Okay, let's start from the top:

The ugliest unit eyescape in Horton Plaza, and I mean the ugggliest, is the view straight on with your back to this kid store called Gymboree on the topmost level of the joint, so-called North, Level 3 - the fabulous "Galleria" level. Take the elevator or stairs, walk don't run, lean against the rail facing south for prob'ly the stupidest view of that stupid stoopid tall sharp-angled Thing most people prob'ly think of when they think of the Plaza — that big black/white/brown wedge of metaphorical Cheese with the farcical Arches which make merry architecture Reference but little (if any) nongratuitous architectural Sense.

And above the arches, circles. Circles "cut" or "punched" in the swiss...jarlsberg...gouda. As it were: "holes." Holes with a fencelike mesh of varying thickness creating (a) the kitschy outlines of a Greek cross and concentric inner circle ("halo") and (b) an obstacle, presumably, to pigeons getting too cozy a foot, er, clawhold and doodying the beauty (directly) below. Only from the v. top walkway can these circles be viewed at approx. their own level; can they thus be gauged to in fact be circles (as opposed to common ellipses); can we determine with any degree of empirical certainty why feathered friends larger than sparrows do not indeed nest, even rest, in their roomy concavity. More importantly, only from this height may we use them as holes qua holes, may we gaze directly through them to the other side. The circle/hole we seek: leftmost on the cheddar's northern face.

And through this aperture, through its meshwork cross and mini-halo, we see: portions of Two other Aps! And their crosses and etc. (And sky beyond.) From the inside p.o.v. of the southern cheeseface. "Revealed" Gratuitous Structure cannot be beat. Time for a treat:

White chocolate chunk w/macadamias at Mrs. Fields Cookies. Small "Super" fruit shake at Bananas. Small order cheese fries at Boardwalk Fries. Cookie stale, greezy, so sweet it tastes salty. Shake iceheavy, tasteless. Spuds themselves excellent; cheese liquid, gluey; sensational grease. Time to return to a theme of the piece:

(Which goes like this.) Horton Plaza, the whole damn thing, is, Eye contend, the eyesorest urban/suburban consumption park ("mall") in the land, the third or fourth Most Hideous architecturally begotten whatsit (any genre, anywhere) Eye have actually, personally, so far Seen. That so repellent a mass of shit has been deemed even marginally mass-acceptable is something Eye, a broadminded, whimsical dude, cannot begin to fathom. That San Diegans of so many stripes have in fact embraced it, rather than napalmed or radically defaced it, makes me fear for the future of Vision. (Or something like that.) And what say U?

"I like it, I like it," says Kate Loholly, dental hygienist, Golden Hill. "It's a great place to meet." Meet? "People." People. First let's meet some stores.

Come Buy With Me, Come Buy, Let's...I'm gonna buy something, I don't know what. I've got no material needs, not per se, no wants, no itches in need of imminent scratching. Don't wanna sound like a saint but I've got no neuroses (current( that compel me to merely purchase. The hankerings will be minimal, less than minimal, let's see if I can even scare up the "motivation"...

The Candy Barrel. Imagine: candy in barrels. (What'll they think of next?)

Banana Republic. Imperialism as hip, cool and (above all) chic. Imagine.

Wicks 'n' Sticks. Candles 'n' candles. ('N' matches.)

Storton's Men Fashion Theatre (rhymes with "He ate 'er"). James Dean in left window, Clark Gable in right. Be a rebel, be a gent: stop and shop garments either way.

House of Almonds. Featuring: pistachios - "Our lowest price of the year" - $4.97/lb. Now let's see if Kite Country has jockstraps. Nope, just kites.

Horton Toy & Doll. Ant farms make my-t-fine wedding gifts. Many times I've given. They are always well received. Sooner or later someone else I know will be regist'ring his/her lovematch with the state. But all they got's the "deluxe" version - 23 bucks and change. "You don't have the, um, regular model?" "Ten dollars, we're all out." "When're you - " "In a couple weeks. This one's better." Nuh thanx. (Ameri-fascist flag poster on the door.)

