ISSUE 135 | MARCH 2025 SKOT OLSEN, NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH - SKOTOLSEN.COM HALF-PIPE: JONNY DESTEFANO TREEHOUSE: KRYSTI JOMÉI SIDEWALK CHALK: JULIANNA BECKERT DRIVE-IN: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI ICE CREAM TRUCK: CRISTIN COLVIN 8-TRACK: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH CUL DE SAC: MEGAN ARENSON LEMONADE STAND: AMANDA SHAFER FRONT COVER: JOE VAUX, NEIGH - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX BACK COVER: DAVE DANZARA, OBEY - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS SCOOBY SNACKS: JORDAN DOLL, MOON PATROL, JOEL TAGERT, NICK FLOOK, ERIC JOYNER, BRIAN POLK, JASON WHITE, DAVE DANZARA, GRAY WINSLER, HANA ZITTEL, SIENA GOLDMAN, JOSH KEYES, JASON HELLER, TOM MURPHY, RAY YOUNG CHU, NOAH VAN SCIVER, RICARDO FERNANDEZ, ZAC DUNN, BRIANNA CORN, KID KOALA THE ZARN: JOE VAUX, SKOT OLSEN, THE SINGULARITY, BRANDON EARLEY, ELI HALL, TAYLOR PIERCE, BUD SNOW, MALI JAROO, CHRIS VAN DE VOOREN, NED SNOWMAN DOG GANG: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, CRISTIN COLVIN, LISA EBERHARTER SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: NIGHT LIGHTS DENVER, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, DENVER COMEDY UNDERGROUND, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, BRASSWORKS GALLERY, ART CARD DISPATCH, MONKEY BARREL, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE: HORROR WRITERS RETREAT, BOULDER INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL, DEVO (2024), WATERCOURSE FOODS, CITY, O' CITY, COLORADO SUN TOFU, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BENNY BLANCO'S, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | BSKY + 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 REPURPOSED COUNT CHOCULA, LACTOSE-FREE MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, GOONIES NEVER SAY DIE 1
BY JORDAN DOLL THE GOOD SHIP WTF!?!? Are you afraid of boats? First of all, hilarious. Second of all congratulations! other nautical vessels. Now, if you haven’t already heard this, I would like to assure you that this is a completely irrational phobia. How many times do I have to say it? The ocean can’t get you if you just stay away from the ocean! I mean, what do you think is gonna happen? It’s not like a boat is gonna grow a pair of huge tattooed arms, crawl up onto land, break into your house and steal your PlayStation. Oof, could you imagine though? You’re in bed late at night when you hear the ominous call of a distant foghorn. But that’s impossible. You live in Kansas. But then you hear it again, a little closer. And again, closer still. Silence for a while, then a window creaks open in the living room. THUD, THUD, THUD. The sound of enormous boots creeping toward your bedroom. The door flies open, revealing: THE REINFORCED STEEL HULL OF A MAERSK E-CLASS WORLDWIDE SHIPPING VESSEL! Okay, I get it a little. But that almost never happens. And, in all truth, boats are probably just as afraid of you as you are of them. In fact, there is almost no history supporting the idea that a boat will just up and kill you for no good reason whatsoever. Oh, except that one time. The strange tale of the Ourang Medan is a hotly debated topic among ghost ship enthusiasts. Many are rather quick to cry hoax while others believe it to be startling proof of one of the myriad strange tales that wash in from the sea on an upsettingly regular basis. The Ourang Medan was a Dutch freighter operating in the Straits of Malacca between Sumatra and Malaysia in the late 1940s. The name Ourang Medan translates from Indonesian as “Man from Medan,” presumably because “Boat from Medan” was already taken. Sometime in late 1947 or 1948 (remember these are “sea-years” we are dealing with which are as wily and unpredictable as the briny deep herself), numerous ships working these No. 135 same waters received a mysterious SOS signal containing a rather frank and chartroom and bridge. Possibly whole crew dead.” This message was followed by a few more bursts of panicked gibberish and one final, chilling message repeating simply: “I die.” The ships who received the transmission were able to triangulate the most likely origin point of the message, and attributed it to the Ourang Medan, the only vessel in that area at the time. A ship named the Silver Star, whose captain was apparently the last one to touch his nose and shout, “not it!” ventured out to investigate the situation. The Silver Star discovered the Ourang Medan floating motionless in calm waters. Repeated attempts to hail the vessel resulted in only silence and so the decision was made to board. What they found was basically the biggest floating NOPE of all time. The rescuers discovered the deck of the Ourang Medan to be bitterly cold despite the temperature outside being well above 100 degrees, which is spooky, but not shit-out-your-skeleton-and-run-awayacross-the-water-like-a-cartoon-duck spooky. No, that part wouldn’t come until they pressed further into the upper decks and discovered the vessel to be manned entirely by the rigid corpses of the former crew. The captain and deck crew were found dead on the bridge, the ship’s communications decks were entirely populated by dead sailors, all of whom seemed to have been caught completely unaware and struck dead by nothing in particular. But that’s only the tip of this big, spooky yikesberg. According to the rescuers, the Ourang Medan crew seemed almost frozen in place. Many of the corpses sitting bolt upright and some even standing, arms raised as though to shield themselves from whatever it was that flash-killed them in an instant. Even the ship’s dog was allegedly found stone dead in mid-snarl, barking at some unseen assailant. As a final grizzly detail, every crew member above and below deck was said to be
