The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I have a sequoia I planted below our house, down where the hill levels out into a ravine. I planted it as a seedling instead of buying a wedding ring for myself since I really dislike a ring. At least one on my finger. Ten years later we built the house up on that hill and from a second story perch I’ve been watching it reach up over the woodshop below, then slowly rise to the new house’s level, go beyond the height of the barn across the ravine and above our own house.

I have to step forward into the window now to see its top. At 43 years old it’s still pretty much a baby so far as a sequoia goes. On our anniversary Karen and I wrapped our arms around its trunk and barely locked hands. With any luck it’ll outlive us by, oh, 500 years or so. In my own lifetime, with a little luck, it’ll be the biggest tree on the place, which is no mean accomplishment considering the five redwoods we planted from seed, a few humongous big leaf maples, some second growth firs and one cedar that, for now, holds the title at a circumference of 13 feet and must be the oldest tree by far on our seven acres.

I’d like to think when we no longer prowl this property, it’ll be a forest again, not some logged off scabwoods the way it was when we first arrived. The field that once grew alfalfa for our goats is now a small arboretum of oaks and maples and beeches, rhododendrons twice as high as us, walnuts and hickories, a carpet of shamrocks and periwinkle growing underneath.

We are definitely shaped by our surroundings, I know that much. And it’s no small pleasure to return the favor by shaping them. The orchards, the flower gardens, the riot of 150 rhodies all blooming over a slowly unfolding spring, the vegetable gardens, the shrubs, the back woods —- all of this becoming as much a part of us as we became part of it. If you were to ask if I was an environmentalist, I would have to say no, probably not. I’m mostly just part of the environment.

A buddy just wrote me that the Trump Library had burned down and both books had gone up in flames. The sad part, he said, was that the President hadn’t even finished coloring the second one.

Other than the gossip section of the NY Post, chances are our President hasn’t read much of anything. When asked once what his favorite book was, he famously replied the Bible. Other than, of course, his own ghost-written book Art of the Deal. In response to the question of naming a few favorite passages in the Good Book (presumably the Bible), he didn’t want to get into that, more a personal matter, next question.

So the idea of a Trump Library, that repository for his memorandums, logs, meeting notes, private collection of books, etc., well, the notion is nothing if not oxymoronic. Or totally moronic, if you want to be harsh. The man destroys his notes and memos, no doubt the influence of the mafia attorney Roy Cohn, to eliminate the potential for incriminating evidence. History will not be kind to this man of few letters and constant words. It will, of course, have the Trump Bibles and his many ghost-written books for sale. Along with the rest of his merch.

When the design concept goes out for bid on the architecture of the place, I’m going to submit my own renderings. Like the Viet Nam War Memorial, mine will be subterranean, descending down into the earth, windowless, probably a very small footprint, say, 1000 sq feet maximum to give the space a sense of being ‘full’, floor to low ceiling. Inside, past the admission desk where visitors will be charged for the privilege, maybe a couple of computer stations but more likely banks of televisions mounted on the walls with Newsmax and Fox still fawning over the huuuge accomplishments of a second Administration. And of course, bigger-than-life cut-outs of the Donald with John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe. For an additional entry fee visitors can watch all episodes of The Apprentice, not sure why they’d want to since they never really disappeared to syndication, just became the new politics when reality TV actually became real.

Down at the Cupcake Hut, the South End’s only bakery, the talk over the Hobart bread mixer consists mostly of yeasty gossip and glutinous outrage over fears of being asked to bake a gay wedding cake. Rita Mae, the current owner and born-again Christian, was slapping dough down on the kneading table the way a sado-masochist masseuse would pound a hated client.

“No way,” she was fuming for any and all of us pastry lovers standing in front of the display case filled with bismarks and jelly rolls, danishes and apple fritters, muffins and doughnuts, worrying we’d never get our orders until Rita Mae was finished slapping that loaf silly. “I won’t do it. My beliefs come before the law and my law is Higher than theirs and that’s the real truth,” she grunted with a ferocious fist to the lump on the table.

But she wiped the flour off her hands on her apron and slid behind the pastry case to take our orders. Ronnie took a few doughnuts for his landscaping crew and I ordered a fritter and a cup of coffee. To go. I sure didn’t want to sit at one of the little round formica tables while Rita Mae was in one of her Full Rants.

“What’s next?” she shouted and at first I thought she meant what else did I want. “That’ll about do it, Rita,” I shrugged, wishing I was already out that front door.

