Mood:  incredulous

Frodo's day is made whenever he stumbles across additional support for his personal biases and political opinions.  Today, dear reader, we have a news flash out of that paragon of civilization, the actual birthplace of paleolithic philosophy, the Great State of Texas (aka "where the cow poop hits the road").  So grab your socks, and get ready for another episodic installment of why the twenty first century will never cross the Rio Grande.

The University of Texas at San Antonio ("TSA" for any of you acronym freaks) apparently sponsored a group of students who felt it necessary to draft an Honor Code for their alma mater.  The student in charge, not named (but Frodo is sure he had to be dubbed "George"), felt it to be merely an "oversight" that the effort to discourage cheating and plagiarism was apparently copied from the Honor Code of another institution.  Since the online version of Brigham Young University's Honor Code matched the exact word-for-word draft submitted by the TSA Honor Guard, it is reasonable to assume that a little cut-and-paste action off the Internet was all that the little angels had to do.

Daniel Wueste, Director of the Rutland Institute for Ethics at Clemson University (now ain't that a malaprop, ethics and Clemson for petesake?), stated "You Google it and here it comes," in referencing the Internet-era computers as mere production machines for the ethically unaware.  Frodo can't help but wonder exactly what it was that made these latter-day "Plumbers" think that they needed an Honor Code in the first place?  What, pray tell, could be so onerous as to make someone think that copying someone else's work would be justified by violating the Honor Code they hoped to implement?

Do you think it is something in the water?

Noting the judicious performance of former Governor George W. Bush, those TSA students had better be glad he isn't still in office.  They'd get lethal injections.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:54 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

Frodo has always had the gift of gab.  In the fourth grade he served as the "Campaign Manager" when David Sollenberger made his run for Class President.  Little Alice Pittard told Frodo afterwards that she only voted for Sollenberger because of Frodo's eloquent plea, e.g. "Give me Sollenberger, or give me death."  Growing up in Virginia, the home of Presidents and political firebrands, Frodo was subject to undue political influence at an early age.  Despite this early capacity to speak before groups, Frodo has found himself with a diminished interest in his own words, and a deeper appreciation for those of others.  That, perhaps, is why he feels a certain anxiety upon recognition.

Frodo has told the story of his attendance at the funeral of the young soldier whose life was lost in the deserts between the Tigris and the Euphrates.  When he walked from the casket to face the grieving family, all he could do was an arm salute to his heart and a kiss upon his fingers blown to Heaven.  It was something he'd seen Sammy Sosa do a hundred times.  He did so because he could not find words adequate for the moment. 

On Thursday, Frodo will step onto a stage once again.  There will be no pleas for victory or death, just as there will be no need to salute fallen warriors.  The ghosts who call to Frodo are just trying to share one more moment with their friend.  

So be it. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:34 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

The following is based on actual events, only the facts have been slightly changed in order to humiliate the otherwise innocent.

Ken Mifume was very lonely in Wilcox Memorial Hospital in Lihue, Hawaii.  Not unlike many of us who spend a measure of our rehabilitation under the care and watchful eyes of those to whom a hospital is a vocation, Mifume appreciated the effort, but he really missed being home.  His uncle Donald was concerned because of the length of time that the young farmer would be away from his normal routine.  Donald could tell from Ken's discussions that he was particularly worried about the animals who depended on him, and he missed having them around. 

Donald Mifume happened to notice a father carrying a puppy into the room of a small boy.  While the boy played with his puppy, Donald asked the father about the hospital policy for bringing pets into the room of a patient.  He was told that as long as the hospital is notified, and that the visitor takes responsibility for any "mistakes," or the behavior of the animal, then the hospital welcomed the therapeutic visitation.  Donald immediately went to the nurses' station and asked permission to bring a pet with him for the visiting hours the following day.  With approval in hand, he hurried home in order to make proper arrangements for the big surprise.

Ken Mifume was still sleeping when Uncle Donald arrived at 8 AM with "King Kamehala" in tow.  The doctors, nurses, and hospital attendants were busy with everything from "rounds" to breakfast, and no one even took note of their progress through the front door, into the lobby, and to the elevators.   When Donald exited the elevator on the 7th floor, "King Kamehala" followed, and that was when anyone first took note of the palomino stallion trooping through the hospital, behind Donald Mifume.

