In my art (and writing and life in general) I try to represent the randomness and absurdity of existence. (I usually fail at this, but trying is still fun.) Sometimes my attempts are humorous, often they are ugly, and sometimes—out of sheer chance—something NEAT happens. Absurdly NEAT-O!
I’m in my mid-40s now. I’ve lost some people. I’ve seen great human beings, funny and imaginative and warm (and sometimes a bit evil, but I don’t judge) who have lived lives, deeply affected those they were close to, but made no impact on society AT LARGE in any recognizable way—-and then they are GONE. Not superstars, never rich, not great philanthropists, not famous artists or writers or poets, just PEOPLE who came and went. They struggled and laughed. Some died way too early, some lived long enough to see most of their friends go before them. And I’d love to believe that they didn’t just DISAPPEAR. That SOMEHOW those great personalities are still out there in the universe, somewhere…
But I don’t see much evidence that the PERSON, the thoughts and desires and scars and smart-ass remarks and weird quirks that make up the INDIVIDUAL—I don’t see any convincing evidence that THESE THINGS survive the death of the body and brain. (I’m sorry, all you true believers, but the evidence is not compelling…)
However, the fact that life is finite doesn’t mean it can’t be LIVED while we are here and have a chance to live it.
Have you ever wondered whether or not someone LIVED A GOOD LIFE? Have you ever wondered if you are WASTING your time? Now ask yourself this: HOW DOES A CAT KNOW IF IT’S LIVED A GOOD LIFE? Is the life of one deer BETTER than the life of any other deer? What is a fulfilling OCTOPUS existence? Have the blades of grass in the front yard prepared for the REAPER as well as the grasses in the back yard have?
One could argue (pretty easily) that HUMANS have the intellectual capacity to CONSIDER these concepts (WHICH HUMANS MADE UP), whereas other creatures, like octopi and deer and cats and blades of grass, do not have the BRAIN CAPACITY. Whales and dolphins have some big brains, do THEY wonder if they’re wasting their potential?
My mom was killed in a car wreck when I was 14 years old.
She took my brother, one of his friends, and one of our aunts to go strawberry picking on the last day of school my freshman year of high school, and she never came home. Apparently, on the drive to the strawberry field, a man, coming off a double shift and traveling the opposite direction from my mom’s car, fell asleep at the wheel of his vehicle, drifted across the center line of the road, and collided with my mom, head on. She died instantly. My brother and aunt where hospitalized for several months and suffered through numerous surgeries to put them back together, but they survived. (The friend was, somehow, basically uninjured in the crash.) The driver of the other car, who hadn’t been drinking, wasn’t playing on a cell phone, who was just working hard to get enough money for his family to live a good life, broke his wrist in the collision. I don’t blame this guy AT ALL for what happened. It was a million to one shot that he happened to float over the center line just as my mom’s car was passing.
Random. If mom had left five minutes earlier, or later—two minutes even—she wouldn’t have been anywhere near where this hard-working man’s trajectory intersected with her line of travel. My life would have gone in a completely different direction. Her life would have KEPT GOING, for a while anyway.
I’m not trying to be maudlin, this was just one of the moments in my life that sent me in search of some HARD MEANING. Why? How? What’s the point of this? What MADE this happen? Nothing. Physics. Two fast moving, relatively heavy bodies ran into each other, and the soft parts in the middle got broken. No plan. Couldn’t have predicted this would happen. It just DID.
Now, I’ve learned to keep moving. (“Just keep swimming,” the little fish sings.) Bad things happen (often to good people, but also to bad people.) You live with it, or you don’t. I found ways to overcome that tragedy. I found ways to overcome many OTHER tragedies. I read a lot. I WRITE a lot, which helps me THINK THINGS THROUGH. I tried to remember how quickly things can change while I was raising my OWN kids. And I tried to have fun—with my wife, with my kids, with my family and friends—and to live a life that all the other blade of grass, and deer, and octopi (though probably not the cats) would be able to look back on and have a laugh.
HAVE FUN—even when it’s not appropriate.
Some folks have shown us the way: the Dadaists, the Situationists, the punks (early “punk” before it become a specific sound or fashion), Fluxus, the Absurdist playwrights and poets, and the many artists who just GO FOR IT (like Ray Johnson, Basquiat, Joan Miro, Roger Corman, Lloyd Kaufman, Ian Dury, Richard Brautigan…), these are the types of folks who really inspire me. They made shit. Not everyone liked what they made (even I don’t like EVERYTHING), but the point isn’t the individual artifact. Not everyone has the skill, drive, passion, temperament, education, or physical ability to be Michelangelo. FEW PEOPLE ARE PERFECT…
But CHOOSING to create anything in the face of a random, nonsensical, absurd universe, THAT is enough. Money, fame, a place in history—probably all worthwhile pursuits, if those are the goals you have—but if what you want is just to LIVE and have a good time, make some connections, forge a few lasting memories, THEN CREATIVE WORKS ARE A GREAT METHOD for achieving THESE goals. The MAKING part is fun, the satisfaction of FINISHING something (even something short or small or silly or awful—so bad it’s good, maybe?) is also pleasant, and the memories that can come from sharing the created work with others, maybe seeing them laugh or smile, maybe seeing them want to make something of their own… That’s WHERE IT’S AT…
The STRAIGHT CROWD will tell you that there are fighter jets overhead. To keep your balloon on a tether or you’ll drift into RESTRICTED AIRSPACE! And I say, fuck it… Wherever the wind blows…
—Richard F. Yates
(Primitive Thoughtician and Grand Hoohaa of The P.E.W.)
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Showing posts with label biography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label biography. Show all posts
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
“Trip” by Randy Long
A trip I went on and took a friend named Rick and a pup named Zeus.
Well, we were traveling in an old, grey Dodge van, 1978, half-ton, no window van, slant 6, one of those that would almost last forever. No windows and good on gas. Well, we started off getting supplies, and as an added thing, we stopped at Hostess and got some little pies. Rick loved those apple pies, and I got chocolate and cherry pies, and off we went.
We took off from Longview and headed east. We went by Morton and drove through Packwood and stopped on top of White Pass, took Zeus out and walked him about. He was about 6 months old and a Rottweiler, a happy go lucky little pup. By the time we got to White Pass it was getting dark, so we pulled over for the night.
When morning came, we ate, and off we went. Well, we just left White Pass and went to Yakima. The weather was nice. It was the beginning of August, and we decided we’d head for The Dalles.
