Show Series

Is this the hair of a rich woman who wears a stupid wig all the time? This is the wig:

Her real hair may be a little grey but she's got volume and she's not balding. There's no reason she should look like a mannequin of a flight attendant from the 60s.

I'm talking about Ellen Hillingso as Charlotte on The Bridge (Broen/Bron), a crime drama that began airing in 2011. I'm four episodes into it. I guess it's what I'm watching now that I'm done with Breaking Bad though I've also been kind of watching through the second season of Mystery Science Theatre 3000--I don't think I've ever watched MST3k completely in sequence. It does help one appreciate the running gags, like the continual impressions of Lloyd Bridges saying, "By this time my lungs were aching for air!" But The Bridge I hadn't seen at all or its American remake--the original series is a Danish and Swedish co-production, this apparently related to the subject matter as the show begins with a corpse cut in half and left by the murderer on the bridge connecting Malmo and Coppenhagen. It turns out what appeared to be one body is halves of two bodies, the top portion belonging to a wealthy politician and the lower belonging to a vagrant.

Charlotte is actually only a minor character--the show centres on Danish police detective Martin Rohde (Kim Bodnia) and Swedish police detective Saga Noren (Sofia Helin) whose curiously pragmatic behaviour seems to indicate she has Asperger's. She doesn't hold even the slightest grudge and engages in sex as casually as most people buy coffee. She actually reminds me a little of Agent Cooper on the early episodes of Twin Peaks making me wonder if he was meant to have Asperger's at first.

It's an engaging enough series. The killer, who's dubbed by the press a "Truth Terrorist", seems to be making a point about the divide between rich and poor more than about the relationship between Sweden and Denmark. But while a variety of homeless minor characters are established, the show is primarily a procedural so far focusing on the relationship between Martin and Saga as he, a cop who relies on instinct and sensitivity, learns to collaborate with the strictly rational Saga. It's an interesting version of the Mulder/Scully dynamic. Mulder and Scully are characters from a 1990s series called The X-Files about a couple FBI agents investigating paranormal phenomena. It just occurred to me I ought to explain that because in my media communications class a couple days ago the teacher asked everyone in the class to name their favourite television series and when I said, "Twin Peaks" no-one, including the teacher, had heard of it.

Two thirds of the class said Breaking Bad, by the way. There doesn't seem to be anyone who doesn't like that show. Other answers included The Kardashians, various reality shows I never heard of, and one young woman, bless her, said Doctor Who.

So The Bridge sets up these dualities--rich and poor, Denmark and Sweden, logic and emotion. So far none of them have connected meaningfully but maybe they don't need to.

The Dalek In the Mirror

I worry what I like about the new Doctor is going to be what turns everyone else against him--I like how quiet he is. I liked Matt Smith, but I really love how Peter Capaldi doesn't spin around all the time and shout a lot. The climax of "Into the Dalek", the new episode, felt almost like it was written for Smith, though. I think if the writers succeed, it'll be when they learn to trust Capaldi more to deliver very much with very little.

He seems older than John Hurt's War Doctor which is of course appropriate. Remembering that he's undergone a regeneration past the limit normally imposed by the Time Lords gives another dimension to the impression that the Doctor seems to be doing an autopsy on himself, or better, like he's the priest at his own funeral.

And I only just now realised that's what his costume looks like--a priest's cassock. Wrestling with the subject of morality in this episode, he almost seems like a Dostoevsky protagonist, Alexei from The Brothers Karamazov. This is what makes "Into the Dalek" more than just a retread of the Ninth Doctor episode "Dalek". Where that Doctor seemed too entrenched in his war perspective to hold a more complex view of a Dalek, the Twelfth can now really examine this part of his personality. I really loved the reference to the Doctor's more callous behaviour in An Earthly Child compared to the first episode with the Daleks. That the Doctor chose to see himself as the opposite of the Daleks, that they crystallised for him his own personality by being so simplistic themselves is a nice starting point for a rumination on what morality means if the epitome of evil isn't quite as "pure" as it would like to be. I could have done without the reference to "divinity", though.

