Bob Ross, Pure Positivity

 

Tom Robbins can let fly with the devil may care phrase with the best of em.  Shit like— the Grand Canyon as the Canyon of Vaginas. Or, traveling on Thanksgiving day in his Dodge wagon he calls the cosmic turkey.

Henry, who has writer’s block, is reading Robbin's book Wild Ducks Flying Backwards to trigger his poetic mind.

Writing on his travels in Nevada Tom says, 

If something is so hazardous and destructive and ugly and spooky that we don’t know what to do with it, we stick it in Nevada. The state is blotched with danger areas immense— guarded, off-limits, concealing every imaginable kind of high-tech poison, as well as various weapons systems that sup on or excrete those poisons. In Nevada, a fluffy little cloud can suddenly exterminate a whole flock of sheep. And Nevada is the place the Bomb calls home. 

We dump on Nevada because Nevada seems so useless and empty because it seems that there is less there than the there that Gertrude Stein couldn’t find in Oakland. Of course, any couch turnip who’s caught The Wonderful World of Disney knows that the desert is teeming with life. 

Let’s bury Tom for a moment. 

Henry pours a drink and looks out the window at his Key West neighborhood, thinking nothing. He picks up an underground paper with a real hip shot of Lenny Bruce on the cover.

Yeah, Lenny was funny at times, the bit, I Can’t Cum, was a masterpiece. He was persecuted, right, sure, physically and spiritually, but, and this a deadly but, he was obsessed with bad voodoo, bad mathematics. 

Lucia, Henry’s drop-dead sexy Cubano wife walks into his study  bitching,

I’m tired of your drinking and partying,

what? We’ve been partying non-stop since we met at The Gato Bar in Havana a decade ago.

You're worse than me Henry. 

who’s the judge? 

Me, 

you, you’re the judge? 

Yes, I am, and you ignore me too, chicas need attention you know. 

I’m writing a bit on the death of Lenny Bruce for the German magazine SYBILLE. Lenny’s story, the story of his life, not his death. 

Are you suffering, Henry? 

No, but junks suffer, once they take the shit they spend every waking hour looking for the next fix. Lenny functioned on junk though, he did his comedy bits in the clubs and fought the speech dicks and legal bullies tooth and claw in every courtroom in America. It destroyed him, the poor fucker was shot to pieces in the end— dead of an overdose in his Hollywood Hills home, forty and looking like he’d lived a century. 

What about us, Henry? What’s in it for us? 

Everything’s in it for us, the world’s at our feet. Let me wrap things up and we’ll take the Chis to Dog Beach. 

Lucia goes to the bedroom, slipping into her thong swimsuit and a bulky Oxford shirt. Henry follows in a few, putting on cut-offs and a T ripped at the collar. Then she braids and oils his waist-length hair. 

In no time the couple and the Chihuahuas, Che, and Mia are in their 73 Malibu cruising to Dog Beach, feeling relieved, leaving the what-ifs and junk speak on the further side to evaporate.

They park and get out of the car. Lucia Lugs her large Gucci bag and the Chis follow. 

At the entrance to Dog Beach, a free beach, they're met by Lazy Carlos, who has a bamboo hut of the same name with rental umbrellas, beach chairs, and seaside sundries for sale. 

Carlos is overjoyed to see the couple, greeting them like old friends saying,

I’ve got some killer weed for ya, Thai stick, two tokes, and your gone. 

Henry helps Carlos with the beach chairs and umbrellas, which they carry to the couple's favorite spot, between two palms. 

Settled in their chairs they light up, the Thai stick smothers them, swallowing the couple in a mighty haar.  

Fifty meters out to sea, a series of glares flash off the windows of a fishing boat run aground, catching the couple's eye. The rusted vessel has been in the same place for the last year and looks forgotten.

The Chihuahuas run in the sand, nipping at each other’s heels— mimicking the livestock herding behavior they were originally bred for in Mexico.

Hot, the dogs run into the water for a swim. They’re natural swimmers, swimming instinctually. 

Mia begins to struggle as she’s snatched in a cross current. Che swims towards her to help and is caught in the same current. 

Out of nowhere, Lazy Carlos bulldozes through the waves, unfettered by the currents, seizing hold of the shaking pups with one arm, floating till he can stand then walking in the sand to Henry and Lucia saying,

Jesus, your pups almost drowned, they’re like kids, you gotta watch em. 

Lucia begins to cry and wraps her babies in a large beach towel, Henry’s grateful, saying to Carlos, 

I feel awful, we owe you.

Howza bout a case of Bucanero Beer? 

