Congratulations to all you way creepy older men out there who spent the last five years locking the basement door of your mom’s house and furiously downloading pictures of innocent, pre-approved hottie Emma Watson. Your years of wrist work, tissue burnination, glitter-y collage creation and overall general disgustingness in obsessing over an underage fantasy film actress has finally paid off!

Emma Watson turns 18 today.

She is officially legal. This means your Hermione Granger fetish, albeit still decidedly creepy, is now, in the eyes of the courts, completely above board. Yesterday you were but the overweight, pimply guy roaming the video store aisles in a plaid polo shirt that Moms all kept their kids away from, but today… TODAY, you are now just another overweight, pimply geek who happens to find Emma Watson attractive.

That’s an 8% decrease in creepiness!

It’s a celebration, bitches!!!

You no longer have this to fear:

Of course her being legal now probably makes her ruined for you, huh? Now that she’s just another 18 year-old, your gross fixation on her is probably déclassé in your mind. The same way Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Hayden Panetierre and The Olsen Twins came and went before her. If there’s grass on the field, play ball. But if the grass is 18? Time to switch fields.

Yeah, no reason to log into the “Erecto Patronum” chat rooms and cyber other overweight pimply dudes claiming to be 4th year Ravenclaw students, anymore. Writing Chapter 31 of your on-going fanfic series “Hermione and Ginny Show Each Other Their Gryffindor Pride”, is now pretty pointless. And forget drawing Napoleon Dynamite-style drawings of Emma’s pretty English face (It took you three hours to do the shading on her upper lip), who will see the non-irony in a 35 year-old greasy shut-in spending his ample leisure time on them?

Like Apollo said to Rocky, it’s just too bad we gotta keep getting older. The correct response: Just keep ogling tween actresses, Apollo!

And fear not my creepy online brethren; you still have three more years to drop some 2-ply Kleenex-destroying knowledge on that minx Miley Cyrus. So get those shrines ready, boys!

Bangarang! (And Happy Birthday Emma, From The Jay!)

I’m rip roaring and raring to go on ‘0JAY8 like La Lohan on an extended weekend in Capri, so before a Celebritard does something so dissgrossting that I have to break my Lost Girls ban and dip into my bag of fake whore words to describe their actions (”whoreititude” being my current favs), let’s start launching some award bombs (be forwarned, this post is HUGE).

And away we go (Read the 2005 and 2006 YIF Awards post as a refresher to their awesomeness):

MOST OVERRATED MOVIE OF THE YEAR

Knocked Up – Universally loved by both sides of the Relationship Wars, personally loathed by this guy. As funny as it is to see Seth Rogen giggle like an idiot, smoke pot and heffalump all over that girl who used to be hot when she was on Roswell but now is a shrill harpy who’s about to banshee scream the awesome out of James Marsden in that exorable 27 Dresses abomination, I’d rather just watch the much better SSDD Judd Apatow manchild movie, The 40 Year-Old Virgin. Also, I liked it better when it was called Nine Months and it starred a far more charming bumbling idiot and a much better actress who was also slumming it in a lame romcom but still managed to show a modicum of gratitude for hit studio movie that launched her career, unlike some other wretched blonde yenta currently turning Grey’s Anatomy into a double-bloop fest. Yikes, this movie gives me the hatebumps. Apatow should have considered going to the Screenplay Smashmortion clinic and smashmortioning this twenty-minute too long unfunny fest like yesterday’s Spears bastard.

MOST UNDERRATED MOVIE OF THE YEAR

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – Despite making nearly a gajillion dollars at the box office, I got the sense that most people considered this episode a toss-off. A hurdle they have to jump to get to the infinitely more awesome Half-Blood Prince and the revelatory Deathly Hallows. But let me learn you all an education, this may prove to be the most intelligent, well put-together flick of the bunch. Book Five was nearly unreadable. Two hundred pages too long, full of lame, angsty teen balderdash and an anti-climactic finale that didn’t advance the story enough to warrant the preceding 700 pages (we all knew Harry wasn’t gonna get to keep Sirius, the whole point of the series is that he stands alone). Too my surprise, I found the movie adaptation positively mesmerizing. From the totes sweet over the shoulder shaky dolly when Harry and Dudley are running from the storm, to the dark tunnel Dementor fight where Harry wielded his Patronus like some mighty Jedi. From the crazy evil child torture scenes to the ku-reep-E Brooks Brothers-clad Voldemort on the train platform fever dream. And that’s before I get to the wrenching “LOOK AT ME!” scene. This film was playing to win the game. They didn’t think it was a damn exhibition. I must not tell lies dear readers, The Order of the Phoenix pwned hard.

