…ponders the limits to that big buzz-phrase concept last winter among lefty bloggers, the “Reality-Based Community.”

Media Inc. last month did a quaint li’l piece about adult gamers playing with their kids.

…to (heart) Seattle: In this town, we can convict terrorists without trashing our own freedoms in the process!

I should’ve come to Harry Potter Midnite Madness last night with a mom and kid, so I could take digipix of the scene whilst pretending to take digipix only of my own party.

The Potter events, at both Borders and B&N, were just what I’d expected and more. Both stores did their best to keep the way-past-their-bedtime girls n’ boys awake and entertained.

B&N had a children’s choral group, storytellers, and costumed employees cavorting with wands. They even gave away plastic Potter eyeglass frames. They also had an elaborate purchasing system, reminiscent of Southwest Airlines’ boarding routine. You reserved your place in “line” by pre-registering and getting a wristband. At midnight, as the colorfully-printed cardboard cases of books were wheeled out to behind the counter on hand trucks, a clerk called all-points bulletins on the PA for numbers 1-50, etc.

The Borders fete was simpler. No wristbands or numbers; simply a line. The line included at least two teens who sat on the floor and stared into laptop computers. There was a crafts table where kids could make and decorate their own conic construction-paper wizard hats. There was a Potter trivia quiz, and Harry and Hermione lookalike contests, all with Potter-merchandise prizes. And, thankfully for the way-past-their-own-bedtime parents, there were vats of coffee (which, alas, ran out around 11:35).

A clerk on the PA system counted down each of the last five minutes until midnight. As the hand trucks wheeled in the cases of books from a back storeroom, the clerk counted down the seconds, while other employees unpacked the books and stacked them to be plopped into customers’ anxious hands. Finally, at the stroke of midnight, the customers at the front of the line were prompted to stand up and single-file their way toward the sales counter, where all transactions were handled promptly and efficiently.

Along the walk back to B&N, the streets were still boistrous and joyous. When I’d first spied on B&N at 10:30, ACT and the Paramount had let out their audiences, who’d spilled onto Pine. This, my friends, is what big-city life is all about–happy upeat total strangers in crowds, milling about and sharing each other’s auras. After midnight, the scene was still busy, with diners/drinkers from Von’s and the Cheesecake Factory, lingering Cineplex Oedipus theatergoers, and Potter purchasers ranging from post-collegiate fantasy geeks to tots barely big enough to hold the weighty tome (which, at 650-some pages, is actually shorter than the previous sequel volume).

Overheard quotes: Outside B&N, a fantasy-dude in a beard and Utilikilt said he was “just happy to see all these kids waiting in line for A BOOK.” I tried to convince him that reading had not become an unpopular activity in general, as evinced by the size and prominence of big-box chains such as B&N. I don’t think I succeeded. Oh well–some people like to fantasize about themselves as the only magicians in a world of “muggles;” other people like to fantasize about themselves as the only literates in a world of hicks. As the Potter books prove, myth is a powerful thing.

On the escalator down from B&N’s small street-level storefront in Pacific Place, toward the basement-level bulk of the store, I was in front of two high-school dudes as anxious as anybody else to grab the novel. But once they caught their first glimpse of the wristbanded preteen hordes already down there, anticipation turned to frustration: “I just wanted the fucking book! I don’t give a fuck about fuckin’ little kids in costumes!” I didn’t stick around to see if the teens stuck around, but I’m sure they have their copies now.

It’s a quiet Saturday morning as I write this. Throughout the English-speaking world, happy parents are waking to stillness and serenity. No shrieking, no sibling-fighting, no running indoors, no video-game explosions. In millions of households, peace reigns today.

For some grownups, that alone qualifies as magic.

…in counter-terror circles claims Al Qaeda has specific goals behind its terrors. The extremist group doesn’t “hate our freedom;” it hates the governmental policies of the US, Russia, Britain, and even many or most Muslim states. It wants the US out of the Middle East, and it wants the corrupt monarchies of that region replaced by Iran-esque religious states. Oh yeah, and it’d like Israel to go away…

As you recall, the Miss America Pageant had been indefinitely delayed while organizers sought a new TV home. They’ve got one. They’re stepping down from the heights of ABC to the depths of Country Music Television. (Not even WE: Women’s Entertainment!) Oh, and there won’t be a pageant this year but in January ’06. And it might not even be in Atlantic City.

A research study quoted in the 6/21 NY Times claims one’s political/social leanings may be influenced by one’s genes, which “prime people to respond cautiously or openly to the mores of a social group.”

Lemme take the personal-gut-feeling test to this.

For whatever reason, and I’m still trying to figure out why, I’ve got a brain that questions everything. It responds harshly to authority figures (religious, political, cultural) who demand total mindless obedience.

This means I don’t fit in well into tightly-bonded subcultures, whether they be Republicans, Christians, hippies, punks, gamers, etc.

This means I’m disposed toward a belief in total human diversity (not just PC faux-diversity) and personal liberty (not just the corporate power-licentiousness of some Libertarians).

It also means I’m highly wary of any utopian or revolutionary schemes that would lead to a society just as repressed as this one or worse, but merely with different people getting to do the repressing.

My odd li’l mind isn’t as fully focused or analytical as those of some political dreamers, so I don’t view the whole world through a single issue (such as gender, drugs, terror, or stem cells). Hence, I don’t believe every problem in the world will be solved by any one easily-explainable course of action.

I believe life is work. Nothing will ever be perfect, but everything can be better.

And I believe the world should become a more hospitable place for people with nonconformist minds such as my own.

…talks about “millionaires’ post-Microsoft pursuits;” including those of early-middle-aged tycoons who’ve vowed to give back to their communities.

I can think of a few other ways to use local private money to help the region–capitalistic, potentially profitable, ways even.

