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ISSUE 6 • MAY 2014 HOLD ‘EM JONNY DESTEFANO FOLD ‘EM CHRISTY THACKER RUN MICHAEL DAVID KING MONEY JON DESTEFANO SR. TABLE KAYVAN SOORENA TYLER KHALATBARI-LIMAKI COUNTIN’ MALKAH DUPRIX CONTRIBUTORS (GAMBLERS): CHRISTOPHER COLE, JUSTIN FRANZEN, MATT FRANZEN, FRED FRANZEN, HAYLEY BLOMQUIST, RICARDO FERNANDEZ, ERICA GROSSMAN, JOSIAH HESSE, BABYSHOE, JASON HELLER, SVNSET WAVES, MELANIE STEINWAY, IAN GLASS, ZETAKAYE HOUSE FRONT COVER: RAY YOUNG CHU. break time BACK COVER: JAMES HATTAWAY SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: SEXY PIZZA, SEXPOT COMEDY, ILLEGAL PETE’S, DEER PILE, WATERCOURSE FOODS, THE ORIENTAL THEATER, CANNANOVO, & KGNU AFTERFM. birDY IS DENVER’S ONLY MAGAZINE, PUBLISHED MONTHLY. BE IN BIRDY OR HAVE BIRDY IN YOU: SUBMISSIONS@BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM ADVERTISING CONTACT: JON DESTEFANO SR. 720-276-2777 ADVERTISING@BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM BIRDY MAGAZINE WOULD LIKE TO SINCERELY APOLOGIZE FOR THE ODOR OF OUR PUBLICATION ©2014 BIRDY MAGAZINE, A BETTY CROCKER JAM 3

CHRISTOPHER COLE, AIR

ThE BAllAd of fRAncIS fERpSTEIn, pART II: AdvEnTURES on MIlEx By The franzen Men: Justin, Matt and fred It was a long way from Halon, but Francis loves the new world, Laser Planet. His family is no longer a persecuted minority and his parents, the Ferpsteins, not dreaded outcasts. Francis’ father, Sal Ferpstein, quickly rose through the pedestrian human ranks to attain a superior level in footwear construction. He even ranks above the Cyborgs which is an unheard-of accomplishment. All the oppression on Halon molded Sal into a well-oiled podiatrist encapsulator. Laser Planet, formerly Earth, is big on selfgrowth and accomplishment. Carl Thasmian’s father, Carl Thasmian Sr., is a self-made rich man who recognizes and appreciates talent and ambition, both very evident in Sal. Carl Sr. had inherited Digitalis, a congenital foot disease causing loss of feeling in the ankles and feet. The disease is common on the new planet and balance had become a big issue for many. It is quite common to see Laser Planet citizens toppling over in cities. Sal quickly put all his knowledge and abilities to bear on solving the problem. After many trials, he came upon the solution, a gel filled insert that radiated intense rays at the afflicted areas. However, the gel is extremely expensive and only a few citizens can afford the luxury of stable mobility. Carl Sr. quickly heard of his saving grace and contacted Ferpstein for a consultation and fitting. He brought his son, another victim of the disease. Carl Sr. and Sal introduced their children and, throughout the fitting and training process, they became inseparable friends. Never is one seen without the other. The fathers also became fast friends. Like his father, Francis rose quickly through the Thasmian business ranks and became an integral ISSUe 6 part of the Thasmian “Weed” production. This weed was the number one export of Laser Planet as the entire galaxy thrives on the magic arnica. It’s also the keystone to the Thasmian wealth. Inseparable from Carl, Francis quickly adapted to the trappings of wealth and power. Carl is a business genius and Francis is a combat genius. They were polar opposites but were exactly what the other needed. Francis has a rare ability to excel in combat endeavors. Man-to-man holds are his specialty. He is undefeated and also puts his talents to use in the Thasmian security structure, relied upon to guard the Weed on a galactic level. His travels allowed for intergalactic combat against all species. Francis grew stronger and his ties to Carl remain strong. On a routine business trip, the men travel to Milex. Carl and Francis go knowing they will both stay busy doing what they do best. Carl focuses on locking down further expansion of Thasmian Corporations while Francis is there to fight the planet’s champion. Their goal is to establish financial and physical domination in one trip. Carl wastes no time and heads straight for the Capitol of Milex. He walks into this meeting knowing it is a sure thing and he’ll get everything he wants on his terms. Entering the room, he takes his seat on the other side of the table from the Prime Minister, Shuthu, and his advisors. Carl opens his briefcase and slides a contract across the table. Shuthu looks over each shoulder and visually confirms the fate of Milex with his advisors. One by one each nod, confirming what Carl anticipated. The Prime Minister grabs a pen and tries to steady his hand as he signs the contract. He knows what Thasmian does to planets and is afraid for his people. He has no choice in this matter, though. Francis gives no choice in his work on Milex either, coming face-to-face against six armed Thargs. The Milexian beasts are twice the size of the most mean men on Laser Planet with three times the strength. Their teeth puncture through their lips and resemble a pit of spikes with a tongue. Luckily for Francis he’s not most men. At six-feet-eight-inches, he was not dwarfed like most humans were by the Tharg. The torches were lit and both Francis and the Thargs collide in the middle of a dirt arena. Francis makes quick work of his opponents. He rips off the lower arm of one and quickly follows up with a death grip. The Tharg’s attempt to free itself is futile. The more it struggles, the deeper Francis’ death grip digs in. With its head between the bicep and forearm of Earth’s reigning champion, the Tharg uses its jagged teeth and bites into Francis. Without blinking, Francis strengthens his death grip and rips the Tharg’s head straight from its body. Its nerves snap like rubber bands as blood fountains out of the creature like one of Laser Planet’s geysers. The other five Thargs retreat in fear and the crowd goes wild. Francis defeats their champion, holding the Tharg’s head up high. At no point could Carl Sr. and Sal anticipate that their sons would be the men they are today. Their ability to conquer a planet in an afternoon is unheard-of and is what makes these two men the forces they are. Milex isn’t the first planet they have done this to. And Milex is definitely not the last planet. The thrill of conquering is what makes these men get up in the morning. to be continued.… 5

Kristin Rand and Mara Wiles have never stopped playing. They’re having the time of their lives performing sketch, stand-up and improv in Denver and beyond; the world is their sandbox and they want to share the fun. Have you two always known each other? Mara Wiles: We met at Beauty Bar. Kristin obviously has a very attractive personality. Kristin Rand: I had just moved here, which was three years ago, and I went to Ladies Laugh-in and she was headlining that show. I hadn’t seen her at any shows before and I didn’t know where she came from. Mara: Yeah, I would just do whatever I wanted. Kristin: I remember watching Mara perform and thinking, “UGH! She’s so funny!” It was love at first set. Mara: I thought Kristin was so funny too. We both just ran up to each other, equally wanting to introduce ourselves. I was looking for somebody to connect with for so long. I just hadn’t found my buddy. When Kristin joined LadyFace, the sketch show I started with some other female performers in town, she really made a difference. Kristin: I just think it was a great idea to start a sketch group. The idea of that many schedules working together-it was a giant learning experience. It was learning about what kind of performer you are, what kind of writer you are, how you want to work, how you don’t want to work. It was beautiful and brought something up in me that I didn’t know I had. I believe so strongly that you pick whatever the fuck you want to do and then you do it. We’ve got to let go of what we think we’re suppose to do. I knew after a couple of shows with Mara that we were suppose to be working together. It’s about listening to your gut. Mara: That’s such a big lesson I’ve learned these past few years. Kristin: Mara and I would almost get in trouble for wanting to write sketches together. But that’s what I want to do! I want to write sketches with the one person that I think is funny and makes me laugh the most! So doing mOXie! also worked out in this magical way. Mara: It’s recharging to work with you. Right now we’re working on a web series for mOXie! which we’re really excited about. It’s going to be us just doing us and really just showing off our funny friends. Kristin: I have zero doubts in whether the web series is going to be funny or not. I don’t care if we don’t have a script. It’s like today we’re going to take the trash out and that’s our show and it will be funny. We always figure out a way to make it funny. Mara: And working together, we balance each other out. She’s taught me to be more self-assertive. I come from a family where we’re always saying “I’m sorry.” So it’s learning how to not be taken advantage of or feel bad for standing up for yourself. With LadyFace, I had to take some hard stances and be authoritative and not apologize, which I am so thankful for. You have to be in charge of your own career and learn how to approach someone when you want to use their venue. You don’t just haphazardly do it. You want to treat it carefully while being assertive. And I love that about Kristin and she brings it out in me. I don’t know what she gets from having me around? Kristin: Naps! Mara: I teach her sometimes it’s okay to come in a little late because then everybody’s more appreciative that you’re alive. Kristin: That you finally showed up. Mara: They’re not frustrated. They’re happy about it. But seriously, we have a baseline but our peaks and valleys are different. I just feel so lucky that I met my little baby! Seems like what you two are doing with MOXIE! is a perfect example of changing what it means to be female in the comedy industry. Mara: I agree. We’re really positive with one another. Kristin: I think what’s happening in comedy in general is amazing. What women are doing as self-produced, selfmade power houses is really flipping shit over. This is just an amazing place to be if you’re a self starter. The timing of when I moved here is unreal. the Grawlix had just formed and they weren’t Los Comicos anymore. I remember when we would go to Kinga’s which had an open mic. Open mics are notoriously horrible things but it would be pure magic. And that was my life and it’s still my life, to just go and watch my friends be hilarious in these little sweet spaces where we can all be stars. Mara: This is the best times of our lives. And when we’re rich and famous in our Jaguars of course, we’ll be like, “Remember when Kristin had a ninety dollar Car2Go fine? Now she wipes her ass with ninety dollar bills.” Kristin: She actually had ninety dollar bills made just for her ass. It’s very hard to get a new form of currency, but she did it. Mara: How do you guys feel about this shirt by the way? I just got it and bought it as a western costume but I’m not sure. Kristin: It’s working because you have sensible things on underneath. I have a jacket that I think is amazing, and Charpie laughed at me when I wore it and was like, “You’re not wearing that as a joke?” Mara: Yeah, but let’s not take advice from any of our comedian friends. Kristin: Fashion is all about acting like you want to be wearing something anyway. Mara: I’m embracing it. This is just the start of my relationship with this shirt. Today is the first time I’ve ever worn it. Once I cut out the shoulder pads it was like, the sky’s the limit. You’re not a shoulder pad kinda girl? Mara: Some people can pull it off. I do it and it’s like, “Ms. Janet! Call me Ms. Jackson, please.” Kristin: That reminds me of last night. So much fun. What was last night? Kristin: Yeah right! which is a comedy show that happens every first Wednesday of the month at Beauty Bar. It’s just me and Nathan Lund. I used to do it with Randy Washington but he started bartending on Wednesdays. ThE cU