You got it, we'll ring The Tipsy Rooster. 

Henry and Lucia walk to their Chevy Malibu and the Chis follow. He says to her, 

Luckily, our baby's memory is short.

Shut up Henry, they almost drowned, and your sermonizing like the nerd you are. I hate you sometimes. 

The ride home is heavy with human vibes— Henry's and Lucia's. The Chis stick their heads out of the half-opened windows and bark at the world as it floats by.

Henry accidentally turns on the car radio with his knee as he’s reaching for something on the dash. Fresh Out, played by Kingfish Ingram and Buddy Guy, whales through the speakers. The music lifted him into a unmaped space. 

At home, they order Chinese food from Po Po Hot Pot and sit in front of the living room TV watching Bob Ross The Joy of Painting on NPR. Lucia giggles with enjoyment saying, 

Oh, his paintings are nothing especial, but I love his Afro— his voice is maravilloso, so peaceful, it draws you in, he makes me feel good. 

You got that right babe, Bob Ross is the ultimate calming presence.

As they watch Bob communicate with his TV audience he lays out gobs of paint in a semi-circle on his palette, each a different color— Alizarin Crimson, Van Dyke Brown, Yellow Ochre, white, black. 

When it came time for the first strokes of paint on the canvas— Bob gently brushes some bright orange figure-eight marks to represent the sun on the horizon. 

You just can’t help but watch Bob as he waves his paintbrush like a wand creating delicate pine trees and majestic mountains. 

The soft scratching sound of his brush hitting the canvas and his gentle voice, that's just a smidgen louder than a whisper, narrates each step of the painting process as he encourages viewers every chance he has. 

In every episode, Bob explained his art not merely as a way of layering paint, but also as a way of capturing the eternal beauty of the world and living free regardless of the challenges of life. 

As he filled his canvas with light color he say things like, 

this piece of canvass is your world and on here you can do anything that your heart desires. 

When he painted a cloud, he might say, 

a cloud is one of the freest things in nature. 

Or, 

clouds sort of float around and have a good time.

And when he’d turn his painter’s knife on its edge and carved out a crisp, snow-capped mountain, he sometimes point to one side and say, 

this is where the little mountain goat lives, right up here. He needs a place to call home, too, just like the rest of us. 

Bob Ross was a force of pure positivity in a world without a lot of it. By the end of the eighties, his show Joy of Painting had eighty million worldwide viewers and received two hundred letters every day. 

It’s hard to nail down the draw Bob had on people in TV Land, but before Joy of Painting is over in the Lucowski bungalow, Henry, Lucia, and the Chis are sound asleep on the living room sofa.

Paradise Bites

 

Kissing is a great invention. On the list of inventions, it ranks higher than the microwave oven and hula hoop. 

Tradition says that kissing was invented by medieval nights for the purpose of determining whether their wives had been hitting the mead. 

Kissing transcends class and financial status and is a cheap way for two, three, or however many people to pass an afternoon.  

Kissing is the glory of humankind. All animals copulate but only humans touch to trigger sensation. 

Old Hassidic Jews often kiss their bread before they eat it. These are wonderful kisses that resonate into the cosmos, felt by the g-ds even.

There’s no other flesh like lip flesh, no other meat like mouth meat. Or, the sweet-sounding clink of tooth touching tooth.

It’s a rainy Saturday in Key West, Henry’s working in his study, typing madly as his Cuban wife Lucia comes in and says, 

kiss me bebe. 

He stands and they turn towards each other, embracing, then kissing, a meaty kiss, tongues galore, nasty. Henry asks, 

does your heart jump for joy when I kiss you? 

Pendejo, my heart isn't a poodle that jumps on command.

Henry and Lucia were different from their neighbors on Peach Street because they spent a good deal of time listening to music on their large Grundig Radio.

Neither of them understood the mechanics of much of anything, and the Grundig was no exception. Henry would strike the side of the old radio when the reception waned saying, 

common darling, give us all ya got, we need enough juice to finish the Ive’s Symphony.  

But, today, the rainy day, and the day of the meat kiss, old faithful dies. 

So, they wrap the dead radio in a white sheet, carry it to the backyard, burying it in the middle of the croquet field under the center hoop. After last rights Henry says, 

Let’s go the Sears Town and buy a radio. 

In the twinkling of an eye, they’ve, showered, groomed, and dressed. And are off, riding in their 73 Chevy Malibu to Peacock Plaza Road, then turning into Sears Town and parking. As they get out of the car, Lucia says, 

let’s go to Radio Shack, 

good idea baby, they don’t make Grundigs anymore, so a ghetto blaster might be the way to go. 

