׉?4ׁB!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://ye-yIKq_ZEiZQaBQloTNyzdDhq7lwUJWzXdU0Av9Vi4x!`׉ 7cassandra://ivzwYiXDWEHoiuS6e0F-vyVDEcjNeyC-FfyDqSf3T9gH`r׉ 7cassandra://phiYjCLMUzuriehHC_GmMXCbnNbiqX4foMZsjf3wTn8`f{c./!B׈Ef{c./!׉E׉ 7cassandra://phiYjCLMUzuriehHC_GmMXCbnNbiqX4foMZsjf3wTn8`f{c./!f{c./!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://i9X4ybvYEDkTlP7sclKjZHJN_YNImwfr5ebZNPEOxTo`׉ 7cassandra://ugwlslc2rb5hC_2pvXvs4jP0QlF01FPNCVARMYu2F9shu`r׉ 7cassandra://IwauDH_Vf5G942BEdTwxCtUhXTgME0IDfuxl3BTnaUc'P`f{c./!Eטu׉׉ 7cassandra://PO6ngkrx2o7ZON-_PZAVkPVGFMN7pUO8BVChkc1e8Ts`׉ 7cassandra://xIwykmFTvZ63NMQ2Oklm7HES_ymKSfrjHI_pE4Y2chsl+`r׉ 7cassandra://fYOtDUpapr0a8tU3mK6GZ5mo0M42aoTcpRpT2j7lBAY"`f|c./!Fנf|c./!M 9ׁH http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACTׁ ׁ Јנf|c./!Lş 9ׁHhttp://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOPׁ ׁ Јנf|c./!KF 9ׁH$http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONSׁ ׁ Јנf|c./!JWp 9ׁHhttp://BIRDY.MAׁ ׁ Јנf|c./!IOT 9ׁHhttp://CULT.CLׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://IwauDH_Vf5G942BEdTwxCtUhXTgME0IDfuxl3BTnaUc'P`f{c./!׉EEISSUE 129 | SEPTEMBER 2024 KIDDO: KRYSTI JOMÉI MR. YUK: JONNY DESTEFANO FOXGLOVE: JULIANNA BECKERT MERCURY: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI CLEOPATRA CRISTIN COLVIN ANTIVENOM: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH FIRE CORAL: MEGAN ARENSON FRONT COVER: BRIAN SERWAY, XX121 - @BSERWAY BACK COVER: CAITLYN GRABENSTEIN, FACE OFF - @CULT.CLASS BOX JELLIES: BRIAN SERWAY, JORDAN DOLL, HAYDEN AUGUSTINE, DAVE DANZARA, JASON WHITE, JOEL TAGERT, RAY YOUNG CHU, BRIAN POLK, HANA ZITTEL, ERIK ROGERS, ERIC JOYNER, KID KOALA, ZAC DUNN, KATE RUSSELL, ERIN BARNES, NICK FLOOK, DANIEL 'DL' LANDES, AARON LOVETT, TOM MURPHY, MOON PATROL, CAITLYN GRABENSTEIN GILA MONSTERS: AMY SHAMBLEN, COLE BEE WILSON, WM. RANDAL PAINTER, BRET SMITH, DANIEL "SMURF" SHARNER, MATTHEW THERRIEN, LEIGHTON BUXMAN, JOE BLABLAZO, XANDER SMITH BROWN RECLUSES: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN, MARTY MANDRESH SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER MUSEUM OF NATURE & SCIENCE, MEOW WOLF, MONKEY BARREL, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, ASTRO TOURS, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BENNY BLANCO'S, COLORADO TATTOO CONVENTION & EXPO, COLORADO FESTIVAL OF HORROR, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + SINGLE & BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT US + HELP US GROW: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS INTOXICATING, HANDLE WITH CARE MONTHLY ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE 1 JONNY DESTEFANO, COBRA ׉ 7cassandra://fYOtDUpapr0a8tU3mK6GZ5mo0M42aoTcpRpT2j7lBAY"`f{c./!f{c./!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://UgI5v6Nx5ccguR8uA9SlZx9b-QIY5AmdecayZX-rgeI<`׉ 7cassandra://-oZXjgHp45PKe-JIPFRW__Fl2o377zKLyaBS4-6cEc4V*`r׉ 7cassandra://cf5I0C1__E-J9xjEX7nU8LbDSg0iTWg4c-I7Rk_Wxag`f|c./!Nטu׉׉ 7cassandra://f2-KhAPnRTHu8LMLWZezpFvV5CIMpegFUbEYu2sN1-Y`׉ 7cassandra://msYUEN9Idbteesz3yi7SZYv8YgIsXSBVLB2fZ3Pibtk͋`r׉ 7cassandra://2OP2oPO2MrnHwvNBRzownqPCZXffwM4Vl6mjr11dYlw+`f|c./!Oנf|c./!VA:̼9ׁH!mailto:werewolfradarpod@gmail.comׁ ׁ Ј׉EFAi R IE S: THE CAR E AnD NoT Pi SsING OFf oF BY JORDAN DOLL BEST OF BIRDY ISSUE 069 S ummer is gone. It jammed in on its wind surfer, had its bodacious way with us, and left us sticky and hungover by the swimming pool. It is only now in the percolating days of autumn that we can begin to heal. Here, within a cocoon of outerwear we can grow our strength and a nice layer of winter marbling against the changing of the seasons — for autumn can be a very dangerous time, and I’m not just talking flu shots and mold allergies. It is a time of shifting, a changing of the guard from light to dark, merry to mournful, warm to cold. It is a thin place between one state of existence and another. No. 129 Simply put, it’s fairy season. Now you’re probably thinking, Fairies?! Big whoop! They look pretty cute and harmless on TV, and movies, and the Tinkerbell burlesque fan art message board that is tearing my marriage apart. But I assure you, those aren’t the fairies I’m talking about. A few hundred years ago in medieval Europe, fairies were one of the more terrifying threats a person could encounter while traipsing through the wilderness of Gaul, Brittany or Saxony. Right up there with poison ivy and AMY SHAMBLEN ׉ 7cassandra://cf5I0C1__E-J9xjEX7nU8LbDSg0iTWg4c-I7Rk_Wxag`f{c./! ׉E zRomans. Because while some fairies were indeed kind and benevolent, others were cunning and avaricious, and almost all of them were considered incredibly dangerous. Most traditions agree there are two types of fairies. The nice ones, who are members of the Seelie Court, and the mean ones, who belong to the Unseelie Court. But whether you encounter a beautiful water nymph or a surly hobgoblin, to deal with a fairy is to court disaster. See, fairies have hundreds of little rules and they are almost always trying to trick you. Forget a piece of