Tonight I wish I had a big declaration to make. I wish I could say I’ve given it all up to move to Montana and open a junk store. A small town, perhaps, where recycling is encouraged, and they need just my brand of savoir faire for a cafe-slash-artspace that I will open. Also, you could buy the stuff in the cafe if you wanted, like the cup or the table.
But I don’t have that tonight. I am not getting married. I am not pregnant. I am not going to get my masters’ degree, and I am not even going to freak on the Haagen Dazs in the freezer. I’m living my little life, in little glendale. Which has become Big Glendale over the weekend, with the introduction of the Americana at Brand, a high-end shopping mecca that has made our depressing, dusty main drag a kind of Vegasdisney. Suddenly there are shrubs and grass and a pond and a Kiehl’s. And an 18plex theater.
My first thought upon sighting this was, “Wow, maybe if people buy more crap it will make our Salvation Army better.”
Here’s to trickling down.