How Now Salchow?

Given former U. S. Olympic skater Nancy Kerrigan’s familial woes, the impending Winter Olympics in Vancouver, Canada, and this past weekend’s Super Bowl win by the New Orleans Saints, the following seemed appropriate.

For those of you have been living under a rock the past month, Kerrigan’s brother was arrested in connection with the death of his and Nancy’s father a couple of weeks ago. Her father died of a heart attack during an altercation with his son who had his hands around his dad’s neck at the time.

I met Kerrigan briefly shortly after her return from the 1994 Winter Olympics in Lillehammer, Norway, where she won the silver medal (Ukrainian Oksana Baiul won the gold) only seven weeks after the infamous “knee-capping” attack by rival Tonya Harding’s then husband, Jeff Gillooly, at the U.S. Figure Skating Championships in Detroit.

I was gigging at a trade show in New Orleans (hence The Saints reference) for Marvel’s newsstand department, which deals with comic sales through major distribution channels as opposed to direct distribution, which was how comic specialty shops received their books. A recently-signed Kerrigan was appearing at the Revlon booth. A few years earlier Ron Perlman, Revlon’s owner, had purchased Marvel, so I was splitting my appearance time between the Marvel Comics and Revlon booths.

Kerrigan was certainly affable enough, but somewhat cold (no pun intended). I wouldn’t say she was aloof, but rather there was an uncomfortableness that may have come from her unfamiliarity with stardom and the endless stream of fans wanting to meet and get an autographed photo with her. As a native Bostonian, I tried cajoling her into opening up, as she was from Stoneham, Massachusetts, a town north of Beantown. I had actually visited the town’s zoo—now called the Stone Zoo—as a child while on a field trip and remembered the trip fondly. Alas, my feeble attempts fell flat and her demeanor remained reserved.

Obviously, the feelings she had from meeting Spider-Man so overwhelmed her, it was all she could do so as not to faint.

Marvel, in its infinite wisdom, would oftentimes register me as Spider-Man (Note badge in photo)... So much for a secret identity!

Webheads III: The Quiet Storm, The Loner, The Watcher and The You-Go-First

After receiving countless letters and emails demanding its return, I bring you, my devoted Bloglodytes, the third installment in my discussion on the types of fans I met on my near decade-long adventure as everyone’s favorite neighborhood Web-Swinger. Those of you wishing to relive those pleasurable past postings—and who wouldn’t?—have only to click on the following convenient links. For “Webheads I: The Exuberant,” CLICK HERE; For “Webheads II: The Screamer, The No-No and The Return Engagement,” CLICK HERE.
I have to admit I’m tickled when one of you reveals to me your relating to a category I’ve described when you were a wee worshipper of the webbed wonder. See if any of these spark memories…

Occasionally, I’d encounter a child without a hint of trepidation. Case in point: This little boy threw himself into my arms, giddy at meeting his hero; a marked contrast to the wee lass in the background, who stares worriedly at our meeting while clutching onto her mom.

THE QUIET STORM
Patient, careful—but not hesitant—Quiet Storms were determined to show no fear before their peers. Most often, they’d appear accompanied. I’d easily envision Quiet Storms urgently telling attendant parent that they didn’t want Mom or Dad standing by them during their Spider-Man encounter; that would be far too embarrassing. Not that the Quiet Storms wanted said parent to leave the area entirely. The savvy Mom or Dad would save their independent offspring the ignominy of their having to ask their parent to stick around with a “I’ll just be waiting over here,” as they indicated the exit area.

A far cry from any of the children described here, this young lad could not tell me enough about his day, and queried me in great length about why I was in town, where my eyes were, and who I had been battling recently.

A Quiet Storm’s steps were measured as they neared. They'd never offer conversation, or elaborate with their responses. The internal conflict betwixt their fear at approaching Spidey and the pressure to appear unafraid before their peers didn’t allow for extraneous activity. They’d answer quietly and succinctly, even though their insides were flip-flopping in terror.

“Would you like an autographed comic?” I’d ask, the book before me, Sharpie already poised.

“Yes, sir.” they’d most often politely reply. From the corner of my eye, the parent would reveal themselves with a more-than-casual-observer smile.

