Mood:  surprised

Congress Heights is a section of Washington, D.C. abandoned by all but the poorest of the poor many years ago.  Not unlike Washington itself, the area is overwhelmingly black, crime-ridden, and bearing a per capita income that would be in triple figures at best were it not for governmental largesse.  The flight of the white middle class from Congress Heights parallels the post-War growth of the suburban home and the white picket fence.  For a variety of reasons, certainly including the costs of transportation and real estate itself, there is evidence of a return and a revival of center city neighborhoods in many parts of Middle Earth.  Surprising it is for Frodo to find the United States Government itself standing in the way, and threatening the existence of true urban pioneers.

A pair of American bald eagles have built a nest in the nation's capital for the first time in 63 years.  The National Park Service has confirmed the existence of the nest in that section of town known as Congress Heights.  The disclosure would not have been made public at all until the Department of Homeland Obscurity announced its decision to build its mega-headquarters in the wooded area which surrounds the nest.  The agency has many and varied reasons for the project, but many other people feel that the inevitable result will be a flight to a different location, returning the District of Columbia to a haven for eagles of the concrete statue variety, alone.

Eagles are shy birds that prefer forest and farmland, and their acceptance of a panorama of apartment buildings, a national airport, and the screaming jets of Bolling Air Force Base, certainly signal an unpredictable environmental acceptance of peaceful ccoexistence.  The area of the nest is known as Shepherd Parkway, and it is part of the remains of a Civil War era defensive fort constructed amid a ravine that is deep enough to shield the young.  The Anacostia and Potomac rivers, both of which were once almost polluted beyond redemption, meet nearby, providing a substantial source of fish for the "urban eagles."  The eagle population that was nearly driven to extinction seems to have forgiven us, and is doing its best to join us in the reclamation of our great cities.  "Something is happening in nature out there that we can only speculate about," said Craig Koppie of the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, to the Los Angeles Times.  "They are becoming more tolerant of us."

There is no doubt that Congress Heights would benefit mightily by the jobs, the improvements in the infrastructure, and the return of a diverse population to the neighborhood.  There is however, a greater risk.  That risk being people having to do the job alone, without the assistance of those winged homesteaders known by the Park Rangers as "DC-07-01."     

To Frodo, they are, and will always be known by what he imagines would be their Secret Service identification, that being, of course "EOTUS."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:27 PM EDT

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Mood:  lazy

Frodo often composes at the keyboard, generally with no sense of where he's going, or what he's going to do when he gets there.  This evening, as he logged on to his service provider, he noted that 166 "hits" had taken place on this day by those attempting to access the wit and wisdom of the Hobbit.  Curiously he noted also that a cumulative number for the month now totaled 6,279.  Since today has been the first day of a new month, it struck Frodo as a bit quixotic, if not inexplicable, that such a variance would exist.

Frodo multiplied 166 by 30 days in June to see if the product might represent an average approximating 6,279.  Not even close.

From the other room, Frodo could hear that the Gallant Braves had just completed a thrashing of the Filthydelphia Fillies, by a score of 11 to 1, so Frodo took the run differential between the two teams, multiplied that figure by the value of pi (2.14, if memories-all terrible-served him correctly), and multiplied that figure by 30 days in June.  Still not in the right neighborhood.

Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, are both 12 years old.  In dog years they are each approximately 84, so doubling that figure gives us almost exactly the number of "hits" on a given day, ergo all we have to do now is to extrapolate the figure of 6,279 following a similar computational theorem.

Dividing 6,279 by the number of days in a given year (365.25, not forgetting leap year) works out to about 17.25, which we can assume to be the number of "hits" each hour.  We can, of course, assume almost anything.  17.25 x 24 equals a figure which doesn't seem to relate to anything, thereby proving that postulate.

Frodo wonders if this is how Marie Curie got her start? 

If nothing else, this little exercise has proven Frodo's original assumption about the results produced by a blank mind upon a fertile keyboard.

Frodo is going to take a few days off now, surprising almost no one.  If it should rain, and the fish won't bite, perhaps he will entertain from a mountaintop in Tennessee.  Otherwise he will simply complain about the use of Communist Chinese explosive devices on the Fourth of July.

Don't we hear nary a "Hurry back, Frodo?"

