21 days and counting, kids. I hope you’ve reserved your copy at a local independent bookstore, and if you’re in Mendo, I’ll see you at Gallery Bookshop! (They’re having a pajama and movie party, for anyone local who wasn’t aware. Yeah pajama party! Alas, my pajamas are not small child appropriate.)

So, anyway, on to the heart of the matter. The other day, I was watching an interview panel of Harry Potter geeks, including Emerson Spartz from Mugglenet. In the interview, he mentioned that “Harry was made into a horcrux.” I was kind of surprised to hear that, since I thought Rowling had specifically said that Harry was not, in fact, a horcrux. I was fairly certain that this had been reported on Mugglenet, so I rummaged through their archives and discovered that I was apparently hallucinating. No statement from Rowling to that effect had been made, which opened up a whole new world of possibilities for me.

Having confirmed that Rowling hasn’t ruled out that possibility, I am going to go ahead and say that yes, Harry is a horcrux. I’ll jump on board with the popular theory that after the failure of the Avada Kedavra curse on Harry, the already prepared horcrux spell entered Harry, without Voldemort’s knowledge.

Which suggests that there may actually be eight horcruxes, since Voldemort clearly would have wanted to make seven. I am of two minds on the details of this issue. One theory says that Harry is a horcrux and Voldemort doesn’t know, because Voldemort seems to try and kill him every time they meet. If Harry is a horcrux, it explains the innate connection between Harry and Voldemort, and it may also explain why Voldemort can touch Harry after he comes back to life? If Voldemort doesn’t know that he made Harry a horcrux, he would end up with one more horcrux that he thought he had, which could turn out to be very important.

My other theory is that Voldemort did not mean to make Harry a horcrux, but he does know. This may be why Snape has helped to save Harry’s life so many times. Either Snape works for Voldemort and Voldemort has instructed him to keep Harry alive, or Snape is working for the Order (my vote) and is keeping Harry alive on Voldemort’s orders and because he hopes it will lead to the defeat of Voldemort.

My even more far fetched and extreme theory is that Harry is a horcrux, all right…but it’s not Voldemort’s soul he’s holding. Instead, he has part of Lily’s soul, and perhaps James’ as well. Crazy? Probably. But…there are a few clues which suggest that I am not totally insane. For one thing, we don’t know that much about horcruxes, other than that they are created through murder. Is it possible that Lily and/or James split into a horcrux? Especially given that Sirius talks about Harry’s parents living on in him, perhaps this is not entirely metaphorical.

So, the question is…if Harry is a horcrux, how are we going to fix this problem? I still think that Harry is going to die, sacrificing himself for the greater good. However, Spartz raised an interesting point. Why would Rowling have introduced Dementors, creatures which suck out human souls? The Dementors have already played an important role in the book, but is it possible that they are also the key to extracting the horcrux? Hm?

I guess we’ll find out in 21 days.

[Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows]

The origins of the domestic cat have been traced to the Middle East. Five lineages appear to have led to the modern cat.

Military recruiters must be allowed into many schools, by law. Aside from some of the ethical issues there, I cannot imagine it being very pleasant for students to be constantly harassed by military recruiters. Not only that, but it may not be very effective anyway…enrollment straight out of high school is dropping.

Health officials in Washington, DC will be able to fund needle exchange programs. Hooray! Let’s reduce that AIDS rate, kids.

An alert ambulance crew spotted smoke in a Mercedes in London…and it turned out to be a car bomb. I congratulate them for their sharp eyes, which probably saved lives.

This rant on Craigslist pretty much sums up why I do not go to concerts. I should try the pinching thing sometime.

A worm targets Harry Potter fans. I know that all of my readers are too smart to open email claiming to have material from Deathly Hallows.

For some reason, this story sprang to mind today, although it happened some time ago.

One evening, I was walking along Main Street when a very jacked up car filled with ruffians drove by. As they passed me, the windows went down and the men started shouting:

“Oink! Oink!”

They accompanied the calls with snarfling noises, which I believe were meant to bring the thought of pigs to mind. I actually looked over my shoulder to see if there was a cop behind me, when I realized that they were oinking at me.

Hrm, I thought, what was that about? Why would you “oink” at someone who isn’t a cop? Do I look like a cop? Am I wearing a Police Activities League shirt or something?

And then, I realized. They were oinking at me because they thought I was fat, because I was strolling down the street eating an ice cream cone and enjoying the last of the lingering daylight. They were, it occurred to me, trying to insult me, or perhaps to shame me. Unfortunately for them, “fat” is not a pejorative word to me.

“Guess what,” I shouted, exploding into Headlands where I saw some friends, “I just got oinked!”

