The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I suppose most of you, at one time or another, have considered printing your own money. Just bypass the greenback of dollar and establish your own currency system. Usually sovereign nations do that, something to do with national interests, but if you were big enough, oh, say about the size of an Amazon or a Google, you might ask yourself why am I bothering with yen and yuan and loonies when I can just go directly to the billions of folks who subscribe to our platform, go directly to the bank we can establish ourselves. And if you’re a digital format, you can jump right into cyber-currency.

Well, Facebook is the first one to pounce on this idea. You’d trust them to handle your money with the utmost concern for your privacy, right? They tell us they’re concerned about all those billions of folks who have Facebook pages who don’t have access to a bank so what they’re doing is offering a service basically for the poor. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Almost philanthropic.

Almost. Mark Zuckerberg isn’t happy with just 2.3 billion subscribers and billions in advertising dollars selling ads and client information. Naw, he’s like Bezos and the Google Boyz, he’s after world domination. There’s something pathologically messianic about these fellows and their techie pals. It doesn’t smell exactly like greed, but more like power. Facebook has a plan to make crypto-currency the new Coin of the Realm. Not enough that their platform makes it possible to manipulate elections here and abroad, naw, they want to become a kingdom beyond the reach of Rome.

I don’t know what these clever little shits will dream up next, I really don’t. A new religion? Artificial Intelligence that enslaves humanity? A cure for the common cold? Our kids are half psychotic with the ‘likes’ and ‘unfriending’ that adolescents take far too seriously. They’re addicted to the social medias, they’re unhappy, they’re stressed to the roof. They’re on anti-depressants at 12 years old.

I don’t think getting hooked on a cyber-currency is going to cure what ails them. What ails them is a world moving way too fast, changing in ways Mark and the Tech Czars haven’t factored in beyond a profit margin, flying off its axis before our very eyes. No wonder they’re depressed. No wonder we are too….

A friend just invited me to join her and her ensemble for a night of reverie at the Stanwoodopolis Hotel’s fabled Karaoke Night. In case you are unfamiliar with the Hotel, count yourself one of the Lucky Ones. The Hotel, ever since I had the misfortune to stumble into the place back in 1977, is what my brother refers to as a Bucket of Blood. Meaning, not so much the violence of the joint, but just a sad watering hole for, well, for want of a better word, losers. Unfriendly losers. Losers with no jobs or jobs they hate. The kind of place where I can order a beer and move to a table in the corner with a notebook, only to find myself harassed by some beer bellied bully for literary pretension. That kind of place.

I once removed myself to their ‘beer garden’, a fenced off area behind the bar outside where the smokers congregate, only to have the first future cancer victim amble up to ask if I had a light. ‘Sorry’, I said, interrupted from my literary pretensions, ‘ I don’t smoke.’ “WHY NOT?’ he roared. This, essentially, sums up the camaraderie of the place. A little later another inebriated patron stumbled over to inform me the peanuts I was shelling from the big 55 gallon drum in the front room weren’t allowed back in the beer garden. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘appreciate the heads up.’ He was troubled when I kept shelling the nuts. ‘You can’t do that here,’ he said. ‘Got the message the first time,’ I replied, popping a couple and returning to my notebook. Pretty obviously he was considering some kind of intervention, but ultimately decided I was sober and he was probably going to take the worst of it. I half expected him to return with a posse. The nuts were only partially stale.

Add to these delightful personages the spectacle of drunken singing by folks who fancy themselves Friday night stars, the people who come back week after week for that small slice of the limelight, couraged up with shots of Jack Daniels and a beer chaser, encouraged by their friends. I know, let them have their fun, what business is it of mine? And of course, that is what I prefer to do, leave them to it, not become part of the audience or another singer in a pretend rock and roll band.

In full disclosure I have sung in the fabled Stanwoodopolis Hotel more than once. With the equally fabled South End String Band. It is a tough crowd, trust me. The usual patrons don’t like their haunt invaded by the likes of us and our own fans, not even for St. Pat’s Day. Like most Buckets of Blood, they prefer the company of their own tribe. And when you get right down to it, I guess I do too. The Band skipped the Hotel this St. Pats and I’m skipping the Karaoke Night too. I can always sing in the shower.

Old people like myself, I’ve noticed, love to talk about their ailments and maladies. My old man has made a pastime of medical recounting, nearly a body of literature regarding doctor visits and various pathologies. One night at a dinner party with old friends, ‘old’ being the operative word here, the kids of our friends finally interrupted the incredibly fascinating chronicle of knee injuries, dental woes, eyesight troubles expounded upon by their parents and begged to return to the internecine political wars we’d agreed to put aside and just enjoy our meal. Anything is better than listening to reports of operations, tooth extractions and gastro-intestinal triages, I guess.

I’ve been fairly lucky over the years, not much to report to my geriatric friends or you either. Until yesterday when, are you interested?, I took a whiz and about passed out with the pain. Felt like fire in the tunnel, since you asked. Urine like lava. Kinda scared me. Scared me even more when the next few trips to the bathroom were repeat performances. Usually I avoid doctors, clinics, hospitals, most of the medical apparatus, but damn, this seemed like something that couldn’t be ignored and hope it would just go away with clean living and a little time to heal.

Okay, I thought as I drove the 20 miles to the clinic in Stanwoodopolis, old age has finally come knocking. A couple hours later, one painful pee into the plastic cup and lab results that showed blood in the urine, my doc wrote a script for antibiotics, theorizing a possible infection in the kidney or bladder, if it doesn’t go away, start looking at cancer or prostate problems, chemo, radiation, probably update the will, make plans for cremation, say goodbye to friends and family.

Funny how sitting in a waiting room a few hours with people who exhibit all the malfunctions the human body is capable of can give you, oh, a slightly skewed tilt toward pessimism.

I left the clinic and drove to the pharmacy, stoic on my pity potty, telling myself I’d lived a good life, now it was time to pay the piper. While I waited for my antibiotics, I decided to take one more dreaded piss before the drive home and the pain was barely noticeable. Was I getting inured to pain? Toughened up? Accepting of my fate? After a long wait, I got my pills, took one with my own home remedy, a beer and hit the long road home, now a pitiable metaphor.

Got home still feeling a little sorry for myself, kissed the mizzus thinking, you know, for better or worse on those wedding vows, sat down and helped her clean crab for a late dinner. Last supper, maybe. Woe is me. But miracle of miracles, next bathroom expedition was normal. Pain was gone. Pissing was fun once again. Life was good. I would live! I would live to pee again! Pain free!

I assume, based on my vast medical experience as a graveyard weekend orderly, I passed a kidney stone. My lab tests came back this morning, all within acceptable parameters. I canceled my antibiotic regimen, told the funeral home to put the cremation on hold and said to hell with writing a will. Hopefully, for you and me both, this is the last medical story you’ll get from me for a very long while. Count yourself lucky. Me too!