Finally, A Unifying Theory of the Mysterious WalMart Closures .....

I just got back from the Walmart Neighborhood Market near our home. The long time employee cashier that checked me out was having a rough day.  She told me that since the Walmart at Admiral and Lewis had closed the character of their store had changed.  This got my attention since we were talking about my neighborhood.

She said that the last two weeks since the Admiral store closed had been difficult, observing that today was better than some days in that she had only been yelled at (translate that cussed out) by a customer once.  She continued that it could have been worse, recounting that last week, for the first time in the ten years that store had been open, one of their employees had been assaulted right there in the store.  The only ray of hope she could offer in that area was that next week two armed guards would be posted in the cashier areas near the door.

I asked her why the Admiral store had closed.  She was a fount of information.  First, it would seem that the 20 year lease on that store was up and profits were down, way down, almost non-existent. She alleged that the likely cause of the lack of profits was massive theft by both customers and employees hinting that at an ingrained culture of theft and dishonesty had developed in the store. Interestingly, she also said that there had been a waiting lessee for the store property, none other than the U.S. Department of Defense.

I don't know how much credibility to give all of this but I did find one unifying thread.  The online reviews of some of the stores closed used words like "ghetto" and "loud, obnoxious customers" and "dirty" and of course, "poor customer service and "long lines and no cashiers."  Those terms pretty well describe our experience with the Admiral store here in Tulsa.  There was regularly crime both in the store and in the parking lot.  The other customers were often at best annoying, sometimes scary and at worst threatening.  The store was always dirty and the employees for the most part left a lot to be desired.  My wife and I had taken to driving right past it on the expressway and traveling nearly fifteen miles to a store in the suburbs where the aisles were clean and the customers were better behaved.


But, there is one more theory that makes a whole lot of sense.  Nobody doubts that we are in for a long hot summer in black and mixed race neighborhoods, probably the worst since 1968. It could be worse than 1968 given the current explosive state of race relations in the U.S. under Barack Hussein Obama.

The pictures of rioters assaulting and looting the QuikTrip in Ferguson, Missouri are most likely burned into the consciousness of every senior executive in the U.S.  And, it that weren't enough, last nights video of a Baltimore CVS burning, surrounded by riot police could be the last nail in the coffin of many, many marginally profitable retail outlets in dangerous neighborhoods.

If I had a money losing store where there was the distinct possibility that it would be looted and burned this summer, I would close it too, not only to prevent the financial loss but also to protect my employees.  It would be a tough decision but it is better for all concerned that the store be closed and the employees lose their jobs rather than to risk being caught in a vicious race riot, particularly for those employees whose race is "wrong" for that neighborhood.

And that is probably the real reason that Walmart closed five stores.  It is entirely possible that other national chains may follow as well. And unfortunately, when that happens, the character of the nearby neighborhoods and retail community will changed for the worse, just like our nearby Walmart Neighborhood Market.

What Is Thanksgiving?

Tomorrow, most Americans will eat too much, numb their minds watching football games, gain a couple of pounds and then call it a day.  That is the current American tradition.  The fact that this modern American tradition is antithetical to the spiritual and cultural roots of the holiday is probably unknown to most and would probably make no difference even if the religious significance of the holiday was known.

The first Thanksgiving was celebrated by religious fundamentalists who came to America to escape state persecution and Native Americans who took pity on a group of starving strangers and taught them how to survive in a strange land.  The original harvest time celebration was a sign of gratitude to God for their survival and to the Native Americans that God used to make it happen. There was joy but also piety, humility and gratitude, attributes sorely lacking in modern American society.

Thanksgiving became a national observance during the civil war when Abraham Lincoln proclaimed: "No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union."

The typical Thanksgiving feast was something I never experienced in my youth.  We were poor and my Mom didn't really believe in making much of a fuss over holidays.  We might have had a piece of ham, some pork chops or maybe a chicken.  But, there were no huge family celebrations and lavish meals.  Usually it was just the three of us over a modest meal in our humble little kitchen.  But, there was thankfulness at the table.  We had a modest but adequate little house with a roof that kept us dry and a gas stove that kept us warm.  The gas stove was a luxury that some of our neighbors did not share.  We all had clothes that fit us, kept us warm and were decent enough to go out in.  There was plenty of food, even if it wasn't fancy.  We missed no meals.  We had a reliable car.  Those were all things my former sharecropper mother and "living on the road" Okie father often didn't have in their youth and they felt blessed to have them.

