ISSUE 125 | MAY 2024 URBAN OUTBREAK: JONNY DESTEFANO PROJECT ALICE: KRYSTI JOMÉI A-VIRUS DOGS: JULIANNA BECKERT PATROL THE WALL: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI BOLT-CUTTERS: CRISTIN COLVIN TWO-WAY RADIO: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH ESCAPE ROUTE: MEGAN ARENSON BEER RUN MACHETE: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN FRONT COVER: MOON_PATROL, HYPOTHETICAL MOVIE POSTER 4 BEST OF BIRDY ISSUE 115 BACK COVER: DAVE DANZARA, GASLIT - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS CAN OF SPAGHETTI: MOON_PATROL, JASON WHITE, ERIC JOYNER, NOAH VAN SCIVER, MICHAEL DAVID KING, NICK FLOOK, JOEL TAGERT, HANA ZITTEL, GRAHAM FRANCIOSE, MARIE CONIGLIARO, ELISE TRIVERS, GLENN ROSS, ZAC DUNN, TOM MURPHY, NATE BALDING, BRIANNA CORN, BRIAN POLK, PETER KORNOWSKI, DAVE DANZARA SKATEBOARD READY: TAYLOR D. SKOKAN, JUKKA NIEMINEN, NATHAN WAARD, KATE MAJOR, MONICA LLOYD, JESS GALLO, ATLAS MEDIA, ANASTASIA FIRSOVA, RAFAL KULIK, PAMELA EASTON, LAURA CELISE LIPPMAN, ARTHUR BALITSKIY BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + SINGLE & BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT US + HELP US GROW: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US/#ADVERTISE BIRDY IS BANANAS, UNDERWATER BATTLES MONTHLY ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, PRINT IS UNDEAD 1 SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, BENNY BLANCO'S, ASTRO TOURS, MONKEY BARREL, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, FRONTIÈRE NATURAL MEATS, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE ART BY JASON WHITE
ERIC JOYNER, TORTOISE AND HARE - ERICJOYNER.COM
BEST OF BIRDY 030
1 / 3 66 T O T O K YO BY TAYLOR D. SKOKAN Magda explained the movie plot, but I heard nothing as I stared at the fleshy spot where her nose used to be. She was still pretty, but there was no denying that the nose had improved things. I nodded along, wondering how I’d look without my nose. She leaned in, placing a cool hand on my knee. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, why?” “Is it that bad?” she asked. “What?” She covered the center of her face with a hand. “What? I hardly noticed.” “I’m going to have it fixed.” “It’s fine.” “Hopefully next year,” she said. “It’s just cosmetic, thankfully, but it’s awful.” A woman with half a face at the next table shifted in her seat and leaned into her beet salad. “Does it hurt?” “No. Not really. Just feels stuffy.” “That’s good.” We sipped at the last of our lattes in silence. “Are you sure you still want to go?” I asked. “There’s a good place just around the corner?” “No. Why?” “It’s just far.” “We might as well do it right. This is a big deal.” We walked the few blocks to the teleport, Magda’s sinuses making a throaty click as she breathed through her mouth. At the station, passengers spilled from the propped double doors and onto the sidewalk in mirrored, snaking queues. As we stepped into line, an attendant approached. “Traveled with us before?” he asked, extending a flyer filled with colorful graphs. “Yes, thank you,” I said, waving away the flyer. “And you, miss?” He looked up at Magda. “Oh, you must be a VIP with us.” “Yes,” she replied, growing flush. “Wonderful. Right this way to the VIP lounge.” He motioned to another entrance, its doors closed and smoked an obsidian black. “We’re together,” Magda said. “Then I guess it’s your lucky day,” the man said to me with a smile, peeling two “VIP” stickers from a roll. “Please.” We made our way to the VIP entrance, stepping over familiar flyers offering assistance in Understanding Your Personal Risk Assessment and slowing behind a man with a cane who had been peeled from the queue by a smiling attendant moments before. Inside, we were greeted with a tray of disposable, plastic champagne flutes filled with a flat, pale liquid. The hobbled man balanced his cane beneath one arm and took a cup, which lifted from its sticky tray with a quiet snap, like the click from Magda’s shuttered nasal passages. “Welcome home, VIP,” the signage read, in a tasteful, curling font. An attendant approached with an armful of tablets. “Welcome,” she said with a perfected warmth. “Traveling together?” “We are,” I said, gesturing to Magda, whose eyes wandered nervously. “Wonderful. Right this way.” She led us through rows of bodybleached lounge chairs. “And where are you ladies headed today?” Magda, head tilted downward, appeared not to hear. “Tokyo 449,” I said. The attendant gasped. “So jealous. Special occasion?” Magda remained silent. “It’s my birthday,” I said, sheepishly. “Ah! Happy birthday!” Arriving at two empty seats, the attendant No. 125
gave us each a tablet. “Just let me know if you need anything. Have fun.” As we clicked and signed our way through unread liability waivers, I glanced up from my tablet and looked out on what seemed an assembly line of unfinished bodies. A man folded a truncated shin beneath his seat. Another wore a camel overcoat draped over his shoulders, one flattened arm betraying a vacant sleeve. Magda buried her face in her tablet and shrunk into her seat, like so many other feature-sparse patrons. Screens scattered about the room played a looping feed of statistics superimposed on images of joyous travelers and reunited families. “Did you know: teleportation is safer than traveling by automobile?” one slide read. The fine print highlighted that actual safety ratings vary by region, and averages were based on the most recent data available from Northern Hemisphere mass travel hubs. “The world. Now,” declared another slide, over a montage of beautiful landscapes and swelling music, which tinnily strained through the television speakers. “So jealous. Special occasion?” I overhead the attendant gasp, as she led another passenger down the aisle. “449, right?” Magda asked, bringing my attention back to the tablet. “Yeah.” I flipped through the last of the waivers, uploaded my biometrics, and input my travel destination. After a moment of buffering, the tablet revealed a personal risk assessment. “Exceedingly safe!” the summary began in a bold, green banner. “We’ve found the safest route to your destination. You’re in great hands!” I quickly scrolled past graphs and equations to the bottom of the page. “The probability of anomalous entanglement between your selected destinations is 1/366 per 1000 miles. Your risk score is 98.” “What was your risk score?” I asked. “Like 96 or something.” Magda shrugged. “We don’t have to go, you know.” “And what? We’re just gonna get sushi here? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re already here.” I sat for a moment, staring at the equations. “So? Are we doing this or what?” she asked. “Okay.” “We’re more likely to die driving around the block. Relax. Besides, I already had my bad trip. What are the chances it happens again?” she laughed. Three attendants approached, one carrying a gift bag. “Magda Jensen?” she asked. Magda lowered her tablet. “Just a little thank you for traveling 50,000 miles with us this year.” “Thanks,” Magda said, taking the bag. She reached in, retrieving a pair of branded socks and a gilded water bottle as the attendants quietly applauded. Some of the passengers gave polite nods. One man raised his own matching water bottle in a trembling hand, sloshing water onto the floor and offering a shy smile, before turning his gaze to the small puddle he had formed. At the end of the hall, the terminal door opened. A man peered through and beckoned an attendant. They whispered for a moment before the man exited. The attendant straightened her skirt, adjusted her jaw, and smiled. “My apologies, everyone,” she said. “I’ve just been informed that there’s a bit of a backlog. But we’ll have you all on your way as soon as possible.” We sat and watched the perfect faces and happy travelers on the television screens in silence. A half hour later, after another brief congress at the terminal door, an attendant approached. “So sorry for the delay,” she said. “You can come back now.” We collected our items and followed. “I can hold that for you until your return,” she said, gesturing to Magda’s gift bag. Entering through the departures door and into the terminal, I was struck by the smell of cleaning supplies. “All the way down, please,” the attendant directed, and we made our way down the empty hallway. At the far end, we were received by another attendant. “Hi, how are we today?” She spoke with rushed, quiet breaths, as though struggling to raise her voice. She waited for no response before opening a door and quickly ushering us through. She walked fast. We pursued past a row of telepods, looking like oversized water heaters. “This might take some time,” said an echoing voice as we approached a pod surrounded by wet floor signs. “I’ve never seen one this bad— ” the voice cut short as a man in plastic coveralls and a respirator hoisted himself out of the tank. “Oh. Anyway,” he continued, “we can chat about it later.” He turned his attention to us. “And where are you ladies heading today?” he asked. “Tokyo,” Magda said, staring at her phone. The man gasped. “So jealous! Special occasion?” A viscous liquid dripped from a spout at the bottom of the pod. I looked to our attendant. “Maintenance.” she said. 7
No. 125
JONNY DESTEFANO & MICHAEL DAVID KING 9 BEST OF BIRDY 011
BOOJI BOY W/ DEVO'S FIRST 7" VINYL SINGLE, PHOTO FROM MARK MOTHERSBAUGH: MYOPIA
Poster available at birdymagazine.com/shop BY JAMES HATTAWAY, JONNY DESTEFANO, MICHAEL DAVID KING - BEST OF BIRDY 003
NICK FLOOK, THE NEXT STEP - @FLOOKO
BY JOEL TAGERT A horn sounded in the woods to the south and all heads turned toward it. Sunita saw the fae around her unconsciously quicken at the sound, twitching ears tufting with fur, faces lengthening, bodies hunching as though about to spring away on four legs. “The king’s horn,” Harald whispered. The horn sounded again, and now along with it they heard the baying of the hounds. “The Wild Hunt!” Sunita exclaimed. “Harald, close the gate! Jun, ring the bell! Danah, get everyone to their hiding places. Hurry!” They ran from Sunita’s house and she turned to the young man who had unintentionally gathered them there in the first place. “Are they here for you, Witt?” she asked. “Could they know you’re here?” “I don’t think so,” the teenager said. “Did you tell anyone where you were going? Anyone at all?” “No! Or I mean, only Gerta. But she would never tell, never.” He flinched at the look of dismay on the village doctor’s face. Whoever Gerta was, she was likely tortured or dead, but now was not the time for reproach. “Run to the river,” Sunita said. “Take one of the boats there and row downstream as fast as you can. I’ll try to slow them down.” “But …” The boy’s face was anguished. “Are you really from Earth?” Sunita paused, heart cracking. “Yes, I’m from Earth.” “Then how … how did you get to Faerie?” She exhaled sharply. They didn’t have time for this, but it was clear the boy wouldn’t leave until she answered. “One day I was working in the mountains and I saw a door. I went through it. That’s all. I don’t know why it opened for me, and I have no idea how to open it again. All right? You’ll have to find your own way.” He nodded, clearly disappointed but not surprised. Traveling between worlds wasn’t likely to be like stopping off at the tailor. “I just thought maybe …” “No more talk,” Sunita said firmly. “Head to the river and try not to let anyone see you. When you get to Garmund, ask for Alicia at the Five Candles. She’ll help you. Now go!” And he went. She listened, hearing the hounds at the gate. Good: that meant they had managed to close it in time. Someone yelled a demand, presumably that it be opened, but if there were no one manning it, there would be no one to open it. On the other hand, an unmanned gate wouldn’t hold the Hunt for long. Even now its hounds would have taken humanform to scramble over the top, racing to see who could open it first. Sunita might have thirty seconds. It would have been perfectly reasonable to give up the boy and leave the village in peace. Less bloody that way, and none of her friends killed. On the other hand, the boy said he had proof that the king was not himself at all, but an impostor, a shapeshifting fox. If he could get that proof to Alicia, there was a chance they could finally make an end to the Sun King and his reign of blood. In any case Krynos the Conquerer needed no fleeing accuser as reason to call the Wild Hunt: he and his minions rode and killed every full moon for sport regardless, and the people hid in their cellars in terror. She didn’t let herself think about what she was doing. There wasn’t time. She’d lived long and knew she had to act when and where she could. Quickly she ran to her chest and retrieved what she needed. Then she went up the stairs, onto the second floor out to the little wooden balcony. It was near sunset and the sky was full of magenta. She looked out at the village and was filled with a last bittersweet admiration for her home. It was so green! Not for the forest fae the filthy streets and dust of the cities. Their homes were green with vines and the footpaths wound around great mossy trunks. The hounds came first, trained from birth for the hunt. Their tracking ability was legendary, and unlike hounds on Earth, being fae, they could report their findings directly to their master the king, who followed taut upon their heels. In his man-form Krynos was a large and enormously strong man of middle years, with