Mood:  happy

Hourly, May 21st disappears around the small blue planet.  With the exception of a volcanic eruption on Iceland, it does not appear as if the world will end with the arrival of 6 PM anywhere in this particular solar system.  Perhaps that is the error which terminates this particular prediction, just maybe there is a planet out there, somewhere beyond Andromeda, that has just blown itself into microcosmic dust.  It wil take minds like Mulder and Scully to document that the books of Joshua, Leviticus, or Revelations have ever predicted anything, or ever will.  This eve, we know only that there is another 89-year-old kook out there with lots of excuses.

Mick, the Wonder Dog, has cancer.  A telltale lump on his hip was diagnosed by needle biopsy to be malignant.  He will be operated on come Monday, in the early morn.  Frodo and Sam will be with him.

Fiona, while having her teeth cleaned, was noted to have an irregular lump in her throat.  It was small, and it was removed.  It, too, was malignant. 

They both seem concerned, but about each other, and perhaps, about Frodo. 

This day they followed Frodo as he diligently went about his tasks in the front section of the Shire.  The curbs were trimmed.  Weeds were pulled.  Fallen tree limbs and other flotsam were assembled and discarded.  Lawn was mowed.  All the while, Frodo's Company took cover in the soft and cool dirt under bushes in the Shire, and all of the time, standing guard over their compatriot.  Reassuring it is to know that one's back is under such watchful scrutiny.  Sad it is to know that such days cannot last forever.

Recently Frodo said to one of life's longest friends that if there were no dogs in Heaven, then Frodo would choose not to go.  Frodo's friend was shocked, and wielded a philosophied response that only those with souls enter Heaven.  Frodo made a mental note to never again discuss issues like this with his friend, for it is obvious that cross words could enter the conversation at light speed, and that Frodo has no appetite to pick fights with anyone on matters of faith, even Osama bin Laden.

The world will truly come to an end someday, but it will end for Frodo and his companions far sooner.  There just won't be any 89-year-old-fruitcakes out there directing traffic when such truly does occur.  Nor will Sarah Palin ascend to the Presidency.  Should such ever take place, change the title word from "Rapture" to "Rupture."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:36 PM EDT

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Mood:  special

Open any map of West Virgina and look for a town called Fairmont.  Got it?  Good, now you're in the general vicinity.  In the town there is but a single school, and only one single school-teacher, for all grades, one-through-eighth.  In the farmhouse where he was borne and then grew up, the floor was unfinished wood, except in the kitchen, where linoleum was used to make cleaning easier.  This was his world when the news eventually reached the little town that our country was under attack.

When he joined the United States Marine Corps, he did not know for sure that there was a Pacific Ocean.  He truly believed that "in defense of America," he would be standing arm-in-arm with others just like him encircling our country at our national borders, keeping our enemies from getting into our backyards and our chicken coops.  Imagine, if you will, what it must have been like when he arrived in California for basic training.

Less than two years later, he was lying face-down in the sands of the island now known to us all, every one.  He heard cheering all around him, and noticed a whole bunch of crazy soldiers exposing themselves, in celebration.  He looked up to see the "second" raising of the first American flag to fly over Japanese soil, less than a thousand feet from his shallow cover on Mount Suribachi.

Earlier, he was "selected" to carry a 70-pound flamethrower, filled with what was baically diesel fuel, in order to help his fellow Marines penetrate the tunnels and the pillboxes that held even the American tanks from entry.  For five days, no progress had been made.  He sprayed one pillbox through the front slit, killing all the enemy inside, turned to face infantry with drawn bayonets, and felled them too.  He told Frodo that two brave Marines died, covering his back.  The fighting continued, but he survived, and the path was opened for his fellow Marines to get off the beaches and into the heartland of Iwo Jima.

