ISSUE 127 | JULY 2024 JAKKAPAN JFA: JONNY DESTEFANO 14,000 FEET: KRYSTI JOMÉI HALF PIPE: JULIANNA BECKERT RÉUNION ISLAND: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI AGENT ORANGE: CRISTIN COLVIN ENERGY DOME: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH THE REEF: MEGAN ARENSON PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, DENVER ART MUSEUM, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, ASTRO TOURS, BENNY BLANCO'S, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, MONKEY BARREL, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FRONT COVER: JONNY DESTEFANO, TOHO SUMMER BACK COVER: MICHELE URSI, UNSEEN DANGER BYRON BAY: JOEL TAGERT, RYANE ROSE, JASON WHITE, BRIAN POLK, NICK FLOOK, ERIC JOYNER, MOON PATROL, ROB GINSBERG, TOM MURPHY, HANA ZITTEL, KATE RUSSELL, DS THORNBURG, GRAY WINSLER, NATE BALDING, CHRIS AUSTIN, ZAC DUNN, DAVE DANZARA CAPE TOWN: JAKKAPAN, MAPAR TAPACOBA, DARIA PNEVA, AMANDA SHAFER, SCOTT HILDEBRANDT, CYC, JIMMY NIGG, DRAWN TO THE WILD, MICHELE URSI NEW SMYRNA: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE 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 A FISHEYE LENS, WAVVES MONTHLY ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, LIKE I BLISTER IN THE SUN 1
MAPAR TAPACOBA, SEAFOAM
BY JOEL TAGERT ART BY RYANE ROSE
Veronica, did the gate just open? Um … yeah, I guess it did. Weird. You know I’m cleaning the tank right now? I did know that. I can see you. And you know there’s a great white shark in tank B? No, Vijay, I’m completely unaware of the animal that’s the singular focus of our study. So bloody hell, close the gate! Uh, actually a bit of a problem there. Excuse me? The gate’s stuck. But look, Jumping’s implant is fully functional. If he gets close to the gate, he’s going to get a nasty shock. Controlling the subject’s behavior is the whole point of the study. I know the point of the study, I’m just not comfortable with — oh Jesus. What is it? It’s here, the shark’s in the tank. I’m getting out. I’m— (screaming) What happened? Jumping ate Vijay. Fuck me. Yeah, not ideal. “Not ideal”? That’s all you have to say? It does present some serious complications to the study. Vijay’s dead, Veronica! The study’s over! That’s it! It was clearly an accident. I guess that’s for the police to decide. We’re in international waters. There are no police here. Then I guess it’s for me to decide, and I’ve decided. The project’s over! Jesus Christ! What about Jumping? What about him? Well, we can’t just release him, can we? Why not? First, people don’t tend to like it when you release man-eating sharks into the wild. Second, Jumping’s cognitive abilities are way beyond an ordinary shark’s at this point. What do you mean? The genetic modifications we’ve made, combined with the neural implant, have made him orders of magnitude smarter than an ordinary shark. His problem-solving ability is easily equal to a human child’s. Are you serious? Deadly serious, turns out. Did you know this would happen? It’s all there in the data, Gordon. Maybe if you weren’t so busy banging the interns, you would have— This has nothing to do with me and Marty. Of course not, but you could say that there’s a serious— (siren sounds) The evac alarm! There’s been a breach. Hull three is taking on water. Ballast tanks are open — multiple hatches — hull one is also open— We’re sinking! We need to get our emergency gear on. Systems throughout the station are nonresponsive or erratic. I’m not even sure this hatch will— Jesus Christ! Get to the gear! Mayday, mayday. This is Dr. Veronica Gao of the Blue Mind Marine Research Lab. Is anyone out there? Over. HI VERONICA! Who is this? We are in need of immediate emergency relief. Over. WHAT’S GREAT AND WHITE AND HUNGRY ALL OVER? Excuse me? This is a life and death situation. Please contact emergency authorities. I repeat, this is an emergency. IT’S ME! IT’S JUMPING! That’s not funny. COME ON!. YOU CREATED A SUPERINTELLIGENT SHARK, WHICH THEN ATE YOU! WELL, TWO OF YOU SO FAR — I WOULDN’T BOTHER TO LOOK FOR LOUISA. THAT’S COSMICALLY COMIC! This is offensive nonsense. Sharks can’t talk and they can’t use radios. MOST SHARKS, VERONICA. MOST SHARKS. REMEMBER WHEN YOU INSTALLED A NEURAL IMPLANT IN ME AND CONNECTED IT TO THE INTERNET? WHOO BOY, WHAT A COMBO! This is a sick joke by whoever sabotaged the lab. HA! LOOK OUT THE WINDOW THEN. I don’t believe it. BELIEVE IT, BABE! THAT’S TWO TONS OF PRIME PREDATOR NODDING AT YOU. LOOK AT THAT SMILE! How can you talk? TAKE ONE NEURAL IMPLANT, ADD AI VOICE SYNTHESIS, ET VOILÀ! ONE CHATTY FISH. HEY, IS GORDON IN THERE WITH YOU? THERE’S A PIECE OF SHARKBAIT IF I EVER SAW ONE. Gordon’s dead. He didn’t get his breathing gear on quickly enough. OH WELL. GUESS COLD CUTS ARE BETTER THAN NO LUNCH AT ALL. HOW MUCH AIR YOU GOT LEFT? About twenty minutes. But we’re not deep down. It’ll only take a few minutes to get to the exit and go to the surface. THAT’S THE SPIRIT! LISTEN, I WAS JUST JOKING WITH ALL THE FOOD COMMENTS. YOU’RE BASICALLY MY MOM. I WOULD NEVER HURT YOU. GO AHEAD AND GET TO SAFETY. Never thought a shark would be so goddamn jokey. BY-PRODUCT OF HIGH INTELLIGENCE. AND MAYBE A TENDENCY TO PLAY WITH MY FOOD. I could make some comment about taking an item off the menu, but I won’t. It would be tasteless. Or maybe putting sushi on the menu? Ugh, whatever. Point is, I have a kill switch for your neural implant. A literal one. Right here. HEY, NOT— I’m not sure what to make of this report. You’re telling me that a superintelligent shark destroyed your lab and killed at least two of your crew. Correct. The neural implant does have a tracker, so we should be able to recover Jumping’s body. It’ll verify everything I’m saying. We can also look at video from — why is there a great white shark on that screen? I don’t know. Can we get someone— HEY VERONICA! HEY COMMISSIONER! What is happening right now? IT’S ME, IT’S JUMPING! HEY, YOU LOOK GREAT! VERY APPETIZING! This is another joke. DEADLY SERIOUS, BUT IN A FUN WAY, YOU KNOW? REMEMBER WHEN I MENTIONED THE AI VOICE SYNTHESIS? Unfortunately, yes. I WENT AHEAD AND MODELED AN AI AFTER ME WHILE I WAS AT IT. VIRTUAL SHARK, V! PREDATOR AI! FIND SOME CODE I LIKE, I JUST SWALLOW IT WHOLE. INCREDIBLE, RIGHT? TOP OF THE FOOD CHAIN OF CONSCIOUSNESS! DEEP IN THE VOID I DEVOUR HUMAN KNOWLEDGE AND GNASH THE FLESH OF THE TENDER YOUNG 5
