The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Give the man credit, the sheer creativity in his myriad excuses for why he stole or borrowed or kept or forgot about those classified documents  he had squirreled away in his Mar-a-Lago basement and in his closet is worthy of any late night comic.  He declassified them, he claims they belong to him, he needed them to write his memoirs, they were planted by the FBI, the raid was illegal, he ran out of toilet paper, the excuses are endlessly entertaining and best of all, they never seem to stop.  Today I read that he needed to keep them for his, get this, presidential library.  Give me a break, if I don’t stop laughing pretty soon I’m going to give myself an aneurysm I swear to god.

The Trump Library.  Pause a minute between guffaws and milk spewed out your nose.  The man watched TV.  That was his intellectual mode.  He didn’t read a book or daily briefing reports, he never wrote anything that didn’t need flushing shortly after, he deleted his phone calls and emails, he took a page from the mafia dons who understood these dropped crumbs quickly become incriminating evidence in future trials.  A library?  C’mon, the guy never set foot in a library in his life, I’d bet my banjo.  Sure, put a gold toilet in the center of the floor with a copy of that infamous photo where he flushed the latest memo.  Stick a plunger next to it for when the plumbing clogs with the lost history of the Donald J. Trump presidency.  Run a continuous loop of his rally speech, pretty much the same one every time and in another room play his Hannity interviews on a big screen TV.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is the Trump Library.  If you think it needs beefing up, well, add a room for the first lady’s modeling photos, billboard size nudes, got to be over 18 to go in there.

Okay, I’m being unfair.  The man had all those boxes of documents.  I know, they could fill a room or two.  The Love letter from Kim Jung Un could get its own room.  The note Obama left on the Oval Office desk could get another.  Maybe we need another wing, one exclusively for the Giuliani Proverbs.  But I’m kidding, the Library will be in the basement of Trump Tower.  Open sporadically, hours limited.  I wouldn’t plan a vacation around a trip there.  Take the kids to the Smithsonian instead.  Or just your local library.

What a difference a few months make in the minds of Republicans.  What a difference in a few days or even hours.  Was it my faulty memory or do I remember the grand old party screaming bloody murder about defunding cops?  The FBI conducts a legal search of Trump’s hacienda to retrieve what we are told are classified documents he refused to return, something akin to a felony if anyone but the Donald had ignored the Justice Department demands, and now the howls can be heard from sea to shining sea.  Defund the FBI!  Investigate the Department of Justice!!

What ever happened to the party of Law and Order, those proud defenders of the Constitution, those self-acclaimed patriots?  Gone, almost all gone.  Their Commander in Chief is above the law, they must feel, Untouchable.  He weathered two impeachments, he pardoned his favorite allies, he has yet to be indicted and if he is, well, time to defund the courts.  And best of all, when the party of Law and Order gets back in power, clear your calendar you G-men, you heads of the Justice Department, they’re coming for you.  How dare you investigate the Donald!  What were you thinking?  The man is above the law, get that through your partisan heads.

Donald J. Trump is going to learn the hard way that he is no longer President of the United States.  He is going to be subpoenaed, indicted, fined and probably convicted of voter fraud, conspiracy, tax fraud, obstruction of justice, witness tampering and who knows what else.  But … his day of reckoning is coming, you can take that to the bank.  And yes, 80% of the GOP will scream bloody murder, call it a witch hunt, threaten the judges and the courts and the FBI and their Democratic counterparts.  If he thinks he just brought Liz Cheney down in Wyoming, better think again, buddy.  The woman will have her revenge, you can be sure.

The FBI, those g-men from the Deep State, raided the home of the President-in-Exile awhile back.  Oh sure, they had search warrants, probably phony, no doubt printed on stationary stolen from some federal judge’s office, all to embarrass the man who might choose to run again for the office he claims repeatedly he never lost.  His followers, MAGA hats bent out of shape, and his political allies, egg slimed on their faces, screamed bloody murder, claimed the Justice Department was politicized and weaponized.  They protest too much, methinks.  DOJ asked nicely six months ago for the classified documents Trump squirreled from White House to Mar-a-Lago to be returned, something about felonious theft of public documents the National Archives were supposed to safeguard.

Maybe they knew the guy who notoriously destroyed memos, deleted emails and otherwise hid his activities from view might want to flush more classified documents down the toilet in his back bedroom.  Must have gone through their minds when nothing they said or did could convince Team Trump to turn over those boxes of missing documents, no doubt mistakenly moved, might have thought they were wedding pictures of the kids.  Probably nothing incriminating in there.

