mention “my summer house” and go straight to the douchebag jar. do not pass GO. do not collect $200. bring your wallet – no, not that quilted lady dior shit – and don’t get mugged on the way.
despite the massive wealth it takes to buy and furnish homes featured in your run-of-the-mill interiors magazine, i ogle them with a healthy dose of self-delusion. extreme social inequality? nah, everyone needs a comfy place to put up their feet, brew the coffee, spit the toothpaste. that the feet are landing on a $1,900 platner coffee table is just a slight bonus.
but a summer home featured in a magazine…?
a pristine white canvas on which to showcase your damien hirst paintings while the kids drag sand across the shiny terrazzo floors for six weeks a year…?
it’s spectacular and it makes my stomach hurt.
i can applaud a summer house feature as a rare curiosity, but the frequency of these spreads boasting oceanside second homes is giving me an itch.
tonight, i’ll be daydreaming about an ocean breeze on the walk past the saxophone street artist warbling the theme to the godfather while the detroit river wind cuts our faces like ice. i might toss him some change. he’s probably saving up for that platner coffee table.