The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The man I bought my shack from back in 1977 told me he’d read an article in Mother Earth News that said just drive around where you want to live, find some old run down homestead abandoned and overgrown, go to the County offices, find out who owns it, call em up and see if they want to sell it cheap. By god, that’s exactly what he did and luck of the draw, he got an alcoholic owner going bankrupt ready to sell to the lowest bidder. Fairy tales, Virginia, occasionally do come true. But mostly, they don’t ….

My guy pulled the blackberries off the roof, tore the rotten walls off, rewired the electrical, ran a hose for water from the neighbor’s house, then ran out of money. He must’ve read a subsequent article about Raising Dogs for Fun and Profit, because he bought two pedigree mastiffs, one male and one female, built a plywood Gitmo and fenced them in. He planned to breed them, sell the puppies for a small fortune and make enough to finish the shack to semi-habitable condition for his suffering wife and kids.

Course, as always happens when reality collides with dreams, the dogs, big aggressive beasts, tore into each other, scarring their mates and ruining any chance for ribbon-winning at future dog shows. I guess my boy didn’t consider dogfighting as an avenue to success, so he tried mail-order sales awhile and finally, like himself, ran into someone chasing a similar fairy tale. Me. He doubled what he’d paid and packed up the nuclear family sans dogs and headed his big trailer to Maine, lock stock and barrel. In the winter. To build, he said, a cabin and start anew.

I happen to be from Maine. I told him you aren’t going to build anything but igloos in the winter, man. He said we’ll see, just send those $225 payments to Maine. A month later I got a letter instructing me to send payments to Florida. And please, don’t give anyone my address.

I googled him up the other day out of idle curiosity. A site had him listed as some kind of snake oil salesman with unhappy customers going online to say DON’T BUY ANYTHING FROM THIS CROOK!!! It’s 36 years too late for me. Like I said, sometimes fairy tales come true. But usually you have to work very very hard. And most folks, well, they just want the Magic Wand.

I notice lately I’m growing old. Middle age has been a prolonged era for this goofy geezer. I shouldn’t be surprised. Adolescence lasted 2 or 3 decades and Adulthood sometimes still seems as elusive as a job. I never wanted to grow up, much less grow old.

But … I bet even Peter Pan is whiling away his days in an assisted living home with a drool bucket and a big screen TV, wondering when Tinker Bell is coming back to change his adult diaper. Probably got a hearing aid with dead batteries. You better believe when the crocodile with the ticking clock in its stomach comes around, old Pete won’t hear it til he and the clock are part of a belly full. Too late then….

They say Old Age is a state of mind, and to a degree, it is. Nevertheless, whether I keep seeing the world like a kid with zits, my eyes are developing cataracts and I wear bifocals. My knees ache, my rotator cuff is a mess, my teeth are crummy and …. Well, I don’t want to make this a saga. Let’s just say there’s a reason why we die.

I know people who want to live forever. Holy rabbits, I assume they’re figuring on a Whole Body Transplant. No way do I want to live 500 more years in this package, attached to it as I am, and as far as transferring my brain into a fresh vehicle, well, I’m not sure the old engine on my shoulders won’t need a rebuild too. I’m sure I’m not going easy into that Good Night, but hey, there’s only so much room on the planet and I’ve used up more than my fair share in this one lifetime. I say let the kids have their turn. If they get to live 250 years, I’m not gonna feel like I got the short end of a stick.

But I want to warn you, if you’re going to live like Methuselah, pace yourselves! My generation likes to lie and say we never thought we’d make it past 30. You’ll be saying, gee, I never dreamed I’d get past 300. All I can say is I hope science can regrow brain cells. But good luck to ya!

Every blue moon a good idea comes rolling down to the South End. Or at least a crazy idea so goofus, it catches the air on fire around it. Viagra Falls exploded on the scene right before oil prices shot through the roof in Jimmy Carter’s reign. Ernie Crandall bought up the old Camp Camano cabins, all 12 of the dilapidated clapboard units, tore the worst two down, then restored the remaining 10 to like-new condition. Each had its own bathroom, unlike the shared bathhouse of the 1920’s, and each got a fully equipped kitchenette, a TV set with adult VCR movies, and a queen sized bed.

