Mood:  hug me

Sometimes, Frodo remembers why he is.  Station KIMT in Mason City, Iowa provided him with that lesson this evening, when they broadcast a few short seconds of the funeral service for Jon Tumilson.  Tumilson was one of the 30 US SEALS who died when his helicopter was shot down by a Taliban ignoramus with an RPG.

Tumilson's hometown friend was on his way to the podium to eulogize his friend when another of Tumlinson's friends, whom he had called his "son," followed him to the coffin and laid down.  His name?  Hawkeye, and he is a Labrador Retriever. 

Does "Grey Friars Bobby" mean anything to you, dear reader?  How about Col. Henry Blake, he who mouthed the words to another Hawkeye about how young men die in war and how doctors are powerless to prevent those wars.  The thoughts in Frodo's mind are awash with the tears of those who watched a Labrador Retriever take up his post, because that is what he was supposed to do.

Well, what about us?  What are we supposed to do?  Are we to merely pat the head of a good dog, and go on about our business?  Are we going to make a movie about a small-town  boy whom Kevin Bacon escorts all the way to his funeral, as in "Taking Chance", in someplace like Iowa, or Wyoming?  Or do we merely change channels with our remote control?

Frodo has no idea about the make-up of Jon Tumilson, but he can surely provide an answer as to who it was that truly loved him.  If only he could be so sure that his loss would be worth the cost, to us all. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:15 PM EDT

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Mood:  d'oh

"Dr. Frodo."

"Yes?"

"Sir, I see from the passenger manifest that you're a doctor, in fact you're the only one aboard."

"Well, I'm a Veterinarian."

"A Vet, Ohmygod, now what?"

"What seems to be the problem?"

"There is a lady passenger in the first cabin who is nine months pregnant, and she's about to deliver that baby any minute."

"Well, I've delivered a few horses and cows in my time, so I suppose one more mammal or two can't be a whole lot different.  Let's go meet the lady I'm going to know a whole lot better in a few short minutes."

"Oh thank you Dr. Frodo, do you want me to boil some water for you?"

"Why would I want you to do that?"

And so the story began in September of 1990.   If the pun will be forgiven, it climaxed when the pilot offered to land the passenger in Richmond.  Her response was "I am not having this baby in Virginia."

So said the basketball coach of the University of Tennessee.  That's right dear reader, the basketball coach who today stands among the half-dozen greatest coaches of college basketball who, in alphabetical order, happen to be named Auriemma, Krzyzewski, Knight, Smith, Summitt and Wooden.  Frodo would like to think her quixotic comment was uttered in defiance of the presence of (Eddie) Cantor, who coincidentally supposedly represents the Congressional District in which she would've delivered her son, Tyler.  In truth however, the comment reflected upon her ongoing battle with her chief rival for the National Championship, Dawn Staley and her Virginia Cavaliers.  It reflects the rock-hard elegance of a superior coach, and her impact upon the millions of young women whom Title IX skyrocketed to intercollegiate funding.

The 59 year-old Pat Summitt has been diagnosed with early onset dementia--aka Alzheimer's.  She announced to her team, all of whom she recruited, that she would continue as their coach on the court this coming year, and for as long thereafter as is practicable.  The team members announced that it was not some sort of weepy, girly thing, it was an inspirational diatribe that beat anything the actor Ronald Reagan ever said, even in his best movie.

Frodo admits a big change in attitude, personally.  One more contribution by Coach Summitt to all those who have watched her, even with chagrin, and silently admired her strategy and the strength of her leadership.  It will be fitting if the team she fields this coming season does find itself able to win "one more" for their Skipper.  It will make us all feel a little better, and it is certainly an improvement to screams in the darkness.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:48 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

There are some very strange goings on, going on, about which, quite unsurprisingly, Frodo has a theory.  It all seemed to start with our commentator out on the left coast, whom we shall, for defensive purposes, identify only as Mr. Behr.  It seemed there for a while as if some hitcher was coming in between every Brown or Grizzly Bear and her cub no matter the location within the confines of the Park known as Yellowstone.  Then we heard from our commentator in Scandinavia, affectionately referred to as Mr. Bayer, about the kid from Scotland who got mauled in Norway by a Polar Bear.  Now comes the latest, filed by our commentator in the wilds of the Carolinas, whom we all know as USA TODAY, which should give the reader fair-warning about the wisdom of further progress herein.

