The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Fa la la la yerself! There’s an ominous vibe to this year’s holiday, what with the stock market acting like the proverbial snowball headed to hell, the President pulling the plug on the Kurds in Syria followed by the resignation of Mad Dog Mattis who may have been the last adult in the White House after Kelly was booted. The Grinch didn’t steal Christmas this year, it’s the government shutdown. The only folks who got what they wanted in their stockings hung with care are the right wing talk show pundits. The rest of us deplorables, it’s just more of the same, daily temper tweets, irrational outbursts, a never ending series of small seismic tremors that signal … what?

Year 3 in the Trump Regime, can you believe it? The Prez has pretty much emptied out the cabinet of naysayers so now he can proceed with whatever agenda de jour he wakes up with. Fire the Fed Chairman, why not? Bomb Tehran, might be okay. Armwrestle with Little Rocket Man, sure…. The cuffs are off the big guy now, he’s feeling cocky and as always certain of his every action. The Trump kids are advising him if he needs extra affirmation, Jared’s got the Middle East just about straightened out and everything is coming up roses.

Except … well, that witch hunt. Damn, if it weren’t for Mueller and his 100% Democrat associates, America would be great again already. Instead, there’s this nagging cloud of corruption, collusion and criminality that hovers constantly outside the President’s TV room where Fox and Friends defends his every tweet. Those pesky indictments keep popping up and old loyalists now are singing like canaries. He didn’t get Time Magazine’s Man of the Year and this makes for a sour mood, forget that it’s all fake news anyway, still, it would’ve been a nice accolade and this time he wouldn’t make the mistake of letting Stormy Daniels roll it up and smack his face on his naked ass. No sir, he learned that lesson!

So if you’re feeling uneasy this season, trust me, you’re not alone in avoiding mistletoe and office Christmas parties belting out White Christmas. Times aren’t so simple. And you’re no longer the innocent citizen you once were. Better get used to it. As for a New Year’s resolution, good luck. Impeach him, lock him up (I know you’re considering it), you get Pence. Me, I’d rather have the Grinch back.

I’ve been hearing a lot of chatter on the airwaves lately about disconnecting from Facebook. Folks are starting to tune into the good people at their favorite social media platform who really aren’t so much interested in their privacy as they are the monetization of their information value. Ya think??? Mark Z and his munchkin minions talk a good line about an open society being a good society, but now that the Russians and the trollers have access to your personal life, people are noticing what havoc this is producing.

So … there’s a movement afoot to disengage. That should show those geeks what’s what! Yeah, good luck with that. It’s like saying you’re concerned about global warming so you won’t buy gas for your car. Or turn on the heat in your house. I don’t have a Facebook account and if you think Mark is worried, think again. He has billions of subscribers. And plenty of corporations he can sell their data to. He’s making money, just like Amazon, just like Exxon, just like Google. You think he cares if the world is worse off? C’mon, he’s just another greedy monopolist. Sure, he talks like an evangelical, bringing truth and light to a world too long in the dark with its sad secrecy, its puny privacy, its pathetic avoidance of public scrutiny. Wouldn’t we all be happier if we shared our innermost desires and dreams?

Well, my dream was to be left alone, Mark. My dream was a world where fake news was understood to be phony baloney, not some viral campaign waged on your platform, one where truth was spelled with a capital T, not disparaged as bullshit. My dream was a country that valued courtesy and what is now condemned as political correctness, not one that spewed venom and trolled anyone who disagreed with another point of view.

I don’t blame Mark totally. I blame him and the others for being blind to the effects of their greed. You want to delete Facebook, be my guest, but you’re spitting into a digital wind. This is a monopoly that needs to be regulated, broken up, curtailed, sat upon, called to account. Unfriend them, sure, but lobby for the government to stop this. They’ve already done irreparable harm. If you think they’ll regulate themselves, call me, I have some Exxon stocks to sell ya.

Two Toke Tom and myself were quaffing a couple of Christmas cheers down at the Pilot House Lounge yesterday, talking about the State of the Union, the last election, Santa’s illegal immigration status and our plans for the holidays. Me, I go away with the mizzus for 3 or 4 days, somewhere that hasn’t heard of Christmas or else is too impoverished to want to participate. We go with a few other childless friends, fellow bah humbuggers, hoping to avoid the DMZ of the War on Christmas we’ve been hearing about for way too many years.

