“Morning Chant” by Richard F. Yates

My chant this morning while waiting for my toaster pastries to cook: “Everybody hates me. They’re all trying to hurt me. Everybody thinks I’m dumb…”

Yep, I’m getting ready to go work with the public.

Work sucks.

---Richard F. Yates(Commander in Cheap of The Primitive Entertainment Workshop)

https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.comhttp://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.comhttps://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/

[Originally posted 20 Mar. 2013 @ The P.E.W.]

"Hello: My name is…" by Richard F. Yates

[This was originally posted 19 Feb. 2013 at the P.E.W., but it points to a links page that I put together back in 2012 at the Guillotine Your Friends! site, which has many links that still work! Surprisingly!]

Howdy Volks, my name is Richard F. Yates, and you have stumbled upon my most recent playground. I am a painter, writer, poet, zine maker, editor, collagist, DJ, and instigator, with a penchant for chocolate milk and a love of spooky things under the bed (other people’s beds, anyway.) If you want the full story, try here:

http://guillotineyourfriends.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/web-of-lies-by-richard-f-yates/

That is all!

—Richard F. Yates
(Commander in Cheap of The Primitive Entertainment Workshop)

https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/

“45 and Still Alive” by Richard F. Yates

I turn 45 in a few days---and I still wonder… My dad, when he was in his 50s, said, “I wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up?” I laughed at the time, but I get it now. Time creeps up on you. That---and in our society, you’re kind of defined by your job. “Oh, he’s a banker.” “She’s a senator.” “Yeah, that guy works at the mill.” Income equals identity. I’ve BEEN a lot of things for money: DJ, floor manager of a music store, cashier, pizza delivery guy, teaching assistant, editor, writing consultant… I’ve even made a few dollars from writing and painting (which probably amounted to about 10 or 12 cents per hour, but that’s okay. I can still SAY that I’m a “PROFESSIONAL” artist.)

But what do I WANT to be when I grow up? My wife and I had kids young (probably too young) before we had all those silly, unnecessary things, like security or good jobs or any idea of what we were doing---but the up-shot of starting early is that our kids are mostly grown and doing their own things now, and we’ve still got a little bit of LIFE in us. The older daughter is married, has a good job, several hobbies that she really enjoys, and she seems to be happy and enjoying her life. The younger one is about a year away from finishing her college courses, has a decent job (that works around her school schedule), and is looking at starting her own grand adventure. That leaves the little woman and I (in our 40s) with a mostly empty nest and this weird situation that we haven’t had since we were teenagers: WE’VE GOT OPTIONS.

Mariah (“The Boss”) makes good money at her current job and has a fancy title and everything. She is a “Licensed Dispensing Optician and a Contact Lens Specialist.” It isn’t paradise, but it could be worse. We’ve both worked much, much worse.

I don’t have either of the things that Mariah does (a title or a reliable income…) I just draw pictures and write stories and correct other people’s punctuation and then take credit for their hard work (that’s what editors do.) I often wonder if I should scrap this whole project (the “ARTISTIC LIFE” project) and get a real job loading boxes onto trucks or checking IDs from a little booth before raising the barrier arm and letting whoever drive through. The funny thing is, I’m pretty highly educated, but in the area that I live (and with the social climate in the state that it’s in) being a “smart guy” is at best underwhelming and at worst a sign that I need to be beaten up or chased out of town.

Back when I first started college I quickly became enamored with PHILOSOPHY as a subject, and declared that I was going to be a philosopher---take it all the way to Ph.D. and everything. Luckily, my “Intro to Philosophy” professor (who became a great friend---and who is sadly now deceased) took me aside and said, “Philosophy is great, but you’ll never get a job if you get a degree in philosophy. You need to do something practical.”

So I followed his advice, and I got a degree in HUMANITIES (magna cum laude), with a formal minor in ANTHROPOLOGY, and I went to grad school where I specialized in poetry and literary analysis... A career path GUARANTEED to get me a fat paycheck and fame and a fancy house, right? I’ve written a great deal about Allen Ginsberg and Walt Whitman and the Dada writers and even some of the more poetic fiction authors, like Mark Twain and Thomas Pynchon. I can go toe to toe with Doctors of Rhetoric on obscure subjects, like Rene Girard’s Memetics Theory or Semiotics in Occult Symbology. I am a published academic who has given guest lectures at universities on topics like the history and development of punk and strategies for writing poetry; I’ve taught writing classes for kids at writing festivals; I’ve presided over workshops at museums on zine making; I have over 40 publication credits (poems, articles, and stories); I’ve been the (paid!) poetry editor of a college literary journal; I’ve been the author or editor (or co-editor) of about 10 books that I’ve self-published (many of them still available on Amazon); and I’ve been on the staff of at least a half-dozen independently published zines and papers…. But I’m still broke and basically unemployable.

So here’s the question: IS IT WORTH IT?

[LONG PAUSE…]

Once you get over the STUPID questions, I’d say YES. It’s worth it. What are the “stupid” questions, I hear you asking (in my head.) Here are a few stupid questions: Will I get rich and famous doing this? How will I be remembered once I’m gone? What if someone doesn’t like what I’ve written/drawn/painted? Is this a masterpiece? These are stupid questions because they take the focus off of the IMPORTANT things about ART:

(1) Having fun making stuff. I love to draw and to paint and to write stories and to make weird, indecipherable poetry. I’ve always done these things, since I was old enough to hold a crayon, and I will continue to do them until I drop over dead (and maybe for a little while after.)

(2) Having fun SHARING what you’ve made with other people. My first audience is my wife, who is supportive and usually laughs at what I’ve done---but not always. Sometimes it’s too weird or too creepy or too absurd, and that’s fine. (She is totally wrong about those pieces, but I forgive her.) I also share my stuff with friends and family, both in real life and through social media. (BIG UP to electronic communication!) Before I found the Faceboot or WeirdPress, I was a postal artist and sent tons of hand-made postcards and weird collages and zines all over the world (no exaggeration.) I loved sending and I loved getting stuff back (and I would STILL be a postal artist if I had the money to cover postage.) So electronic sharing is the focus now. Personal victory moment: I was at one of my younger daughter’s bowling tournaments in Everett, Washington, and a great old guy (everyone calls him “Grandpa”) caught me as we were leaving and said, “I just gotta ask---Where do you come up with that stuff? Every day, I turn on Facebook and laugh my ass off!” He hardly ever clicked the “thumbs up” button and never commented, but this funny little guy who lives about three hours north of my town, who I know mostly through the BOWLING community, had been reading my stories and looking at my cartoons and having a laugh. That felt pretty good.

(3) In an age of horror and political garbage and everybody hating everything, I like to think I’m helping make the world a slightly more enjoyable place. Sure some of what I write has a negative edge (especially the Charlie Centipede pieces), and I deal with lots of horror themes---but like Richard O’Brien said to me years ago after spending a few weeks staring at a bunch of artwork that I had displayed on the walls of the writing center we used to work at: “It’s like you’ve taken all of this horror, monsters and zombies and death, and you’ve defanged it by making it silly. You’re dealing with your anxiety and angst by painting it with candy colors, making it less threatening.” I nodded and winked, making him think that this was my plan all along… And he was right, of course---but it wasn’t a conscious strategy on my part. I was just trying to have fun and make the world a little more pleasant. That’s also why I do the music playlists and book reviews and photos of fun or weird things that I encounter: I’m trying to show people that there are enjoyable and interesting sights out there that they too can encounter, and prove that the world isn’t just terrorists and rich people stealing from poor people and religious extremists. It’s also great books and cool music and fun people and interesting things to see and do. You can’t always wallow in the bad---sometimes you’ve got to wallow in the awesome.

