The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Education? We don’t need your stinking education!

See Dick. See Dick Run. See Jane. See Jane Run. You probably remember that first reader you had. Two white kids, Dick and Jane. Heterosexuals. Last thing you’d want is for your kids to see one of those children as a minority. Or a person with a disability. Or … god forbid, a person who wasn’t a Christian. Boy, howdy, me neither! What is this country coming to when we can indoctrinate our youth with woke notions and I’m not really sure what woke means. No sir, let the Texas book companies purify our textbooks, let them do their job and for god sake, keep liberals teachers from making our kids uncomfortable teaching history that suggests this country did anything, even one single thing, wrong.

In fact, defund the schools! You heard me, do what these snowflakes want to do with the police. Our taxes are going toward paying commie pinko libtard so-called educators to indoctrinate our children. So what if the Supreme Court has declared LGBT sinners have equal rights? Doesn’t mean we have to teach it. Hard to believe they let these sodomites into a class with our own kids, no doubt for grooming future pederasts and cannibals. Shouldn’t even let the children of Democrats in a classroom with our own wholesome sons and daughters. No wonder half of us want to homeschool, about the only way we can insure our progeny aren’t propagandized … or worse!

We didn’t get racism shoved down our throats when we went to school. We didn’t have teachers who questioned the values of the greatest country in the world. In all the history of the world! No sir, we got the 3 R’s, reading, righting and racism, we turned out just fine without all the touchy-feely anti-religious crap they foist on kids these days. Stand up for parents’ rights, dammit, before they brainwash all your kids. And be sure to vote for Republicans. They love children and believe me, they don’t eat them.

My neighbor was over at the little park we caretake across the island when he saw a woman drive up to the library in the 60’s phone booth and proceed to take down the sign that hung there that read LITTLE LIBRARY. He figured she must’ve thought since the books were free, maybe the signs were too. But he decided to pull out his phone and photograph the woman as well as her license plate and car. Right, like the Island County deputies are going to track the thief down using all the information they need.

My neighbor hasn’t had much experience with the sheriff’s office. But I have. No, not what you’re thinking. I mean, okay, I’m not totally law abiding, don’t really follow the county regulations all the time, but hey, I try to do the right thing, don’t hurt anybody and hope that in the end, well, judgement won’t be too harsh. Me and the sheriff’s department, let’s just say I’ve reported a couple three sculptures stolen at this same park and about 25,000 dollars worth of a decommissioned bronze sculpture stolen down at Freedom Park at Terry’s Corner behind the also decommissioned Visitor Center we built for the Chamber of Commerce and yeah, I’m still pissed off that they rented it, the Chamber cheeseballs.

But I digress. The deputies at the sheriff’s office declined to take a report on the purloined artworks because, get this, I didn’t own the property. I said we all own the property, it’s county, same as you. They said uh-uh, no deed of ownership, no report. Trying another tack, I said I’m the contractor for the Visitor Center, how about that? And I’m the caretaker for the park. They shook their heads sadly, said it was out of their hands.

So you can imagine how likely they would take a statement about a stolen library sign worth about two bucks from some yahoo who claims he’s the librarian. In the end, however, a few days after my neighbor had collected all the evidence the FBI and a SWAT team would need, the sign shows back up, repainted and replaced neatly where it had been.

If there’s a moral to this story — and if you know me, morals always seem to be lacking, after all, I’m an artist — it’s that you should never trust your own eyes, at least sometimes anyway. But we might trust our fellow islanders. At least some of the time….

Mickey Mouse vs. Florida GOP

We all grew up with Disney. Mickey Mouse, the Mouseketeers, dead Bambi, Snow White, Fantasia, Pinocchio, Dumbo … Disney has been a part of the American landscape most of our lives. They’re mom and apple pie and unabashed wholesomeness that cloys in some of our hearts, but c’mon, give Walt some credit, he created Donald Duck and Epcot Center, Magic Mountain and Minnie. He was the ultimate capitalist cartoonist, bar none. You might think the Republican Party would celebrate him, probably revere him.

But not these days. Corporate Disney, usually averse to political anything, had the temerity to stand up for gay rights. What’s next, the Florida GOP probably wondered, support for civil rights too? These are partisan times indeed if the Republicans think Mickey Mouse is a threat to American Values. Mississippi next door is celebrating Confederate Heritage Month for crying out loud and here’s Walt and associates supporting gays and trans and probably blacks too. It’s too much! It’s an assault on all that’s holy in the gator state. Take your damn Goofy and Dumbo to a blue state, you pinko swine! Florida is for rednecks and conspiracy theorists and MAGA lovers … and home to the real President of the United States down there in Mar-a-Lago. They don’t need California liberalist propaganda at Disney World and Disney World don’t need any more tax breaks from the crackers in the Florida legislature!

