The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I was at the opening of new works by one of our local oil painters at the South End Fine Art Gallery and Expresso Shoppe. As always it’s a guaranteed large crowd, mostly us artists and a few of our friends and occasionally a patron or two. Regina, the gallery owner and latte barista, always provides liberal winepours and enough hors d’oeuvres to hold back rickets among the starving artists another week or so.

I was admiring a fine piece titled, tantalizingly enough, “Sailboat at Sunset #56”, one of a series I’m guessing of at least 56 or more, when a couple jostled me out of the way for a better view. I didn’t really mind moving on, after all, there were plenty more similar offerings, but the gentleman of the pair had caused me to spill my merlot onto the sleeve of my last presentable Goodwill shirt, then gave me a cursory ‘scuse me,’ that sounded vaguely like ‘sue me’ before steering his companion and her jangling earrings into the appropriate viewing angle. A moment later they were discussing perspective and complimentary colorations, the expressively bold brushstrokes of the sails, the minimalist way the artist had captured the shimmer of the sea, and of course, the price, anything BUT minimalist.

“I may not know art,” my jostler said, sipping daintily on a white wine from his plastic glass, “but I know what I like.” He was quite pleased at this knowledge, no doubt gained with considerable effort. His companion wagged an earlobe with a windchime banging to life, evidently in total agreement with both of us on this aesthetic declaration.

I guess I was still miffed about the impromptu dye job on my best shirt, or maybe it’s just a character flaw deeper than any fabric stain, but I smiled winningly and said out of the cerulean blue, “I don’t know much about biochemistry, but I sure know a good clone when I see one.” This caused some raised eyebrows, a rolling of the eyes and the beginning of distant alarm bells that would soon drown out the jangling jewelry. For good measure I added, “I don’t know much about history either, but hey, I love a good war. I know what I like.”

So okay, I cost Regina a commission and I should feel bad about that. Probably cost the artist a sale and I should feel worse about that, but I don’t. I do happen to know something about art, and I know what I don’t like. I guess it’s okay to buy what you do; I just don’t think we should be proud of our ignorance. Then again, what the hell do I know?

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/audio-Surfs-Up-For-Zombies.mp3[/podcast]audio —Surf’s Up For Zombies

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Of course it had to happen! What did you think: the South End would be immune? The South End is quarantined from the cultural diseases of the Outside World?? That the contamination couldn’t spread down to here??? Get a grip! Look around. The world has grown real small since you last took off your Google Glass, man. Or since you put em on….

The Zombies are here. That’s right, here on the South End. They’re everywhere else, right? They’ve long overstayed even a teenager’s infatuation and now they’re in the same category as skateboarding or Dungeons and Dragons, passing fads that never pass, they just lobotomize the immature brains of their adolescent hosts, then stick around into what we euphemistically call adulthood. Science can’t explain it. Science doesn’t even try. The Johnson boys have been slinking around the Diner’s nicely sloped blacktop parking lot since about 1995. Big Larry put a stop to their truck surfing where they’d grab a tailgate, crouch down behind the bed out of sight, then ‘surf’ their way onto the highway. He assured them he’d drag their crazy asses clear to Stanwoodopolis if he caught them at it one more time. Nobody doubts Big Larry’s follow-through on threats.

Except the zombies. They came in one Friday night, all goobered up in whiteface make-up and blackened eyes, smeared Hunts ketchup all over their mouths and giggled over their French fries at the customers’ reactions, mostly boredom, but a little bothered the teens couldn’t take their antics into town ‘where they belonged’. “Wuz up?!” Big Larry asked when he stepped out from back behind the grill, looming over the table of kids like Godzilla over Tokyo. All he got back was snorts and chortles from the guys, averted black sunken eyes from their dates. “Halloween early this summer?” he tried again.

Zombies, as every yahoo in America knows after years of movies and books and cable programming, don’t communicate verbally much. They make guttural sounds, they smack their lips on the bloody meat of their victims, they just don’t remember English. Larry said menacingly, “You ghouls better clean that ketchup slop up before you go, otherwise I’ll be cleaning YOU up, comprende?” The zombies suppressed their laughter, the zombies left a mess the way zombies always do. So yeah, the zombies are among us, even down here. When they learn to skateboard, we’re all in serious trouble. Even Big Larry.

