'Joy Is Not in Things; It Is in Us,'

said Richard Wagner and perhaps, in his staunch Teutonicity, dying in Venice sufficed and he never regretted not having built a 'sun-drenched Tuscan villa' in Bayreuth. It doesn't matter; it isn't 'Tuscany' that is the problem. The houses, and their bathrooms, and their greatrooms, their wall treatments, thematic toilet-brush holders, disguised three-car garages, incongruous media centers and 'authentic details' could all equally well be replaced by 'Hobbit' or 'Siheyuan' or 'Iroquois Longhouse' style with the principle remaining the same. Part of the problem, as I mentioned before, is the lack of hope these buildings signify, but there are other disturbing aspects.

Yes, in a perverse sense, these homes are all about hope, or American optimism, at least in its basest form. They are a testament to material success, to the fulfillment, in all caps, of The American Dream of home ownership. But what appears to me bleak in this reading is the notion that anyone's American Dream reaches its dramatic finale in a tract home rather than an alpaca farm in the mountains or a high-tech ultra-green penthouse condo or a craftsman bungalow with a beautifully, lovingly, tended garden. Your visitors will know you have money -- but will they suspect you have a soul?

A more troubling aspect for me is that the 'Tuscan' home and all its necessary 'Tuscan' appurtenances represent the recent widespread conflation of 'lifestyle' with Life, which then gave rise to the current tendency to disprivilege or ignore the latter in favor of the more comprehensible and convenient former. The problem with Life, I suspect, is that invariably it must be lived. We fall into it sodden with drool and incontinence, often leave it in much the same manner, and in between --

Well, in between we stammer at countless beginnings, stare at the creeping minute hand through lots of tedious middles and cry to ourselves over unfortunate endings; we get punched, sacked, ridiculed, betrayed, lied to, and cut off mid-sentence just before brilliant ripostes. We give our hearts away, we sing babies to sleep, we take up astronomy, then Jung, then Uilleann pipes; we take photographs lest we forget it really was just that beautiful, once. We have one too many, we don't get the promotion, we sit on the edge of the dance floor waiting; we practice kissing with a pillow and proposing with a mirror, we sometimes get the girl and we sometimes get the grippe.

None of that can be purchased. Much of it wouldn't be a very good deal, anyway, at any price, and I suppose that is the point: better to try to ignore it, and then perhaps the breathtaking crescendo of life, what all those clogged sinuses and broken heels and soothing kisses have been leading up to - death, in other words - might get distracted and not disturb us, after all. Life can be boring, painful, taxing, and too long or too short. And it always ends poorly.

Lifestyle, by contrast, is a narrative the user can control. It begins and ends as you wish, and you can leave out any of the parts that don't suit your desired image. Lifestyle, moreover, is nothing but a commodity, and an imaginary one at that. It consists in the things a consumer buys to convey to others and to himself the persona he wishes to inhabit. It is cosmetic surgery for your life, and just as there is a code of conduct regarding what should and should not be said to the obviously pulled, pleated, and plumped, so, too, will your posture as suburbia-dwelling daimyo, pasha, doge, or Indian Chief remain unquestioned by your neighbors. After all, you didn't neglect to include thematic outlet covers.

I suppose part of the problem for me is that it's just all so rickety. They are in the main not nice houses, just expensive ones. The majority tend to have a distinctly Disney feel, as though around the next cul-de-sac our little boat will sail past Olde Siam. There is an attempt at wholesale replication on the one hand, and a jarring failure in execution on the other. Neither is appealing; both together are horrifying. All art incorporates older elements, some art cross-cultural references; nothing man-made can ever be wholly new. That fact notwithstanding, history, geography, and culture along with form give a work its content, its meaning. The meaning of these tract homes is simply 'Tuscan sells.'

Why is that more troubling than an older neighborhood filled with bungalows or ranch-style homes? Are not all houses, since the dawn of modern real estate, designed to sell, to appeal to the buying public? And what's more, was not the Atomic Age as executed in the American home a perfectly articulated lifestyle, as detailed and complete as the 'Tuscan' variety, down to its Saturn-shaped lamps, spiky, Sputnik table legs, and galactic-design curtain fabrics?

