Mood:  vegas lucky

Frodo is not gregarious per se, but he does have his own way of starting conversations, and making friends.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, has become enamored of a slender, young German Shepherd who lives across the byway afronting the Shire.  In the cool of the evening, he will walk ahead of Frodo, and take a restful position on a small rise overlooking the house where the siren resides.  She is very shy, and since Mick, the Wonder Dog, knows that he cannot enter the byway without Frodo's announced approval, the two merely stare at each other, from a distance.

Frodo spotted the dog's owner, to whom he had but a hand-waving acquaintance, in his own front yard, and walked across the byway to remark upon the slender build of his dog.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, took this as act of tacit approval and crossed along with Frodo.  The owner explained that he had made the error of feeding the dog from the table at a young age, and now she will not eat that which better serves her nutritional requirements.  While they talked, the dogs were showing early signs of play, and the communication that has long included ancestral nose and butt.

Frodo noted the heavy accent of his neighbor, and asked if it might be Balkan, "Perhaps Latvia?," he asked innocently.  His neighbor was almost shaken with shock.  "How did you know?  Nearly everyone thinks I am Russian, because of my accent.  How did you know?"

Frankly, according to Frodo, it had been a wild guess.  He could just as easily have said Estonia, or even Finland.  He just hadn't thought of Russia.  It proved to be a very good guess.

As time bore on, Frodo's neighbor let forth the content of his own Box, as if the saga of Pandora were to be repeated in sheer verbiage.  The neighbor told Frodo that in 1939, when Latvia fell to the Germans, his grandfather, not unlike almost all of the men in their small town, was told by the Germans that he either join the German Army, or that he would be shot.  His family, it was added, would be sent to work camps.  His grandfather acquiesed.  What role he played, Frodo does not yet know.

In 1945, when the Russians liberated Latvia from the Germans, the neighbor said his grandfather was taken captive and assumed that he would be shot for having been a soldier in the German Army.  In fact, he said, one out of every five Latvians was unceremoniously killed by the Russians for their abetting of the Germans.  The neighbor's grandfather, for some unknown reason, was spared, if it can be called that, and was sent to Siberia for a minimum term of 25 years.  Frodo's neighbor began to softly sob, and salty paths wandered through his day-old beard in search of his chin.

Frodo had never met anyone even remotely involved with detention in Siberia, although he had known of the history for most of his days.  Frodo was not sure what to say, and he was searching for some appropriate response.  It was then that they both noted the two dogs, standing on either side of the neighbor, both leaning, listening, and looking up, respectfully.  Both Frodo and his neighbor smiled, and proceeded to rub dog ears in only the way that Man or Hobbit has ever done.

As they parted for the evening, Frodo crossed the byway while Mick tarried but a moment behind.  Frodo looked forward to telling Sam or Tom Bombadill about the mysterious neighbor with the skinny dog.  Another neighbor, somewhat brusquely, stopped Frodo and asked if she had indeed seen him talking to "that Russian."

Frodo said, "No, Not Russian."  He bade her goodnight, and walked home with his friend, who seemed to be laughing, at Frodo's heel.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 5:53 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

Frodo has often been asked to define "love."  Similarly, "hatred," "despair," "fear," "pride," and even "jealousy" are terms which he has occasionally been challenged to verbally describe.  It is, indeed, probable that every emotion has at some point in time been the subject of a defining poem, story, or song, except, as best he can herein recall , for "worry."  It is, in his mind, that which corralls our joys and sadness into trepidation and sorrow, magnified by the future and the past.  Frodo can worry about everyday problems like money, or he can make up things to worry about.  The worst part of worry is the fact that its end is a reflection of the possible, the likely, or certainty.

Frodo may, for example, worry about his own demise.  Surely, it will come, and it will have an impact, not only on Frodo, but to those whom he holds dearest.  So Frodo worries about himself, his Fellowship, his menagerie, and it all may be about something which will not occur for a, hopefully, long, long, time.  (EDITORIAL NOTE:  The Incomparable Moron certainly must worry that Frodo's demise fails to occur soon enough.)  In fact, Frodo's demise may be so far off that all of those and that about whom he cares may precede him, and his worry about them or that will thusly prove to be totally inane.  "Worry" is, indeed, a quality which defies description.

Except when it comes to Sam.  Three times has a cloud hung over the horizon, carrying the possibility that something inevitable was prematurely swinging a scythe that would strike Frodo's companion.  Three times has the demon been cast aside by the technical skill of those who treat illness, and the early detection that constant surveillance can prevent.  Three times means only that a fourth shall come, and every chill wind that blows causes Frodo to worry. 

