Going to Court, Part III: You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry

Say CHEESE!

With Marvel Personal Appearance Department Director Alyson’s search for a Dunkin’ Doppelgänger complete, the stage is finally set for The Incredible Hulk’s coming out party at the 1993 NBA All-Star Game Jam Session in Salt Lake City, Utah. But will our nattering narrator’s inaugural stint as the lime leviathan be a “Hulk smash!”?

Unlike other costumed characters, The Hulk necessitated a minder, someone to serve as escort while he performed his ambassadorial duties. Improved though the new suit’s visibility may be, the sheer bulk of the ensemble made it impossible to maneuver without the constant threat of barreling into someone or something. Plus, walking as the Jade Giant was akin to doing leg extensions on a weight machine; it took real effort to lift each leg, given the costume’s heft and limited mobility. It was like walking underwater.

Mr. Hulk, your escort is here!

In fact any movement, regardless of how minute, was met with staunch resistance. Add the heat and lack of the body’s breath-ability—the only openings were the mouth and eye sockets—and it wasn’t long before the wearer was awash in his own sweat. Even the thin bodysuit I wore beneath the Hulk exterior offered little by way of capturing perspiration; it was sopping minutes after donning the suit. This was the reason behind the twenty-minutes-in, ten-minutes-out policy for Hulk performers. To spend much longer in the costume dared the actor’s passing out.

Of course, this all depended on the person and the circumstances. Oftimes a wearer o’ the green, as it were, would stretch the costume’s temporal edicts. Perhaps, there was an especially long line of children waiting or the gig itself was a one-off of thirty minutes—to shoehorn a break therein would be a bit “letter of law”—or the particulars surrounding the job necessitated the Hulk portrayer to remain in character beyond the stated limit. The policy was emplaced more to protect the actor from unsympathetic sponsors who might not be willing to understand the importance of the schedule and insist the performer work well beyond the conservative safety margins.

With Alyson’s time split between overseeing Sam’s dunking escapades and glad-handing the Marvel Mucky-Mucks at the festivities, the job of Hulk-sitter fell to Joe, our Wolverine. Jeremy’s status as tenured Spider-Man precluded his taking on such menial tasks outside his Web-Swinging duties, although he did pal around on occasion. The job didn’t devour a whole lot of hours. Most of the time, I was on the show floor along with my stalwart superhero companions, so there wasn’t a need for a minder. When I needed a break, Wolvie would escort me back to the locker room and help me out of the suit before rejoining Webhead, since their stints between respites were greater.

The Dream Team

My activities as the Jade Giant were relegated to the secondary court just outside our dressing room. The area, which held various other b-ball frivolities and vendor stalls, could be found at the end of a long corridor leading from the B court. It ran approximately fifty yards, traversing the length of the main arena and tiered seating surrounding it. A straight shot of smooth cement it may have been, but it might as well have been the Wipeout qualification obstacle course as far as The Hulk was concerned. Simply strolling from the lockers into the B court pavilion was exhausting, like doing a hundred reps of forty pound leg lifts.

Not that there weren’t enough fans to entertain where I was. The B court was always active. Sure, the slam dunk exhibition with special guest Spider-Man was certainly a highlight, but there were also clinics on how to improve one’s basketball skills, trick-shot showcases; us heroes even had some friendly competition from the NBA mascots, who performed their own dunking display… with a trampoline no less! Out of mutual respect, though, we ceded the floor to the mascots during their show and they graciously allowed Spidey and friends their privacy when we were doing our thing. Not only did this result in a nice chunk of off time to Hulk, but also it allowed me to watch the league’s court jesters perform.

Denver Nuggets’ Rocky the mountain lion takes flight

Here was character appearance work on a whole ’nother level. To be able to barrel along the hardwood at a full tilt while holding a basketball, hit a three-foot square trampoline at the top of the key and slam the ball through the hoop would take a fair bit of athleticism. I’ve seen my fair share of superjocks on Ninja Warrior miscue the trampoline on the show’s signature Jumping Spider obstacle and they’re clad in the height of athletic apparel. But to do so wearing a furry animal head and matching costume was insane.

Indiana Pacers’ Boomer flips out. The extra trampoline lower right gives you some idea the size of the area the NBA mascots had to strike to perform their dunks.

And these guys were flipping and somersaulting in the air like the Flying Wallendas… only they survived! When they weren’t performing on the court, they were in the stands, climbing up the tiers, on the backs of the seats at times. It was awe-inspiring. Their duds may not have been as onerous as The Hulk’s, and they may have been designed to allow the wearer to move as expected, but the actor/athlete therein still had to prove himself.

