Goodbye, Rusty...

I am having a very hard time writing this...

Rusty Haller, the artist whose work donned the original header of this website and has appeared in numerous postings since the site's inception, died in his sleep last night at the young age of 45.

A good friend, I spoke of Rusty in my March 6, 2009, posting, and featured some of his wonderful art. Rusty was incredibly talented, with a sense of humor that could be silly, suggestive, or oftentimes both, but always funny. He was most proud of his anthropomorphic Man from U.N.C.L.E. meets Hart to Hart comic, Ace and Queenie, which ran in several issues of Furrlough and can be seen on its eponymous website.

The past year has been difficult for Rusty. He was living with his mother when she passed away in her sleep one day. Lack of work lead to his being evicted from his apartment. But it seemed as if his life were on an upswing. He was taken in by a friend in Ohio and had several solid prospects. Just earlier this week, I had referred him to my sister, who had since spoken to Rusty and hired him to design a logo for her.

I cannot help but get angry at Rusty's difficulty in finding work, a situation that filled him with constant worry and I'm sure led to his passing. He was so fucking talented!

I figured the best, most appropriate, way to honor him would with more of his work.

I'll miss him... and the world will miss his art... Goodbye, Rusty...

The original header, which graced the blog for its first two-and-a-half years

This illo of Ace and Queenie captures the passion Rusty had for his creation.

Rusty's wonderfully demented humor can be seen in this panel from sample pages he submitted to Marvel in the hope of getting work on his favorite title, Ren and Stimpy... Sadly, he never did.

Rusty's work appeared in many comic books, including Marvel Comics ALF and DC Comics Loony Tunes. The above example is part of a spread from Issue #14.

Rusty's work was by no means limited to comic books. He recently designed the art for a Teen Titans coloring book and this piece was featured on the cover of the November 2, 2005, issue of New Haven's free newspaper Play.

I'll end on a lighthearted note (I'm sure Rusty would agree).
This page comes from a story in issue #21 of Marvel Comics What The—? and features Rusty's take on She-Hulk's—or in this case, Sheeza Hulk's—problems with dating.

Math Is Hard

Believe it or not, there were as many appearances without dedicated and secure areas for Spider-Man as there were with them. Many times I was let loose in a store with nary a hint of guidance, not even a table, chair and pen to facilitate the signing of comics for the fans.

(Yours truly signing in cordoned-off area. Notice the state-of-the-art red security ribbon tied on the trash receptacle.)

Also hard to fathom: it wasn’t always a Beatles-arrive-in-America moment at my gigs with rabid fans straining the timber of the barricades to get closer to their objet de désir. Some businesses did a bang-up job of promoting my appearance: featuring the event in the week’s flier, advertising on local radio stations—occasionally stations broadcast from the store on the day of the proceedings—making periodic announcements over the PA system the week leading up to the occasion. Other businesses did nothing but slap the poster, which showed the date and time, that Marvel provided in the window or entrance. Then the management wondered why no one showed up, eventually coming to the erroneous conclusion that Spider-Man wasn’t a draw. I cannot tell you how many appearances I did where employees lamented to Spider-Man, “I didn’t know you were going to be here today; I would have had my husband/wife/sister”—insert relative here—“bring the kids.” Even the employees didn’t know; how would the customers?!!

In such cases when I had the books and signing implement but not the dedicated area or even wobbly fold-out card table on which to scribble my John Hancock, I’d keep the comics handy at a nearby unoccupied cash register (Do they even call them that anymore?!). I’d lead my wee fans to the spot, hop on the check-out counter and squat over to sign. I’m sure the people to my rear were happy I wasn’t a plumber, but the kids loved it. At the Grand Opening of a Hills Department Store in Chillicothe, Ohio, I parked my webbed-butt at a patio furniture display (see photo at right).

I still had to be careful not to scare children when it was a “free-range” appearance, especially those who wandered from their parents. I guess something could be said for unexpectedly terrifying kids, who do not stay by their parents’ side when in public. They’ll think twice before doing it again. Of course, the psychological damage might mean years of therapy when they’re older. Still . . .

