The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Back in the early ‘70’s I lived on a Polish homestead in Northern Wisconsin, wife, dog, a few hippie friends, sort of an ersatz commune, which, of course, didn’t last long. Not as long as my short-lived marriage but that’s another story. The little mill town we lived near, Mosinee, was pretty much a redneck burg, home to the Posse Comitatus, one of those fun gun clubs advocating anti-government sentiments. Part of the reason I left, but again another story.

This story is about the Herman’s Hermits who came to Mosinee to play some sad sack of a gin joint on its outskirts. You maybe remember these guys, mid ‘60’s, Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter hit, mostly a flash in the pan but hey, big for awhile on the pop charts, part of the British Invasion. A decade later the lads are down to touring backwash America to crowds of dozens, not the thousands they once performed for.

The lead singer whose name I can’t remember, was interviewed on the Wausau station promoting the gig and the D.J. asked him what he thought of playing for really small audiences in the waning years of a once really successful career in a crummy tavern far from the madding crowds of yesteryear.

And Herman, or whatever his name was, said it was great being on top of the charts, drawing huge crowds, being famous … but the real deal was playing their music. Which was what they’d be doing this coming weekend to whoever shows up. We’re bloody musicians, he said, and that’s what we bloody do, play music.

I gotta say, some 50 years later in my own twilight career, I still remember this interview. And I think now what I thought at the time, bloody good on you lads! The money, the fame, the whole music industrial complex — not really the point in the end. Nice to have hits, nice to have a chart topper. But in the end, despite the lights going dim, the band plays on. Course, me, I might miss the groupies….

Harry works down at the O-Zi-Ya Body Shop. He’s an artist with bondo, makes a ‘total’ look brand new after pulling the dents and replacing crushed quarter panels, has a real nice touch with an airless in the spray booth. Back about 4 years ago, Harry was a ‘he’. Six foot four, muscular in a lithe sort of way, moved car parts around like baskets of daisies. I didn’t know him real well, I guess, mostly because my beater cars never got treated to the Body Shop make-over. Dents, scratches, bullet holes —- I’m not spending money for pigs’ lipstick.

So imagine my surprise when Harry walks up my drive during our annual Mother’s Day Studio Tour … in high heels, a tasteful above-the-knee pleated skirt, grey blouse and a matching handbag. “How you doing, man?” I ask nonchalantly and Harry explains, no doubt for the 1000th time, he’s no longer a man. Course, judging by the 5 o’clock shadow of a beard, he’s not quite a woman either. Which, he tells me earnestly, will take the hormone treatments some time to kick in.

Even on the live-and-let-live South End, this was, well , this was … different. And we’re accustomed to different. Harry toured the studio and we chatted it up and when he left I gave him a manly sort of hug and said, “Good luck, man,” and immediately corrected myself. Harry gave me a wink and a laugh and sallied forth down the drive.

Harry quit the Body Shop — not because the boyz couldn’t deal with The Change — they still speak fondly of him. Her. You know what I mean. She wanted a new life to go with the new her.

A couple of years ago I ran into Harry. Harriet now. She was installing fountains. Hauled the rocks, dug the ponds, wired the pumps, plumbed the waterfalls. “I’m an artist, Skeeter” she declared. She was welding sculptural components, creating light shows, running her own business. “Life’s good, then?” I asked.

She broke into a radiant smile, one I never saw at the Body Shop. Leaning down to whisper in my ear, she fairly bubbled, “It’s a joy my boy, it’s a joy!” All I can say is the path to happiness is a whole lot harder for some, even on the salty South End, but it isn’t impossible.

Here’s some good news for you beleaguered gun right advocates: now you can buy your ammo from a vending machine. No need to haul down to your local gun dealer for bullets, just wheel up to the conveniently placed dispenser in your local chain grocery store. Course, at this time the only states where they’re located is Texas, Oklahoma and Alabama but you can rest assure American Rounds, the distributor, will expand exponentially until it reaches your very own Safeway.

Of course if you’re a gun-toting red blooded American, you’re justifiably worried about kids getting their hands on this ammo. Not to worry, the machines require an ID and a facial scan for recognition. If this was a voting machine, you’d rightfully be concerned that it could be tampered with, but for something as inconsequential as purchasing ammunition, not that big a deal. Although I would have thought maybe there would be some concern about that facial recognition scan, something akin to tracking by nano-particles in your Covid vaccines.

The Second Amendment as now defined by our Supreme Court, allows us citizens to keep and bear modified assault rifles with bump stocks that convert them to automatic weapons. Pull the trigger and you can unleash hundreds of bullets a minute. That, my friend, is a lot of ammo. To replenish the armory, you need a convenient place of purchase and what better place than the grocery store where you buy your beer and bread?