Okay, yes, in theory, but in the case of the 1950s, few people kitted out their entire house in space-age furnishings, and there were plenty of other 1950s looks that mixed with the outright futuristic ones harmoniously. One could have an up-to-the-minute television lamp atop a table from 1947 with no grave sensation of aesthetic malaise nor expectation of scorn from the neighbors. Additionally, the house would not come with an actual satellite in the front yard, which is as good an equivalent as I can imagine for faux-cracked walls, faux-aged fake beams, faux-ruined paint jobs, and murals in the toilet of someplace you are not but which the entire house contrives to make you believe you are. And, yes, too, houses and minimalls and BP stations reflect the aesthetics of the time, but there is the additional problem that the aesthetics of earlier times demanded better craftsmanship and genuine materials. Moreover, people bought furniture differently decades ago, as companies realized they could sell more over time if they offered 'sets' that could be acquired slowly as finances allowed: even the counterparts of today's neo-Tuscans would not have bought a whole new household worth of thematically-congruent furniture, appliances, and accessories when they moved up in the world and bought a better house.

Lastly, 1950s style didn't seem thematic in the 1950s, because it wasn't thematic. It was simply up-to-date. Muddled, forced and fauxed tract-home half-iterations of a Tuscan fantasy lifestyle seem tragic to me because they hold out a series of promises they can never keep. The garish, kooky exuberance of Atomic Age decor cohabited in its enthusiasts' hearts with the very real fear of nuclear annihilation. Gratitude for the end of the War was balanced with the grim knowledge of how the War ended and what that could portend for future conflicts. Satellite table lamp and cars shaped like rockets were symbols not only of the power of technology, but of the hope that with proper stewardship it would lead humanity to more good than ill. It hurts my soul to contemplate the hopes these McMansions encapsulate.

Coming Soon: 'The Birth of Venus' on Your Toilet Seat!

Oh, dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, dear, dear. It is not as though it is inconceivable. No, indeed; not in the slightest. Absolutely to be expected, in fact. And, had I troubled myself to think about it, I should definitely both have conceived and expected it. No questions asked, no surprises whatever. One would not be far off to call it ineluctable.

But the fact is that, as with so many other distasteful and frightening things, I rightly - righteously! - keep my delicate soul from straying into such foul places when possible. It is a great stretch to say I am blissfully ignorant of the ills plaguing this world; it is rather the case that I must cultivate what ignorance I can in order merely to sustain the crudest emotional equilibrium, in order not to plunge a 'French Provincial' rooster-shaped carving knife into my jaded heart, or attempt futilely, yet again, to impale myself on a 'shabby chic/Paris apartment' Eiffel-Tower-motif pepper grinder.

But here (and I swear I was looking for something else; you must believe me; I am not a masochist, nor do I enjoy inflicting this sort of thing on you!) on Design Observer I couldn't help but read every last letter, and linger over every last plaintive semi-colon, of a heart-rending account of those Tuscan varlets' invasion of solid, stolid - and hitherto predictably 'Spanish'/neo-rancho in its design choices for suburban subdevelopments - Orange County, California. Tuscany already has the Renaissance, Michelangelo, Dante, da Vinci, Botticelli, Brunello, Vino Nobile, and Chianti. It doesn't need to annex the whole bloody United States (not to mention parts of China, too!).

Look, I understand if postmodernism scared off a few people, looked a bit jarring, felt a bit dislocating. And I for one don't ever need to see another purportedly postmodern BP station, I assure you. However, at least postmodernism was inquisitive. At least it involved thought. At least it was, well, not inherently dishonest, not an impoverished, anemic, false, wheezy new version of a distinctive, geographically specific older thing.

You can object that 'thought' and 'inquisitiveness' are not exactly what most people are looking for in a bedroom or latrine, but I fail to see the superlative soothing powers of pseudo-Tuscan kitsch. Granted, I am not the sort who wishes to stay in the 'Jungle Room' or 'Circus Room,' either, or indeed find myself in the sort of hotel that has such things, but as Ms. Wild correctly points out,

'Perhaps it is not so much styles per se, and "Tuscan" in particular, that I am whining about, but the transformation of styles generated from the heart and the brain that actually contained meaning, to lifestyles generated by highly paid marketers and branders that are deliberately emptied out of meaning.'

It could even be argued that the Jungle Rooms of this world, coming from the (admittedly kitsch-riddled) heart as they do, do contain meaning, because they are an expression of someone's honest desire. The only desire the faux Tuscan McMansions of the world express is the vulgarian's desire to seem cultured, rich, and stylish: Nabokov's poshlust, in other words:

'Russians have, or had, a special name for smug philistinism—poshlust. Poshlism is not only the obviously trashy but mainly the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever, the falsely attractive. To apply the deadly label of poshlism to something is not only an aesthetic judgment but also a moral indictment. The genuine, the guileless, the good is never poshlust. It is possible to maintain that a simple, uncivilized man is seldom if ever a poshlust since poshlism presupposes the veneer of civilization. A peasant has to become a townsman in order to become vulgar. A painted necktie has to hide the honest Adam's apple in order to produce poshlism.'

