JOSH KEYES, SCORCH II ISSUE 137 | MAY 2025 FIRE TORNADO: JONNY DESTEFANO LAVA CAKE: KRYSTI JOMÉI DISCO INFERNO: JULIANNA BECKERT CHEMICAL BROTHER: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI FAHRENHEIT 451: CRISTIN COLVIN SIGNAL READY: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH MATCHBOX: MEGAN ARENSON BAMBI BUCKET: AMANDA SHAFER COMBUSTIBLE EDISON: ALAN ROY OXIDIZING AGENT: DANIEL LANDES FRONT COVER: RAY YOUNG CHU, ASIAN JESUS EATING PHO IN SPACE BACK COVER: JOE VAUX, FISHY - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX TWO-WAY RADIOS: RAY YOUNG CHU, JOSH KEYES, JORDAN DOLL, HEATHER REYNOLDS, ERIC JOYNER, DAVE DANZARA, ZAC DUNN, BEATIE WOLFE, HANA ZITTEL, JOEL TAGERT, JASON WHITE, BRIAN POLK, TOM MURPHY, GRAY WINSLER, MOON PATROL, JOE VAUX COYOTE TACTICS: MARVEL CHUKWUDI PEPHEL, CAMERON SMITH, ALESSANDRO GALLO, BRIAN ENO, KENT MONKMAN, CHRIS TOPPER, HASSAN JOSEPH, BEN BRYANT BIRDY IS LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE, STRIKING MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN 1 WATER HAMMERS: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, CRISTIN COLVIN, LISA EBERHARTER SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: UNDERSTUDY, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, DENVER COMEDY UNDERGROUND, THE BLACK MONARCH HOTEL, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE, MEOW WOLF, DENVER ART MUSEUM, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, ART CARD DISPATCH, MONKEY BARREL, DENVER COMEDY UNDERGROUND, MONKEY MINDFUL, CITY, O' CITY, WATERCOURSE FOODS, COLORADO SUN TOFU, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, ASTRO TOURS, 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 US + KEEP BIRDY ALIVE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US
BY JORDAN DOLL THE TOXIC LADY (Insert Ex-Girlfriend Joke Here) BEST OF BIRDY 044 Look, I’ll be the first one to tell you I’m a bit of a hypochondriac. Actually, the first one to tell you that would probably be my primary care physician, Dr. Grimaldi. The next one to tell you would probably be his wife, Trisha Grimaldi, who usually answers when I call them at home. And the third one to tell you would be my downstairs neighbor when I can’t get ahold of either Grimaldi. Oh, is it “just allergies,” Karen in 3b? Or is my body rejecting its own eyeballs!?!? I DON’T KNOW, KAREN IN 3B! THAT’S WHY I’M ASKING YOU!!! Thing is, we all experience mysterious ailments from time to time. And just like you, I’m not a doctor. Nobody is. There are maybe 50 doctors in the world and the rest of them are, by and large, just Lyft drivers who found a lab coat in the back of their car after work and thought, Yeah, I could poke a rash with a pen and tell someone they need to change shampoos. So we do what we can. We drink glass after terrible glass of water. We try not to touch dead squirrels when we find them on the street. And we spend countless hours scouring WebMD for vital queries like “too many teeth?” “Netflix poisoning?” and “I messed up and spent all day recreating episodes of Frasier using a bunch of dead squirrels. What am I looking at here, plague-wise?” But in the end, when things get truly grim, the pragmatic among us will seek professional help. We go to a doctor and have them give it to us straight. Usually it’s nothing, sometimes it’s something, and at least a few times the doctor is No. 137 just like, “WOAH! WHAT IS THAT!? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!? GUYS GET IN HERE!” The strange and tragic case of Gloria Ramirez, aka “The Toxic Lady,” falls firmly into that last category. On the evening of February 19, 1994, the Riverside, Calif. woman was admitted to Riverside General Hospital suffering from the effects of advanced cervical cancer. Things went south fast and the decision was made to defibrillate Gloria. And that’s when the staff at RGH discovered there was something south of south. Around that time a few of the attending physicians noticed an oily sheen across Gloria’s skin, while others reported smelling a distinct “fruity garlic” smell emanating from her mouth. Two nurses, Susan Kane and Julie Gorchynski, drew a sample of Gloria’s blood and instantly noticed it smelled of ammonia. Upon closer inspection they discovered “manila-colored” particles floating in the blood! That’s not good. Strictly speaking your blood should just have, uhh, blood in it. That’s when the nurses began to feel a little ill themselves. Susan passed out right there in the trauma room while Julie managed to stagger to a nearby reception desk before losing consciousness. Next, one of the attending doctors went down, at which point the rest of the staff hit the “Fuck this!” alarm and ordered the hospital to be evacuated. All told, around 30 people developed symptoms of nausea, shortness
of breath, muscle spasms, lightheadedness and/or loss of consciousness simply from being near Gloria during her fi nal moments. Five people were hospitalized for their symptoms, and Julie Gorchynski, that attending nurse? Well, this thing hit her like a truck. Over the next few months Julie allegedly developed apnea, pancreatitis, hepatitis and necrosis of the bone marrow in her legs, all of which seemed to be a direct result of the incident. Yeah. Holy shit is right. Sadly, Gloria would not survive the incident and, about an hour after she entered the hospital, became the only casualty of her bizarre illness The incident, understandably, got a lot of heat. Before you could say “mass hysteria,” poor Gloria’s picture was plastered on newspapers and conspiracy zines across the country, alongside that terrible nickname that made her sound like the title of a collaboration song between Santana and Michael Bublé. Doctors were baffl ed. They had what is known in the medical community as “a real doozy” on their hands. Nobody had ever seen anything like it and some shoddy handling of Gloria’s remains made a proper autopsy mostly impossible. Luckily, the internet eventually came along and everyone and their mum had theories. As you might expect these theories run the gamut from totally reasonable to “Paul! Stop yelling at the moon and come down off the roof! … We love you, Paul.” Was Gloria exhibiting the fi nal stages of some deadly and exotic new disease, or was this simply a case of mass hysteria? If the latter, then why the laundry list of diagnosable symptoms experienced by so many in attendance? Was she host of some violent extrasolar fungus? Or a secret government compound meant to weaponize her illness? Or was she just a very sick woman in the last throes of a long and arduous battle? Well, that all depends on how far you want to descend into the Gribblenet: that corner of the internet where the Dale Gribbles of the world collect to meditate on dangerous fringe theories and fold their tinfoil hats in peace. Fortunately, there were cooler heads on the case and some more rational answers emerged. Quite possibly even a solution. There is some evidence Gloria may have been using a compound known as dimethyl sulfoxide (DMSO), a powerful cleaning agent, to help manage her pain. Basically if you mix DMSO with other pharmaceuticals, you can apply them directly to your skin. Her family has staunchly denied this theory but it would explain a few things. The substance is sort of an oily gel, which could explain the sheen on Gloria’s skin. The DMSO could have been converted, say by an electric shock, into dimethyl sulfate, a very noxious gas. There is even some evidence linking those “manila-colored particles” in Gloria’s blood to kidney problems caused by the use of DMSO. Oh, and one more thing, the real kicker here, DMSO is marked by its distinct garlicky odor. So at the very least, Gloria may have earned some closure from those who were willing to look a little deeper into this truely bizarre case. And for the rest of us, we leave with a few valuable lessons. First of all, if you fi nd a lab coat in the back of your Lyft, LEAVE IT! Walk away! Being a doctor is strange and terrifying and you never know when one of your patients is gonna go full Fukushima on you. Medical practice is best left to professionals. To that note, don’t slather yourself in chemicals unless instructed to do so by a trained physician or accredited mad scientist. And lastly, but certainly not leastly, you really need to get a cell phone, Dr. Grimaldi, because I ate some expired peach yogurt last night and now I think I might be developing red/ green colorblindness. Also, is it possible for a person’s hair to grow back into their head? Because I’ve been taking some measurements and — Hey! HEY! Don’t you dare stop reading, Grimaldi. DR. GRIMALDI! GET BACK HERE! I’M JUST GONNA CALL TRISHA!!! 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
