Frodo, Keeper of the Ring

Friday, April 27, 2007

That Long Black Cloud is Comin' Down
Mood:

on fire
Topic: "OkefenokeeArtichokee"(3)

Before Dwight Eisenhower and the public works project which dwarfed anything ever cooked up by Franklin Roosevelt, America's highways were little more than by-ways. The two exceptions, most probably, were the now famous "getting your kicks" on Route 66 cross-country, and US 1 which ran from Maine to Florida. Although much of both routes still exist, they are either the "path least traveled by," or they are little different from any of the main roads that bi-sect every small town or suburb. Frodo takes special pleasure in the opportunity to travel, however briefly, on one or the other. Except, of course, at this moment.

US 1 passes through Ware County, Georgia, home to the mammoth Okefenokee Swamp made nationally famous as the homeplace of Pogo, Albert, and friends. From the nearby towns of Waycross and Folkston, it is not difficult to gain acces to the Park and to embark on an expedition fitted to ones' style and/or durability. The Swamp can be open water, it can be slowly drifting canals between wooded islands, or it can be open "prairie." The prairie is actually peat floating atop the water, thick enough that it can support the weight of a grown Hobbit (although each step feels as if one is walking on a waterbed). Slicing through the prairie are canoe trails alternatively used most often by alligators seeking food or companionship.

Frodo and Legolas have, but not often enough, followed these trails in search of what they could see, and they have never been disappointed. The flora and the fauna are diverse, different, and plentiful. The alligators are, no matter what your persuasion, the most impressive of all to be seen. Lying on a bank or mound of dirt the grey skin dries to a plastic sheen, and the aura of improbable reality strikes even the trained eye. Swimming alongside the canoe of the Hobbit however, the alligator erases all of that doubt expeditiously. Watching an alligator stalk a wading bird or small mammal is an experience that brings all to a silent, if not terrifying, moment of stark balance in the natural world.

For the past two weeks, fire has ravaged the Okefenokee. More than 62,000 acres of timber, brush, and plant life have been seared in the droughth-inspired inferno. 16 miles of US 1 have been closed to all vehicular traffic so that emergency officials could protect the forest lands adjacent to the park, and the houses of the surrounding communities. With a continuing dearth of rainfall, it is likely that the fire will continue as it is well beyond the first of June. Smoke, rising high enough to be subject to currents aloft, clouds the skies as far North as Atlanta and Chattanooga.

Frodo has noticed, on several mornings of late, the presence of smoke about the Shire. At first he was duly alarmed, and nearly called for the Firemen of the Shire to rally. His inaction proved the wiser course, and soon the winds carried the smoke further North.

There was a time. so Frodo has been told, that when men in motorcars approached fires burning near a road they were subject to the needs of the emergency personnel. Interstate Highways, in so many ways, have changed eventualities. Frodo likes to think that there are still men in motorcars on US 1 who obligingly pull their motorcars off the road and wiliingly take rake and shovel to help build a fire break. Although fire is merely a part of nature's plan to fulfill the need to spread seeds, allow sunlight to penetrate, and ruefully thin the weak, it is man's foe as well as his tool.

Perhaps Frodo looks skyward as others have done for tens of thousands of years. A pleading in his voice, he asks for help.

Come Fall, Frodo and Sam will travel South from the Shire, and they will turn their motorcar off the Interstate long enough to traverse US 1 in Ware County. There is an airboat there that skims along the open waters thrusting artificial wind through the thinning hair on the head of the Hobbit. Frodo would really like to take Sam for a ride. He would prefer that they not have to join a bucket brigade.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:04 PM EDT

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Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Wishin' And Hopin', Thinkin' And Prayin'
Mood:

party time!
Topic: "Weddin' Down South" (3)
Frodo was doing his absolute best to appear nonplussed. He shook hands with each gentleman who came by, hugged most of the ladies, and bowed respectfully to everyone who introduced themselves to him that day. It was then that he realized that his boxer shorts were on backward. How, he thought to himself, could that have happened? Trying to clear his mind from this obvious faux pas, he tamped a Pall Mall from the pack, and promptly lit the filter end of the cigarette.

