Cell phone spam

I heard it was coming. It already has become as popular as poached liver overseas. But, so far, not one little half ring on my trusty Cingular phone until today. It happened about 4:oopm. Willie started singing "On the Road Again." There is a reason I have that ringtone. I answered. Nothing. I looked at the ID and it said "unknown." Finally, a little message started to play about the Republican cantidates in the local election and why I should vote for them. 1 minute. 2 minutes. 3 minutes. BOOM!

That's enough. I don't need a stupid cell phone call from the Republican party, even though I am one, telling me to vote for some of the lamest critters in the known world. Plus, those minutes are minutes I pay for, not the Republican party. They deserved a response.

"I would like to speak to whomever handles your telephone calling program," I asked the male voice who answered at the state party office.

"I guess that would be me," he answered.

"I am calling about your practice of spamming cell phones for local cantidates in the Lincoln city election."

"I am not sure that is us," he said.

"Well, the call was from the Nebraska Republican Party. Would that be you?"

"Yes, that would be us."

"So you admit you do that type of rude marketing?" I asked.

"Well, if you mean do we do telemarketing, yes we do," he said.

"Did you know it was illegal to make a telemarketing call and not have your organization identified in caller ID?" I asked.

"No, it isn't illegal," he answered.

"You're sure?" I asked.

"Yes, pretty sure."

"99% sure?"

"Yes, pretty sure."

"Well," I suggested, "let's try your knowledge with the Federal Trade Commission and see how good it is."

I hung up on him and filed the complaint. Even if you list your telephone number on the DO NOT CALL list, you can still be legally called by a political party. Nice touch from the lawmakers, don't you think? I am not sure they can make that call and not identify themselves on caller ID, however.

Most important, the call is even worse than a standard telemarketing call. It's to a cell phone and up until now, my cell phone had been spam free.

Just for that, I am going to vote Democrat this time. The Republicans have lost their class and have gone from steak to spam.

Toranaders

Yesterday was one of those Nebraska days that you could safely bet the farm on a good chance of a tornado watch. Warm. Very humid. More milk in the sky than in the cows.

Sure enough, around noon, the watch box showed up on my computer, now hooked up and purring in my car as I sat in a truck stop south of Lincoln. (I was playing work hookie because I was so sure that something was going to happen!)

I scanned the skies looking for a thunderhead, as we used to call them. We don't call them thunderheads in storm spotter school--they are build ups with features like overshooting tops and mammus under the anvil and flanking lines and lowerings and of course, wall clouds. A wall cloud is a tornado's nest. If you find a good wall cloud, your chances of seeing a tornado improve dramatically.

The key word is "chances." I am almost 60 and have spent most of my life in Nebraska and have never really "seen" one. In my flying days, I have seen the famous "hook return" on radar that indicates one, but as far as seeing one actually form and roar down from the sky like a freight train and destroy a barn or tie a pivot irrigation system into a perfect sqare knot, put me in the nada column.

Not for him.

We had a debrief, which is code for "let's go get something to eat" at the local Village Inn after the all clear came from emergency management. I decied to attend the debrief for my first time. The head dog had signed me out with lots of praise on what good reporting I did for the day. No, there were no tornados today--just build-ups with overshooting tops and flanking lines and rain foots and hail shafts. Interesting but boring.

"Seen about sixty of 'em," the spotter across the table from me said. "Ya don't want to see one." The guy next to him knodded in agreement.

"Why not?" I asked. "That would be a kick!"

"They're loud, it's dirty when ya get close, and they'll scare the hell out a ya," he said as he turned his pointing fork from my face and back to his hot beef sandwich. He is a tradesman--kind of a simple, salt of the Nebraska earth kind of guy--no bull except what waited under the bread covered with brown gravey on his plate. He didn't care if I believed him or not. I did.

It takes a special breed of alley cat to volunteer to go sit on top of a hill and wait for Mother Nature to throw some of her best stuff at you. Don't expect any credit. This is a blue collar guy's volunteer job or a weather scientist or a nut like me. The guys looking for credit and a story with pictures in the paper praising their vounteer work, are not found in this group.

"Was out where you was several times," he continued. "Good spot for one to set down. Was looking back South from there onces when they called and asked if could confirm a funnel sighting. "No, clearing South," I said into the mike.

"Then it dawned on me that there was a little something going on," he continued. "It was getting loud and the stop sign was twisting sideways so fast I couldn't read the stop. I had one of them moonroofs and looked up just as the tornader came down and touched down in the field right next to me. It was loud and dirt was flying everywhere. I punched the mike button and told 'em I had a funnel on the ground next to me and got the hell outta there."

I smiled. He put the fork back into the mashed potatos.

He told me about other ones he had seen. Big F-4's. Skinny rope ones. Conical ones that jumped out from behind a rain foot to surprise him. We compared notes about the monster that ate Grand Island many years ago. He was on the ground. I was in the air. We both saw it but I was looking at it on radar and he was on the ground dancing with the single-legged devil.

"Patterns are changin," he said. They are movin more East."

