Mood:  chillin'

Without boring you to death, dear reader, Frodo provides a few sentences of background.  The last time around, in the rather arcane area known as Georgia, three candidates did everything posible to win the disdain of the Hobbit.  Roy Barnes, a one-term Governor, defeated by a semi-literate homey from someplace called Bon Air, ran again, as a Democrat.  Nathan Deal, a turn-coat who did everything but expunge all of his assets in personal bankruptcy, ran as a Republicant, and he won.  Sponsored by the Teahouse Party, or whatever it is that the Neanderthals call themselves, Karen Handel carried a Reublicant label into the Republicant Primary before losing to Deal.

During the campaign, Handel was quoted as saying that she was "Pro-choice," and therefore she did not support Planned Parenthood and its policies of birth control.  Karen Handel was a non-college graduate from Gwinnett County.  Childless, grossly overweight, and totally sure that all those assets made her the people's choice was chagrined by her defeat, and thusly disappeared.  Good riddance thought Frodo, no more.

Unfortunately it seems, this past April Handel accepted the position of Vice President of Public Policy in Dallas, Texas, with the organization known popularly as the Komen Race for the Cure.

Frodo listened intently as the Founder and CEO of the Komen Foundation denied, on live television, to Andrea Mitchell, that Handel was responsible for the recent kerfluffle.  Frodo knows a liar when he sees one, and he knows a lie when he hears it.

The Atlanta Journal & Constitution carried a front-page story this morning, ending eith the admonition that no one can prove that Handel was involved, but they did not deny it either.

In sum, Karen Handel was from Gwinnett County, she re-located, apparently willingly, to the worst place in all of our small blue planet, Texas.  She is a Tea Party favorite (which requires that one not have any formal education, be at least fifty pounds overweight, and never admit to their racial biases), and she will say or do anything.

The good thing is, now that the leadership of the Komen Foundation have apologized and pulled in their horns, is that now we know where Handel is, and we can make sure that all of the bread crumbs leading back to Georgia are washed away.  Without them, she couldn't find her ass with both hands.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 3:50 PM EST

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Mood:  energetic

There are a number of small creeks that wend their way past the Shire and toward the rivers that fill the Gulf of Mexico.  Frodo knows many of them as arterial escape routes for coyotes and immature bears from the occupied mountains and crowded suburbs reaching ever closer to the birthing den.  In periods of abnormal rainfall the creeks back up and spread into the lower yards and streetcorners supported by man-made drains.  Frodo remembers the old saying that "to destroy everything that Man has ever created would restore Eden."

Frodo noted the rivulet rising slowly as it filled an obscure pond to new levels.  After three or four walks passing by, he smiled at the tell-tale flashes of yellow wrapped around young trees bordering thereon.  Those which had stood erect in prior days were slowly being assemblaged into an apparently nearly watertight obstruction to the flow of water toward the pond.  The residence of the engineers so engaged was apparent nearby, but it was high noon, and Frodo knew that all he could do was observe the resultant efforts expended before the dawn of this day.

There was no flooding of the low intersection.  Instead, the waters were spreading into a pond of greater circumference, and Frodo marvelled at the ingenuity of those whose engineering skills were not developed at MIT, Cal Tech, VPI, or Georgia Tech.  No longer would wayward automobiles be wary of flooded streets since the beavers had solved the problem which has cost the taxpayers so much.

Frodo was gamely tempted to take some pictures and draft a Letter to the Editor in order to share the technological wonder with others around the Shire.  Then he wised up.  He could foresee the day when suddenly the bedazzled would order the capture of the beavers, and the reintroduction of the flooded streets as a result.  The beavers, after all, had big teeth and they probably carry rabies, or something else that would worry part-time parents.  Frodo decided, wisely, to keep his mouth shut, and to spend a few minutes every day remembering how much he loved the Disney tale known as "Beaver Valley."