In the latter years of Mom's life we reverted to that pattern.  For the last fifteen or so years of her life, Mom refused to leave her home for holiday celebrations.  So, most years, Sheila and I would cook a turkey dinner at our home in Tulsa, put it in a ice chest to keep it warm and drive to Gans to eat it with Mom. Again, just three of us in Mom's humble little kitchen.  Sometimes she was grateful, sometimes she may not have been.  Mom was ill and her moods were a part of that illness. But, we did it anyway because the Thanksgiving meal is about more than having a good time and eating a good meal.  It is about faith, family, duty and honor.  I couldn't have enjoyed myself anywhere knowing that Mom was sitting alone while we celebrated.

In these past few years since Mom's death, I have had a lot of time to think about what I want from the Thanksgiving celebration.  I have no stomach for sanitized, secular, multi-cultural interpretations of a tradition with such profound Christian roots and I have no patience with people who try to force their secular corruption of one of America's most sacred religious traditions upon me.  And, for that matter, I can do without the football games and massive parades of inflated symbols of spiritual and moral emptiness. I want to freely and openly thank God for the multiple blessings he has bestowed upon us in the past year and humbly beseech his continued blessings in the year to come.  That's it. Without that, the whole tradition is nothing more than an empty exercise in gluttony and excess that I can do without.

On Sheepdogs and Liberal, Anti-Gun *ssholes

This morning, I was following and commenting on a post made by a Facebook friend lamenting the horrific killing and mutilation of 43 people by Mexican drug cartels. My FB friend is a professor and has a few liberals who follow her FB page as well.  True to the liberal playbook rules of: (1) never let a tragedy go to waste when you can spin it toward your own agenda; (2) always show America in a bad light and; (3) always blame it on your political opposition, this excuse for a person proceeded to compare the NRA to the Mexican drug cartels, implying that they were as responsible for the last American school shooting as the cartels were for the massacre being discussed.  I have to be careful when I reply to people like this because I know that answering a fool in his folly can be in itself a fool's mission.

I grew up on a rural Oklahoma ranch.  Guns were a part of our life.  The typical law enforcement response to a trouble call was sometimes measured in hours not minutes. My father's pistol was never far from reach wherever we went and there was always a wicked old double barrel shotgun on hand in the house.   The only reason any of us in that neighborhood and time were able to own cattle or anything else of value was because folks who would be tempted to steal knew that if they were caught in the act they were liable to be shot on the spot. For that matter, the only reason we were able to live on isolated acreages without fear of personal violence was because of our guns.  Samuel Colt was dead right when he called the pistol the "great equalizer."

By the time I was five, my combat veteran father had given me a pop gun replica of a 1903 Springfield and taught me how to knock down tobacco cans with it on the living room floor. He taught me the shooting positions of a combat rifleman.  He also stood me tall and made me do the complete manual of arms with it.  In the process he taught me rudimentary gun safety. By the time I was eight or so, I had a Daisy lever action BB gun. With that weapon came new responsibilities like never do damage to property and never torment or kill small animals.  At twelve or so I had a bolt action .22 rifle.  With it came more rules like watch behind your target and don't shoot a living creature unless it's a varmint or you are going to eat it.

There was never a question whether or not I would serve in the military, only when and what branch. In the world my father raised me in, men of honor served when called.  All of my father's close friends were veterans.  All of my uncles on his side were veterans.  Men of my father's generation who didn't have a darned good reason for not serving were not respected. In short, in my father's generation men were expected to be "sheepdogs."  They were expected to serve the nation and their community if necessary and also be individually capable of protecting their families, themselves and their property.  They were expected to be men of honor, courage and discipline who could be trusted with a firearm.  That was the right given to them by Second Amendment and the duty imposed upon them by that right.


The men of my father's generation were a force to be reckoned with.  You were polite to these men and they were polite to you because both sides knew that, despite their usually genial manner and easy going attitude, they had long ago proven that they were also capable of incredible courage and, if necessary, lethal violence when the situation called for it. Many of them, like my father, had little pieces of metal and ribbon to prove it.

