Last week, Hip Hop Wear, the clothing wholesaler downstairs from my office, was closed by the fuzz for "sale of trademark counterfiet merchandise." I imagine this means they were busted selling suits by Fobo, jackets by Rockawere, and Winged Victory of Samothrace sneakers.
This is not terribly sad for me; I was not emotionally invested in Hip Hop Wear, and I am sure another wholesaler will take the space soon enough. Maybe one of those wig sellers which could be super fun. (Who wants in on a wholesale wig order?)
Really, it just made me Remember. Back in the twentieth century, I came back from a trip to Alaska to find that both drug-front bodegas downstairs from my Avenue B home had been closed by the Man. Again, this wasn't sad. It was surprising and the harbinger of things to come in the East Village, including $22 entrées and The Boxcar Lounge.
Of course, I don't really miss the East Village hipsters in my current hood, although we have plenty of our own brand of fashion divas who collect in gurgling pools on the side walks.
But, I do miss sitting at the bar in the Lakeside Lounge next to Sam Rockwell while doing my laundry and realizing, not counting his giant hair, we are about the same height. Even though he clearly has significantly better dance moves.
And that of course, reminds me of how much I love Crispin Glover. Yes, he is creepy and seems to have crazy head ALL THE TIME. But that nose is so amazing. I wish I had written this love song for Crispin Glover's jaw bones.
Or that I was in an all-black-haired girl rock band.
The December 2015 Shot - Louis & Tracey
1 year ago