Mood:  silly

Occasionally a living, breathing, educated homonid says something so ridiculous that Frodo feels the need for dramatic license.

"Sergeant Frodo?" 

"Yes Saint Peter, you called for me?"

"Yes, I did, I was just checking to see how things are going here at the Pearly Gates Admissions Desk?"

"Well  Sir, funny you should ask, we have been having a little problem with that guy standing over there filling out his paperwork."

"A problem you say?  Who was he, and is there something I need to do?"

"He claims to be the former Governor of something called Arkansas, and I believe he said his name was Huckleberry.  Frankly, I couldn't find more than 2 or 3 out of 100 or so Angels who had ever heard of the guy.  He is complaining about the activities scheduled for his corner of Heaven, and was demanding to speak with you.  Frankly, I figured a few milennia worth of paperwork might dampen his zeal,and I could simply process him in when he got over his hissy-fit."

"I'll be glad to speak with him.  What was his concern by the way?"

"He's another one of those gun nuts, and he was complaining about the absence of ducks and shooting privileges, or something like that?"

"Ducks, you say?"

"Yes Sir, he claims that he'd been promised an Eternity of duck-hunting when he arrived in Heaven."

"Shooting ducks?  You mean he honestly believes that Heaven would be some place where the slaughter of those over whom he was assigned dominion while on Earth would even be tolerated?  What did you say his name was?"

"Huckleberry, or something like that?"

"Mr. uh, I believe this form says Huckabee, I'm Saint Peter, and I believe there's some sort of problem?"

"Dern tootin' your Eminence.  I was under the distinct impression that when I got to Heaven, I would be able to duck hunt whenever I wanted, and now this little halfling said I was misinformed.  I'm very upset, for as I told the NRA Membership, I was really looking forward to the day when my life ended, so that I could start duck hunting and never worry about someone else's opinion of my right to bear and use arms."

"If I may be so bold Mr. uh Huckabee, where did you get the information that Heaven would be a place where wanton slaughter would be tolerated, much less fostered?"

"The President told me so."

"Oh, him again."

"Pardon?"

"We've had a few problems with his interpretations of fact."

"Uh-oh.  What did I misunderstand and does this mean I won't be able to hunt ducks in Heaven?"

"Oh no, you'll be able to hunt all you want, it's just that there will be no ammunition in your gun."

"Bummer."

"Well, that's not all."

"What else?"

"The ducks have ammunition in their guns." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:50 AM EDT

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Mood:  chatty

Frodo begins all his commentaries with a little art work.  In his time the Impressionists, the Cubists, and Modern Art are confined to buildings, while music it is that touches the mortal soul.  Frodo was reminded last night that much of this started before his chemical soup was stirred.  The first three hours of the new Ken Burns epic, "The War," spanning the run up to War through Stalingrad and Bouganville, captured the Hobbit noiselessly before the black-and-white.

As "The Ballou Letter" set the tone for Frodo's first introduction to the artist Ken Burns, the little towns in California, Minnesota, Connecticut and Alabama brought the deaths of somewhere between "50 and 60 million people" into relative comprehension.  The fact that fewer than half-a-million of those deaths were American, and that this nation suffered relatively less than did any of the other combatants, gave great pause to one who would contemplate this human disaster.  Frodo was taken by the dramatic photographs, the movies not seen before, and the lucidity of those who were able to capture what "it" was like.

Above all else, Frodo listened to the music.  Although thematic throughout, there were two songs that Burns used to capture the mood of the time.  Frodo must admit that he did not recognize one of the songs, but that did not lessen his enjoyment.  The other, well, what can anyone, least of all Frodo, say about "White Christmas?"  Burns interspersed the genius of Irving Berlin and the gifts of Bing Crosby with still photographs of bearded boys, who would not know Christmas at home for many, many days, if at all, especially not in 1942.