I have nothing but pity and disgust for this new class of American man that does not share the traditional American male "sheepdog" values.  I pity them because they did not have a sheepdog father to teach them these values.  I pity them because they probably did not have the honor of serving their country in uniform.  And, I pity them because, at whatever age they have now attained, they have yet to take responsibility for their own and their family's safety.

I have nothing but loathing for people who would disarm civilian sheepdogs because they are afraid of their fangs.  I suspect that these political and cultural castrati fear armed citizens because of the deep fears, hatreds and anxieties in their own hearts. Having never been taught the honor, self control and discipline of the sheepdog culture, they project their own fear, hatred and inadequacy upon everyone else.

I have a message for the cultural castrati of our generation.  The only reason they are able to mouth their whining, bitter little diatribes and psuedo intellectual fallacies is because good men are protecting them.  They sleep better at night in their homes because the predators in their community don't know whether the house is occupied by a member of the ideological victim class like themselves or a sheepdog that will shoot them the minute they break through the door.  They are free to walk the streets in comparative safety and mouth their destructive drivel on street corners and in classrooms only because a better man is somewhere nearby to take on the duty of protecting them. The bottom line here is that the new cultural castrati can just kiss my *ss.  If they really want our guns ....

"Fudamentally Transforming America"

Barrack Hussein Obama said that he was going to "fundamentally transform America." He has. It became apparent to me in the past few days.

Last night as we drove to the movies, two fundamentalist Muslim young women literally stopped traffic on 41st street between Southroads and the Promenade during rush hour. They were clothed from head to foot in full Muslim regalia. They chose to ignore the crosswalks and jaywalk. They walked slowly with an attitude. Their total indifference to the situation they had created was apparent. It was a demonstration of utter arrogance.

Later, as we were driving to Sheila's office to take care of an errand her boss had emailed to her during the movie, a young black woman in a tiny Nissan, suddenly changed lanes in front of me from the the right to the center lane of 21st street.  I narrowly missed rear ending her.  She then proceeded to make an illegal left turn from the center lane across traffic and the center turn lane put there for that very purpose.  It should be noted that the Tulsa Police Department remains under close scrutiny because statistically it has had too many encounters with people of color and not enough with Caucasians.  I guess that means this gal has become accustomed to getting a pass on dangerous and illegal maneuvers in traffic.

At lunch yesterday, Sheila and I were watching Fox News in our neighborhood Chinese place. We didn't ask for the set to be tuned to Fox.  The Chinese proprietors watch it as matter of choice.   A story about secret relocation of illegals was airing.  I said something about it to Sheila.  I didn't say it in a loud voice or with any animus.  I was just talking to my wife across the table in a restaurant in my own neighborhood.  A middle aged Mexican man was walking close to our table.  He immediately began "harrumphing" loudly, over and over.  When I looked up, he gave me a go to hell look.  I returned the look and raised my right elbow enough for my waistband to show. His throat immediately cleared and he decided to go back to his table.


Last Saturday. I decided to suspend my boycott of Cracker Barrel for a day and have lunch there. As Sheila and I were walking in, a younger teen-aged black boy was sitting in one of the rockers and working it pretty hard. As we walked up, he stared intently at us. His look was pure hatred. I know that look. If we had been walking down a lonely street or a dark alley there would have been trouble. Older white people are often seen as prey to young blacks.  As I kept my eyes on him, I was reminded that there have been several violent incidents in the parking lot of this very Cracker Barrel and armed robberies are common at Cracker Barrel locations around the nation. I had a gun in my front pocket and was carrying a cane that is guaranteed to break a knee cap or split a skull if necessary so I wasn't worried about him. I was just saddened and wondered what in the world that child had been taught that could make him hate people he had never seen before and who had taught it to him.

Well, upon reflection the answer is pretty simple.  Barrack Hussein Obama has fundamentally transformed my America.

Methland

A while back, I read an absolutely fascinating and incredibly frightening book titled "Methland."  The book tells the story of how the illegal sale of methamphetamines literally took over a small midwestern town. The book also makes the point that this town is typical of many if not most small towns in America.  The manufacture and distribution of meth has become part of the culture.

I was reminded of this yesterday.  I was working a suspected identity theft case.  Information had come to my attention that my client's identity information had been used to attempt to purchase prescription drugs in a nearby town.  I instructed the client to go along with the pharmacy. I would then show up to pick up the drugs and demand the transaction information concerning the person who actually placed the order.

