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Gorgo's Stories about Richard Brautagan |
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VII A Lesson in Conceptual Criticism
(See Photographs)
In the late fall of ‘82, I had made
friends with a Scot named Roger Millar who had come to M.S.U. as a one
year replacement for a sculptor in the art department. Roger thought
Americans were fat, decadent and overpaid; he was also a big fan of
Richard's work in Scotland, so I decided to treat him to an afternoon
with the Captain. Before we left Bozeman, it was snowing pretty hard,
but we bought a bucket of chicken for the Captain’s dinner and headed
over Bozeman Pass on the interstate. When we arrived, Richard was a
little stir crazy from being alone at his place, so he was in fine
form. He flipped into a brief session of imperial mode and told Roger
that his house was built on an ancient glacial moraine. He then brought
out a baby's bracelet made out of small white beads with a name spelled
out on them.
“I found this when they were remodeling the bathroom,” said Richard. “It belonged to the baby of the original owner of the house.” Instead of showing the usual star struck awe in the presence of a great writer waxing eloquent, Roger said, “Bullshit, the fuckin’ thing’s made out of plastic,” (and I think it was). “And this isn't a fuckin’ moraine either,” said Roger “It’s just a little stream bed.” Richard's eyes got kind of funny, like there were a lot of little dots in front of them, looked at me and said, “My, He’s a feisty little fucker, isn't he?” Roger picked up the gauntlet and ridiculed Richard on every stupid point, and the Captain loved it--so much that he gave him signed copies of several of his rare books. I drooled as he lovingly signed away a hardboard copy of Revenge of the Lawn. Soon Richard had a mouse trap out and was daring us to try to spring it without getting snapped. Roger said, “You fuckin’ gotta be kidding.” I stuck my finger in boldly and got it badly snapped. Richard stuck his in and got his badly snapped too. Roger tapped his foot and shook his head at both of us. “That's all you Americans are interested in, violence.” “Ah,” said the Captain, “yes, violence,” and he darted to the utility room and came back with a .357 magnum. Roger suddenly stopped looking so feisty. He was getting a solid glimpse of American horror. “What shall we shoot,” said Richard, looking intently at Roger. “How about that book of criticism you showed me yesterday,” I said. “Splendid,” said Richard. “Actually, I have two copies of it. “That way the hole will be a lot bigger when the bullet comes out through the second one.” The book is called In the Singer’s Temple, and it is by an author named Jack Hicks. The part that made the book quite shootable in the Captain’s eyes reads like this: “It has become a popular critical pastime to dismiss Richard Brautigan’s writing as merely faddish, a more hip, barely weightier version of Rod McKuen’s maunderings. Brautigan’s poetry does little to discourage this sort of overreaction. It seems so uniformly slight; arch, almost unbearably naive, it is consciously unself-conscious (picture a moronic adolescent friend waving hello from a televised bowling show).” “You shoot them” said the Captain. “I wouldn't stoop to paying that much attention to that crap.” So, as Roger watched in terror, I took the books out, lined them up and shot them right in the middle. “Wonderful,” said Richard. “Talk about post-modernism.” He picked one up and pried it open. “When you open these babies up, there's a little round book that opens up and reads by itself where the bullet went through.” Richard was right. We took turns flipping through the little round book in the middle of the second book. One internal page read, “it in a black printed nicely the cover.” “Conceptual criticism!” said Richard. And even Roger had to agree. It WAS conceptual criticism. After that, the Captain and Roger drank a pint of pure grain alcohol that had been sitting around Richard's kitchen for a few years; then, they went out on the back porch and had a good simultaneous vomit or “bok” as Roger called it in his Scot's dialect. That night, I was stone sober as I drove Roger back over the pass, hanging his head out the window in the blowing snow and streaking the side of my Mazda Miser. Later, I heard that Richard had signed the front copy of the book (the one with the smaller hole) over to Peter Fonda, but I still have the second one with the little book in it. About ten years after this conceptual criticism when I was at U. Cal. Davis performing and giving a workshop with Gary Snyder, I met Jack Hicks, the author of In the Singer’s Temple. He was a nice guy. I didn’t mention that I was familiar with his work. |