Mood:  don't ask

One of Frodo's rules of life is that beauty follows beauty.  It is long-established that a well-turned ankle, or a heart-shaped derriere, have rotated his head as if on a swivel, and often re-directed his path.  What he means however, is that kind and caring people reap as they sow.  Good people are everywhere, as difficult as the art of politics may sometimes make that seem.  It is that counterpoint which today fries his chops, and makes him call a spade a spade.

Rusty DePass looks like he just sucked a lemon dry.  This balding simpleton from South Carolina is almost as attractive as vomit on the carpeting of a new motorcar, and he certainly pollutes the environment in similar fashion.  This old man does not have enough money to attract even the most desperate of those who sell sexual favors.  It is highly unlikely that any of man's best canine friends would remove themselves from an animal shelter in order to accompany him home.  No self-respecting member of the Jehovah's Witnesses will even knock on his door.  It is probably also true that should he ever fall into a commode, every passerby would fail to recognize him and push the handle.

Rusty DePass is an ugly, ugly man.  All value judgments aside, Frodo insists, this is simply a repulsive looking man.

So why would such a grotesque beast refer to the First Lady of the United States as if she, or a member of her family, were a gorilla who escaped from a cage in a nearby zoo?

Is it because he is an operative of the South Carolina Republican Party?

Or is it because the worst of us deny beauty, because we never experienced it?  That, dear reader, is the price we pay for freedom.  We allow people, ugly in-and-out, to speak as if they had a brain, including Rusty DePass, an Orc.     

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:38 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

Fiona injured a leg several years ago.  Veterinarians at the time told Frodo and Sam that surgery, with a six-month rehabilitation, would be recommended.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, has three or four fatty masses on his chest and abdominal areas, but absent any other problems, surgery has not been required.  Frodo's canine companions are both now in their twelfth year, and Frodo would be less than honest to say he knows not that time grows more precious, and adventures more memorable.  Fiona often limps noticeably on their walks, so Frodo permits unplanned halts to sniff a weed which is diplomatically placed where a brief respite becomes the prerogative of her ladyship.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, often appears confused, or winded, when a long stretch up hill requires that he simply stop and look at Frodo, questioning the necessity of further progress in that specific direction.

In the deep woods below Lake Lovey, the deciduous hardwoods suddenly give way to the darkness surrounding the creeks that flow endlessly across path and trail.  Hemlocks have grown in these "hollers" ever since the last episodic clear-cutting in the earliest days of the century past.  These evergreens become massive in girth, as opposed to their spindly pine cousins, and the forest bed feels no exposure to the sun regardless of the season or the hour.  It is a place where silence is rarely broken, even by birds. 

Fiona sees the creeks herein as private property, and a recognition of the reality of the existence of a fountain which restores youth.  In "Fiona Creek," the pains are erased and the necessity of a sprint through spray until the tongue hangs so long that it presents a peril to a wayward paw-step.  Once clear of the creek, Fiona sprints uphill, hither and yon, stopping only to look back at her brother and Frodo, who marvel at her rebirth.  Her relatively small size allows her to scamper under and around nearly every obstacle, and given the storms that befell the area over the past months, fallen trees are everywhere.

Many of the fallen trees are hemlocks.  Frodo has been observing the area for many months, given the threats of nature spreading among that population in the Southern Appalachians.  The fall of so many of these deep wooded giants has opened the forest floor to the sunlight, absent for a century or so, and offering another changing environment for Frodo's analysis and Fiona's amusement.

Mick, the Wonder Dog, is too big to crawl under a fallen tree-trunk, and an obstructed or complicated detour gives him undue consternation.  Frodo often stops and lifts his companion, absent the glare of Fiona, so that he may proceed in his own dignified exploration of the flattened trail that glides away beneath his canter.

The sunlight that enters this place of darkness does not pass unnoticed by any of the triumvirate.  Fiona saunters into the sunlight, and gazes toward heaven, as if a puppy angel waves a tail in her direction.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, senses aromas new to the area, and wanders fearlessly in nasal pursuit of something truly wonderful, or positively gross.

Frodo thinks of Socrates.  Sitting upon a dry embankment above a creek, he observes his comrades at play, and he thinks of the poison that befell one of the greatest of minds.  That which is found here has seemingly always been here, although, not unlike the tide, it has ebbs and flows which change in measurements of time far beyond that of an hour or a season.  

Perhaps Fiona is correct; there is a fountain of youth in these dark woods.  At least on this day it was so.