As is my habit, I made a courtesy call to the local police.  I told them that I would be in their jurisdiction shortly, where I intended to go and what I intended to do. One of the their narcotics detectives agreed to go with me when I attempted to finalize the suspected "buy."

When we walked into the pharmacy, I took a position to the left of the two cash registers where I could see what was going on behind the pharmacy counter.  The detective took a position to the right of the pharmacy window where he was partially hidden by sales displays but could still see the transaction if it took place. While the odds were extremely remote that anything bad was going to happen in this little drill, it was still comforting that the young detective had also taken a position that "covered" me nicely in case somebody did get stupid.

Of course, the pharmacy disavowed any idea of the alleged prescription and could find absolutely no information about it in their records.  They were at a loss to explain how my client's name got into their prescription system at all since he lives in another city, does not and has never used that particular pharmacy. As we were winding up our little exercise in questions and denials, a second cashier showed up and began taking customers.  What I saw next stunned me.

She was a blonde of about twenty.  She wore very brief shorts, a sleeveless top and flip flops.  She was still a beautiful girl but the marks of her future were already visible.  Her skin had the sallow pallor of a meth addict.  Her arms were tightly gripped across her chest as she tried to control her shivering on ninety degree day. Her eyes were already showing the first signs of the living dead zombie stare of a meth addict. She produced an Oklahoma state ID card that clearly indicated that it was not a driver's license.

Imagine this scene.  You walk into your small town pharmacy and two armed men are standing on each side of the counter, an aging PI in a suit and young narcotics detective in his shirtsleeves with a service weapon and cuffs showing. Our appearance screamed "cop" from a mile away.  She had to know that we could see her condition.  And still, she walked right up to the counter between us and ordered the legal maximum of generic pseudoephedrine.  While it was a perfectly legal transaction at that point, the young detective rolled his eyes in amazement as he heard it.

These folks often work in pairs.  As soon as I saw her and "made" her as an addict I looked around and, sure enough, a slightly older woman with a family resemblance, pushing a baby carriage, was about ten feet behind her.  This person was obviously in more control than the girl making the buy because she looked very worried.  But, she was also not about to have anything to do with her partner making the buy.  As we walked out the door, the young detective laughed and said something to the effect that we both knew where those allergy meds were headed.

Welcome to Methland, Oklahoma, USA.

Simbas and Sovereign Citizens

At the time, we knew very little about it.  But, during the 1960's, America diverted quite a bit of covert aid to the African continent, especially the Congo, to thwart Communist initiatives there.  We had apparently had Special Forces on the ground during the Simba Rebellion.  The stories are fascinating to read.

One of the best that I have ever read is about a Belgian paratrooper who dropped into Stanleyville to reclaim the city from the rebels who been executing white people on sight and burning their own people who didn't cooperate alive.  The trooper was attacked by a small group of Simba rebels who charged his position head on, some wearing the animal skins that were the trademark of the movement.

The trooper describes how one fellow came running at them in great loping strides, swinging a huge machete. The trooper raised his weapon and shot the guy through the chest.  When the bullet hit, the rebel's eyes grew huge in shock and then he crumpled and died.  The rebels with

him stopped and looked at him in awe for a second before they received more of the same.  The few survivors ran for the bush as fast as their legs would carry them.  The rebels were surprised because their witch doctors had told them that if they wore the right skins and had some mojo dust sprinkled on them they would be invincible to the white man's bullets.  To prove their point, they would anoint a poor bushman and then fire a weapon in the air behind him to prove that he was invincible.

Sadly, this story reminds me of the people who follow the so called "sovereign citizen" movement today. They truly believe that if they can just say the right words, they will unlock the secrets of the "hidden rights of free citizens" and be immune from government jurisdiction and the laws of the land.  And, of course, there are plenty of people ready to make a buck selling the books and even giving financial advice based upon this psuedo-legal mumbo jumbo.

The whole thing is almost pathetically naive.  In the end, legal authority either comes from God or the point of a gun.  If you have a government that does not respect God and the natural law that flows from that respect, their only remaining authority comes by force.  It is ludicrous to think that a godless government ruling by force would let itself be restrained by the Magna Carta, the common law, "hidden rules" or for that matter the type of fringe on an American flag.

Walking into a courtroom spouting that nonsense is exactly like the Simba rebel charging Belgian machine guns.  It's gonna be bloody and it ain't gonna end well for the person on the wrong side of the gun.

