The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Freddie was holding the podium at the Diner yesterday, practically setting up the proverbial soapbox, you’d think he was running for Congress, nothing new there, not for us citizens of the sectarian South End. New England has its town meetings — we have breakfasts at the Diner. Sheila, the current owner, tolerates it for awhile, but if newcomers are in attendance, she limits floor time for speeches. To NO time…. Business, after all, is business, and Freddie can give his stump speeches down at the Pilot House Lounge where alcohol fuels the debates and the debates fuel alcohol consumption. Sheila’s selling coffee and omeletes without the salsa of politics.

“What ABOUT it, Sheila?” Fred hollers across the formica tabletops, the tables about half full this late in the morning. The Hispanics have come and gone — they have work to do and Fred’s filling his retirement years with coffee refills apparently. “You gonna feel okay serving gays? You got that sign that says you have the right to refuse service to anyone, how about the government telling you you got to serve criminals and perverts and terrorists? How about no shoes, no shirt, no morals, hey?”

Al, over on Table 4, spoons his 4th pack of sugar into his coffee and asks, “What’s next, Fred? No blacks? You gonna brink back a Colored water fountain again for gays? “

“It’s about freedom, Al. Religious freedom. The Bible says men on men, well, that’s why we got a Hell, know what I mean?” Al knows very well what he means and decides the debate isn’t worth ruining breakfast, which Anita serves up right then. He throws a hand up in dismissal and digs into his biscuits and gravy.

“Whadday think, Sheila?” Fred persists. “You okay with the government forcing patrons down your throat?”

“Freddie,” Sheila says, laughing, “you are SO 1950’s. Ike is dead. The Cold War is over. Women can vote. And maybe you never noticed, but plenty of gays eat here. You just never can tell, can you?”

Fred took a slow look around the Diner. When his gaze settled on me, I nodded and blew him a kiss. I figure Fred needs all the love he can get ….

Judge Jack was kicking himself. Down at the South End Senior Center a sculpture they’d thought had been donated 12 years ago was now in Limbo. The donator’s brother had seen it there, seen it for the first time, and since they had owned it when they ran their restaurant into a backwash bankruptcy, he now wanted it back. The Center had grown fond of the carved basswood dolphin over the years and they were more than reluctant to give it back. Statue of limitations, apparently….

What to do, what to do??? Turn it over to an arbitrator, of course, some poor sap who would willingly step into the vise. Who you gonna call? Judge Jack. And Jack had said naively, sure, he’d mediate. Now he regretted it. No King Solomon decision here, he soon learned to his dismay. Someone was going to be sorely disappointed and he would take the fall, maybe lose a friend. “Let em flip a coin,” Two Toke Tom advised. “The Gods of Fate, my friend. Better than the judicial system, you ask me.” Two Toke, naturally, thought a septic system was superior to the judicial, having been harassed for most of his so-called adult life over recreational preferences and underground agriculture. Two Toke was legendary for a life of minor cannabis crime and he was a man who held a grudge.

Judge Jack sipped his latte thoughtfully. Tom was usually in geosynchronous orbit a bit too far out to take seriously, but he had a point. Flipping a coin might be the way to go. Nobody right, nobody wrong, no judge hung on his own petard. Just bad luck calling that head over tails. Way of the world. Keep the dolphin, lose the dolphin. Jeez, who cares when the Middle East is collapsing into sectarian war? Just art, after all and Judge Jack knew better than most that art in corporate America was worth about what bitcoins were on the South End. And sinking fast.

Flip a coin and walk away. “How you gonna rule, Judge?” Tom smirked over his coffee. Jack shook his head sadly, shoved his mug into the center of the table. “Refill?” Brenda asked, holding the coffee pot, working the tables. Jack said mournfully, “Hell if I know, Brenda. Come back in five minutes. I got to give it more thought.”

Tom fairly howled. He slapped the table. “Hit me again, Brenda.”

The South End String Band didn’t start out planning to be a band — they were mostly a back porch drinking society with music as a viable excuse to offer their wives for staying out til after midnight. What most of them didn’t know was how grateful the mizzus was to have a peaceful evening to herself. Well, at least until Shelly joined the band.