We got back as far as Stonehenge, near Mary Hill Museum, and took Zeus out once again. We put Zeus back in, and stopped at Mary Hill Museum, locked the van in the shade. Well, we were gone no longer than half an hour, and when we got back to the van we found that Zeus’s favorite pies were apple, just like Rick’s, and Zeus had ate most everyone of his, but didn’t touch mine. I think Zeus was as happy as he could be, but for some reason, Rick didn’t find the humor in it.
Well, it was time to go, so off we went. We traveled down the Gorge and into Vancouver, crossed the bridge into Portland, went towards the zoo, and took Hwy 26, on our way to the coast. We went to Jewel and seen the elk in a refuge there, and off we went. Further down 26, near Hwy 101, was the largest spruce tree. We were off again.
Rick, my friend, brought music. Some was good and some not so good. One song, about drove me out of the van, was a little ditty, goes, “Right Round Baby Right Round.” By about the 37th time, I was “Right Round,” if you know what I mean, but most everywhere we went, the radio reception left something to be desired. Twenty years later, I still have a problem with “Right Round Baby.”
Down Hwy 101, we got to Cannon Beach. My favorite stop, Ecola State Park, is a breathtaking view. Indian Beach is a great place to surf. I’m, personally, not a surfer, but it’s amazing to watch, like the windsurfers up the Gorge.
Strolling down the coast, around Nehalem, there’s a viewpoint. You see off a cliff, and you can see for miles on a clear day. The next stop we stopped at was Rockaway Beach. A bit of fog was rolling in, but the sun was out and warm. If I remember right, the next stop was Lincoln City, and we seen whales through binoculars, pushing water out their spouts.
Then, I believe, was Siletz. The day we went through, they had a big Indian get-together up on top of a mountain. We wanted to stop, but it was getting late, around 10 at night, and it was a long day, so we found a place to pull over and go to sleep, down off 101, next to the ocean.
The next morning we were off again, getting a little bored along the coast. It was time for a change. We seen a road to the left that said “Green Acres.” We had to go. (After all, Green Acres is the place to be. The old series with Eddie Arnold.) So Green Acres, we are there. Nothing really to see, kind of disappointed. Back to 101, and we went to Harbor, Oregon, about the last stop before you go into California, so we stopped there.
We got burgers at a little diner right on 101, kind of a 50s diner. Rick and I got something for Zeus, and away we went, heading back towards I-5, to Medford. From Medford, we headed north on I-5 towards Portland, stopping in a little town called Brownsville. I swear we were in The Twilight Zone, or maybe it was the land that time forgot.
Rick and I pulled into town and immediately knew something was wrong. We were driving the newest vehicle in town, a ’78 Dodge van. Something wasn’t quite right. The cars were from the 50s and even everything in the shops was vintage. The people were dressed in 50’s attire. I think the cop’s car was a 1950 Ford Bullet Nose.
I looked at my friend, and he even said, “Did we go back in time?”
I’m not sure. We stopped and even on display in a window of the local hardware store was an old style bike from the 50s. We still don’t know to this day if we were in The Twilight Zone or just a 50’s reunion. It was time to go, ’cause there’s no place like home.
Brownsville, now, is just a memory. On our way home, naturally, we got caught in a traffic jam in Portland, but in 50 more miles we were home. An hour of so later, we pulled into Longview. Home at last.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.comhttp://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
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“The Mountain” by Randy Long
When the once dormant volcano became a live volcano again. Mt. St. Helens.
It started out with earthquakes, little ones, at first, and larger ones, progressively getting worse. The volcano was smoking and growing. One earthquake was really large. I was inside and things started to move. I was sitting at a table, and glasses and other things started to move. I got up and looked outside. Telephone poles were swaying back and forth, and I wondered, “Is this the big one?” Car alarms were going off, and people in cars were stopping their cars beside the road.
Just about as quickly as it started, it stopped. Then the minor aftershocks.
The mountain was spewing smoke. Finally, on May 18th, 1980, the mountain blew its top. A big bang, and the skies got dark and began to rain sand from the sky, sand called “silt” and “ash.” People hid in their homes that day and feared for their lives, while others, like myself, did not.
The wet ash falling from the sky made the sky dark for days. If you didn’t put pantyhose on your air filter, your car would clog up and not run. I had a Baha Bug at the time and put pantyhose over the carb intake and put rubber bands around it and kept the dirt out of the engine. You could drive around, but it was like driving in snow, but brown snow.
After the mountain blew and the skies cleared, people were devastated. There was a giant log dam up on the Toutle River that came down that day, rushed down through lakes and streams and into the Toutle River, wiping out bridges and houses and devastating everything in its path, from the Toutle to the Cowlitz and into the Columbia River, and eventually into the ocean, filling everything in its path with debris and silt.
It took out everything in its path. Dead animals, people, it literally picked up houses and took them away, filled others with silt and debris. It blew off the whole top of Mt. St. Helens. It changed thousands of lives that day.
It wiped out thousands of acres of trees. It made lakes where there wasn’t, and filled others in. It made roads impassable. My brother worked construction after the volcano blew and told me he seen a deer with no ears. I personally helped a friend go up on the Toutle, where he once lived. It had picked up his mobile home and it was between three trees, and I helped him get some things. We also went to Camelot, a trailer court in Castle Rock, to help remove essentials from his parents’ home. We actually waded through silt like quicksand, over 5 feet deep, to his parents trailer, pushing a canoe across the top of the silt and getting essentials back to shore. And, getting out, my clothes were shredded from the silt.
It took years after the volcano blew to become half way normal around here again. The mountain is growing again. It used to look like a perfect ice cream and came to a point.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
It started out with earthquakes, little ones, at first, and larger ones, progressively getting worse. The volcano was smoking and growing. One earthquake was really large. I was inside and things started to move. I was sitting at a table, and glasses and other things started to move. I got up and looked outside. Telephone poles were swaying back and forth, and I wondered, “Is this the big one?” Car alarms were going off, and people in cars were stopping their cars beside the road.
Just about as quickly as it started, it stopped. Then the minor aftershocks.
The mountain was spewing smoke. Finally, on May 18th, 1980, the mountain blew its top. A big bang, and the skies got dark and began to rain sand from the sky, sand called “silt” and “ash.” People hid in their homes that day and feared for their lives, while others, like myself, did not.
The wet ash falling from the sky made the sky dark for days. If you didn’t put pantyhose on your air filter, your car would clog up and not run. I had a Baha Bug at the time and put pantyhose over the carb intake and put rubber bands around it and kept the dirt out of the engine. You could drive around, but it was like driving in snow, but brown snow.
After the mountain blew and the skies cleared, people were devastated. There was a giant log dam up on the Toutle River that came down that day, rushed down through lakes and streams and into the Toutle River, wiping out bridges and houses and devastating everything in its path, from the Toutle to the Cowlitz and into the Columbia River, and eventually into the ocean, filling everything in its path with debris and silt.
