DOOM’S DAY

It’s not often that an elderly couple takes out Dr. Doom.

For those of you just joining us, Dr. Doom is a super-villain, one of the most heinous and powerful in the Marvel Universe. Like all good evil-doers, he spends his time and resources devising nefarious schemes to take over the world, only to be thwarted by his arch-nemeses The Fantastic Four or whoever’s title he happens to be wreaking havoc in any given month.

The dastardly Doctor was only one of a handful of bad guys for which Marvel had a costume that could be used for personal appearances. As far as comfort and maneuverability, Doom’s threads were on the favorable side, although the visibility when wearing the suit was low. It was easy to don, functional, and emulated the character beautifully.

The costume also was a treat to perform in. It wasn’t every day you could be revered despite being an arrogant prick. Its only drawback was its portability. The costume was kept in a large canvas duffel bag of the size one would use to transport hockey equipment. Thus, it had to be checked whenever traveling.

I had the good fortune to portray the character on several occasions (see prior post, “See You, in the Funny Papers”). Fortunately, this was not one of them. The hapless victim in this story, Fred, was joining my portrayal of Spider-Man as featured guests of Edmonton, Canada’s annual Canada Day Parade. Sponsoring our inclusion in this most important of our northern neighbor’s holidays were my old friends, the unpredictable, yet oddly loveable Darwin and his saintly better-half Lola (see prior post, “Survival of the Fittest, Parts I and II”). As such, immediately following the parade, Spider-Man and Dr. Doom were scheduled for a signing at one of Darwin’s and Lola’s comic shops.

This was to be Fred’s coming out party; his very first gig as any character for Marvel. The head of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department, Barbara, thought it would be a good idea to pair me with Fred, so I could secretly monitor his performance. This speaks volumes about Barb’s judgment and trust in your’s truly (Whether misguided or not, I’ll let you decide).

I met Fred at the airport. He was slightly taller and broader than I was. He’ll make a great Dr. Doom, I thought (You don’t want your Spidey more imposing than your Doom). His long brunette hair framed a friendly face and a big smile. Fred looked like a rock star, only more effusive. At the time, he was working as either a stunt man or extra or both on the short-lived Burt Reynolds show B.L. Stryker. We immediately hit it off.

Our flight departed the evening before the parade with a scheduled stopover in Minnesota. Delays while approaching Minnesota had us concerned that we would miss our connection. We discovered that our worries were unfounded upon landing. Due to bad weather over Edmonton, nothing was flying into the area. Our connecting flight was canceled. Worse, the weather up north was adversely affecting the phone lines. Try as we might, we couldn’t get through to Darwin and Lola to tell them of our plight. Not that it would have mattered; the number we had was for the comic outlet at which we would be appearing the next day, not their home. And the store was certainly closed by this time.

At wit’s end, we called Barbara. Barbara was always bemoaning how her work—due to its nature—followed her home. She had to be prepared for calls exactly like the one we were making. Still, I felt terrible disturbing her. Our delay had us landing in Minnesota just shy of midnight. It would be an hour later in New York. We woke Barbara, who was clearly perturbed. Her response to our situation: “What do you want me to do?” We suggested she either contact Darwin and Lola at their home or at least give us the number so we could try.

“I don’t have those numbers here,” she snapped, in a tone that suggested we were off our gourds for ever assuming that she might have that information.

Gee, Barbara, what part of your job actually makes it home, I thought.

We dutifully apologized-through gritted teeth-and resumed our endeavors to call someone up north. The only other number we had was the hotel at which we’d be staying. Miraculously, the call connected. We explained the situation to the receptionist and left a message for Darwin and Lola that we’d be getting up at the crack of dawn to be the first in line to get on the standby list for the earliest flight the next morning. Of course, we had no idea there even was an early-morning flight to Edmonton the next day or whether it would arrive in time for us to participate in the parade if there were. But we weren’t going to not try to get there. We crossed our fingers that Darwin and Lola would check with the hotel.

By this time, the food vouchers the airline had given us were no good. All the restaurants in the airport food court had closed, which, given the selection, was probably not a bad thing. Thus, we proceeded to Bloomington, Minnesota’s famous Thunderbird Motel, where we could at least redeem our accommodation coupons and get a few hours sleep before returning to the airport at the crack of dawn.

Marked by a towering, multi-colored, illuminated roadside totem pole–designed sign and a colossal Indian statue at the entrance, the Thunderbird Motel also is unique in that its lobby doubles as a Native American museum. Cases, filled with an amazing array of headdresses, quivers, arrows, papooses, clothing, moccasins and stuffed buffalo, moose heads, snakes, bears and the like, lined the walls. Given our exhausted state, it was surreal, like something directed by David Lynch. We scheduled a wake-up call that would allow about three hours of sleep and headed for our room. I dropped off with Fred heading out of the room for a smoke.