Minnesota Timberwolves’ Crunch attempts to dunk
over seven people

Truth be told, I wasn’t completely floundering while wearing the green. I could actually walk at a decent clip and the double-width concrete stairs of the bleachers, which surrounded the B court, proved no match for The Hulk’s prodigious tootsies much to the delighted surprise of then Marvel President and CEO Terry Stewart who I encountered upon my inaugural debut at the show. Alyson stole me away from my adoring public during a lull to escort me to where Marvel Comics Numero Uno was seated in the stadium, most assuredly there to catch our Web-Swinging Ringer in action. In her excitement to present me to Stewart, Alyson didn’t think that I might find navigating stairs a problem.

“Are you going to be okay getting up the steps, Hulk,” she intoned, always professional when it came to speaking with the characters when among the rabble. I could see the mix of realization and worry on her face when we reached the base of the section above which Stewart was seated.

“No problem,” I growled. “Just clear the way. I’d hate to make a scene my first night in Utah!”

Typical to stadium seating, the steps alternated from normal depth to extra wide as one climbed past each row with their height being less than that of the usual stair. The feat would’ve been treacherous had they all been of the mundane variety, but the levels on which the rows were situated afforded plenty of space for my humongous hooves. Without skipping a beat, I hauled one leg, then the next, up the section, vaulting two steps at a time. I nearly barreled over a surprised Alyson who was staying close to give me a hand if needed. She adjusted quickly enough to scramble ahead, leading the way.

“Gangway… Coming through!” I bellowed.

The move was not out of character for the bullish behemoth, whose common mode of transport was propelling himself on his muscular legs, leaping leagues at a time. And the words shy and unassuming would never be used to describe the simplest of actions taken by the Jade Giant. Fortunately, the Marvel President and CEO was only a third of the way up and positioned along the aisle. My thighs felt like Jell-O and shaking as much by the time I’d finished the climb. Any further, I may have been in trouble.

Beastz II Men

“Hi, Hulk,” Stewart said upon my arrival.

“Mr. Stewart! Sheesh, they’ll let anyone in here. Bad enough when I waltzed in… not that they had any choice.”

There was a twinkle in his eye and a smile crept over his face as he leaned toward Alyson. “Stephen?” he asked under his breath, inquiring as to my concealed identity.

“How’d you guess,” Alyson responded with a hearty laugh.

“Nice to hear my reputation precedes me,” I added.

“What do you think?” Alyson asked Stewart, who always enjoyed watching the characters in action. But it wasn’t my performance about which Alyson was asking.

I hadn’t realized up to this point in the gig that it was the Hulk’s coming out party. The Personal Appearance Department’s Spartan budget had spiked briefly in 1987 when thirteen new costumes were commissioned in conjunction with an awesome float and the famous Spider-Man balloon, all in celebration of the Web-Spinner’s 25th anniversary, at that year’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (see “I Love a Parade,” parts I, II, III, IV, V and VI). It returned to a level only slightly higher to accommodate the added production of Wolverine costumes, the only character to have appearance longevity after that Turkey Day coming out party.

But the cranky Canuck’s togs’ costs ran along the same lines as Captain America’s signature red-white-and-blue, a far cry from the expense of re-envisioning The Hulk, a safe bet at ten grand. Also, with neither an impending live-action film, nor new cartoon on the telly, there was little reason for the Powers That Be to green light (pun intended) a fresh ensemble for Bruce Banner’s fearsome second self. To keep the costume cabbage coming, it was paramount for Alyson to dazzle, cajole and kiss the collective asses of every and any exec even remotely associated with the MacAndrews & Forbes Holdings group, the Ronald Perelman led über-corporation that purchased Marvel Entertainment in 1989, and all it’s ancillary acquisitions, including Fleer trading cards, the sponsor of the Jam Session.

Alyson was fantastic at running the department, no less this soulless aspect. Her success at the helm can be evinced from the prestigious partnerships she fostered, such as those with the NFL and NBA, which resulted in an increase in gigs, especially such cool highfalutin ones as this and Super Bowl XXV (see “Football Hero”) and subsequent commission of a parcel of brand-spanking-new costumes for such heroes as Cyclops, Storm, She-Hulk, The Fantastic Four and Iron Man (see “The Thing Is,” parts I, II, III, IV, V and VI) in the years she spearheaded the department.

