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The Crew

Editor in Chief.............................................................................Ian Adams Editor/Design/Social Media...........................................Aaron Rosenberg Interpersonnel Relations................................................Amanda Galindo Head Photographer...........................................................Frankie Concha Master Illustrator......................................................Mauricio Bustamante Commander Illustrator.....................................................Lawrence Alfred Philosopher...............................................................................Oscar Valle

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Table of Contents
Fluffy - Aaron Rosenberg........................................................................5 Postmortem - Josh Craft.........................................................................6 An Interview with Owen King - Ian Adams ..........................................24 The Figure of the Jester as Necessity - Oscar Valle............................26 The Case of the Vanishing Sock - Aaron Rosenberg..........................30 Check Out the Grand Budapest Ian Adams......................................34 Don't - Adrian Prieto...............................................................................37 Black Coffee Campaign - Adrian Prieto................................................38

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The Modern Corsair will be having a live show on December 27th at the Stay Gallery in Downey at 8:00 PM. There will be live readings and fun to be had. We at The Modern Corsair plan to begin a tradition of a live reading every last Friday of the month. Stay tuned, and we'd love to see you guys there.

An Announcement

8:00 PM December 27, 2013 The Stay Gallery 11140 Downey Ave, Downey, CA 90241

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Fluffy Aaron Rosenberg Alphie grew up wanting a cat. Unfortunately, his mother was deathly allergic to cats and by

ran the Westbrook household with an iron fist. Instead of filling the lonely, only child's desperate need for companionship with a sibling or a different pet, Alphie spent his childhood alone, companion-less, and wanting a cat really, really badly. What better to fill that gap than with

pictures of cats, stuffed cats, kitschy kitten-themed knick knacks, and clothing with felines strewn across it. Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook dismissed it as just a phase at first, and as a healthy little in closet. collection around the time Alphie had constructed a fully blown shrine to the cat gods in his walkAt the age of twelve, Alphie made the choice to convert from good old fashioned

Christianity to the religion of the ancient Egyptians for the purpose of being able to worship the pet shop, tending to the whimsy of whatever cats they had in stock. He fell in love with all ten

little bundles of fur he obsessed over every day. At the age of 17, he started working at the local cats he was tasked with, and had the time of his life feeding and grooming them. He cried for

hours when Sally was given a new home, and plunged into depression when Mr. Twinkles was brought in. By the age of 18, Alphie moved out of the godforsaken, catless household and into he had named Fluffy McFluffinstein.

sold. Each cat was quickly replaced, but Alphie fell in love with every new member of the family his own apartment. The very next day, Alphie returned from work with his very own kitten, whom Alphie quit work the next day. His parents were happy to support their only child, and

Alphie was only working at the pet store to be around cats anyways. Alphie wanted to dedicate all the time possible to his new kitten. Everything had to be absolutely perfect for the gray, mewling love ball he had bought. He spent hours playing with the little, innocent thing; nuzzling her, petting her, and making baby sounds at the kitten he had waited his entire life for. Alphie's life revolved around Fluffy. He made sure the apartment was just to her liking, padding each

corner and installing a scratching post in each room. Soon, the apartment wasn't Alphie's, it was Fluffy. Alphie's long wait was worth it. Fluffy was the perfect cat for him; the dream that he had been building since the day he escaped the womb. Alphie and Fluffy had an amazing fifteen

years together before Fluffy died of old age, and tore Alphie's heart into little pieces, threw them experienced. He spent hours just staring at the corpse of his dead cat, pleading for Anubis to ten hours earlier and decided he needed to honor Fluffy the way that she deserved. He

into the air and lay on top of them, motionless. Alphie plunged into the worst depression he ever take him instead. He eventually tore himself away from the collapsed position he had assumed

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considered mummifying Fluffy like the Egyptians did, burying her, or cremating her, but he

couldn't decide and thinking about it made Alphie cry. He decided to put her body in a plastic bag and stick her in the freezer until he could decide what to do. Then, Alphie dragged his body back to the pet store and looked for a replacement for his dear, dead beloved. He found a kitty that vaguely resembled his lost love and bought it.

was the wrong shade of gray. Alphie tried to love and to care for this new cat, but all he did was better. Fluffy III was sweet, but it wasn't Fluffy. Alphie managed to fill in parts of the gaps in his

Fluffy II did not live up to its name. It lacked the energy that Fluffy did, it was nasty, and it

miss the real Fluffy. He put up with the cat for a week before it ran away. The next cat was a little broken heart, but the depression still took its toll on him every day he woke up to his imposture III. He'd stare into his freezer, staring longingly at the remains of his old cat, wishing for the old stuffed. He wanted to be able stare at his long dead cat without raising his electric bill. Alphie

of a cat. Alphie was still moping around all day, focused on his old cat, only putting up with Fluffy days to return. One day, he decided that he'd bring Fluffy's corpse to the taxidermist for it to be returned home with stuffed Fluffy, finally a little happy again, and placed him in the corner. Fluffy III hissed at the display and sharpened its claws on Fluffy. In response, Alphie smacked the cat with a newspaper. Fluffy III was really starting to get on Alphie's nerves. Alphie spent the next month of his life obsessing over stuffed Fluffy. He stopped feeding Fluffy III, he stopped caring about Fluffy III, he stopped giving a damn about that damned cat. That dammed cat ran away, than any other cat could. but Alphie didn't care. He had Fluffy, and although dead, Fluffy could and had given Alphie more One day, upon returning home Alphie found a pile of ashes where his house used to be.

Alphonse stood in front of where his apartment once was, and his knees gave out. Every

possession he had was gone, but what cut deepest was the loss of Fluffy, again. As normal

procedure for the loss of Fluffy dictated, he cried for a good ten hours. After he got it out of his

system, he left the site, got another apartment, and bought a dog. Alphonse decided he was a a cat in the first place.

dog person after about ten minutes with his new puppy. He wondered what he was doing owning

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"The Dog Day" by Mauricio Bustamante

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Postmortem or Spina Bifida Occulta Josh Craft The jalopy wobbled in riled sand and ratty scrub while My Son Calls Another Man Daddy; by

a Hank Williams tune of pathos hysterically pathetic (even in the context of Hanks canon), wilted minutely through the Chevy, which was not at all a jalopy, but a brand new, agency-issued off-

roader. The sadistically sad song was blaring and not aurally minute, although the shameful wisp of fiddle indeed did wilt. Across the amblyopic depth of newly moonless ranges hanged a groggy flock of arbitrary blots against horizon crags. Dumb and incidental lights which ebbed in turbid throbs at the gasping frequency of long mirage. The badged man humbly stomached fluttering

coolness at the implications of his archetypal boredom. These drooling glows of far-off cars and to impart, had finally threatened to nullify their own splendor in his routine. An adamant yellow acronym adorned the storm-repellent thorax of his windbreaker. He remembered that Hank Williams died in a car but not a car crash. He recalled that

camps, an occasional oddity of vantage and reflection these particular Texan plains were known

