The United Strip Malls of America

30 Minus 2 Days of Writing (2013)
Day 11: “Road Trip”

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Sometimes I think the United States should rename itself the “United Strip Malls of America”. No matter where you travel within the contiguous forty-eight states, you’re bound to notice the uniform effect of the Twentieth Century’s grand homogenization of the great American landscape.

On countless roads in most developed parts of the country, all you’ll see as you drive around this sprawling nation are parking lots, open-air shopping centers, franchised restaurant chains, and the occasional cluster of gas stations. Surrounding every suburb, you’ll see countless predictable rows of neat little storefronts, all touting your various necessities such as gift cards, picture framing, t-shirt silk screening, all-leather apparel, frozen yogurt, fast food, pizza, and scuba diving gear. Over the years, convenient consumerism has shifted from the simple realm of purchasable commodities, into a completely commoditized way of life.

I was born and raised here in California. I’ve driven all around this great state, from Silicon Valley and the San Francisco Bay Area, to Sacramento and the furthest reaches of the Central Valley — to as far north as Oroville, and as far south as San Diego. While I recognize that there are still a number of bustling cities and townships in California that set themselves apart by their uniquely rich identities, those places feel like the exception rather than the rule. I’ve stood on street corners all over California, marveling at the bland, statewide uniformity of storefronts and strip mall layouts, and I’ve thought to myself many times: “This place doesn’t seem so different from home.” It’s hard to be homesick sometimes when you’re surrounded by so much sameness.

A few years ago, I flew to Indiana to attend my friend’s wedding. As I walked down the local streets soaking in the sights and sounds, I was surprised by how familiar everything seemed. There I was in the American Midwest, a California kid roaming two thousand miles away from home, and I found myself surrounded by a sea of expressways, big box stores, fast food restaurants, and standard-issue strip malls. Aside from the humidity and the slightly unfamiliar sounds of the spoken Indiana accent, I felt like I was still at home on the West Coast in my homogenized little corner of the South Bay. Indiana is a lovely place, and my trip there was filled with good times, but the familiarity of the landscape, pocked with storefronts and strip malls, defied my romantic expectations of Middle America, and left me feeling a little disappointed.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in the business of decrying the “evils” of free enterprise and big business. I like big box stores, office supply outlets, huge pet care depots, overstocked supermarkets, and the occasional visit to a Chili’s restaurant as much as the next red-blooded American. It just feels as though American society has reached a point now where we place less value on individuality and uniqueness in favor of commoditized, commercial predictability. The only sense of shared cultural identity we all seem to have left is television, movies, Top 40 radio, and viral videos on YouTube featuring babies and cats.

No, the sky isn’t falling, and I’m not saying America has irrevocably lost its way. I just think we’ve lost something in the midst of all this bland, commercial uniformity.

Anyhow, that’s all I have to say about that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Best Buy to pick up a remote controlled television wristwatch, and a voice-activated blender. They’re on sale for President’s Day, you know. Interested in dinner later? Applebee’s at 6. It’s the one on Oak Street. From here, you’ll want to make a right on the corner of Dunkin’ Donuts, and that Tandoori Indian place. Go three miles, and then make a left at McDonald’s. No, not that McDonald’s — I mean the one next to the furniture outlet. Finally, make a right immediately after the Pizza Hut, and you’ll see Applebee’s on the left next to the Sprint store and the Jamba Juice. You can’t miss it.

30 Minus 2 Days of Writing (2013)
A painful exercise in forced inspiration brought to you by
“We Work for Cheese“