Stewart was an exception to the stuffed suits with which Alyson usually had to hob knob. He not only understood the potential of the Personal Appearance program, he enjoyed and more importantly respected the actors who made Marvel’s superheroes come to life. In fact, Stewart was somewhat of a pop culture aficionado. In 1999, he left Marvel to become the President and CEO of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, a post he continues to serve today. His solid relationship with Alyson and the department was crucial for its health and good standing with Perelman’s people, since he was closer to them in the company’s hierarchy.

A positive report on the re-incarnated Hulk was more than certain to rise upward and osmose into the corporation’s executive ranks, securing a bit of insurance for future endeavors. It was evident from the bemused look on Stewart’s face that he liked the new look.

“How’s it feel in there,” he asked.

“It’s a hot time in the ole costume tonight,” I grumbled, and truer words had never been spoken. It was my first stint as the lime leviathan and mere minutes encapsulated within his skin, I was awash in sweat. But the laughter, which greeted my response, was enough to keep such paltry discomforts at bay. Alyson seemed pleased with my efforts, as well, and making one’s boss happy is never a bad thing.

It also boosted my confidence. Actors are a notoriously unsure lot, ever questioning their performances. The historic disrespect of the profession is certainly a contributing factor. Choosing the career is oft met with ridicule from family and friends alike; as if the decision is a phase the person is going through. Why else would one enter a job force with a ninety-percent unemployment rate and so little security? So every scrap of positive reinforcement is devoured like an oreo in the hands of Cookie Monster. This being my first time portraying the titular antihero, one of the founding pantheon of Stan Lee–created Marvel Universe characters, was unnerving, especially since I was embracing a different direction—one represented by Peter David in the character’s eponymous title to be sure, but perhaps a persona unfamiliar to the masses nonetheless—than that which previous Hulk performers had taken in the past.

I needn’t have worried. The fans—young and old—loved me. They really loved me! And I had a blast with the Green Goliath’s playfully snide character, especially with the celebs that roamed the area, including Mayim Bialik (see “Yours and Mayim”), a cappella group Boyz II Men and model/actor/MTV VJ Karen Duffy.

I want my MTV!

Still, I would’ve loved to have played with the fans in the carnival area, but even had I managed to survive the journey there and remained lucid, I didn’t trust that I’d get back on my own volition, and The Hulk being wheeled out of the stadium on a gurney wouldn’t have gone over to well with the company VIPs, never mind the wee Hulkophiles. It just wasn’t going to happen…

Then it happened.

Three days into the four-day event, Alyson had scheduled a photo shoot with Spider-Man, Wolverine and The Hulk. Joining us were a handful of Fleer executives, which only made sense; they were the sponsor for the event, after all.

I’d been involved in other photo shoots in the past, all of which spanned hours, usually an entire day, regardless of how seemingly small or mundane the project for which the session was scheduled. They’d also been conducted in a studio or at Marvel HQ, where a momentary removal of one’s costume to catch a breather between shots was permissible—no fear of exposure in the eyes of the public. Plus, since they were private, enclosed affairs, there wasn’t a need to constantly be in character. All in all, though the photo shoots may have taken longer than an average gig, they were less tiring.

Alyson made it clear that the photographer was booked for only three hours. Already this was sounding less severe, what with necessary breaks. Even ceding a mere fifteen-minute respite each hour so she could max her time with the shutterbug would be okay. A few pix on the court with Spider-Man and Wolverine; some nice cross-promotional shots with the Fleer Nabobs; perhaps a few solo efforts to highlight the new suit… badda bing, badda boom… done!

“I want to start with some shots of the heroes in the festival area,” Alyson chimed as soon as my colleagues and I exited the dressing room. Before you could say “heat exhaustion” she was leading her posse into the mouth of the endless tunnel that lead to the other end of the Salt Palace where the fan carnival was located. I dutifully followed, not that I had a chance to voice any concerns. Besides, it wouldn’t have looked good.

“Uh… excuse me, Alyson,” I’d grumble with an upraised green paw. “I have some concerns with my ability to make the trek. I fear I may pass out before we get there.” Yeah, that’d go over well and pretty much ensure my never getting another Hulk job.

In actuality, I was feeling fairly confident about hauling my purple ass to the fan fair section of the complex. During the previous two days within the walking green sauna, I’d acquired a sense of how best to regulate my breathing and conserve my energy to maximize my time as the Green Goliath. Four years of extensive vocal training—which included deep breathing exercises—and relaxation technique had attuned me to my body, and I was confident in my ability to push the boundaries of stamina, performing until the last possible moment. Had this been the start of the gig, before I’d had a few days of Hulking under my belt, I don’t think I would’ve handled the situation as well.