Inside Radio Shack a salesman approaches, he’s wearing a sporty company shirt, and his belly’s hanging over his white patent leather belt, 

how can I help you folks today? 

We need a new radio, a ghetto blaster maybe. 

Let’s take a walk, 

when they reach the radio section the salesman points and says, 

this fella here is a Hitachi TRK-8080E, a white folks ghetto blaster. 

He pops in a cassette, the sound's good, without overpowering bass so Henry says, 

wrap it up. 

The salesman quickly retrieves a box from the stock room and places it on the counter, Lucia pays 88 dollars cash. 

Driving south towards their bungalow they turn into The Sonic Drive-in. Lucia gets out of the car and walks to the counter and orders,

let's see, we'll have chicken fried steak, fried okra, collard greens, sweet yams, and two vanilla malts.  

They love The Sonic Drive-in, where the home-style southern cooking sings to the soul.

The drive-ins' carhop is a Black lady, real nice with red hair with a hairnet on. She passes two brown paper bags through the opening of the glass partition saying 

enjoy your soul food.

Home, they eat in the kitchen, drinking creme de menthe, vanilla shake, sonic shamrocks. 

Tired they strip, tossing their clothes on the floor. Before they fall asleep they promise to get up early to do something physical. This, dubious and out of the ordinary for them, because sex was the only physical thing they did regularly.

They are up at five, sipping coffee in the hot tub on the patio, and Lucia mentions last night, 

darling, last night we promised we'd do something physical today. 

Like what? 

Jet skiing? 

How’s that physical? 

Well, if you fall off the jet ski, you have to swim and get back on it.

That’s an awful thought, Lucia, people don’t fall off of jet skis. 

How bout fishing from the pier? 

It’s physical for the fish, only. 

OK, culo inteligente your turn, 

let’s walk to the Ernest Hemingway Museum and do the tour. 

It’s only five blocks Henry, 

OK then, we’ll walk somewhere else afterward.

They shower quickly, dress in shorts, tank tops, straw hats then Lucia asks, 

where are our jogging shoes?

We don’t have any darling, flip flops will do, 

chancletas for a marathon walk? 

Sure, ancient Roman soldiers marched from Constantinople to Gaul in leather sandals. 

Lead the way, Mark Anthony.

So, the heroic journey begins— five blocks to The Ernest Hemingway House and Museum. 

They walk east on Whitehall Street, bowled over with wistfulness seeing the neighborhood kids playing jacks, double dutch, and kick the can. 

The children's fresh-faced joie de vivre is infectious— the couple holds hands and skips the remaining way to the museum. 

There’s a line of papa wannabes a block long waiting to get in and Henry says candidly,

fuck this, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay twenty bucks to pet a six-toed cat you can’t hold and tour empty rooms with furniture that only ghosts and cats can sit on. 

The controlled climate in the museum puts Henry on edge, like the impeded feeling you get in a bank. Anyway, Lucia says, 

let’s walk until we drop.

They walk ten blocks, surely, a world record for them, reaching the Key West Butterfly and Nature Conservative— a two-story conch-style house with a sprawling greenhouse behind it.

Agog, the couple walks into the lobby where they’re met by a caretaker who looks like Karl Marx and is wearing a safari suit with a pith helmet on his head. He says in a magisterial air,  

salutations, follow me into paradise and let your stress fade away as we commune with butterflies, flowering plants, waterfalls, and wing creatures in nature—all under climate control in a glass parrock. Henry whispers to Lucia, 

what the fuck is a parrock? 

Quiet Henry.

As they step into the glasshouse, they’re hit by a gust of flora oxygen that ameliorates their physical being. 

A kaleidoscope of butterflies lands on Manfred, the caretaker. He smiles, looking at the couple saying, 

You see, the Rhopalocera and I are old friends. 

As they approach the flamingos Manfred tells their story.

Our lovely flamingos were born on Valentine's Day. Our conservatory is the only place in Florida you can see flamingos. The sandy beach and pond were built especially for our pink babies, and after hours, they're free to roam the atrium. 

We feed them a special diet that contains the alpha and beta carotenoid pigments found in algae and various invertebrates that the birds eat in the wild, which gives them their pink color. 

I have work to do, thank you, and enjoy your stay. 

Henry walks toward a flamingo, wanting to make friends, and the bird grunts loudly, it's a warning. Lucia laughs saying, 

be careful darling,  paradise bites.

The Big Apple, Savory, or Rank?