He seemed to return just as the wake-up call startled me out of bed. Had he been wandering the hallways of the motel all night? Perhaps he’s an aficionado of Native American memorabilia? I didn’t have time to dwell on my internal queries; airport check-in awaited, and we couldn’t afford to be late. Besides, Fred seemed mightily concerned about the whole megillah. Not surprising as it was his first gig. He obviously wanted it to go well and probably shouldered a lot of guilt, though faultless. I, conversely, was familiar with the occasional hiccup in appearances, and though certainly concerned and focused to do whatever it took to ameliorate the situation, I remained nonplussed.

With nary a moment to spare in the Bow and Arrow Coffee Shop, we rushed to the airport and succeeded in being the first in line at the counter. With luck, there would be two openings. Just in case, it was decided that my name go first. If only one of us made it, Spider-Man was the obvious choice. We tried phoning Darwin and Lola again to no avail. If worse came to worse, if they did not greet us upon deplaning, we would dress in a cab on the way to the parade’s origin and join the festivities, which were set to begin soon after the scheduled landing of our flight.

When they announced the standby names, our initial joy at hearing my name, turned to confusion, when it was followed by two other names, neither of which was Fred’s. I may not be a math whiz but even I understood that if there were three available stand-by spots on the flight and Fred and I were the first two names on the list, then he and I were shoe-ins for two of those three spots. Apparently not. Confused and upset, we approached the counter at the gate. Yes, Fred and I were atop the stand-by list. And yes, there were three spots open. But the third and fourth spots were held by an elderly couple who were on a second honeymoon to celebrate their 50th anniversary and the airline didn’t have the heart to break the octogenarian love birds up.

Fred and I, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

“You don’t understand,” Fred pleaded, “small children are expecting both of us to be there. You’ll be breaking their little hearts.”

I have to admit it was amusing to see the dreaded Dr. Doom beg not to be bumped from a flight. When he started telling the counter attendant that the children the airline would be disappointing with his absence were “special,” it began to sound more in character. When that wasn’t eliciting the desired response, Fred tried “handicapped.” What was next? I thought, Orphans? How low and vile to fabricate mentally-challenged and physically-disabled children as an excuse to gain a plane seat. Add to that the elderly couple Fred was attempting to bump and the occasion for which they were traveling, and Fred was beginning to make Dr. Doom seem like Mother Theresa in comparison.

“They’ve been together for 50 years, what difference is another hour or two going to make?!” I imagined him desperately spouting at any moment. Fortunately, he relented before crossing that line or venturing to using terms like “cancer-stricken” or “Make-A-Wish Foundation.”

Instead Doom stepped away duly defeated; no bodies, no smoldering carnage, not even a “Curse you, Reed Richards! Next time, it will be I, Victor von Doom who stands triumphant!,” while shaking a gauntleted fist. I felt terrible. The next available flight wouldn’t get Fred into Edmonton until well after the parade was over. If he were lucky, he’d make part of the scheduled store signing. His disappointment was palpable.

Meanwhile, the prune-faced paramours giddily scurried past his slumped figure onto the plane. I got on and the plane took off... on time, ironically. Accompanying me, was Dr. Doom, only without his body. The suit was checked and in the baggage hold. It and Fred would reunite later in Edmonton… unless, of course, he was bumped by someone traveling to deliver an organ to a dying child or something equally inarguable.

Wondrously, I arrived as planned and Lola was there to greet me. She had gotten our hotel message, after all. “Where’s Doom,” she asked.

“He didn’t make it. I’ll explain on the way to the parade,” I offered.

There wasn’t a vestige of the havoc the previous day’s storm wrought. It was beautiful, cool and sunny. As we sped to the kick-off point, I dressed in the backseat while explaining the last 24 hours. I barely had time to adjust my eyes in the rearview mirror when the car screeched to a halt. A small flatbed trailer, hitched to a truck, greeted my arrival. A sign attached to the truck’s grill read, SPIDER-MAN AND DR. DOOM BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE COMIC CASTLE followed by the shop’s address and phone number. Of course, Dr. Doom was M.I.A., but it was too late to make any amendments as the parade was getting under way.

As the truck pulled away with me in tow, I expressed my concerns about being confined to the trailer, wanting rather to bound about, ham it up with the onlookers and shake hands along the parade route. Lola was more than happy to oblige. She figured as much from me, given my past performances at her and Darwin’s conventions. But having never seen the Dr. Doom costume nor being aware of its limitations, she was unsure if he’d need something to pull him or not. She provided the trailer just in case. It would turn out to be a fortuitous decision.

I hadn’t traversed a block before the crowds pelted me from both sides with “Yo, Spidey, where’s Dr. Doom?”

“Oh, I dealt with him earlier,” I countered. “How was I supposed to know he was here for the parade? I thought he was trying to conquer Canada.”

The parade route couldn’t have been more than a mile. Yet, halfway along, amid the leaps, posing and hand-shaking, I noticed the bottom of my feet starting to hurt. It wasn’t a muscular pain, but rather the sort one experiences from a scraped knee. I couldn’t fathom what was the problem. I’d participated in far longer parades on many previous occasions. Hell, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was measurably greater and I had a couple of those already under my belt. The physical fallout from such events was never greater than the type of intense muscle pain one gets the morning after a good leg workout the day before.

