Legends of Pitts - Bathroom Tissue Yard Decoration

LEGENDS OF PITTS - NOCTURNAL ACTIVITIES AND THE ART OF BATHROOM TISSUE YARD DECORATION

                                  (Simulated Chris Pitts Work - Demonstration Purposes Only)

As we grow older our hindsight vision begins to tune to a perfect 20/20.  It’s something I learn more and more everyday.  Eventually we all look back at some point and say “What was I thinking?”

So when I look back on these events I smile and wonder.  I knew better, but not enough to stop.  It’s a good thing that “most” of my nocturnal activities were harmless as we can no easier change the past then Superman can spin around the world a million times and turn back time.  (Wait!?!?!?)  But what can I say,  I was driven!

When it came to Bathroom Tissue Yard Decoration, known in the common vernacular as “Toilet Papering”  I am sure many others considered myself to be a renaissance man in the field.  This “legendary” status would only come many years after the fact as those individuals who were “chosen”  look back in awe of my trio’s greatness.  I am sure at the time there may have been some bitter feelings as individuals dragged black plastic bags across painted yards slowly filling them with my artistic medium.  But, as they say, time heals all wounds!

My career started not with toilet tissue per say, but with something cheaper and more challenging.  Back then money was a little tight when we discovered this source we were elated.  Near my house was an old Circle K that had been converted into a corporate office of sorts.  Each day fastidious clerks would crank out hundreds of rolls of adding machine tape.  These rolls were then rubber banded and fastidiously placed in a dumpster behind their building.  This same dumpster bordered the open fields where we used to hang out.  We dubbed these rolls ‘ticker tapes” and each day we would go collect bags full.

Ticker tapes had both pros and cons.  One major pro of the ticker tape was that it was easier to throw than an entire roll of toilet paper.  It could reach the highest heights of the tallest trees and then gracefully return to earth waiting to be thrown again.  In the end leaving roll after roll of connected bows dangling from as many affected branches 

It was also stronger than a normal roll of toilet paper.  This meant you could wrap and throw and curl and drape to your heart’s content without the fear of the line breaking.

The cons were many.  First, it only came in one color.  White.  Those who created adding machine tape obviously lacked creative vision.  Second, it had no discernible smell except paper.  When choosing toilet paper, a myriad of scents were available.  You could actually match your toilet paper scent with the tastes of your benefactor.  Perhaps a nice “summer rain” to match that particular season.  Or a “spring flowers” for that special time of year that the bulbs begin to burst forth.  It’s the little touches that make the difference.  Lastly, ticker tape suffered from a lack of challenge.  Too easy, too strong, too malleable.  Every good artist enjoys a challenge.

To spare the innocent in these stories I will only use the initials of those who benefitted from our art.  But many a late night was spent with Gary Ellis and Jeff Fenstermaker (Neither of whom was innocent despite their appearance!) casing the joint so to speak.  It wasn’t just to toilet paper someone’s house.  It was to do something that hadn’t been done.  Or to do something that appeared from the outside to be impossible.  To do something that would have the halls of Cottonwood High School rumbling the following Monday.

One of our first projects involved a house placed solely and squarely on 13th East in Salt Lake City.  No matter what the hour, this street is always busy.  Challenge Accepted!

My good friend, (and hopefully still my good friend!) AST (Once again we are using initials to protect the innocent.  Full initials with married name included) lived at that house.  Today her house is surrounded by a fence; back then there was little to no cover.

It was sometime around midnight, which, if you didn’t know is the ideal time for bathroom tissue yard decoration.  The bad thing was, it was a Friday night and there was still a lot of traffic.  So, little cover and lots of traffic.  Not really an ideal situation.  Undaunted we trudged forward!  So the objective was to get as much material into the trees and bushes etc. and then take what little cover there was as each car passed.  To our astonishment we pulled it off.  Even a police car passed (Which we would find to be a recurring element in our career.) and we pulled it off!  Finishing, we skulked back to Gary’s Buick and drove home basking in our achievement.  Instead of cigars and brandy, we celebrated with Pearson’s Nut Bars and Mountain Dew.

That was the beginning of a long and productive career.  Each yard, each house, a canvas.  The worst time was ducking from a police car over a cinder block wall into an a dark unknown.  The “dark unknown” being a huge and thick rose garden.  Amazingly with as many surgeries that I have had, that is the most lacerations my body has ever suffered.  I remember having a hard time explaining all of the cuts on my arms to my mom.

