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Shopping in Soho

I was killing some time in SoHo, wandering around vaguely looking to see if I could find some heeled knee high boots that were stylish, yet practical for long distance walking, the eternal dilemma for New Yorkers.  I wandered into a store, and paused; all of the pieces were created from animal print patterned fabric!  Intrigued, I was lured in for a closer look and fingered one of the pieces for closer inspection.  My first impression was "Holy crap, they took the animal appeal blanket that I bought at the 99 cent store back in Hollywood and made a vest out of it!"  I quickly wandered through the racks, pulling out items of interest here and there,  and wondering to myself why I would pay $200.00 US for an unfinished, unlined vest when I could get the exact same thing in the same cheap fabric at one of those hoochie mama stores on Fulton Street in Brooklyn.  I became a little incensed.  Anyone stupid enough to pay 200.00 for a piece of crap like this obviously has no respect for either themselves or their money, I thought darkly, or perhaps, maybe they have too much of it for their own personal good.  They should be shot, I finally decided, quickly, and without ceremony to put them out of their retail therapy obsessed misery, and I began having visions of cuban firing squads equipped with semi-automatic rifles.

I kept wandering amidst the racks and racks of gaudy poly-blend synthetics and ostentatious metallics, and feather embellished necklines, and I noticed that there was a basement where the clothes appeared to be made, in house!  Well, that explains it!  I thought to myself.  No self respecting wholesaler would tend goods of this quality.  And then I spied a small sitting area with two small settees, and a woman in what appeared to be a cheap wig.  I peered a little closer, was it a wig, or was it real hair?  I had a few hairpieces that looked exactly like this from Hollywood Toy and Costume, widely reknowned and respected as the ultimate drag queen hairpiece emporium.  The woman had a small entourage of stylish gay boys, and one dowdy schlump of a woman standing by, mostly silent, as the boys chattered about how flattering the piece was.  It was Anna Wintour!  I tried to look again, discreetly.  It had to be!  Who else had hair like that?   I left the store in a huff, and wandered into Marc Jacobs, where at least, had I wanted to spend a couple of hundred dollars that day, I could have left with something of reasonable quality.

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