| SLIPPING INTO SUPERMAN'S SHORTS or, The Wolf Who Came Out Of the Closet A Halloween Tale |
| As would befit a renowned Master of the Macabre
like Bernie Wrightson--duly celebrated for
being the co-creator of Swamp Thing as well
as for memorably illustrating a deluxe edition
of Mary Shelley's legendary novel "Frankenstein"
foremost amongst his many fiendish accomplishments--he
and his (now ex) wife Michelle hosted an
enthusiastically anticipated annual Halloween
Party back in the eighties and early nineties
while still calling upstate New York's Hudson
Valley their home ground. And as you might
well imagine, quite a few folks associated
with the comics field--big and small names
alike, from near and from far--did their
level best to attend the yearly shindig,
usually thrown on the Saturday evening preceding
All Hallow's Eve. In the half-dozen or so years Lynn and I found ourselves on the guest list, I can readily recall seeing the likes of Dan Green, Mary Jo Duffy, Bob Almond, L. B. Kellogg, Tom Mandrake, Jan Duursema, Mitch Itkowitz, Elaine Lee, Mike Kaluta, Eliot Brown, Jeff Jones, Jack Morelli, Christie Scheele, Ian Laughlin, Janice Chiang, Paul Abrams, Charles Barnett, and Elliot Maggin all duded up in costumes of various stripes and inclinations. Of course, most were accompanied by their partners--wives, husbands, boy/girlfriends, you name it--as were the local contingent, a high percentage of which also participated in our weekly volleyball game: Terry Austin, Joe Staton, Ron Marz, Jim Starlin, and Joe Chiodo being the names you might most easily recognize. There were, however, quite a few other folks shambling in off the streets for the Wrightson's Fall Fear-fest--writers, poets, painters, and the like, none of whom had anything to do with the comics biz, but had everything to do with the region in which this "Eek!"-inducing event emanated from. They were, to shamelessly group them under but a single label--however unfairly--Woodstock artistes. And, folks, they wore funny outfits, too... Bernie had this big old studio, understand, a couple hundred yards back behind the main Wrightson haunts. There was a what was purported to be a real human skeleton hanging from the rafters all year round--and who am I to doubt the veracity of ol' Red's origins?--but for the season of shrieks, Bernie and Michelle seemed to spare no effort in turning their grounds into a festival of fear, with ghosts, Jack O'Lanterns, and (presumably fake) skeletons abounding! This bucolic setting would've been perfect for a sequel to "Night Of The Living Dead", save for several things--loud music, a continual procession of gruesomely guised guests both coming and going, and an abundance of spirits--and folks, for once, we AIN'T talkin' the ghostly kind here!! Years on, most of the details concerning these frightfully fun functions tend to blur due to the hazy mists of time, but there WAS one particular party that I remember far, far clearer than any of the rest. And the reason for that? Was it so memorable because it was the best of the Wrightson's Halloween Parties? Well, no, I don't think that was it. The most exciting, then? Well, in it's own way perhaps, but you wanna know the primary reason it lives on so clearly in my oft clouded noggin? To put it bluntly, friends, it was undoubtedly the GAYEST Halloween Party I'd ever attended!!.. (...Not that there's anything wrong with THAT, mind you!!...) The year was 1989. Now, normally, I wouldn't be able to recall a specific detail like that, but in this case I do for several reasons. For one, our new neighbor--and fast friend--Joe Chiodo was in attendance. Joe had moved into an apartment not far from the house we lived in at the time in Kingston, New York, the preceding May, subsequently fleeing our area for his beloved native San Diego--and to find much fame and success with his talented paint brush--early the next October, shortly after our daughter, Julie, was born, but weeks before that year's Wrightson shockfest took place. Joe, in fact, was the first non-family member I saw following that momentous if somewhat traumatic evening in the birthing center, which is how I'm able to date things so precisely. The other point is that, for once, we took photos! Now, if only we were organized enough to have them on hand to accompany this rambling retelling, that'd be something else, wouldn't it? But such is the constant state of