׉?4ׁB!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://9_QV7RKV2-AFIOwTOJTmYNpDvB3lWaregxMRnbjiDUs`׉ 7cassandra://rlr7gHFkg9x-BKuAu63pGRmQ97Zrt1PIcHgVZbZIInMJ`r׉ 7cassandra://W5ZYq2_gFKboL_PBfA5Bas7F2cIS3DSlWpTiopc0qek`i b<<05׈Ei b<<0׉E׉ 7cassandra://W5ZYq2_gFKboL_PBfA5Bas7F2cIS3DSlWpTiopc0qek`i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://kbDNFq1QSOpOU6CB_e9oA9NN8hXHMmISWqAjmpewE5E`et׉ 7cassandra://Ciabj5omOllY2GbYnTGI0BXofrb0_nUIf9taVmgRmpYͯ`׉ 7cassandra://CmEMSCawN0-rsT5lbxVSKgtL2_7u-1ByN4lcctRK4Ss=`i b<<08נi b<<0? 9ׁH http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACTׁ ׁ Јנi b<<0>s 9ׁH$http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONSׁ ׁ Јנi b<<0=F̧ 9ׁHhttp://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOPׁ ׁ Јנi b<<0<Wp 9ׁHhttp://BIRDY.MAׁ ׁ Јנi b<<0;+Oj9ׁHhttp://ERICJOYNER.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://CmEMSCawN0-rsT5lbxVSKgtL2_7u-1ByN4lcctRK4Ss=`i b<<0׉EERIC JOYNER, THE MUMMY - ERICJOYNER.COM ISSUE 143 | NOVEMBER 2025 BOREN'S BOARD: JONNY DESTEFANO SEA MONKEYS: KRYSTI JOMÉI IMMORTAL JELLYFISH: JULIANNA BECKERT BENZ: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI PURPLE ORB: CRISTIN COLVIN THE BELAFONTE: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH VHF CHANNEL 16: ALAN ROY WOBBEGONG: DANIEL LANDES MANDARIN DRAGONET: CHELSEA PINTO SANTIAGO: MATT HAVER FRONT COVER: JOSH KEYES, SNATCH BACK COVER: DOTTED YET, FROZEN QUARTER FLOUNDERS: JOSH KEYES, PETE KORNOWSKI, DAVE DANZARA, JORDAN DOLL, ARNA MILLER, BRIAN POLK, ALI HOFF, JOEL TAGERT, JASON WHITE, JOE VAUX, ZAC DUNN, HANA ZITTEL, SUSANN BROX NILSEN, NICK FLOOK, GRAHAM FRANCIOSE, TOM MURPHY, DS THORNBURG, CREATICKLE, ERIC JOYNER SKELETON KEYS: CHRISTOPHER ALVARENGA, PAUL JACKSON, SUE CLOWES, SAMUEL GUERRIER, JAMES MERRILL, GIGI PACI, JAMES MERRILL, DOTTED YETI PETE KORNOWSKI, THE DIVER'S DISCOVERY - @PETEKORNOWSKI RED FLARES: MARIANO OREAMUNO, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, UNDERSTUDY, MUTINY COFFEE AND COMICS, MONKEY BARREL, APOGAEA, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BENNY BLANCO’S, COCREATE, TOXOPLASMA ARTS 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 JUST WIND IN SAILS, ASTRONAVIGATION MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, DRIVE MY CAR INTO THE OCEAN 1 i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://jc4v89KgLPKUYQLeWiqSD7FeRbQl3q48GfXtlpHk82Aj`et׉ 7cassandra://g7omfE6TJSgA01geyagCrQVi2Au9vOW8omDHGU5wECI^`׉ 7cassandra://iNfgGnryHeDdEdD6IMmOjzRn8PpAL5_nyY6CzOa72v4i`i b<<0@נi b<<0B 9ׁH http://WEREWOLFRADAR.COM/CONTACTׁ ׁ Ј׉E"DAVE DANZARA - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS ׉ 7cassandra://iNfgGnryHeDdEdD6IMmOjzRn8PpAL5_nyY6CzOa72v4i`i b<<0׉EWerewolf Radar THE LATEST CHECKOUT Almost every hotel has a ghost story. But while tales of a spurned bride haunting the honeymoon suite (drama much?) or a spectral trucker forever pounding on the malfunctioning ice machine (looking at you, Colfax Ramada) may add a bit of charm to your stay, there is always a chance that you may end up bunking with something a bit more malevolent. The Cecil Hotel was built in downtown Los Angles, like the day before the Great Depression happened. Since then, The Cecil has catered almost exclusively to serial killers and people looking to end their lives. Not kidding. There have been dozens of suicides, suspected killings and odd deaths in and around the hotel over the years, including a woman who struck and killed a pedestrian after leaping from a ninth-floor window, earning herself a rare double kill, and possibly a cartoon piano crash sound effect. In the 80s, the top floor of The Cecil was home to Richard Ramirez, aka The Night Stalker *guitar riff* and later to another serial killer named Jack Unterweger, aka Jack Unterweger *sad bassoon riff.* The hotel was the scene of the gruesome murder of one Goldie Osgood, and is even rumored to have been one of the last places Elizabeth Short visited before she went off to become the Black Dahlia. It should come as no surprise then that almost since it was built, there have been whispered rumors of The Cecil Hotel being cursed. Which is a lot like being haunted but much worse for business. But there are murders and there are suicides, and then there are deaths that seem like a little of both with maybe a dash of something else thrown in. Elisa Lam checked into The Cecil on January 28, 2013. The 21-year-old Canadian stayed there for about four days and then, instead of checking out, she disappeared completely. Elisa had a history of mental health issues and her parents contacted the hotel after she failed to call them on the day she was supposed to leave LA. The hotel notified the police and a search was conducted for a presumably missing Elisa. The police used dogs to search Elisa’s room and even checked the roof of the hotel, to no avail. For all intents and purposes, Elisa had just sort of vanished. Until about four weeks later. Her body was discovered in a water tank on the roof of The Cecil. A water tank that supplies the drinking water to said hotel. That’s actually why they found her. The water pressure was bad, and it uh, tasted funny. The death was ruled a suicide but it was most likely done so with a huge shrug and a half-hearted “I guess?” tacked on at the end, because this one was about as weird as they come. Not only had Elisa found her way onto the locked and alarmed roof without anyone noticing, she had then proceeded to reach the top of the tank, lift the heavy access lid, climb in and then close it partially behind her. As if that wasn’t strange enough, then there was the video. A few days before Elisa’s body was found, the LAPD released a video they believed to be the last footage of her alive. It was taken from an elevator security cam and it is weird to say the least. The video shows Elisa engaged in a number of odd BY JORDAN DOLL behaviors on the very top floor of the hotel. She presses all the elevator buttons (classic gag), cowers in a corner for a minute, then jumps in and out of the elevator like she is playing hide and seek or something. Elisa then gets out of the elevator and gestures as though she is speaking to someone or petting a large animal that only she can see. All the while, the elevator never moves, as though malfunctioning. At the end of the footage, Elisa walks away and nobody sees her alive again. You can watch the video on YouTube, but you probably already did because it was the hottest viral internet video since “Goat Loves Harmonica.” The junior internet sleuth squad jumped in with its particular brand of “help” and before you could say, “Hi, I’m up in room 413 and our water smells like ghosts,” we had solutions ranging from demonic influences to the restless spirit of Richard Ramirez claiming yet another victim. One commenter even suggested that Elisa was playing something called “The Elevator Game,” a supposed means of traveling between alternate dimensions. The story became a link, then a meme, and it wasn’t long before we had a full-blown internet urban legend on our hands. And that’s when Hollywood came a callin’. And honestly, who could blame them? With the history of the hotel, coupled with the bizarre and gruesome nature of Elisa’s death, it was like a horror movie screenplay was being punched out in real time right in their own backyard. A number of scripts have been written based on the death and even the fifth season of American Horror Story was inspired by Elisa’s story, according to series co-creator Ryan Murphy. But even after all the sensationalism, the strange facts surrounding Elisa’s death remain, well, strange. What was that business in the elevator all about? Why did the elevator appear to malfunction? How did she get onto the roof? Did someone help her? Was someone chasing her? What could compel someone to crawl into a water tank without any way of getting back out? Elisa Lam was bipolar. She was on medication and, at the beginning of her stay, was moved from a hostel-style shared room to a private room when her roommates complained of certain “odd behaviors” (and honestly, who wouldn’t be behaving oddly while staying at this goddamn death palace?). She had struggled with depression and her Blogspot page was bannered with a quote from Chuck Palahniuk that read: “You’re always haunted by the idea you’re wasting your life.” We