Gruenycon

Originally published October 4, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1194

So there was Tom DeFalco, on his way back from a convention, passing through the security check at the airport and thinking—no doubt—about a nice, peaceful trip home.

But the security personnel stopped, did a double take as the x-ray of his bag passed through, looked at Tom, looked back at the bag. With a forced smile, one of them said, “Sir, do you have anything in your bag that resembles a gun?”

DeFalco, quick on the uptake, promptly responded, “Wha—?”

They promptly escorted Tom to one side, retrieved his suitcase, and emptied out the entire contents. And there, nestled in with the rather innocuous things in the bag, was a piece of cardboard cut into the shape of a gun—with aluminum foil wrapped around it.

And while a flustered DeFalco was grilled, a wide-eyed, innocent-faced Mark Gruenwald stood off to one side, looking shocked and appalled over the incident.

Mark was, of course, responsible for the incriminating prop finding its way into DeFalco’s bag. And he and DeFalco never spoke of it. Nor did they speak of the many other jokes they would pull on each other. It was an unwritten rule that they adhered to.

But Tom spoke of it at the gathering I can only refer to as Gruenycon 1.

It was the comic industry equivalent of a New Orleans-style funeral. There wasn’t a Dixieland band, but there were reasonable facsimiles of the Three Stooges, Dr. Forrester of Mystery Science Theater 3000, Captain America, assorted superheroines, and mourners. I say “facsimiles” of mourners because, although the ostensible reason for the gathering at the New York Film Center on Thursday, September 12 was to mourn the passing of Mark Gruenwald, it was hardly an affair chockablock with grieving, lamentation, and a metaphorical rending of garments.

Rather than a mourning of death, Gruenycon was a celebration of life. A time to dwell not on the future without him, but the past with him.

The event was organized by Catherine Gruenwald as a tribute to her late husband. Catherine would later unabashedly admit to wielding her status as new widow to get help from various sources—such as, for example, professional film editors who spent nearly 20 hours hammering together some of the video presentations.

The announced start time was 6 p.m., and by the time I showed up fashionably late at 6:02, there had to be at least a hundred people chatting at curbside and in the main lobby, with more upstairs. I was quickly able to spot other Jewish males in the crowd, since, for the most part, we were the only ones in jackets and ties. This exacerbated the sweating problem with so many people clustered into the various rooms, but we Jews embrace discomfort as our birthright, so it was okay.

One woman took the opportunity to walk up to me and inform me with a smile that she couldn’t stand me as a writer because everything I wrote sucked. I don’t know about you, but I always make it a point to go to memorial services in hopes of encountering random acts of rudeness.

On the third floor of Gruenycon, a gallery of Mark Gruenwald memorabilia adorned a center rack and the walls. As I’ve mentioned in a past column, the Gruenwald/Carlin editorial office was a sort of nexus for weirdness during the five or so years that Mark Gruenwald and Mike Carlin spent as an editorial team. The door and windows of the office were often festooned with bizarre renderings, caption contests, drawing contests, snide commentary on the ins and outs of life at Marvel (at a time before, as DeFalco drily put it, “Marvel became the warm and fun place it is today”). Being a compulsive saver and archivist, Gruenwald stockpiled it all, and some of the more memorable and prominent pieces were on display. Although I admit I could have done without the polaroid, taken in June of 1995, of Mark lying in a coffin. It may have, as the caption noted, “Sure seemed funny at the time,” but it was hardly a chuckler now.

Most conspicuous was the Michelle Marsh wall. An entire wall of the room was decorated with cut-out images of Michelle Marsh.

Marsh is a local news anchor in New York City on CBS. At one time, Marsh was highly touted as the greatest thing to happen to network news since the invention of the teleprompter. A poster with her face on it was produced by the network and plastered all over the city.

The poster caught Gruenwald’s attention. Not Marsh herself, per se. Just the poster. And Mark offered a buck to anyone who was brave enough to scarf one of the posters from the subways. In no time flat, he and Carlin were hip-deep in posters.

Questionable from a legal standpoint? Perhaps. But I submit that this was art and, therefore, transcends minor infractions for the sake of a statement. Performance art that was a year in the making. Yes, for a solid year, the office was covered, floor to ceiling, with posters. They were on the walls, on the desk, surrounding the garbage can, in the overhead fluorescent light fixtures… everywhere. And then, on a day that was advertised as M-M Day—clad in white construction-worker outfits—they took down all the posters. Then they cut the faces out of the posters, fashioning masks from them. Women in the office building across the street watched in mystification as those lunatics from Marvel engaged in a bizarre and apparently pointless exercise.

They then crammed more than 40 people into the small office, donned the Marsh Masks and looked eerily into the video camera that recorded the whole thing. It is one of the single most bizarre images that I have ever seen.

And what was the purpose, you may ask? What was the artistic statement Gruenwald was trying to put forward?

Umm…

Ðámņëd if I know.