Hank Williams died from drugs he took to combat debilitating back pain. They were not for-fun narcotics. There was a straggling eschatology in the clumpy nervebanks of the badged mans of scanner code, phenomena suckled by the gaunt brawn of abbreviation, the world finally meaning as little as it seemed. His pale male frown peered out from the sallow-flaring mind which lovingly dangled the eventual severity of a world assumed into the hypnagogic rain

windshield. He incanted to himself the name of another Hank song, although it was not called

Jayapala, and he would not understand why he had made this error if, by chance, he believed

that such an error had been made. If this moment arrived, it would be of adamantine prevalence, throughout bright heavens and a halcyon breeze, that the mistake was not, nor ever suffered the distasteful fate of having been on his part.

office. He was not wearing a badge at all, of course, but a cord-slung diaphanous pocket of he was a sheriff he was locally known for being the primary survivor in a nationally-covered to their noncommittal relationship with the press (and the inaccessibility of their manifesto

The badged man was the man with the broadest sunglasses in all his jurisdictions federal

formal credentials, and was seldom seen in shades, the job taking place primarily indoors. When ambush upon the precinct by a band of unarmed militants. The sect, aims remaining unclear due [16mm; Morse-code iambic pentameter; live-action Rothko adaptation]), eventually disappeared into the desert and died of starvation. Three of them were later shot. The man, badged, was hospitalized for acute paranoia and Marfa, Texas held its breath. Later, he held a seminar on Gnostic calisthenics (a hobby) and was offered a job in adult filmstwice, from independent

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inquiriesbut nonetheless remained on the job, rising from shield to laminate within the year. office and there was a bearded man in the bed. He said a few things and died, in that order. At some point amid this process he offered the location of the hilltop carnage to which the presumably undesired hole in his torso could be credited. They went inside to call the badged This morning he was following a lead. A pickup truck had pulled up to the front of the

man and did not remember that they had left the clergyman gurgling until a patrolcar stopped to by and was struck by the odor of what had so recently been a bearded man. This intern, later sitting on the curb in a blanket being comforted with coffee, used the word ichor in describing

cite the vehicle for a transgressive zonal incursion. Twenty-seven minutes later, an intern walked

what he saw come out of the man, and said that he had 79% jokingly asked the corpse what it was like no longer having to worry about taxes, because death and taxes. He was shaken up though so he said dex and tathes. A superior retorted how anyhow hed forgotten City Hall.

Whata sentence that was, said the badged man, who had arrived minutes earlier but had waited, crouched behind a taxi attempting to back out (gun drawn to keep the driver subdued), for a clever junction in which to jump.

the car to hear Lost Highway and I Saw The Light. It was an empty acre.

The road named by the dead man led the badged man to a lone fir, fraught. He stayed in

wind. If they had horses this would be a horse and not a fence between his legs. After getting up from the mud, he leapt onto a wide mound of molted sand and saw a battered shack in back of the range. He approached. Adjacent to the shack there was a body, human. The body did not move. There was a brain in the field aside the body, and the brain did not move either. He thumbed his gun, and assumed a stance. The rank wind blew.

He mounted himself on a mildewed fence and smelled unfurling sulfur upon the meadows

man that they were advised to wait for the prescribed specialist before embarking upon the property proper. They leaned back to back against the fir for eight straight minutes before

The proper radiocall was made. The bureau sent an analyst instructed to brief the badged

conversing. There were things you were trained to do and things you tackled intuitively and it brace of mindlessness.

was unclear if this non-turn of events was either, but neither of them quite minded this graceful A bird landed, looked at the men, and walked away. It looked back at the men,

bedazzlingly, as if waiting for a reaction. If the men were watching the bird, then as far as their eyes would follow, it would have walked, and not flown away. The men were not watching the bird, but it did not fly away regardless. It walked, bedazzlingly. The men looked at motes of depressants and minor amphetamines, and the badged man was a bubbling basin of ambivalence about this.

pollen. They inherited shadows in sprawling sun. The analyst produced a filmy packet of major
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--A basin, he said. About this.

Trade because it was merely stolen evidence. He contended that also it would be instructive to they swallowed it all. Things resembled the significant. A swarm of something fluttered by. The bird looked back, on a far horizon. The men studied a leaf in flamboyant descent; studying not the leaf but the descent. They began to approach the brain. --Seems to be what it seems. --Question being if it goes with the body. --The question being what are the odds. --Sure as hell wish we could go in. --Lots to see as is.

He leaned away from the fir. The analyst articulated that this was not contributing to the

take both kinds at the same time. This last point is, at last, what won over the badged man, and

--If we think about all the brains in the world and all the bodies.

--Ive thought all there is with all there is to see. --Thought and sight are hand in hand. --But you can think without looking. --But you can look without thinking.

--A good-natured glance can pop a thousand faulty thoughts from flight. --Tell you one thing. --Do preach it.

--A brain is a good neighbor to have when youre a wayward pair of eyes.

--This bastards brains about as good as a moon in blackface. --I meant to ask about your wife, speaking of blackface. --She lost the leg. --The other one?

lost. She wakes up; her phantom limb is gone. --So its good.

--Same one. She had a dream she had another accident and lost the leg she had already

delusion, the phrase, that her leg was never there at all. --Twice removed. Ive heard of it.

--Youre wondering why Im shaking my head and its because she now has the muscular

-- Nurses called it tendon forgetfulness. I didnt think legs could think. --When is this specialist guy showing up or what? --Hows your mother? Speaking of apes. --Tuberculosis. --They said hes famous for a case with a chimney, if we care. Something about an ape.
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--I remember you saying, but go on.

--She starts her stripping back up. Mortality rears itself a throne.

clothes back on as the music ends, even her wristwatchyou find a person still wears one. --Mumma figures terminal means freedom. Wants to grind the crotch of the angel of

--I got one of them fetishes where I only like when the girl starts buttnude and puts the

death, we guess. Next thing you know she buys a ceilingfan from Belizewho knew that was a place. You know I like history. Dont ask me about women. --Theres a library book terming my affliction retroactive eroticismitalics mine. Ive tried --Mother gets a wound and the doctors say it was a sword. Gash as big as a regular

normal videos on rewind but I need the bare fact of their slow reclothing.

ziplock bag zipper across her back before I can even tell her shes moving too fast in the dating in a stole of spiderbites.

scene. Rest of my life after heaven even dont ask me about women. She comes home last night --I must transmogrify with the phenomenological resonance that the unstripper has

survived unspoiled the nuclear winter of her nudity. All the sex in the snowy random life she had before the camera came left to soft suggestion by removal. I must see her return to normalcy, her parts reholstered. We are talking about the assurance that she will put on a scarf and dissolve into the bleary crosswalk to hail a cab or meet a friend and see a a gig or gallery

opening on drugs too new to be illegal or her mid-town mid-tower two-room studio walkup to covertly touch herself on the terrace with hazy music and blurred paintings inside because everything clear is bad or random wine aloft in Christmas lights of rooftop parties while afraid of whatever else it is they do in the sardonic metropolis of secular fucking. front of your own childs doctor anymore.