Frodo had never really been exposed to something so urban unique so close by as this family of beavers.  But he swears that he can hear that marvelous baritone in his own ear telling him about the wonders of Beaver Valley.  It was there today, and Frodo knows that it will be there tomorrow.  Like a child in line to enter "Adventureland," Frodo dances from toe-to-toe.  A few minutes of magic while strolling through a place called Frodo's "Beaver Valley" is a magical this day as it was on a black-and-white a million years ago.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:12 PM EST

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Mood:  party time!

"I have worked with him for over five years, and I swear that is the first I ever knew that he could sing."  Frodo could not help but think of Bill Clinton, wearing sunglasses, and playing the saxophone, as he watched President Obama croon Al Green to his audience  Why, he thought to himself, is he so surprised, simply because he may be tone-deaf and unable to carry a tune, that other products of the music-as-art generation have ability to remind all of us how much this world owes us?  If it were not for us, everybody would still be dancing to "String of Pearls" by Glenn Miller.  Were it so, Frodo would be at the bar.

The same day, Frodo considered Obama's most likely opponent, and noted the following about presidential candidates during his lifetime.  Dwight Eisenhower had recurrent heart problems.  Ronald Reagan had bouts with dementia while he was still in the White House.  John Kennedy suffered with severe back pain resulting from injuries and disease.  With these lone exceptions, Frodo can say that the universe of presidential aspirants, save one, have been in pretty good shape.  Newt Gingrich is certainly more than 100 pounds overweight, and no one dare aver that the situation is "glandular."

There is a threat to the national interest by he who would seek to become a public employee, once again.  The sheer gluttony of Newt Gingrich is one of those things which everyone thinks about, but no one talks about, simply because we all have "issues" like obesity with which we must deal.  Quite realistically, given his immense waistline, it is likely, coupled with the stress of the office, that Newt Gingrich would not endure a single term in the Oval Office absent cardio or pulmonary problems of earthquake magnitude.  Then again, he might be taking a tumble with Callista (or her successor) and his ticker gives way in mid-stroke.

Frodo, for once, is serious.  Newt Gingrich and his apparent disregard for his own health is a consideration for every resident of Middle Earth amid the threats from Mordor and beyond.  Imagine if Sarah Palin, or Herman Cain, or Ron Paul were to accede to power because of the demise of the "President."  Newt Gingrich owes the electorate a personal assurance to lose at least 100 pounds between this very moment and Election Day, 2012.

Why don't you bring up the issue Willard?  Getting rid of 100 pounds of Gingrich fat would be your first accomplishment since "Romney care."   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 4:02 PM EST

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Mood:  quizzical

Frodo had established an exercise routine that took him to a gymnasium twice every week, and this had continued for more than four years.  Briefly, procedure dictated that once he changed from his street clothes, he would place them in a locker and snap his combination lock thereon.  When he returned from his workout, he would, from memory, spin the dial appropriately and retrieve his street clothes.  That is, that is how it took place until the day that Bilbo died.  Frodo could no longer recall the combination.

The ownership of the gymnasium was wise enough to keep a bolt-cutter for moments just such as these.

To this very moment, Frodo is unable to recall that combination.  Tonight, he was confronted with a question regarding a check written during the same time period, and he peered into the telephone handset as if it were the property of some alien force intent upon the consumption of brain matter in Hobbits.  Frodo rarely loses checks, but this was a mystery of time, as well as space.

Bilbo was convinced that lesser individuals, be they dark-skinned or Spanish-speaking, if not both, were intent on every imaginable felonious assault on the abode of Bilbo.  Every time there was a perceived threat, Bilbo would change every lock in the house.  Then Bilbo would lose one of the keys, and that meant that every lock would again be subject to change, and, since both Frodo and related Hobbits were great distances away, that meant that a set of keys would arrive, in the hands of a trusted postal person after every such incident.