In all seriousness, there wasn’t much more upsetting than witnessing a face of a child that you’ve terrified. So whenever I could, I presented myself to children in such a way as to make them at ease. As mentioned, this could mean nothing more than letting the child be aware of Spider-Man’s presence from a distance. In this way, the child can approach or not at his or her own discretion. I’d wave from afar and utter a friendly, “How’re ya doin’!”; perhaps do something totally silly—to extinguish any thoughts in their minds that I might be a threat—like bend to one side until my face is practically upside down. If they react in a frightened manner, I’d immediately back away and say, “That’s okay, I’ll stay over here.”

I had to be especially wary when making appearances at toy stores, the interiors of which were wall-to-wall colors, sounds and movement, accentuating the two-dimensionality of the costume. If I didn’t keep moving, I’d instantly dissolve into the scenery, virtually disappear. Remember that scene in E.T. when the title character escapes the mother’s discovering him, when she unexpectedly comes home one afternoon, by simply standing, immobile amongst the stuffed toys in the young boy’s closet? The Spider-Man suit caused the same effect in a toy store. When I did move, even after the briefest of pauses, I’d undoubtedly scare the bejeebus out of someone.

Kids wander away from their parents more often in a toy store, too. Correction: run. Something catches their eye and poof! they’re gone. They also touch, grab, explore in general. To a child, a toy store is essentially a playground where you can actually bring the fun home when you leave. It was not uncommon for my attention to be drawn to one or more children, then feel a gentle, curious poke or caress from another child that had approached me from a different angle, but didn’t realize I was alive. I’d turn and come face-to-face with a youngster performing their best Macauley Culkin in Home Alone impersonation, complete with the bone-chilling scream and flight.

From the child’s point of view... I’m reminded of the scene in the movie Jason and the Argonauts, when the crew of the Argo loot the tomb of the god, Talus. As they leave, they hear the screech of twisting metal. When they look up to the giant bronze statue of Talus that sits atop the tomb, the head slowly turns toward them in anger. You can practically hear them shitting their pants, before they run screaming back to the boat. The unfortunate child’s experience had to seem similar, even though I did not turn in vengeful anger. All I did was react as any human would when tapped or touched from behind, not that it made me feel any better knowing I was innocent of any wrongdoing when a child screamed in terror while running away from me.

There is one particular instance of my scaring a child that still haunts me. Okay, maybe “haunts” is a bit melodramatic, but I still recall the incident with guilt and wonder if I did any long-term psychological damage. No surprise that it happened at a toy store. It was time for a break and there was a lull in the action. I knew that if I didn’t make my exit immediately that could change. I also wanted to move quickly to prevent any wee quidnunc’s following me to my dressing area in hopes of seeing the man behind the mask. So off I went.

(It wasn't uncommon for toy stores to offer something for the little girls, such as Barbie, with Spidey, who was perceived as only of interest to the boys. But rarely is Babs joined by friends Chrissie and second fiddle, the unfortunately named Midge—she was named after a type of bug, after all—here with the author, during a break.)

Now, even on my worst day in the suit—say, when I had a cold or was unusually tired—my reactions were uncanny. It came with acting a role, portraying a character. Whether playing Willie Loman in The Death of a Salesman or James Bond in the character’s latest movie incarnation; whether on Broadway or off, big screen or small, community theater or public access television station; being in character heightens an actor’s level of awareness, certainly any actor fully committed to their role. Being “on,” as it is sometimes referred to, places the actor in state of vulnerability, highly receptive to his or her surroundings, no less so for Spider-Man, a character continually on his toes, ready for the slightest hint of danger.

Good thing, too. At that same moment I bounded around a corner of the aisle that would provide me with a beeline to the employee area—and my dressing/break room—a little girl who couldn’t have been more than three got the urge to stray from her mother and ran around the opposite side of the same corner around which I was speeding . . .

