Anthropologically, he’s known as Heroicus Humanus.

Street name: He-Man.

In the antediluvian landscape of the distant past, his was a breed of peerless renown. It was he who led the war-glutted ice apes as they cut a battle swath through the witch-haunted marshes of the untrodden west.

Naked and armed with only a broadsword upon blazing Lemurian shores, he alone drove the invading sea serpents back into their charnel citadels of the deep. He-Man used his cavernous cleavage to suffocate the Lizard King atop his jewel-brindled aerie, then beat back and anally subdued the Troglodorian Brotherhood as they marched upon the eldrich gates of Myr where slumber the star-spawned ones.

Now he’s an extant loner wayfaring the Big Apple, teetering on the brink of extinction…and topless…perpetually topless.

You’d swear it all sounds like a syndicated TV pilot from the 80s starring Lorenzo Lamas, but it’s actually the brilliant, just-for-the-hell-of-it inspiration behind the culty blog findheman.com.

Its mission statement is clear: devote an ironic chronicle to a swarthy New York longhair in cargo pants and a Mohican pullback ‘do, create a fabulously overwrought mythos around him, document his movements on a weekly basis and elevate him to Web-wide stardom.

It’s the best way to surrender to your need to stalk an anonymous looker while masking your lust under the sheerest In Search of… pretexts.

Who is He-Man? Where does he come from? Can the sheen emanating off of his pecs truly cause and cure blindness? These and other shattering questions surround the man, the myth.

His legend incorporates elements of the Sasquatch, Tarzan, 80s guilty pleasure Wild Thing, subway car-hitching Lion Man Vincent from Beauty & The Beast and our brawny behemoth’s animated hard body namesake.

When he isn’t traipsing around stripped to the waist at any given time of day, what does he do with himself? Bouncer? Cage fighter? Backyard wrestler? Romance novel cover model?

All big cities have their arrays of urban cooks: the Rapture freaks, the Travis Bickles seething with rage bound to boil over, tinfoil hat wearers, the Ann Darrows trying desperately not to slip through the cracks as they seek their big breaks, the Joe Bucks taking their turn on the meatrack and hoping to get a sugar daddy out of it. All fascinating in their own way, but none can compare to the unique species known as the Muscle Vagrant or the Shirtless Loiterer. The rarest and most babe-like of them all.

Some years back I regularly encountered a memorable specimen outside the subway station in New York’s West 70s, he whom I dubbed “Manglord”, seemingly always to be oiled to a hazy glare and sporting rasta braids, painted-on black jeans and a yellow python around his neck.

Times Square — within a mere walking distance of He-Man’s downtown loping grounds — is the territory of the Naked Cowboy (aka Playgirl model Robert Burck — left), who, while more showy and approachable, still draws on the same inscrutability of a man short on clothes and long on time to show it off.

The aura of mystery around all these men demands conjecture. They’re too clean, well-fed, and have too much obvious access to gym equipment to be homeless, yet they never exude an air of being gainfully employed. Though they must suffer from some sort of troubling mental or social problems, none are outward public menaces.

Not generically attractive enough to be soap stars or White Way hopefuls, stunt men or bodyguards seem more their style. While undeniably hot, they have a hardscrabble, naturalistic sex appeal that differentiates them from the both slick uptown high-enders and the down-at-heel low-renters who are up for grabs for the right price.

True to form, most perfectly resemble the surly, rugged and primordial cro-mags who grace Frank Frazetta- and Boris Vallejo-illustrated sword and sorcery novel covers. That they’re so hard to fence in socially suggests the spirits of Conan, Thongor, Kane, Tanar and Jongor are still alive if diminished in the world.

With no more Lovecraftian god-monsters to slay, no galleys of corsairs to exhort to plunder and with coups d’etat becoming harder to organize, these lost brutes are left to wander the big cities like so many wild animals forced into captivity, no longer quite certain of what to do with themselves as they move at odds with modernity, existentially listless and out of place. The conquer instinct is still there, but the means of venting it…all dust in the four winds.

The randomness of findheman.com is its inspirit. Modern celebrity is itself so arbitrary and based on freakishness that the notion of plucking a conspicuous face out of the throng and branding him a quasi-superhero is a perfect cut-to-the-chase.

Every trust fund casualty starlet with a C-list parent may want to let her inner talent shine forth, but it’s really her internet sexcapades, surgical augmentations and accountability-free lifestyle that sets her apart. The Plan B for actually being famous for every Hollywood hanger-on is to marry somebody famous. MTV’s entire programming block is devoted to having well-tanned, functionally retarded ciphers play thinly-veiled caricatures of themselves.

He-Man doesn’t aspire; he simply is.

As He-Man evolves into a metropolitan demi-celeb and a beefcake variation on Where’s Waldo?, we’re left to wonder if he’ll lose the propensity to drag his knuckles against the unyielding asphalt, if he’ll still stand in defiance against the “No shirt, no shoes, no service” signs that taunt him.

He-Man’s observers aren’t shy about showing their dismay that he might be selling out by using a cell phone, having to chat up the ladies rather than just carrying them off to have his way with or (Damn ye gods!) actually wearing a shirt.

A world of conservatively-dressed He-Men is a world grown that much smaller.