Frodo's father would miss the Christmases of 1943, 1944, and 1945.  He must have been very cold and lonely.  78 RPM records remained in closets and drawers throughout Frodo's Hobbithood, and only now does Frodo understand why. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:10 AM EDT

Updated: Tuesday, September 25, 2007 2:53 PM EDT

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Mood:  down

Not long ago, a neighbor of George W. Bush, the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, Washington, DC, was killed in Iraq.  The young man was buried just across the Potomac River at the Arlington National Cemetery, in Arlington, Virginia.  Frodo could make a significant comment or two about the fact that it might have been "prudent" for Bush to have attended the services or the funeral, since they were both held within a mile of his residence.  Let us leave that point for another time, in order to comment on the fact that the young man was denied his constitutional rights, and that nobody seems to care.

By a vote of 57-42, the United States Senate decided not to address the issue of voting rights for residents of the District of Columbia.  This effectively killed the proposal for the foreseeable future.  Frodo notes, at the outset, that both Senators Robert Byrd (D-WV) and Max Baucus (D-MT) voted with the Republicans to deny the plan to add a House Seat in both the District of Columbia and in the State of Utah.  Frodo, in this instance, holds these two Senators in the same contemptuous cesspool as that in which the  Republicans reside, on a full-time basis.

The arguments are long-winded and pithy.  Since the Constitution uses the word "States," that means to some that an Amendment would be required in order to allow residents of the District of Columbia to elect a voting member of the House of Representatives.  To others, the predominantly Democratic District of Columbia may then be entitled to two United States Senators, an obvious potential shift in Congressional power.  Still others feel that it was the intent of the Founding Fathers to keep the District of Columbia separate from the States, since it was the center of the federal republic.

Not one of the 42 pointed out the fact that the District of Columbia is more than 80% black.

All political arguments aside, Frodo finds it hard to believe that in a land so verbally concerned with human rights, dignity, and the power of government, that the central issue of argument does not dominate.  Dear reader, the young man mentioned above, not unlike many others, fought, and he died, for all of us; yet, we, all of us, decided that he didn't deserve the right to vote for his own Member of Congress.  That decision includes the entire State of Georgia, since both Senators (Chambliss and Isakson) decided that young man did not deserve the same rights as those of Sam and Frodo.  And you, dear reader.   How did your Senator vote?  Does he or she "support our troops?"

If three more United States Senators had joined Orrin Hatch (R-UT) or Joe Liebermann (?-CT), the last vestige of voting rights denied by law would have ended in this great land.  

Tonight Frodo heard that the most recent poll numbers reflect an approval rating of 11% for the Congress of the United States.  Frodo wonders how it ever got so high? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:43 PM EDT

Updated: Wednesday, September 19, 2007 10:45 PM EDT

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Mood:  smelly

Frodo's penchant for wildflowers has been frequently documented.  It may have started when he became aware of the fact that certain wildflowers were targeted by certain butterflies, and that he could manage the presence of butterflies in the gardens of the Shire.  "Passion flowers" are a particular favorite of the Hobbit, and the bright orange "Frittalaria" are the butterflies that flock to this year's record production of the purple and white flowers.  A cacophony of color and movement needs only a little background music to produce something almostly reminiscently psychedelic in the afternoon sunshine.

Moments like this give rise to questions so far unanswered.  What happens to butterflies in the winter?  Frodo is cognizant of the fact that caterpillars now munching on the passion flower leaves will roll up into a cigar-like construction and thereby produce a hatchling butterfly.  The butterfly will feed from the nectar produced by the the passion flowers, and then they disappear.  Monarch butterflies, we know, migrate to some place in Mexico, although it will take them four or five generations each way.  But what about Frodo's Frittalaria, or his Swallowtail?  Are they simply sunning themselves on some beach in nearby Florida?

