"The Gods Are Bored" will be taking a few days off to attend the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. If you are able to attend, please join the Mountain Tribe. Meet and greet Anne, get a great prize from deep in the heart of the Arkansas mountains!
Today "The Gods Are Bored" mourns the passing of Melinda Welsh, age 23, of cystic fibrosis. Melinda was beautiful, talented, and sweet to the core. We at TGAB will have trouble remembering her without seeing a homeless dog in her lap, since she is the daughter of the Pet Shelter Lady who doles out foster kittens.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" salute Melinda, Goddess of the Puppies. May she find happiness and vitality in the Summerlands. May her name be recorded in the hearts of the bored gods.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Big, Broad, Flexible Religion
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," contrarian politics and mish-mash religion since 2005! I'm Reverend Annie, senior minister. Pass the plate.
In just two days my daughter The Spare and I will embark for the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. If you live near Baltimore, Washington, York, PA or in that vicinity, won't you come and see us there? I am Leader of the Mountain Tribe.
The Maypole Ceremony begins at noon, so please come by 11:00 so we can all march in together! Dress like your favorite fairy, wear your kilt, bring your dog, smile, smile, smile! I can't wait to meet you!
The first year we attended the Fairie Festival, my daughter, my niece and I had to pass by a group of Christian protesters. They were loudly predicting hellfire and damnation for Pagans. Indeed they went so far as to say that anyone who entered the gates of the festival would surely fry. They were not numerous, but they were loud. And they had signs.
I remember one of them shouted: "May Day! May Day! That's what pilots yell just before they're killed in a crash! And that's what's gonna happen to you!"
Spare and I shrugged this off as pathetic. But I could see it bothered my niece, who is a quiet girl encased to the eyebrows in the Roman Catholic Church. Niece goes to Catholic school, where she is no doubt told that she'd better watch out for Pagan activities and avoid them like the swine flu.
My mind keeps wandering to these protesters as I prepare to take a role in the May Day ceremony at the festival. Make no mistake, that ceremony is Celtic, no trace of Christianity to be found whatsoever within it.
When the weather is nice, more than 10,000 people come to the festival each day. Quite a number of them are Pagans of one practice or another. But if all of them were Pagans, and all of them practiced the same Craft, that would just be astonishing. Even the people who gather at Stonehenge on the Solstices aren't all of one mind.
Looks like a job for "The Gods Are Bored."
I want everyone who joins the Mountain Tribe, whether they be Roman Catholic like my niece, Pentecostal like my sister (yes, WOW! She's coming!), or eclectic Druid, like Nettle, (who coincidentally has a terrific post up right now about the blending of religious practices) to feel welcome. And so, while preparing liturgy, I will be mindful that this is an opportunity to witness for the bored gods, but not at the expense of the busy ones.
What service will I perform for my deities or myself if I belittle anyone else's faith? I'll be no better than those misguided protesters by the entrance gate.
My Tribe's direction is North, and our holidays are Samhain and Yule. So we're going to sing "Deck the Halls." 'Tis the season to be jolly, not to play "my deities are better than yours."
It's my feeling that most people who attend festivals bring their religions with them, already formed. Those who don't have a religion may find one, those who don't like their religions might change to a new one, but this must be an organic matter between the individual and his or her conscience. Besides, this is a fun event. Actually, the fact that it is a fun event, with no religious coercion, probably works strongly in favor of the bored gods.
So join us, won't you please? Still wavering? You should see the awesome dragon who landed in the back seat of my car this afternoon! His name is Big Red, and he's going to the festival with us. I'll tell his story another time.
In just two days my daughter The Spare and I will embark for the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. If you live near Baltimore, Washington, York, PA or in that vicinity, won't you come and see us there? I am Leader of the Mountain Tribe.
The Maypole Ceremony begins at noon, so please come by 11:00 so we can all march in together! Dress like your favorite fairy, wear your kilt, bring your dog, smile, smile, smile! I can't wait to meet you!
The first year we attended the Fairie Festival, my daughter, my niece and I had to pass by a group of Christian protesters. They were loudly predicting hellfire and damnation for Pagans. Indeed they went so far as to say that anyone who entered the gates of the festival would surely fry. They were not numerous, but they were loud. And they had signs.
I remember one of them shouted: "May Day! May Day! That's what pilots yell just before they're killed in a crash! And that's what's gonna happen to you!"
Spare and I shrugged this off as pathetic. But I could see it bothered my niece, who is a quiet girl encased to the eyebrows in the Roman Catholic Church. Niece goes to Catholic school, where she is no doubt told that she'd better watch out for Pagan activities and avoid them like the swine flu.
My mind keeps wandering to these protesters as I prepare to take a role in the May Day ceremony at the festival. Make no mistake, that ceremony is Celtic, no trace of Christianity to be found whatsoever within it.
When the weather is nice, more than 10,000 people come to the festival each day. Quite a number of them are Pagans of one practice or another. But if all of them were Pagans, and all of them practiced the same Craft, that would just be astonishing. Even the people who gather at Stonehenge on the Solstices aren't all of one mind.
Looks like a job for "The Gods Are Bored."
I want everyone who joins the Mountain Tribe, whether they be Roman Catholic like my niece, Pentecostal like my sister (yes, WOW! She's coming!), or eclectic Druid, like Nettle, (who coincidentally has a terrific post up right now about the blending of religious practices) to feel welcome. And so, while preparing liturgy, I will be mindful that this is an opportunity to witness for the bored gods, but not at the expense of the busy ones.
What service will I perform for my deities or myself if I belittle anyone else's faith? I'll be no better than those misguided protesters by the entrance gate.
My Tribe's direction is North, and our holidays are Samhain and Yule. So we're going to sing "Deck the Halls." 'Tis the season to be jolly, not to play "my deities are better than yours."
It's my feeling that most people who attend festivals bring their religions with them, already formed. Those who don't have a religion may find one, those who don't like their religions might change to a new one, but this must be an organic matter between the individual and his or her conscience. Besides, this is a fun event. Actually, the fact that it is a fun event, with no religious coercion, probably works strongly in favor of the bored gods.
So join us, won't you please? Still wavering? You should see the awesome dragon who landed in the back seat of my car this afternoon! His name is Big Red, and he's going to the festival with us. I'll tell his story another time.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Found: Faerie Portal
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," on the way to gay May! Hooray!
Beltaine is one of the primary holidays in honor of the bored deities of the Celtic pantheon. Properly done, it's a merry time of thanksgiving for the renewal of life and a time to spring into action, to get things done while the sun shines.
