Mood:  celebratory

Change is good, usually, at least that is what Frodo keeps telling Proud Merry and other members of the Fellowship.  At one time, perhaps by tradition divined by Druids, the significance of the first day of May was a celebration, and participants danced around a May Pole.  Frodo believes that this also spawned the name for the now-silent breakfast product known as "Maypo" (oatmeal mixed with fodder).

About a century ago, another meaning for the day was associated with the Russian Revolution, and the birth of Communism.  Not unlike Maypo however, that form of government has sort of disappeared, and the only celebrations are in places where there are no street lights, and the only people with anything to eat are in the military.  Of course, that which they are consuming may answer the question, "What happened to Maypo?"

The last "World" War produced a number of new additions to the vocabulary of those who speak English.  Without a justifiable jab at those who attempted to describe why Frodo should get up at four AM any day this past week, it was the same source that devised a definition of the words "May" and "Day" to signify an emergency.  Again, the only emergency that Frodo can assume for a day that ends "showers" and brings on "flowers," would reflect upon a bowl of hot oatmeal which has been uncooked in a cupboard for the past 35 years.

"May Day Malone," was the protagonist in one of Frodo's all-time favorite sit-coms, that which was identified simply as "Cheers."  The moniker hung on "Sam Malone" because of his prior history as a relief pitcher called to duty by the embattled Red Stockings whenever an out was required in order to put out a rebellion stemming from Indians, Pirates, Tigers, or (shudder) Yankees.  One could readily assume that no one was too concerned about Communists, Druids, or other "May Day" references when they entered a saloon.  It was also unlikely that Maypo was served, discussed, or remembered by any of the customers who bellied up to the bar.

So why is Frodo spending so much time on a subject as innocuous as oatmeal?  Hey, didn't you see Trump last night?  Frodo thinks it will be a long time before he gets the Maypo off his face, or out of his hair. 

Ha! 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:31 PM EDT

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Mood:  smelly

Magnolia, Gardenia, Mimosa, Tea Olive, are the aromatic components of early memory in the southeastern United States of America.  Despite the warmness of the Shire, which characterizes the pleasantry of an evening darkened beyond the call of another morrow, there is nothing sweeet in the air.  It is as if the senses are truly limited to "accentuate the positive, and eliminate the negative".  The night swiftly comes, and it falls, silently, unannounced, and no one has anything elevant to report.  Frodo looks for the same things that catch the eye of his cat, who hunts, but does no more than Simba, raised for an eternity behind streel.

A deep and dark evening tide, without aroma, is like the brilliant commercial which references a "day without sunshine."  There is something missing when Frodo can stroll about the Shire, and feel no juxtaposition between that which is native, and that which impinges upon the vibrancy of life.  It grows upon days end, and yet there is no call from the whippoorwill.  Perhaps poor Frodo was meant to make his own music this night, and to learn that one cannot always rely on that which one discovers, as opposed to that which one creates.

There is violin music in the City of Orleans, and that was not alwaus so. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:35 PM EDT

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Mood:  vegas lucky

The numbers, so they say, are not all in, but inaccuracy fails the relevancy test this eve.  A few short hours ago, the Hobbit was captivated by the choreography of the trees.  He stood on the deck at Lake Lovey as the random nature of the dance was driven by the swirling forces of wind, and as lovely as one shore might be, that which held him to its breast dipped its dancers ever diving like spiny fingers in an ominous threat to his very existence.  The broken combinations of sky blue and rolling thunder were mixed with dark clouds, unleashed on a battlefield that knew no boundary.

The power went off somewhere after eight o'clock, and for the next several hours only the emergency weather radio could grind information about the whirling dervishes of weather that seemed to follow each other on a track that was laid by a plan drawn three thousand years ago on the Plains of Troy.  Nervously, the Hobbit scanned the horizon, and behind and all-about for the first sight of his foe.  Sure he was that a scimitar would slash a path which would end the days of the Hobbit and the words herein would be no more.

When the cavalry of the rain struck first, the Hobbit knew that he must retreat, but foolish it would be to assume that the first thrust would be meant for finality.  The Hobbit sought not the hiding place, nay, he proceeded to act as if it were but another nightfall calling him to gentle slumber.  Then came the artillery of the hailstones, and Frodo's gallant comrades were unsettled, and called for mercy.  Frodo and Sam led the gentle Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, out into the darkness once the barrage had slowed to irregularity.  There would be little rest for any that night, but all depended on Frodo for safety.

