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As a native Floridian, I have seen many thunderstorms, but the one that came to call at half-past eleven last night was a rare breed, indeed. Lightning struck the street near our house three times in ten minutes. Fortunately, because of prior experience in which lightning has burnt down my house and destroyed many of my cherished electronics, I am a complete paranoiac who unplugs everything at the first flash, and so nothing was damaged. It did kill the power for a minute, and I sat in the hallway and listened to "BOOMPOW! BOOMPOW! BOOMPOW!" I strongly suspect that if anything had been plugged in, it would have been destroyed, high-caliber surge protectors notwithstanding. I screamed like a little girl and started hyperventilating after the second roaring strike, and my startle reflex went into overdrive. I never want to do that ever again.
The locals on the town message board are claiming that a tornado skirted us last night, but I'm quite dubious of the claim, as I have seen no evidence of even minor wind damage--no downed limbs or felled saplings or loose siding. I suspect it was just a very fierce, dangerous squall. One of the purported perks of living on the outskirts of modern civilization was to escape such violent weather. So much for that idea.
I've been watching AMC's The Killing. I'm a total gomer for whodunits, and this one is sublime. It's not perfect; the political machinations are quite boring, and it was disappointing to see Richmond, the poor man's Harvey Dent, quickly sink to the level of your typical bog-sucking politician by trading jobs for Yaitanes' endorsement, but the mystery of just what happened to Rosie Larsen is riveting and addictive. It's a murder mystery, but it's also a portrait of grief and loss. Much has been made about the parents' struggle to come to grips with Rosie's death, but I'm more struck by the effect of the murder on her younger siblings, whose grief has been ignored by parents so mired in their own guilt and anguish that they can't see anything else. Mitch Larsen is trying to hold it together, but the mother has completely lost herself, helped along no doubt by the tacit blame heaped upon her by the detectives and her sister, who all ask why she never called her seventeen-year-old daughter to check in. As though she were twelve and not on the cusp of adulthood. Interestingly, they never ask Mitch, the father, the same question. Apparently, the mother and the mother alone bears responsibility for keeping tabs on the children.
If that's the case, then feel free to heap scorn on Detective Sarah Linden, who routinely leaves her brooding fifteen-year-old son in the care of Regi, a longtime family friend. Apparently, having a job absolves you of parental responsibility, but if you're a stay-at-home mother and your daughter is murdered, then too bad for you, you irresponsible waste. You should have been more vigilant. Or maybe you should've had a boy. They're tougher and need less supervision, and you don't have to worry about them being abducted, raped, and stuffed into the trunk of a stolen campaign car.
It's too early to say just who did it, but using the time-honored mystery law of The Nicest Character is always the Asshole in Disguise, I've narrowed my suspect pool to Mr. Ahmed, the committed high school teacher doing his best to reach a generation of unengaged, disenfranchised, damaged students more interested in weed then Daniel Webster, Stephen Holder, Linden's skeevy partner who supposedly just transferred in from the San Francisco Narco division(I'm so waiting for the moment when Linden calls his former division to ask about some shady aspect of his background, only to be told that they never had a Detective Stephen Holder, or that he died just before he was to transfer.), Linden's fiance, or Linden herself. The dreamy opening sequence wherein she found a dead animal by the lake while jogging was just too odd and stands in direct contrast to her purported ignorance of the lake's existence later in the episode. Right now, my money is on the fiance, but that could change.
The locals on the town message board are claiming that a tornado skirted us last night, but I'm quite dubious of the claim, as I have seen no evidence of even minor wind damage--no downed limbs or felled saplings or loose siding. I suspect it was just a very fierce, dangerous squall. One of the purported perks of living on the outskirts of modern civilization was to escape such violent weather. So much for that idea.
I've been watching AMC's The Killing. I'm a total gomer for whodunits, and this one is sublime. It's not perfect; the political machinations are quite boring, and it was disappointing to see Richmond, the poor man's Harvey Dent, quickly sink to the level of your typical bog-sucking politician by trading jobs for Yaitanes' endorsement, but the mystery of just what happened to Rosie Larsen is riveting and addictive. It's a murder mystery, but it's also a portrait of grief and loss. Much has been made about the parents' struggle to come to grips with Rosie's death, but I'm more struck by the effect of the murder on her younger siblings, whose grief has been ignored by parents so mired in their own guilt and anguish that they can't see anything else. Mitch Larsen is trying to hold it together, but the mother has completely lost herself, helped along no doubt by the tacit blame heaped upon her by the detectives and her sister, who all ask why she never called her seventeen-year-old daughter to check in. As though she were twelve and not on the cusp of adulthood. Interestingly, they never ask Mitch, the father, the same question. Apparently, the mother and the mother alone bears responsibility for keeping tabs on the children.
If that's the case, then feel free to heap scorn on Detective Sarah Linden, who routinely leaves her brooding fifteen-year-old son in the care of Regi, a longtime family friend. Apparently, having a job absolves you of parental responsibility, but if you're a stay-at-home mother and your daughter is murdered, then too bad for you, you irresponsible waste. You should have been more vigilant. Or maybe you should've had a boy. They're tougher and need less supervision, and you don't have to worry about them being abducted, raped, and stuffed into the trunk of a stolen campaign car.
It's too early to say just who did it, but using the time-honored mystery law of The Nicest Character is always the Asshole in Disguise, I've narrowed my suspect pool to Mr. Ahmed, the committed high school teacher doing his best to reach a generation of unengaged, disenfranchised, damaged students more interested in weed then Daniel Webster, Stephen Holder, Linden's skeevy partner who supposedly just transferred in from the San Francisco Narco division(I'm so waiting for the moment when Linden calls his former division to ask about some shady aspect of his background, only to be told that they never had a Detective Stephen Holder, or that he died just before he was to transfer.), Linden's fiance, or Linden herself. The dreamy opening sequence wherein she found a dead animal by the lake while jogging was just too odd and stands in direct contrast to her purported ignorance of the lake's existence later in the episode. Right now, my money is on the fiance, but that could change.
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