#African Grey acuity

[tiktokparrot]

Do African grey parrots have good eyesight?

Jump into the vibrant world of African grey parrot vision! Discover their stunning eyesight abilities and colorful perception. Explore their secret world of color, ultraviolet light and more!

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Time for the next round!!! It’s time to vote in the BIRD SPECIES that WILL be the competitor in this year’s Dinosaur March Madness!!!! All eligible species ARE LISTED. Please READ the below information so that you make an informed voting choice! You have through February 4th!!!!!!!!

HIGHLIGHTS & INELIGIBLES

Giant Moa

The giant moa were two of the largest known moa - a group of large flightless birds from New Zealand, closely related to modern tinamous, which mainly fed on low lying vegetation in their environment. They were some of the dominant herbivores of New Zealand, and only went extinct a few thousand years ago due to human hunting. The two species are the North Island Giant Moa and the South Island Giant Moa. They differ primarily in that they come from different islands of New Zealand - with the North Island Giant Moa coming from the northern island, and the South Island Giant Moa coming from the southern island, but in addition to this, the South Island Giant Moa was also the biggest known moa, and the tallest known species of bird. List of ineligible candidates: None

Ducks, Geese, & Relatives

The anatids - ducks, geese, swans, and their relatives - are waterfowl that feature heavily in everyday life. Primarily herbivorous, they feed on water plants in a variety of habitats, such as lakes, ponds, and wetlands. They have webbed feet, short pointed wings, and bills that are usually flattened. Some species, the mergansers, are piscivorous, using serrations on their bills to catch fish. Many of them undergo very large annual migrations, and some have been domesticated. They come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes, with many have long slender necks, and most also having short and strong legs for swimming - though they’re relatively awkward walking around on land. Highlighted species include the Hooded Merganser (a diving duck in which the male has a conspicuous black-and-white head crest), the Kauaʻi Mole Duck (an extinct Hawaiian duck that had poor eyesight, likely foraging on land by smell and touch), the Northern Shoveler (an unmistakable duck with a spatula-like bill, very specialized for feeding on plankton), and the Trumpeter Swan (the largest living waterfowl). List of ineligible candidates: None

Hummingbirds

Hummingbirds are a group of highly specialized birds that include some of the most spectacularly colored and smallest dinosaurs known. They have extremely strong hearts and wings specialized for hovering, which they can flap at very high speeds to allow for them to hover and procure nectar from flowers much like bees and butterflies—in short, they’re dinosaurs that convergently evolved with insects. Males are, typically, smaller than females in the smaller hummingbirds, and larger than females in the larger hummingbirds. They have the highest metabolism of any animal to support their rapid wing beats. Their colors serve to compete for both territory and mates, and is primarily brilliantly colored in male hummingbirds - and they even use the sun to enhance their sheen. Highlighted species include the Marvelous Spatuletail (in which the males have a pair of extremely long tail feathers with expanded tips), the Sword-billed Hummingbird (which has a bill longer than the length of its body), the Xanthus’s Hummingbird (which has white “eyebrows” and is found only in Baja California), the Long-billed Hermit (in which the males have dagger-like bills for fighting), and the Anna’s Hummingbird (in which the males perform diving displays reaching 385 body-lengths per second and make sounds using their tail feathers).  List of ineligible candidates: Bee Hummingbird, Vervain Hummingbird

Turacos

Turacos are a group of poorly flighted African birds that feature a wide variety of weird plumages and pigmentations, including some of the only truly green pigments found in animals (rather than green due to iridescent sheen and/or combinations of other pigments). They evolved perching ability similar to, but independently from, perching birds and parrots, making their feet an interesting example of convergent evolution. Though they are weak fliers, they do run about the trees very rapidly, and make a lot of noisy alarm calls to each other. They are some of the weirdest and prettiest known birds, in terms of both names and plumage. Highlighted species include the Great Blue Turaco (the largest species of turaco, with bright blue plumage, yellow tail feathers, an interesting black tufted crest on its head, and a red band on its beak), the Guinea Turaco (an actually true green bird with a fluffy crest on its head and bright red rings around its eyes), the Bare-Faced Go Away Bird (which not only has one of the best names of any dinosaur, but also has a literal bare face and it is very noisy and restless), and the Red-Crested Turaco (which is very small, true green, and has a red crest as well as tiny wings that are red underneath—seriously, so smol). List of ineligible candidates: None

Cranes

Cranes are a group of birds that tend to be large or very large in size, and often quite tall. They have long legs and necks and often nest near water. Some species migrate long distances. Cranes are omnivores and forage on the ground or in water. They maintain strong pair bonds, often mating for life. New pairs engage in elaborate dances prior to mating. Most species have a long, coiled windpipe that allows them to produce loud, trumpeting calls. Highlighted species include the Grey Crowned Crane (known for having a crown of stiff golden feathers on their heads and a red inflatable throat pouch), the Siberian Crane (one of the rarest cranes, almost pure white except on places along the wings only visible in flight, males and females are known for streaking mud through their feathers for display in breeding season), and the Sandhill Crane (known for soaring flight and one of the longest fossil histories for any living bird, with the oldest fossil being 2.5 million years old). List of ineligible candidates: Wattled Crane, Blue Crane, Demoiselle Crane, Red-Crowned Crane, Whooping Crane, Common Crane, Hooded Crane, Black-Necked Crane, G. afghana, G. antigone, G. nannodes, G. haydeni, G. penteleci, G. bogatshevi, G. latipes, Maltese Crane, G. pagei, G. primigenia

Auks

Auks are a group of seabirds that use their wings to swim and dive underwater where they feed on fish and plankton. This makes them similar to penguins, despite not being closely related. (Indeed, the term “penguin” was actually first applied to auks.) Unlike penguins, auks live in the Northern Hemisphere and all extant species can fly. However, they need to flap very quickly during flight due to their short, paddle-like wings. Auks spend most of their lives at sea, typically only coming ashore during breeding season. They often mate for life and generally nest in large colonies. Highlighted species include Miomancalla (a prehistoric flightless relative of auks and the largest known shorebird), the Atlantic Puffin (known for its bright orange bill and spends a large portion of its time in open ocean), the Ancient Murrelet (which spends less time on land than any other bird, with juveniles making their way to the sea at only 1-3 days old), the Crested Auklet (known for its strange forehead crest and smelling strangely like citrus), and the Dovekie (a very small auk that is completely adorable). List of ineligible candidates: Great Auk

