The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

When Shirley’s Hypno-Therapy opened its clinic doors just down the road from the Pilot Lounge, it instantly became the topic du jour for the barflies who regularly frequented the drinking establishment.

“Might be just the thing, Bob,” Little Jimmy was saying the evening Two Toke and I were having a pint after a hard day of loafing. “You could beat that nicotine habit, throw away the patches, get yourself cleaned up once and for all.” Bob and Jimmy and a few others were lined up at the bar like crows on a telephone line waiting for incoming messages, not likely other than texts from the mizzus to get their sorry asses home.

“Are you insane?” Bob practically shouted. “Who in their right mind would put themselves under some spell? This Shirley person could have you giving her your passwords, your bank accounts, who knows what else?”

“What else?” Fairlane Fred threw in, “maybe a cure for your E.D.”

This, predictably enough, brought the crows to full cackle, all but Bob who surprisingly missed the humor, eliciting further speculation from the clothesline concerning potential remedies for Bob’s ‘problems’ before Bob removed himself from the group for a cigarette outside on the dock. Whereupon Two Toke excused himself and stood out with Bob against the rotting wood rail listening to the rattle of unused boats rocked against the pilings.

“What’s up?” I asked when he returned. “Nothing much. Bob said he planned to go see this Shirley, don’t mention it to the boys.”

“Kicking the habit?”

“Naw, kickstart the motor maybe. Freddie hit a nerve, I guess. Worth a shot, he figures.”

And so Shirley added another new client to her short list of us South Enders. Never did hear how it worked out for Bob but rumor at the Pilot Lounge was a lot of the boyz made appointments a few months later. Probably to the disappointment of a few wives….

As a person fully dedicated to protecting others from making the same mistakes I keep making, let me share with any of you contemplating guitar luthiery, the sad sorry saga of my last acoustic guitar, the 5th in a series of steep learning curves, inadequate preparations, insufficient tools and, well, a dearth of about everything except moxie. Moxie I got plenty of. Too much maybe. Einstein’s definition of insanity, that repeating your same mistakes and expecting better results, totally applies to me. Sadly. But since I pretend to be a so-called artist, I can justify my guitars, not as failures, but as artistic ‘gestures’, works in progress, evolutionary aesthetics.

My last gesture was a nice little black limba guitar, what professionals in the trade would call a parlor guitar. What I call a small guitar. But big on interesting woods in the neck and body, details like tailpieces and side soundholes and pickguards that set it apart from other guitars. Trouble was, my original redwood top had sagged with the tension of the strings and an experimental bracing system underneath. Like mostly all the other four gestures, this one needed to be dismantled and repaired. The redwood top broke when I pried up after using a blowtorch to loosen the glue holding it to the body. Bummer, man. And then when I tried to remove a block holding the neck, the entire front end of the body shattered.

Now ordinarily, being prone to fits of anger management, I would have taken the rest of the ruined instrument and beaten it into shards and slivers while hollering obscenities and slapping myself in the face repeatedly. All that work, so much time, came to nothing. Not only hadn’t I learned from previous mistakes, this fifth iteration was now the ultimate testimony that perhaps I was not cut out to be a guitar luthier. Maybe not even a woodbutcher. Just a complete and irredeemable failure. Sure, I cried, I wailed, I went through depression, I swore on Clapton’s guitar I would never attempt another one.

But dammit, I’m an artist and if there’s one thing I’ve learned being an artist, it’s … well, I’m not really sure I’ve learned anything. Except maybe you have to keep going. Every painting can’t be a Picasso, every glasswork can’t go into the cathedral of Notre Dame, you just have to have faith in yourself even if no one else does, even if the last work was ruined. So I got this idea looking through my box of scrap woods and found a few pieces of matching black limba. Enough to cut away the entire front of that broken box and use it to span the breakage. Instead of a nicely rounded top where the neck attaches, mine was flat. A flat top. What most people think of as the flat soundboard versus an archtop, mine was flat both places, a true Flat Top, possibly the prototype for an evolutionary shift in guitar luthiery. Once again great leaps forward sometimes have their genesis in mistakes. Okay, not mistakes, ‘gestures.’ Feel free to try this at home. Whaddaya got to lose, right?

After an hour in the South End Dental Clinic chair, I’m slowly starting to feel my face again. It’s been years since the last road construction in my mouth and I’d forgotten — or repressed — the uniqueness of the dental experience. Mouth dams, jackhammers, sump pumps, interrogation lighting and full disclosure on finances, assets and lienholders.

