DOOM’S DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Love a Parade, Finale: What The—?

Previously, the 1987 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade had commenced with Vroom!, ignoring the pain ’twixt his legs, marching valiantly—albeit like Rush Limbaugh walking home in wet trunks after a day at the beach—toward the televised clash-of-titans finale.

Captain America steps out from between several BJ’s economy-size comic books

The entire Marvel Universe float routine was centered around Captain America. As the most famous of the Marvel heroes after Spider-Man, who was absent, and the Hulk, whose maneuverability was the worst of all the characters, he was the obvious choice.

While the hoi polloi are wondering what danger Dr. Strange is alerting Cap to, the comics cognoscenti are wondering about the absence of any of the Red-White-and-Blue Avenger’s own books

The choreography was accompanied by a highly energized soundtrack that, if not directly stolen from Back to the Future, drew its inspiration from the hit Michael J. Fox film, over which the voices of Captain America and Dr. Strange—recorded by professional voice actors, not the actual people in the costumes—were dubbed. In fact, other than Cap, Dr. Strange is the only character who “speaks,” discounting the occasional grunt or cry of anguish and the chorus of amusing dubbed reactions that accompanied the choreography. Yes, we had an underlying fake audience track.

Dr. Strange opens the show by mysteriously producing a floating yellow orb from the folds of his cape before shouting, “Quick, Captain America! Wolverine needs your help!” The secret of the levitating orb is an inflated ball attached to fishing line and a pole held by another hero on the roof above. You can actually see the ball fall to one side as the action shifts and the actor who was manning the rod joins the fray during the televised sequence. (Above left: T.J. Glenn, the quintessential Sorcerer Supreme)

With Dr. Strange’s bit of sorcery in play, Captain America steps from the pages of the giant comics, which bookend the tower at the float’s rear, in a nice dramatic touch that reminds people that comic books are where all the exciting heroes and action to follow derive (I won’t mention that none of the recreated comics at the back of the float were actually Captain America books—Oops!). Strange delivers his line, “Captain America… Wolverine needs your help!” while sweeping an arm toward the front of the float, before Cap straps his shield to his back and moves to help the embattled X-Man. Why the Master of the Mystic Arts, Sorcerer Supreme didn’t deign to aid his colleague is another question. True, Strange was never one for fisticuffs, but employing the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak or the Winds of Watoomb would have easily sufficed.

Anyway…

Now, now... no fighting. There's enough mutant for everyone

Atop what we called the dungeon area, due to its deep gray faux Gothic façade and location underneath the shinier, more modern buildings surrounding it, Enchantress and Evil Mutant Master of Magnetism, Magneto, are playing tug-o-war with Wolverine. I won’t get into how unusual a scenario this is to any Marvelite. Suffice it to say that a mutant, even one of Wolvie’s caliber, would not normally be battling Amora, the Norse goddess of love and Thor villainess . . . certainly not mano a mano. Amora wouldn’t sully herself by touching a lowly mortal. She’d simply cast a spell or cleverly deliver a love potion. Nor would Magneto engage in close combat, rather allowing his powers do the talking. And neither is known for possessing enhanced strength, a prerequisite for anyone dumb enough to spar with Wolverine without super powers, mutant, magical or otherwise.

After the good Captain accesses the site of the struggle—climbing the side wall of the dungeon, a mere seven feet and four metal rungs—Magneto and Amora retreat. Cap chases Enchantress to the abutting bell tower (Apparently, super-soldier serum trumps mutant X gene when combating gods.). Rather than help his comrade who just saved him, Wolverine inexplicably scurries down a manhole into the dungeon… go figure.

Using a conveniently-located pole attached above the entrance into the bell tower, The Enchantress swings and kicks Cap backward in a maneuver that would make a seasoned pole dancer proud. Like something out of the climactic scenes of every episode of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?, the love goddess runs, Cap follows, and after a quick weave in and out of the bell tower, Amora kicks again with both legs using a carefully concealed bar within the belfry. I guess when the Red-White-and-Blue Avenger didn’t slip her a dollar, she felt the need to up the ante on her routine.