Herons

Herons are a group of predatory wading birds with long legs, long bills, and long necks. Members of this group that have mostly white plumage are often known as “egrets”. Herons typically hunt by standing and waiting for prey to come within reach, before spearing the hapless victim with their beak. Most species feed primarily on fish, but they will generally eat any animal small enough to swallow. Herons possess specialized down feathers that grow continuously and disintegrate at the tips, forming a powder that helps the birds remove grease from their plumage while preening. Many species grow ornamental plumes during breeding season, and they generally nest in trees (though the well-camouflaged bitterns tend to nest in reed beds instead), sometimes in large colonies. Unlike many other long-necked birds (such as storks and cranes), herons fly with their necks folded back rather than outstretched. Highlighted species include the Boat-billed Heron (has a large, broad black beak for feeding on shrimp and small fish), the Eurasian Bittern (known for communicating with very deep calls and camouflaging itself by freezing with its bill in the air to mimic reeds), the Green Heron (known for keeping its neck close to its body until it strikes at prey like a harpoon, as well as using small objects such as feathers to bait fish), and the Goliath Heron (the largest heron in the world, almost never moves away from water). List of ineligible candidates: None

Hawks, Eagles, & Relatives

The majority of diurnal birds of prey are members of Accipitridae, including kites, hawks, eagles, and Old World vultures. They are found on every continent except for Antarctica and have adopted a wide variety of lifestyles. Collectively, they are known to prey on everything from insects to large mammals such as deer. They generally have extremely powerful feet and large talons that they use to capture and kill prey. Accipitrids have extremely keen eyesight, able to perceive objects at higher acuity from far greater distances than humans can. In most species, the females are larger than the males and mated pairs often pair for life. Highlighted species include the Palm Nut Vulture (unusually for an accipitrid, it primarily feeds on oil palm fruit), the Haast’s Eagle (a massive extinct eagle that preyed on moa, and believed to be the Pouakai of Maori legend), the Swallow-tailed Kite (a very graceful flier known for its long, forked tail and nests in wooded areas or near wetlands), the Steller’s Sea Eagle (one of the largest eagles and feeds primarily on fish, though it is known to prey on seabirds as well), and the Harris’s Hawk (one of the few raptors that hunts in packs, popular in falconry due to its intelligence). List of ineligible candidates: Harpy Eagle, Bearded Vulture

Typical Owls

Strigidae includes most modern owls other than barn owls and their close kin. Owls are primarily nocturnal birds of prey. The long feathers on their face form a disk that helps collect sound and direct it towards their ears. They use their large eyes and sensitive hearing to hunt at night, and most species have specialized wing feathers that allow them to fly silently while approaching prey. They are generally cryptically colored to help them avoid larger predators and smaller birds that may harass them during the day. Females are usually larger than males, and most species seem to maintain long-term pair bonds. Highlighted species include Ornimegalonyx (an extinct genus believed to be the largest owl to exist), the Snowy Owl (a popular and well recognized owl known for its white plumage, was one of the original species of birds described by Linnaeus himself), the Eurasian Eagle Owl (one of the largest living and most widely distributed species of owl, has prominent ear tufts), the Northern White-faced Owl (nicknamed the “transformer owl” for its defensive behaviors such as puffing its feathers when facing a relatively small predator and pulling its feathers inward and narrowing its eyes for camouflage when faced with a larger one), and the Northern Hawk Owl (one of the few owls that is only active during the day). List of ineligible candidates: Spotted Owlet, Little Owl, Forest Owlet, Burrowing Owl, A. megalopeza, A. veta, A. angelis, A. trinacriae, A. cunicularia, A. cretensis

Kingfishers

Kingfishers are a group of often brightly-colored birds that have dagger-like bills and short legs. They are predatory and most species hunt by watching from a perch. When prey is spotted, they swoop down to catch it in their bill before beating it to death against a hard surface. Though some kingfishers do indeed eat fish, many species primarily feed on land animals. They have keen eyesight, and species that fish are able to account for the effects of water refraction and reflection when diving for prey. Most kingfishers nest in burrows, though some use tree holes or dig cavities in termite nests. Highlighted species include the Shovel-billed Kookaburra (a large kingfisher with a uniquely short, broad bill), the Common Kingfisher (well-recognized kingfisher found widely across Eurasia and Northern Africa, has a greenish-blue or blue body), the Guam Kingfisher (extinct in the wild, only surviving birds are in a captive breeding program), and the Pied Kingfisher (known for commonly bobbing its head and flicking its tail when perched as well as hovering while searching for prey, often groups in large numbers at night to roost).  List of ineligible candidates: Rufous-Bellied Kookaburra, Spangled Kookaburra, Blue-Winged Kookaburra, Laughing Kookaburra

Toucans

Toucans are a group of tree-dwelling birds most notable for their very long and slender bills, which contrast heavily with their, in general, short and compact bodies. Their bills are very colorful, with their light weight allowing the birds to hold them up, given their tiny bodies and short necks; they also have serrations which aid in feeding on fruit that can’t be reached by other birds. In addition, the bills are great for thermoregulation, allowing the toucans to release heat from the bill. They also might use the large bills to actually intimidate other birds and steal eggs and babies from their nests. They have very long tongues - like their close relatives the woodpeckers - that allow them to find food deep in trees. Their tails are also highly adapted - with the vertebrae fused and attached with a ball and socket joint, allowing the tail to jut forward towards the head. They are very social birds in the tropics, and they may fight with their bills and chase each other while they digest food. Highlighted species include the Toco Toucan (the largest and arguably best known toucan, has a black body and brightly colored beak), the Curl-crested Aracari (has a distinct short crest of curled feathers along the top of its head), and the Plate-billed Mountain Toucan (known for two distinct colorations between the northern and southern members of its species, northern toucans have brown eyes and orange on the upper beak while southern toucans have violet/green eyes and yellow and pink on the upper beak). List of ineligible candidates: None

Falcons

Falcons are a group of diurnal birds of prey. They are not closely related to the Accipitrids, despite their similar appearance and lifestyle. As with other birds of prey, the females are typically larger than the males. Most falcons are fast fliers that strike their prey quickly in flight before dispatching it by biting. A tooth-like projection on their upper bill helps them deliver the coup de grâce. The caracaras are an unusual group of falcons that fly relatively slowly and often forage by scavenging. Highlighted species include Gyrfalcon (the largest known falcon which mostly, but not exclusively, lives in the tundra and mountains), the Pygmy Falcon (one of the smallest raptors known which feeds on small animals in the dry bush of Africa), the Red-throated Caracara (unique for being a bee- and wasp-eating caracara, hunts in small groups in jungle lowlands), and the Mauritius Kestrel (an extremely distinct, island-dwelling kestrel that was very close to extinction, but has since been successfully raised back up so that it is “only” endangered, with conservation efforts still ongoing). List of ineligible candidates: Peregrine Falcon