The pinnacle of our career was a vision to match Monet’s giant water lilies in the MOMA.  It happened that we had two friends who lived across the street from each other.  Their houses were situated in a small cul de sac with little traffic which was perfect because we would need time.  A lot of undisturbed time.  Our objective:  to paint two houses with multiple colors of  media and then to connect both houses together with the same media!  In my mind a veritable success!  I am sure that KPG and VCM were not as excited as they likely had to clean it up.  

In our own defense, a lot of people knew who was doing this.  I like to think they were flattered....  A lot of the time we would drift back to help clean up.  Denying any involvement of course.  Usually saying something like “I’m not this talented!”  :)

Looking back, it was weird.  I always have danced to the beat of another drummer. (Usually Neil Peart, I love the RUSH!)  But even I think it was weird.

That being said, it was fun!  Weird and fun.  What came out of all of it?  Legend?  Maybe. It will be interesting to see if anyone remembers any of this.  Ultimately it gave me something to write about.

Would I do it all over again?

Absolutely!

But my objective would be The Statue of Liberty……

Icelandic Horses - That’s so Raven!

To my readers:  Today’s entry was going to be the first in an ongoing series called “Legends Of Pitts.”  In looking at the article I feel that it needs a little “fine” tuning and frankly I only want to give the very best to anyone who spends their valuable time reading this.  :)  That being said, please enjoy part three in my ongoing Icelandic Expedition Series which I know has been finely tuned for your reading enjoyment!

Thank you!

Christopher R. Pitts

Icelandic Horses - That’s so Raven!

[In July 2013, Kristine and I took the journey of a lifetime to Iceland (Kristine’s choice and not mine.)  Here, now in March 2014 I am beginning to recover from my experience.  What follows are my memories as dictated by my therapist to help in my recuperation.

In Iceland you can count the number of animals that live there on one hand  First you have the sheep.  As anyone who read my last Iceland blog knows, they are everywhere.  Then you have the birds.  The different species of birds don’t count here because, well because they are birds.  And even though they are “supposed” to be different species they all look like seagulls.  Then you have a few cows.  Then a very small population of grey foxes.  The foxes attack and eat the sheep (As do the Icelandic people.  Being a sheep in Iceland is not easy.)  Foxes are not native to Iceland.  No one knows how they got there.

I like to imagine one of the cave dwelling criminals taking the bladders of the sheep that they stole and ate and building a small inflatable boat.  Then taking the boat over to North America snagging a male and female fox, floating back to Iceland, and then releasing the foxes and yelling “Take that!” just prior to skulking back to their cave.  I wouldn’t put it past them.  After all Iceland gave birth to Bjork.

And lastly the Icelandic Ponies.  I am not sure why people outside of Iceland started calling them ponies.  The people in Iceland don’t call them ponies and they really don’t like it when anyone else calls them that.  Truth be told there is nothing “pony” about them.  They are big!  Big even for horses!  And they are strong.  They have to be because 99.327% of Iceland is made up of volcanic rock.

In Iceland, if you are a horse, you will never leave Iceland.  The Icelandic people guard these horses zealously.  Foreign horses take note, horses from outside of Iceland are not allowed into Iceland.  If a horse leaves Iceland for whatever reason that horse will never be allowed back.  If say a horse swims far out to sea, well you get the picture. The horses, like most of the people in Iceland can trace their lineage all the way back to the vikings.  Those are the same vikings who landed here, got off the boats, and said “This looks like a great place to live. Let’s stop here!”

The same day as the hellaciously wet hike, Kristine and I booked a Horse tour.  In hind sight, this was a terrible idea.  However, we had no idea that our hike on that particular day would be in a hurricane.  We arrived at the stables soaking wet.  Our hosts were very sympathetic to our plight and were very accommodating. They did everything in their power to make us comfortable and welcome.  Not a word was spoken when I sat on the floor in a corner and the water from my clothing made a small lake in their lobby.

To gear up for your Icelandic “HORSE” ride the first thing you do is put on bright hunter orange rain slickers and less than comfortable Napoleonic War issue cavalry helmets.  The slickers aren’t so much for the rain as they are protection.  If you are wearing hunter orange you are less likely to be shot in any of the ongoing clan wars in that can erupt in Iceland at any given moment.