Initially, I shrugged it off, alleviating my stinging soles with short bouts of walking on my hands. That wouldn’t get me too far, though, so I made dramatic pauses, crept slowly, did whatever I could to milk the route for as long as possible. But the pain became too severe and I found myself leaping onto the trailer to finish the remainder of the parade. I was mortified and more than a little worried. And the crowds weren’t exactly sympathetic.

“Hey, Spider-Man, why aren’t you swinging?” and “What? Are your webs tired (guffaw, guffaw)?” were a couple of the less pointed razzings I received.

“That storm blew me so off course, I was up all night swinging from Vancouver… I’m knackered!” I bantered back.

Blessedly, I was incapacitated for only the last few blocks, but it seemed like an eternity to complete. Lola met me at the finish and whisked me away to the signing at her store. I remember gingerly making my way to her car, trying to cover my painful steps with spider-like moves. Surely, I fooled all. Spider-Man often looks like he’s tiptoeing on broken glass.

There was already a line out the door when we arrived, but I told Lola I needed time to check my feet. In the office, I removed my suit to discover that I’d taken a layer of skin off my soles. They were raw and bloody. I could only guess that the streets of Edmonton weren’t as smoothly paved as those in The States. Their roughness was the only difference I could detect. Strangely, although my soles were shredded, the thin strip of red leather that served as the only protection on the costume’s feet weren’t damaged in the least. Neither a hole nor tear was evident.

The normally subdued Lola freaked when she saw them. Or at least her eyes grew slightly wider than usual, which for her was akin to the eye-popping, jaw-dropping of a Tex Avery cartoon character. Then again, Lola’s reaction may have been from me sitting in my bikini underwear. I didn’t think to cover up. My attention was on my injured tootsies. Besides, I dressed in front of strangers before when doing productions. Heck, didn’t I dress in the backseat of her car on the way to the parade? And it wasn’t like I was naked.

She hurried back with alcohol and bandages. And boy, did that alcohol feel good (That distant scream you heard in the late 90s? That was me.). Soon I was making my way to the signing table. Fortunately, it was near enough to the office that I didn’t have to do too much scampering to hide my pain.

The signing went well. Sure, the inquiries as to Dr. Doom’s whereabouts continued, but with my feet tended to and already feeling much improved, I was enjoying quipping with these “Doom-sayers.”

“Big surprise, Doom not showing… He is a bad guy, after all. If he can’t seize control of the planet, he takes solace in making people unhappy!” I’d playfully jab.

Fred didn’t arrive until after the signing. In fact, I accompanied Lola back to the airport to greet him. The Dr. Doom suit sat by the baggage carousel, waiting there for Fred to retrieve him since my plane arrived that morning. His mien and body language was even more downtrodden than before. Had Eeyore been present, he would have pulled me aside to express his concern. Fred wanted so much to play Dr. Doom that it wasn’t hard to convince him to don the costume for some publicity shots with Spidey at the store.

In the costume, Fred was a transformed man. He strode out of the front door of the comic store and deliberately into the street, stopping traffic and creating quite a scene. With the pain of my soles a distant memory, I followed his lead and confronted him. A struggle ensued, much to the delight of the drivers and passersby. Fred and I had experience in stage combat and made the most of it, tumbling over car hoods, flipping on top of one another. Had this been New York, we would have been run over, flipped the bird at the very least. For Fred, our mock clash of titans was cathartic. His spirits lifted and he had returned to the amiable teddy bear I had met at La Guardia Airport the morning prior.

The next morning, we had breakfast with both Lola and Darwin (having apparently returned from the Galapagos Islands, no doubt). It was an equally beautiful day to the one previous and I couldn’t help but think that the travails of the last 48 hours were far behind us. The sun was shining, as we made our way to the car when suddenly, the sky went black.

“Ow! What the—?” Something had hit me. Something big.

Golf balls were pelting us from the heavens, bouncing off the tarmac and car as we hurried inside. I felt like Captain Kangaroo falling victim to Mr. Moose and his signature torrent of Ping-Pong balls. Except those never hurt the good Captain. If I never knew the experience of “being agape” before that moment, I certainly did then. It can’t be hailing, I thought incredulously. It’s July 2! I was trapped in some strange Canadian mash-up of After Hours and Trains, Planes and Automobiles. I just wanted to get home! Fortunately, the hailing stopped as suddenly as it started and we departed on time.

The return flight was not stopping through Minnesota, but rather Chicago, so Fred and I were hopeful that we would encounter no further problems. But fate still had one blow left to deliver: we missed our connection. There was only one thing to do. We proceeded to the airport bar and got hammered while awaiting the next flight home.

We arrived in New York in the wee hours of the morning. I tried to explain to Fred that appearances normally proceeded swimmingly without problem; that the nightmare that this particular gig became was nothing more than an anomaly. I liked Fred and wanted to work with him again in the future. More importantly, I believed he had the mix of spirit, dedication, playfulness and professionalism that the best character actors possessed. He would have been a tremendous addition to the team. But I caught the look on his face as we parted and I knew we’d never meet in costume again.