Cockatoos & Cockatiels

Cockatoos are a group of parrots which, though not as colorful as other parrots, do make up for it with extensive crests on their heads that are used for display. They also have extensively curved beaks and are, usually, larger than other parrots, with the Cockatiel being a notable exception. Extensively intelligent birds, they are highlight social and roost and travel together in large and noisy flocks, and are extremely curious birds, often kept as pets (for better or, more often than not, worse) or even regarded as pests when it comes to human crops. Feeding mainly on plants, they forage together in tight flocks to protect themselves from various birds of prey that attack them. They nest in holes in trees, and are primarily known from Oceania. Highlighted species include the Galah (a pink cockatoo that is extremely common and can often be seen in groups foraging in the Australian countryside), the Cockatiel (the smallest species, known for their distinctive crests and bright cheek patches, as well as their status as the second most popular companion bird), the Palm Cockatoo (a large black species with red cheek patches, and potentially the largest known cockatoo and one of the largest parrots in Australia, it also makes many complex vocalizations including the word “hello” and males perform drumming displays to establish territories), and the White Cockatoo (a rather charismatic and noisy bird that, honestly, the only thing I’m going to leave you with here is this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRsfOGJ5lZg). List of ineligible candidates: None

Lyrebirds

The lyrebirds are a group of perching birds adapted to life on the ground that are most notable for their ability to mimic almost any sound in their environment. Male lyrebirds also have long, elaborate tails, that are used to display for mates. For a long time, these birds were thought to be more closely related to things like pheasants and junglefowl; however, when their chicks were found and seen to be more like those of other perching birds, they were quickly reclassified. Lyrebirds mimic the sounds of things they hear around them - from koalas, to kookaburras, to chainsaws and camera shutters - and use them in their extensive songs, and they have the most intricate vocal musculature known in any perching bird. The three species are Albert’s Lyrebird, the Superb Lyrebird, and one extinct species, M. tyawanoides. They differ primarily in that the Superb Lyrebird is significantly larger and one of the largest known perching birds in general, and Albert’s lyrebird is much rarer. In addition, Albert’s Lyrebird lacks the extensive tail-fan of the Superb Lyrebird. The one extinct species, M. tyawanoides, is known from the famous Riversleigh Environment of Miocene Australia, showing that this group was already around about 23 million years ago, and may have been more diverse than what is shown in its living members. M. tyawanoides was smaller than either living lyrebird. List of ineligible candidates: None

Birds of Paradise

Birds of Paradise are some of the most beautiful and weird perching birds known, with a wide variety of extremely specialized and colorful display feathers, as well as very elaborate display rituals that they use to signal to each other during mating. They are also highly sexually dimorphic, with the males having these extensive bright plumages and the females generally looking rather drab in comparison. They come primarily from Oceania - Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, and Australia - and they live primarily in rainforests. They eat primarily fruit and some arthropods, and though many of them are monogamous, some do change mates with large congregations of males competing against each other for females. These competitions not only display their plumages, but also usually features extensive dancing and weird behaviors based on the plumage itself. They also often hybridize between the species, which makes classifying many of these birds sometimes difficult. Highlighted species include Wilson’s Bird of Paradise (the males of which have curly tail feathers and extensive coloration on their backs, and they clear an area of the rainforest to display to a female, conducting a very elaborate mating dance that can be seen in Planet Earth II), the Greater Bird of Paradise (the largest bird of Paradise with extensive, fluffy plumage coming out of the tail in the males, as well as iridescent green feathers), the Victoria’s Riflebird (whose males display blue feathers on their throat and curve their wings, moving in a jerky fashion from side to side, before the female sort of mimics by raising her wings, until they finish dancing and actually kind of hug with their wings before copulation), the Raggiana Bird of Paradise (in which the males also have fluffy feathers coming out of their back and tail, and display by clapping their wings and shaking their heads), and the King of Saxony Bird of Paradise (in which the males have very long, striped, ribbon like feathers coming out of their head). List of ineligible candidates: None

Mockingbirds & Thrashers

The mimids - mockingbirds, thrashers, tremblers, New World catbirds, and relatives - are a group of songbirds that are noted for their mimicry, as demonstrated by the name “mockingbird”. They are usually gray and brown in color, with bigger tails and longer beaks than their close relatives, and are also in general large for songbirds. They have long legs that allow them to hop through their environment and feed on small insects and fruit, and they live in a wide variety of habitats around the Western Hemisphere. In general, they are very active, loud, and aggressive birds. Highlighted species include the Northern Mockingbird (a North American species that sings fairly constantly, can recognize individual humans, and is a wee bit of an asshole), the Galápagos Mockingbird (one of the four types of Mockingbirds from the Galápagos Islands that eats seal placentas… as well as more mundane things, and helped Darwin in understanding natural selection), and the Gray Catbird (which makes a mewing sound like a cat, and also mimics calls made by other birds). List of ineligible candidates: None

[ratherhavetheblues]

Claire Denis’ ’35 Shots of Rum’ “I feel like…I have wings…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     These days, an old black and white film about God will find few takers. However, there is a still-practicing filmmaker, namely, Claire Denis, who pulls out all the stops to revisit such a vehicle. Is she a nun? Nope. Is she a God-fearing militant in favor of aid to the distressed? Nope. Is she a social scientist, tracking religious consequences through the ages? No, no, no. What Denis’ excitement pertains to, is the work of that mostly shunned movie, called, The Seventh Seal (1957), created by notable-no-longer filmmaker, Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007), whose output engages the intrinsic disaster of piety and smarts. (The word, “intrinsic,” is crucial here. And as such, her perspective is problematic, not formulaic.) In addition to piety and smarts, that film spotlights a young couple of itinerant circus performers in the 12th century, the husband, Jof, agog with the possibility that their baby boy could become a dazzling acrobat, or a juggler, pulling off an “impossible” trick, the kind of trick only an oracle would imagine.

Intrinsic in the travelling folks’ itinerary, is the sentence of being left out of the lives who, if not making the world go round, making the world theirs. 35 Shots of Rum (2008) contemplates the hopes of Jof, almost a millennium shot forward. As such, our film today carries the special bonus of catching up to, once again, the bittersweet world of Jacques Demy and the musical muse of Demy’s soulmate, Michel Legrand (setting out the latter master’s magical transcendence by way of those deft swallows, the Tindersticks).

