Mood:  don't ask

"Reverend Governor Mister Huckabee, a question if I may?"

"Uh-oh.  Is that who I think it is?"

"Yes Reverend Governor Mister, it is I, Frodo, Star Reporter of the SHIRE TIMES & CHRONICLE."

"Aren't you the one that made toast of my friend Fred Thompson at one of these news briefings?"

"Reverend Governor Mister, as the saying goes about the heat in the kitchen, . . ."

"I understand.  I assume you have a question for me?"

"Yes Reverend Governor Mister, during the days leading up to the Florida Primary you stated that something specific should be done to expand the local economy.  Can you recall that from your memory bank and perhaps apply that to the larger national economy.  I can't seem to find where you've repeated that suggestion since.  You know, it had to do with I-95?"

"Uh, well, yes.  I made the point that because of all the natural disasters striking Florida that housing values were dropping, and that insurance problems, and infrastructure needs meant that insufficient resources had been devoted to those concerns.  The result being that traffic delays were increased, thereby even further hurting local businesses."

"Oh yeah, thanks, that was it.  So what is it that you proposed to do?"

"The best way to reduce traffic is to create more access for automobiles, thereby lessening the concentration of traffic.  Does that answer your question?"

"No Reverend Governor Mister Huckabee, I believe you specifically suggested that Interstate 95 be widened by two lanes, and that the result would be less traffic backlog, and a concomitant increase in business in the local economy.  Can you tell us how widening of I-95 would help the local economy?  Are you suggesting that we could help the national economy if we widened I-95 by say, 10 lanes?"

"Well, we do have some other people here who would like to ask questions. . ."

"What would be gained by widening the damn road?"

"I think, if we remain calm, we would like to study the suggestion to see if it would reduce traffic congestion and make driving into downtown Miami more palatable for shoppers."

"Tell me Reverend Governor Mister, do you still eat squirrel?"

"I believe that hunting is a constitutionally protected right under the Second Amendment. . ."

"I read too, Reverend Governor Mister, but you are the one who told the story of how you used to heat-and-eat squirrel in a popcorn popper during your college days.  What I asked is if you still eat squirrel?  If so, how do you fix them?  Do you boil them, or do you prefer fried?"

"Squirrel has been a staple in Arkansas going back to pioneer days, and many of our States' residents consume these tasty. . ."

"Rodents?"

"I believe squirrels are so classified. . ."

"By Science?"

"Are you now changing subjects on me?"

"Reverend Governor Mister, I could do this all day.  Or are you ready to break for lunch?  I'm wondering if all this discussion about food has made you hungry?"

"An excellent suggestion Mr. Frodo."

"Until the next time."

Reverend Governor Mister Huckabee tugged at his shorts as he walked off the stage, and he whispered to Chuck Norris, who glared at Frodo.   Frodo smiled and held up his copy of "Elmer Gantry."

"Do you think you could get him to autograph this for me, Chuckles?" 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:54 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, February 7, 2008 8:58 PM EST

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Mood:  hungry

A noble lady died today, just one week from her 95th birthday.  Frodo grieves not, however, simply because her memories were long ago stolen from her, and her once regal bearing had been lost to time.  Alma, sister of Frodo's father, and last of her siblings, leaves a legacy of two daughters and innumerable grandchildren.  For most, such an inheritance would be both both enviable and sufficient  for Middle Earth.  Frodo however will mark her passing and dub her as he will always remember her.  She was Alma, Queen of Caramel Cake.

No pillow was as soft as the white cake which blossomed from the bottom of that pan.  The creamy caramel color covering that which could be snowfall beneath, carried an aroma which, for want of a more descriptive word, seduced the salivary glands.  A heaping helping of hospitality, served with a glass of whole milk, around a 50's Era kitchen table is a picture that even Norman Rockwell could not capture.  Only in the eye that is encapsulated in Frodo's mind will there always be a work of art as fine as a Lladro ceramic, of Alma, and her heavenly creation.

There will be other Caramel Cakes in Frodo's future, of that he is sure.  This night though, Frodo likes to believe that his Dad will be visiting with his Sister, and that he is enjoying time with the Queen of Caramel Cake, and sampling her greatest product.  What, pray tell, could Heaven have been like without Caramel Cake?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:51 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, February 6, 2008 9:16 PM EST

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Mood:  blue

"Young man, could you help me for a moment please?"

