Here, thousand of unattractive middle-aged whites moo their way up and down the streets they pack looking over I (Heart) NY shirts and fake Dior sunglasses.
What they are really in my neighborhood to do is buy fake designer handbags. Every time I emerge from the subway or finish crossing an intersection I hear it:
Baeg? Baeg? You wan baeg? Chanel. Fendi. Coach? Baeg?Right in front of my very eyes one of the most sacred American laws is being broken by the people who claim divine right to the freedoms we hold. Never mind that intellectual property is the driving force behind competition in our economy. Where do these people think the bags are made?
Ohio?
Depending on who you ask, the bags are made in China or sweatshops in bellies of the giant industrial spaces that make up a great deal of the neighborhood's charcter. I prefer the latter, as it lends itself rather unromantic indentured servant vibe:
Wang's mother had been dead for little over a year, and the beatings from her father were becoming more frequent and brutal. The local pimp was a friend to her brothers and even in a town of 2.5 million poor Chinese, word travels fast. Then, one night a handsome stranger asked Wang if she knew of "Amelica". A week later she was loaded into a shipping container from which she would not emerge for 8 horrifying days.Right?
Basically the whole thing is like a giant wook parking lot, which some people claim is really this thing called a bazaar. I say fuck that. Have you ever huffed nitrous at a Bazaar? You think the people at Harper's are listening to Air, giving each other backrubs in the break room? Fuck that.
What? Good god fucking damn it, I'm hung.
Next week, kids.