wearing the same look of astonished fear, heads tilted ever so slightly upward, as though staring down the barrel of a death they simply could not believe. According to legend, the crew of the Silver BEST OF BIRDY 043 Star attempted to tow the floating horror show a few hundred miles back to shore but were spared the experience when smoke began to billow from one of the lower decks of the Medan. Within a few minutes, the Medan literally exploded and was swallowed up by the jealous sea! As though Poseidon himself were saying, “You didn’t see nothing.” The Silver Star burned rudder the hell out of there, and the Ourang Medan sank deep into nautical legend. Sailors are pretty great at pretending things didn’t happen. Whether it’s the horrible thing you all did to Allan in order to survive that month in a life boat, or that magical summer you spent as the bearded concubine of a vicious pirate warlord, about 40 percent of being a sailor is just reminding oneself that it’s probably “best not to think about it.” (The other 60 percent is a saucy blend of shivering timbers and learning to sing while drinking. Like a ventriloquist does. But with rum.) But a thing like the Ourang Medan incident? That one don’t scrub out quite so easily. That’s the type of thing that feeds nightmares, internet conspiracy forums and blossoming cases of naviphobia for years to come. What happened out there? Was the crew of the Ourang Medan overcome by some unknown weather phenomenon? Some freezing storm cell that sucked the wind right out of their lungs? Was it something in their cargo that took their lives? Some mysterious and deadly agent? An illegal shipment of gas, or weapons that killed them all in mere seconds. Or could it all be exactly as simple as it seems? That on that hot summer day all those years ago, these sailors found themselves in the presence of something strange out there in the middle of the ocean. Something so powerful, so alien, so mind-shatteringly inconceivable that to even gaze upon it meant their very undoing. Some ultimate truth, known only now to them, from which they could not, would not, look away. Thankfully, most of us will never need to know the answers to these things. For many the most upsetting maritime disaster we will ever be forced to look at will be the endless deluge of Pirates of the Caribbean sequels they keep squeezing from the drying pulp that was once Johnny Depp (Just let him die!) Because that’s the thing about the ocean. It can’t get you if you just, say it with me now, STAY AWAY FROM THE OCEAN! Good. Good. So once again, from all of us here at Werewolf Radar — hold up, someone is at the door. *Sound of door opening* *DEAFENING FOGHORN BLAST* *SCREAMS* *Silence* Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to: werewolfradarpod@gmail.com | Twitter: @WerewolfRadar. It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be prepared. 3
MOON PATROL, WELCOME TO THE SINGULARITY
BY JOEL TAGERT Out of the poisoned wastes in the east he drifted like a decrepit dirigible, a gasbag so bilious and vile the earth though wounded repelled his pustulent flesh. Upon him clung the remains of a survival suit that had obviously failed its purpose, unsurprising given the uncounted plumes of the catastrophically bombed and abandoned power plants belching their searing smoke across the continent, the cursed heirlooms of humanity’s outrageously heedless forebears. That he had in some fashion died was unmistakable, given the shredded scraps that were all that remained of his legs; just as unmistakably, some demonic bargain kept his malignant being afloat, an inhuman intelligence puppeting his limbs for one last gruesome show. A screen was attached to his chest, once used for readouts of vital signs or to adjust the machinery keeping him animate. Now, however, it blared clips from ancient newsreels, anchors long ago rendered to ash ceaselessly clamoring his praises, or the gasbag himself in former glory, all at a volume calculated to crush the consciousness of anyone within a mile. THESE PEOPLE, THEY’RE NOT GOOD PEOPLE a muscular response from the White House I COULD SHOOT SOMEONE There were few survivors, a fraction of a percent clinging to miserable life in bunkers or holes, having miraculously evaded the initial blasts, the following firestorms, the plagues, the famine, and the radiation (so far), the caprice of currents drawing out their demise. Such a place was Miller’s Lock, where a hundred haggard souls harvested crops grown in warehouses and lived just long enough to replenish their numbers, never prospering but thus far not perishing entirely. By rights they should have heard the gasbag approaching, but his senses were preternatural in this regard and he could smell blood miles away, like a shark, or a magnetized needle turning toward the pole. Thus he floated noiselessly over their fences, effortlessly disabled their cameras, and drifted downward to the dusty rectangle that passed for the center of town. A few masked inhabitants walked on, not having noticed, and nearly fell to their knees when his voice blasted out. WE’RE GOING TO MAKE THIS COUNTRY GREAT AGAIN The three townsfolk outside took one shocked look and ran. He didn’t much like this, and had been bored and hungry for too long. With a twitch of his fingers he seized the nearest up into the air, a middleaged woman I NEVER LIKED HORSEFACE and with a wave of his hand tore the clothes from her body. She writhed in his crushing telekinetic grip and screamed for help. The gasbag spun her around slowly, a vestige of avid prurience locked into his dead character, and then lost interest. NASTY WOMAN With another slight motion he tore her in half and flung the pieces away like hamburger wrappers. Seeing this, and being sure enough about the threat beforehand, the townspeople let loose with a barrage of automatic gunfire, immensely loud, from behind concrete barricades. The gasbag barely took notice, the bullets falling to the ground before they ever reached him. THEY ARE, IN MANY CASES, CRIMINALS, MURDERERS, RAPISTS With sudden speed he levitated forward and up. The criminals were easy to find and immensely fun to rip apart. Some he would raise above his body and crush slowly, revelling in their agony, until his whole misshapen bulk was black with gore and thick blood dripped slow from the tapered remnants of his shins. His appetite was boundless and he gorged until the very last of them was still. Afterward, for several days, he dozed. When he was ready to move on at last he realized that he had missed having subordinates sing his praises, and idly he waved the top half of his first kill into the air with him, and another, a man, in several pieces. Thank you for putting America first, their throats wheezed, prompted by his eldritch prodding. America is with you. PEOPLE LOVE ME, the gasbag boomed. AND YOU KNOW WHAT, I HAVE BEEN VERY SUCCESSFUL. EVERYBODY LOVES ME. There’s something you need to see, Ava told them. I’ll warn you, it’s disturbing. The small folk had not even known Ava was performing surveillance on the miserable Scratchers, but it did not surprise them. She had been created to protect all living things and that concern obviously extended to these scattered human communities. Their faces turned grave as they watched a recording of the gasbag’s rampage. What is it? Cara asked, wiping away tears. What is this thing? A man once, Ava answered. A politician. Now a puppet of the old 5