“Boy oh boy, that’s the truth,” she retorted, ringing up my coffee and fritter. “Next thing’ll be wedding cakes for polygamists. Who knows where this is going? Sodom and Gomorrah right here and I’m supposed to cater the orgies??”

I could feel my sweet tooth going rotten, decaying faster than civilization. “I don’t know, Rita, maybe it’s not really that big an issue. I mean, you don’t get all that much call for wedding cakes, do you? Much less same sex ones.”

Rita Mae shot me the evil eye and I shut up. Ronnie, always the provocateur, turned at the doorway, his bag of pastries held high. “Love thy neighbor, Rita Mae!” Rita Mae grabbed a day old muffin from the tray beside the register and just missed Ronnie as he slammed the door on his way out. The muffin exploded against the back of the sign that said WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. That was probably going to be my last fritter, I decided. I can read the writing on the wall about as well as Rita Mae can read her Good Book. “You have a nice day,” she frowned as she gave me change and somehow I knew I wouldn’t.

Take two of the most egotistical a-holes in the galaxy, offer them more power than anyone else on this planet, then give them time. Before very long these two mental midgets will go from sniping to snarling and eventually to the ultimate smackdown. X vs Truth Social, Musk vs. Trump, mano y mano, and you, the public, get a ringside seat. This is what America voted for. This, rightchere, ladies and gentlemen, is entertainment!!

Musk threw a quarter trillion dollars to buy our boy Trump an election. Money, in case you’ve been spending too much time parsing the correct pronoun for your kids and colleagues, talks. In fact, it screams. It hollers. It yells across the canyons and from sea to shining sea. Freedom of speech, so saith the Supreme Court. The rich are free to run the country without limitations. You get one vote, the billionaires get one vote. Fair is fair. Until you factor in … well, the money. Nothing really new here, just plenty more of it from a very small % of us buying every election from city council to PTA president to Prez of the Yewnited States. Suck it up, buttercup, the game’s been rigged.

But money can flow in both directions and the E-boy is threatening anyone who votes for Il Douche’s big beautiful bill with being primaried. Ouch! The guy wants his quarter trillion back. He says he won’t pick up the astronauts at the Space Station. Trump will cancel billions in subsidies. Musk says Trump is in the Epstein files and the truth will out! The President counters with the accusation that Elon’s mother has a dog face! Musk writes that Donny should be impeached!

Obviously the Marquis of Queensberry Rules no longer apply. This is the Prom Queen/ Prom King girlfriend hair pulling mud wresting match of the century, a no holds barred, hitting below the belt encouraged, spitting, hitting, eyeball scratching extravaganza. And we all get a ringside seat. May both egos lose. But hopefully not until many many rounds of knockdown entertainment. Welcome to the Manosphere.

Give the MAGA intelligentsia some credit. They have uncovered the conspiracy of the century. Joe Biden is dead and was replaced by a robotic clone. Hard to believe? you ask. Check out the post in the President’s Truth Social. The man who ran the country for four years was actually a cyborg.

All I can say is whoever created that clone could have done a better job, probably some voucher school science class project lacking adequate AI, not some lab funded by Project 2025. After all, funding for science is being axed in hopes the tech sector will pick up the slack. Musk was busy with DOGE and rockets that keep exploding. Building a Biden was probably not high on the To-Do list, not with Tesla stocks plummeting.

You gotta give the clone creators a little credit, though. Nice ruse to have the cyborg come down with prostate cancer. Some kind of self-destruct mechanism maybe. And give them a lot of credit for constructing a clone that even his wife doesn’t suspect is a replicant. That is no little feat. Try that yourself if you don’t think so. I can’t even keep my lawnmower running much less teach it to talk, even badly.

Sure, there will be those skeptics who will want to see the death certificate. Probably as likely as the Obama birth certificate. But for the True Believers, the Q-Anon faithful and the Newsmax loyalists, proof is for the weak minded. The President’s tweet is plenty of proof, all anyone should need. And if you need more proof, consider this: the artificial Joe Biden hasn’t denied the report. I think that speaks volumes. Even if he doesn’t.

I guess if you were the first felon elected to the highest office in the land and then given pardon privileges, you might, if you were a person without morals or guilt, decide to pardon all those fellow felons who were unjustly convicted of crimes by the government you swore to uphold and defend. Or maybe not.

