Holiday Column: Mall Squawking
Listen here, all you Fugazian anti-commercialists, you post-teen idealists with brains and money in similar levels of dispossession, and you knee jerks of the underground. Hand me the conch -- I have an announcement you may not like.
I love the mall during the holidays.
Yeah, that's right. Wanna make something out of it? I'll fight you. (That means you, too, McKaye; where do you think I bought Repeater? At a co-op?) And I will prevail -- I've got the stamina of multitudes. I can wait at the back of a 70-person queue to return a shirt as if I were at the opening of Fletch III (yes, Hollywood, I'm still waiting). I can pierce a horde of overweight field-hockey moms like a narrow, white arrow to score a deep-discounted sausage assortment at Harry and David. I can withstand lungful after lungful of WMD-grade candle fragrances and aromatherapy essences, just to get my sweaty palms on the most sought-after Precious Moments figurines. I only bring my A game.
I am a marketer's fantasy. I am the Construction Worker, the Indian, and the Cop boogieing down to Georgio Moroder's "30 Percent off All Kitchen Aid Appliances," or Carmen Electra in a Victoria's Secret thong and Santa hat, slinking naughtily into some McKinsey retail consultant's pre-holiday nocturne. I make wishes come true for lots of good little boys and girls gazing at focus group peepshows from the business end of a two-way mirror.
Retailers, tell your store associates to call me whatever sycophantic byname you think will give me a shopping woody -- customer, patron, guest, client, member, sir, my lord, Mr. President, master of my existence, daddy megabucks -- as long as you make sure they debase themselves to the point of necrosis. Have them follow me like urchins begging for a scrap of my spending dollar, and remind them to lick the bottom of my size nines for spare change that may have become lodged in the treads. They may not appreciate the sub-poverty wages you pay, but I sure do feel like the king of the world in the vacuum of others' dignity.
What turns me on? Hearing 65 different versions of "Jingle Bells," each one awkwardly forced into swing-time like the Tin Man into a spandex leotard. I also enjoy being guided by purpose-built point-of-sale displays to select from a range of "stocking stuffers," despite that no one I know happens to have a stocking, and watching with awe as Asian short-order cooks squirt golden streams of cooking oil and teriyaki sauce onto a grill ahead of the parboiled chicken pieces and shredded cabbage that will comprise my lunch. As the topless lady in Victor/Victoria once said: "These are a few of my favorite things."
I am at the mall as you read this. I'll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that. I'll be at the mall long after you've forgotten my name and after your kids have all graduated and moved away. I'll even be there when you're just another mouth for some nurse's aide to spoon applesauce into. You can mock me all you like, but you'll never take me alive. I fear no man or beast, only credit limits.
Happy Holidays,
LasagnaFarm
Listen here, all you Fugazian anti-commercialists, you post-teen idealists with brains and money in similar levels of dispossession, and you knee jerks of the underground. Hand me the conch -- I have an announcement you may not like.
I love the mall during the holidays.
Yeah, that's right. Wanna make something out of it? I'll fight you. (That means you, too, McKaye; where do you think I bought Repeater? At a co-op?) And I will prevail -- I've got the stamina of multitudes. I can wait at the back of a 70-person queue to return a shirt as if I were at the opening of Fletch III (yes, Hollywood, I'm still waiting). I can pierce a horde of overweight field-hockey moms like a narrow, white arrow to score a deep-discounted sausage assortment at Harry and David. I can withstand lungful after lungful of WMD-grade candle fragrances and aromatherapy essences, just to get my sweaty palms on the most sought-after Precious Moments figurines. I only bring my A game.
I am a marketer's fantasy. I am the Construction Worker, the Indian, and the Cop boogieing down to Georgio Moroder's "30 Percent off All Kitchen Aid Appliances," or Carmen Electra in a Victoria's Secret thong and Santa hat, slinking naughtily into some McKinsey retail consultant's pre-holiday nocturne. I make wishes come true for lots of good little boys and girls gazing at focus group peepshows from the business end of a two-way mirror.
Retailers, tell your store associates to call me whatever sycophantic byname you think will give me a shopping woody -- customer, patron, guest, client, member, sir, my lord, Mr. President, master of my existence, daddy megabucks -- as long as you make sure they debase themselves to the point of necrosis. Have them follow me like urchins begging for a scrap of my spending dollar, and remind them to lick the bottom of my size nines for spare change that may have become lodged in the treads. They may not appreciate the sub-poverty wages you pay, but I sure do feel like the king of the world in the vacuum of others' dignity.
What turns me on? Hearing 65 different versions of "Jingle Bells," each one awkwardly forced into swing-time like the Tin Man into a spandex leotard. I also enjoy being guided by purpose-built point-of-sale displays to select from a range of "stocking stuffers," despite that no one I know happens to have a stocking, and watching with awe as Asian short-order cooks squirt golden streams of cooking oil and teriyaki sauce onto a grill ahead of the parboiled chicken pieces and shredded cabbage that will comprise my lunch. As the topless lady in Victor/Victoria once said: "These are a few of my favorite things."
I am at the mall as you read this. I'll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that. I'll be at the mall long after you've forgotten my name and after your kids have all graduated and moved away. I'll even be there when you're just another mouth for some nurse's aide to spoon applesauce into. You can mock me all you like, but you'll never take me alive. I fear no man or beast, only credit limits.
Happy Holidays,
LasagnaFarm
posted by Michael at 12:30 PM
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