My Trip To The Mall

"I can't go into Abercrombie & Fitch. It's too loud." - Liz Lemon

I hate going to the mall. It's about the only place I go where I feel really old. It's filled with middle schoolers and high school underclassmen embracing their "freedom" from their parents. I'm used to feeling like a 12-year-old who couldn't sniff the inside of a bar after 9:30 p.m.

It also vends more than just chic clothing or sugary Mrs. Fields cookies or awesomely useless Sharper Image toys. It's the outlet of commercial cool, something that I, for better or worse, never bought.

It had been a long time since I had stepped foot in a mall other than Summit Place Mall in Pontiac, which has taken on the nickname of "Scummit Place Mall" since basically every store packed up and left 10 years ago. Yet here I was, in search of sought-after Christmas gifts Monday with no other choice than to venture to Twelve Oaks Mall in Novi. If you've never been to Twelve Oaks Mall, it's a slightly upscale retail center somewhere in between Scummit and Somerset (OK, so maybe that doesn't narrow it down at all). I was in the area, dropping off my delinquent brother with a suspended license at his work site, so I hopped over to Twelve Oaks with my mind set on a quick in-and-out experience. Here is my trip to the mall:

My first inclination that I was in over my head was when traffic backed up about 30 cars deep just to turn left into the mall. It was, after all, three days before Christmas, and if there's one thing Americans do best, it's procrastinate. (Seriously, can you think of anything more American than procrastination? Apple pie? Baseball? Chevrolet? Please.) After sitting in traffic for a solid 20 minutes, blissfully listening to radio talk show hosts and callers bash Rob Parker for his latest journalist-defaming antics, I pulled into the crowded parking lot. I circled in front of a mall entrance when I realized there was valet parking at the mall. Valet parking! At the mall! Because walking 2 minutes from car to mall will apparently trigger a heart attack with 100 percent certainty.

After parking and reaching the entrance with my ticker still fully functional, I started walking toward my destination. I had two gifts in mind — a Michigan State Christmas ornament for my Spartan alumna mother (a tree could always be a little greener) and a book about my grandpa's hero, Bo Schembechler. I knew the store where I needed to go, which came with a small stigma. It was the "M Den," an outlet of all things University of Michigan with a minuscule corner of green-and-white merchandise. I'm not proud of walking into any store with a Wolverine attachment. Even in a store in Ann Arbor, I feel a little queasy. After walking for a few minutes, my damp boots obnoxiously squeaking on the floor, I saw the large block "M" hanging above the store from a mile away. I wanted to throw something, anything, at it, hoping it would fall to the ground and spontaneously combust and burn to a pile of ashes. I sucked up my pride, zipped up my coat (I was wearing an MSU sweatshirt) and took the plunge into maize and blue.

Walking in, I felt claustrophobic as I was surrounded by Michigan apparel. Everything hurt my eyes. The clothing racks seemed incredibly close. I made sure no part of my body grazed anything with a Michigan logo on it. I withstood the incredible urge to punch employees wearing that awful shade of yellow that all Spartans have come to abhor. When I reached that beautiful green pasture of MSU merchandise (I'm sure this is the pasture being referenced in the 23rd Psalm), all anxiety calmed as I searched for an ornament. Not surprisingly, I came up emptier the U-M football team against Toledo (couldn't help myself).

After escaping the wave of maize-and-blue overload, I searched for my next destination: Borders Express. The store was on the other side of the mall next to Macy's, which took me on an adventure of sensory overload. There was the sound of kids crazily dashing around the area where Santa would grant their every wish. There was the sight of 50 women's clothing stores, each of which only seemed to have about 50 items of clothing in a store of 250 square feet (am I missing something, or don't you want something called "selection"?). There was the near-taste of Cinnabon, which is the last bastion of overindulgence compared to the 15 Jamba Juice knockoffs spread throughout the mall.

