Mood:  don't ask

The Adjusted Compensation Act of 1924 provided for a bonus to be paid in 1945 to veterans of the First, and at the time, only, World War.  The desperate conditions of 1932 brought 25,000 veterans, their wives, and children to Washington to lobby their Government for the cash, now.  Homeless, and desperate, the veterans had no place else to turn for assistance.  They tried in vain to influence Congress, so, peacefully, they turned to the President, Herbert Hoover.  The President sent word that he was too busy to meet with them.

Some commercial buildings to which the Treasury Department had taken title were scheduled for demolition, instead the "Bonus Marchers" quietly occupied them on the night of June 17th.  It was not a terrorist act, rather it was action taken to provide shelter for women, and children, from the unrelenting heat of the swamp on the Potomac.  To the Administration, the veterans and their families were an eyesore and a humiliation.  The President was determined to evict the veterans, even if he had to call out the Army.  Local businesses complained, and there was a general hardening throughout the land of the attitudes of the well-fed toward the ill-fed.

The EVENING STAR of Washington, and the NEW YORK TIMES editorialized against the veterans, only one of whom had achieved the rank of officer during service overseas.  Pressure grew for action.  Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur was charged with total responsibility by the Administration to resolve the problem at hand.  On the morning of July 28, Treasury Department agents ordered the veterans to vacate, and the order was refused.

William Hrushka, a former PFC in the 41st Infantry, from Chicago, was shot through the heart and was the first veteran to die.  The White House, that day, declared Hrushka to be of the "Communist element."  MacArthur ordered his subordinate, Dwight Eisenhower, into uniform and ordered six tanks into the developing, confusing fray.  Major George S. Patton, Jr. led the 3rd Cavalry, on horseback, to draw sabers, and infantry marched behind with fixed bayonets just as civil servants began to pile out of their offices for the end of the workday.  Many in the crowds assumed they were witness to a parade, and cheered.  It was these observers who first felt the charge.  Three thousand gas grenades had been issued to the infantrymen who followed the horses into the midst of the crowds.

Hoover directed MacArthur to drive the veterans across the bridges out of the city, but not to pursue.  MacArthur was incensed, and ignored the order, following the hapless throngs across the Potomac into Anacostia.  The next morning, it was the apparent public opinion that the Government acted against men bent upon violent revolution.  The Governors of Virginia and Maryland closed the bridges into their states, and the veterans, and their families, had no place to go.  Eventually they were escorted through Baltimore to Pennsylvania, and promised egress to Kansas City, but the trains which carried them did not stop.  There is no record of the eventual destination.  It is assumed that they joined the two million Americans who became the "wandering population" of the Great Depression.

Herbert Hoover was convinced that a balanced budget was an absolute necessity to achieving economic recovery.  The only "moral" way out was self-help, and that people would be inspired by the success of the manufacturers, railways, utilities, and financial houses.  He reduced taxes on corporations and individuals when the Government desperately needed revenue.  It was outside agitators who prevented his projected image of the goodness of American business.

On the 28th of July, while the veterans and their families were being driven through the streets of Washington, newspapers were reporting that "Business Pulse Beats Faster," and "Bright Spots Grow on US Business Map."  As William Manchester wrote, "Nowhere. . .was there mention of the remarkable fact in the United States of America, the richest country in the world, more than 15 million men were looking for jobs that did not exist."

The bonuses sought by the veterans amounted to $500 each.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:58 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

Frodo's father kept meticulous records.  Frodo can still visualize that little top-bound spiral notebook inscribed in pencil and kept atop the clutter in the glove compartment with the exact amount of gasoline purchased and the total cost expended for every motorcar driven since the Japanese Surrender.  It was the statistical input utilized in order to determine the exact mileage attained cumulatively, or for any shorter trek which may be required in order to answer the question "What kind of mileage do you get in that thing, Mister?"  Perhaps that is the reason why Frodo took after Mr. Toad, resident of Toad Hall, when it came to a motorcar.  He was interested in something other than how many miles he got per gallon, and in a word, we're talking about chicks.

