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It's like what happened to publishing when J.K. Rowling stopped writing Harry Potter books, except now the hand-wringing, says the Washington Post, is happening inside the cable news networks. Ohhhh, wahhh, what WILL WE DO, now that Barack Obama is That One, but in a good way, and there's nothing left to scream about -- except for, like, the fact that his Chief of Staff is going to send you a dead fish if you screw up.

Americans became smitten with the high drama of the presidential election, but the transition of power is proving less than sexy.

Unhappy people watch television, according to some sociology nut at the University of Maryland, who wants me and everyone else I know who sometimes organizes their calendars around sweeps to feel even more awful about themselves.

Happy people go to church, socialize (does this mean drink?), and read newspapers. Guess we know who reads blog posts recapping their favorite TV shows.

It could be argued that Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes is the sexiest man in indie rock, with his art-school androgyny and his pit-black torch songs of love gone bad, mad and dangerous to know. But Barnes is a throwback to superstars of another era -- David Bowie, Prince -- while Koenig is very much of the moment. Vampire Weekend released the best indie rock record of 2008, a near-perfect debut so fantastic that even its overblown hype could not diminish its pure pleasure. And Koenig is a pleasure all his own. He's a graduate of Columbia, a sometime filmmaker, the son of a therapist, a blue-eyed charmer who can get you out of your undies and talk about your feelings. Now that's rock 'n' roll.

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Here's a piece of "gotcha" media journalism for your Friday afternoon perusal: Angelina Jolie, former blood-vial carrier and brother-kisser -- never forget! -- has spent the last few years transforming herself into Hollywood's Mother Theresa. Also, she stole Brad Pitt from jilted Jen, which was "really uncool" and "inappropriate."

But now, reports have been unearthed by a Times reporter who wants to make sure we all care about celebrity gossip just as much as the S & P. On today's front page, there's a story about Angelina Jolie's Carefully Orchestrated Image, which covers her famous, "scary smart" (according to Bonnie Fuller!) ability to control the gossip rags. They agree to give her money for photographs and not to say anything mean about her, and her face sells gazillions of magazines for them. Everybody wins! (Except Jen.) Now that's how you build a brand!

Did you know that Angie doesn't have a publicist? Just a lawyer? And a cell-phone? And her own scary-smarts? Coupled with her impending sainthood, this makes her a goddess among men, or whatever.

Anyway, Jen and John are totally back together.

Anyway, the credit markets have seized up!

We no longer have any perspective about these matters.

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Long live the celebrity book deal! The whimsical hummingbirds who spin the sun-dappled, sparkling web of gossip behind Page Six bring the news that Ivanka Trump, a really really pretty, really really ridiculously rich young lady, is going to write a book! For Simon Spotlight Entertainment. What will it be about? Not her boyfriend. Not how she got her job, or at least, not specifically. Not how she gets her hair so straight and shiny. It will be motivational! Which is like the unisex version of self-help:

My father always impressed upon me the idea that America is a meritocracy and that you must work for everything you get," Ivanka said in a statement, adding that she hopes to share a "positive perspective with the women of my generation."

From the Guardian, our favorite independent newspaper across the Pond, comes a heartwarming tale about love, life, and douchbags. What happens when you are in your 90s, you meet a handsome fellow 30 years your junior while lobbying at Parliament for better state pensions, and he dumps you for someone new when you become "less mobile"?:

We spent more than a decade in constant contact, visiting friends and going on holidays together. After the first flush of love, he never spoke of love again, but I hope I may be forgiven for thinking that love still bound us. He liked women and they liked him but I really didn't mind this, because I was the one he visited, called or accompanied on trips away.

In recent years, I have grown less mobile, but he was patient and our daily contact continued - until last week, when I didn't hear from him. He eventually came to see me and told me he had "met somebody".

Whether or not this lady's lack of mobility involved adult diapers, I just think this is about the saddest thing I've heard all day. There's a whole wealth of advice from readers following her plaintive query about how to "recover from a broken heart." One person suggests she still has time to "meet someone else"... via the Webz.