disorganization hereabouts that they have yet to turn up, and I'm fighting a self-imposed deadline here, gang, so...maybe someday. In the meantime, upon initial review following their visit to the Kodak development shack way back when has nonetheless assisted my poor ol' memory somewhat in recalling certain key aspects of that eventful evening, now a decade-plus in the past and fading fast... Jim Starlin cut a dashing figure in a safari hat and matching jacket, taking on the persona of the much-admired Indiana Jones. Host Bernie Wrightson wore a white apron splattered with (fake?) blood, emulating the not-so-admirable Sweeney Todd, the evil Emeril of the nineteenth century. And then there was our pal Joe Chiodo. Apparently, in an effort to make a swell impression upon the occasion of his Wrightson Halloween Party debut--which, as it turned out, was to be his finale as well--Joe went all out and rented himself a professionally tailored get-up while the rest of us made due with our home-made costume concoctions. But young Mr. Chiodo's choice was a good one, and he looked quite dapper in his Bellhop outfit. For you oldtimer's out there, his fashion sense mirrored remarkably that of the little guy in all those ancient Philip Morris cigarette ads. I'm sure Joe would've welcomed that comparison, but then someone else, some wise guy (Ron Marz, perhaps? Possibly, but it could've easily been any one of us...) made note of the uncanny resemblance his disguise had to ANOTHER famous icon---the Flying Monkeys last seen flailing about at the disposal of the Wicked Witch of the West on screen in the immortal "Wizard of Oz"!! Poor Joe. The rest of the night, he had to put up with all manner of simian-centric quips, all at his expense. But he took it all in stride, good humored to the end. He's just one of those even-tempered guys you know you can goof on, and as long as you don't cross a certain line--the whereabouts of which you should just know intuitively--you can usually get away having a laugh or two at his expense. I recognized this trait in Joe because you could say pretty much the same about me. I don't mind a good gag now and again, just so long as things don't go, shall we say, TOO far?... Who would dare mock me that evening, anyway? I was resplendent in my self-sewn Superman outfit, and brother, I knew it! Okay, it was little more than a couple of hand drawn "S" shields, one stitched into a specially bought piece of red fabric to be used as a cape, and the other onto a sky blue shirt already in my possession. Add to that some red shorts and socks, blue sweat pants, and a thin strip of yellow material for a belt, and voila--the fella from Kingston was now somehow magically transformed into the hero from Krypton!! No, I didn't--and still don't--have the physique to convincingly pull off such a mighty metamorphosis, but that didn't really seem to matter. There's something magically empowering about suiting up as the Man of Steel, lemme tell ya. All those years of seeing the Big Guy down there on the comics page, and then suddenly--WOW!-- finding your ownself inside those colorfully classic garments--well, the experience can be intoxicating! And then, when you supplement that fanciful notion with the aforementioned spirits--as I most assuredly did--well, good thing bloody Bernie's studio was but a single story tall, because who knows, too much of the ol' grape (Earth-Fred's Kryptonite, friends) and maybe a smidgen of flying might've been attempted, leading to the inevitable tragic results. But no, I remained grounded for the duration. Well, almost. As events played out, there were OTHER plots being cooked up to befuddle THIS Big Red "S"!!... The evening wore on. The crowd began to thin. There was still a substantial group assembled, but now one could actually move about without bumping into another plastered party goer most every time you turned around. Lynn, in her cute little brown bear costume, was off talking to our friends the Statons, Joe and Hilarie. Bernie and Michelle were still circulating, maintaining their hosting duties right up to the bitter end. I stood off to the side, chatting with Joe Chiodo, Ron Marz, and a woman named Jackie, a painter we'd all gotten to know somewhat in recent months. The conversation was pretty much what you might've expected from several gaudily dressed inebriated artists. And THEN, things got weird... As if out