The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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One of the rules of a little local string band, especially one starting up, desperate for gigs, hungry for monetary applause, is that you take most everything that comes ambling down the musical highway. The South End String Band is no different. Maybe it’s even more so…. We’ve played Tyee and Elger Bay Stores’ parking lots in the exhaust of cars left idling so their owners can run inside for that pack of Marlboros or the six pack of 16 oz ice beer. We ‘ve played next to the ATM machine at Haggen’s, for reasons lost in the fog of memory now, as vulnerable as a child between the food sampling booths of CostCo and 300 pound hippo shoppers salivating toward free snacks. We’ve performed for Senile Centers and we’ve played for American Legion dinners. Weddings. Father’s Day events. Anniversaries. Performing Arts Centers. You name it, we’ve blasted it with banjos. Pride is an expendable virtue in the music biz….

Every year for the last seven or so we played a couple of nights for Lights of Christmas. Snow, sleet, ice, rain and bad gravy, we put on a half hour show five times a night with half an hour in between, a brutally prolonged evening of music while clean-cut families crowded in out of the weather and the psychedelic light displays, a hometown Disneyland out on the outskirts of Stanwoodopolis. Every year we hauled out our gnarly South End Christmas carols, all our drinking songs and gambling ditties and whoring tunes and murder ballads, then entertained the Disney besotted masses while they gnawed on ribs or slurped clam chowder, hungry for clean wholesome entertainment and hearty unhealthy food.

About the 7th year, last year, the director sat down with us before the 4th night’s first set. “We’ve never gotten complaints about a band before,” he stated sadly, shaking his head, obviously not happy to spoil the holiday cheer of the evening. “Couldn’t be us, could it?” I asked, glad I’d left my beer in the truck rather than in the go-cups we usually kept full through the long evenings.

He said we’d signed a contract to do 10% Christmas songs and we hadn’t done any. And worse, our songs were, oh …. He searched for the right words. Gnarly? I helped. Then I mentioned in our defense that we really hadn’t read the contract, kind of a habit the band doesn’t want to fall into. He said –no, he demanded –we play some damn Christmas songs.

Sadly, we didn’t know any. But, I said cheerfully, how about we maybe leave off Whisky Before Breakfast and Won’t Get Drunk No More and a couple of murder songs and we’ll call it good, finish out the night, maybe assume we won’t be coming back next year. Wearily, eyes rolling, shoulders hunched, he said okay. And that’s how we were branded as the first band to be 86’d out of the Lights of Christmas. Bad to the bone, baby, bad to those crummy rib bones that we’ll never have to eat again so help me Jingle Bells.

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Now as you might’ve guessed, I’m almost always in favor of any and all new technologies, unproven or not. Get those government regulations out of the launch path and let the good old profit motive dictate the future. As we well know in this Job Creating culture we love, let the marketplace rule. If you can’t trust a capitalist, who CAN you trust?

I just read they got a new 3-D printer for creating new life forms. Program in a funky DNA sequence , load up the amino acid mix and hit a button. Pretty quick you got an iridescent houseplant or a 6 legged, 4 eared puppy, whatever you want. Experiments are fine. A few new viruses introduced out among the billions we got already the old fashioned way, well, what’s the harm? Might be some human-friendly ones in there and that hobby lab you got turns into the next venture-capitalized pharma farm. The possibilities are endless. The profit potential immense! Sure, the naysayers will worry about some 3-D printout creating the next pandemic, but hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. You think God didn’t roll the dice?? Check out some of these South Enders we got down here ….

I heard this week Amazon wants to use drones to deliver their goods. The Star Trek teleporter isn’t on-line yet, I guess, so this is their fallback. Oh, I suppose the Luddites will fight this. Skies filled with more drones than starlings. Collisions in congested areas. Free gifts for the earthbound after the crashes, if nothing else. Put some armaments on these birds and UPS package theft on unguarded porches ought to drop significantly.

