I’m back from the brink of certain death and I’ve got nothing but good times planned for this week — cool art, colorful homes, and for today this fine fine masterpiece:
Resembling a gilded ’77 El Camino that ran out of gas en route to casinos and ladies, Acido Dorado holds golden court in the middle of the Joshua Tree desert.
If the Palace of Versailles had a grill and knew how to ghost ride the whip, it would be kissing cousin to this street sweet pad.
And in fact a golden welded grille marks the mouth of this slightly lascivious lair, whose given name translates to Acid Gold.
Speaking of, who knows how many drugs Robert Stone — architect at large — imbibed during this vision quest.
He seems like the kind of guy who reads a lot of Carlos Castaneda and runs with Mescalito, because he obviously has some very strong feelings for this house.
If I ever get stranded in the desert, this is the mirage I’ll be searching for. There’s gold in them there hills (and probably lots of liquor, too).
But since Plan A is to avoid getting stranded in the desert at all costs, I am prepared to move on to Plan B, which is: calculate how many cans of spraypaint it will take to turn my bedroom into this scintillating slice of heaven.
I already have a white duvet — how hard could the rest be?