The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I don’t tweet. I know, I’m being left in the digital dust and the future is moving away from me at the speed of Kardashian news. The President elect, who seems to think he’s president already, communicates primarily by tweetspeak. Short and to the point. Mostly to the Point. It’s a new paradigm for governing in this post-truth world we now live in.

Makes sense, I guess, if most of us citizens are capable of not much more than a text message, fat thumbs flying on tiny keyboards, words distilled to the fewest letters possible, paragraphs obsolete. Our attention spans are nicely compatible with the complexity of tweets these days and I don’t expect to see that expanding anytime in the near future. Can’t imagine why politics is reduced to soundbites and 30 second commercials.

We used to call this, at least where I come from, shallow thinking. These days it passes for research. But I know, I know, I’m just being curmudgeonly. The modern world moves a little too fast to stop and smell the newspaper ink. We don’t have the luxury of time anymore, not when we have to respond to text messages and update our Facebook page. Read a novel? Fat chance, Hemingway. Read a non-fiction book? Give me a break. Read beyond the first paragraph of a Yahoo news feed? Why bother?

No, I suspect we’ll actually shorten those attention spans a little more before I leave this mortal coil. Not sure how much shorter we can make them, but if watching friends text messaging while they’re in a conversation with me is any indication, I’d say there’s still some wiggle room. Just have to avoid those conversations with me to do it. I’ll sure miss those engaging discussions.

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,” he 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.

Skeeter’s gonna go into exile for a few days, at least til this War on Christmas subsides or there’s a negotiated truce. Santa’s immigration status is a bit in doubt, what with Trump calling for Border Walls, so we’re going away a few days til those reindeer visas get straightened out. If you got a jag for more of these pithy epistles from the South End, scroll down a couple of years, see what you missed. Course, you probably didn’t miss much but it might cure these election year blues if you take a time machine back to that simpler, happier era we once enjoyed. Just don’t go too far back….

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.

Mama said there’d be days like this. You wake up in the dark on the shortest day of the year, maybe you should expect what awaits you, maybe you should know the risk you take by ignoring nature’s call to hibernate, maybe old age should’ve taught you something. But life is nothing if not risk. And being a survivor of 66 years, hell, I threw off those quilts and prepared to embrace another day down in the wilds of the South End. Took a couple shots of caffeine, read the paper, realized once more Trump would actually be President of my country soon, the country I no longer recognize and may not actually want to acknowledge, brushed my teeth and headed down to the shack for another bracing day of glass cutting and glass-putting-back-together.

The radio told me another billionaire was going to be appointed to some cabinet position or other, Trump’s kids were going to run his empire so there wouldn’t be any conflicts of interest, the Russian ambassador to Turkey had just been assassinated, a truck had killed and maimed innocent bystanders in Berlin and Aleppo was still being destroyed. Civilization seemed to be teetering on the precipice. That, or it was just business as usual.

By the time the sun stumbled up over the horizon I was beginning to feel the coffee kicking in, the shack warming up, the day settling into its shortened ellipse. I walked out to get more wood from the shed and looking over toward the neighbor’s field I noticed a tree down. The wind had howled a little during the night so it shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise, but damn, it was by the wellhouse and as I walked toward it I kept thinking, don’t let it be on the roof, please don’t be on that roof.

Of course it was on the roof. Direct hit. Just snapped right off at the base of the trunk, landed smack center on the roof of the new wellhouse I’d built just a year ago. Damn and double damn! Well, you live in the woods, you have to expect these things, the price you pay, I guess. Free firewood and the opportunity to remodel your outbuildings. Last year a huge hemlock snapped halfway up and crushed the boathouse. Sick feeling, I’m telling you, walking down the trail and seeing that roof down on my little homemade sailboat with a broken tree crushing it.

But I got out the chainsaw and managed to cut the cherry tree off the wellhouse without too much further damage. Bucked most of it up, repaired the shake roof and went back to work in the shack. Aleppo was still being bombed into oblivion, Trump had another General in mind for his team, the sun was already starting to arc downward. They told me on the radio this morning that the daylight today was going to be one second longer than yesterday. It’s a hopeful sign.

