Webheads II: The Screamer, The No-No and The Return Engagement

Continuing my award-winning series on the types of fans I encountered at my Spider-Man gigs, I showcase a trio diametrically opposed to the example of which I spoke in the previous installment (Still, available for your viewing pleasure at www.heroesinmycloset.com. Check local listings.). None of the children pictured in this post represent the categories under discussion. They are here merely to help lighten the subject matter, add a splash or three of color and satisfy those blogophiles who do not like a lot of words. And no, I do not have photos of children that would correspond to those I am about to mention (Shame on any who want to see such!)

THE SCREAMER:
Unconsolable, The Screamer screams . . . always! From the moment they first lay eyes on Spidey, a banshee wail erupts from their tiny forms, and nothing short of leaving the store will assuage their hysterics. At least, I can only assume their screaming stops when they depart, as it's the only time one can’t hear them. I understood why there were children afraid of Spider-Man. I had a featureless face; my eyes were big iris-free blobs of white, rimmed with black that extended up at either outer corner like a feline's; I spoke without a mouth, my entire face shifting when doing so; and the inhuman body posture could be unnerving. Even kids who worshipped the Web-Slinger—showing up wearing their Spider-Man Underoos—would occasionally flip-out. For them, it was a case of emotional overload at finally meeting their idol. Heck, there were adults, man and woman alike, who would run screaming when they saw Spider-Man (I’d hate to think what would happen if I wasn’t wearing a mask—cue drum riff).

Still, it didn’t make me feel any less bad when children were scared and cried. But The Screamer tore out my heart. It’s like I’d killed their dog or stolen their favorite toy. I’d turn to them and say in my softest most unthreatening tone, “I’m sorry,” only to be greeted with an even more blood-curdling scream. I’d know better than to even look in their direction, let alone speak to them, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt so terrible that I had done this to them.

And distance had no effect, The Screamer could notice Spider-Man from the furthest point in the store and “Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” I felt badly for the parent who held The Screamer, as well. They’d put a stranglehold on Mommy or Daddy, the likes of which would make a professional wrestler envious, and all the while screaming in their parents’ ears as they squirmed and tried to push mom or dad away from Spider-Man while in their arms.

THE NO-NO
A less dramatic off-shoot of The Screamer was The No-No. In lieu of screaming, these children uttered “no-no, no-no, no-no” in an incessant staccato as if approaching the door to the dentist’s office. They’d still wriggle furiously to get away while in their parent’s arms, much the same as The Screamer, only without the need for ear plugs. More often than not, The No-No would evolve into The Screamer. This would usually happen with a parent insensitive to his or her child’s wishes and went something like this:

The parent—with child in arms—espies the line or crowd from afar and approaches. Maybe the parent even knows of Spider-Man’s appearance and wants to surprise his or her little one.

“What’s going on over there, [insert child’s name]?” Sometimes asked innocently, sometimes uttered with premeditation.

“Look, [insert child’s name]. It’s Spider-Man.”

Despite all the great qualities of the Spidey suit—it’s nigh-perfect interpretation of the character; the ease of movement and relative comfort for the wearer; the vibrancy of its colors; the facility in its tranportation, cleaning and upkeep—it did present an odd downside: one-dimensionality, a tromp l’oeil effect that flattened the character, making him appear like a cardboard cutout, i.e. not real. From afar the affect is more pronounced. A child may not “see” me, even though directly looking at me, or sees Spider-Man, but thinks it is just a display.

Then, I move. My head turns toward the next child in line or a parent, as I deliver a quip or answer a question; it could be a movement as small as Spidey’s hand signing…

“no-no, no-no, no-no, no-no, no-no…” It begins…

In the case of a caring parent:

“Okay, Sweetie. It’s okay. He won’t hurt you. He’s a good guy.” As the child is swiftly redirected away from the signing area.

But I’m exemplifying a bad parent, so after the “no-no”s begin…

The parent continues toward Spider-Man, despite the child’s protestations, the volume and speed of delivering the “no-no”s inversely proportional to the distance from the Web-Swinger…

“C’mon, Honey. Don’t you want to get Spider-Man’s autograph?”

