Larry Rodman
Washington, DC

I've never actually met Stan Lee. It must be admitted that I have, over the years, collected a great number of artifacts that he had something to do with, as prolific, and profligate with his name as he's always been. Possibly having mounds and mounds of such comics is a passable surrogate for the presence of the actual person. Then, one can either conditionally embrace the object of affection as a real member of one's community, or recognize that as folly, depending on one's relative degree of stability. But, in the case of Stan Lee, I haven't had to resort to unrequited love -- not entirely. Due to my meager professional credentials, and the accessibility of comics personalities at conventions, I've had several personal encounters with those from the world of Stan. Therefore, I can claim to have had as much face-time with him as, say, Kitty Kelley had with Frank Sinatra or Nancy Reagan.

There have been a few legitimate Stan Lee stand-ins in my life. At the first MOCCA, I happened to see Larry Lieber strolling the aisles of The Puck Building with his wife, a proper bourgeois, rent-controlled late middle-age Jewish couple; he, dapper in his goatee, she in a fur collar, possibly walking their toy dog, a sophisticated pair out on the town from a panel by Saxon or Dedini. *Spiderman* The Movie had come out and been declared an awesome popular and critical masterstroke, there was a general awareness of scads of oodles of money swarming around the Marvel imprimatur, and presumably anyone ever involved with the property was gold. But, there was probably no trickle-down to Lieber, the artist on the Spidey syndicated comic strip lo for many years. No matter. It was sort of touching to see this dear couple stalking dazedly about on the fringes of the con, representing old Marvel, representing old middlebrow Manhattan. I didn't disturb them. After all, what do you say to Larry Lieber? "Where's Stan?"

And, as the brothers of famous Marvel company men go, it so happened that I was interviewing Sal Buscema, in his Northern Virginia home studio, guiltily wishing that I were interviewing someone cool, like Gene Colan. Then, later, while actually interviewing Colan, I wished that he'd been a tad on the more articulate side. Like, oh, I don't know... *Stan Lee*. *He'd* wrap the whole comics history thing up and put a bow on it! Why ask an artist to do a writers job?

Finally, I was at a Baltimore *Midnight Marquee* convention dealers' room, and I met Forrest Ackerman -- the *Famous Monsters* editor and former associate of Jim Warren -- face to face. Now, I would understand if the parallels between Ackerman and Lee weren't evident at first glance, and that he might not qualify as an obvious Stan stand-in. But they do occupy roughly the same founder status within their respective fan-cults, have become industry spokesman for a variety of cable network pop-culture documentaries, and are each known for their irritating quirks as prose stylists. Besides, Ackerman is buddies with Julius Schwartz, so he's somewhere within the comics sphere. I anxiously waited my turn behind another boomer fan boy who was gushing about how Ackerman had changed his life. (Hey, get in line behind Stephen King and Spielberg, dude!) And finally, it was my turn to hand over twenty bucks and get him to personalize a limited-edition collectible, and let loose with the gush. Actually, it was a lovely moment. I paid him homage, told him about his formative, corrupting influence on yours truly, and then we shared an instant of dewy eye contact and shook hands.

Later that day, in one of those sodden hotel happy-hour conversations, I described my encounter with The Great Man to Dom, the editor of *The Brutarian*, a magazine that had published a two-part expose on *Famous Monsters* last days. Dom said, "He was probably checking you out. He thought you were a bit of *all that*." This comment was particularly dicey, since it had been my dormant nine-year-old self that had spoken with Ackerman.

So, the question becomes, if Stan's stand-ins can't behave themselves, and act the part of their public images, what hubristic Hefner-esque excesses is the real man capable of? Better not to find out first hand. I for one am looking forward to the publication of Messrs. Raphael and Spurgeon's tell-all, if only in self-preservation, that I may learn the truth at a safe distance. It clearly doesn't pay to get too close to one's idols. "Whom the Gods Would Destroy...," and all of that.

But Stan, if you're out there, in all sincerity, thanks for the hyperbole.