 |
| To be fair, I've been known to do this as an adult, too. |
I've never been much of a Bob Ross fan, not even as a kid. I was never very sedate as a child. My interests were death, destruction, overwhelming violence and lots of blood and guts. This has always been true of me for as long as I can remember. So having my mom plunk me down in front of PBS to watch Bob Ross was not going to be a surefire way to make me a fan.
But I always I respected what he did. He might not have been my speed, but he was trying to help people do something artistic with their lives. In this world, that's pretty important.
Fast forward to maybe a year ago. I'm staying over at a friend's trailer. I'm sleeping in her living room on a makeshift bed, but I naturally wake up early. She doesn't. She loves sleeping more than the guy I cunningly call "Cris Zim." I'm bored, so after I play with her cat for a while--and the cat gets tired of my games--I explore the living room. I find a stack of magazines, and many of them are art magazines aimed at people who want to paint. I flip through them and actually learn a thing or two. There's a lot of good work in these pages.
And then I turn to the back of the issue. It's an advertisement for Bob Ross products. You know, brushes and paints and easels and so on, all bearing his grinning face.
What utter fucking horseshit! I thought he was one of the good guys! What the fuck is this capitalistic garbage? Cashing in on a name that everyone trusts? It's a betrayal of everything I thought Bob Ross stood for.
And then I had to remind myself, wait a minute. He's been dead for a while, right? How long? Jesus, he's been gone for decades. Maybe this wasn't his doing. Maybe someone hijacked his name. Maybe someone was so shameless they would take a good man's name and use it to sell shit in a disgusting and ugly business venture.
I decided that was the case and moved on with my life.
Fast forward again to the new Netflix Bob Ross documentary. My eyes were dilated, so I couldn't read. My vision was slightly blurred at TV level, so I decided to watch something I probably wouldn't be very invested in, but something that wouldn't flat out bore me. I put this movie on, and I'm happy and disgusted at the same time.
Happy because no, Bob Ross didn't cash in. Disgusted because, shit, someone betrayed him and stole his fucking name. All in the name of money. Those shameless fucks.
It's times like these when Harlan Ellison trademarking his name doesn't seem quite so silly.
I'm shocked by how these betrayers and suckfish treated a dying man, and how they truly fucked him over posthumously. I feel bad for Bob Ross and his son and all of his friends, especially those too terrified to be in the documentary out of fear of being sued by the Judas family. They put so many knives in Bob Ross's back that even Julius Caesar is relieved that he didn't get stabbed that many times.
I'm very angry in a very non-Bob Ross way, so I should probably cool it down a bit. I heard a story about him, that when he quit the military he decided he never wanted to scream at anyone ever again. So he didn't. I don't know if that's true, but that's a pretty good approach to life.
Yeah, Bob Ross has won me over a bit. It was actually very nice watching him in action again. Very calming. Very positive. I don't get that high-on-life feeling, but I could almost understand it watching some of this documentary.
Bob Ross was one of the good guys. And like with all good guys, horrible people took advantage. I know it might be tempting to buy Bob Ross products, but DON'T. Don't line these scumbags' pockets. If you really want a Bob Ross thing, do what Bob Ross would have done. Make it yourself. A painting. An illustration. A blanket. A t-shirt. A sculpture. Just for yourself.
Because you know these pieces of shit will sue you otherwise. Hell, they might do it, anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment