The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I got a buddy who claims he was the first Owner-Builder on Camano Island. The year was 1977, the same year I bought my shack. I met him 13 years later and we ended up building 3 sailboats together, one for each of us and one for his pal the building inspector who became my friend too. Ironically, I may be one of the last Owner-Builders in Island County. I don’t think my permit was ever signed off on so I may well be the last official O-B.

I guess maybe they figured the codes got too complex for us amateur housebuilders, all those R-factors for insulation and E-glass in fenestrations and X-factors for our marriages. Or maybe it was this: a permit for an Owner-Builder was next to nothing, something like $50 when I got ours. The county might’ve done the taX-factor and realized us hippies were costing them revenue. Maybe some of us built our own palaces to save the permit expense, but I would’ve paid full freight just for the right to build my own place the way I wanted. A few hundred bucks wasn’t gonna stop me.

I spoze we can still build our own Xanadu, nothing to stop us. Just have to disclose that a rank amateur threw the hammer and ran the saw, flashed the windows, shingled the roof, installed the electric and plumbing and if you’re the prospective buyer, best beware!!! The people at the county sheds told me I’d be a Total Idiot to apply for an Owner-Builder status. Boy, he read me like a book. A comic book, I’d bet.

By the time I got our permit, us Owner-Builders had to meet the same codes as any fly-by-night contractor, go through the same inspections, all the rigamarole as the Big Boyz. In other words, the government here doesn’t allow for hippie shacks or slam-bang cabins. We got to build our parents’ suburban homes. Might explain why kids just stay with their folks now — why bother building the same damn place twice?

So the Bishop of the Diocese of D.C., with the newly coronated Prez of the not-so-United States of America sitting in the front pews, directed her sermon to him, asking for a bit of mercy for the gays, the immigrants, the trans kids, the enemies he’s declared are making for carnage in our great country. Maybe something Jesus hisself might ask of the powerful. Back off, big guy, have a bit of compassion.

I guess the Bishop hadn’t been paying attention to politics these last, oh, couple of decades. The Supreme Leader of the Free World takes no prisoners, demands the utmost retribution, forgives only those who stormed the Capitol to keep him in power, not exactly the poster child for Mercy. Of course he exploded on social media that the pastor was lousy, stupid, a Trump hater, a liberal snowflake and totally out of line. At least he didn’t call her a Horse Face. But one of his minions suggested she should be put on the Deportation List. Adolph would be proud.

If you want a quick portrait of where we’re at in America today, you got it. The pardons of the insurrectionists that stormed the Capitol January 6th, attacking the cops, sacking the offices, well, there’s another signpost of what’s coming. Compassionate conservatism? I don’t think so. Vengeance, retribution, attacks on any and all critics, these are the order of the day. So much for the guardrails of democracy, we’re on a track toward something darker than anyone could have imagined.

Strap in, gird yer loins, buckle up and get ready for a rough ride. You think the Proud Boys aren’t licking their lips, checking their ammo, firing up for the next assault, you didn’t study the history of Adolph’s rise to power. The nazis are here and they have the Fuhrer they want. Mercy? Those days are over….

Now I love used car dealers as much as the next guy. You put an alligator in a white shirt, cheap shoes and some black slacks, give him a commission for every victim he drags into the sewer lagoon, I think you got a pretty accurate image. It’s a dog eat dog world, we all know that, but even in the jungle the beasts of prey don’t take smirking joy at dragging down their dinner. A used car salesman, he takes the kill the way we take a joke.

Just when I thought there was pretty much no lower bar these reptiles could belly down to, along comes Missionary Motors in town. What lemon would Jesus drive? You know, if he was thinking of trading in the donkey. Got a nice Calvary Cross where the T is in Motors. I don’t know if these folks read the chapter in Trump’s favorite book or not, the one where Jesus turns over the tables in the temple where the merchants had set up shop, but I sort of doubt it. Course neither has Trump so maybe they can be forgiven, no pun intended. But there’s something sacrilegious about using your religion to sell cars. Or mattresses. Or real estate. Or breakfast cereal. Or just about anything else outside ecumenical material. If you ask me….

I wonder what we would think if Moslem Motors rolled into our fair city and set up shop. What would Muhammed drive? Mostly I think he would be driven out of town. Which is where I hope Mission Motors goes next.

A few years back I stopped to get gas at Elger Bay Mega-Shop and was accosted by a guy in a panel truck with a fish on his tailgate and a business name stenciled across the side: Hiz Biz. Hiz being, you guessed it, God. Me, I had a fish too, but inside the fish it said DARWIN. He asked in an accusatory way if I knew what that DARWIN fish meant and I said I had a pretty good idea, something to do with evolution if my memory served me well. He spluttered, “They sell those fish at the erotic bakery in Seattle!” I said, “You could have slapped me with a mackerel, but what’s your point?” He told me they baked cakes that looked like penises.

“This will come as sad news,” I said, “but why would I care? It’s a free country.”

