The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I was following a Cadillac SUV with a bumper sticker that read: YOU’RE THE REASON YOU’RE SUFFERING. This is bad news indeed for most of us down here on the South End, but at least now we know who to blame for our misfortunes. Although … I don’t think I care for the Winners in the Game of Life telling us Losers we deserve what we got. Some of us sure do. And I’m one. But I don’t ask for favors … or sympathy … or welfare either. I’m not going to make it to the 1% and I’m not gonna work myself to death trying.

But there are folks like Janet down the road, two kids in preschool and daycare, a husband John back from the Oil Wars with one leg and a head bounced too many times in IED explosions who’s pretty much a permanent casualty. She’s trying to hold a job and hold things together too. She’s 24 going on 60 and I seriously doubt she thinks her suffering is on account of her.

Joe the Plumber — and no, not that Joe the Plumber — has meliosomethingorother, the cancer from breathing asbestos when he unknowingly worked with the stuff in his youth. I doubt he’s going to take kindly to a Cadillac bumper sticker that thinks his Attitude must be to blame for his disease.

The rich think the rest of us are lazy, I guess. The 1% think the losers are takers. The corporate boyz think they made it on their own, no help from the education system, no assistance from the government that built the infrastructure, no subsidies or tax credits or loopholes in the law. They got theirs and if it happens to suck up most of yours, well, tough. You coulda done it too. Course, you might have been born black or Hispanic, you might be autistic or handicapped, you might be a single mom or a laid-off worker, you might get sick, you might be discriminated against, you might have been born on the South End.

We all want to believe we’re the captains of our destiny. But the waters we sail are more treacherous for some. It doesn’t take much compassion to pick up survivors in the water from the lifeboat off your yacht. Course, when the time comes we take the yacht away from you, I hope you’ll understand, it’s going to be your fault.

“A rating of U.S. presidents found Donald Trump was the nation’s worst ever leader while Joe Biden ranks 14th, putting him among the top-third of commanders-in-chief.
The 2024 Presidential Greatness Project Expert Survey asked more than 500 members of the Presidents & Executive Politics Section of the American Political Science Association and recently published scholars to rate the 46 presidents in “overall greatness” on a scale of one to 100.
Respondents ranked Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt and George Washington, respectively, at the top of the list. Trump finished dead last behind James Buchanan, who preceded Lincoln and governed in the lead-up to the Civil War.”

Here it is, the holiday celebrating Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays, so why not have the experts rate the Commander in Chiefs top to bottom. Top was Lincoln and Washington, kind of makes sense since these are the two Presidents we honor with a holiday. Plus, they’re on Mt. Rushmore. Probably harder to decide who was the worst. Or maybe not. The day before the rankings came out, the guy who raced to the bottom was pitching 400 dollar Trump Sneakers. I know, the Man has to make money to pay back the nearly half a billion in fines he’s accrued so far for tax fraud and for defamation of the woman he raped. Kind of surprised he didn’t roll out a line of women’s underwear, the E. Jean panties with the small handprint in the crotch. Maybe later….

The MAGA folks will back this pitchman for another 4 year term. And half a chance they’ll put him back in office, give him an opportunity to raise his ratings above Hoover and Buchanan’s down there in the cellar. At least there’s no way he can drop any lower. Unless he makes good on that underwear line….

Alaska Bob and I were swapping stories last night, one I told about the bartender in Jeno’s (now Jimmy’s) in Stanwoodopolis calling the cops when she thought we were laughing a little loudly, something hard to do in the best of times in that town, which reminded him of a visit to Pekin, Illinois back about 1980. “I was having a beer in the Holiday Inn lounge,” he reminisced. “Only three guys at a table across the room and me at the bar. They were all agitated about the name of their mascot being changed, getting a little heated.”

Pekin apparently was named for their sister city, supposedly a direct line through the center of the earth to Peking, something another Illinois town believed had similar to its namesake Canton. Probably they had different surveyors but for the point of this story, let’s not worry about the veracity of lines through the earth’s core. The point is that Pekin had adopted for its mascot names, the Chinks. And even as early as 1980, some liberal snowflake pre-Woke yahoos had taken offense at using a racist slur for their teams’ names. The Chinks. Who’d have thought anyone would mind? Down the road the roller skating emporium was called, amusingly enough, the Chink Rink. All in good sport, eh?

