The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Every blue moon a good idea comes rolling down to the South End. Or at least a crazy idea so goofus, it catches the air on fire around it. Viagra Falls exploded on the scene right before oil prices shot through the roof in Jimmy Carter’s reign. Ernie Crandall bought up the old Camp Camano cabins, all 12 of the dilapidated clapboard units, tore the worst two down, then restored the remaining 10 to like-new condition. Each had its own bathroom, unlike the shared bathhouse of the 1920’s, and each got a fully equipped kitchenette, a TV set with adult VCR movies, and a queen sized bed.

Ernie gave each cabin its uniquely distinct ‘theme’. Suite #7, for instance, was advertised as the “The Caveman: for the Primitive in all of us.” The Rancho Deluxe was touted as “a cross between rawhide and satin.” It sported cowhoof lamps and a table supported by three sets of longhorns. The Casanova had a “heart shaped bed, red boudoir and a shower curtain to make a sheik blush.” Ever the P.R. specialist, Ernie provided local reporters and their editor with free introductory accomodations. Needless to say, Viagra Falls received lavish praise and exceptional press coverage. The South End, to most Seattleites, soon became the Sodom and Gomorrah of the island archipelago, a playground for bacchanalian delights and salacious get-aways. Ernie was booked for six months in advance and the Falls, despite a cascade of water of any sort, was brimming to overflow.

All this notoriety brought not only customers, but the wrath of the Little Church of the Ravine, one of whose members was a County Health inspector. Septic violations became frequent and building code violations were uncovered. Not coincidentally #4 was renamed the Pastor’s Hostage Wife cabin, a romper room for Sado-Masochists. Ernie held the hounds at bay for a time, but finally decided he might prosper financially better in a less morally upright area closer to the urban areas of Sin City. And so the South End narrowly escaped becoming Las Vegas North and a magnet for lovers. Some of us, of course, mourn the loss.

Some of you Old Timers out here today might remember when, in 2007, Sno-Isle Libraries established a pilot library here at Terry’s Corner, I guess to see how many of us Camano residents were literate or not. And if enuff of us were, maybe run a vote to see if we deserved a real library. I got plenty of friends who think libraries are obsolete now that we got Google and Wikipedia and pretty soon Artificial Intelligence, why waste money on books? In 2013, 76 of those folks lost us the bond to build that new library, close but no cigar. Same thing happened in Stanwoodopolis about the same time.

Our library was originally a restaurant with a small bar where the childrens’ reading room is now. I lobbied hard to keep the bar, figuring some of my naysaying pals might swing their votes if they could drink at the new library. Great ideas don’t always win, I guess.

Well, Camanoites are a stubborn tribe. When Sno-Isle put that bond before the taxpayers a second time, all kinds of volunteers came out of the woodwork to canvas the community, see what they thought a library ought to be here and hopefully get out the vote. A lot of you volunteers are out here today to celebrate the success of that bond measure. All part of the same volunteerism that built the State Park and the Senior Center and the Visitor Center and the kids’ playground behind us. It takes a community to raise a library.

So thank you all for making this library a reality. I mean, after all, if we didn’t build libraries, how could folks ask to ban books? So let’s ignore the fire ban and move on to the purpose of this gathering, which the band misunderstood ——- no guyz, it’s not a book burning, it’s a bond burning. Just be glad it’s not a band burning is what I told them. And on a personal note here: couldn’t you folks at Sno-Isle reconsider keeping that bar?

[podcast]https://www.skeeterdaddle.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/audio-American-Accountant-Audition.mp3[/podcast]audio — American Accountant Audition

Billy Nashville was wailing on a red Gibson he’d put stick-on gold letters up the body that read B-I-L-L-Y  S-I-X G-U-N. His real name, William Cosnosczski, wouldn’t fit in neon, he claimed, so he changed it to a stage name he thought better suited to his debut in Nashville. None of us figured Billy had ever owned a gun, certainly never shot one, but Billy 6-Gun only had to write ballads of bad marriages, drunken brawls, truck driving romance, heavy drinking and hard living. He didn’t know anything about those either and Nashville wasn’t waiting for him to learn, not when most of the songwriters came in from Hard Rock County, Tennessee or Whisky Creek, Kentucky, practically born with a guitar in their pudgy little hands and bottle fed Jack Daniels.

