Mood:  not sure

Frodo has just returned from what developed to be a second trip to Bilbo's bedside.  The first trip was in response to a case of pneumonia and requisite hospitalization, followed by the need for Frodo and Sam to arrange in-home healthcare for Bilbo's return.  Despite the travails resulting from the poorly-marked trail to wellness, Frodo and Sam were able to safely return to the Shire for a dose of normalcy.  Having previously planned for an excursion to observe the cetacean masters of the universe, Frodo and Sam were able to swing through and visit Bilbo on the way home to the Shire.  What they had not planned was for Bilbo to again require hospitalization.

Colitis is similar to an auto-immune disease in that it often develops simply because the body is fighting what it perceives to be an alien presence.  The colon becomes the battleground where white blood cells, in this case, confronted the vast amouint of antibiotics pumped to the forefront of Bilbo's struggle against respiratory difficulty.  On Christmas Eve, Bilbo was struck by excruciating pain which required the assistance of the proud public servants of emergency treatment, and hospitalization. 

Hospitals are not fun places to begin with, but Christmas Eve in rooms waiting for test results is punishment.  When finally the diagnosis was made, Bilbo was admitted to the hospital, and remains there to this moment.  Frodo however, has more than one battle to fight at a time, so his presence was also required back at the Shire.  Arrangements had to be made within his family for others to sally forth and be there to help Bilbo through the treatment phase, and to re-establish Bilbo's homecoming.  Before he left, Frodo received the bill for the first of Bilbo's hospitalizations.

For basically one week of service, Bilbo's insurance was billed for more than $40,000.  10% of the charges were for "Other Services."

After Frodo's heart started again, he was pleased to note that insurance covered all but $500.  This figure would not require the sale of Bilbo's residence, but Frodo did not merely breathe deep and express gratitude for what was a "close call."  Rather, he began to get just a little angry that a figure of more than $4,000 could be treated as "other," and not be identified item-by-item.  Frodo also noted that $40,000 was more than Frodo's father had ever made in any single year.  Without careful and gratuitous planning, Bilbo would not only be facing physical worries, but the finances would make recovery almost beyond the realm of reason.  

Frodo once joked to Bilbo, upon the purchase of a personal computer and teaching Bilbo how to use it only to discover that Bilbo had never learned to type, that going over the same things with Bilbo again-and-again was payback for the potty training that Bilbo performed on behalf of Frodo.  The reality, as opposed to the humor, is that Frodo also has to deal with financial concerns in the same manner as did Bilbo when the unknown expenses of education and maturation lay before young Frodo.  Money, Frodo supposes, is something that none ever completely escape as a concern.

This morning, Frodo listened to several political candidates talk, at length.  He paid close attention to any comments reflecting upon his increasing personal familiarity with the realities of healthcare.  Mixing the reality of need with the votes of the electorate has foiled many capable political leaders during Frodo's lifetime.  The fiscal problems increase over time, and the potential for personal tragedy grows as more and more follow in the footsteps of Frodo.

Bilbo could return home today.  Bilbo will not be able to continue that lifestyle indefinitely.  That, however, is another problem.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 12:47 PM EST

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Mood:  sad

Every once in a while, Frodo learned, it is important to admit an error.  Despite the reasonable assumption that Benazir Bhutto was nothing more than Ahmed Chalabi in a swirl of skirts and scarves, the truth is that she was, indeed, much more than what Frodo declared.  Her assassination left a gaping hole in the political landscape of what is truly a tinder box among nations.  Despite all her weaknesses and foibles, Ms. Bhutto was a symbol of non-totalitarianism in a part of the world where people are evidently simply trying to live lives as they see fit.  Frodo overlooked that fact, and for that, he is truly embarrassed.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy, in purely historical terms, was a philanderer who made monumental mistakes.  He accomplished very little, and he openly consorted with organized crime figures while serving as President.  Despite all that, he inspired a generation to devote their energies in service to their country.  His death championed an unparalleled surge in domestic legislation which the oldest democracy on Earth had failed to implement.  He was, it seems, not much different from Benazir Bhutto; easily subject to criticism in practice, but inspirational in theory.