URI IoUS AdvEnTURES of KRISTIn RAnd And MARA WIlES BY chRISTY ThAcKER

Nathan lives right around the corner and I thought it would be super easy to zip by before his show too much Fun! at Deer Pile. And you performed last night too, Mara? Mara: Yeah. She needed big guns I guess. Last night was one of those moments where I fell in love with comedy again. Because we all get in our heads about things and now I’m in a good spot where I’m shaking that schluff off of me. It’s just insecurity—thinking you’re not funny. Sometimes I get these writer’s blocks where I write these jokes and I think they’re funny but they’re not hitting. It’s like, what am I saying wrong? Am I good enough? But I think we’re all at a point in this community where we’re not competitive in a way where we wish ill against each other. We just have to keep creating to get better and to make a name for ourselves. So there is a pressure, and I think I lost a little sight of why I’m doing all this. It’s been fun getting back to having fun while doing stand-up again, and that’s why I love your show Kristin. Kristin: I was talking to somebody last night about you and I said I think you figured it out to where you were relaxing and letting go. You just felt a lot of pressure and expectation before. I love watching you, though. Pure Mara is the best. Mara: Thank you. When I first started doing comedy, I was doing anything that popped into my head all the time. Now I feel like I’m getting back to that. There’s a weird in-between where you have to start developing your hot-five and a set list and everything else. Kristin: I think it’s overrated to focus on material that works under those constraints because at the end of the day are we not doing this to have fun? People want to watch you up there having the time of your life. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. My set lists aren’t even set lists right now. I literally go up there with the seven thoughts I’ve thought of today. I’ve only seen you two perform in your element. What was your block from Mara? Mara: I had my kidney transplant last March. Before that, two years ago, I was on disability and hemodialysis. This last year has been such a rebuilding one for me. Kristin: You were sick as a dog. Mara: I have Lupus which caused adrenal failure. I have a lot of energy all the time, but when I got sick that spark kind of dimmed. I was still trying hard to go out, but it wasn’t the same. It’s a hard schedule to keep and I was working a full time job at the time too. I felt out of touch with myself. I didn’t have any expectations before and then life just came to me so quickly. It was like, what do you want to do? Who do you want to be? What is this all for? Do you love yourself? Do you love the people around you? You may die. This last year was all about getting comfortable with my body again and learning my limits. I feel like I’m just getting back to the Mara of four years ago. The free me. You’re getting back to your roots and why you’re doing comedy in the first place. Kristin: I think about what comedy really is all the time. Sometimes I sit back at shows and I realize I’m 30 years old, with all of my best friends and we’re really putting on shows for each other. I used to put on shows as a kid in the basement ISSUE 6

almost every night with my little brother, and my mom would watch. We just played. And I think Mara and I just never stopped playing. Mara: I think this is the most fun we’ll ever have, even if our lives stay this way. I did the same thing as a kid. I was always the ham, doing impressions, making little voices, putting on fake radio shows with my sister. Since I can remember, my dream has always been to be on stage. I don’t know why it took me so long to fi gure that out. Kristin: I too can’t believe I did stand-up so long before I realized exactly what I was doing. We knew it on a level, just not to the point we do now. We did LadyFace for a year and mOXie! has been running for a year now since we started last June. After two years, I think we’ve established what we love and want to do. And the point of what I want to do on stage is be as real and funny as I am in real life without any pressure or expectation. Has the Denver comedy community shaped you two as the artists you are today? Kristin: I’m only six years in and I did stand-up for a year and a half before I moved here. But this city has provided a safety and comfort to try new things and grow. People ask me if I get nervous, and I say, “Never here!” There’s not a stage in this city that I would be afraid of. Denver gives me this amazing sense of home. Mara: This is where I started doing comedy fi ve years ago. I’ve always been warmly embraced and I have the freedom to do diff erent kinds of things because it isn’t LA. It’s easier to fi nd a place to put on your own show and see if it works. And people will come and stumble in, and these little pockets of fans will form. That’s how stuff gets started. It’s cool to watch everyone grow and develop these friendships which I think is the most important thing of it all. I’ve met the love of my life doing comedy here. We might not be the richest and some of us might be wearing western shirts that are maybe too big, but we have each other. I’m not making money for things that I’m putting so much work into but it’s my work that I believe in. And it’s going to pay off in a way someday. Kristin: And you have to already see it as paying off . I hate the idea of one day this will all pay off . It’s worth it every time we do it. Otherwise I don’t want to be doing it in the fi rst place. Mara: And you’re also getting to do the one thing that really makes sense to you. I had a realization, a real, real one after my surgery. I thought, “Man, life is very short and the only thing that’s ever really gotten my bell ringing is making people laugh.” I can’t imagine giving it up ever or not having it in my life. That’s how you know it’s something you’re suppose to be doing. Like I loved rollerblading but I don’t do it anymore. Kristin: Skating was my jam. Those were the days when I was never paying attention to the real world or adults. They were not even a thing to me in the 90s. I was way too busy being cool. Mara: Oh, adults. I’m sorry what, I was reading baby-Sitter’s Club. Kristin: I’m halfway through nancy Drew back off . Mara: I was more of a Fear Street gal. Kristin: I did nancy Drew and then I was like, I think I’m done reading for the rest of my life. Mara: I’m an avid reader. I’ve read all the nancy Drews and boxcar Children. I think I’ve got it. Kristin: You could say I’m pretty well-read, well-cultured, I don’t really feel the need to keep reading. Mara: And that was the last time I read a book. Those were the days. I think you two are just as true to yourselves now as you were when you were kids. Kristin: I think that’s just the process. I think that people who even have Comedy Central specials want to be as comfortable and as themselves as they can. It’s what anybody as a performer wants to be doing. Mara: If you ever watch an interview with Martin Short…I think he’s just the most charming human ever. It’s because he’s so himself in everything he does. He’s telling these stories and he goes into character but you always know it’s him. That’s how I’ve always looked at it and it’s hard. Sometimes you tell jokes that you think people will be right on board with. But they’re like, oh, you’ve never done that. But it is just trial and error and trying to stay vulnerable. Kristin: I don’t think it’s trying. It’s just doing it. Mara: But trying is just getting on stage. Trying is taking a leap of faith and going for something. I think about that all the time when some people put pressure on themselves or others. Why, when we could all just chill out and give ourselves a break? What’s the harm in not doing so great. ISSUe 6 9 There’s not a gun to anyone’s head if you aren’t perfect the fi rst time you try something new. Kristin: I don’t want to get to excited or depressed about anything. I don’t even want to entertain doubt right now. I just want to have fun. All artists struggle with fear of rejection because there’s no one to answer to but yourself. How do you handle this fear? Kristin: I’m just getting to it. I’m realizing that we’re all artists and all humans. We do almost everything out of a fear of being judged by others and all you’re really doing is judging yourself fi rst. You’re going ahead and letting everybody else know what they should think about you. When I’m at home or in my element I’m so relaxed, and I’ve realized I can take this energy wherever I go if I want to. And that’s what we can all do. Mara: You have to open yourself up to what you really want to do and you will get closer to it. Otherwise, you’re just shutting yourself off to chances and opportunities that may come. Kristin: We’re constantly pulled by certain forces or things and we need to just let ourselves be who we are. Somebody said to me, “I wish I could focus on comedy the way you focus on it.” But really, comedy just took me. It wasn’t a choice where I said I’m going to get into it. I think whatever you need just takes you if you let it. I think we all have a whole bunch of talents and skills and amazing things we can do. What’s the biggest thing on your hearts right now? Mara: I think we’re in a really cool part right now, because we’ve even been told by comedians who come through that this is the best times of our lives. They’ve made it and that’s great and they love what they’re doing, but this is when we’re creating and making important connections. This is what it’s all about. Kristin: It’s the best thing. We’re in the middle of magic. Have fun with kristin and mara to kick off your summer: Kristin’s Cool Shows: June 4- Yeah Right! at Beauty Bar (1st Wednesday of the month) June 5th-7th - Headliner: Baron Vaughn at the Denver Improv June 10th- Greater Than Social Club at Lannie’s Clocktower Cabaret June 26- Making Fun at Deer Pile Mara’s Awesome Shows: June 1- JOKEOKE at Voodoo Comedy Playhouse June 17- The Great Shake Em Ups at Deer Pile July 11-13- Comedy Exposition Festival in Chicago Next MOXIE! with Kristin and Mara: July 7- MOXIE! Secret Talent Show at Deer Pile Look for the new MOXIE! web series premiering on funnyordie.com in June and July. www.facebook.com/moxiecomedy

