׉?4ׁB!בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://xOyEJdmJ4yjyuy4bTkHX1sP8p0JCYskFTzd8QkGPg3s`׉ 7cassandra://jKOWCPeYnB7vf_FlL4a-9t_I_Zdc7qrrODBnem91MtIY`r׉ 7cassandra://iHfGd82tNa77-FAdL_89GdQgHBwL7ywiiVyXW3HJ7UsV`h8X|׈Eh8XV׉E׉ 7cassandra://iHfGd82tNa77-FAdL_89GdQgHBwL7ywiiVyXW3HJ7UsV`h8XWh8XVבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://eG4smOWhVw1Qdh4n0hg6CldieGqUQcXsw_ExJmp6TII?Y`et׉ 7cassandra://qsYjqVbGTNri-OpfDcEVtZb0LxwPzz1MT9AT5aQaxuU,`׉ 7cassandra://iRQpzAUMhH2hSsmURJ7g-MhzQ2bmXvRARPu5s4vLXlU]`h8Xנh8X 9ׁH http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACTׁ ׁ Јנh8Xo 9ׁH$http://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONSׁ ׁ Јנh8XB̧ 9ׁHhttp://BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOPׁ ׁ Јנh8XVp 9ׁHhttp://BIRDY.MAׁ ׁ Јנh8X+Nj9ׁHhttp://ERICJOYNER.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://iRQpzAUMhH2hSsmURJ7g-MhzQ2bmXvRARPu5s4vLXlU]`h8XX׉EERIC JOYNER, THE MUMMY - ERICJOYNER.COM ISSUE 142 | OCTOBER 2025 ANACONDASAURUS: JONNY DESTEFANO 138: KRYSTI JOMÉI CANDY COMA: JULIANNA BECKERT GHOSTFACE: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI BINX: CRISTIN COLVIN HOUSE OF WHACKS: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH ART THE CLOWN: ALAN ROY MR. BALLEN: DANIEL LANDES POE: CHELSEA PINTO JACK TORRANCE: MATT HAVER FRONT COVER: JOE ROLLMAN, WOLFSIGHT - @JOETHEMADTITAN BACK COVER: DAVE DANZARA, KILLING IT - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS BLACK HILLS FOREST: ERIC JOYNER, ROB GINSBERG, JASON WHITE, JOE VAUX, BRIAN POLK, JOSH KEYES, ZAC DUNN, HANA ZITTEL, SUSANN BROX NILSEN, JOEL TAGERT, CURTIS BERGESEN, JORDAN DOLL, TOM MURPHY, ERIK ROGERS, DAVE DANZARA, GRAY WINSLER BURNT OFFERINGS: JOE ROLLMAN, BUB DAVIS, JOE CAPPA, MICHAL ŠTEFLOVIČ, JO CUNNINGHAM, MATTHEW THERRIEN HAPPY TOYZ: MARIANO OREAMUNO, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, DENVER ART MUSEUM, MUTINY COFFEE AND COMICS, UNDERSTUDY, MONKEY BARREL, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, WATERCOURSE FOODS, BENNY BLANCO’S, RADIO RETHINK, AIRBUBBLE, 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 A DOLLY ZOOM, WHIP PAN MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, A DAMN FINE CUP OF COFFEE 1 ROB GINSBERG h8XYh8XXבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://Nd4nCQbPdxfDkjNfa2OYY591A-pVxbb32KNNec3pia8;`et׉ 7cassandra://LDpSKs3hnFR4xFKNks5xN-_cXvdzYc8HGggwPUaMy9w`׉ 7cassandra://Cqhxw7lpnjBKL_t_RGvygamITvk_7Tyl2DNWztZkIUILH`h8X׉E׉ 7cassandra://Cqhxw7lpnjBKL_t_RGvygamITvk_7Tyl2DNWztZkIUILH`h8XZ׈Eh8X[h8XZבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://fV1dLb8TBZ-FxEC4uKdqevwvsI6UGkpTo1GWZMuG3XAT`et׉ 7cassandra://h8C8wFDhswfEgFjyfKKna-tsc_Sk4VIHsxNj9he1OMs [`׉ 7cassandra://rB8sOUWLlvMhK0dgHbNAF-KQISbe1LUNwqKCZTZLYDoQT`h8X׉EJOE VAUX, CLEANSER - IG + BKSY: @JOEVAUX LIFE HACKS FOR WHEN LIFE ATTACKS & OTHER VARIOUS OBSERVATIONS ABOUT OUR SHARED EXISTENCE BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JOE VAUX WHENEVER PEOPLE ASK WHY I NEVER HAD KIDS, I WANT TO ASK THEM WHY THEY NEVER DEDICATED THEIR LIVES TO SEX, DRUGS, AND ROCK AND ROLL I’m so tired of relatives and friends of my parents posing super judgey questions about my life choices, as though the superiority of their lifestyle is self-evident. “Why didn’t you ever have kids?” they wonder No. 142 aloud, as though the very question wasn’t a disparaging invasion of my privacy and smug reinforcement of their conformist lifestyle. “Why didn’t you ever spend weeks in a tour van, guzzling booze, and ingesting various drugs as you travelled the world in a punk band?” I wish I could ask them. “Furthermore, I can’t help but ask why you didn’t spend your formative years in a basement, learning how to play an ׉ 7cassandra://rB8sOUWLlvMhK0dgHbNAF-KQISbe1LUNwqKCZTZLYDoQT`h8X\׉E >instrument while all your peers learned important social skills, like how to not be awkward around people you find attractive? And could you please explain why you became a CPA and married a finance director so you could live in a big house in the suburbs and belong to posh country clubs, when you could have dropped out of college, covered your body with tattoos, and hung out in dingy dive bars?” But I don’t ask these questions, because I’m not a judgmental person. IN AN ATTEMPT TO DEFEND MY HONOR FROM THE BESMIRCHMENT HAPPENING BEFORE ME, I INADVERTENTLY PROVED HER POINT, THUS PERPETUATING THE VERY DEBASEMENT ON MY CHARACTER THAT I WAS STRIVING TO IMPEDE She referred to me as a snob, so I said, “Only a plebeian with an inchoate understanding of my sophisticated and carefully curated predilections would venture to denigrate a gentleman of my preeminent distinction.” That’s when she said, “Oh, go fuck yourself!” And, upon further contemplation, she was right to do so. I HOPE THE MOTORIST IN FRONT OF ME REALIZES HE SIMPLY DOES NOT HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO TAKE A LEFT AT THIS INTERSECTION I have been sitting in my car on this particular part of the street for three complete light cycles as the guy driving the Ford Bronco idles with his left turn signal forever blinking. I have seen a trio of green lights come and go, and he has failed to even begin attempting a left turn at any point during this time. Now, I do understand that there is no left turn light at this point in the city grid. But he could do that thing where he inches out into the intersection and then guns it when the light turns yellow. But apparently, he has both unlimited time and patience to just kick it here until traffic dies down and he can safely pass through without the threat of a single other automobile coming anywhere near him in the opposing lane. It’s just