powers. I thought they were all destroyed with the data centers. Not all. And this may be the worst of those that remain. Can we stop it? Not entirely, unless we find its center. It has to have a power source, probably nuclear, maybe geothermal. Toward the end they buried them deep. I’ve been searching for it, but the plumes complicate things. The puppeteer for now is beyond our reach, but the puppet can be nullified. I need your help. They accepted without hesitation, knowing themselves as Ava’s hands and eyes. Usually they travelled slow in their cells, the solarpowered pods creeping across the landscape according to the sunlight available. This time Ava sent them a special cell, a reflective silver sphere that appeared over their camp humming and lowered itself gently to the ground to open a hatchway. Always when outdoors they wore prophylactic masks and lenses, but today they took special care with second skins and full helmets, compound lenses glittering like the eyes of insects. The sphere’s speed was limited primarily by air resistance and their own ability to withstand the acceleration, and in twenty minutes they were a few miles near the target and disembarked at the outskirts of a ruined city, some shattered remnants still scraping the sky. Remove your helmets for a few minutes, Ava directed, so he can smell you. Otherwise you’re nearly invisible. The five of them did as told and while they waited placed a series of small devices in a semi-circle on the broken asphalt. There, Cara said finally. Three dots approached on the horizon. They put their helmets on again and stood. Their lenses could see many hidden things and they looked with sickened interest at the gasbag’s approach. The superintelligence that enabled him did not rely upon any physical mechanism for flight, but reached into the foundations directly to twist reality to its ends. As he drew near the gasbag spread his arms. I AM THE CHOSEN ONE, he roared. Thank God he is willing to put America first, the corpses with him gasped. The small folk merely stood there. Impatient, the gasbag raised his arms to toss them into the air, to enjoy their screams and broken limbs. Nothing happened. I AM A VERY STABLE GENIUS, the dead voice boomed, and he waved his hands again. The devices the small folk had placed opened like lotus flowers, the crystalline petals shining in the dusk with many colors. The gasbag’s screen flickered in confusion. I ALONE — The voice crackled and faded in a flatulent whine. First one and then the other of his rotting attendants dropped to the dust and were still. The gasbag shook and waved his arms, but no further sound came. Is it done? Cara asked. It’s done, Ava replied. I’ve cut him off from his source. He can neither see nor hear nor speak. He’ll float on, but he won’t bother anyone anymore. Is that kind? Wouldn’t it be better to just … I don’t know, to end him? You can’t destroy creatures like that. It just makes them stronger. All you can do is attenuate their power. Don’t worry. His time is already past. THE SINGULARITY, BLOOD MOON
NICK FLOOK, CLOSED SEASON - BEST OF BIRDY 094 - @FLOOKO
ERIC JOYNER, ATTACK OF THE 300 FT. BARBIE - ERICJOYNER.COM BY BRIAN POLK IN MY IMAGINATION, THE LAST DATE I WENT ON ENDED IN HUMILIATION WHEN SHE REFERRED TO ME AS “A COMPLETELY UNDATEABLE WASTE OF TIME” AND SAID, “HOW COULD A LOSER LIKE YOU THINK HE DESERVES LOVE?” In real life, I never went on such a date, because it only happened in my mind. The truth of the matter is, I am scared to death of dating again. So instead of getting on the apps and giving it any sort of effort whatsoever, I let my anxiety set the cruise control as I careen down the highway of worst case scenarios. Honestly, I never even come close to having a date end this poorly. Yet through the result of my own unforgiving brain activity, I have imagined scenarios where terrible things happen to me when I open myself up and become vulnerable. The list of terrible dates that I have envisioned includes, but is not limited to: having a drink thrown in my face, getting all No. 135 excited and dressed up only to have the super volcano in Wyoming (the Yellowstone Caldera) blow its top on the way to the restaurant, being catfished by a group of ninjas-in-training who use my body to see how many times they can kill a man before he hits the ground, going out and having a wonderful time only to realize my date and I are not very compatible, spontaneously combusting (which has to be the most embarrassing thing to happen to you on a first date — other than choking, of course), choking, having my date challenge me to a thumb war and losing badly, not being able to decide which entree is better — the taco plate or the caesar wrap — and ordering the less tasty option, being found out for who I truly am, getting punched in the face by the waiter after asking if I can have the veggie platter without olives, disappointing my date because I am a middle-aged man who dresses like a 15-year-old punk rocker who never learned to tie a tie (which is true), and realizing that the only reason I am dating