Presbyterian churches all appear to have been built with the same bricks used in Colonial Williamsburg. Although Frodo had never paid any attention whatsoever to the architectural aspects of any church subsequent to his year-long tour of Houses of Worship from the Medieval Period in Germany, he did think it appropriate to look about and try to remember as much as he could about this day. Given the fact that the "Scarlett O'Hara," the "Purple Passion," the "Harvey Wallbanger," and their associates from the night before were still being absorbed into Frodo's bloodstream, it was an accomplishment that he could structure consequential thoughts of any tangible magnitude.

Russell Frost was there. Frodo would never see his roommate from the College of the Shire again. All these years, and cancer still kills.

Randy Dorsey was there. For a black man who had never been south of Alexandria, it was a great tribute to Frodo that he stood for him in Tennessee on that day. The night before, Randy had hesitated to step onto the balcony of the motel without shielding himself behind one of the paler-skinned participants. It also had not helped that the lady who conducted the rehersal had continued to call him "Andy."

Frodo's father was there, as his Best Man. Certainly an easy choice. Frodo's father had never before tasted an alcoholic beverage in Frodo's presence, but a glass of champagne must go down easy when your son gets married.

Legolas was there, the handsomest of the Fellowship. To this day they communicate over the miles in ways unexplained, and in the closest of bonds. Minutes together, though years apart, are as if they had seen each other but hours before.

The next morning, at the airport, as they prepared to depart for the City of Orleans, they saw the Dean of Women from the College of the Shire. Frodo walked away from his new bride and approached the hawk-nosed hag who had never missed an opportunity to give Frodo grief. Frodo greeted the Warlock by pointing to his new bride, and announcing that he had spent the last night with her in the Holiday Inn. The fact that it was perfectly legal and proper must have slipped his memory.

Frodo still thinks she was actually Barbara Bush.

And that's the way it was, April 25, 1970. The best day.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:00 PM EDT

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Monday, April 23, 2007

Don't Give Your Heart to Anyone
Mood:

lyrical
Topic: "Lonely Avenue" (3)

Ahmet Ertegun produced recording sessions. Ben E. King was the lead singer for a group known as "The Drifters." Just as King stepped to the microphone to begin recording "Save the Last Dance for Me," Ertegun tells King the story behind the writer of the song, a man named Doc Pomus. King's eyes moistened, and he fought tears as he sang the song, and for the first time understood what the lyrics conveyed.

". . .Just remember who's takin' you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be. . ."

Polio is a word not heard much anymore, but it was well-known to a generation of young people afraid to even swim in a public pool, for fear that the rest of their lives would be spent in an "iron lung." Crippled by polio, Doc Pomus used crutches and, always overweight, ended his life in the wheelchair that served him the night that Ben E. King recorded his song. Pomus had written the song from the memory of his wedding day when he watched his brother Raoul whirl his new bride across the dance floor.

". . .While we're apart, don't give your heart to anyone. . ."

Like his contemporary, Sam Cooke, Pomus had a gift for making songs out of the things that his eyes had seen. As a teenager the young white man could lay out smooth, undulating blues that won him frequent gigs at black clubs in every borough of New York. Accompanied by pianist Mort Schuman, Pomus cranked out his first hit "Teenager in Love" for Dion and the Belmonts.

". . .And when we touch, I love you oh so much. . ."

Pomus, who was born Jerome Felder, died in 1991, after writing many of the songs to which Frodo danced while Pomus merely dreamed of dancing. The life is chronicled in the newly-published "Lonely Avenue: The Unlikely Life & Times of Doc Pomus" (by Alex Halberstadt, DaCapo Press).

In April of 1953, Bilbo was presented with an opportunity to protect the halfling Frodo against polio. At Franklin Sherman Elementary School, Dr. Richard Mulvaney was performing the first innoculations of the Salk Vaccine. Frodo protested, claiming that the vaccine was a "test" and that it might make him sick (it also might hurt). Bilbo would hear none of it, and Frodo was deigned to participate. Frodo, dear reader, was invited back to Franklin Sherman Elementary School by the March of Dimes for the 50th anniversary of the victory led by the "Polio Pioneers."

Bilbo was, and remains, as it relates to the care and feeding of halflings, very wise. The truth be known, the shot didn't really hurt much either.

Ben E. King gave a great performance when he learned the truth behind the lyrics. Maybe Frodo did some good, too.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:50 PM EDT

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Sunday, April 22, 2007

Carry On My Wayward Son, There Will Be Peace When You Are Gone
Mood:

chillin'
Topic: "TW3" (3)

"That Was the Week That Was" was an old television show in the United States, and it was the by-product of creative minds of the BBC. Frodo thought of the show as he casually observed the trend of the times while he vegetated in the land of shuffleboard and pomegranate joice. In that spirit, and without meaning to offer either overkill or roadkill dear reader, let us simply consider the words of the Hobbit.

Senator John McCain (R-AZ) is a man whom Frodo has long admired. His service to his country, his personal and professional integrity, and his history of speaking up when speaking up was not an easy thing to do, are qualities which justified serious consideration for the world's highest elective office. Frodo also likes both the Beach Boys and their one-time hit "Barbara Ann," but that does not mean that a convergence in failed humor has done anything to change Frodo's mind that McCain is now only a tired, old man. It may be true that elderly military men do not die, but that would be better than making a complete ass of oneself. Contributors to the McCain campaign should demand a refund.

Attorney General Alberto Gonzales (Boob-TX) and his entire professional career were completely enshrined in the oft-repeated, "Senator, I cannot recall," phrase made infamous by former President Ronald Reagan. Frodo notes that Reagan, when he found the occasion to use those words was already exhibiting signs of Alzheimer's. Gonzales, on the other hand, was demonstrating his command of the management style made famous by that Harvard-educated MBA, George W. Maslow.

Paul Wolfowitz (Bizarro-?) stopped licking his comb long enough to bring his love affair to public scrutiny. Given the details, and the images that it brings to the mind of Frodo, it is a story that Frodo truly feels meets the criteria of obscenity under Supreme Court scrutiny. To the feminine gender who partake of Frodo's tales, Frodo can only ask "Could you imagine? Yech!" This academic, who set behavioral science back more than any person not carrying the title of "Pope," has been playing world banker ever since rational thought appeared, however briefly, within the padded walls of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Now we find that he exercised his considerable influence to get his personal squeeze a job that pays even more than the welfare payments made to the Secretary of State.

Academics provide an appropriate segue into the horror that befell Virginia's State-sponsored school of agriculture and football. Frodo has been screaming at television screens for more than a week to simply get an answer or two to what he feels are very legitimate questions. First off, what was a 23 and-a-half-year-old student doing as an undergraduate in the first place, and why would anyone study ENGLISH at Virginia Tech (which has produced erudite off-spring named Vick, who also quarterbacked the Hokies)? Of even greater substance is Frodo's query as to the GPA of the subject. How can a guy not participate in class, submit assignements which reflect severe psychosis, and be passing his courses? Were there professors who simply passed this kid off to the next colleague in order to get rid of him? Nikki Giovanni has not been asked the right questions.

Finally dear reader, considering all that has taken place since last we visited, the Middle East is the appropriate place to discuss endings. Frodo has thought, long and hard, about history and how it has been overlooked by those who have brought all of us to a precipice. The Greeks, under Alexander and the Romans some few centuries later, performed well-documented forays into the geographical "fault line" described by Mr. Allawi in his new book. The Holy Crusaders, in the next milennium, were followed in the twentieth century by both the British and the Russians. All of these "empires," if you will, are historical interlopers into a region of the world that remembers them only as ocupying forces who had to be, and were, discharged. Doesn't it seem to you, dear reader, that a truly wise person could look at the American Experience there as simply one more notch on the tablets of history. At some point in time, the general consensus of all those who even find this period of interest will merely be "What could they have been thinking?"

In the case of George W. Bush, the operative word might be "drinking."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 5:57 AM EDT

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Saturday, April 14, 2007

Wonderin' What Dress to Wear Now
Mood:

happy
Topic: "Promises Made" (3)
"There, but for the Grace of God, go I." It would be hard for Frodo to believe that anyone, dear reader, who reads his lines, would be unfamiliar with these words. Stephen Hawking, perhaps one of the most profound minds in any Age of Man, is captured in a body racked by a nervous system that is inoperative. He faces a fate that first became part of the public discourse when Lou Gehrig declared himself "the luckiest man in the world." Frodo's father died similarly.

