Mood:  cheeky

"Good morning, Class."

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo."

"Please pass these bluebooks around, one to each student Miss Dana Something-or-other."

"Yes Sir."

"Alright Class, your Mid-term Exam in Modern American History will be but a single essay question which I will now write on the board.  You will have one hour, and your comments are limited to one bluebook.  Should you finish early, you may turn in your bluebook to me and report to the Study Hall in Room 214.   You will remain there until the bell sounds ending this period.  Any questions?  Okay, I'll write the question for you now.  Good luck."

Mr. Frodo wrote the following on the green chalkboard:  "Using the 'Cuban Missile Crisis' as a backdrop, discuss the decision-making in the  'Cold War' and the role played by the threat of nuclear warfare."

Mr. Frodo sat with his back to the chalkboard, resting his elbows on the faux pine desk, and began thumbing through a collection of poems by e.e. cummings.  He did not look up, rather he merely listened to the shuffling and under-breath expletives. 

"Mr. Frodo," came the plaintive query from the aisle nearest the windows.

"Yes, Miss Dana Some-thing-or-other," he responded to the perky little blonde tugging at her skirt as she crossed her legs, provocatively.

"Mr. Frodo, like I don't know anything at all about y'know the 'Cuban Missile Crisis'"

"I'm not sure I'd want to admit that were I you."

"Well, like it, y'know, doesn't seem fair, y'know, that half your grade y'know for the whole y'know term is based on something you could just like copy off of WIKIPEDIA."

"So what's your point?"

"Like what's so important about y'know this little island near where Natalie Holloway disappeared.  History is a drag.  How will this help me get a job and pay off my y'know student loans?"

"That's why you answer the question, so you will understand the significance of what took place there."

Silence.

Frodo didn't even want to look at the little moron.  Her cow-eyed stare made him uncomfortable, and he began to wonder, for the millionteenth time why he had ever gotten into teaching.  "To learn from history, so that mistakes are never repeated," he spoke to himself as he recalled the visions of a young and troubled President stumbling against a crafty Soviet Premier.

Slowly, one-by-one, the students shuffled by his desk and placed their bluebooks one atop another.  Dana Something-or-other, sure to someday be a news anchor on a local TV station, connected to her cell phone as she exited his classroom.  Frodo opened her bluebook and thumbed through the drawings and the graffiti.  On the final page she had written "I'll get back to you." 

When he raised his head he could see her looking through the window in the class room door. 

She hadn't aged a day standing there on the podium, laughing, feigning any awareness whatsoever of the events surrounding the Bay of Pigs.  He turned off the TV and began to re-read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."  He never thought he would miss Ari Fleisher.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:13 PM EST

Updated: Monday, December 10, 2007 11:12 PM EST

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Mood:  chatty

Many days ago, Merry told Frodo that he would have to devote a solid hour every single day in order to give proper service to the words assembled on this very screen.  Merry seriously underestimated the need.  Frodo now finds himself looking for subject matter, as opposed to his assumed sourcing from multiple decades of experience, in order to give some perspective to the imitation in life of the art that surrounds him.  There is a tendency, now, to repeat, not because of a memory loss, but because the point was made so long ago that no one, including Frodo, has the time or the impetus to review it all.  One of the Men of Gondor has suggested a "Best of Frodo," which, presumably, would serve the needs of those who look for laughter, alone.  Or perhaps those who are predominantly political, or even those who zero in on that which is purely poignant.  Frodo disagrees.

Dear reader, it was Forrest Gump, the purest of the pure, who best explained life.  When you visit Frodo, expecting him to have made mincemeat of the Incomparable Moron, and find him wandering through the Shire in search of buttercups, or reflecting upon the bizarre circumstances which change unknown lives forever, you experience a cherry covered with chocolate.  

There was a time when someone such as Andy Warhol would have painted a picture of a chocolate-covered cherry with the countenance of Marilyn Monroe, or perhaps Frodo, inside, and museums would be awash with reproductions of this that surely would be art.  In these days, someone such as Lionel Richie will combine other senses to emulate the tastes of chocolate and cherry.  One need merely close one's eyes, and dance to the music.

Art, however, is subject to the whims of those who finance it, or who happen to have the power to limit its' application.  Thus are there parables; stories which bear a message assembled with thought and perspective.  Parables, when scored to music, can become great films, just as they can become psalms of heavenly praise.  Films, music, books, as well as sparsely documented tales, say much, much more about the values of we citizens in Middle Earth as do any of those who profess to speak in our behalf.  Sad it is that we keep forgetting that. 

