Mood:  accident prone

What, Frodo asks, was accomplished by setting fire to a hotel in Strasbourg, France?  Why set tires on fire, and create a plume of black smoke that hovers over the environment?  Who would break all the windows in a bank there that hovers on the edge of bankruptcy?  When did all the conceivable reasons for holding a protest march become a "cafeteria plan" (join us, and pick your poson)?  Where have all the flowers gone?  Frodo would simply like to know the story behind those who march in his place, a generation too late?

"Maybe," says Frodo, "they simply don't get it.  They are so self-centered, that they don't understand the issues.  They see every injustice as an intertwined principle, justifying violence and anarchy.  There is no attempt to put things in their rightful place, like there was when, first things first, we had to end a war."

Dear reader, Dayana Mendoza, the reigning "Miss Universe," put forth her opinion on the debacle that is Guantanamo, and perhaps offered a truthful insight into why some people just want to set fire to everything.  Ms. Mendoza, sponsored by the USO, visited the detainee camps and reported on missuniverse.com that "It was a lot of fun!. . .We visited the detainees camps and we saw the jails, where they shower, how they re-create themselves with movies, classes of art, books. . . I didn't want to leave, it was such a relaxing place, so calm and beautiful."

Several days later, Mendoza's comments were replaced with an officious comment on the blog that her "comments had been in reference to the hospitality she received while meeting the members of the US military." 

Yeah right, like in the showers?

Frodo would like to ask one of the insurgents at Strasbourg why they haven't chosen Guantanamo as a site for a demonstration of their righteous indignation?  Admittedly, American citizens might be prohibited from attendance, but that doesn't mean all the rest of our revolutionaries du jour couldn't soak up a few rays while they tried to put an end to America's latest humiliation.  The Americans in this crowd could really follow in the footsteps of Walden Pond if they peacefully disobeyed the laws of their own land and traveled to Cuba, and just sat down at the gates of our national shame.  Makes you wonder why they haven't, since nobody seems to have a clue as to what they were doing in Strasbourg?

Water boarding, to some, must be what they do at Big Sur.      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 3:14 PM EDT

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Mood:  chatty

When Frodo was a lonely graduate student in the City of Orleans, he got to know a number of foreign students.  Like Frodo, they didn't have much money, and their loved ones were half-a-world away.  Most Americans avoided any relationship with foreign students, simply because there was nothing to be gained.  You couldn't understand half of them, and the other half glared at you behind your back, according to Frodo.

Gabriel Bach lived on the same floor as Frodo, and they were students in the same department.  By accident, they mutually shared the opinion with each other that the Department Chair didn't have an elevator going all the way up his anatomy.   They immediately took a liking to one another.  Gabriel had red, curly hair, already receding, and a full beard, also red.  He carried about 10 pounds too much on a frame over six feet tall.  Frodo would never have guessed him to be French, until he heard him talk.

One Sunday evening, as Frodo carried a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a Barq's Root Beer back to the dormitory, he met Gabriel coming out in another direction.  Frodo recognized Chito, from the Phillipines, the greasy guy from Manchester, England, and the wild-eyed Chinese Physics guy whose name Frodo never did learn to pronounce.  Gabriel explained that it was "Lutheran Night," and they were all going to the Lutheran Student Center for dinner.  Subsequently, after many questions, Frodo learned from the foreign students that each of the student activity centers sponsored by religious faith-groups offered a free dinner each week to any student who attended a prayer service that evening.  Monday it was the Methodists, Tuesday the Episcopalians, and so on, with the total coverage being six dinners, family-style American food, for free (Saturdays were uncovered, for obvious reasons).  All you had to do was pray.  Frodo can do a pretty good imitation, he learned. 

When Mardi Gras came early in March, Frodo carried a bottle of cheap wine with him as he wandered the French Quarter all alone amid the most-festive environment in all of Middle Earth.  Frodo missed Sam very much, and he was content to drown his loneliness.  While he sat alongside the docks of the river, he heard his French "amie" call to him, as he and what appeared to be one-half of the entire United Nations were running, hand-in-hand, through the crowds, singing songs and celebrating their inebriation while Frodo concealed his.  Gabriel grabbed the Hobbit's hand and pulled him along as they all sang something that sounded like "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," in a dialect discernible to no one.