BY MARVEL CHUKWUDI PEPHEL I rose from my mat and turned to pick up a cup of tea on a wooden table. It was morning and, from my window, I could see the flock of sheep in the farm nearby. I knew exactly what this meant. My neighbour Fanta Manta had unleashed his sheep again, and that farm belonged to me. I felt a molten magma of anger rush down my spine. I could see the lambs, those ones whose fleece were as white as snow, eating my shrubs and vegetables. Infuriated, I dropped my cup. Then I picked a wooden club and dashed out towards my farm. I swear I didn't know what I was doing. I flung my club, killing some in the process. I have been a no-nonsense person from Day One, Lord forgive me. Now, the older sheep had managed to scamper off towards the house of my adversary, bleating as loud as they could. I stood and watched the destruction brought upon my crops with eyes of pain. I had struggled to make these crops grow at a time rainfall was at an alarming minimal, often watering them with fetched buckets of water. For the water, I had to trek to the closest river which was not close at all, God knows. But now, in the blink of an eye, my labour seemed to be almost in vain, and I didn't know exactly what to do. I shook my head — a heavy head — and picked up the dead lambs. I had tried to wipe off a trillion tears when something in me told me to confront Fanta Manta at the dead of night. When the idea first came, it wasn't as lucid as I now wish it had been. Well, I, myself, wasn't often clear-headed. As a matter of fact, I was only but a farmer — and having little education was also a handicap. The only thing I had inherited from my deceased father was his little hut and the love for hunting. Sadly, he died when I least expected it, and left me with derivative poverty. I was only seventeen, and my own mother had moved away No. 137 to live with another man. Everything did hurt, but I learnt to live with my circumstances. Well, I don't know what hurts most — if it's being saddled with poverty or being the only seed of my father. A terrible thing, if you ask me. Well, I did well to finish my cooked lamb's leg. I, afterwards, took copious amount of palmwine and waited for the dead of night to approach — the idea still plausible in my head. The streets are crazy, and the street I grew up on was crazier. I won't try to fine-tune anything here — not a single bit. This is the story of my life, the story of how I sought out Fanta Manta. Just before I stepped out for his place, again, I took copious amount of palmwine. There was a thing about this palmwine that I could not explain. A thing so inexplicable that it hurts my soul. But all the same, I loved it — this palmwine, I mean. Quickly, I wore my shorts and hastened up. Matters like this needed not to be delayed — at least so I thought then. I wore the only pair of shoes I was proud of and set about to lock my door. Really, the night was cold and the bats were numerous in an unusual way. I swallowed hard and put the keys in my pocket. I checked the time — it was the right time! I sighed and hurried out towards the house of Fanta Manta. Things that needed to be done needed to be done as quickly as possible. In my hand was a kerosene lamp which burned with the faintest light ever, but I was grateful for it. At least Fanta Manta wouldn't know what hit him even if he had the slightest premonition. Satisfied, I smiled and walked quietly — but with easy steps — towards the house of my adversary. By God, I knew he would be shocked by the visit, and I was willing to offer him the surprise — the most horrific of his life. I cleared my throat and traced the patterns of the underlying plant matter HEATHER REYNOLDS, SHEEP
before me. I could swear I felt a slight pang of headache as I walked, but I paid no attention to it. It could have been anything — anxiety or the effect of too much alcohol. I rubbed my head and smiled as I traced my way forward. The whistling trees whistled and chirping crickets chirped as I moved through the dark. And of course, yes, the plan was still fresh in my head. I smiled for the umpteenth time and leapt over a branched log of wood, almost slipping and falling. I laughed at myself and hurried on in search of Fanta Manta's house. As I moved, I imagined how he would take the surprise and a great ripple of rhapsody moved through my scrawny soul. I laughed again and stopped abruptly as I realised I was already a few meters away from his house. There was a light on inside, and it glittered through the window. But, of course, I did not worry as I had made provision for this occasion in my plan. I dipped my hand into my pocket and produced a small sharp knife. I looked at it with deep admonition — because it had been my friend for the past five years — and walked straight to the back door of Fanta Manta's house. One thing with knives is that sometimes they do not do exactly what you want them to. But anyway, I had made sure my plan was foolproof in this regard. Quickly, I turned the doorknob. To my greatest surprise, it wasn't even locked. This could have been a mistake — most definitely! But it was in my favour, and I didn't care as well. I moved in and closed the door quietly behind me. Just then, I felt a strange laughter echo through my ribs. I held my soul and laughed in the semi-dark corridor. This would be the end of Fanta Manta, I swore. Never show thy enemy love! Swiftly, I raised my lamp aloft and walked in in search of the old fool. I moved stealthily through the corridor and arrived at a room whose door was partly closed. I stopped myself and observed with my faint light. The glow I saw outside, I came to realise, burned in the kitchen. I swallowed hard and tried to make sense of everything. "Fanta Manta should be fast asleep," I said to myself. Such a bumbling old fool can't be awake by now! Still, I stood there and held my dim light — not moving, not feeling anything at all. You know what they say about life: sometimes it shocks you, sometimes it hugs you. And just there in particular, I saw the semblance of Fanta Manta approach from the darkness ahead. I quivered but still held my lamp as firmly as I had. My head felt a bit heavy as I watched the man approach me. I knew the plan after all, so I held my peace and watched gimlet-eyed. This Fanta Manta must be put in his place, I thought. Fanta Manta had a limping gait, but this semblance in the dark moved so easily I could have sworn it wasn't him. But I mustn't let him escape, whatever tricks he was up to. So I widened my eyes and looked forward with precision and accuracy. Such a bumbling old fool must pay for all the wrong he has done to me. I raised the penknife in the dark and waited for the right time to draw fresh blood. As I waited and watched him walk lazily, I wondered where he was headed at that time of the night — if he was even seeing at all. Then, suddenly, as if he had noticed an unusual light in the dark corridor – or like someone who had been walking with sleepy eyes all along – he gasped and tried to step back. Quickly, I charged towards him and plunged my weapon into his belly. He yelled in anguish, and I hugged him a bit tightly – pushing the knife in with my own belly, the lantern behind his back. I listened to his breath as he struggled to live. I felt for him as a human would feel for his fellow man. But no! Fanta Manta was an old fool. So, quickly, I ensured my work was perfected, and watched him slump to the ground. I heaved a deep breath and decided it was time to move to the