Frodo turned to a man in a wheelchair.  He had a blanket across his lap, a sweater about his shoulders, a fedora covered his head, and, the oddest thing, a cigarette holder in his hand.

"Yes, sir, I suppose not all city streets are totally adapted to ramps for the disabled are they?"

"Apparently not," he snorted.

Frodo pushed the ancient wheelchair up over the curb, and started to walk away as he sought  the continuance of his quest.

"Thank you, young man, and may I say that you appear somewhat familiar to me.  Are me acquainted?"

Frodo had had the same thought. 

"My name is Frodo Sir, and I am from the Shire.  Downtown Atlanta is not far, but it is also a great distance in many respects and I am not here often."

"Well, my name is Franklin.  Have you ever been to Warm Springs?"

"Indeed I have.  It is truly a lovely place.  Is that your home?"

Franklin nodded and smiled at Frodo.  "Well what brings you to this place that is 'not far, but also a great distance,' Mr. Frodo?"

Pausing, Frodo looked into the eyes of Franklin, and wondered if he should simply bid the stranger adieu, or to share his quest with one who may think him  stranger than most.

"I read something in this morning's paper which upset me Sir, and I decided that I had to do something to help right a wrong.  It required that I come downtown and offer some assistance to a worthy cause."

"Oh, would you mind sharing with me what it is that has so upset one on 'Super Sunday'?," he smiled.

"The bodies of four apparently homeless people were found in various spots around Atlanta yesterday.  I read that all of them were over 50 years of age, none had been identified, and that it appears that each death was coincidentally weather-related."

Franklin simply stared at Frodo.  He no longer smiled, and he said "What, Mr. Frodo, is it that you propose we do?"

Frodo was a little startled by the use of the word "we," but he responded directly, "The Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless" was referred to in the paper and they seek out such people, and bring them in for shelter and food.  I looked them up in the telephone book (404-589-0636), and decided I could come down and bring them a check."  Frodo continued, "The Executive Director there was pretty upset when she heard what had happened, and she remarked about how difficult it is to deal with some of their 'clients' who are psychotic or simply afraid and don't know what to do.  She said that once the decedents are identified, it is likely that at least one would be a Veteran."

Franklin looked at the Hobbit, and seemed to be trying to form words of his own.  "It is so hard for me to help."

"You, sir," began Frodo, now recognizing exactly with whom he was speaking, " have done your share.  It was you that taught Frodo to believe that in this country no one should starve, or freeze, in the lonely darkness.  This is why government exists; to protect the smallest and the weakest.  I am just doing what I can."

"God Bless you, Mr. Frodo.  It is what I tried to ensure."

"God Bless you, Mr. Roosevelt.  Frodo will do better to make sure that we don't let you down again."

When Frodo looked back, the man in the wheelchair had turned the corner and was gone.   Frodo turned his collar to the cold, and knew that he would soon be that much closer to the destruction of the Ring.  The "Greatest Generation" had done their part.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 2:57 PM EST

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Mood:  suave

"Writer's Block" is not an uncommon affliction.  Frodo has always been of the mind set that all one must do is to simply begin to write, and that the normal flow of language will create a path that beckons one to follow.  Dorothy, in all likelihood, thus found a yellow brick road, and Frost found that two paths in a yellow wood increased his possibilities.  Frodo's fear is that he will begin to repeat himself, and that his reader's eyes will glaze, amidst the knowledge that they have already been there, and done that.  That would be a death knell for Frodo.

There once was a leopard frog.  The story was that his life was forfeit for the purpose of science.  In truth, he was excess, left over after all the others' pieces had been removed and examined.  It was to be his fate to follow, in toto, to a place of discard.  An exuberant, and certainly immature, friend of Frodo, brought his remains back from class in an orange juice bottle, quart-sized.  Since it was Friday, and classes at the College of the Shire would be held in abeyance for several decades of hours, it was time to commence the ingestion of alcohol, which is a mixture of both ritual and necessity when all the world is only a few credit hours from the front door.  Soon another necessity brought the suggestion that Frodo and his friends conduct their own sceientific experiment with that which was at hand, or in an orange juice jar.

That frog swam in a jar of mixed urine for an entire scholastic year.

