There’s Got to Be a Morning After

The first few years I worked for Marvel, the appearances were sporadic. And since the majority occurred on the weekend, the most any actor could hope for was booking eight days out of the month, and that wouldn’t be enough for a Spider-Man performer to support himself in New York without carrying another job or finding additional acting work… paying acting work. This was even true for the most-seasoned veteran, Jeremy, who made more per Spidey gig due to his tenure with the company.

I moonlit as a waiter, which offered flexible scheduling, although the salary sucked—the legendary Tavern on the Green, where I worked for a short time, paid only $2 an hour. But the tips made up for the shortfall.

I never made the gossip rags as an actor, but I did as a waiter (Go figure!) That's me in my waitering togs behind the left shoulder of Doonesbury creator Gary Trudeau, a photo that appeared in the June 15, 1987 issue of US magazine. I was working at the famed Tavern-On-The-Green at the time.

Oftentimes I’d work the Friday before an early morning departure to a gig. Even had I gone straight home—an hour commute, if I caught the trains right; otherwise the wait between them at that time of night could be upwards of thirty minutes—I’d only be looking at a handful of hours’ sleep. That’s if I went straight home. But anyone who’s waited tables knows that as soon as the last table in your section has departed and you’ve cashed out is when your evening begins.

There was always a nearby watering hole that would be the bar of choice. The kitchen staff could usually be found already a few in the bag when the first members of the wait staff arrived. Cooks—at least those working the kitchens of New York City restaurants—are notorious for their alcoholic intake. I once worked with a head chef who hid bottles of Old Granddad whiskey in the kitchen, secreting nips as the night progressed until he could hardly stand let alone prepare a meal. A sous chef I once worked with went to the pub o’ choice after his afternoon shift one day and remained there drinking copious amounts of beer until his next shift the following afternoon, which was a double. After that next night’s shift, he went back to the bar!

And before you get all in my face about bars not permitted to legally remain open a full day, I will clarify. True, New York law states that an establishment cannot serve alcohol for 24 straight hours; they must lock their doors for at least one hour a day, during which they cannot serve. The bar of which I refer circumnavigated this law by allowing/reminding patrons to order as many drinks as they wanted before the appointed hour—I believe 5–6 am in this pub’s instance—then the owner/manager locked the doors. While the following sixty minutes ticked away, customers were free to drink those potables they had already purchased while the bartenders stood idly by until time was up. Then they’d resume their regularly scheduled service.

(Back to our posting, already in progress) Quiet nights necessitated closing sections in the restaurant early. Depending on how early would dictate whether the waiters serving those sections would either cut their losses and go home or start blowing their meager night’s tips on liquid refreshment. They were also the waiters most plastered by the end of the evening, having begun drinking the earliest.

One weekend I had a single-day, Saturday Spider-Man gig at Camden Park in Huntington, West Virginia. Whenever possible, flight arrangements were made the same day as an appearance. The convenience and possible sleep deprivation of the actor be damned. If a few shekels can be saved having Joe Spidey depart at the crack of dawn—meaning his awakening at least two hours before said crack—so be it; never mind Spider-Man’s subsequent lack of joie de vivre, the obvious absence of bounce in his step, or his mumbling of children’s names. In all honesty, it was an understandable policy. The client was picking up the tab, and the appearance fee alone was several hundred dollars a day. For a small business, that’s a hefty bit of lucre. Add one night’s stay at a hotel, plus dinner, depending on when the performer arrives, and the expense becomes too onerous to bear. Of course, the client risks the character’s being late due to a travel delay, but it was a worthwhile financial gamble.

In this instance, Camden Park was featuring two heroes, Spider-Man and Captain America, so all expenses were double. The additional cost of hotel accommodations for two people—Marvel policy insisted on each actor getting his/her own room—would have added a few hundred dollars to the total. Ouch!


And the actors, including myself, preferred leaving the morning of a gig. We were only paid a meager per diem fee of $30 for travel days when I began Web-Slinging. And that only applied if leaving before 3 pm. Thirty dollars was hardly fair recompense for a day’s work—in my case, a Friday night shift was guaranteed to bring in a hundred dollars after tipping the busboys and bartenders. The Camden Park job would allow me to appear without losing money.