When Bilbo's house was finally sold, it was no mean trick attempting to get appropriate keys to the trusted real estate property-disposer.  When finally able to end his involvement, Frodo disposed of several pounds of keys, and there is no exaggeration in this tale of woe by the Hobbit.  A few days ago, perhaps as the most subtle of jokes, Frodo received a package containing several pounds of keys.

How, if not where, to dispose of this final rememberance has confused Frodo as if it were a task of importance.  Perhaps he will take one key, each year, and include it in a Christmas card to she who sent him this gift.  Then again, he may put a key into each of the Christmas cards he sends, without explanation, thereby confounding everyone he knows.  More likely, alas, he will simply forget about this good idea, and leave all the keys in a single box, lock it, and throw away the key.  In the box there will be a note in Spanish. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:57 PM EST

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Mood:  smelly

Only the area known as greater Salt Lake City contains a larger number of Mormons than does the area known as greater Washington, D.C.  Frodo, in his days before the Shire, grew up in the Nations Capital and, therefore not unsurprisingly, went to school with and got to be friends with, a goodly number of Mormons.  As a general rule, he found his peers to be in great physical shape, athletic, attractive, good students, and hard working.   They also did not drink or smoke, rarely danced, but seemed to have a tendency to produce babies during their teenaged years.  Frodo always somewhat assumed that there was a need to let off steam.

Frodo specifically recalls a brother and a sister whose paths crossed his own.  The sister was extremely attractive, and Frodo was filled with juvenile lust in her direction.  Frodo shamed himself more than once in his head-long pursuit thereof, teaching him the lesson that even the best of men will throw themselves in front of a train if the temptation is thus so great.  Frodo's association with the brother was certainly less intense, since he had to admit that much of that friendship was probably an avenue to potentially curry favor with his sister.

Soon after graduation from the highest school, Frodo's friend announced that he was going on a "mission."  Frodo intitially thought this was his friend's methodology to escape the "draft," which was a much greater threat than any today can imagine.  Beyond that, Frodo did not think much about a "mission," nor did he have much interest, since his lust had waned toward the sister of his friend in lieu of more achievable conquests.

As circumstances sometimes permit, Frodo found himself studying in Germany, not far from where his friend was involved in his "mission."  Note that Frodo was immune from the "draft" while his studies continued so Frodo became rather accomplished in that regard.  Frodo found where his friend was living, and went to visit him.  When he arrived, Frodo was also introduced to the team-mate (for want of a better term) who lived and worked with his friend on their religious endeavors.  There was an immediate and concentrated effort therein to "recruit" Frodo, and it did not sit particularly well with the Hobbit.  It also became abundantly clear that there was a very strong resistance to other religious groups who tend to recruit members from other denominations, most notably the "Catholics."

During the visit, Frodo lapsed frequently into the kind of jargon that dominates teenaged conversation, which often utilize words not suitable for mixed company, if you will.  It became very clear that the team-mate of Frodo's friend was uncomfortable with almost everything about Frodo, language notwithstanding.  After a single night with the two "missionaries," Frodo found an excuse to end the visit early and return to his studies.  Frodo has never seen, nor spoken with, his teenaged friend since those days so many years ago.  Frodo has always assumed that he was deemed to be "not worth the effort."

Frodo has thought a lot about Willard Romney of the Church of Latter Day Saints (LDS, to the uninitiated) and of Frodo's particular knowledge of the people and their motivations.  Frodo theorizes that Willard is on a "mission" (be it far different from the one oft-mentioned by Bros. Belushi and Ackroyd in "The Blues Brothers").  Willard, to Frodo, has taken on the task of bringing the "word" of Joseph Smith, the angel Gabriel, et al to the larger population of Middle Earth, and he will bear any burden, or pay any price in order to further that goal.  That includes saying anything, or advocating any position, regardless, in order to win that which he has set out to accomplish.