(4) As an editor, I also feel like I’ve given a voice to people who wouldn’t have bothered if I wasn’t there encouraging them and providing a platform. Several of the regulars here at the workshop send me their work hand-written, ink on paper, and I type it for them and then post it. And there are lots of people who have created work based specifically as reactions to the materials I’ve drawn or written or published here, and I’m always happy to post their responses, whatever form those responses may take (remixes, rebuttals, snarky comments…) My original intention for most of my zines (particularly PHANTOM CONVERSATION) was to promote the concept of a community of interacting individuals, but the internet has proven much easier and more effective for LINKING that type of community together. I’m thrilled with the number of contributors that we’ve had on this site and shocked at the wide variety of materials that people send my way. To be fair (open disclosure) MOST of the work I post on here comes from people I know in “REAL LIFE,” but not all of it. And even if that were true, it’s still pretty cool. I always love when people DO stuff and MAKE their own things. I’m all for it and I’m happy to share that stuff with the world (the INTERNET WORLD, anyway.)

HAVING FUN.
SHARING WITH OTHERS.
MAKING THE WORLD A MORE ENJOYABLE PLACE.
PROMOTING COMMMUNITY INTERACTION.

Yeah. It’s worth it.

I still wish I had enough money to buy a coffee, though.

Alive at 45 (if I make it through the weekend.) That wasn’t a given, especially if you knew me from back in the late 80s and early 90s (when I was a purple-haired skater punk, hanging out at rave parties, cavorting with degenerates (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!), sleeping on various people’s floors, and spilling my guts in bathrooms as the party started to wind down... I came close to checking out more than once back then. Kids can be stupid.) Them was some ROUGH years. But I lived through them, and met Mariah, and had two awesome kids, and worked a lot of different jobs, and did that education thing (and have the debt to prove it), and now… Now I’m not sure. What do I want to be when I grow up?

---Richard F. Yates
(Commander in Cheap of The Primitive Entertainment Workshop)

https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
https://www.patreon.com/primitiveentertainment
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
http://themuseumofwhatilike.blogspot.com/

“Dear Diary (1 Apr. 2014)” by Richard F. Yates

[What I am about to describe may seem implausible to some of you, but I assure you that every word is completely true and that, in fact, events similar to those recounted below occur so frequently in my life that I am rarely shocked by them anymore. However, it has been brought to my attention by several coworkers of mine that some people may find these types of stories remarkable. If this humdrum humbug is your type of thing, enjoy! —Richard F. Yates]

Currently sitting in the parking-lot at Mariah’s work, half-watching a bank heist in progress in the next building over. Tedious, though the noise from the gunfire can be a bit distracting.

Woke up this A.M. at 7:30 (Pacific Time), having slept-in two and a half hours longer than usual.

Though we have two readily available bathrooms (a third is only accessible through the master bedroom where Brother Dave was sleeping) both facilities were occupied. I decided to challenge Mariah for the upstairs bathroom, and after a brutal fist-fight, I sat on the floor outside the bathroom door holding a hand towel to my bloodied nose until Mariah was finished brushing her teeth—then I was allowed to relieve myself. (I am no longer allowed to “do my business” in the backyard, since those photos were published last year in the Midnight Star tabloid paper.)


Next, I checked my phone messages, my Faceboot messages, my email, my blog page stats, and my inter-dimensional telepathic e-message collection crystals to see who’d tried to contact me in the night. (Nobody.) (For a person who claims to hate technology, I have certainly allowed it to creep into my daily routine.)

I was then informed (before I’d had time to eat or shower or brush my teeth or prepare myself for immersion into society) that it was time to transport my family to their daily destinations. Because of a mudslide on Columbia Heights (not as bad as the horrible, fatal landslide in Oso, Washington, which I believe is on the other side of the Cascade Mountains from where we live) the main road that we usually drive to get to and from town has been closed for more than week. Subsequently, we had to take a back-road to get to “Downtown” Longview, and Mariah ended up being a few minutes late to work. (I will be punished for this, later.)

Ellie, who is on Spring Break this week and would normally spend most of the day in bed, is job-shadowing her older sister, Frankie, at the vet clinic today. Frank loves her job, and Ellie is considering going into veterinary medicine as a career field, so we thought it would be good for Elvis to see what it’s REALLY like. (I get sick to my stomach whenever Frankie talks shop, but Ellie thinks she can handle it.) So I dropped her off at the vet clinic for the day, and then needed to kill a little bit of time.

I had some items to take to the post office: a hand-painted postcard and an envelope stuffed full of stories, drawings, and a copy of my new mini-zine, Particle Acceleration (which I still need to scan and post), but the post office wasn’t open yet—so I decided to drive to Grandma Lucy and Uncle Randy’s house to say, “Hi!”

As I parked and stepped out of the car, I was greeted by the smell of putrefaction, and noticed a small animal carcass in the road with a hazy, blue-white squirrel ghost floating above it. Poor thing. Squirrels and roads don’t mix.

I headed toward the house, after giving the ghost a handful of change from the car ashtray, to visit with the fam for a bit. I updated them on Ellie’s recent bowling adventures, talked about all the places we’ll be going in the next few weeks (Seattle; Bend, Oregon; Portland; Tacoma; Yakima, Washington; Lakewood, California…) and then “shot the breeze” for a bit. Grandma said she’s still reading mystery novels, and Randy’s been working on a new story (which I’m excited for! We haven’t had a new Randy Long tale to publish in quite a while—since the ultra-violent, mutant squirrel massacre piece, I think, back in January???)

Anyway, we visited for a bit, until I got a message on my phone from Mariah:

“(9:19 A.M.) Are you still in town? Are you bringing me coffee?”

I have learned not to disobey the Boss, so after calling to confirm her order, I got up to leave, but as I did, the dog, Squeekers, stood up on its back legs and in a whiny voice said, “Oh no! Don’t leave,” then she grabbed one of her doggy-treats with her mouth and threw it at my feet. I suppose this was a sort of bribe to get me to stay. Then Randy, Grandma, and the dog all started to howl. I smiled politely and waved, then stepped to the door and slipped outside.

Once out on the patio, I instantly realized I was surrounded by dozens of scuttling squirrels—in the trees, in the rafters of the porch covering, a pair out on the carport stealing tools from a big red set of drawers, several crawling up and down the walls of the house like spiders, and one big squirrel, with a milky-white left eye, in the middle of the lawn picking his fingernails with a pocket-knife. (This was probably Dilly the Evil Squirrel. If the squirrel squished in the road was Billy the Good Squirrel, then Dilly probably took the opportunity to seize control of the neighborhood. Maybe Billy’s “accident” wasn’t quite so accidental after all!)

I looked back at Grandma and Randy’s house and saw them, and the dog, starring wide-eyed out the window, although they all quickly turned away and pretended to be watching a t.v. game show when they saw me turn around. I looked back at the squirrel in the lawn and found that he had finished cleaning his nails and was now holding the knife in a less-than-pleasant manner and advancing, slowly and menacingly, toward me.

Being well schooled in squirrel psychology, I played my trump card: I pointed at a spot a ways behind the squirrel’s head and yelled in a terrified voice, “What’s that!?” As the squirrel whirled around to look, I bolted for my car and drove off.

I drove down Louisiana Street and saw swarms of little men parachuting from the branches of all the cherry trees, with little black eyes and snarling teeth. (I’ve never seen cherry trees that look like this outside of Longview.)

