Mood:  sharp

Frodo clearly has his preferences, and they do not include Michelle, Ricky, Mitt, Newt, or Sarah.  Frodo, as indicated in his biography, has no love lost for Dick Cheney and his friend Howdy-Doody.  Frodo argues that Frodo's opinions are not based on ideology or partisanship, but they reflect his belief in truth, justice, and however one may define the "American Way."  Recently however, Frodo has had to admit that he needs to qualify his public utterances, and to place blame where blame belongs when the issue is the continuing and perhaps interminable military conflicts in which we are now engaged.

Barack Obama has not brought about the level of change that Frodo either expected or desired.  It is basically true that the "Obama Doctrine" in fact, does not differ significantly from the "Bush Doctrine."  The "mainstream media," perhaps being too patient with the President, have provided neither an adequate level of scrutiny nor even a measurable amount of criticism.  Frodo truly feels that Obama was stunned, if ill-prepared is a better term then so be it, by the level of support that the present course of action had from the military and advisory staff at his disposal.  He found himself, Frodo believes, unable to simply ignore the unity therein and thereby changed his mind from his preconceived assessment that had him withdrawing from Afghanistan ASAP.

Obama's critics can justifiably argue that little has changed from the "surge" mentality of the Bush Administration when it comes to the conduct of the war in Afghanistan.  Frodo remains steadfast in his opinion that Bin Laden is dead, and that was a terminus in the conflict.  By all accounts, that leaves less than 100 al Qaeda criminals within the geographical delineations of Afghanistan, and the ever-increasing Taliban is the product of torn condoms and drone attacks, that continue unabated.

Frodo will concede that Obama has made an error.  He needs to end this military exercise NOW.  He needs to get the troops back home NOW. 

Frodo believes in the President of the United States.  Frodo is not so arrogant as to offer him counsel, but happier will he be when the President remembers the adage given to every test-taker who has ever partaken of academic competition;  Go with your first choice.

Herman Cain even makes shitty pizza. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:04 PM EDT

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Mood:  caffeinated

One hundred and fifty years ago, at just about this time of year, a gaggle of volunteers approached the Major with a special request.  It was not as if they had failed to serve with honor, it was just that they were slowly becoming aware of the fact that their expectations were askew.  In May and June they were sure that the enemy would fall back in a simple matter of days, and that they would be home before this meeting had ever been considered.  Reality is more than a foe to fervor, it is the foundation of survival.

As the realization set in that the enemy was stronger than anticipated, so also was the awareness that farmers have to harvest.  The planting and the tending of the crops could be done satisfactorily by those left behind, but the harvest was not only back-breaking, but the time available for its completion was limited.  The survival of wife, children, and extended family depended on sufficient stores to last through the coming winter months. 

The story you are about to read is true.

 Company C, of the Seventh Virginia Cavalry was a collection of volunteers mustered in at Harpers Ferry in June of 1861.  Most brought their own rifles or rode their own horses.  They were farmers of the rocky loam that prohibits sowing too deeply since the soil becomes impenetrable quickly.  Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson was the Commanding General.  They would eventually establish themselves as a formidable weapon in his arsenal, under the direction of the dashing and capable "White Knight of the Shenandoah," Major-General Turner Ashby.  They would become known to history as "The Shenandoah Rangers."

"Major, Sir."

"Yes Corporal Frodo, what is it?"

"Sir, we, that is the other Hobbits and I, need a brief furlough."

"Well, don't we all?  If those Yankees would cooperate, then we could all go home."

"Yessir, but Sir, I'm very serious.  We have to go back home to harvest.  There is no body at my place in Tom's Brook to bring in the corn and to can and store food for my family.  They will die if I don't back and put things up for the winter."

"I see.  How long a furlough will you require?"

"Two weeks."

"How many of you are we talking about?"

"Why, all of us."

"The whole Company?"

"Yessir."

"You expect me to stay here, all by myself, for two weeks?"

"Well Sir, things are a little slow right now, and we'll be back before you know it."

