In the middle of a vast sea of asphalt, the Mall of America rises up like a foreboding island plateau. A mighty four-story fortress of American commercialism, its sentries stand ever vigilant atop its four great towers: Sears, Nordstrom, Bloomingdale's, and Macy's. Miles of storefronts, stacked high like the great menhirs of a modern-day Stonehenge, circle the world's largest indoor amusement park with a mysterious reverence.

The aforementioned amusement park is called "Camp Snoopy," and "camp" is what the Mall of America is all about.

At first glance, the Mall appears to have every possible store: one of everything, except of course for those things that it has two of. And every last one of those stores is necessary, because the Mall has one of every possible person; at this very moment, there is someone just like you at the Mall. I know this because I saw you there: buying a keychain, eating fast food at the North food court, scoping out the fish at Underwater World, playing a few holes at Golf Mountain, or most likely, walking aimlessly in circles with the rest of us. After all, this is the event that mall walkers around the world train for: three floors of grueling half-mile circuits, embraced by neon on both sides.

Visiting the Mall of America is the quintessential mall experience, created by a two-fold effort: The Mall's creators have clearly striven to build the ideal shopping space, and in turn, each individual store has endeavored to become an archetype, an ambassador to the United Nations of Retail. Hence the athletic shoe store with its own little basketball court, the Holiday Convenience Store complete with indoor gas pump, and the test track for young race car designers at the LEGO Imagination Center.

The Mall beckons its visitors with an evocative portrayal of the human condition: who we are, what we look like, and all the things that we shovel into our mouths. Its stores divide themselves neatly into thirds: Food, Clothing, and Keychains. The last category, which is described more diplomatically in the directories as "Specialty Stores," instantiates itself in dozens of different forms. There are golf keychain stores, beer keychain stores, animal keychain stores, and, of course, Mall of America keychain stores. In its wisdom, the Mall of America has done away with the conventional specialty stores that sell things like golf clubs, imported beer, or actual pets; its retailers have made the poignant observation that Americans are afraid to own things that they can use; such things call into question the sincerity, the enthusiasm or the competence of the owner. We would much rather tote a keychain or a "world's greatest golfer" mug that implies all those things without actually requiring them.

Top Ten Signs That Your Mall is Too Damn Big: 10. More than one food court. 9. Trash cans that talk back to you. 8. Emergency telephones to help lost shoppers. 7. Hooters. 6. Your feet blister. 5. Golf Mountain. 4. Special parking lots for RV's. 3. There are shuttle buses that only go across the street. 2. There's an amusement park in the middle. 1. The stores are numbered, like the buildings at MIT.

Postmark America, the new store from the United States Postal Service, is perhaps the new exemplar of keychain stores. Within you can find your favorite collectable stamps, stamp ties, stamp earrings, and of course, stamp keychains. Also available are shirts and hats from three different themes: "Postal Blue," celebrating the tenacity and reliability of American lettercarriers, "Air Mail," celebrating those valiant postal pilots of the early century, and "America," celebrating the good ol' U.S. of A.! Mixed in with the merchandise are a few museum exhibits, and an honest-to-goodness Post Office. Sorry, no money orders or draft cards are available.

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