Richard: When we look at the photos you’ve submitted to Lurid Digs, we hear music. Occasionally, the tune running through our head is The Carpenters‘ Close to You, but scanning this pic, all we’re getting is a mashup of Ted Nugent‘s Cat Scratch Fever and Lynyrd Skynyrd‘s Ooh, That Smell, remixed by Ozzy Osbourne. It’s not as good as you’d think.

Our subject has made (at least) two unforgivable faux pas:

1. That wall treatment: Unless you’re the art director of a Pompeii-themed restaurant, wall treatments are always a bad idea. As in, Victoria-Jackson-running-for-president bad. Our hero should paint that shit or put up some wallpaper, and put the texturizing sponges back in the Michael’s dollar bin where they belong.

2. Clutter: If your goal in taking a sex pic is to bamboozle some Grindr Gay into getting dressed, leaving the comfort of his Febreeze-scented condo, and trekking halfway across town to slob your knob, you want to make him think happy thoughts. Hinting that there might be a film crew from Hoarders hidden under the bed is a great way to keep every spermgurgler in a 50-mile radius at home, locked in the can, pre-emptively combing crab lice out of his hair.

File Under:Living Room Wreckage

14

Eric B.: 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?

You’ve got nice wood. I mean, your trimwork should stay as it is. And at least the rug matches the drapes. The walls and ceiling could use an updated color. I’m tired of telling you boys to conquer your clutter. Next one who doesn’t gets a spanking. And not the good kind, either.

A stack of vintage suitcases makes a nifty, functional end-table. They’d also introduce a travel theme that would humanize the Bachelor Electronica elements slowly swamping your space. A quick trip to the import store for baskets, matchstick blinds and so on would do quite nicely.

I’ll bet that you smell really good, my young bohemian, and that your skin is really soft. That being said, the lotions and potions and notions needed to maintain your suppleness and glow do not belong on display. Ya gotta maintain a little mystery, after all. Put them away in the bathroom. Or at least in a hatbox covered with stickers from your adventures. And maybe frame some maps, eco-hipster. Photos of yourself having wet outdoor fun do not belong on your own walls. Send them to your mother.

Photos of yourself having wet indoor fun should be sent to me. Immediately.

Sternly yet lovingly yours,

Eric B.

File Under:Bedroom Terrors

18

Richard: Hi, Bob. Thanks for having me over. I know that you have a choice in design consultants, and I appreciate the trust you’ve put in me and in the Lurid Digs team.

To evaluate your room, I’m going to use that tried-and-true tool known as “The Compliment Sandwich”. It starts with a compliment, such as: I like your books. I can’t read the titles — which is probably good, because I have a feeling that a lot of them are by Dean Koontz and Louis L’Amour, which would be disappointing. But as it is, they’re just a lot of fuzzy novels on shelves, and you know what John Waters says, right? Only fuck men who read. If you’re looking for a fuck, Bob, you’re off to a great start.

Now, for the meat of the sandwich, the criticism: INDUSTRIAL CARPET. POPCORN CEILING. HODGEPODGE COLLECTION OF FURNITURE SPANNING LATE 19TH-CENTURY JAPANOISERIE AND LATE 20TH-CENTURY ROOMS-TO-GO. STUFFED ANIMALS ON A SIDE TABLE THAT SITS ASIDE NOTHING AT ALL.

And finally, one more compliment: I adore your collection of top-shelf tchotchkes. Bibelots are usually a terrible idea, but somehow, you’ve made that odd assortment of plates, figurines, drinking horns, and Native American paraphernalia really work. And honestly, what else could you put in that tiny space? A fern? Old shoes? The mummified corpse of a former trick? You made the right choice, Bob. You made the right choice.

Eric B.: I could never love a man who uses the word ‘collectible’ as a noun. Or whose tribal garb clashes with the room, even if the rest of the Village People are running late. I’m simply not that brave. I have no reservations about our elder corralling his figurines into one area, but that buck stops there.

DVDs and VHS tapes should not be displayed as though they are wealth. They cheapen the aesthetic value of the Precious Moments and Franklin Mint pretties. Store them out of sight, and then the Native Americana has room to breathe. After the walls and shelf-backs are painted, that is.

