Seeing Red about Amber Alerts

 Posted by at 16:24  Reflections, Texas
Mar 182019
 

It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon. I’m feeling at ease after a pleasant midday repast and a quiet snooze as I settle in for some diversion- maybe a ball game or a movie on demand. But no repose for me.

As my mind drifts to neutral, my phone shrieks like a banshee being ravaged. I panic, wide awake again.

I’ve never heard this sound before and I sure as the dickens never want to hear it again. But, right now I can’t make it stop. It is out of my control. It won’t stop whatever I try.

This sound is no ring tone that I can ignore or answer. It’s a siren that I can’t silence and it certainly won’t let me do anything else until it stops. I fumble with my phone but nothing helps. Then I look at the screen and find—-It is an amber alert. WTF!

Somewhere, in a Texas town I’ve never heard of a silver Honda has done something bad and I am supposed to do something about it. What that that ‘bad thing’ is or how I am going to find the Honda in my living room doesn’t matter to the powers that control this klaxon- I assume this means the state government or some damn bureaucrat because nobody else feels entitled to annoy me. They damn well want me to know that they are pissed about that ‘bad thing’ done by the silver Honda and since they are pissed, they want me to be pissed as well. They succeeded- I am but much pissed but more at the government than the Honda.

Texas takes these phone alerts seriously but clearly not rationally. They don’t seem to care about whether a particular alert matters to me or if I am in any location or activity where I might be able to do something about it. They just let it rip and not just once. They keep doing it- again and again….and again. They won’t give up until I find that Honda for them – unless I go crazy first.

Back in California I don’t remember ever getting amber alerts on my phone. They had message boards on the freeways for that purpose. And those message boards didn’t make a sound. Here in more primitive Texas, it seems necessary to put them on my phone. They come in like a phone text message but with a very loud and irritating sound. It’s apparently designed to get my attention and it does that very well. I can do nothing until it stops but nothing makes it stop. to shut it off. I don’t have any control over the volume or any ability to make it go away. Until they give up.

You might expect that these would be local alerts where you at least have the possibility of helping someone but so far the location has been someplace other than where I am. Furthermore sending a text message to my phone for my help makes no sense. It seems quite unlikely that I will spot the vehicle from my living room or office if I am not driving. Even if I am driving, there is no way I can legally read the message on the phone assuming that I didn’t lose control of my car from the noise in the first place. Which leaves the question. What do they expect to accomplish by sending an annoying and ear-splitting messages on my phone?

It is quite clear that the intent is only to make sure that the bureaucrat is not the only one pissed about that silver Honda because no matter what I might be doing, I am in no position to know what the alert is about or make that Honda behave. And did I mention that it repeats?

I am not opposed to catching criminals- particularly in the act of doing bad things. I am even willing to help. Still since we tax ourselves to fund trained professionals enforcing our laws and bring criminals to justice why spend so much effort forcing amateurs to take the lead?

I continue to believe that the world is a safer place when amateurs like me mind their own business and let trained police do their jobs. And along the way how about firing the bureaucrats? Spend the money on more cops.

Ralph

Ralph is the inspiration for Cantankerous Old Coots and is our Grand Duke of Cantankerousness

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Hill Country Texas First Impressions

 Posted by at 10:42  Plain 'ol Cantankerous, Reflections, Texas, Uncategorized
Jan 122019
 

Six months in Texas and counting. It is way past time for reflecting on life in the Texas Hill Country. I plead confusion from a 50 year sojourn in California. Thinking again is difficult. In California, thinking for yourself is considered risky. It is also discouraged and disparaged. So eventually you stop.

You recall Alfred E Newman and tell yourself, ‘What, Me worry?’.

You know that somebody knows best and it sure to hell isn’t you so go along with the program, This works in California where thinking can only get you in trouble. In Texas, not so much. No one is looking out for you. You are on your own. Texans like it that way. In California when you make a mistake there is an army of government employees to save you from yourself. In Texas, you break it, you own it.

In preparation for the move to Texas, I subscribed to ‘Texas Monthly’. I learned that there are at least four distinct regions with different climates, lifestyles and histories. I learned that, in spite of these differences, there is a commonality of Texasness somehow uniting them all. There is even a column by someone calling himself the Texanist who each month answers serious questions about this quality. And yes, apparently there is a quality which bonds alums of UT and A&M, residents of Houston, Lubbock and Dallas and cattlemen and farmers into one happy family. Imagining trying to do that with San Francisco, Fresno and LA or USC and Berkeley. The mere thought wears me out. I get it but I don’t understand it. I respect the Texas spirit which is independent, proud and self-confident. It’s an admirable quality. I just don’t identify as having it or even aspiring to have it. And I , sure as hell, don’t want to pretend. Texans are tolerant of outsiders but not pretenders.

