Richard: The air is full of pollen, birds on every tree branch are fucking their little bird brains out, Kellyanne Conway is wearing white(ish), and Cadbury eggs are half-off at Walgreens. Ostara be praised, it's time for spring cleaning.
The good news is, this house is clean. (If you read that phrase and simultaneously heard it whispered in your ear by the ghost of Zelda Rubinstein, congratulations: you're a homo of the 1980s. If, on the other hand, you simply looked at the decor, and said, "Ugh, so 1980s", you're just a garden-variety homo. Nobody's perfect.)
The bad news is ... well, where to begin? That awkwardly laid, wrinkling carpet? The appallingly upholstered, overstuffed living room suite? The two tones of wallpaper, separated by a chair rail that dear, departed Zelda and her biggest wiglet could skip under without ducking? The wildlife "art" that a freelance accountant purloined from a temporary H&R Block outpost at the end of tax season? The poor transom that's been hemmed in by a drop-ceiling and usurped by a weird-ass air vent?
Or maybe we should get to the heart of the matter and deal with that sea of hunter green? That goddamn, 1982, Northpark Mall food court hunter green, that only looks right when it's lit by some neon pink lettering that reads, "ARCADE!".
I say stash the vacuum, slap on some Duck Heads and a couple of Swatches, and turn this shit into a booze-free night club for teens, who'll think it's fresh and retro. You can even charge extra if you get Adam Ant to play a midnight set. What, like he's got other plans?