I would also concur with Ms. Wild that the variety of anachronisms and other discontinuities that inhere in such endeavors as tracts of 'Tuscan' homes irritate rather than soothe in my case:

'The appearance of this faux Italianate style (tile roofs, stucco walls, shuttered windows and crenellated corners) is not all that different from the "Spanish" but it seems a world away from the coherency of the rancho house. This is not helped by the fact that the new construction in this style is generally too big and proportioned poorly, and made of materials that are veneers, blatantly more contemporary than the image that they are constructing. Real Tuscan villas possess a sort of laconic elegance from their relatively unornamented rustic style: the rough hewn here is more of the Home Depot "I forgot" variety. And the houses sport "great rooms" and "master bedroom suites" and beveled or stained glass windows and brass fixtures that no Tuscan house ever witnessed.'

I need to be more careful in my browsing, more judicious in my reading. Heaven knows the sort of permanent damage that could befall my psyche should I continue to encounter such troubling stories.

Trust no one unless you have eaten much salt with him.

Perhaps I should have then, according to Cicero, at any rate, shared today's heavily feta-ed spinach and pasta dish with the people I bought my last car with. The problem is (other than the fact that the feta was eaten today and the car was bought a few months ago) (actually it was eaten, and this post mostly written, more than a month ago, before the, ahem, issues)-- if there is a problem, and I'm not sure that there is -- that I honestly do believe everything people say.

There are two qualifiers: I endeavor not to put myself in circumstances clearly mitigating against an atmosphere of trust, and I am more than capable of rescinding the trust once it is clear it is no longer warranted. For example, to satisfy the first condition, I don't go to car dealers. The second should be obvious: I wouldn't buy the Brooklyn Bridge twice. Even from an old lady. With flowers in her chignon.

The people I bought my newest car from were very nice, though. They lived on a houseboat and I liked their rug. They had some friendly cats, and they told me their names. They also lived close to me, which I admit probably earns them at least a lower branch on the trust tree a priori, in terms of (obviously logically untenable) ingroup/outgroup status. They showed me the new car they were replacing my new one with, and the trade made sense and adduced to their argument - and thus my faith in them.

I asked what was wrong with it, and they said nothing other than the lock on the passenger side needing to be disengaged from the inside. For me, this is not a problem, as any passenger I might have would be far more likely to want to be escaping from the car, rather than attempting to break in to savor my questionable navigational powers. When we took a test drive, the brakes seemed weak, and I overcame my concern over seeming rude with Valid Arguments (to myself) about Reasonable Questions (to them) and therefore asked about this. In retrospect, I less asked than provided my interlocutor an answer proactively by suggesting that it was perhaps simply the contrast of having to stop such a big heavy car as this versus merely imagining a stop in my tiny hatchback and having it come true. I could push my other car to most destinations and not lose much time. It is very small.

He agreed with my suggestion and responded that, yes, that was probably it, and they had had the brakes serviced recently. It was a matter of becoming accustomed to them, which I would, as he had.

I still haven't, though. I still try to leave eight car lengths between me and the car in front. In inclement conditions, which, it being January, are frequent, I try to double that when possible. And today, at the garage, my oil change mechanic confirmed my initial impression that there might be something wrong with them. What, he suggested, was largely wrong was that there weren't any. Stopping being one of the three things I most look for in a car, I am forced to get them fixed.

I do feel sad, though. Not just that the seller patently lied, but also that I was truly that dumb, or imperceptive. However, in my defense, there were no odd noises. The car is nearly silent, most particularly when compared to the other one, which is made of paper. Additionally, the last oil changer (at a chain oil-changing place), failed to notice anything, despite their 1200-point Vehicle Inspection. (He did, of course, notice all manner of irrelevant things he'd be happy to replace, after which overhaul I would have spent enough money to have bought a third car and a Vespa.)

I loathe putting money into cars, however. I don't mind tires and oil changes. Spark plugs make sense, too, as does keeping one's muffler from dragging on the ground. But there is a limit, and all I want is a little (or large) box that starts and goes and stops. And has a heater. Alright, a good heater, with a good fan, the sort that heats up as though there were no water in the radiator and stays there, on high, bringing me bliss and fueling my thermal fantasies from September to May.