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:38 PM EDT

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Mood:  chillin'

Frodo turned on the black-and-white in time to hear the announcers discussing the status of the proposed starting pitcher for the Gallant Braves in their scheduled duel with the Red Stockings from Boston.  The young phenom awakened with a scratchy throat and the early symptoms of the flu bug that seems to be disguising itself as either something porcine, or the product of the aedes inhabitants of backyard birdbaths and swimming pools.  The discussion being that the young phenom may be too sick to pitch.

Frodo has a scratchy throat.  While strolling through the Gardens of the Shire with Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, Frodo felt light-headed, and could not seem to control a cough rising from beneath his breastbone.  Frodo certainly did not feel as if he could go a full nine innings. 

The regimen that followed included products from many of the major pharmaceutical companies, all of whom are apparently aware of Frodo's support for President Obama's Healthcare Reforms.  In the end, Frodo simply sprawled on the couch and watched an entire afternoon's baseball game from start to finish.  By his own count Frodo expended approximately 12 calories throughout the day.  The rest, he knows, was necessary, but he still feels, if you'll pardon the vernacular, like whipped shit.  What makes it worse though is this guilt about letting a day go to waste, and without exercise, to waist.

Frodo, as most know, is an advocate of taking each day and enjoying it to the fullest.  Failing to accomplish anything, or to expend absolutely none of his kinetic energy makes Frodo feel as if he has let himself down. 

The Gallant Braves, and the rookie phenom, were victorious.  Frodo tuned in to the Discovery Channel betweeen innings, and learned that all of Siberia was once a hotbed of volcanic activity, and was truly a "gateway to Hell."  Soon, "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" will come on, and Frodo will match wits with either Jeff Goldblum or Vincent Dionoffrio.  Thereafter he partakes of the grape kool-aid which calms his cough and knocks him out for the entire night.

Which makes him wonder why he doesn't just drink some of that stuff on nights when he feels fine, but can't seem to fall asleep?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:29 PM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

Frodo introduced his late friend Ogal Preston Crews into the acquaintance of the Fellowship quite some time ago.  When "Pres" died, a bachelor, he left the bulk of his estate to friends, to charities, and to the College of the Shire.  That was, however, not enough for the gibbous personality who spent part of his career teaching Remedial English to US Navy personnel while serving on an Aircraft Carrier in the North Atlantic.  For that need, as of this past weekend, the good people of Fincastle, Virginia, will have good reason to regularly give thanks to Frodo's old friend.

The Ogal Preston Crews Memorial Sewage Treatment Plant went officially on-line.  Frodo believes that a $10,000 donation is what the State of Virginia asked for when "Pres" inquired about how much it would cost for him to be identified as the namesake benefactor of this facility.  Attending the naming ceremonies were dignitaries from throughout the Southeast, including the Past-President of the College of the Shire.  Dr. Charles Sydnor asked each of the attendees, in his dedicatory remarks, to remember our old friend fondly, "and to flush one from the crapper."

Ronald Reagan, as George Gipp, would have laughed, as did Frodo.  Frodo laughed through a longing tear for an old friend as he reflected on the enduring value of a good sense of humor.   Frodo wonders if a Hobbits' name might some day appear as the benefactor on a public facility dedicated to repairing busted zippers on the trousers of elected officials.  There appears to be a need.    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:58 PM EDT

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Mood:  lyrical

Frodo knows the very day, and the very moment, when he transitioned from "young" to "middle age."  Today he is joined by a generation.  The bad news for Frodo is that he now seems to be one step ahead of al those whose youth ended with the death of the "King of Pop."

Michael Jackson did not make records, he made videos.  He took the art form of the twentieth century one step further than his predecessors, and he choreographed character and movement.  Two generations earlier Gene Kelly sang "Singin' in the Rain," while his primary competitor, Fred Astaire, twirled Ginger in a top hat.  A quarter-century later it was Elvis Presley grinding his hips while Pat Boone made April love (and Frodo choke).  The evolution of the truly American art form in this simple paragraph says volumes about the days after World War II, and those which preceded the fall of Saigon.  It goes without saying that technological change chronicles the end of the creativeness of Michael Jackson, as it also did for "The King of Rock and Roll."

Frodo probably has "Thriller" on a Beta videotape, somewhere in his basement.

