The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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So after the disillusionment of a short career in middle management as a Food Manager at the University of Wisconsin, I decided to take a job as kennel worker at the Humane Society next door to the Oscar Mayer hot dog factory which lent the area a fragrance of feral flatulence. The dog pound, every other day or so, fired up its Incinerator and burned the cats and dogs, kittens and puppies which Mike, our manager, had dispatched with an injection of phenobarbital, adding burnt hair and searing meat to the olfactory mix. We had ourselves an animal Auschwitz.

I had gone to the Pound to look for a pet, see if they had a little guy whose beseeching eyes thawed my wintry heart enough to adopt. I found a wiener dog, appropriately enough, a dachshund, and by the time I’d put the little fellow on a leash, I’d seen the sign Kennel Worker Wanted, applied for and been accepted as their new employee, start next day.

There were three of us on the crew working the pens and the outdoor runs. Larry sprayed down the pens, I was the puppy room guy and Mary Jean handled the cats. All day I cleaned the poop and piss, laid down fresh newspapers and talked to prospective adopters. My partner Larry had just gotten out of prison, served 16 months for selling LSD to a federal undercover narcotics agent, and this job was the only one he’d found where an ex-felon could get hired. Mary Jean had terminal cancer, she told us one day at lunch break, but she didn’t. She just liked the idea, I guess, of an early and tragic demise. Maybe too much soap opera in her teens.

I told myself shoveling shit was no worse — and maybe the same — as my last job, just slightly more literal. And maybe that was true. But I never killed anyone or anything at my dining hall or my grill or my ice cream parlor. Even though I did poison a few dozen folks with my toxic potato salad warmed to a microbial paradise under the heating lamps. But that, I told the cuisine cops who finally discovered the source for the rash of food poisonings, was accidental, the result of ignorance. Personally, I always like my potato salad a little on the warm side.

I lasted three months at the kennel. You can only kill so many dogs and cats before the toll on your psyche weighs on you with the tonnage of guilt no rationalization can lighten. To lighten the burden, I ended up adopting three dogs, maybe a bit too much atonement for a one bedroom upstairs apartment over a TV repair shop. But of course, that’s another story. One, for the time being, I’ll spare you.

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Right after I’d graduated college and quit my job as 8th grade teacher — deciding, I guess, I’d had my fill of institutional learning — I applied for a job as ‘food manager’ of the University’s Student Union. I’d been supervisor of the dining hall that served most of the old dormitories on the Univ. of Wisconsin lakefront for three years so I was hired to run a dining hall, an ice cream parlor and a grill on the side of campus where engineers and folks who wanted a career that would result in well-paying jobs would go to eat. Unlike the Union on the lakefront where folks who majored in Renaissance English or Poly Sci came to plot the Revolution, this being the late ‘60’s, early ‘70’s, when idealism trumped fiscal survival. Good Karma was all we needed.

I lasted three months, not long after the Union South Poisonings in which multiple students and staff ate the potato salads left under the heating lights to grow bacterial toxins. Hell if I knew mayonnaise would spoil so quick. I was good at managing a hundred employees. Food, not so much.

Dave, my boss who ran the entire Union, asked how I could not know that. I told him I had a degree in Useless Information, not Food Science. ‘You knew that when you hired me,’ I said as my no mea culpa, but in the end I pled guilty and told him I would move on soon as he found a suitable replacement, which took no time flat, some former military cook. The days of my employees smoking dope in the freezer with me were about to end. The General would tighten their ship, count on that, Mister!

Dave wanted me to go back to school, get a degree in Restaurant and Hospitality. Good jobs, he pitched. ‘Well paid. You could go anywhere and find work.’ Dave was a good guy, even after I refused to wear ties, dress up or act adult. I think he saw me as the kid he never had, but he could steer from delinquency to the straight and very narrow.