The journey was about putting myself into another state. I established a cadence to my footfalls and repeated a mantra in my head—I chose the marching song of the witch’s guards in The Wizard of Oz: “oh-wee-oh… woh-o-o-o-h-oh…”—in conjunction with each inhalation and exhalation. I all but ignored any attendees, NBA personal or workers that I passed, despite their greetings. A characteristic grunt was my reply as I traversed the corridor, that merest of sounds in accord with the rhythm of my breathing. I may have been at the back of the pack, but I kept in stride with them nonetheless. It was actually better not to be amidst the group, given the unwieldiness of the costume.

Finally, we emerged into the festival area, like navigating the tight confines of the wardrobe into the wonders of Narnia. The room was as expansive as a gymnasium; a cacophony of sounds—the hubbub of fans, bouncing balls, screeching sneaker soles on hardwood, carnies promoting their wares, loudspeaker announcements—and explosion of colors, plastered on banners, posters, clothing, bags and all manner of paraphernalia, from every team logo in the NBA. It hardly registered as I took stock of my condition. There was a moment of lightheadedness—a runner’s high, if you will—as I slowed my respiration and refocused my attention to the surroundings.

I was soaked—big surprise, there!—and winded, but otherwise good to go. The excitement of getting the opportunity to play the myriad NBA activities providing the boost of adrenaline I needed. The shoot was only just beginning, after all; there was a ways to go yet.

Hulk loves you this much!

So much for my prediction of a few pix of Hulk and co. There wasn’t a photo op that Alyson missed. Match your wingspan with that of basketball’s greatest big men… Check! Pose in your very own personalized locker betwixt those of All-Stars Karl Malone and John Stockton… Righty-O! Take part in hometown Utah Jazz’s team picture… Done! And of course, each shot went through a dozen takes. Okay, Spider-Man first… Now, Wolverine; you join him… Can you strike a different pose, Spidey…? Hulk, get in there… Let’s do one with Hulk alone… Now Hulk and Wolverine… What haven’t we done…? Oh, yeah; just Spidey and Hulk… We were going on two hours without a break, and any chance of one brought up images of the agonizing Death March to Bataan return trip to the B court.

Finally, Alyson directed us back to the secondary gym. I was delusional, seeing NBA cheerleaders beneath a bevy of swaying palm trees by an inviting pool, beckoning me… The prospect of traveling to the dressing room and getting this 500lb green gorilla off my back snapped me out of it. I actually led the way, moving more quickly than before, determined—Hulk smash… Hulk smash… Hulk smash…. Women and children fled before me. Hot dog carts pulled over. To those handful of poor souls oblivious to my approach I elicited an angry roar (They moved!). I was Godzilla razing Japan, Tokyo Bay my target, and nothing was going to stop me. Alyson had enough photos to fill the Hermitage. There was nothing more to shoot.

Apparently, there was.

Hey, these aren’t Hulk’s sneakers!

“Let finish up with some shots on the floor by the Jam Session logo,” Alyson announced directly behind me.

Aargh!!! I’d forgotten about the Mucky-Mucks from Fleer. We hadn’t taken a single photo featuring them. I was dying, but I couldn’t walk away from the people responsible for my being at the show. The tank was on empty, though, and the engine was in the red. I was teetering on the brink of collapse. It was the classic scenario in Hulk comics: the bestial behemoth, racked with fatigue after some cataclysmic battle, fighting his inner self—the formally dormant aspect of Bruce Banner—struggling desperately to re-seize control of his savage alter-ego, while the monster holds on vainly. Just… a few… more… shots…

“Screw you, guys. Hulk taking ball and going home!”

A handful of additional pix I could have handled, but Alyson returned to her litany of endless poses, beginning with those highlighting the superheroes. She went through more combinations than possible patterns on a Rubik’s Cube. And that was before she even invited the Fleer Poo-Bahs to participate. A dozen snaps with them and there was still no indication that Alyson was anywhere near finished. I was literally in danger of heat prostration. Flanked by Fleer execs and fronted by Spider-Man and Wolverine, I stepped out of the frame and headed for the lockers. My mind was a blur; blood pounding in my ears; my breathing a ragged whisper. And somewhere in the distance, I heard Alyson’s voice… Hulk… Hulk… Where’s he going…? Hulk…

I don’t know how, but I made it. I barely had enough left to navigate myself onto a metal folding chair, when I realized I had no way of getting out of the costume without someone to unzipper the back—Houdini couldn’t have done it! The arms allowed just enough movement for me to sandwich the head ’tween my massive mitts. But did I have the energy to free it from the neck folds tucked into the chest cavity? There was no way I was going to die as The Hulk. That thought was the impetus I needed to rip off the mask. I was still trapped—resembling the leader of the funny-book felons The Headmen—but at least with the noggin off, my body was able to breath.