“What is your name?”

“Trey Daniel Phillips.”

“I’ll just put it to ‘Trey.’ Is that okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how do you spell that?”

“T-R-E-Y…” Each letter carefully articulated, as if a code that would diffuse a bomb were being conveyed over a walkie-talkie.

Most often, the moment they had completed their task—must… overcome… fear… get… autograph—they’d scamper back to their parents, doing an emotional one-eighty—beaming, showing off their comic and talking a mean streak.

THE LONER:
Like Clint Eastwood in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western, The Loner would appear. Unfettered by parents, guardians, siblings or friends, they’d dutifully wait in line to get a comic book and go. Like the Quiet Storms, they were not talkative, just economic in their use of words, usually saying no more than a “Hello, Spider-Man” at the start, stating their name when asked, and ending the encounter with a “Thank you, Spider-Man,” before disappearing by themselves into the crowd. The Loner was never frightened, just independent. Yet, unlike The Exuberant, who were also carefree, The Loner was unemotional and never shared his experience with others.

The Loner bothered me. I always wondered what caused them to be so independent and alone at such a young age.

THE WATCHER:
From the crowd of onlookers, waist-level sets of eyes stare intently at the proceedings: The Watchers! These were children—oftentimes brethren of others in line—who were scared to death to confront Spider-Man personally, yet fascinated enough to observe the proceedings from the safety outside the barriers. Sometimes they’d whimper for their brother or sister when their turn came up—certain their siblings were walking toward their doom. Of course, once their loved one escaped unscathed The Watcher couldn’t wait to grab the signed comic out from their hands for a peek.

I’d always offer the parents of Watchers an autographed comic from my perch, handing it to their brother or sister for delivery. Sometimes, depending on the reaction, I'd get up and give the comic to The Watcher myself, stretching as far as I could muster. The Watcher, too, would extend to their wee limits, just grabbing the corner of the comic with tremulous fingers. The scene was like that in many an adventure movie with the hero saving the heroine from a perilous fall with an impossibly outstretched hand at the last possible instant.

A lot of very small children, who didn’t know me from Elmo, were simply fascinated with the primary colors of the suit. Gotta love that red-and-blue!

Some children became Watchers when confronted with the moment of truth, after spending hours in line… much to the parent’s chagrin, I might add. Literally faced with their hero for the first time they’d stop short of the signing table and park themselves at the outskirts of the autograph zone, just out of range of whatever danger they considered might befall them if they got any closer.

Oblivious to their parents’ goading to either meet Spider-Man or concede defeat, the newbie Watchers remained stock-still in their parking spot, observing each successive child in line.

I had parents—overcome with impatience—literally leave their children by my table while they went shopping. They’d return an hour later to find their offspring still transfixed, frozen in the spot they’d left them, trapped between meeting their hero or fleeing. Oftentimes it was a sibling of The Watcher, who would return and drag their brother or sister off with a “C’mon, Mom’s leaving!”

THE YOU-GO-FIRST
Traveling in small packs or duos, the You-Go-Firsts would huddle together and shuffle warily toward the signing table, directing one another to be the first to meet Spider-Man. Much like a medieval jester—who would sample the king’s repast before His Highness to ensure the food wasn’t poisoned—The You-Go-Firsts or rather the Go-First would wriggle forward, to make sure the way was safe for the rest of his or her tribe.

You-Go-Firsts shared giggle-fits as they neared, the result of mutually-shared fraught nerves. Occasionally, the Stay-Behinds would have the audacity to push forward the volunteer of their group. Of course, once their tribe mate succeeded, they’d hurry forward en masse to claim their prize, forgetting the fear they held moments before. Sometimes duos would never come to a decision between themselves as to who would go first. So they sheepishly approached like conjoined twins attached at the hip.

Sometimes kids just wanted a hug...

It was always endearing to me to see wee You-Go-Firsts step forward who were BFFs. The tell-tale signs could be matching temporary tattoos on their forearms or identical barrettes in their similarly-styled hair; they might be clutching the purse or dressed in the same color schemes. Sometimes even they sported matching outfits. Meeting Spider-Man, with its high-risk level, was something that couldn’t not be done together. They’d depart, still arm-in-arm, clutching their autographed comics, already gabbing about the experience.