Mr. Beau Neau, the denizen of the Shire, has taken a special interest in the fluttering movements above his head.  On more than one occasion, Sam has found a "gift" inside the dog door, and butterfly wings have been included among these trophies.  Frodo's angered gaze does not go unnoticed, and the would-be hunter turns away, seemingly offended that he would be observed doing anything so trivial.  Perhaps Frodo has taken one small step to protect the balance of nature, hopefully it will yield further charms in the gardens of the Shire in years to come.

Thoughts such as these are common when, at last, the heat breaks and the windows are left open all night long.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:51 PM EDT

Updated: Tuesday, September 18, 2007 10:52 PM EDT

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Mood:  vegas lucky

Frodo loved the circus.  More than anything else it was the ladies on those flying trapeezes with tight-fitting costumes that flew through the air into the grasping arms of some gay guy from Turkey, without a net.  It was cool, and anyone today subjecting themselves to some sort of computer game without the benefit of something so very sensual might as well grab onto their own gay Turk and head for the Men's Room in the Minneapolis Airport.  They don't , in the words of Jon Stewart, "know dick."

OJ Simpson is back in the news.  How Frodo has truly missed all the cast of "Judicial Acres." Who can today believe that bi-racial prosecuting attorneys, who had their own tryst while on the job, appearing before an Oriental Judge, using white male police detectives, one of whom has since relocated to Idaho, with a defense team consisting of everyone who has ever appeared with Nancy Grace, living or dead, failed to convict a guilty man, even with DNA evidence?

How wonderful it was to be so carefree to know that the majority of all incompetents were confined to employment in the California Justice System?   Would that life were so simple now?

In the spirit of the circus, and without benefit of a net, Frodo is going to do his best to see how many of the characters in the "Trial of the Century" he can recall.  Now remember, dear reader, this is entirely from memory, so if you want to add to the list, you must do so without benefit of "Google" or any other artificial supplement.

First, there was OJ, then Johnnie Cochran, Christopher Darden, Judge Itoh (first name forgotten), Mark Fuhrman, LA County Coroner Fong (?), AC Cowlings (who drove the white Bronco), Shapiro was another defense attorney, and, of course, Kaito whatever, the space cadet who lived in OJ's garage.

Aaarrrgh!  What was the name of the other Prosecuting Attorney?  You know, the one with the hideous mole above her lip?  What about the other detective, he was bald, with a mustache?  There was another couple of Defense Attorneys, oh yeah, Allen Dershowitz, and some other guy, who always talked through his nose?

Frodo looks forward to the day when he can pay equal respect to the memory of the people who brought you that other travesty of justice; the Iraq War. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:19 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, September 16, 2007 8:19 PM EDT

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Mood:  cheeky

Stan Sulak stood no more than 5'6" and in his suit-and-tie weighed no more than 145 pounds.  He was far from an imposing figure as he wheeled through inner-city neighborhoods in Chicago in his egg shell white, un-air-conditioned, Ford motorcar with US Government plates in the summer of 1969.  Newly authorized IRS employees were usually assigned "low-dollar" investigations on the assumption that if he (or she) screwed something up, then it would have very little consequence.  Revenue Officer Sulak, on the job just three months, was assigned an inventory of "Federal Beer Stamp" investigations.

The "Federal Beer Stamp" was required to be posted in any location that sold either beer or wine.  The stamp cost $24, and it was good for one year.  Should a stamp not be re-newed, and the applicant not respond to correspondence, then someone such as Sulak would be discharged to investigate, and to secure a renewal, collect the fee, and the resultant late-filing penalties and interest.

Sulak pulled up to the curb in a section of Southside Chicago where there were a number of bars.  Several of his investigations were along this particular street, so he parked and planned to walk door-to-door.  His shirt and suit pants were soaked clean through (air conditioning in a government motorcar was considered a 'luxury item' and was not permitted), so he left the passenger's side front window down an inch or so when he locked the motorcar.  He assembled the necessary paperwork and put the respective investigations in street address numerical order.  He walked to the door of the first establishment, noting that the name of the establishment was the "BPP of America," and entered. 