When Cap recovers, he is faced with Magneto who, in a cunning moment of bait-and-switch has stepped in to help his fellow evil-doer. Ordinarily the Mutant Master of Magnetism would handily render Cap immobile or worse. He’d merely wave his hand and Cap’s shield would wrap around his head and suffocate him. But Cap easily pushes Magneto aside.

Yo, Doomsy... Pull my finger!

The fixated Cap takes up after Amora once again (Apparently, she owes him money), following Enchantress through the bell tower down the stairs on the far side of the dungeon, at the bottom of which he is greeted by Dr. Doom who, unlike Magneto, seems to have been minding his own business when he was so rudely interrupted.

Before Doom has the chance to utter, “Hey, you kids get out of my yard!” from atop the stairs Captain America points to the Malevolent Monarch of Latveria and avers (or dramatically mouths, as the case may be), “You’re through Doctor Doom!” A quick moment of “Which way did he go? Which way did he go?”—during which Doom ducks one way, Cap the other, Doom quickly doubles back and Cap appears behind him—and the dastardly doc is greeted with a right to the jaw, which is followed by an uppercut that throws him against his diabolical machinery. Cap throws a switch and electrocutes the armored baddie, a sequence accompanied by a spinning whatchamacallit, flashing lights that can barely be seen and Doom’s anguished scream . . . “Aaaaaargh!”

There must be fifty ways to love your lever

Up to this point the series of odd match-ups between various heroes and villains would go unnoticed to the hoi polloi and the average comic book fan would be too busy drooling in glee over the spotlight being thrown onto their beloved hobby to care. But the televised tableau was about to enter the Twilight Zone with the brief, but not brief enough, appearance of RoboCop. Literally behind the back of Captain America—who has turned away from Dr. Doom to free a shackled Power Man—the cyborg policeman clumsily enters from the dungeon just long enough to switch off the machine electrocuting Dr. Doom; then pauses in bewilderment—like the audience—before gracelessly ducking back into the darkness.

With all the grace of a wounded caribou, an uncharacteristically mustachioed Powerman lumbers onto the scene and asks, "RoboCop?!! What the Hell are you doing here?!!

Why a law-enforcement official helped a would-be world conqueror like Doom just heightens the weirdness of the moment, along with the utter lack of acknowledgment to RoboCop’s arrival by either Cap or Power Man. Of course, juxtaposed to Power Man’s awkwardness—which made Boris Karloff’s The Mummy look like an aerobics instructor—the audience probably thought they were seeing double.

“Take over Power Man! I’ll be back!” orders Cap before continuing to the rear of the float whence he first appeared.

If you blink while the camera pans across the base of the float, you’ll miss the cameo the back of my head makes as Iron Man, following the Silver Surfer on the street, parallel to Cap’s route alongside the float. Wolverine and Dr. Strange appear as well and all five confront the White Queen at the spot where Dr. Strange conducted his slight-of-hand earlier. The White Queen is an evil mutant whose power over subzero temperatures is similar to those of Frozone in The Incredibles. With a flourish she delivers a flurry of sub-zero bursts of energy which in reality are a bunch of streamers (but they look cool!).

For the love of humanity, not the streamers!!!

Choosing to ignore the White Queen—they’re just streamers, after all, and the combined might of the quartet of heroes should surely suffice to halt the frigid feline’s attack—Captain America climbs the girdered exoskeleton of the building beside which she stands. Look closely and you’ll see Daredevil following. Meanwhile, Green Goblin cameos atop Dr. Strange’s Sanctum Sanctorum—as it is affectionately known in the comics—before getting out of Dodge before Cap arrives. Cap gains the rooftop, and the camera angle cuts back to the base of the bell tower shooting upward. Where once Enchantress and Magneto battled Cap now stands the Hulk.

The framed metal box in which Magneto stands is an elevator that moves all of three feet at the speed of a Dancing with the Stars results show

“Up to your old tricks again . . . Hulk!” he shouts once again utilizing the finger-pointing gesture that seemed so effective when used against Dr. Doom.