Frodo's father was one of five siblings, three of whom developed the same disease. Frodo's family was subsequently part of a much larger study by one of the great medical institutions in all the world, in order to determine a treatment, or cure, for this hideous fate. There is, according to the WALL STREET JOURNAL's report of the study, a "genetic predisposition" in 18 European-derived families to the occurence of this monster. It should be noted that Stem Cell research is an integral part of the effort to overcome this plague.

If there was ever any doubt about the depth of Frodo's dislike for George W. Bush in your mind, dear reader, at least now you understand that it is more than philosophical. It is personal.

Frodo's father was first struck in the throat, and quickly lost the ability to communicate. Most victims are first struck in the outer extremities, the affliction working from there to spread its' paralysis into the throat and respiratory system. Frodo's father did not carry the disease a long time, and when he died, he still could walk and use all his great but dwindling strength.

In the last of days, Frodo had the opportunity to say the things that needed saying. He knew that his Father worried about Bilbo and the survival of one who would be left with very little. Frodo assured his father that he would not let him down, that he would do as he had been taught, and provide for Bilbo in the days to come. Frodo's father had a small pad by the bed, with a pencil, and he struggled, mightily, to write responses to questions. Generally, the result was unintelligible.

Frodo talked for a while, then he looked directly into his father's eyes and asked, "Are you worried?" Immediately, he reached for the pad, and began to struggle with the pencil. When he handed the scribble back to Frodo, it read, simply, "No."

Looking at that piece of paper all these years later, Frodo prepares to depart in a few hours for his annual visit to Bilbo, on this, the occasion of the 89th birthday celebration. Frodo has been thinking, a lot, about how much he dreads this visit. Bilbo continues to live alone, and is fully capable of meeting all the needs and wants that day-to-day life requires. Bilbo however, exhibits more and more of the aggressive traits which seem to characterize those who approach the dimming of the light. They "rage, rage against the light," and Bilbo is increasingly less enjoyable as a companion.

Frodo knows that it is the Ring. His constant foe, that must be overcome; yet knowing the enemy is only half the fight. Frodo has done very well, and he believes that his father would be proud of what he has managed to do, so far. The challenges are greatest though as Frodo comes close to Gollum, inside Mount Doom itself. He must not falter. Promises made must be delivered. Challenges are expected, and hardships must be overcome.

Frodo may re-read an old favorite, "Lonesome Dove," by Larry McMurtry. Woodrow, with all his flaws, brought Gus home.

There may be a few days between this and when next Frodo's tales continue.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 4:10 AM EDT

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Friday, April 13, 2007

Crystal Ball On The Table
Mood:

bright
Topic: "Better Man" (3)
Frodo has always had a special affection, if not admiration, for the truly solid citizen. The pulling guard who makes one-fiftieth of what the running back makes, but without whom there would be no running back. The police officer who works his shift, mows his lawn, and still finds time to volunteer for those special days at school telling classmates of his son what he does for a living. The Social Security Representative who listens, patiently, to person-after-person complain, yet handles each person as if they were truly a "client." There is a special place in Heaven for those who just do their job; Frodo laments that the need for money has changed the motivations of far too many.

David Gergen, to Frodo, is such a person. He has worked for four different Presidential Administrations; different Political Parties, with very different policies. Seemingly, he is the guy who helps put together the "message," particularly when nobody else seems capable of explaining just what the hell is happening. The rest of the time he appears on television as a paid observer of government behavior. Frodo, while punching the remote, always stops when David Gergen is talking, no matter what channel or subject. He is thoughtful, sensitive, honest, and has earned Frodo's trust.

He looks like the guy who works behind the meat counter at Publix. He talks like the guy who explains the difference between an annuity and a defined benefits plan. He dresses like the guy who passes the collection plate down the aisle every Sunday. He listens like the college professor who takes your response and presents another thoughtful question. He is the next-door neighbor who returns your garbage can back down the driveway once the truck has passed.

He is not Snoopy Dog Doo (Frodo's special moniker for Brother Broaddus). He is not "Pacman" Jones. He is not Karl Rove. He is not Paul Wolfowitz.

He has never humiliated someone else in public. He does not shout down a differing opinion while participating in a media forum. He just acts and sounds like a guy Frodo would like to know.

