I Could Be Your Hero, Baby

In the fall of 2006, NBC premiered "Heroes" -- a show that I heavily fantasized about starring on. During its second season, I almost had the opportunity.

A girl had just moved into my apartment complex. She was a budding actress and was soon cast in a recurring role in the series.  Now I had an "in" for the show.  So I cornered her at her housewarming party:

"Can you get me a meeting with Tim Kring [the creator of "Heroes"]?"

"Um. Why?"

"I have a great idea, for a hero that I could play," I told her.

She smiled, "Oh, that's nice."

"What if... I was a hero on the show, and my special ability was that without even looking I could immediately tell if a dairy product had expired."

She was silent -- probably speechless over my brilliant idea.

"So let's say the Guy-Who-Can-Fly is making a sandwich," I continued, "and I could be all 'Hey, Guy-Who-Can-Fly, don't eat that chicken salad sandwich. The mayonnaise has gone bad.' And the Guy-Who-Can-Fly could be all, 'Oh, thanks.'"

"And that would make you a superhero how?"

"Because he would go off and save the world, but the credit would really be mine for preventing him from getting food poisoning."

Duh.
 
"And it could be like a three-episode arc," I continued, "because the Guy-Who-Can-Fly could get all the credit for saving the world, but I'd be all mad for getting looked over. So then I could cross over to the villains and start telling people that the milk is fine when clearly it's gone sour."

She didn't have an answer for that, but she nodded.

"The three-episode arc is important," I assured her, "That way I can get residuals."

I went to bed that night giddy at the thought of being cast as a hero and being able to hang out with the Guy-Who-Can-Fly, and the Girl-Who-Heals-Quickly, and that Guy-Who-Broods-A-Lot.

I caught up with my neighbor in the hallway days later. "So? What did they say?"

"Oh, I forgot to bring it up."

"That's okay," I said, "because I have an even better idea for a hero that I could play."

She started darting her eyes around the hallway, I assume to ensure that nobody was eavesdropping who might rip off my idea.

"What if I was a hero, and my special ability was that I could make really good mix tapes."

She looked at me skeptically.

"It's really hard to make a good mix tape," I reminded her, "First, you have to plan it out so that all the songs fit on one side of the cassette. Then for it to be really awesome you need to cross-fade the songs together -- not everyone does that.  And song selection is really important -- I mean you can't just hit them with three awesome songs in a row. You got to build up to it. Wet the appetite. Lubricate the eardrums."

"I don't know about that one. A mix tape? That's not much of a superpower."

"No, no, we're talking a mix tape so good that it could bring peace to the Middle East."

She mumbled something about being late and ran off, but I could tell she was just as stoked as me.  I spent most of the next week hovering by the phone, waiting for my big break.

But that phone never rang. Because Hollywood is a soulless town that feeds off broken dreams.  Besides, a better idea for a superhero would be one with the ability to make really good hummus.  The trick is to peel the garbanzos before pureeing them.