If Train A leaves the station at 9 A.M. going 50 miles per hour... and Train B leaves the station at 10 A.M. going 60 miles per hour... when will the trains meet?

It could’ve been ugly . . . uglier than it was. Because at the very last moment, I stopped short. All my focus was on getting to the back room, and there was no way I would’ve noticed a child that small—given the limited peripheral vision of the costume—with both of us moving that quickly, around a blind corner . . . but I stopped. I vaguely remember hearing the mother’s call to her daughter from the far end of the aisle as I fast approached. Or maybe it was superhumanly reactive on my part. Or maybe it was a greater force, that inclined me to do so. But I did. The instant the girl rounded the corner, I halted.

She didn’t, but with her size, the force—even while running—was not so great that she did more than mildly bounce off my leg. I knew I hadn’t hurt her by the way she plotzed backward on her bottom. Still, I instinctively bent down and reached out to her, saying “Are you all right?” I realized my mistake too late. I had forgotten completely that I was still Spider-Man. My concern for the child had overridden that fact. The look of sheer terror that flashed onto her face when she looked into the inhuman mien of her “attacker,” and the wail that came from her tiny lungs, immediately brought me back to reality. Oh my God. What have I done? was my initial thought, as the child’s mother rushed over. Then, I have to get away from her as quickly as possible. There was no other solution. Staying in the girl’s presence would’ve only exacerbated her fright. I paused just long enough to apologize to mom, who, thankfully, understood the situation. “That’s all right,” she responded before picking up and comforting her child.

The girl, now young woman, probably still sleeps with a giant-sized bug atomizer by her bed.

It's Not Easy Being Green

My first Spider-Man gig, being a Halloween appearance, occurred at the tail end of 1986. As far as I knew, that was it. Pfft! Done! It was nothing more than desperation on the part of Marvel’s Personal Appearance head, Barbara, that landed me the job. Not that Barbara would have hired anyone with which she didn’t feel comfortable assuming the role of the company’s figurehead and world-renowned icon; I was still representing Marvel, after all. But I knew going in that my audition wasn’t for a permanent spot on the roster, just a temporary one.

The Rutland gig wasn’t exactly on the same level as throwing the first pitch for a Major League Baseball game, either (that would come later). It wasn’t even a meet-and-greet at the Grand Opening of a Hill’s Department Store in Chilicothe, Ohio (that also would come later). From what I could glean from speaking with my hosts in Rutland, they were either getting a special rate or a gratis appearance. The comic store I visited while I was there may have helped sponsor the event—I later learned comic shops got a special rate on appearances—and the appearance itself afforded little access to the public. I was to be on a float, waving to the crowds along the parade route. That’s it. In Barbara’s eyes, it was a safe gamble to send a novice. To me, though, it was an E-ticket ride at Disney World. Upon my return, it was back to the mundane world of the restaurant business.

It wasn’t until a few months later that Barbara called me again. And again, she was desperate for an actor for a big event that was going down in the city a few days later. It was now 1987 and the 25th Anniversary year of the creation of Spider-Man in 1962. To celebrate, Peter Parker, the Web-Slinger’s alter ego, was going to get married in the Spider-Man titles to his girlfriend Mary-Jane Watson. As part of the marketing for this event, Marvel was staging a live “bachelor Party” for Spider-Man. In attendance—beside Marvel’s hierarchy and the press—would be a pantheon of superheroes. Actually, whatever ones they had costumes for at the time, which were Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, and X-Men members Iceman and the superheroine Firestar.

With the large number of heroes in use, Barbara needed me once again, but not to portray everyone’s favorite neighborhood Wall-Crawler. Hell, no! This event was far too important to throw a mere rookie into the suit. Major Mucky-Mucks and Nabobs from eminent corporations would be in attendance, not to mention the press. I was needed to be Spider-Man’s arch-nemesis The Green Goblin who, in a rare show of respect, was putting away his pumpkin bombs to congratulate Spidey on his impending nuptials. If I screwed my lines up or the appearance in general, it was no big whoop. I was a super-villain. Jeremy would portray everyone’s favorite Web-Slinger. The warhorse and veteran of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Program, Jeremy had been portraying Spidey since the Carter Administration. At the time I began, Reagan was finishing up his second term. He’d be playing Spidey at the forthcoming “wedding” as well as the press junket leading up to it.