long blond hair and beard. But in his quickened form he was terrifying: a half-man, half-lion fully seven feet tall, with claws to slice bone and jaws to crush stone. In addition to these natural armaments he swung a five-foot broadsword in one massive paw, and except for a helmet (he refused to wear one out of vanity), he wore the finest steel armor enameled with the golden sun emblem of his house. He rode an enormous white destrier that rumor claimed had had its tongue cut out to prevent it telling tales of its master. This did nothing to curb the stallion’s bloodthirstiness, for the horse, whose name was Ruin, lived for battle above all else and loved the feel of armor on his sides and bodies beneath his hooves. Accompanying Krynos upon their own steeds were his favorites from the court: his cousins Theron and Leander, the wolf emissary Hrafngar, the vampire Ghoc, and seven more just as vicious, all of them carnifex, predator-fae, twelve riders in all, their mounts’ hooves drumming on the turf. Sunita knelt and aimed. Guns didn’t work in Faerie; the gunpowder simply wouldn’t ignite. But when she’d encountered that door in the mountains, she hadn’t been hunting, but rather assisting a wildlife biologist in her study of bear populations. The dart gun, fortunately, worked on compressed air. Her aim had always been good. With no helmet, the dart struck his cheek and he brushed it away, then looked downward at it, then up to her balcony. With no warning he leapt off his destrier and with heartstopping speed sprinted toward her balcony. The tranquilizer took a minute or five to work, of course it did. She turned to flee, but the lion-king’s blade swept through the floor, through the wooden rail, and completely through both her legs, a noise and impact like a great wave throwing her to the ground. Sunita spun wildly in the air and fell, landing hard on her temple on the wet turf (it had been raining earlier). It was then, lying in the dirt, she saw the doorway. The hounds came to sniff and to rend her flesh, but even this did not alter her unblinking stare, her eternal fixation. Ancient stone steps led the way up the ferny hill. Its frame was filled with brilliant blue, the sky or ocean of another world, another life. Exhaling, she crossed the threshold. 13
By Hana Zittel Through the Night Like a Snake: Latin American Horror Stories (2024) Two Lines Press, of the Center for the Art of Translation, continually seeks out spectacular literary voices, publishing works of translation and exposing English language readers to authors from around the world. In 2020, Two Line Press began their Calico Series, a biannual release celebrating works in translation centered around themes and regions. Thus far, they have compiled dynamic collections of “queer Brazilian literature, Chinese speculative fiction, Arabic poetry about the home and family, and the first collection of Swahili literature published in the United States,” among others. The ninth and latest collection highlights the unique and haunting horror stories by a chorus of 10 spectacular Latin American authors writing in the genre. In Soroche by Mónica Ojeda, a girls’ trip goes awry as one of the women’s disturbing, humiliating sex tape dominates the group’s thoughts. In Mariana Enríquez’s That Summer in The Dark, two young girls have become obsessed with reading and fantasizing about American serial killers in 1989’s Argentina, where rolling blackouts leave the city hot and frightening. Soon, they find that true darkness was closer than they imagined. In one of the strangest pieces, The Visitor by Julián Isaza, a tiny creature, seemingly from outer space and with a remarkable resemblance to Kermit the Frog, is taken in by an older woman and kept alive, through what she assumes is his feeding on her energy, where he grows stronger and stronger. An exciting addition to the Calico Series, Through the Night Like a Snake is an excellently compiled work truly achieving the goal of turning the spotlight on these authors and translators. The next collection, Cigarettes Until Tomorrow: Romanian Poetry is expected in September 2024. Tender by Beth Hetland (2024) In Beth Hetland’s debut graphic novel, she creates a twisted version of a Sex and the City style, single woman looking to “have it all.” Carolann is desperately looking for love, marriage, a baby, everything she sees her friends and coworkers gloat about on Instagram. Spending her evenings manifesting her future with obsessive marital collages featuring her cubicle neighbor at work, she eventually runs into him on a rainy evening in the elevator. He has an umbrella, she doesn’t, and their meeting leads to the beginnings of Carolann’s dream relationship. Her obsession with getting married causes stress in the relationship, stress that starts to drive a wedge between the two, but also marks the beginning of Carolann’s escalated selfharm. Anxiety and mental illness that was previously limited to nail-biting and cuticle skin nibbling intensifies to hair removal and fantasies of darker body mutilation. Despite the turmoil, her dreams come true and she is married with a baby on the way, eagerly posting life accomplishments on social media. When the baby is stillborn, Carolann’s controlling behavior and mutilation grow horrifyingly dark, driving her to total collapse. Tender is a gruesome horror story, but one steeped in the destructive nature of control, debilitating obsession with self-image, and the fragile brink of mental wellbeing. Beth Hetland’s use of color in vivid splashes elevates the gore, with sudden panels of nauseating scenes of mutilation woven between the more mundane coloring used where Carolann works to assimilate with her version of an ideal life. Skill in cinematic storytelling and descriptive art make Tender a grisly story rooted in reality and an exciting debut. No. 125
GRAHAM FRANCIOSE, QUIET PLEASE
MARIE CONIGLIARO, SPIN
