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Richard: I know what you're thinking. It's the same thing I'm thinking, the same thing everyone thinks the moment they lay eyes on this photo:

"The fuck is up with that thermostat?"

Clearly, this house was decorated in the early 2000s with the help of Paige Davis, who, like the rest of America, tended to paint everything mustard at the time. I have a hunch that the trend stems from the country's obsession with yellowcake uranium rumored to be in Iraq, but it's only a hunch.

Davis arranged to have a young, heavily muscled, frequently shirtless carpenter build and stain (but weirdly, not seal) some custom cabinetry for the living room, but the cabinetmaker was lured away from his job by the promise of boy band stardom, leaving Paige's assistant, Edna Ann, to finish the job. Alas, Edna Ann was legally blind and failed to notice the thermostat on the wall, and Paige had 15 seconds to relocate it before the homeowner walked in the door to feign surprise and delight. To this day, the thermostat doesn't actually work, since Paige just hot glued the box to the cabinet. No one has noticed.

And just so we're clear: there's no excuse for microfiber sectionals. EVER.
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David: No. No. No. Just no. What's more disturbing than a Pokémon stuffed animal propped on your bed's headboard? Your 4th-grade efforts to trace your favorite Pokémon illustration hanging from the wall.

Socioculturally speaking, it's fascinating to track the after effects of the 'world at large' on individual's personal space, and I'm afraid this bedroom is a good example of the fallout of a Donald Trump presidency. The shock of Hillary's defeat seems to have retrogressed hipsters across the nation into commencing their second childhoods decades early.

Practical design and therapeutic advice would be:

1. Call Hoarders Annonymous and find out their closest location and next meeting date. Do not talk in a little boy voice while conversing with the receptionist.

2. Invest in a bottle of Windex and do some deep cleaning on the lube-smeared mirror.

3. Remove the aforementioned illustrations/tracing/renderings/etchings.

4. Seek trauma counseling for the crippling aftereffects of the current presidency -- and attempt to get on with your life as an adult male.

5. Delete the Pokémon app from your smart phone.

6. Shoot new Scruff profile pics.

6. Start fucking and sucking again. Nike Zoom Vomero 13

David: So, this is a semi-serious post, but it won't be boring. I promise.

For those of you that don't like to read, I'll just cut to the chase: After publishing Lurid Digs for twenty years I'm asking for your support. It's a simple equation: Is Lurid Digs one of your favorite sites? Awesome! Then please throw a dollar our way so we can keep the site pumpin'. You can do that here. Takes about one minute tops. And thank you!

After publishing Lurid for all these years, what continues to amaze me is that no matter where I go or who I meet -- a new acquaintance, a new boyfriend (or hookup) -- a new doctor or dentist (I only go to gay medical practitioners) -- everyone always tells me the same thing after I explain to them what I do: "You are kidding me! I love that site, it's one of my favorites!"

Not once has someone said, "Huh, Lurid what? ... What's that?" Everyone knows, because, well, you know, as Aunt Ida says to Gator in John Waters' Female Trouble -- "Queers are just better."

Inevitably whoever I'm talking to will start talking about their favorite posts (which always astounds me, that their memory is so good -- I mean -- we've been publishing the site for twenty fucking years now). And then, without fail, I'm asked about the Lurid Digs photo of the guy who is hanging upside down from a chandelier -- by his balls. And I always have the same secret reaction: "God almighty, should we really have published that interior?"

But then we always did and do -- publish those kinds of photos. It's why you love us and why you've been loyal fans for so many years.

In Lurid's early days, when net porn was exploding like a supernova all across the Internet, it was a breeze keeping Lurid Digs going.

Back in the day people actually purchased porn and by running banner ads on Lurid Digs we were able to pay the writers and the designers and the artists and the coders and cover our hosting fees -- all of the stuff that's part and parcel running a site that -- 24/7 -- you could count on to be there when you clicked in eager for a laugh. (Think about how many sites have disappeared over the past twenty years, that you used to like. And, then, well, we're still here bitches!)

But I'm not sure for how much longer.

I really -- and I mean this truly, I really loathe asking for money. But conditions have changed so radically online -- it's not feasible for me to keep the site going without funds to support the effort.

I don't mean for that to sound like a high drama threat, it's just common sense amidst tight economic times (for us) and the slow erosion that's happening to ad dollars all across the Internet. You've probably noticed, wherever you go online now the ads, if you see them at all, are tackier than ever.

Which leads me to John Waters, who, ever since I was a teenager has always been a hero of mine! It was during John's book tour, several years back, while I was sitting in the theater, tripping out on his trippy monologs, that I was smacked up alongside my head when, out of the blue, while addressing the audience he mentioned Lurid Digs!