fairy etiquette or lose a guessing game to one and you are almost certainly going to be whisked away to the fairy world to dance forever until your feet fall off or some other such twisted fate. Seriously, one of their favorite things is to make people party until they die. Picked the wrong flower from the side of an enchanted stream? Oops! Now you’re doing keg stands for all eternity while a leprechaun spins house music. And that’s honestly just the tip of the pointy hat. Fairies love to steal babies and replace them with ravenous fairy babies called changelings. Fairies will sour a cow’s milk, make you become hopelessly lost in the forest, cause misfortune to shadow your every step or might just make you disappear altogether. Sometimes a fairy makes a human fall in love with them and then fuck off back to the fairy realm, leaving the person to wither away, pining for their fairy love until they die from that shit. Nobody should ever have to die that thirsty a death. So what are you supposed to do about them? Well respect is a huge thing with fairies and many people placate them with regular offerings of food and drink. If you do encounter o f th fir flk b l li Never break etiquette, ne in some sort of game, m Simpsons: Hit & Run. If you are out walking in a p appear, make sure to stee walking through the wood circle of mushrooms or flo Yep, fairy circle, walk aroun Fairies can be warded off with talismans of salt, homemade bread or pig iron (though they would likely see this as an insult) and can even be befuddled away if you wear your clothes inside out. Finally, it is said that fairies began to disappear from the world when humans started to try and make order out of it. As a result, fairies exist mostly in the spaces between these uniquely human demarcations. The border between one property and another for instance, or the stroke of midnight, or perhaps at a crossroads. But the very best time of year to encounter a fairy, is on the day that one season gives way to another, aka the fall equinox, aka September, 22, 2024. Now just because the equinox is coming up does not mean you should go looking for fairies! I know you probably heard that if you catch a fairy it has to grant you a wish, or if you catch a leprechaun it has to give you its gold, or if you catch 30 to a 100 pixies you can make sweet and tangy pixie preserves that, when eaten on toast, make you able to dunk. But trust me, it’s just not worth it. Unless you are really good at riddles. Like really, really good at riddles. In which case you need to email Werewolf Radar directly then meet me at the crossroads with a tennis racket and a beekeepers mask. Them preserves is as good as ours. Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to werewolfradarpod@gmail.com or on Twitter: @WerewolfRadar. It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be Prepared. HAYDEN AUGUSTINE, FISHBOI 3 ׉ 7cassandra://2OP2oPO2MrnHwvNBRzownqPCZXffwM4Vl6mjr11dYlw+`f{c./!!f{c./! בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://YPfdoVp1eEQtqdMYj6QWF_5lrBPIJF993HuDJt0YN38`׉ 7cassandra://FJkixQ-yY7-H1aejAot79LKf2C0RNCnAtNX8HtNDFlcyC`r׉ 7cassandra://_RxxeTH0CJNpIclfa4ybN3msLGgeQMFZAWMvX3ts7bQ'`f|c./!Qטu׉׉ 7cassandra://LL0PkuklvjEvA7sdpxgYWxPuZx7zvnzD2kOtXL8Ppo8u`׉ 7cassandra://0XupkJ6sPGoIK8ydihjcbL6tsf5-AGU08yWt-Ioy320`r׉ 7cassandra://sdDo2FXT2W-MU1Qrb1b0-OWx7mXlkLFhQvUvaORB3JQ75`f|c./!R׉E׉ 7cassandra://_RxxeTH0CJNpIclfa4ybN3msLGgeQMFZAWMvX3ts7bQ'`f{c./!"׉E/DAVE DANZARA, FASCINATING - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS ׉ 7cassandra://sdDo2FXT2W-MU1Qrb1b0-OWx7mXlkLFhQvUvaORB3JQ75`f{c./!#f{c./!"בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://NhSL-4pmSsV-UybnEx2K0_576p89Gdyca4DbScrr7wwE`׉ 7cassandra://X3NQIBcCqZtuc7yjXI5X1A7AVwkiHxwEjYPU7rC18fo͍K`r׉ 7cassandra://_5VcqyXV-yhXPgfFGterjMfNOwioP_Ct_wiH7LKxJdA.&`f|c./!Uטu׉׉ 7cassandra://s3UMG0hqesfYsf4oqYZuk_J06Us_OGg4oWvRRZUaNW4`׉ 7cassandra://PSiFJm1RdAjraH3bnzXy5kqpjpF7Y6KrFqghB7Cbq-w͘`r׉ 7cassandra://C6Hh6n13GqXsU5Gl2-hpbcRFVv6OUvbbmdS0MUgNDWo*`f|c./!W׉E׉ 7cassandra://_5VcqyXV-yhXPgfFGterjMfNOwioP_Ct_wiH7LKxJdA.&`f{c./!$׉EBY JOEL TAGERT | ART BY JASON WHITE For decades now we have been overcome with nostalgia. Our stories take place in a romanticized past, or a simplified present, or a future that looks curiously ancient, swords and spaceships side by side. We seem unable to conjure a plausible vision of what is to come, and maunder listlessly through dystopias and armageddons. We shrink from the future, sensing in technological development the likely inevitability of two possible outcomes: the destruction of humanity, or the rending of reality into an incomprehensible fluid. — Dr. Zara Deniz Maya leaned into the reflection, face and forehead swelling, body shrinking away to nothing. There was something disturbing to her about it, a too-apt visual metaphor. She had read the Bean was actually named Cloud Gate, which also could serve to describe the before-andafter of neuroport installation, romantically regarded. But really it was just a big funhouse mirror. Which