Instead of running, though, the Hulk throws a tantrum, slamming one side of the tower, then the other, before he topples the structure, which is hinged in sections to give the illusion of tumbling over without the danger of actually doing so. If you watch the broadcast closely, you’ll notice Mark Hulk adjusting his head mid-tantrum, so it doesn’t go all “Linda Blair” on him. Cap is there in a flash, sliding down a fireman’s pole, placed there for no other reason.

Hulk goes off the deep end when he discovers that he’s late for the Macy’s One-Day-Only Sale

A bit of clumsy maneuvering puts the Hulk atop the dungeon where Cap and the Green Behemoth share a dance, since emulated by Kenny Mayne and his partner Andrea Hale in the 2nd season of Dancing with the Stars, before Cap hurls (read: delicately maneuvers) Hulk off the dungeon into the awaiting arms of Dr. Doom, Green Goblin and Power Man, a move which may help in explaining why a body builder was chosen over an actor for the role of Luke Cage. The routine ends with a close-up of the defeated Hulk between Dr. Doom and the Green Goblin.



I’ve since read blogs wherein the choreography is excoriated for its silliness, inanity, comic-book unfaithfulness, low-budget… you name it. Technically, these gripes may have merit, but they are unfair in their assessment, because they do not take into consideration the strict parameters under which Bill Guskey had to choreograph. The equivalent would be to pan a street-magic performer because his tricks don’t have the glitz and special effects of a David Copperfield extravaganza.

First, there were thirteen characters which needed screen time. The fact that some characters like Silver Surfer, Daredevil, Green Goblin and me, as Iron Man, got short-changed was in part due to the camera being too close at times. Had the view panned back occasionally, as when Cap spans the length of the float with a half dozen heroes in tow to confront the White Queen, the audience would have gotten a more dramatic and exciting moment, and the aforementioned neglected heroes would have gotten more bang.

Blink and you'll miss my national television debut, along with Caspar.. er, I mean, Silver Surfer

Green Goblin’s limited usage may have been planned. After all, Gobby is synonymous with Spider-Man, the Web-Swinger’s arch-rival responsible for the death of his first love Gwen Stacy. To give the pumpkin-bomb-wielding psycho any face time would only accentuate Spidey’s absence from the proceedings. Guskey even gives RoboCop his corporately-decided due.

Marvel's Green Party

Second, the float—all it’s trap doors, flashing lights and slide poles; various architecture and notable comic-book structures; collapsible tower and giant comics—needed to be featured. The Marvel Nabobs approved of the many thousands of dollars that went into its construction—not to mention the design of nearly a dozen new character costumes—so showing off the pageantry and breadth of the whole megilla was paramount. With only one means of access and egress, and the hazard of access, the Surfer’s perch was understandably omitted from the proceedings. Plus, the cameras were unable to circumnavigate the construct. Hence, the action taking place along only one side of the float.

Another superhero cameo: That’s Daredevil following Cap

Guskey had to accomplish all this in less than three minutes. This was live television, so special effects were limited and rudimentary. You couldn’t adequately show the characters’ various powers without their looking hokey. You also had to consider the hundreds of people surrounding the float. Pyrotechnic displays would have been hazardous and not allowed. Even had stunt people been hired to portray the heroes and villains, the resultant cost of insurance or a more acrobatic routine would have been astronomical. And Marvel certainly wouldn’t want to risk the embarrassment of one of their characters stumbling or, Heaven forbid, injuring themselves on national television.

Yours truly and Cap Extraordinaire Mark Nutting

Guskey accomplished all while keeping the action fast-paced and exciting. His choreography never gives the audience time to process. Characters enter and exit in a cacophony of movement leaving the audience wanting to linger on each sequence before abruptly being pulled away to the next. It is only in retrospect with the advent of YouTube—the pause, replay and dissection of such television moments—that exposes the wonkiness of the event.

Back in the day, Willard Scott covered the parade by his lonesome; no co-host, no disingenuous witty banter

As Willard Scott led the television audience into commercial break, the float continued around the uptown-west corner of Macy’s onto 34th Street (You know, where that miracle took place?), thus ending the parade. We heroes and villains scrambled to the awaiting van with one thing on our minds: getting out of costume and into a restroom!