Strangely, though I had moved to Queens from Jersey City several months before, my boss Barbara had scheduled me on a flight out of Newark Airport. I can only imagine that she must have made the arrangements before my relocation. She couldn’t possibly have forgotten about my move; it was her former apartment I was newly subletting. Fortunately, Turner—one of the waiters with which I worked—lived close to the airport in New Jersey. We were both working that Friday night shift, so he graciously offered to put me up at his place, from which I would leave for the airport via car service the following morning. Besides saving the client the insane amount of money it would have cost for a car service or taxi to get me to Newark Airport from my new home in Forest Hills, Queens—for cabs, there was an added charge of something like $45 on top of the meter fee for leaving the state; I think simply threatening the cabbie with a trip to New Jersey cost $25—the shortened trip to my point of departure made it possible to have a quick drink with my buddy after work.

Does anyone not know where this is going?

The Friday night shift was all that I dreamed it would be. I had to dream it; I couldn’t recall a thing by the time I got to my friend’s apartment that night… or, more precisely, early the next morning as it turned out. That quick drink turned into several, which in turn translated into, “Let’s continue this party at the Scrap Bar!”

The Scrap Bar was literally a hole in the ground. Located on MacDougal Street off Bleeker in The Village, the bar was situated down a flight of stairs from the street level. The only indication of its being anything other than a skanky, dark descent into the building’s basement was a string of barbed wire, interlaced with Christmas lights, that spanned the entrance. I believe “Scrap Bar” may have been welded into a rusted sheet of metal amid the wire, but it was hardly legible in the dim colored rays cast by the festive holiday lights. A heavy iron door—natch—lead into an only slightly more illuminated room about the size of a one-car garage, only with the headroom of a phone booth. Continuing the theme set by the name, the walls were adorned with floor-to-ceiling corrugated metal sheeting. A smattering of tables—large machinery cogs set on thick iron axles—stood before an oh-so-comfy metal bench that arced from the doorway around the left side and part of the far wall. An eight-foot bar of—wait for it—iron, stood in the far right corner from the entrance. It was fronted by metal stools.

What little illumination there was, came from fluorescent lighting set beneath the front overhang of the bar and behind overhanging metal sheets along the back of the bar. Long strands of plastic tubing (Plastic! What the—!), set with pinpoint bulbs—that afforded even less light than solar walkway lamps—meandered along the walls and ceiling; and four television sets set into the wall behind the bar, the screens of which displayed nothing; their blueprint-blue screens simply glowed. The soundtrack to this post-apocalyptic cantina was uncharacteristically not Heavy Metal, but rather Alternative. Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Smiths, Roxy Music, The Cocteau Twins, et al. filled the darkness from speakers secreted in the cornices set in the metal sheeting along the walls. To call The Scrap Bar a dive would have been an insult to dives.

I loved it.

Many beers and a few shots of Ouzo later, Turner and I headed for Jersey. I vaguely recall meeting Turner’s roommate, Brian, who was still awake when we arrived sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Fortunately, he was not nearly as shit-faced as we were and was able to schedule a car service and set the clock for me to wake up a mere couple of hours hence. Brian was even prescient enough to calibrate the alarm to its loudest setting and position it next to my head on the floor where I was sleeping.

Two hours later, I still didn’t hear it. But because it was so loud, it woke Brian up in his bedroom down the hall. When the noise continued more than a minute—a clear indication that I was 1) still unconscious, 2) too hungover or stupid to figure out how to turn it off or 3) dead—he stumbled into the living room and shut it off himself, screaming curses at me the whole time. That and the fact that he might’ve kicked me—I cannot recall, but given my state, it’s entirely possible—roused me enough to rub two of my few surviving brain cells together and force myself awake.

I mumbled an apology while Turner’s roomie stomped back to his room. Actually, I said, “bibe bwowwy.” My tongue was about the size of a Sealy Posturpedic King-sized mattress and it was nestled firmly between the bags of sawdust that were my cheeks. The fact that any noise came out was an accomplishment.

