David: Like color blindness, there must be a medical term for individuals with an inability to feel the unhinging effects of colliding patterns. This photo depicts, in the most unpleasant way, the fallout from such a malady: One ends up neo-natally white, unconscious, naked and dreaming of floating down the Amazon on a raft covered with imprints of jungle animals as devised by the designers from Linens for Less.

John: Another Venus in another room! Another stretch of pale flesh to give the eye relief from that nasty war breaking out between the bed-coverlet and the wallpaper. Oh Matisse! What ravages have you wrought on gaydom! The duvet, meanwhile, with its cavalry of animals, horses and paislies, obviously knows how to win — to quote Joan Crawford in the Pepsi boardroom — “the hard way.”

And — is that a fucking futon on the floor? Compare the height of the male figure with the wall molding — are they not the same? Guy, you stopped living at the dorm about 15 years ago. Grow up and get a proper bed with a major Bobby Trendy headboard like the rest of us ! At least give us a rip-roaring, good-morning hardon if you’re going to insist on doing that dreary “caught sleeping” thing.

John: We know what dungeon masters look like in their lair amid the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But what could they possibly be doing by daylight? This interior tells us all we need to know — with footnotes.

Does not the decor scream kinky CPA? That serious desk with double drawers for filing. The exposed wiring and clunky CRT monitor befitting someone too busy to keep up with the times. The whole utilitarian nature of the clutter. Very no-nonsense and very much what we want in a leather top. But note how meticulous this bear is. What really drives us wild is the tea towel to protect the chair. Not that this fastidious number would leave any sort of marks, with his trim beard and schoolmaster glasses. Among so many other things on bodacious display here, this photo give us proof positive that in CPA Land cleanliness is definitely next to godliness.

David: The clash of protruding and receding planes in this room would have caused M. C. Escher — the Dutch master of impossible architectural paradoxes — to swoon. The vertical rush of the window blinds colliding with the horizontal thrust of the drawers creates a startling impression: All of a sudden you feel like the porn on the monitor has popped out — fully embodied — into the real world. And is about ready to start jerking-off — right before your eyes. That’s some powerful feng shui.

I’m impressed with the dramatic and stagey way the desk is being used as a prop. And you just know that long drawer to the left contains all of his cock rings arranged in alphabetical order.

Curtis: I’m most intrigued by the egg timer sitting atop the trusty beige cathode ray tube, and secondarily by the calendar showcasing one of my favorite genres: Airbrush paintings of glistening crystal dolphins soaring through rings of fire in space. Or maybe it’s just a standard issue volcano scene. Either way, sign me up.

Is it our imagination or did Christopher Lowell get operated on not to remove wrinkles but to remove gayface? Girl, you look like a man! Either that or this recent publicity still from his website has broken some poor Photoshop pro’s software into a heap.

Bonus points if you can tell us which episode of Maude featured Bea Arthur wearing the exact same Nehru jacket/burgundy blouse ensemble as Mr. Lowell.

But we’re just playing the mean bitch role. Given that our appreciation for Christopher’s craft remains as steadfast as ever, it’s time to announce that Mr. Lowell has a new book slated for publication. You’ll want to pre-order your copy early. Christopher Lowell’s One-of-a-Kind Decorating Projects will be released in early April.

Curtis: An impressive array of diplomas and qualifications for such a young lad. Just imagine the work and constant dedication! And the stress of keeping track of all those papers! An endless sea! No wonder he has to relieve some stress. Of course, it could also be stressful to be caught by daddy if this is indeed his office and not actually junior’s. But I wouldn’t insinuate something like that. I’m sure our friend with the log penis and golf balls is just worn ragged from the bureaucracy of the Mensa application process. I bet he’ll work through it.

David: Nothing says “welcome to my world” like a fisheye lens. I’m surprised more amateur porners don’t use them. A fisheye lens is the next best thing to tasting something in the flesh. And can’t you just feel your salivary glands squirting once your eyes stop swirling round the room and land smack dab atop that monster … pile of papers that’s about ready to snap the particle board bookshelf.

The burdened shelves, abandoned paperwork and dated-looking diplomas tell a story. A sad but classic tale. Once there was an accomplished and busy father occupying this office, happily hanging credentials on the wall. But then came the ballooning mortgage, the wife’s accidental pregnancies, the gambling debt and then — finally — junior turning eighteen.