Vroom! cannot thank enough Faithful Bloglodyte Brian Kolm who provided the awesome screen grabs from his videotape of the original 1987 broadcast of the parade.

See You in the Funny Papers

Writer Gerry Conway has made a name for himself, scripting and producing a number of successful television shows, such as the Tom Bosley divine detective vehicle Father Dowling Mysteries; the Dick Van Dyke medical whodunit, Diagnosis Murder; and Law & Order. In 1969 he began his career as a comic book writer while still in his teens with a short story for DC’s House of Secrets #81. For the next two decades thereafter he wrote for many of both Marvel’s and DC’s most prominent titles, such as Superman, The Avengers, Justice League of America and Amazing Spider-Man.

In fact, Conway had the dubious distinction of taking up the mantle of writing the Amazing Spider-Man from creator and decade-long scribe Stan Lee with issue #111 in 1972 at the tender age of nineteen. Less than a year into penning the Web-Slinger’s adventures, Conway wrote off one of the series’ most beloved characters, Gwen Stacy, a move for which some Spidey-o-philes have never forgiven him. Whether the original idea to kill Peter Parker’s paramour came from Conway or elsewhere within the hierarchy of Marvel at the time has been debated, but the impact of the story continues to resonate more than three decades later, which is a testament to the power of Conway’s craft especially at such a young age.

Conway had yet begun his television career and was still writing the Web-Slinger’s adventures—albeit within the pages of one of the hero’s spin-off titles, The Spectacular Spider-Man—when I met him at a shopping mall in Chattanooga, Tennessee. The mall was celebrating comic books with a myriad of tables and displays in the main concourse. Area dealers sold books and related merchandise and Marvel promoted themselves as well as sponsoring the appearance of some the company’s current writers and artists. Besides Conway, artists Mark Bagley and Wayne Vansant were also in attendance.

In 1983, Marvel released the Marvel Try-Out Book. Packaged the size of comic art boards, the book featured instructions, and included blank pages and ones delineated with blue pencils of an actual Spider-Man comic’s page, on which aspiring comic-book artists could practice penciling and inking, respectively. To promote the release of the book, the company held a contest with the Grand Prize being an assignment on one of its titles. Bagley won, thus kicking off his career. Bagley had just begun his first regular assignment as penciler on a soon-to-be-released teen superhero comic, entitled New Warriors, which Marvel was promoting with his appearance in Chattanooga. The success of New Warriors later led to Bagley becoming the regular penciler on Amazing Spider-Man, which in turn would lead to his greatest claim to fame, penciling Ultimate Spider-Man, the flagship title of Marvel’s reboot of its entire line in 2000. Vansant penciled the critically acclaimed war drama The ’Nam, which was based on actual accounts from veterans of the Vietnam War. Then promotions guru for the big M, Steve Saffel, was there to host the company’s guests.

Marvel also made my appearance possible. In order to get the most bang for their costumed-character buck, they arranged for me to perform double duty as both Spider-Man and Dr. Doom, comicbookdom’s maniacal monarch of fictional Latveria and arch-villain of the Fantastic Four. I hadn’t performed as Doom before and looked forward to doing so, though my enthusiasm was immediately tempered by the realities in transporting his higness’s attire.

The Doom “armor” consisted of a pair knee joints and combination arm/elbow pieces both pulled on with elastic straps; a pair each of boots and gauntlets, the latter connected to circular-molded wrist and forearm coverings; and a custom mask. Under the armor was worn a shiny silver stretch bodysuit. It differed from the Spider-Man suit in that it was less giving and thicker, which made it warmer. There were snaps sewn into the under garment at the shoulders, to which the arm/elbow pieces were attached. A forest green tunic covered the torso, hiding the shoulder snaps, and was accessorized with a deep brown belt with golden, antique-finish buckle. A heavy, long hooded cape of the same color as the tunic completed the picture. It fastened around the mask with Velcro, creating a snug and secure fit that ensured the hood’s perfect symmetry about the mask, and featured two gold ornamental medallions betwixt hung a chain below the neck. For such a complicated ensemble, the look was spot-on.

