By Amanda Nowinski

I AM ASHAMED to admit that I have not yet supported my homeland in its war against terrorism. I have not taped tiny paper flags to my window, nor have I clothed myself in red, white, and blue, colors that have made a smashing comeback on the pages of American Vogue. Still, shopping for America is a patriotic activity that intrigues me. In case you live in a cave with Osama or have starved to death in the desert because you were unable to catch a bag of military air-drop munchies, America: Open for Business is Mayor Willie Brown's ingenious campaign that aims to encourage broke-ass Americans to give those precious dollars back in order to help put an end to this inconvenient recession. And, of course, to prove to those freakin' terrorists that nothing will stop us from indulging in our favorite national pastime. And because 800,000 folks were laid off in the past two months, we have no choice but to shop extra hard.

So to help our wounded nation rise from the ashes like a fabulous phoenix dressed in a cute cashmere sweater set from Burberry, I decided to head downtown and shop myself to death with a member of Octavius, an up-and-coming young art band whose abrasive, gutter punk electronic cacophony will never be heard on the Cartier overhead speakers, which is truly a shame. I wanted to interview the band while we shopped – call it "multitasking for America," if you will. The only drawback was, wouldn't you know, that we had no cash. William Marshall, the Octavius frontman and vocalist who accompanied me on this excursion (the other two guys, engineer Jason Chavez, a.k.a. 4AM, and guitarist Giovanni Cruz, had to be at work, bless their hearts), works in a record shop and bleeds his nights away making music that in no way is about to outsell O-Town. Sadly, Octavius has decided to go the route of the experimental artist, not an especially good career move for the hardcore consumerist. Consequently, we reshaped our goal to "aggressive window-shopping for America" – which is patriotic and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Armani: Easing into it

The sidewalks and stores of downtown San Francisco on a Wednesday afternoon are not exactly the picture of retail madness. Harried financial district workers storm down the sidewalks, gurgling cups of Starbucks and yelling into cell phones that are conveniently attached to their skulls via headphones and black wire. Rich old ladies in silk Hermès scarves drift in and out of stores along Union Square, while homeless people squat on sidewalks, and sandwich board-wearing Jesus freaks compete for space on street corners. If shopping for America is de rigueur, it certainly has an elusive quality on this day.

Marshall and I meet in front of Gump's and stroll down to Armani, because, lest anyone get the wrong idea, we are going high-end. Why the hell not? Inside we slink to the bar and order cocktails but are quickly stopped as we snap a photo of Marshall caressing a fur coat. Shopping for America means no fucking around.

As we sip our $8 Fashion Limonadas, I ask Marshall if he can imagine Octavius being broadcast over the Armani sound system. The Electric Third Rail, the group's debut full-length that local hip-hop promoter Gary Rivera released earlier this year on his Just One Entertainment imprint, is a furiously demonic outburst of dissonance and grime; Marshall rants over 4AM's caustic soundscapes, a thickly layered sample-based dark hole that conjures the murky underworld of the Stooges, the dubbed-out angst of Tricky, and the introspective creepiness of Goth. Marshall looks up at the expansive marble ceiling and says, "Maybe they could play it here after they blew the place up." And on we go.

Gump's: Endless crap

We desperately want to buy the 24-foot golden Buddha and matching rock garden but can't find a salesperson to assist us, or even take us seriously, for that matter. Marshall says, "We're just not talking to the right people." We've just priced the baroque South Sea pearls (a mere $12,000, or the equivalent of 52 unemployment checks) and are moving on to Christmas ornaments, which can cost you up to 400 bucks a pop, for no apparent reason. I scoff at a tacky blown-glass miniature Christmas tree for $350, and Marshall says, "But look – it's real glass."

We aimlessly navigate the unending assortment of pointless knickknacks, exploring a lack-of-authenticity theme while cheery Muzak drones out the faint clinging of cash registers. Just as Bing Crosby starts slurring about his whacked-out Christmas dreams, Marshall, perusing crystal goblets, says, "People are trying to be so in the middle of the road, always trying not to offend anyone." Octavius, on the other hand, makes music that is brutally raw – sometimes painfully so. And unlike the mass of electronic music that plods along formulaically without the vaguest glimpse into the artist's personality, The Electric Third Rail and the band's new single, "Modern Chairs," spit, barf, and retch it all out. If bland deep house, Ikea, and clubs like Ruby Skye didn't exist, neither would Octavius. But if you're not feeling it, don't worry about it – the band already saw it coming. "The only reason we're shocking is because we don't want to please," Marshall says, gazing at the Buddha. "We don't know the rules or want to figure it out. We're outside of all these circles, so it doesn't matter to us."