Frodo is ashamed of his cynicism.  Perhaps the madness of the Incomparable Moron, and the incompetence of the puppetry in Iraq clouded his jaded eyes.  In any event, Frodo laments the death, nay, the passing, of a courageous and inspirational leader.  Pakistan, and all the world, is poorer tonight.   Frodo hopes that from the loss there springs a consequence of greater value to the community of Man.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:51 PM EST

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Mood:  special

Frodo took a position to port, assured that the grays and humpbacks would rise to either side during his catamaran voyage off Puero Vallarta.  Holding his CANON digital as if he were a modern-day Ishmael, straining against the Sea of Cortez, he saw them rise and spout a fine spray on the starboard side.  With so many other Citizens of Middle Earth aboard, he kept his post, waiting for the unobstructed view sure to occur and thereby document this, his searched-for moment.  The tail of one rose high into the air, again on the starboard side, and he learned that a dive would follow which meant that this whale would be deep underwater for many minutes.  Still Frodo remained patient.

Then, it was there, the grayish-green fin followed by the twisting torso, as this, the largest of all creatures, raced alongside and close enough for Frodo to get a trophy.  Frodo paused, curious that it was much smaller than he anticipated, and his personal observation was much more important than an unexplainable photograph.  Astern he heard the shouts of those aboard the speedboats manned by the wildlife officers of the Mexican government.  As their boats paralleled Frodo's course, the Captain of the catamaran slowed, and turned to starboard.  The announcement came from the Captain that Frodo's sighting was that of a baby whale and, that for the safety of one still learning how to swim and breathe on his own, we were pulling away and that the Wildlife officers were going to escort the young one until his Mother pulled close once again.  Frodo's picture was lost for this day.

Frodo was not disappointed.  He did however, learn the Spanish word for "bathroom."

The next day, on the beach at Mazatlan, Frodo met some men who had rescued a cache of sea turtle eggs from a marauding mammalian.  With several of his newly-discovered friends, Frodo learned that there were 175 hatchlings, and that they were about to be released into the sea.  Frodo and his friends, it was offered, could each take one hatchling and launch them side-by-side in a race to the sea from a common point.  Frodo was among the first to select and to spend some quality time with his entrant.  As Frodo examined his prize it was learned that, statistically speaking, only one of the racers would likely survive to adulthood.  Suddenly, the idea of a race was not so important.  Pelicans began to gather and lift off into flight in our direction.  Frodo, and the lady standing next to him, who Frodo believes was from California, both walked to the water's edge, waiting for no man, and each hurried a little sea turtle into the surf.

They stood in silence for several moments.  

"I named him 'Fernando,'" she said to Frodo.

"I hope he makes it, too," said Frodo.  "I named mine Barack."

She smiled at Frodo, and said, "Because he's catching up from behind?"

"No," said Frodo, "because he's the one."      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 12:12 AM EST

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Mood:  lucky

Gregory Peck was Atticus Finch.  Gregory Peck will always be Atticus Finch.  For anyone else to portray Atticus Finch would be borderline sacrilege.

Gregory Peck was Captain Ahab.  Gregory Peck will always be Captain Ahab.  For anyone else to portray Captain Ahab, it could only be Frodo.

On the morrow, Frodo and Sam travel afar to the lands beyond Rohan, and then to set sail beyond Don Diego's California for the waters where the largest creatures on our small blue planet annually gather to mate.  Although the season begins in January for the Humpback Whale, Frodo is a prisoner of time, and so he hopes that there are mammals other than himself seeking to strike fast, and often.  Frodo has never seen a whale, so this is an opportunity to unite the largest, and the smallest; the strongest, and the weakest; and for at least one of the two to recall Melville's greatest of opening lines.  Although there are no harpoons in Frodo's dream, he will watch closely for anyone who calls himself QueQueeg.  Many hours ahead of himself, he can taste the salt spray on his tongue and winces while imagining its sting in his eyes.

"Oh Ye White Whale."

Once ashore, Frodo and Sam will spend Christmas with Bilbo.  The gifts exchanged will be as portrayed in the commercial; priceless.  Then Frodo and Sam will return to the Shire, rested, but full of guilt.  Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, will have spent Christmas in "Jail."  So soon after the recent flight to Bilbo's side necessitated a prior sentence, the eyes of the faithful companions were downcast and full of holiday gloom.  Frodo noted after the conclusion of the most recent sentence that the muzzle of Mick, the Wonder Dog, was much grayer, and that he slept an unusually long spell afterwards.  It took him several days to return to his regimen.  Sam noticed it, too.

