Y’know, I used to make so much fun of Bob Ross. I called him Goody Three-Shoes, one step more wholesome than Goody Two-Shoes, and I hated his paintings because he rarely used red. He used pink a lot, and some orange, but rarely bright red.
Me, I liked Goya. His paintings had red, and they were frightening. Goya, man, he was barefoot. I wanted Goya on TV.
Hey, like, once you’ve come out of the closet, can you go back in? Folks would forget, right? I mean, why should they care? Maybe the closet was comfy, and you had cushions in there, and some of those luminous stars on the ceiling. Maybe you read in there, and listened to music, and you’d made a wee nest….
You could get back in.
I meant that in a gay way, not an actual closet. I don’t hide in closets, except this one time in Girl Guides, where I totally hid in the closet. It wasn’t just me. It was me and my best friend. We brought snacks, and a flashlight, and two decks of cards, and we spent the whole meeting having our own little meeting. Only, we hadn’t paid our dues, just a quarter—still stealing, all the same. We had a whispery fight over whether to come out and pay or stay in and get candy, and we settled for honesty. We got yelled at for that, and we had to sweep the hall. We should’ve stayed in there. We should’ve stayed in all night.
I like Bob Ross now. All those soothing TV people, Frasier, Marie Kondo, folks who speak with conviction and do as they please. Reassuring voices in the background, sort of thing. I leave the telly on when I’m working, when I’m going to sleep. You couldn’t doze off to Goya. You’d be up all night.
I still like red.
This week’s just started, and it’s already got the best of me. Let me just lie flat….