And those were the circumstances under which The Hundreds came to be. We were nothing, nobodies, but the work was important and powerful. We had passion and focus. We ate, breathed, and shit The Hundreds. It was our life. We were constantly patching up the holes with duct tape, paddling without direction, sans compass, but there’s a freedom and a hopefulness that comes with being stranded at sea. The ocean reached out all around us, the horizon an open-ended question. Life seemed big and infinite, and with The Hundreds we could sail forever.
* * *
“WHAT’RE THEY doing here?” Ben whispered under his breath as we pulled up to our office. It was seven years later on an unusually warm February morning. The Hundreds’ first real headquarters was located at 1729 Wall Street, right outside the fashion district in downtown Los Angeles—a seventeen-thousand-square-foot office and warehouse space that employed about twenty people. In the years since proving ourselves to a couple of commercial screen printers in that smoky parlor room, we had gone from producing a few T-shirts to a full cut-and-sew apparel collection. The Hundreds started out by selling to some local key accounts. Now we were distributed globally, including in our own stores. I had just had my first son, and Ben was about to get married. And we let the interns make the twice-a-day slog through Valley traffic in huge commercial trucks to pick up T-shirt orders from STIX.
From inside Ben’s car, we could see a couple Harleys stacked neatly alongside the office curb. Jason and Kenny were standing outside the front door to our building, impatiently leaning on the buzzer. We sat and watched them cave under frustration. Bang! Bang! Bang! Jason hammer fisted the iron security gate and the windows tremored.
“I have no idea,” I answered Ben. “Did we forget to pay them or sleep with their girlfriends or something?”
Ben didn’t laugh. “No. Let’s get out and see what they want.”
We slowly stepped out of Ben’s car, invited Jason and Kenny into our showroom, and poured them coffees as we made small talk about usual business stuff. But the STIX fellas hadn’t journeyed all the way downtown to talk T-shirt numbers and new printing technologies. There was something heavier weighing on their minds.
“We want you to buy us out,” Jason went first. “As far as clients, you guys are the vast majority of our business now.” This was bananas. It wasn’t long ago that we could barely print twenty shirts with these two, and now they were asking us to take their company?
Kenny naturally wound up for the heavy pitch. “Take out the middleman, guys. Why are you paying us? You should own us. Buy STIX, take the equipment, then we work for you and all you owe is a paycheck. Now you just eliminated all that unnecessary cost.”
Ben and I were speechless. We hadn’t seen this coming. Kenny and Jason’s offer made a lot of sense; we just didn’t believe we deserved it. When you first set out on building a brand or company—or any impossible dream, for that matter—you fight like hell to make it happen. You grow accustomed to the lower ground, adopting a habit of overcompensating. You’re programmed to prove a point. The thought of owning our print shop had never crossed my mind. In my head, The Hundreds was still a ghetto-rigged, two-bit science project, a couple wires short of a potato battery. But the outside reality was that The Hundreds had become a force to be reckoned with—not just in small-time streetwear or action sports, but in global fashion. We were making good money and employing qualified people. Although it was atypical for the industry, a company of our size and growing at the rate at which we were growing could very well benefit from acquiring its own print shop. We had gotten this far by fighting like the underdog, but now it was time to start throwing hands like a champion. The spotlight was shining brightly on The Hundreds. Here’s an important truth that I’ve learned over the years: When a wave rolls in, you ride it all the way until it coughs you up onto the sand.
So, we bought that print shop. Today, it’s called Mixed Media Productions. We run the best facility in the city, and the printing business alone employs fifty people who work in two shifts around the clock. We handle all printable items for not only The Hundreds but also friends and rival brands alike. Some of the best clothing companies in the world, the ones who threaten to make us irrelevant daily, do their printing with Mixed Media. They figure we’re artists foremost and care about the product in a way that commercial printers can’t empathize with. A clean shop. An art department that prides itself on fine-tuned separations. Ink that doesn’t cake and crack, and backbreaking techniques that are maddening to anyone who doesn’t celebrate the creativity. As for us, we figure hey, if you can’t beat ’em, at least take a portion of their sales. This way, the better our competitors do, the more money we make!
