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ISSUE 133 | JANUARY 2025 ZHIYONG JING, DREAMLAND - BEST OF BIRDY 100 NAUSICAÄ: KRYSTI JOMÉI LOGAN 5: JONNY DESTEFANO SCAMMER PAYBACK: JULIANNA BECKERT HUGH GLASS: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI BATORU ROWAIARU: CRISTIN COLVIN TIMING X: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH LENINA CROWNE: MEGAN ARENSON FRONT COVER: JOSH KEYES, TURBULENCE - @JOSHKEYES.ART BACK COVER: DAVE DANZARA, SHEEPLE - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS BEST OF BIRDY 090 THE COVID KIDS: JOSH KEYES, MOON PATROL, JOEL TAGERT, JORDAN DOLL, CURTIS BERGESEN, MATTHEW C. MARINER, JASON WHITE, DAN MORAN, NOAH VAN SCIVER, ALI HOFF, JASON HELLER, HANA ZITTEL, BEATIE WOLFE, GRAY WINSLER, AMY GUIDRY, NICK FLOOK, ZAC DUNN, TOM MURPHY, BRIAN POLK, ERIC JOYNER, MICHAEL DAVID KING, ERIK ROGERS, DAVE DANZARA HAL 9000S: ZHIYONG JING, HIDEKO SAN, ROB C MILLER, MORGAN HESLIN BRICE MAIURRO NON SEQUITURS: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER ART MUSEUM, ART CARD DISPATCH, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, MONKEY BARREL, ASTRO TOURS, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, CAT'S EYE CRYSTALS, WE ARE ANIMALS: A WORKSHOP FOR HUMANS, BENNY BLANCO'S, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT OUR ARTIST-RUN MAGAZINE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS A FIELD ON FIRE, BURNING BRIGHT MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, BREAK THROUGH THE SURFACE AND BREATHE
MOON PATROL, SEA WITCH
BEST OF BIRDY 100 No. 133
BEST OF BIRDY 067 No. 133
CURTIS BERGESEN, ALL MYTHS HAVE FOUNDATION IN REALITY - @COLLAGETHEWORLD
JASON WHITE, BUG CATS - BEST OF BIRDY 104 MATTHEW C. MARINER, BRUNCH BLOOD - BEST OF BIRDY 044 No. 133
BEST OF BIRDY 053 No. 133
ALI HOFF, SHROOM - BEST OF BIRDY 085
TT Amy never meant to build an automaton. She didn’t know how to make anything. Nevertheless in her basement one day she heaped laundry baskets and car batteries and garden hoses in such a fashion that they sparked and entered unto a congress and coughed up life. “Awesome!” was the first word the creature said, parroting her Amy’s reaction. So that’s what Amy named her: Awesome. Awesome was lumpy and messy and beautiful, just like Amy’s mom always told her she was. Over time Awesome came to love Amy. But after years together there was nothing she could do to save the woman from the disease she had been born with. No one could do anything. All humans had it. Death, they named it. ° ≈ ° The sky was the color of pumpkins the day Awesome carried Amy to the basement and entombed the remnant of her flesh in the furnace. The woman had lived a long time, some forty-seven years. Time was to Awesome what wind was to a fish. Children ran down the sidewalk next to the house. They ran always, so long and fast they split their skins and angels flew from their brittle shed youth. Awesome stood there, too bereaved to move, and watched the children from the basement window. Run, change, fade. It wasn’t fair, she told herself. So, as the sun dissolved into the horizon one dinnertime, she captured one of the children and caged her near the furnace in her basement. The child refused to share her name, so Awesome called her Cage. She was the hungriest thing Awesome had ever seen. ∏ Cage escaped many times over the course of that winter. Awesome invariably found the child on the couch upstairs, watching cartoons and eating dry Kool-Aid out of the package. On her tenth escape, the box fans and bed sheets comprising her prison had finally been rent beyond repair. “Your room is empty,” said Awesome softly in Cage’s ear. “I was hungry,” the girl shrugged. “What did you eat?” “Everything.” Awesome ran clanking and steaming to the window. There were no children outside, no sidewalk. Just the slick, gulping pulse of muscle. Cage squished syllables into the silence; her breath smelled of plaster. “Why are we whispering?” “Because there’s a ghost in the furnace,” said Awesome, turning from the window, “and she swallows those who leave vacuums.” “A ghost! What’s her name?” Awesome’s voice dropped even lower than a whisper, quieter than Cage could make out. Then the girl heard a crumpled flutter, like aluminum foil in a garbage disposal. Before Cage could run, Awesome hollowed out a pocket in her torso and took her into it. Laundry-basket ribs and garden-hose arteries and car-battery atria slid back into place. Cage sat nested in Awesome’s breast like the cartoons inside the TV set. “It’s okay, Cage,” Awesome said, ambling toward the front door with the girl inside her, a bit off balance due to her new weight. The girl’s fists beat tenderly against her sternum in a steady rhythm, like a drummer’s. “Shush. The ghost is gone now.” 13