And most of all, there was one smell in particular. It was the odor of cologne, a wall of pungency that hit out of nowhere. It smacked my nose with the impact of fresh fertilizer. When it hit, I paused for a moment to look around. Nothing in the vicinity — a jeweler, shoe outlet, women's clothing store or Santa — would logically produce such a smell. I took a few more steps. The smell grew stronger. I felt like I was in high school homeroom again (if you're from West Bloomfield, you'd get that one). A few more steps and the odor continued to grow. I started to hear loud music muffled by the commotion of hundreds of shoppers bustling around me. Finally, I found the culprit. It was like smelling a skunk's spray and eventually stumbling upon the animal.

Abercrombie & Fitch.

If I didn't know better, I would swear they slather cologne on the floors and wall outside each store every morning. I couldn't help but laugh, remembering those dead-on words of one Liz Lemon (it is loud!). I walked by, peering in only to see a more-than-lifesize poster of a ripped guy with no shirt. Definitely not a place for me.

I continued on, passing by several mall staples. I resisted the temptation to enter Sharper Image, convincing myself that walking through there is like shooting heroin — it feels good while you're doing it but you're going to be mad at yourself afterward because you're too poor to buy anything. I embraced the permeations from Yankee Candle, which makes Abercrombie smell like a pile of steaming crap. I waltzed by Victoria's Secret, remembering the conversation I had with a friend about how awkward I would be in that store. During this walk, I looked around and saw more high school varsity jackets than at a Friday night football game. Nothing makes you feel like a 40-year-old more than walking among high schoolers. And I'm half of 40.

Finally, I arrived at Borders Express. I struck out again. No book. No luck. I decided I hadn't had enough of my mall experience, so I decided to try one last location for an MSU ornament: a sports memorabilia store named DC Sports. It was nearby, so I strolled in and spotted a table with sports-themed Christmas ornaments. Here was the ornament inventory by team/school:

MSU — Zero
U-of-M — One
Notre Dame — Two
North Carolina — Two
Dallas Stars — Two
Detroit Tigers — One
Detroit Pistons — Zero
Detroit Lions — Twelve

That's right. I counted it. Stood there and added them up. Twelve.

With three stores in the past and nary a bag to tote around, I returned to the Twelve Oaks entrance. At the door, I swear there were people waiting for the valet who I saw 20 minutes ago when I walked in the door. A three-minute walk to my car (still no coronaries) and I saw into the mass of cars wanting to get out of dodge. At one point, I tried to switch lanes for an easier left turn. I flipped on my blinker, contorted my body to look out my rear window and waited for a kind driver to let me in. First, an elderly woman blew right by me without an acknowledgment. Then a high school girl in a Lexus SUV on a cell phone. Then a guy my age with a girl in the passenger seat (he got a free pass because I'd be pissed if my girlfriend dragged me there). Then a middle-aged woman in a sedan. Finally, I forced my way into the next lane, much to the displeasure of the middle-aged man behind me. He was not very happy.

Neither was I.

The Frozen Chosen Is Blessed

I have the best Man On The Street adventures. Like "somebody should make a children's book about them" adventures.

I'm going to make a few points about my latest shenanigans on my bi-weekly escapade known as Man On The Street and let the text then speak for itself.

1. This text is only about 1/3 of my conversation with the three women.
2. I said absolutely nothing throughout the entire text (I only nodded my head).
3. Prior to this text, I was told I was a "frozen chosen" because of my Presbyterian background.
4. Woman #1 hugged me. I don't like being touched.
5. In no way am I religious.
6. I've never wanted to laugh in somebody's face more and had to hold it back for a painstaking five minutes.
7. The text doesn't do the rapidity of the speech justice. Imagine this as constant communication without a single second of pause.
8. I'm going to hell.

And with that, the text of my Man On The Street Encounter (coming to a bookstore near you):

Woman #1: You've got a dangerous job. That's why you've got to cling on to faith and cling on to God. When you wake up, you should start thanking him for another beautiful day and for pointing your feet in the right direction on what he wants you to go get. More than likely, it's the Word and something he wants you to do for God's people because there's children in the dark that don't know him and don't know he's there for them, you understand? There's just in the dark feeding off the devil and they need to be feeding off God's word and you've got it, you're carrying it. He picked you for a reason (rounds of 'Oh yes he did'), a handsome young man.

