In honor of Veteran’s Day, we should all take a minute or two to watch videos of dogs welcoming soldiers home. My dog is so glad to see me every day, I can only imagine her reaction if I were off in some godforsaken desert for a year or two.

I owe an enormous debt to Stan Lee, and I know it. The Marvel comics line was hugely important to me growing up and is perhaps only slightly less important now because I’ve got things like dependents and employees. Even with that, there are moments that I get completely caught up in Reed Richards’ quest to solve everything. But Stan’s latest profile, in Inc. magazine, is puzzling to me.

Firstly, Inc. is a magazine aimed at entrepreneurs, i.e., people who start their own companies. That isn’t really Stan Lee. He was an employee at Marvel, and even at his own companies (Stan Lee Media and Pow!) I believe he was a  figurehead for other people. He’s a gifted storyteller of a certain sort, and God knows he’s a marketing genius, but an entrepreneur he isn’t.

Secondly,  I’m disturbed by this quote in the profile:

All of the characters at Marvel were my ideas, but the ideas meant nothing unless I had somebody who could illustrate it. For Spider-Man, I called Jack Kirby, and he did a few pages that weren’t right. Jack drew everything so heroically, and I wanted Peter Parker to look more like an average, schlumpy kid. So I got Steve Ditko to do it. Whenever I would discuss the strip, I would say that Steve Ditko and I created Spider-Man. I certainly don’t own the Marvel characters. I’ve never owned them. If I did, I’d be too wealthy to be talking to you.

“All of the characters at Marvel were my ideas”…? I guess it depends upon the definitions of the words “all” and “ideas.” The pre-eminent Marvel way of scripting was thus:  a plotting session between writer and artist; the penciller  would render the pages; the writer would then script in balloons and captions. The first time Stan Lee thought of the Silver Surfer, for example, was after seeing him drawn into a Fantastic Four storyline about Galactus. Stan asked Jack Kirby who that was, and Kirby said he figured that someone as important as Galactus would have a herald — and that was the herald. Stan has agreed in interviews that this was the origin of the character. Here’s the relevant snippet from Wikipedia:

The Silver Surfer debuted as an unplanned addition to the superhero-team comic Fantastic Four #48 (March 1966). The comic’s writer-editor, Stan Lee, and its penciller and co-plotter, Jack Kirby, had by the mid-1960s developed using a three-collaborative technique known as the “Marvel Method“: the two would discuss story ideas, Kirby would work from a brief synopsis to draw the individual scenes and plot details, and Lee would finally add the dialog and captions. When Kirby turned in his pencil art for the story, he included a new character he and Lee had not discussed.^[5] As Lee recalled in 1995, “There, in the middle of the story we had so carefully worked out, was a nut on some sort of flying surfboard”.^[6] He later expanded on this, recalling, “I thought, ‘Jack, this time you’ve gone too far'”.^[7] Kirby explained that the story’s agreed-upon antagonist, a god-like cosmic predator of planets named Galactus should have some sort of herald, and that he created the surfboard “because I’m tired of drawing spaceships!”^[8] Taken by the noble features of the new character, who turned on his master to help defend Earth, Lee overcame his initial skepticism and began adding characterization. The Silver Surfer soon became a key part of the unfolding story.^[5]

The Silver Surfer, therefore, was not solely the idea of Stan Lee. Taking Stan’s definition of “idea” as I believe he’s using it, the Surfer wasn’t his idea at all. So clearly, by this one example alone, “all” isn’t accurate.

I’m not an intellectual property attorney, but doesn’t the “idea” of Spider-Man expand to include the character as conceived? Stan Lee partially got the “idea” for Spider-Man by watching a spider crawl up the wall, but our understanding of Spider-Man redounds largely from the costume as well, which was designed and drawn by Steve Ditko. In Stan’s version, Ditko is an “illustrator” whom he also recognizes as a “creator.” Fair enough. But can you “create” if you’re not part of generating the “idea”? I do a lot of collaboration in all sorts of arenas, especially in the theatre, and part of that is the exchange of ideas. You want people to bring their ideas. (Unless you’re Bertolt Brecht. But that’s another story.)

