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Seven Days at the Bin Store
This spring, a new business opened on the main drag of my West Philadelphia neighborhood, provoking both excitement and trepidation. “I saw it just the other day and feared it,” one friend texted. “Like what the actual fuck is that shit,” said another. “Why?!!!” said a third. “Who is that for?” Until last summer, the […]
There’s one central aisle, and on either side, big wooden tray tables—the proverbial binz—overflowing with undifferentiated piles of consumer stuff: unopened Halloween costumes, an ice mold shaped like a penis, a banner of many glittery penises wearing grass skirts, a staggering number of “reusable hot and cold gel compression sleeve[s] for elbow,” a single loose pregnancy test, something called Wokaar for “waxing the nose beard.” There are many products I’ve only ever seen on the internet: a carrying case and monogrammed straw cover for a Stanley cup, a big plastic grinder for shredding chicken, silicone molds for making the viral Dubai chocolate bar at home. A post about Amazing Binz has over 50 comments, ranging from “omg I am EXCITED,” to “Maybe I can find things I need and not weep over the price,” to “No offense to the owners but this store feels like where late stage capitalism goes for one final hurrah.”
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