×‰?4×B!Ü ×‘C‘×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kDyuv1MoT3sAkG9p8vDiWG1rJ29H9rLrJ4AhFzaytxkÎ `Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://z2H-Jd-HJn9Ezsuc_N2WwbRoSS12Llputq2pDnpzkf8Í<kÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://hLr2bwZ7LR102unZVGDQHssmfhh6LqM7QqErMsNzN3gÍˆÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7€×ˆE×gíbz±§L¦7Z×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://hLr2bwZ7LR102unZVGDQHssmfhh6LqM7QqErMsNzN3gÍˆÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7[×gíbz±§L¦7ZÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mRV8w8VQ2iaRpRj_9aRoO1AxrTSyjvGSzb8NXVDC7iIÎ .Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ta2S6YYd0OY8vPveZ9u_bjPE2MhNZukWu1kqqcZhkYkÍukÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://i2s01zje4Hm7qwtP1HRoc0tIYur92ioSmuP-sn0UmUEÍ+JÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7ƒ×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://BaCrQ8O042iOUOkcqLkwIIk2sqafVMUhRjvzk6EU7CAÎ kÇÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://84xPj6xxk4EH9_qFWdkxcZeN4Qe4RlBsI6oCoMnXAg0Ír»Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OmETrlzbgPQQTwiM8dD60yzf6RWOsnsp0OBTQ7LYOBsÍ"ÞÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7„•× ×gíb{±§L¦7‹ ÍîÍŸÌÓ	9×HÚ  http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT××Ðˆ× ×gíb{±§L¦7Š ÍîÍrÌ§	9×H½http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP××Ðˆ× ×gíb{±§L¦7‰ ÍîÍEÌÙ	9×HÚ $http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS××Ðˆ× ×gíb{±§L¦7ˆ ÍWÍp
9×H¯http://BIRDY.MA××Ðˆ× ×gíb{±§L¦7‡ ÍúÍm9×H³http://JOSHKEYES.AR××Ðˆ×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://i2s01zje4Hm7qwtP1HRoc0tIYur92ioSmuP-sn0UmUEÍ+JÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7\×‰EÚISSUE 136 | APRIL 2025
THE DEEP: KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I
LOST AT SEA: JONNY DESTEFANO
FALSE BAY: JULIANNA BECKERT
MARIANA TRENCH: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI
SIGNAL FLARE: CRISTIN COLVIN
THE SHADOW KNOWS: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH
CAPE TOWN: MEGAN ARENSON
SURF PUNKS: AMANDA SHAFER
VANISHING: ALAN ROY
FRONT COVER: PETE KORNOWSKI, STEPPING INTO THE LIGHT 2
- @PETEKORNOWSKI
BACK COVER: JOSH KEYES, LINDA - @JOSHKEYES.ART
OPEN WATER: PETE KORNOWSKI, JAMES HATTAWAY, ERIC JOYNER, JORDAN
DOLL, ZAC DUNN, JOEL TAGERT, JASH TRACEY, JASON WHITE, HANA
ZITTEL, DAVE DANZARA, BRIAN POLK, TOM MURPHY, SIENA GOLDMAN,
ROB GINSBERG, PETER GLANTING, JOSH KEYES
WHAT LURKS BENEATH: JOE VAUX, FINNEAS SHAFER, CLAIRE Ã…KEBRAND,
LUKE ANDERSON, ANDREA BARTINE CALDARISE, MARVEL CHUKWUDI
PEPHEL, LERA RYBAKOW, CREATICKLE, VALERIIA VOLOKHOVA
SEAL ISLAND: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL
GARZA, ZAC DUNN, CRISTIN COLVIN
SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER ART MUSEUM,
DENVER COMEDY UNDERGROUND, MUTINY COFFEE & COMICS, DENVER
THEATRE DISTRICT, UNDERSTUDY, MONKEY BARREL, ART CARD DISPATCH,
BLACK MONARCH HOTEL, MEOW WOLF, OOQZA, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE:
HORROR WRITERS RETREAT, MONKEY MINDFUL TRANSFORMATIONAL
COACHING, CITY, O' CITY, WATERCOURSE FOODS, COLORADO SUN TOFU,
OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BRASSWORKS GALLERY, BENNY BLANCO'S,
TOXOPLASMA ARTS
FOLLOW US â€“ IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | BSKY + FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE
BE IN BIRDY â€“ ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA:
BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS
MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + BACK ISSUES + MERCH:
BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP
ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT OUR ARTIST-RUN MAGAZINE:
BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US
BIRDY IS AFLOAT, BUCKETS OF WATER MONTHLY
Â©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, I'LL CATCH THIS BIRD FOR YOU
1
SHADOW, ART BY JAMES HATTAWAY, STORYBOARD BY JONNY DESTEFANO - BEST OF BIRDY 004
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OmETrlzbgPQQTwiM8dD60yzf6RWOsnsp0OBTQ7LYOBsÍ"ÞÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7]×gíbz±§L¦7\ÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://HsuwnuN7AaZ317xLSnNCerOc_n1BsDE0Hmy-KfYAvRYÎ ¤Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://D3v8HY814lx9a4KDTluf6yeqPg0UXUh-pwETrNxkLbsÍˆÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Y1_Z7KuNgRVNo5iWGXsL0TG4MN0iM9N4Gl0bEBnvzMkÍ*|Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb{±§L¦7Œ×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://cQKRWw1yKPEVg8o4rPHTWZ882iKoMYqD5dpJAZx6ngEÎ E”Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://BqtWzJal7XeZs3W5EvZam75j9HBPaaiQJuhF7pU1_9QÍŠšÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0yoXtLBCtmYLFFkjgB021eqbPW9A3cR45y-huYa-eC8Í)YÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb{±§L¦7’× ×gíb|±§L¦7” Í„Í­ÌÚ
9×HÚ !mailto:WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM××Ðˆ× ×gíb|±§L¦7“ ÍùÍEÌá9×HÚ )http://youtube.com/petercainedogtraining.××Ðˆ×‰EÚ
‡| BEST OF BIRDY 038
STOP EVERYTHING. If you are eating dinner, throw that shit out the
window. If you are walking your dog, set him free. If you are driving a
car, step out, walk away, and let it roll into the ocean. Because what I
am about to tell you is going to turn your entire world upside down. Get
this: According to a video circulating the deep web, Bigfoot is real.
I know! I know. I was skeptical at first too. Seems like every few
months a new Bigfoot video drops and the internet goes all ape-spit.
Dissecting and scrutinizing it. Pointing out plot holes and comparing
it to Bigfootâ€™s earlier work until it is inevitably exposed as a hoax. But
things are different this time. YouTuber Peter Caine has proof. Proof
in the form of body parts. Most notably, Mr. Caine claims to be in
possession of one of Bigfootâ€™s big olâ€™ feet.
And he is not shy about showing you.
Over the course of about two weeks in 2017, Mr. Caine quietly, but
brazenly, released a number of videos on his YouTube channel depicting
the unboxing and subsequent poking and prodding of various animal
bits which he claims to be the frozen remains of a dismembered
Bigfoot. No doubt a startling development for most of Mr. Caineâ€™s
regular subscribers as his channel normally focuses on dog training
videos.
No. 136
Mr. Caine claims the body parts come from a creature his father
encountered in 1972 while hunting in a patch of â€œmush cane.â€ The
creature allegedly charged at his father, at which point he shot it
(possibly with a grenade launcher judging by the way it apparently
exploded into a million pieces). He then dragged the corpse home
where he wrapped the pieces in brown paper, and selflessly froze them
for future generations instead of selling them for a gajillion dollars.
The videos themselves are wildly entertaining. Mr. Caine is something
like a cross between a dangerously caffeinated Marc Maron and your
dadâ€™s war buddy, â€œPatches,â€ who doesnâ€™t trust Netflix (â€œWhoâ€™s watchinâ€™
who, man?!â€). He comports himself with all the pissed off earnestness
of a man who has had been pushed too far; A man who has a goddamn
Bigfoot arm in his freezer and is sick of people making wild allegations
to the contrary.
At the top of each video, Mr. Caine usually takes a few moments to
scream vulgarities at his detractors before excitedly unwrapping the
Bigfoot limb in question like it is the spookiest Christmas morning of
all time. The body parts themselves are actually pretty convincing.
They definitely appear to be from some brand of hairy hominid, and
look suitably frozen and icky for something that has been rattling
ERIC JOYNER, T-REX MUTATES INTO LEGO BRICKS - ERICJOYNER.COM
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Y1_Z7KuNgRVNo5iWGXsL0TG4MN0iM9N4Gl0bEBnvzMkÍ*|Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7^×‰EÚäaround in the Caineâ€™s freezer for a few decades, likely making all the ice
cream taste weird and serving as legal grounds for, I would guess, no
fewer than three of his divorces.
Throughout the video series, Mr. Caine reveals that he is the proud
owner of a Bigfoot forearm/hand section, a pair of Bigfoot kidneys,
and of course, a Bigfoot foot and ankle. He is refreshingly â€œhands-onâ€
with his trophies and really shows us what they can do. Slamming them
around to exhibit their weight, pointing out anatomical consistencies
like skin and bone marrow, and describing the acrid, piney odor that
allegedly wafts off the meat.
