Every culture has a custom or symbol that encapsulates its entire way of life. For example, a salami hanging from the ceiling of a cramped neighborhood deli is Italy. Japan is a tea ceremony or an orderly subway rush hour. And for us, that condensed cultural symbol is not the Declaration of Independence or the ragtag militia or the all-American con man with a bridge to sell you. It’s a big-box store called At Home.
Founded in 1979 and hitting the stock market in 2016, At Home hails—where else?—from Texas. They are not particularly well-known or widespread, with a little over 200 locations at present; however, they plan to double twice over in the coming years. Most of their stores are located in existing buildings vacated by the likes of K-Mart and JCPenney (and even, in Frederick, Maryland, a vacated Walmart). Consider how large one of these buildings is, and then consider that At Home is dedicated entirely to home goods and decor. Imagine a lovechild of Michael’s and the aforementioned Walmart, then imagine dropping acid in said store, and you may get a small sense of what it is like to browse At Home.
The 70s-vintage floor tiles and drop ceilings have been stripped, leaving only the shell of the K-Mart or other defunct chain, making the average At Home location look more like a Home Depot or Costco. Heck, the shopping cart bay at the entrance is bigger than lots of small stores. As long as you can think of something tangentially related to home organizing or decor, it exists in this gargantuan retail warehouse.
by Addison Del Mastro, The American Conservative | Read more:
Image: Addison Del Mastro
Founded in 1979 and hitting the stock market in 2016, At Home hails—where else?—from Texas. They are not particularly well-known or widespread, with a little over 200 locations at present; however, they plan to double twice over in the coming years. Most of their stores are located in existing buildings vacated by the likes of K-Mart and JCPenney (and even, in Frederick, Maryland, a vacated Walmart). Consider how large one of these buildings is, and then consider that At Home is dedicated entirely to home goods and decor. Imagine a lovechild of Michael’s and the aforementioned Walmart, then imagine dropping acid in said store, and you may get a small sense of what it is like to browse At Home.
The 70s-vintage floor tiles and drop ceilings have been stripped, leaving only the shell of the K-Mart or other defunct chain, making the average At Home location look more like a Home Depot or Costco. Heck, the shopping cart bay at the entrance is bigger than lots of small stores. As long as you can think of something tangentially related to home organizing or decor, it exists in this gargantuan retail warehouse.
A first-time visitor’s emotions are likely to run from exhilarated to wryly amused to vaguely discomfited, as the funhouse-mirror-like feeling of the place dawns. It is staggering how many aisles there are, how many sheer combinations and permutations of stuff. On top of this, the merchandise has an uncanny-valley feel to it, almost as if it has been generated algorithmically based on a Chinese computer’s idea of what an American with too much time and money would like to buy.
You can choose from 10 or 20 slightly different chairs in different colors; four different aisles of pillows with or without embellishments, in every color, texture, and size imaginable and then some; T-Rex skeleton bookends, T-Rex head decorative plaques, oyster shell bookends, plaques inscribed with shallow therapeutic babble, some of which gives the impression of having been engineered randomly out of a word bank. Others are a bit less random, following more of a “Verb phrase/adjective/noun” pattern; one plaque for a child’s room reads “Stay clever, little fox.” The next one reads “Dream big, little whale,” with cute animal illustrations and faux-driftwood frames. There are artichoke wreaths, artichoke-shaped fake flowers, and perhaps, somewhere in there, a “Welcome to Our Home” plaque framed by sketched artichokes. You can buy a plaster cactus, a plaster creepy cat, and a lot of other three-foot-tall plaster statuettes. Or you can pick from an ungodly variety of plastic plants at “The Greenhouse,” where the cheery dystopian slogan reads, “No sun? No problem.” And we’re just getting started. (...)
One is tempted to think of left-wing slam poet Andrea Gibson’s line about “the sweatshops our children call the North Pole.” Surely there is some cost to all this. Perhaps the environmentalists and the fundamentalists are right that we are racking up some sort of planetary bad karma. I recall a college professor of mine who remarked that in a couple of decades we will marvel at the idea of all-you-can-eat shrimp or 20 choices of peanut butter. Perhaps one day we will marvel at the thought that immeasurable and irreplaceable time, talent, and treasure was wasted on fake artichokes and plastic oyster shell bookends.
You can choose from 10 or 20 slightly different chairs in different colors; four different aisles of pillows with or without embellishments, in every color, texture, and size imaginable and then some; T-Rex skeleton bookends, T-Rex head decorative plaques, oyster shell bookends, plaques inscribed with shallow therapeutic babble, some of which gives the impression of having been engineered randomly out of a word bank. Others are a bit less random, following more of a “Verb phrase/adjective/noun” pattern; one plaque for a child’s room reads “Stay clever, little fox.” The next one reads “Dream big, little whale,” with cute animal illustrations and faux-driftwood frames. There are artichoke wreaths, artichoke-shaped fake flowers, and perhaps, somewhere in there, a “Welcome to Our Home” plaque framed by sketched artichokes. You can buy a plaster cactus, a plaster creepy cat, and a lot of other three-foot-tall plaster statuettes. Or you can pick from an ungodly variety of plastic plants at “The Greenhouse,” where the cheery dystopian slogan reads, “No sun? No problem.” And we’re just getting started. (...)
One is tempted to think of left-wing slam poet Andrea Gibson’s line about “the sweatshops our children call the North Pole.” Surely there is some cost to all this. Perhaps the environmentalists and the fundamentalists are right that we are racking up some sort of planetary bad karma. I recall a college professor of mine who remarked that in a couple of decades we will marvel at the idea of all-you-can-eat shrimp or 20 choices of peanut butter. Perhaps one day we will marvel at the thought that immeasurable and irreplaceable time, talent, and treasure was wasted on fake artichokes and plastic oyster shell bookends.
by Addison Del Mastro, The American Conservative | Read more:
Image: Addison Del Mastro
