The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I was at the opening of new works by one of our local oil painters at the South End Fine Art Gallery and Expresso Shoppe. As always it’s a guaranteed large crowd, mostly us artists and a few of our friends and occasionally a patron or two. Regina, the gallery owner and latte barista, always provides liberal winepours and enough hors d’oeuvres to hold back rickets among the starving artists another week or so.

I was admiring a fine piece titled, tantalizingly enough, “Sailboat at Sunset #56”, one of a series I’m guessing of at least 56 or more, when a couple jostled me out of the way for a better view. I didn’t really mind moving on, after all, there were plenty more similar offerings, but the gentleman of the pair had caused me to spill my merlot onto the sleeve of my last presentable Goodwill shirt, then gave me a cursory ‘scuse me,’ that sounded vaguely like ‘sue me’ before steering his companion and her jangling earrings into the appropriate viewing angle. A moment later they were discussing perspective and complimentary colorations, the expressively bold brushstrokes of the sails, the minimalist way the artist had captured the shimmer of the sea, and of course, the price, anything BUT minimalist.

“I may not know art,” my jostler said, sipping daintily on a white wine from his plastic glass, “but I know what I like.” He was quite pleased at this knowledge, no doubt gained with considerable effort. His companion wagged an earlobe with a windchime banging to life, evidently in total agreement with both of us on this aesthetic declaration.

I guess I was still miffed about the impromptu dye job on my best shirt, or maybe it’s just a character flaw deeper than any fabric stain, but I smiled winningly and said out of the cerulean blue, “I don’t know much about biochemistry, but I sure know a good clone when I see one.” This caused some raised eyebrows, a rolling of the eyes and the beginning of distant alarm bells that would soon drown out the jangling jewelry. For good measure I added, “I don’t know much about history either, but hey, I love a good war. I know what I like.”

So okay, I cost Regina a commission and I should feel bad about that. Probably cost the artist a sale and I should feel worse about that, but I don’t. I do happen to know something about art, and I know what I don’t like. I guess it’s okay to buy what you do; I just don’t think we should be proud of our ignorance. Then again, what the hell do I know?

Of course it had to happen! What did you think: the South End would be immune? The South End is quarantined from the cultural diseases of the Outside World?? That the contamination couldn’t spread down to here??? Get a grip! Look around. The world has grown real small since you last took off your Google Glass, man. Or since you put em on….

The Zombies are here. That’s right, here on the South End. They’re everywhere else, right? They’ve long overstayed even a teenager’s infatuation and now they’re in the same category as skateboarding or Dungeons and Dragons, passing fads that never pass, they just lobotomize the immature brains of their adolescent hosts, then stick around into what we euphemistically call adulthood. Science can’t explain it. Science doesn’t even try. The Johnson boys have been slinking around the Diner’s nicely sloped blacktop parking lot since about 1995. Big Larry put a stop to their truck surfing where they’d grab a tailgate, crouch down behind the bed out of sight, then ‘surf’ their way onto the highway. He assured them he’d drag their crazy asses clear to Stanwoodopolis if he caught them at it one more time. Nobody doubts Big Larry’s follow-through on threats.

Except the zombies. They came in one Friday night, all goobered up in whiteface make-up and blackened eyes, smeared Hunts ketchup all over their mouths and giggled over their French fries at the customers’ reactions, mostly boredom, but a little bothered the teens couldn’t take their antics into town ‘where they belonged’. “Wuz up?!” Big Larry asked when he stepped out from back behind the grill, looming over the table of kids like Godzilla over Tokyo. All he got back was snorts and chortles from the guys, averted black sunken eyes from their dates. “Halloween early this summer?” he tried again.

Zombies, as every yahoo in America knows after years of movies and books and cable programming, don’t communicate verbally much. They make guttural sounds, they smack their lips on the bloody meat of their victims, they just don’t remember English. Larry said menacingly, “You ghouls better clean that ketchup slop up before you go, otherwise I’ll be cleaning YOU up, comprende?” The zombies suppressed their laughter, the zombies left a mess the way zombies always do. So yeah, the zombies are among us, even down here. When they learn to skateboard, we’re all in serious trouble. Even Big Larry.