But thatâ€™s just the tip of the iceberg. The real show begins when a
YouTube commenter suggests that the â€œbones donâ€™t look rightâ€ and
that Mr. Caineâ€™s enormous frozen Bigfoot foot, the crown jewel of
his collection, is a forgery. Mr. Caine responds with all the measured
calmness one might expect from a dude with a freezer full of monster
meat. By whipping out a blow dryer and an enormous bowie knife and
performing one of the most gripping backyard Bigfoot dissections I
have ever seen, thawing and cutting away the frozen flesh to reveal
that the foot does indeed comply with the modern understanding of
primate physiology. Then, as something of an afterthought, he lops off
a goodly chunk of squatch-meat, and calmly informs the viewer that
he intends to eat it. To eat it so as to cement his place in the â€œrecord
books.â€
Now, I could go on for some time detailing my reservations about
consuming the 40-year-old flesh of a mythical swamp ape. There are,
of course, the ethical questions inherent in the eating of the most
important discovery in the history of modern primatology. There is
the almost 100 percent certainty of developing some horrific strain of
magical swamp-diarrhea. And perhaps, most alarmingly, there are the
inevitable existential ramifications of attempting to eat something
that may or may not even exist.
But something tells me that Mr. Caineâ€™s mind is made up. And I, for
one, salute him. Itâ€™s his damn Bigfoot meat and he should do whatever
the hell he wants with it, which for some reason, I imagine should be
made into some kind of stroganoff. Not sure why. Just feels right.
I could prattle on for pages about the hilarious, deep web spectacle
that is Peter Caineâ€™s YouTube presence, but you should really just go
and watch him for yourself over at youtube.com/petercainedogtraining.
From his claims that he is working with Carnegie Mellon University
to get Bigfoot named after him (Cainus Skunkus Apis), to the cameos
from his many animal companions, to the â€œnotes from his father,â€
that he occasionally discovers secreted away within Bigfootâ€™s burial
wrappings, the whole thing is just plain old good programming.
A cursory review of Mr. Caineâ€™s previous videos will reveal that he is
both a Bigfoot enthusiast and a prankster. Most of his videos exhibit
a sort of tongue-in-cheek humor to suggest he is just goofing around
with just enough of a â€œconspiracy wingnutâ€ stank about them to keep
things interesting. Plus, I get the distinct impression that Mr. Caine is
building up to something. Like we ainâ€™t seen nothing yet. Like, if this
whole thing doesnâ€™t end with the ceremonial unboxing of Bigfootâ€™s
dick, I would be VERY surprised. Now you wouldnâ€™t want to miss that,
would you?
HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL?
SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM
OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR
ITâ€™S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DONâ€™T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED.
3
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0yoXtLBCtmYLFFkjgB021eqbPW9A3cR45y-huYa-eC8Í)YÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7_×gíbz±§L¦7^ÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kqDUd44DgY1Rrp7iV7F_MrbM1y9y0wVW8cjlkIU0tMMÎ £Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://fFChQCoyUbMmzQU-3hEZY8eVM8ilDDwEjfoHPQBxt6IÍ†	Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://02cEW4_H7Kj8IHMa_KuK4Jr57SILR2LBBw_B_jqVIBQÍ+ Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb|±§L¦7×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://1ZTX8Z_mJ_wSCCu0Z36pXLMTizJrcXOoHULksw393UcÎ ÜIÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://WgLgex-SxsCLEYxnQmoCXB8sGTdgOl0d2anEU2VP9cIÍtÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-AMq-N2Ay23PlRnUIq9A7jaK46c098lFUdzTIK-Nau0Í%Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb|±§L¦7‘×‰EÚ 2JOE VAUX, CHERISHED MOMENTS - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://02cEW4_H7Kj8IHMa_KuK4Jr57SILR2LBBw_B_jqVIBQÍ+ Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7`×‰EÚüBY
ZAC
DUNN
The typhoon moon pulls the
wings batting into the center
of the serpentine spire woven
into cloven hooves encircling
the cardinalâ€™s beak of bleak
nibbles upon prancing
pink eye ponyâ€™s lonely only
grifting stardusted particles
in vertical arcs spellbound like
the hellhounds chasing after
furry critters that canâ€™t hide
or deliver passenger pigeon
ninja scrolls as Saturn spins
slings of rocks that shiver
the scepter of specters
FOLLOW FOR MORE
IG: @UZIEGO
TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYCV
5
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-AMq-N2Ay23PlRnUIq9A7jaK46c098lFUdzTIK-Nau0Í%Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7a×gíbz±§L¦7`ÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://uAOFwFTp7IgofkjVzuAc1EUYcEMjtaywaxjF_nJjEWUÎ (÷Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://QD0mamTF5WCQAhwZorpvvXLj5xxA8LiBCPDXQ_o004cÍƒþÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kOAH6IsNoqihmYxtteVXTYI3FS3GjQ1Mo8hAnV4WqhAÍ)»Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb|±§L¦7•×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://3iTOwVKmkQwlCRCGC7bR8Ypl9248igvfKL3wWtPfGqoÎ xEÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5j4DAUJcSGyFSycPX1Wx07xDlOU07NffjYH8pQMVja4Í{EÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Z_OzA4YsgwvhtNQJbxuHALMUhZe5I8qHBRLZGiDTC6oÍ%JÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb|±§L¦7–×‰EÚ	šBY JOEL TAGERT
BEST OF BIRDY 054
I tell ya, itâ€™s getting so you canâ€™t take a dame to an abandoned beach
no more without some giant bug trying to crunch you between its
mouth-hooks. There I was with my client, Ms. Harriet Flores, when this
giant ant comes over the rise, and it looks red, mean, huge and hungry.
I stand up lickety-split, pulling my bean-squirter. I look once at Flores,
whoâ€™s looking right back at me, and then the ant is rushing us. But I
didnâ€™t spend six years in Uncle Samâ€™s shooting club for nothing, so I put
a slug right in one of its ugly eyes, and down it goes, flailing its legs and
stirring up a cloud of sand right in our faces.
When Iâ€™m done spitting grit, I grab Floresâ€™ hand. â€œCome on, we gotta
run.â€
She stands, but none too quickly. â€œWhat for? Itâ€™s dead.â€
â€œYou ever see just one ant at a picnic? Come on!â€
Seems like lately I been seeing ants everywhere. Must be how some
hop-heads feel, always scratching imaginary bugs, only mine are real
and oversized.
Last Wednesday, this guy by the name of Selva comes into my office.
Heâ€™s clean-cut and in a good suit, so I figure maybe heâ€™s got some
dough. Then he says heâ€™s a civil rights lawyer, so I reconsider. But I hear
him out.
No. 136
â€œPeople are dying in the fields,â€ he says. â€œThree so far. The others are
terrified, but they donâ€™t want to talk to the police.â€
â€œWhat people?â€
â€œMigrant workers. Fruit pickers.â€
â€œI thought that was all done by ants these days.â€ You see â€˜em all the
time, driving around California â€” little black knee-high buggers tending
the crops. Helluva lot cheaper than paying any kind of human.
â€œAnts are best for low plants.â€ He puts his hand at his waist. â€œFor
orchards, not as good. So there are still humans. This is in the orange
orchards in Riverside.â€
Seems three workers are picking oranges in the sky now. He shows me
pictures, and they arenâ€™t pretty. Looks like someone went at â€˜em with a
machete. â€œHard to believe the police arenâ€™t looking into it.â€
â€œThey think itâ€™s maybe gangs from Mexico, drugs. But itâ€™s not. And
right next door to the orchards is a military base, and they donâ€™t answer
questions.â€
Iâ€™m about to tell him if the Armyâ€™s involved, there isnâ€™t much I can
do â€” Iâ€™m a private dick, not a spy â€” but he pulls out three C-notes and I
shut my yap. I promise no results, but for that many berries, Iâ€™ll give it
the old college try.
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kOAH6IsNoqihmYxtteVXTYI3FS3GjQ1Mo8hAnV4WqhAÍ)»Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7b×‰EÚüThe Riverside base has fences twelve feet high and electrified, miles
of â€˜em, and some big warehouses in the distance. The guards at the
gate eye me as I cruise past slow on the highway. No way am I getting
in there.
But I have my own sources. Find out thereâ€™s a lot of animal feed getting
shipped in there, and a lot of scientists going in and out. Word is itâ€™s
some kind of testing facility, but no oneâ€™ll say what theyâ€™re testing.
A week later Flores shows up. Sheâ€™s real put together, like a Swiss
watch, and about as complicated. â€œAre you Ray Denton?â€
â€œWhat it says on the door. What can I do you for?â€
She says sheâ€™s looking for her sister, who disappeared a few days
prior. Probably her sis has just run off, but she insists otherwise. â€œWe
were staying at a beach house down by San Clemente. I went out for
groceries, and when I came back she was gone.â€ I tell her my rates, and
here again she pulls out two Benjamins and forks â€˜em over. My lucky
month.
So we pile in her convertible and head south to look at the beach
house. The Pacificâ€™s blue and the breeze is fresh. Here and there are
cars by the side of the road where people have pulled over to swim or to
ride horses, which they do around here â€” just before we stop, I notice
two silver horse trailers.
When weâ€™re parked, she takes a little perfume and dabs it on her
wrists and neck. â€œIs this a date now?â€ I ask.
â€œAnythingâ€™s possible,â€ she says, archly. And before we even get to the
house, she asks if we can stop a minute. â€œLetâ€™s just enjoy the view for
a bit.â€
Iâ€™m getting paid, so Iâ€™m perfectly amendable, and maybe she wants
to tell me something. Iâ€™m about to ask her what the deal is when the
ant shows up.
With the first ant dead, we run, and I swear sheâ€™s slowing me down
the whole way back to the car. With twenty yards to go I spot three
more of the big red suckers, and hoo boy, can they move. I fire at one
and hit it, judging from the squeal it makes, and tell Flores to give me
the keys. â€œI can drive,â€ she protests. It is her car, after all.
I show her the business end of the revolver. â€œKeys now, lady!â€
We burn rubber out of there, and damned if the bugs donâ€™t keep pace
for half a mile. Then weâ€™re doing sixty-five and theyâ€™re out of sight.