You might even understand a pardon for those who contributed massive amounts of donations, sort of a Get Out of Jail Free card for the MAGA loyalists. I mean, money talks and felons walk, maybe a new motto on our legal tender, drop the In God We Trust. But c’mon, pardons for the rioters on January 6th? It was basically an admission that these were his loyal troops, his vanguard of a violent overthrow in order to keep him in office. And the senators and reps who ran for their lives down hallways or crouched in fear with gas masks when these so-called innocent tourists breached the Capitol, did they raise their voices in protest or just lay down and go along with the ruse? If they’d had the chance when those good citizens were touring the building, probably could have signed autographs while some were calling for the hanging of Pence and Pelosi.

Loyalty to the chief, tribute paid — all you need for crimes to be forgiven. Meanwhile anyone who criticized gets the weaponized Justice Department. The same senators and representatives who cowered in the Capitol and refused to impeach the perpetrator, now investigate at length, endlessly, the purported crimes of Hunter Biden for using the influence of his father’s office. Forget about the transparent and willful use of that same office to garner billions on $trump coins, Trump Towers around the globe, jetliner gifts and on and on, obvious emoluments banned by the Constitution, not a peep from the peanut gallery, whether from fear or agreement, who knows?

The inmates in the asylum are being set free. Insanity is being redefined and you tell me if this is what democracy looks like. Most of us can’t tell anymore.

What we used to call flip-flopping, we now call the art of the deal. I know, it seems cruel to pepper the Prez with questions about Trump Always Chickens Out, nasty questions he points out, when all he’s doing is ‘negotiating’. The stock market roller coaster follows every reversal judiciously, one day up when the tariff threat is lifted, next day down when the tariff is back on, all head-spinning stuff but probably exciting for you day-traders. Small businesses, not so much. Anyone who has their retirement funds tied to the Market, kind of a scary ride these days.

Consistency, Emerson told is, is the hobgoblin of little minds, but I’m not sure Ralph Waldo would assume inconsistency is the paragon or parakeet of big minds. Sometimes it looks more like just a confused state of mind, possibly the result of wee morning tweeting and social media overdose. Nevertheless, rest assured these aren’t daily reversals, they’re negotiating tactics, not TACOs. Course, if it looks like a chicken, squawks like a chicken and poops chicken shit endlessly, it might really be a chicken.

Half the news that floods through my newspapers and internet feeds is a reversal of yesterday’s reportage. TACO is angry with Putin one day, going to be dire consequences, next day there’s rumors of a breakthrough and possible peace meeting, followed of course by the news that Putin has scaled up the assaults, and you know tomorrow’s flip-flop. Deja-vu all over again. And again. And again.

I’m taking care of the neighbor’s chickens while they’re vacationing in Europe. Actually, I’m taking care of their hens while their usual chicken babysitters are vacationing in Oregon. The chicken coop, a veritable Trump Tower of a coop/aviary, sits right beside our joint property line so it’s no big deal to wander over and check the water, toss some chicken feed, gather up the eggs and cross back into my woods. The boys who usually handle this asked if I would check the house too, see if burglars had been prowling or were living in the mansion.

Some years back, shortly after the house was finished, the new owner was sunbathing in the privacy of her back yard and someone caught her sans swimsuit out on the lawn. That trespasser, she figured, being an amateur Sherlock Holmes, must be me since I live right next door. This created a bad start for our neighborliness as you might suspect. Nobody really wants to be accused of being a peeping Tom, but my neighbor kept asking friends of mine if they thought I was capable of this. Hell if I know what my friends probably told her, maybe worse than that. But she wouldn’t let it go and that dark cloud hangs over our mutual backyards like a constant threat of rain.

So I said no, I wouldn’t be caught dead or on video surveillance camera snooping around their house, just wasn’t worth the potential trouble to play security guard for them while they were vacationing on the Oregon coast. Michael mentioned that the owner had recently asked about me, whether I was a liberal or a redneck, a libertarian or a banjo whacker, a …. whatever? ‘What did you tell her?’ I asked. I’ve only lived next door to them for, oh, 15 years or so, how would they know what I was like, right? Admittedly they’re absentee chicken ranchers mostly, come up on holidays or a few special occasions, probably check on the trophy house, see if my buddies mowed and trimmed and pruned their fruit trees correctly. Rich folks. The kind of neighbors I love the most, especially the absentee part.