Part of my role concerned my entering the festivities by jumping out of a cake that would be wheeled out as everyone sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Upon the song’s completion, I would burst from the cake and deliver my lines. I wasn’t worried about the lines. I once memorized an entire role in a Christopher Fry play overnight in college when the actor originally cast in the role broke his kneecap that afternoon in Movement Class (Yes, Movement Class). My script for this event ran approximately three lines, hastily written by the publicity department that afternoon. Not exactly Shakespeare... or Christopher Fry for that matter.

My biggest concern was the jumping-out-of-the-cake. The giant tiered confection would never have won any awards, nor struck fear in Entenmann’s stockholders. It was constructed of pressed wood—not very well either, if the splinters that covered my body afterwards were any indication—and the shoddy paint job was chipping. It was purchased that day, probably from a prop warehouse and probably after a desperate search, when the marketing wizard, who thought of the idea, got the thumbs-up from upper management. The top tier was hinged onto the base, which had no bottom, and the whole cake was put on a large, wheeled dolly.

The Green Goblin costume was made of similar, if not the same, stretch material as the Spider-Man costume—at least the two-piece under-layer was—and dyed a “cartoony” green, covered with black, silk-screened scales. Over that, was worn a fluorescent fuchsia tunic with matching shorts, gloves and saddlebag, in which the character kept such nefarious weapons as pumpkin bombs and razor-edged, bat-shaped boomerangs. I had none of these. My bag was empty, and I hoped my performance wouldn’t stimulate the need for any. The boots were not so much boots as gaiters that covered my sneakers. They shared the same fuchsia coloring normally reserved for the sort of upholstery only found in strip clubs. And the toes curled up, so they gave the appearance of elvin boots. Unfortunately, they weren’t stretchable and obviously were not made with a size twelve foot in mind. They had a feeble elastic swatch on the bottom that barely kept them in place. My Converse All-Star High-Tops were plainly in view underneath.

But the “boots” were a dream compared to the mask, a hard latex iron maiden for one’s noggin. On the plus side, it looked great and had a long cap—more fluorescent fuchsia—attached to it. On closer inspection, it looked like someone used a case of rubber cement to glue the topper in place.

The eyes were mesh, like Spider-Man’s costume, but hard plastic (or equivalent), not fabric, also cemented into place… dangerously so. No attempt was made to smooth the edges inside, which fit perilously close to the wearer’s eyes. And, as with the cap, no rubber cement was wasted in applying the eyes to the inside of the headpiece. The abundance of hardened glue in the mask produced a potent, malodorous aroma that made one’s eyes water. It also produced the same psychedelic mind-warping that sniffing glue effected. The increased heat and sweat of the wearer only exacerbated the problem. Do I even have to tell you how poor the vision was? The evening was shaping up to be a catastrophe just waiting to happen.

I would much rather have been out mingling with the guests, like the superheroes. Improvisation, I can do, even with VIPs and celebs. Besides, wearing a mask makes interacting with anyone a breeze. Too much can go wrong with scripts and props, especially anything mechanical. So, like any good evil doer, I was left alone to resent the good guys. That and worry about my entrance. At least, the room I was secreted in was just off the ballroom, so I wouldn’t have far to be dragged.

I spent the time working the cake, as it were, climbing in and out while reciting my lines. The cake only rose to approximately four feet from the floor on the dolly, which was about a foot more than my inseam, so I couldn’t just swing a leg out onto the floor. Not that getting a leg out at all was going to be easy. The hole I was to clamber out of was slightly tighter than my shoulder width. I’d have to collapse by shoulders in when “popping” out of the cake. Then, a few quick yoga moves to lift my leg up and over the lip of the cake and “voila” instant villain. I hoped my bag didn’t catch.