cancer and begrudging foreign policy and that she must shave her body or she will do precisely --Were living in a country you cant even think about the safety of your own property in

appendages of the lawmen quiver from the pills. We change the tense here from past to present to create an effect of disorientation and/or immediacy. The badged man unsheathed a magnifying glass. They neared the body and crouched precisely in the manner in which they were trained; knee first for gravity, sole second for stability, calf third for adjustment. They considered, mutually, without saying it, or looking at each other, or without even thinking it, that the brain did not, in fact, belong to the body it had been keeping company. The analyst then experiment that eerily resembled this present case, prompting him to think, and then finally --Or if it did they sowed it back up. remembered a nightclass at the academy in which an in-class essay oriented around a thoughtsuggest that that the brain did not, in fact, belong to the body it had been keeping company.
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A phlegmatic jetplane brags about itself throughout the sky. Between stray seconds,

--Which would make sense if there were sowing marks. --Unless they sewed up the sowing marks. --There will always be sewing marks.

--Why are we still waiting for this guy? understand what I mean? I dont.

THE WAR WORLD

--What if the brain is the brain of a being that wed not refer to as human. Do you IS

--My nun broke up my mom and pop. Ive told you this.

--We see brains and we wonder what kind of life he lived when he was a mind. --She ran off with my mom. Mom was a nun also. Sister Mother. --Its unlikely they got the brain out through the mouth. --My father became anorexic and took up archery. --Unless this is what they want us to think. DEAD

This was my dads King of the Jews. The sign you remember they nailed.

--Dad was too weak to ever pull back the bow. String-bean, sensei cruelly crowned him. --They could have taken the bodys brain and then sat the second, unrelated brain beside

to the body to confound, and perhaps also, to taunt investigating authorities and subsequent press. One will recall the Zodiac and the way a nation held its breath. --My fatherd become a Taoist though, so he couldntve hunted anyway.

And how more and more we have to recognize an age where it is possible that the individual, the gentlemen here, was simply born without a brain. --So this act was a mockery of his plight. --Hate-crime.

--Lets not discount the very real reality of handicapped peoples in this country everyday.

--His bravery. His story. Locked-Out Syndrome. --Itd be the countys twenty-eighth this month. --I hate hate-crimes. --He was driving to work as a citizen and they pulled him out. L.A. riots redux. They pull

him out. We sadly know the likelihood. You buy some rat poison, a chalice. They drop him here. We as a society do this. They head back to town and murder the secretary of a medical office. Weve done this. --The brain here is hers. Bastards.

teeth. Machetes. They holler to lab technician, come up for a minute, we need to see you. Come

--Be reasonable, friend. They marched down the corridor in horrid halogen with white

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on up. Were a customer.

--Youre saying because it looks male, the brain, which youre right.

agitated the technician with the polythene broom. You realize Im saying were looking at an act of crime in the anal regard. --We forget this happens all the time. --Bastards. Alas. The table.

--Chances are they strangled him, and after they drowned the janitor in sulfuric acid, they

--They entered the morgue, at last. Bastards, took a brain from a table. --They used that brain to jam the security door of the morgue and used the extra time,

precious momentsperversion of that brandname, family enterprise of free enterprise, porcelain cherubs praying and other feathery heartsuckling tableaus, the Judeo-Christian foundations on animal specimens like brains kept there for education. And what kind of padlocks. This is what dead from the handle of a custodial device, brains marring the barley of bare hills, sulfur upon the meadowwind. Youll remember the Zodiac. The bastard. --Your words, your points youre saying; everything is my thoughts exactly. which yes the country is founded if you look it up, to break the glass of the cabinets and retrieve our taxdollars are doing in their twilight years. Education over defense. Look at us now. An anus

reports, assume theyre scotch free, have intercourse with a tree, stab a bird with heroin. Civilized people understand this happens. --They have a variety of sex with who knows what kind of music playing. --Genres that to us would be the equivalent of color to a kid born blind. --Sex with who knows what. --The nephilim.

--This bought them their alibi. Most likely hit the backroad, get off the grid, scan police

-- Reciting Nietzsche at climax. Alpha and Omega of civilization.

-- They stole a uterus and wore it as an octopi war-mask against the family unit which is --Looking at the facts though it seems like our worst fears, if I may, that they shot a child --The gun or the child chokes. --Child. --On the gun.

with its own BB gun until it began asphyxiating.

unquote, their bare hands to pick up that dull rock. --You cant imagine.

--On this raving heinous life. They employ, like all proudly unionized workers, quote

--We have to. The job. With the territory. Emotionally uninvolved. Hazards. That dull rock

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to open the skull while the boy still heinously raved and screamed. --Raving, heinous. --Life.

--Brains too big for boy though.

world of science has been set back another fifty years due to all the woeful contributions this

--Because they murdered the smartest boy in the South and now our reputation in the

beautiful boy will never make. Bulbous hemispheres of his spectral skull planet, butchered. All he was probably blonde.

the biopics now never made. Oscars for Cinematography, nope. I think his name was Kyle and --He is primordially blonde. His body grew from his hair. --We all grew from it. --Forget Adam.

--Never forget Adam.

--Adam with blonde pubic hair. Kyle came from that. We mumble in their shadow. --This was Ky incarnate. That luscious brain all gone. --He was knee-deep in synthesizing a chemical that could create and contain wormholes --The bastards.

and was going to make theoretical physics just physics again.

--The bastards robbed our daughters of his someday soaring sunlit fluids. --You realize that we mean Northerners. These crimes. Attacks, wed have to call them. --Infrastructural. --Wake up, people. HERE

--I should say something though right now. --Im not going to say its racial but need I? --Im going to have to say wait a minute, bud. The sunlight, bud. REIGNS

--We say these colors dont run but alls I sees a triathlon of hues to me. --Youre burning a hole in the brain with the magnifying glass.

THE PLANTATION OF THE HUNGERLESS HUNTER KINGS The car which could have only contained the specialist, and did, creepingly gravel-

scraped toward the field. After the specialist studiously hiked across the range with a lively brevity of motion, the first question presented was not as to the most drearily beguiled
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countenance of the duo, as he put it, but rather as to just what strain of narcotics the two had ingested, and as to whether the analyst was allergic to the agile tonics, given the apparent swelling of the jowls of the sir. He told them he had been sent from a sister agency since the of an ongoing investigation in an adjacent region. The badged man and the analyst did not identify the specialists French accent (or the majority of the adjectives he employed) with coherent accuracy, but they felt negatively seduced by them all the same.

modus operandi of this singular and incorrigibly dramatic deed of calamity had aligned with that

little sun-borne crater on its form, they walked up to enter the shack. The badged man and the analyst went about brandishing their metal weapons as the specialist knocked not on the door but on and around its frame. This was not explained. His reasoning for casually palming the knob and walking in was, however, offered.