At Nichols Blvd., I turned left and drove alongside Lake Sacajawea towards Ocean Beach Highway. In the last year, there have been two dead bodies found in the lake (which is in no sense a laughing matter. These men had lives and families who are now suffering extreme loss.) Mariah and I suspect, although nobody else seems to be talking about this, that there is a Lake Monster in Lake Sacajawea that is luring people to the edge of the water at night and dragging them under. There is also a strong possibility that the monster is, in fact, a Lake God, who controls the city and demands the occasional sacrifice. This would explain why the Lake Monster Theory is being hushed up—it goes all the way to the top! (If I’m never heard from again after this is published, you’ll all know why!) Of course, it’s possible that it is just a normal lake monster, not a deity, and that the city just isn’t spreading it around because the local economy relies so much on the lake for tourist dollars. (They hold several festivals, concerts, parades, art walks, and such at the lake, and they’ll be DAMNED if they’re going to let a little thing like a killer lake monster get in the way of that cash!) As I turned onto Ocean Beach Highway and headed towards the Triangle Mall, I thought I saw in my rear-view mirror a green skinned humanoid, with huge, black eyes and rows of sharp, yellow teeth, poke its head up out of the waters of the lake, wink at me, and then dive back under.

As I neared the mall, I saw a dog, possibly an Australian shepherd mix, walking across the highway in the crosswalk. It stopped on the corner, and as I slowed to turn, it raised a thumb, giving the classic “hitch-hiker” signal (I don’t know where it got the thumb), but I ignored it and kept driving. (I never pick up stray dogs.)

I continued on to Star-Bops Coffee Shop, purchased Mariah’s drink (and one for me) then drove to her work. When I arrived, Mariah was in a wrestling match with a nine-foot-tall man with a bull’s head and gold-plated horns, so I left her drink at the desk. One of the girls said she would make sure Mariah got the coffee when she was finished dealing with that particular client, so I left without saying anything. (Her eye clinic is always busy like that.)

Then I went to the bank to take out our rent money. The last time I checked, we had $160 million in checking, but after I took out the rent there was only about $300 bucks left. We must have had some checks out that I didn’t know about.

After that, I went to the post office, which is on top of a 68 thousand foot tall tree-house. And the elevator was broken. Up I went, paid for two stamps, then down I went.

About then, I decided (because it was more than an hour until Mariah’s lunch time) that I would go get a coffee for Grandma Lucy and take it to her—which I did. (A white chocolate mocha.) As I neared her house again, I spotted a police car parked a few doors down with its lights on. A man in a pink and white mu-mu and curlers in his hair was talking to a policeman while a female officer was stuffing a handcuffed squirrel with one white eye into the back of a patrol car. I smiled quietly to myself as I parked and delivered Grandma her coffee, then I headed back towards the mall (avoiding the lake this time.)

And now I’m sitting at Mariah’s work, listening to a CD I made—songs by The Cure, The Clash, Sugar Boom, Pixies, Depeche Mode…a bunch of great stuff… Ohp! Here comes the Boss! Now we’re off to reserve a rental car for our impending trip to the bowling tournament in California this June! Tre exciting! Jah!!!

—Richard F. Yates

[Originally published April Fool’s Day, 2014, at The Primitive Entertainment Workshop.]

“5-3-8-15-5-19 (Esoteric Blood Vessels)” by Richard F. Yates

Be sure to drink your…

“Thought Form 0001”

When I was a little kid (5 or 6 years old---not sure what that would be in metric years) I wrote the word “blud” (I didn’t know how to spell “blood”) inside one of my dresser drawers in red felt pen. I believed that words had power (even misspelled words), and I thought that, because I’d written that spooky word in my drawer, anyone who went digging through my stuff would SEE the word, get scared, and leave my stuff alone---you know, not steal my brown corduroys. Technically, it worked. No one stole them, and I wore those pants until my mom got sick of them and threw them away. (Mom was immune to my WORD MAGIC.)

14-15-20-8-9-14-7-14-5-19-19

Sugar coated meaninglessness. (Candy flossing.)

“Thought Form 0002”

My couch can take me anywhere that I want to go. (Like that bed in that Diznee movie about witches and substitutiary locomotion, only there ain’t no Nazis in my story.) Guts go on the inside, and science leaves the best aftertaste (like anti-freeze.) Gravity---more than being poor, more than illness, more than DEATH ITSELF---Gravity is my ultimate enemy.

Hickle-dee dickle-dee doo dah day!

“Thought Form 0003”

DON’T—STOP      4-15-14’20—19-20-15-16

“Thought Form 0004”

We can’t relax

A few days ago, Mariah and I stopped to get coffee on the way to work, and the window lady said, “How are you today?” And I answered, “We are well,” and then Mariah hit me in the arm. After we received our drinks and pulled away from the window, I laughed and said, “What was that for?” Mariah says, “I’m use to your robot voice, but normal people aren’t.” And I was genuinely surprised. I didn’t know I HAD a robot voice…

1-16-5—13-5-14

“Thought Form 0005”

Stupid silly pointless unprofessional fragmentary and crude… My kinda work! (Actually, it IS my work.) There’s this conspiracy going around (the lights just flickered) that I’m trying to go legit. Tryin’ to become a COMMERCIAL artist… Ha! That’s rich… (I, however, am not.)

Flipper was always in over his head.

“Thought Form 0006”

I’ve spent a long time (several days---a GREAT amount of time, in my creative world) working on this post. It begs the question, WHY LABOR OVER SOMETHING SO ULTIMATELY TRIVIAL? But all things are, ultimately, trivial. However, for the brief moments that I spent making this stuff---writing funny words and drawing funny little shapes and ENCODING silly little slogans---I was living and enjoying being alive. For THESE MOMENTS, it was worthwhile.

---Richard F. Yates

“Extrospection (What Kind of Art Guy am I?)” by Richard F. Yates

[Warning*** Whiskey content…]

For the last four years (give or take some off-planet experiences) I've run The Primitive Entertainment Workshop, and I've posted (on average) 3 or 4 posts per day since early 2013. (Sometimes I skip a day or two, sometimes I go crazy and post 20 or 30 things in one day...) The P.E.W. includes drawings, sketches, abstract art, cartoons, digitally manipulated photos, flash fiction, gloomy-slow fiction, poetry, political commentaries, diary entries, quips, non-jokes, art theory, fake news, book reviews, travel posts, guest contributions, rants, homemade religions, satire, serialized stories, mini-dramas, manifestos, postal art, zines, requests for money, LOTS of nonsense, and even some opportunities to purchase SWAG… We’ve produced four books, created stickers and t-shirts based on artwork first published here, and linked to several sites (Zizzle / Redboodle / D.V. Ant Art / Faceboot…) where humans can buy junk with Primitive Artwork plastered all over it---and I’ve produced the majority of this STUFF myself (although I certainly do have a cadre of interesting contributors, to whom I am ETERNALLY grateful.*) [*”eternally” is not a legally binding phrase…] AND, we are fast approaching the 5,000th post.

Sheeeeeit…

That’s a lot of nonsense…

Anyway, I’ve begun to wonder: What Kind of ART GUY am I??? (I made a short video asking that very question…)

Does it matter? Is it important to specialize? Should I be CONCERNED that I don’t have an official title or definition?

I mean, I’ve been drawing and writing and making up stupid songs and poems since I was old enough to hold a crayon… I will undoubtedly keep doing those things until I die (and perhaps for a few more years after that---I haven’t decided for sure.) It’s a compulsion, a NEED. I’m happiest when I’m writing or drawings or painting or eating sugar or making up nonsense songs... I LOVE the nonsense, because I think it BEST relays how I feel about the world. You can laugh or you can cry---or you can draw a snake with a halo above his head and say that he’s worried that his accountant might be an alien…who isn’t very good at doing taxes… I, of course, go with the third option.