Like I said, it’s been awhile in between visits, something to do with the lack of dental insurance. You want to see the face of poverty, look at a person’s teeth, at least the ones that aren’t missing. I’m trying the best I can to keep mine. But … when the good doctor shows me the estimate for filling a cavity, $250 (not counting x-rays,etc.) versus what the bill will be if this is a root canal, $2200 —which is what he expects it to be — you can maybe understand why the frugal shopper might opt to have the damn tooth pulled right out of his head for good, skip the anaesthetic.

My last root canal and crown cost $1100. The dentist in Stanwoodopolis drilled twice and didn’t get the infected nerve cleaned out. The last visit he asked if I wanted to give it a 3rd go or have him refer me to a specialist. I said, gee Bob,I didn’t get a dental degree but since you need to ask, let’s go with someone who knows what they’re doing, which is obviously neither of us.

You want to spoil a doctor/client relationship, this is pretty direct. Course when I had to have the specialist’s temporary crown replaced with a permanent one, something beneath him apparently, I went to a new dentist. News travels fast in Podunk and I got a pretty cold shoulder from my new guy. Another last visit. Which is why, after 15 years, I’m at the newly opened South End Pain Clinic, no records transferred, no toxic gossip exchanged. Just money. The way I remember dentistry in the good old days….

The ‘Make My Day Guns & Ammo” shop does a brisk business these days on the heavily defended South End. Earl and his brother Biker Billy watched their revenues double in the 2008 election, then double again in 2012, most buyers convinced the government was going to confiscate all the firearms in America. Earl and Billy could keep up with their gun inventory, but ammo was rationed and frightened homeowners were put on a waiting list. Ralph Hansen wanted to know if he’d need to ask his ‘intruders’ if they’d mind waiting before they broke into his house, raped his wife and daughters, then killed him. In the end, Earl sold him a Browning over and under and a box of 12 gauge slugs he said would stop a rabid rhinoceros. Billy shook his head when Ralph walked out with the shotgun in its tooled leather case proud as Hemingway. “How many shotguns does he have?” he asked his brother. And Earl smiled as he put Ralph’s check under the cash drawer in the register. “Probably one shy of enough.”

Down my well armed end of the Alamo I hear plenty of gunfire. The mizzus took years to get used to the sudden bark of semi-automatic practice sessions of the local militia excercising not only their right to bear arms, but their obligation to shoot them as often as possible. She’d ask, alarmed, what is THAT?? Gunfire, I’d say nonchalantly, and she’d grow more alarmed, her fears realized and then want to call the police. It’s America, I’d explain patiently, figuring that was explanation plenty, all Clint Eastwood would bother with, why waste words OR ammo?

A few years back we had a bad hombre stroll down Bernie Road when it was a one lane dirt cutoff to Tyee Store, occasionally letting loose with an automatic assault rifle beside the cow pastures up there, alarming more than just the mizzus. Turns out he was wanted on felony warrants and the local gendarme treated him like Machine Gun Kelly on meth, waited until he’d gone to bed at his moll’s place off Dallman, then dropped a stun blast through the window and shot him to pieces reaching for either his trousers or his gun. The sheriffs around these parts don’t much cotton to automatic weapons being practiced on the roadways. Especially by hardass criminals.

I won’t say the mizzus has gotten used to country livin’, but she doesn’t race to the phone to call 911 every artillery session or the opening of hunting season. I guess she just figures it’s slightly better than moving to Beirut or Baghdad or the wrong side of Everett. At least the casualties are somewhat less. Even if supposedly we’re not at war.

Maybe you were like me when you saw the Trump Tennis Shoes, advertised for $399, probably thought some fake news blurb, make the Donald look like some cheeseball huckster selling merchandise like a snake oil salesman. And same as me you probably did some fact checking, expecting to find that this was some bogus AI blog bot cranking out embarrassing phony B.S., see who was gullible enough to click on the bait. I mean who can tell anymore what’s really true and what isn’t? Another year or two and we can forget about fact checking, we’ll be so completely inundated with Artificial Intelligence images and speech imitators, nothing will be certifiable.

Turns out the tennis shoe pitch was authentic. Shameless promotions, MAGA hats, Trump steaks and perfumes, coffee mugs, why not sneakers? I dunno, doesn’t it seem … well, unseemly? Crass even? You picture Abe Lincoln hawking stovepipe hats with his picture on them? Or George Washington selling axes with I CANNOT TELL A LIE on the handles?