I’m talking about taking back key parts of the Northwest commercial identity that have been run into the ground by out-of-region consolidators.

Specifically, I call for the de-Cincinnatification of Northwest retail.

Kroger is ruining QFC and Fred Meyer. Kroger’s crosstown colleagues at Federated Department Stores have trashed The Store Formerly Known As The Bon Marche, and are preparing to do the same to Portland’s Meier & Frank.

Let’s get some locals with spare cash together to buy these chains back, to bring them home, to make them again responsive to local consumers and local communities instead of stock-market speculators.

If these tasks take more money than we can round up, we can always start smaller, by buying the Rainier and Olympia beer brands back from the Pabst/Miller joint venture that controls them now, contracting their production to underutilized local microbreweries, and making them ours again.

Upper-management men with pain fetishes become submissives. Middle-management men with pain fetishes become joggers.

…really “the last acceptable stereotype?”

Perhaps not. There are still all the old-fashioned racist “jokes” seen on Urban Outfitters merchandise and heard on talk radio, and all the unreconstructed gender stereotypes of ditzy blondes and clueless guys.

Then there’s that perennial hipster-beloved stereotype, the stupid/evil mainstream suburban squaresville rube. You know: The supposed everybody-out-there-except-“us,” the Wal-Mart shoppers, the television viewers, the non-NPR listeners, the sports fans, the meat eaters, and especially the (gasp!) straight white males.

This story takes place on a Sunday afternoon at a certain decidedly non-touristy Irish pub somewhere in the greater downtown zone. (I won’t name it, because I don’t want ’em to get into any potential trouble for continuing to serve visibly intoxicated patrons.)

On a large-screen TV, the injury-plagued Sonics were somehow clobbering the San Antonio Spurs, to even up their current playoff series at two games apiece (only to fall behind again in Game Five two nights later.)

The spectacle inside the bar, in front of the screen, was even more captivating.

The first thing you’d notice, had you been there, would have been the two very young, very thin, very drunk women, whooping and hollering and flirting with everyone in sight. One wore a Mariners cap; the other wore a Red Sox cap. They’d apparently been on a girls’-day-out at Safeco Field. I say “apparently” because, while they both talked at quantity and with volume, what they said didn’t always make sense.

Among their favorite flirting targets was a tall, lanky young man seated at the bar, clad in a sweatshirt and a backwards Seattle University cap. He spoke with well-practiced Eminem-esque body language and a fake-gangsta “wigger” accent. But the musical-legend references he uttered were not in praise of hiphop royalty but the Beatles and Stones.

Over the course of our very public chat, he mentioned to me and to the drunk women that he’d been faithful to his current girlfriend fora year and a half, a commitment he hadn’t previously thought himself capable of. He also listed a series of drug possession and dealing arrests he’d undergone between the ages of 11 and 18; now, at 24, he was proud to be out of trouble and planned to stay that way.

I observed all this, mostly silently, interjecting these three with questions only at strategic intervals. I was behaving as I often do, emerging into the public sphere only to hide inside my own mind (with the aid of a book and a Sunday crossword page).

Someone seated next to me was even more withdrawn. She was making no eye contact with anyone, except when she needed another drink. She concentrated on the careful penmanship she was applying to a hardbound journal, into which she’d spent the past hour writing (as she later mentioned) about an on-the-rocks relationship.

She broke the ice with me, asking how my puzzle-solving was coming along, and sympathizing with me about that one stubborn corner. But the gangsta wannabe was more adept about opening her up. I returned from a restroom break to find him and her deep in conversation. His voice had changed, the bombastic bravado replaced by a sensitive near-whisper. He insisted to the journal writer that she could make a living as a poet, which she countered with the time-worn adage that it just couldn’t be done. He told her she shouldn’t let her soul be held hostage by any loser boyfriend.

As their conversation became more intimate, I redirected my attention toward the basketball game. About 45 minutes later, the poetess stumbled her way off of her bar stool and around me and the other patrons. She’d previously done as great a job of hiding her state of inebriation as she’d done of guarding her feelings. The white-gangsta dude did his best to keep her from falling down. I asked him to make sure she got home OK; he assured me he would.

After those two left, the thin drunk women (who’d left the bar in the company of an older man and had since come back) reasserted their command on the other bar patrons’ collective attention. They made big, loud, repetitive comments about the joys of chicken wings with Miller Lite. Somehow, I ceased caring.

PBS ASKS, is there a Pacific Northwest accent? (Found by Slumberland.)

…John Bradshaw on the Family on the Wisdom channel. Bradshaw’s lecture series, originally made for PBS in 1985, discusses family dysfunction as a pivot point for just about everything that goes wrong with individuals and societies: “Any time you’re not your true self, you can be taken.”

Among his points: If you know how people from non-nurturing families come to think, you can manipulate them very brutally. He cited a couple of authors, including Alice Miller, who’d seen the horrors of Hitlerism in ol’ Adolf’s own ultra-authoritarian childhood family, and in the more general hierarchical, patriarchal, and anti-freedom nature of typical German family structures.

Now I finally know why the most anti-life, anti-freedom, anti-environmental, anti-equality, anti-gay, anti-women, anti-children, anti-sex, and pro-violence forces in the US use “The Family” as their ideological excuse and stick the name “Family” in the names of their propaganda groups.

Once again, it’s time for the annual return of the MISCmedia In/Out List, the longest-running and most accurate list of its type anywhere in the western quadrant of the northern hemisphere.

As long-term readers know, this is a prediciton of what will become hot and not-so-hot in the months to come. If you think everything hot now will just keep getting hotter forever, I’ve got some Thailand beachfront timeshares to sell you.

…the real difference between the “two Americas” is one of family models—we believe in balanced parenting, they believe in “the strict father.”