“And you?” I asked Two Toke.

“Same drill,” he answered, holding his glass up for Jerry behind the bar to refill. Jerry had a red Santa stocking cap on, the tail slung over his shoulder. The place was humming and Jerry was hustling to keep up. “Going down to the Shelter and serve grub to the homeless,” Tom said, draining the last of his current beer. Tom had been doing this since I could remember.

“You make me feel like Scrooge’s black sheep kid,” I muttered and nodded to Jerry that yeah, I’d take another round, Tiny Tim would have to go hungry while his old man got hammered at the pub.

“Guilty conscience?” Jerry asked. “Not for long,” I answered, “maybe about one more beer. Tom here serves Christmas dinners to the homeless.”

“I get a free dinner myself,” Tom told Jerry, almost apologetically. Jerry shook his head. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” he said over his shoulder with the Santa tail bobbing a white ball. When he came back with our drinks he said to Two Toke, “On the house, man.”

“Mine too?” I chimed in. Jerry laughed. “Oh, what the hell, yours too. Merry Christmas, boyz.

“You too, Jerry,” T.T. said.

“And to all a good night,” I answered, ever the comic smartass. What I meant to say was we need a few more Toms in this world.

I don’t need to tell you Christmas started a little early this year. I know, it does every year. Apparently there’s no need to wait til we’ve digested half a ton of turkey to move on to the next holiday, just step right off from overeating to overconsuming. If you’re worried about a so-called war on Christmas, I got some real good news for you: Santa is winning! And so, apparently, are the retailers and so are the Chinese.

Even on the Scroogish South End the muzak droning Bing Crosby chestnuts has become a tinselly tinnitus. Folks leave their Christmas lights up 365 days now, why bother crawling up a precarious ladder to pull the shack decoration down for the one month we aren’t counting down the day til the credit card bills hit JACKPOT?

Call me a curmeudgeon, label me a Grinch and hit me on the head with Aunt Pearl’s fruitcake, but our holiday strategy is we hightail it off the South End when Christmas gets close. Nowadays we grab a few friends who don’t have kids or family that necessitate a 2nd mortgage to fill a tree with presents and we head to places so bleak, so impoverished, so beaten down that they don’t bother with lights or tinsel or commercial trappings. Used to be we could escape the hoopla down here, but not anymore. Naw, you have to be farther off the beaten path to escape the holiday onslaught than Camano Island, even the South End.

I’d tell you where we exile ourselves, but then half of you would follow us off to serenity and a quiet holiday devoid of WalMarts and strip mall outlets. No offense, we’re sure not trying to wage war on Christmas. And we sure don’t want to collapse the economy. We only want to celebrate Christmas the way it once was, with friends and good cheer. Just not all year long.

I guess it’s okay to say Merry Christmas, but if you find that offensive, Happy Holidays! This has been a great year for the Daddle family and as we do every year, we like to share our glad tidings. Daughter Brenda went back to community college after her degree from Swarthmore proved less than marketable. She is taking Business Accounting and expects to find much better prospects after graduation. We told her English Renaissance History narrowed her career chances, but you know kids these days. A year working for Burger King convinced her to change her major. Even with the minimum wage increase that’s coming.

Son #1 Jeremiah served his 9 months and two weeks at the Snohomish County Jail for some breaking and entering. Drugs! You think you’ve warned them about the consequences but they think we’re just old fogies. Jerry should be fine after his Narcotics Anonymous regimen. For the time being he’s comfortable in the basement apartment Linda and I set up. Sure, I miss the pool table, but family always comes first! And it’s great to have him home again, even if we have to lock up our valuables.

Son #2 has joined a religious commune down near Santa Cruz. Brian is not supposed to contact his earthly family so we haven’t got much news to report. Occasionally he writes for money and we are happy to help out. Well, Linda is, I confess it irks me no end to send that little twerp anything beyond a message to Wake Up! But these things too shall pass, isn’t that what they say?