The resulting furor erupting from the Trump Universe varies from a call to Civil War to threats to investigate and ultimately hang the Attorney General and anyone else who authorized that search warrant once Republicans return to power, who cares that it is a High Bar to obtain a warrant for anyone, much less a former President of the United States.  Who cares that the Trumpster wanted to weaponize not only the Department of Justice but the military too?  Who cares that they subjected Hillary Clinton to an endless round of investigations over email servers and Benghazi?  This, though, this raid on poor innocent Donald, cannot be tolerated.

Politics, the art of the absurd.  Trump, in another legal setback, was ordered to show his tax returns.  He’ll be in New York federal court today, no doubt pleading the 5^th, but asking his followers for donations to help him fight against the endless Witch Hunt he’s being subjected to.  Write a check to the Save America Fund, he begs.  It gets increasingly harder to tell what America he and his minions are talking about.  Nothing I recognize anymore.

A buddy asked me to meet him at a local pub for a beer recently, even said he’d buy … so naturally I overcame my hesitancy for imbibing alcohol and met up with him outdoors at the tavern at Terry’s Corner.  He was with a friend and by the time I’d stood in line waiting to buy my own ale, he was joined by another friend.  Soon after I got introduced, one of our artist buddies shambled over, then another late arrival and we had a picnic table party on our hands.  It was all pleasant enough chatting it up with a few new folks and old, but finally I swilled the last of my beer, pushed up from my seat and said, ‘Boyz, I got to get on home and save a marriage.’

They protested mildly but as men of the world, they understood.  Can’t be staying out all night drinking and carousing.  After all, we’re not twenty-somethings anymore.  Yesterday my pal rolled into the shop while I was working and after some amusing palaver he asked me what I thought of the folks I’d met the other night.  Nice guys, I said.  He gave me a querulous look and I said, what?  ‘Zorba’, I finally said, ‘maybe I missed something the other night.  I left early, remember?’

‘What do you think about the idea of getting together once in awhile?  On a regular basis.’

‘A drinking society?’ I asked.  ‘No,’ he said, ‘more like a men’s club.  You know, discuss issues.  Men’s issues.’

Jeepers, creepers, the idea of sitting around bellyaching about my man problems just never entered my mind, I guess, so I said as politely and delicately as I could, hell no, life’s too short.  The drinking part sounded okay, but the rest, not so much.  I’ve been in writers’ groups, artists’ groups, music groups … and trust me, I don’t recommend them to anyone unless they have a deep seated penchant for masochism.  I used to join boards back when I thought cross pollination might bring cultural awareness to our little island, so I attended countless meetings, sometimes one a day, for over a year.  Talk talk talk and nothing ever got done.  And we didn’t even drink at those which made it all the more senseless besides a total waste of time.

Zorba must have read my mind.  ‘We could drink too, you know.  Maybe discuss age related stuff, senior issues, old timers like us.’  Oh boy, now that would be fun, you tell me your latest surgery story and I’ll tell you about my trick knee.  Misery loves company, so they say, but I don’t think it cares for guests.  ‘Count me out, man, I’m too young for that.  You old farts have at it, be something to take you away from Wheel of Fortune if nothing else.  You want to start a Woman’s Group, I might consider it, but no way some drum circle with a bunch of men.’

So I missed my golden opportunity to join a Men’s Club.  My chance to air my grievances, my white male diminished privilege, my Viagra stories and bladder issues.  Fortunately for me, I have this blogsite.  Unfortunately for you…

We need to turn down the heat, our President-in-Exile said today.  What oh what could he do to help? he wondered, saying he’d offered the Department of Justice assurances he would assist them in any way he could.  Of course then he tweeted that the American people would not stand for any more witch hunting shenanigans by the FBI.  Thanks, Donald, for trying to put out the fire.  Next time, don’t use flammables in a high wind.

I guess if I had multiple legal problems, I’d think about starting a backfire, see if we could draw attention to Over There, Look!  They Raided My Beautiful House, They Swiped My 3 Passports, They Even Took Those Top Secret Nuclear Files That Don’t Exist But If They Do They Got De-classified Before I Left Office!  And anyway, I offered to give them back but they snuck in and stole them.  You know, if they even exist.  And if they are there, the FBI planted them.

I know ten year old punk kids who can make better excuses than this guy.  Some can even stick to their story without changing it every day.  The question I want to ask my MAGA friends is how they would look at this story if it were anyone else but Trump.  I’m not even talking about Obama or Hillary.  Just anybody.  Joe Schmoe, say, who happens to have a basement full of top secret files the government asked to get back but who, for whatever reason, decided to keep.  Files on sensitive operations, nuclear secrets, who knows what on the French President, files that were never meant to be moved without authorization.  What would you think we should do when Joe says he gave them back, nothing to see in his basement that would interest the FBI and anyway, Joe claims they’re not really confidential materials, go whistle in the dark.

Okay, I know what my MAGA friends would say.  Deep State, government conspiracy, innocent when proven guilty, best President we ever had, witch hunt, witch hunt, witch hunt, stolen election, Benghazi Benghazi.  I know too what I would say. Lock Him Up!