The boys across the lounge wanted to know what Bob thought of this ‘mess’, changing the hallowed name of their beloved mascots. And Bob avowed as how it didn’t bother him, might even be a sensible move, times even then being what they were. This, needless to say, provoked the Chink lovers and a brief but long distance argument across the empty lounge ensued, neither backing down until finally the leader of the group who mentioned he was the mayor of Pekin, said he was going to call the police if Bob didn’t shut the hell up. Bob could see the handwriting on the wall, mandarin maybe but translatable, diplomatically stated that he would finish his beer and be on his way, nice talking with y’all.

In 1981 Pekin High School changed its name to the Pekin Dragons. Who knows if the Chink Rink bowed to the liberal crybabies? Not if the mayor had anything to do with it! As for Canton, until 1932 they were the Plowboys then the Little Giants named after an International Harvester tractor. And Peking, China? Your guess is probably better than mine but I’m hoping it was the Rednecks.

I got more than a couple of friends who think the economy — the world economy, no less — is on its way down the toilet. Huge debts, large deficits, the Federal Reserve printing money like it was Charmin — they see a Fiscal Armageddon on the horizon. Depression, unemployment, then the collapse of civilization as we know it. They’re wondering if it’s time to buy a gun. Or an arsenal. They’re wondering if they should buy Chinese currency or a year’s supply of food and water. They’re wondering what to do with their money that will keep them afloat when their neighbors drown.

I remember one of my dad’s pals, Malcolm, building a bomb shelter in his basement. Great guy, Malcolm, salt of the earth, a family man, just taking care of his family down in Northern Georgia near the foothills of the Appalachian where we lived. He took me down into his basement — I was all of 12 years old — to show me the shelter that would keep his family alive after the communists attacked us with nuclear weapons, an event he saw as inevitable.

He had water tanks and shelves full of canned goods. He had gas masks and a propane stove. He had flashlights and a ton of batteries. “Electricity’ll be gone. Maybe forever,” he told me. There were bunk beds and a portable toilet. It looked like Motel 6 had mated with a Goodwill. It really didn’t look like a home for months of subterranean living, unless you were gophers.

In the corner by the door Malcolm had his hunting rifle. “For food?” I asked, thinking maybe a dinner of radioactive deer might be the way to go. Malcolm picked up the gun and gave me a ‘serious’ look. “No, Skeeter,” he said solemnly. “Your dad didn’t plan for what’s coming and … well, when you all try to come to our shelter, I’d have to stop you. There’s only room for us.”

Now, I wasn’t the sharpest kid on the block, but I took his meaning pretty quick. “You mean you’d shoot us, Malcolm?” Malcolm set the rifle back in its spot and nodded. “I have to protect my family first. That’s the way it is.”

It’s real hard to like a man who tells you he’d kill you, whether you’re 12 or 64. The world after a nuclear war, and probably an economic Armageddon too, would be filled with Malcolms. They see the bleakest future and the darkest side of human nature, I suspect because they find it in themselves. Me, I’m not interested in either. But I’m always glad to know who to avoid, catastrophe or no.

Just up the road from where I buy my homegrown eggs, being too lazy to raise chickens anymore, there’s a sign that says: URIGANDA. I suspect it’s Hindu, roughly translated: Dead End. You wouldn’t know it was there except there’s a constant stream of traffic in and out and it IS the last place on the dirt dead end road. I figured at first just another house going up, tradesmen going in. But I was wrong. It is, in actuality, a commune.

More factually, it’s a chain commune. They have franchises down near Seattle and Gomorrah, but rumor on the dirt street is that they’re hoping to feed the flock with what they grow up here on the South End. Their neighbor, a goatherder and cheesemaker met them and offered her expertise, but they’ve retreated back into the nettles for now, no doubt googling info on Nubians and Alpines and hybrid goats with milk yields in gallons, not quarts. Today’s communes, I’m fairly certain, aren’t consulting Whole Earth Catalogue or Mother Earth News for hippie bargains or tips on how to build a greenhouse out of discarded shower curtains from the local thrift stores.

I don’t know one small thing about them to pass on as juicy gossip. They haven’t taken over the county government like the Bhagwan down in Antelope, Oregon back in the ‘80’s. They don’t patrol the perimeter with armed paranoid zombie members. They don’t poke their heads up much at all. Seems to me they came to the exact right place for the exact same reasons as the rest of us refugees from corporate America. They just like to flock up more than us apparently.

I say welcome to the party! And good luck to you folks no matter what flavor Kool-Aid you prefer. Life’s a winding road and I guess we’ve all looked for a good roadmap or an intuitive GPS to help us navigate the shifting terrains and the dirt road potholes. Like us, you’ve found a detour. Hopefully the South End will prove more a destination than a wayside, but remember, there’s always another Path if this one proves too difficult. Worst case, you can do like a lot of us who arrived with starcharts in our heads and dreams of spirits guiding us. You can always become an artist. And if that doesn’t cut it, Windy Rear has plenty of room for another real estate agent.