Suddenly, a plethora of voices united to prevent any further incursion of the equine into the room of a patient.  Donald tried to assure them that "King Kamehala" was Ken's "pet," and that he was doing only as the hospital had authorized.  The attending physician tried to explain to Donald that the authorization was for "house pets," like cats or a dog, but not for a "farm animal."  At least two people were overcome and required treatment; the benefit being that they were at least in reasonable proximity of a physician.

Ken Mifume sat up in bed, bemused.  Eventually, his eyes met those of his uncle, and he inquired, "Where'd you get the horse?"  Donald replied that he found Ken's favorite horse in the pasture in front of Ken's farm.  Ken smiled, and asked his uncle to note that this was not a stallion, but a mare, and her name was certainly not "King Kamehala."  Ken also noted that the mare, along with several other mares from neighbors' farms,  had been in the pasture for quite some time with "King Kamehala" for the purpose of breeding.  It quickly became apparent to all that the mare had noted the fact that she was in a hospital, and that this would present her with an excellent opportunity to receive expert maternity assistance.

While the seeming entire staff of the hospital hovered about the delivery taking place on the 7th floor, none seemed to note the arrival, much less the presence, of the Hawaiian State Police.  Ken Mifume got up from his bed, and strolled out into the hall to offer assistance to the "gendarmerie."  One of the officers told him that they were investigating a report of horse rustling from a local farmer.  Ken asked if either of the officers could describe the alleged victim.  Neither of the officers laughed.

It took almost all day to get all of the details ironed out.  The "spouse" of "King Kamehala," and his offspring, were loaded back into Donald's horse trailer and returned to the pasture from which the mother had been removed.  Donald drove.  The Hawaiian State Police followed.  The attending physician smoked a cigar, and waved as they drove away.  Ken Mifume put on his clothes, walked to the nearest bus-stop, and caught an express, without bothering to tell anyone.

It was Tuesday before anybody happened to notice that Ken was gone.  Ken Mifume, in case you wondered dear reader, will be representing the State of Hawaii at the upcoming Democratic Party Convention in Denver.

Why are you not surprised?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:14 PM EDT

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Mood:  spacey

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, and Frodo is incensed at the continuing discrimination by the State of Georgia, in particular the Governor, the round mound of reknown,  Mr. Sonny Perdue, against Christianity.  Throughout the New Testament, there is reference to the favorite beverage of the time.  There is no reference to "sweet tea," and there is no reference to "Coca-Cola," but even at the Last Supper, wine was served.  It is absolutely outrageous that the State of Georgia is one of only three states in the entire country that prohibits the sale of wine on Easter Sunday, or, in fact, on any of the 52 Sundays that occur annually.

Governor Perdue, who alleges that he does not "drink," which raises the question of how exactly he defines the term, argues that despite the overwhelming percentage of the  state citizenry who desire a plebiscite on the issue, it is inappropriate to hold an election.  Perdue stated recently that it would be almost as inappropriate if the citizenry demanded to hold an election on the legalization of prostitution .

Frodo says "Hold on, big fella."

"Governor Perdue," stated Frodo, "you do realize that if prostitution had been legalized in the State of New York, Elliot Spitzer would still be in office, don't you?"

Governor Perdue, formerly a Democrat, is normally a veterinarian in the community of Bon Air, Georgia.  Sonny switched parties, curiously, when he seemed incapable of achieving higher office as a Democrat. 

"Governor Perdue," queried Frodo, "why is your hometown named after a product which sounds as if it was developed to clean bathrooms?"

In an effort to ameliorate the concerns of the Governor, who led a prayer vigil on the steps of the State Capitol Building to convince the Almighty that Georgia needed rain, several citizens have offered reasonable alternatives.

"Governor Perdue," offered Frodo, "I recognize that employees of liquor stores and other beverage distributors need time off with their families, so why don't we simply eliminate beverage sales on Thursdays?"