Let it be noted before I continue, that I love Horses.  To me they are second only to dogs in the animal coolness hierarchy.  I love riding horses. I loved riding my Icelandic horse.  From head to toe he was magnificent!  Black as coal.  His name was Hrafn which is Icelandic for Raven.  

In thinking about riding horses I was thinking a casual stroll across the flat Icelandic lava wastes.  You know, maybe see one of those elusive foxes eating a sheep or something.  Nothing in Iceland is ever that easy…

Our guide was from Sweden.  If she hadn’t been in Iceland that summer taking tourists for horse rides I am sure she would have been working her “day job” which is the whip person on one of those Romans sailing barges.  No matter how fast Raven and I went, it was not fast enough for her.  And she had no problem letting us know!  Had she a whip, I know I would have felt its sting.

And it wasn’t flat either.  It was torturous! It was crazy rocky and muddy! It was uphill both ways. At one point we crossed a raging river and again in the “I am not lying.” category I swear Raven was swimming!  The whole time we kept hearing our guide yelling “Klep, Klep, Klep!  Push that horse!  They are bred for this!  Klep! Klep! Klep!”  I had spurs on, but why would I kick such a noble steed?  To this day I don’t know what “KLEP” means, but it is a word I have come to hate.  Sometimes I hear it in my sleep, and often I awake in a cold sweat.

Raven was a great horse.  At times I swear that horse was up to his belly in mud and he trudged along loyally.  Through everything that female Simon Legree pushed us through Raven and I went on willingly and loyally.  I kept leaning forward to tell him what a good horse he was, and that it would be ok we were going to get through this!  We were Rohirrim!  Both bred for this!

I like to think that in that three hour ride Raven and I formed an inseparable bond.  That years from now, when I have healed completely and can actually return to Iceland without the imminent danger of a nervous breakdown I will return to those fields.  Raven will be there not forced to carry big guys like me through hell, but to breed an even better Icelandic horse.  I will step into the field and our eyes will meet in a glance of caring and respect.  I will pet his neck and give him a sugar cube or two.  And and a Granny Smith apple.  And then we will saddle up and ride into the sunset in search of our female nemesis.

How will we find her you ask?  After all these years?

We will just listen somewhere off in the distance for the “Klep! Klep! Klep!”

AND when we find her she is going to get an equine noogie!  :)

AND NOW!  GULLFOSS!

[In July 2013, Kristine and I took the journey of a lifetime to Iceland (Kristine’s choice, not mine.)  Here, now in March 2014 I am beginning to recover from my experience.  What follows are my memories as dictated by my therapist to help in my recuperation.]

-WET-

In Iceland, Cool Ranch Doritos are called “Cool American Doritos.”

I wondered as I stared at the blue bag of corn “crisps” lovingly placed on the Icelandic version of a 7-11 shelf  “Do people in Iceland think Americans taste of ranch dressing?”  In reflecting on the seven days that I spent there, I think they just might…..

Several people have asked me to relate some more about my experiences in Iceland, hence this narrative. That plus I love to hear myself ramble in text.   

I have had several months to recover from our excursion.  Most of my wounds are healed.  I hear they have wonderful creams now that can fade scars.    Even better, feeling has started to return to my extremities.  It’s amazing how much you appreciate fingers when you can’t feel them.  Only time will heal the emotional scars.

Iceland and I definitely had a love hate relationship.

Iceland is diverse. Diverse in that there are multiple shades of black volcanic lava rock which make up about 90% of the landscape.  There are very few trees that dot the landscape.  Those that do exist seem to be stunted to no taller than about 12’.  It rains nearly every day in Iceland.

“Did I mention that it rains nearly every day in Iceland?”

Icelandic rain gives a new definition to the term “wet.”  One excursion had Kristine and me hiking three miles into a hot spring to swim in a warm fresh water river.  The pictures on the flyers show bathing suit clad tourists frolicking in a large crystalline blue pool.  White washed smiles gleaming through effervescent healing steam.  It looked very refreshing!
  

The reality was a hike in gale force winds and biting rain.  Our clothing which was supposedly water resistant proved to be “semi-permeable.”  Gear which in Utah kept me dry for hours lasted approximately 30 minutes.  Volcanic steam, mixed with a thick fog offered those without the need for corrective eyewear a view of about 10 feet.  With my glasses on, my visibility was about 10 inches.  Taking them off I did much better.  Instead of being a big foggy blur everything just became a big blur that made a sound like sheep.