Occasionally now, Frodo will stop and just talk for a minute about those people we seem to never really talk about. Johnny Carson used to bring out actors whom we had all seen time-and-again, like Dub Taylor, but whose name was lost as the credits rolled swiftly toward the lighting of the theater. Frodo is proud that he first has picked David Gergen, and he hopes that someday, when Mr. Gergen "googles" his own name, that he takes note of Frodo's heart-felt admiration, nay respect, for David Gergen, American.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:43 PM EDT

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Thursday, April 12, 2007

I'm Just Tired And Bored With Myself
Mood:

not sure
Topic: "Trouble Sleepin'" (3)
Every Hobbit comes upon a time when inner questions seem more important than they do the other twenty three hours and fity-nine minutes of the day. Frodo finds that these times are best when they occur before he goes to bed. Random thoughts become obsessions and every position becomes less comfortable than the three previous times it seemed to offer the best return route to slumber. Technology has provided Frodo with a choice that is beyond the scope of the book beside the bed on the night stand for moments such as these.

Of all the conceptual states-of-being, friendship alone defies the logical definition for Frodo. He simply does not know what it is, or why it exists as it does. Dear reader, you have heard the question before, as to why one is a "friend" and another merely an "acquaintance." He has been thinking about it a lot of late.

On a grand scale, Frodo has been thinking about Don Imus. Frodo always found him amusing, rebellious, appreciative of expression and effort; plus he wore his hair long and had a cool cowboy hat. He seemed to have friends in every walk of life. Politicians, singers, journalists, athletes, executives alike seemed to be around to enjoy the "I-Man," to solicit his support, and to pay him homage. Whatever the reason for Imus crossing a line of sorts, it has been fascinating, if not painful, to watch who and when they stood up to be heard. Frodo has concluded that Don Imus does not have many friends. He has a lot of acquaintances.

Personally, Frodo knows many people from the business world. Together, there are many with whom he has forged long and productive relationships. They call each other "friend," and they talk about things other than business, from time-to-time. Frodo finds however, that the loyalty he perceived is akin to an old paper cup. Acquaintances simply shift to a new cup when the old one begins to leak. Excuses are made about chance occurrences, and promises are made about the future. Frodo is wise enough to never attempt to make out a deposit slip at the bank based on such a promise.

Bilbo turns 89 years old next week, giving Frodo and Sam the opportunity to visit the high desert and to celebrate the long life of Bilbo. Bilbo has gotten strangely antagonistic to many of the oldest and dearest of friends, and accusations have been made which are both inexplicable and hurtful. Years of kindness and generosity, when friendships were deep and important, have turned into merely passing words with "acquaintances."

The Ring, and the power it holds, is a narcotic to those who dare to place it upon the finger. Simplistically, Frodo could lay great blame on the evil that it emotes to those in its' wake. There is more however, and that is what concerns Frodo the most. That is why he sits before a keyboard, typing, and wishing that the answers he once found in the twisting smokey sculpture of a cigarette would come now as easily as they did in those days. Don Imus probably feels much the same.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 3:52 AM EDT

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Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Maybe You Know Some Places To Go To Where They Never Close
Mood:

chatty
Topic: "Limestone Cowboys" (3)
Frodo is no geologist, but he has long known that the Appalachian Mountain chain is the oldest on the small blue planet. The probaly result of continental collisions which threw the sea bottom skyward, there is a significant amount of limestone ranging from what is now Maine, all the way down to Georgia. Where there is limestone, there are caves; water, over time, works its' way through and around limestone. When he was a halfling, Frodo often convinced Bilbo to take him to caverns named Shenandoah, Luray, and Endless, all in Virginia. The stalagtites (from the roof) and the stalagmites (from the floor) amidst pools and falls of water were cooling even during the hottest of summer days.

Frodo met Harvey Cupp at the College of the Shire. Harvey was a true farm-boy, while Frodo was a product of a much larger scenario. Frodo is unable to recall why they started to talk about caves, but it was clear to Frodo that Harvey knew a great deal about "spelunking," and Frodo was at the age where everything deserved at least one effort. Harvey somehow found out about a cave that was visible from the river that ran its course near the College of the Shire. He convinced Frodo that they should gather necessary equipment together, and strike out in search of the cave.