Frodo fell in love with silver-colored hood ornaments at an early age, and nobody did it better than Jaguar.  Any wonder then that an easy-financing arrangement meant that Sam had to join Frodo in his quest for the "motorcar" which would guide him from a life of middle-class drudgery into the opulence of style and speed?  Frodo will never forget Sam's words upon egress from the water closet in the dealership, "Damn Frodo, you oughtta go in there, that's the nicest toilet I've ever seen."

For five years Frodo washed that motorcar at least once per week, rain or shine.  He tooled about the Shire with his Kerry and/or Obama stickers prominently displayed to the chagrin of every Republicant to enter his marked territory.  Early on, he noticed that overweight, aged, white, men, with drool spots on their tee-shirts, took visual umbrage at his display of wealth, influence, style, and common sense.

It was all because of that hood ornament.

Jaguar is now owned by somebody named Tata from India and, in case you hadn't noticed dear reader, the morons no longer display the world's greatest hood ornament.

Frodo is very uncomfortable driving a Toyota.  He assumes he would feel the same way if he were required to utilize a Hyundai, a Ford, or a Volkswagen.  You see, dear reader, Frodo doesn't give a Tinker's Damn as to how he might answer the questions about mileage.  He still cares about chicks. 

And "No." he has no intention of buying a little red sportscar and using anything that even sounds like Rogaine.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:37 PM EDT

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Mood:  party time!

"How would you like to be President of the United States?"

"Well, have we got a deal for you here at Ronco USA."

"For just $19.95 we will send you the Todd Palin Secret Formula to help you 'Man Up' and to overcome those pesky political questions about leadership.  It comes complete with a DVD featuring Bristol in her most provocative of dance costumes.  And, if you act right now, we will include the hardback edition of the Sarah Palin best-seller called. . .psst, say guys what is the name of that book?  You know, the one that the Chamber of Commerce bought 1,000,000 copies pre-publication.  What, nobody remembers?"

"Well, no matter.  You'll develop your physical capacity to respond to scurrilous charges and anti- American media speculation.  Never again will anyone kick sand in your face during a debate.  You will learn how to never answer a question, how to change the subject upon demand, and the real secret to casting doubt about the sexual attitudes of your opponent."

"Yes, RONCO also guarantees double your money back if you are not fully-satisfied.  Have your credit card handy."

"Just call the toll-free number listed on your screen right now, our operators are standing by, and we'll soon see you leading the free world."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:33 PM EDT

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Mood:  vegas lucky

Frodo misses Johnny Carson, very much.  Whether it was a marmoset with a loose bladder attached to his coiffure, or an inebriated Dean Martin dumping cigarette ashes into the coffee cup of George Gobel, Johnny could make Frodo laugh out loud.  Frodo thought about those moments, laughing out loud, when he watched the latest commercial from E-TRADE on his black-and-white, and found himself wishing that Johnny Carson were there with him, watching.

Surely, dear reader, you've seen or heard the babies discussing the world of high finance, and how much more reliable it can be when one does his own thing.  In the latest presentation, there is but one baby, and he is in a time-out style crib.  As he explains, it has something to do with riding the family dog as if he were a pony.  Not to be deterred, our hero has his laptop in the crib and is making preparations to check his portfolio, when an oversized one enters and removes the laptop.  This allows him to then produce an IPAD, or something like that, from his diaper, and to initiate connectivity while he begins to sing the old Negro spiritual, "Nobody knows the trouble I seen. . ."

Frodo laughed out loud, and that's when he thought of Johnny Carson, and remembered just how much he enjoys laughing out loud, and how much he feels like kicking himself in the butt for forgetting something so basic to Hobbit habit.

There once was a guy on the radio. . .pardon Frodo here old-timers, but he is forced to offer a brief explanation to certain, shall we say, younger readers.

A radio is an audio instrument powered by electricity or, in a wireless state, by batteries.  It receives transmissions, known in olden times as radio waves, from designated broadcasting locales.  Both music and spoken dialogue can be presented.  Radios can be found in the automobiles of fat, ill-educated men who seem to prefer daytime dialogue, or in the motorcar of a Hobbit with at least a modicum of rhythm.