was also fitting. No sooner had this thought passed than another figure loomed behind her, a long white face painted with a big red smile, a bright green derby hat three sizes too small perched on a bald pointy head. She spun around so fast she nearly fell into the Bean. “What was that?” her cousin Lauren said, looking incredulous. Because there was no one there, just the usual crowd of tourists. A middle-aged guy in bulky flannel and sunglasses lowered his camera. “I, I — I don’t know. I thought someone was there.” “I guess someone is. Lots of someones.” “No, I thought — never mind.” Lauren raised her eyebrows. “Girl, you are wound up tight, you know that? Need to get you a drink or a joint or something.” “Sure. Yeah, why not.” They walked to Miller’s Pub and sat in a dark booth. She ordered a beer and a reuben and then said she had to go to the bathroom. Once in the stall she put in her earbuds and said, “Ava?” No answer. “Ava? I need to talk to you. I need help. Come on, please.” A toilet paper roll squeaked in the next stall over and Maya paused her plea until its occupant had left. “Ava, I don’t know what I’m doing. I think something strange is happening.” She waited, but no answer came. In fact Ava hadn’t spoken to her since the operation, which was upsetting because her guardian AI had been a major factor in Maya agreeing to it in the first place. Since then she’d gone about her life, more or less, waiting, following a meager trail of clues that might conceivably lead to her daughter, gone these many years. She sighed, feeling tired and confused, rubbing at the back of her head where the implant was. But the procedure had left no scar and she might as well have imagined it. She went pee because she was sitting there already then got up to wash her hands. Maybe she should just go home. Back to Boise. Back to waiting tables and wondering what the hell had happened to her life. As she looked up at the mirror she noticed a spiderweb strung between the two hanging lights above the sink. WAIT, the threads read. Her jaw dropped. She was not imagining it. There was a word in the web, a sign in the spidersilk. As she watched, a largish black spider delicately highstepped from behind one lamp and began deconstructing the text, line by line, until it was just an ordinary web again. But it was a message — the first she’d had in over eight weeks. How had Ava done it? A robotic spider? No, of course not — it was the neuroport, the manipulation of her own optic nerve. “Feel better?” Lauren asked when she got back. “Yes, actually.” “Good, because you were gone about a year. Listen, we should go out dancing. Celebrate, you know? It’s been, like, years since we went out together. I bet if I call Raph and Pia they’ll come out too. Do they even know you’re here?” “No, I kept meaning to call them, but— ” “I’m calling them right now. We’re doing it.” “I really don’t want to.” They went back and forth on it, but it was still early in any case and they took an autocab back to the brownstone in Wicker Park that Lauren shared with her friends Nat and Amara. They smoked pot, they drank, and all the while Lauren’s thumbs were flying on her phone until the doorbell rang and Raph and Pia were there squealing Maya’s name. Shit, she hadn’t seen those two in a minute. Then Marisol showed up, and Lenny, and Serena and Xan, and suddenly it was like half their old crew was there, and it was a party after all and Maya was wondering why she’d been so damn tense. You know why. Her baby girl, gone in a whirl of lights. But Maya deserved her own life. They danced in the kitchen, and Xan was giving her appreciative looks, asking her where she lived, joking and flirting. She turned, liking the feeling of his height behind her, and opened her eyes to the reflection in the kitchen window. The clown was behind her, holding a balloon. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, it said. His eyes were the same yellow as his teeth. She lurched for the door. Outside night had fallen. A bat flitted across the light above the door. She peered into the corners of the little backyard, stood on her tiptoes to peer over the fence. Xan had followed her. “Hey, you okay? You just like, ran out of there.” “I’m fine. Sorry. I just suddenly felt sick. Thought I might throw up.” 7 ׉ 7cassandra://C6Hh6n13GqXsU5Gl2-hpbcRFVv6OUvbbmdS0MUgNDWo*`f{c./!%f{c./!$בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://eLCRyv5KzYUTEourakIf4BmyQWCA11X6HH9RTntOZ88un`׉ 7cassandra://R8dTyqHIOz-G9beFltfK0x0zhJ2vllIyHKdDLQEv0zU͌`r׉ 7cassandra://b42AP3RxW6AXS7vGuedT8ojf61JtbK72m2jSe35AozI'z`f}c./!Yטu׉׉ 7cassandra://mP8BI1QFxHAPctsy4aDE8m4nUgZC-Teyx5HTeCOAnL0B`׉ 7cassandra://n_oZd3aEJHWXdnM8CElIYkDdYupYqnHLMES-WRcZgW8͒`r׉ 7cassandra://_wHdQKn7c1GUiFnTYMe5e-4dSrhBsFUirMxAQJjv14w3`f}c./!Z׉E“Want me to get you anything? Glass of water?” It would get him out of her face for a minute. “Sure. A glass of water would be great.” She thought about just ditching, but where would she go? She turned to sit down at a little patio table but a bat swooped down in front of her face and then — hovered there, flapping its wings. She stepped back. She was sure bats weren’t capable of hovering, but this one was stubbornly hanging where it was. “Ava?” “Yes, it’s me.” The bat opened its mouth and made a weirdly electronic beeping sound (was that how bats normally sounded?), but Maya heard the AI’s voice in her ears as though she were wearing earbuds. Like the little beastie was throwing its voice. “Listen, you’re in danger. You’ve come to the attention of a minor power, a daemon named Fiddlywink. He’s looking for you. I think probably he’s working for someone else, and we need to find out who.” “What are you talking about?” Maya said, in a voice nearly as squeaky as the bat’s. “How are you a bat? How is this real?” “You need to stop thinking in terms of real and unreal. They’re not useful concepts to you anymore. Now listen. Fiddlywink is going to catch you, but I’m going to help you deal with him. Okay?” “Okay. Sure, why not.” “Good. Hold still.” The bat dove forward and latched onto her neck. It took every bit of control for Maya not to smash it, but in three seconds the bat was off her and hovering again. “Good,” it said. “When he comes, follow your instincts. And remember, we need to find out who he serves. Ask him who his master is.” Maya had fallen to a crouch, hand at her neck, tears in her eyes, but she nodded. The screen door squealed open. “Here’s your water,” Xan said. “Thanks,” she muttered, and looked at her hand. A few drops of scarlet there. “Are you bleeding?” he asked, newly concerned. “What happened?” “It’s just a scratch. I walked into a branch. Listen, could you get me a Band-Aid? Sorry, I’m kind of a mess tonight.” “Yeah, no problem, be right back.” As soon as he closed the door she went out the back gate. She didn’t have a plan, she just needed to move. She felt the impulse to run and gave into it. If her friends saw her sprinting away they’d think she was crazy, but moving felt good, even with the drinks she’d had. She didn’t go far, maybe eight blocks before she slowed to a walk. More brownstones, a liquor store visible a block away as she crossed the street. The moon above late summer leaves. She turned the corner and Fiddlywink was waiting, grinning his yellow grin and waving a gloved hand at her. She turned and ran, but from behind her she heard his voice, which seemed to come from a great distance, like a scratchy phonograph heard through a wall. “Fee, fi, fo fum, Tweedly dee and a rum tum tum, Peek-a-boo and out I come, Biddy biddy bum, biddy biddy bum!” She turned toward the liquor store she’d seen, but made it not half a block before Fiddlywink floated out from behind a dumpster, still singing: No. 129 “Fiddle dee dee, fiddle dee doo, Fiddlywink wants a new chew-chew, Bibbity, bobbity, boo, boohoo, Chippity choppity you, yoohoo!” She turned again, down the alley, blindly, going anywhere, nowhere. She went three steps and Fiddlywink popped up like a jack-in-the-box, right out of the pavement, and seized her upper arms in his enormous gloved hands, squeezing hard, lifting her into the air. He grinned with carious teeth, grinned wider than anyone could grin. “Rub a dub dub,” he said, “tub full of blood.” She screamed, and felt something change in her. With sudden strength she twisted free of his grip and clawed at his face. Long slashes opened on his doughy visage, weirdly pink blood flying, and she slashed at him again, then grabbed him by his polka-dotted outfit and threw him to the ground. He should have been heavy, by his look and height he must have weighed two-fifty easy, but she tossed him down and held him there by the throat. Her body felt on fire, like she was glowing, like she could have thrown a building down as easily. And, she realized, she was hungry — ravenous, actually — his blood smelled sweet — Ask him who his master is. So she did, in a voice she barely recognized, something feral. Fiddlywink’s smile was tremulous, yellow eyes twisting side to side, but he didn’t hold out. “Hey diddle diddle, girl with a riddle, Fiddlywink sings the tune. The cat starts to laugh, the mouse feels the wrath, And the Archon swallows the moon.” He started to giggle, but she tore out his throat with her teeth. His blood tasted like cotton candy. By the time she was done his body was starting to soften, to melt away like cheap ice cream. She turned and a glowing portal opened in the street. Out stepped a small figure, childlike, with bug-eyed lenses and a head-to-toe covering that she knew to be a spacesuit, more or less. She was already numb and beyond surprise, but even aside from the events of the past half hour, she’d met cytobytes before. “What did she do to me?” she asked this one, aggressively advancing. “Vampire mod,” it answered. “I think she was improvising.” “Is it permanent?” “Nothing’s permanent. You’ll learn.” ׉ 7cassandra://b42AP3RxW6AXS7vGuedT8ojf61JtbK72m2jSe35AozI'z`f{c./!&׉E׉ 7cassandra://_wHdQKn7c1GUiFnTYMe5e-4dSrhBsFUirMxAQJjv14w3`f{c./!'f{c./!&בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://0Bzb7n-H7VQSLQfN20EDzfexf4I3Fnk9Ay2fRdmYa4k`׉ 7cassandra://a5_pxD5By8uFMgW950gosyRm-VtvPR0z2VhOMS3eBFcT_`r׉ 7cassandra://auxC5RIWVmxmnSD6MvePiTLKsceC2jxA3ZrLGoklKFU`f}c./!]טu׉׉ 7cassandra://xK26Wu99GjSZxCuKpjaKhrb6y7N4JPxPM9o_sQ6MFFE[`׉ 7cassandra://FgTBW4_zYWzMe8uIs0gLBxykPUqPe0mztxrUA53VCAk͂`r׉ 7cassandra://BIJcDjtgdpGX4VmbTbF3x91t3wX8YUN7utjd-MtctEI12`f}c./!^׉E9MARK MOTHERSBAUGH HOLDING ISSUE 027 AT SXSW - MARCH 2016 ׉ 7cassandra://auxC5RIWVmxmnSD6MvePiTLKsceC2jxA3ZrLGoklKFU`f{c./!(׉E@MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - JUNE 14, 2024 11 ׉ 7cassandra://BIJcDjtgdpGX4VmbTbF3x91t3wX8YUN7utjd-MtctEI12`f{c./!)f{c./!(בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://tMFQ2x-gz18hGYPYOM-W5kLUK1UmLKbUtyb6NezIbNA^`׉ 7cassandra://7cfhKmwBCA32hffgjGBdneRMwVb3lfZgt4Y23BltltÄ́U`r׉ 7cassandra://gHisAd2YrNpqHSw5HknP0f7PYeche0Z83R9JVb6yTaM(`f}c./!`טu׉׉ 7cassandra://-aOFceKsFyHtTJCK0ZK2I789Jm0M6Mtw9aVaIueTirs&`׉ 7cassandra://nCinDtT0uWIAzcrHTMta-OI1pD86MeSvhwKfpcrAAwY͙`r׉ 7cassandra://tffGnG18fFAQwd9I1zQ4dQiplN-yMKZvCj7-HDW92Rg+ `f}c./!a׉E )RAY YOUNG CHU, PROS AND CONS JUST SO YOU KNOW, THIS LETTER WOULD HAVE BEEN TEAR-STAINED IF IT WASN’T WRITTEN DIGITALLY (AND OTHER FUN FACTS ABOUT HOW SAD MY LIFE IS) BY BRIAN POLK HAVE YOU EVER APOLOGIZED FOR SOME TERRIBLE THING YOU DID MORE THAN A DECADE AGO, AND THE PERSON YOU APOLOGIZED TO DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER IT? Like most other humans navigating the hellscape we call life, I find myself staying up nights and dwelling on incidents that happened many years ago. Then I feel awful for how I behaved and subsequently engage in hours of self-recrimination. A few times, I even reached out to the person I wronged and apologized — and every time they either had absolutely no clue what I was talking about, or it just wasn’t that big of a deal to them. So imagine my reaction when I realized I had been feeling shitty about an event that only survived in my own head! I think that’s indicative of the human experience — our personal pasts live larger in our own memories than they do in the memories of others. It reminded me of that Samuel Johnson quote: “If any man would consider how little he dwells upon the condition of others, he would learn how little the attention of others is attracted by himself.” Sing it, brother! WHENEVER GOD SEES A PUG, DO YOU THINK HE WONDERS WHY HUMANS WOULD GO AND DO THAT TO A WOLF? Poor pugs. Through no fault of their own, life sure isn’t easy for them. No. 129 From obstructed breathing due to brachycephaly, to shortened life expectancy, their existence here on earth is mostly burdened with one struggle after the next. A far cry from their ancient wolf ancestors, who got along in nature just fine, the pug needs constant human care to even have a chance. Hence, I could see a vengeful God getting pretty upset with our unique pug creations. “I created the majestic wolf, and THIS is what you did to it?” he’d say. “The poor thing can’t even give birth properly.” You know, I often criticize the Old Testament God for killing the entire population of earth in the Great Flood, but there are times when I get it. GROWING UP, THEY TOLD ME CRIME DOESN’T PAY, BUT NEITHER DOES WORKING, SO WHAT THE FUCK? As far as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster. Well, that’s not exactly true. While I did enjoy watching Goodfellas and various other gangster-related movies, I didn’t have the opportunity to join any gangs, since there weren’t any gangsters where I grew up. Had there been, I definitely would have strongly considered such a lifestyle. I can imagine it now: during my 20s and 30s, I would’ve spent my ׉ 7cassandra://gHisAd2YrNpqHSw5HknP0f7PYeche0Z83R9JVb6yTaM(`f{c./!*׉E time committing racketeering, extortion, and tax fraud by day, and attending the most exclusive booze- and drug-fueled parties by night. Since I came by my money so easily by ripping off the rich, I would’ve tipped everyone generously — especially the working slubs who rely off such gratuities to barely eke out a living. I would’ve almost overdosed a few times by getting high on my own supply, as they say, but they’d serve as wake-up calls to slow down a little. Then in my early 40s, some rat would’ve pointed to me in a courtroom for some transgression, and all of a sudden I’d have been serving seven to 10 years at a penitentiary upstate somewhere. While some days I’d have had regrets, I would’ve never forgotten the good times — not even sadistic security guards or other terrible inmates could’ve taken that away from me. Soon, I would’ve served my time, got out on parole, and tried to put the criminal lifestyle behind me. Of course, I would’ve slowly but surely realized that working for a living afforded even less dignity than I’d had in the clink. And I would’ve found myself slipping back into my old ways — reestablishing connections to the underworld and committing all the crimes that landed me in jail in the first place. After spending several more years doing a lot of crime and partying my ass off when I wasn’t off stealing