“Oh yeah, in Iceland they open all of the pens where they keep their sheep and they let them roam free.”

So the sheep are everywhere. 

Arriving at the river we found it to be warm.  And that was about it.  Not big at all, and not deep.  But warm.  The dressing room you ask?  The great wide open!  Yep Kristine’s changing room was me holding a big giant wet towel around her.  For me, a lot of people got to know me better than I am sure they cared for.  How very European!

You know that brief moment when you walk from a hot shower and you get that brief chill before wrapping yourself in a warm towel?  OK now imagine that same feeling except the towel is soaking wet and and a nearly horizontal stinging ice cold rain is beating against you.  All this with possibly a dozen sheep watching.  That is what we experienced as we left the warm waters of the semi-inviting geothermic pool.

I have never felt that wet.  Even when swimming.

The hike down was very like the hike up.  All uphill.  Those spots that did ebb in the downward direction were “slip and slide” wet.  You get the picture.

Arriving back at our van we crawled in wet, muddy and exhausted.  Not one piece of clothing that I had on was dry.  Looking back I am pretty sure that even my skeleton was soaked.

Ironically the one saving grace was that I arrived back to an apple flavored juice box.  Not nearly as refreshing as the picture of those tourists frolicking in warm naturally heated water.  But at that point I was willing to take what I could get.

The one thought that kept crossing my mind that day was “If the devil doesn’t live in Iceland, he must have a summer home here….”

Despite how this sounds, I didn’t hate all of Iceland.  Some of it came to grow on me.  Not even in a parasitic way.  More on that to come later.

My next cathartic Icelandic story - Icelandic Horses - That’s so Raven!  

But first a Legend of Pitts Interlude

Let the healing continue.

[In July 2013, Kristine and I took the journey of a lifetime to Iceland (Kristine’s choice and not mine.)  Here, now in March 2014 I am beginning to recover from my experience.  What follows are my memories as dictated by my therapist to help in my recuperation.]

I am in a strange land with very strange art.  That is what I was thinking as I strolled the streets of Reykjavik Iceland.  There is a lot of art here.  Not all of it is good.  I was thinking that mostly “not all of it is good” as I looked at five half-filled hospital urine bottles in a glass case.

I’m really not sure what the artist was trying to say here.  I’m not really sure that I want to.

I don’t know if this reflects my Tuesday or not.  Maybe it does.  I have not been feeling good today.  Bad enough that I skipped the snorkeling experience.   Kristine did it and had a great time.  The water was 2 degrees Celsius, that means barely above freezing.  It was quite clear and clean enough to drink. But if you put your finger in it without a protective glove it would shatter into a million fleshy bits.

In order to go into these frigid waters you have to wear a dry suit.  Think Medieval History’s Iron Maiden meets modern dive technology.  It consists of a giant polar undergarment capable of keeping you warm even if you were instantly transported to the moon, followed by the dry suit itself.  If you felt good before you tried putting one of these things on you won’t once you’re done.  You’ll be lucky if you have enough energy to make the dive that you set out to do in the first place.  I liken it to wrestling a giant squid.  Ultimately you end up looking like “Randy” in A Christmas Story.

We also went into a cave.  This is no new experience for me.  I have explored lots of caves.  This one was all volcanic.  Our guide told us that Icelandic criminals would hide out in these caves, and “ I am not lying here” raise generations of kids.  He also told us that they grew blind from the darkness and scales like a lizard to adapt to the cave’s environment….

I wonder if he had something to do with the “pee art?”

Also in the “I am not lying” category, Reykjavik’s most popular restaurant is a hot dog stand.  Don’t ask me the name because the signage is all in Icelandic.  I’m not even sure if they use the same alphabet as us.  Most of the letters are the same and then they throw in a letter that is not sure whether it wants to be an upper case “P” or a lower case “b”.  They are also really fond of the letter “V” and I think they throw it in most words just because they love it so.

But the Hot Dog was quite good.   Actually, it was one of the better parts of my day.  I had the one with everything which consists of grilled onions, normal onions, fancy hot dog mustard and a spicy sweet ketchup.  Throw in a coke and you have a meal!  All for the low price of $600 ISK (Icelandic Kroner) which is about $8 American dollars.  Yeah that is one pricey Hot Dog….

Oh yeah and it will likely rain.

UP NEXT “WET”