I envisioned my body being ridiculously emaciated when I was finally unfettered from my jade jail cell, like cartoon characters who have been trapped inside those reducing cabinets of yore. I looked at the wall clock, taking a moment to bring it into focus. I’d been in the suit for two hours and forty-five minutes, and suddenly felt like a passenger on the Minnow … “a three-hour tour… a three-hour tour…” looping in my brain. I knew then I was going to be fine. Lucky for Alyson I wasn’t really The Hulk. She would never have made it to pose thirty-seven!

Next: The Three Caballeros

By Any Other Name

I should have expected something unusual by the peculiar lilt in Wolverine’s voice when he introduced me to his little friend…

Wolverine, Captain America and I—Spider-Man—were appearing at the University Mall in Tampa, FL. Most often, appearances at malls would occur in a particular store and usually included one hero, two tops. But this was a major promotional event mounted by the mall itself with a budget to match, so three Marvel powerhouses were recruited.

Still, the mall tried to recoup some of its investment by offering Polaroids at $3 a shot to any fan who so desired one. That’s a buck a hero (Hell, put us in the 99¢ store!) Of course, no purchase was necessary to meet the heroes and get their autographs and to that end Marvel supplied “Marvel Fun & Games” booklets to the cause.

What, no comic books?!! I thought comics were provided to clients for signings...

When I began my web-slinging career, that was the case. Upon booking an appearance, Babs, my boss, would fill out the appropriate forms with the newsstand sales department, who would then feed the request into the system and, Voilà!, comic books arrived at the desired location from the nearest newsstand distributor. The exception was with gigs at comic book stores. As a means to support these keepers of the flame, as it were, who constantly struggled in an ever shrinking market, Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department offered comic shops a friendlier rate, only sans free comics. This makes perfect sense. After all, they are a comic book shop. Giving away that in which they specialize can only serve to hinder those additional sales expected from having a superhero at the store in the first place. This isn’t to say that retailers never gave away free books at gigs. Some certainly did, seeing the event as a means to get publicity and attract customers—parents and their kids—who wouldn’t normally set foot in such an establishment.

But for conventional jobs, a free allotment of comics was S.O.P. Unfortunately, on occasion, the comics never arrived or not in time, which is just as bad. Savvy clients took the clip art of the characters that Marvel also provided with every gig and designed and printed flyers the children could color as back-up; not nearly as cool as receiving a comic book, but better than nothing. Then there were the rare instances when relieved clients received the comics promptly only to discover, when they opened the box, that there were DC comics—Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, etc.—inside (Oops! Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.).

Of course, as the only representative of the company on site and the most iconic/famous, Spidey would be the one disgruntled customers approached. (Why me? You’d think Captain America would be the go-to guy, being a captain and all, not to mention the leader of the Avengers, “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.” I can understand not confronting the Hulk. No one likes him when he’s angry. But moi?!! I’m a menace to society, the source of all New York City’s ills, according to the Daily Bugle, that is. Don’t these people read the books? Sheesh!)

“Where are the comics?” the one-in-charge would pointedly ask. Like I’d be lugging fifty-plus pounds of funny books with me on the trip from New York.

“They should have been delivered,” I’d offer.

“Well, they haven’t. Now, I have nothing to give the kids.”

If I’d thought for a moment that this invective was a result of the person’s concern for the children’s feelings, I might have sympathized. But it was nothing more than a person worried about covering their ass and staving off a reprimand from their boss. This is not to say I wasn’t concerned about the feelings of my constituents. Au contraire, absence of free comics or flyers only upped the ante on my performance. I felt that I needed to work even harder to entertain the troops.

By ’91, the year of the Tampa appearance (No, I haven’t forgotten… thanks for sticking around…), Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department replaced free comic books with “Marvel Fun & Games” booklets. The idea was to create something that the department could easily and cheaply—comic books are heavy and thus expensive to ship—send directly from the office, circumnavigating a middleman/distributor. Also, the booklets were compact enough that the actors could carry a few hundred of them to every gig as back-up, in case the main shipment didn’t arrive.

