Mood:  lucky

For every out-building that ever existed there is a story about a big, ole snake.  Frodo thought about that while wandering amidst the gardens of the Shire with Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog.  Both of his accomplices use the great outdoors, as one might expect, whenever there is a need to create space for the next set of digestibles.  The timing is generally a reflection of a normal day, however the Shire has been deluged with four consecutive days of late afternoon and/or evening thunderstorms.  Yesterday, according to Frodo's rain gauge, three inches of rain fell and one might expect therefore, that trips for this purpose are based on availability and duress.  Comfort is something which is set aside when the Hammer of Thor resounds from Valhalla.

Fiona has the very curious habit of digging a small bed under an evergreen abutting Frodo's house, and remaining there through even the most obsequious of downpours.  Frodo and Sam speculate that she has assumed the role of protector against that which is outside, from coming inside during inclement weather.  Then again, she may simply enjoy Nature's show.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is napping within inches of whatever room contains he who is known as Frodo.

Between storms, Frodo follows along as both canines search for an appropriate location to follow Natures' call.  There is definitely both a selection and a discovery process involoved.  It is as if the two were Presidential Candidates looking for, and considering a Vice Presidential selectee.  Certainly the parallel fits in the case of Dick Cheney.  The effect being, of course, that Frodo has to be very careful to keep from stepping in it for some days after the event.  Again, Dick Cheney comes to mind.

Frodo has never seen more than a garter snake anywhere in the vicinity of the gardens, and is therefore not terribly concerned about the safety of his friends when they are most vulnerable.  They seem however to want Frodo close, although privacy while in a crouch is seemingly expected. 

Frodo always wanted his father to be standing outside that little building next to the home of his grandfather, just to make sure that no big, ole snake decided to pay an unwelcome visit.  Frodo is sure that included times when it was pouring down rain.

Funny how we forget about the simplest of tasks, which just happened to have been the most important.  Thanks, Pop.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:36 PM EDT

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Mood:  chatty

Although Sam is an aficianado of most things British, Frodo has long averred that the Empire collapsed because of the attraction that the male inhabitants seem to have for one another.  This, despite the fact that former Prime Minister Blair was an Honors graduate of the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm, in Frodo's opinion, is because almost all of the little buggers are carted off to sexually segregated boarding schools just about the time they note the flow of hemoglobin into the groin.  The few exceptions to Frodo's observation generally tend to be from Wales, Scotland, or some other location where males drink something other than gin.  Frodo was visibly shaken recently when he heard a member of the Fellowship proclaim admiration for the British actor, Hugh Grant.  Frodo always assumed that Grant did his best acting whenever he touched a member of the opposite sex.

Frodo's distaste for most things British has generally included every wordsmith, save Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  In fact, since the Beatles broke up, Frodo has not been able to identify a single reason for paying any attention whatsoever to people who speak as if marbles were implanted in their dentures.  Frodo refuses to peruse any British television show, movie, or audio tape not providing sub-titles. 

This diatribe relents upon a delightful little book whose title stirred a query to Sam, the British weenie.  "84 Charing Cross," (a gift, since Frodo would not have willingly supported the current exchange rate) sounded familiar, and Frodo was informed that the movie had starred Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft.  Since Hopkins is now and forever Hannibal Lecter, and Bancroft made Frodo wish his name was Benjamin, reading this book did not seem unpatriotic.  In fact, Frodo quickly determined that only half of the book had anything to do with the British, their polluted Isles, or their unforgivingly bad food.  The book is merely letters written back-and-forth across the Atlantic after WWII and before the rise of Nixon's Southern Strategy.

Ah dear reader, but how brilliant was the author, who showcased her own wit (and, in Frodo's opinion, her weakness), by corresponding with the staff of a bookstore somewhere in the stovepipes of London.  Over time, the correspondents, who had never met, got to know each other, and the reader, including you should you so choose, learned a lot about people struggling out of the changes wrought by War.  Frodo learned, from the written words, that most of the Londoners existed on a meatless diet, well into the middle part of the 1950's.  The destruction of War was so great that it changed their lives long after the killing ceased.