Then, I got word that Stan Lee—creator of Spider-Man and a slue of other famous comic book characters, including The X-Men, The Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, Daredevil and The Fantastic Four—was in the house. I don’t know what bothered me more. The fact that one of my childhood heroes was just on the other side of the wall or I was moments away from making a complete idiot of myself in front of him whilst besmirching one of his creations. And of course, in my mind, all the superheroes were kibbitzing and having a grand ole time with Stan, and they couldn’t care less. I was the comic-book geek! If I didn’t know what my motivation was before, I certainly did now. That’s it, Stephen, “use it in your acting,” the ubiquitous mantra of hopeless actors everywhere.

After what seemed like hours, while at the same time seeming a mere couple of minutes, it was time. Captain America came to get me. Cap would be the lucky one to pull the cake into the ballroom, using a thick cord of fraying rope attached to the dolly. Besides being one of the most recognized of the superheroes present after Spidey, his suit was the only one that allowed the maneuverability to do the deed. The cumbersome Muppet-like costume of The Hulk made him ideal for one thing only: walking into things. I shimmied into the cake, the top was secured and I waited for the guests to begin singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Whoever was speechifying before the song was taking their sweet time. I wasn’t exactly in a state of bliss. This had to be akin to being in a clown car. At least I wasn’t sharing the space with a dozen Krustys. Maybe the speaker was Stan. He was garrulous at the most economic of times. I wouldn’t have minded as much if I could hear him. Then I had a momentary panic that I wouldn’t hear my cue. That quickly passed when I heard the singing begin and the cake lurched forward.

Patience isn’t one of my strongest traits. Still, though I was itching to burst from my cramped confines, I was more afraid of jumping the gun. There wasn’t going to be any Jan Brady yelling “Who goes there?” before her brother Peter shouted, “Hark!” If I was going to ruin the evening’s festivities, I was going to be on time about it. As the guests wound up the third refrain of the song—my cue—I exploded from the top of the cake. I remember my shoulders getting stuck for a moment and the entire cake lifting off the dolly, before it clunked back into place. But I don’t think anyone noticed or heard over my maniacal laugh, a high-pitched, villainous cackle backed by an evening of edgy nerves and discomfort.

I hoped my entrance shocked the room enough that the unfolding of my body and leap-of-faith out of the cake would go unnoticed. It reminded me of the Yogi Kudu painstakingly removing himself from the foot-square clear plastic box on the seventies’ TV series That’s Incredible! or, for the younger of you readers, the alien dislodging itself from the machinery in the final moments of Alien. I slithered out in what I hoped would appear to be a villainous manner, made trickier with my aforementioned size-twelve sneaks. As I extended my leg out the side to reach the floor, the height was greater than my inseam by a couple of inches. I had to brace myself on the cake and hop as a shifted my weight to the outside leg, while clearing the lip of the cake lid with my privates. One slip and my high-pitched cackle would have climbed to even greater heights. Fortunately, it didn’t, and I made it out with my privates intact.

The crack Marvel marketing team’s script was corny, yet dramatic. Stan was most assuredly green with envy. From the bits and pieces that I can remember, the scene went something like this:

EVERYONE
(Singing while Captain America enters, pulling the giant cake from the room
behind the podium) For he’s a jolly good fellow. For he’s a jolly good fellow.
For he’s a jolly good fello-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow . . .

Green Goblin’s villainous cackle cuts the audience off as he bursts from the cake.

EVERYONE
Gasp! (Okay, maybe not a gasp, and maybe more than a few chuckles and “Oh, brothers,” but work with me, here)

The heroes in attendance tense for action.

SPIDER-MAN
I should have known you’d try something like this Goblin!