Throughout the years, Stan Lee has been attacked for taking too much credit. I’m not interested in joining in on that and I’m not trying to. Reading this interview in Inc., though, I see again the sort of interview he gives that lends the impression that he’s edging others out of the spotlight, or minimizing their contribution.  I also like to think that since he’s 86 years old we should pray for his continued good health and look the other way when something he says comes out the wrong way.

And once again, all of this would feel better if Marvel and its various corporate entities over the years had done more to acknowledge the genius of Jack Kirby with tribute, and with money. He was co-creator of a multi-billion-dollar universe of characters and he couldn’t even get his art returned to him.

Sir Ian McKellen went on The View last week to promote the new and updated “Prisoner” series on AMC. What ensued was painful — for the audience, at times for Sir Ian, and hopefully for the not terribly bright women who host this show. Check out Geoff Boucher’s take on it, then watch the excruciating video below. Rule of thumb: It’s good when the interviewers prep, or have some basic notion what they’re talking about. But maybe I’m old fashioned.

After a day well-spent playing backyard baseball with my seven-year-old, who hit a home run that literally tore my baseball cap off and kept going, I decided I needed a late-night boost. Luckily, one bottle of Bolthouse C-Boost remained in our refrigerator. And they’re right:  all this fruity vitamin-enriched goodness definitely lifts your spirits. Especially when you pour it over ice with a healthy dose of vodka.

Let us now bemoan the plight of Nicholas Cage. At $20 million bucks per picture, he’s struggling to stay afloat. He’s in financial peril because of the economic downturn — either that, or because he’s a profligate spender. In the long list of purchases detailed in this story, here’s something I don’t find:  investments. They’re all expenditures. The difference between Cage and, say, Magic Johnson? The latter was always smart enough to invest in further income (laundromats, movie theatres, coffee shops, rental buildings, etc.). The former bought dinosaur skulls, European castles, exotic animals, and meteorites.

Thankfully, I don’t sense a bailout looming. Unless it’s in the guise of “National Treasure 3.”

It’s opening just about nowhere, and a more paranoid person would have a theory about why.

A: They are Devo.

Last night, ubiquitous friend Trey and I went to see Devo at the Music Box (aka “The Henry Fonda,” and I doubt Henry would be pleased at what goes on there most of the times these days: rock and hip-hop shows).

Some of us (well, me) have waited 30 years to see this band do “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” live. Yes, there is another version of this song that to this day is performed by those old Rolling fellows, but really, it can’t compare. Here’s how the song really sounds, and how it was performed last night by a very energetic quintet that I remember freaking out and scaring off everyone I played that album for back in the Carter era, but who now, somehow, is beloved by attractive young women who were nowhere to be found near this band 30 years ago.

Friday

Six of my family members go to see my play “He Said She Said” without me (more on that in a moment). My brother and sister and brother-in-law all seem impressed the next morning. (This is a 30-year first.) But my wife tells me, “It’s all just so sad and pointless.” (Yes, she’s talking about my play.)  “Weren’t people laughing?” I ask about the play, which is intended as a poignant comedy. “Yeah,” she says, “but that’s just because of the way he’s doing the lines. It’s not the writing.” Takeaway:  Now that blood relatives like one of my plays, my wife has left the reservation. A Taoist would say this is balance.

Meanwhile, my friend Trey and I are suffering in purgatory. Or more precisely, the play “Purgatorio” at UCLA Live! (Exclamation point theirs.) I will say what the LA Times’ Theatre Critic whinges on about without fully stating:  It’s tedious in extremis.  His reservation at calling out its dullness eradicates any former credentials. Within the first five minutes of the extremely slow initial scene, which concern a woman slicing a cucumber at glacial speed, I get it:  Oh, we’re in purgatory — just like them. Unfortunately, another 85 minutes follow. At play’s end I actually stand up in my second-row seat, turn around to an audience partially populated by theatre people I know, and demonstrably hold my nose before leaving. The highlight of the performance is when my iPhone starts vibrating on my leg. (I later find out that a friend’s pocketed cellphone has accidentally called me.)