It may be nothing, and it may not.  It may bring about great pain, or blessed relief.  It is that which brings us all, in our nakedness, to the windows which disclose the darkness, and little else.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:22 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

As a general rule, Frodo avoids the daily topical, preferring, instead, to reflect back at a later time, in order to add perspective, or humor, to something that may not be quite as serious as talking heads or partisans may proffer.  There are, of course, exceptions to every rule and, as Gomer Pyle frequently stated, "Surprise, surprise, surprise," hither follows an exception.

THE NEW YORKER magazine is a "slur," and it is so because that is how it is viewed by the subjects cartooned on the cover.   From a similar perspective, religious people felt that the iconic presentation of the Prophet Muhammad in Dutch newspapers was a religious "slur."  What is truly unsettling about both of these instances is that extremely intelligent, creative, artistic people responded defensively to the criticism.  

George W. Bush, it may be argued, is therefore fully justified to show offense at the comic portrayals of his "eagle beak" and "pointy ears."  Frodo would argue back that making fun of a person's appearance is an automatic denial of credible substance.  On the other hand, to reflect a burning flag, or a place of honor for a portrait of Osama bin Laden, with one of the cartooned portrayed as bearing an automatic weapon leaves too much to the imagination, and too little to the belly laugh.

People, good people, are going to say and do things that offend, intentionally or no.  It is the adults who recognize that they have stepped on the proverbial toe, and who have the wisdom to excuse themselves and to go on.  That is what characterizes the goodness of a man like Don Imus, whose motivations will never be questioned by Frodo.  It is the juveniles who talk about "artistic license" (if they live in New York City), or "getting a tee shirt with that cartoon on the front" (if they live in Texas).

Frodo often reads magazines, and not always in the dental waiting room.  Occasionally, he finds himself reading an article in PLAYBOY, or looking at the pictures in THE NEW YORKER.   He resents the fact that anyone would infer that he needs to look at either, differently.  Frodo knows obscenity when he sees it.    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

Frodo lashed a line single into the hole between the shortstop and the third baseman.  After making the obligatory turn at first base, he eyed the lanky pitcher peering into the catcher for guidance.  The pitcher's glove was tucked under his chin, and he held the ball in his left hand.  The curious pose was required by the absence of a right arm on the pitcher.

Frodo has long ago forgotten that young man's name, but he was a very rare specimen upon the diamonds patrolled by the Hobbit, so many years ago.  Neither the youngster nor his parents were conquered by the unfairness of it all, and his presence on the mound was something that people talked about, and came to see.  On the mound, he would catch the ball in the glove on his left-hand, tuck the glove under his chin, and then toss the ball before quickly jamming his one hand back into the glove, ready to field a ball hit his way.  Frodo, not unlike all the Hobbits on that field, both admired, and feared, the one-armed kid with the blazing fastball and the herky-jerky movements on the mound.

The score was even, and Frodo was a far better runner than the catcher was a thrower.  Frodo edged off of first base, studying the stance of the one-armed pitcher, looking for a tell-tale point at which to begin his rush for second base.  Frodo brashly assumed that one-arm did not appreciate either the speed or the guile of his opponent, and edged even another step away from the bag at first.  As one-arm raised his right leg to deliver the ball toward home plate, Frodo took his first leaping step to steal second base.  In an instant, Frodo caught sight, in the corner of his eye, of the ball traveling behind him toward the first baseman.  Instinctively, Frodo turned back to first, and dived for safety to the far corner of the bag.  With his face in the dust, he could hear the umpire roar the inevitable denouement.

As he shuffled slowly back to the bench, to the tune of admonishment that one should never be picked off base, Frodo tried to rationalize his misjudgment.  As he watched the rejuvenated pitcher from his lonely spot on the end of the bench, Frodo realized that he had paid improper attention to the right shoulder of one-arm.  Frodo thought he had seen the shoulder point toward home when one-arm raised his right leg, but now, when it no longer mattered, he realized that the shoulder never did turn in that direction.  It was a conscious adjustment to his affliction by one-arm, and Frodo had been fooled by something he had never before experienced.