After the specialist surveyed the body and the brain and fruitlessly quizzed the men on the

and I presently do find myself subject to a state of nearly euphoric vibrancy of speculative chore after taxing the shady hours in my studypleasantly vexed by a sagaciously peculiar tale of denizen of country nor of town. ancient Persian originthat this dilapidated fixture could not possibly be subject to any living --Let us ask how in Sam Hill you come to that conclusion, my specialized colleague? --You barging in we couldve been mowed down like dogs. --Never hear of brothers in arms?

It was of a sterling obviousness to my albeit keen facilitiesfor I have been well-rested

--Were six arms together so thats at least double brotherly you violated. front.

Why sirs, I merely peered in through the back window of the house before driving to the When the man and the analyst followed the specialist into the shack they both

immediately let their posture loosen, not in ease but in a haze of reeling reaction, a hand

reaching up but not quite covering a mouth, a gun jostlingly holstered as they approached the the barbequed arms of a rocking chair, that item similarly hellblasted.

tortured charcoal outline of what had once been a man, now reposed as a scum composite upon They had seen it all but they had not seen it all arranged like so.

small refrigerator, but nothing that a matter of slightly staggered trajectory upon its invasion would not tautly explain.

Indeed a curious radius of flame, in consideration of the relatively kempt texture of the

and shape, noticing the space between where the back and frontal columns of the chest cavity so the specialist explained.

A film of dim bone concentrate could be followed to trace the essence of the mans weight

had been, with relativity to the jagged ring in representational office of the poor souls pelvis, or
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certainly queer if it were not for the way the burn-lines run true and consistent up to the ceiling, thus, almost indelibly confirming my previous assertion, or lets at least feign some modesty, and say suggestiontheres a Latin phrase for thisthat the angle of the incendiary devil did indeed rip at an awkward saunter, nearly, I may estimate, missing the very subject of its fiery volition. --Im going cigarette while asleep. --Ovens what Im thinking. --Damages dont match oven. --Matches a mans shape. triumphantly.

Let me postulate once more that the off-kilter nature of the blazes shading would be

--Damages dont match anything. The specialist ran a white-gloved finger along the sooty windowsill and then stood back, --By which we mean--

outside onto the theoretical lap of the victim. --Methane in intestines. --By which we mean.

The specialist then stood in the doorway and mime-tossed an object to and fro from

--Spontaneous combustion.

"The Bandaged Man" by Lawrence Alfred

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--Spontaneous combustion. Human, I mean.

--Its no offense, asking you to specify, you dont mind.

-- So-called scientists wont give you the time of day on this. SHC. A lot to take. --A little exactitude never felled a plane or fogged a lens. --Its all there. Our own eyes. Nature of the radius. --This is the state of things and we dont realize. --The word Sheeple and the phrase Wake up. --The footage is out there.

--Go to your jobs. Fellate your TV. Long Live Big Brothers Long Liver.

--In our hearts and not our eyes which is in the end all that we need. interject.

The specialist finished jotting in a frazzled looseleaf journal and then raised a hand to --But the feet.

--The feet are not intact. --No longer SHC. --Thats that.

--Could be anomaly.

--It was textbook but now it isnt. --Not even in the appendix. --Methane in appendix possible?

--I was saying not even the appendix of the textbook. --The patterns dont match the patterns for anomaly. --Patterns are the path. --Patterns point the path.

--Patterns pat the path on the pithy head. --Patterns piss on the head of the head. --Made to seem spontaneous. I get it. easily perhaps, also, into mixed media.

--So this very well could be an elaborate, indignant hap of action painting, extending --Rauschenberg would admire the sense of terse collision. --One of these media being performance, no doubt. --The explosion, vandalism. What seems to be a brain outside.

understand.

--And it puts you in the mind of midsixties action art. The Austrians, Vienna. We --The pagan cortex of coital derangement.

--Voodoo gyration, smear and gleam, straightblades ala Bunuel.

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--Age of Agent Orange. Mostly painters and students watching. --The global village. Students and the insane watching. --Insane student painters even if they never touched a brush, performing. of the womb.

--Asses bare in pigsblood. Casually electric copulation against the state. Lysergic militias --Becoming a phantom state itself. --This is where we say what is art. --Which we do not.

--The despot berserker of gladly godless immolation. --This is where we say that nothing is art because we say so. --Because what did they mean when they did that.

--Because what does what and mean and did and that mean. A BADGE IS A FOSSIL FROM YEAR ZERO --Lets not also discount that this could very simply be a vegetative event gone --The swamp grew into something else is what youre saying.

preternaturally awry.

the kind of thing that would make our town famous for discovering. The specialist attempts to interject. --Unless its poison. acknowledge.

--Not like the comic book, or its film adaptation which co-starred Adrienne Barbeau, but

--Prehistoric gases the centers for disease control would cry if we made them --Theyd go to the bathroom out of both ends. All that federal funding and wait its The --The swamp mutated into a fatty pressure point, uprooted through this shack, went --Is only in our eyes the shape of a man. --That word. --Ophelia.

People who cinched it.

entirely noxious and exploded, and what were seeing here--

--Apophenia.

--Tender is the Not.

--Us thinking things mean anything.

--Even in death her breath was petals.

--Adam from earth, Ophelia to swamp. Hamlet a ham.

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--They call us pigs like if they worked a day. YEAR ZERO IS THE VIBRANT NEXUS OF FREE EMPATHY --The world is not called the world because it is not called anything. --How do we know this shack is a shack? --Housing crisis. Wish fulfillment. --The reappearing middle class.

convoluted and rather intellectually lurid spell of jocularity at present, yesI do presume,

You gentlemen are hopefully, quite intrinsically, engaged in a spritely, admittedly

however audaciously? and are, at days end, I must pray, unequivocally endowed with the

presumably learned knowledge, applied to a rather standard happenstance here if I may so assign, that this sordid aberration is inarguably nothing other than the result of a dislodged bushel of dull ammunition generally referred to as a cluster bomb, yes? canyonously. this?

This was the moment where the canyon of a moment would pass, and then it passed, --Now why in the goddamned hell would a thing like that be in a goddamned place like I am not one to embark upon the spoils and glories of political intrigue before Ive put

away my lunch, or at least a lick or two of bisque or baguette, but I presume thats a question for your myriad leaders. Taking to a uncharred chair, the analyst nestled his chin into his shoulder. He sat an elbow

on the armrest and the elbow slipped, once, lashing his head as if he quickly waking from stolen sleep. He was not asleep, and he had not stolen anything since he was on a job in Saudi Arabia in the early nineties, that memory momentarily arising before shriveling away. He groped an forget everything that had ever happened to him or his life or self and there was the faintly hovering mindmoon that this presented a problem. outer coatpocket for further pills before noticing that there was no outer pocket. He began to

dust in doing so, sneered with a theatrically pointed finger at the nonplussed specialist, feeling consciously staunch and solid in his committed molecules. Is this a riddle? --Why would any tootin Johnny go hocking rockets down on Marfa, Texas? --While were at it, Im of the amnesia you never showed me your credentials. this...you say

The badged man stomped along rattly boards, and conjuring a short shore of gruesome

Wait, oh drear! Lo! Lo! You are not bound to the pitiable premise that we are presently in
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--Marfa, Texas.

