Malls are still nightmares
The first trip to a shopping mall in six months reaffirms that they’re still anything but normal
The American shopping mall has never been a paradigm for normalcy. At best, they’re havens for self-delusion, beguiling us into a sort of capitalistic delirium. Malls were never essential; nobody ever needs anything from a mall. There’s a reason that so many horror movies (Dawn of the Dead, Night of the Comet, Chopping Malls) are set in malls: they’re fundamentally nightmarish.
Yet walking up to the Mission Valley Mall for the first time in six months, I can’t help but feel a twinge, a sort of excitement mixed with dread. I think of a line in the aforementioned Dawn of the Dead where survivors — barricaded inside a mall — listen to zombies hitting the doors. “They're after the place. They don't know why, they just remember. Remember that they want to be in here,” says one of the humans.
That’s me. I am the zombie.
My wife has an eye appointment at LensCrafters. I have no reason to tag along but I want to be at the mall. I don’t know why. I just want to be there.
The walkway is mostly empty. A faint wind blows through the mall, and mingles with the Muzak still pumped through invisible speakers. Most of the kiosks are shuttered, but there’s a lone vendor selling vapes or USB ports or something. She stares at her phone. It’s an uncanny image — recognizable from pre-Covid life, but now just feels off.
A mother and three children rush past me. All masked. The sight of children wearing masks never fails to depress me. I step aside and put more distance between us, and their voices fade as they disappear into the mall.
I look back at the woman selling vapes, wondering if she too has disappeared. The surreality of the situation is setting in and I wouldn’t be surprised if the vape kiosk was indeed gone, replaced (conveniently) by a sage old man who would tell me “why, that vape kiosk burned down four years ago.” But no, both the woman and kiosk are still there.
In an attempt to stymie the creeping sense of unease, I step into Spencer’s Gifts.
Spoiler alert: this does not help with the dread.
The last time I stood in a Spencer’s, it was to buy a white elephant gift for what turned out to be CityBeat’s final holiday party. I bought a mug that said “Fuck This Shit” with a handle shaped like brass knuckles because it was probably the most gaudy, trashy item I’ve seen. Who in the world would want this? I thought. Turns out, my boss wanted it, stealing the overly aggressive mug on the first round of white elephant trading. Looking back, I should’ve recognized that as the worst of omens. For all intents and purposes “Fuck This Shit” mug might have been the beginning of the end. For all of us.
Spencer’s Gifts is like a year-round Halloween store that doesn’t know it’s a Halloween store. I peruse the novelty shirts and horror-themed novelty blankets. I wonder what my life would be like if I suddenly made the decision to be a guy who only wore clothing from Spencer’s and just show up everywhere in a Dwight Schrute “FALSE” shirt.
I peruse the coffee mugs, and brush my fingers yearningly against their ceramic bodies, tempting viral fate by touching strange surfaces. Remember when these things were tiny extensions of our personalities? Spencer’s mugs convey a diverse range of character traits — including a love for weed as well as the show Friends — but my favorite (“favorite”) are the ones that imply violence when there is no coffee. I pick one up that reads “Bitch Better Have My Coffee” and has a handle shaped like a handgun. After six months away from a mall I’ve forgotten that such items exist. I study the mug like an alien artifact. Before the pandemic, were our violent murderous fantasies only mitigated by a morning cup o’ joe?
The Dawn of the Dead quote comes back: They don't know why, they just remember.
A cashier asks if he can help me with anything. I tell him, “Just browsing,” and it feels, like, really dumb to have zero purpose in a Spencer’s Gifts amidst a global pandemic.
I watch a young couple make their way to the spicy section in the back of the store. I shudder at the idea of anyone buying sex toys or lingerie at a Spencer’s Gifts. Imagine putting something on you or in you that had a shelf life next to a fart machine or a Rick & Morty doodad.
I leave Spencer’s without buying anything, not even a Dwight Schrute shirt.
Across the walkway, Hot Topic sits like Spencer’s Gifts’ sadder, darker, less mischievous cousin. There’s a woman acting as a bouncer, using a stand-up sign to block the doorway in an effort to curtail the amount of people entering the store. “Can I come in?” I ask, and she performs the cumbersome act of moving the heavy-looking sign out of the way. I can’t think of a greeting less inviting than a literal barricade, but if the zombie apocalypse actually happens while I’m here, at least Hot Topic is prepared.
If there’s a store that has become a ghost of its former self, it’s Hot Topic. In high school, this was a haven for me. Sure: a commodified, exploitative haven for sad, weird teens, but at least it presented a simulacrum of counterculture. Now, it’s not like they even try to be subversive. it’s all Stranger Things, Funkos, and Star Wars. I remember that I’ve been wanting a Misfits “Horror Business” shirt, but there’s only one generic Misfits shirt, and it’s in the “Classics” section. Don’t worry, though, because there are six different 21 Pilots shirts to choose from.
