I’ve been terribly busy lately, which is a good thing when one freelances, but it has meant my neglecting you, my Faithful Bloglodytes. I hope to be able to share some of the projects I’ve been working on so diligently in the near future.
One event which took me away from “the closet” for a weekend was the 2010 SPX in Bethesda, Maryland. I attended “North America’s Premiere Independent Cartooning & Comics Arts Festival”—as it bills itself—in 2009, as an exhibitor for Fanfare/Ponent Mon, a UK-based indie publisher of translations of graphic literature from around the world. My reasons for going to this year’s indie comics love-in were the same.
Those “Closet” fans with a better memory than mine may remember my mentioning the event in a posting in which I recounted meeting Adam Dembicki, four-year-old son of comics creator Matt Dembicki, whose artwork—a sweet gift which I still cherish—I displayed with a challenge to readers to guess the piece’s subject matter. I am not a spoiler, so won’t reveal the answer here.
Ant Army creator Adam Dembicki
Imagine my surprise when I learned that not only would Matt and Adam be attending this year, but also Adam, himself, had written and drawn a complete book of his own and was going to be doing signings during the show.
I had no delusions that the now five-year-old Adam would recall me—Hell, I’m shocked when my wife remembers me every morning—but looked forward to seeing his cherubic face and heart-melting smile, nonetheless. And giddy with anticipation to get my greedy little paws on a copy of his book. I saw Adam as an artistic genius and couldn’t wait to see how much he’d grown as such.
I was not disappointed.
On its surface, Ant Army is about a war between an alien planet and an invading race of formicary forces from “frozen Earth.” That this anthropod army passes long-abandoned “ghost satellites” on their mission of conquest, suggests the tale is a futuristic one and the ants are a product of millennia of evolution born from the ashes of mankind.
The aliens initially welcome the visitors, unsuspecting of their duplicitous nature, then scramble to defend themselves when the ants’ attack. The battle grows to epic proportions. The aliens proving surprisingly resistant, but the ants are relentless. Counterattack begets counterattack, each wave escalating in its use of bigger and more destructive weaponry, with the outcome always in question.
The ending is worthy of an episode of The Twilight Zone at its best, all at once shocking and haunting, and serves as a brilliant coda to the story’s themes war and genocide. It still gives me chills when I think about it.
For his age, Adam presents a surprisingly sophisticated tale. I expected something along the lines of “Hulk, smash!” similar to the way children of his age play with their action figures. It’s the details that stand out and elevate Ant Army above such puerile fare: the aforementioned ghost satellites; the strategies the opposing armies use against one another; the breadth and savagery of the battle; the book’s ability to continually surprise; and its jaw-dropping finish.
My mind reels at what Adam has in store for us in the future. And I cannot wait to find out!
Previously, our prolific host—in attendance, portraying Spider-Man villain, Green Goblin—recounted the historic wannabe wedding of the iconic Web-Slinger and Mary-Jane Watson at the former home of the New York Mets, Shea Stadium. That event taking place in the bygone eighties, June 5, 1987, to be precise.
Back in the reserve locker room where I and my fellow character actors had changed, we hustled out of our costumes. There wasn’t any time to bask in the glow of being a part of such a monumental comics event. The heroes and I—the token baddie—had town cars waiting to whisk us off to the reception. The newlyweds were already on their way, having left the field in the limos in which they’d arrived. And, as much as he probably would have preferred, Spidey creator Stan Lee, would not be accompanying us. He disappeared soon after departing the field, but would certainly be reemerging at the wedding reception.
Cool! I can party with Stan Lee, I thought. Yeah, and we’ll be doing Jell-O shots at the bar and break dancing together. The fumes inside the Goblin mask must have made me delusional. Five minutes ago, I couldn’t even talk to the man.
From Flushing, Queens—the borough in which Shea was located—we traveled to the lower west side of Manhattan, where the reception was to take place. Named for the converted train tunnel that the venue occupied, The Tunnel was a sprawling complex, located along the city’s Westside Highway. It was “the” club at the time and, as such, never enjoyed my presence. I’m about as “in” as an outhouse. Visit any trendy bar, restaurant or club and I won’t be there. It’s not that I have an aversion to such places… Well, actually it’s exactly because I do. And I definitely don’t care to hang out with the vacuous, want-to-be-seen types that flock to these spots.
I hadn’t even heard of The Tunnel, but was agog nonetheless. I was still pinching myself (Oh, the bruises I was going to have in the morning) over the fact that I was a member of the Spider-Man wedding party, and now I was clubbing with the Marvel Elite, with the chance to hang out—or hover nearby in awestruck immobility—with Stan Lee. Of course, us characters would have to jump through a few more hoops for the PR people first.
A large private room beneath the main area of the club, was set aside for the Web-Swinging wingding. In a far corner to the left of the bar, a small area containing a couple of comfy couches was draped off in black for the actors to dress and take breaks. The festivities were already underway when we entered. The club proper, though, was deserted. It wasn’t even 8 PM, yet, and any self-respecting clubber wouldn’t think of leaving the house before ten. Otherwise, you wouldn’t get to stand in line, praying to be one of the few selected as worthy of spending twenty bucks to enter.
I was always one of the last ones chosen before any game growing up. It was especially “gratifying” when there was an odd number of kids and I was the one left over, standing on the sidelines, hoping someone else would show, so I could join the kids who didn’t want to play with me in the first place. Why the hell would I want to go through that again?
We made our way through the partying throngs of Marvel Nabobs with our duffel bags in tow. I’m sure the suits wondered who this motley crew of crashers were or why we weren’t ushered through the employee entrance with the rest of the help. Ironically, in a few short minutes, these same haughty honchos would be fawning over us to get their pictures taken like tweens over Justin Bieber.
Unfortunately, with the reception in full swing—so to speak—the only chance I’d have of reconnoitering the area would be during our initial jaunt to the characters’ private section. Because of the limited sight of the costumes, I always liked to scope out the appearance venue in advance to make mental notes of any potentially hazardous zones, i.e. low outcroppings, tables, chairs, columns, essentially anything that someone in a costume might trip over or walk into.
