Lifestyle
These SoCal vintage motels have found new life. But you can't sleep there
There were no vacancies beneath the old neon Farm House Motel sign last Saturday — no guest rooms at all, in fact. But the 1950s Riverside property, now known as the Farm House Collective, was busier than it has been for decades.
By 10 a.m., when a ribbon-cutting marked the Farm House’s rebirth as a mini-mall, food hall and music venue, the parking lot was full.
The motel’s old carports next to the guest rooms were enclosed and became indoor retail spaces.
(David Fouts / For The Times)
By midday, Steve Elliott of Smokey Steve’s barbecue had sold about 160 pounds of meat from his pop-up booth and there was a long line for $6 tacos at Bar Ni Modo.
By sundown, an audience of several hundred had gathered to see L.A. indie rock band Allah-Las take the outdoor stage.
Until this redesign, the Farm House Motel “was a homeless encampment for a long time,” said James Elliott, 29, standing by the pop-up market at the grand opening event. “As long as you have the vision, you can change anything.”
The Farm House Collective hasn’t reached full strength yet; about half of its tenants are yet to open.
(David Fouts / For The Times)
The renovation project — which has included more than $4 million in design and construction work — has held onto the old motel’s rural theme, the red buildings trimmed to evoke barns, a vintage Ford F-100 truck parked alongside the walkway. Next to the repainted, rewired Farm House sign stand a fiberglass horse and buggy, contributed by the Camou family, owners of the motel for decades.
As midcentury motels fade into history, some move upscale and become boutique hotels, some are leveled or acquired by government agencies as transitional housing. And a rare few in Southern California — including the Farm House, Roy’s Motel in Amboy and the Pink Motel in Sun Valley — have taken on new commercial afterlives that don’t involve sleepovers but do evoke the past. At each location, a vintage sign flickers, inviting guests to step into a throwback American scene or capture it with a camera.
The most dramatic nonprofit example of motel rebirth may be the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tenn., which was the site of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1968 assassination and reopened in 1991 as the National Civil Rights Museum. Recent commercial examples include Fergusons Downtown in Las Vegas, a 1940s motel reborn as a food and retail center in 2019. A shopping center project at the former La Hacienda Motel in Albuquerque is due to open this year.
“There are a lot of these midcentury buildings that still have possibilities if people want to get in there and save them,” said Beverly Bailey, co-founder and development director of the Farm House project. “They’re jewels, and it brings life to a city.”
Roy’s of Amboy, a desert icon
In the desert outpost of Amboy, along Route 66 about 210 miles east of Los Angeles, a small team of workers sustains California’s most iconic nonfunctional lodging: Roy’s Motel and Cafe. Its 1959 sign may be misleading (neither the motel nor the cafe has been open for at least 30 years), but the crew sells gas, souvenirs and snacks and sometimes hosts filming and special events.
Every day, Amboy manager Ken Large said, desert rats, lovers of Route 66 and many travelers on their way from Las Vegas to Joshua Tree converge beneath the red, blue, black and yellow sign, which rises 50 feet and is lighted nightly. About 80% of those who stop, Large said, have come from Europe.
“It’s shocking how many tattoos I’ve seen of that sign,” Large said. “I bet I’ve seen a thousand.”
The owner of Roy’s (and all of Amboy) is Kyle Okura, whose late father, entrepreneur and philanthropist Albert Okura, bought it in 2003. He relighted the sign in 2019, ending more than 30 years of darkness. The younger Okura and company have been upgrading infrastructure steadily and would like to reopen the motel — perhaps even get the six cottages open in time for the Route 66 centennial in 2026.
But as Large acknowledges, that “might be a stretch.” The groundwater in Amboy is about 10 times saltier than the sea, Large said, and for years, all drinking water has been trucked in. To grow substantially, Large said, Roy’s and Amboy need easier access to potable water, probably through a groundwater purification process.
For now the cottages stand idle by the glass-walled motel office and its rakishly tilted roof. The office includes an ancient Zenith TV, a typewriter, a grand piano and the switches that light up the sign — all the makings of a stage set for a play in the spirit of Sam Shepard or Samuel Beckett.
If there are travelers on hand at sunset, Roy’s assistant manager Nicole Rachel said, “We’ll invite them to come in and light the sign themselves. I’ve had people in tears.”
