Bedroom Terrors

Post-Modern Dada Play Room

David: At first I thought the blue padded mat was part of one of those Barton Patient Transfer Systems, a device that allows folks to maneuver their elderly and addled family members effortlessly in and out of bed. But no, no, no this divan sandwich has been put together by a homeowner who is completely mobile and independent -- in fact he's a bit of a revolutionary.


Queen of Denial

Eric: I've just returned from vacation. Bear with me while I get back into the zone and try to frame a Sphinxter joke.

Our recumbent He-opatra can say it ain't so until frogs fall from the sky, but this bed is a shrine, a big gay altar to a young Egyptian dragqueen. Pharaoh Fawcett-Majors, I'm guessing.


Ho Ho No He Didn't

Eric: Dear Santa,

In a last-ditch effort to move onto the Nice list, I promise to behave until the end of this review.

No musings about your full sack.
No smirking about why you're so jolly.
No wisecracks about only coming once a year.

Damn I mean darn, this is harder, I mean more difficult than I thought it would be!

All I can think is that those Olan Mills backdrops ain't what they used to be.


A Bedroom De Palma or Lynch Could Love

Shawn: I feel like this is a set piece from a big reveal moment in an early '80s De Palma or Lynch movie, just with the novel turn that it's set in Missoula and not La La Land. I mean, there's gotta be a copy of Fleshworld lying around there somewhere.


Dorm Room Daze

Shawn: Look, sometimes in life, things go awry. This is one of those moments. For this armchair detective, the open window just screamed "sex crime," but upon closer inspection, the fact that the screen is undamaged reveals this was an inside job.


Letter To A Young Retro Metro Boho

Eric: Dear Zach/Eli/Connor/Malachi/Bodi: I'm in favor of personal modifications, both of the self and the surroundings. I started mine before you were even born. But you've got to know where to start and when to stop.

You, my young urban tribesman, haven't yet crossed the line into a dissociative, dysmorphic disorder, but your room is rapidly rushing toward Hot Messitude. The more I see, the more I want to say. So where do we begin?


The Vertiginous Warmth of a Russian Boudoir

Richard: It's hard to look at a Russian boudoir and not hear the opening lines of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita: "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta."


Queen of The Bridge and Tunnel?

Shawn: Now I'm saying this as someone who, after watching Sheena, spent my entire first grade summer in a loincloth trying in vain to telepathically summon a swarm of flamingos to kill all my enemies: jungle print is just not for everybody. Look, we all wanna be Tanya Roberts astride her faithful zebra, but in this mortal coil, animal print/decor is less Queen of The Jungle than it is Queen of The Bridge and Tunnel.


A Sure Way to Lose Your Damage Deposit.

Richard: In case you were wondering: yes, this is the most depressing room in America: Unframed posters sagging on white-box walls? Depressing. Buy a corkboard for that shit.

Octagonal chinoiserie side-table topped by a statue of an owl wearing a black fedora, looming ominously above a microwave? Depressing.


So Gross And Yet So Far

Eric: Believe me, I understand that transformations take time, that rooms need to adapt themselves and DIY decorators need to rest up and recharge their creative juices. Some snowy night by the fire I'll tell you about how Sinatra's Loft does not grow overnight from Transitional Victorian Provincial Hand-me-down.

Trust me, I know.

Yes, every butterfly was once a caterpillar, and what we have here is a wingless room, waiting to burst forth in all its Neoclassic Bordello Chic glory.



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