I love going to the mall. Well, I don�t love going to the mall, but it�s not something I hate. There are things I dislike about the mall, but there are enough things I like about the mall that I forget about all the reasons to avoid the mall like the plague and meander in that direction at least once a month.

It is once I get inside the door that I start to wish I�d just stayed home or rented a movie.

I hate going into Suncoast, because every time I do, they have rearranged the entire store and I can�t find anything. This bothers me because if I�ve willingly come to Suncoast, I�m there on some sort of unfortunate quest and I�m looking for something that I can�t live without. Plus, the people who work at Suncoast are generally unbearable jerks or movie snobs or liars, or some combination of the three.

I hate going into Waldenbooks because I don�t have a �Preferred Reader� card and I have to pay full price on crap that�s overpriced crap to begin with. Plus, it's like a Visa card, and everyone should know better than to trust me with a credit card. I'm telling you now. This is fair warning. I�d much rather blow a week�s salary on books when I get them at 10% off. I was impressed, however, when they threw in a free Simpsons ornament with my half-price Simpsons trivia calendar purchase yesterday.

I rue the day that they put an FYE in our mall, because it�s the Wal-Mart of the mall: I can�t escape without buying something. Yesterday it was Ben Folds Live, a CD that softened the blow of its price tag by including a complimentary concert footage DVD and the inclusion of a cover of Tiny Dancer. It was about to get ugly when I discovered that the second season of OZ is now available, but I managed to be strong.

I also dislike the food court, because there�s really nowhere to eat. I can�t eat at that Crackers place anymore, because, well, I can take a hint where food poisoning is involved. You don�t have to beat me over the head with it, at least not twelve or thirteen times. As far as the rest of the food court, I�m never thrilled to see an Arby�s, something about Subway being in the mall is discomforting, I am amazed every day that Sbarro still exists, those three Cajun Chicken places that are all owned by the same person but have seemingly innocuous names like Farmer�s Basket aren�t fooling anyone, and if I wanted McDonald�s I totally could�ve just stayed at Wal-Mart.

That leaves me with Steak Escape, which is good food, but after you wait in line for twenty minutes and then wait while the new guy takes your order and then wait in line while they make the sandwiches of the customers in front of you and then wait in line while the sandwich-maker and the manager yell at each other for five minutes and then wait in line for them to make your sandwich and then wait in line for your fries and then try not to trip over the bottleneck of people at the condiments table and then whip out the binoculars to search for the table where your friends are sitting, well, you realize they�ve left because it�s next month and life (at least life outside of Steak Escape) must go on. I heard a rumor that some lady went through an entire pregnancy, from conception to birth to breastfeeding, all while waiting in line at Steak Escape, but it�s probably just an urban legend. Long story short, Steak Escape takes forever, but the food is unreasonably delicious, so I keep going back.

There is one part of the mall that I�ll never understand, though. I don�t have any sort of problem with arcades per se. I�ll do the air hockey, and I�ve never met a downhill skiing simulator I didn�t like, but when I venture to the other side of the arcade, things start to deteriorate very quickly.

There is a widely accepted tenet of social behavior that dictates that white men can�t dance and they therefore shouldn�t try. This tenet has been widely accepted and was only recently challenged with the introduction of Dance Dance Revolution dance � um, thingies (I don�t know what to call them, really) in malls and arcades across America. I suppose DDR, as it is commonly referred to, is really no different than any other video game. It�s perfectly normal to become obsessed with the task at hand and go without food or water for days until you become a DDR champion or help Mario free the Princess or whatever. Right?

I can�t put my finger on what, exactly, bothers me about this whole DDR thing. Maybe it�s the fact that I know I can�t dance. Do I feel superior for knowing better than to try? Am I uncomfortable with the fact that someone�s better than me at doing something I don�t understand? It�s probably a combination of the three.

That and the fact that this whole DDR thing is hypnotic. You always know how to find the DDR machine (I still don�t know) because there�s a big group of hangers-on gathered around it, staring. It�s fascinating in a way I can�t describe. It lulls you into watching it and you can�t tear yourself away. Like Oprah, only with fewer subliminal messages. (I�m aware that I used two sentence fragments just in this paragraph, but I don�t really care.)

I suppose I do admire the dedication and the hours of practice these people put in to impress mall shoppers and food court wanderers across this great land. Perhaps Simon Properties should put them on salary. (Perhaps not, though, because one of the many things I learned last year was that a job stops being fun the second you start getting paid for it.) I am loath to compare them to Trekkies, because, to my knowledge, they don�t hold conventions and meet the William Shatner of the mall arcade dancing world. They do obsess together on the magical internet, but I do that too, so I really can�t complain.

I guess, in the end, I can live with the DDR people, as long as they don�t block the change machine and they don�t try to convince me to join a cult or do drugs. I go to a public school. There are enough people around here to do that without me needing to go out into the general population. So, to paraphrase the immortal words of Moonshadow, "Do it, baby! You dance that dance!" I guess the moral of the story is do what you love. Do what makes you happy. It�s your life. Live it. What, you can think of something else better to do with it?

***

Today is my first day back at school in three weeks, and as such I�d like to propose sort of a social contract for walking down the hall. This can be universal. Feel free to take it to your friends and make it your own, like that catchphrase I�m still trying to get off the ground ("I don�t give a Sacajewea dollar," for all of you who don�t read the Blog). The contract is basically this. Everyone has the right to walk down the hall at whatever pace they choose, so if someone wants to pass you, move to the side. It�s like driving, people. The same rule applies to bumping into your friends. Don�t congregate in the middle of the hall. I�m sorry, did I use a big word? It means "to come together in a group." More simply, you�re in the way. Move to the side and do your complicated dance routine complete with little girly scream.

Despite what your parents may have told you, the world is not all about you. There are, like, six billion other people who live here, too. Crap, I just caused an emotional crisis for you, didn�t I? Well, move to the side and deal with it. I�m hungry, or late, or I have to pee, and you�re in my way. I think Ludacris said it best (and I think it should be written in ten-foot letters across the sky) when he said "Move, bitch!" Thanks, Ludacris. Very succinct. Sorry, I�m doing it again. Succinct: short, sweet, and to the point. Quite unlike my walks in the hallway.