The US Forest Service has closed the Commissary Ridge Campground at Mount Mitchell in North Carolina, the tallest peak in North Carolina, and the State Division of Parks and Recreation has closed all trails leading to the campgrounds.  The reason?  Simple enough, black bears.

Frodo notes the egalitarian nature of the threat to continued dominance of our small blue planet by mammals walking upright..  Perhaps it is the re-make of "Planet of the Apes" that has pissed off our friends who were once content to grub about for berries and wildflowers.  Or maybe it was merely the picking of wildflowers by those who venture into the hinterland in search of a lonely spot to spread a blanket and down a quart of "Sly Fox." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:29 PM EDT

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Mood:  chillin'

August in the Shire is past-prime time, but every growing thing remains lush, if not laden.  The butterfly garden, which Frodo enjoys but Sam abhors, awaits the arrival of the caterpillars that devour the passion flowers then, in turn, produce the butterflies that lay the eggs for next year's caterpillars.  Young squirrels, seeking their first sexual encounters, frolic before the advent of parenthood.  Tomatoes hang heavier and heavier on four different levels upon Frodo's vegetable successes of the current season.  Noted it is however that so much activity takes place only in the early morn and after darkness draws a sheet over the landscape.  The heat is intense, and the aging warrior is susceptible too, to the inherent danger therein.

Beau Neau McKitty has not been immune to the activity, but he finds a cool place to sleep for at least 22 out of every 24 hour cycle.  Frodo and Sam recognize that he, too, may miss Fiona, and has not found it necessary to bring in quite so many "presents" since his canine friend moved into the shadows which corral the spirits of the Shire.  Last evening however, was an exception, and the result brought a certain amount of joy to the doldrums of recent loss and severe temperatures.

Frodo was watching something, reading something, or perhaps removing belly button lint from the designated storage spot.  Suddenly Sam shrieked, "Oh my God, he's got a snake."  Since the description meant that the object had been carried in through the "dog door" and was now in the kitchen, Frodo felt compelled to spring into some level of action.  Immediately he noted the multi-colored object flopping furiously and the flapping ferocity of the feline paws.  The colors quickly identified the creature to be non-venomous, and careful attention, perhaps learned from Rudyard Kipling's pleading to his son to retain his composure, allowed Frodo to identify the object of so much attention as non-serpentine.

It was a butterfly.  A beautiful yellow and black swallowtail to be sure, whose wings were still functioning, although a bit worse for wear.  Frodo managed to gently capture the misidentified miscreant, and launch him toward another section of the gardens, not presently assigned to patrol by his feline associate.

Sam looked at Frodo and, in the best impersonation of Roseanne Roseannadana he had seen in quite some years, simply said "Never mind."  

Frodo loves Sam.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:52 PM EDT

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Mood:  don't ask

The outgoing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Michael Mullen, is an honorary member of the Fellowship of the Ring.  Frodo admires his public persona, especially the heartfelt manner in which he addresses the personal issues of those under his command.  Frodo will long remember his testimony in the debate about the ending of DADT in which he expressed chagrin that patriotic brave soldiers had to lie about their sexual preference in order to serve our nation.  Similarly, Frodo will long remember the shock and dismay in Mullen's voice as he listened to the questions from troops in harm's way about the financial disarrary in Washington, and how that might impact their families.  Not unlike Mullen, Frodo was stunned that these soldiers, as if they didn't have enough to worry about, were worried that they might not get paid, or that their families back home might suffer, or that their wounded comrades might not receive the best treatment money could buy.