What the Fantastic Four and Marveldom assembled could not do, over more than two decades and countless battles, a frail octogenarian couple of fifty years achieved without even trying: the utter defeat of Dr. Doom!

Survival of the Fittest, Part II

We left our errant hero at a comic-book convention in Edmonton, perched precariously atop a wobbly wastebasket in an unlit, fog-filled vestibule, awaiting his cue to enter from his Spidey sponsor, the delightfully demented Darwin…

With the noise of the fog machine drowning out my cue, I had no idea whether Darwin had heralded my entrance or not. Oddly, I thought of the moment at the end of The Sound of Music when the von Trapps are announced as winners of the music festival, but fail to return to stage: “The family von Trapp . . .”—no response—“The von Trapp family singers…”—murmers arise in the audience.

I counted three Mississippi’s before carefully swinging the door open with my fingertips and taking off, hoping my timing wasn’t too far off the mark. Despite numbness in my ankles from having squatted for so long atop the trash can, my “leap of faith from the lion’s mouth” was a success. The sudden impact of hitting the floor was jarring, but not so much that anyone could notice in the cloud of mist that swirled around me.


There was applause, a hum of oohs and ahs, and a few screams from terrified children, before the floodgates opened and I was inundated with entreaties for autographs and photos. Amid the requests were the usual queries, my rote responses to which I’ve related in previous posts (Hi, Spider-Man, what are you doing in Edmonton? How did you get here? Where are your Web-Shooters?) But it wasn’t long before I received my first taste of the more refined, persnickety interrogation that can only derive from a comic-book geek.

“Hey, ‘Spider-Man,’ The Official Handbook of the Marvel Handbook says you’re supposed to be 5' 9" (At 6' 2", I am noticeably taller),” at which point my smug antagonist would hold up a copy of the referenced magazine open to the Spider-Man entry.

Originally published in 1983, The Official Handbook of the Marvel Handbook was an encyclopedia of everyone and everything within the Marvel Universe, not only all the heroes, villains, sidekicks, supporting cast members, and teams, but also such esoteric items as Wolverine’s claws, Captain America’s shield and of course, Spider-Man’s Web-Shooters. Formatted like a standard comic book, most entries covered a single page—more important characters, such as Spidey and The Fantastic Four received more pages—listing the character’s real name, height, hair and eye color, occupation, affiliates, first appearance, base of operations, etc.; and featuring a brief history and description of the entry’s powers and weapons. A full frontal drawing of the character accompanied each entry as well. It could easily become the bane of my Spider-Man existence if I didn’t nip it in the bud at the outset.

“Oh that! Do you actually think I would subject myself to being measured? Those are merely guess-timates based off the photos you see in the Daily Bugle taken by that Peter Parker guy. Why do you think I’m always crouching? So no one will get an accurate fix on my size, of course. I have a secret identity to uphold. I’m not about to enjoin the Marvel editors in a coffee clutch at the offices to get measured or tell my life history.”

This comeback usually did the trick. It refuted the actual question while at the same time insinuating any other part of the entry as nothing more than a fabrication by a bunch of funny book creators out to make a buck off of my reputation. Some of the more insidious fans, the kind that want nothing more than to suck the fun, wonder and enjoyment out of anything that brings pleasure to others, would try to trick me . . .

“Hey, Spidey . . . How’s Mary-Jane?” they would nonchalantly ask, feigning benevolence by asking about the new bride of Peter Parker aka Spider-Man (The two married the year prior).

“Mary-Jane?” I would counter in a questioning tone, but knowing full well what was coming.

“Aha! You’re not Spider-Man. You don’t even know who Mary-Jane is!” They’d aver exultantly, like a hard-boiled detective finally pointing out the killer in a room of suspects after tense-filled minutes of deduction in the final moments of a movie.

“Oh, you mean Mary-Jane Watson-Parker, Peter’s wife,” I’d interrupt, my “I-could-have-had-a-V8” response striking worry in my antagonist. “As far as I know, she’s fine. I really haven’t see the two much since their marriage, what with her acting career, his freelance photo assignments and my crime-fighting.” As the words tumble out of my mouth, the deflation from elation on the mien of my inquisitor as he sees victory trickle through his fingers is a joy to behold. As a final nail in the coffin, I add, “I think Parker was supposed to be here covering the event, but I haven’t seen him.”

Had I answered, “She’s fine,” or similarly, my attacker would have gloated “Aha! So you are Peter Parker!” which is inane (Is he exposing me as being a fictional character?!!). If Spider-Man was truly real, his identity would be secret. Any theories on his identity would be speculation, and he would answer as I did. If you think about the whole conundrum of my being the genuine article, but not the real article because there is no such person, it becomes as heady as trying to make sense of time travel in movies (I have come from the future to change the past, thus negating my existence, which would prevent me from coming to the past to save the future . . . Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!). By incorporating bits of then current Spider-Man minutiae in my rebuttal, not only did I respond as the comics’ Spider-Man would have, but I also displayed my deep knowledge of the character, serving as a warning that any further attempts at humiliation would be foolish. Occasionally, I’d relieve my interrogator the humiliation by pausing only an instant— not allowing them the opportunity to crow—before delivering my stock reply. But most times I let ’em have it.

