the absolute truth
Apr. 26th, 2006 05:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ontologyI had an amusing experience during my trip to The Other Side Of The State Of Pennsylvania last month, which I had absolutely no one to share with at the time, and promptly forgot about.
We have no Trader Joe's where we live, you see. This is something my father finds extremely distressing, as he is--fine, I'll say very particular and not former-fine-restaurant-employee-snobbish about foodstuffs, coffee, and baking ingredients. Trader Joe's, for those unfamiliair, is a shop that carries all sorts of exotic, interesting, and high-quality foods and food ingredients at generally reasonable, if not downright astonishingly cheap, prices. This place is so special that they supply low-fat tofu. Apparently, their brands of coffee are the only ones Dad drinks anymore if he can help it, so whenever we visit my aunt, we stop at her Trader Joe's and stock up monumentously on coffee, trail mixes, and strange snack-like items that only Dad likes, because, having been a pastry chef for years, he's developed a great deal of bizarre tastes.
Anyway, I was having a merry time, as I was twirling around with Coldplay singing in my headphones (I'd just bought A Rush of Blood to the Head the night before) and admiring the mock movie posters for PLANET OF THE EGGS and DIAL M FOR MILK and other such beauties, as well as expressing astonishment over the low-fat tofu, rapturous, wistful longing over the massive chunks of milk chocolate, and fear and wariness over the so-called Smart Chili. Dad was taking something just short of forever in finishing up--it was rather like me in a bookstore, or a chocolate shop--so Mum, Heidi, Timmy, and I wandered into the entry to fill balloons with helium for the youngers, while I continued twirling and admiring the potted plants.
All of this unnecessary information finished with (setting the scene and all, you know; it might turn out to be infinitely important), Dad finally caught up with us, purchases in hand, and we proceeded Outdoors in order to make our way down the sidewalk and back to the parking lot and our car. Then I recieved a shock, which no one else appreciated.
Standing a bit outside the door was a large and very black dog.
I stared first. Then I laughed. Then I exulted (quietly: my family was there!). He did look awfully intelligent, and only the most discerning dog would take Trader Joe's as his haunt of choice. I did a little dance with my headphones slipping down my neck. I said, very quietly, "Hullo, Padfoot; I am glad you're not dead after all!" and proceeded to wonder how on earth Sirius had managed to get himself all the way to America and why he was hiding out here when the war must surely have been over for nearly a decade. I suppose the curtain was actually a portal of sorts--perhaps it even solidified him into dog form, and he's been trying to escape his canine existence ever since, which is why he cannot get back to England. Poor bloke. I should have offered to help him, since I recognised him. He's probably still agonising that he didn't attempt to sneak into my car. Of course, my cat would have been furious.
Now I am the bearer of the unknown truth, a beacon of hope to, um, someone. Or something. The point is: Sirius is languishing somewhere in the Philadelphia area; won't someone go and rescue him?
Anyway, I was having a merry time, as I was twirling around with Coldplay singing in my headphones (I'd just bought A Rush of Blood to the Head the night before) and admiring the mock movie posters for PLANET OF THE EGGS and DIAL M FOR MILK and other such beauties, as well as expressing astonishment over the low-fat tofu, rapturous, wistful longing over the massive chunks of milk chocolate, and fear and wariness over the so-called Smart Chili. Dad was taking something just short of forever in finishing up--it was rather like me in a bookstore, or a chocolate shop--so Mum, Heidi, Timmy, and I wandered into the entry to fill balloons with helium for the youngers, while I continued twirling and admiring the potted plants.
All of this unnecessary information finished with (setting the scene and all, you know; it might turn out to be infinitely important), Dad finally caught up with us, purchases in hand, and we proceeded Outdoors in order to make our way down the sidewalk and back to the parking lot and our car. Then I recieved a shock, which no one else appreciated.
Standing a bit outside the door was a large and very black dog.
