1wo23tLT7wSrpjDHQrNzZTS8eJnYyuAFvGjNAbmi66VhLy6jUnEqqHc-OJDf7lvbamFidk7J8xztTYL5k6YV4leuY/s400/XFactor17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672284243591053826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">This Walt Simonson cover was one of those magnified and featured on the Marvel Universe float. </span> </div><br />They were my favorite feature: larger-than-life reproductions of vintage Marvel covers, including ones from the runs of Captain America, X-Factor and Amazing Spider-Man. There wasn’t anything particularly significant about the covers that were chosen; they weren’t noteworthy examples, not anniversary issues or milestones to any degree. Nor would they be recognized on any “Best of” lists by virtue of their artwork. They were simply gigantic comic book covers, easily ten feet tall, the perfect addition to a man cave or rec room or youth center.<br /><br />I’m surprised Marvel didn’t save at least one of them for posterity. It would make a nifty piece of artwork in reception, perhaps with accompanying photo of the float and its story. But the company has always been negligent with archiving, whether important historical objects or the comics themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if Macy’s Hoboken facility offered the covers to Marvel and the penny-pinching suits refused to ante up the shipping costs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4p00whPl6mllS9E-LUUywR4iCUD9UfY_W-ds5WhefI-7S1LLeZOgkL3h6bL5RSjrjNNmgaHeTHfUozf1ECqNgLImxmQQaBlqYK7RTUVw7PeNKopen8GtGyqjCNppYuU52irGN1PnOs8/s1600/soul_man_lores.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 127px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4p00whPl6mllS9E-LUUywR4iCUD9UfY_W-ds5WhefI-7S1LLeZOgkL3h6bL5RSjrjNNmgaHeTHfUozf1ECqNgLImxmQQaBlqYK7RTUVw7PeNKopen8GtGyqjCNppYuU52irGN1PnOs8/s200/soul_man_lores.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672285520823714306" border="0" /></a>Founded by B-Movie maestro Roger Corman in 1970, Marvel latest owner, New World—purchased from pharmaceutical corporation, Cadence Industries, in 1986—was a low-budget film distributor, the movies of which probably cost less to make than the expenses involved with being in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. So the chances of the company forking over the green for another three years in the holiday showcase were slim to none.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWs_fjYkFynHfW_miUFGvdTcIyY06v4irnZ1K_rRr12QqO_pih4mW7ABZJTTFY6KghyphenhyphenI1IV-pBkyOOgvRDVoaj2Rr_JbmZRIxFRElM8GJn0XkO4A7ydtD7CHXUNBoZiImH4B1_DcHTu-E/s1600/MelbaNewPiccopy.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 164px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWs_fjYkFynHfW_miUFGvdTcIyY06v4irnZ1K_rRr12QqO_pih4mW7ABZJTTFY6KghyphenhyphenI1IV-pBkyOOgvRDVoaj2Rr_JbmZRIxFRElM8GJn0XkO4A7ydtD7CHXUNBoZiImH4B1_DcHTu-E/s200/MelbaNewPiccopy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671959727865019474" border="0" /></a>Still, the company did pick up the option for the final year and was thus determined to go out with a bang. Okay, perhaps more of a firecracker <span style="font-style: italic;">pop</span> as opposed to an M80 <span style="font-style: italic;">kaboom</span>, as it hired Melba Moore to star on the float for its farewell cruise. I didn’t know Melba Moore from melba toast, although like the dry, tasteless side dish and appetizer accompaniment, I knew of her.<br /><br />No surprise, as was the case of the product on which New World was built, Moore was a B-level celebrity whose acting career languished, after a distinguished Tony win in 1970 for her role in <span style="font-style: italic;">Purlie</span>. She turned her attention to music and scored some minor successes until hopping on the Disco train with a string of forgettable hits within that and the R&B genres, all in all garnering four Grammy noms (no wins). She even had a self-titled sitcom, Melba, which ran an embarrassing six episodes in 1986. But by 1989, what little cachet she carried had diminished greatly. She was more than a decade from consideration for <span style="font-style: italic;">The Surreal Life</span>, so her “starring” on the Marvel Universe float was the next best thing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCpBBfMeEEN0eT2Zjt3tfYpqcR7jBZ_H9eo33pjefI7moqNm9d1N13wiieAjCE29hIIYhlW4ExlumYYmC-xbX0pvgG5fDttuvjulYbc1DZ8-D-K8TBfKzLPNrNSgDv2UxUZ6VLisekiY/s1600/magneto.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCpBBfMeEEN0eT2Zjt3tfYpqcR7jBZ_H9eo33pjefI7moqNm9d1N13wiieAjCE29hIIYhlW4ExlumYYmC-xbX0pvgG5fDttuvjulYbc1DZ8-D-K8TBfKzLPNrNSgDv2UxUZ6VLisekiY/s400/magneto.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671960793298456098" border="0" /></a>Unlike the parade in years prior at which I donned the red-and-gold armor of Iron Man, this year I’d be portraying Magneto, Evil Mutant Master of Magnetism and arch-villain of the Uncanny X-Men. I could not have been happier with my change in job title. True, the re-assignation from hero to villain could have been perceived as a demotion, but I’m willing to bet most if not all of those skeptics would be from outside comicbookdom. After all, Mags was more powerful that the Golden Avenger—metal to the evil mutant was like paper to an Origami Master—and could crush Tony within his vaunted armor with nothing more than the barest synaptic firing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgxIn3uIapvoKp99l9ooSTSNnfxAMls0oviGeRWK6scauylYHg6S5_pZXehzi9SPvmy7PuvjVTTrdwEfMJqykzZWVYkOBUPCUpyW0aCOCU2J3JMKkss1UzQne0dhX7GieOx8Ph1UgKdE/s1600/PrydeOfTheXMen.gif"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgxIn3uIapvoKp99l9ooSTSNnfxAMls0oviGeRWK6scauylYHg6S5_pZXehzi9SPvmy7PuvjVTTrdwEfMJqykzZWVYkOBUPCUpyW0aCOCU2J3JMKkss1UzQne0dhX7GieOx8Ph1UgKdE/s200/PrydeOfTheXMen.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671961898652277410" border="0" /></a>As for notoriety—as judged by the hoi polloi and not the comic geek community where the debate would ever be raging—Iron Man may hold the edge by today’s standards by virtue of a successful eponymous movie and sequel versus Magneto’s comparatively lesser turns as the featured villain in the first and third of the X-Men movies and a supporting character in the second. But in 1989, neither was shining too brightly in the pop culture consciousness; although arguably the mutant malefactor might have had the edge having starred in a much-ballyhooed and acclaimed X-Men cartoon released by New World the year before.<br /><br />No, the joy in my recasting stemmed from not having to put on the bloody uncomfortable faux iron suit—particularly the “diaper”—that dug into the sides of my inner thighs and threatened future procreation, if not possible sexual curtailment. And I don’t want to think about what dangers awaited my wobbly bits had I stumbled while in the costume. The word “rupture” comes to mind. As it was, I could still detect the faint lavender hues of last season’s contusions bordering my jewels like a parenthetical statement. Thoughts of the testicular iron maiden still haunt my dreams.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxfh2V0eUnKqffIsGdkDLyiPDX8AOAO8r8ItXFpRasRxD_jF7N2EVPNzADCYgcYYZl7hn6lbfaBlL5DJ12odSPjkeXJ7oc8JKh8XBI_jUqpTWs33OY4kSAGWoD2e6p_PJ4P7po8zkz4o/s1600/6a00d834c9d85969e201287675ab25970c-800wi.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 98px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxfh2V0eUnKqffIsGdkDLyiPDX8AOAO8r8ItXFpRasRxD_jF7N2EVPNzADCYgcYYZl7hn6lbfaBlL5DJ12odSPjkeXJ7oc8JKh8XBI_jUqpTWs33OY4kSAGWoD2e6p_PJ4P7po8zkz4o/s200/6a00d834c9d85969e201287675ab25970c-800wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671962189408713586" border="0" /></a>Even had the shorts felt as comfy as a pair of silk boxers, I would have relished the chance to play Magneto. The torso piece of the Golden Avenger’s suit, which extended to just below the ribs, was like wearing a water barrel. I felt like the hobos in depression-era cartoons and had about as much maneuverability. The shoulder guards, which were hot-glued to the chest unit via strips of leather only afforded me the luxury of raising my arms just below the perpendicular mark. Any more and the whole thing rode upward, knocking the helmet askew, threatening to lift it from my head. Fully-clad in the armored suit, I could walk and perform some basic climbing, but only just and not without great difficulty and daring a terrible accident (<span style="font-style: italic;">and when did that ever stop me?!</span>)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7JZtt5HZUt4zVzUtSJxYASCQ7xaqMljyg_s6NIm5ArEhsG0Ozsvu33JNGrYWneZJd13uE7xBJg2qaDFy45cU6iZjofq4G9Lrbimnl2BcKYBEYryhn5GA3x20hnSDjbPXOHPdJAVdb4c/s1600/bananasplit3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7JZtt5HZUt4zVzUtSJxYASCQ7xaqMljyg_s6NIm5ArEhsG0Ozsvu33JNGrYWneZJd13uE7xBJg2qaDFy45cU6iZjofq4G9Lrbimnl2BcKYBEYryhn5GA3x20hnSDjbPXOHPdJAVdb4c/s200/bananasplit3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671962409280350162" border="0" /></a>The Iron Man costume was the Marvel superhero equivalent of Snorky from the <span style="font-style: italic;">Banana Splits Show</span>. Sure, the bipedal pachyderm was cute, but his appendages were useless and he spoke via unintelligible honks. The other three members of the bunch performed side skits—Fleegle checked the mail; Drooper threw out the trash, etc.—but Snorky was limited to caroming into other Bananas and falling when the situation arose, as when a message from rival Sour Grapes Bunch arrived.<br /><br />By contrast, the Magneto costume was a freeing, one-piece red spandex affair; with royal purple hot pants; matching boots and cape, attached by a hard studded neck ring; and signature helmet, complete with hood ornament. The helmet perched precariously over the head, like an overturned bucket on a fence post and jostled out of place constantly, but it was the only annoying bit to the ensemble.<br /><br />Granted, it wasn’t nearly as sharp as Shellhead’s duds—although the patrons of the Boots & Saddle bar on Christopher Street in the village might disagree—but I didn’t care. For once, I’d be able to enjoin the float’s musical number and otherwise play on the urban-landscape-jungle-gym-for-adults as it ambled through the thoroughfares of Gotham.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVcOGbHj7JjcnrdGCwBGUj9Bu3W0Qkbt5PUPvNyfyN9JksRISSOIOrjeGAXzWJrcunr61Pn8QfzlJzE9L9bTZKarLL4IukpwS55662TetyiG-tjxndrXigKRcUI_i6GoXhMd26hJqalLo/s1600/BootsAndSaddle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVcOGbHj7JjcnrdGCwBGUj9Bu3W0Qkbt5PUPvNyfyN9JksRISSOIOrjeGAXzWJrcunr61Pn8QfzlJzE9L9bTZKarLL4IukpwS55662TetyiG-tjxndrXigKRcUI_i6GoXhMd26hJqalLo/s400/BootsAndSaddle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671964210739418466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Wherever did you get that cape... It’s Fabulous!”</span><br /></div><br />Surprisingly, Iron Man was cut altogether from the guest list. Unsure why—the suit was still usable, albeit painfully so—but it was cumbersome, needing a large, unwieldy case to transport, because pieces like the helmet and chest could be crushed if not packed in a sturdy container. Although the Hulk costume was similarly bulky, it could be mushed into a canvas army surplus bag since its component parts were primarily constructed of fabric and stuffing and thus more forgiving when roughly handled.<br /><br />Due to the venerable yearly extravaganza’s renown and popularity, New York’s Finest, who never saw a crowd-control measure they didn’t like, placed saw horses, metal dividers and other such barriers along the parade route the day before to prepare for the tremendous crowds that would gather that night in anticipation of the event, crowds that shame those for the opening of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Phantom Menace</span>. These measures effectively split the island in two from north to south. The cross-streets remained open in the wee hours of the morning, but were quickly shut down by 7 a.m. If you needed to transport anything from one side of Manhattan to the other, say a van full of heroes and villains from Marvel Headquarters to the parade’s genesis, you and your super-powered posse had best get your asses out of your Bat Caves and Sanctum Sanctorums, don your capes and gauntlets, load up the vehicle and head on your way before the deadline or you’d be walking.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1OrHHnOBQMyuB9VyLBIXSVyKZy-6Ft0K2LY__uJAOVbYn08z61jy17VyFJUJh5PBTN-ah1SF9g9fcLl8tMAg9QevATomJN5upsv7oHJp8Z_D_EepWeu_n7MIrr2AOpEsBN_UVcgfD80/s1600/PhantomMenaceLine.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 335px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1OrHHnOBQMyuB9VyLBIXSVyKZy-6Ft0K2LY__uJAOVbYn08z61jy17VyFJUJh5PBTN-ah1SF9g9fcLl8tMAg9QevATomJN5upsv7oHJp8Z_D_EepWeu_n7MIrr2AOpEsBN_UVcgfD80/s400/PhantomMenaceLine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671965582833265874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">If only they’d known...</span><br /></div><br />On Thanksgiving eve in 1988, Marvel rented a room at the Statler Hotel, where the entire retinue of suits was stored. Situated on the Manhattan’s west side, the Statler provided a more convenient dressing facility than the Marvel offices. The actors would still have to meet at the crack of dawn, but it was better than gathering a <span style="font-style: italic;">quarter to</span> the crack of dawn. Plus, were there any hiccups—performers delayed by commuting woes, costume to be repaired—the clock would be more forgiving. I volunteered to baby-sit the costumes that year (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/11/going-for-gold.html">“Going for the Gold”</a>), which afforded me an additional hour’s sleep the next morning before my fellow thespians arrived.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJPBKG0_GUgMw-gIuO0kQ5ZtfW9tKJRI9kFmaz7pTZIbkXLoKPsyTV9-l_TkxWgVKY79ZSvkCPZSdvSUNPjgUFaCNB2v0F56hb26qJ5Rsu7lHe8YWjXThn5jQ_M2NEPGtkX6fyUWL5LE/s1600/Enchantress.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 102px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJPBKG0_GUgMw-gIuO0kQ5ZtfW9tKJRI9kFmaz7pTZIbkXLoKPsyTV9-l_TkxWgVKY79ZSvkCPZSdvSUNPjgUFaCNB2v0F56hb26qJ5Rsu7lHe8YWjXThn5jQ_M2NEPGtkX6fyUWL5LE/s320/Enchantress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671967340028155890" border="0" /></a>No such luxury in 1989. The plans reverted to meeting and dressing at Marvel HQ, and the single-evening hotel accommodations wasn’t the only thing slashed from the budget. Perhaps, when the room was cut, Personal Appearance maven Barbara nixed the bulky red-and-gold hero’s ensemble to ensure only needing a single van to transport all the actors and costumes for the event. This would also explain the slightly reduced cast of characters—along with Iron Man, The Enchantress was axed. True, the ensemble of the Norse goddess of love and Thor nemesis was très facile to transport—all tights and body-hugging pieces; not even a cape—but she was another body altogether and real estate in even the most luxurious van was scarce when you’re carrying ten festooned characters, their caretaker and a driver, not to mention a Hulk costume.<br /><br />Veteran Spider-Man Jeremy was allowed to meet the group on site, since he could easily carry the Web-Slinger’s suit with him in a modest duffel bag, transforming into everyone’s Favorite Neighborhood Wall-Crawler in the float’s collapsible bell tower when the time arrived. Hulk Mark did the same, but not because the Jade Giant’s costume was conveniently small. Due to its mass, the Hulk ensemble could not be worn in the van en route. Also the conditions within the costume necessitated its being worn in approximately twenty-minute increments before the wearer risked fainting from overheating, so there was no sense in Mark convening with the others at Marvel HQ. He’d also dress in the steeple—where he’d take breaks during the parade—just before kick-off as he’d done in past years.<br /><br />About a week prior to Thanksgiving, the troupe convened at Macy’s parade facility in Hoboken, New Jersey, for Press Day, the annual ritual when members of the media were invited to photograph some of the year’s entries amid a sea of local school children. The morning, however, before the arrival of the area’s Jimmie Olsens and wee ones, would be dedicated to learning the choreography. Upon our arrival we met our distinguished guest star, Melba Moore. I was immediately struck by her friendly demeanor, and thankful she wasn’t a diva. She also seemed genuinely excited to be performing with us superheroes, the way the used-to-bes on <span style="font-style: italic;">I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here</span> seemed overjoyed to be cooped up in a jungle with the likes of Stephen Baldwin and Janice Dickinson.<br /><br />The Marvel Universe float stood reconstructed, looming over all. It would be taken apart and transported through the Lincoln Tunnel to the parade route with all the other entries Thanksgiving Day eve. Us actors took to the creation like children to a playground for the first time after the snows of winter have melted. We happily climbed and scurried, reacquainting ourselves with the various fun features of its construction. Some, like myself, whose roles had changed, experienced its delights in a different light, while newcomer White Queen—a replacement for last year’s model—experimented for the first time.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMKiaMXyNuq-cAd9Mud02VUdYuy3hs8xRprGCMSsIBPO2f6Szi-_s0i7JvRzxAdFCISQPYUCVQatjUIC3ldTsvrAXqfq0s4NA1nfntyO3CPeqiOmAcNPA48pplkkdFrVAZ9O4BJC03cU/s1600/Macys89_SMSlidesPole.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMKiaMXyNuq-cAd9Mud02VUdYuy3hs8xRprGCMSsIBPO2f6Szi-_s0i7JvRzxAdFCISQPYUCVQatjUIC3ldTsvrAXqfq0s4NA1nfntyO3CPeqiOmAcNPA48pplkkdFrVAZ9O4BJC03cU/s400/Macys89_SMSlidesPole.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671967990466928626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Gymboree for grown-ups</span><br /></div><br />1987 inaugural choreographer Bill Guskey was again called to duty. Whereas his task that time was made all the more onerous by having to showcase the exciting features of the float—in order to justify its price tag with the Marvel Poo-Bahs—and ensure each character getting his/her moment, this go-round the focus would be on Melba and integrating her with the heroes, while utilizing as much of the float’s attributes and various environs as possible.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoxt2USxqZMz3n5uFz9gwoWVeeQG8P7EryLyByOvrfAP46YhQvbCakI0GlUWGoxBf-3bDv3ooK8Teme5282zkBZADfxrl0uLsLuYAd24FnHeLF_fyZheHcwaFjcZ0DulvcY8crTlferd0/s1600/Macys89_MagGrabsMelba.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 392px; height: 352px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoxt2USxqZMz3n5uFz9gwoWVeeQG8P7EryLyByOvrfAP46YhQvbCakI0GlUWGoxBf-3bDv3ooK8Teme5282zkBZADfxrl0uLsLuYAd24FnHeLF_fyZheHcwaFjcZ0DulvcY8crTlferd0/s400/Macys89_MagGrabsMelba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671968957903758162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“</span><span style="font-style: italic;">You’re toast, Melba!</span><span style="font-style: italic;">”</span><br /></div><br />Understandably, Spider-Man was spotlighted during much of the routine. Melba would go through various stages of being molested—<span style="font-style: italic;">heh, heh</span>—by the villains and rescued by the heroes, as she traipsed from one urban microcosm to another. Bill’s staging opened with Magneto and Green Goblin grappling with Melba atop the roof of the center structure, the highest point accessible by foot. The skyscraper book-ending the back of the structure, on which the Silver Surfer’s board perched, rose more than thirty feet, but was only attainable via a pair of shimmy poles along its backside, and once accessed afforded nought but the cosmic hero’s scant board as a place to perch.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYSH_SWkHjM99HBeT6rezzMqEymFdPSckmol7E6TwQuJDaBm2TaPh0NfeJHs28crtwEtRRbbbulCmSQLO9VLNy5TkmhivNGBT4UyfWuP9p8iETxi3jF7Dz55Odl1UKkb6-EsjITF2Qe0/s1600/Macys89_SteepleTopples.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYSH_SWkHjM99HBeT6rezzMqEymFdPSckmol7E6TwQuJDaBm2TaPh0NfeJHs28crtwEtRRbbbulCmSQLO9VLNy5TkmhivNGBT4UyfWuP9p8iETxi3jF7Dz55Odl1UKkb6-EsjITF2Qe0/s400/Macys89_SteepleTopples.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671969978858287746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Third annual Macy</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s steeple chase</span><br /></div><br />Spider-Man arrives to save the stalwart star, who leaps upon the Web-Slinger’s back just before he slides down the fire pole. Then Ms. Moore would wend her way around the base of the bell tower, at which point the Hulk in a fit of rage, rips the steeple from its base, threatening to crush the fleeing B-lister who hurries down the front stairway while the structure topples toward her.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafhdqoSRM7eH11hlX61W_XNXVfnVcr4m1DnRWmhuuWBKleZfMZEyHCL-sEmJfrenlVyVpR_SccJeotwKDoiidotCoKZfeb2xLmo4sS98oqr7nLkrlI70o47DN5aBaTbzf645Zi03zBL8/s1600/Macys89_MelbaTangled.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafhdqoSRM7eH11hlX61W_XNXVfnVcr4m1DnRWmhuuWBKleZfMZEyHCL-sEmJfrenlVyVpR_SccJeotwKDoiidotCoKZfeb2xLmo4sS98oqr7nLkrlI70o47DN5aBaTbzf645Zi03zBL8/s400/Macys89_MelbaTangled.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671970727837070450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“</span><span style="font-style: italic;">For the love of humanity, not the streamers!</span><span style="font-style: italic;">”</span><br /></div><br />But our erstwhile songstress now must face the wicked White Queen who, upset over missing a Hellfire Club meeting to watch Ms. Moore’s dreadful, short-lived sitcom, attacks with festive streamers?!! Laughable as it may sound, the paper projectiles prove most treacherous, threatening to entangle Melba by sheer volume if not tensile strength.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgxEk6cHK7vEfcN_F8EyRKTtxikYzjFP4BNE86cecVHlofmyhEckETpgpylnCLiQZGoVPr7U9763F1hc7TnZsrhG1ElS1tTAHTjgdRZd3pzsJdLP8GRhxQbCO0XYlMUJm8jOSr3MFHMiY/s1600/Macys89_Mag_Melba_DD_SM.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 378px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgxEk6cHK7vEfcN_F8EyRKTtxikYzjFP4BNE86cecVHlofmyhEckETpgpylnCLiQZGoVPr7U9763F1hc7TnZsrhG1ElS1tTAHTjgdRZd3pzsJdLP8GRhxQbCO0XYlMUJm8jOSr3MFHMiY/s400/Macys89_Mag_Melba_DD_SM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671971337840104018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Spidey admires Daredevil</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s form as DD practices his pliés</span><br /></div><br />Helped into the sewers by Wolverine and Dr. Strange—a questionable heroic maneuver to say the least—Melba is then plucked through the manhole cover above by Spidey and DD. The overweening duo pose to the cameras rather than actually protect the chanteuse, who is once again menaced by Gobby and Yours Truly. She is now back whence she started, both location- and predicament-wise. Apparently, the inanity of her circuitous journey hasn’t been lost on the vainglorious pair who put her there. Deciding she was one diva too many, they throw her off the side into the clutches of Strange and Wolvie, where she makes her final stand amid of heroes, including Caspar, the Friend— I mean, Silver Surfer.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVRqhYREhoRgebPQNQEdIqIxPWrzEzj65IPhi7tn4J91-ZAKqezFmC7nQ86315ZQgSyN-QoXxZSfLz3C0a08ShvtMHMq5HaBqeU93FpWju6WC2iJBkdJYRtgFyqYuq2M1K9_dIxYtri4/s1600/Macys89_Silver_FaceFront.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVRqhYREhoRgebPQNQEdIqIxPWrzEzj65IPhi7tn4J91-ZAKqezFmC7nQ86315ZQgSyN-QoXxZSfLz3C0a08ShvtMHMq5HaBqeU93FpWju6WC2iJBkdJYRtgFyqYuq2M1K9_dIxYtri4/s400/Macys89_Silver_FaceFront.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671972645684499106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caspar and his friends</span><br /></div><br />Yes, it’s silly. But there is only so much that can be done in two and a half minutes during a live television spot on a parade float with neither fly system nor pyrotechnics. It was hardly Alvin Ailey—Hell, it wasn’t even up to a Medieval dinner theater’s standards—but it served its purpose: placating the star, yet simultaneously showcasing the characters.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Steve’s Soapbox:</span> I’ve read vituperative statements about the Marvel Universe staging for both the 1987 and 1989 Thanksgiving Day spectacles from questionable comic fans commenting on YouTube videos. These ignorant, spoiled castigators have no idea of the complexities of the situation, nor have they grown in a world where their beloved genre was regarded as the leprosy of pop culture, ridiculed and relegated to badly produced, unfaithful interpretations, in the rare instances where movies and TV shows were created. The Marvel Universe float and Spider-Man balloon cast superheroes on an international stage, giving such obscure (at the time) characters as Daredevil, Power Man and The White Queen their first glimpse of the spotlight. Arguably, it set the stage for Tim Burton’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Batman</span> and helped legitimize the genre to what it is today.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhae0awZ1zVMWGNc3ejVt6W_CL0Y-wT_Ke5yGMARtr4ZLQt683Uyw725VqxEFWLTeMChxOONZ0AMrpdVUW_6pW_ZgiAPl4PC-tMqeAupwK-SDVUi479503V2O31dbOBjtKsVeXogrJln0g/s1600/DD_WhiteQueen_LukeCage.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhae0awZ1zVMWGNc3ejVt6W_CL0Y-wT_Ke5yGMARtr4ZLQt683Uyw725VqxEFWLTeMChxOONZ0AMrpdVUW_6pW_ZgiAPl4PC-tMqeAupwK-SDVUi479503V2O31dbOBjtKsVeXogrJln0g/s400/DD_WhiteQueen_LukeCage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672022206139661266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Now where was I...?</span><br /><br />To say Jeremy was freaking out over the pole-slide carrying Melba Moore on his back would be an understatement, and I can’t say that I blame him. Goodness knows, I’d performed some pretty daring—and stupid—stunts in my time as the Webbed Wonder (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/03/yippee-kay-eh.html">“Yippee-Kay-Eh”</a> for one example). So, too, Jeremy, but endangering one’s own life is a far cry from dragging another’s along for the ride, certainly not with but a scant couple of hours of rehearsal time, which when broken down to this single instance within the whole routine, amounted to less than an hour’s worth of practicing the stunt.<br /><br />The pole itself was another issue. As it was only secured at its base, which was merely a sheet of pressboard, it was far from steady and jiggled liberally when used. Double the weight of the usee and who knows how, or if, it would hold. Add to these factors the pressure of having to undertake the move on national TV and it’s a credit to Jeremy that he didn’t run out of the warehouse screaming.<br /><br />To their credit, both he and Melba kept a stiff upper lip and accepted their fate. As Ms. Moore departed, the heroes remained to meet-and-greet the impending tide of children and reporters. Jeremy wouldn’t be able to further rehearse the maneuver until Thanksgiving morning a week later. I’m sure he slept well in the interim.<br /><br />I’d be lying if my fellow thespian’s and Ms. Moore’s impending risky maneuver didn’t cross my mind as I trudged through the snow, incessantly mumbling “There’s no way they can have the parade today,” like Rain Man. Big, fluffy flakes continued to fall as I exited the subway stop in Manhattan near the Marvel offices. I envied Hulk Mark; he’d be the only one of us not to freeze his ass off. But I wasn’t about to rue not encasing myself in the Iron Man suit. Surprisingly, it wasn’t any warmer than Magneto’s duds and may actually have been less so. Contrary to protecting oneself from the elements, the torso acted like a wind tunnel, allowing gusts of Arctic air through the arm apertures. Positioning my body just so, I whistled like a tea kettle.<br /><br />We had less than an hour to suit-up and vie for the title of last-one-to-pee-before-departure. Upon our egress from the building, the snow persisted. It seemed to actually get colder and my ornery disposition was exacerbated by a growing headache due to java deprivation. Ten of us, sat uncomfortably in various stages of undress, as elements of certain costumes could not be worn or were uncomfortable while crammed in a car seat, such as capes and headpieces.<br /><br />The sight that greeted us at our designated kick-off spot stopped us cold (no pun intended). Our beloved float sat in snow-covered pieces on the tarmac. And Marvel was not the only sponsor to suffer this setback. Deconstructed floats lay along Central Park West as far as the eye could see, where they would normally stand fully-erected by this time in past years. Needless to say, the construction crew was way behind schedule due to the inclement weather. Parade officials assured Barbara and Bill the Marvel Universe would be ready in time for the start, but the delay meant that there would be no additional rehearsal time to practice the blocking, including Spidey’s and Melba’s pole slide of doom! Although, given the poor visibility caused by the swirling snowfall, no one was going to notice if they botched the maneuver.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFbHzjgYAFBUPe-wx0G2paHzOuQtHMapjrhO9RVNMDLw-QtjOWHOZsGV288ImLXHV3QdO1ffIL6uz0ueKr1fXDshFdAsQawjjrpxYMz8Xz4AW_CVwmhxpvrGjVldroBSHgCDdjfD1jmQ/s1600/The%252BGhost%252Band%252BMr.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFbHzjgYAFBUPe-wx0G2paHzOuQtHMapjrhO9RVNMDLw-QtjOWHOZsGV288ImLXHV3QdO1ffIL6uz0ueKr1fXDshFdAsQawjjrpxYMz8Xz4AW_CVwmhxpvrGjVldroBSHgCDdjfD1jmQ/s200/The%252BGhost%252Band%252BMr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672023752888337970" border="0" /></a>It was still “colder than a witches teat,” and hours until show time. At least going through the routine would’ve helped keep us warm. In the short time since we’d arrived, teeth were already chattering. A few moments more and heroes’d be shaking like Don Knott’s in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Ghost and Mr. Chicken</span>. Fortunately, parade officials recognized the need for shelter and directed us to the basement door of the nearby Museum of Natural History, where us characters were allowed to warm ourselves while awaiting the parade’s start.<br /><br />Dr. Doom and I, two of the Marvel Universe’s most powerful villains, strode across Central Park West down a ramp and through a set of dark gray double-doors toward sanctuary. What greeted us in the bowels of the museum was the avian exhibit. Encased, taxidermied fowl of all shapes and sizes, living and extinct, filled the room. The only light came from ceiling spots over the individual displays. It was like sneaking into the bat cave. All that was needed was the case holding the (until recently) late Jason Todd’s Robin suit.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg366nCta-daDH_CE3mMq8oZBrx1KUBmP0M7ZbyczPZpYE1LQ5-uzC3HZtePdE2l0UWxj2aZSSRTPpxytHtw-rjJQ33-jRV6BeE-gESeDBSFpHDfSw79ra3cDQcbJd-PHlbXnCjKxbbAYE/s1600/psycho9.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg366nCta-daDH_CE3mMq8oZBrx1KUBmP0M7ZbyczPZpYE1LQ5-uzC3HZtePdE2l0UWxj2aZSSRTPpxytHtw-rjJQ33-jRV6BeE-gESeDBSFpHDfSw79ra3cDQcbJd-PHlbXnCjKxbbAYE/s320/psycho9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672024639863949090" border="0" /></a>The pall of death—lifeless avian eyes staring from every part of the room—and eerie lighting made the silence all the more pronounced. I half-expected Norman Bates to suddenly appear to offer me a room for the night. Then I heard a faint mewling, which grew to a distinct sobbing as I approached a corner of the hall. Huddled on the floor, spotlighted and girded at right angles by glass displays, appeared to be a high school band.<br /><br />I turned to my nefarious partner, but he was no longer by my side, instead fascinated by a towering Moa on another part of the floor. To his side stood a Dodo and I was suddenly struck by how incredibly odd the whole scene must have appeared. It was like an unpublished issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Marvel Super-Villain Team-Up</span>. Would-be World-conquering ruler of Latveria, Dr. Doom, and Megalomaniacal Master of Magnetism, Magneto, holding hostage an entire high school marching band in the stuffed bird exhibit of the Museum of Natural History whilst just outside Marveldom assembled prepares to rescue the terrified teens.<br /><br />Turns out the students were from Hawaii. Initially thrilled to have been invited to the big show, their elation quickly turned to shock at the inhospitable and foreign weather conditions in which they were expected to perform. These kids had never seen snow before. Live. In person. They were six thousand miles from home in a city that intimidates the most seasoned urbanite and the poor homesick waifs were wishing they’d joined the debate team instead. I’m sure the abrupt appearance of two nefarious evil-doers didn’t help matters.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jZsc1bX1fl3tZVxwQGU6kpzsEQwzSzL44jjEM_1oxVY24o0liRKXsWO46Te7UV-iYMX6ZKeZgJ3RTwEyjBLM1aJKH0pGgdENVauwMfGVdWxHeQoibAPPthLj4CIFUtd0J2-RGdlEGyE/s1600/Moa.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9jZsc1bX1fl3tZVxwQGU6kpzsEQwzSzL44jjEM_1oxVY24o0liRKXsWO46Te7UV-iYMX6ZKeZgJ3RTwEyjBLM1aJKH0pGgdENVauwMfGVdWxHeQoibAPPthLj4CIFUtd0J2-RGdlEGyE/s200/Moa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672029737394863842" border="0" /></a>Even the appearance of Spider-Man and several other heroes couldn’t assuage the teeny wahines and kanes. But the tableau took on an even odder tone as hero and villain alike mingled like aristocrats at an art show: Power Man, pondering a Puffin; Daredevil eyeing an Auk; Dr. Strange bewitched by a Booby; Spidey espying an Osprey. It was only fitting that the Hawaiian high-schoolers should cluster under a Nene.<br /><br />By the time Captain America arrived to gather us back outside, the wonder had worn thin. I emerged from the museum’s basement like Judy Garland crossing the crashed farmhouse threshold into the Land of Oz after the tornado. The snowing had stopped—nary a flake to prove its ever having fallen in the first place—and where once sat mounds of float flotsam and jetsam along the parade route, now stood a kaleidoscopic panoply of entries, complete and prepped for take-off… including the Marvel Universe.<br /><br />The parade was literally minutes from starting. But even with the ten or so extra we had as we awaited our turn in the queue to join the show, we wouldn’t have nearly enough time to effectively practice the routine. And that were if conditions were right. One step onto the float was all that was needed to realize that things weren’t all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.<br /><br />A thin coating of ice enveloped the entire structure, and it was all us heroes could do just standing erect. Jeremy’s and Melba’s pole dance took on added gravitas. Mask or not, the concern on Spidey’s mien was palpable; he was webbing in his pants! But he wasn’t the only one. The prospect of traipsing, climbing and performing the other staged combat sequences of the choreography on the icy surface we now found ourselves on was unappetizing to everyone. The gusting wind only exacerbated the working conditions, and the dreary, dark gray skies portended more snow.<br /><br />Bless Bill Guskey. He wasn’t about to endanger the safety of his charges. He completely scrapped the opening sequence on the plateau abutting the steeple, off which Spidey and a piggybacking Melba were originally set to slide via pole, escaping the clutches of the maleficent Magneto and the detestable Green Goblin. The routine would now begin at the base of the bell tower. But without the time to choreograph anything specific, he simply told us to “wing it;” improvise the battle over Ms. Moore until the song caught up with the staging when the star hit that particular spot and then continue as planned from there.<br /><br />This meant that those performers initially spread out at different points on the float at the songs start, were now crowded together in the small area at the steeple’s base, pantomiming an epic struggle among heroes and villains. Adding to the surrealism, Bill instructed us to engage in slow motion, so as to take as little focus as possible away from Ms. Moore while she lip-synced the lyrics. There was no time for a run-through. Bill barely had time to step off the float before it lurched forward to join the parade.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hpO9lGuDITc" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"></iframe><br /><br />As if on the cue, the snow began to fall anew and the wind picked up as well. The momentary respite from the inclement weather served only to warm the ground enough so that fog developed, swirling about, as if painted by Van Gogh. Despite the conditions, I anchored myself atop the highest spot after The Surfer’s tower, that being the rooftop where the choreography was originally set to begin. It was bone-numbingly cold and slippery, but I was euphoric. After two years relegated to standing among the float’s dregs or painfully walking like Herman Munster beside her, I was having the time of my life. I foolhardily stood on the icy rail, striking melodramatic poses, like a Kabuki performer. My royal purple cape whipped about in the breeze, adding to the affect. I was King Lear raging at the storm.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRPhyw_eR5SrVn_vuB3-y7rLwj3veQ-D-mD9zMU7QDpnWgRNQWUY76gH2Yir4sDQoX-Uwf0LMf3iccPIM01YVH7Te-pLVKZP2nHMxyAMateaua0vW-kRgmOGKjzTqi8kRJ7IPRlglJfE4/s1600/Macys89_Mag%2526Silver.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRPhyw_eR5SrVn_vuB3-y7rLwj3veQ-D-mD9zMU7QDpnWgRNQWUY76gH2Yir4sDQoX-Uwf0LMf3iccPIM01YVH7Te-pLVKZP2nHMxyAMateaua0vW-kRgmOGKjzTqi8kRJ7IPRlglJfE4/s400/Macys89_Mag%2526Silver.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672030072344306546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“</span><span style="font-style: italic;">Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!</span><span style="font-style: italic;">”</span><br /></div><br />The only one crazier than I was Silver Surfer. He stood upon his board precariously perched thirty-plus feet about the street, looming over me. The board was a mere foot wide, and although he tethered himself to the structure with a tightly-held leather thong, one couldn’t but stare in awe at the former Herald of Galactus as the tower lurched to and fro like a metronome while the vehicle ambled through the causeways of Gotham.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6EYyVB9F5-w" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"></iframe><br /><br />The snow ceased shortly before entering Herald Square. At least we had that going for us. The music started as did our “winging” it. The ad-libbed beginning immediately went pear-shaped. There just wasn’t enough room and too many characters to effectively perform any sort of stage combat. It looked as if the heroes were dry-humping the villains, as we bounced off one another like one of those sped up chase sequences in a <span style="font-style: italic;"> Monkees</span> episode only in slow motion. It was all grandstanding with cartoonish posing and inane exits and entrances. Not one of our proudest moments.<br /><br />But at least I had a chance to enjoy my Thanksgiving without gingerly ambling about like the guy who took last place in the mechanical-bull–riding contest!Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-55981584083265895472011-10-10T15:44:00.004-04:002011-10-10T19:53:17.826-04:00He's at It Again<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4Q_nZ41pye5P8EMsJzJO5Vt_1iFVLrurm7SJz4OsCpUxUAozT9mCwjcYBbCY5ME_QW6zN43bB5OzxrAUn0iVB7B_3j3yGD_pALFOHqG6O6PmtFnHzc13dM7C48RosIt29o1OCkgYQ8o/s1600/ADembicki_HoldingBooks.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4Q_nZ41pye5P8EMsJzJO5Vt_1iFVLrurm7SJz4OsCpUxUAozT9mCwjcYBbCY5ME_QW6zN43bB5OzxrAUn0iVB7B_3j3yGD_pALFOHqG6O6PmtFnHzc13dM7C48RosIt29o1OCkgYQ8o/s400/ADembicki_HoldingBooks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662012115565817490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Writer/artist—and savvy promoter (hence the outfit)—Adam Dembicki displays his newest creations </span><br /></div><br />That wee wunderkind of storytelling, Adam Dembicki, debuted not one, but two new mini comics at the recent 2011 Small Press Expo or SPX as it is more commonly called. The two-day comic-book bender takes place every fall—next year’s event is Sept. 14–15; MARK YOUR CALENDARS!—at the Bethesda Marriot in Maryland and celebrates the li’l guys of graphic novels. And few get much li’l-er than Adam.<br /><br />Only five at last year’s show, the junior genius presented his first title, <span style="font-style: italic;">Ant Army</span>, an eerie, <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight Zone</span>-esque mini that is diabolical in its knack for leaving readers unsettled. My ever-Faithful Bloglodytes will remember I gave an esteemed four spiders to Master Dembicki’s terrifying tale (see<a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/09/ant-army-by-adam-dembicki.html"> “<span style="font-style: italic;">Ant Army</span> by Adam Dembicki”</a>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2Vo7J0ghkZkPW9TGuXe-NxeFN3LxRm2CinqeOIHRRt32JmcWGkaQb1wATnNj2I7DkKNnEp_trWAt9q0TayV_loBQl9Wahv5boDDjormMpkbHg5Fr_D6R0cFeFdsilj0-V6oWVqlphOw/s1600/MonstJacketlr.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2Vo7J0ghkZkPW9TGuXe-NxeFN3LxRm2CinqeOIHRRt32JmcWGkaQb1wATnNj2I7DkKNnEp_trWAt9q0TayV_loBQl9Wahv5boDDjormMpkbHg5Fr_D6R0cFeFdsilj0-V6oWVqlphOw/s200/MonstJacketlr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662011387513468962" border="0" /></a>I was looking forward to seeing my wee pal and his equally talented father, Matt, not only in anticipation of their latest creations, but also because I wanted to give Adam a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span>, the book I’d edited, layed-out, typeset and served as design consultant during my hiatus from the blog last spring (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/07/rex-riders-or-how-i-spent-my-recent.html">“REX RIDERS or How I Spent My Recent Sabbatical”</a>). The smile he displayed when he received the book was recompense enough, but he gave me a copy each of his dual debut.<br /><br />I was thrilled.<br /><br />As in previous years, I was representing Fanfare/Ponent Mon, publisher of only the finest translated graphic novels from across the globe. The booth was situated close to Adam and his dad’s location, a mere fifteen feet behind me and across the aisle to my left. As attendees came by to check out my wares, I was sure to alert them to the six-year-old creator in the house upon their departure, pointing in Adam’s direction.<br /><br />At the end of that first day, I bumped into Matt. He was incredulous to the amount of traffic Adam had received. I mentioned that I plugged his son at every opportunity throughout the day, and he was understandably humbled by my magnanimous gesture. The next morning Matt and Adam met me outside the convention hall before it opened where Adam presented me with a piece of original artwork he’d drawn the evening before as a thank you for my help.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqKlAOI22lwmDar540KlkGQUp98DP4mCIXIK2fIPk2bOWCKKUi3g6oDiFX3O0Kf0l7aNQ2tO02d9lSnfZHZFEc0eamp7jHm176-AG_CRa5bhLe6BhbJuXtVUvJXxIxsMij23Vmhgqcd4/s1600/AdamDembickiWarMontage.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 395px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqKlAOI22lwmDar540KlkGQUp98DP4mCIXIK2fIPk2bOWCKKUi3g6oDiFX3O0Kf0l7aNQ2tO02d9lSnfZHZFEc0eamp7jHm176-AG_CRa5bhLe6BhbJuXtVUvJXxIxsMij23Vmhgqcd4/s400/AdamDembickiWarMontage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662010706488230930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The cool artwork gifted to me by creator Adam Dembicki</span><br /></div><br />And it is with full disclosure that I tell you this, and that the young Dembecki’s gift in no way, shape or form has influenced my reviews of his latest masterpieces (<span style="font-style: italic;">ahem</span>).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jailbreak</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Never-Ending War</span>, are slimmer—and in the case of the latter, black-and-white—yet no less compelling than Ant Army.<br /><br />His latest efforts, <span style="font-style: italic;">Jailbreak</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Never-Ending War</span>, are slimmer—and in the case of the latter, black-and-white—but no less compelling.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWtK7msTGyJVWJNenELU6ULIcx38YLIvLvQYYX_UhHSDVRC7WozvPkjis86C-QtpKMctuLEF2H4oL2DEdxF_cwz2Om43UPtmZunciCFY47g1TmR9ahHiqlropj94MRe19GsXQzsCADEs/s1600/Jailbreak-cvr.