ISSUE 148 | APRIL 2026 STACY PERALTA, OLD PAIR OF MY RED VANS - @PERALTASTACY GOOFY: KRYSTI JOMÉI JFA: JONNY DESTEFANO KROOKED GRIND: JULIANNA BECKERT ROCK TO FAKIE: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI MARINA DEL REY: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH AGENT ORANGE: DANIEL 'DL' LANDES HALF CAB: DIDI BETHURUM FRONT COVER: MOON PATROL, IMPOSTER SYNDROME @MOON_PATROL | BEST OF 119 BACK COVER: BRYAN KLIPSCH, FRAMED FUCK @HUMANSOF.DENVER | @COMFORTABLENOMAD BLUNTSLIDES: MOON PATROL, CHRISTOPHSKI, ERIC JOYNER, GRAY WINSLER, BRIAN J HOFFMAN, JOE VAUX, BRIAN POLK, DAVE DANZARA, HANA ZITTEL, JOSH KEYES, NICK FLOOK, TOM MURPHY, STEVE HANEY, JOEL TAGERT, JORDAN DOLL, JASON WHITE, ZAC DUNN, BRYAN KLIPSCH STALEFISH: STACY PERALTA, MARTIN WOJNOWSKI, KIRK JOHNSON, DEVIN JAMES LEONARD, DEBORAH SALE-BUTLER, ANASTASIYA KLEMPACH JASON LEUNG JUDO AIR: MARIANO OREAMUNO, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, CRISTIN COLVIN, ALAN ROY, CHELSEA PINTO, MATT HAVER, IZZY DOZIER SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS & BENEFACTORS: DENVER ART MUSEUM, ANALOG SALON, MUTINY COMICS AND COFFEE, PHOTO BANG!, MONKEY BARREL, UNDERSTUDY, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, BRAND BABES, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, COLORADO FESTIVAL OF HORROR, BENNY BLANCO’S, COCREATE, RADIO RETHINK, IMPLIERS, DENVER DIGERATI FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE KEEP PRINT UNDEAD – MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT INDEPENDENT ART: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS OUT NUMBERED, NO COMPLY MONTHLY ©2026 BIRDY MAGAZINE, BEACH BLANKET BONGOUT 1 CHRISTOPHSKI
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES: JUNE 15, 2025
No. 148
I first met Buck on an op down in Southern Africa, a hot bed for proxy wars in those days. It was illegal to film them, but we all did anyway. We couldn’t believe how fast they were, tearing across the earth like some cartoon roadrunner, shredding enemy combatants to bits. I was always more of a traditionalist, thought we could get things done without the help of bots. But they were fucking badass, and we thanked God they were on our side. Buck himself got me out of a tight spot when I was cornered by a mech in an alleyway in Cape Town. Thought that might be the end of me, but Buck pinned it down and ripped out its innards like a dog with a squirrel. The talking heads expected them to return as heroes. Developed by Boston Dynamics, the war dogs had turned the tide in our favor. The other side focused on those mechs, which at the time were little more than bipedal tanks — packed with enough explosives to wipe out your pen pal’s village, but slow as shit and essentially glorified drones controlled by a remote operator. War dogs were fast, autonomous and unpredictable. Give them a directive and they will execute, in ways even we couldn’t calculate. That pissed off folks in command, but it added an element of shock-and-awe to our strategy that scared the shit out of our enemies. It also led to some events that are still being investigated as war crimes, so you can imagine how the gen pop felt about “repurposing” them. The thing about “heroes” is people prefer them at a distance, where they can’t see the lines you had to cross. This was also a time when some people were still pushing “robot free” zones. No amount of Westworlds or iRobots could’ve prepared people for how fast bots became a part of our daily lives, and lots of folks wanted nothing to do with ‘em. Didn’t help that the media loved highlighting every goddamned incident involving a bot. If a human crashes a car, no one gives a shit. But if a self-driver does? Front-page news. Can’t say I was surprised though. People resist change, especially change that comes in the form of giant metal limbs they watched shred enemy combatants like that grinder in Fargo. Despite the backlash, there was a determined group of lapels who came up with the idea of repurposing war dogs as companions for veterans like myself. It’s hard for people to be openly against that, even if they secretly don’t give two shits. I can’t say I was too keen on Buck when he first arrived. My ma would’ve hated him, thought it unnatural. But it was that stubbornness that got her killed, refusing every treatment we had for her cancer. “If my body says it’s time to go, then it’s time to go,” she wrote. Maybe it’s just how I reckon with her loss, but you gotta be a real badass to stare down death in the face and not let it change you. Buck had changed when he arrived, in appearance anyway. They’d painted him yellow, softened some of his features, added ears, removed the chainsaws. They wanted him to look domestic, like his kill count didn’t number in the thousands. I suppose they wanted the same of me. They also programmed him to have much the same temperament as a cattle dog. The cattle were a touch uneasy at first. But it wasn’t long before they took to him just like any other dog, and Buck soon became No. 148 my ranch hand — helping me move the cattle, carry their feed, charge the farm equipment and keep out predators. He seemed eager to do just about anything I asked of him, as long as it didn’t involve rabbits. Couldn’t tell you why, but those little guys scared the shit out of him. I laughed my ass off seeing him leap some twenty feet in the air at the sight of a furry whitetail. Luckily he didn’t have the same fear of big game. His code made him trainable in much the same way as a dog, and so I taught him how to hunt with me. The hardest part was finding ways to keep him quiet. Asking five thousand pounds of metal to be stealthy is like asking a wind chime to shut up in the middle of a hurricane. It wasn’t in his nature, but we made it work. I can’t say I ever expected to grow affectionate toward a bot. But I came to realize after a couple years back on the ranch that there wasn’t damn near a second without Buck by my side. It was Buck’s metallic howl that would wake me up every day at dawn. It was his butt-wagging excitement that got me out for our walk around the