of nowhere, suddenly there appeared a fifth member, hastily attaching himself to our small, select circle of fiends. Now, that didn't seem all that odd a move at first, as there were always some forward folks on hand, the likes of which aren't the least bit reluctant to mosey on up to a complete stranger and start up--or in this case, join in on--a conversation, to which I say, great! More power to 'em!! But I soon realized that wasn't EXACTLY what was happening here... Our new found pal, wearing one of those rubber masks (a werewolf, as I dimly recall things), the kind that covered the head entirely, save for some strategically placed eye and nose holes--the better to see and breath with, my dears--identified himself only as "Elan". He spoke with the sort of indeterminant foreign accent made famous by the late Andy Kaufman during his off-kilter career, most notably when portraying "Latka" on the sitcom "Taxi". Elan conversed slowly, showing some hesitation with our language. He spoke gently, and with all due respect to his new American friends, which would've been all just fine and dandy except for one thing--it swiftly became extremely obvious to all that the main--you should pardon the expression--thrust of our overseas visitor's skewed syntax was being haltingly delivered in a misguided effort to come on in a (...ahem...) romantic manner to the ersatz Man of Tomorrow, l'il ol' me!?!... Joe, Ron, Jackie, and whoever else wandered into earshot seemed aghast (yet strangely amused) at this masked intruder's relentless--but unfailingly polite--pursuit of yours truly. Elan calmly explained that this was indeed the way such things were done in his home country, a land as yet uncharted, at least in his new companions minds . I tried my very best to discourage his wildly misplaced amorous interests, really I did. Understand, please, that I have never been homophobic in the least, but that didn't mean I had any pending plans to switch allegiances, if you catch my drift! As my faithful friends stood surrounding the two of us, listening to this wolf's incessant--but always pleasantly posed--propositions, it finally happened. The perfect line came to me. The sort of killer comeback one usually thinks of oh-so-many-hours too late came instead, in this rarest of instances, spontaneously tumbling out of my mouth and triumphantly into the air for all to hear.., "Sorry, fella..."I said, striking an appropriate pose, hands on hips, pointedly looking down on my iconic outfit, "...but Superman DC, NOT AC-DC!!" Well, that one went over big time, with the gathered gawkers guffawing long, loud, and lustily! I was inordinately proud of my beautifully timed quip--instantaneous verbal cleverness is NOT, nor has it ever been, a standard occurrence in my life, believe me--but I STILL hadn't managed to shake my smitten seducer-wannabe. What the heck was I gonna DO?... To make matters worse, Jackie chose at this point to take me aside for a little confidential clarification. This whole peculiar exchange had been going on anywhere from 15 minutes to a half an hour by now, with no clue as to this persistent gent's identity. Joe and Ron were there with me the whole way, though they ultimately proved to be of absolutely no help whatsoever. Jackie, though, had something she wanted to clue me into. She very quietly informed that she'd heard of this strange fellow who, year after year, his face totally hidden by a different mask each time, would wander in uninvited to various Halloween parties for what she described as vaguely sinister reasons--none of which she could exactly pin-point for me, however--but her tone of voice alone betrayed a deepening concern for my potential well-being!! Swell. Bad enough I'd gotten trapped in a pumpkin-studded version of La Cage A Faux, but now suddenly I was also the centerpiece in an as yet unwritten urban legend, one in which good ol' Leatherface had apparently turned in his traditional head gear for a rubbery store bought model!! Addled as I may've been by my earlier alcohol intake, even I began to question the likelihood of all this specious-sounding information continually being fed to me. But before I got the chance to confront my suspicious suitor, the ever-enigmatic Elan, concerning my new-found confusion regarding the situation, he was gone... In truth he was never actually there. "Elan", you see, didn't exist. When the mask finally came