Thus Frodo begins each tale with a song.  Treat it, dear reader, as if it were a chocolate-covered cherry, and laugh, or cry, think, or not.  He who is smallest and weakest seeks only to bring down that which takes the music from us.  On the morrow will he ask you to, once again, march with him to destroy the Ring.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:38 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, December 9, 2007 8:36 PM EST

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Mood:  silly

Frodo and Sam have friends who are retired college professors.  She is now an author of romance novels, and any reader who has ever felt her own mounds aquiver would recognize the cognomen.  He, on the other hand, takes care of the house, cooks, and composes the annual Christmas Communique.  Despite your anxiety about these generally boring and mundane inclusions in the cards you receive from any of your acquaintances with more than two children, Frodo urges you to sit back and read what follows (but, only after going to the bathroom, and doing a "number one"--remember, you were warned).  Note also that this posting is done entirely without the permission of the original author because Frodo will attempt to claim credit for its' creation.

"Well, the inevitable finally caught up with Panther, our 24-year-old black tomcat.  He died last Feb.  I was very fond of him, but I can't say that I wasn't relieved to no longer be chief geriatric caregiver.  Free at last, free at last!  For about three months.  Then Shirl started up.  "I want babies."  I reminded her that it was a bit late in life for that.  But she refined her chant.  "I want cat babies."  I reminded her that it had been a quarter of a century since we had had kittens, and it was a bit late in life for that.  In May, we adopted two two-month old kittens from the Humane Society.

They are purebreds.  One is a Hun, the other is a Mongol.  The black one is named Attila, and the silver-blue gray one Genghis.  Actually, exercising the imagination for which she is renowned in writing circles, Shirl named them Inky and Pewter.  She calls them her "precious treasures."  Jesu! (You may vomit at will).  They are neither "precious" nor "treasures."

Here is a partial recap of about six months of their "treasurely" antics.  One afternoon, I was home alone and had just gotten out of the shower.  The back wing of the house seemed stuffy, so I turned up the thermostat.  Nothing.  I turned the blower fan to "manual on."  Nothing.  I turned the thermostat up to "heat."  Nothing.  I raced down to the laundry room buck-naked.  After an anxious search, I discovered that a plug far back on the side of the furnace was dangling loose.  I bent over to put it back in place and I was apparently "dangling."  I felt a sudden WHAP where no man ever wants to feel a WHAP.  Pewter had been helping me trouble-shoot the problem but then decided to play.  Thank god, it was Pewter.  When he plays with humans, he does not put out his claws.  Had it been Inky doing the swatting, I would now number among the "famous" tenors. . .sopranos even.  But the damned furnace/air conditioning was still dead.  So I traced the wire from the plug to find that, after they had knocked out the plug, they had used it as a swing and had torn loose the connection in the laundry room ceiling.  I reconnected.  Success!  A couple of months later, the furnace again died.  I checked it out (fully dressed), and this time, I discovered that one of the "treasures" had reached through an air vent in the top of the furnace and disconnected the vacuum valve that starts the furnace blower, destroying part of it.  The HVAC man had to fix that.  A week ago the furnace wouldn't start; and after a check of the old problems, I was relieved to discover that this time they had simply thrown the furnace switch off.  I live in fear that they will learn to use a screwdriver.

Next, they burrowed through the wall board behind the furnace and broke into the small wine cellar under the rear stair case and started pulling bottles from the racks in preparation for a four in the morning wine tasting.  I can't figure out how they did it, but they got the wine alcove's door open from the inside and decided to come up to us for an early morning visit with lots of purring and "kissing," probably looking for a corkscrew.  They busted out twice more that night before we discovered the escape tunnel and sealed it. . .at 5:30 AM.

Finally, came the "fashionista" episode, when they discovered that they looked good in jewelry, Shirl's jewelry.  One afternoon, I heard her shriek from the master bedroom: "You wretched little creatures.  Give that back or I'll spank your butts."  The "treasures" had knocked her jewelry case off the dresser and pulled open the drawers.  Spread across the rug was a trove of earrings, rings, bracelets, broaches, necklaces, doubloons, pieces of eight or nine, etc.  Pewter was headed down to the laundry room with a dangling earring in his mouth.  Inky was waging a tug-of-war with "mommy" over a gold necklace he was trying to drag under the bed.  They are the wildest beasts we have ever owned.  Yes, they are also lovely little devils, but they won't live long and prosper.