I’d like to think these encounters with me are retained with fondness, periodically brought up with a “Remember when we met Spider-Man…?”

I Love a Parade, Part III: Isn't It Iron-ic?

Previously, Vroom! discovered he’d be portraying Iron Man on the Marvel Universe float in the 1987 Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade…

The Iron Man costume was particularly problematic. First was the question of which armor design was to be used. Iron Man had gone through a number of iterations since his debut in 1963, including his original gray armor, which lasted less than two issues and resembled a pot-belly stove topped by a large shell casing, and the subsequent golden suit, whence the “Golden Avenger” nickname was coined. But even that second design only lasted less than two years. The majority of the following decades, Tony Stark wore a suit of red-and-gold, re-envisioned every few years.

In the comic book, it was Stark’s restlessness—continuous tinkering and upgrading—and drive for perfection that was to blame, when in reality any new writer who came onto the book usually worked a revamp of the armor into the storyline as a means of leaving their thumbprint. Plus, editorial discovered that the introduction of a new suit translated into a spike in circulation, so whenever Iron Man sorely needed a boost in ratings, as it were, they instructed the writer du jour to work said redesign into the storyline.

At the time of the 1987 Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, the armor had recently been changed again to arguably the worst design of the character’s career, since his inception, an ugly, red-and-silver suit of considerable bulk, belying the sleeker, more streamlined look one would expect from any advancement in technology. Needless to say, I was relieved to discover that the new costume would be inspired on Shellhead’s red-and-gold armor, yet not completely faithful to any one design in particular.

Next problem: How to create a suit that would adequately appear as if made of iron? I couldn’t very well traverse the parade route wearing an actual suit of armor. The faux iron duds had to look like armor, yet still be functional, which meant an acceptable allowance for mobility, i.e. I had to be able to walk normally, not like The Winter Warlock during his early stages of “putting one foot in front of the other” in Santa Claus Is Coming to Town. An all-encompassing helmet and the decreased vision that accompanied such exacerbated the situation.

Fortunately, the character’s overall design was not completely endemic of Ye Knights of Olde. The arms and legs were predominantly sleek—advanced micro-circuitry designed by the suit’s engineering genius was the explanation. These areas were easily replicated by a golden-yellow skintight bodysuit, the fabric of which displayed a metallic sheen without limiting its stretching capability. The clunky parts were the helmet, gauntlets, chest plate, shoulders, grieves, boots and lower torso. The latter component would prove to be the most problematic. Basically, Iron Man wore an iron diaper. Talk about your chaffing!

Besides the fact that forging the larger pieces from actual iron would be cost ineffective and make the resulting costume too heavy in which to move or simulate battling bad guys, imagine the difficulties in finding a Village Smithy when in need of repairs. It’s difficult enough finding a “spreading chestnut tree!” Fortunately, Bob Flanagan—the creative genius behind the construction of the new costumes—had a material called celastic at his disposal. It came rolled in large tubes, like butcher paper, only hued the color of paper grocery bags and slightly thicker. When wet, the celastic could be molded. It hardened as it dried into a lightweight, impact-resistant, waterproof shell. Its surface took paint easily, so it was perfect for simulating Iron Man’s and Dr. Doom’s armor, Magneto’s helmet, Wolverine’s and Daredevil’s head pieces, Silver Surfer’s actual head and Dr. Strange’s amulet, the powerful Eye of Agamotto, which also doubled as the clasp for the sorcerer’s cloak of levitation.

Rather than having an actor subject themselves to the onus of applying silver makeup whenever portraying the space-surfing former herald of Galactus—disregarding the inherent problems of misapplication, smudging, and makeup coming off on children—and in order to better capture the alien mien of the hero, a new head was created from the measurements of the actor’s noggin. A silver fabric was stretched over this cranial fabrication, the same material of which the bodysuit was fabricated. The Surfer’s eyes were designed similarly to Spider-Man’s, so his eyesight was just as limited as the Wall-Crawler’s. For some inane reason, it was decided that Silver Surfer should be smiling. Anyone familiar with the character knows that the Surfer is a solemn and melancholic individual, forever lamenting the loss of his humanity—which he sacrificed in order to save his world—and beloved, Shalla Bal. He never smiled . . . ever!

