The inspection went swimmingly.

Everything wrong with the little house was just the kind of thing normal people live with everyday of their living lives. Oh no, there’s a one-inch strip on the windowsill where it must have gotten wet some time in the last 54 years. And, apparently, subterranean termites, who live every fucking where in this weather-friendly, little state, are eating a board in the back yard.

The upshot is we are moving so fast toward actually moving that I may have heart attack. But, by god, it’s a sweet little house.

I really think I like this feature the best of all.

There’s something about the brick, in it’s pinkish, brownish glory, that screams suburban California somewhere between 1954 and 1972. Wonderful.

Sadly, I think it’s both a positive and negative that M. and I are sharing a creative vision of decorating it up all mid-century modern leisure living. I see a lot of molded plastic and plywood in our future.

The sadness is our shared vocabulary. The look we’re going for would be evoked by say “The Valley,” aka San Fernando Valley, aka 70s pornos. Irrepressible as I am, I, of course, mentioned pornos to the dude at the Design within Reach who responded with speechlessness and a kind of stunned, quizzical look on his face. Henceforth, I have only referred to Boogie Nights. Somehow, a movie about the porn industry in the 70s seems more civil descriptively than the real deal.

As a co-worker pointed out, it’s motherfucking art. Just check out this link for proof, and do a Google search for Larry Sultan and enjoy the mix of suburban and adult. How can I not save up for a hot tub some day?

M. has a smidge more class than me. He thinks we should aim for Johnny Depp’s drug-money acquired beach pad in Blow.

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