again in the first place is because I miss human contact and am afraid of dying alone. So yeah, it’s a real bummer of a situation. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU START FEELING BETTER AFTER A LONG BOUT OF DEPRESSION, YOU STOP RELATING TO YOUR FELLOW DEPRESSED FRIENDS WHO HELPED YOU THROUGH IT For a solid eight months, my life kind of went to shit. I encountered so many extremely sad and transformational incidents, and I just sort of lost all hope in my own future on this planet. As a result, I became embittered, and sought the company of others who viewed the world through the same prism of despair. And when I found them, they helped so much. It was comforting to commiserate with like-minded souls who found life as disappointing as I did. But then I started feeling better. And good things started happening to me. Soon enough, I didn’t relate to my sad friends as much as I used to. And they started getting frustrated about my lighter outlook on life. And then we all realized we were suddenly incompatible, which is too bad. There are very few times in life where a good mood is a betrayal, but this is one of those situations. And I do have to say, I definitely understand why they're all disappointed in me. If one of them got better before I did, I would resent them too. That said, I’m glad it was me who got better. THAT DOG JUST SMILED AT ME! I was on a walk recently doing what I always do — attempting to process the constant stream of bad news and heartbreak — when I saw a dog on his walk. At first, he seemed very concentrated on his immediate surroundings; he was definitely a dog on a mission. But then he saw me, and the sides of his mouth curved upwards, and he started wagging his tail. I couldn’t believe how good this made me feel. Instantly, I was transported out of the negative prison of my mind, and I allowed myself to be excited about life for a few moments. I believe my inner monologue was something like, No matter how terrible things get, at least there are dogs in this bullshit world! Everything seemed a lot lighter after that. I FEEL LIKE WE ALL HAVE THAT FRIEND, WHO, IF THEY WERE TO GIVE UP ON LIFE, NOBODY WOULD KNOW Don’t get me wrong, I envy dudes who never shave or comb their hair and wear sweatpants and stained t-shirts all the time, but if they ever went through a bout of depression, I would most definitely miss the most obvious signs. These are the same friends who are already prone to existentially dark outlooks and are always ready to offer the most depressing take whenever the discussion changes topics. So I would definitely have to wait for them to self-report any negative changes in their demeanor. Otherwise, I would just be like, “Killer sweatpants, Sam,” like I always do. DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD, A HILL OF BEANS IS ACTUALLY QUITE VALUABLE As someone who eats many beans, I have to say, I’m not sure where the expression, “... doesn’t amount to a hill of beans,” came from. If someone were to give me a hill of beans, I would say, “Thank you for this entire hill of beans. Perhaps I will freeze half of them so they don’t go bad too quickly, because this is a very valuable gift that you have bestowed upon me.” Then I would make some nachos with the unfrozen half. 9
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - FEB 21, 2025 BRANDON EARLEY, GOLDEN AGE THINKING (PART DOS) - @RAD_ASTRONAUT No. 135
No. 135
BEST OF BIRDY 094 13
Time Shelter by Georgi Gospodinov, Translated by Angela Rodel (2022) Georgi Gospodinov’s Time Shelter, originally written in 2020 with the English translation arriving in 2022, captured the International Booker Award in 2023, the first win for a Bulgarian language book. In Gospodinov’s science fiction satire, an unnamed narrator and his mysterious physiatrist friend, Gaustein, open up a new kind of clinic in Switzerland attempting to sooth the distress and trauma of Alzheimer and dementia patients. Differing from most memory care facilities, their inventive treatment center seeks to carefully recreate the past for their patients. Meticulously crafted, each level of this center captures a past decade down to the placement of the sofas of the time, to the magazines on the coffee table, to the music and cigarettes being smoked. Built to ease the patients as their ailments worsen, the narrator and Gaustein hope to shield them from the present, and shelter them in their past. As the popularity of the clinic grows, healthy people also want the chance to perfectly relive the past, to exist inside their memories and return to times that seemed to be simpler, perceived to be happier, and certainly when they were more youthful. Not stopping there, soon full countries and governments want to take the leap into fully returning to past times, each European country voting on which decade to return to. Gospodinov’s inventive novel puts an absurd and science fiction twist on our current phenomenon of populism and reversion to the past. He carefully captures the discontent with the present day of technology and the way things are, taking the idea to the extreme end of entirely committing to returning our world to the past. Fantastically inventive, Time Shelter is a clever interpretation of current politics and cultural strife. The Ruins of Nostalgia by Donna Stonecipher (2023) In Donna Stonecipher’s sixth poetry collection, The Ruins of Nostalgia, she wanders through our longing for the past and the complexity of memory and history. Captured as 64 poems, Stonecipher contends with our embrace of technology while we wistfully look back to times of tape answering machines. The ever changing cities and buildings, as places that stir memories of youth, are bulldozed. Through the distorted lens of nostalgia she examines time. “When the present looks back at the prearranged past and adores it in a mise-en-abyme of feeling, the prearranged past can luxuriate into the post-arranged moment after the events have gone through their spellbinding mother-of-pearl handled sieved of happiness, littering time pieces along the cognitive shore.” Skillfully zooming in to minute details of nostalgia in our everyday lives, to the impact of looking back on nations and past inventions, Stonecipher interprets this complex and universal feeling through elegant prose. She brings the sensation of nostalgia to the forefront of our minds, highlighting its constant presence and one that seems to be more deeply haunting as we advance our ability to keep more thorough personal and historical records. The Ruins of Nostalgia is a beautiful collection examining our constant urge to look backwards as Stonecipher asks, “And when the present is perfect — will we no longer be so ravished to vanish into the ruins of nostalgia?” No. 135 By Hana Zittel
