The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Down here on the wild wild South End, rugged individualism still reigns supreme. Little wonder there were cheers from the trailer parks to the gated communities for the fast exit from the Paris Climate Accords. “We have to take care of our own,” Fairlane Freddy, one of the regulars at the Diner, said the morning the news broke. “I’m tired of babysitting the rest of the world.”

“That’s right,” Jerry chimed in. “This isn’t about coal jobs, it’s about independence. The Chinese got off easy and we’re supposed to pick up the heavy end.” Two Toke Tom, his fork halfway to his mouth with a load of biscuits drenched in gravy, stopped suddenly and I shook my head no, but too late. Tom and I were badly outnumbered by this mob of Flatheads here for the vintage car club’s breakfast meeting. Why is it, I thought, that we can’t just leave well enough alone?

“You think maybe driving those carbon spewing old Hudsons is a God given right, I suppose,” Tom asked, his gravy dripping onto the formica of our table, eliciting an involuntary groan from me and more than a few raised eyebrows from the Flathead tables. I began to calculate an escape plan, something to do with a trip to the rest room then out the back door to my waiting beat up Toyota pickup. With a little luck I could toss a ten dollar bill for my tab without undue notice.

But Tom was suddenly smiling. “America first, that’s the deal!” With that he lofted his fork into his grin. Freddy was caught off guard a moment. “That’s right, Tom, us first. You got a problem with that?”

Two Toke was chewing languidly now, a cow with her cud, unperturbed. “Not me,” he finally said. “Trump knocked that president from Montenegro out of his way for a photo op. Got to look out for himself, I guess. The days of courtesy are over, eh? New sheriff in town.” That bathroom near the exit began to look like two miles away.

Anita suddenly appeared with a steaming coffee pot. “Boys, how many times I got to tell you, NO POLITICS at breakfast. Take that to the Pilot Lounge, they don’t care if you drink and run your mouth. We got families here, gentlemen, paying customers. So zip it up, that’s all I’m gonna tell you.” She turned to
Two Toke. “You want a refill or the bill?”

Tom chuckled sheepishly. “I apologize, Anita. I’d prefer a refill.”

“How about you, Fred?” she asked, still holding the pot. Fred nodded yeah. “Fill Tom’s first, why don’tcha, Anita.” And Anita did just that.

Michael Steele, former Republican National Committee Chairman, when asked why no one wanted to work in the White House, said he didn’t expect Trump to finish his first term in office and that his ‘clients’ should look forward to Vice President Pence’s ascension to the throne. Why? Because, he said, no one wants to work for ‘crazy’. This is harsh news for the Prez. More faux news, maybe, or just another Republican calling the kettle black, hard to tell.

But the buzzards are circling, Donald, and not just the FBI. Who knows, maybe they’ll drag you out in a strait jacket, not handcuffs. You can plead insanity. If I were on that jury, and please, God, put me on that jury, I’d find it a plausible defense. I might be inclined toward leniency, something like 20 years of public service. Real public service, Mr. President, not Self Service. But I wouldn’t bet on my fellow jurors feeling so compassionate. Treason, after all, even if it’s only for profit, not politics, is a vile crime and when you’re hauled in for those Russian payoffs, you and your son-in-law and a few accomplices, don’t count on me to step in front of the lynch mob arguing that they should pity you because you’re batshit crazy.

No, high crimes and treason do not engender compassion or forgiveness. You fooled a lot of us a lot of the time, but those times are over soon. I don’t really know how federal prison works things, but maybe they’ll let you Tweet once a day. You can profess ignorance, you can cry foul, you can howl that justice was not served. You can hire the best attorneys money can buy. You can hope to get your case taken to the Supreme Court where you got a Justice or two on the bench. But it won’t help. Crazy, isn’t it?

We’re taking down some of the statues in the South of all those Rebel heroes, maybe about time after 150 years since the Civil War. Kinda sad news for the folks who still fly the Confederate flag back up the dirt roads where history got written a little differently. Stone Mountain, the second largest chunk of granite next to Gibraltar, has those 4 generals on horseback large as the presidents on Mt. Rushmore. Yankee presidents, to some.

