The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Well sure, the guy had an affair with a couple of porn stars, nothing most healthy all American males wouldn’t do if they had the opportunity, right? Course I’m right. Even if they’d had a wife who’d just given birth. And if they happened to be running for President in a close race, they’d want to keep this under wraps. Buy off the women if they had the money and Donald certainly had the money. Especially if that embarrassing segment of grabbing genitals had just hit the airwaves…. Not that for most voters, even the evangelicals, this would matter. The rich are kind of immune from the morality of the rest of us. Right?

Okay, let’s admit there’s a law against hiding that payoff. Why you had Cohen make the payments, your bag man, your enforcer. Turns out he was ripping you off while he was at it and then when you threw him under the bus and he spends time in jail, he turns star witness on you. Great TV, but embarrassing. Stormy was even more embarrassing. Probably a mistake hauling her onto the witness stand when the affair wasn’t the real issue, try to make her look like a liar so it wouldn’t appear he’d had sex with her, something everyone knew he had and most would have liked to have had too. But never back down, just double down, isn’t that the Roy Cohn motto. Hit back and hit harder. Never admit guilt.

And now 12 jurors have found him guilty. On all 34 felony counts. You didn’t expect remorse, now did you? Course not, all a witch hunt. Political payback. The right wing talk shows and the Republican sycophants are screaming bloody murder. How dare they bring an ex-President up on charges? Same as those impeachments, both of them. Nothing to see here, nothing wrong. Nothing you or I wouldn’t have done in his place.

Up next, the sentencing. No way could Judge Merchan put him behind bars, no way, no how. But … here’s a defendant convicted on all 34 counts, fined repeatedly for violating the Judge’s gag order, who ranted daily about a travesty of the law and a corrupt court, who obviously has no remorse, none whatsoever, who quite possibly changed the 2016 election in his favor by his actions, who will not and cannot be disciplined. No way he’s going to be incarcerated or ordered to home detention. Right? Right????

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So our President-in-Exile had his day in court. Weeks, really, and today the judge gave the jury their instructions, then sequestered them. Even took away their cellphones and wi-fi, which, if I’m guessing correctly, should induce a hasty verdict due to social media withdrawal, tempers on edge, plenty of shouting and wailing in the jury room, ‘for godsake, everybody, I need my phone!”

Mister Trump, despite declaring he would most certainly testify in his own behalf, declined to take the stand. Or the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. His accuser, Michael Cohen, was a serial liar, a point reiterated countless times by the defense attorneys. As for their client, well, you be the judge.

This, ladies and gentlemen of the blog jury, is the America this defendant made great again. Divided and angry. A corrupt Supreme Court that takes bribes and flies an upside down flag supporting insurrection without shame or recusals. A do-nothing Congress. Red states vs. Blue. If anyone thinks this narcissistic phoney baloney business man, a serial liar and a rapist, a man completely devoid of morality, is the answer and not the problem, I got a bridge I’d love to sell you. To Reality.

Of course if the jury finds our Savior guilty, it will be like the last election, rigged. You can’t trust the courts … or the police … or the government. The states, the Feds, the Democrats, Joe Biden — all out to get him, to bring him down, to prevent him from saving America. Never show remorse, never apologize, never compromise, never be a loser, never stop blaming others.

12 people are sitting in judgement right now while the world is watching. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll decide if America is great again. Meanwhile, it’s a real cliffhanger of a story.

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I heard a guy on the radio, some Hot Talk jock, who said he was against not only minimum wage increases, he was against minimum wage completely. He argued that the largest growth spurt in U.S. history was when the corporations took off with little tax and with no regulations to prevent them from setting wages as low as the market would bear. Capitalism at its cut-throat best, unfettered, unregulated and unapologetic. The Roaring 20’s. I guess he didn’t read the next chapter in his 8th grade history book, the one titled The Great Depression.

Down here in the laissez faire South End, a lot of us don’t have minimum wage jobs cause we don’t even have jobs. The ones who do have minimum wage jobs don’t make enough to afford health insurance or to make the monthly nut on that double-wide they’ll never own outright. To make ends meet they’ll apply for food stamps or other supplemental programs. These are the folks my Hot Talk jock calls ‘Takers’. Or sometimes ‘Whiners’. And occasionally, when he’s feeling frisky, ‘Leeches’. And when he hears some candidate advocating for tax reform or health care or income equity, he screams ‘Class Warfare’.

The South End Food Bank barely keeps up these days. Moms with kids, fathers without jobs, folks who are disabled, people down on their luck. The Little Church in the Ravine helps the poor, I’ll give em that. Pastor Bob preaches the parable of the loaves and the fish, feeding the masses. I saw a bumper sticker on a BMW going into town: WINNING DOESN’T MEAN SOMEONE HAS TO LOSE. Or so he’d like to think….

Charity begins in the home, I’ll grant you, but sometimes we need to think of America as our home. Maybe you never needed a helping hand, but I suspect most of us got one except maybe that BMW driver. You maybe can’t legislate compassion, but you can sure legislate for fair play. You think folks living on the street or applying for food stamps or welfare are all Takers, turn off your radio and stand by the Food Bank half a day. It might just soften your heart.

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Two Toke Tom asked me the other day why in holy hell do I write these stories. “Live in the moment, Skeeter,” he advised. “Let the past be the past.” Two Toke is a disciple of Be Here Now, living in the Eternal Moment. I could make the argument — and I do — that I’m just allowing the Past to live alongside the Present, but T.T. isn’t buying. To him, the past isn’t prologue, it’s just prolonged, at least by guyz like me.