The episode features the Doctor and Clara shrinking to go inside a Dalek, echoing my very least favourite Fourth Doctor story The Invisible Enemy but fortunately not falling into any of its pitfalls. The single biggest problem with "Into the Dalek" is the introduction of a new character, apparently Clara's future boyfriend and fellow school teacher, Danny Pink.

I don't mind the Doctor and Clara not having romance so much as the feeling on the part of the writers or producers that Clara must have a romance with someone. The show got along fine for decades with the Doctor and one companion and no explicit mention of romance. Why introduce a third wheel? That's all Danny's going to be, I can already see it, another Rory.

A World Too Big for Neck Ties

What kind of a man abuses women? That's an important question in Alfred Hitchcock's 1972 film Frenzy and, unfortunately for Jon Finch's character, the police decide he's the kind of man who abuses women and pin on him a series of murders perpetrated by the "Neck Tie Strangler", so called because the victims, invariably women, are invariably discovered with men's neck ties around their throats. It's of course an effectively suspenseful film and darkly funny, the subjects of its humour being those who would try to impose order, by murder or lazy categorisation, on a very messy world.

I sometimes wonder how Alfred Hitchcock felt about critical claims that he was a misogynist. Frenzy may be his cinematic retort and one which shows how neatly the argument fits with two of his preoccupations; his "wrong man" style film and his recurrent, domineering mother figures.

Jean Marsh here plays the secretary of Jon Finch's ex-wife, Brenda (Barbara Leigh-Hunt), who runs a dating service. She confidently implicates Finch's character to the police when Brenda's strangled body is discovered with a neck tie. Marsh seems quite certain about what sort of man Finch's character is after she's heard him raise his voice to his ex-wife in the next room--and she prides herself on being an expert when it comes to men's psychology. Even the name of Finch's character, Dick Blaney, seems to condemn him.

He's seen here near a vehicle belonging to the famous British film studio, Rank, which did not produce Frenzy, despite it being beautifully shot in England. Hitchcock seems to have comfortably adapted at this point to the demands in the 1970s for more location shots. There's plenty of footage of Covent Gardens' now vanished produce market and the film opens with a spectacular helicopter shot over the Thames.

Jean Marsh isn't the only two time Doctor Who alum in the film--hiding from the cops, Dick and his girlfriend Babs (Anna Massey) run into Dick's old friend Johnny played by Clive Swift. The effusively affable fellow, the kind of character Swift excels at, convinces the two fugitives to hide in his apartment--all the while the three are shown as tiny, isolated figures from a great height, the vantage point, we soon see, belonging to the wife of Swift's character who doesn't believe in Dick's innocence one bit.

Hetty (Billie Whitelaw) isn't even convinced when another murder occurs while Dick is staying with them. But not every woman is Dick's enemy--he has an ally unknown to him in the wife of the Chief Inspector Oxford (Alec McCowen) investigating the murders. She insists to her husband that Dick couldn't possibly be guilty. And she seems to have a good intuition--she knows quite well her husband doesn't like her cooking experiments which appear to be discarded fish heads and crab claws in melted butter.

The inspector never once complains so his wife really does have to rely on her instincts to know he hates what she's feeding him for his own good. The scenes of the two, one resolutely bearing up, the other cheerfully serving bizarre dishes just as resolutely, are long and have an effectively subtle humour especially as the scenes are used to divulge a great deal of exposition. Since both characters are in some degree controlling the events of the film, one wonders if the two aren't in some way a rendering of Hitchcock's relationship with his wife and collaborator, Alma.

The irritable and violent Dick is contrasted with his best friend, Bob (Barry Foster), an absurdly amiable fellow seen here getting along with his mother over an absurdly cheerful window box.

The biggest target of Hitchcock's humour is the killer. The neck ties as a phallic symbol seem to underline the killer's relationship with masculinity. Dick overhears a couple aristocratic older gentlemen in a pub teasing a woman about how the victims are raped--so there's a bit of "fun" first. The reality of the sloppily and angrily executed killings, particularly a scene where the killer is forced to hide on a potato truck and wrestle with a corpse for a lapel pin he'd accidentally left on on his victim, reveal this man motivated to dominate women as the pathetic creature he is.