By Hana Zittel Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar (2024) On July 3 1988, Iran Air Flight 655, a plane filled with 290 occupants heading from Tehran to Dubai, was shot down by the USS Vincennes, a United States Naval ship. All occupants on board were immediately killed. Poet Kaveh Akbar’s first novel’s trajectory starts here. Roya Shams, mother of Cyrus Shams, was heading to Dubai that day to visit her brother, a man shattered from the trauma he faced on the battlefield of the Iran-Iraq War. The lives of Cyrus and his father, Ali, crumbled after Roya died. Left alone to take care of a small baby, Ali made the decision to uproot their life in Iran, seizing an opportunity to work on a chicken farm in Indiana. Plagued by near constant insomnia and parentless after his father died when he started college, Cyrus, now in his late 20s, is a selfproclaimed poet (without much work to show for it) and in recovery from addiction to both alcohol and drugs. His day job as a medical actor, playing sick and terminally ill patients for medical students to practice delivering bad news and diagnoses, leaves him thinking of death all day long. Cyrus’ thoughts of dying and considerations of suicide have left him questioning what it means for a death to be significant, to mean something. His mother’s death was so instant, so random and meaningless, that he needs to know what the opposite could be. At an open mic, his friend mentions a new art exhibit opening in Brooklyn. An Iranian woman dying of breast cancer is spending her final days in the museum, talking to anyone about anything they want. Cyrus is persuaded to go, to ask her about death, meaning and martyrdom. Akbar’s novel is fluid, inventive and marked with elegant character development. Cyrus and his family are all full, developed, and complex characters with secrets and hidden pasts set against unimaginable tragedy and trauma. One of The New York Times 10 Best Books of 2024, Kaveh Akbar’s first journey into the novel format is a captivating, twisting and truly an original story. He is the author and editor of many other poetry collections including 2021’s Pilgrim Bell, a finalist for both the Forward Prize for Best Collection and Maya Angelou Book Award. Portrait of a Body by Julie Delporte, Translated by Helge Dascher and Karen Houle (2024) “I had never really erotized men either. I’d fall for them the way you fall for a sofa in a Nordic furniture catalogue …” Julie Delporte’s latest graphic novel is a beautiful meditation on queerness, trauma, sex and self. Delporte came out at 35 as she began to understand her attraction to women, and how her previous attitude and lack of enjoyment of sex was due to conformity to heteronormative standards. Through this acceptance of her sexuality, she altered her views on how she should behave, dress and move through the world, making her way to an authentic existence. Drawn with soft colored pencil, Delporte’s illustrations feel light and dreamlike, like we are meandering through her thoughts and inner world. Matched with penciled text in perfect, hand-drawn cursive, Portrait of a Body is as intimate visually as it is in story. An honest and raw memoir, Portrait of a Body is an openhearted coming out story and unfiltered look at the quest for one’s true self. No. 133
BEATIE WOLFE W/ BARBICAN POLAROID - PHOTO BY HIDEKO SAN
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - ITALY 2022 - BEST OF BIRDY 110