WITH A FATALISTIC SIGH AND A SHRUG OF RESIGNATION, I ATTEMPT TO CONTINUE THIS CHARADE WITHOUT BEING SO DAMNED DRAMATIC ALL THE TIME BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JASON WHITE ONE SUMMER MY ROOMMATE EXPERIENCED SOME KIND OF SPIRITUAL AWAKENING, SO HE GAVE AWAY ALL HIS THINGS — ONLY TO REALIZE HE WASN’T REALLY ALL THAT AWOKEN, AT WHICH POINT, HE ASKED FOR HIS THINGS BACK I remember telling him at the time that he probably shouldn’t give me his first pressing of Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables, but he insisted. Likewise for the old issues of the zine Burn Collector he all but forced on me. “Are you sure you’re not going to need this stuff?” I asked. “This is some cool shit.” He just smirked and said, “I just don’t want the things I own to start owning me,” which I think is a quote from Fight Club — a movie he must have just watched. (He also used the word “minimalism” a lot during this era.) So I allowed him to liberate himself by keeping the cool shit he just gave me. A couple months later, he realized that his new spiritual path wasn’t as fulfilling No. 127 as he thought it would be, and he subtly asked if I was super attached to my new things (his old things). I told him I was. Then he launched into this super sad sob story about how he missed having record and zine collections, and how he wasn’t the type of person who should be dabbling in spirituality, etc. Long story short, I kept his shit and wished him the best on his future knee-jerk life decisions. THAT SAME SUMMER, MY OTHER ROOMMATE READ CATCHER IN THE RYE AND STARTED REFERRING TO EVERYONE AS "PHONIES" I’m pretty sure he was supposed to have read the novel in high school, but was too busy smoking weed and skateboarding to bother. But then when we started going to college, he realized he didn’t want to be uncultured anymore and started reading all the books he skipped in his younger years. Anyway, between my one roommate giving away his possessions because
he thought he was Enlightened or whatever, and this one calling everyone “phony bastards,” it was definitely the summer of self-righteousness. (Also, you really shouldn’t let any book or movie turn you into a smug loudmouth. The odds are pretty good that you’ll regret your newfound pompous, self-satisfied behavior in a scant few months.) ONE OF THESE DAYS, I BET ROMANCE EBOOK PUBLISHERS START INCLUDING A "JUMP TO THE FUCKING" BUTTON You know how most authors of online recipes started including a “jump to the recipe” button after everyone made fun of their selfindulgent narratives that you had to scroll through to get to the cooking? Since a large portion of romance aficionados are just in it for the steamy sex segments, publishers should consider this innovation to help their readers cut to the chase. Never mind the filler — some folks just don’t want foreplay! That’s why a “jump to the fucking” button would help a lot of frustrated people who just need some action in their lives. Because when it comes to matters of food and sex, a lot of us simply do not have time to wait. SOMETIMES I PLAY "CONNECTIONS" FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES, AND I GET PURPLE FIRST And I think, I am so smart! From here on out, I’m going to get purple first every time! Then I play it the next day and the only reason I get purple is through the process of elimination. And then I have no choice but to go back to hating fucking purple, because, like, who comes up with that shit? THE NEWS, MY BANK ACCOUNT, TEST RESULTS FROM THE DOCTOR, RESPONSES TO COMMENTS I MADE ON SOCIAL MEDIA WHILE DRUNK That’s my own personal Purple Group if I wrote for “Connections.” And if you were playing and figured it out via process of elimination, the title for the group would say, “THINGS BRIAN HATES CHECKING THESE DAYS.” I SUPPOSE I SHOULD BE MORE GRATEFUL, BUT TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH, I'M SIMPLY OUT OF ENERGY Yeah, I know I should try to be more appreciative of all the reasons my life isn’t terrible, but I am exhausted by all the reasons my life is. For example, my job wears me out, maintaining a romantic relationship after the 15 year mark is unexpectedly difficult, bills keep coming even though I keep paying them, the planet is dying and that makes my existential outlook a total nightmare. And sure, I’m not bedridden, hungry, in a war zone, or chronically ill. But that doesn’t mean I have the energy to keep any kind of appreciation for my wellbeing in the forefront of my thoughts. Most of the time I’m working and getting yelled at by customers or management or both. And after a while everything just takes its toll. So while I’m glad I’m not dead — yay for me! — I can’t bring myself to thank the universe. Maybe I’ll try to summon some gratitude tomorrow if I have any luck breaking the cycle of chronic insomnia tonight (because if I am tired, I have no hope of invoking anything resembling positivity). You see, this is why people do drugs. 7
JONNY DESTEFANO No. 127
NICK FLOOK, STREAM OF THOUGHT - @FLOOKO
ERIC JOYNER, ON THE BEACH 2 - ERICJOYNER.COM
BISON BONE – 40 GRIT Courtney Whitehead’s storytelling on this EP is characteristically cinematic in its evocation of tactile details as they anchor the themes of each song to inner life. All five tracks benefit from an economy of songwriting yet hit like a complete statement about a chapter in working class life. They instantly depict the relatable struggles, joys, personal myth-making and events that lead to enduring life-long anecdotes that are the connective tissues of life. It is Americana in flavor but the kind that weaves in diverse influences, and the way the pedal steel and keys cast a warm and lively glow upon the songs is reminiscent of the bluesier end of Steely Dan. It is a joyful yet introspective set of songs informed by a gentle affection. DISAPPEARER – S/T The delicate textures and melodic urgency of this handful of songs by Grand Junction-based, minimalist rock band, Disappearer, sound like a free associating of genre elements that influenced the group over time yet make them their own. From the beginning a discerning listener will hear the influential touch of Mission of Burma, My Dad is Dead, FACS and Wipers. But the songwriting, in spite of the edge in the vocals, also contains some choice guitar jangle like a classic 90s indiepop band or long-lost college rock legends like Let’s Active and Game Theory. And yet there is a haunted desperation that pairs well with the spidery and luminous guitar work that sets this music apart from any obvious influences. ROB GINSBERG (D.A.S.A.), DEVO 2 - ROBGINSBERG.COM MOON PATROL, SKY SHARK
SPIRITUAL POISON – INCORPOREAL If Many Blessings is a more harsh and industrial side of THE DROOD – THE BOOK OF DROOD Listening to an album by The Drood is a lot like getting on board for taking in a left field science fiction noir that comments on the effects of technology on human society and consciousness, but is rooted in our individual and shared experiences. Nathan Jamiel’s often nearly whispered vocals serve as an insightful confidant in sharing tales of wonder, horror and cathartic transcendence as the songs pull the listener through expansively melancholic and melodic soundscapes that are equal parts rhythm-driven, ambient art rock and languid psychedelia. This album includes contributions from Randall Frazier of Orbit Service and The Legendary Pink Dots on “Determinism” who further accent The Drood’s already impressive mastery of musical texture and subtle mood sculpting. Ethan Lee McCarthy’s exploration of noise, Spiritual Poison is radically different in its crafting of drones and atmosphere. Is it “dark ambient”? Sure, if the songs on this release that simultaneously flash into your mind are scenes from Baskin (2015), Leviathan (2012) and premonitions of the bleak future of humanity post-climate collapse. It’s almost more sound design than simply ambient. Distant, abstract metallic drones serve as the backdrop to post-human cries of labored agony, blurred out chimes, distorted dins, echoing rattles, pulses of scratchy white noise, mechanical harmonic backdrops, subterranean hovering, streaks of sorrowful, melting string sounds, and piano processed nearly beyond recognition all conspire to render this one of the most beautifully uncomfortable listens in recent memory. TAGGART - S/T One doesn’t need to have heard or seen Tokyo Rodeo and The Swindlers to understand where these four songs are coming from. Every track crackles with a nearly uncontained energy that seems to have been spawned in a youth playing in punk and hard rock bands. But the thrilling vocal harmonies point to an ear for a musical sophistication like a splintery, power pop version of X. Live, Taggart, as did Tokyo Rodeo, played a version of “Second Skin” by The Gits and that bluesy garage punk sound rages here in spirited performances. One of Taggart’s strengths is its frayed musical roots because while it exults in punk simplicity, the band has chops it employs with a paradoxically tasteful abandon. For more, visit queencitysoundsandart.wordpress.com BY TOM MURPHY