These lame attempts to “defrock” me would arise at every comic book convention at which I appeared. It was pathetic, but I kept my eye-rolling concealed under the mask and concentrated my time on the fans who were there to enjoy the experience, not try to sully it. This inaugural show appearance did present probably my most bizarre query from a fan. Fortunately for the questioner it came during a lull, so the only witnesses were the few retailers manning their booths in the area of the show where I was confronted.

“Spider-Man . . . Remember the old cartoon of yours in the 60s? . . . You know how they’d show you swinging high above the building-tops? . . . I mean the skyscrapers are underneath you . . . So what were you swinging from? . . .”


The actual question came after a litany of aspects of the cartoon, from which I decided to save you, as if the young questioner—he seemed to be in his upper teens to low 20s—wanted to make sure I knew precisely what he was talking about, so I could answer accordingly. His tone didn’t suggest he was setting me up. Rather surprisingly, he sounded as if he really wanted to know.

Perhaps I’d reached my saturation point with the geek abuse. Or maybe the inanity of the query irked me. But I put my arm around the fan’s shoulder, drawing him in close before softly saying, “I hate to break this to you . . . but that was a cartoon . . .” Evidently my reply was not so soft that the retailers couldn’t hear as a roar of laughter erupted around us. My inquisitor’s expression was a combination of confusion and disappointment. He actually started to repeat the question as if I hadn’t understood it the first time. I saved him the trouble and explained to him that I never understood the cartoon either (Obviously I need to swing from something; I can’t rightly snag passing clouds). My reply seemed to assuage him. In fact, he seemed relieved and happy, as if a dark cloud of confusion that had been hanging over him all the years since he first watched the cartoon as a child had been lifted.

At the first opportunity I bounded over to where Lee and McFarlane were signing. A large crowd enveloped McFarlane’s table when I approached, but all I needed was a slight aperture to angle myself through and once people realized who it was, they dutifully parted as if I’d just uttered “Open sesame.” McFarlane hadn’t noticed; his head was down as he autographed a lucky attendee’s comic. Before he could raise his head I vaulted onto the table, landing inches from him. He sprung back in surprise, but his shocked look was quickly replaced with a big smile. I told him how pleased I was that he was going to be drawing my adventures. He graciously thank me, then commented on how cool it must be to play Spider-Man.

“Being the idol of millions may seem cool to you,” I answered. “But it’s a tremendous responsibility protecting the world from the likes of Doctor Octopus and the Green Goblin.”

He chuckled. “That’s a great costume . . . where’d you get it,” he continued.

“Well, when I first attained my powers and decided to use them to fight crime, I made it. I couldn’t very well commission its construction, not if I wanted to keep my identity a secret.”

At first, I’m not certain whether he knew I was an official Spider-Man or just a local in an extremely well-made costume. Or maybe he simply thought I would answer him out of character, since he wasn’t just another fan asking the questions. But he finally realized that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer while he queried me in front of others, so desisted. One generous volunteer—it may have been an attendee—took a picture of us with their Kodak Instamatic camera and gave the shot to me. The photo was later used in my first published written work for Marvel, a short one-page article for the company’s fan magazine, Marvel Age (issue #96), fittingly entitled “My Life As Spider-Man.”

Lee was the consummate gentleman, one of the nicest, warmest and friendliest persons I have ever met. Infinitely talented, but equally as down-to-Earth. He gave art lessons while at his table, using a large white tablet of paper on an easel, amidst endless requests for autographs and sketches. A weaker man would have snapped, but Lee remained as affable and patient during the first interruption as he was during the hundredth. I found myself catching brief respites, perched beside him as I watched him draw. I was mesmerized—what a talent! The approach of a fan wanting my signature would snap me out of my reverie. I’d thank Lee for the generous use of his space, excuse myself, then leap over the table to meet-and-greet the newly arrived Spidey-o-philes.

Amid the handshakes, autographs, picture posing and kibitzing, one subject of local interest frequently arose: The Mall.

“Have you been to the mall, yet?”

“Well, no . . . I’m not much of a mall person,” I’d politely respond, while thinking, How dull is it in Edmonton?

“You know about our mall, don’t you?”

“The subject has been broached.” Yeah, only about a gazillion times. People, it’s a mall!

It turns out the Edmonton Mall is the largest in the world, even bigger than Minnesota’s highly lauded Mall of America, which I also hadn’t been to. To me, malls are human ant farms. My fondest thoughts about these sacred Institutions of Capitalism are the car-chase scene in The Blues Brothers movie in which Duke and Elwood destroy one of these shopping meccas with the help of Chicago’s finest and George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, in which one of the remaining bands of humanity make their final stand in a mall full of zombies, the tableau looking eerily similar to reality.


