ISSUE 139 | JULY 2025 GRAPE APE: JONNY DESTEFANO AGENT 99: KRYSTI JOMÉI TWEETY: JULIANNA BECKERT THE PROFESSOR: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI BUTTERCUP: CRISTIN COLVIN ELECTRIC COMPANY: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH JEM: AMANDA SHAFER HONG KONG PHOOEY: ALAN ROY VOLTRON: DANIEL LANDES SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, DENVER ART MUSEUM, MUTINY COFFEE AND COMICS, COLORADO FESTIVAL OF HORROR, ART CARD DISPATCH, THE BLACK MONARCH HOTEL, MARKET IN THE PARKET, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, UNDERSTUDY, THE IMPLIERS PRESENT: MIXED MESSAGES, MONKEY BARREL, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE: HORROR WRITERS RETREAT, WATERCOURSE FOODS, CITY, O’ CITY, COLORADO SUN TOFU, PLANNED PARENTHOOD OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BENNY BLANCO’S, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FRONT COVER: ERIC JOYNER, HAMMER THROW - ERICJOYNER.COM BACK COVER: CJ TROXELL, TARANTULA - @CJTROXELLART SCOOBY SNACKS: ERIC JOYNER, JASON WHITE, PETE KORNOWSKI, JOEL TAGERT, DAVE DANZARA, HANA ZITTEL, JOE VAUX, ARNA MILLER, JOSH KEYES, BRIAN POLK, ZAC DUNN, TOM MURPHY, CHRIS AUSTIN, CJ TROXELL LAND OF THE LOST: SUSANN BROX NILSEN, JOE ROLLMAN, EVAN CURTIS, BRANDON EARLEY, CRISTINA SALAS, MATT HAVER, ELIZABETH GERTH, BRYAN KLIPSCH, AARON WOOD, MELISSA MITCHELL JABBERJAWS: MARIANO OREAMUNO, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN HELP US GROW - FOLLOW - IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE SUPPORT BIRDY - 6 & 12 MONTH MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + KEEP INDEPENDENT ART ALIVE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS A TALE OF CASTAWAYS, STRANDED MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, PRIMITIVE AS CAN BE 1
SUSANN BROX NILSEN, WHIMSY - @SUSI_THEWEIRDANDWONDERFUL
PETER KORNOWSKI, FISHERMAN'S PERIL
BY JOEL TAGERT Being consumed by a dark god was just the beginning. When Th’yaleh’s great tentacles rose around my little dinghy, I looked frantically for escape, but of course there was none. Perhaps there had never been any escape possible, from the fi rst; perhaps all my travails at the oars of the lifeboat, and the ill-fated voyage of the Robin before that, and the war, and even my love for Eleanor, every breath, every word, every gesture, had all been to lead me here, to the dripping ascent of those serpentine mouth-parts. In unexpected surety, like Socrates presented with his hemlock, I looked then not to those glossy coils, but to the late afternoon sun, another sort of god, who shone down cold and regretful. Good-bye, old friend. The dripping rose to a roar. The waves turned to a whirlpool, then an abyss. I fell. Then, the most astonishing moment of my life – yes, more astonishing than that maritime consumption: I lived! I awoke violently, coughing and retching sea-water and bile. Even as I did, something snatched at my leg – snatched, then bit! I screamed, in pain and confusion, kicking and scrabbling. Understand that all was in darkness, a darkness beyond any you can imagine. It was the kind of darkness that required ancient words to evoke, words that themselves whispered of long-forgotten deities and the hidden crevasses of the psyche: cthonic, stygian, cimmerian. To fall into Th’yaleh was to fall into blindness. Thus, seeing nothing, my leg being thrashed to pieces, I reached in my pockets for any weapon. Immediately my hand gripped a steel cylinder, its weight solid in my palm. Screaming, I swung it, struck a hard carapace, swung again and again, each blow connecting with a nasty crunch, until my unseen assailant twitched and fell still. I fell back, crying out and clutching at the wound. The fl esh all around the ankle was torn, the skin laying in fl aps. I contemplated letting myself bleed to death. No matter where I was or how I had gotten there, escape seemed as distant a prospect as cocktails at Delmonico’s. Perhaps it would be best to lie back and let my heart throb lower and lower before fi nally falling still. But it occurred to me that the blood might draw more predators, and this put an end to any self-pitying morbid fantasies. However I was to die, I did not want to be torn to pieces. Grimacing, I tore off my coat and shirt (leaving me in my undershirt), and tied the latter as tightly as possible around the leg. I heard a noise then, a repeated clicking, and scrabbled for my weapon where I had dropped it. Finding it, I spent long minutes with it held before me, swaying this way and that at the faintest movement of the fetid air, before I suddenly realized what I was holding. It was an electric torch, of course: I had had it in my pocket from the night before, taking it from my cabin as the Robin foundered. I almost laughed as I pressed the switch. Nothing. The bulb was broken, the glass tinkling inside when I shook it, most likely ruined when I had beaten my attacker to death. Now I did laugh, a mad bark that ended in piteous