Water, water, everywhere...

Aunt Bee took some pics of the sky the night of that hurricane in Hagerman. Freakish.
















This is supposed to be someone's yard, not a lake.































Well, at least somebody's liking the flooding.
















The sound and the fury of the Falls is magnificent right now. Although I suggest you don't go when there's driving rain/sleet/mist, as there sometimes is. (Only in Idaho does it snow on Easter, only to be hitting up to 70 degrees two days later.)





























































I'm just glad it's spring.

Ode to a Goldfish

"Oh, my wet pet."

--By the Infamous Unknown


(Yes, it is inspirational.)


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anhydrous (adj. Without water, especially water of crystallization.)

The Immortal Dictatorship

Warning: What you are about to read is no doubt classified information which I have only recently begun to have suspicions about. I will probably be thrown into a damp and dank dungeon or thrust into the WPP. Read at your own risk. *glances around ominously*

Have you ever noticed the striking similarities in appearance between Stalin and Saddam?



































Well, I was thinking about what it could mean and that maybe they're related somehow but then another thought struck me *drops to a whisper*--maybe the two are actually one. Maybe, just maybe, the world has an immortal on its hand, an immortal bent on domination.

Now, I started to think about this and thought "Wait, who would support such a cause, if they even believed he was immortal?" and then I thought some more and another thought struck me, this one more severe--like, you know those supposedly neutral countries that do, apparently, nothing, ever, except isolate themselves--namely, Canada, New Zealand, and Switzerland? They stay out of wars, controversial politics, and I have never once seen a product stamped "Made in Canada." These countries just sort of fade into the back of our collective recollection, seemingly innocent. Yeah, well, maybe they are not so innocent. Maybe they're in cahoots, supportive of the Immortal Dictator himself. Maybe we have a Canazeawitz conspiracy on our hands, unbeknownst. We just assume they're peace-loving administrations elected and appointed by peace-loving peoples, but instead, they're plotting to conquer the universe, you and I included, throwing all the free peoples of the world into slavery, no doubt forcing us to build lusterous monuments to their meraculous Canazeawitzian selves.

Why haven't we noticed this before now? Well, the Immortal Dicator and his Canazeawitzian denizens have far-reaching tendrons of maliciousness. Namely, Costco. No, seriously, have you ever gone into one of their stores? They're constantly rearranging and shifting their merchandise. You go in there for a bag of rice and wander around for two bloody hours, searching until your eyes hurt from the high, blaring lights and the endless array of boxes and crates and bulk Lysterine and 100-piece packs of gel pens and 18 oz. strawberry crates. I have often wondered why they do this, usually concluding it to be a marketing strategy. And it is. But they aren't marketing mouthwash, they're marketing brainwash. Then we go home, and what do we do? We turn on that confounded televisual contraption and watch American Idol while eating Peanut Butter Captain Crunch (which I swear contains habit-forming substances) until falling asleep. It's the Cost Company, it's Fox, it's QuakerOats. They're distracting us. It is all just part of the Great Distraction, and we're all falling for it.

I know, I know. You're sitting there in your cushy office chair, reading this post with a dazed and skeptical countenance and thinking "Dude, this chick must have had some Captain Crunch in bulk and is having a sugar high or something!" *nods sagely* Yeah, that's what they want you to think. The truth is, the Immortal Dictator has us all in his mighty clutches, and until someone truly reveals his every-day-life-permeating masterplan, we are all doomed, doomed to Simon Cowell, bulk Lysterine, and uninformed-ness.

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sycophant (n. A servile self-seeker who attempts to win favor by flattering influential people [ like, say, the Immortal Dictator.])

Hey, look over here!

Since it is indubitably imperative that you, the reader, read every single sentence I ever write on this blog, you might want to scroll down, as there is a new post that is behind the last one due to a lengthy stay in the "draft" file. Just in case you missed it.