This is what the culture wars have come to, a frontal assault on our collective childhoods! You call Mickey a gay loving commie, you got trouble, Mister! Right there in River City! Capitol T, Rhymes with P and stands for Prejudice. It may be time to stand up to these self-righteous bigots once and for all, I don’t care if they do have Dumbo for a governor. Don’t mess with Mickey if you know what’s good for you. And I suspect you don’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.

We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil
Fighting for our Liberty, with treasure, blood and
Toil;
And when our rights were threaten’d, the cry rose near
And far
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag, that bears a Single
Star! Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern Rights, hurrah!
Hurrah! For the Bonnie Blue Flag, that bears a Single
Star!

It never really ends, the Civil War. The one a century and a half ago. Not the one now. Although … maybe they’re the same thing. The good Governor of the proud state of Mississippi has named April as Confederate Heritage Month, April being the month that Ft. Sumter was fired on by South Carolina and the southern states seceded from the Union. Why not celebrate it, all you proud Mississippians?

Well, you white Mississips. Not too sure what I might feel as the ancestors of the slaves you folks fought so hard to keep picking your cotton. I had a neighbor tell me recently that racism was a thing of the past. You know, like the Civil War. Black folks have the same rights and the same opportunities as we do, he declared. Racism? Doesn’t exist in 21st century America. I started to argue, then decided nothing I could possibly say, statistics I could supply, nothing would convince him or any others out there that cops pick up more percentage of blacks, banks refuse loans to more percentage of blacks, more black children die in childbirth, blacks die younger than us whiteys. I might as well argue the Jews started World War Two. People believe what their prejudice wants them to.

But declaring April Confederate Heritage Month? Have we been fighting to take down those rebel flags on their courthouses, remove those statues of their traitorous heroes, maybe even teach the history of slavery in their schools … only to have them celebrate a war that killed off one fifth of their male population? Oh no, don’t teach critical race theory, Governor, you don’t need schooling on the subject. But you could use a little common sense. And some decency wouldn’t hurt either.

Undoubtedly there are those among you who think old Skeeter is a Neanderthal, burns wood for his heat, grows a garden for his food, hunts crustaceans for fun and meals. He doesn’t have a real job, doesn’t commute, refuses to own a cellphone, drives an old truck to the dump or the store once in awhile and still writes handwritten letters. He builds most of what he needs from banjos to boats, furniture to stained glass windows, sheds to houses. If this were the 1800’s, you might think of him as a pioneer, but those times are long gone. Now he’s just an anachronism. Or so you might think.

Let me dissuade you of that quaint and unfounded notion. Old Skeeter keeps up with the times, my friend, you best believe. Just because he uses a landline and eschews social media doesn’t make him a troglodyte, no sir, he’s a sly fox, careful to evade unwanted intrusions by the authorities or reality. He pays attention to the Trends and then, when least expected, jumps ahead of the Game. I’m talking, of course, about cryptocurrencies and non fungible tokens, block chains and hyper-encryption. And because you’ve been loyal readers all these years, I’m giving you front seat to the money making opportunity of your lifetime.

CryptoDaddle. Not just another cryptocurrency but a full service monetary alternative to the outmoded cash and credit card society that is, unless you haven’t been paying attention like Skeeter has, completely primitive and obsolete. You might as well be carrying wampum in your wallets. CryptoDaddle is the investment opportunity for futuristic visionaries like yourselves, a chance to get in on the ground floor of what will be the gold standard of the 21st century. Combining NFT’s with cryptocurrency, CryptoDaddle is an amalgam of digital artworks coupled with blockchained virtual monetary instruments, an elegant and lucrative hedge for those of you worried about inflationary trends, political upheaval and an increasingly unsettled global environment. NFT artworks of each and every creation of the Skeeter Daddle oeuvre will fast become the coin of the realm, gaining in value with each secure transaction. Finally aesthetics will dictate finance. And you, my friends, have the rare opportunity to … well, without being too crass … to cash in. Don’t delay, the future is yours and so is the wealth. CryptoDaddle, far far ahead of its time. Like Skeeter hisself.