No, you insensitive jerk, they obviously don’t. That’s why they’re wriggling like a fresh-caught Marlin and shaking like a margherita machine, not to mention the continuous ‘No-no”s, which grow in intensity until…

“no-no, no-no, NO-NO, NO-NO-e-e-e-e-e-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!!”

There is no sound on Earth quite so piercing as the scream of a small child. Fire engines get out of the way, when they hear its approach.

It is only at this point that the parent turns away…

“That’s okay…okay…we’re going…” with all the sincerity of an apologizing waiter who has to return to the kitchen with your steak that wasn’t cooked properly.

And worse is the toothy smile these shameful parents sport when they’ve achieved scream-age. They knew their kid was going to scream, the sadistic bastards. The whole grotesque scene was staged for their sick thrills.

THE RETURN-ENGAGEMENT:
Another off-shoot of The Screamer, The Return Engagement begins his or her Spider-Man experience as such but returns, either of their own volition, with the prompting of their folks or by coveting the prize they see their brother or sister holding. Suddenly gone is the terror they so recently experienced. They want a comic dammit and they’re not going to let their parents leave until they’ve gotten one. They scarcely hear their parents chiding as they turn back toward the signing area. Rather than commend the kid for overcoming their fears in order to give a difficult task another go, parents would get pissy toward their child when he or she wanted to try and see Spidey again after an initial first attempt.

“If you cry again, we’re not going back,” they’d admonish. Or worse, a threat: “If we wait in that line again, you’d better not behave the way you did last time.”

The kicker was the perturbed parent who, when their little one wanted to return to see Spider-Man, grabbed their arm and pulled them toward the exit with a “No, I am not going to stand in that line again. You had your chance!” Some added the infamous, “You’d better stop crying or I’ll really give you something to cry about.” Would any of these callous moms and dads react similarly if their kid reattempted to ride a bicycle without training wheels or swim in the deep end of the pool for the first time?


No-Nos never transcended to this category. Rather, the occasional Returner transmuted to a No-No when their fear of Spider-Man turned out to be too great to overcome after all.

“If we get back in line, you’re not going to scream, right?”

Hell, if my brother/sister can do it, I certainly can.

“We’re not coming back a second time . . .”

How hard could it be. Spider-Man is a good guy . . . right?

“Get ready . . . there he is . . .”

I’ll just walk up, take my comic and—“no. no, no, NO, NO, NOOOOOO!”

If I noticed a Return-Engagement, I’d excuse myself from the child I was attending to and make sure the Return-Engagement received a comic from me—either via a sibling, parent or adult nearby—before the Return-Engagement was hustled away by Mom or Dad.

There were those occasional stories, whereby a Return-Engagement faced me successfully with their second attempt. Time would stand still as they drew closer and closer to Spider-Man. An audible hush would still the crowd. Screamer’s were rarely forgotten and quickly gained a reputation that no change in their nom de guerre would extinguish.

The suspense rises and a silent gasp is felt as the child hesitates . . . before proceeding. Now the name. The child’s mouth opens... The tension is palpable. Will it be another scream?

“Sally.”

And the child skips back to their parents.

“Another satisfied customer,” I’d playfully say, breaking up my onlookers and the mood.

The Coming of Vroom!

More than a few of my blogophiles have noticed that my entries are signed Vroom! and have rightly queried whence the title comes. Sit back my faithful and enjoy. They’ll be a quiz in the morning.

As the creator of such iconic comic characters as Spider-Man, Incredible Hulk, Fantastic Four and Iron Man, Stan Lee is known and loved the world over. And anyone fortunate enough to have met him, knows him as a boisterous, affable and warm person, whose flamboyant hucksterism might appear insincere at first glance, but quickly reveals itself to be charming and genuine, not the least bit unctuous. Stan truly loves his characters, and that love is only matched if not surpassed by his love and appreciation for the devotion the fans have for his creations.