Diminutive Jof comes a cropper with the salt of the earth in a medieval beer hall, and, by way of putting a less embarrassing story in the mix, he tells a gathering at his caravan that he “roared like a lion” against the mob. Our protagonist today, Lionel, a Paris commuter train driver (far from Jof’s open road), is an African immigrant-widower who dotes on his adult daughter, Josephine, still living with him. The action here is pensive in a puzzling way. Whereas Jof and Marie are on the hook to circumvent various substantial evils (the plague, for instance), Lionel and Jo seem to lead a rather uneventful, mundane existence. Their reticence to speak (a less extreme strategy of the vow to silence, in Bergman’s, Persona [1966]), counting upon face and body language, becomes a form of poetry you could study for years.

  Such a peculiar, elusive narrative presents a daunting task of identifying and structuring the artistry being given to us. One readily manageable gift, however, in this connection, is the opening scene and its riches of rail lines and bustle and a high-pitched, low-textured accordion motif, keening for something misplaced and yet with an abundance of lift, rather like the music of a carousel. The first visual incident involves a set of shining rail tracks plunging forward from the driver’s smudged window. Soon we’re presented with multiplicity of tracks near a railroad station, resolving to one line describing a gentle curve as against the standard fast forward, a departure redolent of both poetry and prose. Even more palpable, however, is the jumble of wiring (a sort of Black Forest or snowstorm) and its masts maintaining electrical power and its dynamics, along with mechanical devices being a force of stasis. Constituting a form of synthesis with those visuals, there is the musical motif, filling out the progressions in such a way that we are transformed as part of the doing of a sorcerer’s apprentice. That formidable protagonist, Lionel, comes into view in close-up profile at twilight with his shift nearly over. Lighting a cigarette and gazing at a more substantial and impressive long-distance train passing by, the set of his face is far from easy. Tindersticks add a flute component, lightening the load somewhat. We see the back of the last coach, touching the black void with two sharp red stoplights near the wheels, and a more diffuse green field of action near the structure’s top. An elicitation to accentuate the positive.

Then we see Josephine (the play of her two forms of name being a bit like the red/ green just mentioned) patient in a Metro car squashed like livestock. She stops at a kitchen store to consider a presser cooker/ rice preparer; and, presto, Lionel comes home to the flat with one, scarlet and shiny, making a statement. What with her doing the laundry and his carefully undressing and having a shower before dinner from that new appliance—she smiling on hearing him come in, and he pleased to be the bearer of good tidings—all the connection involves their silence within a sanctuary of their own perceptual making. This low-key activity allows us to salute the savvy with which they have designed their little nest—choosing paneling in very effective blacks and greys, with subtle yellow floor tiles, and with uncluttered spaces. When they’re close enough for a welcome little kiss, she tells him, “You smell of cigarettes,” a case of maintaining a pristine society. (Another of the audacious compositional touches is the virtual disappearance of Caucasians in the City of Light—Josephine’s subway, for instance, entirely filled with blacks—as if this enclave represents the best hope of clear thinking.) Seated quietly, they eat with gusto. She puts on some lively music—far less lively than what we heard along the tracks—and Lionel picks up two apples for their continued health. Sanguine, for sure; but not successfully addressing those minutes, probably frequent, in the dark engine.

Upping the ante, the only black in sight not serene, namely, Rene, an old friend of Lionel, has come to his retirement day at the commuter system. Lionel watches the man of the hour about to clean out his locker, and he is apprehensive that his friend has dangerously lost the company grip. (At his suicide, our protagonist being confronted with the horror of Rene having chosen a place on the rails where the calm one would encounter him, the latter holds a difficult silence, culminating in, “Fuck, Rene!” [you’ve overreached].) Certainly, our careful one, would never place on his locker wall a photo of a pretty sharp acrobat, spinning many plates by way of a multiplicity of long sticks. To ponder such sensuous acuity is to be on the hook to see and feel things in a very different light. Lionel, on that special, presumably happy day, comes upon that aficionado as he trembles. And being a rock of some endurance, urges, “You can’t fall apart now. Not in front of everyone…” On to the retirement party, and Rene can’t manage a smile. From the girls, there is a beautifully designed, rather rakish, leather jacket. From the “brothers,” a scepter (ravishing in its mosaic details), the likes of which a jungle king would have close-by when presiding. Still glum, Rene manages a brief speech: “My friends, thank you for being here. I’ve waited so long for this. It’s a deliverance, you know. [His troubled manner has all of them on edge.] Tonight I feel like… I have wings…” On the Metro, with Lionel, his scepter wildly incongruous, he tells his friend, “Surrendering… Surrendering to this condition, is what’s so hard. I’d liked to have died young. But I’m at the age I’m at. And healthy as an ox. I’ll die at 100 at this rate… I don’t have this life in me. The subway and all that. It hit me unarmed and unprepared…” A few days later, they meet coincidentally in a bar. Lionel asks, “Got any plans?”/ “Tons,” Rene ironically replies. (Another gift, during the festivities where the lucky man spends most of the time with head bowed, is an iPod. Someone tells him, “All your music at your fingertips!” Music, again, but bulk; and Rene, the acrobat manqué, feels the pain without a plan to beat it. Lionel had for years been staging special events, dear to his heart, in the form of a drinking binge of 35 shots of rum in quick succession—his sense, for what it’s worth, of regal acrobatics. “Down the hatch,” a woman in the company [all black, of course] is cheered on. She ends her run at 16. The natural follow-up would be for Lionel to run a row of slam-dunks. But, to the surprise of all, he says, “Not tonight…” The vision of Rene’s horror has induced that current of self-criticism in our protagonist, rarely elicited; and soon it’s back to the tune of, “Fuck, Rene!” Oodles of charm, a go-to friend, to many. But.)

   Jo, within the aura of Marie (a 12th century pragmatist), is enrolled in a college program of Economics, where she can practice utopian possibilities. The first sustained action in the world at large where we see her is to go jogging with a young mulatto man, Noe, who occupies the penthouse of their building; and joins Rene in distraction—not due to lack of understanding but lack of devouring. (That would introduce, though, the third member of Jof’s troupe, namely, Scat, who sleeps in a hammock near the ceiling of their caravan, and sleeps with as many women as he can.) They’re in cool apparel as they cruise along the industrial service road where their building stands. She begins to outpace him, and, true to form, he jumps into the Seine (far from the Seine of tourists and billionaires). “You’re crazy!” she laughs, when he regains the service road and the upper hand. (The little acrobatic, of the jog which suits her, being eclipsed by jagged face-saving and latent hostility.)