The President stood to assure these men and women that nothing would stand in his way in the provision of all the goods and services promised.  Frodo has been waiting for Grover Norquist to issue a statement in support of the President and the troops.  In fact, Frodo has been waiting for any member of the so-called "Tea Party" (see American Independent Party, George Wallace, 1968) to stand and deliver whatever it takes to assure the American People that our government (see "of the people, by the people, for the people. . .") will keep any of the promises made.  The motivations of this part of the American electorate is stated, time and again, to be merely for fiscal responsibility.  Frodo, politely, questions the veracity thereof.

The former First Lady, Nancy Reagan, mouthed the words written for her some 25 years ago that are now the cornerstone of the philosophical position of America's "loyal opposition."  As noted above, Frodo has changed the words slightly in order to reflect the complete absence of non-partisan effort to make our country a better place.  To Frodo, it is self-serving ideology for someone, anyone, to compose such a threat to the economic stability of our nation that our troops fear they will not be supported, and that the "rating agencies" question the truth of "full faith and credit."

These are, at best, ignorant people.  At worst, they are a threat to our national stability.  Their collective effort to embarrass a President, probably because he is black (so says Frodo), and the danger added to the service of our fighting men and women brings back the aptly used words "collective" and "Nyet."

Don't think Putin isn't just about to wet his pants.  The Tea Party might make Nikita Khrushchev truthful, after all.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 4:47 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

There was a time in the life of the Hobbit when it seemed as if there was a new "best friend" almost each and every day.  These days, that just doesn't seem to be the case.  The telephone does not ring as once it did, and conversations once filled with joyous news are now the source of information that fills graveyards and breaks the hearts of those who watch, and wait.  It is moments like these when Frodo remembers the wisdom of words, and searches for something creative to occupy his electrical synapses.

John Frierson, once interviewing for a position, responded to the query of the Hobbit by telling him that he had learned to cope with repetition while on duty in the North Sea.  "Mr. Frodo," he said, "after I awoke, and before I began my assigned duties, I would stand by the rail until I saw a dolphin, or a frigate bird, or something I had never seen before, in order to start each day afresh, and appreciative of all the wonder that life laid before me."

"When can you start?", said the Hobbit.

Frodo thinks often of the wisdom of that young man, wounded while serving his nation, at war in jungles half-a-world-away, from his assignment in the North Atlantic, which almost ended his life without a single bullet being fired at him.  Fate is the Creator of many of the great moments in life, and Frodo laments that he has allowed so much wisdom and witness to slip through his fingers, as if it were some by-product of silicon under glass.  How could Frodo have allowed this fine young man to have become a mere memory?

John Frierson, and John Richardson, the white guy who became his alter ego, had both been wounded while serving in the Armed Forces.  Frodo recognized both the attitude and the maturity of these young men, and, by virtue of the employment law at the time, was able to hire both for permanent employment as civilian employees of the US of A, non-competitively.  Yes, dear reader, the Government did create jobs for veterans who were able to translate the complexities of tax law into speakable English.

The Tea Party lies.  Government does create jobs, and it does good stuff for those who serve our country.  Makes you wonder though, just whose interests they serve, and how long any one of those morons would stand alongside a ship's rail in order to find something good about our country?

John Frierson, of Nashville, if you are out there, please "phone home."   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

Four o'clock is always "doggie dinner time."  Exceptions occur to this rule twice a year when time itself is gerrymandered by listless leadership.  This has never deterred Fiona from a lobbying effort that corresponds to a full half-hour before implementation.  The event is followed by a leisurely stroll around the Shire so that Fiona and her faithful companion Mick, the Wonder Dog, can vacate the sewage system and begin planning for a long night's rest.  All of this is relevant only because last evening, somewhere after the evening stroll, and while Frodo awaited the evening news on the black-and-white, Sam screamed for him with the rejoinder that "Fiona is dying.!"