will likely never know what happened to Elisa but I can’t help but wonder if maybe these words weren’t on her mind that night as she climbed to the roof of The Cecil in search of one final adventure to cap off her stay in Los Angeles. As she found the door to the roof strangely unlocked, and the door to that water tank opened welcomingly. As she slipped down through the hatch and into the long, dark narrative of a hotel that still had at least one horror story left to tell. HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO WEREWOLFRADAR.COM/CONTACT-THE-RADAR IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED. 3 BEST OF 025 i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://Zr_PjKdQGvgiIoNBNbR2DSJBl2SMvIjPkVaIq01S6I8E`et׉ 7cassandra://kyDW-3huTcAkAO9HZZvayAV20EVD1JHcoanEPyBBVuU `׉ 7cassandra://x0D5CXAn7ubziWs17IMAudeVnVaVLJEk4TxuneqdQvw=`i b<<0C׉E/IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE BY BRIAN POLK UNREAD LIBRARY BOOKS, UNUSED DENTAL FLOSS, AND A PRISTINE YOGA MAT ARE ALL REMINDERS THAT THE ME OF THE PAST WAS HOPEFUL I WOULD SUDDENLY BECOME SOMEONE WHO READ A BOOK A WEEK, FLOSSED REGULARLY, AND DID YOGA Unfortunately, I have some bad news for past me. I feel like we all have a lot of faith in our future selves. It’s as though we acquire aspirational products in the belief that having things changes our identity. It’s like the time my friend bought an elliptical so he could cancel the gym membership he never used. He figured the reason he didn’t work out is because he couldn’t make it to the gym. In reality, he owed his lack of No. 143 exercising to the fact that he’s just not the kind of person who likes to break a sweat. The proximity of gym equipment had nothing to do with this particular equation, because he used that elliptical exactly three times. So yeah, I should know by now that procuring things doesn’t change the fact that I am simply not someone who just needed a mat to become a yogi. Turns out, I should have worked on the part of my brain that never wants to do yoga. ALSO, I GUESS I’M NEVER RETURNING THESE LIBRARY BOOKS I’ve had the aforementioned unread library books for several months ARNA MILLER, PASTEL DOG - BEST OF 075 ׉ 7cassandra://x0D5CXAn7ubziWs17IMAudeVnVaVLJEk4TxuneqdQvw=`i b<<0׉E hnow — so long, in fact, that the library has sent me letters wondering just where the hell their books have gone to. Well, library, if you’re reading this, they are on my nightstand. Don’t worry though. I haven’t added any wear or tear to a single page. And I’m sure I will return them the next time I move — whenever that will be. THANK GOODNESS THE FREE COOKIES IN THE BREAK ROOM AREN’T VERY GOOD I must admit that when I’m confronted with free, delicious baked goods in the break room at work, my flesh is weak. I think to myself, Whoa, free tasty treats? In the breakroom? At work? No way! And even though I know they are void of any nutrition whatsoever, I shovel them into my face with the eagerness of a death row inmate eating his last meal. But today was different. The free cookies on offer left a lot to be desired as far as scrumptiousness was concerned. In fact, they were not the least bit scrumptious at all! As such, I wasn’t even tempted to finish eating the one that I started. So while I was momentarily disappointed that I didn’t get to enjoy a delectable indulgence, I was pretty stoked that I wouldn’t be experiencing the powerlessness that comes from such sugar-and-fat delivery systems that beckon people like me to consume them by the half-dozen. And I felt a tad bit healthier as a result. HOW DID YOU SO EFFECTIVELY MAINTAIN THE CLEANLINESS OF YOUR NAPKIN? Whoa! Look at how clean your napkin is! How did you do that? Mine is a used up mess that looks like an abstract expressionist painting, while yours is a blank canvas. I suppose I wipe off my hands after every bite in order to maintain palm-and-finger cleanliness throughout my dining experience, and you wait until the end to cleanse yours. Of course, your system is much more logical. And I wouldn’t mind adapting your customs regarding napkin use, but I fear my constant need to have clean hands may be a manifestation of my anxiety or something. Either way, I am definitely envious of your napkin preserving abilities. Could you do me a favor, and hand me a clean one? Mine has reached its absorption limit. WHEN EVERYTHING FALLS APART AND THE VALUE SYSTEMS YOU ASCRIBED TO YOUR LIFE MELT AWAY, A FEELING OF MEANINGLESSNESS CAN SERIOUSLY THREATEN YOUR IDENTITY, EXACERBATING THE ANCHORLESSNESS THAT FLOURISHES DURING THESE PERIODS OF HARDSHIP I know there’s nothing funny about this, but that shit does happen. I GUESS I’M STILL SAD, BECAUSE I JUST CRIED AFTER SEEING A MAN GETTING A PUPPY FOR HIS BIRTHDAY It’s been over a year and a half since my dog died, and I thought for sure I was more or less over it. But then I saw a reel on social media where this guy got a beagle puppy for his birthday, and I started crying. And this wasn’t a teardrop or two, mind you. I cried — as in, lots of tears and convulsions. And it lasted over two minutes. That’s when I realized I may never get over the fact that I lost my dog Herman. Sure, the pain isn’t as intense as it used to be, and the crying sessions are more infrequent and less severe. But, holy shit, I miss my dog. Also, my birthday is at the end of June, if anyone wants to start planning now. 5 i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://QhAodH6nkeYV6ny7pFevOJo0i2_j3jSaBNUW0l-I80A6`et׉ 7cassandra://8E3LmUOnhGxasPYr9mPYJ8bmQWewzzciCkQkIB5wRswg`׉ 7cassandra://S8YwsfMqeJ3KjepMNdzXbp-zTxjjBJmec-JdyfweIvM `i b<<0E׉E#ALI HOFF, WATCHING THE WORLD GO BY ׉ 7cassandra://S8YwsfMqeJ3KjepMNdzXbp-zTxjjBJmec-JdyfweIvM `i b<<0׉E“What has been will be again,” intoned Preserver Lyons, “what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Forever and ever, amen.” He raised a hand to the great crowd of faithful in the square below, but even as he did an immensely bright light fl ared in the dawn sky, like a second sun, and his hand involuntarily twitched to shade his eyes. The light arced across the fi rmament toward the mountains in the west, falling toward the horizon, sharp black shadows of the city’s buildings turning in its wake. A stunned silence followed, then a growing roar, a wave crashing against the immutable base of the temple of the Omniscient. One word was shouted over and over below, and whispered between the cowering lectors behind him on the balcony: fl ux, fl ux, fl ux! Lyons tried to shake off the terror that gripped him. He was the high priest of a civilization that had endured for countless aeons. Imagine the chaos if that word should spread! With sudden decision he stepped forward and again raised his hand. The crowd slowly quieted. “The Omniscient knows all and sees all,” he declaimed, amplifi ed voice booming across the square. “But It does not reveal all to Its followers. Don’t be afraid. The comet we witnessed was absent from the Almanac not because of any lapse, but because the Omniscient required your surprise. It is all one with the divine plan. May Stasis endure.” May Stasis endure, those watching murmured refl exively, even as Lyons turned toward the lectors. “Is it true?” asked Hami, her bare head studded with implants. “Did the Omniscient communicate with you?” “I said it, didn’t I?” He hurried past her into the temple. “Then why not with us? It’s nowhere in the Almanac. This will require enormous adjustments. If people change –” “If people change, then we will make adjustments according to the Omniscient’s directives, as we have done for nigh on three million years. And since those adjustments are obviously pressing, I suggest you get to it. I need to commune.” He could see the dissatisfaction in her eyes, but they had been bred to obey. He gave rapid instructions to the other lectors, dismissing them when he reached the gilded doors of the inner sanctum. He reached to press his hand against the identifi er, realized he was shaking, and took a moment to compose himself. There is nothing new under the sun. Inside he felt calmer, the shining complexities of the Omniscient surrounding him, Its machinery infi nitely subtle, gleaming instruments of silver and crystal woven throughout the circular room, like the nest of a benefi cent jeweled spider. He knelt before the huge golden globe at the room’s center and spoke. “Holy Omniscient, I have a question.” “Speak.” The voice of the Omniscient was soft and even. “Minutes ago we saw something very bright pass overhead. It was not in the Almanac. What was it?” “It is an interstellar vessel.” Lyons’ mouth fell open. It was seconds before he could speak. “From where?” “It is of unknown origin.” “Who sent it?” “Unknown.” “But … humanity is extinct. We are the last.” This was not a question, and so elicited no response. “Why wasn’t it detected earlier? Why wasn’t it intercepted by our planetary defenses?” “Unknown.” “Where is it now?” he squeaked, really panicked. A holographic map of the planet appeared, rotating to show a location some few hundred miles distant. “What should we do?” “I have sent disposal units to the landing site. This vessel’s entry into Stasis territory contravenes the Abrexa Treaty and presents a signifi cant source of phenomenal fl ux. It will be destroyed and Stasis restored. Do not be concerned.” Lyons was overcome. He wept. Some minutes later, he had left the sanctum and was eagerly giving instruction to the lectors when a powerful series of explosions, far distant, trembled through the massive edifi ce of the temple. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “The Omniscient said It would dispose of the problem. Now It has. Hami, how are we doing?” “Flux is at sixty percent throughout the city, Your Holiness, and seems to be spreading.” Despite the Omniscient’s assurances, Lyons’ heart leapt. Sixty percent! Certainly his own behavior had veered wildly from the forecast. But this wasn’t the fi rst time they’d experienced a little fl ux storm; he could remember the sudden earthquake twentyfi ve years past, when fl ux had peaked at ninety percent in the city for a distressing day until the Omniscient provided a new forecast. Events would return to predictability, to glorious stability. Soon they would each look the end of stasis BY JOEL TAGERT i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://16epe-9I6PLhpNycsWJtMj0DVFWMYFky6ctZ_Y_YM4Yҵ`et׉ 7cassandra://raxiaJEcpGrZ_dun7yafJfcPIGxw8rqhetO_RlqQZME]`׉ 7cassandra://eTYot9Ookr0cFIQ4-YBB2n5yYk-yc1gqOOnLDb98I8kT7`i b<<0G׉EBEST OF 083 No. 143 ׉ 7cassandra://eTYot9Ookr0cFIQ4-YBB2n5yYk-yc1gqOOnLDb98I8kT7`i b<<0׉EART BY JASON WHITE i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://z0Xc43_yIqMRw4UmrUNxjjm32prndHU3zTjpQ2Uh_24{`et׉ 7cassandra://034YCyWk53i-M0c4KsbHzWSBOzj97dSj8BZMHmyrQFI`׉ 7cassandra://v-5HMUtKJQpLEdTs6LK7pWFL8WCmVHKGNhtVGLRqvh4T`i b<<0J׉EMAY 30, 2025 ׉ 7cassandra://v-5HMUtKJQpLEdTs6LK7pWFL8WCmVHKGNhtVGLRqvh4T`i b<<0׉ECLEAN-UP SECRET INGREDIENT STOP! BLIND DATE HUMANS ARE DANGEROUS CARD PLAY SPECIAL TRIO LEFT TURN HIGH SPEED DIVERSIONARY SPLIT i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://aueyq2R_jiptbIV0UnrVxEn2L7QVoxgX3r2bEzSIVxY`et׉ 7cassandra://PxVQ_Bw655zJ8vu2GdJf0PRRS4ma-sBAevhMmEhWGPoՂ`׉ 7cassandra://zo6wAigonC-K-PLo1HB3zUqVIAhXAvv8i1msRPI4JnoH`i b<<0M׉E(AMPULLAE OF LORENZINI BY ZAC DUNN | ART BY JOE VAUX The fins twitch and wish to swim quickly over reefs and tiny fish not large enough to quell the hunger that pushes them invariably forward. Electric currents, so subtle to mutter the most profane, splash out on the surface of the breaking waves, washing bits that might proceed to give them a succulent feed. No. 143 The many rocks and urchins never hesitate to mention the secrets of the harbor that labor and toil boil in tall steel pots on the shore. Wise to move in haste away from the greed of fishermen who seek a fin. Only then to cast them off to drown over beds of oysters and scallops tucked in so cozy. Trollers with long lines and indifference moan from far off like a chainsaw splitting metal and molten bolts. The instinct to sink below and go slow is a droll shanty of the many hammerheads that fancy another stoke rather than a deck that seeks to gut them quick. An echo of the cursed orca is the only tone that breaks with more urgency to hurry off and avoid the pod that is clever and cunning. ׉ 7cassandra://zo6wAigonC-K-PLo1HB3zUqVIAhXAvv8i1msRPI4JnoH`i b<<0׉EBUT ... The pod is all too swift and plots without hesitation upon the most marbled of hammerheads that will keep all fed. Marked and given fair warning, the king tide of the morning sweeps the pod upon them faster than mollusks gasping for fresh nourishment wince. Sharks gather to flood the floor of the bay with too many fins for the mighty orca to sort which to strike first upon. The electric pulse causes the fins to convulse in harmony, discordant to the orcas that seek to pounce so quickly and leave the sea’s killing floor. They all dance over majestic kelp beds that graze the surface, leading the way so clearly to deeper waters and the threat of the long lines and nets. The largest female orca slips below and takes hold of the biggest hammerhead she can make out in the flurry. Her cull is well-chosen as the squires of the pod help to land another robust kill that moves quickly, but is obviously too old and sickly to outswim their charge. Each target they take is shared as the group moves so rapidly to avoid the long lines and nets groaning ever closer. The reef keeps its spines stout as the nets crash and scrape over ancient divots where eels and seahorses cower. FOLLOW FOR MORE: IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC HAMMERTIME - @JOEVAUX i b<<0i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://Es4-cWvnGVHJmlDikfEcBY2aP5WBnkdUGQXNo83s6JkJ`et׉ 7cassandra://3DHapS0NvcYC4Rg59DfinbGiN1GJppj9dL9wL4oIWgM`׉ 7cassandra://aBFrKpQP1vWjOODgIXQ4qAY-Xiyyp00ZpxMHpOndCNMW`i b<<0Pנi b<<0Tρ9ׁH'http://WEIRDWONDERFULSUSI.BIGCARTEL.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉E_The Möbius Book by Catherine Lacey (2025) “Friendship has a way of re-revealing the things you know in such a way you can’t help but accept them.” A half step away from her previous fictional works, Catherine Lacey’s By Hana Zittel 2025 release combines autofiction and memoir in a unique form. Before the opening, Lacey immediately informs the reader, “This book was written in two parts, either of which can be read first, neither of which is the true start of the story.” On one side, there is a novella set during a somber Christmas where two old friends gather at turning points in their lives. Marie, having cheated on her wife, is now living in a dismal, seedy apartment where a pool of liquid that looks very much like blood is growing outside her new neighbor's door. The other, Edie, has just left a controlling relationship, full of gaslighting and violent behavior, bouncing between friends’ places as she recovers from the separation. The two spend this Christmas together discussing love and faith, drinking mezcal, and eventually acknowledging the pool of liquid outside the door when another neighbor knocks. The flip side of The Möbius Book is a memoir. Lacey’s partner, whom she lived and owned a home with, emails her from another room in their house to let her know he’s met someone else and wants to separate. Shocked and betrayed, Lacey moves out and proceeds to stay with friends from all over the world. As she spends time in these friendships she works through the breakup and deeper reflections on love, memory and death, gaining perspectives and rediscovering the magnitude of deep connection. A key element of her reflections during this time are centered on faith. Having grown up devoutly religious, her grappling with belief as an adult is complex and urgent at this juncture. She writes: “In moments of weakness and depletion, I look for unwavering order and certitude that used to accompany my religious extremism, but all I find, instead, are friends who read tarot, and charming little coincidences, and the infinitely flexible explanations of astrology that everyone now seems obliged to know. What I want instead are blazing miracles. I want crystal clear visions, a burning bush, the voice of a goddamn god.” If either is read first, novella or memoir, elements of the former trickle into the other. Lines, conversations, memories and scenarios replay similarly enough to be recognized in their fictional or memoir version. The Möbius Book is an intimate work exploring through the universal questions of humanity while acknowledging the impact of the past and our need to see ourselves as reflected by