Fifteen minutes later I pull over. â€œYou want to tell me what this is really
about?â€
She tightens her lips. â€œI think youâ€™re going to have to tell me.â€
â€œAll right, I will. You donâ€™t have a sister, never did, and thereâ€™s nothing
much in that house. You drove me out here to take care of a problem,
and maybe to give your damn bugs some practice. You brought the ants
out here in those trailers, and put that scent on right before heading
out. Iâ€™m betting itâ€™s some kind of pheromone to let â€˜em know not to kill
you. It stinks, by the way.
â€œWhoever you are, you work for someone at the base at Riverside, and
youâ€™re cooking up something nasty â€” for real Army ants that will only
attack the enemy. But one got out and decided to see how the locals
taste. That about the size of it?â€
She sneers. â€œWhat if it is? What are you going to do about it?â€
â€œIâ€™m going to kick you out of this car, is what.â€ So I do. Then I keep
heading north, looking for someplace scenic, cold and giant-insectfree.
7
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Z_OzA4YsgwvhtNQJbxuHALMUhZe5I8qHBRLZGiDTC6oÍ%JÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7c×gíbz±§L¦7bÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0eQsrNAWXzuur4mRo57LUfLB83P797oaTh441nix7wIÎ ‚´Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://1iI8iXe2r9N3zB3RCIZGTK2U6aVWA-9RUMG2IGxbNSQÍR/Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://R63oJq6G9xzvo6LEO1uml5SAGPsLv2AOL_IJwhtYXFIÍ¼Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb|±§L¦7™×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://k7UWG0Y5qO-sX163_7B9DjzXrMF84jcf_mn30FgIkzAÎ _[Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://_9orNm_oL5CKsXdLbGBV_9mcNAFoFYf5o1BAoGFh3DgÍMˆÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://MTRvHkEYp9d22PFxtlZkUeRDu6q0_e6nmwLx4pZN-zcÍ]Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb|±§L¦7š×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://R63oJq6G9xzvo6LEO1uml5SAGPsLv2AOL_IJwhtYXFIÍ¼Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7d×‰EÚ +JASH TRACEY, CAR CRASH - BEST OF BIRDY 027
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://MTRvHkEYp9d22PFxtlZkUeRDu6q0_e6nmwLx4pZN-zcÍ]Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7e×gíbz±§L¦7dÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://V3H_4DvahFv2wDjh11Vb8Byz66WazGtzCKhBD2CQQ9YÎ !pÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://70oboSxK80Ks_uIxlez3CWZJkwK8asp_Nl-fjrWHxlkÍ¢Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://oUBmuEG9WWx2YB7ejX7gGZg4tqxsQYBt1n1WzalPrP0Í.'Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb}±§L¦7×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://2d20aQR3QoblhtrL7zMv29LjV9fwNgflCg78khQLKLAÎ MHÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://43FFPIw4el9MeFEMwRi0tSWSl1FRNsvwlPl2mrQL7LcÍ€%Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OfHIWJa1eBi5sUAnbsEQFUATpS2wrJ6gRIquNOetAHEÍ&\Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb~±§L¦7ž×‰EÚpWITH JASON WHITE
INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I
Chicago artist Jason White uses pen, ink and oil to create eye candy,
portraits and scenes of otherworldly creatures often interacting
with morphed, peculiar people in curious fantasy environments. His
illustrations and paintings are seemingly riddled with a deep sense of
humor and child-like play, but dig a little deeper and itâ€™s clear that his
work is multilayered. An almost personal journal turned fever dream
world, his art often invokes our own nostalgic memories or even cuts
straight to the heart of experiences that we too might have undergone
or are currently going through. Whenever Jason shares a piece, itâ€™s like
a little dose of weâ€™re-in-this-together medicine and a reminder that life
maybe isnâ€™t meant to be all figured out. And with that, we might as
well have a little fun along the way.
I had the honor of interviewing Jason for the debut of Draw Your
Answers.
HOW WAS YOUR EXPERIENCE AS A CHILD ON THE BOZO SHOW?
Okay, my crying on the Bozo Show story: When I was maybe around 8, I
got to be in the studio audience for a taping of the Bozo Show in Chicago.
It was bizarre for me because I loved watching the show and now I was
IN the show, watching Bozo, Cooky, Wizzo and Frazier Thomas. Oh,
golly! Bozo was played by Bob Bell, who was the inspiration for
Krusty the Clown [of The Simpsons] because of his loud and
abrasive voice. I remember how intense his presence was in
person. Imagine a furious Tom Waits screaming in the room
constantly.
So back then, the method to pick the two contestants for
Bozo Buckets was by having the camera go helter-skelter
over the audience with a blinking arrow at the center of the
screen, and whomever the arrow was pointing at when the
camera froze was chosen. Later on, the method of picking
contestants changed to them just pulling names from a
drum â€” possibly because of what was about to happen to
me.
So in the studio, they rolled out some TVs so the audience
could see the stupid arrow bounce around the crowd. Well,
when the arrow stopped, it was at the top of my head, and
also kind of on the kid sitting in the row behind me â€” the
arrow tip was right on the edge of us. I remember feeling
clueless as hands pushed me towards the stage, but the other
kid was also headed to the stage. So on camera, you see me
looking up at Frazier Thomas, with my bowl cut and he says,
â€œWe donâ€™t want you, son. We want the other boy. We want the
other boy.â€ Then you see me turn and head back to my seat.
When the other boy starts with his go at the Bozo Buckets,
tossing the ping-pong balls at the buckets, you notice everyone in the
audience isnâ€™t watching, theyâ€™re looking at the crying boy. I stole the
show. There was several minutes of this â€” my weeping red face in the
No. 136
audience. I remember being confused and embarrassed, and how Bozo
seemed to be constantly screaming.
After the show, they have the audience walk passed the camera
and wave on the way out of the studio during closing credits, which I
did. Then, as we were slowly shuffling down a hall towards the parking
lot, Cooky came running after me. He said something nice and gave me
a Nerf football.
WHEN DID YOU KNOW YOU WERE AN ARTIST?
In kindergarten my class was asked to draw a dog in our workbook.
I drew a bulldog face that made everyone dump themselves with
disbelief. Everyone else drew these messed up dogs that looked like a
caveman drew a stick personâ€™s dog poorly. My fellow students and the
teacher gathered around me to see this bulldog face, with its nose and
cheek flaps and all that. That was the moment I noticed I was an artist.
GIVE US A SNAPSHOT OF YOUR CURRENT CREATIVE SPACE.
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://oUBmuEG9WWx2YB7ejX7gGZg4tqxsQYBt1n1WzalPrP0Í.'Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7f×‰EÚÀIF YOU COULD BRING ONE OF YOUR CHARACTERS TO LIFE, WHAT/
WHO WOULD IT BE?
WEâ€™RE ALWAYS SO BLOWN AWAY BY THE VOLUME OF WORK YOU
PUMP OUT. WHAT KEEPS YOU MOTIVATED TO KEEP CREATING?
Ever since I can remember, I would draw a lot. My mother said my
grandmother would often encourage me to draw from early on.
Drawing just happens automatically. I tried to think of why or how Iâ€™m
motivated to draw so much, almost constantly, but it just happens. Itâ€™s
enjoyable to see technical improvement over time and getting better
with visualizing ideas with practice. I always have a pen and paper on
me.
WHAT SCARES YOU?
NOTE: BUG CATS WAS MADE IN JANUARY 2023.
WHAT DO YOU LOVE TO DO OUTSIDE OF MAKING ART?
11
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OfHIWJa1eBi5sUAnbsEQFUATpS2wrJ6gRIquNOetAHEÍ&\Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7g×gíbz±§L¦7fÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://sth2WpnNwt5Nu1JGIWOxCc7GB3fjVGLVwB6Nkrar2WMÎ ‡¹Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://xw3hExuYF41cSJTvf_Y_wUlVwIdDZk8HYbmXdpB1KhQÍ‡Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://idoE4Mlc1fZcriRYalCP8GeA4aELC1iIMvbzoiGYVPYÍ*ŽÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb~±§L¦7 ×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://MP3fISSNIIS37pmRlLyJc8MvVQXpTd7Ky3--45zkxckÎ é€Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YE3vTb-150ZWkFw3B7g5YaFkWonuCn7-aqlptMFOubQÍ¤¤Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5r9ah--eKmZLBkI5cmGiiMtQmJkZt8bXtEWkFr9iouQÍ6pÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb~±§L¦7¡×‰EÚ ¶BIGGEST ARTISTIC INFLUENCES.
FAVORITE CREATURES.
FAVORITE MOVIE.
FAVORITE SONG.
â€œPoet Bumsâ€ by Robert Pollard
FOLLOW JASON TO SEE MORE OF HIS WORK - IG: @JASON_WHITE_ART
No. 136
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://idoE4Mlc1fZcriRYalCP8GeA4aELC1iIMvbzoiGYVPYÍ*ŽÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7h×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5r9ah--eKmZLBkI5cmGiiMtQmJkZt8bXtEWkFr9iouQÍ6pÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7i×gíbz±§L¦7hÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://C1wvQNy-L49IqUS8y6sN2Q-LSg5AESY0wndXvLpRfZYÎ ™Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5XyITGrUGODiGn0M60Apbi6ymWnojosZOWSxBlChJdIÍzÀÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://7NSL8_yTdTT3mMSNg_LL-5JEzx8KQDwoO4dJVTYuNu0Í'¦Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7£×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://C5JiJ92etTUWAhH_d-O3b1EiT6BeRxnFH5As8qoTjJYÎ &Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://_qqnLWGPze9IEMLE-nGfKdP_YQr_7HJLZLij0gR019YÍaXÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://vOKdPJe9_lShamh_USCA0DnjzXSwzcguaSy8OMR7w-EÍ#oÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7¤×‰EÚÇBy Hana Zittel
Death Takes Me by Cristina Rivera Garza, Translated by Robin Myers
and Sarah Booker (2025)
Cristina Rivera Garza doesnâ€™t run for exercise. She runs for the mental
challenge and the pure pleasure of reaching the euphoric state of endorphin
release. When she runs, itâ€™s not on the streets or in parks, but in the
alleys of the city, where danger is elevated and the unusual occurs.
