The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

In 1973 I worked at a dog pound in Madison, Wisconsin. What we called a Humane Society. We adopted 40 % of our mutts … meaning, we killed 60% of the animals, the correct euphemism being euthanized. The national average was 25% adopted so we patted ourselves on the back. My minimum wage job was to clean puppy cages and help kill critters. Let’s just say it’s a short career track unless you’re a practicing sadist, which I am not.

In fact, I adopted three dogs myself, maybe not a big deal if I lived on a country estate with acreage for the hounds to chase rabbits and deer for days on end, but I lived in a second story one bedroom apartment over a TV repair shop. Hard to believe now, looking back. No, not three dogs in a small apartment. That there used to be TV repair shops. When’s the last time you remember fixing a television rather than buy a new one?

One day at the pound they needed me to man the front desk, something I’d never done previously, something that might just lead me up a rung on the promotional ladder. I asked what was expected of me up here at the front door and was told I would direct folks to the kennels where they could inspect their future pets. Beats shoveling shit, I thought.

My first encounter with the public was a woman bringing in her old dog and its 4 new puppies. “I can’t take care of these,” she said, pointing at the little wiggling pups in a cardboard box. I asked if maybe she might’ve considered spaying as an option. She shook her head. “Costs money,” she answered. “So you want to leave the mother too? Hasn’t she been with you awhile?” I asked. “Yeah, I’m tired of her too.” Oddly, this pissed me off.

I picked up the phone to our intercom. “Larry,” I said, “fire up the incinerator. We got five to torch.” My dog whisperer seemed suddenly alarmed. Shocked even. “You gonna just kill em?” she cried.

“Whadja think?” I said cruelly. “You think people are lined up for an old dog and her litter?”
About this time Larry emerged from the back, looked at the box of pups and asked, “These?” I nodded. Larry looked at the woman with measured contempt, picked up the box and went into the back where I knew he’d unload them into the puppy cages. He’d be back for the mother shortly. I started filling out the paperwork the way a guard at Dachau would, dispassionately. Name. Address. Reason for wanting your pet killed. Basic stuff.

I guess the woman called later to see if her dogs were toast because Mike, my supervisor, called me into his office. He explained — patiently — how our job was not to judge, our job was to take in unwanted animals so they weren’t drowned in pillowcases in the lake or shot behind the barn. “We want them to bring them to us,” he sighed, painfully aware I was unfit for further front desk duty.

I lasted a few more weeks. Larry lasted a month. There are, I’ve learned, some jobs that aren’t a good ‘fit’. My trouble, of course, was that was pretty much true of all jobs.

Down at the Little Church in the Ravine the congregation is gearing up for the End Times. Pastor Paul comes from the Cotton Mather School of Preaching, meaning, he intends to scare the holy bejabbers out of his flock, wake them up before it’s too late and lead them into the nettle-less valley of righteousness. He’s offering Salvation, take it or leave it. Woe unto those who don’t take it ….

Jimmy the Geek’s mizzus listens to these sermons Sunday after Sunday. She recently volunteered to minister to the Little Lambs of Jesus, the youth group that meets an hour before the late service, and Jimmy, an electronics engineer down at the Boeing plant, is at a complete loss what to do about her evangelical fervor. “She wasn’t like this when we got married,” he told our decidedly profane group of sinners gathered at the booths beside the pool table in the Pilot Lounge. “I’m not real religious, ya know, but I agreed to go to church with her. It’s almost a cult what they got down there in the ravine. I didn’t know we’d be drinking Kool-Aid instead of grapejuice.”

“Armageddon, man,” Two Toke pronounced over a tough 8 ball side pocket. Which he missed by a country mile …. Chalking his cue thoughtfully, he commiserated with Jimmy. “Scary stuff, Revelations. Mark of the Beast. Four ponies of the Apocalypse. I been listening to midnight radio lately. Obama’s the anti-Christ and the Middle East is heating up. The Russians are coming in. Anytime now, they say.”