We don't speak to each other anymore. . .we shout.  Yeah, you have a nice holiday, too."

Frodo always looks forward to this card.  He can't imagine what Christmas Eve must be like in their household--nor will he ever inquire.      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:56 PM EST

Updated: Friday, December 7, 2007 9:49 PM EST

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Mood:  on fire

This evening, much is discussed about values and candidates for political office.  Polls reflect that more potential voters accept the idea of either a female, or a black, candidate for the Presidency than do those who would accept a parishoner of the Church of Latter-Day Saints.  In response, Mitt Romney, a practicing Mormon, rose to define the parameters of his personal faith and to establish his credibility as a candidate.  His speech was part Samuel Adams, part John Kennedy, part Jimmy Carter, and despite its elegance and its sincerity, Frodo walked away whistling the words to the Beatles tune noted above.  Read on, dear reader, and ask yourself if all those "words" answered the question shown in our topic for this evening.

In addition, today, the Administration of the Incomparable Moron announced a plan to address the record number of residential foreclosures currently taking place all across Middle Earth.  When all is said and done, the proposals offer the greatest benefit to new purchasers of residences in Michigan, Florida, California, and each of the seven largest electoral vote states in America.  Frodo offers that this could, indeed, could, be mere coincidence.  Frodo also believes that pigs may fly.

Now comes the coup de grace.  The United States Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) announced the letting of $31 Million in contracts to demolish 4500 public housing units in the City of Orleans starting within the next week.  Remember Katrina?  Remember all those people in the Ninth Ward who lived in rental homes and apartments?  Remember all those people living in FEMA trailers?  Well, your friends in Washington don't seem to have much of a memory.  These policy makers have taken the position that homeowners are apparently the only class of residents deserving of aid, for many of the programs for homeowners are working well.  Renters however, who represent almost half of all the households in the City of Orleans, have been left to fend for themselves.  In fact, HUD Secretary Orlando J. Cabrera (wasn't he just traded to the Detroit Tigers?) offered nothing in his Senate testimony as to any thought about repairing the 112,000 rental units damaged or seriously destroyed throughout the Gulf Coast region.  The units being demolished will be replaced, over a period of years, by mixed-income developments that will house a mere fraction of those dependent on rental housing.

Today in the City of Orleans, thousands of jobs on the lower end of the wage scale go begging, simply because the available housing is priced beyond the means of those willing to work, and no more housing is even on the horizon of availability.  The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) (we all remember 'Brownie', don't we?) announced last week that it will evict hundreds of tenants from emergency trailer parks over the next six months, reardless of the availability of housing.   

A tent city in the park next to City Hall reminds Frodo of a time when a "Poor People's Campaign" occupied the Mall in Washington, D.C.  But this is not a demonstration, it is a fact of life, in the richest country on our small, blue, planet.  The Administration of the Incomparable Moron cannot even address the issue of what we are going to do, two weeks before Christmas, to provide housing for the poorest of the poor. 

So, dear reader, wouldn't it have been "Christian" for Mitt to tell us what he would do to provide for those whom Jesus loved above all others?  Instead he gives us "words."

Frodo has several words for Mitt, and for everybody else who has forgotten about all those poor people that nobody even thought existed in this, the richest country, on our small, blue, planet.  Your words don't mean dick.  For the true love of God, do something!

Frodo appreciates Mr. James S. Russell of Bloomberg for bringing the continuing debacle of leadership to his attention.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:38 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, December 6, 2007 8:34 PM EST

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Mood:  mischievious

Frodo has wondered, often, about the parallels of history.  It is much more than a statistical fact that some things happen when they happen because of the time of year.  Suicides, for example, occur with frequency during the holiday seasons, amid periods of great joy, when depression is accentuated for those who suffer.  Frodo enjoys marking events on the date that they occur, and to compare them with prior history.  It is, to some, mildly amusing to note that Frodo was born on the date which 17 years previously would forever become known as "Black Friday."  Frodo adds, in his defense, that his birth actually occurred on a Wednesday, and the New York Stock Exchange has been on an upward spiral ever since.