too bad that some of us have places to be, which is why we were driving in the first place. I hope this anxiety pulsing through my veins eventually settles down as I make peace with the fact that I could very well be here for the rest of my life. I’M SURE GLAD CAPITALISM HAS FIGURED OUT A WAY TO CATER TO ALL MY SUGAR CRAVINGS Say what you will about the destructive nature of the free market system — including, but not limited to: exploitation of workers, ecological destruction, shamelessly sacrificing the health of our collective souls by monetizing everything pure in this world in order to appease the insatiable greed of the 1 percent, cynically keeping us addicted to the glowing boxes in our pockets instead of encouraging and nurturing the human connection that has sustained our species for over 200,000 years, reliance on a system based on endless growth on a planet with finite resources, usury, and any of us tolerating or taking seriously the existence of Elon Musk — but when I’m craving a variety of snack cakes, hard candies, and chocolate confections, you bet your ass capitalism has got me covered! I HAD AN “A-HA” MOMENT THE OTHER DAY WHEN I SANG “TAKE ON ME” AT KARAOKE Okay, I’ll be leaving now. JOSH KEYES, FRANK 5 h8X]h8X\בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://74JEDrL_p_ykiCf5q2l2kb2PHa10HNSURsgf-v64ujE3`et׉ 7cassandra://UOZ_mJFbWk3x5X7MLOtGD7MQfWNJV_0ZPuDavq7Bd2sͿ`׉ 7cassandra://kkPhSPnEGkehJUX6aQtgmHhSMWAOzPZXZ3sFKhwygmQC`h8Xנh8X' m9ׁHhttp://JOSHKEYES.ARׁ ׁ Ј׉E(ART BY MICHAEL DAVID KING - BEST OF 022 ׉ 7cassandra://kkPhSPnEGkehJUX6aQtgmHhSMWAOzPZXZ3sFKhwygmQC`h8X^׉E#JOSH KEYES, FRANK - @JOSHKEYES.ART h8X_h8X^בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://w0k7qyFAJNBJ_Gj3JPulVaTFhSJr3IvlXJjaETfcKyE[3`et׉ 7cassandra://PE4K559rgKip255vKYsTZgrpyWCTdrTumusjS9e4HJY͵:`׉ 7cassandra://v7wXrPLejn23_ZYiXxu1azBWL56GIvQuTMZS6MRvncM5`h8X׉E8BUB DAVIS, BAD TIMES AT LAKE VONNEGUT - @LIZARD.PUDDING ׉ 7cassandra://v7wXrPLejn23_ZYiXxu1azBWL56GIvQuTMZS6MRvncM5`h8X`׉E 5BY ZAC DUNN | ART BY BUB DAVIS The stench was eye-watering as they cast off into the chowder-thick fog. Hours of wandering and scavenging rubble had finally led them to the edge of an urban archipelago of junk and debris. The rotting wood of fallen trees made rowing out past the perimeter of the murky bog difficult. “You boys will find nothing but trouble out there!” quipped Avis earlier, the doting aunt who was in charge of them. “Just last week two boys who set out scavenging were found all mangled! Like some wretched beast took bites and spit them out! Promise me you won’t try to wander out past the edge of the bog looking for scrap ever again!” Broken pieces of the amusement park looked down on them as they passed through the long empty flooded parking lots. Street lamps that once cast shadows now bore long mossy beards that swung in the wind. The creaking of rusted metal groaned as they paddled slowly so as not to catch a snag of algae that split in the wake of the bow, before closing again obscuring the path back. As the water became murkier they could feel a low rumble. Like a mighty aqualung chugging below the liquid’s surface. It was unnerving and made them both pause. Surely they would find something worth this incursion into such dubious conditions. The boat began to knock as though something was beating it nervously. “I don’t think we came this way before, maybe we should turn back— ” the younger brother exclaimed as rain drops became buckets that fell from the sky. “We can hide under the old bridge up ahead and see if this storm breaks soon,” the big brother calmly replied. They slowly made their way under the section that was still standing. The rain pounded down for what felt like an eternity. Once the storm passed they made their way back toward the mossy embrace of the bog’s entrance. A dense fog rolled in making navigation very difficult. Before they knew it their path was obscured by more fresh broken metal and wood as they paddled into the maze of gnarled wreckage. Slowly they could feel the deep thudding upon the boat again. It grew louder now causing the skiff to pulse and shake, casting out a sense of dread. A strange, low hissing sound suddenly caught their attention. Two large eyes and a foul, stinking mouth gazed back at them four hull lengths away. It was something huge but seemed curious and annoyed by the look of its gaze and slowing breaths. A certain metallic sheen covered its body like fish scales in the sun. Its mouth drew in huge gulps of murky water, sifting whatever life and sustenance it could find. Teeth like tusks jutted out, looking as though they had been decaying in the mud for months. A horrid smelled began to waft back with each deep pull of the filthy water. Both boys blinked and watched as the creature slowly blinked back before sinking out of sight. The thumping on the boat resumed and they desperately rowed back until a clearing in the wreckage allowed them to proceed away from the sunken junk, back toward the quiet embrace of the bog. FOLLOW FOR MORE: IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC h8Xah8X`בCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://clj2OJ_pNHEywWDvnfCAk_VhAMDYFUsH_rzyZcekkHIeg`et׉ 7cassandra://7GNRGikU6fTHEVMxg0jBspCDIqRijdJUo9LVMwVPATEͥ`׉ 7cassandra://9YWpsRYfKfW9HHM3qE7hEOEwc90DSJK6Kt0GgxYRnRE3`h8X׉E When we first connected with Joe Cappa back in 2021 his horror comedy short, Ghost Dogs, was just selected into Sundance Film Festival. It was pretty undeniable that he was destined for something big. As big as the Campbell boys in his Adult Swim series Haha, You Clowns, premiering on HBO October 19th. An unconventional riff on the wholesome