I staggered to the bathroom, caroming off the walls like a pinball, Verdi’s “Anvil Chorus” pounding against my skull. My stomach flip-flopped more than a candidate up for election as I stripped and pulled myself into the shower. Yes, I had factored in time to bathe. I know what you’re thinking: Why not forego the shower and sleep a little longer? First of all, an extra thirty minutes of sleep would have been inconsequential; it’s therapeutic effects on my state would not have registered, not nearly as much as a hot shower. I also didn’t want to stink of booze or body odor when confronting my fans. I also brushed my teeth, having packed my toothbrush alongside the costume in my gym bag. I wasn’t worried so much about people catching a whiff of my breath—which would have made fans look forward to my farts—because the mask provides an effective buffer. Rather, nothing helps allay impending puking more than a minty fresh mouth, mint being a homeopathic remedy for upset stomachs. Plus, to have not brushed would have meant spending the whole morning with the unappetizing taste of stale beer in my mouth, anathema to keeping one’s stomach down.

At one point during the shower I thought I was going to get reacquainted with the potables of a few hours prior, but it thankfully subsided and I was able to complete the task unimpeded. The livery blessedly awaited me when I walked out the door. I don’t think I could have handled calling the car service to inquire where my ride was, which would have entailed awaking Brian to get the number—I’m pretty sure I’d have felt the kick this go-around—dialing said number—focusing and motor functions being low on my list of abilities at the time—and wending my way through the morass of the monosyllabic-grunt exchange that would have commenced betwixt my inebriated self and the car dispatcher, ninety-percent of which could trace their roots back to the Paleolithic era. I used my waning moments of lucidity to mumble “Newark Airport” and “American” to the driver before collapsing in the backseat to catch what few winks I could manage during the quick trip to the terminal.

Mark Nutting—Captain America—was already waiting when I stumbled to the gate. Mark was the consummate Red, White and Blue Avenger: tall; blonde-haired and blue-eyed; with an expansive chest, chiseled jaw line and perfect smile. He couldn’t be more “American” if he rode in on a John Deere tractor, apple pie in hand, whistling John Philip Sousa marches. And he had the personality to match; a genuinely good, honest, charismatic fellow with a great sense of humor; the kind you’d want as a big brother; the yin to my yang… certainly if viewed at that instant. If my appearance gave any hint of the previous evening’s escapades, he didn’t acknowledge it. But he wouldn’t. I spared him the agony of being politely ignorant, quickly revealing my state. I knew he wouldn’t think ill of me; that just wasn’t his way. He simply laughed good-naturedly. Thankfully, either the additional shut-eye or the cup of coffee I now gripped and sipped settled my stomach enough to enjoy a vomit-free flight, despite the headache which continue to throb.

Here's Mark as Cap in a promotional shot from the Winter 1991 in-house Marvel newsletter. The angle makes him appear skinny, but in person, Mark filled out the costume nicely. In later years, Marvel made the Captain America actors wear a muscle suit under his signature red-white-and-blue threads. But Mark would have looked fine without it.

We landed about an hour and a half later, where we were picked up and dutifully whisked to the park. The sun was shining, and the day was already warming up to be a “scorcher,” as my mother would say. One consolation was the humidity or lack thereof. Still, I prayed we would be signing in a shaded area. I had no delusions that our event would be held inside, never mind air conditioned.

We arrived with an hour to spare before our scheduled appearance and escorted to the main office at the front gate where we would be transforming into our superheroic alter egos. Along the way our chaperone pointed out what was to be our signing area. A “holding pen” would have been a more apt description. In an empty expanse not too far from the entry gates were a dozen forest-green wooden tables, each approximately two and a half feet wide by six feet long, configured into a rectangle, which couldn’t have been more than ten feet by twice that long. Gone was any hope of shade.

Well, I was never one to “phone in” my Spider-Man appearances, regardless of the circumstances, and I wasn’t about to do so now, especially as I was responsible for my current state of infirmity. I whispered a little prayer in my head to whatever power was in charge asking for strength to see me through the day and swearing sobriety—or at least temperance—the night prior to any gig thereafter. As I pulled the mask over my head the fabric felt like a cheese grater against my scalp. I could swear the pulsating of my head was visible, resembling Fred Flintstone’s toe, the affect’s of a dropped bowling ball. With Cap leading the way, we bound from the office and hit a wall of heat.