Even when playing Spider-Man—the costume of which offers greater visibility than any of the characters after Cap—I preferred to see where I was going beforehand, especially since the clarity of the vision in the Spidey costume was dependent on the lighting of the target area. In this case, the lighting was horrific: dim ambient illumination under a constant barrage of flashing strobes and sweeping spotlights of various colors, and a swirling fog, the opacity of which went from dense to denser, depending on how many seconds of rest there was between the firing up of the smoke machine. Add that to the cigarette smoke—this was many years before the ban on smoking in clubs—and the air was going to be both visually impenetrable and difficult to breathe, while in costume.
This video of The Tunnel several years after the Spider-Man wedding reception gives you some idea of the atmosphere
As for “potentially hazardous zones,” the entire room was a minefield. A makeshift stage, about two feet high and approximately the size of a Twister playing surface, sat before the bar, which stretched on either side. This was fronted by the only open space on the floor, a small “dance” area the size of the average dental waiting room, around which stood dozens of dainty, cabaret-style, pedestal tables, each sporting a pair of chairs. What little exposed floor there was already shone with spilled drinks.
There was a clear path from the actors’ hidey hole to the nearest end of the bar, but it was bathed in shadow, which wasn’t so much a problem when returning from a break—just follow the light—but terribly treacherous when trying to go on break. If we did manage to get to the curtain concealing the space without tripping or hitting the wall, we then had to find the slit in the drapes which served as its only access point. Anyone who's had to find the opening in a curtain with the lights on may understand the challenge we faced doing so in complete darkness and while masked.
Had any of us in the wedding party stopped to think about this, we would have probably sent our regrets and a check. But as invited guests, the heroes and Green Goblin were expected to act as such, which meant partying with the corporate big-wigs. So as soon as we had our costumes on, we hit the dance floor. Okay, we gingerly followed Captain America, making our inability to see where we were going look like heroic—or nefarious, in my case—posturing. Spider-Man and MJ were there to meet us, having recently arrived to a cadre of press photographers, entering like stars at a movie premiere.
Cap strode to the nearest table and dragged up the woman seated there to join him. Firestar just had to appear. In no time there was a bevy of tongue-wagging execs encircling her like prepubescents vying for the latest issue of National Geographic (You young ’uns may want to ask an older gent to explain that last allusion). The remaining trio—Hulk, Iceman and me, Gobby—the ones who could barely see each other, didn’t worry about partners. Hell, we wouldn’t have seen them anyway. We shook our booties to beat the band. A more surreal tableau had not been witnessed by mankind since Batman introduced the Batusi on his TV series in the 60s. Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, Firestar, Iceman and The Green Goblin boogying to George Michael’s I Want Your Sex and The Bangles’s Walk Like an Egyptian.
I found it most freeing. No canvassing the floor for someone with which to dance; no fear of rejection; no self-consciousness over how good I was. Quite the contrary; I whooped it up like a drunk divorcée. Had there been a lampshade, I’d have been wearing it. And because I was an evil-doer, I could flirt without fear of recriminations. Of course, I couldn’t exactly see who I was speaking with—although I could discern enough to distinguish the guys from the gals—but many a lap got sat on and many a hug was given.
Soon, I realized that I needed a break. I was overheating and sweating profusely. What little I could see before was now clouded by the sweat cascading down my face, mingling with the water already dripping from my eyes from the fumes of the mask’s glue. There was no light-headedness, but experience told me that I was running on adrenaline and needed to stop. But where was everyone? I scanned the room for some hint of primary or garish color. This was a New York City nightclub where black is de rigueur, so a splash of anything other would be a sure sign of a hero. It’s not like I could just stop, either. The show doesn’t end when there’s a flubbed line or missed cue. I had to continue cackling and interacting as Gobby, while I worked my way back to the dance floor. From there, I could tackle the walk to the rest area.
Suddenly, a familiar voice… “There you are Green Goblin!” It was Barbara, come to check on me. I nearly kissed her, as she escorted me to safety.
This recently released Mary-Jane commemorative Barbie celebrates the historic wedding of the titular model to the iconic super-arachnid
When I finally removed the mask in the rest area, I was dizzy and my face was dripping. I needed hydration… badly. Unfortunately, no one thought to provide water to us. I guess the costumed characters were the only ones who got that memo. Well, if there was one thing you learned doing costumed appearances, it was to take matters into your own hands, whether that meant traveling with your own supply of Sharpies—the autographing implement of choice—mastering the bodily contortions it took to get into costume without aid, or purchasing thermal underwear to withstand the unforgiving 20-below winters of Winnipeg. So Captain America—who had by this time dried out—redonned his mask and, in true heroic fashion, whipped the black curtain aside and strode forth to save his brethren. And boy, did he ever. In a matter of moments, he returned carrying a case of mineral water. I chuckle whenever I envision the scene that took place at the bar. I mean, who’s going to refuse Captain America?
It was around this time that one of us asked, “Uh… where’s The Hulk?”
Shit, we’d left him on the dance floor by his lonesome! It had been well over the recommended twenty minutes, and that’s when the character’s movement is limited to shaking hands, not dancing! It had more than an hour, since he went onto the floor. Just as Captain America was donning his mask to make another daring rescue, the drapes parted and the Hulk was led in by a Marvel employee, who worked on the same floor where the personal appearance department was located. We barely had enough time to remove his head and unhook his torso when the Hulk collapsed onto a couch. Gary, the actor within, was wan and soaked. Even in the dim lighting, steam was visibly rising from the chest cavity. He guzzled a half dozen 12-oz. bottles of mineral water in the blink of an eye and appeared as though he was ready to throw back six more when the head of the publicity department bustled in.
“What are you doing back here? They’re about to cut the cake!” she admonished.
We glad-handed Miss Publicity—who was sure to be there when we had to return to the floor, but was conveniently absent when we needed a rest—then told Gary to stay put, after she had departed. We’d handle the situation. I don’t think he could’ve moved again so soon anyway.
A modest, three-tiered cake—unworthy of Duff Goldman’s dog—was wheeled out on a cart before the stage. A Spider-Man action figure and custom-sculpted MJ-as-bride figure topped the confection. I’m not even certain there even was a cake-cutting. After all, the bride would have a hard time getting it into her web-swinging hubby’s mouth, and no one wanted to risk staining the costume or MJ’s Willi Smith–designed gown. The ritual was purely ceremonial and was followed by more dancing and mingling.
