About twenty years ago, pre-me-Phone, during the most primitive impulses of the Cellular Network, there was an AM-news-radio ad in northern Northern California that dealt with something called “Roaming Charges”. The Radio at that time was pre-Sirius (serious) and thus the paid-advertisements were pitched to a very local market.
Since the nation of America, if not the entire world, is in a relative state of mandated lock-down via solitary confinement over a Chinese-import that may have entered California last fall (2019), I have hearkened back to the days when Roaming Charges were equally punitive. The reason for the citizenry state of oppressive inertia, then and now, is equally the same: $$$$ for the blood-sucking vampires of the Corporate and Nanny State Blobs, two separate globules that have fused into one hellaciously suffocating claw on the Citizen.
The Roaming Charge of yore was affixed by the Phone Corp to any human carrier of a mobile phone being used OUTSIDE the Range of its Home Network. Home, home on the range therefore required a satellite connection to link the cell phone to another available cellular network. The Cost-to-Connect-the-Digital-Data-Dots became almost vindictive under those primeval conditions.
This radio advertisement basically consisted of the voice of a guy, an American Dad, taking the family on the great American Summer Vacation: driving everyone to idyllic sites in the Station Wagon (which was once upon a time just a tad smaller than the Conestoga). Highway Dad dutifully took into consideration the exorbitant costs of Roaming Charges on his cellular phone. His plan-of-action response was rather ingenious, a typically American solution to a vexing situation: How to Reach Me While on Vacation, aka How to Keep Business Associates Informed of My Latest Pit Stop.
For those of us who Work-In-The-Home, that convoluted luxury is not possible! We are always on-call. I’ve found “losing” or “misplacing” (purposely hiding) the phone, for a day or two, works extremely well under those invasive conditions!
The Roaming Charges Travel Plan impressed into service the Call Boxes positioned at pre-determined and precise intervals (usually 5-miles) on remote highways, and the pay-phones located inside treasured greasy spoons. Highway Dad devised his own Drop-Box Network to pick up messages along the journey.
His driving route over the fruited plain must have been a real vocal workout for the kiddies. “Are we there yet?” became “Are we in-range yet?”
Highway Dad had left an elaborately detailed message on his Office Answer Phone, describing where he could be contacted at certain times, thereby creating his own GPS, or Global Positioning System, locations. The specifically selected phone numbers corresponded to his present time-table bearings. For example:
"On Tuesday afternoon we will be at Call Box 63, on Highway 37. If you miss us there, the next place is Pete’s Diner. He hates people leaving phone messages there, but the triple-decker bacon cheeseburger he serves is really good."
The radio ad was supremely good, hilarious in fact, but I cannot for the life of me recall the name of the product! Which is not the best promotional result!
For those of you imaginative Americans who feel the need to roam, I say, as I have always said: Don’t fence me in!
There will be consequences.
As a student devoted to the precise knowledge of accurate history, I never envisioned that the Nanny State would crumble in such comedic fashion. To quote a former boyfriend, I do have an affection for knives; and I consequently foresaw the jawless fish of the Nanny Hag having to be surgically removed from the body politic, as is the case whenever the parasite overtakes the host body.
The buffoonish display of dimwits during the past month in America has convinced me that the demise, the final thrill, the last-roundup of Nanny has come in the silent form of a poof from an infectious, albeit potentially deadly, disease. Nanny, and her rivalrous sibling, Dingbat Despot, will not be dispatched entirely, all at once. Oh, no, there will be plenty of rubble on the ground, left behind for the ghouls to rebuild from that debris and detritus their little pathetic power-bases on the ever-sinking sands of their fraudulent fiefdoms. Garbage is a hard thing to vanquish; there’s so much of it, especially after half a century of piling up dead victims in City Lots all over America.
The Soviet Commies perfected the State “art” of using corpses as martyrs. The American Pinkos exhibit absolutely no art at this sort of thing. They never did have the touch, human-wise, on a human level, for people. Those phonies faked it, and they fooled enough people for a long enough time, but now there are fewer and fewer people left for them to fool. The Corpse-Man is not a handsome brute; he’s merely a brute, with ape-like hands and a corporate bank vault where a heart ought to be.
