The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

As a roving cultural sociologist, I’m trained for acute observational situations, some not for the squeamish. Recently I have been traveling, plenty of airport time, and over the past week I have tuned in to public cellphone etiquette in a deep way. In a nutshell, there is no etiquette. Down on the South End folks have a cellphone but it hasn’t been surgically implanted. Yet. For the frequent flyer, it has ….

I used to be annoyed when perfect strangers stood next to me and shouted into their wireless devices. Nowadays I enjoy eavesdropping and even making commentary. Better they move off, not me. A lot of the boys like to chat while in the bathroom. Empty a bladder and catch up on the office goings-on. I suspect a lot of business is conducted with an open zipper. This may actually be what experts call multi-tasking. I hate to think — and I’ll spare you as well — what goes on behind stall doors. But it might go a long way toward explaining the economic downturn. Not to mention Apple’s sales successes, no doubt the result of phones dropped in the toilet.

Stewardesses now have to demand certain passengers turn off their phones. Apparently the cellularly addicted think it is not only an obligation to use their cell, it’s a constitutional right. Mark my words, you will see an upsurge in air marshals wrestling I-phones from furious passengers soon. To be disconnected for the length of a runway take-off is tantamount to ripping I-V drips from the terminally ill. The medical terminology is woefully behind, but Cellular Anxiety is real and it’s epidemic. On landing, every hand goes to a purse or a pocket. That first phonecall is better than a 12 A.M. shot of Jack Daniels for an alcoholic. It’s as if the entire airplane had breathed a collective sigh of relief now that 4-G widthdrawal is finally over. They’re fully connected once more. The nightmare, mercifully, has passed.

“Hi. We’re sitting at the terminal.” The world welcomes them back from the Void. All is well. All is right again. They’ll need to confirm this many times, but the healing process is at their ear. Speed dialing for health. The hive is buzzing happily.

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Folks often ask why is it us artists don’t start a co-op art gallery down here on the South End the way most places with an overabundance of aesthetics and egos do. Truth is, we have considered it. And more than a few times, rejected the notion. Personally I love the idea of a joint venture with my fellow artisans, but … well, let’s be brutally honest here, we’re mostly a clueless lot fiscally. Whatever side of the brain controls creativity, it’s not the same side as the side that manages finance, money, business or advertising. In fact, I suspect if we ran a CAT scan on most of our brains, that area would be dark, almost as if aliens had stolen it.

Put a few dozen of us together, say, in a meeting to decide how to organize a co-op art gallery, and let me tell you, it’s an anarchist agenda right from the get-go. Maybe we just don’t get much beyond how many of our watercolors the wall space will hold. Forget leasing the building, forget who manages the sales, forget who sits the place open.

Then you got the issue of who can be IN the co-op. Everybody with a brush and an easel? Or do we jury in the members? And how much for dues? And what commission if anything ever sells? And how do you work the payback for sitting the store? And bylaws … oh yeah, gotta have rules and all that arguable rigamarole!

Ten minutes into the organizational meeting and you got total chaos. Artists vs.craftsmen. Volunteers vs. the Big Names. Rule makers vs. bohemians. Capitalists vs. hedonists. Believe me, you need to carry a weapon. Hopefully you won’t need to use it, but it’s best to be prepared. You think art is a spectator sport, you’d be at risk.

So yeah, we’ve flirted with the notion of an Art Co-op. About as likely as a Sunni-Shi-ite dance studio, you ask me. That’s why we pay galleries a 40-50% commission. To save lives, if nothing else — and probably worth every cent.

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Sheila’s Salon was abuzz last Wednesday over a newspaper article Rhonda brought in. “Did you girls know the Equal Rights Amendment never passed?”  Ronald, magenta locks thrown back by his horse laugh over by the shampoo sink, hands full of Mrs. Amundsen’s blue curls, snorted, “Oh my, now the cows are out of the barn.”

Rhonda asked the room what exactly did this mean?? “Are we second class citizens? Can we vote? I mean, what the hell?” Mrs. Amundsen’s discomfort at the sudden heat of what had been an enjoyable conversation about the wonderful summer weather was palpable, at least to Ronald, but nevertheless, he gleefully added fuel to the fire. “Oh, honeys,” he said in mock sincerity, “haven’t you heard the news? You’re the weaker sex, darlings. We he-men can’t just hand out equal rights like bon bons, now can we?”

Sheila, worried that things were soon going to be out of hand, tried to throw cold water on Ronald’s hot jibes. “Of course we can vote. If they’ll let Ronnie’s husband vote, for heaven sake, they’ll let anybody vote.”

“Whoa there, girls! No need to make this personal. I didn’t have a vote on the Amendment when it failed. I was still at my mother’s breast.”

“She probably should’ve bottle fed you, Ronald,” Rhonda fairly shouted. “I just can’t believe, in the 21st Century, we don’t have equal rights. I mean, we got civil rights passed. Slavery’s over, I thought.”

Mrs. Amundsen was picking at her pink vinyl cape nervously, muttering, “My my my now.” Even Jenny Fowler, the hot yoga instructor of the cool demeanor, was growing agitated. “Are you sure it didn’t pass? I mean, why wouldn’t it?”

Revolutions grow from small events. Later, when heads are rolling down the chute, no one will remember — or much care — that Sheila’s South End Salon might have been Ground Zero for the superstorm that overshadowed the Great Recession and the Oil Wars. A woman scorned, once she realizes, well, Lord help the rest of us….

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The little house to the north of us is going up for sale soon. The last couple of decades, it’s been a rental.  All kinds of folks lease it and since it’s about the cheapest rent on the South End, cheaper even than the rent for a converted chicken coop a mile up the road, we get some interesting neighbors.  Once we had a glassblower, we’ve had veterinarians, school teachers, a gay couple, a Navy guy, the milkman (twice) and plenty of others.  I suppose it keeps life interesting for us … but mostly it’s a steady stream of transient neighbors, some good, some not, some we barely met or saw.

Our shack was originally built by Pearl … and her daughter Ruby built the house now for sale.  Ruby was a burlesque dancer in Seattle and Gomorrah, eventually came back to the South End and taught ballroom dancing in Stanwoodopolis in the early 40’s.  We have a 5 foot high full size Art Deco photo of Ruby we found in the wall of the shack Pearl built that we keep now in our bedroom.  It’s a bit risqué, but hey, history is history.

We were over at the house next door awhile ago today.  They’ve got the old wellhouse torn down and we were staring down the 110 foot well hole, hand dug, 3 feet in diameter.  All of us thought it had collapsed some 30 years ago … but no, it had 6 or 7 feet of water down there, catching debris and unsuspecting mice and wayward children.  I suggested they maybe cap it off a little more securely than the old plywood, the rotted cedar door and the wheelbarrow turned upside down over the hole.  But then, who am I, the building inspector?

We’re considering buying the place.  A lot of money.  But if someone else buys it, they’ll cut the trees and build a McMansion up on the hill for the view.  Might be okay, might be it changes our own view.  Hard to say.  If we buy it, what do we do with the house?  Rent it?  Use it as another studio?  Tear it down?

We’re considering, what you call em, Options.  What’s our privacy worth.  Do I need to mow more lawn.  Do we need more gardens and home improvements?  And … what are we gonna do with that well?  Right now it’s a big hole in the ground.  Could be we end up with a mortgage that’s the same thing….

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