Your TV Was on Sale at... Bloomingdales?
This post is rooted in my own personal experience a bit more than some others others and, as such, may border on being a tad granular. Even so, I have to think it will likely spark a memory in at least a few readers out there, as it did for me.
Long before the explosion of shopping malls destroyed the fabric of American retail (an article for another day), the 1970s and early 1980s were something of an innocent time for shoppers. Everyone's hometown had plenty of free-standing "mom and pop" stores that sold everything from refrigerators to sneakers to legos, and their only real competition came in the form of long-established department stores.
Almost every city had at least one of these department stores in those days: Perhaps you reminisce about your old Wanamaker's, Macy's, Dillard's, JC Penney or Lord & Taylor. Where I grew up, we were lucky enough to have almost every department store known to man, including B. Altman's, Abraham & Strauss, Bonwit Teller, and one of the most popular names of the time: Bloomingdale's.
For those born after 1990, department stores of the 70s and 80s were vastly different in composition than they are now, and Bloomingdale's was no exception. If you stroll through your local Bloomie's today, you'll notice the majority of the space is devoted to apparel, followed in scale by housewares, bedding and furniture. However, back in the early 80s, Bloomingdale's had a few departments you wouldn't expect to see: A bakery, a gourmet shop, a toy department, a book department (you heard right), and full-fledged electronics department.
As a child, the electronics department was more than simply a section of a larger retail space: It was a veritable oasis of awesomeness in a desert of brutally dull women's wear, towels, rugs and--God forbid--children's clothing. Sure, the department itself was no bigger than a large high-school classroom, but it managed to fit just about everything a curious, wide-eyed kid (or wide-eyed adult) could want: Televisions? Check. Stereos? Check? VCRs? Yup. Betamax? Yes sir. And last but not least--the real draw for a kid like me: Video game systems and hand-held games/electronics toys.
Did I just say video game systems? I sure did. Along the back wall of my electronics department was a neatly organized display wall unit that had every cutting-edge console of the time--one might call it a shrine of cool: A then aging Atari 2600, it's younger, spiffier brother, the Atari 5200 and the "new" competitor: Mattel's Intellivision system. Imagine each hooked up, brand new and ready to be played with, and you'll know an 8 year old's version of gaming heaven.
I played countless rounds of Pitfall and Combat on the Ataris, but I found the Intellivision to be the most intriguing: The odd keypad controller with removable overlays, the wide circular paddle, of course, the games. I can remember wiling away what seemed like hours (likely much less) taking turns playing "baseball" on that Intellivision--to the point where I had become somewhat of an expert, taking on all challengers who were foolish enough to face me on the digital diamond. They were soundly beaten.
In 1982, my attention was monopolized by a sparkling newcomer to the department: The powerful new ColecoVision, complete with the classic Donkey Kong--starring a "before he was famous" Mario--in all its colorful glory. This was my new gaming altar, and I would find a way to pray at it every time my parents felt the need to take me shopping.
The Bloomingdale's electronics department had other attractions to bend the will of kids--and raise the ire of parents--who entered: A form of candy-coated crack called handheld games. We're talking pre-Gameboy goodness here: Mini-LED based games like "Split Second," LCD "Game and Watch" games, and even Texas Instruments' holy trinity of edutainment: Speak & Spell, Speak & Math and Speak & Read. Each system was securely mounted along a long shelf, fully powered and always waiting to be played.
During my time in the department, I'd manage to keep things interesting for the sake of variety: Playing a game of daunting Pitfall (which usually ended quickly), enjoying a few rounds of two-screened LCD Donkey Kong Jr, and an attempt to legitimize my visit by hammering out a few words on Speak & Spell--and then oddly realizing I enjoyed the latter more that I expected. Needless to say, I was in no mood to leave when my parents wanted to drag me from my digital wonderland.
Now, before anyone assumes my parents would simply plunk me in this sandbox while they shopped care-fee, I should clarify a few important points: Back then, department stores had a level of personal service that doesn't commonly exist today. When you walked in to your local Bloomingdale's or Macy's, the employees knew you by name, and vice versa. They were your neighbors, peers and even friends. Additionally, I had the great advantage of having a family member who worked at my Bloomingdale's at that time, so the employees were indeed actually friends in many cases. Lastly, my parents were never far from where I was, and they only really felt comfortable leaving me on my own when I was a couple of years older. Unfortunately, that trust, maturity and self-reliance blossomed at the same time my precious electronics department was on the verge of dying.