Twitter Sonnet #660

Broken maracas sting across concrete.
Pink and ice washed petals dim with dusk's spring.
Clutching reddened tent curtains cats compete.
With a smashed iPhone the e-mail can't sing.
Unopened mountains maintain the storeroom.
Fish hook raindrops snag on summer snowflakes.
Aimless aphids dance slow under mushroom.
Desolate blankets hold shiitake cakes.
Shaved guitar ghosts drift through the western hall.
Squirrel eaten fruit indicates the truth now.
A space monster hatched in the great red ball.
Apollo burned Excelion's port bow.
Mirror spirals season the cinnamon.
Questions candy the shadow Ottoman.

Living for Others, Dying for Others

To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

This famous speech from Hamlet appears in John Ford's 1946 film My Darling Clementine where it is recited partly by Doc Holiday as played by Victor Mature. Despite the way many people regard suicide, like noted meat head Henry Rollins in his recently published blog on the suicide of Robin Williams, Hamlet's soliloquy describes not committing suicide as cowardice, an acceptance of the commands of an exterior morality to prolong mortal suffering. Somewhat of an alternative to suicide, a death wish, is sought by Doc Holiday in popular fictional portrayals of him--it may well have been an aspect of the historical figure's personality given that he did live with tuberculosis. Ford's film is beautifully shot though unfortunately diminished by ham-fisted studio interference.

The title is of course a reference to the well known folk song. But it also refers to a character created for the film named Clementine (Cathy Downs) who is introduced rather late in the film as Holiday's true hearted love he's been avoiding since he became ill. He moves from town to town, involving himself in dangerous gunfights before finally settling in Tombstone where he manages a saloon.

The female lead of the film isn't Clementine but the unfortunately named Chihuahua, a Mexican singer and dancer played by Linda Darnell. She didn't fall for the virtuous young surgeon Holiday at one time was but with the cold, alcoholic gangster. But the film begins with the Earps, Wyatt here played by Henry Fonda.

The film creates new motives for the Earps, establishing them herding cattle westward before running afoul of rustlers who murder the youngest Earp brother and steal the cattle. The eldest Earp is played by Ward Bond who stands out in his supporting role with his booming voice and large frame. It's no wonder he's a recurrent figure in Ford's films, much like Monument Valley which here also makes an appearance.

It's very easy to spot the scenes inserted by the studio when the film switches from Ford's amazing, expressionist dark photography of arid western landscapes to flatly lit studio scenes where people say trite things. The worst is the very ending of the film which I won't--I guess the word is "spoil" but it begs the question of whether you can spoil what's already spoiled.

One probably couldn't ask for a better Wyatt Earp than Henry Fonda. His earnest and sensitive yet calm and watchful performance makes this very simple rendering of the character effective. All he wants is to avenge his brother and to see law and order maintained--despite the fact that he and Holiday immediately strike up a friendship which Ford and the actors convey without giving the motives for it in dialogue, a nicely subtle relationship unusual for the stratified depictions of good and evil typically portrayed at the time.

Mature's performance as Holiday is all right but one senses some vast untapped potential. The role would probably have been better off in the hands of John Wayne or Humphrey Bogart. I wrote about a film called Death Wish a few days ago which really didn't portray a death wish--I gather the novel on which the film is based did. Holiday in this film, who drinks heavily despite the fact that it worsens his condition, and is always ready to draw his pistol against the most dangerous gun fighters he meets, is a more accurate portrayal of a man who's always hoping that the axe will fall soon.

Whose Fault is the Killer Pink Slime?

It's hard being a teenager when sometimes adults just don't understand there's a huge, acidic pink goo rampaging through town and killing people. 1988's The Blog is a remake of the 1958 film and carries over the theme of alienation between adults and teenagers and raises the stakes, not just in terms of the Blob's deadliness but also in its portrayal of adolescent maladjustment. Primarily, though, its a delightfully surprising horror film.

The film replaces the infamously twenty eight year old Steve McQueen playing a teenager with two guys, Kevin Dillon and Donovan Leitch, in their early twenties. But in any case, they at least look like teenagers. Shawnee Smith as the female lead was a genuine teenager at the time of filming, at least, at eighteen.

The plot only partially hews close to the original, just enough to pleasantly add to shock value, actually, as deviations from the original story often come with examples of vastly improved, and more gruesome, special effects.