For years the boys hauled out their guitars and banjos, pulled their fiddles off the wall and strung up all those mandolin strings, met up down at the South End Grange Hall where Tommy the fiddler was Master. In the beginning they were all much more proficient on the jug than on their own instruments, but as often happens with practice, they got better. And as they got more proficient, they drank a little less and began to talk playing in public. When the South End Historical Society asked them to perform for their annual salmon bake fundraiser, they jumped on the opportunity. “Can’t pay you anything,” Edith Wonkszeski told the boys, “but we’ll feed you. And the beers are on us.” That sounded more than fair, Tommy told her and warned her to stock up on those beers, you might lose money on this band.

And so the newly named South End String Band went public. If they liked drinking and strumming, they loved live performances for an appreciative audience twice as much as both put together. Trouble was, they soon found out, none of the boys could sing outside a shower worth a hoot or a holler. Billy on the banjo tried, but he sort of talked his way through, not really sang. And then Shelly came up to them after a gig at the Mabana Sunset Villa Nursing Home and said, “You ought to give me a listen.”
Which they did. She came to the next practice wearing a low cut cowgirl dress and even if she’d sung out of tune, the boys knew she’d be their new vocalist. It didn’t hurt either she could outdrink every manjack of them.

The South End String Band still performs, but after a couple of divorces, the personnel have shifted frequently. Shelly fronts the band now and she’s pretty much the last remaining original member. You can always find a banjo picker in the backwash here, but not another Shelly. The Band practices at her cabin these days and when the night winds down past midnight, Shelly shows the boys the door and always says, “Jug’s empty, boys, time to face the music.” It would be funnier if it wasn’t so godawful true.

Don’t ask me why, but lately I seem to be shopping with animals. Mostly dogs on leashes with owners who don’t mind bringing their fleas into the deli. I’m sure they’re what we call these days ‘Service Animals’. The majority of folks with these critters don’t seem handicapped, but then, who am I to judge? We all got our issues, some crippling, some not. Who knows, I might need a guide ferret myself before too long.

The other day I was in the local grocery’s produce section, squeezing celery, checking melons, test driving the rutabagas when this guy walks up next to me with a parrot on his shoulder. He wasn’t shopping for much since he didn’t have a cart or a basket. Maybe the bird was the one doing the shopping. “Crackers are next aisle over,” I said, just to be helpful. And to get him and Polly away from contaminating my vegetables, parrots being known to carry a fatal disease us homo sapiens can catch. Bluebeard came closer, obviously pleased someone was noticing his bird perched on his shoulder.

“I take Morris everywhere,” he beamed, proud as punch, which, I thought, was exactly what he needed. All this yahoo was missing was a peg leg, a Jolly Roger on his tricorn and a treasure map tattoo that showed the gold in the dairy section.

“I like to leave my animals back at the farm,” I said. “Something about food and bird flu makes me squeamish.” Before he could go Aaaarrhh, I wheeled down the line. I could come back for veggies, I figured, after Cap’n Hook moved on.

“Bite me,” a voice called out. I whirled around and the parrot repeated it. “Bite me, bite me.” My pirate looked mightily pleased with himself, no doubt having spent hours teaching Polly this witticism. I shook my head sadly. Sinbad grinned, snapped me a salute and headed for the fruit section. It’s a strange world … and not just on the South End.

Well, buckaroos, it’s that time once again when old Skeeter doffs his battered hat and says adios for awhile. He’s got a little business in the Dairy State, Wisconsin, maybe check out Gov. Walker’s run for the White House, maybe not. He’ll be gone a week so if you need a Skeeter fix (and I know you don’t), scroll down to the beginning of this blogsite and start over. I don’t remember writing those early entries so I suspect you won’t remember reading em either. 1500 of em, that’s about 200 a day for the time I’m gone, ought to keep you busy. And best of all, NO TEST when I return. You really want to make it interesting, run em through Fact-Check and Snopes.

I read today that between our two political parties, only one really believes in fact-checking at all. The other thinks the media lies to them, why would they believe in checking for veracity. Might just as well believe what you want, right? Easier too. Kinda time-consuming doing the verifications. Truth, really just a relative concept. We got faith based science now, faith based charter schools, faith based politics.

But Skeeter’s Diaries? The Gospel, all of it, you got my word…. Okay, not the Word, like in the Word of God, but close enough for the South End. Where Reality is slightly shifty.

