Tawny by Marc Thomas

A magazine for stylish owls

TAWNY

Issue No 1 Summer 2012

Letter to the Editor

Would the Editor Kindly Give Me Some Advice On What Shade of Grey To Wear With A Winter Coat. I often find myself in some trendy east end bar of an evening quite unable to feel at home because my coats are always slightly off colour. I occasionally opt for a light black number but sometimes I find I’m in need of a dark white. So please help. What is the correct colour to wear with my winter wares? I remember sitting in a bar with an author once. We were talking about just this problem and in response to my claim that black and white are hues, she laughed and said, but I think by now you should know that there are Fifty Shades of Grey. We both guffawed. She went and wrote a sleazy best selling novel and I’m still editing imaginary magazines. I think you’d better ask her.

The first time I met my uncle, he was dressed in washed out jeans that hugged his legs. He wore a feather boa around his neck and howled poems into an old radio mic r o p h o n e . I knew we would get on. JEFF DAVIES

LA, Spring, 1988

A lot of people in life wear a mask. Some of them are masquerading as lawyers but

1981 - and my mother had taken us down to the KY-SJ station down in San Jorges, San Jorges.

have called ‘an individual’. In many ways, he was born 20 years ahead of his time. That whole

breaking the doors down on their own crimes by doing so. There are a lot of bankers doing the same. Lending out all that money and wearing the masque of wonderful charm until they go under and then, like unfaithful captains, they abandon their ships. My uncle was not one of those people. He didn’t have a mask he had so many masks that it was hard to work out who was who. He was a joker, a mime artist, a poet, a hero, a fraud, a circus ring master of dreams, a punk, a transvestite mayor, a Philippine philistine, screwball serenader - but he could also be a loving brother to my mother. Many people knew him as the

I remember walking up to the front desk and my mother telling the secretary at the radio station who she was there to see. Well, that old lady looked right up at us and just huffed and said, “One moment, please.” She walked right to the back of this big old wood walled room, put her hand to the handle of the oak door and as she pushed that thing open the voice of God came right on through. That was the first time I heard my uncle’s voice. The first time I met my uncle, he was dressed in washed out jeans that hugged his legs. He wore a feather boa around his neck and howled poems into an old radio microphone. I knew we would get on.

glam movement really started with him. What was truly remarkable about all of that though was that by the time the glam movement came along, he was even further ahead of his time and was wearing Forest Hills and getting started on the Britpop movement which, to a certain extent he had inspired 70 years previous when he predated the mod movement. That might all sound a little bit grandiose but I think that means I’m a great reporter - my uncle would have agreed - because he was a grandiose kind of fellow. When my uncle died, he was awarded a posthumous nobel peace prize because of the incredibly diverse attendance at his funeral.

first man to make it to Mars. That was back in 1973 when he piloted, singlehandedly - after a tragic woodchucking accident back in 1895 - the spaceship Olympia on the Azerbajani space finding programme. Those not well verse with the cosmological transit industry will also recognise him under his stage name Chet Walker who performed with the greatest musicians of the twentieth century. But of course, I’m always going to remember the first time that I met him when he was still doing his acoustic stuff. It was my tenth birthday - so that must have been

He put the tin headphones down onto his neck, announced to all of the listeners of KY-SJ that he had to go because a very special person had just entered the room - by that he meant me. You know, I agree with almost everything my uncle has ever said. He was one of the earliest beat poets that there was, stylistically speaking although he was never included in that grand canon of history because his cultural ideas were so different to that of people like Kerouac, Ginsberg or even someone like Ferlinghetti who was truly what my mother might

The Nobel Foundation, and for that matter the United Nations, were astounded to see the heads of state from Namibia and Wales sitting next to eachother in complete silence. And Kofi Annan had not even arrived at that point! Even when a scuffle broke out between two factions of his fifth fanclub about the nature of his benevolence and whether or not he did, in fact, believe that a state of Nirvana was objective to the individual and whether or not that was a possibility for those in the land of the living of something attainable only by the dead

and of course, my Uncle, in life. I once quizzed him about this, myself. A tear, I recall, appeared in his eye when I got to the end of my forty minute discourse on the reasons that I believe that Nirvana was in the mind but that the mind was subjectively objective and equally objectively subjective in an eschatological fashion i.e. by all proper reasoning the apocalypse is already nigh and has been night for quite some time now. He looked at me with those wise eyes, turned his head one hundred and eighty degrees and wept silently. His neck must really have hurt. I love you, uncle. Life with you was always such a hoot!

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An owl walks into a bar. Boring. Walks out again.