The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

When Shirley’s Hypno-Therapy opened its clinic doors just down the road from the Pilot Lounge, it instantly became the topic du jour for the barflies who regularly frequented the drinking establishment.

“Might be just the thing, Bob,” Little Jimmy was saying the evening Two Toke and I were having a pint after a hard day of loafing. “You could beat that nicotine habit, throw away the patches, get yourself cleaned up once and for all.” Bob and Jimmy and a few others were lined up at the bar like crows on a telephone line waiting for incoming messages, not likely other than texts from the mizzus to get their sorry asses home.

“Are you insane?” Bob practically shouted. “Who in their right mind would put themselves under some spell? This Shirley person could have you giving her your passwords, your bank accounts, who knows what else?”

“What else?” Fairlane Fred threw in, “maybe a cure for your E.D.”

This, predictably enough, brought the crows to full cackle, all but Bob who surprisingly missed the humor, eliciting further speculation from the clothesline concerning potential remedies for Bob’s ‘problems’ before Bob removed himself from the group for a cigarette outside on the dock. Whereupon Two Toke excused himself and stood out with Bob against the rotting wood rail listening to the rattle of unused boats rocked against the pilings.

“What’s up?” I asked when he returned. “Nothing much. Bob said he planned to go see this Shirley, don’t mention it to the boys.”

“Kicking the habit?”

“Naw, kickstart the motor maybe. Freddie hit a nerve, I guess. Worth a shot, he figures.”

And so Shirley added another new client to her short list of us South Enders. Never did hear how it worked out for Bob but rumor at the Pilot Lounge was a lot of the boyz made appointments a few months later. Probably to the disappointment of a few wives….

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Down at the forward thinking South End, we were New Age before it became Old Hat.  Herbal remedies?  You bet!  Nettle-opathy has been practiced in the hollows here since old Ma Wexler applied a poultice of the fresh stingers to her Erectile Dysfunctional husband’s non-working parts and boy howdy, things livelied up at the Wexler homestead after that, let me tell you.

Nettle-opathy is a country cross between acupuncture and herbal cure-all.  Apply a few fresh spring leaves to the correct chakra, you can cure everything from shyness to arthritis, halsitosis to insomnia, hair loss to memory loss, seasonal affective disorder to major depression.  You won’t have time to think of much else other than that panacea tickling your chakra.

We’ve been brewing medicinal nettle tonics about since Prohibition forced us to seek alternative medicines.  We got hefe-nettle, nettle stouts, IPA’s, nettle bock, all available in a handy 12 oz. dosage.

Aromatherapy?  Sure.  We got everything from burn barrel poly-blend to chimney cedar to compost leaf mulch/food scrap.  A few minutes of olfactory stimulation, you’ll forget most of those insignificant cares and woes that nag your good mood all day long.

Hypnotherapy.   You want a spell put on you, just wander down to the South End Hotel and belly up to the bar, listen for awhile to the whoppers these old time fishermen spin over a few bottle bass.  You’ll be buying Penn reels and downrigger gear and a boat and motor too — you’ll be broke but if fishing doesn’t cure what ails ya, god help you.

In all honesty — full disclosure here — this New Age stuff, old to us, is really mostly a placebo.  But then, isn’t that the New Medicine now?  And really, who cares so long as it works.  Not our fault the South End itself is really why we live longer, smile more, work less and basically just have most of the answers to life’s tough riddles.  Placebo?  You bet.

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