All malls were essentially the same in my opinion: a sprawl of smaller shops, like Spencer Gifts, Pier 1 Imports, Foot Locker and Claire’s, anchored at each end with flagship department stores, such as Macy’s, Sears and JC Pennys. Carts, selling everything from hair scrunchies to monogrammed baseball caps filled the corridors. And of course a food court with either a McDonald’s or Burger King, a pizza purveyor, a seller of Chinese food—usually named something cute with “Wok” in the title like “Wok This Way”—a hot dog kiosk, and a Cinnabon. The bigger the mall the more shops, greater number of sales carts and more expansive a food court.

The Edmonton Mall had all this and more: a miniature golf (or Put-Put) course; a professional ice rink where the Oilers held their practices; a water park, complete with simulated beach and wave machine; a lake in which an authentic replica of an eighteenth-century Spanish galleon resided; a lagoon which featured a submarine ride; two hotels; and an area with carnival rides, including a rollercoaster—all within the confines of the mall. It was as if Michael Bay had designed the place.


I have to admit I was impressed. But what really excited me was the rollercoaster; I just had to try it. Strangely, whenever I mentioned my desire, my eager mall boosters turned off-put, as if they regretted telling me about their beloved mall. “It’s your funeral,” they’d mumble as they turned away. Even when not quite so dramatic, people agreed I was mentally deficient to want to risk a ride on the Mindbender, as the coaster was called. Finally, I found someone willing to explain to me the reasons for everyone’s odd behavior. A little more than a year prior, the Mindbender leapt its tracks and three people were killed. Since that time the attraction had been shut down for repairs and had only just been reopened. Rather than being dissuaded, I was more excited than ever. The chances of a deadly rollercoaster accident happening are astronomical. The odds of two such tragedies happening consecutively would addle a brainiac. One would have a better shot at twice winning the lottery (Ride the “Death” coaster?!! Are you kidding? I want to be on the first trip after its rechristening!).

Thus, I found myself in line to ride the dreaded Mindbender whilst Darwin and Lola watched in awe. The coaster was relatively small; it was inside after all. But what it lacked in vastness and height it made up for in compact loops, tight turns and speed. Coupled with its interior placement among a bevy of innocuous chain stores—Oh, was that blur an Orange Julius?—It was a unique, exhilarating experience.

The highlight of the weekend was befriending Lee. We would later meet up in Manhattan and shoot some pool during one of his visits. But soon his popularity and schedule grew to the extent that it was hard to keep in touch, never mind actually get together. After he married, he moved to Italy, further complicating the matter. Still, on those rare occasions when we do see each other, regardless of how busy he is, he takes a moment to ask how I am and what I’ve been up to. As luck would have it, our flights from Edmonton coincided, so we waited at the airport together. Lee had a large black portfolio with him and offered me a piece of artwork before he went to his gate. I nearly fainted. Inside the portfolio were dozens of Alpha Flight and Punisher War Journal pages. The savvy choice would have been a selection from the latter. As Punisher was more popular, an original Jim Lee interior page of the character was far more lucrative than one from Lee’s Alpha Flight run. But I hate The Punisher. In my eyes he’s nothing but a gun-toting fanatical murderer, albeit of criminals . . . snore. I like my heroes super and, call me crazy, heroic. Punisher’s ethics are on par with those of murderers of abortion clinic doctors. They perceive the actions of their victims as punishable in their eyes, so killing them seems justifiable and thus not criminal, when of course they are.

As a title spun-off from Uncanny X-Men, Alpha Flight was always off-beat, its members unique. The title’s unusual stories always kept the reader off-kilter, on the edge of their seats. Despite shocking, yet never gratuitous and heartbreaking deaths, the characters persevered as superheroes. By the time Lee took over as regular penciler, few of the original team members remained. Yet, under the guidance of the under-rated, legendary writer Bill Mantlo, the series retained its signature style. I loved the series. When Lee’s run began, I noticed his exciting, detailed storytelling at once and savored every page. Now, I had a chance to own a page?!!

It was a difficult decision and my time was limited; we both had planes to catch. I chose one that was highly emotional and dramatic. Gee, what a surprise from an actor! It features the death of the villainous Purple Man, witnessed by his daughter and Alpha Flight team member, named appropriately enough Purple Girl, and colleague, the creepy Goblyn. They huddle in fear as an enflamed Purple Man staggers toward them. He collapses at their feet, his remains shattering as they hit the floor. A sobbing Purple Girl reaches toward him, safely kept at bay by Goblyn. The final panel pans back to show the two heroes embracing by the smoldering remnants of Purple Girl’s father. The child offers the only words on the page, “He’s gone.”

The page is one of my prized possessions and hangs proudly in my library. As far as Lee pages go, the page offers little; it’s from a lesser title and doesn’t feature any major characters—neither the Purple Girl nor Goblyn have been used much since the first Alpha Flight series ended in the early 90s—but it’s worth in the eyes of comic-book fandom is inconsequential. To me it’s priceless.

Survival of the Fittest, Part I

A comic convention?

In Edmonton?

