Eric B. does not Facebook, Tweet or blog. He uses the internet to cruise for sex, like god intended. He has leopard print in every room of his house, save one. And he does not apologize
Heather Corinna is the undisputed diva of online erotica for chicks. She publishes Scarleteen.com and is a sex guru to thousands of teenagers.
Eric: I'm fully aware of the modern trend toward multi-purpose spaces. It isn't even particularly modern-- I've been advocating halfbath/library combinations since the '70s, and Catherine Beecher was doing open concept with movable partitions and rolling rooms a century before that.
However, the dining room/office/bar/chapel/cookie tin museum/masturbatorium is a bit much. Surely one function could be moved to the other side of those sad luan folding doors. They might be enough to keep the horror at bay. Or at least keep one from whizzing on the keyboard.
And speaking of the wall color, the last time I saw that in my house I had to take sulfur drugs and drink cranberry juice for a week. I still feel a bit sick thinking about it. Which corner is the vomitorium?
Richard: (With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer)
The air was warm and muggy in poor Casey's living room,
The towering, terrible oscillating fan did naught to relive the gloom.
From the glass-front cabinet, a plastic slugger peered
Out on the cluttered surfaces, while Georgia bulldogs sneered.
Three knock-off Yankee candles reeked of fake vanilla bean:
Somehow, they made Casey's cave seem more dusty and unclean.
A PlayStation sat upon a shelf, trying its best to hide
From a nudist's towel-draped office chair, bedecked in Naugahyde.
Near the floor, tucked away, a proud brass camel stood,
Never moving, never braying, never offered water or food,
Dreaming of green oases, though its brass mind was full of doubt
That it would grow a pair of brass balls and get the hell on out.
But worst of all was Casey's rug, turned brown from age and wear.
Take a good look, everyone: what the fuck happened there?
Poor Casey must've passed his nights reliving his sad missed hit,
His obsessive paces leaving behind a border the color of shit.
David: You know how some pet owners, especially if they own a dog, begin to resemble their pooch over time? Well, there's a bit of that phenomenon going on here -- despite the absence of a canine.
Here the various color schemes in this homeowner's bedroom are actually reflected or mirrored in the guy's face. The electric orange topsheet, the ruddy hues that glint off of his bedroom liquor assemblage, as well as the woody brown accents of the desk and nightstand -- well, the entire melange appears to have been absorbed into the flesh tones of his face (unless of course he's sporting the aftereffects of visiting the same spray tanner that Donald Trumpemploys). Regardless, this could be the start of an entirely new New York style craze. And to think it started in Alabama!
On the plus side there's a nice Halloween color-vibe-theme going on with the aforementioned top sheet and the black and white patterned curtains. In fact, I'm starting to wonder if maybe this room is actually a set in one of those Christian Hell House tours that crop up across the country in the fall (and sometimes run throughout the autumnal season). A cautionary tale about setting up a mini bar in your own bedroom and how that might bar you from heaven. Or something like that.
David: It’s assumed that a lot of the loot that was unearthed when various Egyptian Pharaoh’s tombs were excavated was in place to symbolically represent the span of that particular ruler’s time as royalty. So toys from childhood, small thrones from his teen years, favorite hieroglyphs, were gathered together and put on display to give a chronological feel for the king’s time on earth.
Here we have a contemporary equivalent, commencing with each and every stuffed animal that Nonna purchased for this occupant's birthday — up until probably the age of twelve or thirteen, when his attention shifted in junior high to the world of weed as a diversion and form of entertainment (represented in this tomb by the scientific poster on the wall highlighting marijuana’s various chemical components.)
At age fourteen or so, awareness of the opposite sex became impossible to ignore and the libidinal conquests promised by the manufacturers of AXE body sprays and washes became an obsession, thus the various colognes and atomizers from Walmart that occupy the bureau in the background.
Then, probably around the age of eighteen, as often happens in our selfie-oriented culture, attention shifted from other people to oneself as the object of desire. When this occurs people start tattooing weird slogans and epigrams unto their bodies, reminders that one’s abdominal muscles are actually flat enough to receive an inked bromide from Arnold Schwarzenegger: “I’ll be back” or Emily Dickinson: “Because I would not stop for death…”
So this Lurid entry is a cautionary tale about how not to turn your bedroom into a time capsule that shows off one’s dull conventionality. It also proves that in some instances the bible does actually offer up some keen advice, such as this bit from 1 Corinthians 13: "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
Richard: Minimalism is the handjob of the design world. On paper, it seems pretty simple. In practice, not so much.
That's because minimalism is a two-step process. Step #1: keep things to a minimum. Which is, like, duh, obviously, but step #2 is far more complicated: make sure the things you've kept are exquisite.
Few things in this room are exquisite.
Case in point: those prints of a Ford Mustang and F1 racecar. If they were five times bigger--and framed, please--they might do the trick, but I doubt it. Commercial photos of automobiles are best suited for the interiors of gas stations, garages, and garbage cans.
I'm no fan of the dining set, either. I could perhaps stomach the lines of the chairs and the oak finish, even though the ensemble screams "Best table for Sunday brunch at the Holiday Inn on Route 9". The upholstery, however, is milquetoast madness--padded like an 80s prom dress, and what bland fuckery is that print? From here, it looks like the world's least interesting hieroglyphs about Tutankhamun's final 401k contributions.
Last but not least: can we discuss the tablescape? I mean, I'm sure our host has prepared a sumptuous, romantic buffet, but did he have to use those boner-killing candles? Is there any shade of blue less appetizing than "country"? A nude table would've been just fine.
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