hAYlEY BloMQUIST, lEAvES

A MEAl fIT foR A KInG BY RIcARdo fERnAndEZ I made the acquaintance of Thomas Moore while on holiday in northern Spain some years ago. From our initial meeting, I recognized that esprit de corps of a fellow gourmand. We kept on running into one another quite unintentionally during the entirety of my trip at a myriad of diff erent eateries, and by the by, came to know one another fairly well. Thomas dressed very much like a cliché tourist. He was nearly as wide as he was tall but he moved with the swiftness of a man half his age and weight. Over drinks the evening before I returned home, we agreed to keep in touch and exchanged email addresses. I thought at the time I had seen the last of the portly man. Thomas turned out to be a voracious corespondent. For every letter received he returned three. It was during this time I discovered that he was a very well known chef with a score of books, penned in his hand, on the subject of gastronomy. And a television show to boot! He was known throughout the free world as being the leading expert in sausages. I will not deny that after my discovery of his fame, I was taken aback and slightly envious. However, Thomas’ manner quickly removed those sentiments because of how genuine he acted. Nearly three years had passed from our fi rst meeting. I received an invitation from Thomas to visit him at his estate in the north of the country. I responded, including the train ticket so as to prevent me from any form of refusal. The trip up was quite dull and I spent most of the journey reading up on the unique cheeses of the northern peninsula. By the time I reached my stop, I was completely famished. Thomas’ driver, Rupert, met me at the station. Thankfully he’d had the foresight to have a light lunch waiting for me in the car. The estate was several miles from the main road; it had beautiful views of the mountains and of a deep, refl ective lake. Once I arrived, I found that Thomas, the driver and myself were the only people for several miles. Thomas explained that an excess of company would ruin the gastronomical delights he had planned for the weekend to come. If it were any other man I would certainly have been concerned of any nefarious intentions, but this was Thomas Moore. He was my friend and a well-known philanthrope. All of my thoughts were on the many feasts to come and I was confi dent in the benign nature of my host. After a short rest, Rupert conducted me through several rooms fi lled with long-dead hunting trophies and tasteful antiques into a well lit room. Seated at the table in the center of the room was Thomas. His excitement for the meal about to be served was palpable. As I took my seat opposite his, I found I too could hardly contain my anticipation for the ensuing supper. Thomas explained, as Rupert poured the wine and laid a small plate of cheese in front of each of us, that he had been consumed by the pairing of every item on this weekend’s menu. Most of his waking hours had been spent ensuring perfection. With that, we began to dine. I was instantly in heaven. Never in my worldly days had I sampled such wonderful things! With each course, I was further pushed into the realm of ecstasy. All the while Thomas kept repeating, “Just wait for the main course. It will all be revealed then. Just wait.” Time seemed to be standing still, but not. Darkness had come but it was light here again. I had not slept, but I didn’t feel sleepy at all. All I wanted was to continue eating. And I did. Finally the main course arrived. I can’t tell you whether it was the shock of having a fully-glazed and broiled person presented to the table or that Thomas himself had begun to carve into her. The trance was over. All I could say was, “Is that a honey or sugar glaze?” The entire menu had been products of the human body: the cheese from breast milk, the paté from her liver, et cetera. Over the course of the last two days, I had, through the madness of Thomas, partaken in the most awful of taboos! I shook and shook, the room spun and for a moment and I was sure of the retch about to come up. But then I realized that Thomas was celebrating the body. That he had to have held this person in the highest reverence to go through such trouble as to prepare every part of her in the fi nest ways possible! Thomas was a genius. He had removed the stigma of cannibalism from my mind! We spent the rest of the afternoon feasting on the remainder of this lady until fi nally I felt tired and went to bed. The following day before Rupert drove me to the station. I went for a walk with Thomas along the grounds of the estate. After a bit, I fi nally plucked the nerve to ask a question, “Thomas who did we eat yesterday?” After a short pause he answered, “My wife, my dear Mr. Stuart. My wife.”

AnTERo “Why is Trixie here?” I asked my mom. “I don’t know,” she said shaking her head. “I thought maybe she’d be able to smell you and, you know, rescue you.” It was June 14, 1997. My feet were slightly frostbitten and I was hungry. Moments earlier I had been helped off of an Apache helicopter near Salida, Colorado. I had spent an evening hypothermic and terrified, yet here was my slightly overweight beagle, wagging her tail at the sight of me. Trixie wasn’t trained to do much more than shake her paw, and she certainly didn’t fit the image of a St. Bernard delivering canteens to lost skiers in the Alps. But panic can make anyone think in an unpredictable way. The morning before—a Friday the 13th—I awoke at the crack of dawn and shoved a few items into a backpack—filled water bottles, a beanie, a hoodie. Before walking out the door, my mom tried to hand me a bright red, very light plastic poncho. It was a fancy trash bag and I insisted that I didn’t need it. “Fine,” I said after a round of back-and-forth debate. I was 13 and stubborn. I stuffed it into my backpack just to end the discussion. A two-hour groggy drive pitted my dad, brother and me near Salida at the base of Mt. Antero, one of Colorado’s 53 mountains that clock in above 14,000 feet in elevation. Coloradans love their 14ers. We’re proud of their continuous skyline, their grandeur. They turn hikers into peak baggers, who cross off mountain names one by one. To summit a 14er means to accomplish. It even goes on record. You sign your name in a registry, announcing that you, however insignificant in your daily life, have stood atop a mountain like some great explorer. Generations from now, when a future world rising from the ashes of destroyed civilization discovers that tubular time capsule at the top of a mountain, they’ll learn that you existed, you were there. After piling out of the car, we quickly hit the trail. 12 The climb started out rough. I had always been a decent athlete, but that morning felt particularly gruesome, a feeling only heightened by the fact that my younger brother was out-performing me. But there’s no better place to regain your energy than underneath a close, bright sun and amid the high, clean air. We rested for lunch and I ate a sandwich and an apple. I was refueled and ready to give the day a better close than start. We resumed, and I was climbing stronger, each foot pounding the dirt and rocks. As I stopped struggling, my mind eased. It was Saturday and I wondered what I would be doing with the rest of my weekend. I had people to call, maybe a friend to see. Before I knew it, I had passed my brother and was shooting ahead on the trail. But he was slowing down for a reason. “I don’t feel good,” my brother remarked. I was flush, pushing my way to the front of the pack, but he looked pale, unwell. I didn’t realize he had full-blown altitude sickness until we stopped for a break, and my dad announced that we had to turn around. The climb was over. Altitude sickness is no joke. There are extreme headaches. There’s puking. It doesn’t matter what shape you’re in or what part of the country you come from—when it hits you, it hits hard. But there was a fire inside of me. I’d come so far and I didn’t want to turn back now that the summit was so close. “We’re so close, though,” I pleaded. “Can’t we leave him here and finish?” No, my dad insisted. We had to get my brother down. “But I can go ahead. I can make it and turn around quickly. I’ll catch up.” I was certain. One of the things that I’ve always appreciated about my father is his belief in my ability. He always let me try new and bold things on my own when he thought I was ready for them. It’s what’s fostered my independence, my curiosity, my willingness to take risks. “Do you see the ridge?” he asked, pointing to a rocky, sweeping edge below the summit. “That’s as far as you can go, and then you have to turn back around and meet us on your way down.” He was confident in me, but shaken with the situation. My brother was getting worse, not better. And I was off, racing along a quickly fading trail alone on a mountainside. I reached the ridge within 20 minutes. I took a few minutes to enjoy the beauty and solitude. I could do anything, say anything and no one would be there to comment. I gazed at valley after peak after cloud and thought about how I’d never seen this many miles of earth at once. It might not have been the summit I was hoping for, but those extra feet wouldn’t have made a blip in the EKG pattern of never-ending rolling hills. With the moment over and elated with my nearaccomplishment, I trekked back quickly. The trail seemed less clear, but I was certain I was headed in the right direction—down. Until I stopped. Something was amiss. The timberline seemed unfamiliar, the surroundings slightly askew. So I backtracked up the ridge I had just descended, pausing for a panoramic scope to make my next judgement call. There—toward my left. That was where the trail faded into view. That was where I came from. I headed down again. I didn’t have a watch but I knew that I was incredibly far behind my family by now. A half hour? An hour? The sky began to shift shades. I picked up my pace. Before I knew it I was down in the timberline again, but without the heavy sigh of relief. I encountered a stream I knew was much larger and higher in elevation than the one I remembered on my way up. There was no trail, nothing to guide through the forest. So I quickly turned around again, this time hiking up as fast as I could. I stumbled in some old snow and, not wanting to waste more time on a detour, sloshed right through it. I was wet from my shins down. ISSUE 6

