Savas Publishing & Consulting Group

Misery Loves Company

11/22/02

$215.40. Give or take ten bucks.

I admit it is a tidy sum and I have nothing to show for it. And yes, in my earlier naivety I had adamantly refused to be sucked aboard the global marketing sensation conceived to transfer small piles of wealth into one giant pile of wealth.

I now concede the expenditure was, is, and will be, unavoidable. A few seasoned heads are already nodding. Most parents of young eating machines know exactly of what I speak. Of what exactly am I speaking?

You don't know?

Ah, then you must be a muggle!

Harken back to the good 'ole days before any of us had heard of . . . (dare I even write the words?) . . . Harry Potter! . . . the precocious little fictional wizard who has managed to drain my wallet faster than the IRS. Cha-ching!

November 20, 1999. That was the day my usually level-headed wife Carol ushered the first tome (these are not small books) of the series into our home. "Everyone's reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," she said excitedly, "and _____ (fill in the blank with any name in your rolodex) loved it! I am going to read it with Alex tonight!" Eight-year-old Alex--or Alexandra when we are angry--was an avid enthusiast of all things written. There my girls stood. One tall, one small, the small one holding the bag, the tall one trying to rip it from the little cherub fingers that refused to relinquish the prize. Something was curiously amiss. And like the typical husband who doesn't see dust, it flew right past me.

"Umm . . . ok," I shrugged.

With a glow in her eyes usually reserved for new jewelry or a bare-chested Pierce Brosnan, Carol praised the novel with a religious fervor that not even the nuns had been able to instill within her. Alex, too, was utterly smitten. Both Tall and Small squandered hours discussing Albus Dumbledore, Quidditch, and Hogwarts (hog warts?). Their icy glances, casually cast in my direction, were the price I paid for steadfastly refusing to read the thing.

More books followed. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets . . . Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban . . . . Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. . . . Harry Potter and the Challenger Disaster (ok, I made that last one up). Cha-Ching. Happy Meals, posters, and toys filled store shelves and, by some feat of magic and checkbook, found their way into our home. Cha-ching. I know heads out there are bobbing in sympathy (or disapproval). Misery loves company.

One year ago. This month. The movie. On opening weekend. Alex and I had a bet about a river in South America. I lost. Tickets through Fandango. Concession junk food. Cha-ching. Two and a half hours in the most uncomfortable theater seat imaginable, surrounded by screaming kids. My temples throbbed for a week. (Add a bottle of Tylenol and tube of Bengay for my aching back--another $11.30 because J. K. Rowling got stuck on a train and felt compelled to write. I thought European trains ran on time?)

But it happened. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was . . . ahem . . ."Potterized." The movie I had spent months preparing to loathe was . . . wonderful--even magical (no pun intended). I was hooked. "See papa," whispered Alex several times during the show. "Isn't this a great story?" I hung my head in parental shame. It was indeed a magnificent tale well told and presented. This weekend we have tickets (Fandango, another thirty bucks) to see the second installment.

I invited my family to go with me.



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	Misery Loves Company 11/22/02 $215.40. Give or take ten bucks. I admit it is a tidy sum and I have nothing to show for it. And yes, in my earlier naivety I had adamantly refused to be sucked aboard the global marketing sensation conceived to transfer small piles of wealth into one giant pile of wealth. I now concede the expenditure was, is, and will be, unavoidable. A few seasoned heads are already nodding. Most parents of young eating machines know exactly of what I speak. Of what exactly am I speaking? You don't know? Ah, then you must be a muggle! Harken back to the good 'ole days before any of us had heard of . . . (dare I even write the words?) . . . Harry Potter! . . . the precocious little fictional wizard who has managed to drain my wallet faster than the IRS. Cha-ching! November 20, 1999. That was the day my usually level-headed wife Carol ushered the first tome (these are not small books) of the series into our home. "Everyone's reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," she said excitedly, "and _____ (fill in the blank with any name in your rolodex) loved it! I am going to read it with Alex tonight!" Eight-year-old Alex--or Alexandra when we are angry--was an avid enthusiast of all things written. There my girls stood. One tall, one small, the small one holding the bag, the tall one trying to rip it from the little cherub fingers that refused to relinquish the prize. Something was curiously amiss. And like the typical husband who doesn't see dust, it flew right past me. "Umm . . . ok," I shrugged. With a glow in her eyes usually reserved for new jewelry or a bare-chested Pierce Brosnan, Carol praised the novel with a religious fervor that not even the nuns had been able to instill within her. Alex, too, was utterly smitten. Both Tall and Small squandered hours discussing Albus Dumbledore, Quidditch, and Hogwarts (hog warts?). Their icy glances, casually cast in my direction, were the price I paid for steadfastly refusing to read the thing. More books followed. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets . . . Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban . . . . Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. . . . Harry Potter and the Challenger Disaster (ok, I made that last one up). Cha-Ching. Happy Meals, posters, and toys filled store shelves and, by some feat of magic and checkbook, found their way into our home. Cha-ching. I know heads out there are bobbing in sympathy (or disapproval). Misery loves company. One year ago. This month. The movie. On opening weekend. Alex and I had a bet about a river in South America. I lost. Tickets through Fandango. Concession junk food. Cha-ching. Two and a half hours in the most uncomfortable theater seat imaginable, surrounded by screaming kids. My temples throbbed for a week. (Add a bottle of Tylenol and tube of Bengay for my aching back--another $11.30 because J. K. Rowling got stuck on a train and felt compelled to write. I thought European trains ran on time?) But it happened. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was . . . ahem . . ."Potterized." The movie I had spent months preparing to loathe was . . . wonderful--even magical (no pun intended). I was hooked. "See papa," whispered Alex several times during the show. "Isn't this a great story?" I hung my head in parental shame. It was indeed a magnificent tale well told and presented. This weekend we have tickets (Fandango, another thirty bucks) to see the second installment. I invited my family to go with me.

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