With regard to Bill’s last post and his comments that I complained about his straying from the subject, how would you all like it if I ran this picture of a study I just did, and without telling you a thing about it, launched into a tirade about the tennis game I had last weekend. I am referring here to the game that my partner and I lost against the Witches of North Ranch, and I am just a tad bitter about it. But what is really more important here? The game, or the business of painting?
I will tell you that I have a bruise on my leg from being clobbered with a ball by the offending team that is the size of a — well — a tennis ball. That was after the Witches of North Ranch Country Club got all pissy with us about our line calls (for those of you who are tennis illiterate, a line call is the determination made by the receiving team as to whether or not the ball is in, i.e. hits the line. The team who hit the ball wants it to be called ‘in’ of course, and can get decidedly cranky when balls that are close to the line get called ‘out’. The team who is losing receiving certainly has a vested interested in seeing that the ball is out, and often this can color ones line calls, unless you are Donna and Lisa playing perfectly fair tennis). They ended up requesting linesmen to judge the calls in matters of dispute, AFTER WHICH, sure enough, they didn’t have one more issue with whether our calls were good or not. Since THEY didn’t like the calls, and THEY called for linesmen, and THEY didn’t question another one of our calls after that, the boat was suspiciously leaking on THEIR side. And then they beat us anyway.
But no. I am here to discuss painting. Not the fact that this is the same team that barred me from entering their hotsy-totsy plastic people clicky picky club for wearing – horror of horrors – BLUE JEANS to their club. You all may recall that little rant I had some months ago. Went all the way over there to watch my teammates play in the playoff, and BOOM, I’m sorry, but we don’t let white trash like you in with your denim to darken the door of our holy shrine club. No. I don’t think I’ll soon forget this. Not with my memory as sharp as it is.