Do you think minimalism is a plague on humanity? Do you really, really like the last third of “Goodfellas,” when everyone’s paranoid and wearing totally bonkers asymmetrical shoulder-padded Eighties outfits? Do you look at the ceiling murals and gold trim of Rococo style design (i.e. the style of the President’s penthouse in Trump Tower) and think, “eh, too subtle, I prefer something with a bit more pizzazz”?
If you answered yes to all of those questions, then I have the house for you. It’s in the town of Springfield, New Jersey, which is, yes, a bit of a bummer. But that won’t matter when you see the inside of this house, because this house is one in a billion. When I read about primitive youths who go out into the jungle and have fantastic mystical visions, and then come back to the village and become the shaman, these house photos are what I imagine their fantastic mystical visions are like. I know, I’m building it way up. Let’s just go to the photos.
Looking at this house’s exterior, you’d never suspect that behind that banal exterior lies a throbbing core of wildness. This house is like the straitlaced government contractor woman I dated who ended up having a huge “Marvin the Martian” lower back tattoo.
Right off the bat, this house is grabbing the back of your neck and rubbing your face in its style. Just in this photo, I count over 750 distinct patterns. See that little table by the door? Most people use that for muddy boots and wet umbrellas, but in this house they use it to display 17th century French urns. I bet if you took the lid off one of them, there’d be jellybeans inside.
“My concept for the bathroom is that every time you sit down on the toilet, you’ll see another person in the room out of the corner of your eye, scream, and then realize it’s just your reflection. Oh, and we’ll make the sink ludicrously fancy.” – The interior designer
I know I’m supposed to hate this kitchen, but I don’t. I’m not sure why. I have this pair of black penny loafers with brown trim and stitching that I know, technically and objectively, are terrible and should be flung into the nearest incinerator, and yet, when I look at them in the mirror, they just work. This kitchen is like that. (If I was buying this house, I’d wait until closing and then be like, “throw in the kitchen chairs or no deal.”)
I cannot tell a lie – I like those “fake skylight” light fixtures. Every time I look at that carpet, though, I get really angry. Also, if you’re sitting in that room late at night with no one else in the house, I guarantee you that, at some point, the head of that cheetah statue is going to pivot and look directly at you.
I think the LSD is kicking in.
Is that tree fake or real? It’s almost better if it’s fake, you know? Also, the way those two ottomans are spotlit for no apparent reason makes me think that if this was your aunt’s house, and you came to visit, and tried to sit down anywhere, she’d hit you with a rolled-up “National Enquirer” while shouting about how “the furniture’s for company only!”
When I was a kid, my dad’s best friend was this eccentric collector whose house was filled with old comic books and baseball cards and movie posters, and when I went to visit, I’d be so frantic and torn over what to look at first, I’d get this weird fluttery feeling in my chest, and the next thing I knew, I’d be on the floor crying. That’s how this room makes me feel.
Look at that television! This house needs to be designated a national treasure, so if you buy it and try to renovate, or even buy new furniture, you can be thrown in prison.
You know how when you go to a flea market, and spend hours browsing, but don’t find anything you like, and then as you’re leaving, you think, “this afternoon was a total waste if I don’t buy anything,” so you just grab something at random? I guarantee that’s how that dog statuette ended up in this bathroom.
“My concept for this bedroom is that scene in ‘The Shining’ when the elevator doors open and a torrent of blood pours out” – the interior designer. Also, I’m shocked none of those paintings are of clowns. (Although, yes, they do get WTF points for the panda.)
How many times did a guy walk into this bedroom and say, “……. and this is where the magic happens”? A thousand? Ten thousand? Also, if you flip up the seat of that fainting couch thing, I guarantee there’s at least one loaded gun in the hidden compartment.
Behind that door is either a brick wall, or a portal to hell. There’s no third possibility. That mystical cat painting needs to get on my apartment wall yesterday, though.
I’m not sure if this backyard is one of those Zen-style serenity gardens, or if it just seems that way after the sensory overload of those photos. I just put my hand to my chest, and my heart rate seems dangerously elevated. I need a drink.