I’m staying in a rather potentially beautiful antique apartment above a card games workshop that used to be a porn studio. (Terrible carpet for it, is all I have to say.) The workshop is as most of these places, lined with folding-leg tables piled high with luminous hologrammatic sheets printed with animistic instructions reminiscent of Magic: the gathering, designed by men who, though friendly, look overly pale, as if there’s an unspoken cliche need to go outside. The only hint to its former residents is an inconspicuous electrical outlet smack dab in the middle of the ceiling.
Joe’s place, upstairs where I’m staying, is almost the antithesis. Hardwood floors, large windows, high ceilings, comfortable cupboards built into every convenient wall, it’s significantly nicer than where I live in Vancouver, very much the sort of place I would love to live someday. I feel lucky to be here. It is, however, a Boy’s Mess of an apartment as well. The kitchen, as fantastic and inspiring as it is, is empty of everything but untouched cleaning supplies and some dubious condiments left over from a previous incarnation, and everywhere else is covered in clothes and the untidy detritus of card game design.
I like it anyway, though. It goes well with the marvelous weather and my equally marvelous company, setting it off like a misbegotten off-shoot of a more epic nerd chic.