My Druid Grove, Coille dhe Darach Dhubh ("Grove of the Black Oak") holds its ceremonies in a lovely parkland west of Philadelphia. The park has 16 picnic grounds. We always meet at Area 14, where there's a broad field on one side and woods on the other.
Today we met for Beltaine, and it appeared that our Ritual would be disturbed by a group of rowdy young fellows who were embarking on a barbecue. So we moved deeper into the woods. Which seems to me to be a very Druidic thing to do.
About 200 yards from our usual Ritual site, we found a little clearing. Around this clearing are numerous birches that have been carved with initials, hearts, this and that -- you know how it is with those smooth-barked trees. People will hack at them, you just can't stop it.
Should Druids find tree graffiti alarming? Naaah. Seems like it hasn't harmed the trees, so why get huffy about it?
One of our members floated a little farther afield and found a younger birch with very small, meticulously-crafted carving. The message on the tree said:
My path
Follows
You and
Yours me
Which is
Your TREE
What is
Your key
Hmmm. Bunch of Druids wandering around in the woods stumble upon a tree with exquisite carving, and a riddle at that. Let's take a leap of faith, shall we?
It's a faerie portal. Find the right tree, and the right key, and you'll slip through the veil that separates people and faeries.
Of course there are many ways to part the veil. Next weekend the faeries will be celebrated lavishly at the Spoutwood Fairy Festival. But faeries can be anywhere. They especially like to be among people who respect them and entertain them.
After our Rituals conclude, we members of Coille dhe Darach Dubh like to do a round-robin toast, using sparkling cider. We pass the cup and offer a toast, and the person who drinks the last of it must pay a forfeit.
Today the forfeit fell upon Michael, he who had found the faerie portal. Michael brought his guitar. The forfeit was that he had to play and sing. But not just any song. He had to play and sing the silliest songs in his repertoire.
Michael promptly performed the forfeit brilliantly. He had the rest of us howling with some quite inventive stuff. Out crept the resident faeries, and they greatly appreciated the witty performance. I believe that these faeries have followed me home in anticipation of next week's festival.
I've spent a lot of time in the woods, and I've seen probably hundreds of birches with carvings on them. Never have I seen anything like this tree and its cunning riddle. What's even more remarkable is that you can't read the riddle if you stand too close to the tree. You have to move back and study it.
So I say to the faeries:
My path
Follows
You and
Yours me
Which is your TREE
What is your key
A SPREE
Is my key
Travel to it
with ME
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Trusty
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home-away-from-home for downsized deities! We offer special group rates. Check out our calendar of upcoming Pantheon Conventions!
Yesterday when I dropped off my car at the Vo-Tech Auto shop for an oil change, I saw my Trusty for the first time in more than a year. I ran over to her, threw my arms around her, and wept.
Trusty was my beloved Ford Escort 1994 that I bought in 2004 from a church lady who had done scrupulous maintenance. "Trusty" was a great name for that little hatchback. She ran like a charm from the day I bought her to the day my daughter The Heir totaled her in an accident.
I plastered Trusty with bumper stickers praising Druidism, the First Amendment, Tinker Bell, and H.L. Mencken.
Today Trusty no longer has her bumper stickers. Her seats have been removed, as have the door panels. There's a plate of steel welded to the side where she was hit, presumably to stabilize her frame.
Trusty has become a teaching tool at the Vo-Tech. I donated her to the school. The other day one of my students told me that his teacher used Trusty to show how automatic windows work.
The teacher who uses Trusty is a former employee of the Ford Motor Company. He says he got teary-eyed when he heard Ford would no longer produce Escorts. He said that the Escort was one of the best economy cars Ford ever made, if not the best.
Call me weird, but I form attachments to certain inanimate objects. I loved Trusty like you love your cat or dog. Seeing her sitting there behind the school, battered but still serving a noble use ... well, reader, I wept.
I'm glad it was 7:00 in the morning, with no one else around except the geese on the football field.
Dear Trusty. Long may you run.
Yesterday when I dropped off my car at the Vo-Tech Auto shop for an oil change, I saw my Trusty for the first time in more than a year. I ran over to her, threw my arms around her, and wept.
Trusty was my beloved Ford Escort 1994 that I bought in 2004 from a church lady who had done scrupulous maintenance. "Trusty" was a great name for that little hatchback. She ran like a charm from the day I bought her to the day my daughter The Heir totaled her in an accident.
I plastered Trusty with bumper stickers praising Druidism, the First Amendment, Tinker Bell, and H.L. Mencken.
Today Trusty no longer has her bumper stickers. Her seats have been removed, as have the door panels. There's a plate of steel welded to the side where she was hit, presumably to stabilize her frame.
Trusty has become a teaching tool at the Vo-Tech. I donated her to the school. The other day one of my students told me that his teacher used Trusty to show how automatic windows work.
The teacher who uses Trusty is a former employee of the Ford Motor Company. He says he got teary-eyed when he heard Ford would no longer produce Escorts. He said that the Escort was one of the best economy cars Ford ever made, if not the best.
Call me weird, but I form attachments to certain inanimate objects. I loved Trusty like you love your cat or dog. Seeing her sitting there behind the school, battered but still serving a noble use ... well, reader, I wept.
I'm glad it was 7:00 in the morning, with no one else around except the geese on the football field.
Dear Trusty. Long may you run.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Why I Kissed The Spare's Foot
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," patented pathways to parenting and upholstery repair! Let me see that brocade. I'll fix it!
Yesterday evening I kissed The Spare's foot. The Spare is the younger of my two daughters.
Spare and I were shopping at Macy's for a prom dress. Mindful of costs, Spare rejected a few that were beautiful but too expensive. Finally she trundled off to the dressing room, arms loaded with gooey gowns.
The dressing room at Cherry Hill Macy's is pretty large. Spare went into a cubicle, and I sat in the cubicle next door. Across from us was another mother-daughter pair, doing the same chore.
Except that pair seemed to have ascended from the jowls of hell.
It went something like this:
Teenzilla from Hell: Stop looking at me! You're looking at me! You're a lesbo.
Momzilla from Hell: I'm not looking at you. That isn't a good color for you.
Teenzilla: I KNEW it. You are staring at me! Lesbo!
Momzilla: Try on that yellow one.
Teenzilla: No. It will make me look fat!
(assorted rustling sounds)
Teenzilla: See? I told you, Mommmmmm. It makes me look fat! All these dresses make me look fat!
Momzilla: Well, didn't I tell you to lay off the pizza?
Teenzilla: YOU THINK I'M FAT! YOU THINK I'M FAT!