Amid Frodo's Rambler Station Wagon (aka, a motorcar), Harvey had packed ropes, headgear, several tubes of what appeared to be rocks, a funny looking headlamp, and about 10 flashlights. Harvey explained that the headlamp was a carbide lantern, which he would wear, and that it would remain lit throughout their entry into the underworld. Harvey told Frodo that he would be handling the flashlights, since they were very susceptible to the moisture in the cave, and would burn themselves out one-after-the-other. Frodo felt all that sounded reasonable, and the two struck out in the direction given.

Within a half-hour Harvey pointed to what he called a "sinkhole" on the far shore of the river. Conveniently, a bridge stood nearby and the would-be denizens of the deep pulled the motorcar within a hundred yards or so of the cave entrance. After properly outfitting themselves, Frodo and Harvey entered the world beneath the surface.

There were numbers and arrows spray-painted at various points within. Harvey explained that these were markings indicating that the cave had been mapped. Despite Frodo's excitement, it meant that they were not the first two upright creatures to ever enter.

After twenty minutes or so, Frodo was on his third flashlight. Harvey's carbide lamp was a beacon in the darkness, showing the way as the path led further downward, over boulders, requiring slow and skillful dexterity. It was not a cavern with the artistic beauty of the Luray, but it was dark, cool, and inviting to the imagination.

Harvey was muscular, with a grin that never stopped. His dark hair was cut short, and Frodo thought he would probably someday be a very good unit commander in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Frodo felt totally confident in Harvey's leadership.

After several hours, Frodo's final flashlight was surrendering its' battery life, and the cavers entered a large chamber, where fresh air flowed from above. Suddenly, a gust of wind struck directly at Harvey's face, and the carbide lamp was extinguished. Frodo's final flashlight took that exact second to succumb. The initial shock of total darkness was supplemented by a silence so deep that, even now, Frodo cannot put into words exactly how quiet it was. He called to Harvey, who was only a few feet away, and Frodo's call was more a whimper than an interrogatory. Frodo was clearly afraid, and started to panic.

Harvey took control, and calmed Frodo with authority in his voice. He assured Frodo that he was re-lighting the carbide lamp, and that all would be well. "Above all else," he said to Frodo, "do not move. Don't do or say anything until I tell you. Just listen, just remember how quiet, how peaceful, how deep this moment is." Frodo stopped, drew a breath, and began to pay attention to the darkness. Never before, and never since, have things ever been so quiet in Frodo's life.

True to his word Harvey re-lit the lamp, and the happy companions then proceeded to follow the geographic markings out of the chamber and back toward the surface. Less than thirty minutes later they stood beside the motorcar.

It was the Spring of the year, and classes soon ended at the College of the Shire, with no further opportunity for the two to try another expedition. They shook hands, new-found friends, and Frodo promised to have his own equipment the next year, and they would find several occasions to explore the land beneath the limestone.

The following Autumn brought Frodo back to the College of the Shire with his own ropes, helmet, and a carbide lamp. He learned that Harvey Cupp had been driving the tractor on his father's farm, and it had turned over when it struck a small sinkhole, trapping and crushing his friend.

Frodo sold the stuff. He has never gone deep into another cave. He remembers the silence, just like Harvey taught him. He just can't describe it.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:12 PM EDT

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Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Seeman, ihre Heimat is das Meer
Mood:

quizzical
Topic: "Solitary Isolation" (3)

There is a restaurant in Atlanta that Frodo used to frequent. "Ray's On the River" dumped all their bottles of French Wine when the Preemptive War commenced; so Frodo doesn't go there anymore.

There is a barbeque joint in Ellijay at which Frodo always stopped, simply because they had french fries with the skins still on 'em. They started calling them "Freedom Fries," and Frodo now drives through toward the Shire.

Frodo listened yesterday to the comments of a Medal of Honor Winner on CNN that the British sailors released by the Iranian fruitbags had acted cowardly. Playing ping-pong is evidently not something authorized under the standard Military Code of Conduct. Frodo does note, sympathetically, that those leisure suits they were issued should be banned by the United Nations; wearing them was definitely a torturous requirement for anyone with a modicum of taste.

Frodo is concerned about what he will do when some entity takes action against the Brits. After all, Tony Blair has had his nose so far up George Bush's butt for so long that many Georgians believe he's been adopted and shares the Lincoln Bedroom with Prince Bandar. The Brits have been the member of the "Coalition" that still have more than three troops and $1.98 invested in the new Iraq. Of course, Blair was honor-bound, since his forebears started this whole mess when they paid absolutely no attention to T.K. Lawrence in the 1920's. Now the British Navy, who once ruled the Seas, seems to be populated by the stereotypical graduates of some English namby-pamby boarding school. Georgians, closely-aligned with military interests, will not sit idly by without demonstrative action.