Frodo played the magnificent game for more than forty years, and he was picked off base but one time.  The cheers that day were for the underdog, the one-armed pitcher, but the lesson learned by he who dived in the dust has not been forgotten.  Neither of us may remember the name of the other, and the memory probably exists for different reasons.  Frodo truly has much in common with Dr. Richard Kimball.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 2:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  vegas lucky

The Chairman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission (CFTC) was a member of the Board of Directors at a little, old company in Houston known as Enron.    The corporation contributed $75,000 to the re-election campaign of the then-United States Senator who subsequently introduced what has since become known as the "Enron Loophole."  When the Senator (who also Served as Chairman of the Senate Banking Committee) retired from public office, he accepted a Senior Management role with the Union Bank of Switzerland, and has successfully lobbied for changes to America's banking laws.  Among the changes are a weakening of restrictions on "predatory mortgage lending."

Wendy Gramm is the party of the first part, and her husband, Phil Gramm, is the party of the second part. 

Today, another worthless Texan, former Senator and Ph.D (wanna bet from what school he got that degree?  Do you think he might have been a "legacy?") Phil Gramm, who has been serving the McCain campaign as primary architect of the candidate's economic policy, referred to the American people as "whiners."  To his everlasting credit, John McCain had enough good sense to immediately disavow everything the arrogant Cretin had just said.  The downside, of course, for McCain, is that now the whole world is aware of the fact that the Republican candidate for President has been relying on input from sources absolutely out of touch with the situation.  McCain, of course, had earlier referred to Gramm as a "genius," but now seems more concerned about how warmly Gramm would be received in Minsk.

Frodo does not disagree that Gramm is a genius.  He has to be brighter than Texas law enforcement, for there is certainly no justification to his ugly butt outside of prison walls.  With the possible exception of current Senator Ted Stevens (R-Alaska), there is no documentation to support the allegation that anyone has enriched himself more from his time at the public trough than has Phil Gramm. 

Carly Fiorina was dumped for almost driving the technology company once known as Hewlett-Packard into bankruptcy.  Today, Carly is advising the McCain campaign on women's issues.  During an interview she noted that Senator McCain was "outraged" by the fact that "Viagra" was covered as a prescription drug by Medicare, but that birth-control pills were not.  A few hours later, an intrepid reporter asked Senator McCain why, if that were the case, did he vote AGAINST the determination on the floor of the Senate?  The Senator admitted to not knowing anything about the issue, and was nothing less than the "deer in the headlights" while the cameras continued to roll.

Experience, it is said, is the greatest teacher.  Perhaps that is so, says Frodo, but it is clear that some are, indeed, left behind.  The damage done is at the crux of our present dilemma, and the convicts are still in control. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:57 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

For every out-building that ever existed there is a story about a big, ole snake.  Frodo thought about that while wandering amidst the gardens of the Shire with Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog.  Both of his accomplices use the great outdoors, as one might expect, whenever there is a need to create space for the next set of digestibles.  The timing is generally a reflection of a normal day, however the Shire has been deluged with four consecutive days of late afternoon and/or evening thunderstorms.  Yesterday, according to Frodo's rain gauge, three inches of rain fell and one might expect therefore, that trips for this purpose are based on availability and duress.  Comfort is something which is set aside when the Hammer of Thor resounds from Valhalla.

Fiona has the very curious habit of digging a small bed under an evergreen abutting Frodo's house, and remaining there through even the most obsequious of downpours.  Frodo and Sam speculate that she has assumed the role of protector against that which is outside, from coming inside during inclement weather.  Then again, she may simply enjoy Nature's show.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is napping within inches of whatever room contains he who is known as Frodo.

Between storms, Frodo follows along as both canines search for an appropriate location to follow Natures' call.  There is definitely both a selection and a discovery process involoved.  It is as if the two were Presidential Candidates looking for, and considering a Vice Presidential selectee.  Certainly the parallel fits in the case of Dick Cheney.  The effect being, of course, that Frodo has to be very careful to keep from stepping in it for some days after the event.  Again, Dick Cheney comes to mind.

Frodo has never seen more than a garter snake anywhere in the vicinity of the gardens, and is therefore not terribly concerned about the safety of his friends when they are most vulnerable.  They seem however to want Frodo close, although privacy while in a crouch is seemingly expected. 

Frodo always wanted his father to be standing outside that little building next to the home of his grandfather, just to make sure that no big, ole snake decided to pay an unwelcome visit.  Frodo is sure that included times when it was pouring down rain.

