Last week, my friend Bridget and I spent our time in New Jersey dealing with a State of Emergency due to that hellish three inches of slush we got on Monday. It was quite thrilling (no, I’m not jealous of those tanned people who went to the Bahamas or anything). Now that I’m back to the daily grind of reading and writing, I would like to take time to reflect on what I did over Spring Break. No, I didn’t soak up the rays in Aruba or go backpacking through Europe; I ventured out to the place you went to in high school more than the backseat of your boyfriend’s car. That’s right — The Mall.
Now I say The Mall because every high school had one. The Mall was a place where your entire high school went to on the weekends or after class. The Geeks checked out Natural Wonders, the Jocks went to Lids, the Slackers went to Electronics Boutique, and the Cheerleaders went into Contempo Casuals. Yet, everyone saw each other in the Food Court. (Note: The cookie stand does not count. See “Mallrats” for details). The Mall was also the place to send mean glances to people from your neighboring high school. (Ever notice how everyone who went to the neighboring high school “sucked?” You never really knew why they sucked. It was just one of those things you were supposed to accept as right, like how our country selects the president.)
Anyway, I set out on my venture to The Mall to buy a birthday present for my friend. My plan was just to go in and go out. But, I discovered The Mall had new patrons and new stores. When the hell did Sbarro become a Friendly’s? Why the need for seven bookstores? If I can’t find the new issue of People, I think I can deal. Why are there a million 13-year-old girls wearing Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man jackets with matching rubber band on their braces and cell phones faceplates? They’re 13! Who are they calling? Carson Daly on TRL?
I went past the huddled Marshmallow girls and made my way into Sam Goody to look for my friend’s present, a Phil Spector Motown CD. Being the smart college student that I am, I made my way over to the Soul section, which would be the most logical place for a Motown CD to be. No dice. I went up to the 15-year-old Eminem wannabe to ask if Sam Goody carried the CD. He sent me to the Phil Collins section. Be gone foul member of Genesis!
Coming home from a hard day at The Mall, I rediscovered the joy of television. I mean, getting only PAX and the Spanish Channel are definitely the perks of my $35,000 education, but getting “Behind the Music: Vanilla Ice” at home is just the cherry on top of the sundae. I watch whatever is on at home just because I can. I mean, if I had cable here, I would never think of watching “The E! True Hollywood Story: Growing Pains” at 2 p.m., but at home I realize this is a treasured moment. (Did anyone else notice how creepy Kirk Cameron got?) I forgot about the infomercials! With all of the new channels out there (The Self Help Network and the She-Ra Live at Greyskull Network, for example), wouldn’t you think they would have a 24-hour Infomercial Channel? I know you watch the George Foreman Grill one every time it’s on, as well as the Showtime Rotisserie Grill and the Quick n’ Brite. If we had that scary English guy with the bow tie appear at our basketball games, we’d get a hell of a lot more patrons then we do when we hand out boxer shorts.
After a thrilling day of television watching and shopping, I realize how much I love my car. Having a car in Boston is as useless as trying to find a hot guy at Boston College. But, if I did have a car here, I’d realize what a pain in the ass it is to cart everyone around just to lose gas, time, money and your privilege NOT to listen to some bad dance music. However, when I’m home, I WANT to drive. I don’t care if it costs $47.80 to fill up my Neon. I don’t give a damn if my best friend thinks the “Harry and the Hendersons Original Motion Picture Soundtrack” deserves to be heard at full volume. I’m just glad I’m not paying a dollar to get on the T that was supposed to arrive 20 minutes ago.
All my friends from home, who either go to schools that are in backwoods country or where the parking permit is actually reasonably priced, think they’re getting a free ride. Of course, the only reason I’m driving is just so you can assure myself I remember how.
So now we’re all back at Boston University. Telemundo anyone?
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