But worse still were the rays of the sun. I was immediately blinded as the white mesh fabric that covered my eyes reflected back, effecting “snow blindness,” its debilitating brightness salting my wounded cranium; God’s spotlight, shining an accusing finger on this sinful member of his flock. A favorite adage of my grandmother came to mind in that instant: “You made your bed; now sleep in it!”

I did.

Without breaking stride, I followed my colleague, casting my eyes downward beneath the mask, which enabled me to just make out his boots below the blinding rays of the sun. I could hear the crowd cheering our approach to the makeshift superhero petting area. They appeared as nothing but amorphous shadows in my limited purview. Suddenly Cap leapt, gaining the autograph zone as the crowd parted. I followed, but seasoning my leap with spidery goodness that allowed me to cheat a leg onto the table without giving a shout-out to my feebleness.

Captain America and I stood there soaking in the adulation. Actually, we were scared witless. People screamed out our names, like those hapless fans at rock concerts who are so overwhelmed with being in the presence of their musical hero/es, they just scream his/her/their name for lack of any other way to express themselves. Only in this instance, everyone was one of those fans. And they were all straining toward us, arms outstretched with comics and assorted ephemera they wanted us to autograph. It was like a scene from Night of the Living Dead, a tide of zombies straining against slapdash barricades to get to the last humans on Earth. Maybe we should have waited until after lunch!

The park did not supply security, either, probably thinking the tables would keep the rabid hounds at bay, as it were. We were on our own, back-to-back, neither deigning to plunge into the frenzy that tightened around us as the tables inexorably scraped closer inward. Every time I considered confronting the wide-eyed, salivating spidey-o-philes encircling us, I had visions of the Scarecrow when the flying monkeys attacked in The Wizard of Oz. I’d submerge amidst a flurry of flailing arms, webbed swatches of red- and-blue flying hither and yon, only enough of me left to gesture and cry, “And then they took my Web-Shooters and threw ’em over there!” At least Cap had a shield. Of course, an ax didn’t help the Tin Man much.

Almost at once, we both decided to enter the fray. “Once more unto the breach, my friends… once more!” I shouted and jumped onto a table. Cap strode forward opposite me. Better to divide and conquer… yeah, right! I was immediately covered in hands pawing every part of my body. I felt like the water pump in The Miracle Worker. Yes, asses were fondled, heads were petted, biceps were squeezed. Fortunately, in my crouched position, I was able to keep from getting my jewels pinched. A pen appeared from a women’s handbag and she was nice enough to let me keep it after I autographed a comic book for her (Bless you!). I hate to think what would have happened had she taken it back and left me without a writing utensil to provide signatures to the rest of the pack. Still, neither my presence nor the autographs I was feverishly scribbling assuaged the roar of the crowd. You’d think I was signing blank checks.


For the next two and a half hours, I remained hunkered on the table, signing. Occasionally, I straightened for a photo, but I was quickly back in autograph mode. I signed comics, ticket stubs, napkins (They quickly ran out of the few hundred comic books that Marvel provided); a Sharpie materialized and I scribbled on sneakers, T-shirts, pant legs, backpacks, baby bibs, breasts… Yes, breasts! A woman with platinum blonde hair, enough makeup for the entire summer run of Cats and a figure that would make Dolly Parton blush pulled the top of her blouse down to the tips of her aureolae and commanded, “Sign these!” The view was vertiginous to say the least. The NFL ground crews responsible for painting the team logos in the end zone have less room with which to work. I took full advantage. John Hancock was turning in his grave with envy when I was done. This set off a torrent of requests for autographed breasts. I felt like I should have thrown beads.

This evolved to other body parts; arms, legs, feet, faces, foreheads, backs and asses! It was inevitable. This was long before the “Brittany” look, so in most cases, there was less of a peek than one would get from the average plumber, Joe or otherwise. Still, it was surreal; a nerd who used to think Trixie on Speed Racer was hot, now inundated with women exposing themselves to him. Oscar Wao eat your heart out!