As his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, he noted a number of individuals about the bar room silently staring at him.  Over the bar he noted the sign identifying the "Black Panther Party National Headquarters."  It should be noted at this point, dear reader, that Mr. Sulak  was unlikely to be identified upon first glance as a potential new recruit.  Sulak walked to the bar, climbed upon a stool, and asked to speak to the manager.  Actually, by all appearances the scene probably called for him to order a cherry limeade, with a straw.

A very large, and dark-complexioned, gentleman at the bar stood across from Sulak and so identified himself.  Utilizing some invective that escaped Sulak's immediate recognition, the manager inquired as to his identity and purpose.  Sulak carefully reached into his suit coat breast pocket and exhibited his Internal Revenue Service credentials, and said "I am Revenue Officer Stan Sulak with the Chicago District of the Internal Revenue Service, and I need to see your Federal Beer Stamp, please."

"My what?," said the astounded bar tender.

"Your Federal Beer Stamp.  It is about the size of a business envelope, and is required to be posted adjacent to the cash register in any establishment selling beer or wine."

A smile crept across the incredulous expression on the face of the bartender, "Well, looks like I happen to have misplaced my 'Federal Beer Stamp,' so am I to assume that some little white-assed midget is here to cuff me and take me 'downtown'?"  Laughter emanated from every throat in the room, except for Revenue Officer Sulak, who only smiled.

"No Sir, my mission is to secure a renewal of your Federal Beer Stamp, and to collect the fee, late-filing penalties, and of course, interest."

"Oh, of course, interest.  And exactly how much will all of this cost me?"

"Well, sir, the stamp costs $24, the penalty is 25% of the tax, and interest compounds at 6%.  The total as of today will be $30.66."

The bartender's mouth fell slightly ajar and he simply stared at Sulak for several moments.  No one spoke.

"You mean to tell me the US of A has sent a white-ass midget into the headquarters of the Black Panther Party to harass its members over thirty damn dollars?"

"And 66 cents," said Sulak.

The laughter continued unabated throughout the rest of Sulak's time in the bar.  Tears were shed by every person in the place while Sulak sweated over the blanks on the application and the completion of the receipt.  When finished, he adjusted his tie, slid off the stool, thanked his host, and exited gracefully onto the street outside.

Adjusting to the sunlight, he heard the lock on the door behind him engage.  It was then that he noticed his egg shell white, un-air-conditioned, Ford motorcar, with US Government plates, had had its tires replaced by cinder blocks.  Noting that the only telephone booth in sight was obviously inoperative, and that there were a paucity of apparently concerned citizens about, Sulak decided that his best course was to, as inconspicuously as possible, walk the 36 blocks back to his office.

Arriving at that location a little after five o'clock, Sulak found that the door was locked.  Being a relatively new employee, he had not been issued a key.

Frodo recounts the Saga of Stan Sulak for two reasons.  It is appropriate to recognize that there are a lot of Stan Sulak's who serve their country under often difficult circumstances.  For Frodo however, this story carried the lesson that one should always have an "exit strategy" when embarking upon any enterprise.

It is too, too bad that many more senior government officials today never got to know Stan Sulak.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:41 AM EDT

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Mood:  special

The Men of Gondor gathered on a Friday in September, 2001, in order to discuss the events of that Tuesday, and to measure the seeming impact on the trails which lay ahead.  Frodo positioned himself at the end of the table, so that he could pay specific attention to what was spoken.  He was disappointed by how poorly thought-out, if not irrelevant, most of the words seemed to be as they related to the continuum of time and history.  When his turn came, Frodo pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, and ironed it on the table with his palm.  Frodo spoke softly.

