The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

southend theory of relativity

If you was to look at the South End on a map, it would look like a gooeyduck that had basked a little too long on the beach.  Or like myself BEFORE the miracle of Viagra.  There just isn’t a lot of blood flow down here.

I suppose that explains why the Pace of Life here is a little slower than you all’s.  Stanwood’s gotten so all-fired Accelerated – being a Hub and all – they finally had to install stoplights just to put the skids on a mite.  I believe you could cram a whole afternoon on the South End into a Stanwood minute.

No, if it’s one thing we got a bumper crop of, it’s Time.  Time on our hands, time on our shoes, time on our side.  We watch the bread rise, the berries ripen, the orchards mature, the grass grow, the kids turn juvenile delinquent, the homebrew mellow, the hound dog and myself here getting lazier with every passing year.  That old chestnut about stopping to smell the roses…?  On the South End we’d have to speed it up a few miles an hour to catch a whiff.

You may not believe it, but Mr. Einstein must’ve had kinfolk on the South End cause he explained scientifically what we know in our bones  —  time is relative.  Hellfire, I had a shirttail cousin come to visit Ma and me awhile back, brought the whole kit and kaboodle, dogs, brats, tee-totalling wife, stayed a week.  I’m telling you when that week was over, me and the mizzus was two YEARS closer to the Pioneer Cemetery.

People say Mr. Einstein was a genius.  I say he had some bad relatives himself.

audio — chicken little avoids fiscal catastrophe

Lately all I hear on the meager news that trickles down our way are stories about driving off the Fiscal Cliff.  Disaster.  Mayhem. Catastrophe.  And chaos right around the bend!!  Nobody’s at the wheel and all us chickens are screaming bloody murder in the backseat.  It’s enough to make a fella quit his job and pull his money out of the band and head back into the hills before all fiscal hell breaks loose.  You know, IF he had a job.

I thought after the election was over we’d all settle down, maybe take a break from the non-stop acrimony, get ready for an enjoyably peaceful Christmas.  I guess I was a little overly optimistic.  Or maybe just slightly naïve.  Okay, I was stoopid.  The media loves a good scare the way a TV weatherman loves predicting a blizzard a week ahead of time.  Snowmageddon on its way!!  Big low pressure barreling in from Siberia, crashing into a Pineapple Express up from Hawaii, better buy a generator and a backhoe with a plow now!!!

The economy’s gonna tank!  The market’s gonna crash!!  The sky is falling, the sky is falling, clouds are hailing down like bricks!!!  Go to your Safe Room before it’s too late!  Pray to Alan Greenspan!  Put your affairs in order!  Say adios to your kids!  Kiss your butt goodbye!!!!!

But wait … the next news story is the mania to buy Powerball tickets.  A billion dollars worth already sold with a chance to win, at this very moment, 550 million bucks.  You win, you get a Fiscal Parachute.  You could buy what’s left of a bankrupt American economy.  You could be King.  You could tell Bill Gates what to do.  You could buy the next election.  Or cancel it altogether.  You could survive!  Not just survive, you could Rule!

Tens of thousands of us a minute — a Minute! — are buying tickets.  If the government would just fake these things, pony up a happy millionaire at the end — a shill — then pocket the loot, we could turn this economy around OVERNIGHT!!

Wwe could avert the Cliff and slide back into our garage in the cul-de-sac and hit the door close button and return to daytime TV and endless sports programming.  We’d be happy.  We’d be saved.!!

Maybe I’m just being optimistic.  Maybe I’m a little naïve.  Okay … I know what you’re thinking…..

R.I.P. 2

Right on the heels of Super Storm Sandy we get breaking news of yet another disaster.  We’ll recover from the hurricane, we’ll rebuild in the end, we’ll be stronger.  But … what can replace Twinkies?  Or Snowballs?  The iconic aptly named Wonder Bread??  All gone.  All gone broke.

The news coverage was frightening enough.  The reality will be much harder to digest.  Maybe not harder than a Twinkie itself, but hard.  Very hard.  The never-say-die addicts were stocking up on the remaining supplies.  Stores reported runs on the Hostess shelves.  Shopping carts were piled to overflowing with their sugar mainline.  The wise ones will meter the snacks over months, even years.  No worry about spoilage.  The expiration dates are well beyond any living consumers’ puny lifespans.  But there will come a day when the preservative drenched snack treats are gone, yet another extinction on our fragile planet.

I’ve been hearing rumors that corporate scientists are exploring cloning options.  The conspiracy theorists claim that those consumers loading up their fallout shelters were actually federal geneticists, stockpiling secret laboratories underneath the Rocky Mountains, working furiously to duplicate the chemical composition of the undead Twinkies.  Obviously it’s a race against time and the limited storehouse of high fructose-depleted Hoarders.

The cynics, as always, see a silver lining in the nutritional stormclouds.  The inevitable drop in diabetes will free up dialysis machines, sure, but they forget the determination of an Elger Bay Store consumer.  Already sales in Pop Tarts and Captain Crunch are buoying a despondent chemical industry.  The savvy consumer may stuff his shelter, but the savvy investor will stuff his stock portfolio with Dow, Monsanto and ArcherDanielMidland.  I’ll tell you this:  artificial food is here to stay.  So here’s today’s insider trading tip.  Skip the Powerball ticket, kiddo, and call your broker.  BET on the addicts, don’t BE one.

Wal-Mart Wars

Now I know most of you have heard the latest rumor —  that Wal-Mart is thinking of moving into the Senior Center Thrift Store’s location at the top of Land’s Hill.  Now you know and I know this is gonna split Camano Island right down the gullet.

Some folks’ll say we already GOT cheap imported goods at the Thrift Store —  why bring in a middle man?  And some will say Wal-Mart will kill a way of life we’ve come to treasure here on the island.  You know, commuting to Smokey Point for our supplies.  If nothing else, a good excuse to dodge the chores…..

The artists are already up in arms.  As you know, artists are the Vanguard of Change, the Canary in the StripMall, the little light in the refrigerator.  They let you see what’s coming before it clobbers you.  Now this is all well and good, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding.  It’s Wal-MART — not Wall-ART.  They’re not selling cut-rate made-in-China original art to hang on the wall.  The artists STILL got that market.  We got to get the news to them before they start picketing or rioting.

Now you’re gonna see a new Civil War.  The South End against the North End.  The old timers against the newcomers.  The discount shoppers vs. the boutique buyers.  The expresso drinkers vs. the drip drinkers.  It’ll be a bloodbath before it’s settled.      There’s something ABOUT a Wal-Mart that sets off civil strife.  Down at the South End we got pretty near all we need at Elger Bay Grocery.  Costs a little more but sometimes you got to look a little deeper for the hidden costs of cheaper goods.  That Wal-Mart might sell you a hammer half price, but if it’s getting used on the neighbor, you need to factor in the ambulance bill.

We all like to pay less.  Except maybe the Latte Lovers.  But down at our depressed region we learned it’s probably easier if you just learn to BUY less.  I know, it isn’t the American Way, but maybe it would help lessen the social discord.