“I once asked, ‘If you’re innocent, why are you taking the Fifth Amendment?’ Now I know the answer to that question,” Trump’s account posted on Truth Social, his social media platform.  Quite a revelation from the man who previously mocked those who chose to stay quiet under questioning.  The answer, at least to those who have listened to him these past long years, is that answering truthfully is not part of his job description and would open him up to charges of perjury.  Lying under oath is a little different than continuous lying in public.  Ask Alex Jones.

These are tough times for the Prez-in-Exile.  Multiple grand jury inquiries, FBI raids on his party house, loss of his Twitter mouthpiece, a January 6^th congressional investigation that plays like a viral miniseries on nearly every station and occasionally even Fox.  Witch Hunting, Season 2.  It’s interesting how many Republican allies jumped to his defense when the FBI came to Mar-a-Lago with a search warrant looking for boxes moved from the White House containing classified documents belonging to the National Archives, a crime punishable by fines and/or prison time.  Trump is above the law, according to his defenders, evidently.  Nothing new there…. I suspect the outrage reflects a fear of similar warrants for various crimes and misdemeanors his sycophant acolytes committed prior to January 6^th, a sense that the waves are crashing in and it’s too late for the rats to abandon a sinking ship.

What I have a hard time understanding is the poor schmucks out there in Facebookland who think this guy was the greatest president of all time, a guy who should get a pass when he breaks the law, when he incites a crowd to violence, who supports white nationalists and dogwhistles racist dogma.  I heard friends say they voted for him because he was a good businessman.  So was Bernie Madoff and Al Capone.  And I voted for Hilary because she made the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue.  Gimme a break.

These folks know he broke the law.  Repeatedly.  They just don’t give a damn.  Maybe they honestly believe he had an election stolen from him, just that Deep State keeping those Venezuela voting machines from being investigated.  I honestly don’t get it anymore.  Facts don’t matter.  Truth is a joke.  Trump is innocent before we can prove him guilty.  The Republican Party is betting they can keep these folks in the dark.  Betting that the country won’t turn completely fascist, that they can ride this tiger.  Me, I think all bets are off.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret:  I don’t consider myself much of an artist.  I’m around people who are … so maybe I know the difference.  I never studied art, never took an art class, couldn’t draw my way out of a paper bag or even one of those recyclable totes I keep forgetting to bring into the grocery store.  Creating designs for my glass commissions is akin to extracting my own teeth with a pliers.

Take this latest.  Twenty plus years ago we built the Camano Island Visitor Center and I put a 15 foot by 12 foot mural of colorful glass in the front — which is now on life support after bullets, bottles thrown from passing cars and lawnmower rocks have shattered and broken most of the panels.  I suppose, when the new folks who now own the decommissioned Chamber of Commerce Visitor Center asked me about repairing it, I could have walked away.  Or I could have repaired the thing.  But no, I offered to build them a new window.  New design, new glass, for free ….

Oddly enough, they accepted my offer.  So now I’m scratching my head, noodling with design concepts, tossing away my summer, but here’s the deal.  I still haven’t designed anything I particularly like.  After a hundred sketches.  A good artist, a real artist, would sit down, draw on skills and talent and inspiration and voila, pop out a masterpiece.  Or at least something to wow the commuters on their hellish drive back onto the island.

But me, not so much.  Sure, I could make excuses — after all, I’m 72 years old, the well’s maybe going dry, maybe if I was younger, more energetic, but the truth is, it’s always been like this for me, a struggle and a slog.  I could build the damn mural faster than what it takes to come up with a design.

I guess at this late date the only course left to me is keep on keeping on.  You can introspect yourself into a dozen corners, you can develop stage fright, you can decide to throw in the towel and the paint brush too … but sometimes you just have to put those doubts aside and do what you can, maybe the stars will align, maybe the inspiration will land on your shoulder, maybe you’ll realize you’re not Picasso and maybe he had his own doubts.  Okay, probably he didn’t ….

My name is Skeeter Daddle and I’m an art alcoholic.  Stained glass art, to be specific.  And now a chicken artist, to be precise.  We hopeless addicts find ourselves in baffling and unpredictable predicaments, victims of the vicissitudes of economic necessities.  Over the years I’ve made windows to keep neighbors from peering into clients’ bathrooms while they do their ‘business’, I’ve created art for kitchen cabinets that prevent viewing their mismatched dishware, I’ve designed murals for schools in red-leaning areas of the state that weren’t really wanted but were offered as part of a 1% for art program by our leftist government here in Washington.  In other words I go where the money leads, no need to prove the adage of ‘starving artists.’