Woman #2: He's like, 'Oh my goodness,' he doesn't know what he's gotten into. He was just asking some people about the park.

Woman #3: But it was a divine appointment. God loves you and you have lots of power in that pen.

Woman #1: As soon as you're able to get to the Bible, just ask God to show you what he wants from you.

Woman #3: Yeah, just let the Holy Spirit guide you. God must rule.

Woman #1: Ask God what he wants from you. He'll give you the Holy Ghost to lead you in the right direction, the safe direction. I reckon he'll keep harms out your way.

Woman #3: He'll keep you from wolves in sheep's clothing.

Woman #1: Seek him first. Ask him for his armor. Say a prayer and just thank him for getting you home. Once you get a hold of God, he'll give you more wisdom than any schooling. He will and he'll show you how to work that schooling. You'll pass like that. But you've got to hang in there. He ain't lost. A lot of people are like, 'I found God, I found God,' but no you didn't. He was never lost. He chose you. He chose you to do that. You're going to be successful.

Woman #2: There's going to be some trials and tribulations.

Woman #1: Like I said, there's going to be some dangerous times but you're going to have the angels with you. God got you. God got you as long as you get him in the morning and get him right there at night. Thank you God for another day. He'll get you. You going to be all right. You going to be very successful.

Woman #3: "He all like, 'Hey I came over here.'

(Cackles)

Woman #1: Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid because God got you. He a good God. You great now and you recording his word, you write down his word. You meet people of different nationalities and that's what God wants, that bouquet of colors and nationalities together on that paper.

Woman #3: Truth in print is so desperately needed and that's where your courage is needed, to stand by the truth.

Woman #1: I don't know where you at with God. Only you know. Just ask him to show you where he wants you at. You've got to get him first. Pray first. Get it first and he'll show you where to go in the Bible and you'll go right there. It will tell you right where to go. Always have time for the Bible.

Woman #3: They take you places in the Bible that you never hear about in church.

Woman #1: Whatever kind of relationship, I don't care how hard or how down you like, 'Oh God why me. Help me and pull me out of this God,' always pray for him.

(Flying pine cone nearly hits me)

Woman #3: What did you just throw Michael? So let's just pray for Jacob and send him on his way. We ask you to bless us and rest upon Jacob as his name speaks volumes. We ask that you bless his hand as he writes in journalism and we ask that you give him favor Father as you guide his path.

Woman #1: There's an angel with him God

Woman #3: To protect him in all the things he does.

Woman #1: Bless and protect him God with the blood over his life and his journalism and the name of people and his family. Thank you God.

Woman #3: And his future family. Guide them. And so shall it be.

(Undecipherable whoopings and praises to God)

Woman three: You just got a blessing and you got no idea.

I really had no idea.

Jacktown U.S.A.

Sorry for the lack of postage the past few weeks. Inspiration has been evading me like it has a restraining order against me.

I realized that a large part of starting blogs such as this was to keep in touch with other people and to share stories about what life is like for those few months outside of East Lansing. And when I think of being outside E.L., there's no other place I would rather be than Jackson, Michigan. When you think about it, there isn't a single "Jackson" city that's desirable. Jackson, Mississippi? Too hot and too much in Mississippi. Jackson, Tennessee? Too much country music. The other seven Jacksons? None of them are in Hawaii, so they don't matter.

Still, the amount of comedic gold that comes from this little hole in the map ceases to amaze me. As I'm chasing down incredible stories about teen swim meets, Fourth of July parades and raucous local government meetings, I get to meet and see some of the most interesting people God decided to put on this Earth to make the rest of us feel better about ourselves. Not to say all of Jackson is sketchy -- there are some nice neighborhoods and the eight people that live in them. But for the most part, Jackson is a land that time forgot, probably because it's awfully forgettable. It's still living in the 1980s, when factories were still running and Michael Jackson was still black. With it comes the people and stories, as mentioned below, that make Jackson the birthplace of substandidarity. I made that word up.