Frodo does not intend to praise Michael Jackson, he will only watch as he is buried.  The good, as well as the evil, that men do lives after them, but it will be the music that survives.  Frodo can only judge the art, and it was magnificent.

Exit, moonwalk, stage left.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:50 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

What, asked Frodo, do Republican Senators Craig, Ensign, Vitter and South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford share?  The answer, with all speculation cast aside, is that each is still in office.

Does the name "Happy Rockefeller" mean anything to you, asked the irritated Hobbit?  The answer is that she was the divorcee who married Senator Nelson Rockefeller (R-NY) and became the symbol for the most conservative wings of the Republican Party to use in denying support to Rockefeller for the Presidential nomination in 1964.  The eventual nominee, Barry Goldwater, was obliterated in the General Election, but at least the GOP stood upon the "sanctity of marriage" as a principle for candidacy.  That sort of changed when Ronald Reagan, formerly the spouse of Jane Wyman, happened upon the scene.  The principle, it seemed, did not apply in quite the same perspective, given the Post-Bicentennial aspects of American social life.

Many more instances of social misbehavior have come to light in the days that follow.  Gary Hart, John Edwards, John Jenrette, Wilbur Mills, Mark Foley, Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, Newt Gingrich, Bob Barr, and a plethora of violations associated with the Ten Commandments and other teachings found in the Judeo-Christian logbooks manned by St. Peter, and his associate, Sgt. Frodo, abound in American History.

What distinguishes all of these abusers from the current listing is that they no longer serve in public office.  This, dear reader, brings us to the point of Frodo's irritation.  The admitted adulterers, and sexual deviants who remain in office, accepting public funds, are all of the same Party that 45 years ago would not tolerate a political nominee married to a divorcee.

Strange, is it not, that the Family Research Council, and other values-oriented evangelical organizations, remain without a public demand that these admitted miscreants immediately step aside from public office.

Frodo knows that on the morrow he will hear the wimpy buddy of Mark Sanford, Joe Scarborough, go on his TV show and use words like "tragedy," "sorrow," "troubled," to describe the bizarre actions of his former associate in the US House of Representatives.

The next sound you will hear is Frodo gagging.  Frodo wishes that some things about life did not change, like principle.  He may not agree with it, but he has always admired those who stand behind it.  Let's see how far Mr. Scarborough goes, and how many times he tries to plug his book.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:57 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

"Is there a problem, Officer?"

"Driver's License, Proof of Insurance, and Registration, Please."

"I didn't think I was speeding."

"Son, this here's Georgia, and driving with a broken tail light may not cause you any problems in South Carolina, but it does here."

"A broken tail light?"

"Have you had anything to drink this evening?"

"No Sir."

"Would you mind if I searched that big, old SUV you're driving?"

"Well, not really, but why?"

"Well Sir, it's not every night I pull over an official vehicle from the State of South Carolina driving  with a broken tail light well after normal business hours.  Just who are you, Mr., uh, Sanborn is it, and what business brings you into Georgia this time of night?"

"I'm the Governor."

"Governor, of what?"

"South Carolina."

"Well, ain't that just somethin' special?"

"Pardon?"

"Are ya on yer way to visit with yer pal Sonny?"

"Who?"

"The Governor."

"Governor, of what?"

"Georgia."

"Oh, is that his name?  Sonny, you say."

"Don't get smart with me, boy."

"Oh, not at all.  I meant no offense."

"You ain't answered my question."

"What question?"

"What are yo doin' this time of night in a government vehicle traveling in the wrong direction to be goin' home for the evening?"

"I'm taking a little personal time to relax."

"Out of the car, boy."

"We're goin' to see how straight a line you can walk."

"Officer, I don't think that is necessary."

"Well, let's jes see if you can blow up this balloon?"

"I respectfully decline to take a breathalyzer."

"I didn't say nothin' 'bout no breathalyzer.  Sounds to me like you been thru this before."

"Well, uh, I guess I just watch too many police shows on TV." 

"One more time before I call for backup, and bring you up before a judge in the morning.  What are ya doin' out here this time a' night?"

"I'm on my way to visit a lady friend."

"Okay, now we're gettin' somewhere.  Now who might this lady be, and how come you're spendin' time with her here jes before Father's Day?"