Though I recognized the problem and applauded Marvel’s intent, the result was lacking. The “Marvel Fun & Games” booklet was nothing more than a single, black-and-white, double-sided, sheet (Big whoop!) that was folded once, and contained Marvel superhero-themed puzzles and character illustrations. I hated them! Besides looking cheap—they weren’t even in color—as a marketing tool they did nothing to draw people to the comics, thus increasing sales, which is the whole point of promotional giveaways.

The booklets lasted about as long as Furbys did, replaced by exclusive personal-appearance trading cards. Still, not a great freebie for selling comic books—trading cards, maybe, but not comics—but a lot cooler. I’d like to think it was my thoughtful, diplomatically-presented argument (read: bitching) against the puzzle “brochures,” that led to their demise, but modesty prevents me from taking credit.

As for those lackluster puzzle-pamphlets and the University Mall event…

I would have hated having to tell a child that they couldn’t receive a photograph featuring them with their favorite superheroes unless they forked over some dough (So sorry, but here’s a piece of paper with some black-and-white pictures of us on it, instead... Thanks for playing!). I realize children love getting something… anything from Spider-Man and his pals, but when they see other children getting a full-color live photo of themselves with the superheroes, it’s like the scene in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown when, while trick-or-treating, all the other kids get candy and Charlie Brown gets a rock. Fortunately, two comely young lasses were provided to collect money, operate the camera, keep order in the line… and gracefully say to anyone unwilling to pay, “No ticky, no laundry!”

The event took place at the center court area of the mall. It was a beautiful day, and skylights overhead allowed the sun to keep the area bright… and toasty. I certainly didn’t mind. If you’ve ever been to the Sunshine State, you know that Floridian retailers keep the air-conditioning level so high, you could store carcasses in the aisles for several weeks without their spoiling. I was quite comfortable; not so for Wolvie and Cap.

Although originally designed to be worn without an underlying muscle-suit, the Captain America costume was later incorporated with one to reflect the growing testosterone level of the character in the comics. Cap was always fit, but never a cement-head. He was a product of a “secret soldier serum,” designed by the American military, which prospective soldier, Steve Rogers, agreed to take as his way to help fight the Germans during World War II after he was deemed too frail for regular service. The serum made Rogers super-fit, but not grotesquely bulky, like the Hulk, and greatly enhanced his athleticism. Thus, Marvel hired able-bodied actors, not bodybuilders, for the role.

Wolverine, in contrast, was a “brick shithouse,” as my mother used to say: squat—technically five' four", according to the comics—square and all muscle, so Marvel decided it would be easier to have the actor playing the feisty Canuck wear a muscle-suit beneath the outer-lying spandex than to find men with the proper physique who could also act. Of course, this resulted in the Captain America actors looking scrawny in comparison, so they were subsequently forced to accompany the red-white-and-blue threads with a muscle-suit. The Captain Americas were ordinarily hot in the nearly all-encompassing costumes, but adding a muscle suit to the mix, increased the discomfort tenfold—the Wolvies were already at that level. Add a copious amount of sunshine and the two heroes were sweating more than Perez Hilton eating a corn dog (Take a look at the pit stain on Wolverine in the pic below, if you do not believe me. And that is through thick padding!).

Spider-Man, aka Peter Parker, was always just a puny nerd, who received the proportional strength of a spider when bitten by a radioactive arachnid, but remained small, albeit more wiry by virtue of web-swinging and fighting crime. Ergo, a muscle-suit never became a staple of the Spidey suit. It would make crouching, perching, leaping and contorting—the signature movements of the character—impossible.

Another drawback of the Wolverine costume was the decreased ability to hear caused by the headpiece. To achieve the recognized look of opposing vertical projections arising from the sides of his head—a look not too dissimilar to Batman’s cowl—in such a way as to retain its structure and not sag, the designer created a hard, molded form over which fabric was stretched. Though not negating the wearer’s hearing outright, it greatly reduced it.

(Separated at birth? Maybe not in the eyes of an adult, but a small child might think so...)

Contrarily, I found my hearing noticeably augmented when in the Spider-Man suit. My theory: the reduction of my sight by the white screening over my eyes caused my remaining senses to compensate. I’d find myself overhearing parents in line talking with their kids about what they were going to ask Spidey when it was their turn, while I was in the midst of autographing for another child. The look on their wee faces when I greeted them by name or brought up a nugget of info from the discussion with their parents was priceless… as was the disturbed look on Mom’s and Dad’s face as they worriedly pondered who was this strange man in the Spider-Man suit who knows their child so well.