Not long ago, Frodo and one of the most important nephrologists in all of Middle Earth sat amid an enthralled audience as they recounted what happened in those final days that Spring.  With but hours to go before they scattered to the four winds, an upraised pillow swung back away and across the shoulder of Frodo's friend, and in an uncanny slow motion event which is clearly in the minds of all who were crowded in that room on that day, the frog found his escape scooting lifelessly and vengeful across the artificial flooring.  In an instant, only Frodo's friend was in the company of the frog.  Wordlessly, and with all due haste, he commenced a clean-up, and complete scouring with disinfectant of all the general area.

Science, it seems, is but a progression of failed experiments.

The memory of Frodo's friend is as precise as is that of Frodo.  Despite the juvenile circumstances, it brought unsustainable laughter to those who marveled that either Frodo, or his friend, had indeed lived long enough to recant this tale, and to let others judge if all of life is meant to be serious. 

If that were true, there would never have been a Frodo.

Thus endeth "writer's block."  Until the next.  Sleep well dear friend, and dream of the next adventure of the Hobbit, who pauses but a moment as he prepares to toss the Ring into the fires below.    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:07 PM EST

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Mood:  rushed

During the baseball season, since every gallant Brave game is televised, Frodo almost always has a mental diversion from the trek up Mount Doom.  During the football season, there seems to be a game every night from somewhere, be it the professionals on Sunday, Monday, or Wednesday, or the colleges on Saturday, Thursday, or Friday.  But in the months of January and February there are only "Super Bowls," hockey (which Frodo attempted once in his youth), and an occasional college basketball game.  Generally, at this time of year, Frodo spends a great deal of time counting off the days until the opening of Spring Training in West Palm Beach.  This year, there is something new in the mix.

There seems to be an election taking place somewhere, almost every single day.  Frodo finds himself spinning the dial on the black-and-white from the network evening news to "Hardball," to CNN, to Keith Olbermann, back to CNN, over to Faux News (gag me with a spoon, but my those are short skirts, aren't they?), and back again.  Frodo fears that by the time "Super-Duper Tuesday" arrives he will have either lapsed into an apoplectic coma, or will have missed an exit interview somewhere.  This day is no exception.

American Samoa is holding its own Presidential Primary, and Frodo is quite concerned that the economic malaise now affecting the rest of the world will create near depression conditions in Micronesia.  The interesting thing is that in a land where nearly everybody wears a "skirt" of some sort, there does not seem to be any issues with the gender of any of the candidates.  Perhaps the uni-sex method of dress is something that appeals to the electorate, and should be further considered "stateside."  After all, both Mrs. Bush and Senator Clinton wore red dresses to the SOTU, and neither one of them appeared to snub the other.

When last he visited Hawaii, Frodo met any number of young people from Samoa, nearly all of whom were pursuing higher education at an extension of Brigham Young University.  Frodo learned that Mormon missionaries hit those islands hard in order to win converts.  Frodo believes, based on his scientific analysis that he can therefore call the American Samoa Primary for Senator Clinton on the Democratic side, and for Governor Mitt Romney on the Republican.

Wolf Blitzer is in the minor leagues (but Frodo needs to consider drinking a little less coffee).

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:05 AM EST

Updated: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 9:10 AM EST

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Mood:  incredulous

"Beverly Hills Cop" was an extremely funny, and creative film.  One of the characters, an interior designer by trade, was named "Serge" (pron. S-air-je).  Frodo makes the homophobic comparison whenever he hears Senator John McCain (R-AZ) say "The Surge is Working."  Frodo is convinced that McCain is playing "drop the soap" with the American people, and has merely proven that although he may not be not too old to be President of the United States, he is indeed too dumb.

23 American military personnel were killed in the month of December, 2007, as the result of hostile action in the Pre-Emptive War in the area sometimes called Iraq.  That was a significant drop from the prior month, and from the corresponding month one year earlier.  Given that the number of hostile actions similarly decreased, McCain and his political drinkers of the grape juice use this to demonstrate that they must be right, and that the logic of more troops to buy time for the "Iraqi Government" is the way to avoid "defeat."

Poppycock.

Frodo visualizes himself standing near a podium waiting for Senator McCain.  He is determined to yell loud enough for the hard-of-hearing old man to hear him, and to stay in his face until he addresses Frodo's questions.  This is how Frodo would word the question. 

"Senator McCain, given your statements that US Forces should remain in Iraq 'as long as it takes,' and that 'the surge is working,' would you think it fair to say that if American casualties were reduced to, say, 15 in December of 2017, and 10 in December of 2027, that 'the surge' would still be considered to be working?"

