Mood:  hug me

"Had Bilbo been of Scots-Irish descent, it would've been proper for Frodo to hire a lonely piper to play the ballad 'Goin' Home' as an appropriate vehicle.  Absent that, Frodo has too much respect for those here today to subject you to another part of Bilbo's legacy, a truly horrible singing voice.  So, with your indulgence, Frodo chose to create a poem from a song that she truly loved, and that is truly a part of her voyage on this day.  It is Frodo's way of saying good-bye:"

"Oh Shenandoah I long to see you away and hear your rolling river/

Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you/

Away, we are BOUND away/

Across the wide Missouri/

Oh Shenandoah, I LOVED your daughter/

Away/

You rolling river/

For her I'd cross your roaming waters away/

I'm BOUND away/

Cross the wide Missouri/

'Tis seven years since last I've seen you and heard your rolling river/

'Tis SEVEN years since last I've seen you away/

We're bound away/

Across the wide Missouri/

Oh Shenandoah/

I long to see you/

And hear your rolling river/

Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you/

Away/

We're BOUND away/

Across the wide Missouri."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:56 PM EDT

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Mood:  smelly

The University of Tennessee utilizes the name "Volunteers" to describe their inter-collegiate teams.  Supposedly, the term reflects the voluntary activity of those individuals from Tennessee who assisted in the struggle between Texas and Mexico.  Unfortunately, the assistance of the Tennesseans did little to assist the rest of the nation, and Mexico freed itself from Texas.  Frodo has always despised the University of Tennessee.

Frodo believes that the only good Texan was on the losing side of last Sunday Night's NFL march-up with the Washington Redskins.

Derek Dooley, son of football scion Vince Dooley, of Georgia, is the third Tennessee Football Head Coach in the last three years.  Following Phil Fullmer (aka "The Great Pumpkin") and Lane Kiffin (who dumped the Volunteers for Trojans), Dooley has an even more difficult task ahead of him than even he imagined.  The problem, according to the KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL is exacerbated by a number of players who have come down with staph infections.

Dooley, an attorney by training, was quoted as stating that the apparent source of these serious infections is in the locker room.  A number of "students of higher learning" are not-schooled in proper utilization of soap and washcloth.  Hygiene, it seems, is an item not necessarily included in "No Child Left Behind."

Frodo has a number of suggestions for the academic intelligentsia in Knoxville.  First, every scholarship athlete should be introduced to his, or her, let's not forget Title IX, butt (since many are unable to find it, even using two hands, and hopefully, a washcloth).  Second, Course Number 2-204 (a second year elective) entitled "Taking a Tub Bath," should be a required course, albeit in the second semester, in the first year in Knoxville.  Frodo also believes that "An Introduction to Indoor Plumbing" should be a part of Freshman Orientation for any student-athlete entering the University from the Tennessee Secondary Schools.

The "Vols" were waxed by whomever they played last week.  A similar result is predicted for almost all of the remaining schedule.

Life is not all bad.   There is a whole new meaning however, to the cheer "Go Vols."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:44 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

GDP is an acronym.  Acronyms are sometimes confusing to Frodo.  GPS, for example, and other techy-sounding capitalized letters are a thousand light years away from LSMFT (readers under forty, who have never smoked, will be up all night with that one).  GDP is an acronym that seems to come under discussion the closer one gets to an election, and Frodo thinks it is a good idea for non-Koran book burners to concentrate on it for at least the next two months.

The President has put forth a very good idea to spur the economy.  He has proposed that businesses who buy capital equipment, say like a bulldozer for example, get an immediate credit off their taxes, as opposed to the current practice of "depreciating" the cost of the bulldozer over a five-to-seven year period of time.  This is an incentive for the business to spend money now, and to find a use for that bulldozer knowing that the price may never be lower.  It follows that they will have to hire someone to drive it.  At the same time, the company who made the bulldozer will recognize that they can sell even more bulldozers, so they will need more people on the assembly line in order to make even more money.  Businesses such as these will make more money, and therefore have bigger tax bills to pay.  Revenue to the government will increase, without raising tax rates, and the tax revenue lost to the credit will be erased.