Hairspray – I genuinely don’t care about musicals and I’m even more indifferent to John Waters, so imagine my surprise when I popped in the DVD and found myself bopping my head like I was the Kattan Roxbury jagoff for two straight hours (him? you? me? me? no? heh?). Full of infectious energy and crazy slick choreography, I had a blast with this movie. I dug Travolta so much I even forgave him for Wild Hogs. But it was a tough decision. I mean he does wear a bandana through that pile of shite. A bandana. Seriously. On his head. For two hours. And it was intentional.

WORST ACTRESS IN AN OTHERWISE CRAPPY MOVIE

Kirsten Dunst, Spider-Man 3 – Tobey Maguire dyed his hair black, grew knock-off Petrelli-bangs and emo-Manero’d down the street in the most regoddamndiculously stupid sequence in blockbuster movie history and it was STILL not the worst musical number in the flick. That goes to Kristen Vampire Teeth McFlatboobs Dunst, who whilst singing in a play where she was the lead managed to sound like monkey shite even though she wasn’t actually doing the singing. Her performance was so terrible that the audience I saw the movie with actually applauded when Tobey decked her in that SECOND so so bad Dunst musical number. It was the one time in the movie where everyone got what they wanted: a scene where Tobey wasn’t weeping like a wee little girl and five fingers saying SLAP to the former Rancho Carne Cheer Captain who would NOT stop singing in the action-packed Comic Book movie.

WORST ACTOR IN AN OTHERWISE CRAPPY MOVIE

Tobey Maguire, Spider-Man 3 - Did I mention he cries through most of the movie and gay dances like Travolta in Staying Alive for the rest of it? Also, that he sucks? Oh I did? Good. I didn’t want to forget mentioning that he sucks.

WORST EXPERIENCE IN A MOVIE THEATER

Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End - Not because of the actual movie, which was slightly better than Dead Man’s Chest, owing mainly to the Godzilla on Tokyo levels of kick ass rampage that is Chow Yun Fat, Keira Knightley in Asian Pirate fetish wear and Orlando Bloom getting dead, but because of how unbelievably long the movie was in relation to how much I had to pee. I was in the center row center seat of a sold out 400 seat theater and had to go pretty hard starting in minute 17. It was not pleasant. Here was a brief summary of events.

17:00 - Damn, gotta yazzer. I think can hold it, it doesn’t seem too bad.

24:00 - Maybe loosen the belt loop up one.

32:00 - Might be wrong about this. . .

46:00 - Shifty.

58:00 - Crap all, there’s ninety more minutes left!! How much more “Yargh-ing” can they do?

1:05:00 - Yayayayayayayayayay.

1:17:00 - If I hold my junk any more people are gonna think I’m actually enjoying the movie. Must be strong.

1:29:00 - And there goes the belt and top button.

1:46:00 - Starting to get numb.

1:53:00 - Slouchy slouchy, calm the belly.

2:06:00 - JUST FUCKING END ALREADY!!!!! Awesome effects and all, but can we just kill the Bloom already so I can save my kidneys?

2:15:00 - And my pants are officially off.

2:36:00 - Thank Jeebus it’s over. I survived. Eye of the Tiger saved me again!

2:45:00 - I will RAIN FIRE on you Valley bitches if you don’t leave the theater FUCKING FASTER!

2:49:00 - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

2:53:00 - Wait. Waitwait. Ye… wha… more… AHHHHHHH!

2:56:00 - Jimmy Dugan ain’t got nuthin on me!

THE TAINTED MEMORIES AWARD A.K.A. WORST SEQUEL OF THE YEAR

Live Free or Die Hard - Psych! Trick award, fools. This movie ruled! I was skeptical. I thought it would be a whole bunch of man ass. But it turned out to be a whole bunch of man awesome (yeah, that just happened). I was cool with bald McClane. I was cool with him Supermannig the fighter jet. I was cool with villainous plot. I was SuperCool with Mary Elizabeth Winstead. And I was Super-Sized cool with Maggie Q. Hell, I was even straight with Mac Guy Sidekick (which bodes well for Villa De La Beouf in Indy 4). I missed a Hans-level bad guy and I hated John not dropping F-bombs everywhere, but kids, it could have been A LOT worse.