 

It's 1 AM in Key West— Henry's dreaming that he’s walking through the Bowery, and everyone's a cripple. A blind man moving through the shadows, and a legless man in rags on a skateboard pulled by a spotted dog with three legs. 

As the dream of cripples retreats somewhere, wherever spent dreams go. He feels the urge to pee so he gets out of bed, falling on his face and letting out a gruff, protracted, 

shiiiit.

Lucia, his Cuban wife, hustles out of bed, rushing to his aid asking, 

what happened darling? 

my legs are numb, the circulation is gone, maybe it's Guillain-Barré Syndrome. I was dreaming about cripples and,

She massages his legs for a while, he's still on the floor as he says, 

I can feel your hands on my legs, so I don't have Guillain-Barré Syndrome.

Try to stand darling,

with her help he stands, walking to the bathroom, leaving the door open. 

She follows him and watches him pee, he lets out a long, 

aaaah, 

the peeing is pleasurable. 

She scolds him, but is concerned, 

are you losing your mind, idiota?

I dunno, I miss New York City. Whataya say we pack, get on the Vespa and ride to Key West International Airport.

The couple showers quickly, not drying much, throwing some clothes into Henry’s Boy Scout duffle bag from the fourth grade. 

Soon, they’re at EYW where they park in the bicycle and scooter lot. There’s no line at the American Airline counter, Lucia speaks in Spanish to the ticket agent who’s Cuban, 

chica, two tickets to New York, 

si, señora, may I see your IDs? 

Lucia hands the engaging clerk the couple’s passports, she looks through them then saying with shrilled voice,

dios mios, your Lucia Vargas, the Cuban movie star, I loved you in Havana Vampires, and La Ultima Cena. 

The agent scrolls down the column of her Radix Galaxy and says,

We have a direct flight to LaGuardia living at 10 AM. Because you're Cubano royalty I’m issuing two first-class tickets at coach price. 

maravilloso cariño, eres tan amable! 

Lucia pays with her Visa card and they check the Boy Scout duffle bag, laughing as Henry says, 

such a glamorous travel bag for the venerable Lucia Vargas, the queen of Havana.

They walk the hallway to the Cabana Room for a light breakfast. Sitting at the bar a toe-headed bartender approaches. With  terribly flat vibes he says, 

what'll it be?

Coconut waffles and two grasshopper cocktails. 

Lucia whispers to Henry, 

Dios mios, bebe, Señor blanco never went to charm school.

As they nibble waffle bits and sip their drinks they look through the picture window behind the bar where the ground crew’s busy as Electric Ants, loading suitcases, refueling, draining bio-waste ladened Blue Ice, stocking meals, and mini bottles of booze.

Henry drops a twenty on the bar and the couple walks to Gate 16 where they sit in a row of chairs that are scientifically designed to discourage laying on.

It's boarding time and they're flying first class— lucky, compared to the schmucks who’ll be packed in coach like hungry roaches ganging up on a Mars Bar. 

They luxuriate in the reclining sofa seats as the jet engines thrust, lifting the craft into the troposphere. A Jamaican stewardess with blond dreadlocks shows saying, 

ello, gud day, I’m Kareela, for lunch, we’re serving fillet, Jerk Chicken, or sea bass. 

My husband and I will have the fillet and sea bass.

And to drink? Henry smiles saying, 

Something that'll make us forget we're airborne in this flimsy rig held together by tiny rivets and bits of aluminum tape. 

The stew brings them mini bottles of tequila. 

Two hours later, after a slew of mini bottles, the plane’s making its descent into LaGuardia Airport, named after the mayor of the same name whose nickname was the Little Flower.

Soon at baggage claim, they're watching hypnotically as the hard rubber pads of the baggage carousel twist like a snake swirling through a creek. 

Henry grabs the couples soul piece of luggage, his Boy Scout duffle bag, and Lucia says, 

you carry the stupid bag, I don’t want people to see me with it.

Darling, I promise we’ll buy new luggage at Macy's, a Gucci Globetrotter if you like. You need a bag befitting your movie start status. 

Sí, cariño, I  don’t want to look like a bag lady, not in Nueva York.

Standing outside in the pickup area they hail a Checker cab, getting into the back seat. The cabby, an Armenian with an Afro says as he pulls out of the airport onto Highway 495. 

The Shriners are in town this week and most of the good hotels are booked. There’re plenty of rooms in the Bowery if winos don't bother you.

Nah, not at all, my wife and I are winos, we’re well sodded from the plane ride. 

