Mall Rats and Memories: The Rise and Fall of America's Retail Cathedrals

Step into the time machine as we take you on a hilarious and nostalgic journey through the glory days of American malls. From the neon-lit fountains to the sticky floors of the food court, we're diving deep into the shallow end of consumerism's greatest hits.

In this episode, we'll explore:

• The birth of the mall and how it became America's favorite babysitter
• Why Victor Gruen's urban utopia turned into a teenage wasteland
• The inevitable decline of these retail behemoths (spoiler: it wasn't just Amazon's fault)
• What happens when your local Wet Seal becomes a mixed-use condo

Join us for a sardonic stroll down memory lane, where the escalators always work and the Orange Julius flows freely. Whether you were a mall rat or just someone who enjoyed the occasional Cinnabon-induced sugar coma, this episode is your ticket to reliving the absurdity and unexpected poignancy of America's mall culture.

Transcript

0:12

Hey folks, welcome to Deep Dives in the Shallow End, where we examine the overlooked corners of existence and try not to have a breakdown about how, deep down, we're all just complex meatbags dressed in ill-fitting shirts from torrid. I'm your not-so-expert host Donovan, thank you for joining me where today we're going to talk about a phenomenon that defined a generation. A place where consumerism met hormones, where the smell of chlorine from a nearby fountain would sting your nose like Davidoff cool water after the monthly shave of your wispy mustache. And where air conditioning was a promise you could count on. Not like when my wife swore to be faithful, but hey, we're sticking in there, you know, for the kids. And by kids I mean our 18-year-old diabetic chihuahua with cataracts and who shakes like she's in the Arctic on a particularly blustery day. I mean, neither of us want her, but we can't give up on her. So I guess suddenly some promises do matter. I'm sure you've guessed it or simply read the title of the episode. Today we are talking about a magical place called The Mall. So strap on and prepare for a trip back in time when people were forced to interact, walk, or at least clock a few more miles on their personal mobility scooters. This was a time where we could not rely on podcasts to drown out the destructive forces of our own thoughts. No. Back then, we knelt at the altar of a powerful entity. in a cathedral of excess, gilded decor, and the intoxicating smell of Wetzel's pretzels. And then once church got out, you know, we'd head down to the mall, assuming we hadn't been completely fleeced by the thugs in crisp short-sleeve oxfords and collection baskets. The mall, my friends, was not just a building. It was a cultural touchstone, a must-visit destination. It was practically its own ecosystem. Imagine the glory days. It's the 1980s and 90s. You're bathed in the neon glow of an Orange Julius sign while Cyndi Lauper shrieks from the overhead speakers. The air smells faintly of Cinnabon and the aforementioned chlorine. If you weren't buying something, you were loitering, but that was okay, as long as you didn't give any side eye to the zoftig gentleman with the iron-on badge. And let's not forget the sheer joy of window shopping, pretending for a brief moment that you might actually get that Oakland Raiders starters jacket, only to remember that your parents told you someone would probably shoot you for it so never come in this house. Well, screw you, Mom. This is America. I dress like a slob and I can still get shot for simply going too near a public school. The mall was where dreams were sold, marked up, and eventually put on clearance. Like growing up to find out that a college education wouldn't guarantee you a great career, rather it was four years of binge drinking and experimentation interrupted by the occasional final exam. Now you find yourself in your early 40s choosing between student loan payments and cholesterol meds, just waiting for the day when either the payments end or you do. Either way, fret not. Peace is coming. And malls weren't just about buying stuff. They were community centers, country clubs for townie trash. Your parents dropped you off for hours, trusting the food court to babysit you while they were off doing adult things, like pretending to like jazz, red wine, and micro-brews. That's what we called craft beer back in those days. The mall was the wild west of pre-smartphone social interaction. You either talked with your friends or you were fending off those, let's call them overly friendly adults who apparently had nowhere else to be on a Friday night. leaning in just a little too closely. And it was like, hey, dude, not really interested in feeling your stubble on my cheek or smelling the wild turkey coming off your breath. Come to think of it, it was very much like post smartphone interaction, but thankfully without the physical proximity. So how did these tempting temples of perpetual purchase rise? For that, we have to travel a bit further back in time. Picture it, it's the 1950s, post-World War II America. Suburbs are booming. American Dream is