The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Okay, so now that Mr. T has tweeted his opinion that those 4 Congresswomen should go back to where they came from and been informed that 3 of them come from the same place he does, well, time to focus on the Somalian who he claims hates America. Meaning, she has found some faults here that she, as an elected official in the United States Congress, hopes to address. For that she is labeled a hater, unpatriotic, possibly a felon and probably a terrorist. So much for tolerance in the Yew Ess Aye.

Today Rand Paul, another elected official, apparently comfortable with throwing stones now that others are throwing them first, stated that he would buy Rep. Ilhan Omar a ticket back to Somalia so she could learn what a great country we really are, kind of ironic considering the tone of intolerance of Sen. Paul. Criticism by someone born outside his country evidently doesn’t cut it for him. Best damn country in the world. Best damn country ever. How dare anyone who came from somewhere else find fault! Fly her back and he’ll pay the airfare.

Excuse me, but one of the things I happen to like about my country, and yeah, I was born here, is the right to free speech. Also the right to criticize. And absolutely the right to find fault and maybe even suggest ways to correct those faults. Call me unpatriotic, call me a terrorist, call me a Muslim sympathizer, call me late for dinner, but HEY, guys like Paul and Trump, they’re the threat to this country. They’re the subversives. They’re what scare the bejabbers out of me. Maybe Sen. P should go visit some totalitarian countries, the ones who squelch dissent and suppress opposition, to get a better sense of what makes this country great. Maybe we could all help him with the airfare. First class, of course.

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So now we’re treated to crowds of yahoos chanting, not Lock Her Up, but Send Her Back! What part of the democratic process, if any, do these pea-heads understand? Me, I’ve had a dose of ignorance to last me a lifetime. Enuff, I think, to demand an end to it. You want to believe Obama was born in Kenya, I can’t help you. You want to doubt we landed Apollo 11 on the moon, fine by me. You think JFK was killed by aliens from Mars, have at it. But I don’t want you writing the history books, I don’t want you telling me your latest conspiracy theory, I don’t need you screaming en masse that if a person doesn’t agree with your angry imbecility they ought to be deported. I’m sick of it and I’m sick of you. Read a book occasionally. Educate yourself. You think every opinion ought to be treated with equal respect, forget about it. We might agree that you have the right to be stupid, but that doesn’t make your opinion right.

We live in the algorithm of ignorance these globally warmed days. Anger, resentment, bigotry, all combustible fuel in the forest of stupidity, just waiting for a spark or a match or a dogwhistle or two. I won’t say every person who voted for Trump was a racist or even deplorable. I have friends who voted for the carnival barker and yeah, they’re still my friends. But there are a lot of folks who voted for the guy who would just as happily have voted for George Wallace in the day howling about de-segregation, who would vote for Judge Roy Moore even when they knew he stalked under- age girls, who would vote again for Trump full knowing he was guilty of conspiring with Russians and guilty of covering up payments to porn stars and guilty of obstruction of justice. They’re mad as hell and they’re not gonna take it anymore.

Trouble is, they just don’t have much of an outlet other than to rage against the machine. Along comes a demagogue like Donald, pissed off 90% of the time, tweeting his outrage, venting his narrow minded wrath against Muslims and immigrants and liberals and the media, against most everything, even the foundations of democracy. The future looks dim to him and the mob. It was better when the country was white, when Ozzie loved Harriet, when the kids were heterosexual, when cars had huge fins and got 10 mpg, when TV didn’t have sitcoms with people of color or people who were gay or people who looked different than … you know, Us. We didn’t have crime, we didn’t worry about climate change, we didn’t have transsexuals, we didn’t have any problems.

Oh, sure, the Russians and that communism stuff. Maybe some nuclear scares. But Father knew best and the Brady Bunch were a nice wholesome American family. What happened to all that Norman Rockwell goodness? Was it the uppity black folks? Did the immigrants erode the culture? Maybe the women wanting equality? Drugs and the hippie culture and now heroine and meth? Was that it? The American Dream became darker and darker. Jobs paid less. The Mexicans took all the good jobs from our white kids, you know, picking cucumbers and framing houses or working at Motel 6 as a maid. The government maybe, telling us cigarettes were bad, the air was filthy, the rivers were polluted, always the government, the goddamn government telling us what to eat, what not to eat, what was good for us, what wasn’t. Like we were children. Like we were too stupid to know any better.