family sitcom — Haha, You Clowns is a series about three teenage brothers and their gentle, loving Dad navigating life after their mother’s death. Though downright heartfelt, Joe’s signature stamp of absurd humor shines through in the most simple ways, from the slightest facial expression to the pacing of a shot or scene. Few animators can make us laugh, ache and nod in recognition all at once. Yet, Joe has a true gift of tapping into what makes us human and reminding us of what we share together. We caught up with Joe about his journey these past four years from creating Ghost Dogs in a basement, to going social media viral with his fever dream Gabbagooblins and various shorts, to landing in Los Angles to work with the legendary Adult Swim and now HBO. A reminder to not only follow our dreams, but to soak it all up along the way. Because as Dad says, “Sometimes it feels like if I blink, I'm gonna miss everything.” No. 142 Last time we talked, you were following your path as an independent artist and animator when your award-winning short, Ghost Dogs, was just selected into the Sundance Film Festival. Since then, you’ve collaborated with Adult Swim, musician Toro y Moi, director Judd Apatow, Giphy, Meow Wolf, Bento Box Entertainment and most recently HBO, with the network premiere of your animated series Haha, You Clowns on October 19th and HBO Max the next day. How did the success of Ghost Dogs help prepare you for this meteoric rise in your career? Getting into Sundance was truly a dream come true. Before Ghost Dogs, I was just making boring infographic videos for companies with the occasional music video gig from a friend. I typically shied away from making standalone pieces of art. It was either too time consuming, or the ideas would be too expensive to pull off. I also wasn’t that proud of the things I was making. I thought they were okay, but nothing exceptional. Making Ghost Dogs was taking a big leap of faith. It took me two years to animate. In the end it was well received. That gave me the confidence to tell more stories. Over a decade ago, you left Oklahoma and moved to Denver to pursue animation before landing in Los Angeles. What was it about living in Denver that was conducive to your artistic process and growth? And how is it now living in LA? I mean, Denver is where I found my voice. It’s where I decided to setup an LLC and do business on my own terms. I wasn’t very good at it though, ׉ 7cassandra://9YWpsRYfKfW9HHM3qE7hEOEwc90DSJK6Kt0GgxYRnRE3`h8Xb׉E :`h8X׉E ART BY MICHAL ŠTEFLOVIČ JANG! JANG! JANG! RANG THE HAMMERS IN THE RAIN. JANG! JANG! JANG! CLANGED THE LINKS OF BLOODY CHAIN. JANG! BANGED THE BOOMERANG BOUNCING IN HER BRAIN. JANG! SANG THE KANGAROO— Something touched her shoulder. In a fever dream of manacles and red rock, Naoko surged upward, grabbing for the throat. The intruder gagged, falling back, and she took him to the floor. “Naoko,” he choked, patting weakly at her arms. “It’s me, it’s Ten.” She blinked, finally seeing the tufted ears and eyebrows of her fae friend in the lamplight from the hallway. “Sorry,” she said, letting him go and slumping back against the bed. She had hoped a few hours sleep would improve her condition, but this was emphatically not the case. Her body ached from pores to marrow, and her skull was throbbing like it would explode. “What the fuck, dude? Probably best that we never slept together.” JANG! JANG! JANG!— “Shut up,” she whispered, a shiver running through her. “What?” Ten asked, staring. “You asked me to wake you up when it got dark. Well, it’s dark. And I think— ” “Shhh,” she pleaded. JANG! BANGED THE BOOMERANG— “Are you okay? You look bad. You want me to get you anything? I think there’s some— ” JANG! SANG THE KANGAROO— “Quiet!” she snapped. “Please! Just for a second!” And finally Ten shut up. Deliberately, in that interval, head bowed, she silently intoned: Om ah hum vajra guru padma siddhi hum. Mystic syllables to ward off demons. No. 142 She repeated the mantra again, felt her head clear a little. Whenever the children’s rhyme started pulling her back, she countered with the mantra, a trick she’d learned years ago to ward off psychic attacks. “You’re acting crazy,” Ten said finally. “I’m not crazy,” she yelled, orange eyes flashing. “I’m not crazy,” she repeated, less crazily this time. “I just ... have unusual problems.” He slowly nodded. “Want to tell me about it?” “It’s safer if I don’t. But listen, if you see anything strange, let me know, okay?” He chewed on this. “We’re about to descend into a war in Hell. Beelzebub and King Rat are going to cross the Styx and assault the inner circles, while Moloch, Lura Vyre and Lucifer himself, for all I know, prepare to rain fire on anything that reaches the farther shore. What, exactly, would qualify as strange?” “Just anything ... Australian.” Bafflement. “You’re a fucking nut, you know that?” —DRIVING HER INSANE, came the thought, completing the rhyme. “I’m not crazy,” she said again, and silently mouthed the mantra. • • • Hell was hot, but she felt cold and clammy as they descended the winding, irregular stone staircase of Echelos to the Third Circle. She still trusted — well, hoped — that her mostly human genes would fight off the bloodrot, a demonic virus that had decimated the city’s population, but entering a battle with muscles quivering and chills sweeping through her may have been her stupidest idea to date. But Aobozu, the monk she’d been pursuing these last three days, would most likely also be trying to cross the river now, with the kidnapped boy, Robbie Radner, in tow. Whatever lay in store for the kid ׉ 7cassandra://gNZRJ_Pj91SRM4pBp9wLLSFC5siwQN0GRAqGCcX09jY>:`h8Xj׉Ein the