Nice clock. The trunk, carpet and chair work, too. The black table doesn’t, and the couch needs a thematic slipcover. Think buckskin. Doe pattern. Chamois. Also consider willow and birch accents. And where the hell are the baskets, bead work, and saddle blankets? This room is almost ready for its own little Trail of Queers. I don’t think the chief is going to invite me, though. He’s on the lookout for a boy named Sioux.

File Under:Living Room Wreckage

17

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. Psychologically, this whole scene suggests a collision between still-playful childhood whimsy and the pent-up constraints of adulthood. Even if your would-be score can get past that safari bedspread as you drape yourself over it all come-hither and utter “It has been many moons since I have known another man’s touch,” he’s still gonna think “Why is this fucking bed so tiny!?” The too-portly pygmy zebra is hardly suitable for leading a raid upon an enemy village of cannibals, so the exercise bike seems to be filling in, and aptly, goes nowhere fast. Too much in the way of unfinished blond wood is redolent of a life, well…unfinished — stranded on the imminence of maturation but unable to make the leap. And nothing — nothing — is a tip-off of crippling identity crisis than the sight of floral jardin walls.

File Under:Bedroom Terrors

23

Eric B.: Vintage is easy. You get some war-era stuff at a thrift store. you get more when your mother’s relatives start dying. Your primary and secondary colors (here green, gold and grey) are in place. You think you’re set.

You’re not.

Vintage is hard. Too much of it and you have Archie Bunker’s living room. If you don’t optically erase that low ceiling, you have his understocked bomb shelter.

You still have to do your research. By that I mean listen to me. Your walls should go 2 shades lighter than the carpet, and the accent wall should go turquoise. Your tertiary colors are coral pink and chocolate brown. Copper is your metallic.

You must remove the coffeetable. You need ’40s moderne, not ’50s Early American. Also gather and hide your anachronistica. I suggest an armoire. The mantle clock and hurricane lamp can stay. No matter how useful it is for trimming and waxing and such fun, the beauty shoppe chair should be sold, and accent tables with over-sized lamps brought in.

With just a bit of dedication, your vintage mancave won’t be a bomb shelter. It’ll be da bomb.

File Under:Living Room Wreckage

25

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.

Chinoiserie is almost always a downer, microwaves seem sinister in the bedroom, and fedoras reminds me of Joe Cocker‘s cover of “You Can Leave Your Hat On”, which was featured in the film 9 1/2 Weeks, which always makes me sad because it reminds me of how boner-hot Mickey Rourke was before he stumbled into a Key West dive bar and befriended the world’s worst plastic surgeon over well-brand mai tais.

Pencil sketch of…something on the wall? Depressing. Clearly, someone got stoned and tried to draw a proscenium arch so he could act out scenes from ‘Night Mother with his maneki neko statuette, but then got bored and spent the rest of the night scratching in the Green Lantern icon and scarfing down Cool Ranch Doritos. Which may be a fine way to spend a Saturday night, but it is also a great way to lose a damage deposit.

File Under:Bedroom Terrors

18

Eric B.: Times are tough. Things are hard all over. How do you go from 3600 square feet of home to 1200 of condo? Or 500 of apartment? You divest. I’m certain that, like me, when you got your first apartment you made and filed a detailed, prioritized list of everything you’d need to eventually furnish your dream house. Now is the time to whip it out, grab a cup of coffee and work it in reverse.

Things to Keep: the curtains (I’d use the green in a rep stripe to recover the chairs) and the Art Deco display cabinet. I’d keep the little streetscape. I’d keep it in the powder room, in fact.

Things for the Consignment Shoppe: pretty much everything else– the rug, the framed painting, the vermeil goblets, the vinyl mats, the samurai sword (unless you have an extremely oversized cheese platter).
The short leg of the L isn’t a dining room, it’s a nook. And you can’t afford to feed 6 people. Lose some of the chairs.

Use the money you make to buy a honeyed beige paint and tone down some of that shiny red. And maybe some neutral transitional furniture to dilute your motif a bit. Everything you keep should coordinate, but you shouldn’t keep everything that coordinates. You’ll end up looking like you live in a theme restaurant, and that’s starting your new life off on the wrong foot.

File Under:Dining Room Don'ts

21