ranch every morning. It was his boundless energy that kept me out for a game of fetch as the sun bled down into the mountains. He was my pal, and I realized I couldn’t imagine what life would be like without him. And then there was the San Diego Zoo incident. Most zoos started adding animal robotics in an attempt to draw in more crowds. It worked, and the war dogs were everyone’s favorite exhibit. They put on shows, programmed other bots to play fetch with ‘em. There was even a splash zone for the kids to get doused with fake slobber. People grew to love them and they forgot about the death machine it once was. Until some nihilist wack job reminded the world. He hacked into the war dog at the San Diego Zoo and reset it back to one of its original directives. It was a fucking massacre, people ripped apart by the very thing they came to see. Over a thousand people died before they could broadcast its kill code. Photos leaked of a splash zone bathed in blood. It wasn’t long after that I got a call from the lapel who’d assigned Buck to me a few years back. He told me there was an executive order being signed tomorrow. The war dog program was being discontinued. They were going to put Buck down. I was pissed, livid. I called him a coward and hung up the phone. I looked to Buck who was looking back at me quizzically. He had no idea what was happening. Desperate, I started searching the web for any hacker I could find, anyone who might be able to help protect Buck from the broadcast. I started making calls, but people were too scared to fuck with government machines, at least the ones I could afford. No one wanted anything to do with protecting my Buck. I kept making calls until exhaustion overtook me. I fell asleep against one of Buck’s ears, listening to the gentle hum of the parts that whirred inside him. But when I woke, the hum was gone. I looked at him, his body still and cold. I rubbed my hand over his nose as I’d done a hundred times, fighting the welling of tears in my eyes. “I love you, pal,” I said, and prayed there was some part of him still alive to hear.
MARTIN WOJNOWSKI, BETTER ZEN THAN NEVER - @MARTINWOJNOWSKI
BRIAN J HOFFMAN, WHAT WE'RE TOLD TO SEE - @BRIANJAYHOFFMAN
BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JOE VAUX DO I LOOK WEIRD WHEN I DO THIS? I’m sorry, I know you can’t see what I’m doing as I write this. And by the time you read it, I will have most likely stopped doing what I’m doing now. But let me describe it: I am currently at one of those “standing desks” and I am walking in place. I figured I would get some exercise while fulfilling my obligations to this fine publication. But I can’t shake No. 148 the feeling that I look like a damned fool. Or maybe it appears as though I really have to use the restroom. Either way, I imagine I am causing unease for the people who happen to be close enough to witness this spectacle. I suppose I could just say, “I don’t care what anyone thinks, I need my exercise!” But I mean, come on. We all care a little bit about what people think about us. And I hate that my actions may very well JOE VAUX, DEATH TO BRAINS - @JOEVAUX
be causing people to feel on edge. Okay, I suppose I’ll stop. But believe me when I say this: I will be going for a proper walk when I’m done with my business here! WHY DON’T WRITERS LIVE STREAM THEIR WRITING SESSIONS? You know how podcasters live stream their episodes? I think writers should start doing that every time they sit behind a computer. Sure, most of the time, it would just be a person typing, and that’s not very exciting. But sometimes writers do things like walk in place at standing desks. And while that’s not super thrilling, it’s a tad more rousing than if they were just sitting there. For example, if I live streamed myself writing this paragraph, you would see me shifting my weight from one foot to the other. And you might think, Oh look, he’s getting exercise while fulfilling his obligations to the fine publication he writes for. Of course, if you said that at this particular moment, you’d be wrong. I do in fact have to use the restroom. YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY: GIVE A PERSON A PARTY AND THEY WILL GET DRUNK FOR A NIGHT. TEACH A PERSON TO PARTY AND THEY WILL BE DRUNK EVERY DAY I mean, think about it. MY COWORKER, WHO IS EXCITEDLY WATCHING ME WALK IN PLACE AS I WRITE THIS COLUMN, JUST INFORMED ME THAT NO ONE IN FACT SAYS THAT THING ABOUT TEACHING PEOPLE TO PARTY It’s rather nice having a live fact-checker in my midst. ANYONE WANT TO GET TOGETHER AND PANIC? Lately, I have been panicking by myself a lot. And I have to admit, I get real lonely. So I figured maybe I’d procure some seltzers and various finger foods and have myself a good old-fashioned panic party! We could sit in a circle and take turns naming things that horrify us — which wouldn’t be difficult in this day and age — and then we’ll straight up lose our shit! Or we could join forces and get some of that mass hysteria going. Either way, if you’re free this Saturday, come on over to my house. We’ll put on the news and have ourselves a proper panic. I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS: THOSE “EAT HEALTHY AND EXERCISE” PEOPLE ARE RIGHT So I have been exercising and eating a lot of fruits and vegetables lately, and I have to say, I feel so much better. To make matters worse, I haven’t been drinking as much, which also has a profoundly beneficial impact on my well-being. I know, I know — this is terrible news. I mean, why can’t we just party, not sleep, and eat deep-fried garbage all day and still feel good? I don’t know who dropped us party people off in this bullshit world, but I feel like some kind of cosmic mistake has been made. Anyway, as I embark upon this new, ultra-restrictive way of living, I can’t help but marvel at 1) how amazing I feel all the time, and 2) how much I really just want to get six orders of fries, buy a fifth of vodka and some uppers, and party until four in the morning. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MY NEW HAIRCUT? Oh, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that you can’t see me right now. In the future, I will be live streaming these columns. Then I can finally get some answers to questions like this. 11