When the dawn came, and nature called, Frodo again sullied forth into the daylight not yet fully developed.  He found a fellow traveler who told him that more than 120 souls had been lost overnight, and there was no estimate of the toll paid in their viccinity, and little knowledge about the destruction visited upon their neighbors.  They had beaten back the foe, but the costs were untallied.

The power was restored a few hours later, and the flow of information was immediate, and painful.  Many died, on this night of swords, and the costs to those who would continue forward were akin to what befell those few souls who survived the charge with Pickett, or had been among those serving in the Light Brigade.  As Frodo and Sam marshlled their tactical retreat to the Shire they were confronted with the destruction of the less fortunate.

Their rendezvous, they knew, was merely delayed this day, but that did not alter the fact that they were grateful for this day, and for more to come.  The losses and the lost reminded them of just how sweet is victory, and that it is always shrouded in cost. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:48 PM EDT

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Mood:  hungry

Even Hobbits require medical attention from time-to-time especially when preventative career is an avenue, and not a dead end (pun intended).  Frodo's medical attendee is younger than Frodo, and that was an intentional move on the part of the Hobbit.  Earlier attention had been sought from practitioners who eventually followed in the footsteps of Welby, Kildare, and Ben Casey; their practices were either canceled or the they sought permanent solace on an isolated mountaintop near Bora-Bora.  Frodo reasoned that a younger doctor would probably be in Frodo's corner, as long as the Hobbit were around to pay bills.

Frodo's doctor is assisted by vampires.  All they seem to know is how to take blood, and they receive a great deal of practice perfecting the art thereof.  Eventually, Frodo was also allowed to pee in a cup, an act which required no assistance from any of the vampires.  Height, weight, blood pressure, all the routine stuff, was secured and compressed into a very fancy personal computer (and assimilated into a very sophisticated software package).  With the press of a button, several pages of printed material, suitable for framing, made their way back into the examination room in the hands of Frodo's doctor.

 Frodo felt rather smug as the doctor marveled at the results.  All of the readings that concern those of Frodo's gender reflected the effects of regular exercise and an occasional glass of red wine.  That is, until he asked Frodo about his diet.

"Diet?," said Frodo.  "Lots of fruits and vegetables, alcohol in moderation, all the stuff one would expect from the Keeper of the Ring."

The doctor explained to Frodo that the amount of sugar in his bloodstream is higher than the desirable, but beneath the level of the alarm.  In order to avoid medication, he felt that Frodo should lose 15 pounds, and follow the general guidelines of one of these "Malibu Beach Diets," or something to that effect.  Frodo was stunned.  Never had anyone suggested that he lose weight, and he was not in the Hobbit habit of lots of cakes and cookies, not to mention chips.

The doctor asked about the specifics of the Hobbit diet, and that is when Frodo learned a lesson.  For many years, Frodo has eaten cereals and juices in the morn, fruit and nutritional power bars at mid-day, and almost anything else when dining with Sam come evening.  The doctor grinned and said, "Natural sugars, don't you see?"  He explained that Frodo was necessarily being sentenced to an existence without apples, bananas, peaches, grapes, or any of those fruits which contain comparatively great amounts of naturally-produced sugars.  "To make you feel better however," he added, "you will still be able to eat pears, blackberries, or other fruits which are not so high in natural sugar."

"In addition, Mr. Frodo," he lectured, "we are commencing an avoidance of white bread, fatty meats, pasta, candy, sweet tea, and many others which I have listed on page 122-34 on your handout."

"Will I be able to eat the bark off trees during the winter?," Frodo lamented.

"You will be able to eat salads, eggs, fish, cheese, and low carb yogurt."

"I should have asked first," said Frodo, "but are you a Republicant?"

The doctor laughed.  Frodo he say nuttin'.

So Frodo is out to become "leaner and meaner," in the words of his doctor.  Sam has been schooled in the procedures, and the vampires gather in the absence of sunlight, waiting for their next shot at Frodo's carotid.  Frodo also wonders if Ben Casey is still alive.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:11 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

Making a point, or delivering a message, so that the words resonate, be it in the WSJ or on a bumper sticker, characterizes the entire concept of social media.  It is now enough, for example, to merely say "Where's the beef?"