Course, I had bigger dreams. A month after I’d trained Col. Hardass my job, I walked into a Humane Society that needed a kennel worker, two bucks an hour, no managerial responsibilities whatsoever, got hired on the spot, started the very next day. The rest, as they say in the movies, was history. I was on my way ….

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The Chinese just brought back a few pounds of moon rocks. Awhile back the Japanese hauled in some comet dust. Won’t be long before we excavate Martian soil and send it back to Earth too. You might expect, if it isn’t true already, that Qanon or some other reality-free zone will report on the alien viruses that these extra-terrestrial geologic immigrants have unleashed on our unsuspecting population. Right alongside the story of the Martian landing hoax conspiracy.

After all, comets are suspected of ‘seeding’ the planet with rare elements that made life possible here at home. And probably Mars. And maybe the moon. Forget building that beautiful wall on our southern border, buddy, maybe you need to worry about the Killer Virus from Mars. Hopefully our space scientists are using advanced screening technologies to insure the Lunavirus doesn’t escape the confines of their highly secure labs. You know, the way they do with the ones they’re making here on planet Earth.

Me, I’m not so sure. We send out satellites to the end of our solar system looking for life forms that might like Chuck Berry, figuring, I guess, that any species that rocks to Johnny B. Goode must be the variety that won’t see us and our pals as food. You know, intelligent beings like ourselves. The kind who wouldn’t wage wars over religious differences, the beings who wouldn’t overheat their planet or exhaust its resources, the species that believed in provable facts not Venusian mumbo jumbo, smart folks like ourselves who evolved big brains without really believing in evolution. Those beings…

So yeah, bring that space dust here, see what’s hiding in it. Probably benign. Harmless. You know, like us ….

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So we got these yahoos — let’s call them investors — teaming up through social media to buy some piddly ass stocks nobody in their right mind would gamble a 401-K to buy, figuring to drive the price through the ceiling by ganging up on their buy bids. They buy some stock called GameStop, the largest video game retailer, operating 5,509 retail stores throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Europe, so what if I’ve never heard of it, and in no time flat the price jumps from a yearly low of two and a half bucks to just under 500 american dollars.

Now, all of this would seem kosher in a world where Tesla stock shot up astronomically even before Elon could start selling his little battery run cars, making him the richest human being on Planet Earth. Nobody denigrated Elon Musk, well, at least not for getting rich on his stock options…. But when this crowdsourced party of know-nothing investors hit the jackpot, the market pulled the plug on their trading. Why? Because the hedge fund millionaires who had made investments in ‘instruments’ that specialize in betting against the success of GameStop (hence the term hedge fund, as in hedging their bets) suddenly found themselves on the wrong end of the deal and lost billions with a B in a flurry of electronic trades, well, no doubt some calls got made to the croupier in New York, scream and yell No Fair to the line judge at the SEC, make threats against who knows who down at the Dow Jones. And voila, trading shut down, mister, and I mean Right Now!

Welcome to the rarified world of high finance. Collateralized debt obligations, derivatives, collateralized loan obligations, futures contracts, short sales, annuities, swaps and options and warrants, probably nothing you didn’t study in high school economics classes, right? The Big Boyz are hiring PhD mathematicians and physicists to run complex algorithms and formulas, dreaming up schemes for monetizing about anything you can buy trade or sell, then calculating odds for profit, figuring out infrastructure to speed the time between buying and selling faster than the competition. Is the system rigged? you might ask and the answer depends on whether or not you’re some schmuck like me who dials in an order from some brokerage or other and maybe a few minutes or longer get a piece of the American Pie. The Big Boyz are trading in nano seconds. Something goes sideways, they have computer programs to bail before you can say Smith Barney.

I heard some talking head yesterday saying the kids driving GameStop prices up through crowdsourcing were going to turn the stock market into a casino, all just a big crap shoot, nothing based on actual worth of a company or a corporation. Well, call me stoopid and slap me with a three dollar bill, but I think the game has been rigged a long time. What happened in Wall Street stayed in Wall Street, just like Vegas. All well and good until the card counters rolled in.

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