Russ Spooner, when Frodo heard him, was a disc jockey in Nashville who used to produce "Spoonerisms" to unsuspecting miscreants who happened to answer a telephone call only to find themselves as victims, unawares.  Frodo's favorite was when Spooner called the Parks Department in Nashville, and introduced himself as Harold, from Yazoo City, Mississippi, a truck-driver who had a delivery for the Parthenon in the main City Park.  The befuzzled Parks employee said he was unaware of a delivery, and queried Harold as to the load in his semi.

"Pigeons," said Harold.

"Pigeons?" retorted the befuzzled.

"That's raht," said Harold, "I have a semi-load full of 10,000 pigeons to be delivered to the parking lot of the Parthenon twoday.  And, I'm runnin' a little late, so if you could just tell me who's goin' to sign for them, then I'll be on my way back to Yazoo City."

Coronary occlusion is the term that best explains what happened to the befuzzled one after several more minutes of discussion that ended only when informed that he had been "Spoonerized."

That may be the reason why you don't hear things like that anymore on them radios we described earlier.  If only Johnny Carson were still around.  Frodo can hear him now, on the line with Glenn Beck.  Perhaps if Frodo said a little prayer?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:27 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

Frodo is a problem-solver.  Recently, he solved a problem which he first encountered in 1973.  Unfortunately, all of the principles involved and the technology at hand are deceased or defunct.  The major benefit to this concentrated effort is that there is now one less thing keeping Frodo awake at night, leaving 600 or 700 in the active inventory.

Make that 601 or 701.

Frodo grew impatient with his completely adequate printer, and its unwillingness to accept ink cartridges upon his command.  Forcing anything into a plastic miasma is a grave error.  Frodo visited his friendly salesman at Office Max.

The friendly salesman convinced Frodo to spend about double what he had budgeted.  The HP Officejet is a sleek piece of machinery, with a black countenance which causes Frodo to assume that scantily-clad models also share his connection, and that they will make themselves available for technical support. 

Frodo should have re-packaged the whole thing and taken it directly back to his friendly salesman when he took note of the paucity of written information to support installation of his shiny, new all-in-one.  Erasing all doubt to this course of action was the labelling which identifed the point of manufacture to be China.  Why, why, Frodo now pleads, did he not receive the same confidential information made available to candidate O'Donnell in Delaware about the Chinese intention to take over America?

Frodo has fourteen days from date of purchase to work out his problems, or to admit defeat.  Have pity, our hero may not sleep at all.  What truly worries him however, is that it may take him another 37 years to complete this puzzle, and then, there'll be no one left to mark his passing.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:48 PM EDT

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Mood:  cool

Doug Kanney woulkd laugh if Frodo told him that he reminded Frodo of the Reverend LeRoy of the Church of What's Happenin' Now.  That's why Frodo has such high regard for a former running buddy who decided to become a Methodist and a minister to boot.  Quite some time ago, the two fraternity brothers from the College of the Shire were sharing a loaf of bread, a few fishes, and a bottle of wine, when Frodo told Doug about Bilbo's impending demise.  Without any hesitation, Doug told Frodo tthat he would be there, even though he had never met Bilbo, and that he would meet the ceremonial needs required, if so desired.  He did a very remarkable job, even though Frodo could not get a picture of Flip Wilson out of his recollections of the day.

The good Reverend's daughter Valerie married a boy named Casey, and they had a whole houseful of children.  That turned out not to be a problem, even considering that Casey had made a career in the Foreign Service of the US of A, that is, until recently.  Casey now runs the State Department Embassy in Rwanda.  Not quite Paris, Frodo assumes, but probably preferable to Cleveland.  Doug and his accomplice Penny are leaving shortly for a month-long visit to the African Continent in order to pluck tsetse flies from the hair of their grandchildren.

Frodo was struck by concomitant communication from Merry, of the Fellowship, who reported that Father Tim, a former classmate of hers, who became a Catholic and a priest to boot, who usually resides in Farmington, New Mexico, which is also a pretty far cry from Paris, was in Rwanda (of all places) with a group of his parishoners on a humanitarian mission to treat children born with the AIDS virus.

Well now, dear reader, knowing Frodo and the Proud Merry, it is not hard to understand how all of a sudden there are a flurry of communiques en route halfway around the world.   Perhaps good people will meet in a faraway place and find refuge in their common faith, and just maybe they can find a place to tip an O'Doul's and to toast the host of Hobbits who wish them well, and hope they all come home the richer, and much, much safer.