Caswell-Massey. Ok, I know what I'll get: snuff. A great tobacco buzz. If you've used up your lungs, try your nose. "We no longer carry it." Just a buncha soap.

The Far Side. Stand that sells nothing but Gary Larson "Far Side" products - books, calendars, coffee mugs, shirts.

B. Dalton Software Etc. Exiting the book biz? (Nobody reads no more, right?)

Le Travel Store. Don't even wanna know what this one sells.

Leather Station. Like a dining-car restaurant. Leather food? Handbags.

Bally's of Switzerland. It would not kill me to own a leather jacket. Black or brown - I'd wear it a few times a year. Let's see, here's gray, elastic waistband, not what I had in mind but okay, try it on. Seems to fit, fits nicely, smells good, doesn't look too — how much's it cost? "Nine thirty-five." "Dollars or pesos?" "Dollars." "A little beyond my budget." "That's all right, I understand." It's nice to be understood.

The Gap. Home of the $9.00 pocket tee. Strong primary colors, bright, and a decent black, I believe I'll - "Hi, how ya doin' today?" I look up, there's this shop guy, must be the front-end version of "Have a nice day" (the obligatory closer). Bummed and annoyed, I grunt, "Fine," meaning Fuckyoushitheadleavemealone. He says, "Good," then on to the next shopper: "Hi, how ya doin' today?" Shopper says, "Wonderful!" - i.e., wow gee, gladtobealivewellandshopping. Shop guy says, "Good" - same tone, same volume, same nuance of sincerity as he'd used on me. No difference. Fuckyouinbothearswithcancer. (I'll not buy from robots.)

Brookstone. Everything you never wanted/needed: practical, playsome, whatev. Humidifiers. Golfball polishers. Wood games with steel balls and holes. "Who says garden gloves have to be ugly?" - paisley leather gauntlet, $22.50. "Welcome this charming outdoor 'pet' " - cast iron toad, $25.

Super Star. "Become a Video Super Star," lip-sync or sing, choose from over 40 backgrounds, $29.95. I'd rather walk my eel.

The price of His Toys. Board games, board games, ho hum, what's this? Pink undergarment on a wire-stem stick. "Fresh Cut Panties - the wearable gift." Perfect gift for mom. You've Made A Sale.

Food Break #2. "Grand Gobbler" from The Steak Escape. Quesadilla con pollo (w/ salsa "fuego") from La Salsa. Thai tea from Croce's. Et pour dessert, chocolate-covered glazed pineapple thing from Chocolate Carousel. Gobbler (grilled turkey breast, provolone, mushroom, pepper, onion w/ lettuce & tomato on a mayonnaisy roll) is the shits. Worst Philly steak sandwich (or variation) I've ever et. Quesadilla is passable, salsa good and hot w/ rich body and tomato-y-ness (in the good sense of the latter). Tea, iced, is acceptably sweet and and moderately quenchy but the styrofoam cup doesn't play: a switch to hard plastic is strongly recommended. Pineapple thing is like eating a honey-dipped sock.

What's that crackling sound? Walkie-talkies. Whose walkie-talkies? Horton Plaza security geeks. What are they securing? Not readily apparent. Crackle crackle - all over the place. A mute idiot clown in yellow and blue, half his face painted (only half), lurches through the throng like a storebought Pee-Wee Herman: Horton hirelings in heat.

Hideous sight gag #2. Second ugliest eyeful in H.P. is you stand outside La Salsa facing north, eyes angled slightly towards the next level up — that sillysilly domed thing with bas-relief lions' heads and icecream-swirl pillars, and that phonus balonus "bridgework" biz behind it — or is it just a fake pointed "roof"? Spin around a bit in the same gen'ral area — on the La Salsa side — and you'll catch these incredibly incongruous Angkor Wat-like protubrances (conical broccoli?) tacked on the railing. What's This Shit "Mean"? What does it "Signify"? As "Thing in Itself" What The Fucking Hell "Is" It?