It took out everything in its path. Dead animals, people, it literally picked up houses and took them away, filled others with silt and debris. It blew off the whole top of Mt. St. Helens. It changed thousands of lives that day.
It wiped out thousands of acres of trees. It made lakes where there wasn’t, and filled others in. It made roads impassable. My brother worked construction after the volcano blew and told me he seen a deer with no ears. I personally helped a friend go up on the Toutle, where he once lived. It had picked up his mobile home and it was between three trees, and I helped him get some things. We also went to Camelot, a trailer court in Castle Rock, to help remove essentials from his parents’ home. We actually waded through silt like quicksand, over 5 feet deep, to his parents trailer, pushing a canoe across the top of the silt and getting essentials back to shore. And, getting out, my clothes were shredded from the silt.
It took years after the volcano blew to become half way normal around here again. The mountain is growing again. It used to look like a perfect ice cream and came to a point.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
“The Day the Elk Went to School” by Randy Long
The day the elk came to town, I went to sleep, on a Saturday night, early. Fell asleep after a long, hot day in June, sunny, and after mowing the lawn and doing yard work most of the day. It had been a busy afternoon. There were cops, and sirens going off. Someone robbed the minute mart down the road.
Well, I lived right down next to a high school, and behind the high school was a stadium with a fence around it, and outside that fence was a big field in a giant circle. Well, the trees were evergreens and cut up from the bottom so that, if you bent down, you could see what was under them and see the field. The trees were cut up about 3 or 4 feet from the bottom, and the trees were about 20 feet tall.
Well, like I said, I fell asleep fairly early, and between the sirens and other noise, I still slept pretty good, until about 3:45 in the morning. I woke up and looked outside through the window. Well, there’s a street light right out front, plus that night there was a full moon, and between the two, it was pretty light outside when I looked out. There were 3 or 4 cops outside, showing their flashlights all around, and the first thing I thought was, maybe they had the guy who robbed the minute mart, and he was in the area. Well, they hung around the neighborhood for about an hour, and finally left. It was about 5 o’clock and getting light.
About then, I decided to go and get the Daily News paper. I went outside to the sidewalk and across the street to see what the cops were looking at. As I started to look under the trees into the field, out from under the trees and onto the sidewalk burst a huge elk with a huge rack of antlers towering next to me. I kind of jumped back, startled, and the big elk looked around and began running straight down the middle of the road. It got about 5 or 6 blocks down the road, by the store, turned down the block, and galloped away. The day the elk went to school.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
[Originally posted 13 Apr. 2013 @ The P.E.W.]
Well, I lived right down next to a high school, and behind the high school was a stadium with a fence around it, and outside that fence was a big field in a giant circle. Well, the trees were evergreens and cut up from the bottom so that, if you bent down, you could see what was under them and see the field. The trees were cut up about 3 or 4 feet from the bottom, and the trees were about 20 feet tall.
Well, like I said, I fell asleep fairly early, and between the sirens and other noise, I still slept pretty good, until about 3:45 in the morning. I woke up and looked outside through the window. Well, there’s a street light right out front, plus that night there was a full moon, and between the two, it was pretty light outside when I looked out. There were 3 or 4 cops outside, showing their flashlights all around, and the first thing I thought was, maybe they had the guy who robbed the minute mart, and he was in the area. Well, they hung around the neighborhood for about an hour, and finally left. It was about 5 o’clock and getting light.
About then, I decided to go and get the Daily News paper. I went outside to the sidewalk and across the street to see what the cops were looking at. As I started to look under the trees into the field, out from under the trees and onto the sidewalk burst a huge elk with a huge rack of antlers towering next to me. I kind of jumped back, startled, and the big elk looked around and began running straight down the middle of the road. It got about 5 or 6 blocks down the road, by the store, turned down the block, and galloped away. The day the elk went to school.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
[Originally posted 13 Apr. 2013 @ The P.E.W.]
Saturday, August 19, 2017
“Little Chicago to the Highlands” by Randy Long
It started in Little Chicago in the late 50s. I lived in a small house on the south side of Kelso (they called it “Little Chicago”) in the state of Washington. Our house was small, but on a double lot on the corner, and it sat back a little ways from the road. We had a small orchard in our yard. We had apples and pears and cherries and plum trees in the yard, with a burning barrel in the corner of the yard. Across the street there were berry bushes, and down the trail was a slough.
It was a two bedroom house with somewhat of a garage next to the house and a wood pile next to it. The front walk and doorway started with a porch. There was a door made of wood and glass. The glass was small squares. Past the door was an entry way into a wooden door that led to the front room with a bedroom on each end, a kitchen behind the front room, and to the left was the bathroom. Off the kitchen in back was a rear door that led to the garage and a gravel driveway. On the same side as the driveway, the neighbors had two huge St. Bernard dogs and a chain link fence.
My father drove taxi and my mother stayed home with 3 kids, and my mother was pregnant with my younger sister. I was 2; my brother was 8; and my older sister was 10 when I remember living in Little Chicago. We had a black and white t.v. with an antenna, and you could, if you were lucky, maybe get 3 channels. Those were fuzzy and usually you didn’t watch shows all the way through. That was 1960 or 1961. I remember watching Wanda the Witch, Howdy Doody, Romper Room, and Captain Kangaroo, some cartoons, and old movies.
My father came home and lots of times fell asleep on the couch. One morning he was lying on the couch and died, and his upper body slid off the couch from his waist up. My mom tried to keep us kids in our rooms, but we all seen our father lying there, which forever stuck in my mind. My father had a heart attack at age 31. He had an enlarged heart from rheumatic fever when he was a child, at age 13, I believe.
All my memories of my father were good ones.
The Columbus Day Storm was about a year later. I was told my brother was holding on to metal garbage cans, trying to get them in the garage, and the wind was blowing him down the road. I was looking at the front window, and everything was blowing around and there was a roaring from the wind.
I remember we had an old wood stove and that’s what heated the house. There was a wood pile next to the stove, and huge rats were caught in traps, daily. As soon as you heard the snap of the trap, my brother would run over there, and if it wasn’t dead, hit it with a log and pack it outside.
Around 1962, my mother met my soon to be new stepfather. She was a single mother, trying to raise 4 young kids, one a babe in arms. Soon thereafter, my mom married my stepfather and we moved to Longview and the Highlands. I was about 4 years old then, and The Beatles were hot. My first memories of the new house were of pictures of the Fab Four on the wall of my sister’s new bedroom upstairs. My brother and I had the other bedroom upstairs.
