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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Mood:  silly

Strikes are not what they used to be.  Before Frodo's time, violence was a likely event, and well into Frodo's day strikes were characterized by a complete shut-down in sympathy with the aggrieved brotherhood.  On more than one occasion, governmental intervention was required either to ensure public tranquility or to provide necessary services.  Frodo specifically recalls an inability to even obtain baseball scores from the night games completed while he slept.  Those were, indeed, serious events when strikes quieted our fledgling economy.

The individuals who write the jokes for comedians and construct the dialogue for television sitcoms have gone on strike in recent days.  Were it still the baseball season, Frodo would undoubtedly relax with a manufactured product from Milwaukee, and cheer on his newly-crowned hero Yunell Escobar of the gallant Braves, and completely ignore the indignities suffered by these pounders of keyboards.  However, Frodo is characteristically unable to find suitable entertainment on any of the more than 300 channels which beam their way, via satellite, into his black-and-white.  This "entertainment paradigm" does not seem fulfilled by any of the movies, repeats, documentaries, cartoons, televison evangelists (see "cartoons" referenced previously), or cable news outlets which dominate every click of the remote control.

Given the spirit of the upcoming Holiday Season, Frodo decided to amuse himself, and you dear reader, with an imaginary return to the golden days of television.  This special gift, from Frodo to you, requires only that you imagine yourself in bed, with your own black-and-white beneath the canopy formed by your arched feet, listening to voices you recognize as if they still filled your home with laughter.  Herein follows Frodo's rendition of true creative genius:

"And what is your name, Sir?"

"Cy."

"Cy?"

"Si."

"Cy, what do you do for a living?"

"Sew."

"You sew?"

"Si."

"Cy, are you married?"

"Si."

"And what is her name?"

"Sue."

"Sue?"

"Si."

"And what does she do?"

"Sew."

"So Sue and Cy both sew?"

"Si."

"Is the little girl in the audience one of your children?"

"Si."

"What is her name?"

"Cece."

"Cece?"

"Si."

"Cy and Sue, who both sew, have a child name Cece; is that so?"

"Si."

"Well Cy, what will you do if you win some money on our show this evening?"

"Ski."

--with apologies and gratitude to Jack Benny and Mel Blanc, who helped to twist the mind of Frodo into the pretzel that it is. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:15 AM EST

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Mood:  caffeinated

Occasionally, Frodo will get into an argument.  Arguments, to Frodo's way of thinking, are good for the soul.  If an opponent in an argument actually raises a valid point, not previously considered, Frodo then finds himself spending weeks, if not years, contemplating the fact that the destruction of the Ring may have been delayed because of Frodo's inept philosophical discourse.  Frodo therefore often withholds comment on seemingly appropriate subjects until he has given greater consideration to an issue.  The following point was made with Frodo somewhere in the 1970's, and he has never brought it up for consideration since the night that the point first was made.

Frodo and Thorin Oakenshield were discussing relationships between the races which comprise the diverse citizenry of Middle Earth.  This tended to be a subject that was discussed amidst the presence of mead and tobacco, varieties of which were all about.  Thorin listened to Frodo bombast about the need for tolerance, and the acceptance of all on equal terms.  Thorin queried Frodo if he truly believed that bias was so clearly defined that black-and-white, Christian-and-Jew, homosexual-and-heterosexual were among the distinctions that are bounded by the rules of law.  Frodo answered in the affirmative, much to his continuing chagrin.

"Well then, Mr. Frodo (with specific emphasis on the title used)," he said, "What about butt-ugly?"

"Pardon?," responded Frodo.

"Frodo, answer my hypothetical distinction about the man whom your sister would introduce to you as her husband-to-be.  One choice would be the great actor, and grossly overweight, Charles Laughton.  The other being Harry Belafonte.  Which man would you prefer, in all candor, to be associated with and to introduce as your brother-in-law to all with whom you ever come into contact?"

Frodo paused, and remained silent.

All right then, let's assume that one of two women walks up to you this evening and proffers her favors.  Which of the two, the great voice of Kate Smith, or the subtlety of Lena Horne catches your interest?"

Frodo looked about for something else to smoke.

"You see Frodo, prejudice is not about the distinctions we define by law, prejudice is about ugly.  We are prejudiced against those whose appearance and mannerisms are unattractive, at least comparatively."