This would not have been Bob’s decision; he worked off model sheets and comics supplied by Marvel, and his work was reviewed and approved along the way. Methinks the same mucky-mucks involved in the decision not to include Spider-Man on the float, also decided that a smiling Surfer would be better received. At least they’re consistent in their illogic. The affect, once the suit was completed, made the character look more like Caspar, the Friendly Ghost, a sentiment that was often strengthened by the shouts of “Hi, Caspar!” by fans along the parade route.

As for Iron Man, the Golden Avenger’s red gauntlets were attached to a pair of leather work gloves, which were then painted to match. Ankle-high boots were given the same treatment, although the grieves were left unattached and loose around my calves, gravity keeping them down over the boot laces. Unless I performed a handstand while in the costume, nobody would be the wiser. The chest plate was strapped tightly under my arms, which served to keep the straps out of view. The iron epaulets were built as part of the chest unit, but loosely glued on with leather strips, so my arms would not be greatly impeded and I would be able to raise them above my head, a maneuver key to donning the helmet. An adjustable plastic band fitted within the helmet—similar to those in construction-worker hard hats—kept the helmet in place.

Then there were the iron diapers, which were secured via a leather strap and buckle on either hip. In its initial incarnation, the pubic area was made of the same hard celastic. I defy any one to stride freely with an inch of hard material running from crotch to perineum. I hadn’t walked this way since the bathing suit rashes of my youth. It was painful. The next stage of development, and the one which would be in place during the parade, had several inches of the offending scrotum-to-sphincter bridge taken out, so that none of the celastic traveled directly between my legs on the underside of my butt. The unforgiving material still ran partway under my jewels, so as to hide the metallic yellow of the spandex bodysuit underneath, but at least I could walk, though in pain from the celastic digging into my inner thighs.

My vision was even more limited than when in the Spider-Man suit; the eye slots were smaller for one thing, and because my eyes were not actually up against the slots, but rather an inch removed, that smaller opening seemed more so. One trick I quickly learned—one that I would use to a greater degree when in the Hulk or Thing costumes—was peering down through the mouth aperture in order to see where I was walking. This enabled me to walk without visibly bending over to see wee fans approaching to shake my hands; and navigate stairs, curbs or any other low-lying obstruction that could prove hazardous, especially when walking the parade route or climbing about the float.

NEXT: Super Play-Set

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...]

Houston, We Have a Problem

The Spider-Man suit was brilliantly crafted—comfortable, functional and visually stunning. It worked on anyone from 5'9" to 6'3". It’s ease of transport made it possible to fit in any over-the-shoulder bag as small as a Ziploc. I never had to waste time at the baggage carousel, or worry that the suit might get lost in transit.

It was resilient, too. Most holes occurred along the seams and it was not rare to see me repairing the costume on flights to appearances. I still have more than a few mending kits from hotel rooms across the country. I only encountered one irreparable rip during my Spider-Man tenure, but it was a doozy.

I was flown to Houston for a week of appearances. The day I landed I was quickly hustled to a street fair downtown, changing in the car of my host along the way. It was a Sunday, and that, coupled with the street fair—which was a huge annual event for the city—ensured that businesses were closed and the blocks surrounding the area of the fair were deserted. It was eerie and more than a little I Am Legend. But after parking, I only had to bound a few blocks before I was met with what seemed like the entire population of Houston gathered in the city’s central park for the event.

I immediately looked for prospective perching spots. My host did not have a booth of any sort, so she just picked a street corner that wouldn’t interfere with any other booths. The only thing in the vicinity was a newspaper-vending machine...a wobbly newspaper-vending machine. I checked it before my ascent and though it shook, it wasn’t in danger of collapsing or falling over, so up I went. The host offered free photos and the box proved a perfect height for fans to stand before for pictures.

Normally, I could stay in a crouched position for upwards of an hour, signing autographs and posing for photos the whole while. When my knees couldn’t take it any longer, I’d leap off. I must have overstayed my usual time limit on the box, as I felt my ankles and feet go numb or rather didn’t feel them at all. Okay, time to leap off. But given the unstable condition of the vending machine and the fact that I couldn’t feel my feet, I was concerned I might break or twist an ankle upon landing. Thus, I tried to “cheat” off the box, without broadcasting my predicament.