But Stan is also notorious for having a terrible memory when it comes to remembering people’s names, a debatable weakness in character that he is the first to admit having. One gets the sense that, had Stan his way, he’d recall the name of every person from hotel doorman to infant swaddled in Spider-Man onesies that he meets on his journeys, regardless of how scant the encounter.


This problem extends to comic book professionals as well. Having left the day-to-day rigors of the Marvel offices years ago, only sporadically writing a special one-shot story—say, for the 500th issue of Amazing Spider-Man or in regard to some other such prevalent event—and handling that work from his home or personal office, he rarely, if ever, faces the industry’s current crop of talent. Not that he doesn’t keep tabs on the field. Stan still loves the medium and follows it religiously. But though he’ll recognize a current writer or artist’s name, he won’t necessarily recall what titles that pro is working on or known for, never mind having a clue as to what he or she looks like.

This was even true in the mid-eighties when I was portraying his most famous character at a time when comics were still the milieu of comic aficionados (read, “geeks”), outside the mainstream. Today comic books (or “graphic novels” to which they are referred by those who still have a stigma against using the term “comic books”) from Spider-Man to Persepolis to Watchmen have gained greater respect and have become rooted in the public consciousness.

I was unaware of Stan’s “flaw” when I started doing Spider-Man gigs with him. It first came to my attention at the Mid-Ohio Con, an annual comic-book convention in Mansfield, Ohio. Spider-Man was appearing with his creator and a bevy of other comic book professionals. As was the case, I was stationed next to Stan at his signing table where we humorously bantered about what Stan put me (Spidey) through in the books. I also noticed that he would sometimes refer to me (Spidey) as “son.” That was how he regarded the Web-Slinger, so near and dear to his heart Spider-Man was.

As this was a comic-book convention, most everyone attending genuflected before Stan, who abashedly would beg their humility and always offer a self-deprecating comment about his work and the adulation bestowed upon him. More often than not the fans would also get Spidey’s autograph, though quite a few preferred not to mar the sanctity of the book now blessed with the signature of their beloved hero Stan Lee. My feelings were never bruised by this. I understood completely and probably would have acted the same way.

When my offer to sign their comic was met with refusal, I would joke “I don’t blame you. What’s saving the world a few times over compared to penning a handful of funny books?” Or I’d make a more pronounced reference to Spider-Man, grumbling “Probably reads The Daily Bugle; believes all those disparaging comments made by J. Jonah Jameson about my being a ‘menace to society’ . . . Sheesh!” These playful comments always got a chuckle from Stan and the fans.

(Above; left to right: writer Mark Verheiden, artist Mark Nelson, artist Marie Severin, Stan Lee and yours truly at a convention in Edmonton, Canada)

Occasionally, a parent would attend for the sole purpose of having their children meet Spider-Man. Mom or Dad or sometimes both would dutifully stand in line with their charges but, when they reached Stan, the kids walked past, beelining to yours truly and delivering a hearty “Hi, Spider-Man,” while paying no heed to the strange old man behind the table. Stan would never acknowledge the slight—to him there wasn’t one—instead enjoying watching the children interact with his “son,” like a proud papa. Inevitably, the parent would notice Stan and ask, “Are you anyone?” to which Stan would good-humoredly reply, “Naw, I’m lost; I thought this was the Bingo hall,” or “I just came in here to get warm.”

Even the other guest professionals would stop by, when they were on break or during a lull at their respective tables, to meet Stan. After all, he was Stan Lee, architect of the Marvel Universe, creator of Spider-Man and so many other superheroes, and as such an inspiration, instrumental in their being in the business. Stan would greet them warmly with a vigorous handshake and copious “Aw, shucks, t’weren’t nothin’”s when they thanked him for all Stan had done for them. As they walked away, Stan would lean over to me and ask, “Who was that?”

When this first happened, I was taken aback a moment. The way Stan had so heartily spoken with the pro, one would have never suspected that he hadn’t a clue who he had just met. I do not fault Stan for not asking the pro who he or she was; it would be awkward after the person basically deified Stan for him to ask, “Who are you? What do you do?” Not to mention potentially crushing the professionals feelings.