sobs. I curled up on the ground. I have no idea how long I lay like that; I think I slept, for my head was throbbing terribly. I woke with the headache (probably a concussion) somewhat abated, my head clearer, and took stock of my situation. I could still see nothing, but even in my sleep I had gained some sense of the space. The ground was wet, the liquid possessing a distressing viscosity, like saliva. The surface was irregular, with repeated grooves deep enough to lie in. It was cold, but not truly freezing, else I might have succumbed to hypothermia already. There were no walls immediately in reach. There were sounds in the darkness, a visceral symphony: rumbles and burbles, hisses and creaks. Sitting here would do no good. I tried to stand. With much wincing and cursing, I determined that I could at least put weight on the leg. The bone did not seem to be broken, nor the Achilles severed. No doubt a doctor would have had a more precise diagnosis, but I was something nearly useless in the wild: an accountant. Even my time in the Army had been spent primarily looking at rows of numbers. Well, accountant, account for thyself.
Along with my clothes and shoes of light canvas (no shoelaces, alas), I found in my pockets the key to my cabin (the cabin door now somewhere on the ocean fl oor, presumably), a handkerchief, a pair of leather gloves, and, gloriously, a small waxed paper bag of currants (I often ate them), rather sodden. These I promptly consumed, gloriously sweet, and felt my strength renewed. I also, I realized, had the corpse of one shelled animal. Reluctant, yet knowing its fl esh might preserve me for days, I let my fi ngers explore the mess. While I slept its fl esh had grown cold, and my fi ngers probed delicately at its broken carapace, encountering smooth shell, sharp ridges, claws, eyes, guts, and the horrifying mechanisms of its mouth-parts. It was crablike, but large as a collie: some scavenger in these depths. I leaned forward, sniff ed its fl esh, and gagged. It stank like rotting fi sh, though it was but freshly dead. Was it edible? I feared I would fi nd out. Rising again, I limped in the direction of the grooves on the fl oor until its slope rose in a rounded curve. I limped the other way, fi nding the same. Very well: I was in a tunnel. Keeping one hand on the wall, I moved perpendicularly to the curves, proceeding with caution, fi nding the tunnel rose abruptly, until I could not follow. The other direction was more promising. I walked for several minutes, and it seemed to open into a larger space, a cave: and here I nearly fell over some thigh-high obstacles. My exploring fi ngertips found splintered wood … my boat! Or at least, what was left of it. It had been shattered in the fall; this seemed to be its stern. The bow had been partially crushed, the timbers of one side of the hull sprung, bent and broken. Still, I wept at fi nding it. Careful exploration of the tunnel yielded treasure after treasure: rope, sailcloth, an oar, even — praise the Fates! — my canteen, still with a few mouthfuls of precious water! Slowly an image formed in my mind. I imagined Th’yaleh, whose amphibious minions had overrun the Robin, rising from the depths, drawn inexorably by the bone amulet even now secure in my coat pocket. (I had been a fool to think I could escape, but the amulet was the only hope of returning Eleanor to this world, and I would not give it up while I drew breath.) Th’yaleh’s great tentacled maw opened, its house-sized gullet convulsed as it swallowed my boat and I entire, washed down with a swimming pool’s worth of sea water. And then — it choked. As a man’s throat might hesitate on a mere morsel, my boat and I went down the wrong tube … literally. Now, instead of whatever lake of acid passed for its stomach in this mountain-sized monster, I had ended, miraculously alive, in some other part of its otherworldly corpus, some oversized bronchiole or vein. Who knew if the creature even had blood? Well, I would fi nd out. I would see where this tunnel went. I could not really imagine escaping; but I could live a while in the belly of the beast, and if escape indeed proved impossible, I would seek the chambers of its cold heart. There I would do what I could to still its thunderous beating (which, I realized, I could faintly hear, a slow funereal drum). I had wood and cloth, and thought I might be able to start a fi re with the batteries from the torch. A bonfi re, then, around which I would dance, a fl itting devil: a bonfi re in the belly of the beast. No. 139
DAVE DANZARA, MONEY : POWER : LIES : GREED - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS - BEST OF 116