cranked up to an 11 while cars are multiplying like rabbits cranked out of their gourds on Molly. Sorry, I try not to use that voice too often. And amidst all this growth, enter Victor Gruen, an architect who wanted to create an urban utopia. He saw malls as a way to bring the European town square experience to suburban America. You know, culture, cafes, overwhelming body odor. Except this version was less about sipping espresso and more about buying the latest BK Rocco's from Floorsheim. and they'd better be the ones with dymacel technology because we needed that improved shock absorption. And only then could we have had the chance to be the next MC Hammer or Kool Moe Dee. The first fully enclosed mall opened in 1956. That was the Southdale Center in Edina, Minnesota. And the only thing better than the mall to come out of Edina was Paris Bennett. And she should have won that season of American Idol, but America chose that troll with the silver tresses, Taylor Hicks. Almost 20 years later, and I'm still calling for a recount. Hashtag not my American Idol. But this mall had everything. Air conditioning, fountains, escalators, hordes of white people. I mean, this is Minnesota in the 1950s, so let's face facts, it wasn't exactly a melting pot. It was like this backwoods Midwest town had been thrust into the future where they were gifted a shrine to the lower middle class spending power, complete with all the solemnity of a discount cathedral of consumption. And thus, the mall was born, an antidote to the boredom of suburban sprawl. where the only thing to break up the monotony of cookie cutter houses was if you were lucky enough to come across the occasional power substation. It wasn't just a shopping destination, it was a spectacle. A place where commerce, entertainment, and social life all intersected in one glorious climate-controlled bubble. By the 1980s, malls were everywhere. They were as essential to American life as Reageanomics and ignoring the warnings on cigarette packs. If you were a teenager, it was the place to see and be seen. Preferably in high-waisted jeans and shoulder pads. Oh my god. I am just realizing that these abominations are back in fashion now. If acid-wash jeans come back, I just don't know if my fragile psyche will be able to handle it. I'm not strong. The mall had everything. The hot fashions of wet seal, the chaotic piles of garbage in Spencer's gifts, and the sweet serenade of an arcade where children were endlessly pumping quarters into machines to continue their would-be morphine drip so they could just be numb to the persistent piercing pangs of puberty for a few paltry minutes longer. And malls were about discovery. You learned about the newest fashions or discovered new music in Sam Goody, or by hearing the most recent band to be rejected from the State Fair Tour playing live in front of the food court. Victor Gruen probably didn't anticipate that his creation would become the primary site for American teenage rebellion. But there it was, complete with a security guard who was hell-bent on dishing out justice to any group of more than three acne-covered tweens. As though confiscating a skateboard was going to make the inevitable return to his empty studio apartment any more fulfilling as he pulled the bed out of his sofa to cuddle up with that crusty body pillow while drifting to sleep to the dulcet tones of cops' reruns. And by the way, whose great idea was it to put power-hungry meatheads who couldn't pass the physical or psychological tests to become police in the role of protector to children? But nothing gold can stay, Ponyboy, and the malls were no exception. Their decline along with music and fashion, started when the 2000s rolled in. And it was like watching your beloved childhood roller rink turn into a discount carpet warehouse. Absolutely heartbreaking. The internet appeared and suddenly you could shop without ever leaving your house. You could finally embrace your authentic self, shun your friends, shun your family, put tin foil all over your windows and binge eat Sour Patch Kids. No judgment. I was there once too, and the tin foil is still up. Online shopping was just too convenient. Why go to a mall? angry clerks, or crowds of people who would just as soon trample you to get to that doorbuster of a TV deal on Black Friday as Look At You. We could just click a few buttons and bam, all our darkest desires are fulfilled. Or just desires, whatever. Add to that the economic downturn of 2008 where the American dream was replaced by, oh, just a few years of existential nightmares and malls started going the way of the Roman Empire. Once beautiful bastions of power, excess, and exploitation. Now just sad, hollow ruins ready to crumble under their own weight. Shops closed, food courts turned into ghost towns, and that once magical fountain was more algae than water. Suddenly, those parking lots were empty, like some dystopian future where seagulls and the homeless inherit the earth. And then came the pandemic, a final blow to the already gasping retail ecosystem, like a horse with a broken leg in an old western film. You knew it was