408. From Illusions to Gas: Mo Kwon Do, Bath Bombs, and Rolfing.

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                            From Illusions to Gas: 
              Mo Kwon Do, Bath Bombs, and Rolfing

         Certain stretches of sidewalk in the city are of special interest because of the shops and restaurants that happen to cluster there.  One that I have passed a number of times jst registered with me recently: Eighth Avenue just below West 14th Street, the west side, from the Museum of Illusions to Mobil Mart, one of the few gas stations, and perhaps the only one, in Greenwich Village.  So here is what you find, walking downtown from 14^th Street, between illusion and gas.

Eighth Avenue, from West 14th Street and the
Museum of Illusions south.
Tdorante 10

         First, at 77 Eighth Avenue, the Museum of Illusions, a fairly new creature whose nest of illusions I have yet to penetrate.  Its Greek-temple-like appearance is a reminder that the building once housed a bank.  The museum's website promises photo illusions, optical illusions, a chair illusion, a head-on-a-platter illusion, and a rotated room where visitors are apparently rotated, photos showing them tossed head over heels in space.  An experience for the young, this last suggests, and maybe not for me.  I don’t need to be rotated or to see my head on a platter.

         75 Eighth Avenue.  At ground level, the West Village Veterinary Hospital, its window listing its credentialed personnel, but nothing visually appealing.  And upstairs, Filipino Martial Arts, including Mo Kwon Do, whatever that may be.

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Mo Kwon Do in action.  Care to learn it?

         73 Eighth.  Think Coffee.  “Feel good about your coffee,” says a sign on the sidewalk, and on the street-facing window, “Our coffee restores farm workers n Nicaragua.”  How can you resist the noble urge to enter, have a cup, and do good?  But resist I did, going on to

         71 Eighth.  Olde Good Things.  In the window, a big star with blinking lights, an imitation green crocodile, a toy red truck, a three-foot-high glass coffee urn, a Waldorf Astoria silver teapot with small glasses, a tall Cinzano bottle, a towering red tyrannosaur with yellow teeth, and in the center of the window, a huge classical or pseudo-classical bust of a smirking god, with what look like vine leaves in his hair.  The god dominates.  Obviously, a fun-loving, mischievous deity, not to be trifled with.  And on the sidewalk in front, greeting visitors, a three-foot-high yellow-beaked metal rooster labeled Quaker State, the name of a motor oil.  The most arresting display on the block, but what is it?  A store – one of four in Manhattan – featuring salvaged treasures: architectural items; antique mantels, doors, and mirrors; old signs; Art Deco hardware; vintage toys and furniture – you name it.  If it’s old and interesting, they will have it, if not in one store, then another.   And upstairs in suite 2R, by way of anticlimax, is Creative License, which describes itself as a “global entertainment licensing firm.”  There’s probably another story there, but Olde Good Things has stolen the show at no. 71.  I don’t know its prices, but that quaint e tacked on to “Old” makes me suspicious.  Not for the budget-conscious, I suspect.

Olde Good Things on West 24th Street in Chelsea.
Beyond My Ken

         69 Eighth.  Tiziano Zorgan.  Italian clothing, high fashion with a vengeance.  Two manikins loom in the window, garbed in garishly bright colors.  The woman’s high heels, blatantly green/yellow, bruise the eyeball.  If you want to make a splash, go with Tiziano.  And who or what is that?  A “who,” it turns out.  His website explains: an Italian designer whose collections are manufactured 100% in his own laboratory in his native Italy, and are imbued with the Italian tradition of art and beauty.  He has another shop on Washington Street and is headquartered in a third at 380 Bleecker, my street now given over to designer clothing and stratospheric rents.  A photo shows him as sleekly bald, with a very intense look.  Lucky the West Village is to have him, especially for those seeking a trendy, color-explosive look. 

         And again, an anticlimax: in suite 1D, not noticeable from the street, is Village Rolfing, offering healing through Rolfing.  Another mystery, at least for the uninformed like me.  So what is Rolfing?  A form of alternative medicine developed by Ida Rolf, involving ten hands-on physical manipulation sessions to alleviate pain and increase energy and mobility.  And Ida Rolf herself?  An American biochemist, born in the Bronx, who created Structural Integration, or Rolfing, and died in 1979 at age 83.  A photo shows a white-haired lady with a gracious smile, a lady whom you’d like to have as a grandmother.  I hope Rolfing works.

         But we aren’t done with 69 Eighth, where another clothing store is nested:  Meg, “Women’s clothing made in your neighborhood for women by women.”  Coming right smack next to Tiziano Zorgan, Meg would seem to issue a feminist and vibrantly American challenge to this Italian intruder.  And the clothing displayed is black, tan, and gentle pink: subdued colors of quiet elegance.  The contrast couldn’t be starker.  But who is Meg?  Meg Kinney, a clothing designer who loves “urban women with big lives,” and quotes online magazine publisher Amanda Carter Gomes’s statement that “style is eternal, trends are bullshit, and still after 20 years, there is so much to learn!”  Though I’m not tempted to cross-dress, my heart goes out to her.  May she continue to thrive!

         67 Eighth.  Soapology.  In front, a sign:

                           Affordable

                                    Organic

                           All Natural

                                    Luxury

From the doorway comes an enticing blend of aromas.  In the window stands an old four-legged bathtub with a mesh of tiny cracks, topped by a shelf with clusters of beauty products such as Massage Candles, Dead Sea Scrub, Body Cream, and Natural Perfume Oil,   To which their website adds Anti-Oxidant Face Moisturizer, Black Amber Body Lotion, Black Coconut Bath Bomb, Blue Jasmine & Sandalwood, Black Coconut Aromatic Reed Diffuser, and a host of others.  No ordinary beauty products, these.  Their proclaimed philosophy: to combine the secrets of the Old World with those of the New, to create products specially made “to the needs of the everyday modern individual.”  They want “to inspire a more nurturing and health conscious lifestyle in a fast-paced and bustling world.”  And what “everyday modern individual” will heed their call and use their products?  The well-heeled, I suspect.  The fans of Tiziano Zorgan.  I can see them flocking in their blatant green-yellow heels, maybe after a session of Rolfing.

         67 Eighth.  Caserta Eye.  Optician, glasses, contacts.  Displayed in the window are eyeglasses, Easter bunnies, chicks, and fake flowers.  Inside one sees an optician servicing a client.  The website promises unworn vintage eyeglasses and current brands.  One reviewer proclaims it “Always the best,” and another declares herself “beyond thrilled with my new Victory glasses.”

         65 Eighth.  Village Pizza.  This one is obvious, offering heros, calzones, burgers, and rolls, plus free delivery.  Toppings include meatballs, broccoli, eggplant, pineapple, pepperoni, fresh garlic, roasted peppers, anchovies, spinach, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, and more.  If pizza is your thing, what more could you want?

         65 Eighth.  Fresh Farm.  Last on the block, a grocery offering fresh fruit and vegetables, with apples, oranges, and bananas -- some of the latter blackened -- in bins outside.

         So ends that block.  Across West 13^th Street, still heading downtown, we come to Mobil Mart, where trucks and cars turn in to fill their tanks.  Satisfying the most basic of vehicular needs, the place provides a sharp end note contrasting with the pretensions of Soapology, Tiziano, Rolfing, Olde Good Things, and the Museum of Illusions.  On solid ground at last.

Coming soon: Surviving a Boss from Hell.  How my partner Bob dealt with the most obnoxious library director that ever was.

©  2019  Clifford Browder