Marfa, Texas, are you?

--Where else would we be?

Where else could we be but the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan? The analysts quiet face in silver tears. --Im thinking thats a hot lie and I should lay you down right here. Ho! What horrible jollity I am bestowed with! --If youre expecting me to threaten you, thats what this is. Surprise, your honor. I throw

you at the mercy of my court, and the mercy is my gun in your body and the court is a bullet up in it. Friend, does it not cross your mind that all the road signs upon your steadied trek were

seldom wearing strokes of the Queens alphabet? That there are sonic-addled aeroplanes which carouse the heavens? That you even observed the visage of far-off mortar fodder this very dawn?

sunscreen on their noses. Even at night. Large percentages hope aliens. Marfa Lights, man. All the unsolved mystery shows have done us. And how in the damned blue devils garter do you know what I did this morning? In the empathetic speed and rapture of my explication, I, admittedly, allotted an undue

--Those were the Marfa Lights. Marfa, Texas. Tourists and kids show up. They wear their

glance into the reaches of a rather spectralby your notions of cosmology, I would so estimateadvantage of my knowledge, and

Ill be damned you leave this question unseen to.

--How do you know what I did this morning. My gun is on my belt. My eye is on your face. Did you not hear the tattoo of warstrung maelstrom along the villageways of riled sand?

if we must. I prefer Hanks son, but it was the only disc around. Still wouldve heard a bomb anyhow, you foreign-accent frig.

--Its nothing I need to tell you but for the sake of it I was playing some music in the Chevy

behold, duly. It is by a curious array of circumstances and, rather, a disarray of proper realities that I should come to inform you of this dilemma. Essentially, it would appear that our entire

Ah, but not necessarily within the proximity within which you were stationed! I pray you

squirming confusion of manners here is perhaps entirely the result of the ambitiously groomed, shortform tale which you and I are now so uneasily occupying.

but ultimately undeniable insufficiencies of the penman who has lit with life the very words of this The badged man would have had it up to here with that if he had understood it, but by this
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point, he did not want to unnerve his now palpable nausea which seethed in around his

inexplicable terror at what the specialist was starting to say, as if the badged man fervently knew

where this was going.

brazenly coy, arranged on the very plains of your home state, yet evidently could simply not

Perhaps the author endeavored to impart a fine tale of some mystifying order, however

render this arraying of consciousness without an awareness of the macabre, and even I will established academics of your time is, monikerd more often than not as intranational state

allow; disheartening geopolitical matrix of his time, rife with the unchecked sport of what in the violencethe plunder of your present, past, and recent governmental bastionsand so by pollinate with that of yours.

degrees, the stark intonations of that blood constellation began to intersect and eventually crossThe badged man was on his knees. The analyst was in a corner, somehow becoming You are not a federal agent working in Texas, lad. How gay the idea! You are an

unrecognizable. It all happened in a manner that resembled something else.

intelligence agent sent to observe the wreckage left by the errant trails of a drone strike gone slightly astray from its initial aims. Honestly, arent you privy? The man in the shackhousemates with a local clergymanpicked up the horrid fruit of chrome and took it a stilted fervor. The device was carried in, not thrown.

back to his home, wherein it apparently lit with some ferocity! This is why the trajectory displayed The badged man was on his face. The analyst was in the process of no longer being

there. There is the laughter of a bird on the horizon, spied through a dead window, the size of a gnat from this distance. The badged man was the man with the broadest stunned glance as if idly derelicting his fair new role as auspice.

to contain the capacities to articulate such incongruity, so let us again leave this deficiency at the of essential sentience regarding each others worlds. And let us, furthermore, also not neglect consideration of that beguiling immensity of awfulness that this dreamweaver, be he named adept to comprehend that I am but a figment of the turn of his wavering words. What a whatever, allotted myself in summation with my complete intrepid charms of being acerbically monstrous deficit of foresight, and what an affront to the integrity of wholesome storytelling, if I may judge as such. I do not feign a virginally sullied sense of decency on the matter; I admit from prior ventures that there is an undoubted appeal in such syntactical libertinism, but these

Now as for my most peculiar agency in this inarguably vibrant debacle, I cannot pretend

feet of our most unfaithful author, that we were birthed into these pages with such a gross chasm

indulgent stratagems negate the necessity of their presence by the zenith of the jig. I have been shoehorned into your dilemma under the wan pretext of some provocative aesthetic spasm and nothing more. This longing for perilous expeditionary fancy is fine inherently, but is tacitly fit for necessary in the realm of the written word. What tawdrily gag-addled ruffian would set such a

some other trade, far removed from the integral feelings of homosapien affairs, as is explicit and
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myopic ejaculation of hollow notion into fruition and not expect a intuition akin to my own not to

realize, castigate, and ultimately, exact due dismantling upon its scaffolds? when placed within it, of all things? Our enchanter has revealed a penchant for exploiting the service and luster of our respective realities and morbidly jabbing at them as such as they twitch and fiddle and quiver, and I will not abide this tyranny. The badged man and the analyst are words.

expression? It is little wonder. The whole of your essences has been unspooled rather in a rather surly fury by my own tongue, and now with tangible regret, I must admit a strobe of shame and donate an eager palm of apology. But no! It is to the toiling of our variously forsaking author and his gratuitous investment in multiplicitous destruction that we owe your livid dissemination. You implore if multiplicitous is a real word. I am lashed by my own tongue as he suspectly lampoons the characteristic and period-accurate ornamentality of my vocabulary of my dialgoue. Now it is besmirchment by typo! Note that I employed the compound word period-accurate; which is unquestionably anachronistic to the lingual zeitgeist from whence I hail. My word. His words.

And how is that? What ho? You are, the both of you, unable to exclaim any semblance of

Good god. Him god. Me god. Bad gods all. Nay, nay. I sense, as may be obvious to you readers, the encroaching dilution of my own rigorous facilities, and that this is the lowly tactic by which this writer responds to my excavation of his malicious fashions. But I bid him this feeble

dialectic, if it soothe the demon of guilt in him. I am content with the assurance I have bested him in the oily wiles of his own chamber. It is apparent to all involved he has failed at the important one commencing stroke of exprapex of this shadowy endeavor we call a tale. All brain, no bone. If I might, quite simply, suggest

fashioned for me from matchsticks the fetal twins of closed quotes. You and I were in between the flesh and muscle of the painting, but I heard the puerile commotion and remembered my days on Jupiter and the goldbugs of the expensive attic. You is Her, and a million imperialisms ago, I took to scribing a medicinal arch of harped galaxies modeled after the silhouette of her stillness I was able to abduct was for the ends of describing her smile was a sentence which awkwardly involved violins. This was all that could be done to retreat from the sweltering (your) voiceprint. It was fastened onto the winds of a dawn in which the most viable fragment of