“Pastor Paul predicts Iran will get the bomb in a year and that’s the End Jenny believes this stuff,” Jimmy blurted. He waved his empty pint glass at Vic, tonight’s fill-in bartender. Jimmy wasn’t going home soon, it was obvious to all of us and by god we were going to stick with our pal til the glasses were broken or the bar closed. South End Sinner’s Code. “What am I gonna do? I already said I won’t go anymore and now she’s teaching Sunday School too?”

Robbie stopped mid-shot, pointed with his cue and said solemnly, “Call her bluff, buddy.” Jimmy shook his head. Robbie continued. “Obama’s got one more year. Give her a year for the End Times to happen. When it doesn’t, time to reassess. Check and mate, dude!”

Jimmy took Vic’s refill the way a pilgrim clutches sacrament. Robbie slammed the 6 ball into the corner pocket with a bang, left himself an easy 2 ball on the side. “That’s what I would do,” he declared.

Two Toke could see his own End Times if Robbie hit the 2 ball. “Easy for a man with no wife, Rob,” he smiled, maybe put a little Doubt on the table. “Faith’s a funny thing. Hard as hell to argue it …”

“Damn, Tom, you want Jimbo to start stockin food and guns?” Robbie eased the 3 into the side with a soft sweet stroke. The 8 ball waited, hard cut, but Robbie was hot, all the confidence in the world. Two Toke groaned, leaned on his useless cue. “No,” he muttered, “ I just want him to save a marriage.” Jimmy nodded mournfully. Robbie cut the 8 ball and we all watched it roll half a mile down a long green to the far corner pocket, hang for a breathless second, then drop with a dull clatter.

“End Time, Tom” the shooter laughed and Two Toke slapped a new set of quarters on the felt. If any of us thought we’d solve Jimmy’s problems tonight, it would take more beers than Vic would serve.

Shortly after my hot water heater went kaput, the bathroom faucet decided to defect too. The gods of plumbing, ever capricious, always cruel, know when to hit a man when he’s down. I’d just gotten a call from our new library. The big window where my glass mural was installed was leaking. What could I do about it? And if I couldn’t do anything about it, I was to know that the long term maintenance of the library was paramount and if necessary, they would (reluctantly) trashcan the art glass. I said I wasn’t a window system installer and didn’t have a clue if flashing or caulking would help. I also said if the library itself was in jeapordy of being washed downstream, by all means, sacrifice the stained glass and save yourselves. Geez, I got my own leakage to deal with….

The faucet was the second one I’d put in that downstairs bathroom, a fancy Swiss number I thought would outlast me. Something internal was leaking and I decided to replace the whole thing rather than start searching for valve stems and such in Geneva. I got myself a Kohler. I’ve toured the famous Kohler factory with its wall of toilets 20 feet high and 30 feet wide, an impressive lineup of crappers made proudly in Wisconsin. Kohler, Wisconsin, actually. Like the Swiss faucet I thought this solid piece of plumbed engineering would outlast me. Which, if past plumbing escapades are any clue, it might, if for no other reason than the stress and aggravation would probably kill me one day.

If you are a careful reader of this blogsite, you know the Rules of Plumbing set forth by Skeeter. Any job, no matter how small, easy or insignificant, will require a minimum of 3 trips to the hardware store. It’s like E=mc squared. You can’t get around it. You may not understand the mathematic formula that proves it, but ignorance isn’t going to help you. Sorry. I know, I’ve tried. Those who cling to the notion that ignorance is bliss, they haven’t done their own plumbing.

I’m going to spare you the minutiae of 3 days in the hellhole of my downstairs bathroom. I’m going to skip the part where I ended up pulling the entire sink out, marble base and all. I’m going to simply tell you I made 4 trips, not 3, to the nearest hardware store for new supply lines, cut-off valves and various other parts that wouldn’t fit with the new fancy Kohler. I’m going to jump straight to the day, a few days down the pike, when I reinstalled the sink with the gleaming Kohler faucet glinting a golden light from its elegant and stylish neck, turned the tap and … a measley flow of water flowed from its mouth.