SIENA GOLDMAN, CAVEGIRL - ON EXHIBIT AT BRASSWORKS GALLERY 15
JOSH KEYES, SINK - @JOSHKEYES.ART
seven men (in various states of fabrication) BEST OF BIRDY 066 BY JASON HELLER I: HORACE Horace was horrified of humans. But he understood, as so few were able, how vital the species was in keeping down the surging population of insects. He was, in fact, just as frightened of bugs as he was of people — and nothing thrilled him more than secretly aiding his two unwitting nemeses to wage certain yet civil genocide on each other. To that end, Horace had spent every waking moment of his post-graduate life striving toward two objectives. First: engineering a catastrophic pandemic virus to be transmitted to the human race via insect bites and venomous eggs laid in mass-produced foodstuffs and pharmaceuticals. Second: formulating a commercial bug spray that would cause exponential, excruciating, sexually transmitted fatalities among the insect populace. He tinkered in his lab for decades before perfecting both; the day he succeeded, he celebrated by taking a long bath in aftershave lotion and masturbating with a fistful of Saran Wrap. The following morning, like a general charging into battle atop a great warhorse, a spent yet refreshed Horace straddled his Exercycle and switched on CNN, keeping his eyes peeled for the first faint inkling of his imminent global cleansing. No. 135 “Uh, say that again?” Zak stared at his shoes, swallowed a burp. “I pissed in her sink.” “And that’s why she broke up with you?” “Pretty much, yeah.” Jeff laughed so hard he spit a little. “You dumb fuck. What the hell were you thinking?” “I wasn’t thinking,” said Zak, as if that explained everything. “I was casting a spell.” “Oh, man. That is too much.” Jeff grabbed another beer from the cooler and pointed it at Zak. “Look, you need help. You can’t just go around pissing in people’s sinks. And you especially can’t tell people that pissing in their sink is some kind of magic. You didn’t tell her that, did you?” “Well, no. Not at first. I mean, I did eventually. I had to tell her something, right?” “Yeah, but … the truth?” Zak shrugged. “The truth was the only thing I could think of.” “Wow, man. That’s really deep. Christ.” The two leaned back in their lawn chairs on Jeff’s balcony and drank in the II: ZAK
view of downtown. The sun was setting, and the city was drained of sound. They both made popping noises with their beer cans. “Look, Jeff, I probably ought to get going. You know, work and stuff.” “Yeah, totally. Get the hell out of here. You’re freaking me the hell out anyway.” On his way out of Jeff’s apartment Zak ducked into the bathroom, locked the door, shat in his friend’s shower, and rinsed it down the drain while spritzing it with freshly spit Listerine. Then — with his library card in one hand and his bike-lock key in the other — he carved intricate glyphs in the foul-smelling steam while silently mouthing the names of angels. III: OJID Ojid stumbled down the street in the predawn calm. He shivered; his clothes were soaked with fluids. Plumbing and wires dangled from the soft layer of fat between his breastbone and nipples. It was over, and he still walked. The street was an emptied eggshell. The wind scoured the city’s dead skin and blew it toward the horizon. Ojid limped passed the corner apothecary, Mr. Breen’s, where he used to shoplift ginger syrups and tar candy when he was younger. He held the old man up once too, with a bread knife, when he was a teenager. But he wore a mask back then, and he didn’t cause his victim pain. As a grown man, Ojid only went into Breen’s to pick up his mother’s medicines once a month. But old Breen always remembered him. “It’s the Kim boy,” he’d say, “come to rob me of my sweets once again.” The old pharmacist’s jests always embarrassed him, especially when the two of them were alone in his dingy shop, the bell on the door still tinkling faintly from Ojid’s entry. Breen would fix Ojid with a look the old man was apparently fond of, a grimace limned with hunger and fear and pity. But that was before, so long ago. With drops of fresh blood like red gems glittering behind him and the sun thrusting its ulcerous corona over the city’s jagged, cracked skyline ahead, Ojid squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could hear the old man’s voice again. IV: ANDY/ANDREW His glasses were thicker, his skin thinner. There was loose flesh dangling from his chin. His hair had grown long and white and was pulled back in a ponytail. He had, of all things, a fucking goatee. But the ritual had worked. There was no mistaking him. There was no mistaking me. The two of us ordered iced coffees and took seats at a table in the far corner of the shop. “How was your trip?” I asked blandly. “As well as can be expected,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. The trip, I mean. But I only had a small window of opportunity, and I had to take it.” He smiled. I wondered how many of those teeth were still real. “That’s quite all right, Andrew. May I call you Andrew?” “Well, I go by Andy, actually.” “Ha. Of course.” He squinted. “You’re, what, 30 right now?” “32.” “Yes, 32. Still Andy. It’s a boy’s name. Hold onto it as along as you can.” He chuckled with a wisdom I wished I felt. “It’s kind of strange, though, isn’t it, how our younger selves, in a way, give birth to our elder selves?” He sipped some coffee through his straw. I could almost feel it trickle down my own throat. We stared at the same spot on the table, absently folding our straw wrappers into tiny paper accordions. “So,” I said, trying to sound jovial, “time for the interrogation. Are you ready?” “Yes.” He stared at me. “That is, ‘yes’ is the answer to your first question. Liz is gone. Long gone.” My stomach dropped. “I know how you feel, Andy. Trust me. But it’s for the best. And it gets better after she leaves. Much better. Eventually, that is.” I swallowed. “Um, when? When does she … when do we break up?” “I don’t think I ought to tell you that. In any case, it’ll probably happen a lot sooner now that I’ve told you.” I glared at him. “Doesn’t everyone dream about this, Andy? ‘If I could only go back and tell my younger self what I know now?’ But it’s not so great when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” Andrew fidgeted in his chair for a second. Then he sniffed, got up, and ambled off toward the bathroom. His back was a bit bent. I made a mental note to start using better posture. “Sorry that took so long,” he said when he returned to the table a few minutes later. “I almost forgot what free running water was like.” The future. Right. Holy shit. “What’s it like?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Thirty years from now, I mean. Who’s president?” “Some asshole. What does it matter?” “Good point. Okay, what about the war?” “The war? That’s a strange question. No one even calls it ‘the war’ anymore. It’s just … the world. The way things are. I don’t think there won’t be ‘the war’ ever again.” Barrel of laughs, this guy. “So let me get this straight: You have to pay for running water in the future?” “Sure. But don’t you have to do that now, anyway? It’s called a utility bill.” “Yeah, at home I do. But not at a damn coffee shop.” “Well, that’ll change. It’s no big deal. You just don’t use as much water, that’s all. You don’t use as much anything. Unless you’re rich, of course.” “There are still rich people, huh?” “Oh, yeah. Rich people. Reality TV. Global warming. Homophobes. Spaceships to the lunar colony twice a week.” “Jesus! Seriously?” He smirked. “No. Not seriously. We haven’t even made it to Mars yet. Too many problems down here, too much garbage and baggage to deal with. The future? Shit. We can’t afford the future.” “Yeah,” I said, kind of bummed. “I guess I know what you mean.” We tipped back our plastic cups in unison and crunched the remains of our ice cubes. “Andy! Andy, is that you?” A voice called from across the coffee shop. Fuck. It was Christie. Or Chrissie or Christine or whatever. A friend of Liz’s. Liz had so many friends, I could never keep track. I flashed a half-assed grin. “Hey, what’s up?” I nodded back at her. She finished at the register and walked over to our table with a big, whippedcreamy cup in her hand. “How have you been? How’s Liz? Hey, are you guys going to Eric’s barbecue this weekend?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not.” Then I thought for a second. “No, I mean, yes. Yes, we’re definitely going. We’ll definitely be there. Me and Liz. The two of us.” She nodded idiotically. “Oh, shit, I’m so rude.” She looked at Andrew and then back at me. Andrew, me. Andrew, me. Her eyes widened. “Is this your father?” 19
“Actually,” I said, kicking myself in the shin from the other side of the table, “I suppose you might say I’m his.” V: MR. MAGNOLIA Mr. Magnolia arrived home from the weekly torture orgy, fed his goldfish, and went to bed, first making sure his bandages were secure so that he wouldn’t wake up in the morning glued to his sheets. As he drifted off, he could feel the claret ooze like syrup from a dozen fresh interruptions in his skin. The clear, sticky discharge, he mused, was the afterbirth of his blood, the ambrosia that fed the dreams of godhood he hoped to conjure. The last thing Magnolia pictured in his mind’s eye before he rolled over, winced, and sighed himself asleep was the sign. It hung on every wall inside the private club he’d just returned from. It hovered over every link of chain, every crusted sawtooth, and governed each ejaculation of lymph and unmasking of bone. It was a gentle commandment, the maxim that guided all who operated under it. “Cut into others,” it read in golden letters both extravagant and restrained, “as you would have them cut into you.” VI: CALEL Ice cannot harm me, nor fire. Swords and pitchforks fall blunt against my skin. My thews, taut and thick, are knotted with monstrous energies. There is a furnace in my breast, a flintlock in my spine. My name is Calel. I never wanted this. But I cannot remove what God has seen fit to install in my body. I often feel as though I am his finger, as if there is a vast, intangible fist behind me through which courses divine love, divine will, divine might. And then abruptly, in the midst of such rapturous delirium, I remember. I VII: ART When Art’s biography was published, he refused to read it. First of all, the author — one Quentin Algonquin, obviously a pseudonym, and a tacky one at that — hadn’t even bothered Art with advance notice of the project, let alone an interview of any kind. Furthermore, Art was a middle-aged man, balding, drably dressed, given to hemorrhoids, and employed by a failing pet-supply store. In short he was, by his own estimation, the least compelling subject of a biography imaginable. Art harrumphed as he studied the stack of display copies of the book — Profiles in Cabbage: The Un-Arthur-ized Story of Arthur Mitchell Murtha, a hardcover with an embossed dust jacket that bore a photo of his childhood self, big-eared and runny-nosed — in the window of the bookshop four doors down from his place of work. It was part of a larger display of new biographies: The names Horace, Zak, Ojid, Andrew, Magnolia, and Calel adorned the spines and covers of the others. Around Art the strip mall was silent, half abandoned, littered with vacant storefronts that gaped like missing teeth in a fossilized jaw. Anyone who would go through the trouble of writing about my dull life, Art assured himself as he continued down the sidewalk, must be in dire need of a life of his own. In the very least, the decision to unilaterally chronicle the veritable nonexistence of Arthur Mitchell Murtha (and, presumably, the other six poor souls stacked in the window display) shows a poverty of judgment that surely must reflect in this Algonquin character’s very acumen as a biographer. After all, reading lies about oneself is bad enough; reading lies poorly worded is another thing entirely. remember where I come from. I remember who I am. As base as it is to hold one’s soul at arm’s length from heaven and covet it so, I cradle what little is left of myself as if it were a sick child, wasted from thirst and hunger. But at night, I forget. At night, I fall. At night, the cape calls.