Talk around the Wheelhouse, the Marina’s Lounge, was nothing but the IRS for awhile this month, holding up the Tea Party 501-c-4’s non profit, non political applications. “The damn Government,” Cap’t. Bill recited in a litany of obscenities, “they’ve gone too far this time. Tea Party’s got rights too, you know.”

“Gee, Bill,” Two Toke smirked behind a 12 oz micro brew bottle, “I can’t imagine why they’d think maybe it was a political action group. Or why you Tea Party boyz want to hide the donors if you’re just making educational ads.”

“We got rights too, Mr. I Want to Sell Dope to Kids.” Two Toke runs the South End Greenworks Medical Marijuana Dsipensary down at the old Tyee Store. Perfectly legal, Tom argues, even if the law is pretty fuzzy.

“Gimme a break, Bill,” Harold, the night bartender says, not one usually for advocacy positions of any sort other than drink recommendations. “They don’t want to pay taxes any more than you do. But what’ve we got a damn IRS for anyway. They don’t pay, you pick it up. Me too.” “I don’t mind paying taxes,” Two Toke chimes in with salt for a wound. “Just doing my civic duty, boyz.”

Cap’t. Bill is practically gnawing the top off his Bud bottle he’s so mad. “What are you talking about??? NOBODY likes to pay taxes! The illegal aliens don’t pay taxes.! The welfare queens don’t pay taxes! You drug addicts don’t work so you don’t pay either!!” he scowls at Two Toke menacingly. T.T. grins over his micro.

“That’s right,” Bill slams his Bud down sending an indignant foamy froth over the top. “I pay more because all you freeloaders get off Scot free.”

Harold, wiping a glass with a bar towel, starts to speak up, but Tom says cheerily, “A Bud for the Cap’t., Harold. On me. But don’t tell him who donated it. He wouldn’t want anyone to know who his friends are.” Harold pops a Budweiser, slides it to Bill. Bill tips it toward Two Toke and takes a swig. “Thanks, Tom,” he says and winks. “I promise not to tell.”

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.

I must be bored lately cause I’ve been reading the Letters to the Editor page, sort of on par with following the aptly named Yahoo News, which mostly thinks news is the fashion faux pas of movie stars or the recent exploits of the Kardashian Klan.  I guess this may just be the pulse of the nation.  Yesterday an aggrieved writer weighed in on Camano’s ballot measure to build a permanent library.  Waste of money, he concluded, when we could just do it privately.  “Like they do in lots of places.”  Big community fundraiser is what we need, he said.  Privately operated.  Gather up bequests.  Do it ourselves.  Anything but a tax supported quasi-governmental library.

I guess the $40,000 we raised to pay the rent for two years at the current pilot library wasn’t ‘community’ enough for this guy.  That, and the volunteers manning the phone banks for weeks at a time don’t qualify either.  Or voting to tax ourselves isn’t what he considers ‘community-minded.’  Just another example of Big Government.

Some folks just want everything privatized, I guess.  They think that way they won’t have to pay for it.  Fire departments used to be private.  Sign up, they’ll fight a fire when your house catches; skip the payments, they’ll watch it burn.  If you’re poor, tough luck ….

I wouldn’t mind, maybe, all of us community minded yahoos banding together, raising funds, auctioning off art and the usual items, baking cookies for the Bake Sale, organizing a board, volunteering to work for gratis so my tax averse friends can save a dollar or three then use the services for free, but I’m worried we’ll want fire protection privately funded next and police services based on donations soon to follow and road repairs done only if given enough bequests that year.  My guess is this is how you Starve the Beast, but you ask me — and I know you didn’t — this is how you make a jungle.