Lesser men might have given up. Lesser men might have called a plumber. Lesser men might have taken a maul to the whole wretched sink and vented their misery and frustration in an orgasm of rage. But I am not that man. I have, of course, been that man. And I know that when the dust clears and the smoke smolders, the release of that brutal outrage will be nothing compared to what comes next. It is a short lived pyrrhic victory no matter how good it felt for those few moments of manic catharsis.

No, I went to the internet, I googled up the problem and I deciphered that it was the aerator, a little screw on gizmo faucet manufacturers are fond of attaching to the spout. Don’t ask me why. Just let me unscrew it and leave it off so little bits of sand don’t clog it ever again….

I could make you cry telling you the next series of events. I could make you believe there is no God, at least none who could stand up to the drain-faced horror that is the God of Plumbing. I could make you pity me more than a Syrian refugee stuck in limbo waiting for winter to descend on the swamps of Slovenia. But to what end? Suffice it to say the aerator wouldn’t come out. No, the good engineers at Kohler had attached it to a small cheap plastic quarter inch tube that I eventually snipped off after jerking and pulling on it for an hour. A grain of sand would have stopped half its flow. Picture it: inside this polished nickel faucet, they had used a plastic piece of tubing. Ten cents of tubing, no more. On an expensive faucet bearing the name Kohler.

Oh, you bet snipping that cheapass piece of junk off ruined the entire faucet. You know I had to start over, you know I had to buy another faucet by any other manufacturer than &#@?!! Kohler, and you know by now, or you by god should, how many more trips I will have to make to the parts store before that new Pfister goes in the sink. Today is Thanksgiving. Count your blessings! Me, I’m counting those trips.

I was in the South End Trader Jimbo’s the other day looking for those hard-to-get-down-here items in their Land O’Yuppie aisles. Somehow I got waylaid by the organic pine nuts. Organic? Are we growing pine trees in nitrate infused woods now? Further down the aisle I found gluten free kettle corn trumpeting stuff that never had gluten in the first place. Not only that, they were guaranteed nut-free. The products, not Trader Jimbo. When I turned the corner, drove past the chutneys and the soft cheeses, I discovered Aisle 6, the no preservative, no additive, no GMO, no growth hormone, no antibiotic, no gluten, no soy, no MSG, no transfat, no caged animal row. About middle of the aisle there were three cans in a pyramid. Cave water. 12 ounces for $10.95. I took all three. Just so the row would be immaculate for a moment.

A friend of mine has a futon mattress that contains organic cotton. Softer maybe, like his head. Course I grew up with virgin wool — as if I care what the sheep do at night. These are dangerous times. Who knows what’s in those nettles I’ve been brewing beer with? They don’t come with an organic certification and what with acid rain precipitating out from Chinese pollution, I may be toxifying myself inadvertendly. My entire garden may well be a seeping cesspool of multi-syllabic compounds from the prevailing winds of Seattle and Gomorrah or contaminated from the tailings and runoffs of the South End industrial era. Natural? That’s no longer a designation to give anyone peace of mind. No government certification for natural, pal.

They tell me our water has elevated levels of natural arsenic. The neighbors on water systems filtrate for that and other minerals. We’re on our own well. Which means just that, we’re on our own. Forget worrying about contaminated nettles in my homebrew. The water’s got poison in it.

So where do you go to find the purity we so desperately seek? Where do you retreat to escape the toxic leaching of modern society? And where can a yahoo go to avoid the steady drip drip drip of new warnings, new labels, new GMO salmon species, new BMO milk products, new irradiated foods, new afflictions? The South End??? Sorry, we got the bio-hazard tape across the road now. No wonder people are signing up for the Mars mission. Even if it is one way only.