Steve: Classical. That’s the main thing we were going for when we oversaw the decoration of this room, so I told the designer very plainly that I needed there to be lots of swirly bits and… classical stuff that would let people know where Rodger and I stand financially. I told him, “I want there to be… silver things. And swirly things. And satin stuff and tassels. Like in cartoons about people who are rich. Make it like that.”

This is genuine laminate flooring. Please wipe your feet.

Shawn: This is damned to faint praise. Sure, our guy knows his strengths and wisely foregrounds his girded haunches and well-developed calves, but face-free nakedness always beg the question whether it’s a less-than-photogenic mug or an innate shame that calls for anonymity.

And just as it’s possible to be technically hot but not especially exciting — sort of like the interchangeable Van Patten or Van Dyke sons or softcore porn — brand name-heavy vacuousness can neutralize everything in sight.

His domicile is marked by the very same middle-of-the-road, risk-free ambience that characterizes his handbook nudie shot, as if the entire place were mainlined from Pottery Barn. That’s got to be the company catalog resting on his subdued navy upholstery and I’m thinking it’s either the Sumatra Media Cabinet or the Tanner Nesting Tables that are driving him to such flank-bearing delirium, especially since he already has the faux-craftsman Raleigh Coffee Table and matching Mica Lamp.

It’s a given that there’s constant smooth jazz and/or world music piped in, plus the entire series of Murder, She Wrote (The Golden Girls are just too tarty and floral-inclined) waiting in his Netflix queue, all for the sake of maintaining the hypnotically tranquil jejuneness of it all. Only the conspicuous 8 x 10 of a beaming Eisenhower Era moppet reveals the subtextual seething rage and self-loathing that compel their sufferers to seek out this very oppressive prosaicness that ultimately crushes the already broken inner child within.

Maybe this is none other than Steve Guttenberg — the embodiment of the built-but-bland guy you’d nail but feel empty inside not only after, but during — squat thrusting for his upcoming run on Dancing With The Stars. Or could it be one of the earnestly zoned-out Romney Brothers biting down on that glaucous throw pillow as he simultaneously weeps and pants about what a dirty boy he is deep, deep down inside.

Yes, we know it’s you Tab or Dart … or Flash …

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: Welcome to my humble beachfront property. I’d introduce you to my beagle, Miss Sarah, but she’s been sleeping since Wednesday. We keep things pretty quiet around here. Mostly we like to tell the first part of jokes we remember, or sometimes we compare similar objects and make Jell-o.

Did you notice my monster plant? Oooh! Scary, right? A monster! I think it’s good to keep people on their toes. Got to stay sharp.

What about a game of Uno?


 

John: It’s always great when you blend in with the room’s color scheme. With no face to distract us, the man is saying he is not merely in the room, but of it, as well. He is not anyone; he is simply the man in the room.

And so we are drawn — challenged, really — to find the slightest hint of something more. And there it is, staring us in the face. The man is so obviously proud of his awesome V-shaped torso that he repeats himself in the shape of his tanline. All this he juxtaposes with a clipper ship on the radiator and two framed maps from the Age of Columbus, as if to say Explore me, Adore me. I am yours, the Undiscovered Land!

Thus, he states his claim: he is not a piece of furniture after all. We sense no such pride in the overstuffed couch or the yellowed maps. (The gauzy curtains, on the other hand, do seem a bit flirty and sure of themselves. But are they as shipshape as he; can they match his indomitable, indrawn waste? No, they cannot.)

There is only one focus in this universe of beige. The man in the room, who is so much of the room, has forced us, through a sheer act of glorious pride, to see at last the evergreen forest, and not the obstructing trees.

David: My god, the color scheme here actually evokes the feeling of having and living with hepatitis. This should never of happened. There should be meds to counteract this impulse. Finally, there should be a law to prevent this from ever happening again.

Richard: Dear Editors of BEIGE MAGAZINE:

Enclosed, please find a photo of my living room, which I submit for consideration in your annual “Beige Brawl” decorating contest. As you can see, not only are my walls a perfect shade of off-white, but I’ve also coordinated a bone-toned sofa and some ecru lace window coverings, which my half-blind Belgian aunt Frida tatted herself. For extra points, I covered the radiator in a soft cream, and added some framed, sand-colored maps on the wall. To reassure you that I have employed true beiges throughout, I have placed myself in the center of the photo. You can see, by contrast, that my ass is lily white—a completely different shade than the rest of the room.

I thank you in advance for you consideration of my submission and remain,

Sincerely yours,
Guy Smiley
 

Steve: This is art, right? I’m really leaning toward ‘yes.’ The only thing that’s throwing me off is that stripey purple little pillow pressed into his back. Otherwise, this is expertly staged, and culturally significant. A masterful blend of peachy rose hues with black and gold. I’m absolutely certain that something is being said here.

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!