What Frodo likes about this plan is that it improves the GDP in an entirely different manner than what has happened over the past decade, when the growth in GDP came from retail customers who borrowed money and spent it like "drunken sailors."  The retail customer was the source of the flow of cash into the economy, which is fine, as long as that person has a job or feels pretty good about his ability to eventually pay the piper his due.  The problem has become that the retail customer lost his job, or he is afraid that he may, so he stops spending.  That momentum has carried itself throughout the economy and has resulted in furloughs, lay-offs, production cutbacks, and all those things which have caused the GDP to fall like a rock.

The President is attacking the problem in order to reverse the negative momentum by getting people back to work and incentivizing business to do so.  Doesn't sound so hard, does it?

So why didn't the Republicants come up with the idea?

John Boehner, Joe Barton, Newt Gingrich, Sharon Angle, Michelle Bachmann, Joe Miller, Rand Paul, Jim DeMint, Willy Gomert, Carly Fiorina, Sarah Palin, Glen Beck, Rush Limbaugh, "You Lie" (from South Carolina, the moron whose name even Frodo can't recall), John Ensign, Vitter, and yes, even good ole John McCain, are not the friends of peopple trying to make their way in the world today.

As the song said, "It takes everything ya got," and these losers haven't done diddly-squat.

Vote like your life depends on it, because it does. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:26 PM EDT

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Mood:  a-ok

The coneflowers and the black-eyed susans have moved beyond color into the production of thistle to satisfy the finches.  Cardinals are heavy into sunflower seeds, and somebody has got to be helping the hummingbirds drain the colorful feeders in every corner of the Shire.  Bluebirds, none of whom seem attentive to Frodo's public housing projects, are in greater number than at any point in Frodo's memory.  Something, thinks Frodo, is definitely afoot, or on the wing anyway, in the gardens of the Shire.

Mr. Beau Neau McKitty seems to have taken leave from his patrol, for Frodo finds a mouse or two amongst the feeders almost every night.  It is as if the dip in temperature below 90 has hastened preparation for the days of darkness to come.  Since the forecast is for a week of return, does it not seem likely that all creatures great and small will lay low for a while?  Frodo is puzzled by the level of activity.  Perhaps they are preparing for the election mid-terms also?

This magical season, when football and baseball overlap, is reason enough for Frodo to temporarily hibernate, but it is the lure of the perfect weather and an outstanding novel, that occupy the moments not filled with the preparation for Bilbo's ceremony on Sunday to come.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is recovering nicely from the fear he threw into the heart of the Hobbit, and, except for the arthritis, is making his way around as if nothing bad had ever happened.

Frodo received the urn today.  He talked to it all the way home in his motorcar.  Bilbo would like to have known about the bluebirds and the cardinals, but the hummingbirds wouldn't have interested her very much at all.

Frodo has been practicing his poetic interpretation of "Oh Shenandoah."  It is a process he wishes he could share with he known as the poet, sometimes.  He won't be saying anything new, just changing the placement of commas (Oh Shenandoah I long to see you and hear your rolling river.  Oh Shenandoah I long to see you away.  We're bound away across the wide Missouri. . .) 

Perhaps all that is extraordinary is merely a reflection of the changes that occur when a Hobbit begins to talk to himself, or to those who cannot answer back.

Gadfry, you don't suppose that Frodo will evolve into a Republicant?  More likely it is the Hobbit merely learning to turn the page, and to keep the feeders full.   Open windows this time of year are narcotic. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:56 PM EDT

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Mood:  blue

Two A.M., almost exactly twenty hours ago.

Sam answered the telephone call, that Frodo already knew was directed to him.  So did Sam.

Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, both knew something was dreadfully wrong as Frodo's motorcar pulled out of the driveway of the Shire pointed toward the Houses of Healing.

The guard at the front gate informed Frodo that Bilbo had already been taken from the premises, and he told Frodo exactly what he had seen, and how the body was found.

The caregivers, of equal heart but different appearance from those who recognized Frodo when he visited during the time of the risen Sun, were quick to explain what they knew, and how much more they wished they could have done.  Frodo wanted to kiss each and every one, for they are the noblest, and the bravest, of us all.