GREEN GOBLIN
Don’t get your webs in a bunch, Spider-Man (Okay, I made that part up, but it’s a lot more interesting than “Relax, Spider-Man,” which is more likely to have been my line). I’ve come merely to congratulate you on your impending nuptials.

Spider-Man hesitates, but finally decides to trust his arch-nemesis (I guess his Spidey Senses weren’t tingling), and the two shake hands.

Like I mentioned, it wasn’t Shakespeare, but given the hokey context, the script worked. And it was blessedly short.

The skit accomplished, I was free to mingle with the guests (read: find Stan Lee) or so I thought. I didn’t realize that my appearance was the Grand Finale to the ballroom festivities. The room emptied faster than a pensioner’s change purse at a slot machine. The only people to greet me as I exited from the dressing area were the wait staff deeply involved in stacking chairs and breaking down tables to clear the room so they too could go home.

Of Mice and Monkeys

Gorillas don’t like Spider-Man.

I can’t speak for other primates, but I know for certain that gorillas don’t like Spider-Man.

I was in New Hampshire at Benson’s Wild Animal Farm, a family-owned and -run zoo and amusement park that I was shocked to recently discover had closed its gates in 1987. That would mean that my Spider-Man appearance occurred during its final months of operation. At the time I was excited, because I took field trips to Benson’s as a kid through a program at the playground in Manchester-by-the-Sea where my family spent their summers and loved the park. Unlike today’s combination amusement park/animal safaris, Benson’s retained a warmth, charm and hospitality.

Although small, Benson’s had all the features of a larger park, sans the acres of cement. There were rides, games, food, souvenir shops and wild animals, but on a smaller scale. They also gave as much consideration to the grounds as they did the amusements. Everything was nestled amongst towering conifers, expansive picnic areas and natural flora. Visitors were neither mugged by lights and noise as they entered, nor were their feet assaulted by an endless sea of hard tarmac. Also, while the park’s rides were decent and entertaining, they didn’t have the cutting edge, supersonic, inverted, double twister, zero gravity, triple loop-de-loop, mega-ones that were being installed in other parks. Unfortunately, these unique and appealing features were most likely what led to Benson’s eventual downfall.

I was appearing as Spider-Man, one weekend, little realizing I would be joining another superhero cartoon character. Mighty Mouse and the Terrytoons stable of characters had become the park’s mascots—the way the Peanuts characters are for Knott’s Berry Farm in California; and Bugs Bunny and the Warner Brothers Merrie Melodies characters are for the Six Flags Adventure Parks across the country—in the years since I last visited the park in my early teens. What’s more, Benson’s featured a Mighty Mouse Playhouse, an adorable, little barn, set in a grassy lea with a raised proscenium thrusting from its faux barn doors. It’s the type of barn one envisions in those endearing classic MGM musicals, wherein Mickey Rooney inevitably cries out, “My Uncle’s got a barn,” to which Judy Garland replies “Let’s do a show!”

Twice a day, the “Mighty Mouse Players” performed a skit, which echoed the Mighty Mouse cartoons of yore. Oil Can Harry kidnapped Pearl Pureheart and Mighty Mouse would “come to save the day,” as made notable in his famous theme song, which in turn briefly regained prominence in an amusing, early Andy Kaufman routine. Another of the Terrytoons characters, Sour Puss, was also featured in the cast, although, in the cartoon shorts, his character played second fiddle to another named Gandy Goose, who was not represented. I can only assume that Sour Puss was perpetually terrified in these cartoons as the costume’s mask was designed with an expression of terror.

Contrary to Spider-Man, the Terrytoons characters were played by amateurs, specifically three local high school boys on summer hiatus. They took the job nonchalantly, figuring as far as summer jobs go, it was better than flipping burgers at McDonald’s. When I say “nonchalantly,” I don’t mean to imply that they didn’t work hard or portray their characters accurately. They simply were as relaxed as beanbag chairs, kidding around as they dressed, even though they were portraying somewhat iconic characters themselves.