BY ERIcA GRoSSMAn My breath was growing shorter and the clouds had started to sweep overhead. I was exhausted but made it back to the ridge, but then it became difficult to tell if it was even that same ridge. I was lost. Really lost. The same lost that you experience in the grocery store as a child, separated from your parent. Your stomach drops and, after racing up and down every row twice, you conclude that you’re doomed to wander those aisles for all eternity. Except this time there were no aisles of food and suspect strangers. There wasn’t anything but rocks and dirt and the peaks and valleys that suddenly seemed ugly and jagged. In third grade, we had been given an inclass “survival” exercise that placed us in the middle of the jungle with only a few items in our possession and a long list of Choose Your Own adventure-style options to get out of the situation. No matter what you chose, your selection yielded the same fruitless result: death. All of your grand plans for getting rescued backfired. There was only one option in this bizarre exercise that resulted in your eminent survival: stay put. The message was clear—you can’t survive on your own, and no one will find you when you’re constantly on the move. I can’t make a fire without matches and I don’t know how to filter water using plants. But that afternoon I used the only logic I knew: Stay put. I had convinced myself. I couldn’t find a trail on my own. My dad would surely come back for me (right?). He’d never find me if I was wandering up and down and up and down the rocky terrain. So I waited. And waited. And no one came. I yelled. “HELLO?” “HELLO?” “HELP?” I mustered my boldest shouts, but my voice crippled at the end. I was yelling to no one. The clouds swept over, heavy with water, and ISSUe ThE fIfTh the dark began to settle in. That’s when I really noticed that my feet were soaked, and that I wasn’t wearing much: underwear, now-wet socks, partially wet jeans, a long-sleeved shirt with a T-shirt over it, a light hoodie, boots, and a knit hat. With the first drop that made a mark on my jeans, I got nervous. I pulled out the red poncho. It was long. It had a hood. It would keep me dry and, presumably, save my life. My hair started to rise, sticking to my face in strange places. It was a bad sign. Mt. Antero is one giant natural lightning conductor. Because of its mineral composition, it’s known throughout Colorado as a hotbed for gem enthusiasts and lightning storms. Hikers are encouraged to summit early in order to get the hell out before afternoon storms bring electricity. It was well into the afternoon. Which came first and for how long each lasted I can’t exactly know: rain, lightning, wind, snow, cold. I’d never seen a bolt of lightning crash like that, loud enough, bright enough and close enough to feel it. My hair stood up and an uncomfortable tingle vibrated just below my skin. I was becoming more and more aware of how cold I was with each gust of wind. I built short walls around me, piling every rock light enough to lift just high enough to crouch underneath. It helped break the wind, and the movement made me feel a little warmer, if only temporarily. I was confused. Had my dad even bothered to come back looking for me? (He had.) Had I been forgotten? (I hadn’t.) What would I do tomorrow? (Head back down in search of a trail, I think.) I had plenty of water but no food. I was hungry already. I thought I had seen light on the next peak over, some flare of civilization, but it was too far away to matter. Campers, I figured. If I could just make it through the night, maybe I could head in that direction when the sun came up. I had given up on the idea of being found. There were a lot of things to think about. I thought methodically about my next steps. I thought about my family, I thought about my friends. But mostly I thought about how cold I was and how I might be able to get less cold. I thought about how this might be my last night. That maybe the cogs in my body machine would freeze, get stuck. And then piece by piece, the whole thing would come to a screeching halt. And that the increasing stiffness in my hands, my legs were just a sign of this inevitable end. It was a dull panic. There was no sleep. I was too cold, too paranoid. I waited. shivering violently. The storm would end. There would be another sunrise if I just waited. As soon as the sun had crept up enough to spread light onto the rocks near me, I rushed for it. I stumbled and immediately fell, my hand hurting after breaking my fall on a rock. I hadn’t expected the cold, numb stiffness of my feet to interfere with my ability to walk. But I regained my composure and made a new home on a flat rock in the sun. I laid like a lizard, turning frequently to try and thaw every part of me. It grew warmer and warmer, and I worshipped every moment of it. I had just devised a plan for tackling a route down, “stay put” be damned. My problem was my feet. And that’s when I saw them—people. They were climbing on the next mountain over, distinguishable by their distant movements. I started to yell. “HELLO.” I heard my voice, excited and weak. I yelled again, desperate but more hungry with each attempt. “HELLO.” “HELLO.” With nothing to block it, my voice traveled far. I could hear it slinky down the valley. “PLEASE!” I screamed with tears in my eyes. Nothing. “HELLO.”

They looked closer than before. I just needed to keep going. “HELLO.” “HELLO.” They had stopped. “PLEASE.” Two people were hiking in my direction. I kept yelling. They kept inching closer. I heard nothing in response until they were close enough for me to make them out as real humans, carrying hiking poles. When they were finally close enough to be audible, I heard the best question I’ve ever been asked: “Are you Erica?” Two men from Chaffee County Search and Rescue had climbed to me and immediately attended to my needs. They put foot warmers and dry socks on my numb feet. They gave me a granola bar. “Boy are we glad to see you,” one of them said. I was shocked that the words had come out of his mouth, and not mine. I was anticipating having to tell my story to two random hikers in the hopes that they might be able to help me. My eyes filled with tears. The previous afternoon my dad had left my brother, who was then recovering well in the car, to try and track me down. When he was unsuccessful, he drove to town and called Search and Rescue. The rescue volunteers began to look for me immediately, but were forced to call off the search when the weather proved too bad for them to continue. They resumed in the morning, opting not to bring the family beagle, who had so blindly hopped in the car to go for a ride to Salida with my mom. But it had been an especially grueling search for the volunteers. They were looking for one more person that night and morning, a 14-year-old boy, who was also lost nearby. They had found him dead not long before they rescued me. “Hypothermia,” one of the volunteers said. “He fell in the river.” I had stayed (mostly) dry. I had stayed (mostly) put. These two men—I don’t know know their names—seemed as genuinely excited to see me alive and well as I was to see them and get airlifted back to civilization. That night I took a long, hot bath. Afterwards I went downstairs to find my family all watching the Shawshank redemption on TV. I stayed up to watch it until the end, even though I hadn’t yet slept. I remember that, despite everything that had just happened, it felt very normal to just sit there and watch a story of escape on the couch. I may not have summited that evening, but I re-climbed Mt. Antero in 2008 again with my dad and brother. Our names are all in the register. 14 ISSUE 6

vAUx vInTAGE BY JoSIAh hESSE There is really no better word to lovingly describe Aly Barohn and her Vaux Vintage pop-up shop than precious. Not unlike a mobile food truck or Dickensian tinker, Barohn travels around to art-shows and markets selling racks of clothing that she has carefully hand-selected. After abandoning a successful costume design career in the NYC film industry, Barohn retreated to an Arkansas cabin in 2009. There she built an online clothing company that materialized into a roving retailer once her period of isolation was over and she relocated to Denver. Speaking within the living room of her characteristically Victorian studio-apartment in Cheeseman Park, we drink tea under the watchful eyes of two inquisitive cats. Barohn chats with us on comfort over aesthetic, nineties sweatshops, and whether fashion should be considered art. i think often when people hear “vintage clothing store,” they think sixties or seventies. Does that feel limiting to you? The definition of vintage is technically anything that’s twenty years old, or older; so at this point 1994 is vintage. Which is crazy to think about. It shocks people, especially older people, because twenty years does not seem that long ago. I buy what I like—so long as it’s over twenty years old. No matter what era it’s from, it has to have a certain aesthetic that’s part of my brand. and how would you describe that aesthetic? A word that I use a lot when I describe my shop is “wearable.” Because sometimes vintage can be very retro, very kitsch, and that’s not really the route that I want to go. With menswear, I definitely gear towards the very worn-in cotton that’s so soft, it’s the best. I try not to buy any synthetics or polyester, things that don’t feel good against your skin. isn’t that what the seventies were known for? Polyester leisure suits and starched mary tyler moore dresses? They were known for that, but not exclusively. I don’t sell any of that stuff and I have loads of stuff from the seventies. It’s a comfort thing. I would never wear that stuff; in the summer it makes you sweaty. Ugh. No one likes it...I mean, some people do. i imagine part of the appeal of vintage clothing is that it’s built to last in a way that contemporary clothing is not. Oh yeah, and you can tell when you get into the eighties and nineties when garments were starting to be mass produced overseas. I really detest fast fashion, the products that are made super quickly at a low cost with horrible fabric and not much thought put into the design, the fit, the quality control. What I want to come back is the time when people had like ten things in their closet and they really cherished those things and they spent a lot of money on them and the clothes hold up. People will often balk at the idea of fashion being considered an art form, is that a frustration for you? Not necessarily. I understand it. I myself even deal with that issue. When I was a costume designer, that was a creative field. But what I’m doing now, I don’t know if I would consider it an art. It’s a business. That doesn’t take away from my love for fashion. I think fashion is art; but me choosing what to sell is not art. I went to school for fashion design, so I know what it takes to create garments. Doing what I do takes an eye, it takes style, but having style doesn’t make you an artist, in my opinion. Check out aly baron’s online store at vauxvintage.com or etsy.com/shop/vauxvintage ISSUe 6 15