Linda is doing much better this year. As you might remember she struggled with some mild depression. Empty nest syndrome is what I thought it was, nothing she wouldn’t pass through soon. Boy, was I ever wrong this time! But her doctor has her on some very effective medications and her crying has greatly lessened. Jerry has been a great help. Sometimes he even makes his own lunches.

Retirement, as a friend of mine likes to say, is greatly underrated. Oh, I struggled a little with boredom at first. Like everyone. But right after my heart attack in February (not to worry, I’m okay, just a couple of stents) I started walking more. You know I never really liked exercise of any sort, but that ticker-tweet kicked me in the butt to get up off the couch and get outdoors. I’ve been walking every day. Truthfully, I walk almost all day. Linda says I’m obsessed, but I say a walk a day keeps the cardiologist away. I tried to talk Linda into walking with me, but she says 20 miles is too much for her. Ha ha. Her sense of humor is coming back!

We did make a couple of trips this year. One to Santa Cruz to see Son #2 at his Seeing Orb Commune, but we were told at the security gate no one was allowed inside, not even parents. Admittedly things got slightly out of hand and the sheriff’s office had to intervene, but in the end I settled down — without some damn mantra — and we drove to the coast and stayed at a very nicely restored auto court overlooking the beach before driving back home.

We also attended a Trump rally in October up at Lynden. The man can connect with an audience, I’ll say that, and we were happily surprised when he won on Election Night. He’s going to make America great again and even though I know some of you didn’t vote for Mr. Trump, I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised. The business of America is business and this is a billionaire businessman. Okay, enough politics….

Hope you and your family have a warm holiday. We in the Daddle household are going to make Christmas Great Again. It will be Yuge, as Donald says. Ha ha! I mean Ho Ho! Love at ya! Linda and Jeremiah and Skeeter

We just got an inquiry from a woman who wanted to rent our little bungalow next door, the 1940’s house we bought that Ruby, our resident stripper from the ‘30’s built with her vaudevillian husband Harry Vine. Nice stage name, Harry! Ruby grew up in our old shack before hitting the circuits but eventually came home to the South End, built her house next to her mom’s and taught dancing in town. Probably not pole dancing, just waltzes and such.

The inquiry wanted to know if we could disconnect wi-fi and if there were power lines around the house. She had recently returned from Nepal and apparently the electronic ‘grid’ was more than she could bear, having become sensitized in her absence to what the rest of us barely notice. We replied that the wi-fi could be turned off but the electricity that flows throughout the house might be an issue. Me, I’d have told her we could shut it off at the breaker panel and she could live in the dark without heat or hot water, might feel like a Tibetan monk in a cave after a few days. But the mizzus told her that maybe Ruby’s wasn’t the dream vacation she envisioned for herself and good luck finding what was.

I suppose if I spent a year in Nepal, coming home would be a shock. Television, internet, commercials, billboards, the constant bombardment of 21st century technologies. Most folks, it’s just the opposite. They can no longer imagine living life if it meant sacrificing those. We got a renter up at Ruby’s this weekend and last night the power went off about 4 in the morning. When he woke up, no lights, no toaster, no coffee maker, no TV, no reason to live. He called his daughter who texted us and said her pop was ‘freaking out’. I had gone down to get the Sunday papers and noticed all his curtains and shades pulled. I guess if you have no lights, why let any from the outside in either? Or … maybe this was an indication that our guest was in full panic attack. As you can well imagine, the situation was Grim. How many more minutes could he manage? How long before suicide seemed the better option? When, oh Lord would help arrive or the power come back on? Was the entire country de-electrified? Had the Russians cyber-struck the Grid? Or aliens? Or … worse?

Well, one minute after the distress call came in, the power company had restored the lines and electricity was flowing normally down to the South End. Yeah, it was a close call. But no life was lost. I did notice, though, the shades are still drawn, probably an indication of lasting scars. Even an hour living in pre-digital America can leave irreparable wounds.

Maybe you’re like me, wondering how anyone in half their right mind could vote for a crook like Trump. Sure, there’s plenty of folks out there who love a popular racist, I get that, and plenty who would like to grab women by their genitals, figuring it’s forever frat time in America. Locker room talk, right? And yeah, some of the trolling on the internet is viciously nasty misogyny, but it’s probably just some acne-pocked 400 pound kid in his folks’ basement acting out, nothing to worry about once his hormones even out. Not like he really would rape his target.