Supposedly the original Blob was meant to be a metaphor for the spread of communism, something I didn't at all pick up on while watching the film--the crawling gunk doesn't really resemble communism in theory or practice. In terms of the psychological effect on people in the U.S., it certainly wasn't teenagers trying to warn their tragically deaf elders about the threat. It's fascinating how communism manifests itself in some films of the 1950s because people who were afraid of it generally seemed willing to write about it without knowing anything specific about it. The best example in my mind being Samuel Fuller's Pick Up on South Street where Thelma Ritter gives a lovely soliloquy about how she has enough to worry about working for a living without communism getting in the way.

The 1988 Blob doesn't make this mistake although the political view it does espouse is hardly flawless. But I won't spoil it for you.

Kevin Dillon's character, a misfit biker, doesn't really have an analogue in the original film despite the fact that his biker archetype would be much more at home in the 50s. He actually works pretty well, wielding a few bitter jokes at the expense of the popular kids but not having his head up his ass as lazily written misfit characters often do, allowing him to exhibit compassion for a guy whose arm is being chewed off and even for a cheerleader.

I also should mention the film has a too brief cameo by Jack Nance playing the doctor who had a much larger role in the original film. It's a shame his character wasn't carried over more faithfully but on the whole the 1988 film is much more effective and much more fun.

Old Places

This is a dragonfly I saw crash landed at the mall about a week ago. Not sure what was wrong with him.

Looking through a bunch of photos on my camera from the past couple weeks, I guess it's been a while since I transferred them to my computer. Here's a lizard hiding behind the sign of the Mormon church.

Probably best not to read into it. Though maybe I should since I just came from mythology class where I watched the video of Bill Moyers interviewing Joseph Campbell I'd first seen in high school almost twenty years ago. What struck me this time is how much of a struggle it seemed to be for Campbell not to say he didn't like Christianity much. Maybe he was just being polite to Moyers but his interpretation of the heaven and hell of Christian mythology being metaphors for inner states seemed pretty thin. He was so eager to talk about Buddhism and Hinduism which seemed to fit his conception of a philosophy that embraced nature and the incomprehensible so much better. The problem is the basic premise of the video is a little awkwardly misaligned. Here Joseph Campbell says all religions are telling you the same thing, and there Bill Moyers says, well, what can you do for Christianity then?

For my part, I agree with Campbell that myths, like any stories, have potential to be explored to valuable insight into human beings. But I'm not sure the similarities between all myths of the world are striking enough to regard as a great through-line of human existence. But I don't blame Campbell for that--his attempt to show mythology as a reflection of the human mind seems like it's been hijacked, primarily by Oprah Winfrey, as an argument for the existence of a supernatural world.

I didn't realise the "follow your bliss" line Winfrey always uses came from Campbell until to-day. I wish he hadn't used that word, bliss. "Follow your bliss" could be used to justify just about anything, from heroin abuse to unrestrained materialism.

I'm still at school now, in a little courtyard formed by the art buildings and a couple guys at the table next me sound like they're talking about role playing games, which reminds of this photo from my camera:

Thirty five years, that's my age, meaning Game Towne has been around about as long as I've been alive. It's certainly been around as long as I can remember, somewhat improbably given the fact that it was located in Old Town, a massive tourist attraction which made parking in the vicinity scarce, inhibiting any casual shopping at the place which sold Dungeons and Dragons modules, chess sets, dice, and a variety of other games.

Seems like a lot of nice stores are closing lately. The manga shop in Mission Valley that I've been going to for ten years closed a couple weeks ago and the book shop in Mitsuwa, the Japanese market, closed, though not before holding an 80% off sale. I bought a pile of Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei manga. I asked the woman at the register if this was the last Japanese book store in San Diego and she said, "Oh, maybe. Closest is Orange County."

They're turning the part of Mitsuwa that held the bookstore into a tea shop and it's sort of fascinating watching the transition. I'm used to seeing one store in a lot close and then another open in its place a little later. In Mitsuwa, the tea shop appeared one day in the middle of the bookstore as a booth and slowly expanded. Until one day the lights were shut off in the bookstore even while one woman stood back there alone behind the register, still trying to sell the two or three books left on the remaining shelves.