next stage of the plan. When I tried to raise him, he felt heavy, and I wondered what he had been eating lately. But that was none of my business — he could eat his own head for all I care. Raising the strangely heavy Fanta Manta from the ground, I managed to carry him to his bed. And when I tried to drop him, I realised his hips were even heavier than what I could attribute to Fanta Manta. But I wasn't ready to fall for his tricks. So, I left him on his bed and charged towards the door that had seen me in. But then I forgot! Yes, I forgot. So I rushed back to drop the penknife on the bed as I had planned. I felt quite greatly that with this, no one would argue that Fanta Manta did not stab himself. Having dropped the knife, I charged out again, almost stumbling and falling sideways. Luckily, my light was still on, glittering as faint as it had been. I found the door and discharged myself. I heard the crow of the cock and stepped outside with a smile on my face. It was already morning, and I went to discharge nature's liquid from my body. I never knew I was in for a surprise. Just as I brought out my device, I saw Fanta Manta coming with his sheep and looking ever so alive. Shock went down my spine in milliseconds, and I stepped back. I studied the man closely, and indeed it was Fanta Manta. I felt a frozen sea rise within me. I coughed and looked within my soul. It was then it dawned on me that I must have mistaken another house to be his. So quickly, and with great trepidation, I charged my feet to discover who I had murdered last night — to discover whose last cry I heard. Fear gripped my soul as I walked past Fanta Manta, ignoring his greeting. "How could I have missed killing the old fool?" I said to myself. I didn't know what to do exactly, but I kept moving. I feared I must have killed an innocent woman. Oh, what have I done?! I pondered as I tried to find out which house I had entered in the wee hours. I knew how difficult this would be, as any mistake would reveal me as the … as the … oh! I jumped over a log of wood and shouted, "Sarah Banda! Sarah Banda!! Are you not awake?!" But no reply came from Sarah Banda's house, and I presumed she was the one. "Oh, Lord!" I cried. "What have I done?" Sarah was that little innocent woman who was always full of smiles. Just when I had concluded she was dead, Sarah Banda opened her door and said, "Oh, Zik! What have I done this time?" I shook with fear and asked if she had a little pepper to spare. Quickly, and without thought, Sarah Banda ran and provided me with some pepper and even some salt. "Take this, Zik. Whatever it is, I can do for you." Of course, many times I have wondered what I could do to repay Sarah Banda for her benevolence. But this wasn't time for such thought. So I thanked her and moved on. I held the condiments in my hand and went to check on Zanchi Zanza. "Zanchi Zanza!" I called. "Are you not awake?" Yet again, no reply came. I persisted and called again, "Zanchi Zanza! Zanchi Zanza!! Is the morning too cold for you?" Still no reply came. I became worried and called out again, "Zanchi, I have come to take you out as I promised!" Yet, no reply came. "Oh, Zanchi Zanza! Please, answer me. It is nobody but Zik. Please, ZZ! Please, my adorable Zanchi!" But no reply came. With tears strolling down my eyes, I rushed in and found Zanchi dead with my knife beside her arm. "Is this the work of my hand?!" I screamed and fell upon her body, annoyed that I could not even recognise the hips of Zanchi Zanza — the only woman who had made my miserable life worth living. I sighed deeply and decided it was time for another plan. I cried and kissed her darling lips — tasting the lips of the dead. 5
ERIC JOYNER, LYING IN WAIT - ERICJOYNER.COM
DAVE DANZARA - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
ART & STORY BY CAMERON SMITH A young man happened upon a fence and desired to climb. He grasped at the horizon, hoisted himself upward, then settled with a leg saddled over each side. Soon he got to pondering. “Neither side is particularly special,” murmured the old fence after a while. “It’s not about which side is special,” the young man retorted indignantly, “we must think past the fence itself! Onward by the catalyst of conjunction, rinsed thoroughly — and a much needed distillation!” The old fence listened curiously as the odd young man continued. “Conjunction: the crossroad where each side of the fence must collide and recognize itself to be in the same predicament as the other, only mirrored and divided. How will each side of the ground realize that the other is simply itself in perpetuity if it does not have the faculties to imagine itself as such? Rather, one side fancies itself inherently bestowed with the royal designation greener. Each side must rid itself of this bias; of you. It must be a moment of such transcendent realization that all battlements are relinquished, effectively leveling the fence and conjoining the two. Both sides acknowledge that they are the same ground and that you, the fence, are only as deep as an auger could bother.” The old fence had hardly a second to consider this before the young man persisted. “Distillation: the separation of subtle from gross, sin from sinner. To progress, we must— ” “Just pick a side, goddamnit, your taint is in my face.” 9
BY ZAC DUNN THE crosses cast a long solemn shadow on the shores of NORMANDY THE boys who died — men clutching guns and gritting teeth in blind faith that they obeyed THE flowers do not bloom in mourning of the lives they lost, but in the light they contributed to eclipsing something very DARK WE SEEK LIGHT AS WE CANNOT TOUCH AND HOLD WITH ANY CERTAINTY WHAT WE CANNOT SEE THE head of a SERPENT may appear to be the FANGS that HANG our next words up for JUDGEMENT THE RATTLE of the TAIL may FAIL to crackle loud enough to alarm our senses into apprehension THE SCALES that TIP and RECOIL as they SLINK slowly feeling each contour of the EARTH’s FACE as ABOVE so BELOW THE VACUUM of the stomach that knows only by SNOOT to TAIL a HUNGER to SLITHER as the SHARK SWIMS too into the BLUE VOID of UNKNOWN OBLIVION THE EYES like SAPPHIRES that gleam mean intent in our INSTINCT to RUN for our lives as we do not wish DEATH or the STRIKE upon our THIGH to SUMMON … KINGDOM COME HITHER IS THE ARROW DRAWN FROM THE GENTLE QUIVER’s PATH TO A BULLSEYE A point in SPACE and TIME shall become an ATOMIC BALL to FALL over a PATH as well, and ENGAGE the force of GRAVITATIONAL INFINITY or TIME as arms paddle against a current, as SALMON or COHO dream of TIDE POOLS to SPOOL UP ROE, and we ROW OUR BOAT OF HOPE AS WELL Lifting BUCKETS we hope to fill with KRILL as the mighty BLUE WHALE EXHALES through BALEEN teeth that pulsate a HICCUP and CHUCK back the contents to swim back through JAGGED REEFS AS BOX JELLY and TAI-PAN understand motion, we understand the THORNS of the ROSES on CROSSES and BLEEDING HANDS STIGMATA MARTYRS WATER ROSES THAT GLOW LIKE CLOWN NOSES PENNYWISE FLOATS HOPES IN SEWERS WITH PARAFFIN BOATS AND TEETH THAT ARE VERY REAL AND FEEL LESS BRUTAL IN TAKING A BITE LIKE A GREAT WHITE LIE OR THORN OUR FINGER BLEEDS PROFUSELY WHEN PICK’D The name of the roses ghost ships float to Cay’s and ATOLLS that we BIKINI KILL the tortoise in order the capture … the HARE. 5:49 a.m. YADIE HOD NYC FOLLOW FOR MORE: IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC No. 137
ALESSANDRO GALLO, TYPE A - @ALESSANDROGALLO_NET