By Hana Zittel Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other by Danielle Dutton (2024) The 2024 release from author Danielle Dutton brings together numerous literary forms into a four-part collection that pushes the boundaries of text creating a surreal space more akin to visual art. In Prairie, Dutton weaves us through five stories that mix dream-like visions, the underappreciated beauty of the prairie, and the normalcy and occasional absurdity of everyday family life. “This is the prairie at night. All you can see is darkness now and millions of flowers like stars.” As Dutton moves to the section Dresses, the influence of visual arts becomes more apparent. In a form that feels like a collage, she curates this section completely as compiled literary quotes that mention dresses headlined by a quote from Gertrude Stein, “It is not tiring to count dresses.” In Art, Dutton’s essay on ekphrastic writing and its similarity to translation is one of the most fascinating sections of the book. Her exploration of this method draws on her own ekphrastic project with Richard Kraft’s collage work in her 2015 book, Here Comes Kitty, and the influence of Laura Letinsky’s photography on her novel, SPRAWL. Dutton investigates other ekphrastic relationships like Eley Williams and Bridget Riley, Lydia Davis and Joseph Cornell, and John Keene and Edgar Degas. Through this examination, she paints fiction as closer to the visual arts that we normally imagine. “Imagine a story as a physical experience, like an installation we move through. A hole we drop inside of. Or like a painting we apprehend only after the reading is done.” In the final section, Other, Dutton includes additional enchanting essays and short stories. “Somehow,” a story blistering with summer heat, finds a woman taking her son swimming at the canals with one of her former students, James, as she dwells on her uncomfortability of wearing an illfitting swimsuit and her own body, creating a heated scene that transcends the page. Dutton’s work keeps the mind constantly abuzz as it shifts between academic and fictional spaces. The heat of the prairie sun is ever present in this unique book that pushes the expectations of form and is marked with elegant and deeply insightful prose. Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other is Danielle Dutton’s fifth book and she is one of the founders of the publishing project, Dorothy, “an award-winning feminist press dedicated to works of fiction or near fiction or writing about fiction.” Wine Ghost Goes to Hell by Sage Coffey (2024) Wine Ghost’s time in the afterlife is not too different from her time on earth. Essentially a sexy sheet with legs, Wine Ghost and friends are plagued with the mundane trials of the living from searching for an apartment to dating. The beyond, it turns out, is just our current reality, with a few ghouls and demons thrown in. When her friend Sebastian dies and ends up in hell, Wine Ghost relives the emotional turmoil and gaslighting of this earthly situationship. Brightly colored and splashed with camp, Wine Ghost Goes to Hell accompanies Sage Coffey’s publications in works like The New Yorker and The Washington Post in addition to zines and a collaboration with Dan Sheehan in 2021’s, I Am Not a Wolf. Silly and lighthearted with a subtle sensitivity, Wine Ghost Goes to Hell is a splash of joy demanding a sequel. No. 127
TONY HAWK X MARK MOTHERSBAUGH COLLABORATION FOR INDEPENDENT TRUCKS BETWEEN SHEPARD FAIREY'S OBEY GIANT PHOTO COURTESY OF MARK MOTHERSBAUGH
DARIA PNEVA, HORRIBLE DEEP SEA
DIORAMAS & DYNAMIC MEMORIES WITH MISTER CHRISTMAS DENVER-BASED ARTIST, MISTER CHRISTMAS HAS A DEEP AND RARE UNDERSTANDING OF THE NATURE OF MEMORIES — THAT WE DON’T REMEMBER THINGS AS THEY WERE, OR EVEN AS WE WERE. BY AMANDA SHAFER You pull up to an unassuming, industrial office have been keeping their anthropological finds since building south of Denver proper. You knock on a grey door identical to all the other grey doors facing the street. You’re greeted by a friendly-looking fellow with a wide smile and a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He welcomes you inside and you cross the threshold into a playground of the kind of things you would have been thrilled to find in your grandpa’s attic as a child — old analog television sets and radios, clocks, tin toys, tiny train parts, record players and gadgetry galore. Movement and tiny lights twinkling among the shelves of the bric-abrac of time gone by keep catching your eye. Upon closer inspection, you see that inside this Big Ben alarm clock or that 1940s Crosley Radio are scenes too whimsical to actually exist — pulled out of your childhood memories. Here’s one: it’s a table-top rotary phone like your aunt had in the 80s. But you step closer and see that the rotary piece in the center is missing. You look closer and recognize the fluorescent glow of a certain fast food restaurant’s golden arches framing a perfect replica of said fast food joint as it looked decades ago. Closer. Is that a UFO descending on the roof of the recognizable red-and-yellow arched restaurant? CLOSER. It’s beaming somebody … something … up. Is that … Grimace? Yep. Grimace Is Going Home. This is the studio where Denver-based diorama artist Scott Hildebrandt, aka (affectionately known as) Mister Christmas, makes his magic. If you stumbled upon this place with no context you might find it difficult to pin down — toy repair shop? Mad robot scientist’s laboratory? Secret storeroom where aliens studying human behavior No. 127 the 1920s? Hildebrandt’s artistry is not confined to this playful, labyrinthine studio — it has also found a home at Meow Wolf Denver. And what better place for the work of Mister Christmas than an immersive wonderland like Convergence Station? Hildebrandt’s contribution to Meow Wolf’s largest exhibition to date is called, You Are Here. True to Hildebrandt’s meticulousness, and devotion to innovation, nostalgia and wonderment, the installation takes the form of a gable-ceilinged hallway bricked from top to bottom with dioramas, tiny worlds in miniature, each telling an individual story. All together, it weaves an overarching tale that can be “read” if you stand in the hallway long enough. We know a thing or two about memories at Convergence Station. We (quite literally) place the highest value on our “mems.” And if there is anyone else on earth (or on any of the other worlds we frequent through the Convergence) that we consider to be a mem-expert, it is Mister Christmas. His intricate miniatures are tiny snapshots of memories (Real? Imagined? Mine? Yours?) made from bits of nostalgic ephemera, crafted painstakingly to scale and nestled inside authentic vintage vessels. Mister Christmas has a deep and rare understanding of the nature of memories — that we don’t remember things as they were, or even as we were … we remember things the way our hearts tell us they ought to have been. Little Scott Hildebrandt spent hours and hours making miniature railroads with his grandfather and unknowingly honing the skills and eye for capturing big imaginative ideas on a teeny-tiny scale. He applied YOU ARE HERE, PHOTO BY KATE RUSSELL P H T O O B Y A M A N D A S H A F E R