I stared first. Then I laughed. Then I exulted (quietly: my family was there!). He did look awfully intelligent, and only the most discerning dog would take Trader Joe's as his haunt of choice. I did a little dance with my headphones slipping down my neck. I said, very quietly, "Hullo, Padfoot; I am glad you're not dead after all!" and proceeded to wonder how on earth Sirius had managed to get himself all the way to America and why he was hiding out here when the war must surely have been over for nearly a decade. I suppose the curtain was actually a portal of sorts--perhaps it even solidified him into dog form, and he's been trying to escape his canine existence ever since, which is why he cannot get back to England. Poor bloke. I should have offered to help him, since I recognised him. He's probably still agonising that he didn't attempt to sneak into my car. Of course, my cat would have been furious.
Now I am the bearer of the unknown truth, a beacon of hope to, um, someone. Or something. The point is: Sirius is languishing somewhere in the Philadelphia area; won't someone go and rescue him?
In other news, I dissected a horrifically large frog yesterday. Also, I am nearly finished with what wasn't supposed to be an impromptu essay on my opinions on romantic relationships in the modern-day (I'll give you a hint: I'm rather negative about the whole business), but seems to be turning into one anyway.
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-26 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-28 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-27 01:18 am (UTC)*dies laughing*
A similar thing happened to me on holiday in England last year. Except that it was totally the wrong end of England (isn't the Ministry in London? And Sirius is a London boy, right?).
Sirius, the Mysterious Travelling Dog.
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Date: 2006-04-28 11:31 pm (UTC)Er. Oh yes, here it is: when Sirius went through the curtain, he was not only trapped in his canine form, he was also split into various bodies--cloned, if you will, except not--which were then thrown at random into various corners of the earth, even though the earth is round and therefore hasn't got any quarters. To return to his proper existence, he must collect all of his various selves together and...go find someone who can put him back together. Or something. Obviously, this is taking a very long time, but I do wish someone had the sense to tell Harry. Or the Minstry, for that matter, except they'll probably screw up everything, as usual.
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Date: 2006-04-29 02:34 am (UTC)*dies some more*
Possibly Harry's been...elsewise occupied? Maybe trying to sue That Rowling Person for insinuating that he has/ever had a monster in his chest. (I mean, I love JKR, but that metaphor was just...weird.)
*keeps a lookout for large black dogs*
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Date: 2006-04-27 08:50 pm (UTC)And that story was every kind of wonderful! It completely made my night last night, and I ought to have commented, but instead I went to bed, fell asleep, slept straight through my alarm, and woke up 20 minutes before I had to leave for class, which would normally put me in a very bad mood at the world in general. But then I thought of this story on my way to class, and I was happy again. And now I have the profound urge to run off to Philadelphia...
*shudders* Dissections are terrible, simply terrible. I loathed them (particularly bad was the fetal pig), and I never plan to do another so long as I live, unless it is a matter of life and death (and even then, it will depend very much on whose life is at stake...).
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Date: 2006-04-28 11:37 pm (UTC)*giggles* Thinking "Sirus is alive! He really, really is!" is a good way to keep oneself in a good mood. ^-^
THANK GOODNESS I DON'T HAVE TO DO THE FETAL PIG. I;m doing Chemistry next year, and then I have all the required lab sciences and can study something more interesting (like Psychology, I hope). Of course, naming one's dissection projects is always amusing. The girls across the table named theirs Rasputin. I should have named my frog Franz Kafka. :p
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Date: 2006-04-29 12:14 am (UTC)Oh! Panera's! Yes, we have got them, although I only came to know of them quite recently... well, recently as in: just before I left. I haven't had their bagels, but their soups and breads and sandwiches are glorious. Shall try their cinnamon bagels upon my return, definitely. I love bagels.
You are very lucky. And yes, science is not my friend. I don't think I ever named my dissection projects, although others did... You ought to have named him Kafka! He deserves it, the pretentious git [okay, so I have never actually read Kafka, but I read Schulz, this Polish dude who is allegedly Kafka-esque, and I wanted to throw his writing across the room (except it was just sheets of paper stapled together, so it would have been very unsatisfying)]. I can't stand that kind of writing, it's so... patronising. *glares at Kafka and Schulz*