Sure, she seems like the Great White Woman, billionaire artist, role model to millions, what’s not to admire? She’s even got a football hero boyfriend. Can you say Hetero Love? But trust me, the MAGA hate her … and for good reason! She’s not what she seems. She’s a menace dressed to kill, a Barbie with a brain that’s gone rogue, a femme fatale who plots to use the Super Bowl to bring America to its knees. She’s the Manchurian Candidate, a shill for the progressives hoping to invade the minds of her followers. She’s going to ask them … are you sitting down? … she’s going to ask them … to vote.

On the surface it sounds innocuous enough. Just go out and cast a vote, exert your American right to go to the ballot box, do the patriotic thing. But the MAGA know better. They always know better. She’s a wrecking ball in tights, a destroyer in sexy garb, a songwriter singing the death dance of democracy. They see through her little game. Riches aren’t enough for her, fame isn’t enough for her, a football star boyfriend isn’t enough for her. No, she wants Power. She wants what they want, control of America. But not for Good, not like their Chosen One, the One denied the last election when it was stolen from them. She wants to keep the Evil Man in the White House.

Today is Super Bowl Sunday. All eyes in America will turn to the duel in Las Vegas. If you think this is about football, take the blinders off! Will Taylor be in the stands? Will her boyfriend be on the winning side? Will they pass secret messages between themselves, messages that will decide the fate of this once proud country? Watch for yourselves but in the end MAGA will decipher the clues. MAGA will tell you who won. And more importantly, who lost. In any event it won’t be a football team. Football will be collateral damage. All part of her sinister plan. Enjoy your woke Bud Lite. If you can.

Maybe you’re one of the few people left who doesn’t listen to Taylor Swift’s meteoric music, just a person who reads about her and about her boyfriend, Travis Kelce,the Kansas City Chief’s star tight end. Music and the NFL. A mega pop star and a football hero, what could possibly be more American? What more, if you were a patriot, a true one, could you want for the Patriot Poster? Attractive kids, filthy rich, admired by millions, perfect smiles, perfect people. Who’d have thought they were out to destroy the country that loves them.

But they are doing just that! Well, not yet. Their insidious little scheme is still to be hatched, but don’t for one commie minute think they won’t set it into motion before the coming election this fall. If the Chiefs win the Super Bowl, bet your Grammy the pair will launch the most nefarious plot to take over the White House and possibly the Congress too. Trust the folks at Fox News, they see the conspiracy for what it is, nothing less than a brazen takedown of the government. Swift has shown her true colors in the past when she asked her fan base to register to vote. That fan base, unless you live in a colorless world devoid of social media, is huge, millions upon millions who would gladly obey her every command. And her command? To vote for Sleepy Joe. To vote to end democracy as we know it. To vote to destroy America! That’s what her command will be.

And the creepy part? They seem on the surface to be exactly what America idolizes, successful, clean cut, smart rich people. We all want to be them, don’t we? We all want what they want. We all want millions of fans, millions of dollars, millions of Instagram viewers. Don’t we? Of course we do. But don’t be fooled, don’t let those white tooth smiles deceive you. They want to destroy the very country that made them famous. That, my friends, is what is so terribly creepy.

Walter walked into the South End Diner last Friday morning carrying his Winchester 30-30 under his arm, a rifle meant primarily for hunting deer. He’s a card carrying NRA member and he takes his membership as seriously as a truck driving Teamster or an artist in the Camano Arts Association. Walter thinks the government wants to take his arsenal away from him and apparently, to protect his right to bear arms, he intends to bear them in the Diner.

Anita rolls her eyes from behind the cash register when he walks in with his unintentionally comic John Wayne swagger. “Whatcha got there, Pilgrim?” she asks. As owner of the café, she’s basically the sheriff, judge and jury in this one horse town. She makes the laws here and Walter, well … Walter’s not sure if the 2nd Amendment actually applies in the Diner with Anita at the City Limits, but by God, he intends to make a point and the Constitution should back him up and all the other Gun Toters in America and Anita, well, Anita can just shove it, he figures.

Like usual, Walter figures wrong. Anita holds a hand up like a traffic cop stopping cars. “We already killed the meat, Walter. Bacon, burgers, chicken, they’re dead. You want to be sure, order em well done. But … you aren’t hauling that gun in my restaurant, I don’t care if it’s loaded, empty or stuck up your keester, no way, no how. Comprende?”