And sure, I know we’re a capitalist country and I get that Trump was elected at least partly because folks thought he was a helluva biznessman. But c’mon, this smacks of nickel and dime commerce. You expect a Kool-Aid stand next at the entrance to Mar-a-Lago. The man needs more money, all I can figure. A few billion isn’t enough! He needs liquid assets. He needs a bond to meet his fines of half a billion bucks. He needs to sell those sneakers!!!

We are a strange country, all I can say. We might re-elect a guy who never conceded the last election, who, in fact, tried to overthrow the government. For a day or two after Jan. 6th the Republicans called for him to resign. But then … well, now they support his campaign to be the President again, a nearly total unified front. They pledge their allegiance to the rapist, the crook, the insurrectionist, the liar and the cheat. They pledge allegiance to the sneaker salesman. Sell em clown shoes, they’ll buy em!

The Supreme Court of Alabama just decided that a fertilized embryo, frozen even, constituted a living human being, meaning that if you killed little Jimmy, you’re liable for murder. The Head Justice declared this was the will of God. Hard to argue against the will of God, that’s for sure. Probably not too long before sperm is considered human life, maybe ban contraceptives that prevent the little wigglies from doing what the Lord Almighty intended them to do.

Kinda hate to admit it in these theocratic times, but back 53 years ago I had a vasectomy. I know, the statute of limitations over the murder of a million potential lives may not apply. And even if it didn’t, Eternal Damnation might still be in store for this boy. All I thought I was doing, mistaken though it might have been, was trying to avoid an unwanted pregnancy. At the time I really didn’t consider myself a serial killer. Alabama might.

Maybe the solution to the ‘immigration problem’ is really more unwanted pregnancies, a boost in the low wage baby force to take those jobs nobody wants now except the immigrants. Get rid of legal abortion, maybe ban all contraceptives, forbid sex ed in our schools, let the Lord’s will be done, hey, we don’t need cheap labor from the south lands, we’ll have plenty right here. Course, the local yokels might not pick our crops, build our houses, landscape our lawns or dig our ditches — not for sub wages.

If it costs a little more, if we need to raise minimum wages, if taxes have to go up, well, I’m okay with that, I’m completely chill. Just don’t put me on trial for first degree murder. Don’ put me and my fellow murderers digging ditches. We’ll get our justice in the next life down in a burning Hell. Where I’m damn sure I’ll be in good company.

I was listening to some talking head today describing the kids entering the Job Market. They wanted to work at home, at their own computer stations, alone. Skip the co-worker interaction, they really haven’t learned social skills. Unless you count Tweeting.

I got friends whose kids never make eye contact, who never look up from their X-Box, who have no need to say hello, who live in a digital suburb of my reality but never find a reason to wander over for a Look-See. The gulf between us is huge and growing rapidly into a cultural chasm.

My folks always believed us kids were better seen, not heard, but they made sure we said hello to guests and answered a few perfunctory questions before we scurried to our rooms or the den. The kids — and especially the grandkids — of my pals, they’re beyond social graces. I suspect the workplace of their future will forego watercooler banter and co-worker etiquette. Might just as well let em work at home in their bedroom and send their reports at the end of the day.

The only problem I have with all this is that us Boomers still have to deal with them. When we’re gone, they can tweet and twitter to their hearts’ content, they can social media long distance, they can avoid face to face human interaction and lock into video games, stream Netflix and update their Facebook. But meanwhile I still have to stand next to cellphone users and my buddies’ kids playing video. When we’re gone, they won’t even notice. But it’s going to be a different world, a lot less personal, way less intimate. I suspect they’ll enjoy the peace and quiet. I’m trying to do the same….

Folks ask me why I write these odd little vignettes of life on the salty South End. I always want to answer something like Because I have to. I have no choice. Us artists love to talk that way. Mr. Picasso, Pablo … why do you paint? To live, my little friend, to live. We never say, So I don’t have to work, you damn fool, what did you think?

We’re an odd society, us Americanos. We tend to exalt the Artiste as somehow unique, special, a rare breed, a person on an exalted plane. Probably the result of mental illness or malignant non-conformity. Prone to alcoholism, drug abuse and extreme hedonism. Who suffers more due to sensitivities more painful than herpes and who dies an early death with only one ear remaining.

We seem to like the notion of Starving Artists. Only through suffering, I guess, can you break the bonds of normality and ascend into true inspiration. Maybe explains why we keep minimum wages low — we’re trying to help folks find their Muse.

Art is a form of insanity, we think. Why else would a grown yahoo live in squalor, risk the hostilities of friends and family and neighbors alike, all for a passion that rarely makes a living and is always an invitation to cruel criticism.

