Foaming At The Mouth
Crass Commercialism
I had put off doing much of my Christmas shopping for far too long. I had 36 hours to come up with at least some of the items on my list, as well as a few inspired touches of my own. Now I was wandering aimlessly around Woodfield Mall, eventually making it to the bookstore, where much of my work could be accomplished.
I scan the shelves as I'm half-looking for something to catch my eye, and the old, old question hits me yet again: "Who the hell buys this crap?"
Life stories of the cast of "Laguna Beach" or big, glossy picture books of "Sex & The City". I didn't think people who watched those shows could even read. They certainly don't go any further into book stores than the magazine rack. I can understand the appeal of someone like Jon Stewart; he's been working his way up the ranks for years. But where the hell did Rachel Ray come from? Why would anyone need that many cookbooks from her?
These were just my observations at the book store. Walking around the rest of the mall wasn't too bad, but only because I wasn't looking too carefully. Some stuff just can't be avoided. Enough with Eva fucking Longoria already. There has got to be enough room under the tent for three (or even ten) starlets to divvy up the amount of undeserved celebrity necessary to sell women's shoes. Well, I guess Mischa Barton can shoulder some of that load, but she's not even attractive.
I grew up going to this mall and, at one time, the floor space was open for foot traffic only. Now the center of the walkways are crammed with kiosks selling junk not fit for stores of its own, but that some huckster is still trying to peddle. Some of the goods at least had a passable use (clip-on hair extensions for women, some nicely done but overpriced wood art); others were out-and-out throwaway merchandise. The worst offender was a stand filled with lovingly rendered charcoal portraits of various pop culture icons. I mean, how low are your sensibilities that you just HAVE to have a shoddily etched portrait of Al Pacino as Tony Montana, or of the members of Green Day? Are people putting these in their homes? If so, hopefully it's nothing more permanent than a dorm room. Is someone making mortgage payments to have a dwelling where a cheap paper drawing of the cast of "Goodfellas" is given pride of place?
Lest you think I'm looking down my nose to say 'low income = low culture', you haven't been to the sports memorabilia store. There are zillions of mid-level office managerial types throughout the Republic who would gladly max out their AmEx cards on autographed jerseys and framed photos (with certificates of authenticity, of course) to lend gravitas to their office or den. Most of the stuff in here is junk, anyway. Carefully framed, with engraved plaques to add an air of majesty, these jerseys, balls, and other equipment have never seen a drop of sweat or smear of gameday dirt. They are singular frauds, much like wannabes who buy them at a 1600% markup.
My father was at the 1982 World Series (St. Louis over Milwaukee) and caught a baseball that was fouled out of play. He flew home a few nights later and gave it to me. It has no autographs and probably was not handled by any players of historical consequence. But it does have a bluish bruise from where it either met the bat or struck a wall. That has far more authenticity, at least to me, than one that came straight out of the box for some player to sign while sitting in a hotel room rented for the express purpose of knocking out ten thousand autographs in one Saturday afternoon.
Yet there's a whole storefront of these manufactured keepsakes, doing a brisk business, I might add. Ideal for the shithead in your life who thinks that having a helmet signed by John Elway fosters some connection to the glory of pro sports. The newest item: empty champagne bottles that were (allegedly) left over from the White Sox postgame locker room celebration at the World Series. The most tasteless: a framed photo of Al Capone alongside a cigar (allegedly) from the famous gangster's collection.
As I walked past Rainforest Cafe, a squeaky-voiced teenage hostess blared over a tinny speaker: "(So-and-so) family, your adventure is about to begin!" I decided mine had ended and I was weaker for the journey.
Crass Commercialism
I had put off doing much of my Christmas shopping for far too long. I had 36 hours to come up with at least some of the items on my list, as well as a few inspired touches of my own. Now I was wandering aimlessly around Woodfield Mall, eventually making it to the bookstore, where much of my work could be accomplished.
I scan the shelves as I'm half-looking for something to catch my eye, and the old, old question hits me yet again: "Who the hell buys this crap?"
Life stories of the cast of "Laguna Beach" or big, glossy picture books of "Sex & The City". I didn't think people who watched those shows could even read. They certainly don't go any further into book stores than the magazine rack. I can understand the appeal of someone like Jon Stewart; he's been working his way up the ranks for years. But where the hell did Rachel Ray come from? Why would anyone need that many cookbooks from her?
These were just my observations at the book store. Walking around the rest of the mall wasn't too bad, but only because I wasn't looking too carefully. Some stuff just can't be avoided. Enough with Eva fucking Longoria already. There has got to be enough room under the tent for three (or even ten) starlets to divvy up the amount of undeserved celebrity necessary to sell women's shoes. Well, I guess Mischa Barton can shoulder some of that load, but she's not even attractive.
I grew up going to this mall and, at one time, the floor space was open for foot traffic only. Now the center of the walkways are crammed with kiosks selling junk not fit for stores of its own, but that some huckster is still trying to peddle. Some of the goods at least had a passable use (clip-on hair extensions for women, some nicely done but overpriced wood art); others were out-and-out throwaway merchandise. The worst offender was a stand filled with lovingly rendered charcoal portraits of various pop culture icons. I mean, how low are your sensibilities that you just HAVE to have a shoddily etched portrait of Al Pacino as Tony Montana, or of the members of Green Day? Are people putting these in their homes? If so, hopefully it's nothing more permanent than a dorm room. Is someone making mortgage payments to have a dwelling where a cheap paper drawing of the cast of "Goodfellas" is given pride of place?
Lest you think I'm looking down my nose to say 'low income = low culture', you haven't been to the sports memorabilia store. There are zillions of mid-level office managerial types throughout the Republic who would gladly max out their AmEx cards on autographed jerseys and framed photos (with certificates of authenticity, of course) to lend gravitas to their office or den. Most of the stuff in here is junk, anyway. Carefully framed, with engraved plaques to add an air of majesty, these jerseys, balls, and other equipment have never seen a drop of sweat or smear of gameday dirt. They are singular frauds, much like wannabes who buy them at a 1600% markup.
My father was at the 1982 World Series (St. Louis over Milwaukee) and caught a baseball that was fouled out of play. He flew home a few nights later and gave it to me. It has no autographs and probably was not handled by any players of historical consequence. But it does have a bluish bruise from where it either met the bat or struck a wall. That has far more authenticity, at least to me, than one that came straight out of the box for some player to sign while sitting in a hotel room rented for the express purpose of knocking out ten thousand autographs in one Saturday afternoon.
Yet there's a whole storefront of these manufactured keepsakes, doing a brisk business, I might add. Ideal for the shithead in your life who thinks that having a helmet signed by John Elway fosters some connection to the glory of pro sports. The newest item: empty champagne bottles that were (allegedly) left over from the White Sox postgame locker room celebration at the World Series. The most tasteless: a framed photo of Al Capone alongside a cigar (allegedly) from the famous gangster's collection.
As I walked past Rainforest Cafe, a squeaky-voiced teenage hostess blared over a tinny speaker: "(So-and-so) family, your adventure is about to begin!" I decided mine had ended and I was weaker for the journey.