Back in the day, tattooed coffee tables and UV activated wallpaper were the kind of things that turned me on. I will admit to a streak of freak running wild through my tender veins, but age has tempered the magnitude of my rebellion against the norm. I still hate a white bread and mayonnaise sandwich like Damien Hirst hates poverty, but I no longer feel the need to shock and awe. Right now I shoot for The Prick (no, not that one) -- The Prick as in punctum, the little detail that pierces the veil of blahness and sends a shiver of life from tip to toes.

Like this:

Erin Martin's room in Elle's San Francisco showhouse absolutely slays me. The custom light fixture has Louise Bourgeois written all over it, and the little altar is straight genius. This room is lean, mean, and damned sophisticated. Found via The Nero Chronicles.

Or how about this room in Patrice Gruffaz's home? Someone's been snacking on magic mushrooms again.

And I am absolutely consumed by Pierre Passebon's fireplace. There are a lot of weird details in this apartment, but that fireplace haunts my dreams, and when I can't stop fixating on things then I know they're good. Really good.

It's that little bit of obsession that makes me feel alive.

And crazy.