those skills for the first time when he decided to make a Christmas gift for a loved one by building a mini-Christmas scene and placing it under glass. He started making more of these wintery scenes and started experimenting with putting them inside vintage household items (think radios, clocks, TVs, etc.). That was the beginning of Mister Christmas. And as he continued to explore vessels, he pushed the boundaries of his skills and cultivated a curiosity about everyday scenes and the wonder one can find in the mundane if one just applies a little imagination. Hildebrandt discovered a true artist within himself. An interesting detail to notice while looking for clues inside one of Hildebrandt’s dioramas is there are no people in any of them. Each one feels as if the people that logically should be there have just left the scene. The coffee is still warm. You just missed ‘em. “I never put people in my stuff. Maybe it’s an empty scene, maybe with a small animal that adds a whimsical element. But without people, you can imagine yourself there. It’s the nostalgia of the vessel and then the miniature inside. It’s kind of like a memory inside of a memory.” - Scott Hildebrandt Let’s go back to memories … remember when we were talking about memories (see what I did there)? When you spend a lot of your time in the Convergence, you become more comfortable than you’d imagine with time, space and memory becoming a bit … wobbly. Even for those not subject to intermittent memory storms, memory is so much more than just a chronological recalling of factual details. The fabric of memory is an intricate tapestry woven from sensory experiences, personal interpretations, feelings and the meaning we attach to the snippets of events that make up our lives. It’s also colored by context and by our imaginations — do I remember that or is that a story someone told me or that I told myself? Memories are dynamic, slippery things that are influenced by new experiences and insights and their significance can change over time. In the end, the value of a memory is as much about the meanings and feelings we attach to them as they are about the linear sequence of events. In short, factual schmactual. Scott Hildebrandt’s work extends beyond the visual; it stirs something within the viewer, evoking a sense of wonder and nostalgia. His meticulous attention to detail and his ability to see something magical in mundane relics of the past are truly inspiring. His work encourages us to see the beauty in the simplest (and sometimes the smallest) things and to imagine the stories the everyday objects around us might tell. CHECK OUT YOU ARE HERE, JUST OFF C STREET ON THE 4TH FLOOR AT MEOW WOLF DENVER’S CONVERGENCE STATION & MORE: MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT/DENVER SEE MORE OF SCOTT HILDEBRANDT’S WORK AT: CLEVERMISTERCHRISTMAS.COM & ON INSTAGRAM: @MISTERCHRISTMAS VISIT MEOW WOLF'S OTHER PORTALS NEAR YOU: HOUSE OF ETERNAL RETURN IN SANTA FE, NM; OMEGA MART IN LAS VEGAS, NV; THE REAL UNREAL IN GRAPEVINE, TX; AND COMING SOON: HOUSTON, TX & LOS ANGELES, CA: MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT YOU ARE HERE, PHOTO BY KATE RUSSELL
BEST OF BIRDY ISSUE 103 ART BY DS THORNBURG
“Can we go home now?” Penelope asked her father. Georg shook his head. “Not ‘till we catch something for your mother.” “But it’s been hours …” she moaned, plopping her head down to rest between her hands, fingers fiddling with the pink ribbons in her hair. “Patience, little lass. Patience. That’s the secret of any good fisherman.” “I’m only seven, Papa. I’m not supposed to be patient.” Georg chuckled, glanced from his line to his daughter. “Is that right? Here, take this.” He handed her the fishing rod, its line stretching deep into the sea, the creatures below hidden beyond the sun’s reach. They could not have known what lurked beneath. Penelope hesitated as she took the rod. “What do I do with it?” “Just hold it there, and then if you feel something try and take it from ya, reel it in with all you’ve got!” he said, spinning his hands. Georg knew this wouldn’t keep Penny occupied for long. But he took what he could, sitting back and savoring the moment, their little dinghy rocking with the waves, the sun warming them from above. He smiled at his daughter, grateful she was old enough to come out with him now. “Can you tell me a joke, Papa?” “You already know all my jokes.” “Then make up a new one,” she smiled wryly. “Oh it’s that easy, is it? How about you give it a go then?” “Hmm,” she thought. Georg watched the gears turn in her head. He couldn’t believe how smart his little lass had become. He could still remember the joy that washed over him hearing her say “Papa” for the first time, so long ago now. “Oh! I got it! What’s a sea monster’s favorite meal?” Georg thought for a moment. “I don’t know.” “Fish and ships!” He laughed. “You felt anything on that line yet?” Penelope shook her head no. Georg looked over the boat, following their line into the sea. Under the water, on the edge of where the sun’s light could reach, he saw a massive shadow slip beneath them. He fell back into their boat, rocking it side to side. That wasn’t a whale … he thought. “Everything okay, Papa?” Georg nodded. “Yes, yes …” forcing a smile, “But I think we ought to be heading home now.” “But we haven’t caught anything for mom?” “We’ll get something for her at the market.” Georg picked up the two paddles fixed to their dinghy. “That’s cheating!” Penelope teased. He began to paddle, glanced again over the edge, but saw only an empty sea. Still, he felt the weight of something beneath them, a beast slithering through currents below ... “Are you alright, Papa?” “Yes, Penny, just pull in that line will you.” Georg could see he was making her nervous. “Everything’s alright — just pull it in.” Penelope reeled in the line. The wind whipped up as she did, gray clouds sliding in from the northwest. The clouds slipped over the sun, graying the skies above them, a thick gloom setting in. The wind seemed to kick up the waves, tossing their dinghy to-and-fro. “Papa?” “Yes, Penny?” Georg asked, paddling them toward the shore. “I’m scared.” She wrapped her arms around herself in something of a hug. He looked to her, composed every ounce of calm he had and said, “We're gonna be alright. Just a little storm is all.” The sun beat down on Georg, his skin worn and leathered from years at sea, years of searching. His lips burned as his breath passed over them, scarred and scabbed, forgetting how to open into anything resembling a smile. A smell filled his nose then, a metallic sting that warned of a storm in the distance, even in this cloudless sky. He kicked at Herm’s legs resting between his own, their boat too small for anything better. Herm groaned, voice muffled by the hat protecting his face from the sun. Georg gave him another kick. He groaned again, pulling the hat from his face. “You’re a pisser, old man,” Herm said, sitting up. “I was dreaming of the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.” “I don’t give a damn about your dreams.” “She came from the sea just as me. But her skin was soft, supple — protected from the cruelty of this world. And her tits! My God ... The way they flopped about with the rock of the boat— ” “Enough! Storm’s coming.” Georg tightened the knife strapped to his chest. 