He’s got a point, but I long ago stopped looking for Enlightenment. The world is a mystery to me and so be it. I guess I have a fondness, though, for what came before. I keep my old shack, I preserve my old stories. I figure nobody much cares, but history means something to me. The newcomers to the South End see the mizzus and me now as Old Timers, anachronistic pioneers on an island where the pioneers vanished long ago. Who cares who lived in the old Nesje house? Who cares if the little building south of us was the Bucklin Store? Who gives a damn if Bernie Road was named after Bernie Dallman and Dallman Road was too. The man is dead and gone and so what if his kinfolks are still here? It’s not like he was a famous war hero. Just a name on some roadsigns to the newcomers.

But there are ghosts among us. There are, I tell Two Toke after the 3rd or 4th, ripples in the continuum. Toss a stone in the pond and it eventually comes back. Tom smiles his Cheshire Cat smile and chuckles from across his kitchen table. We go back a long ways, Tom and me. We go back to when we both first came to the South End, two drifters looking for a future. I guess Tom found the present … and me, I found that too. Time is the great Trickster is what I think, but Tom and I both found what we were looking for, we just took different paths to getting there.

Two Toke says, late in another evening, “I do read your stories, man.”

I give him MY Cheshire grin. “I know you do, Tom. I write em for you. So you won’t forget.”

Tom’s eyes twinkle, they’ve grown so moist, and the light from them is like stars light years away, no telling how long ago, just a sparkle that arrives right now. “You’re a crack—up,” he says in a voice I’ve heard before, a voice not so very far away.

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The Flatheads were holding court at the Diner the day after the FDA approved the women’s new sex drug.  Lined up like an ad for an automobile museum, their Nashes and Oldsmobiles, Packards and Pontiacs gleamed in this summer’s endless sun.  Tork ‘The Wrench’ Anderson was musing over his Santa Fe Omelette how life was going to be nitro-charged from here on out.  “I may have to start jogging again,” he declared to the assembled geriatrics, “just to keep up with the mizzus.”

Randy, who once owned the O-Zi-Ya Body Shoppe before he sold it and retired, put down his second cup of decaf coffee and shook his head sadly.  “After my last heart attack I decided to slow down on the bedroom.  Too much stress on my ticker.”  Freddie howled from the next table.  “I bet Cindy thought her prayers were finally answered.”  Randy closed his eyes and nodded.  “I don’t think the pink pills are for her.”

Brenda breezed through the back room about then with a coffee pot.  “Whaddaya think, Brenda?” Joey asked when she poured him a refill.  “Gonna be a big run on that women’s Viagra?”  Brenda stopped, all eyes on her as if she were the Dr. Phil of the Women’s Health Movement.  “That depends, I guess.”  “On what?” Freddie asked, holding out his empty mug, big grin on his.

“If you’re hoping a little pill is gonna make you old farts look good, I got some bad news for you boys.  You’re expecting a miracle.  It’s like those cars outside there.  They’re waxed up and ready for show, but you know and I know, what’s under the hood isn’t much.”

Ralph said, “Ouch, Brenda, that’s kinda cruel.”

“Sorry,” she laughed, “but you did ask.”  She held the coffee pot up. “More octane, fellas???”

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Crabbers are like fishermen, only worse. They’ll exaggerate, lie outright, then tell you the most wild-eyed outlandish whoppers only the chronically gullible would believe. Three Finger Fred loves to hold up his stubs and tell any newcomer who’s unfortunate enough to gravitate into Fred’s barstool orbit, how he was pulling traps in a full gale out of his 10 foot dinghy one terrible November.

“You don’t mean …?” the poor unsuspecting stool neighbor would invariably ask in horror.

“Yup,” Fred would nod, finishing his beer in a final gulp … and ordinarily the newbie would tell the bartender to give Fred another, on him.

“Terrible storm,” Fred would continue once his glass arrived. “Worst we’d seen all year. But I had traps to pull and by god, no storm ever stopped Fred Jensen, not before, not since.” Fred would glance at his victim, raise his glass and toast the courage of a man such as himself. “I almost swamped on the first trap gettin her in. Full pot, top to bottom with the clacking monsters. I no sooner opened the side hatch than half the beasts were in the boat, grabbin on to my boots, crawlin up my rainpants. It was awful those 8 legged bastards all trying to get at me. And the wind was blowin awful too. And the rain was comin in sideways. I knew right then I’d have to row out of there, crabs or no.

“I was kickin em off me, rowing into the wind and rain was an inch deep in the bottom so the crabs were sloshin back and forth and up my legs. About halfway to shore two of the biggest buggers made it up to my chest, clackin those nasty claws, tearin at my life preserver. It was a nightmare, me tryin to row and swat at the beasts same time. I was half crazy … and that’s when the big one got hold of my swattin hand. Took those fingers right to the bone. I had to beat him with the oar before he’d let go.

“My god, man!” his listener would cry, “give this man another drink!”

Fred, of course, would drag the story out until the drinks stopped coming. Sometimes the boat went over crabs, oars and all. Sometimes the crab that amputated his fingers was kept by the U.W. Science Department, it being the biggest Dungeness ever caught in Puget Sound. Sometimes he rowed back out for the second pot, undeterred by blood loss or hurricane winds, a saltier dog than any in song or story.

Usually, though, one of us South Enders would yell down the bar, all of us yahoos laughing and hollering, “Hey, Fred, didn’t you say you lost those in a saw accident?” And another would shout, “Naw, he took em off in a nose picking incident.”

Fred would growl. Fred would swear. Fred would give us the finger … even if it was nothing but the stub. And if it was late enough and he was sufficiently liquified, Fred would tell the saga of the saw. “I was cuttin through this old growth maple, see? Harder than iron and my saw had a 52 inch blade I’d just sharpened, ran it off a Plymouth slant six I’d rebuilt the week before….”

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