She who manned the night shift directed Frodo to the "Family Room," where the process for what would follow was laid upon in great detail.  They were soon joined by "a member of the family," from Hospice.  Frodo quickly determined that he had no need to see Bilbo in the morgue, unless it was required, and since it was not so required, he opted to remember his Mother as she had been only eight hours before.  Having her remain one minute longer than necessary in such a place acceleraated his administrative decision-making.

The ticket-taker at the parking lot waved Frodo through, without charge.  Frodo regretted prior reference to the greed of those whose fees were never less than astronomical.

Frodo returned to Bilbo's room, retrieved her purse, and dropped into it the items she had worn when carried out.  He purposefully failed to lock the door as he went out, knowing that it would not happen, welcoming those who shared in Bilbos' final days to take anything that they might need or use.

The drive back to the Shire was the worst of moments.  Only an auto here and there in the time before dawn, and the music on the radio not being appropriate for the mood of a Hobbit with a broken heart. 

Frodo read the morning paper, and drank his coffee, and he again turned the automobile away, and proceeded to his duties at Mount Doom.  Within two hours, Sam called, frantic, that Mick, the Wonder Dog, was in seizure, and that Frodo's immediate attention was required.

Dr. Porsches met Frodo at his office, and sent Frodo away while he tended to his favorite.  The anxiety of the Wonder Dog is accentuated when suddenly he realizes that he cannor find Frodo.

The seizure was real, and it may signal an abnormal growth or a dysfunctional major organ.  In any event, this was not the news that Frodo needed to hear on this, this dreaded day.

The hour now approaches that signals finality to September Morn, and Mick, the Wonder Dog has been laid on the royal throne, so that the Hobbit-Master can reach out and touch him, and stroke his softness throughout the night.  The eyes of his friend call out for assurance, and an end to volts that occur without explanation.

Should you wander out before the Sun rises again, be not surprised to see the Hobbit carrying his friend to a suitable location for relief.

Anything, anytime, for a friend, Mother or Dog.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:29 PM EDT

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Mood:  surprised

Frodo is thinking about the end of summer, and how what is really trivial comes front and center.  One of the Election Campaign Chairmen for George W. Bush, and a former Chairman of the GOP itself, came out of the closet today, and it made the news.  On a whim, Frodo flipped the remote to every news channel he could, and surveyed the web locations of his favorites, and he found nary a mention of the President of the United States.  Is he still up on the Cape?  Is he en route to the City of Orleans?  Or is he writing his political epitaph?

Wanda Sykes, a bizarre sort unto herself, said recently that the thing that she holds most dear about the Presidential Election of 2008 was the fact that for the first time in American History the winner was not an "old white guy."  What concerns her now, she added, "is the fact that President Obama's hair is turning gray, and his skin is getting all wrinkly.  He's becoming an old white guy right before our eyes."

Frodo remembers, and has commented on the fact, that being alone is often a treasure for those addicted to self-speech and course correction.  Perhaps the President has found a way to take long strides along a city sidewalk wearing a funky hat and a Chicago Bears jersey while he smokes a cigarette and tries to remember what Sly Fox used to taste like.  If he talks out loud he can probably rest assured that any casual passersby will pay him little mind, and cross the street.

At least that's what they do for Frodo.

It is well-documented that Abraham Lincoln is a model for the young President, and fitting it must be for another who suffered so under the pressure of his time to be the object of analysis by he who seeks answers to so many questions today.  Hugely unpopular it apparently was for one to emancipate by proclamation, and widely misunderstood the other by the smoke, mirror, and intentional obfuscation of those who value something other than the common good.  Through that analogy, he keeps his eye on the prize, if you will, and struggles to make now the when.  His course is a good one, but the rough seas have fouled his engine, and rodents scramble down the halyard, into the darkness.

Frodo knows that to lament the mis-step makes the next footfall even more precarious.  It is true, after all, that we are only granted a finite number to take us upon our chosen route.   We know not how many that may be, for the count is different for each of us.  It is also probable that there are facts now unknown, despite the clarity offered by constant flashes of information.  That which we today know not, may change everything, real and perceived, when, and surely when will occur, it becomes true that perhaps peace afield comes home to roost or there comes an awareness of true complicity by simple-minded tasters of power. 

Doris Day, was it not?  Que sera, sera.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:07 PM EDT

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Mood:  irritated

"Soldier, come here now!"