The future is in the rearview now, closer than it appears maybe, but we’re accelerating fast and there’s no time in this multi-tasked, info-deluged world to start worrying about the dearth of deep analysis. Fasten your seatbelt, download a program for an experimental lunch and keep your twitter feed on 24/7. It’s a brave new world and you don’t have the luxury of fear. Sit back and enjoy the ride.

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1. START THE DAY BEFORE NOON

At least on work days. The other five days, sleep in. You earned it.

2. LEARN HOW TO READ
Writing is no longer essential, but … the successful South Ender can tweet, twitter and text, even if spelling is marginal.

3. LISTEN TO OTHERS
Especially on Facebook and other social media. Keeping track of friends’ and enemies’ likes and dislikes is an invaluable tool in the South End toolbox. Decision making is easy, just see what the herd is doing.

4. WORK AT LEAST ONE HOUR A DAY.

No matter how severe the hangover, the lethargy, the ennui or excess hedonistic activities. Work isn’t ALL bad.

5. WORK OFF THE GRID

No South Ender worth his or her salt works in order to pay half his or her income to the IRS. Barter heavily with your neighbors and friends. Crab, clam, trap, fish, hunt or grow it! Food is free and food is fun! If you buy your dinners, food is neither.

6. LEARN TO REPAIR

Your own car, truck, toaster, wellpump, toilets, etc. You can’t barter or sell busted stuff and repairmen cost an arm and a leg per hour PLUS that service fee to drive half a day to and from your hell-and-gone address. Knowing a few handyman tricks can save you another part-time job at the fast food joints 50 miles away.

7. MARRY UP!

Chances are you’ve embraced an aesthetic lifestyle. You artists and musicians need supplemental income and unless you plan to work full time low paid minimum hour jobs, a second salary is essential. Marry one.

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I drove by the old Visitor Center this last week, the one we built for the Chamber of Commerce ten years ago. Mostly a bunch of us artists who thought a sculpture park and murals and architecture would be a great gateway onto the island. Later we got 3 more acres for what became Freedom Park and a couple of years ago a playground went in. It makes a nice story about volunteerism and local pride.

I had to join the Chamber in order to get that Center finished. Didn’t want to, trust me. They don’t call it the Chamber of Commerce because they’re philanthropic. They want money. Revenue. Bizness. Profits. Art and architecture, parks and sculpture — not so much. Awhile back they offered me a Lifetime Membership for my part in building that Center. All I need now is an NRA badge, good for perpetuity, I’ll be set until the ammo’s used up.

This year they moved the Chamber of Commerce Visitor Center out of the building we built, the one that won awards from the American Institute of Architecture, and put it in a trailer down the road past Freedom Park. Okay by me. Sort of fits their vision nicely. But now I see the old Center has a vinyl banner on the side facing the traffic, big THANK YOU FOR VISITING CAMANO ISLAND under the giant RE-FLUX REALTY.

When we were almost done building the Center and the Sculpture Park, the president at the time decided to magnanimously set up her store in it, charge herself some cheap rent in return for having her staff greet visitors. No one on the Board was troubled by this, not even the artists. Chamber of COMMERCE, remember?? Course, I was a little troubled by this, but hey, I was just a lone voice in the impoverished, morally burdened wilderness. But … sometimes you hold the hammer, literally in this case, and the Board did want to see the Center finished and I was the only boy left working on it by then.

If there’s a moral here, damnation if I know what it is. Like the fable of the woman who kindly takes pity on the snake, feeds it, gives it a place to sleep, then has it bite her next day. “Why’d you bite me?” the poor lady asks, incredulous that her kindness was repaid so viciously. “Because I’m a snake,” the serpent replies.

I wouldn’t be surprised to see a strip mall down there next, the very thing we fought so hard to prevent in the first place. You know … if they had some poor dumb volunteer to build it for them with donations from the community ….

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