Locking up merchandise makes retail problem worse

All I needed was some AA-sized batteries. Simple, right?

Except at my grocery store, those batteries were locked up like crown jewels. Or R. Kelly. To get batteries, I needed to get help. A sign said so – I needed someone from the store to open the battery case as they sat there, taunting me from behind the clear plastic like the most valuable cylinders in history.

I looked around. Even if I found someone, they'd probably take a few minutes. After they opened the case, I'd have to point to what I wanted, like I was getting a diamond ring. Or a donut.

I just wanted some batteries so I decided I'd buy them at another store, where I could grab them off the diplay case and take them to the cash register.

The same thing happened when I needed laundry soap. Again, it was locked up, in case someone wanted to steal a $10 or $15 container of laundry soap. It seemed ridiculous.

Actually, it is ridiculous because it's probably unneccessary.

As reported in a recent news article by Bloomberg News, the "average shrink" – the retail term that describes how much inventory is lost for any reason – has been about 1.5% for years. Average shrink also describes things damaged or lost in transit or returned or mistakes made by checkers. That rate was about 1.5% 10 years ago. It was still about 1.5% a few years ago when there was a flood of stories about the insane amount of shoplifting in the post-pandemic months. Remember that?

It was 1.5% then.

It's 1.5% now.

Which means there wasn't an insane amount of shoplifting in 2021. Instead, there was high-profile shoplifting and scared social media jabber about it. This caused a reaction by many stores, which began locking up things. Like batteries. And laundry soap. And underwear. And deodorant. And toothbrushes.

Unsurprisingly, there were unintended consequences. 

The first is that the things that get locked up see a drop in sales. If we have to ask a clerk to unlock deodorant or batteries or underwear or toothpaste, we often go elsewhere. It's a hassle; we can get the product at another store or order it on Amazon.

The lock-up-everything strategy also damages the store brand. I think less of a store that makes me work harder to get something basic. It also makes me wonder if it's safe. If customers steal laundry soap or deodorant, what kind of monsters are my fellow shoppers? Is that grandmother shuffling behind the shopping cart really an insane woman who will steal a toothbrush?

Yet another unintended consequence is that people interested in stealing large amounts of products simply began stealing them while in transit. Rather than stealing from a store (again, just 1.5% general average shrink), they steal it from a truck hauling it around. One report said such theft was up nearly 50% in the first quarter of 2024 after a 10% increase in the fourth quarter of 2023.

That's the real mass looting. But it comes when criminals steal boxes of underwear off trucks that are parked at a restaurant while the driver gets a burger and fries.

When stores decide that theft is out of control (which may be true in some stores. But not widely true), management often locks up merchandise. Their customers then think the store is dangerous, they choose to buy elsewhere and the odds increase that some organized group will just steal the merchandise off a truck before it gets to the store.

The real average shrink is the frequency with which we'll buy locked-up, low-price items at our stores.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

'Free Bird?' 'American Pie?' They're short compared to this song

If you think "Free Bird" (album version: 9 minutes, 8 seconds) or "Stairway to Heaven" (7:55) or "American Pie" (8:42) are long songs, just wait until you hear about "Organ2/ASLSP."

But first, a confession: The few times I've been to formal music performances (and by "formal," I mean just that: Performances where you have to dress formally; things that involve orchestras or even musicals), I convince myself that I'll sit and enjoy it.

I soon find myself sneaking looks at my watch, determining how much longer until it's over. Telling myself, "OK, two more songs until the intermission, which is always past the halfway point."

I'm not proud of that. I should have enjoyed "Phantom of the Opera" more. I should like it when great musicians play songs that inspire others. And by "others," I mean the people who don't sneak glances at their watch to calculate how long until it's over.

If you're not like me – if you wish the symphony would play longer or that the opera would continue or that Lynard Skynard would have another guitar solo –you should go to Halberstadt, Germany, and listen to a performance of the aforementioned Organ2/ASLSP, written by American composer John Cage.

As you likely don't know, ASLSP stands for "as slowly and softly as possible" (Don't ask me about the extra L. Seems to me it should be either ASASAP or ASSP.).