I’m pretty much beyond child bearing age. Plus, I’m not a woman. And even if I went through the sex change, I don’t think I’m likely to get pregnant. But even so, I follow the abortion laws the red states are implementing, not fearful for my own consequences, but because it interests me how the same folks who want government out of everything but our bedroom think it’s politically advantageous to use abortion as a wedge issue. Most folks in the Yew Ess of Aye think abortion should be legal. And most folks think abortion is bad. I’ve never had an abortion but I bet if I had, I’d wish things hadn’t gotten to that point.

Idaho just sent a bill to the governor for his signature that bans abortion after 6 weeks and allows, like Texas, private citizens to sue doctors. Idaho added a wrinkle allowing each family member to sue for 20 grand, figuring, I guess, that the lost joy of babysitting grandchildren ought to be worth a lot of money. Not sure what the loss to aunts and uncles would be, but hey, 20,000 dollars ought to cover about any grief, forget about the savings in birthday and Christmas presents.

A lot of right wing Republican states are lining up to hit the road running if the Supreme Court overturns Roe v Wade so Idaho, one of the most crimson in a growing constellation of anti-abortion states, caught my attention with its clause that would not allow a rapist to sue for his victim’s abortion. This seemed mighty liberal to me … until I got to the part about the rapist’s relatives who could file suit.

Now, I respect the rights of a rapist as much as the next baby loving kook, but c’mon, the brothermotherfathercousin of Ted Bundy whose victim survives and becomes pregnant can be sued for tens and tens of thousands of dollars by the creepy family? Are you kidding me?

Idaho should change its license plate motto FAMOUS POTATOES to something more current. VICTIMS TWICE.

My last attempt at South End luthiery was a black limba parlor guitar. I had to tear it apart once, maybe even twice, I can’t remember now after a couple of years of Covid isolation, to fix a problem that made the neck pull down and the action go up. For all you non-luthiers out there, count yourselves lucky. For me, it was the last straw in a year of guitar building misadventures. Most of the five I made got disassembled, repaired, rebuilt and finally just hung on the wall, testament to my obstinacy and incompetence. Some of us are slow learners. And one of us never learns.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? How about plenty ventured, nothing gained? You can learn a lot about yourself attempting to accomplish what might actually be impossible. The fiddler in our band went to violin making school for three years. Our new mandolin player makes his own and I don’t think he went to school to learn how to do it, but his mandolins are beautiful and the workmanship is superb. I don’t know him well yet, but I suspect he’s meticulous as a clock maker. Me, not so much.

By the time I tried my hand at bending wood for an acoustic guitar I’d built a few banjos. Banjos, well, banjos are a little easier and at the end of the day, a banjo pretty much sounds like a banjo. Oh, sure, you can hear some nuanced differences, but mostly they’re a drum with strings, a percussive instrument that defies respectability. A guitar, on the other hand, has a range of intonations that vary from sweet mellowness to brittle sharpness, mostly the result of the choice of woods, rosewood being the balanced mellow, maple contrasting with a hard tone. Course, being a neophyte, I tried everything from koa to bubinga, maple to walnut, and the last one, a black limba. About the only woods I didn’t use were balsa and plywood.

I won’t even get into the playability factor, the balanced tones from bass to treble, the bracing strategies for guitars like mine with untraditional soundholes, sometimes on the sides, usually two on top, each essentially a new experiment, each always a new challenge. After all, I wasn’t trying to make a duplicate the way my fiddler does his violins, each meticulously fashioned to be a copy of a Stradivarius. Experiments don’t sell well to symphonies. I wasn’t planning to sell to the Philharmonic players.

The truth is, there’s something to be said for repetition, especially if you fine tune the procedures, learn from the previous mistakes and try not to repeat them. But something in me resists that. I wanted each one to be entirely unique, more an artistic statement than a musical one, but in the end, maybe neither. Today I’ve got the spruce top off after an hour of red hot spatula prying without breaking it, but what I’m going to do to fix my problem, god only knows. I liked the guitar before it warped, liked how it looked, liked how it sounded. I waited a year to convince myself to repair it, swore I was done with this folly, promised myself to stick with the banjos. Stay tuned. The guitar probably won’t.

Editor’s Note: Mr. Daddle, after repeated attempts to put lipstick on his ‘pig of a guitar’, has enrolled in a 12 step luthier withdrawal program. Future blog posts, so he claims, will delete all future references to guitar building and consequent deconstructions. He has extended apologies to all, if there are any, readers.