My wife texts. She’s done at LensCrafters. I text back to see if she wants to meet me in Hot Topic, but immediately regret it. There’s nothing here I want. I don’t want to spend another second in this place. I leave before she can get there and step outside.
Despite the sunshine, I still feel cold.
AWKWARD COCKTAILS
By Kelly Davis
Sorry to be a bummer, but I’m afraid that when things get back to normal — in three months or five months or a year or whenever, San Diego will be a less interesting place. So, I’ve been doing my best to support businesses I love. One of those businesses is Realm of the 52 Remedies, a speakeasy-style bar located on Convoy Street inside Common Theory. It’s where I took my husband to after he had his first root canal. The bar is named after an ancient text that’s considered the foundation of modern Chinese medicine and cocktails play on that theme.
Fittingly, Realm’s recently introduced a Home Therapy box. Each box includes three 8- ounce bottles of a pre-made cocktail, instructions for enjoying it, garnishes, BBQ taro chips (yummers!) and a small gift. The cost is $52. “That’s kinda steep,” you might be thinking. But, it’s really not. We’re talking enough stuff to make six cocktails. My husband, a cheapskate who’s got one rootless tooth, was impressed.
The selection rotates weekly, so I can’t tell you what you’ll get, but the cocktails in our box were mighty tasty. I particularly enjoyed the Cool Papa, made with green papaya, gin, Cool Hand Co.’s pineapple-ginger-turmeric shrub, lime and a little salt. The Mr. & Mrs. Black was made with Mr. Black coffee liqueur, which I’ve been wanting to try. It was delish and I plan to acquire a bottle soon.
To order a box, click on this link. Under “Choose Menu,” select “52R Home Therapy.” Click on “Home Therapy Wellness Kit” and select the date and time you’d like to pick up your box. (Orders must be placed at least two days in advance.) You’ll need to add a food item because it’s an alcohol purchase. You can’t go wrong with a double order of BBQ taro chips.
RANCID’S SAD MASTERPIECE
Last month, Rancid celebrated the 25th anniversary of ...And Out Come the Wolves, which was a monumental, game-changing record for me (and I’m sure a lot of other people). Even though I’ve practically been listening to this album at least once a month for the past 25 years, it wasn’t until this go-around that I realized just how sad the album is. Treble was kind enough to let me write about it, and I’m very proud of how the piece turned out. You should read it if you’re into punk and feeling things.
THE WEEKLY GOODS
Do this
The word “design” evokes a visceral reaction in me, which comes from trying to redesign CityBeat’s website so many times and having to deal with higher-ups who had no idea what they were talking about. “I want a clean design” became a catch-all phrase used by my boss who had no idea about UX or readability or anything else that goes into website development. And not that I’m a design expert, but “clean design” could mean anything from lots of white space to bold colors to large images to specific fonts. Anyway, San Diego Design Week starts today, which has a ton of cool-sounding workshops and events (in both virtual and physical spaces). KPBS published this incredibly helpful roundup, and I’d like to add the workshop “How to Prepare Your Portfolio,” in which professionals give insight on how to prepare a design portfolio, as well as review publicly-submitted portfolios. Although I didn’t submit, I have no doubt that they would only say great things about this Animorphs I created where Brian Setzer turns into a Bud Light Seltzer.
Listen to this
Swing Kids burned fast and bright. The legendary San Diego post-hardcore band were only active for three years in the mid-’90s, but they inspired bands like Refused, The Locust and other hardcore bands that experimented with complex musical structures and jazz styles. Swing Kids also put out the first release on San Diego’s seminal Three One G records, so it makes sense that the label would reissue the band’s complete Anthology. The album doesn’t come out until October 23 (you can preorder it here), but there’s this new music video that’ll send you thrashing.
Read this
The Sturgis Rally (you know, the one that Smash Mouth played and said “Fuck that Covid shit!”) is now responsible for 250,000 cases of Covid. Well done, America. Well done, Smash Mouth (but if we’re being honest, this is not the worst thing Smash Mouth has done). You’d think this would serve as a precautionary tale about the consequences of holding live music events, but nope: The shitheads from Emo Nite Brooklyn are throwing an indoor party in Oklahoma on September 11 (#neverforget). UPDATE: Looks like they’ve cancelled the event.
Regardless, Dan Ozzi, a funny and talented writer, wrote a very good rant about the whole ordeal, and you should read it.
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Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.
This oddly made me miss the mall, but only places that are long gone—Crossroads and Cottonwood. They offered the equivalent of social media scrolling. I actually miss the smells of the food court. Is there a candle for that? Maybe at Hot Topic?