The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Imagine yourself thousands of miles from the next terra firma, on a small dot of land, warm breezes, almost a paradise. With active volcanoes towering above you from every point on the island. Welcome to Hawaii, the Big Island. Everywhere you go is evidence of the last eruptions, nothing but lava fields, some old, some new, some still venting sulfurous emissions, cars and houses incinerated, Danger Will Robinson, Danger!

Up above you the crater glows hellish orange after dark. Drive the highways and you’ll see mostly uninhabited lava beds. We’ve seen a couple of coffee tree groves and nut farms but not much agriculture. For that matter, outside tourism, not much business. I’m told 72% of the island’s employment works in government, schools, administration, fire, police, etc. I’m also told unemployment is rampant.

On top of that add the smoldering grievances of the native population, their land co-opted, their culture subverted, now relegated to essentially a service industry work force. Some of the high schools have a 30% graduation rate. Who needs an education when there aren’t many jobs that require one?

I know, I know, it’s just a vacation — I’m not searching for a place to live. But … I will say, the weather is perfect.

We’re camped in what most Americans would call the Life of Riley, a timeshare apartment in Kona, Hawaii. Swimming pools, movie stars, fancy eating table, clubhouse, golf courses galore, gated entries, high end shopping mall, spas — no need whatsoever to leave the elite compound of Hiltons and Marriots unless you’re crazy enough to venture out among the natives.

Sure, it’s wonderful to rub shoulders and elbows with the retired 1% and let the small army of service slaves trim the hibiscus, skim the pools, change the linens and attend to us and our three other friends’ every whim and need. After all, don’t we deserve pampering? We did, you know it, work those jobs that paid, oh, slightly more than menial labor. Hard jobs, stressful jobs. And do not give me that WOKE talk of white privilege!! You can’t guilt us anymore, especially not here in the land of the pampered few. Everybody had the same chance, says it right in the Constitution … or maybe the Declaration of Independence. What? You think Tom Jefferson or George Washington should’ve freed their help? C’mon, it’s a complicated world.

Right now we have housekeeping bringing in fresh towels and new sheets. Lap of Luxury, buddy. No way am I using my towel more than once or twice. Or a sheet that I slept in. Bring me a freshly laundered one. Is that too damn much to expect? The American Dream in a nutshell. Call me crazy but I’m bored out of my frigging mind. Should have learned to golf, I guess….

You might think the Hawaiian Islands would be like Galapagos, isolated as they are thousands of miles from any shore, another Darwinian study in evolutionary flora and fauna. But no, humans brought in their tropical fruit trees and favorite plants, altering the landscape by design but mostly by accident.
Feral goats roam the lava beds and wild donkeys menace the highways. Rats came in with the sailing ships and with no predators flourished nicely. Slugs with a disease transmitted by those same rats can infect humans with a brain-eating virus or bacteria or some damn thing that can lead to death. Our friends here in Hilo won’t eat anything that hits the ground ripe or not. Paradise comes with a caveat.

I spotted a wild turkey yesterday and a small flock of escaped parakeets today. Feral cats roam the ground here looking for tourist handouts. Most unexpected of all was the mongoose that humped across the lawn and into the rough next to the golf course, a species introduced to control the rat population. Course, mongoose are daytime hunters while rats rule the night. Now they got both. We humans don’t make very efficient gods when it comes to landscaping the Garden of Eden, big surprise. Can’t wait to see what ‘solutions’ we dream up for climate change, probably a global catastrophe of our own making worse than leaving the problem alone.

Nevertheless, I have to admit the mongoose is a surprise species to a tourist like myself. And so far as I can tell, the cobra population is zero. Mark one up for us humans.

One of the pathologies of my generation, the Boomers, is the penchant for dystopian expectation. If one of us laments the oncoming global warming inaction, another will pipe up with what worries her most is the potential of Artificial Intelligence singularity, which, not to be outdone, another will suggest genetic manipulation could lead to the end of the human era. After that it’s a potpourri of End of the World scenarios. Nano-technology, robot warfare, fast forming ice ages, pandemics, nuclear annihilation, Tik Tok viral cat videos, just about everything short of alien invasion. And sometimes even that, extraterrestrial angst.

I guess we’re nervous nellies. That, or we watch too many cheesy sci-fi movies we must think are documentaries. In full disclosure, I’m one of those who are pessimistic about the future. Advances in science don’t seem like the solution anymore — in fact, they seem like the problem, no offense to Elon and the Silicon Crew.
Sure, maybe we’ll merge happily with the cyborgs, cure cancer, invent workable cold fusion, ready rockets to intercept incoming asteroids, halt nuclear proliferation and find a cure for the common cold before it’s too late for us homo sapiens. Science, a powerful tool — even if half of us no longer believe in it.

I try to tell myself be happy, you’re an old coot, probably won’t see the volcano blow or the earthquake that drops Camano into the Sound, be glad you don’t have kids to worry about their bleak future. I know, kind of a selfish attitude, just enjoy what ya got, turn off Fox News and smell the genetically altered roses. Leave the cleanup for the androids. With any luck they’ll program themselves for optimism. Even happiness….

I’m just coming up to speed with the WOKE offensive, the front line of the bitter Culture Wars now, evidently. The Ukraine war has stalled for the foreseeable future, no more classified documents have been found lately in the underwear drawers of past and present presidents lately, so obviously the Tucker Carlsons of the world need new ammo in their endless battle to keep America safe from homos and trans, immigrants and latinx.

M&M’s! Those dancing multi-colored dipped in chocolate cartoon figures with no clothes except for footwear ranging from tennis shoes to cowboy boots. But now, the Mars Company, those WOKE SOB’s have altered some of the shoes. For those like Tucker who analyze every nuance for cultural contamination the way the Taliban check for hidden musical instruments among their minions, the change from high heels on one M&M to sneakers obviously meant those who oppose sexy M&M’s may have won the day, but, BUT, not the war if the Tuckers and the religious fanatics have their way.

Compassionate conservatism — if it ever existed in anyone’s mind but the Bush Dynasty — is dead. The GOP is fighting Disneyland, Hollywood, all the evil forces of Satanic Liberalism that threaten the Old Confederacy, the Southern heroes, the slave owners, racists, sexists, xenophobic yahoos who think Eisenhower was the last enlightened President and Leave it to Beaver was a documentary and the zenith of American values.

Someone needs to explain to Tucker’s listeners that M&M’s are not political, they’re candy. But women and blacks, trans and gays, they’re people. You don’t like it, Afghanistan is the place for you.