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!

It's Not Easy Being Green

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The heroes in attendance tense for action.

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

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

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

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

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

Of Mice and Monkeys

Gorillas don’t like Spider-Man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Football Hero

Who could forget SuperPro?

Oops, sorry! I mean . . . Who could remember SuperPro?

Not since Peter Puck (seen at right) has there been a lamer marketing ploy by a major sports league. At least the National Hockey League valiantly attempted to build interest in Peter Puck. No such luck for SuperPro.

SuperPro was a forgettable hero created by Marvel for the National Football League. He made his debut in the comics in January 1991, but his greater coming out party was at the big game of 1990: Super Bowl XXV. I’m sure no one needs to be reminded of SuperPro’s origin—he said facetiously—but for those in the audience who’ve been living on a deserted island most of their lives, here’s the skinny:

Phil Grayfield was a college all-American linebacker whose injuries sidelined his professional career. As a television investigative sports journalist, he fights evil on and off the field using a suped-up football uniform, originally designed to better protect pro football players, but which proved too costly to manufacture. The suit was primarily red, white, and blue with spot-yellow, and enhanced Phil’s natural athletic abilities. Apparently, the suit reversed the effects of those injuries that ended his career. I mean, really . . . football? Too dangerous. Fighting crime? No problem.

I was pegged for Spidey duty, along with fellow superhero actors Marc and Stewart, who would represent the Hulk and Captain America respectively. As far as any of us heroes knew, the gig was a PR event to promote Marvel. None of us knew of SuperPro. All that changed at a meeting at NFL offices in New York, where we convened one afternoon prior to our leaving. There we got the scoop: The NFL was using the Super Bowl—and the festivities leading up to it—to introduce a new hero, SuperPro. Spider-Man, Captain America and The Incredible Hulk—being internationally recognized heroic icons—would be on hand to introduce NFL’s new hero to the entire world and—more importantly—the media. Essentially we would be the whistles and bells for SuperPro’s coming out party. To spend a paid, week-long trip in Florida, playing Spider-Man at the events leading up to the Super-Bowl, perhaps including a ticket to the game? Yeah, I think I could genuflect before another hero without it bruising my ego.

The NFL didn’t need nor want the help of Marvel’s personal appearance program to find their new hero. Apparently, they felt that no experience was preferable over more than a decade’s worth when it came to hiring a character actor. Actor, Shmactor . . . they found themselves a genuine NFL football player, more precisely a recently retired L.A. Ram.

The former Ram was measured and fitted with a custom-built costume. I never saw the receipt, but the formerhead of the Personal Appearance Department once told me that the Spider-Man suits cost three thousand dollars apiece, and that was just for replacements made off the already-set design. The SuperPro suit had to have cost that much before a single yard of fabric was purchased. I’m guessing ten to twenty thousand, and that isn’t even reflecting an amount for insurance purposes, as the appraisers say on the Antiques Roadshow. It was a bill the NFL almost ate. Less than two weeks before our scheduled departure, the man who would be SuperPro backed out.

Fortunately the NFL found themselves a replacement, but he wasn’t a former professional football player. The new “Phil Grayfield” was a professional bodybuilder. As far as bodybuilders go, Phil had a neck and could scratch his back without having to rub against a tree. He looked like a cross between Willie Aames of Eight Is Enough and Ian Zeiring from Beverly Hills 90210 only with the body of Lou Ferrigno. He had a good toothy smile and looked like a typical all-American, hot-dogs-and-apple-pie–type of guy. In the SuperPro uniform, Phil looked great, surprising given that he replaced the man for whom the suited was custom fitted. The NFL marketing nabobs obviously thought so as well going by the excited grins on their faces as they paraded him through the NFL offices like a blue-ribbon heifer. (Above l. to r.: Our Phil Grayfield, Marvel Personal Appearance Department head Alison, Marc and Stewart strategize during an NFL dinner before the big game)

Like good second fiddles, we heroes dutifully followed. It was immediately made clear that we were going to have our work cut out for us when it came to spotlighting SuperPro. Phil was certainly nice enough, but he had the charisma of a mannequin. Put up against professional character actors, he all but disappeared. Patrick Swayze had it easy teaching Baby how to dance next to the Herculean task set before us. And of course, being the most iconic of the characters, the onus fell more squarely on my shoulders. (Below: the "Just-Us League" under the stands at Tampa Stadium.)