During a run, she stumbles upon a dead body, the first time this has
happened. The man is the victim of a brutal murder, castrated and left in
the alley accompanied by a block of text sprawled on a brick wall nearby
written in nail polish.
When a detective interviews her for the investigation, she questions
Rivera Garza about the text. As a writer and professor she recognizes the
words as the work of Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik. As more castrated
and murdered men start to show up around the city with Pizarnikâ€™s words as
a calling card, the detective and Garza become more intertwined.
Though Garza includes herself as one of the main characters, Death Takes
Me is a work of fiction, and one that rejects the conformity of genre or
literary expectations. At its root a mystery tale that inverts gendered
violence, this novel ventures into sections with varied viewpoints and
dips into the diary of Pizarnik, creating a unique amalgam of story forms
and pacing.
Living in Mexico, Garza was constantly confronted with news of murdered
women inspiring the violence in Death Takes Me, focusing on men as victims
instead. In a NPR interview, Garza states, â€œWe live in societies that
have high tolerance for the suffering of women and that has invited the
perpetration of violence against women. To me, it was really important
to swap these places to see that even though in Spanish the word victim
is always feminine â€” itâ€™s La Victima. So what do we do when we are faced
with this violence that is perpetrated specifically against men for sexual
reasons?â€
Cristina Rivera Garzaâ€™s Death Takes Me is crafty, subversive and a masterful
work that serves as a worthy follow up to the 2023 English language release
of her Publisher Prize winning memoir, Lilianaâ€™s Invincible Summer.
The Most Foreign Country by Alejandra Pizarnik, Translated by Yvette
Siegert (2017)
and time strangulated my star
but its essence will go on existing
in my atemporal interior
shine, oh essence of my star!
Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnikâ€™s first collection of poetry was
published in 1955, when the writer was just 19 years old. This collection,
La tierra mÃ¡s ajena, in the original Spanish, was only released in English
in 2017 translated by Yvette Siegert and released by Ugly Duckling Presse.
A collection that serves as a youthful introduction to the renowned,
surrealist poet, The Most Foreign Country provides a glimpse into Pizarnikâ€™s
evolving writing. In these poems, she dwells on love and writing and plays
with abstract metaphors. Her obsession with poetry, prose and carefully
chosen words ring through these early poems, which uphold the intensity
of her later work.
Pizarnik went on to receive both a Guggenheim and a Fulbright Fellowship,
publishing more poetry collections, among other styles of writing. She
worked as a translator, magazine writer and literary critic, living in
both Paris and Buenos Aires. In 1972, Alejandra Pizarnik took her own life
at age 36. The power of her work continues to outlive her with a complete
collection of her diaries set to be released in Spanish in spring 2025.
No. 136
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://7NSL8_yTdTT3mMSNg_LL-5JEzx8KQDwoO4dJVTYuNu0Í'¦Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7j×‰EÚ ?FINNEAS SHAFER (AGE 5), PRINT IS UNDEAD | SKELETON | ROBOTS
15
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://vOKdPJe9_lShamh_USCA0DnjzXSwzcguaSy8OMR7w-EÍ#oÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7k×gíbz±§L¦7jÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://JLgzxfVo-qpOZ1r059riYgA12HNFMatdoroddz5KwJAÎ ª¼Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://l-5nME43vNDDmm-jFXiE4hcdc8Mp8Bu7BxMLx5pbkskÍ|Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://oegVR2Ss11zD5yYlEuSEMdCaJTElFMZZPl6wo0YUVM0Í)FÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7¦×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ptck27lYJ_l79s9eXV_k_CJzUsTOqHBJMM50K6V-fB0Î }Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://sBkXyEeafEQsGlrO06nAPcDL2YCOYSvkMFVo5V33Z5EÍK}Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://1P-_mzovMSw7DykftzKpfnIR6CMrTsW9cTmh7xjvJKkÍÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7§×‰EÚ ADAVE DANZARA, GAME OVER - BEST OF BIRDY 122 - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://oegVR2Ss11zD5yYlEuSEMdCaJTElFMZZPl6wo0YUVM0Í)FÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7l×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://1P-_mzovMSw7DykftzKpfnIR6CMrTsW9cTmh7xjvJKkÍÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7m×gíbz±§L¦7lÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Jy34ll_NYpzzkx59qEPOR1sfpGp0HRVvskP8_lEYizQÎ Š^Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://JlVZu4cStXP5Fp2d-kN2Gbm7W2yaDS3oJTCkN9o28qMÍ”tÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://tAf1EGslVmfUPDymhKa0nL8E0bvoYYhqOZ8FsFuaBGAÍ0Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7ª×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mDPUtbT8uubp62w0ZluDIClmZQlj1lURhwdmh-W_2JYÎ nÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://A1OdxVf5T2SelEX5BqYeFFtJN3SD4Q4867pwdx077VoÍj“Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://8q5N-dt8c4hTmEgguUl4C9SVy8GZIbQH7SYFpnPysMcÍbÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb€±§L¦7«×‰EÚ MZOMBOIDS
THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
BY MARVEL CHUKWUDI PEPHEL
ART BY LERA RYBAKOW
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://tAf1EGslVmfUPDymhKa0nL8E0bvoYYhqOZ8FsFuaBGAÍ0Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7n×‰EÚëThe ship had capsized a night before. Mayday calls weren't answered,
at least not on time. Perhaps because the captain who called didn't
give adequate details before drowning. People died. The ship was
gone without a trace, gravity showing its earthly omnipresence.
When rescue copters and boats arrived, the sea was already hissing
with satisfaction, roaring with defiance each time the waves moved
and crashed at the shores. Everyone aboard the Space B ship had just
disappeared, as many as fifteen thousand. The belly of the sea had
been overfed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Rescue copters
and ships returned, mission unaccomplished.
The gist was that the almost infallible ship was bombed by
international enemies of progress. But a week later, the sea saw a
man rise from its belly. The man, in a bid to survive, swam desperately
towards the shores. He looked horrified. He couldn't imagine being
dead. He couldn't imagine being a juicy bite for sharks nor was he ready
to rot several nautical miles beneath. He swam, on and on, beating
the waters furiously. With unquantifiable strength and fear, it was a
miracle that he made it up alive. He knew this and also knew he must
make good use of the luck given to him. He swam, he swam, he swam.
His breathing was fast and showed signs of fatigue. But yet still, he
swam and never stopped. He knew he needed to survive. He knew he
had one life to live. He swam and swam and swam.
Finally, by dint of hardwork and faith, he made it to the shores. He
reached there exhausted and temporarily out of his mind. He lay on his
back and tried to catch his breath, cursing himself and the sea softly.
His stomach appeared engorged, perhaps he had swallowed too much
water. He was here alone. He was here all by himself, lost and alive. The
gigantic Space B ship had suddenly disappointed for the first time since
its creation. He had also boarded the famous ship for the first time.
There on the ground, his bloodshot eyes blinked now and then. The sun
was yet to be out in its shining glory â€” it was just early morning.
He felt something wasn't right in his trousers. He quickly put his hand
through his zipper and fought to stop his discomfort. Out of the zipper
came a fierce-looking small fish. Angrily, he raised his other hand and
crushed the fish with his two palms. Impulsively, or just a result of plain
hunger, he bit off the fish's head and began to extricate its flesh â€” flesh
which found its way into his mouth from time to time till the fish was
nothing but a long bone, till the fish was gone. With pain, he tried to
lay himself on his side. He managed to do that, spitting out little bones
from his mouth.
Everything was coming to his mind now with a cold feat of disbelief.
HE WAS THE ONLY SURVIVOR AMONGST FIFTEEN THOUSAND
PASSENGERS. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get up. He placed his two
hands on the ground and raised himself slowly with a groan. Gradually,
he stood. Standing slightly erect on his feet now, he began to look
around. He combed the environment surrounding him with his eyes.
He knew he was lost on this strange island. He could hear the noises
of birds and the noises of animals he couldn't decipher. He looked back
just in time to duck a big strange bird charging towards him. He stood
as the bird flew past and cursed it. He had wanted to walk away when
he saw the bird charging towards him again. With anger and defense
on his mind, he took a stance and grabbed its strong wing. In the fight
that ensued, he angrily broke the bones of the wing in his grip and
smashed the bird on the ground, denying it the opportunity to use the
beak it had turned towards him. The bird began burrowing a hole in the
process. He charged towards it immediately and stood on its neck. This
was it â€” he had killed a stubborn strange bird. He stepped back and
watched it take its last breath. He chuckled and began to drag the bird
with him as he navigated his newfound environment.
He stopped briefly and folded up the bottom of his trousers. He rose
and continued. He found a coconut tree and went to rest under it.
Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch he shouted and ran from the tree,
removing his trousers in the process. Inside his boxers was a crab. He
brought out the thing and flung it thoughtlessly. He was still in pain, so
he held his crotch and yelled. There he stood, looking here and there till
the pain subsided. He returned to the coconut tree afterwards, where
he sat in his boxers and thought about his life. And on trying to sit
comfortably, he placed his hand mistakenly on the neck of the strange
bird with the resultant effect being that a jutted-out bone injured him.