I suspect you fear this was your last chance to feel such strong emotions for a man, but that is not necessarily so. You are clearly young at heart and though you mention you have been less mobile of late, you can still contribute to the campaigns you care about via the internet, and perhaps meet someone else that way. I hope I reach 90 with half the verve you have now.

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I would be for this, mostly because I look forward to many happy photographs of Dear Willard touring auto plants in comical protective goggles. But there we are, already ahead of ourselves. So.

Remember the front-page Washington Post story about Eugene Allen, an African-American White House butler who started working in the White House when segregation was still in effect and whose wife passed away on November 4? It probably made you weep a little weep a few days after the election -- when, let's face it, the whole country was fawning, crying, and politically PMS-ing over something or other? Well, the article is now being made into a feature film by Sony.

On the one hand, it's nice that a human-interest tale of this nature is being produced, instead of, like, Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2. On the other hand, gross. Why can't good things just exist in and of themselves anymore?

This could be a rich, relevant topic, but unfortunately the Builders Association seems to be almost singularly focused on choreographing multiple video screens and overlapping interactions between onstage actors and onscreen actors to mimic and exaggerate everyday mediated interactions. The story itself gets lost irretrievably in a labyrinth of multi-sized screens and mediocre acting, and the result – even with its up to the moment references – comes off as dated, even boring. This play sets up an extreme version of what is happening, or what will happen, as our interactions become more and more removed through electronics, especially because of global travel and immigration. Reality gets blurry, relationships become unclear, and even those closest in proximity evolve into strangers who cannot be faced without the help of a mediating device.

In what was supposed to represent one of the most depressing moments in the story, a young girl refuses to respond to a nanny in person, and the nanny resorts to texting her "milk or juice?" to get an answer. First of all, juice. Of course. And second, before cell phones (in the mid 90s) when we were both kids, I would call my sister from separate landlines in the same house. Before landlines, I'm sure that notes were sometimes passed when words could have been spoken. I'm conflicted as to whether texting, combined with the fickle and distancing attitudes of children, really amounts to much of a tragedy. In any event, this incident definitely isn't as profound and illuminating about the nature of humanity as it is made out to be.

The girl with the juice is upset because her father, a present day Internet social networking entrepreneur, is traveling the globe to promote Xubu – "get used to saying that name" – the new international video Facebook. He calls her and they v-chat about the mundane things a father talks to a young daughter about. These calls alternate with his international reports – New York (or Vegas?), Paris (or Vegas?), China (really is China) and a lot of airports – to a Xubu business partner. His partner is a douchey man with an Internet dating addiction and a proclivity toward wooing unattractive women. Meeting in person, he tells one of them, would be just too much pressure and way too much of a commitment. Although the man with the daughter eventually becomes disillusioned by Xubu, realizes the emptiness of life on the road and the irreplaceability of his real life daughter, it may be too late. She may be too busy video blogging to notice him.

Five minutes into Continuous City and I can't imagine there is a person in the place that doesn't see the rest of the hour and a half coming. But the idea of using live theater to critique Internet culture is intriguing and could be successful if the strong visual and intellectual juxtapositions are exploited. I do hope there continue to be plays on the subject because although almost all attempts to capture online chatting dialogue in the theater have been annoying, it's surely worth a few more tries.

Playing at BAM Harvey Theatre, 651 Fulton St, closes November 22

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When I met you in the restaurant...

It's really only at the very end that this story provides any sort of kick, but it's a decent one.

The trick-turner and Girls Gone Wild! starlet is gonna have a heartwarming little chat with Diane Sawyer on Friday's 20/20. But first, Dupré -- who engaged in hanky-panky shenanigans for money with Eliot Spitzer -- chatted with feel-good American magazine People. The Post has some excerpts. Noteable:

Dupre said she spends her time working out and reading, and is speaking out now in a bid to "get on with my life."