Compared to California, Texas is prickly and real. Not quite harsh or unfriendly. More uncompromising and honest about doing it their way and expecting you to do likewise. No big brother and no nanny state. Texas expects you to be a big boy or girl and take care of your own messes. And if you can’t do that then you deserve what you get.

California works overtime at making life pleasant, at least superficially. Unfortunately you pay for it, through the nose by taxes and regulations and the endless army of bureaucrats who are here to help. (Don’t ask who they are helping.) You don’t notice at first but before long you just accept and even welcome this as the way things have to be. So what if it takes twice as long and limits your options. So what if there is a tax (or fee) attached to every thing you do. Money is like Fritos. If we run out, the government will make more.

Life is easy in California and thinking is hard Before you are aware of the change you buy into the new you. You don’t worry and you go along. You learn not to be troubled by obstacles, unpleasantness and the high cost of everything you do. And you accept that everybody agrees with how wonderful things are and that you had better not think about changing it because everyone will be mad at you. You go along without even being aware that you have given up control of your life.

Our free country and independent way of life may be doomed but there is still some of that old thinking left in Texas. Texas may be traveling the same arc as California as demonstrated by the number of voters Robert Francis (Beto for you all from Rio Linda) got last November but has a long way to go to match California. You are still allowed to make choices. You can choose what charities to support because the taxes don’t include all the ‘free’ stuff the California politicians love to give away. And you know what you are giving up when you send your money to help. You can decide who deserves to be helped- and who doesn’t. You are spared the waste from bureaucrats spending money which is not theirs on things you hate- like the bullet train.

California has committed billions of dollars to building a train between two cities which people are abandoning- San Francisco and Los Angeles. Not only a train to nowhere but also a train from nowhere. It seems obvious to everyone except for politicians and voters that it will never be completed and, if completed that no one will ride yet the farce continues. And that California can’t afford it.

To my dismay, I discover that rail fever is rampant in Texas as well with a campaign to connect Dallas and Houston by way of Berkeley in the hills (Austin, unless the SJW locals have succeeded in renaming the place). No locals seem concerned about this effort and categorically reject any comparison to California. I will defer to their judgment since I have no power to affect this one way or another. Still I will not be surprised when the Texas Rail Authority (or whatever they call themselves) hires Jerry Brown to manage their program. And when they do, I may have to consider another move. He may have destroyed California but surely Texas is too smart for that.

Texas takes itself seriously. California likes to pose. Being Californian is fun. No obligations or costs to participate. Anybody can be a Californian. Being Texan is a commitment. You have to live it. You have to be a grownup. At this point in my Texas residence, I have only a vague inkling what this means. I do know that this Missouri boy never became a Californian in 50 years and I know I will never be a Texan- merely a Texas resident. I’m OK with that- not being a joiner and all. As I see it, hard work and commitment is required to be a Texan. You have to embrace the lifestyle and six months into Texas, I still don’t have a clue what that means and probably don’t want to know. Still, for as long as it lasts I’m ready to give it a try.

Ralph

Ralph is the inspiration for Cantankerous Old Coots and is our Grand Duke of Cantankerousness

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Cantankerous in Texas

 Posted by at 16:15  Reflections, Texas
Dec 262018
 
Texas Neighbors

Sloughing off the California skin

This coot finally had enough. The creeping cancer of government overreach in California finally forced me to sell our house in California and relocate to Texas. Texas wasn’t my first choice until I began to see how all the pretty states have been occupied by progressives.

Not to say that Texas is ugly or anything but it is an acquired taste. Texans are just as ‘full of themselves’ as Californians but for different reasons. I can’t abide California’s smug superiority any longer because the scales have long ago fallen from my eyes and I see the snake pit it has become. The jury is still out on Texans but since it took me 50 years to wake up to what a disaster California had become, I probably won’t live long enough to see Texas fall.

When I came to California in 1970, it was the ‘best’ state in the country. Roads, schools, government- whatever. I was stupid not to see how Jerry Brown would destroy the state. He stopped building freeways (because building freeways only encouraged more people to drive). That policy extended to all infrastructure including power plants so that today California doesn’t have enough water, power, roads, airports, etc for a state as big as California. In spite of Prop 13 -which allowed me to own a house which I bought for $185k in 1978 and sold in 2004 for $1.2m while remaining a middle class income earner- I saw no future staying in California. Sooner or later even progressives will see the rot.

I got out of Dodge last summer with no regrets.

Texas looks good on paper but I remain concerned for the future with the plenitude of Robert Francis election signs in my neighborhood. I am afraid that Texas is prime to be overrun with liberals too stupid to realize that their politics will destroy the state. Or maybe too stupid to care.

Ralph

Ralph is the inspiration for Cantankerous Old Coots and is our Grand Duke of Cantankerousness

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Too long.

