The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

At the end of the ‘60’s Viet Nam was at its peak, 500,000 of us fighting a losing cause halfway around the globe against an ‘enemy’ that mostly wanted an end to colonial rule. Our presidents, both Democrat and Republican, knew the war was hopeless by then but refused to admit both defeat and poor judgement. In the ivory towers of universities, the Draft swept through like a plague pandemic, galvanizing the apathetic into militant reaction. At my college, the Univ. of Wisconsin/Madison, demonstrations broke out and the National Guard bivouacked on the campus grounds. A student strike was called and the university basically ground to a standstill.

In Ohio at Kent State the Guard killed four demonstrators who were guilty of nothing more than watching a protest against the War.

Looking back over half a century, I’m not sure our protests ended the war any earlier. They ended Lyndon Johnson’s chances at another term and the police riot in response to the Chicago Democratic Convention closed the door on his successor, Hubert Humphrey, and gave Nixon the election. So I’m a little conflicted about protest movements’ effectiveness.

Nevertheless… this week Trump wants a military parade on his birthday. Already he’s sent 2000 National Guard into Los Angeles to protect ICE and their deportations with 200 Marines activated just in case the L.A.cops and the California state patrol can’t handle the mostly peaceful demonstrations, more a test run for future illegal use of the military to quell legal protests. The war this time is not against an overseas enemy — it’s against the rule of law, the Constitution and ultimately the very foundations of what seems to be an extremely precarious democracy.

All over the country thousands of demonstrations are planned to protest this President and his anti-American regime. Do I think they’ll make a difference? Maybe not. But the time has come to say what Congress hasn’t said, nor the Supreme Court: enough is enough. We the people need to speak up now. We didn’t vote for this and even the folks who voted Trump. It’s time to vote again — with our feet. I’m hitting the bricks this weekend. Again. Enough is enough!

I have a sequoia I planted below our house, down where the hill levels out into a ravine. I planted it as a seedling instead of buying a wedding ring for myself since I really dislike a ring. At least one on my finger. Ten years later we built the house up on that hill and from a second story perch I’ve been watching it reach up over the woodshop below, then slowly rise to the new house’s level, go beyond the height of the barn across the ravine and above our own house.

I have to step forward into the window now to see its top. At 43 years old it’s still pretty much a baby so far as a sequoia goes. On our anniversary Karen and I wrapped our arms around its trunk and barely locked hands. With any luck it’ll outlive us by, oh, 500 years or so. In my own lifetime, with a little luck, it’ll be the biggest tree on the place, which is no mean accomplishment considering the five redwoods we planted from seed, a few humongous big leaf maples, some second growth firs and one cedar that, for now, holds the title at a circumference of 13 feet and must be the oldest tree by far on our seven acres.

I’d like to think when we no longer prowl this property, it’ll be a forest again, not some logged off scabwoods the way it was when we first arrived. The field that once grew alfalfa for our goats is now a small arboretum of oaks and maples and beeches, rhododendrons twice as high as us, walnuts and hickories, a carpet of shamrocks and periwinkle growing underneath.

We are definitely shaped by our surroundings, I know that much. And it’s no small pleasure to return the favor by shaping them. The orchards, the flower gardens, the riot of 150 rhodies all blooming over a slowly unfolding spring, the vegetable gardens, the shrubs, the back woods —- all of this becoming as much a part of us as we became part of it. If you were to ask if I was an environmentalist, I would have to say no, probably not. I’m mostly just part of the environment.

A buddy just wrote me that the Trump Library had burned down and both books had gone up in flames. The sad part, he said, was that the President hadn’t even finished coloring the second one.

Other than the gossip section of the NY Post, chances are our President hasn’t read much of anything. When asked once what his favorite book was, he famously replied the Bible. Other than, of course, his own ghost-written book Art of the Deal. In response to the question of naming a few favorite passages in the Good Book (presumably the Bible), he didn’t want to get into that, more a personal matter, next question.

So the idea of a Trump Library, that repository for his memorandums, logs, meeting notes, private collection of books, etc., well, the notion is nothing if not oxymoronic. Or totally moronic, if you want to be harsh. The man destroys his notes and memos, no doubt the influence of the mafia attorney Roy Cohn, to eliminate the potential for incriminating evidence. History will not be kind to this man of few letters and constant words. It will, of course, have the Trump Bibles and his many ghost-written books for sale. Along with the rest of his merch.

