I wandered into the adjacent room filled with supplies for sale. The inventory didn't mesh with my usual style, but being a perpetual shopper, I couldn't resist.

Touring the aisles, I noticed about a half dozen women doing their shopping. They, too, dressed in edgy, American garb. Apparently the male members of the group weren't the only ones who revered Peter Fonda. And the men weren't the only ones who worked out. Boy, these dames had some chunky-looking biceps--and thighs.

Giving a nervous, yet friendly salute of my hand to a woman I brushed by, I threw various survival items into a bag: Freeze-dried food, flashlight, Taser gun, samurai sword. Perhaps the sword was carrying it a bit too far. I tossed it back on the shelf. Then eying an extensive firearm display, I thought about picking up a cute little handgun. One that would fit into my Prada. But I didn't get the chance.

A trio of muscled volunteers, wearing shirts that looked like the American flags printed on the front would burst forth at any minute, corralled the shoppers into the large meeting room. Standing with my head to others' shoulders, I felt like I'd stepped into a renegade Fouth of July celebration. Bystanders stood at attention, all eyes riveted to the stage--the fireworks about to begin.