BY KIRK JOHNSON Her breath steamed on the fire escape and for a moment, she considered going back through the window to take a coat from the pile on the bed, but decided against it. Glimpsed through the warped and dirty glass, the piled coats appeared a sleeping beast, its body humped and shaggy astride the bed. She’d tiptoed past it once in the triangle of light from the cracked door, carefully closed, not because she was afraid it would reveal her absence to the other partygoers, but rather because on some instinctual, ancestral level, she’d seen the humped pile of coats for what it was, a predator at rest. And so, despite her visible breath, she did not duck back through the window, instead closing it behind her, careful not to cause a clatter, no thought given to how she would get back inside. It didn’t matter, she was free now. Free from the conversations about children and vacation plans and the pickleball league and that new show that you just had to watch. Down below, a car honked and another answered, herd creatures of plastic and metal and glass. Not for the first time, she wished for a cigarette. Not for the first time, she regretted her outfit’s lack of pockets, sleeves. What was it about tattoos that made people feel free to handle her like an unusual item discovered in the produce department, something appraised for purchase. The light changed, tinting the street green. There came the revving of engines and, of course, more honking. Looking up, seeking stars, she found none, just an underlit void, tinged green, now yellow and then, not long after, red. She exhaled for want of a cigarette, like she’d done as a girl on those autumn mornings at the bus stop, her foot prints clear across the frosty lawn. Her breath did not curl like smoke, it lacked the lazy, phantasmal life created by the alchemy of inhaling combusted tobacco. It reminded her too much of herself, her frosty breath; there and gone, visible for so short a time before dissipating into dark. No. 148
DAVE DANZARA, WOLF MOON - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
Every One Still Here: Stories by Liadan Ní Chuinn “It’s not both sides, it’s not either side, it’s this huge fucking army, it’s this huge fucking state, this government that does whatever it wants, that just, that, they can kill us, and kill us.” Through six stories, Liadan Ní Chuinn examines grief, family, generational trauma and oppression set in Northern Ireland. In the first, We All Go, Jackie seeks to understand his family’s history after the decline and death of his father. This loss is mixed with scenes of his anatomy class and the gruesome, sterile dissection of human cadavers. In Russia, a young man starts to see a psychic, whose advice is more therapy than future telling. He attempts to navigate a relationship with his sister, both of whom were adopted from Russia when they were young. Intertwined with this past seeking is his job at a museum that is facing increasing guerilla protests over their displays of human remains. All of Ní Chuinn’s tales seem to have a dual-story feature, what may be happening on the surface in these character’s lives and the bubbling distress underneath. In the final story of the collection, Daisy Hill, Rowan visits his uncle John, who has lost his wife and now is in distress as his dog nears the time for vet-recommended euthanasia. What Rowan finds is a man crumbling, crushed by the past and continued loss. He is living with mental illness and has taken something to end his torment. Rowan connects this trauma to the Troubles and another family member wrecked by the extreme stress of the past. This story concludes and Ní Chuinn follows it up with a section, “The Truth.” In this final entry, Ní Chuinn details unarmed civilians murdered by British soldiers in Northern Ireland. Children, teenagers, mothers, innocent people, shot when they have already been murdered, shot in the back, and tortured into confessions of crimes they did not commit. Each story in Every One Still Here is a dynamic contribution to Irish literature and a stunning debut that mirrors the inhumanity and devastation of our present. Salvage by Hedgie Choi If I am stupid, let it be exposed. If I have harmed others, let me be smote. Maybe hold off on that second part. The debut poetry collection from writer and translator Hedgie Choi covers everything from binge-watching Star Trek to the brief joyful memories we maintain of those who have harmed us in the past. At its root, this collection is a refreshing introduction to a cunning and funny poet. In a form marked so often by pain and heartache, Choi’s collection is witty and indisputably full of youthful energy. Poems feel like wandering thoughts and musing on what may to some feel mundane, bringing absurdist ideas and original character to this collection. In the poem Holiday, she highlights the futile effort and constant practice of cleaning the Cologne Cathedral, when the bricks are finally clean, those at the top are dirty again, starting the process again. In Nourished and Enriched, she wonders where milk comes from, “Milk is so intimate but I don’t know where it comes from. Or I do. It comes from a cow? From its udders, which in illustrated children’s books are fat accusatory fingers, but in real life, who knows? I know.” Choi twists and turns her collection, with each poem likely taking a wild turn from the last, keeping the reader surprised and eager for more. A shiningly unique release in modern poetry, Salvage was a finalist for the John Leonard Prize from the National Book Critics Circle, an award that celebrates author debuts. No. 148 By Hana Zittel
JOSH KEYES, TEARS OF THE MOON - @JOSH_KEYES_PAINTINGS
