i love looking at model homes. at the way the designers have laid the breakfast plates, at the magazines they spread out on the coffee table next to the single yellow coffee mug placed ever so carefully on the ceramic coaster. i love the fresh flowers in the kitchen, the empty shoes positioned neatly by the closet doors, the brand new teddy bear in the gleaming white crib. these decorators are creating ghost lives in dream homes- the perfect man, wife, and baby in the perfectly vacuumed, perfect living room detailed with only the perfect accessories.

i wonder how disturbing it would be if the accessories, the little extras like the teddy bears or coffee mugs or uncreased magazines, weren't of a certain ideal. you're walking through the 4 bedroom, 3 bath and a fireplace model palace when you notice the overabundance of communist literature. the anti-depressants in the perfectly windexed mirrored bathroom cabinet. a can of raid by the telephone. kitty litter everywhere. three dresser drawers filled with hardcore porn. moonshine in the bathtub. steak knives peaking out from under the carefully fluffed pillows. bloodstains near the toilet. a bunch of newspaper clippings concerning the mayor's whereabouts on a clipboard next to a map of the city that's dotted with red and blue and yellow thumbtacks, as to give the impression of an obsessive stalking/assisination situation.

would they still sell as many houses? would i love going into the models even more if the extra details weren't so perfectly bland? the details now- even in their perfect vagueness- are intriguing.... but, damn, what i wouldn't give to walk into a model home and just get the creeps. in a really bad way.