It was a sad day for Frodo when he loaded his trunk of books into the taxi that would take him to the airport at year-end.  Gabriel was staying in order to attend summer sessions (in the City of Orleans, gasp).  The illness of Frodo's father was such that Frodo was pretty sure that his academic career faced an uncertain conclusion a degree before his plan.  Frodo knew that Gabriel was a life-long resident of a town called Strasbourg, in France, and he promised his friend that he would someday come calling.  That promise seemed to satisfy them both.

Frodo thought of his promise this day.  He searched the faces in the crowds of young people in the small town on the French-German border who had come to see the new American President, and to ask him questions.  Frodo realized that he was probably looking for a young boy or girl with red hair, and hoping that one of them might ask the President if he knew someone named Frodo.  Frodo will keep his promise, but until then, he can perform that imitation prayer hoping that he does not end up like Helene Hanff, arriving too late at Charing Cross Road.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:49 PM EDT

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Mood:  bright

The following is not a test, it merely addresses a point.  Stanley O'Neal, John Thain, Chris Cox, Rick Wagoner, and George W. Bush all have "what" in common?  O'Neal and Thain are the last two executive officers of Merrill-Lynch, Chris Cox was Chairman of the Securities & Exchange Commission, Rick Wagoner the recently ousted CEO of GM, and, of course, the Incomparable Moron himself.  Each of these men, famous and infamous in their own right, share a Masters in Business Administration awarded by Harvard University.

The University has recognized the fact that it bears some culpability in the lack of accomplishment achieved by many of its alumni.  The University argues that many of its most non-descript attended classes more than 30 years ago, when risk management, macroeconomics, and leadership were not functional portions of the curriculum.  In order to address the apparent problems, the University has initiated a case study approach in order to analyze the business school, not unlike the approach taken to analyze companies and industries by students in the business school itself.  217 Professors, the entire faculty, participate in the analysis.

As Secretary of the Treasury Geitner might say, "Let's step back for just a moment," and take a hard look at the situation.

Harvard recognizes that its' methodology is not working effectively, so what to do?  They use the same methodology in order to analyze themselves, and to recommend solutions.  At the College of the Shire, Gandalf, 30 years ago, told Frodo that such a course of action contributed significantly to the tragic decision of the United States to involve itself in the Republic of Vietnam.  Perhaps, thinks Frodo, the problem at Harvard is not with the methodology, perhaps it is with the faculty.  THe faculty does not understand the problem, and they do not appear to be competent in devising meaningful solutions.

One graduate, Class of 2006, recently wrote that Harvard business degrees are now "scarlet letters of shame," and he continued "Time after time and scandal after scandal, it seems that a school that just graduates 900 students a year finds itself in the thick of it."  The deputy dean, JoAnne Yates, added that "We would like our students, when they graduate, to understand not just quantitative instruments but how they fit into the whole world around finance.  We don't want them to think it is games with numbers.  There's a certain self-consciousness now that we may be part of the problem. . .Maybe a piece of what's missing is not another course in ethics but the ability to think beyond the data and take action based on good instincts." 

Well, duh!

Frodo would like, dear reader, to note that many of the business school students receive federal grants-in-aid, financed by taxpayer funds.  Perhaps, not unlike Mr. Wagoner referenced above, it would behoove the President to exercise his authority on behalf of the investing taxpayers, and to request the resignation of all 217 faculty members.  He could start in alphabetical order, or if he felt constrained by tenure agreements, simply fire the last hired, and to proceed thereupon.  

The business school faculty at Harvard University has produced a generation of business and governmental leaders who were not adequately prepared to meet the challenges of the twenty-first century, and now, dear reader, we have the proof.  Frodo wonders how many years of confinement should be applied to someone for being a shitty teacher?   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:40 PM EDT

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Mood:  cheeky

Frodo is whizzed.  First of all, the President of the United States, whom Frodo supported from the day he declared his candidacy, goes to England with an entourage of 500 people, and the question becomes:  "Where's Frodo?"  Shouldn't he who placed the first bumper sticker on any Georgia- registered Jaguar have been on Air Force One?

