Mood:  cheeky

It has been quite some time since the word "secession" has been bandied about in Middle Earth.  In fact, Thurgood Marshall was probably a member of the Supreme Court when someone like, oh, let's say, the then Governor of Texas decided that the "sovereignty" granted unto the State by the 10th Amendment was threatened by all sorts of undesirable elements.  Frodo understands the political theater taking place in front of him.  After all, Kay Bailey Hutchinson may not be as attractive as Rick Perry, but, in contrast to most Texans, she does appear capable of distinguishing between an adjective and a verb.  The danger is that the issues in a gubernatorial election are again subordinated to the inane and trite proclamations of the unknowing, seeking to lead the incapable.

Frodo, as most know, does not hold anything "Texan" in high regard.  In fact, no regard might better describe the feeling he has as to what is represented by the void between New Mexico and Louisiana.  In keeping with the spirit of the Constitution itself, Frodo has proposed that Texans be limited to but 3/5ths of a vote.  Frodo is sure that a Constitutional scholar such as Governor Perry will recall the precedent.

Perhaps the "Frodo Proposal" will give added impetus to those who feel that Texas can provide for itself.  President Obama will be glad to assist; in fact, his first action will probably be to call up the Texas National Guard, and to assign the troops to a facility in Ohio.  The plethora of military installations in Texas, the result of continual "earmarking" by the somewhat less than distinguised vote-winners to seats in Congress, will necessarily be re-assigned to Michigan.  Pennsylvania wil offer the world a more receptive format for other federal facilities, including the newly-name "Ed Rendell Space Center" located in Lancaster County.  It is obvious that there are huge politically viable reasons for taking Governor Perry up on his idea.  In fact, there are such benefits to the nation as a whole, that the "Frodo Proposal" should be put forth as a non-negotiable demand.  Either accept the 3/5 vote, or try to avoid letting the door bounce off your butts.

A world without Texas would be like a day conceived in sunshine.   Good idea, Rick.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  cool

Willie Williams lived somewhere in Memphis, Tennessee; Frodo's job was to find out where.  The last address Frodo had was over a year old, and the current residents swore that no one by that name had ever made their acquaintance.  Frodo walked up-and-down that street, asking everyone who would speak with him if they were acquainted with Mr. Williams.  His last employer of record had severed him many months before.  The Post Office had no change of address.  There were over 100 Willie Williamses listed in the Memphis Telephone Directory, but none answerable to Frodo's quest. Anxious to please, Frodo was coming to the disappointing conclusion that he was going to have to close the assignment as temporarily "Unable to Locate," and to move on.

The dawn brought one of his co-workers by his desk, with a timely query.  "Mr Frodo," he asked, "weren't you looking for a guy named Willie Williams?"

"Why, yes," murmured Frodo, not wishing to broadcast his frustration too  far into his circle of co-workers, "Why do you ask?"

"Did you see this article in this morning's paper?," as he handed Frodo the "State & Local" section of the Memphis Commercial-Appeal.

Frodo noted a story about the brutal murder of a liquor store owner, not very far from the last address of Frodo's quarry.  Frodo dribbled coffee down his chin when he noted that the suspected assailant was named Willie Williams.

Later that day, after discussing the possibilities with his Supervisor, Frodo placed a telephone call to the Sheriff of Shelby County, Tennessee.  Frodo introduced himself and asked if the individual in his custody might have a social security card, or any documentation that could verify his identity.  The Sheriff informed Frodo that the suspect had no such documentation on his personage when arrested.  Frodo was afraid of that, for he was already aware that he would now have to go to the facility where Mr. Williams was being detained, and to interview him, in person, in order to determine if he was the Willie Williams Frodo had been assigned to find.

Frodo's more experienced partner accompanied Frodo to the facility.  Frodo had already been informed that he would be entering the same facility which had housed James Earl Ray during the trial which sent him to prison for life for the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Frodo was first struck by the fact that everything was green.  The walls, the clothing worn by the inmates, the tint to the lighting, and, Frodo recalls, even the leering grin given to him by the Jailer who checked his identification, appeared almost mossy green.

