The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Fa la la la yerself! There’s an ominous vibe to this year’s holiday, what with the stock market acting like the proverbial snowball headed to hell, the President pulling the plug on the Kurds in Syria followed by the resignation of Mad Dog Mattis who may have been the last adult in the White House after Kelly was booted. The Grinch didn’t steal Christmas this year, it’s the government shutdown. The only folks who got what they wanted in their stockings hung with care are the right wing talk show pundits. The rest of us deplorables, it’s just more of the same, daily temper tweets, irrational outbursts, a never ending series of small seismic tremors that signal … what?

Year 3 in the Trump Regime, can you believe it? The Prez has pretty much emptied out the cabinet of naysayers so now he can proceed with whatever agenda de jour he wakes up with. Fire the Fed Chairman, why not? Bomb Tehran, might be okay. Armwrestle with Little Rocket Man, sure…. The cuffs are off the big guy now, he’s feeling cocky and as always certain of his every action. The Trump kids are advising him if he needs extra affirmation, Jared’s got the Middle East just about straightened out and everything is coming up roses.

Except … well, that witch hunt. Damn, if it weren’t for Mueller and his 100% Democrat associates, America would be great again already. Instead, there’s this nagging cloud of corruption, collusion and criminality that hovers constantly outside the President’s TV room where Fox and Friends defends his every tweet. Those pesky indictments keep popping up and old loyalists now are singing like canaries. He didn’t get Time Magazine’s Man of the Year and this makes for a sour mood, forget that it’s all fake news anyway, still, it would’ve been a nice accolade and this time he wouldn’t make the mistake of letting Stormy Daniels roll it up and smack his face on his naked ass. No sir, he learned that lesson!

So if you’re feeling uneasy this season, trust me, you’re not alone in avoiding mistletoe and office Christmas parties belting out White Christmas. Times aren’t so simple. And you’re no longer the innocent citizen you once were. Better get used to it. As for a New Year’s resolution, good luck. Impeach him, lock him up (I know you’re considering it), you get Pence. Me, I’d rather have the Grinch back.

I’ve been hearing a lot of chatter on the airwaves lately about disconnecting from Facebook. Folks are starting to tune into the good people at their favorite social media platform who really aren’t so much interested in their privacy as they are the monetization of their information value. Ya think??? Mark Z and his munchkin minions talk a good line about an open society being a good society, but now that the Russians and the trollers have access to your personal life, people are noticing what havoc this is producing.

So … there’s a movement afoot to disengage. That should show those geeks what’s what! Yeah, good luck with that. It’s like saying you’re concerned about global warming so you won’t buy gas for your car. Or turn on the heat in your house. I don’t have a Facebook account and if you think Mark is worried, think again. He has billions of subscribers. And plenty of corporations he can sell their data to. He’s making money, just like Amazon, just like Exxon, just like Google. You think he cares if the world is worse off? C’mon, he’s just another greedy monopolist. Sure, he talks like an evangelical, bringing truth and light to a world too long in the dark with its sad secrecy, its puny privacy, its pathetic avoidance of public scrutiny. Wouldn’t we all be happier if we shared our innermost desires and dreams?

Well, my dream was to be left alone, Mark. My dream was a world where fake news was understood to be phony baloney, not some viral campaign waged on your platform, one where truth was spelled with a capital T, not disparaged as bullshit. My dream was a country that valued courtesy and what is now condemned as political correctness, not one that spewed venom and trolled anyone who disagreed with another point of view.

I don’t blame Mark totally. I blame him and the others for being blind to the effects of their greed. You want to delete Facebook, be my guest, but you’re spitting into a digital wind. This is a monopoly that needs to be regulated, broken up, curtailed, sat upon, called to account. Unfriend them, sure, but lobby for the government to stop this. They’ve already done irreparable harm. If you think they’ll regulate themselves, call me, I have some Exxon stocks to sell ya.

Two Toke Tom and myself were quaffing a couple of Christmas cheers down at the Pilot House Lounge yesterday, talking about the State of the Union, the last election, Santa’s illegal immigration status and our plans for the holidays. Me, I go away with the mizzus for 3 or 4 days, somewhere that hasn’t heard of Christmas or else is too impoverished to want to participate. We go with a few other childless friends, fellow bah humbuggers, hoping to avoid the DMZ of the War on Christmas we’ve been hearing about for way too many years.

“And you?” I asked Two Toke.

“Same drill,” he answered, holding his glass up for Jerry behind the bar to refill. Jerry had a red Santa stocking cap on, the tail slung over his shoulder. The place was humming and Jerry was hustling to keep up. “Going down to the Shelter and serve grub to the homeless,” Tom said, draining the last of his current beer. Tom had been doing this since I could remember.

“You make me feel like Scrooge’s black sheep kid,” I muttered and nodded to Jerry that yeah, I’d take another round, Tiny Tim would have to go hungry while his old man got hammered at the pub.

“Guilty conscience?” Jerry asked. “Not for long,” I answered, “maybe about one more beer. Tom here serves Christmas dinners to the homeless.”

“I get a free dinner myself,” Tom told Jerry, almost apologetically. Jerry shook his head. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” he said over his shoulder with the Santa tail bobbing a white ball. When he came back with our drinks he said to Two Toke, “On the house, man.”

“Mine too?” I chimed in. Jerry laughed. “Oh, what the hell, yours too. Merry Christmas, boyz.

“You too, Jerry,” T.T. said.

“And to all a good night,” I answered, ever the comic smartass. What I meant to say was we need a few more Toms in this world.

I don’t need to tell you Christmas started a little early this year. I know, it does every year. Apparently there’s no need to wait til we’ve digested half a ton of turkey to move on to the next holiday, just step right off from overeating to overconsuming. If you’re worried about a so-called war on Christmas, I got some real good news for you: Santa is winning! And so, apparently, are the retailers and so are the Chinese.

Even on the Scroogish South End the muzak droning Bing Crosby chestnuts has become a tinselly tinnitus. Folks leave their Christmas lights up 365 days now, why bother crawling up a precarious ladder to pull the shack decoration down for the one month we aren’t counting down the day til the credit card bills hit JACKPOT?

Call me a curmeudgeon, label me a Grinch and hit me on the head with Aunt Pearl’s fruitcake, but our holiday strategy is we hightail it off the South End when Christmas gets close. Nowadays we grab a few friends who don’t have kids or family that necessitate a 2nd mortgage to fill a tree with presents and we head to places so bleak, so impoverished, so beaten down that they don’t bother with lights or tinsel or commercial trappings. Used to be we could escape the hoopla down here, but not anymore. Naw, you have to be farther off the beaten path to escape the holiday onslaught than Camano Island, even the South End.

I’d tell you where we exile ourselves, but then half of you would follow us off to serenity and a quiet holiday devoid of WalMarts and strip mall outlets. No offense, we’re sure not trying to wage war on Christmas. And we sure don’t want to collapse the economy. We only want to celebrate Christmas the way it once was, with friends and good cheer. Just not all year long.