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352 pages, Paperback
First published November 2, 2010
The mall is one of the best places to go to see human nature at its best. Or worst, depending on how you want to look at it. Men and women, teenagers and children, shopping, eating, gossiping, filling up the vacuum of their lives with retail therapy and empty calories.
In the United States, there are twice as many shopping centers as there are high schools, and the shopping mall has replaced the church as the temple of cultural worship. In a society that encourages its citizens to measure their worth by financial success and material possessions, American humans spend more of their income on shoes, watches, and jewelry than they do on higher educations.
Sure, it keeps Greed and Envy busy, but it makes my existence a living hell.
Back when humans were still in their hunter-gatherer phase, existence was all about survival, fulfilling the basic needs of food, clothing, and shelter, so it's not like there were a lot of options for better living. Food wasn't prepared by Martha Stewart. Clothing didn't come with a Calvin Klein logo. And shelters didn't require Ralph Lauren curtains with a matching duvet.
The thing about humans is that they're addicted to products.
Habitual consumers. Indulgence abusers. Gratification automatons.
Programmed to need and want and buy.
MP3 players. Xboxes. Playstation 3s.
TiVo. Surround sound. High-definition flat-screen TVs.
A thousand cable channels with movies and music and pay-per-view.
Distracted by their desires, overwhelmed by their needs and wants, they'll never remain on their assigned paths. Their optimal futures. Their most beneficial fates.
Not every human being has some kind of sexual hang-up or disorder or desire waiting to be realized. But most Americans do. This probably has something to do with the fact that the United States demonizes sex and represses sexual energy. Personally, I prefer the Italian and French. To them, sex is just a part of their culture.
Some of the places are a little seedy and can occasionally get rowdy, like this one, but I understand why human men enjoy going to strips clubs.
Beautiful women dressed in not much, walking up to you and sitting in your lap, smelling yummy. Not to mention the private rooms and pole dancing and naked flesh in Technicolor abundance. True, the strippers are being paid to be nice and flirtatious and desirous, but technically, when you go out on a date with a woman, you're paying for it, too. And unless you're Greed or Frugality or a tightfisted bastard who insists on going Dutch, you're going to spend about as much money on a date as you are at a strip club.
Of course, if you and your date don't connect for whatever reason, you're stuck on the date for at least a couple of hours until it ends. You can't just walk out after paying the cover charge and say, "Thanks a lot." And when the evening finally does come to an end, chances are your date won't rub up against you, give you a lap dance, and brush her breasts against your face and say, "Oops."