At this point The Spare appeared in a lovely little lavender number. She sashayed into my cubicle.
Anne: Oh, that's adorable! You look terrific!
Spare: Yeah. This is awesome. But it's kind of expensive.
Anne: It's not terrible. Maybe it'll be on sale at the register. But anyway, who cares? You just look stunning in it.
Spare: I have a little birthday money left.
Anne: Save it. I'll treat you.
Spare sashays back into dressing room to try on something else. At which point the bickering across the way escalates again.
Teenzilla from Hell: I don't like any of these dresses! They make me look fat!
Momzilla from Hell: Well, pick two, because you have to have one to go to Fay's.
Teenzilla: I hate Fay. I'm not going!
Momzilla: You have to go!
Teenzilla: I don't know which of these dresses I like. I want to buy all four.
Momzilla: I'm only buying two, so choose.
Teenzilla: I said I want all four!
Momzilla: I'm only buying two.
Teenzilla: Well then, we're not getting any, because I want them all, or none of them.
(Readers, I am not exaggerating this conversation. In fact, it loses in translation because you can't hear Teenzilla's sneering voice, or see Momzilla's anorexic Yuppie figure.)
So Teenzilla and Momzilla disappeared from the dressing room. That's when I asked The Spare to come into my cubicle, right away, no matter what she was wearing. She came in, barefoot. I told her to put her foot on the stool. She knew before I even bent down that I was going to kiss her foot. And I did!
Well, we had a big laugh, Spare and me, over those two beasts. What we didn't know is that the beasts had returned to the dressing room and were overhearing us. As we left with Spare's choice of dress (one dress, little lavender number), the mom-and-daughter-from-hell stared us down with withering glances.
Which only made us laugh the harder. Spare and I have had our differences to be sure, but never in public, and never over buying four expensive dresses! If Spare ever acted like that, I'd leave her stranded in the store. If I ever acted like the mom in this case, Spare wouldn't even go to the mall with me.
Lord love a fruit fly! What a pair of wretches those gals were! Money can't buy me love.
Yesterday evening I kissed The Spare's foot. The Spare is the younger of my two daughters.
Spare and I were shopping at Macy's for a prom dress. Mindful of costs, Spare rejected a few that were beautiful but too expensive. Finally she trundled off to the dressing room, arms loaded with gooey gowns.
The dressing room at Cherry Hill Macy's is pretty large. Spare went into a cubicle, and I sat in the cubicle next door. Across from us was another mother-daughter pair, doing the same chore.
Except that pair seemed to have ascended from the jowls of hell.
It went something like this:
Teenzilla from Hell: Stop looking at me! You're looking at me! You're a lesbo.
Momzilla from Hell: I'm not looking at you. That isn't a good color for you.
Teenzilla: I KNEW it. You are staring at me! Lesbo!
Momzilla: Try on that yellow one.
Teenzilla: No. It will make me look fat!
(assorted rustling sounds)
Teenzilla: See? I told you, Mommmmmm. It makes me look fat! All these dresses make me look fat!
Momzilla: Well, didn't I tell you to lay off the pizza?
Teenzilla: YOU THINK I'M FAT! YOU THINK I'M FAT!
At this point The Spare appeared in a lovely little lavender number. She sashayed into my cubicle.
Anne: Oh, that's adorable! You look terrific!
Spare: Yeah. This is awesome. But it's kind of expensive.
Anne: It's not terrible. Maybe it'll be on sale at the register. But anyway, who cares? You just look stunning in it.
Spare: I have a little birthday money left.
Anne: Save it. I'll treat you.
Spare sashays back into dressing room to try on something else. At which point the bickering across the way escalates again.
Teenzilla from Hell: I don't like any of these dresses! They make me look fat!
Momzilla from Hell: Well, pick two, because you have to have one to go to Fay's.
Teenzilla: I hate Fay. I'm not going!
Momzilla: You have to go!
Teenzilla: I don't know which of these dresses I like. I want to buy all four.
Momzilla: I'm only buying two, so choose.
Teenzilla: I said I want all four!
Momzilla: I'm only buying two.
Teenzilla: Well then, we're not getting any, because I want them all, or none of them.
(Readers, I am not exaggerating this conversation. In fact, it loses in translation because you can't hear Teenzilla's sneering voice, or see Momzilla's anorexic Yuppie figure.)
So Teenzilla and Momzilla disappeared from the dressing room. That's when I asked The Spare to come into my cubicle, right away, no matter what she was wearing. She came in, barefoot. I told her to put her foot on the stool. She knew before I even bent down that I was going to kiss her foot. And I did!
Well, we had a big laugh, Spare and me, over those two beasts. What we didn't know is that the beasts had returned to the dressing room and were overhearing us. As we left with Spare's choice of dress (one dress, little lavender number), the mom-and-daughter-from-hell stared us down with withering glances.
Which only made us laugh the harder. Spare and I have had our differences to be sure, but never in public, and never over buying four expensive dresses! If Spare ever acted like that, I'd leave her stranded in the store. If I ever acted like the mom in this case, Spare wouldn't even go to the mall with me.
Lord love a fruit fly! What a pair of wretches those gals were! Money can't buy me love.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tweaking Tradition
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we're either tried and true or fried and stew! We'll let the faeries decide.
When I left the One God Religion, I had a good dozen or more reasons for doing so. Ranked way down on the list was one that I've given some thought to over the past four years.
Let's say I was 45 when I decided not to go to the Methodist church anymore. By that age, I knew every word to every Christmas carol. I knew by heart the alto for the "Hallelujah Choir" by Handel and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." I knew every verse of about ten favorite Methodist hymns, and all five verses of "Christ the Lord Has Risen Today."
One of the final times I went to the Methodist church, after I'd already walked on them, was on Christmas Eve. (I forget why I went.) There they were, all the well-dressed white people, holding their little candles and singing "Silent Night" as the sanctuary lights dimmed around them.
That's when I realized. I'd been through this scene 44 times, conscious of it at least 40. Forty years of "Silent Night," little white candles, in a big dim church.
I sat there looking around, and there were a great many white heads in the congregation. I began to wonder how many times these people had sung "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve, holding little white candles?
Many of us revel in tradition, in doing things the same way year after year, regular as clockwork. Just watch my mother-in-law turn white as a sheet when I say I want to make fresh bread stuffing on Thanksgiving. Unthinkable!
It's this need for comforting regularity that helps religions stay in business. Someone who loves Christmas as a kid is going to remember all those carols as an adult and want to sing them again, because it reminds them of being a kid.
