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When our family of three boys took trips, we usually had comics. In those halcyon 60s' summer trips, we could take turns in the back of the station wagon with the suitcases and read comics and pretend the painted median bars were laser blasts shooting at attackers behind us. Later, as a teen on our family's big European adventure in a VW bus, I bought books about the pulp hero the Saint, of which there are dozens, by Leslie Charteris somewhat to my parents' annoyance as I didn't gaze out at the European countryside I would possibly never see again. At least a lot of the stories were set in that continent. At least we were readers.

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