When do I leave?

I’d certainly heard of Edmonton, Canada, when the head of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department, Barbara, asked me if I wanted to accept a gig there. Being an old school hockey fan whose parents held season tickets to the Bruins games at the Boston Garden—I watched Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, et al, though my fondest memory is my mom introducing me to Butterfingers candy bars at one of the games I attended—I knew Edmonton as a later addition to the league that produced one of the greatest hockey teams in history, winning five Stanley Cups and introducing the world to Wayne Gretzky and Mark Messier. But I had no idea where Edmonton was, other than it was over that way (waves arm to the left).


Edmonton, Canada, lies approximately 300 miles north of the Canadian/U.S. border, about 400 miles northeast of Spokane, Washington, well out of New York Spidey actor jurisdiction. Although Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department was located at the company’s Manhattan headquarters, Barbara employed talent agencies in three key locations across the continental U.S.—Los Angeles, Chicago and Dallas—to facilitate appearances in areas of the country far away from the Big Apple. Doing so reduced the travel costs to the client and enabled Barbara to book more events on any given weekend in different parts of the country. Even so, Marvel had a strict policy of limiting the number of Spider-Man appearances to a single instance within a particular state, thus preventing ole Webhead from being seen in two different places at once and supporting the illusion amongst the kiddies that there was only one Spider-Man. This held true for the other heroes, for which there were multiple costumes, i.e. Captain America and later Wolverine. There was only one costume for each of the remaining heroes and villains due to either construction costs, as with The Hulk, or lack of demand.

Justifiably (ahem), there was a certain conceit among the New York character actors toward the lesser (ahem) ones temping (ahem . . . must be a tickle in my throat) out of the three agencies across the country. After all, we were hired and under the constant scrutiny of the home office, whereby the other character actors were hired through a third party and monitored by such. I mean really, would you rather have your child weaned and nurtured by a day-care center or a parent (Like I said, conceit)? To bolster the argument that the Big Apple Web-Slingers were the pheasant to the outside offices’ tofurkey, most high-profile events, regardless of their geographic location, were stocked with actors from the New York headquarters. The only exceptions were when demand exceeded availability, which was rare, or when a client insisted on a particular actor and was willing to pay the additional travel expenses. Such was the case in Edmonton.


Darwin and Lola Luxford were the owners/operators of several established and successful comic-book shops in Edmonton. Neither had any convention experience, but that didn’t stop Darwin from deciding to organize one.

Darwin was a lovable nutjob, a cross between Oliver Reed’s brutish Athos in John Lester’s quintessential 1973 film The Three Musketeers and the Tasmanian Devil. Contrarily, Lola could best be described as Anne Hathaway’s Mia Thermopolis from The Princess Diaries before her transformation. She was unassuming and quiet—especially sidled next to Darwin—yet friendly, gracious and a consummate host. Their odd coupling proved a successful business mix and that extended to their inaugural comics convention outing.

The guest list was small, yet remarkable. Today, Jim Lee and Todd McFarlane are megastars of comic fandom whose success has far surpassed their simple origins as pencilers just trying to get steady comics work. Both left Marvel in 1992 and, with such other comic luminaries as Erik Larsen (Savage Dragon), Mark Silvestri (Witchblade) and Rob Liefeld (Youngblood), formed Image Comics where McFarlane created Spawn and Lee Wildcats. Over the ensuing years, McFarlane has been a co-owner of the Edmonton Oilers—he has since sold his stake—and a successful toy maker. Lee sold his Wildstorm division of Image to DC Comics in 1998 and remains as its head.

But in 1988, their notoriety and success was in its infancy. McFarlane had just begun a stint as penciler on Amazing Spider-Man after a successful run on The Incredible Hulk with writer Peter David that turned the failing title around. Having recently finished a popular if underperforming run on Alpha Flight, Lee was tapped to launch Punisher War Journal, a spin-off of the hit Punisher series, the first issue of which hitting the stands a month after the con. In the years that followed McFarlane’s and Lee’s cachet would skyrocket, leading both to their own series. In 1990, McFarlane was given complete control—both as writer and delineator—over a new Spider-Man spin-off, simply entitled Spider-Man (ignobly known as the “adjectiveless” one), the inaugural issue of which will set comic book sales records, selling 2.5 million copies. In 1992, Lee would get an opportunity to make his mark on another famous adjectiveless spin-off as the penciler on X-Men, surpassing McFarlane’s Spider-Man #1 in sales, selling 8 million copies, a record that still stands today. This duel appearance in Edmonton at the germination point of their stratospheric rise to comic-book stardom was a fortuitous coup for Darwin and Lola. Rounding out the guest list was Victor Gorelick, the Editor-in-Chief of Archie Comics (see photo at right), who’s so far accrued 50 years with America’s oldest humor comics company. His addition would ensure something to attract female fans to the show.

Oh yeah . . . and me, or more correctly, Spider-Man, a component for the young ’uns, thus providing something for everyone.