The Obamas go into Windsor Castle, smiling, like one Limey put it, "as if they were a walking toothpaste commercial," and they present a gift to Her Royal Highness.  Logically, they presented her with an IPOD, made up of HER favorite music, including the score from "Oklahoma."  Why, pray tell, didn't they just pour more salt into his wounds and include "The Yellow Rose of Texas," "Houston," "Galveston," or some other nasal-ditty from the land that time forgot.  Frodo is not amused.  To think that Gordon MacRae warbles through the Castle at Balmoral, and something more contemporary (how about "Dancing Queen," by ABBA?) would help the old girl save up her strength in order to meet her 12th US President. 

Lord Tolkien turned over in his grave when Frodo told him that J.K. Rowling, the creator of "Perry Hotter," or something like that, was seated next to the First Lady during the formal dinner.  Again, inquiring minds asked, "Where's Frodo?"  Certainly, his exploits would make great night-time reading for Sasha, too.

Timothy Geitner, with a target pasted on his back, sat in the front row, nodding his head up-and-down, as the new President called for all the nations of the world to join in the fight against the economic conflagration.  Only the Shire, of all the economic engines of Middle Earth, was unrepresented in that throng.  Even the Sheiks of Araby must've wondered, "Where's Frodo?"

Well, dear reader, simply put, Frodo sat in front of his black-and-white, next to his friend Samwise.  Chris Matthews was a chirping commercial for bladder-control protection as he gushed over the class and the character of the First Family.  Sam, admittedly tired of vocal political swordsmanship, was enthralled by every fashion statement, each assessment of polite protocol, and took sheer delight in the apparent lack of faux pas by the new kids in the receiving line.  It was, almost, as if Frodo and Sam were there, with Barack and Michelle.

Had they been, they couldn't have been prouder.  No one called an associate "Turdblossom."  No one winked at the Queen.  No one gave the Chancellor of Germany a neck rub.  They simply acted like they belonged there, and, true it is, each of us was there.

Maybe next time though, Frodo gets to ride shotgun.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:38 PM EDT

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Mood:  incredulous

Several years ago Frodo and Bilbo sat down in front of a microfilm reader in the genealogical area of the local public library.  Together they searched the US Census Records extending back to the first Census of the United States in 1790.  Frodo demonstrated to Bilbo the trek back in time to the last clearly-identified ancestor which began with Bilbo's mother's father.  At one point, Frodo could say to Bilbo "Meet your great-grandfather, and his family," and he could see Bilbo's face light with excitement at finally learning the names and ages of people with only prior suspicioned existence. 

Frodo paused and said, "I'll be damned, look there Bilbo, your great-grandfather owned three slaves.  It says so right there in the 1850 Census."

"He did not!," said Bilbo a little too forcibly for the environment.  Heads raised all about.  "No relative of mine would have ever owned a slave."

Frodo was more than taken aback, and committed the foolish act of trying to reason over the honor of a previously unknown genetic line.  "But Bilbo, until this very moment you didn't even know the names of these people.  How can you make value judgments about their behavior, or their needs?"

"I just know that they were farm people, and farm people didn't own slaves," argued Bilbo.

"Well perhaps your great-grandmother needed a wet nurse, or required help in the kitchen.  Not every slave was a field hand," attested Frodo.

"I just know," said Bilbo.

Frodo has told that story many times to those who know Bilbo.  It always elicits laughter, and an appreciation for one who has always been sure of self.  A few days ago, Frodo recounted that story for Bilbo.  The event was denied, as if it had never taken place at all.  "In fact," Bilbo claimed,"Frodo has never kept his promise to research that side of the family.  Frodo always takes the side of others, at my expense," said Bilbo.  Frodo could only look upon the unplugged personal computer and attempt to comprehend the hours they spent together, inputting names, birthdates, anniversaries, of Bilbo's family.

Bilbo then launched into a tirade about Daniel Boone, Bilbo's perceived ancestor.  "Bilbo," said Frodo, "don't you recall that the names are spelled differently, and that THE Daniel Boone was born 150 years and almost a thousand miles from anyone related to you?  We established that together a long time ago."

"No we didn't.  I know what I know.  You always take sides against me," said the tearful, yet increasingly combative, 91 year-old.  "You know my sister has been taking things of mine, and you defend her."

