The LEVS is a gift that keeps on giving. Even as each block seems to fold in on itself as a parody of urban chic — if such a thing ever existed — you think, no, it’s not possible to find an even richer example of absurd and apparent evidence. Be it the throngs of people that can no longer even be termed derisively as B&T — no, these folks looking they are from Iowa — that line Avenue B well into the night, or as long as they can find cabs to return them from whence they came, or the appearance of a new drinking establishment that manages to push the irony mercury just a little higher, it looks like Rome here more and more every day. We even get the vomit.
I do my best to proviide you little snippets of this bountiful tapestry. Today’s installment is again a snapshot of that nebulous constituency of skate punks/street artists, who exist in my mind as one, long, unbroken chain of Ecko clothing, Alife stickers and very suburban angst. I’d try and work in a music reference, but exactly who these people venerate now days is thankfully a mystery, my knowledge stopping somewhere around the time of Agent Orange and Vans.
Anyhoo, this bit of preciousness happened on Essex Street, as I was exiting the F. I look idly to my left and see to nattily attired (for them) skater dudes. They were standing at the trunk of a late model BMW — there used to be a time where I could identify a model at a glance; those days have passed, but I hazard that though it wasn’t a 3-series, nor was it some fancy M thing either — taking out their skateboards. They deposited them on the pavement and, well, skated off, I’m sure to convince people a block north that they were firmly ensconced in whatever passes for punk/hipster life these days. Remember, skateboarding is not a crime, especially when your sag equipment is a European sedan.
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Fuck you heroes, Redux.
The LEVS is a gift that keeps on giving. Even as each block seems to fold in on itself as a parody of urban chic — if such a thing ever existed — you think, no, it’s not possible to find an even richer example of absurd and apparent evidence. Be it the throngs of people that can no longer even be termed derisively as B&T — no, these folks looking they are from Iowa — that line Avenue B well into the night, or as long as they can find cabs to return them from whence they came, or the appearance of a new drinking establishment that manages to push the irony mercury just a little higher, it looks like Rome here more and more every day. We even get the vomit.
I do my best to proviide you little snippets of this bountiful tapestry. Today’s installment is again a snapshot of that nebulous constituency of skate punks/street artists, who exist in my mind as one, long, unbroken chain of Ecko clothing, Alife stickers and very suburban angst. I’d try and work in a music reference, but exactly who these people venerate now days is thankfully a mystery, my knowledge stopping somewhere around the time of Agent Orange and Vans. Anyhoo, this bit of preciousness happened on Essex Street, as I was exiting the F. I look idly to my left and see to nattily attired (for them) skater dudes. They were standing at the trunk of a late model BMW — there used to be a time where I could identify a model at a glance; those days have passed, but I hazard that though it wasn’t a 3-series, nor was it some fancy M thing either — taking out their skateboards. They deposited them on the pavement and, well, skated off, I’m sure to convince people a block north that they were firmly ensconced in whatever passes for punk/hipster life these days. Remember, skateboarding is not a crime, especially when your sag equipment is a European sedan.