Life, Frodo supposes, is best defined as freedom and captivity, if not as joy and sadness.  Aye, but the wind will blow, and Ahab will steer a course in pursuit of the White Whale, and just maybe, he'll sing along with Bing Crosby and hold Bilbo's hand.

May your Christmas, dear reader, be as full.  Until Frodo returns, refreshed, and full of hope. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:28 PM EST

Updated: Friday, December 14, 2007 9:07 PM EST

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Mood:  hungry

Georgia State Senator Mitch Seabaugh (R-Sharpsburg) has submitted Senate Bill 336 for consideration and possible enactment into law.  The legislation prohibits public schools from membership in an association that sets seating requirements for high-school football playoffs.  At first blush, thought Frodo, this rather benign proposal merely seeks to ensure that adequate seating is provided for all who seek to support their communities in the annual rites of autumn in the South.  After a few seconds however, Frodo went back to re-read the proposal, and he realized that exactly the opposite was being put forth, and, to his delight, he disccovered that the issue dealt not with the stadium capacity, but the width of each individual seat.

The Georgia High School Association (GHSA), the organization that has administrative responsibility for the conduct of the statewide play-off system, had ruled that a measurement of 24 inches was required to determine a single seat.  This increase from the old measure, 18 inches, was apparently, to Frodo, a recognition of the fact that there is an obesity issue.  What Frodo learned however, was that Senator Seabaugh happened to represent a community served by a school whose total seating capacity, under the new measurement, would be too small for it to serve as the host for any such play-off game.

As Frodo contemplated the complexity of this issue, he wondered about the potential impact upon the Shire.  For obvious reasons, Frodo surreptitiously gathered the measuring tape from the desk drawer and wandered into the room where Sam was watching the black-and-white.  Avoiding suspicion, he determined that Sam had absolutely nothing to worry about in meeting either classification standard.  He could not help but note the "cackle" while he moved afront the mirror in the attempt to judiciously, and objectively, determine his own rating.  His conclusion was that he would not be overly crowded should he attend any such event.

(Frodo Note:  the use of the term "cackle" benotes the outburst from Senator Clinton in todays Iowa Debate, prior to Senator Obama welcoming her to provide his coming administration with appropriate advisory counsel, at which point one would have thought that she had missed a tackle on the goal line).

Frodo finds high-school football in the American South to be an irritant.  Particularly in the early part of the season, when contests between "Tri-Cities" and "Dacula" crowd the airwaves that otherwise carry the exploits of his gallant Braves.  Truly important issues, such as Chipper's batting average with runners in scoring position after two are out in the ninth inning must be monitored as they occur.  At moments like this, Frodo agrees with Senator Seabaugh that the people who plan these football games are, indeed, big asses.  Literally.

What more proof do we need that government actually does work for the people, and that it deals with our biggest issues?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:31 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, December 13, 2007 9:39 PM EST

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Mood:  cheeky

"Good morning, Class."

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo."

"Please pass these bluebooks around, one to each student Miss Dana Something-or-other."

"Yes Sir."

"Alright Class, your Mid-term Exam in Modern American History will be but a single essay question which I will now write on the board.  You will have one hour, and your comments are limited to one bluebook.  Should you finish early, you may turn in your bluebook to me and report to the Study Hall in Room 214.   You will remain there until the bell sounds ending this period.  Any questions?  Okay, I'll write the question for you now.  Good luck."

Mr. Frodo wrote the following on the green chalkboard:  "Using the 'Cuban Missile Crisis' as a backdrop, discuss the decision-making in the  'Cold War' and the role played by the threat of nuclear warfare."

Mr. Frodo sat with his back to the chalkboard, resting his elbows on the faux pine desk, and began thumbing through a collection of poems by e.e. cummings.  He did not look up, rather he merely listened to the shuffling and under-breath expletives. 

"Mr. Frodo," came the plaintive query from the aisle nearest the windows.

"Yes, Miss Dana Some-thing-or-other," he responded to the perky little blonde tugging at her skirt as she crossed her legs, provocatively.

