That Roy Guy

I admit, I can't stand the guy. He's a fickle con, the source of much consternation, embarrassment, and harassment in my life. Come to think of it, he might be the only Roy I've ever known in my life; ergo, I've never met a guy named Roy I liked. And just what the hell is Roy short for? Any saints named Roy? Didn't think so. If/when a Roy is ever canonized, I cast my vote for making him the patron saint of aggravation.

Mr. Biv, I'm talking about, as in Roy G. I'm color blind, okay, are you happy? It's genetic, I have no control over it, so don't blame me when I'm driving at night and the green lights look like regular street lights and the reds blend in too well with any other lights there might be (that's right, you don't want to ride shotgun with me at the wheel after sundown). Do you know what it's like to live your life praying that every light you come upon turns yellow when you approach it? I've always liked yellow. There isn't much fudging with yellow.

So yes, I'm quite biased against old Roy, or as I like to call him, based on how I see things, Virgboy. I'm still getting over the trauma I suffered in first grade art class at Catholic school when I inadvertently created a polka-dotted tissue-paper Easter Bunny. When I finally had enough of the inner torment, about five years ago, I went to see a therapist. Turns out it was an art therapist. Told me I was suffering from the blues, I said, "You mean the pinks?"

I've adapted, though, quite well, I think. When I go clothes shopping, I have no qualms about introducing myself to the clerk, saying, "Hello, my name is Dan, and I'm color blind." Once, though, I succumbed to potential peer pressure. I needed a spring jacket, and found a nice light gray one in a sporting goods store. Trouble was, there was a long line, and while waiting, I suddenly grew insecure, thinking maybe the jacket was pink, after all. Normally I would have had no problem asking the register person what color the jacket was, but this particular time I thought if it does turn out to be pink, then I'll have to say no thanks, put the jacket down and leave the store, wasting all that precious time I had spent in line and leaving the rest of the customers to laugh hardily. So I didn't say a thing, bought the jacket, and stashed it in my car until later that day when I was out with a friend. "What color is this jacket?" I asked. "Kind of a light gray." "Bingo," I said happily, and donned the jacket.

It's that "kind of" that gets me. I don't mean to sound sexist, but women seem to get the most kick out hearing about my color blindness, and, ironically, these self-expressed mistresses of all-things-color never seem to have a clear-cut opinion on colors. It's always, "kind of" some color, like charcoal, or rust, or teal--colors that even my nemesis Roy G. doesn't seem to account for, unless that G. stands for something like gingivitis or something. Yes, women and colors; wherever two or more are gathered, there's a snit about color just waiting to happen. It always goes something like this at a party or something: "Nice shirt, Dan." "Thanks. Got it for Christmas. By the way, what color is it, just wondering." "Kind of charcoal." "No it isn't! It's kind of rust." "Bullshit! It's kind of teal, if nothing." And I'm the one who's laughed at, all because I thought it was something definite like green.

All of this is simply to say that today might be the most colorful day of the year. It's one of the few days when I can almost say I can almost see what Van Gogh must have seen. Trees with leaves all sorts of electric colors, offset against wet black trunks. Those leaves hanging on for dear life (for all of us, I think; they know once they fall, winter's here and we're all glum) in the rough and steady wind. Still a lot of leaves on the trees, but a helluva lot more on the ground than there were yesterday. Could wake up tomorrow morning to bare trees and a five-month Cleveland funk. Today's one of the few days I feel like I live in a world colored with all kinds of kind of colors, rather than my usual, "the world is dark or light, that's all you're getting out of me, folks."

I once was forced to give a classful of rantipoles five bonus points after I bet them I could answer one trivia question correctly. They asked me what color the blackboard was. "Black, of course." A tsunami of pubescent guffaws. "No! It's green!" Obviously, this was when I taught boys. Girls would have still been fighting among themselves about all the kind of colors other than black the thing was. But green blackboards? Who knew?

Enjoy my kind of color blindness test (below, not that Biv-approved monstrosity above) and two favorite songs with "color" in the title, though not in any literal way I can make out. Figurative colors, my favorite kinds.

The Replacements-Color Me Impressed

Cat Power-Colors And The Kids