Definitions are nice though, especially when people ask you questions like, “So what do you do?” I usually say, “I’m a writer!” or “I’m an artist!” depending on how I feel and whether or not I like the person I’m talking to. (Sometimes I lie, and say things like, “I’m a hypnotist!” or “I can’t tell you---it’s classified…” For about three years, I had my wife convinced that I was a Cult Leader---that’s how I won her heart. From there, it’s just been the hypnosis and help from my government contacts that have KEPT her with me, at least since my cult all committed suicide… But I’ve digressed.)

So I’m thinking about making the leap to Patreon. It doesn’t hurt anything to try it (economically speaking), and I have this idea about running it like a Secret Society or an old-fashioned fan club, with Certificates of Membership, and I.D. cards, and a regular (actually mailed to you) newsletter, and fancy “members only” t-shirts, and secret handshakes, and funny little cars that we drive in parades, and covert meetings where we discuss our plans to take over the world (for the “higher paying” patrons, of course…) Maybe something like the Church of the Subgenius meets the Mickey Mouse Club. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it??? The real point of the Patreon element would be to help pay for online expenses (I’m a little more than 75 percent of the way through my WeirdPress free media allotment, which means we aren’t too far from either having to pay for more space or start dropping old stuff off the site---the latter being a REPELENT concept, in my opinion.) Plus, we could do stuff like print more books and artwork and make new t-shirts and stickers, and I’ve always harbored the desire to have a big ART SHOW, like rent the expo-center here in town and have a bunch of framed artwork and tables where contributors were signing books and giving talks, maybe even have a bunch of KIDS draw stuff and bring it in, and then have a panel of judges award prizes to kids in various age groups---you know, to help encourage the YOUTH to stay creative and make things themselves… I’ve got some ideas...

Anyway, what do you people think?  Is it worth going the Patreon route? Do you peeps like the idea of becoming OFFICIAL MEMBERS OF THE PRIMITIVE PANORAMA and getting a bunch of fun stuff mailed directly to your door? Seems like good times to me.

---Richard F. Yates, Hypnotist in Chief of the P.E.W.

“Interview with Richard F. Yates” by Spork Ryyder

[WARNING! This is a fake interview that I did with myself back in February of 2014 and published on The Primitive Entertainment Workshop blog! It was written for educational purposes, and I still think it's pretty funny and relatively accurate! ---Richard]

---This interview was originally published in the January 2014 issue of Spork Ryyder’s Poppengluup art journal. Thanks to Ryyder for permission to reprint the interview here!---

Richard F. Yates is an American artist, writer, poet, and editor whose most recent project is The Primitive Entertainment Workshop, a blog that combines art and literature, humor and horror, and which has garnered international attention for its belligerent attitude and quirky sense of humor. This interview was conducted by phone with Richard from his home in Washington State in the U.S.

Spork Ryyder: Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Yates. Let me start with a standard Poppengluup question. What were your major childhood traumas?


Richard Yates: My childhood…oh boy. The earliest that I can remember are getting run over by a car, my dog, Bongo, getting hit by a car, my dog, Shasta, being run over right in front of my eyes, and my mom dying in a car wreck when I was fourteen.

Ryyder: My god! So you’re not a big fan of cars, I take it?

Yates: Not a fan.

Ryyder: That’s understandable!

Yates: And then there were the minor tragedies that probably seemed major at the time—moving around a lot, my parents getting divorced, my mom remarrying and then getting divorced again. Stuff like that. Heartbreaking when you’re a kid, but now, as a grouchy old man, they seem more like normal life stuff.

Ryyder: Do you have any major childhood inspirations?

Yates: Oh, tons! I watched a lot of t.v. as a kid—Godzilla movies, The Twilight Zone and Outer Limits, Sci-Fi Theater, lots of monster movies and bad, old science fiction. I still love that stuff. And Star Wars! Star Wars was big, but I was also really inspired by video games. I grew up in the Golden Age of arcades. The lights and noise. Watch Tron. The arcade scenes at Flynn’s are a lot like some of my best childhood memories.

Ryyder: I see a lot of Pac-Man in your art.

Yates: Yes! Absolutely. The character and the ghosts are so easy to draw, but really iconic. I love Pac-Man. Then when I got to be around ten or eleven, I really got into music. Devo, Blondie, Pink Floyd—anything with synthesizers or weird noises, I loved it. Still do. I’ve also always been really into comics and books. I read a lot, still, but when I was young, I devoured books and comics. Superheroes, horror stories, ghosts, monsters, any of that stuff that I could get my hands on—and my mom was pretty cool about buying me books, even scary stuff. I remember when I was really young, she came into a comic shop and signed a paper saying they could sell me the “mature” books because I was really into things like 3-D Tales of Terror and other big kid books.

Ryyder: How old were you then?

Yates: I don’t know, maybe eleven or twelve, but we lived in the woods at the time, outside of a little town called Castle Rock in Washington State, and it was too far for me to walk to any of my friends’ houses, so all I had to do was read or listen to records or watch t.v. My brothers both liked to play outside—ride motorcycles, make soapbox racers, go on adventures in the woods, but I didn’t like to get dirty, so I’d stay inside and make masks or record little stories and songs with a tape recorder, or I’d read.

Ryyder: So the move into art and writing wasn’t difficult?

Yates: Nah, I’ve always drawn and written stories as long as I can remember.

Ryyder: Okay, so let’s move up to the present. Your current project is The Primitive Entertainment Workshop. How did that get started, and why did you chose a blog format for the project?

Yates: Because it’s easy. I’ve been published in more straight media, journals and newspapers, and I’ve had artwork in galleries and shows, and frankly, I just don’t work well with others. I’d think a painting was done and perfect, but the gallery owner would say I couldn’t hang a piece of cardboard that I cut from a cereal box on the wall next to something in a nice frame. (Laughs) And with publishing, the lag time between writing a piece and it getting into the hands of readers can be months! I’m not that patient. If I write something, I want people to read it right now, while it’s fresh, not in six weeks.

Ryyder: Yes, but self publishing has a stigma.

Yates: It does. It does. But look at all the really well known authors who’ve started with self publishing. Whitman, Pound, not to mention all the indie music and zines that came out of the punk and post-punk scenes. That’s probably the biggest thing for me. I really identify with that punk / D.I.Y. aesthetic, that Dada / conceptual art “fuck the rules” spirit. I don’t want an editor or gallery owner, or anybody, telling me that what I’ve made or what I’ve written isn’t good enough. Good enough for what? To make money? That’s not why I draw or write. I do it because I love to do it, I’ve always done it, and if I’m being honest, because I like the praise. I’m a solid writer, a good writer, and I should be. I have a grad school education and I’ve been writing for almost 40 years. My artwork, and I’d be the first to admit this, isn’t great. It’s cute, sometimes clever, on occasion interesting or evocative, but it’s not very good. (Laughs) But it serves my purposes.

Ryyder: Which are?

Yates: I don’t know—to make people laugh, I guess. Or scare them. To amuse myself. To make stuff. It may not be much, but I still think it’s important to just make stuff. To play. Too many people grow up and forget how to play. I’m pretty proud of myself for not forgetting how to play.

Ryyder: So you don’t have any commercial aspirations?

Yates: Oh god, yes! I do! I would love to make money as a writer or artist. My wife would love for me to make some money, and of course I’d love to own a nice house and a new car, or at the very least to be able to pay my bills, but I’m horribly lazy. Plus, I’ve somehow fooled myself into believing that I’m a great Artist, capital “A.” That this cerebral, raw, bizarre, elitist, conceptual program that I’ve set myself on is somehow very important, and that spending all of this time and energy documenting my weird thoughts and the stories and poems of all my weird friends and family will someday be worth it. Probably after I’m dead, though. (Laughs)

Ryyder: So the blog format?

Yates: Like I said, it’s easy. I can write something, copy and paste, and publish. I can paint a picture, take a digital pic, and upload it. A friend can email me a poem or story, and bam! Up and readable in seconds. And the blog site I use, Word Press, is really easy and has pretty good search features. It’s a good archive, although I’ve posted over 800* things in the last year, so I do worry that some of the material is getting buried under all the slush. How many people will go back through 800 pictures and articles. Probably not very many.

Ryyder: Well Mr. Yates, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions.

Yates: No problem. It’s been fun.

Ryyder: Any last words for the readers?

Yates: Yes! Buy my stuff! Books, shirts, posters, stickers. I really need to start making some money before my wife makes me get a full time job at a supermarket or something! (Laughs)

Ryyder: Okay. Thanks!

—Spork Ryyder

[*At the time of this reprinting, 2 April 2017, The Primitive Entertainment Workshop has 4,792 post up. That's a LOT of slush...---RFY]

“Travelogue – 001: Evergreen Lanes, Everett, WA”

Lanes, Everett, WA”

Since our younger daughter was in middle school, she’s enjoyed competing in bowling tournaments. (She’s 19 now.) As such, we’ve traveled to about a thousand bowling centers all around the West Coast. This weekend was the 2017 Washington State USBC Queens Tournament in Everett, WA. However, we learned long ago that bowling is only a part of the excitement and that we need to make these trips into mini-vacations.

With that in mind, on Friday morning (24 Mar. 2017), we loaded a bunch of luggage, snacks, and NINE bowling balls into the Escape, stopped by Starbucks, and then hit the freeway. Our first stop was the Centralia Outlet stores where Elise purchased (for the first time in history) some bowling skorts from the Nike store. (The primary reason for this outfit choice was so she could show off her cool Crash Bandicoot tattoo.)

Next, we traveled further north, past Olympia, until we decided we were hungry and then stopped for a bite at a Mayan restaurant. (The food was pretty good.)

Back on the road, we started hitting traffic just south of Tacoma, right around Lakewood. (Happens every time.) And thus we began THE I-5 CREEP. From this point on we crawled north, inch by tedious inch, water splashing the windshield, giant trucks pushing their way in front of us, and the bathroom calling in a high-pitched, unpleasant voice.

After an eternity, we reached Lynnwood, WA, and the thrill packed Alderwood Mall! (It wouldn’t have taken quite so long to get there, but the stupid cell phone gave me some very bad directions...That robo-lady is a bossy jerk.) We hit Build-a-Bear, Vans, Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, Hot Topic, Cinnabon, etc…. The women-folk bought some clothes, Ellie got a pair of shoes, and we all chomped some sugary goodness. After the main mall, we ventured to Barnes & Noble (down the street a ways), and I get a couple of books.

By now it was dark, still rainy, cold as SMURF, and we zipped back onto the freeway for the last few seconds of the journey to Mukilteo, WA, and the Hilton Garden Inn, which was surrounded on three sides by Boeing! (Those planes are big up close, and I’m phobic… So creepy…) The room was perfectly adequate, and we were tired from driving, so we crashed and burned pretty quickly.

The next morning, 9:00 A.M., was check-in for the WSUSBC Queens Tournament at Evergreen Lanes (which was about 10 minutes away from the hotel.) The house has 20 lanes, which are synthetic, and wood approaches, and there were 36 women there all attempting to take home the crown! There were also a number of fun people there who we were very pleased to see and talk to, bowlers and spectators both, and these people, the regulars, the BOWLING FAMILY, are the main reason that we love going to these tournaments. (This is at least true for Mariah and I---Ellie might be more addicted to the challenge). The competition is great, but getting to visit old friends is really what it’s all about.

Qualifying was six rounds on a 40 ft. “flat” pattern. (“Flat” means that the oil goes from edge to edge of the lane. On a normal “house” shot the oil coats the first 35 to 36 feet down the lane, and the thickest oil is in the middle of the lane, getting drier as you get closer to the edges. This helps people who hook the ball make it to the “pocket.”) Long story short, the shot was TOUGH, slick as an ice-skating rink, and scores overall were pretty low. (Only one bowler averaged over 200 for six games, and the cut was minus 159!)

Ellie had a rough time on games two and three. Lots of splits, couldn’t get lined up, and she might have even started to lose heart (just a bit), but thanks to some great advice and encouragement from a couple of friends (Thanks Cindy Mattingly and Tanner Spacey!), Elvis found the right ball and a great line and made a SERIOUS comeback! (She even cracked 200, twice, on this very challenging shot.) Unfortunately, the last frame of the final game of qualifying, she needed a double (two strikes in a row) to make cut, threw a GREAT ball, and the 7 pin started to fall, but got bumped by another pin and stood back up! (She missed cut by 8 pins!) The Bowling Gods just didn’t want it to happen this time. Elvis was upset when she realized she didn’t make it to the second round, but quickly got over it, and we stayed to watch our friends who made the semi-final rounds! (Congrats to Crista, Lori, and Cindy for making it to bonus bowling!)

We watched the next four games while we ate some lunch, then said our goodbyes, and dashed back to the hotel! (Stopped at DQ for some frozen desserts, and mine had a bit of wire in it, like from a Brillo pad or something, so they made me a new one---even though I’d already eaten like a quarter of it! Awesome…) Although we considered taking a nap once we got back to the Hilton, we noticed that the swimming pool was unoccupied, so we quickly changed and hit the water! The pool was tiny and not very deep, so we did what any group of people like us would do in that situation, and tried to create a whirlpool by quickly walking around the edge of the pool in a circle. (Oddly, we chose to walk counter-clockwise. I’m not sure why…) We splashed around, had a fun time, sat in the hot tub for a bit, then went back to the room for that nap. When we woke, we found a local pizza joint (Brooklyn Brothers) and grabbed some pie.

Sleeping in hotels is never easy for Elvis or myself, but we were tired again, so we did eventually crash. The next morning (it was Sunday by then---funny how that works), we got up, gathered our gear as quickly as we could, and drove straight home, somehow sliding through Seattle, Fife, and Tacoma without incident. All in all, it was a great weekend. We got to visit with some very entertaining people, Ellie felt pretty okay about how she bowled at the event, we had fun shopping and swimming, and we got home nice and early. Couldn’t really ask for more than that, and I can’t wait for the next tournament!

---Richard F. Yates

“Thoughts on the ‘Pain Induced Marathon’: The Morning After (30)” by Richard F. Yates

When one peddles in the absurd, when one deals in banalities and micro-concepts, when one pushes that boulder up the hill only to watch is tumble back down, there will always be a certain element of resistance to the idea that what one is doing has any value. I’m certain that this is true because I live the consequences of working in MUNDANE MAGIC on a daily basis.

I’m economically embarrassed, but psychologically fulfilled.

Even the most die-hard of adherents can only be expected to suffer inanity for so long before becoming bored and moving on to greener pastures. I’m cool with that, and happy with yesterday’s “outcome” (for lack of a better term.) Not counting Scotty Sparks’s two ACTUAL poems, and a single silly drawing of mine posted BEFORE the marathon, I ended the day with TWENTY-NINE pieces of nonsense, in total, in my performance. I consider these marathons (when they occur) to be performances as much as I consider them fiction, poetry, and visual art, because part of the barrage is the simple ACTION of making and posting each BIT. The MASS POSTING is as much a part of the activity as the making of each drawing or written piece.

