Coming to You Live from the Freakout Tent

 Sunday, noon, at “The Gods Are Bored, and Anne is clinging to her sanity by the tips of her pinkie fingers. I am NOT enjoying the Fuck Around phase , maybe because the anxious buzz in my brain is concocting all the possible Find Outs to come.

But, pish tosh! Today is the annual Big Deal St. Patty’s Day Parade, held in a neighboring blue collar borough chock a block with rednecks. This town pulls out all the stops when it comes to their favorite saint. This means that all — ALL— of Philadelphia’s string bands are here.

It’s cold, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. The sequins on the costumes are glittering like diamonds. I’m sitting here in my own satin suit, which blends me right in. Adding to the festivities, everyone who isn’t marching is wearing Eagles gear.

In the days of rock concerts like Woodstock, venues had “freakout tents” where people could go if they were bad tripping. These tents were run by volunteers who could calm things down and do a little detox or first aid.

Today this parade feels like a Freakout tent for me. Here I am. All is glittering. All is bright.

I’ll freak out again tomorrow. Or later. Fly Eagles Fly! Oh, dem Golden Slippers!

Photos from a previous year. Go Birds!

The Not So Great Retail Boycott of February 28

 Here at “The Gods Are Bored,” we get most of our news from progressive sources. This is how we heard about the retail boycott on February 28, 2025. And yes, we are participating.

Sadly, we are still squarely in the FA phase of this dangerous new administration. If your unvaccinated child has measles, you have proceeded to the FO phase prematurely. The rest of us, it’s going to take a while.

An economic boycott could be extremely helpful in bringing real change to our relationship with our corporate overlords. But not just a day when you put off that Amazon purchase until tomorrow. You see, the MAGA Fuck Arounders have also gotten wind of this scheme, and they are intentionally buying stuff today. This will more than cancel the effects of the boycott.

In order to be successful, an economic boycott would need to last until shortly before the next election. Like, from now until then. The Montgomery Bus Boycott lasted 381 days. More than a year! And all that time, those boycotters had to walk in the Alabama heat, or arrange transportation and depend on others. It was a huge sacrifice.

I don’t see many people in America willing to make a real sacrifice.

Case in point: Apple. If my phone breaks I will need a new one from some corporate overlord. I can’t just say, “No phone? La di dah! No one calls me anyway!” I could shop around, but at the end of the day I’m pretty stuck.

On the other hand, my phone is still pretty new. I certainly won’t need one in the next 381 days. But I am notorious for having the oldest model phone on the block. Most people like to have the new stuff.

Here’s the other thing: Most people who aren’t actively growing have enough clothing in their homes to last a decade. (I have more, I think.) Still we love to shop. We crave the new item. We want to look fashionable.

This is one aspect of my life, personally, that I can change. They’re gonna weep at the thrift store, but as for me, the economic boycott begins today and will continue for 381 days. I will darn my socks if I have to.

I don’t have an Amazon account. I never buy from them. They won’t miss me. But if ten million people vowed not to use Amazon for 381 days, there’s no way the Fuck Arounders would be able to pick up the slack.

If done effectively, these economic boycotts will put people out of work. We could have a depression. My feeling is, we are going to have ourselves a depression anyway, and a string of plagues too. Might as well get that Finding Out under way on a wider scale.

Personally I like the idea of not buying anything. I’m 66 with sensible shoes. I’m going to stockpile some cash for the day eggs cost $20 a dozen and I have to drive to Canada for a flu shot.

After today I have 380 more days without spending on non-necessities. It’s going to be a struggle. One struggle among many. La di dah.

Interview with a Bored (And Angry) Goddess: Chalchiuhtlicue

 You read that name right, "Gods Are Bored" fans! If the Goddess's has that many letters, She almost has to be an Original American deity, in this case, Aztec. Those people must have had some dexterity in their tonsils, let me tell you!

It's a cold Sunday morning here, so I have brewed up a pot of tea and am hosting the bored Goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, sacred to the Aztec peoples. Please give her a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome!

Chalchiuhtlicue: Don't give me anything warm! FUCK warm!

Anne: Now, dear Goddess, please. This is a family blog.

Chalchiuhtlicue: No it isn't. You never get past the censors.

Anne: Somehow that's kind of comforting to me right now. Along with the fact that no one reads this. However, Chalchiuhtlicue, let's talk about You. Your name has been making the news of late.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Is that supposed to matter to me? I used to have 20 major celebrations each year. I had My own pyramid! Now I'm just stewing in My swimming hole. The hotter it gets, the more steamed I get. And then? Hurricanes. You people deserve it.

Anne: You're preaching to the choir here, Chalchiuhtlicue. Am I pronouncing it right?

Chalchiuhtlicue: No European could ever hope to pronounce it right. But go ahead and mangle it. It's mildly amusing.