MOST UNFORTUNATE THIRD ACT FLOP OF THE YEAR

I Am Legend - So how come the Fresh Prince left his interesting character study to walk onto the set of a bad Sci-Fi network zombie flick? Did the producers refuse to let him drop a “Ah, hell no!”? Were they blocking him from getting jiggy with it? These are things we need to know!

MOST DISAPPOINTING MOVIE OF THE YEAR

TMNT - Sarah Michelle Gellar should never be prominently involved with ANYTHING from my childhood ever again. I swear to Xenu I will burn my Buffy box set if she even blinks in the direction of Cheetarah and the Thundercats. Dude, I miss Ninja Rap. (Go ninja! Go ninja! Go!)

EIGHTH SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE A.K.A MOST SURPRISING PERFORMANCE OF THE YEAR

Ben Affleck, Director, Gone Baby Gone - A subtle, powerful, beautifully photographed debut from the man who was the bomb in Phantoms, yo! I never had my doubts that he’d be a good movie director, but I never imagined he’d be that good. Wisely letting Ed Harris chew the scenery like they were yesterday’s egg bagels. Shooting close-ups all over the preternaturally pretty Michelle Monaghan. The brilliant credits sequence that established the reality of the Boston streets better than Mystic River could even dream of. Not to mention pulling an Oscar-worthy performance out of Amy Ryan. And that’s before talking about Morgan Freeman’s nuanced work and Casey Affleck’s surprise work as a commanding leading man. I’d love to have The Fleck in front of camera again, but I just may want him to stay behind it, more.

WEIRDEST MOVIE COUPLE OF THE YEAR

Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts, Charlie Wilson’s War - There’s just something inherently creepy watching the Pretty Woman grab Forrest Gump’s ass. And something totally gross seeing Erin Brockovich and the voice of Woody, post-coital. I usually love seeing mega-stars onscreen together. But in this case I just wanted it to go away so I could see Phillip Seymour Hoffman cuss some more.

THE JOHN TRAVOLTA AWARD FOR ONE TIME BIG NAMED ACTOR WHO IS SOOOO OVER!

Anthony Hopkins - He’s now repeating himself worse than Tommy Lee Jones, and I’m pretty sure Tommy Lee Jones was actually credited as playing “Tommy Lee Jones” in that last Paul Haggis travesty. Ryan Gosling blew him off the screen in Fracture. It wasn’t even close. The Washington Generals put up more of a fight than Hopkins did. And with Anton Chigurh taking Hannibal’s mantle of most awesome screen villain we secretly love, what does Hopkins have to play for? Time to pack it in and start considering begging Aaron Sorkin to do a Welsh version of The West Wing.

THE “YES, YES YOU’RE BOTH HOT, NOW SHUT UP AND GO AWAY” AWARD

Tie - Jessica Alba and Scarlet Johansson - I was thinking about this the other day while I was checking Alba off the list of girls I am attracted to (The Jay does not date girls with baggage. And by “baggage” I mean “intentional career-boosting celeb babies fathered by doofy civilians”), when was the last time either girl gave pop culture anything worthwhile beyond an occasional sex-A magazine photo spread? Match Point belonged to Woody Allen. And The Prestige was about Bale and Jackman. Lost in Translation was nearly five years ago. As for Alba, she was the worst thing about a bad FF sequel. She did a Dane Cook movie this year. Which, hello, pretty much forces me to stricken from the record her bra and panties work in Idle Hands. And she refused to go topless playing a stripper in a graphic novel adaptation. In my boy mind, they are both dead to me until one of them drops an intentional nipple in an indie flick or I get more from them than lame-ass Paul Walker action flicks and sub par Woody Allen movies.

THE “WHO CARES?” AWARD FOR THE MOVIE ABSOLUTELY NO ONE WANTED TO SEE

Rush Hour 3 - Did anyone in the world need more of this nonsense? Did anyone in the world even notice than Chris Tucker dropped off the face of the Earth? Does anyone in the world really care about the words coming out of their mouths?

THE OFFICIAL “JANEANE GAROFALO PLEASE FIRE YOUR AGENT RIGHT NOW, OR AT THE VERY LEAST, PLEASE STOP SAYING YES TO EVERY SINGLE MOVIE OFFER YOU GET” AWARD

Nicolas Cage - I’ve already written at length about the CageMatch this year, so I’ll keep this brief. Nic should only make really absurd indie movies and National Treasure sequels. Any time someone asks him to play anyone with long hair, superpowers, a dysfunctional family not played for laughs, or a guy that has to say the words “Why’d it get burned?”, he should run the other way. Fast. Fast enough to rip his toupee off.