Prohibition, and the Constitutional Amendment which brought it into being, ended 75 years ago today.  The social engineering of the time helped to produce the growth of Organized Crime.  J. Edgar Hoover, a meglomaniac of substantial proportions, rose to become an influence on the subsequent course of the Cold War.  Federal regulation was extended into the mountains and the valleys occupied by those with little, if any, prior involvement with their national government.  And, of course, people died, either because of violence or by the poison produced to meet the consumer demand.

Perhaps, someday, someone such as Frodo, will make the parallel to the Pre-Emptive War and note that the unintended consequences which it propelled upon history were just as mindless.  Frodo, however, would simply prefer to note that on that exact same day, 75 years ago, one of his all-time favorite people came into being.  Frodo is struck by the fact that as the madness ended, so did it begin in an entirely different format.

What would our world be like without Little Richard?

Happy Birthday!  Frodo tips, legally, his glass to you.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:11 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, December 5, 2007 8:49 PM EST

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Mood:  a-ok

Frodo has taken a big look into America's Healthcare System and he found a few holes big enough to drive a truck through.  What is most unfortunate is that such a truck careening rudderless through our friends and neighbors is going to hurt some people.  Bilbo is an example.

Bilbo did not understand what the people at the hospital were saying when told that there was a need for "rehab" after a stint in the hospital.  To Bilbo, that sounded like "nursing home," and Bilbo had no intention of sitting in a wheelchair and watching "Wheel of Fortune" re-runs while playing cards "with a deck of 51."  Nobody explained that the costs would be covered within available coverage, and that the intent was merely to prepare a bed patient to resume normal activity.

Bilbo can be awfully stubborn, but there are also times when Bilbo is totally deferential to someone in authority, and therefore comes forth as totally powerless.  Such was the case when the attending physician wrote a prescription which would cost $400 for a single dose, and the drug was not covered by Bilbo's insurance.  Bilbo did not know what to do when the local pharmacist pointed out that there was an alternative "formulary" which was so covered, and was considerably cheaper.  A telephone call to the primary physician by the pharmacist was not returned.

Sam took charge.  Having just recently come through the loss of the gallant Howard, Sam knew some of the terminology and the rules first-hand.  Sam explained to Bilbo that the "rehab" was there not only to help Bilbo gain strength, but to prepare Bilbo for the changes in daily life which come with the constant input of oxygen.  Sam arranged for part-time in-home health care so that Bilbo could have personal attention to daily needs, and that any necessary errands could be handled without Bilbo attempting to utilize a motorcar.  As an alternative to "rehab," such costs are borne by Bilbo and Frodo's physical presence was required for Bilbo to be discharged from the hospital.

The attending physician, although obviously technically competent, exhibited no comprehension of resources available to the patient and seemed disinterested in anything that did not fall directly from a textbook.  Had a conscientious young pharmacist not noted the cost of a prescribed item, it would have been paid, no questions asked.  Sam went beyond the attending physician to Bilbo's pulmonary specialist and explained the situation to his office manager.  The result being a new prescription, and a savings to Bilbo of more than $380.

Bilbo is back at home.  Frodo and Sam have returned to the Shire.  The system that has somewhat restored Bilbo to normalcy has to be measured as succesful in its ability to make Bilbo better.  What it reveals also is a haphazard and ineffective process of customer service.  Technically-oriented people, no matter what their area of expertise, routinely communicate in a language of their own, as if they were Klingons, and all the rest of us are expected to understand or suffer the consequences of our own stupidity.  The people at the IRS probably had the same teachers as did many of our primary care physicians.

Bilbo's situation was complicated by the fact that the long-time personal care physician had recently retired, and the new attending physician, now released from any further involvement with Bilbo by Frodo & Sam, was not properly attuned to patient need.  What Frodo found, to his xenophobic reaction, is that every new doctor he could find was named Mehta, Singh, Allamahie, Saliba, Pak, Harada, or Bhutto.  It seemed as if every physician to whom he was referred had a "green card," rather than the appeal of Robert Young or even Maximillian Schell.  The dedicated young pharmacist, snubbed by the "doctor" involved, was Hispanic.