Frodo has no intention of documenting a treatise against the religious beliefs of others.  Nothing herein will be nailed to the front door of any church, synagogue, or temple.  Rather, Frodo simply offers, based on his own experience, that there are those among us in Middle Earth with a different agenda, and it is his opinion that Willard Romney is out there to help increase membership under the watchful eye of Gabriel and his horn.  To get there, he will say or do anything (and who is to say that he hasn't?).   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:49 AM EST

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Mood:  spacey

"Mister Frodo, is today the day when you've been granted an audience with the new Pope?"

"No, it's tomorrow after, of course, the College of Cardinals meet and vote on a new Father of the Holy See."

"I see."

"The puffs of white smoke will rise toward Heaven when the leadership has decided who will ascend to the papal throne, and then after the first Papal Bull is issued, the Holy Father will extend audiences."

"No bull?"

"Actually, the bull will just be hitting the fan.  It is then that the Koch Brothers and the Investment Bankers of Bain & Company from Mordor will be first in line to receive the papal blessing, and to place their orders for service during the term of the favored candidate Pius Baloney I."

"So where do you fit amid this list of the powerful and the productive?"

"Frodo has a gift to bring."

"A gift?  What could Frodo possibly lay before a King?"

"A Ring."

"You mean, THE Ring?"

"Of course.  After all, if the leading contender Pius Baloney I did indeed say that it was not his life's ambition to succeed to the throne, then he would be a worhy keeper of the Ring, in order to prevent the Koch Brothers and the Investrment Bankers of Bain & Company from Mordor taking over Middle Earth."

"Mr. Frodo, what has come over you?  Have you failed to note that all of the contenders for the papal throne are flawed, including Pius Baloney I?  Each of the contenders have proven unworthy, and especially Pius Baloney I.  That is why it is so important that you continue to stand as you have, for Aragorn."

"Of course that is how Frodo feels, but how can he be expected to suffer the burden of the Ring, when he sees that many amid the lands of Middle Earth actually draw pleasure and favor from he who is Pius Baloney I, and his competitors?  Perhaps they deserve Pius Baloney I."

"Mister Frodo, do not lose heart.  You know, as do I, that Pius Baloney I will be seen as he is, traversing the Vatican without garments of any kind.  The Riders of Rohan, the Men of Gondor, the Elves, the Dwarves, and a world of Hobbits will again stand with you before the Black Gate, for Aragorn."

"Orcs are many, and we are few."

"Look Mr. Frodo, the heavens are sent a message of black smoke.  That means that no decision is this day reached, and that we still have time to save ourselves from Pius Baloney I."

"Then we will fight on dear Sam, and Frodo will see that the Ring does not fall into the evil hands of the Koch Brothers and the Investment Bankers of Bain and Company from Mordor.  There will be no victory for Pius Baloney I this day." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 2:19 PM EST

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Mood:  accident prone

The house in the Shire sits upon a hill.  The gardens of the Shire slope downward from the rear, and that which was once known as a "deck" is now a full-fledged Florida Room.  Hobbits and their guests sit amid the canopy of the Dogwoods, bare at this time of year.

Sydney is the rarely-discussed avian who makes his home in the Shire.  During warmer weather, Sydney sits for hours just inches away from freedom, calling to those who speak languages not totally alien.  When Hobbits abound, and it is a tad warmer, Sydney will alight on the shoulder of Sam, and occasionally Frodo, and participate in conversation or eat potato chips which can be partially dispensed to canines beneath.

Such was the setting a few days ago when Sydney, with his back turned to the gardens of the Shire, sat atop the shoulder of Sam noting not that stealth was the weapon of a potential enemy.  It rose as a dark shadow, visible from a singular ocular point to Hobbits facing the gardens.  The immature Coopers (or Red-Tail, one cannot be too sure) hit the glass-enclosed screens with both talons drawn.  Bouncing off, the startled predator struck a second time, leaving a small rip in the screens protecting the glass.  At this point he sought a second breath on a limb less than a yard from the hand of Frodo.  The Hobbits were agog, and Sydney, the target, never knew how little separated him from an unwilling participation in snack-time at Hawk Haven.