Three friends emerged from the darkness, and limped toward home.      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:58 PM EDT

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Mood:  lazy

Joe Rakowski and Frodo worked together a long time ago.  Joe worked very hard and he never failed to do as Frodo asked, but Frodo could be assured that Joe would never go beyond his assignment.  Joe did not have a creative bone in his body, but Frodo loved and admired Joe Rakowski.  It was a sad day for Frodo when he hugged his old friend good-bye in the City of Brotherly Love.  They must have been a sight to see, a Hobbit and a lanky old Polock Marine, but they didn't care, then or now.

Joe and Frodo exchanged Christmas Cards for several years, and when they suddenly stopped arriving, Frodo called his old friend, only to realize the ravages of memory loss do not spare American heroes.  Frodo does not know if his old friend still walks the streets of Philadelphia, but he hopes so, because he deserves time with sons and grandsons.

Joe landed on the Island of Pelelieu with a whole bunch of other US Marines, and they weren't exactly greeted with candy and flowers by the Japanese soldiers who defended the sands of another spot in time where the battle truly wasn't necessary.  That did not detract from the ferocity of the struggle.

Forty years later Joe would tell Frodo, over a traveler's brew, that he had discovered the skinned corpses of two of his buddies, hanging upside down at the mouth of a cave still occupied by the enemy.  In words mild over time, but filled with the determination of a man trained to fight, Joe told Frodo what he did, and Frodo was neither shocked nor shaken.  Frodo will go no further with this story, it was shared in confidence, and in confidence it stays.  The imagination offers sufficient clarity.

All of this comes to Frodo's mind this eve because an island nation, not far from Pelelieu, announced that it was accepting the 17 Chinese Uighurs (pron. wee-gurs) soon to be transferred from the disgrace known as Guantanamo.  Frodo was unaware that the residents of Palau do not recognize the Beijing Regime as the legitimate government of China, rather they believe the legitimate authority rests on Taiwan.  The Chinese, Beijing-style, don't think much of the people of Palau, and are even less pleased now that the Uighurs, whom they consider to be terrorists, are being transferred rather than returned to their soil.

(For those slightly confused by all of this, the Uighurs are Sunni Muslims who live in the far western reaches of the People's Republic.  These 17 were in or around al Qaeda training facilities when captured by coalition forces, almost 8 years ago, just this side of the Chinese border.  The Uighurs care less about the US of A, but they do hate the Beijing Regime, and they have never waivered from their admissions of attendance at the al Qaeda facilities in order to better fight the repressive Beijing Regime.  The conundrum arose that nobody knew what to do with them, since returning them to China would've been an obvious death sentence.  So we kept them in Guantanamo, no charges, no trial, for almost 8 years).

What confuses Frodo is that it has also been announced that 4 Uighurs are being transferred to, of all places, Bermuda.  Now Frodo is not sure if this is 4 of the 17, or if there are actually 21 Uighurs, and these guys just haven't been part of the head count.  In any event, these guys get to go to one of Frodo's favorite spots in all the world, and it is certainly a far cry from Guantanamo, or Palau. 

Frodo does not have the slightest idea if the Uighurs will ever, again, be free men.  It is probable that Frodo will never cast his eyes upon any of these men, be they 17 or 21.  He feels a kinship however, in much the same way he feels about Joe Rakowski.  Indescribable suffering is best resolved by walking with your grandchildren, or finding someone to spread suntan lotion on your back.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  sharp

Frodo has come to believe that everything Barack Obama does is part and parcel of some greater plan.  For example, an apparently seminal speech is supported by subsequent historical references to a time when the civilized nations of the world acted together to combat a threat to their collective well-being.  In so doing, he will seek direct or indirect input from those whose support he must have to implement his plans.  His public pronouncements reflect the consensus achieved, and it allows him to specify, in public, policy determination.

President Obama and Prime Minister Netanyahu had frank conversations in the White House just a few weeks ago.  So when the President visited King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, then proceded on to his speech in Cairo, without visiting Israel, unlike every other President before, there appeared to be a message therein.  From Cairo however, President Obama traveled to Germany, visiting Buchenwald, and demonstrated that even the Germans recognized the crimes committed in the past century, and that they, too, were behind his efforts to build a constructive future.  But even more importantly was the discussion beforehand and the speeches on Omaha Beach by President Obama and President Sarkozy.  It was clear that they had formed a partnership, directed at Iran, to marginalize Iran's current public leadership, and to give comfort to his political opposition, building even on the German recognition of the Holocaust.  France would use its influence to reduce the impending nuclear threat represented by the Iranians and Israel was given every reason to believe that the United States had been, is, and will always be Israel's closest ally.     