Normally, Edmonton’s location would dictate Darwin’s Spider-Man actor coming from the Chicago satellite agency, but Darwin (bless him) would have none of that. He wanted an authentic Spider-Man from Marvel headquarters in New York City. From the way Barbara described the conversation, I imagined Darwin’s response to her suggesting a cheaper Web-Slinger went down as well as Ipecac. She went on to say Darwin was an “interesting guy”—her polite way of saying that he was a whack-job—and she was curious to hear what I had to say about him upon my return. I got the sense that she wanted me to back out of the gig, fearing for one of her homebred Spidey’s safety—better to send one from Chicago—and desired nothing more than an excuse to tell Darwin that there weren’t any New York Spider-Mans available. All I heard was “comic book convention” and I was raring to go.

For all I know, Barbara may have already asked Jeremy, Marc, David, et al before even getting to me—I was the low man on the seniority totem pole, after all—or the others may have been booked. I prefer to think that due to my being the only comic book aficionado (read: geek) among her bullpen of performers, Barbara reckoned I’d be better equipped to defend myself from the relentless probing questions, dealing with the finest minutiae of the Spidey-verse and its inhabitants, from similar lovers of the art form. And she’d prove right.


The Edmonton Convention Center was located within a steep hill that forms part of the North Saskatchewan River valley, a five minute walk from the Chateau Lacombe Edmonton, a lovely hotel in the city’s downtown area, where I and the rest of the show guests would be staying. The entrance was a small unassuming set of doors standing in the shadow of an assuming marquis that heralded the imminent comic book extravaganza. Located at the hill’s crest, it opened to a lengthy escalator ride down the hillside at the bottom of which was the center’s main hall. As it was autumn the valley was afire with vibrant oranges and yellows and I immediately wondered why Edmonton was spoken of more favorably; it was beautiful.

Darwin couldn’t have been prouder of the fact that he had the genuine Web-Slinger from Marvel Comics headquarters. Yes, he knew I was one of several genuine Spider-Mans, but no one else needed to know that. And the chances of someone else being crazy enough to pay the exorbitant costs of flying a New York Spidey to the remote Canadian environs of Edmonton for their show, store or event were slim to none. So what’s a little promotional exaggeration?

As was my wont when arriving at a gig, I reconnoitered the area, making mental notes of spots where I could perch—trash cans, tables, etc.—learning where the guests would be situated—I just had to meet McFarlane and Lee, and why wait in line as Stephen Vrattos when I could leap to the front as Spider-Man?—and coordinating my dressing room and entrance with the promoters. Making my rounds, I couldn’t help but overhear Darwin answering a barrage of questions from the exhibitors and attendees concerning his so-called official Spider-Man. Yes, he was the real deal and his arrival was nigh. His tone, especially with the rival comic-book retailers who were exhibiting, was that of a schoolyard boy gloating over how much better his dad was than theirs. I got the sense that he had been ridiculed about organizing a comics convention by these same business competitors throughout the entire process. Did you hear Darwin latest crazy idea? He’s putting on a show! Who’s he going to get to come to Edmonton? Certainly no one famous. Put a fork in him boys; he’s done for sure this time! From what I’d gleaned from speaking with the show volunteers, Darwin and Lola ran the biggest most successful chain of comic stores in Edmonton. And for his show—the crazy idea that would be Darwin’s folly—he got two of the hottest up-and-coming artists in the industry and an Archie Comics legend, not to mention an official Spider-Man. Yeah, they laughed at the Wright Brothers, too. Can you say “jealousy?”


With all the exultation, I was a bit taken aback when Lola led me to a small, dank room just off the convention floor to change. Hadn’t she heard? I’m Marvel Royalty! I shared the room with a fog machine, which would be revved up moments before my grand entrance. Spider-Man would emerge from the ethereal mists like a mythic hero of legend. I guess after the build up Darwin had given me, he had to come up with something more than my simply bounding through the main doors, and the budget was blown on getting my webbed ass to Edmonton. I suggested Lola have a trash receptacle placed just inside the door of the room so I could leap out of the fog from a greater height, thus accentuating the special effect, limited as it was. Of course, when I think of these eggheaded ideas—granted it wasn’t on par with inventing the wheel . . . or the ShamWow for that matter—I never stop to consider the ramifications to myself. Have I mentioned the reduced visibility while in the Spider-Man costume? Add to that an unlighted room and a blanket of heavy smoke, and Anne Sullivan would be hard-pressed to guide me through my grand jeté from atop a wobbly garbage bin. Oh yeah, and let’s do it in front of a large audience. I can’t wait to hear Darwin defend himself when his much vaunted “official Marvel Spider-Man” is writhing on the floor with two broken ankles crying for his mommy. Still, nary a peep of protestation escaped my lips. As I squatted atop the garbage bin in the darkness and growing mist of the anteroom, I noticed for the first time, the roar of the fog machine. How was I going to hear my cue?!!

[Will our erstwhile hero’s leap be his last? Will Barbara’s trepidation about Darwin prove warranted? Will Spidey survive his encounter with the deadly Mindbender?!! Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion... same spider time... same spider channel...]