floAT lIKE A dRAGonflY, STInG AS T

G l l Tol Lennord Gale Mullins is my full name. I am 54 years old. I am a gatekeeper of brush strokes. My soul is art. I am art. Everything I do is art. I was born in the South in Tennessee. I was raised in Wisconsin. I have thirteen brothers and sisters, and ten of us are still in existence. I had a brother, Chester, who died when he got kicked in the heart by a horse when he was 12 years old. My twin sister died two years ago in her sleep. She had sleep apnea. I have another brother who expired a few years ago. I loved him dearly. His name was Calvin. He was a black panther from Wisconsin. He always called himself the bicentennial baby, and was really good with his hands in arts and crafts. I’m the youngest in my family. My oldest sister, Jean, adopted me and my twin sister and raised us both after my mother died in 1970. I was 10 years old. Before my mother died, she took me to a Martin Luther King rally. I got sprayed with water hoses when I was in my Mama’s arms. At the age of fi ve, I began to draw pictures with crayons. I am the only painter in my family, and I paint from my heart and soul to create things that other people couldn’t possibly imagine. People might see it, but they don’t understand it. It’s really art that watches you while you look at it. All my painting is me. I’m inside my canvas trying to get out. That’s why my paintings move. They have my energy in them. Art is my lifeline. When I touch down, I paint pictures that are universes and they are alive and they paint themselves. My paintings are portals in time. They transport beings or entities into artwork. I am like a spirit that has fl oated through different times and dimensions. I know Picasso, Matisse and Van Gogh because their spiritual essence fl ows through my brush strokes. I have stopped painting for long periods of time, but I store paintings, pictures and thoughts in my mind all the time. I can pick up a brush after ten years without painting and release centuries of pictures. But my art is never fi nished. It’s always a work in progress. It’s a story. I can just dust it with a brush stroke and the story will appear. I am artistic in all aspects of my life. Even as an athlete. I was an incredible basketball player when I was a kid. I would score thirty to forty points every game. I use to run track and I always came in fi rst place. Anything I did athletically I excelled in. When I was in the military on a base in Oklahoma, I took the trophy in a physical fi tness test with 490 people. I had blisters on my hands from practicing the day before, but I sucked it up and won anyway. I use to be a kick boxer when I was eighteen. I fought in tournaments. It was the Bruce Lee era and he was my favorite. I also love to dance. Dancing is like rhythm. It is my heartbeat. It is an expression of energy. I love to roller skate while I dance. I’ve been roller skating since I was ten. I skated in Wisconsin at St. Michael’s Church on hardwood fl oors on roller skates with wooden wheels. I use to go skating every Saturday at Johnson’s Skate Park in Wisconsin. I used to make jumpsuits and put studs on them that would say “Star Child.” I’ve been a part of the skate club, Skate Spectrum, out here in Denver since 1990. I skate at Deer Pile shows and dance parties just to hype the crowd and to make it more entertaining. I love skating because it’s so relaxing to my muscles and skeletal system, and it’s really benefi cial to my physical being, keeping my respiration going, moving, staying young and active. I’m older now, but I can summon all of my talents when I need to. It’s like a rubber band. It will always snap back to where I can do everything that I could always do. It’s like riding a bike. You don’t lose the mechanics of how to do it. lIKE A BEE lEnnoRd MUllInS ld To JonnY dESTEfAno I came to Colorado in 1987. I was 27 years old. At the time, I was a hairdresser and also a tailor. When I came out here, I got a job in the health care fi eld. I started out as a medical technician, then became a health care technician, and then a respiratory therapist until 2005. I’ve always based the jobs I have on helping people. I’ve dedicated my life to helping 17

improve the quality of other people’s lives. I’m kind-hearted and have a bedside voice for comforting people. I’m somebody’s family when they have no family in their last days of existence. There are so many different ways you can help people. My way is to take care of you and help you. As a respiratory therapist, I help you breathe, make sure you can breathe without any discomfort. I treat people the way I want to be treated with the Golden Rule of respect. I respect everybody. I don’t think anyone is above anyone else, because we all are the same. I also don’t care about money. If I want something I will do without it if I can’t afford it. There are so many opportunities for me, but I choose to be humble and to be a painter and to help the community, and help other people by spreading the spirituality of my craft. Everything I got I’ve worked for on my own. I’m self motivated and like to make things happen. I’m basic and simple. The only thing that I need is art. I live it. I breathe it. It is the only thing that keeps me alive. The high point of my life was meeting Dan Landes and Sarah Lyons. (fi ghting off tears) They made it possible for me to do so many different things, giving me so many outlets and opportunities. To be a part of City O’ City and Deer Pile -- they let me be who I am and don’t ask any questions. If I fuck up, they will let me know, but it’s mostly freedom of artistic expression. Everything we do here is so heartfelt. I’m here to ensure that things are moving smoothly and that everything is nice, clean, and comfortable. I’ve met and worked with some extraordinary people in my life. Paul is a little 10-year-old free spirit that came into my life. If I had other kids, he would be the type of kid that I would want to be my son. His energy, love and support is so amazing and is way beyond what some adults can comprehend. He is a true spirit, so intelligent, a little busybody and so creative. Sometimes he’ll say he’s tired and wants to stop painting or drawing and do something else. But I tell him that we should stay focused and fi nish what we’ve started. He is really patient and all over everything. His mind is just so explosive with grabbing knowledge, resources, and soaking in anything that someone has to teach him. If you show him something once, he has it. He is like a little angel-- pure and truthful-- because he says what he means and it’s true because he feels it. He is going to be amazing with what he does and what he accomplishes in life because he is ahead of his time. He makes my day. He is like sunshine. When I see him he gives energy to my heart and soul, like motivation. I love him. I so love him on every level. Life is so good because if there is no one else to love, I love myself. I’m only ever lonely because I choose to be. But I’m really happy. If I die tomorrow, I wouldn’t care because I’ve had a great life. I look forward to every day, because every day brings something new and different. Every day there is new creativity. It spreads and it grows. It takes a form and a life of its own. It’s just life itself. My soul is an old, old soul. I am like an angel. My soul is a soul that fl ows and gives birth to life and creativity. I can touch somebody and enhance their life. They will feel my power of love and comfort and creativity. I was a warrior in a past life. But I was never a secret agent because I don’t like to hide, to hide behind things. I want to be seen. I like to be seen and noticed and respected. I’m not hiding anything. ISSUE 6

BABYShoE, MAplE

Henry Oxford Wallace walked through the doctor’s garden with his head wrapped in mist, squinting as if seeing its verdant splendors for the first time. Sunlight streaked across the sky like soapsuds. Clockwork hummingbirds siphoned gasoline from metallic flowers. In the distance, nude children danced with animals and uprooted saplings in some kind of mindless, wind-up pantomime. This made Henry want to cry, but no tears would come. He raised his hands to his face, brushed his fingertips along his scarred and bearded cheeks. Then he felt them, smooth as bone. The dice. He remembered: He’d been given dice for eyes. “Henry?” The voice behind him gave him a start. “Henry, come back to the house with me. The doctor can help. There’s too much to see out here right now. We’ll come back when it’s dark. It won’t be so frightening then.” “Yes, Eleanor,” he said, taking his sister’s hand. He dared to glance down at it. Instead of skin and nails, the flesh of her fingers was sheathed in waxed paper and shattered glass. ◊ When they returned to the house—the doctor’s country estate, far from the gaslit streets and loud Model Ts of the nearby city—Eleanor called upstairs to their host. Dr. Islington came down, spindly and flushed, and led Henry to his examination room, shutting the door behind them. As the larger man took out his notebook and pen, Henry stood shivering in the middle of the room, trying to avoid the large mirror hanging alongside the charts and diagrams on the wall. But a stolen glimpse reflected the same image he’d begun seeing the day before: two bone-white dice, polished to pearly opalescence, pivoting in the deep, wide sockets where his eyes should have been. The numbers six and a three were facing forward, nine tiny black dots, dilated and OCTOPUS fAcToRY GAlAxY BY JASon hEllER baleful. “Sorry, Henry, very sorry.” Dr. Islington gestured at the mirror. “I should have covered that up. It’s, ahem, still the dice you see, eh?” Henry tried and failed to tear his gaze from the mirror. “Yes, Doctor. But… it’s more than just that. I’ve been seeing other things, too. In the garden today, with Eleanor, everything around me looked strange. More so than usual, even.” The doctor began scratching in his notebook. “Sit down, my boy,” he bid Henry. “Describe it to me.” Henry did. He told Dr. Islington about the carnival of visions in the garden, the odd and impossible phantasms that swam in the corners of his new eyes. He tried to put into words the children and animals, the hummingbirds and flowers, the sun and its vibrant scum of lemony foam. But that wasn’t all, Henry continued. Earlier that day he’d sent the doctor’s servants out of the kitchen so that he could cook breakfast with Eleanor. They’d loved cooking breakfast together as children. But as Henry cracked eggs into a bowl, each yolk appeared to him as a jellied ocean squirming with swarms of unborn stars. Then, just as his knife was about to descend into a loaf of dark rye, it turned into a little, slate-shingled 20 ISSUE 6