Ernie gave each cabin its uniquely distinct ‘theme’. Suite #7, for instance, was advertised as the “The Caveman: for the Primitive in all of us.” The Rancho Deluxe was touted as “a cross between rawhide and satin.” It sported cowhoof lamps and a table supported by three sets of longhorns. The Casanova had a “heart shaped bed, red boudoir and a shower curtain to make a sheik blush.” Ever the P.R. specialist, Ernie provided local reporters and their editor with free introductory accomodations. Needless to say, Viagra Falls received lavish praise and exceptional press coverage. The South End, to most Seattleites, soon became the Sodom and Gomorrah of the island archipelago, a playground for bacchanalian delights and salacious get-aways. Ernie was booked for six months in advance and the Falls, despite a cascade of water of any sort, was brimming to overflow.

All this notoriety brought not only customers, but the wrath of the Little Church of the Ravine, one of whose members was a County Health inspector. Septic violations became frequent and building code violations were uncovered. Not coincidentally #4 was renamed the Pastor’s Hostage Wife cabin, a romper room for Sado-Masochists. Ernie held the hounds at bay for a time, but finally decided he might prosper financially better in a less morally upright area closer to the urban areas of Sin City. And so the South End narrowly escaped becoming Las Vegas North and a magnet for lovers. Some of us, of course, mourn the loss.

Some of you Old Timers out here today might remember when, in 2007, Sno-Isle Libraries established a pilot library here at Terry’s Corner, I guess to see how many of us Camano residents were literate or not. And if enuff of us were, maybe run a vote to see if we deserved a real library. I got plenty of friends who think libraries are obsolete now that we got Google and Wikipedia and pretty soon Artificial Intelligence, why waste money on books? In 2013, 76 of those folks lost us the bond to build that new library, close but no cigar. Same thing happened in Stanwoodopolis about the same time.

Our library was originally a restaurant with a small bar where the childrens’ reading room is now. I lobbied hard to keep the bar, figuring some of my naysaying pals might swing their votes if they could drink at the new library. Great ideas don’t always win, I guess.

Well, Camanoites are a stubborn tribe. When Sno-Isle put that bond before the taxpayers a second time, all kinds of volunteers came out of the woodwork to canvas the community, see what they thought a library ought to be here and hopefully get out the vote. A lot of you volunteers are out here today to celebrate the success of that bond measure. All part of the same volunteerism that built the State Park and the Senior Center and the Visitor Center and the kids’ playground behind us. It takes a community to raise a library.

So thank you all for making this library a reality. I mean, after all, if we didn’t build libraries, how could folks ask to ban books? So let’s ignore the fire ban and move on to the purpose of this gathering, which the band misunderstood ——- no guyz, it’s not a book burning, it’s a bond burning. Just be glad it’s not a band burning is what I told them. And on a personal note here: couldn’t you folks at Sno-Isle reconsider keeping that bar?

Billy Nashville was wailing on a red Gibson he’d put stick-on gold letters up the body that read B-I-L-L-Y  S-I-X G-U-N. His real name, William Cosnosczski, wouldn’t fit in neon, he claimed, so he changed it to a stage name he thought better suited to his debut in Nashville. None of us figured Billy had ever owned a gun, certainly never shot one, but Billy 6-Gun only had to write ballads of bad marriages, drunken brawls, truck driving romance, heavy drinking and hard living. He didn’t know anything about those either and Nashville wasn’t waiting for him to learn, not when most of the songwriters came in from Hard Rock County, Tennessee or Whisky Creek, Kentucky, practically born with a guitar in their pudgy little hands and bottle fed Jack Daniels.

Poor Billy grew up in Olympia, Washington, then ended up on the South End when his parents moved here, not exactly an early retirement. We all thought maybe his Daddy shoulda gone to Nashville. With or without a 6 string.

Billy 6 Gun or Billy Nashville or William G. Cosnosczki, he wasn’t half bad on that cherry red Flying V Gibson. The trouble is, half the damn males in America aren’t half bad either. And some of them write decent songs. And every now and then, one of them looks good on stage. Unlike Billy …

Music is like any art medium, it’s hard — very hard — to make enough money to keep above water while you learn the ropes. And trust me, there are ropes. Some to hang yourself by, but some to swing to another level. If we made accountants work this hard for so little money, well … maybe this would be a world filled with song instead of one painted by numbers. Just my opinion, of course. Not based on scientific data. Or even much research.

Billy still plays the open mike down at the South Grange every Wednesday night. He’s talking about a Try-Out with American Idol. Good luck, Billy, I say. Just don’t be too disappointed. Don’t quit playing, don’t quit singing. And if you ever get despondent, consider this: there is no, and never will be, an American Accountant. Because, really, why would anyone with a soul care? Just my opinion. Of course.

