David: At first I thought the blue padded mat was part of one of those Barton Patient Transfer Systems, a device that allows folks to maneuver their elderly and addled family members effortlessly in and out of bed. But no, no, no this divan sandwich has been put together by a homeowner who is completely mobile and independent — in fact he’s a bit of a revolutionary. Any and all rules of taste, symmetry and sanity have been jettisoned in favor of this mish-mashed paean to Dadaism — the World War I art movement that rejected logic and embraceed chaos, irrationality, Girl Scout badges and Hollie Hobbies.

Steve: When you mount me, it’s okay to get excited, but not too, too excited because I still haven’t built the wall brace and shelving for my enamel pin collection (every roller coaster between Mississippi and Vermont) and these dolls I found. I’ve discovered that when the motion becomes vigorous or too rhythmic, everything topples down into the space between my electric sleeping bag and the water sofa.

While you’re up, could you get me another Grapico?

Steve: My colleagues are going to disagree, but I’m going to just admit that I’m comforted by this. I know it’s not stylish. But does it look like it’s trying to be stylish? No. The guy knows what he likes and isn’t embarrassed to just display that stuff. The only real issue is posing with an erection in front of a picture of one’s grandmother.

I guess if I were hired to advise him on his interior, I’d bring up the possibility of putting this stuff behind some doors somewhere, and if I were hired to photograph him… it wouldn’t be in front of this particular shelf unit.

David: So many parts work here, albeit parts that are confined within the bookcase grid — but still this gets an A+ from me. Why? Well, it’s the equivalent of a collage, an ensemble that declares one’s essence, one’s ‘isness.’

Yes, as Steve points out there’s a picture of granny (or maybe that’s mom?) but to the right there’s also a picture of the homeowner from his college days. That photo depicts him in a pose similar to the nude shot we’re getting. I like that traveling through time feel — from grandma, to school days, to NOW! Eckart Tolle would like this room too. Also, in a bit of subliminal wonder we have the gigantic Sex Bible (how fine is that?), shoring up his pose. The power of this image rests on unfettered and free libidinal chutzpah … and that’s truly fab.

Steve: So here’s definitely something interesting, but I’m having a hard time figuring out what to make of it. I quickly ruled out being turned on, so what I’m left with is a combination of fear and pity.

Let’s not focus for too long on the obviously askew elements of the composition, like our seductor’s puppet companions, or the belt he bought on sale from the girls section at Hot Topic, or the rubber band he’s using as a cock ring, or even the ski mask.

No — I’m going to ask you to look past all that and to focus on the bedspread. Notice how I didn’t say mattress? That’s because, on closer inspection, what appears to be a bare mattress jolts into horrifying clarity as a matching bedspread and pillow combination, in teal and white, leaving me with only one possible conclusion:

This whole sordid tableau has been staged in Grandma’s room.
 

Richard: There are times I hate this job — times I hate having to take the piss out of perfectly normal, sane, well-meaning people who’ve had the misfortune of being captured (mostly naked) at precisely the wrong moment.

Take this young fella for example — clearly a proud father serenading his son in a late-night lullaby. I feel doubly saddened by the fact that his son was born without an immune system, thereby requiring him to live forever in a plastic bubble. On the upside, however, technology seems to advanced since John Travolta’s day, to the point that such bubbles now come in a variety of designer colors — in this case, a shade of kelly green that perfectly complements the room. Because, I mean, the last thing anyone would want would be for their immune-comprised baby’s bubble to look obvious or anything.

John: Everything traditional is what our hero is looking for. The warm matronly cabinet behind him, the cradle at his side, the Tex-Mex acoustic guitar to cover his naughties — he’s looking for marriage, guys. No furtive clutching at each other over the gear shift in a sedan, no smoky bars where they serve lite beers — no he wants the full deal. In a church. Kids — adopted, if necessary; mixed-race, preferably (O, save the planet!)

And he’s dynamite in bed too. The long hair and the iguana appliqué on the guitar tell you that. Our boy knows how to get down and righteously nasty, but only in private and only for you. Most of the time he wants a life as four-square and settled as this room — with a little medicine ball action in the cradle to liven things up.

Steve: Why aren’t we talking about the small, fuzzy turtle with bushy orange eyebrows that oversees the entire scene from his varnished podium of judgement? Is that taboo? I feel like I’ve missed a crucial cultural cue that would allow me to understand why the turtle is normal.

I only bring it up because the turtle looks concerned, and I think it points to a deeper story here. Something years in the making that has culminated in the moment we see. The cords hanging from the ceiling are also saying something to me. I can’t be sure without confirmation, but I suspect that this man’s life may depend on which one of them our concerned turtle friend decides to pull.

Shout Out! to Wayne from Wayne’s Naked Musicians. ROCK ON!
 

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.