Twitter Sonnet 659

Spiral shrinking web spun sweaters divide.
Pirouetting arachnid dames dive east.
Real cats and animal crackers collide.
Cinnamon and sugar make a good beast.
Quadruped quarantine contained no worm.
Dreamless lorries ruffle the crisp honour.
Laundry starches sterilise the soap firm.
The normal old Otter Pop's a goner.
Unpacked chin messages'll take it on.
Time's no enemy to gin soaked anthills.
Names've never done favours for the fawn.
Mola Ram took purple hearts to Goodwills.
Campbell's morality is good serpent.
Repeat masks manifest mice run rampant.

That Time of Year When Kids Just Need to Summon Satan

Round up a bunch of pretty young actors, throw them in a big haunted house, and you have the description of a lot of movies and television shows. It's a cliché I've always been fond of for some reason, though. So despite the cheesy acting, directing, and writing, I enjoyed 1988's Night of the Demons.

Maybe it's just that the star of the film is dressed as Alice. Cathy Podewell plays Judy about as flatly as all the other teenagers who've gathered to party in the abandoned mortuary on Halloween night. They've been invited by misfits Angela (Amelia Kinkade) and Suzanne (Linnea Quigley) and the invitations are accepted on the premise that Angela is goth and therefore is likely to throw the best Halloween party in town.

The group parties to generic fake rock written for the film until the demons lying dormant in the building wake up and one takes possession of Angela. This leads to one of the film's most memorable scenes when the radio starts playing Bauhaus and Angela performs a private dance for Sal (William Gallo).

In spite of the general mediocrity, the lighting is actually pretty good--standard haunted house stuff but just the right amount of over the top.

The kids are picked off one by one based on implicit moral judgements on things they've said or done in the film in the tradition of most horror movies. Nothing is really made of Judy dressing as Alice but I enjoyed shots that quietly suggested scenes from Alice in Wonderland.

Humans Reduced to Light Switches

It turns out murderous street thugs are really energetic and plentiful. In 1974's Death Wish, people can't go outside without seeing skinny young men running everywhere, knocking things over, and leering like cartoon villains. We don't learn a single thing about these hyperactive evil doers but the movie seems to feel it provides a completely convincing reason as to why civilians ought to carry guns and kill muggers. This movie isn't merely a vigilante fantasy film, it's a really lousy argument.

I like Charles Bronson a lot in Once Upon a Time in the West. But it's for precisely the reasons I like him in the Sergio Leone film that he becomes part of Death Wish's bad argument--he always seems cool headed, rational, and emotionally stable. Even after his wife is murdered and his daughter is raped Bronson cries and seems sad but never devastated. There's an imperturbable coolness about him. This, combined with the uniform simple viciousness of the muggers he takes to killing every night, make his vigilantism seem like a good idea. Which would be fine if this were a fantasy film--dull, in my opinion, but really only a fantasy. The problem is that this movie is clearly making the argument that this is something that can be applied to real life.

The movie takes time to bring in elements of the opposition argument--Bronson's character, Paul Kersey, is an architect who's established as "a bleeding heart liberal" and he mentions having sympathy for the poor and abhors the idea of violence. A gun nut he meets in Arizona after his wife and daughter are attacked mentions the argument that guns have a phallic status in the gunowner's subconscious. Maybe so, says the gun nut, but doesn't a fellow have a right to protect himself?

Western movies are deliberately invoked when Kersey watches a recreation of a shoot-out while in Arizona. Later, when he becomes a vigilante in New York, he makes reference to Westerns a few times, at one point even challenging a mugger to "draw."

The movie has an implicit faith in the realism of Westerns. Though even in Westerns, two dimensional bad guys aren't as plentiful as they are in Death Wish. As Roger Ebert noted in his review, "If there were really that many muggers in New York, Bronson could hardly have survived long enough to father a daughter, let alone grieve her."

Death Wish is a forty year old film and of course I'm not the first one to point out the fallacies in its logic. But incidents like the shootings of Michael Brown and Treyvon Martin demonstrate that there are still people who think the world is crawling with bad guys who deserve to be gunned down and these bad guys are easy to spot. The movie doesn't permit complications into its argument--we never see grieving family members of the muggers Kersey shoots, we never learn any motives, these guys seem to be just mindless drones of nastiness. Not unlike Jews depicted in Nazi propaganda.