The house was laid out like this: in the front of the house there was a walkway that led to the stairs and a porch. Bushes were on either side of the walkway and the porch. Facing the porch was a long driveway made of cement going to a garage and the back door.
Inside the front door was the living room, to the left a fireplace, to the right was a glass door and the other half of the living room. The next room was the bathroom, then the downstairs bedroom, then next the kitchen and the doorway to the upstairs two bedrooms. In the kitchen you could either go back into the front room or out back through the kitchen door to the laundry room and the outside door in back that went to the garage or the patio to the right. On the left was the driveway.
From age 4 to about 17 years old, I lived there in the highlands.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
It was a two bedroom house with somewhat of a garage next to the house and a wood pile next to it. The front walk and doorway started with a porch. There was a door made of wood and glass. The glass was small squares. Past the door was an entry way into a wooden door that led to the front room with a bedroom on each end, a kitchen behind the front room, and to the left was the bathroom. Off the kitchen in back was a rear door that led to the garage and a gravel driveway. On the same side as the driveway, the neighbors had two huge St. Bernard dogs and a chain link fence.
My father drove taxi and my mother stayed home with 3 kids, and my mother was pregnant with my younger sister. I was 2; my brother was 8; and my older sister was 10 when I remember living in Little Chicago. We had a black and white t.v. with an antenna, and you could, if you were lucky, maybe get 3 channels. Those were fuzzy and usually you didn’t watch shows all the way through. That was 1960 or 1961. I remember watching Wanda the Witch, Howdy Doody, Romper Room, and Captain Kangaroo, some cartoons, and old movies.
My father came home and lots of times fell asleep on the couch. One morning he was lying on the couch and died, and his upper body slid off the couch from his waist up. My mom tried to keep us kids in our rooms, but we all seen our father lying there, which forever stuck in my mind. My father had a heart attack at age 31. He had an enlarged heart from rheumatic fever when he was a child, at age 13, I believe.
All my memories of my father were good ones.
The Columbus Day Storm was about a year later. I was told my brother was holding on to metal garbage cans, trying to get them in the garage, and the wind was blowing him down the road. I was looking at the front window, and everything was blowing around and there was a roaring from the wind.
I remember we had an old wood stove and that’s what heated the house. There was a wood pile next to the stove, and huge rats were caught in traps, daily. As soon as you heard the snap of the trap, my brother would run over there, and if it wasn’t dead, hit it with a log and pack it outside.
Around 1962, my mother met my soon to be new stepfather. She was a single mother, trying to raise 4 young kids, one a babe in arms. Soon thereafter, my mom married my stepfather and we moved to Longview and the Highlands. I was about 4 years old then, and The Beatles were hot. My first memories of the new house were of pictures of the Fab Four on the wall of my sister’s new bedroom upstairs. My brother and I had the other bedroom upstairs.
The house was laid out like this: in the front of the house there was a walkway that led to the stairs and a porch. Bushes were on either side of the walkway and the porch. Facing the porch was a long driveway made of cement going to a garage and the back door.
Inside the front door was the living room, to the left a fireplace, to the right was a glass door and the other half of the living room. The next room was the bathroom, then the downstairs bedroom, then next the kitchen and the doorway to the upstairs two bedrooms. In the kitchen you could either go back into the front room or out back through the kitchen door to the laundry room and the outside door in back that went to the garage or the patio to the right. On the left was the driveway.
From age 4 to about 17 years old, I lived there in the highlands.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
“Fishing” by Randy Long
That’s one thing I’ve done a lot of. When I started out, fishing was free for anyone under 16 years old, and when I started to buy my fishing license, it was about 10 dollars, but like everything else, it’s not the same as it used to be. It kicks the hell out of a 100 bill. They’ve got a fee for everything you do these days. You can’t even park at a fishing hole anymore without paying a fee. It used to be, when you turned 70 you got to fish for free, and by God you should, but not anymore. Hell, I always figured, if I made it to 70, I’d be damn lucky. I’d deserve to get something for free.
But not in Washington.
If you have not been fishing, I suggest you try it. You can sit and fish and slow things down and just relax. Best therapy I know. If more people went fishing these days, they wouldn’t need psychologists. Even if you don’t catch a fish, it doesn’t really matter, because you got to relax and get away from it all.
I’ve fished just about everywhere in the Pacific Northwest and for just about everything.
I’ve been on a charter boat in the ocean and caught salmon and even a shark, a sand shark, and let it go. I’ve fished from shore and caught sea perch, sea crappie, and fished from a jetty and caught sea bass and pogie, crabs and clams, and oysters and butter clams. I especially like sea perch and crappie. It’s white meat. You can fillet it out and fry it up. It’s delicious.
I caught crawdads and even ate kelp and seaweed. I’ve fished for salmon and steel-head and sturgeon and walleye, and they’re all good eating, too. I’ve ate frog legs, and yes, they taste like chicken, but don’t watch them cook in a frying pan because they do jump around. Another good eating fish is catfish, but they’re harder to clean. You have to nail the head to a board and cut the skin behind the head, and with a pair of pliers, peel the skin back, then fillet the meat. It’s white meat, too.
When cooking fish, the fresher the better. I’ve caught a lot of other kinds of fish, too. Trout and land lock salmon. Kokanee put up a heck of a fight and are fun to fish for. Make sure, if you ever go fishing for tuna, research it a little because when cleaning tuna you need to cut the blood line out of the fish or it will taint the fish, but I’ve never had a better flavored smoked fish. I’ve even ate smoked smelt, years ago, and those you would smoke and eat the whole fish, head and all.
I’ve fished for crappie along log rafts with white jigs and caught gunnysacks full. White fillets that melt in your mouth. East of the mountains, in the high mountain lakes, the trout are bigger and broader because they been fattening up through the winter. I’ve fished for tiger muskie with steel leader, but never caught any. And, yes, I’ve fished for white for selling to the state but, personally, never caught enough to make any money.
Years ago, every once in a while, I would catch carp. Never ate it myself, but I had an aunt and uncle that just loved carp. They were from back east, so whenever I caught any carp, you know where it would go. I knew a guy that caught one over 6 feet long.
I think my favorite style, personally, is bobber fishing for trout and land lock salmon, cooking kokanee over an open fire or wrapped in tin foil. It’s time for you to go out and go fishing now!
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
But not in Washington.
If you have not been fishing, I suggest you try it. You can sit and fish and slow things down and just relax. Best therapy I know. If more people went fishing these days, they wouldn’t need psychologists. Even if you don’t catch a fish, it doesn’t really matter, because you got to relax and get away from it all.
I’ve fished just about everywhere in the Pacific Northwest and for just about everything.