Perhaps it was carpe diem. Or perhaps it was a commentary on the dangers of obsession. Or perhaps it was a wry observation on society’s worshipping image over substance. Or perhaps it was just an exercise to see how pointless a project one editorial office could carry off and still not ship so much as a single book late (a challenge in organizational skill that many editors would be hard pressed to match nowadays).

Whatever the hëll it was, M-M Day was one of the center pieces and focal points of Gruenycon, since the groundbreaking video recording of that offbeat day was one of the most memorable parts of the video presentation.

The memorial service began appropriately enough, with Catherine Gruenwald’s opening remarks interrupted by a technical glitch that could only be rectified by the Three Stooges (in a burst of restraint, none of them bore the names of anyone working in the comic industry). In conjunction with Catherine, there was a song that Mark had written some years ago called “Niagara Falls”—a haunting tune about loss which seemed to take on double meanings, considering the circumstances.

Speakers included Mike Carlin, Tom DeFalco, Paul Levitz, Denny O’Neil, and Walt Simonson. The genuine affection was palpable, and many times talks were stopped for laughter or applause.

DeFalco recounted, as noted, the running practical joke war that raged between Gruenwald and himself. Jokes such as the time that DeFalco stepped onto an elevator at a convention, only to discover a sign there advertising his room number and informing fans that they should feel free to come up and chat with Tom anytime, 24 hours a day.

And just in the event that anyone missed the sign, Mark had lined the hallway leading to Tom’s room with signs informing passersby, “This way to Tom DeFalco’s room!”

Then there was the time Mark gained access somehow to Tom’s room and rearranged all Tom’s underwear—by taping it to the outside of the window.

Walt Simonson spoke of the time that he had produced a cover for an issue of Thor in which Thor had clearly been in a fight, his costume torn, his face battered and cut up. Editor in Chief Jim Shooter, according to Simonson, had ordered the face redrawn to make it look more handsome. Gruenwald obediently sent it down to John Romita, Sr., who redrew it so that Thor looked like his normal, attractive self—except he was “fashion challenged,” as Walt put it. Gruenwald looked at the redrawn cover, kind of went “hmmm,” and then sat on it until the next day when Jim was out of the office. At which point Gruenwald brought the original cover to DeFalco, who—all unknowingly—signed off on it. Off went the original cover to the printer. The kicker being that Jim is alleged to have brought the final printed book to Mark’s office, pointed to the unretouched artwork, and said, “See? Isn’t this much better?”

Two of the three main points of the evening kept coming back to Gruenwald’s love of comics as a pure form of enjoyment and expression, and his love of life for pure, get-it-while-it’s-hot entertainment value. No gag was too insane, no joke too juvenile, for Gruenwald to undertake it. Because everything provoked reactions, and reactions are what let you know you’re alive.

This is nowhere more evident than in the video presentation of Cheap Laffs, the minus-zero-budget cable access show that Gruenwald put together with Mike Carlin and Elliot Brown. At one point, Gruenwald opines (while eerily lit with a skull next to him) that we laugh at jokes because, during that brief moment that we’re laughing, it helps take our minds off the fact that eventually we’re all going to die. To underscore the point, Gruenwald switches to a man-in-the-street remote, as a succession of people echo Gruenwald’s sentiments and then—one by one—get mowed down by the same passing vehicle (eventually seen cruising past with all of them strapped to the hood like prized deer.)

There was also footage of Gruenwald’s interactions with fans. With no effort whatsoever he was able to get people to undertake the most outlandish stunts, all in the name of Mighty Marvel. He was the consummate Master of Ceremonies. Marvel’s presence at conventions has diminished over time, and in a perverse way that’s fortunate, because for sheer audacity and enthusiasm, Gruenwald is simply irreplaceable.

But by far the most moving sentiment of the evening was that—of late—Mark had felt troubled. He felt that he had not accomplished everything there was to accomplish as a writer. That he had not “gone to the mountain,” as it were. That his output was limited, and perhaps was not even worthwhile. But it was pointed out, quite correctly, that Mark had done more than that. That rather than go to the mountain, he had helped build a mountain. Built upon the legends that already existed and helped create new ones upon which other writers could stake claims as well.

And that is a terrific sentiment—but still, I can understand Mark’s concerns. It’s the mark of a quality writer that he constantly demands more of himself. That he is never satisfied, that he is always looking to his next work, to improving himself. Beware the writer—indeed, any creator—who is satisfied with the level of work he is producing, for that may be a creator who has said everything he has to say, and is never going to grow and learn. Mark was not one of those, and we can only wonder what projects he might have embarked upon. (Catherine had said he was working on manuscripts for children’s books. I hope they get published.)

The closing ceremonies of Greunycon included a video montage of photos—his life flashing before our eyes, as a red-eyed Bobbie Chase noted—followed by a tribute that Mark would have appreciated. Twenty one of his co-workers coming up on stage, armed with whoopee cushions, to perform a 21 Bun Salute—a Flotilla of Flatulence, all on behalf of Mark Gruenwald. Questionable taste? Absolutely. Stupid? Beyond doubt. Appropriate? If you think not, then you didn’t know Mark Gruenwald. And more’s the pity for you.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)