He let out an umph cry and cursed the bird.
Meanwhile, somewhere in America, a man and his clay son were the
most integral element of the news making the rounds. "This is crazy,"
people were saying. "How could he allow his mind to think such crazy
idea," others said. Everyone criticized until they heard the real story,
the motive behind his creation of a clay son. The backup story that
started making the rounds alongside the first news was that the man
had lost his son to a ship accident. He was his only son and child. He
was traveling to Brussels, from Connecticut, for his master's program.
The man had sold plots of land to enable his son's traveling and
studies. Grief is a dangerous thing, grief is grief, grief is unquantifiable.
He didn't know how to manage his growing grief. The clay son was the
only way out, was the only way out for him. Grief is a dangerous thing.
And so when people heard the backup story, they held their wagging
tongues â€” but not completely, because people will always be people.
With no matchbox to make fire, he ate some of the bird raw. I hope
I am not turning into a savage, he said to himself. He felt devastated
and mentally unwound, the lyricality of it all a sad tone in the vast hall
of his existence. He wondered how long he could last on the island. He
wondered if he would make it out of this place, or if his body would be
another contribution to the earth and manure for the trees and grasses.
He beat his chest and assured himself that he was American â€”
body, soul and mind â€” that he must show the resilience and strength
Americans are known for. He knew too well the gains of wearing his
American heritage like a necklace round his neck. He missed home.
He missed the fecundity and liveliness of his dreams and ambition.
He missed everything that added to his definition of humanness.
He missed himself, because right now it felt like he wasn't himself.
He missed his dad. He missed Shantella, his betrothed. He missed
everything. He picked his trousers off the ground and tied them round
his waist. The sun was yet to rise. He picked a stick he saw and set
about to explore the lonely island.
It was the millennium of supercars, millennium of eventful express
cars. They ran on the needful, on four-lane roads designed to permit one
car at a time. The cars had stations that operated like train stations. It
was the era of the fast cars. The cars were just the bomb, and people
who patronised them were the brave and adventurous. It was the
car for anyone who had his money and in urgent need of reaching his
destination faster. These cars could carry as many as eight persons.
Fast and reliable, with competent drivers. Fast cars, fast journeys. All
fast everything.
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://8q5N-dt8c4hTmEgguUl4C9SVy8GZIbQH7SYFpnPysMcÍbÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7o×gíbz±§L¦7nÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://vtlU0_EntFL6y6hbIiQ-VLN6DB5gaNnSaJs5jzk-aoYÎ ÌÍ` ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://4EcK04gwfCvnQrMjcaQgrymaTLWWavKDcZvCYk8qJKAÍ ×Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YxtSJHRYWhmLZ-Ut0iGDuU87JxNWz0crnEYX_JPbnh8Í+ÑÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb€±§L¦7­×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://c4GeKfAWW_bf4JqddzEbSP56uRsrQfNSYthstxcBuXQÎ €lÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://D11bhGJvnGg9Hmme2TEih9CVjRGG7k2fCFIOj6fSdOAÍ~‘Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mLKZrlgM_eNxjLJ1--WmSyPG-FPi5Qj_ISVb3D1_5SAÍ$ÌÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7®‘× ×gíb±§L¦7° Í{ÍGÌ›9×H¼http://blackmonarchhotel.com××Ðˆ×‰EÚJHe had just traveled several kilometres on foot when he stumbled on
a shrub with yellow succulent fruits. The fruits looked like a distant
relative of highbush blueberry. He ate and collected as many as he
could. He marked the area should he need these succulent fruits
again. Excited, he smiled and walked on. He walked and walked and
felt a twitch in his arm but never paid attention to it. He was trying
to explore the island and find help sooner. He talked to himself and
walked on. He walked and smiled, on and on. It seemed he was now
having a dangerous affair with his newfound environment.
He smiled even harder when he found strong pieces of wood. He knew
immediately what he must do with those pieces of wood. He was going
to build a strong tent for his safety â€” because, of course, any wild
animal could miss its way and find his flesh a more desirable delicacy.
Even though he was lost, he wanted to stay alive at least. He picked
the wood, from everywhere they were scattered. He picked them and
began to build at a spot he considered preferable. With the gift of a
craftsman, he was able to finish building before sunset. He heaved a
sigh of satisfaction and watched his tent with admiration. He checked
how strong the door was when closed from both outside and inside. He
smiled and went to fetch himself more fruits in the direction he saw
them.
On reaching the shrub, he committed himself to plucking all the ripe
fruits he could. He collected them and turned to return to his tent,
munching noisily. At least these could keep hunger away for some time
till he could kill another unlucky animal. He had just reached the side
of his tent when he saw a hyena lurking around the door. Shocked and
surprised, he stealthily dropped his succulent fruits and searched for a
very strong stick. He found one, taking the right end of his tent. Slowly
and gradually he snuck up on the unsuspecting hyena and smashed
its head with the strong wood. The animal yelped and tried to run but
fell dramatically. He watched with bulged eyes, his weapon aloft. He
watched as the thing struggled. He gave it another hit and watched the
thing yelp and take its final breath.
A shiver of excitement forced his lips into laughter as he realised he
had killed it. He dropped his weapon and carried the animal up, placing
its limbs across his neck. He began to chant songs of victory. When he
felt he was done holding up the dead animal, he brought it down and
went to open his tent. He took the animal inside afterwards and sat
outside to enjoy his fruits.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Ghana, a man was knocked unconscious
by a falling object. In fact, he was knocked dead the way coconuts
disembarking from their trees do to people underneath them. People
gathered at the scene of action and tried hard to fathom what the
object was. The object was round like a Frisbee â€” and heavy. Police
arrived at the scene of the accident and took away the victim and
the killer object. They took the victim to the hospital where he was
pronounced dead. He was taken into the morgue while forensic experts
and crime scene investigators tried to ascertain what the object was
and what could have led to it falling vertically from nowhere.
One week later, after thorough analysis and consultations, they
concluded the object had fallen from outer space. They said it contained
traces of uranium and other radioactive elements. They said a whole
lot of things in regards to what they discovered from their analysis. If
there was any prominent thing, the things they did say to the general
public, it was leaving them frightened and with a growing sense of
No. 136
insecurity. No one knew when they would step out and have their head
hit by a mysterious object. People were scared. The supposedly wise
wore helmets whenever they went outside. And the fears grew when a
similar incident was recorded in Brazil in front of a grocery store where
a woman went to shop. Everyone knew they had to be on the lookout
for these falling objects, these objects that dared to fall unannounced.
"Kiss my eyes,â€ a man from Ottawa said in Toronto. "Come kiss my
eyes."
He had been questioned and accused by a police officer for being a
witness in the sudden murder of one Ms. Sutcliffe. The man had said
he only walked in to see his colleague dead and nothing more. But
the police officer had begged him to say everything he knew and saw
because nobody was going to implicate him in the crime. But the irate
man could not take it anymore. He just had to react.
"Alright. Calm down,â€ the police officer said to him and tried to
interrogate others. "Calm down. Alright?"
He woke the next day and opened the door of his tent. Birds were
chirping noisily and flying about. He tried to stretch but discovered
he had some difficulty with moving his arms, as if they were some
mechanical appendage. He felt quite unwell and didn't know what was
wrong with himself. If asked, he knew he wouldn't be totally able to
say how he was feeling. Nonetheless, the truth remained that he was
feeling strange. Suddenly, he remembered he was lost and alone and
began to feel hopeless. This cup needed to pass over him, or he needed
this cup to pass over him â€” whichever way. He yawned and turned to
close his tent so he could go for a walk. As he closed the door, he felt
quite dizzy and rubbed his eyes. He walked away, looking here and
there. On and on he walked.
He had not walked for long when a helicopter appeared from nowhere,
buzzing out from above the trees near his tent into the open space
where he was standing now. Surprised, he fastened his gaze on the
helicopter for two good minutes before he remembered he was lost
and needed help. He began to wave frantically. He yelled and called out
for help. The helicopter slowed and hovered above him. "I need help
y'all!" he screamed. "Get me out of this place!" The helicopter began
to descend gradually. He yelled further, throwing his hands into
the air. Eventually, the helicopter touched down and two men
came out. They wore a certain kind of uniform, uniform that
he could not recognise and knew he had never seen. The
men shook hands with him and asked what he was saying
actually.
PHOTO BY KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YxtSJHRYWhmLZ-Ut0iGDuU87JxNWz0crnEYX_JPbnh8Í+ÑÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7p×‰EÚ)"What else could I possibly be saying, fellas?" he said to the two men.
"Isn't it quite obvious that I am lost here?"
"How did it happen?" one of the men in uniform asked.
"I was aboard the Space B ship, that's all I can remember. I was
sleeping in it. I think it capsized."
"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the other. "You are a Space B survivor?
This is unbelievable. Can you believe this, Martins? This man is a Space
B survivor."
"That's amazing,â€ his colleague said. "But, can you tell us your story?"
"I can,â€ he said, nodding. "But I think I am sick. Take me out of here
first."
"Oh, sure. Martins, let's get this man to a hospital. This is a miracle.
How many days now?"
"I have lost count. Let's just get him out of here."
They all entered the helicopter and left the ground before he
remembered his hyena. The two men laughed and asked if they should
throw him down so he could go meet the dead animal. He shrugged and
laughed too.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Liberia, someone was also found dead with
teeth marks on her neck. The police took her dead corpse to the hospital
where doctors tried to analyse the teeth incisions to be able to decipher
if it was a canine or something else that bit the neck of the woman. And
the result of the analysis, to their maximum discomfort, showed the
teeth marks belonged to something else. The doctors agreed the whole
of humanity was in danger. But they became somewhat political with
their findings and decided to keep the truth away from the masses.
