When I was a kid and an avid consumer of Superman comics, I would look up in the sky and say to my playmates, “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, no, it’s Superman.” I would then pretend to fly away with the cape my mom made for me flapping in the wind.
I wasn’t an uber menchen of the Nietzschian variety; in fact the only Nietzsche I knew played middle line-backer for the Green Bay Packers. But I was obsessed with Superman. After all, he had a secret identity as fledgling reporter and he had Lois Lane, in what appeared to be unrequited love.
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