Frodo realized that to simply stand, to stare, and to say nothing, was the wisest course of action.

The vitriol reached epic proportions, predominantly directed at family members, illegal aliens, and almost anyone else who had ever invaded the spatial claims of one suffering oxygen deprivation.  For the plastic tubes which contorted all about Bilbo's feet, followed everywhere, mixing reality with imagination, were erasing all sign of she who once held Frodo en lap.  Although the level of "gesund" is enviable for most, it is far from a blessing to Bilbo.  Bilbo seeks pity, claiming a life too long, and boredom with the routine of the daily bread.  Frodo, with Sam holding him in check, could say little that would not precede another shower of tears, anger, and resignation.

Bilbo had recognized that going home was not a realistic expectation.  A fall, and the total destruction of the distributor, all cables, and electric wiring, by rabbits, in her idled motorcar, left Bilbo with no such option.  

The Assisted Living Center is first-class.  The food is good, the accommodations are ultra-modern and spotless.  The staff is highly professional, and they take an obvious, and clear-cut interest in Bilbo.  Bilbo has sufficient resources to stay on, full-time, until age 105.  That, Frodo supposes, is what pisses Bilbo off.  Bilbo has to work hard in order to make people feel sorry for the present state of affairs.  Bilbo sits in  bedroom, hour-after-hour, refusing to "play in any reindeer games," or to give any indication of interest in others.  "It might mean I catch cold," alluding to the inevitable return to pneumonia, and a life-threatening illness.

Frodo leaves with the nagging nabob of "bad son" in his ego.  Understanding why the best of circumstances is trivialized before him by a chemical miasma representing none that Frodo has ever known is confounding, and it is not subject to clarification.  Frodo knows, with dread, that his heart will break again, and again.  It is Napoleon at Waterloo, in saddle, twisting with hemorrhoids, unable to get a clear view of Wellington, struggling with a battle already lost.  Peace will come, but the price will be high, and history will demand more than tales of heroism and celebration.  For once, Frodo will do everything he can to erase history, and to give special emphasis to the moments that all who have ever known Bilbo do indeed cherish.

Until then, Frodo needs to contemplate cats in hotels, and whistling sea breezes, dear reader.  Like President Obama, he needs time to make sure he knows of what he speaks.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:30 PM EDT

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Mood:  sad

The Anderson House, a hotel in Wabasha, Minnesota, put a closed sign on its front door last week.  Built in 1856, the Anderson House was billed as the state's oldest continuously operated inn.  Frodo supposes that the inn must not be too far away from the Red River, which threatens the nearby residents of North Dakota as this vignette unfolds.  Frodo, no visitor to locations beyond the scope of the line once defined by Messrs. Mason and Dixon, was struck by the fact that the cataclysmic costs of our current economic downturn include the 15 to 20 human employees of the historic inn, and a whole bunch of cats.

The Anderson House, it seems, was famous for its Dutch cooking and the staff of felines that overnight guests could borrow for companionship.  Frodo's first thought, given the times, was to wonder whether or not the cats were eligible for unemployment compensation?  The more he thought about it however, Frodo wondered whether or not he had been the victim of a cruel hoax.  After all, a rental in a "cat house" certainly goes beyond the simple explanation of a tabby wrapped around one's toes.

A telephone call to Chris Fancher, director of the local Chamber of Commerce put Frodo's fears to rest.  It did however, not do much for the endless possibilities available to conclude this tale of ignominy in the freezer chest of America.  What, pray tell, do the citizenry of Wabasha now do with mousecatchers trained only in the fine art of slumberology?

The same as all the rest of us, Frodo supposes.  Frodo acknowledges a little gratitude that the previous management did not similarly take an interest in guests with penguins at home.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 1:30 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

When travel is required, Frodo does his absolute best to soak in a little local color, or at least absorb some regional distinctiveness.  The suburban nature of greater Phoenix always makes Frodo think of the Netherlands, which has been similarly re-claimed from the clutches of Mother Nature.  Frodo is particularly taken with the flora and the fauna which seem more resilient, and hence sometimes prettier, because of the contrast to the setting itself.  Not too terribly far away, on the California coast, sits the old mission at Capistrano, where scruffy little swallows have been immortalized  in pre-Frodo balladry.  The annual return, at this time of year, is part of a festival which now, unfortunately, serves little purpose.