All that’s needed now for the new American Militia Man is a vending machine that spits out the gun too. One stop shopping! And not to fear, facial recognition should insure no felons, minors, mentally disturbed or spouses with restraining orders have access to these weapons. If you can’t trust your patriotic vending machine company, who can you trust? The damn government? Lock and load, baby!

Maybe I live too far from Rome. Which, these crazy days of politics gone mad, might be viewed as a blessing from the gods. But unfortunately I’m a news junkie and even worse, I care about the world beyond the South End’s porous borders. As hard as it is to believe, I’m watching the increasingly probable return of Donald J. Trump, convicted felon. A man indicted on so many counts, we’ve all lost count. Impeached but not convicted, twice. We all know who this guy is and yet …

What I cannot comprehend from my perch at the end of an island at the far reaches of the continent is how this election seems to have lost focus on the real issues of our time. Trump is gaining traction with the Hispanic vote. Doesn’t matter, apparently, that he calls the immigrants criminals, insane, rapists, murderers. Trump is polling better with the Black voters. Doesn’t matter that for a decade his dog whistles underly a racism that ought to disqualify him for any black votes other than Clarence Thomas’s. The young voters, all those Gen Whatevers, have begun to swing his way. Doesn’t matter that the greatest threat to them is climate change and if Trump wins, it’s more drill baby drill. Bring back coal, kill the EV automobile, forget about cutting emissions. He’s even gaining with the women, maybe they’re tired of the Me Too Movement and a guy who grabs crotches, rapes women and pays hush money to porn stars isn’t as bad as they thought.

How hard is it to make this case? He blames the deficit on Biden but was the one to cut corporate taxes. And wants to cut them further. He wants to put tariffs back on Chinese imports. How difficult is it to point out the average household will pay even more than what inflation has already cost us? The economy, despite Trump’s dire prediction, isn’t going down the toilet. It’s in better shape than most other countries, employment is growing, wages are up, inflation is down.

I guess our attention spans, shrunk to a few seconds max by Instagram and X, certainly can’t recall when this pre-felon advocated treating Covid with bleach and other quack remedies. Only one million Americans died of that disease but we’ve forgotten by now. Big deal … and the next pandemic he’ll outlaw masks and isolation.

January 6th was far too long back for most of us Inattentives to remember. Mobs hunting our senators and representatives, howling to hang Pelosi and Pence, killing and beating a few capitol police. What the right wing calls a tourist imbroglio, nothing to see there; in fact, given the chance, the instigator will pardon the convicted.

The list of outrages is too long, too depressing, too egregious. But this country, apparently amnesiac, may vote him back in. It takes your breath away. And it will take more than that before his next term ends. Assuming it ever ends.

Billy Jean ran the art gallery down here at the aesthetically swollen South End, the only paid employee. The artists who showed their wares could pay extra commission or work 10 hours a week. Since they rarely sold their art, the extra commission was zip so why should they work? The first year the co-op, the South Fork Art Barn, was closed most days when no one was willing to sit in the vacant Second Hand Shoppe they’d leased. Finally, after mounting rental bills, the South End Arts Council voted to hire a staff person to do what they wouldn’t.

Billy Jean interviewed for the minimum wage, no benefits job and was hired the same day, primarily by dint of NOT being an artist herself, the main criterion the Council set for qualifications. Not having been around artists, B.J., who thought the position would mostly be running the store, tracking sales and receipts, closing up at the end of the day, well, she never dreamed the job actually was Ego Masseuse. The first day Sarah Jenkins came in early to demand her watercolors be moved front and center where they would cheerily greet the customers before they decided to leave empty handed. Billy Jean nodded and smiled, but eventually pled ignorance of the rules by virtue of being the New Hire. She would, she vowed, check with the Council and the Co-op Board. Course, it turned out the Board had their art front and center so a rule was made on-the-spot to keep the current display configuration.

The first week various grumpy artists brought forth their complaints, moved paintings or hung new ones, argued their cases with Billy Jean and wished her luck. Meaning, sell my work! By Friday she felt like a vise had scrunched her ears into one auditory pancake of pain. She was, she told her newly unemployed plumber husband Brent, nothing but a glorified Cat Herder. Brent, still in shock over his sudden layoff, told her she’d get the hang of it, just stick with it, Honey, we need the money, a refrain she later could have embroidered in needlepoint and hung front and center by her own front door and called it art or literature or just a motto for the rest of the South End.