"Mr. Frodo, like I don't know anything at all about y'know the 'Cuban Missile Crisis'"

"I'm not sure I'd want to admit that were I you."

"Well, like it, y'know, doesn't seem fair, y'know, that half your grade y'know for the whole y'know term is based on something you could just like copy off of WIKIPEDIA."

"So what's your point?"

"Like what's so important about y'know this little island near where Natalie Holloway disappeared.  History is a drag.  How will this help me get a job and pay off my y'know student loans?"

"That's why you answer the question, so you will understand the significance of what took place there."

Silence.

Frodo didn't even want to look at the little moron.  Her cow-eyed stare made him uncomfortable, and he began to wonder, for the millionteenth time why he had ever gotten into teaching.  "To learn from history, so that mistakes are never repeated," he spoke to himself as he recalled the visions of a young and troubled President stumbling against a crafty Soviet Premier.

Slowly, one-by-one, the students shuffled by his desk and placed their bluebooks one atop another.  Dana Something-or-other, sure to someday be a news anchor on a local TV station, connected to her cell phone as she exited his classroom.  Frodo opened her bluebook and thumbed through the drawings and the graffiti.  On the final page she had written "I'll get back to you." 

When he raised his head he could see her looking through the window in the class room door. 

She hadn't aged a day standing there on the podium, laughing, feigning any awareness whatsoever of the events surrounding the Bay of Pigs.  He turned off the TV and began to re-read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."  He never thought he would miss Ari Fleisher.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:13 PM EST

Updated: Monday, December 10, 2007 11:12 PM EST

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Mood:  chatty

Many days ago, Merry told Frodo that he would have to devote a solid hour every single day in order to give proper service to the words assembled on this very screen.  Merry seriously underestimated the need.  Frodo now finds himself looking for subject matter, as opposed to his assumed sourcing from multiple decades of experience, in order to give some perspective to the imitation in life of the art that surrounds him.  There is a tendency, now, to repeat, not because of a memory loss, but because the point was made so long ago that no one, including Frodo, has the time or the impetus to review it all.  One of the Men of Gondor has suggested a "Best of Frodo," which, presumably, would serve the needs of those who look for laughter, alone.  Or perhaps those who are predominantly political, or even those who zero in on that which is purely poignant.  Frodo disagrees.

Dear reader, it was Forrest Gump, the purest of the pure, who best explained life.  When you visit Frodo, expecting him to have made mincemeat of the Incomparable Moron, and find him wandering through the Shire in search of buttercups, or reflecting upon the bizarre circumstances which change unknown lives forever, you experience a cherry covered with chocolate.  

There was a time when someone such as Andy Warhol would have painted a picture of a chocolate-covered cherry with the countenance of Marilyn Monroe, or perhaps Frodo, inside, and museums would be awash with reproductions of this that surely would be art.  In these days, someone such as Lionel Richie will combine other senses to emulate the tastes of chocolate and cherry.  One need merely close one's eyes, and dance to the music.

Art, however, is subject to the whims of those who finance it, or who happen to have the power to limit its' application.  Thus are there parables; stories which bear a message assembled with thought and perspective.  Parables, when scored to music, can become great films, just as they can become psalms of heavenly praise.  Films, music, books, as well as sparsely documented tales, say much, much more about the values of we citizens in Middle Earth as do any of those who profess to speak in our behalf.  Sad it is that we keep forgetting that. 

Thus Frodo begins each tale with a song.  Treat it, dear reader, as if it were a chocolate-covered cherry, and laugh, or cry, think, or not.  He who is smallest and weakest seeks only to bring down that which takes the music from us.  On the morrow will he ask you to, once again, march with him to destroy the Ring.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:38 PM EST

Updated: Sunday, December 9, 2007 8:36 PM EST

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Mood:  silly

Frodo and Sam have friends who are retired college professors.  She is now an author of romance novels, and any reader who has ever felt her own mounds aquiver would recognize the cognomen.  He, on the other hand, takes care of the house, cooks, and composes the annual Christmas Communique.  Despite your anxiety about these generally boring and mundane inclusions in the cards you receive from any of your acquaintances with more than two children, Frodo urges you to sit back and read what follows (but, only after going to the bathroom, and doing a "number one"--remember, you were warned).  Note also that this posting is done entirely without the permission of the original author because Frodo will attempt to claim credit for its' creation.