Alison, Marc, Stewart and I flew down on the Saturday the week prior to Super Bowl weekend. The NFL had flown Phil down a day or two prior. This special treatment of Phil was something the three of us “lesser” heroes would have to get used to. Although the game was to be played in Tampa, we flew into Orlando—a quick hour’s drive west—because the recently-opened Walt Disney World Dolphin Hotel was the NFL’s Super Bowl headquarters. We would be rooming there as well, only not the first night. The superheroes were scheduled to appear at a football clinic in Tampa early the next morning.

The flight was uneventful, but as we deplaned the flight crew informed us that the flight was the last Eastern Airlines flight . . . ever. While in the air the company went out of business and the crew was informed that they were out of work. The forced smiles and cheery “B’Bye”s were even more disturbing than usual. I’ve never been more relieved that firearms are not allowed on flights. While Alison began the process of rescheduling our flight home—an unenviable task given she had to find four seats on a flight out of Orlando the day after the most famous annual sporting event in the country, arguably the world, when tens of thousands of people would be flying out—we went to claim our luggage and the trunks holding our costumes. Not the Spider-Man costume, of course. That I carried with me. If the other costumes got lost in transit, at least Marvel’s most famous character would still be available. In fact, I had brought two costumes, just in case. The gig was far too important to risk damage or loss to the suit. Plus, with nearly ten days of continuous use, without access to cleaning facilities, a single costume would smell mighty ripe by the final days.

We were also responsible for shlepping the SuperPro suit around, which traveled in a trunk only slightly smaller that that used to transport the Hulk. And when I say “we,” I mean Alison, Stew, Marc and I; Phil was provided with his own humungous SUV. Wouldn’t want him to break a fingernail and thus jeopardize his SuperPro portrayal all because he was responsible for transporting his own costume.

The trunks in question—holding the Hulk and SuperPro costumes—were the same proportion as a steamer trunk, only much bigger. One could easily store an artificial Christmas tree in a trunk, complete with lights, garland several boxes of ornaments, stand, as well as Santa and several reindeer. The Captain America costume fit in a large over-the-shoulder duffel bag. But the shield . . . Oy! Imagine a pizza box designed to hold a garbage can lid or one of those circular metal sleds. A Cadillac from the early seventies wouldn’t be able to transport one of these costume storage facilities in its trunk, never mind two of them, Cap’s shield and costume, four adults and enough luggage for a ten-day trip. So we rented a van and headed for Tampa. (Above: Stewart, yours truly and Marc, stand before our trusty van in our SuperPro jackets)

Super BowI XXV was to be played in Tampa Stadium, home of the Buccaneers, but we would be lodging in Orlando—a short hour’s drive from Tampa—for all but the first night of the trip. The reason: The NFL had booked its rooms at the new Dolphin Hotel, located in the Disney World resort area. A companion to the Swan Hotel, which opened January and sat directly next to it, The Dolphin opened in June, a mere seven month prior. It was Disney World’s most luxurious hotel; no surprise then that the NFL was staying there for its most important event of the year. As a part of the Super Bowl festivities, we were staying there as well. But early the following morning of our arrival, SuperPro and the Marvel heroes were scheduled as guests at a football clinic for kids in Tampa. The highlight of the clinic was the participation of some of the NFL’s greatest stars, including Dan Marino, Bernie Kosar, Warren Moon and Ozzie Newsome, who would be overseeing the various activities. (Above: Marc and Stewart enjoy a rare off-day at The Dolphin.)

I couldn’t have been less enthused about meeting Dan Marino, the Hall-of-Fame quarterback for the Miami Dolphins, who were my beloved New England Patriots biggest rival. The only positive from meeting Marino would be the ability to tell friends later that I had met football legend Dan Marino. . . . or so I thought.

