The mega-mall is no place for a cave man

Went to the mall the other day. Not just any mall; a super-mall in Detroit.

I was visiting my daughter, her Significant Other, and their five kids. Five kids is a lot, particularly when they run the gamut from sulky teenager to violently yodeling toddler. I love them all more than life itself, but not so much that I can stand to be cooped up in a house with the lot of them for more than a few hours at a time.

Which is why I was at the mall. I had already grabbed breakfast at my favorite Greek joint (Zorba’s), written my column for that week at my favorite post-hippie-nouveau-chic coffee house (Java Hut), and window shopped at a place called Junkyard Guitars (aptly named).

For me, these days, that’s a full day. But it wasn’t even 3:30. I had no intention of returning to my daughter’s home until it was a bit closer to the younger contingent’s respective bedtimes.

My daughter, who understands all too clearly the desire to occasionally escape the company of juveniles, suggested I try the mall.

Though I lived in Detroit for years, it was a mall I’d never visited before. This is not surprising; I avoid shopping whenever possible. Malls haven’t held much attraction for me since the early ‘80s, when I used to try to meet girls there.

But it was either the mall or entertaining 2-year-old Ari (his name, I believe, means “offspring of the Tasmanian Devil”) while my daughter nursed the baby. I chose the mall. It wasn’t a tough call.

Aubreii described it as “kind of upscale.” I don’t know when she inherited her millions, but “kind of upscale” doesn’t begin to scratch the surface. This place had a few stores I’d heard of, but have never been to. Nordstrom. Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Leon’s Big Money Pit.

OK, I made that last one up, but you get the idea. The kind of mega-shops that feature distressed T-shirts “on sale” for $400. There was a jewelry store there, a few of them, in fact.

Working up my courage, I casually strolled into one, thinking I might pick up a cute little necklace or something for Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter). I was looking to drop as much as fifty bucks.

I knew I was in trouble when not one, but three sales clerks – wearing suits that cost more than my car – descended on me. One offered me a glass of Riesling. She assured me it was a good year. I told her it would be a pleasure to drink wine that didn’t come out of a box for a change.

After that, two of the clerks suddenly remembered they had other business to attend to. The one still stuck with me did not seem thrilled with the prospect, but was determined to make the best of it.

A professional.

“What can I show you?” is what she said. What she meant was, “Something from our ‘found in the parking lot’ collection, perhaps?”

I told her I needed some earrings for my wife. How expensive can a pair of earrings be, right? So I thought.

The clerk showed me a few different “moderately priced” sets. Apparently “moderately” has a different meaning in this mall than in the real world. Oh, I could have bought them. But it would have meant first donning a ski mask and knocking over a few rural banks.

I’m not sure my Catholic upbringing would allow that. So I left without the earrings, and without my wine. For some reason, it never quite made it out to me.

Riding the skywalk conveyor (when you shop here, you don’t have to walk, baby!) from the north side of the mall to the south, I took my first close look at the other shoppers. Everyone, every single one of them, man, woman and child, was prettier than me. And better dressed.

I felt like a Neanderthal shambling into an encampment of homo sapiens. I figured it was only a matter of time before security rolled up on a Segway and helped me decide to vacate the premises, so instead I did it on my own.

On the ride back to Aubreii’s I stopped at a Trader Joe’s and bought a couple bottles of Three Buck Chuck. I’m not sure if it was a good year, unless last week was a good year, but for three bucks, it’s OK wine.

Went well enough with the barbecue my daughter put together that evening. Served on paper plates left over from somebody’s birthday party.

It was interesting to peek into the glitterati lives of the “other half,” but all-in-all, I’m pretty happy right where I am. Besides, being so pretty all-day-every-day would take more effort than I’m willing to exert.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

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The mall is dead.

I couldn't believe I was reading those words. But there they were in the newspaper, a quote from the developer who owns the mall in question. Apparently, the developer plans to close off much of the mall, add "open spaces" and make other changes that will allow shoppers to get in and out in a hurry.

They want to make the experience less mall-like, and more like shopping at the old stores that used to be downtown, before the malls drove them all out of business.

All I can say is, I wish they would make up their minds, especially with Christmas right around the corner.

When I was a kid, Christmas shopping meant one thing: downtown. It was a major family event. My dad would put on a suit, my mom a dress; even we kids were wrestled into our Sunday best. We'd all pile in the Ford and make the 10 minute drive downtown, followed by the 20 minute search for an open parking space.

The stroll along snowy, downtown streets was nothing short of magical. Kids choirs sang on street corners, Salvation Army quartets blatted out-of-tune Christmas carols on dented trombones and coronets, the frosted windows of stores with august names like Steketee's and Wurzburg's glimmered and glowed with the promise of Christmas presents yet to come. Yes, kiddies, it really was just like A Christmas Story or "The PolarExpress."

At some point in the evening, we'd visit Santa, ride the monorail around Herpolsheimer's basement, and drink hot chocolate with marshmallows. By the time we arrived back home, we were tired, filled with the avarice only a child at Christmas can really understand, and ready to begin counting down the days until Santa's arrival.

Then, sometime around my 13th birthday, the first mall appeared. It grew like a mushroom on the outskirts of town, far from downtown, farther from our house.  "It'll never fly," my old man predicted. "Nobody's going to drive all the way out there in the middle of nowhere."

But parking was free. The family could shop in December without coats, hats, mittens. It was enclosed. Warm. Comfortable. Convenient. Seductive.

Over the course of a few years, the mall's Muzak siren song lured my family--and the families of so many others--away from downtown, away from the venerable stores that had stood as bastions of consumerism for generations. Despite the best efforts of planners, pundits and politicians, downtown died a slow and tedious death, one from which it has only begun in recent years to resurrect itself.

As the decades passed and I grew older, I couldn't help but feel a melancholy nostalgia for those downtown shopping trips with the folks and siblings. But change happens with or without our permission. I grew accustomed to the malls, the crowds, the cheesy Christmas decorations that were but a poor, inexpensive imitation of downtown's former glorious offerings.

And now, now at this late date, I read that the mall is dead. That the developer wants to "de-mall-ify" what was the area's first mall. The developer wants to appeal to the "modern" shopper.

I don't know if it's too late to put in my two cents, Mr. Developer, but here's an idea: Gather all those stores and put them in separate buildings, but within a similar geographical location, someplace like--oh, I don't know--downtown, say. Give them all big, picture windows facing the sidewalk. Hire a couple children's choirs and maybe give the Salvation Army Band a place to play.

It's a radical idea, I know. But it just might work.

Mike Taylor's book Looking at the Pint Half Full is available at mtrealitycheck.com or in digital format from Barnes & Nobles, Amazon and other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.