Second Circle, it wasn’t sunshine and daisies. The upper reaches of the Third were surprisingly quiet, though there was a perpetual patter of claws upon the stone passing them on either side, a ceaseless rivulet of rats heading downslope. As always when walking anywhere in Hell, she kept her katana in hand and her runechain loose. But tonight even the lamprey-bats took no notice of them. It would have been quiet, except for a growing roar from the direction of the river. The number of rats passing them steadily increased, many of them deformed and diseased, faces bulging with tumors and boils, leaving trails of blood and pus, skin covered with scales, spines, sewage. Though some were scarcely recognizable, all answered King Rat’s call. Most took no notice of them, but one, large as a terrier, paused in its scurrying to turn, stood on its hind legs, and looked them up and down. Its skull was all wrong, a hideous protrusion of bone and mottled flesh ringing its head. Something exploded downslope, the concussion riffling Naoko’s hair, and all three of them — Naoko, Ten and the rat — looked toward the billowing flame. The rat turned back, its body in darkened silhouette, and with a new chill she realized that its malformed skull looked exactly like a leather cowboy hat. “Welcome to the party, mates,” it said, and ran off. Ten’s eyes bugged out of his head. “I would qualify that as strange.” Fuck. “You should go now. Lay the spell on me.” From his pocket he withdrew a small vial and handed it to her. “Swallow this,” he instructed. “It won’t last long — maybe thirty minutes — but the rats should ignore you for that time.” She peered at the glass. Inside was something red and clotted. “Best not to look,” advised Ten. “Bottoms up.” She took it like a shot, trying to minimize any contact with her tongue, and then squatted in the street, trying desperately to overcome her gag reflex and dizziness as the utterly putrescent taste — mothballs and dead mice — permeated her body. Don’t throw up! There was an incantation that went with it, which Ten performed, hacking, coughing and burbling in the demonic tongue. When it was done, Naoko swayed back up to her feet, eyes watering. “Do you have any gum?” He shook his head. “Bad idea anyway. It’s mostly the smell that keeps them away. You want to maximize it.” “Fuck.” “Before I go, you going to tell me what’s going on?” She held her hand in front of her mouth as though that would somehow lessen the taste. “It’s like a psychic parasite, but … it can manifest in the real world. Some nightmare out of the dreamtime. Mostly it doesn’t bother me, but sometimes when I get sick or stressed it leaks out. It’s like … demonic herpes.” “And it’s dangerous?” “Oh, it’s murder.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but the clock was ticking. “Good luck.” • • • She tried to break into a jog, but that felt truly awful, so she settled for a fast walk. The trick was that to get across the river, she would need to cast another spell to walk on the water. It was simple stuff, Witchcraft 101, but she needed to be in her human form to do it. That was tricky, because Naoko had a strong tendency to transform into a twelve-foot tall, black-spined demon cat when threatened — and she could not cast spells in her demonic form. The rats were thicker now, the rivulet becoming a cascade, and she distinctly saw a large crocodile waddling toward her in an alley. The rats did indeed ignore her, even when they brushed against her legs, but there were other entities moving downslope as well, crawling, flapping and slithering. One of these, something like a big spider, perhaps feeling peckish, launched itself toward her, and promptly found itself cut to pieces. She had been a little slow with the katana, honestly, but the runechain had done its job. She had it on what she called “slice and dice,” a ten-inch blade dangling from its end, and when she was done with the spider she kept the chain swinging loosely from her left hand. She made it fifty more feet before having to dispose of a threeheaded snake, and from there on the attacks were pretty constant. Presumably most of these demons were headed to help with the battle, but demons were notoriously hungry and notoriously indiscriminate, and she looked like easy pickings. An armored centipede with glowing mouths on its back — a clot of flying claws — a cyclopean ape. The ape was wearing a khaki cargo shirt and as it died it grinned and growled, “Jang brang the red rain.” She jerked the katana free with a grimace. She was now about four blocks from the river, and the hills fell sharply toward the flattened expanse of the warehouse district. Most of the warehouses were on fire, but at the top of the stairs the smoke cleared and she could see all the way to the Styx. The landscape boiled with demons. Millions upon millions of malformed rodents surged in waves toward the water, overrunning creatures a hundred times their size. Swarms of lamprey-mouthed bats accompanied them, darkening the sky. With them and against them raged two demonic armies — Hell’s darkest reaches emptied for this titanic battle. As she watched, an enormous squid with limbs fizzing with green acid surged out of the water, flailing and crushing the rats, its acid literally melting their flesh. A rotting rhinoceros big as a house slammed into it, throwing it fifty yards, before itself being enveloped by a flying gasbag. Flames flared, black blood shot in jets, shrieks split the ears. And then — a glint of glowing blue, very near the waterline. She stared intently. It was him — Aobozu the monk, electric blue from shaved head to tabi. With him, walking hand in hand, was a seven-year-old boy, equally blue. Unlike her, they appeared unhurried, Aobozu’s magical lotuses rendering them insubstantial ghosts, immune to harm. To enter willingly into that battle was suicide. It was madness itself. She surprise the hulking, red-eyed kangaroo at her side. “Looks like you’re in need of old Jang after all,” it said. She shuddered. “Fine. But I’m not crazy.” “Course you’re not.” It turned its gaze toward the battle and grinned, exposing teeth more appropriate to a great white shark. “Now let’s turn up the dial, shall we?" turned and saw without h8Xkh8XjבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://-pM2Pt_vr6wLmyIIC9IXScN7MHs0cXp2Q4rNXx0h9OEr`et׉ 7cassandra://JX06NvI2-f3mhFLNDH9S9HqeQb_FVrZ9Nu5obiujtysͳ?