Richard: Oh, so close. So very, very close.

Full disclosure: I love terrazzo floors. Love them. They’re durable and easy to clean and colorful, just like certain homosexuals of my acquaintance. Personally, I prefer the larger 24″ tiles, but then, I’ve been accused of being a size queen before.

The wallpaper? Also a huge win. Yeah, it’s a little “Ali McGraw’s powder room (the one where she likes to freshen up before ceremoniously pulling keys out of a fishbowl)”, but it’s soft and cool and that’s kind of what you want in a Florida room.

The statue is unfortunate, but at least it’s mobile. Worst case scenario: our host can wrap it in fishing wire and turn it into one of those giant oil-dripping fountains you see in Italian restaurants that serve “cheese sticks”.

The criminal offense, however, is that sofa — that goddamn chicken fat yellow, La-Z-Boy monstrosity. It looks like a big, sticky shammy mitten, and although some people I know would love to take a spin on the rough-tradin’, hooker-whoopin’ ShamWow Guy, that’s not where I want to relax on warm afternoons in Boca.

Tell you what: if our host leaves me those sandals (and a few other things), we’ll call it a draw.

Shawn: I’ll say it: I’m liking this, and as I struggle in vain to avert my eyes from the dreamy occupant (focus…), I’m finding this abode has a certain austere quality that works for me; there doesn’t seem to be an excess of frills or bric-a-brac, indicating he’s focused on his basic needs. If the jaunty sailor cap isn’t simply a holdover from a Popeye Halloween costume that has since found other non-denom uses, then its presence could account for the air of sturdy discipline that defines the space. The simple, functional bedside table and book shelf don’t look pricey and really don’t need to be, and the basic black fan and retro-looking alarm clock signal that high-end lifestyle accoutrements are unnecessary. His workout gear is equally unpretentious, so being seen at a trendy gym isn’t much of a priority in the way that general fitness of form is, and that’s commendable. I’m getting the sense that the fake flowers are a token hesitant attempt at prettified domesticity, and thus their failure is actually a success in my book, and while the Frank Frazetta print — a staple of Pop Art boyhood machismo — clearly reveals he’s one with his inner Vanir, the disabled smoke detector says the occasional flouting of authority is permissible.

Richard: What we have here is a failure to communicate. And by “communicate”, I mean “use condoms”. Because if Mr. X and his fertile kin had bothered to use a little protection, Mr. X wouldn’t be burdened with so many Olan Mills family portraits, and he would probably have better a better bedroom set, too.

As it is, the only decent piece (of furniture) Mr. X owns is that dresser, which is (a) overwhelming that Astoria one-bedroom and (b) covered in veneer, which is one of my least favorite things to be covered in. The dresser, in turn, is overwhelmed by all those 8x10s of cousins and nephews and sisters and other relatives he sees once a year at Christmas. The bar stool — which stands where there was once a normal corner-table, until Mr. X loaned it to his brother, Manny, neither of which will ever be seen again — is overwhelmed by the TV. And the floor sconce is overwhelmed by everything in the goddamn room, but then, you can’t really expect anything from Walmart to make a dramatic statement. (As proof: the bland, mismatched Walmart bedspread, duvet, and pillowcase, all of which are trying to slink back toward a Natalie Merchant album cover.)

It’s curious that all that overwhelming adds up to an underwhelming effect, but then, I suppose there are bigger mysteries in the universe. Natalie Merchant included.

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