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCWtK7msTGyJVWJNenELU6ULIcx38YLIvLvQYYX_UhHSDVRC7WozvPkjis86C-QtpKMctuLEF2H4oL2DEdxF_cwz2Om43UPtmZunciCFY47g1TmR9ahHiqlropj94MRe19GsXQzsCADEs/s400/Jailbreak-cvr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662009977378180834" border="0" /></a>On the surface, <span style="font-style: italic;">Jailbreak</span> is nothing more than just that: a story of a prison escape by a quartet of cons. It’s a more straightforward and furiously-paced tale—akin to that of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Fast and the Furious</span> movie franchise—that opens with the prisoners making good their escape. A frenzied chase, complete with helicopters, ensues with little doubt as to the outcome.<br /><br />The art further suggests to the story’s black-and-white result, and given a less-proven wordsmith, I’d expect no less. But Adam is nothing else if not a rascally writer, and he leaves his audience on the final page with the disturbing notion that the ending is not as cut-and-dried as it would seem, made all the more poignant by the simplicity of the story and stark art.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhrHMUN2kJLHencm55knTOE30v39FIaBLw3Z1bBaC0trsy1RJkMX5FO1jQatBwmHHniXel_TZlqD6xY12fkXhSY0oKDesj87K9eDw3E-0e2zVzyXCOZVpwKuw9w-TWsO_jSPKhj8O0PY/s1600/Never-Ending-War-cvr.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 374px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhrHMUN2kJLHencm55knTOE30v39FIaBLw3Z1bBaC0trsy1RJkMX5FO1jQatBwmHHniXel_TZlqD6xY12fkXhSY0oKDesj87K9eDw3E-0e2zVzyXCOZVpwKuw9w-TWsO_jSPKhj8O0PY/s400/Never-Ending-War-cvr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662010163336336610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Never-Ending War</span> is more epic in subject matter and befittingly presented in full color; a galactic battle pitting Earth against Mars, which opens many decades into the struggle with the advantage having oscillated between the two combatants. Is the the final conflict? Will a victor finally emerge? That would be telling and would ruin My Faithful Bloglodytes’ enjoyment of Adam’s classic statement on war.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/wnS5lRna98A" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="344"></iframe><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Adam talks about </span>Jailbreak<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span>The Never-Ending War<span style="font-style: italic;"> and </span>Star Wars<span style="font-style: italic;"> with Joe and Rusty at SPX 2011</span><br /></div><br />A mere six years of age and the Master Dembicki displays a tremendous depth and understanding about war that puts to shame that of the world’s leaders. Earth and Mars could just as easily be the United States and the Taliban or Israel and Palestine or any warring factions past, present or future. And the kid Kipling’s prescience at such a young age should be a wake-up call to us all.<br /><br />Both <span style="font-style: italic;">Jailbreak</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Never-Ending War</span> get four spiders.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0QsnOUC7Qd1WXqiCvzytdyX1G4Vx-OocNxiIaSRJxe0_mGCdynY5lBst7m5DE7NDtKbYJf8eEK_JXyJRJBSlOd3bs5qonoSlwbXKG-Mtp_X6hY13Itd3IQtoOdGNlKwfWJyL51B1zpo/s1600/4-Spiders.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0QsnOUC7Qd1WXqiCvzytdyX1G4Vx-OocNxiIaSRJxe0_mGCdynY5lBst7m5DE7NDtKbYJf8eEK_JXyJRJBSlOd3bs5qonoSlwbXKG-Mtp_X6hY13Itd3IQtoOdGNlKwfWJyL51B1zpo/s400/4-Spiders.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662010499214422466" border="0" /></a>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-38801348092881141392011-09-24T09:29:00.003-04:002011-10-10T15:25:49.280-04:00Maiden Voyage<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr6JqPIANlriHkqTjcWSR-7AQe0KCZUbvFTr124gCmWwUYcnaRVDLwvbn4mxD2p6tWb1xQMjQpLofiZ8utwxW-naCl___zTNB_pSBQzZYBWGn_xZXRkqRiTdJfOTgtHCYCehdAxCf_MA/s1600/Halifax_Nova_Scotia_Canada.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr6JqPIANlriHkqTjcWSR-7AQe0KCZUbvFTr124gCmWwUYcnaRVDLwvbn4mxD2p6tWb1xQMjQpLofiZ8utwxW-naCl___zTNB_pSBQzZYBWGn_xZXRkqRiTdJfOTgtHCYCehdAxCf_MA/s400/Halifax_Nova_Scotia_Canada.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655960864816237298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Beautiful Halifax, Nova Scotia... not a cloud in the sky... yet!</span><br /></div><br />Throughout my decade as Spider-Man et al, the preponderance of appearances were humble affairs. Short one-day signings at Mom and Pop’s, comic shops, and local chains of grocery, drug and convenience stores were the norm with occasional notable exceptions. Still, though these smaller affairs may not have had the gravitas of a parade, celebrity sighting or television coverage, they were no less special; the children were just as endearing and full of surprises, the locals were as warm and friendly as ever, and I was always excited and often amazed at discovering parts of the United States and Canada that I would never have been exposed to if not for my Web-Swinging adventures.<br /><br />But every once in a while an appearance would become something to write home about <span style="font-style: italic;">after</span> the actual wearing of the red-and-blue; the deed is done; the kids are happily sleeping with their autographed comics clutched in their wee mitts after a grueling day of braving an encounter with their hero; the parents are slumped on the couch near comatose after shepherding said young ’uns to meet their super-powered idols; and I’m usually either on the first plane out of Dodge or back at my hotel facing another lonely night eating at the bar, then watching network television or basic cable—depending on the amenities of the hotel/motel at which I’m staying—until my flight the next morning… <span style="font-style: italic;">usually</span>.<br /><br />The anecdote I’m about to relate in my customary inimitable fashion begins as so many of my escapades, or should I say ICE-capades, often do in the wilds of our Canadian brethren. But although the weather is a contributing factor to this masterful missive, the playful vagaries of Mother Nature merely provide the backdrop to our tale.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJhbae1AHBbVdzmP4akw264xvWgYdLcsn6zKhAC5XfCxPCW9MMsq4sTQnuynvpjS3xNWqsfeu-VX35qOKIY3GEGDyu2rE9CdBMttI9dvqnQpEnA0-mdDsKzrrWmdMQaJSTOE7XJobmCI/s1600/mmaritimeprovinces.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJhbae1AHBbVdzmP4akw264xvWgYdLcsn6zKhAC5XfCxPCW9MMsq4sTQnuynvpjS3xNWqsfeu-VX35qOKIY3GEGDyu2rE9CdBMttI9dvqnQpEnA0-mdDsKzrrWmdMQaJSTOE7XJobmCI/s400/mmaritimeprovinces.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654947830643441474" border="0" /></a>It all started in Halifax, Nova Scotia, one of the three provinces that make up the Maritimes. Other than a stopover—during which I didn’t even change planes—on my way to St. John’s, located in another of the provincial trio, Newfoundland, I’d yet to pay a proper visit to the island whence my maternal grandfather hailed. This fact alone had my anticipation precipitously high, even though I didn’t have relatives there—at least none of which I knew; neither Papa nor my mom spoke of any. Still, Canada was in my bones, and despite the weather’s mood swings during some past gigs, I’d always had a good time, regardless of what part of the country I was in.<br /><br />If nothing else, Canada was beautiful; a treat to take in, even if just traveling from airport to hotel to convenience store and back; which was the case during this trip, a set of appearances at area convenience stores, at which Marvel comics were sold.<br /><br />The gig was put together through the company’s mass market circulation department. As opposed to the specialty division through which comics are delivered on a non-returnable basis at a greater discount—most often to funny book purveyors—this segment of the business delivered titles through major magazine distributors to everyone else from Walmart to 7-11, anywhere you’d find a periodicals section or spinner rack among other fare.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsb0Pw2vVNnijhnjxqX_fWgiq_HsUy4ibayWWfCasfqMOdnCmnspYAwPnWzsDI3I4sTMBKvN4kkHV6o_OtNfvpcbI9KCa4piZDi83w-RWklsnchx-iJJ1K5ZcfV_KRHymkjLAisOhsrk/s1600/comicrack50s-754227.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsb0Pw2vVNnijhnjxqX_fWgiq_HsUy4ibayWWfCasfqMOdnCmnspYAwPnWzsDI3I4sTMBKvN4kkHV6o_OtNfvpcbI9KCa4piZDi83w-RWklsnchx-iJJ1K5ZcfV_KRHymkjLAisOhsrk/s400/comicrack50s-754227.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654948189841977858" border="0" /></a>Boy: <span style="font-style: italic;">Wow! Wonder Woman!</span><br />Man: <span style="font-style: italic;">Hmm... Wonder Woman...</span><br /></div><br />These co-op appearances—partially funded by Marvel—were a way for the distributors to increase comic sales and attention, and foment good will with their clients. They’d shoe-horn as many shops as possible into Spider-Man’s visit to maximize the bang for their buck and cover as large an area as they could. Most of the visits were no more than an hour long and unfortunately scarcely attended; the individual outlets may have been alerted by their distribution reps about Spidey’s impending swing-by—possibly given a poster to put in the window—but not much else was ever done on the part of the business owners to promote the event.<br /><br />As a result, these stops were invariably filled with patrons lamenting a missed opportunity to bring their children or grandchildren—whatever the case may be—to meet Marvel’s most-famous hero, and receive a free comic and autograph. I’d always offer a signed book anyway, and occasionally they were gratefully taken. But more often, they were politely declined, probably because the abstainer didn’t want to face the disappointment of their little ’uns upon hearing that they’d missed meeting the Web-Spinning idol o’ millions.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgLEAga3pcpn7S2GVT00TXWwFnUlnER456lVH98BXRCqDmVmgBU9s3ngECJzuRVzqQaMh-MN3LxO3uPPbF2_H0xM0xWX1zPYNcTopMcGsLQ7ae5lYmqvaV7N6GkIqAY-fA4dYScdJP24/s1600/ComicLand.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgLEAga3pcpn7S2GVT00TXWwFnUlnER456lVH98BXRCqDmVmgBU9s3ngECJzuRVzqQaMh-MN3LxO3uPPbF2_H0xM0xWX1zPYNcTopMcGsLQ7ae5lYmqvaV7N6GkIqAY-fA4dYScdJP24/s400/ComicLand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654949089554873586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Comic-Geek Porn</span><br /></div><br />Even with such tepid results, both reps and merchants alike were always thrilled with Spider-Man having visited their shops, which at the end of the day is the most important thing.<br /><br />The comics were provided by Marvel through the distributors who were hosting the gigs. The freebies were recent returns—the funny book equivalent of second-run movies—that would have been stripped of their covers and destroyed anyway. Ideally, Spider-Man titles would be on offer, and with a plethora of different Webhead titles from which to choose—<span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Spectacular Spider-Man</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Web of Spider-Man</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man Unlimited</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Marvel</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Tales</span> (featuring Spider-Man)—this should not have been a difficult request to service.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwkbPBwJ3BG6JGZZQHpKrsAB0BMQzjd3woCRxKgKlnNW94MgUAMbB2EpRw6uNXbcNMOe_LS4EkWUgxUdbMpRPKksnVWVtPvQt1nnUHML4FN2FGnTo4Vllj4-KXe6OwTBBZcMFPEBzfZcU/s1600/The_%2527Nam_Vol_1_16.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwkbPBwJ3BG6JGZZQHpKrsAB0BMQzjd3woCRxKgKlnNW94MgUAMbB2EpRw6uNXbcNMOe_LS4EkWUgxUdbMpRPKksnVWVtPvQt1nnUHML4FN2FGnTo4Vllj4-KXe6OwTBBZcMFPEBzfZcU/s200/The_%2527Nam_Vol_1_16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654949768648565538" border="0" /></a>But every now and then, I’d arrive to an appearance to find a box containing a mélange of Marvel comics, everything from <span style="font-style: italic;">Fantastic Four</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">The ’Nam</span>—a title featuring war stories inspired by the Vietnam conflict—not exactly the sort of fare Spider-Man should be autographing never mind giving to young Johnny or wee Lucy. So I’d cull as many Spidey books from the crate as I could find and put them on top, hoping I wouldn’t run out by the end of the day.<br /><br />There were few moments more awkward than Spider-Man offering his signature on an issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Incredible Hulk</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Iron Man</span> or (<span style="font-style: italic;">yikes!</span>) <span style="font-style: italic;">The Punisher</span>. The children were ever beaming; the autographed souvenir could have been a used tissue—they didn’t care; they met Spider-Man!—but the adults… Gone was any hint of appreciation that had arisen when the freebie was offered seconds before, replaced by looks that ranged from confusion to disappointment to anger and disgust.<br /><br />“Don’t you have one with Spider-Man on it?” Mom or Dad would ask with more than a trace of bile in their throat when the espied the book over their progeny’s shoulder.<br />“Sorry… we ran out…,” I’d meekly reply, my heart dropping from my ribcage.<br /><br />Sometimes, I’d tried to lighten the mood.<br /><br />“Would you believe, they flew out of my hands like hot cakes?” I’d quip. “I gotta say, I’m as surprised as you, and more than a bit humbled. Who’da thunk, after all the disparaging press <span style="font-style: italic;">The Daily Bugle</span> gives me, I’d be so popular?”<br /><br />“You should have Spider-Man funny books,” they’d spit back.<br /><br />I may as well have been talking to a phone jack for all the good my attempt at levity was doing.<br /><br />In several instances, the ephemeral superhero hodgepodge included DC titles! It was one thing to give out a Marvel comic of a hero other than the one I was portraying; a-far-nother thing offering one of the Distinguished Competition’s. <span style="font-style: italic;">That</span> I would not do. In one instance a mix-up at the circulation warehouse resulted in nothing but DC books being delivered to a gig, leaving me without any comics for the fans.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fa82DTUa8M_GvVpcqUewDWffNLuJ9BhBSzt4rIlzgbBCHTDA7S52VwsEIn_rvlT4AuTDsHdh6LI6caAiuvaL4K7bOdzyx1bkAcXNeKCXfsh5Px2XXTxQcJCoRH0kfRKMo558WIQiuKM/s1600/MarvelAppearanceSideB_SM.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fa82DTUa8M_GvVpcqUewDWffNLuJ9BhBSzt4rIlzgbBCHTDA7S52VwsEIn_rvlT4AuTDsHdh6LI6caAiuvaL4K7bOdzyx1bkAcXNeKCXfsh5Px2XXTxQcJCoRH0kfRKMo558WIQiuKM/s400/MarvelAppearanceSideB_SM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655322896317465570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Comic great Alan Davis provided the cover art—though uncredited—for the nifty, exclusive Personal Appearance trading cards</span>.<span style="font-style: italic;"> The back art, however, appears to have been done by another fan favorite, Mark Bagley</span><br /></div><br />Fortunately, the Personal Appearance Department had created exclusive trading cards that actors were expected to always have handy in case of just such an emergency. There were two designs, both delineated by artist Alan Davis. One featured Spidey; the other a group shot of Hulk, Captain America and Wolverine, which sufficed gigs other than those of the wondrous Web-Swinger. The backs of the cards sported a recap of Spider-Man’s origin in the former case and some generic Marvel superhero hoopla in the latter, and each provided a blank box in which the hero du jour could ink their respective John Hancocks.<br /><br />Now the comics delivered to Halifax put me in a bit of a pickle. First, there was only a single book in the shipment; a couple hundred copies of the same comic. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; everybody—parents and children alike—get the same freebie, so there wouldn’t be any consternation over say, one kid getting an issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man Unlimited</span>, which is double-size, while their sibling gets a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing Spider-Man</span>, which is regular-size; or little sister getting <span style="font-style: italic;">Spectacular Spider-Man</span>, guest starring Wolverine, and big brother receiving <span style="font-style: italic;">Web of Spider-Man</span>, the “all Aunt May” issue. Believe me, it wasn’t unusual for a parent to ask if I have the same comic to give every child in a party so “they won’t fight,” an attitude I was more than familiar with given the animosity and tension growing up with my two older sisters.<br /><br />And technically, the multiple in question was a Spidey comic. But it was <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man 2099</span>!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCARyNcjxYSOOivQqAug1R8x8_o0QjE91hrcoOEjm-9jvpFeWtXPc4M0gCrLuKO7Aqu2V0V0FrQOBuO-nq3ItVeZHj8Ayb0gY_PpfBqg5bjq5EtBfPsa8LxcBD0F9ajmnQeHRBAiG0JJY/s1600/Spider_Man_2099_1_Cover.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 374px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCARyNcjxYSOOivQqAug1R8x8_o0QjE91hrcoOEjm-9jvpFeWtXPc4M0gCrLuKO7Aqu2V0V0FrQOBuO-nq3ItVeZHj8Ayb0gY_PpfBqg5bjq5EtBfPsa8LxcBD0F9ajmnQeHRBAiG0JJY/s400/Spider_Man_2099_1_Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654951048068506402" border="0" /></a>In 1992, Marvel launched the 2099 Universe, a series of titles that re-imagined their stalwart stars a hundred years in the future—okay, a hundred <span style="font-style: italic;">seven</span> years in the future, but 2099 has a catchier ring to it than 2092. <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man 2099</span> was the first of the line released, and I think it was the best of the bunch. Writer Peter David concocted a Spidey of tomorrow that zigged, wherever the present-day Web-Slinger zagged; totally re-inventing the character while staying true to him. As a special marketing gimmick, each premier issue sported a metallic-ink border. In Webhead’s case, artist Rick Leonardi’s gorgeous art was framed in a Hot Wheels-eque red. The result was utterly cool.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eoWOduKlYXGGquUV-t5PDaQzLhn03kJZ6Dcx1TpjBVTwYtozgyQ5da4qNoeCjDMZ1jmw0j1AERxJvO8bEtdxtRz5Npx05XaUd_iLfdsEVcNWKV1ig72kR3m0rmUNP-9LCkXEgN2Uwdc/s1600/Marvel2099.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eoWOduKlYXGGquUV-t5PDaQzLhn03kJZ6Dcx1TpjBVTwYtozgyQ5da4qNoeCjDMZ1jmw0j1AERxJvO8bEtdxtRz5Npx05XaUd_iLfdsEVcNWKV1ig72kR3m0rmUNP-9LCkXEgN2Uwdc/s400/Marvel2099.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654951476164493250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Most of the 2099 titles were merely futuristic takes on the same old, same old, all except Spider-Man’s re-imagining... and Ghost Rider’s, which was like </span>2001: A Space Odyssey<span style="font-style: italic;"> meets </span>The Exorcist<br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ANwS8cM_82ELchgE_DaPv3iRROQC55_EiskE2pFeulWgh9OZwW5VmMBKm0suGqVk68S_FK0JgxRBoJlklWZMIq1kPbvzPrrT1NffPt5pBC-94ETkqdsabR74Y9muLmux0QywJlDECYs/s1600/shakespeare_FirstFolio.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ANwS8cM_82ELchgE_DaPv3iRROQC55_EiskE2pFeulWgh9OZwW5VmMBKm0suGqVk68S_FK0JgxRBoJlklWZMIq1kPbvzPrrT1NffPt5pBC-94ETkqdsabR74Y9muLmux0QywJlDECYs/s200/shakespeare_FirstFolio.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654951736168162738" border="0" /></a>And the Curtis Distribution rep was not shy about showing his excitement over having the book to give away. <span style="font-style: italic;">A number one issue of the world’s most-popular superhero with a snazzy ultra-awesome cover?</span> He was beside himself and couldn’t stop talking about how lucky he was to have received such an honor. You’d think it was an original Shakespeare’s <span style="font-style: italic;">First Folio</span> he was passing out.<br /><br />Sure, the design was incredibly attractive and the cachet of getting a premier issue gratis was mind-boggling. But here I was dispersing comics of some futuristic doppleganger who shared Spidey’s name only, but looked nothing like the titular Webhead. It was like winning the lottery, but then finding out that the prize was a-dollar-a-year-for-a-million-years!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nDDcYaleDkTjJz9LEnjtfImTxNZWudR62fxcKwHWaRbK3uPySNt37B9GfdOsevQxVtgYABFGDjtW1sRU05zWCC3jnxA6hcr4nKLd5IbHJSjnteFNpYs_l_a5KtURpjcX6-DHj0G4_Gs/s1600/MarvelAppearanceSideB_MU.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nDDcYaleDkTjJz9LEnjtfImTxNZWudR62fxcKwHWaRbK3uPySNt37B9GfdOsevQxVtgYABFGDjtW1sRU05zWCC3jnxA6hcr4nKLd5IbHJSjnteFNpYs_l_a5KtURpjcX6-DHj0G4_Gs/s400/MarvelAppearanceSideB_MU.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655323624984234450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Since 80% or more of all appearances were Spider-Man gigs, the department consolidated the most popular of the remaining characters that made appearances on the other of the two designs. Ye Olde Webhead is featured on it as well, because even those events where there are other heroes, Spidey often is too!</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Thank goodness, for the trading cards. Each fan received both a comic and a card, circumnavigating any potential chagrin from persnickity caretakers over not getting a Spider-Man book with the Web-Slinger of their youth in the pages therein.<br /><br />I should not have fretted so. Sure, there were the occasional queries regarding the strange-looking Web-Spinner gracing the cover of the handouts, but they were of the curious type, not the what-the-Hell-is-this-you’re-giving-me kind.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTaU8S20KmRnZz62UOrzVTgWZqRvp-s4GWDpLCpYYNtO0O-Lq4XB0alGLKXs7d-3gwDHnd0EPJKH0h4GmVP8E_Q8T4XldDnpjobdkLouogr3RWoVAlTXoa11jRGFl216tGi1reqCPrmA/s1600/Spidey_Jetsons.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 388px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTaU8S20KmRnZz62UOrzVTgWZqRvp-s4GWDpLCpYYNtO0O-Lq4XB0alGLKXs7d-3gwDHnd0EPJKH0h4GmVP8E_Q8T4XldDnpjobdkLouogr3RWoVAlTXoa11jRGFl216tGi1reqCPrmA/s400/Spidey_Jetsons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655958754432310370" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;font-family:times new roman;" ></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Featured in </span>Marvel Age<span style="font-style: italic;"> magazine at the time of the debut of the Marvel 2099 Universe, this delightful spoof was delineated by</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> the late great Rusty Haller, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">former </span><span style="font-style: italic;">header artist for </span>Heroes in My Closet<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></div><br />The circulation rep and I visited four stores throughout the day, two before lunch and two thereafter. The weather was gloriously autumnal: sunny and crisp; not a cloud in the sky. <span style="font-style: italic;">Gee, where have I read this before?</span> I can hear my Faithful Bloglodytes’ cynical thoughts already, and they would be justified.<br /></div><br />The perfect atmospheric conditions persisted into the early evening hours. I was returned to the hotel by a rep, giddily happy over a successful promotion, and proceeded to undertake the day-is-done-but-not-leaving-until-morning appearance routine: shower; dinner at the hotel restaurant; TV; reading; sleep. As I headed through the lobby for the eatery, I noticed a drastic change in the weather outside the glass-door entrance. The sky had turned an inhospitable gray and snow was falling; big, Idaho potato-sized lumps that had already covered the landscape.<br /><br />Perhaps, it was the magic of the first snowfall of the season or maybe it was the Canuck in me, but after a satisfying repast, I decided to venture across the two lane road that fronted the lodging—already sporting a foot of frozen, fluffy goodness—and pay a visit to the pub situated parallel on the opposite side. I am neither a rabble rouser, nor a barfly, but I do enjoy people watching and soaking in the local atmosphere wherever I am. I figured a couple of beers and an hour later, I’d return to my room.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah, right!</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKiK9R4fUpKQ2QDx4bLDCezfwT5MQxD6IRjIiNVUkjFgSlS5CXRSrGeBuAnXjQ7ux8bmIkCzb55OaQ6bzEzpn8AZkVHBOYwu02j84PbK7XPqNg66zHnQDYmygq7kSn9Rn1fdXKyPeGs_0/s1600/SonsOfAnarchy_Poster.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKiK9R4fUpKQ2QDx4bLDCezfwT5MQxD6IRjIiNVUkjFgSlS5CXRSrGeBuAnXjQ7ux8bmIkCzb55OaQ6bzEzpn8AZkVHBOYwu02j84PbK7XPqNg66zHnQDYmygq7kSn9Rn1fdXKyPeGs_0/s200/SonsOfAnarchy_Poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655324987467057394" border="0" /></a>As I sat at the bar, nursing my heavenly Canadian ale—<span style="font-style: italic;">Damn</span> they serve delicious beer in the Great White North!—I was soon surrounded by a group of four gentlemen. Or blokes may be a better term, as they all sported British accents. Clad in black T-shirts, jeans and leather boots that looked as if they’d shopped in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Sons of Anarchy</span> section of the FX studio store, their down-to-earth demeanor and friendliness reminded me of stage techies, those unsung behind-the-scenes members of a show responsible for everything from lighting to props.<br /><br />Turns out I wasn’t too far off the mark with my assessment. I was immediately ingratiated into their cabal, and they soon revealed themselves as the road crew for the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBjR5qBBkVdbtGGPIxLxy_m_r6GnMSeWzR_5J2dxaR8XkrE-7Hq6HoaDJX2TiMisUwOwH4MGPoW5Ms2ZeD-7J6XYe0MdkJFB7pjLaVLJzEBH-lLUFY34kjju0d2XJ1BPtA_vtSOZIpKo/s1600/MarvelPremiere_Antman.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBjR5qBBkVdbtGGPIxLxy_m_r6GnMSeWzR_5J2dxaR8XkrE-7Hq6HoaDJX2TiMisUwOwH4MGPoW5Ms2ZeD-7J6XYe0MdkJFB7pjLaVLJzEBH-lLUFY34kjju0d2XJ1BPtA_vtSOZIpKo/s200/MarvelPremiere_Antman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655325198663480226" border="0" /></a>world-famous heavy metal band, Iron Maiden. Amazingly, of the quartet—and there may have been more, but given my high level of inebriation, it’s a wonder I can recall the entire trip!—I actually remember Mark Berryman and Chris Lang, and Googling each confirms their association with Iron Maiden. At the time, there was a woman, named Bonnie Berryman, in Marvel’s licensing division, which could explain why I can still dredge up Mark’s name. As for Chris, his surname is the same as the superhero Ant Man—<span style="font-style: italic;">Scott Lang</span>—who took up the mantle after Henry Pym, but has subsequently died in action.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWB8gta2lrWv5XcUX2lOWEY-_Xscfc2nSH_6NOsgnXP_SBhEjfw4XvP0yYvSnXxyxFVhJuxuXVzEUHPt6adlXEO2AZ1BH5UbYb_Mrmo6Q4_wRe-wM4SfEI6fKCTFxDntng4qUpUS42-O0/s1600/album-Iron-Maiden-Killers3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 331px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWB8gta2lrWv5XcUX2lOWEY-_Xscfc2nSH_6NOsgnXP_SBhEjfw4XvP0yYvSnXxyxFVhJuxuXVzEUHPt6adlXEO2AZ1BH5UbYb_Mrmo6Q4_wRe-wM4SfEI6fKCTFxDntng4qUpUS42-O0/s400/album-Iron-Maiden-Killers3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655955936081410834" border="0" /></a>Seems the group had flown into Halifax earlier in the day to set up for a scheduled performance by the group the following evening. But the fast-moving blizzard that had now totally immersed the town had forced the concert’s cancellation and the roadies were taking full advantage of their unexpected night off.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirY-S45xFYKh3QXO6XmsUYvuRO63KLyko9sIzZAixxmodj7vTMXQtulQ26Xn2hu6zWpDgtVfImygBxojjQwGmt8K5rj-O4ecVrwT5x4Sd9UDDsePcui49ChFnG7tGUGKAO7O2GWSfG89c/s1600/VinceGuaraldi_CharlieBrownChristmas.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirY-S45xFYKh3QXO6XmsUYvuRO63KLyko9sIzZAixxmodj7vTMXQtulQ26Xn2hu6zWpDgtVfImygBxojjQwGmt8K5rj-O4ecVrwT5x4Sd9UDDsePcui49ChFnG7tGUGKAO7O2GWSfG89c/s200/VinceGuaraldi_CharlieBrownChristmas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655955091846546370" border="0" /></a>They lost me at “blizzard.” Sure, the flakes were descending in larger clumps and at a faster rate than your normal dusting—the nostalgic chords of the Vince Guaraldi Trio’s “Skating” from <span style="font-style: italic;">A Charlie Brown Christmas</span> certainly would’ve understated the delightful downfall that now descended upon Nova Scotia. But <span style="font-style: italic;">blizzard</span>?!! It was pumpkin-picking picturesque merely a couple of hours ago!<br /><br />As if to spit in the eye of my skepticism, I noticed for the first time the customers entering the pub; humanoid Frosted Mini-Wheats topped with Cool Whip emerging from a wall of white. My initial thoughts of <span style="font-style: italic;">Here we go again</span> were immediately trumped by <span style="font-style: italic;">There’s no way, I’ll be flying out of this in the morning.</span> So I embraced the serendipity of my Maiden mates and started settling in for the evening, dashing my previously conceived self-imposed two-drink limit.<br /><br />Good thing, too. The moment I told them the reason this Yankee was in Her Majesty’s North American Commonwealth, they nearly spilled their pints! Here these ebullient chaps work with one of the most exalted bands of the genre—internationally renown pioneers of British heavy metal, having sold more than 85 million albums (and counting) around the world, with more than two dozen different awards and distinguished accolades to their credit—and they devolve to hysterical fanboys when they meet Spider-Man. I felt guilty that I wasn’t as equally crazed about Iron Maiden. Can you imagine the scene in the bar then? The lot of us would be jumping and screaming like the female fans in those old concert videos of the Beatles from the early 60s.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEienB44IyXCz3r2la-QN2AFEL5Q7t2JQG4bFNCthUE0kQbeWCRvUYGp-ON7QOB9oyTronXtEnTrlFYoAfI1YF8fEzxOVWAMmcWwVDatIGEh-6Vb-lLoxcXasvPcMuqlM0yvSPO3HWKGPHg/s1600/Iron%252BMaiden.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 384px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEienB44IyXCz3r2la-QN2AFEL5Q7t2JQG4bFNCthUE0kQbeWCRvUYGp-ON7QOB9oyTronXtEnTrlFYoAfI1YF8fEzxOVWAMmcWwVDatIGEh-6Vb-lLoxcXasvPcMuqlM0yvSPO3HWKGPHg/s400/Iron%252BMaiden.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655956181114389202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Iron Maiden as they appeared in their heyday</span><br /></div><br />And what better way to show their love and admiration for ye olde Web-Slinger than keeping his pint glass ever full of amber goodness. It was like the pitcher that Jesus used to slake the thirst of the masses. The glass had barely hit the counter from my enjoying the final swig of a round when miraculously it was full again, suds foaming down to immerse the Labatt’s coaster which was fast deteriorating under the stress.<br /><br />Thank goodness, the English don’t cotton to the American frat-boy mentality of doing shots. They stay straight and true on the hops highway—copious, staggering amounts to be sure—but blessedly without pit stops of tequila, Jägermeister, Jack Daniel’s or some other evil liquid that will ensure an evening spent bowing to the porcelain god and one Brobdingnagian hangover.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuDBzyk65CD0y7aEqKW5G6PKkaNl-3DIgZjc6YhFFhVUDTWJ15GjNDDFTx9yjhrYI2KwVDIf-ed81GhkG5u8udJJOtSALzKz0aVOekTYffR5kvw4zjtLnKlCpVbNSL_PR5MSMekgW4MY/s1600/Arthur.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuDBzyk65CD0y7aEqKW5G6PKkaNl-3DIgZjc6YhFFhVUDTWJ15GjNDDFTx9yjhrYI2KwVDIf-ed81GhkG5u8udJJOtSALzKz0aVOekTYffR5kvw4zjtLnKlCpVbNSL_PR5MSMekgW4MY/s200/Arthur.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655956637664998546" border="0" /></a>As it was, I was more than toasted; I was one butter knife short of finagling out the charring slice! The number of Iron Maiden roadies went from four to eight to twelve; a Mormon Tabernacle Choir of Arthurs; bloody dear lads all who loved the idea of partying with Spider-Man. I knew I had to get out of there while I still could. I profusely thanked my brewery benefactors, and they in turn insisted on a final round before I left. How could I refuse? I was Dumbledore forcing down the undrinkable potion from the bowl that contained Salazar Slytherin’s Locket in <span style="font-style: italic;">Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince</span>.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Harry was not their to help me out of the pub and back to the hotel. The snow was five feet high—I bullshit you not—and other than a path to the pub entrance and one lane of the road that ran betwixt it and my goal, not a flake was shoveled. I waded through like I was in a giant children’s ball pit, only the balls were heavier and covered in Velcro. I stumbled out onto the plowed street, hoping that the entrance to the hotel parking lot had been cleaned as well. No such luck. So I attacked the second stage of this Winter Wonderland from Hell.<br /><br />My only solace was the certainty that my insanely early flight would be canceled and I could reschedule for a later one; departing when I was less hung over… sometime in spring perhaps!<br /><br />I finally made it to the hotel looking like I’d been dipped in ice water and rolled in coconut. I teetered over to the front desk, drunk and half-frozen. I must have looked a sight, but the receptionist didn’t seem to notice.<br /><br />“What are the chances of my early-morning flight taking off on time?” I slurred, my overreaching sense of responsibility forcing me to ask, despite the logical part of my brain screaming <span style="font-style: italic;">You just spent a half hour struggling through fifty-yards of snow that would normally have taken a minute to walk, you dodo! There ain’t nothing taking off in this weather. Even the polar bears have called in sick!</span><br /><br />“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be no delays. But let me check,” she answered perkily. I didn’t want perky; I wanted complicity. A veil of gloom began to descend over me. <span style="font-style: italic;">She’s joking, right? This is her way of getting back at having drawn the late-schedule short straw on a Saturday night.</span><br /><br />“Everything’s on time!” she chirped.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialaXdpSymWGHLushHJZ2UwaNNCk3OGBd1y7rR_INzMpzRuctFWOOfCQC2nEU151eW8VbX7fpskt8Z3Yb6BhmQH__JhAlTQDo131YCkZ5NSV2JH-EoAXSda6mdnWqWH1IZIzuqTlVfA4A/s1600/ItsASmallWorld_christmas_Disneyland.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialaXdpSymWGHLushHJZ2UwaNNCk3OGBd1y7rR_INzMpzRuctFWOOfCQC2nEU151eW8VbX7fpskt8Z3Yb6BhmQH__JhAlTQDo131YCkZ5NSV2JH-EoAXSda6mdnWqWH1IZIzuqTlVfA4A/s200/ItsASmallWorld_christmas_Disneyland.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655956876444760882" border="0" /></a>If looks could kill, she would have gone up in a ball of flame at that moment. I returned with the type of smile I imagine Ted Bundy gave his victims right before the deed. “In that case,” I replied, my voice smooth as velvet, “I’d like a wake-up call for, say”—I looked at the clock hanging behind the reject from Disney World’s “It’s a Small World” ride—“fifteen minutes from now.”<br /><br />Okay, it wasn’t quite a quarter of an hour. It was ninety minutes, leaving just enough time to dress, pack and shower before the cab arrived to take me to the airport. Showering was essential, not leastwise so I wouldn’t smell like a hobo during the flight. It would also aid in getting a few brain cells rubbing together to spark the firing of a synapse or two, so I could manage enough rudimentary functions to get me onto the plane.<br /><br />Two hours later, I was still drunk when I tumbled into my aisle seat. The snowfall had stopped and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze, so I was hopeful the take-off would be smooth. My stomach was a piece of Dresden China and the slightest lurch was all it would take for that “one last drink before you go and several before it” to project from my mouth. I checked the storage pouch of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoaEvQseY57stRJKoWyUC6gafRSw0q412gi1-8PfhVKHs-VJPACIzQKsHfGxCiSAw4NMybiYkvNC4GQ8KXLPeuvXjXaqLMWMZoV1QquxqE_YmLT-9E89Qa3HO1ftkd6LPVdqoi73pfvw/s1600/barf-bag.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 113px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoaEvQseY57stRJKoWyUC6gafRSw0q412gi1-8PfhVKHs-VJPACIzQKsHfGxCiSAw4NMybiYkvNC4GQ8KXLPeuvXjXaqLMWMZoV1QquxqE_YmLT-9E89Qa3HO1ftkd6LPVdqoi73pfvw/s200/barf-bag.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655957069730522434" border="0" /></a>the seat in front of me for the requisite barf bag, placing it at the fore in case I needed it quickly.<br /><br />No need. The plane sped off the tarmac without so much as a hiccup, not even the usual stomach-lurching drop that occurs during the ascent—<span style="font-style: italic;">God, I hate that!</span><br /><br />As mentioned, I was situated on the aisle of a three-seat row. A businessman was at the window and the middle was thankfully unoccupied. Regardless of how thorough the shower and teeth-brushing, when one is as sufficiently pickled as I was, no amount of cleansing can fully mask alcohol inevitably seeping through the pores and out one’s parched maw. Plus, there was still the possibility that turbulence might force my using the vomit sack, and it would be embarrassing enough with the man at the window, never mind someone rubbing up against me at the time of “upheaval” (although, it would pretty much guarantee me the armrest…).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1DRRjpplaEZcvLrl0lxTrirjqFwle5ayBtKVknkdQ7X8zUm6kNDch8wmqDY3aJGIF2_55Bou-ZLVF7p4Ox8ktvvyiLBeXi3yLyok4tt4k8TB8rucNahwDG1f49ifH14wxS_Kup780gHo/s1600/MontyPythonsMeaningOfLifeMrCreosoteItsOnlyWaferThin.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1DRRjpplaEZcvLrl0lxTrirjqFwle5ayBtKVknkdQ7X8zUm6kNDch8wmqDY3aJGIF2_55Bou-ZLVF7p4Ox8ktvvyiLBeXi3yLyok4tt4k8TB8rucNahwDG1f49ifH14wxS_Kup780gHo/s200/MontyPythonsMeaningOfLifeMrCreosoteItsOnlyWaferThin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655960436808531026" border="0" /></a>I was never more happy to hear the captain speak than when he announced that the route into the Big Apple was clear and no problems were expected. I shut my eyes and grabbed what little sleep I could during the hour-long flight, only to be awoken by the pilot updating us on the situation heading into La Guardia airport; that being unexpected rough winds! My stomach was far from settled, one “wafer-thin mint” away from exploding. I white-knuckled the armrests and braced myself.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGhcce9sQ8acbCBlkdk6bioxL9hBGrkaHCd5W6MlR0RQ-Az99rdjhLUPS10JsFgTDYBs9vXL-XBA8iOd0AXZz7wR32z9iyaRlI7Q1RZUEObtY0R9aAx7x5v8OIK0WHHmEAZOEOZf_Bgc/s1600/Carnac.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGhcce9sQ8acbCBlkdk6bioxL9hBGrkaHCd5W6MlR0RQ-Az99rdjhLUPS10JsFgTDYBs9vXL-XBA8iOd0AXZz7wR32z9iyaRlI7Q1RZUEObtY0R9aAx7x5v8OIK0WHHmEAZOEOZf_Bgc/s200/Carnac.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655960591385065746" border="0" /></a>True to the pilot’s words, the plane began an aerial ballet as we made our northern approach over the East River, bobbing and swaying like a Tilt-A-Whirl. Before you could say “Houston, we have a problem,” I nonchalantly picked up the puke pouch, blew it open like Carnac and lost it! About two pints of beer filled the bag—not a speck of food. I quietly issued an “Excuse me,” but the businessman acted as if nothing had transpired.<br /><br />I instantly felt better, casually folding closed the containment vessel and placing it on the seat beside me. The instruction on the bag instructs the vomiter to hand it off to the flight attendant upon deplaning, but that wasn’t going happen. Like I wanted to become the stuff of some Air Canada employee’s memoirs!<br /><br />Despite the Iron Maiden road crew’s generous offer for me to come looking for them at wherever the band may be performing the next time they did New York City, and they’d get me a backstage pass, it never came to fruition. The one time I noticed the Heavy Metal group was in town, as luck would have it, I was out doing a Spider-Man gig. Hell, had I seen a movie like <span style="font-style: italic;">Rock Star </span>during that time, I would have followed the band cross-country!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3mIVhxr-Z32rxXEaeuClafwlUCsktmk2tbhGqJabDHOfW5kVyNqyHVhx9BpErqnjp1mgjo1DV87GJ-efrWKnUnadT2ZHFfdgFOEOOUlGypZhudPhGYlExf7tZBEYes_lo-2ycw6qxos/s1600/MaidenSteacy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3mIVhxr-Z32rxXEaeuClafwlUCsktmk2tbhGqJabDHOfW5kVyNqyHVhx9BpErqnjp1mgjo1DV87GJ-efrWKnUnadT2ZHFfdgFOEOOUlGypZhudPhGYlExf7tZBEYes_lo-2ycw6qxos/s400/MaidenSteacy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655957601454352642" border="0" /></a>Still, Mark Berryman, Chris Lang et al, were great blokes leaving me with one of my fondest Spider-Man memories, which Chris summed up quite nicely that fateful evening in Halifax. ’Twas the wee small hours of the morning, when a very inebriated Mr. Lang draped himself over my shoulders—as bar mates often do when the hour is late and the consumption is high. “What are the chances…” he began, channeling Dudley Moore. “What are the chances of Spider-Man and the road crew from Iron Maiden meeting up in a bar in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in the middle of a blizzard?”<br /><br />Actually… quite good!Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-59760766982029751592011-08-21T11:12:00.026-04:002011-08-21T15:10:46.146-04:00I Slept with Stan Lee, Part II: Car Service<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7krqbIJXDmcTnLyq2fZXkXeM-3hIKCXiWPV3vCxSCXdLftPuyB39RmUMYD0U-oheLrRTHqvsNsIrun_vD2Q3-RsDGw9kWkR1lp-xqZOTw_hVdJ7nvaW_aOXKpqjVPU0cTF_m7PQ36Gc4/s1600/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_Huh.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 352px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7krqbIJXDmcTnLyq2fZXkXeM-3hIKCXiWPV3vCxSCXdLftPuyB39RmUMYD0U-oheLrRTHqvsNsIrun_vD2Q3-RsDGw9kWkR1lp-xqZOTw_hVdJ7nvaW_aOXKpqjVPU0cTF_m7PQ36Gc4/s400/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_Huh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643356913039302130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Apparently Drew Carey wasn't available</span>
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<br />In the last exciting installment our intrepid hero, still reeling from a heart-breaking first encounter with his hero Stan Lee at the live performance of Spider-Man’s wedding to Mary-Jane at Shea Stadium—at which he played the nefarious Green Goblin—eighteen months prior, has been called upon to join The Man on </span>AM Cleveland<span style="font-style: italic;"> in Ohio in front of a live audience at a shopping mall. After weathering a humiliating entrance in a glass elevator, numerous snide remarks from the morning chat-fest’s host, Scott Newell, and falling victim to his own jitters, Vroom! has been ask to join Newell in the audience…</span>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip371K4k-w6ZOKlgUFnNiFUKRe1T0dXPG9iwZzGhcuMPuxb2ptTWkmALKWtZthdfC3D2qfWlI3gx7yiJXwqJRX0igW0adnKlPxg5Goo2WQIDGrrZN_vgvM8X6PYCjH51kAMLdnqRHbTnE/s1600/EddieMurohy_Gumby.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip371K4k-w6ZOKlgUFnNiFUKRe1T0dXPG9iwZzGhcuMPuxb2ptTWkmALKWtZthdfC3D2qfWlI3gx7yiJXwqJRX0igW0adnKlPxg5Goo2WQIDGrrZN_vgvM8X6PYCjH51kAMLdnqRHbTnE/s200/EddieMurohy_Gumby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643356724605588834" border="0" /></a>Given my earlier entrance, which was greeted with faux-playful derogatory comments by <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland host</span> Scott Newell, I wasn’t about to once again navigate the maze of equipment, union members and security clogging up the wings. I hated when my actions appeared like any guy in a Spider-Man suit. I was Spidey, dammit! (with due respect to Eddie Murphy) and I didn’t want to give Newell the satisfaction of another derogatory remark about how uncharacteristically I was performing. In fact, I cut him off in the midst of just such a comment, as a leapt over the shrubbery, which fronted the length of the stage—extending a good yard out—landing a few feet from his side.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDl5ECWzjzccGk7lb2KQckkMjqrSlQjRJr2tI0slU1jPwJI1qPgkpgeE-NhECOeBXMVrzPfuFNnr_QK3xTOGpYPue3qCR4VOUyJnB-946DaeL37Bsk22nRdMAIP2hYLBBW2v6f2Mswuc/s1600/AMCleveland_PanOut.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDl5ECWzjzccGk7lb2KQckkMjqrSlQjRJr2tI0slU1jPwJI1qPgkpgeE-NhECOeBXMVrzPfuFNnr_QK3xTOGpYPue3qCR4VOUyJnB-946DaeL37Bsk22nRdMAIP2hYLBBW2v6f2Mswuc/s400/AMCleveland_PanOut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643355595238300498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Exit... Leaping over the shrubbery... Stage left...