I explained what had happened, my face aglow, and my mouth twitching with laughter, but despite these obvious signs of merriment, my friends clearly thought that I was devastated by the drive by oinking.

“Oh,” someone said, “that’s awful. Who would do that?”

“Don’t you pay them any mind,” someone else said. “Who gives a shit what other people think.”

“No, you guys,” I said, “it was AWESOME! They actually thought that they were insulting me by oinking at me? I mean, who seriously thinks that! Pigs are spectacular! I am so honored to be compared to a pig, they are wicked smart and super clean and just amazing. And they taste good! I love that people thinking oinking at me is going to reduce me to a quivering blob of fatty jelly!”

“Oh. Well, then, I guess it’s good that you got oinked,” a friend finally said, after a long pause.

Yes, yes it was. It actually made my week to get oinked. It’s such an empowering moment when someone tries to insult you and you just find it amusing, don’t you think? It’s a sad thing that we live in a culture where fat women are expected to be ashamed of themselves, and where moderately chubby or buxom women are lumped in with the obese and taught to hate themselves. But the instant you see an insult as a compliment, you’ve won.

It can take a long time to get to that point, but when you do, it makes such a difference in how you view the world.

San Francisco gets ready to roll out universal health care. Too bad I don’t live there anymore!

Farm raised fish from China may not be safe to eat, according to the FDA. Perhaps we should stop eating food from China altogether.

Going organic may be the best way to save family farms. Create a niche and run with it!

Taco trucks may be banned from Salinas soon. What a terrible thought, to lose the excellence and cultural heritage that is the taco truck.

Should gender identity disorder be removed from the DSM? A lot of transpeople say no, because it could lead to denial of healthcare benefits.

Time ponders the “magic moment” which will happen around the world on 21 July. (I am dying to see Neilsen ratings for 21 July, actually, because I am curious to know if the release of Deathly Hallows will have an impact on tv viewing.)

I headed over to the farmers’ market on time yesterday, for a change, and picked up a bunch of awesome food. As I drifted around, I thought about various meals that I might want to make, and I ended up assembling the perfect ingredients for champ, courtesy of three different farmers. I figured I might as well pick up some local meat and make a locavorean feast of it.

I picked up Korean garlic from Sky Hoyt, a specialty grower based in Lakeport. Sky always has awesome produce, as well as a smile. While I was at his stand, I also got a vidalia onion and a handsome bag of tomatoes. The sign on the Korean garlic said that it was hot, like incendiary hot, and that turned out to be correct. Ladies and gentleman, I have discovered the perfect food for garlic lovers. It is pungent, firey, intense, garlicy perfection.

The kale came from another farmer, who also had some sweet looking romaine lettuce and carrots. I wanted to grab fennel, too, but the guy in front of me got the last fennel. After a brief confusion over correct change, I was on my way to yet another farmer, who had the sexiest yukon gold potatoes ever.

(For those of you playing along at home, I also got summer squash from Cinnamon Bear Farm, and fruit from the guy with the apricots. Which I had for dessert. The apricots were really good, small and soft and oh so sweet.)

I dropped everything off at home and diddled around at work for a bit before going over to Roundman’s for meat. Fortunately for me, they had fabulous pork chops from Covelo, and I also picked up a Rosie breast for a project later in the week. (Think chile verde, think tortillas, think reappearance of the summer squash, and…Wehani rice! What is Wehani rice? You’ll find out. Unless you already know, you food savvy reader you.)

When I got home, I put some water on to boil for the potatoes and briefly steamed the kale, throwing it into a bowl with finely minced garlic and some butter and cream from Clover. Which is fairly local, I guess. When it came to salt and pepper I dispensed with the locavore concept altogether, and went with what I had in the spice cupboard. After the potatoes were done, I busted out my ricer for smooth creamy mashed potatoes while the pork chop was introduced to the heat.

The pork chop was crusted in salt and pepper before being dropped in a nice hot cast iron pan with a smear of olive oil and butter to sear for one minute on both sides. Then, I covered the pan and let the chop cook while I unearthed some applesauce from last year. (Which I happened to make with Gowan’s apples, also local!)

The results were magically delicious. The pork was really superb, fresh and flavorful and extremely juicy, and it went well with the applesauce. I like my applesauce rather tart, as a general rule, and the cinnamon I added to this batch actually complimented the plain preparation of the pork chop quite nicely. The champ was, of course, awesome, as champ always is.

I actually took a picture of the plate, but it looked horrible. It had gotten too dark for my little cellphone to be up to the task, and it looked like a murky photograph of the Loch Ness Monster, or perhaps grainy footage from a police bust, so I decided to leave it out.

