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

(616) 730-1414

Modern shopping is going to land me in the ‘big house’

“That’ll be $9.95.”

“Here’s a ten.”

“And here’s a nickel back. Have a nice day.”

In the long, long ago, this was known as making a purchase. The transaction transpired in much the same way no matter where you shopped.

It was how we bought and paid for everything from sweaters to auto parts to snow cones. The system was straightforward.

Things have changed, and unsurprisingly, not for the better.

I’m writing about this now because my other option is punching someone in the face and I do not want to go to jail.

I just arrived home from a mega-mart. I won’t say which one because nothing I write about it is likely to be flattering.

My cart contained a small wheel of expensive cheese, a bottle of very cheap wine, a birthday card for my granddaughter, Rosie, a pair of sunglasses that were supposed to give me the night vision of a panther but as it turns out didn’t, and a Hawaiian shirt with a floral pattern that would embarrass even Jimmy Buffett. 

“Phone number?” said the woman operating the cash register.

“What?”

“Can I get your phone number?” she repeated.

“Why?” I said. “Are you going to call me later to make sure I’m happy with my purchases?”

“It’s for our system,” she said. “In case you need to return anything.”

There were other customers behind me. I didn’t want to hold them up, so I gave the cashier my phone number. She entered the digits into her computerized register.

“You live on Grand?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“On Lincoln Avenue?” she said.

“No,” I said. “What else ya got?”

Finally, she pulled up the right Mike Taylor and guessed my correct address. She now knew enough about me to ring up my purchases; she scanned the first item, the godawful Hawaiian shirt. It rang up at $24.95.

“That’s wrong,” I said. “That shirt is supposed to be 30 percent off.”

The cashier sighed heavily. I was, obviously, a trouble maker. “Are you sure?” she said.

“Would anyone pay $24.95 for a shirt that ugly?” I asked.

The customers behind me could see the lay of the land and relocated to other lanes containing less problematic buyers.

Five minutes of annoyed phone calls and pages later, the cashier reluctantly keyed in the shirt for its sale price, though her demeanor left little doubt she thought I was trying to pull one over on her.

The other items scanned without incident, though I did have to provide my birth date in order to buy the six buck bottle of wine. This stranger (and possible serial killer; you never know) now knew my phone number, address and birthday.

I scanned my bank card. I’m sure the digital information being transferred at that moment included my shoe size, name of my first-born child and the number of times I use the bathroom each day.

“Do you want cash back?” the cashier said.

“No.”

Another sigh. “Then you have to tell it no,” she said, nodding to the card reader.

Using the provided stylus, I told it no.

It was raining as I exited the store. I stopped for gas and swiped my card at the pump. Before the pump would dispense gas, it wanted to know if my card was debit or credit; if I wanted a car wash; it wanted my zip code; it wanted to know if I required a receipt. I was soaked by the time the pump stopped playing 20 Questions and agreed to sell me some gasoline.

You know, I thought writing about this might help release a little pent up anger, but it’s not working. I think I’d better wait a while before shopping again. 

I would not do well in prison.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Time to experience the latest, greatest shopping experience. Again

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. 

Toilet paper shouldn’t have to be this embarrassing

I’ve embarrassed myself hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the years. From the afternoon I forgot to wear pants while washing the car to the time I sat on a playground swing moments before the chain broke and hit me on the head, my life has been one long litany of red-faced vignettes, executed to the delight of nearby friends and family.

You might think this much practice at looking foolish would somehow have inured me to the condition, but nope, every time I do something stupid—depending on who you ask, this takes place on a daily/hourly/ongoing basis—I feel like a doofus.

It doesn’t have to be some supremely dorky moment, even everyday circumstances conspire to make me look a fool. This notion was played out recently in a Detroit area mall.

I was going out to pick up a few sundry household items and my daughter, with whom I was staying at the time, asked if I’d also grab a package of toilet paper.

Now, as far as I know, everyone in the civilized world uses toilet paper. But it’s one of those things “polite” folks (I’m not one myself, but I’ve heard they exist) don’t talk about in mixed company. Considering its intended purpose, I suppose I can understand that.

I mean, every time I see that TP commercial featuring the bear family (that does you-know-what in the woods) I die a little inside. I’m not particularly squeamish, but really. Bears?

At any rate, unlike in my married days, when I was occasionally forced to pick up euphemistically-named “feminine hygiene products,” buying toilet paper doesn’t—as a rule—cause me any embarrassment.

This trip was different.

The mall at which I was shopping is very upscale. Though anchored by two mega-retailers selling discount items, the rest of the mall is crowded with snooty little jewelry stores, designer boutiques and chic salons. My first stop was the discount store, where I found a great deal on toilet paper, a giant-sized block of “southern cleansing enhancer” as big as a Buick.

There was no bag large enough to contain this monstrous slab of tissue, so I lugged it into the mall balanced precariously on my shoulder, hopeful I would not be bumped, thereby causing me to drop the cube and crush any nearby children or little old ladies.

By the time I had tracked down all the items on my own shopping list, I had been sniggered at by zit-faced teens at Spencer’s Gifts, the skinny 20-somethings stationed just inside the Gap and perhaps worst of all, the gorgeous sweeties hawking male fantasies at Victoria’s Secret. A little old lady checking out orthopedic shoes shook her head and smiled at my plight. (I considered dropping the cube and crushing her, but that seemed a little drastic.)

Everyone uses toilet paper! But you can bet I won’t again be advertising that fact at the mall.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com. Mike’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available at mtrealitycheck.com.