Topic: "Where's Frodo?" (5)
Frodo is whizzed. First of all, the President of the United States, whom Frodo supported from the day he declared his candidacy, goes to England with an entourage of 500 people, and the question becomes: "Where's Frodo?" Shouldn't he who placed the first bumper sticker on any Georgia- registered Jaguar have been on Air Force One?
The Obamas go into Windsor Castle, smiling, like one Limey put it, "as if they were a walking toothpaste commercial," and they present a gift to Her Royal Highness. Logically, they presented her with an IPOD, made up of HER favorite music, including the score from "Oklahoma." Why, pray tell, didn't they just pour more salt into his wounds and include "The Yellow Rose of Texas," "Houston," "Galveston," or some other nasal-ditty from the land that time forgot. Frodo is not amused. To think that Gordon MacRae warbles through the Castle at Balmoral, and something more contemporary (how about "Dancing Queen," by ABBA?) would help the old girl save up her strength in order to meet her 12th US President.
Lord Tolkien turned over in his grave when Frodo told him that J.K. Rowling, the creator of "Perry Hotter," or something like that, was seated next to the First Lady during the formal dinner. Again, inquiring minds asked, "Where's Frodo?" Certainly, his exploits would make great night-time reading for Sasha, too.
Timothy Geitner, with a target pasted on his back, sat in the front row, nodding his head up-and-down, as the new President called for all the nations of the world to join in the fight against the economic conflagration. Only the Shire, of all the economic engines of Middle Earth, was unrepresented in that throng. Even the Sheiks of Araby must've wondered, "Where's Frodo?"
Well, dear reader, simply put, Frodo sat in front of his black-and-white, next to his friend Samwise. Chris Matthews was a chirping commercial for bladder-control protection as he gushed over the class and the character of the First Family. Sam, admittedly tired of vocal political swordsmanship, was enthralled by every fashion statement, each assessment of polite protocol, and took sheer delight in the apparent lack of faux pas by the new kids in the receiving line. It was, almost, as if Frodo and Sam were there, with Barack and Michelle.
Had they been, they couldn't have been prouder. No one called an associate "Turdblossom." No one winked at the Queen. No one gave the Chancellor of Germany a neck rub. They simply acted like they belonged there, and, true it is, each of us was there.
Maybe next time though, Frodo gets to ride shotgun.