BY GRAY WINSLER “Get back here, El!” Her father’s words are distant, subdued by the ringing in her ears, by the patter of her sneakers pounding into the pavement. Ringo senses her approach by her keys, pushes its door open for Ellie. She slips inside, the door automatically locking shut behind her. Her breath is ragged, rivulets of tears and blood sheening her cheeks. There’s a dull pounding beside her — Ellie’s father slamming his fist into Ringo’s passenger window. Ellie flinches at the last thud, the whole of the 2037 Volkswagen vibrating as it disperses the force. “Open this fucking door, El!” She can’t control her breath, unable to look at him, unable to move. No. 133 A line of black-and-white LED text scrolls across Ringo’s screen: “Where would you like to go?” Her voice trembles, no more than a whisper escaping her lips, “Anywhere.” Ringo slams the gas, throwing Ellie back into her seat. She doesn’t look back, hearing her father’s screams fade into the distance, trying not to think of the rage she’ll endure when she returns. She curls up into the leather seat as the sobs take hold of her, her body feeling finally that it’s safe to let go, to let the waves of despair break their dam through a rush of shivering tears. Ringo warms the seat for her and drives on into the night. Ellie sleeps. When she wakes at dawn, Ringo’s pulled off into a scenic outlook along Skyline ART BY ROB C MILLER
Drive. This was where her and her mom used to go on days like these, when the alcohol freed her father’s demons, loosed upon them both. They’d go for long drives together through the Blue Ridge Mountains, Abbey Road filling Ringo’s interior with a brightness they never experienced at home. They’d pretend this was their life, carefree travelers on the open road. They’d pretend they didn’t have to go back. It was on one of those nights, belting out, Oh! Darling, with her mother when they gave Ringo its name. Ellie smiles at the memory, a smile that fades too quickly, a dying ember failing to catch fire. She pushes the door open and walks to the ridge, tree covered mountains undulating before her. Her thoughts are clouded just as the sky above — dark and brooding. Thunder rumbles and cracks, curtains of rain drowning the mountains in the distance. She wraps her arms around herself, feeling the storm's chill seep away what little warmth she has. I should go back, she thinks. I have to go back. She walks back to Ringo, stepping into the driver’s side seat. “Let’s go home,” she says. “Home?” the LED text reads. “Yes, home.” Ellie repeats. She expects the engine to hum to life, for Ringo to lurch forward and carry her back to her father. But nothing happens. The LED text remains blank. Ringo pushes the rearview mirror in toward her. Ellie looks up, sees herself for the the first time. Her left eye is black and purple, dried blood streaked down from her split eyebrow. She shivers at the sadness she sees in her own eyes. She can’t look away, even as her eyes again begin to well with tears. “Where would you like to go?” Ringo’s LED text scrolls. Wind rushes through Ellie’s hair, curly waves of gold in the late afternoon sun. She can smell the ocean on the air, taste the salt water on her tongue. A green sign flashes past her reading: “San Diego — 28.” Thousands of miles, the whole of the country, stand between her and her old life. That’s how she’s come to think of it, more and more with each passing day — my old life. As if the Ellie of San Diego, CA and the Ellie of Grottoes, VA are two different people — as if where we are is inextricably connected to who we are. With every town her and Ringo stop in, she finds that ember growing just a little brighter inside of her. Sure, she has just enough gas to make it to the hostel that costs the last of her savings — but it doesn’t matter. She feels free for the first time in her whole life. Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter, Ellie sings over McCartney and Harrison, thinking of her mom. She thinks of her mom often. She wishes she was with her now, wishes they’d decided to run away together long ago. Ringo pulls down Newport Ave in Ocean Beach. It parks in front of a pink picket fence that marks the front of her hostel; a rainbow peace sign sitting atop the building’s peaked roof. Ringo’s LED text reads: “Arrived.” Ellie goes inside to check in. She’s helped by a man in his late 30s, still in his wetsuit from the morning surf. “Is this your place?” she asks. The man smiles, “Nah — I was just following the coast, letting my skateboard lead the way, you know? It brought me here, and I haven’t been able to leave since. There’s no place on earth better than OB — you’re gonna love it.” There’s a kindness in his eyes, a sincerity that makes her believe him. “Is that one of those self-drivers?” the man asks. Ellie glances out the window at Ringo. “It is,” she says proudly. “Wow — that’s rad. How’d you get it?” “It was my mom’s.” “Right on,” he hands over the key to the room. “You’re all set, Ellie. If you ever need anything, I’m around — just ask for Bodi.” Ellie’s room is on the second floor, looking out to the courtyard in the back. There’s a mural outside her window: a unicorn with a purple horn jumping through a rainbow, and a banner above waving in and out of the clouds. “You’re exactly where you need to be,” Ellie reads aloud to herself. She sets her backpack down and falls back onto the bed, soft linens floating her above the world. “I’m exactly where I need to be,” she says, smiling. Ellie feels the onrush of the wave and adjusts her stance — too late. Her feet slip, the surfboard sliding out from underneath her. The wave crashes overhead, plunging her into the cool salt water. She floats in the dark of the ocean for an instant, adrift, then swims to the surface. She grabs onto Bodi’s borrowed surfboard tethered to her ankle and paddles in. “That was a rad wipe out,” Bodi says. Ellie laughs, “You think everything’s rad.” “Everything is rad.” Ellie chuckles, looks to her watch. “I should get to work. Same time tomorrow morning?” “If the surf calls,” he shrugs. Ellie smiles at him. Bodi says he doesn’t have a schedule (says further that “time is just a construct of our minds, man”), but she knows he’ll be here tomorrow morning, same as always. She walks up Newport Ave and climbs into Ringo’s back seat. “To work,” she says. Ringo juts off toward downtown San Diego as Ellie changes out of her wetsuit in the back. Dressed, she climbs up into the driver’s seat, admiring the skyline in the early morning light. “Can you believe it, Ringo?” she asks, in awe of these past few weeks, feeling more and more distant from her life back East. Ringo parks around the corner from The Invigatorium where Ellie started as a barista a few weeks back. She gives Ringo a pat on the hood and heads inside to clock in, waving good morning to her boss, Drew. One of her coworkers said to keep an eye on him, but he seems nice enough to Ellie. After all, he gave her a job with no more experience than managing concessions at a high school gym. The day passes without much event, Ellie spending the quiet moments making lists inside of her notebook. She sketches a banner at the top of one page that says: “What do I want to DO with my life?!” In all those days staring up at the ceiling in her room, hiding from life inside the confines of her headphones, she only ever thought about leaving. But her home was a black hole, encircled in an event horizon she could never see beyond. She could never imagine what life could be like beyond its grasp — until now. At the end of the day Ellie’s cleaning the espresso machine, getting ready to clock out when she sees Drew come up to her. “Hey El, you mind giving me a ride home?” he asks. “Some jag uploaded a virus to my wheels. I can’t even get the door open.” “Of course — just give me a second to finish up here,” Ellie says. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll meet you by Ringo.” She finishes up and meets him outside, the two of them sliding inside Ringo’s cozy interior as it hums to life, Abbey Road starting up as it always does. “You like The Beatles?” Drew asks, sounding surprised. “They’re all I listen to.” “Wow, and here I thought your generation had bad taste in music.” “What does my generation listen to.” “You know — the fake shit. Half the songs I hear on the radio today are written by some AI, manufacturing synthetic beats AB tested to soothe our ears. Speaking of which, isn’t this a self-driver?” “Yeah, but sometimes I miss the feel of driving,” Ellie says, taking in the soft grooved leather wheel underneath her hands. “You should put it on cruise for a bit,” he says, sliding his hand to her knee.
