The recent move to the west coast sent me into a moody minimalist's state of mind. For the life of me I couldn't find a legitimate reason to let go of my crummiest and grimiest belongings. Cramming rubber maids with kitchen supplies and blueprints, I muttered to myself, "I'll just take off with a backpack. I can replace this all. All of this shit."
Fast forward 4 months and that madly muttered phrase with the word "shit" in it has morphed into words of wisdom. Personal advice well taken. Thank the Lord for kitschy Japanese shops and Amazon Prime. For without them, I would be lost and weary in some future novel about a man's search for Walmart.
Nudies, the jeans that force me to wear underwear. For this article of clothing, it's all in the patina. In the leather knee patch you'll find rifts of sand and faded striations. Graffiti blasted legs have finally worn to a palette of pastels replacing the neurotic neon's they once were.
For Nudies it comes down to love and respect, reciprocated of course. Like an old spice shop, the smell gets better with age. Spilt red tobacco, drops of rum, and autumn winds have all penetrated this pair. Within the weaves, I find a history. A story of where I have been and what's soon to unfold.
Jeffery West Chelsea's
The story begins in Prague scaling a 6 foot fence, dodging 6 lanes of railroad tracks, all to end up at the MeetFactory. That was my goal, however. Founded by David Cerny, it was quite honestly one of the only places I wanted to visit while in Prague. Much to my dismay, Cerny was out. Like a thief in the night, I fled with one postmodern piece. Look to the left, a railway owned chunk of rock in the busted sole of the boot. Chelsea has a cavity now.