"You mean," said Frodo, "that hook noses and gargantuan appetites are what repel us, and not the color of skin?"

"Frodo, you know as well as I that some dark-skinned and light-skinned black people hold each other in disregard.  Prejudice exists to separate us from others on many levels, but we should never forget that beauty is all-inclusive."

Frodo was thinking about that discussion, as he listened to the latest commentary on Paris Hilton.  If only he could now reach out to his old friend Thorin and ask him to explain why Frodo would not want to be associated with Paris Hilton.  Perhaps Thorin could amend his theorem to distinguish stupidity as an addendum.   Frodo doesn't mean to pick on Paris Hilton specifically, but George W. Bush also has a hook nose. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:30 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, November 18, 2007 9:16 PM EST

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Mood:  lazy

Frodo and Sam are preparing for their next excursion beyond the limits of the Shire.  Sam implements, and Frodo navigates similar, it seems, much like the old joke that Sam makes the little decisions like what to eat, when, and where, while Frodo makes the big decisions like whether or not Iran should be invaded.  Characteristically, Sam is concomitantly gathering vast amounts of material about travel beyond the scheduled, which gives rise in Frodo to dreams of uncharted locations personally appealing to everyone's favorite Hobbit.  Reality however, is a cruel teacher.

The Great Pyramids, standing perhaps at the very crux of life on our small blue planet, will have to await until Frodo convinces Sam that any overnight accommodations would include plastic plants (as opposed to live tropicals which would presumably harbor alien lifeforms, e.g. cockroaches).

The Galapagos Islands, where HMS Beagle carried Mr. Darwin as he sorted and classified, are unlikely to please anyone who requires round-the-clock cell phone access in order to verify HSN deliveries.

The Great Rift Valley, offering Frodo the opportunity to compare bones with anyone named Leakey, would unfortunately not be within reasonable driving distance of a single TARGET store.

The Plains of Troy, where in another life Frodo fired the arrow that slew the evil Achilles, would be unacceptable because that destination would require steerage with the worst tourists in all of Middle Earth (hint:  the subject masses comprised two-thirds of the Evil Axis powers of World War II).

Sailing Cape Horn, and perhaps sighting the Great White Whale, would require procurement of more dramamine than could be reasonably expected to be produced by every pharmaceutical manufacturer in toto between now and the year 2014.

London and the Cotswolds (note:  entered herein representing Frodo's best attempt at "reverse psychology").

The Northern Territories, "G'day Mate", perhaps acceptable if Frodo would similarly agree to fund attendance at 17 consecutive operatic performances in Sydney (see prior comments relative to dramamine).

Anyplace that flies a Pirate Flag.  Unfortunately, Sam wearies of Frodo's impersonations of Johnny Depp.

Mick, the Wonder Dog, has entered Frodo's chamber and signals a need to visit the Gardens of the Shire.  Perhaps our canine companion submits a reasonable alternative, and certainly a necessary one.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:31 PM EST

Updated: Saturday, November 17, 2007 10:00 PM EST

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Mood:  sharp

"Ms. Used-to-be-Tony Snow, now Dana Something-or-other, I have a question."

"You again, Mr. Frodo, crack reporter for the 'Shire Ledger'?"

"That's me."

"What is it this time?"

"Well, I've taken note of your verbal assault on the credibility of the Democratic Party announcement of their assessment of the actual costs associated with the Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq."

"And you disagree with the President's accounting of $864 Billion I assume?"

"Oh no, who am I to question the mathematical wizardy of a graduate of both Harvard and Yale?  Note that I am but an alumni of the virtually unknown College of the Shire.  Although I also have no reason to question the $1.5 Trillion estimated by the Democratic analysts, I am prepared to acknowledge the President's figures for what they are.  It's just that it confuses me, and I need some assistance, and that's what I was hoping you could help me rectify?"

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will (Frodo returned the perky little smile to the perky little Press Secretary, Dana Something-or-other)."

"What's your confusion?"

"Well, let me see if I can summarize.  When George W. Bush became President of the United States, wasn't it true that the cumulative spending deficit which he inherited was just about $5 Trillion and change?"

"I don't have the exact figures here."

"I know, but don't you agree that in round terms, not too far from what I just said?"

"In rounded numbers, pretty close."

