The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

After 15 minutes of trying to log on to the computer at the motel we’re staying at, with no control over the mouse’s pointer, I finally gave up. But as you know, if you know me at all, I do not readily admit defeat to the gods of technology and if I did, I would beat that mouse to a plastic death so that neither of us would win. So I engaged my Holmesian power of rational deduction and returned minutes later to the unheated side room by the motel’s front door they amusingly labeled BUSINESS CENTER, no doubt because not only did it have a computer and a monitor and the aforementioned mousey, it had a bench too. For those waiting their turn? And … I brought a newspaper. I know what you’re thinking, but then you’re not Sherlock.

Course, really, neither am I. But I put the newspaper under the mouse (I did not roll it up and beat the bastard with it like a bad puppy) and voila, I had complete mastery of the machine. The Business Center desk was glass and my theory was the mouse needed an opaque surface. You Republicans should ignore this kind of reasoning and just assume the first attempt was either a bald-faced lie or the second just blind luck. I mentioned this to the day clerk, wondering mildly if anyone else had reported mouse malfunction and if so, perhaps he might consider, oh, one of those mousey pads. My guess is he doesn’t give a good goddamn and anyone who doesn’t travel with a laptop or a smartphone deserves a refrigerated alcove with a mouse that refuses commands. My second guess (theory) is that I might be the only person in the months or years who has used that computer and my Day Guy probably is disappointed I actually worked around their ploy in this Land of Entrapment we call New Mexico.

More worrisome, he and his chain motel employer may exact some kind of revenge. After all, they set up the Business Center fully intending to keep its usage to the bare minimum. I did notice next day no mouse pad had appeared since my most generous advice. Not exactly proof, but a strong suggestion of truthiness. Next up: how a certain motel has conspired with laptop manufacturers to encourage sales to the laptopless.

Stay tuned. I’m on the case.

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Must be Day 5, maybe 6. Hell, it might be same day as yesterday. We hit Las Cruces and headed north into the White Sands missile testing grounds, a vast stretch of wasteland the government is more than welcome to despoil any way it wants. Although … we did stop at White Sands National Monument to hike in the backcountry, an eerie undulating dunescape of blisteringly white fine sand, an immaculate Sahara with mountains in the distance where you trek across trail-less miles. It was sunny and it was warm. Okay, it was 57 degrees, but hey, a shirt was all we needed. Compared to eskimo parkas the first part of this trip.

A few hours later and we’re up in the mountains, Ruicondo, a ski village that needs no further description other than it sprawls everywhere, starts down at the highway with the usual motels, casinos and gas stations, then expands upward in all directions, covering Sierra Blanca with more lodging, restaurants, golf courses, ski shops, gear rental, galleries, yoga classes, aromatherapy salons, just about anything an upscale skier might want, like some spreading virus escaped from a bio-real estate office.

After a dinner at a Chinese joint (don’t ask) we’re back now in the fabulous Ruicondo Mountain Inn, apparently party central for the young crowd going to the casino to hear the legendary country folks singer … whose name not only eludes me, but rung no bells of recognition when I saw it on the casino electronic billboard.

Thought I’d try the hotel computer. Which was turned off but the nice night manager flipped a switch hidden in a lower cabinet and I attempted to log on. Only to get a message that this version of Windows 7 was an illegal copy and did I want to purchase a legitimate one? Now, this hotel isn’t the Hilton but it’s not Motel 5 and a half either. You might expect them to purchase Windows 10 and possibly a monitor not made by Mattell. Then again, judging by the icons loaded onto the screen, this was probably a thrift store purchase. Like I said earlier — and my nice night manager reiterated — nobody uses these contraptions anymore, not with personal devices everyone but me carries.

Message received. But trust me, none were outgoing.

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