By 1983, a new animal was appearing on the local retail landscape: Big box-style electronics superstores. These included the now defunct "Wiz" (in my area), Circuit City, and eventually, Best Buy. At the same time, department stores were being thrust into a battle with rapidly sprouting shopping malls which, while not necessarily competing for the electronics dollar, posed a huge threat to their apparel and home goods revenue streams. Department stores with smaller electronics departments like Bloomingdale's were forced to make a choice: Keep fighting a costly, losing battle with the likes of the superstores, or concede and devote more focus to their bread-and-butter offerings like apparel and housewares to compete with malls. The choice was clear.
By 1986, Bloomingdale's had closed the last of their electronics departments around the country, using the newly freed space to widen the footprint of women's wear, shoes or--in my store--a transplanted luggage department. Stores like Abraham & Strauss and JC Penney managed keep their electronics departments on life support for a few more years thanks to large appliance and cassette sales, but eventually they fell as well. A new age was upon us, for better or worse.
At the time, I viewed it simply as a changing of the guard, free of the nostalgic lens I now peer through as an adult. As a kid, you simply want the next cool device, and the store that sold it became less of a destination as it was a supplier. I have countless memories of my first NES and its descendants, but I remember little of the store at which it was acquired.
Young people reading this will likely scoff at the quaint idea of getting up out of a chair, getting in a car and driving to a local department store to buy a TV or a gaming console. Whereas the shopping mall had razed the previous retail landscape, online retail has all but changed some local department stores to mere showrooms. Yes, there are positives to consider: convenience, ease of shopping, lower prices, etc.; I'm not oblivious to the fact that almost everything we hold nostalgic usually has legitimate financial reason for disappearing and/or changing. Even after writing this, I can't imagine buying my next console or TV without checking online for a cheaper price.
Some might say I've bestowed a bit of hyperbole on something so mundane and fleeting as a local electronics department. That said, there's something to be said for these little enclaves of play: Sure, they may have been doomed by design from the start, but they had a personal connection with the customer that we'll never recapture. For a child, that connection is even more vivid and meaningful--fused into our mental motherboards right next to Christmas mornings and candy stores.
The nature of technology has obviously grown far beyond the boundaries of a trackball-driven game of Missile Command: Today, a Nintendo DS or iPad is met with the same wonder I had watching Mario climb a ladder to rescue a princess on 19-inch tube TV. The question is, does clicking a shopping cart carry the same emotional resonance as walking wide-eyed through a bleeping, flashing corner of fun in your hometown store? Perhaps the bigger, sadder question is, does it even matter?
Long before the explosion of shopping malls destroyed the fabric of American retail (an article for another day), the 1970s and early 1980s were something of an innocent time for shoppers. Everyone's hometown had plenty of free-standing "mom and pop" stores that sold everything from refrigerators to sneakers to legos, and their only real competition came in the form of long-established department stores.
Almost every city had at least one of these department stores in those days: Perhaps you reminisce about your old Wanamaker's, Macy's, Dillard's, JC Penney or Lord & Taylor. Where I grew up, we were lucky enough to have almost every department store known to man, including B. Altman's, Abraham & Strauss, Bonwit Teller, and one of the most popular names of the time: Bloomingdale's.
For those born after 1990, department stores of the 70s and 80s were vastly different in composition than they are now, and Bloomingdale's was no exception. If you stroll through your local Bloomie's today, you'll notice the majority of the space is devoted to apparel, followed in scale by housewares, bedding and furniture. However, back in the early 80s, Bloomingdale's had a few departments you wouldn't expect to see: A bakery, a gourmet shop, a toy department, a book department (you heard right), and full-fledged electronics department.
As a child, the electronics department was more than simply a section of a larger retail space: It was a veritable oasis of awesomeness in a desert of brutally dull women's wear, towels, rugs and--God forbid--children's clothing. Sure, the department itself was no bigger than a large high-school classroom, but it managed to fit just about everything a curious, wide-eyed kid (or wide-eyed adult) could want: Televisions? Check. Stereos? Check? VCRs? Yup. Betamax? Yes sir. And last but not least--the real draw for a kid like me: Video game systems and hand-held games/electronics toys.
Did I just say video game systems? I sure did. Along the back wall of my electronics department was a neatly organized display wall unit that had every cutting-edge console of the time--one might call it a shrine of cool: A then aging Atari 2600, it's younger, spiffier brother, the Atari 5200 and the "new" competitor: Mattel's Intellivision system. Imagine each hooked up, brand new and ready to be played with, and you'll know an 8 year old's version of gaming heaven.