Legendary composer Brian Eno and visionary artist-musician Beatie Wolfe join forces to create a pair of collaborative albums: Luminal and Lateral releasing on June 6, 2025. Luminal is Dream music. Lateral is Space music. Nobody expected this music from these two artists. They didn’t even expect it themselves. In 2022, Brian and Beatie met at SXSW where they gave a featured talk — Art and Climate — about how art can play a vital role in response to the climate emergency. With Brian sharing his music industry charity EarthPercent and Beatie sharing From Green to Red, an environmental protest piece built using 800,000 years of NASA data to visualize rising CO2 levels, their conversation was selected as one of the festival’s best iconic moments in 25 years. The two met again in London where they were each showing their own visual and conceptual art pieces at separate galleries. These encounters sparked the embers that is now their musical partnership. Recorded sporadically through 2024, Brian and Beatie reflect on their collaboration of Luminal and Lateral: “Music is about making feelings happen. Some of those feelings are familiar, while others may not be — or may be complex mixtures of several different feelings. There are many beautiful words for such feelings in other languages and cultures — words that don’t exist in English. By giving a feeling a name, we make that feeling more likely to be felt, more tangible. Art is able to trigger feelings, or feeling mixtures, that we’ve never quite felt before. In this way, a piece of Art can become the ‘mother’ for a type of feeling, and a place you can go to find and re-experience that feeling. Some of the feelings we found ourselves working with were these ... Ailyak (Bulgarian) — going slow, enjoying the process Commuovere (Italian) — the experience of being moved Dor (Romanian) — longing or belonging Duende (Spanish) — getting the shivers Fèath (Gaelic) — stillness, peace Gezelligheid (Dutch) — warm intimacy Ilinx (French) — strange excitement from play Jijivisha (Sanskrit) — life lived fully Liget (Filipino) — fiery energy, life spark Merak (Serbian) — at one with the Universe Meraki (Greek) — to pour yourself into something Mono no aware (Japanese) — appreciation of life's transience Onsra (Boro) — the anticipation of losing love Pronoia (Greek) — the opposite of paranoia Sisu (Finnish) — determination, grit Torschlusspanik (German) — fear of time running out Ya’aburnee (Arabic) — not wanting to live in a world without someone Stay tuned to hear more about the collaboration and synchronicity of these two talented beings. PREORDER LUMINAL AND LATERAL ON CD OR ECOFRIENDLY BIOVINYL | LISTEN & WATCH TWO NEW SONGS “SUDDENLY” AND “BIG EMPTY COUNTRY (EDIT)”: BRIANENO.LNK.TO/BRIANBEATIE FOLLOW THESE ARTISTS FOR MORE ON IG: @BRIANENO | @BEATIEWOLFE PHOTO BY CECILY ENO 13
By Hana Zittel Sunday by Olivier Schrauwen (2024) On an autumn Sunday in 2017, Olivier Schrauwen’s cousin, Thibault Schrauwen, lived an absolutely normal — sometimes boring — day. He woke up, he tried to make plans, he lingered in bed. He worried about not getting a text back from his girlfriend, who was due back from vacation that day. He got high, he drank, he got James Brown’s “Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine” stuck in his head. He fantasized about being back with his ex and watched The Da Vinci Code. Thibault had an absolutely normal(ish) day. Olivier documents this day in immense detail in his 2024 graphic novel. Coming in at almost 500 hundred pages, this work captures the complexity of our brains on any given day, but also their propensity to constantly wander, jump about, and skip from memory to the present. A candid and vulnerable portrait, Sunday is a visual representation of how our mundane experiences add up to a full existence. Though our memories are marked by the days when something big happened or was felt, most of our time spent on earth is made up of our inner thoughts. Documenting all the streaming thoughts and tiny moments in just one day adds up to pages and pages, yet our experience of a single day can move so quickly. Olivier spent years working on all the individual drawings and writing in Sunday, weaving in the stories of those who interacted with his cousin on this day to create an original graphic novel chronicling the heart of everyday existence. Sunday was named a best graphic novel of 2024 by The New York Times, The Guardian, and The Washington Post. Ghostroots by 'Pemi Aguda (2024) “This is the first pimple of your life. Question the foreign object with all your fingers.” 'Pemi Aguda begins her debut collection of short stories with this sentence as we enter a haunting tale of a young woman in the beginnings of a spiritual possession by her grandmother. Told that her grandmother Agnes was a truly evil person, evil for no reason at all, she begins to have urges to destroy, to harm and to kill, all while the evil seems to seep through her skin as growing acne. In the even more surreal Contributions, members of a community group create a loan system to avoid working with banks and formal loaning organizations. They have strict rules of repayment, and when a member does not make good on their debts, they take whatever is something of value to secure the debt. That may be a generator used at their business or even their family member. When a new member joins and cannot pay, and taking her husband for payment does not satisfy the debt, they start to seize parts of her body. The stories in Ghostroots are set in Lagos, Nigeria, and each are haunting and inspired, coalescing in a remarkable collection. Aguda expertly and eerily dives into stories of motherhood, ancestry, and the roots and ties of family, while simultaneously creating complete and vibrant characters. One of the most exciting short story collections of 2024, Ghostroots was a finalist for the 2024 National Book Award for Fiction. No. 137
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - APRIL 29, 2025
BY JOEL TAGERT BEST OF BIRDY 029 “Watch out for spiders,” Harry told him before he went out. “Ha, ha,” Devin hefted his toolkit. “I’m serious. Knew a guy one time, spider was hanging out on top of this old digger ...” “Tell you what, I’ll watch out for a fuel pump for a ‘53 Nissan. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure it doesn’t bite me in the neck.” Actually there were eight items on his list. Hopefully it wouldn’t take him too long, because it was cold as fuck all outside. He let the door to the trailer slam shut and stepped out into the junkyard pulling on some insulated work gloves and putting up the hood of his Carhartt. Cheyenne winters were no joke. He whistled for Sheroy Brown, but the dog didn’t come. Whistled again, waited. Nothing. Where was she? Devin stomped around to the dog house, wind nipping at his ass, the skies clouded. He ducked his head down, needlessly, because he could see Sheroy wasn’t in there. Where was that bitch? You would think with the weather she’d want to stay in her house, where it was warm. So instead of heading toward the north corner of the yard, where he knew there were a couple Nissans, he turned toward the fence and started walking the perimeter, calling and whistling. Jeez, he should have let her into the trailer at night. It was criminal to keep her out like this, even if they had run a vent right out to her house from the trailer. No. 137 Only reason she didn’t sleep in the trailer was because of fucking Harry. Fat sonofabitch said she got hair over everything, made the office look bad. Like anyone gave a flying fuck at a rat’s ass what a junkyard office looked like. After today he’d tell his uncle that Sheroy was sleeping in the trailer, and if Harry was still being a dick about it, she could just come home with Devin and stay in his apartment. Fuck what the landlord said. On the east side the snow was drifted right up against the vehicles. Chain link and barbed wire might keep out thieves, but it didn’t do shit for snow. His work boots were laced up tight, but even so by the time he got through the drift he could feel snow melting on his shins. He’d made almost a complete circuit of the perimeter when he saw it: a spot where the chain link had been pulled out of the ground and pressed upward, leaving just enough room for a dog to wiggle through. Well, there was the answer. He was surprised Sheroy would try it, but apparently there’d been something out in the wide world she wanted to chase. He looked out at the hills, the blanched stalks of grass waving feebly from the snow, hearing the trucks dopplering past on the highway and the wind making static in his ears. “Fuck.” Hopefully she would come home. Hopefully she wasn’t dead on the highway. He considered taking the Ford to go look for her, but ... hell, she could still be in the junkyard somewhere.