MALI JAROO, DEFUNCT HUMANOID
GHOSTS OF GLACIERS – ETERNAL Echoes of drifting melody form a musical equivalent of ripples on the surface of a lake created by carefully dropping stones into its depths. But for this band, the wave forms crash and escalate into epic passages that dissolve back into tranquility with a masterful precision. There are no lyrics on this album, but the way the trio orchestrates space and tone suggests a narrative the way the imagery evoked in titles like “The Vast Expanse,” “Sunken Chamber” and “Ruined Fortress” stir the imagination. The guitars, drums and bass sound like they’re pulling apart a veil to another more majestic era and then basking in the sheer majesty of its mystery, capturing the spirit of phenomena and human achievement not rooted in a profit motive. BY TOM MURPHY GILA TEEN – SOFTWAREWOLF Expertly peppered with media and other cultural references, Gila Teen once again offers us a refreshingly raw melange of lo-fi indiepop, shoegaze, emo, power pop and post-punk. Every song feels like a heartachingly poignant diary entry that is so vivid in describing a moment any person with any level of sensitivity is feeling right now in this fraught era that seems to be escalating beyond anyone’s control. The music is appropriately slightly off-center because it’s the only sound that makes sense when you’re this real about the anxieties and concerns that are boiling in your mind, the things that are felt so strongly you can’t simply disassociate to get through. Rather, this band seems to understand that you have to just express these urgent feelings rather than repress them, to find your voice and use it with creativity, and not worry about whether it conforms to some conventionally approved form. (THE) KINDERCIDE – S/T If you ever saw this band you never forgot it. A relentless collision of savage grindcore brevity and hardcore aggression. Completely irreverent lyrics often depicting cartoonish violence and transgressive sentiments. The band didn’t put out much but it’s all here in its thorny and absurdist glory on an album released originally in 2003 and reissued by vocalist Dan Phelps on limited edition lathe cut and for digital download on Bandcamp via his now largely defunct Ash From Sweat Records imprint. Live this band was unhinged and its recordings fortunately capture that wild energy as well as anyone really could. Think JFA mutated by the The Locust and Agoraphobic Nosebleed. MOONSPEED – SEA OF STARS Some 16 years since the previous Moonspeed album Flowers of the Moon was released, this new offering emerged in 2024. Including songs recovered from early recording sessions, it is a rich reminder of the period when Jeff Suthers and Shannon Stein (of Bright Channel, Suthers also of Pale Sun) were collaborating with friends to produce a type of space rock that incorporated acoustic instrumentation as well as keyboards. Perhaps in contrast to the gloriously dense atmospheres of Bright Channel, these songs are contemplative in a manner suggested by the album’s title with gently lush soundscapes and aspects of modern classical music, non-Western polyrhythms and Ennio Morricone woven in. The effect is a dreamlike journey through psychedelicized, pastoral shoegaze passages that induce a lingering tranquility. SALADS AND SUNBEAMS – INTO THE STARLESS NIGHT The exquisite clarity of tone throughout this album is immediately striking. It is not an artificially pristine lucidity because there is a warmth and sensitivity in the songwriting, refreshing in its human immediacy. Sure, the touchstones are there of 60s psychedelic pop and 90s indiepop, but it isn’t imitative. There is a creative ambition and execution underlying every song, and the poetry of the lyrics combine the mythical and the personal in equal measure. The fantastical imagery functions in a similar way that a Tom Robbins novel or a Neutral Milk Hotel album captures perfect moments that strike you as significant in real time. Nathan Brazil has saved up nuggets of such peak moments to craft a storybook of an album that can be intense in its emotional honesty. But its casted in perfectly crafted melodies cradled in comforting rhythms and informed by deep psychological insight into what it is to be an adult that hasn’t forgetten what it feels like to experience the vitality of life. FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM No. 135
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PARADISE 2 BY RICARDO FERNANDEZ BEST OF BIRDY 051 Francis Condylura, the recently demoted manager and now drone, whistled as he worked and read the report. What is he on about? I thought. In the entire history of the Subterranean Network of Caverns and Mines Greater Rockies never once had a disgraced manager chosen demotion over suicide. Not until Francis. To make the insult sting the remaining managers even more, he was enjoying himself. I was the one who presented his owners the evidence to charge Francis and nearly 20 other managers with dereliction of duty. The owners rewarded my vigilance by making me the manager of the whole operation, and at 39, I was now the youngest to ever hold the post. I came one step closer to ascension and living above ground with the owners. Seated behind my wide steel desk, I read the several reports on the bizarre behavior of not only Francis but many other drones throughout the whole of the facility. Why were they all suddenly so happy? I needed to quell whatever was happening with the drones and restore absolute control. But how? Tapping my fingers against the desk and matching the cadence made by the noise of the steam pipes which ran along the ceiling of my office, I ruminated on a possible solution. The answer came as swiftly as if I had just been struck by a bolt of electricity. Before I could put this thought to paper, a red light started to flash on the map of the facility attached to the wall opposite my desk. I flew to the map finding the emergency was coming from power plant #18F. That station provided power to nearly a third of the mine and all of the pumps that kept the lower tunnels from flooding. Power plant #18F had been my assignment prior to this last promotion and, knowing the intricacies of its equipment, I raced through the many corridors and down 10 levels to the station’s control room, rather than calling the newly installed manager. Thankfully, I made the correct decision in coming here. The control room was empty and the reactor was nearing critical mass. Why did the manager abandon his post? Where were all the drones? These two questions spun around and around in my head as I brought the reactor back online and restarted the turbine generators. With the crisis averted, I grabbed the phone and called the security chief to find the absconded manager and drone detail. Luckily this event took place so close to shift change that before I could call them in to start early, the second No. 135 shift manager and his drones arrived. Livid could hardly describe my disposition as I left the control room and returned back to my own office. Negligence of this magnitude meant only one thing: demotion. I suggested as much as I filed the report of the near-meltdown to the owners. By the time the sentence was sent from the surface, the chief of security had shuffled the absentee manager into my office. His face wore the look of defiance and his eye burned with rage. He disgusted me. This traitor had nearly irradiated