The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I read in the news the other day that the average kid text messages 200 times per day.  You might be skeptical of that number … unless you’ve sat in a room with some of these nimble fingerers.  They will ignore an incoming meteor before they put down their I-phone or whatever device their parents have empowered them with.  Hell, I even see the folks now just as addicted, drifting off from our conversation to check an incoming text message.

200 messages!  The phone companies must be making a gazillion bucks on our kids.  They’re making nearly as much on their folks.

People ask me — well, people who don’t know me, ask me— what my cellphone number is.  When I tell them I don’t really have one, they look at me now like I just walked out of a jungle in Southendzonia, possibly the Missing Link between apes and Cellular Magnon Man.  They check for opposing thumbs, incipient language skills, tool usage.  Sadly, I fare poorly.

But in my defense, I have a telephone.  Which, I point out, is connected to a digital answering machine and a computer modem.  I receive and send e-mails.  I can surf the Web.  I just don’t happen to do it 24/7.  I don’t want to be that connected.  I don’t want to send or receive text messages 200 times a day.  I’m just not that social an animal  — and if that makes me maladjusted or by definition, sociopathic, I guess I will plead guilty on Facebook.

You know, when I join.  Right after I buy my I-phone.  The day after hell freezes over.

If you’re going after me, I’m going after you.. Don Trumpleone, the Godfather.

These are going to be interesting times, these next few months, another indictment due any day, make that the fourth. What is that Chinese curse? May you live in interesting times? It definitely looks like the mob boss is going to have his day in court. Or days. Probably weeks and months. Indictments, arraignments, depositions, trials, sentencings, then appeals, a country divided into warring camps, possibly Civil War, bad craziness. Count on one more year of the Donald Trump Show, season 7, probably 8, possibly even a resolution to the cliffhanger this has been. What a ride it’s been!! Impeachments, insurrections, political intrigue, porn stars. Porn stars!! No wonder the ratings are through the roof. The show has everything.

But … most of us are pretty burned out. We just want the guy to go away. Too much binge-watching. Too much social media. Too much of everything! You have to give the guy credit, he knows how to keep the spotlight on himself, all the time. He’s the entire Kardashian Klan. And even under a withering assault from multiple inquests the man turns the attacks into money. He’s not above selling a T-shirt or two. He’s not embarrassed to ask his MAGA minions for financial support. And … they keep sending in their checks to the billionaire snake oil salesman. So he won’t have to fund his own defense. You think that isn’t amazing???

Sure, you had televangelists who could squeeze nickels out of turnips. You had mobsters who could make millions. You’ve had politician crazy for power. But you never saw a huckster like this, a vice king wanting more, always more. The judicial system must be corrupt, the FBI must be in on it, the Bidens were worse, I’m doing this for you, please send money. I need more money. Please send more!

The gullibility of the American people is boundless. Maybe we just want entertainment, worth the price of admission. The guy is a one man train wreck, no way can you not watch. The fact that he’s willing to destroy democracy itself – or save it if you believe him – isn’t that exactly the kind of reality TV we must crave? Hoo boy, hang onto yer hats, the next and possibly final season is about to start.

Some of us old codgers here on the South End Shangri-La are starting to cash in our chips.  After a lifetime of skimming the surface of sinning, it’s finally time, I guess, to face the music.  Oh, a few of us will probably make it to heaven but we’re in no great rush, although this lifestyle of excess and bad habits might make you think we’re on the Fast Track to hell.

Other places, you see folks buying their cemetery plots or ordering fancy marble headstones with a pithy Bible verse as a hedge against being denied entry into the Gated Community in the sky.  They make living wills and put their estates in order, plan the funeral service ahead of time with their favorite music and slides, sort of an MTV for the soon-to-be-departed.  Probably working even now on the special Facebook update and that final Tweet :  Bye, I’m dead.