But consider this: most of the individual pieces in this marathon, taken on their own merits, would be a throw-away---a tiny bit of NOTHING. “2 + 1 = love triangle” or a stick figure surfer with a halo or a nonsense poem about growing up poor and having to take lunch to school in a paper bag (which most people probably didn’t get)---none of these things, presented on their own and considered in isolation, would have made any impact on the world. However!!! When a multitude of tiny pieces (of nothing) begin to swarm, when they appear suddenly all grouped together and descend upon the world in mass, people notice. Each individual element of the swarm may be nothing but wings, some pollen, and a useless stinger, but the mass taken together can inspire fear and panic in the population (not to mention great B-films, like Attack of the Killer Bees!) Or confusion. I’m cool with confusion, too.

It’s not a question of whether or not I’ll keep making my silly drawings or micro-stories or nonsense poems, I’ve created these things since my childhood, and I’ll continue to make them until I keel over and drop. Shit, I’ll probably try to make a drawing with my fingertip in the pool of blood I’m lying in when I’m finally beaten to death by that angry crowd, and I’ll smile just a little bit through crimson teeth as they kick harder than even, confused and infuriated by the snake with the halo that I scrawl as my eyes roll back in my head and the lights go out! And I’ll probably keep having marathons as well, once or twice per year, if for no other reason than sheer perversity.

Push that boulder to the top of the hill, then grin as it rolls back down! Thanks for playing!

---Richard F. Yates

[To check out the "Pain Induced Mega Nonsense Marathon" and other weirdness, look no further than The Primitive Entertainment Workshop! It's ginchy cool, daddy-o...]

"Why I am Not a Christian" by Richard F. Yates

I grew up in a 50-50 household: Mom was religious, Dad did not seem to be (and, later, Step-Dad didn’t seem to be, or at the very least preferred football to sermons.) Mom made me go to church from the time I was tiny until she died (when I was 14). My best friend in junior high was the son of a preacher, so I often went to the church that his dad ran. Even after my mom died, I continued to go to church with some skateboarder friends that I had, until I was about 16 years old. I was somewhere between 16 and 18 when I realized that I no longer believed the stories.

As a kid, I was always a reader. I loved ghosts and bigfoot and folktales and U.F.O.s and the possibility of psychic powers, so I read about them. A LOT. I’ve always loved to read, since my first Dr. Seuss books and my HOBBIT storybook that came with a record that chimed when you were supposed to turn the page. My first R.I.F. book was WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE (and the fact that I can still remember, forty years later, what my first R.I.F. book was should tell you how exciting it was for me to get a FREE BOOK!) I’ve always read a lot, and after my mom died and I seriously threw myself into my religious studies, I started reading everything I could about Christianity: how it started, how it developed and changed over time, how the Bible was compiled from older manuscripts, how the stories in the Bible were different from (and often NOT different from) so called PAGAN religions, how much politics influenced the development of religion, etc., etc., etc.... I devoured books on world religions, psychology, cognitive science, anthropology, history, and philosophy. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I have read between 50 and 100 books a year since I was 14 or 15 years old.

And through all this reading, and my personal writing and thinking, and my experiences in both the religious world and the secular world, I started to doubt the veracity of the Christian conception of the universe. The doubt actually started pretty early, like around six or seven, and it would grow bigger, then ebb back, throughout my childhood.

At about 16, the church that I went to at the time had a guest speaker who performed a stage trick called “slaying in the spirit,” which I later learned (in a cultural anthropology class about shamanistic rituals) plays on “group think,” a fear of upsetting the room by not participating, and the well known psychological phenomena of self-hypnosis. At the time, I still believed that the “supernatural” was a real part of life, that people had souls, that angels and demons were real, but despite my willingness to believe, the guest speaker was unable to “slay” me. It just didn’t work. No Holy Spirit flowed into me, no all consuming light caused me to lose control of my body, no healing took place. It was just an old guy pushing my head backwards until I lost balance and fell over. I seriously felt cheated.

In fact during his presentation, I got a bit bored, so I started chatting with a friend, keeping half an ear on the guy in case he said something interesting. He thought I wasn’t listening at all, though, and tried to catch me and embarrass me. He stopped in the middle of his talk and asked, “Did you hear what I just said?” And being a weird freak with an odd memory, I repeated the last three sentences he’d said, word for word, then went on talking to my friend. (I’ve always had a freaky good memory for sound. I’m shit at remembering the passage of time, but SOUND, I’m solid.) The guy stood there with his mouth open for a minute, then went on with his talk and left me alone until the end of the night.

After the talk, the guy grabbed me before I left and told me the LORD had spoken to his heart, and that I was meant to be a prophet. I’m not shitting you. The guy actually told me that, and then he gave me a few chapter to read in the Bible, which I read as soon as I got home. However, I didn’t feel like a prophet, I felt let down. Everyone else at the event had experienced this great mystery, and I didn’t feel anything at all. I started to wonder how much you had to PLAY THE GAME, and let the stuff that isn’t working slide in order to keep the belief alive. Maybe the game wasn’t for me.

A few weeks later, I was at the same church for Sunday service, my last day being at a religious service EVER, and the preacher got up in front of everyone there and said that God had told him that anyone who smoked was under the control of the devil, that the devil wasn’t going to be allowed in their church, and so if you wanted to be saved, if you wanted to stay at that church, you had to quit smoking. I didn’t smoke, but I couldn’t believe the EMOTIONAL BLACKMAIL, the fear of damnation that this man was attempting to use in order to control his “flock,” so I got up and got the FUCK out of there and never went back.

Mind you, I wasn’t suddenly anti-religious, but I saw how controlling and how manipulative the ideology could be, and no longer felt any desire to be involved in the organized form. About this time, I ran into Bertrand Russell’s book, WHY I AM NOT A CHRISTIAN, and he recounted all his moral objections to the Christian ideology (including some seriously unfair treatment that he himself had received because of his outspoken atheism), but his moral objections still didn’t convince me that there was nothing to the GREAT MYSTERY. So what did convince me? Why did I give up the faith? How did I go from TRUE BELIEVER to NON BELIEVER? It was a process of reasoning, gathering information, and learning to put what I WANTED to be true behind what seemed more PLAUSIBLE.

I read. I thought about it. I wrote essay after essay trying to clarify my thoughts. I searched for answers to life’s biggest questions. I took philosophy and religion and anthropology and logic classes. I talked to people and got their views. And slowly, I stopped believing in magic. I stopped believing in superstitions. I learned how critical thinking and reason produced reliable, repeatable, useful results, while praying tended to have the same success ratio as not praying.

Now, after three decades of study and research, I know more than I did when I was a 16-year-old kid with some doubts. I know about how translation works, now. I know the political motivations behind which “Books” were kept in the canonical Bible and which were excluded. I understand how, historically, psychological phenomena, like DREAMS, were not understood, and so a person could have a “vision” and write about it, and at the time, people thought they were really seeing a dead person or an angel or a djinn or a demon.

I understand that people are AFRAID of what it would mean if there wasn’t some all-powerful figure with a wonderful plan in charge of the universe, that life would be, ultimately, meaningless---that HUMANS WOULDN’T REALLY BE SPECIAL AT ALL, and that death would just be “GAME OVER.” These things just don’t jive with what most people WANT TO BELIEVE. I get it.