<br />Stage right even...</span> </div>
<br />It was a dumb move: unrehearsed, without any knowledge of what lay before me, or how far I had to jump. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the suit removes the wearer’s depth perception. It was literally a leap of faith. Those who know me from school could verify that when it came to athletics, I made a great water boy. Still, I wasn’t what one would describe as unwieldy and four years of intensive study in both physical and spiritual self-awareness—as an actor, the mind and body are one’s instrument—gave me enough confidence to make the move.
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<br />I extended my legs to my toes, every muscle alert for the moment the phalanges hit the ground; then allowed my weight to fall through me as a collapsed to the floor before springing up with a casual flourish, a visual snub that actually got a rise out of Newell’s eyebrows. You can hear Stan cackle with delight either from the host’s or an audience member’s reaction as I sidle toward Newell and he composes himself.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAHxq0KhrKG4l37F_1raKgLn1BQesViBOop-DaPI9-xuWnAdlVcXnigW05L6NZ3evXs6tqx1HcXPWHQFCOFVZ04mp8OgHwu8n3iYZPdp8wcjI2sW2Erfqsny8WvC3PFEhKvoPayWpi7s/s1600/AMCleveland_ScottSpidey.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAHxq0KhrKG4l37F_1raKgLn1BQesViBOop-DaPI9-xuWnAdlVcXnigW05L6NZ3evXs6tqx1HcXPWHQFCOFVZ04mp8OgHwu8n3iYZPdp8wcjI2sW2Erfqsny8WvC3PFEhKvoPayWpi7s/s400/AMCleveland_ScottSpidey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643355921915456306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“What's the matter, Scott? Spider got your tongue?”</span>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdkCeNy5iVVqpOqVHLoLRT_4UZq8e6bTyv8doBLPfJgfFg8ikPHMMhA6mxqcJrrYRTm6ssD6pJ3yqAd5tKvZ4IJ6JOk5Eg4V-OgwtJ29u7H_nLmI7-PQqLYUy1gcWMzRvjMDkwq-1ctE/s1600/Spidey33.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdkCeNy5iVVqpOqVHLoLRT_4UZq8e6bTyv8doBLPfJgfFg8ikPHMMhA6mxqcJrrYRTm6ssD6pJ3yqAd5tKvZ4IJ6JOk5Eg4V-OgwtJ29u7H_nLmI7-PQqLYUy1gcWMzRvjMDkwq-1ctE/s200/Spidey33.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643354880772783394" border="0" /></a>The answer to Newell’s subsequent query as to my greatest predicament was a reference to <span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing Spider-Man #33</span>, the final chapter of an epic trilogy, wherein the wondrous Wall-Crawler, in battling the nefarious Doctor Octopus, finds himself pinned beneath tons of machinery under the Hudson River while the famous tributary’s waters quickly rise around him. In his webbed hand, Spidey holds a serum that will save his Aunt May, who lays dying in a hospital bed nearby. It is considered one of the greatest Spider-Man stories ever told and its notoriety was such, that even though I’d never read the saga myself, I knew of it.
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<br />Unfortunately, my lackluster inflection and ponderous palaver—a product of nerves and inexperience with portraying Webhead in front of an audience and on camera—made my answer sound more like a child’s when asked what they did on their summer vacation, stammers and mumbles abounding. My subsequent response to Newell’s comment about my fighting crime while in Cleveland, however, was handled more adroitly. Perhaps I was settling into the experience, but I was also more familiar with the line of inquiry. It was one often asked wherever I visited.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nI8hCtQsv9KNFGIo2qv9vIJUnNxjtcWnCuWRKTJP0LXNkdFyreHq8z6kHnebuFhhFhqNIPMoHheyDAQcIy9nY1lp9TSxu93VNCutbiGj-gRgV_Ffqnp7_dFMRsBXDMQ40lqntJt2VTA/s1600/DStone_FosburyFlop.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nI8hCtQsv9KNFGIo2qv9vIJUnNxjtcWnCuWRKTJP0LXNkdFyreHq8z6kHnebuFhhFhqNIPMoHheyDAQcIy9nY1lp9TSxu93VNCutbiGj-gRgV_Ffqnp7_dFMRsBXDMQ40lqntJt2VTA/s200/DStone_FosburyFlop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643354678457381938" border="0" /></a>As I returned to my spot at Stan’s side, deciding to forego the route I took to get off the stage—I’m no Dwight Stone and I was fairly sure Spider-Man Fosbury Flopping the ficuses would not have been construed as a signature move on Spidey’s part—Newell brought out the big guns. Gone were the prerequisite feel-good questions lobbed over the net to foment a false sense of security in the guest. It was now time to slam home the controversial queries, the interrogation that was going to garner Newell his Pulitzer Prize in hard-hitting journalism.
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<br />At the time of the show, the Distinguished Competition was in the midst of a marketing campaign that was creating quite the brou-hah-ha surrounding a storyline in Batman. “A Death in the Family” was a four-part saga pitting the Dark Knight against The Joker. What keeps this confrontation with the Clown Prince of Evil different from the hundreds that had come before was the outcome—life or death for Batman’s young sidekick Robin—decided upon by the public via a phone-in vote (<span style="font-style: italic;">… to save Robin press one… to kill Robin press two… to hear these instruction in Spanish move to Mexico!</span>).
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgTAWNZxkCHvSqUagnNzxAcv867khm_raR7VoKQcR36sfu55MYLtpIFZN0gbO23JOhJvX33TP9S7w0jtylCTSyyEPLZnSqy3kS37bnTZuS4HpdeM1hmCc5R1MIEZyoQJa-JHeIwQqZmQ/s1600/DeathInTheFamily_4Covers.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgTAWNZxkCHvSqUagnNzxAcv867khm_raR7VoKQcR36sfu55MYLtpIFZN0gbO23JOhJvX33TP9S7w0jtylCTSyyEPLZnSqy3kS37bnTZuS4HpdeM1hmCc5R1MIEZyoQJa-JHeIwQqZmQ/s400/DeathInTheFamily_4Covers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643352615380861170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The covers to the notorious “Death in the Family” storyline. Can you guess in which issue Robin bites it?</span>
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<br />Jason Todd’s death was a foregone conclusion. As with most phone-in campaigns, callers had the opportunity to vote as often as they wanted, and human nature, being what it is, weighed heavily in the Joker’s favor. Think about it. Those good Samaritans or rare Jason Todd fans make one call, and hang up, warm in the knowledge that they’ve done their due diligence. The death mongers, however, call until their fingers are bleeding nubs, stuck in the holes of their rotary phone. There was no way they were going to let that little bastard survive, regardless of the surcharge per call to ensure his swimming with the fishies, albeit in this case, he was strapped to a bomb and blown up! Consider it this way: when people are pleased with something, they rarely make the effort to show their satisfaction with a phone call or letter; whereas displeasure is trumpeted loudly and often. There’s a lot of truth behind the adage, <span style="font-style: italic;">The squeaky wheel gets the grease</span>.
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<br />Comics were still viewed as entertainment for children and the promotion was decried as being twisted and sick and inappropriate for kiddies. Never mind that concerned parents should be monitoring what their children read—and who they are calling, for that matter—and the mean age of comic readers, even back then, was in the upper teens/early twenties, the press had a field day and DC Comics laughed all the way to the bank, selling oodles of copies of the series. But the subject of killing a beloved hero—in this case a teen one—became the topic du jour.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiTRHKhr27NXBlu8sOjxfCtmnfK8y1yvx9BTvZvKO25CWHUO79SEPEAltGmemrNKUVHL1swDzyaS6zOZ5FbDNXcZd5qMVLdC5P7BdM2NDD8y9OfyMClsK6-MYlw6YAUc6fv9hrI6n7K0/s1600/batmanwest_robinward"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiTRHKhr27NXBlu8sOjxfCtmnfK8y1yvx9BTvZvKO25CWHUO79SEPEAltGmemrNKUVHL1swDzyaS6zOZ5FbDNXcZd5qMVLdC5P7BdM2NDD8y9OfyMClsK6-MYlw6YAUc6fv9hrI6n7K0/s400/batmanwest_robinward" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643353257248269410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Batman looks the other way while the calls demanding his sidekick’s execution flood the phone lines</span>
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<br />As with most controversies created by the media, this one was based on fallacies and fed off ignorance. Killing heroes, even young ones, in comics was nothing new. Marvel got rid of Captain America’s teen sidekick, Bucky, a score prior. And contrary to the inaccurate reports of the press—shocking, I know—this was not Dick Grayson, the Robin familiar to the masses, most notably played by Burt Ward in the popular 60’s Batman television camp-fest. Grayson, all-growed up after nearly a half century of wearing the tight green shorts and elf slippers, finally <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQu6oaS9G8aA_Oq0Ut8sDsK2TnuWA2rb3naYtA_hL4u1D_luzZ1ILaNgmSSVGAs0cVeN0DGJkB5kEF0LfyzdFOc3edhiLCmRhp2FuscbR-ep1eW8CqSdN9uoSFft1NQ6PeGBD-QguK9nM/s1600/Nightwing.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 111px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQu6oaS9G8aA_Oq0Ut8sDsK2TnuWA2rb3naYtA_hL4u1D_luzZ1ILaNgmSSVGAs0cVeN0DGJkB5kEF0LfyzdFOc3edhiLCmRhp2FuscbR-ep1eW8CqSdN9uoSFft1NQ6PeGBD-QguK9nM/s200/Nightwing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643354247617717218" border="0" /></a>retired to become Nightwing. The new Robin was Jason Todd, a replacement much-reviled by the fans. Apparently, Todd was an obnoxious brat, although I think anyone following the adored Grayson would have been summarily dismissed regardless of their character.
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<br />Facts be damned! Newell was going to give it to The Man. The poor sap didn’t know with whom he was dealing. Stan brushed off the attack with aplomb, curtailing any further inquiry on the subject and poking the Distinguished Competition in the process. And he did so with a chuckle and a smile. The Man actually did Newell a favor. Had the host pressed the issue, he would’ve appeared a bully, which would only have extended to Class-A Jerk once the reason Stan and Spidey were in Ohio was brought up; that being the Mid-Ohio Con in order to raise money for the March of Dimes. <span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah, Newell… That’s it. Attack the people on a charitable mission to raise money for children with birth defects. That’ll show ’em!</span>
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSI1F8WPYlSUPVygMJPJrAa3lDmTVydSGbfUghEiAVrXkhcHmtm8hBQKSMS-x08Q-0ex_MCwxaWzCGpuzVy6sdRtzliz-e66x1SpJEHcP8SiiwYm3Wfygu8757b6hUNlr-pseWT9dtxGY/s1600/WorkingGirl_vs_AMClevelandKim.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSI1F8WPYlSUPVygMJPJrAa3lDmTVydSGbfUghEiAVrXkhcHmtm8hBQKSMS-x08Q-0ex_MCwxaWzCGpuzVy6sdRtzliz-e66x1SpJEHcP8SiiwYm3Wfygu8757b6hUNlr-pseWT9dtxGY/s400/WorkingGirl_vs_AMClevelandKim.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643351946337231362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Much a ’do about nothing</span>
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<br />If you weren’t aware that this show was taped in the 80s, you’d know it was taped in the 80s. A split-second gander at our perky, bubble-headed announcer, Kim, is all it takes. Her pouffy, teased-to-death, towering hairdo is straight out of Working Girl, and get a load of the shoulder-pads in her dress. How about those microphones? They almost appear comical, like something out of a Guy Smiley skit from <span style="font-style: italic;">Sesame Street</span> or Orson Welles 1938 <span style="font-style: italic;">War of the Worlds</span> radio drama.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2tF5YyM0rEz-CprxXedAEnlcHjtWCJNmsWf9JshwsTBYSinLT-fzcKlt3zA9uUsHoE0ptHecCjgO4UqriWBZXPygtGuUc1y6-JrmXS-f0CDNT3w0sXqgi04Hv-AH_cqPQjVd5r6il9w/s1600/PokyLittlePuppy.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 157px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2tF5YyM0rEz-CprxXedAEnlcHjtWCJNmsWf9JshwsTBYSinLT-fzcKlt3zA9uUsHoE0ptHecCjgO4UqriWBZXPygtGuUc1y6-JrmXS-f0CDNT3w0sXqgi04Hv-AH_cqPQjVd5r6il9w/s200/PokyLittlePuppy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643351731692019410" border="0" /></a>Most jolting is Kim’s reading off a typed script. We’ve become inured to television hosts, news commentators and such seemingly looking directly into the camera as they read off a teleprompter, forgetting that it wasn’t too long ago they had to refer to written material… regardless of how trite it might be. I mean, really. The pithy, meant-to-be-clever intro Kim recites was actually penned by some copywriting plebe, probably getting a decent chunk of cash in the process. It’s no more difficult than a line from <span style="font-style: italic;">Poky Little Puppy</span>, but she still needs to read it off the page!
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAW_i8mg9YcqPjQz-YMtulmZBLQEtNBmEs_DGGBQD3uC81IHpCIpBJ91NnAOZyyYNXE8hLLumGvbUtMT1P4Eqw-qugXzdhQLjHUwefgpEitnz9YQ2CDUGHN7QM70436qi7GjDzJgZ92Q/s1600/hungry%252Beyes.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAW_i8mg9YcqPjQz-YMtulmZBLQEtNBmEs_DGGBQD3uC81IHpCIpBJ91NnAOZyyYNXE8hLLumGvbUtMT1P4Eqw-qugXzdhQLjHUwefgpEitnz9YQ2CDUGHN7QM70436qi7GjDzJgZ92Q/s200/hungry%252Beyes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643351424666233810" border="0" /></a>Then there’s the treacly puerile musical intro/outro to the segment: “Hungry Eyes” by Mr. “All by Myself,” Eric Carmen, from 1987’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Dancing</span>. What was the director thinking when he chose that tune to take the viewer from and to commercial before/after an interview with Stan Lee and Spider-Man? I guess I should be appreciative that the theme from the 1960’s cartoon—“Spider-Man, Spider-Man… does whatever a spider can…”—wasn’t selected. I’d only been portraying the Web-Swinger for two years and that song had already become something of a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_OAQpS-EbiUmOS13u_vrmrF8EcjZbwXd19YNaojxWWdsAEYBedfXHM6sSuRvPjnT60LSszViY4XW-hQAJvAKQimnj3n8SrfNual77DC1x2_AY3HY7TYaYF3doe_UfnL926wDHbZCX1OA/s1600/clockwork-orange-droog.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 118px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_OAQpS-EbiUmOS13u_vrmrF8EcjZbwXd19YNaojxWWdsAEYBedfXHM6sSuRvPjnT60LSszViY4XW-hQAJvAKQimnj3n8SrfNual77DC1x2_AY3HY7TYaYF3doe_UfnL926wDHbZCX1OA/s200/clockwork-orange-droog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643351194214222210" border="0" /></a>“Singin’ in the Rain” vis-à-vis Malcolm McDowell in <span style="font-style: italic;">A Clockwork Orange</span> to me. I would think the operator of a carousel might have the same reaction to calliope music after a few days on the job.
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<br />Why not Kim Wilde’s “You Keep Me Hanging On”? True, it was a year removed from the time of the show’s recording, whereas “Hungry Eyes” was a then-current hit. And it only went so far as #34 on 1987’s Top 100 Hits chart, eleven below the <span style="font-style: italic;">Dirty Dancing</span> ditty’s #25 spot. But at least one could make the argument that the song title is a cute nod to ole Webhead. Fortunately, the music is for the benefit of the viewing audience and not audible to anyone in the mall.
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<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Wbq3PXbJVtQ" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" width="420"></iframe>
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<br />The limo awaited us as we exited the TV studio. We hopped in and our hour-long drive to Mansfield began. I’d evidently handled Stan’s baby with aplomb. He was magnanimous in his praise for my performance and giddy with delight. Truth be told, I think he was most happy to have put the three-ring chat-fest behind him. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, when it comes to talking about his amazing array of accomplishments no one is more unassuming than Celia and Jack Lieber’s little boy.
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<br />Alone, Stan was just as giving and friendly as he is in front of a crowd, albeit less animated. He was relaxed and jovial and instilled a comfort that put me instantly at ease. This wasn’t STAN LEE (Exclesior/exclamation point); this was the New York City–born humble offspring of Romanian-born Jewish immigrant parents who liked to tell stories and who was overjoyed to know that someone actually enjoyed them.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zCGyjmO3yQVD6ihkKkL3yo9SWRh48-WFrnZkgN2D-sZfTRh6RqhbxPUmz7ANeRngMSVRZQPrGP4foP1yqFTYZmPRnHXGr5mSwDBL0OtNtJ8H2XwJft19jDtFT16Lz8GQWDSSyXNPDqc/s1600/AMCleveland_StanAllSmiles.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 388px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zCGyjmO3yQVD6ihkKkL3yo9SWRh48-WFrnZkgN2D-sZfTRh6RqhbxPUmz7ANeRngMSVRZQPrGP4foP1yqFTYZmPRnHXGr5mSwDBL0OtNtJ8H2XwJft19jDtFT16Lz8GQWDSSyXNPDqc/s400/AMCleveland_StanAllSmiles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643350368896421682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Boy from New York City</span>
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<br />After we exchanged notes on how we each felt the other had done on the morning broadcast—a sickening display of humility, self-deprecation and politeness that would’ve driven Emily Post to slap us—I felt assured enough about our blossoming friendship to retrieve the Masterworks volume from my bag for an autograph. Of course, I had a Sharpie on me. One of the initial things I learned about making appearances was to bring my own writing implements. Oftentimes the sponsor would forget that Spidey would need something with which to sign autographs, and I’d amassed quite a collection in just the short time I’d been Web-Slinging.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr007NL4SiIMLI4vZp6_AZPAfWmZjSZ1wyd5bMI_eFev5Y3YRIxuPhCM8D-qqmli_YWC413vcJcW-o8PwTC8VN8pxihPiMdQUbx116X3DDTm3Z4GxPAzTSlfsWlBiUppumPDkVIto_JhI/s1600/StanSig002.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr007NL4SiIMLI4vZp6_AZPAfWmZjSZ1wyd5bMI_eFev5Y3YRIxuPhCM8D-qqmli_YWC413vcJcW-o8PwTC8VN8pxihPiMdQUbx116X3DDTm3Z4GxPAzTSlfsWlBiUppumPDkVIto_JhI/s400/StanSig002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643349299453894690" border="0" /></a>As Stan blessed my tome with his John Hancock, I couldn’t help but ask his thoughts on a controversy then brewing concerning <span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing Spider-Man</span>. Eight months earlier, Todd McFarlane debuted as penciler for the title. His style was wild, exaggerated and cartoony. There was some disagreement over McFarlane’s depiction of Spidey’s eyes (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/04/my-what-big-eyes-you-have.html">“My What Big Eyes You Have”</a>). They were huge, taking up most of the character’s face. The younger fans loved them, while the older fans looked upon the popping peepers as sacrilege. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why not ask the Web-Swinger’s creator? </span>
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr007NL4SiIMLI4vZp6_AZPAfWmZjSZ1wyd5bMI_eFev5Y3YRIxuPhCM8D-qqmli_YWC413vcJcW-o8PwTC8VN8pxihPiMdQUbx116X3DDTm3Z4GxPAzTSlfsWlBiUppumPDkVIto_JhI/s1600/StanSig002.jpg">
<br /></a>Stan took the old school stance. He felt the art was exciting, but the eyes were too big. I then reminded him that original Spidey artist Steve Ditko’s interpretation of the Wall-Crawler’s eyes were much larger than what had come to be recognized as the sacrosanct size, far bigger than those of John Romita, the artist who followed in Ditko’s hallowed footsteps, and at times nearly as big as McFarlane’s. I then flipped through the Masterworks pointing out examples to The Man. He had to admit his recollections of Ditko’s Webhead had skewed over time and thanked me for opening his eyes, so to speak, to the situation.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQi0pbLtjJNq6oXp1QaJS7YQI5l7nv1xMzcngPRUAW4UkUyZnKfgCCRojPwlaSrERDKxW9K8na13wTM4iSJLd0JHCw0Qh6XZ6i7RaZ8nz8fTUe-eGJGWzRTqR2eHvF7_Nks1FjMrrkzGI/s1600/Ditko_vs_Macfarlane.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQi0pbLtjJNq6oXp1QaJS7YQI5l7nv1xMzcngPRUAW4UkUyZnKfgCCRojPwlaSrERDKxW9K8na13wTM4iSJLd0JHCw0Qh6XZ6i7RaZ8nz8fTUe-eGJGWzRTqR2eHvF7_Nks1FjMrrkzGI/s400/Ditko_vs_Macfarlane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643344865330733186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Ditko vs. Macfarlane... </span>You<span style="font-style: italic;"> decide!</span>
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<br />The conversation was by no means one-sided, either. Stan took as keen an interest in my life as I in his. He sympathized with my plight as an aspiring actor, waiting tables to get by, while I pursued my dream. As is usually the case when discussing the trade, the question of tips came up. Stan related a story of a meal he had in Toronto with twenty or so others. To my horror, he suggested that the waiter cleaned up and maybe a 15% was too much, in such an instance. Conservatively estimating fifty dollars per person, the total would’ve amounted to a thousand dollars with a hundred and fifty going to the server. That may seem like an extremely nice bit of cash for approximately three hours worth of work, which is a safe estimate—dinner service for such a large group could easily take longer.
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<br />I explained to him quite the contrary. Although, that one tip may have been large, the waiter was certainly forgoing other tables to concentrate on the larger party. Such a group takes geometrically more time and attention to serve; more drink-runs, appetizers, entrees, coffee & desserts, and more possible instances of problems—any Sally Albright’s in attendance throw the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjg-VO3p77bcCQ-KVlv9jFXK7uhbPQVpe5Vndl9rnwPdREl9QSx0dpMsDw7n5jogGMjS9OKzm-wSR8jppJVAfHj19tmzktQJ55b7Bn8VNPYgHAtFpPCAj1orkTKzZRFHcFhjzMjQHYYv0/s1600/SallyAlbright.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjg-VO3p77bcCQ-KVlv9jFXK7uhbPQVpe5Vndl9rnwPdREl9QSx0dpMsDw7n5jogGMjS9OKzm-wSR8jppJVAfHj19tmzktQJ55b7Bn8VNPYgHAtFpPCAj1orkTKzZRFHcFhjzMjQHYYv0/s200/SallyAlbright.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643341257358465490" border="0" /></a>temporal bell curve for a loop (“Could I have that with the vinagrette… but on the side… and would it be possible to have the braised kale instead of the sautéed spinach? On second thought, I’ll have the chicken, but could I have that with the beet puree?”). Plus, it’s a nightmare to coordinate with the kitchen. And that’s <span style="font-style: italic;">if</span> the group is complete and sits on time, which is a huge <span style="font-style: italic;">IF</span>. A big party never arrives in unison and rarely shows up at the appointed hour, leaving the waiter to suck up lost wages while most of his section is commandeered by a fraction of the expected amount.
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<br />If he’s lucky, the prompt patrons will order copious levels of beverages and appetizers to sate them until everyone has appeared. But more often than not, those early birds awkwardly nurse a glass of water while they await the stragglers. Then there are those who insist on hearing the specials before everyone is present, necessitating repeat utterings of the restaurant’s daily delights as odd members of their party trickle in.
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<br />On average, a waiter has twenty to thirty covers in his section, that is a maximum numbers of customers if every seat were filled at once. The amount could be divided in any number of ways among two- and four-tops, sometimes including a larger table that could seat five to eight. With a mean time of an hour and a half per table, the quads and deuces could easily be turned over three times or more during a busy dinner service, less during the shorter lunch shift. How many tables and subsequent tip money was the waiter missing out on? Do the math. No, seriously… do the math. Simple addition perplexes me; that’s why I’m in publishing. But from experience, I know a waiter can make more on five tables of four than one table of twenty in most cases… <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> with less hassle.
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<br />Also, there is a common misconception about tip earnings among those outside the service industry; that being that cash earnings are unclaimed and thus free from taxes. The restaurants in which I worked reported the gross food-sale totals of each waiter, which I believe is by law. The IRS then calculates fifteen percent of that as part of the server’s earnings on top of what they may be making in general salary or shift pay. Ergo, regardless of whether one’s tips amount to fifteen percent of their food sales, the government is holding them on account for that amount come tax time. So when a waiter gets shafted on a tip, he/she really gets screwed!
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<br />Stan absorbed everything, like an eager student. He loved learning new things, no matter how benign. It was as if I’d revealed the secret of the ages to him. He was fascinated. I can only guess that being in the spotlight made such opportunities for quiet discussion with people rare. He listened, laughed, refuted, scoffed and enjoyed every minute of it.
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<br />Suddenly, he chimed, “You should be a writer.”
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<br />“Huh,” I replied?
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<br />“Just the way you tell a story, you’d be a great writer,” he explained.
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<br />A writer.
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<br />It was never on my list of “What I want to be when I grow up.” “Zookeeper” was there, my earliest dream job, which evolved into “Veterinarian” and finally “Marine Biologist,” before taking a sharp turn toward “Actor.” But “Writer?!!”
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-iyaWFk5IOw3NK-ea0KOVEG2dau-94IR_AuuVeGtdKKlloONDnN82-A6gGHr-5hKHLiRC7ujuXi_6s5-VI4YLOe6V8_8m5e7fqNL-CvScqd0fo1ekM3b7xq6KOxSl-qslbNIfQ2n4kc8/s1600/VeteranarianDrawing001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-iyaWFk5IOw3NK-ea0KOVEG2dau-94IR_AuuVeGtdKKlloONDnN82-A6gGHr-5hKHLiRC7ujuXi_6s5-VI4YLOe6V8_8m5e7fqNL-CvScqd0fo1ekM3b7xq6KOxSl-qslbNIfQ2n4kc8/s400/VeteranarianDrawing001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643337758928392834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">This elementary classroom assignment, “What do you want to be when you grow up,” garnered an</span> A. <span style="font-style: italic;">To think only a few years earlier it would've been created on a cave wall.</span>
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<br />I’d always created stories, but not always of the written variety. In my earliest story-telling days I was a director. The setting: my room. The cast: my toys. My room was filled with hand-me-down playthings, a few of my own, plastic animals, rubber monsters, Tonka Trucks, Lego’s and a vast selection of Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars.
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<br />Nothing was safe from my daily casting call. And much like the early MGM roster of actors, each toy played to type in every adventure. The green, bear-eraser with the raised paw, was the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-1HaDp6irtokJr20T-RDFkzkNozlnKaMdAOBW82RJgHOBS2NhQltPeNnB809r-MvfFHq1x7l-nAPcUHWGuSGo99rMSq9JBxfJLFr3vCqd7F9ak6Ya-ZYU043Gp63fykqV7dhz5nFdMk/s1600/Chopper.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-1HaDp6irtokJr20T-RDFkzkNozlnKaMdAOBW82RJgHOBS2NhQltPeNnB809r-MvfFHq1x7l-nAPcUHWGuSGo99rMSq9JBxfJLFr3vCqd7F9ak6Ya-ZYU043Gp63fykqV7dhz5nFdMk/s200/Chopper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643347712360624866" border="0" /></a>compassionate, voice-of-reason to the “good-guy” leader, Chopper, the bulldog of the Hanna-Barbera cartoons. The goofy-looking duck was the unpredictable, overlooked one, whose silly antics masked bravery that would factor in at the eleventh hour. The vulture was the non-participating, cynical observer, pessimistically commenting from its high perch on the handle of my bureau. There were even those toys, who started out bad, but during the course of events, saw the evil of their ways and switched sides. Even my cars had personalities.
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<br />And most stories climaxed in an explosion of death and destruction. Lego edifices would shatter under a barrage of hurled cars, always interspersed with slow-motion action sequences. When the dust settled, the good guys won out, most often with the loss of a loved one or an unexpected hero.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPPVvvhBxKNO4GRqLlUF6N7czH82Zob7tysCOIfM1rJ89QC01aoI_7RgF-_pjz7wFjFaaNx4hQkGbs1o8e2sbFwoS0zEShw1xOWlM0Ema9_zQSyHuaBRI8d23aFfLDow6FNhM1YtifIo/s1600/ratpatrol.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPPVvvhBxKNO4GRqLlUF6N7czH82Zob7tysCOIfM1rJ89QC01aoI_7RgF-_pjz7wFjFaaNx4hQkGbs1o8e2sbFwoS0zEShw1xOWlM0Ema9_zQSyHuaBRI8d23aFfLDow6FNhM1YtifIo/s200/ratpatrol.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643347859160834594" border="0" /></a>Where I got such complex character profiles, I couldn’t say, but my Mom often let the TV baby-sit me. I loved cartoons, game shows, sitcoms and detective dramas. I would often sneak out of bed late at night and join her in watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Rat Patrol</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Mission Impossible</span>. My love of comics didn’t manifest until I was twelve—a late bloomer compared to most.
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<br />These adventures proved a good nurturing ground for my imagination. I excelled at all my creative writing assignments at school. Acting was simply storytelling in physical form. Even so, I’d never considered a career in writing.
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<br />As the stretch trundled along, the vehicle’s gentle movement began to affect our weary bodies. Stan and I were stretched out like cowboys on the porch of the mercantile. All that was missing was a sprig of alfalfa twixt our teeth. Despite the fun we were having, our chatter dwindled to nothing, replaced by the rhythmic beating of two souls in consort as Mr. Sandman put in a bit of time-and-a-half, and we remained thus until our arrival.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4h2T34W4aF_Pf0UxFtFuRfjIzu-oRB7W_CVXH5IeJAsl9ozV9-0JMmmO0O8IAlxky2isCHR6dtNuZjQ4SPlVFfDAtByvokyzMTlgjOnv52Zsdu7m7YnhLKWiQPuonP1gIT4FFPlndkQ/s1600/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_Smile.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 359px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4h2T34W4aF_Pf0UxFtFuRfjIzu-oRB7W_CVXH5IeJAsl9ozV9-0JMmmO0O8IAlxky2isCHR6dtNuZjQ4SPlVFfDAtByvokyzMTlgjOnv52Zsdu7m7YnhLKWiQPuonP1gIT4FFPlndkQ/s400/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_Smile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643348308846425074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“So what are you doing after the show? I've got a limo...”</span> </div>
<br />We never talked about the incident, but Stan gave me a pet name (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/03/coming-of-vroom.html">“The Coming of Vroom!”</a>) that evening, and sent me flowers (Okay, it was six years later and he sent them to me and Audrey for our wedding, but still…)
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<br />Come to think of it, he never left me a tip!
<br />Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-27937006314463352902011-08-07T15:47:00.028-04:002011-08-12T10:57:49.402-04:00I Slept with Stan Lee, Part I: The Cleveland Show<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-58maj35EbTlr-Jthssp-fUjuX6ju2sxfNZuqO0SbFFVwnLXcj64nVraKmtuVuUNvpSxnW2Sdk3KUc7VYAVyb2z10gwCkHwlKJWuPyBb9wwhJeqt9Pwj-nfD8U33OxkbstRMe_2CQmI/s1600/Not+a+Hoax+art.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 329px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-58maj35EbTlr-Jthssp-fUjuX6ju2sxfNZuqO0SbFFVwnLXcj64nVraKmtuVuUNvpSxnW2Sdk3KUc7VYAVyb2z10gwCkHwlKJWuPyBb9wwhJeqt9Pwj-nfD8U33OxkbstRMe_2CQmI/s400/Not+a+Hoax+art.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638227155774608146" border="0" /></a>I hadn’t seen Stan since the Spider-Man/Mary-Jane wedding, at which I portrayed the Web-Spinner’s dreaded foe, The Green Goblin (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/08/to-thee-i-web-part-i-idol-banter.html">“To Thee I Web, Parts I,”</a> <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/08/to-thee-i-web-part-ii-stan-man-of-cloth_22.html">“II”</a> & <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/09/to-thee-i-web-finale-bygones.html">“III”</a>). In fact, it was at that feted event that I first met the legendary creator of Spider-Man, The Hulk, Iron Man, Fantastic Four and a plethora of others that will eventually come to a theater near you. I acted like a young girl meeting the boy she’d been crushing on for a semester, approaching “The Man” like I was testing a new set of legs and babbling as if I’d had major dental surgery only minutes prior.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRcMvN5oEYravlflc97B4aN1K8-kubrBcobL1WXEZPKB_965oKKpdJXWp5LYeBY1ojVZlcF_xxITNubqtrnMne1tAcXCuMuJdIWnKAwAyF_sLexa5v0dzqSZOblDm1djGvZDFH2jawJw/s1600/spider-man%2527s_wedding_%25281987%25291.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRcMvN5oEYravlflc97B4aN1K8-kubrBcobL1WXEZPKB_965oKKpdJXWp5LYeBY1ojVZlcF_xxITNubqtrnMne1tAcXCuMuJdIWnKAwAyF_sLexa5v0dzqSZOblDm1djGvZDFH2jawJw/s200/spider-man%2527s_wedding_%25281987%25291.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638217185898095570" border="0" /></a>My first impression was a bad one. How else to explain Stan’s shunning me the rest of the evening; not even a single dance at the reception! I shouldn’t have been surprised, carrying the mantle of the nefarious foe that attempted to kill his most beloved creation on many an occasion and succeeding in ending the life of that creation’s soul-mate, Gwen Stacy. Stan could have any superhero in the cosmos; he most assuredly wouldn’t be interested in a villain. Thus, Spidey’s wedding day ended with a despondent trip home, slightly eased by the knowledge that at least I’d met my idol. How many others can say that?