He explained the places that usually had some tornado action each year. He laid the tracks out as if they were maps to his favortie fishing holes. He drew visual lines in my mind across the Nebraska countryside. He backed up his case with dates and tornado events I recalled instantly. When he was through, I had no doubt my spotter position was the yellow line on Nebraska's tornado highway. If he was right, Lincoln's time was running out. It was just a matter of time.

"Your spot should be a good one if ya wanna see one," he said as he finished his cherry pie. "Personally, I seen enough." The other guy nodded again.

Maybe I have seen enough, too.

Everything finally worked!

I love technology especially when it works. No, I am not a Microsoft fan by any stretch, but they are a necessary short in the whizzing circuits of a great mind like mine. :o)

Anyway. Last night everything worked just great. Best of all, the tech stuff was inside of my little car out on a Nebraska country road on the top of a hill in a lightning juiced spring thunderstorm. No, I wasn't stuck. No, I wasn't courting an old babe on a starry night gone south. I was there because I wanted to be there--right in the raging middle of it.

I love weather, especially thunderstorms. I love it so much that I even endured getting a ham radio license just so I could become one of the storm spotting crew for Lancaster County Emergency Management. I was trained for the job even though I had over 3,000 hours of professional flying experience and flew over the massive things. None the less, I endured stuff I really don't really care about just so I could be out on that lonesome hill with juiced arrows hitting everywhere and the rain pounding my little car. I was nice and calm inside and dissecting the monster with my laptop, hooked up to my inverter, hooked up to my cell phone, hooked up to the live radar. I looked at the radar and reported what I saw on the ground. It all worked great!

I haven't had that much fun in years! No, there was nothing of significance to deal with but I am sure the folks in the little town just a mile or so away may have felt a little better that me, and 41 other volunteer storm spotters, dotted the countryside looking at the skies.

Good night little Hallam. No need to worry tonight.

Not enough engines

The intersection of 48th. Street and Vine Street is one of the busiest intersections in Lincoln. I am not for away from it because I am so regular at the Kinkos store they call me Metamucil. Over the last couple of years, I have been at or near the Kinkos front door when that wrenching sound of of whap, crunching metal, and screeching tires fills the air. This intersection is the home of the whopper--not the sandwich--the car accident kind.

Yesterday was that kind of day. I was just getting out of my car when those all to frequent sounds filled the air. I looked and saw a pickup about halfway through the intersection and an old white Buick sitting on the median, smoking and crushed. The pickup won this contest.

With cell phone in hand, I dashed to the Buick. Two ladies, both dazed, were in the car. The passenger was in the most pain and rolled around in the seat. Another man soon was at my side. Thankfully, he was a volunteer fireman with some paramedic experience. He jumped into the back seat and we made a quick evaluation of what was going on. Diver would be OK. Passenger needed medical help. She complained of side pain and held her head.

I called 911 and gave them the necessary and what seemed at the time, alot of unecessay information. Help was on the way. 10:37 am.

One of Lincoln's finest was on the scene pronto. The young policeman hopped out of his car and put his car in a protective mode in the intersection. He made some notes, identified the drivers, collected their insurance information and had the pickup drive move his truck from traffic.

Where are the nice folks from the fire department? In past times, Engine 9 or Engine 2 and in a couple of really bad cases, Engine 7 or Engine 5 could already be heard off in the distance or they were already here. Not today. Not even a hint of one.

"Did fire get the call?" I asked the cop.

He punched his microphone and soon looked back at me. "Yup, they are on the way."

Strange.

I looked to the South down 48th Street and their was a fire department ambulance about 100 yards away. The unit was just sitting there. No lights or sirens. Just stuck in backed-up traffic like a ton of other Lincolnites.

Then, the unit suddenly came to life.

I am sure there were a few sudden surges in blood pressure as the ambulance made itself known. I waved at the officer and pointed at the ambulance. Unfortunately, he had parked his car in the one place that would have allowed the ambulance to zip right up to us if the cop waved a few folks through. With a few waves, a zig and a zag, the ambulance was on scene. It sure would have been nice to have some firemen and a big pry bar to get the passenger side door open and get the lady out. As it was, she would be coming across the driver's side and out. Still no sound of siren or blarring air horn off in the distance.

The paramedics relieved the volunteer fireman who had been holding the lady's head to reduce any cance of neck damage until a collar could be put on here. I am sure his arms ached. It had been quite a while.

Finally, off in the distance, just coming over the top of the hill on Vine Street, a fire truck emerged with full lights and siren. His air horn blasted away. Engine 1 pulled into the intersection and stopped.

Engine 1? That company was from the downtown Lincoln station. No wonder it took so long.
Where were the neighborhood guys? Engine 2? Engine 9? Engine 7? Truck 7? Engine 5? Truck 7?

I zipped an email off to the chief expressing my concerns about response time. I got an email back that the response was within limits. I remailed and wondered about where all of the above were that they had to send Engine 1 from downtown. Busy he said. I waited a day and checked the fire department run logs. They must have been called out for training at stations 7, station 5, and station 2. Engine 9 had a call.

Had the ambulance not happened along, the poor lady would have waited a very long time. So would the volunteer fireman. Her ambulance was sent out under code "Bravo" which means the fire engine is coming with blarring air horn and lights and siren. The ambulance, head injury or not, was just coming.

At least for one day in Lincoln, there were not enough engines.