‘I told her you were a story teller,’ Michael said. We were next to the coop, chickens hopping up and down the escalator to the pen from the motel room style appointed laying bins. They were doing their cackle thing. A story teller, I repeated. What the hell does that tell her? A story teller is like, for her probably, a congenital liar, faux facts, Trump supporter, who knows what would run through her suspicious head?

I don’t know either what that means. A story teller? Well, okay, let’s roll with it. Stay tuned, is all I can suggest. If my chicken ranching neighbors have video cameras tuned to that chicken coop and find me prowling around their pen, I suspect we’ll have a sequel to this little story. If not, I get some free eggs and chicken shit on my boots. Life on the South End in these modern times … it’s never what I expect.

Most, if not all, Presidents use national holidays to celebrate their country, to remind us we are One People, all of us pulling together to make this nation what it is and what it has potential to be. Not the current one, of course, who sent out an all caps message to us that read: “Happy Memorial Day to all, including the scum that spent the last four years trying to destroy our country.” Nice sentiment from the Commander-in-Chief, the guy who called prisoners of war ‘losers’ and the troops who died fighting for their country suckers. Thanks, General.

Always in search of a scapegoat the guy can’t help himself denigrating any and all who he can’t see in the mirror. Losers, scum, suckers, deadbeats, gang members — I think he means you and me. But … help is on the way for this once great nation of ours that has lost its way. And that solution is him. Why he’s throwing himself a military parade on his birthday. Not sure why he didn’t get the job done the first term of office but let’s not go there. He gets a mulligan. In his world he always gets a mulligan and he always wins every tournament.

Most, if not all, Presidents aim for uniting the country they’re in charge of, not calling us scum and communists, not investigating anyone who has ever slighted them. Every good autocrat and every dutiful dictator looks for a scapegoat, Jews, Muslims, immigrants, pick one or two and blame the ills of the nation on them. This president has an enemy list longer than his inventory of merchandise he sells. Elite colleges, all Democrats, all immigrants who aren’t white, Bruce Springsteen and Taylor Swift, Joe Biden and Joe Biden and forever Joe Biden. He has skin so thin nearly everyone is a potential loser scumbag if they forget to kiss the ring frequently. And if the scapegoats aren’t enough here, he’s got our allies overseas to criticize and threaten. Some he hauls into the Oval Office and gives them the World Wide Wrestling Smackdown treatment, great TV he says, figuring, apparently, everyone loves a bully so long as he’s a winner.

So it’s Memorial Day here in America. Losers Day to him, all those gravestones in Arlington National Cemetery. To the rest of us, just another sad day in a long line of his Presidency.

This past fall my 74 year old body let me down, succumbed to the entropy of old age and geezer mechanics, went beyond the usual aches and pains and finally threw in the white flag of surrender. My left knee, the one I’d injured as a 16 year old kid falling on skis the only time he ever went skiing and the boot didn’t release so that the knee bent to the point of breaking. But not quite. Hello future arthritis.

When, after jerking a recalcitrant outboard motor trying to make it start for nearly an hour, that old knee flared its outrage and walking was suddenly a challenge, I reluctantly went to the clinic for an evaluation where the x-rays and subsequent scans came back with multiple issues, ranging from spurs to chips to misaligned meniscus to bone on bone and even sprained ACL’s. The prognosis for an active old age had greatly diminished in no time flat.

I had a fairly straight forward choice. I could gimp around the rest of my days, two stepping up stairs, hobbling in pain, accepting my fate. Or … I could opt for a new bionic knee. After which I could leap tall buildings in a single bound, no doubt with the assistance of a chip implanted in my brain to control the new titanium gizmo. Part man, part machine, everything I’ve feared most of my adult life. Why wait for the Artificial Intelligence Apocalypse? If you can’t beat em, join em. Resistance, needless to say, is futile.

Three weeks ago I had the surgery performed by a robot bone-cutter programmed for exact slicing and dicing. Post-op, I had a semi-human leg the size of a small elephant’s and an incision running from above the titanium knee to below, a throbbing gash that has kept me from full sleep all this time. I had sincerely hoped the controlling chip implant would also handle the pain as well as the bionic instructions but no, the android apparently hasn’t concerned itself with pain management, not feeling any itself.

Suffice it to say, I’m not leaping even small sheds, much less tall buildings. Folks tell me it’s going to take more time than my overly and unrealistic optimism had led me to believe. Soon, I hope, the pathetically weak human component of me will yield to the inevitable union with the machine masters. Meanwhile, I still have to oil the damn joint.