Anne: Well, I just wanted to praise and worship You and tell You that I will be calling the body of water previously known as the Gulf of Mexico, the Sea of Chalchiuhtlicue. Or, if I have 15 minutes to say a name, Chalchiuhtlicueyecatl. I don't suppose I was any more successful pronouncing that.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Not a bit.

Anne: Sorry.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Just think. That name rolled off the tongue of millions of My people as a pleasant brook flows over a stone.

Anne: I need a Tums.

Chalchiuhtlicue: And now I'm supposed to be happy that my mangled name is trotted into some feeble protest. While every year My swimming hole gets more and more like a sauna!

Anne: How about a nice slice of sweet potato pie?

Chalchiuhtlicue: Pie? That might work with those vain Greek deities, but MY PEOPLE GAVE YOU HATEFUL EUROPEANS THE SWEET POTATO. And what did we get in return? Smallpox. Influenza. You can take that pie and ...

Anne: Honestly, I'm willing to if it will improve Your temper! I just invited You over to encourage my three readers to adopt the term Chalchiuhtlicueyecatl. But I can see it's totally insufficient. I get it. I really do. The injustices heaped upon Your people by Europeans does not sit lightly with me.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Well, that inconsequential show of sympathy will at least keep Me from flooding your basement. Maybe.

Anne: Thank You for that! It would be a flick of the wrist for You, an angst-producer for me. All of my Mummers suits are down there, and my fairy festival clothes, and Omega Cat's boxes, and ...

Chalchiuhtlicue: Changing my mind here.

Anne: No! No! Don't change your mind! All glory, laud, and honor, great Goddess of the Waters of the World! Water is life, and modern European humans don't realize it, and You will have Your revenge soon. Very soon.

Chalchiuhtlicue: I know.

Anne: In the meantime, I intend to use the historically correct Chalchiuhtlicueyecatl as the name for the body of water to the immediate south of the continent erroneously known as North America.

Chalchiuhtlicue: I don't care one way or another, since I'm cooking in My own swimming hole. But you do you.

Anne: Look at this. A nice tall glass of iced sweet tea with lemon! A very modest European offering to Your overheated self.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Thank you. Your basement is safe. Can I chill in that fetching little pond behind your house?

Anne: I wouldn't. It's polluted to the plimsol line. Tell you what. The briny Absecon Inlet is just an hour's drive away. It has a nice Original American name. Let's go hang out there for the afternoon. I'll get my Under Armor. And my cashmere sweater. And my sweat pants. And my puffer coat. And my hat. And my gloves. And a scarf. And foot warmers. And wool socks.

Chalchiuhtlicue: I'll wait.

Whew! You never know about these deities, do you? They all seem pissed these days. Seems that my afternoon plans have changed. Wish me luck, friends. Chalchiuhtlicue is a bruiser. Rightly so, but wowsa.

My First Weigh-In on Project 2025

 Here I am again, blathering on “The Gods Are Bored.” And today I am going to be candid. I can’t predict to save my life. Since I was young I have been unable to see the future through anything but a foggy and self-important lens.

In and of itself, this wouldn’t be such a problem. But I have allowed the self-important piece of this equation to make me cheeky and snarky. Nowhere has this been more evident than in my sarcasm about Christian nationalists.

I was writing this blog in the Obama era. I absolutely could not imagine a moment in American history when Christian nationalists would take over the levers of power in government, in the courts, in significant portions of public opinion. To me these people were the butt of jokes for their backwardness and misogyny, their homophobia and doctrine of “pray and grow rich.”

Who’s laughing now?

The Supreme Court is a disaster. Precedent means nothing to these people. And now the dismantling of government protections begins in earnest with Project 2025. The wealthy and the gullible make excellent dance partners. And if Christian nationalism is anything, it’s the gullible tool of the powerful.

Maybe if I predict a dystopian future where only the rich thrive, waited on by a subservient class controlled by repressive religion, propaganda, and AI, it won’t happen. But this time I think I might be correct. Folks, it’s gonna get bad.

Part of me wants to sit back and watch the drama unfold. But a bigger part wants to rage against the machine. I don’t know what that will look like in the years to come, but oh well, la di dah, see this middle finger, Project 2025? It’s all for you.

Baby steps first. There’s a purchasing boycott on February 28. Buy nothing on that day. Not even groceries.

And as for me and my house, the buying boycott will persist. I have made it my calling not to use Amazon. I’ve written about that before. Now I’m adding Target. Walmart was already off the table.

A purchasing boycott seems like low-hanging fruit. I want to do so, so much more. Let’s see what opportunities arise.

The only prediction I make here today? I’m still teeing off against the oligarchy. Here, on this inconsequential blog. As always a vanity project, but hey. It’s where I stand.

One thing I know about Project 2025: In no time at all, 2026 will roll around. What happens then, you smug bunch of rich white bastards? FAFO.

Maybe with the Monkey Man

 Another installment of “The Gods Are Bored,” writing-with-my-phone edition!