It wasn’t long before additional speechifying. The event was finally winding down and it was time for the “Thank-yous.” The characters—this time with The Hulk who had sufficiently rested by then—gathered behind then Editor-in-Chief Jim Shooter and Stan Lee onstage. Shooter spoke more about the importance of this “momentous event and brown-nos—er, thanked the appropriate parties.” But apparently not enough. He was canned before the end of the year, replaced by Tom DeFalco.
Marvel’s 20th anniversary was the cover story of the premiere issue of Comics Scene in 1982 which featured Lee and Shooter
Lee followed. I hadn’t seen my idol all night. Of course, at times he may have been standing right next to me, hobnobbing along with the other heroes. I just couldn’t see him. The consummate showman, he enthused with his signature alliterative and superlative remarks before bringing the evening to a close with a rousing “Excelsior!” After a bevy of photographs were taken, he and Shooter left the stage whilst heroes and villain alike remained to shake hands with the departing guests.
As we disbanded, a strange thing occurred. From the stage I spotted an acting classmate of mine from Boston University, one who had been “axed” after her sophomore year, having not made the yearly cut. What was she doing here? Was she affiliated with Marvel or one of its sister companies? I hadn’t realized at the time that Marvel’s exclusivity to the lower room had expired and had since been opened to the public. The Tunnel being the hot club at the time, and it being Friday night, she was simply out partying.
That's Lisa in the middle wearing the "Williams" sweatshirt
“Hello, Lisa!” I screeched in my best Green Goblin cackle.
“Steve Vrattos . . . Is that you in there?” she answered, unfazed in her southern drawl.
How the f*** did she know it was me? I nodded mutely in response as she disappeared into the crowd. I would loved to have caught up with her. She was one of the funniest woman I’d ever met, sharp-witted and cute to boot, with a quirky Meg Ryan-esque smile and lovely bedroom eyes. We were friendly toward one another in college, but shared few classes together, so never had the chance to get close. It would be nice to actually know someone in the Big Apple. I figured on checking out the club for her as soon as I was done with my gig.
Another half hour of mingling and we got the “OK” to change back into our civilian identities. I looked for Lisa afterward to no avail. No surprise. The place was packed. So I collected my bag from the back room downstairs and headed toward the exit.
Ah, but my tale did not end there. Midway up the stairs, I was interrupted by a shout from below.
“Hey, Green Goblin!”
It was an admirer of mine from the Marvel offices; a girl who would have been adorable if not for an unfortunate off-putting hirsute chin. She wasn’t sporting a Van Dyke, by any means, just several scraggly intertwining whiskers like the hairs that sprout from the ears of old men (I’m sorry… I’m shallow… I just couldn’t get passed it!). She’d been threatening to get a picture of me out of costume all week. I was less than willing to oblige, visions of her stroking her chin hairs while gazing upon my photo like Ming the Merciless contemplating Flash Gordon’s demise filled my mind. She had her camera at the ready and me in her sights. I was doomed.
Flash!
A Cheshire grin spread across her face as she lowered her camera triumphantly. But it was no bigger than the one on my face, when I noticed that her camera flashed behind her; she had taken the picture backwards, essentially into her face. She must have been schnockered not to have noticed the flash in her eyes.
I made another cursory scan of the club for Lisa before I left. But who was I kidding. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in catching up with me. It’s not as if she was revisiting the character area to see me again. Just another “small-world” moment in a city of ten million.
I also never chanced to see Stan again that evening. He was long gone by the time I was done Green Goblin-ing. No matter. I’d met my childhood idol, who proved to be as wonderful as I’d imagined. What’s more, I was in the wedding party at Spider-Man’s nuptuals. The only villain invited, I might add.
Good thing, the Web-Swinger doesn’t hold a grudge. I did kill his previous girlfriend, after all.
Date: June 5, 1987 Place: Unused locker room at Shea Stadium, former home of the New York Mets Time: Mere moments before the mock wedding of Spider-Man and Mary-Jane Situation: Confronted with his hero, Spider-Man creator Stan Lee, Vroom! forces himself forward for an autograph…
“Hello, Mr. Lee. My name is Stephen Vrattos. Could I have your autograph?” I think that paraphrases what I said. At least I’m sure that was my intended greeting. In reality it probably played more like Peter Boyle’s monster in Young Frankenstein when he sang “Putting on the Ritz,” only without the melody.
I held out the poster, which featured me as Spidey, surrounded by a quartet of Mets players as well as Captain America, The Hulk, Iceman and Firestar, that was to be given to every attendee as part of a goodie bag to commemorate the event. Thank God, Stan still held the pen from the previous autograph he’d signed. Had he asked me for a writing utensil, I would’ve shattered; the embarrassment would have been too much.
I pointed to Spider-Man in the poster and blurted, “That’s me.” I’m still not sure whether it was ego—a few wisps still clinging to me from my encounter with Mr. Excelsior! himself—or a need to justify Stan’s signing something that evidently didn’t feature me. I was, after all, not portraying the Spider-Man du jour. That honor rightfully went to Jeremy, with whom Mr. Lee was nigh intimate, considering the amount of gigs he’d already logged with Stan in his near decade of service as the Webbed Wonder.
I suspect it was the former reason given the moronic thing I said next: “I’m playing The Green Goblin today.” No shit, Sherlock! I was only standing in the signature vibrant, green-scaled, spandex bodysuit topped with fluorescent fuchsia hot pants and tunic ensemble indicative of the Web-Swinger’s psychopathic arch-enemy, which Stan created!
If the architect of the Marvel Universe thought for a moment that I was a moron—which would be understandable given the way I was acting—he gave no indication. He told me what a great job I was doing and shook my hand, as he returned the poster. More likely, his magnanimity stemmed from his thinking I was part of a new Marvel initiative to employ people with “special needs.”
I was beaming as I walked back to my corner of the locker room, carrying the poster like it was the Shroud of Turin. As the scene played out, I no doubt looked like one of the thousands of kids for which I—as Spider-Man—signed comic books for in the ensuing years: The mien of sheer terror on their wee faces upon seeing their hero; the methodic placing of one foot in front of the other moving slowly toward the object of their adoration as they overcome that fear; the tremulous low murmur of their names and painstaking wait for the autograph; finally the triumphant march back to their mom or dad, sporting the widest grin imaginable. It was a joy that I’d be bringing to children for the next ten years!