Candles continued to die and one night in the alley the neighbors in weird charity

execration of Le Chevalier Dupin and his cretin implications upon the necessary crimes of our kind. I demanded a refund for the damages of the exported albatross, and even left him an acrobatic voicemail saying Hypocrite reaper, my martyr, my blunder. During this era, I went to less movies, often remembered to eat breakfast, and walked by bleeding vagrants beside the bike trail at dusk without later writing them into poems. After the interim skating rink of silence
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collapsed beneath the handsome cruiseship, I retired the loyal poise of syllabic charmer and returned the asss jawbone to its cozy. I fashionably spent the entire winter of an acclaimed Pollock exhibition as a paralytic mime. When Internal Division reopened the case of this short

story, I fled to Tahiti and unregrettably became wallpaper that filmmakers who shared the career arc of descending accessibility linear with that of quality found vengefully nostalgic in fragrance. A telegram sent from my steamship north of Tangiers explained (what my lawyer [who lived in a doghouse] told me to refer to as) the Central Metaphor of Dupin seeing imagination, and thus fiction, as violence against reason, casting a poststructuralist-sounding light upon prose, which could thus be equated to those of a crime scene; one which Dupin would proceed to solve have never used a telephone on which I sounded totally comprehensible. My life now is so

could be considered therein an artifact of weaponry. Our established processes of interpretation through his (historically) innovative and international prowess of wit. Since then, I intentionally erudite that I feel like an old puma in a blue gazebo. The last that the knotty world heard from me was the internet message which I requested my longtime ex-pastor publicly refute, but was left unchallenged after his challengingly inexplicable death at a reenactment of his birth. I thought the blip in question was poignant, but well see what the figureShe, Her, Yousmoking a

vaporized Deren film on the patio, her jokes invaded by glacial time, makes of it. It had vacated a sparrow (which had been prominent in an never-promoted student uprising) on the steps of a civic building in Zurich; head aslant, satirizing the slack stance of all Dead Birds; clumsily we could only find on cassette(ergo with artwork abridged; sans bird), if ever. It read as follows:

my mind, but was only this morning sent to me by a fan after it was found stitched to the body of

dreaming into its mangled wing, as if an image on the center of a surreally obscure post-punk LP

a plane of skin. Mystery is manifold. True very very nervous I had been but now am not. Such is the beading of our hideous art.

Good morning, tiny reader. My confession has been nothing. The page is not a blade, it is

[The Purloined Writer]

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Owen King, of Bangor, Maine is a stunning author. One may be tempted to call up and coming but with his first full length novel 'Double Feature' it can be said that he has come, seen and conquered the literary world. The youngest of Stephen King's offspring, Owen King writes with an individual style his own. With each segment he raises the bar of what written humor can achieve before long you might laugh out loud at a line or six causing those around you to stair. Let them, I say. This book is smart, funny and engrossing.

The King of Page and Screen by Ian Adams

How long have you been writing 'Double Feature'? It's been about five to seven... seven years. And what inspired the novel? Where did the ideas come from? I read a lot on the lost films of Orson Welles. How at the end of his life he had these movies he did on a shoe-string budget. A lot of those movies were really good. But there are some out there who have been put away in a vault somewhere. I wanted to think about a character (Sam) who like Welles deals with that kind of creation, project that is just for the guys who worked on it.

You know "Star Wars Kid" video? What is celebrity like for a guy like Star Wars Kid"?

The story follows a young man fresh from college named Sam Dolan who harbors aspirations of becoming a film director. Sam is troubled when he receives notes on his film 'Who We Are' from his father Booth Dolan (a retired B-list film star from '60 and '70 shlock pictures like 'The Devil of the Acropolis' or the 'Hellhole' series) tells him that the film is too stuffy. His first book 'We're All in This Together' was comprised of one novella and three short stories. He garnered recognition in a nomination for the National Magazine Award. Mr. King came to Vromans' book store in Pasadena for a signing, and after reading a surprising and hilarious passage from his book in which his protagonist solicits money from his notgirlfriend, he then kindly submitted to a number of my questions.

'Course Welles had financial problems, tried to make movies on his own dime, actors would die, so he was left with scenes of unfinished movies.

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What is your favorite Orson Welles book? (Taking a healthy pause he answers.) Rosebud. But David Thomson is mean. By witch I mean when he covers the later period he seemed very disproving of the shoe-string budget. I thought that was unfair. What sort of books did you read when you were younger? Got to say Vonnegut. I read a lot of Vonnegut. You are working with the screenwriter of 'Winter's Bone' on a new project? Yes I am. Are you not at liberty to say anything about it? No. No, I'm not really at liberty.

Is 'Double Feature' a humor novel or is it literature with humorous elements? Gee- I don't know. That's not really up to me to decide. That kind of thing comes down to you readers. Sorry for such a lame answer. It's fine. Tell me: Why read out the best part? Now some here tonight might not buy it. Oh- the phone sex? Masturbating? There are a few other great scenes in the book. Masturbating. Defiantly a lot more penises for you. (He laughed.) Can you say what's next for you? I can say I've started researching for the next book. But just know while I was working on this one I read up on Chernobyl. I thought I wanted to do a novel on that. But I never have been there and I realized I can't speak Russian or Ukrainian. So that project was a wasted year of research. So...

The phone sex? Masturbating? There are a few other great scenes
So, as you are working in Hollywood circles now, would you like to work on a script for a 'Double Feature' adaptation? I think a film adaptation of my book would involve truncating the story, which is dense, complex. Something would come out and I'd not like to be the one to do it. Who do you see in the role of Sam if these novel doses get the movie treatment? Well, he'd need to be twenty-two, just out of college. Some young guy then. Booth would be an easier casting. I could see Oliver Platt. Hes good. Yeah, Oliver Platt for Booth.

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Can you discuss the development of Sam, your protagonist? Not to give too much away but Sam's movie becomes a success just not the way he had expected it to. I was thinking about how nowadays people seem to get famous doing bad things. Not horrible things just embarrassing. I thought of- you know "Star Wars Kid" video? What is celebrity like for a guy like "Star Wars Kid"? Also I'd like to say, I lived in New York a while back and around the corner from my apartment was this video store that took movies really seriously. The one half of the store had a sign that said "Commercial Fair" with every movie you've ever heard of and the other half

One day I had to rent the Jean Claud VanDamn movie "Sudden Death". You may have seen it. Jean Claud had to beat up this bad guy who's in the Pittsburgh Penguin's costume. So I didn't want to go to this video store where all the clerks watched Polish black and white films. But they were closest. So I put the movie on the counter ready to be given shit about it and the guy in black horn-rim glasses just looks at me and gives a soul ending sigh. Sam is like that. He's written a script for a movie that is really serious. He wont take criticism from any one.