For years the number of swallows returning to Capistrano has been in serious decline.  The development of critically-important strip shopping centers, and overpriced homes has disturbed the balances which drew the few birds who appeared to the once ideal clime.  Those who did appear in the area this year chose to nest under the bridges of Interstate 5, or in nondescript commercial eaves far from the idyllic setting of the old mission.  Once again, it seems, man has found that his own commercial interests supercede the romance, if not the reason, for a tune that haunts anyone whose memories drift back before the second of the Great Wars.  Why, then, go at all?

Frodo last walked the grassy fields outside the old mission when first he cast his eyes upon the ocean pacific.  Even in these days, the wind still whips blue and the smell of salt would excite Captain Gregg or Long John Silver.  Frodo thought of the day his father stood there with him, and together they wondered how the birds found their way back year-after-year, to the same spot.  His father had no answers, but he left Frodo with the question.

That was good enough.    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 1:36 PM EDT

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Mood:  a-ok

Frodo and Sam, once again, venture into the wilderness.  Bilbo's house stands empty now, because Bilbo resides in something called an Assisted Living Center.  Bilbo will return to that house on the morrow in order to meet Frodo and Sam and let them rest a day before commencing this joint venture into the unknown. 

Bilbo seems to enjoy the Assisted Living Center, other than the fact that there is no "family" nearby.  Bilbo's Doctor has made it clear that Bilbo should no longer reside in that house, all alone.  The Doctor has taken the somewhat unusual step of suggesting that Bilbo leave the Assisted Living Center in the desert and go to live in a place such as the Shire, where there is "family."

Frodo feels that Bilbo would like that suggestion if Frodo were the one doing the moving.  Frodo's Sister, about whom he never speaks, has offered Bilbo a room, a bathroom, and a telephone, all on one floor, in a place where there is no more than four months of sunshine annually.  Frodo notes a similarity to the place known as Leavenworth.  Frodo knows that if this is the course chosen, then this will probably be the last visit he shares with Bilbo in this dimension.  Sam, long ago, made the offer that Bilbo could spend the final days in the Shire, but Frodo and Sam both know that the multi-leveled Shire is not suitable for one on oxygen and utilizing a walker.  If this is the choice, then Bilbo will take residence in a nearby Assisted Living Center, albeit a place for daily visitations. 

The third option is that which Frodo suspects is what Bilbo wants.  Bilbo wants to go home; to sleep in Bilbo's bed, and to look upon the hummingbirds and the rabbits who populate the environs of a mini-desert Shire.  To have someone about to help bathe and tend at evening tide, but to stay out of Bilbo's way as Bilbo quietly surrenders the charge in her battery.   

Frodo understands his role very well.  That does not mean he likes it.  Frodo will make an assessment after observing, first-hand, then discussing, factually, with Bilbo that which he has seen.  The result, he knows, will be just like the day long ago when Bilbo told him he had to concentrate on his schoolwork, and to use that time in something more sensible than playing football.  Most likely it is that the same lines will be repeated, only the roles portrayed will change.  Frodo's greatest challenge will be the maintenance of demeanor, and to not fall into the emotional trap of trying to argue or reason with the rusty synapses which comprise geriatric logic in the twenty-first century.  Bilbo would not understand if Frodo told her that she could not play football.  What she will understand is what comprises a wilderness, 2000 miles to the West.  A long days journey.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:27 PM EDT

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Mood:  special

Dr. Arthur Kellermann is a Professor at Emory University in Atlanta, and he is a Physician on Staff at Grady Memorial Hospital.  He stood on one side of the prone figure on the table in front of him, while the parents of the patient stood on the other.  The father looked down, unable to meet the doctors' gaze, but the mother stared deeply into the eyes of the doctor, searching for a sign.  Kellermann spoke first, "It was a terrible crash.  His truck left the road at high speed.  The ambulance crew saw that he was severely injured and called a helicopter.  He has several injuries--a collapsed lung, internal bleeding.  But his brain injury worries us the most."