Senator John McCain was in Atlanta several days ago, and he was obviously thrilled with the endorsement he received from Governor Perdue.  Perdue, of course, had openly supported Governor Huckleberry of "R-Kansas" during the Republican Primary held earlier in the year.  Journalists and GOP faithful keep mentioning "Sonny" as a potential selectee for the Vice Presidency on the McCain ticket.

Frodo thinks many Journalists and GOP faithful have been drinking something stronger than "sweet tea."

"Governor Perdue," begs Frodo, "would you try to extend the ban on Sunday sale of wine nationally, if you were anointed by Senator McCain?"

For the uninitiated, and the naturally curious, who follow Frodo religiously, the other two states which currently prohibit Sunday sale of wine are Indiana (home of that paragon of progressive thought, Representative Dan Burton, and the folks who sent Dan Quayle to the US Senate) and Connecticut (home of the Foreign Policy translator, Senator Joe Lieberman). 

It was announced last month that the Atlanta Braves' top minor league franchise, the Richmond Braves, were, after more than 30 years, being relocated to Gwinnett County, Georgia.  Governor Perdue requested that the State Legislature grant a "special dispensation" to the economic windfall accompanying the team transfer into Georgia.  That "special dispensation," is to allow the sale of alcoholic beverages at the new stadium, on Sundays.

Even John McCain is not dim-witted enough to kiss his chances good-bye by running with a buffoon.  Then again, what ever happened to Dan Quayle? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:41 PM EDT

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Mood:  a-ok

As they peered into the black-and-white Zenith on that early July morning, Frodo said to his father that this was, in his opinion, his witness to the greatest scientific achievement since Man first walked upright.  Some time later, Frodo recalled his own words when he watched faux apes gather around a monolith.  For perhaps as long as it has ever been, Frodo sat in rapture while he grew familiar to Hal and to Dave.  The music of Strauss fit perfectly the elliptical transit of the mind into the galaxies far beyond.

At the age of 90, Arthur C. Clarke, the visionary, yesterday ascended into the heavens about which he seemed to know so much more than any of the rest of us.  "2001:  A Space Odyssey" was a tour-de-force in its collage of music, color, words, and thematic charm.  Every time he watches the movie, Frodo learns something new about himself.  On one occasion he even learned that he had a somewhat innate capacity to waltz, as long as he had a willing and capable partner.  He has the gifted writer of fiction in outer space and future science to thank for these lessons.

Clarke not only offered dreams as reality, but he had the capacity to take reality and make dreams.  Without even attempting to quote him, Frodo remembers Clarke's admonition that although Man has often been controlled by the Stars, he will eventually assume control over them.

Heady stuff, eh what?  Pardon Frodo for just a moment, someone seems to be calling out there.

Oh, never mind, whoever it is is looking for somebody named Dave.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:02 AM EDT

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Mood:  special

George W. 'Armstrong Custer' Bush, George W. 'Herbert Hoover' Bush, George W. 'William Henry Harrison' Bush, or, more succinctly, the Incomparable Moron, are each direct past references by Frodo to he who is truly the only President to do harm to our nation.  If it is a despicable effort to "stay the course" in the midst of an alien civil war, then the massacre at the Little Big Horn becomes a repeatable act in American history.  If it is the expenditure of all current assets in the United States Treasury, then the result will be a government without sufficient capital to defend its citizens.  If it is the refusal of he who mislead us to war to attend even one single military funeral, then the words of support for bravery and sacrifice will ring hollow for all time.  This, dear reader, is the "legacy" by which this very shallow man seeks to measure himself in the annals of our national experience.  He is a moron, simply because he is neither bright enough nor courageous enough to recognize his mistakes.

Frodo is not speaking but to a choir.  Tonight he is inspired by what has been written by a truly great journalist, whose point of reference, and whose experience, is on the other side of the table.  The co-author of the best-selling book "We Were Soldiers Once. . .and Young," who was embedded with American troops in the earliest days of the Vietnam War, is quoted from his most recent column below.  Frodo asks only that each consider what this brave man, who has the eye of a participant, and the soul of one who has seen war, up close and personal, has to say. 

"The next time that we Americans start thinking about maybe electing someone with no known talent, limited useful experience, and an IQ that's barely equal to his body temperature, what say we just leave the presidency vacant and the White House shuttered for eight years or so?"--Joseph L. Galloway.