They believed chewing the curd of truth and regurgitating as much as
they could would help buy them some time to ascertain the emotional
aftertaste of the world when the news is eventually fed to them.
Meanwhile, the two men succeeded in flying the castaway to a
reputable hospital where he was taken care of as a Space B survivor,
the government willing to interview him when the time was right. The
nurses and doctors took good care of him, giving him drugs whenever
was right. But something happened that left them fearing for their
safety, something happened within the course of two days. Two nurses
and a doctor were found dead with teeth marks on their necks. They
consulted themselves and the government before it was announced
on televisions worldwide that a certain virus was turning people into
zomboids â€” humans that were zombie-like â€” and that the only known
survivor of the Space B disaster turned into a zomboid and escaped the
hospital where he was admitted after being rescued. And when people
heard the news, they went mad with fear and anxiety. They simply
didn't know how to live their lives anymore. But one thing was certain
â€” they must find their ways to survive.
Meanwhile, the "runaway zomboid" went to a fast car station and
decided it was time to go home â€” and home he sped, hoping his memory
remembers exactly what home looked like and that he doesn't turn
into a zomboid, again, any time soon. On and on the fast car sped on its
lane, fast and fast his growing nostalgia went. And he knew, somehow,
anyhow, that the world had changed totally since he left home on
a ship. And he knew, somehow, anyway, that he would either
return home as a lost-but-found human or an unwanted
zomboid. And at home, his clay replacement waited for
him.
Book your stay in coloradoâ€™s
most haunted destination.
blackmonarchhotel.com
Secrets await...
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mLKZrlgM_eNxjLJ1--WmSyPG-FPi5Qj_ISVb3D1_5SAÍ$ÌÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7q×gíbz±§L¦7pÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ndb5EdRW-oIHZVmjO-PDKkxLvgYervvZVIu9q3jooRIÎ ÂæÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://60axhft2Dq_8XRhN-kg9hHTh6YI3f87eXR8iOrNhaM8Í‹áÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://yM5fjsa-Wq04fJIGvvRpsMpjYgkkUqlyQ8DKsQqP4MkÍ/ÊÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb‚±§L¦7±×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://fp30-6WfPvFj6yWwjYZMNYm1IAn0bZBdmctTwnIIHOAÎ T‰Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Vjzev1RDpK_jzzd6AbjM5wZFaRM_SFG4MxER5H-wQgEÍ›XÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://9SybAQjB9XAlm9ROL90sxBvZdMDSnQQiq9S2BbzFrI4Í/ÚÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb‚±§L¦7²×‰EÚ)ART BY CREATICKLE - IG + ETSY: @CREATICKLE
I ALWAYS THOUGHT THE BAND OASIS WAS A LOT LIKE
OLIVES: I SIMPLY CANNOT UNDERSTAND HOW ANYONE
COULD ENJOY THEM
Every three years or so, I act in the interest of open-mindedness. I
think, Maybe I simply havenâ€™t given olives or the song â€œWonderwallâ€
enough of a chance. I mean, there must be something to it, because
No. 136
everyone I know seems to like them. And so I will try olives, and I will
listen to Oasis. And inevitably I come to the same conclusion: no, itâ€™s
not me. Everyone else is wrong. At least now when people ask, â€œBut
have you tried to like [either Oasis or olives]?â€ I can say, â€œI tried. Believe
me, I tried. But there is nothing remotely good about either of them.
Olives leave a terrible taste in my mouth, and Oasis leaves a boring
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://yM5fjsa-Wq04fJIGvvRpsMpjYgkkUqlyQ8DKsQqP4MkÍ/ÊÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7r×‰EÚ¥ringing in my ears. So no thank you to either.â€
like that.
I AM ALONE AND UNLOVEABLE, AND OTHER
ADVENTURES IN MODERN DATING
When youâ€™re texting a new crush, and she doesnâ€™t text back right
away, do you overanalyze every word and overthink every negative way
she could interpret the text you sent? And you admonish yourself for
being an awkward idiot who doesnâ€™t deserve love and will die miserable
and alone. And then when she finally responds with â€œlolâ€ or a heart,
you finally relax and realize you should stop blowing everything out of
proportion, because itâ€™s just so taxing â€” and really, you donâ€™t deserve
to be treated the way you treat yourself sometimes. But then you send
another text that isnâ€™t returned right away, and you once again panic.
Over and over. And over again. Has that ever happened to you?
I DONâ€™T WEAR ALL BLACK BECAUSE Iâ€™M SAD, I DO IT
BECAUSE Iâ€™M MESSY
Well, you wonder why I always dress in black. Why you never see bright
colors on my back? I do it because I canâ€™t seem to keep food on the fork
when Iâ€™m eating. I also have issues drinking â€” not with alcohol, mind
you â€” but with delivering liquids safely from the cup into my mouth.
Then thereâ€™s ink, blood, wet paint, grass, etc. Iâ€™ve been stained by just
about everything. And since Iâ€™ve been involved with the punk scene for
decades, Iâ€™ve always had a very close proximity to black clothing. As
such, I soon realized that if I just donned darkness from head to toe,
no one would know that I am, at all times, a mess. Iâ€™m pretty smart
WHAT IS TODAY AGAIN?
Hey, does anyone remember what day it is? I lost track at some point.
Yeah, I know I could look at my phone, but I was hoping you knew it
off the top of your head so you could just tell me. No, I donâ€™t care what
the date is. Iâ€™m more interested in the day of the week. I feel like it
should be Tuesday or Wednesday, but I wouldnâ€™t be surprised if it was
Thursday. What? Monday? Are you kidding me? Holy shit, itâ€™s going to
be a long week.
THE ODDS THAT I EXIST ON THIS PLANET ARE SO
INFINITESIMALLY SMALL, ITâ€™S A MIRACLE Iâ€™M EVEN
HERE. ALSO, I AM BORED
The fact that my ancestors lived long enough to reproduce, the chance
that all of them even met each other to begin with, the even smaller
odds that the exact sperm met the exact egg demonstrates that I
shouldnâ€™t even be here. And thatâ€™s not even mentioning how extremely
rare it is that life exists on this planet â€” much less on any planet in this
universe. Every human being, every plant and animal â€” itâ€™s amazing
that anything or anyone is here at all! But of course, once the novelty
of this train of thought wears off, I canâ€™t help but slip back into my
normal day-to-day routine, which is both difficult and soul-crushingly
boring. I work, eat, sleep and repeat. Nothing excites me. Yeah, itâ€™s a
near miracle Iâ€™m even here, but what has life done for me lately? Iâ€™m
going to go get drunk.
23
PHOTO BY ZAC DUNN
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://9SybAQjB9XAlm9ROL90sxBvZdMDSnQQiq9S2BbzFrI4Í/ÚÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7s×gíbz±§L¦7rÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://f_VZcw7qTRvmjMx0uQJ66Akqjnb_VCYpi33BSGbzTdcÎ Z~Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://f26-DiyQRPIiCLnsgtG6GxR5n8dJZnYiPSl91Ml21t4Í~9Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Hkg-DEvwPOCTl45Cvw32xqx4bF_lkwcOZ4jmMgC4FrEÍ'lÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíb‚±§L¦7´×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://PzBJuNLSjh209kLyyyxhyVnboPTUJQG-pB7r8YA1rS8Î ® Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://qsHBpTFZumYgmUXXHQiFxauSxbXq_X1dsuKu1XWT4i0Í}Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0CTTBF7x_ra0ZcHQeUh49zS83AytSlYfzGycL59pe5MÍ#ÊÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbƒ±§L¦7µ×‰EÚ‘TATTOO
TALK
W/ ARTIST VALERIIA
VOLOKHOVA AKA OOQZA
INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I | PHOTOS COURTESY OF OOQZA
APRIL, 1 2025
Valeriia Volokhova aka Ooqza is an artist on a mission to literally
leave her mark around the world. Her instantly recognizable art
speaks for itself â€” raw, honest, a spectrum of emotion â€” with
each tattoo being a symbiosis of her own personal journey and
that of her client. From drawing in her youth in a tiny town in
Moscow to becoming a world renowned tattoo artist currently
touring the U.S., Valeriia is where she is today due to her grit
and years of hard work. But even more, sheâ€™s here by virtue of an
unwavering authenticity to herself.
I was able to catch up with Valeriia during her time in Los
Angeles before she visits Denver for the first time in April.
GROWING UP THREE HOURS SOUTH OF MOSCOW IN
RUSSIA, THERE WERE NO ARTISTS IN YOUR FAMILY, WHO
WERE MOSTLY SOCIAL WORKERS. YET, HERE YOU ARE AN
ILLUSTRATOR TURNED ACCLAIMED TATTOO ARTIST. WHAT
DO YOU ATTRIBUTE TO YOUR INNATE CREATIVITY? AND
WHEN DID YOU REALIZE YOU WERE AN ARTIST?
My mom always nurtured my creative spirit. Iâ€™ve been drawing
since I was a kid â€” mostly designing clothes for women because
that fascinated me. She once told me that when she was little,
she never felt supported in her creativity by her own mother, so
she wanted to change that in our relationship. Honestly, I donâ€™t
believe creativity is something you're just born with. I think
anyone can develop it in one way or another. The results will be
different for everyone, but it all depends on how much effort you
put in.
No. 136
YOUR CAREER BEGAN IN COLLEGE AT A PARTY WHEN SOMEONE
NOTICED YOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND ASKED FOR A TATTOO, TO
WHICH YOU AGREED TO AFTER BUYING A PRIMITIVE MACHINE
SET. AT THE TIME, THERE WEREN'T ANY TATTOO ARTISTS IN YOUR
AREA WHO YOU FELT YOU COULD LEARN FROM, SO HOW DID YOU GO
ABOUT TEACHING YOURSELF?