 Posted by at 13:43  Reflections
Nov 172016
 

It’s one thing to be cantankerous when the world seems under control and quite another when you are sinking into chaos.  The past year has revealed the mission of the progressive takeover of the Democratic party as our President continueimagesd the destruction of the American way.  Cocky and rebellious is fun when you still have hope that all is not lost. Cocky and rebellious sucks when one by one the lifeboats sink and the ship goes farther
and farther under water.

Trump was not my first choice for President and I was so mindf***ed by the chimera of Republican orthodoxy that he seemed not only a ridiculous choice but an impossible one.  Despite my despair at the state of government after 30 years of Republican refusal to stand for principles and the progressive encroachment on every aspect of American life, I still had some faith in the self-identified  conservative aristocracy which had claimed to know the way even though they refused to take any action.

Today I am liberated.  I cancelled my subscriptions to ‘conservative’ publications.  I reject virtually everybody that I had respected and I unabashedly endorse and support Donald Trump to make our country great again.

Ralph

Ralph is the inspiration for Cantankerous Old Coots and is our Grand Duke of Cantankerousness

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Thought about turkey carving on Thanksgiving.

 Posted by at 11:03  principles, Reflections
Feb 232015
 

A lot of Thanksgiving days have been ruined by not carving the turkey in the kitchen. 
Kin Hubbard 

Carving your first turkey is a rite of passage. 

Real men know how to carve a turkey

You grow up watching your father carve the turkey on Thanksgiving.  It doesn’t seem like a big deal because you’re a kid.  It’s just a grownup thing and you don’t pay any attention.  Your main priority is stuffing yourself silly and staying under the radar. It isn’t important to observe how that turkey meat gets sliced off the carcass.  That’s just a detail.  You don’t notice or appreciate the finer points of carving.  You don’t keep score about how even the slices are, how many times the knife slips or how artfully arranged the final serving platter might be because you are a spectator with no skin in the game.

This goes on for years. 

You move from grade school to high school and then on to college always staying on the sidelines and never considering the possibility that your turn is coming.  Then suddenly and with no warning the world shifts.

You get married. 

When Thanksgiving comes around again, your bride presents you with her first roasted turkey. She stands proudly at the table beaming expectantly at you- the man of the house.  She is obviously expecting you to carve it.  Not only that, she has invited her folks so you have an audience.  There is that beautiful golden bird, steaming and fragrant sitting on the dining room table.  There are your in-laws watching intently.  There is your lovely bride proud at pulling off her first Thanksgiving feast and gazing at you trustingly.  It’s your turn.  You pick up the carving knife and realize that you don’t know what to do.

Panicking, you realize that your father let you down. He never took the time to take you aside and explain the facts of life.  He failed to guide you through the mysteries of manhood by sharing the secrets of carving a turkey and you begin to sense a pattern.   You remember your wedding night and realize that it’s not the first time he left you unprepared and this time you have an audience.

Well with all the eyes watching, you forge ahead and it isn’t a pretty sight.  By the time you finish, the turkey might as well have been attacked by rabid wolves and the serving platter is a mess.  Instead of tidy slices of meat, it looks like pulled pork.  Meat clings in tatters to the carcass. Skin and drippings ornament the tablecloth.  Drumsticks hang precariously off the serving platter. It’s bad but there is nothing to do except plow on.

After an eternity it’s over.

Relieved, you pass the platter around and sit down.  You have avoided catastrophe.  Sighs of relief break out around the table and your mother in law tells your wife that her turkey is perfect.  Life goes on. You can’t look at your father in law.  He thought you were stupid before today. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking now.

Since my first turkey carving trauma, I have been an avid student of turkey carving.  I experimented with various techniques hoping to develop mastery.  I relived that day over and over in my mind trying to correct my errors.

In the end, however, turkey carving mastery eludes me.  My carving skills haven’t improved much since that first turkey.  Much as I might envy and emulate those master carvers at fine restaurants, my techniques remain flawed and my execution is messy.   I tell myself that if I carved two or three turkeys a day, I’d be good at it too but down deep I am convinced that it is just a reflection of my inadequacies.  Real men instinctively know how to carve a turkey.  I got dealt a bad hand.

Now I change the play.

They tell you when life gives your lemons, make lemonade. They say if you don’t have what it takes to play the game, then change the rules.  Who says that carving the turkey is part of the Thanksgiving dinner program?  Who decided that exposing the man of the house to ridicule and embarrassment contributes to the event?  No one!

So I’m playing by a new rulebook these days.  If the old rules make me look bad, it’s time to make up my own.  These days I carve the turkey in the kitchen.

Ralph

Ralph is the inspiration for Cantankerous Old Coots and is our Grand Duke of Cantankerousness

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