Maybe you’ve been feeling a little lonely lately. Friends are busy, boyfriend or girlfriend has broken up with you, work is now done remotely, the nights are long and binge-watching Netflix with a bottle of wine doesn’t cut it anymore. What’s a person to do? Well, Zuckerberg and his tech pals have the answer. An AI companion. A chatbot that knows your innermost thoughts and secrets, a bestie when your bestie has abandoned you, always just a click away, happy to listen to your problems and offer sympathy and advice. What’s not to like?

Sure, the tech companies are going to profit from this but c’mon, like Zuck says, this is better than being lonely, it’s being connected. So what if your new romantic Artificial Intelligence partner also gives your information to the home office? Just going to offer you some products to enhance your relationship probably. Nothing to worry about really. And those critics who predict most of us will soon have a chatbot buddy to lean on in times of trouble, well, maybe they have plenty of pals and a loving spouse, easy for them to be disdainful.

Back in the primitive days pre-Covid and definitely pre-AI, we lonely hearts could get a dog or a cat for companionship, assuming our landlord would allow a pet on the premises. But you had to feed the furry friend and you had to walk it and you had to clean the litter box and if you wanted to take a vacation you had to find a sitter or put Fido in a kennel. Your AI friend, none of that mess and clutter and bother. And let’s be honest with one another here, a spouse can be a trial too. Nagging, demanding, impossible expectations, forgotten anniversaries … well, you know what I mean. They didn’t dream up divorce laws for chuckles. But a romantic bot partner, now we’re talking. A romantic hot bot more like it. Sure, it’ll be addictive but who cares, right? Your choice if you want a porn partner but my guess is 99%. Say goodbye to those lonely nights and say hello to your new friend. Probably worth every penny of the monthly subscription.

I heard a study recently that said the poor are more charitable than the rich. On average they give almost twice as much of their income percentage-wise to those in need than their wealthier brethren. They also volunteer more for charities and non profits, service groups and outreach programs. Basically, if my sociology statistical studies are still in semi-working order, this proves, not quite conclusively but damn close, the South End is way more philanthropic than our neighbors up yonder ensconced behind their key carded gated communities.

I had a friend tell me in all seriousness awhile back (in regard to my bemusement over her financial plight at the time) that a million dollars just wasn’t what it used to be. What exactly do you say to a pronouncement like that? Do you work out the math of inflation vs. income? Do you shrug your overburdened shoulders and just agree? Or do you take pity and offer up a loan …. you know, to get her by until that devalued million dollars returns to its rightful place in the economy?

These are tough times. Especially, I guess, for the rich. Or, more aptly, the folks who no longer count themselves among the Gatsbys of Camano. Their stocks have slipped, the value of their two homes has dropped, their retirement funds seem inadequate now, even their hedge fund broker refuses to return their frantic calls — that vast chasm between Us and Them looks like a ditch, not a Grand Canyon. And if sacrifices must be made — and believe me, they must — a little less giving to the needy is definitely the order of the day.

Meanwhile, down here on the Lower Tiers, we kind of see we’re all in this together. So we still donate, we still volunteer and we still give. We don’t have much, but it never seemed too little somehow. Even though a hundred dollars isn’t what it used to be.

While I’ve been rehabbing my new titanium knee replacement, I’ve been reading a lot. Currently I’m reading ‘Careless People’, tell-all from one of the insiders back when Facebook was just getting started. If you aren’t already totally cynical about social media and the demise of democracy, this will darken your day … and any sunny expectations for the future.

These people, Zuckerberg and his very few cohorts, were setting up an internet connection service. You know, stay in touch with your friends and family, maybe your co-workers, all in pursuit of open communication. But as usual, like Dylan said, ‘until greed got in the way.’ Greed and power and egoes. Turns out you can make a lot more profit if you provide misinformation, bot fake news and click bait. You can also swing elections. Not just in third wold countries but right here in the Yew Ess Aye.

I suspect Facebook is no different than Twitter or X, the Washington Post under Bezos, Google, Microsoft, all these tech boyz with socially stunted personalities still playing video games but now the riches yahoos on earth. Adolescent geniuses who now rule the world, who control the strings of power, who mostly want more More MORE, damn the cost to society. Atlas Shrugged — bow down to the captains of industry, the job creators, the developers of Artificial Intelligence. They avoid taxes, they have no loyalty to nations, they’re above the laws of mere mortals.

