Mood:  blue

There was a time when four friends strolled down the street named Bourbon in the city called Orleans, and in a sudden uncontrolled burst one began to shuffle and jive.   He was damn good.  Elbows moved consonant with knees, and feet flew in a montage of steps and slides that included Gene Kelly, Elvis Presley, and Michael Jackson.  A crowd formed all about, and Frodo swore that people laughed and pitched money in appreciation.  He was so damn good.

This day, the same four gather together but the street and the city are far different, and oh so far away.  A heart is giving out, and even the memories of those so carefree are threatened by the melding of electrical impulses into soft tissue.  Unfair it is, especially when there is so much to remember, especially because so much was so very damn good.

The four first gathered in an early model Mustang, Frodo and Sam in the back-seat, at a drive-in movie.  Frodo was being introduced into the group as the final member of the foursome.  It was awkward, for the Hobbit had needs, hormonal needs, and he didn't know how to behave.  Those in the front seat, Frodo learned later, were even more bereft, due to the fact that to actually sit and watch a drive-in movie was not something they had previously exxperienced, particularly with noises in the back seat.   Everything ever they had  done together was just so, so, well, damn good, and gay.

Hearts are broken in Poker and in love, but it just seems wrong for one to just give out.   Surrendering a full life doesn't correlate with the soft memories of friendship and the laughter of youth.  Surely the three who remain are not the only ones who recall  the dancing fool?  There are probably many who recall the nights when all hearts were young and gay, and dancing was something that just happened out there on the street because he was so damn good.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 1:45 PM EDT

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Mood:  lyrical

The wisest of Hobbits, Samwise by name, has gebnes which extend back through Rob Roy and William Wallace.  On several occasions, Sam has seen fit to travel with the clansman with whom there has been an acquaintance extending back before Frodo stumbled through the front door.  On one of these soirees, they had the good fortune to call a cab, and to ingratiate themselves to the driver.  As good things sometimes go, that is leading one to another, there began an extended and fruitful friendship.

Alan Scott writes songs.  He happens to love the "Nashville Sound," and is the greatest fan of one known to those of us on this side of the pond as Kenny Rogers.  Sam, upon hearing several of the tapes of the Scott, corresponded with an old friend in the music business, and arranged to get some air time with some talent judges in Nashville.  It, unfortunately, did not lead into the kind of Cinderella story we would love to tell, but it certainly cemented the relationship of a cabdriver in Edinburgh to a couple of silly Hobbits.

Sam has returned to Scotland several times, and Alan has provided introductions to his family as well as transportation to many things and places that tourists rarely see.  Even when travel has not taken place, the friends exchange great package gifts three or four times per year.  Sam generally receives a few books, calendars, and five or six CD's of marching bands or tenors warbling alleged lyrics in a dialect which only Sam seems capable of comprehending.  In return, Alan receives gifts for his daughters, golf balls from the Augusta National Country Club, and CD's of tenors warbling alleged lyrics in a dialect which Frodo stopped understanding when Hank Williams, Sr. died.

Sam has a CD in hand by somebody named Rafferty, and another by somebody named Doogie, who, according to Sam, did the original composition for Daniel-Day Lewis in "Last of the Mohicans" ("I will find you"), which is certainly one of Frodo's favorite movies and is always interrupted by Sam's reminder to Frodo of Doogie's involvement therein.  As Frodo listens to the lyrical presentation, he suddenly develops a taste for warm, dark beer.

"Here's to ya, Mr. Scott."  Maybe someday, Frodo will sit with you and watch the film "Chariots of Fire" and you can tell him of the "Flying Scot" and a land of Middle Earth that beckons all who breathe free air.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:05 PM EDT

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Mood:  not sure

Perhaps it started when one of the group was injured, and Frodo first noted him in a futile attempt to become airborne.  If nothing else was clear, the truth was that he could not keep up with the others, and they were reluctant to leave him alone.  It might also have been one or two of twelve other reasons, but Frodo will accept his current hypothesis as the most, well, romantic.

The Shire attracts an avian contingent throughout the year, and during a time of drought, like now, Frodo's bird baths receive special attention.  Songbirds join with squirrels, chipmunks, and the crows, if that's what they are, for Frodo has never been able to separate crow from raven.  The predators, including Beau Neau, are highlighted by the presence of hawks, who are continually screeching and circling above waiting for an appropriate opportunity.  The presence of the crows, or ravens, means a special operatic performance is at hand whenever it strikes their fancy to gang up on a hawk who may threaten their young, or the wounded comrade mentioned above.  There never really seemed to be that many of them, but now it appears as if a dozen or more are near at hand at all times.

It did not take Werner Von Brauhn to comprehend the squawking of the crows, or ravens, signaling the presence of a hawk.  Soon, every creature disappears from the birdbaths, and the first movement one sees is the armada of black congregating in a tall pine.  The hawk will usually then make a run for it, and the entire group screams into pursuit, save the wounded warrior who seems to direct traffic from his grounded position.

Frodo wants to quote E.A. Poe at this point, but his memory is captive to but a single line, repeated often enough that Frodo would rather remain silent.  He is sure now that these must be crows, since the silence he would imagine in a night's rookery, with this group, is nevermore. 

Frodo and Sam, accompanied by Mick, the Wonder Dog, are en route to Lake Lovey in order to engage the final long weekend of summer.  Frodo will not be communicating since his ancient personal computer has fried its' modem.  The "dial up" service he has there, is therefore de jure defunct.  He will return next week to the Shire and continue his dialogues.  

He expects to be the target of scorn from the tall pines, where those hide who have longed for a full birdbath and the servitude which accompanies.  They are probably Republicans. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:08 PM EDT

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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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