In the days that followed, Sydney has been going through a bit of a personality change.  Perhaps it is the fact that Frodo seems to be in the environs more than in the past.  It could be that the shortness of the days has disassembled his internal clockings.  Then again, it could be the more frequent naps taken by his companion Mick, the Wonder Dog, that causes him to worry about life in the Shire.  Whatever, the result is the continuous shriek of a bird that needs the "Bird Whisperer."

Sam has suggested giving Sydney his freedom, knowing full well that "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose" (which makes Frodo wonder about what exactly JJ meant)?

Sam has also suggested giving Sydney to some sort of cockatiel rescue group.

Noted amid all of this is the fact that the shrieking is giving Sam pause, and only the assurance is offered that there will be no domesticated avian contingent in the next generation of residents in the Shire.  The possibility does exist, given Sam's current state of mind, that Sydney will spend more time in the Florida Room in order to become fully aware of the dangerous path he treads.

Few it is, thinks Frodo, who realize just how damn lucky we be.  Be glad Sam is on our side.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:47 PM EST

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Mood:  don't ask

The past three years have witnessed the closing of 68 banks in the State of Georgia, more than any other.  Since states such as New York, California, Texas, and Florida are among those which are far larger than Georgia, academic questions are just as important as those which bear legal standing.  The resultant loss of jobs in Georgia is somewhat greater than 5400.  The fiscal loss to taxpayers, in fairness, is lessened by the fact that the FDIC is a self-insurance tool financed by banks themselves.

At its zenith, the company founded in Rochester, New York, by a man named George Eastman, employed 145,000 people in the manufacture of chemicals and film products.  Today, Eastman Kodak employs but 19,000 people, and the stock sells for less than a roll of film.  Most of the retirees will suffer significant reductions to the health and wellness benefits they earned through years of service.  Major facilities in places like Tennessee and Texas have already been sold off, or re-structured.  Bankruptcy is imminent.

This "restructuring" brings Frodo to his point.  Not unimportant it is that closing 68 companies in Georgia loses 5400 jobs, while closing just one in New York nets losses of about 126,000.  However, it is important to note that some of these losses are mandated by stupidity, rather than by technology.

Remember the name, dear reader, "RJR Nabisco"?  The result of huge merger and acquisition activity by corporate management and investment bankers (shudder), this "cigarette company," needed capital in order to develop a nictoine-free cigarette.  The easiest route to obtain enough capital was to buy another company, fix it up (as one might do with a foreclosed house these days), and sell it.  The way one "fixes up" an acquired company is to get rid of all the employees, and sell the assets to somebody who will re-staff the company with cheaper, if not foreign, labor.  That explains why a "cigarette company" bought a "cookie company," that is, to get cash, and to hell with the workers (and the cookies).

Frodo thinks it is important for people to know that one Willard Romney was such a performer during his years at Bain & Company (an investment bank).  He amassed net worth of approximately $157 million, making him the wealthiest single individual to ever run for the American Presidency.

Note that nobody ever produced a nicotineless cigarette.  Thousands of people lost jobs, and Willard got rich, "working in the real world."

For once in his life Newt Gingrich is right.  Romney is a liar, and worse.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:54 PM EST

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Mood:  celebratory

Frodo rarely wastes two swipes of the artist's brush in a title and a topic of similar reference, however the magnitude of the return of the Hobbit to the cathode ray tube requires something akin to fireworks across the skies.  How else to emphasize an accountant's reference to "Obamacare" eleven times during the course of a concession speech? Rather than congratulate each of the seven male contenders who out-polled her, in her "Home State" no less, or to wish each of them well if not endorse one above the others, the "non-pol;itician" who has "represented" Minnesota for five completed terms left her class at the front door, again.