“I’m fascinated with this part of the country,” said Chris Birdsall, a 51-year-old trucker from Omaha who lingered as sunset neared one recent night. “I want to see the sign lit up. That big arrow. … It’s almost got an extraterrestrial connection.”
A few minutes later, Rachel invited Birdsall in to throw the switch, and the sign blinked to life over the windswept desert.
In Sun Valley, movies and midcentury grit
At the Pink Motel on San Fernando Road in Sun Valley, the last overnight guest checked out about 10 years ago. But the film crews keep coming.
The family-run 3.5-acre property, which includes a 20-room motel and the closed-to-the-public Cadillac Jacks Cafe, has entered a very L.A. afterlife as a filming and special event location. Instead of cash-strapped travelers and dangerous liaisons, the motel hosts music videos, dog shows, wedding photos, car club meetings, social media gatherings and skateboarding events in its empty pool.
To be sure, this is not what Maximillian Joseph Thomulka and his wife, Gladys Thomulka, imagined when they built and opened the place in the aftermath of World War II.
“It was built in 1946. But the vibe is like 1955, ’56,” said co-owner Tonya Thomulka, granddaughter of the founders, in early 2025. (Subsequent messages were not returned.)
The cafe was built in 1949, the pool in 1959, when San Fernando Road was part of Highway 99, seething with drivers heading to and from the San Joaquin Valley. Then came Interstate 5. The neighborhood went south.
By the late 1970s, the founders’ son, Monty Thomulka, was running the motel, restoring old cars and just beginning to rent the location out occasionally. In 1986, the restaurant closed. Then in 2015, the year Monty Thomulka died, the family stopped renting rooms overnight.
But production crews, lured by the midcentury style and gritty vibe, kept coming. Among the motel’s television credits: episodes of “Law & Order,” “The Incredible Hulk,” “Dexter,” “The O.C.” and “GLOW” (2017-19). Among its movie credits: “Drive,” “Grease 2,” “Pink Motel” and Stacy Peralta’s “The Search for Animal Chin,” a 1987 skateboarding film that features a teenage Tony Hawk.
Nowadays the property (not open to the public, but partially visible from the street) is full of throwback visuals, including its sign, the restaurant and seven rooms outfitted in ’50s and ’60s styles. The Los Angeles Conservancy calls it “a wonderful example of the mid-century roadside commercial resources that are so swiftly disappearing from the landscape.”
New life at Riverside’s Farm House
On the calendar of events at Farm House Collective: pop-up markets, Coachella watch parties and a gospel brunch.
(David Fouts / For The Times)
Before 1969, University Avenue in Riverside was a busy highway, part of U.S. 395, making the Farm House Motel a prime stop for travelers. But as that traffic moved to State Routes 60 and 91, commerce faded along that stretch of University Avenue, despite the growth of UC Riverside nearby. The neighborhood faded further, locals say, after the 1989 closing of nearby Riverside International Raceway (now the Moreno Valley Mall). Farm House Motel shut down in 2007, and a year later, the property passed to city ownership.
The Baileys, whose Perris-based family business, Stronghold Engineering, has been doing electrical, design and construction work for more than 30 years, bought the old motel from the city in 2018. Under that deal, the family paid the city $210,000 for the 1-acre Farm House property, which “we thought at the time was a great buy,” said Beverly Bailey.
The Farm House Collective on its opening day on Saturday, March 29, 2025.
(David Fouts / For The Times)
The family hired the Orange County consulting firm LAB Holding, which has worked on retails projects including the LAB Anti-Mall, the Camp and Anaheim Packing District (housed in a historic building complex). The old carports next to the guest rooms were enclosed and became indoor retail spaces — an acai bowl eatery, plant shop, artisan boutique and other spots have opened, with more to come.
An outdoor stage, which stands where the motel swimming pool was, is flanked by 10 elm trees and assorted kid-friendly games. The Baileys plan one or two music performances per month, perhaps more later, and the stage will also offer movie screenings, TV sports viewing and other events.
Not every motel is a strong candidate for a nonlodging afterlife, as developers elsewhere have learned the hard way. But with a university handy, local leaders in support and an encouraging start, several locals said the Farm House seems suited for the challenge.