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<br />Fast forward a seventeen months. I get the call from Babs, Marvel Maven of Personal Appearances, to attend the Mid-Ohio Con in a dual capacity as Spider-Man and Iron Man.
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<br />The Mid-Ohio Con may never have had the universal cachet of ComicCon International in San Diego—more commonly known as the San Diego Con—but among fans and pros alike, when it was run by its creator and founder Roger Price, it was recognized as one of the warmest, most fun, and subsequently best, comic book shows around.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTX89h1H8eWTCfve4Kiz23NRACB-GFJi9OaTxN8-pC7pbujD2XRIuc8n3RUUn4SfgSQZqYtahQ8napM5sIXp-JRfhqBOEzW8j5TsETzsPTBWDo7uAMeMqW9cuAEh2mvudgFEy7hG40x_c/s1600/MansfieldFairgrounds.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 354px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTX89h1H8eWTCfve4Kiz23NRACB-GFJi9OaTxN8-pC7pbujD2XRIuc8n3RUUn4SfgSQZqYtahQ8napM5sIXp-JRfhqBOEzW8j5TsETzsPTBWDo7uAMeMqW9cuAEh2mvudgFEy7hG40x_c/s400/MansfieldFairgrounds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638211555658424754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Don’t judge a con by its cover</span>
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<br />Founded in 1980, the con was always held on Thanksgiving Day weekend. Add to that the fact that the event took place on the remote fairgrounds of Mansfield, Ohio, in an unheated out-building the size of an airplane hangar that looked like it was used for judging livestock in the annual county fair, and one would suspect the con to be anathema to luring guests, save the host of the local children’s television show and a smattering of mini-comics creators who were fortunate enough to have parents with deep pockets. But Roger’s ability to construct an amazing slate of comic book and media stars every year was a testament to how beloved he and the yearly extravaganza was.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbS5yIthCFEjcFnerGb8WJ1uUDp9scI_ySCxrViw5Et_favIRqKk-ZZUmN6_mX0gj7joYhLxmLZNDlbmJ05iNem0Oq_irSQOsrFApLAmz86-a51C6KaUSXomXL1VIF7cWInMeKyWhk3TA/s1600/RogerAndJane.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbS5yIthCFEjcFnerGb8WJ1uUDp9scI_ySCxrViw5Et_favIRqKk-ZZUmN6_mX0gj7joYhLxmLZNDlbmJ05iNem0Oq_irSQOsrFApLAmz86-a51C6KaUSXomXL1VIF7cWInMeKyWhk3TA/s400/RogerAndJane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638211327646091986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Roger and Jane Price</span>
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<br />In fact, Mid-Ohio Con was the only show hugely popular artist John Byrne attended, which was the case when I made my first appearance the year prior and would be true for the upcoming event as well. But Byrne’s presence was overshadowed by that of not only Spider-Man artist Todd McFarlane, but also Stan Lee (I <span style="font-style: italic;">told</span> you Roger put together some kick-ass guest lists!).
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SkUL_LwR0lXFUKXesOp0sreaJVFsm2PW-G_MUAquv9MGsWAkFEnJfwE0EXpauVnyz-pGz8ArWNOCngc3Sgg-NSOluYrKTfk_tsIKe3xLfQ79aR1J3d4ds3SodbB530daz3Jy8HPVD8c/s1600/MidOhioConProgram_byrne.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SkUL_LwR0lXFUKXesOp0sreaJVFsm2PW-G_MUAquv9MGsWAkFEnJfwE0EXpauVnyz-pGz8ArWNOCngc3Sgg-NSOluYrKTfk_tsIKe3xLfQ79aR1J3d4ds3SodbB530daz3Jy8HPVD8c/s400/MidOhioConProgram_byrne.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638212240698388370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Cool Byrne cover to a Mid-Ohio Con program</span>
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<br />I had mixed feelings about seeing Stan again. The seventeen months had done little to assuage my broken heart from our last encounter. But The Man still held a prominent place in my life as both a hero and inspiration. Perhaps the fact that I’d be taking up the mantle of his greatest achievement (my words not his), would cause him to look more favorably upon me. In addition was my dual-duty as another of his famous creations, Iron Man. Surely, my pair of portrayals would provide the one-two punch needed to knock out any ill-will the legendary comic icon may have toward me. Then again, he may see my once villainy body besmirching the name of his babies. <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, what to do, what to do!</span>
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<br />Fate stepped in and decided for me.
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<br />I would not be flying into Columbus, Ohio, the Friday before the two-day show’s opening on Saturday. I’d be arriving in <span style="font-style: italic;">Cleveland</span> that <span style="font-style: italic;">Thursday</span> evening to appear as Spider-Man on the next day’s <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland</span> broadcast to promote the event. And I’d be doing so as sidekick to the morning talk-fest’s featured guest, Stan Lee! There’d be no shunning of Stan at the convention. I’d have to suck it up and confront the <span style="font-style: italic;">Excelsior!</span> exclaimer face-to-face at the TV studio.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3lPkpXcEdx5FNEe-HvLnNmsNHaIMOb25n3bUsWTixLo5bpR5wv-0rivAOHaMgwnHNJDfrfVLlHCdAY6VWJUE_jT7rU2K-Jg4T4KfKzVd9wDxHQAyGfA19li7fJguAiwbtoq5-XotUEE/s1600/AmClevelanPromo_ScottNewell.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3lPkpXcEdx5FNEe-HvLnNmsNHaIMOb25n3bUsWTixLo5bpR5wv-0rivAOHaMgwnHNJDfrfVLlHCdAY6VWJUE_jT7rU2K-Jg4T4KfKzVd9wDxHQAyGfA19li7fJguAiwbtoq5-XotUEE/s400/AmClevelanPromo_ScottNewell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638209388354263490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Cleveland’s answer to Matt Lauer</span>
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<br />I was doubly nervous about being a guest on a television program. Sure, it wasn’t a network show, like <span style="font-style: italic;">Today</span>, and I wouldn’t be going toe-to-toe with Matt Lauer. It also wasn’t as if I hadn’t performed with Stan Lee in a major promotional event—the wedding was kind of a big deal. But it was still live television—anything could happen—and I’d be right by Stan’s side as his most famous creation; not the third spear carrier to the left, as it were. Plus, as a guest I’d be facing questions—flying without a net! <span style="font-style: italic;">I was doomed.</span> My only consolations: it was a local program and I’d be wearing a mask. The internet didn’t exist yet, never mind YouTube; otherwise the additional onus of knowing I’d be the next day’s video fodder would have pushed me over the edge.
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<br />But Fate had not yet finished watching me squirm.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3xhAuQz0ujrLUXU5fn-uQ5nqlyNDiajEKXAx_Q8ulA9N-a1WKRe_nr24WNdFaOS4DWHXB_9bIq3owzIbuAo7MeZaw_4ywQ9_b-gOv3AtovXkc3NHpJ-wkj6qBcOgZH80hkcTm6GyU-c/s1600/SpideyMasterworksVol1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3xhAuQz0ujrLUXU5fn-uQ5nqlyNDiajEKXAx_Q8ulA9N-a1WKRe_nr24WNdFaOS4DWHXB_9bIq3owzIbuAo7MeZaw_4ywQ9_b-gOv3AtovXkc3NHpJ-wkj6qBcOgZH80hkcTm6GyU-c/s200/SpideyMasterworksVol1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638214660872658450" border="0" /></a>With nothing to lose, I packed my copy of the first Spider-Man Marvel Masterworks collection. The Masterworks series was the first time the earliest issues of Marvel’s greatest characters were compiled in order in a high-quality hardcover format. The program had only just gotten off the ground with the first three volumes, which featured the Fantastic Four, X-Men and Spider-Man. I was hoping I could find the proper opening to ask Stan for his autograph.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglGBLcpvPPQAOIXCZft4L_fo_jQxeriTcLmszhTg5ml5BcipjgMI5B1pHZL1betN759JXv3l_7NmJUSmi8eWJQCb7EQGwMb-n15qg83UHu-Hn7DZ7c8c4xemMxg8E8_4qHBBYglyHlG_s/s1600/ShimmeringStarInTheCinemaFirmament.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglGBLcpvPPQAOIXCZft4L_fo_jQxeriTcLmszhTg5ml5BcipjgMI5B1pHZL1betN759JXv3l_7NmJUSmi8eWJQCb7EQGwMb-n15qg83UHu-Hn7DZ7c8c4xemMxg8E8_4qHBBYglyHlG_s/s200/ShimmeringStarInTheCinemaFirmament.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638214503492779538" border="0" /></a>I so hated being the typical fawning fan-geek, fearing it might further compromise my relationship—what was left of it—with Stan. But he was still a “shimmering star in the literary firmament,” to paraphrase Lina Lamont from <span style="font-style: italic;">Singin’ in the Rain</span>, in my eyes. Stan may no longer sign scads of items for a single person, but two decades ago, he’d autograph truckloads of stuff, signing anything from funny books he had nothing to do with to carving his initials into a fan’s Bonsai Tree. One measly signature for Yours Truly wasn’t going to break him.
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<br />As planned, I flew into Cleveland that Thursday night and was delighted to see Roger Price at the gate to greet me. Roger is a diminutive sort. His curly brown hair and matching mustache and beard frame a cherubic face, furthering his gnomish appearance. But one syllable of his stentorian voice is all that’s needed to extinguish those thoughts. It’s deep, rich, mellifluous tones and vibrancy are so clear and resonant as to transcend mere mortality.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEK132kZuYVLPrWSOoYhZ6fZOkjAtnsPVbpl1nFF9hzAlyYhj_B_lAqfOryuHoG5FWlKtqvFNFMYdIjl6P8jAyFLhlxtA4IJhJuCNxC7Ve1EEM049kkWBH-dxmPgblqbu6v3uGza5Bhow/s1600/RogerPrice001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 332px; height: 386px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEK132kZuYVLPrWSOoYhZ6fZOkjAtnsPVbpl1nFF9hzAlyYhj_B_lAqfOryuHoG5FWlKtqvFNFMYdIjl6P8jAyFLhlxtA4IJhJuCNxC7Ve1EEM049kkWBH-dxmPgblqbu6v3uGza5Bhow/s400/RogerPrice001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638213786175532482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hello... This is Roger, your Time-Life operator...</span>
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<br />Anyone familiar with the Rankin-Bass oeuvre to which this blog oft references knows the vocal stylings of Paul Frees. His voice is heard in most of the company’s stop-motion holiday specials, most notably as Burgermeister Meisterburger from <span style="font-style: italic;">Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town</span>. More famously was his work as Boris Badenov in <span style="font-style: italic;">Rocky and Bullwinkle</span>, but he also provided the voice of The Thing in the 1967 Hanna-Barbera Fantastic Four cartoon and the voiceover in the final moments of <span style="font-style: italic;">Beneath the Planet of the Apes</span>, among hundreds of others.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQOJcrRWKW4YYHR_npKK8VhN9neauwJNgloUxNvt9AWWuiHfxMmnUNoZBBfsGkGlu7TxYI8uo9qqRT26vSHhwE8ruAkOgahyphenhyphen8y8TV-NfjyyW9OgahMZJdgouWIWEMUTRH5w2IBvKf0yQ/s1600/Boris-Badanov.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQOJcrRWKW4YYHR_npKK8VhN9neauwJNgloUxNvt9AWWuiHfxMmnUNoZBBfsGkGlu7TxYI8uo9qqRT26vSHhwE8ruAkOgahyphenhyphen8y8TV-NfjyyW9OgahMZJdgouWIWEMUTRH5w2IBvKf0yQ/s400/Boris-Badanov.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638213368005162306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">One of the hundreds of characters voiced by Paul Frees</span> </div>
<br />But the instance to which I refer you now, Faithful Bloglodytes, occurs at the end of the epic war movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Patton</span>. The four-star general sits atop a white horse whilst reporters pepper him with questions concerning the end of the war—that being World War II. Paul Frees is one of those media hounds, and when he asks his question, it’s unnerving. The body from which the sound emanates doesn’t come close to living up to its sublime tones.
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<br />No surprise, Roger had made a nice career doing voiceover work (and still does!). He started Mid-Ohio Con, not only as a way to satiate his love of the comics genre, but also and more importantly to raise money and awareness for the March of Dimes, which funds birth defects research. Roger is a victim himself. He walked with a rocking unsteady gait, his knees unusually drawn in at odd angles, despite the use of a cane. He explained that his hips and knees lacked cartilage, so the bones in his legs joints scraped against each other when he moved. When I winced upon hearing this, he surprised me with his verification that it was indeed incredibly painful. By Roger’s ever-present smile and never-fading friendliness, one would have never suspected the agony he was in.
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<br />My joy at seeing Roger again was quickly replaced with dread. “Stan’s plane isn’t due for another hour, so we have time to grab a beer,” he said.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36HLDFzE0RC2a_3zKIp7RpHiFrsny57S42-DNGupYcrsfubWbiFvyEy-4O3dDtJbdqg0HHhM1QQbxnEZZg5ZRkoc3biSItKxSPPJHGon264ajlUKCp8olHcVakROvmyNCof1AU2spih0/s1600/sound_of_music_maria_and_von_trapp_children.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36HLDFzE0RC2a_3zKIp7RpHiFrsny57S42-DNGupYcrsfubWbiFvyEy-4O3dDtJbdqg0HHhM1QQbxnEZZg5ZRkoc3biSItKxSPPJHGon264ajlUKCp8olHcVakROvmyNCof1AU2spih0/s200/sound_of_music_maria_and_von_trapp_children.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638213111940026786" border="0" /></a>Normally, sharing a beer with a buddy is one of my favorite things—with due respect to Julie Andrews—but my thoughts were filled with impending doom. We’re meeting Stan here… <span style="font-style: italic;">in an hour?!!</span> But he hasn’t had a chance to see me as Spidey, and I won’t have the eye of surrounding cameras, glare of klieg lights and company of bubble-headed daytime show hosts to buffer me.
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<br />An hour never went by so quickly, nor was a beer so unappealing. Without so much as a chance to belch, Roger was off his bar stool heading for the gate with me in tow. He told me I should walk ahead, not to worry about keeping pace with his limited mobility. According to the monitors, Stan’s flight was unloading and he didn’t want his prize guest <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to be met by someone from the convention. Plus, I knew The Man personally, right? Who better than I to do the deed.
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<br />What could I do? Refuse the most selfless, magnanimous man I’d ever met? Oh, did I mention he was physically disabled? Why not just tell him to go to Hell and kick the cane out from under him while I’m at it? I smiled half-heartedly and hoped Roger didn’t hear me gulping before striding forward toward the gate.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-086JLAXi5lgKcHjNrV6otdL0MPW1XowbgZ1TFrn1WgpsJ13jjF1WMb9z3uXKoivSnUQ3rkqIwlTb6X1UZ5QMOqBBOt6G5sYpICclUaxRpkn7kVtBDmvdAY5_NH53uRBbZWbIyibf40/s1600/phelan_goddess_themoirae.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-086JLAXi5lgKcHjNrV6otdL0MPW1XowbgZ1TFrn1WgpsJ13jjF1WMb9z3uXKoivSnUQ3rkqIwlTb6X1UZ5QMOqBBOt6G5sYpICclUaxRpkn7kVtBDmvdAY5_NH53uRBbZWbIyibf40/s200/phelan_goddess_themoirae.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638212893641359650" border="0" /></a>At least I never suffered the agony of anticipation—apparently, The Moirae took pity on me—as Stan ambled into the lounge from the exit ramp doorway just as I entered the area. He flashed his signature smile and I melted. All was forgiven… or so I thought.
<br />
<br />“Hey, how’re you doing…?” he began.
<br />
<br />“Stephen… <span style="font-style: italic;">Vrattos?</span> We met during Spider-Man’s wedding at Shea Stadium,” I offered.
<br />
<br />“Of course… You were…?”
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<br />“The Green Goblin,” I pronounced in defeat. He may have recognized my face, but he didn’t remember me. I would rather he hated me. You have to remember something, <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> about someone in order to hate them. I was crushed, not yet akin to Stan’s notoriously bad memory when it comes to names.
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<br />I was spared any further ignominy by Roger’s arrival. He and Stan had never met before, so I thankfully ceded the floor, allowing the conversation to be all about them, as we departed the airport and headed for our hotel. Roger would not be joining us for our early-morning venture to the television studio, nor the trip to Mansfield thereafter. He was driving back that evening to continue preparations for Mid-Ohio Con’s opening two days thence. A private car—a luxurious limousine, as it turned out—would pick up Stan and me at the ungodly hour specified by the <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland</span> talent caretakers and transport us the hour-long, fifty-seven mile trip to Mansfield after the show’s completion. <span style="font-style: italic;">Great… won’t that be awkward?</span>
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<br />As it turned out, the next morning’s <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland</span> telecast was being broadcast in front of a live audience from a local mall! I didn’t know whether to be more nervous—<span style="font-style: italic;">how could I?</span>—or <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXkJpXezX8Czs_2E_q54A4D8mX9Oi-p-jq4GoKjQWWgFyXme2Io8aC7FQp98QWKUegFjFVgDINIzB5zA65pnQ7bbTPtSqsnjRu6zm8zpb2aZ-efO8WeEi0NOyVAFw0gHOkwwYCAwvg3k/s1600/DrDoom_Groening.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXkJpXezX8Czs_2E_q54A4D8mX9Oi-p-jq4GoKjQWWgFyXme2Io8aC7FQp98QWKUegFjFVgDINIzB5zA65pnQ7bbTPtSqsnjRu6zm8zpb2aZ-efO8WeEi0NOyVAFw0gHOkwwYCAwvg3k/s200/DrDoom_Groening.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638209797472119106" border="0" /></a>indifferent. The appearance became more about not making an absolute ass of myself in front of the mall rats than impressing Stan. The one saving grace was the lack of a script. For me, following the words of another was restrictive and stilting, two traits as far from the freewheeling spirit of everyone’s Friendly Neighborhood Web-Swinger as Dr. Doom performing stand-up. Plus, I find forced adherence to a script is more nerve-racking; the gig becomes about getting the words instead of the character right.
<br />
<br />Obviously, these feelings do not apply to theater wherein an actor constructs a role over a period of time absorbing the words of the playwright and imbuing them with life. I’d prefer not to attempt improvisational Shakespeare any time soon. I can’t imagine riffing in iambic pentameter. Or adlibbing Brecht. Anyone for offhand O’Neill? Unpremeditated Chekov? Impromptu Ibsen?
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<br />Now off-the-cuff <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland</span>…. <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> I can do!
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<br />The production commandeered the plaza area, which is endemic to malls across America. You know the space. Located at the hub of several main spokes of store aisles shooting off it, the spot is usually sunk below the main complex level, rises unobstructed passing how many different levels the shopping mecca arises and is most often capped by a brilliant skylight. It is the go-to place for events and character appearances, from Santa and Easter Bunny photo ops, to hula demonstrations and instruction, to the local high school glee club’s spring singalong.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlLIa9uL6GetYXDCVjiR-X3VEBwmcb1lwSSELD9XmFKQvGhbJPXXt1frvKJ4Ie8nEGdy8WWf-W3o6fVBFsw8RjAdnwPk9AJTX749HDJXjT2QIA5Rc5lY2A5meIGl9JKgJmHEnvTU_nq8/s1600/The-Knights-Who-Say-Ni-monty-python-and-the-holy-grail-591173_1008_566.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlLIa9uL6GetYXDCVjiR-X3VEBwmcb1lwSSELD9XmFKQvGhbJPXXt1frvKJ4Ie8nEGdy8WWf-W3o6fVBFsw8RjAdnwPk9AJTX749HDJXjT2QIA5Rc5lY2A5meIGl9JKgJmHEnvTU_nq8/s200/The-Knights-Who-Say-Ni-monty-python-and-the-holy-grail-591173_1008_566.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638217334419882610" border="0" /></a>This one had all the bells and whistles, plus a glass elevator from the upper tier on its perimeter. It was a crisp, sunny autumn day and light streamed through the glass dome above, which reflected off the mall’s white walls. The effect was blinding to one who has to operate with ivory mesh eye-screens. Fortunately, the stage was backed by a black scrim and outfitted with a plethora of plastic plants, trees and shrubbery, obviously in deference to the Knights Who Say <span style="font-style: italic;">“Ni!”</span>
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<br />The only other set pieces were a large cream-colored leather sofa and over-big eggshell coffee table. I’m not quite sure what the stage dressers were going for. The tableau certainly wasn’t “homey,” unless you were a mob boss, and reminded me of the design of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Dinah Shore Show</span>. But it was as far away from <span style="font-style: italic;">mall</span> as you could go while still filming in one, given the limited budget of a morning talk show.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3DqBBeQtT2wfEHGjD8lUE-mxqWYsFxxzMY_42Izgb1ODXrzmXQQVoDQ3hK3wGdKZGvR8Qxgj1B2DVcZiIULdLUMTzTIcgqq3TPWvmwRfsDfXKag7gPFL9l-QD4UicoMEDqWCWt9e6ws/s1600/DinahShoreShow.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 371px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3DqBBeQtT2wfEHGjD8lUE-mxqWYsFxxzMY_42Izgb1ODXrzmXQQVoDQ3hK3wGdKZGvR8Qxgj1B2DVcZiIULdLUMTzTIcgqq3TPWvmwRfsDfXKag7gPFL9l-QD4UicoMEDqWCWt9e6ws/s400/DinahShoreShow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638217543919492658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Set pieces from the John Gotti collection</span>
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<br />All this I was able to observe from the overlooking tier, to which one of the guest wranglers was obliging enough to escort me before I needed to suit-up. Stan went immediately into make-up. He’d be announced and interviewed ahead of Spidey’s arrival. And I wouldn’t need dolling-up—another “advantageous” quality of being the internationally-famous Wall-Crawler; that and my webbing, with due respect to Todd McFarlane.
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<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">NOTE:</span> Please forgive the more obscure <span style="font-style: italic;">geek</span> sub-referencing. The blog’s budget does not allow for the printing and distribution of programs for each posting. Login to any comic chatroom, or for the analog readers in the audience, go to your local comic shop and strike up a conversation with the owner or any customer for exact details on these and any past or future <span style="font-style: italic;">Heroes In My Closet</span> analogies. This has been a public service announcement. We now return you to your previously scheduled blog already in progress.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGEM9XYYILvg6_53Ljo1mM7iNWNQqxigti3F3rIkWHxkgYhA3kgX_XuJD_DD1ZwmHGUjEmSACTF5380mTDDZ-KvFtMly9u69ijOiYFwWohCw66pvzWH1rF9aEnUPPsomCFw3XPyzhuiM/s1600/AMCleveland_SpideyElevator.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 399px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGEM9XYYILvg6_53Ljo1mM7iNWNQqxigti3F3rIkWHxkgYhA3kgX_XuJD_DD1ZwmHGUjEmSACTF5380mTDDZ-KvFtMly9u69ijOiYFwWohCw66pvzWH1rF9aEnUPPsomCFw3XPyzhuiM/s400/AMCleveland_SpideyElevator.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638207732402357138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Otis! My Man!</span>
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<br />The director’s genius idea was to have Spider-Man descend, not from the rafters as he would if he were an actual being, but from the comfort of the glass elevator while <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland</span>’s host Scott Newell interviewed Stan. It presented a rather odd tableau, during which I felt the need to strike a Spider-Man–eque pose because, a) the alternative of standing patiently as one would normally in an elevator would have negated the whole point of wearing the costume, and b) I knew that’s what was expected, i.e. it made for good TV. I dreaded the inevitable comments and wanted to rip Newell a new one when he brought up my uncharacteristic entrance—it was his boss’s idea after all.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0Gyh-R1UKNH6Lg1q5fdl9tnmsdNBXkOpQI-7YA-fuVi4kUzp9C7lx8zXiiIxp-CSm5j32cJVzGfLIT37hEQCdlxZHpv4R7vKOcAhRM0kG3XfeErpwei8R9JPWbxVAbw1L52EKJbpidE/s1600/AMCleveland_StanLee_ComicCreator.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 395px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0Gyh-R1UKNH6Lg1q5fdl9tnmsdNBXkOpQI-7YA-fuVi4kUzp9C7lx8zXiiIxp-CSm5j32cJVzGfLIT37hEQCdlxZHpv4R7vKOcAhRM0kG3XfeErpwei8R9JPWbxVAbw1L52EKJbpidE/s400/AMCleveland_StanLee_ComicCreator.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638218624793542754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Excelsior!</span>
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<br />Stan only exacerbated the awkward moment by explaining that Spider-Man “sometimes gets lazy.” But by his accompanying chuckles and exuberant smiles it was clear he was greatly enjoying my performance, and I realized his response was just more silly banter to foment the brainless commentary of the host. I had to remind myself that this was a morning chat-fest—one step up from the IQ of <span style="font-style: italic;">Wheel of Fortune</span>’s audience—not the <span style="font-style: italic;">MacNeil/Lehrer Report</span>. The rules were different. There wasn’t a comic nerd in sight—this was the late 80s and comics were still the art form non grata. Even if there were, he/she were well-outnumbered and would never have had the chutzpah to correct Mr. Newell or Stan on their indelicacies toward a revered comic icon.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eScweGDNuOLCJ48FBDqOGXeZ4jIakEEq3U2o1Z8iJ2AbGnV1Yc4EVG8UcCUwONuKbdDamgYR1-2-kbvrKKiK0GF6Czptlut2e5kzwSQV-GalMjWONy5qscPsr28RKuznF1PvKBnK4PI/s1600/AMCleveland_SpideyAudience_FromFoodCourt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eScweGDNuOLCJ48FBDqOGXeZ4jIakEEq3U2o1Z8iJ2AbGnV1Yc4EVG8UcCUwONuKbdDamgYR1-2-kbvrKKiK0GF6Czptlut2e5kzwSQV-GalMjWONy5qscPsr28RKuznF1PvKBnK4PI/s400/AMCleveland_SpideyAudience_FromFoodCourt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638218995834863186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Eyes up here, Ma’am!</span>
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<br />Had Newell asked me about my uncharacteristic entrance himself, instead of making the inane remark, I was prepared with a patented excuse that often came in quite handy, whether asked why I didn’t employ my webbing or questioned on any mundane action that could be seen as un-Spider-Man–esque, i.e. swinging.
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<br />“With great power must come great responsibility,” I’d explain. “I didn’t want to scare anyone or create a scene with any unnecessary heroics. I’m not even wearing my Web-Shooters at the moment. I knew I’d be shaking hands with my fans and the triggering mechanism in my palms makes it impossible to do so without accidentally sticking to them.”
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4adTrIA0fW-4SdvgvGxBzPDnzU2VC6DEyX1ntuAWCaxcnV1Klop56b_mvKy9Ti4vhdTe6g2poGqtBs4VAIm9qkgTOaFrUVliKktqQ135jnLBCIPV39IYedIGEjCQWSrrws55AJNVhaBE/s1600/AMCleveland_SpideyAudience_HappyGirl.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4adTrIA0fW-4SdvgvGxBzPDnzU2VC6DEyX1ntuAWCaxcnV1Klop56b_mvKy9Ti4vhdTe6g2poGqtBs4VAIm9qkgTOaFrUVliKktqQ135jnLBCIPV39IYedIGEjCQWSrrws55AJNVhaBE/s400/AMCleveland_SpideyAudience_HappyGirl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638220398452603442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Am I cold? No... Why do you ask?</span>
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<br />After the embarrassing elevator descent, I wasn’t about to nonchalantly stroll down the aisle to the stage. The real Webhead would’ve just landed from above, as mentioned, or reached the couch with a single leap from the rear of the audience. But my portrayal of the Web-Slinger extended throughout his every movement, regardless of its banality, taking Stan’s origin of Peter Parker’s powers emulating a spider’s to its natural conclusion. A spider is ever vigilant; their every fiber ready to spring into action. They move in short bursts from one state of alertness to the next. It was with these ideas I imbued my persona of Spider-Man.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3h_-hlHLhdPG1iL3nNqDcafVY3oURud8f98sUBVq_YDyouJYuauQmaBaFsLXsNvlUpRuSD1JKL8MyrOUbcvhHcnU2Onba6OGl0Tyv09X2UVinKTuE2WOjd24oXKW70ZMWkkZduBX-lq0/s1600/AMCleveland_SpideyAudience_Jaunt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3h_-hlHLhdPG1iL3nNqDcafVY3oURud8f98sUBVq_YDyouJYuauQmaBaFsLXsNvlUpRuSD1JKL8MyrOUbcvhHcnU2Onba6OGl0Tyv09X2UVinKTuE2WOjd24oXKW70ZMWkkZduBX-lq0/s400/AMCleveland_SpideyAudience_Jaunt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638221265243125378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I knew I shouldn’t have had that Orange Julius before the show</span>
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<br />Rare was the instance when I simply stood with my arms folded or akimbo. The suit’s effect and allure certainly would have forgiven simpler actions—they still would’ve looked cool—but by adding the arachnid spin to the movements, the result was geometrically greater. And by the audience’s reaction, they thought so too. Newell, though, was less impressed, vomiting another fatuous and oh, so unoriginal comment on how I didn’t have to dress up for Halloween (<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh please… stop… I can’t take anymore… my sides…</span>).
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<br />I guess it’s partly my fault. My performance to the dais apparently took longer than Newell anticipated. I’m unsure what he expected. Perhaps, the same sort of Hell-bent-for-leather charge to the stage that crazed <span style="font-style: italic;">The Price Is Right</span> contestants make after they’re told to “Come on down!” When that didn’t manifest, he had to fill time, and improvisation is not the strong suit of most morning talk-show hosts.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouddcCp-f38j8B6iDbrXj2FpN3MXzCzddWJp7kW-S532V3DEADQHkKIVf1yg0IyWNkU8bJHDTD7Wdz6Ye9SzOyZA-GREUBUQXKB9G7FMbPnMDmQ78DaaONq2C7_JocuXbREfNl-dsH4I/s1600/AMCleveland_StanShakes.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 396px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouddcCp-f38j8B6iDbrXj2FpN3MXzCzddWJp7kW-S532V3DEADQHkKIVf1yg0IyWNkU8bJHDTD7Wdz6Ye9SzOyZA-GREUBUQXKB9G7FMbPnMDmQ78DaaONq2C7_JocuXbREfNl-dsH4I/s400/AMCleveland_StanShakes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638208600939632706" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Stan Lee; nice to meet you. What was your name again?</span>
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<br />I shouldn’t talk. I was a bit of a linguistic lummox myself. I’d finally found my way to the stage, greeted with a hearty, howdy-do and handshake from Stan, and squatted loyally by his side like a Westminster Best-in-Show while he expertly parried each question thrust at him. I may not have been looking at him, but I was mesmerized and finding it hard to remain in Spider-Man mode.
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<br />I’d never seen the architect of the Marvel Universe give an interview before. His performance at the Web-Slinger’s wedding at Shea Stadium was brilliant. You would’ve never suspected it was scripted. Stan presented the ceremony with joyous ease and enthusiasm; not a single awkward pause or stilted moment. Yet the event was still prepared. In casual conversation, he was animated, gracious and genuine, with a healthy dollop of self-deprecation. No one was more aware of how they were perceived in the eyes of the public than The Man. And no one was more surprised, yet grateful.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW_C5czG27UPykCBT9uQjCySaH5E1DAoZFY_N8GvwQoaObnHDsb7wfXtbMeSP7_hjKkQ3YmJCDoxBAmMcvHEL6JI9rs69xOR87woHIHO_VmkeB9M_aXNGPthgN3tMJ6hg24CmgxZbAD0I/s1600/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_SayWhat.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW_C5czG27UPykCBT9uQjCySaH5E1DAoZFY_N8GvwQoaObnHDsb7wfXtbMeSP7_hjKkQ3YmJCDoxBAmMcvHEL6JI9rs69xOR87woHIHO_VmkeB9M_aXNGPthgN3tMJ6hg24CmgxZbAD0I/s400/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_SayWhat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638222810038366658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">So... You come here often?</span>
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<br />But an interview is a different beast altogether. It’s like going into battle without reconnaissance or any knowledge of your opponent. In this scenario, there was the additional onus of a live audience to monitor, as it were, the responses and deliver immediate feedback, whether positive or negative. I understood Stan was far from ill-prepared. He may not have had intimate information on his interrogator, but he had been stockpiling arms in the form of experience for decades. I had just never been a party to his expertise in this regard.
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<br />Where I was a taut bundle of nerves barely contained inside a sheath of spandex, Stan was relaxed and jovial, sitting on the sofa as if he were at the dinner party of a close friend, kibitzing about the good old days. He took on Newell’s questions without hesitation, responding in a refreshing, vibrant way, even though most of the queries—especially those concerning the origins of his creations—were ones to which he’d responded ad nauseam in the approximately quarter-century since he conceived them.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEpbXRFAJuru1h4HvNMoYh2AW4OxxFNj6RdkQbSif8ECgm8gEMnbkYYqlS6iBlSZBYjTAsMNh91cHcX611MKjN7Z0JskrKs1dckeAL38OqiQAkvgWZREbxradrLuFrWPpmLVaJPmHCuw/s1600/AMCleveland_StanExplainsHulk.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEpbXRFAJuru1h4HvNMoYh2AW4OxxFNj6RdkQbSif8ECgm8gEMnbkYYqlS6iBlSZBYjTAsMNh91cHcX611MKjN7Z0JskrKs1dckeAL38OqiQAkvgWZREbxradrLuFrWPpmLVaJPmHCuw/s400/AMCleveland_StanExplainsHulk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638223596606447218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Take the Hulk... Please!</span>
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<br />I’d read interviews and introductions to Marvel Comics collections wherein Stan spoke of the geneses of his characters. Although the answers were the same, he continually made them fresh, approaching from various angles, adding new details, or in the case of a live exchange, changing his inflection at different spots. In the ensuing years, I was lucky enough to participate in more team-ups with Mr. Excelsior. His stories never got boring and I was ever absorbed in his tales. He was the consummate storyteller.
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<br />My interview skills improved dramatically, even directly following this sketchy <span style="font-style: italic;">AM Cleveland</span> appearance. And during subsequent get-togethers with Stan, I’d more readily and easily interject with a witty Spider-centric witticism, playing off the fact that I was seated with my creator, reacting appropriately when The Man delved into my adventures.
<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoyvw8kG0dWhXxwPHgvyoTQCKOexQvxW40puyNvysQWiveWudeidX6DuqOiDvzrgSpEGVqEBgzNlUQEMF_xL25A6wXRpik6MwWGl4ZfIFe893CPApDxzziKJrCNnmsYW32TWWoExI2dI/s1600/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_Sigh.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 354px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoyvw8kG0dWhXxwPHgvyoTQCKOexQvxW40puyNvysQWiveWudeidX6DuqOiDvzrgSpEGVqEBgzNlUQEMF_xL25A6wXRpik6MwWGl4ZfIFe893CPApDxzziKJrCNnmsYW32TWWoExI2dI/s400/AMCleveland_StanSpidey_Sigh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638224007585264962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Say something clever... Say something clever...</span> Huh? What...? <span style="font-style: italic;">Damn!</span>
<br /></div>
<br />But in this instance, I was a first-year piano student expected to play a duet with Oscar Levant, only I wasn’t given the music. As Stan tried to include me in a bit of verbal repartee, I was caught completely unawares. I’d lose a moment cursing under my breath for not being at my improvisational best—something I prided myself in—and Stan would lob another floater my way. <span style="font-style: italic;">Swing and a miss! Again! OY!</span>
<br />
<br />To his credit, Stan never skipped a bit, actually filling in the lines for which he was setting me up; in essence saving my ass. The most I could do was playfully mime my reactions and let the magic of the suit takeover.
