The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Now that the Hot Talk down at the Diner has moved on from the IRS taking too long to give Tea Party groups their 501-C-4 status so they don’t have to pay taxes or even tell who they get their money from while they advocate for all those ‘non-political’ issues they’ve got, the table pounders have taken up immigration once more. A lot of the Diner’s customers are Latinos in for lunch between lawn shifts, mostly quiet fellas who sit toward the back by the restrooms. They order a la carte or sometimes the Broken Plate Special. Their English is okay, but at their table, the language slows down when they order, no longer native. By far they’re the most polite customers in the joint and they leave modest tips, double what most of the locals leave, according to Anita, the lunch waitress.

Most of the immigration debate takes place at the breakfast forums, before the lawn crews come in — and if they should stop by to fill a thermos with coffee — the topic is tabled until they leave. The Hispanics must think us Anglos are one sleepy crowd until our caffeine kicks in. Sleepy and obviously without any apparent jobs. Retired and rich, they must think — and by their standards , they’re right.

“No damn amnesty for these illegals!” Nils responds to any all arguments. “You never see white boys framing houses anymore,” Jerry, back in a window booth pipes in. Jerry pretty much doesn’t see the sunny side of anything, not even the eggs he orders every morning easy over. “They can’t work for what these aliens work for!”

Big Larry, out from behind his grill, who works for pretty much what ‘those aliens’ work for, points a greasy spatula at Jerry across a sea of tanned white faces. “Nobody here wants those jobs, Jerry. They wanna sit jockey on a computer screen and make 6 figures, not throw a two pound framing hammer all day.” Ernie, who ramrods Ernie’s Custom Remodels, agrees. “Last gringo kid I hired — at $16 an hour — lasted til lunch. Said he could make twice that with his Mac. I figure he’ll do it with a Mac all right, a Big Mac, tossin burgers.”

Ernie looks quickly at Big Larry and says “No offense, Larry.” Larry shakes his head wearily. “None taken. You fellas enjoy your naps today,” he says and smiles a sad smile. “It’s a hard life out there in the jungle.”

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/audio-doomsday-clocks-on-the-south-end.mp3[/podcast]audio — doomsday clocks on the south end

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Little Jimmy was off on another of his Paul Revere speeches while the denizens of the Downrigger Lounge at the Yacht Club were hauling up the Happy Hour specials before the 6 p.m. cut-off. Little Jimmy believed, based on extensive reading, that the world economy was headed for fiscal Apocalypse. The Great Recession was only the first pealing of the doomsday bell about to toll.

“Get out of the stock market now,” he advised, bolstered by two gin and tonics. “Get gold and silver. Credit cards are a joke. Banks won’t open, nothing’s good but cold hard cash.”

Little Jimmy most likely had a stash buried someplace. “God help him if Alzheimers hits first,”Ralph said loud enough for Jimmy to hear. “Go ahead and laugh. It’ll be dog eat dog when the Crash comes.”

I got neighbors who believe – who hope, actually – Armageddon is coming. I got some who stockpile guns and ammo. In case Anything is coming. I got friends who keep pantries full of food and water. For the Pandemic. Or the earthquake. Or the attack of the zombies. Hell, I don’t know what to make of this spreading anxiety, but it’s floating up from the swamps down here. Jimmy says that’s one of the Signs, public unease.

When I was 10 years old a friend of the family built a fallout shelter in his basement. For after the Atomic War, he told me. Radiation everywhere, chaos, panic —- only those who planned ahead would survive. “Can we stay with you, Malcolm,” I asked, figuring, sure…. “Your dad didn’t plan for this,” he said sternly. “You see that rifle in the corner?”  I had noticed the gun propped next to a 55 gallon drum of water. “That’s to keep folks OUT. They’ll realize too late what’s what and I have to take care of my own. See?”

“You’d shoot us?” I asked incredulously. He said he’d have no choice. That night I mentioned this to my father, the father who hadn’t done much planning for the end of the world. His face darkened. All he said was, “Malcolm’s got too big a mouth. You have to learn not to listen to him.”

“What if he’s right?” I asked. My old man shook his head. “That would be a world you and me wouldn’t care much to live in. Malcolm would be welcome to it. Now go to bed and don’t listen to damn fools anymore.”

Little Jimmy was on to the collapse of the E.U. Then all the dominoes would go next, world wide panic. I left a tip for Cindy, our waitress, and a half finished beer that I’d lost the taste for. I wonder sometimes if Malcolm was disappointed nuclear war never came. Little Jimmy sure would be.

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/audio-fame-not-fleeting-just-hard-to-chew.mp3[/podcast]audio — fame, not fleeting, just hard to chew

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I was talking with Marta Gartengiggel down at the Tea ‘n Scones over demitasses of Turkish coffee, what we call Expresso now in the caffeinated Evergreen State. Marta was working on a biscotti the way my old dog Dr. Gonzo used to grind on a knucklebone. With intense fervor. I wanted to suggest she soak it in the Turkish bath a minute or two to make it chewable, but I knew from Gonzo any input would probably be met with a low warning snarl. I let her gnaw while I watched the crème de la crème of Stanwoodopolis society savoring their morning Darjeelings and dainty pastries. I felt as out of place as a fart in church.

Marta had asked to meet me to discuss the possibility of some of us South End artists donating work for a Garden Society fundraiser this fall. It would give us exposure to their ‘patrons’, she said, meaning, the fat wallet folks, who, being sophisticates, enjoyed ballet as much as a hydrangea … and presumably, might throw some crumbs our way after seeing our artwork sold on the auction block at firesale prices. Right ….

