thinking about heroes. To be specific: superheroes. Those guys and gals in comics and movies and occasionally TV who run around in inappropriately tight costumes catching criminals and causing, on average, an estimated $3.2 million in property damage for every $1,000 in stolen property recovered. In a world where gay (no judgment implied) cannibals willingly offer themselves up so that other gay (no judgment implied) cannibals can eat their penises while watching Flipper, Why, dear Lord, why has no one yet put on a cape and cavorted through the city primeval, saving damsels from falling bits of building and punching carjackers in their coin purses? There are people who will put on a leather hood and yell at you while you lick their shoes, but no one wants to put on a mask and yell a snappy catchphrase before swinging down from a rooftop and jerking an old woman out from in front of a bus full of toxic chemicals barreling down on her like the dark specter of hell itself.
Is that too much to ask?
Surely this state of affairs is not right. There’s a Batman-shaped void in society calling out to be filled. Specifically, I feel it’s calling out to me, a lifetime devotee to all things superhero. And why shouldn’t I be the one to step up? I’ve read almost every issue of Daredevil ever published.* I once lovingly hand-crafted a statue of no less a third-stringer than the Absorbing Man out of Super Sculpey, and when I was a boy, I used to run around the house with my tighty whities on my head playing Spider-Man. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize there’s really only one obstacle, albeit a big one, in the way of becoming the world’s first superhero, and l’obstacle, c’est moi. Specifically, the obstacle is my body and the plethora of superhuman, or even reasonablyathletichuman, abilities it utterly fails to support. For example, I’m not (and this is something only a few people know about me) impervious to pain. I’m actually quite pervious to it. I also can’t become invisible. I don’t have superspeed and can’t even run particularly fast. I’m a bit (read: a lot) overweight, and while my legs are strong, I have the upper body strength of a nine-year-old girl—a malnourished nine-year-old girl.
A malnourished 9-year-old girl who’s contracted malaria just as she’s coming off a bad case of mono. I’m not strong, is what I’m saying.
A natural by-product of my out of shapeness is that my stamina isn’t what it used to be. One could also say I never had much in the way of stamina in the first place, but I like the way I say it better. For example, I just finished installing a new light fixture in the entryway of my house. And I swear the strain brought on by twisting some wires together and driving in about three screws, all while holding my hands above my head for approximately two minutes, kicked my ass so hard that I’d dialed the 9 and a 1, before my wife talked me down, or rather up, because by that point I was lying on the floor with one hand on the phone and the other on my pulse, making sure it was still there.
As if all that weren’t enough to disqualify me, I also slouch, say “good” when I mean “well,” and don’t call my mother as often as I should. Long story short, I’m beginning to think I need to find a way to do the superhero gig without being born with awesome physical might beyond the ken of mere mortals, although that would have been nifty too. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
After some contemplation and drawing upon the accumulated knowledge gained from a lifetime of reading, watching, talking, and thinking about superheroes, I’ve realized very few are actually born with their powers. In fact, I’ve narrowed the origins of superpowers down to the following six:
1. Aliens. Either being one (Superman) or by coming into contact with them (The Greatest American Hero—remember that show?—that was a great show). This seems to my mind the easiest and, relatively speaking, safest way of becoming superpowered. The only drawback here is that I’m not, in fact, an alien, and I have yet to see one. I was probed once, but that had less to do with creatures from other worlds than with a little curiosity and a lot of cheap booze.
2. Exposure to radiation. This can happen either directly (the Incredible Hulk) or via animal and insect bites (Spider-Man). I’m ruling out this method for two reasons: First, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for any type of radiation more powerful than a malfunctioning tanning bed. I don’t recall seeing barrels of toxic sludge on special at Wal-Mart, although I could be wrong. Second, I have equally little knowledge re: locating an irradiated creature. Plus, that might hurt a bit. I’m not willing to suffer for my art as of yet. Refer back to my statements regarding perviousness to pain.
3. Methods involving the supernatural. These methods come into play either by practicing magic (Dr. Strange) or by being some sort of unnatural creature (werewolf, vampire). I can easily discount the first half of this option just by observing people who claim to be able to perform magic. They all share the same traits:
Worldview of a neo-hippie
Names like Madame Maleficent and Impious Wolfsbane
Over 10,000 hours Dungeons & Dragons (D&J)
Pot-reek
Children named Starchild, the Explorer, and Chad
None of these traits automatically falsify their claims of the ability to perform magic; I simply refuse to associate with such people. Plus, Doug Henning claimed to perform real magic. Remember him? Neither does anyone else.
4. Pseudoscience (Iron Man). This method can be logically eliminated simply by considering the ratio of real-world practitioners of pseudoscience to real-world superheroes, which works out to something in the vicinity of eleventy gazillion to goose egg.
5. Results of genetic mutation (X-Men). This option is a nonstarter, as the only noticeable genetic mutations I’m aware of generally take the form of webbed feet, vestigial tails, or, at best, double jointedness. I was blessed with none of these characteristics, although I can do a mean belly roll. Not being naturally mutated, if I desired to effect an aftermarket modification to my genes, I’d be left holding the bag back at Option 2.
This leaves me with only one option, which I call Option 6, what with it coming after Option 5 and all.
6. Cultivation of powers through training, study, and effort (Batman). Really, this route can be summarized with one word—exercise.
After this realization that I might have to put forth regular, extended physical effort to achieve my newly minted life’s dream of becoming the world’s first superhero, I get online to find the number for Home Depot’s Toxic Sludge department, using the one source of wisdom and infallibly accurate knowledge regarding all things in existence or yet to exist: Google. Just as I’m about to hit the “I’m Feeling Lucky” button, I have another realization, the second one today and fifth overall for my entire life: I’d better check and make sure I actually would be the world’s first real superhero before I go through all this trouble. I delete the words “Home Depot radioactive” from the search bar and replace them with “real-life superhero.”
Crap on a cracker, I get so many results you’d think I’d planned it. I scan down the search results and there, third one down, is a Wikipedia article filed under “real-life superhero,” and it’s filled with stories about people calling themselves things like Angle-Grinder Man, Terrifica, and Superbarrio. I’m a little let down that once again, I’m not as original as I thought, but fascinated that someone else not only had the same idea but also the nerve or lack of self-awareness actually to follow through with it. This realization, at least, offsets my disappointment.
I page back to my search results. Just a few entries below the Wikipedia article is a link to a site that dares call itself, without a hint of sarcasm or even a Monty Pythonesque “wink, wink, nudge, nudge,” The World Superhero Registry. I click, and mere seconds later (slow connection), I’m confronted by the grimacing faces of no less than 29 active real-life superheroes (RLSHs) and 121 heroes in
