I am 135 pages into The Da Vinci Code, a book that reads as if it were written for people who spent hundreds of hours chasing Carmen Sandiego on their Apple IIes and were raised on Hardy Boys mysteries and young adult novels about 13 year olds carrying spellbound daggers that lead them to their egyptian twin brothers, who just happen to be enchanted, well-meaning mummies.

I am one of those people. I recognize the silliness in it, and I love every page of it.