So I’ve got this vintage-style red sofa, right? And I’m telling you. . . it’s the shit. Why? Well mainly because It’s absolutely oozing with love. Fully-tufted, with a wrap-around arm that has big brass buttons, it’s like having a big fat heart in the middle of my house.
And this red couch is where I go when I need to rest.
Really just do fuck all. (i.e. absolutely nothing)
It’s got all my energy wrapped up in it’s cushions. My tears have stained it’s scarlet surface. It knows my laughter well. It’s where I sit when I talk to my Mom about my Dad. The Red Couch.
Where I do my morning meditation. Or settle in for a serious discussion.
And it seems to swallow me into another dimension.
A dimension I love.
But the red couch also has a story.
Back in 2013, my friend Escott moved into an apartment. An apartment that just happened to be in a very historic building, where William Mulholland (the inspiration of a little film called ChinaTown) had an office in the 20s. An apartment that just happened to have been previously inhabited by Nicholas Cage. An apartment that included, thanks to Mr. Cage, wall-to-wall leopard-print carpet.
And to keep with the, ahem, celebrity style, Escott had this luscious red couch custom-made.
So fast forward to 2016 Escott was moving again. And he couldn’t keep the couch. It didn’t go with anything. He was out of time and desperate to get rid of it.
He said: How about $400?
I said: How about 3?
And I won.
I had no business buying a red couch. I had no idea if it would go with our color scheme. We already had a sofa. A green one. And I feared my family wouldn’t fall in love with it.
But I was wrong. It fits my house like a velvet glove.
Where do YOU go to find yourself?
What restores you?
What space allows you to exhale?
What chair, corner or cubby hole helps you shed anxiety and angst?