At the same time, Brian Harper of Canada, whose government had rejected the Obama Administration effort to relocate 17 Chinese Uighurs from Guantanamo to Canada just a few days ago, was reminded of Canada's D-Day participation in 1944, "even when they had not been attacked."

Now Special Ambassador George Mitchell and Secretary of State Clinton pick up the Mid-East ball, and chart the plays down the field.  They understand the rules.  Meanwhile, President Obama comes home, and goes to work on Health Care Reform, a mere week after sending a formal letter to Senators Baucus and Kennedy detailing his game-plan for that assault on the status quo.

Frodo is reminded of the chess matches he sees being played in city parks around the world.  Often, there is one guy, jumping from one table to another, perhaps playing a dozen or more games simultaneously.  Frodo has never seen one of those guys lose a single match to their sedentary opponents, including Frodo. 

Frodo also bets that Netanyahu, despite winning recent elections on the premise of Israeli expansion on the West Bank, has already tasted Obama's disfavor on that point, and is now shuddering under the Obama onslaught to bypass Netanyahu and to speak, in his own way, to the Israeli people.  That great middle ground in Israel, more impressed by Obama than Netanyahu, are listening.  "Bibby" knows that, and now he has to do some real political work, amongst his supporters.

Sarkozy knows this too, and Frodo bets that Brian Harper better tune in quick.  Obama will visit him again in the near future, but first he spends some time with Dick Lugar, Charles Grassley, Olympia Snowe, and the Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare. 

Frodo chooses not to further project into the future.  Such a projection was the mistake he made when that guy put him in check after fewer than 50 moves.  Everything he did was planned out once Frodo moved his first pawn. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:41 PM EDT

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Mood:  special

Jim Norene of Heppner, Oregon, a veterinarian who retired after 43 years of service to creatures with names like Fiona, or Rocky, or maybe even "Bo," passed away on Friday night.  He was married to Corabelle "Cork" Nutting, of Choctaw/Cherokee descent, and they had one daughter, Tracie, whose husband runs the NAPA store in Heppner.  Jim was a proud veteran of the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division, which, appropriately, earned him the divisional moniker of the "Screaming Eagles."

On or about the 6th day of June, 1944, Jim parachuted into the town of Son, in Holland.  Being of Dutch ancestry, it was probably appropriate that he be part of the effort to free his ancestral home from the Nazis.

Not much more was available on the Internet this evening, despite Frodo's efforts to give you, dear reader, something to justify your attention for just a few moments.  Nearly everything else available this evening was a reiteration of President Barack Obama's eulogy of the D-Day Veteran who had returned for the celebration of the 65th anniversary, visited graves in the American Cemetery on Friday, but who was called to higher duty in his sleep.

Frodo is sure that we will learn more about this man in days to come.  A veterinarian, of Dutch descent, who jumped out of an airplane 65 years ago, in order to help bring freedom back to the land of his ancestors.  Although Frodo never had the honor of meeting this gentle man (spacing assumed appropriate), he is hereby installed into the Fellowship of the Ring. 

He had to be a Hobbit.     

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:00 PM EDT

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Mood:  spacey

Imagine, dear reader, entering a burial chamber in the Great Pyramid of Giza, and how it must feel.  Created thousands of years ago without the benefit of any technology or mechanism beyond that of levers and wheels, as best we know.  To climb toward the epicenter of ancient civilization knowing that countless generations separate that which is now the past, and that you are one of the privileged few to actually walk inside.  It has long been Frodo's dream to do what President Barack Obama did today.

It was not however, Frodo's expectation that anyone would enter, especially the President, and observe a carving on an interior wall which would cause him to remark "that looks like me."  What is even more bizarre is the fact that he was correct, it did look like him.

Frodo is proud to be the first to attest that the carving was placed there by space aliens thousands of years ago.  Predicting that a "skinny kid, with big ears" would someday enter the structure they created as a beacon for return visitations, the space aliens etched his likeness in the inner sanctum reserved for a High Priest.  The question on everyone's mind, Frodo is sure, is what exactly were the space aliens trying to tell President Obama?

Countless hours of research have now provided mankind with the answer, and Frodo has been given the responsibility to make the information available to inquiring minds all over the small, blue planet.  The message is simple enough, and priceless.  The space aliens foretold the fact that President Obama would enter the Valley of Kings on the same day that the Atlanta Braves released Tom Glavine.