Though not nearly as cumbersome as the huge crates in which the Hulk costume was stored and freighted, the Doom suit fit snugly in an over-the-shoulder, khaki green canvas bag, which made the carrier appear as though they were on leave from the army. Still, the bag was still too big not to go unchecked when flying. Checking baggage was not something I had ever had to do with the Spider-Man suit and I didn’t care for the additional time tacked onto my trip or the concern of waiting for Doom to appear on the luggage carousel.

(This photo from a later gig shows the original Dr. Doom costume with open eye slits)

That minor inconvenience was balanced with the relative ease of wearing the costume and opportunity to portray a character well removed from the Web-Spinner’s. Far from the crouching and gymnastic leaping that wearing the Spidey costume entailed, Doctor Doom regally strode about, cape dramatically flowing, arrogantly debasing everyone around him à la Darth Vader. It was freeing and fun not having to play “nice” and, unlike the Green Goblin, which demanded a demented high-pitched cackle and laugh, I could orate in my natural basso voice. Whenever I got bored or tired bouncing about, I’d don the Doom suit. Whenever it was no longer great to be king, I’d crawl into the humbler, more playful threads of Spider-Man.

The Doctor Doom costume would have been perfectly comfortable if not for the fumes of the industrial glue within the mask that made my eyes water. I suspect that the Dr. Doom costume and that of the Green Goblin were constructed as part of the same order, as the unpleasant industrial-glue “bouquet” of both masks was the same. And their construction could only have occurred at a time when the adverse effects of “sniffing” glue were relatively unknown and thus their use in the creation of costume masks was more lenient. Making my eyes water was one thing. God knows what inhaling this stuff was doing to my lungs. No wonder Doom and Goblin were so cranky all the time.

My vision was equally as limited when portraying the evil monarch of Latveria as it was when playing Spidey’s arch- nemesis. Though the occipital region of the latter was larger, each of it’s openings was covered with a painted screen to emulate the pupils and whites of eyes. The Doom mask may have sported unobstructed eye apertures, but they were smaller, thin rectangular cut-outs to the Goblin’s wide orbs. I could cheat peeks through the mouth opening of the Doom mask, which prevented my having to continually bend over, like one of those drinking-water-from-a-glass-rocking-bird toys, to prevent me from stumbling over small children, strollers, chairs and mewling fanboy. A later revision to the Doom mask sported larger eye openings, but added black screens within to hide the wearer’s actual orbs, thus negating any increased visibility that the wider openings may have effected. I preferred the original. The evil would-be world vanquisher was ever drawn in the comics with his eyes peeking out from behind the iron mask. It was off-putting, more so in person.

Both Bagley and Vansant were good ole boys from the south, immensely talented, yet humble, and open-hearted. I learned that Bagley’s favorite character was Spider-Man and he yearned to draw his adventures someday (He got that wish in the mid-nineties). Each provided sketches to everyone who visited their tables. And not the usual hurried headshot scribbled in marker—nowadays you’d be lucky to get that. No, these were full-figure drawings of any hero you wanted. Vansant was going so far as rendering his art in color, using a variety of colored markers that he had brought with him. Not to be outdone, Bagley asked to borrow Vansant’s instruments to bolster his black-marker sketches with shading. Unfortunately the number of fans was modest. The mall was uncharacteristically quiet for a spring weekend. The only reason that I could see being the beautiful weather; it was sunny, dry and cool. Altruistic soul that I am, I couldn’t bear the thought of these professional artists’ magnanimous donation of time and skill go to waste, so I asked monsieurs Bagley and Vansant to do sketches for me. When asked what I wanted, I replied, “I don’t know. Whatever you feel like drawing.” They were doing me a favor, after all (Altruistic and compassionate, what can I say?).

I had no idea what kind of ghoul Gerry Conway was. I hadn’t even read the original issues of Spider-Man wherein Gwen Stacy appeared and eventually was “knocked off,” but I knew about the man who “killed” her and the controversy her death caused in the comic book field. More than a few mark Gwen’s termination as the end of comics’ Silver Age, which began in the late 50s with the reinvention of DC’s Golden Age heroes, like the Flash in Showcase #4, the commonly acknowledged start of the Silver Age; and the debut of the Justice League of America, which inspired The Fantastic Four at Marvel and that company’s subsequent creation of Spider-Man, Incredible Hulk, X-Men, et al.