After our arrival and change into costume, Alison had the characters split up each to participate in a different activity overseen by an NFL star. Lucky me. I was directed to an area of the field where Dan Marino was throwing passes to a group of kids. Lined beside Marino, the children would one-by-one take off down the field ten to twenty yards, then cut across where Marino would lightly toss the ball to them.

It was a beautiful day: sunny, relatively dry and not too hot. Unfortunately, sunshine reeks havoc with the vision of anyone wearing the Spider-Man costume. The white mesh stretched over the eyes creates what can best be described as snow blindness when one faces the rays of the sun. The expansive field on which the activities were being conducted provided no shadows that might relieve the problem, either. I was able to cheat my way across the field to Marino and the kids, looking askance the sun under the mask while not twisting my head, so I wouldn’t appear drunk and start walking into anyone.

On my way, a young boy approached me. He had broken off from another group that were going off with one of the other NFL players and characters to partake in a different activity. “Hey, are you the guy that wrote that article for Marvel Age?” he asked.

It took a moment to realize to what he was referring. An article I had written for Marvel’s in-house magazine, Marvel Age, had appeared in the issue that was available in December. It was my first writing assignment ever, and I had hopes that it would lead to my writing more articles and eventually the comic books as well.

Marvel Age was similarly packaged as a traditional comic book—same dimension, paper stock and color process—and featured behind-the-scenes articles on everything Marvel, whether that be future storylines; upcoming toy releases and other licensed product, like T-shirts and hats; or new titles that would soon be released. I wrote a half-page piece, entitled “My Life as Spider-Man.” It encapsulated some of my adventures as the company’s most famous character and accompanied a shot of me perched on a table top beside a seated Todd McFarlane, the penciler for the Amazing Spider-Man comic at the time.

It was kind of cool that this kid had enjoyed my article and made a point of finding out if I was the same guy he had read about. At the same time I felt strangely exposed. I was more concerned with landing my first writing gig for Marvel than with “outing” Spider-Man. Fortunately, no one at Marvel seemed to notice.

As I got closer to Marino, the kids toward the back of the line and those who had already had their turn began to swarm around me, eliciting high-fives, shaking my hand and asking the usual array of questions. I immediately struck a pose in a crouched position. I would normally do this anyway when meeting younger to heighten the effect of the costume while also putting me closer to their level, in hopes of setting at ease any of those kids that are freaked out by the experience. But I also wanted to use the children to shade my eyes. Though they averaged twelve years of age, they were tall enough to do the job. Otherwise, I couldn’t see the high-fives coming at me or the hands being extended to shake, let alone the risk of trampling the smaller ones.

"Hey, Spider-Man, why are you in Tampa?” was an immediate query.

“I came to visit my friends in Tampa. Took a bit longer than I anticipated, though. Once I swung out of Manhattan, I ran out of buildings and had to hop a ride on a southbound bus,” I replied. “Fortunately, the Fantastic Four are keeping an eye on things while I’m away.”

“Let’s see you shoot a web,” another asked.

“No can do. I never shoot my webbing irresponsibly, and with great power comes great responsibility. I just hope the Green Goblin doesn’t show up. I didn’t even put my web-shooters on. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to shake hands with you guys.”

At which point I would go into a short explanation of how I shot webbing, using my middle two finger pressed against the inside of my palm while keeping my wrist bent down so as not to impede its firing. Then I had the kids show me how to shoot webbing if they, too, had a set of web-shooters.

“C’mon, who's next?!”

Dan Marino’s pointed question did little to stem the kids’ enthusiasm for Spider-Man, but it was only then that I noticed—even with my limited eye sight—that he stood alone, and not a single child paid him heed.

For the life of me, I cannot explain what happened next. Maybe my actions were an attempt to return the children’s focus onto Marino or maybe it was pure ego that drove me. There was no think; there was just do. Seeing the line empty, I shot out from the throng of youngsters and passed Marino calling, “Throw me a pass, Dan!” I sped straight out from his right about thirty yards; then cut across in front of him. Only in the instant that I looked toward him did I realize I was in big trouble; all I could make out was a faint, fuzzy blob in the distance.