So he went and looked over the Nissans, found what he wanted in a ‘54 and worked at pulling it out. Then a rearview mirror from a Chevy sedan, and a whole left door from a Ford truck. By now he really was freezing, but he thought he should get halfway through his list before going for lunch. Number four was a steering wheel from a Toyota minivan. There was only one in the yard, and it had probably been there for ten years now, but he thought the steering wheel was still in it. Christ, they hadn’t made it easy to get to though. Cars piled on all sides. Half this stuff was just scrap, should have been cleared out of here ages ago. Not just cars, either — there were pallets of old generators, broken solar panels, a bunch of antique office computers. Sometimes Uncle Harry went to auctions and bid on lots, ended up with stuff like this. Then it sat there for twenty years. They should call the yard a museum and start selling tickets to come in and look. You couldn’t even get to the van. Cars were piled right up against it, so you couldn’t open the doors. But one of the rear doors, maybe ... he clambered right over the roof of a 2032 Ford Long Haul, a real antique, and finally hopped down from the hood onto honest ground again. More litter scattered in the gravel and weeds: a soda can, a black power cord from who knows what. Of course the rear doors were locked. He got out his jimmy bar, slid it down the window until he found the latch. Devin was a motherfucking expert at opening cars. He’d be a killer car thief, if he ever wanted. Instead you’re just a junkyard dealer. Not even that. Junkyard dealer’s assistant. But shit, he was young. Twenty-four was still young, right? So what if he’d never finished high school. He knew cars, and that was something. And he still got girls, or would, if he wasn’t with Lora. Lately she’d been talking about kids, which made Devin’s skin crawl. Maybe it was time to break it off with her, even if she didn’t mind blowing him once in a while. The lock gave with a gratifying click, and he stuffed the bar in his back pocket and hurried to put his gloves back on. His fingers were turning white. He opened the door, stuck his head inside, and froze. The van wasn’t empty. Stretched out on the floor was a teenaged boy, shirtless and barefoot, white skin exposed to the cold, and Devin’s first thought was, Holy shit there’s a dead kid in here. He needed to call someone. Harry first, or the cops? Harry, get him out here. His gloved hand scrabbled for the phone in his pocket. Kid must have been the one to pull up the fence. Some runaway, looking for a place to chill for a bit. To chill, ha ha. He pulled off a glove with his teeth, let it drop to the ground, thumbing the screen. Kept looking at the body. It occupied only a narrow space in the van. The rest of the interior was filled with ... he didn’t even know, looked like weird electronics, wires everywhere, computer parts pinned to the walls, extending right into the cab, and was it just him, or was it actually humming? Kind of loudly, actually. This stuff was on. The wires. The power cords. It wasn’t just scrap. It was plugged into the grid, or maybe to those old solar panels he’d seen. What was worse, some wires didn’t go to the machinery. They went to the kid. They went right into his arms, like IVs. And squinting into the darkness, he saw another body with wires running into it, lying there in the cab: his poor dog, Sheroy Brown. She hadn’t run away. She’d been caught by these things. His uncle’s voice squawked on the phone, “You need something, Devin?” Devin looked down, and that was when he felt something drop onto his neck from above. He yelped and jerked backwards, hands flailing. He grabbed at his neck with his right, felt plastic and metal and tried to tear it away, but the thing had already wrapped four wire-strong limbs around his neck. He felt a pinch at the back of his head where the skull met the spine, realized the thing was trying to hit him with its stinger, but the leatherand-wool hood of the Carhartt was preventing it. Spider spider holy fuck it’s a spider. He kept trying to pull it off, but it only tightened its grip around his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe, in a second he’d pass out, and the spider would pull down his hood and stick its stinger in his spine and then he’d join the runaway on the floor. Suddenly he remembered the Gerber multitool in his pocket. The wire cutter on the pliers! He got it out, fumbled it open while his throat convulsed. With difficulty he slipped the pliers under one of the spider’s legs, scraped his neck, while stars lit in his vision. With both hands, he clenched the grips together. And again. The leg parted, its loose end flapping against his hood. One more. He had to dig the multitool right into the flesh of his neck to do it, he might hit a fucking artery, but it was that or be a slave to this bastard freak machine, so he jammed it up there and clenched for all he was worth. In an instant the spider fell away, wire limbs flailing at the ground, trying to flee under the van, now that it was wounded, but with half its legs cut it was too slow. Devin stomped his work boots on its body with a triumphant curse. He kept stomping until it was just little pieces of metal crushed in the gravel. Who knew what twisted fuck had designed the things, but someone had, a couple decades ago. They’d become a minor danger in junkyards and cities, anywhere with a lot of electronic and mechanical trash. The spiders gathered parts until they could replicate, and if they could, they’d punch into a human, using the brain as a biological supercomputer. Here he’d discovered a nest. There would be at least one spider on the unlucky boy, and another on Sheroy, but with luck and good medical attention they’d both be okay. He picked up the phone, got his uncle on the line again. “Call an ambulance. And a vet. And an exterminator.” He paused. “And from now on, Sheroy’s sleeping inside.” 19
BURNING It TO THE GrOunD JUSt PROVeS THAT I AM OKAY BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JASON WHITE THE DAY NERO FORGOT TO BRING HIS FIDDLE Now that his place of work was on fire, he didn’t know what else to do. At three in the morning with no one around, he felt like he should at least have a way to occupy his hands. But he didn’t bring his phone. And he forgot to grab his fidget spinner from his desk before lighting the fucker up. At least now he understood why Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned. And he was envious of the former emperor for thinking about that at a time like this. TO EXPOUND UPON FUGAZI’S, “YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU OWN” “So what do you do?” asked a person whose name Clyde forgot, even though the two had just met. He didn’t want to answer the question, because he was sick to death of it. All the new people in his life wanted No. 137 HE WAS UNAWARE THAT HER FUTURE PLANS OFTEN INCLUDED HIM Martin had no idea how powerful Sally’s imagination was. She could daydream for hours about various different aspects of her future — to know the same thing. It’s a custom around these parts. They were asking what he did to make money. But he wasn’t on the clock. He didn’t want to talk about work. “You know when Fugazi sang, ‘You are not what you own?’” asked Clyde. The new person shook his head and said, “Um, no.” And Clyde said, “Well, they did. But what they didn’t say — at least not in so many words — is, ‘You are not what you do for a living.’ So I’m not going to answer that.” The new person was offended at Clyde’s brashness, but Clyde didn’t care. He was sick of meeting boring new people that talk about their shitty jobs anyway.
