Have you been to the Mall of America? It's in suburban Minneapolis. It has several hundred thousand stores. Every sixth one is The Limited. They ought to call it The Unlimited. Malls are as formatted as radio programming. You can be 7,000 miles from home, but you're never more than a couple of blocks from a free sample of bourbon chicken.

        Malls are like your wife's side of the closet. You throw them open, wander around hopelessly and declare there's nothing in there. Then, in search of something different, you seek out “quaint” towns with “unique” shops that all have the same quilts, dolls and cedar boxes.

        The only good thing about shopping in these last, desperate days until Christmas is the Hover Factor goes way down. There are so many people pawing through the merchandise, looking for the perfect pair of socks, the clerks don't have time to bother you.

        When The Hover People ask, “Are you finding everything OK?” I usually say, “Yeah, I'm cool with the corduroys, but the other day, I couldn't locate Beijing.”

        What's worse is when the Hoverers don't say anything, but rather stand a few, discrete feet away, hands clasped behind their backs. When I start laughing hysterically and speaking to the little men in my head, Hover Girl goes to stock a shelf.

        Of course, when you actually need help, there's no one to be found.

        According to the International Council of Shopping Centers, mall sales were down 8.1 percent the day after Thanksgiving, compared with last year. That ought to be reason for celebration, except for one thing:

        They're making us feel bad about not spending.

        The only thing worse than shopping is feeling as if you have to.

        The people who sell things are wrapping the flag around their pitches this year. Checkbook patriotism is thriving. You can't buy a war bond, but you can buy a cruise to save the travel industry. Help the airlines, fly somewhere. Two tickets to paradise, please. And God bless America.

        The car dealers have tapped into this. One way to be a hero is to wear a uniform. Another is to buy a new car, to keep America rolling. It's a small price to pay for freedom. (It's even smaller now, with zero percent financing. But it won't last forever, folks, so come on down.)

        If I buy a car to drive to the airport, where I will board a flight to Miami and then take a boat to the Lesser Antilles, I will have done my part.

        On the other hand, the president says to be normal. Normally, I don't buy a car when I don't need one. I am as cheap as a $3 shirt, normally. Only now I feel duty-bound to go 72 months on a Lincoln Navigator.

        I feel as if I'm being squeezed here.

        If I buy a new car and things end well in Afghanistan, can I give the car back? For a cash refund?

        See you at the mall. I'll be the one in the crowded men's department, looking deranged.

        Contact Paul Daugherty by phone: 768-8454; fax: 768-8330; e-mail: pdaugherty@enquirer.com.

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