“It’s a super cool place that you can just chill at,” said Amy Martinez, who grew up in Riverside, moved to Upland and returned to see the opening with her family. The neighborhood has come a long way, she said, and “to see the rest of the shops open up, that’ll be nice.”
The Farm House Collective’s opening March 29 marked the end of a long idle spell after closure of Riverside’s Farm House Motel.
(David Fouts / For The Times)
When John Lantigua, a retired journalist in Miami Beach, checked his email one recent morning, he was glad to see an invitation.
“It was like, ‘Come and share an evening with me. Click here for details,’” Mr. Lantigua said.
It appeared to be a Paperless Post invitation from someone he once worked with at The Palm Beach Post, a man who had left Florida for Mississippi and liked to arrange dinners when he was back in town.
Mr. Lantigua, 78, clicked the link. It didn’t open.
He clicked a second time. Still nothing.
He didn’t realize what was going on until a mutual friend who had received the same email told him it wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a scam.
Phishing scams have long tried to frighten people into clicking on links with emails claiming that their bank accounts have been hacked, or that they owe thousands of dollars in fines, or that their pornography viewing habits have been tracked.
The invitation scam is a little more subtle: It preys on the all-too-human desire to be included in social gatherings.
The phishy invitations mimic emails from Paperless Post, Evite and Punchbowl. What appears to be a friendly overture from someone you know is really a digital Trojan horse that gives scammers access to your personal information.
“I thought it was diabolical that they would choose somebody who has sent me a legitimate invitation before,” Mr. Lantigua said. “He’s a friend of mine. If he’s coming to town, I want to see him.”
Rachel Tobac, the chief executive of SocialProof Security, a cybersecurity firm, said she noticed the scam last holiday season.
“Phishing emails are not a new thing,” Ms. Tobac said, “but every six months, we get a new lure that hijacks our amygdala in new ways. There’s such a desire for folks to get together that this lure is interesting to people. They want to go to a party.”
Phishing scams involve “two distinct paths,” Ms. Tobac added. In one, the recipient is served a link that turns out to be dead, or so it seems. A click activates malware that runs silently as it gleans passwords and other bits of personal information. In all likelihood, this is what happened when Mr. Lantigua clicked on the ersatz invitation link.
Another scam offers a working link. Potential victims who click on it are asked to provide a password. Those who take that next step are a boon to hackers.
“They have complete control of your email and, in turn, your entire digital life,” Ms. Tobac said. “They can reset your password for your dog’s Instagram account. They can take over your bank account. Change your health insurance.”
Digital invitation platforms are trying to combat the scam by publishing guides on how to spot fake invitations. Paperless Post has also set up an email account — phishing@paperlesspost.com — for users to submit messages for verification. The company sends suspicious links to the Anti-Phishing Working Group, a nonprofit that maintains a database monitored by cybersecurity firms. Flagged links are rendered ineffective.
The scammers’ new strategy of exploiting the desire for connection is infuriating, said Alexa Hirschfeld, a founder of Paperless Post. “Life can be isolating,” Ms. Hirschfeld said. “When it looks like you’re getting an invitation from someone you know, your first instinct is excitement, not skepticism.”
Olivia Pollock, the vice president of brand for Evite, said that fake invitations tended to be generic, promising a birthday party or a celebration of life. Most invitations these days tend to have a specific focus — mahjong gatherings or book club talks, for instance. “The devil is in the details,” Ms. Pollock said.
Because scammers don’t know how close you are with the people in your contact list, fake invitations may also seem random. “They could be from your business school roommate you haven’t spoken to in 10 years,” Ms. Hirschfeld said.
Alyssa Williamson, who works in public relations in New York, was leaving a yoga class recently when she checked her phone and saw an invitation from a college classmate.
“I assumed it was an alumni event,” Ms. Williamson, 30, said. “I clicked on it, and it was like, ‘Enter your email.’ I didn’t even think about it.”
Later that day, she received texts from friends asking her about the party invitation she had just sent out. Her response: What party?
“The thing is, I host a lot of events,” she said. “Some knew it was fake. Others were like, ‘What’s this? I can’t open it.’”
Andrew Smith, a graduate student in finance who lives in Manhattan, received what looked like a Punchbowl invitation to “a memory making celebration.” It appeared to have come from a woman he had dated in college. He received it when he was having drinks at a bar on a Friday night — “a pretty insidious piece of timing,” he said.