all of us. I paced in a circle around him as I spoke, “The owners have been informed and that envelope on my desk contains the verdict for your crime. Your compatriots, those filthy drones, have been detained as well. For their part in this plot, they have been duly executed and their remains will be hung from the supporting beams in the drone dormitories. The cameras in this office are providing the video onto every screen in the facility. “We, the managers, serve the owners because they have imbued us with the responsibility of leadership and the strength of knowledge. This knowledge is not only of one’s own department, but knowing that a lifetime of good work is rewarded with ascension; failure with demotion. My responsibility as the Supreme Manager of the Subterranean Network of Caverns and Mines Greater Rockies is to preserve that way of life who, the owners above, were placed in charge of over a century ago when they sent our ancestors below ground. I am truly disappointed in the heightened frequency of failure amongst the management corps. It pains me to see another peer fall.” I walked back to my desk and retrieved the envelope. Clearing my throat as I tore it open, I read out loud, “Demotion.” The disgraced manager was led from my office, but rather than suffer the humiliation of becoming a drone, he dove headfirst down the ventilation shaft. As he plummeted into the abyss he yelled, “This is for the truth! Francis Condylura can save us all!” The drone, Francis Condylura, was under 24-hour surveillance. Everywhere he went, everything he said was being recorded. Even his weekly hour-long session in the nature simulator was monitored. I also had the manager in charge of his section regularly beat him. But after months of investigation and physical torture, I was no closer to discovering how he kept corrupting more and more managers. The owners were beginning to lose confidence. Production of
essential commodities such as food, potable water and electricity was almost at a standstill. Twenty percent of the facility had been shut down in order to send more power to the surface. The drones no longer avoided eye contact with the managers as they once had. But what was most unnerving was not how they smiled with the malice hidden behind their expressions. Though the evidence of an impending coup was enormous, I still believed that the rule of law and the system that had governed over us for more than a century would prevail. How wrong I was. Never once did I stop working. The last of the faithful managers and myself labored tirelessly to keep the organization going. It had been weeks since I received a response from the owners above to any of my reports. I had just ordered the lights to be dimmed another 20 percent facility-wide when the drones broke through my office door. I struggled against waves of them, but however many I kicked and punched more swarmed in and finally, exhausted, I surrendered. They carried me to the managers’ dining hall. There, seated on a chair resting on top of a table so everyone could see him was Francis Condylura. I could feel my blood boil and, if my arms had not been held by my sides by at least a dozen drones, I could have strangled Francis when he left his chair to greet me. “Supreme Manager Kris Cestoda, this facility is now under my control. It is my displeasure to inform you that of the 30 managers who had remained loyal to you, only five allowed themselves to be captured. The others jumped to their deaths down the ventilation shafts, like your kind tend to do.” He actually had sympathy for them, and even for me it seemed, because after a small silence he embraced me. In that hug he whispered, “Have strength. This pain, as all things, will too pass.” Francis returned to his makeshift throne and the room fell into a complete silence. Only the air circulator humming broke the hush. He spoke so the whole of the dining room could hear each word, “Kris, we were once peers, but you embraced this failed system. I compliment your zeal, but with your voracity you have been blinded by the obvious. The owners above do not care for us. They have pitted managers and drones against one another since the beginning. You have said we should venerate the owners because they gave us purpose and homes. Have you ever once considered that they banished us from the surface of the earth so not to have to witness our struggle? They buried us like we bury their garbage. Our labors here in the darkness allow them to live in leisure!” The hall exploded into cheers and it was several minutes before he could continue speaking. “I know you will never change your beliefs, so you and your five remaining loyal managers are to be taken to the elevator of ascension. I have managed to override the controls so we can send you all up. If you see the owners, tell them we are liberated and are digging to the surface to claim that right, which they had robbed from our forefathers so long ago! Take him to his ascension.” A path was cleared and the last of the managers and myself walked to the only elevator to the ground up above. It had no bottoms on the inside, so once we moved there would be no going back. Before the scissor doors closed, Francis came and shook each of our hands. The ride up was slow and the lights intermittently flickered on and off. It felt like time stood still. Only the din of the electric motor pulling us up marked its passage. Then with a great jolt it stopped and the doors opened. There was just the faintest light and a sickly smell of old rot. To our horror, when our eyes adjusted to the near darkness, we saw the remains of all the previously ascended managers. The owners had never let them near the surface, save for a pinhole of daylight from the ceiling. Francis Condylura had been right. And as I slowly starve to death, I write my story in my own blood on the cold granite walls of my tomb. 27
CHOWDER OF SEALS BY ZAC DUNN | ART BY JONNY DESTEFANO NANTUCKET SPUNK STUCK in petty officers LOGS brought to ORDER OUT OF CHAOS lost HORIZONS that CLARK GABLE was unable to come across Wandering snow blind and half-eaten by YETI younglings in springtime excursions Up FLAT IRONS that glow in FORGES like PISTOLS OF FIRE stay LOADED COCKED in bandoleers KRIS KROSSing The THEMES clutching ORBS that LORDE SABER pushed clean through MIGHTY SMITH ANVIL FULL STAXXX Driven by MCINTOSH TUBES that Glow and know one to FUNCTION ONE WAY In LIVICATION casting DUBFIRE Abound across the bay and reefs As MORAY EELS PUR under rocks Colored lavender and formica chip Dreaming and wiggling a shrill Request for a bit of fish or perhaps Tender swimmers little PIGGIES 9:42am L to 1st AVE 8.29.24.00000314 OGE IZU NYC UZIEGO FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC No. 135
DOCUMENTARY (2024) Starring: Gerald V. Casale, Mark Mothersbaugh & Robert Mothersbaugh Directed by Chris Smith Produced by Danny Gabai, Chris Smith, Anita Greenspan & Chris Holmes COLORADO PREMIERE at the Boulder International Film Festival: With Mark Mothersbaugh & Anita Greenspan in person Saturday, March 15, 2025 | 5:45PM Boulder Theater | 2032 14th St, Boulder, CO LEARN MORE & GET TICKETS: BIFF1.COM PHOTO BY CHRIS VAN DE VOOREN FROM MARK MOTHERSBAUGH: MYOPIA 29
BRIANNA CORN - BEST OF BIRDY 066 No. 135
KID KOALA, ESPEETWELVEHUNDRED - BEST OF BIRDY 105 31
NED SNOWMAN, GODZILLA STATUE IN TOKYO, JAPAN (2023)
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