The Idiots-in-Charge have just crossed their last bridge, a puerile fascist one. There is no turning back for them, or for anyone, over that drawbridge of desperate calamity and dopey double-talk. The historically deadly and failed Operation Garden Market of 1944 got despicably replayed as Operation You Can’t Go to Market or Buy Seeds to Grow Your Garden . . . or go to church in the midst of the unholy mess created by petty people commandeering decisions over other people.
The crumbling of the Nanny State features these comedic players on the Leviathan Stage, all auditioning for a Bigger Role on the Public Dole. The Ted Mack Amateur Hour (which feels endless, I know) comes to you hourly, featuring these talent-less tinpot dictators:
— Governor Nutcase, who already has a vampirish look to him, ordering dead bodies (corpses) dug up for autopsy, and the swabbing of the nasal cavity decks of, for starters, at least 100,000 Californians to procure cellular samples.
You are not getting anywhere near my nasal septum! My paranasal sinuses are presently draining tons of white-blood-cells from that marvelous seasonal condition known as spring allergies. Every year, I live indoors during the cruelest month of April to continue the saga of “I am Debra’s Nose.”
We Californians were prepared for the Roaming Charges after having put up with the 2019 Rolling Blackouts (that did not roll, but stayed in the most static of locations, namely, places without WIND). So I guess it has become SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) for the California Citizen to try to hide from Governor Blather regarding historic matters such as The Social Contract. This blood-sucking tax vampire must pad the ###'s of Wuhan flu victims. Cash-for-Clunkers has morphed into Cash-for-Corpses.
Their souls may be in Heaven, but their bodies belong to the State! There is an election coming up!
I hypothesize that there was already a Purell shortage in this State, long before Sanitizer Saturday became a household routine, simply from Californians having to hear or watch the guy pontificating his latest 12-Step Plan — for the Citizen to get a grip on reality. Gavin could be reading The 23rd Psalm aloud and the words of King David would take on macabre tones!
— King Andrew of New York, the creepy mercenary mean hoarder! He could always go to Hoarders-Anonymous but, firstly, this obnoxious narcissist would flat-out refuse to remain anonymous; and, secondly, he’d make a big-handed move to hoard all the hoarders!
— Bill DeBlabbio of the Big Apple, who took a bigger bite of the apple than his loudmouth could handle, and became an instant Hotline Porn Star! It’s Never Been Easier to Dial 888-Ain-t-I-Great for the sequel!
And in her very first Starring Role:
— Wednesday-is-Everyday-Addams, the Nanny Whitmer, the ghoulish lizard-like corporate shill.
On a purely reptilian level, she is ghastly. Gretchen of the Garish Red Lips must have missed that class on the American Revolution. She is currently being given a crash course on Early American History, all while we Americans are all witnessing Modern American History!
Queen Gretchen-the-Grim commands: You must stay indoors for 2 more weeks because you came outdoors and protested! . . . Why, you naughty citizens did it again to me and my aspirational hopes — 4 more weeks in your houses!
Pull a yellow card, Ashley!!
The French term for “pipe dream” or “castles in the air” is châteaux en Espagne, castles in Spain. Methinks there is one too many a Governor in the U.S. who lives in such a fairy-tale-construction. Ergo:
Operation Queen’s Castle — which has a lovely, romantic ring to it!
The Post-It-Note Media cannot keep up with the roaming of citizens or the roaming charges. I think a Media Blackout is in order, but it not an order. It’s a suggestion: a choice!!!
Maybe the Swedes had the right idea on this one, although they’ve not many businesses left to protect or to lock down. Years ago, Brio and Volvo very quietly went the way of the Chinese production dragon. The Vikings nonetheless did possess a most definitive style with their roaming!
Whether you choose to roam by boat, by car, by wagon, by skateboard or by steed, I wish Happy Trails to all who love liberty.