“The choice of sender was super clever,” Mr. Smith, 29, noted. “This was somebody that would probably get a reaction from me.”
Mr. Smith seized on the phrase “memory making celebration” and filled in the blanks. He imagined that someone in his ex-girlfriend’s immediate family had died. Perhaps she wanted to restart contact at this difficult moment.
Something saved him when he clicked a link and tried to tap out his personal information — his inability to remember the password to his email account. The next day, he reached out to his ex, who confirmed that the invitation was fake.
“It didn’t trigger any alarm bells,” Mr. Smith said. “I went right for the click. I went completely animal brain.”
The new scam comes with an unfortunate side effect, a suspicion of invitations altogether. It’s enough to make a person antisocial.
“Don’t invite me to anything,” Mr. Lantigua, the retired journalist, said, only half-joking. “I’m not coming.”
You want to know where men’s fashion is heading? Follow the geeks.
These are the obsessives, fixated, with a NASA technician’s precision, on how their pants fit or on which pair of Paraboot shoes is the correct pair. These are the obsessives who in the aughts were early to selvage denim (now available at a Uniqlo near you!) and soft-shouldered Italian tailoring in the mode that, eventually, trickled down to your local J. Crew.
And where has the attention of this cohort landed now? On a vanguard of newish-to-the-West labels from Japan, like A.Presse, Comoli, Auralee and T.T.
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A.Presse is probably the most hyped of this cohort. What other label is worn by the French soccer player Pierre Kalulu and the actor Cooper Hoffman and has men paying a premium for a hoodie on the resale market? Kazuma Shigematsu, the founder, is not into attention. When we spoke, he wouldn’t allow me to record the conversation. Notes only.
“You mean a better-fitting denim jacket that’s based on an old Levi’s thing? Yeah, OK, sold,” said Jeremy Kirkland, host of the “Blamo!” podcast and the textbook definition of a latter-day Japanese men’s wear guy. Mr. Kirkland, once someone who would allocate his budget to Italian suits, admitted that, recently, over the course of two weeks, he bought four (yes, four) jackets from A.Presse1.
“I’m not really experimenting with my style anymore,” Mr. Kirkland said. “I’m just wanting really good, basic stuff.”
Basic though these clothes appear, their hook is that they’re opulent to the touch, elevated in their fabrication.
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Over the years, the designer Ryota Iwai has told me repeatedly that he is inspired by nothing more than the people he sees on his commute to the Auralee offices in Tokyo. When asked recently if he collected anything, he said nothing — just his bicycle.
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The true somber tale of this wave. The brand’s founder, Taiga Takahashi, died of an arrhythmia in 2022 at 27. The label has continued to plumb history for inspiration. The latest collection had pieces that drew on bygone American postal-worker uniforms.
An Auralee2 bomber looks pedestrian until you touch it and realize its silk. Labels like T.T3 make clothes that echo the specs of a vintage relic yet come factory fresh, notched up, made … well, better. They bestow upon the wearer a certain in-the-know authority.
And so there is a hobbyist giddiness present on Discord channels where 30- and 40-something men trade tips on how to size moleskin trousers by the Japanese label Comoli; at boutiques like Neighbour in Vancouver, British Columbia, where items like a $628 dusty pink trucker jacket from Yoko Sakamoto and an $820 T.T sweater sell out soon after hitting the sales floor.
What’s notable is how swiftly these geeky preferences have wiggled into the broader fashion community. While I was in Paris for the men’s fashion shows a year ago January, all anyone wanted to talk about were things with a “Made in Japan” tag. I would speak with editors who were carving out room in their suitcases for Auralee’s $3,000 leather jackets.
But these were clothes being shown away from the fashion week hordes. The A.Presse showroom was on a Marais side street in a space about as long as a bowling lane and scarcely wider that was crammed with racks of canvas, silk and denim jackets with Pollock-like paint splatters. There were leather jackets as plush as Roche Bobois sofas and hoodies based on sweatshirts made in America a half-century ago.
I got the hype. After 10 days of puzzling over newfangled stuff on the runways, the display of simple, understandable shapes we’ve known our whole lives, but redone with extra care, couldn’t have felt more welcome.
Kazuma Shigematsu, the A.Presse designer, said he had collected a trove of vintage pieces that he housed in a separate space to plumb for inspiration. He made new clothes based on old clothes that benefited from a century of small design tweaks.