house bustling with the members of a soberly dressed and Lilliputian family. His sister, of course, had seen only eggs and bread on the table before them, and could do nothing but clasp her brother’s hands and coo into his ear as he whimpered in confusion. “It’s getting worse,” Henry concluded. “Can’t you figure out what’s the matter? Don’t take me wrong, Doctor. I’m grateful for the operation, to be able to see again. And you’ve been very generous letting Eleanor and myself stay here while I recuperate. But I… I fear I’m going mad. I haven’t had the blessing of sight since I was seven years old. The world looks strange enough to me as it is. But now? I can’t tell which visions I should heed as reality and which I should dismiss as apparition.” Dr. Islington put down his pen and steepled his fingers. His eyes twinkled under a heavy brow. “Henry, I can’t tell you with certainty what’s happening to you. But I do have a theory. This procedure I used on you, as you’ve known from the beginning, is an experimental one—a marvel only possible in this enlightened new century. But rerouting the channels of your brain to bypass the tissue damage that had blinded you all those years ago… to be honest, I was operating a bit blind myself.” The doctor gave a low chuckle then shifted himself in his chair as Henry, unaware that he was staring, bore into the man’s face with his eyes. “What I believe is occurring,” Dr. Islington went on, avoiding Henry’s gaze, “is an awakening. A rebirth of what the philosophers have called the mythopoeic mind. See, Henry, before science eclipsed the scientist himself and recast the human psyche in its own rigid image, our minds were much more fluid and intuitive. Our perception was wildly subjective. Long ago, for instance, two individuals from two different tribes of man could look at the same object—a stick, say, or a snake— and see two wholly different things. The wars of that pre-scientific era weren’t simply conflicts over resources. They were battles between epistemologies, between distinct interpretations of sensory input, between irreconcilable empirical realities. In a way, men fought over the right to see the world the way they wished, and to populate that world with objects and gods of their own invention.” The doctor paused for a moment to peer out the window of the examination room, his eyes lingering on the artful arrangements of shrubs and stones in the garden beyond. “What I’m proposing, Henry, is this: These are no mere hallucinations you’ve been witnessing. They are what I would classify as mythopoeic manifestations. In short, sir, they are metaphors.” Henry rubbed his temples in hard, small circles, as if trying to accelerate his inner processing of the doctor’s ideas. “If you’re right,” Henry said eventually, his voice rising, “then what about my eyes? What are these dice supposed to be goddamned metaphors for?” The doctor answered Henry with an unreadable expression. Then he smiled at the younger man. Henry made every effort not to scream as the doctor’s face suddenly flowered into a violent, bruise-colored cloud. The smoky mass spread upward from his starched collar to the ceiling, seething all the while with tiny figures that ISSUe 6 appeared to be either locusts or vultures. “Why, it’s obvious, Henry,” the doctor’s voice echoed from deep within the purple nimbus that had been, just a moment ago, his head. “The dice symbolize uncertainty. Everything that is not yet known. Wasn’t your entire operation, after all, a gamble?” ◊ That night Henry laid awake and listened to the apple trees beyond the garden swish in the stiff wind of an incoming storm. The trees, he comforted himself, at least sounded like trees. Eleanor had been right. The night was much easier for Henry. As the doctor had explained to them soon after the operation, while Henry’s eyes were still bandaged, less light means less visual stimulus entering the brain. The closer Henry could come to his previous state of absolute blindness, the less he was prone to these terrific visions. Even then, there seemed always to be a glee the doctor exhibited in hearing about and recording in his notebook Henry’s latest phantasmagorical episode. A hiss from outside his window jolted Henry out of his thoughts. “Brother, it’s me. Come down.” He parted his curtains, and even in the dim light he could see Eleanor’s long, pale hair undulating in the wind. As lightning danced in and out of the racing clouds, her locks took on the appearance of tentacles. Henry squinted. “What are you doing out there?” he whispered back. “You’ll wake the doctor. Come back inside.” He heard her laugh, the same mischievous giggle she’d had since they were children. Then the luminous mass of her hair--now blonde, now green, now blonde again--bobbed away in the lightning-charged darkness toward the garden. ◊ As Henry slept that night, he dreamed he and Eleanor were both children again. They played upon the gleaming new tracks the rail company had stitched across the fields behind their grandmother’s house. All manner of beasts, machines, and combinations thereof crawled along those tracks as Henry groaned and turned in his bed: steam engines curled first into nautili, then into pachyderm-shaped gramophones, and then into electric-eyed cats that licked their sparking fur with ferrotype tongues bearing images of comets and atoms. Around that mad factory, that assembly line of illusion, Henry and Eleanor darted and laughed, gorging themselves on the ripe, metallic berries that sprang as if by magic from their footprints until their lips were blue and their bellies sore. Henry awoke with a start, the storm still raging and the sky like ink. As he savored the already fading images of his dream, he remembered what their mother had said years ago after hearing Henry babble wild tales of the menagerie in grandmother’s fields: “You will be a poet someday, Henry. In the age of steam and electricity, a poet. God help you.” That was before the auto accident, before he’d gone blind. True to his mother’s prediction, 21

though, he did become a poet of sorts. Not one of any particular stature; more of a hobbyist really. But spending his afternoons sifting through his memories to catch every last ghost of his youth kept him somehow sane, even as it left him buried in notebooks, filling page after page with verse he could not see. Notebooks. That thought shook Henry out of his reverie. Of course. As he reached for his robe in the dark of his room, a crack of thunder rattled the house. Henry swore his sister’s laughter rose from out the garden to join it. ◊ The doctor’s examination room was shuttered and unlit. Henry, however, was used to negotiating the dark. He crossed the room in stocking feet and stopped at the edge of the desk. Soon his fingers found a drawer and, in it, Dr. Islington’s notebook. As Henry groped for a candle and then lit it, letting his eyes adjust to the flame, he remembered the doctor’s metamorphosis of the day before, the terrific sense of awe it had instilled in him. Then he flipped through the notebook until he found the Islington’s most recent entry: may 18, 1913 today, a break-through profound enough to make the philosophers proud! Our young man Henry has far surpassed anything of which we could have dreamed. but let’s not pervert Henry’s magnificent new state of being by speaking of it in terms of dreams as the quack Freud might. rather, Henry’s apparitions are of true mythopoeic significance. they are a new epistemology, an epiphany! this man, his sight denied him for so long, has leapt both forward and backward in psychic evolution, as befits the cyclical nature of our human consciousness. and even better: this evolution seems to be accelerating at an exponential rate, a feedback loop in which his visions feed on themselves. We must give eternal thanks to eleanor for volunteering him for the operation; finding the perfect candidate such as Henry—a man who had lost his biological sight yet retained the innate eye of a poet—was not easy, and Henry has been more than worth every penny we paid his sister. Here Henry stopped reading. Paid? Eleanor? She had told Henry that she’d depleted most of the family’s savings to pay for Dr. Islington’s operation. There had been no mention of her getting paid. Puzzled, he reached to turn to the next the page of the doctor’s notebook--but he stopped as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Before he could think of hiding, the door of the examination room opened. It was the doctor. “Henry? What are you doing in here, my boy?” Islington was wearing pajamas, and his thin hair was disheveled. Henry almost didn’t notice the pistol in his hand. “I think I’m the one who should be asking questions here, Doctor.” He held up the notebook. “What is this? What does this mean? Am I your patient or your, your guinea pig? What have you and my sister been keeping from me?” Islington lowered his pistol. “Henry,” he pleaded, “you misunderstand.” He crossed the room to where the younger man stood at the desk, his steps light and careful. “This has been the arrangement all along, see? You’re not simply regaining your sight. You’ve been given the truest sight of all, your birthright as a human being-the godlike perception that’s been clipped and corrupted by this sick and scientific world. 22 ISSUE 6