<br />
<br />Then Newell asked me to join him in the front of the audience, whence he was conducting the show, for an emcee-to-Spidey one-on-one…
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Gulp!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">
<br />
<br />NEXT: Let’s go to the videotape!</span>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-32700641052476727422011-08-01T06:00:00.016-04:002011-08-01T06:00:17.566-04:00Happy 20th Anniversary Lorraine Shave Ice, and Double Kudos to Guy and Lorraine on their 40th!<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU64OXJXsmFbzEeTQMjEnmlq7oUIoTKA6G_KXdpbnHej5XtJGGos7BSzChTdw15ZsQyKDunylhokqAw22NH0Li_6qVh1bZDcexSe9Qehge7LewGM8WvwDrHXcorsGmgNb2r7X6uHZi85o/s1600/LorraineShaveIce_wGuyStephen"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU64OXJXsmFbzEeTQMjEnmlq7oUIoTKA6G_KXdpbnHej5XtJGGos7BSzChTdw15ZsQyKDunylhokqAw22NH0Li_6qVh1bZDcexSe9Qehge7LewGM8WvwDrHXcorsGmgNb2r7X6uHZi85o/s400/LorraineShaveIce_wGuyStephen" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635261036686365618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Home of the best banana bread, shave ice, coconut & banana cream pies, beef jerky, passion-fruit jelly, toasted coconut, chocolate-covered bananas and coconuts, AND PEOPLE on Maui!</span><br /></div><br />My Faithful Bloglodytes already know of my love for <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> as professed in the previously posted and lauded <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/06/worth-trip-mauis-road-to-kahakuloa.html">“Worth the Trip: Maui’s Road to Kahakuloa.”</a> That memorable tale recounted the thrilling adventure the Wondrous Audrey and I made driving north on Route 30 and the perilous County Road 340 during a trip to Maui in 2009. We discovered <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> and made several subsequent visits during our vacation, braving the treacherous, cliff-hugging, one-lane road in order to partake of the homemade delights and Spirit of Mahalo that Lorraine specializes in.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXkt4z03zBYlRzl2q0pINY2qUF9knBHU-JxfV16cJmAyvEP0-SiJMwvjwHx3s7QKo2MvM0tHug8HNj3eO-T84HeKedK3mAyxsLUbF2c5U8JQhQTVSuOxKVIYlKJOW7j4NxsYr_eVoYRo/s1600/IMG_0788.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXkt4z03zBYlRzl2q0pINY2qUF9knBHU-JxfV16cJmAyvEP0-SiJMwvjwHx3s7QKo2MvM0tHug8HNj3eO-T84HeKedK3mAyxsLUbF2c5U8JQhQTVSuOxKVIYlKJOW7j4NxsYr_eVoYRo/s400/IMG_0788.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635553923518416146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Audrey and Lorraine from our 2009 trip. Lorraine scolded me for not featuring The Wondrous One in my previous post about her magical mercantile of mouth-watering munchies!</span><br /></div><br />But Audrey and I are not alone in our love for the place. Of the <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/lorraine-shave-ice-kahakuloa-2">twenty reviews on yelp.com</a>, eighteen gave a perfect five out of five stars and the other two gave four. The harrowing ride on County Road 340 was the only concern of one of the latter less-than-perfect reviews and the other ended with “Go check it out. Add your picture to the wall and become a regular :)”<style>@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> without citing a single negative—obviously the type of person who does not believe in giving perfect scores, holding to the idea of <span style="font-style: italic;">perfection</span> being something ever sought, yet never attained.<br /><br />Upon our return to the mystical Island of the Sun last May, we couldn’t wait to risk life and limb once again to see our friend and her equally endearing husband, Guy. Lorraine greeted us like long-lost family members. It had been two years but there was no mistaking her recognition of us—although I’ve been told, I’m hard to forget and not necessarily in a good way! She and Guy had been playing cribbage, and Guy wasted no time in challenging me to a game. It was obvious he had just had his way with Lorraine and he could smell fresh meat ready to be devoured on the peg board.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DwdH-mRYnbSZb_BEB04egt8TueYnQ_YZUfcWOPO9Sgd8pYG-y6jFpVVNeS-1fdMWjlkO1vRA1VgHcqeL8YfRdJitPLeOyBiUUhQdmhRRBFVWWA60M5CXvO85AJSmSw5GL1BtXUmcedk/s1600/Audrey_ShaveIce.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 339px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DwdH-mRYnbSZb_BEB04egt8TueYnQ_YZUfcWOPO9Sgd8pYG-y6jFpVVNeS-1fdMWjlkO1vRA1VgHcqeL8YfRdJitPLeOyBiUUhQdmhRRBFVWWA60M5CXvO85AJSmSw5GL1BtXUmcedk/s400/Audrey_ShaveIce.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635258620818275330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Wondrous Audrey enjoying a humungous </span>Lorraine Shave Ice <span style="font-style: italic;">eponymous frozen delight</span>,<span style="font-style: italic;"> which are far bigger than her competitors but at the same price!</span></div><br />Unfortunately, my recollection of the game, which I played over one summer with my dad, was gone, replaced in my teeming brain with comic-book and various pop culture minutia. But that didn’t stop our kibitzing with Maui’s most gracious couple about everything, including Lorraine’s yummy treats, all of which, other than the meat with which she makes her beef jerky, are made by her with fruits cultivated from her own backyard, from the bananas and coconuts—either chocolate-covered and frozen or served in her scrumptious cream pies—to the passion fruit used in her jelly. Plus, she offers hand-crafted quilts and bags!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPjLLck2UqaTwpdo7pHKSpeXgqpo-HidX-Jih_2jVEADt4BAUhZbXm21vmX9enJEP9ej75sXN2MHX7RUKm6uAbmmMCqwjFoEIQF5VCrkB3cypjfT5mfQ3fZ52iXNtAYAZTBvUJZtFjYQ/s1600/SV_PassionFruit.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPjLLck2UqaTwpdo7pHKSpeXgqpo-HidX-Jih_2jVEADt4BAUhZbXm21vmX9enJEP9ej75sXN2MHX7RUKm6uAbmmMCqwjFoEIQF5VCrkB3cypjfT5mfQ3fZ52iXNtAYAZTBvUJZtFjYQ/s400/SV_PassionFruit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635260426987660786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">To call passion fruit tart would be an insult to tarts!</span><br /></div><br />Another sweet staple of the island is coconut candy, a processed, overly sugary product much bally-hooed by the guide books. Lorraine makes her own toasted coconut shavings—nothing but the fruit baked in its purest form—and it is heavenly. When I asked her how she made it, she reacted as if she were the Colonel and I’d asked for a list of his famous chicken’s seven herbs and spices. Others had offered to buy her recipe or even sell her unparalleled coconut in mercantiles across the state, but she covets its safety like a mother cobra protecting its young.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAIJ6-m5rU-PJNDjdduRBqboGlqMEUA3jS-UhAiz5j87KVGwJ8izmTor1_QV49WwnEliGEBCrGMzyqYaeqM_sJCqeQlykDpJpwKDrFHubeb_1YYw5eLIofvvFLjlM0-erwA9pQI_HSLk/s1600/Lorraine_Coconut.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAIJ6-m5rU-PJNDjdduRBqboGlqMEUA3jS-UhAiz5j87KVGwJ8izmTor1_QV49WwnEliGEBCrGMzyqYaeqM_sJCqeQlykDpJpwKDrFHubeb_1YYw5eLIofvvFLjlM0-erwA9pQI_HSLk/s400/Lorraine_Coconut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635258294743985410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine guarding a bag of her delicious toasted coconut</span><br /></div><br />She also makes an unforgettable banana bread, a particularly contentious snack on the island. Lorraine has two rivals bookending her establishment on County Road 340, including the notorious <span style="font-style: italic;">Julia’s</span>, a gaudy, fluorescent lime-green bus stop of a shack just past <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> on the left, which was said to have the “best banana bread on the planet” by author Andrew Doughty in his bestseller <span style="font-style: italic;">Maui Revealed</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFq6bULVi4KHg6aWut5z2DGOBdhwjV6Ss2egJ2YrDnbutlO_cJ2ovAMz8HvrvfVAwrU5dnIE1cSRkz8KiEYGK7xipij8hwbPzkVzi3-YZsb3Ssw094LaSxOnzz2OJ1BeQjuK7v8W7Yy8/s1600/JuliasBananaBread.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFq6bULVi4KHg6aWut5z2DGOBdhwjV6Ss2egJ2YrDnbutlO_cJ2ovAMz8HvrvfVAwrU5dnIE1cSRkz8KiEYGK7xipij8hwbPzkVzi3-YZsb3Ssw094LaSxOnzz2OJ1BeQjuK7v8W7Yy8/s400/JuliasBananaBread.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635255593248853858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Behold </span>Julia<span>’</span>s<span style="font-style: italic;"> chicken coop... er... I mean banana bread stand</span><br /></div><br />Even if you were unaware of Doughty’s fallacious (to me) exaggeration, the workers at <span style="font-style: italic;">Julia’s</span> are not shy about screaming the fact with as much tact as a cocktail waitress in a bowling alley to every passer-by. The owners have also compromised Maui’s landscape by posting signs, complete with B&W photocopies of the travel guide’s cover and pertinent page, at every vista point and natural sight noted in Doughty’s book. Apparently their definition of the Spirit of Mahalo in which Hawaii prides itself includes vulgar and obnoxious displays in order to make a quick buck.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYg5NHIXaFVDfx801a0WJx8rdp3AF3czf1DibOGmPVezRG6jB8Xja4hCmoL6Gw76UQ5bArjFpXcoWSn6mqeiMSZsZy4KF0Rw1NqSDOq0gVbN7gkyx09G2FSEG0GfLtdg9BPVnWW4IWAM/s1600/PinkIce_Rocks.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYg5NHIXaFVDfx801a0WJx8rdp3AF3czf1DibOGmPVezRG6jB8Xja4hCmoL6Gw76UQ5bArjFpXcoWSn6mqeiMSZsZy4KF0Rw1NqSDOq0gVbN7gkyx09G2FSEG0GfLtdg9BPVnWW4IWAM/s400/PinkIce_Rocks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635256498675322866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Days of fuchsia past à la Maui</span> </div><br />Not to be outdone in the crass department, the competitor on the south side of <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span>, the name of which escapes me, has painted the boulders skirting the road opposite the trailer out of which they conduct business a matching putrid day-glow pink. In case the defacing of the island’s natural beauty to line their wallets wasn’t despicable enough, they also have the local children run in front of traffic in order to slow the cars down as they approach, a heinous act Lorraine made me aware of only after I’d told her of nearly hitting a local child on a bike while maneuvering around the blind corner that leads cars into the small village of Kahakuloa where these banana bread wars are fought.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4j8pMJs4jCPUKAF_4ER2XgMvASfzXg1Do343YcYgmt5yLqPPkCnJDNCOBo8RqMUNUxdE_eydV-023OXNMMMhGQ7xV0keIwOp7-e7WNAqFfveII0hXuNXRTBQJUvwVFWlnRCM-9ZNXhJQ/s1600/KahakuloaChurch.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4j8pMJs4jCPUKAF_4ER2XgMvASfzXg1Do343YcYgmt5yLqPPkCnJDNCOBo8RqMUNUxdE_eydV-023OXNMMMhGQ7xV0keIwOp7-e7WNAqFfveII0hXuNXRTBQJUvwVFWlnRCM-9ZNXhJQ/s400/KahakuloaChurch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635257044479223106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">This quaint church greets southbound travelers entering Kahakuloa. Beware small children as you round the bend to the left of the steeple!</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> has nought but a modest sign hanging at the entrance. But unlike its rivals, there is parking, seating and hospitality to go with truly delicious fare. Lorraine is pistol-whip smart with a take-no-prisoners, yet generous, personality that had me swearing she was secretly from New York City. Guy is the calm to her storm, but no less friendly and giving. They are the Lucy and Ricky of Maui and as much beloved by all who meet them.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnIYS-ZayGyH5hkRMPtPxUESLCBQ451LiD0BczrTEGzyZ7z2ecNScDu6b-QuZ_VV7SUB0p2LRm9RjsiwMl8qtzfQzU3SNVtKPg7RwOdU2RiCSkXAnafxeTmjzfGiriXE1FPzOmeez2kk/s1600/LorraineShaveIce_Sign.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnIYS-ZayGyH5hkRMPtPxUESLCBQ451LiD0BczrTEGzyZ7z2ecNScDu6b-QuZ_VV7SUB0p2LRm9RjsiwMl8qtzfQzU3SNVtKPg7RwOdU2RiCSkXAnafxeTmjzfGiriXE1FPzOmeez2kk/s400/LorraineShaveIce_Sign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635258032249335138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Sign of great things to come</span><br /></div><br />Lorraine was born and raised in Kahakuloa, but moved to Honolulu to accommodate Guy’s work. They built the house and opened <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> in 1991 with Lorraine shuttling between islands to run the shop on weekends before Guy retired and they turned their full attention to the business. Julia—if there is such a person—may or may not be originally from the area, but from the seemingly Scandinavian accents of the Aryan youth who man her booth, they most certainly are not. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Yq4xGTKhfKcuEf3koNBLjUtAtBe5LSa9lvaNHK8yKP8tADqfoCVA-nXG9LSZfL_sOqlv2lRxXxT5ySKQ558DJ4dUyGhzlAJuG8I4N66rPvupFvtyvWHTk1SHIylpbkc0V8ZPm_7Ar1g/s1600/barnum%2527s%252Banimal%252Bcrackers.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Yq4xGTKhfKcuEf3koNBLjUtAtBe5LSa9lvaNHK8yKP8tADqfoCVA-nXG9LSZfL_sOqlv2lRxXxT5ySKQ558DJ4dUyGhzlAJuG8I4N66rPvupFvtyvWHTk1SHIylpbkc0V8ZPm_7Ar1g/s200/barnum%2527s%252Banimal%252Bcrackers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635556230550735122" border="0" /></a>The European connection may explain why <span style="font-style: italic;">Julia’s</span> charges six dollars for a loaf of banana bread the size of a box of Barnum’s Animal crackers where Lorraine’s is the same size and price at half the cost, but just as delectable if not better—perhaps the conversion from euros to American dollars got skewed. And Lorraine offers one with real bittersweet chocolate chips, again at the same price!<br /><br />She revealed that she hadn’t changed her prices since she first opened the business twenty years ago! When I told her she most assuredly could raise them and should, she referred to the current economic woes of the country and rhetorically asked how she could do that to people. No further proof was needed to confirm my suspicions, that as nice as the income is, <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> was most about the proprietor’s love of people and wanting to share her home and treats with the world.<br /><br />As we chatted, I mentioned to Lorraine that I had exalted <span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine Shave Ice</span> on my blog. She and Guy are happy luddites and wouldn’t know a website from a talking picture. But one of her fans had printed and sent her a color copy of my post, which after some rummaging, she pulled from a stack of puzzle books and other ephemera by the side of the picnic bench where patrons can enjoy their gastronomic goodies at leisure. She hadn’t connected the dots until I’d spoken of taking a picture next to one of her pineapple plants, a photo worthy of Ansel Adams featured in the entry. I was pleased she’d seen it and doubly so with her cheerful response—she loved it!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiv9IbXWWzLUCzWeJgLpRu_ghgxwPeOloJSEfn-dVo1BCX9s4IT5rgik5Oamlx9y_DmL-Lmze0-Rs4ACGnb3Fl-bCrbi4sFCFSYKZcdKiehd8lSnFjY4iyqTnsgMAaVIn4EWgUiuv6IM4/s1600/Lorraine_WebShooters.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 332px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiv9IbXWWzLUCzWeJgLpRu_ghgxwPeOloJSEfn-dVo1BCX9s4IT5rgik5Oamlx9y_DmL-Lmze0-Rs4ACGnb3Fl-bCrbi4sFCFSYKZcdKiehd8lSnFjY4iyqTnsgMAaVIn4EWgUiuv6IM4/s400/Lorraine_WebShooters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635259718093808786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Lorraine’s reaction when she discovered that Spider-Man was a fan of hers</span><br /></div><br />Audrey and I also discovered that Lorraine and Guy would be celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary on August 1st this year, making for a dual dose of conviviality. The Wondrous One and I feted our sweet sixteenth on our last night on Maui this year. Upon hearing of our impending day, Lorraine jumped from the table and hurried upstairs, returning moments later with a fresh slice of banana cream pie she’d baked the night before when she was having difficulty sleeping. Her insomnia proved to be our good fortune. We attacked the creamy confection like Cookie Monster, likewise leaving a smattering of crumbs. It was one of the best anniversary gifts ever!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVkb8t1aOi1rKFmxcV7hmBt8flxHJeqzHgddepNIjaIBSWWoEwz67vB7oJ89iTDsXisNZHu-n3dmsyDM1P6xhZjwgkMSpXFbK6oSZDDOhfluInETUVb00UoMPesWyGFfBxplSZfbbvNA/s1600/LorraineShaveIce_wGuyAudrey"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVkb8t1aOi1rKFmxcV7hmBt8flxHJeqzHgddepNIjaIBSWWoEwz67vB7oJ89iTDsXisNZHu-n3dmsyDM1P6xhZjwgkMSpXFbK6oSZDDOhfluInETUVb00UoMPesWyGFfBxplSZfbbvNA/s400/LorraineShaveIce_wGuyAudrey" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635260167330065986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The true Spirit of Mahalo!</span><br /></div>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-17913718317840854312011-07-05T11:11:00.021-04:002011-07-05T12:19:45.271-04:00REX RIDERS or How I Spent My Recent Sabbatical<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rexriders.com/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiq-t6Xd-gvZ7wLYneSt9usxFZSmKtSpedPp2GxOZLL9CQ_gNFBmdoCE3huSzomMljDNJKKHcHAAad3lT6KSTRQMP8cxhfwRjQoFe6zbD26VwiX-tGCLas5lQziTD2AjIdiNp5ZKZfJxY/s400/MonstJacketlr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625902663171220306" border="0" /></a>Much to the chagrin of <span style="font-style: italic;">Closet</span>’s Faithful Bloglodytes, the site went on an unintentional hiatus at the start of 2011. The final installment of 2010 concerned the announcement that the opening of <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark</span>, the much-maligned and technically-dangerous Broadway show, was delayed once again. I had reviewed the production a couple weeks before (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/12/spider-man-turn-off-dark.html">post</a>) and took the news as an opportunity to share my beliefs as to how to fix the musical (see <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/12/spider-man-turn-off-dark-redux.html">“<span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark</span> Redux”</a>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhREWs-trp_vvSzB7sy4twO0H0HFLE2iFldKMoPKZYvE0PyZXN7oU5ic7V0tgBEAQ63qO8HZZ9X21JstWeeyrOjjZZK0mJXhHPaU6jrJLDp2z90gkPB8fIHXqUIIJwNHsSx9VQiHnsSXBM/s1600/THEATER-articleLarge.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhREWs-trp_vvSzB7sy4twO0H0HFLE2iFldKMoPKZYvE0PyZXN7oU5ic7V0tgBEAQ63qO8HZZ9X21JstWeeyrOjjZZK0mJXhHPaU6jrJLDp2z90gkPB8fIHXqUIIJwNHsSx9VQiHnsSXBM/s400/THEATER-articleLarge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625901778115448162" border="0" /></a>When the Web-Spinning Spectacle did open a few weeks ago, I was heartened by the news that many of my suggested changes had been implemented, and that the subsequent reviews of the revamped show have been overwhelmingly positive. Far be it for me to take credit for the musical’s successful return. After all, many of my criticisms and helpful hints echoed those of other reviewers. Besides, I’m cursed with an overpowering sense of modesty—no one does humility like me!<br /><br />But I did see <span style="font-style: italic;">Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark</span>’s triumphant opening as a sign for Yours Truly to reopen the Closet door, as it were. Fortunately, those forces that steered me clear of the blog have subsided enough for me to do so.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> was such a force; one to be reckoned with!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA7jBCw42v-1usPCMxLZ7GxDRlccXWiYTK-sBOuhiY7iolO2VoeaDRut3pCATDqz18NgN-6990ZWWx8Mi3je4_vsmQRZaUB9EJU2wTRAialCCiNMME2lFeUKqvqkJSsrvXl9oQzYER70/s1600/449px-Valgwanpos.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 399px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA7jBCw42v-1usPCMxLZ7GxDRlccXWiYTK-sBOuhiY7iolO2VoeaDRut3pCATDqz18NgN-6990ZWWx8Mi3je4_vsmQRZaUB9EJU2wTRAialCCiNMME2lFeUKqvqkJSsrvXl9oQzYER70/s400/449px-Valgwanpos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625891369627280050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> is a Young Adult (YA) novel, which can best be described as Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion classic, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Valley of the Gwangi</span>, meets the young people’s western serial of the original <span style="font-style: italic;">Mickey Mouse Club</span>, “Spin and Marty.” For those Faithful Bloglodytes too young to remember that Ronald Reagan was once a Hollywood movie star, switch the latter reference with Nickelodeon’s late-80’s/early 90’s teenage sitcom <span style="font-style: italic;">Hey Dude</span>. And if I’ve still left you scratching your head betwixt text messages, think <span style="font-style: italic;">Jurassic Park</span> meets <span style="font-style: italic;">Cowboys and Aliens</span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHIipsDDEZV0i7h5JE5_MFPBy18LJPv8duCkfLft6Hkr08dFBwokd05nmnUa1Jdt2wECJGPcIEDz8qJw3k2AS5elJk1meF598jIRO_bMTu5DJH3ty2aLIOxX5eu9CuJg_ncW3-FbeRLQ/s1600/Valley-of-Gwanji-stop-motion-animation-1015691_500_342.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHIipsDDEZV0i7h5JE5_MFPBy18LJPv8duCkfLft6Hkr08dFBwokd05nmnUa1Jdt2wECJGPcIEDz8qJw3k2AS5elJk1meF598jIRO_bMTu5DJH3ty2aLIOxX5eu9CuJg_ncW3-FbeRLQ/s400/Valley-of-Gwanji-stop-motion-animation-1015691_500_342.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625891611756263074" border="0" /></a>I’m the proud editor of the book, although I served in other capacities as well.<br /><br />My involvement on the project began in June 2010 at BookExpo America (BEA), the literary saturnalia for the publishing trade held annually at New York City’s Jacob Javits Center. Through my business relationship with Fanfare/Ponent Mon—publisher of translated graphic novels—I received a badge and attended.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fLlIm49YOTzVdTr8DFJkCmeJYx40MIX-GKOeyBRBSVfTORMFibpqmigbh_pqi2Mo81tnpv-3wEQeeWiMSCWcbvvUcGol_fzTj2z85SbxSMplWPo6cAbgjzSfC9FjyA5Iw3tI3rREN1Q/s1600/2011-06-27-11.22.31.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fLlIm49YOTzVdTr8DFJkCmeJYx40MIX-GKOeyBRBSVfTORMFibpqmigbh_pqi2Mo81tnpv-3wEQeeWiMSCWcbvvUcGol_fzTj2z85SbxSMplWPo6cAbgjzSfC9FjyA5Iw3tI3rREN1Q/s400/2011-06-27-11.22.31.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625899547655457858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Death by ephemera</span><br /></div><br />BEA is a book-lover’s dream. Publishers showcase their upcoming line of titles, many giving out galleys—advance unproofed copies—of certain ones about which they are particularly jazzed. Sure, I was excited to get free books, but it’s not like I’m starved for reading material. The towering to-be-read stacks in the library of Casa Vroom! threaten to topple anytime a truck passes by, and I’m not especially enamored of suffering the same fate as Langley Collyer who perished under the weight of literally tons of ephemera that he and his brother hoarded in their home.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61mKVSijjas15NZOyiunnixUs-ObO1SUGg8aS0hfOzxePNePhC6i_rTu7rQMYwMqZ9sSyTsKQVuublobVUQWQb7biEizhhhj2zwYmTAnxf0DVPhoeDMMH3ONgnJB3uVcN-ZyC1TUXtN4/s1600/Collyer1a.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61mKVSijjas15NZOyiunnixUs-ObO1SUGg8aS0hfOzxePNePhC6i_rTu7rQMYwMqZ9sSyTsKQVuublobVUQWQb7biEizhhhj2zwYmTAnxf0DVPhoeDMMH3ONgnJB3uVcN-ZyC1TUXtN4/s400/Collyer1a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625896032102277730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“Honey, where's the remote?”</span><br /></div><br />My main objective was to network, and in so doing, I stumbled upon the Monstrosities, Inc. booth. Actually, <span style="font-style: italic;">lured</span> would be a better verb to use. <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> was wisely highlighted with giant reproductions of the artwork that lay within the book’s pages; beautifully rendered pen-and-ink illustrations of cowboys and dinosaurs that caught my attention like a dog to a squirrel. And there was no choker collar to prevent my charging the booth. There I met the creative genius behind the novel, J. P. Carlson.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgK8CJZwu0FmBD29Ep7MZLnAFqB2jl7CYIYrCL8ETT8vBxgSvR6VcnJ5mq7C73VueqAl6M3yOfBgUebP7LyWo6LYhVQmhDH5S87CYh85u3-sz_2hZK39P-eo_ig0vUmYcFoKzzgco417Q/s1600/JPCarlson_CoverPhoto.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgK8CJZwu0FmBD29Ep7MZLnAFqB2jl7CYIYrCL8ETT8vBxgSvR6VcnJ5mq7C73VueqAl6M3yOfBgUebP7LyWo6LYhVQmhDH5S87CYh85u3-sz_2hZK39P-eo_ig0vUmYcFoKzzgco417Q/s400/JPCarlson_CoverPhoto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625896704141060850" border="0" /></a>Carlson was immediately taken with my affection for his product. He was a fellow dino-phile, and it was love at first cite; that being my citing <span style="font-style: italic;">The Valley of the Gwangi</span> when looking at the <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> art. For the next half hour, Carlson and I geeked out over all things monstrous, from T-rex to <span style="font-style: italic;">Reptilicus</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Gorgo</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">Godzilla</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">King Kong</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">King Ghidorah</span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FkTaQB5gWHq7eJlgxxGO7qZkcjU5kLhOfs9t4GdHMGwZmD-Qh_8dy2gkKc7-eBkEraaucMJQvzDpYHt0L5Au8simdmYpf8Jpet9IgEODkScCAojwCLLFnMJSbFIrPjLOv2xOOVn_9OI/s1600/J_Calafiore.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FkTaQB5gWHq7eJlgxxGO7qZkcjU5kLhOfs9t4GdHMGwZmD-Qh_8dy2gkKc7-eBkEraaucMJQvzDpYHt0L5Au8simdmYpf8Jpet9IgEODkScCAojwCLLFnMJSbFIrPjLOv2xOOVn_9OI/s200/J_Calafiore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625896996818363042" border="0" /></a>Eventually, our conversation turned to the images surrounding us in the booth. The art was familiar and I was pleasantly surprised that it was the work of comic book artist Jim Calafiore, whose penciling on the short-lived 90’s Marvel series, <span style="font-style: italic;">Force Works</span>, was a favorite of mine. Calafiore’s work was refreshingly economic in an age when the Image Comics style of extreme detailing, cross-hatching, endless speed lines and flash-masquerading-as-storytelling had become the norm. That is not to say Calafiore’s style lacks such. He just knows how <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to overwork the art, detailing just where needed and only in service to the storytelling.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzBNod8-1Mbjj8kM29Lr3LM3NAYqwOD3qkMh18cn2cu7kd-eMkzXuohWpNmeC5wE6ZDxJ7lbK1LLsrPoRlgdeQMli9XMBeJoO01Zu4m6H3ccdB5xuOO-giUlLdgpvl0Wm07l9WRSy9Mpk/s1600/baryonix.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzBNod8-1Mbjj8kM29Lr3LM3NAYqwOD3qkMh18cn2cu7kd-eMkzXuohWpNmeC5wE6ZDxJ7lbK1LLsrPoRlgdeQMli9XMBeJoO01Zu4m6H3ccdB5xuOO-giUlLdgpvl0Wm07l9WRSy9Mpk/s400/baryonix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625898370412345170" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJT2Fn7sw-h93wJDmowCMagvnAorC8uy_NZosqxA1cEPpbLr3yHTKF3HB5pXkMO2ynkhpMI-w3u3B-kjMJ06DLacl2OisvhPsvMJlSo-YfGLrfC1IiPKlM7mTLqpMmNbM0X7QSZyyZixs/s1600/forceworks10.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJT2Fn7sw-h93wJDmowCMagvnAorC8uy_NZosqxA1cEPpbLr3yHTKF3HB5pXkMO2ynkhpMI-w3u3B-kjMJ06DLacl2OisvhPsvMJlSo-YfGLrfC1IiPKlM7mTLqpMmNbM0X7QSZyyZixs/s200/forceworks10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625897190550873938" border="0" /></a>It was also nice to see that Calafiore hadn’t rested on his laurels in the fifteen years since <span style="font-style: italic;">Force Works</span>. Many comic artists who find early achievement do nothing more to advance their craft thinking success precluded their having to do so. Thus, their work becomes stale, stagnating in a morass of been there/done that, and they soon find themselves no longer the “hot” property of comicdom. But it was evident that Calafiore strove to advance his art. There was a confidence and fearlessness not present in his earlier work. Just take a gander at the pieces featured in this post. There’s a simplicity that belies the rich detail and depth, creating an excitement and animated quality that raises Calafiore’s art above others.<br /><br />Carlson needn’t have explained the plot of his prehistory-meets-the-old-west adventure. He had me at <span style="font-style: italic;">cowboys and dinosaurs</span>. I had to get a copy of his book!<br /><br />But as a self-publisher Carlson only printed so many galleys, and he was understandably saving those for publishers, editors and industry people who could actually help him see <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> into bookstores. Extensive my experience in the field may be, but I was still a lowly independent contractor seeking a Random House or HarperCollins to call my home.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcbA-3iJhIe53PGKnJF4Tkl5QMlIhcu1Cxy6f8t1-2KVO3WdyWq2QOKEJgGfwaFAprRnJPBCkjKWw-LcLw7Pe1t0RvVhLVmn0rXxJmBAHkZB2HCLOlLy0k7rARzMLnh24HL1FBYQ7UlS0/s1600/Bunny-Hugged-bugs-bunny-21505134-300-216.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcbA-3iJhIe53PGKnJF4Tkl5QMlIhcu1Cxy6f8t1-2KVO3WdyWq2QOKEJgGfwaFAprRnJPBCkjKWw-LcLw7Pe1t0RvVhLVmn0rXxJmBAHkZB2HCLOlLy0k7rARzMLnh24HL1FBYQ7UlS0/s400/Bunny-Hugged-bugs-bunny-21505134-300-216.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625897373940565106" border="0" /></a>As Bugs would say: “Time… <span style="font-style: italic;">unh</span>… to employ… <span style="font-style: italic;">unh</span>… a little… <span style="font-style: italic;">unh</span>… stragety!”<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcbA-3iJhIe53PGKnJF4Tkl5QMlIhcu1Cxy6f8t1-2KVO3WdyWq2QOKEJgGfwaFAprRnJPBCkjKWw-LcLw7Pe1t0RvVhLVmn0rXxJmBAHkZB2HCLOlLy0k7rARzMLnh24HL1FBYQ7UlS0/s1600/Bunny-Hugged-bugs-bunny-21505134-300-216.jpg"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjJu5jSmkXVCVBFa7PRVKahzt7Z9W86w4E3DwSJJVRDIN1WkOEI_XybcxHV4poZmkdtgy79C9m6o3PQI0XqAnxOxDkLAGrB7x6KVin5mFXRnPBnvlEF-dW7rqmttBpNE6vvOCqx7d2nU/s1600/cadino.no1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjJu5jSmkXVCVBFa7PRVKahzt7Z9W86w4E3DwSJJVRDIN1WkOEI_XybcxHV4poZmkdtgy79C9m6o3PQI0XqAnxOxDkLAGrB7x6KVin5mFXRnPBnvlEF-dW7rqmttBpNE6vvOCqx7d2nU/s200/cadino.no1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625897633908993234" border="0" /></a>“You must also be familiar with <span style="font-style: italic;">Cadillacs and Dinosaurs</span>?” I nonchalantly asked.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cadillacs and Dinosaurs</span> was a mid-80s comic book series by artist/writer Mark Schultz, a post-apocalyptic tale of modern man living on a future Earth populated by dinosaurs. Schultz’s work is reminiscent of the legendary comic strip and pulp artists of the 30s, such as Roy Krenkel, Burne Hogarth and Frank Frazetta. It’s breathtaking and some of the finest work being produced today. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOE-labdAz7YH5DkMe5av5vAFrRMW5nlYJXeup4aDPO0-RPSqDFh8hHAHR1UOcbDBgJ21NhLBe5hcECVXlp13LOPZLIRAntrAP8O0YLq0VZP07V3yig3WMfvONGgzJ31XolFZv4zAAQpI/s1600/CaptGravity1Trade_Cover.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOE-labdAz7YH5DkMe5av5vAFrRMW5nlYJXeup4aDPO0-RPSqDFh8hHAHR1UOcbDBgJ21NhLBe5hcECVXlp13LOPZLIRAntrAP8O0YLq0VZP07V3yig3WMfvONGgzJ31XolFZv4zAAQpI/s200/CaptGravity1Trade_Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625897770929251138" border="0" /></a>I knew damn well Carlson was more than acquainted with the series, and it was a sure bet he was a big fan of Schultz as well. But I was certain Carlson would not know of the Schultz work that graces the first trade paperback of <span style="font-style: italic;">Captain Gravity</span>, a character I created and for which I penned the initial origin and story arc for Penny Farthing Press in 1998.<br /><br />He didn’t, and it didn’t take long before he was as eager to read my book as I his. So we agreed to a trade: <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> for <span style="font-style: italic;">Captain Gravity</span>. The transaction was made that next day, and I was reading Carlson’s epic that evening.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUN6pVzqjqkMxekE_6R6X5t-A228XVjIkaQ02qwteUPJCZlXm6eewzTV8UI6v1zavJ2HsaCIdfRKGvPgLaAg49xx__ToshaVuMo8LT9oX_OyWnf0up5ItUtbUPDOB6r5t82JNLMlhik5k/s1600/Captain_Gravity_TBP_cover_original_art_by_schultz_%255BM%255D.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUN6pVzqjqkMxekE_6R6X5t-A228XVjIkaQ02qwteUPJCZlXm6eewzTV8UI6v1zavJ2HsaCIdfRKGvPgLaAg49xx__ToshaVuMo8LT9oX_OyWnf0up5ItUtbUPDOB6r5t82JNLMlhik5k/s400/Captain_Gravity_TBP_cover_original_art_by_schultz_%255BM%255D.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625897930632429602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Schultz</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’s penciled art for the </span>Captain Gravity<span style="font-style: italic;"> trade paperback</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> is a fantastical tale set in the old west at the turn of the century. It’s hero is fourteen-year-old Zeke Calhoun, who stumbles upon a fallen otherworldly rider, riddled with bullets, and his even more surprising “horse,” a juvenile Tyrannosaurus rex. What Zeke doesn’t know is that rescuing the stranger would set off a chain of events that would plunge the teen into an incredible adventure, and lead to the discovery of a deadly alliance between Earth and a prehistoric world that could threaten the fabric of both!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVF4qIqj-Sgwm1HcBs-6pTsoITUxB7JYuV-XFiJS5-ZDYGVSD8IoiBbbJzqlaVM75eSYrIJDI1BR9p_88POoR93Ab763FOaAG36hn5UcHU-YnMStQex3Ka9FtYdJ2Ozldf44tIYscl-q8/s1600/zeke_saddle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVF4qIqj-Sgwm1HcBs-6pTsoITUxB7JYuV-XFiJS5-ZDYGVSD8IoiBbbJzqlaVM75eSYrIJDI1BR9p_88POoR93Ab763FOaAG36hn5UcHU-YnMStQex3Ka9FtYdJ2Ozldf44tIYscl-q8/s400/zeke_saddle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625898655005550818" border="0" /></a>Young Adult novel it may be, but I found myself caught up in the saga. The characters were well-defined and interesting—the heroes heroic; the villains despicable. The pacing was excellent with each chapter ending on a cliffhanger which doesn’t feel contrived, but rather flows organically from the story. And Carlson blends a nice mix of excitement, suspense, mystery, horror and fun. Calafiore’s dazzling illustrations which top every chapter opening with interstitial full-page shots speckled throughout—including one spectacular piece that spans two folios—certainly don’t hurt the book’s enjoyment, either. I polished off the 400-page galley in a day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4umtuEYelp7pie-Q4cyUiAO8wenWJhFVrBs9zyigr5gL-V_mssFMylOmcRfqLGryR1mHaxYRs8zy4XI0se3D_F2TYb0RCQJRg1xRCCXeuHXWxdiFLsuIkVRDUdRVaIC7OZZ-mWM4PKE/s1600/RexRiders_FrontMatterIllo.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4umtuEYelp7pie-Q4cyUiAO8wenWJhFVrBs9zyigr5gL-V_mssFMylOmcRfqLGryR1mHaxYRs8zy4XI0se3D_F2TYb0RCQJRg1xRCCXeuHXWxdiFLsuIkVRDUdRVaIC7OZZ-mWM4PKE/s400/RexRiders_FrontMatterIllo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625903465523510594" border="0" /></a>As promised, I shot Carlson an email telling him of my thoughts. I went on to mention the book’s massive potential, not only in print but all other forms of media and licensing. My one concern was the galley’s many typos and its typesetting, which was filled with widows—paragraphs that end atop the subsequent page using less than a third of the line’s width—orphans—words of less than four characters that sit by themselves at the completion of a paragraph—bad word breaks; chapter endings of less than four lines; i.e. the aesthetic qualities of the book that lend to a pleasurable reading experience.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfwFeZWk7W8CzGHkT9LtRCZo4lmHbpaPqrvD2GU6x8uUvgDIoKTTzPAMH1hpN14Jkd_ja9Cfu8cCLB1ek4-5NlrNbnvHNdu7S-A4K9Hn-lUNfSR66rG3Fgv4a6MbM9p4NwH6NVhXPJ5A/s1600/cave.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfwFeZWk7W8CzGHkT9LtRCZo4lmHbpaPqrvD2GU6x8uUvgDIoKTTzPAMH1hpN14Jkd_ja9Cfu8cCLB1ek4-5NlrNbnvHNdu7S-A4K9Hn-lUNfSR66rG3Fgv4a6MbM9p4NwH6NVhXPJ5A/s400/cave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625899291039486130" border="0" /></a>Advance uncorrected proofs are meant to emulate the finished product as closely as possible. True, a few typos will slip through and some typesetting will be overlooked with the intention of fixing the problems before the title sees print. But the galley should essentially be the book before fine tuning, not total restoration. I loved <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> and Carlson. I wanted both to succeed, and the nits I was picking would be the difference between an amateur job and a professional one. But I also apologized, pointing out that I was sure he knew all this and was already taking the necessary steps that would make <span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> shine.<br /><br />Carlson thanked me for my comments. He <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> aware of the book’s faults, but explained that Monstrosities was a company without an editor or typesetter, and then asked if I would I be interested in taking up the cause. Thus, I found myself in the enviable position of marshalling a great book and possibly wonderful series; what I feel could be the next big thing in YA novels.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2z3WE94PGmcMNaa_nmwH0tHJYiwnQuANBYhhcL-jOJoz_Lf_nSIdwutCe2XeewNq6zBoWtqlP05y32p58eO1hyphenhyphenYtavN5e1sMpGrjpfKPJoyQrvhu3mSfCwuvnkKZc_yORBtloJQYVeo/s1600/chpt2r.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2z3WE94PGmcMNaa_nmwH0tHJYiwnQuANBYhhcL-jOJoz_Lf_nSIdwutCe2XeewNq6zBoWtqlP05y32p58eO1hyphenhyphenYtavN5e1sMpGrjpfKPJoyQrvhu3mSfCwuvnkKZc_yORBtloJQYVeo/s400/chpt2r.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625899070998658818" border="0" /></a>But don’t take my word for it. Check out these reviews from the distinguished <a href="http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/dinosaur/2011/06/riding-with-rex/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Smithsonian</span></a> magazine website and respected pulp and comic book writer (Green Hornet and Terminator) and historian Ron Fortier for the <a href="http://www.nyjournalofbooks.com/review/rex-riders"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York Journal of Books</span></a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Rex Riders</span> is available now. It’s a great ride… er… <span style="font-style: italic;">read</span>!Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-60650765162416891852011-06-28T11:34:00.026-04:002011-06-28T13:47:46.351-04:00Northern Exposure, Part II: Ferry Tales<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmG88r_zvcqL27uVosM66De14ZrrQsYuhAjOmKRUlAI4K9ORWKsgKqVnnEYpVY-Q5D5t1oKcqQlsusceDK7NCT9qO6p0x8w0kwXsy3YiyLJa0r1XU66wchHWZr7Z0Y3DvVhoxyp5eBFM/s1600/SM_WinnipegSun_ChiefStephen.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmG88r_zvcqL27uVosM66De14ZrrQsYuhAjOmKRUlAI4K9ORWKsgKqVnnEYpVY-Q5D5t1oKcqQlsusceDK7NCT9qO6p0x8w0kwXsy3YiyLJa0r1XU66wchHWZr7Z0Y3DvVhoxyp5eBFM/s400/SM_WinnipegSun_ChiefStephen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623328190720387234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">As you, My Faithful Bloglodytes, may remember (If not, see </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2011/06/northern-exposure-part-i-who-was-that_22.html">“Northern Exposure, Part I: Who Was that Masked Man”</a><span style="font-style: italic;">), I had just begun a five-day, cross-Canada press junket to promote a program to reach children about the evils of drugs, bullying and other social causes via a series of custom Spider-Man comic books. The whole enchilada, though, was in danger of literally not getting off the ground due to a blizzard of Brobdignagian proportions hitting Toronto moments before my scheduled flight to Winnipeg, the next stop on the tour. I was hustled onto the last plane given the thumbs-up for take-off before the city shut down. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Rudolph would have told Santa to stick it in his sac…</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHhLmrmfQSial-lrcATeYQ-YV2iN0EKBxk5duX17zV2jt0mSYb5sGeccLa0DnosFnf7RmxOFjSiDYr8N5rgX8fiUSTwekw3mDd38dypCSh73H9beKRFMVUocuZuijE9q4suwU5Htp_Xic/s1600/Alive_Cover.