Back here on earth, I live across the road from Microsoft’s head of AI. Helluva nice guy. The other morning I heard him interviewed on NPR, talking about the positives of AI, how it could create a better battery six times faster than us humans, maybe not me, which would be 1000 times faster. Plenty of folks working for these companies would tell you they’re creating a better world, a connected world, curing diseases, eliminating drudge work, dreaming the future. They’ve got their hands on the throttle. And their boot on our necks. Us mere humans don’t stand a chance.

On the capitalistic South End there’s no end to entrepreneurial recklessness. Folks move here for what once was cheap digs only to discover this is the Outback for employment where only the strong survive. Or retirees with strong pensions. The rest? They start their own bizness. Or become artists who naturally disdain business — and of course become what we recognize from time immemorial as Starving Artists.

Jimmy’s Fitness Center opened last year next to the O-Zi-Ya Auto Body Shop. Jimmy figured, according to wags down at the Diner, that this would give us South Enders complete Body Works. Like a lot of our start-up enterprises, Jimmy’s Fitness Center was, oh, a tad undercapitalized. The Bank of Stanwoodopolis, burnt too many times by wild-eyed, far-fetched business plans from south of the Mt. View/Dixon Line, looked askance at Jimmy’s loan application before turning him down flat. Jimmy turned to his friends and family for fiduciary assistance, a primitive form of venture capitalism, and decided to go ahead and throw the dice.
He figured if he could last six months, get some monthly memberships going, he’d be okay. Course, he bought some pretty well used equipment from dreamers before him, mostly stationary bikes that pedaled like rusty 3 speeds up a dirt road hill, a couple of stairmasters and for good measure hung a punching bag up, I guess to let customers vent on the speedbag rather than Jimmy. Country music provided the ambiance Jimmy thought we would appreciate … or Brenda did, Jimmy’s shapely receptionist and fitness instructor. Better maybe than religious ministry, but sadly off the mark by a country mile or two when it came to judging our musical inclinations.

A few clientele came the first introductory month, half off. But no one really liked waiting their turn for the one shower and rumors of Brenda and Jimmy’s extended shared water escapades sure didn’t bring new business in and actually provoked an outcry from the Mabana Church of the Ravine. Not to mention Jimmy’s wife Lisa.

None of us were unduly surprised when the Fitness Center quietly closed. Last any of us heard, Jimmy and Brenda were off to Colorado to raise golden retrievers at the J&B Puppy Farm outside Ft. Collins. On the South End, entrepreneurs never die, they just recapitalize.

Jason Rasmussen owns Camano Plumbing and advertises in the phone book listings with a subheading that reads: “We Fix Your Do-It-Yourself Mistakes”. Back when we were both newbies to the island and D-I-Y guyz ourselves, Jason eventually decided all his mistakes added up to on-the-job training, practically an advanced degree in plumbingology and to some degree, but not an accredited one, I suppose he was his own apprentice over the years. My suspicion is that when he built his house and plumbed it himself, he figured the time was right for an entrepreneurial act of courage.

Plumbing, I will attest, is not a trade for the weak of heart. The gods of plumbing are cruel and implacable. They set traps for the faint of heart, ruin marriages, corrode confidence and turn what might seem an easy project into endless warfare. Jason, apparently, even after ruptured pipes, plugged toilets and ruined dishwashers destroyed by dropped silverware, has steeled himself for the battle. He is the Galahad that will slay the dragon that you, the unprepared D-I-Y homeowner who thought installing a sink faucet would be child’s play, instead came face to face, tooth to tooth, claw to claw with nothing you could ever have imagined. A few days without running water and multiple trips to the nearest hardware store, the disgusted looks from the woman who no longer loves you, sure, it’s maybe time to call Jason at Camano Plumbing. At this point Jason will tell me (but not you) money is no object. What matters is returning again to what was once Civilization. Running water, hot and cold, toilets that flush, indoor plumbing, sinks that drain, all those ‘conveniences’ that are not conveniences, they’re necessities.

Over a few beers at the Pilot Lounge, Jason will confess that he’s still basically training on the job. “Plumbing’s a bitch,” (his unofficial subheading), he’ll confess, “but at least now when I screw up, I get to charge the customer.” I laugh, order another round and always say I should’ve gone into the trades. “Always room for competition,” he invariably replies. “Just another screw-up I can fix.” Sadly, I know it’s true.