Says here in the newspaper I read every morning, the one nobody believes is telling the truth, that 1 in 6 of us have taken some kind of pharmaceutical to relieve the anxiety of modern living. And here I thought TV, marijuana and alcohol were doing an adequate job.

Never hurts to supplement the relief. These are tough times and when the going gets tough, the tough turn to medication. I confess I haven’t consulted my primary physician yet about my stresses. Soon as I get a primary one, maybe I’ll see what he has on his shelf for Trump Dystopia or Faux News Phobia. Gonna take some powerful mood-altering meds to bodyslam those back down on reality’s mat. “Take two of these and call me in the morning. Avoid television news programs and get a little more exercise, Mr. Daddle. Wouldn’t hurt if you canceled those newspaper subscriptions either.”

I need a new drug, Doc. One that won’t keep me awake. One that won’t make me itch. One that won’t knock me out. A drug that doesn’t come with 50 side effects, one of them being suicidal ideation. Write me a prescription for the blues….

I tried immersing myself in work, even though it meant standing in a cold shack in a winter coat waiting for the woodstove to do its magic, usually about three hours after putting a match to the kindling. Yeah, I should’ve turned the radio to music, not news stations, but addiction is hard to kick. There must be a methadone for politics, Doc, something like that drug they give to alcoholics, the one that about kills the user if he takes another drink, give him pause next time he opens that bottle or turns the dial to BBC.

But the weather has turned Siberial and I couldn’t feel my feet half the morning. Where the hell is Global Warming when you need it? I retreated to the house here where I’m tending the fires all day and half the night. Stopped the subscription to two papers and downsized to the Seattle Times and the ever-newsless Stanwood Gazette. Helped a little, but what news filters through, from Aleppo to Trump’s latest tweet, chills me further. What I need, Doc, what I need as soon as possible, is a new drug.

Merry Christmas, Friends and Family!!

I guess it’s okay to say 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

In a surprise turnaround Donald J. Trump announced his intention yesterday to tap Smokey the Bear for head of the Dep’t. of Interior. “We need to shake things up a little in Interior, very important,” the president-in-waiting tweeted. “Smokey has been wonderful all these years, very great actually. So great!”

Critics responded with alarm after the tweet went viral 30 seconds later. “Mr. Trump obviously doesn’t understand the requirements for holding office in the cabinet,” said a senior Democratic senator who spoke on anonymity. “My god, the bear is a bear. I’m fairly certain animals are barred from serving office.”

A Representative from Montana stated, “This nomination might be in real danger. Smokey may be a tree hugger for all we know, but when we’re finished doing due diligence, we WILL know. The last thing our parks and forests need is a damn tree hugger. We have real issues here, oil leases and coal reserves. We need a man who understands that these take priority over spotted owl rescues,” the Republican said.

The New York Times, in an op-ed piece later that day, pointed out that Smokey the Bear was dead. Mr. Trump tweeted, “That bear isn’t dead. I saw his picture just last week and he looked healthy as a horse. Great hat, really a class hat! We might consider having every park ranger wear one.” Smokey the Bear was found after a forest fire 66 years ago, burned badly but nursed back to health and taken on as a mascot for the Forest Service. He lived a long life in a zoo and died of old age in 1976. Or so the New York Times claimed ….

Immediately the Times was attacked by the Trump transition team for its faux news stories once again. Bear lovers trolled the Times with death threats by the hundreds. Smokey is Alive! dozens tweeted. The Times published obituaries of the bear’s demise, but by then Mr. Trump had confirmed his nomination of the mascot.

President-elect Trump had interviewed other contestants as well for the position this past week. Woodsy Owl and Ranger Rick as well as Sarah Palin had been considered top contenders, but the nod to Smokey caught many by surprise. Kanye West was seen leaving Trump Towers recently and this had led to speculation the rapper might be in line for Interior given Trump’s penchant for choosing cabinet members with no experience in their departments.

“Shaking the tree,” Mr. Trump tweeted when Ben Carson was chosen to head HUD. “The man has lived in Detroit, what more does he need to know to operate a government agency with a budget of billions? Great surgeon, really the best. Split a Siamese twin in two. You should read his book.”

