America's No.1 mad bastard heartthrob

mooserattler

Reblog this picture of me holding a Family Size box of Honey Nut Cheerios? I’d really appreciate it.

moonblossom

How can I say no to such a great photo and such a polite request?

allthelittlebeagles

i will always support this post

freshrosemary

@mooserattler back on my dash!

jjflow

Why isn’t this at a million notes, yet, Dante???

mooserattler

I’m not sure. Hey lovely people who have taken me over half way to a cool million! If you’d like to reblog again, I’d love that, if not, I still love you, and hope you’re having a great day. I’m gonna go do some stand up tonight.

bidoof

god come on we’re so close. this is like the only meaningful thing that this website could ever achieve

The American mall: My experience with maybe masochism

Purveyor of fine clothing for young adults and beyond, H&M saw fit to open a location in our lovely city. I’ve been to the H&M in portland, and even own a few pieces of clothing from them. Competent stuff. Stylish. Cheap.

My mother, being a fiend for clothing, naturally was excited for the store to open and asked if I wanted to go too. Of course I wasn’t about to turn down a chance to go to the mall, dread bastion of American materialism and leisure.

I’ve a love/hate relationship with the mall, bordering on the edge of masochism. Noisy crowds of loud and distracted people. Sluggish rows of land whales, pushing their offspring in strollers the size of small sedans. Overwhelming scent of fried food, saccharine cinnamon rolls and artificial nature scenes, courtesy of Bath and Body Works. Kiosks selling their cheap, Chinese-made novelties, some foisting lotion samples in your face.

All of this foulness overridden by the desire for potential jokes and fuel for what I’m writing right now (Not that I intended to write about it). Equal parts disgust and laughter. Add to that my hyper-active mental state courtesy of no breakfast and strong coffee, I’m in for an experience.

Here I come mall. Hope you’re ready. I think I am.

Probably about 11:15 when we arrived at the mall. H&M is a giant white cube tacked on to the front of the existing mall structure. It almost looks like some massive construct covered with a white sheet, waiting for somebody to reveal it’s contents to the waiting world. We make our way inside, greeted by racks full of clothing and 80’s pop hits from the back (from where I’m standing) of the store. I follow my mother’s lead, wading through the sea of fabric, stopping to admire the occasional weird/cool feeling shirt material. Like Pat the Bunny thrown in a blender with a sweatshop and new/hip store-front.

Opposite the land whales in the main part of the mall, the sharks weaving their way in and out of the racks. Hyper-manic turbo teenagers. Surly middle-aged mothers. Their spawn following them closely, learning not their parent’s anti-social behaviour, instead showing genuine curiosity in the world around them. All this in between bouts of shrieking at their siblings. The cherry on the top of this odd setting, the uber-trendy hazardous hipsters tending the shop. Hair styled by a rogue lawnmower, miss-matched clothing and discontented scowls on their faces.

Making our way through a store like this, one quickly learns what interacting with the sharks is like. Confronted with the proposition of interacting with another human being, they choose to avoid any kind of meaningful transaction with the mad bastard that faces them. Feigned glances at something to their side. Looking away to scold their spawn. If you’re really lucky, a second of eye contact. Two would be far too many. For me and them. Rudeness prevails in this world. A sort of armor against fear of social faux pas and embarrassment. In all their years, they’ve yet to realize that the attention span of their would be aggressors is laughably short.

Occasionally one happens upon one of the employees. Similar to the angry mothers, they operate on different standards than the average schlub in a mall. Their glazed over stares comunicate their opinion of you. My manner of dress was clearly not up to standard of style. Pink shirt, black shorts, both linen and black leather and canvas boots. The kind of clothing that doubtless would have seen me lynched by some overzealous mob of upstanding citizens in eras past, is now considered boring and blase. Fine by me.

Except for a few of the aforementioned employees cum fashion fascists, individuals with a Y chromosome were hard to come by. Except for one grey haired geek with a flip phone, clad in all denim, there were none to be found (save for yours truly). Leaving the store, I discovered a small contingent of men, so utterly confident in their masculinity that they didn’t dare follow their sharks into the store. Stationed awkwardly, either leaning on a pillar or sat on a bench, their consulted their phones, begging for reprieve from their boredom. Eighties hits can only keep a man sane so long, you know.

Despite a general opinion that users of Apple products adopt their mannerisms and operate on the level of the christian crusaders, the Mac Store had little strangeness to offer. A pretty standard looking cross-section of Eugene was found questioning the sales people of the store on various computers. Perhaps it’s status as an Apple resaler, rather than one of the corporation proper’s stores makes the difference here. One can’t be a genius unless ordained by the company/cult.

Me and my companion left the consumerist construct at this point, destined for an antique store in Springfield. I’d regale you with the story of creppy trinkets, spoopy gadgets, the revelation to my mother of my ministry of the Universal Life Church and probably/definitely racist dolls, but I’m not going to. Suck it.

-KISSES <3

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

The American mall: My experience with maybe masochism