Windows

My church does a ministry at a local nursing home, singing old hymns & revival songs, as well as sometimes giving a sermon; this afternoon we went and did an afternoon service, and a lady who I had seen meandering about in her PVC-piped-wheelchair contraption joined us for, as far as I can remember, the first time. She didn't say much and chose to stand, pacing slowly and maneuvering around in spaces much too small for her wheeled-pipe seat, getting stuck between a particular couch and coffe table several times before someone moved it for her convenience, even forcing one man to put his feet on the couch to avoid conflict. Eccentric and distracted don't quite cover this lady's behavior. She finally rolled over right in front of where I was sitting on a couch next to my madre and sat down, silently facing me while we sang, staring...staring...staring. We've met enough old timers whose minds are a bit, eh, incomplete, so this wasn't entirely shocking, though slightly uncomforatble; still, I could handle this. I smiled and looked at the hymnal in my lap.

I should have kept looking down. But there's something rather unnerving about having a silent, white-haired lady staring at you as you sing (and not very well), so I glanced up, and she's still staring, but then her eyes start to roll back into her head, and I'm like, oh dear, but then her eyes snap forward and she's staring again--staring, never blinking. So I force a half-hearted smile and look back to my hymnal. Well, I looked back a few times, each time to find her eyes staring, then loosing focus, rolling back, and snapping forward again. This happens several times, disconcerting me, the cycle only varying occasionally with her rocking back and forth.

It was in the third song, Revive Us Again, she slowly, ponderously, reaches out her hand toward me, staring, staring...

..All glory and praise
To the Lamb that was slain,
Who hath borne all our sins,
And hath cleansed every stain...

She's reaching and freaking me out, her eyes never wavering or blinking, and I'm considering contacting an exorcist, but my madre rescues me from my uncertainty by taking her hand, smiling sweetly, and trying to listen to the lady's words, which are hopelessly jarbbled by the music, sounding very much like an incantaion of sorts. So they just sit there, holding hands for a minute, then she lets go and reverts to staring. Anyway, she reaches out again, my mom takes her hand, and this time uses my madre's hand to help pull herself up, resuming her pacing until, eventually, a path is made wide enough between the abundant wheelchairs to grant her escape.

On later discussion, mom and I decided she was probably havingsome sort of seizure. There was something decidedly disconcerting about her eyes, though, alternately present and absent, piercing and lost.

Oh, how I never want to grow old.

Predjudice & The Mask

I was a bit skeptical of Pride & Predjudice, as I went into it, thinking the story couldn't be told properly in 2 & 1/2 hours. It was played out so well in the 1995 BBC version--all 6 hours of it--that it didn't seem possible to measure up. And, well, it couldn't.
That said, it was a good movie, a good rendition. I liked Keira Knightly's interpretation of the story's heroine; it was quite different--more effusive, much louder, less subtle--than Jennifer Ehle, but there was not time for subtlety in the time span. Knightly made a memorable performance in a relatively short time, a performance, in my opinion, equal to Jennifer Ehle's. Most of the characters, in fact, were equal to the performances which I am familiar with, the exceptions being Charlotte, who was much more likable and distinguishable, and Mr. Bennet, who was much less likable.
What I liked about this adaptation was how real and clamorous and unrefined it made 19th Century England, especially the Bennet family's home life. The girls weren't always sitting primly & properly, sewing or knitting or talking of the weather; there were moments of near lounging, a stark contrast to the usual portayal of Austens' world. The dances were raucous; the dancers, verciferous.
All the petticoats and tophats and tea-cups and ribbons were there, yet so was a very earthy backdrop. My only complaint was the dialogue, which was rather hurried and thus, difficult to follow. Otherwise, kudos to the filmmakers for making Austen's lengthy, detailed story accessible to the less, eh, patient viewer.

In other news of Kate's movie-viewing, I finally watched The Mask of Zorro, which was nothing like I thought it would be, but good nonetheless. I was told by a quiz once that I am more like Zorro than any other legendary super or natural hero; the movie didn't explain that much, but I would never dare to breach the Internet-human covenant by doubting the veracity of what it tells me, of course.

I am hoping to blog more this week; I have two posts up my mental sleeve, but haven't had time to apply that thought as of yet. Until next time, adieu.

And then, there was Chaplin...

The man who was emo before emo was.

Links, links, links...

I have a new blog devoted to anagrams.

And it appears the moon is made of cheese, after all, and Bush wants a longer term; meanwhile, the UK is is pulling soft drinks from the shelves over cancer fear. I say, just don't drink it.

Well, Aunt Bee is in need of the computer, so, adieu!