Not that it was all cheesecake. Oftimes it was chicken thighs, cellulite and stretch marks. Elderly women who hadn’t been so excited since The Lawrence Welk Show was renewed the first time were hitching up their bloomers, unsettling my fragile stomach. The few times I hesitated when confronted with underage girls, their moms goaded me on, sidling up with their pound of flesh as soon as their daughters were done getting branded.

Throughout, the sun’s rays beat down and the temperature rose steadily as noon approached. I was one big ache and soaked with sweat. I must’ve reeked of alcohol, but no one commented. Who knows, maybe that’s what sent the females wild. I didn’t see Mark once, but at some point past noon, he tapped me on the shoulder and addressed the crowd in a stentorian voice that could only have been Captain America’s. “Sorry folks, Spider-Man and I have to take care of some business. We’ll be back later.” I wanted to kiss him and sigh, “My hero!” Instead, I alit from the table and bolted from the area, breaking land speed records on my way to our dressing room and respite from the horde of hysterical humans and the heat.

As much as I wanted to unzip, my hands were shaking and I couldn’t quite get my arms over my head, the result of severe dehydration. Mark was directly behind me, though, and gave me a hand. My head must have looked like a newborn’s when I unmasked, squeezed after hours of steady compression. I collapsed in a chair and wallowed in the euphoric cool of the office air conditioning. After copious amounts of water and a sandwich (By this time, I had sweated out the toxins poisoning my body and was ravenous… and strangely desirous of a glass of milk.) I was feeling better. The headache was gone, but I was overcome with fatigue. Still, I didn’t dread the resumption of signing the way I shuddered in anticipation of the earlier round.

Also lunching at this time was World Wrestling Federation (neé World Wrestling Entertainment) celebrity Sergeant Slaughter, who was also a member of the G.I. Joe Adventure Team on a then Saturday morning cartoon, entitled G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero (In the mid-eighties, Hasbro re-envisioned G.I. Joe from a single 12-inch doll to a team of 3-inch elite special forces operatives). The Joe cartoon ran in various incarnations from 1985 to 1991, and during its run Slaughter was introduced as a Joe.

An imposing figure, Slaughter turned out to be an amiable family man of two little girls, who made his home in Connecticut. He revealed his desire to design and begin a program of special countrywide appearances with actors playing the various members of G.I. Joe. No foreigner to character events himself, he took great interest in Mark and I and our escapades (I wisely failed to mention that morning’s indiscretion). Similarly, we were not shy about extolling our virtues as actors and experience as characters, as we tried to convince the good Sergeant that we’d be perfect for his little venture. Numbers were exchanged and Mark and I turned our attention to Slaughter’s wrestling career. He neither supported the veracity of the “sport” nor disavowed it. And we respectfully didn’t press the issue. He claimed his signature move the Cobra Clutch was authentic and that no one had yet been able to break the hold. I certainly wasn’t going to test him on the point.

That afternoon’s signing went much the same as the morning’s with the exception that I wasn’t running on fumes and the sun, having started its descent, was less oppressive. By the last hour, it had settled behind some trees, and Cap and I found ourselves shaded with an occasional breeze pleasantly soothing our weary bones. It seemed as if my penance had been completed.

The park officials thought it a shame that we didn’t have time to try out a few rides. A devout rollercoaster aficionado, I would normally jump at the chance to pop my coaster cherry at Camden Park, even if it risked missing my flight. But my body had been battered enough, and I was grateful not to have to invent some excuse for not accepting their hospitality.


It was at this moment that Mark elected to tell our hosts of my morning malaise (Apparently, Pollyanna, he’s not!), unsubtly remarking how “Steve, probably isn’t in any condition to enjoy the kiddie rides, never mind a rollercoaster (So much for the adage: ‘You can take the man out of the Captain America costume, but you can’t take the Captain America out of the man.’).” It was quite a revelation to the attendants, who would’ve never guessed that I was suffering, considering the great job I had done as Spider-Man. We shared a laugh, and the park officials went on to relate another Cap/Spidey appearance of a few years prior, during which the actor playing Captain America went on the coaster soon after lunch. It wasn’t immediately apparent that anything was amiss as the two heroes disembarked, other than the fact that the good Captain was holding his shield strap-side up and horizontally to the ground as if he were panning for gold. The Red-White-and-Blue Avenger had hit the mother lode, all right, but it wasn’t gold chunks he’d discovered!