Being a comic-book geek myself, I had all the information Stan needed. “That’s Joe Public. He’s draws SuperDuper Guy for Splendiforous Comix,” I’d reply quietly enough so that the next fan in line getting their autographs wouldn’t hear. It certainly helped that no one could see my mouth in costume. Stan always recognized the name and the series on which they worked and usually in a tone that suggested he enjoyed the work. From that point on, I would surreptitiously lean into Stan and whisper any pertinent information to him when a comic-book professional approached. This way he knew the person’s significance before he greeted them. And as the resident comic-book expert cum Spider-Man actor, I was most often the one to accompany Stan at comic events.


I even acted his Cyrano when not in costume, just more circumspect as my mouth was exposed. It got so Stan naturally leaned toward me when someone that he wanted the goods on approached, much like Anne Hathaway’s Andy Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada in the scene at the industry gala wherein she has to feed Meryl Streep’s Miranda Priestly the three-sentence bio on the VIPs as they arrived, so Miranda would greet them accordingly.

Still, given Stan’s memory or lack thereof when it came to names, I have no doubt I’d have had to reacquaint him with my name at every new event had it not been for one incident at the Mid-Ohio Con. While waiting for one of the other guests who would be accompanying the show promoter, Stan and me for dinner, Stan asked the origin of my last name (Of course, this followed his asking my last name to begin with, since he had characteristically forgotten it).

Understandably, as a consummate wordsmith, Stan loves words, their origins, usage and clever juxtapositions. He spent his tour in the army writing copy for posters that warned GIs of the dangers of contracting VD, and did so in a clever manner that proved much more effective than a more dry, surgical approach. I spent hours conversing with him in off hours about words, discussing questions like “How come you always hear of someone being uncouth, but never couth,” or listing the nomenclature for groups of animals, such as a pod of whales or murder of crows, and then suggesting alternatives or making up ones for other groups of creatures, such as a cacophony of clowns.

So when he asked about my last name, he wasn’t just taking an interest to be polite; he really wanted to know. He understood that Vrattos was Greek, but was more curious as to where the odd “v-r” consonant combo derived, since there is no V in the Greek alphabet. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure. My father had never been forthcoming with my surname’s origin, despite my persistent queries growing up. I shame-facedly admitted my ignorance, but quickly made light of my odd last name by saying, “There is only one other word in the English language that begins with a “v-r” . . . Vroom!

The M had nary a second to linger on my lips when Stan exploded in ebullience. “VROOM!” he pronounced, extending both outstretched arms to me. He was so tickled, he was giddy. I couldn’t have been prouder had Bugs Bunny knighted me “Sir Loin of Beef.” From that moment forward, I was known to him as Vroom! and he knows me still by that title today.

You Gotta Have Art

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swing Out, Sister

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my sister Stephanie for the great job she did as photographer during the Spider-Man gig recounted in my previous post of March 1. She was visiting me from Boston, Massachusetts, and spent eight hours of her vacation in a mall in Staten Island (I mean, after Spencer Gifts, what else is there; and that'll take you thirty minutes, an hour tops if you linger over each and every salacious gag and black-light poster.). But she never complained, taking pictures and keeping me company instead. And she did a great job of it too as indicated by the shots on display in my post. Here she is with me (I'm the one in the webs), posing for a quick pic in the mall office where I transformed before greeting the screaming throngs.

It's Alive!!!

Yes . . . finally . . . the years of promising (read: threatening) are over. Actually, my vacillation lo these many years has worked in my favor, as technological advancements have made it virtually idiot-proof (perfect for me) for anyone to tell their story to the masses. Of course, I've now run out of excuses . . .

Thus, with the fear of the unknown (What am I getting myself into?)—best exemplified on the terrified mien of my 5-month-old self in the picture above—I present Heroes In My Closet, a candid look at my ten years as an official Marvel character actor; my adventures in and around the world of comics since; and the more than occassional opinionated observations on whatever happens to excite or annoy me at any given time.