“We’re wielding science against itself, don’t you see? There are many of us, men of learning and wisdom, and we’ve put you on the path, we believe, to the ultimate vision, to bear witness to the ultimate metaphor.” He grabbed his notebook off his desk where Henry had been reading it. “But you must stay with me, Henry. You must tell me what you see. Before this is all over, you may very well gaze upon the face God, of Creation itself. You must tell us what form it takes. You must allow your poet’s mind, that delirious eye, to be our microscope aimed at the heart of the cardinal metaphor!” The doctor began waving his pistol in the air as his voice climbed in pitch and ardor. Henry froze. On impulse he glanced at the mirror across the room, the one the doctor had always failed to cover up. He saw with alarm that his eyes were, in fact, no longer dice. Instead they had become fireworks, kaleidoscopes, maypoles, merry-go-rounds, all at once, spinning and sparking and spitting more colors than he ever knew existed. Henry lunged across the desk and grabbed the pistol from the doctor’s hand. It turned to raw meat in his grasp, its wet weight flopping across his knuckles. Then he turned it around, found a trigger made of gristle, and pulled it. A putrid jet of jellylike lymph arced through the room, stinking and steaming in the air. As serpents and vapors spewed from the whirlpool that had once been the doctor’s head, Henry heard his sister’s scream come from outside, from the rain-swept garden. He walked through a giant mouth that had opened in the wall of the room, careful to avoid its dripping teeth, and went to find her. ◊ “Eleanor!” he yelled into the storm as he trudged through the lush muck of the garden. The soft patter of rain had picked up once more, and the wind blew black clouds across the faint rinse of sunrise on the horizon. He realized he still had the gun in his hand—only the meat had melted into the flesh of his hand, and his hand had in turn become the gun, his thumb the barrel, his bitten nails the bullets. Caught by the gale, the very substance of his new eyes streamed through the wet spring air in front of his face like egg whites in a pot of boiling water. Each of his eyes, he realized, could now see itself, and Henry felt proud at having achieved such an exquisite paradox. He could also see that his eyes had begun to change form every few seconds: now diamonds, now jellyfish, now testicles, now nebulae. In a spasm of inspiration, he severed the thin tethers that rooted them to his head; free at last, they hovered balloon-like above of him. So bemused, Henry at last saw Eleanor among the trees, naked and dancing with the animals as those haunted children had the day before. He reached out to her with his new hand, and it screamed at her. She fell. Ribbons of seaweed sprouted from her lips, and the mud of the garden sucked at her body like a mouth. Day broke. Henry looked down upon his sister, his new eyes bubbling high among the apple blossoms, and he saw that she was good. She was, in fact, no longer his betrayer, no longer sister, no longer little Eleanor—but a giantess throbbing with the probability of every woman, every human, that had been or could ever be. She was at once an octopus, a factory, a galaxy, and she raised her muddy, myriad arms in a sensuous spiral to him. Henry scooped a bed out of the wet soil of the garden and took this monster, this mother, and he joined her, as he only should in this world of cubes and colors, his new eyes smiling and crawling with larvae in the raw sugar sun. ISSUe 6 23

stale heat and old water we’re living the dream, salted and cured the treatments they cost, but the meat gets pure wet-felted hearts beat an itchy tempo the noise uncovered showing our terrors pushing them deeper inside where we dream of them every night there is no evidence we have no proof but the pulse and the sweat and the salt and the meat the fear is engaging it takes up our time it steals our thoughts and ruins our posture it takes up our breath and the sight and the day it takes up the night and it drives us away where would we be unsalted, uncured tenderness costs and there’s none in here BY MAlKAh dUpRIx

6/7: God Given Film/Music/ Comedy Festival 6/13: Ignite Denver 17 June-O-Ween 6/14: 5th Annual Brad James Memorial to benefit the Colorado Greyhound Rescue - feat. Mark Mallman and guests. Charity poker tournament, late night burlesque, + charity raffle. 6/19: Cyber-Seniors Film Screening BABYShoE pRESEnTS: KEATS//collEcTIvE BY SvnSET WAvES In an age of repetitive dance music, cliché lyrics and an overuse of autotune, Denver-based music collective Keats//Collective is a breath of fresh air. With releases from artists such as Saint Pepsi, Spazzkid and Flamingosis, the Keats sound is slowly taking control of electronic music. The collective is well recognizable for its disco and funk infl uenced music: the perfect soundscape to a night out on the town, a summer pool party, or a hike through the forest. Founded in Denver over a year ago, Keats has already gained recognition as one of the brightest new electronic labels. Featuring artists from all over the globe, Keats still maintains the homegrown feel with local artists like DINOSAURUS REX, KEV//BOT, CROWNS, PIER.POINT and ERNST JR. With a strong drive, an immense bundle of talent, and an amazing community, Keats// Collective is bound to change the face of electronic music for good. Check out KEATS//COLLECTIVE Volume 5, a compilation album featuring 28 artists including Vanilla, The Phantoms Revenge, and Handbook. If you’re lacking a summer road trip, this album will fi ll that void. www.keatscollective.bandcamp.com www.soundcloud.com/keats-collective 6/20: Hell’s Belles 6/21: Women: sexpot in the city comedy feat. Jake Weisman, Dave Ross, Allen Strickland Williams and Pat Bishop w/ host Jordan Doll 6/22: Kate LeRoux CD Release + Fundraiser 6/25: Jessica Lynn w/ Two Way Crossing 6/26: Fishtank Ensemble 6/27: Zepparella all-ladies Led Zeppelin tribute 6/28: Ethyl the Regulars 6/29: Panic After Party feat. Bloodkin 7/8: Poncho Sanchez 7/11: Vespyra CD Release show 8/15: The Baseball Project feat. Peter Buck + Mike Mills of R.E.M. 10/16: Shonen Knife 4335 W. 44TH AVE. DENVER, COLORADO 720-420-0030 THEORIENTALTHEATER.COM ISSUe 6 25

SUBJECT: MELANIE STEINWAY RESIDENCE: DENVER, CO HOMETOwN: BOULDER, CO MANNER OF ART: WOOD BURNING. PAINTING. DRAWING. SONGWRITING. PROBABLE CAUSE OF ART: (PrimarY): WOOD. INK. PIGMENT. GUITAR. (SeCOnDarY): WHATEVER IS AROUND. STYLE: CREATURES. HEART. RECKLESS ABANDONMENT. CASE FILE REFERENCE: www.melaniesteinway.com Artist Melanie Steinway realizes the only way she can live her life is by doing what she loves. She’s created a world of her own in Denver, complete with creatures, music, and a lot of heart. You moved to Denver six months ago. What does your life look like so far? I’m a really independent person and have a hard time working somewhere big where I’ve got a boss and a hierarchy and a food chain. I like working one-on-one with people and in smaller groups. It’s funny how my whole life has been 26 within a three-block radius of Larimer Street since I moved here. My friend Dan Garza contacted me needing extra help at A Small Print Shop so I’ve been silkscreening with them for the last two days. Urban Elements, the tattoo shop I’m apprenticing at is right down the street. I had a show at Creme and now I’m in here every morning. I’m just trying to have my artwork up on the walls somewhere at all times and get involved with my community. Have you always been a full-time artist? A month ago, I was working at a design studio and lost my job. I decided to go on a road trip by myself down to New Orleans. I remember lying awake in bed before I left, so scared. But I did it. I did 3,000 miles in eleven days by myself, couch surfing and staying with friends. Life was so simple. I realized I needed so little to feel fulfilled and came back to Denver with a new and open perspective. Your trip made you realize what mattered and what you should be doing. Yes! A lot of people spend their lives consumed by doing ISSUE 6 ARTopSY MElAnIE STEInWAY BY chRISTY ThAcKER

phoToS BY IAn GlASS things that they don’t want to do, almost as an excuse to not pursue their dreams because they’re scared they can’t do it or they’ll be let down. They prefer to leave it as this dream because in your head, the way you see it is perfect. But that’s all it will ever be. And that just creates this feedback loop of unhappiness and lack of fulfillment. What gives you fulfillment? My life really can’t exist without both music and art happening. They fulfill different things for me. Art is in my blood. I was born with it. And songwriting is something that I adapted and brought into my life because of my interest in it. My music and songwriting is much more personal than my art. My art comes from this almost instinctual, primal, animalistic place. I feel a lot of connection with animals and creatures and it’s a very meditative and subconscious process. Songwriting expresses my more conscious thoughts. I use songs as metaphors ISSUe 6 for things going through my head which doesn’t happen with my art. And that’s why wood burning musical instruments is the perfect medium for me. It’s the two things that mean the most to me combined. are you currently in a musical project? I’m the chief singer/songwriter and guitarist of Howl Moonshine Howl, an indie folkrock fourpiece. I started playing guitar when I was 16 and have been in bands all through college. I didn’t actually start songwriting until my sophomore year. Within a year of each other I started songwriting and wood burning. They’ve always been side-by-side with each other. How did you start wood burning? It’s funny because when I first wood-burned it wasn’t like looking into your true love’s eyes the first time you meet and realize that you’re meant for each other. I went to Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) and a girl in my class did a piece with a wood burning tool and I asked to borrow it. I did a piece and it turned out really well, but I dropped the medium for a year when I studied abroad in Rome. When I came back, my last year at RISD was basically me figuring out what works and what doesn’t with wood burning. And I think some of my first pieces were the best I’ve ever done. What creation are you most proud of? My art usually ends up going elsewhere and I never see it again. But it’s really cool coming across my stuff. The epitome of this was in October. A guy contacted me because his girlfriend’s birthday was coming up and he was building her a guitar from parts. He wanted to send me the body, have me burn it and send it back to him. At first I had no idea who he was. A lot of people commission me to do my wood burnings as gifts. But then I saw on the footer 27