As we were driven to the airport, I was thankful I hadn’t contributed anything new to the park’s dubious legacy. I couldn’t imagine having lost my lunch while in the suit. Talk about a facial! Ugh! The gig was a complete success and blessedly uneventful. But the appearance wasn’t over yet…

Unsurprising, I had no recollection of how small the airport was and, it being a Saturday evening, the terminal—all one of them from what I could tell—was empty, aside from a ticket agent or two and some security personal. Mark and I each carried not but a single over-the-shoulder bag, his noticeably larger as the Captain America costume was more involved—with boots, gloves, headpiece, etc.—than Spider-Man’s. There was also the matter of the shield. Still a few years from Marvel Personal Appearance heyday, when all the costumes would get a much-needed upgrade and several new characters were introduced, Cap’s shield was transported in the same duffel bag with the rest of his togs. A heavy, cumbersome, metal thing, the shield measured in the neighborhood of two-and-a-half to three feet wide. Scrapes from numerous battles with screaming fans across the country covered its surface, and the bolts which fastened the strap to the back penetrated its face like the neck bolts on Frankenstein’s monster. On the gatekeepers’ security monitor, Cap’s shield must have looked like a satellite dish.

I had just eased through the checkpoint and was picking up my bag when I heard the confused voice of the security agent manning the screen inquiring about the strange item in Mark’s luggage which had just passed her view.

“Sir, what’s do you have in your bag?” she asked Mark.

“Oh, that’s my shield… I’m Captain America.” he innocently replied with a toothy grin.

“Excuse me?”

By this time the second agent at the walk-through metal detector had come over. I could see that Mark’s response was not going over too well, so…

“And I’m Spider-Man!” I offered (What the Hell was I thinking?!!).

As if my two cents hadn’t exacerbated the situation enough, I unzipped my bag and drew out part of the costume…

“See?” I added, as though I had just presented the key evidence to the jury. What was I expecting, the agents slapping their foreheads like they could have had a V-8, offering a drawn-out “Oh-h-h-h…,” and sending us on our way, apologizing for their stupidity?

The agent picked up her mike and said one word: “Security.”

As Mark and I desperately tried to explain exactly who we were—visions of spending the night in the county hoosegow dancing in our heads—two gun-toting airport officers appeared at the gate. The situation looked hopeless.

“I can vouch for them, officers.”

Sergeant Slaughter had just entered the gate area. He still wore his signature hat and mirrored glasses, though even sans these the gate personnel would have recognized him. Turns out, one of the security guards had heard of the event at Camden Park that day. In fact, his wife had taken their kids there to see Spider-Man. After handing out a few autographed comic books—the smart actors always kept extras with them—we were on our way. On the flight, I couldn’t help but wonder why we had so much trouble at the gate until Slaughter arrived. Didn’t the gate agents know that a Captain far outranks a Sergeant?

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...]

'Ice to Meet You!

More often than not, I was cold in the costume. When I knew I’d be appearing outside in a cold clime, I’d bring the thermals with me that I’d gotten at my first appearance in Vermont. Unfortunately, there were times when I didn’t know I was going to be outside until I arrived at a gig. Such was the case in Regina, Canada one winter.

Regina is centrally located above the US border. It has two seasons: August and winter. I was traveling in January, so I knew the temperature would be in the double digits below zero. My actual appearances, however, were to be indoors at various gas station kiosks in the area. You know the type. Go in to pay for your gas before pumping and perhaps pick up a freshly brewed cup of coffee, a cold beverage, the newspaper, the latest bestseller or some candy and snacks. If your lucky, maybe a Slush Puppy, although I wasn’t betting on the Slush Puppy empire having a strong foothold in Regina. I had no reason to believe that the convenient kiosks at the gas stations in Canada would be any different, so I left the Spider-Man thermals at home. Key fateful-decision music.