"Can't you double up and help each other?"

"No Sir, you see, the crops will begin to spoil if they aren't harvested timely, and it'll take each of us two weeks to get home, bring in the crops, and get back here.  Somebody would get left out if we don't go take care of our own."

"Two weeks you say?"

"Two weeks."

"Permission granted."

"Thank you Major, we're out of here in an hour or so, and back here at Company headquarters two weeks from today."

Seven days pass.

The rider comes in from General Jackson's billet in Winchester.

"Major, I have a dispatch from General Jackson.  He wants the Seventh to move with dispatch to Harrisonburg in order to strike at an enemy supply train day after tomorrow.  Say, where is everybody?"

"The Seventh is on furlough, and they are not due back for another week.  You'll have to let General Jackson have my apologies. . ."

"Your apologies?  You mean the whole company is on furlough , and General Jackson wasn't told?"

"Apparently."

"What numbskull. . ."

"I did.  They had to bring in the harvest for their families, and promised to be back one week from today."

"Major, I'm going to have to ask you to issue me a written dispatch to take back to General Jackson.  I believe he'll need something more than my solemn promise about the absence of Company C."

When Company C reported back to duty, they became aware of the court martial, and their new commanding officer.

In addition to Bull Run, they would see duty in places named Moorefield, Fisher's Hill and Gettysburg.  They would be confronted by opponents named Custer and Pope.  They rode out of Appomatox Courthouse seeking relief to the West, and learned that surrender was all that remained.  They would lose many of their friends and their neighbors before they were allowed to again, go home.

Frodo's great-grandfather among them.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 2:57 PM EDT

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Mood:  don't ask

The next sound that you may hear, dear reader, will be a scream.  It will occur only if Frodo is confronted by one more technological representation of Hurricane Irene spinning toward the Atlantic coastal region of the US of A.  It will be introduced as "Breaking News," although cyclically repeated for the past 12 hours  and at least hourly for the next 36.  Frodo, you see, is at the precipice of sanity, and the evolutionary product of journalism confronting him at this moment is either going to entice him to puke or make potty in his drawers.

Frodo discussed his tour of CNN several years ago, and his unsuccessful side-bar attempt to get close to a certain news anchor with shapely legs and a geometrically-perfect butt.  He never mentioned that on the same tour he got to impersonate a weatherperson.  He stood in front of an all green screen (which reminded him of the 'Holideck' on the Starship Enterprise), and was taught how to point to the Gulf of Mexico and to appear as if he actually understood how to compute the dew point.  Frodo was unable to pass up an opportunity to perform, so he enthralled his fellow touristas by describing fair weather as a "good guy" and any tornadic activity as "Republican sunshine."  Chris Rock or Eddie Murphy, had they witnessed his performance, would've immediately recruited Frodo to be the voice of a wombat in their next edition of "Doctor Doolittle".

Returning to his theme after a slight digression, Frodo is rapidly grasping the truism that television journalism sucks.  Why, pray tell, would Frodo find it interesting to listen to an analysis of Dick Cheney's book by someone who has not read the book, and was too young to vote the last time that Cheney even appeared on a ballot?  So help him, said Frodo, that is what with which he was confronted last evening.  Now, barely twenty-four hours later, he stands victimized by live broadcasts from the closest beach area to every bar between Charleston, South Carolina and that magical mystery place dubbed as the "Jersey shore."  Attempting to impersonate past hurricane hunters such as Dan Rather (whose fingerprints are still embedded in every other light pole between Miami and the Outer Banks of North Carolina), these first responders are the ones who are next in line to be dumped, unless the wind gods find it advantageous to send them out to the depths of a "storm surge."

Oh no, dear reader, there it is, Al Roker (sans about 150 pounds) breaking into a discussion of "Category 3," and immediately behind him is the counter-clockwise collage of green and red over his left shoulder. . . .AAAARRRGGGH!

Lucy just picked up the football.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:14 PM EDT

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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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