HIS PANTS ARE THE LEAST OF HIS PROBLEMS BY NATHAN WAARD ART BY JUKKA NIEMINEN The irritating little bell went off again on Jerrick Blade’s watch. He jabbed at the screen without looking, even though he knew it would force him to hear the message before shutting off. “Warning, Jerrick Blade: Your Levi Supreme 101s will expire in a maximum of 80 thousand cycles. Please deposit the minimal credits required to remain clothed.” Stank, Blade thought angrily to himself. Fructose, he cursed silently. He nearly shouted it aloud, but the FreedomBots would have scanned it and fined him a couple hundred credits he could ill afford at this moment. Even so, as he twitched through the cross-crossing crowd going with and against several currents in the direction of Legion 86 — in spite of the cobalt gray sky, slashing rain and Atari neon — the dombots appeared to turn their heads and watch him fight to the other side of the eight-way intersection before the autobots resumed their timed flow. When he reached the plaza, he was running again. If he didn’t get to a No. 125 terminal, if he didn’t rez in, if he couldn’t clock Gizmo … a lot more than his jeans was going to expire. “Attention, Jerrick Blade: Your Levi Supreme 101s will decompose if you do not deposit the minimal credits required. Please look into it.” “Ahhh, fruc you!” he yelled at the watch, dashing across the plaza, wildly scanning for a termjack. In his periphery, two dombots furiously buzzed toward him, one from the right and one from the left. They hovered just in front of him, blocking his path. Dombot 1 blinked its LED eyes sternly, its aging props flying it in a bit of a drunken list. “Jerrick Blade. Warning, you were detected using Category 3 language in a Category 2 space,” the dombot explained. “Jerrick Blade. We hereby fine you 250 credits,” Dombot 2 told him, scowling brightly. One of its rotors was sparking festively. “Come on,” said Blade, waving his arms at the flying bots and trying to duck out of their way at the same time. They instantly, if somewhat
clumsily, lifted beyond his reach. “Jerrick Blade,” number one continued, “Your pants have an alert. They require credits or you will become unclothed.” “Jerrick Blade— ” number two jumped in, as Jerrick tried to sidestep the bots. “Come on, get out of here you stupid dombots!” “— and you will then be in violation of Statute 403 dot 14. Do you wish to prepay your fine?” Dombot 2 was jabbing at Jerrick’s shoulders with its old Graptor appendage which no longer had its foamgrip. “Stop, hey, ouch, quit it,” Jerrick yelled. “You’re poking me!” “Better learn to like it, meatsack,” the dombot taunted. “Okay, TLC699, that’s enough. Back to your station,” the first dombot barked at the second, sounding annoyed. They hummed off, high and away into the rain. Jerrick pressed on across the plaza, glimpsing a possible termjack in the distance. His watch dinged again. “Jerrick Blade. Your account has been charged a fine for violating Statute 403 dot 14. Have a nice day!” He gritted his teeth and screamed inwardly. Outwardly, he picked up his pace. Several cockhawks were closing on his position. He could feel his jeans loosening. “No, no, no thanks,” Blade called loudly, waving his arms in front of himself and moving even faster as the hawks stuck big waving cyberdildos in his face, offering to perform the implantation for free. The fracas attracted more FreedomBots, but this time Jerrick got away. He reached the edge of the consumer district bazaar sprouting in the shadow of the Legion 86 arkhood. There was a short row of termjacks at the edge. Jerrick recognized the tout at the jack on the far left. And he recognized Jerrick. “Jerrick Blade,” called Enzo Striker. “Coming in for a term?” Jerrick waved and grimaced and moved in Enzo’s direction, then stopped. Enzo watched. “Jerrick Blade. Your Levi Supreme 101s have expired. Please purchase a new garment,” advised his watch. He frowned, then looked at his legs. They had just now become enveloped in a fine gray mist which soon dissolved into the air like a fart in the wind. Jerrick’s Atari-style Speedo left nothing to the imagination. “You better get in here quick, brom!” Enzo waved frantically and Jerrick bolted for the door of the termjack. Enzo held it open, waving his arms as he watched the sky, his eyes widening. Jerrick threw himself inside and the door clanged shut behind him. He heard at least one dombot smash itself against the reinforced metal on the outside. Watching him from behind a plexy-resin security screen, an immense woman, in a gorgeous flowing purple and gold neon LED sari, examined him. “You will need to purchase a lower body garment before admission,” she told Jerrick with practiced boredom. “The machine’s there,” she added, indicating an older model Fabrikaty on the opposite wall of the lobby. He stepped up to it. “Jerrick Blade. You cannot afford pants. Would you like to rent a pair of shorts on credit?” Jerrick Blade did. The machine vended same. He slipped them on over his neon thong. And he entered the termjack. 19
MEET MEOW WOLF DENVER'S FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD MONSTER MAKER! BY ELISE TRIVERS Kate Major is the brilliant mind behind the otherworldly characters that roam Convergence and bring a memorable layer to the world-building within Meow Wolf Denver’s walls. A traveler might get business advice from Sleevie Nicks, pay rent to Gil Umbo, have a dance-off with Fluffy, or ring in Acana with an Eemian. We’ve heard over and over again that these moments are treasured by our travelers, so we sat down with Kate to learn more about her creative process, sustainability practices, and why she feels so lucky to do what she does. THE KATE MAJOR WAY “I just made it up,” Kate responded to being asked about a certain costuming technique. And that’s exactly in line with what we know about Kate. Though she certainly has the extensive resume and technical skills to accomplish any creative endeavor, where she really shines at Meow Wolf is her experimental approach that’s entwined with curiosity, out-of-the-box thinking, and a “roll up your sleeves and get dirty” attitude. Kate is the ultimate collaborator, working with various teams like Narrative, Ops, Events, Marketing, Exhibits, and Retail. She has a unique sparkle that she brings to every conversation, lighting up when she speaks about what she’s working on or dreaming up next. Her enthusiasm is endearingly punctuated by the fiercest fingernails, gesturing with conversation-stopper fangs — we’ve seen actual mini bones on them! Any chance to work with Kate on a project is a chance to see a true maker at work, her human form bursting with wild ideas and creative energy. Because Kate is creating brand new creatures birthed from the lore of Convergence Station, her work goes far beyond their textile attire. She’s crafting Mollusko heads cradled by tentacles, rat kings made entirely out of tails, and bulbous-headed aliens with tactile-compelling bodies. These beings are sculpted and molded into life with techniques that rarely involve sewing. One of Kate’s favorite materials to work with is liquid latex: “It’s a really interesting material because it’s like what rubber Halloween masks are made of, and once it dries, it’s super durable. So I really like to sculpt things out of tinfoil or paper or whatever, and then cover them with latex to get weird shapes — which is very not a costuming thing to do.” “I always have a plan but you really have to get your hands dirty, or at least I before I know how it’s going to play out. Because liquid