A few years back my friend invited me to hear J.K. Rowling read at Radio City Music Hall in New York City. That was, of course, assuming that her ill grandfather would not be able to make it. It was cruel on her part because I had to stop myself from hoping he would croak so I could go. He turned out all right–which was great for him, really–but the closest I could get to her was the door of Radio City. It was probably one of the few times that she and I would be in the same country, let alone state, and I couldn’t get to her.
Cut to me in southwest Virginia, only a (somewhat long) car ride away from Washington, D.C., and I learn of THIS. So where was the owl (let’s call it Pigwidgeon) with my invitation, hmm? I’d like to think it was mauled by a hippogriff over the Blue Ridge Mountains, because this is quite unacceptable. And why did none of my Harry Potter first-generation classmates think to road trip it to D.C. and crash this party, hmm? J.K., you are the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote: once again you were within my reach and, stupidly, I let the ACME bomb fall on me instead.
Personal note to J.K.: I started reading these books when I was their age, and where were you to read to me on the White House lawn? You owe me, Rowling.