Tom, Dick and Harry Potter

I might have mentioned before that I am not a big fan of fiction. If I haven't, I am now. It's always nice to read about constructed and contrived characters and circumstances, but I'd much rather see it on the big screen while munching on criminally large handfuls of Raisinettes. I've always found facts much more interesting than anything that could spring from the imagination of a writer - no matter how talented that writer is or was. The fact that some of the most bizarre things have actually occurred, and cannot be dismissed with a wave of the remote control, well, it makes my short hairs dance.

Now that we're sweeping the crumbs of my preamble off the table, I'm going to reverse field 180 degrees. Why? Well, because I can. Also, because I am human, I am a living, breathing hypocrite whose actions counteract my beliefs from time to time to serve my short-term interests. What is the source of this paradigm-in-the-rough? Harry Potter. There. I've said it. Harry freaking Potter. I am a fan. A big fan. A really big fan. Not a really, really big fan, but fan enough to know the difference between Diagon Alley and Privet Drive. The stories are extremely well-written, the characters are well-developed (and continue to develop in impressive, yet logical, style), and the atmospheres J.K. Rowling has created, well, who among us who have read the stories and/or watched the movies hasn't imagined taking up residence at Hogwarts in some capacity? To those muggles on the outside looking in who have no idea what I am talking about, go and watch one of the movies, or, better yet, pick up one of the books. If you lack the childlike imagination to immerse yourself in either the books or the movies, I pity the cynicism that has co-opted your minds.

However, I come not to braise those Caesars, but to serve them on toast points with a Hollandaise sauce. If I was a child and reading the ballast-heavy novels or watching with moon-eyed wonder the spectacle of a Harry Potter movie at the cinema, I would have completely bought into the fantasy of REALLY being able to cast spells, fly, and have cute little Hermoine Granger rob me of my lunch money. It would be slightly similar to when Dungeons & Dragons came out when it was cool - for all of about three months - to show up at your friend's house with a pouch of 20-sided dice, a homemade sword and Rick Wakeman's "Journey to the Center of the Earth" album under your arm. You'd spend the evening arguing that there was no way your +3 arrow didn't kill the bugbear since you had the "initiative" and were able to get off two hits per round. To this day, I have no idea what a bugbear is; however, introduce one in a Harry Potter story and I'm naming my first three kids "Bugbear."

One thing that I'll never be able to get past, however, are when our heroes are walking through dark, strange places with sheets of cobwebs in their way. And it's not just in the Harry Potter stories. Look at any classic horror movie where someone just HAS to investigate the vampire's basement - spider webs are everywhere, like some sort of silky, sticky gauntlet. Our heroes think nothing of ripping through the webs to get to their obsessive destination. Me? I walk into a spider web in the morning on the way to work and I break into what can only be described as a combination of demonic possession and St. Vitus's Dance. To the casual observer, I look like a water bug in a popcorn machine, arms flailing, swatting at my head, and praying out loud that the spider in question, which probably weighs less than half a gram, won't spin me into a cocoon and steadily suck me dry by the time my co-workers are reaching for their second cups of coffee. If you want to really get to know someone, there are three ways to cut to the chase: see them naked, watch them throw up, or observe them when they walk into a giant spider web. Of course, if you see all three of these actions at the same time, legend has it that you can look into their soul.

But, I digress.

Ever lose yourself in a story where you emerge wanting to fight space aliens, rip off the clothes of an imaginary lover, or make the world's best egg salad sandwich*? It's pretty intoxicating. Dog-earring a chapter or walking out of the nuclear chill of a movie theater can put a powerful glide in your stride. Your mind races along, levitated by still-smoldering thoughts of tan-chested Latin lovers or charred carcasses of alien invaders. You not only want to read or see more of it, you want to become part of the story. Hell, you want to BE the story. It's heady and dizzying, bringing you to heights of intellectual, spiritual, and primal orgasm. Blood pumping, teeth gritting, toes curling... Lines have blurred, you are one with the story. Dry throated and sweaty-palmed, the ecstasy of synergy overwhelms your senses...

...then a telemarketer calls and you're left cold and void, an empty husk of the salacious person you were just moments earlier. Reality has a way of knocking your dork into the dirt. Good books, like good movies, can make us revisit those passions over and over again. I used to read "The Catcher in the Rye" every year and I have probably watched "The Godfather" often enough to emcee an OCD convention. It is only the book that grabs me by the pleats that bears rereading. Almost always, for me at least, that book is a work of non-fiction. It is a rare piece of literary confection that keeps me coming back for more. You can have your tired Tom Sawyers or your pulp private dicks - I'll take my Harry Potter every time.

* - All apologies to "What's Up Tiger Lily?"