of his email: Dan Mancini, Stage Manager of the Joy Formidable. The telecaster I ended up burning was for Ritzy, the singer. I couldn’t believe it. She ended up rocking it opening for Passion Pit at the Boulder Theatre. It made me cry. After a song she said, “Melanie Steinway, if you’re out there, thank you for the amazing guitar!” When did you realize that art was your gift and it would be such a prominent part of your life? I remember being four or five and drawing sea monsters and stuff. I’ve loved animals from day one. My dad’s house was up in the mountains, so I spent a lot of time tromping around and having really cool encounters with deer. I grew up having every animal at one point in time: dogs, cats, mice, hamsters, guinea pigs, rats, ferrets, maybe even a goldfish. And I would just draw all day, everyday. It feels very inherent and I can’t see my life without it. When did you realize that you wanted to explore tattooing? 28 I’ve been wanting to get into tattooing for the past two years and part of me was scared because I don’t look the part. I’m not covered in tattoos. But I’ve been doing tattoo designs for people for years. I thought I’m going to get rejected and I was a lot. I got tired of trying to approach shops. But Noel Edie, the owner of Urban Elements, saw my work and believed in me and that meant so much because I’ve never gotten that before. Tattooing is the most intimate form of art. I feel like a translator of sorts when I create an image for someone. The way that it interacts with the human body and the way that your piece lives and dies with the individual is really cool. is it similar to wood burning? With wood burning instruments, you’re drawing something very permanent on something very dear to someone, so it does feels like tattooing an inanimate object. But a tattoo machine is a lot heavier and vibrating while you’re using it. And your canvass, instead of being this flat, hard thing you can rotate around, is squishy and on someone who’s moving. You can’t really just walk into an art store and buy wood. How do you go about getting pieces? I get a lot of my wood from saw mills that my friends work at. Pine is the easiest for me to use, but I’ll take whatever. It’s fun because most of my canvasses just come and find me and each one is different and unique. My subject matter is often dictated by the wood and the grain and where the knots are. Your flexibility with mediums and material translates a sense of wonder and magic into your work. I want my art to make people believe in something that doesn’t exist in our world but it’s still there. Every creature that comes out of me, even though I don’t know its name or what it is, has a name and a personality and I see it living and breathing. They all exist up here (points to her head). Sometimes I like to think there’s this world where all the creatures I create are just hanging out and prancing around. And it feels that way for ISSUE 6

my songs too. Like every one of my songs is just a creature in a diff erent form. Each has its own personality and color and is very much alive. Do you have a special place that you create? The dining room area has always been my workplace. Someday I’m going to have a giant dining room table and a quarter of it will be my eating area and the rest will just be my art place. I love just spending a day off doing single-sitting pieces at my kitchen table. You seem to knock out pieces pretty fast. I don’t like to specify how much time it takes me to fi nish a piece because people think when you do something quickly it devalues it. But those people don’t take into consideration how long and how many hours of my life it took to get to the point where I can do something so easily and graceful, where I can deliver a product to you in an hour. ISSUe 6 What can you tell someone who is trying to live their dream as an artist? Utilize the internet! I’ve come across so many artists who don’t have a business card or don’t have a website. How do you expect people to see your work? I get business regularly off of Facebook or Tumblr or my site or Instagram. I’ve been commissioned by Fender for the past two years. I wood burn high-end U.S. made acoustics that they display and sell at the music convention NAMM that happens in Anaheim every January. And it sucks because I hate the internet and what social media has to done to our generation. Everybody’s comparing their insecurities to everyone’s projected success. But I use it. It’s the way people get business now. You can’t just say I’m just going to paint and then people are going to come fi nd me. No! You need to put yourself out there! What do you tell yourself when you’re feeling down or in a rut? I have daily reminders on my phone. One is “You’re here for a reason, now start acting like it.” Even though I can’t see the path or where it’s taking me, I’m sure as hell going to walk it. Check out Melanie’s work : June- The Laughing Goat in Boulder July 15- Matchbox on Larimer in Denver More info about Howl Moonshine Howl: facebook.com/HowlMoonshineHowl 29

ThIS AIn’T no coWToWn (A coloRAdo coMp), vol 6 BY ZETAKAYE hoUSE Here we are again, another year and another this ain’t no Cowtown Comp, and Colorado has the goods. With more than 150 tracks and over two hours of comedy submitted, Vol 6 showcases the best of local musicians and comedians. It’s been great to watch this scene for the last decade evolve into what it is today and an honor to be able to do these comps. Most importantly, it takes a lot of trust and courage for artists to blindly submit their work to a phantom internet weirdo with a strange name for a business. As in the past, the Cowtown Comp is a fundraiser for someone or something making an impact in our local scene. Vol 6 will support Seventh Circle Music Collective, formerly Blast-O-Mat. Manager Aaron 30 Saye is doing great things with this DIY venue. Seventh Circle Music Collective is an all-ages underground music hub in Denver. The space provides a centralized location for people to come together and be part of a community of great friendships, support, and music. Housing a band practice space, the spot is also used as a live performance room for musicians of all genres, complete with a record store that stocks music and merchandise from local, underground, and touring bands alike. With the help of other promoters, the venue advocates for new and underground bands to be elevated and given the opportunity to play larger venues in town once they’re ready. Seventh Circle survives off of donations given by people who come to enjoy music. The place is operated by a dedicated cadre of volunteers from every facet of the Denver music community. At the end of the day, it’s all about the music. No booze sales, no age restrictions, no genre boundaries, and no ticket sales. All donations help to bolster the space’s sustainability and keep touring bands on the road to the next city, and no donation goes unnoticed or unappreciated. For more info about Seventh Circle music Collective, to book a show, or to volunteer, contact aaron Saye at SCmCdenver@gmail.com Check out the calendar of events at: www.facebook. com/seventhcirclemusiccollective/events ISSUE 6

What to expect from This Ain’t No Cowtown (A Colorado Comp), Vol 6: MUSIC A.S. Leena Res - Harmony In Transition American Haiku - Shakey Ground Antirobot - This Place Is Dead Anyway Blind Man Deaf Boy - Ducks Fly Together Blood Lines - Digging Holes Cult of the Lost Cause - The Ballad of Imam Hussein Curta - Pledged The Dendrites - Sizzle Grizzle Drunken Arrows - Empathy Card Extra Kool - Cape & Cowl Featuring Esmé Patterson IWAKURA - North Jack’s Smirking Revenge - Insomniac Dreamers Jamie Mitchell - Hotel Room Jax Da Rapper - Chox-Mak Ft. DJ YRS Jerzy - Jax Da Ripper Khemmis - The Bereaved King Rat - EMT Little Fyodor and Babushka Band - Truly Rejected Man Can Do - Riverdale College Anthem MF Ruckus - Don’t Make Me Hurt You Miss America - Justice Muscle Beach - Shark22 Electric Bugaloo Rebel Steele - This Monster The Repercussions - Abandonment Rossonian - Love Clutch Rowboat - Disappearer 1 Shining Wires - Black Zin Space In Time - Lovely Lady Taverns - Anna’s Planet Thomas Chester Murray - Phosphors Thomas Hine - I Climbed the Mountain Ultra Sex Laser - Slaughterhouse Vatican Vamps - Little Samurai Vimana - Destroy Industry The Worth - 101 Stream/download: http://thisaintnocowtown.bandcamp.com/album/this-aint-nocowtown-a-colorado-comp-vol-6-music COMEDY Nathan Lund - The Bridge Beer & Banter Podcast - Worst Prank Call Captain Jsin - Stoner Man Hippie Man - San Antonio and other things Jeff M Albright - Hangovers From The Future Matt Monroe - A/S/L Nathan Lund - Soul Mates Roger Norquist - Thoughts I Have Part 1 Whiskey and Cigarettes Podcast - Mike Lawrence Clip ShaNae Ross - Denver Improv - Ladies Night Ultra Sex Laser - Fantasy Whiskey and Cigarettes Podcast - Sean Patton/Dan Soder Clip Stream/download: http://thisaintnocowtown.bandcamp.com/album/this-aint-nocowtown-a-colorado-comp-vol-6-comedy-nsfw Special Thanks: Released by John Baxter of ZetaKaye House Mastering- Dan Utter of What? Mastering Artwork- Jaremia Green (aka My Ever Grinding Mind) Download, listen to, and support the Colorado Comp: http://thisaintnocowtown.bandcamp.com/ https://www.facebook.com/thisaintnocowtowncolorado ISSUe 6 31

“Why don’t you ask your friend Tom” “Frankly Jim, it’s those ugly puncture holes.” “Aren’t you glad we disco Punct-o-fi ll™?” 32 ISSUE 6

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