As mentioned, Jeremy was the man of honor, and as such, his costume was the most comfortable, even with the matrimonial accroutrements, which amounted to nothing more than a black tuxedo jacket and white bow tie. Of course, that jacket was designed by Willi Smith. Still, it may as well have been designed by Snuffy Smith. From afar, it looked like nothing more than a standard tuxedo jacket, the ubiquitous sort rented by school kids across the country come prom season.
Upon close inspection, however, one could see the subtle design differences and fine cut of the garment that elevated the piece above those donned by the teenage hoi polloi. But even if you didn’t know your bias from your elbow, you couldn’t fail to be impressed by the unique buttons, sculpted as the theatrical masks of comedy and tragedy. The jacket seemed fated to be worn by Jeremy, who prepared for every appearance—whether filled with the gravitas of an event such as this or of relative obscurity, signing autographs for local young ’uns at a Piggly Wiggly in Mobile—as if he were about to go on stage to play Hamlet.
Conversely, the wedding gown that Tara Shannon—the model/actor playing Mary-Jane Watson—was wearing was more elaborate. Sure, there are probably more than a few bridezillas who might regard it as too simple. Where was the train that needed a small family of Mormons to carry? Where were the endless accessories that would have put Woolworth’s notion department out of business? Where were the floral adornments? The ginormous bows, especially the one usually perched above the ass-crack? The puffy sleeves? And what’s this? MJ’s hair not pulled up into a towering bun, that resembles Yertle and his turtle friends before they toppled and set so tightly as to make even Marty Feldman look Asian? What kind of beauty school dropout and Project Runway loser dreamed up this look?
Oh, just the man who earned scholarships to attend Parsons School of Design in 1965; who won an American Fashion Critics’ Coty Award for women’s fashion in 1983 and a Cutty Sark Award for Men’s Fashion in 1985; who designed the suits for Edwin Schlossberg and his groomsmen when Schlossberg married Caroline Kennedy in 1986; and the clothes for Spike Lee’s film School Daze a year later; who did all this before he died as a result of AIDS before his 40th birthday. That’s who!
I vaguely remember Tara changing in one corner of the room, I say “vaguely” because one moment she was dropping her jeans and the next she was nonchalantly fixing her veil and making the final adjustments to the gown. I’d seen magic tricks wherein a lovely assistant stands atop a caged tiger before lifting a curtain over her head, only to immediately drop the screen to reveal the cat gone and the assistant in its place within the cage, and Tara could have accomplished that and done her nails, in the same instant! It’s one of those strange skills women have, like the ability to take off bras underneath their tops or put on makeup while driving. ’S funny how my wife can do these things and still take two hours to “get ready” for bed. Heck, I just go to bed.
As show time neared, Jeremy and Tara left before the rest of us, because Spider-Man and MJ would be entering from the outfield in a limousine. Soon thereafter, Captain America, Hulk, Iceman, Firestar and Green Goblin—your esteemed blog host—were escorted to the field entrance. It was a beautiful summer evening and still light out, thanks to Daylight Savings Time. A makeshift pulpit was erected midway in front of the third-base line facing the stands where the ceremony was to take place. The heroes and I flanked either side of the podium. There wasn’t any announcement. We simply ambled into place to a few cheers, jeers and choice comments, some pointedly to me and of the “Nice outfit,” “Love your bag,” Going to The Village later?” variety (Ah, New Yorkers…).
This Gobby cartoon was done by the talented Mark Engblom, who pens a great blog—especially for lovers of comics—entitled Comic Coverage
Green Goblin was last to enter and thus standing to the far left or right depending on whether you were a participant or an observer. Later reports mentioned there being “thousands of fans” on hand to witness the event. But even in the Goblin mask, it only looked like several hundred. Shea Stadium did hold nearly sixty thousand at capacity, so my perspective could certainly be skewed with the preponderance of empty seats over filled ones. I’m sure the Marvel and Mets marketing Nabobs promoted the event, but I don’t recall seeing any advertising. Then again, I wasn’t a Mets fan—quite the opposite!—so would not have been attuned to every bobble-head, bat, cap, towel, duffel bag, teething ring, breast pump, whatever, free giveaway night, anyway.
Babs, the wise and wondrous overseer of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department, handed everyone a script of the ceremony, even though no one but the Announcer, Stan and the happy couple would be speaking. She recognized that we might want a copy as a souvenir. It was quite prescient of her, really. You would think in the years since YouTube started, there would be a video available of the entire wedding; filmed, and later converted and posted by an avid fan in attendance that day. Alas, there is yet none, only clips of the event from entertainment news shows, like Entertainment Tonight, all sorely lacking in conveying the majesty of the moment (Okay, I exaggerate).
The Spider-Man/Mary-Jane wedding script
I’m not sure whether Stan wrote the sequence or not. He was handed the script and looked it over when he got it. This may have been because the piece was entirely new to him or because he was trying to familiarize himself with the words he had written as some point leading up to the wedding—he may have written it in long hand and had someone type it up for him for the event. As I mentioned in my blog posting, “The Coming of Vroom!” Stan’s memory was notoriously bad, so either scenario is possible. And the notes in the margin could have then been added by the marketing department to keep Stan abreast of the blocking, which he would not necessarily have been privy to—it’s not like there was a rehearsal dinner! There are moments in the script wherein one would suspect Stan to have injected signature phrases, but have instead words that seem only in his spirit. Still, having the actual script, the spoken words at the ceremony, is a great memento—although knowing Stan actually wrote them would be phenomenal.
The plus side is the existence of a YouTube video of an interview with Stan, Spidey and MJ on The Good Morning America the day before the wedding, a segment I don’t remember seeing before. I had to smile when Spider-Man/Jeremy mentioned he was “up all night, painting the ceiling,” referring to the bachelor jitters he was experiencing before his impending betrothal. He obviously meant it as a play on Webhead’s ability to stick to walls. But Jeremy actually painted apartments as an additional source of income to his acting work. He may have very well been painting a ceiling the night before the interview! (An astute Bloglodyte—certainly far more astute than I—noted that Jeremy probably said “pacing,” not “painting,” which indeed would make a lot more sense. I guess the poor sound quality of the video and the fact that I do not have external speakers on my computer and thus hear everything through its less-than-ideal internal speakers caused my otic error. D’Oh!)