It’s hard to say, hard to put a finger on it, hard to find the reason things went to hell. But the jobs don’t pay, the kids are on drugs, the kids are hooked on their devices, the kids are addicted to Facebook, the kids don’t want to work manual labor any more, the robots are taking over, the cars are driving themselves, the country is a mess. Hollywood has perverted everything, the media lies about everything, nothing is true unless it’s on Fox News or Rush Limbaugh. Something went terribly wrong back when and now, who knows, maybe it’s too late. But along comes this guy, a billionaire TV star, maybe he can fix it. Maybe we got nothing to lose. Maybe he can turn things around. Maybe he’ll drain the swamp.

Well, I got some bad news for you deplorables. He is the swamp.

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I might’ve been the only yahoo I know who watched the Mueller hearings yesterday, all 5 hours. Friends told me they didn’t watch, couldn’t watch, wouldn’t watch … and when I asked if maybe they had read the 450 page report, or even the summaries, they said no. There are Senators and Representatives who haven’t either, so they’re in good company.

If ignorance is bliss, welcome to the United States of Happy. Today the Governor of Puerto Rico announced he would resign after emails between himself and his cabinet came to light full of homophobic references, misogynistic attacks, snarky disdain for the survivors of Hurricane Maria, enough to send tens or even hundreds of thousands of islanders into the streets to demand he step down and go away. It made me yearn for a million Americans to march to the Capitol and demand this President of ours go back to his Tower and his golf courses. Course I live in the land of Hee Haw, the Garden of Fantasy, the sovereign nation of Fox watchers, where most of its citizens are merrily cherry picking facts and fervently hoping the next election makes moot the crimes of Donald J. Trump. Or just forgives them and offer him another 4 years.

Mueller didn’t offer much in the way of Netflix binge-watching, just answered questions in a stoic mono-syllabic manner more fitting to a courtroom than a House hearing of high drama. But what he did offer was testimony to prove obstruction of justice, high crimes and misdemeanors, collaboration – if not collusion – with the Russians and Wikileaks and a warning that the election of 2020 will be corrupted the same as 2016’s was. The only drama here was the repeated assertions by the Republicans that the investigation itself was corrupt. Where was the investigation of Hillary Clinton? What about Benghazi? Wasn’t Mueller’s team a bunch of partisans? Who leaked those reports?

Not one rebuttal, not a single refutation, not one defense of the facts laid out by Mueller that this President lied, this President had welcomed stolen information from the Russians, this President had met with them to further his financial gain, this President’s cabinet and staff were indicted and convicted, this President was guilty but could not be indicted himself while sitting in the Oval Office. Not one murmur of denial by these Representatives. No defense other than to attack the messenger.
Puerto Rico might have the right response. Trump may not understand they’re citizens of the United States, but they definitely gave us a lesson in democracy yesterday. We the people. Sometimes you have to stand up for what’s right and kick the bastards out. Obviously, their northern neighbors aren’t going to do it. It’s a shameful state of affairs.

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I suppose most of you, at one time or another, have considered printing your own money. Just bypass the greenback of dollar and establish your own currency system. Usually sovereign nations do that, something to do with national interests, but if you were big enough, oh, say about the size of an Amazon or a Google, you might ask yourself why am I bothering with yen and yuan and loonies when I can just go directly to the billions of folks who subscribe to our platform, go directly to the bank we can establish ourselves. And if you’re a digital format, you can jump right into cyber-currency.

Well, Facebook is the first one to pounce on this idea. You’d trust them to handle your money with the utmost concern for your privacy, right? They tell us they’re concerned about all those billions of folks who have Facebook pages who don’t have access to a bank so what they’re doing is offering a service basically for the poor. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Almost philanthropic.

Almost. Mark Zuckerberg isn’t happy with just 2.3 billion subscribers and billions in advertising dollars selling ads and client information. Naw, he’s like Bezos and the Google Boyz, he’s after world domination. There’s something pathologically messianic about these fellows and their techie pals. It doesn’t smell exactly like greed, but more like power. Facebook has a plan to make crypto-currency the new Coin of the Realm. Not enough that their platform makes it possible to manipulate elections here and abroad, naw, they want to become a kingdom beyond the reach of Rome.

I don’t know what these clever little shits will dream up next, I really don’t. A new religion? Artificial Intelligence that enslaves humanity? A cure for the common cold? Our kids are half psychotic with the ‘likes’ and ‘unfriending’ that adolescents take far too seriously. They’re addicted to the social medias, they’re unhappy, they’re stressed to the roof. They’re on anti-depressants at 12 years old.

I don’t think getting hooked on a cyber-currency is going to cure what ails them. What ails them is a world moving way too fast, changing in ways Mark and the Tech Czars haven’t factored in beyond a profit margin, flying off its axis before our very eyes. No wonder they’re depressed. No wonder we are too….

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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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