Jake looked once more at the crumpled Polaroid. Unattractive sex partners are okay, he thought. Even flat-out uggles. It's the person behind the sex that really matters. He smiled and put the spread shot of Ernestine down. — Richard Ford "Pudenda"

Persons. Let's not forget all the persons. Here to shop, eat, meet and greet other shoppers, eaters and meeters: to play the assigned "mall role" with supreme dedication. In this most unfrightening of artificial environs they are fearlessly purposeful, rising with an insect unity and efficiency to the task at hand: to not only maximally consume (thus perpetuating not only this island of lost consumers but the very "principles" of consumption) but to do so while manifesting object signs of actually, fervently Enjoying It — like they're happy as tourists in shit. I have never at any other mall — never!! — seen townies and tourists (per se) behave as indistinguishably, as uniformly uncritically, as undeviatingly docilely — like lambs to slaughter w/ Smiles. Evidence that Absolute Design can and will meet its Absolute Prey, that demographic greenhorns (as projected!) will roll over and play dead on the dotted line (on the dotted line!).

But wait — not everyone is playing. Playing mall; playing dead. On the "Esplanade" level is this solemn middleaged Asian guy, yes I'd call him Japanese, bearded, hair knotted in back, sandaled, robed. A long white flowing monk type of robe. Radiating serenity, carrying zilch. Someone who would pretty much have to either be an actual real Zen monk or be playing a Zen monk — no other possibility springs to mind. In any event, he is not buying panties, nor eating greasemeat, nor politely grinning at yuppie dorks and dolts. More tellingly, he is not remotely tickled by the highjinks of the idiot clown. He is here, apparently, and merely, to cruise Being (as it were), to do so without kissing being's Topical Ass. A security goon spots him, briefly tails him, i.d.'s him as nobody's dotted liner, passes the word electronically to a colleague down the line: "There's a weird-looking...guy up near you." Crackle, crackle. "Got a beard and a long...robe or something. You see him?" Crackle. "Keep an eye on him." Follow that monk!!

Rain In Horton Plaza: "Caution — Wet Floor." Floor? — not pavement? Pavement as floor. A leak in the roof, the ceiling? Sky roofs 're notoriously thin. Accordion muzak Blasting. Are we "indoors" or "out"?

Meal #3. "Upscale" brunch at the Irvine Ranch Farmers Market. New Zealand mussels and a persimmon; fresh-squeezed juice. Mussels alternate between plump/dry (like cotton) and stringy/chewy (like rubber bands). Persimmon, ripe to the touch but not the tongue, is like a warm styptic popsicle. Without the juice (orange) I'd be fucked. Shoulda had sushi or a...

• meetcha
• at Pogo Pizza
• if it is not good we can
• go and smoke
• dope
• in
• the
• car

If we can find the car. Did we park it in Strawberry or Avocado? Rhubarb? Or was it Celery? "Images" instead of numbers/letters — maybe they're on to something - but how's about making them a little more striking, thus mem'rable, than cartoon veggies and fruits? Some suggested replacements.

Pineapple: skunks fucking. Corn: Jesus with a Charger helmet. Lemon: rectal thermometer. Carrot: large bandaged dog wound. Watermelon: can of STP. Pepper: Stratocumulus cloud formation. Tomato: Matisse's Piano Lesson. Orange: amoeba shaking "hands" with a paramecium. Artichoke: Dracula played by Michael Pataki. Onion: half of Steve Garvey's head being spit out by Shamu. Cherry: Pete Wilson with an arrow through his liver. Grape: Roger Hedgecock scratching his dick.

But tough park or not, car is it. Enter on foot and you run the risk of encountering, ugh, them. Those dirtydreadfullywretchedhomeless individuals who might, gosh, hit on you for change and whatnot along the perimeter, but who rarely make it inside past security. The park outside Robinson's is lousy with scenes of them living, or attempting to live, their grimwretchedcircumscribed call-it-a-life. If I ruled the world, the Shit of these people would be dinner for every insect-minded Horton Plaza automaton, and the Blood of the latter would be soda pop f'r these people. (But I don't even rule this frigging page.)

WHAT'S PLAYING? TwinsCocoonIIMyStepmotherIsanAlien. I'll pass. The only time I was ever physically inside the UA Horton Plaza 7 it felt like being up some sort of tall, spindly water tower - all those stairs, y'know. How ironic that probably the most insulatedly indoor space aboard ship )i.e., the "safest") should also seem the most "precarious."