The total cost of the meal was pretty minimal, probably much cheaper, actually, than with food from Harvest. Eating locally produced food, it turns out, doesn’t just make you smug…it also saves you money.

[locavore]

Deseritification: it’s what might be the end of the world as we know it.

Walter Jeffries of Sugar Mountain Farm talks about naming animals, including those we eat. (If you’re curious, yes, we always named all of our animals on the farm, leading to confusing comments like “oh, is this Henrietta?” at dinner.)

Farmers’ markets are all the rage. (And people are starting to punctuate them correctly!)

Tainted paste sweeps the nation. Note to self: do not buy cheap products intended for human ingestion ever again.

In shocking news, immigration rhetoric might, possibly, stretch the truth, just a little bit.

“Now,” she says, “what kind of cocktail can I get you?”

I was already ill at ease at the party. A huge group of people I didn’t know, all dressed far more formally than I was, with thin legs and flat stomachs, looking like a collection of praying mantises in couture. I was relieved of my well worn coat at the door, and I felt exposed in an old black haltertop dress, the sort of thing I trot out for events like this. Amidst these men and women, though, it looked sort of shabby, and because I laid it out on the bed while I showered, there was a clump of hair where Mr. Shadow had been lying.

The woman continued to gaze at me, one eyebrow cocked, while I looked vainly for the person who had dragged me here. Being short, it was essentially impossible to the see through the sea of people.

“Er,” I said, not really sure how to address the question. “Uhm, no kind, thank you.”

“Oh, don’t be shy! Open bar!”

“Oh, I, er, I don’t really drink hard alcohol. But thank you. I’ll just, uhm, find some fruit.”

I always feel awkward in situations like this, because to say that I do not drink would be a lie. Inevitably, when I say that I don’t drink hard alcohol, most people ask me why, and I can’t think of a nice way to say “none of your business,” so I end up gesturing vaguely and saying er a lot before drifting off. I’m not really sure why people think it’s appropriate to question a statement like that, but they do.

I wonder if it’s easier for people who don’t drink at all, or if teetotalers also get hassled about it. It’s like there’s something deeply suspect and alien about declining an offer of alcohol.

I know lots of people who don’t drink. Some of them don’t like alcohol. Others are underage and law abiding. A few have illnesses which preclude drinking. In some cases, they are recovering alcoholics or substance abusers. Or perhaps they have religious beliefs surrounding alcohol.

What, I ask you, is so weird about not drinking?

“Oh,” she said, stepping back and surveying my behaired dress and hand made earrings. “Well, why did you come to a cocktail party if you don’t drink?”

“Er, well,” I said, waving my hands vaguely in the direction of some rather expensive artwork, “it’s not that I don’t drink, exactly, I, er, just like art.”

With that, I dived off into the depths of the party.

I am all about tea, juice, and the myriad of other alcohol free options which I never seem to find at “adult” parties. If it’s an all ages event, sometimes I can get apple juice in a kiddie cup, and I feel preposterous as I mill around in the midst of all the big people with their real glasses. It’s like a concentrated attempt to humiliate non-drinkers, to shame us into accepting alcohol so that we fit in.

I’m not really sure why drinkers feel a need to stigmatize those who do not drink. Sometimes I think it’s a shame thing, like drinkers are worried about how much they drink, so they take it out on those of us who abstain. Perhaps that woman sincerely wished that she wasn’t drinking that lemondrop, and she envied me my ability to blithely dismiss the offer of a drink. Or maybe it’s just such a bizarre concept to them, the idea of not wanting to drink, that they want to explore it and they don’t really know how.

Still looking for my friend, I found myself cornered by a group of securities lawyers.

“Hey,” one of them said, “you know so-and-so, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“But,” one of them declared, “you don’t have a drink! Let me get you something.”

“Oh, no thank you,” I say.

“But it’s an open bar!”

Ah, yes, free alcohol. Strange enough to abstain, but stranger still when I could get shitfaced for free. What sort of sane person would pass up the opportunity to court social humiliation by getting tossed on free booze at a party that they are technically crashing? Now, there’s an idea, I could find the hostess and get myself kicked out, except that I would probably upset my friend, who is trying nobly to get me to be less of a hermit.

“So, what does a securities lawyer do, exactly,” I ask, trying to head off the rest of this conversation. Fortunately for me, it worked, and my friend came across me 15 minutes later deep in discussion and debate, seeming more out of place than ever as I lecture the lawyers on the evils of capitalism.

It is clearly time to go, her look says, and I gratefully follow her into the night.

“Did you have fun,” she asks in the car home.

“Um, not really,” I say. “But thank you anyway. It was a fascinating glimpse into the heart of everything I hate about America.”

“Oh,” she said.

We both stared at the road for awhile.