I played countless rounds of Pitfall and Combat on the Ataris, but I found the Intellivision to be the most intriguing: The odd keypad controller with removable overlays, the wide circular paddle, of course, the games. I can remember wiling away what seemed like hours (likely much less) taking turns playing "baseball" on that Intellivision--to the point where I had become somewhat of an expert, taking on all challengers who were foolish enough to face me on the digital diamond. They were soundly beaten.
In 1982, my attention was monopolized by a sparkling newcomer to the department: The powerful new ColecoVision, complete with the classic Donkey Kong--starring a "before he was famous" Mario--in all its colorful glory. This was my new gaming altar, and I would find a way to pray at it every time my parents felt the need to take me shopping.
The Bloomingdale's electronics department had other attractions to bend the will of kids--and raise the ire of parents--who entered: A form of candy-coated crack called handheld games. We're talking pre-Gameboy goodness here: Mini-LED based games like "Split Second," LCD "Game and Watch" games, and even Texas Instruments' holy trinity of edutainment: Speak & Spell, Speak & Math and Speak & Read. Each system was securely mounted along a long shelf, fully powered and always waiting to be played.
During my time in the department, I'd manage to keep things interesting for the sake of variety: Playing a game of daunting Pitfall (which usually ended quickly), enjoying a few rounds of two-screened LCD Donkey Kong Jr, and an attempt to legitimize my visit by hammering out a few words on Speak & Spell--and then oddly realizing I enjoyed the latter more that I expected. Needless to say, I was in no mood to leave when my parents wanted to drag me from my digital wonderland.
Now, before anyone assumes my parents would simply plunk me in this sandbox while they shopped care-fee, I should clarify a few important points: Back then, department stores had a level of personal service that doesn't commonly exist today. When you walked in to your local Bloomingdale's or Macy's, the employees knew you by name, and vice versa. They were your neighbors, peers and even friends. Additionally, I had the great advantage of having a family member who worked at my Bloomingdale's at that time, so the employees were indeed actually friends in many cases. Lastly, my parents were never far from where I was, and they only really felt comfortable leaving me on my own when I was a couple of years older. Unfortunately, that trust, maturity and self-reliance blossomed at the same time my precious electronics department was on the verge of dying.
By 1983, a new animal was appearing on the local retail landscape: Big box-style electronics superstores. These included the now defunct "Wiz" (in my area), Circuit City, and eventually, Best Buy. At the same time, department stores were being thrust into a battle with rapidly sprouting shopping malls which, while not necessarily competing for the electronics dollar, posed a huge threat to their apparel and home goods revenue streams. Department stores with smaller electronics departments like Bloomingdale's were forced to make a choice: Keep fighting a costly, losing battle with the likes of the superstores, or concede and devote more focus to their bread-and-butter offerings like apparel and housewares to compete with malls. The choice was clear.
By 1986, Bloomingdale's had closed the last of their electronics departments around the country, using the newly freed space to widen the footprint of women's wear, shoes or--in my store--a transplanted luggage department. Stores like Abraham & Strauss and JC Penney managed keep their electronics departments on life support for a few more years thanks to large appliance and cassette sales, but eventually they fell as well. A new age was upon us, for better or worse.
At the time, I viewed it simply as a changing of the guard, free of the nostalgic lens I now peer through as an adult. As a kid, you simply want the next cool device, and the store that sold it became less of a destination as it was a supplier. I have countless memories of my first NES and its descendants, but I remember little of the store at which it was acquired.
Young people reading this will likely scoff at the quaint idea of getting up out of a chair, getting in a car and driving to a local department store to buy a TV or a gaming console. Whereas the shopping mall had razed the previous retail landscape, online retail has all but changed some local department stores to mere showrooms. Yes, there are positives to consider: convenience, ease of shopping, lower prices, etc.; I'm not oblivious to the fact that almost everything we hold nostalgic usually has legitimate financial reason for disappearing and/or changing. Even after writing this, I can't imagine buying my next console or TV without checking online for a cheaper price.
Some might say I've bestowed a bit of hyperbole on something so mundane and fleeting as a local electronics department. That said, there's something to be said for these little enclaves of play: Sure, they may have been doomed by design from the start, but they had a personal connection with the customer that we'll never recapture. For a child, that connection is even more vivid and meaningful--fused into our mental motherboards right next to Christmas mornings and candy stores.
The nature of technology has obviously grown far beyond the boundaries of a trackball-driven game of Missile Command: Today, a Nintendo DS or iPad is met with the same wonder I had watching Mario climb a ladder to rescue a princess on 19-inch tube TV. The question is, does clicking a shopping cart carry the same emotional resonance as walking wide-eyed through a bleeping, flashing corner of fun in your hometown store? Perhaps the bigger, sadder question is, does it even matter?
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