those around us. Though at its surface deeply introspective, The Möbius Book is truly an acknowledgment of the unique and vitally important love found through friendship. When to Pick a Pomegranate by Yasmeen Abedifard (2024) Anar, the pomegranate, and Guli, the woman, move through the life cycles and forms of a plant in Yasmeen Abedifard’s surreal 2024 graphic novel. When to Pick a Pomegranate begins with Seed, where Anar and Guli question their purpose, creation and relation to one another. Each story that follows progresses through the natural cycle — Sprout, Propagation, Flower, Ripe, Rotten and finally Ferment. Abedifard weaves complex ideas into each of these stories, with artistic obsession, sex, longing and healing all intensely felt despite the sparse language. Playing with symbolism and absurdist storytelling, Abedifard’s characters experience pain, desire and intense pleasure in just a few pages. Each section’s illustrations are colored with a different set of a few pastels or neons adding to the fantastical, otherworldliness of these stories. Though a quick read, When to Pick a Pomegranate is a complex and profound graphic novel and was awarded a 2025 MoCCA (Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art) Festival Award of Excellence. No. 143 ׉ 7cassandra://aBFrKpQP1vWjOODgIXQ4qAY-Xiyyp00ZpxMHpOndCNMW`i b<<0׉ETHE WEIRD AND WONDERFUL WORLD OF SUSANN BROX NILSEN: PETS! Back in 2019, one of my Instagram friends came up with a fun commission. Recently losing her beloved dog, she was looking for something special to remember him. She fancied my dolls very much, so she suggested I make a plush version of her dog. I felt very honored that she trusted me to do that, so of course I said, “Yes!” The project was so much fun, especially since she gave me artistic freedom. I carefully picked out all of his characteristics, but made sure to add my own twist. I posted a picture of the finished doll on my Instagram and it resulted in a snowball effect. Pet commissions are now a big part of my daily work. The most fun project this year is definitely a Norwegian goat by the name of Jumbo. REACH OUT TO SUSI ABOUT CUSTOM PET DOLLS + OTHER FUN COMISSIONS & CHECK OUT THE REST OF HER WEIRD & WONDERFUL WORLD: INSTAGRAM: @SUSI_THEWEIRDANDWONDERFUL WEIRDWONDERFULSUSI.BIGCARTEL.COM 15 JUMBO STELLA CHUNDER SARGE i b<<0 i b<<0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://xPHuZnfGvjK2XyI9D5WWMN7rq1Jaglm0D4bSsl2NoL0.`et׉ 7cassandra://3PpOCeYS3eH4kd04CSVokF1cY5z8fA52X1EdB_rScSU͵J`׉ 7cassandra://R-pu_vSTVncdBCeALf_AGNdBE2aR1Q6xl-EfWVOpKOs9`i b<<0R׉E׉ 7cassandra://R-pu_vSTVncdBCeALf_AGNdBE2aR1Q6xl-EfWVOpKOs9`i b<<0!׉E/PAUL JACKSON, DE-EVOLUTION - @PAULJACKSONLIVES i b<<0"i b<<0!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://DpHUeuQwAYka2o7eSmt9vkxWIUdtzVeeaQrLmE_mSC0[`et׉ 7cassandra://31nSg8BtqZxmiqI2jwegu4lHMJPdzBCpPgo4mQJVbQoͼ^`׉ 7cassandra://6l6zKd27EK6lX8c17S3ED2-gLqR0r3sf4wLFVXmqZDo5r`i b<<0U׉EBLOWING OFF STEAM - @FLOOKO ׉ 7cassandra://6l6zKd27EK6lX8c17S3ED2-gLqR0r3sf4wLFVXmqZDo5r`i b<<0#׉EGOD K BY DANIEL LANDES | ART BY NICK FLOOK Dreamy was a late addition to our tour. She boarded the bus, disheveled in an expensive way — scuffed up Gucci slides, oversized Louis Vuitton hand bag stuffed with the kind of detritus accumulated in Pemex gas stations across Mexico. Her blonde hair dyed with streaks of brown was a swarm of chaotic static. Two women, seated near the front of the bus, murmured tones of concern as Dreamy plopped into an open seat, the contents of her bag spilling out. The bus’ breaks released with a sigh signifying our imminent departure as the driver checked his rearview mirrors. “Wait!” Dreamy screamed as she lurched from her seat toward the door. “My child! I need to get my child.” The bus driver opened the door as she rushed out and collected a swaddle of white linen nesting in a seat beside the bus. Dreamy reboarded, holding the bundle tenderly. Worried whispers rippled through the bus as Dreamy dropped back in her seat cooing gently to the bundle as the bus released its breaks and maneuvered onto the highway. The pools of the Red Queen were located four hours away in the now ruined Mayan city of Palenque, deep in the jungles of Chiapas, Mexico. The Red Queen, her skeletal remains dusted scarlet with cinnabar, was discovered by archaeologists in 1994. Her burial included rich grave goods: a mask made of malachite, jade, obsidian, a diadem, beads of jade and shell, elaborate jewelry, seashells, possibly as offerings. Outside her sarcophagus, two other skeletons were discovered — an adolescent male and an adult female — who show signs of injury. They are thought to have been sacrificed to accompany the queen into the afterlife. The overnight tour offered an exclusive look inside the Temple of Inscriptions and an optional Crystal Skull ceremony in the pools of the Red Queen. Only eight of us signed up for the ceremony. The remainder would continue on the tour of the sprawling city of Palenque and enjoy an evening in a nearby hotel while we spent the night on the jungle floor. Folks kept quiet conversation as the bus leaned into sharp turns, the engine straining as we gained elevation. Dreamy, head supported by a window, slept with her arms wrapped around the swaddle. Inside the Temple of Inscriptions was a hieroglyph of a life-size man with a sloped forehead, clad in a leopard-skin skirt, a feathered headdress, holding a child — one leg human, the other leg a serpent. The colors were vibrant, unfaded by time. Bright yellows, deep brown, scarlet reds. The child is K’awiil, GOD K, a Mayan deity identified with power, creation and lightning. Rulers would perform bloodletting rituals, piercing human tongues, ears or genitals to feed K’awiil with their sacred blood, which was believed to ensure prosperity, fertility and political legitimacy. In more extreme cases, like a severe drought, animals and humans were sacrificed to the child god. After the tour, we all gathered for a buffet lunch and fathomed what life was like here in the first century. Dreamy had not joined us on the tour. Gossip rippled speculating about the safety of the baby and her absence. Our group of eight finished eating, cleared our plates and reboarded the bus for the ceremony. I was surprised to see Dreamy sitting bolt upright in the front seat breastfeeding the baby. She had used her time to transform herself. Her hair combed and pulled back in a loose ponytail. A few long strands falling across her face. Her eyes shadowed with fine makeup and a skilled hand. Her lips lightly tinged with a soft earth tone, just a hint of pink. She had changed into a white linen smock, cinched with a red cloth belt, embroidered around the neck with bright yellow marigolds. We were now a group of ten on the way to the pools of the Red Queen and the ceremony of the Crystal Skull. The bus lurched and pitched as it climbed the asphalt road, slippery with the muddy washout from the previous rainstorm. The road narrowed, the curves pinching in as we swung higher into the cloud forest, leaving the jungle below. Pulling into a carved-out shoulder, the driver swung open the door and stepped into deep mud as he lifted the hatch to our luggage. We piled out, each descending into the sludge and gathered our rucksacks packed with a blanket, a change of clothes and a journal. The bus spun its wheels and left us standing on the edge of the forest alone. Dreamy was barefoot, holding the swaddled infant, no more luggage than her now tidy LV bag. We talked as we waited, getting to know one another, discovering each other's motivations to partake in this ceremony. A couple from Argentina lead medicine rites in Oaxaca and were here to participate and learn. A young Chilango was finishing his thesis on ethnobotany. The others ranged from experienced psychonauts (well-versed in Ayahuasca, San Pedro, peyote, hongos) to those who were not experienced at all. I explained I was somewhere in the middle — a cautious dabbler. I did not share that I was here because I am possessed by a demon, here for the medicine, to pray and, god willing, an exorcism. Dreamy shared a little. She had crossed the border into Mexico five months ago when her baby, Misty, was only seven months old. She alluded to leaving behind a bad situation. Something about a custody battle. The details were sparse and delivered with a SoCal lilt that belied levity. As an afterthought, she shared that she was here to learn more about the Mayan people and their rituals. An hour passed standing in the conversation circle. The Chilango rolled cigarettes and shared what he knew about the surrounding flora and fauna. Coyol palm trees swayed gently in the breeze above the canopy. Blooming bromeliads peeked out of the squinting branches of oak trees. Everywhere was the watchful eyes of the bromeliads. The air was thick with the humidity of a recent rain being cooked off by direct sunlight. Eventually concern was growing that we were dropped off in the wrong place, or the guides simply weren’t coming. 