As the scavenger creeps through the hallway, I sneak up behind him, wrap my arms around his neck, and squeeze. With a pull and a lift, his feet come off the ground, and we topple backward, landing on the floor with him crashing on top of me. He squirms, his hands reaching and swatting at my face, but I don’t let up. I tighten my grip and hold the pressure, crushing his throat, strangling the life out of him. He tries to gasp for air, but he can’t. It lasts a minute, maybe more, and then the scavenger is no more. Breath will never reach his lungs again. I shove his limp carcass off me and remain lying down until I’ve caught my breath. And then I sit up, fast, peering around this dank and dusty house. “Christine?” I call out. “Christine, where are you?” Every morning, when the sun rises to greet the ashen wastelands, I scour the earth in search of my wife. I always find her, but come dawn, she’s gone again. Our day-to-day consists of traveling on foot, from one desolate location to the next. At night, we set up camp on the barren ground, eat what food we can scrounge, and fall asleep nestled together in our sleeping bag. In the morning, she’s wandered off, and I must repeat my search. Despite the landscape festering with smoke and blood, and ash descending from the sky like black snowflakes, whenever I locate Christine, she remains as immaculate as she was on our wedding day. In a world of filth and constant nomadic traveling that leaves me sweaty and dirty, Christine’s clothes remain white and untarnished, her skin as pure as cold stream water. I suspect she’s been sneaking off in the mornings to wash and clean herself, but who am I kidding? The creaks dried long ago. The chances of her wearing an invisible cloak, a protective shield to keep her from the muck and grime of our new life, is a greater probability. It’s the days and the miles that have taken their toll on me; you can see it in my sunken, dry eyes, the scruff of hair on my hollow cheeks, and the dirt caked to my emaciated frame. Since the downfall of our world, I’ve aged exponentially. Christine looks as young as ever. Morning arrives. I wake up alone. The search begins. This time, I find my wife in a clearing surrounded by rotten pines, miles from the old stable where we took shelter the night before. When I catch up to her, I snatch her in my arms and embrace her with as much aggravation as relief. “Where are you going?” I ask her. I already know the answer. Because I’ve asked this question what feels like a thousand times. Home. She wants to go home. “I want to go home,” Christine utters, her unsoiled face inexpressive, catatonic. “There is no home to return to,” I say. “You know that.” With my backpack securely tightened on my back and the rifle sling adjusted on my shoulder, I cautiously gauge our surroundings for any nearby threats. There could be others in these woods — scavengers, looters, killers — but I don’t see or hear anything in our proximity. “You can’t keep running off like this,” I whisper to my wife — for the thousandth time. “Now come — we have to keep moving this way.” I take Christine’s hand and lead her through the silent woods in the opposite direction. Another night, another camp set. A pot of soup boils over the small fire I made. I scarf my meal, ravenous with hunger from the day’s endless trekking and the additional miles I had to backtrack to find my wife. Christine’s bowl lies on her lap, untouched. “You should eat,” I tell her. “We should go home,” she says. I have no response. What can I say that I haven’t said before? The heat rises with the sun, and I wake up to find my sleeping bag zipper undone and Christine missing from her usual spot beside me. I’ve come to expect this. What once made me jump with panic now only makes me sigh with frustration. I pack our belongings, kick dirt over the smoldering fire, and set out for my wife. Like all the previous mornings, I find her moving in the direction from which we came the day before. As she wades through the thick brush, I hustle over to her, grabbing at her shoulder and forcefully spinning her around to face me. “Where are you going?” I hiss at her. She won’t look at me. “Home,” she says. “I told you, there is no—” A branch snaps in the distance. Leaves rustle. My ears perk up to listen. A deep, apprehensive voice, booming, threatening, echoes beyond the dense growth of foliage. “I see something! Over there!” I clutch my wife’s hand. “This way,” I whisper sharply, and we flee. I run and run, pulling my wife along as we sprint through the thick forest. Christine struggles to keep up (it’s like dragging a stubborn mule), but her breath never labors, and she never speaks except to tell me where she wants to go. Branches whip my face, leaves blind me as I hurry forward— The woods suddenly open. My feet leave the ground, and my stomach leaps. I’m dropping — falling. I lose my grip on my wife as I plummet down a steep hill, rolling and tumbling, cartwheeling and flipping uncontrollably until I crash into a dry, rocky ravine at the bottom. Jagged rocks poke into my back. My entire body seethes with pain, and I groan and hiss while holding my mouth shut tight to suppress the screams I feel summoning up from my lungs. With great effort, I roll over and hobble to my feet, scanning my surroundings. Christine is nowhere in sight. The voice of the pursuing threat calls out from the top of the hill where I’ve just fallen. “This way! He went this way!” Growls and moans escape my mouth as I dash to the opposite side of the dry creek bed, and I ascend the hill, clutching trees for balance, clawing at the earth for grip. I pull myself halfway up before I direct my gaze toward the peak. And there she is, my wife. She’s standing on the summit, having somehow made it up there much faster than I. She’s gazing down at me, but now she turns away and walks off, receding from my view. I dig in. Climb harder. Faster. I reach the top, sweaty, breathless and aching. Once again, I’ve lost sight of my wife. The sound of falling rocks clatters behind me, but I pay no mind to whoever is chasing after me. I only focus on my wife, who is no longer here. Instead of Christine awaiting me, I find myself standing on a crisp green lawn, with a house on the other end. It’s a structure unlike any I have come across since the world crashed down around me. It appears clean and maintained, and as I progress closer, crossing the yard, the sunlight casts its blaring rays down on me from the open blue sky. The stink of ash and waste has vanished from my senses, replaced by the aroma of flowers and freshly cut grass. 19