THE BEEN THERE, DONE THAT AWARD FOR BEING THERE AND HAVING DONE THAT

The Heartbreak Kid - Yes yes, we get it Ben Stiller, you are neurotic and awkward with insanely hot, out of your league girls. Stop complaining about having to bang a batshit crazy Malin Akerman before you turn into the Simian-looking older man version of Zach Braff. And as for the Farrelly Brothers, unless Matt Damon has a mortgage payment and agrees to a Stuck On You sequel, ya’ll can STFU and put down the movie camera. Gross out comedies haven’t been popular since Jason Biggs. And Jason Biggs was never popular.

BEST INTERSPECIES EROTICA SCENE

Phillip Seymour Hoffman doggstyling Marissa Tomei, Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead - More on this in a moment…

BEST EXCUSE TO WILLINGLY HAND OVER TEN DOLLARS

Tie - Keri Russell in Waitress and Megan Fox in Transformers - My number one celebrity crush (despite having a half civilian half celebrity baby… a celivibaby?), was beyond reason fantastic playing a small town pie maker. I could watch her whisk chocolate for eight life times. And I could listen to her banter with Nathan Fillion in that wonderfully lyrical cadence until I ruined the spindles on my ears like a ten year old VHS player.

And as for Megan Fox, um, well, look at her:

BEST USE OF GRATUITOUS (BUT COMPLETELY LAUDED BY EVERY GEEK ON THE INTERNET) NUDITY BY A BIG NAME ACTRESS THAT EVERY MALE UNDER FORTY HAS BEEN DYING TO SEE NAKED

Marissa Tomei, Before the Devil Knows Your Dead - She was always a hottie, but never in that “I MUST see her nipples immediately” kind of way. She was more sultry sexy. Jersey sexy. The kind of sexy where we dug seeing her in purple lycra showing how her biological clock is “ticking like this” or sweetly falling for Christian Slater and his untamed pig heart, but never where we would drive twenty miles out of our way on the rumor that she went topless in a Gothic Southern flick directed by Sam Raimi. So how were we to know how utterly delicious she looked without her clothes on? And after all these years, even! Her body was so smokin hot its mere presence negated the retina-searing image PSH throw his freckled ass all over the medium shot. Hell, it might be the only acceptable reason to ever see PSH’s ass. Lemme put it this way… Marissa Tomei in Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead was eight Megan Fox’s hotter than Diane Lane in Unfaithful. True Story.

BEST REASON TO HAVE YOUR OWN POP CULTURE SITE TO MAKE FUN OF STUFF

Getting to drop the post title “Alvin and the Shitmunks” and make my mom laugh at it.

THE 2007 FILM I WILL NEVER EVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE SEE. EVER.

P.S. I Love You - Which I believe I’ve already covered.

MY FAVORITE MOVIE POSTERS OF THE YEAR

THE JAY’S PICKS FOR THE BEST “B” MOVIES OF 2007

Let’s drop some math to explain these:

1. Shooter - Marky Mark + Smart Action x Kate Mara in a see-thru shirt = The Very Definition of Awesome Sunday Afternoon TNT New Classic.

2. Superbad - “Fellashe” + The Jay = Overused movie quote of the year.

3. Ocean’s Thirteen - George Clooney’s Stache / No Julia Roberts x Matt Damon’s Nose - Don Cheadle in an Evel Knievel costume = Crap in a can, that threequel rocked!

4. Balls of Fury - Maggie Q in booty shorts + Christopher Walken imitating Christopher Walken = A missed opportunity for greatness, but thanks all the same for giving Jason Scott Lee some work.

5. Shoot Em Up - Clive Owen with guns + Monica Bellucci with tits + Paul Giamatti with villainy = Geek Splooge.

THE FIVE WORST PIECES OF CRAP I SAW IN 2007

1. Spider-Man 3.
2. Vacancy
3. The Reaping
4. Ghost Rider
5. License To Wed

And finally…

THE JAY’S TOP TEN MOVIES OF 2007

1. Atonement
2. No Country For Old Men
3. The Bourne Ultimatum
4. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
5. Waitress
6. Juno
7. The Darjeeling Limited
8. Gone Baby Gone
9. Hairspray
10. There Will Be Blood

Bangarang!