Frodo and his partner were seated at a bar-like structure separated by a very thick glass-like substance.  For several minutes they waited in silence, Frodo nervously reading and re-reading his file notes.  Without warning, the door at the rear wall on the other side of the glass opened and in walked the biggest man Frodo had ever seen in his whole life.  Willie Williams was in handcuffs and shackles, and if he was an inch, he was at least 6'8" tall, and weighed more than 275 pounds, without chains.  Two guards, one at each arm, guided him toward Frodo, and if he could have, Frodo would have, peed, right there.

Frodo looked up at the expressionless man and started to speak.  Unfortunately, his voice rose approximately six octaves and he positively squeaked his query "Sir, are you the Willie Williams who formerly lived at 13407 Vinton Avenue?"

The giant's eyes brightened and he roared in laughter, "No, but while you're here, where the Hell's my refund?"  

Frodo could not exit quickly enough.  He concluded his report later that afternoon, admitting that he had "temporarily" been unable to locate the assigned Willie Williams.  Frodo learned later that the last Willie Williams he had come to know was sentenced to 55 years in prison.

Frodo is somewhat chagrined to admit that, to this day, he has no idea whether or not that gentleman ever got his refund.  If, at the conclusion of his sentence, that Willie Williams comes looking for that junior IRS guy about his long-ago refund, Frodo hopes that he has covered his tracks as well as Mr. Williams' namesake.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:49 PM EDT

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Mood:  don't ask

"Watch Michael Crow eat Crow because of Jim Crow.  How's that for succinct and to the point?", Frodo asked Samwise.

"I couldn't have done better myself, Mr. Frodo," responded Samwise.

The President of Arizona State University, Dr. Michael Crow, is a judgment-challenged nincompoop.  He has the apparent intelligence quotient of a bullfrog, and has done damage to both the reputation of a major academic institution and concomitantly given credence to the continuing existence of racism as a behavioral factor in American social policy.  The burlesque performed by an academic administration in order to justify the lunatic ravings of those who would deny awarding an honorary degree to the President of the United States whom they invited to their own Commencement exercises absolutely defies logic.  There is no need for Frodo to further explain the circumstances.

Frodo asks only if Michael Crow is able to see Russia from his verandah?

Would someone please tell him that he can pick up his certificate from CBS for his winning entry in David Letterman's "Stupid Pet Tricks"?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:26 PM EDT

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Mood:  sharp

Frodo first started to pay attention in classrooms when the topic du jour was some place where Frodo had never been.  This might explain why mathematics ranked somewhere below getting stuffed into a locker by fifth-graders.  Had Frodo known, for example,  that some of the greatest mathematicians emanated from faraway places, with strange-sounding names, he might have actually had some interest in the topic.  Unfortunately, Mrs. Kessler did not share Frodo's theories on educational achievement, and the rote memorization of fractions continued to plague the Hobbit. 

One of the earliest lessons today recalled by Frodo, was that the Japanese made things faster, and cheaper, than Americans.  Mr. Wissler explained that Orientals were great at copying things, and that once given the design of a mighty Detroit automobile, they could make a copy and ship a much cheaper, and smaller, model to America.  Since the Japanese were smaller, probably because they only ate rice and fish-heads, they would alter the design to fit their needs, and sell the rest of their inventory to other Orientals.  Frodo was thus acclimated to the theory that Americans were smarter, but that the Japanese were hungrier.  Their products were also "Japanese," meaning that they were likely to fall into pieces before the product was fully unwrapped.

Of late, there has been a lot of talk about how America is being changed into "socialism."  Obviously, the economic crunch has brought about a number of actions designed to bring cash assets into a cash-starved system both quickly, and thoroughly.  The involvement of government in the private sector has given fodder to the loyal opposition who go to great lengths to argue against this particular course of action.  It goes without saying that, absent any plan of their own, the "Party of No" has become the mantel which they must bear.