It did not take long to surmise that Sam had uttered a valid prognosis.  The beautiful little girl had wet herself, was foaming at the mouth, her head was swinging side-to-side, and her entire body was shaking and quivering uncontrollably.  Frodo wrapped her in a blanket and held her tight trying to shush away that which was consuming her earthly presence.  He sang, he talked baby talk, he hugged her tighter to his breast, but nothing indicated that she even knew that Frodo was there.  Sam continued to pet her in Frodo's arms, while Mick, the Wonder Dog, laid down, and turned his head in another direction.  Sam's eyes met Frodo's, and the telephone number for the Emergency Vet Clinic was connected and notice given that Frodo and Sam were on their way with Fiona.

Suburban Atlanta traffic on a Saturday evening is difficult to describe with terminology that would fail to embarass a clergyman.  Frodo, holding Fiona in the back seat, yelled to Sam to pass that "asshole" on the right, to run that "fucking " red light, and to forget about some "cocksucker" with a flashing light.  Fiona was suffering, and Frodo could not stand that.  It took thirty minutes to get to the clinic, and Frodo was out of the car with his precious cargo before Sam could even bring it to a stop.

He was greeted by two young ladies, one of whom took Fiona from his arms and the other started to ask Frodo what services he wanted, and quoting the prices for each and every service.  Somehow, as Sam entered the lobby, Frodo kept his cool and told the young lady that his beloved friend was dying, as best he could tell, and that if that were true, then the suffering had to stop--now.

In a minute or two the veterinarian on call heard the same from Sam, and she told Sam that Fiona had a temperature of 108 (normal being 101.1).  She advised Sam that Fiona's cognitive awareness was gone.  The decision was made.

Frodo realized that his shorts were soaking wet, and his shirt was covered with the salivary output of a little dog in her last half-hour of life.  When Frodo and Sam were left alone with Fiona for the last time, he plucked some loose fur to package and seal alongside all the other precious possessions of a lifetime.  Then he kissed Fiona, and Sam, and rubbed her tummy while the chemicals accomplished their task.  The veterinarians took a paw print and gave the clay-like product to Frodo and Sam, with instructions to bake it in the oven as another rememberance.  They had been through this before and they knew their job, and they did it well.

Death sucks, especially when the ordeal experienced by Frodo and Sam upon their great friend was so real and insensitive.  If there is a purgatory, then surely the Hobbits experienced a few moments of what it must be like this past Saturday evening.

Frodo attacked the rock hard Georgia clay with the fervor of one seeking catharsis.  The Hobbits placed their friend in her bed blankie which bears the emroidered phrase "Living the Good Life" and placed her next to the "Mr. Turtle Pool" that cooled her paws on hot summer days for year-upon-year.

Hand-in-hand, Frodo and Sam walked back inside in order to pay attention to Mick, the Wonder Dog, who had had no apparent interest in attending the services.  As Frodo walked him out the front door, Mick turned and looked down the hallway, just to make sure that there wasn't another, meandering slowly behind.

Forgive, dear reader, the language.  They are the components of a broken heart.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:43 PM EDT

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Mood:  a-ok

Difficult it is to assimilate the differences in the "national mood" over a period of 42 years, or a generation-and-a-half in broader terms.  In July of 1969 Frodo, nay not Frodo, the entire human race, watched as we all stepped across the galaxy in order to walk upon the moon.  In just a few short days, the last of the space shuttles will park itself, permanently, ending manned spaceflight for American eyes to observe with pride and glory.  In fact, the continuance of space exploration itself, as well as the scientific search for truth, will shift away from the promise of a national effort, all because of money.  The accomplishments and the contributions of space exploration are almost  impossible to chronicle as part of our now everyday world, ranging from laptop computers to television pictures of hurricanes building strength far out to sea.  There is however, one more promise on our doorstep, and Frodo is amazed that he cannot find a single person who even had a clue about its existence.