“Mrs. Gartengiggel,” I said, finally wearying of watching her genteely gnawing on her biscotti that must have been baked in the last century,” we get asked by everyone from the Happy Tot Daycare School to the Uff-Da Club for art donations. If we gave something to everyone who asked …..”

“It is hard, I know,” she interrupted with a dismissive wave of her molar-marred biscuit. “Art is difficult. I myself paint so I understand absolutely.”

A better man would have asked what, exactly, she painted. Shown some interest, feigned or otherwise, but I’m too old and way too cynical. That question is mostly a dead end street. Talking about art with an artist is like debating religion. Why would you bother? On the South End we’re all artists, near as I can tell. Since there’s no one to sell to, we barter among ourselves, a kind of third world economy, but somehow it works. Even if we don’t.

In the end Marta left half a bone on the china saucer. I promised to ask around among my art cronies if they’d consider a donation. And, of course, I ended up with the check. “Tank you, Mr. Daddle, we love your glass vases.” I started to mention she had me confused with the hotglass guyz, but thought better of it. Fame is a tough chew down by me.

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/audio-the-100th-issue-of-the-Crab-Cracker-Milestones-in-Media-Management.mp3[/podcast]audio — the 100th issue of the Crab Cracker — Milestones in Media Management

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Back in the dark days of a dying print journalism, the Shipley editorial team embarked on what, to most tired and cynical newspaper people, was a foolhardy, quixotic enterprise: to publish local news and local events and local yokels … and to pay for it all, not just with their meager savings and their kids’ college fund, but the Old Fashioned Way. With Advertising. The Walter Cronkites of the Stillaguamish Valley said Don’t Do It! Print has gone the way of the dinosaurs and the House of Representatives’ urge to compromise. Better just to blog. Better yet, get a real job!!! But don’t bankrupt yourselves.

Two years BEFORE Jeff Bezos bought the Washington Post for a quarter of a trillion dollars, Crab Cracker was launched, corny as it sounds, on a shoestring and a prayer. And now, many laces later, the gods of Gutenberg have spoken from On High and the little Cracker has crabwalked with claws clacking wildly into its 100th issue. The Cracker, like the Big Lebowski, abides … while a flailing print medium dogpaddles in the turbulent waters of a digital ocean in expectation of being swallowed lock stock and crackerbarrel.  I like to think their success is due to the savvy linkage of their Calendar of Events with local artworks, local poetry, local music and of course, top notch local literature. So okay, literature with a small ‘L’, maybe. All right, they did okay DESPITE these words of marginal wit and not much wisdom. Geez, whaddaya want? A refund?

No doubt the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, Le Monde, London’s Daily Telegraph and the Stanwoodopolis Gazette will rush to emulate the Cracker’s example of journalistic freedom and economic viability. Amazon and Bezos’ competitors at Google will no doubt make multi-million dollar offers, Facebook may put the ‘book’ back in for truthfulness, Yahoo may see the profit in using ACTUAL yahoos and the Cracker may someday succumb to the sweet courtship of corporate dating.  But I suspect not. The Cracker is here to stay, a constant beacon of current fishing reports, local gossip, tide tables, upcoming auctions and concerts and events, interviews with new artists and the old farts too, all of it eminently suitable for late night reading and stove kindling later and fishwrap now, something digital and video journalism will never, not in a million megabytes, be capable of duplicating.

Or as we say at the ink splattered offices of the Crab Cracker: ROLL OVER BEETHOVEN AND MICROSOFT, GIVE FOX THE NEWS!

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[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/audio-Paranoid-Paul.mp3[/podcast]audio — Paranoid Paul

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I ran into my old neighbor Paul down by the Post Office.  The Post Office we got is just a private outfit:  Copy This, Snail That.  It has some P.O. Boxes, sells stamps and envelopes, handles packages, sort of the harbinger of the privatization of mail, I guess, in these distrustful times.  Paul had about 6 letters in his mitt, which he almost dumped into the blue mailbox curbside, but pulled up short abruptly.

“Paying bills?” I asked innocuously.  “No,” he said somewhat furtively.  “I’m flying under the radar these days.  The government’s monitoring our phones, reading our e-mail, listening to our cellphone conversations and checking text messages.  I’m only communicating by mail now.”  He gave me a hard look.  “They’re watching everyone now.”  When I asked who was watching, he looked disgusted.  “Big Brother,  that’s who.”

We walked into Copy This, nothing now but a watered down version of its former self, downsized from its heyday at the end of the strip mall, now relegated to a counter just beyond the checkout stations of the IGA.  Paul needed a roll of stamps and I needed some too, although not near as many.  “I still write letters,” I said, just to pass the time.  “Course, they’re not encrypted or anything.”

“Laugh if you want, Daddle.  Chuckle all the way to the gulag.  This is war now, buddy.  War on the citizen.  You can lay down if you want, you and all the rest of the sheep, but I’m not going down without a fight.”  He got a wad of Forever stamps, nice photo of waterfowl.  Government sponsored art, I wanted to say, but Paul was obviously not in the mood for small jests.  Still, I couldn’t resist when he handed his mail to Judy, the ersatz postmistress, apparently not trusting the security of the outside mailbox.

“So the government is eavesdropping on all your phone calls.  It’s monitoring all your e-mails.  It listens to what you say on your cellphone….”

“Correcto, chum.”

“So tell me this — you hand your letters to the U.S. Post Office, you even pay em for each one.  You think licking an envelope is security enough?”

Paul glared at me incredulously, probably wondering if I was a secret mailman.  But I think I struck a nerve.  I never saw him at the Post Office again and I can only assume he communicates by carrier pigeon or trusted courier.  Next time I see him, I’ll offer to buy his leftover stamps, maybe half price.  War always has its profiteers.

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