Funny how we forget about the simplest of tasks, which just happened to have been the most important.  Thanks, Pop.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:36 PM EDT

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Mood:  chatty

Although Sam is an aficianado of most things British, Frodo has long averred that the Empire collapsed because of the attraction that the male inhabitants seem to have for one another.  This, despite the fact that former Prime Minister Blair was an Honors graduate of the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm, in Frodo's opinion, is because almost all of the little buggers are carted off to sexually segregated boarding schools just about the time they note the flow of hemoglobin into the groin.  The few exceptions to Frodo's observation generally tend to be from Wales, Scotland, or some other location where males drink something other than gin.  Frodo was visibly shaken recently when he heard a member of the Fellowship proclaim admiration for the British actor, Hugh Grant.  Frodo always assumed that Grant did his best acting whenever he touched a member of the opposite sex.

Frodo's distaste for most things British has generally included every wordsmith, save Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  In fact, since the Beatles broke up, Frodo has not been able to identify a single reason for paying any attention whatsoever to people who speak as if marbles were implanted in their dentures.  Frodo refuses to peruse any British television show, movie, or audio tape not providing sub-titles. 

This diatribe relents upon a delightful little book whose title stirred a query to Sam, the British weenie.  "84 Charing Cross," (a gift, since Frodo would not have willingly supported the current exchange rate) sounded familiar, and Frodo was informed that the movie had starred Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft.  Since Hopkins is now and forever Hannibal Lecter, and Bancroft made Frodo wish his name was Benjamin, reading this book did not seem unpatriotic.  In fact, Frodo quickly determined that only half of the book had anything to do with the British, their polluted Isles, or their unforgivingly bad food.  The book is merely letters written back-and-forth across the Atlantic after WWII and before the rise of Nixon's Southern Strategy.

Ah dear reader, but how brilliant was the author, who showcased her own wit (and, in Frodo's opinion, her weakness), by corresponding with the staff of a bookstore somewhere in the stovepipes of London.  Over time, the correspondents, who had never met, got to know each other, and the reader, including you should you so choose, learned a lot about people struggling out of the changes wrought by War.  Frodo learned, from the written words, that most of the Londoners existed on a meatless diet, well into the middle part of the 1950's.  The destruction of War was so great that it changed their lives long after the killing ceased.

Frodo discussed the book with Sam, and learned that the movie, in typical Hollywood license, ended differently.  Frodo is glad he read the book; it has a more appropriate ending.  Frodo also probably got a little appreciation for the "Greatest Generation" of the Brits.  Lest he again revert to his prior opinion, he also hopes that Hugh Grant is never cast in such a role.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:00 PM EDT

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Mood:  cheeky

To say that a fundamental behavioral change is underway in America is an understatement of fact.  Skyrocketing costs for energy, transportation, basic goods and services, and recreation have an impact on how people spend, save, invest, and worry.  Frodo was thinking heady thoughts as he and Sam returned from several days of "r & r" at Lake Lovey, joined by their faithful companions Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog.  It took Sam however to properly spin the observable, thereby extending Frodo the opportunity to pontificate as they drove merrily along the byways in their motor car.

Frodo has likened motorcyclists to women seated at the same table in a dining establishment.  They cannot do anything alone.  Frodo breaks into an apoplectic fit when he observes motorcycles ahead, always more than a half dozen at a time, spaced far enough apart that they cannot be safely passed on any two-lane road.  Invariably, when Frodo is identified, the motorcyclists further decrease their collective speed to a level unacceptably below the posted requirements.  Frodo is forced to wait, and Frodo finds himself growing increasingly less patient with events that fall beyond his control.

Frodo was considering the economics of the present situation while eating the dust of one such group of miscreants this day.  Likely it is that the high-mileage available to motorcyclists will further plague Frodo's solitude in days to come.  As he pondered, and displayed his curmudgeon-like tendencies, Frodo heard Sam comment on the physical make-up of the imitation "bandits" and "angels" in his path.

"You know, Mr. Frodo, when I was younger, we would look at motorcyclists as something very masculine, and romantic.  James Dean and Peter Fonda are both examples of what we young Hobbits would see whenever a lone motorcycle roared into the distance of the open road."

"The romance is gone now, is that your point?," asked Frodo.

"Just look at those guys, Mr. Frodo.  They have round faces, scruffy beards, shapeless torsos, and they are wrapped in cheap cordovan leather.  Even if one were even half-way good-looking, there'd be no way to tell.  It is so uni-sex, that girls can't be identified except when riding behind the 'pilot'."

Frodo took note.  Frodo is always gleeful when he is the best-looking Hobbit in the room; or on the road.  Sam has a way of making Frodo less curmudgeon-like.  Perhaps it is a gift.

