The Marc Jacobsification of the West Village is like a slow gay manifest destiny. The ass-baring designer is opening his third store on Bleecker Street. Like the Creek, Navajo and Shoshone before them, the natives are upset. According to one West Village resident quoted in the Villager, "They scream, they shout, they bang the metal door constantly," said Patricia Avallone, a longtime resident at 96 Perry St. "I think something has happened here that should not have happened." And then the gays weighed in.

New York points us to this Village gay who writes a rather genius assessment of the West Village scene:

I'm gone five months and the whole show falls apart. Saturday (the 9th) was the last Misshapes ever. Mr. Black was shuttered indefinitely after a drug raid three weeks ago. Chumley's has become an ugly construction site. Eastern Bloc is full of dancing queens. Condomania is dead. Rafaella (the one on 7th) is gone. The bestest deli ever and the site of so much late night joy blew away. Marc Jacobs just opened his third fucking (stupid, pretentious, annoying, gumboot-ridden, aesthetically irritating, brainless WASP without-a-clue attracting) store on the same West Village block.

Or, to put it in the words of the great Crow chief Plenty Coups, "The ground on which we stand is sacred ground. It is the blood of our ancestors." Print that on your t-shirts, Colonel Jacobs.