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/audio-Tea-Party-Bedfellows.mp3[/podcast]audio –Tea Party Bedfellows

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Talk around the Wheelhouse, the Marina’s Lounge, was nothing but the IRS for awhile this month, holding up the Tea Party 501-c-4’s non profit, non political applications. “The damn Government,” Cap’t. Bill recited in a litany of obscenities, “they’ve gone too far this time. Tea Party’s got rights too, you know.”

“Gee, Bill,” Two Toke smirked behind a 12 oz micro brew bottle, “I can’t imagine why they’d think maybe it was a political action group. Or why you Tea Party boyz want to hide the donors if you’re just making educational ads.”

“We got rights too, Mr. I Want to Sell Dope to Kids.” Two Toke runs the South End Greenworks Medical Marijuana Dsipensary down at the old Tyee Store. Perfectly legal, Tom argues, even if the law is pretty fuzzy.

“Gimme a break, Bill,” Harold, the night bartender says, not one usually for advocacy positions of any sort other than drink recommendations. “They don’t want to pay taxes any more than you do. But what’ve we got a damn IRS for anyway. They don’t pay, you pick it up. Me too.” “I don’t mind paying taxes,” Two Toke chimes in with salt for a wound. “Just doing my civic duty, boyz.”

Cap’t. Bill is practically gnawing the top off his Bud bottle he’s so mad. “What are you talking about??? NOBODY likes to pay taxes! The illegal aliens don’t pay taxes.! The welfare queens don’t pay taxes! You drug addicts don’t work so you don’t pay either!!” he scowls at Two Toke menacingly. T.T. grins over his micro.

“That’s right,” Bill slams his Bud down sending an indignant foamy froth over the top. “I pay more because all you freeloaders get off Scot free.”

Harold, wiping a glass with a bar towel, starts to speak up, but Tom says cheerily, “A Bud for the Cap’t., Harold. On me. But don’t tell him who donated it. He wouldn’t want anyone to know who his friends are.” Harold pops a Budweiser, slides it to Bill. Bill tips it toward Two Toke and takes a swig. “Thanks, Tom,” he says and winks. “I promise not to tell.”

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/audio-American-Accountant-Audition.mp3[/podcast]audio — American Accountant Audition

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Billy Nashville was wailing on a red Gibson he’d put stick-on gold letters up the body that read B-I-L-L-Y  S-I-X G-U-N. His real name, William Cosnosczski, wouldn’t fit in neon, he claimed, so he changed it to a stage name he thought better suited to his debut in Nashville. None of us figured Billy had ever owned a gun, certainly never shot one, but Billy 6-Gun only had to write ballads of bad marriages, drunken brawls, truck driving romance, heavy drinking and hard living. He didn’t know anything about those either and Nashville wasn’t waiting for him to learn, not when most of the songwriters came in from Hard Rock County, Tennessee or Whisky Creek, Kentucky, practically born with a guitar in their pudgy little hands and bottle fed Jack Daniels.

Poor Billy grew up in Olympia, Washington, then ended up on the South End when his parents moved here, not exactly an early retirement. We all thought maybe his Daddy shoulda gone to Nashville. With or without a 6 string.

Billy 6 Gun or Billy Nashville or William G. Cosnosczki, he wasn’t half bad on that cherry red Flying V Gibson. The trouble is, half the damn males in America aren’t half bad either. And some of them write decent songs. And every now and then, one of them looks good on stage. Unlike Billy …

Music is like any art medium, it’s hard — very hard — to make enough money to keep above water while you learn the ropes. And trust me, there are ropes. Some to hang yourself by, but some to swing to another level. If we made accountants work this hard for so little money, well … maybe this would be a world filled with song instead of one painted by numbers. Just my opinion, of course. Not based on scientific data. Or even much research.

Billy still plays the open mike down at the South Grange every Wednesday night. He’s talking about a Try-Out with American Idol. Good luck, Billy, I say. Just don’t be too disappointed. Don’t quit playing, don’t quit singing. And if you ever get despondent, consider this: there is no, and never will be, an American Accountant. Because, really, why would anyone with a soul care? Just my opinion. Of course.

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/audio-starving-the-beast.mp3[/podcast]audio –starving the beast

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