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| - A clean, well lighted warehouse of kitsch, and snacks, and believe-it-or-not necessity, Target is a microcosm of modern American life. A currency of trends. A style beacon. Under the giant dome of good old fluorescence recently: a display of dreadfully ironic X-mas sweaters with cell phones sequined onto them. Elsewhere, a frozen section stocked with even more vegetarian options that Whole Foods (behold a tour of the world: Greek, Italian, Indian, Thai, etcetera). In housewares, there were looming lamps made of ersatz elk heads cast in porcelain. Media of all sorts waited in back, and this week, millions of Halloween candy morsels sat snuggly wrapped and piled to the ceiling. Expect cleanliness here, and fantastic staff. The barista at the mini-Starbucks near the front one late Friday night was quick-witted, jolly, and turned the drinks out fast. One patron remarked that he should be in a commercial, but in some ways he already is. Target, in Steelyard or elsewhere in the outer dark of the industrial wastes that bracket in our cities, is a commercial for our own desires. Whatever we crave ends up projected back onto us in a better, sleeker, hipper form. Enjoy it. Particularly here, in this outcropping of indulgence below the glowing mill. It may take two solid hours to see everything in this buyable attraction, but there are certainly worse ways to celebrate being an American.
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