According to Shakespeare “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” You can add spiders to that list. A bit of the costume under my right butt cheek caught the corner of the vending machine and “R-I-I-I-P!!! The ass of the suit was torn wide open, exposing my cute candy-cane–striped bikini briefs. I guess it could have been worse. They could have had “wittle duckies” on them.

I stood stock-still for a moment, keeping my overexposed gluteus maximus against the front of the vending machine, like an inebriated worker on the copy machine at the annual holiday party. I can only imagine the Rorschach design my backside created on the vending machine’s display window, but I’d bet even money it didn’t look like a butterfly. My only hope was that none of my fans had noticed. Thankfully the form-fitting design of the costume kept the effects of the damage contained around my right “cheek,” so unless I left the protection of the vending machine, my little problem went unnoticed. This ignorance extended to my host, who continued to escort people forward to get their picture taken with Spidey without hesitation. I posed best I could, all the while trying to get my host’s attention. I finally had to interrupt her and ask her to come over to me. I whispered the situation into her ear. True to human nature, her immediate reaction was to look toward my butt. I stopped her.

“Trust me,” I said, “the cooler than usual wind against my ass cheek tells me it’s hanging out.”

My answer came in the form of a windbreaker one of my fans was wearing, which they graciously agreed to let me borrow. For the remainder of the day, I posed with the windbreaker tied around my waist. Most people didn’t notice or question its presence. My explanation to those who did was that I’d had a run-in with Electro on my way down from New York and he zapped a hole in the backside of my suit before I subdued him.

I couldn’t rightly take my savior’s jacket with me when I was done, so I hightailed it (pun intended) back to the car with my host playing interference behind me. Still, I was barraged by a bevy of colorful offers and marriage proposals along the way. Boy, was my face red, both inside and out!

Heroes for Hire

At the time of my first appearance in 1986, the only characters available for personal appearances were Spider-Man, Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, Dr. Doom, Green Goblin, Firestar, Iceman and Spider-Woman. The latter three heroes aren’t exactly setting the world afire with their notoriety today, and what little repute they had garnered which led to Marvel's creating costumes for the characters was lost by 1986.

Firestar and Iceman had earned a place in the pantheon of Marvel's Personal Appearance Program by virtue of their co-starring with Spider-Man in the 1981 Saturday-morning cartoon Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends, running a respectable three years to 1983, with an additional two years of repeats thereafter. Created in 1963 as a member of the original incarnation of the X-Men, Iceman hadn’t been on the team for more than a decade and was not a part of the new X-Men, which featured arguably the most popular and widely known member at the time, Wolverine. And the revamped iteration of the team—though crazily popular in comicbookdom and despite guest appearances on the aforementioned Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends—had yet to achieve the public renown that eventually led to the 2000 film based on the franchise. Firestar was actually created for the cartoon, but made her comic-book debut quickly thereafter.

Spider-Woman, aka Jessica Drew (no relation to Peter Parker aka Spider-Man), had the ability to shoot venom blasts from her hands and could glide upon the air currents, using a swath of webbing attached to the underarms of her costume. Despite a mildly successful comic series—which ran for 50 issues from 1978 to 1983—and a short lived Saturday-morning cartoon that aired only sixteen episodes from 1979 to 1980, Spider-Woman was all but forgotten by 1986.

You may notice a pattern here: cartoon = live representation of character. But licensing also played an important factor. Some early costumed characters in Marvel's stable included ROM, Spaceknight; Crystar, the Warrior; and Destro; all of which were based on toys from which Marvel licensed comic book adaptations, the former with their own eponymous books and the latter a villain in the G.I. Joe comic and cartoon series.



By the early 90s, the number of available characters had expanded greatly to include Iron Man, Daredevil, Dr. Strange and X-Men members Wolverine, Cyclops and Storm (some of which are shown in this 1991 Marvel Personal Appearance promotional pamphlet above—that's me in the Spider-Man and Iron Man costumes.).