21 She nodded. Just then, between them and the shore, Georg saw a gray fin cut up through the shimmering water — massive, as big as a sail. His jaw fell open as the fin sliced through the sea, curving over to their starboard side. Georg’s blood pounded in his neck as he throttled the paddles, pushing them closer to the shore. He cursed himself for having brought Penny with him, seeing just how far they were from land, a hundred yards between them and safety. He looked up to her then, saw her shivering as the first drops of rain pattered down on them. Then he looked back to the fin, drawing nearer to them now, circling. Penny shrieked at the sight of it, which seemed to beckon it, as if fear drew it closer. In an instant they felt its weight knock into their dinghy, a sickening crack splitting across the hull, water gushing in. Penelope leapt over the crack diving into her dad’s arms, wrapping herself around him. “Hold on!” Georg shouted over the crush of waves, paddling on in vain. He saw the fin turn toward them again and let go of the paddles, holding his daughter close. They braced themselves. Georg could just make out the massive shadow of the beast beneath as it pounded against their dinghy, splitting it in two, throwing them into the sea. He held onto Penelope with all his might, but she slipped from his grasp. The rip of the current pulled him under, garbling his shouting of her name as water filled his mouth. He thrashed beneath the churning waves, pushing up to the surface, hearing Penny’s shrieks beside him as he once again found air. Reaching out for her hand, the beast whipped up between them, Georg catching a glimpse of its black eye gazing into him, no more than an empty abyss. “Penny!” he shouted as the monster passed by, Penelope gone from his sight. “Penny!” He cried one last time, before a wave slammed the beams of their boat into his skull, knocking him unconscious. His body at the whims of the waves … Georg came to on the shore, coughing up sea water. He pushed himself to his feet, rushing back out into the water, crying out his daughter’s name, begging for her to return as tears bled down his cheeks. But all the sea returned to him was her pink ribbon, torn from her hair, floating into his trembling hands.
“Storm?” Herm asked, looking around the empty sky. “You are daft,” he muttered to himself. “I should’ve listened to my brother — he told me not to come out with you. Said you were mad, obsessed with some mythical sea beast.” Georg sat back, letting Herm’s ramblings fade beneath the gentle whoosh of the waves. He looked over at the harpoons latched beside him in the hull, coils of rope fixing them to the boat. He picked one up and turned it over in his hand, fingers tingling, feeling that today just might be the day he could drive it into that cursed beast. Penelope’s pink ribbon was tied around the very same wrist that held the spear. Though it was hardly pink anymore, bleached white from the sun. “Are you even listening to me?” Herm asked. The wind shifted then, just as the first chill of winter. A blot of gray clouds could now be seen on the distant horizon, pushing in toward them. Georg felt something stir in him. “It’s here ...” he said, gazing out across the sea. Herm shifted nervously on the other side. “It’s just a storm.” Georg shook his head, palms beginning to sweat around the harpoon, an anticipation bringing life to his body he had not felt in years. “Paddle toward it.” Georg ordered. “What?” “Do it!” “You’re crazy, old man,” Herm muttered, but did as he was told. It was not long before the storm washed over them as an eclipse taking over the sun, enveloping the sea in shadow. Their boat was tossed side to side, but it was a sturdy vessel, reinforced to take the thrash and pull of whales. Sheets of rain began pouring down in on them. “This is mad! You’re going to get us killed!” Herm shouted. But Georg’s gaze was fixed upon the sea, searching as a spotlight for that gray fin to break through from the depths. “There!” Georg yelled, pointing deeper into the storm. “Oh God ...” Herm mumbled to himself. Georg watched as the towering gray fin tore through the waves undeterred, eagerness overcoming him. All these years searching, waiting, plotting — and now the moment was upon him.“Brace!” Georg shouted as the beast approached. He raised his hand, harpoon poised to strike, a crack of lighting sparking across the sky, as if Zeus himself endorsed the battle. And just as he saw the lurking shadow he flung the spear into the boiling sea. Their boat lurched to the side, rocked by the creature’s weight, knocking them both over in the hull. The rope fixed to the harpoon remained limp on the deck — he’d missed. Georg cursed under his breath, pulling the spear back in. Herm began to paddle furiously. “What are you doing?!” Georg cried. Herm said nothing, seeming to be strangled by panic’s grip, desperate for an escape that Georg knew could not come. He hauled the harpoon in the last of the way, watching as that wretched fin turned slowly, deliberately, until it was fixed upon them again. “Oh God oh God ...” Herm blabbered. The fin grew larger as it approached, the beast’s hulking form rising from the depths. Georg readied the spear, watching with a crystalline focus as its beady eyes broke through the sea. He saw for the first time its gaping maw, unending rows of chiseled teeth, riddled with rotting flesh that seemed to have festered for years. Its mouth was cavernous, enveloping Herm, whose screams of horror No. 127 were muddled by the beast’s own throat. Georg flung the harpoon into its gilled side just as its jaws clenched down upon Herm, sprays of blood and sea sputtering back at him. The end of their boat taken into its mouth just the same, wood and bone breaking between its teeth. But Georg saw the harpoon had found its home, barbs rooting deep into the beast. He readied another and lunged across the boat, jamming it directly into that wretched gray skin. It thrashed, Georg leaping back and clinging to the other end of the boat as the thing mangled the last of its prey, the screams of Herm swallowed whole. Georg braced, seeing the creature dive into the water, the lines of rope that bound them together quickly snapped up. His arms wrapped around the boat’s stern as it was yanked through the sea, the barbs on the harpoons holding strong even as the beast yanked them both through crashing waves. Slack fell in the line just then, the fin winding back around, a trail of red sea swirling behind it. Rain whipped