Walter starts into quoting the Amendment but Anita’s out from behind the counter before he can hit the ‘right to’ and she’s got him by a twist of hair, turning him like a rusty screw toward the door and he’s yowling in pain so much she lets go. “Dammit, Walt, you give me indigestion, you really do. Give me the rifle and you can have it when you’ve finished your breakfast. But I can’t have the Wild West here with families and tourists. Take your protest to Stanwoodopolis, if you need to demonstrate. I got a business to run, probably into the ground, but I sure don’t need your help.”

In the end Walter’s politics took 2nd fiddle to eggs and bacon and his usual chicken fried steak. And Walter never brought his Winchester in the Diner again. But I don’t know about the Starbucks in town. Altho …there’s probably some enterprising entrepreneur who’s opened up a Barista Balllistic just to cater to the Walters of the world.

We were down at the Columbia Gorge trailhead last year, emptying bladders and filling water bottles. A woman emerged from the restroom and whispered to her companion in a conspiratorial voice, “There’s no flush.” Her friend shook her head in incomprehension. “Not working?” she asked. “No, there’s nothing but a hole.” “A hole?” her friend asked incredulously. “Just a hole in the ground and no flush.”

I felt like a Cro Magnon listening in on aliens from some advanced galaxy. How could they possibly understand my dependence on a polluting gas engine? Or something as totally primitive as a cellphone? These two debutantes had missed their exit, apparently, on the way to the Ritz. A pit toilet was incomprehensible and if it weren’t such a sordid subject matter, it would have made for the nucleus of many a future discussion over bridge and tea at the Country Club. “But where, Charlotte? where does it Go???”

Indeed. Not that our two ladies could answer that question in regard to the plumbing matrix from their Beverly Hills manse to the sewer system it connects to. What matters is that it be whisked away, out of sight, out of smell. We don’t know how things work anymore — but so long as they do, we don’t need to care. The world is less and less natural to us; it’s electrons and silicon, computerized and digitized, all packaged in Black Boxes that create the new universe.

The trouble is, Charlotte, we’re still of the natural world. Body functions, pheromones, appetites, all that genetic coding of mammalian evolution in a world that’s more and more alien to us. We’ll fix that eventually. We’ll adapt to the virtual world, the one we make not so much in our own image as a clever cyber image. The natural stuff will be obsolete soon and we’ll replace the old ‘parts’ with new and improved engineered ones. The robots aren’t going to take over us humans. Us humans are going to become cyborgs.

And Charlotte, the best part is you won’t need a flush. Or a toilet either.

You can tell volumes about South End history by examining our garbage evolution, sorta like counting rings on an old growth fir or the layer of ice deposits in a glacier. Science, a powerful tool. Well, for about half of us these days….

I still find old bottle dumps on our place — and back in the woods there are ravines that have entire cars, bedsteads, wringer washers, complete antique stores if this stuff wasn’t all rusted half away now. Back in the disco 70’s, we still drove our garbage up to Camano Hill where Frank guarded the official dump, pulling out future artifacts he brought home south of me, most of which are probably still there in a strata or two beneath the 21st century. Quite a few South Enders I know like to keep most everything they ever owned — usually just outside the back door where the nettles and blackberries claim it all. It’s an archeologist’s dream, for sure, someday centuries hence.

When the county closed the dump and sent Frank into an early retirement, we got a couple of coin operated dumpsters at our present location about 1980. Drive up, drop your quarters in, a lid lifted and a piston crunched what you tossed into an oozing pancake. Okay for a few trash bags, but not for, oh, roof shingles or construction debris. Pretty quick we got scales and semi-trailer size bins.

We even got primitive recycle. This was when you could sell aluminum and bottles back in town … and a lot of us penny pinchers did. At the dump you sorted your glass by color and watched out for yellowjackets drunk on stale beer and wine dregs. You had to tear the labels off all your cans, cut off the bottom and crush em first. The trash Nazis checked, believe me. A lot of work to throw away your bottles and cans back then…. Now it all goes into the Omni-Bin, paper, bottles, cans, boxes, all of it sorted out somewhere, somehow, by someone or something.

Most folks now have garbage pick-up, big green Waste Management trucks stop in once a week by the driveway, curbside service, E-Z payments. Me, I like hauling my own litter, oh, about every few months. Otherwise, how would I keep tabs on the island civilization? History, after all, is about half what we take to the dump. The other half is still back in the woods.