I’m all FOR putting those Civil War statues in a museum somewhere in Mobile or Vicksburg or Chattanooga. After all, they are historic. But as heroes? I can’t say the folks who fought for slave-holders should be honored any more than the Grand Wizards of the KKK. Call me politically correct and slap me with a New York Times Sunday edition, but c’mon, the South needs to accept defeat with that much touted grace they claim as theirs. I know, Washington and Jefferson and the boyz had slaves too. And they’re on Rushmore. And we should all acknowledge their part in perpetuating the stain on this country. The Constitution, that document the Supreme Court originalists wants to cling to like lichen to a hard rock, deemed blacks as only partially human. Women, not even a mention.

Maybe there’s too many statues anyway. Obscure generals, folks we’ve long since forgotten even though the statues were spozed to help us remember them into perpetuity. We live in an era where fame is fast and furious, about the length of a mayfly’s mating period. Wouldn’t bother most of us if we replaced them with People Magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year or the Academy Award winners for best actress and actor. Or just vote on Facebook, see who gets the most Likes, then put statues up in Times Square or the Washington Mall.

And just to make it interesting, we could put a few Shaming Statues up too. Course, that might mean keeping those Reb generals around a little longer….

You may be like me, just want to wake up one morning and not read some new revelation about our Fearless Leader in the headlines of the lying media. The boy loves the spotlight, no doubt about it, and I suppose to him all press is good press. Although, lately, I suspect even he might like to hide in the shrubs like Spicer. Good time maybe to take a sabbatical to some quiet retreat like Saudi or Israel.

Today the fun headline was a report that the Republicans, in a closed door meeting, had stated that Putin was probably paying Trump. This from Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy and followed by Paul Ryan who said Mum’s the Word, no leaks from the Team. Now that it has been leaked, the spin is that it was all a joke. Keeping a lid on it was to prevent the public from realizing the GOP had such highly evolved senses of humor, no doubt. The real humor, of course, comes from the stories changing at the speed of sound to fit the latest fast breaking facts. Truth has never been funnier. Or more slippery.

I know the Russians are laughing. And who can blame them? If they really are paying the Prez, the money is well spent. Saturday Night Live ought to be ponying up a share of the payoff too. Ditto Colbert and Samantha B plus half a dozen others. If Trump wasn’t really rich before, we can make him a wealthy man before he abandons ship. This is why those of us with intact funny bones should consider a KickStart for Donald, mostly to keep rubles out of our politics and still churn out the laughs. America, most hilarious country on the planet. Who needs a laughtrack when we have the NY Times?

The Salmon River, where we’re staying this week, is one of the only large rivers in America not dammed. It’s also the largest river that starts and ends in one state, this one being Idaho. From our cabin in a bend of the river we can see about a mile of it as it churns through this canyon with its steep walls on one side and green hills on the other. There’s an island across from us and more upstream, all slowly submerging as the Salmon rises about one foot a day. I figure at this rate we need to leave in three days and hope the only road out of here is navigable.

We’re the only renters. Fishing’s no good in these rapid muddy currents and cabins nearby are vacant too. The guy who rents these bought them yesterday, cash on the barrelhead, lodge, cabins, shop, tools, furniture, the whole she-bang from the previous owner who has Stage 4 cancer and is now in Mayo receiving daily chemo and radiation. The new owner tells me it’s human papillomavirus, an STD, caused from ‘eating too much pussy’, pardon my Idaho French, Bob says. His face and neck are swollen and if it hasn’t spread lower, he might have a small chance of survival. If it has, Bob tells me matter of factly, ‘he’s fucked.’

If this river rises a few more feet, someone else is fucked. My boy put every dollar he’d made in his 69 years on this resort, his 5th entrepreneurial venture in the outdoor hospitality industry, from Ohio to Illinois, Missouri to Oregon and now here, campgrounds, cabins, lodges, some seasonal, some year round. I assume he’s no neophyte. Still, he must be noticing the No Vacancy sign isn’t going to be turned on any time soon and the season is short up here at 4000 feet elevation.

He tells me he doesn’t care and I believe him — although I haven’t heard what his wife thinks. If I had to choose a spot to go slowly bankrupt in, this is better than most. Either way, I figure he’ll die rich.