This is my friend Rocky Wilson. Throughout my decades of writing this blog, I have always called him The Monkey Man. Here he is, holding his monkey. The monkey’s name is Bongo.

Rocky is a living legend in South Jersey. I’m not going to confine his fame to Camden, where generations of schoolchildren have loved him, or Haterfield, where he grew up. Dude is adored everywhere.

I mean, look at the photo. Captures him perfectly. He’s just adorable, case closed.

On a fateful Friday the 13th last December, Rocky was crossing a street in a shore town to go take a polar plunge in the mighty Atlantic. He was hit and flattened by a car, breaking numerous bones but not even denting his spirit. He’s in rehab now, and I have gone to see him a number of times.

I found out about Rocky’s injuries on Facebook, because - like so many other friends - I had let him drift. But his plight galvanized me to be better about connecting authentically.

Couldn’t have chosen a better friend to do this with. The last time I went to see him, he had me in stitches as he described life on a Vermont commune, presumably in the late 1960s. He might have lost a step or two with a broken hip, but his wit is as sharp as ever.

You should see the stack of get-well cards this guy got! Numbering in the hundreds, with more arriving every day. People are driving over from Philly, and up from the shore, to see him.

Tomorrow the Philadelphia Eagles will be honored with a Super Bowl parade. I am dying to go, but the logistics are daunting, and from being a Mummer I know well what boozy Philly crowds can be like. Instead of going to the parade, I think I will take Rocky a cheesesteak and watch it with him. The parade, that is. Not the cheesesteak.

Beauty of it is, Rocky got pretty pulverized in that accident, but he is bouncing back. Commune life circa 1969 will do that for you. A very hardy guy, my Monkey Man.

There’s so much to write about, so many bored Gods to interview! I’ve got to get busy with my pies and tea.

Rocky first, though. He may not be a God, but I would lay odds that he’s a Titan.

Weekly Life Top Ten

 This is a little exercise I began 10 days ago, inspired by a student who has been doing it for years.

Week of February 14, 2025

1. Elon Musk taking over the government.

2. The passing of Jackiesue Roycroft Denney (see below)

3. The passing of Jeff Marsden

4. Eagles in the Super Bowl

5. My LARP games

6. Snowstorms

7. The unaffordable housing market

8. Andy Kim

9. Sunlight Policy Center

10. Wholly Rollers

Wowsa! This is a good way to think up future posts! I cannot remember if I ever wrote about the Wholly Rollers. Probably, but it’s worth a second look.

Andy Kim is the new Senator from New Jersey. The Sunlight Policy Center is a pit of evil. Time to write about that too.

May She Have Found the Fucking Summer Lands

 We at “The Gods Are Bored” are mourning the loss of sister blogger Jackiesue Roycroft Denney, author of Yellow dog Granny Jackiesue and I never broke bread together, but we managed to build a friendship through our blogs and phone calls and social media. She was a pip.

Nothing I like better than a salty lady who shares my politics, religion, and general philosophy of life. We both wanted to see the same people get fucked. We both liberally distributed f-bombs (well, she kind of lapped me on that, but I fucking tried to keep pace). We celebrated each other’s milestones, and I’m happy to say that my oldest daughter did actually get to meet her in Texas. But I never did. Fuck.

One time when the Philadelphia Eagles were playing the Dallas Cowboys, I kept track of the game by counting the number of times Jackiesue posted FUCK on her Facebook page. She loved me, but her affection did not extend to the Eagles. I think she passed on Saturday as to not have to witness the fucking Eagles appearing in the fucking Super Bowl. She would have had one word to say about the Eagles’ decisive victory. You can guess it.

Jackiesue was a larger-than-life presence in the small town of West, Texas. My daughter reported that the citizens of West deferred to her as if she was a Grand Wazoo. Small wonder at that. She was always doling out home made cake balls and potato salad and casseroles for 60 people, or else she was collecting money for the residents of the local nursing home or driving Meals on Wheels.

On April 17, 2013 I overheard the morning news, and they were talking about an enormous explosion in West, Texas. It made the national news. I was sick with worry about Jackiesue until I saw her back online again. At the young age of 70 she was front and center in all of the rescue efforts and the subsequent aid and comfort to the displaced.

What do you think about the spirit world? I can’t even picture Jackiesue lolling around in some paradise with a harp in her hand and a hosanna on her lips. I like to think she will blissfully haunt all the miscreants and morons who she opposed so fucking successfully while here in the apparent world. 

Of all the strange things to find at the thrift store, I found a geode the day Jackiesue died. It’s on my shrine in her honor, as she always gave the Goddess shiny things for other people.

Well, she’s somewhere with that badass cat of hers, flinging the f-bomb and (I hope) haunting the horrible. She had the good fortune to enjoy the youth of her great-grandchildren and robust health until just recently.

The awesome outlaw friend I never met in the flesh but held in my heart. Here’s to you, JS. Go give those fuckers hell. You’re just the woman for the job.