I hear ya, Carvell.

I am old enough to remember when even a "shopping center" felt like cutting-edge Americana.

And then, and then. . .years later, when I entered a mall for the first time. It seemed to me like a space station. . . one of those StarTrek or StarWars stops on a constellational rocket ride, and you just stepped into the way-station of a belly-of-the beast bourgeouis fantasy, a 21st-century Oz where I am expecting Scarecrow or TinMan to waltz in on a muzak cloud and guide me to a Macy's wonderland or a Neiman-Marcus mirage where I will experience walkway miracles in discovering what the beautiful people in some faraway exotic well-heeled suburb are wearing. . . and we will be wearing . . .but wait! where is everybody?

I look at my phone; it says Dec 1, 2020.

You mean we're not in 1984 any more?

And the GoodWitch of the US assures me.

You're not in Kansas any more!