OK then, we’ll go to the Bowery Grand Hotel, 

Twenty minutes later, the Checkered cab pulls in front of the hotel, Henry pays the cabby and the couple gets out, walking into the hotel lobby. 

The Grand is hardly grand and it’s owned by a couple of Chinamen. Henry and Lucia stand at the front desk, the lobby smells like soy vinegar. The clerk, who’s wearing a blue Mao Suit, says as he grins, 

welcome to the Gland Hotel, lucky to get loom, Shriners in town. Henry says, 

yes lucky, how much? 

five de five dolla a day, 

five de five huh? 

He hands over his gold card and passport, the Chinaman makes copies, then handing him a key to room 333 saying, 

lucky number for white man, need big luck in city.

For unknown reasons, the elevator is on the fritz, most likely, the Chinamen don’t want to fork out the shekels to fix it. Henry and Lucia walk three stories up to room 333, three de three de three, lucky loom, going inside. 

It’s nice for the money with red brick walls and stylish furniture — lacquered wood pieces inlaid with mother-of-pearl and plain hardwood pieces. 

Lucia turns on the air conditioner and closes the spurious zebra curtains that cover the framed windows. They undress and flop on the bed, wanting to sleep off their drunkenness and muscle up enough horsepower to party later.

They wake around eight, it’s summer in New York so they dress casually, she wears a wrap-around mumu and flip-flops. He wears Levis and an Oxford shirt. Then, they braid their waist-length raven-colored hair Native Indian style.

Henry grew up in the city and had spent many summer nights walking the Bowery, stepping over winos, and drinking in bars with names like The Vomit Mill, Evil People Lounge, The Intensive Care Unit, Suicide Hall, and so on. 

The couple walks past the front desk of Bowery Grand and the Chinaman on duty says,

careful in Bowery, bums on sidewalk sleep in poo and upchuck, make you sick. Smelly devils take money too. Henry says, 

That’s what we’re lookin for Li’, 

how you know name, Li’ ? 

Most Chinaman are named Li’.

Delany Street’s dimly lit— Henry and Lucia walk carefully, not wanting to step on a passed-out wino. She says, 

it smells like death, let's get out of here darling. 

Where almost at the station, here,

he hands her his hanky to cover her mouth.

They pass Suicide Hall and he says, 

Look, Suicide Hall, I usta drink here in the sixties, let’s go in.

No darling, I’m not going in, es terrible. 

Soon, they reach Bleecker street Station, walking down the steps into the subway tunnel where chill air and the smell of urine leaps out at them.   

Sitting on a hard metal bench they wait for their train, watching a transit cop cruising, looking for bums to harass with the tip of his billy club. 

Soon, the B train comes, and they board, sitting together. The ride's uneventful and they exit at the 14 Street Station in mid-Manhattan, walking up the steep stairway to the sidewalk. Henry says,

common, I'm gonna take ya somewhere nobody important goes.

They walk five blocks, going into Jimmy’s Corner, sitting at the bar. Every inch of the cracked, faded, and yellowing wall is covered with photos of boxers and vintage boxing posters. The bartender, a young guy in a white shirt with a flat-top says, 

whataya have folks?

Dewars and soda.

The joint’s filled with footloose Shriners from upstate New York, simple souls getting loaded and reliving war years, remembering grand times, unrestrained times. 

After a few drinks, Henry and Lucia pay and leave, they're hungry. They walk a few blocks and turn in Jerry’s Grill sitting at the counter. It’s boxcar size with swivel chairs in front of a grill. 

The cook's adroitness dazzles the couple as he whips up the fare, adeptly, taking orders as well. Lucia wonders, 

how can he do it?

They learn in the joint.

The hash slinger, who's all neck topped off with a soda jerk's cap asks,

you all hungry? 

Yes, we'll have pancakes, chunky hash browns, bacon, scrambled eggs, a cheeseburger, and coffee. 

They watch the grill cook crack eggs with one hand, pour pre-mixed pancake dough, flip burgers, turn hash browns, seconds later placing it on plates with his spatula, serving Henry and Lucia. 

The fare is generic, one color, reeking of the malodorous oil used to cook it. Henry tells Lucia, 

you have to leave the grease on the grill, it gives the food taste. She answers, 

this place is no better than the nasty taquerias in Havana. 

She pushes her plate away and Henry eats a few bites, not finishing. He drops a few bills on the counter and they walk out, catching a taxi back to the hotel— wondering why they came to New York? 

You see, the Big Apple gives off a most solicitous luster that's impossible to resist, so everyone takes a bite eventually— the fruit may be savory or rank. Going to New York is a crapshoot.