Yet, they were impressed with the visiting professional Spider-Man from New York City. There were a lot of “Cools!” and “Awesomes!” as they pummeled me with questions about being the world-famous Web-Slinger. They fawned over the costume, all of which embarrassed me. Comparatively, they certainly were making peanuts. Yet, they were working as hard, if not harder than I was.

I dressed with them backstage. Surprisingly, they rotated costumes. It was no big deal for them to don a costume that one of their colleagues had worn and sweated in the day prior or even during a earlier performance that day. On one occasion, one of them did let out a pronounced “Ew, this one’s due for a cleaning!” Then, he put it on and didn’t say a word about it the rest of the day. This also meant that they all knew each other’s parts. Granted, it wasn’t Shakespeare and it was only a ten-minute skit, but it’s worth noting nonetheless. And since, there were no women amongst them, a man played Mighty Mouse’s love interest Pearl Pureheart. Again, there were no complaints. On the contrary, one of them announced “I think I’ll play Pearl today for a change,” and that was it.

There wasn’t a director and the owners of Benson’s left me in the hands of Mighty Mouse and his friends to work out Spider-Man’s integration in the show. Management’s trust was well-founded. These high school kids were more professional than most professionals I’d worked with. And, blessedly, less vain and emotional. There were none of the dramatic ego-clashes synonymous with actors left to direct themselves; no one was whining or pouting over their ideas not being heard, or storming off because their staging—which was obviously better than anyone else’s—was not being considered never mind used. The teens’ approach was practical, pragmatic and economical—they retained the entire production, adding Spider-Man’s entrance during the show’s final moments. It took minutes and didn’t even need to be rehearsed.

The show itself was approximately ten minutes long, comparable to the average length of an animated short. Mighty Mouse’s arch-nemesis Oil Can Harry abducts the valorous vermin’s paramour Pearl Pureheart—with the help of a dim-witted sidekick Sour Puss—sets a trap, from which Mighty Mouse escapes; and a crazy chase ensues, at the end of which Pearl is rescued, and both villain and accomplice are confronted. The restaged ending: with Oil Can Harry and Sour Puss’s back to the upstage barn-door entrance as they face off against Mighty Mouse, I slink in and tap the feebleminded felons on the shoulder. Seeing Spider-Man, Oil Can Harry and Sour Puss drop to their knees, kiss my feet and beg for mercy. Of course, there are no punches thrown—this was a family show, after all. Mercy is granted and everyone descends from the stage and greets the audience.

While Mighty Mouse and I remained sedate, as our characters demanded, Oil Can Harry and Sour Puss played like puppies. They ran around, wrestled, even climbed trees. Yes, climbed trees. Wearing costumes similar to those worn by the bipedal characters on Sesame Street or at Disneyland—with oversized heads and enormous feet—they actually climbed trees. And they were hysterical. I got so caught up watching their antics that I forgot that I was working. I also had to remind myself that they were not trained actors. Yet, they imbued their characters with such life, I could almost hear the voices, though their every movement was pantomimed. I’ve overseen Marvel character auditions and witnessed professional actors “dissolve into a dew” after donning the webbed red-and-blue. These “kids” were amazing puppeteers. They were one of the best troupe of performers I’d ever worked with; no egos, no whining, gut-wrenchingly funny and talented.

What does this have to do with Spider-Man-hating gorillas? Not far from the performance barn, was the gorilla house, wherein Colossus, a 500-pound silverback gorilla was kept. Unfortunately, Benson’s animal accommodations were not ideal. Most animals were pent up in small caged areas. There were some animals which had larger areas, because their size demanded it. The African rhinoceros, for example, had large ranch-like quarters with room to run around. Still, the facilities were a far cry from the facilities provided for the animals at the San Diego Zoo or Bronx Zoo. Colossus had it worst of all. First, he was alone, no others of his kind to play with. Second, he was trapped in a room, no bigger than 20 x 20 feet, surrounded on three sides with plexiglass walls. The room was housed in a larger facility, so the ape never saw the sun or breathed fresh air. There was the prerequisite tire swing and that was it. The only item missing was the Samsonite Luggage.