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The Figure of the Jester as Necessity by Oscar Valle To be (interesting) or not to be (interesting). That is the question; although the question From Rome with Juvenal, to Hamlet through to Laurence Sterne, and to the modern

may have never existed.

political satirist, the jester (or for both men, Yorick the jester for the king and Laurence Sternes

other name) has been the recurring figure in the history of gravity, or as how Friedrich Nietzsche possibility of creating ones subject (the I), all affects pass through the subject, whether as active is used, what is meant by lift? To have found someone elses body flattened by the weight it

calls, the spirit of gravity. For Nietzsche (or Zarathustra), in the flux of becoming, in the constant forces or reactive forces in the will to power. In the case when the expression to lift ones spirit carries, and squandered (by reactive forces if we borrow Nietzsches term, which are always to carry that weight off, or to carry with that slowed down body of the other, becomes a

related to guilt, bad conscience, and not having the capacity to have ones own solitude), coming possibility. And laughter as the possibility of affirming suffering, would mean that solitude was playing on equal grounds, sometimes even on universal grounds. Like Mark Twain says Everything human is pathetic. The secret of humor is not joy but sorrow; there is no humor in

heaven. (Perhaps Mark Twain is referring to the pathetic as that which lies outside of writing). that of a subject created by the ideologies of the former and the latter. Or the face of our daily simplicity and illegitimacies (I will not say errors). There where Nietzsche challenged a great burden I should add that he was ill for a

Humor as an extreme point of equal patheticness, is like a reflected face of a king, a fascist, or

great part of his life, having loss of vision at times, paralysis, and migraines was by challenging Christ with laughter, and against the un-laughing God of Christ. Truly, too early did that Hebrew die... (FN 54) Similarly in an interview Chilean writer Roberto Bolao is asked what made him laugh,

and he responded My own misfortunes and other peoples misfortunes. - I will add that he was also anticipating death through illness at this point in his life- and then he was asked what made
27

him cry, and he said The same thing: misfortunes, mine and other peoples. (RB 366)

such jesters in history. The main necessity outside of foolishness is that of play. Causality at its finest creates the space of theater where no one is out of the play, the play from the truth in like the incapacity to rule an entire country. humor. Even ones foolishness can become an object of laughter: ones incapacities in general, But, I now hear an invitation from out in front of me which says Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we slay. Come, let us slay the spirit of gravity! (FN 153).

The figure of the Jester must not be an image of a foolish man, even though there were

Bolano, Roberto, Ignacio Echevarria, and Natasha Wimmer. Between Parentheses: Essays, Articles, and Speeches, 1998-2003. New York: New Directions, 2011. Print. Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, Caro Adrian Del, and Robert B. Pippin. Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Cambridge: Cambrige UP, 2006. Print. 28

"The Jester of Time" by Aldo Fratti Mena

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The Case of the Vanishing Sock by Aaron Rosenberg

"Righty" by Lawrence Alfred

The stage is dark at first. A single spotlight suddenly turns on and is aimed at Frank Lawson, P.I. Frank is narrating his case so far to the audience.
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FRANK LAWSON (To the audience) Every clue so far has pointed me in this direction. Every word has led me to this city: London, England. A city that makes a foreigner feel like a joker in a shuffled deck of cards. It all started a week ago, when I lost my sock. Lights go on, theres a pile of laundry on a table. Frank walks over to the pile, whistling, and picks up a single argyle sock. He looks bewildered by its missing twin. Lights go off. Spotlight on Frank FRANK LAWSON (To the audience) The sock was irreplaceable. It had been a gift from Teddy Roosevelt, from when I saved his life during the case of the time traveling phone booth. I set off to find it, interrogating whomever I needed to. Lights go on. There is a worker from the cleaners nearby. Frank gestures at him. FRANK LAWSON Hey, you! Do you work here? WORKER Yea, whats the problem? FRANK LAWSON Wheres my other sock? WORKER Sir, were not responsible for any missingFrank grabs the worker by the shirt. FRANK LAWSON (Cuts him off) Bullshit! Wheres my sock? WORKER You dont have to yell, sir. FRANK LAWSON Yes I do! Where is your headquarters located? WORKER London. London, England.
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Lights off. Spotlight on Frank. Frank turns to face the audience, pushing the worker away. FRANK LAWSON (To the audience) Suddenly, i had a city. The plane ride over was an uncomfortable one. I was anxious, and wearing only one sock. That brings us to the present. I arrived at the dry cleaner headquarters. One look and i knew it was the front for one of Londons gangs: the cleaners. The question was: did the cleaners deal in other peoples socks? Lights on. A man in a suit is standing behind a desk near Frank. Frank confronts the man in the suit. MAN IN SUIT How can I help you? FRANK LAWSON A man in America pointed me this way when I asked about a missing sock. You wouldnt happen to know anything about it, would you? MAN IN SUIT I wouldnt, but I think I know exactly who you want to talk to. The man in suit crouches below his desk and puts a sock puppet on his hand. A sock puppet that matches Franks missing sock. RIGHTY Hello, Detective. FRANK LAWSON (To the audience) My god, it was my missing sock. It wasnt stolen. It wasnt lost. It was recruited by gang members. My right sock had left the foot of justice, and played right into the hands of organized crime. FRANK LAWSON Egad! Righty! RIGHTY Long time, no see, detective.

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FRANK LAWSON You betrayed me! I took you in; treated like you were my own! How could you do this to me? RIGHTY I was tired of your abuse. Look at your feet, with those.. Those.. Shoes! I was fed up with being overshadowed by them. The world gets to see your shoes, and your socks never get the limelight. FRANK LAWSON Im sorry, Righty. I never meant to hurt you. Will you forgive me? RIGHTY No! Socks! Kill the detective! Two people walk up to Frank with sock puppets on their hands. Frank slowly starts to back away. Everyone except Frank freezes. FRANK LAWSON (To the audience) For a second, it looked like I were done for. Then I realized: It wasnt the men I were up against. It was the socks. Frank walks up to the men and removes the puppets from their hands and tosses them at the ground. The men look defeated and walk away. FRANK LAWSON End of the line, Righty. Youre coming with me. RIGHTY Noooooo!!! Rightys extended yell of "No!" is muffled as Frank pulls the sock off of the hand. Lights off, Spotlight on Frank. FRANK LAWSON (To the audience) And thats how it ended. I took out the sock puppet leader and stomped on his little fuzzy dreams of organized crime. Case closed.