We grab a handful of allegedly free amaretto wafers and escape the precious overload of Gump's just as a band of Chanel bag-toting housewives enters the store. They reek of plastic.

Burberry: Dissed

Four grumpy ladies exiting the store nearly squash us with their plaid Burberry shopping bags – and then have the nerve to chortle at us as we plow into them with our backpacks. We cruise up to the display of cashmere scarves ($160 each, or the equivalent of one month's PG&E bill in a freezing S.F. flat) and engage in conversation with a fortysomething blond woman who is wearing a pair of Burberry pants. "Oh, I just dug these pants out of my closet after five years," she says. "They're a little passé, but I just think they're fabulous." We are angered by her decision to wear old pants, which we take as a cop-out.

We move over to a miniature wool jacket that costs $365, undoubtedly a terrific deal for extravagant midgets or fashion-conscious children who can't be bothered to grow up. A haughty salesperson walks over to us and asks us if we're "with the class." We take great offense to some atrocious mistaken identity and exit.

This sort of confusion is nothing new to Octavius. As we leave the store, Marshall tells me about getting booed during opening slots for Nas and A+ in '96. "We went through some bad experiences and bad receptions," he says. "Hip-hop crowds don't give a shit. If they're not there to see you, they don't give a shit about you." Marshall goes on to say that having no audience expectations and no genre allegiances allows the musicians of Octavius free rein to express themselves – they're only shocked when someone gets it. ("We thought we had lost the crowd," Cruz tells me later as he describes a recent show at Bottom of the Hill. "We expected them to leave. We know we're not going to come across how they might expect. I mean, we're fucked up, we don't get it, so how can we expect you to get it?") We walk up Stockton and pass a Salvation Army bell ringer who is crouching several feet away from his donation box, yawning loudly.

Niketown: Crass communication

If Ten 15 Folsom were a mall, Niketown is what it would look like. Marshall and I grab nylon shopping bags at the entrance and ride upstairs through the MTV-like maze of blinking lights, horrible techno, and bored teenage salespeople who distractedly fold T-shirts and yell at one another. We find a sweatshirt that reads, "Just Do It USA." "Does this inspire you?" I ask Marshall. "Just on its own, no," he says, "but with the USA added onto it, definitely." We pass by the Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan paraphernalia, and I ask Marshall if he would like Nike to sponsor Octavius, considering that listening to the group's music is more challenging than watching a game of golf. "We'd give them a listen," he says. "But it really comes down to how much coke and guns they can offer." We scoot down the escalator and rush to escape before our souls are folded into a stiff pair of $90 nylon cargo pants.

Tiffany and Co.: What time it is

"You can't write a hit song without the right pen," says Marshall as we scope the stylus display window. The least expensive set is $210, so it appears that Marshall is going to have to wait a little longer for that triple-platinum record deal. But he assures me that he is clocking no less than six digits a year at Amoeba (oh, right), where he works as a music buyer. The security guard eyes us suspiciously as we cruise over to the watch display and ogle a Flavor Flav-size pocket watch. Marshall peers through the glass case and says, "This lets people know you know what time it is." Accordingly, we get the feeling that it's time to go as a gray, unsmiling salesman shoots us the evil eye.

Sak's Fifth Avenue: Find that ho

As soon as we enter Sak's we encounter what appears to be a ho. She's a young bleached-blond dressed in a black mini skirt, half-shirt, stilettos, and shimmery black nylons, through which we can see a smiley face tattoo that has a tongue sticking out of it. Silver heavy metal rings decorate her fingers, which she runs through her 80-year-old sugar daddy's toupee. We are about to follow them through the store but are stopped by a makeup artist named Sergio, who is also dressed in black (he is, however, no relation to the ho). Before we know it Marshall is sitting on a stool, and Sergio is rubbing rouge all over his cheeks. "You go and run away," Sergio tells me. "You're making him nervous." I am anxious to find the ho, but I scope the Le Mer face cream, which, at only $200 an ounce, is almost as reasonable as those monthly Cobra health insurance payments that the 800,000 newly unemployed can expect to make next month.