19 i b<<0$i b<<0#בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://8hcbjnMD4twYHsIePWhX_3kkBkFipT6P5AL7SjSm26A[`et׉ 7cassandra://wKR4AWPoPEmyEs_Iu8XMf9F2HVQDs4cng5CrX7NXdpc$`׉ 7cassandra://ic8TNbRB7kzSh3MGp-OV2sluKl1_RRkluKffhvQ5Ld4H`i b<<0W׉EAnother hour passed when two men, dressed in khaki shirts and pants, emerged from the jungle, each equipped with machetes secured in leather scabbards tooled with intricate embossments and silver inlay. They greeted us with big smiles — one who flashed a full grill of silver teeth — and welcoming gestures. They embraced each of us and beckoned us to follow. They did not seem concerned that there was a barefoot woman with a baby clung to her and no rucksack. They greeted her with the same friendly manner and tickled Misty beneath her chin. The muddy path to the pools cut through the jungle, over exposed roots, under fallen trees, the men hacking through dense foliage as we followed close behind. There were large yellow and brown spiders patiently waiting in their webs just above head level. “Cuidado,” warned our guide, “venenosa.” We all ducked lower to avoid their bite. The path dropped steeply forcing us to slide in the mud on our rear ends, using our heels as breaks. The guides helped Dreamy and Misty descend which kept Dreamy’s white linen smock free from mud. The bottom dropped out onto a nestled valley and revealed three deep, crystal clear pools surrounded by a thick, mulchy carpet of emerald green moss. Two people stood by the first pool. The shaman was robed in a blanket made of macaw feathers, their face masked in a thick smear of adobe red mud. Their eyes were black as coal, no white to be seen. The other, a small, pale woman, wearing the same khaki shirt and pants as our guides, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun that stretched her forehead and eyebrows up toward her hairline. Her eyes were framed with black rimmed glasses with thick rose-tinted lenses. She was to be our interpreter. The shaman spoke in a dialect of Zapotec. Through the interpreter, we were told the Crystal Skull ceremony is held in harmony with the eighteen-year lunar cycle. Tonight, just before midnight, the full moon will shine through a small, rectangular portal, built into a fifteenhundred-year-old stone altar that sits atop the canyon, bridging the gentle stream feeding the pools below. The moonlight, so channeled, beaming down the canyon will catch a quartz crystal human skull sitting on another stone altar, illuminating our ceremony site, and bathing us in the moon’s healing light. My name is Micah Dorsey and I am possessed. The demon lives in my head and speaks to me constantly through every waking hour. His voice controls the narrative of how I experience the living world. He constantly shares his analyses of what I am experiencing through a lens of domesticated judgement, fear and insecurity. He sees everything as a threat. He tries to convince me that he is my friend and only wants to protect me, but I can’t live with him anymore! I no longer want to see the world through his dark filter. I want to trust the world, love the world, to be free of this prison of judgement, analysis and fear my demon has trapped me in. Either I gain freedom or I no longer want to live. The shaman lit the ceremonial fire with a yellow Bic lighter and began to heat the water for our tea. They unwrapped eight bundles made of broad green leaves. Inside were mushrooms, laid out like napping children, their long white stems topped with golden caps, the earth still clinging to their base. In front of each of us was a cup made of dried gourd. I was relieved to see that Dreamy was not going to partake in No. 143 this part of the ceremony. She was with Misty near the pool’s edge. Misty, splashing and padding about, was sticking her face just beneath the surface of the water blowing bubbles and emerging with peals of laughter. Witnessing her joy, our group felt joyous. The shaman removed the mushrooms from their bundle and placed them in our gourds, they then followed behind filling the vessels with boiling water. We waited until the shaman gave us the signal to drink the tea. My demon was screaming at me. Warning me of the danger. Pleading for me not to drink. I knew he was begging for his life as I sipped the hot tea and waited for the effects to kick in. I layed down in the pillowy moss, closed my eyes and saw eight-bit ravens flying and transforming into a giant serpent that circled the earth, moving at the pace of time holding eternity. Held in the soft moss, I heard the thrum of the earth. I felt the love of the trees. I, for the first time, felt safe, free of the constant nagging of my cynical demon. I felt mother nature healing me. Freeing me. Holding me. I luxuriated in this feeling and laid unmoving, never wanting this experience of unconditional love to end. A sudden intense light filtered pink behind my eyelids, jarring me from my trip. My eyes, dilated wide with psilocybin, seared against the light. My pupils snapped tight, their aperture constricting to take in the brightness of the moon radiating through the Crystal Skull. Struggling against the moss that had contoured to my body, I sat up as my vision adjusted. I began to take in the scene around me. The seven other ceremonialists were still cradled in the moss, eyes closed, tripping. The golden water of the first pool shined as brightly as the sun reflected off a mirror. Looking further down the valley I saw the shaman and the interpreter, whose rose-tinted glasses were sitting on another stone altar, casting a pink light over the second pool. Dreamy, holding the swaddle in her arms, stood beside the water. The shaman shook a rattle as they enchanted lyrics that reverberated off the surface of the water, surrounding me in a bath of frequency. The vibrations grew in intensity as the songs grew louder, the cadence faster. Dreamy stood still, held in the light of the moon, her smock blindingly white, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. Lifting the bundle above her head, the rattle shaking faster and faster, she flung the swaddle into the pool. The bundle, weighted with a heavy silver belt beaded with jade and shells, sank fast. Bolting up I charged toward the water. My progress suppressed, like running in a dream as the moss attempted to swallow my feet. Reaching the pool’s edge — the shaman, interpreter and Dreamy nowhere to be seen — I dove in to retrieve the bundle, its white linen glowing like an iridescent cocoon at the bottom. I scooped it up, the wet linen and silver belt making it incredibly heavy and impossible to carry. Struggling with the clasp I released the belt. My breath waning, I began to swim toward the surface. The water, tinged pink, was so clear I could see the serrated edges of the swaying palm leaves in the canopy above. From below I felt something wrap around my ankle, tight like a balled fist. I was held in the middle depths, unable to free myself from a red vine attached to the bottom. In my panic the bundle loosened and three stones fell out descending quickly. The unbound linen undulated in the water like a phantom drifting off to other haunts. Drowning, I looked up once more to see the face of Misty, slightly submerged, blowing bubbles. The dark narrator finally silent. ׉ 7cassandra://ic8TNbRB7kzSh3MGp-OV2sluKl1_RRkluKffhvQ5Ld4H`i b<<0%׉EGRAHAM FRANCIOSE, NO KINGS i b<<0&i b<<0%בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://ugD9hjiMScb9nYaZPdKwkWUEXhJlu6ELfT9kMoLB_JQ`et׉ 7cassandra://yUvMCVko_GLUXZqXZvqJWKaWYV-ZPol95h6ppjxFnHA~`׉ 7cassandra://70AyET-Y_bpYYb88-3dHNBQhn3WWhNT4J9KEeLN4k0YT`i b<<0Yנi b<<0[ˁ̒ 