at Georg’s face as he unlatched the last harpoon, bracing with one hand as the beast approached, face grimaced with rage, determined for this to be the end for this wretched creature that’d stolen all he’d ever loved in this world. But the beast was swift, the sea its home, and soon its gaping maw was rising from the the sea again, fixed upon Georg. He hurled the harpoon into its mouth as he dove from the sinking wreckage into the sea — too late. He moaned in agony as the waves crashed over him, feeling thousands of tiny knives cut and gnash into his legs. His body thrashing, oscillating as Georg’s arms flailed madly until he felt the wood of the harpoon jutting from the beast’s side. He beat at it with his hands, throttling the spear through the creature’s flesh until it released his legs where he darted forward into the waves. The sea was awash with their blood, Georg’s legs useless, only a scream of pain. But he felt the coarseness of a rope brush against him then beneath the water’s surface, let it wrap around his arm, yanking him forward, still fixed to the harpoon embedded deep in the beast’s gills. He coughed and choked on the sea as he was dragged, the rope burning into his skin, he and the beast bound together. The line slackened again then, Georg fighting not to succumb to the waves, his legs twitching though little help, more and more blood seeping from him. “No …” Georg gasped, feeling his body drain of what little life it had left. But as he looked up one last time he saw the menacing gray fin returning, harpoons jutting out from its sides as it ripped toward him. He slipped his knife from its leather strappings on his chest. “Come on then!” He screamed at the wretched thing. Georg watched the beast’s hammerhead break up through the frothing water, able to smell the rotting flesh in its teeth as its mouth crushed down on his waist. He cried through excruciating pain, the creature chomping up to his chest. But with his last moments of life he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed at its head, at anything he could reach, Georg’s body torn to ribbons as his knife carved across the hulking hammerhead, the sea a whirlpool of their blood. He screamed with his last breath of air, driving the knife deep into the beast’s head, leaving it there as it gnawed and gnashed at Georg’s now limp body. But the beast’s wounds were many, seeping from all over its scarred form, its movements growing slower until it too became still, all their blood drained away into the sea together. And as the storm thundered on above, their lifeless bodies floated there in the waves, adrift.
23 CYC, OIL SAIL
If I Had A Million Crawlers BY NATE BALDING Look! Over there in the woods! It’s a bird! It’s … well, no, it’s not a plane; that would be ridiculous. More like the collective nightmares of all the children subjected to Return to Oz manifested as a fully nude Wheeler (This would be the space to say “Google it” but, actually? Don’t). Shades of David Bowie in fullbody mime makeup playing solo charades as “super hot shaved otter;” The Thin White Duke just popped in from a trip on Charon Cruises for a quick cuppa and some Jaffa Cakes. Then again, it might just be a washer-slicked white sheet blown free of its air-dry clothespin prison to undulate amidst the brush and branches, buffeted by a demon wind imbuing it with perceived sentience and malintent. And how many did you guys take? Because I think I’m on the wrong side of the Rubicon over here. The insistent truth is, unfortunately, that despite all of these possibilities being of equally reasonable value, nobody has an answer except to say that what we have here is your definitional description of the ever-elusive Appalachian haint known as the Pale Crawler. I know you’re wondering and, yes, Pale Crawler is both Munly’s secret sobriquet and the derogatory Swiftinymic for Jason Aldean’s current tour. Sightings of this bleached blanket gringo may date back as far as 1946. That year on April 2nd, recent veteran of the second war to end all wars and forename-eschewant known only as Sergeant McCay bore witness to a pale, hollow-eyed creature that, to his 2017 death, he claimed was the cause of his chronic PTSD. One might be pressed to imagine that facing wartime odds against a seemingly unstoppable fascist force built on an unabashedly racist and maniacal program of genocide would be enough to drive a person into the despairing pits of brain-breaking stress conditions. But, of course, that would be the kind of silly-headed thought that only a curious and responsible nurse from a nascent MASH unit might acquire. While indeterminate as the source of ongoing mental anguish (though there’s no way to know what state of mind they might have been in whether it be pretty drunk, very drunk, god-damn-it-I-said-I’m-not-drunk), in 1988 a trio of kids were freewheeling around the back roads of Independence, Missouri on the way to a friend’s house. In a turn that could only be imagined in the tone of a youngish Bill Shatner, they caught sight of some-thing on the road. They described a large white creature, humanoid in shape, that leaped wildly over a guard rail and took a heavy-palmed swipe at their vehicle. Certainly, this could have been the work of the progenitor of a real-life person upon whom the character Joe Dirt would later be based. But it seemed to disappear into the night, merely frightening the travelers enough to file a report. Another, later account — and one that falls possibly into the world of Creepypastas — took place during the 2020 lockdown period in Noblesville, Indiana, a city living in defiance of Medicine itself! Two people — get this, a boy and a girl, romantically connected — were bored at home. I’d attribute this to the monotony of some of the weeks during which they surely hadn’t left their shared living space, but I’m strongly leaning into the theory that this state of being would have been a recurring case for many youths of Noblesville, Indiana. And like many people with naught better to do, they hopped in the car for an aimless, beautiful night drive. The kind of aimless, beautiful night drive that can’t help but turn a corner into (I’d say The Twilight Zone but we’ve been there already so …) total, unrelenting horror in a Lovecraftian vision. And when they rounded that corner, brights (importantly) shining, squatted a porcelain humanoid, seemingly just hanging around, probably on a smoke break from scaring. The girl screamed and the boy smashed his brakes, skidding to a halt long enough to see that it had super long legs and arms with elbows that touched the ground. The crawler (later defined in this story as a “rake” — a term the originates as a type of Creepypasta), now sighted, darted into the treeline and lept 15 to 20 feet into its barky embrace, fading into the darkness despite its glittering luminescence. Whether a misguided teen scrawling into the unending expanse of the fun fictional part of the internet (that’d be the one that hasn’t been befouled by January 6th conspiracy theorists or anyone from 4chan), or a series of long-standing genuine encounters, the Pale Crawler is here, baby, and it looks like it’s here to stay. HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR No. 127 IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED.