Here’s the whole megillah as scripted, save for a few typos that I corrected. The parenthetical comments in italics are mine and not a part of the actual piece:
ANNOUNCER: Ladies and Gentlemen… In the early ’60s, two future legends had their auspicious beginnings One was the Amazing Mets. The other was the Amazing Spider-Man. Today, these two great American institutions, Spidey and the Mets (just in case they slipped your mind since they were mentioned two seconds ago!), honor a third, most sacred institution—that of matrimony. The management of Shea Stadium and Marvel Comics invite you to witness the marriage of Spider-Man and his fabulous fiancée, Ms. Mary-Jane Watson. Please cast your eyes to centerfield and join us in welcoming the bride and groom.
(Fanfare as limousines enter and go to staging area… Cars arrive at staging area… Spidey and MJ get out and are guided to stage) (Don’t remember a “fanfare,” perhaps it was “Let’s Go, Mets!” or “YMCA.”)
ANNOUNCER: And here to conduct the ceremony is the Web-Swinger’s creator, Mr. Marvel Comics—Stan Lee.
LEE: Good evening, Culture Lovers! (I suspect Stan may have said “True Believers” had he scripted the piece. Then again, “Culture Lovers” is not entirely out of his oeuvre) We are gathered here in the sight of 50,000 fans (I don’t think so!), superheroes all, to join our Wall-Crawling Wonder and his Tantalizing True Love in the bonds of matrimony; bonds as strong as webbing and as satisfying as a happy ending.
LEE: Now in sight and presence of a coterie of our other costumed crusaders, please prepare to recite your vows…
LEE: Do you, Spider-Man, being of sound mind and super body, take Mary-Jane to be your lawfully wedded Wife, forsaking all other superheroines? Do you promise to never leave footprints on the ceiling, or cobwebs in the corners? And will you pinch-hit for the Mets when you are asked?
SPIDEY: I do.
LEE: Mary-Jane, do you, being of sound mind and spectacular body, agree to forsake other masked Marvelites, to never ever swat a spider, and to hug, comfort and kiss away any bruises incurred after a long day of bashing bad guys—and stay out of the Mets locker room?
MJ: I do.
LEE: May I have the ring? —Cap gives ring to Spidey (handwritten) Please repeat after me… With this ring I thee web.
SPIDEY: With this ring I thee web.
MJ: With this ring I thee web.
LEE: By the power invested in me by Marvel Comics, I now pronounce you Spider-Man and wife. You may kiss the bride.
ANNOUNCER: Ladies and Gentlemen… Let’s have a big New York round of applause for Stan Lee and our newlyweds.
Spider-Man dipped MJ and planted a dramatic kiss, then carried her to the limousine. As cool as it was to be a part of the wedding, from my vantage behind the screened eyeholes of the Green Goblin mask, I didn’t see much. As the nubile newlyweds drove off, the rest of us followed Stan off the field. He was beaming like a proud father and waving at the fans like a politician in a parade.
But the night was still young and we had a wedding reception to get to!
On June 5, 1987, Spider-Man got married to longtime gal-pal Mary-Jane Watson in a mock ceremony at Shea Stadium before the then defending World Champion New York Mets confronted the Pittsburgh Pirates. It was the culmination of months of events geared to promote the twenty-fifth anniversary of the debut of Spider-Man in the pages of Amazing Fantasy #15 in 1962.
In the Web-Slinger’s titles, Peter Parker’s relationship with MJ—as she was affectionately called by family and friends—starting building well before that. When he finally popped the question, the media coverage was modest at best—this wasn’t exactly the death of Superman, an event that caused a media frenzy ten years hence in the mid-nineties.
The Marvel marketing machine did it’s best to stoke the fires of the various news organizations leading up to the auspicious counterfeit coupling, including a press conference presided over by the bride and groom and a staged bachelor party at which I—jumping out of a cake in my initial take as the Green Goblin (see It’s Not Easy Being Green)—was one of the dramatis personae enlisted to help boost exposure. They even commissioned famed designer and New York native Willi Smith to design MJ’s gown and Spidey’s tuxedo for the faux fête. Still, even with a coveted spot in the wedding announcement section of The New York Times the Sunday prior, the event hardly set the world afire, falling victim to the times.
Willi Smith’s original sketches for Mary-Jane’s wedding gown
In the eighties, comic books continued to be regarded—or more appropriately, disregarded—as puerile entertainment, unworthy of anything more than the attention one gives a bygone curiosity. I cannot tell you the amount of times a passer-by remarked “They still make funny books?!!” at the events at which I portrayed Spider-Man during my tenure as a Marvel character actor. Nerds may have become the zeitgeist of the twenty-first century, but back then, the ignominy of being a comic-book geek surpassed that of being a Trekkie.
Once again I’d be portraying Spider-Man’s nefarious nemesis Green Goblin, continuing the trend of oscillating from Web-Head to Gobby which began with my first appearance in Rutland, Vermont, the Halloween before (see You Never Forget Your First Time). And once again, not getting the call to play the premiere figure in Marvel’s Grand Guignol fazed me not. Are you kidding me?!! I was just happy to be a part of this historic moment, albeit only in the context of comic-book geekdom. I would have done it for free.
Okay, maybe not gratis. But only because my finances were in dire straits at the time. Not even a year into my move from Beantown to the Big Apple, the savings which I’d brought with me were all but depleted—my life was running on fumes. My job as House Manager for New York’s venerable Serendipity III restaurant—the same one featured in the eponymous 2001 John Cusack/Kate Beckinsale big-screen romance—may have looked good on paper, but paid horribly. I was working sixty-hour weeks for a salary that amounted to little more than four dollars an hour. Plus, the schedule of someone positioned in restaurant management is nigh-inflexible, a detriment to an aspiring actor who needs to be able to cover shifts at a moment’s notice, one of the perks of waiting tables.
