Shawn: This whole piecemeal aesthetic is a literal clash between the sum of its parts. It’s a competition for crass supremacy with the tackiest fixture taking all like a piranha tearing through a koi pond. The plum-hued vase is the least heinous transgression. Far worse is the inspirational print above the bed that’s straight out of a freshman dorm room or a mid-priced rehab center.

The bedside bureau’s way too bibelot for the antiseptic white color scheme and blends with the whole scene about as well as the sore-thumb family (?) photos. The bulwark has got to be the 80’s most deathless holdover: the unicorn chochkie. It’s at least anthracite-black and not rainbow, but still impossible to pull off for anyone who’s not A) female, B) eight as of 1986 and C) forever devoted to Chachi.

The plush periwinkle headboard and burnished bronze-on-chocolate bedspread actually make me a little woozy. I can still see the mind-bending shades with my eyes closed. No decor should produce the same affects as sunspots or an aneurysm. What look is he going for with the fedora and the come-hither stance? Is it Mike Hammer? Usher? And the stuffed animals are shudder-inducing. It’s bad enough that the chimp is dressed in leather wear, but the teddy bear is presenting for a mattress wrangle too disturbing to speculate about. “Show Mr. Ruggles where Scout Master Todd touched you” implications are wolfsbane for a swinging confirmed bachelor pad.

Steve: Unicorn.

Richard: On the upside, thanks to careful washings in cold water (and one teaspoon of vinegar– ancient Chinese secret!), Tom’s 100-count Peruvian slipcovers and throw pillows look just as woodsy and joyless as the day he bought them with his first post-college paycheck from the National Parks Service in 1992. Tom’s posters, bought two weeks later from the same Wal-Mart, also appear to be in great condition.

On the downside, while I appreciate Jerry’s attempt to recreate an Ewok village in the living room, I think their Return of the Jedi costumes are a little weak. And let’s be honest: Leia was always a top.
 

Steve: Mr. Martin Mills knew that his new master bedroom would need to be so much more of a special, personal shrine than the synthetic wooden panel and painted cinder block assemblages of the uninspiring rented spaces from less prosperous years.

A lifetime of saving, and a lucky investment in U-Bake dildo kits, provided the necessary funding for the kind of opulence that only the super-medium-rich dream of.

A professional sponge-paint artisan was brought in to delicately apply a subtle patina of orange and umber to the once-stark honey brown walls.

Matching designer hotel lamps were purchased at nearly full price to frame and honor the sacred bed space.

Nearing completion, the room was personalized with framed holograms of popular battle scenes from the Franco-Prussian War, and a fashion throw featuring four distinct thread colors to depict the stylized image of a majestic white Persian.

The final touch was an acrylic mural of the proud home-owner — as he appeared before Thanksgiving. Wise to cost and benefit ratios, Mr. Mills used immigrant labor to fill the lines with a realistic peachy rose hue, reserving the bulk of his $250 for Houston-based erotic artist Selene, who spent over three days with a broad-tipped Sharpie to bring the rendering to life.
 

David: OK, so here’s the thing people — everything is working in this room. You’ve got a theme and a color palette that supports it. Great! Work it. The 24/7 homage to Chuck Jones? Why the fuck not? Hell it beats a room full of Chuck Norris dolls. All’s well here until the eye drifts over to the lower right hand corner of the photo and we notice — what? A giant porcelain rabbit and a mirrored disco ball. Oh no. Thematic symmetry shattered. The senses balk. The mind spins. Quick! Cue Britney’s new album — in its entirety — because you’re getting ready to … Blackout!
 

Shawn: This could easily be a rejected CD single cover for Club 69 or The Pet Shop Boys. The term “an embarrassment of riches” is apt here. I’m sure the sheets are Egyptian three hundred thread count and the bed itself is not unlike Raquel Welch’s from Myra Breckinridge. His client must’ve hit the jackpot with the lottery or made a fortune selling DeLoreans; the whole layout comes straight from the New Money design handbook.

The brocade walls are what I dream every fashionably upscale mental institution catering to fucked-up L.A. families like the Sedgwicks or the Menendezes has in their rubber rooms. I never really believed that anyone chugged champagne and ate chocolate-covered strawberries outside of a Euro-softcore Emmanuelle movie, but I stand corrected. Either Victoria Gotti couldn’t get a date to the Golden Globes or this is her eldest son Fernando making his late nite Cinemax debut. With the aviator shades circa Top Gun and his Morrissey do’, our stud clearly has a Big 80s predilection. His designer underwear and fab slave bracelet make a statement: “Yeah, I got it goin’ on. And it’ll cost ya…bitches.”