But I also don’t see how the magic that religions suggest is real could possibly be real. There is no evidence for it. (No modern miracles ever survive scientific scrutiny, and if all it takes for someone to invalidate a miracle is looking at it carefully, it’s not a miracle.) Critical reason, using the evidence of your own eyes and ears, is enough to tell you that magic isn’t real. It doesn’t happen. But more importantly than that, using scientific techniques to TEST magic, test psychic powers, test for auras or spirits, you get nothing. You have to look beyond what you WANT to believe. I would love to believe that there are ghosts and monsters and magic, but I don’t. I love the stories and the art and the folklore and the movies, but I know they are products of human creativity, not reality. I believe that we live in a strange world, that human brains are awash in weird chemicals that make them see things and believe in things that aren’t there, but once you start to understand the HOWS and WHYS of the world, then the ghosts and monsters start to fade, and it becomes abundantly clear that the physical world is just what you see in front of you, and any MEANING or PURPOSE that exists in the world isn’t instilled by a divine, floating, non-human entity. It has to be put there by YOU.

Why am I not a Christian anymore? Because I understand now that the Bible, the basis for all this BELIEF in all these supernatural entities and occurrences, is just stories, newer than some, older than a lot of them, but JUST STORIES that were made up by HUMANS to try to explain how the world worked and how people should behave. The stories were based on the knowledge that the writers had when they were writing, a pre-scientific conception of the world. We have a better understanding of how the universe works now than we did 2,000 years ago. (Technically, 1,800 years ago, because the earliest New Testament manuscripts are actually dated to somewhere between 100 and 200 years AFTER the time in which stories that they are reporting on happened, even though they are presented as if they are eye-witness accounts. They aren’t. They are stories…)

Today’s stories are better, to me, than those old tales, which seem pretty naïve, if you actually bother to read them (which I have…) I am not a Christian because I don’t want to live in the world created by those stories. I want to live in the ACTUAL world, however frightening that might be or how meaningless that might make it. Plato advocated the “NOBLE LIE,” but I think it’s time we start living with the NOBEL TRUTH instead.

---Richard F. Yates

“Obligatory January 1st Post – 7 Things I’m Happy About” by Richard F. Yates

There are a few things that are certain in this world, none particularly pleasant, so when good things happen to cross your path, it’s best to go with them for as long as you can.

Good thing #1: Still alive.

It ain’t much, and it’s unclear for how long this will be true, but right now, it seems to be the case. (However, I keep having these dreams where I see the word “Ghost!” written all over the place, graffitied on the side of buildings, in random strings of words when I’m scrolling real fast past stuff I don’t want to read, even written on the windows of my own house… And yesterday, in REAL LIFE, I saw the graffiti on the side of a truck---parked on the corner of Cypress and 28th---and Mariah saw it, too, so it wasn’t just me. My theory is that I might actually be a “GHOST” that just doesn’t realize he’s dead yet, and my unconscious mind is trying to let me know. Just a theory.)

Good thing #2: Despite the odd health scare, here and there, my little family is still alive.

The boss (Mariah) had surgery on the 27th of December (which put a nervous spin on the holidays for me---I’m phobic of medical shit, like SERIOUSLY, panic-attack worthy fear), but the operation went okay, and she was able to come home that day, doped out of her brain and sore as shizit, but hey! Still alive.

Keeping her from overdoing it has been tough (read: impossible) but she’s mending, and both of the kids are still in good health, so all is well in this quadrant. A good thing.

Good thing #3: Donuts.

I got to eat donuts from Heavenly yesterday, and it was very nice. Sugar, frosting, fried fat…yep. That’s all good stuff.

Good thing #4: Despite a drought of creative energy lately, I am still writing and drawing and even (on occasion) painting.

Stress levels have been high lately: medical shit, economics, kids growing up, politics, dangerous road conditions (and kids that refuse to stay safely at home), and all the joys and havoc of the holidays… Plus the massive UNKNOWN that seems to be looming like a fucking storm-cloud just out of sight (this could be that condition that they want me to take medication for popping up again) making the future a fuzzy blur of money, blood, hate, religious oppression (I seriously fear being persecuted for my NON-belief, forced to live in a world full of values and rules that I don’t share because other people require a series of absurd fairytales in order to pretend their lives have meaning… I’m drifting here…)

Despite all that shit, I’m still writing (see these words?) and making arts. I firmly believe that EVERYONE should make art. It really does help me deal with stress and keeps me from freaking out too badly. Sometimes, when the randomness of the universe swings in the proper direction, I even like the product of my expenditure of creative energy. Fairly often, to be truthful. I don’t make slick, commercial art or classical / art-school trained work. I come from the punk / Dada / Fluxus / experimental / art brut / outsider traditions, so I ain’t ever going to be rich or famous because of my art, but I definitely make myself laugh and smile every now and then, and on super-rare occasions, a few other people conjure up a chuckle in response to me bits. I’m happy when that happens.

Good thing #5: Music.

I got $65 bucks in iTunes cards for Xmas, and that was in addition to the Devo, Blondie, Gary Numan, and Martin Denny CDs that my wife got me. (Thank you, Amazon Wish List!!!) With my iCash, I got a Mothers of Invention album, a Zappa (DROWNING WITCH!), a Paul McCartney, and a bunch of single tracks (including the hilarious Bad Lip Reading song “Seagulls” based on a few Yoda scenes from EMPIRE STRIKES BACK.) I’m a sucker for music---listen to it all the time, as often as I can---because it makes me feel good and sometimes inspires me to dance (which I’ve been told is hilarious to see.)

Good thing #6: Pepperoni.

I’ve been eating a LOT of pepperoni lately. Probably bad for the blood pressure and/or cholesterol, but fuck it. Everything in the world is fatal, so I’m going to enjoy my pep stick while I still have teeth.

Good thing #7: Now that the “holidays” are over, we can get back to celebrating Halloween again, which goes from January 1st until November 1st, when Xmas starts again. (I really only have two seasons.)

There. Seven good things for me to be happy about, but I stand by my Snake when he says, “Beware in the New Year!” Beware, citizens, and eat a fuckin’ donut!

---Richard F. Yates

I Lost the Plot a Few Miles Back – Richard F. Yates

7 Dec. 2016

There’s really no reason for me to be writing this…

And yet, I’m still writing. Weird, isn’t it. Doing something for no reason (or no apparent reason) seems irrational. A few “DEEP THINKERS” have suggested (or exclaimed) that the world we live in is inherently irrational. I buy that. Especially today.

“So what are these words for?” I hear you asking (in my head.) These words are a bit for me and a bit for my friends and loved ones, and they are also (possibly) for all the other Irrationalists and Fools and Reality Rebels out there (who I don’t know) that are trying to survive in this crazy, mixed-up, media saturated, vision destroying, big business dominated, dollar worshiping, art and humanities ignoring (unless they’re worth $$$), crap-shoot of an existence. I’m a fan of words. I’ve always written, for as long as I can remember. I’ve also drawn pictures and listened to songs and eaten cereal and rooted for monsters and hunted for ghosts (never found any), and I’ve always felt like I was about three steps outside of whatever reality everyone else seems to be living in. Out of phase, I suppose, but I get by.

Here's ME:

Now, as in RIGHT NOW, I’m a 44-year-old, Irish/English descendant, living in a former logging town (which, at the start of the 20th century, in the 19-teens and 20s, boasted one of the largest docks on the Columbia River, which was used to ship out all the “OLD GROWTH” timber that once lived in the region, but now doesn’t live anywhere because it’s all dead). At the moment, I’m trying my hand at screen-printing as career. (I’ve had other careers: writing tutor, editor, teaching assistant, disk jockey, floor manager of a music store, pizza delivery guy, cashier and clerk at a bunch of places from video game shops to department stores, and I’ve been a full time student a few different times… I’ve DREAMED of being an artist / writer / poet / curator / publisher / et-set-tur-ah, and I’ve made a couple of bucks here and there doing those things, but never enough to feed my kids.)