A spacecraft named Dawn, launched more than four years ago, will slip into orbit this day around an asteroid named Vesta.  In a few hours hence, Dawn will similarly manuver itself into orbit around an even more impressive asteroid, named Ceres.  Not wishing to demean that which will be learned about the very beginnings of the universe, Frodo is watching closely the performance of Dawn in its use of ion propulsion engines.  Dawn will be the first to orbit two asteroids because this futuristic power source allows gentle, yet constant, acceleration, and at a fraction of the energy expended by conventional rocket fuel.  Dawn will be able to zip around in an asteroid belt and she represents a very big step toward energy conservation on Mother Earth, our small blue planet.

In times to come, the significance of this day's "Dawn" and what she represents may be appreciated as one more colossal contribution to the future of the civilizations that follow us.  Today, few will notice.

Frodo is proud of those whose dreams brought us to this day, and to our Dawn.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:40 AM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

Being Frodo is fun, except when it's not.  Sometimes doing things usually enjoyable just becomes work, at least that's what the streetwalker told Fropdo the first time he asked.  Perhaps that will explain, dear reader, why the Hobbit failed to add to the cacophony during the recent past.  He served better by not talking at all.

Every night, it seemed, the Hobbit found himself wavering somewhere between total anxiety and  self-assurance.  The value of his home in the Shire, the potential income losses mounting on the apparent horizon, the aging of Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, a representative form of government that seemed only responsive to those with intelligence quotients hovering just below sea level, and never enough hours in the day to get the things done that required completion prior to a nervous breakdown.

So Frodo just shut the hell up, and tuned out, enmeshing himself in somewhere between thirty and forty books.  Not all were worth a tinker's damn, but some were.  He hasn't discussed any of them with anybody, he was just pulling a mental beach-trip to absorb words and thoughts, experiences, wishes, and yes, a dream or two.  After all, that is what the Hobbit originally said he would become, and truly, it is what he most enjoys.  Expect no apologies those who search for the Hobbit, and those who honor his additions to their efforts.  He is still here, and he is ready to be more than what recent days have shown. 

For those who have wondered about the condition of the Shire in this the most aggressive of growing seasons, there are tiger mosquitos beneath every blade of grass, and weeds behind every trunk of tree.  These plagues upon our existence, not unlike Newt Gingrich himself, keep Frodo from enjoying his time thereabouts. 

After all is said and done, getting away from reality is why God invented "Round-Up."  It is a shame that he didn't distribute it in the State of Texas before he put on a warning label.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:02 PM EDT

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Mood:  incredulous

Frodo was pleased to learn from the replay of the "Jimmy Kimmel Show,"available to all who can Google, that he is a part of the segment on American History.  According to Michelle Bachmann's revisions, Paul Revere rode through the countryside of New Hampshire, in order to warn Frodo so that he could escape beyond Mount Doom.  At least that is what Frodo has been able to interpret before he breaks down amid peals of laughter.

American humor grows in subtlety.  Napoleon is also present in a segment, since  he would certainly have an interest in anybody from Waterloo and that would include an Accounting graduate of Oral Roberts University who has been trained to never acknowledge an error on her part.  She later married a "Christiian Counselor" who has been identified as one who addresses those of the homosexual persuasion as "Barbarians."  For those who may not not know, Mr. Michelle is the fat guy with the flat top who "dances" with MABELLE (now AT&T) in those countless re-runs of her recent speech in her hometown.

During that speech, MABELLE noted that her hometown (so close to her heart we are sure) of Waterloo, Iowa, was also the hometown of John Wayne.  Surprisingly, THE John Wayne is from another community a couple of hundred miles away.  John Wayne GACY, however, one whose notoriety includes the title of "serial killer," lived right up the street from our presidential wannabee.

Methinks the segment should also have included Thomas Paine, in deference to Frodo's friends who once alleged to be Republicants ("These are the times that try men's souls. . .").  By the by, Frodo offers that he is unable to name a single Accountant who has ever been President of anything (except for groups of other Accountants).  There is, of course, a reason for that.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:12 PM EDT

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