Show Me the Money by Sal Moriarty
Some people have no idea what they're doing, and a lot of them are really good at it. George Carlin
I did something this weekend I haven't done in eons. I went to the mall.
Parkdale Mall seems to be carrying on reasonably well. There were plenty of people out and about. Of course, being a fossil, I can remember when Parkdale had two or three record stores, two or three bookstores, a food court with a variety of offerings, and big department stores. There are representations of those categories now, but they're shadows of their former glory.
Nevertheless, I decided to do some people-watching. So, I parked myself outside Spencer's to see what the Golden Triangle had to offer (incidentally, if you haven't been to Spencer's in a while, and are not a fan of tee-shirts hyping oral sex and not-so-clever references to genitalia, you might want to give it a pass, and wander down toward the abandoned Sears, just past the abandoned
Chic-fil-A).
The first thing I noticed were tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. Folks with tattoos on their arms, tattoos on their thighs, tattoos on their backs, and tattoos on their calves. I am confident they had tattoos elsewhere, but thankfully we have not yet arrived at a place where folks who don't own mirrors are allowed to wander the mall naked (but it's coming).
In the interest of full disclosure, I have tattoos. However, in my own defense, I wear long sleeves pretty much exclusively these days.
Observed several older women sporting shirts reading, “Jesus is my Savior. Donald Trump is my President” - not two names I would have associated with one another ten years ago. I'm not religious, but I would be reluctant to wear such an outfit, for fear I might burst into flames. Christianity has really changed since the days of love thy neighbor and “The Old Rugged Cross”.
I saw youngsters, not even on the map in the nineties, with Nirvana's logo emblazoned across their torsos. Is it possible Cobain and company are experiencing a renaissance with the offspring of today's bad parents? Perhaps, but I have my doubts. Equally perplexing, the same demographic contributing to the retirement funds of the surviving geezers from AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. Now, I'm all for a new generation of Highway to Hell aficionados, and hidden Satanic messages that drove fundamentalist preachers loco back in the eighties, but, again, skeptical it's about that.
It didn't take long to be struck by an obvious fact: your average American is a walking advertisement. Human billboards, if you will. Free ones. What kind of person plops down hard-earned money to buy – wait for it – a Buc-ee's tee shirt? More confounding, a woman promoting Dolce and Gabbana across her bosom, while holding hands with a guy in Duck Dynasty bib overalls. Isn't that one of the seven signs of the apocalypse?
Cowboys caps. Texans tees. Astros flip-flops. No small number of folk with the insignias of those professional sports franchises permanently inked into their flesh (guess the craze came too late for the Oilers, not soon enough to catch the Cowboys when they didn't suck). More fascinating, but reflective of the times, no shortage of southeast Texans (safe to assume) doing the bidding of the New York Yankees. Texans bending the knee to New Yorkers is a phenomenon I'm glad my late father is not here to witness.
All that said, lest you misunderstand, I am not against advertising. I'm no Commie, no matter what you might have heard. No, but if Sal's going to advertise for the rich and powerful, Sal gots to get paid. Don't wanna be nobody's sucker (if you'll forgive the double-negative).