Remind Frodo to someday tell the tale of his friend who went to Gabon, in order to play golf.  Or, perhaps, the tale was long ago told.  If so, it was many an O'Doul's ago.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

"Quickly now," queried Frodo, "what was Henry Kissinger's seminal success in life?"

"Well, from his public profile, I'd say that most would remember him for his role in negotiating an end to U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War," said Bob Woodward.  "However, I will remember most his poignant and prayerful conversation with Richard Nixon on the steps inside the White House on the night before Nixon's resignation."

"Yes," said Frodo, "I remember the fact that you reported the event in your book, yet Kissinger denied being the source.  Speculation ran heavy that the Lincoln Portrait on the wall was the only other potential source for your story."

Woodward smiled.

"Actually," said Frodo, "don't the Kissinger reminiscences at the State Department conference on the history of US involvement in Southeast Asia just grind your butt?"

"Well, he was certainly well-informed. . ."

"Oh fooey, he had the unmitigated gall to say 'most of what went wrong in Vietnam we did to ourselves,' sputtered Frodo.

"A lot of people would agree. . ."

"You mean the live ones, don't you?  While that myopic academic cast-off wasted precious time explaining why the shape of the tables in the room were in any way relevant, 58,000 young boys and girls died, fighting on the wrong side of democracy."

"Now, it is true that the peace accords did allow the U.S. an exit from the fighting. . ."

"But, now, that cherubic 'Uncle Henry' adds that 'it left South Vietnam vulnerable to a communist takeover,' as Frodo's countenance flushes with fervor.

"Your point is well taken," said Woodward, "Kissinger basically admits that he was out-negotiated by Le Duc Tho."

"And every teenager north of Mobile was telling him that the North Vietnamese had a goal to unite their country, and Henry Kissinger felt like we could negotiate that down to a compromise."

"In his defense now," added Woodward, "he does point out that our disagreements over the conduct of the war were transmuted into an issue about the moral adequacy of the war and our involvement in it."

Frodo paused.  He looked at Woodward and said, "Sir, this is what you said was the seminal public accomplishment of Henry Kissinger's life.  From that point we have have concluded that he was both out-negotiated and disingenuous.  In fact, it is easy now to conclude that this famous man, who achieved wealth and fame while serving his government was a colossal fuck-up, who never accomplished anything of significance."

"Mr. Frodo, have you ever thought about authoring your own book?"

"I have Sir, but I don't think there would be a great market for a book entitled 'Dumb Shits Employed by America'."  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:43 PM EDT

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Mood:  happy

There is an aroma of optimism in the air, and to Frodo, it smells just like napalm.  Names like O'Donnell, Fiorina, Angle, McMahon, and Whitman are ships burning in the harbors of political naivete.  The outpouring of wealth into the coffers of Rupert Murdoch is on the precipice of producing a perfect game, no hits, no runs, and definitely, no misses.

It's not that Frodo is genetically predisposed to the feminine gender in the kitchen as opposed to the situation room of the White House, but the assemblage blessed by the former Half-Governor of Alaska has caused him to remember that he needs to make an appointment for a colonoscopy.  At the same time, the volume from the rational right has ratcheted down to a decibel-level that makes everyone forget that a certain bloodbath was the inevitable result of the midterms to come, just a few weeks ago.  It is a shift which once again gives hope for an imminent end to the current performance malaise in the American Experience.

Meg Whitman, in Frodo's mind, was the only one of these colossal douchettes to portray reason as a reason for voting in her behalf.  That is, until she fell victim to her own "tough-guy stance" on illegal immigration, and the inevitable "getting caught" with her britches down.  Ms. Whitman, it seems, had a housekeeper who couldn't seem to locate her "green card."  Instead of firing her, as she publicly demanded of prospective employers, she allegedly counseled the employee to lie, if caught.  At least that is what the rich, bitchy, femaly attorney said, in front of the cameras.

There have been a myriad of similar cases in recent decades.  Frodo well remembers the first nominee for Attorney General put forth by freshman President William Jefferson Clinton.  It was discovered that a household employee was not suffering the pain of withholding from her wages for Social Security purposes.  Allegedly, she told the brilliant attorney that she would "pay her own" when the time came.  Unfortunately, that was a preprogrammed response and left the employer liable for all of the tax, plus penalties, and interest.  It also meant that she would not be confirmed by the Senate to be Attorney General.