"Yessir, Sergeant Frodo here, Sir."

"Sergeant, what exactly is going on over there?"

"Over where, General Sir?"

"Those men in uniform, over there, in the hallway, here in the Pentagon, they're all on their knees."

"Yessir General, those men are praying."

"Praying?  I've never seen anybody pray like that, and there are lots of Jews and Catholics in Pennsylvania, where I'm originally from."

"Those soldiers are Muslims, General Sir, and they are called to prayer five times each day."

"Muslims?  Here?  In the Pentagon?  After their brothers crashed an airplane right over there, and killed all them innocent people on 9-11.  Who allowed this travesty to occur?"

"General Sir, those are officers and enlisted men of the United States, in fact, several of their comrades were among those killed and wounded on that terrible day."

"Well, if you ask me, I think we now have some idea of how that whole thing got to take place."

"Sir?  What are you saying?"

"Well, first of all, it is insulting to those who survived the attack to have those who committed that horrible crime to even be in this building, much less putting on a display of their exhibitions.  But, dodn't you think it is likely that our security was jeopardized by them giving their fellow towelheads information about our nation's defenses?"

"Sir, I don't believe that for a minute.  I know some of those soldiers, and they are good soldiers, good Americans."

Well, soldier, now you know why you're a Sergeant, and I am a General."

"If you'll excuse me Sir, I have to return to my duties."

"Just you remember what I said.  What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Frodo Sir, Sergeant Frodo."

"Well, Sergeant Frodo, that's a pretty strange name, you're not one of them are you?"

"No Sir, I am a Hobbit."

"A Hobbit eh, is that something like a midget?"

"Sometimes Sir, when I hear uninformed people utter unimaginable drivel, I realize how small I become when I don't stand up for truth, and for justice.  I realize then that it may cost me great pain and grief, but for anyone to question the integrity of people like those soldiers over there, just because of their faith, it becomes too much for even I, the smallest and the weakest."

"You are very naive, soldier."

"Perhaps Sir."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think that. . ."

"That Sir, is your problem.  You don't know better.   Now, if you'll return my salute of the rank, I'll be on my way.  Understand, Sir, that the salute has nothing to do with you, just your rank.  And Sir, rest assured I will have a difficult time forgetting what you have said.  Especially when I see soldiers, on their knees, in prayer."

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:35 PM EDT

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Mood:  energetic

One does not have to know very much about baseball in order to recall that the Atlanta Braves were, for a very long time, the absolute worst team in the game.  The benefit of consistent ineptitude is that the worst teams get to select first when amateur players become eligible to sign with professional teams, but poor selections and injuries meant that the Braves were on a treadmill that offered hope, but little change.

One year however, something changed.  The Braves were torn between a pitcher from Southern California who appeared to be the revitalization of both Dizzy Dean and Christy Mathewson, and a shortstop named Larry Wayne Jones, Jr.  The pitcher, in his arrogance, stated that he had no interest in being drafted by a losing team, so he would be most pleased if the Atlanta Braves looked elsewhere.  Thus opportunity came in the name of a shortstop, known then, and now forever, as "Chipper."

Chipper suffered a torn ACL soon thereafter, but surgery, and rehabilitation restored his ability, although his speed afoot notably decreased.  The Braves management, most notable Manager Bobby Cox, asked "Chipper" if he wouldn't mind giving third base a try, a position which requires quickness, but puts a lot less demand on the knees.  It wasn't long until he became the regular third-baseman, and it seemed to miraculously occur at the same time that the guys around him started to play a whole lot better, as a team.

Today, "Chipper" is the last player on the gallant Braves regular line-up who was a regular performer on the 1995 World Champion Atlanta Braves.  During his tenure, the gallant Braves won 10 of their 14 consecutive league championships, a record unmatched by any professional sport, anywhere, ever.

Frodo fell in love with "Chipper" for a couple of reasons.  First off, the fans in New York who attended baseball games at Shea Stadium (home of the Mets) thought they were getting his goat by chanting "Larry, Larry, Larry" whenever he strode to the batter's box.  Unfortunately for them, "Larry" has hit more home runs, driven in more runs, and had the highest batting average attained by any regular opponent in Shea Stadium.  He also named one of his sons "Shea."  How cool is that?