“What are you doing?” Ellie asks, eyes on the road. “What do you mean?” he asks, hand unmoved. “Drew, take your hand off me.” “Oh come on — you know you want to.” “No — I don’t." Ellie grabs his hand by the wrist, throwing it back across the console, eyes unmoved from the road. “Come on El, I thought we had an understanding here?” Drew says, slithering his hand back across the console, underneath the hem of Ellie's skirt. “I hired you for a reason.” “Get your hand off me, Drew.” He squeezes her thigh. Ellie shivers. Ringo’s LED text scrolls: “Accident risk — interior.” Drew’s seat back thrashes forward, slamming his head into the dashboard, his nose cracking against hardened plastic. He whips back with a groan, holding his hand to his nose, blood spurting down his chin. “What the fuck?” he groans. Ellie white-knuckles the steering wheel, feeling her pulse quicken, feeling that tingle of fear prickle the base of her skull, the same feeling she always felt around her father. Drew wipes blood off his palm. “Christ — what is wrong with you?” “It wasn’t …” “Pull the car over here.” Ellie hesitates, unsure what he’ll do if she stops. “I said pull over!” Drew leans over to grab the steering wheel, but his seatbelt snaps against his chest, fastening him to his seat. He strains against it, shouts, “Tell your fucking car to cut this out, El!” As he writhes, Ellie glances to see the seatbelt constricting around him, “Accident risk — interior” still written across Ringo’s screen. She takes her hand off the wheel and yanks at Drew’s seatbelt, jamming her thumb into the red button to free it. But the button won’t move, the buckle’s locked in. Drew cries out in pain as the belt fastens tighter, its zigzagging imprint burning into his skin. He finds his breath shallowing, the seatback and belt compressing his chest. “El,” he says through gasped air. “Tell it to stop — now.” “Ringo, cut it out!” she screams. The belt tightens. Ellie turns to Drew, seeing a glint of fear in his eyes, realizing he’s powerless, realizing they’re both powerless. The fear in her own mind is numbed by shock. That ringing returns to her ears, the tinnitus that makes reality seem distant, like she’s no more than a far away passenger to this story. Traffic rushes around them and she hears across a chasm of awareness Drew’s gasping breath beside her. Her eye twitches at a crack of bone, the seatbelt carving into Drew’s hips. She pulls away form him, averting her gaze, fingers tingling with numbness. She hears short, sharp gasps. Desperation. She feels absently a hand, cold fingers claw at her arm. She does not move. She lets the numbness still her. And then there is quiet. Only the hiss in her ears, and a colorful array of cars streaming around her. Ringo’s LED text reads: “Accident risk — resolved.” Through the hiss she hears Abbey Road turn to the next track: “The End.” Oh yeah, all right, Are you going to be in my dreams Tonight? BEST OF BIRDY 099 No. 133
AMY GUIDRY, DELICATE - BEST OF BIRDY 079
BY ZAC DUNN | ART BY NICK FLOOK Upon any block or curb, a tiny bit of liquid or condensation may gather prior to vanishing into the ether … a puddle may catch one’s eye and cast a gaze back inversely … TO smile back or grimace a response so honest we claw at the day GLO antiFREEZE — smelling of alkaline mines upon an acrid plain that is brittle and fickle — crackles and snaps under DUNKS of hoofed boots as mountains upon NEPTUNE exude secluded glue. Spooned up by MARTIN and baby HELMET folk aboard a PIE-SHAPE LID or DISC that sips of COSMIC VAPOR, SPACE GRAVITATIONAL ARC welders stay attached by humble GROMMETS that WALLACE and MICK RONSON told a STAR MAN would suffice. Tricycles often spin out of brown clouds of MOON DUST that ANGELS and DEMONS prance and gyrate like EPILEPTIC GIRAFFES’ laugher at watering holes upon a CIRCUS’ dark half. RADIOACTIVE particles cascade infinite spectacles that fracture into prisms given by kooky mathematics folk as a joke to elaborate the perilous joy of FRACTALS, as diving as deep to the bottom of the puddle, as diving into the infinity inside the patterns of nature, a computer VOMITS back as a colorful vortex or OCULUS can see … So BE THE PUDDLE SO FILTHY AND EYE SO BLIND TO MISS THE COMET’S KISS UPON TAILS THAT ANNIHILATE ALL MATTER UPON ITSELF AS THE DROPS EVAPORATE OUR SKILL AND ABILITY TO MAKE HATE, FUCK OR KILL IN A HUBRIS OUTSIDE OUR OWN WILL. 5:45 am 8.5.24.00000003 OGE FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC
TRAVELER - @FLOOKO
