A co-worker and I were discussing the books and comics we read in our 'tween years and judging whether we'd actually grown up since then. Neither of us fared well. He reads Spin, and I'm still a fan of comic -- er, graphic novels. Fortunately, I'd wanted to sound cooler than I actually was back then, so I lied about my childhood reading list. Otherwise, I would have been forced to admit that not only did I fail to mature-- I'd found a way to regress.
Reluctant to dig myself deeper into the nerd hole, I omitted certain of my favorite dystopian authors from that impressionable time and only mentioned the more age-appropriate reading material. Starting at ten years old, I fed on Camus, Orwell, Huxley, Zamyatin, Gibson, Golding, Kafka, and such, along with the bleakest sci-fi. Try to imagine sudden, holy-rolling familial religious conversion and puberty hitting this premature existential angst. Can you say "social outcast”? I knew you could.
To my co-worker, I only admitted reading the usual Chronicles of Narnia and Dark is Rising sets as well as the few issues of MAD Magazine I could sneak past my mom. And then there was my beloved CARtoons, that breathlessly anticipated bimonthly magazine of hot rods, cruisers, and other drawings of tricked-out cars and trucks. The pop culture parodies and stupid humor were merely excuses for the art. I waited ages for the next issue, spending this eternity drawing on paper, schoolbooks, inside-out VHS tape boxes, and my brother's arm ("tattoos"). I thought all cars should be drawn in the exaggerated Trosley style and that Shawn Kerri was, simply, a god. CARtoons was directly responsible for my desire to be a part-time cartoonist when I grew up (after becoming a full-time veterinarian with a sky-diving hobby, of course). It was only later that I discovered I was missing an essential component of a cartoonist's resources -- talent.
Since the co-worker, shockingly, had never heard of CARtoons, the topic quickly turned to superheroes. It seems he had been consuming large quantities of DC Comics in his youth and had fond memories of, well, Wonder Woman. This confession roused guilt feelings within me for not owning up to The Trial, so perhaps I spoke too soon and too enthusiastically when asked my favorite superhero. "Dexter," I chirped. "Is there a more perfect superhero than a detached serial killer who only slices up other serial killers and has no messy emotions in the way of the thrill of the hunt and the... power of... uh... " The co-worker was blinking. My grin went slack. "Um, Lindsay's books are kinda funny... " The co-worker stared. Blink, blink.
(This happens a lot. I probably shouldn't talk. Like, ever. I should stick to my half-smile and nodding approximation of listening that makes it seem as if I agree with every word. People tend to like me and think me a genius when I agree with them. It's incredibly effective cover.)
"So, uh, yeah, Wonder Woman. She was kind of a wuss after the forties, but okay," I said. He launched into a zealous refutation of my wuss claim, and I learned more about disco Diana than I ever wanted to know. I'm thinking this guy must really love his mom. Or something.
I didn't get to talk again, but I stood there trying to recall if I had a favorite superhero as a kid. (That I have one now is perhaps not something I should go around declaring.) Let's see, there's Clark Kent. Not Superman. Superman is boring. He can fly through air and space, withstand all onslaughts but kryptonite, see across a galaxy or whatever, blah, blah, blah. I don't care. Clark Kent is way cooler than Superman alone. How many guys do you know who could be Superman and not brag about it all the time? Clark is so secure in his masculinity that he routinely allows lesser mortals to put him down. He pretends to be weak while thinking, "I'm Superman. And you, plainly, are not."
If I had a favorite superhero as a kid, it was probably the angry and misunderstood Incredible Hulk. Poor Hulk. His comics didn't even sell until he was on television. The Bixby/Ferrigno TV version was the only one I knew. I watched the reruns so many times the intro is burned into my brain. "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." Bad grammar and external locus of control aside, this is one of the greatest understated threats of all time. Talk about a guy with some serious mental problems. This was an almost-hero with whom I could identify.
As I grew older, I would identify with the Hulk a little too closely. Like Dr. Banner, I was plagued by nightmares and struggled with anger management. Also like Banner/Hulk, rage saved my ass more than a few times, from the alleys of New York to the streets of London. Even armed predators will back away from a seething, steely-eyed motherfucker. Normal young folks fantasize about having the ability to fly; I wanted the ability to rip an aggressor in half and toss the entrails to the next continent. If kids choose a favorite superhero so they can pattern themselves after a role model, it's possible I should have looked around a bit more.
Following the office banter-induced flashback, I jumped onto eBay looking for issues of CARtoons from the years I read it. The search was exciting and sweetly nostalgic, but, in the end, I bought nothing. Reading an issue now might become the same sticky disappointment that was eating Pop Rocks as an adult -- silly and not as tasty as the memory. However, superhero comics are fair game since I didn't actually read them as a kid. Hey, I said I wasn't cool. Just don't tell anyone.