It goes without saying that O'Donnell and Angle suffer from an absence of neurons in the brain.  They are however, both picturesque devotees of the Palin Syndrome, and are sure to appear on "Dancing With the Stars".

Fiorina and McMahon have the distinction of corporate nosedives while wearing a brassiere.  They were counted out because they exhibited no capacity to lead on merit, or to identify any accomplishment which made money for anyone other than themselves.

Ah but Whitman, who has never apparently read a history book, or learned to speak Spanish.  Hers was the ignoble fall from grace above all others. 

Chocolate, anyone?

Frodo recommends the one that smells like victory.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:41 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

Homecoming 'Tis, and Frodo is nowhere in sight.  Given all that has happened in recent months, many assumed that the Hobbit would find his way, even in an odd-numbered year, to partake of the home brew and taste the wine.  Neither he nor Sam has an appetite for another trek in a motorcar and the prospect of plastic plants and decaf available in the lobby at all hours of day or night.  Some things, it seems, will always negate the human moments of joy and/or despair.

The "Bulb," bald before his time, and a Chemistry Professor for many years, would be there, coaxing the Hobbit to cruise with him to Antarctica, to see a continent incontinent.  Frances, one with whom the Hobbit always assumed he would someday sleep, yet fighting pancreatic and liver conclusions will be there, perhaps in body for the last time.  The "Root" who seems to lose an appendage, or two, between those moments explained away to the Hobbit by one borne to teach.  Patsy, Sam's closest friend, whose life revolves around an annual gathering, and sharing Frodo's love of one.   Moments lost, with these, and so many other warriors, decorated for bravery in battles long-lost, or forgotten.  Frodo will regret his unwillingness to cross the mountains, ford the streams, and to run the ridges.

The College of the Shire will kick the shit out of her opponent.  Frodo is sure, but he will have to go to the magic of the Internet for assurance therein, since Division III sports do not count.  It is said that the College of the Shire has 10,000 alumni all around the small blue planet, but the University of Tennessee has twice that number in Atlanta, alone.

Yeah, but none of them can read.

Gladiators, it seems, now get paid, but in Division III you get an extra half-pint of milk, and memories, of the best kind. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:07 PM EDT

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Mood:  surprised

Regular readers know that Frodo has not been near the top of his game in recent days.  Frodo understands, obviously for different reasons, how Tiger Woods must feel in these, the halcyon days of his gamesmanship.  That fact came home to roost for Frodo but a fortnight ago, as he mechanically piloted his motorcar between destinations in the darkening hours beyond Mount Doom.

Approaching traffic caused Frodo to react without a second thought, he needed to dim his headlights for the benefit of drivers in the opposing lane.  His left foot pressed against the floorboard, searching for the dimmer switch.  Suddenly, he took note of the fact that his lights remained on bright, and that his foot had failed to connect with the little piece of metal that controlled the exterior luminesence.  Frantically, at first, he jerked his foot first left then right, in order to dim the beam.  All to no avail.  More than one driver honked at Frodo and presented him with an appropriate salute as a comment upon his procreational expertise.

"Where's the damn dimmer switch?," said Frodo to no one in particular in his otherwise empty motorcar.  "Did somebody. . ."

Pregnant pause.

Frodo realized that his motorcar had its headlights controlled by a lever on the steering wheel column.  In fact, Frodo came to realize, he was unable to remember when last he had even been in an automobile that had a dimmer switch on the floorboard.  Of course, every car had a dimmer switch when Frodo learned to drive, but he, even now, is unable to recall when that changed, or why.

It is probably a good thing that Frodo had not been riding a bicycle, he thought, as he touched the lever in order to dim his headlights. 

His face grew flushed as he considered the implications of this toss-back to the golden days of yesteryear when every car had a dimmer switch.  Has he been so preoccupied with responsibility that he has failed to keep the present in focus?  Have his neuropathic passages become clogged with the detritus of, hopefully premature, cognitive disability?  Frodo does not know for sure.

What he does know is that he would prefer a motorcar with a dimmer switch.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:17 PM EDT

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