off, there was no Latka-lookalike underneath, only the man who was once famously approved by the Cosmic Code of America, the man who put the "Dread" in Dreadstar and took the schlock out of Warlock. Yup. Jim Starlin. Seems as if joker Jim had surreptitiously slipped out of the party earlier in the evening, went back to his nearby abode, and slipped into an entirely different costume, and--just for good measure--an entirely different persona as well! Bye bye, macho Indiana Jones--hey hey, fey Elan! And then he set his sights on moi, apparently with the advance knowledge of most, if not all, those swarming around us. It was like one of those hidden camera shows that are currently proliferating across the vapid video landscape--only, without the cameras... I honestly don't recall my reaction upon the big reveal, but I do remember that the rest of the folks got some massive yuks when the truth hit the fan. Hey, I'll admit to having a bit of a reputation for being somewhat on the, um, gullible side, so I suppose it was no great mystery as to why jovial Jim zeroed in on the tipsy man in the long red cape to play his patsy, y'know?... Me? Okay, I admit was a bit chagrined--hey, who wouldn't be?--but I can't say I was overly upset. I'd like to think I managed to keep my dubious dignity throughout the outrageous ordeal--after all, it's not like I started swearing at my bogus admirer, defaming him with all sorts of politically incorrect and undeniably derogatory slurs!?! THAT, people, would've been plenty embarrassing to live down afterwards, perhaps souring my mood during the post-game wrap-up. But... that didn't happen, happily. I kept my cool. Elton John, Sir Ian McKellen, those five guys over on Bravo--they all would've been proud of me. So how could I possibly have gotten my nose out of joint? After all, whether I knew it or not, I was helping entertain a whole lotta people ("What? And quit showbiz?" as the old gag goes...)--and besides, "Elan" provided me with the choice opportunity to deliver what may yet still stand as my all-time greatest off-the-cuff (or was it "off-the-cape"?...) ad-lib ever?? How could you NOT love a guy like that? I mean in a MANLY way, of course! ...heh... Still, being the mark of an elaborate prank, however harmless things may've ultimately played out, can leave one a bit, shall we say, cheesed off, dig? So when it came time for me and Lynn to leave the party some 15 or 20 minutes later, the fact was, my pride was still smarting a bit. As we sidled out, saying our goodbyes to the handful of remaining hearty partiers, we inexorably and inevitably approached "Elan", a/k/a Jim Starlin, who, with his back to us, was holding court with a small congregation of folks. As we got ever nearer, an idea flashed into my wine-fueled mind. If, in the words of my stone-age forebearers, I reasoned, he wanted a gay old time, well, by the sequined spirit of Liberace hovering over the proceedings, I'd GIVE him a gay old time!!... I sauntered up behind my bogus beau, said "Goodnight, Elan", and as he turned his head, I quickly grabbed one of Jim's firm yet ripe buttocks (Sorry--even after all these years, I still get carried away at the memory...), and gave it a brief but unmistakable squeeze! The look of total surprise on the comics' legends face was ample satisfaction for my having to endure the egregious advances of "Elan", and I for once felt I'd gotten the last laugh---or at least a little parity in pay-back... In the years since, Jim Starlin and I have remained friends, colleagues, and volley-ball buddies, but we've never, ever been QUITE so close as we were that very special evening long, long ago... Thank god. And recently, while part of a boating excursion out on the high seas with Captain Jim (okay, okay--the Hudson River...), I related the preceding tale to our fellow shipmates, none of whom were lucky enough to have observed the excruciating events as they transpired. Their laughter at our wacky antics prompted me to opine THIS little line-crosser to the man at the wheel: "Gee, Jim, y'know, maybe if I'd had had even MORE to drink that evening, I wouldn't have just goosed you--maybe I would've grabbed you and kissed you full on the lips instead!?! But, truthfully, I really don't know if I could've ever downed enough wine to have done THAT?!?..." To which Jim could've ONLY been thinking... "Thank god!..." Happy Halloween, "Elan"!! |