We are all becoming heroes at a rapid rate.

And by hero, I mean ancient Greek style hero.

When Americans hear the word "hero," most think of a soldier in Iraq, a firefighter who saves children from a burning building, or a tireless volunteer who helps the homeless or is the rock of the PTA.

When the Greeks thought of a hero, they thought of someone people talked about.

The Greeks were very communitarian. Think "My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding" on steroids. Family was everything. Individuals were not important. People who stood out often got nailed for it. Socrates much, anyone?

Even the heroes of Greek mythology got a raw deal in stories. Most of them came to bad ends. Few ended up back with their families.

But they got talked about. They stood out from the crowd, people pointed, and their story was told. Over and over. The dubious payback for this attention? At least they had a kind of immortality through gossip.

Now we Americans are following in Achilles' footsteps.

Here's what I mean. It used to be, before the Internet, Facebook, Twitter, Open Salon shock-blogs, and the rest, that there were those of us whom almost no one ever talked about, heard about, or worried about. We led lives, things happened to us, but it wasn't a big deal. The most enterprising of us wrote Christmas letters and chronicled the year's events in a page or two. Our friends secretly resented us for bragging about Junior's track award and Dear Hubby's promotion at work.

But now, with Facebook, Twitter, and the rest, there is never a reason why anyone ever has to be in the dark about our activities. We all stand out from the crowd as we become the poet of our own myth.

Every Facebook update can be like a 15-second epic poem.

"Had to stand in line at the DMV for a long time while Junior got his real license. My youth is over lol! He is one step closer to adulthood."

That is good for a shot of adrenaline among readers, and a shivering feeling of catharsis, as we identify with the writer.

Last year when I signed up for Facebook, I scanned through the folks in my high school senior class who were also signed up. I saw no one among the 4 dozen or so with whom I ever wanted to have a reunion.

Last week I looked again. The numbers of signer-uppers had exploded exponentially. I even saw Gretchen, one of my old crushes.

I wonder about her story. She looked happy, with a great-looking husband and two beautiful kids. It was as if I had discovered an ancient scroll, with ancient Greek characters rolled up inside.

All I have to do to read the myth and create a hero from my crush is Facebook-friend her, send her a message, and wait for the translation to come.

Now the flip side of all this discovery is that the biggest heroes are coming to bad ends. Consider John and Kate Gosselin, the couple that had sextuplets and a successful reality show. Now they are divorcing-- unless they are not, and stay tuned-- and the ratings are through the roof. Jason and Medea never had better Nielsen numbers.

Is it good or bad? A wonderful blogger friend of mine has sworn off reality shows. But my daughter, thirteen years old and voracious for knowledge about the adult world, watches and learns. When I watch "The Real Housewives of New Jersey" with her, I catch her eye, stare her down, and say, "Never do what they're doing." The ancient Greeks loved negative role models.

And then we go to the pool, and I figure we're safe from the epic glory of Greek herodom for a while.

Till I realize my daughter's used her cell phone to text "pool :)" as her brand new Facebook  status.