Frodo discussed the book with Sam, and learned that the movie, in typical Hollywood license, ended differently.  Frodo is glad he read the book; it has a more appropriate ending.  Frodo also probably got a little appreciation for the "Greatest Generation" of the Brits.  Lest he again revert to his prior opinion, he also hopes that Hugh Grant is never cast in such a role.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:00 PM EDT

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Mood:  cheeky

To say that a fundamental behavioral change is underway in America is an understatement of fact.  Skyrocketing costs for energy, transportation, basic goods and services, and recreation have an impact on how people spend, save, invest, and worry.  Frodo was thinking heady thoughts as he and Sam returned from several days of "r & r" at Lake Lovey, joined by their faithful companions Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog.  It took Sam however to properly spin the observable, thereby extending Frodo the opportunity to pontificate as they drove merrily along the byways in their motor car.

Frodo has likened motorcyclists to women seated at the same table in a dining establishment.  They cannot do anything alone.  Frodo breaks into an apoplectic fit when he observes motorcycles ahead, always more than a half dozen at a time, spaced far enough apart that they cannot be safely passed on any two-lane road.  Invariably, when Frodo is identified, the motorcyclists further decrease their collective speed to a level unacceptably below the posted requirements.  Frodo is forced to wait, and Frodo finds himself growing increasingly less patient with events that fall beyond his control.

Frodo was considering the economics of the present situation while eating the dust of one such group of miscreants this day.  Likely it is that the high-mileage available to motorcyclists will further plague Frodo's solitude in days to come.  As he pondered, and displayed his curmudgeon-like tendencies, Frodo heard Sam comment on the physical make-up of the imitation "bandits" and "angels" in his path.

"You know, Mr. Frodo, when I was younger, we would look at motorcyclists as something very masculine, and romantic.  James Dean and Peter Fonda are both examples of what we young Hobbits would see whenever a lone motorcycle roared into the distance of the open road."

"The romance is gone now, is that your point?," asked Frodo.

"Just look at those guys, Mr. Frodo.  They have round faces, scruffy beards, shapeless torsos, and they are wrapped in cheap cordovan leather.  Even if one were even half-way good-looking, there'd be no way to tell.  It is so uni-sex, that girls can't be identified except when riding behind the 'pilot'."

Frodo took note.  Frodo is always gleeful when he is the best-looking Hobbit in the room; or on the road.  Sam has a way of making Frodo less curmudgeon-like.  Perhaps it is a gift.

Now where is that CD, "Born to be Wild"? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:55 PM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

"Saint Peter, Sergeant Frodo here.  You know, at the Sign-in Desk."

"Yes, Sergeant Frodo, you've been doing an excellent job.  What can I do for you?"

"Well Sir, we're having a little problem down here, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for your help."

"What seems to be the probem?"

"Well Sir, there's this new guy here, and he doesn't seem to agree with his room assignment."

"Okay, is he an upper or a lower berth assignee?"

"Lower."

"Well, why not just assign him to an escort by an archangel all the way down to the River Styx?"

"I tried that Sir, but he refused to cooperate without my personal assurance that his roommate would be a white, conservative, heterosexual American citizen."

"Well, I fail to see the problem.  Surely that fits the description of almost all those assigned to the Underworld?"

"Yes Sir, that is correct.  However, the problem is that his conduct while on the small, blue planet was not consistent with someone who has the option to pick his own roommate."

"I see, so this must either be a child molester or a member of the Bush Administration?"

"Actually Sir, even worse, it is Jesse Helms."

"Jesse Helms!  You mean that ill-mannered, egotistical, homophobic, racist ignoramus that ran the Senate Judiciary Committee while 'serving' the people of North Carolina?"

"One and the same."

"You know, Mr. Frodo, I've been waiting on this one for a long, long time.  Jesse Helms became the proof that the 'good die young,' wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed I do.  What would you like me to do?"

