simply the best

In 1996, Wilco released their second album, Being There. On my lunch break from my job at a suburban Philadelphia legal publisher, I drove around the corner to a nearby Best Buy to purchase a copy of the album, as I had seen it advertised in their circular that came in Sunday's newspaper. Despite the poor reception their debut effort was afforded, I was a fan of Jeff Tweedy's new project. However, at the time, Wilco was nowhere close to the respected elder statesmen of alt-rock that they are today. They were a little band made up of the remnants of a dispute between Tweedy and band mate Jay Farrar in another little band called Uncle Tupleo. Nevertheless, I wanted to hear what Tweedy, an obviously talented and visionary songwriter, had up his sleeve for a sophomore release.

What's the World Got in Store

I parked and entered the cavernous Best Buy, headed for the sprawling CD department. I scanned the "W" section, flipping past dividers separating albums by the likes of The Who, Wham!, Stevie Wonder and Whitesnake. There was nothing by Wilco. I looked again — nothing. Now, I looked around the store, trying to locate a salesperson. It seemed as though I was the solitary person — employee or customer — in the building. I finally spotted a tall, lanky fellow in a signature blue Best Buy polo shirt and flagged him down. He slowly made his way to the aisle in which I was standing... and stood there, waiting for me to state my reason for needing his attention. "I was looking for the new Wilco album.," I asked. He tilted his head to one side. "Is that a band?," he asked. I frowned. "Yes. Their new album was in your Sunday ad circular.," I explained. "I never heard of 'em.," he replied dismissively. "So that means they don't exist?," I countered. He offered no reaction. Instead, he pointed to the racks of CDs. "Did you look under 'W'?," he asked, as though he solved my dilemma with his breakthrough suggestion. "Yes, of course," I said. "Then, I guess we don't have it.," he concluded, turned on his heels and lumbered away into the depths of the store.

And that's it. This happened over two decades ago and it's still my impression of Best Buy. Although I have bought items at Best Buy, I dread going there. Sure, over the years I have made sporadic purchases there. I bought a washer and dryer, a microwave, two computers and dozens of computer accessories and, of course, numerous CDs (when I was still buying CDs). The experiences were all very similar. I had to know exactly what I wanted to buy because the staff was less than informed about the products they stocked and even less than happy to share their limited knowledge. That is, of course, if you can find a member of their staff. Sure, they're there, but they all seem to be off somewhere just out of customer earshot.

Just last week, Mrs. P got an unsolicited email offer from our friends at Best Buy. The offer touted a  guaranteed gift certificate with a value between five dollars and five thousand dollars. We drove over to our nearest Best Buy and entered the store, the printed email clutched tightly in Mrs. Pincus's hand. As my wife had a cashier scan the bar code on the email to determine the dollar amount, I optimistically headed toward the colorful 75" flat-screen smart TVs. However, I was halted in my tracks when the scan revealed an award of five bucks.

We wandered up and down each aisle of Best Buy, trying to pick out something for five dollars, realizing, of course, the choices were slim. Suddenly two smiling employees approached with the obligatory opening line, "How're you folks doing tonight?," like a couple of textbook used car salesmen. We returned a forced "We're just fine" to the pair and tried our best not to engage them in conversation. One of the sales associates asked if we'd ever been to Best Buy before — my favorite question from retail employees, as though we were just dropped from a passing space craft as emissaries from a distant civilization sorely lacking in the "big box electronic store" department. Without waiting for our reply, he continued. "Well, Best Buy has changed a lot," he boasted, "The cool stuff is located in the center of the store and the..."

I interrupted. "Are you implying that the items around the perimeter of the store are not cool?"

He laughed nervously. "No," he stammered, "of course not. I mean the TVs and computers are in the center of the store and the..."

I interrupted again. "The washers and microwaves are over where the non-cool stuff is. Look, we bought a pretty cool microwave here a few months ago." The other salesman giggled.

Smart.

Realizing he was getting nowhere, he changed the subject. He extracted a phone from his pocket. "You want to see a really cool app?," he asked, then inquired, "Do you folks have smartphones?" He asked his question the way you'd ask your great-grandmother if she has seen the remote control for the television. My wife and I frowned and displayed our phones for the salesman. I added, "Is this smart enough for you?," as I waved my Samsung Galaxy in the air like a Fourth of July sparkler.

He laughed nervously again, and continued. "Here's the app — watch!," he said. He tapped his phone a few times before announcing, "I just opened and closed my garage door." A smug smile spread across his face.

I shook my head disapprovingly. "If you want to really impress me, show me an app that can open and close your neighbor's garage door. That would be something!"

There was that nervous laugh again. Again, he changed back to his original topic of explaining how Best Buy has changed. He said if there was anything we needed, we should let him know. He smiled and wandered away with his silent colleague in tow.

Mrs. P and I exchanged confirming looks. Best Buy hadn't changed at all.

www.joshpincusiscring.com

remember me to herald square

After a failed attempt to join the U.S. Army during the Civil War, Philadelphia native John Wanamaker opened a men's clothing store with his brother-in-law. In 1876, Wanamaker purchased an abandoned Pennsylvania railroad station with the idea of opening a huge retail business. After renovations, he opened Wanamaker's Grand Depot and he expanded his wares to include ladies' clothing and household dry goods. It became Philadelphia's first department store as well as one of the first in the nation.

Meet me at the Iggle.