Now where is that CD, "Born to be Wild"? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

"Saint Peter, Sergeant Frodo here.  You know, at the Sign-in Desk."

"Yes, Sergeant Frodo, you've been doing an excellent job.  What can I do for you?"

"Well Sir, we're having a little problem down here, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for your help."

"What seems to be the probem?"

"Well Sir, there's this new guy here, and he doesn't seem to agree with his room assignment."

"Okay, is he an upper or a lower berth assignee?"

"Lower."

"Well, why not just assign him to an escort by an archangel all the way down to the River Styx?"

"I tried that Sir, but he refused to cooperate without my personal assurance that his roommate would be a white, conservative, heterosexual American citizen."

"Well, I fail to see the problem.  Surely that fits the description of almost all those assigned to the Underworld?"

"Yes Sir, that is correct.  However, the problem is that his conduct while on the small, blue planet was not consistent with someone who has the option to pick his own roommate."

"I see, so this must either be a child molester or a member of the Bush Administration?"

"Actually Sir, even worse, it is Jesse Helms."

"Jesse Helms!  You mean that ill-mannered, egotistical, homophobic, racist ignoramus that ran the Senate Judiciary Committee while 'serving' the people of North Carolina?"

"One and the same."

"You know, Mr. Frodo, I've been waiting on this one for a long, long time.  Jesse Helms became the proof that the 'good die young,' wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed I do.  What would you like me to do?"

Saint Peter smiled.

"How about telling Mr. Helms that he'll meet his eternal roommmate on the specific instructions of 'The Big Guy.'"

"You mean?"

"Yes, I'll assign him to Plato."

"Mickey Mouses' dog was gay?"

"No Mr. Frodo, I'm talking about the Greek philosopher."

"Gosh Saint Peter, I was sort of hoping for somebody else."

"Like whom?"

"How about a black guy like Sammy Davis, Junior?"

"Well, that's not bad, but I was thinking about someone who would keep him up at night wondering, you know?"

"How about Liberace?"

"Bingo.  He'll never close his eyes around that guy."

"A wise decision Sir.  This'll probably get you re-elected." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:52 PM EDT

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Mood:  blue

Although never a member of the Fellowship, Delano has always been a special friend to Frodo, and to Sam.  Whereas Frodo was ambitious and curious, Delano was fun-loving, and charming.  Delano has always been, and with all due apologies to the feminine gender herein, the guy who could charm the pants off of any woman.  History is a guide.

Today Frodo returned from an overnight in reunion at Lake Lovey, with an old friend.  Fish were caught by Frodo's guile, and flames gently touched the garlic sauce, which dripped onto the charcoal, which browned the tender insides of the meal made for erstwhile kings.  Stories long legend where re-told and laughter long forgotten was recalled.  Frodo dropped a lime into the clear bottle, and offered one to his friend, but the offer was uncharacteristically rebuffed.

Lines were cast deep into the darkness, and continued until Frodo's friend surprisingly urged a return to the comfort of bed and hearth ashore.  Aland, Frodo found himself reaching out to grasp the arm, and to steady his friends' step as they climbed to the lights above the berth of the Minnow.  Once settled beneath the stars, and beside the citonella candles which guard against the most devilish of intruders, Delano lit a cigarette, and exhaled deep into the night sky.  Frodo was quizzical, but before he could offer comment, Delano spoke to his old friend.

"Frodo, I cannot drink, because of medication.  I cannot make love to even the grandest conquest of my life.  I have but one pleasure left, and it is mine to enjoy, as I have always done.  Let me say that the pain I have experienced has been more severe than any wound from any sword, and the intensity has been such that on many occasions, I have considered the only remedy."

Frodo tried to respond, but Delano continued, telling him that his life's partner had taken charge of all firearms, and had put them beyond his reach.  He told Frodo that the suffering had eased, and that he had found ways to adapt which no longer made the final remedy seem a matter of implementation, much less timing.

In the morn the two dropped line again, and Delano matched Frodo's catch of the evening past.  It was a matter of attainment for Delano, and of silent joy for Frodo.  Frodo was increasingly aware that many of the most bawdy and baudacious moments in his life had centered around the outrageous and unrepentant character who sailed this day with Frodo, and Mick, the Wonder Dog.  Wisdom teaching Frodo that all would probably not gather again in celebration as they did when Delano landed that struggling panfish at Lake Lovey. 

Frodo drove home, recalling the final words of Augustus to Woodrow, which befit the soliloquoy of those who have lived life as they wished, and who face its exit without regret.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:27 PM EDT

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