Anyone who reads "Basementing" (Anyone? Anyone?) knows the decor is pre-contemporary. A feverish night stumble to the bathroom could easily result in a Serlingesque breakdown: I'm in Don Draper's apartment via The Twilight Zone. Picture if you can a trembling man flipping through a May 1953 issue of Woman's Home Companion in dire need of a home remedy for possible malaria. Deep breaths, Mike. How about a round of Winner Spinner to take your mind off your musty-triggered psychotic episode?
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!