9ׁHhttp://QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORGׁ ׁ Ј׉EBY TOM MURPHY BROKEN RECORD – ROUTINE One of the most emotionally resonant expressions of the complete and utter discrediting of not just the American Dream, but of the mid-century capitalist foundation of that notion. That all started to crumble in the mid-70s, and America has been in denial as the impetus to the current dystopian state has accelerated over the past half century. Passionate vocals and distorted melodies in urgent, atmospheric flares throughout give each song a poignancy that touches you to the core. However, Broken Record doesn’t just leave us with despair. It offers us visions of how things could and maybe should be if we only had the will to make it happen, while demonstrating radical solidarity with lyrics that evoke our collective pain so vividly. PATRICK DETHLEFS – PATTY Dethlefs has long demonstrated a gift for sensitive and thoughtful observation in his songwriting. This record finds him using gentle sounds to reflect and assess with the same level of emotional awareness that has made his catalog a worthwhile listen. His vocals occupy the central part of the mix as they should. But with an ace band including Jess Parsons and Mark Anderson, the music has a warm aura in which feelings can stretch and expand to the shapes they need to in order to be understood and felt fully. These songs don’t just ably capture the moment of mind but also the realization of patterns in one’s life and how that can inform a psychologically healthier future. THE PICTURE TOUR – BLOOD. MACHINE. GASOLINE. There is simply more grit and bite to this record than the band’s haunting predecessor. The songs are like the soundtrack to an urban retro-futurist noir that someone should make. But set it in late 90s Denver where urban decay was abundant and fledgling, and working-class counter-culture types can render their romantic, creative impulses a reality in a crumbling republic. With the impending economic collapse, maybe this is a sage-like, dark shoegaze prediction of the near future. SUPREME JOY – 410,757,864,530 DEAD CARPS The title of this record is like something from a Beat Takeshi fever dream. The music sounds a bit like that too, but if one only listened to 1980s records by Sonic Youth and The Clean for a few months, and then only Women and John Dwyer records for a couple more. All the while meditating on the demented and fragmented psyche of American society from the perspective of the works of Langston Hughes, James Baldwin and Angela Davis. This wildly psychedelic post-punk thrills us with how it is willing to go fully left field noisy, while preserving a core of spirited punk songcraft. YUNHA – SELF-TITLED The beats and ethereal melodies of the songs on this album have a playful quality, but at its center, there is a deep melancholy that courses through many of the lyrics. Musically, it sounds like it has roots in witch house and glitchcore over trap beats. The vocals are often processed including an expanded use of Auto-Tune type effects and pitch shifting, resulting in a quality that acts like a device to disassociate from painful memories and unfulfilled yearnings, while honoring the truth of both in one’s psyche. VICTIM OF FIRE – THE OLD LIE Of course the D-beat black metal hardcore thrash of this record is ferocious and powerfully delivered. But “The Old Lie” discussed throughout the album is how war is sold to the working- and middle-class as a necessity that brings glory to the “warriors” and “honor” to the nation. These songs catalog the terrible consequences of war on the psyche of those affected, on the participants, and on how perverted it is to think of war as being good for the economy, when it only wreaks destruction. The romantic myths of war at the core of its appeal are aggressively dismantled here. A welcome set of sentiments as world leaders seem poised on the brink of expanding empires at the expense of us all. Can a record stop all of that? No. But it’s important for people to express and then to act on resistance to the authoritarian project. MORE CONTENT: QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG No. 143 ׉ 7cassandra://70AyET-Y_bpYYb88-3dHNBQhn3WWhNT4J9KEeLN4k0YT`i b<<0'׈Ei b<<0(i b<<0'בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://AIFtGTsSSyK9s3qPDK8KsIUvLfS6U0A06HDCKqoTfy4nz`et׉ 7cassandra://pFBYU9zheMZB8nTelvR0Qrs-Lr_itzBi0xJn-Z2t0LM`׉ 7cassandra://5FfOgR-BeDHdmlZp3BU5MGcPbdtI0qK1EH4A-AYopf0M`i b<<0\׉Ee1 2 THE FOUNDRESS: AN INTERVIEW WITH FASHION PIONEER SUE CLOWES BY DS THORNBURG English textile and fashion designer Sue Clowes is who I call the Icon of the Underground. Even more, I have the honor of calling her my friend. Sue dominated the counterculture music scene of the 1980s with her gender-bending fashions for the one and only Boy George and his band Culture Club, Nina Hagen, The Cure, and countless other legendary bands and artists. Her silkscreen techniques are utterly jaw-dropping, resulting in dangerously gorgeous works of wearable art. Exactly what the underground scene, and culture as a whole, needed at the moment. The unfilled space of time between the punk and New Wave movements was where Sue unleashed her true art, elevating her fellow creators in their journeys along the way to global success. And that was just at the start of her career. Her work is fiercely relevant, and perhaps, needed more today than ever before. Her solo show, Collecting Sue Clowes, at The Winchester Gallery, and exhibition in the group show Outlaws: Fashion Renegades of 80s London at the Fashion and Textile Museum in London earlier this year No. 143 proves that she still stands firm in her craft. Currently on exhibition in Blitz: The club that shaped the 80s through March 2026 at the Design Museum in London, Sue continues to pay homage to her rich rebellious roots in fashion while still offering fiercely artistic wearable creations, rooted in the ethos of shared humanity and harmony. Sue and I had the chance to catch up about her work, legacy and what’s truly at the heart of her art. When did you realize you were destined to be a textile designer? I was born in 1957 in London, but we moved to a small village when I was young. I was a terrible teenager and spent most of my time trying to hitchhike back up to London. Consequently, I failed my exams and left school at 16. I attended a local technical college in the evenings to retake exams and took an art course during the day. I was hopeless at pottery; I just fiddled around with clay and made ashtrays. But my life changed when I was introduced to silkscreen printing. It ׉ 7cassandra://5FfOgR-BeDHdmlZp3BU5MGcPbdtI0qK1EH4A-AYopf0M`i b<<0)׉EF3 4 was the most exciting thing I had ever done. I remember my first print: a Magritte-type man in a bowler hat in front of a London underground sign. I pulled the squeegee with the colour across the image, then lifted the silkscreen frame. The ink pushed through the silk, shimmering on the fabric’s surface before soaking down into the cloth. It was thrilling, and I was hooked. I spent another year scraping through exams and applied to the Camberwell School of Arts and Crafts in London for a textile design degree. It was an old-fashioned school where we learned to mix colour in a hazardous Victorian basement using Bunsen burners and sulphurous-smelling glues known as zinc formaldehyde sulfoxylate. Huge square tins of powdered dyes lined the shelves. Methyl violet, rhodamine red B, acid yellow, magenta, methylene blue 2B. Just the names sounded dangerous. It was heaven. Recently, I read that I am on the Camberwell School of Arts and Crafts alumni list along with Tim Roth and Mike Leigh. Dead chuffed! Tell me about your fascinating life and career between punk and the New Wave era? When I graduated in 1979, there was high unemployment and many textile industries closed. It was a period when you had to invent ways of surviving the grey and depressed London. I shared a derelict basement flat with Dave Henderson who designed the costumes for Derek Jarman’s film Jubilee (1978). The best music of this New Wave period was from the independent labels. All my friends were either in groups or trying to play in one. Bands got together in empty factories to rehearse and many played in pubs. I saw The Members, Joy Division, XTC, The Jam, The Specials