Want to know what Organ2/ASLSP is like? Think of a slow song. Then think of something much slower. Then multiply that by 10. Then think of something that would be much, much longer than that and you have the performance in Halberstadt of Organ2/ASLSP.

The song began Sept. 5, 2001 (six days before a day that would entirely overshadow the launching of Organ2/ASLSP). The song will end in 2640.

Yeah, the performance of a single song is scheduled to last 639 years. Even Keith Richards wouldn't be able to do that.

There's a fascinating story behind it. 

Cage, who wrote the song in 1985 and died in 1992, never said how long his song should last, but a group of experts realized that an organ can (theoretically) play a note forever. Since Cage designed the song to be played "as slowly and softly as possible," those experts elected to make it last those 639 years (settling on the amount of time from 1361, when the world's first 12-tone Gothic organ was built in Halberstadt until Jan. 1, 2000. Which is a specific time frame but also is a very Halberstadt, Germany-focused time frame).

Once they made that decision, it was a matter of determining how long each note should last. Since the piece starts with silence, the performance began with 17 months of silence (Hello darkness my old friend, indeed!). Since then, a series of notes have been played. The most recent – the 17th note – began Feb. 4 this year and will be played until Aug. 5, 2026.

There has already been a mistake. Remember that 17-month period of silence? It turns out it should have lasted 28 months, so the next note was the equivalent of starting to sing "Papa Was a Rolling Stone" (12:04) only 2:20 in instead of 3:52 in. Outrageous!

When the song finishes, 616 years from now, few will likely remember it. In fact, few will remember the first part, which consists of 65 sections, the last of which ends in 2071. When that happens, there will still be 569 years of the song left, the equivalent of the 39-second mark in Bohemian Rhapsody (5:55) – which is when Freddie Mercury first sings "any way the wind blows . . . "

Ultimately, the mistakes don't really matter. Because, like the free bird in the song by Lynard Skynard, this song is one you cannot change. Even while you check your watch.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Overdue appreciation for women who cared for me when Mom died

Sometimes you only recognize extreme kindness in the rear-view mirror.

My mom died of breast cancer a month before my eighth birthday, which is obviously a watershed moment in my life.

In retrospect.

At the time, I was too busy processing it, adjusting to life without her, recognizing things were going a little crazy in my family and beginning third grade.

And really, is any soon-to-be-8-year-old ready to process such a thing?

My sisters, older than me, "processed it" (and some of the chaos in our family) in their own ways. But at 13 and 10, can you fully process such a thing? No.

My mother's death – and subsequent events in my life, including my dad remarrying (bringing the addition of my stepsister Jana) – affected me in ways that I've only unpacked in adulthood. One clear result was a feeling as a kid that anything can happen at any time, which led to my attraction of the Christian faith (where I know that ultimately, regardless of what's happening, God is in control). There are many other results, too – including many things that I've probably not unpacked yet and may never do.

However, I recently reflected on some unsung heroes in my life that 7- and 8-year-old Brad couldn't recognize: The women who recognized that I'd lost my mother and stepped in, however they could.

My teacher that year undoubtedly had a soft spot for me. Mom died on the Saturday of the first week of school, so my teacher knew she had a damaged little boy in her classroom. I don't remember anything special, but all of my memories of Mrs. Zwiefelhofer (real name!) are good. No other teacher in my lifetime gets a 100% passing grade, but every memory I have of her was that she was nice and gentle and kind.

I recognize now that she probably took care of me in ways that a third-grader doesn't recognize as special.

That was also the year I started Cub Scouts. I was a terrible Scout, partly because my dad wasn't an outdoorsman, partly because it just didn't fit: I couldn't whittle or start a fire or even tie knots (except for a necktie. My dad taught me how to tie a single and double-Windsor knot, skills I retain).

However, the two women who were my pack leaders in third and fourth grades – the mothers of my friends Jeff Stone and Todd Coleman – made me feel comfortable and paid attention to me in a way that probably reflected the fact that they knew my mom had died recently.