Okay, sue me for the grammar lapse, but you get what I mean, don't you?
It's the craving for tradition that has allowed Halloween, Easter, and May Day to survive, even if these holy days have mostly been tweaked. Would I go to McDonald's on Halloween, and then out to a movie? Pish tosh, no.
But there's that little conundrum. How can we keep a tradition going without it getting trodden to dust with boredom? Will there come a day when people yawn as they worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster?
I think this is a personal matter, but here's my advice:
1. If you're bored with the same old rituals in your praise and worship regimen, change religions! (I always suggest this first. It helps the bored gods.)
2. If you're bored with your religion and the rules of that religion allow it, alter the regimen! You don't have to throw out every tradition, just feel free to indulge in modifications.
What brings this pressing topic to mind? My Druid Grove will celebrate Beltane on Sunday, and I'm willing to forgo the Maypole. Do we really need to wind ribbons around a stick to celebrate the resurgence of life and the beginning of the growing season?
This is where worshiping bored gods comes in really, really handy. They are so glad you're paying attention to them at all that they're not going to chide you for not doing it right.
Perhaps you appreciate this more if you once were a ten-year-old acolyte trying to heft a bronze cross up a long church aisle, keeping it perfectly straight all the while, only to find the acolyte coordinator hissing at you from the nave because you have white socks on under your robe. To the tune of "Joy to the World," to which you know the soprano descant.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" say that traditions need to be tweaked, or trashed, or observed as you see fit. Have a heart-to-heart with your deity of choice and let him, her, or them guide your practice. You'll see. White socks will be A-Okay.
When I left the One God Religion, I had a good dozen or more reasons for doing so. Ranked way down on the list was one that I've given some thought to over the past four years.
Let's say I was 45 when I decided not to go to the Methodist church anymore. By that age, I knew every word to every Christmas carol. I knew by heart the alto for the "Hallelujah Choir" by Handel and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." I knew every verse of about ten favorite Methodist hymns, and all five verses of "Christ the Lord Has Risen Today."
One of the final times I went to the Methodist church, after I'd already walked on them, was on Christmas Eve. (I forget why I went.) There they were, all the well-dressed white people, holding their little candles and singing "Silent Night" as the sanctuary lights dimmed around them.
That's when I realized. I'd been through this scene 44 times, conscious of it at least 40. Forty years of "Silent Night," little white candles, in a big dim church.
I sat there looking around, and there were a great many white heads in the congregation. I began to wonder how many times these people had sung "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve, holding little white candles?
Many of us revel in tradition, in doing things the same way year after year, regular as clockwork. Just watch my mother-in-law turn white as a sheet when I say I want to make fresh bread stuffing on Thanksgiving. Unthinkable!
It's this need for comforting regularity that helps religions stay in business. Someone who loves Christmas as a kid is going to remember all those carols as an adult and want to sing them again, because it reminds them of being a kid.
Okay, sue me for the grammar lapse, but you get what I mean, don't you?
It's the craving for tradition that has allowed Halloween, Easter, and May Day to survive, even if these holy days have mostly been tweaked. Would I go to McDonald's on Halloween, and then out to a movie? Pish tosh, no.
But there's that little conundrum. How can we keep a tradition going without it getting trodden to dust with boredom? Will there come a day when people yawn as they worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster?
I think this is a personal matter, but here's my advice:
1. If you're bored with the same old rituals in your praise and worship regimen, change religions! (I always suggest this first. It helps the bored gods.)
2. If you're bored with your religion and the rules of that religion allow it, alter the regimen! You don't have to throw out every tradition, just feel free to indulge in modifications.
What brings this pressing topic to mind? My Druid Grove will celebrate Beltane on Sunday, and I'm willing to forgo the Maypole. Do we really need to wind ribbons around a stick to celebrate the resurgence of life and the beginning of the growing season?
This is where worshiping bored gods comes in really, really handy. They are so glad you're paying attention to them at all that they're not going to chide you for not doing it right.
Perhaps you appreciate this more if you once were a ten-year-old acolyte trying to heft a bronze cross up a long church aisle, keeping it perfectly straight all the while, only to find the acolyte coordinator hissing at you from the nave because you have white socks on under your robe. To the tune of "Joy to the World," to which you know the soprano descant.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" say that traditions need to be tweaked, or trashed, or observed as you see fit. Have a heart-to-heart with your deity of choice and let him, her, or them guide your practice. You'll see. White socks will be A-Okay.
Monday, April 20, 2009
My Worst Weird Trait
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," weighing navels in the balance and finding them wanting! Ever taken a long, hard look at yourself and said, "Gosh. I should change that." And I'm not talking about a sweaty t-shirt!
My worst weird trait is that I hate to buy stuff off the Internet.
It is even worse than that. Sometimes I'll read about a charity on the internet, and I'll procrastinate about sending money to it, even a check.
I don't do PayPal. It gives me jitters.
The reason I bring this up is because I want to get some crystals to hand out at the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm.
For those of you just joining us, I have the honor of being Leader of the Mountain Tribe at the festival. I am totally exhilarated by this! On Friday May 1, I will be participating in a serious Ritual to start the proceedings. On Saturday I will have myself, a Herald, and two princesses to help me. Sunday I get to make a presentation to the May King and Queen. Sheeesh. Lil ol me. Who'd a thought?
So I'd like to have some token to dispense to anyone who pledges Mountain Tribe.
Here's the weird thing.
At the flea market on Saturday, the Pagan booth had a stack of small quartz crystals. Quarter apiece, five for a dollar. Well, I'm going to need many more than five. It looked like the people running the booth had about 100-120 total. So I asked them, how much for the lot?
The lady at the booth got all huffy about it, gave me chapter and verse about getting them wholesale, etc. etc. etc. And I know that. I'm not unreasonable. These people are trying to make a living, for the love of fruit flies! I tried to make it absolutely clear that I didn't want to bargain them down from a profitable offer. But the lady just couldn't get around the negativity. She wanted to argue, where a simple, "Sorry, we make more selling them individually" would have done nicely.
And yet, when she said forty bucks, I would have bought them ... if I had forty bucks on me. But we were at the flea market, and I hadn't gotten my Avon yet, and Spare only has a good time if she can grab gaudy earrings by the truckload.
I came home and did a little surfing, and I found a mine in Arkansas that sells crystals by the pound. For a little more than forty bucks, I'll be able to get enough little crystals for ten Mountain Tribes and their little dogs too!
So why am I sitting here, anxiously fingering the keyboard instead of just buying the doggone things?