ROBOTS, DONUTS & MORE WITH ERIC JOYNER INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÉI PORTRAIT OF A ROBOT San Francisco local Eric Joyner is a lifelong master artist known for his fantastical dreamscapes where wires meet wonders. His journey from drawing in kindergarten to working in commercial design post art school propelled him to the independent artist that he is today. And most importantly, his signature subject — robots and donuts. Though he paints what entertains him, part of his mission is to spread joy to others and provide an oasis with his works through a lens of comedy, fantasy and absurdity, which people of all walks crave, even J.J. Abrams and George Lucas who are fans and collectors. But at the core of these whimsical robots, sweet baked goods, iconic monsters and nostalgic characters is the essence of what it means to be human — our search for belonging, for being understood, our inherent desire to find meaning in life as we know it. And Eric reminds us that perhaps the answers are closer than we think. Perhaps they can be found in the absurd relationship of a robot and a donut. Absurdity is a fundamental aspect in your art. Why is it so significant to your life and work? I guess because I am the product of a highly dysfunctional family. As I grew up with a lot of fear and disgust, not getting much instruction, counsel or guidance. My absurd attitude towards life was thus born. Take us back to the Vincent Van Gogh exhibition in San Francisco that deeply No. 139 inspired and transformed you as a child and set you on your artistic path. Yes, that show really opened my little brain. I was struck by the colors and brushstrokes, of course. Like so many other writers and artists, it was inspiring. In 1999, you lost the fear of your art looking stupid and that’s when your work leveled up and took off. What sparked this realization? This realization was sparked by researching what was out there in the art world. I read a lot of art magazines and gallery websites, read biographies by Brian Eno and Andy Warhol as well a good amount of Charles Bukowski. Robots and donuts was born out of an epiphany you had in the early 2000s after experiencing artistic boredom burnout. How do you keep your inspirational fire stoked over two decades later and prevent disenchantment with your subject matter? I make sure there’s a small amount of something different, in terms of subject matter or the influence of a movie genre. Also certain machines, settings or desserts. How do you start your day to get into the zone of making art? I first exercise and deal with correspondence and administration. Then set to creating. The hardest part is getting started but it gets
MOMENT OF TRUTH OVER THE EDGE CANTINA BLUE DEFRAGGING easier quickly and the anxiety goes away. As a full-time artist, you spend hours on end alone in the studio. How do you keep yourself company and also balanced? I listen to music and listen to YouTube. Sometimes audio books. There is no balance. I try to get exercise every day. Your paintings are so rich in detail I’m curious how long one typically takes to complete. And do you work on multiple pieces at once or are you a one project at a time creator? The time involved for each painting ranges from two days to four months, depending of the size and complexity. More robots and larger paintings equal more time. I usually have three paintings going at once while thinking of others. You work with recurring themes and what’s grabbing your attention at the moment in culture, movies, historical events, nature and space. What’s grasping your attention this year? This year’s theme is much of the same as past years but I have thrown King Kong, Barbi, Cthulhu and ice cream into the mix. You’re deeply inspired by traveling and being out in nature. Recall a trip that transformed you. On a day-to-day basis, what are your go-to nature SOMEWHERE IN PROVIDENCE getaways in San Francisco? The most transforming trip was probably when I was 9 when I, my father and two brothers hiked down a mountainside to the Middle Fork of the Yuba River in California. An exhausting and near-death experience. My days are no longer filled with many nature adventures but I do get to look across the San Francisco Bay every day from my art studio. What is the key to being a lifelong artist? A person will need to have persistence, desire, adaptability, resilience — in the face of many setbacks, sacrifice — an open mind and a good work ethic. He/she will need to write down their dreams, aspirations and have a plan with goals and deadlines. A pragmatic approach. Few people make a strong career right away. I think of it as a marathon. Though your work is chock-full of comedy and lightheartedness, it’s dually deeply emotional and complex, showcasing humanized characters expressing an array of feelings and physical states — even with your faceless baked goods. Is your work at all autobiographical or does it lean more heavily on fiction? Thank you. A combination of the two, I would say. My oil paintings are dreamscapes where robots and donuts coexist in strange harmony — symbols of indulgence, routine, and the absurdity of modern life. 9