In recent days, Frodo has been reminded of the most important words of the Twentieth Century, and he continues to marvel at just how "concise" they are, even today.  Robert Oppenheimer quoting Hindu scripture said, on July 16th, 1945, upon the event of the Trinity Project (the test explosion) "Now I am become Death, the destoyer of worlds."  He did not high-five anyone.  He agonized for the rest of his life.

Frodo has spoken of his love for baseball, and how he still dreams of flashing spikes and stains of grass.  He thought to himself, as he watched the gallant Braves today choke against the hated Metropolitans, that there are 25 players on each major league baseball team, and that the agreement between the Majot League Baseball Players Union and Major League Baseball dictates that there be a "minimum" slary for anyone on the roster of a major league team.  That salary is approximately $350K.  Frodo notes that such a salary qualifies one to assume the mantel of participant in the "top two percent" of wage-earners in the United States.

That's right sports fans, every single player on a major league team is one of those guys that the Republicants want to reward by maintaining their-tax status under the "Bush tax cuts" for being "entrepreneurs" and "job creators."  In fact, Lady Gaga so qualifies, as does Shaquille O'Neal, or Sean Hannity, or even Michael Hordan.  Frodo has no awareness of a single job being created by the favored tax status awarded to any of these individuals.

Perhaps Eddie Cantor (he is a comedian, isn't he?) isn't aware of this discrepancy between his words and the facts, after all he does represent Richmond, Virginia (a minor league city).  He would do well to dwell on the words of Professor Oppenheimer, lest he agonize over the damage he too hath wrought.

"Tax the rich, Finally" 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:31 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

John Hendrix was a preacher, if that's what you want to call people like that.  He also drank.  The story goes that somewhere around the year 1900 he heard a voice telling him to sleep in the Tennessee woods, and to pray for forty days and forty nights.  On the forty-first day, he emerged wild-eyed and told some people at a little country store that he'd had a "vision."

Yawn, thought Frodo.  Here we go again.

The vision, he said, revealed to him that on a spot mid-way between the farms of Sevier Tadlock and Joe Pyatt on Black Oak Ridge will sit the center of authority for a city.  "A railroad spur," he said, "will branch off the main L&N line, run down toward Robertsville and then turn toward Scarboro."

"Big engines will dig big ditches, and thousands of people will be running to and fro.  They will be building things, and there will be great noise and confusion, and the earth will shake," continued John Hendrix.  "Bear Creek Valley someday will be filled with great buildings and factories, and they will help toward winning the greatest war that ever will be."

"I've seen it.  It's coming," he said.

John Hendrix died in 1915.  His grave is within a mile of a railroad spur as described in his "vision."  The grave today overlooks a massive manufacturing facility

Frodo was unmoved, but hesitant.

In 1940, construction had started on a community now known, around the world, as Oak Ridge.  The farms once belonging to Sevier Tadlock and Joe Pyatt straddle the hill where the headquarters of the Manhattan Project, nicknamed "the castle on a hill" was built.  Thirty years later, the Department of Energy built a concrete and glass building on the same site, and it remains as the "center of authority" at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory.  The city itself is fully contained within the area known as Bear Creek Valley.

Frodo has been concentrating on the words "the greatest war that ever will be."  Like most of us, Frodo hopes that this second part of "the Prophecy" is as accurate.  He also wonders about what it was that John Hendrix drank, and where he got it.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:30 AM EDT

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Mood:  quizzical

It was strange enough that an Air Traffic Controller would fall asleep on the job, but it got downright eerie when another one thought that was a good idea and showed up for the night shift with a pillow and blankets.  Frodo gagged when he learned that two men died when severe weather brought about the destruction of a sewage holding tank and that nearly every e-mail communication in response blamed the "government" or "Obama" for a private industry project gone awry.  Then the President receives a fan letter from Moammar Qaddafi (Frodo thinks he just wanted to get Obama's autograph).

The Republicant assault on Planned Parenthood is proof beyond doubt that somebody, on at least 61 occasions, has produced leaky condoms in the past half-century or so.  Frodo refuses to believe that any of these "freshmen" were planned.  