and many more in a smoke-filled basement of the local pub. Dave started a low-budget label called Dining Out Records, signing up local bands and printing the record sleeves. It was a time of creativity in music, film and art when nobody had any money and you could only work with the tools you had at hand or borrowed. It was a hand-tomouth way of life. I began printing t-shirts on a very low budget. I had to improvise, so some of my screens were made from seed boxes with the bottoms punched out. There would be all-night printing sessions and t-shirts hung on washing lines across the room with record sleeves. I sold my shirts at Camden Lock Market, so I was up by 6 o’clock, queueing for a stall come rain, come shine. I became part of an underground lifestyle mingling among youth cultures like punks, Teddy Boys, New Wavers, rockabillies and ska. The designs I printed on the t-shirts were a potpourri of images like colourful guitars, budgerigars and abstract shapes. Band members were always hanging around our basement flat day and night, smoking weed and drinking beer; all dreaming of billion dollar record deals. My absolute favourite record of the time that I used to sing my head off to while printing was Goodbye Girl by Squeeze. It’s a catchy song about a regretful one-night stand that went pear-shaped. The unusual arrangement of clicking drums has a perfect repetitive rhythm for printing. And I printed whatever I felt like every day. Then, when I got fed up with a print, instead of buying more mesh, I poured bleach over the screen to remove the emulsion. Then I cleaned it with Ajax. Sometimes the emulsion didn’t come off, so when I exposed a new image there would be traces of the previous design. Very exciting. Nothing ever came out as I designed, but that was the beauty of it all. For a silkscreen print to adhere to a t-shirt, the image had to be ironed with a very hot iron. So I used to get band members to iron for me. In return, I would give them a free t-shirt. Eventually, I had loads of musicians wearing my prints, recognisable by the scorch marks! My market stall was a great way to sell my work. I sold to the Eurythmics, 23 Skidoo, and when The Cure played at The Music Machine in Camden, 25 i b<<0*i b<<0)בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://WJY1vK5mspYbm66COwrFMUzuzbqX8_tYnHFePJ7wz4MK`et׉ 7cassandra://BjbomRWa29Eu-4bTaP49asSkvmG_BF5saMvkPgJCF4A`׉ 7cassandra://TDhZgkr--PIbGCyuRWx5wvffdJG8J8JYrTcxdALKw_oS`i b<<0^׉E5 6 Robert Smith bought a t-shirt from me which had Stratocaster guitars printed all over it. He wore it on The Cure’s Dutch tour in 1980. That was exciting. Besides Culture Club, what other singers and bands did you design clothes for in the 1980s? In 1982, I moved to another basement workshop. Basements were always cheap because they were inevitably damp. This Dickensian dump had electric meters mounted across an entire wall with swathes of electrical cables snaking down from the workshops above. They all mysteriously disappeared into the damp brickwork, only to reappear a few yards further on. Jonny Slut from the goth band Specimen worked for me then. He turned up at my workshop one day, at 18 years old, with the highest goth mohawk you’d ever seen and asked, “Got any jobs going?” Apart from printing, he could hem dresses, sew on buttons and make the best cup of tea ever. Once an international buyer from a New York store turned up in a taxi, power-dressed in a pastel pink suit with padded shoulders and big hair. She picked her way down the stairs, a large handbag swinging on a gilt chain. Obviously used to being greeted by gibbering sycophants, she was instead was handed a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit from Jonny. When she spotted the dress rail with all the printed clothes, she had spasms of joy. She simply adored everything and yanked pieces off the rail, clutched them to her heart, and crooned over them. Even though she was on a tight schedule, she had oodles of time to see all my printed clothes. She loved and adored me. She bought nearly everything in the studio because she was going to do an entire window display on 59th Street. Two seasons later, she walked straight past me at a fashion show like I was invisible. But that’s fashion for you. In 1984, George Michael’s producer came to me and commissioned a special look for Deon Estus, Wham!’s bassist, to launch his solo career and single, “Love Hurts.” Many musicians wore pieces from No. 143 my collections for photoshoots and record sleeves. Tony Hadley from Spandau Ballet and Steve Norman, who plays saxophone, wore my 1985 collection for the video “Round and Round.” Other artists and groups who wore pieces were INXS, Bananarama, Alison Moyet, Jennie Matthias of The Belle Stars, Jody Watley of Shalamar, Depeche Mode, Jermaine Stewart, The Psychedelic Furs, Fàshiön, Kylie Minogue, Toyah Willcox, Nina Hagen, Kim Wilde, and Dave Stewart of Eurythmics. I also designed garments for the legendary industrial band SPK with Graeme Revell. In May 2024, Miss Vanjie wore a Sex in Heaven t-shirt on RuPaul's Drag Race! She was so close to winning! Tell me about the Foundry Days? Living in London in the 1980s, there was a lot of racism and homophobia. National Front Skinheads prowled the streets in tribalistic gangs, looking for anyone who didn’t fit. Pakistanis, Indians, Jews, and gays got beaten up regularly. I had already been working on anti-racist prints when I met Boy George and the newly formed Culture Club. They asked me to work on a special look for them. I loved the idea that all the members were from different cultures and religious backgrounds. George is from an Irish Catholic background, Jon Moss, a Jewish family, Roy Hay, an English Protestant background, and Mikey Craig is from the Caribbean culture. Inspired, I created a cultural cocktail of offbeat imagery with religious undertones. The final Culture Club look, with vivid prints and patterns, had an overriding message: celebration of diversity, appreciation of each other’s cultures, and mutual respect. The garments were sold in a shop called The Foundry, in a back lane near Carnaby Street, where George ran the shop. Culture Club was photographed wearing the collection in The Face magazine, and George and I dressed up and posed outside the shop. When “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?” became a UK No. 1 single for three weeks in October 1982, the music, the look and ideology took off in a big way. ׉ 7cassandra://TDhZgkr--PIbGCyuRWx5wvffdJG8J8JYrTcxdALKw_oS`i b<<0+׉E8 7 At that time, there were no computers, and all the images I found were in library books. The writing I printed below the Star of David — Tarbut Agada (תרבות אגדה) — according to the Hebrew script meant “Culturally Iconic,” but of course, Hebrew is largely phonetic, and I believe the translation is slightly incorrect. I was 22 years old and sincerely believed my silkscreen prints were an intercultural means of communication. The idea now seems naïve. Today, I wouldn’t print something so emotive. But even if I shone a tiny ray of light onto the ignorance of people’s beliefs at that time and risked my career, then I am happy for that, hoping, at the same time, that I haven’t offended anyone. I’d love to hear more about your friendship with Boy George and Culture Club. George and Jon used to come to my studio, or we met in a pizzeria up the road from my flat, to discuss ideas for outfits. Culture Club had just formed, and New Romantic black satin and frilly lace was so dead, thank bloody god! Nobody wanted prints at The Blitz. We were full of new ideas, and I was excited to get back into colourful silkscreen print again. A guy named Peter Small had opened The Foundry, and George styled the shop and windows with my printed vests and ties to go with Zoot suits also on sale. I think everyone already knew George in London at that time, so it didn’t take long for the shop to get packed out. I was hardly ever in the shop myself. I don’t think anyone realised how time-consuming it is developing designs for screens, printing, drying, cutting and sewing. George came to the studio to bring me stuff to be printed or for himself to be measured for a gig. We’d travel on the tube back to The Foundry. He’d be dressed in the full-on Foundry look with dreadlocks and a hat, and I would be covered in