latex, once it dries an gets on a fiber, it’s in there. There’s nothing that’s going to get it out. No amou soap and water, no amount of washing and drying. I’ve covered myself and some favorite pieces of clothing with liquid latex.” She also shared about Fosshape, a material that looks like felt and can be sewed like felt, but then hardens up once heat is applied to it. You can see both Fosshape and liquid latex in use next time you have a close-up encounter with Gil Umbo outside of The Gyre. TRASH TO TREASURE Kate frequently incorporates more consumer-familiar materials into her work as part of her sustainability values. While this practice originally stemmed from being a “super broke artist,” it’s now central to her inspiration process and material sourcing. “I love our sustainability practices and I try really hard to incorporate them in everything I do. Not THIS FEATURE WAS PRODUCED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH FLUFFY BY KATE INSIDE MEOW WOLF DENVER. PHOTO BY GLENN ROSS. TENTACLES CREATED BY KATE AT HER HOME STUDIO. PHOTO COURTESY OF THE ARTIST. FELT FACE MASK CREATED BY KATE AT HER HOME STUDIO. PHOTO COURTESY OF THE ARTIST.
only because it’s sustainable, but because there’s so much inspiration in seeing a pile of sleeves and being like, ‘That could be something.’” Every scrap of fabric or piece of packaging has a chance at a second life with her, a chance to bring a bit of magic into the world in a way that’s refreshing and delightful. She lovingly stores these snippets until they can make their debut, which these days, is often at a Meow Wolf Makers event. MEOW WOLF MAKERS This new workshop series was dreamt up in Denver as a way to connect people with their inner artist, giving them both guidance and free rein to create in an intimate, communal setting. Past workshops have crafted shoe charms, wings, masks, holiday garlands, foam wigs, and even an open craft evening where participants could create with whatever inspiration struck them. Kate shared that 90 percent of the materials provided at these workshops as supplies are trash or scrap materials from Meow Wolf exhibits, diverting hundreds of pounds of waste from landfills. At these workshops, while participants are encouraged to go big and think outside of the box with their creations, Kate is never far away to offer positive feedback or troubleshoot something tricky with you. She’s attentive and encouraging, creating a safe space for artistic expression that transforms scraps into something truly special. TRASHION SHOW In addition to launching a new makers series, Kate Major was the mastermind behind Meow Wolf’s inaugural onsite fashion show: Absolute Rubbish. She put out a call to local designers to submit their concepts for runway looks made from repurposed trash and recycled materials: the show was a dazzling success, with 20 pieces of sustainable couture strutting down a runway that was more party than proper. The vibes were vivacious and the energy was sparkling; the audience adorned in their own vibrant fits. Kate brought her runway vision back to life on April 30th with Absolute Rubbish: Bloom, a spring edition inspired by themes of rebirth and rejuvenation with 22 participating designers. EARLY DAYS AS A CREATOR Kate’s earliest creations also came out of “repurposed materials,” like her family’s bedding. “To my mom’s chagrin, I would cut up bed sheets and make outfits. I started sewing very early — my grandma and my mom taught me because I wanted to make my own clothes. I also really liked to make stuffed animals when I was little. When I figured out that you could do that, it was over. We had this dresser in the kitchen that had all the craft supplies in it and that’s where I hung out. I was crafting with pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks and glitter and paint and clay and Play-Doh and all that stuff.” These days, Kate’s crafting zone has expanded from just a kitchen dresser, but still has cozy touches that feel homey to her. Citing her aforementioned clothes-ruining materials, she shared that she often works in pajamas, rather than wearing anything nicer in her home studio. Her creative practice also includes lighting a lavender candle, preparing some tea, and putting lo-fi tunes on her headphones. It’s a dream to now have Kate Major creating for Meow Wolf and luckily for us, she feels the same way. “Working for Meow Wolf has become so important to me and my art practice. I’ve always been doing art on some level, but I think since I started working here, I’ve really come into my own as to what my art is. I feel like there is a huge amount of freedom to express that, because Meow Wolf exists. I feel so supported and like all ideas are valid, and that’s such an important thing.” FOLLOW KATE’S WORK & SEE HIGHLIGHTS OF APRIL’S ABSOLUTE RUBBISH: BLOOM SHOW ON HER INSTAGRAM: @ATIGHTSHIP; & ON MEOW WOLF DENVER’S: @CONVERGENCESTATION. A MODEL AT KATE'S TRASHION SHOW, ABSOLUTE RUBBISH. PHOTO BY MONICA LLOYD. WANDERING CHARACTER BY KATE AT MEOW WOLF DENVER. PHOTO BY JESS GALLO, ATLAS MEDIA. KATE MAJOR AT ABSOLUTE RUBBISH. PHOTO BY MONICA LLOYD. SEE KATE’S MONSTERS & MORE AT CONVERGENCE STATION IN DENVER, CO: MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT/DENVER. CHECK OUT MEOW WOLF'S OTHER PORTALS NEAR YOU: SANTA FE, NM; LAS VEGAS, NV; GRAPEVINE, TX; AND COMING SOON: HOUSTON, TX! - MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT
Bully Bunnies In the fallow plane Burrowing deeper And braver than they knew They could ever go The conflagration of opinion was a Stark beginning to Upend and win the crux of the spin As they take busy steps on Feet that are never Cleaner or meaner Pitchforking the bundles As hurdles in burrows Itch The Hawk And The Coney The Coney Trilogy (Choerogyllius) by Zac Dunn Robust Darker Taller Hip hopping across the flat fields Furrowed and turned but rallied by The barking that calls and crawls up the walls As the wee ones dream of carrots And sunshine, so sublime The hive mind connects to predators And foes that the fear only knows And grows slow like the GARLIC and sweet ONION bulbs Gently lulling them all back to rest as the mites try To snack upon their brisk pumping chests … (5:11 a.m. | 2.18.24) No. 125 The firm earth walls of the tiny hole Had grown much too cold and droll To hold back the peeping mouths Waking from Winter’s slumber Down under the mighty Hemlock’s Bows proudly they had avowed To hold the watch over the cold winter Lock that would put them in With kind and kin Only to nibble and dream of the Sun and seeds that would Litter the surface so moist and full of life But as the sun began to wiggle the roots Awake around the holler The delicate scrapes would be made at midday when the SUN was too high to hide what bounty lay Await as the day would only be swallowed By the moon whole At first, the field appeared quite desolate The CONEY pulled itself up and snapped its eyes So as to survey and plot the most vital and precarious First foray back into the frey But not for the first of last they bounded forward to Thump off the rot of sleep and old nuts that tasted of Earth and wood Today the tufts brought back would be the breakfast The champions they had sired ART BY ANASTASIA FIRSOVA