Skeeter’s actually got to stop for a few days here and go up to Alaska for a job.   I know, I know, it’s disappointing to have to leave a life of sloth and indolence, but if done occasionally, it adds a fresh perspective on what could easily become the rut and routine of  life.  At least that’s what I tell myself.  I’m traveling without cellphone or laptop.  Practically like the pioneer explorers and trappers of old….  Oh, it’s dangerous and more than a little scary, but hey, living on the edge is the South End Way.  With any luck I’ll be back before the polar bears are extinct and the glaciers are big goopy puddles.   Alaskans don’t really buy into that global warming stuff anyway and I sure don’t plan to bring em any news they don’t want.  After all, they’re my new paycheck.   Hopefully.  Wish old Skeeter luck and I’ll be back down here in the 48 sooner than you can say Drill Baby Drill.  Meanwhile, Sarah Palin has an insightful little blog you might check out.  Or you can rummage through the trash bin here and see what you can wrap old fish in.  Me, I’m off to the midnight sun.

I remember a conversation back when the home computers were getting up to speed. The missuz had one and so did a neighbor friend, sort of the digital vanguard of the South End in retrospect. Like a lot of my cronies, I was mostly distrustful of this new-fangled technology, probably the way my monkey forbears worried about fire. I said, being the philosophical ape I am, that this was the equivalent of the spinning jenny, a revolution that would change everything.

Naw, they said, it’s just a Tool. Don’t be afraid, little man, it won’t bite. It’s at least 25 years later now, a quarter of a century, a big chunk of my life, not a long time in geologic terms, but the world isn’t the same now. I’ve got my own computer, my own website, my own blog. The missuz has a cellphone, I-pods, mp-3 players. We order movies off NetFlix, we got wireless connections, most of what we do is on-line. The kids that visit stay right in touch with their friends on Facebook. So do their parents. My truck is half computer. My life is too. Some folks, it’s mostly digital, virtual, instant. They’re Connected most all of the time. The kids, they’re 100%.

I’m not saying this is bad. Sure, I miss a conversation without being interrupted by an urgent Text message telling my visitor about their grocery purchase. The kids who came this weekend wanted to stream sitcoms off Netflix, most frineds ask what our wireless password is second thing after hello.

This Tool we got has rocked our world. This Tool is picking up speed, accelerating exponentially and it’s all most of me and my pals can do not to watch it disappear over the Event Horizon. There’s a notion called a Singularity, a point of time where there’s a break, a complete quantum leap, from what was to what is completely different, something like the Tool making itself, fixing itself, designing new selves. Something like a moment when the Tool Users – me and my cronies – become irrelevant. We won’t know, of course, because we’ll be mostly digital component parts ourselves, happily dependent on the Tool.

I’m on septic watch. My 1000 gallon outhouse replacement is exposed beside the driveway and I’m waiting for South End Septic’s pump truck to come, open up its concrete ports and haul away my decade of toilet flushes and sink drainage and bathtub water. Used to be, we just moved the outhouse over a new hole, but now we got a modern system, one with multiple chambers, 3 access holes and a dedicated drainage area where the grass grows twice as fast as anywhere else.

This is the second pumping since the vault was dropped into the hole the backhoe dug back in 1993. It’s the second time I’ve had to dig up shrubs, move paving bricks and search three feet down for those hundred pound access ports because we couldn’t afford the expensive riser extensions that stick up to the surface like dirty reverse periscopes – think colonoscopy – and preclude ever digging again. After tunneling hallway thru the earth’s crust this time, I’m buying the tubes no matter if I have to sell two favorite banjos to pay for them. I shoulda learned the first dig! But with the County wanting an inspection every two or three years, my excavation career needs to end.

It will be, happily, the end of an inglorious era. The old shack had a cesspool when we came to the South End. A cesspool, for you uninitiated, is a hole in the ground instead of a concrete or plastic vault. It works only because the soil here drains well. And whatever cover you put over it hasn’t rotted and collapsed. Which ours did every few years. You think pumping a septic tank is nasty business, dig a new cesspool and connect up the old lines from the plumbing. Then deal with the scowls from the missuz who considers this criminal behavior. Which, of course, like a lot of customs down here, it is.

I suppose modernization is a good thing. You know, if you can afford it. My grandparents had outhouses until they were in their 50’s. We got one ‘just in case.’ You ever waited for a teenage fashion queen to apply her make-up while you’re hopping on one leg, you’d build one too, just for that ‘just in case.’

Well, like I said, the pump truck is on its way. I’m expecting a reduced fee, naturally, because – and I’m not bragging, just being factual – mine don’t stink the way others’ do. I’m sure the septic guy will be more than a little appreciative.