While Josephine wends her way to oblivion, there is a woman, Gabrielle, the unofficial manager of the easily managed centre, who shows to us, if not the virtues of wide variety of  mood, their capacity to put into play juggling initiatives, come what may. One thing she does have up her sleeve, however operative, is the tangled history of films about taxi drivers (she being one), particularly, Jim Jarmusch’s film, Night on Earth (1991) and Abbas Kiarostami’s Ten (2002). She begins her tenure on the pavement with the complaint, “This is not my day…” A young dude, needing to move only a few blocks, counsels her to practice “flexibility;” but, in fact she’s already on the case. She maintains that she knows very well how fortunate she is, in finding every day to be unique. And, “No boss breathing down my neck.” In addition to her being a queen of the road, she’s frequently sitting in the dark, on her balcony or even in the stairwells of her home. Jo, rather obtuse for a closet mystic, teases her that she’s still carrying a torch for Lionel, who lived with her for some time before and after Jo’s German mother died, necessitating the young girl to come to Paris and her bemusing father. Despite the misalliance, all the players in this relationship have generally found ways to pleasurably intermingle. But the ways of volatile Gabrielle are not the ways of muted Lionel and Josephine. She also visits that bar where Rene needs the alcohol, and gives him a sunny smile (during the interregnum of Lionel’s patriarchy Rene would have been a frequent guest). After a quick espresso, she’s out the door to get back to work. And from the suicidal one’s perspective, and its remarkably dirty windows, she’s been transformed from incandescence to a blizzard of grey deadness. Such a fate dogs her to the end, a veritable sentence of solitary confinement. But it is her resilience, notwithstanding (like the taxi/Mom in Ten), which matters. (A “Fuck, Rene!” [and all the other cripples]; but in being disappointed for him and the rest, not pissed off that a lame clique had been abandoned.) She undertakes posting a thankless note about the by-law there, about someone leaving a bike in the hall. (Noe trips over it in a dark passage; and all he does is yell, “Shit!”) More thankless care comprises how often she invites Josephine to her suite and is given excuses that her studies come first. The four of them are excited to have tickets for a popular band. Off they go in Gabrielle’s car in a rainstorm—she, knowing Lionel only too well, asks, “Got your wallet?”—and the car breaks down (Gabrielle, as so often, no doubt, succumbs to, “I can’t believe this!) due to transmission problems. The concert never happens for them, how could it? But they’re within walking distance to a Jamaican restaurant they know, insisting, “We didn’t feel like going home like this.” (Remarkably, though, the place had already closed; but, in the current of the fantasy easiness here, the woman-proprietor welcomes them, and happily prepares suppers on her own. On the other hand, that generosity and sanguinity is something else.) The sound system comes to life, and Lionel and Gabrielle enjoy dancing together. Jo smiles at this, and soon she and Noe are the night’s special event, the passion of their embrace becoming a concern for her dad and a reflection for Gabrielle. The food arrives, and the host’s black and white dress is like a bit of outer space, a bit of a silent concert. Noe, while dancing with Jo, exclaims, “You’re something else!” He got the wrong girl. (During the inevitable wedding, Jo tells Gabrielle, “You’re not going to cry?” When the latter tries to help with the bride’s outfit, Lionel tells her, “Jo can do it herself.” We last see her sitting alone in a shadowy stairwell.)

   The sequel of that calypso meal finds three of the four at Noe’s apartment. His cat has died, and he  disposes of it with not a moment of care. Dumping the body into a garbage bag, he brags, “No frills, he’s dead and gone for.” This finds Josephine covering her nose and mouth, and saying nothing. Gabrielle’s asking for an aspirin at least reflects being distraught. (Here the axiom, stemming from Jarmusch, of abusing a pet, means the abuser has metaphorically become roadkill.)  With this he announces his interest in moving to Gabon (“pays well”); and Jo goes through the motions of dissolving what was supposed to be elevated performance. Wouldn’t you know he’d couch his departure with, “Now that my cat’s dead, I’ll like it” [the offer]—more fake acrobatics. But this shake-up involves depths and shallows, to savor, racing back to the lyrical and ambiguous curve of the tracks in the first scene.

Jo protests, “You’ll ditch us and go away?”/ “Why not?” the TV poker gamer bluffs. “You always tell me how it’s ugly and old here” [a list of her surprising immaturity including being unmindful of the historical and advanced possibilities of Paris]. In this context, a cut to Lionel, who for various reasons might have preferred sleeping to remaining in that company, finds him walking along a sidewalk eating a croissant—to him a non-ugly factor. On arriving home, he finds Jo in a frenzy to clean their flat. (While still on the sidewalk he notices her putting finishing touches to cleaning Noe’s balcony window—forcing her to stretch in a precarious way. [Acrobatic, sort of.]) Lionel’s confusion about the cleaning blitz extending to his place displaces his placing out more croissants, and messes up his reading the newspaper designed for flat-earth fanatics. “Why are you doing housework?” the sort of poet asks. “Isn’t it clean enough?” When Noe yelled, “Shit!” was he in error? Does Gabrielle’s client/stranger’s demand for “flexibility” start biting here? Jo moves on to rifling through old photos, including one showing her German mother and Josephine as a baby, and proposes throwing all of them out. Lionel is far from happy about this frenzy, so foreign to his learning. She counters that, “It’s filthy here! We need to empty it all out.” Her recruitment by Noe has no heart for a mosaic on the wall, traces of her father’s rather pathetic poetry. In the confusion he calls out, “This makes no sense! Think of yourself.” To which she counters, “Noe’s leaving!… I’m leaving, too” [the clean-up in the service of giving her father a clean home to be alone with]. “Don’t be silly. We’ll do as we please. As we always have. Nothing will change…” is the desperate hope. Jo yells to him, “Yes! Everything will!” Finding among those keepsakes a letter written by her mother to Lionel living in Paris and living with Gabrielle, we are taken up by a facsimile of one of those enthralling dramatic dialogues which Bergman had become a master in delivering, to deepen our understanding of the principal’s dilemma. “Lionel, I miss you. I miss you so much. Josephine finally fell asleep. She looks like you when she sleeps. It makes me love her even more. Please let me live by your side every day. She’ll be my daughter, too. My love, my rascal…” On the heels of that discovery, Josephine knocks on Noe’s door. When he opens it, she finds his arrogance: “You have something to tell me?”

   Coinciding with that Road to Gabon, Lionel, “the rascal,” has lost Rene, but in the course of a rhapsody/daydream on the job, he conjures a horse and a wagon on the tracks as far back as the heights of Jof and Marie. Somehow the image of Jo also appears, for a fraction of a second—this being an apparition for the ages, regardless of stiffs like Noe. And thereby they take off the tarp from their long-dormant Volkswagen van in the underground of the facility (close to where Gabrielle parks, with the little touch of pedantry masking her roof-light to offset rascals), to play one last (confused) victory lap, to Germany (where Jo learned to speak German before reaching Paris after her mother’s early demise). In a cast generally mustering understated performance from blacks and their secret hideaway to transcend a terminally polluted mainstream presumptuously claiming to be viable, the home stretch unveils an elderly German lady (Jo’s grandmother), who takes over—a bit of a scandal in an era of race obsession—as a Bergman oracle, typically smothered by a roster of fakes. “We don’t see you enough. That’s the way it is now. We all live such withdrawn lives [Jo, if only she were alert enough to grasp the outrage being alluded to]. Everyone in his corner. Every man for himself. Would you like some coffee?” (Jo’s capitulation coming across subliminally, as in, “Yes, I would Ma’am.” The hostess retorts, “You don’t have to be so formal” [largely mundane, Jo, having succumbed to formulaic piety and smarts]. You must have been driving all night [as with Jof and Marie, on that long night when “formal” Death commanded nearly everything in sight]. You can stay for lunch, or even spend the night.” Jo replies, in German, “Thanks, but we want to get back on the road [brave words, but here the usual subterfuge; and masking, I’ve got a wedding to bring off, with a fake acrobat]. Maybe some other time” [when hell freezes over]. Does this obtuse connectivity derive from Denis’ background in Africa?) The old gal, disappointed with her prim relative, subtly mocks, “Some other time…” She swings past this transmission problem, however, by recalling a (very) brief joy. “Your mother said she fell in love with a guy in Paris. I asked her, ‘Is he cute?’ [oracles not likely to pose such questions in a straightforward way]. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘You’re going to like him’” [the speaker has a troubled face and she looks downward]. Rallying once again, in face of this semi-invasion, or Death, she finds something lively. “I taught her to swim. She was scared of the water. We’re all scared of it. I’m also scared of that [nearby, North] Sea. So vast, so wide. And when you scream, no one hears you… Lionel, do you remember that time when we all went swimming together? We basked in the sun. Lost in the dunes [ring a bell?]… Good wine [she smiles]. Not always that good” [when Lionel was buying; the volatility raining down, and needing to be met]. Though he would not follow the verbal language, there was, in the body language of this transaction a delivery of that day. A delivery the steady and gentle “cute”   “rascal” chooses to ignore. “You don’t remember?” she asks him. Her hurt, from this lie, is short lived. “Why don’t we drink some wine? A little glass of wine, now. Why not?” (There is a cut to a wall in that room, showing Jo as a baby held in her mother’s arms; and a dark print of a nude woman seen from behind, treading into the sea at night with a moon casting moonlight on the sea. Iconic matter, to someone, anyway.) “A little glass,” she perseveres. Then they are all drinking that wine. Lionel silent, in a dilemma, unsheltered by his usual comrades. The oracle has more to say. “Sometimes it seems the whole world is scared of suffering. Everyone wants either total stress or some peace in their happy little lives. But not us, not us! We’re strong, aren’t we? Aren’t we Lionel?” The latter minor poet, gracing so many rigors, comes up empty here, very well understanding that he is hated. “I’m glad Josephine gets by in German. It makes me happy”    [dipping into the “happy little, prosaic lives” so potent in Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander]. “Just like your dad” [to be a stiff], the lady, clearly fluent in French, skewers a surprising target.

After a short stop to the grave, pouring some water on the flowers, while golden leaves waft down in lieu of almost total neglect, the van reaches the shore, recalling the embarkation of buttoned-down Block and his squire (the aristocrat who fails, and the salt of the earth, who also fails), coming ashore from a crusade centuries ago. It’s All Saints Night, and a group of children, carrying lights and singing, goes by their caravan, etched vividly in the twilight as they negotiate a ridge. Peering out of their home away from home, they fail to pierce the urgency of that full-hearted dash for the sake of a lively life, so long ago and remaining to be fulfilled.

   How dare, then, Lionel’s wedding gift of a rice-cooker (“Living Tech” brand), snow-white with a few sissy images at the base—as if to look down upon Jo’s retreat? The slight fails to register with Jo, but it had better register with us. There are many enclaves on this planet sworn to never hear a discouraging word; and some—like that of the club we’ve just taken the depths of—actually being overachievers. But thanks to that oracle, our love affair of the sweet (musical) suite and the sweet apprehensions (as in the small handful of great Demy films) must unequivocally demand more. As the wedding reception rolls on, with a pianist a bit less sweet and a bit more bitter, Lionel climbs the rum shots game, to perhaps reach something to quieten his malaise. “A moment like this only happens once,” he overstates. Neither a consummate acrobat with his rum, nor a consummate juggler with cronies, Lionel—harkening to that siren call having endowed those falling short in Demy films remaining lovable (and a lovable longshot for reaching the strictures Jof had in mind a thousand years ago)—settles in to enjoy the party. But his miasma (far more potent than the ton of rum he’s feeling as we leave him while never forgetting him) is the real concern of this masterful film.

As if a divided homage to this rather secret society—and especially the secret society that was Lionel and Josephine—Denis has planted several factors in her film which amount to a possible blossoming of a long-overdue being “strong,” and not being “scared of suffering.” Some we have already encountered—for instance, Lionel and Jo on a long-ago horse, implying proof against the fear of the likes of Rene. And yet a mark of shame, due to that shining, though flawed, accomplishment of Rene, so more honest. This touches upon the pedantry of Josephine, in action during her college preparations, to become what many others insist she settle for. She mouths, like so many others before her, that “the Global South has not been handed the credits to thrive. “It is neither right nor wrong. Rules, used to manage international debt-loads, impose trouble upon countries in debt. I don’t think we can ignore (Joseph) Stiglitz” [American Nobel Prize winner, in the field of “Economic Sciences”]. (The Prof notes, “You say it as if it’s totally self-evident. It’s a little pedantic…” [pedantry eliciting fear, as in Wild Strawberries]. Another student—coinciding with flawed but somewhat cogent, Rene—argues, “When we revolt, it’s not for a particular culture. We revolt simply because, for many sources, we can no longer breathe…” More bookishness surfaces during Rene’s finally returning a book he borrowed from Lionel. The latter admits that he had forgotten all about it. The subject was about the evils of being “educated to death,” which, it transpires, had become a joke amidst the cognoscenti. The title was Mars [War]. We can well understand why he, so scared of suffering, forgot about it. But that he touched it at all, is a revelation!) On Noe’s wall is a poster, titled, ODISSEA 2001. Flashy optics. No Mars. Their marriage won’t last a year. Then, what?

