The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Sitting around last night with a few of our friends waiting for the phone and internet to come back into service after the Bomb Cyclone, we hit on the subject of Artificial Intelligence used to facilitate the drudgery of data entry in their genealogy research. Always a day late, a dollar short and probably a half century behind, I was amazed my friends all had AI. Turns out, surprise surprise, it comes with their smartphones and laptops. Just jumps right in to give a friendly assist, unsummoned, ready to serve.

Apparently you can turn the digital servant off. You know, if you want to navigate the universe without auto-pilot. My friends didn’t. Oh, it annoyed them occasionally, jumping in with unwanted suggestions, but they could ignore it and anyway, mostly it was useful. “I only use if for the boring stuff,” Linda said. “Saves me a lot of time.”

The world moves too fast for me down here in my hidey-hole at the end of the island. How is it possible most of us only just heard of AI a few years ago and now it’s embedded in our devices? It’s 50 years since Toffler’s book Future Shock came out, warning us about the accelerated speed of change in our societies. How long did it take from the first home computer to the year we all had at least one? Remember those first portable phones, the ones about the size of a shoe box with an antenna you pulled out for better reception? Now I’m the last person in America without one carried everywhere I go.

Linda claims she doesn’t plan to use the AI app much. I claim we’ll all be using it in no time flat all the damn time. Technology has a way of worming its way into our lives, becoming more and more indispensable. Today our internet is still down. The neighbors are complaining. They’re cut off from the outside world. They’re living like animals in the last century. The Dark Ages are back!

Course, I’m doing fine. Ignorance, they say, is bliss. Maybe so. All I’m sure of in these once future days, a world without AI is okay too….

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I’ve had my share of bad Thanksgivings. Family arguments, odd combination of guests, friends who wouldn’t eat the dinner for fear of salmonella poisoning (I guess they didn’t believe the shack kitchen met Washington State Health Dep’t. standards). I don’t ask for much, just plenty of food and libation with folks who are friendly. We’ve had storms and power outages. Didn’t matter. We have a wood cookstove and plenty of oil lamps.

The one Thanksgiving I remember most we had maybe eight of us at the table, all neighbors and friends. Dinner was fine, the conversation was pleasant, the adult beverages were working their warm glow. All, it seemed, was well in this little corner of the world. And … there was still dessert on its way.

Somewhere in that toasty conviviality one of our guests, the eminent Dr. S____ who preferred the high class moniker to her given name, decided it was time to go around the room, each of us, and offer us assembled epicureans our best scenario of leaving this Mortal Coil. Maybe she was working up a post-doctoral thesis, I don’t know, but she insisted everyone make public our favorite manner of death. She, in fact, would begin.

Maybe a good host would’ve let this proceed. Which, in fact, I did, not quite believing this was actually going to be our dinner entertainment. The Doc wanted to die on her blue water boat cruising the world, a watery demise. She had quite a romantic narrative to fill in the plot. I could feel my cranberries curdling somewhere buried beneath turkey and dressing.

“Who wants to go next?” she asked and a neighbor friend began hesitantly, mistakenly thinking the House Rules somehow made confessionals mandatory. “Wait!” I demanded. “It’s Thanksgiving, for crying out loud, not the Day of the Dead. Maybe we could tell what we’re thankful for and forget this morbid death fantasy stuff. No good. It’s no damn good!”

A few years later the Doctor nearly did die on her sailboat near the Fuji Islands. De-masted the boat in a storm, motor conked out, the radio gave up the ghost and now they were adrift in the South Pacific. A dream come true for the skipper maybe, but for the crew, a couple of friends from the South End, not so much. I wonder today before I go in for Thanksgiving dinner what poor yahoos are sharing turkey with her this year. Me, I’m thankful, Big Time, I’m not sharing it with her.

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So you say you want government off yer back? Sure, I get it, all those EPA regulations that try to keep corporations from polluting the air you breathe or the water you drink, who needs that kind of nanny state? You don’t believe global warming is caused by us humans burning fossil fuels, why hobble big business with unnecessary attempts to keep greenhouse gases at low levels? I got it that you think vaccines are a dupe for a dope, just a way to put transmitters in your bloodstream so you can be tracked. Drain the swamp, eliminate government agencies, cut some budgets (but not Medicare or Social Security). Get government down to the size you can drown it in a toilet.

