When we were on vacation last week, there were two almost-teenage boys playing within earshot of us much of the days at the lakefront. Both were packing the immensely heavy new Harry Potter book, which looked to be about 15 pounds (in weight). (I wonder if J.K. Rowling is hoping to make her thin-wristed fans heavyweight champions.)
But more interestingly, the two boys played all day long in the guises of the book’s characters — taking on the roles of H.P. et. al. — and they talked incessantly about the plots, ploys, and plans within the tale. I tried to recall what book captured me and my friends’ imaginations at that age, back in 1979 and 1980. And the only thing I could think of was No One Here Gets Out Alive, the romantic tale of Jim Morrison’s life and death, and I realize now why Gen X is so screwed and screwy.