and guided in the maze Of grass and dirt only to skirt certain peril From many foes that the nose only knows Upwind they would usually be very Easy to smell before hearing the Raucous clashing of the motor to metal to meat Then the cursed CANINE fiends would charge Huffing and puffing as the trolls Make thunder clap snaps that tapped the dirt but Occasionally would cause a dear friend or acquaintance to Simply POP and STOP in place to only die as we run and Find our hiding places But this all pales in comparison for the commodore of the context Who never seems to sleep and loves to eat us the most They have a special way of knowing we know to move Like a hive mind, we try to move in symphony But simply seem to be here on this field Both hungry for something we can see and feel Something we can almost touch but never hold on to As we run faster to find it Fly higher and quieter looming as we swoon for the bit Of toast we most need to feed the tiny ones Who need us too But always we know as they circle the space we share They seem to know who isn’t well or who can tell They are more scared and zag left rather than zig right In pure impulse only to feel the embrace of the Wind as it begins to descend so ominous Like a blanket of onyx upon a grease fire The moment is suspended as we glance a fleeting Glimpse of a wing and a KLAW so regal The talons sparkle with joy as the rays of the sun bounce back Upon the gust of wind pushing back up GLEN’S eyes open wide looking back down at us as though to say Goodbye but at least they tried and we did too But they were quicker and so is the way The hole that we call home shall not be our grave For we shall die on the field of battle or flying towards the heavens Only to blink and kiss the sky (7:59 a.m. | 12.11.23) Summa facta incipit a minimis gradibus (The greatest of feats begins with the smallest of steps) FOLLOW FOR MORE WORK — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @WTFCRAIGSLISTNYC ART BY RAFAL KULIK
BY TOM MURPHY ABSYNTH MINDED – S/T On the surface this debut full-length from Absynth Minded is a surprisingly effective amalgam of ska, doom and thrash. And with Keith Sanchez on vocals and guitar, and Leonard Leal on bass and backing vocals, the pedigree is there for those who might be more familiar with their past and current membership in, among other acts, Black Lamb, Catheter, Cephalic Carnage and Last Reel Hero. While the masterful musicianship one would expect is certainly a key feature of the songwriting, what is even more striking is while there is an element of humor in the lyrics and name of the band, this album is at its core a kind of subversive art rock in the lineage of Frank Zappa. Because of that the unlikely and eclectic fusion of styles works with a mix and mastering that makes all the elements shine. JOHNATHAN MASKE – THE DOWN VALLEY Only Johnathan Maske can know about the creative paths he’s taken to crafting the songs that make up this album. But the musician and songwriter has been in bands like Two Strikes, Rebel Steele and The Get Together and these songs are miles different from any of that. It sounds like he went on a sabbatical from his regular job and sequestered himself in a remote locale with only a crate of records including the 1968 The Soft Machine album, choice sides from T. Rex, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Fairport Convention, Dylan, Leo Kottke and some of the better modern indie psychedelic music. There is a deeply contemplative tenor to Maske’s words and the production on the music lends it a reflectively existential quality that can come off as nostalgic navel gazing. But really it’s the sound of someone trying to make sense of how complicated life can be, keenly aware that if we don’t take many moments away from the myriad demands on our attention and psyche to sort through things and re-attune ourselves to what really matters now, then we can get lost in the flood of distractions offered and pushed upon us daily. Maske may not even have been alive in the 70s, but this album seems informed by the more ambitious popular music of that decade. LUNAR TUNES – PIECES OF ADVICE Skyfloor and Felix Fast4ward have joined their complementary production, songwriting skills and musicianship in the past, but for this collaborative EP they go by the name Lunar Tunes. As the cover art might suggest these songs sound like they come from a brighter and gentler future we might all wish to inhabit now. The free association of organic textures and rhythms, the upbeat melodies, the soothing vocals delivering benevolent words of gentle warning and encouragement, the touch of cassette culture, lo-fi pop aesthetic and glitchy IDM lend every song a quality that feels spontaneous and intimate. Like something you’d expect from an impossible collaboration between early chillwave artists, Aphex Twin and Microphones. Think synth pop made through the lens of underground hip-hop to craft these tranquil yet uplifting half dozen songs. MOON PUSSY – DEATH IS COMING Maybe no recording could quite capture the raw power of Moon Pussy as a live band, especially coupled with its surreal sense of humor and the ferocious energy with every song. But this latest record released via The Ghost is Clear Records is the closest they have come yet to putting onto a record the confrontational spirit, the angular and warping rhythms, the heady momentum, thrillingly jarring dynamics and caustic tones that has helped make them one of the most consistently exciting bands in not just the Denver world of noise rock, but internationally. Across the 13 tracks the trio offers many of their most recognizable live songs unleashed since the release of their 2020 self-titled album like the menacing “Reek,” the playfully demented “Panty Hawk,” and the hypno-industrial stylings of “Rats.” It is pure mayhem beginning to end but tempered with a playful spirit that fans of Shellac, The Jesus Lizard and Mclusky will appreciate. No. 125