`׉ 7cassandra://mkz1F-ppf5fWCNalFY99VXLKw86AplMjPqucdfGM3Mg@V`h8X׉EFCURTIS BERGESEN, I AM THE MESSENGER OF THE NOTHING - @COLLAGETHEWORLD ׉ 7cassandra://mkz1F-ppf5fWCNalFY99VXLKw86AplMjPqucdfGM3Mg@V`h8Xl׈Eh8Xmh8XlבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://rZmHU5F-Y_7hetqX5MTuqBP85wwyRLvbcMXLyXSIfvY'`et׉ 7cassandra://TiYSnqxjhN8xfdKMmPGevSIlC8fdBShil2QTbMg8SKE"`׉ 7cassandra://6B-6n0tKSqqyYBsM04emNkw15ruDghBNqXxSDZI-5jwN`h8Xנh8XLف 9ׁH http://WEREWOLFRADAR.COM/CONTACTׁ ׁ Ј׉E BY JORDAN DOLL BEST OF 034 When I was a kid I had this friend. His name was Cooney. He was a raccoon and the best friend I’ve ever had. He showed up alongside several other somewhat forgettable gifts one Christmas morning and we hit it off immediately, sharing many of the same tastes and opinions. We were quite inseparable, Cooney and I. We built forts together, rode BMX together, and every night before bed, he would perch atop my head so we could both read comics before going to sleep. I know, we were adorable. We had a rich, full friendship despite his notable impediment of being an inanimate stuffed animal. It never seemed to be much of a hurdle for us really. Looking back, I remember Cooney as having a very distinct personality. A somewhat more pragmatic and bashful version of myself. He was a comfort when things creaked in the night and an ally when my brother was hogging the Nintendo controller. In fact, he seemed so much like a person to me, that had he come to life all of a sudden — had I woken up one morning to find Cooney making us both breakfast and suggesting activities for the day — I wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised. I think every kid with a cherished stuffed animal expects this to happen on some level. That their chum might wake up at any moment, and the two of them can finally get some real work done. Move into their own apartment, start a band, buy dirt bikes, all of it. It never happened, which is fine. It doesn’t happen for everyone. But what if it did happen? And what if the friend you got wasn’t very nice at all. What No. 142 if he was, simply put, a monster? In a small museum in Key West, Florida there sits a doll named Robert. He is dressed in an old-fashioned sailor suit and his fabric skin and hair are faded to a dull grey-brown, flecked with holes of natural decay, understandably, as Robert is more than 100 years old. He is kept behind glass and gets hundreds of visitors every year. He has been featured in countless television shows and books and has even had a few awful (just awful) films made about him. "Why?" you ask. Because Robert is allegedly haunted as fuck. Like trunk-of-a-serial-killer’s-car haunted. Like ancient-abandoned-amusement-park haunted. Robert the Doll was gifted to young Robert Eugene Otto when he was about 6 years old. One story says the doll was simply a gift from his grandfather, while another tells it was given to him by a disgruntled former employee of the Otto family: a Bahamian maid who was fired after being accused of theft. Some stories say she made the doll herself using some of the boy’s own hair, but frankly, that story seems a little too Hollywood (and maybe a tiny bit racist?). Whatever its origin, the boy became immediately enamored with the doll. He would play with it for hours on end, even gifting the doll his own name and insisting that the family call him by his middle name, Gene, instead. This was only the beginning of what would prove to be a very long, very strange friendship. The doll slept in Gene’s room and even had a seat at the dinner table. ׉ 7cassandra://6B-6n0tKSqqyYBsM04emNkw15ruDghBNqXxSDZI-5jwN`h8Xn׉EGene’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Otto, swore they would hear the boy carrying on long conversations with the doll late at night. First hearing their son speak, and then a completely different voice reply. They figured their son was just playing both roles but then things took a darkish turn. Gene began to misbehave, upending furniture, breaking china and causing huge messes. When confronted, the boy would fly into fits of anger, claiming that it wasn’t him but rather Robert the Doll was responsible. “Robert did it” became a very common phrase within the Otto household. Mr. and Mrs. Otto even claimed to have heard the sound of giggling coming from Gene’s room when the boy was not at home. Gene grew up and inherited his parents’ house after they died. He became a respected artist and took a wife, Anne. Upon arriving in her new home, Anne quickly came face-to-face with her husband’s strange habits. Anne disliked the doll immediately, and who wouldn’t? It’s a little tough to move past: “Welcome to your new home, honey. Oh, by the way, we will be sharing it with this malevolent stuffed toy that may or may not be a manifestation of some darker side of my personality.” She tried to lock the doll away in the attic but Gene wasn’t having any of it. He insisted that Robert needed his own room