“Let me show you my newest painting. Be honest, what do you think?” Do you folks do that??? Would normal people do that??? And the sad part: artists are the very WORST at rejection. Every review, criticism, rejection and commentary is a verdict on their creation. On them! Imagine the neighbors knocked on your door and gave you a criticism of your kid. “Did a nice job raising Jimmy, pal. Spittin image. Too bad about that shoplifting incident and that pregnant no-account girlfriend of his. Next time maybe get a vasectomy. Just thought you’d like to know. By the way, my daughter, Jennifer, she just got accepted by Harvard Medical School.”

So why do we write … or paint … or put broken glass back together? I could lie to you, I could spin a web, I could wax romantic or philosophic. But the truth is if I didn’t, I’d go crazy out of sheer boredom. I’ll probably go crazy anyway, just not as fast….

Folks often ask why is it us artists don’t start a co-op art gallery down here on the South End the way most places with an overabundance of aesthetics and egos do. Truth is, we have considered it. And more than a few times, rejected the notion. Personally I love the idea of a joint venture with my fellow artisans, but … well, let’s be brutally honest here, we’re mostly a clueless lot fiscally. Whatever side of the brain controls creativity, it’s not the same side as the side that manages finance, money, business or advertising. In fact, I suspect if we ran a CAT scan on most of our brains, that area would be dark, almost as if aliens had stolen it.

Put a few dozen of us together, say, in a meeting to decide how to organize a co-op art gallery, and let me tell you, it’s an anarchist agenda right from the get-go. Maybe we just don’t get much beyond how many of our watercolors the wall space will hold. Forget leasing the building, forget who manages the sales, forget who sits the place open.

Then you got the issue of who can be IN the co-op. Everybody with a brush and an easel? Or do we jury in the members? And how much for dues? And what commission if anything ever sells? And how do you work the payback for sitting the store? And bylaws … oh yeah, gotta have rules and all that arguable rigamarole!

Ten minutes into the organizational meeting and you got total chaos. Artists vs.craftsmen. Volunteers vs. the Big Names. Rule makers vs. bohemians. Capitalists vs. hedonists. Believe me, you need to carry a weapon. Hopefully you won’t need to use it, but it’s best to be prepared. You think art is a spectator sport, you’d be at risk.

So yeah, we’ve flirted with the notion of an Art Co-op. About as likely as a Sunni-Shi-ite dance studio, you ask me. That’s why we pay galleries a 40-50% commission. To save lives, if nothing else — and probably worth every cent.

Right after college I decided to be a bum. Worked awhile at a dog pound, drove city buses, did a stint as manager of a restaurant, then went into a slow retirement. One of my gigs was as an inventory specialist. Roll into a grocery store with my team of fellow specialists, count the cereal boxes and aspirin bottles, pretend it’s accurate, give an accounting to the manager who, half the time, asked us to ‘fudge’ the numbers anyway.

One Friday night we headed to Rockford, Illinois from our home base in Madison, Wisconsin. Chico drove, for which he got a dime a mile extra. Six of us piled into his rat-trap jalopy, no seatbelts, no radio, no working speedometer and by dark we rolled into Rockford. Chico took a sharp left, my passenger door flew open and I was hanging onto it for dear life before the guy next to me hauled me back in. Chico said, “Forgot to mention it, but that door’s broke.”

We finished up our inventory at a small chain grocery, adjusted the number for the manager and piled back in Chico’s Cadillac. About half an hour later an Illinois State Trooper had us pulled over, who knows for what of many possible violations, and Chico got out to deal with the cop while the rest of us sat quietly like Guatemalan immigrants. Chico came back, handed me a yellow ticket and pointed at the glovebox. I put it in with about two or three dozen others. “Chickenshit,” was all he said.

At the last tollbooth about 2 in the morning he pulled up to the toll taker and handed him a buck. The guy in the booth surveyed the six of us long-haired motley losers before handing Chico his change. “You look like smart fellas,” he said with a smirk. “What’s a six letter word for skirt. Ends in G.” He tapped his pencil against his yellowed teeth.

Chico tossed the change in an ashtray with cigarette butts and joint roaches. “Sarong,” he said and put the car in gear. The toll taker looked at his crossword, looked back at Chico and us, the only car that time of night, shook his head in disbelief and said, “Thanks.”

We drove off across the farmlands where everyone but us slept their dreamfilled nights away. I quit the next day, never worked a crossword puzzle or a full time job again my whole life. Chico, who knows…? Probably a CEO now.