In the entire history of our small blue planet, no "Accountant" has ever been in a leadership position of any kind, except as one in charge of other accountants.  No accountant has ever been President.  No Accountant has been Secretary of State.  No Accountant has been Commissioner of the National Football Leage.  No Accountant has won an Academy Award.  No Accountant has ever walked on the Moon.

Curiously, the so-called "universities" named after or by Jerry Falwell, Oral Roberts, or Bob Jones (among others) produce an awful lot of accountants.  Michelle Bachman matriculated therein.  Perhaps, as Frodo surmises, that is because accounting is taught in absolutes, and that is characteristic of these students.  There are debits, or there are credits.  There is no gray, or anything in between.  God either said it, or he didn't.  There is nothing to be interpreted.

It is a good day when one with such a simple view of life slips back into the irrelevance of accounting.  One more step is taken toward the crest of Mount Doom.

It would've been a perfect day if the proverbial white woman with a stick up her butt hadn't tried to dance, again.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:37 PM EST

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Mood:  not sure

When the time came for the Hobbit to become a member of Sigma Eta Xenophon at the College of the Shire, he had absolutely no idea what to expect from the process known as "pledging."  He knew only that these were those with whom he wished to associate himself, and he was pleased and proud to be so affiliated.  It did not take long however, for those in his "pledge class" to jointly agree that there were certain boundaries across which they would not proceed.  That fact, above all others, is what unites them to this very day; it was not what they did, it was what they promised each other not to do.

After many sleepless nights, the primordial drumbeat of "Oompah, Oompah, Oompah-pa-pa" was a welcome refrain from the "Assume the position, Pledge."  Wearing only an athletic supporter, the Hobbit bounced foot-to-foot around what had to be a 50-pound block of ice, upon which there rested but a single olive.  He was instructed, as had been so many before, and others to follow, to stop dancing roundabout when the chanting halted, and to square himself over the block of ice so that both cheeks would surround the olive.  If he were successful in securing the olive, then he would be excused in order to observe the efforts of his fellow pledges, one-by-one. If unsuccessful, he would have to eat the olive.

What neither the Hobbit nor his fellow pledges could know was that his brothers-to-be would switch the olive, since it was virtually impossible for any pledge shaped even remotely akin to a human being to hold the olive in the area between cheeks.

Frodo could have rested upon that block of ice for hours on end.  The heat, rising from his scarred buttocks, melted away, and the chunk of ice was but a fraction of its prior self under the futile effort he expended in order to secure the olive.  Laugh he did, when he realized the chicanery of his brothers-to-be.

Then came he of the lean and lanky build who, upon learning of the expectations of the feat, set upon the futile task of securing the olive amid the skinniest cheeks imaginable.  Even with the "Oompah" chant proceeding at a fever pitch, he realized that there was no purpose served by a task so far beyond reality that he picked up the olive and tossed it aloft.  Immediately, the room went silent, and as if in slow motion, the roomful of young men watched as the real olive was caught in his mouth and allowed to slide down the throat of the pledge into a gullet transformed by history.

Despite the passing of a half-century, "the" pledge is known to, and remembered, by all.  Known he is to God and observers as "he who swallowed the olive." The serious questions asked about the wisdom, or lack thereof, which some feel important to the process of maturation, are remembered, even if not practiced, by men who serve you this day dear reader, as physician, teacher, apostle, and in a manner that leaves you grateful for having crossed their path.  Read you the obituary, some day, of one identified as "he who swallowed the olive," and know that each of us has done something stupid, but that laughing about it is what makes the memorial process so much richer than simply singing songs and memorizing Chaucer's greatest lines. 

Oompah, Oompah, Oompah-pa-pa.  Perhaps chanting, and olives, are the items which bring us back, from time-to-time, to the roots of our very being.  Perhaps that is what scares us.  Perhaps.       

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:33 PM EST

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