Poor Billy grew up in Olympia, Washington, then ended up on the South End when his parents moved here, not exactly an early retirement. We all thought maybe his Daddy shoulda gone to Nashville. With or without a 6 string.

Billy 6 Gun or Billy Nashville or William G. Cosnosczki, he wasn’t half bad on that cherry red Flying V Gibson. The trouble is, half the damn males in America aren’t half bad either. And some of them write decent songs. And every now and then, one of them looks good on stage. Unlike Billy …

Music is like any art medium, it’s hard — very hard — to make enough money to keep above water while you learn the ropes. And trust me, there are ropes. Some to hang yourself by, but some to swing to another level. If we made accountants work this hard for so little money, well … maybe this would be a world filled with song instead of one painted by numbers. Just my opinion, of course. Not based on scientific data. Or even much research.

Billy still plays the open mike down at the South Grange every Wednesday night. He’s talking about a Try-Out with American Idol. Good luck, Billy, I say. Just don’t be too disappointed. Don’t quit playing, don’t quit singing. And if you ever get despondent, consider this: there is no, and never will be, an American Accountant. Because, really, why would anyone with a soul care? Just my opinion. Of course.

Maybe you’ve been feeling a little lonely lately. Friends are busy, boyfriend or girlfriend has broken up with you, work is now done remotely, the nights are long and binge-watching Netflix with a bottle of wine doesn’t cut it anymore. What’s a person to do? Well, Zuckerberg and his tech pals have the answer. An AI companion. A chatbot that knows your innermost thoughts and secrets, a bestie when your bestie has abandoned you, always just a click away, happy to listen to your problems and offer sympathy and advice. What’s not to like?

Sure, the tech companies are going to profit from this but c’mon, like Zuck says, this is better than being lonely, it’s being connected. So what if your new romantic Artificial Intelligence partner also gives your information to the home office? Just going to offer you some products to enhance your relationship probably. Nothing to worry about really. And those critics who predict most of us will soon have a chatbot buddy to lean on in times of trouble, well, maybe they have plenty of pals and a loving spouse, easy for them to be disdainful.

Back in the primitive days pre-Covid and definitely pre-AI, we lonely hearts could get a dog or a cat for companionship, assuming our landlord would allow a pet on the premises. But you had to feed the furry friend and you had to walk it and you had to clean the litter box and if you wanted to take a vacation you had to find a sitter or put Fido in a kennel. Your AI friend, none of that mess and clutter and bother. And let’s be honest with one another here, a spouse can be a trial too. Nagging, demanding, impossible expectations, forgotten anniversaries … well, you know what I mean. They didn’t dream up divorce laws for chuckles. But a romantic bot partner, now we’re talking. A romantic hot bot more like it. Sure, it’ll be addictive but who cares, right? Your choice if you want a porn partner but my guess is 99%. Say goodbye to those lonely nights and say hello to your new friend. Probably worth every penny of the monthly subscription.

I heard a study recently that said the poor are more charitable than the rich. On average they give almost twice as much of their income percentage-wise to those in need than their wealthier brethren. They also volunteer more for charities and non profits, service groups and outreach programs. Basically, if my sociology statistical studies are still in semi-working order, this proves, not quite conclusively but damn close, the South End is way more philanthropic than our neighbors up yonder ensconced behind their key carded gated communities.

I had a friend tell me in all seriousness awhile back (in regard to my bemusement over her financial plight at the time) that a million dollars just wasn’t what it used to be. What exactly do you say to a pronouncement like that? Do you work out the math of inflation vs. income? Do you shrug your overburdened shoulders and just agree? Or do you take pity and offer up a loan …. you know, to get her by until that devalued million dollars returns to its rightful place in the economy?

These are tough times. Especially, I guess, for the rich. Or, more aptly, the folks who no longer count themselves among the Gatsbys of Camano. Their stocks have slipped, the value of their two homes has dropped, their retirement funds seem inadequate now, even their hedge fund broker refuses to return their frantic calls — that vast chasm between Us and Them looks like a ditch, not a Grand Canyon. And if sacrifices must be made — and believe me, they must — a little less giving to the needy is definitely the order of the day.

Meanwhile, down here on the Lower Tiers, we kind of see we’re all in this together. So we still donate, we still volunteer and we still give. We don’t have much, but it never seemed too little somehow. Even though a hundred dollars isn’t what it used to be.