The paneling, the choice of color, the curtains, the wicker baskets and cookie boxes on the cabinets, the space heaters, the proximity of the weight set to the drums, the bottle of Spic-n-Span laying turned over on the floor, that stupid ass picture on the wall behind the drums, the red compressor, the strip lighting, I could go on and on and on. You mentioned your dad was in a rest home or the hospital. YOU live in their house! You do and I know it and you need to fess up. The whole damn setup screams of a guy who can't finish anything, can't focus on anything, can't organize anything. You get a bug up your ass that you want to do something then you quit when you have to put in any effort.