I don't mind spending money on a pretty vase, or furniture for the neighbor's cat, or flowers, or wine, or taxis. Imagine life without taxis available when just what you need is precisely a taxi and nothing more: it's a horrid thought. In any language. And it doesn't matter what they cost, because what you need is a taxi -- and here one is! How amazing! Always a blessing.

But I suffer from what amounts to an eternally-inchoate (thank God, because were it ever worked out it would be yet more ludicrous than it already is) conspiracy-sort-of theory regarding certain products and services. One, obviously, is car service and car parts. I don't believe all car service at a garage should be priced at the same rate: some jobs are easy, and some require fine troubleshooting. Turning a couple lug nuts is one thing, but often mechanics must utilize their brains and not just their brawn, resorting to analogies, logic, tricky diagnoses, comparison of all the options - and sometimes mustering a good bedside manner, too, which is not at all necessary when you simply have to relate We topped off the coolant, or The coolant looks fine. I can hold my own hand through that.

This distemper also extends to the purchase of certain products that we have allowed to become necessities. I in no way mean to say I am exempt from this enslavement, but merely that each time I acknowledge it I am more piqued. I live alone, and not in a family of seven; therefore I only seldom need to buy any of these, and I suspect this lack of frequency has prevented me from becoming inured to the injustice.

In this list are garbage bags and lightbulbs. They cost practically nothing, and in the first case I very rarely have need of them, and in the second they last far longer than anything of that price should be expected to. Yet in both cases I am resentful not only that I need them, but that there is nothing else that can be reasonably substituted. I could in theory use bedsheets if I had an unusual quantity of garbage -- but I don't have any old ones nor can I imagine doing so if I did. And candles and television sets have attributes in common with lamps -- but one can't read by the light of a television, and reconfiguring an entire home for candlelight would certainly require a level and amount of effort I could much more sanely and enjoyably direct elsewhere.

The most galling purchases, however, I always note as TP on my list and always end up buying all together, as I can never remember, once I get there, what my discreet notation system was meant to convey this time. I find purchasing any of the three difficult and embarrassing, as each is a stark and irrefutable admission of frailty, and of impending death. Each screams at the clerk and the moribund mortals behind me, in its gaudy or discreet packaging, that however glorious the undying soul may be, for this brief flicker in its eternal existence we are stuck haplessly inside these markedly inglorious fleshbags, urinating, defecating, menstruating, and accumulating gingiva as we variously await, bemoan, or battle the inevitable. And in the meantime, we buy as many products as we can to conceal and combat the true nature of our bodies and of life itself.

None of this would be as excruciating as it is, I suppose, if I were an average grocery-store customer, if my cart were piled high with all manner of distracting items. Food can divert the attention; the reader of my cart could focus on the pleasures of the flesh rather than its inevitable decay as he took note of the artisan breads and local cheeses and pounds of finocchiona and bresaola. But it's no use for me keeping large quantities of food on hand, and I hate bread. Therefore, there is never a cart piled high. There is never, frankly, need for a cart at all. I can always get by with a little basket, and when I muster the courage once again to parade my weakness before my peers, the terseness of the message renders it quite easily read to even the most pressed for time.

I do try to throw a few ringers in: wine, flowers, licorice... Of course, a basket of toilet paper, tampons, toothpaste, wine, flowers, and licorice looks rather egregiously like someone who is not succeeding magnificently in coming to terms with death and its precursors. 'Denial' these days is a far graver sin, we are told, than anything John Calvin or Billy Sunday warned us about. So perhaps directness is preferable. Or at least au courant.

However, as comfortable as I genuinely am with some of my atoms eventually ending up in potting soil, I suspect it is the intentionality that can be read from my purchases that most disturbs me. In other words, I presume that my fellows at the supermarket have come to the conclusion, via analogy to their own lamentable position, that my body engages in all manner of bodily functions just as theirs do, and that mine, like theirs, will one day cease to do any of them, and that I, like them, am in the meantime doing what I can to make the consequences of these functions less unpleasant for others and myself. What I don't enjoy is the declarative aspect of the purchase: it is though I am assertively announcing my intent to evacuate my bowels and rid myself of some spare endometrial bits. I am sharing with strangers information I'd rather keep private, if we can assume that the overwhelming majority of toilet-paper purchases are practical and not based on some kind of wild whim after having heard of this invention and its potential uses in home decorating or weaving or somesuch. I cringe every time I have to carry a pack of SuperQuilty around a store knowing that I have thereby given permission and incentive for everyone who sees me to picture me using it for its intended, sole, horrific purpose.