I got friends who voted for Trump. They’re not racists or homophobes. I wouldn’t call them adorable exactly, but I wouldn’t say they were deplorable either. Some are just hardcore Republicans hoping to get a tax break, the usual stuff. They sure weren’t going to vote for Hillary and definitely not for Bernie. Some are evangelical or some other religion mostly in the Christian camp. They think abortion is murder and they think a woman’s place is in the kitchen and gays, well, they should get some bootcamp intervention to figure out their mixed up attractions. Sure, Trump is a fallen Christian but forgiveness is divine and by God, they’re willing to forgive and forget. Hillary, not so much. After all, she forgave her man for those intern indiscretions and they didn’t. There’s a difference, but don’t ask me what it is.

And I can understand how in America some people are enamored of their TV reality stars. American Idol, the Apprentice, the new folk heroes. Richest guy in the world, right? Most successful business man they almost know. Okay, they probably don’t know how many times he went bankrupt, how many folks he left holding the bag, how the banks saved his bacon to save theirs, how the Russians loaned him money and expected a little quid pro quo. It’s how business works, it’s how the rich get rich, it’s what they’d do themselves if they had the chance. Big deal. Yeah, Big Deal!

If you were poor … or unemployed … or making minimum wage, you might want someone to blame. Government maybe. Immigrants for sure. Radical Muslims, you bet! NAFTA and NATO, China and the Democrats, welfare cheats and Hollywood, bad!!! And if some smooth talking famous rich guy told you he thought the same thing, government’s screwing you, you might roll the dice too. Like he told the blacks last election, whaddaya got to lose? Maybe they’ll eventually ask themselves that. And discover the answer is Plenty.

FIRE ( Financial Independence, Retire Early)

Even before Trump pronounced You’re Fired, maybe you heard of FIRE, the groupthink of slackers like myself who thought Maynard G. Krebs had it correct back on Dobie Gillis: Work?? A four letter word spoken only with incredulity, as in, What, Me?
There’s an entire movement out there for those who want to retire young. In fact, there’s a Lean Fire and a Fat Fire, the former for those who think they might manage to live on 40 grand a year and the latter for those who think they might manage on a mere 150 grand. The latter we’re going to call rich and if they need help figuring out how to retire comfortably, I’m not going to be the one to give advice. Other than to tell them to get their heads out of their ass and wake up. You’re rich, you idiot!

But for the rest of us, me, my neighbors on the South End and possibly you wannabee retirees, I have all kinds of free advice. I know, if I set myself up as a Life Counselor, I’d be in the Fat Fire category, rich beyond my means to spend it all. No, that would defeat the purpose now, wouldn’t it? Even if I do think Life Counselor doesn’t actually fall into the category of work. Maynard G. was really a life counselor, after all. At least for me.

I have friends who run the numbers on what they will need to live a comfortable lifestyle into their 90’s. You can find financial advisors who will lay out your portfolio and give you the verdict if you can live on a mere 100K a year until the assisted living apartments kick your indigent self onto the sidewalk when you run out of pesos. Most of you won’t want to take the chance. Most of us would rather … yes, work, than risk becoming a bag lady at 95, eating from dumpsters and sitting at the freeway exit soliciting alms. TOO EARLY RETIREMENT, ANY $$$’S WILL HELP. GOD BLESS.

If you’re that kind of planner, forget about it. Retiring early requires a leap of faith. You either believe you can make ends meet or you don’t. It helps to start early, the earlier the better. That way you can make adjustments. Worst case, you can … well, there’s no gentle way to say this, you can go to work. The Lean Fire people may not tell you, but I will, if you retire before you made any money, you will have to find some means of accruing greenbacks for food, clothes, dwellings and the like. Sorry, but it’s kind of a Law of Physics.

The trick the Lean Fire Folks keep to themselves is that you have to work, you just don’t have to work for the Man. Swell, right? They also won’t tell you working for yourself is hard. The pay is crap, the boss is a jerk and the retirement you already took isn’t offered in the self-employment package. Neither is health care, vacation, sick leave, all that stuff you walked away from. Check the Lean Fire Fine Print if you don’t believe me.