The most curious and wonderful thing happened to me last week. But first, a lead up…

My group and I decided to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on opening night at the Mann Chinese 6 (we chose the small theater instead of the giant Grauman’s because we wanted stadium seating). That day happened to be a phenomenally busy one for me. Eight hours of my day job that were abnormally packed, my lunch hour consisted of running around the Valley catching up on errands. After work I hit up a local wine tasting I had been meaning to try for some time ($1 Wednesdays at Vendome. It’s beyond worth it. I’m now a regular Wednesday resident. I walk in and they throw me a Cheers greeting. “JAAAAAY”.). So I raced from work to get to the wine tasting so I’d have enough time to taste, then grab dinner, and then hit the theater. I get to the wine tasting just fine, dig in to some great Chardonnay’s and try to plan my next move.

You see, I also needed to meet up with my best friend A-Train, who was delivering me my everyday shoes that I left in his car after we went white-water rafting for my birthday, a few days before (P.S. It was awesome. We even capsized in a class-three rapid. I was so Kevin Bacon in The River Wild. A-Train was my moronic sidekick, John C. Reilly.). So the situation was this: its 7:30, the movie starts at 8:30, I need to drive from North Hollywood over the hill to the heart of Hollywood, meet A-Train and grab my shoes, find dinner, eat, and meet my group at the theater. Also, I’m slightly buzzed form the awesome Vendome vino. I thrive on time constraints, so I wasn’t too worried. That is, until I got into Hollywood. I had forgotten that the ESPY Awards were being filmed at the Hollywood & Highlands complex that night (where the theater is located), and in response to the event, all access routes to the complex had been shut down. There was gridlock everywhere. I suddenly saw my chances of eating and getting my shoes back (a necessity as I’m trying to rehab a bum ankle and need the shoes for that end) going up in flames.

I struggled to get through the cabal of frustrated cars. Slowly but surely, and with enough time to find food and meet A-Train, I swooped into the complex, parked my Man-UV (it’s a Baby Blue Honda CRV and thus needs the testosterone qualifier), and was on my feet and mobile by 8:05pm. A-Train, however, was coming in from Westwood and was waylaid by the everyday traffic in West Hollywood and the added impact from the ESPY’s. Since roads were blocked off we had to try Plans B-Q to get him to a place where I could meet him. We set the location (a sidestreet that required a seven minute walk from the complex) and I waited for him to tell me he was close enough for me to set out. In the meantime, I tried to find food. All of the food places, though, were closed, closing or only accepting cash (I never carry around cash, because if I have it, I spend it). So I’m racing through the crowded complex, navigating through C-list athletes, skanks all skanked up to try and hook a C-list athlete and an above-normal amount of tourists, riled up at the prospect of snapping a digi pic of the LT of the Indy Colts (a quality sighting if there ever was one).

It’s now 8:15 and counting, I have no food and A-Train is still minutes away. Choosing on the fly to just suck it up and have a theater dinner (hot dog and a water now, toilet time and sit-ups later), I decided to race out to the meeting point so I’d have enough time to race back to the theater and not miss previews. A quick five-minute jog through the ESPY holding area (is that Jim Belush? Might have been. Didn’t care), and through the streets of H-Wood and I was at the meeting spot. A-Train rolled through minutes later, I yoinked my kicks and set feet to pavement. 8:27 and I’m finally in the lobby of the theater. My cell is blowing up, my friends wanting to know my ETA, but I ignore it and focus on willing the slow concession stand workers to fill the damn sodas faster so I can grab my unidentifiable meat in a bun, get to my seat and breathe for the first time in 90 minutes.

The worker finally sloths her way through the order of guy in front of me and I’m throwing my list at her before the guy is out of my way. She molasses her way to the hot dog window and procures me the awful item, snails over to the water area and gets confused by the size of the water bottle I asked for (that being “the one that will get you back here faster”), and then finally baby steps’ the credit card transaction. I’m free. I grab all of my gear (the shoes, the dog, the water, my dignity), pitch my ticket at the taker, find my group in the dark, sit down, say my hellos and apologies and begin hyper-speed eating my hot dog because 1) it smells like ass and I don’t want it to linger through the movie and ruin my groups experience, and 2) I’m so hyped up I don’t even realize I’m going this fast. Fourteen Harry Potter-ripoff trailers later (seriously, it looked like every studio in town puked up Chronicles of Narnia and slapped a title on it), I had blasted through my dog, stolen my buddy’s milk duds, hydrated and thankfully, stopped moving.