Several days later, he was informed that he was being removed from front-line duty in order to receive a "special award."  He did not argue, but he had no idea what the fuss was all about.  All he knew was that he would travel to Hawaii, and from there, take his first airplane flight ever, back to the States.  As he explains it now, the Navy "lost him for seven days on Hawaii."  Eventually, the logistics guys directed him to a B-29 which had one seat available.  He boarded the plane at night, lit up with all sorts of bright lights, and 47 other passengers.  When he found the seat available for him, he noticed the make-up of the others, all of whom had just been rescued from Japanese POW camps.  He realized that the "one seat available" for him was for one who had not survived.

"Mr. Frodo, I will never forget my mind's eye, showing me men that normally weighed 180 or 190 pounds, who now weighed 70 or 80 pounds, who had lost their freedom.  Now that freedom was restored, and the terrible cost of 6,212 dead Marines on Iwo Jima became understandable.  Those were the happiest, most celebratory people I have ever met.  I will never forget that moment."

He was one of eleven men who were the guests of Honor, if you will, at the White House on that day in 1945.  Hard to believe it is that he was nervous, if not scared, as he waited for all the citations to be read, and for all the presentations to be made.  Shivering as he stood before the President of the United States, he felt the gentle hand placed upon his shoulder, and he bowed his head as Harry S. Truman placed the Medal of Honor around his neck. 

The next day he stood before the Commandant of the United States Marine Corps in his office, on a rug.  Never before had he walked upon carpeting.  He was not sure exactly how deep it was, nor how far into it he might sink.  He remembered the message though; he was told to never bring shame to that medal, because it had been earned by many who would never wear it, nor whose names he would ever know.

Frodo has no doubt that Corporal Herschel Woodrow Williams had obeyed those orders to the fullest, every single day thereafter.

Frodo was a civilian on a military compound, with a very diverse audience in attendance, and Frodo watched as the military guys and gals asked for the honor of a salute to or from a member of the Medal of Honor Society.  Every request was met, with smiles, and autographs, and pictures.  In answer to a question, Corporal Williams said that he felt that the "war which remains should be ended, and the military forces rebuilt for the challenges that lie ahead."

That must have been some school teacher, in a one-room schoolhouse, near Fairmont, West Virginia.

NOTE:  Corporal Williams is now 88 years-old, and he is the only Medal of Honor survivor from the State of West Virginia.  He is one of two surviving decorated for action that occurred on Iwo Jima.  Frodo could not help but note, as the smallest and the weakest, that Corporal Williams is only 5' 6".  Perhaps heart deserves a measurement, too.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:17 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

At the school which Frodo attended, everyone looked just the same.  New friends came and went on a biennial schedule as they followed parents to faraway places with strange sounding names, which Frodo has explained before.  Perhaps Frodo's fertile imagination was shaped by his unwillingness to make friends, then watch them disappear as they discovered new horizons.  Like every rule, there were exceptions, not least of which was Legolas.

The ninth year of schooling meant that Frodo could try out for sports.  It was not out of the question for the Hobbit to make a team since the real athletes were housed in facilities, separate but equal, or so it was alleged, in those days not so very long ago.  The basketball gymnasium held potential opportunity for the smallest and the weakest, that is if he ran endlessly and performed the basics with unerring accuracy.  The ordeal began as the mighty midgets formed two lines facing an orange ring against an all-white backdrop.  Frodo looked at the taller, and obviously stronger, one whose position in line corresponded to that of the Hobbit in his.  He was unknown to the Hobbit, so it was only fitting that he would not be very good.

When the part-time gym teacher/boy's shop instructor passed Frodo the ball, it signaled him to bounce the ball three times while running, and then to pass the ball to the unknown one who ran toward the basket from the other line.  Frodo's performance was adequate until he passed the ball behind the unknown one, who, surprisingly, exhibited uncommon grace with the errant pass, and turned a disaster into as graceful a lay-up as the Hobbit had ever seen.  From beneath his head of coal black hair and his facial complexion dotted with spots of Clearasil, he smiled at Frodo as if the entire event had been planned by the two of them in hours of endless practice, together.  Frodo smiled back.