If Donald J. Trump was a six year old kid, you’d take his pants down and paddle his fanny until he finally told you the truth. About anything…. Lately he’s been explaining his actions on January 6th. He wanted to walk to the Capitol with his minions, the ones he’d just exhorted to go down there and overturn the election, but gee, the meany men at the Secret Service just wouldn’t let him do it. No way, Mr. President, we won’t let you go out there. I guess the Secret Service ranks a degree or two higher than President of the United States is all I can figure.

So he has to go back to the White House and watch his MAGA true believers assault the Congress without their Leader, just watch it on his TV in the safety of his bedroom, probably yearning to be at the front of the mob, battering ram in hand, the General leading his troops into battle, not lounging in his bathroom with a can of diet pop and a bag of chips. But hey, he’s got a phone, he’s got twitter, he’s got the bully pulpit. It is, after all, the 21st century, not some Civil War battleground with General Grant on his horse directing the artillery fire, c’mon.

Lately there’s been a lot of commotion about the missing logs for those hours. Nixon had some missing too, but nowhere near so long and nowhere close to being as important. Alarmed aides and his kids tried to convince him to go public and stop the insurrection. Stop the insurrection? What were they thinking? This was exactly what he called for a few hours earlier. And if it weren’t for those high ranking Secret Service, he’d be down there, tall in the saddle. Besides, watching it on TV was almost like being there, after all, he was a reality TV star before he became a reality twitter President. Not all that much difference.

A lot of logs, archives, what have you, ended up, oddly enough at Mar-a-Lago which caused a fuss with the folks investigating the events prior and during January 6th. Trump claims not to have known they were taken down there, just probably tossed in by a White House maid with the half eaten bags of chips, the cases of diet pop and the non- disclosure agreements with half a dozen of his girl pals, nothing nefarious about it. If some seemed tampered with, well … maybe his dog ate them.

Meanwhile, back in reality, his aides are refusing to testify under subpoena, his backers are calling the whole investigation a witch hunt, the fair and balanced media folks are claiming the insurrection was nothing more than exuberant tourists. They’re all stonewalling in hopes the legislature will flip in the midterms and the investigation will be stopped. There are a lot of britches that ought to be pulled down and plenty of asses that need paddling. It would make great TV.

I was in college when the Population Bomb became a best seller, a happy tome about world-wide famines precipitated by over population. Mass starvation, immigration upheavals, wars and pestilence, get ready for a Malthusian Armageddon. Sound familiar? Course, that was 50 years ago, a half century, and sure, the world has been through some famines, its population has doubled from under 4 billion to about 8 billion since then, but somehow we’ve managed to hang on.

Maybe it’s a couple of years of Pandemic, maybe soon it will be the Russian/Ukraine war, but lately there seems to be another groundswell of impending Doom menacing us. Pretty obviously the countries of the world aren’t going to meet the goal of reducing greenhouse gases enough to prevent catastrophic climate changes, the glaciers are melting, sea ice is opening up arctic shipping lanes, record temperatures are climbing, the weather is wilder, the earth is going through major temper tantrums. The End is Near! The End is Near!

What’s a homo sapien to do? Well … I guess we could drive less. Maybe turn down the thermostat. Recycle more. Hell, I don’t know. My guess is we’ll mostly throw up our hands, surrender to despair, call it quits, let the chips fall where they may. If we can’t stop carbon emissions before the Tipping Point, why bother, right? Party on, Bro! Chances are us survivors will be okay, good luck to the kids and grandkids. C’est la vie…. Or not.

It’s a little like falling behind on your mortgage payment right after you lost your job. Might as well skip the next ones, the bank’s going to repossess the trailer anyway. Haul down to the Bud Hut, make a stop at the liquor store, stock up with a few months’ worth of cheap pizzas, enjoy the freedom long as you can. Just no point in fighting fate, right? Right?

Well, maybe the doomsayers are right, the planet is going to get hotter and wilder, the hurricanes will get more frequent, the floods that were hundred year floods will be yearly, tornadoes will become as frequent as robo-calls, your backyard will be a desert and some folks out there will still say it’s all a hoax. Me, I’m not going down without more than a whimper. I just grafted my favorite plum to four rootstocks, I planted two new Asian pears and just for laughs I intend to put the garden in again this year. Although … I may still stock up with cheap pizzas.