America's Healthcare System, successful in part, is a fricking mess in toto.  It is, indeed, no longer "Kansas" out there, and Frodo fears for those without proper insurance, those with limited resources, those without a strong family network.  Don't let anyone tell you, dear reader, that systemic change will only lead to something worse.  What's worse than a driverless truck bearing down on someone too sick to fend for themselves?    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 2:50 AM EST

Updated: Tuesday, December 4, 2007 3:50 AM EST

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Mood:  smelly

The President of the United States, POTUS to some, was dubbed with the coded name "Trailblazer" by the Secret Service after the first election.  In truth, George W. Bush has been a protectee of the Secret Service ever since the days of his father's presidency.  At that time, his reputation as a drinker earned him the coded nickname of "Tumbler."

There are times when Frodo is absolutely convinced that the Incomparable Moron is still on the sauce.  Witness, dear reader, the "Declaration of Principles" signed today during a video conference with Mr. Maliki (Frodo's coded nickname for him is "Shill").  In exchange for continuing protection of the Iraqi Government (coded nickname "Clowns"), the United States Government (coded nickname "Sheep") is granted "permanent bases."  In addition, preference is given to US businesses (coded nickname "Halliburton") in its dealings with the Clowns.  The Shill, of course, sees this as a way for him to keep his head as long as the Sheep accept the fact that some purpose is served for 100,000 troops (coded nickname "Policemen of the World") to remain in the desert stifling an on-going Civil War.

It should also be noted, dear reader, that the UN Mandate (coded nickname "Fraudulent Conveyance") which authorized the presence of the Policemen of the World in Iraq in the first place, is just about to expire.  Halliburton needs to replace the Fraudulent Conveyance in order to proffer some level of legitimacy to the Vice President's Blind Trust (coded nickname "Vice President's Blind Trust)."

Frodo would love to ask George Will or Charles Krauthammer or Chris Wallace (coded nicknames "Three Blind Mice") to explain to him one more time why it is that this whole damn mess wasn't about oil from the very beginning?  Somehow, he remembers the Three Blind Mice saying that this was not about the US establishing a permanent presence in a sovereign country.   In fact, if Frodo looked hard and long enough, he could probably pull up a quote from Tumbler saying something like the Iraqi excursion is actually a "Crusade."

"The Surge" is working, isn't it?  Now, let's see if we can come up with a definition for "Victory?"  You'll have to pardon Frodo from that exercise however, he just feels like throwing up.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:55 PM EST

Updated: Monday, November 26, 2007 9:28 PM EST

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Mood:  sad

Bilbo is in the hospital.  Bilbo will remain in the hospital until the doctor-in-charge returns from Thanksgiving Vacation on Monday.  Bilbo is on oxygen, and Frodo would not be surprised if the tubes remain for all of the time that is left to Bilbo.  Frodo and Sam have planned to spend Christmas with Bilbo while returning from a cruise along the West Coast of Mexico.  Bilbo was excited about the prospect of spending Christmas with Frodo and Sam, but now the words and the intonation of long-distance telephony give a new sense of impending change.

Frodo is embarrassed about the sense of inconvenience to it all.  Despite all of the conversations, the planning, the legal research, whatever, it remains that the best of intentions will leave many decisions to fall when he would prefer to be doing something far less important, but far more egocentric.   Frodo will do what is right, what is required, what is expected, but he has to admit that it will be inconvenient.  Perhaps Frodo is not so far removed from the "Generations X, Y, and Z" he so resents after all?

Hobbits are traditionalists.  Hobbits send each other Christmas Cards, and they eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day.  Hobbits walk their children to school on the first day, and they follow behind the hearse on the way to the cemetery.  These things are understood, and they are accounted for.  Looking back upon these duties and expectations in no way addresses how difficult it is to take care of all the proper details as they occur. 

Frodo's father once told him, in his own way, that he was not worried about Frodo's ability to meet his responsibilities, and to take care of Bilbo.  Is Frodo a disappointment because he truly wishes he did not have to deal with issues such as these at all?  Does merely having thoughts such as these reveal the inner weakness of the Hobbit?  Or is Frodo merely putting into words that which all feel when some of the heavens fall into the only paths they've known?

Tonight, Frodo only knows that he can dial the telephone, and Bilbo will answer.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:28 PM EST

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Mood:  party time!

It was a dark and gloomy night.

A mid-winter's night in the Appalachian plateau goes beyond cold when even the slightest breeze slices into whatever blocks its path.  Behemoth travelers ferrying consumer goods to distant locations cause the swirl that brings the artificial breeze through to even the best-wrapped of those who waited for their passage.  Once the tail lights had diminished in the distance, and the night was again still, those who waited went to work.

