Calling Bleubird an MC doesn’t feel complete. Storytellers draw from varied impulses, and Bleubird’s vision is oddly utopian. He takes mere observations, gift-wraps them and re-presents them as spectacles. It’s the type of satire that can only be born of a wide-eyed-yet-wary appreciation of modern day landscapes and the people who walk through them. He claims (somewhat disingenuously): “I hide behind my humor because it’s truth that I fear,” but even in his darkest humor he betrays himself.

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