The closer I approach the front door of the house, the more familiar the place becomes. Christine and I may have once taken refuge here not so long ago— But how do you explain the lawn? It’s been mowed — very recently. “There you are!” a voice behind me calls out. I reach over my shoulder as I swing toward the voice, only I find no weapon on my back. My rifle and pack must have fallen away from me during my tumble down the hill. I’m defenseless to the man hustling out of the tree line, and the closer he moves forward, the slower and more cautious his footsteps become. This strikes me as quite odd; the pursuer is more reserved and hesitant than I am. Even stranger, this man is clean-shaven and wearing a black suit, with a white longsleeved shirt underneath and a tie hanging loosely around his collar. Peculiar attire for the end of the world. “Where have you been, Dwight?” the man asks with his hands raised in mock surrender. He knows my name. I recognize him. I know him. But I can’t place him. “We’ve been scouring the woods for you,” this man tells me. His voice and his eyes convey a sense of genuine concern. He carefully approaches, each step more wary and deliberate than the last. “We saw your pack and rifle were gone. Figured you went camping since you and— ” He hesitates. “You had everybody worried.” I take in my surroundings, this house, this yard, blinking the sweat out of my eyes. “Where am I?” The man frowns at me. Then he turns his palms out and spreads his arms as he slowly approaches. “You’re home, Dwight. Come on. It’s time to go. We can’t start without you.” Home? How could this be? My home is gone, destroyed. Who is this man? And where is Christine? Who is everybody, and what were they worried about? What is it they can’t start without me? “Come on, Dwight,” the man says with a pat on my shoulder as he passes me. He’s heading toward the house. “We’ll get you cleaned up.” The man opens the front door and waves at me to follow, and then he turns inside, leaving the door open. Beyond that door, I see, at the far end of a long, narrow hall, Christine. My wife is sitting in a den near a fireplace, completely still, her profile facing me. She doesn’t seem to notice the man proceeding down the hall, moving closer to her. I sprint across the lawn, slowing down and quieting my steps as I reach the inside. The man moves through the hallway, making his way straight toward my wife. I sneak up behind him, wrap my arms around his neck, and squeeze. Reeling him backward, we both fall to the floor. The man squirms and chokes, but my arms don’t let up. I hold the pressure, strangling the life out of him. It lasts a minute, maybe more, and then the man is no more. I shove him off me and sit up, peering down the hallway where I saw my wife sitting a moment ago. She’s not there. “Christine?” I call out. “Christine, where are you?” With no answer from within the house, I set out into the apocalyptic landscape. Searching. No. 148
NICK FLOOK, LOST IN A DREAM 2 - @FLOOKO
BY TOM MURPHY CHEAP PERFUME – DON’T CARE. DIDN’T ASK. The title alone is a concise statement against patriarchal culture and harassment alone. But this album is also bursting with working class, anti-fascist, anti-racist and anti-capitalist fervor. Cheap Perfume takes on the ignorant, hateful language flung your way with uninspired and lazy regularity and turns it into a way of dismantling the power dynamic. All with sharp humor and exciting songs that hit like anthems for a new social revolution after years of too much right-wing, misogynist, white Christian nationalist activity in the national culture. A thoroughly relevant record for these dark times. CHERISHED – S/T An album-length exploration of evolving relationships with others and within oneself. Themes of complex feelings, reaching for extremes of experience and burnout, rediscovery, redemption, and revival and renewal of connection and purpose. In between the melancholic melodies and grit of the music’s core sound, one hears the acceptance of a cycle of struggles and the achievement of hard-won affection and solace. All in mutual understanding of the turns everyone has to go through to attain any authentic knowledge and peace of mind worth having. A genuine fusion of post-punk edge and shoegaze transcendence. THE LOLLYGAGS – OLD NEW BORROWED II “Into Thin Air” sounds like a theme song for this new chapter of The Lollygags who are back after a more than five-year hiatus. Sounding like a cross between a rousing power pop song and a raging blues rock track, the words seem to reflect a sudden reawakening to purpose. Like the sentiments of someone who gave up something they thought they should in favor of sensibility, only to recognize that was foolish and return to their passion with a new sense of perspective. “A Cautionary Tale” acknowledges the folly of pursuing rock and roll, because chances are, it won’t make you famous or rich. But the fun of it is worth doing again as something more worthwhile than a lot of what’s considered respectable. LUKE LEAVITT – CONCERT IN THE SHELL Overtly ambient jazz, there is a great sense of space throughout this captivating release. With smoothly incorporated piano, synth, electronic/organic percussion and horns, the songs seem to tap into an era of jazz and avant-garde composition that fuses African rhythmic modes, dub and funk. There is even a version of Ornette Coleman’s “What is the Name of that Song?” from the jazz great’s 1982 album Of Human Feelings. The tactile is both tonal and atmospheric in building mood and concept in each track. Think Penguin Cafe Orchestra from the 1980s and thus Eno’s of the same era. But as a matter of resonance with the masterfully eclectic fusion of sounds rather than influence. MOON PUSSY – AT THE PACE OF OUTRAGE Maybe this band has always been so pointed in its lyrics. Not just in its jagged and thorny sounds, savagely angular rhythms and