When I was starting out, of course, there were tattoo artists around,
but even with my zero experience back then, I knew they couldnâ€™t give me
what I wanted. I was aiming for something beyond what they had achieved
â€” something more aesthetic, more refined and better quality. So I had to
teach myself, gathering bits of information from the internet. Thirteen
years ago, there were no tutorials on how to use tattoo machines, how
deep the needle should go, or any real instructions. Everything I learned
was through trial and error. The only thing I could find were some random
videos from foreign tattoo artists on YouTube. Iâ€™d pause, rewind, and
analyze every second where I could see their hands, how they held the
machine â€” trying to understand anything at all. You can imagine how long
that process took.
SEARCHING FOR YOUR STYLE INITIALLY, A FRIEND ASKED YOU
WHY YOU DIDNâ€™T DRAW ANIME WHICH HAS BEEN AN INTEGRAL
PART OF YOUR LIFE SINCE 13. YOU "RECEIVED YOUR SIGHT" JUST
THEN, WITH JAPANESE INFLUENCED ART SERVING AS A STYLISTIC
CORNERSTONE. DESCRIBE YOUR FIRST MEMORY OF ANIME. FAST
FORWARD, WHAT CURRENTLY SERVES AS YOUR CREATIVE MUSE?
Itâ€™s hard to say what my first anime was â€” probably PokÃ©mon or Sailor
Moon â€” but the first one I truly fell in love with was Shaman King. For years
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Hkg-DEvwPOCTl45Cvw32xqx4bF_lkwcOZ4jmMgC4FrEÍ'lÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7t×‰EÚŠafter watching it, every time I blew out birthday candles, I wished to see
spirits in real life. I wanted that experience so badly. Maybe to help people
who had lost loved ones â€¦ maybe to help the spirits themselves, because
so many probably left this world with unfinished business or unspoken
words.
Anime creators teach us about strength and the importance of
appreciating what we have. My muse is the experiences we go through â€”
everything I personally have lived through, and I think many people will
relate to that. The way Iâ€™ve grown from the moment I became aware that I
exist on this planet to where I am today â€” itâ€™s priceless.
TAKE US THROUGH YOUR CREATIVE PROCESS OF INITIALLY
DEVELOPING A PIECE TO THE ACT OF TATTOOING IT. DO YOU HAVE
ANY SPECIFIC RITUALS?
I donâ€™t really have specific rituals, but I need to have control over my
space. I usually draw alone in quiet places, whether itâ€™s my apartment
or a hotel room. I can work in a cafÃ© too, but only if I have my own little
corner where no one intrudes. Sometimes I listen to music, but other times
I get so deep into designing that I only realize hours later that Iâ€™ve been
sitting in complete silence. When I travel, I always put on noise-canceling
headphones and sketch on the plane. Thereâ€™s something a little romantic
about creating designs in the sky.
When I design a tattoo for a client, I always ask what kind of emotion
they want it to convey. I think thatâ€™s really important. I know some artists
actually fear clients who request specific emotions, but I see it as a tool to
understand people better. We all experience a full spectrum of emotions
every day and no matter how much we might want to avoid some of them,
itâ€™s part of life. Sometimes, going through certain moments is incredibly
hard, but I find beauty in that, and I reflect it in my work. Even a face that
seems expressionless can hide an entire storm of feelings.
Most of the time, clients trust me to create their designs, but I always
ask about any key details they really want to include. It increases the
chances that Iâ€™ll create something that feels perfect for them. After all, itâ€™s
a custom piece â€” itâ€™s not just about my vision, but theirs too.
TATTOOING IS A MAJOR EXCHANGE OF ENERGY BETWEEN THE
ARTIST AND THE ART RECEIVER. HOW DO YOU KEEP GROUNDED AND
BALANCED IN YOUR LIFE?
I wouldnâ€™t say I have a great work-life balance, but I do love having control
over things that affect me personally. The choices we make every day â€”
even small ones like what to eat, when to work, who to spend time with
â€” bring a sense of peace. I listen to myself, I know what I want, and I try to
give that to myself. Thatâ€™s my version of balance.
FAVORITE TATTOO-RELATED EXPERIENCE.
I canâ€™t pick just one standout experience, but what makes me happiest
is my clients' reactions. The excitement in their messages when they see
the design before their session. Or the moment after their tattoo is done
â€” when theyâ€™re exhausted but staring at it in the mirror, saying it turned
out even better than they imagined. Seeing that joy in them makes me
happy too.
OUTSIDE OF CREATING ART, WHAT DO YOU ENJOY THE MOST?
I love psychology â€” itâ€™s my hobby â€” and understanding people on a
deeper level makes me happy. I also can't live without vintage shopping;
it's always a surprise because you never know what you'll find, and that
makes it exciting. Spending time with my friends is another thing I really
25
enjoy. I've met some amazing and rare people here. Sometimes we just
hang out, watch a great movie, or go play pool.
YOUR DEFINITION OF ART.
To me, art is a conversation. It connects with people. Someone can look
at a piece and feel exactly what the artist felt when they created it. Itâ€™s a
silent dialogue between the creator and the viewer.
WHAT WOULD BE A DREAM COME TRUE FOR YOU?
Right now, my biggest wish is the same as when I first started tattooing
â€” to leave a mark on the industry. That goal has only grown bigger over
time. Iâ€™ve already achieved some things, but I want to create work that
lasts. People donâ€™t live forever, but art does. I'm on my way to creating
something that will be remembered and become part of the culture
WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO MOST IN DENVER?
Iâ€™ll be visiting Denver for the first time. Iâ€™m open to new experiences and
donâ€™t have a strict plan â€” Iâ€™m still exploring this country and want to visit as
many major cities as possible. Maybe even some smaller ones. Iâ€™m always
looking for adventure, and I love meeting locals and hearing their stories.
WHAT ELSE ARE YOU EXCITED FOR THIS YEAR?
I have plans to attend several international and U.S. tattoo conventions,
work on expanding my Ooqza brand, and finally settle down. Itâ€™s been one
of my goals for the past few years. I can feel that this year is going to bring
big changes, and I canâ€™t wait!
FOLLOW OOQZA FOR MORE WORK + TO STAY UP-TO-DATE WITH
WHERE SHEâ€™LL BE NEXT â€” INSTAGRAM & TIKTOK: @OOQZA
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://0CTTBF7x_ra0ZcHQeUh49zS83AytSlYfzGycL59pe5MÍ#ÊÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7u×gíbz±§L¦7tÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://D1RyN2jIXEdAR9_DNrL81tf2PHXwH7S60IaPSD1rp6AÎ xªÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Yq7O0PRG3pgdWihLKWCa8lIwkMjk6EUd-uivSYGzNDQÍ••Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mQq7yrgNPKRoADeJsj4jSrLEKOahD_NfXMLpkajJsiUÍ.¼Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb‡±§L¦7·×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://3Gp9U6A7lv63WF4GpOIq1_nLJ6ngEaj4GZSZaNV3Q_oÎ ‚lÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://K5vxvjBf-ylrGVHBqhTKkqlvZWD9dQucFSc-u_zV9tgÍ	Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5G11sjA7oC8OSpdqgm8NxPGrokYnXFj3E7EDyalMGsYÍ*Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíb±§L¦7¸‘× ×gíbŽ±§L¦7º ÍÍÓÍ59×HÚ *http://QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM××Ðˆ×‰EÚ	+BUCK GOOTER â€“ KING KONG LIVES:
THEREMINSANITY
The combination of enigmatic, vintage synths and loBY
TOM MURPHY
fi percussion with the late Terry Turtleâ€™s wiry and urgent
guitar, alongside Billy Brettâ€™s impassioned vocals and other
strangeness, is the perfect vehicle for an album of cultural and
personal time travel. Starting by invoking the poignant moments
of the schlocky 1986 sequel to the 1976 King Kong, Buck Gooter
weaves in stories of childhood memories as a way of navigating
the anxieties of the present, as those early experiences manifest
well into adulthood as part of our subconscious narrative. The
result is a little like Laurie Anderson, with her typically absurdist
humor, making a prescient, tribal industrial punk record without
mincing words.
DETH RALI â€“ RUBYâ€™S CASTLE ISLAND
Did songwriter and lyricist Jay Maike get a time travel machine
and go hang out with Billy Thorpe in 1979 while he was recording
Children of the Sun, after a stop at Wye Valley in February 1977 to
jam with Hawkwind during the making of Quark, Strangeness and
Charm? Or more in line with reality, he had some hang time with
Kevin Barnes when he was working on Lady on the Cusp in 2024?
Chances are no, but this ambitious, psychedelic, goth pop album
has plenty of narrative arc, colorful characters, and epic fantasy
concepts of its own that itâ€™s easy to get lost in its gorgeous,
transporting melodies and tales of peril and transcendence.
EDDIE DURKIN â€“ SOME MORE DEMOS FOR
NOTHING
Durkin probably could have recorded without the wind sound
and other white noise in the background, but that would have
subtracted from the raw appeal of this album. Itâ€™s like he is
writing songs on a porch and recording straight to analog tape,
though itâ€™s obvious there is some production. When writing
tracks that get real about everyday life struggles from the
perspective of someone with a poetic soul, a completely pristine
recording would seem to work at cross-purposes. The yearning
and hopefulness in these songs against present and sometimes
overwhelming challenges is refreshingly free of bravado and
gives the songwriting a heightened accessibility, like the kind of
energy you can reach even if youâ€™re way down low in life. Fans of
Microphones and Owen Ashworth will find great resonance here
both sonically and emotionally.
