Richard: Some people think we’re heartless. Before today, we might’ve agreed, but this photo makes us feel tingly and sad in all the wrong ways, which seems a lot like what The Poets have described as “heartbreak”. So, how could we experience heartbreak without hearts, smartypants?
What’s so depressing is that there’s almost nothing right in this room. The grandmotherly lace curtains? No. The leather sofa? No. In beige? Hell no. With beige accent pillows? Ha ha, no. The tiny surround-sound speaker attached to the wall? No. (Also: grandma, please buy a level. They’re cheap.)
But obviously, the elephant in the room is those wedding dolls.
In fact, they’re not so much an elephant as a centuries-old elephant graveyard, where generations of pachyderms have gone to die and, over time, gravity has compressed them into this tiny, shiny, soulless ball of What The Motherfucking Fuck.
Why are they hovering in the middle of the wall? Why aren’t they level with one another? Is that a design choice? Is the bride preggers? Is the groom an amputee (or is he just stuck on a lower shelf)? We love weddings, and we probably would’ve gone to that one just for the pryaniki, but the mementos scare the schnitzel out of us.
David: This is an interior that delights way more than it disturbs, in other words it’s a genuine anomaly on Lurid Digs. It also answers the burning question: What happens when little boys who love motorcycles, monster trucks and earth diggers mature into adulthood? Well, they purchase a circus trailer, move into it and take it out on the road. At least we think it’s a circus trailer, or perhaps it’s one of those horse drawn caravans, the sort the Wizard of Oz had or the witch lived in from the original werewolf movies, like The Wolf Man.
We’d like to recommend, and the sooner the better, some sort of industrial strength cleaning solvent be used to remove the grease and grime stains from the wall on that side of the bed that, well, we wouldn’t our face getting near should we be the ‘tossing and turning’ type of sleeper that suffers from a pathological fear of the ebola virus.
Also, throw that fucking old flattened cardboard box that is being used as a pillow case out — and splurge for ‘the real thing.’ Be a man, cough up some loot (sell your old collection of Matchbox cars maybe) and hit the housewares department at Kmart. We just got word that the just released Fast and Furious bedding collection recently went on sale!
Richard: How highly do you think of yourself? How’s your art collection? How good are you with a miter saw? If you answered (a) “I’m the top”, (b) “Museum-quality”, and (c) “Jason Cameron‘s got nothing on me”, this could be the home/trick of your dreams.
On the upside, the woodwork is perfect. It’s rare to find even simple picture moulding done right, so whoever managed this feat deserves a massive, throbbing thumbs-up. The dark door frame is a nice touch, too — unexpected, but it works.
On the downside, the texture of that standard-issue gallery wallpaper makes our fingertips weep. And between the neoclassical fresco, the pen-and-ink drawings, and what appears to be a cubist oil painting, the art collection is all over the map. But our biggest quibble is with the ceiling lights. If they’re recessed behind the moulding, that’s one thing, but our unscientific office poll suggests that they might be stashed behind the fresco, which might, in turn, be painted on plexiglass. Call us old-fashioned, but unless there’s a cab driver touching himself on the other side of it, plexi is always a boner-killer.
Eric: I know you know for certain that the world eagerly awaits your next autobiographical snapshot and particular insight. What pearls of ummm wisdom will drip from your ummm tongue and be squeezed into 140 characters for followers who aren’t whole without hourly visits to your ummm assets?
On behalf of the world, I beg you, take a breath and give us a break.
First of all, stop teasing us and use your own space. Your naked truth does not belong in someone else’s Embellishing Room.
You’re supposed to offer us a ride into the dark cranny of your mind, not a glimpse at leftover toys, outdated memories and ’90s electronica.
Your truth, your moment, your audience. It’s all about you, but you already knew that. Unless you’re @BuffaloBill, you’re cheating us.
At least that would explain the lotion.
Bare minimum, take the goddamn mirror out of the box, close the bathroom door and either hide those sad knockoff wrap dresses or put one on.
I promise we’ll wait.
I know you’re trying to show us your soul. We’d rather see your cock.
Richard: We see so many trainwrecks at Lurid Digs. Perhaps that’s because few people understand the basic rules of home decor. Then again, maybe it’s because Lurid Digs HQ is located right next to the Amtrak station.
So, it’s a very, very pleasant surprise to find a nice-looking room like this in our inbox. Is it perfect? No. The flag should’ve been ironed or at least spritzed with water to get the wrinkles out. The decorative pillow at the head of the bead should’ve been flipped and fluffed. And it bears mentioning that featuring so much yellow in a room so red runs the risk of making the master bedroom look like a McDonald’s.
But all in all, it works. You’ve got Old Glory. You’ve got a painting of what must be the Rocky Mountains, which is totes charmant despite its heaping helping of Thomas Kinkade-ish emotional bullshit.
You’ve got that quilt, which was probably stitched together by malnourished inmates in a poorly lit Cambodian prison camp, but did grandma’s handmade version look all that different? And to top it off, we can see two bottles of video head cleaner perched invitingly on the windowsill. It’s like a warm, fuzzy Lee Greenwood song come to life — without all of Greenwood’s Tea Party bullshit and hair plugs.
We don’t know about you, but we’re already saluting.
Richard: This is not the most unusual boudoir we’ve seen at Lurid Digs. We’ve witnessed interior architecture plucked from the depths of Bizarro World. We’ve seen collections of dildos that could service whole cities of powerbottoms — simultaneously. We have seen taxidermy, for crap’s sake.
But the lovely thing about each of those rooms was that the owners had made strong choices. They’d said to themselves, “You know what? I’m going to paint my parlor an unusual shade of blue and put a goddamn fucksling where a fucksling ought to be!” That takes balls, people. Balls, and a lot of heavy-duty chain.
This, on the other hand? Where are the balls in this picture? If there were an R-rated dictionary (and there probably is), this photo would be used to illustrate the word “Meh”. Which is barely even a word.
“Should I tidy up the wires from my old gaming consoles and chargers?” our resident asks himself. “Nah, they’ll just get jumbled up again. Should I mosey over to Goodwill and invest $10 in an adjustable frame to get this bed off the floor? No, I suppose sleeping so close to industrial carpet that was probably installed during the Carter administration is fine for my health.”
But this room’s most grievous offense is its mixing of Disney (check the desktop) with Looney Tunes (on the doorknob). We’re pretty loose as far as sexual peccadilloes go, but that kind of intermingling is basically a signal flare to the Five Kardashians of the Apocalypse, telling them that Planet Earth is ready for torching.