Many viewers, with a didactic bent, have inferred that 35 Shots of Rum is patterned on the Yasujiro Ozu classic, Late Spring (1949). They claim to have strong evidence by way of the Denis documentary, Talking with Ozu (1993). A few narrative steps do coincide; and the rather precious disinterestedness of the Japanese  protagonist does (vaguely) show that area of musicality here. Could the contrasts between the films be urgent here—Denis’ film being modern cool, while Romantic Ozu fumes about the cruel frozenness of Japanese action? Another aspect of Talking with Ozu, is her warning that she “dislikes auteurism and the cult of cinephilia.” The pros read this, and proceed nevertheless—a move like stepping off the observation deck of the Empire State Building. The bona fide involvements here, with Bergman and Demy/Legrand, have very little to do with the movie industry, as it has chosen to fool with.

[volatileuniverse-blog]

TRAILBLAZER - THE SCORCHING SPRINTER EPISODE 1: A VENOMOUS ENCOUNTER

          IN PERCEPTION CITY’S DOWNTOWN DISTRICT: ACUITY…

               “ARGH!” TrailBlazer groans loudly as he’s thrown into a car, kicking up glass all over the ground. TrailBlazer is African American, his skin is a light brown and his body is well toned. His eyes are dark brown with soft-angled eyebrows and his hair is permed and slicked into the style of a pompadour. TrailBlazer’s high-top running shoes are a shiny grey with red trim around the bottom with black trim above the red trim that possess red shoe strings. His pants are black and with a thick, red, trim down the sides of the legs. His utility belt is primarily grey with red trim on the pouches, with flex cuffs attached. His shirt is a matching pure red with a symbol on his chest.

              The symbol is a black inverted triangle with a red inverted triangle within it, with a thick black “T” within the red triangle.

              Over his pure red shirt is a pitch black, fitted, fire retardant, leather jacket with the collar popped that cuts off at his utility belt showing off the large silver, gleaming, inverted-triangle, buckle, with his symbol plated on it. Along the arms of the jacket, there’s red trim flowing down it, matching the pants. He’s wearing black gloves with special grips on the finger tips with a thermochromic “T” on the back of the hand that’s glowing red and a black domino mask.

              Some pedestrians run and scream for their lives as other pedestrians record the action on their phones, hiding behind vehicles. TrailBlazer looks up in minor pain then his eyes expand before he speeds out of the way, dodging a thrown car that soon crashes onto the one he just extracted himself from. Sliding, TrailBlazer presses his hand to the ground, skidding to a stop.

              “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” TrailBlazer thunders, avoiding eye contact as arachnid lets out a growl.

              “I’M TYRANTULA!” The monster hisses.

              Tyrantula has brown undercut hair with a trimmed full beard. His eyes are pitch black and his top canine teeth are brown, exceptionally large and furry that hang down to his chin. He’s wearing a grey tank top, showing off his hairy arms and chest, with blue jeans and black work boots. Tyrantula hisses as he runs at TrailBlazer. TrailBlazer’s skin reddens with heat as Tyrantula throws a punch. TrailBlazer spins off the man’s arm and sends his searing fist into Tyrantula’s stomach. Tyrantula grunts but he quickly grabs TrailBlazer’s arm and throws TrailBlazer over his shoulder and a far ways down the street. TrailBlazer tumbles across the ground, rolling violently before sliding to a stop.

              “Ugh… son of a bitch.” TrailBlazer moans to himself. Tyrantula runs down the street, full speed, towards TrailBlazer as TrailBlazer stands up, recollecting himself. TrailBlazer notices Tyrantula then sprints towards him as well, TrailBlazer’s skin still red with heat. With a little distance between them, TrailBlazer looks away, throwing a punch but is tackled hard, his skin reverting back to normal again. Pinned by the arachnid, TrailBlazer looks up to see Tyrantula coming down for a bite with his dripping fangs.

              “UGGHHH NONONONONO!” TrailBlazer panics “AHHHHRRGGHHH!!!” TrailBlazer screams in terror as he holds Tyrantula at bay with his forearm to Tyrantula’s throat. Struggling, Tyrantula hisses as his fangs start to drip with more green discharge that leaks onto TrailBlazer’s cheek and mouth. TrailBlazer, panicking and looking away, repeatedly punches Tyrantula in the face area with his free hand. Tyrantula brushes off the punches and slowly start to lower on TrailBlazer, overpowering him. “ARRRAAAAHHHHHH!” TrailBlazer screams as Tyrantula’s fangs slowly start to pierce TrailBlazer’s shoulder. TrailBlazer’s eyes expand before they begin to emit a red glow. TrailBlazer lets out a scream as a beam if of heat blasts from his eyes, shooting into the sky while scorching a portion of Tyrantula’s face. Tyrantula screeches as he quickly backs off of TrailBlazer, holding his burnt face.

              TrailBlazer closes his eyes as the glow fades behind his eye lids. Getting up off the ground, TrailBlazer clenches his bleeding shoulder, squinting. “Fuck, not again!” He exclaims to himself as he looks around at the blurry world before spotting a blurred dot leaping into the air. The dot lands on a building’s side and begins crawling across it. TrailBlazer, dirty and bleeding, wipes the venom from his mouth before rolling his shoulder.

              “Ah, hell.” TrailBlazer yells before he takes off after the monster. TrailBlazer sprints up the building, closing the gap between them. Tyrantula turns his head with a hiss, psyching TrailBlazer making TrailBlazer jump over Tyrantula and towards another building. TrailBlazer bursts through the window of an apartment and rolls on the floor as a man and woman lying in their bed scream in terror.

              “WHOA WHOA! GUYS! I’M SO SORRY! I’LL PAY FOR THE WINDOW!” TrailBlazer promises, inching his way towards the window and holding his bleeding shoulder. “I’ll let you guys get back to it, then.” TrailBlazer tells before sliding the broken window up and stepping outside onto the fire escape. Closing the window, TrailBlazer looks around for the beast but the foggy world has nothing to. TrailBlazer lets out a sigh before he leaps off the fire escape and onto the ground. Citizens stare and point at him, some smiling, some in awe. TrailBlazer spots a couple before speeding to them, squinting.

              “Hey, you guys haven’t seen a muscular man crawling the sides of buildings around here by any chance, have you?” TrailBlazer asks as the citizen shakes her head.

              “I haven’t! Are we going to be ok, TrailBlazer!?” The woman panics as others around listen.

              “NO NO!” TrailBlazer reassures. “You’re going to be fine. Just let the police know if you see anything weird like that, ok?” He tells with a smile.