LAZY DAY Rooted in pop surrealism, these works unfold in familiar yet slightly askew environments — bakeries, sidewalks, and quiet corners of imagined cities — where machines begin to echo the gestures and emotional rhythms of the people who made them. The robots in my paintings are not cold or clinical. They fumble toward something human — seeking comfort, connection, distraction — mirroring our own attempts to find meaning in a world growing increasingly fragmented. Donuts appear as both coping mechanisms and existential props: absurd, sweet and fleeting, much like the comforts we cling to in the face of uncertainty. These scenes often straddle the line between melancholy and humor, realism and fantasy, inviting viewers to consider the surreal logic of dreams as a lens for understanding our daily lives. The works ask philosophical questions with a light touch: What happens when artificial beings start dreaming? What does it mean to be conscious in a programmed world? Can absurdity be a kind of salvation? As we teeter on the edge of a murky future shaped by artificial these paintings become reflections of our collective intelligence, anxieties and quiet hopes. They suggest that perhaps even in a world No. 139 of circuits and code, the desire for tenderness, joy and a donut remains universal. As robot painter, what are your thoughts on the intersection of AI and art? Caution, fear and excitement. There are a lot of reasons to be concerned about our future. But since there is nothing I can do about it, I don’t let it get me down. It looks like we will be going through some fundamental changes in the coming years. Who knows — maybe things will improve. Favorite and least favorite aspect of making art. Favorite part is coming up with the initial idea, or the final brushstroke. Least favorite part is the preliminary work consisting of research and work. A major donut company asks you to come up with a special seasonal donut. What do you create? A basic raised or yeast donut with chocolate and orange sprinkles, for Halloween. Not too many sprinkles though.
A NEW DAY CLARKSVILLE THE FINAL BLOW PARK LIFE MATINEE How would you describe your art to a robot? How would you describe your art to a donut? Haha! I would let my art speak for itself. How do you deal with self-doubt as an artist? I struggle with doubt like a lot of people do but have faith in myself to pull through. Every failure is something new learned, so I keep that in mind. If things get bad, I look at the work of long-dead artists for inspiration and refer to Greek and Roman philosophy. Biggest way you’ve evolved creatively. With my thinking. Trusting my thoughts and ideas took many years. Though my painting has changed somewhat over the years, it’s always been rooted in realism. Career highlight(s). There have been a lot of highlights along the way. The top six would have to be: 1. The time in 2004 when my painting The Final Blow was selected for the cover of an international art contest Spectrum 11: The Best in Contemporary Fantastic Art in 2004. 2. The Sanrio 50th Anniversary Show. 3. The Ben Folds Five album cover in 2013. 4. A show in Moscow Russia in 2014 and a project with Solo Contemporary in Madrid. 5. The cumulative effect of 19.5 years of exhibiting at the Corey Helford Gallery. 6. The Lucas Museum of Narrative Art collecting my work. The $1.2 billion museum opening reception is in 2026. Anything on the horizon this year? I’m having a solo exhibit — Looking Sideways — in Los Angeles at the Corey Helford Gallery July 19th-August 23rd. SEE MORE WORK & SNAG LIMITED PRINTS + MERCH: ERICJOYNER.COM FOLLOW — IG: @ERICJOYNERART | FB: @ERICJOYNER FOR MORE INFO ON LOOKING SIDEWAYS: COREYHELFORDGALLERY.COM 11
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES: SAFETY FIRST
Is a River Alive? By Robert Macfarlane (2025) “I’ve never more strongly than here — in the seethe and ooze of the forest, in the flow of the river — perceived the error of understanding life as contained within a skin-sealed singleton. Life, here, stands clear as process, not possession.” In Robert Macfarlane’s 2019 release, Underland: A Deep Time Journey, he pulled us beneath the surface of the earth to explore the expansive worlds that run underneath from caves to catacombs to underground rivers. In 2025, his elegant nature writing brings us to a question — deepened by his travels — are the rivers of the world alive? And if so, how they are killed? Beginning his journey in Los Cedros, a cloud forest of Ecuador, Macfarlane sets off for the Río Los Cedros with a group, with each member tied to the preservation and protection of the forest. Among the group is an infectiously passionate mycologist, Guiliana, leading their second purpose, the search for two tiny brown mushrooms that would confirm a new species of the Psilocybe genus, “often called ‘magic mushrooms’ in English.” As they move on in their journey, Macfarlane intertwines the recent history of Ecuador's nature protections in his adventure story. Ecuador’s inspirational approach to nature preservation is deeply rooted in Indigenous teaching and practice. In their most important document — the constitution — ratified in 2008, the country provided “Rights of Nature” articles that established protection of nature. Threatened around 2017 when mining and drilling rights to Los Cedros were sold by the Ecuadorian government, the articles proved successful in a stress test. On November 10, 2021, “a judgement was passed in the Constitutional Court in Quito. It deployed the political might of the constitutional articles guaranteeing the Right of Nature, ruling that mining would violate the right of Los Cedros: both the rights of its creatures and plants to exist, and the rights of the forest and its rivers as a system to ‘maintain its cycles, structure, functions, and evolutionary process.’” These unique articles showed the value in establishing legal rights to the natural world, granting some protections to one of earth’s countless natural wonders. In the second section, Macfarlane travels to the sick, dying and dead rivers surrounding Chennai, India. Here he witnesses the devastation, pollution and impact of rapid growth on water where the “river had to be killed for the city to live.” Not without hope, he also meets the “angels” of the rivers who attempt to heal and revive them and to protect the life that relies on the water surrounding the city. His last section takes place in eastern Canada, where he seeks the Mutehekau Shipu, and an understanding of the impact damming would have on the ecosystem. It’s here where an alliance was created to recognize the river as “a legal person with the right to live.” In Is a River Alive? Macfarlane’s keen ability as a naturalist, writer, traveler and curious member of humanity shine. In a time where corporations receive rights akin to a human being and public land may be sold to the highest bidder, Robert Macfarlane pushes us to think about nature and our rivers as far more than commodities, but as beings just as vital as any living, breathing lifeform. Sunday Night Movies by Leanne Shapton (2013) Down by Law; Cléo de 5 à 7; Brand Upon the Brain!; The Philadelphia Story — a piece of each of these films and over 70 more make up the tiny slices of black-and-white film illustrated in Leanne Shapton’s 2013 collection, Sunday Night Movies. Some films are represented by a frame of two iconic characters meeting, others by a credit or title card, and all are beautifully illustrated in soft black-and-white watercolor, giving new life to highly familiar images. Through this compilation, Shapton’s work forces the re-imagining of these films, allowing the reader to visualize the frames in new ways, provoking simultaneous feelings of the familiar and the new. A gorgeous compilation of paintings, Shapton’s deceptively simple 2013 book is a subtle and worthy honoring of film. Leanne Shapton’s work can also be found in one of her many celebrated books, 2010’s The Native Trees of Canada or 2012’s Swimming Studies, among others. She has also created the covers for the Criterion Collection’s releases of Kicking and Screaming and Cría cuervos. No. 139 By Hana Zittel
15
JOE VAUX, BIG FISH EAST - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX
ORAN BY MATT HAVER Yesterday in the bath I waited for the water to drain and caught my reflection in the convex overflow plate. Between the foreshortening the reflection the nudity the relaxed pose I'll be damned if one of our arboreal cousins wasn't sitting there in the suds gazing back at me. Albeit short on body hair bereft of orange locks and superhuman strength. But there he sat an animal we share 97 percent of our humanity with. Humanity. If only. It got me thinking. Perhaps the next time we visit the zoo we should spend some time before the bars of the ape enclosure and beg their opinion on the West Bank where their more advanced relatives murder women and children and the elderly by the score over Bronze Age myths to prove whose god is holier by the number of holes shot into hospitals. Or show them a map of the hundreds of schools in the good old USA that righteous, land where children kill children with weapons of war while the adults look on with long faces offering those cheap thoughts and prayers equating to nothing but lazy self-righteous hot air and argue over the books in the library. No. 139
NGUTAN Maybe the zookeeper will let their charges out for a little field trip to the zoo parking lot where ego and hubris and stupidity have led to gargantuan ugly wasteful vehicles and drivers so smug they advertise their contribution to overpopulation with tiny images of the exact firearms being used to murder and maim at the school down the road and en masse worlds away. I stared hard at my reflection and thought of how ridiculous I looked. But certainly not as ridiculous as a species bent on its own self-destruction. A species who wouldn't offer another of their kind a banana if they were starving but of a different race color orientation gender or creed and would instead prefer to turn that fruit around miming our favorite phallic fetish aim it at the other's head and pull the trigger then drop the peel on the floor for the future to slip on. ARNA MILLER, APESNAKE - BEST OF 088