When I approached the manager about a modest raise after the restaurant experienced a profitable record-setting holiday season, I was greeted with disingenuous comments about my not yet proving myself in the position (Gee, I wonder how much more the eatery would have made had I not been there impeding their sales). So, two weeks before Spider-Man’s wedding, I resigned my position at Serendipity III, reasoning that I could make more as a server elsewhere.
I landed a position with legendary Tavern-On-The-Green within days. Ironically, the interview lasted only as long as it took the Green’s General Manager to discover that I’d managed Serendipity III, at which he had eaten lunch only days prior. He was so impressed with the service, he hired me on the spot, obviously disregarding my “having not proven myself,” though he did display a moment of confusion as to why I would want to wait tables rather than hold a managerial position. The bogus betrothal conveniently occurred betwixt my career change.
The Spider-Man wedding roster (front row, l. to r., Jeremy/Spider-Man, Barbara/Director of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Department, Mark/Iceman, Tara/MJ; back row, l. to r., Trudy/Firestar, David/Captain America, Stan Lee, Vroom!/Green Goblin and Gary/Hulk)
The cast of seven, plus Director of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Program, Barbara, gathered at Marvel HQ, whence we were shuttled via van to Shea Stadium, the painful memories of which—drawn from the 1986 World Series, which resulted in the Mets besting my belovèd Red Sox—could not supersede my excitement. The character roster mirrored that of the bachelor party, with the inclusion of Mary-Jane. Spider-Man veteran Jeremy was understandably the man of honor. Trudy and Gary reprised the parts they played at the giveaway Poster shoot, Firestar and The Hulk, respectively. David replaced Mark L. as Best Man Captain America and Mark G. was thankfully available to handle the Iceman chores. I guess the newbie from the aforementioned photo gig was too busy getting liposuction (see Wedding Photo).
A professional model/actor, Tara Shannon, was hired specifically to be MJ throughout everything wedding-related, i.e. gown fitting, press junket, etc. It made sense to hire a model. After all, Mary-Jane was a model/aspiring actor in the comics. Plus, Tara was a true redhead, unlike a certain actor who recently portrayed the character who shall not be named (Kirsten Dunst). She also had an uncanny resemblance to the character as envisioned by her creator, John Romita. The capper was her personality. I expected vacuous, frigid, bland and brain-dead, but got vivacious, sultry, charming, smart, sweet and funny, even quirky at times. She fit right in, giving even seasoned Jeremy a run for his money.
The Amazin’s were in the midst of batting practice when we arrived, the stands sparsely filled with a few hundred die-hard fans of the orange-and-blue. The players eyed our motley band of baggage-toting nobodies in bewilderment. They were expecting The Pirates, after all. Gary, our Hulk and the only true Mets fan, dumbfoundedly stumbled along, returning the ballplayers’ stares whilst dragging behind him the military, green-canvas overnighter used to transport the costume. He was like a youngster pulling their wee luggage at the airport, more fascinated with their immediate environs than getting to the gate. Babs completed the tableau playing the mom role, frequently calling back to him, “C’mon, Gary!”
We were led to what appeared to be a dressing room, but certainly neither that of the Mets or Pirates. This was filled with boxes of the special gift bags that would be handed out to early attendees who arrived in time to witness the blessed event (see Wedding Photo, and don’t make me say it again!). Babs graciously distributed one to each of us before a cadre of stadium personnel arrived to haul the boxes to the various entry gates around the sports edifice. I got my first glimpse at the poster in which I partook as ole Webhead several months before (see Wed— Ah, fuhgeddaboudit!), it being one of the cool gew gaws in the bags. Despite the presence of the accursed Mets players who contributed to my Bosox demise, it was pretty nice. Who am I kidding? It was %#@& awesome!!! Me, as the legendary Spider-Man, handed out to thousands of fans, subsequently hanging in the rooms of more than a few kids . . . sigh. I’d become my own collectible!
Just when I thought life couldn’t get any better. Stan Lee walked into the locker room. Besides being the creator of Spider-Man, The Hulk, Iron Man, The Fantastic Four, Daredevil—pretty much the entire Marvel Universe—he was also my idol. Since I started hero-gigging at Marvel, I’d only come as close as a plywood wedding cake to meeting The Man (see It’s Not Easy Being Green), before he drifted off like Keyser Söze in Usual Suspects.
I plotzed. I have no idea what the word means and hadn’t even heard of it before arriving in New York, but I know that what I did at that moment was plotz. Most frustrating, I had no one with which to share my plotzing. My fellow actors and Barb—besides having only a mild interest in comics as they pertain to their job—had interacted with Stan on numerous occasions, so his appearance was no big whoop. To Tara, he was just a genial old man who wrote funny books. To Me, he was the Holy Grail and I, King Arthur.
I was a mess. I did the only thing I could: I started getting into my Green Goblin togs. I donned each part with calculated precision, like a stripper only filmed in reverse. I never dressed with such concentration in my life. You’d think I was performing heart surgery. All to keep my focused averted from the fact that I was in the presence of a god.
We’d arrived far ahead of time, so I’m sure the others watched my strange burlesque with bemusement, chalking my actions up to nerves from being the greenhorn. Understandably, Stan was oblivious to my plight. He was merely looking for a place to relax before the festivities began. I would later learn that few were as unassuming and humble as Stan. Consummate showman? You betcha. Hyperbolic huckster? Without a doubt. But for all the P.T. Barnum he displays in public, Stan is truly a quiet, friendly—shall I dare say it?—shy individual, who is deeply grateful and more than a bit taken aback by his success. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than some peace before the coming hoopla, his way of getting into character, so to speak.
And he loved hanging out with his “children,” his creations and the actors who breathed life into them. After all, Stan was an actor himself; not that his effusiveness wasn’t genuine or that he didn’t believe in what he was saying—the best actors make everything they do come from their hearts. And like all thespians—not to be confused with celebrities who feel they’re not alive unless in the spotlight—when the kliegs are off, they want nothing more than to relax, disappear, let the focus of life divert to someone else. Unfortunately, as the world-renown creator of some of the most hallowed characters in history and lifetime ambassador of Marvel Comics, Stan was always expected to be on whenever in public. He had to live up to his own character of himself for fear of disappointing someone. That, he couldn’t bear because he cared so much about everyone who cared about him. He loved people.