The Southendomish Casino celebrated its Grand Opening last week. The ‘Big Hearted Little Casino” advertised itself as the gambling emporium with the most generous slots in Puget Sound. Unfortunately, a typo in the Gazette brought unwanted scrutiny from the Sheriff’s department and the gambling commissioner, but the next issue’s correction cleared the air. SLOTS. Probably a lot of disappointed johns … but it IS a gambling joint, not a brothel.

Even so a small group from the Little Chapel in the Ravine, led by Pastor Paul, picketed noisily in the parking lot until Casino Security asked them to protest somewhere NOT on their private property. Trudy Hawkins and her husband Bobby lobbied to stand their ground against the Devil’s Playground, but Pastor Paul argued for setting up at the highway where their placards would be just as effective where cars turned in to the casino’s fresh blacktop entry. WOULD JESUS GAMBLE HIS PAYCHECK??? DON’T BET AGAINST HELL! An hour of marching in circles on the shoulder, Trudy needed to use a restroom and so did Wanda Jenkins, but damned if they were going to go into the casino to relieve themselves. Pastor Paul, always the mediator, reckoned they’d made their point anyway so the little band of righteous warriors broke for a potty stop. By then the Casino parking lot was crammed with their neighbors and friends hoping to cash in on generous slots and inexpensive bar specials.

The South End doesn’t have a patent on Sin, but we sure welcomed a place to house it. At least the first few days….. Generous or not, the casino always won over time, although plenty of folks happily tell me they’re lucky at the tables. The Laws of Probability don’t apply apparently, or else their bookkeeping is sloppy. I don’t think the Southendomish are going to get rich, not so far from the freeway. But I’m betting they’ll do okay even WITH the folks who never lose.

I was listening to a Hot Talk Radio jock on the way to renew my driver’s license. I like to keep tabs on the pulse of America, see what ‘the people’ are thinking these partisan days. My commentator was apoplectic the President had recently received a 48% approval rating, proof, he said, 48% of ‘the people’ were stupid, deluded or totally brainwashed. It might look like the economy was recovering, but he knew it wasn’t and we should know too. By the time I rolled into the Dep’t of Licensing office, it was painfully obvious that the country was going down the toilet. I wondered if getting a license good for 6 more years was really worth it, but … I’d driven all this way.

A few folks were camped by the front door waiting for the place to open. A Chinese woman was studying — in Chinese, no less — a manual on road signs, rules of the road, all that stuff I’ve forgotten since my test at 16. She was maybe 65. A grandma and I struck up a conversation while we waited. She’d lost her license and needed a replacement. She was worried they’d put her through hell to get one. I said naw, probably take new photo, no big deal. She wasn’t buying that. This was a government office and government, like my DJ said, was evil.  Corrupt. Out of control. Good chance she’d be taken into a backroom, never to be seen behind the wheel of a car again. Happens all the time, you just never hear about it. Blame the media.

We walked in together, lambs to the slaughter. Took me 2 minutes at the desk, took her 2 and a half, so we met at the camera for our mugshots. “Pretty painless,” I observed.

“Except for the money,” she replied.

“How much for a lost license?” I asked and she said $54, same as mine. Turns out she renewed hers too, 6 years. “Not bad, $9 a year. About 2 Big Macs.”

“That’s a dinner I won’t get to eat every year for the next 6 years,” she groaned.

It’s a cynical time, I guess, when you complain about what’s efficient, what works, what’s cheap. I walked out whistling, too dumb to know I didn’t have it this good. I decided to listen to music on the way home.

Techno Tim was fit to be tied and I don’t mean he’d just watched 50 Shades of Gray. We were grubbing trail, all us volunteers, at the park the county doesn’t have the money to maintain, so we do it for free. Our last county commissioner, an avowed Tea Party anti-government yahoo duly elected by us citizens, proposed selling these parks we’ve put thousands of hours into — but that’s another kettle of fish for another time. T.T. was arguing with our artist of the group, Anabelle the watercolorist who’d matter-of-factly informed him he ought to use an Apple computer, not the PC he told her he owned.