Hey, that's important, too! 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  crushed out

There are thunder boomlets casting an apparition of cannons on all sides, volleyed and thundered.  Frodo's mind is eased this night by an image of humanity which requires a few well-chosen words even with the threat of technical disruption close at hand.  Frodo has now learned the name of President Obama's Personal Secretary, and he has accepted the fact that the President's Chief of Staff does, indeed, have a heart to counter his legendary efficiency.

Frodo was prophetic when he averred that it would be he who would walk Bo when all others were abed, and words could be shared without fear of retribution.  What startled Frodo was to hear the President say that he maintains humility by picking up his partner's poop, there, in the glare of the most famous house in all the land.  Frodo always assumed that was the job of the Secret Service.

Despite our toil and our travail in these troubled times, Frodo's heart dances with anticipation, knowing that on the morrow words will echo into distant lands about a world offering opportunity and possibilities. 

Maybe we should all carry an extra bag or two with us when we go for walks?   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:57 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

If he were to spend enough time on it, Frodo is sure that he could come up with several dozen quotes about New York City and the symbolic meaning of its recovery.  Many of those quotes would be from Republican politicians who remarked about the need for Americans to "go shopping," and to "show the rest of the world" that "America is still open for business."  Much of that, of course, emanated from a White House where the-then President would later be recognized for his long absences from the office on vacation, and as a notorious early-to-bed kind of guy.  This train of thought follows from the criticism levelled at President and Mrs. Obama by the Republican National Committee for their "night on the town." 

George W. Bush spent the entire preceding month in Crawford while Osama bin Laden and company put the finishing touches on their assault on civilization.  The Republican National Committee defended the President.

George W. Bush observed the flooding of New Orleans from the air as a consequence of his return from another vacation of an entire month in Crawford.  The Republican National Committee defended the President.

George W. Bush was sound asleep by 9 P.M. nightly, even while cargo planes returned to Dover AFB with the remains of American military personnel without the courtesy of participation by senior White House staff.  The Republican National Committee defended the President.

George W. Bush devoted two hours of every workday to his personal exercise regimen, including bicycle rides in competition with Secret Service Agents.  The Republican National Committee defended the President.

It can, in Frodo's opinion, legitimately be argued that no President ever took more time off from his elected responsibilities than did George W. Bush, and the resultant expenses for transportation, communication, and protection absolutely dwarf what had ever been spent before in this regard for any President.  The Republican National Committee defended the President.

Whose side are these guys on?

Frodo is not going to spend one second justifying the use of a government airplane for a flight to NYC from Washington.  AMTRAK, it seems, apparently works quite well for Joe Biden.  However, using the same logic proffered by the Republican National Committee in defense of the Incomparable Moron, doesn't it seem like a good idea for the President and the First lady to "go shopping," and to show "the rest of the world" that tourists and businessmen alike can come back to America, safely?

Is it a requirement that in order to become a member of the Republican National Committee that one must first be certified as a totally partisan moron?     

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:26 AM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

During a recent argument with Bilbo, Frodo offered the trusim that he had been raised to see the good side in others.  Frodo said that he was grateful for such an orientation, and, although respectful, he felt that those who suspect everyone else of being some sort of criminal are very sad people.  Frodo truly believes what he has said, however there are instances that give him pause.

At 11:30 PM one recent evening, a lady who jointly-owned a local bar was out for a jog not too far from the Shire.  Alongside arrives a gentleman who just happened to be a frequent customer of the bar, and he offers the (for the purposes of orientation, let us refer to the individual as a "jugger") lady a ride in his motorcar.  He even, reportedly, suggested that she get in the motorcar for the simple purpose of touching the "rich Corinthian leather."  Once the jugger settled herself into the motorcar, the gratuitous patron of the bar subdued her and drove two-and-a-half hours to a rental chalet near the mountain resort of Dollywood.

The chalet property manager reported that the renter appeared perfectly normal, and gave him no reason to question the legitimacy of the transaction.  According to the jugger, she was taken, by force, into the chalet, bound, gagged, and raped, twice, by her assailant.  The encounter evidently fueled more than the lusty hunger of the rapist, because he then felt the need to order a pizza, which he did, by credit card, and he wanted it delivered. 

When the pizza delivery guy arrived, within the 30-minute guarantee, he noticed the bound jugger trying to get his attention, while the assailant toyed with the credit card receipt.  Eventually this mental giant must have figured that there might be something fishy about a woman bound-and-gagged as a large consumable pepperoni pizza was being placed before her.  As he departed the scene, the pizza delivery guy stopped by the office of the chalet property manager, and voiced his concern.

Once the local gendarmerie arrived, their first query was to the gentleman calmly devouring the pizza while his house guest, the jugger, was placed inside the policeman's motorcar.  The assailant explained that both he and the jugger were married to other people, and that they were together in a secret soiree.  He explained the binding and the gag as part of the festivities, in fact, even suggested by the jugger.