I got a truckload of friends and neighbors moving away.  Selling their parcel and their view homes, moving down the road to Arizona, New Mexico, Montana and beyond.  They’re tired, they say, of mowing lawns and pulling weeds.  Too damn much work!  And … the dandelions and the fescue grow faster than cows on growth hormones.

I’m sure there’s other reasons.  Too dreary here in the winter.  Too boring in retirement.  Too lonely now that the kids have flown the nest, married and have careers and separate lives.  Somewhere ELSE the grass is greener.  But it never grows very fast, if at all over near somewhere else.

We’re all looking for something, I guess.  That’s what keeps religion in business.  Folks are always happy to tell you what you’re missing, what you need, what they can offer.  We’re a little bored, a little lonely, a little tired of crappy TV.  We think maybe a change of scenery might do us good.  It’s how I ended up Here, so I’d be the last fella standing if I said Don’t Go.  Sometimes a change of latitude does create a change of attitude.  Why we take vacations …..

Course, it’s temporary.  Unless you live here on the South End.  I mow a helluva lot of lawn.  I weed a lot of garden.  So does the missuz — and she has a full time job.  Sometimes it feels like a chore, but most of the time I feel like Heaven’s Gardener.  Pruning the orchards, harvesting the crops, trimming the flowers, planting the shrubs, cutting firewood —- yah, it takes a lot of time, sweat and sore backs.  I’d be lying if I said I never minded.  I’d be less than honest if I didn’t mention it’s a labor of love.

I suspect Adam and Eve didn’t get booted out of the Garden.  I bet they just didn’t like taking care of the place.  Too damn much work.  And the serpent told them they weren’t being paid enough to do it.  Paradise, I suspect my emigrant neighbors and friends will learn soon, doesn’t come for free.  But the rewards aren’t measured in minimum wage either.

This week the Hot News is this: The Government Is Spying On Us!! Turns out they can check with the phone companies, get a few billion of our numbers we called and using algorithms, figure out who’s been calling Bin Laden. Or their mom in Keokuk. Folks are up in arms. My neighbors are afraid to use their cellphones. Down at the Diner, there’s talk of Big Brother and the necessity to maybe get MORE firepower in their arsenals. GTE Johnny, who used to work in telecommunications, said we ain’t seen nothing yet. “The government knows when you were born, when you got divorced and probably when you’ll die,” he pronounced ominously over his newspaper headline that read: White House Defends Spy Activity. His veggie omelette coagulated while he warned us poor victims what was coming, everything from cyber surveillance to space cameras so powerful they could read the Diner menu from the Hubble.

“There’s no more hiding,” he whispered, although we all knew the hidden microphones in the salt shakers were picking him up Loud and Clear, transmitting his seditious comments to a Cray Super Computer a mile deep under the Rocky Mountains where it was being transcribed, collated and filed in the vast data banks the National Security Agency maintains. Even as Johnny finished, we could imagine storm troopers loading up the black helicopters, GPS set on Camano’s South End, instructions given to breach no resistance, possibly take no prisoners.

“The damn government!” a few soon-to-be-gulag residents shouted over their biscuits and gravy. “Intruding in our private lives. What’s next?!”

Oh, I don’t know. Credit card monitoring? Facebook statistics? Google info gathering? Grocery store scan cards to track our grocery preferences? Yahoo monitoring of our internet so they can customize our ads to maximize profits? Rental car companies using GPS to check our speeds and locations? Cellphone interceptions by crooks and hackers? Security cameras in every store, mall, streetcorner, bar and restaurant? Corporations mining our meta-data to tailor their sales pitch. Phone companies that record every tweet, twitter and text?

If the boyz at the Diner want privacy, well, they should throw away their credit cards, ditch their cellphones, soak their computers in the bathtub, don’t drive, don’t go to town, don’t talk out loud. Do like the Barefoot Bandit — only don’t steal the planes. You think government is spying, welcome to corporate and social networking. You gave Facebook everything you got.  Whadja think??? The damn government, as always, would be the last to get this stuff. The NSA shoulda maybe joined Facebook a long time ago. Or YOU shouldn’t have….