But! If you’re like me and Maynard, take the gamble. Beats the odds at the casino and way better than Lotto. Worst case, you have to go back and do what you hated in the first place, but you got a short vacation. You might even learn to shop Goodwill and buy generic. You might find that the America that isn’t nose to tail in the rat race isn’t so bad after all. You might discover you actually have an imagination and that imagination might take you places you never dreamed possible. Even without that 150K budget….

Microsoft just came out to advocate FOR government regulations on the unfettered use of facial recognition. I know, I had to reread the article’s headline twice too. After all, Microsoft is developing the software for the government, big contracts on the line, money to be made … but they’re warning us what they’re doing is pretty creepy and maybe folks ought to stop a nano-second to consider the implications. It’s like a serial killer warning the school he plans to shoot up that the gun he’s holding maybe should be regulated. You know, before it’s too late.

And if anyone would know, these guys do. What they know is how pervasive and insidious the use of this kind of surveillance will be once they get it up and operational. Cameras mounted on rooftops and every possible nook and cranny, all interconnected to police or government computers, nobody could go anywhere potentially without being tracked. Course, in the digital world, that’s pretty much the case now. Mostly just friendly corporations, you understand, monitoring your computer usage, your Facebook links, your child pornography interests. Like the guy who called me last night, he’s recording our conversation to protect me. From what? I ask, but we both know it’s him. Trouble is, I don’t know who he is. But he knows who I am.

Sure, I could blame Zuckerberg and Bezos, Amazon and Facebook, Microsoft and Apple, but we’re the ones who let the guy on the phone record us, we’re the yahoos who buy the technology that controls our house now and asks us with a human sounding voice how it can help us. My computer wants to interface with me no matter how many times I tell it not to bother. Too late, too late, the spy is in the house of love.

But if Microsoft thinks alarm bells are sounding, who am I to hit the Snooze button? They know they’ll make a zillion bucks anyway, but even they know the world they’re creating is creepy and Orwellian. When Big Brother starts warning you to put restraints on him, I think we ought to listen.

And the stockings were stuffed with sealed indictments this holiday ….

It’s not over til the fat man sings, isn’t that what they say? Well, the fat man is howling. His personal attorney decided not to take a bullet from the boss after all and he’s singing like a canary to Mueller’s team, so much so, they recommended a light sentence, which probably tells us all we need to know about how far along this investigation has come. The noose is tightening. Trump, not exactly the most loyal boss we ever met, declared that Cohen should have the book thrown at him. And Gen. Flynn, he’s like Cohen, no point throwing the rest of his life away on unreciprocated loyalties. Manafort, who originally decided to cooperate and then reneged, well, great guy once again. Manafort has a lot more to worry about than a pissed off President. He’s got Russian assassins in the rearview.

Poor Trump. His Sec. of State declared this week that he frequently had to tell his boss what he wanted was illegal. His boss tweeted that Tillerson was dumb as a rock and lazy as hell. Tillerson probably was president of Exxon parlaying those two talents, but he did understand the limits of the law, something Donald has never bothered to learn in the rough and tumble of New Yawk real estate. I suspect he’s in for some cruel tutoring.

But so are we. Anyone who thinks an impeachment is imminent better lay off the Spiked Egg Nog. The true believers don’t care if their man grabs genitals, pays off porn stars, meets with Russians during a presidential campaign or bends the rules to make a buck or three. The true believers don’t care much about truth. The true believers may not care if their hero has engaged in high crimes and misdemeanors. That, friend, is the state of the union today.

If this were a Netflix series, we could binge for years. And after all, isn’t that what Trump offered us, entertainment value? He certainly delivered, give him that. We’re only in the second year … with the potential of two more, maybe six. The smart money would start planning for the sequel right now. Donald’s not going to jail. He’s going to do what he planned before the unexpected election victory happened. Make more money. Hype the Brand. Declare success and move up. The Republicans aren’t going to impeach this guy and risk alienating the alienated. They’re not suicidal. And the American People, you, me, the deplorables, we’re hooked on the series now. Nobody wants a Sudden Ending. We want another cliff hanger, week after week.

The fat man might howl, but no way is he going to sing.