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There is a certain verity of film I love. Not simply like. I madly crave one variety of film that sends my spirit soring. In veteran cinematic nomenclatures film refers to the moving pictures that hold genuine artistic merit. It is this understanding which separates La Vita e Bella (Benigni) from 2 fast 2 furious. Of course this is my opinion. In a world of postmodernity who is today a study in the crushing death machine of the Nazi death camps are more artful, than stubbly men and the cartoonish endowed women driving really, really fast. This variety of film I so crave, as I did ever slightly digress, is the creation of the author. This term comes from the French, meaning author. Authors are those rare but so dazzling of filmmakers who can right, direct and organize the film into the most complete assembly of their expression on screen. I have followed a number of such artists in their career: Christopher Nolan in muted urban scrapes, full of threat and menus as well as astounding glints of special in a seemingly realistic world. Everything from the introspective, profanity laden violence of Quentin Taratino, to the introspective, profanity laden humor of Kevin Smith. These men are unified in continuing

Check Out the Grand Budapest by Ian Adams

similarities that mark individuality. Have a screen switched on thirty minutes into the action, with the sound off and you will immediately know from color, lighting, cast whos film you are watching. With a true authors work, one may sit blindfolded in the cinema and hear the word chose, the poetic rhythm of the words and would know which of these artists words they heard by that underling voice. In film, that is the film of authors, one creator stands away from the rest. Like the others, by virtue of his creative process, he has made few feature films in a twenty year career (eight). But each are a delight that blend a comic whimsy and sincere drama. Wes Anderson, child of lone star state grew up in a private school and wrote plays from an early age, like one of the prolific children of the Tenenbaum Family. What then, is the wise question is it that sets apart Mr. Andersons creations from other films that may cover topics such as family dynamics struggling with failure and childhood? In the field of movie making, most obvious is the visuals. Wes Andersons films have a clear vocabulary of visual reference and semiology.

From Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

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Mr. Anderson utilizes it expertly in scenes of humor and drama. This perspective on a scene lends to the reality of the moment. We as an audience are disengaged, with no over the shoulder shot, and can watch as completely passive observers. The moment is self-contained, without us (the viewers.) Anderson then uses what I would consider the opposite tactic

visually, the direct address, As far back as Rushmore that would direct the characters to look directly into the camera, as we are seeing though the eyes of another character (zero and Agatha in the Grand Budapest Hotel) or he gives us the experience if the character reacting to themselves (Chas & RichieTenenbaum long look in the sink mirror). This stylistic choice forces the viewers to be involved in the action of the film. This fabricated person in the theaters projection is in a tight close up, demanding eye contact, and your agencies involvement. Character is also a rich part of Wes Andersons projects. To this end he makes regular casting of actors he trusts, who he has familiarity and who will respect his vision. Repeatedly he casts the Owen brothers along with Jason Schwartzman, Bill Murray and younger brother of Eric Chase Anderson have rounded out his casts in a process he once described as: I always bring new people in. I like to work with my friends. If the people working on the film are friends, I think, they see it on the screen,

From The Royal Tenenbaums (2001)

to some degree. This comes together with the final element of Wes Anderson stylistic choices. Anachronism colors the body of his work. Clothing fashioned from 1960s fashion magazines, pastel colors and was painted dynamic, cartoonish shades. Even outside of films explicitly said to be set between 1955 to 1969, Andersons deign and pallet are influenced by the homey look of the floral print and the plastic fantastic of midcentury suburbia. In a film set in the present, this scheme of a history that never quite was shades the visual quests of Wes Anderson disorients his viewers by giving them connection and familiarity (to the camera shots, regular casting and work, and warm flashes of past decades) while disassociating and unbalancing them,(profile scenes, bold new performers with their own wait and talent and , the past presented being inaccurate or in the wrong order chronologically). Lending to mood and setting musical soundtrack. Like his casting of actors, Anderson has a coterie of coconspirators who compose music especially for his films. Mark Mothersbough of Devo composed on Bottle Rocket and several other films with the writer director. The author can create an excellent support to performances with pre-existing songs like Queen Bitch by David Bowie, but when combined with Mothersboughs melodies. Bill Murray says in the Life Aquatic with Steve Zissiu and Andersons collaborations go both ways.

From The Darjeeling Limited (2001) 35

Alexandre Desplant, who first worked with the director on Fantastic Mr. Fox, wrote a Peter and the Wolf composition for Moonrise Kingdom. Anderson wrote a monologue describing the song The Heroic Weather Conditions of the Universe for the character San Kingdom, Sam is smart yet capable of childish foolishness Wes Anderson had said of his own writing Often I wish I had more sort of genre stuff to work with, but what I usually end up wanting to do is something thats not quite one thing or the other. Usually, I cant even quite answer the question of whether its going to be a comedy. With this range of seemingly conflicting efforts when a joke lands in his films it hits hard and suddenly. Briefly, these are top reasons the author of cinema Wes Anderson is not only an exquisite comedy film maker but a gem of film period. I look forward to the wide release of his newest project The Grand Budapest Hotel and years more of writing and directing from him.
From Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)

Shakusky. Now, we will demonstrate the orchestration of Mr. Desplants musical suit. A little electric metronome sets the time. Foundation beneath each triumph of the authors hand comes from his writing prowess. Andersons brilliance comes from an understated resistance to simplicity. Stories of broken families, or orphaned children, corrupted capitalists or fighting under dogs typically come with a heaping addition of moralistic preaching in Hollywood. Anderson can work theses troupes in, weaving beautiful stories without lessons learned or some grand thesis of some sub textual sermon. Characters in his films remain complex. Heroes can be gray and questionable (the absent and shoddy father figures of Steve Zissiu and Mr. Fox). Villains can have human drives and empathetic qualities. This aversion to black and white characterization feeds his vision without blasting viewers with this effort. The author like any true artist does not show the labor in blending the seams of his creation. So also in Wes Anderson scripts children are written as complex. Given more intelligence than a run of the mill screen writer may imbue, he never panders to say youths counting and intelligence is absolute. In Moonrise

From The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)

From The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

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Dont by Adrian Prieto Dont read this poem Dont read the following lines They wont make you any smarter or better looking or happier It wont impress the girl that is out of your league It wont make the guy who left you any more of a man Dont read this poem It will do nothing for you It owes you nothing Dont read this poem It will laugh at your IMPERFECTIONS It will send you the most mixed signals I love you I hate you Dont read this poem! It cant make up your mind for you It wont change your view on life DONT READ THIS POEM! Explore the world you live in Hunt for enlightenment, Go anywhere, or Dont Go to your favorite place Go fuck yourself This poem doesnt care Dont read this poem, Again

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Black Coffee Campaign by Adrian Prieto Real mean drink black coffee Real men persuade real women to drink black coffee of being fictional

In fact, if you drink any other type of coffee besides black coffee, you run the risk If you don't drink black coffee, you might cease to exist If it's not black, it isn't coffee at all. Have you ever drank coffee? Black coffee doesn't Coffee doesn't.

Do you hide behind a mask of creamers and sugars?

If it's not black, it's not coffee.

If you don't drink it, you're not real. Everything else is just pretending.

Because, only real men drink black coffee.

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Credits
The Modern Corsair for November 2013 Issue Number 2 This issue was: humor. We hope you laughed. If you didn't, you might just be a robot lacking a soul. That or a human lacking a sense of humor. The next issue will be fantasy. Check out our subreddit at www.reddit.com/r/themoderncorsair Send all entries, comments, or suggestions to themoderncorsair@gmail.com. We'd be happy to hear from our readers. Special thanks to: Frankie Concha Mauricio Bustamante Lawrence Alfred Oscar Valle Josh Craft Adrian Prieto Owen King And the biggest thanks of all to: You. Not you as the reader of this magazine, specifically you, the person reading this text in this moment. Keep on reading, beautiful person.

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