Being the artistic virtuoso that I am, I often get invited to black tie affairs and other gala gatherings in people’s homes. Sure I’m a bit eccentric and maybe a little reclusive but I think those are the qualities that bespeak of a quiet kind of genius. I like to think of myself as the Daniel Day-Lewis of writing, without the feminized, hyphenated last name. I don’t write about just anything, and the rare topic I choose to pontificate on becomes a glorious essay of Pulitzer potential. Back on point, breaking into so many of your homes and rummaging through your sock drawers at night has led me to a startling realization...people everywhere are really shitty decorators. Is there some obscure federal law that I’m not aware of mandating at least two rooms in every house be themed in some sort of emulation of a vague global locale?
The best way to break this down seems to be on a room by room, cliche by cliche basis. So let’s walk right into the first room most people see when they enter your abode, the living room. Holy shit, a second ago I was outside on the streets of Connecticut and now I’m somewhere in Arizona. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, is your front door some kind of inter-dimensional portal? Could you possibly shove anymore knock-off American Indian knick-knacks in here? Is that really a traditional Navajo blanket on your Bob’s Discount Furniture couch or did you get it from the gift shop at the Cracker Barrel? Listen up everybody, no more fucking southwest inspired living rooms or I’m going to beat you to death with a goddamn cactus.
The next stop on our travel itinerary is a little slice of New England I like to call the Nantucket bathroom. Feels so much like the beach I think I’m pissing in the Atlantic Ocean instead of your sink. Well you’ve really outdone yourself with this one Martha Stewart, or should I say Martha’s Vineyard? Ocean spray blue paint, lighthouse wallpaper border, seascape shower curtain; the whole bathroom feels like it’s swaying while I’m wiping my nose on your decorative sand dollar embroidered towel. Oh and let’s not forget that
pièce de résistance, the basket of shells on top of the toilet tank. Have you been in any New England gift shops lately? There’s an entire industry built around idiots showcasing buckets of mother natures litter on their fucking toilets.
Last stop on our whirlwind trip around your house, an eight hour flight to Italy, or an eight step flight of stairs up to your Italian inspired bedroom. Nothing says relaxation like heavily lacquered, black, over-sized furniture from Bayonne. Here's hoping you wake up in bed with a horse head so you can get the full effect of your decorating masterpiece. From where I'm standing it would be an improvement from what you normally wake up next too anyway, a horses head is better than a horses ass. Do me a favor, if you need to have something Italian in your house, get a glass jar shaped like a fish and stuff it with olives and peppers like the rest of us.
I was originally going to prattle on about country style kitchens but I have no idea what they are supposed to be reminiscent of. My guess is they are a nostalgic and whimsical interpretation of life on a pastoral turn of the century American farm, replete with rooster statues and apple pie scented luminaries from Yankee Candle. Just kidding, obviously they are some form of suburban midlife housewife crisis manifestations, full of latent sexual symbolism like cocks and warm apple pies. So do us all a favor when you’re buying a new house or decorating an old one, keep your decorating passport in the sock drawer and the shells in the ocean. With all of those wonderful and exotic places nestled so snugly in your bungalow, where in your house is Carmen Sandiego?
Being the artistic virtuoso that I am, I often get invited to black tie affairs and other gala gatherings in people’s homes. Sure I’m a bit eccentric and maybe a little reclusive but I think those are the qualities that bespeak of a quiet kind of genius. I like to think of myself as the Daniel Day-Lewis of writing, without the feminized, hyphenated last name. I don’t write about just anything, and the rare topic I choose to pontificate on becomes a glorious essay of Pulitzer potential. Back on point, breaking into so many of your homes and rummaging through your sock drawers at night has led me to a startling realization...people everywhere are really shitty decorators. Is there some obscure federal law that I’m not aware of mandating at least two rooms in every house be themed in some sort of emulation of a vague global locale?
The best way to break this down seems to be on a room by room, cliche by cliche basis. So let’s walk right into the first room most people see when they enter your abode, the living room. Holy shit, a second ago I was outside on the streets of Connecticut and now I’m somewhere in Arizona. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, is your front door some kind of inter-dimensional portal? Could you possibly shove anymore knock-off American Indian knick-knacks in here? Is that really a traditional Navajo blanket on your Bob’s Discount Furniture couch or did you get it from the gift shop at the Cracker Barrel? Listen up everybody, no more fucking southwest inspired living rooms or I’m going to beat you to death with a goddamn cactus.
The next stop on our travel itinerary is a little slice of New England I like to call the Nantucket bathroom. Feels so much like the beach I think I’m pissing in the Atlantic Ocean instead of your sink. Well you’ve really outdone yourself with this one Martha Stewart, or should I say Martha’s Vineyard? Ocean spray blue paint, lighthouse wallpaper border, seascape shower curtain; the whole bathroom feels like it’s swaying while I’m wiping my nose on your decorative sand dollar embroidered towel. Oh and let’s not forget that pièce de résistance, the basket of shells on top of the toilet tank. Have you been in any New England gift shops lately? There’s an entire industry built around idiots showcasing buckets of mother natures litter on their fucking toilets.
Last stop on our whirlwind trip around your house, an eight hour flight to Italy, or an eight step flight of stairs up to your Italian inspired bedroom. Nothing says relaxation like heavily lacquered, black, over-sized furniture from Bayonne. Here's hoping you wake up in bed with a horse head so you can get the full effect of your decorating masterpiece. From where I'm standing it would be an improvement from what you normally wake up next too anyway, a horses head is better than a horses ass. Do me a favor, if you need to have something Italian in your house, get a glass jar shaped like a fish and stuff it with olives and peppers like the rest of us.
I was originally going to prattle on about country style kitchens but I have no idea what they are supposed to be reminiscent of. My guess is they are a nostalgic and whimsical interpretation of life on a pastoral turn of the century American farm, replete with rooster statues and apple pie scented luminaries from Yankee Candle. Just kidding, obviously they are some form of suburban midlife housewife crisis manifestations, full of latent sexual symbolism like cocks and warm apple pies. So do us all a favor when you’re buying a new house or decorating an old one, keep your decorating passport in the sock drawer and the shells in the ocean. With all of those wonderful and exotic places nestled so snugly in your bungalow, where in your house is Carmen Sandiego?
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