I’ve been on a charter boat in the ocean and caught salmon and even a shark, a sand shark, and let it go. I’ve fished from shore and caught sea perch, sea crappie, and fished from a jetty and caught sea bass and pogie, crabs and clams, and oysters and butter clams. I especially like sea perch and crappie. It’s white meat. You can fillet it out and fry it up. It’s delicious.
I caught crawdads and even ate kelp and seaweed. I’ve fished for salmon and steel-head and sturgeon and walleye, and they’re all good eating, too. I’ve ate frog legs, and yes, they taste like chicken, but don’t watch them cook in a frying pan because they do jump around. Another good eating fish is catfish, but they’re harder to clean. You have to nail the head to a board and cut the skin behind the head, and with a pair of pliers, peel the skin back, then fillet the meat. It’s white meat, too.
When cooking fish, the fresher the better. I’ve caught a lot of other kinds of fish, too. Trout and land lock salmon. Kokanee put up a heck of a fight and are fun to fish for. Make sure, if you ever go fishing for tuna, research it a little because when cleaning tuna you need to cut the blood line out of the fish or it will taint the fish, but I’ve never had a better flavored smoked fish. I’ve even ate smoked smelt, years ago, and those you would smoke and eat the whole fish, head and all.
I’ve fished for crappie along log rafts with white jigs and caught gunnysacks full. White fillets that melt in your mouth. East of the mountains, in the high mountain lakes, the trout are bigger and broader because they been fattening up through the winter. I’ve fished for tiger muskie with steel leader, but never caught any. And, yes, I’ve fished for white for selling to the state but, personally, never caught enough to make any money.
Years ago, every once in a while, I would catch carp. Never ate it myself, but I had an aunt and uncle that just loved carp. They were from back east, so whenever I caught any carp, you know where it would go. I knew a guy that caught one over 6 feet long.
I think my favorite style, personally, is bobber fishing for trout and land lock salmon, cooking kokanee over an open fire or wrapped in tin foil. It’s time for you to go out and go fishing now!
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
“The Blender” by Richard F. Yates
Mariah: “You don’t believe me?”
Me: “Nope!”
Mariah: “You think I’m lying about the blender?”
---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/
[Originally posted 6 Apr. 2013 @ The P.E.W.]
Me: “Nope!”
Mariah: “You think I’m lying about the blender?”
---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/
[Originally posted 6 Apr. 2013 @ The P.E.W.]
“Kid Valley” by Randy Long
When I was 10 or 11 years old, I had an aunt who lived in Castle Rock. She and her husband had no kids at the time, and she really wasn’t my aunt, but she used to be married to my uncle, my mother’s brother. So we all called her Aunt Val, and her husband was Uncle Grover.
Back to my story. She was a big woman and very affectionate. I was from the Longview / Kelso area, and at 10 or 11, Castle Rock was a long ways away, even though it was less than 15 miles. In Castle Rock, Val lived in town, in a second story house, Victorian style, on a double lot, and the whole second lot was a giant garden, with corn, beans, tomatoes, and a lot of other vegetables. Along the front row was a tall couple rows of sunflowers.
My first experience with fresh veggies, and it was great.
The next house was vacant, and they owned that, too. On the other side, on the corner house, there was a man, I don’t recall his name, but he was an ambulance driver, and when they had motorcycle races at the local fairgrounds, he would drive over to the center of the raceway and park. It was great because he took me with him, and I got to watch the motorcycle races. I stayed a couple weeks in the summer with my aunt and uncle in Castle Rock.
Her mother lived up by Mount St. Helens, at a little spot called Kid Valley. Her mother’s name was Josephine, and her husband was Stan. They owned the country store and gas station. In the back room of the store is where they lived, and they also had an upstairs with a couple more bedrooms. They also had a spot out front, that looked like a shack, that they called the burger bar. They sold cheeseburgers and milkshakes, and they were delicious. It was the last stop before you went to Mount St. Helens, although this was before the mountain became an active volcano and blew its top.
My sister, Colleen, stayed summers at Kid Valley. Josephine and Stan had us call her and her husband Grandma and Grandpa. My older sister would work at the burger bar, and later they would build a full size restaurant, but that summer, I got to stay with Colleen, which was great. She was 8 years older than me, and I always looked up to her. She was a short, very attractive young woman, and one of the hardest working women I’ve ever known. She always looked after me, like a big sister would.
I have fond memories of Kid Valley. I stayed upstairs in one bedroom and my sister in the other. I went fishing and hiking and exploring in the woods, and Grandpa and his friends would talk about Bigfoot’s feet, impressions made of plaster-of-Paris. There was even a local man who had a record on 45 of the song, “Legend of Bigfoot.” All the older men would stand around talking about Bigfoot and their sightings.
I remember waking up in the mornings in Kid Valley and looking outside and seeing deer standing in the field. I also remember seeing spiders the size of a 50 cent piece only up at Kid Valley. These were green with spots on their backs, and some were red. I’ve never seen green ones anywhere else.
Grandma would pay us kids a penny a worm for night-crawlers. She would sell them in the store to fishermen. I knew even then that she was selling them for a lot more than a penny a piece, but back then a hundred worms was a dollar, and that was a big bag of penny candy. And sometimes she’d throw in a candy-bar or two, when Grandpa Stan wasn’t looking.
I was told, don’t go past the cabins next to the store. The cabins were on the other side of a field in a half moon circle, kind of bordering Kid Valley, but there were trails behind the cabins that went into the deep woods. In front of the store and gas station was Spirit Lake Hwy. Across from that was a field and a house next to that, and behind those was the Toutle River, where people always went to go fishing at the fishing hole. There was a trestle and a bridge where a log train would come through, and a tunnel. You had to get through the tunnel before the train would come.
While fishing one time, my Grandma said to always wear a hat because she knew someone that once, at dusk, got a bat caught in their hair, and they had to cut it out. Scared the crap out of me.
I also went on my first snipe hunt at Kid Valley. After learning what a snipe actually was, the joke was on me. All in great fun.
A lot happened in a short time when I was a kid in Kid Valley. I would never trade any of my adventures for anything. I enjoyed my childhood.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
Back to my story. She was a big woman and very affectionate. I was from the Longview / Kelso area, and at 10 or 11, Castle Rock was a long ways away, even though it was less than 15 miles. In Castle Rock, Val lived in town, in a second story house, Victorian style, on a double lot, and the whole second lot was a giant garden, with corn, beans, tomatoes, and a lot of other vegetables. Along the front row was a tall couple rows of sunflowers.
My first experience with fresh veggies, and it was great.