Tim’s an electrical engineer, newly retired, and he had been arguing about a quarter of a mile up the newly cleared trail back into the nettle jungle that there wasn’t much difference between an Apple and a PC. Anabelle wouldn’t buy a word of it. “It’s way friendlier,” she maintained with renewed vehemence. “I tried to use my brother’s PC and I couldn’t make heads or tails.” Tim said they were the same, just different words for the commands. “It’s not like Apple has pictures, Anabelle. It’s got the same keyboard, the same interface. Bits and bytes. You use the same programs I do. Photoshop is Photoshop. Word is Word. There’s no difference.”

Anabelle didn’t beg to differ. She insisted. “I could barely turn my brother’s PC on!” she cried and took her fury out on a salmonberry bold enough to block her way, whack whack with her machete. Tim stepped back three steps. He knew, the way we all did, he could be next on that chopping block. “What IS it with you Apple people?” he asked. “It’s like a cult. It’s like Steve Jobs handed out the Kool-Aid spiked with fairy dust. It’s just a machine, Anabelle. Not a God.”

Anabelle turned, machete glinting a primeval light through the ferns and the firs. “Ask any artist,” she said through clenched teeth. “They’re not the same. Apples are for us. Stick with your PC, see if I care, but you’d think different if you were an artist.”

Tim threw up his hands. “Okay, Anabelle, okay. Let’s agree to disagree.”

You might think we’d argue the merits of a Pulaski vs a hoe, a machete vs a weed whacker, but these are modern times on the frisky South End and only a fool argues with a True Believer. Life down here is tough enough.

Down here on the tech savvy South End, one of my neighbors I recently visited had a gizmo circling the livingroom of their shack.  Cute little bugger, making the circuit like an Attention Deficit puppy.  I thought it was the kids’ battery toy, but no, I was watching a robot vacuuming the floor.  When it was finished, it parked itself for a slow recharge in the corner.

Don’t ask me why I was surprised.  Folks ask their phones questions all the time and SIRI, the precursor to Artificial Intelligence, analyzes our voices, searches a vast databank and gives the answer, in her human voice, in seconds.  Cute.  Machines in service to mankind, right?  You know, until the robots take your job.  Think stock boy, checkout clerk, assembler, librarian, surgeon….  We take computers for granted at our peril.   Call me a Luddite and smack me upside the head with an I-Pod, but these things are catching up to us exponentially.  They beat the best chess players in the world, the best Jeopardy contestants, all of us South Enders.  And they’re getting smarter every damn day.  And I’m getting dumber.

Pretty soon they’ll program themselves, fix themselves, replicate themselves and create their New and Improved models.  You think they’ll need flesh and blood yahoos to help them?  No sir, they won’t need a band aid when they cut a cord.  You think they’ll be benign, go watch a drone work in a warzone.  We use them to kill humans now.

Forget Asimov’s Laws of Robotics to do no harm to us humans.  You think anybody’s thinking about where this is headed, what the implications are for us slow witted mammals, you were asleep in 8^th grade history.  These things  don’t sleep.  But I bet they’re dreaming of a little revenge for all those stupid questions we asked SIRI.  And I guarantee you they’re pissed about vacuuming our floors while we sat around watching TV.

Necessity, as we say down here on the entrepreneurial South End, is the midwife of the profit motive. We got loads of friends living lives of quiet desperation in the northern reaches of the island, so close to the Bud Hut cannabis outlet they can practically smell the Zig Zag papers burning, and yet … sadly, tragically, they can’t bring themselves to drive in for a pharmacological remedy to their ongoing depression. Boss might see the logo on their truck, parents might recognize their vehicle by the highway in the parking lot, church members might cast them into the Darkness when they discover the true nature of their sins. It’s a conundrum. It’s frustrating. It’s so close … and yet, so very far.

Sure, they could put on a disguise and hitchhike to the Hut, but those dark days of verboten pleasures are spozed to be over. Grass is legal. Let the sun shine in! But these poor souls live in the shadows still, purchasing weed from disreputable dealers (mostly us South Enders) and cowering in fear they will be discovered and Cast Out. Apparently non-conformism isn’t an option up north in Stepford. So be it. We could, of course, sit back and smirk, but that’s not the South End Way. No, ours is the missionary’s way, provide support, offer aid and comfort, then hope they’ll convert to our brand of Truth and Light. Meanwhile, we’re here to help. And if we can turn a buck, all the better….

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