Now dad is relegated to the garage where, like a character from Johnathan Franzen’s The Corrections, he builds things from scrap wood and pees in old mayonnaise jars. Meanwhile junior is working hard to land his first “big contract” and has taken over his father’s lair. Slews of email. Web cam shows. More emails and more fisheye pics. Dreams of Bel Ami and Michael Lucas returning phone calls. The prince becomes a king.

Heather: Though Laura Ashley has previously denied the existence of her first born son, this photo shows us everything — really, everything — she’s been trying to keep locked in the linen closet.

John: Another post-Modern masterpiece — this one co-opting the vocabulary of the French Impressionists. The reclining model, who eyes us with such worldly candor, seems a direct quote from Manet’s Olympia — that outrage of 1865 where a visually obvious prostitute was substituted for Venus, goddess of love.

Venus was usually idealized in a generically pretty way, but in Manet’s painting, a very real flesh-and-blood woman assumes the iconic goddess position. So what we have in our amateur photo above is something of a boy goddess and something of a bored courtesan.

I also see Matisse in the wallpaper, in the contrast between the stark expanse of flesh and the busy disintegrating patterns going off everywhere. What a feast for the eye!

Richard: Remember in The Andromeda Strain when Kate Reid — looking like an older, heavier Velma from Scooby-Doo — is trying to work up a vaccine to this epidemic, and she’s looking through all the viral samples, and they’re cycling through the computer, and finally she gets to the crucial one, the one that’s seen no growth, and the screen’s flashing red, and it’s all, like, “NO GROWTH, NO GROWTH,” but of course, the flashing red lights have induced a petit mal seizure in little Ms. Reid and she’s helpless to move or do anything but stare out at the monitor through big clunky glasses? That’s how I feel when I see this interior.

David: What none of you realize is that this guy is only two inches tall! You’re looking deep into the interior of a Faberge egg. (How’d they do that?!)

David: I’ve never understood what folks hope to achieve with these Cecil B. DeMille curtain ensembles — in their bathrooms no less. But lord knows I’m not going to take it up with this particular homeowner.

John: Oh, the drama! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, as Liz Taylor told Richard Burton in — what else? — Boom! She was listening to the surf pounding into the shore with repeated — you guessed it — booms, looking off the balcony in that hungry Liz way with one hand clutching her faltering heart. (She had been given a three-months-to-live prognosis.) And what did this happy-go-lucky Tennessee Williams heroine say? What wise, loving and reassuring words?: “BOOM. BOOM. BOOM — the shock of every second of still being alive!” Yes, Liz, I get it now. All that seasick life-weariness is conveyed to me by the suffocating heaviness of THOSE GODDAM DRAPES! Sir! You have a choice. Life need not be a cabaret. One’s home is not the set of Big Brother. There are moments, precious, few but private moments when, in the words of another Sixties idol, “even the President of the United States must have to stand naked.”

Heather: I hear that the guards at the Museum of Antebellum History have been trying to be much more careful about checking all the rooms before they lock up for the night. But frankly, my dear, Rhett here doesn’t give a damn.

Richard: Every day, Carlos rehearsed his Pirates of the Caribbean routine, and every day, he got a little bit better, until finally he worked up the courage to pursue his dream of becoming a professional stripper. On the train heading downtown, he kept repeating to himself, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” When he arrived at the Chippendale’s Review Board, he swaggered through the front door, full of confidence — which, unfortunately, made their cruel, cruel laughter and rejection all the more painful. Luckily, Carlos lived by the motto, “If at first you don’t succeed, jump off the nearest bridge.” At that, boys and girls, is the story of Carlos and the Very Bad, No Good, Thoroughly Mixed-Up Career Path.

David: There are fifteen more rocker/recliners crammed into this room. Each one occupied by a full-bodied, naked and erect German guy. They are each swaying back and forth, in time to the “In Fernem Land” aria from Wagner’s Lohengrin.

As a ringleader, Dr. Laura is there, too, perched atop a giant waterbed, wearing nothing but a Victoria’s Secret, bright blue garter belt and clutching a black Kate Spade handbag — which contains the key to the vault of Kierkegaard’s tomb. In her other hand a metronome ticks like a time bomb.