kinetic intensity. But something about this album feels like the songs are reflecting both the rot of trusted institutions and their violent destruction at the hands of corrupt and incompetent people. The lyrics dig deeper with music to match the unvarnished honest examination. We hear words that look into one’s own roots and how those narratives play out in life. And also — unconscious and unintentional though it may be — our participation in dark collective legacies that we can only hope to purge from our lives. This is the soundtrack to that struggle and ongoing awakenings. A must for fans of mclusky, The Jesus Lizard and Shellac. NEVER KENEZZARD – ALMOST LIVE Live, this band comes across as something more straightforward than is revealed on these recordings. Thrashy stoner metal is an obvious sound here, but the way the guitarists bend and stretch tones is truly psychedelic. Almost more in the realm of jazz than most heavy bands. The vocal harmonies paired with more gruff screaming hints at some inspiration from the likes of the more metallic end of a Mike Patton project. There is even a cover of a harder Ween song in “The Grobe” for the last track. Even though one hears beautifully cascading heavy riffs and and finely modulated rhythms, there is a playfulness in Never Kenezzard’s edge. SEE MORE: QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG No. 148
STEVE HANEY, DJ PALMS @VISIONSCOLLAGE | BEST OF 085
right. Sent it straight to hell.” “Do machines go to hell?” Emilia asked. “These have, I’m sure.” On the stage a band of twelve was playing jaunty music, and people were starting to dance. “Emilia!” cried her friend Kelsey Sullivan, spying her and rushing in for an embrace, face flushed. “Isn’t it great? Come on, let’s have a toast!” She began pushing through the crowd, pulling Emilia in her wake. Emilia drank the proffered champagne and tried to smile. All Chicago was drinking, it seemed, and no doubt all America, and the world. The machines had landed, and fought, and been destroyed. Humanity had triumphed. “What’s wrong?” Kelsey yelled over the music. “Are you and Ed fighting?” “We’re fine.” “Then what? This is a night to be happy!” Half the cities of the world lay in ruins; Chicago itself had seen a quarter of REGARDING THE TITANS BY JOEL TAGERT buildings destroyed when three machines had attacked its factories, and been attacked in turn. Yet the last of them were gone; the world was safe again, at least for now. “What if they come back?” Kelsey gave her an astonished look. “Well, they’ll think twice about it now, won’t they?” “I suppose.” Or would they? No one knew from where they had come; they had simply landed that day in 1927, lines of fire screaming through the sky, striking the Earth with a sound like the world ending, as indeed it seemed to be at the time. But the Titans for all their technology, had not prevailed. When the Titans realized they were in a real fight, they responded in kind. But there were only a few thousand; and when one was destroyed, it was rarely replaced. Now it was June 1932; and the last of them lay in pieces, hung on the walls as garish trophies. After a while, Ed found them again and took her hand. “Come on, let’s dance.” His eyes were too bright, breath redolent with liquor. She shook her head. “You two go ahead.” “Not feeling good?” “A headache.” When the last Titan fell the world threw a party. The one Emilia went to was in the largest dance hall in the city, and it had been decorated with their remains. They had not been human, nor nothing like; yet still she found it in poor taste. Here was a clawed manipulator tall as she was; here a flanged bit of armor; here an energy core, which had once pulsed red with power. “That was taken from the one they called the Flamer,” said someone nearby, who was wearing a Navy uniform. “Destroyed half of Seattle before they got it with some artillery.” Ed Durrow, who had dragged her here, growled his approval. “Damn No. 148 She found a seat by the wall and rubbed her temples. Soon someone sat beside her: the lieutenant from earlier. “I’m John Russell,” he said. “Hi, John,” she said. “What’s your name?” So she told him. “Can I get you a drink?” “No thank you.” “Not feeling like dancing?” She shrugged. “Why not?” If he was going to ask ... “We don’t know anything about them,” she said. “Nothing at all. Where did they come from? What did they want? Are there more? We’re all here celebrating, but we’re like children, its
celebrating something we don’t understand.” He looked at her more seriously. “You don’t have to understand something to know it’s attacking you. You just have to defend yourself.” “I saw one once,” she continued. “Early on, in the first weeks after Invasion Day. I was visiting with family for the summer, and after the news we decided we better stay on the farm for a while, thinking it would be safer. “In a way it was; it was never harmed. But one of the Titans came through the fields. It was just as big as they say: taller than the barn as it walked by. I remember most that it shimmered silver as it walked; it seemed to be covered in lights, or some luminous material. It was near sunset, and it shone as it walked. “I had been out walking myself, and of course I stopped and hid in the corn when it came by. It turned, and seemed to look right at me. Then it just kept going. It went to our car, a Cabriolet, and tore it apart. That was terrifying. When it was done, there wasn’t much left but the tires. “Then it left. Just walked away.” After a while Russell said thoughtfully, “You know they changed over time.” “How do you mean?” “They were altering themselves. That’s why they always went for machinery, heavy metals. They used the materials to repair themselves, to make changes, to build new Titans. But they were slow about it, which was fortunate for us.” “I never heard that.” “Can I show you something?” He stood up. “Come on, I won’t hurt you. Won’t even hit on you, too much.” She let him lead her backstage. “I helped set this up,” he explained, as they passed a number of broken and mysterious objects, in strange shapes and hues. “Brought the parts here for people to see. But we didn’t use them all. Here, look at this.” And there they were, three great orbs, slung from a hook on the wall like a cluster of grapes. Her own eyes widened in surprise. “These are from a Titan?” “Yep. One of the last to fall, right here in Chicago.” “But they’re so ... human.” He nodded. “I’m not sure the machines even realized who and what they were fighting until late in the war. Maybe they thought they were fighting other machines, and of course in a sense they were. But they started to catch on, toward the end.” He unhooked one from its netting and handed it to her. It was smooth and glassy, surprisingly heavy. She sat down in a stool and cradled it, its gaze innocent as a child’s. 25