1. I'm cheap.
2. I'm lazy (pocketbook is downstairs).
3. I'm cheap.
4. It's a hassle ordering stuff online.
Okay. Okay. Okay. Gonna do it. Right now. Crystals by the pound. Magic in a box from Arkansas.
Come on, Anne. You can do this. Can't you?
My worst weird trait is that I hate to buy stuff off the Internet.
It is even worse than that. Sometimes I'll read about a charity on the internet, and I'll procrastinate about sending money to it, even a check.
I don't do PayPal. It gives me jitters.
The reason I bring this up is because I want to get some crystals to hand out at the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm.
For those of you just joining us, I have the honor of being Leader of the Mountain Tribe at the festival. I am totally exhilarated by this! On Friday May 1, I will be participating in a serious Ritual to start the proceedings. On Saturday I will have myself, a Herald, and two princesses to help me. Sunday I get to make a presentation to the May King and Queen. Sheeesh. Lil ol me. Who'd a thought?
So I'd like to have some token to dispense to anyone who pledges Mountain Tribe.
Here's the weird thing.
At the flea market on Saturday, the Pagan booth had a stack of small quartz crystals. Quarter apiece, five for a dollar. Well, I'm going to need many more than five. It looked like the people running the booth had about 100-120 total. So I asked them, how much for the lot?
The lady at the booth got all huffy about it, gave me chapter and verse about getting them wholesale, etc. etc. etc. And I know that. I'm not unreasonable. These people are trying to make a living, for the love of fruit flies! I tried to make it absolutely clear that I didn't want to bargain them down from a profitable offer. But the lady just couldn't get around the negativity. She wanted to argue, where a simple, "Sorry, we make more selling them individually" would have done nicely.
And yet, when she said forty bucks, I would have bought them ... if I had forty bucks on me. But we were at the flea market, and I hadn't gotten my Avon yet, and Spare only has a good time if she can grab gaudy earrings by the truckload.
I came home and did a little surfing, and I found a mine in Arkansas that sells crystals by the pound. For a little more than forty bucks, I'll be able to get enough little crystals for ten Mountain Tribes and their little dogs too!
So why am I sitting here, anxiously fingering the keyboard instead of just buying the doggone things?
1. I'm cheap.
2. I'm lazy (pocketbook is downstairs).
3. I'm cheap.
4. It's a hassle ordering stuff online.
Okay. Okay. Okay. Gonna do it. Right now. Crystals by the pound. Magic in a box from Arkansas.
Come on, Anne. You can do this. Can't you?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday Buzzard Blogging
Welcome to "Etc. Etc. Etc." Busy day, lots of housework.
This year's East Coast Vulture Festival was filmed for a short documentary. The film has been posted at the festival's web site. I'm in it only briefly, being shown hugging kids at the children's event.
I'll try posting the link. But if you have 7 minutes to spare learning about buzzards, you can Google East Coast Vulture Festival, look in the gallery, and find the clip.
Be prepared. This seven minutes could change your life.
http://www.eastcoastvulturefestival.org/galleries.htm#video
This year's East Coast Vulture Festival was filmed for a short documentary. The film has been posted at the festival's web site. I'm in it only briefly, being shown hugging kids at the children's event.
I'll try posting the link. But if you have 7 minutes to spare learning about buzzards, you can Google East Coast Vulture Festival, look in the gallery, and find the clip.
Be prepared. This seven minutes could change your life.
http://www.eastcoastvulturefestival.org/galleries.htm#video
Friday, April 17, 2009
Earth Day 2009
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where your house is my house, and it's their house too! I'm talking about the Earth. We don't so much live on it as within it.
When Queen Brighid the Bright spread her silver mantle across the face of the Earth to make it wonderful for humans and deities alike, she probably didn't anticipate how humans would use and abuse the gift. We've run amok and spread ruin in our wake. I put this down primarily to overpopulation, which is something that could be rectified if we thought as a species and not as individuals.
But you're not going to convince Octo-mom not to pop kids out like a cat breeds kittens, so we'll scale back our resolutions to something manageable.
Today's conundrum: those plastic grocery bags that flow out of the stores like a crinkly white tsunami. Damned pesky things! They hold three items, and then go to the landfill where they stay intact through eternity. Nothing known to man nor beast can break their wretched chemical spell.
You can say, "Oh, Anne. This one is so simple! Just buy those re-usable bags."
I have. There are dozens here in the house. But I'm a dizzy, all-over-the-place kinda gal. Invariably I arrive at the store without them. And leave with 10 of those white plastic monsters, each holding three items.
I'm a practical person. The first thing I did was to stitch together the little plastic bags as slipcovers to protect my upholstery from nasty spills and stains. This works fine, so long as everyone sits very still while watching t.v. Otherwise you can't hear Keith. And he's loud.
But that still left mountains of the little buggers.
I have found two solutions.
1. Use one of the re-usable bags to store the icky plastic bags. Once the re-usable bag is brimming over, take it to the supermarket and dump the plastic bags in the recycle bin they keep at the store.
You see, enterprising companies have started using recycled plastic grocery bags to make lawn furniture that can sit out in the rain and never get old. Other companies are making plastic boardwalk. I've seen this being installed in Cape May, and it is awesome! It never wears out, it looks like wood, and it's actually kinder to the feet.
Granted, there are only so many miles of boardwalk to be replaced out there. And only so many people who need outdoor furniture. But by the time those needs are filled, maybe the fine young minds out there will think of another use for something that never, ever, ever, ever gets old.
(Damn. Maybe we should eat those buggers!)
2. Sometimes I do this:
After paying for the groceries, throw them back in the cart. Throw them loosely into the trunk of the car. When you get home, retrieve your re-usable grocery bags from the dark corners, take them outside, and bag the groceries in the trunk.
I borrowed this idea from a wholesale club.
My biggest peeve is how much packaging surrounds grocery items. Most of it's plastic too. We even have to shove fresh vegetables into plastic bags. But solving that problem will have to wait for another day.
One can only fight a war on so many fronts, and my personal war is against little white grocery bags. They are GOIN DOWN. Word.
When Queen Brighid the Bright spread her silver mantle across the face of the Earth to make it wonderful for humans and deities alike, she probably didn't anticipate how humans would use and abuse the gift. We've run amok and spread ruin in our wake. I put this down primarily to overpopulation, which is something that could be rectified if we thought as a species and not as individuals.
But you're not going to convince Octo-mom not to pop kids out like a cat breeds kittens, so we'll scale back our resolutions to something manageable.