And that’s when it hit me. I was so busy getting through my life that I didn’t even remember what I was doing there in the first place. I was about to watch the new Harry Potter movie.

A feeling of such wonder and excitement passed through me. I couldn’t even sit still! Some movies you are excited to see (Oceans 13), others you cannot wait to see (Transformers), but then there are some that are so important to you, whether due to tradition or impact on your life, that it literally floors you when the reality hits that you are in the theater and the movie is about to start. I had that feeling with each of the Star Wars Prequels. I had it with the latest Die Hard. And I had it and then some with Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Butterflies in my stomach (which might have just been the hot dog performing a coup-de-tat on my intestines), a big ass smile on my face and two hours of wonder waiting in front of me. It doesn’t get much better than that.

And as a bonus, the movie just happened to be great. My least favorite of the books, but probably my second favorite movie (Azkaban is still the tits for me). Great interpersonal moments between Harry, Ron and Hermione ( I especially liked the understated way they handled Harry’s growing anger problems), amazing special effects in the climactic Ministry battle, and some quality hottie time with a near-of-age Emma Watson, the pre-approved Katie Leung (Cho Chang), and surprising gonna-be-off-the-hook hottie Bonnie Wright (Ginny Weasley). I had such low expectations because I disliked the book so much that I was floored how awesome the movie turned out to be. Other favorite things about the movie: the overhead shot of Harry and Dudley running through the wheat field, “I must not tell lies”, all the meaningful looks Ginny throws at Harry, Fred and George’s exit from Hogwarts, Voldemort on the train platform, the entirety of Gary Oldman and Alan Rickman, and of course, “LOOK AT ME!”

Walking out of the theater, I knew I was back in the Harry Potter fold, a place I hadn’t been since I finished the sixth-book (the best of the series) a year and a half ago. A place I remember so fondly. I needed to get my head back in the world fast, so I immediately went home and started reading Half Blood Prince, eager to refresh myself in time for Book 7. I scorched through the 643 pages in a matter of days, enjoying the book just as much now as I did the first time. I even got emotional in two places, 1) when Harry kisses Ginny after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup without him (I was like “Yeah boy! Get yours, Harry!”), and 2) when Snape dropped the Avada Kedavra on Dumbledore. I knew it was coming and yet I still teared up. Such is the emotional effect these characters have on me.

Like many millions of other people, Harry Potter holds a special place in my heart. I found the books by accident. I was a sophomore in college, the third book had just barely come out, and the series had not yet broken through to the mainstream. I had read a review in EW and was intrigued, but not having read the books I didn’t think much of it. I picked up the first book on a whim, cracked it open one night and blazed through it in a matter of hours. I was hooked, lined and sinkered. I immediately set my quest to find books 2 and 3. The local bookstores didn’t have them so I went to the campus library. Now, I’ve been looked down on before, but never in my life have I ever been condescended to quite so douchebaggily as when the clerk/pretentious English Lit Major tried to “help” me find Chamber of Secrets and Prisoner of Azkaban. Everyone else in the place needed to find a textbook or a crucial biography or science study. I was looking for a children’s book. And the guy didn’t let me forget it (“Can you please spell… Azkaban for me.”). I raced up and down the eight floors of the library, FINALLY finding one copy of part two in a remote area of the second floor. I felt like Indiana Jones reaching the idol in the beginning of Raiders. Now I just needed to avoid the flying arrows, big ass rolling boulder, and all the snobby library attendants and I’d be on the outside, safe to go read my “children’s book”. I made it out, and the effort was worth it.

I was hanging out with a lot of English Majors at the time and they never missed an opportunity to give me shit about my reading selection. “You’re reading a book about a boy wizard who plays sports on a broom? What was your high school GPA, again?” And I was like: “Whatever, you pale-faced dick. Go wipe your glasses and get back to reading your D.H. Lawrence and never getting any, while I read my kick ass magic book and bang my hottie girlfriend. And it’s not a broom it’s a Firebolt, bitch!” I took my flaming with my head held high, proud that I was reading a book series that made me happy. And I was vindicated a year later when the world woke up and went crazy for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Nobody gave me shit anymore. Because they were all struggling to catch up. I was there opening day, sitting with a group of eight year-olds on the floor of a Santa Barbara Borders, all of us lapping up the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It felt great to be amongst kids who were reading instead of playing video games. It felt great to be on the forefront of a pop culture event that I had found on my own before it all began (I felt the same way when I saw The Killers perform two months before “Somebody Told Me” broke and just knew that explode like a supernova, get overplayed and turn into crazy poseurs a year later.). And it felt great just to be reading something I liked, after being forced to read countless books I hated just to satisfy my UCSB general-ed requirements (though to be fair, the film books were a disappointment as well).