What a f***ing idiot I am! I can barely make out shapes directly in front of me, never mind twenty yards away. And touch? My hands are covered in slick spandex. If I am even lucky enough to get my hands around the ball, I will only feel it once the ball’s slipped through my grasp. What was I thinking? How bad will it look if Spider-Man misses this catch? Spider-Man CANNOT drop this ball. Stephen Vrattos? PShaw! He can drop the ball, especially one thrown by Dan Marino. But if Spider-Man misses the ball—before the expectant eyes of a dozen or so adoring fans—that could end my short-lived career as the world-renown web-swinger; at the very least, I would never again be chosen for any high-profile events.

Call it divine intervention or Spider-Sense, but my cut cross-field had only taken me about five yards, when I noticed a flash of shadow as the rocket that Dan threw at me eclipsed the sun for a fraction of a second. I could only react. I leapt, shot my arms out and something akin to a head-butt slammed my sternum. Hitting my chest did little to slow the projectile as it caromed upwards, delivering an uppercut to my chin. Good thing to; had the football bounced off me in any other direction I wouldn’t have had the chance to get my arms around it and pull it in. Showing none of the terrifying affects of the experience, I lightly alit, and without losing stride, jogged smoothly back to the fuzzy blob that was Dan Marino, nonchalantly tossing him the ball and delivering a cool, “Thanks, Dan,” before rejoining the children, who were oohing and aahing over what they had just witnessed.

Meanwhile a sharp pain accompanied every breath I took and I could hardly speak; my jaw was numb. It didn’t take a science nerd like Peter Parker to understand that the pass that Marino threw Spider-Man was not the easy lob he administered to the children. And while Spider-Man—or rather the average joe beneath the costume—was certainly no youngster, he wasn’t a professional football player either. And that pass was a rifle, or rather, in football parlance, a shotgun. Marino wanted me to drop that ball. maybe he even hoped it might knock me/Spider-Man down—physically and psychologically; show the kids what a nobody Spider-Man is.


There is every possibility that Marino—having been throwing a seemingly endless stream of unsatisfying easy passes—just reacted like a well-oiled, Hall-of-Fame quarterback to the sight of an adult going out for a pass, the bronco enduring the heft of a cowboy until the gate is finally flung open and he can buck to his heart’s content to throw off the annoying rider. I might buy that explanation if it wasn’t for they way he acted the rest of the day: like a petulant child.

As they day wrapped up, the kids were gathered together with the superheroes and the NFL stars for a group photo. I was directed to stand next to Dan Marino. As the photographer prepared to shoot, I placed my hand—fingers splayed in a traditional Spidey manner—on Marino’s shoulder. He violently shrugged my hand off and spat, “Watch the hair, man!” I was dumbfounded. I wasn’t anywhere near his precious hair, and a simple “Please, don’t touch me”—while still being undeservedly rude—would have sufficed. I didn’t say anything, but remember thinking, “That’s Mr. Man to you, Mr. Dan ‘No-Super-Bowl-Ring’ Marino!”

Aside of "Flies"

Following my posting of March 1, "Would You Like Flies With That," I received an email from legendary Jim Hanley himself. Being the magnanimous person that he is, he expressed his enjoyment reading the story (My face hasn't been this red since I retired the suit!) and even sent me a copy of a newspaper ad which promoted the event. The ad reveals that the appearances actually took place on Wednesday evenings (I had originally written of their taking place on the weekend), which I have since amended in the original post. He also provided some follow-up info, reminding me that Jim Hanley's Universe had finally scored a retail spot—with walls and eveything—in the mall in 1988, which he successfully ran for a year and a half before deciding he'd had enough of the cutthroat world of mall politics. I urge everyone to visit Jim's store in Manhattan (4 West 33rd St.) whether you're a comics fan or not. His store features not only row upon row of comics—everything from Donald Duck to Watchmen—but also action figures, books, T-shirts, statuary, magazines and related pop culture tchotchkes and ephemera, all of it cool. I defy anyone to not find something of interest. Tell 'em Spidey sent ya!

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.