Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Woody Allen's House*
Today's high concept post comes to us via The New York Times 'City' section, which featured a piece by William Neuman that mentioned Woody Allen giving prospective buyers of his $24.5 million house a tour.
That made us wonder: What if Woody Allen appeared on Cribs?:
Oh, hi. Hello, welcome to my, um, my 'Crib.' Of course, if you, um, if you believe all those crazy, terrible—just terrible—allegations my former girlfriend Mia Farrow said about me, you'd probably think it in poor taste for me to call my home a 'crib.' But you shouldn't, uh, believe her because she was just a horror. Like, I have this theory about kamikaze women. They crash, right? But, if you're lucky, they, uh, crash into you. If you're unlucky, they crash into your career and you wind up in court.
Well, let's start in the living room, okay? This room is perfect for the family. You can watch TV together, play Scrabble, whatever you like. Can you believe how big this room is? When I was growing up in Brooklyn—and, now, I'm not sure if this is true or not because I do have a tendency to, um, mythologize my own youth—my family's house was right below to Cyclone in Coney Island. That probably accounts for my nervous condition.
Now, this is a great room. It's my, uh, screening room. You can watch all the latest films on this 20 foot screen: Buster Keaton, Ingmar Bergman, The Marx Brothers. The sound is so good on these speakers, you can tune out anything, like, uh, the droning of your wife. Not that, heh heh, well, not that I want to tune out my wife. There's nothing wrong with her that a little Prozac and polo mallet couldn't cure. Oh, and these seats are so soft, it's like sitting on ponies. Skinned ponies without all the scabies.
Here's where the magic happens. Oh, pardon me: this is my daughter's room. The magic happens in the master bedroom down the hall. That's where there's all the sweating and groping and moaning. And sometimes, if I'm lucky, my wife even joins me...
And, SCENE!