EXISTENTIAL QUERIES, MUSHROOMS, TANGERINES, AND CELEBRATING LIFE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME BY BRIAN POLK LAST YEAR, WHEN MY LIFE WAS FALLING APART, MY FRIENDS LET ME TALK FOR HOURS ABOUT MY PROBLEMS. NOW THAT THINGS ARE GOING REALLY WELL IN MY LIFE, NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT THAT SHIT. When the wheels went flying off of my life last year, my friends were No. 139 great. They all showed up for me and supported me through the worst of it. Now that I’m on the other side of hell, smiling more, and not hating life, my friends openly resent me for it. But I get it. To tell you the truth, I think it’s funny, and I can totally relate. If the Brian of today told the Brian of last year about how happy I am now, Last Year Brian JOSH KEYES, SCORCH
would have scowled in contempt and told me to shut the hell up. So while I understand that no one wants to hear about how I actually love waking up in the morning these days, I will say that not hating life is so much better. I mean, oh my god, it’s just so cool. (I’ll see myself out now, thank you.) ARE THESE MUSHROOMS WORKING? I’m trying to figure out if all the mushrooms I just took are starting to kick in or not. I kind of need to know how they’re going to hit before I take anymore. It’s like my first drug dealer told me in the ‘90s, “You can always take more. You can never take less.” But I also want to be tripping right now, so if I need to take more, I want to take them soon … Wait, this music sounds better than usual, like more colorful and aerodynamic. Okay, that’s definitely the mushrooms talking. But I don’t have the body high … Alright, there’s something. Yes, there it is. Oh my god, that’s a lot. It’s hitting in waves and the waves are getting bigger. Damn it. Okay, so now I guess I’m wondering if these mushrooms are working too well … IS ACTING KINDLY A SYMPTOM OF MY PATHOLOGICAL NEED TO BE LIKED BY EVERYONE, OR AM I OVERTHINKING THINGS AGAIN? I spend a lot of time engaged in the following activities: (1) trying to be as kind to everyone as possible. And (2) wondering if my eagerness to be empathetic and friendly is a manifestation of the fact that I have a genuine fear of ostracism and disapproval? And if it is true that I am acting out of self-interest, does it even matter if I am being kind for all the wrong reasons? Isn’t being a good person all that matters? In all fairness to myself, I don’t think I have a pathological need to be liked by everyone, because I disappoint people all the time. Does that make me a disappointment? Probably. Do my thoughts run rampant through my head, making my inner-monologue an unrelenting hellscape where the only reprieve I get is when I get drunk? The answer to that question is most definitely. I have problems. IN THE SPIRIT OF OVERTHINKING, IS CULTIVATING SELF-WORTH REALLY JUST A ONE-WAY STREET TO NARCISSISM, OR SHOULD I STOP USING MY OWN SELF-DOUBT AS A CUDGEL WITH WHICH I USE TO METAPHORICALLY BLUDGEON MYSELF IN ORDER TO IMPEDE PROGRESS AND LIMIT THE SUCCESS OF MY OWN SELF JOURNEY? Alright, that’s enough of that. Anyone want to get a drink? WELL SHIT, THIS TANGERINE IS BAD The tangerine I brought for lunch looked fine from the outside. I had no reason to doubt its deliciousness. Even as I peeled it, the aroma of fresh citrus instantly transported me on a wonderful olfactory journey. But once I began to separate the fruit into manageable bitesized slices, I noticed it looked a little dry. Then when I bit into it, I had the horrible realization that this was one bad tangerine. And that’s a shame, because I was really looking forward to eating it. But, you know, sometimes you have to cut your losses. Hopefully the apple I brought redeems this whole tangerine debacle, because I don’t think I have the energy to endure two fruit failures in one day. 21
ELIZABETH GERTH, MOTHER SUPERIOR RUCKUS - @ARTBYELIZABETHGERTH
SYNTH Synth doesn’t say much, but her eyes do. She spent most of her life with boyfriends who couldn’t care less — until she found someone who made her feel like the only person in the world. But the closer they got, the more distant he became, leaving her wondering where it went wrong … or if something’s wrong with her. HA T COULD MEREDITH The fun, independent one. Meredith is adventurous, with a fearless outer shell and a habit of running toward risk. She sees the people around her weighed down by expectations — and makes it her mission to break them out of their shell, so they can feel the freedom she’s found for herself. WHA T COULD WHA T COULD BRENDA The one who just wants to be normal. Brenda’s always known what she wants to be when she grows up: a mom. Raised in a sheltered world, she’s now navigating real life with help from her favorite TV show role models — learning through trial, error and the occasional chaos. She’s sweet, impressionable and hilariously unprepared.