              “Are you going to be ok, TrailBlazer? Oh my god, Look at your shoulder!” The man asks, looking at TrailBlazer hold his bleeding shoulder.

              “Yeah, I’ll be fine, nothing some ointment won't fix. Thanks.“ TrailBlazer assures still smiling. He turns holding his shoulder and takes off down the street. Running, he sprints up the side of a tall building and hops over the top. Rolling on the roof he continues to the other end but he starts to blink his eyes quickly as his vision worsens. “Oh shit…” He says to himself out of surprise before he collapses onto his hands and knees.

              Breathing heavy and sweating, he digs into one of the pouches on his utility belt. Starting to foam at the mouth and choking, he pulls out a metal case, falling onto his stomach. He shakenly opens the case exposing a syringe with a cloudy liquid inside. TrailBlazer removes the syringe, weakly, gargling, attempting to breathe. He sluggishly jabs the needle into his neck then pushes the cloudy liquid into is veins.

              “ARRGAAAAAHHHH!” Logan screams as his skin reddens. “SON OF A BITCH! ARRRGGHHH!” He exclaims in pain, pupils dilating. He pounds the roof in agony as he gets up to his knees, now pounding the roof with both fists. Breathing heavy, the foam around his mouth starts to disappear as he grits his teeth. His skin reverts back to normal as he rests on his forearms and knees, veins popping out of his neck. Still hyperventilating, he falls over onto his back, lying there, catching his breath.

              “Holy Hell…” TrailBlazer mutters to himself, exhaling as he lets the syringe roll out of his hand. He slowly starts to get up to his feet, groaning as he ascends. He rolls his shoulder but doesn’t flinch. “I’m never taking that shit again!” He states to himself as he starts to walk across the roof top. “Shit… what the fuck was that thing?” TrailBlazer asks himself. “Had to be a fucking spider, ain’t that about a bitch. Now I can’t see… it’s not like I have a hundred other problems to deal with.” He continues. He walks over to the edge and places his hands on the edge, looking down at the city. As he scans, he sees blurry, blaring lights street-level. “Oh shit, Giuseppe is going hand me my ass on a plastic plate for this one.” He says to himself before speeding off.

                                             MINUTES LATER…

              TrailBlazer speeds to a stop within a nearby alley between an underwear store and the remains of a building that has been caught on fire recently. There are workers within the decimated building, throwing out all the charred rubble. TrailBlazer walks to a dumpster then digs underneath it. He pulls out a black, leather shoulder bag and starts to walk off deeper into the darkness of the alley. He speeds out of the other side of the alley with the bag around his shoulder. Running at unbelievable speeds, he leans his body forward then throws his hands behind himself, picking up more speed.

              Zooming down the roads of Perception, he drops onto his left knee and left gloved hand and starts to drift left around the corner. Using his knee for balance and the grips on his glove for control, he swings right around the corner, then zips off down the yellow line that divides the traffic. After a short while of sprinting and drifting, he speeds into a nearby alleyway. Soon after winds are heard within the darkness. Soon after, he walks out of the shadows in a white collared shirt with a few top buttons undone and the sleeves folded up to his biceps, blue jeans and black boots. Instead of a pompadour, his hair is in the style of a quiff. “Good thing I keep spare contacts in my bag.” He says to himself soon after walking out of the alley. He steps across and stares up at the hospital before exhaling.

                                LATER INSIDE OF A HOSPITAL ROOM…

              “Hey, Logan.” An average-build African American man softly tells TrailBlazer, lying under the covers in a hospital bed. His skin tone is a medium brown, he has some wrinkles around the mouth and eye areas. He possesses a greyish-black full beard around his thick lips and a small black cottony afro. He’s wearing a white gown, with a few cords hooked up to him. There are light bruises over his eyes, his bottom lip is minorly swollen along with his cheeks and there is a cast on one of his arms

              “Hey, Dad,” Logan responds with a smile, sitting in a chair next to the bed. “How you doing?”

              “Well, my back hurts, my knees hurt, my arms hurt. And as always, the food here tastes like ass and the nurses here aren’t as sexy as the ones on T.V.” Logan’s dad says.

              “So you’re doing better?” Logan asks with a grin.

              “If ‘better’ mean doing the same.” He answers as Logan grins.

              “Better than doing worse.“ Logan tells.

              “But it’s worse than doing better.” Logan’s dad counters as Logan’s grin disappears.

              “Dad, has there been anyone here that’s weirded you out or…” Logan asks as his dad thinks.

              “No, why?” He asks.

              “I don’t want that guy that attacked you, to find out where you are.” Logan tells, worried.

              “I’m going to be fine, Logan. I have faith that either the P.C.P.D. is going to catch that asshole, or TrailBlazer is.”

              “I worry, Dad.” Logan answers as he exhales, saddened. “Sometimes I don’t think TrailBlazer can beat that guy.”

              “Well, he was able to stop the bastard from killing me. Of course, Glacier Comics burned down in the process, but like I said, I’m just happy to be walking on dirt, then to have dirt walking on me.” He tells before Logan starts staring down at nothing. Logan’s dad takes notice of his son being distracted. “I’m going to be fine, ok, boy?” Logan’s dad assures.

              “Yeah.” Logan tells looking back up at his dad.

              “So how you been?” He asks.

              “Oh, yeah, I’ve been O-“ Behind his dad and out the window Logan sees a shadowed human-like figure, wearing a hoody, standing in front of the setting sun on a higher building across the street. Logan's eyes widen as he rushes around his dad’s bed.

              “What?” His dad asks, confused. “What?” Logan stumbles over to the window, distraught. He looks out the window to see no one there.

              “What the fuck?...” Logan whispers to himself.

              “What the hell is it, boy?” His dad blurts. Logan stands there in the window, staring out of it.

              “Nothing… just a weird looking bird,” Logan tells his father. “It was small but fat in the face.”

              “Well, you acted like that bird was carrying a sexy nurse or somethin’.” His dad tells as Logan lets out a weak chuckle. “I was two seconds of telling you to send that bird my way.”

              “Sorry.” Logan apologizes turning around. “So what’s your plans for today?” Logan asks before sitting back down next to his dad with a smile.

              “You’re a funny son of a bitch, you know that?” His dad tells with his eyebrows low.

              “Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here-” Logan looks at his watch. “For about five minutes.” TrailBlazer announces.

              “Why five minutes?” His dad questions. “Gotta go to work?”

              “Yeah, but I’m also preparing to get chewed out by my boss, too.” Logan tells a little uneasy.

              “What you do?” His dad asks.

              “Let’s just say, I screwed up real bad on a delivery.”