"Okay, and as of now, with a little more than one year left in the President's second term, the total deficit is now just about $9 Trillion, isn't it?"

"Okay, I see where you're going with this, and as I've said many times before, the actual rate of increase has been lowered significantly. . ."

"Yes, I know that Dana Something-or-other, and I have no problem in that regard.  As I said, who am I to argue with the financial genius of the former owner of the Texas Rangers Baseball Club? I'm just trying to figure out what happened to the money."

"Mr. Frodo, you silly Hobbit, as you've heard time-and-again, and most recently by Ed Gillespie, you have to remember that we are at War, and that despite the fiscal management of this Administration, the War on Terror has required that we spend whatever it takes to protect the American people.  You would think that the Democrat Party would figure that out?"

"Oh, I agree, and I would support you entirely in that endeavor, but somehow I feel a little bit like Carl Bernstein here, and I need you to help me 'follow the money'." 

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Well Dana, if as you say, the Wars have cost $864 Billion and the deficit when the President took office was $5 Trillion, then that comes to just under $5.9 Trillion."

"So?"

"Well then, how did the deficit get to be $9 Trillion?  I mean Dana, perhaps I received an inferior education at the College of the Shire, but it looks to me as if the Democratic Party has severely understated the costs of the Wars when they said they've only cost $1.5 Trillion.  On the face of it, it appears to me as if there is something in the neighborhood of $3 Trillion missing from the equation.  Is it those silly Democrats not able to add things up properly?"

"Mr. Frodo, these are complicated issues, and we're looking at the wildest of estimates."

"Oh I know, but you're the ones who said the costs of the Wars was only $864 Billion, and you're the ones who said that the Wars are the reason for the increase in the deficit, so I. . ."

"Thank you Mr. Frodo, thank you everyone, we'll have to conclude for now, but we will provide some hand-outs before our next briefing on these matters.  Have a nice day."

And that's the way it is.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:28 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, November 14, 2007 8:30 PM EST

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Mood:  smelly

Frodo is an admirer of a well-turned ankle.  He has also been known to cast a longing look at a shapely set of buttocks, or even those protuberances which give "Hooters" an attraction beyond their medium-rare hamburgers.  Frodo also knows what he doesn't like, and that is the subject of the discussion to follow

Former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto has returned to the land she served for two electoral terms.  Despite allegations of corruption and political misconduct, she appears before the television cameras "deus ex machina" to speak for democracy amid the martial law invoked by Pervez Musharraf.  What Frodo can't seem to comprehend is the fact that she stands in her homeland, before her supporters, apparently speaking to all the Pakistani people, in perfect Harvard-educated English.  Since very few of those whom she is apparently addressing have any knowledge whatsoever of the English language, wouldn't it, dear reader, make more sense for her to speak Punjabi?

Perhaps the former Prime Minister is speaking to another audience?

Imelda Marcos once raised the same hairs that are now standing on the nape of friend Frodo's neck.  A lavish lifestyle, and thousands of shoes, were the product of a Filipino First Lady who felt that the entire nation existed to serve her wanton needs.  Benazir Bhutto, with the finest in fashion from head-to-toe, appeals to those seeking alliances in the struggle for democracy and who also just happen to be among the wealthiest of all interests on our small blue planet.  How very convenient that a few appearances "en camera" in English, can be directed to her former "legacy" warriors at Harvard. 

Frodo wonders if there are any direct flights from Islamabad to Zurich?

There is an orange hourglass on the bare abdomen of the former Prime Minister of Pakistan.  The danger, this time, is not to a single dictator like Musharraf, but to civilized mankind.  Frodo met such a creature once before, atop the stairs of Cirith Ungol, and he was fortunate to escape.  Will Middle Earth be so fortunate?  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:58 PM EST

Updated: Monday, November 12, 2007 9:00 PM EST

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Mood:  don't ask

Michael Bolton won Frodo's admiration when he crooned his way through his own version of "If a Man Loves a Woman," several years ago.  Here was a white guy, taking a classic soul song and giving it a personal trademark which was as notable as Whitney Houston taking Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You," and making it into something equally good.  Michael Bolton is, however, not to be confused with either Josh Bolton or John Bolton.  Josh Bolton is an insignificant presence in an insignificant White House.  John Bolton is insane.