I don't know for sure that they were aware of my mom's death, although I suspect the early 1970s communication systems made them aware that one of their son's schoolmates had lost a mother. But I know that Pat Stone and Alice Coleman were kind and helpful and never made me feel bad for the fact that I couldn't do any of the traditional scout things.

Decades later, I look back on the loss of my mom and feel bad for the lost memories (after my dad's remarriage, we never really talked about my mom). Sadly, I have few memories of my mom. It's clear that a childhood incident (like one or more that likely occurred in your life: Maybe a divorce or another major disappointment) had sweeping impact on the rest of my life.

But I also realize that people like Mrs. Zwiefelhofer, Pat Stone, Alice Coleman (and others in my life) were adults who helped a little boy navigate what to them (and to me) probably seemed like an unimaginable tragedy.

Losing my mom was terrible and it unleashed a season of chaos and dysfunction in my family that my sisters and I are still processing. But part of the chaos was mitigated because of some women who had their own children and were invested in others – and somehow made the third-grade version of me feel better.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Being 'known for' something is a mixed, incomplete bag

My friend Nate recently told me about a woman who "flashed" the camera at a major league baseball game. Nate felt bad for her, saying that might be her legacy: A dumb decision in the heat of the moment that led to viral "fame."

I suggested it might be the legacy she wanted, although later in life she'd likely want change it. Right now, she's known for something.

It's a common refrain when a famous person does something scandalous: "That will be in the first sentence of their obituary."

Maybe it's not a common refrain for people who never wrote the occasional obituary for the Daily Republic. Still, when you think of how someone is perceived, it often comes down to one thing that others use to define them.

It might be perception, not reality. Someone can be "known" for being generous when they're just self-promoting. Or for being harsh when they're privately tender. They can be known for being warm when they're cold to those closest to them.

But enough about my family of origin. Ha ha. You don't know whether to laugh or feel pity for me because I might either be making something up or making an inappropriate joke, something I'm somewhat known for doing (just ask the 1991 Fairfield High Scarlett Brigade Band or people offended by my dumb jokes about the Malaysian Airliner that disappeared in 2014. You probably don't remember those things, but I a few people do).

But back to the main point. Events can define people: Consider how the perception of O.J. Simpson changed in 1994. Consider how Donald Trump's public perception changed in 2016. Consider how Bill Cosby's reputation went from loveable everyman to creepy rapist.

But let's make it simpler and more striking: For what are you known?

To many of my co-workers, I'm the former sports writer who was also a pastor for a while. I'm more than that, but those are true.

Are you the woman who is always friendly and willing to help others? Are you the nice neighbor who welcomes people when they move in? Are you the guy who flies off the handle when the pressure increases at work? Are you the boring person who doesn't pick up cues when others don't want to hear a detailed story of your vacation when you were 18?

Most of us object when someone tries to identify us by how we're known by their associates. "Oh, you're Bob's friend who always borrows money," or "Aren't you the woman who cried in the office that one time?" or "That's right, you're the Little League coach." Even if the identity is flattering, we know that we're more than how they just described us. We're not just a worker or a parent or a child or a coach or a neighbor or a bad driver or a sibling of someone.

We're all those things. One thing doesn't define us. If we're a parent, we're also someone's child and probably someone's sibling. If we're an employee or a boss, we're also someone who has hobbies and friends and likes a certain kind of music. If we're quiet, we know that we sometimes are louder or wish someone would ask our opinion.

We know all those things about ourselves. Still, when asked about someone we barely know, we think of them in two-dimensional ways: Oh, he's the guy at work who steals other people's lunches. Or she's the woman at church who remembers my name. Or they're the couple that never mows their lawn.

Then we think others should know us as multi-leveled, multi-tiered people who are many things.

If we only remembered the truth: Most people think of us as two-dimensional figures about 1% of the time. The other 99%? We're nowhere in their thoughts.

So now there's something else I can be known for: I'm the guy who writes rambling columns that end up in a different place than they started. Although the truth is I'm a two-dimensional figure (literally, if you can see my photo with this column) who will leave your thoughts within the next few minutes.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.