from the bad (illness, ill fortune, death) to the good (finding happiness, friendship, love). Oftentimes Martin appeared in the visions of her fate. He was who she imagined being with after her heart had been broken and she was single once again. The daydreams pretty much went the same way: at first they would take it slow. A date here and there. Then she would catch feelings first, and he would follow soon afterwards. They would fall madly in love, maybe even get married — Sally hasn’t come to a firm conclusion about that just yet. She just got divorced and was skittish about imagining marriage again, but she knew she could easily change her mind if the right guy came along. A guy like Martin. Of course what Sally didn’t know was that Martin already had a girlfriend. And once she discovered this piece of information, she would have to find a new guy to mentally construct a future with. IF A PERSON PITIES HIMSELF IN A FOREST AND NO ONE IS AROUND, DOES ANYONE GIVE A SHIT? Jake always wanted to live in the woods — far away from all the people that made his life so miserable. He pictured a remote log cabin where he could live a life of quiet desperation. He wanted to be able to pity himself without anyone asking what was wrong. He yearned to be sad and anonymous, and he figured it would be much easier to do that in the forest. One night when he was sitting at the table in his cramped studio apartment, he figured he would make a list of the people who would miss him. But he couldn’t come up with a single name. He was an only child, his mom had passed away years ago, and his dad had dementia and didn’t recognize him anymore. All his past lovers jilted him at around the two-year mark in their respective relationships. He did have a rapport with the guy at the coffee shop, but that was only because he tipped well. He wanted to be forgotten, but he already was. So he figured that if only the trees and squirrels witnessed his sadness, he could live out the rest of his years without bothering any human or having another human bother him. The only problem was that he fucking hated the woods almost as much as he hated people. So yeah, he was in a real pickle. I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT DESPITE EVERYTHING, I AM OKAY My friend Donna is not having a good time. I sent her a text inquiring about her mental state, and she responded: “These days, I have to dig deep in the far reaches of my mind to find any sort of hope. And when I do, it’s not very bright; it’s more like a flicker. But it is there. I don’t think my future is going to be great, but I can see myself finding happiness again at some point. It may take months or even years, but I do believe it will happen. I’m sorry if I’ve been difficult to hang out with recently, but life has not been cooperating with me very much. And it’s hard not to take that personally. That said, things will get better. Not because they have to, but because I haven’t given up. And I want you to know that: I haven’t given up. And I won’t give up as long as I have friends like you. To quote the Golden Girls theme song, ‘Thank you for being a friend.’ You have made a huge difference, and I will never forget that.” It wasn’t the first time Donna made me cry, and it probably won’t be the last. But just to let you know, she hasn’t been difficult to hang out with at all. Sure she’s been sad, but being there for someone when they need a friend is a true honor. It imparts a sense of purpose. And it’s one of the times that life is unmistakably beautiful. And I think we could all use more beauty in our lives. 21
BY TOM MURPHY BISON BONE – LEAN EP The band recorded this EP, aptly named at just three tracks. Live with few overdubs, it has a spontaneous feel with some of the sound anomalies left in like silencing the strings with a sweep of the hand at the end of “The Lucky Ones.” The commanding tone of the songs is striking but so are its various thematic resonances. The title track uses the word lean in the sense of someone who you can count on for support emotionally and likely often physically. These are songs about love and commitment which have been written about from the beginnings of popular music. But Courtney Whitehead shaves off everything but the essential sentiments and expression, letting the obvious affection and warmth with which each moment is delivered suffice as proof of sincerity. CALM. – ONLY VAMPIRES WEAR CAPES With Time’s insightful use of the semiotics of popular culture and an internationalist perspective on political economy, and AwareNess’s free association and freestyle composition and production to set the emotional timbre, each song is a brilliant treatise on American society and culture. You don’t need to know political theory or understand the nuances of referents here because the songs are written to be accessible, vulnerable and real, while offering poignant observations about life. The density of poetry is refreshingly transparent, but like a great film offers treasures on the revisiting. No. 137 CHELLA & THE CHARM – HAPPY HOUR This set of songs, as the title of the release suggests, is culled from time spent hanging out with friends and acquaintances at the bar after work and the stories people share in less guarded moments in a place where they feel comfortable and welcome. But Chella has gleaned more than just the universality of some of these stories heard over decades, though this works as an inspired and poetic retelling. Inside the incandescent guitar work and the expertly accented rhythm and cadence of the music, you hear an affection for this time so often taken for granted — of shared camaraderie for the human condition; of an implicit trust and unspoken caring for each other that can be lost as subtext, but which the band makes apparent to the attentive listener. That and the band stretches out into new realms of sound in the song “December” and its sublime keyboard line that traces the elevated sentiments and moods that have been the hallmark of the group’s music since the beginning. HOLYMOONLIGHTBLADE – FAUX CONTROL Ambient and experimental electronic artist aeonexit branches into different vistas of composition with this debut release as holymoonlightblade. Working with f-ether in the mastering of these tracks, the drones and rhythmic beat sequences produce an otherworldly tone. The piece “a glint lost” feels like breaking through layers of resistance to a new level of consciousness with the
crackling pulses and accelerating tone alongside the persistent buzz. The beginning of “a taut muscle” sounds like what it must be like to ride on the transmission sites of cellular communication, before the song opens up to teeming dissonance and grand panoramas of noise. The four tracks together are like a deep meditation on the workings of inner space as a path to having greater understanding of larger patterns of existence. It would also make a great soundtrack to the next Flying Lotus science fiction epic. MOONPOOL – NOTHING SACRED The Sickly Hecks were one of the more acclaimed newer bands in the realm of garage rock adjacent post-punk. But the group shifted its sound significantly in the past year and renamed itself moonpool to reflect that transformation. This debut EP finds the band channeling its fuzz tone into grand atmospheric sweeps and drive more in the vein of the likes of Narrow Head and Title Fight. There is a gritty urgency and bite to its guitar sound with vocals able to lean back into introspection as well as full forward with a raw forcefulness. A welcome and fully realized reinvention. FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM 23
BY GRAY WINSLER | ART BY CHRIS TOPPER They spoke in hushed tones, careful that the birds above could not hear. “I’m going to see the Oracle,” Mole whispered. “Don’t be a fool,” Jed husked, keeping an eye on the sky. They were not real birds, of course. They were not made of feather and bone as those of antiquity believed. They were machines, had No. 137 always been machines. “Even if it was not forbidden, you have nothing to offer the Oracle,” Jed said. “It would be a foolish endeavor even for you.” Mole reached into his robe and pulled out a metallic disc. Jed open his mouth to gasp, but Mole covered it before the air could escape. They eyed each other in the quiet, standing at the edge of