Saint Peter smiled.

"How about telling Mr. Helms that he'll meet his eternal roommmate on the specific instructions of 'The Big Guy.'"

"You mean?"

"Yes, I'll assign him to Plato."

"Mickey Mouses' dog was gay?"

"No Mr. Frodo, I'm talking about the Greek philosopher."

"Gosh Saint Peter, I was sort of hoping for somebody else."

"Like whom?"

"How about a black guy like Sammy Davis, Junior?"

"Well, that's not bad, but I was thinking about someone who would keep him up at night wondering, you know?"

"How about Liberace?"

"Bingo.  He'll never close his eyes around that guy."

"A wise decision Sir.  This'll probably get you re-elected." 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:52 PM EDT

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Mood:  blue

Although never a member of the Fellowship, Delano has always been a special friend to Frodo, and to Sam.  Whereas Frodo was ambitious and curious, Delano was fun-loving, and charming.  Delano has always been, and with all due apologies to the feminine gender herein, the guy who could charm the pants off of any woman.  History is a guide.

Today Frodo returned from an overnight in reunion at Lake Lovey, with an old friend.  Fish were caught by Frodo's guile, and flames gently touched the garlic sauce, which dripped onto the charcoal, which browned the tender insides of the meal made for erstwhile kings.  Stories long legend where re-told and laughter long forgotten was recalled.  Frodo dropped a lime into the clear bottle, and offered one to his friend, but the offer was uncharacteristically rebuffed.

Lines were cast deep into the darkness, and continued until Frodo's friend surprisingly urged a return to the comfort of bed and hearth ashore.  Aland, Frodo found himself reaching out to grasp the arm, and to steady his friends' step as they climbed to the lights above the berth of the Minnow.  Once settled beneath the stars, and beside the citonella candles which guard against the most devilish of intruders, Delano lit a cigarette, and exhaled deep into the night sky.  Frodo was quizzical, but before he could offer comment, Delano spoke to his old friend.

"Frodo, I cannot drink, because of medication.  I cannot make love to even the grandest conquest of my life.  I have but one pleasure left, and it is mine to enjoy, as I have always done.  Let me say that the pain I have experienced has been more severe than any wound from any sword, and the intensity has been such that on many occasions, I have considered the only remedy."

Frodo tried to respond, but Delano continued, telling him that his life's partner had taken charge of all firearms, and had put them beyond his reach.  He told Frodo that the suffering had eased, and that he had found ways to adapt which no longer made the final remedy seem a matter of implementation, much less timing.

In the morn the two dropped line again, and Delano matched Frodo's catch of the evening past.  It was a matter of attainment for Delano, and of silent joy for Frodo.  Frodo was increasingly aware that many of the most bawdy and baudacious moments in his life had centered around the outrageous and unrepentant character who sailed this day with Frodo, and Mick, the Wonder Dog.  Wisdom teaching Frodo that all would probably not gather again in celebration as they did when Delano landed that struggling panfish at Lake Lovey. 

Frodo drove home, recalling the final words of Augustus to Woodrow, which befit the soliloquoy of those who have lived life as they wished, and who face its exit without regret.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:27 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

Several years ago, Frodo coveted a small pontoon boat he'd noticed sitting on a vacant lot near Lake Lovey.  Many times he'd genuflected in Sam's presence about how neatly it would serve the Hobbits and their canine adjutants.  Sam, ever sensitive to the needs of Mr. Frodo, noticed a "For Sale" sign on the property, and, unknown to Frodo, called the absentee owner.  The absentee owner, of course, was more interested in selling the vacant lot than he was the pontoon boat.  Sam, depressed, decided that that was that, and the effort was concluded.

Some months later, Sam received a telephone call from the absentee owner, who informed Sam that he had sold the property, and, if Sam were still interested, he would sell the pontoon boat.  Sam then divulged the situation to Frodo, who was, in a word, delirious.  Frodo and Sam then made arrangements to meet with the owner, and to strike a deal.  For months afterward, every Hobbit in the area inquired about the pontoon boat, only to learn that good Sam had beaten them to the punch.  Frodo was a very happy Hobbit.