But this wasn’t a story about a print shop. It was a story about the importance of thinking outside the box in regard to design, marketing, sales, and all other aspects of business. Most important, think outside the box of your own passions. We never envisioned a print shop under our umbrella, just as I never thought I’d own a fresh fish restaurant, or direct a movie, or write a book. The lesson here? Always draw outside the lines of your dreams.
16. THE HARDEST PART
“HOW DO YOU feel about Mak?” Ben asked me a year into the business. We’re driving around downtown L.A. in his beat-down Ford Explorer, our first utility vehicle.1 “I know this is a weird thing to ask you, but I’m going a little crazy and want to know if I’m alone here.”
There’s something you have to understand about Ben. He’s a Persian Jew, which means friends are family and family comes first, especially if there’s a profitable opportunity afoot. My parents raised me with the mind-set that you never do business with loved ones. They themselves were self-made, never borrowed a quarter from their parents in building their American dream, and kept their familial relationships intact by proving they could stand on their own feet. Even asking my parents for a cosign on an apartment lease was a formidable dinner conversation. Ben, on the other hand, invited his dad to be our accountant, Jon to run our print shop, and his friends to do everything for The Hundreds from IT to flooring. And Mak was not only his best friend but a virtual cousin. Not to mention they were roommates.
“I love Mak,” I answered in short. We were only a year into knowing each other, and I had to tread lightly here. What if I drove a wedge into their friendship? What if what I said was perceived as talking shit, and would circle around on me down the road?
“Yeah, but do you think he’s holding up his share of the work?”
There it was. The elephant in the room. “I mean…” The reality was that in our second year of law school, Mak dove deeper into his schooling. Which is exactly what law students are supposed to do. Heavier course loads, internships, Law Journal. But by this time, there was an even larger pachyderm to address: Deep down, Ben and I were falling head over heels in love with The Hundreds. Unbeknownst to each other, we were both hedging our bets that The Hundreds was going to be our future, not law. We slowly receded from our studies. I would split screen in class, taking notes in a Word document on one side while designing T-shirt graphics with Adobe Photoshop on the other. The last thing I would tell people was that I was a law student. “I run a clothing company” or “I’m a designer” always came first. Any spare hours were spent visiting stores, or browsing Japanese fashion magazines in the Little Tokyo bookshop, or going out to local streetwear parties like Grey One’s anniversary. I slumped from the top of the class to the 50 percent marker in a single semester. I was fervent and dumb, as if I were engrossed in a steamy affair. I even failed a class. The other law students stopped looking at me as a threat and instead started thinking of me as a nuisance. Just in the way, taking up space.
And as uncomfortable as it was to broach, that’s how Mak started to feel to us. He was procrastinating on duties or shirking them altogether. “I’ll pick up the shirts next Tuesday!” On Tuesday, “Wednesday.” Mak was the consummate sales guy, but Ben had to start picking up the dialogue with store buyers. When we’d sit
down for design meetings, Mak was on another plane—wrong colors, divergent styling. He hadn’t read those same Japanese magazines, he hadn’t seen how the kids were wearing their jeans at the parties. “I can’t go out tonight,” he’d say, “and you shouldn’t either.”
It wasn’t his fault. “I’ve never lied to you guys,” he said in his defense when we first brought our frustration to his attention. “My goal has always been to be an attorney. I’m in law school to become a lawyer. I love The Hundreds. It is just as much my company, and it always will be. This is a fun side project to make some money, and I plan on keeping up with both.” But this didn’t suffice for me and Ben. The Hundreds wasn’t a side project—I was almost offended by that comment—it was our everything now. Law was not an option. How could we share a third of this company with someone with divided interests?