The next house was vacant, and they owned that, too. On the other side, on the corner house, there was a man, I don’t recall his name, but he was an ambulance driver, and when they had motorcycle races at the local fairgrounds, he would drive over to the center of the raceway and park. It was great because he took me with him, and I got to watch the motorcycle races. I stayed a couple weeks in the summer with my aunt and uncle in Castle Rock.
Her mother lived up by Mount St. Helens, at a little spot called Kid Valley. Her mother’s name was Josephine, and her husband was Stan. They owned the country store and gas station. In the back room of the store is where they lived, and they also had an upstairs with a couple more bedrooms. They also had a spot out front, that looked like a shack, that they called the burger bar. They sold cheeseburgers and milkshakes, and they were delicious. It was the last stop before you went to Mount St. Helens, although this was before the mountain became an active volcano and blew its top.
My sister, Colleen, stayed summers at Kid Valley. Josephine and Stan had us call her and her husband Grandma and Grandpa. My older sister would work at the burger bar, and later they would build a full size restaurant, but that summer, I got to stay with Colleen, which was great. She was 8 years older than me, and I always looked up to her. She was a short, very attractive young woman, and one of the hardest working women I’ve ever known. She always looked after me, like a big sister would.
I have fond memories of Kid Valley. I stayed upstairs in one bedroom and my sister in the other. I went fishing and hiking and exploring in the woods, and Grandpa and his friends would talk about Bigfoot’s feet, impressions made of plaster-of-Paris. There was even a local man who had a record on 45 of the song, “Legend of Bigfoot.” All the older men would stand around talking about Bigfoot and their sightings.
I remember waking up in the mornings in Kid Valley and looking outside and seeing deer standing in the field. I also remember seeing spiders the size of a 50 cent piece only up at Kid Valley. These were green with spots on their backs, and some were red. I’ve never seen green ones anywhere else.
Grandma would pay us kids a penny a worm for night-crawlers. She would sell them in the store to fishermen. I knew even then that she was selling them for a lot more than a penny a piece, but back then a hundred worms was a dollar, and that was a big bag of penny candy. And sometimes she’d throw in a candy-bar or two, when Grandpa Stan wasn’t looking.
I was told, don’t go past the cabins next to the store. The cabins were on the other side of a field in a half moon circle, kind of bordering Kid Valley, but there were trails behind the cabins that went into the deep woods. In front of the store and gas station was Spirit Lake Hwy. Across from that was a field and a house next to that, and behind those was the Toutle River, where people always went to go fishing at the fishing hole. There was a trestle and a bridge where a log train would come through, and a tunnel. You had to get through the tunnel before the train would come.
While fishing one time, my Grandma said to always wear a hat because she knew someone that once, at dusk, got a bat caught in their hair, and they had to cut it out. Scared the crap out of me.
I also went on my first snipe hunt at Kid Valley. After learning what a snipe actually was, the joke was on me. All in great fun.
A lot happened in a short time when I was a kid in Kid Valley. I would never trade any of my adventures for anything. I enjoyed my childhood.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
“Bright Red Ball” by Randy Long
Once upon a time, a long time ago, back in my youth, I was sportin’ a ’64 Buick Riviera. Bronze was the color, low profile mags, and dropped on the ground. The engine was a 465 cubic inch with an automatic on the floor. It would smoke the tires until you let up on the gas pedal, and gas was 50 cents a gallon.
I was the cock of the walk, or so I thought. Girls would ask me out, and I loved it. When I went to dances, girls would come to me and ask me to dance. I remember when cruising along with my best girl on my side, we went down by the river. We parked down on the dike and I faced the car looking out over the river and cuddled close to each other, waiting for the sun to set.
As we both sat, embraced in each others arms, we looked out across the river. We were watching the extremely large red ball. We both looked at each other and back at the big red ball, and at the same moment, we realized it wasn’t the sun setting. The sun was to the right, and more of a golden glow.
At that moment, the big red ball shot straight up in the sky, stopped half way up, and even faster than before, shot straight up and out of sight. I’ve never seen the big red ball again, (but I know it was observing us.) (It changed me forever.)
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
I was the cock of the walk, or so I thought. Girls would ask me out, and I loved it. When I went to dances, girls would come to me and ask me to dance. I remember when cruising along with my best girl on my side, we went down by the river. We parked down on the dike and I faced the car looking out over the river and cuddled close to each other, waiting for the sun to set.
As we both sat, embraced in each others arms, we looked out across the river. We were watching the extremely large red ball. We both looked at each other and back at the big red ball, and at the same moment, we realized it wasn’t the sun setting. The sun was to the right, and more of a golden glow.
At that moment, the big red ball shot straight up in the sky, stopped half way up, and even faster than before, shot straight up and out of sight. I’ve never seen the big red ball again, (but I know it was observing us.) (It changed me forever.)
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
“The Boy and the Stray Dog” by Randy Long
On a camping and fishing outing, years ago, well 20 to 25 years ago, we went to Riffe Lake, Washington. It was pretty secluded. No bathrooms. No running water or developed campgrounds, but the fishing was great. All the kokanee salmon you could eat. Salmon and potatoes over an open fire. The good ole’ days.
We were camping, by “we” I mean my three nephews, their father, and his stepchild. There was Rick. He wasn’t a fishing person, so he would bring a book and a box of cereal. Next was David. He seemed to like fishing and wasn’t bad at it. Next was Andy. He was a fishing fool. He would catch a fish just to cut it open. Then there was Joe. He really didn’t seem to like fishing at all, and he was a little shy. The adults were myself and the kids' father, Roy. We both liked fishing and camping.
Anyway, the first night we camped in an area above the lake at the far end. You could see the lake and still be within walking distance from it. The campground was down a road, up and around a corner, and through an open area where trees surrounded the whole campground. We all ate plenty of salmon that night, roasted marshmallows, laughed and had a good time.
Just before bed, I went out, away from the fire and down a trail, and stopped when I heard something in front of me in the brush, and about then heard a scream from a big cat, a cougar. I started walking backwards, towards the camp fire, got back to the fire, built it up, and felt safer. We all went to bed in our tents, and in the morning I woke up early, at day break, and didn’t want to wake anyone up, so I left and went walking down to the lake, across a bridge, and started fishing on the other side. About then, across the lake, a big buck deer came running out of the woods, paced back and forth, and jumped into the lake, swimming right towards me.
By the time the deer got about half way across, a cougar jumped out of the woods, paced back and forth, then sauntered back into the woods. The big buck was still swimming straight at me. I reeled my line in, and there I was, standing with a fishing pole in one hand and tackle in the other, and the big buck climbs out of the water, not caring whether I’m there or not, and I don’t blame it. If a cougar was on my butt, I wouldn’t care either. Anyway, it looked at me, and I looked at it. It went its way, and I went mine.