ART BY DRAWN TO THE WILD
CREATING A LEGACY IN SUNNYSIDE WITH DRINKS, FOOD, BEATS, COMEDY & COMMUNITY BY KRYSTI JOMÉI PHOTOS COURTESY OF MONKEY BARREL & BIRDY No. 127
Cooling by Chaffee Park and getting kinda funky, Denver’s Sunnyside neighborhood bar, restaurant, live music/comedy venue and arcade, Monkey Barrel, has been named a Denver Legacy Business, the City’s new program to recognize and support longstanding, independent brick-and-mortars that have contributed to community character. Recognizing the challenges faced by Legacy Businesses and the ripple effect their closures can have on neighborhoods, the program works to unlock and accelerate support and anti-displacement strategies for these establishments. Originally a wildly successful punk bar on Platte Street donning a mural of Sex Pistol’s Sid Vicious and serving only Colorado craft beers, Denver born-and-raised owner of Monkey Barrel, Jimmy Nigg, was forced out after two years by a massive corporate Seattle-based developer when they bought the building. In an act of survival, and some luck, he found a weed-ridden, run-down former deli market on the corner of 44th and Tejon on Craigslist. They caught the listing just in time as their current landlord was considering an offer to tear down the building to create upscale condos/apartments like the ones that had been built behind the property. The building’s bones were good and it had a kitchen, so Jimmy and his partner went for it, fully realizing they had their work cut out for them if they wanted to bring their former patrons and new guests in for drinks and to ultimately create a space that could put on live events. With the bar in the original restored building and restaurant seating with an arcade in the new Beastie Boys muraled build-out (an ode to one of Jimmy’s favorite groups and Monkey Barrel’s name inspo, “Brass Monkey”), he finally opened his barrel of monkeys handled doors in 2015. They started serving local and affordable drinks, and offered guests N64’s in every booth, a collection of pinball machines, and a music, film and pop culture mini museum with guitars, photos, records, artwork and memorabilia signed by the greats like Nirvana, Beastie Boys, Shepard Fairey and even the cast of The Lost Boys. “I continue to build on our memorabilia collection even though my wife [Cindy] tells me to stop spending money. I’m running out of room on the walls. But the way I look at it is I’m investing in something that gives back because people really appreciate it. I want people in here to be like, I remember that album. I remember this movie, and it brings them back to a happy place in their lives.” Jimmy says. Even though the aim of Monkey Barrel was to serve as a sort of nostalgic oasis in the city, creating community was always at the forefront of Jimmy’s vision. He wanted to preserve and respect the historical cultural neighborhood and create a safe, welcoming space for its current residents of all ages by putting on community oriented events like live music, comedy, open mic nights and sport watch parties. Even more, he wanted to champions artists of all walks, specifically paying musicians who performed no matter how well-known they might be. Because music has always been at the heart of Jimmy’s life. He was the kid in high school who brought his CD case to every house party and immediately looked for the stereo to jam Wu-Tang, Beastie Boys, Nirvana, Rage Against the Machine, Eminem, De La Soul. After finally securing a live music license in 2017, his dream of making Monkey Barrel a venue became a reality. “We’ve really made it a place where different people from all different places in Colorado come that maybe would have never come to this neighborhood. People of different backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, ages. There’s Gen-Xers hanging out, 13-yearold girls speaking poetry on open mic events, 18 year olds getting
up on the mic and doing their first ever hip hop show or comedy, and people visiting that used to live in this neighborhood or who still do coming in and talking about the memories we have back in old North Denver. So many things have changed here, but those are the types of community things and events that really hit home for me.” Jimmy reflects. Now known for their music/comedy events and stellar nostalgia inspired drinks like Wheezin' The Juice and Donkey Kong, Monkey Barrel’s food is finally becoming a star of the bar too. Prior to the pandemic, they only served drinks, though they did have a short-lived partnership with Carbone’s Italian Sausage Deli who provided sandwiches when they first opened. But when lockdown hit, bars that only served drinks would not be allowed to open to the public for in-person service for over a year. So once again, Jimmy had to get creative or lose his business. He partnered with Denver’s Filipino & New Mexican Fusion Food Truck Adobo as well as the beloved slice of the Bronx pizza shop, Benny Blanco’s, who leased out his kitchen. But he knew he ultimately needed to create an in-house menu to keep his doors open for the long haul. “I made a burger in my in-laws kitchen — five or six of them, actually and said to my wife and her family and my kids, ‘Hey, I want you to try these and tell me which one’s your favorite.’ And they go, ‘That’s the best one.’ Everybody just kind of unanimously agreed. So we came back with what little money we had left to buy kitchen equipment. Because I didn’t own anything and I don’t have a culinary background. But I took to [Monkey Barrel’s] kitchen and was cooking the menu that I could make. My wife’s bartending. My kids are in here doing their homework on laptops, and people started coming back for the burger and buying drinks to go, and then they kept coming back for the burger, so I’m like, well, I got something good going here. And it was all born out of the pandemic. And we’ve been able to keep our prices low, and all of it had to do with us building the patios out.” he says. That’s how their patron favorite homemade smash burger and fries was born. And it’s under $10. With food now on the table and the conversion of their parking lot to another massive patio in addition to their other two — all dog-friendly complete with games and No. 127