It’s 3:10 p.m. British Summer Time on September 8, 2022 and her exaltedness, Matriarch of the Reptilian Replacement Race from Space, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is pronounced dead. Ireland has lost their favorite enemy. The actors who played the gang of punk rockers in John Goodman’s 1991 classic, King Ralph, now pensioners, recommit to their characters and mourn a royal death once again. And Canadians, in their benign melancholy, dedicate every other bite of poutine to her memory, chewing solemnly through their grief. Twenty dollar notes are said to weep value one loonie at a time until they bear the $10 purpled visage of John A. Macdonald, the country’s first prime minister, and — get this — the guy who started the residential school programs that murdered all those First Nations’ children, making this the most reviled denomination in all of Canadian currency. Yes, the Queen Mother has left her maple-flavored subjects behind. Or has she? At the furthest point from Buckingham Palace, on Victoria Island, British Columbia, in the words of Master Yoda: There is another. The self-proclaimed TRUE Queen of Canada — Romana Didulo. Perhaps you’ve never heard of Romana Didulo, the woman replacing the crown with a bedazzled toque. Neither have most of the people she asserts sovereignty over, a fairly glaring issue when it comes to administering national decree. But Didulo is a woman born of give’r and obscurity is merely a shadow she must dispel with the glorious light granted her by both birthright and intergalactic entities. Born in 1974, she was an emigre and orphan from the Philippines raised by her grandparents in Vancouver, BC. Her childhood was, No. 125 evidently, unremarkable. History has no account of it. And it would be fucking weird if there were. We can assume it bore the usual trappings of a Canadian upbringing: skating, trapping, whittling canoes, sharing a night of untold passions while tripping balls with Sasquatch. Watching Degrassi. Crushing on Drake. The usual. And then it came time to put away childish things and fulfill the first part of her quest for the throne. Now relocated into a roommate situation on Victoria Island, she was doing her best daytime Dolly from 9 to 5. All the while spending her nights metamorphosed into her best Fox Mulder, she would secretly meet with the mysterious David J Carlson, Commander-In-Chief of the United States Air Force Academy Civilian Command of Military Operations, a definitely not fully fictional person with an equally fictional title. He was also, of course, the secret King of America. See you in hell, Declaration of Independence. Being imaginary didn’t stop Didulo’s Deep State darling from shouldering her with one of the most important Missions with a capital M the world would ever not know about: The excision of the Chinese communist military factions mobilizing in the secret tunnels running from Canada to Mexico, awaiting orders from Beijing to launch a sneak attack on the American people, igniting World War III. You’d think that’d be reason enough, but guess what. These tunnels were also being used to sex traffic children, harvest their organs and produce adrenochrome to feed the vampiric Democrats and other globalists, satanists and eugenicists who constitute the New World Order. Never have I wished that I’d invented something wholecloth more than those last few sentences but, alas, this is the accepted
lore following Her Eminence. <ROBERT EVANS’ VOICE> Did she bath those tunnels in blood like she rode in on the elevator from The Shining? You’re goddamn right. </ROBERT EVANS VOICE> She single-handedly eradicated not only the threat beneath our feet but the entire Chinese communist military across the world. So rest easy, world-at-large; Didulo did it! Provided you never investigate anything ever again. Having plucked Excalibur from the cold, dead corpse of her last Chinese national, she was awarded the title “Queen of Canada.” For her first act in this most prestigious role? Lay low until 2020 and then start a cult, natch. Incredibly, her online presence had garnered millions of followers on Telegram (think Twitter, but Twitter can tell you how to get to Medicine Hat, AB), some of whom left not only entire families behind, but the Parent of the Year trophies awarded by their respective Premiers to make pilgrimage to her Victorian home and lavish her with money, labor and love. Mostly money. After amassing a small horde of loyal servants and a sizeable war chest the queen found it was time to make herself known to Ottawa. How, though, does True Nobility best reveal itself to capture the devotion of the hoi polloi? Ornate palanquin? Golden escalator? Sliding down a divine fire pole of pure light and smashing into Parliament? Then! A shock of ingenuity: Do exactly what the anti-vaxx Freedom Convoy was already doing and roll in with a fleet of RVs covered in giant decals of her face. — Where applicable play C. W. McCall’s “Convoy” — “Wagons east, my children!” I assume she proclaimed as her followers loaded into their vehicles and kick-started their diesel revolution. What followed was a great many difficulties that would test the resolve of every member of Didulo’s army, not the least of which were the matching suits with rows of fake medals pinned to their chests. Breakdowns; overnights in Walmart parking lots; constant surveillance and virtually no sleep; calls from the royal chamber to turn on a coffee maker at 3 a.m.; 24/7 blasting of Boney M’s “Rasputin” on repeat. That one sounds like a punchline. It is emphatically not. At one point they holed up in a hotel for several days waiting for a visit from Vladimir Putin. He never showed, the rascal. Eventually they reached their destination and, with all due pomp and circumstance, Queen Romana Didulo of Canada, like a debutante at her coming out cotillion, marched between an array of her troops to address the Canadian people en masse, stirring them to action. She unveiled the true Canadian flag, a purple number with a maple leaf bisected by a sword and the words “God Loves You.” She began to burn a current Canadian flag. It went, well, a bit like this: Horns drowned her out until she slunk back to her recreational imperial sanctuary where she took to Telegram, battling the slings of online rage. Deflecting hundreds of patriotic missives launched by filthy plebs from their sand castles of misguided nationalism, she eventually — and I think you’ll agree — closed the door on any argument one could make against her claim to the rulingest of class. “The ancient Royal Families, white hats military, global alliance, galactic and intergalactic alliance federation of worlds of light beings have been working for thousands of years to free Planet Earth. And suddenly you say truckers freed the world? Get your head out of the toilet bowl, eh?” Long live the Queen. Preferably in her padded cell. HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR. IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED.