By this January, A.Presse had upgraded to a regal maison facing the Place des Vosges, with giant windows and even more reverent hoodies, even more tender leathers. Back in America, I asked an online department store executive what his favorite thing from Paris was. He took out his phone to show me photos of himself trying on a zip-up leather jacket in A.Presse’s high-ceilinged showroom.
On Their Own Terms
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“We never think about trendiness or popular design details,” Ms. Sakamoto said through a translator. “It’s more like functionality, everyday use.” The label has a thing for natural dyes: pants stained with persimmon tannin, yellow ochre and sumi ink, shirts colored with mugwort and adzuki beans.
The sudden popularity of these labels outside Japan can make it feel as if they are new. Yet each label has built a respectable business within Japan, some for more than a decade. Auralee was founded in 2015. A year later, Yoko Sakamoto4 started its line. A.Presse is the relative baby of this cohort at five years old.
“A couple years ago, we would have to buy off the line sheet or go to Japan and see everything,” said Saager Dilawri, the owner of Neighbour, who has an instinct for what spendy, creative types lust after. “Now I think everyone from Japan is trying to go to Paris to get into the international market.”
This movement’s “Beatles on Ed Sullivan” moment occurred in 2018, when Auralee won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo, granting the designer, Ryota Iwai, financial support. Soon after, Auralee was given a slot on the Paris Fashion Week calendar.
“I had never seen a show before, never thought to do it,” Mr. Iwai said through a translator in February, days after his latest runway show. He has now done five.
As we talked, buyers speaking different languages entered his storefront showroom and ventured upstairs to scrutinize items like a trench coat that looked as if it was made of corduroy but was actually made from cashmere and wool and an MA-1 bomber jacket with a feathery merino wool lining peeking out along the placket.
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The Cale designer Yuki Sato travels throughout Japan to find textiles. Unusually, the company manufactures everything, including leather and denim, in one factory.
At Cale’s5 display off Place Vendôme, the designer Yuki Sato described denim trousers and pocketed work jackets as “modest, but perfectionist.” On the other side of the city, at Soshi Otsuki, whose 11-year-old label Soshiotsuki has gained attention for its warped vision of salary-man suits, I encountered buyers from Kith, a New York streetwear emporium better known for selling logoed hoodies and sell-out sneakers than for tailoring.
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Nearly a decade into its existence, Soshiotsuki has hit a hot streak. Soshi Otsuki won the LVMH Prize in 2025, and he already has a Zara collaboration under his belt. An Asics collaboration is set to arrive in stores soon.
Talking through translators with these designers, I began to worry that it might be unfair to group them together simply because they were all from Japan. Auralee simmers with colors as lush as a Matisse canvas, while Comoli’s brightest shade is brown. Soshiotsuki6 has mastered tailoring, while Orslow is known for its faded-at-the-knee jeans channeling decades-old Levi’s.
Rather, as with the Antwerp Six design clique that sprung out of Belgium in the early 1980s, it is these labels’ origin stories that thread them together.
“They’re being encountered on their own terms and respected on their own account, and they happen to be Japanese,” said W. David Marx, the author of “Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style” and a cultural critic who has lived in Tokyo for more than two decades.
“It is a new era of Japanese fashion on the global stage,” Mr. Marx said.
A Love Affair With Japan
Western shoppers have a history of falling hard for clothes from Japan. In 1981, when Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons and Yohji Yamamoto crashed onto the Paris fashion scene, buyers swooned for their brainy, body-shrouding creations.
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Recently reintroduced as Number(N)ine by Takahiro Miyashita.
Years later, Number(N)ine7 and A Bathing Ape synthesized trends we would call American — grunge, streetwear and hip-hop — polished them up and sold them back to the West.
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Years before American men were trawling the internet for A.Presse, they would scour forums for deals on Visvim’s jeans and sneakers. Today, Visvim has stores in Santa Fe, N.M.; Carmel, Calif.; and Los Angeles.
Into the 2000s, clothing geeks were swapping tips on forums like Superfuture and Hypebeast about how to use a Japanese proxy service to buy Visvim’s8 seven-eyelet leather work boots or SugarCane’s brick-thick jeans.
