The Houston Apartment
It has been said that anytime you have more than three of something within a theme gathered together, the synergy of these items constitutes a ‘collection’. The internet, o this mighty internet, is making me second guess this definition.
All because of Houston.
You might have seen pictures of what has been dubbed ‘The World’s Worst Apartment’ floating around the internet in some form or another, detached from their origins at the Houston Imports forums. If you haven’t bore witness, I invite you to take a deep breath, ask yourself some serious questions about your life and click here. Before you do, let me warn you that no matter how repulsive you think that this apartment might be, it’s worse, and I take no responsibility for any ill health effects that viewing these images might cause. Seriously.
You’ll see that the apartment in question is strewn with garbage at least a half-foot thick in every direction, and on every surface. And by surface, I mean ‘naturally occurring countertops and tables’ as well as ’surfaces created by compacted garbage’. Garbage upon garbage, ad infinitum, in a modern Tower of Babel – just with more cigarettes. Hilariously, the images also contain an ironing board and a spray bottle of Resolve, like cocktail umbrellas in a hurricane, as if they’d make any difference at all.
What struck me, however, was that this garbage has a very real theme. Was this poor soul a fast food cup fetishist? Did she have a deep, psychological need to retain every cup that she’d ever drank from? And why did she retain a small Pompeii’s worth of cigarettes and ash? And, most importantly, since she has so many Whataburger cups, can these sensibly be classified as a collection?
For my own sanity, I’d like to say ‘NO!’, but I can’t really convince myself. I’m not sure if collections can occur accidentally, or if they can exist without intent, but that’s not for me to decide.
The occupant of this apartment almost certainly suffers from disposophobia, which is a DSM recognized mental illness. The illness has a small collection of definitions, but the one that I find most important to collectors like myself would be that the hoarder’s ‘living spaces are cluttered enough to prevent activities for which those spaces were designed’. The definition of the illness goes on to describe an attachment to possessions that are apparently worthless, but I’m hesitant to place my ideas of value into anyone else’s set of values. My Batman action figure might be someone else’s vintage bathrobe, or another person’s 1932 beer can.
One very common misperception which is perpetuated in most discussions about ‘collecting’ is that a collection has to have significant monetary value in order to be worthwhile. While I haven’t really found a collection to be as emotionally fulfilling as, say, a loving relationship with a dark-haired girl who likes Portishead as much as I do, I can’t really place a value on the inspiration that an occasional dollar store dinosaur might bring me – but I don’t need to sleep on a bed of them because the closet and floor are already full of Stormtroopers. Plus, explaining Dimetrodon impressions on your cheek to your employer isn’t as simple as it sounds.
Still, I have a small armchair that’s currently stacked with Star Trek action figures, so I haven’t used the chair in about a year, so the DSM definition of disposophobia rattles me, just a little bit. All of my other living spaces are relatively inhabitable – I swear. I’m free of food wrappers and ashes and clothes that don’t fit, so I think I’m doing pretty okay. Of course, with the winter coming and the return of Heroes to TV, I have every intention on cleaning off that chair, making myself a cup of cocoa every Monday evening, and curling up in its ugly, itchy, plaid warmth. If I don’t manage to do this, that’s when I’ll call in the experts.
But they’d better not touch my damned Batmen.