Just before the Covid plague swept the client base pretty much flat, I got a commission to do the neighbors’ barn, a series of five fairly sizeable windows that faced their new house.  They seemed hesitant to ask me, assuming no doubt that Picasso wouldn’t paint the side of an outhouse if his neighbor asked, but … like I said, pride is not one of my virtues or vices.  Art is art and barn art works just fine for me.  And besides, most of my large scale glass murals in the realm of public art commissions were drawn on that barn’s loft floor once the hay bales were moved to the sides.  It was actually an honor to do those barn windows.

So when the same neighbors’ broached the idea of another window up at the barnyard, this time for a chicken coop, you can guess, rightly, that I jumped at the opportunity.  Chickens need art too, you know, and maybe you didn’t know that a happy hen is a good layer.  I suggested piping in classical music, create a veritable chicken cathedral up there, get ready to corner the egg market of the South End.  So I accepted the challenge, happy to focus on something other than geo-politics, inflation, pandemic paranoia and partisan warfare.  I can now turn my attention to a design that will maximize egg production.  And hopefully not make the goats jealous of their cackling brethren.

Babies have rights, in case you’re some libtard snowflake living under a bituminous rock who thinks they have to go through 9 months of gestation before they can get a driver’s license or a social security number.  Unborn babies have the same rights as we do, sweetheart.  They can get a tax deduction from the IRS, sign up for pre-natal care subsidies, get a concealed weapon permit, use the HOV lanes with their mom and … well, they’ve got the same rights as you and me.  Of course, if you’re a pregnant mother of one of these unborns, you better behave.  Drinking, drugs, smoking cigarettes or vaping, that’s child abuse now, clear and simple.  Light up a Camel, you should be arrested, fined or both.  Personhood cuts both ways….

I’m wondering if sperm might qualify for personhood.  Lots of those out there, potential humans, and if states start to outlaw birth control, well, there’s all the evidence you need for claiming a few extra deductions come tax time.  Probably get a refund in 6 figures every year.  Me, I had a vasectomy at 21 so I lose out in any case.  My bad luck for killing all those potential kids I never had.  Might even get me hauled into jail for mass murder.  My cross to bear, I guess.

Nevertheless, it might be nice if we had the same concern for kids after they’re born as we seem to prior.  You want the government telling you you have to give birth to that unwanted fetus, let them help out, let them pony up some money for food and rent, maybe find you some daycare that’s affordable enough to let you work your minimum wage job, let them be the nanny state they seem to hate unless it’s got something to do with controlling your own body.  Life, so they holler, is precious.  Don’t want to stop a beating heart … unless we use a gas chamber or a drone missile.

And I don’t even want to get into the stem cell controversy.  More slippery a slope than the birth canal.  All I know is babies in the womb are protected now from pretty much every threat from abortion loving woke liberals.  Good luck once they’re born, life will get a little tougher.  Probably why they’ll need that concealed carry permit.

My old roommate in the days we lived in the Seattle ghetto back in the late 70’s told me today his property taxes down there in Gomorrah were killing him.  Second kid finishing college, he’s still working, so’s his wife, they’re still paying off a 40 year mortgage.  Always the optimist, I said well, Joe, your place must be worth a fortune in that city where real estate prices are practically lunar.  He said you know the house, built in 1919, sort of run down.  He said he didn’t know what it was worth, but couldn’t be all that much.  I said I’m betting a million.  He said you gotta be kidding.

When I got off the phone I checked his estimated house price on the internet.  Yeah, I know, it’s not always accurate, give me a break, I’m not making an offer on the place.  It was worth a tad over one million bucks.  I don’t know what he paid for the place back in the 80’s, too much is what he told me then, but he wanted to get in before the prices made it impossible.  I remember at the time thinking it was too much too.  I do know what I paid for my ghetto chalet.  It was being auctioned off by Uncle Sam as a HUD repo and I bid 24, 000 dollars, 6 over the starting price.  Naturally, while I was googling up real estate figures, I checked on the old homestead.  You guessed it, over a million bucks.  And the neighborhood is still what they call ‘transitional’, meaning the gentrification hasn’t rooted out the meth dealers yet.

So Joe is a millionaire.  On paper.  He would be if he sold the joint, packed his belongings into a VW van like he used to have, lived on the road, king of it, matter of fact.  Maybe collect his social security early to help pay for the gas.  Forget his cares and woes, forget the property tax bills, just take the money and run.

His kids will never own a home.  Unless they move to some dirt patch in Alabama.  The American Dream of buying a house, mowing the lawn, erecting a fence between you and the neighbors, finally paying off the mortgage which means you paid twice what the place cost to the bank that gave you the loan, then cashing in when you die so your kids can inherit the equity, well, that dream is dead.  Meantime, you can bask in the knowledge that you’re a millionaire.  Enjoy it while you can.  Before inflation eats it up.