As a kid, the mall was a place my mother had to drag me to, because I was a) not at all into shopping for clothes and b) not at all into doing things I was not into.
It was usually a rather dull experience, strolling down what seemed like endless walkways, in and out of various shops, for an eternity.
Hated the mall with a passion, hated all of them, the giant monoliths that had replaced pony rides and cool little movie theaters and the best arcade LA had to offer in the 80s. All gone and replaced by giant, weirdly-shaped cases, filled to bursting with useless stores and people who just loooovvveeddd shopping.
And yet here I am, twenty-some-odd years later, running around and cackling like a lunatic, sneaking shots in furniture showrooms, wondering aloud at competence of the slow-moving security guards, longing for one of the available corn dogs, trying to figure out why there are so many toy stores in a single building.
Taking photos all the while.
Given enough time, most anything becomes legit, I suppose. Worked for western religion, why not a mall?