"Her name is Betty Ford."

"Well damn boy, you think I didn't know that.  A man would have to be a drunk to try and turn down three quarters of a billion dollars to improve the worst public school system in America.  Now what's that in your ashtray?" 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  bright

Lake Lovey came into existence about forty years ago.  The partners who developed the land were a builder, who constructed the first dwellings, and a minister, who owned the land.  Among the first to buy land and build homes, some vacation and some permanent, were fellow clergymen and lay leaders of the dominant religious group in the area.  For many years, people in the general area referred to them as the "Methodist Mafia."  As time passed, a generational shift took place and an increasing number of younger, and more affluent, residents came into the area for a number of specific reasons.  With them came something new, i.e. demands for better service and amenities.  Remaining however, were people who were older, often on fixed incomes, who saw no reason for changing anything, and were certainly not eager to experience increases in taxes, fees, amd dues.

The purpose of the preceding paragraph is to draw the lines of analogy for what, Frodo hopes, will be the last of his political lectures for a period of respite. 

Iran is a great deal like Lake Lovey.  Despite the demand for high-speed internet, the local telephone company is years away from offering anything other than dial-up service.  The alternative satellite service is inconsistent due to the presence of clouds, birds, or swamp gas.  Cable service is merely a rumor. 

Security used to be the province of a retired farmer who got the benefit of a cost-free rental house and Social Security coverage.  In return, he was to patrol the road around the lake twice per day, and to man the front gate during other hours on duty.   Complications arose when he started to carry a gun, and to singlehandedly reduce the population of every crawling creature, without the benefit of species identification prior to execution.

Potholes developed all around the gravel roads, so loans were taken in order to pave the way for the influx of SUV's, Jaguars, golf carts, and other vehicles which supplanted the "Ford Tough" prersence of the Appalachian environment.

In the middle of all of this were the religious leaders, who saw themselves as above the fray, and ill-prepared to deal with the coming storms.

In 1979 the Iranian Revolution destroyed the last vestiges of the Shah's rule.  The government that replaced it was not a reformist group, it was a religiously devout assemblage who attracted support from those who wanted things like they used to be, for about two thousand years.  That government, if not that political perspective, is what dominates Iran in its' rural components, among the religiously conservative, the older generation, and those who do not trust those who supported the evil Shah.  On the other side are the younger, more technologically-savvy, educationally-developed, urbanites, who most feel the incompetence of the current government and its economic policies.  The more moderate, and wealthier, clerics, unseated by the current leader, are also in this group.

If, dear reader, you were a media representative, sent to Iran in order to gauge the feelings of the people, and to forecast political events, what problems do you think you might face?  What might prevent you from getting a true snapshot of these history-making days?

Well, as Frodo would say, since you don't speak Farsi, it is apparent that you will get more input from those who speak English than from those who do not.  Since telephone service is almost non-existent outside the major cities, you will get no opinions from those in rural areas.  Since you represent a nation which provided support to the Shah, and who elected a moron like George W. Bush, doesn't it seem likely that some might be hesitant to even be seen with you?  Finally, since all of the media access to the country is held by those who are young enough to understand that the internet is not "made up out of tubes," doesn't that mean all of that input will be skewed to what that group thinks is important? 

Why, then, are we surprised at the election results?  Our polling, our "scientific" analysis of the electorate was abominable.  It is just as it was beginning in 2002 when we began to learn the difference between Sunnis and Shiites.  We failed to understand that the enlightened elite that we seemed to see behind every corner was actually, although growing steadily, nowhere near the numbers that our media magnificence portrayed. 

Frodo believes that the current regime probably did garner the most votes.  That may not mean that everyone will accept the result, and continue as good little boy and girl citizens of Iran, but it does mean that the political leader gained strength, and it came at the expense of the religious institutional leaders who opposed him.  It also means that the crowds we now see in the streets of Teheran may not reflect who actually holds the strings that make the puppets dance.

That is what worries Frodo, a lot.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:27 PM EDT

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Mood:  don't ask

One of Frodo's rules of life is that beauty follows beauty.  It is long-established that a well-turned ankle, or a heart-shaped derriere, have rotated his head as if on a swivel, and often re-directed his path.  What he means however, is that kind and caring people reap as they sow.  Good people are everywhere, as difficult as the art of politics may sometimes make that seem.  It is that counterpoint which today fries his chops, and makes him call a spade a spade.