So I headed back to the campground and told everyone about my morning adventure. Next, we all went to the lake and fished with worms, shrimp, and corn, and we all caught our limit and went back to camp to eat breakfast.
Through the winter, it flooded in spots at the lake, though it was receding, and left little places where there was water standing, a couple feet deep and 30 to 40 feet across. Joe had found a stray black lab dog and was playing with him. Joe was about 12 or 13 years old. I couldn’t tell you how old the dog was. Joe was playing fetch with the dog, but the dog wasn’t fetching, Joe was, so I had to get in on it. I would throw a stick and tell the dog to get it. He wouldn’t, so Joe would. Well, sometimes the dog would, but most of the time Joe would, so it got real interesting and funny. I would throw the stick in the two foot deep water. The dog looked at me, and Joe got the stick. After doing this for about half an hour, we went back to camp. The stray dog came back with us, hung around for about an hour, and then left.
All in all, it was a great camping trip.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
We were camping, by “we” I mean my three nephews, their father, and his stepchild. There was Rick. He wasn’t a fishing person, so he would bring a book and a box of cereal. Next was David. He seemed to like fishing and wasn’t bad at it. Next was Andy. He was a fishing fool. He would catch a fish just to cut it open. Then there was Joe. He really didn’t seem to like fishing at all, and he was a little shy. The adults were myself and the kids' father, Roy. We both liked fishing and camping.
Anyway, the first night we camped in an area above the lake at the far end. You could see the lake and still be within walking distance from it. The campground was down a road, up and around a corner, and through an open area where trees surrounded the whole campground. We all ate plenty of salmon that night, roasted marshmallows, laughed and had a good time.
Just before bed, I went out, away from the fire and down a trail, and stopped when I heard something in front of me in the brush, and about then heard a scream from a big cat, a cougar. I started walking backwards, towards the camp fire, got back to the fire, built it up, and felt safer. We all went to bed in our tents, and in the morning I woke up early, at day break, and didn’t want to wake anyone up, so I left and went walking down to the lake, across a bridge, and started fishing on the other side. About then, across the lake, a big buck deer came running out of the woods, paced back and forth, and jumped into the lake, swimming right towards me.
By the time the deer got about half way across, a cougar jumped out of the woods, paced back and forth, then sauntered back into the woods. The big buck was still swimming straight at me. I reeled my line in, and there I was, standing with a fishing pole in one hand and tackle in the other, and the big buck climbs out of the water, not caring whether I’m there or not, and I don’t blame it. If a cougar was on my butt, I wouldn’t care either. Anyway, it looked at me, and I looked at it. It went its way, and I went mine.
So I headed back to the campground and told everyone about my morning adventure. Next, we all went to the lake and fished with worms, shrimp, and corn, and we all caught our limit and went back to camp to eat breakfast.
Through the winter, it flooded in spots at the lake, though it was receding, and left little places where there was water standing, a couple feet deep and 30 to 40 feet across. Joe had found a stray black lab dog and was playing with him. Joe was about 12 or 13 years old. I couldn’t tell you how old the dog was. Joe was playing fetch with the dog, but the dog wasn’t fetching, Joe was, so I had to get in on it. I would throw a stick and tell the dog to get it. He wouldn’t, so Joe would. Well, sometimes the dog would, but most of the time Joe would, so it got real interesting and funny. I would throw the stick in the two foot deep water. The dog looked at me, and Joe got the stick. After doing this for about half an hour, we went back to camp. The stray dog came back with us, hung around for about an hour, and then left.
All in all, it was a great camping trip.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
“The Mighty Fish Monster” by Randy Long
It started 25 years ago on a fishing and camping trip, along the mighty Columbia River at a creek called Abernathy. Me and a nephew went hiking up the creek. The creek bed is clay and gravel and larger rock, shallow in spots and deep in others, and eventually it flows into the river.
At Abernathy, there’s tall grass and sparse trees near the mouth, and the further up the creek you go, the more dense the forest gets, and the easier it gets for things to hide that don’t want to be seen. While fishing the creek and not having much luck, my nephew was playing on the bank of the creek. We heard something in the brush, and saw the high grass moving. About then, I caught an odd looking fish. By the time I landed it and got the hook out, it was dead. I filleted it out and used it for bait, but to no avail. There just wasn’t anything biting.
I let my nephew use my hunting knife while he played, telling him to make sure he didn’t lose it.
About then, my nephew was prying on something and the knife slipped out of his hands, flew through the air, and landed in the deepest part of the creek. The knife was lost for good. I told him, jokingly, “If you don’t get the knife, the fish monster will get it and get us both.” My nephew was about eleven, and he wasn’t so sure that I wasn’t telling him the truth.
Well, it was getting late, and the sun was going down behind the trees. It was time to think about going to sleep, and back then I had a station wagon, which made a perfect place for sleeping. We had our sleeping bags in the wagon and laid down to go to sleep. About then, we heard a noise outside the station wagon. We looked outside with a flashlight but didn’t see anything. I looked at my nephew and said, “It’s probably the fish monster.”
Then something brushed up against the car and it moved in a kind of swaying motion. We both looked outside with our flashlights, and again we saw nothing. I looked at my nephew and his eyes were the size of saucers. I have to admit, we were both a little freaked out.
One more time we both laid down, and about then we heard a weird sound like something in pain. We heard the brush moving, and again the car moved. Well, even I figured it was time to pack up and get the Hell out of Dodge, so I jumped up front, climbed behind the wheel, and proceeded to drive out of there. I drove about 10 miles or so down the road to a park at the county line, where the parking lot was all lit up. I got out of the car and noticed scratches and dirt scrapes down the side of the station wagon. We slept a little uneasy that night, and I haven’t been back to Abernathy Creek since.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
At Abernathy, there’s tall grass and sparse trees near the mouth, and the further up the creek you go, the more dense the forest gets, and the easier it gets for things to hide that don’t want to be seen. While fishing the creek and not having much luck, my nephew was playing on the bank of the creek. We heard something in the brush, and saw the high grass moving. About then, I caught an odd looking fish. By the time I landed it and got the hook out, it was dead. I filleted it out and used it for bait, but to no avail. There just wasn’t anything biting.
I let my nephew use my hunting knife while he played, telling him to make sure he didn’t lose it.
About then, my nephew was prying on something and the knife slipped out of his hands, flew through the air, and landed in the deepest part of the creek. The knife was lost for good. I told him, jokingly, “If you don’t get the knife, the fish monster will get it and get us both.” My nephew was about eleven, and he wasn’t so sure that I wasn’t telling him the truth.