the desert, in the last of the tillable lands before the sand wastes, and they waited, hopeful the birds above would not report this event to their masters, the machines Jed and Mole both truly feared. Jed spoke so quietly as to barely be heard, “You would venture beyond the firewall with this on your person? You have a death wish.” “We live in the boundaries, Jed. We cannot even speak without fear the birds will alert their masters. I’m no safer here.” “None have been taken for nigh a decade, even in the boundaries.” “It will not last.” “Hush. The firewall holds true. You speak nonsense.” “I speak what you do not wish to hear.” Jed turned his gaze back to the dirt, tilling what remained of the soil. He regretted that he had ever been placed in the company of Mole, who he had never liked. From the moment he set eyes upon Mole — who was, by most accounts, a grotesque man with ill-apportioned features that God seemed to have failed to stitch together appropriately — he knew he could not be trusted. And now he was certain that one day Mole’s idiocy would be the death of him. “Where did you even find the disc?” Jed asked. “Where does anyone get such antiquities?” Mole replied. Jed knew this to mean Mole had already gone beyond the firewall, had already ventured to the place where the machines still ruled, where bloodborne were forbidden to go. “If you have gone there,” Jed said, already “then you have ruined yourself. Not even the Oracle’s wisdom could save your soul.” My soul. Mole scoffed at the notion. He found no comfort in the religion that Jed so dutifully clung to. Perhaps it was because he felt he had never been blessed in life. His parents died before he was born. He had been left behind to an old woman who cared little for him. She thought of him as her personal servant, nothing more. And she ridiculed him daily for his hideous form. Later that evening, Mole watched Jed till the soil and found himself taken with jealousy. He could see Jed was happy working the land for all his days, no different from the serfs of antiquity. And why not? He had a woman he could return to at night, who would wipe the dirt from his brow, who would have stew warmed and waiting for him. He had two children with her, who were healthy and seemed to be of hearty stock. By all accounts, Jed had a fine life. Mole resented this, for he was certain such a life could never be his. Not unless he proved he was worthy. The Oracle lay deep within the sand wastes, a week’s journey from the boundaries. There were tales of what lay in those lands. Tales of great sand worms that could swallow the earth whole. Tales of tiny scorpions that could kill with a single prick. Tales of snakes that would wrap around you in the dead of night, squeezing the last breath out of you. But Mole found not a single living thing on his journey to the Oracle. Stranger than the absences of life, however, was the absence of birds. He had not seen a bird in the sky since the first day in his trek. Still, he kept his lead cloak wrapped tightly around him, enduring the insufferable heat in the hopes their eyes could not pierce its veil. But day after day he saw no birds, only sand — unending, undulating, dunes that stretched out as far as he could see. He was well and truly alone out here, though he felt no different than when he was at home. On the seventh day, Mole reached the base of the Great Dune, the dune which withstood the torments of wind, towering above all else in the sand wastes. Atop of the dune, Mole could see the small silhouette of the Oracle, resting peacefully, waiting for him. It took an entire day for Mole to climb the Great Dune, crawling up by inches as the sand slid beneath his feet. The heat beat down on him, and Mole’s water supplies had dwindled, forcing him to slip off his lead cloak, just for the climb, such that he may preserve his water for the journey home. When he reached the top, he found the Oracle was less magnificent than he had imagined. There was no grand temple, no shrine to her greatness, no sign that she was anything more than a machine of antiquity. But Mole knew well that appearances could be deceiving, and this did not deter his hope. Mole bent down and slid his offering into the Oracle’s mouth. There was a moment of quiet in which Mole waited anxiously, desperate to know how the Oracle would receive his offering. Would she offer him her wisdom? Could he return to his village as the hero who endured the sand wastes for their glory? He saw a vision in his mind of his people gathered before him, waiting eagerly for his guidance. Just as Mole’s hopes and fantasies reached a fever pitch, the screen flickered on. A cursor flashed momentarily, and Mole leaned in closer. The letters P-O-N-G crawled across the screen, then vanished, replaced by a white dot in the center and two white rectangles at the edges. Mole watched, scrutinizing every pixel, searching for the wisdom the Oracle wished to convey to him. Then the white dot began to move to the left, where it hit one of the white rectangles, then back to the right, where it bounced off the other rectangle. And so on. Back and forth. Back and forth. Again and again, the white dot trapped between the edges. It was not long before the realization struck Mole, and he understood perfectly what the Oracle was telling him. Humanity was trapped between two bleak realities, one under the tyranny of machine, the other under the tyranny of labor. They were no more free in their poverty than in their servitude. They were helplessly pinging back and forth between two cruel worlds. But this is not what we were meant for. We were meant for something greater. Yes, yes! Mole was certain 25 SOMEWHERE OUT THERE
that this is what she meant, and certain that his people would celebrate him for bringing back such wisdom. But Mole had only a moment to savor this feeling before a shadow flickered across his face. He looked up to the sky. High above he saw a single dark speck amongst the blue expanse. He felt his stomach rip open then, for he knew his mistake. He saw his lead cloak lying in the sand beside him, and he cursed himself for his idiocy. Quickly he threw the cloak over himself, praying the bird had not seen him. His heart racing, Mole turned and slid down the length of the Great Dune, having no time to bid farewell to the Oracle who had, for the first time in his life, given him a blessing. He hoped that even if he had been spotted, that the cloak may prevent the bird from tracking him — if he was swift. He cast aside any fears over his water supply and resolved to return home as quickly as possible. But within the hour, the sun had been blotted out by a mass of metal wings beating against the sky. The mechanical murmuration hovered ominously above Mole, casting him in darkness. He had never seen such a swarm gathered, and he could not suppress the feeling of awe. The swarm pressed downward, churning the sands around Mole. He shielded his face from the grains which whipped across his cheeks, running hopelessly onward. But as they pressed in on him, the sand and wind became so fierce that Mole could do little more than cower on the desert floor. As he lay there, awaiting his death, he cursed God for his sour lot in life. He cursed God that he would tease him with greatness, only to snatch it from his grasp. He cursed God for taking his parents, for his hideous form, for his profound loneliness. He cursed God that he had ever been born. He considered the possibility that perhaps the birds would take pity on him. Perhaps they would see what an ugly, pathetic human he was and let him live as some cruel joke. But then the first of the metal beaks tore into his flesh, and he screamed in agony. He clenched every muscle in his body, fearing the next stabs that would tear him into pieces, soon to be forgotten. But then, abruptly, it stopped. The wind seemed to calm around him, and he was left only with the searing pain. He opened his eyes and looked at the flesh on his arm they had been cut through. There was a clean slice, oozing a thin stream of blood. And then, beneath the veneer of blood, there was something he had not expected to see — a metallic sheen. Compulsively, he reached and peeled back his skin, looking deeper into the wound. Beneath his skin, Mole saw wires and steel where veins and bone should be. Mole trembled with shock, lying alone in the sand wastes, until a single falcon descended from the swarm and stood just before him. He looked up and stared into the bird’s eyes, who stared evenly back at him. Mole found no judgement, no fear, no scorn in the bird’s gaze — all things he had come to expect from the people he’d known all his life. He saw only a patient acceptance. And as Mole shivered amidst the burning heat, he felt a creeping relief that perhaps, all this time, there had been a reason he never belonged. REUNION - @CHRISTOPPERART No. 137
