The Thousands

The interior designer described the look as “elegantly deshabille”. I dug the trip she was laying down, but the brute in me couldn’t help but think a couple of artfully placed shruiken and a Sho Kosugi poster would spritz up the room just fine.

Instead I’ve got this ditzy broad, dressed like Marilyn Monroe if she had a serious case of hepatitis C telling me that I need to replace all my business papers on the desk with better designed business papers created by some turd in Scandanavia with more diacritic marks in his name than letters. In my mind this guy wears black rimmed glasses that cost more than my purebred Royal Navy Terrier (Admiral Admirable) and bathes in expensive, fragrant milk.

I figure I’ll let her do her thing. I’m thinking: “What the hell. All I do in here is drink. At least the place will look good while I do it.” I let waves of cool, calculated indifference wash over me, pausing to wonder whether I might be able to make it with the girl when all of the redecorating is done with.

I am snapped out of my reverie by a handcrafted speaker she placed just so on the desk. I’m floored by it, it speaks to me in some way. I think: “That is the kind of object I can get behind. Sparse. Elegant. Wooden. I can make whatever goddamned ruckus come out of it that I want. Total control and pure sound. Yes. That’s the kind of shit that makes a room; makes you a man.”