The great HP memories didn’t end there. Summer of 2004 found me hungrily (though eventually frustratingly) devouring Order of the Phoenix. The stand-out memory of my time reading that book was when I was staying at a beachfront hotel with my then-girlfriend to celebrate July 4th. She was asleep in bed, a place I should have been, but instead I was in the bathroom, quietly turning the pages, unable to join the beautiful naked girl in bed ten feet away, because I needed to see if Harry would at long last kiss Cho Chang. He did and I went back to bed. She asked me where I’d been and I lied and told her I wasn’t feeling well. You can’t always defend (or explain) the things you love.

Harry Potter also helped heal a fractured history with my older brother. We had our differences and objections for a variety of reasons, but with childhood long gone and both of us now adults and facing the real world, we were looking for ways to smooth things over. My brother started listening to the HP audio tapes, and eventually became a bigger Potter geek and me. We’ve had some great conversations over the years trying to decipher how the story will end. There’s not a lot we used to be able to talk about, 80’s WWF, white wine and The West Wing were pretty much the list, but Harry Potter gave us one more thing. And it was a big step on the road to our recovery as loving brothers (and we have a lot to talk about now).

The Harry Potter hits keep coming: my little brother dressed up as Harry for Halloween one year and looked totally awesome, I chose HP4 as my recommended Turkey Day Movie Choice back in 1995, I looked like the cool Uncle to my adolescent cousins when I matched their Harry-speak word for word. I even wrote a well-received ten-minute play about the release of Book 7 just last week. The crowd of geeks ate up the Potter love; my lead actress even told me that playing a Harry Potter fanatic was the most fun she’s ever had on stage. My love of Harry Potter gave her that moment.

And now I find myself on the eve of Book 7 Day, the last time I will ever wait for a new Harry Potter adventure (I think); the end of my long, happy journey is in sight. The anticipation of having the book in my hands, the excitement of turning the first page and stepping back into that wonderfully rich world, and the paranoia of worrying if I’ll read spoilers and ruin the experience, all these emotions are swimming through me, and my heart and mine are doing what they can to keep up. As a completist I’m glad I have been able to follow the story from start to finish. As a fan I’m both happy and sad to the see how it ends. And as a movie lover I can’t wait to see what Deathly Hollows will look like on-screen (not to mention Half-Blood Prince). But most of all I am thankful to have had Harry Potter in my life. To have been a part of this once-in-a generation cultural event. To have something so pure and enjoyable in common with so many people. To have something to look forward to at the movies. To have something to defend to the elitist book snobs. But mostly, just to have something good to read.

For those reasons and million more, I am proud to say I am a Harry Potter fan. I am thankful for Chris Columbus for casting Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Watson, and for setting up the world so perfectly. I am thankful for Daniel Kloves and his deft touch in adapting the first four books. I am thankful for all the people involved in the making of the movies and the publishing of the books. And I am eternally thankful to J.K. Rowling for creating something so simple, yet profound. For always striving to make the books more eloquent. For never dumbing down the content when the mainstream picked up on it. For sticking to her principals and willing this entity into existence. For giving us all something to love.

And most of all, for giving us the boy who lived.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I have a book to read…

Bangarang!

In honor of Book 7 Day Eve, I give you what is quite possibly the greatest puppet show in the history of stringed up fabric (excluding Being John Malkovich, of course). I defy you not to watch this more than once. And I outright challenge you not to hum the Ticking Noise song for the rest of the day. Of all the things that are getting me excited for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, this is doing it the most.

Enjoy.

Bangarang!

Scholastic has released the art for the cover of the zealously anticipated final book from the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It’s cool, it’s gorgeous to look at, and like a frustratingly well-written episode of Lost, it begs more questions than answers. Why is Harry in a Coliseum with shadowy people watching him (is this a knock off of Best of the Best 2?)? Where is his wand? Is the arms spread pose an homage to Daniel Radcliffe’s now infamous onstage nude work? What is the necklace around his neck? Where are Ron and Hermione? If they cast only British actors in the movies, when are they going to get to uber-hot septuagenarian Queen, Helen Mirren?