Down here the boyz have our own mortuarial customs.  We like to put an obituary photo in the local newspaper stating date of birth, date of death, who got left behind and something about going now to be with Jesus.  The grieving missuz writes this.  What we do is pick the obit photograph ahead of time.  Custom dictates that it is at least 30 years old when we still had our hair and didn’t have that beergut, and most importantly it shows us proudly holding a trophy size fish.  Salmon’s good, halibut’s better.  Anything that takes both hands to hold up for the camera is best.  If necessary, a string of trout or a mess of panfish works, but only as a last resort. 

The Deceased As Sportsman is the idea here, even if the sportsman’s features are blurry (the photographer was drinking and celebrating too, you see).
No, I don’t know where this custom originated, we just follow the dictums.  Most of us haven’t fished in the last 30 years.  I suppose we all hope Heaven is just one big lake, fully stocked with whopper Chinook and 150 pound halibut.  Hell, I figure, might be the same …. Only we have to clean the catch ourselves.  Until  the missuz shows up.

Before the advent of circuit boards, silicon chips and computerized everything, us do-it-yerselfers took no little pride in fixing our broken appliances, our busted stereos, our crippled cars and even our dysfunctional lives.  Really didn’t have much choice given our fiscal challenges.  The washing machine quits, you have to weigh that $50 service fee just to drive down here.   Believe me, you’ll learn to diagnose a blown fuse or a broken fan belt yourself before you wait two days in your last clean underwear and then pay half the cost of a Maytag to keep the wringer washer working another six months.

My dryer quit this week.  Nothing new there — it goes on strike regularly.  But this time the little gizmo that held the blown fuse wouldn’t let go of the fuse.  No big deal — I went on-line, googled up the part, found it … and discovered it cost more than that service fee I’m trying to save.  Being a South Ender I balked at the rip-off price.  No way was I paying $54 plus shipping for a plastic toy fuseholder.  Next trip into town I scrounged the hardware store, found a reasonable facsimile and rewired the dryer to hold it …. And yeah, $5 later, I was fluffing up my dungarees.

Sometimes it pays to think outside the box, cornball as that expression is.  I bought an extra hard drive for my computer — and oh yeah, I got one — but when it came it wouldn’t fit inside the Tower.  A North Ender might send it back, see if there was a better fit.  But like I said, we like to think outside the box, so I cut a slot with a hacksaw in the tower side and slid that new blank brain right in and left its frontal lobe sticking out for better ventilation.  Sure, the missus shook her head sadly.  But the salient point here is that it worked and  MORE IMPORTANT BY FAR, the job was done.

The trick here is to show No Fear to these malfunctioning objects, even the ‘black boxes’.  They sense fear quicker than a dog or a tax assessor.  Open them up, grab a handful of wires, pull on em with authority, half the time they’ll respond positively when they realize unequivocally you’re the Boss.  When my VCR ate a rental movie, I eviscerated the aggressive little unit and when it still refused to function, I made an example of it to its electronic brethren and tossed it two stories out into the driveway.  I have put rocks through recalcitrant TV picture tubes and in one instance burned one alive, fully plugged in, begging like HAL in 2001—A Space Odyssey.  Some machines are incapable of learning.  You must be firm.  You may even need to be ruthless.  The worst mistake you can make is allowing one miscreant cyborg mutant monster to infect the rest.  Give em an inch, they’ll grab half of cyberspace.

For those who think it’s a brave new world, one where nothing can be fixed or repaired, cowboy UP!  Down here we aren’t going to be slaves to the machine.  Even if we have to destroy every damn one ….!

Scientists ( you remember those guyz, the folks we used to trust before we stopped using Reason) announced today that this July was the hottest month on record. At the same time the Heritage Foundation, a conservative think tank, came out with its recommendations to deregulate the EPA, the Department of the Interior and any other agency that wants to use its power to tackle global warming. A spokesperson said they weren’t denying climate change, just wanted to make sure we don’t over-reach on putting the brakes on fossil fuel usage, might hurt the economy. In Texas, in the midst of a month of hundred plus degree days, their legislature wants to halt further wind and solar alternatives for energy production, arguing that these were unreliable. No doubt the sun stops shining in the Lone Star state during those hot summer months and only fossil fuel power plants can deliver air conditioning electricity.

