By W R Jones
Ya, do they look like roses to you? That miserable wretch, Lisa and her female cronies had a laugh at my expense. She told me this was a bowl of roses. When I asked why they were all so different she told me there were many varieties of roses. Then, in front of everyone, she says, “Did you come here to do flowers or not? Would you like me to set you up a wrench to paint?”
There is a possibility, however slight, that I may have moved off the bowl of roses and onto this vase when I tried to get closer to that cute blond in the white pants. Na, that can’t be it.
Anyhoo, I was reading the morning paper when I noticed a paragraph about the Rose Growers Association having their annual meeting at Descanso Gardens. So I’m thinking here is a speech opportunity. I call up the RGA president and ask if the association would be interested in hearing a short presentation on painting roses. She said they would be delighted.
Now, you have to understand, I have lost an audience or two in the past. Like the time I gave a talk on not sending any money to feed orphans in Africa because oil prices were up and I was eating it big time at the pump what with my Hummer pulling the boat up to the vacation home every weekend. I gave this to a group of Episcopalian missionaries. I didn’t think that through properly; clearly not a good topic/audience match there.
But this, this was a slam dunk. I would convert a bunch (clever play on a word here – did you notice, you big dummy?) of flower growers into flower painters. How more innocuous a subject can a man find?
I thought the presentation was moving along quite well until I unveiled this painting. I could not understand the stunned look on their faces. For a moment there, I thought they were blown away by the sheer beauty of the piece. A few heartbeats later, one old cow screams at me, “THOSE ARE NOT ROSES, YOU TWIT!” Whoa, what’s happening here? Then came the first tomato. I may not know my roses, but I have seen a flying tomato or two in my time.
I tell you, I was lucky to escape with my life. I don’t know why all those old biddies have canes. They certainly don’t need them to walk. They were running me down like free safeties, and swinging on me with those sticks like they were teeing off on a par 5 at Torrey Pines.
True story <- this is Lisa’s ending for a tear jerker, very apropos for this tale.
And me; I’m painting wrenches now.
Technical addendum – the correct viewing distance for this painting at this size is 27′ 3″. Believe me, you don’t want to be any closer.