Blondie is true blue, wrapped in plastic, tied together with a cherry pie on top. Enter agent, in the mood for ****** or dutiful doughnuts and coffee (**** fine.) A saccharine soprano sings Roadhouse while a log teems with secrets only owls observe. The one-eyed recluse draws cotton ball curtains hiding cinereal skies that saturate such opaque peaks. The giant speaks of a small town tempest. Magic rustlings in the Black Lodge bring on the dark dream, a wobbly man talks gobbledygook like a VHS tape in reverse. The fire they speak of is not fire, but sometimes her arms bend back. Bitter BOB ballroom dances with a too cool for school, sock-hop-hopped-up babe in a red room, redrum romance. Has anyone been on earth the last few weeks?