Here, amongst his own, he could relax. A simple “Hey, Stan” from the others—who’d worked with him many times in the past—and they returned to their version of waiting: Jeremy found a private corner for introspection, as if he were about to play Hamlet; Iceman Mark and Captain America David conversed and quipped with one another; Trudy and Tara chatted about whatever it is women chat about: shoes, handbags, make-up (I am so getting a beating for that last bit!) and Gary worried about crashing into something as The Hulk or the amount of time he’d be in costume or possibly passing out if the time was too long or getting up the stairs in his Hulk feet or not remembering to call his mother—Gary worried about everything. I, on the other hand, was a blithering idiot… Ripley, in the moments after she discovers there’s an alien aboard the escape craft in the final moments of Alien; only she overcame her fear and kicked the E.T.’s ass. I just stood there facing Stan Lee, while diverting direct eye contact and rocking like Rain Man.
Should I approach him; he’s trying to relax. But I can’t not approach him; I may never get another chance. What do I say? I’m half-dressed in deep green tights, painted with silk-screened scales, psychedelic fuchsia pants, with matching vest and elvin boots; I look like I didn’t make the cut at the Village People casting call. And I’m going to approach the Stan Lee and tell him he’s my idol.
Suddenly, one of the other actors chose that moment to ask Stan for an autograph for his nephew. Now was my chance. Disregarding my body’s desire not to move—a feeling I had only felt on one other occasion when I was given the thumbs-up from my skydiving instructor that it was time to jump—I stepped forward…
Will our erstwhile hero be able to confront Stan Lee without fainting? Will he make an utter fool of himself if/when he does? Will the wedding go off as planned? Will Gary call his mother? Tune in next time for the next thrilling installment … Same Spidey time… Same Spidey channel…
Famed English artist Alan Davis provided the art to the alternative cover to the omnibus.
Call off the hounds! The wait is over. The complete Vroom! saga has finally been collected into an awesome omnibus. As you may recall in my landmark posting, “See You in the Funny Papers,” I was immortalized by writer Gerry Conway and artist Sal Buscema as Stephan the Waiter in Spectacular Spider-Man #158. If you somehow missed that Closet classic, what are you waiting for? Read it… Now! It’s okay; I’ll wait…
Where was I? Oh yeah… Coming this December, Marvel will be releasing the Acts of Vengeance Omnibus, which will contain every single appearance of yours truly. Vengeance was a mega-crossover occurring in a plethora of Marvel titles in late eighties. In a nutshell, the epic was a Brobdingnagian slugfest pitting the vilest of the Marvel Universe villains against those heroes outside their normal comfort zone, a scheme devised by the Norse god of mischief and Thor nemesis, Loki. Thus, X-Men arch-rival Magneto attacked Spider-Man and Iron Man baddie The Mandarin confronted The Avengers—among other matches—in the hope that by taking on heroes unfamiliar with them they can finally check off a box in the “win” column.
I know what you’re thinking: a single appearance does not a collection make. And you’d be right. But what I’ve failed to mention ’til now is that, in the unforgettable words of Jedi Master Yoda in The Empire Strike Back, “There is another…”
In the late eighties/early nineties, I was dating a girl by the name of Jennifer. We’d worked together at the same restaurant mentioned in “There’s Got to Be a Morning After,” another time-honored telling of Closet’s past (What? Again with the “I missed it?” Where have you been?!!). Jennifer lived alone in a downtown studio; alone if you discount her cat, Prudence T. Bag, and her one hundred fifty pound Bull Mastiff, Edgar Allen Paw. Eddie, as he was affectionately known, was a teddy bear, once he got to know you. Otherwise, he was every single, living-sans-roommates, female New Yorker’s dream: a formidable protector. I nearly turned tail and fled after I heard the baleful booming barks that erupted after I knocked on Jennifer’s apartment door on the night of our first date (Let’s not even get into the first time we were intimate!).
You lookin’ at me?
Around the time we were dating, I met comic-book artist Paul Ryan. Ryan was another of those stalwart underrated storytellers who never got the attention and accolades he deserved, ever playing second fiddle in the popularity contests by fan boys more interested in pin-ups, cross-hatching and speed lines than exemplary storytelling. Ryan was never deemed “hot,” despite long stints on such prominent titles as Fantastic Four, Adventures of Superman and Avengers. He also happened to be selfless, soft-spoken, humble, hardworking and one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, which sadly probably led to his being overlooked by the puerile pollsters who equate popularity with ego, attitude and a work ethic akin to the Grasshopper in Aesop’s fables.
An over-the-shoulder view of Ryan sketching at a convention where I appeared as Spidey
Ryan and I were featured guests at another of deranged Darwin and lissome Lola’s comic shows in Edmonton, Canada (as you surely recognize from “Survival of the Fittest” Part Iand II. And if not, put it on the list… Sheesh!). As a Massachusetts native, like myself, we clicked immediately. He was penciling Avengers at the time and allowed me to rifle through the pages he had brought with him as a parting gift. A gorgeous Tom Palmer-inked, John Byrne-scripted, Ryan masterpiece from Avengers #306 has been a cherished possession ever since.
Examples of Ryan’s work from Adventures of Superman (l.) and Fantastic Four (r.)
As we got to know one another, the subject of my girlfriend’s canine companion came up. Describing a dog as weighing 150lbs, gets one to thinking that you're exaggerating. The average weight of a woman is just over 160 lbs and it’s hard for anyone to envision a dog that big. Fortunately, I had a photo of Eddie with me. Merely a headshot, but nevertheless enough to convey the immensity of the creature.
Not long afterward, Paul and I met again at another appearance. As we caught up, he revealed that he had drawn me into Avengers #313. It’s a single-panel, wordless cameo inspired by Eddie. In it I play a trench-coat–clad pedestrian, out walking his dog while staring as mute witness to an encounter between Wonder Man and The Wizard. As the restaurant featured in the story that introduced Stephan the Waiter was the same where Jennifer and I worked, I see this as a surprise guest appearance by the popular Spider-Man supporting character walking his girlfriend’s pooch. Unfortunately, size constraints prevented Ryan from including Eddie.
