As a child I was only mildly interested in the concept of superheroes. I remember liking Superman and if no good cartoons were on I was known to catch an episode here and there of The Hulk, but I was never particularly interested in watching, talking about or trying to emulate superheroes. Perhaps this lack of heroic interest is a result of being female, but I always identified more with the damsel in distress than the hero. (I guess I wasn't much of a feminist when I was seven.) The problem is that acting the part of the damsel usually ended in pain.
Like most children I had a pretty vivid fantasy life. My favorite games usually included some form of playacting, and since I was a very bossy little girl (no surprise there) and would usually take charge of the casting and direction of the little plays I would stage with my friends, I would often cast myself as the beautiful maiden in need of help. One memory that springs to mind is playing Dukes of Hazzard at the babysitter's house. I had just finished watching an installment when Daisy had somehow managed to get herself in an automobile accident, but just in the nick of time Luke appears to save her. With muscles flexing and hair glittering in the sun he lifted her out of the soon-to-explode car and carried the short-short clad hotty to safety.
It was fantastic.
After the show I managed to rope some unsuspecting boy to try and reenact that particular scene with me. Everything was going to plan until he lifted me out of the burning "car" and, too weak to manage my weight, promptly dropped me on a Tonka truck. It didn't hurt much, but my six-year-old self ran crying to narc him out to the babysitter nonetheless (painting the whole scene as being his idea, of course).
Not that I needed other people to hurt myself. I remember being quite young (three maybe?) when I was standing in the checkout lane of the grocery store with my mom and spotted the cover of a romance novel propped amongst the sundries. A Fabio-ish man wearing a shirt open to his navel and long, blonde hair waving in the wind was running from some unseen terror. Running behind him was a beautiful woman, also with long, blonde hair waving in the wind, who was struggling to keep up. Her hand was clasped in his and her head was turned to face the evils behind her that she and her hero were narrowly escaping. With this image burned in my memory, I decided to reenact the scene weeks later when my mom and I were running late for a wedding. My mom parked the car, grabbed my tiny wrist and began briskly walking with me to the ceremony. Recalling the romance novel, I began playing the role of the damsel. I began to run, imagining demons chomping at my heels, feeling the sun illuminate my face and imagining how marvelously pathetic I must look. It was an awesome couple of seconds before my patent leather shoes tripped over the broken sidewalk, sending me sprawling over the concrete and scraping my entire face. Bruised and bleeding, I endured the ceremonies in tears as I clutched a Kleenex to my injured face.
Perhaps I would have been better off being the hero, because damn it if being the damsel wasn't painful.
So what prompted the trip down injury lane? Last night I watched one of the oddest, corniest and strangely engrossing shows I've seen in some time - Who Wants to be a Superhero? From what I gathered after watching one episode, it's a reality show (I'm applying the term loosely here) where perfectly human adults have created cartoon personas and are competing to see who makes the best superhero. The prize? A staring role in a Sci-Fi channel movie and Stan Lee will create a comic-book using the winner's character. Not bad, I guess.
Obviously some of the contestants are aspiring actors who just want a chance to make a movie, but some of them appear to really think they are superheroes, practicing their super-moves in their bedrooms and shouting unscripted interjections like, "What is this treachery!" when they discover a new twist in the show. It's this total commitment to delusion that makes the show absolutely hilarious. That, and the show's quotability. Example:
So, despite the injuries I guess my childhood desire to be a beautiful damsel in distress isn't so bad. After all, it could be a lot worse. I could be a twenty-something year old woman who pretends her alter-ego is a monkey, wears gadgets disguised as bananas on her utility belt and is vulnerable to calliope organs.
Like most children I had a pretty vivid fantasy life. My favorite games usually included some form of playacting, and since I was a very bossy little girl (no surprise there) and would usually take charge of the casting and direction of the little plays I would stage with my friends, I would often cast myself as the beautiful maiden in need of help. One memory that springs to mind is playing Dukes of Hazzard at the babysitter's house. I had just finished watching an installment when Daisy had somehow managed to get herself in an automobile accident, but just in the nick of time Luke appears to save her. With muscles flexing and hair glittering in the sun he lifted her out of the soon-to-explode car and carried the short-short clad hotty to safety.
It was fantastic.
After the show I managed to rope some unsuspecting boy to try and reenact that particular scene with me. Everything was going to plan until he lifted me out of the burning "car" and, too weak to manage my weight, promptly dropped me on a Tonka truck. It didn't hurt much, but my six-year-old self ran crying to narc him out to the babysitter nonetheless (painting the whole scene as being his idea, of course).
Not that I needed other people to hurt myself. I remember being quite young (three maybe?) when I was standing in the checkout lane of the grocery store with my mom and spotted the cover of a romance novel propped amongst the sundries. A Fabio-ish man wearing a shirt open to his navel and long, blonde hair waving in the wind was running from some unseen terror. Running behind him was a beautiful woman, also with long, blonde hair waving in the wind, who was struggling to keep up. Her hand was clasped in his and her head was turned to face the evils behind her that she and her hero were narrowly escaping. With this image burned in my memory, I decided to reenact the scene weeks later when my mom and I were running late for a wedding. My mom parked the car, grabbed my tiny wrist and began briskly walking with me to the ceremony. Recalling the romance novel, I began playing the role of the damsel. I began to run, imagining demons chomping at my heels, feeling the sun illuminate my face and imagining how marvelously pathetic I must look. It was an awesome couple of seconds before my patent leather shoes tripped over the broken sidewalk, sending me sprawling over the concrete and scraping my entire face. Bruised and bleeding, I endured the ceremonies in tears as I clutched a Kleenex to my injured face.
Perhaps I would have been better off being the hero, because damn it if being the damsel wasn't painful.
So what prompted the trip down injury lane? Last night I watched one of the oddest, corniest and strangely engrossing shows I've seen in some time - Who Wants to be a Superhero? From what I gathered after watching one episode, it's a reality show (I'm applying the term loosely here) where perfectly human adults have created cartoon personas and are competing to see who makes the best superhero. The prize? A staring role in a Sci-Fi channel movie and Stan Lee will create a comic-book using the winner's character. Not bad, I guess.
Obviously some of the contestants are aspiring actors who just want a chance to make a movie, but some of them appear to really think they are superheroes, practicing their super-moves in their bedrooms and shouting unscripted interjections like, "What is this treachery!" when they discover a new twist in the show. It's this total commitment to delusion that makes the show absolutely hilarious. That, and the show's quotability. Example:
(Major Victory): "I'm so screwed! I just gave up my true identity! I have a new name - Major Dumbass."And that's all from just one episode.
(Stan Lee): "Fat Mama, please get the trashcan and place it next to Monkeygirl."
(Feedback): "I guess the Dark Enforcer's already succeeding. We're already turning on one another. (pause for effect) And that just doesn't feel right."
(Major Victory): "It makes perfect sense now. Stan Lee was right. I should have never laughed at Trivecuous' costume. Superheroes need to support one another."
So, despite the injuries I guess my childhood desire to be a beautiful damsel in distress isn't so bad. After all, it could be a lot worse. I could be a twenty-something year old woman who pretends her alter-ego is a monkey, wears gadgets disguised as bananas on her utility belt and is vulnerable to calliope organs.
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