Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

My Photo
Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

New York to Wal-Mart: Drop Dead

I see where Wal-Mart seems to be throwing in the (low-quality terrycloth) towel as to getting one of their temples of cheapdom opened in my town.

Manhattan, at least. They may not have given up yet on Queens or Staten Island, though towns in both boroughs have already roundly rejected the invader’s probes with intense union, community and political opposition.

Wal-Mart’s chief executive whined at a press conference yesterday, “I don’t care if we are ever here” and further sniveled that trying to get into the New York City market was so difficult that “I don’t think it’s worth the effort.”

Ah, the grapes are so sour today, aren’t they? What a sore loser. But we’re glad he feels that way, and our labor leaders and citizenry return the sentiment, in spades. We don’t care if you’re ever here, either.

Wal-Mart may be like a giant manna-from-heaven squirrel nut-stash to folks out in the boondocks, who would otherwise have to hitch up the mules and mosey forty miles or so to buy things. But for us? Not so much.

We don’t like their cheapo, tacky stuff. We don't like the way they come in like giant hoovering fishing trawlers and sweep away all the local shops and family stores. And we really don’t like the nasty labor practices that make their low prices possible: serf pay, locking people in, taking advantage of illegals, skimpy benefits. Thank heaven we have strong unions and solid local politicians who can keep the big bully out.

Wal-Mart Head Boy’s Parthian shot, or bleat: “You have people who are just better than us and don’t want a Wal-Mart in their community.”

Well, yes, frankly, we ARE better than you. And also yes, we don’t want you here stinking up the streets—or blocking them with the humongous delivery trucks and parking acreage wastelands that attend upon your gasworks. So take your dowdy clothes and uninspired household goods and medieval labor practices and keep them far, far from the borders of our land.

You’re just not good enough for us. And you can't make it here.


Post a Comment

<< Home