During a lull, I bounded to the Gorilla House in my Spider-Man suit to take a peek. Upon seeing me, Colossus quite literally went ape. He bounced off his walls, punched the glass, swung the tire in a fury, roared and pounded his chest, all in an attempt to get at Spider-Man. I do not doubt that had he escaped he would have ripped off every one of my appendage and then used my head as a soccer ball. I was terrified and quickly left. I trepidatiously returned later when out of costume, but the gorilla was nonplused. Call it naïveté or stupidity, but I was seriously concerned that Colossus would recognize me and explode in a frenzy of anger again.

I’m sure a zoologist could offer a logical explanation for the gorilla’s insane behavior, but I figured he was just more of a Superman fan.

You Gotta Have Art

NOTE: The following posting was written in the blog’s infancy under a banner that has since changed. Artist Rusty Haller was a good friend and talented creative soul who contributed spot cartoons for several postings during the site’s first year until his heartbreaking and sudden death (see “Goodbye, Rusty…”). He will always be missed.

Here is the original Banner that graced the site for
the Blog’s first two-and-a-half years

Amid the the deluge of emails, letters, faxes, phone calls and wires that I am inudated with daily concerning Heroes In My Closet, one question pops up more often than zits on a tween working the frialator at Mickey Ds: Who drew your banner? At first I thought these queries stemmed from members of the artist’s family using pseudonyms or a lunatic cosplay fringe group trying to undermine my blog because of some ill-conceived impression that I was unjustly muscling in on their territory. But it quickly became evident that there was more than a passing interest across the board in my banner Michaelangelo, which, I have to admit, tends to bruise the ego some. After all it’s my blog. What part of Heroes In My Closet don’t you understand? It’s all about me...me, me, ME!

All kidding aside (No, really...I was joking), I can certainly understand my blog-faithfuls wanting know who did the wonderful banner that adorns this site. RUSTY HALLER is the talented fellow’s name and I count myself very fortunate to be able to call him “friend.” I first became aware of Rusty when I was writing articles for Marvel Age magazine, Marvel’s own periodical pat-on-the-back that provided info to its fans on everything from future plotlines to behind-the-scenes exposés on creative personnel, production...whatever. Rusty provided humorous single-panel comics from time to time and, quite enjoying them, I asked the editor how I could contact the artist in hopes of purchasing some of the original art. I got Rusty’s number and called. It wasn’t long before our conversation went from my kudos for his art and his grateful thank-yous to geeking out over our mutual love of classic cartoons and toys. Thus began our friendship.

Rusty’s knowledge of obscure television shows and commercials put me to shame. It was like the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing one. He'd send me videotapes of never-aired pilots, long-forgotten commercials and shorts that were produced only for studio personnel. Did you know that in the mid-60s there was a proposed Wonder Woman show conceived and executed by the same team that made the Batman television series (No, I’m not talking to you with the bootleg lost episodes of Cool McCool—I know you know! I'm talking to those outside the realm of geekdom.)? It was so corny, it reeked of ethanol, and so cheesy, I was on Lipitor for months after seeing it. But I loved it...and Rusty knew I would. Then there’s the animated Winston cigarette ad featuring the characters from The Flinstones. Overcome with guilt from watching Wilma and Betty working in the yard, the two take a break behind the house to enjoy a Winston cigarette. It’s so wrong and cool at the same time.

Rusty’s work has appeared in such cartoon and TV-show inspired comics as Ren & Stimpy, ALF, Danger Mouse, Duckula, The Flinstones; and in coloring books, most notably featuring art inspired by the recent Go Teen Titans cartoon series. In recent years, he’s begun Ace and Queenie, an anthropomorphic James Bond-meets-Hart-to-Hart adventure comic that’s filled with puns and visual gags. The series runs sporadically in Furrlough, a comic book for aficionados of anthropomorphism, and on its own eponymous website.