Dubbed the "S.S. Minnow," Hobbits and canines, roughly equivalent to characters named Ginger, the Professor, Gilligan, the Skipper, Mary Ann, and Mrs. Howell, quickly found adequate space in order to float on a barge fit for Cleopatra herself.  When not fully-occupied, the Minnow served Frodo and friends for piscatorial adventures with rod, reel, and curious noses.  It has been Frodo's proudest capital asset.

During the prolonged drought in the areas about the Shire, dangerously-low water levels have exposed sharp-ended rocks to the bottom of the Minnow.  Several times, Frodo has found at least one of the pontoons filled with water, and the pontoon boat in danger of sinking.  Applying his questionable motor skills to problems of this nature is a study in futility.  Frodo is indeed, a lover, not a fighter; at least in instances such as this.

The crux of the problem has been that the pontoon boat, more than 30 years old, is no longer manufactured in the size and format of the Minnow.  Frodo is unable to simply buy a new pontoon, replace the leaky one, and go on about his business.  Further, he learned, aluminum is not easily patched, with solder or by any other process.  There are few substances which will adhere to aluminum and remain.  Frodo grew weary of draining the leaky pontoon every time he wanted to float the boat, so to speak.

The miracle of the Internet served Frodo once again.  His friend, Mr. Google, told him that a potential chemical product could be found at the sports megalith which sits inconveniently on Lake Lanier, many miles from the Shire.  Frodo scrimped and saved in order to afford sufficient gasoline to provide transportation to the retail establishment.  When at last he wandered into the arms of the waiting salesperson, he was introduced to an epoxy substance which apparently addressed all his needs.  Frodo was ecstatic.

Frodo visited Lake Lovey this past weekend, and set about the repairs on the Minnow.  When he opened the epoxy, he found that it bore a significant resemblance to what one might label as C-4 Explosive.  It was a gooey, malleable substance not quite as user-friendly as modelling clay.  Frodo was instructed to mold the substance for several minutes, then to spread over punctures within "9-to-14 minutes," since the substance quickly begins to harden.  Sam was worried, fearing that Mr. Frodo was about to adjoin himself to a pontoon, or perhaps, even worse, leave Mick, the Wonder Dog, as an attachment to the Minnow itself.

Somehow, things seemed to work well.  Frodo identified several small punctures, and patched each.  The epoxy seemed to properly set, harden, and to hold.  The test will be how the Minnow holds while tied to Frodo's dock of the bay.

Although Frodo is very proud of himself for, perhaps, having dealt with an insoluble problem on his own, his mood is better described as grumpy because of the need for all this activity in the first place. 

Huck and Tom had it better.   All they had to contend with was Injun Joe.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:54 PM EDT

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Mood:  bright

On the day that Senator Barack Obama (D-IL) declared his candidacy for the Presidency of the United States in Springfield, Illinois, Frodo ordered a Tee Shirt and two bumper stickers.  Frodo has subsequently contributed to the Obama campaign, and he intends to do so again.  It was Frodo's opinion on that day that this young man was "Lincolnesque" in both stature and in his approach to the world at large.  Frodo had already determined that Obama was both older than John F. Kennedy, and had more time served in the Legislative Branch than had Abraham Lincoln, himself.  Subsequently, Frodo determined that Obama was older than both Jefferson, when penning the "Declaration of Independence," and Columbus, upon discovery of a "New World."  Frodo decided at that moment that the issue of age and experience would be of no consideration in his advocacy on behalf of the Junior Senator from Illinois.

Frodo made the assumption that Obama was much more "electable" than any of his competitors, and he was somewhat taken aback when he received similar but contradictory comments from friends and associates supporting other candidates.  Frodo was concerned when many of those people who have stood with him in prior struggles were so vehement in their rejection of one about whom they seemed to know so very little.  Truly, Frodo looked back and questioned his own judgment, simply to make sure that his hope and faith for the future had not clouded his assessment, or his investment. 

