Recently, Fairfax has become a Mecca for streetwear idolaters. Prepare to kneel and lace up before a new god: Alife.
Already the titan of the New York sneaker-fetish pantheon, Alife's just opened up an LA outpost, a tidy space that looks just like a check cashing operation, minus a disheveled David Alan Grier clutching a DWP cutoff notice. The on-consignment kicks are all kept under glass -- for a closer look, you have to ask a teller in back to unlock the case, then avoid his distrustful gaze as you inspect/tenderly fondle. The constantly updated selection's small, but like Eric Roberts once did, it represents the best of the best: at any given time, you might find black or white Puma First Rounds, beige Nike Air Force 1 Low Premiums, or Alife's own Larry H. Parker-sounding Everybody Slip Mini Shoe. Beyond shoes, Alife also stocks hoodies, jackets, and shirts so Technicolor-bright, they'll remind you of the first time you claimed to read Harold and the Purple Crayon, but really only stared dumbly at the pictures.
Tomorrow, Alife's hosting an opening party with free booze and dueling DJs -- though dancing after drinking might cause you to sully your sneaks, sloshily transgressing against the assembled sneaks and getting cast out as a pariah. Alife is a vengeful god.