Frodo wishes that these words had been his own.  They mirror what he has believed since first he left verbal caricatures upon the hard drive before you, dear reader.  It is too much like Pilate to simply have the Hobbit say that he had the wisdom to vote against the Incomparable Moron, twice.  He remains angered that there were others, so very many others, that were so foolish as to vote for Custer/ Hoover/ Harrison (pick one), twice.  

Frodo wonders what such people must think when they fill their gas tanks these days.  Hopefully, they think of something other than themselves.  If so, then they are welcome to join the Fellowship, and to help right the wrongs.  It will take all of us a very long time. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:12 PM EDT

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Mood:  quizzical

Fifteen years ago this very minute, Frodo and Lovey were trapped at Lake Lovey amidst two-and-one-half feet of snow, and more than 400 downed yellow pine trees.  Last night, a tornado veered away from the trailer parks of Arkansas and Alabama long enough to strike the very heart of Atlanta.  Frodo longs for someone to someday interview him after a tornado, for he will tell the audience that it sounded like lift-off at Cape Canaveral, anything but a damned freight train.  The forecast for the next several hours calls for a continuation of the violent line of thunderstorms which accompany the wet season in the lands adjacent to the Shire.  Tree limbs and power lines will not co-exist, so it is probably a good idea for Frodo to say what Frodo has to say, and to get off-line.

When Cassius called to the conspirators, "Strike hands for me," the stage was first set for the middle of March and the violence it represents in western societies.  Each year, at this time, Frodo laments the natural disasters which accompany the drenching precipitation, and the human reaction.  Bad things seem to happen, and few victories are noted.  Last night, Frodo's beloved Yellow Jacket basketball team also fell to the representatives of gang violence and shoddy prosecutorial performance from Durham, North Carolina.  Baseball is more than a month from the friendly confines of Turner Field.  And even the Pennsylvania Primary is five weeks from now.

March sucks.

When all of Frodo's technological toys lose their utility, he is also confronted with an inability to even do work, and on a Saturday no less.  With the imminent meterological threat, starting an excursion with Mick, the Wonder Dog, is equally foolhardy.  The choices at his disposal are limited.

The Bartletts, the forsythia, the camellias, and the fruit trees which flower but do not bear are all abloom.  Soon their gentle petals will be on the ground, and the warming days to come will not be quite as brilliant as they might have been.

Sigh.  Did Frodo mention that March sucks?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:43 AM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

"What you see is what you get," so spake Flip Wilson, in drag, as Geraldine more than twenty years ago.  Frodo was struck this evening by the punditry gone wild, and the fact that a very nice lady, named Geraldine, with a great deal of hard work in her past, who is fighting for her life against Cancer, is catching holy hell for the apparent racial implications in her public comments.  What she said put Senator Obama in the context of the "nappy-headed ho's," and  her own butt in the the chair before the microphone of Don Imus.

Frodo has walked similar ground; perhaps, dear reader, so have we all.  Frodo, many years ago, in gratitude, extended an invitation to a party to more than a hundred people who worked with him.  It was just a few days after the brilliant teleplay of Alex Haley's "Roots" had appeared on TV nationally.  This incredibly powerful story had an impact on everyone who watched each and every episode during the days when TV was something important.  Frodo, in his effort to be both topically wise, and funny, included comments in the invitation to his party about "Chicken George," and other characters.  Subsequently, Frodo received a letter signed by each of the invitees who happened to be black.  A copy of that letter was sent to all of those who had been invited to the party.

Frodo was not only humiliated, but he was struck to his very being.  He had insulted the guys with whom he played basketball.  He had written words almost sacrilegious to people whom he supervised.  He had given comfort to those who always seemed to be looking to exhibit that blacks wanted to be treated differently.  And he had not realized it.  He also knew that "the incident" would always haunt his relationships, and it has never escaped his memory.

Perhaps his own experience is why Frodo felt the way he did this evening.  Both Don Imus and Geraldine Ferraro had joined in his shame for the hurtful expressions uttered with the best of intentions.  No one, including Bilbo, ever told Frodo that life was going to be either easy, or fair.  Life is much more like the words Flip Wilson uttered as Geraldine.  