The other reason has to do with Frodo's father, who died before Chipper ever made it to the big leagues.  Frodo's dad loved Dale Murphy, the gentle giant who tried harder than anyone but always came up smiling.  Frodo's father was very ill, but he would call Frodo and ask "What's wrong with Murphy?," seemingly every time his favorite player failed to hit three or more home runs per game.  Frodo truly wishes he could've talked about "Chipper" with his dad.  That would have been cool, too.

This past week, while leaping for a batted ball off the bat of a Houston Astro, Chipper fell to the earth upon his injured leg after throwing the baserunner out in a brilliant play.  He had the tendon of a cadaver implanted to replace the newly-torn ACL in an operation yesterday.  Recovery will take six months, so his further participation in the pennant run of the first-place gallant Braves is ended.

"Chipper" says he will come back for one more season.  He is 38 years old, and no player, at age 39, has ever come back to play again after such a debilitating injury.  In addition, the only manager he has ever had in the major leagues, the irrepressible Bobby Cox, has already announced his retirement upon the completion of this season.  The will, and the determination of the athlete, may simply not be enough, for one more year.

Shucks. 

P.S.  That pitcher from Southern California was a "coke head" and he has been in drug rehabilitation programs for more than a dozen years.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:57 PM EDT

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Mood:  suave

Frodo's Aunt Blanche will always be remembered for the phrase, "It is always 5:00 somewhere."  The magic hour closes in on Frodo this wickedly warm Saturday in August, as he culminates his labors of love in the gardens of the Shire.  Soon he will gather his favorite cocktail glass, a bottle of Roses' Lime Juice, any good bottle-contained European or Slavic Vodka, a sliced lime, about a pound of shaved or chipped ice, and a stirrer purloined from one of any number of favored bars located in well-remembered locations throughout Middle Earth.  The result, a Gimlet, is one way to truly define the Hobbit.

James Bond would say, "Shaken, not stirred." 

Frodo says, "On the rocks, if you please."

A gimlet, straight-up, is nothing more than a martini before viagra.  Absent the presence of green-tinted ice, and a solitary droplet of moisture in search of a coaster beneath, there is no romance in the refreshment that satisfies thirst, and relaxes the senses better than any this time of year.  Frodo prefers to remain seated, with a view of a setting sun clouded by flashes of lightning in the faraway lands beyond the canopy of the Shire.  There is always music, the best of friends, and Sam.

It is now 10 minutes past five o'clock. 

Time's a wastin'. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 5:11 PM EDT

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Mood:  quizzical

Frodo repeats himself only when he forgets that he has already told a tale or three.  That is, until now. 

The Men of Gondor spent a luncheon with a whole gaggle of West Point graduates.  The guest speaker was the man who is now the last remaining survivor of the flight of the Enola Gay; he who served as Navigator.  The tale that was told that day contained intrigue, history, comedy, and it left Frodo in awe.  He stood in silence afterwards, listening to the comments of those who approached the Navigator.  One Marine, now a bit less formidable than he was in 1945, told of his days on Okinawa, awaiting the orders to land on the Japanese mainland, and how grateful he was for the gift of life he had been given by those who ended the War before that fateful day arrived.  One, from the men of Gondor, asked about the horror that happened upon a basically civilian population, and if it was a memory that haunted the crew thereafter.  The responses were heartfelt, and honest.

Frodo never knew that the mission was potentially a suicide-run.  The amount of time available to the Enola Gay was considered not sufficient to allow the ship to out-run the enormity of the explosion.  It was truly hair-raising to listen as the Navigator spoke about the passage of time, and the uncanny skill of a pilot with only moments to spare.

Frodo has thought many times about that meeting, and he listens with an open-mind to those who have deep opinions, and great pain to share, about the events that took place and led to that day, 65 years ago.  Frodo believes that he was in the presence of the Man who has, indeed, come closest to the hand of God.  Despite the rantings of those who feel a calling to clarify what God said, it was this one Man who truly witnessed "the terrible swift sword," the ending, if you will, as opposed to the beginning. 

He works in his garden, in the town of Stone Mountain, Georgia.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:30 PM EDT

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