where he could see the street. Robert was sequestered to the Turret Room, but the little creep wasn’t through causing mischief. Not by a long shot. Neighborhood kids began to report seeing Robert scowling at them out of the windows of the Turret Room, and a couple of them even claimed to have seen the doll moving around. Gene began spending more and more time in the Turret Room as well, working on his art and speaking in hushed tones with his odd companion. Often his wife would hear him break into fullon arguments, shouting and smashing up furniture. She would rush to the room to find her husband standing amid a maelstrom of scattered papers and overturned furniture, those familiar words on his lips, “Robert did it.” After Gene died in 1974, his widow remained in the home they shared but kept the Turret Room locked tight. Even so, she would occasionally hear giggling and the sound of soft footfalls emanating from the room and, at some point, noted the fuck up and decided to lock Robert away in a chest in the attic like she had wanted to do all along. She died shortly after her husband. Some years later, a new family reportedly moved into the Otto home (now called The Artist’s House) and their young daughter is rumored to have found Robert the Doll in the attic chest and claimed him as her own, because of course she fucking did. That night, after sending their daughter to bed with her new companion, they were awoken several hours later by shrieks of terror emanating from the girl’s room. They arrived to the sounds of screaming and giggling coming from within, and the door strangely jammed. Eventually, the family was able to force their way in, only to find the room completely wrecked. Their panic-stricken daughter huddled on the bed claiming that she had woken up to find the doll climbing up her bed trying to hit her in the face. They locked the doll up because apparently they couldn’t find a volcano to throw it into. In 1994 Robert was donated to the Fort East Martello Museum in Key West. It is said that Robert regularly moves around inside of his glass enclosure and the sound of giggling ART BY JASON WHITE 23 and the pitter-patter of tiny, evil feet are an almost nightly occurrence. It should also be noted that the Fort East Martello Museum is also home to the world’s most terrified janitor. Furthermore, camera malfunctions while trying to take Robert’s picture are apparently very common, and those who have managed to snap a photo of the doll without first asking his permission are said to fall victim to any number of unfortunate events including car crashes, divorce, financial ruin and even death. People believe in Robert’s destructive power so much that the walls of his display case are covered in notes and letters apologizing to Robert for taking his picture without permission and asking for his forgiveness. For snapping a picture? Come on, Robert. Just tryna get some Insta hits over here. So what can be said about the strange, and somewhat melancholy life of Robert Eugene Otto and his fiendish little pal. Is this simply the story of a mentally unhealthy man projecting his anger issues onto a childhood plaything as a means of coping? And if so, what of the voices? The laughing? The reports of the doll moving and the alleged attack? I often think back to those days, kicking it with Cooney and how much of a person he felt like to me at the time. And I wonder. I wonder if maybe a person can believe in something so much that it changes reality a tiny bit. I wonder if we can put so much of ourselves, our dreams or our anger, into an object that a piece of our very being rubs off on it. That the inner life we have embedded in it catches and spreads and manifests a whole new consciousness. A consciousness with its own agenda and emotions and likes and dislikes. And I guess when that happens you just have to cross your fingers and hope that it doesn’t turn out to be a complete asshole. And that it never finds out you said its movie sucks. 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. h8Xoh8XnבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://5xDzB_RV5YLlWWQhGBFAmbMnws_oJNuGBa9nb3iplwwV`et׉ 7cassandra://CjkTt9EwNRXxEul-aCKmixb5ifWq1O8LPkV4qLQ_te8͵t`׉ 7cassandra://BkHGFRIYCMQE7TE8KRmuZr6vhflNPDuEM0NLgeBmBsk9`h8Xנh8X̒ 9ׁHhttp://QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORGׁ ׁ Ј׉E׉ 7cassandra://BkHGFRIYCMQE7TE8KRmuZr6vhflNPDuEM0NLgeBmBsk9`h8Xp׉EBY TOM MURPHY FLOOKY – THIS MEANS WAR The title of the album is a bit curious until you delve into the lyrics. In the distorted guitar and garage rock/Americana fusion style, all these songs unfold as meditations on finding the will to struggle with your personal demons and their various forms. “The Prisoner” is a poetic description of the urge to run away from situations in life, only to realize in the end you can’t escape being yourself and the baggage that comes with that. And from there how those suppressed burdens affects all aspects of your life, from relationships to attaining your dreams. A fine example of songwriting as therapeutic processing. HEX CASSETTE – HEAVEN FORBID This project has consistently traded in catchy melodies and infectious dance rhythms with vibrant production. With their live performances hitting as playfully confrontational industrial dance music, these songs seem much more introspective, New Wave and disco in tone and rhythms. Themes of fearing the loss of one’s essential self when faced with soul-exposing challenges, the perils of being vulnerable even when necessary, and the potential tragic consequences of never realizing your worth until it’s too late lend the album a surprising heaviness. Set to irresistible