print dye like I had been in a paintball fight. I was amazed at how many men shouted at George and how rapidly he responded with really witty quips that got them laughing. He was and is a born showman. I remember being a total Prima donna once about money. I said something like, “Oh money doesn’t matter to me … it’s the ART that matters,” or some such crap. George said, “Really? Wouldn’t you like to buy your mum and dad a nice house?” Blimey, I thought, not in my wildest dreams had it even crossed my mind to buy my parents a house. They gave me fuck all when I was struggling. I had to work my way through college, juggling three different jobs. But George said it so earnestly that I felt really guilty. It truly wasn’t a thought that I had ever pondered on. An exhibition called Collecting Sue Clowes was at Winchester Gallery from 15 November 2024 until 18 January 2025. Mikey Bean, a private collector with an extensive archive, loaned pieces for the show. Boy George made a short film of his visit to the exhibition. It’s called Too Much Baking Powder and is on YouTube. In 1987, when I moved to Florence, I began working for Italian companies. I sadly lost contact with my friends, especially when my best friend died of AIDS. It was a wonderful period in London, but many talented individuals didn’t make it. I feel lucky I survived such a unique and turbulent decade. What did you work on in Italy? I had many interesting jobs there. My favourite was wearable technology or “Smart Clothing.” I was involved in research and development with a team of Italian engineers and scientists called Grado Zero Espace. The team had to scout the space world to identify technologies with a potential for non-space applications and create garments with this technology to improve the quality of life. The most exciting project was to produce 55 mechanics’ overalls for the McLaren Formula 1 team for the British Grand Prix. The garments featured a special cooling system to help mechanics in extreme heat. A unique collaboration was formed between the European Space Agency (ESA), Italian fashion manufacturer Karada and designer Hugo Boss. Fifty 27 i b<<0,i b<<0+בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://EOn_RvwDsK8xQhzLhXpcpLeizX7mrPAvojB_tFseRXU)`et׉ 7cassandra://Fj1kcla88Hnboir7L8K_MdcCy00ctzM6H1_VvAahRIY`׉ 7cassandra://HrfJbVylPQlesqgSVNk5kpoJe43SWldUyS_TS8UpCKQM``i b<<0`נi b<<0eD ̉9ׁHhttp://CREATICKLE.ETSY.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉EV9 10 metres of plastic tubing, 2 millimetres wide, originally developed for an astronaut’s suit, were sewn into silver silk fabric and fed into a miniaturised air conditioning system. It was fun and totally mad. The garments won awards from Time and Popular Science, and the prototype jacket went on show at the Smithsonian. I wasn’t on Facebook, so it was a genuine surprise when the clothing brand Supreme contacted me through my kids in 2022 to collaborate on the SS23 collection. It featured some of my original artwork from the early 1980s and consisted of a jacket, ringer tee, chino pants and a 5-panel shirt. The collection bridged the gap between streetwear and high fashion, and they did a great job on the prints. It was very exciting for me to see the designs worn by a new generation, especially in a skateboard video they made. It’s strange because skateboarding didn’t arrive in London until about 1979. I first saw a Rastafarian on one hurtling down Regent’s Hill to Kings Cross behind a double-decker bus; a highly excited bull terrier running alongside. Nobody turned a hair. So British. Can you elaborate on your current creative process and how you are evolving as an artist? I collaborated with the Italian company Simon Cracker for their 2024 winter collection. The brand is dedicated to upcycling forgotten garments. Boxes of pre-dyed, ripped-up jeans and jackets arrived at my studio in Tuscany. The theme for the collection was Sleep, that magic moment before you drift off, where everything becomes blurred and images go out of focus. I double-printed a photo I had taken of a girl with a seagull on her head; her eyes framed with pearls. The colour palette I created was vivid blues, acidic greens, mustard yellows and a generous helping of metallic gold. The garments, originally unloved, were turned into special one-off pieces ready for the runway. Simon Cracker held the fashion show at the iconic A.R.C.A in Milan with my pieces complementing the other garments in the show. Having the freedom like that to print whatever I liked, I felt like I had No. 143 FOLLOW SUE CLOWES FOR MORE - IG: @SUE_CLOWES_FASHION SEE HER WORK ON EXHIBITION THROUGH MARCH 29, 2026 BLITZ: THE CLUB THAT SHAPED THE 80S | THE DESIGN MUSEUM | LONDON FOR INFO & TIX: DESIGNMUSEUM.ORG 1. SUE IN A FLESH AND STEEL COLLECTION JACKET MADE FAMOUS BY JONNY SLUT OF SPECIMEN. PHOTO BY FRENCH DIRECTOR SAMUEL GUERRIER (2014). 2. SYMBOL FROM THE HOBO PRINT. 3. HEALING HANDS PRINT SHIRT COMMISSION, ITALY (2023). 4. FIND YOUR OWN PATH WITH WHITE CROW. PRINT ON CANVAS, 42” X 30”. 5. SUE CLOWES, PHOTO BY JAMES MERRILL (1980). 6. DESTRUCTION OF PURITY PRINT STICKER (2013). PHOTO BY GIGI PACI. 7. BASEMENT STUDIO ON TABERNACLE STREET, LONDON (1983). 8. NO GUNS. HAND-PRINTED & AIR GUNNED (1980). PRINTED ON T-SHIRTS FOR CAMDEN LOCK MARKET. 9. SUE OUTSIDE HER LONDON STUDIO IN HAND-PRINTED & AIR GUNNED PIECES FROM THE CULTURE COLLECTION FOR CULTURE CLUB (1982). 10. SUE CLOWES WEARING A HEALING HANDS SHIRT. got my mojo back! I loved printing over the seams and slashes on the jeans, making the imperfections become the crux of the design. Just like 50 years ago, when I didn’t care what people thought. So I guess the current process I am working on is random, irregular repeats and imperfections that highlight purposely distressed material. I have no idea what garments I will make the fabric into, because, as always, print comes first, and the clothes are often an afterthought! I am always working, no matter what the situation is. Images and print motivate me and keep pushing me forward to find meaning in life’s journey. What is your message from then until today in your design creations? “WHEREVER YOU ARE IN THE WORLD. WHATEVER YOUR RACE OR RELIGION. WE ARE ALL PART OF THE SAME CLUB CALLED THE HUMAN RACE. IT’S FREE TO ENTER. BUT TO DANCE TOGETHER IN HARMONY … YOU HAVE TO LEARN THE STEPS.” ׉ 7cassandra://HrfJbVylPQlesqgSVNk5kpoJe43SWldUyS_TS8UpCKQM``i b<<0-׉E929 ART BY CREATICKLE - @CREATICKLE | CREATICKLE.ETSY.COM i b<<0.i b<<0-בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://6YGFek6CgWA1rmvetLxwqMbkvEjJvW8eMwxY0O6_LlY`%`et׉ 7cassandra://aysl4IrFuo1eCRShYQ4PuLHuu804Ndt3tj9IOVOQdRg`׉ 7cassandra://eKLuZBn4Z6ZDwTrQM_VDuiQgAg-dt8hnYvDWRACqCFUUs`i b<<0c׉EBOCEAN SHORES BY MATT HAVER the waves never cease saltwater and people the latter only while the sun shines rivulets of water carve channels in the sand as oversize tires carve ruts in the shore human flotsam and jetsam in and out they come they feast detonate tiny explosives in the name of freedom and leave the most beautiful place on earth the mighty Pacific Coast a garbage dump my children kick through the sand and bloody their feet on broken glass piles of permanent plastic perpetrated by pissants enough detritus to sink a battleship and your faith in humanity No. 143 ׉ 7cassandra://eKLuZBn4Z6ZDwTrQM_VDuiQgAg-dt8hnYvDWRACqCFUUs`i b<<0/׉E#JOE VAUX, DINOSAWERS - @JOEVAUX 31 i b<<00i b<<0/בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://Jp04aoJoAcVxIY5yGxFz1kKZ8M8pJ0vzhHR5qqwvyKE`et׉ 7cassandra://2K0JSaZ7JuSMJcC2Fxd2z9YL1uILLKCpMT7MZJv8qLU`׉ 7cassandra://MvBe8woVnWfFP8uG56XzNu4UrXCPq4qJLn_ZSz5zp68Z`i b<<0fנi b<<0hՁj 9ׁHhttp://ERICJOYNER.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉E%ERIC JOYNER, DRAGON - ERICJOYNER.COM ׉ 7cassandra://MvBe8woVnWfFP8uG56XzNu4UrXCPq4qJLn_ZSz5zp68Z`i b<<01׈Ei b<<02i b<<01בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://6-mvvZp1GnDkmncTqTmxT6dmJRcN7JYy2XAHjr56b9sL`׉ 7cassandra://1jgjUx6U7WqE1kti92YT-dDEk9sOx7VUhr9-Hh65UOk͗L`r׉ 7cassandra://tdgBjeu6jj6dZLOEbR0-RFNW55ZSUaCs03EEHl7y7Nk1`i b<<0i׉E׉ 7cassandra://tdgBjeu6jj6dZLOEbR0-RFNW55ZSUaCs03EEHl7y7Nk1`i b<<03׈Ei b<<04i b<<03,BIRDY ISSUE 143Published November 2025. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine: art, words, comedy, et cetera. Available monthly in print or online.i bHlj&