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Free Pizza. Great Comedy. No Kidding. Interview with Founder Ben Bryant BY KRYSTI JOMÉI • PHOTOS BY HASSAN JOSEPH BEN BRYANT From a back room in the late Irish Snug pub to a non-denominational church basement, Denver Comedy Underground finally found its new home — above ground — this year in the heart of the historic Five Points neighborhood. Nestled between California and Welton on 22nd Street, an unassuming tinted glass door opens to an atmospheric mid-size venue reminiscent of an iconic comedy club the likes of NYC, but with an undeniable Denver air. The ambient lit space is warm and intimate with thick brick walls, a long wooden bar, a front-and-center stage, and truly no bad seats in the house. Colorado local comic and Denver Comedy Underground Founder Ben Bryant explains there’s still more work to do since the grand opening of the new venue in January — like lowering the ceiling to perfect the sound for performances and album recordings, finishing their classic comedian photo wall of fame, putting up extra signage and some other minor renovations. But as is, the club is an unparalleled gem, serving up top-notch laughs in the evenings, plus a Sunday comedy brunch, for a fraction of the typical cost. With a roster of local talent and on the rise national acts, the average ticket price is a purposeful $20, as Ben is committed to keeping comedy accessible and affordable in Denver. He believes patrons should be able to have a night out where they can keep their focus on the hilarity on stage instead of worrying about their bank accounts, as he’s way too familiar with the latter. “I can’t get it out of my head, at the real inception [of Denver Comedy Underground], pre-moving to the church, I was basically living on the same $300 week to week that we would make from four or five shows, which is thin living. And thank God it’s not quite that anymore,” he reminisced. “But that’s been part of the journey. And I am very grateful to what it has allowed me to pursue within my life and my comedy and with the club, to be able to create community and to provide a national level of service for lack of a better word ... So I want to make comedy accessible to people. There’s ways to make it work financially, communally without outright gouging people like it feels like at some other places.” Considered one of the most successful independent comedy venues in the city, Denver Comedy Underground is rewriting the narrative in real time of what a typical club business model should look like by doing things their own way. This includes no standard two-drink minimum, a happy houresque priced beverage menu, and the crème de la crème, free pizza — yes, free pizza. “People like comedy. People LOVE pizza,” Ben said. After a local EELAND STRIBLING No. 137
CARLY BALLERINI ALI SULTAN franchise stopped donating pies to DCU, he explained that “people were so mad we didn’t have free pizza. So I was like, Okay, I guess we’re the free pizza place. I wish I could say I’m a marketing genius here, but it was just sort of circumstances and keeping an open mind and open network.” That seems to be the theme in Ben’s life. By remaining receptive and adaptable while continuously pursuing comedy, Ben dubs the creation of Denver Comedy Underground as a “happy accident.” The club is an accumulation of his personal experiences and lessons gained on and off stage, from memorable lows — like bombing at a dab lounge in Colorado Springs after an a cappella rapper unexpectedly overtook the intro of his set — to victorious highs — like his work appearing on Adult Swim or having one of his shows voted one of the “Best Comedy Nights in America” by The Interrobang. Even more, he credits Denver — the city itself — to his DIY grit and the club’s ability to exist in the capacity it does today. “I think Denver itself and Colorado as a whole has a very DIY-like bloodline that runs through it both in necessity and value. Denver has very much had to build itself away from being a cowtown and I think we’ve seen that so much within the music and the comedy scene. To me, the quintessential Denver thing is just having to have to make stuff happen. We’re not some small state in the Midwest, but we work like we are, we work like we’re still putting on house shows for emo bands.” Ben said, continuing: “Out here, it really just feels like comedy Disneyland. For both the good and the bad because I think there are a few people who get a little complacent, because who doesn’t have fun at Disneyland? But there’s also really, really high level talent out here. Traveling for festivals and seeing so many different scenes over the years, I think the only people who can consistently beat us pound for pound is New York. But that’s different because of course you’re going to have a few more skilled singers and dancers in the Broadway capital. Same thing with comedy. You’re going to have a few more skilled comics in the mecca of where that happens. But, what we’re doing is strong and a lot of it is on our own. There is no industry here, and we have to either build it ourselves or get so sharp that eventually the industry is like, Oh wow, is this a training camp of Dagestan wrestlers that have just been preparing in the mountains?” 29 There’s a saying that in life that you need two things: thick skin and a sense of humor. It’s safe to say Ben has both. And what’s more, he’s here to share them, his resilient spirit and the elixir that is laughter through a fun, artist-driven, community-centered venue, which is needed more than ever. “Comedy is counterculture. But also it’s this weird time where it’s both counterculture and it’s also kind of like the more common version of theater. Comedy really is, to me, the accessible. It’s what theater used to be. It’s live, it’s so tangibly live that it fits a very cool social and artistic moment right now. That’s the hope anyway.” Focusing on comedy albums and recorded specials this year, Denver Comedy Underground aims to further their reach and provide access to “Denver’s Best Comedy” to people and communities outside of the city. Though, where it’s truly at is the in-person experience: the real people, the real laughter, the real hot free slice of za. Ben concluded, “This year I’m just super grateful to Colorado and to Denver and to the arts and comedy scene for their support and for the people who come and see us, who just come out to watch a great show.” SHOW + TICKETS + MORE: DENVERCOMEDYUNDERGROUND.COM FOLLOW FOR MORE: IG + FB: @DENVERCOMEDYUNDERGROUND
by Julianna Beckert Q: How can I keep going when I feel like I’m failing? A: Tend your tiny sprouts. Picture a little tomato sprout popping up out of rich, cozy soil. It’s just a tender young little thing. Skinny little stalk, cute, round baby leaves — not even the real-deal tomato leaves yet. It’s not clear what it’s going to become yet, but it’s all in there building up cell-by-cell. Now imagine that tiny cute sprout looking in the mirror and saying, "I’m so stupid. Who do I think I am? A tomato? As if. I’ll never make fruit. I can’t even grow right. I’m a joke." :'( Aww. Poor little sprout. At that delicate stage, a few nasty words could shrivel it right back into the dirt — and poof, no tomatoes for anyone. It’s ridiculous when we say it about a sprout, but somehow, it feels normal when we talk to ourselves that way. Here’s the truth: the sprout doesn’t deserve that poison, and neither do you. Plants don’t waste time feeling ashamed they’re not full-grown. They just do their thing: soak up some water and sun, grow a little, rest, and repeat. We’ve got more going on upstairs than a tomato plant, but maybe we could still take a page from their book. Now zoom out. Picture your whole self as a giant, messy, beautiful greenhouse full of plants – some plants are sturdy and thriving, some are floppy and need a stick to lean on, and some are just little nubs poking out of the dirt. Your guitar lessons? A new sprout. The way you show up in relationships? Maybe an old oak, maybe a finicky little orchid. Everything you’re learning, everything you’re practicing — it’s all growing. When you start something new, it’s supposed to feel awkward and fragile. That’s normal. Your job isn’t to bully it into greatness. Your job is to water it, protect it, and whisper, "You’re doing great, little buddy." You get to decide every day, if you're feeding your greenhouse with nutrients, or dousing it in Roundup. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. We’re all just little sprouts, reaching for the sun. Visit monkeymindful.com to submit your question or find transformational workshops and coaching sessions. No. 137
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