Saturday

I bid farewell to the visiting relatives after we all spend 90 minutes debating whether or not to wake up my wife so they can bid her farewell. Finally, at 11:30 a.m., they relent and leave, with her still asleep. She awakens perhaps 18 seconds later and says, “They left? Why didn’t somebody wake me up?”

I spend far too much time making up party games for  our Halloween-party-slash-22nd-anniversary party. I also visit two Halloween stores and am astonished (and cheered!) at the long lines within. I purchase enough fake blood for a sequel to Carrie. I also purchase ping pong balls with eyes on them, for the punchbowl.

I take the kids trick-or-treating, Trey again in tow. He’s dressed as Nacho Libre, and I’ve thrown on a wizard’s gown because my “real” costume for later isn’t ready yet. Everywhere we go around the neighborhood excited folks of Latin American descent cry out, “Oh, loo! Loo! Nacho Libre!” Trey basks in the warm glow of appreciation and acceptance, a lifetime of Halloween costume misfires now behind him. Later at my party he somehow wins both “funniest costume” and “scariest costume”; presented with Trey in this costume, the guests at my party are as confused by their choices as the old people puzzled by the butterfly ballot. Trey also scores an indecent 19 correct out of 22 responses in my contest to match the horror film with the actor. (It makes a statement when you can correctly identify John Heard as the star of “C.H.U.D.” and Jennifer Aniston as the female lead in “Leprechaun 2.”) Oh, and my kids’ costumes:  my 11-year-old girl is a dark wood fairy, and my 7-year-old boy is a soldier (and very happy to have a fake knife in hand). But really, all the focus is on the half-naked middle-aged man.

One of the guests at the party, a longtime friend, tells me he is the last remaining employee in his department at the LA Times. When he started, there were 22; now there’s just him. He also says that effective January the paper will be shrinking — literally. They will shrink the page size. I guess that’s one way to make it even smaller while saying they held the page count firm. I resolve yet again to cancel the paper.

My wife and I exchange 22nd wedding anniversary gifts:  I give her the Rowan Atkinson comedy special where he plays the Doctor (Who); she gives me the boxed dvd set of “I, Claudius.” Each of us is thrilled. Nobody needed anything more. She and I go to bed and stay up for a good long time.

Sunday

I determine to do nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe read a little; maybe not. I read part of the LA Times. I read a magazine. My wife gets up finally at some point. I talk to her for a while. Fed up with nothingness, I say I’d like to go hiking; she agrees, but then says she’d rather go to the park. I wait hours for us all to go to the park, my dog’s warm but fierce brown eyes drilling holes into me for the duration. Finally I write a note — “Went to the park” — and go. Leaving behind the dog to drill holes into her. At the park, there are two fathers with their children and when they see me enter unaccompanied by children I can read their thoughts. This worsens when I go over to the jungle gym and hang upside-down by my calves, my shirt slipping off over my head. Small children’s eyes are averted; they are cautioned away by these fathers. I could explain that I’m trying to stretch out my neck, indeed my entire spinal column, but finally one of them gets it when he sees me dismount and wag my head around slowly. When I do it again, this time children approach and gape. A little boy of almost two is standing there, his milk bottle dangling from his mouth as he stares intently and I think, “It’s past time this kid was weaned.” My wife and kids and dog finally arrive and now I seem safer to all concerned. I do some more hanging from the bars so my own kids can watch. They’re amused too.