There is no standard by which this tired, old man, a once noble and courageous warrior, can justify his pronouncements.  Look at the number of dead this month, January, 2008. 

Hush, little baby. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:10 AM EST

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Mood:  down

Cartoons don't seem to mean as much to as many people as they used to, thinks Frodo.  There was a time when the very mention of the name Gahan Wilson brought a rush of recognition to every literate mind in all of Middle Earth.  The NEW YORKER magazine won exposure outside the tiny isle of Manhattan because of the simple drawings and unforgettable captions.  Who among us, says Frodo, can fail to recognize "I say it's Spinach, and I say to Hell with it." 

In the quixotic twists and turns of Frodo's mind, the previous paragraph made Frodo think about some of the things that he really dislikes.  That thought resulted in a review of his "likes and dislikes" identified in the homepage server of this blog.  After a few house-cleaning amendments thereto, Frodo decided to make note of two events which critically address things which grind the posterior of Frodo.

The first is Silas Marner.  Frodo was forced to read this pithy presentation while his hormones were expanding at an exponential rate.  He cannot recall greater boredom than that which was felt as he laboriously turned each page and nailed it down so that it could never be reopened to again torment the psyche of the Hobbit.  To this day, Frodo has taken an instant dislike to anyone with the name of "Silas," and he is convinced that George W. Bush looks more like the Silas Marner of his imagination than any living person.

The other thing(s) that Frodo dislikes are barristers.  Frodo took great amusement in the wit of his old friend J. Delano who, while introducing a speaker to a group of businessmen, took note of the introductee's label as a "barrister."  J. Delano promptly announced to the group that he was very sorry to hear that the speaker "did not have a daddy."  The barrister was the only one who did not laugh, uproariously.  From that day forward, every individual so engaged in the legal prostitution, er profession (truly Freudian on that typeset, wouldn't you say?), is dubbed "barrister" by Frodo.

Frodo is simply convinced that there is nothing wrong in Middle Earth that a physical reduction in the number of barristers could not cure.  Imagine if the 35% of all the barristers to last pass "the bar" were removed from their "barrister" standing and had, immediately, to find real work.  There is no shortage of "barristers," but there are crying needs for healthcare workers, maintenance people, and, of course, military and diplomatic personnel serving in the Middle East.

As he contemplates the culminating point in this mini-diatribe, Frodo has had a small epiphany.  Silas Marner was a barrister.

Life isn't all that complicated, is it?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:14 AM EST

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Mood:  surprised

16 Percent of those voters in South Carolina who voted in the Democratic Primary, and who also happened to be white males over the age of 60, and who would therefore be reasonably able to identify the words from the song identified in our Title, today cast their vote for Barack Obama.  Dear reader, this means that 84% of this discernible group of voters voted for a white person.  How this translates to a vision for the future depends on who is asking the question.

Frodo believes, that after everything else is said and done, that he is unable to identify a single white male over the age of 60 anywhere in America likely to vote in a Democratic Primary who will be added to the total already in support of Senator Clinton.  The 16% of white males over 60 who voted for Obama in South Carolina are not likely cross-overs to Clinton (they voted for a black guy, for the love of Pete).  All that remains as a possibility should Senator Clinton win the nomination is that she could gain from those old white male farts who voted for Edwards.  Edwards, it has been assumed, gained votes in recent days in South Carolina from those predominantly white males over the age of 60 who had initially been attracted to Obama, and chickened out. 

Caroline Kennedy has just announced that she will endorse Barack Obama in tomorrow's New York Times, as a "President Like My Father."  South Carolina has just blown the doors off in the Democratic Primary victory for Barack Obama.  His speech just now made Frodo cry, with hope.

Strom Thurmond just turned over.

Unless Thurmond is able to bring a bunch of dead old men with him from the Seventh Circle of Hell, then Frodo has an answer to his quest.

Frodo has long wondered who will pick up the sword.

Tonight he knows.  The Ring is not as heavy as it was.  But the road is rocky, and it passes through Tennessee, California, New York, Missouri, and yes dear reader, Georgia.