Today's conundrum: those plastic grocery bags that flow out of the stores like a crinkly white tsunami. Damned pesky things! They hold three items, and then go to the landfill where they stay intact through eternity. Nothing known to man nor beast can break their wretched chemical spell.
You can say, "Oh, Anne. This one is so simple! Just buy those re-usable bags."
I have. There are dozens here in the house. But I'm a dizzy, all-over-the-place kinda gal. Invariably I arrive at the store without them. And leave with 10 of those white plastic monsters, each holding three items.
I'm a practical person. The first thing I did was to stitch together the little plastic bags as slipcovers to protect my upholstery from nasty spills and stains. This works fine, so long as everyone sits very still while watching t.v. Otherwise you can't hear Keith. And he's loud.
But that still left mountains of the little buggers.
I have found two solutions.
1. Use one of the re-usable bags to store the icky plastic bags. Once the re-usable bag is brimming over, take it to the supermarket and dump the plastic bags in the recycle bin they keep at the store.
You see, enterprising companies have started using recycled plastic grocery bags to make lawn furniture that can sit out in the rain and never get old. Other companies are making plastic boardwalk. I've seen this being installed in Cape May, and it is awesome! It never wears out, it looks like wood, and it's actually kinder to the feet.
Granted, there are only so many miles of boardwalk to be replaced out there. And only so many people who need outdoor furniture. But by the time those needs are filled, maybe the fine young minds out there will think of another use for something that never, ever, ever, ever gets old.
(Damn. Maybe we should eat those buggers!)
2. Sometimes I do this:
After paying for the groceries, throw them back in the cart. Throw them loosely into the trunk of the car. When you get home, retrieve your re-usable grocery bags from the dark corners, take them outside, and bag the groceries in the trunk.
I borrowed this idea from a wholesale club.
My biggest peeve is how much packaging surrounds grocery items. Most of it's plastic too. We even have to shove fresh vegetables into plastic bags. But solving that problem will have to wait for another day.
One can only fight a war on so many fronts, and my personal war is against little white grocery bags. They are GOIN DOWN. Word.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Ex Box
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your convenience store for religion! Pop in, grab a deity, a liturgy, a hymn, a robe ... all in one location! Our coffee is good too.
My daughter The Spare turned 15 yesterday. It's hard to see her so grown up. On the other hand, we have a lot of fun together. She has a wicked sense of humor. I wonder where she got it?
The Spare rarely lacks attention from the opposite sex. Usually there's some young fellow skulking around, smiling shyly at Mr. Johnson and me, hoping we can't read his thoughts (which of course we can).
The most recent "main squeeze" gave The Spare a necklace for her birthday. It's a pretty little silver heart, rather tasteful at that. But it was on a very long chain that hung down to her waist.
So yesterday morning, The Spare said to me, "Will you go down in the basement and get the box where I put all the stuff from my other relationships?"
!!!
Laugh if you will, reader, but one of the things in that box is a ball of silk mistletoe ... which came in mighty darned handy when we had a Solstice Ritual and the person who had the real mistletoe couldn't make it due to inclement weather.
I retrieved The Spare's box of loot from her exes. It was surprisingly large, until I discovered that she had put a few dancing dresses in there, along with the various trinkets and poetry and such. And the aforementioned mistletoe.
Ready for the punchline?
I went into The Spare's room and said ... "Here's your Ex-Box."
We both laughed. She found a shorter chain from another discarded necklace, put her new silver heart on the shorter chain, and strutted off to school.
It's strange. I've never bought a computer gaming system for my daughters. But one of them still managed to get an Ex Box. I hope it becomes a great big carton before the exes give way to someone for the long haul.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Four, as in Quarters
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," o ye of varied faiths! It's time for a party!
My, how time flies. Today is the fourth anniversary of the founding of "The Gods Are Bored."
One morning in April, 2005 I read a newspaper story about blogging. It wasn't the first I'd read, but something in it caught my eye. The story said that a woman blogger got enough money from her readers to pay the vet bills for her dog's surgery.
I looked down at my cat, Alpha, and I said, "You know, vets can be expensive."
So I went upstairs, sat down at my desk, and created this blog.
I called it "The Gods Are Bored" because I'm a firm believer in native faith patterns and the stories that go with them. Every time someone is persuaded to leave a localized religion to become part of a bigger, worldwide religion, some God or Goddess loses attention. And the deity who steals the worshipper away gets busier and busier, wealthier and wealthier, starts pushing everyone around, trying to make everyone think alike. Does it work? No, people just start arguing about what that busy deity wants them to do. And the deity is too busy to mediate.
Better to have left those worshippers with their original deities.
I'm a firm believer in the power of humor. It really is a good medicine. That's why this little column is rarely serious and often downright ridiculous -- Medusa on hair care, Satan claiming he didn't read the fine print on his contract, supersized flatware, God's bitter ex, faerie mayhem, priceless moments in the megachurch, and valuable free advice on upholstery maintenance.
Does Anne live a charmed life? Oh hell no. But why whine about it? Laugh, and the world laughs with you.
Or in the case of this household, Laugh, and Decibel the Parrot screams at you.
SOMEONE PLEASE SHUT THAT BIRD UP!
Thanks for reading!
Fairie Festival Press Release
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Don't be wary ... follow a faerie!
Here's a lovely description of the upcoming Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. It is an event not to be missed, unless you live in another country.
If you come to the festival, look for the Leader of the Mountain Tribe. That's me. I want to meet you! Extra jelly rocks to anyone who says they read "The Gods Are Bored!"
This is a “viral” campaign to promote the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm! Please pass this information along to everyone in your email list, post to your blog, send to any organization newsletter you belong to, anywhere it would be appropriate, anywhere LOTS of people will see it! We want to “infect” everyone with the joy and whimsy of the fairies ;)
The 18th annual May Day Fairie Festival will be a feast for the senses! A sensory overload is more like it! Once you walk through the gate:Your ears will be moved by glorious sounds of all types: drumming…harps…flutes… guitar …beautiful singing…the giggling of children…laughter…happy conversation…gasps of wonder…birds twittering and chirping…Wondrous aromas will fill your nose: exotic incense…fresh farm air…delicious diverse foods…fragrant herbs and spices…floral scents released by fresh spring flowers…Let your eyes be treated to: amazingly creative costuming…the lush verdant nature of the trees in Spring bloom…colorful flags and banners… flowers bobbing in the sunshine…swirling dancers performing for your enjoyment…smiles…sparkly trinkets…a rainbow of colors…Treat your body: feel the lush grass beneath your feet…caress a soft alpaca…move your body to the beat of the drums…indulge in a bellylaugh…try a yoga pose in Natureplace…let a breeze soothe your soul… Once again, the Festival will celebrate the ripening of Spring with:
·Maypole Dancing
·Lively Music
·Parades and Processions
·Coronation of the Royal Court
·Artisan Marketplace
·Hands-On Crafts
·Fairie and Gnome Village Tours
·Bubbles and Fairie Dust
·Spirited Dancing
·Storytelling
·Fairie and Nature Spirit Workshops
·Fairie Tea Parties
·Diverse Food Vendors
·Drum Circles
·And Much More!