-- A county commissioner who is running for township supervisor doesn't know how to work a computer. He doesn't want to know because he's afraid of junk mail.
-- A sign on U.S. 127 denoting a factory: Screw Machine Services. I've racked my brain and come up with six interpretations. Three are inappropriate.
-- I've seen three signs outside churches that make me believe I'm going to hell in a waste basket. God is watching, people. And judging.
-- The biggest celebrities to hit the town in my time in Jackson: Erik Estrada, Rich Rod and a guy from the Blue Collar Comedy tour.
-- The Independence Day parades aren't really parades. They're tractor pulls.
-- A woman running for the township board of trustees doesn't want to talk to me because she doesn't know the issues affecting her town.
-- In case you haven't heard this gem yet: A man stabbed his mother in the neck with a dinner fork. Then stole a bike from a neighbor's garage. Then got into an argument with a woman on the street. Then hit said woman in the head with 10 pounds of frozen chicken. He was in our paper for man on the street two weeks earlier.
-- In an attempt to find people who knew about an assault, I knocked on the first door in a neighborhood. A young woman answered. She said she didn't know about anything. She also said she was an "entertainer in Las Vegas." She proceeded to put on shoes and walk around to three houses. She called me sweetheart the entire time and commented repeatedly on how young looking I was. She might have been drunk. I decided against leaving my card. I don't have a card.
-- Side story: The best part of my day sometimes is reading the letters sent to the one-time editors of Dear Abby. Too many people have screwed up marriages.
-- The headliners for the Jackson County Fair? The Nuge and the naked girl from High School musical. Classy.
-- Completely unrelated to Jackson: Ryan Field signs off of the Tigers pre-game show by saying, "Stay classy, Detroit." An oxymoron from a moron.


This was a completely random and probably unnecessary post, but that's the report from Jackson, Michigan: The place that elementary school forgot.

Can I buy a facelift?

You know who's more consistent than Cal Ripken Jr., more tenured than the Dalai Lama and glossier than a swath of leather?

The only woman in the world who can buy you a vowel.

I remember back in the day, way back in the day, when I was just a young lad watching Wheel of Fortune. I would yell and scream and most likely make absolutely no sense as contestants purchased consonants and interpretated inane idioms. And through it all, there was Vanna White. What a name, like it fell from the heavens, landed on toddler feet and ordered it to reveal letters like it was her job. Which it is.

Even before I lost my baby teeth, I knew she was quite a woman.

Even when I was playing Wheel of Fortune on a disk and she was scrambled in yellow, purple and green, Vanna was there.

Even now, Vanna is still rocking out at the big board, albeit with a shorter haircut and what appear to be some performance-enhancing drugs lodged in her moneymaker (that's her face, people).

Vanna's story is quite the interesting one, according to Wikipedia, which, by the way, is the best thing ever, because anybody in the world can write anything they want about any subject, so you know you're getting the best possible information.

Her first husband was a Playgirl model/Chippendales dancer (because really, the two are just complementary) that was killed in a plane crash, she wrote an autobiography when Reagan was president, she made several critically-abhorred acting appearances and she's been referenced at length in songs by Nelly and Weird Al (which is the universal sign that you have arrived). Perhaps most importantly, the Guinness Book of World Records recognized her as television's most steadfast clapper, averaging 750 per episode.

She made her debut in the early 1980s and has shown no signs up letting up. At the age of 51, Vanna is still rocking out as the co-host of Wheel of Fortune, likely making enough money to buy the fricking alphabet. It'll be interesting to see what happens in, oh, 7 or 8 years when she's closer to collecting social security than cat calls. Still, I'll always tune in to watch Vanna do the world's easiest job (if you can think of something easier, I'll be forever in your debt), although I don't know what it's like to walk back and forth in heels all day.