I envisioned a dark, gaunt, brooding figure clad in black with the look of a serial killer, who plucked off the wings of butterflies in the downtime between autographing comic books with his own blood. In actuality, Conway was a congenial, friendly sort with a good sense of humor and clad in an unremarkable light-colored shirt and worn blue jeans.

As a longtime scribe of Spider-Man, he got a kick out of seeing the Web-Slinger come to life. Contrary to his taking offense at my haranguing him (as Spidey) for killing my girlfriend, Gwen Stacy, he enjoyed the ribbing and returned the jabs in kind, faulting Gwen as being a boring character long overdue to meet her maker. Out of costume, our chemistry continued as we discussed his writing career and my less-than-stellar acting one, in which he inexplicably took great interest, including my continuing stint as waiter, the cliché vocation of aspiring actors across the country. At the time of our meeting, I was working at a steak and seafood restaurant, Publicans-On-The-Pier, on the upper level of Pier 14 at New York City’s fabricated tourist destination, the South Street Seaport.


I had recently had a new photo montage of myself printed, one side featuring two abutting portrait headshots with greatly differing looks, and the other presenting a jigsaw puzzle of action shots of me posing in a variety of staged situations, along with my contact information. Upon my showing it to Conway, he asked if he could keep it. I only had about a gazillion of the things, more than enough for mailings to agents, production companies, directors, networks, studios, family, friends and the entire populations of several provinces in China, so immediately acceded to Conway’s outrageous demand.

Normally, once a gig is done, I have to rush to the nearest airport to catch a flight. At the very least, I spend a final night in the hotel and awaken at the crack of dawn to take the first flight out. But during the Chattanooga appearance, after two days at the mall, there was an additional day before everyone’s departure, on which Saffel scheduled a field trip to a place called Rock City.

Rock City?!! What is Rock City? Is it near Bedrock?

This ignorant Yankee’s knowledge of Chattanooga consisted of the “Choo-Choo” song, so brilliantly parodied in Young Frankenstein, and an obscure 1969–1971 Hanna-Barbera cartoon, The Cattanooga Cats, which I often mistook as “The Chattanooga Cats,” even though when I was young I had a coloring book based on the show with the title plainly visible on the cover. I also believed the name of the height-challenged cowboy with the enormous, red handle-bar mustache that often fell victim to Bugs Bunny’s playful shenanigans was pronounced “YO-zeh-mite Sam,” though he clearly introduced himself otherwise at the start of most every cartoon in which he appeared. So I have a history of ignorant bliss when it comes to the obvious.


On the route to Rock City, farmhouses, silos and barns dotted the countryside the way Starbucks cafés do today, and on nearly every one was an ad for Rock City. “Come to Rock City.” “Rock City, 9 mi.” “See Historic Rock City, Route 58.” Rooftops of weathered barns that looked as if they hadn’t been touched since Roosevelt’s New Deal alerted passing travelers to Rock City. They looked like something from the opening credits of Green Acres. I half expected the occasional clapboard structure to read “Eddie Albert” or “Eva Gabor.” These signs are apparently so renowned that best-selling author Neil Gaiman—Coraline, Stardust, Sandman—mentions them at the climax of his 2001 novel, American Gods, which takes place at a Rock City vista, Lookout Mountain. Neil Gaiman is a Brit and even he knew of Rock City. Where the hell was I when the Rock City memo went around?!!

There were also sequential billboards along the highway’s shoulder, too, spaced approximately several hundred feet apart; “Wholesome Family Fun…” “Legendary Rock City…” “TN Hwy 58 Up Lookout Mountain Ramp…” This was virile marketing long before it was guerrilla marketing. Before the trip, I had as much interest in this historic sight as I had in a recipe for haggis. But after a few miles of ubiquitous signage and endless billboards, I was King Arthur and Rock City was the Holy Grail; nothing was going to stop me.