“Hey,” I say, “what is it with everyone trying to get me to drink? It was like the opposite of an alcoholic’s anonymous meeting.”

“Well, it was a cocktail party,” she points out.

“Right, but…why would you take me to a cocktail party when you know I don’t drink cocktails?”

“Because,” she says, “I know you like art and arguing with lawyers.”

The Chronicle tells pet owners how to avoid buying from puppy mills. I like the lead to the article, which states that: “There are three good ethical sources for family pets. One of them is a humane society or shelter. Another is an animal rescue group, which is an organization dedicated to helping homeless pets. The third is a responsible breeder.” High marks to the Chron for putting animal rescue first!

An op-ed in the Times about the fake chocolate crisis. Lobby for strict labeling! And yes, darn it, it is a crisis, because we cannot allow ersatz products to be called “chocolate.”

Finally, internet dating sites get honest: “Sick of dating Web sites filled with ugly, unattractive, desperate fatsos?” Then turn to Darwin Dating, or Beautiful People, and enjoy your shallow life.

Giant penguins! God, I love penguins. Especially GIANT ones.

Keith Olbermann issues his Harry Potter predictions. Have I mentioned that I love Keith Olbermann? Because I do. He is a rocker. The article is witty and intelligent, if not entirely correct, as you will see when you get to the second page.

I have a confession.

I can’t really swim. I know, I’ve been writing all these posts about going to the river, and I might have one up sometime soon about the Great Ocean Adventure, but I can’t really swim. I splash around, for sure, and I can dogpaddle with the best of them, but in an emergency situation with water, I would be pretty much fucked.

Yesterday we went to milemarker [redacted] on [road]*, because a friend of mine was just getting into town for a brief visit and we wanted to go to the river and it was a readily accessible spot. I went out early with another friend, and we crashed around in the woods for awhile because he charged up the wrong path and I didn’t correct him, but we made it there ok. It was a good day for going to the river. It was a good day for charging naked through the woods looking for logs, too.

I had actually woken up thinking that a river trip would be really nice. The weather was sunny and bright, and it would be a shame to be stuck indoors working all day when I could work at night. Which is what I have been doing, since the weather is so awesome. But I pledged to myself that I would work, unless someone called and said “let’s go to the river” and fortunately someone did.

I have a whole system at the river. First, I apply sunscreen to the visible parts of my body and I lie in the sun until it becomes almost painful. Then, I take my clothes off and put sunscreen everywhere else, before lying in the sun some more. Next, I charge full tilt into the water and splash around. My friend thought it was really amusing when I pointed out that I can’t actually swim, though. He tried to teach me all these fancy swimming strokes, and while I appreciated the effort, I really do just like splashing around. I don’t mind going out into deep water, and I can hold my own for a little while, but actual swimming is beyond me. I also noticed today that I have developed the alarming tendency to sink like a stone, and I’m not sure when that happened. I used to be a floater!

When everyone else arrived, the boys set about building an impressive engineering structure from mud, while the girls lounged on the bank and read. This is pretty much par for the course with river trips, and is part of the fun, with all of us periodically decamping to the water to splash around, play water tag, and what have you. I showed people how, if you hold really, really still, the fish in the water will come nibble on you. I think they are salmon? I assume they are salmon. Anyway, if you hold still enough, those little fuckers can really bite you. It hurts.

“Man,” someone said at one point, “this is really what I wanted to do with my day.”

And he was right. It was exactly what I wanted to do with my day, loafing in the water and then coming home tired and sated to work through the evening. The last week or so have been really, extraordinarily frustrating for me, so it was really nice to just space out at the river with my friends, thinking about nothing other than the apricots in my bag and the book I was reading. The river is one of my favourite places on Earth. I think that if I had a choice in it, I would probably buy property next to the river before I would buy property next to the ocean, since I love the thought of just running out into the back yard and taking a swim. Or, I guess in my case, taking a splash.

*What, like I’m going to give away all my sweet swimming spots? In your dreams.

An interesting essay on American class divisions, represented by MySpace and Facebook. I think that the essay needs a lot more work, but the inner idea is sound.

What does your mail see? Tim Knowles set out to answer that question, shipping a package with a digital camera inside and setting the camera to snap a picture through a small hole every 10 seconds. Pretty darn neat.

The Chronicle profiles a lesbian cop in honor of Pride, and talks briefly about the history of relations between the gay community and cops in San Francisco.

Will Jon Stewart leave the daily show, just in time for election season? I have to say that would be awful.

Apparently, UC Davis has been buddy-buddy with the tobacco industry for a long time. Like, thirty years. Or more.

An increase in tuna prices has led to…creative sushi ingredients.

A library in San Jose is having a Harry Potter release party. Awesome!