ART BY ANASTASIYA KLEMPACH On the third lap around the yard, I notice her escape tunnel hidden by a thick patch of mint along the fence — a brilliant use of camouflage. Still no sign of buried treasure though. I wonder if I can trick her into revealing her booty. Sparkles races past me and I stop chasing her. “All done,” I say. She barks, urging me on. “No more chase.” Her head drops. Remembering the parade of stolen objects, I ask, “Sparkles, where’s your ball?” She bounces back and forth on her front legs then runs to the corner Sparkles BY DEBORAH SALE-BUTLER “Sparkles!” A blur of white and merle fur charges through the screen door. The dog’s figured out I’m loaded with groceries and can’t collar her. Sparkles speeds through each room banking with Aussie precision until she locates her prize — my cat’s favorite catnip banana. She zig-zags past my legs and out the door before I can set down my bags. “God dammit, Sparkles.” I’m laughing too hard to be angry. My neighbor, Jack, told me their two-year-old named the Australian Shepherd “Sparkles” for her shiny blue eyes. She joined the Cook family as a playmate for their toddler, who lost interest soon after naming her. So the Cooks built her a dog house, filled their back yard with toys and left a dog who was bred with the intelligence to independently control an entire herd of sheep, with no job and no one to play with all day. Smart-girl Sparkles found ways to amuse herself. The first game she invented was “hide the toys.” On Monday, Jack came home to six fresh mounds of earth in the backyard. Under each pile of dirt, he discovered one of Sparkles’ toys. He filled in the holes and threw the toys away. Undeterred, Sparkles came up with another game, “find more toys.” She dug an exit hole under the fence on Tuesday and raided the neighborhood in search of new objects to bury. I watched her disappear under the fence with a hotdog, a tennis ball and a Barbie doll before she burgled my house. While I appreciate her clever plan, I need to get that catnip banana back before Tabby Ted notices. He has a nasty habit of protest-peeing. He’s been known to soak my bathroom throw rug for offenses as minor as moving his cat tree from one side of the living room to the other. I do not wish to incur Ted’s ammonia-scented wrath when he discovers the loss of his beloved banana, so I follow Sparkles back to her lair. She ducks into the hole hidden under the fence. Between the slats I see her running back and forth in the yard from her tunnel to a gate beside the garage — as if inviting me in. Such a smart doggo. I reach over the top of the gate and lift the latch. Sparkles twirls in the yard. “Okay Sparkles, where are your toy-ees?” She barks and playbows — not about to reveal her stash. So I squat, slap my thighs and say, “I’m gonna get you!” Thrilled at the game of chase, she takes off in a zoomie-run around the yard. I follow her, scanning for evidence of a new toy cemetery. 27 of a raised-bed planter and sticks her nose into a spot under the box that appears to be eroded from the rain. Laying on her side, she swipes her paw into the cavity, flicking out one item at a time. The tennis ball rolls deeper under the box and it takes her a minute to work it out. Meanwhile, I examine the pile and snatch the catnip banana from under the piece of hotdog. The meat flips over to reveal it has a nail and is, in fact, a severed finger. Sparkles nudges me with her nose then drops the ball at my feet. I toss it across the yard, to distract her while I overcome my initial shock and figure out what to do about the body part. I pluck a piece of lettuce from the planter to grab the finger. The dirt on the end makes it look like one of those chocolate-dipped strawberries rolled in nuts, so I imagine it must have been wet when she found it. I raise what now appears to be the first two knuckles of a pointer finger closer to my nose, wincing and bracing for the smell of decay, but there is none. The loss must have been recent. I exit through the gate knowing Sparkles will follow. Hopefully she’ll lead me to the owner of the severed digit. I retrace the path from her escape hole to the street and see a faint spot that looks like watery, brown paint on the sidewalk. Smart-girl Sparkles follows my gaze. She sniffs the spot and runs ahead. Following her, I see the trail of blood left by her trophy. She leads me to the end of the block and through the unlocked door of Herb Winkle’s garage-turned-workshop. Herb lays face up on the ground by the table saw, eyes closed, skin pale and a pool of blood around his left hand. I gasp and Herb’s eyes snap open. Sparkles and I both jump. “Jesus, Herb!” I call 911. The finger has been damaged too much to reattach, but Herb will be fine. Sparkles wags her tail, acting very pleased with herself as I lead her back home. “You’re not exactly a hero, but it was a good thing you nabbed that finger.” After Sparkles’ story appeared on every local news channel, Jack told me he was out of ideas for how to deal with her escapades. I told him I’d be happy to take her off his hands. Now that Sparkles attends ongoing agility training and sheep herding classes, she’s given up her thieving ways. She’s even won over her new roommate, Tabby Ted. I considered changing her name but decided her eyes really do sparkle, especially when she chasing sheep, and when she looks at me.
