Here's a story about the Garage from my friend Scott.
We must have stayed at Raina's house 3 or 4 times before anyone bothered to ask, "Hey, what's in your guest house?"
"Oh, that's not a guest house," said Raina, "that's our garage." Now first, I had only seen detached, 3-car garages on shows like Dynasty and Falcon Crest. So this was pretty cool. Second, there were already 2 cars parked outside, so if there were 3 more cars inside, that would also be pretty cool. Like Krystle Carrington and shit.
Anyway, we asked her, "So what's in your garage?"
I'm pretty sure Raina replied, "A lot of crap. Do you wanna see?"
We strolled across the driveway. Raina popped open the flimsy, unlocked little door, and behind it, like a sunrise, rose the most fantastic glowing crap ambrosia I'd ever seen. Wall to wall piles of books and records, swells of plastics bags stuffed, bursting with mystery items, crates of trinkets obviously sorted with a purpose, then somewhere along the way given up on. But nothing ignited wonder like the garage's coup de grace, the death blow: racks and racks of clothes. Now, I don't mean racks like the one your mom brought out for Easter. I'm talking about the huge, rolling, chrome motherfuckers fools be zipping around the Garment District with. I'm talking Fashion Week racks. Full on, like 10 of them, packed with clothes that read like like both a diary and history book.
Our girlfriends pushed past us like chumps as they proceeded to catfight with each other who laid claims to this and who was going to try this on first. Wilson started digging through old records and laserdiscs and cassettes, and I poked around for old cameras. I'm sure Raina was mortified as not once did she offer for us to touch anything in the Infinite Garage.
Scott Louie edits Eat Geek and lives in Oakland, California.