WORDS & PHOTO BY TOM MURPHY In the annals of Denver underground music history, one of the names that garners the most respect of local punk and alternative rock are post-punk/ garage rock legends The Fluid. Since splitting in 1993, the band’s records have become something of collectors items for the cognoscenti or those who were simply there to witness the passion and camaraderie of Richard Kulwicki, Matt Bischoff, John Robinson, Garrett Shavlik and James Clower in action and giving their all on stage. The Fluid were the first non-Pacific Northwest band to sign to Sub Pop after having already made connections in the region through touring and becoming part of a network of mutual musical influence with the Seattle grunge scene. But their impact went much further, and in Denver, their influence as a band — and as people — extended for years and continues to this day. But the records had long been out of print until December 6, 2024 when Sub Pop reissued the first three full-length albums, Punch N Judy (1986), Clear Black Paper (1988) and Roadmouth (1989), as well as the Glue EP (1990) and a new collection of outtakes and 8-track versions of songs called Overflow. Not to mention the “Tin Top Toy” single and the “Candy (Live - From Nirvana Split).” All remastered by grunge scene engineer Jack Endino and JJ Golden with remixes overseen by Endino and the band. The albums, the collection and the EP are now available in handsome colored No. 133 vinyl editions through the Sub Pop website or at your local record store. Don’t worry, completionists, the Freak Magnet EP is included with the download of Clear Black Paper. When the band unexpectedly reunited in 2008 for the Sub Pop 20th anniversary shows that July, I was living in a warehouse space with Kurt Ottaway (Twice Wilted, Tarmints, Overcasters, Emerald Siam, Leathervains) where the band was doing its early rehearsals. John Call of Veronica was initially filling in on drums before Shavlik and Robinson could be on hand for the Denver show practices ahead of the Sub Pop show and subsequent 2009 tour dates in New Jersey, Brooklyn and Seattle again. I got to know the members of the band — mostly Bischoff and Kulwicki — and came to like and respect them as people even more than musicians. And those reunion shows were proof positive that The Fluid were one of the most vital and electrifying bands Denver has ever produced. All the songs I’d heard from what I could get of their albums came to vivid focus in a way that was immediately inspiring and gave the music its living context. Peers like Mark Arm of Mudhoney and Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth showed up to the 2009 gigs in Seattle and Brooklyn respectively as fans of the Denver legends. The band has already spoken to the varied means by which it recorded
and had its albums produced at the time when no one with a major budget was knocking down the doors of a Denver band that was clearly drawing on the likes of Detroit proto-punk, Nuggets-era garage psych and the Stones. But the songwriting had been strong from the beginning. The raw excitement of “You” from the first album is undeniable. Clear Black Paper is a long-time fan favorite and gets a boost in sound with the remaster kicking off with the classic raver, “Cold Outside.” The highly underrated Roadmouth and Glue are the best sounding records in their original form the band ever put out. But both are packed full of songs that showcased how The Fluid were not really riding the grunge bandwagon, but had plenty of bite and intensity on their own with songs about gritty human reality. Except The Fluid’s music never seemed to be brimming with personal darkness, its songs burned with an expansive spirit of perseverance and even joy. Kulwicki tragically passed away on February 15, 2011. But this reintroduction of The Fluid’s work in such a loving format would have made him proud, because it has aged better than a lot of the music of its time and is worth revisiting in full. FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM 25
I have no idea who I really am. My mind offers me visions of myself in the past, present, future. Some of these visions happened. Some of them are happening. Some will happen or not happen at all. Everything that lives inside my head is my interpretation of events, and mine alone. And it’s a swirling mess of contradiction. Sometimes I envision myself as a future lover with partners I will never even kiss. Other times I’m a loser who doesn’t deserve love. One minute, I might think I know what I’m doing. Most other minutes, I have no clue. Some days I see my death years from now, and I’m happy and surrounded by loved ones. Most days, I die alone. Every day I die alone. In my head, I am congruently beautiful, ugly, the second smartest person ever, the third dumbest, a pleasure to be around, undeserving of friends, loads of fun, a total drag, talented, worthless, a joy, a plague. And when I see myself in the past, I’m proud that I’ve overcome so much hardship. But I mean, what did I do really? I impressed one