“Goodbye Harry”
That is the cover of my Entertainment Weekly. This is the second time in a month that some form of Harry Potter—whether it be Daniel Radcliffe or creepy adult with lightning bolt scar on his forehead—have commandeered the attention (36 pages worth!) of my favorite magazine and filled it with gobble-dee-gook about Snape and spells and wizards.
I have nothing against the man-wizard or the prolific J.K Rowling. She is the personification of what I would aspire to be (as I write this, my finished novel is printing and being readied for the terrifying search for an agent). But after more than month the book dominating the news and water-cooling talk at work, and more recently, my sister reading the last two books and leaving her daughter to call her favorite auntie four times a day, and the coverage of Daniel Radcliffe finally gaining access to his fortune, I’m sick of hearing about all forms of Harry.
Although, as Lindsay sitting in rehab again (that’s a whole other entry folks), Britney wades through the freeing waters of insanity, and an annoying squeaky-voice British soccer player invades America and pimps his marriage on the cover of W magazine, I’m not sure I’m all that keen on hearing about them either. (I mean, seriously, what is the big damn deal about Posh and Becks? I don’t get it. The only admirable quality about them is how they are shameless about being fame-whores.)
K loves her pop culture, but less is more!
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