In a new book, John Bolton has written that Colin Powell is the villain who prevented the Bush White House from "taking out" Iran at the very beginning, thereby doing a disservice to the best interests of the United States.  Frodo was absolutely astounded when he read these words.  Astounded not that a rational adult would have such an opinion, but that someone whose elevator not only doesn't reach the top floor but has never extended beyond the parking garage, and who is even more bellicose than Dick Cheney, was actually existant in a position of some influence in the Government of the United States of America.  Not since G. Gordon Liddy has Frodo actually shuddered that such a screaming nutbag would potentially have actually been alone in a room with a man whose finger sits atop the nuclear button.

We have, dear reader, actually been to the precipice of destruction.

Frodo is making a personal request to anyone owning or maintaining a controlling interest in any radio station anywhere in the world; please hire John Bolton!  Give Bolton the same status as Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, Oliver North, Joe Liebermann, or any other right-wing rutabaga generally recognized as the personification of Elmer Gantry, without God.  Let him whisper sweet nothings into the ear of every lunatic asylum alumni within your broadcast arena, and pay him whatever he wants.  Just get John Bolton away from any position of prominence, authority, or sanity.

Your country depends on you.

If that doesn't register with you, perhaps there is someone out there that could invite John Bolton to go quail hunting with the Vice President?  Frodo will buy the beer.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:52 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, November 11, 2007 7:56 PM EST

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Mood:  cool

Frodo broke bread with fellow warrior Gimli in a town called Annapolis not long ago.  It was Homecoming Weekend at the United States Naval Academy, and crowds were just beginning to thin on a blue-sky day that seemed perfect for a tilt of the sail on the Severn.  The friends-in-arms had not seen each other since last they swung swords and battle-axes together outside the Black Gate of Mordor.  The conversation was jubilant, and filled with vignettes about the battles won and lost when King Richard threatened freedom with short-haired knights and obfuscations of truth.  The pall that hung over them could not be ignored, but it was dealt with just as if it were a foe massed in the field below, requiring tactics and courage to overcome.

Parkinson's Disease is not unique in its' insidiousness, but it is ego-shattering because it takes physical control away from even a warrior such as Gimli.

Gimli and his life-partner love their environs, and have become great devotees of the massive complex which trains new warriors, in strength and in wisdom, it is hoped.  They follow the Naval Academy Football Team with season tickets and travel to many away games, even though their only off-spring is a dramatic actress and scholar.  Although the Navy Team is often under-sized and under-skilled they have performed (pardon the pun) "admirably" against superior opposition, and Gimli, like Frodo, is a great admirer of effort against an opponent, regardless of the odds.  The pageantry of it all ain't bad, either.

Driving away from Annapolis, the conversation somehow wafted to self-sacrifice, and courage.  The warriors talked of the USS Indianapolis, and the great scene in the movie "Jaws," when Robert Shaw told his ship-mates, especially Richard Dreyfus, about having served on that ship in those days.  Without coaching, Frodo started to repeat the dialogue in his best gnarled impersonation of Shaw.  Gimli, immediately, replied with the words of Dreyfus, and they continued back-and-forth while Sam and Gimli's life-partner sat silent, and fascinated.

Frodo spoke of the boy from Boston, a baseball player, who bobbed lifelessly in the sea, with half his body no longer there.  Gimli started a seaman's chant, "I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it went straight to my head. . ."  Then the car was silent, and each rider was left to contemplate what it was that made those words and pictures so visible in separate minds.

A week or so after Frodo and Sam had returned to the Shire, the "Midshipmen" of the Naval Academy paired off against long-time rival Notre Dame University on the gridiron.  Navy had not beaten Notre Dame in more than forty years, but hope does spring, especially when Notre Dame truly sucks this year, at least comparatively.  Frodo imagined, although he does not know, that Gimli was in the stands in South Bend, staring back at the "Touchdown Jesus" which is such an imposing, if not ominous figure for opposing teams.

On that day however, God was on the side of the Navy.  Some gifts, no matter how small, are all the proof necessary for those who believe that truth, and honor, courage, and wisdom, are rewarded in many and varied ways.  Gimli will always stand tall when the battle is finished, and Frodo will always be richer for his comradeship.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:16 AM EST

Updated: Friday, November 9, 2007 9:26 AM EST

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