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MIRACLE BRA ON 34th STREET: In preparation for the biggest
shopping weekend of the year, we searched high and low to find
the grossest display of extravagance to lambaste. Fortunately
for us, it came right to our mailbox, from some mailing list to
which our name was sold without our consent: The Victoria's
Secret Christmas Catalog.
There on page three was a "fantasy gift" so fantastic,
we couldn't believe it was true: "Harry Winston creates
The Victoria's Secret Diamond Dream Bra," a little gem
of a gift for the missus that'll only set you back $3 million.
That's right, $3,000,000. Count the zeroes. We did, about three
times before calling the toll-free number to ask just what in
the hell they were thinking...and more importantly, how many did
they have in stock?
A British woman politely thanked us for calling the Fantasy Gift
Infoline, apologizing that "all our representatives are currently
busy assisting other customers." Yeah, right. After all,
it's 10:30 p.m. on a Monday--prime shopping hours. Her refined,
recorded voice asked that we leave a daytime phone number so someone
could return our call as soon as possible. This, presumably, should
sort out the riffraff.
Undaunted, we called the other toll-free number. This time, we
were greeted by the familiar, eastern U.S. I-hate-my-job-in-telemarketing
salesgirl.
"Do you have Fantasy Gift No. 2 in stock?"
She's perplexed. We repeat our question. "You want information
on that item?" she asks.
"Very much," we answer. She will have to transfer us.
Many rings later, Robert answers. We repeat our request. He will
have to transfer us to the right department. We wait, in department-store
elevator music limbo, for several minutes before another man answers.
He promises to connect us to the proper person. The phone rings
six times, and then it's Robert again.
"Robert!" we exclaim. He immediately sends us back
to music limbo, without even saying hello, while he "searches
for someone in inventory"...and no doubt wonders how long
it will take before we simply hang up. We feel slighted.
After several more rings, another man answers: "Security."
Instinctively, we're afraid. Until we remember all we've done
in this particular instance is phone a 1-800 number.
"Security? We're holding for inventory," we say sweetly.
"Is there something I can help you with?" the stern
man asks.
"What kind of security is this?" Is there such a thing
as mail-order shoplifting? Is there a law against impersonating
an obscenely wealthy person?
After three more transfers and 25 minutes of elevator music that'd
drive jolly ol' St. Nick himself postal, we reach Felicia, who
says she wants to help us. We ask. She says the computer doesn't
have that kind of information. "Do you have any information
at all?" we ask.
"No."
"Why is that?"
"This might be an item you have to be measured for."
It's a non sequitur, but sensible. "Do you think anyone
will order this bra, Felicia?" we ask.
"I really can't say, ma'am."
Apparently, that's classified information. Whatever. The boobs
who came up with this idea of "every woman's fantasy"
are certifiable, in our book. If there's any hope for humanity,
we have to believe that $3 million in chump change could be employed
in some cause more, uh, "uplifting" than even Tyra Banks'
cleavage can aspire to.
HIGH 'N' HAPPY: Every year we look forward to the afternoon
Tucson Citizen's clunkily sincere effort to reach the generally
rich, white residents of the Santa Catalina foothills. Folks who,
as a rule, read only the morning newspaper. The vehicle is a magazine-like
publication entitled Foothills Today, and this year's cover
features a photo of Bambi amid prickly pear cactus--suggesting,
perhaps, that the deer and the horny toads will roam forever here,
and nevermind that the foothills region is a rapidly urbanizing
stretch of once-beautiful desert now under permanent siege.
It's an Ozzie And Harriette kind of publication, containing
very little in the way of controversy or reports of strife. By
our count, this year's issue is sporting, in its ads and editorial
photos, roughly 350 white faces and a mere 20 minority faces,
one of which belongs to basketball bazillionaire Michael Jordan.
Not a word, of course, about the Mexicans being run off their
ranch lands hereabouts after the 1853 Gadsden Purchase--we white
folk like our history bits, like our Chicken McNuggets, deep-fried
to a golden crisp and free of icky, ice-cold, raw spots.
Perverts that we are, we find ourselves looking forward to receiving
Foothills Today because, however unintentionally, it speaks
volumes about our culture's increasingly shabby myths and values.
This year's kick-off article, for example, details the Yankee
shrewdness of developer John Murphey, who bought up 7,000 Santa
Catalina foothills acres in 1928, and employed Swiss architecht
Josias T. Jossler to create what can in all fairness only be described
as ersatz Mexican haciendas designed to pull in the big-money
winter residents.
To the Citizen's credit, the initial article goes on to
discuss the foothills' explosive growth and the tract homes and
apartments that flooded into the region after 1978, when Murphey's
original deed restrictions expired. But the conclusion, unfortunately,
is more or less: Tsk, tsk. What's an attractive, on-the-go community
supposed to do?
Well, perhaps we can assuage what little guilt we might feel
by perusing Foothills Today's colorful ads. Then again,
perhaps not--a high proportion of these ads are touting real-estate
firms. Here are glorified the spiritual and commercial inheritors
of that shrewd New Englander Murphey, the wise old purveyor of
genuine American-made, Mexican-style Swiss cheese.
Murphey's well-coiffed, smiling business decendants--nearly all
of them white and cheerfully prosperous-looking--today peddle
an even more ersatz version of Murphey's original upper-middle
class, Disneyesque domestic fantasy. More ersatz because the dream
has been conflated by staggering population growth and a booming
economy, so that instead of bricks and mortar and heavy clay tiles,
today's foothills' homes and apartments are spun, cotton candy-like,
of wood-frame stucco and lightweight colored-cement roofing materials,
all spray-painted to suggest, however vaguely, a previous era
of architectural integrity. Oddly, even the foothills' increasingly
numerous corner drugstores and strip malls are taking on this
badly done cultural cammoflague.
Yes, badly done. If one eyeballs the redoubtable mission San
Xavier del Bac on one hand, and an authentic hacienda in--God
forbid--Mexico on the other, and then glances at today's foothills
architecture, he can't help but be struck by the utter crapola
of what we've somehow bamboozled ourselves into thinking we've
accomplished here.
And Foothills Today is a device to maintain our egocentric
trance-like state: "Luxury homes hot in Foothills,"
says one headline; "Neighborhood associations help maintain
quality of life," says another. How about "High-tech
homes can be earth-friendly, too," or "Trek to Saddlebrooke
worth the drive"?
All of this, in essence, is nothing more than the terrible, flat
drone of the mesmerist. He's telling us life is good here, we
are good, and real, and every day gets better and better. The
dream is alive! Growth continues, our pleasant lives here do have
meaning. They do, they do, they do....
And so what if perhaps our grandchildren one day will live crowded
together in their tiny cardboard and stucco boxes, in what's left
of the paved-over, strip-mauled foothills of tomorrow? They'll
still be happy, won't they? We're confident some out-of-town publisher
will be there to kill trees and keep the dream alive.
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