The worst thing about social media are the timestamps. Tiny, little reminders of how fast time and life is passing us by.
- WOW - I tweeted that 7 hours ago?
- Whoa that picture was from 32 weeks ago?
- Wut. That Facebook album was from 2009?
This post already a minute old.
How a 67-cent pack of Juicy Fruit panicked the nation and changed the way the world shopped.
By Chris Stokel-Walker
In 1974, representatives from the retail industry were summoned to a Congressional hearing, where they were asked about a worrying development in American supermarkets. Jobs were said to be at stake, and customers at risk of being over-charged. Congress felt compelled to call the retailers to book because of voters’ disquiet. The scourge that threatened to bankrupt the nation’s housewives and send its store clerks to the breadline? The barcode.
I love to hate Anthropologie furniture. In particular, the way they stage it for their website. There’s this gross fantasy they’ve created of an art student who can afford to spend thousands of dollars on a paint-splattered flea market find. It’s like all their customers are aspiring to be Charlotte in Tiny Furniture (a loft-dwelling trust fund dilettante).
They’ve gone off the deep end with the juxtaposition. You know those fashion editorials every fall where models lasagned in Prada swing around street signs in Red Hook? It’s like that, but on acid. The settings are more deteriorated and the designs are more design-y. It’s like shopping from deep within Fuck Your Noguchi Coffee Table.
If you choose to purchase a piece of Anthropologie furniture, it will only really look right in one of three settings:
1. An alternative gallery space six weeks from opening
2. An urban cabin with faulty electrical wiring
3. A crumbling Southern plantation (soon to be deemed “the new loft” by the NYTimes)
Let’s take a stroll through the Anthropologie furniture section together. What’s for sale today?
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