Frodo did not know that John Fitzgerald Kennedy was the right guy for his time until he watched him on the podium on the day of his Inauguration.  It was not the words which Frodo long ago memorized, and recalls with tears in his eyes from time-to-time, but it was the reaction of the President when a young man came flying down Pennsylvania Avenue amidst the snow and the cold, on the back of a live buffalo.  Kennedy called him back, to return to the viewing stand, so that he could shake his hand, and pat the buffalo.  Kennedy smiled, he laughed, he applauded, as the buffalo took off at a breakneck pace to contnue the parade  and to delight an entire nation (except, perhaps, for anyone named Nixon).

Frodo was not there to make a similar assessment about Mr. Lincoln, so he doesn't have a long and distinguished track record in this regard, but today, he has the exact same feeling he had on that bitter cold day in January, 1961.  Frodo became aware of the Latin motto on the Obama Campaign Seal, which appears as the Topic in this treatise. 

Frodo was struck by the fact that so much of what we say, and read, and believe, is rooted in the classical Latin.  How appropriate it is to link the cornerstone of a political campaign to the very heart of who we, the peoples of Middle Earth, are each to one another.  Frodo's courage, taking the Ring as his personal curse, when all others seemed adrift, was matched by those who joined with him, and sacrificed so much in order to combat evil, no matter its' form.  Lord Tolkien would have used a similar translation, had he thought of it first. 

"Vero possumus."

Yes we can.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:34 PM EDT

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Mood:  happy

Frodo is, admittedly, a ladies man.  There has always been a special appreciation for a well-turned ankle, a coy grin, or any of the other weapons in the feminine arsenal which for purposes of this treatise will now be known as WMD (weapons of masculine dissolution?).  Given this predisposition, Frodo has always been sensitive, not only to the feelings of women but to accomplishments in the face of odds which are beyond the calculating tools at Frodo's disposal.  There are, of course, selfish reasons for Frodo's apparently mature stand in behalf of the opposite sex.  Frodo, too, has needs.

Before digressing into another, more provocative, perspective on sexuality, Frodo wants to return to his theme, and talk about the difficulty that exists in treating all women equally.  Some women scare the mortal hell out of Frodo.  He is just as intimidated by certain aspects of feminine behavior as he would be by Michael Tyson staring at his ear and referring to him as a "jive-ass honkey."  In his attempt to explain his opinion, within the bounds of political correctness, Frodo has been paying very close attention to the television appearances of Mrs. Cindy McCain and Mrs. Michelle Obama.  Politics aside, Frodo wants to merely present the biases that have colored his perspective on both of these prominent, accomplished, intelligent women.  Frodo will do so in one paragraph, each.  Afterwards, Frodo may take a short hiatus in order to avoid further bloodshed.

Cindy McCain was a character in "The Stepford Wives."  She has lasers for eyes (definitely a WMD), and uses them to undress every man who steps before her.  Mrs. McCain founded the Junior League, and it is her intent to have every male drafted into the seraglio maintained to benefit its membership.  Frodo is reminded of the advertisement with Joan Rivers commenting on her own facelifts, which leave her without any feeling much less the capacity to determine whether or not she is herself smiling.  Cindy McCain never carries more than $50 in cash (to avoid disclosing any financial information in the presence of surreptitious agents of the US Treasury).  Lastly, Mrs. McCain appears as if she were the center post around which the tethered volleyball (her husband, while wringing his hands in a somnambulistic trance) wraps itself on stage.

There, Frodo has disclosed what he really thinks (any similarity between these words and those of Tucker Carlson of the tightly-squeezed knees is purely unintentional).