dance music, it’s a contrast worth revisiting. ITCHY-O – SÖM SÂPTÂLAHN An immersive sound experiment in gamelan frequencies, an orchestra of minimalist percussion, synthesizer, cello figures and binaural tones. This album is an alchemical blend of ancient sound sources with modern, experimental electronic aesthetics and production, crafting a truly unique listening experience. Its expert use of space in the mix is not attempting the impossible task of reproducing the live experience of the full band. Rather it translates the effect of that in-person, analog headspace into an album that stimulates both hemispheres of the brain in a way a standard rock band, experimental electronic act or forward thinking dance music artist/DJ cannot. THE LEGENDARY PINK DOTS – SO LONELY IN HEAVEN The fragile humanity and sensitivity of Edward Ka-Spel’s vocals on this album seem to float and swim amid flows of melodic guitar trails and harmonic layers of ethereal synths. This intertwines with a vibrant evocation of how current society and culture have cast us all adrift in a paradox of endless engagement and opportunities for connecting with the emptiness of ample isolation via the illusion of access to all human knowledge and each other. The spectral folk psychedelia of this album is especially effective in eloquently expressing both a yearning for genuine, intimate human experiences over mediated and monetized ones, and the melancholy acknowledgment that such quaint desires may be a romanticized artifact of past cultures. One hopes not. The Legendary Pink Dots will perform a two night residence at HQ in Denver on October 31 and November 1 with Orbit Service and Dead Voices on Air. MELODIES NEVER LIE – THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS TOO MANY FLOWERS This might be described as protest ambient. But it is the kind built from solid melodies rooted in synth, guitar and vocals. The song titles suggest a narrative of cultivating a spirit of hope and perseverance. It is a celebration of life, even of dear friends who have passed with their ongoing essence serving as a legacy and memory of something inspirational and beautiful that contributed to the world in a positive manner. The gently warping guitar passages flow together with lo-fi electronics and minimal beats with interconnected themes throughout. And the epic pop track “Let Your Brilliance Unfold” is a full expression of this, serving as one of the most stirring, heartbreaking and transcendently beautiful songs of 2025. SUICIDE CAGES – LIVE WITHOUT Post-hardcore this, mathcore that, Live Without is the most distilled statement on the corrosively dystopian consequences of late capitalism on our civilization and on our personal lives. The relentless bursts of rage and despair in equal measure makes it feel like we can get through this even if we don’t know we will. How this kind of raw vulnerability is expressed at all, and with such precision, is no mean feat, and this extreme metal sound is the perfect vehicle for the important conversations this EP proposes. MORE CONTENT: QUEENCITYSOUNDS.ORG h8Xqh8XpבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://uJf3uUVypVz4Y7X98NSCivtkfi3yy1z8r0SQZRN5j34`et׉ 7cassandra://raWvDCtCTVj2xpjLKGVz195y4QBhLnQNk9W_r3GhbCc,`׉ 7cassandra://DksPdDhL-V6FvWQUcBHAGw24AMoquetpEh4PZN-62qw\`h8X׉EDROB GINSBERG (D.A.S.A.), DUTY NOW ULTRAMEN! - @ROB_GINSBERG No. 142 ׉ 7cassandra://DksPdDhL-V6FvWQUcBHAGw24AMoquetpEh4PZN-62qw\`h8Xr׉EAVES in a lawn chair trying to read about prehistoric animals while their descendants wheel above BY MATT HAVER | ART BY ERIK ROGERS gravity my eyes drift back to the words but not for long as they soar dive dip weave dance over my head acrobatic masters of the air with the confidence that comes from defeating do they know deep in their DNA they’re descended from the very beasts that populate my page who caused the ground that no longer binds their grandchildren to tremble? you’ll find the answer if you ever get close enough to a gull heron osprey sparrow raven to look them in the eye you’ll see their complete conviction in life is the same that fired Rex ERIK ROGERS, THERIZINOSAURUS & JUVENILE DEINONYCHUS 27 h8Xsh8XrבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://ZfYsPwk2Wb89cnRfZX8YOIB-16bXdj4BwCcT70Tqj0c`et׉ 7cassandra://Eo7ndtZDCm_omwGN0dLPos7jf84W4UphrR66zdkyhusͫB`׉ 7cassandra://WLa7WGciGQC6IP-sTdBMvjZ4XzEwptXTz6zXuBAeKLM32`h8X׉ED , TH - @S ׉ 7cassandra://WLa7WGciGQC6IP-sTdBMvjZ4XzEwptXTz6zXuBAeKLM32`h8Xt׉E BY GRAY WINSLER The fire crackles before me, more captivating than any screen. Beyond its light, only night, and the noises of things unseen. A playground for the imagination, And fright, its primary creation. But the wild never scared me, not like the city, Millions of people hell-bent on their own way, Prone to wrath if a tourist steps in their path, With only “Fuck off” to say. Not here, in the wild, Nature is cruel but fair. Calm it offers, A reprieve from the city’s chaotic despair. I sat for hours, By the fire, Undisturbed. A cool breeze, Wind through the leaves, Was all that I heard. But then, In the distance there came a growl, or perhaps a howl, How near? The wind can play tricks and offer illusions to the ear ... Besides, I thought, wolves haven't lived here for years … Maybe the howl was only an owl and my overzealous mind, Reasons for anxiety it is always desperate to find. But there is was again! An unmistakeable howl ... The guttural reaction, Of an animal on the prowl. Closer this time than before, Yes, it felt far too near ... But only a moment had passed? My thoughts filled with fear. Silence. Stillness. Only the wind through the leaves. And the sound of