I felt like turning to the guy next to me and declaring, "Hey, that's me he's talking about. That's the website I run!" (But then I'd have to hear about the old man who is hanging by his balls from the chandelier -- so I shut my mouth.

It's both cool and corny the way John mentioned Lurid, because he was explaining to the audience how, if they are in a movie theater and they are watching a movie that's really bad they should do what he does -- a trick he learned from visiting Lurid Digs: He tunes out the film and the bad acting and just starts studying all of the various interiors on the film's sets. And then he recommended that everyone visit Lurid Digs and see what he was talking about. Man, I was lit up with pride, like a Christmas tree.

So guys, we've got a couple months to get our Patreon page pumped up and healthy with pledges. Even if it's just a dollar a month that you can pledge, man, we'll love you forever.

Thanks for being such loyal fans. And I know what you're thinking. "Where's the fucking picture of the guy that's hanging by his balls from the chandelier." HA! well, stay tuned -- more on that crazy miracle later!

Love and dirty sheets!

David K.

PS: And thanks again for your Patreon pledge guys!

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Eric: One of the joys of being a double Capricorn is the absolute certainty that everything has its proper place.
One of the agonies is when they're not in it. Like in this dump.

Let's just jump right in. The microwave cart? That's where your cheap pine breakfast counter with slide-under stools goes.

I don't know to where the coffee table has wandered. My recommendation is for a wheeled footlocker. That way you can toss your clothes into it before you answer the door and kick it out of the way before the fun starts. Cardboard behind the couch? Unless you often break out in break dance, don't keep it there.

Glad to see there's a skeet blanket, but it's out of position. Those chocolate starfish marks will never come out of the upholstery. On the other hand, that might be an improvement. There's no such thing as Granny Chic. Slipcover immediately in a nice nubby neutral.

The rest is an easy fix. I almost wish the entryway linoleum ran throughout, but we must work with the unfortunate carpet and its palette of grays. We're going with a light, warm version. The secret? Locate the color in the middle of a paint strip. That goes on the walls. Darkest tone goes on the chair rail and below. Lightest, the ceiling. Of the remaining, one's for the kitchen and the other on the accent wall.

Suddenly, you find that your place has an understated cottage theme. Don't get cutesy with it. And speaking of cutesy, that "whimsical" "artwork" behind the couch has got to go. Into the dustbin, hopefully.

In its stead hang up some modern art. Modern art goes with everything.

If you don't have modern art, make some. It's easy. Don't know how? Buy four blank canvases, four colors of acrylic paint, put the cardboard on the floor one last time and invite three Bohemian-type guys over for a naked spatter party. Everything will quickly fall into place.Air Jordan XXXI Low

Richard: At some point or other, you've probably been bitten by the home improvement bug. You awoke on the floor of your lanai or your kitchen or, if you're German, your enema dungeon, clutching an empty bottle of Luxardo and thought, "This room could use some sprucing up."

Next thing you knew, you were rolling a giant orange cart back to your car, laden with 12 gallons of "oops" paint, half a dozen rollers, and a few of the cheapest brushes ever produced in central Asia. You got it all home, group-texted a small army of friends, promised the world's best pizza party if only they'd come help apply a little paint to your sad walls, and waited. And waited. And waited. And eventually ordered one small cheese pizza and a Diet Coke, an order that Domino's still managed to fuck up.

And so, you set to work all by your lonesome. Only, you realized that you forgot some important shit in the paint aisle--namely, drop cloths and painter's tape. You were like, "Eh, I'll just be extra careful," and you ran down the street to the corner store to pick up a handful of News on Wheels to lay on the floor. And of course, you didn't want to mess up your clothes, so since you were working alone, you decided to paint in the buff. You put on your favorite Right Said Fred CD and voila, SEXY PAINT TIMES!

You managed fine without the tape, at least at the top of the walls. The floor turned into kind of a mess, though: gravity became your sworn enemy that day. And worst of all, for the first time ever, you noticed that there were water marks on the ceiling and mold stains below, and why in the motherfucking fuckity fuck fuck didn't you ever finish hanging that door, anyway?

The next morning, you awoke with an empty bottle of Fernet-Branca in your hand and called that real estate agent who sometimes gives you handy-js at the gym and told him to list your place pronto. Signing over the title to a 30something straight DINK couple who looked like poster children for the tech industry in their $400 hoodies, you thought to yourself, "I hope you brought your hazmat suits, suckers!", and laughed all the way to the bank.
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