Watch where you stick that wand, Dumbledore

I was held hostage last night. As I innocently sipped my chai and read about Martha Stewart's house arrest in Vanity Fair (hi, I'm a magazine junkie), my captors swarmed around me, wielding wands, Coke bottle glasses, and long striped scarves. I heard a loud voice near the exit announce, "If you leave now, you may not be able to get back in." You see, this was a different sort of hostage situation -- people wanted to be kept inside, locked away from the outside world. I had entertained thoughts of leaving to shop for a laptop and buy dog biscuits (don't tell me I don't know how to have fun on a Friday night), but as soon as I heard that if I leave, I can't come back, by golly, I had to stay. Perhaps I was suffering from Stockholm syndrome. My captors were creating such a spectacle -- someone had to stay and watch them all unravel. Really, how could I say no to being trapped inside Barnes & Noble on the night of the Harry Potter release?

As far as temporary prisons go, I could do a lot worse than Barnes & Noble. I spend lots of time and $$$ there, as there is nary an independent bookstore in Fort Myers. Plus -- and this is a big plus -- I get moist around so many books. Getting my books out of storage is my primary motivation for going to Montana in a few weeks. Right before I moved here (from there) 32 months ago (not that I'm keeping track), I was in my sub-Saharan African economics phase and I purchased several books on said topic at an auction. I think about these books on a daily basis, sitting unloved in a cold storage unit in Western Montana. It makes me sad.

Some may say my tastes have been dumbed down since moving here. Why? Take my latest phase: porn. Not watching it, but reading it, right down to Jenna Jameson's autobiography. A particulary riveting read was Legs McNeil's The Other Hollywood: An Oral History of the Adult Film Industry. Was John Holmes involved in the Wonderland murders? Was Traci Lords a government mole? Is Ron Jeremy as greasy and hirsute in person? These and many other topics are exhaustively probed (ha! Probed...). But I digress.

So, there I was, trapped at Barnes & Noble with little kids, tweens, moms and dads, the blue-haired set all decked out in Potter garb, when I thought, this is pretty cool. All of these people are so jazzed...about a book. That makes me feel better about the state of affairs: people really do turn off their televisions every once in awhile and families really do interact with and share interests with each other. Americans may not be as dumb as I thought.

But then I sat down across from an endcap on one of the aisles. He was looking straight at me -- Zell "Are you going to shut up after you ask the question" Miller. Aaah, avert eye contact. He seemed so normal when he was governor of Georgia (inexplicably, I lived there for seven years). Then he up and spoke at the RNC and challenged Chris Matthews to a duel. Nowadays, besides publishing A Defecit of Deceny, I think he's coaching Tom Cruise on how to behave absurdly in public.

I checked out Zell's shelf neighbors. The book on the left caught my eye (ha, the left, that's a funny place for it to be). The title was in big red letters: PORN GENERATION. Hooray! My favorite topic! Something told me, though, that this book wasn't like the happy fun porn books I've been reading. Perhaps -- perhaps -- it was the subtitle: "How social liberalism is corrupting our future." Or perhaps it was the source of the jacket quotes that rained on my parade, most notably "Dr." Laura Schlessinger and one -- I gag on her name -- Ann Coulter. Ooh, chills run down my spine thinking about that unholy duo. I'm surprised the book didn't burst into flames when I picked it up. The most shocking thing about this book is its author. His bio begins,"Ben Shapiro was born in 1984 in Burbank, California...". Excuse me? 1984? How is this smarmy kid an author of a book without pictures and a nationally syndicated columnist and against porn? And, yes, I can call him a kid because he's a full four years younger than me and we probably weren't even in high school at the same time. Ick.

Don't get me wrong -- I fully intend to read this book. However, I don't want to send any sale royalties his way by buying it and, thereby, endorsing his smarminess. Nor do I want to be seen buying it. I'm so glad this new library opened near my house. Here they have self-check-out kiosks, so none of the librarians I see on a nearly daily basis will know which books I'm taking home with me. It's not so much a fear of being judged as it is a fear of them thinking that we have some sort of liberal-hating bond. I don't want to be engaged in a conversation about the virtues of Pat Buchanan or Tucker Carlson's tie.

Other than staring at conservative propaganda for a little while, the book release was pretty neat. Magicians, face painters, and fortune tellers kept everyone entertained. Barnes & Noble approached me about bringing an owl from the Nature Center for a presentation during the release. It didn't work out because they -- the Corporate Giants -- refused to pay us -- the private non-profit who would have had to make an already underpaid and overworked naturalist work late on a Friday night -- the $40 fee for the progam. They also found our 7-inch tall screech owl less than impressive. Screw the kids -- I was quite pleased to see that they couldn't get anyone else to bring out an owl for free.

What helped keep the mood elevated for the whole night was the rainless thunderstorm raging outside; that really was the perfect setting for these Hogwarts-loving folks. Folks, not freaks.

I have come to the conclusion that all kids under the age of 12 should wear neckties and capes. It's a damn fine look.

I have come to the separate conclusion that I should only pay for books on pornography authored by people who may have actually had sex before.