Vanna, I'll always want to buy a "u".

Man In Need On The Street

I hate getting all sappy just about as much as anybody, but sometimes things just kind of make you stop and think about what just happened.

I was trolling the Jackson Crossing Mall for my bi-weekly fun-fest known as Street Talk (the south central Michigan version of "man on the street") today. I've done it before at the mall and people typically are pretty receptive (i.e. some say yes, some ignore you and some worry about their 'do). It was pretty ho-hum. I've kind of been in a rut the last few days at work, so there wasn't my usual hint of enthusiasm and awkward thanking for accosting you like a stalker and wanting to take a mug.

The lady seemed nice enough looking. I'd fulfilled my quota for young white woman, young black woman, middle-aged white man, middle-aged white woman and so on up to the heptagenerians (if only people knew that I was consciously profiling them while shooting their profile). She was a perfect candidate: young enough where she wouldn't be cranky and remember the FDR era but also old enough to not pass for another soccer mom. I'm not saying she was good looking for a 70-year-old (I'm too young to know what a good one looks like), but I doubted she would shy away from a camera like it was going to steal her soul.

I started my approach. Her eyes gazed behind a pair of thick glasses. She had makeup on that extended from the end of her eyelid, the kind that older women and 15-year-old punk girls pull off with some form of poise. A Target bag draped her arm and she opted for the walking ramp instead of the stairs. Light didn't follow her down the ramp. The stairs provided better illumination. How was I to know she was taking a dark, difficult path in more ways than one?

We met in the deepest corner of the mall, where people were as sparse as stocked storefronts. If anything were to happen in our cove, only the employees in the adjacent Army recruiting station would notice. "Excuse me," I said softly. Our eyes met, mine more intently than hers as she fiddled through her new purchase. "My name is Jacob and I'm a reporter from the Citizen Patriot." Still fiddling. "Each week we do a thing called Street Talk where we ask some random people a kind of random question." A glance and a stare, the kind I can only imagine is what a deer sees when watching a hunter about to pull the trigger. "Do you mind if I ask you a quick question and maybe take a quick picture to go along with it?" A quick pause and a response.

"What's your question."

Success. If I can get past the photo part, I'm usually in the money like A-Rod. My carefully crafted question, written in my note pad as if I'd forget it after asking 10 people the same query, comes out with a large dash of "uh" and "um" mixed in nicely. "What are your thoughts on the Supreme Court's decision last week regarding the Second Amendment, which basically affirmed people have the right to own a handgun?"

She thought for a second and scrunched her face. I'd seen the scrunch before and knew what was coming. Either there was somewhere she had to be or she didn't want to talk about gun rights. And who could blame her? Who doesn't have somewhere better to be than talking about gun rights to a complete stranger in the most hidden part of a semi-crowded mall at 3:15 p.m.? Who wants to talk about gun rights that isn't a card-carrying NRA member or opposer anyway?

"I'm sorry, but I really don't know what's been going on with that."

Understandable. Not everybody is a newsophile. I began my escape, so as not to make the situation more uncomfortable than need be. I couldn't escape what she then said.

"My husband has been on life support for the past week so I've been in the hospital the whole week. I want to help you but I just can't right now."

She's not the one that should be helping me. I should be helping her. I should be dropping my notebook, tape recorder, pen and camera (OK, that one might be too expensive to let slip away) and carrying her bag to her car. Who doesn't need someone to carry for them every now and then? I should ask if there's anything else I can do to help. I should do these things.

I don't. Would anybody else? I kind of doubt it. But I don't know.

My detachment from our fleeting conversation is nearly complete. "Oh, that's OK. It's not a big deal at all. Thank you for your help." The stark line delivered once more.

She walks away.

I stop. Look back. Think about what just happened.

Killing Me Loudly

It happens every summer: Some absolutely moronic song that defies logic and common decency comes along and makes me want to pull a Van Gogh times two so that I don't have to endure its demented attempt at being catchy.