I guess it’s a slippery slope, freedom. And maybe I need to shut up about selling cars for Jesus too. Or Muhammed. You got to buy em from somebody.

The Flatheads were parked at the Diner, their vintage machines waxed and gleaming in the packed dirt parking lot. They meet every Wednesday morning, rain, shine or engine check warning, slide a few tables together, then hold court as they argue after-market carburetors and auto body strategies. And, of course, politics du jour. The rest of us customers either avoid Wednesdays or else come for the show as a willing audience. I count myself in the latter.

Today’s improv started out with a lively discussion of Jerry’s newly purchased ’50 GMC 5 window pickup, original paint, completely stock, nearly immaculate except for a small rust hole in the left quarterpanel. The Flatheads debated whether Jerry should leave the original paint alone or go for a new spray job, an old argument between the purists and the car show enthusiasts.

But somewhere between the spray booth boyz and the ‘let er be’ crowd, the conversation veered without warning into the deep ditch of this year’s elections. Fairlane Frank, a proponent of two tone Fords, had tossed a fork with a clatter on to his half eaten chicken fried steak, splattering white gravy across the formica DMZ. “Trump’s no Republican,” he growled in a mouthful of rage and food. “He’s hi-jacked the whole party.” Pat, proud owner of a 1972 Gremlin and recipient of countless jeers and guffaws, cheerily suggested the time might be right for a 3rd party. “The Know Nothings,” he suggested as a name.

And so it began…. Bel Aire Bobby retorted that we already have that party, opening up a wild round of just which party qualified before Brenda, coffee pot in hand, said, “Maybe you boys should stick with 4 barrel carburetors and dual hemis, leave the politics to the professionals.”

Frank started to object but Brenda stared him down with her headlights on high beam while she poured seconds and thirds. “Frank, I’m makin minimum wage here. No benefits, no insurance, no 401-K. Now my kid needs an operation. Trust me, you don’t want to get me going on politics.” And with that, she whirled to the next table. None of the car guyz said a word for a full minute. Like the man said, all politics is local. But when they left, the tip from the boyz, usually measley, was enough to buy Pat’s Gremlin and pay for a paint job to boot.

Back awhile ago I bought a new truck, the first and only new one I ever had. Being the proud owner of a brand spanking new Toyota Tacoma, I decided to stick with the oil maintenance schedule and let the dealer put genuine Toyota filters on and good synthetics in. The first oil changes were free, but once I’d had a couple, they charged me. As I recall, about 45 bucks. Even washed the rig for free. Little by little, of course, the cost started inching up, five more bucks at first, then a jump of 20. Inflation. Maybe that supply chain issue around Covid. Who knows, I just paid the dealer.

At around 50,000 miles my nice service lady took me aside to let me know my water pump was going out. Really? I asked. I haven’t noticed any fluid leaking or funny noises. She assured me that yes, really, but they could schedule a replacement for a bit over 600 dollars. I said thanks but I’ll handle this myself. You’d think, I said ruefully, that a brand new truck would get more mileage out of a water pump. Says something about Toyota, I guess. My service lady didn’t really care for this line of talk.

I have driven Toyotas practically my entire adult life. And the reason I buy them, used, new, battered or pristine is that they seldom break down, even up to a quarter of a million miles. One that had about 170K on it, I actually had to replace the water pump. So it wasn’t like I expected the things to last my lifetime. But this one, on inspection once I got home, was fine. At 120K it still is. Needless to say, my trust in my dealer plummeted.

I had my oil changed by my scamming dealership yesterday. The last one had cost me 80 dollars, but a few months later it had ratcheted up to 105. I guess that supply chain problem never really got fixed. Or maybe too many people refused to have their perfectly good water pumps repaired for them to clear their terribly slim profit margin. When I paid, the dour woman who has been scowling at her desk for as long as I’ve owned my truck told me my credit card would be charged an extra 3%. Piddly, I know, but … just another notch down on my opinion of the place. The free coffee was so watery, I had had to throw it down the drain, and trust me, I’m not fussy about coffee when I’m on the road.

I paid my 105 plus the 3 plus surcharge. When I got to my truck at the far end of the service parking area, I saw that the free wash job was apparently no longer part of their goodwill package. The little sticker they usually affix to my windshield, the one that is supposed to remind if the Needs Service light on my dashboard somehow burns out, was tossed on the dash where it almost went down into Area 51. The usual mileage they want me back is 5000 miles before the next oil change, but when I looked up the lifespan of synthetic oils, the consensus is 10,000. Can’t be too careful, I suspect my service lady would say. When I stuck the reminder sticker on my windshield myself, I happened to notice that the next recommended service was only 4000 miles, probably just a typo, right? I’m wondering if the service light was downsized too to pop on at 4000.

Geez, if you can’t trust a car dealer in these tough economic times, who can you trust? My next oil change I’ll probably do myself. Right after a good cup of my own coffee.