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHhLmrmfQSial-lrcATeYQ-YV2iN0EKBxk5duX17zV2jt0mSYb5sGeccLa0DnosFnf7RmxOFjSiDYr8N5rgX8fiUSTwekw3mDd38dypCSh73H9beKRFMVUocuZuijE9q4suwU5Htp_Xic/s200/Alive_Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623311345817716882" border="0" /></a>But take off we did, all the while buffeted like the riders in the last car of the Coney Island <span style="font-style: italic;">Cyclone</span> throughout our ascent. Thoughts of the nonfiction bestseller <span style="font-style: italic;">Alive</span> filled my mind. I started looking at the other passengers like I was at a Vegas buffet. Finally, thankfully, the plane broke through the storm’s ceiling and leveled out in tranquility. It seemed like hours, which was ridiculous, seeing as Winnipeg was less than two hours away from Toronto by air.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4dwg8C2m-6toiDIq5ft7WsVlrA4bxFSQ1ObN5Q52CDsGTq8LjbOg9OA4gR_yQKEochVcRqJ0HW-4r5QB2nk2nEM1mpFKLkn08h_bNykDdBxX7qGxvytleDIl4NzWt-ZkNf5APTSQG5k/s1600/HoarFrost03_fs.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4dwg8C2m-6toiDIq5ft7WsVlrA4bxFSQ1ObN5Q52CDsGTq8LjbOg9OA4gR_yQKEochVcRqJ0HW-4r5QB2nk2nEM1mpFKLkn08h_bNykDdBxX7qGxvytleDIl4NzWt-ZkNf5APTSQG5k/s400/HoarFrost03_fs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623311526370990818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Summer in Winnipeg</span><br /></div><br />The rest of the flight was uneventful. The skies around Winnipeg were clear, though the several feet of snow on the ground indicated that wasn’t the case in recent days. But what the city lacked in bad weather that evening, it made up for in mind-numbing frigid temperatures. It was 20º below zero Fahrenheit, and I’m not talking wind chill. Chief Stephen told me that the temp was typical for that time of year. <span style="font-style: italic;">“Typical for that time of year!” It was only December 4!!! What was typical for… oh I don’t know… February 1? Forty below?!</span> With the nonchalance with which he presented the statement I’d swear he bathed in liquid nitrogen. My mind just couldn’t grasp those kind of numbers. Unfortunately, my body was having no problem—I was freezing my tuchus off!<br /><br />And the inhospitable environment was apparently not lost on the locals. There would be no one telling me during my visit, “20-below? <span style="font-style: italic;">Pshaw!</span> We’re used it,” before stumbling through the permafrost like a Yeti. The thoroughfares were barren of pedestrians. Not even an errant inuit or one of those odd ducks we all know that spends their winters in shorts, because they “love the cold,” was visible.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyLGs5PAIEXEiwLBBesjkepMEpn7m-OSfQqIDuhF-2I8NNPjlETfW_vy2IS_LKMvnAkve-IpwOlswvsARFNBE9I1HbklK9VekhNOCXaIH__VeyRVzbjQKgA06x_AnVHoMX6iGW7zyP9g/s1600/the_shining_jack_nicholson.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyLGs5PAIEXEiwLBBesjkepMEpn7m-OSfQqIDuhF-2I8NNPjlETfW_vy2IS_LKMvnAkve-IpwOlswvsARFNBE9I1HbklK9VekhNOCXaIH__VeyRVzbjQKgA06x_AnVHoMX6iGW7zyP9g/s400/the_shining_jack_nicholson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623310934601732546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Meanwhile, at the Winnipeg bus stop...</span><br /></div><br />In moments, Chief Stephen and I arrived at the hotel. Why the Chief was checking in was beyond me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Wasn’t he the Chief of Winnipeg?</span> Perhaps, his abode lay on the city’s outskirts and staying closer to its center would be more conducive to his making the early-hour press conference the next morning. I had nought but my humble NBA gym bag safeguarding the Spider-Man suit—I never traveled separately from the costume if at all possible.<br /><br />I wasn’t looking forward to spending the next twenty-four hours without my teeth brushed. And my contacts were not the type you slept in. I took out and cleaned them every evening and enzymed them once a week. Remember, this was a few years before disposable lenses and daily removal and weekly maintenance was important for the health of your eyes and longevity of the contacts. Optometrists recommend that one does not keep the permeable slivers in their eyes longer than eight hours, and I was going on fourteen by this point, including a dehydrating flight. My orbs felt like raisins.<br /><br />Fortunately, the hotel had disposable toothbrushes and paste. Actually, the toothpaste was incorporated into the design of the instrument. It was an odd little thing: shorter than an average brush and composed of a lesser grade of plastic, including the bristles. The paste was <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqK9wEsuP3AcEEvzoGyZfzzw2Y0RjJRe7ZoYl7bLQ8G3ZEamdARb9yZkcw_zo0_zVuFberHM5f7mM2debaT8vI0VwNehRgrz2Dep8v8PhuKNcb0qz9b5rhijmGkk216d5TOX8nTKGX_M/s1600/PlayDohFunFactory.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqK9wEsuP3AcEEvzoGyZfzzw2Y0RjJRe7ZoYl7bLQ8G3ZEamdARb9yZkcw_zo0_zVuFberHM5f7mM2debaT8vI0VwNehRgrz2Dep8v8PhuKNcb0qz9b5rhijmGkk216d5TOX8nTKGX_M/s200/PlayDohFunFactory.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623312134597665458" border="0" /></a>stored in a cavity underneath these plastic cilia and forced through tiny pores at their base when the implement was telescoped inward. The toothpaste wriggled up the same way Play-Doh squoze through the <span>Fun Factory</span> press. Alas, the maneuver shortened the brush by nearly an inch, which made holding the thing difficult, never mind actually brushing with it. And it wasn’t quite <span style="font-style: italic;">Natural Tom’s of Maine</span>, either. It tasted like an after-dinner mint that had been hidden at the bottom of a coat pocket since the garment was worn the season before. But it was better than <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> brushing! I couldn’t bear facing my li’l fans with my breath smelling of cadaver. I even felt bad for the media.<br /><br />As for my eyes… Blessedly, I had drops on me which, although not ideal, would keep my parched peepers lubricated enough so that my lenses wouldn’t permanently fuse to my orbs before I got to Vancouver sometime the following afternoon. It was still disconcerting to sleep in them, but I was so knackered from the day’s festivities, my worries were no match for exhaustion. At least I’d see more clearly in my dreams.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74yTMsSpj2lqA3OdcdddqIwXcfq1KDqBQtfnu1eOrVZIAXHsbIy380wsmrwB6LIi0K7w9IH-4Pu1CpnyCDGH3D6sQhJF1RsXmFq5PUqZK3080Zs1IOR0b64CxMP5-DLIzqlArIx1nGfo/s1600/Habitrail.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74yTMsSpj2lqA3OdcdddqIwXcfq1KDqBQtfnu1eOrVZIAXHsbIy380wsmrwB6LIi0K7w9IH-4Pu1CpnyCDGH3D6sQhJF1RsXmFq5PUqZK3080Zs1IOR0b64CxMP5-DLIzqlArIx1nGfo/s200/Habitrail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623312377439668946" border="0" /></a>Despite awaking to a brilliant sun, any hope of a more humane temp—say 0º—were merely a pipe dream. It remained a “normal-for-this-time-of-the-year” twenty below. As Chief Stephen and I were ferried to the venue at which the press event would convene, I noticed that all the buildings were interconnected via enclosed walkways. From one skyscraper to the next, cross alleys and streets, were a network on conduits. The whole city looked like a giant Habitrail for humans. Chief Stephen explained that this was how people got around. All the buildings had underground parking garages—in fact, there was a whole ’nother world of shops, eateries and businesses beneath the streets. Winnipeggians (?) spent practically their entire winter months indoors.<br /><br />It was then I noticed the eeriness of what would normally be deemed pedestrian areas—sidewalks, plazas, etc.—of the city. There weren’t even that many cars on the roads. Locals got inside as quickly as possible and stayed there. Well, when you live in an environment that can cause frostbite after a scant five minutes of exposure, it makes sense. The intense cold and dryness also made the snow seem like peppercorn-and-rock salt rough-ground dry marinade. A mere moment of the concoction whipping against my face felt as if I’d shaved with a cheese grater.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAH8W_T7qPIQFS5BoFy8VN6HE7A0Ks2RUH6BmN5Wn_nd317Pd4keHkLWYqI_kIvsUuuVvSrAbzaM0zg2M-cwsnHMGqUHWBDxAQWiTpjGTuH3yUo7EHYsHyTtM0diH8gU36u60hj27yNCw/s1600/SM_Winnipeg_Press_Stephen.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 399px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAH8W_T7qPIQFS5BoFy8VN6HE7A0Ks2RUH6BmN5Wn_nd317Pd4keHkLWYqI_kIvsUuuVvSrAbzaM0zg2M-cwsnHMGqUHWBDxAQWiTpjGTuH3yUo7EHYsHyTtM0diH8gU36u60hj27yNCw/s400/SM_Winnipeg_Press_Stephen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623312615473875634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Kudos to the </span>Winnipeg Free Press<span style="font-style: italic;">, the only paper in Canada to spell </span>Spider-Man<span style="font-style: italic;"> correctly</span><br /></div><br />The event was much like the one at the Organ Grinder in Toronto, and held at a similar venue. Heck, it could very well have been an Organ Grinder franchise. Chief Stephen did the honors introducing me and I handled the onus of discussing my adventure in the comic and my role in the program with my usual aplomb before confronting the dreaded notepad holders and mic wielders. Thankfully, the children escaped unscathed from bullying reporters.<br /><br />The trip to the airport was a far cry from the flight-from-Egypt-esque one the evening before. There was no teary farewell between Chief Stephen and I. As soon as the cab arrived and was ready—and by that I mean heat running at full capacity, passenger door open and aligned with the eatery’s entrance, driver standing by—I bid everyone adieu and sprinted out the front door, diving into the hack like I was dodging a sniper. As frigid as my departure from the Organ Grinder was—Spider-Man-ing through a foot of snow amidst whipping wind and snow—that split second in the arctic climes of Winnipeg clad in a paper-thin layer of spandex and bikini undies was worse.<br /><br />My whirlwind trip across Canada next brought me to the mild northwest climes of Vancouver. The flight was long—three-plus hours—but blissfully uneventful. By the time I landed, I was a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU9-qbLbvo31DpyfhYYvPhH3YU57sGL0nhULivUTb4CWqHjy0cc0I3QQkw-uyk9V6CQC49pLSPt8WJgjhyphenhyphen6_ylRD5kEexLREb-2Vk94ihcxPIcbEjGByLp_92hJBWx14ya6tweam0Eik/s1600/dog_day_afternoon.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 151px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrU9-qbLbvo31DpyfhYYvPhH3YU57sGL0nhULivUTb4CWqHjy0cc0I3QQkw-uyk9V6CQC49pLSPt8WJgjhyphenhyphen6_ylRD5kEexLREb-2Vk94ihcxPIcbEjGByLp_92hJBWx14ya6tweam0Eik/s200/dog_day_afternoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623313371444193186" border="0" /></a>fog-addled, nigh 200-pound mass of flesh, suffering from 48 hours of sleep deprivation and 2000 miles of getting bitch-slapped by the weather and plane travel. Add to that inadequate toiletries which made my contact lenses feel as though they were sucking my soul out through my eyeballs; forced me to endure several teeth-brushing sessions with barbaric, plastic, flagella-tipped sticks coated with Beechnut-gum–flavored paste; and had me smelling like a Frenchman from lack of underarm deodorant; and so much as the plane running out of peanuts would’ve had me out of my seat chanting <span style="font-style: italic;">Attica! Attica!</span><br /><br />My memories on that first day in Vancouver are understandably a blur. I think it was overcast—it may have been raining shortly before my arrival—but it was definitely warmer. The city reminded me of San Diego, but with a cold.<br /><br />As promised, my bag was waiting for me at the Bell Captain’s station of the hotel upon check-in. I dragged my sorry ass to the room and had my Dopp kit out before the luggage hit the rug. Peeling my contact lenses off my tired orbs was like trying to get the address label off a magazine subscription. I swear it made the same sound as well. Unfettered, my peepers gratefully gasped for air. Then, I brushed my teeth for a good twenty minutes, basking in the soft bristles of Oral-B and the subtly minty sweetness of Arm & Hammer. An equally-long hot shower, revived me just enough to stumble to the bed and collapse, succumbing to a much-needed afternoon nap.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCWdUAocXl9qHN9Z_ARl8YEm829Gyzo2L1OOTUNU2cXnYNN7Dfj_oZnOvUXTF1KvXnCO6P4id1ipsdu3nyCyf3zkouu_p9MbFIm3HfBK5MnE_AQr0NNdJKPpc7AfqO40gQQvoXd2u-FI/s1600/SMPatrick_ChiefSnowdon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 377px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCWdUAocXl9qHN9Z_ARl8YEm829Gyzo2L1OOTUNU2cXnYNN7Dfj_oZnOvUXTF1KvXnCO6P4id1ipsdu3nyCyf3zkouu_p9MbFIm3HfBK5MnE_AQr0NNdJKPpc7AfqO40gQQvoXd2u-FI/s400/SMPatrick_ChiefSnowdon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623314522929127154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Before the CACP conference in St. John’s, Newfoundland, where I began my association with Eric and the venerable institution and where the Spider-Man custom comics program was solidified (see Chill St. John’s, </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/chill-st-johns.html">Parts I</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> & </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/chill-st-johns-part-ii.html">II</a><span style="font-style: italic;">), a similar meeting was held on the west coast in Victoria. Patrick, one of Marvel’s California-based Web-Crawlers answered the call of duty and is seen here with Chiefs Stephen (r) and Snowdon (l) and Deputy Bill Kerr (c).</span><br /></div><br />I met up with Eric and his son Peter later for dinner. It was then that I also met Chief Bill Snowdon. I’m not certain how the police hierarchy works in Canada—heck, I’m not quite sure about how it works in the U.S.—but it was immediately apparent that Chief Snowdon held a spot in the upper echelon of the CACP. There was a gravitas and wisdom behind his eyes that belay a friendly, grandfatherly mien, the type gleaned from years in the trenches fighting the good fight and doing it well. His presence demanded respect, though <span style="font-style: italic;">he </span>did not. He was actually loveable, the way an uncle is. Still, you had the sense that you didn’t want to be on his shit list. He reminded me of Broderick Crawford who played his share of lawmen, including Chief Dan Mathews in the popular 50’s television series <span style="font-style: italic;">Highway Patrol</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FMQ0bJrfNm4k5n9iADshe38KpaeLcwFMrr2-jW2CtxtcWZUIUrj9c75uu463niBToSZOyWc9YIbyQbzOfM0Z1BNVC5IFjB63y5iimljek73e0IjjytR6GaSTOx4YvDCwaNEJFKacqpA/s1600/Crawford_Snowdon.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FMQ0bJrfNm4k5n9iADshe38KpaeLcwFMrr2-jW2CtxtcWZUIUrj9c75uu463niBToSZOyWc9YIbyQbzOfM0Z1BNVC5IFjB63y5iimljek73e0IjjytR6GaSTOx4YvDCwaNEJFKacqpA/s400/Crawford_Snowdon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623314245737258834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Separated at birth?</span><br /></div><br />All that was meaningless. He was a good friend of Eric’s and thus one of the good guys. His base of operation was Victoria, British Columbia’s capital located on the southern tip of Vancouver Island. Though Chief Snowdon would be present for the next morning’s press hijinks, he would not be presiding—that honor being local police chief Bob Stewart’s—but he would be accompany Spidey on the Web-Crawler’s visit to the BC Children’s Hospital after the conference and afterward on the ferry ride to Victoria.<br /><br />The press event proceeded as the previous two: Organ Grinder franchise or some such eatery hosting, much media, scads of excited kiddies, photo ops aplenty and great aplomb across the board. No kamikaze reporters strafing wee fans, nor any other hiccups of which to speak. The one major difference was the climate. It was blessedly pleasant—I would’ve walked to the medical facility!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmTrdutRYIRu1GygjAKxqESP9krBmIT9Jbh1IX_SvZ_UVfiJKtpJBpfjO0h7lpPHbXmR-3we2fKv7uv7tqKCTPISquoxscXXcywZ23vfcycl-FLxdrP26sxRnMeY89_slrnsxt10HS0A/s1600/SM_ReporterEdmonton.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmTrdutRYIRu1GygjAKxqESP9krBmIT9Jbh1IX_SvZ_UVfiJKtpJBpfjO0h7lpPHbXmR-3we2fKv7uv7tqKCTPISquoxscXXcywZ23vfcycl-FLxdrP26sxRnMeY89_slrnsxt10HS0A/s400/SM_ReporterEdmonton.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623316871187144674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Ace reporter Nosy Parker’s and Spider-Man’s rendition of “Summer Lovin’” was a big hit at the karaoke bar</span><br /></div><br />The police cruiser that transported us was loaded beforehand with Eric, Peter and my luggage, as we’d be proceeding straight to the dock following Spider-Man’s visit to the hospital. I’d have to change into my civvies after I’d seen the kiddies. I certainly couldn’t do it in the car, what with Eric and Peter sharing the backseat and Chief Snowdon riding shotgun. He’d probably arrest me for public indecency.<br /><br />As with my other visits to children’s hospitals, the occasion was filled with a dichotomous mix of cheer and heartache, but ultimately fulfilling on a level few will ever understand. Despite the promotional bent of the week’s activities, all salesmanship went out the window once I entered the hospital. This was all about lifting the spirits of kids undergoing a discomforting, oftentimes traumatic moment in their as-yet short lives. And by the joyous way many reacted to Spider-Man, I was assured of pushing aside the wee patients’ fear, pain and confusion, if only for a brief moment. I was happy to see that Eric and Chief Snowdon shared my views.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTj5bX3g94OOnWbtwCvu3wwGepPXCk0FzpYDkJ2sb7FGy5_hz9_nijWa8IYIgK6E5sRYQdHW6_HLEmUEze7SCOQBOOmhGFuQRB41V_aCbZ_BqCZ88aSOp8bchqygY0WhzqxEXcjWJUrU/s1600/Goofy-Gophers.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTj5bX3g94OOnWbtwCvu3wwGepPXCk0FzpYDkJ2sb7FGy5_hz9_nijWa8IYIgK6E5sRYQdHW6_HLEmUEze7SCOQBOOmhGFuQRB41V_aCbZ_BqCZ88aSOp8bchqygY0WhzqxEXcjWJUrU/s200/Goofy-Gophers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623320417936620482" border="0" /></a>Throughout the dozens of hospital visits I made during my decade wearing the red-and-blue, I was always amazed at the politeness of the medical staff. They’d make the Goofy Gophers from the Warner Bros. cartoons seem like Naomi Campbell in comparison. It was nigh sycophantic at times. I realize they were showing me the respect of a guest in their workplace, but they save children’s lives, for goodness sake! I should be bowing to them!<br /><br />As they sometimes mentioned, part of the reason for their behavior—other than just being incredibly selfless individuals—was that they seldom had celebrity guests visit. So when one did stop by, they were overly appreciative. I was shocked. How easy—taking so little time and effort—was it for a celebrity to pay a visit to a local children’s hospital? Was it the lack of media attention such a gesture would garner or simply a case of overlooking something like a hospital, which stands day in and day out, its workers doing their jobs without fanfare, regardless of media attention? Well, this was one celebrity who’d do anything he could—barring testing the latest serum, that is!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRrnBchUwaAzxD9-UGa4vEWf72x84shXgigm5sWnibor_Daihmgb4-XU_Lw6ooocdVdNx1m_-qLh0Bexsu_EGLDKpF1AuHLCOAUp2lPQFf-yg87B3mW1-cEYcEUo8X7cQ2tL4hJyUhMA/s1600/SM_HospitalReception.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 314px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRrnBchUwaAzxD9-UGa4vEWf72x84shXgigm5sWnibor_Daihmgb4-XU_Lw6ooocdVdNx1m_-qLh0Bexsu_EGLDKpF1AuHLCOAUp2lPQFf-yg87B3mW1-cEYcEUo8X7cQ2tL4hJyUhMA/s400/SM_HospitalReception.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623318144490153650" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRrnBchUwaAzxD9-UGa4vEWf72x84shXgigm5sWnibor_Daihmgb4-XU_Lw6ooocdVdNx1m_-qLh0Bexsu_EGLDKpF1AuHLCOAUp2lPQFf-yg87B3mW1-cEYcEUo8X7cQ2tL4hJyUhMA/s1600/SM_HospitalReception.jpg"></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The best me<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>dicine...</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>This particular hospital tour brought with it a unique request. One of their patients—a ten-year-old who needed his tonsils removed—was so terrified by the impending surgery, there was no consoling him, and he refused to accede willingly to the procedure; that is until the doctors promised that Spidey would be waiting for him the moment he awoke from anesthesia. It was a risky move and one assuredly not taken lightly. What if another blizzard or other disaster delayed my trip or forced me to cancel altogether? He’d awaken to bitter disappointment and possibly a complete loss of faith in all his heroes.<br /><br />There was no question I’d be there for the young boy, though the administrator who asked me did so in such a way as to suggest that the hospital would understand if I was too uncomfortable about agreeing. <span style="font-style: italic;">Lead on, MacDuff! </span>My prestigious posse, however, were left behind. No one other than authorized personnel were allowed in post-op. This was an extreme exception. As with a burn ward, a surgical mask, gown and slip-on booties were required dress. But my handy-dandy Web-Slinging ensemble was already self-contained, so I entered the double-set of hermetically-sealed sliding doors sans hospital attire.<br /><br />The area was dark; nought but a few fluorescent lights cast an eerie, milky glow from recessed sconces. The quiet was deafening; the rhythmic beep of monitors and <span style="font-style: italic;">swoosh</span> of oxygen tanks, the only sounds present. I felt like I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to. Noticing my arrival, a nurse by the boy’s bed began whispering to him of my presence. A wise move. The lad came out of surgery not long before. having my spidery visage be the first thing he sees coming out of anesthesia might give him a heart attack. Still, I crept slowly toward him, and began waving and delivering greetings as soon as I noticed his eyes shift in my direction.<br /><br />The boy was understandably groggy, like a child who’s fallen asleep in a car seat and must be lifted to be taken from the vehicle. “Hi, Spider-Man,” he croaked, moving his arm out to shake mine. It slid an inch or two, never raising above the sheets, before I took hold with my own.<br /><br />“I heard you wanted to see me,” I said. “I’m so glad. I would have never found you in here. It’s like your own Batcave.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjem-19Mp2kLnZYDjbw-fT54PyyZvdQrhYijtSEi5pBkfazxLW-iBSDONwnFvkqPxhdQQoJQPgiHUdHmSk9Cnar0bSHQVEfrohh5Vg4ReBb7Ag6GzyABPXWdyc_kraWg3tdEnapBIMHUxc/s1600/batcave60s.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjem-19Mp2kLnZYDjbw-fT54PyyZvdQrhYijtSEi5pBkfazxLW-iBSDONwnFvkqPxhdQQoJQPgiHUdHmSk9Cnar0bSHQVEfrohh5Vg4ReBb7Ag6GzyABPXWdyc_kraWg3tdEnapBIMHUxc/s400/batcave60s.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623327189715570498" border="0" /></a>Yes, I know, it may be sacrilege to reference the Distinguished Competition’s icons, but I’m pretty sure both DC and Marvel alike would forgive me in this instance.<br /><br />And the smile—weak though it may have been—was worth it.<br /><br />I went on to tell him how brave he was… and lucky! He’d be allowed to eat as much ice cream as he wanted for a couple of days. I had to be careful not to risk harming my heroic physique. Understandably, he didn’t talk much. I winced empathically every time he rasped. I still have my tonsils, and when I have a sore throat, it’s like I’m covered in paper cuts and dunked in lemonade every time I swallow.<br /><br />The encounter lasted but a few minutes, before the nurse gave me the high sign that I should go. I told the lad the same, and he mumbled a goodbye, then drifted off to sleep. I crept out as quietly as I’d entered, wondering if the boy would think it all a dream and hoping that he remembered enough to know that it was not and Spidey had kept his promise.<br /><br />I met up with Chief Snowdon, Eric and Peter and the visit continued. In the children’s play area—our final stop—I was surprised to see a photographer from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Vancouver Sun</span>. As I mentioned, I am not enamored of using sick children for publicity purposes. Unfortunately, newspapers won’t run a photo ballyhooing a new social program, regardless of its import, without an emotional hook.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_F_i-M_uoDuF-dnNsUgMN1uOuRu6I4xpHXuhXQAjWqa8nZZZTJr7MnI2JSxMoSs_-rcGmsBcjiF7UCOTN7z4bb0SorS3fjNx8U_NAnIyJe2abbhe2rk168HhwnoMJ9how6TA65mfwLPA/s1600/SM_Victoria_KidsWard.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_F_i-M_uoDuF-dnNsUgMN1uOuRu6I4xpHXuhXQAjWqa8nZZZTJr7MnI2JSxMoSs_-rcGmsBcjiF7UCOTN7z4bb0SorS3fjNx8U_NAnIyJe2abbhe2rk168HhwnoMJ9how6TA65mfwLPA/s400/SM_Victoria_KidsWard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623320764666717890" border="0" /></a>And of course, the child on which the shutterbug focused his attention was the one with the most in-your-face affliction: a ten-year-old boy, named John Irwin, whose wheelchair could not disguise the debilitated body seated therein. The photographer’s presence didn’t seem to bother John, whose toothy smile and wide excited eyes couldn’t hide the delight of seeing his hero. He certainly didn’t need to wear the Spider-Man hat balanced atop his head. Everyone could see this was a special moment for him. He even wore a shirt and tie! Knowing John’s amazing moment would be featured in the newspaper and the boy would experience the added excitement of being highlighted thusly assuaged any ill-feelings I had regarding the media attention.<br /><br />The ferry trip from the Canadian mainland to Vancouver Island was a treat. My only experience with ferries was the one that transported New Yorkers between Staten Island and Manhattan, a pleasant thirty-minute affair that offered one of the best and assuredly cheapest views of the Statue of Liberty—a mere 25¢ roundtrip at the time!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8WgFbwqokvp2JOfRhJ-TNIFfJtSu0uXRt-4gUIRc2IF-F0ZKRABm5BWu7plIeITJl-2pDgUKYQO0qrjYSQTbKael4WzBYUEno1uHl2ipXR0tfA6v77WuAbaYxoDOt_pYQCGz6_uXbziY/s1600/bcferries1_map.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8WgFbwqokvp2JOfRhJ-TNIFfJtSu0uXRt-4gUIRc2IF-F0ZKRABm5BWu7plIeITJl-2pDgUKYQO0qrjYSQTbKael4WzBYUEno1uHl2ipXR0tfA6v77WuAbaYxoDOt_pYQCGz6_uXbziY/s400/bcferries1_map.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623323300752130738" border="0" /></a>The ferry that traveled from Tsawwassen to Swartz Bay was a much larger ship. Cars, trucks, vans, commercial vehicles and buses alike packed the lower levels while their drivers and passengers, as well as additional travelers filled the upper tiers. The interior was much like that of the Staten Island variety: sparse, open spaces lined with long hard benches and the typical “refreshment” kiosk which served such standard fare as hot dogs, potato chips, sodas, newspapers and magazines. Where this ferry differed from its Gotham brethren was length of the trip—approximately ninety minutes—<span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> the view along the route.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuNDzOYsNOLDjXht4OhRONZ_joJQunY3DjjjqQloCskFCSJYHsDFsrk63UqyfMw9LuUatJcMfxumNTaSuYNrjGVUHfYnQ8r2b3CSPCeFp2sPLxjz_QmwNYMiD2dm5GRSD6FHlr90UR-Og/s1600/horseshoe-bay-ferry_102-100.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuNDzOYsNOLDjXht4OhRONZ_joJQunY3DjjjqQloCskFCSJYHsDFsrk63UqyfMw9LuUatJcMfxumNTaSuYNrjGVUHfYnQ8r2b3CSPCeFp2sPLxjz_QmwNYMiD2dm5GRSD6FHlr90UR-Og/s400/horseshoe-bay-ferry_102-100.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623320985044373650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“A three-hour tour... A three-hour tour...”</span> </div><br />With due respect to Lady Liberty, the panorama that greeted me on this aquatic journey was breathtaking. The Vancouver Island ferry meanders betwixt the many islands that sprout from the waterways en route; towering, forest-covered masses of all shapes and sizes, with the occasional homestead peeking through the trees and accompanying path to jetty and boat on the shore below. The late-afternoon sun was brilliant, accentuating the picturesque tableau before me. And the cool evening breeze was both chill and exhilarating. It was Mother Nature at her most awesome; the kind of moment that makes you feel so small in the scheme of things and yet more alive. It was just the spirit-rejuvenating experience I needed to get me through the final leg of the junket.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ClovOmHL7UGLHBWspGCF3UkpD8rDeyXxr7vvvo07busEzwPd6AJaFVEGcEb29yKX_cUT-c-Z0TL8sedcMID8skaTjNi0fhBN73Ud9FymH6RBJxZmARvdE2xkfBcmoINDJ6DOS4w4A-I/s1600/Liberty_SIferry.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ClovOmHL7UGLHBWspGCF3UkpD8rDeyXxr7vvvo07busEzwPd6AJaFVEGcEb29yKX_cUT-c-Z0TL8sedcMID8skaTjNi0fhBN73Ud9FymH6RBJxZmARvdE2xkfBcmoINDJ6DOS4w4A-I/s400/Liberty_SIferry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623323578864357730" border="0" /></a>And I’d need it. I was scheduled to swing by an elementary school the next day. Don’t misconstrue; I enjoyed my school visits. But tweens and teens were the most challenging of my fans. I had to be on top of my game. Sure, reporters may poke and pry in their vain attempts to squeeze a shred of dirt that might expose Spider-Man, but they were pretty stupid. It was easy to manipulate them and I never met one that could match my Web-Slinging acumen.<br /><br />Occasionally, I encounter a young go-getter who knew that Spidey was married to Mary-Jane Watson-Parker, and they’d confront me with that fact, like it was the clue that would lead them to the Holy Grail (<span style="font-style: italic;">Please!</span> Tell me the name of the gossip magazine J. Jonah Jameson used to publish alongside <span style="font-style: italic;">The Daily Bugle</span> and we can start discussions). But I’d easily swat them aside with far more Webhead lore than they had in their arsenal, leaving them agape.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2t7LYiuQDsNPUITg3i6E67e6rkeXfy0hyXOG0XlHYm4xr2GdRHhGvyc7YR7Tv7-rdPMu2NgwiUM5gD31R0vSLLaSyzKDbN4UFifL3kJ8H-I8Vdo2JKmmANsqZYrE2lBr13UZmY0z2f5g/s1600/amazingspiderman2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2t7LYiuQDsNPUITg3i6E67e6rkeXfy0hyXOG0XlHYm4xr2GdRHhGvyc7YR7Tv7-rdPMu2NgwiUM5gD31R0vSLLaSyzKDbN4UFifL3kJ8H-I8Vdo2JKmmANsqZYrE2lBr13UZmY0z2f5g/s400/amazingspiderman2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623325197353096370" border="0" /></a>But the young adults… They were savvy and knew their stuff, and even more tenacious. A battle of wits with them was a true psychological chess match. Sure, the majority were just excited to see Spider-Man live. They’d throw away whatever “cool” pretensions they’d developed in school and allow themselves a lapse back to just being a kid. But some saw knocking down the world-renown superhero phenom as a means to boost their egos. In the end, they, too, begrudgingly got a comic book signed and oftentimes ended up defending Spidey from others who would try to do what they’d attempted moments before. It was challenging, but fun, and these doubting Thomases were perfect for honing my ad-libbing skills and keeping me from getting too cocky.<br /><br />The students at James Bay Elementary School did not disappoint. They were inquisitive, honest and bright. Helping to temper the veracity of even the most profound quidnunc among the group of fifty was the fact that they were some of the first children in all of Canada to receive the custom comic book that the CACP were handing out. This made them feel <span style="font-style: italic;">especially</span> special, so there was little reason to exalt oneself by attacking Spider-Man, the bearer of the gift that had already raised their self-esteem.<br /><br />When confronted with a free-range group of youngsters, I try to find a high perch whence I can autograph without worrying about the chaos surrounding me. The costume’s limited vision already raised my hackles when amid an unfettered gathering, so attaining a position of safety and control made for a less stressful situation. Few have been the times when I’ve had a kid punch me, but why take the chance of some misguided youth pulling a Mark David Chapman? Besides, the spectacle of Spider-Man hunkered over a gaggle of gleeful groupies makes for enticing photo fodder for the local rag. Thus I found myself atop a van in the school’s parking lot whilst the precocious <span style="font-style: italic;">yutes</span> peppered me with questions and handing me their comic books to sign.<br /><br />I discovered later, after Eric had sent me a press packet from the junket—whence the few scanned Xerox pictures in the blog derive—that a picture of the aforementioned scene of Yours Truly signing comics atop a vehicle overhanging a pack of perky pupils did make Victoria’s newspaper, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Evening Telegram</span>. Sadly, it is a bad copy, even muddier than those I’ve included. If any of my Faithful Bloglodytes in the northwest have an actual clipping in their scrapbooks, please send me a scan and I will give appropriate credit and genuflection.<br /><br />All I had to face now was the 3000-mile flight back to NYC, which included a stop in Toronto where Peter, Eric and I would part ways. I’d have rather confronted a roomful of Bill O’Reillys. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGMXT57pPx0WXpr47xYTmckipvdbbKPmJgXXWIEqVz5x-r0pyIMgaFHoSQw7X3JlCk0Oq277PU0O15SwGbXguO5IevIaZr_I-kQ5AJaVp_qFv-AAkl5_1Rw6BckMe-tlF9_14e5W12gE/s1600/Auntmay.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGMXT57pPx0WXpr47xYTmckipvdbbKPmJgXXWIEqVz5x-r0pyIMgaFHoSQw7X3JlCk0Oq277PU0O15SwGbXguO5IevIaZr_I-kQ5AJaVp_qFv-AAkl5_1Rw6BckMe-tlF9_14e5W12gE/s200/Auntmay.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623323970228620914" border="0" /></a>Compounding my misery was my impending birthday two days thence. No one likes to spend their day of birth alone and that’s what was awaiting me in my studio apartment in Forest Hills, Queens. Well, that and wall-to-wall Marvel memorabilia, including an inflatable Spidey hanging over the bed. Is it any wonder I was single?! Of course, spending more than half the weekends in a given year on the road only made dating that much more difficult. I was as pathetic as the alias of the character I portrayed. All that was missing was a doting aunt.<br /><br />Perhaps sensing my reluctance to go home, Eric asked if I’d like to spend the weekend in Toronto with him and leave Monday morning. In truth, I would have jumped at the chance even without the dire circumstances. One regret throughout the trip was how little time Eric and I had to hang out. He said he’d handle the changes in my schedule with the airline, then surprised me with an upgrade to first class. It was his way of thanking me for the good job I’d done. I could’ve kissed him. I’d never traveled first class, and to this day, have not done so again. I still remember the meal: thinly sliced, smoked Norwegian salmon, filet mignon and a strawberry mousse served in a square bowl made of white chocolate; plus all the wine I could drink!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHZ-TbMvHJf4vXGQBGVjAPprhFb_RviwWy0GRSdZg52ZnGAlyrDihh9vFB8knqFbRqlfGZc1Wk4jIwpRGTwWlFyr7cEFF0pBfE36OCmi-Q3c8Y-f6zgrMqNNgptoJisN95MHdhsYMbco/s1600/SM-Toronto_PressTourMikes.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHZ-TbMvHJf4vXGQBGVjAPprhFb_RviwWy0GRSdZg52ZnGAlyrDihh9vFB8knqFbRqlfGZc1Wk4jIwpRGTwWlFyr7cEFF0pBfE36OCmi-Q3c8Y-f6zgrMqNNgptoJisN95MHdhsYMbco/s400/SM-Toronto_PressTourMikes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623321646792112082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">“That is </span><span>not</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> a picture of my web-shooter...”</span><br /><br /></div>But the best part was the leg room. As I am 6' 2", space is a premium for me when flying. I can’t afford Business never mind First Class, so I have to take my chances with what little room the airlines provide in Coach. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to lower my tray table without shattering my patellas. And if the passenger in front of me is especially rotund, I’m doomed. Airplane seats have about as much support as Anthony Weiner and any above-average–seized person forces the flimsy structures back even further. And that’s before they employ the reclining feature… <span style="font-style: italic;">OUCH!</span> My trip across Canada was fraught with flight accommodations of varying degrees of small, so the ability to luxuriate throughout the six-hour return trip was sheer bliss.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmvgLluUJEL5KFDD-kWDDx_sly9g9D_xdLukPdbaB6lfdyYQDJmPiDtVKxp0_dFkjsQ8uMgeyiCMKwEhEiA_9ihhaLklci5VpqLJ4s_TatFggHFviJhILngSV1zFD4u6EU7139CjC_YUc/s1600/ConroyMen.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmvgLluUJEL5KFDD-kWDDx_sly9g9D_xdLukPdbaB6lfdyYQDJmPiDtVKxp0_dFkjsQ8uMgeyiCMKwEhEiA_9ihhaLklci5VpqLJ4s_TatFggHFviJhILngSV1zFD4u6EU7139CjC_YUc/s400/ConroyMen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623322025733568146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Conroy men: older son, Ed, Eric and younger son, Peter</span> </div><br />I also finally got the chance to know Peter, who was seated next to me. During the junket, he was understandably quiet. Representing youngsters across the country amid a bevy of flashing cameras and inquiring reporters is heady stuff for a thirteen-year-old. And he wasn’t wearing a mask! Still, he soldiered on without losing his composure, which spoke volumes for his character, albeit unassuming and shy. With the spotlight turned off, he was a fun, mischievous kid. So it was no surprise we hit it off.<br /><br />The “west and wewaxation” continued at Chez Eric. A case of red, visits to the local pub, another case, scrumptious vittles prepared by the Scottish Lady, still more bottles of vino… overall, relaxing, joyful and one of the best birthdays I’d ever celebrated. And Fiona kept her clothes on the whole time!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyl_ofTarPGe0RnQVZEP18voFDa3CRrOylJMcNSimtLrHbJIbvrTLlLAS6btFJs1hXdUu2LphRrzpMB2L2BZ5RUJW-wP6vGIiFoWk0dCB2Jm9YNZTwdQtWcOGXC_B7AT9lBHvR8JuxfRA/s1600/Fiona_Sprawled.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyl_ofTarPGe0RnQVZEP18voFDa3CRrOylJMcNSimtLrHbJIbvrTLlLAS6btFJs1hXdUu2LphRrzpMB2L2BZ5RUJW-wP6vGIiFoWk0dCB2Jm9YNZTwdQtWcOGXC_B7AT9lBHvR8JuxfRA/s400/Fiona_Sprawled.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623310321512773250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Happy birthday to </span>me<span style="font-style: italic;">!</span><br /></div>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-87795451915759081322011-06-24T16:00:00.019-04:002011-06-27T12:30:56.401-04:00RIP: Gene Colan 1926–2011<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NpWejxQ6DbLsvjamAvC-snx0QtxEJkZMDv_CToBitpb4nu_bocuvP_VLq0MK6RTeJ6r_SZo1Kl4Frb7x86-7KOYIL75dAzgCNq5rTKI7ijvFZhI_ZMe_8eRavsWo-cAIk8A8ZvPmndY/s1600/IronMan1_cover_GeneColan.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NpWejxQ6DbLsvjamAvC-snx0QtxEJkZMDv_CToBitpb4nu_bocuvP_VLq0MK6RTeJ6r_SZo1Kl4Frb7x86-7KOYIL75dAzgCNq5rTKI7ijvFZhI_ZMe_8eRavsWo-cAIk8A8ZvPmndY/s400/IronMan1_cover_GeneColan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621892571335501922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Gene Colan with a recreation of the iconic cover art<br />from Iron Man #1</span><br /></div><br />Faithful Bloglodytes, please forgive this interruption in the blog programming. The conclusion to “Northern Exposure” will appear in the ensuing days. But I wanted to take a brief moment to pay my respects to one of comicbookdom’s greatest artists, Gene Colan, who passed away last night.<br /><br />Gene may not have laid the foundation for the Marvel Universe, but he was certainly influential in helping make the company the success it is today. His Marvel debut came in 1966 on the Iron Man series in <span style="font-style: italic;">Tales of Suspense #73</span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">ToS</span>) under the pseudonym <span style="font-style: italic;">Adam Austin</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">(Good friend Mort Todd reminded me that “the Genial One started at Timely-Atlas-Marvel in 1949 on Captain America’s Weird Tales and did loads of horror through the 50s.” The company, however, was not </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Marvel Comics</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> at that time, and Colan did not gain prominence until his Silver Age return.)