OK, OK, to be fair, you can't chalk all bad design on evil art directors, editors and hucksters and their patronizing assumptions regarding the pinhead public.
My surreal slice of Florida happened to be home to an explosion of great, mid-century modern architecture in the 1950s and '60s. Really cool, futuristic stuff. The kind of homes Frank Sinatra would be proud to live in, baby.
Much of that cool stuff has been torn down or remodelled to death. It's been replaced by lots of uncool stuff. The latest explosion: bloated, gawdaful pseudo-Mediterranean Revival megahomes, the architectural equivalent of acromegaly. Mercifully, this explosion of caca was cut short by the Great Recession, but you get the idea. These aren't great homes: these are congealed symbols of the idea of a great home. So, the people who paid out the wazoo (and helped crash the economy) to buy these monstrosities were really buying a concept.
A nothing burger, all steak and no cattle, an unclothed Emperor, cotton labelled cotton candy.
I'll admit it.