Days later, the next conversation we worked through at their apartment was a painful one. Like a divorce. Ben and I treaded lightly into the discussion around dinner, while Mak climbed the stages of grief. Mak is irreplaceable. Mak is critical to the equation. But Mak isn’t here. Mak doesn’t share our interests. Mak doesn’t care as much. Denial. Anger. Defensiveness. Then long bouts of silent interludes and reflection. “Sounds like you two already made up your mind,” he muttered. Anger, again. Nastiness. Then a vow to be better.
That promise was never shipped. Two weeks later, we were embroiled in the same battle. Six hours in Ben and Mak’s living room, pointing fingers and yelling. There was also a lot of fear. I saw the worry in Ben’s eyes: What irreversible damage was he carving into this lifelong relationship? Mak was injured and disgusted. “No matter what happens, I’m always gonna be mad. If The Hundreds succeeds, I’ll wish I was a part of it. If it fails, I’ll know I could’ve saved it.” By 2:00 a.m., he was clawing at any solution, trying all the keys. The negotiator had been out-negotiated. No more runway. A brief and spiteful buyout agreement was discussed. I told Mak, “Thank you,” which fell on deaf ears, put my head down, and left the apartment.
“Bob! Wait!” Ben called out to me as I turned down the sidewalk. We walked in silence as we got to my Honda CR-V. The streetlight cast an amber triangle on us as we sat on the curb. “I want you to know that I am committed to this company,” he declared. “I don’t know where your head is at, but all I see is The Hundreds now. There’s nothing else for me.”
I stared at my shoes. Then his. Then mine. “Are you and Mak gonna be okay?”
“We’ll be fine. It might take years and maybe it’ll never be quite the same again, but we’ll be okay. That’s my brother in there. Nothing can break that.”
“Okay, because this isn’t worth it for me if you’ve lost that relationship. Nothing is worth that. I feel horrible right now,” I said. “But if you want to know where I stand, yes, I’m with you. I love doing this and I’m in. I don’t have another choice either.”
We shook hands that night in a way that grown-ups do, like those sepia photographs of founders cutting a ribbon in front of their first business. I still admire Ben—and am eternally indebted to him—for putting The Hundreds first that night. All these years later, it’s still just he and I. No matter how many people come and go, how big we grow or how small we shrink. I still think of the business as just us two hungry kids with ridiculous ideas and gall. The only person I care about when it comes to The Hundreds is Ben. I work my darnedest to impress him, and I do whatever I can to make sure he’s performing his best every day.
And as a happy epilogue to this chapter, Mak and Ben are better and closer than ever. Today, Mak is one of the most powerful and successful civil attorneys in the city, just as he’d predicted he’d be. Earnings alone, he makes Ben and me look like we’re running a lemonade stand. He’s been a good sport over the years as we’ve softly written him out of our history, but here’s the facts: There once was a Mak Hundreds and there always will be. Long live the triple OG, Mak Hundreds.
17. THE BLACK TARP STRATEGY
“I HEARD YOU guys were assholes.”
It’s the summer of 2005, and we’re exhibiting at the MAGIC trade show, a principal industry convention that takes place twice a year in Las Vegas. Women’s shoes, urban apparel, licensing—all fashion comes to a head for three days in the desert. Brands sell their upcoming collections to stores, bikini models walk the carpet, and rappers parade through the show grounds with entourages. But nights are when the real business goes down. Deals are planted over extravagant dinners, germinated around club bottle service, and blossom in strip clubs. By morning, the sun rises on a new crop of brands and designers. MAGIC is about discovering and being discovered, and Ben and I were crossing our fingers.
We’d rented a narrow corner of carpet that barely fit a folding table, a couple chairs for Ben and me, and a rolling rack for us to display ten T-shirts. We’re about to wrap it up for the third and final day when we look up and see this bald man and his crew standing by our table, making snide remarks.
Assholes?
He finishes: “So I had to see what the commotion was all about.” I look down at the plastic badge hanging by a lanyard around the man’s neck. His name is Mike Brown, the owner of a famous San Francisco streetwear boutique named True.