If fossil fuel is the answer, give the Earth a few million years and these Republican science deniers can have their remains mined and used to power the grids of whoever is left on this planet. Phoenix set a record for over a month of 110 plus degree days recently and is now working on the next month’s. One Republican legislator scoffed at the notion that science could even know if we’re the hottest we’ve ever been in the last 100,000 years. Who was there to record the temperature back then, he wanted to know. Right. Couldn’t use anything but direct observation. Must be bullshit. Although … well over half of us believe in angels.

This might be mildly amusing … except that we’re talking about an existential threat to humanity that seems to be coming on faster even than our scientists projected. The Heritage Foundation has a plan, thank god. Course, their plan is to slow down doing anything about trying to mitigate climate change. What’s the hurry, their spokeswoman said, she who was EPA head under Trump. The fires are burning unchecked in Canada, floods are more severe on the east coast, heat waves are sweltering Europe and India and China, glaciers are melting and sea ice is going away.

Maybe the Heritage Foundation and their Republican clients are right, just turn the thermostat up for the air conditioning to cool us down. My advice to you kids out there: move north as far as you can. While you still can.

I got some groundbreaking news for all you Camano North Enders:  we found Lost Lake.  Down by us, we don’t lose lakes.  Course, we don’t have any lakes.  Got some ponds that dry up in the summer.  Got some garden features.  Even got a couple of seasonal streams.  We know where they are, although we don’t give em names.  Laziness,  I suppose.  Too damn much trouble to name a creek that dries up every summer drought.  Then it really would make sense if we named it Lost River or Hidden Creek.    For a couple months, anyway…..

I was driving around recently doing my usual Lewis and Clark on Camano, exploring the backroads in case we get another major road improvement detour, maybe come up with a Northwest Passage to Stanwood nobody has discovered yet, and right past Dry Lake Road —- another water feature disappeared — there it was: Lost Lake.  I swerved right in.  About 15 seconds later I was lost.  Which is why it’s probably called Lost Lake.  Not the lake — you!  I found the lake pretty quick.  Getting out of the labyrinth was a couple days of dead end cul-de-sacs, refusing to ask directions until the gas tank hit E.

Lots of places get lost on the “island you can drive to”.  Folks just hit the mainline to the bridge and rarely explore the tributaries.  I meet people all the time who live on Camano and have never been beyond their own blacktop turn-off.  No interest, I guess.  Maybe the high gas prices.  Fear of the unknown.  Who knows?  They started homesteading their 40 acres and left further exploration of the hinterlands to latter day  adventurers such as myself.  Which means reporting back to civilization was spotty, if not outright, rip-roaring, belief-shredding lies and legends.

The South End, while not exactly lost, is very rarely found.  Occasionally I’ll find a car cruising slowly, window rolled down to ask directions.  How far to the Whidbey Island ferry an elderly couple asked recently, obviously shaken from hours of circling the Head.   I pointed across Saratoga Strait.  The lady in the passenger seat began a slow moan.  And, of course, being the bearer of rotten  news, I felt bad too.  But hey, they probably made their way out.  A day late for the wedding they needed to be at in 15 minutes.  A lot of us weren’t that lucky.

I got an e-mail awhile back from an old girlfriend from my high school daze.  How she got hold of me is no mystery since it’s how a lot of folks get in touch these days now that we’re all on the great data bank of the internet.  She probably could’ve gotten my driving history, my credit rankings, my employment information, my political affiliations and hopefully my marital status with a few clicks of a keyboard.  No accidents, no tickets, no job, no credit rating, no kids, no tea party memberships.   One wife.  Happily married.  Very happily.