Rock City opened in 1932, but few were eager to trek up to its mountaintop location until owner and sign painter Clark Byers loaded up his pick-up with the intention of persuading any farmer he could to use their barns or other buildings for advertising. At its peak during the 50s and 60s, as many as 900 structures featured Rock City advertising from Florida to the Canadian Border, Texas to the Carolinas. Byers was a marketing genius, way ahead of his time. One has to wonder how he would promote Rock City today, what with the endless possibilities of the internet.

Taking full advantage of ancient rock formations, breathtaking panoramic views, beautiful waterfalls and awesome caverns, Rock City is a theme park created as if by Mother Nature. Byers designed walkways, stone walls, rustic bridges and arches around the natural formations, interweaving these constructs as the mountain’s terrain dictated. The result is a testament of nature’s power and grandeur. Suffice it to say the build-up of endless barn and roadside signage en route was still insufficient in hailing this great park. The greatest wordsmiths of history could not adequately describe its wonders. The fact that I was spending an afternoon with one of the comic world’s most famous writers and two of its most promising stars was lost to me as I took in the sights, including one vista point where you can see seven states at one time.

As mentioned, the weather couldn’t have been nicer. Yet, the park was even quieter than the mall; we were evidently there off peak, though oddly on peak all at once (Thank you. I’ll be here through the week. Try the veal.). The brochure features photos of walking dwarf mascots —one named Rocky— various fairy-tale notables, such as Snow White and Humpty Dumpty; and even a clown creating balloon sculptures; entertaining guests. Thankfully, they were all absent during our visit. There were such fantasy characters throughout the park nonetheless; garishly painted statues sitting atop walls; lawn-gnomes amidst the stalagmites in the caverns; even a mechanical, singing and banjo-playing dwarf! Ugh! I found these artificial “sweeteners” a slap in Mother Nature’s face, needlessly deflecting attention from her beauty. But I’m sure the park’s marketing wizards felt the need to take such arguably dim-witted moves in order to better lure families to Rock City. Perhaps it was Byers himself who started the campaign, proving that nobody is perfect.

It was a lovely way to wrap-up a gig. Ninety-percent of the time, I’d be hustling out the door of the venue at which I was appearing to catch a flight at the area airport, leaving the echo of Pleasure meeting yous and Let’s keep in touches in my wake. Unfortunately, I never did see Vansant again, but would see Bagley on various occasions thereafter. Gerry and I exchanged phone numbers. He had planned to visit the Big Apple in the near future and promised to call. I wasn’t holding my breath.

Less than a year later, I was doing researching for my job, i.e. reading the latest batch of comics sent to me by Marvel, specifically The Spectacular Spider-Man #158. The adventure opens with our erstwhile hero being attacked by the Trapster—née Paste-Pot Pete as his weapon of choice was a gun that fired quick-hardening superglue—while web-swinging to the South Street Seaport to meet his then wife Mary-Jane for lunch. As luck would have it, Spidey’s paste-coated self plummets into the restaurant where he was to meet his beloved. And who should be waiting on Mrs. Parker? Why her good friend and fellow actor, Stephan the Waiter, that’s who. Conway had written me into the storyline, complete with a job in food service at the locale where I worked in real life. Rendering my countenance was comics legend Sal Buscema, to whom Conway had sent my photo collage and info.


Conway made one alteration in naming the character Stephan as opposed to Stephen, which was either a typo or his way of defending himself should I not like the way my character was written and subsequently threaten to sue (No chance!). More likely, he wanted my character to sound snooty, to fit with the upscale establishment in which he erroneously envisioned my working. In any case, I was gobsmacked as only a comic-book nerd could be. I was in Spider-Man; not simply a cameo, but a fully-realized character and friend of the hero! The issue went on to be a sellout. Jealous types will argue that the reason for the book’s popularity was its being the first episode in the “Cosmic Spider-Man” story arc, in which Spidey receives the Captain Universe power (Don’t ask.). But it also happens to feature the inaugural appearance of Stephan the Waiter. Coincidence? I think not!