Have you noticed, dear reader, how you never hear about the Germans anymore? Ever since Bush tried to give the German Prime Minister an unplanned back-rub, it seems as if she may have taken out a restraining order against the Texas Stalker.

Of even greater interest is the absence of foreign leaders, any foreign leaders, driving in a pick-up around the palace in Crawford. Fox of Mexico, Putin of Russia, the little Japanese guy who was an Elvis freak, none of these guys, or any of their counterparts are in evidence these days. It is not as if all the countries of the world are like rats leaving a sinking ship.

Or is it?

The Shiite majority demonstrates against the presence of occupying troops. One of the most prominent members of the new Iraqi Government pens his own hardcover in order to savage Paul Bremer and the documented mistakes of the Anti-MacArthur Post-Saddam Government. The new Iraqi Government signs a deal with Japan to re-build their oil production system.

Japan?

The Chinese have absolutely no interest in adjusting their currency to maturely address the balance-of-trade problems with Uncle Sugar. Pakistan blithely ignores any serious effort to confront al Qaeda or to pursue Osama bin Laden. Venezuela's Senor Chavez has done everything but drop his drawers and moon Condi Rice. And in Afghanistan, Afghanistan mind you, they harvest the largest poppy crop in history.

Oh, and now we know who fathered Anna Nicole's baby.

Frodo thinks he'll have a glass of wine before tuning into "The Daily Show." French wine.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:52 PM EDT

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Sunday, April 8, 2007

In Your Easter Bonnet
Mood:

lucky
Topic: "Buttermilk Drops" (3)
Sunday mornings will always be special in the City of Orleans. Sunday Brunch at Commander's Palace was the ultimate pig-out when guests would visit Frodo and Sam. Any meal that would begin with Eggs Sardou and end with Milk Punch could only be the precursor of a complete systemic douche by days' end. Holidays which happened, by consequence or plan, to fall on a Sunday were especially adventurous in finery, and one found ample reason to ride up and down St. Charles simply to gawk. Regular Sundays, clear of guests and special occasions however, were the ones that meant the most to Frodo and Sam.

Frodo would rise early, leash Prissy (first of the canine contingent), and head out for McKenzie's Bakery. Stopping by the box which held the Sunday edition of "The New Orleans Times-Picayune," Frodo would shovel in quarters, remove his paper, tie Prissy to the rack, and then enter McKenzies Bakery (aka "The Doorway to Heaven").

Frodo does not remember how or what drew him to the round pellets, about the size of a golf ball, which somewhat reminded him of donut holes, if you will. They were glazed, of course, and as Frodo discovered, a yellow cake-like concoction which guaranteed that no human or halfling could eat just one. Generally, Frodo would get a dozen, hot from the oven, thinking that at least a half-dozen would survive to be placed in the freezer.

Prissy sat, all the while, with her eyes transfixed on Frodo. Although she knew that she could not partake in this treat, she knew well that a suitable substitute would greet her arrival at the semi-Shire. She pranced the entire way home.

Citizens of Middle Earth, from all walks of life, found reason to visit Sam and Frodo in Orleans. Invariably, they were introduced to buttermilk drops during their stay, and so the fame of this culinary masterpiece spread from Farthing to Rohan. It was a sad day indeed, for all, when Frodo and Sam departed the City of Orleans and left McKenzie's behind.

Some years later, when Frodo and Sam returned to visit, many McKenzie's shops had closed, and one of the few that could be found had only a limited supply of buttermilk drops, and they were a day old. Frodo and Sam took all they had. Toasted for a few seconds in a microwave, they were as sweet as dew dripping from the leaf of a magnolia.

Frodo now believes that acquisitions, and nature, have brought an end to McKenzie's Bakeries, and hence, to buttermilk drops. Duplicated, perhaps, but never quite the same.

For a little cafe' au lait, and a buttermilk drop, Frodo would consider this to be the perfect Easter. Some things are a part of good memories, and that is what Frodo tries hard to accept.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 1:03 PM EDT

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