Yet society listens, radio stations blast it every 15 minutes (yeah, I'm looking at you 97.5), it runs during commercials for FOX's newest show that jumped the shark before production started and the pseudo-singer becomes the latest one-hit wonder.

This year — disgustingly — is no exception. The song, "I Kissed A Girl," is about a quarter-life female who discovers that cherry chapstick tastes good, especially when it comes from the lips of another chick.

Now normally guys aren't opposed to anything that is within a mile's distance of girl-on-girl action. But it's time to speak out against the dumbing down of our airwaves. I'd really like to meet the people who heard this song and said, "Let's plaster it all over the radio and wait for the idiotic public to become obsessed with it because they're too stupid to actually listen to real music." I don't claim to be a musical connoisseur by any means. In fact, I don't even like the Beatles (put that in your drug paraphernalia of choice and smoke it). But there has to be something better than this. I'd rather listen to Snoop Dogg or Justin Timberlake or (wait for it...keep waiting.....) New Kids on the Block.

Here's a sampling of lyrics from "I Kissed A Girl" (a note to my pastor if you're reading this: please stop here so that you don't think the entire world is doomed to hell.):

"I kissed a girl and I liked it
The taste of her cherry chap stick
I kissed a girl just to try it
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it
It felt so wrong
It felt so right
Don't mean I'm in love tonight
I kissed a girl and I liked it
I liked it"

I didn't think it was possible, but this makes Nickelback look like Bob Dylan, Fergie like Joni Mitchell and Daughtry like Tom Waits. The sad part is the people actually eat this stuff up like hot dogs at a Fourth of July party. On the way to work today, a woman called in to say that her 5-year-old can lip-synch the song. No wonder teenage girls are now getting pregnant by the dozen plus five (this might be a somewhat flawed argument because, after all, babies can't result from what Perry is preaching).

But you know what? Who cares. This song defies all attempt at being rational and intelligent, so why can't I do the same? It's a disgrace that such a mindless try at making "music" (does anyone consider this mindless background beat to be melodic?) makes its way up the charts. It's not the first time it has happened and it won't be the last. And yes, music is nearly completely subjective, but there's just some bit of objectivity that has to go off in minds that says, "I'm probably losing brain cells by listening to this."

I know that I listened to "I Kissed A Girl" just to try it and I didn't like it. You shouldn't either.

My ol' girl

I want to say sorry to you, old girl. I've tried, and I mean really tried, to give you the best life possible. I remember when I first met you, it was like a bird finally flapping its wings and taking flight. My parents introduced me to you and I never looked back (expect for that dark time where we had to be separated because of college). I've given so much to you, put so much time, money and effort into maintaining our relationship, that I can't imagine getting along without you.

I know, I could have done more. There was that time where I accidently jumped on you (sorry about that one). Oh, and remember when somebody hit you and I wasn't there to defend you? Sorry it took so long for me to get around to fixing that one. I could have spent some more time with you, but you were just too expensive (especially as the months have gone by). We could have taken more trips, ran away together more often, but I'm just not too adventureous and rich. I'm sorry I've always been kind of messy, but I'm a pretty busy guy (I figure it's a pet peeve of yours, but I appreciate that you've never said anything).

I have to say, it's been nice that we've been hanging out more this summer. There's nothing that brightens my morning better than waking up and hearing you start up again, even if you can be a little noisy. I know we may not be as close during the school year, but I don't mean to neglect you. That's just the way things work out, I guess. We'll definitely be tighter in the fall, though. We'll go places, like the library or the movies or the mall. You know, the places we've been going for more than three years now. Can you believe it's been that long?

Sure, we took a while to find each other. It took each of us about three-quarters of our lives to come together. But the time we've shared has been pretty special. I've given you nicknames, gotten angry when people hurt you, fought over you, spent way too much on you (I swear I'm not bitter about that one) and met amazing people because of you. You are my catalyst, the thing that gets me to the place I need to be in life. I can't imagine my life without you.

Here's to your first 100,000 miles. I've got to say, they were pretty special, ol' girl.