Wolverine’s limited aural abilities and my enhanced ones begat one of my fondest Spider-Man memories, which occurred moments before the titular X-Man’s suspicious introduction which opened this posting. As could be expected, the appearance of three beloved superhero icons in the center court of Tampa’s most popular mall on a Saturday afternoon elicited quite a turnout. Greet-pose-sign-adieu-repeat became the day’s drill for Cap, Wolvie and I, with sporadic periods of straightforward signing for those children in line for an autograph and not a picture. It was during one of these signing sessions that I overheard through the hubbub the following short exchange between Wolverine and a young child of no more than four, who was obviously confused about the hero’s similarity to a certain caped crusader:

Boy: “Are you Batman?”

Wolverine: “No I’m a good man.”

The innocence of the lad’s inquiry; Wolverine’s mistaken response delivered with quiet, heartfelt reassurance, believing the lad was terrified, having asked him if he was a “bad man,” then the boy’s confused look after Wolvie’s answer… Priceless.

I, of course, being the sympathetic and supportive team player for which I am often revered, produced an enthusiastic guffaw. “Hey, Wolvie… You may want to get your ears checked. He was asking if you were Batman. You know, caped crusader, Gotham City vigilante…?”

All Wolvie could do is watch as the boy shuffled toward me, all the while looking over his shoulder at Wolverine with a look that said, This is the kind of person my mommy warned me about. Children can be so unforgiving.

Before the end of the day Wolverine got his revenge. As mentioned, the twinkle in his voice should have tipped me off, never mind his more than normal personal attention to introducing to me the little boy in question.

“Hey, Spider-Man, this is my friend…” and then he said the child’s name, which sounded like lay-MON-zhel-low (the zh pronounce like the soft French g in Gigi). This was unique even to me after five years and thousands of personalized autographs. It sounded Spanish or Portuguese and had a notable flair. I told the lad how cool I thought his name was, then dutifully asked him its spelling as I signed his “Marvel Fun & Games” booklet.

“L-E-M-O-N-J-E—” he carefully began.

“THAT’S LEMON JELL-O!” I incredulously blurted before the boy could utter the final O.

“My mom likes Jell-O,” he offered in a defeated tone.

“I love Jell-O!” My quick recovery seemed to enlighten the child and spur his twin brother, who I hadn’t noticed behind him …

“And I’m (or-RON-zhel-low)!

You guessed it: his brother’s name was spelled Orangejello!

It boggled my mind that a parent would do that to their children. Kids have a hellacious time growing up as it is without having to fend off the additional abuse sure to come from being named after a gelatinous confection made from animal hooves.

Upon reflection I cannot help but think that I’d dodged a bullet. My mom loved pickled pigs’ feet!

"It's Been Taken Care Of."

This cartoon appeared in the New Yorker soon after the news was announced that Disney had purchased Marvel. I think it's brilliant, although I have to question the artist's interpretation of what I believe is Iron Man, standing behind Wolverine's right shoulder. The Golden Avenger looks more like a Transformer in the Middle Ages. A modicum of research—a ten second search on Google—would have brought up thousands of pictures from the comics and photos from the recent worldwide hit film that could have been used as reference. It's as if the artist couldn't be bothered or was told to include Iron Man by the editor—the cartoon would have worked just as well without the character. But that's a quibble; I love the stylings of the others.

Now, about the thong that Spider-Man appears to be wearing over his suit...

Maggie May

The general impression from those who saw me in the costume was that is was uncomfortably hot to wear. Nothing could be further from the truth. Spandex is permeable to a degree. As the suit was greatly stretched while worn, the permeability of the spandex increased. Couple that with the fact that during most appearances my activity was minimal—posing for pictures, signing autographs—and most controlled environments i.e. store interiors, became chilly in a short while. The public’s concern for my comfort, though, was amusing.

“Aren’t you hot in there?” Was one of the most asked questions posed to me. The situation dictated which stock response I’d deliver.

“No, the radiation in my bloodstream keeps my temperature at a constant,” was the answer in most circumstances. But there were certain instances, at industry events, for example, where I was allowed to be a bit more “playful” or, in the following instance, “cheeky” may be a more apropos description.

At the 93rd American Booksellers Association Convention in Miami in 1993, Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister of Great Britain, became the unknowing victim of Spidey’s playfulness.