Just watch out for "Killer." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:54 PM EDT

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Mood:  loud

"Mr. Frodo, do you know how they take attendance at a NASCAR event?," asked the grinning Samwise.

Slightly puzzled, Frodo responded, "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"They count the number of teeth in the audience, then they divide by four."

Frodo laughed, but for just a moment.  The joke hit home, and made Frodo think about the folly that is truly an environmental disaster, aid and comfort to our enemies, and the source of mindless pleasure to those who seem to enjoy watching traveling commercials circumnavigated by white guys who cannot jump, run, or catch.  Is there, he thought, anything that we do which is as completely moronic as automobile racing?  "How sad," he said to himself, "that those of us in the Shire and its environs seem to be the major protagonists.  We can't even blame this on stupid Yankees."

The hydrocarbons which spew into the air around Bristol, Tennessee, or Darlington, South Carolina, or Talladega, Alabama, are contributors to declining air quality in our country.  The expenditure of millions of gallons of oil and petroleum products, at much more than $100 per barrel, is like pouring our national wealth directly into the hands of those who offer support to jihadists, terrorists, and the Bush Administration.  And somebody sits in the grandstands and cheers, and they allege to "support our troops," and to "keep America strong."

Horse hockey.

If Frodo were "King for a Day," he would, since it is apparently legal in the mind of George W. Bush, subject every sponsor of a NASCAR "team" to waterboarding.  That would include NFL Hall of Fame Coach Joe Gibbs, late of the Washington Redskins.  "How," Frodo would demand of such insurgents, "can anyone alleging to live their life in Faith continue to participate in somethinmg so barbaric, so incredibly dangerous to our country?"  Frodo would make each of these miscreants answer as to whether or not they thought Jesus would sponsor a car driven by Ricky Rudd?

And another thing, these people have the right to vote, and their vote, dear reader, is no more and no less valuable than that of either you or Frodo.  "How," Frodo screams, "can we allow the obviously mentally ill to determine who will be the nominee of any political party, much less President?"  Frodo, apparently, would also suspend the right to vote for anyone attending, watching, or listening to any automotive event within the continental United States. 

If Senator McCarthy were still around, Frodo would write him an anonymous letter, and charge that NASCAR was a subversive organization.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:51 AM EST

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Mood:  hug me

It is no secret that the Shire has been victimized by juvenile hispanic weather systems for many months.  Frodo's motorcars no longer sparkle like the morning dew, and budding azaleas have no more promise than the boxwoods which never bloom.  This is, however, the wettest time of the year, and early season thunderstorms do rumble through with increasing frequency.  Nature has a clarion call for the coming Spring, and her violent light-show portends freight-train like descriptions from every trailer park between Nebraska and Florida.  The inhabitants of the Shire are not immune to the ominous barometric pressure fluctuations which alter their behavior.

Fiona, hereby dubbed as fearless, exceeds 70 years in non-canine measurement.  In all that time, she has never seemed to notice that thunder rolls and lightning flashes, that is, until this year.  Now, when storms threaten, be they mid-afternoon or midnight, she ambles into the downstairs and out the dog-door to first stand under the porch and observe Nature and her handiwork.  She waddles then out into the storm in order to lie beneath her favorite bush in the gardens of the Shire.  Here she is soaked by falling rain, but appears secure in the knowledge that she can see what the hell is going on from friendly turf.

Frodo long ago noted that there is a weather trench that blows on a northeasterly track just to the west of the Shire.  In recent years, Frodo has noted an increased tendency for the devil-filled whirlwinds to travel outside the trench and traverse even closer to the Shire.  Perhaps Fiona, the Fearless, has noted the same.

Frodo has spared no expense in removing the dreaded yellow pine trees from the Gardens of the Shire.  There are few threats, other than a direct hit, which should be of concern to the residents of the Shire.  Frodo and Sam have marked secure locations, near the dog-door, on the bottom floor, where all would gather whenever the sirens cry warning.  The spot is close to the bush where Fiona, the Fearless, has staked her claim.

Science sometimes merely confirms the obvious.  

There is an old saying in the political circles of those who are drenched by Potomac Fever.  "If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog."  Sage advice dear reader, sage advice.    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:59 PM EST

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