We had a nice and cordial correspondence in which, in a few paragraphs, we filled in the years since we held hands in my folks’ Buick and smooched in the woods near our place before I had to trundle off to my job on the second shift at the Coca-Cola Bottling plant in Northern Wisconsin.  She would soon be off to college while I would be two more years getting out of my hellhole high school.  She was really my first love, a platonic affair that was something we both could look back on and smile at, if not laugh out loud for how sappily sweet and innocent we were.  Outside the Amish community, those relationships are as unlikely now as a horse drawn carriage.

I don’t think she had any interest in one of those Facebook affairs or anything like that.  You know:  look up an old flame and see what they’re doing now that maybe we’re lonesome or divorced and the kids have moved on and our parents have died.   Send a few photos to see if we’ve grown a bad paunch or lost our teeth or maybe our smiles or gone to seed and old age.  If not, maybe make a date for dinner or drinks, fall in the sack, fall in love, give that 45 year hiatus a kickstart and see if our adolescent judgement was still okay.

Happens everyday on the internet.  Nothing to smirk about either, you ask me.  Love is a commodity in short supply these days and I wish folks the best at finding it, whether it’s a seedy bar or an e-mail to that kid they dated back in the good old days who went off with old so-and-so and found out 20 years later it was a bad marriage.

But it is odd to have the distant past come around the corner at you.  A sort of ‘what if?’ moment.  Not just what if for some imagined life with someone you knew when you were sweet 16 and never been kissed, but all the forks in the road, all the imagined possibilities one choice made unfeasible for all the others.  I am not immune to such flights of fantasy, having gone back to find a love thought lost, hoping beyond reason she would not be married, would not have kids, would not have a life real enough to make any fantasies of mine dissolve like a cold fog in a summer sun.  No, if anyone understands the impulse to go back, to take the fork not taken, you bet it’s me.  It is a rare thing to backtrack, to see the mistake and go back for a possibly well-deserved rejection, then to have it fall the way your mind’s eye imagined it, corny and uncynical, an old Hollywood love story nobody could sell today.

I’m fairly certain my childhood squeeze isn’t looking for anything more than some spark of nostalgia, a small suspended friendship from across the gulf of years, a gentle reminder that we parted friends, no hard feelings either, and went off to live lives totally apart and different from the other’s.  She does, after all, have a husband, kids, grandkids, a complete life in a small town near where she was born.  Teaches Sunday School at her church, goes to her kids’ weddings, just retired from her job even though her husband still has a year or two.  She’s not looking for a romance novel here.  Although the missuz may not be as certain.  And I’m not looking for a bodice to rip.  Unless it’s the missuz’s….

In today’s newspaper there was a groundbreaking study showing ‘beautiful’ people have significant advantages over ‘ugly’ people.  Better jobs, better chances for advancement, better salaries.  Likelier to be happy, likelier to get bank loans with lower interest rates, likelier to marry a highly educated and equally attractive spouse.  I double-checked to make certain it wasn’t a study funded by the Plastic Surgeons of America.  Needless to say they’ll be inundated soon by unemployed college grads so wattle-neck deep in student loans already that another debt won’t matter much.  A little liposuction might mean an extra 6 figures over a lifetime, so say the experts.

It came as a shock to me too that attractive folks have a leg up on us toads.  Explains everything from TV commercials to beauty contests to presidential primaries.  And here I thought brains and talent were my downfall all these years of unemployment, low wages and marginal socialization.  If I’d only know …. A nip there, a tuck here, some botox occasionally, I might have had a chance.  I coulda been a contender, not some chump sent packing to Palookaville’s South End.  But back then our fearless researchers hadn’t defined beauty yet, which I had sadly been informed at an impressionable age, was in the eye of the beholder, not a scale or a matrix or a scientific formulation.

The study even calculated that beautiful people will make $230,000 more over a lifetime than those with ‘below average’ looks.  I wish I hadn’t done it, but I took out a calculator and ran a study of my own, put my lifetime earnings up against the neighbors’, graphed out the disparities and concluded — scientifically — how really ugly I must be to make so radically much less.  And … that’s assuming most of them are extremely good looking.  If they’re not, I’m going to need a helluva lot more than some plastic surgery.

