People say, 'Oh my god I just got back from Tokyo. It's like New York, only you feel fat as soon as you get off the plane." Now that I've gone to Work, the custom jeans shop in Echo Park, I've had the Tokyo experience. The dudes who work there are the remnants of an elite race of wide-eyed elves with ribcages showing through threadbare 'Bo Knows' and 'Button Your Fly' tee-shirts, and they live in a wood of hanging denim. When I walked through the door to pick up the jeans, the one who took my order earlier was actually wordlessly holding them aloft, having seen me coming through the window, apparently, like the jeans were Excalibur, or The One Blade of Lothlorien.
He made the hems brush against my ankles just like I'm pretty sure they're supposed to. And he did it as swiftly and neatly and unemotively as Legolas dispatched the war elephant being ridden by a crypto-African in The Return of the King. And some of the people who work in the store are in a band which is also called Work.