"A little more than two years before Frodo's birth, a man from Indiana,  whose profession it was to issue battlefield dispatches from the global conflagration, verbally captured the horror and the detritus that remained in the days after the Allied Invasion of Europe commenced.  The words that follow here were from those dispatches read by actor Tom Hanks ("Saving Private Ryan") at the recent dedication of the D-Day Museum in New Orleans.  Frodo would ask the Men of Gondor (and you, dear reader) to close eyes and to imagine walking with Frodo as we trail the author along  a strip of sand in Normandy on July 16th, 1944.  Let us see what he saw."

 "I took a walk along the historic coast of Normandy in the country of France.

 It was a lovely day for strolling along the seashore.

 Men were sleeping on the sand, some of them sleeping forever.

 Men were floating in the water, but they didn't know they were in the water, for they were dead. . .

 I walked for a mile and a half along the water's edge of our many-miled invasion beach.

 You wanted to walk slowly, for the detail on that beach was infinite.

 The wreckage was vast and startling.

 The awful waste and destruction of war, even aside from the loss of human life, has always been one of its outstanding features to those who are in it.

 Anything and everything is expendable.

 And we did expend on our beachhead in Normandy during those first few hours. . .

 Men and equipment were flowing from England in such a gigantic stream that it made the waste on the beachhead seem like nothing at all, really nothing at all. . .

 But there is another and more human litter.

 This is the strewn personal gear, gear that will never be needed again, of those who fought and died to give us our entrance into Europe. . .

 Here are socks and shoe polish, sewing kits, diaries, Bibles, and hand grenades.

 Here are the latest letters from home, with the address on each one neatly razored out-one of the security precautions enforced before the boys embarked.

 I picked up a Bible with a soldier's name in it, and put it in my jacket.

 I carried it a half mile or so and then put it back down on the beach.

 I don't know why I picked it up,

 or why I put it back down."

Ernie Pyle was felled by a sniper but a few weeks later on an island in the Pacific.  He is buried in the "Punchbowl Cemetery" near Honolulu.

Frodo does not know why these words gave him solace on that day, nor does he know why they do so now. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:35 PM EDT

Updated: Tuesday, September 11, 2007 10:13 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

Frodo stood with his impatient associates at the rear gate, all staring at the obstacle in their path.  A box turtle was uniquely positioned so that his shell prevented the gate from opening, and Frodo could not readily figure out how to end this stalemate.  Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, looked to Frodo to solve this problem quickly, for there was tennis ball to be played, and soon the morning shadows would fall prey to the late summer sun.

Frodo's fingers managed to push the turtle back enough for Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, to fly through to the grassland beyond while Frodo tarried to examine this uninvited, but not unwelcome, visitor to the Shire.  After making sure that the sealed Humvee was without damage, Frodo placed him in a secure spot underneath a hedge, and out of the line of fire from the canines who would return and perhaps decide that a new chew toy had been made available.

Later that day, Frodo noted that the turtle was still in the same location.  Head held erect, he seemed to be studying the flora in his vicinity.  The next day he remained in virtually the same spot, although facing in a leeward direction.  The following day there was movement of less than a meter, and the direction placed his head into the wind, signaling perhaps that the inevitable vagabond was about to disappear.  Sure enough, the visitor was nowhere to be found the next day, although Frodo examined roundabout for any sign.

Frodo was in the eleventh grade when he read "The Grapes of Wrath," and true it is that few words have had the impact on the Hobbit to rival the collection wrought by John Steinbeck.  Frodo can still see, to this day, the blue mimeograph that asked him the question about what the turtle represented as it crossed the road amidst the traffic that threatened his progress.  Frodo thinks of that turtle often, and wonders if such visitors to the Shire today come to remind him that no one promised him a rose garden.  If however, on his travels, he comes upon one, he may have the luxury to visit.