No. 136
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://mQq7yrgNPKRoADeJsj4jSrLEKOahD_NfXMLpkajJsiUÍ.¼Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7v×‰EÚúPLAGUE GARDEN â€“ UNDER THE
SANGUINE MOON
Ostensibly an album themed on vampires and
other creatures of the night, this set of songsâ€™
melancholic atmospheres, brooding yet vibrant
vocals, and moody, pulsing rhythms leave plenty
of sonic space into which the imagination can
float into corridors of personal darkness. And it is
that which the album explores symbolically, a will
to confront, overcome and integrate the â€” yes â€”
shadow side of oneâ€™s personality and life, and find
therein what feels vital to hold on to when youâ€™re
feeling especially tested. This time out the band
integrates some grittier sounds and punk energy
on â€œThe Dirty Deadâ€ (which yielded the title of the
album) and â€œLos NiÃ±os Perdidos,â€ and in doing so,
invokes the punchier post-punk end of The Sisters
of Mercy influence.
TEACUP GORILLA â€“ JANE/EYRE: NO NET
ENSNARES ME
Denver-based, experimental indiepop band Teacup
Gorilla provided the music and performances for
Jane/Eyre, a queer retelling of the 1847 Charlotte
BrontÃ« novel. The performance as a play was
an especially poignant exploration of sexuality
and gender identity, and the songs with vocal
contributions from former Bad Luck City singer
Dameon Merkl were standout on their own. When
the production company Grapefruit Lab did a reboot
of the original play in 2025, the band released the
soundtrack as an album. While it doesnâ€™t quite
replace the experience of the humor and conceptual
richness of the live experience, it very much stands
on its own as an Americana-inflected work of
masterful pop songcraft with warmly luminous
and delicately rendered melodies. The existential
storytelling has an old-timey feel that nevertheless
resonates broadly with modern sensibilities, like
a slice of Vaudeville rendered in the language of
classic, experimental literature, yet refreshingly free
of pretension and pop culture references.
WHERE COULD BE BETTER
THAN A HAUNTED
VICTORIAN HOTEL
TO TURN NIGHTMARES
INTO YOUR NEXT NOVEL?
FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM
27
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://5G11sjA7oC8OSpdqgm8NxPGrokYnXFj3E7EDyalMGsYÍ*Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7w×gíbz±§L¦7vÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://a-QhA1fCu2t20qJUE8QW-WIdGxrm7iLPNl8z7jBVnG8Î ×sÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Lw8Z9CWpCfTtnn1YGaYko9dXlBQGkHGiXZxwCAqMel4ÍsÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://nPy2zM9T3B3-8pezKRO6w60ralziTYkNXvow-tbTth4Í#²Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7»×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://xQTypHcl-8qL7YXekx-Gh20gYp_Ufs9Gs6_gfWE5jVsÎ ÇJÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://7eX1AnFJwYM79IzOanSXW5n0XJ5Xr47kT_8XoZseEvgÍ„ëÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kBxpVXBGWVFn2rOkteO9_FgFD2jp8nydVNAa8L31WmQÍ0¶Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7¼‘× ×gíbŽ±§L¦7¿ Í*Í¸Ì˜9×H¸http://monkeymindful.com××Ðˆ×‰EÚ“by Julianna Beckert
Q:
A:
How do I heal my inner child and accept myself?
Woah. This is a big one. The answer could take many sessions
of therapy to uncover the wounds of your child-self and
reveal how this affects you as the person you are today. But
there are some small actions you can take right now to start
on a path to self-love.
The first thing is to recognize and understand why youâ€™re like
this. You act like you do because with every painful experience
youâ€™ve ever endured, you developed a mechanism to keep
yourself safe from getting hurt exactly like that again. You
didnâ€™t even do it on purpose. Itâ€™s just part of how our body
and mind work together to avoid danger. You developed ways
to control the situation, but Iâ€™m sorry to tell you, control is an
illusion.
You may ingest substances to control the way you feel (or
donâ€™t feel). You may agree to do things you donâ€™t really want
to do, just to be certain everyone still likes you â€” to control
your status. You may work yourself to the bone so that you
can feel worthy to take up space â€” again, controlling status.
The truth is, we have no right nor ability to control other
peopleâ€™s feelings about us. That belongs to them. What we
CAN control is our own thoughts, feelings and responses to
the world around us.
Next time you find yourself saying, doing, or thinking something
that feels icky, this is your signal. For example, I recently found
myself being a little fake and pushing to make disingenuous
conversation, triggered by a coworker being a little more quiet
than usual. I proceeded to dive into a depressive negativity
spiral, wallowing in insecurity and mean self-talk.
When you notice something is off like this, ask yourself, Why did
I do that? Whatâ€™s going on? Approach yourself with curiosity
rather than judgement. If you dig down, youâ€™ll likely find that
you did that cringy thing to protect yourself. In my childhood
home, someone not speaking was sometimes followed by an
angry outburst. My response to my coworkerâ€™s silence was
a feeling of unease rooted in this deep wonder of Are they
mad? Am I in trouble? My inner child was working hard to
validate this concern so I could then work to control it and be
safe. My childhood was painting a color on the situation that
wasnâ€™t even there. Turns out my coworker was quiet because
of something that was going on in her personal life that had
nothing to do with me.
Recognizing what mechanisms youâ€™re bringing into a situation
gives you the ability to now make different choices. Instead
of being mad at yourself, you can thank yourself (your inner
child) for trying so hard and being so diligent about protecting
you. Say: â€œThank you for protecting me, but Iâ€™ve got this one.â€
Be kind to yourself, and be kind to others. Weâ€™re all just hurt
animals trying to figure it out.
Visit monkeymindful.com to submit your question or find
transformational workshops and coaching sessions.
No. 136
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://nPy2zM9T3B3-8pezKRO6w60ralziTYkNXvow-tbTth4Í#²Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7x×‰EÚ @MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - MARCH 8, 2025
29
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kBxpVXBGWVFn2rOkteO9_FgFD2jp8nydVNAa8L31WmQÍ0¶Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7y×gíbz±§L¦7xÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ylnHFgJSegkwf0p7qDF8R9QNuouaDp7IYUiEz-8J8JsÎ ƒóÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YUznEZV1w4HPBXfOMjlY--hgOcKHsjg3ktR76shC3GsÍk×Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://8AYiNlyo83Nb9iVu5bRLgPBH1QD0yWLzM0zWVTaz_T4Í%†Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7¾×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://48kbNYsx-MM5jFLHe2igmWSkKqq4EAUQBv-p48XuccsÎ FšÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://NZvT33ouOhmomHlkWt8sIca_Bw_0bEtp-XZ7hCIKpvkÍ`:Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://BIFbBV0WVkr-lH3myN2RR0frHznc_uQBoQDp9mZbPsUÍ$<Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7À‘× ×gíbŽ±§L¦7Ã ÍÍ§u9×H¶http://ROBGINSBERG.COM××Ðˆ×‰EÚ —â€œBRASSWORKS GALLERY KRK RYDEN CURATED SHOW OPENING. PHOTO BY SIENA GOLDMAN
LAST WEEKEND IN PORTLAND, OREGON (MARCH 10, 2025).â€ - MARK MOTHERSBAUGH
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://8AYiNlyo83Nb9iVu5bRLgPBH1QD0yWLzM0zWVTaz_T4Í%†Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7z×‰EÚ TROB GINSBERG (D.A.S.A.), DUTY NOW DEADPOOL | DEVOLVED CZARFACE - ROBGINSBERG.COM
31
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://BIFbBV0WVkr-lH3myN2RR0frHznc_uQBoQDp9mZbPsUÍ$<Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7{×gíbz±§L¦7zÍÚÍ×‘C’×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://2hMBlm_C0Jo31fCZA9nNBdsf7i7oA8N4owQTpcTwspwÎ zÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Ytw3wo7q1OnCwBcHY6wkHbFhHzQ9wtosJ2i99ACdzVUÍ_JÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-RPz1FdhhB0o3V96J4MQKuSNn7Cw1gq-UDYlkpqtHusÍ$¿Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7Â×˜š Íí ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://VxdqU2nKUSjZI9Zwtcy_3y6ZfGWxRQxr_4xaEb3uCSUÎ :òÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://PI5Lgxe5w9sWO3ic3N6GCUajD8LxKXejgUEHuhFbTiUÍ¦`Í`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://oezVeEU8ZF8R3tHHSFoXmuy9PeQZ-DrpsP15sK3wgTUÍ5‰Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7Ä×‰EÚ 'PETER GLANTING, JAPANESE CAMERA POSTER
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-RPz1FdhhB0o3V96J4MQKuSNn7Cw1gq-UDYlkpqtHusÍ$¿Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7|×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://oezVeEU8ZF8R3tHHSFoXmuy9PeQZ-DrpsP15sK3wgTUÍ5‰Í`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7}×gíbz±§L¦7|ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://-NbYBe3q1Z3HjYC79dPu_tBFJrIXIJ4TlhImt4V3tVQÎ QÍ`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://gA3K5k1kG3DoXSiccHosKPYMiHx9FQ0IuVcSuy9GvjsÍ-qÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OoGhbC9i4LLpEhDrJjSAtggMzAzBH0ezkPndhwczDh0ÍÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbŽ±§L¦7Æ×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OoGhbC9i4LLpEhDrJjSAtggMzAzBH0ezkPndhwczDh0ÍÍ`ÌÅÍ ×gíbz±§L¦7~×ˆE×gíbz±§L¦7×gíbz±§L¦7~ÍÚÍ,¯BIRDY ISSUE 136Ú ePublished April 2025. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine, available monthly in print or online.×gíbb´ËDØ–Wi