Frodo has imbibed more aspirin in the last 30 days than during any comparable period of confusion.  To illustrate, simply ask John McCain for his position on US participation in the events taking place in Libya, for example.  What he says for the 9 AM News is at direct variance with his statement for the 5 PM News.  Is it wrong for Frodo to assume that he could be a winning challenger for the voice-over role of the AFLAC duck?

At the same time, Frodo is struggling with a Form 1040 which was not part of the perennial package which included everything necessary to ensure full compliance.  To save money, he assumes, the current geniuses send him to the worldwide web in search of instructions to his Schedule D (for Duh!), and he falls further behind in completing this year's masterpiece.  Note also that predictions are that 64% of American Men wil cheat on this year's return (Frodo thinks 65 is closer).

The pollen count in the Shire reached 2487ppm today, which roughly translated means that every damn dogwood, flowering cherry, sweet gum, and maple anywhere south of Newark is in full bloom, and they all require the Hobbit's attention.

At the same time, someone gave Frodo a copy of the current Number One-rated non-fiction hardback, entitled "Unbroken," written by the genius who gave us "Seabiscuit" just a few short years ago.  If someone you love ever served our country, read this book, but do so before you give it to someone who may have lived any part of it.  You will understand, and thank Frodo, when you do read this very important book.  Having just set it down, the Hobbit is truly considering starting it all over again.

It is times like this when Frodo really misses smoking.  Anything.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:12 PM EDT

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Mood:  vegas lucky

Frodo has an assignment for you.  Please mark your calendars, including the ASPCA one with the ducks on it, for Saturday, August 6th, 2011.  If there is any justice in this world, Frodo and Sam will stand in line outside an unidentified edifice in Atlanta in order to be interviewed and appraised by the "Antiques Road Show" when it comes to Atlanta.  They applied for their tickets on-line, concluding with a plea, of sorts, and a committment to contribute to PBS at some point in the future (admittedly, some may call it a promissory bribe).

Frodo's favorites are the brothers who appraise furniture, but he is not a furniture afficionado, so he is aiming for someone who shares his interest in the American South, its history, and, since we are in the midst of the 150th Anniversary thereof, the "War."  Frodo has some very special and important items, rarely seen anywhere, which he has been wanting to bring out into the light.  At the same time, he has been hoping for an opportunity to mimic the Brothers Crane, and their father Martin, with a high-five and to utter the magic "Ka-Ching," at the very top of his voice.

The Hobbits will be notified in early May about their acceptance, and Frodo will commence his preparations for his sure-to-be unforgettable display.  Until then he hopes he can keep from wetting his pants. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:27 PM EDT

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Mood:  sad

Eli Cottrell was a musician.  He was also a good-will ambassador, a philanthropist, and a remarkable man.  The following story is true, in every detail.

Memphis, Tennessee, is not a "place of good abode."  This is particularly the case in the summer, when heat bakes off the asphalt and there is no hint of wind anywhere in the poorer sections of town.  For those unfortunate enough to hold positions which required them to drive these hot city streets, and air conditioning was not allowed because it was a "luxury item," the days seemed endless.  Frodo shared the complexion of the police officers, the insurance salesman, and no one else in those days of violence and hatred.

Eli Cottrell had travelled the world with Lionel Washington and his Orchestra during the days after the Great War.  When his time for travel ended, he returned to his hometown of Memphis with a small nest egg, sufficient to cover the costs of the diner known as "Eli's Place."

Frodo became acquainted with the establishment because he had the geographical responsibility to collect overdue small tax liabilities.  "Eli's Place," according to his records, was a business that was so burdened.  Apparently, the owner had employees and he had neglected to pay the employee's share of the Social Security withheld from the employees on payday.  Frodo's instructions from his superiors were clear, any business operating in such a manner was to be closed.  It is, after all, bad business to allow liabilities to fall further and further behind, no matter who was responsible.

It was late on a Friday, in the heat of summer, and this would be Frodo's final stop of the working day.  He entered the little bar, and as he expected, his was the palest countenance around.  He walked to the cash register and asked to speak with Eli Cottrell, while every patron sat in silence and watched.  Frodo introduced himself to the smallish, and sweating, man as he wiped his hands on his apron before offering Frodo a seat near the piano and the jukebox, silently sitting in a front corner.  He offered Frodo a "Coca-Cola," an offer which greatly tempted the Hobbit despite his awareness of "the rules."  Frodo demurred.