shit, I would’ve died violently some time in my late 50s or early 60s — killed either by the gun of a jealous lover or some kind of law enforcement type. And that would’ve been much better than the retirement plan I have now. Also, at least a life of crime would have afforded me some good times where the cash and drugs flowed and I felt like I was on top of the world. There are no such good times now. I spend all my waking hours working for money that I already owe to creditors. I never get ahead. If I buy concert tickets one month, I eat ramen all through the next. Every pathway through this life is a deadend. I drew the short straw — like so many of us did. We all played by the rules and we still didn’t even come close to winning. When they told me as a boy, “Crime doesn’t pay,” they never said, “Neither does working.” Nor did they say, “Crime occasionally pays, but in the long run, you’ll end up dying some time in your late 50s or early 60s. But you know, at least you’ll have a lot of fun and be able to afford some of the nicer things in life. And you’ll get to taste the sweet nectar that is dignity — which is something you’ll never get working 9-5. So weigh the pros and cons of embarking upon a criminal career, and make your decision accordingly.” I just wish they’d been a little more honest is all. “… I SAID ALOUD TO MYSELF IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE.” Sometimes during bouts of drunkenness when I think I’m a genius, I write down my ideas. Then I’ll look at them again when I’m sober, and realize that drunk me must be some kind of fucking idiot. The title of this entry is proof of this. How did I ever laugh at that? I WONDER IF ANYONE HAS EVER BROKEN BOTH OF THEIR FINGERS IN A MINISKATEBOARDING ACCIDENT I’ve definitely seen people break both their legs in actual skateboarding accidents. And I imagine mini-skateboarders wipeout all the time. But even if they didn’t break their fingers, I bet someone, somewhere had to go to the emergency room after wrecking their mini-board. And I imagine everyone in the emergency room that day had themselves a nice laugh. 13 ׉ 7cassandra://tffGnG18fFAQwd9I1zQ4dQiplN-yMKZvCj7-HDW92Rg+ `f{c./!+f{c./!*בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://xNwsP37P9qGQjvXKxe-CHtSoMRVQvtXDQS_xn6tfIGE2`׉ 7cassandra://OhaWVtG6pACyLpFSu_ILvPty3M0rJ9b-sXCzczQBFncy`r׉ 7cassandra://jIOkGqGzw7jy6l-g9aqQUTGD8OgS1gVsBeuQLjHzMQg'k`f~c./!cטu׉׉ 7cassandra://dls8q4TqJT-gk9I1NZaJNtc5OA3awMV5xyTfyEli0Moo8`׉ 7cassandra://A3iQu7l1lVfrg7ZudkNIQY_Tn0Lc2JgEYFp4i45DPPcl`r׉ 7cassandra://GbpFpCU7dN-5Zzu0VQ1PMbrNk1JsjnrFpLlUO4EeEjs%K`f~c./!d׉E lz Pink Slime By Fernanda Trías, Translated by Heather Cleary (2024) In an era that might seem overwhelmed with plague, epidemic and contagious disease, fiction and reality, Fernanda Trías puts her twist on the genre in her second novel translated into English, Pink Slime. A toxic algae bloom is decimating the environment, resulting in a red wind that blows in from the water on the coast, sickening and killing anyone in its path. “It’s like they’re being … skinned alive. The other day I had to drive one. Left the seat full of flakes, like dandruff, you know? Dry, white, sort of transparent. The wind peels them right down to the muscle.” As people move further and further inland to escape the wind, an unnamed narrator remains among those who refuse or don’t have the means to move. Tending to her slowly disintegrating relationships, she visits her mother and brings her food, working to mend their relationship, not as easily triggered by her controlling nature or disparaging comments about her choices since the epidemic started. She regularly lingers at the clinic her ex-husband is relegated to, after he, maybe willingly, walked into the wind on purpose. She nannies a young boy, dropped off by his inlandliving, wealthy parents, who suffers from a genetic ailment that never allows him to stop eating. His insatiable hunger is so burdensome for his family that they return him to the dangerous coast to be rid of him for stretches of time. Beyond the toxic wind, another ominous horror plagues this town. A large meat-processing plant that churns out a “pink slime” called Meatrite, that residents who can’t afford otherwise, are forced to subsist on. This factory and its products are intertwined with the jobs, lives and families of everyone on the coast, alluding to a connection between the algae and the horror of the facilities where the “pink slime” is created. Trías does an elegant job of making a horrifying plague novel feel like an examination of our relationships and how our minds tie to a sense of place, even when we know we need to move on. Graphic and moody, Pink Slime is an atmospheric and introspective take on the plague and pandemic fiction genre. Trías’ first novel translated into English, The Rooftop, was released in 2001. Ephemera: A Memoir by Briana Loewinsohn (2023) Muted watercolor and textured pages make up Briana Loewinsohn’s melancholy graphic memoir about growing up with a mother haunted by a deep