When the design concept goes out for bid on the architecture of the place, I’m going to submit my own renderings. Like the Viet Nam War Memorial, mine will be subterranean, descending down into the earth, windowless, probably a very small footprint, say, 1000 sq feet maximum to give the space a sense of being ‘full’, floor to low ceiling. Inside, past the admission desk where visitors will be charged for the privilege, maybe a couple of computer stations but more likely banks of televisions mounted on the walls with Newsmax and Fox still fawning over the huuuge accomplishments of a second Administration. And of course, bigger-than-life cut-outs of the Donald with John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe. For an additional entry fee visitors can watch all episodes of The Apprentice, not sure why they’d want to since they never really disappeared to syndication, just became the new politics when reality TV actually became real.

Down at the Cupcake Hut, the South End’s only bakery, the talk over the Hobart bread mixer consists mostly of yeasty gossip and glutinous outrage over fears of being asked to bake a gay wedding cake. Rita Mae, the current owner and born-again Christian, was slapping dough down on the kneading table the way a sado-masochist masseuse would pound a hated client.

“No way,” she was fuming for any and all of us pastry lovers standing in front of the display case filled with bismarks and jelly rolls, danishes and apple fritters, muffins and doughnuts, worrying we’d never get our orders until Rita Mae was finished slapping that loaf silly. “I won’t do it. My beliefs come before the law and my law is Higher than theirs and that’s the real truth,” she grunted with a ferocious fist to the lump on the table.

But she wiped the flour off her hands on her apron and slid behind the pastry case to take our orders. Ronnie took a few doughnuts for his landscaping crew and I ordered a fritter and a cup of coffee. To go. I sure didn’t want to sit at one of the little round formica tables while Rita Mae was in one of her Full Rants.

“What’s next?” she shouted and at first I thought she meant what else did I want. “That’ll about do it, Rita,” I shrugged, wishing I was already out that front door.

“Boy oh boy, that’s the truth,” she retorted, ringing up my coffee and fritter. “Next thing’ll be wedding cakes for polygamists. Who knows where this is going? Sodom and Gomorrah right here and I’m supposed to cater the orgies??”

I could feel my sweet tooth going rotten, decaying faster than civilization. “I don’t know, Rita, maybe it’s not really that big an issue. I mean, you don’t get all that much call for wedding cakes, do you? Much less same sex ones.”

Rita Mae shot me the evil eye and I shut up. Ronnie, always the provocateur, turned at the doorway, his bag of pastries held high. “Love thy neighbor, Rita Mae!” Rita Mae grabbed a day old muffin from the tray beside the register and just missed Ronnie as he slammed the door on his way out. The muffin exploded against the back of the sign that said WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. That was probably going to be my last fritter, I decided. I can read the writing on the wall about as well as Rita Mae can read her Good Book. “You have a nice day,” she frowned as she gave me change and somehow I knew I wouldn’t.

Take two of the most egotistical a-holes in the galaxy, offer them more power than anyone else on this planet, then give them time. Before very long these two mental midgets will go from sniping to snarling and eventually to the ultimate smackdown. X vs Truth Social, Musk vs. Trump, mano y mano, and you, the public, get a ringside seat. This is what America voted for. This, rightchere, ladies and gentlemen, is entertainment!!

Musk threw a quarter trillion dollars to buy our boy Trump an election. Money, in case you’ve been spending too much time parsing the correct pronoun for your kids and colleagues, talks. In fact, it screams. It hollers. It yells across the canyons and from sea to shining sea. Freedom of speech, so saith the Supreme Court. The rich are free to run the country without limitations. You get one vote, the billionaires get one vote. Fair is fair. Until you factor in … well, the money. Nothing really new here, just plenty more of it from a very small % of us buying every election from city council to PTA president to Prez of the Yewnited States. Suck it up, buttercup, the game’s been rigged.

But money can flow in both directions and the E-boy is threatening anyone who votes for Il Douche’s big beautiful bill with being primaried. Ouch! The guy wants his quarter trillion back. He says he won’t pick up the astronauts at the Space Station. Trump will cancel billions in subsidies. Musk says Trump is in the Epstein files and the truth will out! The President counters with the accusation that Elon’s mother has a dog face! Musk writes that Donny should be impeached!

Obviously the Marquis of Queensberry Rules no longer apply. This is the Prom Queen/ Prom King girlfriend hair pulling mud wresting match of the century, a no holds barred, hitting below the belt encouraged, spitting, hitting, eyeball scratching extravaganza. And we all get a ringside seat. May both egos lose. But hopefully not until many many rounds of knockdown entertainment. Welcome to the Manosphere.