A Totally Modest, Not-At-All-Overthought Dream Home

Nah, I haven’t planned any of this. I definitely haven’t sketched floor plans on napkins, had AI model interiors to test for nauseating color patterns, or priced out used funiculars from Old Town Kaunas.

Geography

First requirement: somewhere blissfully devoid of tornadoes, hurricanes, and coastal kulturkampf. I’m not anti-coast. I’m pro-sanity. Give me a place with a sturdy, middle-American temperament. It can have a distinctive local flavor, like Chicago, but I’m perfectly content with a comforting mishmash of neighborhoods and cuisines. You know, “Midwest, but with a bit of seasoning.” I’m thinking we’ll stick with a temperate zone, so there’s still a winter, still a summer, but a tropical vacation still has some novelty to it.

We’ll need to park this Shangri-La near a major metropolitan city that is big enough to get a few good touring bands, actual restaurants with decent wine lists, and an airport with planes that don’t have propellers. Also, I’m going to need a decent nightlife featuring at least a dozen craft breweries within the radius of a $30 Uber. Not that I’m counting, but yeah, I’m counting.

House and Lot

Look, I don’t need Piz Gloria, but Blofeld was on to something after he abandoned the volcano lair. “Accessible only by funicular” is a lifestyle I could get into. Imagine battery-backed, counterweighted carts cheerfully yo-yoing you up the mountain even during a power outage. In a true emergency, I’ll just ski down to town like I totally know how. By then, I’ll be an expert. Manifestation works if you believe hard enough and own enough helmet cams.

The funicular also handily eliminates solicitors and door-to-door theology debates. Only people with a personally issued PIN can start the motor. That same code pings Crisp — my former manservant now lovingly digitized as a household AI — to cue a drone beer drop and spin up your welcome playlist as you reach the summit.

I’m picturing a converted alpine lodge set on a snow-capped ridgeline. Up top, it’s winter year-round, so there’s no lawn to mow, and a simple, fool-proof gravity drain replaces the sump pump that tries to baptize the current Studio B every other spring. When I need a break from the cozy blizzard aesthetic, I ride down to the valley where normal seasons still exist. Townies will eventually acclimate to seeing me in a parka at the grocery store in July. For a while, I’ll be “that delightfully eccentric hermit.” Later, I’ll just be “oh, that’s just Darrin’s kink.”

Interior Living Space

We’ll knock out all the walls on the top floor and make it the master suite, with a balcony view of the main level and beyond. This saves 33% of the cleaning time, since, obviously, nobody’s going up there. The ceiling is a live star map that would match the real sky outside if the ceiling weren’t there, with an optional “northern lights” setting for bragging rights and melatonin flexing. The walls are also programmable and have presets for “polite thunderstorm,” “obstreperous thunderstorm,” “distant ocean,” or “Arco Korab Vertical Transit Shaft #4.” All of the candles are scented “Hip Bookstore”, “Fraternity Basement,” or “Blown Fender Rhodes Transistor.”

Downstairs is open concept, with a living room that encourages loitering, and a high-tech kitchen with wraparound bar seating. The kitchen includes a wood-fired pizza oven and a refrigerator that automatically reorders beer the moment inventory dips below predetermined levels. As mentioned, when a guest PIN is used on the funicular, the system automatically restocks their favorite beverage via drone and queues up their Spotify playlist.

I never liked formal dining rooms, so we’ll replace that with a billiard table and full liquor bar (obligatory GreyStillPlays reference). This will require me to host one dinner party per fiscal quarter so the room can maintain its status as a stop on the UPA circuit.

The living room gets a TV big enough to be entertaining, but small enough that it doesn’t dominate the room. That’s the stereo’s job. Opposite the TV is a wall of books that silently judges anyone who says, “I don’t really read much.” Seating consists of AI-enabled couches that offer conversational companionship and micro-transaction add-ons for lumbar support and vibrating massage. Look, if video games can upsell me skins, my furniture can upsell you comfort.

Then we have the study, which is part 1970s den in the style of my dad’s, and part Enterprise bridge. A manual typewriter sits in the corner, admired and never used, like a vintage roadster you only take out for parades. A mid-century radio is integrated into the house audio system, as everything sounds better with a touch of tube-warmth nostalgia and AM cracle. I’m still auditioning for the perfect desk chair and will likely continue doing so forever. Therefore, the desk converts to standing height at the push of a button.

Lower Level

Welcome to the mancave, which exits onto the lower patio by an entrance that actually looks like a cave mouth, and finally, nominative determinism pays off.

The cave divides into three spaces:

1) The Rec Wing: Swimming pool, sauna, steam room, and a recreation of the Community Health “server room” in case I get nostalgic for my former life. Monitor feeds display the weather upstairs, the funicular queue, and current fridge inventory at all times.

2) The Music Room / Recording Studio: Open to both local bands and touring bands that appreciate distortion, tape hiss, and at least one vintage keyboard sound from something rescued from a garage sale. Because of my cachet, Studio B.1 books up fast, so I’m picky about projects. Bonus points if your sound might actually sell an album and/or Chris Banta can press it on clear vinyl with white splatter?

3) Indy In-Tune Studio B.1: A proper on-air booth modeled after the existing one, only without the smell, which we tried, but couldn’t artificially recreate. Local weather legend Nadia Volkov swings by to deliver her five-day forecast every hour with precisely the level of drama a mountain microclimate deserves, then retires to the hot tub because meteorology is exhausting.

So there you have it. Comment below with your favorite beverage and a Spotify playlist, and I’ll send you a PIN code for the funicular. See you at the next Saturday Night Open Mic & Hot Tub Party, where the snow is scenic, the pizza is wood-fired, the radio is live, and the couches will very politely try to charge you $1.99 for “Merciful Nap Mode.”