We return home and my wife decides to wash the dog outside. I decide to watch. I’ve been on permanent dog-washing duty for 20 years with two different dogs, so I’m well-prepared to sit back quietly with a magazine while she does it. She does it all wrong. The dog shakes water all over her, then gets in the house while soaking wet, then slips back outside before dried and runs like crazy around the entire back yard, rolling around in grass and mulch and digging through dirt, coming out of it all dirtier than before. But my wife laughs it off and washes the dog again. For that, I decide to take her out to dinner.

We go out for sushi and each of us orders new things. I order different sushi selections than usual and she orders clam miso soup and dragon roll (when it arrives, the dragon looks and tastes suspiciously like salmon). Kid 2 orders coffee mochi, which means that Kid 3 has to order coffee mochi too. (Kid 1 is off at college.) We all agree that the new decor of this, our favorite Japanese restaurant, is beautiful and seductive. I’m just glad that sports aren’t projected fuzzily on the wall behind us anymore.

We come home and she puts Kid 2 and Kid 3 to bed while I watch “Mad Men.” Just as everyone who watches it has predicted all season long, the episode  deals with the Kennedy presidential assassination. I’m somewhat unmoved. I don’t care about the Kennedy assassination as it pertains to “Mad Men.” I care about the characters in “Mad Men.” Instead, I get numerous scenes of characters in “Mad Men” sitting around shocked and sobbing watching TV. It feels like “Purgatorio” again, but with commercials. My wife says she’s going to bed — “I’m actually tired!” she says — and then sounds me out about my sleeping habits for the night. She’s asking me to please not turn on the light to read, and not to eat noisy beef sticks, and not to try to sneak reading in bed while she’s asleep, because all of that will wake her up. Unspoken:  Please don’t sleep walk or thrash around or have one-sided conversations in your sleep et cetera et cetera, as though these are intentional choices. I watch the movie “Milk” downstairs and think that although the movie is a little padded, Sean Penn is pretty exciting in the role, and then to make sure I’m really good and tired I watch “Into the Wild,” except what it does is make me really angry at this inconsiderate coddled little shit who goes on an ultimately fatal 18-month walkabout and can’t once be bothered to call his parents and reassure them that he’s alive. He dies after four months in the Alaskan wilderness after several bouts of severe stupidity and, much as with the Timothy Treadwell saga, I find myself rooting for the bear to reintroduce the human to the realities of the food chain.

I go upstairs and get undressed for bed and open the sliding door to the balcony as gently as I can to let in some cool night air so that I might possibly sleep a little better and then lie down as stilly and noiselessly as possible and note how full a largely unfilled weekend ultimately turned out to feel, and then I drift off to sleep and somehow somehow sleep the whole night through.

What are two of my obsessions?

Halloween, and the idea of not getting my mail.

So here’s something that would keep me awake.

The email I just got:

Dear Lee:

It is with great regret I announce today that I am withdrawing from the race for governor of California. With a young family and responsibilities at city hall, I have found it impossible to commit the time required to complete this effort the way it needs to — and should be — done.

This is not an easy decision. But it is one made with the best intentions for my wife, my daughter, the residents of the city and county of San Francisco, and California Democrats.

When I embarked on this campaign in April, my goal was to engage thousands and thousands of Californians dedicated to reforming our broken system and bringing change to Sacramento.

I would like to thank those supporters, volunteers, and donors who have worked so hard on my behalf. I have been humbled by their support and am indebted to their efforts. They represent the spirit of change and determination essential to putting California back on the right track.

I will continue to fight for change and the causes and issues for which I care deeply — universal health care, a cleaner environment and a green economy for our families, better education for our children, and, of course, equal rights under the law for all citizens.
Sincerely,

Gavin Newsom

And here’s the response I sent:

Unbelievable.

Are you kidding me?

Blaming your family NOW because NOW you’ve decided it’s going to require more TIME?

Fff.

More likely you read the polls.

You could have won this.

I’ll never support you again.

And then I emailed it to a bunch of friends. Here was one’s immediate response:  “I think there is a new scandal – all those months on the road in California – all those adoring young female fans….”