Those questions all have intriguing answers, to be sure, but none of them concern me. What I want to know is, what is he reaching for? It would seem from the context of the picture that Harry is in the middle of a fight. And if you’ve seen the full wraparound cover (available HERE, and here’s the UK version), you’ll know he’s facing off against Voldemort (holla, Ralph Fiennes, you aeronautical pervert!). So is this a snapshot from the final battle between the two? Are they fighting to the pain, instead of to the death? Are the “Deathly Hallows” merely the name of the place where wizards bear out their final, murderous duel? Or is it just the pet name for Paris Hilton’s vagina? Hopefully, the answers to these questions will be revealed on July 21st when the book hits stores. But until then we can only prognosticate.

I’m going to assume that Harry and Voldemort are both reaching for a wand and that this moment is the crucial turning point in their climactic battle. But for the sake of argument and good fun, I came up with some other possibilities for what Harry might be reaching for. J.K. Rowling is a fine novelist and shrewd intellect, but I bet she’s not clever or daring enough to put a few of these things in ole Harry’s hands.

Things Harry Might Be Reaching For on the Cover of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”:

• He’s reaching for a calendar to double check when pre-approved hottie Emma Watson FINALLY turns eighteen (4/15/2008, for all those interested).

• He’s actually checking to see if it’s raining. His hair goes frizzy like Monica Gellar in Jamaica when it rains.

• It’s a boomerang. Ron put on Crocodile Dundee the other day and Harry can’t get Australian culture out of his head. That’s not a wand, THAT’S a wand!

• He’s clearly practicing holding a server tray for his future career. Harry Potter is destined to be a waiter. Probably at Shenanigans, or some such other Office Space-like place that requires their servers to wear 26 pieces of flair.

“Hi, I’m Harry, I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like some water? Accio! There you go.”

“Let me clear these plates for you. Evanesco!”

“A five dollar tip on a $60 dollar bill? Are you kidding me? Avada Kedavra! Dammit, not again…”

• Harry’s doing his best Darth Vader from Empire imitation. “You will never know the power of the Dark Arts!”

• He’s in a Coliseum, so obviously he’s busting out some Shakespeare in the Hogwarts school play. “To be in the sequel, or not to be. That is the question… for my agent.”

• What reaching? He’s just trying to get his Lotus Pose on! (This all started because Harry is a rapid Madonna fan (fav song: “Live To Tell”); ever since the Brit-con Material Girl started taking up yoga, HP’s been doing all he can to look trendy.)

• He’s just showing his frustration over Sanjaya not getting kicked off American Idol. Harry’s a closet Phil Stacey fan (I know!).

• Harry is secretly obsessive compulsive and can’t stand to see the two “T’s” in the title look different. He’s reaching out to try and fix it. Related note: Harry’s favorite muggle TV show: Monk (he secretly prefers Sharona over Natalie. What can you do, he’s British?).

• VOLDEMOOOOORT! (Think Star Trek 2.)

• He’s holding his hand up as a perch for his owl, Hedwig (natch). Side question: If J.K. Rowling had called the owl Hootie, do you think it would have prevented Hootie and the Blowfish singer Darius Rucker from making a horrible second album? Because I was really waiting for him to write another great song about how the Miami Dolphins always suck.

P.S. Screw you, Darius! I get enough headaches trying to root for Ricky Williams to accidentally lose the number of his pot dealer and remember he’s good at football. Not mention the atrocity that is Daunte Culpepper. So I don’t need you making it any worse with your easy listening light rock and affable Southern demeanor.

• He’s reaching for his customized platinum snitch, which is emblazoned with the words “Seeker 4 Life” on it. Harry is nothing if not a big baller.

• Again, not reaching for anything, Harry just can’t stand negative space on book covers, so he put his arm up to create a proper spacial relationship.

• He’s holding up his invisible cell phone, trying to get reception. Unfortunately, there’s no spell powerful enough to overcome Cingular’s shoddy service.

• He’s recreating his favorite moment from Gladiator. “My name is Harry James Potter, commander of Dumbledore’s Army, Student of Hogwarts, loyal servant to the true grand wizard, Albus Dumbledore. Son to a murdered Father, pupil to a murdered Principal. And I will have my vengeance, in this book or the next.”

Bangarang!

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