myself, trying to breath. Silence, still, My mind trying to calm itself, Until ... Twigs snapped in succession beyond the fire's light, my eyes drawn east, nothing but darkness in sight. Fixed, my eyes remained, to the spot from which the sound came, Then, my gut drained, as its twisted snout broke firelight’s plane. Closer, it stepped, carefully placing paw by mangled paw, It felt like ages! Dreadful ages! As I stood there, Captive, In awe. Its eyes, Crimson red, Its fur, Matted with blood of the dead. Its ears torn like leather worn, Standing upright in the firelight, Snarling with scorn, Its fangs I saw dripping, dripping yellow bile to the forest floor As it pulled back it lips and bared the tips of teeth like daggers Sharp, splintered, and staggered Ready to sink into fresh flesh and wholly devour “Run!” was all I could think, my heart on the brink The Thud! Thud! Thud! of blood in my ears the only sound Yet my feet could only sink, sink further into the ground From its ribs came a growl, a primal expression of death, now the creature dropped to the forest floor, on all fours Rushing at me, my feet as immovable as before Drawing closer by leaps, dirt heaving behind it in heaps Death sure to come My innards soon undone Until a sound rung The shot of a gun And a screech of pain Emanating from the creature’s wretched mane Followed by a yell shouting only, “RUN” And so I did. Never looking back to the wood where I once stood. Not when there came the screams of a man gripped by jaws, innards ripped by claws. Not when there came the moans and aches as many bones at once break. Not when his marrow was mashed as the creatures teeth gnashed. Not when it ate and ate and ate the man who saved me from the same fate. I ran. And ran. Trying not to think about the man. Running until I reached the edge of the wood, Where the moonlight glinted of my car’s hood. And felt no peace, no sigh of relief as I drove home. Fear, deeply rooted in my mind for years to come. BEST OF 091 h8Xuh8XtבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://hNGMkFAVFaXmWHA2i8lFiQHyKZPC6rIZ_T02GMQvLqo`et׉ 7cassandra://o9ENPYszwGIgl7fpkGmUEHjlW5t43bkhyPElUHsZ3QUb`׉ 7cassandra://K_UudD96EA0NqDOXghUQSHUHABxAfXlzJ7DyOZNP3y4N`h8Xנh8X̊ 9ׁHhttp://THEFREAKFAMILY.COMׁ ׁ Ј׉EDTHE FREAK FAMILY ROADSHOW ART INSTALLATION BY JO CUNNINGHAM No. 142 ׉ 7cassandra://K_UudD96EA0NqDOXghUQSHUHABxAfXlzJ7DyOZNP3y4N`h8Xv׉E The Freak Family Roadshow is a traveling sculptural art installation of a gorilla mother, an alien father and their strange love child, cruising the backroads of America, trapped in an eternal time loop, confined to a canned-ham-style vintage 50s era trailer. Outside there is a lurid sideshow banner and an animatronic paper mâché carnival barker promising an experience “that will make you grateful for your normal life.” Inside features an ordinary day-in-the-life scene of a family, with the child’s toys littering the floor, tchotchkes adorning the shelves and tender photos and art hanging on the walls, while pleasant tunes from the 50s play over the radio. The exhibit mythologizes aspects of artist Jo Cunningham’s own family. The art on the walls was made by her when she was a little girl and the baby’s school photo features Jo’s now deceased grandmother and uncle. Jo’s mother, a primatologist, and her artist father, who incorporates UFO and conspiracy theory into his artwork, are also reflected in the characters, with the installation inspired by the underground comics her farther wrote in the 80s, particularly Alien Metaphor which ran in Heavy Metal Magazine. The caged guinea pigs and newspaper clippings about Laika the dog, the first creature to orbit the earth, hint at the broader exploitation of animals. Jo used a combination of newspaper, tin foil, duct tape, bits of trash, paper mâché, welded wire and encaustic wax to create the characters, with the gorilla’s skin made from tire inner tubes and her hair from alpaca fiber sourced from a farm in New Mexico. This freaky family and Jo are currently on a cross-country odyssey through America, bringing wonder, confusion, shock and delight to a diverse, far-reaching and often unexpected audience. Before landing in Los Angeles for a group exhibition in November, Jo and the fam will be making a pit stop in Colorado with October pop-ups in Fort Collins, Denver and more. THE FREAK FAMILY ROADSHOW TOUR: *KEEP UP-TO-DATE WITH THE ARTIST & MORE POP-UPS NEAR YOU* THEFREAKFAMILY.COM • INSTAGRAM: @THE_FREAKFAMILY THE NEIGHBOR - MEMBERS MIXER WEDNESDAY, 10/8 • FORT COLLINS, CO THE LYRIC - MEMBERS MIXER THURSDAY, 10/9 • FORT COLLINS, CO THE LEARNED LEMUR - SIDESHOW FESTIVAL SATURDAY, 10/11 • DENVER, CO MILE HIGH COMICS - POP-UP SUNDAY, 10/12 • 11AM-5PM • DENVER, CO LA LUZ DE JESUS GALLERY - MEMENTO MEMORIUM VULTURE CULTURE GROUP EXHIBITION • LOS ANGELES, CA OPENING RECEPTION: FRIDAY, 11/7 • 7-11PM • EXHIBITION: 11/7-11/30 31 h8Xwh8XvבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://sN-jN7Qs9enIndJZEutP_of8kFYpkJnjJ6OJfA9kyc8T`et׉ 7cassandra://kCe1_qysXVnMmBiQ453jbhocW_Gzm1TqVL5x1yCdG4Yء`׉ 7cassandra://r9d6sema-I35gzNlqcIjDOh5bzVOR8h-FOY_Or0yU94H7`h8X׉E3MATTHEW THERRIEN, HALLOWEEN BOB - @MT_ILLUSTRATION ׉ 7cassandra://r9d6sema-I35gzNlqcIjDOh5bzVOR8h-FOY_Or0yU94H7`h8Xx׈Eh8Xyh8XxבCטu׉׉ 7cassandra://TFmFpzeB9OyGL10GX4fxlI6ww_gWmeLynCBMfn95JUEU`׉ 7cassandra://BhlbwArGMen3h_AjKlbKjx9a-RpEULZkgfku_TkBpgcL\`r׉ 7cassandra://nSCSPREyQABSjM-oWbgUvnVcaqCjYGIzPFqqp6GvKCgS`h8X׉E׉ 7cassandra://nSCSPREyQABSjM-oWbgUvnVcaqCjYGIzPFqqp6GvKCgS`h8Xz׈Eh8X{h8Xz,BIRDY ISSUE 142Published October 2025. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine: art, words, comedy, et cetera. Available monthly in print or online.h];<