Barrett: Today’s edition of Lurid Digs comes all the way from Loch Ness, which besides the legendary monster, is home to rooms far scarier than some hairless creature poking about for a closeup photo.
It’s hard to decide what’s less appealing, the photo of a man and his devoted wife, the collage frame filled with pics of babies and children, or the fabric on that too-long-for-the-breakfast-bar sofa. At least the furniture design allows for plenty of extra storage underneath for books, magazines and such.
Though the hoarding of copper hasn’t reached reality-show intervention levels, it could be displayed in a far better manner. Like the remote control, which at least generates visual interest balanced carefully at the summit of that Queen Anne peak.
Props are due, however, for keeping the pieces polished and party-ready, which clearly happens a lot in these parts, evidenced in part by the fiesta-friendly baby blue and pea green walls, but more so by the citronella-filled tiki torches for a little mosquito-free 69 by moonlight.
Richard: I loathe nostalgia, and this is why.
At first glance, this might not seem like a very sentimental room, but look closer, my pet. Look closer.
See that gray display cabinet salvaged from a shuttered Pontiac dealership? Yes, the one lit by reflections of surplus mirror tiles left over from the owner’s latest bedroom renovation. That cabinet contains the trophies and statuettes of a former life, a brighter life, a life where anything was possible.
Years later, these things have become symbols of what could have been, sad, dusty mementos that keep the owner mired in the past, when he should be looking toward tomorrow. Box that shit — and all the gewgaws on the shelf at the back of the room, in front of that impressive plate glass door — and put it in the attic where it belongs. Or, here’s another thought: bonfire.
Even the furniture screams, “I can’t let go!” How many marriages spawned this awful amalgamation of early-aughts Rooms-To-Go loveseats (in salmon, no less); a mid-90s Le Corbusier knock-off chaise lounge (upholstered in a blue found in no self-respecting sky); and a high-80s, angle-cut, glass-topped coffee table? For fuck’s sake, even that giant philodendron wants out.
Remember Orpheus, people: never look back.
David: We’ve read about this phenomenon on some of the freakier websites that we visit after all the kids have gone to bed and the cat and dog are snoring in their beds and blankets. But imagine our surprise when we actually encountered a photo that appears to be the AFTER, in a BEFORE AND AFTER series on home incubators.
Is this new craze related to stem cell research or it simply some mad scientist’s wet dream? We aren’t sure, but the new trend of bringing a giant egg into one’s home and then incubating and hatching its contents (in this case a large man wearing a cock ring) seems to be here to stay.
Props to this particular egg-owner who decided to hatch his egg in a room designed to mimic a family parlor or den, with carefully placed photographs on the wall. Each picture in place to say: “See, you belong here.” Or “Here is a picture of Mama and Papa, and over there is a picture of little Doris. She’ll be your new sister!” A very smart and sensitive tactic.
Sadly, the homeowner has not removed the vestiges of the egg-birth, as we can see in the background the large mound of egg shells and whatever effluvia the egg released during the hatching phase. Perhaps other photos exist with the remnants removed, we only wish we’d discovered those instead of this anomaly.
Yes, Easter came early to Lurid Digs. Glory be, He has risen!
Eric:I like lesbianish minimalism. In theory. I like neutral backgrounds. In theory. I like semi-Spartan spaces. In theory.
Then I look at this room. Are they freakin’ kidding me?
This isn’t understated. It’s unfinished.
Do something, already! Hang a painting. Wainscott the tub surround. Put a Scarlett O’Hara toiletpaper cozy on top of the toilet. Optimally place a themed wastebasket. Pick a color, any color, and disperse it anywhere, anywhere.
For the love of Christopher Lowell, just start. And then continue. And then continue some more.
I don’t care how butch you (think you) are, a trashbag is not a design statement. And your panties are not accessories.
And as for those who have the ego to paper the interwebs with naked self-portraits but not the pride to clean the mirror or tidy up the two things in the reflected room?
Don’t get me started.
Barrett: Check. And checkmate. Wow. That’s a lot of robin’s egg blue and blonde wood for one room. Then again, it does offset the dark wood paneling and quilt squares nicely, while adding a feminine touch.
As do the silk flowers, which oddly remind me of the Vietnamese place where I get my pedicures. Man, a pedicure sure would be great right now.
I do have to tip my hat to the room’s designer for carefully dispersing subtle hints throughout the space that reference an intellectualism that might not be discerned solely from the decor alone. There’s purpose to the haphazardness.
And even though I’m pretty sure this room will never make the pages of New York Magazine or The New York Times (they both stopped featuring mini blinds in 1983) , I’ve got to applaud the effort to lure me in with promises of stimulating conversation.
While bent over the sofa.