Taxes too high? Okay, lower them mostly for the wealthy and the corporations. Maybe room for a small reduction in yours too. Gut the IRS, nobody likes the tax man. So what if the big boyz hire attorneys and accountants to pile on the spurious deductions, you’d do the same if you were rich, wouldn’t you? You want government off your back, but maybe not out of your bedroom, not out of your sex life. Ban abortions, go after the trans folks, define what gender is, legislate what marriage is, why not, it probably doesn’t affect you.

Go ahead and put a drug-using guy like Goetz in charge of the Justice Department, hide his underage affairs, look the other way, none of our business, right? Let him go after the officials who indicted the ex-President. Use the power of the office to show them who’s boss now. And no, I understand, this isn’t government on my back or yours, it’s government retaliating against folks who have it coming. Folks who live in the Swamp. Not the new guy, he’s draining it. Obvious to anyone with two or more eyes.

Tired of listening to scientists and those uppity elites from the coasts? Who isn’t? Bring on RFK and put him in charge of vaccines and fluorides. Sure, he’s got some strange ideas but that’s what we need now, the stranger the better. And all the better for media ratings! Government doesn’t have to be all wonky anymore. It’s entertainment!

It’s a New Morning in America. Fox News celebrities can run things now, not elected officials, not career bureaucrats. Billionaires will take the helm and help us little people up the ladder. The business of America will once again be business, unbridled, unregulated, full steam ahead. Government? We don’t need no stinking government!

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Big Walter should be a happy camper now that his preferred candidate, Donald J. Trump has won the 2024 election. But he’s not. Ever since the returns came in that fateful night, he’s been positively morose most mornings at the Diner. When Little Jimmy approached his table the morning after, decidedly hungover after drowning his disappointment in bathtub — or at least a wash basin — of Jack Daniels, to offer a not totally sincere congratulations to Walt, he expected a huge guffaw and outright derision over voting for a Loser. Instead he received a nod and a token tip of his coffee mug in sad salute.

Jimmy wandered over to sit with me and a very dejected Two Toke Tom, who by the way he gulped his coffee, hadn’t slept much watching the bleak returns half the night. “What gives with Walter?” Jimmy asked us. “You’d think his guy lost, the way he’s acting.”

“Beats me,” I mumbled. “Maybe just a sore winner.”

Two Toke poured half a pound of killer white into his coffee, stirred viciously until some of it dissolved, then slurped up half the cup in one swallow. And groaned audibly. Apparently he and Jimbo had both washed their disappointment last night. Me, I felt like I did the night Reagan won. Or actually it was the single malt scotch that won. I didn’t need to relearn that lesson.

TT held his sucrose coagulated mug up to catch Brenda’s notice for his his 4th refill, which she accommodated with the admonition, “that’s the last one, Tom. You’re at overdose Level 4 already.”

Jimmy asked her after ordering the Heart Attack Special what was up with Big Walt. Brenda set her order pad on the table, leaned in out of Walter’s hearing range and said, “He was hoping they’d need the militia to overturn the crooked election when Kamala won. He thinks he’s the Camano area chapter of the Proud Boys. Now that it’s all over without the shouting or the shooting he’s disappointed. “

Well, you just can’t please some people. Maybe next election they’ll get another shot at it.

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I got a pile of friends who claim to be envious of my so-called Lifestyle. Get up when I want, work for myself, do what I feel like doing, live off the calendar and my wits and off the beaten path. Who wouldn’t like that? Unless we factor in the poverty, the hand-to-mouth, the lack of pensions or retirement. There’s a reason hippies became extinct and it has nothing to do with an asteroid slamming Earth.

As the mizzus will gladly attest, I took this road — this choice? — because I don’t play well with others. And certainly not managers, supervisors or most any other bosses. I didn’t like the city. I didn’t like most jobs. Okay, all jobs, any jobs. And since poverty never scared me, the Path of Least Resistance led to here, a place remote and cheap, and not surprisingly, a backwash without much opportunity for employment.

Perfect! All I had to do was learn a few skills. Carpentry, plumbing, electrical, truck repair, subsistence living. Education — it never really ends. Something they neglect to teach most of us in school. The School of Hard Knocks doesn’t need a post-graduate program. Tuition’s not exactly free, but it’s reasonable.

Folks who claim to be envious of my lifestyle really aren’t. They didn’t have the appropriate skill sets. If they did, retirement would be easy for them, a hippie vibe with a fat income guaranteed. Who could ask for more? But … like I always say, it takes more than a little while to learn bohemianism. And if you’ve spent most of your life paying for insurance policies to protect yourself from the vagaries of existence, chances are it’s too late to become a latter day beatnik. Don’t feel bad, you’re probably the Lucky Ones.

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