I’m heterosexual (please don’t hold that against me---I’ve pro-LGBTQ rights), and I’m married to a very understanding and patient woman who works as a “Licensed Dispensing Optician and Contact Lens Specialist” at an eye clinic. In other words, she makes the money and I “goof around.” Together, the optician and I have raised two daughters: one is now 23, lives with her fiancé and works at a vet clinic as a tech; the other is 19, lives at home still, works at a local department store, is taking classes at the community college (undecided, as far as major), and bowls (extremely well. Yes, she has thrown a 300---several, in fact.) These humans are the most important people in the world to me, and as long as they are happy, I’m can be (mostly) happy.

Part of the reason that I’m writing this is because of our current political climate in the country where I live. Our recent President-Elect, in my opinion, is an irrational, dangerous, corrupt, and hostile time-bomb, and I fear for what he may do, both in our homeland and in the world. His racism, anti-intellectualism, ignorance of science (or callous indifference to the damage he could do), and his apparent attempt to return the country to its “Good Christian Values,” worry the shit out of me. Unlike a majority of the people in the U.S., I’m an atheist, not a Christian, but I wasn’t born this way. My father may or may not have had any religion beliefs (he never really said), but my mom was definitely a believer. As a child, I remember her being a Jehovah’s Witness for a while, attending a Baptist church for a bit, and spending a lot of time at different Nazarene churches in various cities in Southwest Washington---and for most of my young life, I was a full-fledged believer, too. I had one of those “student Bibles” where you mark off the chapters as you read through different sections, and my book was pretty marked up by the time I graduated from high school. However, I also started taking “world literature” classes, first in high school and then later in college, as well as comparative religion courses, psychology classes, philosophy / logic / critical reasoning… I studied and read and learned. I read books on the origins of the Christian religion, on the Essenes and the Gnostics, and the creation of the current, canonical Bible. At the same time, I was studying Eastern philosophy and religion, anthropology, poetry, folklore, storytelling, and the human need to feel special. I eventually got my B.A. in Humanities with a formal minor in Anthropology, focusing on literature, cultural studies, and linguistics. Later, I went on to grad school and studied literature, poetry, and writing---although I ran out of money (and student loans) before I could complete my M.A. (I have 69 graduate level credits, and the program required 48 to complete the degree---but I couldn’t pass my foreign language exam, and I was too stupid to just take some Spanish classes, until it was too late...) Somewhere in all that studying and reading and thinking, my belief in the factuality of Christianity, in the possibility that it could be true, drifted away.

Why does any of that matter? It matters to me because the culture in this country is based on a twisted version of Christianity that has been warped by hatred, greed, segregation, exploitation, and violence. The new guy heading for the White House is making political decisions based on Christian traditions (or a misguided understanding of those traditions) that I don’t think have any place in the political decision-making process. Yes, I understand that I am a minority when it comes to religious belief, and for the most part I eschew politics in all their forms (the modern political parties seem to me like warring squirrels in different trees chattering threats at each other while the fight over the chestnuts on the ground between them), but this new era we are entering may cause me to be more politically active.

For instance, and this is a HORRIBLE THING for me, I am now making a massive sacrifice in my life for political reasons: I’m giving up Nestle’s Quik Chocolate Milk. For the last four decades, I have consumed an unfathomable quantity of chocolate milk, and I consider it one of my greatest pleasures, but the Nestle company is run by MASSIVE SHITHEADS who are attempting to steal all the drinking water in the world and sell it back to us common folks at a ridiculously high price. The WORST PART of my decision, which will have a terrible impact on my morale and mental wellbeing, is that the bastards at Nestle won’t even notice that I’m denying myself one of LIFE’s greatest pleasures. It’s a conscience move on my part, and I hate that. I hate that those jerks are making me do it…. Stupid shitheads…

So let’s see: hetero, married, kids, atheist, fledgling political activist… Oh yeah, while we’re on the political front, let’s get this stuff out in the open, too: I am pro-gay marriage (as long as the weddings are fabulous), I am pro-science, I HATE racism and think we need to make a serious effort to eradicate it (but understand how ingrained it is in most cultures, and how difficult it is to combat.) I am NOT in believer of any religions (but if you want to believe, more power to you, just don’t get any on ME or MINE), although as a former anthropologist in training I am a fan of the STORIES of most religions, and I SERIOUSLY wish more people would actively create art, writing, clothing, environments, and unique personal experiences for themselves instead of passively consuming whatever pops up in their electronic feeds or menus. I consider myself an artist, a philosopher, a writer, a cultural theorist, and a mystic (in the psychological sense, instead of the supernatural), and I like to DIG through cultural artifacts looking for forgotten and oddball THINGS, which I then work into my art and stories in an effort to help my “subscribers” (for lack of a better term) experience the WEIRDNESS of our world. (I’ll talk more about my ART in the next post…)

Another fundamental element of my personality: I love music, and I hate when people say they listen to “ALL KINDS” of music, when I know that’s not true. I listen to and enjoy all of the following: techno, electro, new wave, disco, old school punk, post-punk, industrial, goth, ska, reggae, dub, dancehall, ambient, trance, breakbeat, big beat, jungle, drum & bass, dub-step, psychedelic, experimental, classical, opera, contemporary classical, synth, funk, jazz, Dixie-Land, fusion, be-bop, big band, rockabilly, some old school country, old school blues, old school rhythm and blues, funk-rock, electro-funk, breakdance music, some hip hop, a bit of old country / bluegrass / folk, singer-song writers, yacht rock, soft rock, classic rock, hard rock, some old school metal, some grunge, some alternative rock, lounge (particularly “space lounge”), world beat, novelty songs, parodies, synth-pop, acid-jazz, trip-hop, no wave, spoken word junk, some field recordings of found sounds, and even some other weird shit, like contemporary pop and dance. (Just off the top of my head…)

Music is important to me (sound in general, but as John Cage said, anything can be considered music---except rock and roll, in his opinion). I’ve always connected with music, even as a little kid. I used to listen to my mom’s and my dad’s and my aunts’ and my uncles’ records, and radio fascinated me as a kid. I made hundreds of mix tapes throughout my teens and twenties, then CD mixes, then podcasts, then online playlists… I’ve worked at a couple of music stores, even worked my way up to “Floor Manager” at one of them. I’ve been a DJ and music collector since the 1980s. I’ve DJ for weddings, funerals, school dances, company picnics, house parties, rave parties, and at dance clubs and bars, playing everything from techno and electronic dance music to goth and industrial to rock and blues. I currently have 26,478 songs cataloged on my computer, and I still have a bunch of CDs left in my garage that I haven’t “computed,” yet…and that’s not counting any of my RECORDS, which I haven’t even started on!!!! (I’m a particularly big fan of 7” singles, which are great time-capsules.) I’ve written for and edited music zines, I’ve booked bands for nightclubs, I’ve done interviews with bands for zines and for radio shows, I’ve ordered product for the store I worked at, and I even had a special room of my own that I was allowed to curate, painted a mural on the ceiling for, and had my own clientele, and everything. I’ve been to hundreds of concerts, I’ve had friends in hundreds of bands----and I can’t play a SINGLE NOTE myself or carry a tune in a bucket. It’s a type of magic I enjoy when produced by others, but I have to enjoy it without make it myself…

Where was I going with this??? Perhaps I’ve lost the plot again.

That’s about enough for now, anyway. I’ll write more as soon as I’m up for it.

---Richard F. Yates