PAMELA EASTON, TWO SPOTTED OCTOPUS
Save The Day, A Tidepool Meditation by Laura Celise Lippman Some days, a quiet stillness pervades Puget Sound’s brooding edge, rippling, tentative, deep. I cherish that piece of peace as the sea lets me be. Kelp breathes as it oscillates, dancing to a hushed melody, shimmying with the tide. Small salt pools are a contrast in motion. Nothing is still; tiny forms visible to the careful eye dart in seeming random motion. Shrimps and caprellids wander with staccato grace among swaying fronds. If they settle too long, they provide a predator’s feast. In a miracle of survival, pastel eggs, attached to eelgrass and sargassum, persevere. Even in my quieted state, I must remain alert to scan the horizon for towering dorsal fins and the lurking encroachment of fire and smoke. 29
Just Like The Rest Of Us, I Forget All My Good Ideas by Brian Polk One Time Six Of My Friends Went To Play Soccer But We Were All So Out Of Shape, Everyone Just Started Playing Goalie I don’t know if you’ve seen an “all goalies” version of soccer, but it’s even more boring than regular soccer. This is especially true if the ball lands in the middle of the field and all six goalies are too out of breath to go get it. For most of the game, it was both teams yelling at each other from either end of the field, “It’s your turn to get the ball!” And, “Fuck that, we got it last time.” I’m pretty sure after about 10 minutes of this, we went to the bar and watched soccer on their TV. I would say, “At least we tried,” but we really didn’t. I’m Shocked That My Old Neighbors Never Filed A Noise Complaint Against The Thunder When I lived in the Cheesman Park neighborhood a decade or so ago, my old neighbors would call the police on us like it was their hobby. I remember one time my friend and I were sharing a six-pack on our porch, quietly engaged in discussion when a cop car rolled up a few minutes after 10 p.m. “We received a noise complaint,” they told us. “Are you having a party?” When we explained to them that it was just the two of us, they were as flummoxed as we were. But before they left, they said, “Well, we have to respond whenever we get a complaint, so it’s in your best interest to keep it down.” The question I have to ask is, What do my old neighbors do when it thunders at night? The noise must destroy them. And they have absolutely no recourse. They can’t call the police or whine about it on Nextdoor or Facebook. They must just cry and ruminate on how unfair nature is to their delicate existence on this planet. Also, who moves to a major metropolis for peace and quiet? People, amiright? When I Was In New York City, I Displayed My ID In Every Bar I Went To, And They All Laughed At Me To my credit, I have friends that manage bars in Denver, and the city is really strict on enforcement. So I always give everyone the benefit of the doubt and just show my ID, even when no one asks to see one. In my experience, almost everyone appreciates this, since it takes the onus off of them to enforce the drinking laws. The New York City government must not focus all that much on enforcement of such laws. I know this because every time I showed them my driver’s license, they chuckled, pushed my ID back across the bar, and said, “Yeah, man. We know you’re of age.” Which is a nice way of saying, “Don’t even try to kid yourself, you old-lookin’ fuck.” No. 125 BRIANNA CORN, PBR - BEST OF BIRDY 053
It’s All Downhill From Here — But Not In A Fun Rollercoaster Kind Of Way, More Like A Rock Climbing And The Rope Snapped Kind Of Way While I don’t mean to add to anyone’s existential dread, I did want to clarify what “It’s all downhill from here” means in today’s context. Because sometimes people want to know the true nature of the environment they’re living in, and I don’t want to lie to them. Occasionally my friends and acquaintances will say things like, “Enjoy the ride,” when they should be saying, “Enjoy the fall.” I know this is all semantics, but I’m really passionate about these kinds of things. Does Anyone Else’s Seasonal Allergies Feel Like A Really Terrible Disease Has Afflicted Their Body And Caused Untold Amounts Of Suffering? I’m allergic to pollen, and I break out into literal three-minute long sneeze fests several times a week during the growing season. I really just want to sit my mind and body down and say, “Look, you’re overreacting here. It’s just pollen. It’s not going to hurt us, I promise. I know several people whose bodies do not make them feel like they’re gravely ill every time they breathe in the summer air, and guess what? They’re fine. YOU DON’T NEED TO DO THIS! You’re being dramatic.” Alas, my mind and body do not listen, which is kind of weird, since my brain is the very one that’s trying to tell myself to knock it off. Being alive is so fucking strange. Several Years Ago, I Found Myself Vulnerable and Bitter At One In The Morning, But Instead Of Texting My Ex, I Watched Seinfeld Reruns And Eventually Fell Asleep When I awoke the next day, I was relieved I didn’t have to read any embarrassing text messages I had sent at one the previous morning. When I relayed this story to one of my friends, he told me if you’re ever depressed and desperate to never make any decisions or send any messages at night. Always wait until at least noon the next day to see if you still feel as frantic, bitter and vulnerable as you did the night before. If you do, go ahead and let those f-bomb-ridden accusatory texts fly! (Because fuck ‘em, that’s why!) But most of the time, you’ll come to your senses, your communication and decision-making abilities will recover and you’ll be much more level-headed. Since this wisdom has helped me at some really low points of my life, I relay it on to you. It’s a real lifesaver. 31 ART BY ARTHUR BALITSKIY
PETER KORNOWSKI, DESERT ABDUCTION
1 Publizr