Ten Bold Predictions: Number Five

Okay, so I started the day out with a happy post about beer and running.

Then I went a little frightening and sad with the near...bad news...of my son.

So...I'm a few hours away from leaving on "vacation" (it's in South Bend, IN, thus the quote marks around vacation) and I'm a little behind on the whole prediction front. So, let's go a bit more light-hearted tonight and do a little Harry Potter action. Oh, look, it's about pieces of souls and death! How happy!

Harry is the last horcrux!

I know. I know. Impossible, you say. I've taken a lot of heat for this in various on-line forums, but this is the only possible solution that makes sense to me. And I'm an author...er...sorta.

We know from HBP that Voldemort was looking to make himself invincible by splitting his soul into seven pieces, which is the magic number in wizarding circles. We also know that Dumbledore was aware of Voldie's plans, and we also know that Voldemort feared only one wizard in the whole world, and that was Albus Dumbledore. Okay, let's back up to predition number 10 for a moment. That is Dumbledore, since he's still alive.

With that in mind, let's review the horcruxes: the diary (gone), the ring (gone), the locket (in the Black House), the cup (with the Smith family), Nagini (the snake with Voldemort) and then something of Ravenclaw's and something of Gryffendor's.

As for the Ravenclaw potential...I'm not sure. However, there are thoughts that Harry is a descendant of Godric Gryffendor. The importance of this is that Voldemort was looking for objects from the most powerful wizards in history (the founders of Hogwarts), thus showing that he was above the greatest of the wizards ever to live. The problem is, Gryffendor did not leave many things behind, except his legacy and his blood, which might live on in Harry's veins. The opening scenes of Book 7 are to take place in Godric's Hollow, where Harry's parents lived and where Voldemort and...well...I'll leave that for later...went to kill James and Lily Potter and to horcruxify Harry.

Now, I am full aware that Dumbledore told Harry that it is difficult to make a horcrux out of a living creature. He could do it to Nagini because she was like a pet. My argument is that Harry was an infant, defenseless and innocent. If you are going to strike a living creature and insert a tiny piece of your soul into that creature, you'd think that you'd do it to the very young. I could go into a whole scientific explanation about how it would be easier for a baby to absorb a transplant and grow up with it and the body thinking that the transplant belongs there. I won't, but think about that.

Also, one of the arguments is that Harry saw a flash of green light, and the only spell that we know of that uses green is avada kedavra (the killing curse). To that I respond with the green magic that protected the locket in the cave was, well, green, and Slytherin's colors are green, so it seems that the color green is a symbol of evil in the books. Making a horcrux is a very, very dark, evil spell. What color should it be? Probably green.

But, the most important thing is that Voldemort went right after Harry as soon as he heard the prophecy. So, he knew that Harry (or chose, according to Dumbledore) was a threat and prophesied to be the one to bring about Voldemort's ultimate downfall. So, this is how it goes down: Voldemort is going around placing little pieces of his soul around the world in order to ensure that he's immortal. He knows that a baby boy has been prophesied to destroy him, so why not hide a piece of your soul in the boy that you are supposed to fight. It's like the ultimate safety net. If Harry and Voldemort square off, and Voldemort wins, well, he's just sacrificed a little piece of himself--no big deal, there's seven more where those came from.

If Harry wins, well, then there's still a piece of Voldemort left in the world so that he can regenerate. When Harry gets lax, is fired up with his victory, Voldemort shows up, kills Harry and wins the day. This is the beauty of Voldemort's plan: either way, he wins.

The only thing he didn't count on was Dumbledore seeing through his plans to the horcrux making. So Voldemort doesn't count on the slow destruction of his other souls. I'm not sure how Voldemort doesn't feel his soul pieces being destroyed; you'd think that would be something that would repercuss across the soul left in your body. Being as I haven't made any horcruxes, I wouldn't know. Sorry.

So, there it is. Voldemort, being the crafty old snake, built himself a safety net by placing the last horcrux in Harry's forehead. How to get that out without hurting Harry? Well...I guess we can think on that until I get back from vacation.

Many Happy Returns

Well, I'm back from vacation, such as it was.

I'll give a quick recap. We went up to Indiana to reclaim my children. They had been with my mother-in-law for about three weeks, lest we forget the near drowning incident. Nothing so ghastly took place over the small break. I did get my eyes checked out and found I need new glasses. I could put it off last year, but not this year. We also celebrated my wife and daughter's birthdays. It was the big 06 for my daughter, which means it was the year for pierced ears.

If you see her, she'll sweep her hair back behind her ears and flash them at you. She's very proud. I won't even tell you that she freaked out pretty bad when the earrings were going in her ears. Oh, crap...

Also spent the day at the zoo in Fort Wayne. It's a fine, fine zoo, one of the best I've ever been to. Of course, that would be all of three zoos. But, seriously, the Fort Wayne Children's Zoo is awesome. One of the tigers was up pacing around. I had never seen it up and walking around before. Normally it's hidden in the foliage of the tiger pen. That was great. My only complaint about the zoo is that there is a definite lack of bears. They need a North American exhibit with bears and buffalo and elk and such. Just because I've never seen them is all. And some ibex, which I know are European, but are pretty damned cool nonetheless.

Anyway, Sunday was spent with my friend Jason and his family, which was nice because his son was born last year on the day we left Indiana. So, it was our first introduction to little Porter. Oh, by the way, Jason's a homebrewer. Heh.