What no one realizes is that the rocking motions of all sixteen chairs keep the globe tilted and spinning on its axis. Should the incessant back and forth motion stop, the world, as we know it, would cease to exist. So forgive them the vomitous blue paint job. And pay homage by shopping at Furniture World (and not Ethan Allen).

Richard: Like the rest of you, I would probably take issue with the red naugahyde chair, the bland blue recliner, the broken miniblinds, and the horrific wall treatment. Unfortunately, I can’t say any of those things because I promised dad I’d be supportive of his new career as an Internet pornstar.

Heather: Well, I guess he isn’t such a lazy boy after all, now is he.

David: This is a wonderful interior. Art, to me, always involves audacity, and to have the balls to hang that picture that way above the couch deserves applause. The plugs and wires, to the left, have a Frankensteinian charm, too. The Cezzane-like oranges on the right help anchor the triangular effect (another Cezzanish theme) which the painting brings into high relief. This is a beautiful disaster. I love it.

Richard: It’s not the minimalism to which I object. It’s the fact that this poor deluded soul (a) inhabits an apartment wired by people too lazy to put outlets at baseboard height, and (b) thought this pic would entice potential AOL-fuckbuddies to his Spartan boudoir.

John: The model sits before us in the formal pose of an Egyptian Pharoah. The painting behind him, which seems vaguely like a lyrical Impressionist landscape, is joyfully askew. The wires and rechargers criss-crossing on our left balanced by the muted simplicity of a small lamp on the end table cinches it for me. This is post-Modernism at its best. Despite his archaic pose, the model is not presented in an ironic fashion, but is noble, arresting. This works!

Richard: “Yo, yo, yo, giving a shout-out to all my homies on the Terre Haute west side! I got it going on with the gangbang gangsta style over by my crib, so all you bitches and hos swing on by for some off-da-hook boot-knockin’ action, bay-bee. I be all about it-bout it, yo… Huh?… Aw, mom…. Yeah, alright, I’ll keep it down.”

David: Oh, my god. This is like a major Colonial invasion — to me the most unfathomable and deviant of interior design traditions. The McDonald’s shrine in the back corner is too John Wayne Gacey for me. I need to move to the next pic.

John: Credit where credit is due: The photographer is following the Rule of Thirds and the boy is set stylishly off to the left. Unfortunately, the photog didn’t get to the chapter yet about NOT blending heads into the blades of overhead fans. Still, I like the way the model dominates the picture with his quizzical direct gaze. The overspilling penis, succulent as it is, is no match for those white curtains with the blue stripes, though. Did somebody say “White Star Line”? And could Mom or somebody straighten that lampshade?

Heather: This may very well be one of the most disturbing photos I have ever seen. It’s akin to a modern-day Little Red Riding Hood, in which the wolf comes into Grandma’s house, skanky cap and all, and waves his wee little willy shouting “It’s all the better to grease you with!”

John: Living dangerously, the boys did not cover that gorgeous couch in plastic. They will soon regret that. In about two seconds. The mix-and-no-match pillows are a treat to the eye, sort of a tour of fabric samples. I love that the boy has removed his glasses and holds them ready to be put back on. Monica must have her fantasy, however brief.

Richard: What a glorious slice of contemporary American life! This moving portrait of a modern family shows the lengths to which today’s single parents will go to serve as both mother and father to their children. This hard-working mom — surrounded by bolts and bolts of fabric she uses in the millinery she runs out of her garage — knows that her young boys are growing up. Every time she bathes them, she sees a new patch of hair sprouting from a different part of their young, nubile bodies. Today, she has chosen to have “The Talk” with them, scrupulously detailing every bit of the birds’ and bees’ activities and demonstrating with utmost attention to detail the correlatives in human mating ritual. Her devoted sons return her love by watching her actions closely and taking copious mental notes. Who needs Dorothea Lange, I ask?

Heather: “Hey, Joe? I’m glad you’re getting head and all, but have you given any thought at all to those pillows I showed you in the Pottery Barn catalog yet? I just really think we don’t have enough throw pillows.”

David: When I saw the blonde’s carefully-held-to-the-side specs, I knew immediately that that was a wig and just a homo with a fat ass administering frat house flavored BJs on another “I’m bored…whadda you wanna do?” Saturday night. And, really, Heather’s right…would straight dudes have that many throw pillows? Though, I do covet that fuzzy, Chairman Mao green and red cushion on the right.