The jugger had a very different explanation of the circumstances, so the assailant was informed of his rights, and was unceremoniously taken to the local pokey.  The pizza delivery guy appears now as the latest hero of the blogosphere, and despite his apparent inability to comprehend the sign language of a bound-and-gagged customer, will probably be Conan O'Brien's first guest on the Tonight Show (starring Conan O'Brien).

Frodo smells a whole woodpile full of rat poop.

Frodo remembers being in a lot of bars around 11:30, PM, but he can't seem to recall a single instance when one of the saloon-keepers took off on a run around the block while customers had whistles that needed wetting.  Also curious it is that a customer of the bar just happened to be driving by, and that he was able to convince the jugger to terminate her exercise regimen, and to examine the interior of his motorcar, certainly somewhat contrary to the teachings of the juggers's mother in earlier times.  Strange also is the fact that the two travel two-and-a-half hours to a mountain chalet that just happened to have a vacancy, although Frodo does have to admit that he is not sure if a hot tub was available in the subject rental.  

Finally, Frodo wonders why an assailant, unless he happened to be from Texas, which would therefore explain everything stupid, would use a credit card for both the chalet rental and the pepperoni pizza?  Doesn't it seem likely that he would've seen at least one episode of "Law and Order: Criminal Intent," and by sheer osmosis have learned that cash and gloves are required tools for anyone conspiring to violate Section 911 of the Penal Code?

Ah, but Frodo always looks for the good in his fellow inhabitants of Middle Earth, doesn't he?

Ever wonder if Dick Cheney has a taste for pepperoni? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:21 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

It is no secret that a mind-numbing drought has strangled the Shire for several years.  Frodo has been unable to even wash his prized motorcar, although a commercial establishment utilizing recycled water has served its purpose throughout.  For the sake of some ill-definable logic, the water restrictions remain even though an almost daily deluge has brought lake levels far beyond capacity.  It will be, according to the "water police," sometime in September before an assessment will be forthcoming.  Given that as a preamble, it is hereby noted that the Hobbit is conspiring to evade the law, and that he will not contest enforcement (that is, if they catch him).  After all, our forefathers charged all of us to "alter or abolish" if restrictions on freedom become too onerous.

The constant precipitation has given rise to a number of long-forgotten opponents in the Gardens of the Shire.  Fungus is present on anything spelled euonymous, and a water-driven plague has befallen Frodo's giant-sized photinia.  Worst of all however, in these days preceding the arrival of tiger mosquitos, are the weeds which are everywhere, in almost every conceivable size, shape, and depth of root system.  Amid the newly-seeded wildflower islands, unplanned stickers and suckers attach themselves to every brush of a pant leg or furry paw.  Frodo is unable to yet determine if some of these brigands might actually have flowers in their future, so he is ignoring these until clarity arrives.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is not amused.

Frodo has a small-wheeled stool, which doubles as a storage compartment for small garden tools.  He uses this contraption as a seat while he pushes himself along the floral borders, thereby doing less damage to creaky jointed anatomical features.  It gets amusing when he fails to note the downhill slant of the land whilst he concentrates on the botanical foes at hand.  Snickers are heard from adjoining lands in Middle Earth, as Frodo bounces, unceremoniously, as if he were jolly Merry, trying to find comfort in a low-slung motorcar, succeeding only in dusting her butt.

The ergonomic success of the Gardens of the Shire is a direct result of the forced removal of that which is conventionally known as grass.  Frodo tried Bermuda, Centipede, Blue Grass, Zoysia, and countless less-exotic varieties in years past, all in the futile effort to make things, well, conventional.  It was a continuing, and expensive, set of disappointments.  There does remain however, one small plot of grass in Frodo's front yard, between the islands, and today, even that small monument to suburban manic behavior has green grass maturing so fast that its growth is visible to the naked eye, or so it seems. 

Fellows of the Ring have wondered about the vast space between postings by the Hobbit.  They need look no further than the jungles about the Mayan temples at Tulum and Chichen Itza, and similar fate apparently threatening Frodo and Sam .  If Frodo is silent on the morrow, he has requested that rescue dogs be called to action in his behalf.  Christian Brothers brandy would be a nice touch, in those little kegs, you know.

Frodo does have one task tomorrow, and it will involve the gathering of a few wildflowers to be placed on the small, but deep, grave, now-filled, at the residence of Tom Bombadil.  Brandy will follow.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:56 PM EDT

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