Well, it was getting late, and the sun was going down behind the trees. It was time to think about going to sleep, and back then I had a station wagon, which made a perfect place for sleeping. We had our sleeping bags in the wagon and laid down to go to sleep. About then, we heard a noise outside the station wagon. We looked outside with a flashlight but didn’t see anything. I looked at my nephew and said, “It’s probably the fish monster.”
Then something brushed up against the car and it moved in a kind of swaying motion. We both looked outside with our flashlights, and again we saw nothing. I looked at my nephew and his eyes were the size of saucers. I have to admit, we were both a little freaked out.
One more time we both laid down, and about then we heard a weird sound like something in pain. We heard the brush moving, and again the car moved. Well, even I figured it was time to pack up and get the Hell out of Dodge, so I jumped up front, climbed behind the wheel, and proceeded to drive out of there. I drove about 10 miles or so down the road to a park at the county line, where the parking lot was all lit up. I got out of the car and noticed scratches and dirt scrapes down the side of the station wagon. We slept a little uneasy that night, and I haven’t been back to Abernathy Creek since.
—Randy Long
https://primitiveentertainment.wordpress.com
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
“Artists are Revolting: The 3rd Horseshittists’ Manifesto” by Richard F. Yates
Part One: Excommunications
Dr. Augeas P. Houyhnhnm and the other members of the Secret Tribunal on Horseshittists’ Ethics, responding to the rogue posting of a 2nd Horseshittists’ Manifesto by recent inductee, Yichard Rates, have declared a state of emergency within the Horseshittists’ ranks. Though rogue actions are generally smiled upon within Horseshittist circles, the blatantly anti-Horseshittist commentary perpetrated by Mr. Rates has lead to the unanimous decision to excommunicate Mr. Rates from the ranks of the Horseshittists from now until the end of time, or until the Big Crunch, whichever shall occur sooner. However, his renegade work, The 2nd Horseshittists’ Manifesto, shall remain in the archives of the Horseshittists, partially because it establishes a series of interesting talking points and partially because we are all too lazy to bother erasing it.
(Sources have recently revealed that Yichard Rates is actually a poorly designed robot created by the big pharmaceutical industry for the sole purpose of destroying the Horseshittists’ Movement, which is, naturally, horseshit.)
In addition to Mr. Rates, two posthumous excommunications have been decreed by the Tribunal at this time, as well:
—Andre Breton, founder and ruler of the Surrealists, is hereby posthumously excommunicated from the Horseshittists for forcing Tristan Tzara out of the circle of the Parisian branch of the Dadaists and for being an egotistical douche-bag, which is horseshit.
—Richard Huelsenbeck, the Dada Drummer in Zurich and participant in the Berlin Dada group, is hereby posthumously excommunicated from the Horseshittists for denying Kurt Schwitters admission into the Dada Club in Berlin and for picking on Tristan Tzara, which is horseshit. Tzara wore a monocle for Bob’s sake. You just don’t pick on a guy who is classy enough to wear a monocle.
Part Two: “A Horseshittist Considers the Purpose and Usefulness of ART”
[This beautiful section was penned by Grover Von Eyesocker, Jr., but is fully endorsed by the Horseshittists’ Movement as a whole.]
Art is not about pretty pictures. Art is not about therapy or “self-expression,” either. Art is about the collapsing of infinite possibilities into a singularity, a moment or object that defies oblivion, however briefly, but is itself composed of said oblivion and is derived out of the deaths of innumerable possible alternate moments or objects. Where this painting now sits, billions upon billions or other, equally probable, paintings will now never come into being. It is possible that in some far flung moment of space-time that we shall never reach, alternate universes exists in which each of these non-paintings has become a reality, but what are such probabilities to us who will never encounter them.
No. Art is not about pretty pictures. Art is about ghosts and phantoms and shadows, the compression of all possibilities into one, less than perfect, momentary, fleeting blip, a point of existence that cries out for a spectator to notice it before it fades back into the nothingness from which it, oh so momentarily, sprang.
Part Three: Posthumous Inductees
Since we’re kicking people out of the ranks of the Horseshittists, it’s only fitting that we grab a few to add to the group, so that we can keep the numbers on an even keel. Here are a few citizens who have been decreed, by the Secret Tribunal, as posthumous inductees into the Horseshittists’ Movement:
—Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, is hereby inducted into the ranks of the Horseshittists. He was full of pranks and gumption, and often managed to entertain and enrage at the same time. Welcome.
—Tristan Tzara, the wandering Dadaist, born in Romania, caused a fuss in Switzerland, and got socked in the face in Paris. His “1918 Dada Manifesto” is one of the most brilliant, but undervalued, pieces of modern literature, which bandies about concepts of absolute import to the Horseshittists’ Code, such as the following: “Every pictorial or three-dimensional work is without purpose; let it be a monster that frightens servile minds, and not something sickly sweet to decorate the refectories of animals in human costumes, illustrations of this fable of humanity.” Is that reason enough to let him in? The Tribunal says yes.
—Erik Weisz, aka Harry Houdini, could smell horseshit from a hundred miles away. In addition to being a master escape artist and illusionist, Houdini dedicated a substantial portion of this life to debunking fake spiritualists and psychics who used trickery to rob unsuspecting and vulnerable citizens of their hard earned dough, which is some serious horseshit. Mr. Weisz, you are one of us!
—Ray Johnson, a collagist and postal artist, was a master of taking horseshit too far. Though he eventually drowned himself, before giving up the ghost, Johnson was the king of the tiny gesture, a true poet of nothingness, whose artwork didn’t stop at the edge of the canvass, but included nearly every aspect of his life. Gooble gobble, gooble gobble, Mr. Johnson. One of us!
—Roy Dean “Rowdy” Yates, my father, who died last summer, was an environment-builder who utilized the most basic, found substances to create his worlds. He had a cherry tree, limbs and all, holding up the ceiling in his living room. The back porch of the house I now live in was built out of wood he scavenged from a toppled down barn (and it kind of looks like it.) And I even heard stories about how he once ate a dead fly off a windowsill at a party on a dare! Shocking. The man lived a frugal but imaginative life, and besides that, look at how great I turned out to be! For that alone, the man certainly deserves to be counted among the Horseshittist elites!
Thanks, and have a good night.
—Richard F. Yates
(Commander in Cheap of The Primitive Entertainment Workshop)
(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/
[Originally posted 13 Mar. 2013 @ The Primitive Entertainment Workshop.]
http://readadamnbookwithrfy.blogspot.com
https://schoolofmadnessastruth.blogspot.com/
https://www.facebook.com/richard.f.yates/
[Originally posted 13 Mar. 2013 @ The Primitive Entertainment Workshop.]
Sunday, August 13, 2017
"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/
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/
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