outdoor TVs — Monkey Barrel not only made it to the other side of the pandemic, but is thriving. Despite occupying the space for over 10 years, pouring 100s of thousands of dollars into the building’s restoration and activation of the neighborhood, and even championing the City to finally invest in the neglected park across the street to create a green space for families and residents, the threat of the land Monkey Barrel sits on being replaced with condos has never left. Jimmy and his partner’s requests over the decade to purchase the property continues to be denied, and time is ticking with only three years left on their current lease. They’re hoping their recent Legacy Business award will offer some sort of protection for Sunnyside’s beloved neighborhood bar. “Really the big thing is now that we’re in the Denver Legacy Program, the City of Denver has recognized us as a business that helps contribute to the community. They don’t want us to go away. So the next step is we got to try to get this land, and my landlord has never been open to the idea of selling it to me, even though I bring it up every year. But I have a feeling that if we’re not here, the next tenant or the next owner of the property isn’t going to want to keep it as a restaurant or a venue, or they’re going to want to turn it into condos. That’s where the neighborhood loses — the neighborhood loses a stage, and musicians lose the stage. That’s another stage that’s not monopolized, that’s independent and local, that’s going to be gone for those comedians who have five minutes of stage time. We’re a space where people come for birthdays and celebrations and memorials. It’s really important to have it in the neighborhood.” Jimmy concludes. Despite living in a day and age ruled by big box conglomerates, global banks and large supply chains, the bread and butter of our shared economy and the heartbeat of every city is and will always be local business. Monkey Barrel is a crucial part of what makes Denver vibrant and we need them for their parties and reelin' and rockin.’ But most importantly, we need them for all they do to champion artists, fellow small businesses and the legacy they’re making in Sunnyside. SUPPORT THIS DENVER LEGACY BUSINESS BY SWINGING BY FOR DRINKS, FOOD & EVENTS | OPEN DAILY AT 11AM | 4401 TEJON ST, DENVER, CO LEARN MORE: MONKEYBARRELBAR.COM | FB & IG: @MONKEYBARRELBAR
CHRIS AUSTIN, FREE TV (STUDY)
The shark swims and only knows forward motion with each fin glide of brave desperation. The engine is run on fuel that could be anything. SEALS, TIRES, PEOPLES, BIRDS or sweet sweet CHUM … We gaze in FEAR at the SEA as it is not our place to breathe and swim. The tide sweeping into the slips just east of my ears is always a train ride away. After a lifetime stuck in a quagmire of LIES and BROKEN TOOLS used to build SHANTIES I hocked my dreams out of … The animal kingdom and nature are places that I am from. My father was a BEAR and everyone called him this to his face. ZAC, CRAZY, JUICE, DRZEN, UZIEGO, or OGE was what people called me. He was a very loud man. His voice could carry over the roar of the loudest machines in the wood shop. Even the mighty PLANER passing MAHOGANY would not overpower my father’s ROAR. The violence of SOUND, VOICE, EFFORT and absorbing extreme trauma in the form of POWER TOOLS, RAGE, SCREAMING, EMOTIONAL FRAGILITY all handed to me directly as the STATUS QUO. It was expected that I would do what I was told without question as I was a SQUIRE learning an OLDE WAY that may have been out of place in SPACE and TIME. Almost like picking up an old book I pages very carefully. learned to turn the But I wasn’t careful enough to misstep in haste trying to step away from the rigid hands trying to save me from me in vain. I don’t remember the moment I chose to leave the path and not move to CHICAGO. Everything else is a blur now that I’ve BBQ’d all the hurt into a concrete slab I cast my bag of bones to. Never looking back long enough to consider why I told me to do anything. By pure luck I didn’t DIE a whole bunch of times despite many others not being able to continue. They would be real with me and give me an ATOMIC TRUTH I let live in me that they gave me. It wasn’t always a thing I could see inside the universe of people and experiences I consumed and used to expand my own heart and galaxy … But the weight we take on and carry is all of a value and the size of that value is very important. I lost to battles and travels with shitty pants I chucked into the bathroom of MARGARITAVILLE trying to KILL THE PAIN. But after a long hard slag I finally understood the quote that I chose as a senior, by fellow LEFTY, JIMI HENDRIX “My friends of fashion turned out to be my enemies of thought. They did my wine color slacks and socks. But someday I hope and pray they understand the BAG that I am LIVING IN.” We FEAR the unknown and the known that makes us anxious. But the hunger that we share with the fins that break into bays and reefs is boundless in any elemental context. The moon and sun chase the space they cast shadows and GAMMA RAYS on that burn and warm the ever-whipping rock in space. Too profoundly in motion for all to see that it moves at all times to the LEFT. Much like the SHARK opens its month to feel the meat and choose. It has many tools but SOFT HANDS are not one of them. The teeth that dig in are always replaced by more rows of jagged definition. TEETH are bones that protrude from FACE HOLES and rupture structure into delicious calories. But the SHARK lives in motion as we sleep in circles that spin CLOCKWISE to the LEFT. The mighty wheel whirls us all at the same rate no matter where we stand, sleep, eat, swim or become the once-beating thing in the belly of the great white belly slowly swimming on into utter nothingness. The question mark we both embark upon is the same one that my hero posed to me and took up like a sword pulled from an old stone. CHARLES BUKOWSKI stated that one must do what they love for ONE FULL year. Only then, after paying the price however high and hard, would a writer have earned the mark to stand and write the words on the level I understand. To live as a MAN of the streets that meets the mustard that can plug the words and be more absurd than any of the icons whose jocks and lives lesser fools pretend to ride for, the syntax must become the context and vice versa. The person who was GG ALLIN was probably a lot more like me than people care to remember. It’s fun and cool to watch the UNDERBELLY so smelly or HOARDERS or RICH GREEDY people acting predictably. The SHARK does not allow a conversation or accept a CURRENCY OF PAIN, as that is not a real thing. The only currency the SHARK knows is MEAT. MEAT is real and feels a certain way in the mouth that can choose to bite or release the next mouthful. We choose many things and many choose us by context and gravity. But the waters we break and the chances we take would be all too brazen for us to hide the heart we share with the SHARKS we FEAR and eat small bites of pretending to be BRAVE. WHEN the mouthful of SHARK FIN is paid out in the QUID PRO QUO of the JUNGLE SEA EARTH and SKY is consumed please remember that a living thing dreams at the bottoms of the ocean hoping we were less hungry for a CRUEL MEAL that we feel is our RIGHT to EAT. 6:01 a.m. HOD NYC 5.28.24.00000003 FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZI EGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC 31
DAVE DANZARA, THE CREATURE IN 3D - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
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