Along the way, “Made in Japan” became a shorthand for “made well.” This was more than fetishization. As America’s clothing factories became empty carcasses pockmarking the heartland, Japan’s apparel industry grew steroidal.
“Japan still has an incredible manufacturing base for apparel that goes all the way from the textiles to the sewing to the postproduction,” Mr. Marx said.
Today, many Japanese labels produce most of their garments and, crucially, their textiles in Japan. When I first met Mr. Iwai years ago, I asked how he managed to create such lush colors. He answered, as if noting that the sky was blue, that he worked with the factories that developed his fabrics. As I spoke with Mr. Sato in January, he shared that Cale’s factory had been in his family for generations and also produced for other Japanese brands that I would know.
Chris Green, the owner of Ven. Space, a boutique in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn that has helped to introduce a number of these labels to an American market, suggested that because Japan is a small country with a fervent fashion culture, a competitive spirit has been stoked.
“They have to be able to cut through the noise,” Mr. Green said, with brands trying to prove that their cashmere sweater can outclass their peers’, that their silks are sourced from finer factories. What’s more, he said, once these brands have nailed a design, they stick with it. That is something that is important to men, in particular, who hate when a brand abandons its favored pants after a season.
Before he opened Ven. Space in 2024, Mr. Green was an admirer of many of these labels, purchasing them during trips to Japan. As we spoke, he was wearing a pair of Comoli belted jeans that he bought five or so years ago. A similar style is still available.
Primed for What They Were Pitching
At the close of the 2010s, streetwear was running on fumes. Quiet luxury was entering at stage left. If the Row and Loro Piana were expert at subtle, fine-to-the-touch clothes, so, too, were the likes of T.T, Graphpaper and Yoko Sakamoto.
“I went from this guy that wears pear-shaped pants to just wearing, like, a denim jacket,” said Chris Maradiaga, a tech worker and freelance writer in Vancouver. His wardrobe today consists of Comoli’s black-as-night trousers and a purple-tinged coat by Ssstein. His kaleidoscopic Bode jackets gather dust.
That Ssstein clothes have landed in the closets of men on the other side of the world defies the early guidance relayed to Kiichiro Asakawa, the label’s bushy-haired designer. His “senpais,” or mentors, warned him that his reduced designs might leave Western audiences cold. “You need something powerful,” they told him.
He tried, but it wasn’t necessary. It’s the most minimal designs — his cotton gabardine zip-ups, his “easy” pleated trousers — that people are most interested in now. “It actually makes me very happy,” he said through a translator. “My instincts were right.” Mr. Asakawa won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo in 2024.
Adapting to North American Markets (and Men)
Several Japanese designers noted that they had modified their sizing to accommodate larger, American bodies.
“I’ll ask them, Can you lengthen the pants by three centimeters? Because you need that for the Western market,” Mr. Dilawri of Neighbour said, noting that the designers were receptive to those requests.
A number of labels, like Comoli and Soshiotsuki, are already oversize. That’s the look.
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Kiichiro Asakawa ran a Tokyo boutique, Carol, before starting Ssstein in 2016. It’s still there. He, too, said he found inspiration in the everyday, for example when watching an elderly couple have dinner across a restaurant.
There is also the matter of price. On the whole, these clothes are not cheap. See Auralee’s silk bomber jacket, which could be military surplus but feels stolen from a sultan’s palace. It’s roughly $1,700. Ssstein’s9 Carhartt cousin chore jacket with a cowhide collar and a factory-massaged fade? About $1,000. Anyone who has traveled recently in Japan, where the yen is tantalizingly weak, will tell you that these Japanese-made clothes, after being imported, are far pricier in North America.
Yet, as luxury fashion labels continue to price out the aspirational middle-class shopper, many of those same shoppers have convinced themselves that the Japanese labels are a better value. A cashmere coat at Prada is $10,000, and you’ll need $1,690 to own a cotton-blend cardigan from Margiela. Similar pieces from Japanese labels can be half that price, or less.
“Brands like Bottega, Balenciaga, the Row — all that stuff — are so unobtainable,” said Mr. Kirkland, whose clothing budget has shifted to A.Presse. “I will never be in that price bracket,” he added, “but I’m wealthy enough to buy a chore coat for $800.”
Of course, Mr. Kirkland and all of the fans of these labels could own a chore coat for far less — but then it wouldn’t be “Made in Japan.”
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