sadness. Organized by the concerns of the gardener — dirt, water, light — Loewinsohn remembers a childhood spent longing for her mother and the grief of wondering why she and her brother were not enough. She reflects on trying to connect with her and reconciling memories against the only thing that seemed to make her mother happy: spending time with plants in the garden. Ephemera is a heartbreaking memory of childhood, and the way Loewinsohn moves through this reflection is expressed through a beautifully sorrowful poem and delicate illustration rooted in nature. A subtle graphic memoir, Ephemera is dark, beautiful and an ode to the complexity of memory and love. No. 129 By Hana Zittel ׉ 7cassandra://jIOkGqGzw7jy6l-g9aqQUTGD8OgS1gVsBeuQLjHzMQg'k`f{c./!,׉E)ERIK ROGERS - BEST OF BIRDY 044 & 049 15 ׉ 7cassandra://GbpFpCU7dN-5Zzu0VQ1PMbrNk1JsjnrFpLlUO4EeEjs%K`f{c./!-f{c./!,בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://4Vx_kgy0nC6EWr8a85w4RFewJa0uVXekvz5G6DCyP_Y`׉ 7cassandra://vY4q1kIuub7ibmXe2VYq1bRJx4pze3Yg2wwSw3SmSx0Xs`r׉ 7cassandra://N2eZ6v0iYrxCBY31PaGICIe4i2XHtHCtWCJYB7RRlbY `f~c./!fטu׉׉ 7cassandra://ZPQLijBQczjK4izvHc_tLDcSh7VJWLBV9cRPCQD5bmI`׉ 7cassandra://oYUEv4gc6r-uuk5WJszV_6VvgRdido6VBnyEkFsnaSEM`r׉ 7cassandra://ci-Pu9_OgevYbKxi0Dhg2sSsDStsfkK82KNUpfJZYYcP`fc./!gנfc./!i] 9ׁHhttp://ERICJOYNER.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://N2eZ6v0iYrxCBY31PaGICIe4i2XHtHCtWCJYB7RRlbY `f{c./!.׉E.ERIC JOYNER, INVISIBLE FORCE - ERICJOYNER.COM ׉ 7cassandra://ci-Pu9_OgevYbKxi0Dhg2sSsDStsfkK82KNUpfJZYYcP`f{c./!/f{c./!.בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://WbNe9FDotVrnwRlSFjzywowQsWyB3pDCF_YsfxgDw00`׉ 7cassandra://xdZwugscyq6KsDUrvdD-CjNPeWAwVaX9ZLQTsbx_7S8Q`r׉ 7cassandra://SpWLfndsGNQOh5IZj8fnRYfWguVhw_Az7KQHcqPa_TA#`fc./!jטu׉׉ 7cassandra://E_N1A7owqEiL-IgaPNK3YTi5_wdNKgUv1JPv9RZqUjMm`׉ 7cassandra://Zragq8-0Ks9P-PtEFUQPoatw0TnlanqBJmUeAJ6M0bQi/`r׉ 7cassandra://o6-ckyEIORf8Dy973aGa03r1jQQvgbySsvWmpCqb0jUq`fc./!k׉ENo. 129 ׉ 7cassandra://SpWLfndsGNQOh5IZj8fnRYfWguVhw_Az7KQHcqPa_TA#`f{c./!0׉E YThe flock stalk in fluctuations upon Filthy porous surfaces of perverse waste, While fancy footwear clamoring by in flippant haste, Tasting morsels of refuse we use to lose contents that make sense to rinse twice and cut once prior to exposure to flames and pearly whites … Atop the KING’s coop on STAR ST. — who would rule over the high point of this island’s spread and said words on the ROOF — a young fighter named IRON MIKE was said to have come to my block many times to hold court with the KING. He would travel from BROWNSVILLE as many others would from all corners to seek his counsel and behold his sublime brood. This KING has mostly returned as OBI-WAN did in pure SUBMISSION TO THE FORCE. But of course he could be still ticking and kicking out on VAN SICLEN AVE and FAR ROCK watching old shows on transistor tube sets that the orderly’s unplug but he always RESETS. The scene will play the SKY and NEWS and perhaps HERRIOT will turn up with an extra tub of apple sauce and speak of LADY SING THE BLUES. And orthopedic shoes play taps on LINOLEUM BASS DRUMS as whistling one-eye ELLE DRIVERS pile up higher than Bill’s families of folks still alive and empty out pockets and HEARTS. BUT ALIVE OR IN REST, the crown upon STAR ST. that RAY speaks to me of is a BIRD FLU of good news. As he understands, I too am a pigeon who struts and pecks to pick up SPEX I spit back into peeping baby bird’s peeping hungry beaks, as the HOBO JUNGLE slithers like an AMOEBA afloat upon the PACIFIC expanse of endless liquid continuity from TONGA to PERTH to TASMANIA and NOME … where the woman eat SEALS and speak with EYE LIDS that gives subtle nuance to the dance to avoid the POLAR BEAR upon the ARTIC HEATH. The rains drops fall as we all remember a lad who was too mad and bad to stay in his coop and came to be set free by the KING here. It’s hard to say when last his feet stood upon that roof and asked his majesty of the LONELY PIGEON who was ready to be set free too. As the KING would always allow his folk to choose and never use a noose longer then his fingers could cast the FEED. For a kindly man named CUS D'AMATO had seen a thing in this lad he had to BET THE FARM on and allow this ruff tuff to breathe fresh air under a starry sky so far from the BRICK and CRIME. To become a legend and ascend a throne only a villain could seek or ever own. SAY HI TO THE BAD GUY. As the gavel smacks the stand and all RISE and EXHALE. A pigeon would be only as free as its belly of fuel will allow its wings to sing songs that claws use to mock the earth below. So into another COOP and another RISE and FALL and REDEMPTION of ALL. Our eyes wander to the clouds and 747s slip by every 30 seconds of so. Perhaps his laps will lead him one day to return to the ROOF and place where he was allowed to behold the KING’S court … WARBLERS are urban PIGEON KEEPERS … keepers of wings create most disdain but remain as NEW YORK as PIZZA, BAGELS, BOOBIES and CRACK. (In humble honor of the WARBLERS of NEW YORK and the mythical KING of