CRYPTOMANIA BY JORDAN DOLL Being a cryptozoologist is not an honorable life. It is a life lived in shady internet back alleys, trading blurry pictures of Mothman and scraps of information with a character known only as “H4mBurgl4r666." It is one spent courting mystery and intrigue, but also foolishness and disappointment. For cryptozoology is, by and large, a disappointing field. Too many kooks willing to overlook evidence in favor of fame, too many hoaxes and too little substantiation. People feel pretty comfortable openly ridiculing Bigfoot and chupacabra enthusiasts alike, and we feel pretty comfortable letting them. Because deep down, we know the truth. We can sense it like a stone in our shoe. There are animals out there, living unknown or forgotten by humanity, glimpsed every so often by the occasional off-duty cop or hysterical hillbilly. Creatures so rare and strange that it is easier to consider them myths than to believe they ever walked alongside us. But they did, and they do. And every so often, one of them reveals itself to us. In the fifth century B.C., the Greek explorer Hanno the Navigator returned from an expedition to West Africa touting tales of strange man-beasts! His interpreters called them "Gorillai" and he had never seen anything quite like them. Of course nobody believed him. "Manbeasts?" Hanno? Sure, cool story. The creature was considered a thing of fantasy to Westerners for another two thousand years before a British explorer of the region, Andrew Battel, reported the same beasts visiting his camp every morning after the humans had left. One thing led to another and a pair of the creatures were shot and killed in 1902, proving to "civilized" minds that the legendary "Gorilla" was real, and furthermore it could be killed by ordinary household bullets. Then there was the coelacanth: living fossil and top-shelf Scrabble word. The coelacanth is a very metal looking fish from ancient times. It belongs to a family of lobe-finned fish that are sort of lizard-fish hybrids that were supposed to have been extinct since the late Cretaceous Period. Then on December 23, 1938, one was popped-up among the No. 148
ART BY JASON LEUNG catch of a fisherman in South Africa. It was gigantic, armored and apparently very greasy. Fishermen had been throwing them back for centuries because their oily discharge was known to befoul other fish. For almost 66 million years this thing was just down there, stinking up the joint, freaking out the locals, completely unknown to Western science. And honestly, that's just the tip of the iceberg. There’s the okapi: a relative of the giraffe with stripey little butts. They were considered as mythical as the unicorn until 1901, now there are literally about 100 of them in conservation programs worldwide. Going from complete fiction to having your own zoo exhibit in less than 100 years, that's pretty good. The Komodo dragon, the platypus, the manatee. The red panda, the anaconda, the giant squid. All of these animals were once thought to be completely imaginary. Only a fool would believe in them, and then we were all made fools. So why not Bigfoot? Why not the chupacabra? People are seeing something out there, something is draining those goats and for the last time it ain't me! Why not the Kongamato, or the blue tiger or the Loveland Frogman? Might they not also someday prove our inner skeptics wrong? Can you answer with complete certainty? Is there even a shred of doubt? ... That's where we live. In the shred. H4mBurgl4r666 and me. Join us. Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to werewolfradarpod@gmail.com or on Twitter: @WerewolfRadar. It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be Prepared. BEST OF 075 29
ART BY JASON WHITE No. 148
THE RIVER OF VENGEANCE BY ZAC DUNN In the cold riverbed Where they left me for dead And washed off the lies they tried to hide I began the long crawl back to the lonely fort Built on stilts that had rotted from guilt and desires of conquest on plains they sought to take from strong hearts who knew Of painted moons that bled gloom and glory Illuminating a path in a stolen story of Manifest Destiny and gore that settlers thought was their right despite no seed that grew and trees with fruitless limbs hung low And the dead horse I took a shank from to devour in the sanctum of despair and hunger under starry skies that could lead a castaway from the endless plains As buffalo stomped and wolves tracked them down to feed the calloused feet in broken boots hoofed deeper into the abyss ever forward I cursed out the names of the profane and lame Crawling back for vengeance and glory that the parched headwaters knew too 1.4.26 4:25 am East NY IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC
MARK M MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - NOV. 9, 1996; SEPT. 1, 1991 - MYOPIA
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