MADLY A happily single woman with no kids who’s starting to feel the pressure. Her friends are settling down, and she’s being invited to fewer things — or interrogated when she is. Everything she sees — ads, shows, the scroll — is starting to make her feel like she’s on the wrong track, and the clock might be ticking. G O WRONG? GO WRONG? KII Over being told who to be, what to wear, when to apologize. The world is loud and full of demands — and Kii’s done pretending to listen. No more explaining. No more shrinking. Just: no. G FIVE LIVES. ONE SCREEN. ONE NIGHT ONLY. They could be your friends. Your siblings. Your past self. Or you. Mixed Messages follows the lives of five people orbiting the pressures of society, love, loneliness, pressure, freedom and everything in between — caught in the noise of modern life and trying to tune back into themselves. Five stories so real, they literally jump out of the screen. Meet Synth, Madly, Meredith, Brenda and Kii — the five people at the heart of it all. FRIDAY, AUGUST 15 · 7:30PM · THE BUG THEATRE LIMITED TICKETS
INDIFFERENCE WINCES BY ZAC DUNN Sewers gush to open water and Spill a SOUR AGE in BLOOM the GREEN RUG That hides the light below FROG EGGz and BONEY HERON LEGz LOONz spoon between BLU MOONz and MONSOONz Of wretched BUFFOONz CLUTCHING SUN-BLEACHED FEMURz into verses bespoke to STARz and MONOLITHz Unto many AQUEDUCTz as VAN GOGH’z ears grow slow to Flowers STAMENz STAY and SCARz GUARD BARz of SATURN CERES, PLUTO and DISKO VIXENz OV METERz that all the broken RADIATORz splayed out late stay STEEL and STOUT as sips of STEAM HUSH HUSH HUSH The walls and mice slumber up BED BUGz DRUGz and BUM STANKING LICE RICE PAPER LOVE NOTEz Cast off in a bottle to currents of breakers of rules a LIFE OF PI and CIRCLEz of DERVISH KISSEz so SLY Like the torrid and tawdry tall tales Of BEBE and PAUL BUNYAN, chowing on DOUGLAz FIR-size YETI finger KABOBz OV ROB ZOMBIE’z of A.E. WAITE LIGHT And EVIL TOO Crew-mates of CROWLEY MOLDY PEACHEz and MOLLY Who was raised in the name in VAIN and SOWED SEEDz OV a LOVE and a MOTHER Was cast into the GREY AS WE ALL DO TOO?! BRYAN KLIPSCH, FAMILIAR STRANGERS - @COMFORTABLENOMAD MUTINY upon a POOP DECK To HULL DRAG the MAGISTRATE They knew was too clueless and cruel To ever SAVE or SLIP on feet that WALK THE PLANK or FORGIVE Or FORGET?! Into another other one another MOTHERz WHITE ROOMz swoon SWAN SONGz and DO THE RIGHT THING or THRONGz OV THONGz MURPHY'z LAW eat me SEE MORE LIL SHOP OV DOORz WE KNOCK ON TALKING TOO LOUD AS WE ARE SAYING SOMETHING WE FORGET THE GUTz TOO But still get to BLOW the MAN DOWN and SLAM CRYSTAL CASTLEz to ONYX COSMIC DEBRIz OF CYPHER COMPLETE … so … AHOY TO LASSEz’ and BATz’ laughter of LEMURz last PURRz and glistening BLACK JACKz OV A modern TIME of PIRACY YO HO HO HO and a GROG to LOG the MATEz in waters and KRAKENz we harvest in SPITE of the TEA we sneak off and STEAL a WINK or TWO OV for peace and quiet to PICK LOX from BOXEz JELLY ROYALz PURSEz and the TREAT that the SHORE ahead is worth the COST OUR CREW WILL PERISH IN EVERY EFFORT TO SEATTLE THE SCORE.314.OGE 4:52.am HOD NYC 12.20.25.000003 FOLLOW FOR MORE: IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC 27
BY TOM MURPHY ANTHONY RUPTAK – TOURIST The title of this album seems to refer to a sense of being someone who feels like they’re not fully integrated into any place they are whether physically, socially or otherwise. A feeling akin to imposter syndrome, Ruptak takes this theme and explores it in multiple dimensions in life. Like how things like social media and trying to be a musician with an audience larger than your immediate social circle today — while trying to maintain a healthy psychology — is challenging at best. The melody and dissonance working in tandem frames these indiepop/Americana songs with a perfect emotional resonance, lending grit with a vulnerable immediacy. BLDDDLTTR – DD6 This Santa Fe, NM-based duo fuses cold wave style post-punk with rich shoegaze guitar work. The saturated synth and near-whispered, deep vocals with melodic and moody bass lines convey a sense of