The task atop Mount Doom, dangerous unto itself, is fraught with peril; so noted by Tom Joad and the Hobbit.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:33 PM EDT

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Mood:  d'oh

What ever happened to Colin Powell?  Frodo was thinking about the military strategist and former Secretary of State just the other day, and wondered why he wasn't the one charged with the responsibility for assessing the progress of "Plan B" in Iraq?  After all, having also served as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and participated in the decision-making process to the pre-emptive War in the first place, would seemingly make him better qualified than anyone in all of Middle Earth.  Instead, an Ivy Leaguer (Frodo wonders if he was a "Legacy" at Princeton?) with rumored political aspirations, whose name was entirely unknown outside of military circles when the debacle began, gets the job. 

Is it because Colin Powell is black?

Could it be that a white guy from Texas might not want to once again hand a "sales job" to a black guy?  Particularly one whose credibility was damaged by the incorrect assessments handed him prior to the American invasion of Iraq.  Is it possible that Petraeus was specifically chosen because his vocational bias would be more acceptable in this effort to delay the American withdrawal to those predominantly white males who make up the "core" of the Republican Party?  The Incomparable Moron has consistently referred to the "commanders on the ground" (which begs the question, where else would they be?) as those whose judgments guide his decisions.  He has neglected to complete the sentence however, since such counsel is adhered to only when it seemingly complies with his predispositions.

There is such an air of predictability to what will emanate from the "Petraeus Report," that the political efforts of the rational opposition to rally their own set of conflicting and contradictory reports adds to the obfuscation of the facts.  The strategic effort to confuse the public, and to "sell" them on a particular policy, will tie the hands of the Congressional opponents to the flawed policy of the "surge."   Despite the limited vision of Senator McCain, and those who allege that the "surge" is working, the fact remains that the peoples in the land called Iraq do not want us there; they see us as occupiers.   To this day our soldiers do not know who it is that is shooting at them.  With the passage of time, all that we know is that the shooters hit their targets with increasing frequency.   General Petraeus might as well be teaching target practice.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 12:13 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

There are times, as an athlete, when one can do no wrong.  For whatever reason there are moments when every fly ball will be caught, every jump shot will hit nothing but net, every pass sticks to outstretched fingers.  Simply knowing that one will not fail is beyond explanation.  Fleeting though such moments may be, sit-ups and wind sprints seem like a measly investment against such reward.  Frodo had experiences such as these, so he understands and appreciates watching others enjoy their moment.

John Smoltz, a "gallant Brave," is 40 years old,  and at the virtual end of the physical capacity to play professional baseball.  In this year when disappointment permeates the accomplishments of his team-mates, Smoltz has pitched well.  Last night, confronted by the inferior opposition from Washington, Smoltz made his "slider" seem as if it were slowly rolling across a tabletop before falling straight down to earth.  The befuddled batters from the District of Columbia swung weakly at where the ball had been, and stared at the emptiness called for the third strike, time-after-time.  Despite all his success, Smoltz had never pitched a "no-hitter," but by the end of the fourth inning, everyone was anticipating the opportunity for the master of the pitching mound.

Smoltz struck out 10 Washington batters through seven innings, and had thrown the ball 109 times to his catcher, and still he had allowed no safely hit ball to fall.  He also had a head cold, and his magnificent strength was ebbing, noticeably, when the last batter was out in the seventh.

The first hitter in the eighth inning was not a star, but he was a good hitter.  He "fouled off" several pitches from Smoltz, knowing that Smoltz was weakening.  Finally, a pitch failed to fall as crisply as its predecessors and the fortunate Washington player slashed the horsehide-covered sphere into right field in front of the frenetic charge of Jeff Francoeur. 

The silence was broken by the slow march of the Manager, Bobby Cox, to the mound.  He took the ball from Smoltz, patted his shoulder, and sent the exhausted pitcher back to the dugout.  It goes without saying that the fans stood and cheered the gallant effort as Smoltz walked slowly off the field, with a moment to be shared in his memory for the remainder of his days.  When Smoltz has his last moment on this earth, he will wish that it could be watching his last pitch elude the swing of the batter and hearing the great umpire yell, "Strike Three."  Frodo knows.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:36 AM EDT

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