coming, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Even nostalgia wasn't enough to keep malls afloat when everyone had been locked inside just compulsively gambling away their stimulus checks reaching for that trifecta. But hey, we were all just one big win away from being able to stop. We had to hang in there. And by 2021, most malls that hadn't already turned into barren wastelands were hanging on by a thread, relying on niche attractions like indoor skydiving, axe throwing bars, and the elderly power walking in their tracksuits at 5am while kvetching about the generation they raised and the economy they shaped. But you know, the thought of such a quick decline of an American institution is a bit sad. The mall, it made people feel welcomed and a part of something. It was a place you could go when there was just nothing else to do. It was a place where the weirdness of society and daily life was amplified by fluorescent lighting and the persistent cloying smell of Panda Express. But in reality, thinking back, malls were like the Kama Sutra of retail, exciting in theory, but in reality, they were inconvenient, mildly painful, and probably not that sanitary. At least the way I do it. What remains of mall culture today is mostly in ruins, both literally and metaphorically. Dead malls are a whole subgenre on the internet now. People film themselves wandering through the derelict remains like urban archeologists uncovering a time capsule of Auntie Anne's, fanny packs, and shattered dreams. But some malls are trying to come back. They're being turned into mixed use spaces because who doesn't wanna live where Hot Topic used to be? where chunky Goths would squeeze into ironic versions of more mainstream garments. How else were you going to decry conformity than by purchasing mass-manufactured goods made by children at a high profit margin? And who wouldn't want to live amongst the ghost of Tiffany? Wait, what? Is that- Well, it turns out I'm being told Tiffany is still very much alive. I wonder what she's been up to. If I had to guess, she's wishing she were actually alone now. But instead, is probably just working the same cruise circuit as Molly Ringwald and Allie Sheedy. But I bet they scrub a mean toilet. There's also something almost eerie about these dead malls, much like when you connect with the dead eyes of your old fourth grade teacher who has had to take on a greeter position at Walmart in her retirement just to be able to pay for her insulin. But sorry, Mrs. W. It should be your honor to die from a manageable disease, like a true American. These malls are like echoes of an America that once was, now relegated to being the butt of a joke, like the Pet Rock, Pogs, or Ronald Reagan. The same fountain where you once tossed coins and made wishes is now bone dry, unless you count the mess that some stray dog left after giving birth to her litter. And the neon signs that used to light up the night? They just serve to illuminate a new, more disconnected version of retail where we miss out on the benefit of sampling Hickory Farm sausages, if they're even there at all. You can almost hear the distant laughter of teenagers, the clacking of heels on tile, and the background hum of pop songs that are now sung by middle-aged accountants and teachers at high school reunions desperately trying to cling to whatever shreds of youth they can still muster from behind those rose-colored glasses. It's haunting, but it's also fascinating. A stark reminder how even the most permanent seeming places can vanish, like a boost mobile in a Minneapolis riot. Deep dives in the shallow end. So what can we learn from the rise and fall of the mall? Well, maybe that everything, even a glowing bastion of neon and capitalism, is temporary. It's a reminder that things change, and the places we once held dear might one day become empty fields, parking lots, or Amazon fulfillment centers. But the memories? They stay. The time you hit the leaderboard on Pac-Man. The time you saw the mall elf from Santa's Village sitting on that vibrating massage chair outside of Sharper Image and it made you feel confused but also excited. Or that time you got diarrhea from the taco place and couldn't quite make it to the bathroom in time. All those little moments are worth holding on to. And maybe there's something to be said about the way we attach ourselves to these places. Malls were built to make us spend money. But they also became places where we built relationships, however fleeting or awkward they may have been. It's a strange and beautiful irony that something so commercial could foster moments that felt so personal, like when we cry at the final roast ceremony on The Bachelor. So dear listeners, stay curious. maybe a bit absurd, and maybe take a moment to appreciate the strange cultural artifacts we build. Because one day, even the most enduring mall fountain will stop running, and all that will remain is the story of how we were once there, reflecting, chucking coins, and making wishes that never seem to come true. Thanks for being here with me. Take care of yourselves and others, and I hope you'll join me next time.