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.
David: A good friend who knows about things like this told me that the heart-shaped wreath on the wall suggests that this fellow is a married cheater. I'm not sure how he knows that sorta thing as he's a big ole single fag, but maybe it's related to his own childhood and some dysfunction between his parents.
This living room does have a very QVC-Home-Shopping parental vibe about it, so my thinking is that this guy showed up to housesit for his parents while they were down in Florida and thought he'd do some horticulture magic on the house plants after he was done with his Grindr hookup. Why he thought a chainsaw was the appropriate tool will remain a mystery to all parties involved. Unless said individuals are headless, their bodies stuffed in a hall closet.
One particularly horrifying element to this room is the dog turd-like sofa ensemble -- a brownie-colored monstrosity that threatens to swallow whole anyone who dares to place his derriere on the sinkhole. And that near-ragged Santa cushion is not really working to mitigate the horror. The only bonafide crime here is this room's homogenized boringness -- the story it tells is simple: Pier One had a post-holiday sale and these homeowners committed enthusiastically to the jamboree.
Richard: Lurid Digs has always cast its goggling, gimlet eye on dodgy design choices: terrifying sofas, unkempt bedrooms, Babylonian towers of tchotchkes, and so on. What we've never done is peek inside people's closets.
That's because closets are safe spaces where it's perfectly okay to stash the good china, the bad china, yesterday's laundry, and the cat food that you bought two weeks ago but haven't managed to stack in the pantry. Fuck the Container Store: a clean, uncluttered closet says that you've either got a very sick, homicidally inclined mind or you're a Republican housewife who arranges shoes alphabetically by designer to hide her self-loathing shame. You know which one you are, Melania.
But this? This is exactly what a closet should look like. (Though admittedly, it's the size of a $5,000-a-month studio in Tokyo.) The clothes are orderly, but not Patrick Bateman orderly. The clutter is appropriately cluttered. The color screams either "oops paint" from the Habitat for Humanity ReStore or "left by the previous owner". And the terrifying industrial carpeting is...well, wearing socks is advised.
But that's not all. The most laudable thing about this closet is that the owner has chosen to hide his most appalling possessions in here. If that tower computer, pressboard desk, and stolen-from-an-office-park swivel chair were in the bedroom, we'd be tsk-tsking so loud, the neighbors would think an army of cyborg raccoons had invaded the neighborhood. As it is, we consider placing those items out of sight a blessed act of charity. Move over, dearest Mommy Teresa: someone should nominate this homeowner for sainthood.
David: I've never understood the application of shelving that is too small to actually shelve anything. What's the point? Though I guess the toy train set that's positioned above the homeowner's head is fitting, given the depth of the shelf -- but still, it just looks off to me and cheap. Aside from the alarming concern for the all blue walls and door, I've got to comment on the greasy mirror. It appears as though a gorilla has been practicing his kissing techniques with his own reflection, that or someone mistook a can of Pam for Windex and just gave up once he saw the error of his ways. And what about the mirror itself? Is this a sliding door from a closet ripped from its track and leaned up against a nearby wall. It looks that way, which might explain the tumbling out of clothing and plastic containers on the right.
David: This is one of the oddest rooms we've encountered in quite a long time, and, well, we take pride in thinking we've "seen it all." The disaster quota is low here, but our displacement meters are maxing out all over the place. The initial vibe is that we are in a back room behind a florist shop, like maybe that black curtain leads to the front of the shop and mom is out there managing customers. Ew. The strange growths contained in the old giant mayonnaise containers are creepy, in a Little Shop of Horrors sort of way. Or maybe these are young Louis Pasteurs dreaming big of curing cancer or chlamydia. Still, we recommend that those go back in the kitchen somewhere (if there is a kitchen) or the laboratory down in the dungeon. Also, do some extreme knick-knack filtering. At a certain age you don't want to promote the idea that you just hang out at carnivals collecting prizes for throwing darts at balloons or ping-pong balls into tiny goldfish bowls. The fact that both men are on their phones while fucking is another bit of tragic fallout from our tech and hookup age. Whatever happened to good old romance and sex experienced with focused intensity? I know that's not an 'interiors' issue, but I couldn't help but ask. Am I right?
Richard: At my elementary school, we were taught to be "normal". To get that point across, our teachers relied on drawings of bedrooms, stadiums, and shopping malls, each labeled with the same question: "What's wrong with this picture?"
I was pretty good in school, but I bombed on exercises like those. My responses were usually like, "Sure, that portrait of George Washington is upside-down, but perhaps that was the artist's intent." Or, "Yes, there's an elephant drinking from a water fountain beside the Chess King, but is that morally wrong--apart from the presence of Chess King?"
I have half a mind to send them this photo and see how they respond. Among they things they'd surely point out:
1. Laundry on the floor? Definitely not normal!
2. Miss Piggy and Gonzo? Boys don't play with dolls!
3. A bird attacking a deer wearing a wig? Not unless we're at a Bennigan's!
4. A bicycle indoors? Bikes belong outside, like dogs, children, and outhouses!
They'd never spot the real problem: the broken, leftover mirror from a shabby-chic chifforobe leaning against the wall, just waiting to rip someone's blouse. Nor would they spot the piece de resistance: a painting of the one, the only, the truly outrageous Jem above the hutch.
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