Yes we can.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:43 PM EST

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Mood:  on fire

Although Frodo feels very strongly about many things, it is a rare event when he takes a moral stand on the motivations of an individual.  He has always respected the fact that human behavior results from a multitude of factors which are barely discernible, much less predictable.  There are however, as in many aspects of life, exceptions which merit assessment.  The conduct of a President of the United States while serving in that capacity, and for all the days that follow, is subject to certain expectations.

William Jefferson Clinton lied to a Grand Jury.  In the same situation, Frodo would also have probably lied.  It was, and remains, Frodo's position that a Man was trying to cover up his mistakes in order to spare the feelings of his wife, and his daughter.  Frodo will never stand to justify the action, but he understands that people make mistakes, and in the case of an elected official, he must pay the legal price.

William Jefferson Clinton holds a special position of prominence in the Democratic Party.  It is expected that he would stand, if asked, on behalf of the nominee of the Party, and, in fact, to campaign on behalf of any contender for the nomination.  It is improper, if nothing else, for the former President to campaign against any contender for that nomination, even if that contender was running against his wife.

Frodo has stood and cheered, on many occasions almost all alone, on behalf of William Jefferson Clinton.   It may be argued that William Jefferson Clinton could have accomplished even more had he not offered his personal conduct as a distraction during his term in office.  Regardless, much of what resulted from his leadership has benefited our country, and indeed, the world.  Criticism of his post-Presidency behavior is not something that Frodo puts forth lightly.

It is disheartening, if not embarrassing, to sit and watch as ambition blinds the conduct of otherwise good and noble people.  The candidacy of Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (D-NY) for the Office of the Presidency is besmirched, in Frodo's eye, by the surrogate role played by the former President in his zeal to support his wife.  His presentations, both in method and in content, are what we came to expect from people named Segretti, Mitchell, Ehrlichman, and Colson.  

Frodo formally requests that William Jefferson Clinton let us get back on the high ground.  Let the battle be fought so that the inevitable wounds can be treated as badges of courage, and not left as seeping sores infecting all of the body politic.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:59 PM EST

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Mood:  party time!

With the exceptions of Hawaii and Florida, every State in the Grand Union was reporting at least one temperature below 32 degrees, Fahrenheit.  Frodo reminded himself of that news report when he heard that the record low this evening at Lake Lovey would fall somewhere below 9 degrees, Fahrenheit.  The black-and-white is full of stories about Arctic air masses blowing into football stadiums and warnings about the amount of time it takes for frostbite to develop on unprotected derma.  Frodo remembers his trip to Bimini.

Three boys from the College of the Shire piled into Frodo's Rambler Station Wagon and headed to the end of the highway.  By the time they reached Valdosta, it was warm enough to open the windows.  Two of them stripped almost nude, and just let the warm breezes blow across anatomical structures.  By the time the Sun arose, they were beyond exhaustion and looking for girls.  In Fort Lauderdale they struck paydirt.

A day or so later, a friend from the College of the Shire who was blessed by the Gods to live in Nirvana, told them about Bimini, the closest of the Bahama Islands to the US Border, and the fact that $25 would pay for a return plane ticket to this unknown Eden.  A brief trip to the Blood Bank ensured that all three had sufficient resources to seek out the apple trees and serpents that surely inhabited this land where no one wore clothes.  When finally they landed, and discovered that the 5-mile long island was only 50 yards wide, it did not take them long to figure out that the two roads, Kings Highway and Queens Highway, were each one way and pointing in separate directions.  Their first assignment was to find the cheapest bar in town.  That did not take very long.

The "End of the World Bar" had a hand-written sign afront with four misspelled words among the five total.  Dear reader, it was supposed to say "Don't Spit on the floor."  Frodo learned, somewhere between the fourth and fifth Mai-Tai, that the bar was a favorite haunt of two people known to him in infamy;  Ernest Hemingway and Adam Clayton Powell.  It was unlikely that Hemingway would appear that evening, but Frodo was thrilled to identify Adam Clayton Powell when he strolled into the bar, and promptly identified three suckers perhaps interested in providing him with free alcohol.  Despite that fact, it was a hoot, and a helluva time.

Driving back up the long peninsula was done in 15-mile segments by three exhausted, and starving, college students, who drove all night just to get somehere close to the College of the Shire by the time that classes began again.  Frodo cannot remember being cold again for at least another year.  Tonight he wonders if anyone has ever changed the sign outside the "End of the World," or how much a Mai-Tai costs there these days.

Any current input would be appreciated. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:25 PM EST

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