person. Embarrassed myself in front of the other. I have trophies somewhere — probably in a landfill now. I’ve accomplished amazing things that I’ve totally forgotten about. Does any of it mean anything? Currently, I love life and hate every second of it. I want to live another 50 years. I want to die tomorrow. I miss being younger. I want to be older. I need to be older. I have to get older, right? I hate myself right now, but tonight it may be a different story. Where did I go wrong? Can I make it right? Did they have it coming? Did I? Do I? Where do I see myself in 10 years, hours, minutes? What do I have to show for the last 10 years, hours, minutes? Will I ever fucking be okay? Have I ever been okay? What if I’m never okay? Now is not okay. But I’m listening to a record that was my favorite 20 years ago. It’s still here. I’m still here. I feel like there’s something profound in that, but I don’t know what it is. Why do I have trouble breathing sometimes? That’s not how I was designed biologically. Maybe I’m an evolutionary mistake. That would explain some things around here. Could you read this and give me notes? There are always notes, aren’t there? It’s too much too soon. It’s a day late and a dollar short. So many notes. So many opinions. That frame over there on the wall — it’s always, I don’t know, just off. I don’t even know how to adjust it. I don’t think you can. Because every time you do, it’s off in another way. In a way none of us ever saw coming. We can’t ever see it coming, can we? It’s a boring whirlwind. Controlled chaos. Level-headed calamity. What if I gave everything I had so I could shine my brightest for an hour? Would you notice? Would you lose interest? What about 10 minutes? One minute? Can I just ask you one question? I guess I just did. It’s a shame you don’t want to know what I had to say. It really is. Because that’s all I ever wanted. I guess I also wanted you to care. Or at least to see how much I cared. Because I always cared so much. And I still do. What if I imagined a version of you that understood? You didn’t ask demeaning questions. You weren’t embarrassed by my earnestness. You didn’t hate the fact I was still in your life. You just listened. You held my hand and said, “I know what that’s like. I get it.” And then we laughed and cried at the absurdity of everything. I just needed you to understand what you could never in a million years understand. But you have your own brain. Your own mind that needs to make sense of things. That sees a version of yourself in the past, present, future. You are a hero and a failure. Pretty, unattractive, bright, dull, worthy, unworthy. I’m sure there were things you wanted me to see about you that I missed as well. Of course there were. I have a No. 133 million apologies for that, and I know you heard one of them. Just know that there are more. So many more. Anyway, I know you’re not actually here. No one else is. And it’s probably too late anyway. It definitely is. I see you in my past. But you’re not here now. I can’t even picture your face right now — definitely not enough to pretend you’re in the future. I know you’re not there. I just wish … Well, I wish so many things. Too many things. I’m sure I’ll spend my entire life wishing. That I did things differently. That I will do things differently. That I have it in me to do things differently in this moment. I’m destined to want everything to not be how it is. I don’t like how it is. I probably won’t ever like how it is. That frame on the wall. You adjusted it, didn’t you? It’s off, but not like before. I remember now. How you spent all day wishing it were different. “It doesn’t have to be off,” you said. And you tried — I know you did. Don’t think I didn’t see you trying. I don’t ever want you to think I didn’t notice. You moved it. But you moved it too far in the other direction. And at first, it was wrong in a new way. And the novelty felt different. And we thought we were going to be okay for a while. But it didn’t last, did it? Novelty never does. You and I needed to always be changing in a stable sort of way. Different sameness. Serious humor. Revised uniformity. Earnest frivolity. And so it goes, going, gone. It went. And I don’t know what to do anymore. I guess I never did. But the uncertainty is hitting harder this time. My soul is leaking. And I can’t make it stop. Like a captain going down with the ship, I accept my fate while I panic. A brave coward. A sad stoic. An uninspired muse. I am overloaded with emotion even though I can’t feel anything anymore. I want to be everywhere and nowhere at all. See me, but please stop looking at me. I’m looking at the frame again. I told myself not to, but I did anyway. You always have to look. You can’t help it. Sometimes you can tilt your head, and that frame looks fine. But you can’t walk around with your head tilted like that. It skews the rest of the world. Someone will notice and tell you about it. And when enough people tell you, your neck will straighten. And you’ll realize how much better it feels to see the world with a straight neck. Other times, I look at the frame and just pretend it’s okay that it’s off. Perfect imperfection. A genius mistake. Wonderous wrongness. But you can’t stop noticing that it’s not right. You have to notice. And eventually, you have to admit it: it’s off. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong and can’t ever be right — even though you wish it could be different. And there I go wishing again. I wish it never happened. I wish I could do it all again. I wish it weren’t over. I wish it ended years ago — maybe then I’d be over it. But maybe — and probably — I’ll never be over it. It’ll become a part of me. So many parts of me. So much of me hurts. This painful life, body, mind. My mind always hurts. When your eyes have third degree burns, all you can see is pain. Maybe in the distance there’s a faint tinge of love. Maybe. So many maybes. Too many. Maybe one day there won’t be so many. I’m not sure if that’s better. I’m not sure it will ever be better. All these things are happening all the time — they were always happening. I encompass all of it and nothing at all. I’m composed of stardust on a lonely planet in an impossibly vast universe. Yet I only exist in my mind and in the minds of a small handful of people that happened to be around me at the same time I was here. But they’ve always been here. And so have I. It all means nothing and everything. And I’m both lucky and unfortunate to have experienced any of it. I don’t want it to ever end, but it has to stop somewhere, doesn’t it? Start, stop, begin, end …
MORGAN HESLIN, HOT SUMMER GETAWAYS - BEST OF BIRDY 083
No. 133
ERIC JOYNER, NIGHT RACER - ERICJOYNER.COM
MICHAEL DAVID KING - BEST OF BIRDY 003 HITLER BIGFOOT Trek deep into the Austrian wilderness for clues and unravel the mystery of this legendary creature. MAN VS. SELF (TV-PG) Host Ronk Kupperman must survive 96 hours in the harshest natural environments armed only with his incompetence and poor decision-making skills. SO YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE YOUR OLD MAN?! Adult children are forced to confront their drunken father in a bare-knuckle brawl. SHITHEAD DYNASTY The McAllister clan is three generations of Kentucky fartknocker: Stern and moronic father Zeke, corpseminded twins Darla and Charlisse, and the fuckwit they only call “Dooby.” ANTIQUES ROAD WARRIOR Historians and antiquarians bludgeon each other in the sunbleached desert with rare and priceless artifacts. JAY LENO’S GARAGE OF DENIM CARS He’s back! Join Jay as he whines and wheezes at length about his love of cars made entirely out of dungaree. THE XXX FILES You always wanted Mulder and Scully to “get it on,” but did you know that Skinner and that musclefaced alien bounty hunter would get in on the orgy? This show takes that premise and just fucking goes. (ANIMATED) FRASIER 2 Frasier Crane’s lost son Starr returns to Seattle to sell heroin and work as a machinist. Starring David Faustino. LAW & ORDER: ICE-T RAPPING INCOHERENTLY FOR 28 MINUTES Detective Tutuola is on the streets and he’s saying ... something? GLEE: CHINA BEACH (TV-MA) In between the mines and tiger traps these Vietnam-era Marines would die for each other, or for their love of music! ALTON BROWN ISN'T MOVING The beloved celebrety chef hasn’t so much as twitched in over two days. Guest starring a lamp that looks like Mario Batali’s foot, and a visibly mummified Anthony Bourdain. HAROLD N’ MAUDE The star-crossed lovers open a hip, jamming record store in 1990s Chic — you know I can’t even type this shit. HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER Spoiler alert: rest stop glory hole. IRON SHEMP The nation’s best sad-sack Shemp impersonators battle it out in Stooge Stadium. SUPERNATURALIST Hunky twins Dutch and Connor fight spirits, ghouls and sometimes each other at South Carolina’s finest nude beaches. Starring Peter Scolari. GROWING UP SEAGAL Steven Seagal’s kids wish for death as a camera crew follows them around and makes light of their existential damnation. BORB’S BARGERS Harried restaurateur Borb Blempert and his wife Blemba try to keep their family hamblubber joint afloat, while dealing with their crazy kids Tima, Geam and Blueesh. (IN ESTONIAN, SUBTITLED) LENA DUNHAM: COLONOSCOPY This 8-part series follows the Girls star as the deepest recesses of her bowels are plumbed via videoscope for no real. No. 133
ART BY JASON WHITE 31
ERIK ROGERS, THEY'RE ALSO STARVING - BEST OF BIRDY 048 No. 133
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