FFR 185
To the Unflappable Cognoscenti of Fowl Feathered Review,
Welcome, thrice-blessed recipients of Issue 185! One might inquire, with a polite yet insistent tremor of curiosity, as to the arcane methods by which such a compendium of letters and lines, of thoughts both profound and utterly inconsequential, springs forth into the glaring luminescence of print. Well, settle in, for I shall endeavor to illuminate.
This particular issue, much like a damp pebble contemplating its own existence, was birthed not in some gleaming, sterile edifice of commerce, but within the decidedly earthier confines of a matte black, rusting 1964 Pontiac Bonneville. This venerable chariot, a testament to American automotive persistence, reposed, as is its wont, in the dirt driveway of a chappie whose retirement in a '69 single-wide trailer off Stillwater in Old Town, Maine, appears to be a study in dignified ease, if not precisely a monument to horticultural rectitude.
My editorial sanctum, that mobile nexus of literary endeavor, comprised an almost criminally simple array of instruments. Two burner phones, procured for a mere twenty-eight dollars apiece from a purveyor of sundry necessities, served as my primary conduits to the outside world, or at least to those portions of it still clinging to the concept of telephonic communication. An old RCA tablet with its steadfast wireless keyboard, a multi-charger bravely drawing sustenance from the Bonneville's cigarette lighter, and a paltry twenty bucks for gasoline rounded out the technological ensemble. As for nightly diversions, the AM radio provided a truly bewildering, yet utterly essential, soundscape: rants of indeterminate origin, financial advice of a frankly terrifying nature, the soulful lamentations of ranchero music, and the relentless, almost hypnotic drone of commercials for mattresses. One might say it was a symphony of the mundane and the magnificent.
The very possibility of this litany of short fiction, poetry, and art was, I confess, fueled by a curious triumvirate of provisions. A steady, almost ritualistic consumption of honey buns, Hawaiian pizza, and that most marvelous of modern elixirs, caffeinated lemonade, kept the cognitive gears grinding. And the ethereal guidance, you ask? Ah, that emanated from the collective mind hive of planet Earth, a boundless wellspring of wisdom that subtly, yet undeniably, counteracted the more terrestrial realities of my immediate surroundings: a looming mountain of laundry requiring urgent intervention, the distinctly unchivalrous skirmishes with local raccoons, the unsettling, methadone-driven journeys of certain wanderers into the abyss, and the powerfully aromatic waft of freshly sprayed fertilizer. It was, if you will, a harmonious cacophony of inspiration and impediment.
You, dear reader, are the goblet into which this drink is poured. We trust you find it a curiously invigorating draught.
Best,
Virgil Kay
Editor, Rooster, China Wok Habitué
e-Book copy of this issue:
PDF is attached with C-clamps to this letter.
Music: Wayne King & His Orchestra - Goofus (1930)
Podcast: https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/tnyradiohour/segments/search-big-brown
Film: The Tender Game (1958) – 2014 Remastered Version – John and Faith Hubley
