In which The Gay Recluse remembers an old obsession with the color red.

Years ago, we went through a phase when we wore only red shirts.

But here’s the thing: you couldn’t find any good ones that were new, so we were required to scour used-clothing shops all over the country in a mostly vain attempt to find the perfect color. Fortunately we were touring a lot at the time in our band, so this wasn’t a problem.

Obviously it couldn’t be quite flannel-shirt/pajama-top red, but even the slightest trace of burgundy ruined the effect, and inevitably we would place these shirts back on the rack.

We finally found a couple of shirts in Seattle; they were used, but someone had recognized the rare perfection of the color and priced them accordingly at over $100 each. What did we care? Even though we  hadn’t spent $200 in clothes in the previous year, we had to have them!

We wore them a lot, too! For a while, red shirts were our trademark. That was pretty much the extent of our stage presence: one red shirt. (In certain indie-rock circles, this was considered outré; or maybe that was just our twisted, closet-case perception of it.)

But that phase passed, and we now realize that our obsession with red was really a manifestation of the anger we felt toward so much, but which we had yet to acknowledge, even to ourselves.

It’s a relief not to be so obsessed with the color red anymore, although we still have about fifteen shirts quietly hanging in the back of our closet (just in case!).

Someday a vintage store is probably going to make a killing, selling them to a young closet-case like us.

We fell in love with this door the second we passed it.

But we are kind of relieved not to live here; it was better to simply appreciate it for a few seconds and then continue our walk.