It occurs to me now that Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver, made just two years after Death Wish, may have been in part a response to Death Wish. More even than the deficit of dimension given to the muggers, the mental state of Paul Kersey is the biggest flaw in the film. Travis Bickle, by contrast, is a far more credible depiction of a man who "would not take it anymore," his paranoid mind feverishly supplying motives to passers-by. And sometimes Travis' helps--though one wonders if stopping the liquor store robbery was really worth the life of the robber or whether everyone in the brothel deserved to die. Everyone's at the mercy of Travis' imperfect judgement. He doesn't have the luxury of living in Paul Kersey's two tone world.

The New Face is Old Again

The Doctor doesn't always look like Peter Capaldi. But when he does, he prefers scotch.

He even speaks with a Scottish accent, making him sort of the second Doctor to do so, after Sylvester McCoy who spoke in a kind of Scottish accent. Not ginger, yet again, as the running gag goes. I kind of hope the next Doctor is a ginger woman so we can have a moment where she looks in the mirror and goes, "Oh! Finally! It's happened, the change I've longed for has taken place! I am--ginger! Ginger at last.

"Ah, oh, and a woman. Okay, fine, I guess. But ginger!"

Anyway, I'm wandering. The new episode finally aired to-day, "Deep Breath", the first new episode since the 2013 Christmas special, the first regular episode in more than a year. And it's really good, Capaldi's every bit as good as the Doctor as I thought he'd be, a colder, more contemplative Doctor.

The episode also happens to be one of the best Vastra and Jenny episodes, Vastra being given the Brigadier's "Here we go again" line from the Fourth Doctor's first appearance. Which actually makes me realise that Vastra is a far more suitable successor to the Brigadier than Kate Stewart. Vastra even coordinates with the police--might as well set the show in the Victorian era more often.

This was easily Jenny's best episode, too.

Moffat didn't make the mistake this time of basically turning the two women into foils for Strax who is still amusing in a supporting role. He has two lines about undressing Clara, Vastra has one, and considering how much she was naked in the Christmas special there seems to be a general inclination on the show to disrobe Ms. Oswald. Maybe it's best not to read too far into it.

I'm still not convinced by Vastra and Jenny in ninja gear. Jenny shines much more in dialogue here and I like her applauding Clara when she's interrogated by Vastra. I really liked Vastra doing so in a veil and the general theme of the episode of appearances and truth, fitting nicely with Clara's adjustment to the Doctor's new older appearance. It's too bad Capaldi has insisted there be no hint of romance between his Doctor and Clara but the subject was great fodder for the last segment of the episode.

And I happen to wish there were more instances of platonic relationships between men and woman in media. It's just, it seems like the Doctor and Clara would be really great. I suppose there's always slash fic.

Actually, I mind the two of them not getting together a lot less than the fact that apparently Clara's getting another boyfriend later in the season. I anticipate superfluity personified.

I really liked the look of this restaurant in "Deep Breath". And I loved the villain. It was all around good.

The Doctor's talking to horses and dinosaurs now, I wonder if he's on track to being vegetarian again--Robert Holmes made the Doctor vegetarian in the Sixth Doctor story The Two Doctors and this was kept up until the Ninth Doctor was seen eating a steak. I prefer the Ninth Doctor to the Sixth generally but in my opinion it makes more sense for the Doctor to be vegetarian.

In any case, I'm happy that he's drinking again.

Twitter Sonnet #659

Connected crypts confound the cracked undead.
Phantom webbing always awaits Sabu.
Grecian urns planted Greeks in the rose bed.
Spectator shoes are the Windsor's taboo.
Cubical clouds clamp on short sleeved workers.
Later trapezoids ground grassy wire.
Collapsing grey buildings stun the lurkers.
The unsure stay huddled by the fire.
Colourless schools grew tiny on the couch.
Numbers compared'll reveal northern hair.
Ruse was not residents of the big pouch.
Flaming scales'll watch a glowing green fair.
Discus hats return to stony scalps late.
Boomerang relatives retrieve the mate.