"Well, the inevitable finally caught up with Panther, our 24-year-old black tomcat.  He died last Feb.  I was very fond of him, but I can't say that I wasn't relieved to no longer be chief geriatric caregiver.  Free at last, free at last!  For about three months.  Then Shirl started up.  "I want babies."  I reminded her that it was a bit late in life for that.  But she refined her chant.  "I want cat babies."  I reminded her that it had been a quarter of a century since we had had kittens, and it was a bit late in life for that.  In May, we adopted two two-month old kittens from the Humane Society.

They are purebreds.  One is a Hun, the other is a Mongol.  The black one is named Attila, and the silver-blue gray one Genghis.  Actually, exercising the imagination for which she is renowned in writing circles, Shirl named them Inky and Pewter.  She calls them her "precious treasures."  Jesu! (You may vomit at will).  They are neither "precious" nor "treasures."

Here is a partial recap of about six months of their "treasurely" antics.  One afternoon, I was home alone and had just gotten out of the shower.  The back wing of the house seemed stuffy, so I turned up the thermostat.  Nothing.  I turned the blower fan to "manual on."  Nothing.  I turned the thermostat up to "heat."  Nothing.  I raced down to the laundry room buck-naked.  After an anxious search, I discovered that a plug far back on the side of the furnace was dangling loose.  I bent over to put it back in place and I was apparently "dangling."  I felt a sudden WHAP where no man ever wants to feel a WHAP.  Pewter had been helping me trouble-shoot the problem but then decided to play.  Thank god, it was Pewter.  When he plays with humans, he does not put out his claws.  Had it been Inky doing the swatting, I would now number among the "famous" tenors. . .sopranos even.  But the damned furnace/air conditioning was still dead.  So I traced the wire from the plug to find that, after they had knocked out the plug, they had used it as a swing and had torn loose the connection in the laundry room ceiling.  I reconnected.  Success!  A couple of months later, the furnace again died.  I checked it out (fully dressed), and this time, I discovered that one of the "treasures" had reached through an air vent in the top of the furnace and disconnected the vacuum valve that starts the furnace blower, destroying part of it.  The HVAC man had to fix that.  A week ago the furnace wouldn't start; and after a check of the old problems, I was relieved to discover that this time they had simply thrown the furnace switch off.  I live in fear that they will learn to use a screwdriver.

Next, they burrowed through the wall board behind the furnace and broke into the small wine cellar under the rear stair case and started pulling bottles from the racks in preparation for a four in the morning wine tasting.  I can't figure out how they did it, but they got the wine alcove's door open from the inside and decided to come up to us for an early morning visit with lots of purring and "kissing," probably looking for a corkscrew.  They busted out twice more that night before we discovered the escape tunnel and sealed it. . .at 5:30 AM.

Finally, came the "fashionista" episode, when they discovered that they looked good in jewelry, Shirl's jewelry.  One afternoon, I heard her shriek from the master bedroom: "You wretched little creatures.  Give that back or I'll spank your butts."  The "treasures" had knocked her jewelry case off the dresser and pulled open the drawers.  Spread across the rug was a trove of earrings, rings, bracelets, broaches, necklaces, doubloons, pieces of eight or nine, etc.  Pewter was headed down to the laundry room with a dangling earring in his mouth.  Inky was waging a tug-of-war with "mommy" over a gold necklace he was trying to drag under the bed.  They are the wildest beasts we have ever owned.  Yes, they are also lovely little devils, but they won't live long and prosper.

We don't speak to each other anymore. . .we shout.  Yeah, you have a nice holiday, too."

Frodo always looks forward to this card.  He can't imagine what Christmas Eve must be like in their household--nor will he ever inquire.      

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:56 PM EST

Updated: Friday, December 7, 2007 9:49 PM EST

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Mood:  on fire

This evening, much is discussed about values and candidates for political office.  Polls reflect that more potential voters accept the idea of either a female, or a black, candidate for the Presidency than do those who would accept a parishoner of the Church of Latter-Day Saints.  In response, Mitt Romney, a practicing Mormon, rose to define the parameters of his personal faith and to establish his credibility as a candidate.  His speech was part Samuel Adams, part John Kennedy, part Jimmy Carter, and despite its elegance and its sincerity, Frodo walked away whistling the words to the Beatles tune noted above.  Read on, dear reader, and ask yourself if all those "words" answered the question shown in our topic for this evening.