The ABA, as it was commonly known back then, is a massive, yearly trade convention that gather book retailers from all over the world to get a first glimpse at the new product coming out the next year by publishers from across the globe. Retailers do a large chunk of their ordering at this event. (Or at least did. Book Expo America or BEA, as it is now called, is on life support. The continued downturn in book sales caused by less people reading books and the advent of the internet, i.e. online discount book sellers, such as Amazon and downloadable material, etc.; has seen the importance of, and need for, this event dwindle. But back in the early 90s, it was still a vibrant, essential industry show.) Competition is insane. Publishers bring in their most renown writers to gain the attention of the retailers, who’ll stand in line for hours to meet Tom Clancy and get a free autographed copy of his latest work.

Anyone with a red “Buyer” badge was treated like a star, publishers reacting like cats to catnip, whenever one came into view. Besides all the free books they could carry, retailers were inundated with tchotchkes, backpacks, books bags, T-shirts, etc. as tribute. All others were treated like lepers.

Both Marvel and Capital City Distributors—once a major comic book distributor—had booths across from each other. I was working both sides of the aisle as Spidey with a colleague playing Wolverine. As if the prospect of a free Polaroid with two world-famous superheroes wasn’t enough to induce the retailers to swarm our booths, Marvel also had Clive Barker there. Barker had created a line of horror-inspired comics, due for release later in the year, that Marvel was touting. The Razorline, as it was called, consisted of four titles: Hyperkind, Saint Sinner, Hokum & Hex—written by former Entertainment Weekly contributor Frank Lovece—and Ectokid, written in part by Larry Wachowski, one half of the famous Wachowski Brothers, who created The Matrix. Unfortunately, the line made its debut shortly before the comic-book crash of the mid-90s and died, no title lasting more than nine monthly issues.

The booths were bordered by a cross-aisle, essentially two corners of an intersection, diagonally across to which was the booth of a publisher of calendars. One of its big releases for the coming year was a swimsuit calendar, featuring the model Nikki Taylor, who appeared one morning to promote it. She wasn’t actually signing copies of the calendar, though, but rather enticing black-and-white swimsuit shots. Seeing a break in the hordes of male book buyers, lasciviously jockeying for a moment with the supermodel, I leapt over and got a quick pic and autograph. Nikki was good-humored about meeting the web-swinging idol of millions, though she didn’t get too close when the photo was taken. I didn’t care. I may not have had a date for, or even had the nerve to ask a girl to dance at, the one and only school dance I attended, but nyah, nyah, I’m getting my picture taken with Nikki Taylor (You expect maturity from I guy who makes his living as Spider-Man?)

On the final day of the show, word came back to the Capital City booth that Margaret Thatcher—promoting her book The Downing Street Years—was on her way through the hall. In fact, she was making her way down the aisle parallel to ours that instant. The Capital City Rep, who was taking the photos, mentioned how wild it would be to get a shot of Spider-Man with Ms. Thatcher. That’s all I need to hear. I bounded away with the Cap City guy at my heels. As soon as I turned the corner, I was met with a contingent of security personnel escorting Britain’s former Prime Minister in my direction. I didn’t hesitate, walking directly toward her.

Britain’s crack security detail, didn’t so much as utter an “Eh, what?” or “Blimey.” Maybe they were caught off guard (so to speak). Or maybe, seeing as I wasn’t “packing”—the suit didn’t allow for concealed weapons and my…ahem…web-shooter was no cause for concern, they didn’t perceive a threat. More likely, they received as big a kick out of it as I did. I’m certain they were prepared to take me down if I tried anything aggressive. I slinked my way through them and greeted Ms. Thatcher. She put one hand to her to her chest, taken aback, as I shook the other.


“Oh, my,” she blurted. “Aren’t you hot in there?”

“It depends on what you like,” I countered.

“Oh, oh . . .” she nervously giggled like a schoolgirl in response.

There was a flash and I was gone as quickly as I appeared. The photo was printed in the next edition of Capital City’s retailer newsletter, and the encounter was chronicled in the following month’s New Yorker in the “Talk of the Town” section. In a piece, entitled “Scarlet Lady,” Ms. Thatcher’s appearance at ABA was discussed, but the author of the piece didn’t quite get the facts straight, claiming that Ms. Thatcher asked Spider-Man if he was from New York. Perhaps, the writer was being polite. Maggie and I know what really happened (wink, wink).

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.).