Monday was the trip home. Like I said, it was a strategic, surgical strike. And we're all here, none the worse for ware, and very happy to be home. I lazed about for another two days before returning to work. Sure, one of those days was a national holiday, but still, I lazed.

Not much else to report, other than US Route 35 in Southern Ohio is a very lonely stretch of road. Very pretty, but not heavily trafficked. I guess I should also report that I have managed to not get a speeding ticket yet again. Go me.

I'll return us to regularly scheduled programming within a few hours.

Appetite for Algebra

I was on my home this evening from tutoring when I heard a DJ come on the local radio ("the everything that rocks" station...for what it's worth) and say that it was 20 years ago when Guns & Roses first released something off their "Appetite for Destruction" album. This didn't make me feel old, though I probably should, but it did make me think of my 7th grade math class.

That's probably a strange sort of memory to be stirred by GnR, but it made me think of a t-shirt design that was proposed for the math classes under the tutelage of my math teacher, Mr. Wallace. The t-shirt design had the cross with roses in place of the heads from the Appetite for Destruction album cover, and in the same font as on the album was written "Appetite for Algebra". Someone actually sketched the design freehand (we had many pretty decent artists in my middle school...I sometimes fancy myself a bit of an artist, but my designs, drawings and everything paled in comparison to some of my middle school classmates). I believe that it was going to be a black or slate gray shirt with red letters and it was going to be really nice, especially to a seventh grader. I'm sure my mom would have crapped to have something like that in her house, which always seemed like the worst insult ever. "I wouldn't have something like that in my house!" "I won't allow that in my house!" What about in the yard, mom? The car? Just on the porch?

Anyway, all of these are in the "possible" range since I never received my shirt. You see, I wanted one, wanted one badly. I saved up my lawnmowing money for a couple of weeks and the money I could con out of my parents in order to buy "extra milk" on chocolate milk days. Then the day came when the sign up sheet was passed around. So, Mr. Wallace put the sign up sheet on a desk by the door to the math room and stepped out a second for coffee, and now that I'm an adult, I can't fault him for that. With Mr. Wallace gone, havoc was sure to ensue. And it did.

We all lined up for sign ups. We joked, talked, goofed off...all the things you'd expect from a bunch of seventh graders. I thought nothing of it, but the air was filled with electricity from the merriment surrounding both the sign up sheet as well as the lack of Mr. Wallace. It was the build up to the perfect storm. Finally my turn in line came, and so I dutifully bent over the desk to write my name, number of shirts, size, money enclosed for payment...

Let's point out here that, in the seventh grade, I was about six foot tall. The desks were about mid-thigh high on me, so I had to bend over quite a bit to get down to the sign up sheet. Instead of crouching down by the side of the desk and filling out the paperwork like I had a fricking brain in my head, I bent over, at the waist. Doing so caused the waistband of my jeans to dip low down my backside. Fortunately for me, the waistband of my underwear was rock solid and did not move at all, providing a delectable target that was too delicious to avoid for my friend Chris Long. I had just managed to jot down my first name when I felt that horrible tug on the waistband of my drawers as they shot skyward. Searing pain shot through my nether regions as the crotch of my briefs threatened to emasculate me and the bulk of my underwear were turned into butt-floss.

The pain was real, that was for sure. My fragile seventh-grade ego also was shattered--doubtless word would spread soon after the attack on my backside to the remainder of my classmates who were not fortunate enough to witness my unmanning. Worst of all, however, was that, while the Mother-of-All-Wedgies was happening to my backside, the only face I saw was that of the alabaster angel who sat on the other side of the room by the far wall: Stacie Farmer.

In the seventh grade at my school, we got a whole new batch of kids from another school that did not have a middle school. Among these imports from Lancaster Elementary were my best friend, Jason, one of my closest confidants through middle and high school and beyond into college, Kelly, and the perfect, unfettered beauty, Stacie Farmer. The one problem with my infatuation with Stacie was that it was quite unrequited. Being a writer, I'm sometimes hostage to the whims of my passions, which flow through my veins like white-hot lead. It's these passions that I spill out onto paper in the form of prose, most of the time. Being an awkward seventh-grader, my passions would often fully encompass my being, smothering all sense and reason.

The unrequited nature of my desire for Stacie happened pretty much from the first day the new students arrived from Lancaster Elementary. I was blessed enough to have Stacie sitting behind me in science class. One day, that fateful first week of seventh grade, I turned around, smiled, and opened my mouth to speak. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment my wits decided to leave me, and thus my opening line was:

"You don't blink very often, do you?"

Not the smoothest pick-up ever. In fact, that pretty much sealed my fate with Ms. Farmer. I could tell because her answer was "What are you, stupid?"

That did not stop the ball of emotion within my chest from beating solely for Stacie Farmer. It would not, however, amount to anything, but I still remained completely infatuated with that blonde beauty. So, you can imagine that, upon that fateful day in math class, when I looked up and saw the look of astonishment and amusement on Stacie's face as my underwear was being heaved up around my shoulders like the raising of the mizzenmast, a piece of my soul shattered.

So, when I heard that Appetite for Destruction was 20 years old this year, I didn't feel old. I felt a small twinge of pain deep in the pit of my heart, thinking about the time when I was completely and thoroughly embarrassed and unmanned, and my poor little heart was crushed.

And I also felt like I needed to pick my underwear out of my butt.