With the lights on (and a good night's sleep), the mid-fifties mirage is betrayed by... well, sonofagun, not much. Oh, wait! The microwave. And the TV, which, true, is the same size as Ozzy & Harriet's, except it's all screen. The decor is pretty seamless. But through the filters of Instagram (a name that recalls that era), the authenticity of the basement's design (life's work of Adam) could fool Mrs. Cleaver (did she ever leave that goddamn house?).
I present you with "The Instagram Basement" (one of the few examples of the camera app free from inappropriate expanses of flesh).
Thanks to Adam and Josh, I think our next residence will have to be a Googie structure, or Luna Schlosser's pad. (Erin glares at me from 2012.)
I feel dizzy. I hear breaking glass. I see a giant unrealistic floating eye! Open that door, Rod, I'm coming through!
What, no Rack-O? That always seemed to be the lost-era leftover game in people's homes, the one that no one ever even considered playing, and thus no garage sale could ever liberate the home of it. But whaddaya gonna do, just throw it out? Even the games missing half the pieces (Battleship pegs, Perfection misshapes, Cavity Sam's comical medical waste) are somehow never rejected. In other words, count me in on a round of Winner Spinner. (Unless it involves bodily contortion. I can barely stumble to the can these days.)
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