I was going through a cabinet drawer the other day where I kept VHS movies. Big black plastic spools of brittling old tapes. Course I don’t have a machine to play them on anymore. Kind of like having an 8-track to go with my CD player. Although my CD player still has a hole for cassette tapes and I remembered I have another drawerful of those.

Anyone remember floppy disks? All those computer storage stragtegies now as obsolete as print film? I got a drawer of those too … plus the zip disks, plus the drivers. Be worth a cool million on E-Bay someday or else I’ll be hauling them, along with my Beta Video Player and my 35 mm Nikon, to Antiques Road Show next time they roll in to the Stanwoodopolis Convention Center. If you don’t think the world is racing right along lickety split, dig through a couple of boxes in the back of the basement or the top of the closet. It’s a time capsule of the 2nd half of the 20th Century, the century disappearing in the rearview of your Prius.

Trouble with living at the beginning of the Industrial Age — or now the Digital Age — you got one foot in, one toe out, sort of like Stanwoodopolis and the mainland drifting breakneck away from the island. The bridge gets rebuilt every few months and some of us just figure it’s easier to stay home. Stay long enough and we’ll be swimming to get into town. Fancy transponder, pay-as-you-drive booths, no cash or credit accepted. Sign up on your computer, but you better have DSL and on-line checking.

I tell my buddies here on the South End who figure Time must stand still or else they’ll die in the Mabana Sunset Villa before they’re left hopelessly behind, fossils frozen in drying mud, they better get off their rocker and take a couple of computer courses. Another few years and they won’t know how to turn on a TV much less figure out the latest changes in Windows 27. Then we’ll see how Old Age in the 21st Century looks to them without American Idol or Wheel of Fortune to fill an evening with electronic pablum.

Holly Burgess has been singing every Sunday since 1991 at the Little White Chapel in the Ravine, our South End church, which, despite its declaration by the road as non-denominational, collects every denomination in the collection plate passed for tithing right after the incantation of the Lord’s Prayer and the ever popular 23rd Psalm.  Yea, though she walks through the Valley of Death, Holly will sing a joyful noise.

Pastors come and go with alarming frequency down at the Chapel.  It’s some kind of ecumenical banishment to the nether regions apparently.  The last Reverend, Pastor George, was promoted to some outpost in heathen Kenya and within a week had packed up his Spartan belongings and his long suffering pinch-faced wife Elizabeth (NOT Liz), a woman who kept to her bed during the winter drizzle, then administered a stern sermon laced with promises of Cotton Mather style penalties for the sinners in the congregation and left the South End immediately after the final hymn in a mudcrusted Chevy SUV with a crumpled quarter panel never fixed after a run in with a six point buck  four months prior.

Holly and two other robed choir members were the only congregants gathered to wave adios at the pastor’s driveway and she was aghast at the dearth of well wishers.  Perhaps, she wondered aloud to her fellow singing compatriots, that last sermon WAS overly pointed.  She herself was no stranger to sin and venality, but …. my Lord, a Sea of Eternal Fire seemed a bit extreme for some harmless gossip.  Pastor George was practically apoplectic from the pulpit, the vein on his tanless forehead positively throbbing to the beat of his thumped King James version, the spine finally splitting open at a particularly vehement whack.

“Well,” she sighed to Kate and Kate’s boyfriend Leo, all hands still aloft in farewell to the padre’s departure, “our loss is those poor Africans’ gain, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Leo agreed, starting to head down to his truck left in the church’s rutted parking lot.  Kate hesitated a final moment longer, watching the exhaust cloud of Pastor George’s SUV dissipate after the car had disappeared up over the hill.  “You suppose Sin is the same over there?” she asked.  Holly, caught off guard, considered that, started to say ‘of course’, then thought maybe she had a point.  Something to consider.  Definitely something to consider.  Maybe even something to ask the new Pastor.  If he stayed long enough.