(Continuing a look back at a comic strip for a small universe)
Somebody painted the Club’s door black a few years ago.
Although it had been red for at least 60 years, somebody didn’t care, didn’t notice, or decided that black was a preferable comedic color.
Suspicion thus falls on an aesthetically impaired amnesiac who wets himself laughing over Poe and Kafka.
The act perhaps arose from a personal depression. Possibly a youthful trauma brought on by a drunken department store Santa or a rogue firetruck. Heavens. Get therapy, give us back the red door.
Black is funereal; the color of tragedy and self-doubt. Black is the choice of petite bourgeois, Huguenots, gentry. These are precisely the posturing, effete nobs the Comedy Club was founded to escape from.
Some misinformed, flatulent toads think that red doesn’t go with brick. Thus, red does not go with red. Those imbeciles may apply to the Blue Hair Troupe, the Anais Nin Lesbian Thesbians or a Frank Campbell embalming course— wherever their penchant for melancholy and dignified pretension calls them— but give us back our red door.