We’re not assholes, although people assume this all the time. I’ll meet someone, and after conversing, they’ll literally shake my hand and say, “You know, I thought you were gonna be a total dick, so thanks for being cool.” I’m never sure who’s more surprised in these encounters—them or me. Then again, my friend Abram did tell me once, “You know why you’re an asshole? Because you’re opinionated. And not only do you have a strong opinion on everything, you share it.” Guilty as charged.
What I really think it is? Streetwear in general is filled with assholes. It’s like an asshole Coachella up in here. The Dicks are playing the mainstage and the Jerks are opening. If you’ve ever been to a streetwear party, you know what I’m talking about. No females in the vicinity, just clothing-conscious dudes skulking under purple clouds, posturing, and praying for male validation. It’s an air of insecurity that seemingly stems from daddy issues. It’s that tension that turns otherwise cool dudes into cool guys.
Streetwear is also low-key luxury. It’s elitist and established on a holier-than-thou mind-set, which makes for good branding but emits bad vibes. We know this well, which is why Mike Brown and all the other buyers at this trade show are starting to hum, “Those Hundreds guys are assholes!”
Apparel trade shows play a big part in streetwear history. For decades, shopkeepers and buyers have traveled from around the world to visit brands in convention halls, shop their sample collections, and place an order that will take half a year to produce and deliver.1 In the nineties, the big show for popular skateboarding, snowboarding, and surf brands was ASR (Action Sports Retailer), while Las Vegas showcased urban labels like FUBU and Apple Bottoms at the MAGIC trade show. MAGIC would eventually spin off into Pool and Project. Then there are Capsule and Liberty for women’s contemporary and traditional menswear. Europe has the Bread & Butter show for high fashion, as well as Bright for skate. Back in the day, there were even fringe shows like 432F in San Diego for the underground street brands that couldn’t get into ASR (Freshjive, Pervert, Tribal, and an airbrush artist named Marc Echo all converged at the short-lived trade show).
We were invited to participate in our first trade show the year prior in 2004: Agenda.2 Back then, Agenda—like The Hundreds, like our entire invisible scene—was of no consequence. Aaron Levant hosted his second Agenda show in downtown Los Angeles’s LA Mart, a trade building that comprised generic showrooms. He commandeered a couple adjoining spaces at the end of the hall for a week, circulated postcards and blind emails to the retailers, and invited local buyers to shop rising-star brands for their stores. Then he curated the labels, and somehow, someway, he landed on us. His email dropped in our in-box sometime the week before and we were gassed. The Agenda show? The Coliseum of street fashion? Ben and I ma
rked yes on Aaron’s invitation. We just had to figure out the trade show’s mechanics and what we were supposed to do.
We photocopied our T-shirt designs onto line sheets and headed to the show early on a Monday morning. We spent more time deciding which sneakers to wear than we spent formulating any business plan or strategy (some things never change). Aaron had said something over the phone about being responsible for hanging our sample T-shirts ourselves, so along the way we stopped at a Walgreens to pick up a sleeve of plastic white hangers. We arrived in the downtown showroom with a cardboard box of randomly sized T-shirts, too lazy and ignorant to steam and press them. Aaron asked us where our rack was. We looked at each other blankly, and he asked, “You guys didn’t bring a rolling rack? How are you gonna show your samples? You don’t have your own chairs? What did you bring?” Ben pointed at the box. I held up the hangers.
Those were three of the longest days of my life. No smartphones to escape the ennui. No Wi-Fi to distract from the drone of self-doubt. As the temperature climbed on those summer afternoons, so did the melancholy among the young brand founders. There we were, a roomful of hopeless brand romantics, all believing we had something unique to offer. We’d perk up anytime a new face carrying a tote bag would round the corner, thinking it was a potential buyer. Most of the time, they’d stop at Uppercut (an up-and-coming label that produced actual cut-and-sew!) before leaving the show. We were envious. We coveted Uppercut’s wide range of button-ups, custom headwear, and selvage denim. We were more a graphic design company than an apparel brand, and the lack of interest from buyers made the fact painfully obvious.
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