Every morning, on my pilgrimage to a Japandi coffee shop in my neighborhood in Brooklyn,I encounter taste, so much taste, often in the form of copies of the same guy. He wears selvedge denim, thumb rings, and a well-groomed mustache. He is a film bro, with a preference, inevitably, for anything directed by Akira Kurosawa. He likely lives in an intentionally cluttered Greenpoint loft. The clutter includes first-edition copies of Dune. Sightings of people like him are rare in most other American cities, except maybe in the trendiest dive bars of a few other metropolitan areas. Even in Brooklyn, if you travel a mile south or a mile north, he would disappear. For quite a few, this man’s aesthetic is the epitome of taste.
Him and every other Blackbird Spyplane reader, that is.
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