Frodo explained his reason for visiting Eli Cottrell that day, and asked that the entire liability be immediately satisfied by cash, check, or money order.  Eli explained that he could make a partial payment after the weekend, but satisfying the entire amount would not be possible without some sort of "arrangement."  Frodo explained that Social Security Withholding was a "trust fund" for his employees, and that he could not maintain the status quo any longer.  Eli Cottrell sighed, then he pointed to the two ladies working behind the countertop.  They, he explained, were his employees, and their only income was from the minimum wage he paid them to cook.  Frodo noted that both appeared to be well into their seventies.  Eli Cottrell told Frodo that he did not withhold any money from their wages, that he paid both the employer and the employee portions of the tax, and it was his plan to continue doing so until both ladies had enough "quarters" to be eligible for Social Security.  They would each have no other income or support.

Frodo was stymied.  This was not in "the rules," and Frodo quickly sensed that some sort of "arrangement" had to be made, or everybody would lose.  Just then, one of the ladies from behind the countertop brought two Coca-Colas to the table, set them down in silence and hobbled back to her duty station.  Eli Cottrell asked Frodo if he liked music.  When Frodo smiled, Eli Cottrell turned to the piano, and started with "Hold That Tiger," in maybe the most lyrical of environments that Frodo has ever known. 

Every Friday, on his way home, Frodo would stop by "Eli's Place," in order to receive a partial payment on the past taxes due, and the amount required to stay current.  When he entered, there was always a Coca-Cola on the table, and everyone smiled and said "Good Day" to Mr. Frodo, of the IRS.  Then Eli Cottrell would play the piano before Frodo turned out the door and headed for home.

There was a time when "the rules" prohibited the use of the term "Mr." to address a man of color in Memphis, Tennessee.  The days were not that long ago.  Frodo used the proper name of this gentleman every day.  He addressed Frodo as "Mister" from that very first day, too.

Frodo thinks about Eli Cottrell from time-to-time.  He was just a little guy, who had a gift, and a heart. 

Hold that tiger.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:04 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

"Room Service."

"Yes, this is Suite 1313, I'd like transportation to the American Embassy, please."

"I'm sorry Sir, but due to the recent unpleasantness, the American Embassy has been closed and the doors are locked."

"Closed, eh?  Well, can you get someone to take me to the Swiss Embassy?"

"I'm afraid not Sir, in fact, I am relatively certain that all, or nearly all, of the Embassies have had their staff transported to a safe location, at least until the bombing is halted."

"Well, in my case it already has."

"Sir?"

"Yes, I am, I mean was, the navigator on the F-15 that suffered mechanical problems while enforcing the 'No-Fly Zone' mandated by the United Nations Security Resolution."

"Oh General, what an honor it is to have you as a guest in our humble establishment.  I was made aware of your presence here when I came on duty earlier this afternoon.  Welcome to Benghazi."

"Thank you, I'm sure, but can you find a way to contact my superiors so that I can return to duty?  By the way, I'm just a lowly Colonel in the US Navy"

"Oh Certainly Sir, I'll get to work on it right now and get back to you post haste.  If you should need anything, anything at all, just ask for me.  My name is 'Curveball'."

Several minutes pass.

"Curveball here, Sir.  I am pleased to report that I have arranged your passage to the island of Malta on the only remaining cruise ship in the harbor."

"Malta, I don't want to go to Malta, I want to return to my ship."

"Actually Sir, the cruise ship is scheduled to depart for Malta as part of its normal cruise regimen, and the US Navy is dispatching one of its vessels to meet you there."

"Oh, hey that's good work Curveball.  Is that the ship just off to my left out this sliding glass door in my Suite?"

"It is indeed."

"What is the ship, and when does it depart?"

"It is a Carnival Cruise Lines ship named 'Odyssey Dawn,' scheduled to depart within the hour."

"Odyssey Dawn?  Carnival Cruise Lines?  Are you sure about that?"

"Sir, that which I have said is exactly what i was told by the US Representative at the travel office we use exclusively here in Benghazi, owned by a group of Americans who call themselves 'Air America'."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:50 PM EDT

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