It was at this point that the mother interrupted.  Kellermann was already aware that they had driven two hours from the North Georgia mountains to downtown Atlanta's only Level I Trauma Center, burn unit, emergency psychiatric unit, and 750 inpatient beds.  "Doctor, I don't know how to say this, but I must.  My husband lost his job six weeks ago.  I work but my employer doesn't offer health insurance.  I have to ask:  Will my son get the care he needs?"

She started to cry, and Kellerman said "Ma'am, you're at Grady Memorial Hospital.  Our doctors are the best in the South.  We choose to work here because we believe in what this hospital stands for.  I swear to you--we will do everything in our power to save your son."  Kellermann was already aware that he hadn't told her the entire truth.

The best may not be good enough, and, if her son should make it, he could be disabled for the rest of his life.  Kellermann was already aware that the parents would be billed for the helicopter flight, and for weeks of treatment in intensive care.  Hundreds of thousands of dollars will mean that all of their savings and a mortgage on their home would not meet the bills sure to come.

Kellermann was already aware that the unpaid bills will push Grady Memorial Hospital closer to insolvency.  By staying silent however, he left the mother with what she, and he both, needed--hope.  His written words cannot be improved upon:

"Hope that her son will beat the odds.  Hope that Emory researchers will discover an effective treatment for brain injury, so future victims will have a better chance of recovery.  Hope that Georgia will fund a statewide trauma network, so everyone can benefit from top-quality trauma care.  And finally, hope that someday, perhaps soon, this great nation of ours will finally cover the uninsured, so no more mothers will need to ask, "Will my son get the care he needs?""

Frodo offers the possibility that should he and Dr. Arthur Kellermann, whose name he knew not before this day, arrive before Saint Peter at the same time, Frodo would offer up his entry pass to ensure that a man such as this, the best in the South, obtain his deserved position at the right hand of God. 

Frodo has no doubt that someone calls Kellermann by the nickname "Hawkeye."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:48 PM EDT

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Mood:  on fire

Once touted as the most famous man in the world, Muhammad Ali developed a strategy for defense of his Heavyweight Championship Boxing Belt which he dubbed "Rope-a Dope."  Basically, all Ali did was to cover up against the ring, and allow his opponent to rail with gloved hands against the immobile fortress.  His theory being that the opponent would waste his precious energy pounding against Ali's forearms, leaving Ali with an ability to box aggressively in later rounds against a spent brute.  The only thing that proved consistent in the fights in which Ali employed this methodology was that the exhibition was BORING.  Ali won virtually every fight, often against much weaker opponents, and he didn't even have to try very hard.

Boxing is anathema today.  No one can even name, without the benefit of GOOGLE, the identity of the current Heavyweight Champion of the World.  The sport is excoriated for its brutality, the fact that it draws from the poorest segments of society for its participants, and certainly it is dominated by heartless criminals in its management.  Interesting it is, thinks Frodo, that he considers boxing to be the moral equivalent of the Catholic Church under the tutelage of someone named Benedict.  This philosophically-recognized and accepted sexual deviant seems to have implemented an ecclesiastical strategy to disarm the faithful and to use their humanity against them.

One no wiser than Bristol Palin has made it quite clear that abstinence is not an effective strategy in order to deal with the problems of teenaged pregnancy.  Does it not follow, dear reader, that Ms. Palin could be making an effective argument for the use of condoms in order to combat the spread of the sexually-transmitted HIV-AIDS killer?  Wouldn't it seem logical, to even the most faithful, that the most famous cleric in the world should be doing something other than observing his own limp dick when he argues that condoms are not a weapon in this fight?

Frodo has no patience to abide the pedagogical ranting of an ideologue who refuses to listen, even to his own subordinates, who serve and treat the afflicted.  To merely stand there, and to accept horrible pain and suffering in order to justify a strategy which drives away parishoners, and weakens all of those who accept a message of hope and caring, especially for the poorest, embodies the concept of Sin.  It certainly explains why Frodo calls this version of an Incomparable Moron as "Pope-a-Dope."  

Frodo knows that there are devoted and sincere people who think him brash and perhaps even a bit sacreligious.  Frodo will take his chances with St. Peter, especially if he has the opportunity to go a few rounds with Benny in front of a cheering throng of innocents who deserved more than what they got from the leader of the pack, who didn't try very hard, at all, ever.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:57 PM EDT

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