WHAT TIME IS IT? Generic "future"...generic "past"...generic "present": all malls, by design, stand beyond time, apart from history. This mall apart from history has as its centerpiece a Clock. The hokey, "old fashioned" Jessop's clock. Ahistoric time as old fashioned, i.e., reactionary: time as Mammon. (The "golden" Jessop's clock.) Time as provisional gift of a Class, i.e., as revocable public Property, (Jessop's "promotional" clock.)

And where, ultimately, are we? Two Horton specialty shops offer clues: (1) We are somewhere outside Nature. The Nature Company — the name says it all — has brought Nature in (from the place or places elsewhere where it naturally occurs). (2) We're dead center in a Universe of tourist-centric geo-hoop-dee-doo. San Diego - A View of the World purveys framed posters &etc, (based in that New Yorker cover with New York as "center") of all the various geo-cliches which ought appear along cartographic sightlines radiating from designated centers. San Diego/Paris/Detroit/Minneapolis/Cape Cod/[Your geo-favorite goes here]. Center, dead, of a Universe outside Nature? Sounds about right. A walk on the Nordstrom side. I'd been told about these $80 white shirts. Eighty-dollar white shirts should never, under any circumstances, be bought & owned but they may be observed. Touched. "Learned from." Project: defang Nordstrom by dealing with it as a museum. (Of supply-side arrogance; of marketplace shame.) I enter, head for men's apparel, circle twice, but nowhere do I find an $80 men's white shirt - highest is $60. (Of all the silly rumors.) Exiting, I spot this white bloke in a black tux at a black keyboard. Closer, I note with pleasure he is playing an Ellington medley: "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," "Do Nothin' Till You Hear From Me," "Satin Doll." All by the Duke. (No one is especially "listening.") I step up, ask for Ellington's "The Clothed Woman." He doesn't know it. Ask for "All Too Soon." Doesn't know it. "Lady of the Lavender Mist." Nope. "Jack the Bear." Ditto. You Can't Have Everything.

The last supper. One final feed (with nobody's doodoo in it, nobody's blood.) Gyros and a medium Coke from The Great Gyros. "La Jolla" from Boudin's Bakery. Gyros okay ('cept the sauce, the veggies, the bread). Coke superb. La Jolla (turkey and Havrati cheese on sourdough roll) tastes like — and could v. well be - actual food. Yum yum yummy num num! A fine dine save for the sights you must endure while ingesting.

[The architecture of Godin] was clearly intended for the freedom of people. Yet no one could enter or leave the place without being seen by everyone — an aspect of the architecture that could be totally oppressive. But it could only be oppressive if people were prepared to use their own presence to watch over others. --- Foucault, ibid.

A perfectly harmless teen interracial lowlife crew. Two boys, two girls, four nonmiddleclass teens, two black/white heterosexual couples. Carryin' on, makin' out (kissy feely), making noise. Freely uttering the f-and the s-word. Behaving as "at-home" in Horton Plaza's Food Court as at a beach, a park or something. Though they directly affront nobody's mom, though they "keep to" their table and refrain from throwing either food scraps or nonbiodegradable styrofoam, jackjills at adjacent and nearby tables clearly resent their action. An Ed Meese lookalike and his babe brush bride scowl and glower. Mother of two towhead brats tenses her (not unattractive) repression-scarred mug. A dowager grandma winces 'tween bites of her bun.

Look, nobody especially gets off on other people's fun, not as a rule, no, but nobody digs these teeners' teenfun Nohow. You can never really know these things, but I'd certainly guess there are many here/now who would welcome the psychic power to wish 'em dead. The scorn! The revulsion! But nothing, of course, verbal...

At least The Plaza doesn't poison pigeons. They could, you know.

Last paragraph. That obelisk out front. Th' one that resembles a circa-'68 pen & pencil kit. With that goofy-looking sun w/ a mustache and the spotted wildcat and white dove or seagull and red/orange fishthing. Is the third ugliest whoozis in the joint. In the ugliest consumer park in North, South, or Central America. The loathsomest mall in (perhaps) the World.