When: May 1st, 2nd and 3rd 2009
Where: Spoutwood Farm Center 4255 Pierceville Rd Glen Rock PA 17327 717-235-6610 www.spoutwood. org
Admission: May 1st: Children 12 and under are FREE Adults: $15 May 2nd and 3rd: Adults: $15 Children 12 and under: $5 Children 2 and under FREE Three Day Adult Pass available at gate for $30.
Volunteers who sign up for and complete a two hours shift will get their admission refunded. Parking: $5 per car in lots on Pierceville Rd Handicapped parking available at entrance (first come, first served).
About Spoutwood Farm:Nestled in the rolling landscape of York County is Spoutwood Farm - a family owned farm and part of the Community Supported Agriculture program, supports more than 100 families with organically grown food throughout the year. Spoutwood Farm supports sustainable living practices and offers workshops and classes in streamside ecology, mead making, medicinal herbalism and more. Spoutwood is a 501©(3) non-profit organization. www.spoutwood. org.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
What's Easter Without It?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we figure the straight and narrow path leads to nowhere! Promenade on the boulevard! You might meet a bored deity well worth knowing!
Easter draws nigh, and that means my daughter The Spare and I will be making a little sojourn to see my sister out in the old home town.
Many weird things have been happening to Sis since I put a little faerie in charge of her household. In fact I mean to speak sternly to that faerie (named Grizzabella), because she has overdone her services!
Sis's house is now populated with faeries and their homes, but Sis has not deserted her Christian church. And so, as I am to stay with her on Friday night, I will be accompanying her to her church to see an Easter Pageant.
I don't think I need to tell you what that means. Do I? Because if I do, leave a comment, and I'll go into detail.
Anyway, I gladly accompany Sis to this event, because she is planning to attend the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, where she will see a pageant of a different sort.
It's only fair, I think, to go to a Jesus-fest on Good Friday. I've got nothing against Jesus, when push comes to shove. And a Passion Play at a mega-church on Good Friday is likely to be as entertaining as Wrestlemania, when you factor in the people-watching in the stands.
The only quibble I have with Jesus is that he's cornered too much of the praise and worship market. He's like a Monopoly Deity. He should share! Then he would have more time to do for his remaining followers.
And how would we choose who stays with Jesus and who goes? Let Him do it!
Jesus, take yours and leave the rest! We'll contact the bored gods, and in no time we'll have many lovely religions thriving, hopefully without telling one another how to do stuff.
I will be gone until after Easter. But don't forget about me! When I return I'll tell you all about the mega-church Passion Play, and how Grizzabella the Fairy has been misbehaving in my sister's home and checking account!
FROM ANNE
KEEN TO BE IN BERKELEY SPRINGS
Easter draws nigh, and that means my daughter The Spare and I will be making a little sojourn to see my sister out in the old home town.
Many weird things have been happening to Sis since I put a little faerie in charge of her household. In fact I mean to speak sternly to that faerie (named Grizzabella), because she has overdone her services!
Sis's house is now populated with faeries and their homes, but Sis has not deserted her Christian church. And so, as I am to stay with her on Friday night, I will be accompanying her to her church to see an Easter Pageant.
I don't think I need to tell you what that means. Do I? Because if I do, leave a comment, and I'll go into detail.
Anyway, I gladly accompany Sis to this event, because she is planning to attend the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, where she will see a pageant of a different sort.
It's only fair, I think, to go to a Jesus-fest on Good Friday. I've got nothing against Jesus, when push comes to shove. And a Passion Play at a mega-church on Good Friday is likely to be as entertaining as Wrestlemania, when you factor in the people-watching in the stands.
The only quibble I have with Jesus is that he's cornered too much of the praise and worship market. He's like a Monopoly Deity. He should share! Then he would have more time to do for his remaining followers.
And how would we choose who stays with Jesus and who goes? Let Him do it!
Jesus, take yours and leave the rest! We'll contact the bored gods, and in no time we'll have many lovely religions thriving, hopefully without telling one another how to do stuff.
I will be gone until after Easter. But don't forget about me! When I return I'll tell you all about the mega-church Passion Play, and how Grizzabella the Fairy has been misbehaving in my sister's home and checking account!
FROM ANNE
KEEN TO BE IN BERKELEY SPRINGS
Monday, April 06, 2009
Daughters
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," family values for those longing to be Left Behind! Because it's absurd to think Judeo-Christians have a lock on family values.
The chief joy in my life is my two daughters, The Heir and The Spare.
They are so different.
The Heir revels in anything weird. Clam Plate Orgies, Techno-Industrial music, roadside tourist wastelands. She loves New Jersey with a white hot passion and is proud to be a native. (I guess that proves how weird she is.)
The Spare abounds in ingenuity. She knows how to put together a stunning ensemble, a full-course meal, a broken appliance. She could strut right through Paris and break every male heart -- but we don't have the money to go to Paris, and she's okay with that.
If I want to have fun with The Heir, we take a walk in the woods.
If I want to have fun with The Spare, we plan a meal and go grocery shopping.
The Heir is earnest, hard-working, insecure. The Spare is glib, easygoing, and confident.
You can't wrestle The Heir into a dress. You can't wrestle The Spare into a pair of running shoes.
Vive la difference! I wouldn't change a single thing about either of them. It has been a pure pleasure watching them grow up. Their ancestors would be proud.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Do Cats Remember?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," shamelessly devoted to felines since birth! I wish I had stuck to them always, instead of buying a macaw. You can't hear a cat meowing three blocks away through heavy traffic.
A year and a half ago, I fostered a baby kitten for the good folks at Woodstock Trading Company. I happened to walk into the store when they had just rescued the little guy from the crawlspace and were trying fruitlessly to get him to eat. He was about 10 days old.
I took care of "Monstro" for five weeks, or until he was old enough to give up bottle feeding. He was an "only kitten."
It's been 18 months, and when I go to the store, that cat seems to know me. The staff tell me that he doesn't make over anyone the way he makes over me. He always sniffs me all over very curiously and will often climb into my lap and sniff my face.