So now Marvel has decided to cash in on my celebrity, publishing the entire Vroom! oeuvre in one colossal compendium. At least they had the decency to include all the interstitial issues that contribute to the “Acts of Vengeance” side story, though why they named it thus, I cannot say.
I often got presents from my wee fans at events. Most often, these gifts took the form of artwork, 90-percent of which featured Spider-Man. I wish I could say that I’ve held onto every single work given to me by these burgeoning Botticellis, but frequently during signings, a chaperon would put the objets d’art someplace for safekeeping, only to be forgotten upon my departure. Other pieces fell victim to moves.
But I can attest that I’ve never knowingly discarded any of the thoughtful presents and still cherish the many I still possess. These fans made a special effort to thank their beloved Web-Swinger for being their hero; a friend; in many cases, a mentor or surrogate parent; and one would have to be a heartless bastard not to be touched upon receipt of these sincere acknowledgments.
Secret Wars III?
So with your kind indulgence, my faithful Bloglodytes, I will occasionally treat you to the “masterpieces” from my personal collection. Kicking off the series with a bang is this explosive battle scene from Chris Brown (As with much of the art, I have no record of the benefactor’s age or any details from the event at which I received the work—most fans simply put their first names, if that.).
Marvel Zombies will recognize immediately that this massive melee represents one of the company’s signature misunderstandings among its heroes, made famous by writer/creator Stan Lee in the blossoming days of comic-bookdom’s Silver Age. At least, there are no readily discernable villains present and, but for a lone T-rex, most of the combatants can be traced to their heroic counterparts.
I love the way Brown chose to delineate certain characters. The Hulk, for instance, appropriately leaps into the fray from the upper left corner. His maw plain to see and his gamma-irradiated pectorals cleverly depicted with a few stacked curlicues. The artist also accurately presents the misunderstood mega-muscled misanthrope’s fists and feet larger than his head.
Three-fourths of Marvel’s premiere team, The Fantastic Four, are featured. I do not blame Brown from forgoing an attempt at drawing The Thing, a onerous task for even a veteran artist. Brown makes up for Ben Grimm’s absence with his colleagues prominently displayed in full use of their respective powers. Mr. Fantastic’s pliable form nearly stretches the full right side of the canvas. The Invisible Woman may appear oddly feathery, but our creative craftsman is spot-on in his interpretation of Sue Storm’s using her powers, as often displayed by legendary artist and the quartet’s co-creator, Jack Kirby.
Human Torch, meanwhile, is gruesomely frying what could be the scene’s only true villain, if the figure’s clawed hand and evil visage are any indication. Johnny Storm’s bifurcated flame simultaneously gives the aforementioned T-rex a roasted rump.
There are many other wonderful interpretations in Brown’s piece. His use of squiggles to illustrate the Michelin-manlike striations in Colossus’s metallic form or his economy in presenting Cyclops—the sideward oval across the X-Men member’s face to signify his visor—are genius.
Strangely, there seem to be three possible Web-Spinner’s leaping about the action. It could be that Brown was feeding off the infamous “Clone Saga” of the early 90s (Don’t ask). Or he just didn’t like the first couple of Spideys that he drew. Still, I could be mistaken, and two of the three only appear to be Webheads.
A similar conundrum seems to exist with Captain America. Two red-white-and-blue Avengers appear. One stands unmoving. The star emblazoned on his shield and obvious wings book-ending his head are sure signs of his identity. But there is another, sketched in black marker, apparently flipping whilst throwing his vaunted indestructible disc. One possible explanation is that the hero in black is actually U.S. Agent (Again, don’t ask).
Another explanation for this multiplicity of the same hero is that Brown is dramatizing the battle as a whole, its combatants’ actions shown throughout. Characters, such as Spider-Man and Cap—whose quickness and athleticism know no human bounds—appear at many stages in various areas of the scene at once; a clever technique to connote the wildness and ferocity of battle.
It would be easy and lazy to dismiss the drawing as nothing more than the typical scribblings of a youngster. Or regard my erudite analysis as nothing more than the self-indulgent ramblings of someone who is looking to exalt a cherished gift to the proper heights for which he believes it should be held. That would be an injustice. The composition may appear smooshed in places, and great liberty is taken with the anatomy of the characters. There are even a couple blotted-out figures—crossed-out mistakes, as it were. But I see these “faults” as enhancements. This is a battle, after all, and as such, chaos should be the over-riding theme.
Not that Brown planned this on a conscious level, but as a youngster, whose creativity is not yet fettered by the “rules” and “properness” of society. His emotions and expression are truly unbound and totally unsuppressed. The legendary artist Picasso once said he spent his whole life learning how to draw like a child—an anecdote I cited in my review of Tim Burton’s art exhibit at the MoMA. I believe Chris Brown’s drawing exemplifies what the Spanish master meant.
It reminds me of Picasso’s “Guernica” in its representation of anarchy and carnage. Humans and animals are thrown asunder at impossible angles, and it is impossible to distinguish the details. But the drama, the energy, the emotions are palpable. Thus is the horror of war. I certainly do not mean to diminish the subject matter of the master artisan’s famous painting—the heinous bombing of the eponymous town during the Spanish civil war—in my analysis of Brown’s superhero donnybrook. But, to a lesser extent, I believe the energy and fearlessness of his work is similar. There is no doubt that this is a confrontation of epic proportions.
I’ve been terribly busy lately, which is a good thing when one freelances, but it has meant my neglecting you, my Faithful Bloglodytes. I hope to be able to share some of the projects I’ve been working on so diligently in the near future.
Ant Army creator Adam Dembicki
The aliens initially welcome the visitors, unsuspecting of their duplicitous nature, then scramble to defend themselves when the ants’ attack. The battle grows to epic proportions. The aliens proving surprisingly resistant, but the ants are relentless. Counterattack begets counterattack, each wave escalating in its use of bigger and more destructive weaponry, with the outcome always in question.
According to editor/production manager/Dad Matt—artist/writer of the undersea adventure Xoc and editor/contributor of the recently released comics anthology of stories inspired by Native American myths, Trickster—Adam drew the pictures first, after which he explained the story to his father, who typed out the words and put the book together.