China announced plans on Wednesday to build thousands of new hospitals and to put a new clinic into every village within the next three years.  It will cost a whole lot of money.  It seems that this is the first step taken by the Communist Government in order to implement universal health care in that country.  The plan has been in preparation for more than a decade it seems, and is in response to this, the largest area of public complaint in the People's Republic, the high cost and the poor availability of health services.  Frodo was struck not only in the timing, but in the substance of the plan.  America, it appears, is not alone in recognizing a big problem, and Americans have many of the same concerns as the Chinese.

So are the Chinese becoming more "capitalistic," or are they merely, once again, copying the Americans.  To Frodo, the argument of "socialism" in the American government carries even less credibility today than it did yesterday.  It may also indicate that people are much the same, no matter what they eat for lunch.  Mr. Wissler, were he still around, would have been man enough to change his lesson plans.  Mrs. Kessler, on the other hand, would have sent Frodo to the Principal's Office, again.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:23 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

Frodo spanked Mick, the Wonder Dog, yesterday.  Sam spanked Fiona today.  Mr. Beau Neau McKitty bounds down the stairs at a feverish-pace in order to exit any door he hears being opened into his savannah in the Gardens of the Shire.  Sydney flies into the living room every time he takes note of workers peering through windows into his aerie in the kitchen.  The entire Shire is in disarray, and the curious misbehavior of its inhabitants is a reflection of a change in the regular order of things.  Frodo believes fervently that change is good, but there are times when the momentary supercedes the long-term, and one can't help but wish that things were as they have always been.

The entire exterior of Frodo's home is systematically being removed, and replaced by a new, improved, material.  That means that for the past three days strange beings have been pounding and ripping all about.  Despite the high price, and the definite requirement to continue cutting costs, Sam convinced Frodo that the need was great and that it would help restore the economy.  Sam is extremely persuasive.

Mick, the Wonder Dog, ran into trouble because he took note of salsa carelessly set aside by those who had therefore extended him an open invitation to join in their mid-day respite.  Despite Frodo's warnings, and the subsequent red and yellow upchuck deposits on Sam's nice carpeting, Mick, the Wonder Dog, continued in the forbidden quest which produced the corporal punishment, duly issued.  The chastized look in the eyes of Mick, the Wonder Dog, is not something quickly forgotten.

Fiona decided that since no one was paying her sufficient attention that the opportunity for an unsupervised "walkabout" would never be greater.  Besides, she figured, she could hear Sam's call, and would return post haste if so summoned.  Unfortunately, she evidently wandered out of earshot, and did not return at any point even close to Sam's expectations.  To be punished by Sam is the absolute low point in Fiona's charmed life.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, huddled in fear that he, too, might be the object of Sam's furor, for what he might not know, but being close to Fiona at such a point is bound to bring fear into the hearts of creatures, innocent or otherwise.

Beau Neau McKitty is convinced that chipmonkeys and lizards with blue-tails are running amuck in his backyard.  He peers through window glass, softly meowing at every perceived movement, as if to plead his case for parole.  The workmen however, leave gates wide open, necessarily so, and the danger of a feline on the loose is beyond the comprehension of the Hobbits.

Sydney screams until the entire universe gathers to threaten him with imminent freedom.  There is no fury to match the wrath of a caged bird who wants something other than what presently exists. 

The work continues for days to come, although most of the banging and ripping has ended.  Caulking, painting, and small-trim tasks will eventually bring the project to a close.  Until then there will be fitful naps and delayed dinners, each causing a certain amount of consternation in the habits of those whose body clocks run on a schedule unmatched at Grand Central Station or Hartsfield-Jackson Airport.  The eyes are everywhere, staring at Frodo, asking why he has permitted the torment of those who call him their friend.

Sigh.  Frodo knows how Barack Obama must feel.  Maybe he should've run on a platform of keeping things in the middle of the road, instead.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:15 PM EDT

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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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