"Monstro" is the only kitten I've ever fostered that I've seen grow up into an adult cat. And yes, he has grown ... and grown ... and grown. He's got the posh life, indoor cat in a hippie store, surrounded by Grateful Dead merchandise and acres of tie-dye.
Could it be that "Monstro" remembers me? How long are cats' memories? Could he recognize my scent? My voice? Even though I only go to Woodstock about once a month?
Please advise.
A year and a half ago, I fostered a baby kitten for the good folks at Woodstock Trading Company. I happened to walk into the store when they had just rescued the little guy from the crawlspace and were trying fruitlessly to get him to eat. He was about 10 days old.
I took care of "Monstro" for five weeks, or until he was old enough to give up bottle feeding. He was an "only kitten."
It's been 18 months, and when I go to the store, that cat seems to know me. The staff tell me that he doesn't make over anyone the way he makes over me. He always sniffs me all over very curiously and will often climb into my lap and sniff my face.
"Monstro" is the only kitten I've ever fostered that I've seen grow up into an adult cat. And yes, he has grown ... and grown ... and grown. He's got the posh life, indoor cat in a hippie store, surrounded by Grateful Dead merchandise and acres of tie-dye.
Could it be that "Monstro" remembers me? How long are cats' memories? Could he recognize my scent? My voice? Even though I only go to Woodstock about once a month?
Please advise.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Who Does He Hear Singing Now?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today we add a new hero to our Pantheon of Special Mortals. He is Walt Whitman.
I think Walt Whitman must have been very brave to pen the poetry he did in an era so dedicated to rhyme and meter. His courage certainly bore fruit. Who among us does not love the guy?
If you're not singing the body electric, you're missing out. The bored gods will say you squandered your mortality, and they'll send you back for another try.
Two nights ago, my daughter The Spare sat down at the computer and labored mightily over a poem that she was writing. I won't bore you with the details, but the big picture in her poem was how nourishing she finds it to go to the mountains.
Her poem was created as an assignment from her English teacher, who plans to send the best class poems to a poetry contest open to high school students in Camden and Gloucester Counties, NJ, and Philadelphia City.
The contest honors Walt Whitman, who is buried up the street from me in Camden City.
This morning, on my way out to the Vo-Tech, I stopped in my home office to freshen Decibel the Parrot's water bowl. When I looked at my desk, the faeries shoved into sight the information on the poetry contest. The Spare had left the flier on my desk. (Along with an empty Sprite bottle and some Cheez-It crumbs.)
I looked down at the flier, and the faeries looked up at me, and it occurred to me to take the flier to the Vo-Tech and encourage the students there to enter the contest.
After all, who does Walt Whitman hear singing these days? His spirit may still be in Camden City ... among my students.
I'm not a regular classroom teacher. I'm a special needs tutor. But this is actually better, because I can cruise through the school like the Pied Piper, handing out the flier and offering to expedite the mailing of the poems the Vo-Tech kids write.
Just today I got my first two poems from students. The students wrote the poems out by hand, and I typed them up. If enough students contribute, I may have sufficient material for a little chapbook by the end of the year, whether they win the contest or not.
Odds are they won't win. Gosh, two heavily-populated suburban counties and the City of Philadelphia ... and all four grades of high school? Walt Whitman himself probably couldn't win the doggone thing. But I'm not going to tell my students that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
And when what you gain is a poem you've written, that's enough in itself.
Mr. Whitman, meet your new neighbors.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Thoughtless Moments
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," celebrating excessively on April Fool's Day since Lyndon Johnson became president!
It seems like I spent all of yesterday tweaking someone, starting here at "The Gods Are Bored" and extending to Facebook, where I proclaimed that I was expecting a baby. Some of my pranks were tasteful, some not. Oh well. The faeries made me do it!
A blog titled "Thoughtful Moments" would be the extreme opposite of what goes on here. But a blog titled "Thoughtless Moments" would be a good fit, don't you think?
We could start with a proper quotation or other uplifting Scripture:
"He who hesitates is lost."
And then let the faeries have at it:
"He who legislates is boss."
And then provide the necessary commentary:
Blah blah blah blah. Blah blah. Blah blah blah blah.
Now insert the part about accepting donations, and voila! Done!
This is a lot easier than doing "The Gods Are Bored" every day. And finally it's starting to sound like a religion blog! I call that progress.
It seems like I spent all of yesterday tweaking someone, starting here at "The Gods Are Bored" and extending to Facebook, where I proclaimed that I was expecting a baby. Some of my pranks were tasteful, some not. Oh well. The faeries made me do it!
A blog titled "Thoughtful Moments" would be the extreme opposite of what goes on here. But a blog titled "Thoughtless Moments" would be a good fit, don't you think?
We could start with a proper quotation or other uplifting Scripture:
"He who hesitates is lost."
And then let the faeries have at it:
"He who legislates is boss."
And then provide the necessary commentary:
Blah blah blah blah. Blah blah. Blah blah blah blah.
Now insert the part about accepting donations, and voila! Done!
This is a lot easier than doing "The Gods Are Bored" every day. And finally it's starting to sound like a religion blog! I call that progress.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Dear Friends,
During a concert at my daughter's public school last night, I experienced an epiphany. Many of the songs were pulled from the canon of the Judeo-Christian religion, and it got me to thinking about the frivolity of this web log. There is no place for such fatuous banter in this perilous world in which we live.
I will soon be re-naming this web log. I am thinking of calling it "Thoughtful Moments."
Each entry will begin with an uplifting famous quotation from an appropriate source, followed by a homily.
The "Six Word Blog" will remain, but it too will be dedicated to serious endeavors.
Donations have never been solicited here before, but now I ask you to contribute some funds so that I can reach more readers. I want to do the right and great things that will ease the suffering here on Earth and guide good people to the Great Hereafter.
Thank you for your time,
Anne Johnson
During a concert at my daughter's public school last night, I experienced an epiphany. Many of the songs were pulled from the canon of the Judeo-Christian religion, and it got me to thinking about the frivolity of this web log. There is no place for such fatuous banter in this perilous world in which we live.
I will soon be re-naming this web log. I am thinking of calling it "Thoughtful Moments."
Each entry will begin with an uplifting famous quotation from an appropriate source, followed by a homily.
The "Six Word Blog" will remain, but it too will be dedicated to serious endeavors.
Donations have never been solicited here before, but now I ask you to contribute some funds so that I can reach more readers. I want to do the right and great things that will ease the suffering here on Earth and guide good people to the Great Hereafter.
Thank you for your time,
Anne Johnson
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