</span>. This pen name was short-lived and merely to hide his relationship with The House of Ideas from DC with whom he was also working at the time. But Colan’s work was so unique that even Homer Simpson could have figured out Adam Austin’s alias.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMFH2D80i1dABMnqhepFyVtUKSR4Qw2G2GZ4GE2oeVWUEMrELrvduwQBZbRUMEHqzQan_Aw2BjG3rV2xgEfWQMzo0tiHJ-FjyQRSI9D5ALLVVkZpGx_QAXtzu3J5fJnewD-KAVeTQxO8/s1600/ColanCoverGallery.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMFH2D80i1dABMnqhepFyVtUKSR4Qw2G2GZ4GE2oeVWUEMrELrvduwQBZbRUMEHqzQan_Aw2BjG3rV2xgEfWQMzo0tiHJ-FjyQRSI9D5ALLVVkZpGx_QAXtzu3J5fJnewD-KAVeTQxO8/s400/ColanCoverGallery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621889808910969074" border="0" /></a>Colan held long distinguished runs on the Golden Avenger’s aforementioned original adventures in <span style="font-style: italic;">ToS</span> and the first few issues of Shellhead’s eponymous title thereafter; <span style="font-style: italic;">Sub-Mariner</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Daredevil</span>; <span style="font-style: italic;">Dr. Strange</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Howard the Duck</span>. But it is his work on <span style="font-style: italic;">Tomb of Dracula</span> for which he is most revered.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWuukN5SlRdkg0wxRBPhutSjmsXHQwtwFqAxHDkiiPRryfgHAF5IFwAl41LCdUsX9HeU_RMwQO6FhVFe8X9PGYwTttd-Gx7NcDeSCv-oLgQ-SKcD9ByjfGK2c0FtCAM5oBYbauO-nh2U/s1600/Tomb_Blade.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWuukN5SlRdkg0wxRBPhutSjmsXHQwtwFqAxHDkiiPRryfgHAF5IFwAl41LCdUsX9HeU_RMwQO6FhVFe8X9PGYwTttd-Gx7NcDeSCv-oLgQ-SKcD9ByjfGK2c0FtCAM5oBYbauO-nh2U/s400/Tomb_Blade.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621886354854587986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Colan created the look of Blade the Vampire Hunter, introduced in </span>Tomb of Dracula<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Surprisingly, I was initially not a fan. Colan’s style was unlike anything I’d seen as a young’un. My artistic taste buds had yet to mature. But Colan’s rich, detailed pencils; the fluidity of his actions; the atmosphere of every panel; quickly won me over and proved to be instrumental in developing my love of Surrealism and artistic visions far outside the norm, like the stylings of Bill Sienkiewicz, Jon J. Muth and Skottie Young.<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8K5pBJ2B88UnmrHRx52ogfE2h9Ml7ADL6ARBc33seln7HwBf33pcj7HwIXmZDvq1fR2rTe_E6kqJ1y70Emd40PPhagNAa8PAVpYKxU-U80C8GzJyfeTLv6HfoeWb2MI1hnmMq9SHLXPc/s1600/SilverBlade9_Splash.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8K5pBJ2B88UnmrHRx52ogfE2h9Ml7ADL6ARBc33seln7HwBf33pcj7HwIXmZDvq1fR2rTe_E6kqJ1y70Emd40PPhagNAa8PAVpYKxU-U80C8GzJyfeTLv6HfoeWb2MI1hnmMq9SHLXPc/s400/SilverBlade9_Splash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621890279022892146" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-style: italic;">Colan returned to DC in the 80s, working on such series as </span>Night Force<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span>Jemm, Son of Saturn <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> Silverblade<span style="font-style: italic;"> about a B-movie actor who can become the roles he used to portray; an obvious favorite of mine. This full-page splash from issue #9 is a proud addition to my collection.</span> </div><br />Sadly, I never had the pleasure of meeting Colan during my days gigging in the Personal Appearance Department at Marvel. It was only many years later that I met the man at a Big Apple Convention. I was actually working the show so was able to fawn all over the artist without fear of the show’s security escorting me out of the building.<br /></div><br />I introduced Wondrous Audrey to Colan when she stopped by to see me, telling her how much I loved his work and showing her examples from the stack for sale on his table, which I forlornly flipped through, knowing I was in no position to buy anything. Not that his stuff was insanely priced—it was mind-staggeringly cheap, considering the source—but I had recently lost my job and could ill-afford to buy coverless copies of the individual comics whence the art came, never mind the art itself.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjestlKGmFRXD5q0qYTh1v7tRCLH7PS9ISJhiqaHUyaZReIJdxeRoKKSiCoT18PClXC0hwZR5ERHQPltIZsJoT_9B7v2So_Zp3FmNNJgYlCyXAEOSffewao3kvEbxWLdsZswBENvCZjFWM/s1600/DD34_originalArt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjestlKGmFRXD5q0qYTh1v7tRCLH7PS9ISJhiqaHUyaZReIJdxeRoKKSiCoT18PClXC0hwZR5ERHQPltIZsJoT_9B7v2So_Zp3FmNNJgYlCyXAEOSffewao3kvEbxWLdsZswBENvCZjFWM/s400/DD34_originalArt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621885427527388946" border="0" /></a>Imagine my delight and surprise, when I received a piece of classic <span style="font-style: italic;">Daredevil #34</span> art from The Wondrous One that Christmas. She’d purchased it right under my nose at the convention… <span style="font-style: italic;">sigh</span>…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghk4i9eix9jqMQQ2Dgq7TFR8oKHym7kymq7-zQa8O_MFkV9VvGsR_0CC_2ul6L-5WOc9DBPjodqWDQYid9xtITvMTBmmBY2XiFmBMcwDXAtcKb6YXu3okFLm9TfhY92VVULm5tcz3fHcg/s1600/HowardTheDuckMagazine9.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghk4i9eix9jqMQQ2Dgq7TFR8oKHym7kymq7-zQa8O_MFkV9VvGsR_0CC_2ul6L-5WOc9DBPjodqWDQYid9xtITvMTBmmBY2XiFmBMcwDXAtcKb6YXu3okFLm9TfhY92VVULm5tcz3fHcg/s400/HowardTheDuckMagazine9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621885074454810514" border="0" /></a>A few more years later I met Colan again at the second annual New York ComiCon. I was in a better position to purchase something but hadn’t brought enough cash or my checkbook. Fortunately, Colan was kind enough to agree to set aside the <span style="font-style: italic;">Howard the Duck Magazine</span> page I wanted with the stipulation that I send him the check the week following the show.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4BnqHoHvqsmiQTqC1YrIvuiaCElzEH8I0JPKL6f4wXSqXFogEVHQMAgoHqzh-v_tbyCARAdptCnscznll0VxCHlXiPIyT7mPIO9Y9G5Wq9PWlLu0og3CYN-8UMbooS4Y2mD6jS9RVXI/s1600/HowardTheDuckMagazine9_Panel.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4BnqHoHvqsmiQTqC1YrIvuiaCElzEH8I0JPKL6f4wXSqXFogEVHQMAgoHqzh-v_tbyCARAdptCnscznll0VxCHlXiPIyT7mPIO9Y9G5Wq9PWlLu0og3CYN-8UMbooS4Y2mD6jS9RVXI/s400/HowardTheDuckMagazine9_Panel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621885276950226706" border="0" /></a>He also offered to send me an autographed copy of the newly released—and gorgeous—<span style="font-style: italic;">Secrets and Shadows: The Art & Life of Gene Colan</span> by TwoMorrows Publishing for twenty dollars (The book retails for $44.95!), which he would send with the artwork. he didn’t even ask for postage & handling, but I added additional money to cover those costs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3PNv26l0ttGEYgXm7Eh-T39-wV_qSzyMDhS5FBg3NxxZtyhg5mY-5sUyss4_FcIWCU8o0uObhQCEmS50uv8FzqNsEsjVkhdoksi_u_51Jl1CACjfeC_B50sFv2-_ZgrF9UfCythXULU/s1600/Secrets%2526Shadows.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 395px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3PNv26l0ttGEYgXm7Eh-T39-wV_qSzyMDhS5FBg3NxxZtyhg5mY-5sUyss4_FcIWCU8o0uObhQCEmS50uv8FzqNsEsjVkhdoksi_u_51Jl1CACjfeC_B50sFv2-_ZgrF9UfCythXULU/s400/Secrets%2526Shadows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621884819419467058" border="0" /></a>Despite failing health and increasingly poor eyesight—he was down to one working eye and that just barely—Colan continued to do commissions without a hint of his talent waning.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZz9YU8XC7YLuQ8K2RRqj29Tobv43gBRKEA9tTODMXByC5QVFLq3d6Dv2FlNgU3iecBVH3SRVgvmksVYJ4xbw1XBHCDiM1QucyX0_ICV6t2DYKOwoHrCfclHMmTjlk4zfl_9rCQWjkLc/s1600/GeneColan_Autograph.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZz9YU8XC7YLuQ8K2RRqj29Tobv43gBRKEA9tTODMXByC5QVFLq3d6Dv2FlNgU3iecBVH3SRVgvmksVYJ4xbw1XBHCDiM1QucyX0_ICV6t2DYKOwoHrCfclHMmTjlk4zfl_9rCQWjkLc/s400/GeneColan_Autograph.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621892403633140402" border="0" /></a>I think tonight I’ll read <span style="font-style: italic;">Secrets and Shadows</span>.<br /><br />Colan would’ve liked that.Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-23031799083556618632011-06-22T09:34:00.029-04:002011-06-28T08:43:44.574-04:00Northern Exposure, Part I: Who Was that Masked Man?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsUi6juGvt_9UXwtOHFQUGyKuzP-Draf5hnBKmRNgSSlK-lCXoTxnHVOvZ7QppjXOuKw087EVHlX7UQZWW6y_pPQoV6q1CbTDpCeXYLKo3X_dYxkWVDZ0jMf_OsItbkJ9Ft1_NKWvhJHY/s1600/sm_provinceCanada100%2525.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsUi6juGvt_9UXwtOHFQUGyKuzP-Draf5hnBKmRNgSSlK-lCXoTxnHVOvZ7QppjXOuKw087EVHlX7UQZWW6y_pPQoV6q1CbTDpCeXYLKo3X_dYxkWVDZ0jMf_OsItbkJ9Ft1_NKWvhJHY/s400/sm_provinceCanada100%2525.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621067483796755938" border="0" /></a>Not long after my jaunt to St. John’s, Canada, to help sell the Canadian Association of Chiefs of Police (CACP) on the idea of financially backing a line of customized, Spider-Man, PSA—Public Service Announcement—comic books to educate the country’s youth on the evils of drugs, cigarettes and alcohol; the safety of bicycle helmets; and other important issues (see “Chill St. John’s,” <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/chill-st-johns.html">Parts I</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/chill-st-johns-part-ii.html">II</a>), I was appointed to participate in a whirlwind, five-day, four-city, cross-country press tour to officially announce the program to the Canadian populace and unveil the cover to the first book in the series.<br /><br />The million-dollar–plus joint program, with the Alliance for a Drug-Free Canada and Health and Welfare Canada, kicked off on December 3, 1990 in Toronto, and the schedule was unforgiving. An early-morning press event kicked off each day—in the case of Toronto, there were two such dog-and-pony shows, one on the heels of the other—at the completion of which I was rushed to the airport to catch a flight to the next city for the following morning’s media circus act.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcmTiZzF8dCAIoS-H1Wzl3U-5op4E-ZcN2JE1gj1MgU_v_QMy_e2eF5QCiD4kEO5nY480bzXtAf3XZ0GSEGdR8k0yZ1qrUCd3ZN6Au1tJMfp-8MaM1SLMu3nZlMzPE5ZNpJUE1c0pX08/s1600/SM_Toronto_Press_McCormack.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcmTiZzF8dCAIoS-H1Wzl3U-5op4E-ZcN2JE1gj1MgU_v_QMy_e2eF5QCiD4kEO5nY480bzXtAf3XZ0GSEGdR8k0yZ1qrUCd3ZN6Au1tJMfp-8MaM1SLMu3nZlMzPE5ZNpJUE1c0pX08/s400/SM_Toronto_Press_McCormack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621067082428852834" border="0" /></a>In the penultimate city, a visit to the local children’s hospital was scheduled. At that point in the tour, when the subsequent and climactic jaunt was a mere ferry ride away, my stops became less like that of a convict on the lam and more like that of a visiting foreign dignitary, which was not too far from the truth, albeit without the motorcades and bodyguards. Then it was back on a plane to Toronto.<br /><br />I’m knackered just remembering the whole affair.<br /><br />I agreed to spend the Friday night prior to the Saturday kick-off at the home of the visionary behind the program, Eric. Even given the brief time we’d worked together in St. John’s, we’d formed a strong friendship. Of course, spending time with a man’s scantily clad wife will do that (I <span style="font-style: italic;">told</span> you to see “Chill St. John’s,” <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/chill-st-johns.html">Part I</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/chill-st-johns-part-ii.html">II</a>!). Come to think of it, staging an accidental encounter with one’s lovely wife in sexy lingerie is a clever way to guarantee fealty in a potential colleague. Even the purest of souls would be drawn to work with the temptress’s hubby, even if only on a subconscious level. And when I think of some of the stunts for which Eric “volunteered” me in the ensuing years in which I gladly participated… <span style="font-style: italic;">Hmm…</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqsnbk8XJIXomKn3F5S8KJb0KoVk-34RvWrF4CWQktQqiMfufwXwF-nimBDaYQvCVm18pnXFc_sKcN1ALJYUePHtoE3J_-FMDQrRiLgZ2IXgMJjrh693aYSmTImmmAV_kAg7deS5Sa3c/s1600/Fiona_CloseUp.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 384px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqsnbk8XJIXomKn3F5S8KJb0KoVk-34RvWrF4CWQktQqiMfufwXwF-nimBDaYQvCVm18pnXFc_sKcN1ALJYUePHtoE3J_-FMDQrRiLgZ2IXgMJjrh693aYSmTImmmAV_kAg7deS5Sa3c/s400/Fiona_CloseUp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621066194248037650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">This photo of Fiona—The Scottish Lady, as Eric so fondly calls her—was taken recently and sent to me by Eric with the express purpose of using them... </span>AND<span style="font-style: italic;"> with Fiona’s blessing!</span><br /></div><br />Eric lived in Scarborough, Ontario, a suburb of Toronto, in the sort of picturesque, wood-shrouded, warm and inviting dwelling one might find in a Frost poem or Currier & Ives print. My lodgings were not in the main house, but above the oversized two-car garage; a cozy apartment with pull-out couch, entertainment center, log-burning stove and bathroom with walk-in shower. It would prove to be my home-away-from-home on many a Canadian adventure to follow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwm-3Zf1AcOI3Ld4sV4q6um2IKKGjiUQHWnApYNmsmpqoCi-Quhhgdj_NC1P7JxQPwqlMtjMKB4j4iMNNaONs9L_gEZShGjtvrLhyphenhyphenlTPo0d4jkAx1jLVcXkFPBxuFJAR2A4sGOyrZlQEk/s1600/currier-and-ives-christmas.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 380px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwm-3Zf1AcOI3Ld4sV4q6um2IKKGjiUQHWnApYNmsmpqoCi-Quhhgdj_NC1P7JxQPwqlMtjMKB4j4iMNNaONs9L_gEZShGjtvrLhyphenhyphenlTPo0d4jkAx1jLVcXkFPBxuFJAR2A4sGOyrZlQEk/s400/currier-and-ives-christmas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621054651110861906" border="0" /></a>It wasn’t especially unusual for Marvel’s Personal Appearance performers to stay at the home of a sponsor. Most of the actors who’d built a rapport with certain clients held no qualms about doing so. It proved to be a symbiotic relationship: The graciousness of the actor guaranteed their getting the job and defrayed the appearance’s cost, which in turn helped make it possible for the client to book the gig in the first place. Since Eric would be joining me throughout our grand cross-continental trip, the move also ensured our mutual arrival at the appointed time and location of the opening ceremonies.<br /><br />Also accompanying us would be Eric’s thirteen-year-old son, Peter. While his father was wracking his brains to come up with a surefire method to reach kids and thus nail the account, Peter innocently said, “Why don’t you use Spider-Man?” Ah, from the mouths of babes. I can almost hear the angel chorus and see the ray of light that cast down upon Eric as the epiphany struck him and the entire program fell into place.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgti5u0FDABM-RSkoRcNW3HXGLZOGgnnsmI3mmvXya2Cyk_Y_3ANGe_Tkdpfeo6K0lSeSVkTE8gmAVxWLpj8skCM-fV_ivAzK9r9zQxphtcq_27q4keUyNz2aKG38U3hoyLyh7mB3exAE0/s1600/petespidey90s.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 335px; height: 359px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgti5u0FDABM-RSkoRcNW3HXGLZOGgnnsmI3mmvXya2Cyk_Y_3ANGe_Tkdpfeo6K0lSeSVkTE8gmAVxWLpj8skCM-fV_ivAzK9r9zQxphtcq_27q4keUyNz2aKG38U3hoyLyh7mB3exAE0/s400/petespidey90s.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621054146302211826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Eric</span>’<span style="font-style: italic;">s son, Peter, the mastermind behind the CACP Spider-Man comic program</span><br /></div><br />Although the tour would be taking place the first week in December, the idea of snowfall during the affair never occurred to me. Whilst growing up in Boston, snow was rare that early in the season. Cold? Certainly. The frigid temps descended in October, just in time to ruin one’s Halloween costume by the forced wearing of a snorkel jacket by an overly-concerned mother. Had I been more astute, I would’ve embraced the moment and gone out as an Inuit with the family Siberian Husky towing me around the neighborhood on my Radio Flyer. As for the chill, what need I worry? No one would be silly enough to schedule a press event outside in December, not even a Canuck.<br /><br />You’d think I’d learn…<br /><br />As it turned out, the press part of the Toronto leg was scheduled to follow a grand announcement in Nathan Phillips Square located directly in front of City Hall. So much for not having to worry about the cold. As for snow—<span style="font-style: italic;">hah!</span> Brisk it may have been, but the skies were clear and the sun was shining. It was the type of crisp autumn day where everything appears more clearly defined, like an animated cell atop a painted background.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkjfbNzyQCg1SkQwaodpDnfzB-TgffVJuQkOguCL2mT4O6qrH9Dsp_rEBNCByh4-5lvuchv60UGr0RjvsFhH5cT_lS0dmgI3KPMaSX2_Vc8aSo3_B82o2EPfkkZ9x1ycaKXf31EDycQRE/s1600/BURGERMEISTER1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkjfbNzyQCg1SkQwaodpDnfzB-TgffVJuQkOguCL2mT4O6qrH9Dsp_rEBNCByh4-5lvuchv60UGr0RjvsFhH5cT_lS0dmgI3KPMaSX2_Vc8aSo3_B82o2EPfkkZ9x1ycaKXf31EDycQRE/s200/BURGERMEISTER1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621056226740319666" border="0" /></a>Still, the temp would be a problem. Spandex offers little in the way of insulation and seeing as this was a city government event, complete with the mayor or Burgermeister or whatever it is Canucks have, and a retinue of Mounties, I held little hope of it ending before I suffered hypothermia and my wobbly bits had contracted and hardened into colorful agates. It didn’t help that my hosts kept asking me if I was going to be warm enough in the suit. <span style="font-style: italic;">No, I would not, thank you very much. Maybe you shouldn’t schedule outdoor events in December. Canada isn’t exactly an equatorial country, y’know! </span>Of course by the look of the lightweight jackets and loose-fitting attire of the locals, one would never have guessed it was literally <span style="font-style: italic;">freezing</span>.<br /><br />Fortunately, a member of my posse offered me a sweatshirt, a promotional gew-gaw of a recent city-sponsored event—“Take a moose to work day” or some such—with a garish design of fluorescent pink, yellow and lime-green on a stark white canvas that clashed with the classic Spider-Man palette. I was loathe to wear anything, but had little choice. Perhaps sensing my concern—more likely seeing what a dodo I looked like in the sweatshirt—my police escort offered me his jacket as I made my way from the office in which I donned the red-and-blue and to the building’s lobby where I would await my cue. Since the CACP was a major part of the campaign, it made perfect sense for Spidey to show his allegiance by wearing a police officer’s coat. Gone or ignored by me during all this were the overheard snippets of conversation among my entourage; worrying smidgens of “a fast-approaching blizzard” and “record snowfall.” <span style="font-style: italic;">Must be talking about some other part of Canada; there isn’t a cloud in the sky.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUKETm8kLa2qn4qP_uIIJcrR36AONGX3RJ1J07_y20xkHrzt9wytvnoKG__wWAN_QcSsH8btxQ4IknfbInWxHG_Oqh0ltnHheayjGK7J2zFcYe3sdaE_pCeP3ew45sgkIYPkRO_YB_LtY/s1600/SpiderMan_TorontoPlaza.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUKETm8kLa2qn4qP_uIIJcrR36AONGX3RJ1J07_y20xkHrzt9wytvnoKG__wWAN_QcSsH8btxQ4IknfbInWxHG_Oqh0ltnHheayjGK7J2zFcYe3sdaE_pCeP3ew45sgkIYPkRO_YB_LtY/s400/SpiderMan_TorontoPlaza.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621053818720836642" border="0" /></a>While the mayor did the whole suck-up-to-his-constituents thing, I hid just inside the building behind one of the towering, floor-to-ceiling columns that dotted the lobby, to ensure the optimal amount of delighted surprise in the audience when I appeared, which wasn’t easy. The entry was surrounded on three sides—including the doors—by glass. Any bored attendees, who decided to take a walk-about would see me in a flash. And given the endless drone of each successive government official, the odds of that possibility happening increased with each brown-nosed introduction to the next Mucky-Muck on the agenda.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fuAju6weT8BM4-0OhnBAnrgDujL6bnb02SMlpnx03EAkslR-haQaGOCW_4r5hVGp9rQ5GEpbVVKcIqPTQ5L-efujvERuLEKdkH5T6Da9DBvpTXhT5XN1uLolmYJJDoHAtTduWKqbvy4/s1600/nelson_eddy_jeannette_macdonald.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fuAju6weT8BM4-0OhnBAnrgDujL6bnb02SMlpnx03EAkslR-haQaGOCW_4r5hVGp9rQ5GEpbVVKcIqPTQ5L-efujvERuLEKdkH5T6Da9DBvpTXhT5XN1uLolmYJJDoHAtTduWKqbvy4/s200/nelson_eddy_jeannette_macdonald.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621055753529198514" border="0" /></a>You’d think I’d be worrying about my speech—not that I had one. I was once again left to my own devices. My hosts seemed unconcerned, probably believing I was prepared ahead of time. And Eric was AWOL. He left me to ensure the press event afterward was set up properly. I could have declared war, done my best Dudley Do-Rite impersonation or started yodeling “When I’m calling you-oo-oo-oo…” like Nelson Eddy. It was a testament to Eric’s trust in me that he didn’t fret over what I would say. He was assured from my behavior in St, John’s that I’d be fine. And he knew the power of the costume would forgive any faux pas I might make.<br /><br />Finally, I was introduced. I bounded out the front doors through the gathering throngs of reporters, TV crews, government Nabobs and confused tourists, and ascended the platform on which the speeches were conducted. After giving generous thanks to my hosts, followed by the prerequisite opening joke about swinging to Canada—“I thought I was going to be late. Once I left Manhattan, I ran out of things to swing from, so I had to hop on a bus!”—to loosen/wake up the crowd, I spoke a few words on what an honor it was to be a part of helping my Canadian fans and how I looked forward to meeting them on my journey across their beautiful country. It was succinct and genuine, and would make for a nice spot on the evening news cast in that slot after the tragedies, killings, burglaries, latest celebrity meltdown—you know, the feel-good stuff—and before the sports and weather, only if such “cheery” events were few and there wasn’t some sort of weather calamity, like, say, a massive blizzard!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirCkAR9k81DAVcTPJweXhkL6-k4DGabBC-p2jSB6nozD2-QHoAE6HfXuopAsbX098oirqoriRPYz8Pw9hvc73p8naK7eUbxyQCTUmDIiPWhCgi-WrDNW_3pmoIdCbD2ym_NSlB6UoTiXM/s1600/TGIFridays.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirCkAR9k81DAVcTPJweXhkL6-k4DGabBC-p2jSB6nozD2-QHoAE6HfXuopAsbX098oirqoriRPYz8Pw9hvc73p8naK7eUbxyQCTUmDIiPWhCgi-WrDNW_3pmoIdCbD2ym_NSlB6UoTiXM/s200/TGIFridays.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621055432166588194" border="0" /></a>I was soon back in the warmth of City Hall changing into my civvies so as not to be late for the second stage of the kick-off. The press conference took place a few blocks away at a local restaurant called the Organ Grinder, the décor and fare of which could have passed for any TGI Friday’s—now simply Friday’s. In the short time it took me to put my clothes back on and leave City Hall, the sky had turned a disheartening gray. As I entered the eatery, mere moments later, downy flakes the size of tea bags had begun to fall. Still, though my optimism wavered, I was confident there wouldn’t be a problem in the few hours until I’d be on a plane whisking off to Winnipeg for Stage II of the tour. <span style="font-style: italic;">How bad could it get?</span><br /><br />(Cue ominous music…)<br /><br />The restaurant had suspended its afternoon service—<span style="font-style: italic;">Gasp! Where will we get our Illchester cheese-covered, honey-glazed sweet potato fries?!</span>—and closed to the public. Unlike the ubiquitous Friday’s, the Organ Grinder had offered live entertainment. How else to explain the stage at one end of the dining room. The cabaret-style tables were cleared of any dishes, silverware, condiments or specialties signage, leaving nought but a white tablecloth and the chairs. Management hadn’t even bothered to move them to one side, perhaps to more quickly prepare for dinner service once the conference was finished. The room was unlit, save for the stage, which was awash with intense lighting.<br /><br />Unlike the endless political falderal in front of City Hall, Eric’s presentation was economic, steering quickly to the razzle dazzle of Spider-Man. Unbeknownst to yours truly, Eric had arranged for a group of young children to be present. It was a stroke of genius. Any doubt the muckrakers may have had about the efficacy or cost of the program disappeared the moment I leapt into the room. The children were aflutter with excitement; ubiquitous utterings of “’pider-Man,” delivered in a precocious timber that could melt the heart of the Marquis de Sade, filled the room.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://drone-on.com/2011/03/11/spidey-sent-packing/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzYGNu0HFQ5HeWCigtsDcc7UjtsngBE2Kvli46av7GqnyyNdcroffDWuBsOPTwnDdKzptuiSqn5wH3og_3ccLYeCOx2Ag_owAdN0h9jXdsY_4gvV_PbTQ2mGNK6GRx6LQG97NTdAzX6w/s400/SpiderMan_Eric_OrganGrinder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621056643069766514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Eric explains the CACP Spider-Man promotion and why it was abruptly cut short after only five of the ten proposed custom comics was produced on his own blog,</span> <a href="http://drone-on.com/2011/03/11/spidey-sent-packing/">Drone On</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. </span><br /></div><br />There were more flashes than at a Brittany Spears sighting—<span style="font-style: italic;">Whew! Glad I </span>(ahem) <span style="font-style: italic;">shaved!</span>—when I made my surprise entrance, making the restaurant seem like Studio 54. The presence of the Web-Slingers wee fans made for excellent camera fodder. I swear I could hear the shutterbugs slavering for a chance to shoot me with the children. To them, a pic of Spider-Man with adorable young ’uns was the next best thing to a dead body. Plus, it would temporarily assuage those annoying goody two-shoes constantly descrying the abundance of feel-bad stories and photos in the paper. I’m sure there were more than a few thinking the presence of a corpse would make the ultimate trifecta. <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh well, there go the Closet fans I had from the media.</span><br /><br />Ah, yes, my friends the media. To be fair most were “fair and balanced” with their reporting on Spider-Man’s activities. And this was true wherever my adventures took me, The U.S., Canada and England alike. But it was the occasional smarmy one that soured the whole bunch; those handful of would-be Walter Winchells who were never satisfied with the story set before them, ever digging for an iota of underlying dirt around which they could twist a report into sensationalism. Most commonly, these flibbertigibbits sought the secret identity of the man behind the webbed mask.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZsfPPJNeE1OrQZ9MNfEYtIMJhRuCw_RnMrCDd_lYgf0N2RfmgYFehgwx1GlXjaYgfT6zdZ5lcCwbPyDJw8DDHdMWHMgnuB2OPoUfLjvLJ4paooDo-2QuKXTLUPFr0LhPoB_FAROBStU/s1600/SM_Toronto_PressTabletop.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 385px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZsfPPJNeE1OrQZ9MNfEYtIMJhRuCw_RnMrCDd_lYgf0N2RfmgYFehgwx1GlXjaYgfT6zdZ5lcCwbPyDJw8DDHdMWHMgnuB2OPoUfLjvLJ4paooDo-2QuKXTLUPFr0LhPoB_FAROBStU/s400/SM_Toronto_PressTabletop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621058558532067762" border="0" /></a>“So who <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> you,” the enterprising reporter would ask.<br /><br />“Spider-Man… You know? Superhero, savior of the world, idol of millions… You really need to get out more.” I’d reply with more than a hint of “What are you, an idiot?” in my voice. If the reporter was daring enough to query before his colleagues, I might add “Perhaps one of you could fill him in later. He obviously didn’t get the memo;” always sure to evoke a hearty guffaw and certain to put an abrupt halt to the hapless victim’s line of inquiry, until such time they could corner me by themselves.<br /><br />“No, who are you really?” They’d continue unfazed, if they <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> happen to confront me <span style="font-style: italic;">mano a mano</span>, in such a tone as to suggest that I didn’t understand the question.<br /><br />“I can’t tell you that. I have a secret identity to uphold,” I’d answer. “You must work for the Daily Bugle. Did J. Jonah Jameson send you up here?”<br /><br />“So you’re not going to tell me…” I’m not sure if this disheartened coda to their fruitless interrogation was meant to guilt me into revelation or simply ease their own conscience into accepting defeat. Either way it was pathetic.<br /><br />“Sorry; no can do. I’ve got loved ones to protect,” or some such I’d say, before leaping away.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBT4InaQfafJhKS0JRgeBkWJAUQLDVhjJXkaTLimrMrnR5p602Cncc1VsAD_XS3oCzDUzHYA5gwuDTxn8zyZZLolbRSKdrb7R_OkooCAIMa8VJzuMfpgAIawWN80pZwCpL0iBYKgnT5sw/s1600/sm_tabletopCanada2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBT4InaQfafJhKS0JRgeBkWJAUQLDVhjJXkaTLimrMrnR5p602Cncc1VsAD_XS3oCzDUzHYA5gwuDTxn8zyZZLolbRSKdrb7R_OkooCAIMa8VJzuMfpgAIawWN80pZwCpL0iBYKgnT5sw/s400/sm_tabletopCanada2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621058993167928162" border="0" /></a>At the Organ Grinder, as I left the stage to confront the media, I beelined it to the table on which a giant replica of the first issue cover of the CACP’s Spider-Man comic program was displayed and perched onto a smaller table abutted against it. I wanted to ensure that any photo-taking or videotaping highlighted the cover, thus emphasizing the reason ye olde Web-Spinner was in Canada, even though many of the resulting questions may not pertain to it. I also tried to steer my answers to the program. I was not asked to do this by the Marvel hierarchy or Eric, and maybe other Spideys might have simply taken questions from the stage and kept their replies pithy and comic-centric.<br /><br />Marvel’s PR department frowned on the characters making unscripted statements—outside of those relegated to the world of the heroes—to the press. And I would have gotten paid regardless. But I’d seen the press release and wasn’t arrogant or stupid enough to take the intricacies of the program entirely in my hands. Any questions that delved deeper than what was on the hand-outs, I directed to the pertinent parties, usually a member of the CACP. <span style="font-style: italic;">I gotta say it was refreshing making appearances knowing an entire nation’s police force had my back! </span><br /><br />After the initial barrage of questioning, the media blockade surrounding me broke up and I was left—<span style="font-style: italic;">finally</span>—to mingle with my wee fans, who stood in earnest on the ring’s outskirts, like the children outside the gates of Willie Wonka’s factory watching the lucky few with golden tickets meet the Master Chocolatier.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXN63Q4W_b_C9ioxmimR4LnWHMC0gMY-fzs3IEe8rtOQg4wZ5JehbDiiNmTIVOmprqMomlr8cQuunV3YEfRwoQwHm92IpmWuyC3LSbIVKaAFvs6iUeFDxikNfGkYbK7yl4KrJnXU-Tvk/s1600/Cindy-lou-who.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 144px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXN63Q4W_b_C9ioxmimR4LnWHMC0gMY-fzs3IEe8rtOQg4wZ5JehbDiiNmTIVOmprqMomlr8cQuunV3YEfRwoQwHm92IpmWuyC3LSbIVKaAFvs6iUeFDxikNfGkYbK7yl4KrJnXU-Tvk/s320/Cindy-lou-who.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621054994962028034" border="0" /></a>One such Cindy Lou Who, who was probably more than two, but still getting used to the whole walking-on-two-legs thing, waited trepidatiously while her peers rushed in with high-fives and handshakes. Seeing her brethren come out of the moment unscathed bolstered her nerves enough that she began to slowly approach on unsteady feet. I held out my hand at arms length and coaxed her soothingly. Time stood still as she painstakingly reached out.<br /><br />Suddenly, my small admirer was side-swiped by the intrusive leg of a rampaging reporter, barreling around the tables to get his chance at a Pulitzer by confronting Spider-Man one-on-one. The little lass kerplopped on her fanny, more surprised than hurt, and the pioneering muckraker delivered a curt, dismissive, “’Scuse me, sweetie,” with the barest of head swivels in her direction, before turning back to me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzfnF1k4zV09LGHfRsxzBf_2CQ3L1ojqY2wUezhTBTM89L3XNW0dkp8oJoHEmzNDveJi5BW2uf4zPPh_XzR9rg8f_fYFFnptT-e1j667vlujUICMcvqm4UiRs97jQXMG_QpPXpBwY7d4/s1600/Northern1F.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzfnF1k4zV09LGHfRsxzBf_2CQ3L1ojqY2wUezhTBTM89L3XNW0dkp8oJoHEmzNDveJi5BW2uf4zPPh_XzR9rg8f_fYFFnptT-e1j667vlujUICMcvqm4UiRs97jQXMG_QpPXpBwY7d4/s400/Northern1F.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621053268829718994" border="0" /></a>I was appalled and fuming, but retained my composure—at least outside the mask. I wanted to throw the reporter on <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> ass and deliver a meaningless apology, while rushing to the girl’s aid, but I know doing so would be put a damper on the festivities—to say the least—make Spider-Man persona non grata in Canada and severely damage, if not shatter, the CACP’s cause. And it would most certainly freak out the child. She had barely gotten up the courage to touch the Web-Crawler’s outstretched hand. Imagine how she’d react if I jumped forward to help. From her POV, it would be nightmarish. Her mien was that of a child who falls and hasn’t yet decided whether to start screaming or not. I was not about to push her over the edge and force her into years of therapy.<br /><br />I did the only thing I could think of. As soon as he began to utter his first question, I cut him off with a flippant, “Oops! Spider-Senses tingling… Gotta go!” and bound away from the blighter. I certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an interview. I little feared the possibility of a missed quote. There would be coverage aplenty without this Cretan’s input.<br /><br />And how misguided of the reporter. The story was directly in front of him. After years of the CACP and government agencies looking for an effective way to teach children and teens about the ramifications of drug-use and other social concerns, this moment of a youngster reaching out to the country’s new vehicle in championing these important causes exemplified the power of the program and spoke volumes to its subsequent efficacy. The dolt probably had to use a dictionary to spell <span style="font-style: italic;">journalistic integrity</span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-ZryvJgeCKyNz5AqpwOXpW00vifqMwRjILuSJaBW4JpoJLpkSJBmnhuzy8943u_IzZvIaVsxZLQc7fIYyhxahNibPcPUbBtc0Uqj3Z9MVbrNsZFTRS-esKQBXrJ3cY32yiYH8hzzKME/s1600/Ed_Ruscha_Back_of_Hollywood.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-ZryvJgeCKyNz5AqpwOXpW00vifqMwRjILuSJaBW4JpoJLpkSJBmnhuzy8943u_IzZvIaVsxZLQc7fIYyhxahNibPcPUbBtc0Uqj3Z9MVbrNsZFTRS-esKQBXrJ3cY32yiYH8hzzKME/s200/Ed_Ruscha_Back_of_Hollywood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621059775070004162" border="0" /></a>At some point during the dog-and-pony show—Yours Truly being both dog and pony—I noticed that someone had replaced the view outside the large picture window with a white sheet. It caught my eye because of the way the restaurant’s name—emblazoned in garish colors and appropriate circus font—suddenly took on the characteristics of something out of a gallery showing of famous contemporary American artist, Ed Ruscha. A prominent collection of words against a stark background, no longer fighting the animated view of the world beyond the pane.<br /><br />As I cheated closer during the interview process with the media, I saw to my horror that what was a beautiful, crisp, sunny, though chilly, day only a few hours earlier had transformed into a raging blizzard! The cars parked in front of the building had already become amorphous blobs of snow; the streets were deserted, save for the occasional vehicle crawling slowly through the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5z6d6VPaps-nGK2Buu879YEnOzca1xULeyQTKV0x99WnN0tyP3cARQP4L8moxHG8L0d0gkUyqB2pWMztJOOrvvREt6IOU_90gssN7b5l2R_r9RlYgdF5_g7sXM2R_OUvvSu6lon-1D8/s1600/YukonCornelius.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5z6d6VPaps-nGK2Buu879YEnOzca1xULeyQTKV0x99WnN0tyP3cARQP4L8moxHG8L0d0gkUyqB2pWMztJOOrvvREt6IOU_90gssN7b5l2R_r9RlYgdF5_g7sXM2R_OUvvSu6lon-1D8/s200/YukonCornelius.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621063029807574418" border="0" /></a>two-foot–high accumulation; and I could barely see the buildings across the way. I half-expected Yukon Cornelius to come bursting through the front doors at any moment crying “Ain’t a fit night for man nor beast!” And like Santa, I had a flight to catch, only without a reindeer with a mutant illuminated nose to lead the way! <span style="font-style: italic;">But this is Canada. This is their definition of a light dusting,</span> I kept trying to convince myself as the snow was noticeably rising before my eyes in the seconds it took me to ruminate on the matter!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5L4J9dWsR2efAnxwoamcrcEWpUXgww8H03m_3m1DQ1_eat5SDCQ4x6e8SwYpTD5Ju9BobN0quGDunzYub2OCTsAV1pv7G9DvPNlzN8GT3MKPf2V9dhIjd-FTv3GUHVwvamD-jB3dI2gA/s1600/winterwarlock.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5L4J9dWsR2efAnxwoamcrcEWpUXgww8H03m_3m1DQ1_eat5SDCQ4x6e8SwYpTD5Ju9BobN0quGDunzYub2OCTsAV1pv7G9DvPNlzN8GT3MKPf2V9dhIjd-FTv3GUHVwvamD-jB3dI2gA/s200/winterwarlock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621063285831158338" border="0" /></a>And the time was nigh; <span style="font-style: italic;">nigher</span> than originally planned. Eric sidled up beside me to report that the blizzard was expected to get exponentially worse with every passing moment and I had to leave <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span> in order to get on the one flight that was scheduled to leave for Winnipeg before the airport shut down. The small NBA gym bag containing my civvies had already been moved to a police car awaiting me in front of the restaurant. I had less than an hour to make the forty-minute trek from downtown Toronto to the airport in a snowstorm that would make the Winter Warlock—keeping to the Rankin-Bass theme—call in sick.<br /><br />But what about my luggage? I asked. There’d be no time to retrieve and transport it. Neither my single piece—a larger over-the-shoulder carry-on—nor Eric or his son would be going to Winnipeg with me as planned. The next morning’s press conference would be marshaled by Winnipeg Police Chief Herb Stephen, who would be a the lone person accompanying me from Toronto, and Yours Truly. My luggage would be directed straight to Vancouver, where I’d reconnect with Eric and Peter. I’d have nothing with me, but literally the clothes on my back and a Spider-Man costume!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCK83WbMxkG58R8qultx7EkOQs0ng3xgLD8ekE0rXN6kByqsA4YhyphenhyphenBnrKt5GHqCX4Ulyz2krb-mF3yM6aT1wYTZc0qpKfSZDUS3JbPH0l4wjWqLYqw36sZB0pRWZU9ocC4EPUtLzoHRsY/s1600/BieberMob.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCK83WbMxkG58R8qultx7EkOQs0ng3xgLD8ekE0rXN6kByqsA4YhyphenhyphenBnrKt5GHqCX4Ulyz2krb-mF3yM6aT1wYTZc0qpKfSZDUS3JbPH0l4wjWqLYqw36sZB0pRWZU9ocC4EPUtLzoHRsY/s200/BieberMob.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621064510209934338" border="0" /></a>Eric and several officer’s hustled me out of the Organ Grinder like Justin Bieber being escorted out of a mall concert. For a split second I became the Flash, as I bolted from the front doors of the restaurant to the police cruiser, diving into the back seat where my gym bag sat waiting. Had I slipped or my handlers not opened the door beforehand, I would have risked frostbite. Blessedly, my driver had cranked up the heat in advance. I waited until the vehicle had moved away from the building before shedding the red-and-blues and putting on my clothes. Not that anyone would have seen anything had I not delayed my changing. The visibility was so bad I could have mooned the picture window of the Organ Grinder, slapped my hairy ass right up against the backseat window, and no one within would have noticed.