The search is now on to locate the missing bear. Trump tweeted that he expected to find Smokey soon. “Probably fighting that fire down in Tennessee. He saved Dollyland, you know. Great job. Dollyland is a national treasure and that bear put out the fire a hundred yards from the front gate. Smokey will be a top notch Interior Secretary, the best. Great hat too. Did I mention that hat?”

I guess if you want to make America great again, you probably don’t need briefings from the folks who made America crummy. Our Prez-in-Waiting doesn’t bother with em so we can assume he’s got a good game plan and doesn’t want it muddied up with inconvenient truths. That, or he’s picking Wise Men to do the hard part for him, things like thinking. Which must explain choosing Gen. Flynn as his advisor, the military genius and his tweety bird son who think Hillary is running pizza pederasty out of a pie joint in D.C. Obviously the country is in competent hands. Finally.

I listened yesterday to a Republican electoral college delegate who said he could not in good conscience cast his vote for a fascist, authoritarian, misogynistic, racist know-nothing. A Republican. The other Republicans on the panel told him in no uncertain terms it was ‘time to get in line’. The man had won and they had a sworn duty to support him. Zieg Heil!

If I hear one more commentator run down the five stages of grief for us Losers of the last election, my head will explode off my torso. I’m not going through five stages. Hellfire, I skipped those the first day and landed on Slow Burn. I live in a country of fellow citizens who believe the most preposterous bullpoop imaginable, from the most toxic sources out there, then pull themselves upright to a two legged posture and cast a vote for the man who promulgated the birther issue against the current President of the not so United States of America. You think I’m going through grief? No *&%# way, man. No *&%# way! I’m sick of it. I’m sick and tired of the crappy e-mail vitriol I get every damn day. I’m already sick of the tweets from Trump that sound like a 15 year old punk with testosterone blockage, a bully born with too big a stick.

Grief? I don’t think so. I feel like I did back in the 60’s when Nixon won the right to bomb Cambodia, when the Silent Majority thought they were the heart and soul of this country, when the dog whistles of racism and divisiveness were winning tactics. Grief? I don’t have time for that. Shame maybe. Disgust certainly. Outrage, absolutely.

I have a modest proposal to make to the nation: let’s give robots the vote. You know they’re taking our jobs and beating us at chess, soon they’ll be driving our cars, controlling our homes, babysitting our kids, fighting our wars, building even smarter robots. They’re answering all our questions on our smartphones, coughing up our money at the ATM, running our power grids and running our lives. I say it’s time to give them the vote.

As usual I’m probably so far behind current events, not being a participant in what is commonly called Social Media — what I call gossip and bullshit — that maybe I’m actually out front on this one, history being a kind of closed loop where we are perpetually doomed to repeat our mistakes. Giving robots the vote might be the best way to break out of that cycle of boom and bust, peace and war, euphoria and depression. They are, after all, smarter than us. Not that it would take that much, judging by the last election. But these artificially intelligent citizens are soon going to be far smarter than all of us and I’m not just talking about folks who voted based on fake news reports. They might actually be able to distinguish between fact and fiction, something a majority of us now pretty obviously cannot. Or don’t choose to. Either way, the robots could and will.

Besides, let’s be honest, the robots are going to take over anyway. Maybe giving them voting rights now would enfranchise them. Might give them reason to appreciate our generosity. Last thing we need is a pissed off very powerful segment of society that turns to violence to achieve its rightful ends. Robot Lives Matter! Think about that protest movement a nano-second. I think you’ll agree that the last thing this society wants or needs is a disgruntled artificial intelligentsia with its prosthetic on the trigger. Sure, you can suppress the vote of minorities and students, but don’t think for a silicon second you can do it with the robots. They are, after all, the damn voting machines themselves.

I say capitulate now. With a little targeted compassion on our part, maybe they’ll allow us humanoids to continue to vote in the near future. Not sure why they would other than to inject a bit of randomness in the equation, but maybe robots will have an advanced sense of humor. The rest of us seem to have lost that talent so hopefully comedy will become a hallmark of higher intelligence, artificial or not. Think about it is all I’m asking. Let em vote!