In addition, today, the Administration of the Incomparable Moron announced a plan to address the record number of residential foreclosures currently taking place all across Middle Earth.  When all is said and done, the proposals offer the greatest benefit to new purchasers of residences in Michigan, Florida, California, and each of the seven largest electoral vote states in America.  Frodo offers that this could, indeed, could, be mere coincidence.  Frodo also believes that pigs may fly.

Now comes the coup de grace.  The United States Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) announced the letting of $31 Million in contracts to demolish 4500 public housing units in the City of Orleans starting within the next week.  Remember Katrina?  Remember all those people in the Ninth Ward who lived in rental homes and apartments?  Remember all those people living in FEMA trailers?  Well, your friends in Washington don't seem to have much of a memory.  These policy makers have taken the position that homeowners are apparently the only class of residents deserving of aid, for many of the programs for homeowners are working well.  Renters however, who represent almost half of all the households in the City of Orleans, have been left to fend for themselves.  In fact, HUD Secretary Orlando J. Cabrera (wasn't he just traded to the Detroit Tigers?) offered nothing in his Senate testimony as to any thought about repairing the 112,000 rental units damaged or seriously destroyed throughout the Gulf Coast region.  The units being demolished will be replaced, over a period of years, by mixed-income developments that will house a mere fraction of those dependent on rental housing.

Today in the City of Orleans, thousands of jobs on the lower end of the wage scale go begging, simply because the available housing is priced beyond the means of those willing to work, and no more housing is even on the horizon of availability.  The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) (we all remember 'Brownie', don't we?) announced last week that it will evict hundreds of tenants from emergency trailer parks over the next six months, reardless of the availability of housing.   

A tent city in the park next to City Hall reminds Frodo of a time when a "Poor People's Campaign" occupied the Mall in Washington, D.C.  But this is not a demonstration, it is a fact of life, in the richest country on our small, blue, planet.  The Administration of the Incomparable Moron cannot even address the issue of what we are going to do, two weeks before Christmas, to provide housing for the poorest of the poor. 

So, dear reader, wouldn't it have been "Christian" for Mitt to tell us what he would do to provide for those whom Jesus loved above all others?  Instead he gives us "words."

Frodo has several words for Mitt, and for everybody else who has forgotten about all those poor people that nobody even thought existed in this, the richest country, on our small, blue, planet.  Your words don't mean dick.  For the true love of God, do something!

Frodo appreciates Mr. James S. Russell of Bloomberg for bringing the continuing debacle of leadership to his attention.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:38 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, December 6, 2007 8:34 PM EST

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Mood:  mischievious

Frodo has wondered, often, about the parallels of history.  It is much more than a statistical fact that some things happen when they happen because of the time of year.  Suicides, for example, occur with frequency during the holiday seasons, amid periods of great joy, when depression is accentuated for those who suffer.  Frodo enjoys marking events on the date that they occur, and to compare them with prior history.  It is, to some, mildly amusing to note that Frodo was born on the date which 17 years previously would forever become known as "Black Friday."  Frodo adds, in his defense, that his birth actually occurred on a Wednesday, and the New York Stock Exchange has been on an upward spiral ever since.

Prohibition, and the Constitutional Amendment which brought it into being, ended 75 years ago today.  The social engineering of the time helped to produce the growth of Organized Crime.  J. Edgar Hoover, a meglomaniac of substantial proportions, rose to become an influence on the subsequent course of the Cold War.  Federal regulation was extended into the mountains and the valleys occupied by those with little, if any, prior involvement with their national government.  And, of course, people died, either because of violence or by the poison produced to meet the consumer demand.

Perhaps, someday, someone such as Frodo, will make the parallel to the Pre-Emptive War and note that the unintended consequences which it propelled upon history were just as mindless.  Frodo, however, would simply prefer to note that on that exact same day, 75 years ago, one of his all-time favorite people came into being.  Frodo is struck by the fact that as the madness ended, so did it begin in an entirely different format.

What would our world be like without Little Richard?

Happy Birthday!  Frodo tips, legally, his glass to you.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:11 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, December 5, 2007 8:49 PM EST

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