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How to Form Your Own Super Team

7 July 2010 One Million Watts 4,204 views 2 CommentsPrint This Post Print This Post Email This Post Email This Post

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. The Magnificent Seven. The Dirty Three. I don’t know about you, but I have long dreamed of being a part of a super team — a collection of individuals with specialized skills and abilities that, when acting in concert, has the power to topple gangs and regimes, defeat an alien menace, or reclaim treasures from the undeserving. At the end of the day, the group walk towards the camera in slow motion, their long coats billowing behind them and their hair gently flowing in the breeze, like Farrah Fawcett. Oh yeah, baby, it’s good to be on the Super Team.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any particularly unique skills or abilities to offer such a collective. In fact, even the things I can do well enough are now so common as to make my matriculation into an existing super team largely unnecessary: Thanks to the miracle of the Internet and camera phones, everyone can write observational feature pieces, take a decent photo, and do this. If I’m going to be a part of my own super team — The OMFG Megamix Alliance, perhaps, or Carter’s Twenty-Three — I’m gonna need to recruit my own.

The one who can fix a car. She’ll wear a blue service-station shirt, wield a socket wrench and have a big hairdo straight out of a 1960s girls-prison exploitation movie. Later, I’ll learn that she’s a self-made billionaire, having invented time.

The one who can figure everybody’s stake in the bar tab, plus tip.
He’ll also take unabashed joy in doing my tax returns, in exchange for one fresh-baked pie every week for six weeks.

The one who can make exquisite desserts. “Hey, dude, I’m trying to make a Key Lime Pie here. Can you talk me through it?” And he will — patiently and not unkindly. He won’t even laugh when I ask “So when do I add the keys?”

The one who doles out free legal advice. She can help me write the occasional “pay me my money”/”stop using my copyrighted image” letter, the kind that ends with “If you do not respond to this message within seven days, we will proceed.” Also: if she can fix the dozens of moving violations accumulated by the one who can fix a car, so much the better.

The one who makes me feel really good about being a journalist, even though the industry is in decline. “Hey, it’s not everyone who can write in the popular voice, you know? And your photos are really, really … not terrible.”

The one who excels at the sports questions in bar trivia. We’d totally win this thing if we had a guy like that. Who in the hell bothers to name a right-field foul pole? It’s a stupid pole. We totally would have won this if not for that question. This game is rigged.

The one who can fix a computer.
Should be willing to work in exchange for press-ready photos of her screamo band. And she can’t make fun of my MacBook, my aging Dell, or my blinding incompetence.

The one who has a spare bedroom in a city that I’d really like to visit. Close to attractions and shopping.

The one who will eviscerate my enemies and drink their heathen blood. And dispose of the bodies. Grazie mille. This Christmas, my friend, you’re gonna get the biggest, best iPod they make.

Geoff Carter


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  1. I am ready and willing to fix your computer in exchange for some of your not too terrible (lovely) photos. I think you could really pull this thing together. The real question is: what scourge are we ridding the city of?

  2. My list (off the top of my head) would also include: The one who does the dishes and puts them away; The one who cleans the cat box; The one who picks up after me even before the object has hit the floor; and The one who always makes me laugh and makes me a cocktail, even when I feel like eviscerating my enemies and drinking their heathen blood. (As a rule, cocktails taste better than hemoglobin, even with a dash of Angostura.)

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