My Father's Gun

This is my father's gun.  It is Nazi issue Star Model B.  It was made in Spain, probably in 1943.  Soon thereafter, it was issued to a German soldier. Sometime after that it was taken from that German soldier and my father acquired it.

During the war, it was a handy gun.   Dad had little patience with pansy ass, chickenshit rules but also didn't seek out unnecessary confrontation.  This pistol looked so much like a government issue Colt 1911 that nobody would question a soldier carrying it, unlike the flashier and more valuable Luger or P-38 which would raise questions from chickenshit rear echelon officers that were uncomfortable with enlisted soldiers carrying "unauthorized" sidearms.  It fired easily accessible German issue ammunition which was lying around in piles everywhere, so there was no need to ask anyone for ammo for it. It was the perfect weapon for my father in a difficult time.

"Somehow,"  the old gun made it back to United States.  I grew up with that gun in the house.  It wasn't locked up or secured in any way.  I just knew that if I touched it, there would be hell to pay.  That was the way of things in that era.  Back then, you could spank a kid who did something stupid and Dad certainly wasn't afraid to do that.  He taught me to respect him and his rules.  Most people kept guns in the house. You had to.  The nearest policeman was over an hour away and it was a tough, tough neighborhood.

The gun was never far from him.  It was either in the bedroom or in the glove compartment of whatever vehicle he was driving.  It was one of several guns in the house.  There were strict rules about which guns I could use and which I couldn't.  But, by the time I was twelve or so, if I wanted to go hunting or carry a long gun when I walked out to check on the cattle, no permission was necessary. But, the pistol remained off limits.

When dad died, his pistol went home with me.  Mom was afraid of it, never understood it and didn't like it around her.  She was unable to understand that that old gun may well have helped Dad stay alive to marry her and make me.  And, it certainly protected us and our home well while I was growing up.  Since 1978, it has done the same job in our home.

Seventy years after it was handed to that German soldier, this gun is still doing its job. It has some surface wear but otherwise fires perfectly.  It is still a remarkably accurate and sweet firing old pistol.  This gun was made by evil people to advance an evil purpose.  But, evil was overcome by good and in the end the gun had and continues to have an honorable career protecting the lives and property of honest people.

According to Lt.Col. Dave Grossman, a former psychology professor at West Point, there are three types of men in the world.  There are sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves.  He explains it this way:

"Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident."  ....I mean nothing negative by calling them sheep. To me it is like the pretty, blue robin's egg. Inside it is soft and gooey but someday it will grow into something wonderful. But the egg cannot survive without its hard blue shell. Police officers, soldiers, and other warriors are like that shell, and someday the civilization they protect will grow into something wonderful.? For now, though, they need warriors to protect them from the predators.

"Then there are the wolves," the old war veteran said, "and the wolves feed on the sheep without mercy." Do you believe there are wolves out there who will feed on the flock without mercy? You better believe it. There are evil men in this world and they are capable of evil deeds. The moment you forget that or pretend it is not so, you become a sheep. There is no safety in denial.

"Then there are sheepdogs," he went on, "and I'm a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf."  ...  

Let me expand on this old soldier's excellent model of the sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs. We know that the sheep live in denial, that is what makes them sheep. They do not want to believe that there is evil in the world. They can accept the fact that fires can happen, which is why they want fire extinguishers, fire sprinklers, fire alarms and fire exits throughout their kids' schools.

But many of them are outraged at the idea of putting an armed police officer in their kid's school. Our children are thousands of times more likely to be killed or seriously injured by school violence than fire, but the sheep's only response to the possibility of violence is denial. The idea of someone coming to kill or harm their child is just too hard, and so they chose the path of denial.

The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks a lot like the wolf. He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference, though, is that the sheepdog must not, can not and will not ever harm the sheep. Any sheep dog who intentionally harms the lowliest little lamb will be punished and removed. The world cannot work any other way, at least not in a representative democracy or a republic such as ours.

Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. ... The sheep would much rather have the sheepdog cash in his fangs, spray paint himself white, and go, "Baa."  Until the wolf shows up. Then the entire flock tries desperately to hide behind one lonely sheepdog.

Every man who is a man realizes that he has a sacred duty to be the sheepdog for his family. My father's gun is a constant reminder of that inherited duty.