Wanamaker, a shrewd and successful businessman, wished to portray his store with an air of elegance. So just after the turn of the 20th century, Wanamaker began replacing his building in stages, eventually constructing a massive, 12-story, full city block structure with granite walls, ornate decor and a soaring marble atrium known as The Grand Court. The building housed the beautifully-appointed Crystal Tea Room, the largest dining room in Philadelphia. It could accommodate 1400 diners at a time. The ovens in its cavernous kitchen could roast 75 turkeys simultaneously. The store offered nine floors of selling space, as well as a post office, a model house in the furniture department, a Egyptian-themed auditorium and a radio broadcasting station. Wanamaker purchased the pipe organ from the 1904 St. Louis World's Fair and had it installed in The Grand Court. He also purchased the immense bronze eagle that has become a popular meeting and gathering place for people in the store. (Just ask any Philadelphia resident "Meet me at the Eagle." They'll know what you're talking about.) The pipe organ, the largest in the world still in operation, is still used for daily recitals in the store — a practice that began over a hundred years ago.

In addition to the daily concerts, the famed organ is used to accompany the annual Christmas Light Show, another tradition started in 1956 as a holiday treat (and marketing draw) for its customers. It has become a regular stop during the busy holiday shopping season for generations of families. Surprisingly, after Wanamaker's was sold in 1978 (and again in 1986, 1994, and finally in 2005 to its current owner, Macy's), the new owners kept the Christmas Light Show, despite closing and renovating other iconic aspects of the majestic building. The Crystal Tea Room served its last cup of Darjeeling in 2008 and the basement post office is now a parking garage.

My wife and I went to see the Christmas Light Show last year (after a decades-long absence) and again this year. Even though we do not celebrate Christmas, the simplicity of the display and the nostalgic setting in which it's presented offer a warm sense of familiarity to those of us who remember a time long ago — a time that is holding on, however futilely, for dear life. 

I work just a few blocks from the store and I rarely, if ever, go there. Last year, when Mrs. P and I went to see the Light Show, it was the first time I was in Wanamaker's... uh, I mean Macy's.... in years. It was then, as my wife and I hustled through the crowded Men's Clothing department towards the Grand Court, that I took notice of the actual merchandising of the store. It was surprisingly awful! Gone were the wide aisles and sweeping glass display cases. In their place were tables piled high with sweaters and shirts, some folded neatly, most jumbled in a cottony ball on top of the pile or tossed on the floor in a heap. Dress shirts, boasting designer names like Geoffrey Beane and Michael Kors, were haphazardly stuffed into racks too small to adequately accommodate the amount of stock on display. It was a far cry from the once dignified and opulent arrangement that the name "Wanamaker's" instantly brought mind. The signage announcing "50% Off" revealed a puzzling $69.00 price tag on some of the shirts. That was the discounted price. Aside from the roped-off and blocked marble staircases and obscured, though still majestic fixtures, the polish and refinement were missing.

I can't figure out how stores like this still exist? In these times of online retailers and discount stores like Target and Walmart, who is still shopping at traditional department stores? Who is paying these bloated prices for clothing easily purchased at other convenient outlets for far, far less? Seriously, when was the last time you bought anything at a department store?

I just hope that Mrs. P and I get to see the Christmas Light Show again next year. I know that's pretty selfish on my part, but the show is really cool.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

have you ever been had in Clubland

Last night, Mrs. P and I went to Sam's Club, the membership-only retail warehouse chain owned by the good people of Walmart. Sam's Club, named for beloved founder Sam Walton, is like a Walmart SuperCenter on acid. One can purchase a giant TV and pick up four tires just a few feet away. Then, just down the aisle, you can find a nine-foot high display of Cheerios, available for purchase in convenient, two-boxes-stuck-together packages. Most things are dirt cheap (a 32 ounce bag of prepared salad for a buck and a half!), while others are deceptively expensive (like, surprisingly, Coca-Cola products). 

Once your shopping cart is sufficiently loaded with selections – both sensible and frivolous* ones – they are checked out by a cashier and placed back into your cart without being bagged, Then, you head to the exit. It's up to you to put your unbagged purchases in your car so they don't fly all over the place on the ride home. Watch those quick stops lest you get nailed in the back of the head with a four-pack of canned tuna!

In an effort to control possible pilferage, Sam's Club employs a practice of checking each and every receipt before a customer is permitted to leave the store. A friendly man or woman, wearing an over-sized name badge and wielding a yellow HiLiter®, meticulously compares the list of items printed on your receipt to the items in your cart. And they better damn well match!

Yesterday evening, my wife and I approached the Sam's Club "purchase checker" after leaving the cashier. Mrs. P handed the receipt over to the young man at the door and he set to work examining the contents of our cart. Suddenly, he paused.

"Where's the 3-D X-Men movie?," he asked. He pointed to our receipt, singling out this item...

He craned his neck, as he gingerly lifted the 16-count pack of sandwich wraps and pushed aside the 3 pound bag of frozen salmon fillets. Mr. P and I exchanged glances and then turned to scan our purchases ourselves. Then, it hit me. This was the item in question...

It was a bulk package of 20 disposable razors that manufacturer Schick calls "Xtreme 3." It appears encoded on the receipt as "X3D Men's," as in men's razors, not Wolverine and his mutant pals. I pointed this out to the checker. "Oh.," he laughed and stroked our receipt with his marker, thus giving us the "all clear."

Sam's Club security is only as good as its weakest link.

And I think we met him.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*does anyone really need 132 ounces of ketchup at one time?