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Few things in life suck more than shelling out 50 or so bucks for the hottest new video game only to find out that it stinks. OK, OK, so probably lots of things suck more than that--cancer, famine, unemployment, etc. Still, getting screwed on a video game has to be in the top 500. Movie Trading Co. has a way to avoid the grief. (In game purchases, anyway. For cancer, we suggest a hospital.) For $5.99, you can rent any one of 600 to 700 titles for five days. If you like it, you can buy the game minus the cost of your rental fee. They also buy used games and pay top dollar for new releases, so a savvy game-buyer can walk out of the joint with enough change left over for pizza to go with a long night of playing. That doesn't suck.
Just like a marriage, especially one with a "can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em" ambivalence, the relationship between public relations professionals and reporters is classically flawed. Even as they appreciate their interdependence, PR people believe every reporter is "out to get them" or their organization. Every reporter believes that PR pros start each day with a solemn oath--swearing to "spin the truth, tell only the half-truths and nothing but some half-truths." Even worse, there is a new crop of young, lazy, degreed PR people who--and we're not kidding--send a news release about an event for their organization without listing the date. Would that more PR practitioners could ooze professional savvy, provide on-time and completely accurate information, offer quick access to key sources and generally make a reporter feel like helping the media is actually a top priority of the PR job. We found one in Dallas who's like that. Victoria Winkelman, public information officer for Southern Methodist University's Meadows School of the Arts. Winkelman often goes out of her way to provide additional research or suggest additional experts on background.
Our dog heartily endorses this store; that should be enough. Canine Commissary does stock supplies for cats and smaller pets, like hamsters or birds, but the real genius is the astounding variety of premium dog food--more than two dozen brands. Food from companies like Karma Organic, California Natural, Eagle Pack and Natural Balance may seem pricey compared with grocery-store brands, but once you start comparing ingredients, the price difference is explained. Canine Commissary even carries frozen raw foods like FarMore and Steve's Real Food for Pets, with quality, recognizable ingredients (FarMore's buffalo formulation, for example, contains only buffalo, zucchini, peas, green beans, apple pulp, powdered eggshell, ground bison bone, salmon oil, spinach, barley and natural vitamin E). So, whenever you think about pouring those cheap, multicolored pellets into your best friend's bowl, you don't have to wonder whether he'd rather be eating ground corn or real meat--just head to Canine Commissary.
Good design is the cultural imperative of the day. It rules prime time on TV shows like Queer Eye and Trading Spaces. It rules middle-American staples like Target and Bed Bath & Beyond. These days, even vacuum cleaners and toilet brushes come with their own unique aesthetic, and the fact that we can use "aesthetic" so casually is proof of all of this (and also, that we're pretentious). But no one knows good design like the folks behind Apple products. Their breathtaking iPod is, so far, the design of the century, much like their iMac was the design of the '90s. Stepping into the Knox Street store is like entering the future of a very, very rich person. Which is awesome. Maybe the 21st century won't have flying cars or personal robots, but we will have Apple. Which means if we have to sit in traffic and make our own stupid dinner, at least our gadgets look cool.
Every woman deserves to have cute shoes. And as far as addictions go, shoe-dependency is one of the few that can improve your appearance. Unfortunately, though, like any good addiction, shoes can be a real drain on the bank account. Which is why DSW is where we go when we need a fix. The smell of leather and the sight of row upon row of discounted designer labels give us such a rush that it's almost overwhelming. And when we try on that first pair of summer sandals or fall boots, we often have to take a deep breath, pause and let the ecstasy wash over us. It's such a good high, we want to shout it to the world, but this has to be our little secret. We can't have all those other shoe junkies hanging around, grabbing up all the good stuff. Some people have no shame.
DSW Shoe Warehouse
Once upon a time, we wore teeny-weeny clothes. (Back then, we ate teeny-weeny food and drank teeny-weeny beers.) We loved parading around the latest fashions--the midriff-baring tees, the low-cut V-necks, the tight mini. And there was no better place to find such fashion fabulosity than Krimson and Klover, Kathryn and Kristin Anderson's darling boutique for the pint-sized fashionista. We don't mean clothes for children; we mean clothes for skinny women, those blessed lovelies who scour the size-6-and-under racks ("What? No size 0?") while the rest of us dribble queso on our shirts and shop at Dress Barn. Oh, life is cruel. And yet, we still have a soft spot for K&K, housed in that cool yellow Victorian house on Cole Avenue. Not only because it reminds us of roller rinks and a killer Joan-Jett-by-way-of-Tommy-James-and-the-Shondells song, but also because the clothes are so snappy, so sophisticated yet playful, so blasted cute that we want to at least pretend we can one day fit into their pants again. And if all else fails, there's always the shoes.
The only place cigarettes and flowers really go together is, perhaps, in the lyrics of a country and western song. So how these two establishments came to share a building, we're not sure. One smells of stale tobacco, and the other has what you might call a garden-fresh scent. Unlikely neighbors, maybe, but if you ever find yourself in the market for a bouquet of roses and a carton of Camels, you'll be thanking your lucky stars that Greenville Ave. Tobacco Co. and Flowerama share a space. And for Bank of America customers, there's an added bonus: a drive-thru ATM. In somebody's world, this has to be the perfect combination.
There are places you go when you want one thing. You go to the convenience store for a lottery ticket or cigs. You go to Kroger for their pies. (If you don't, start.) You go to Condom Sense for the cake toppers. But then there are stores you go to just because you want to browse before you buy. Target, for example. And Office Depot. (We love looking at different pen-holding options.) And Jackson's Home & Garden. We love to walk the aisles on Saturdays because it gets us in the home-improvement mood--something that usually translates to marital relations if we get enough weekend projects done by sundown. Besides, you don't know what you want to add to your garden or deck or porch or home until you see it, and that's the beauty of Jackson's. Anything you want, and lots of stuff you have no idea you want, you'll find there.
This place is so great--better than just best--that we feel as though we're violating a sacred oath by telling people about it. We're pretty sure we're not, but we still have mixed emotions about doing so. See, if we tell people, they might buy something we want before we have the chance. On the other hand, if enough people buy things, the store will stay open, so we can keep shopping there. It's a double-edged sword, which, by the way, we think we saw there for sale. Bon Ton is a vintage wonderland, a weathered general store building with books, framed art, baseball pennants, knickknacks, children's clothing and other detritus on the ground floor, watched over by a white-haired man in suspenders and Converse. His wife keeps shop upstairs in the retro-clothing gold mine with everything from old military and marching band uniforms to every piece of women's clothing needed for a Hitchcock film, including dainty sheer stockings, feathered hats and demure dresses. 'Round back in a separate storefront, their daughter keeps the groovy '60s and '70s shop with Nixon campaign buttons, mushroom-print dishes and a Hollie Hobbie tea set. We've never walked out empty-handed; nor should anyone else. It's worth the hour drive south. (It's past Waxahachie.)