Monday, May 16, 2005


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" And today, folks, the gods are really bored. They haven't even gotten out of bed.

For those of you just joining us, we are pro-union, pagan, kitten-killing, homo-loving liberals - everything your mega-church pastor warns you to avoid! We're begging to be put on a list of "blogs you must NEVER read" by that lunatic fringe known as the Christian Right. (Here we call them Chippies, i.e. Christian/hippies.)

But today's topic should be safe enough even for the high standards of decency set by people who think gays are just a little bit mentally ill and can be cured by the right (Christian) therapist.

Sick and tired I am of two things culturally very big today in America. Horses they are that have been put use to plowing fields for too long way. Refer I to "Star Wars" and "The Rolling Stones." Does not apply particular order.

So let's start with "Star Wars." This is the one that has kept the bored gods in bed today.

In the mid-1970s, inspired no doubt by the many illegal psychotropic substances making the rounds in those times, a bold young filmmaker named George Lucas somehow channeled the bored gods and wrote a swashbuckling, far-future (or past) sci-fi adventure. Mr. Lucas wanted to make a film about good and evil, about how absolute power and greed corrupt, and how a good, universe-friendly religion run by principled warriors might oppose said evil. He turned out a pretty good piece of work called "Star Wars."

I'm a goat judge, not a theologian, but I do know that from 1977 until the present, we druids have gotten a kick out of saying, "Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're our only hope." Because of course old Obi-Wan is just another plant by the bored gods to keep the good, old-time religion vibrant. (Gandolf and Dumbledore also spring to mind in this regard.)

The Christians like to claim Obi-Wan and his Jedi Knights. But I don't see any Crucifixes on those dudes. Whether they lived a long, long time ago, or in the far, far future, apparently they haven't learned that you need Jesus to get into heaven. (Well, not all heavens, just America's most popular one at the moment.) However, druids can boldly claim Obi-Wan, first because of his cool name and then because he seems to have an itty bitty sensitivity for the celestial and earthly environments so imaginatively portrayed in "Star Wars." You don't hear Obi-Wan saying that only Jedi Knights go to heaven, and all those anonymous Storm Troopers in the hockey masks wind up devil-fodder.

Anyway, I've established to my satisfaction that the original "Star Wars" sends a druid-friendly subliminal message. Let's move on.

Toys. Videos. Conventions. Costumes. Money, money, money! Seduced by the very greed he deplored, Mr. Lucas has gone on to make 5 MORE OF THESE MONSTERS!

Please! Uncle! We're hollering uncle! Lucas, you've betrayed the bored gods by turning their cunning subliminal message into an all-American foray into overkill.

The original "Star Wars" was about a technologically superior culture overrunning an eco-based, religiously devoted culture. The bored gods applaud. The rest of the "Star Wars" debacle is all about product tie-ins and special effects. The bored gods pull the covers over their heads and say, "Maybe we should shorten the timeline for the massive explosion of Yellowstone."

To our second topic. Comes to me news of another summer tour by The Rolling Stones.

Do you really think that when Mick and Keith decided to call their band The Rolling Stones, they meant to be so literal? Because if ever moss should be growing on someone, it's Sir Mick Jagger. (I imagine the queen used an extra-long sword to knight him, so she wouldn't have to get too close.)

Come on, already, guys! You're seriously starting to make me think you're the Vampire Lestat made flesh. Do I hear you laughing, Aerosmith? Ha ha! YOU LOOK SO DAMNED FOOLISH, YOU CAN'T EVEN IMAGINE!

Some styles of music can be played with equal flair by teenagers and octagenarians. One need only think of (hats off, rednecks) Bill Monroe and His Bluegrass Boys. Or a more universally known figure, Frank Sinatra. Miles Davis springs to mind as well.

But rock and roll? No sir. There should be a mandatory retirement age. And a definition of the genre broad enough to include Neil Diamond, Sting, and Billy Joel. We'll exempt Bruce Springsteen only if he restricts himself to acoustic output.

Am I the only person in the world who wouldn't waste $100 on a show featuring a bunch of geezers in do-rags, veins flowing with formaldehyde, singing songs that are 30-plus years old? Hey, Mick? Can't get any satisfaction? Geez, don't you make enough money to pay your bills? Why else would you drag your geriatric butt onto a stage? Does the roar of each and every crowd sound different? And, Mick. Have you looked over your fan base lately? They drive Porsches to the concert, and their hands shake from Parkinson's Disease as they try to light their spliffs. That's one fan base. The other one is a clueless bunch of teenagers too scared to try listening to some brave, new music.

From the bored gods to the Rolling Stones: STOP ROLLING, ALREADY. Go start an insect collection. Make one of those teeny tiny boats in a bottle. If you need money, sell your peerage to Dick Cheney. JUST STOP TOURING. PLEASE.

If you don't, I'm going to get out the bikini I used to wear in the 1980s and wear it to one of your concerts. A pretty sight will not it be, assuredly.


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