The morning turned slowly to afternoon, and the two unknowns found themselves together in various drills on several occasions.  They scored baskets, ran lay-ups, and rebounded until the very lining of their respective lungs ached.  Frodo recognized that the "new guy" was good, but Frodo failed to realize that Frodo was not an integral part of that success.  That came to bear quickly enough when the "top 20" were picked, and Frodo fell out of contention.  Getting "cut" for the first time is not easy to explain, but it makes crying much too easy for the gender-sensitivities of early male adolesence.

Legolas, as he identified himself, put his arm on Frodo's and offered his hand to his new friend.  He stood straight and tall, and Frodo knew immediately that the broad smile was as true as an arrow aimed at the heart of an Orc.  Frodo no longer felt like crying.  He may not have made the team, but he had commenced one even better.  The Fellowship was under construction. 

Legolas will not remember the story as told by the Hobbit.  Frodo is surprised that the two, who rattle on, even when they rarely visit, as if they had never been apart, have yet to ever talk about their first day in each others presence, and how they met.  Frodo remembers that smile, and glad he is that it remains to this day, just as it was on that day. 

Frodo wonders often about friendship, and how it comes to be.  Why is it that one will be an acquaintance, while another becomes part of a link to either point of focus when a lifetime is under discussion?  It is one of the greatest of mysteries, and Frodo has no answer beyond the anecdotal smile of Legolas, a true champion, and Frodo's dearest friend, to this very day.

Travel safely, until our paths cross again.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:39 PM EDT

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Mood:  incredulous

The endless news cycle breathes support and energy into the use of polling.  When there is nothing else to report, take a poll, and find out if Herman Cain would win electoral districts anywhere in direct head-to-head competition with Harry Reid?  Frodo finds such data to be beyond the pale, and he ignores 99.4%.  There are however, exceptions.

This past week, 61% of Americans polled expressed the belief that Osama bin Laden was now in Hell.  Frodo took pause in order to comprehend the thoughts of the other 39%.  Where, exactly, did they think he might have gone?

Initially, Frodo thought that the most obvious answer would be Texas.  He realized immediately however, that many people would include Texas in the response about Hell, since the two terms are synonymous.  Other contenders, not disclosed in the poll, would logically include Alabama, Arizona, South Carolina, New Jersey, and selected non-Arab locations around the small blue planet which we all inhabit.  Those who happen to believe that bin Laden is still alive would probably opt for locations such as Somalia, Yemen, Detroit, or Gwinnett County.

Frodo has often wondered how many people believe in the idea of Heaven, but he'd never really drawn many conclusions about their feelings toward the opposition.  Obviously, if a huge percentage of people believed in Hell as a potential destination for their eternal recompense for the life they lived on Earth, then surely people would be better behaved during their terrestrial presence, don't you think?  If Frodo knew, for example, that he would be confined to the State of Texas for all of Eternity, unless he changed his behavior, then one could expect the Hobbit to start perusing the New Testament in much greater detail.

Lastly, Frodo recognizes that some in that original 39% may actually be of the mind that there is nothing beyond the River Styx, and that Osama bin Laden is just so much worm shit.  Frodo can accept that conclusion, too.  He hopes however that the worms are some of those grotesque creatures they find residing alongside the undersea chimneys that belch sulfurous gases from the deepest depths.  The offal will be soon seen on "Geographic Explorer."   Admittedly, one could confuse that scenario with New Jersey.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:27 AM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

"Sighted Sub, Sank Same."--report from US destroyer in waters off the coast of Japan, 1944.

"Achtung, Schpitfeuer."--intercepted radio transmission between German aircraft off the coast of Great Britain, 1942.

"For God and Country, Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo, EKIA."--per Savannah Guthrie of MSNBC, the transmitted audio received in the White House Situation Room from Seal Team Six to signify the forced demise of Osama bin Laden, May 1, 2011.

Did Osama like Maypo?   May he have all of Eternity to give it a try, every damned day.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:12 PM EDT

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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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