Interstate Highways were the public works projects of an entire generation.  The pattern, developed over megamiles of effort, was to complete a stretch of the "new road" while traffic passed on the "old road.  Once that stretch was completed, then traffic was routed thereon and construction swung to the next link, which was being served by that stretch of the "old road."  The spread of construction detours back-and-forth stretched for fifty miles or more at various times.  There were signs and painted arrows everywhere, and even the most frequent of travelers never seemed to be concerned at changes since last they passed.  Therein, dear reader, lies our true tale.

The College of the Shire is a place of profound beauty, and remote.  When assignments were completed, or ignored, the able minds thereof had to utilize adolescent creativity in complex and complicated manner, for there were few organized diversions.  It was they who watched the Interstate again grow dark as individual transport vehicles passed them by, and it was they who carefully started to remove a sign or a directional arrow without creating a dangerous or unintended impediment.  The coordination of so many, over such a wide distance, was conducted with militaristic efficiency.  Geronimo himself never planned an ambush as well.

At almost exactly 2:00 AM on that winter's morn, all of the gathered signs and arrows had been properly placed in order to divert the subject transit traffic.  Down, off of the Interstate, onto the normal "old road" detour, then off it again to the road leading into the College of the Shire itself.  The final arrow, of course, led directly into the driveway of the Presidents House.

At approximately 3:15 AM, the President was awakened by what is best described as a cacophony; voices and airhorns united in vexed frustration.  The line of traffic, all of which were "semis" in the vernacular of the highway, stretched for more than a mile effectively blocking all traffic along the way until, quite obviously, one reached the garage of the Presidents residence.

The State Police were present when the last truck headed back onto its proper routing, just as most of the campus was making its' way to the Student Union for breakfast.  Their leader instructed his minions to search for fingerprints, and other pieces of evidence so that blame and restitution could properly be assessed.  He was, indeed, a silly boy.

How much time has passed since all those frozen toes were warmed by the heated countenances of those who fell prey to a prank unrivaled by any of the legacy institutions.  None were hurt, although many were inconvenienced.  The upshot is that all, today, look back and laugh at the memory.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:07 AM EST

Updated: Thursday, November 22, 2007 12:02 PM EST

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Mood:  celebratory

Ms. Omilami Williams is a driven woman.  Despite losing seven of ten corporate sponsors, tomorrow she will be coordinating food service for more than 22,000 hungry and homeless people in Atlanta.  The daughter of the late Rev. Hosea Williams, an associate of Martin Luther King, Ms. Williams continues the Thanksgiving Day tradition initiated by her father.  Volunteers have collected donations of food and services, and the cooking has been going on for several days.  Tomorrow, turkey and all the fixins' will be served to anyone who shows up hungry.

One-fourth of all the homeless people in America are military veterans.

Hosea Williams was a far-from perfect man.  He had numerous run-ins with those people who enforce drunk driving offenses.  He arguably did more harm than good in some situations, and those who disagreed with his passion for civil rights often used him as an example of someone nobody wanted as a next-door neighbor, especially if they happened to be white.  To his credit, he recognized that the holiday season was a time for everyone to give thanks, and to share in the bounty.  So he started his Thanksgiving Dinner for the hungry and the homeless.

There is a warehouse in southwest Atlanta that stores the canned goods donated throughout the year.  It has been broken into several times, and Frodo recalls several instances where the robbery threatened the capacity of the sponsors to meet their obligations.  The cans, by the thousands, are opened with hand can-openers.    All of the cooks and servers are volunteers from the Atlanta community.  There are ministers, and teachers, journalists, athletes, students, civil servants, retired persons, military personnel (when they're not otherwise occupied), businessmen, housewives, salesmen, and some that just show up because it is the best thing going on Thanksgiving Day in Atlanta.

Indications are that the numbers seeking a warm meal will be larger than ever before.  This is the "Two Americas" that some still deny.  It takes more than a hurricane's fury to convince some that hunger and homelessness becomes a bigger problem with each passing day.  Inevitably, some will see the television news tomorrow evening, and make disparaging remarks about those who come for a free hand-out, and how stupid some people are for giving them something for nothing.

Frodo is very grateful that there are so many stupid people.  We need every single one of them.

Frodo is grateful for an old drunken preacher.  He taught that it is better to do as he does, than as he says.

Frodo is grateful that at least once each year he lives in a very nice place.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:50 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, November 21, 2007 10:25 PM EST

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