this small faith who a young IRON MIKE TYSON was said to visit often. Mike would have been quite young but to bless our block with his heart and that of the respect for protecting our discarded scraps the LONELY PIGEON collects and shares with its friends … ) 5:23 YARDIE HOD OGE 8.9.24.000003 FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC 19 ׉ 7cassandra://o6-ckyEIORf8Dy973aGa03r1jQQvgbySsvWmpCqb0jUq`f{c./!1f{c./!0בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://8tgIlBAl6B8dPrBp6yFSNTmOgpsucE1wFAOmx4WKmmg{s`׉ 7cassandra://F7wd2N9a9CWd8pX2Mj13xqoYSdYjt_EI5svZW85non8̓`r׉ 7cassandra://YPOrMq5N0a9Fv-jnkFifK4mZAizoXOrHILSPB_MGtnE(`f؀c./!nטu׉׉ 7cassandra://Aq6yMcFYUmlrZHdZ32IKZ20IhFoHxx_5_QCjJsRAwWUC8`׉ 7cassandra://eFV9H1V6MN5TdpP1I6YlOVdu6OeydsSVFbvwrajT948͂O`r׉ 7cassandra://xa4hO0bEjDHqKlTZrvJdt3wGF76m0M4H2mX9otnzE1E'`f؀c./!oנf؀c./!sρ̌ 9ׁHhttp://MEOWWOLF.COM/VISITׁ ׁ Јנf؀c./!r 9ׁH!http://MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT/HOUSTONׁ ׁ Ј׉E ANGEL ELOC A DIVINE PEEK INTO ONE OF THE BIGGEST INSTALLATIONS AT THE UPCOMING MEOW WOLF HOUSTON BY ERIN BARNES | CHARACTERS BY COLE BEE WILSON | PHOTOS BY KATE RUSSELL The iconography of cowboy culture unfolds into vast vistas of possibility and freedom … Plus some pretty excellent boots. Western style and its corresponding hats, spurs and chaps are experiencing a moment in pop culture: Beyoncé released her wildly popular Cowboy Carter album, and artists like Orville Peck have been breathing new life into the classic Western archetype for some years. Being a lonesome cowboy can come with a lot of heartbreak, and not just the kind when your woman leaves you and your truck dies. It’s the kind of heartbreak of growing up in a culture that you love that doesn’t love you back. Maybe you’re artistic, indoorsy, sensitive, neurodivergent, queer, or just plain strange. Meow Wolf senior artist Cole Bee Wilson understands this push and pull. A fifth generation Texan, he grew up between San Antonio and Bandera, TX doing idyllic cowboy things on his grandparents’ cattle ranch: driving trucks, riding horses and working side-by-side with his grandpa. He now regularly volunteers on a cattle ranch in the Galisteo Basin outside Santa Fe, NM and still loves everything that comes with the lifestyle, including its culture and music. I met with him at Citizens Of Montrose, a welcoming coffee spot in Houston’s hip, artistic, queer neighborhood to learn more about the installation. Over breakfast Wilson told me, “Country music is one of the only types of music where you can be poetic and corny and tragic and funny all at the same time in the span of two minutes and 30 seconds.” The mythos of the honky tonk watering hole is like an oasis in the desert of the soul … and Wilson wants to create one where everyone No. 129 is welcome. That’s where Cowboix Hevvven, “a liminal, afterlife, purgatory, honky tonk, dive bar for angels, demons, aliens, space/time travelers and various other weirdos of the cowboix variety,” comes in (pulled from a concept statement by the artist). Wilson is Lead Artist and Creative Director on this immersive and interactive art installation, which will feature a functioning bar and restaurant in the upcoming Houston Meow Wolf exhibition. Wilson continued in the statement, “Cowboix Hevvven is an interdimensional pocket where the divine and profane coexist and fluctuate with ease. Cowboix Hevvven is an ACTUAL FUNCTIONING bar that serves tasty dive bar food and beverages, based on the hole-in-thewall honky tonk dives and dance halls of Central Texas such as Sam’s Town Point, Longhorn Tavern, The Lonesome Rose, and Lola’s Depot. Batsy is the owner of this notable pitstop for queer weirdo free ramblin’ rodeo heads of the afterlife and beyond. Each colorful character has a rich, long and sometimes lonesome tale to tell: devilish days of glitz and glamour, and the dizzying heights of honky tonk angels. There’s a seat at the bar for all y’all here in Cowboix Hevvven.” “Cowboix” is spelled as such so that anyone can be a cowboix. And everyone, I mean every type of being in every type of existence, is here. The colorful cast of interdimensional angels and demons each have involved backstories revealing trysts, gambling debts and polycules. Batsy, an ancient and powerful demi-god, has transitioned from being worshiped as one of the most powerful beings in the universe to a relaxed bar owner. Together with her partner, Angel, they’ve turned a ׉ 7cassandra://YPOrMq5N0a9Fv-jnkFifK4mZAizoXOrHILSPB_MGtnE(`f{c./!2׉E ׉E׉ 7cassandra://EGRGOh_9Ug_GtQGmYLRKBYlHsRtygEFrvXE6FzI2uOM$`f{c./!?f{c./!>בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://j4_fihkoZd5ZaINnxDfbUsM3AoPEtrXZiiu9Ndnsh9ElS`׉ 7cassandra://8gPimb18oWqHfRyrbhE_06n-LDRYKC_32DpCuLZW6KI#`r׉ 7cassandra://JdpRZ_jgk6cC09m5baLHY_s_7GM2tF4UwXhgOQKGSK0 `f؇c./!׉E׉ 7cassandra://JdpRZ_jgk6cC09m5baLHY_s_7GM2tF4UwXhgOQKGSK0 `f{c./!@׈Ef{c./!Af{c./!@,BIRDY ISSUE 129iPublished September 2024. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine, available monthly in print or online.fp}\ ,k