<br /><br />Herb Stephen sat shotgun as the cruiser navigated through the storm. Miraculously, we arrived at the airline entrance. I wanted to kiss the driver, but there was no time, as the Chief and I were hurried through the terminal to the gate and onto the plane. It was surreal. I felt like John Cusack in <span style="font-style: italic;">2012</span>, decades before he made his fateful escape in the movie. The flight was packed. There was no ambiguity where our seats were—the only aisle and window seat unoccupied—as we entered the cabin. Dozens of faces stared at us, various expressions of frustration and relief mixed with more than a dash of curiosity.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhdZKqxuXt6NlOrOVLaLunnd1D0KCbPD0gxSGO6_2SnR9n6eAx2GGW6hlS2ArLsxTLI2uZrrnVgt8Uro8kjl4erE5R42Q1OinnZtrBZ5ujKGw7TO-TK56IO5LdeC_ZUHt3oL2-AWCVb4/s1600/JohnCusack_2012.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhdZKqxuXt6NlOrOVLaLunnd1D0KCbPD0gxSGO6_2SnR9n6eAx2GGW6hlS2ArLsxTLI2uZrrnVgt8Uro8kjl4erE5R42Q1OinnZtrBZ5ujKGw7TO-TK56IO5LdeC_ZUHt3oL2-AWCVb4/s400/JohnCusack_2012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621059974511958594" border="0" /></a><br />It was then that I realized what a provocative portrait Chief Stephen and I made. We weren’t just a young man and older adult arriving late for a flight. Stephen was in full police regalia. I was a sight in my disheveled, hastily-donned-in-the-back-of-a-car civvies, matted-down-from-hours-in-a-Spider-Man-suit hair, and my drawn, exhausted mien, carrying a wee Leprechaun-green gym bag. Goodness knows how long the flight was delayed waiting for us. And we were obviously traveling together, having arrived in tandem and taking seats beside each other. Passengers probably thought I was an undercover cop or, more likely, a felon being returned to Winnipeg to face my crimes. Regardless, I was a person of import.<br /><br />Suddenly, my impossible flight to Newfoundland in the back of a cargo plane a few months previous (see “Chill—”, aw, never mind!) made sense. I had the entire police force of Canada—and its political power—watching over me. There was no way I was <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> going to get to St. John’s that night. If they had to pull George Kennedy out of retirement (Honorary ten loonies to any of my Faithful Bloglodytes who get that reference) and have him pilot the Spruce Goose, they would have made it so. That evening in Toronto, the lives of a few score people didn’t amount to a hill of beans compared to getting Spider-Man to Winnipeg. And Mother Nature be damned, as well!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnY_O6Uwd2kbmtxf5g94gnID9heZYO1_uLLyVwta32peETzBxipBhpAkLQP34rX8QAgf_0-uy_0E3qtBwNczJ64syj5VCZ8_plUUi9thRGd9OvvjJ7RachzPhHQE8wkLK67_S5LVuUoek/s1600/OherMountie.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnY_O6Uwd2kbmtxf5g94gnID9heZYO1_uLLyVwta32peETzBxipBhpAkLQP34rX8QAgf_0-uy_0E3qtBwNczJ64syj5VCZ8_plUUi9thRGd9OvvjJ7RachzPhHQE8wkLK67_S5LVuUoek/s400/OherMountie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621059207139992930" border="0" /></a>Me? Given the circumstance, I would rather have walked. Ours was the only flight scheduled for take-off. And from the appearance of the tarmac, which looked more inhospitable, desolate and perma-frosted than the ice planet of Hoth, I’d say there hadn’t been much activity for hours. At least, I wouldn’t have to be kept warm in the body of a recently-deceased Tauntaun (They’ll be a quiz in the morning). Was I the only one who didn’t think it was a good idea to be taking off in this mess?!!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHAY1s65Pj_caK2bG0B98gXoU6Rcj5bYkeuXjlbVrON3366H-hYXEnWU0xsj6qSUbbD2e0-5q32zwrM9-qOAO2vr-u9x8bMeTXYNlZ7q-rMv4Oo8PLBb4eH8_6OtxzVdUjIFxtQ79k28/s1600/Luketauntaun.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 342px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHAY1s65Pj_caK2bG0B98gXoU6Rcj5bYkeuXjlbVrON3366H-hYXEnWU0xsj6qSUbbD2e0-5q32zwrM9-qOAO2vr-u9x8bMeTXYNlZ7q-rMv4Oo8PLBb4eH8_6OtxzVdUjIFxtQ79k28/s400/Luketauntaun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621060349946110818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">NEXT: Go west, young Spider-Man!</span>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-92112552505327116132011-06-15T15:28:00.033-04:002011-06-28T08:44:14.889-04:00Swimming with Turtles<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpggNtPFGXVYD8hU9rjbei0LOb_rrouHmhdFLHJhw7xt3549908AtQXeCIZq8_WiPma3_2qkXUa7bNZm_x4H67boZXRr18pciGlHLp1D-rPlOB7tkHVegYHgUp358oi197-MRQBxVXpA/s1600/Turtle_SurfaceREV.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpggNtPFGXVYD8hU9rjbei0LOb_rrouHmhdFLHJhw7xt3549908AtQXeCIZq8_WiPma3_2qkXUa7bNZm_x4H67boZXRr18pciGlHLp1D-rPlOB7tkHVegYHgUp358oi197-MRQBxVXpA/s400/Turtle_SurfaceREV.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618564394983858802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">You lookin’ at me?</span><br /><br /></div>On a recent expedition to our favorite vacation spot, Maui, the Wondrous One and I stumbled upon a secluded cove filled with sea turtles. I guess “stumbled upon” is a tad ingenuous. I had only just emerged from the lovely waters of Napili Bay and had still a few drips left in my trunks, when I heard a woman seated no more than a half dozen feet from us speaking to what was obviously her husband, approaching from behind.<br /><br />“Did you see anything?” she asked, as the man came into view.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieEzK3h0KsBpjzwRmnjtZSaOyxosLx0KQ3nAQWYi8fh1np5Z85l4C1MT2V1T9Vm1Ze37G-S4u4SLKBdDBy431I9rfM1iTsPjenvwWs0jYp-jKymT_8JI9bXUkogiBbSxhuZVsEGNsNd6s/s1600/Turtle_SVUpsideDown.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 349px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieEzK3h0KsBpjzwRmnjtZSaOyxosLx0KQ3nAQWYi8fh1np5Z85l4C1MT2V1T9Vm1Ze37G-S4u4SLKBdDBy431I9rfM1iTsPjenvwWs0jYp-jKymT_8JI9bXUkogiBbSxhuZVsEGNsNd6s/s400/Turtle_SVUpsideDown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618562974917703522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Vroom! stalking the elusive Chelonioidea</span><br /></div><br />Before his response, my ears perked up. My latest snorkeling venture had gone unfulfilled. Sure, there were colorful fish aplenty of all shapes and sizes, but I was on the hunt for sea turtles. As he was coming from the direction of the water as I had, with snorkel and fins in tow, I was eager to hear if he’d had any luck.<br /><br />“Unbelievable,” he replied. “They were everywhere.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5Q6HB-dT-4Xi93N_Rh-xrGk0L-YDnqCYVj4YOQz9UIsQyHkDX_SjG69-bO0o-BvzTddhOOhVFv_bYqlxoOgoiRvmzD5zL29fST3R4qVbGL85I4-IUbbDgSu_nNYW8HbdYRxetqzpr98/s1600/Meerkat.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5Q6HB-dT-4Xi93N_Rh-xrGk0L-YDnqCYVj4YOQz9UIsQyHkDX_SjG69-bO0o-BvzTddhOOhVFv_bYqlxoOgoiRvmzD5zL29fST3R4qVbGL85I4-IUbbDgSu_nNYW8HbdYRxetqzpr98/s320/Meerkat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618549489359185202" border="0" /></a>My body shot up like a meerkat’s. “What’d you see?” I asked.<br /><br />Snorkelers, as with any hobbyists, love nothing more than to share their latest successes and failures concerning such. If this were a comic book store, my question would be no more rude than my asking the subject of the exciting storyline I’d overheard two other fans discussing. Plus, the best way to learn of the unique and amazing things while on vacation is to keeps your ears open and your mouth even more so.<br /><br />Every travel advisor or guide, and most websites, are going to list the same ubiquitous “hot” spots, whether they be eateries, attractions, hiking trails or, as in this case, snorkeling and dive areas. But to find those things off the beaten path, you should never shy from asking the locals and other tourists. They’re the best way to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to find the real “bests” of a place.<br /><br />“Turtles,” my friendly fellow snorkeler happily replied. “Dozens of them.”<br /><br />He then went on to tell me that there was a secluded cove a short walk away teeming with terrapins. As he pointed in the direction I should take, he stopped himself.<br /><br />“Why don’t I show you?” he said.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDryTugjLW0q0PixkY1LhyphenhyphenV-E4MLVPnJRV5ow1CIxyVdL83HhJtCNcbnNPEEwp3qFz1MAZPsxuFDE7wrS8tar513yvuK35Q_rmt-fpXfnocuoZhwlPVLhUxVcpaQMfZD1dymzA8OgF25o/s1600/Turtle_YertleAndPal.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDryTugjLW0q0PixkY1LhyphenhyphenV-E4MLVPnJRV5ow1CIxyVdL83HhJtCNcbnNPEEwp3qFz1MAZPsxuFDE7wrS8tar513yvuK35Q_rmt-fpXfnocuoZhwlPVLhUxVcpaQMfZD1dymzA8OgF25o/s400/Turtle_YertleAndPal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618549975411076786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Auditions for </span><span>Yertle the Turtle: The Musical</span><br /></div><br />Jim, whose name as I eventually discovered, in the way a stranger’s name is sometimes not nearly as important as the reasons you began to talk in the first place. Only much later—usually when parting—do you realize the social faux pas, awkwardly shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries before bidding adieu. Anyway, Jim led me along a path that emerged from the rocks book-ending the left side of the beach. Five minutes later I was sitting on a rock, overhanging the ocean in a natural cul-de-sac and makeshift body-launch, donning my fins and mask.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSaB0TJAMDrZFUVlm_5KQl_v-X9RtpoRCrGRrMw4Dv-z2WlbYowkrzeYW11NdxoxegWI_Xr_ayTjIoCZoOkJD9lgSpcvpFx0_N8BfznIynLY-_Iz_p4rgqE8SmnfXt7xaJBWDUAiciCFE/s1600/Turtle_Zzzzz.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSaB0TJAMDrZFUVlm_5KQl_v-X9RtpoRCrGRrMw4Dv-z2WlbYowkrzeYW11NdxoxegWI_Xr_ayTjIoCZoOkJD9lgSpcvpFx0_N8BfznIynLY-_Iz_p4rgqE8SmnfXt7xaJBWDUAiciCFE/s400/Turtle_Zzzzz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618562315869042066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Zzzzzz...</span><br /><br /></div>My heart pounded with excitement. Sure, I’d swum with sea turtles many times before. My success rate in tracking down the marine mammals was pretty good when it came to snorkeling along the coast of Maui. Usually my aquatic adventures included the triumphant discovery and subsequent joyful observation of these wonders of the deep. But Jim was talking about a bounteous harvest of the delightful creatures; not simply an area where there had been sightings—as if a there’d be a TURTLE XING sign posted had this been on terra firma—but rather a terrapin tenement complex, as it were.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhToBD3D_wCsAu-5ancV-SwW4_eftIwZOR7YPgUuYCs-SS3V1djJmSeP7hpD8cV_Y83WQGC_CrSkOgHAYOYKna0xLDXv3yy0Mrq7v8lqkBNt7Mi4mrY46LM5xgPLDP7pTJ51vi5KJ_ljMI/s1600/Turtle_HeadOn.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhToBD3D_wCsAu-5ancV-SwW4_eftIwZOR7YPgUuYCs-SS3V1djJmSeP7hpD8cV_Y83WQGC_CrSkOgHAYOYKna0xLDXv3yy0Mrq7v8lqkBNt7Mi4mrY46LM5xgPLDP7pTJ51vi5KJ_ljMI/s400/Turtle_HeadOn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618550633830899666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Houston, this is Greenback fine-niner requesting permission to land... over...</span> </div><br />I had barely turned the corner out of this oceanic cavity when I spotted one… then another… and another! The place was crawling with them. I stopped count at sixteen. And like Merv Griffin’s “lovely bunch of coconuts,” there were “big ones, small, ones, some as big as your head and bigger!” A veritable smorgasbord of sea turtles, all in various stages of doing whatever it is that sea turtles do. Which isn’t much, mostly periodically wriggling from their underwater parking spaces, ascending, then poking their heads through the water’s surface to grab gulps of air before diving back to their spots, wedging themselves under and within nooks and crannies, in and under reefs and rocks.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa2SLtudBVf5gNi4mlnVbV98s5XmHHfa2ct9nIEuIlrUp_S32RkKv74mf16vmjk1MSAW_4mpekKJlkeMtGbw3KBhqTn7geBM8TVULPiB-kntBWmVoKkYPOQBEqaNkTcguB-giQLqePmA/s1600/Turtle_Parked.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa2SLtudBVf5gNi4mlnVbV98s5XmHHfa2ct9nIEuIlrUp_S32RkKv74mf16vmjk1MSAW_4mpekKJlkeMtGbw3KBhqTn7geBM8TVULPiB-kntBWmVoKkYPOQBEqaNkTcguB-giQLqePmA/s400/Turtle_Parked.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618563585980528178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Beep... beep... beep... beep...</span><br /></div><br />And it isn’t as if these deep-sea Gameras are reaching incredible speeds. In a race, Tim Conway’s <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZLDbIgNNWbmrbrhmXHXNjebAQvKDC_i6d9xsbgWXz-1ktxlxC7jUZksOBcU7LglyOqNeZt2kcD38IRliM5h3k6XIMteTyPzyY9ofvdUYQKLY-mQZlDSgRXgzXAvdthyphenhyphenSdRaLht0Q8XA/s1600/gamera.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZLDbIgNNWbmrbrhmXHXNjebAQvKDC_i6d9xsbgWXz-1ktxlxC7jUZksOBcU7LglyOqNeZt2kcD38IRliM5h3k6XIMteTyPzyY9ofvdUYQKLY-mQZlDSgRXgzXAvdthyphenhyphenSdRaLht0Q8XA/s200/gamera.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618560789110464338" border="0" /></a>Old Man character from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Carol Burnett Show</span> would win by a mile. Still, there is something calming and mesmerizing to their movements, like a slow-motion underwater ballet or the animal kingdom’s answer to mankind’s Lava Lamp, the turtles serving the role of amorphous globs that slowly rise to the peak of the glass container, only to descend once again. And to be amid so many was transcendental.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMZyugfRrwVzxRp1yRgbs3AXZRntG3crwQTRPqQZMU6z1O7u7XKX1lV7oZCbYwAggHZlb0PiP4BcxGdft113djTo_au0AjDkNnsctKSt76xc-sNFim1eGvdTeaBLFuAConbxJ0nuPgOQ/s1600/MyTeenieWahine.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkMZyugfRrwVzxRp1yRgbs3AXZRntG3crwQTRPqQZMU6z1O7u7XKX1lV7oZCbYwAggHZlb0PiP4BcxGdft113djTo_au0AjDkNnsctKSt76xc-sNFim1eGvdTeaBLFuAConbxJ0nuPgOQ/s400/MyTeenieWahine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618554465049576546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hence the term: </span>Wondrous One!<br /><br /></div>Upon my return to our blankets, where the Wondrous Audrey had decided to continue to bask in the sun’s warming rays while I went on my quest, I was giddy as a school girl who’d just had the hunkiest boy in class say “hi” to me. I babbled excitedly, using every superlative in my vocabulary; then going back and spouting hyphenated combos; only to descend to puerile elisions, like “phenominastic,” “stupendiferous” and the regrettable “unbelievalicious.” In Harlan Ellison’s name, I pray forgiveness.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjViFgR8_SQ2k9XUWOnD9oma0vmXkO_MmnS2pbIiiedL2HmCzQB5o0NOUdhEMFl7UTfRJBKTCPqf6o9p8kv4PG2MJrdBr6CKGLC9XS4OSqH_cUzXd16IAXT14n7KNrNUJIhnEdyATZ3OPo/s1600/Turtle_SVChase.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjViFgR8_SQ2k9XUWOnD9oma0vmXkO_MmnS2pbIiiedL2HmCzQB5o0NOUdhEMFl7UTfRJBKTCPqf6o9p8kv4PG2MJrdBr6CKGLC9XS4OSqH_cUzXd16IAXT14n7KNrNUJIhnEdyATZ3OPo/s400/Turtle_SVChase.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618561035118955282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Escaping the dreaded turtl-razzi</span> </div><br />I averred to buy an underwater disposable camera and return upon the morrow to capture my Chelonioidea Shangra-La on film. Now, I hadn’t used one of these nigh-useless devices since my and the Wondrous One’s wedding many years prior. If you’re lucky you’ll achieve a ten percent success rate. The main problem is that there’s no definitive way to aim the camera—no screen that shows you what’s in the frame—so you basically point it at what you hope to take a picture of and pray. The result is most often a fuzzy blob of bluish-green, as if painted by a watercolorist who didn’t wait for the colors to dry between applications.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQth2mWCq2sMniCw6y0ysPdnkI4rLoxloFpe4xz0QzPAPdtcRfzcT3mVAAyW1ei9b2jhEA-yg6aV-xU9gbN9KmyzPJnD2dsKK9IOsQjT82-Wupw7H-VIqxSKw3ZglivCWOrXrPk1q-axU/s1600/TimConway_oldman.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQth2mWCq2sMniCw6y0ysPdnkI4rLoxloFpe4xz0QzPAPdtcRfzcT3mVAAyW1ei9b2jhEA-yg6aV-xU9gbN9KmyzPJnD2dsKK9IOsQjT82-Wupw7H-VIqxSKw3ZglivCWOrXrPk1q-axU/s200/TimConway_oldman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618560548432400466" border="0" /></a>And capturing anything moving, even something as slow as a sea turtle, is as impossible as catching a fly with a pair of chopsticks (with respect to Mr. Miyagi). The things don’t work past a depth of ten feet, either. So even if you’re fortunate enough to frame the object of your desire, it’s like taking a picture of the performer at a concert from the Bob Eucker seats. But I hoped that technology had improved upon the design and I’d have better luck than in the past.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fHhj1LEmX2EW_h1bMej2OsvEcVd6H_FkGQ_NY_S5Yx0Wwt_JplHhD5Fn-gl0942fvPTz444isAPwQ6JgZhKDObYN-X6X_fH_RvLoM7JNrXvBgqSKnjS4twVqwrumX9x7nJHPs0YcJZo/s1600/Turtle_Barnacle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fHhj1LEmX2EW_h1bMej2OsvEcVd6H_FkGQ_NY_S5Yx0Wwt_JplHhD5Fn-gl0942fvPTz444isAPwQ6JgZhKDObYN-X6X_fH_RvLoM7JNrXvBgqSKnjS4twVqwrumX9x7nJHPs0YcJZo/s400/Turtle_Barnacle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618552259895396626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Barnacle? What barnacle?</span> </div><br />Thus, on the way to the beach the next morning, I detoured to Boss Frog’s, the emporium for all things adventurous on the isles of Hawaii. Boss Frog’s is where Wondrous Audrey and I rent our fins—we have our own snorkels, but you can rent those, too—every time we come to Maui. They have numerous locations on the island, ideal for picking up any last-minute accouterments you may need or forgot to bring when leaving the hotel. The store on the Lower Honoapiilani Road in Kahana is the one we frequent.<br /><br />The store’s Road-to-Hana tape—it was a cassette, when we used it on our honeymoon; I’m sure they have CDs now—was excellent. We bumped into others on the notorious Road—at gas pumps and such—and discovered in talking about the plethora of sights, to which we were directed by the informative Boss Frog’s tape, that other such travelogues were far inferior.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hVNmNxri8TUcUqUBSQxqO1w84cu1CbqIr58aRnjpm3SIbSSSj5PEHy1dYlrBjh_IZ5nGVSm5CzllalGvTrVGP8OnKhKnwsXG8OEW5pZY480bQGc_nrqKK7rLKS2dfklRoj3jacp5XLg/s1600/BossFrogsVan.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hVNmNxri8TUcUqUBSQxqO1w84cu1CbqIr58aRnjpm3SIbSSSj5PEHy1dYlrBjh_IZ5nGVSm5CzllalGvTrVGP8OnKhKnwsXG8OEW5pZY480bQGc_nrqKK7rLKS2dfklRoj3jacp5XLg/s400/BossFrogsVan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618552728541335250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Scuba and the Gang’s Mystery Machine</span><br /></div><br />And I always found the staff at Boss Frog’s to be informative and as far from unctuous salesmen as you can get while still being in retail. The workforce are all adventurers themselves, and as I mentioned above about hobbyists, they just want to share their knowledge and secrets as to what is cool on their turf. Such was the case with the camera.<br /><br />“Do you sell those underwater disposable cameras,” I asked uncertainly. There was a time when they smothered the shelves, but I hadn’t seen them in years.<br /><br />“Well… yeah,” came the answer, in the way a purveyor of a homemade ice cream stand would reply to someone who asked if he carried a nonfat variety.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVop0pkk5US4P971Oqwugi5oaQymS-m3HznRsiPP2lFxmZQ6mcrwYjNEp-zXO_xZL_OiJWSIE_BYRjNq-Ut0dwUE61CX94VeceMdJu19qHzKhb8Lh3mqD6bVThoguW_bruBRStwHq47o/s1600/Turtle_SideFishCleaners.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVop0pkk5US4P971Oqwugi5oaQymS-m3HznRsiPP2lFxmZQ6mcrwYjNEp-zXO_xZL_OiJWSIE_BYRjNq-Ut0dwUE61CX94VeceMdJu19qHzKhb8Lh3mqD6bVThoguW_bruBRStwHq47o/s400/Turtle_SideFishCleaners.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618553287099122898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Okay, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">now just a tad to the right...</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> up a little... Ah, yeah, that</span>’<span style="font-style: italic;">s it...</span><br /><br /></div>He led me to a distant shelf and pointed out the lonely pair sitting there. “They’re $21.99,” he continued in the what’s-the-point inflection he’d pioneered only moments before. “But we have one you can rent for $25.00 a day, $10 a day thereafter… and it has video.” (They also offer a $50 weekly rate.)<br /><br />My ears went up and my head cocked, like a dog that had just been asked if it wanted a cookie. I swear I grunted as well.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXv4f1Y3qSXpdymhWY0i8Y7ZBFbXB6Yv0TLEz0Ave6b4_M5kUGOk7WXcdlPMsuwWJyIrk2GSZG4_rdAR9XTxIdFZKCNkgnrFXE6kZhZmfEaqwv_VN3W2OKhLw_NxzFSx2YAQTk_prXNG0/s1600/Turtle_LiftOff.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXv4f1Y3qSXpdymhWY0i8Y7ZBFbXB6Yv0TLEz0Ave6b4_M5kUGOk7WXcdlPMsuwWJyIrk2GSZG4_rdAR9XTxIdFZKCNkgnrFXE6kZhZmfEaqwv_VN3W2OKhLw_NxzFSx2YAQTk_prXNG0/s400/Turtle_LiftOff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618559141588951794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hugs!</span><br /></div><br />No guttural release was necessary, though. He could tell from my look that I wanted to know more. He pulled a black camera, the size of those used in films of the 40s, from behind the counter. The device, however, was surprisingly light. its size was due to the watertight casement that surrounded the true camera inside.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygPCHNlDj7CWU5uJG7GpzVw1Lnbhy-MPhgV9KqvfYTBA0OG1eJcSMx6OleSS8KkYleB6Buu2tD8_TRRa9KoF5zROhyphenhyphenqok0re8IJwNY9ggBwBRN0HzdH_A0QV_v7XCTvHm7WVGvQ3xqss/s1600/MrHaney.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygPCHNlDj7CWU5uJG7GpzVw1Lnbhy-MPhgV9KqvfYTBA0OG1eJcSMx6OleSS8KkYleB6Buu2tD8_TRRa9KoF5zROhyphenhyphenqok0re8IJwNY9ggBwBRN0HzdH_A0QV_v7XCTvHm7WVGvQ3xqss/s200/MrHaney.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618560332947916002" border="0" /></a>Turns out, the gizmo was easy enough for even Yours Truly to use—check out the photos and video in the post. It had a large display screen and floated if dropped in the water. When asked what the contraption’s depth capacity was, my Hawaiian Mr. Haney merely scoffed. And the deep-sea doohickey could hold an umpteenth amount of video and a gazillion photos. Even so, the renter could bring the camera in at any time to get a fresh battery at no additional charge. And Boss Frog’s burned a DVD of everything for you upon the camera’s return. SOLD!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUr-BwLJk_P-YzdndUln6TPttHu5WRjP9PGBvqXTxaVDf5bvudS-m8yjEMcTIs2PX8gk1phyPI3aOVZq1oHedw-_gzmI0cEAcywItDpknicZx9sgPIlOsBlUQj0M_i53WwcY9IrlMzTE/s1600/Turtle_Gamera.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUr-BwLJk_P-YzdndUln6TPttHu5WRjP9PGBvqXTxaVDf5bvudS-m8yjEMcTIs2PX8gk1phyPI3aOVZq1oHedw-_gzmI0cEAcywItDpknicZx9sgPIlOsBlUQj0M_i53WwcY9IrlMzTE/s400/Turtle_Gamera.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618557721465540802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">And now, your moment of Zen</span><br /></div><br />After securing a good spot on the beach with our towels, I went to “Turtle Cove,” this time with the Wondrous Audrey in tow. My effusive gushing about the site had her curious to what marvels were in store.<br /><br />I should take a moment to explain, that Wondrous though she may be, in the water Audrey is—looks aside—no mermaid. She weighs nearly nothing when wet, yet sinks like a stone. I’ve tried teaching her the finer points of flotation, only to discover that the normal laws of physics do not apply with her. I believe she’d plummet in zero gravity. Still, she enjoys swimming and does so with a life vest, ever close to shore and clear of deeper waters. Fortunately, the waters off the coastline of Maui are stocked with fascinating fish and beautiful coral within feet of the shore, and thus have not curtailed her enjoyment of snorkeling therein.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamJ937kpRMRhnF3Bn5sKNoGwAYELOVKfiF1nQMi9cQaeYywPqtvq1EHcGQoNFgG-w-xodBnRLJQreE2kg6K-8c_A3hoQPrbFC0Uhs_B7il1QmSZBOCm3TXxGBB2V9Dc-25IJBTB2Si0E/s1600/Turtle_SVHighSign.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 370px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamJ937kpRMRhnF3Bn5sKNoGwAYELOVKfiF1nQMi9cQaeYywPqtvq1EHcGQoNFgG-w-xodBnRLJQreE2kg6K-8c_A3hoQPrbFC0Uhs_B7il1QmSZBOCm3TXxGBB2V9Dc-25IJBTB2Si0E/s400/Turtle_SVHighSign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618551809221914194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hang loose, my Faithful Bloglodytes!</span> </div><br />Conversely, I’m the Man from Atlantis. My aquatic limitations do not come so much from being <span style="font-style: italic;">in</span> the water as <span style="font-style: italic;">on</span> it. I get seasick looking at ships in a bottle. You ever want to save money on purchasing chum, just feed me a good breakfast and have me accompany you on your fishing excursion. You’ll have all the chum you’d ever want.<br /><br />The cove was surrounded on three sides by land, making its waters quite calm. Still, the depth of the area where the turtles frolicked was a good twenty feet deep, anathema to the Wondrous One’s swimming. I hoped my enthusiasm and pleas, coupled with seeing the serenity of the area, would entice her to give it a try. I so wanted to share the turtle experience with her.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JM3bIMPRqCrXUvYD7rTCeN1aY7c8LNaiEdox2P9efDfH3o2wXb2lObx2vP-3RT6U3TncUDdiKh76zoMhe585Sb4d6sQGSC9RmRd2mNegPGToXbG8uP98f5l-zsfE4DOtk7ECh0yJqzk/s1600/Turtle_SVNotTouchingYou.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JM3bIMPRqCrXUvYD7rTCeN1aY7c8LNaiEdox2P9efDfH3o2wXb2lObx2vP-3RT6U3TncUDdiKh76zoMhe585Sb4d6sQGSC9RmRd2mNegPGToXbG8uP98f5l-zsfE4DOtk7ECh0yJqzk/s400/Turtle_SVNotTouchingYou.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618551310623677522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I'm not touching you...</span><br /></div><br />As if on cue, as soon as I swam into their aquatic “borough,” they pulled out of their undersea parking garage and began massing around me. I felt like I was a slab of dead tuna in an Animal Planet “Shark Week” special and they were Great Whites.<br /><br />Now, harassing a sea turtle carries with it a steep fine. The creatures are on the endangered species list—though I’m happy to say, there numbers are growing—and not to be annoyed. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell the turtles that. They were swarming me. I’d back away from one fast approaching me and nearly collide with another coming in from behind. It was all I could do to remain still and hope they didn’t touch me. I felt they were all younger brothers teasing “I’m not touching you…” as I tried to get Mom to make them stop. I captured the moment on film, including my mumbled epithet when they mugged me.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1Th2C3Xj9k0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe><br /><br />The camera was a dream to use. I took reams of footage and oodles of pictures, all the while fighting the conditioned notion—ingrained from decades of taking pix with a camera that allowed 36 shots at most and no video—that at any moment I’d have filled my shutterbugging quota. How refreshing to be able to shoot with abandon, never “waiting” to get the perfect shot, so as not to waste precious film, nor fearing a premature cut-off to a filming sequence.<br /><br />Sure, there were klunkers, especially when attempting to capture my flippered friends the split second they poked their heads above the water for a breath. As with most of today’s cameras, there is a moment’s hesitation between depressing the shooting button and the device actually taking the picture. So I’d have to anticipate the creature’s moves, break the surface just before I believed it would, and be ready to snap the instant the turtle’s beak peeked out of the water.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SwmCwpUH9NF8j-IeVSUBr3Tw10j7YsVULF4ba17bHyF7idNrz51G-tBmRevYTMBmw6bahS82G6SjuhPzihZPKkDOol6O5TrgAZQBdDLn1NiYfxnv5eGTALfNAGnR0amgSqvFLY9ygw8/s1600/Turtle_HeadPoke.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SwmCwpUH9NF8j-IeVSUBr3Tw10j7YsVULF4ba17bHyF7idNrz51G-tBmRevYTMBmw6bahS82G6SjuhPzihZPKkDOol6O5TrgAZQBdDLn1NiYfxnv5eGTALfNAGnR0amgSqvFLY9ygw8/s400/Turtle_HeadPoke.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618555610876599138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, you look just like a guy I saw down by the coral!</span><br /></div><br />And I’d swear the little bastards were playing me. They’d shoot to the surface and juke me into thinking they were about to pop their heads, only to have me break the surface and take a quick shot of… the ripples of the water above their sneaky shells. The minute I re-submerged, they’d tale their breaths. But I did manage to capture the moment on several occasions, including one impressively timed shot of Wondrous Audrey smiling at the camera while a turtle’s head burst into the frame.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEMZP0v-WMxOJNWb3cO-6Nhc4vh5O3NFft7q432iP2j3t2PKVLz0zek8z79sS6p7jadnGawf2nkjigXw_fRSDSkwjyl_HhgNxYzoXWG2FCG2dsD0L5J6Dve7fOhvlYEEU6Y3zSP5MjxA/s1600/Turles_Audrey.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEMZP0v-WMxOJNWb3cO-6Nhc4vh5O3NFft7q432iP2j3t2PKVLz0zek8z79sS6p7jadnGawf2nkjigXw_fRSDSkwjyl_HhgNxYzoXWG2FCG2dsD0L5J6Dve7fOhvlYEEU6Y3zSP5MjxA/s400/Turles_Audrey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618555061812345298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Cut! Okay, who let the human into the frame?</span><br /></div><br />Far easier to film the breathing sequence, though it was sometimes difficult to keep the underwater animals in the frame, especially whilst diving beneath the surface to get a closer shot. And the zoom feature—did I not mention the zoom?—also played with the director’s perspective, adding another component to be aware of.<br /><br />When I emerged, Audrey sounded like me the day before. From her perch on the verdant knoll overlooking the dive spot, she could see the turtles; their shadows under the surface and their heads popping up like a marine version of Whack-A-Mole. She agreed to join me the following day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nQBlNMsV5kqtgmpbUx5ckjNTdp4nBg1mXArh_bKewfS1ZxeSpmnbIcuOXTp5sy7MkXE6M5lPuSdNkXrHHABxhfQN2Uffm2sNYf_HT5LHIA9W-m9hlGvB2RXu-wY6THN0xsmN1VCUFbs/s1600/Turtle_FaceFrontFishCleaners.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 376px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nQBlNMsV5kqtgmpbUx5ckjNTdp4nBg1mXArh_bKewfS1ZxeSpmnbIcuOXTp5sy7MkXE6M5lPuSdNkXrHHABxhfQN2Uffm2sNYf_HT5LHIA9W-m9hlGvB2RXu-wY6THN0xsmN1VCUFbs/s400/Turtle_FaceFrontFishCleaners.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618556455737509218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Rub, rub here, Rub, rub there...<br />Whether you’re shell or gauze.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />That’s how we keep you in repair...<br />in the Merry Old Land of Oz!</span><br /></div><br />Although the primary reason for coaxing the Wondrous One into the cove was to have her share in the sea turtle experience, I did also want to utilize her inner Scorsese to take some shots and footage of <span style="font-style: italic;">moi</span>. My reasons were far from egotistical. Humility is a trait I pride myself in being the best at. I wanted nothing more than proof of my own maritime movies to curtail any jealous naysayers in the Ethernet who might suspect duplicity once they’ve viewed their awesomeness.<br /><br />Audrey’s discomfort in the water made handling the camera more difficult, but she managed to get a few great pix and footage. More importantly, she and I now share the marvelous swimming-with-sea-turtles experience.<br /><br />All told the camera cost a mere $35 for two days’ usage and a lifetime of priceless memories. Thank you Boss Frog’s!<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/b2prqSlNfuw" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989335273355995337.post-52995299123079226082011-06-06T11:00:00.017-04:002011-06-11T10:09:39.346-04:00Heroes Reborn<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVe3kLvggUW522cVyIvjEVVFN6039ENKMKi6FXwENVhdA5UmfQVw3pVoOAgDZpNrrd8LpHDDX0SvJIofGfqG067eH9bh7R9n1TyXiEdRu-9cqhCX86ADjKiNY7r7ewS3opreRoWcSXV5o/s1600/HeroesReborn.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVe3kLvggUW522cVyIvjEVVFN6039ENKMKi6FXwENVhdA5UmfQVw3pVoOAgDZpNrrd8LpHDDX0SvJIofGfqG067eH9bh7R9n1TyXiEdRu-9cqhCX86ADjKiNY7r7ewS3opreRoWcSXV5o/s400/HeroesReborn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615135892288136530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Most Bloglodytes will recognize whence this posting’s title comes: Marvel’s desperate marketing ploy to bolster sales during the industry’s collapse in the mid-90s by leasing some of their most iconic characters to the hot young artists of Image Comics for a year.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Yours Truly hopes his return is received more favorably!</span><br /></div><br />Ever Faithful Bloglodytes of <span style="font-style: italic;">Heroes In My Closet</span> will immediately notice the new banner emblazoned atop the site, and once they’ve shaken from the moment of stunned silence that most assuredly will result from casting their eyes on the beauteous artistic airbrush stylings of Ken Steacy, their hearts will leap in the hope that the blog’s auteur is finally back from his self-imposed exile. Of course, the feeling of elation will no doubt quickly be subjugated with a disgruntled <span style="font-style: italic;">Where the Hell have you been?!!</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfEtlALwn-K-EkEnJTgnEPuHICcSX5Lhx-BCHa_Xq9gQStA5QjMqXcsSOEMOw9nmZc2gxuudV_6ed3qthqEWNx8NqB5a5aW_HvlGU7pKCzSOlEUW9YviXXcpZdBfd8hIsVxDik1uu-SI/s1600/Steacy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 363px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfEtlALwn-K-EkEnJTgnEPuHICcSX5Lhx-BCHa_Xq9gQStA5QjMqXcsSOEMOw9nmZc2gxuudV_6ed3qthqEWNx8NqB5a5aW_HvlGU7pKCzSOlEUW9YviXXcpZdBfd8hIsVxDik1uu-SI/s400/Steacy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615133043855280674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The artist responsible for the new masterful marquee,<br /><a href="http://www.kenspublishing.com/">Ken Steacy</a></span><br /></div><br />Ah, loyal ones, I feel your pain. I had no intention on staying away at all, never mind nearly six months. But anyone who has ever lived the life of a freelancer is well aware that when the work comes, you take it. After all, an independent contractor never knows when the next job will present itself.<br /><br />I experienced the <span style="font-style: italic;">fortunate</span> misfortune of a perfect storm of opportunities. My usual clients suddenly needed my services more than ever for various long-term projects, and I was offered a chance of becoming a part of something really cool, the details of which I will feature in a future posting (<span style="font-style: italic;">In the unforgettable words of the great B. Bunny, “Ain’t I a stinker?”</span>)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuszXnD5-yurvFo9CdQn5iHqVRshxj0FsJ7r-CpvZEoItdIbwX1xsItL6a7BaSH_rBHexzbEfNPf6eYZF2sHW9txF-TX3a08rxT355zjlvWNShZv6f4T7GaTlWHcMqShIrB0nNaTF-ho/s1600/Bugs_AintIAStinker-.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuszXnD5-yurvFo9CdQn5iHqVRshxj0FsJ7r-CpvZEoItdIbwX1xsItL6a7BaSH_rBHexzbEfNPf6eYZF2sHW9txF-TX3a08rxT355zjlvWNShZv6f4T7GaTlWHcMqShIrB0nNaTF-ho/s400/Bugs_AintIAStinker-.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615133267903267250" border="0" /></a>All I can do is hope you forgive me and endeavor to make <span style="font-style: italic;">Heroes In My Closet</span> better than ever. The spiffy new header is just a whiff of the nifty stuff I have in store.<br /><br />Anyway, any newbies to the site who have shaken off their captivation of the Steacy masterpiece, but have not been driven off by my incessant ramblings… <span style="font-style: italic;">willkommen</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">bienvenue</span>, welcome! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYnYKDQBSXYZcqMnY9L63tvbs-UEZc4AnW6KCqkah54DGCc5KbNk9dguAFo0gYaN9iSzGPMeHJXlIzOtRykJKB_cISY-aHLioeoCLclC_rznrWqjREz_J8tF1Dj1Vsei9JU-nBYpImSE/s1600/JoelGrey_Willkommen.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYnYKDQBSXYZcqMnY9L63tvbs-UEZc4AnW6KCqkah54DGCc5KbNk9dguAFo0gYaN9iSzGPMeHJXlIzOtRykJKB_cISY-aHLioeoCLclC_rznrWqjREz_J8tF1Dj1Vsei9JU-nBYpImSE/s200/JoelGrey_Willkommen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615132831595719458" border="0" /></a>Steacy is not a stranger to <span style="font-style: italic;">Heroes In My Closet</span> and has been featured in two historical postings: <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2009/10/jeepers-creepers.html">“Jeepers Creepers”</a> and <a href="http://www.heroesinmycloset.com/2010/10/are-stars-out-tonight.html">“Are the Stars Out Tonight?”</a> As per the respect given <span style="font-style: italic;">Closet</span> veterans, I’ll wait while you first-timers peruse those lasting literary logs, loquacious though they may be.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">pause</span><br /><br />Now the other one…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">pause</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1fRTk8PFkTrYUit3FxtezgjJtGcdKiIkjYNdITkQZeInMudaFdnnJmKqLheD1Ul8BJ3yKbRtz9k9IkRddj-6bYdjnHuQXDNNn4G5GmjHayrCRb6K9ptp6b4sSaFRIWbZv3B2nMYBu7o/s1600/SpaceGhost_Cobver.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1fRTk8PFkTrYUit3FxtezgjJtGcdKiIkjYNdITkQZeInMudaFdnnJmKqLheD1Ul8BJ3yKbRtz9k9IkRddj-6bYdjnHuQXDNNn4G5GmjHayrCRb6K9ptp6b4sSaFRIWbZv3B2nMYBu7o/s320/SpaceGhost_Cobver.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615133580527113986" border="0" /></a>Okay. Now, where was I? Ah, yes… After our much ballyhooed reuniting at the New York ComiCon, Steacy mentioned that he would love a shot at creating a new banner for the website. That sonic boom you heard last October was the result of my quick response. It was a no-brainer, so even I could answer (cue rim-shot). Any who are still in doubt of Steacy’s undervalued greatness need look no further than the bravura job he did over <a href="http://www.steverude.com/wp2/">Steve “The Dude” Rude</a>’s layouts on the <span style="font-style: italic;">Space Ghost</span> prestige one-shot that Comico released in 1987.<br /><br />Rude is the creator of <span style="font-style: italic;">Nexus</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Moth</span> and a comic legend in his own right. Is it no wonder this head-spinning artistic duo garnered a coveted Eisner Award for “Best Art Team” for their work on this timeless classic of the titular Hanna-Barbera hero? I say thee, <span style="font-style: italic;">nay</span>!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqBv0CpzAWEorA3SPlf8-mKQjM0gHLlBg-O4v4BrxXZBYph1X7qB0cOMJFauU67IkYl2-l0YnrBplyhAW3bAMMSjBq3UlAyiiafwBrHZLe6r3AoONL-U0N3MxDCpSBdtpsg0OMgLQNy0/s1600/NexusMoth"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqBv0CpzAWEorA3SPlf8-mKQjM0gHLlBg-O4v4BrxXZBYph1X7qB0cOMJFauU67IkYl2-l0YnrBplyhAW3bAMMSjBq3UlAyiiafwBrHZLe6r3AoONL-U0N3MxDCpSBdtpsg0OMgLQNy0/s400/NexusMoth" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615133882487194482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Steve "The Dude" Rude</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s </span>Nexus<span style="font-style: italic;"> and </span>The Moth<br /></div><br />Steacy will also be providing the occasional cartoon to the blog, an exclusive you’re not going to get on those <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> blogs. It’s just another way for me to show my appreciation of you, my Ever-Faithful Bloglodytes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDWFfHhfHnnCc2cKPcu70cDGdB4b8BSvgYvfCrS33EzCr6Vehnjw13OG-4WRoNZ1mUVQUn7kusZ0CxRGmR_SuCEcwLBZijMklcWngXlKsWM4sLjZgpJTWsRvSmuEHtCA0x2x5o9LAI5A/s1600/SpaceGhostArt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDWFfHhfHnnCc2cKPcu70cDGdB4b8BSvgYvfCrS33EzCr6Vehnjw13OG-4WRoNZ1mUVQUn7kusZ0CxRGmR_SuCEcwLBZijMklcWngXlKsWM4sLjZgpJTWsRvSmuEHtCA0x2x5o9LAI5A/s400/SpaceGhostArt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615135460416269426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I leave you with a page from the </span>Space Ghost Special<span style="font-style: italic;">... Enjoy!</span> </div>Vroom!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02118086021873909292noreply@blogger.com3