As expected, Regina was cold, –30˚ C or approximately 20˚ below zero Fahrenheit to us Americans. Like Winnipeg, the city was connected by a series of heated underground and aboveground walkways, because mere seconds exposed to the intense cold they experience for much of the winter risks inflicting frostbite to their skin. I don’t know how the locals got around pumping gas in these frigid temperatures. As with all gas stations, my appearance locales were stand-alone affairs. Worse, yet. They were situated in remote areas outside the city, remote flat, barren areas with nary a snow bank or bare tree in site for miles, giving the wind free reign to blow unimpeded across the plains. The “frozen tundra of Lambeau Field” that ESPN Sportscaster Chris Berman often eludes to was a patch of sand in Death Valley on a summer’s day compared to the places I was visiting in Regina. No worries. I’d be safely ensconced in the warmth of the convenience kiosks of the gas stations, nestled somewhere between the rack of Tim Horton Doughnuts and the Labatt’s Beer display.

The news from my chaperone that I should already in uniform when he picked me up from the hotel and would be unable to take off the costume until the day’s appearances were complete, should have triggered a warning klaxon in my head that these kiosk visits would not be as I’d envisioned. I knew the schedule was tight—there were Spider-Man appearances set for a half dozen or so petrol stations (that’s what Canucks call ’em) consecutively with only enough time betwixt them to travel from one to the next—so I assumed the reason behind my inability to change into my civvies between visits was due to time constraints, not that there weren’t any bathrooms, or even closets, in which to change in the kiosks. Why? Because they were about as big a Mini Cooper.

Technically, yes, I was indoors, but these petrol-station convenience stores were far from the snack food oases that I’d envisioned. They were more like Foto-Mats with doors on both sides that enabled the cold Arctic wind to whip through like a Ping-Pong ball in a vacuum tube. The only available space was directly between the two doors, which were no more than ten feet apart . . . if that. I was already shivering from the short trip from my ride to the first stop, breaking and re-breaking a land speed record each time I arrived. Yes, that red-and-blue blur was I. Had the doors remained closed, I might just have defrosted and only been terribly cold, but the locals came out in droves, keeping the doors open as they patiently waited to meet Spider-Man. I couldn’t tell you much about Regina’s winter activities, but, given the residents’ enthusiasm to standing in line outside gas station kiosks in –20˚F temperatures just to get Spider-Man’s autograph on a free comic book, I’d say these people were starved for entertainment. I’d have been flattered if I wasn’t so busy trying to keep my eyes from crystallizing.

And they followed me!!! I was on a tight schedule, an hour at each location, then approximately fifteen minutes to get to the next. Anybody who missed out at one station followed me to the next, where they were first inline to those already awaiting Spider-Man. It was like something out of Hoosiers with everyone in town following the team bus to the game. Like a traveling missionary, my flock continued to grow with more and more people overflowing to the next stop. I should have been running for the Canadian Parliament. Truth be told, I was incredulous. Not a single person complained. They were that happy to meet Spider-Man. I certainly wasn’t about to disappoint them, but I was freezing. I barely could hold a Sharpie never mind sign the comics.

Relief came in the form of a gas station attendant’s jacket, the heavy, uncomfortable-looking affairs that mechanics wear in the winter of an indiscernible hue forever stained by oil and reeking of diesel fumes. I was loathe to cover the costume, but I had no choice. To keep my toes from chipping off, I’d remain hunkered on the chair so the coat draped over my entire body, keeping what little body heat I still had intact. Fortunately, a coat was available to me at each locale. My fans thought it was a hoot. Most were understanding, but there was the occasional jerk, who asked why Spider-Man needed protection from the elements.

“It doesn’t get quite this cold in New York and I forgot my thermal suit,” I’d quip. Or, “Cold? Me? Pshaw, I just felt it was the least I could do in exchange for the wonderful hospitality Petro Canada has shown me. Just a wee bit of reciprocal promotion.”

The suit absorbed the fumes, so I smelled of gas long after I defrocked and took a hot shower. I’m sure the Tin Woodsman would find it an alluring scent, but it was making me stoned. Still, it was better than getting frostbite.

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.