Michelle Obama has won a gold medal in each of the last six Olympiads.  She can run faster, jump higher, and shoot a basketball far beyond the dreams of the Hobbit.  When angered, a "fist bump" becomes a WMD which can remove teeth or terminate any possibility of progeny.  Mrs. Obama is an attorney for the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, and she is determined to prosecute every male who has ever even dreamed of becoming a supervisor.  She also intends to avenge her older sister, Anita Hill.  Mrs. Obama never carries a purse (keeping both hands free for "fist bump" purposes), and the Secret Service Agents in her retinue always walk behind her carrying plastic water bottles (in case her husband has an uncontrollable cigarette urge).

Frodo will now retreat in order to consider the more prurient aspects of the relationship between political candidate and first spouse.  Now, dear reader, do you understand why Frodo supported Obama, and not Clinton?    

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:04 PM EDT

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Mood:  on fire

Last evening, after the obligatory fifteen-minute downpour, the darkening shadows brought forth an armada of lightning bugs.  The gardenias began to give way to the magnolias, and there was a mixture of aroma and humidity which had already given birth to Faulkner, Morris, Jones, Sams, O'Connor, Welty, and Lee.  Frodo had spent the day relieving weeds of their struggle for dominance, and the gallant Braves were still an hour or two away from the commencement of their battle with warriors from the west coast.  This night it was easy to understand why alcohol is a corollary to the written word and why people who don't drink are so boring.

Frodo favors certain light beers, in a bottle; a clear one seems to hold the temperate nature best.  Adding a slice of lime is a nice touch learned courtesy of his most recent visit to Mexico.  Vodka, but certainly nothing packaged in plastic, mixed strongly with Mr. Rose's lime definition gives Frodo the kind of sip that succors just such a summer's eve past sunset but before the darkness surrounds him.  These are the moments of sounds unseen, and aromas, aromas familiar for a million years and a million miles away to those fortunate enough to have been swaddled in cotton grown and processed just down the road.  

Frodo feels like talking, but Sam is exploring a contemporary who writes of murder and mayhem.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, does not hold up well in warm weather, and is kicking nervously into the night in pursuit of rabbits in his memory.  So Frodo is alone, with his thoughts of duties to be done, but time better spent merely peering into the darkness, searching for secrets.

Willie Morris is in the corner with James Jones, and they are telling stories about their times together in New York City, when they owned the world, and lived to tell about it.  Harper Lee and Faulkner are smoking cigarettes, and whispering, about what no one can hear.  Flannery and Welty talk with their neighbor Dr. Sams, and at least one of them knows she has finally found a good man.  Frodo waltzes among his guests, Sam in tow, and  refreshes their drinks, without saying a word.  Then, when the clock is prepared to strike, the party comes to a conclusion, the darkness settles in, and Skip Caray takes command of the night. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 1:46 PM EDT

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Mood:  sad

It must have been tough going down in that B-24, on fire, surviving the crash, but feeling the pustules form all over your back had to make you feel helpless.  You got through it though, with a little help from a lot of friends.

It must have been as if life was no longer worth living when she died, your life partner.  Two daughters and a loving son, and that unbelievably supportive hometown, were there to bring things back and let you find your way.

Time kept marching on though, and some changes had to be made.  You finally agree to move out of the old homeplace, in order to have closer attention.  Your sadness is masked by the people who keep coming by, checking on you.

Father's Day is upon you now, and you know that the kids will come together and bring the grandkids.  That's the best part, isn't it?

Well "Big Russ," you've certainly been dealt a pair of deuces in this hand, haven't you?  Losing your only Son, any child, has to be the cruelest twist of Fate's accomplices.

Frodo is shuffling around in the Gardens of the Shire this evening, and, not unlike Hobbits everywhere, feeling a little bit of self-pity for the disappearance from his black-and-white of someone whom he had never met; yet someone he had come to trust.  Frodo would like to tell "Big Russ" that he has every reason to celebrate the days he has had, but outliving your Son is something he cannot reconcile.

Peace, kind Sir.  Frodo weeps for you, you are never alone.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:35 PM EDT

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