In the last week, two different magazines found their way into the house — it’s easy, they just blend in with the thousands of other magazines — featuring luscious home-decor spreads on the homes of interior designers.
I never know what to think of these, other than: hello? Isn’t the decorator supposed to have a fab house? Wouldn’t you be surprised if he or she didn’t? Wouldn’t you be … disappointed? Figure, if a decorator gives one lousy wine-and-cheese reception for clients at his or her own house, s/he can write the whole 15 fabulous rooms off as a business expense. Why not?
Of course these decorators both had wonderful houses. Both were, however, unsatisfied with said houses, which is probably also to be expected. Every artist needs a fresh canvas once in a while. But the first house, which was actually owned by two decorators, two men, surprise surprise, had a different flaw than the second — the men wanted to downsize and simplify, and make more time with their children. These children were revealed on the last page — a boy and a girl, presumably adopted (they were of a different race).
I’m not mentioning this to make a statement about gay men adopting or anything else. It’s just that when I read stories like this, and look at those pictures, I think: Well sure, if I didn’t have a kid, my house could look like that. In both these showplaces, they did have kids. Two in each, teenage boys in the other one.
Decorators: Always setting the bar higher.
But I’m improving: Got out of the house a bit this weekend, meeting our new friend John for coffee and a walk out on the marina docks at Windmill Pointe Park, one of GP’s famous private parks. (Longer entry on these coming, one of these days.) Windmill Pointe is actually in G.P. Park, the southermost Pointe, and the Windmill Pointe light is the official point at which Lake St. Clair gives way to the Detroit River. Which is to say, the freighters pass a great deal closer to shore than they do up in the Woods. John’s a sailor, and says these behemoths add a new wrinkle to racing strategy, less so since 9/11 (the Coast Guard doesn’t think it’s funny for small craft to come close to the big guys anymore).
One passed while we were there — the Columbia Star, a homely but utilitarian craft, basically a freight train that floats. Couldn’t see a soul topsides, but that’s probably the way those craft operate — it’s not like they’re waving hankies at sweethearts on the dock, I imagine.
(I have to pause for a moment and observe the essential weirdness of thinking, “I wonder if I can find out any more info about that ship I saw the other day” and, 30 seconds later, to find several resources. Miracle, thy name is Google.)
I’ve read a version of this story, — about life in the farthest-flung outposts of Inuit America — before, but every time I do, I’m amazed and depressed by it again. Not that I wish to bum people out.
More later. Tired.