late-night reverie, reminiscent of what it might be like if The Church and New Order had collaborated on a more lo-fi yet vibrant set of songs. The lyrics are vivid portraits of romance and romantic observations on the kind of life you want, and the precious and fragile nature of existence. EHPH – CORRUPTION AND FEAR The caustic vocals and urgent beats on this first album by eHpH in five years suits well a set of songs aimed at fascism and its partners in totalitarianism and oligarchy. Once upon a time, most industrial bands had socially conscious commentary as well as poignant lyrics about personal struggle. eHpH minces no words and on “Rust,” we hear about how our late capitalist culture encourages extreme selfishness to divide and conquer while cloaking it as being practical. “All These People” is about how policy choices matter in whether or not we can barely make it. The band challenges the very foundation of the thinking that results in endless money for war, while putting cash into the pockets of the ultra wealthy with austerity for everyone else. These songs suggest a better way is within reach if we have the will. HOSPITAL PROPERTY – SINKING VISION This EP sounds like if someone spent some lost weekends listening only to Chrome, Big Black, Sonic Youth and The Jesus Lizard and then recorded it to an old cassette recorder before setting it aside for a couple of years. Revisiting it, they tried to recreate the intimacy and magic of those initial sessions, but embraced how it would have to sound different. The warped and cutting guitar tones thread well with the synth swells and low end, while the drum machine is like part time keeper and part conductor of the proceedings. Fans of Pink Reason and Portland, OR’s Yoga will appreciate the sound and enigma of this music. PLANNING FOR BURIAL – IT’S CLOSENESS, IT’S EASY Utilizing the palette of transcendent black metal and grimy shoegaze, Thom Wasluck offers a record that truly captures a sense of having lived a life in headlong forward motion often carried along by circumstance. Even more, these tracks encapsulate the rush of one’s on-again off-again ambitions only to find yourself in a place of needing to take an assessment of where your life sits, of the people in it currently, and of those who have passed on or moved beyond your social circle. All the while sitting with those feelings as a way of processing and honoring what you have and what you’ve lost, while not sinking in the overwhelming flood of emotion. It is among the most gorgeous and affecting albums about growing up and coming to terms with the downside of mortality. ENTRANCER – RIT Ryan Mcryhew improvised the core of these tracks with his analog and modular synth and then collaged them into layered rhythms and pattern. The effect is like ambient techno composed using the cut-up method where new resonances emerge that wouldn’t if the songs were written, recorded and produced linearly and through previous established methods. One hears here the sound of a master of his craft rediscovering an excitement and playfulness in using perhaps familiar tools in new ways. The textures and tones have unpredictable flows, and each piece reflects the freshness of technique as much as the surprises held in store for the artist. FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM No. 139
No. 139
Poetry by Melissa Mitchell Before sunrise breaks early bare branches wash my thoughts on this last late cool night talons painted black scratch blue sky the fabric splits dark hues pool a mess of wound sky after sky after sky next to me your arms paddle foolish billow in panic slip on liquid but you are not this mess you are an ocean looking looking looking undulating waves heaving masses flashing off the round edge of the earth Forever hay bales as far as the eyes could see, the sun awake just enough to paint our backs blue, you said to me, only once, it won’t always be this way SEE MORE: MELISSAMITCHELLPOETRY.COM 31 AARON WOOD, OUR SPIRITS INTO THE SEA - @HOLLYWOODINDIAN
CHRIS AUSTIN, WHERE THEY WERE FREE
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