Rusty DePass looks like he just sucked a lemon dry.  This balding simpleton from South Carolina is almost as attractive as vomit on the carpeting of a new motorcar, and he certainly pollutes the environment in similar fashion.  This old man does not have enough money to attract even the most desperate of those who sell sexual favors.  It is highly unlikely that any of man's best canine friends would remove themselves from an animal shelter in order to accompany him home.  No self-respecting member of the Jehovah's Witnesses will even knock on his door.  It is probably also true that should he ever fall into a commode, every passerby would fail to recognize him and push the handle.

Rusty DePass is an ugly, ugly man.  All value judgments aside, Frodo insists, this is simply a repulsive looking man.

So why would such a grotesque beast refer to the First Lady of the United States as if she, or a member of her family, were a gorilla who escaped from a cage in a nearby zoo?

Is it because he is an operative of the South Carolina Republican Party?

Or is it because the worst of us deny beauty, because we never experienced it?  That, dear reader, is the price we pay for freedom.  We allow people, ugly in-and-out, to speak as if they had a brain, including Rusty DePass, an Orc.     

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:38 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

Fiona injured a leg several years ago.  Veterinarians at the time told Frodo and Sam that surgery, with a six-month rehabilitation, would be recommended.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, has three or four fatty masses on his chest and abdominal areas, but absent any other problems, surgery has not been required.  Frodo's canine companions are both now in their twelfth year, and Frodo would be less than honest to say he knows not that time grows more precious, and adventures more memorable.  Fiona often limps noticeably on their walks, so Frodo permits unplanned halts to sniff a weed which is diplomatically placed where a brief respite becomes the prerogative of her ladyship.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, often appears confused, or winded, when a long stretch up hill requires that he simply stop and look at Frodo, questioning the necessity of further progress in that specific direction.

In the deep woods below Lake Lovey, the deciduous hardwoods suddenly give way to the darkness surrounding the creeks that flow endlessly across path and trail.  Hemlocks have grown in these "hollers" ever since the last episodic clear-cutting in the earliest days of the century past.  These evergreens become massive in girth, as opposed to their spindly pine cousins, and the forest bed feels no exposure to the sun regardless of the season or the hour.  It is a place where silence is rarely broken, even by birds. 

Fiona sees the creeks herein as private property, and a recognition of the reality of the existence of a fountain which restores youth.  In "Fiona Creek," the pains are erased and the necessity of a sprint through spray until the tongue hangs so long that it presents a peril to a wayward paw-step.  Once clear of the creek, Fiona sprints uphill, hither and yon, stopping only to look back at her brother and Frodo, who marvel at her rebirth.  Her relatively small size allows her to scamper under and around nearly every obstacle, and given the storms that befell the area over the past months, fallen trees are everywhere.

Many of the fallen trees are hemlocks.  Frodo has been observing the area for many months, given the threats of nature spreading among that population in the Southern Appalachians.  The fall of so many of these deep wooded giants has opened the forest floor to the sunlight, absent for a century or so, and offering another changing environment for Frodo's analysis and Fiona's amusement.

Mick, the Wonder Dog, is too big to crawl under a fallen tree-trunk, and an obstructed or complicated detour gives him undue consternation.  Frodo often stops and lifts his companion, absent the glare of Fiona, so that he may proceed in his own dignified exploration of the flattened trail that glides away beneath his canter.

The sunlight that enters this place of darkness does not pass unnoticed by any of the triumvirate.  Fiona saunters into the sunlight, and gazes toward heaven, as if a puppy angel waves a tail in her direction.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, senses aromas new to the area, and wanders fearlessly in nasal pursuit of something truly wonderful, or positively gross.

Frodo thinks of Socrates.  Sitting upon a dry embankment above a creek, he observes his comrades at play, and he thinks of the poison that befell one of the greatest of minds.  That which is found here has seemingly always been here, although, not unlike the tide, it has ebbs and flows which change in measurements of time far beyond that of an hour or a season.  

Perhaps Fiona is correct; there is a fountain of youth in these dark woods.  At least on this day it was so.

Three friends emerged from the darkness, and limped toward home.      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:58 PM EDT

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