The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

A friend just invited me to join her and her ensemble for a night of reverie at the Stanwoodopolis Hotel’s fabled Karaoke Night. In case you are unfamiliar with the Hotel, count yourself one of the Lucky Ones. The Hotel, ever since I had the misfortune to stumble into the place back in 1977, is what my brother refers to as a Bucket of Blood. Meaning, not so much the violence of the joint, but just a sad watering hole for, well, for want of a better word, losers. Unfriendly losers. Losers with no jobs or jobs they hate. The kind of place where I can order a beer and move to a table in the corner with a notebook, only to find myself harassed by some beer bellied bully for literary pretension. That kind of place.

I once removed myself to their ‘beer garden’, a fenced off area behind the bar outside where the smokers congregate, only to have the first future cancer victim amble up to ask if I had a light. ‘Sorry’, I said, interrupted from my literary pretensions, ‘ I don’t smoke.’ “WHY NOT?’ he roared. This, essentially, sums up the camaraderie of the place. A little later another inebriated patron stumbled over to inform me the peanuts I was shelling from the big 55 gallon drum in the front room weren’t allowed back in the beer garden. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘appreciate the heads up.’ He was troubled when I kept shelling the nuts. ‘You can’t do that here,’ he said. ‘Got the message the first time,’ I replied, popping a couple and returning to my notebook. Pretty obviously he was considering some kind of intervention, but ultimately decided I was sober and he was probably going to take the worst of it. I half expected him to return with a posse. The nuts were only partially stale.

Add to these delightful personages the spectacle of drunken singing by folks who fancy themselves Friday night stars, the people who come back week after week for that small slice of the limelight, couraged up with shots of Jack Daniels and a beer chaser, encouraged by their friends. I know, let them have their fun, what business is it of mine? And of course, that is what I prefer to do, leave them to it, not become part of the audience or another singer in a pretend rock and roll band.

In full disclosure I have sung in the fabled Stanwoodopolis Hotel more than once. With the equally fabled South End String Band. It is a tough crowd, trust me. The usual patrons don’t like their haunt invaded by the likes of us and our own fans, not even for St. Pat’s Day. Like most Buckets of Blood, they prefer the company of their own tribe. And when you get right down to it, I guess I do too. The Band skipped the Hotel this St. Pats and I’m skipping the Karaoke Night too. I can always sing in the shower.

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