My school is composed entirely of minorities, half of whom speak English as a second language. Nevertheless, our school district mandates a Shakespeare play at each level. This would be okay, except that it takes my students about six weeks to make it through a Shakespeare play.
Someone with clout in my district said, "Oh, don't have them read the whole thing! Just read the good parts and watch the rest on video."
Have you ever heard of a more intellectually dishonest practice? Just read the good parts? Does this prepare our underprivileged students for college and career?
In desperation I cast about for something other than Julius Caesar to teach my students. Lo and behold, in the grimy and crumbling 10th grade textbooks, there's a translation of Antigone. It's readable, too!
Who can resist Oedipus, Jocasta, Tiresias, Creon, Antigone? Not me! I love those stories! Greek tragedy: a staple of the well-rounded public school education. Problem solved. Out with Julius, in with the brave princess who doesn't want to leave her brother to the buzzards.
Houston, we have a problem.
Can I teach Antigone if I believe in those Gods and Goddesses? Am I being intellectually honest if I call the stories "myths?" When Antigone refers to God (translation), how can I help but tell my fine young minds that the God in question is Zeus?
I want to teach Antigone, but I can't use the word "myth." If "myth" applies to the Greek deities, it applies to all deities, including You-Know-Who, the one we can't talk about in school.
I think that as Pagans, we run into First Amendment issues with Greek tragedy. I just simply can't stand in front of my students and call Zeus a "myth." Zeus is a God. People still pray to Him.
Since September through April is the window for evaluations -- and I absolutely don't want my bosses walking in with clipboards while I'm talking about Greek deities -- I have plenty of time to think of ways to discuss the religious aspects of Greek tragedy. Maybe I'll interview a few Greek deities and see what They think. (Not inviting Mars here anymore, he torched my chintz armchair.)
If you have a helpful tip on this issue, I would love to hear it. I'm almost feeling like teaching this play could violate the First Amendment if I am a polytheist.
No use asking Zeus for His opinion. Given half a chance, He would come teach the class Himself.
A few weeks ago I was casting about to see if there was anything on YouTube in the way of a summary of Oedipus Rex. I came upon the video posted below. Nearly busted a lung laughing. Then I discovered there's a whole series of these. Watch and learn, choir!
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Frank Talk about What Ifs
I wasn't intellectually honest in my post below about the concert The Spare and I attended. This is because I didn't want to link Spare's experience to the name of the band. Now I'm going to talk about the tricky wicket of getting flirtatious with famous people.
Starting with me.
When I was a young woman, I spent a lot of time at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. It was summertime, and I loved the Orioles. The team had a very charitable policy for students: $1.85 for an upper box seat. I went to every home game in 1979 and quite a few in 1980.
I lived on the second floor in a Baltimore row house. On the third floor lived a Baseball Annie who was 85 years old. I thought she was senile when she told me that Brooks Robinson took her out to lunch. Then one day I saw Brooks drop her off in front of the house! That's when I knew that the Baltimore Orioles club was really treating this poor old lady like gold. I'll never forget it. Sure wouldn't happen in these times.
About mid-summer, 1980, my elderly baseball friend said she'd gotten seats for us to go to a game together. The seats were Row 1, Seats 1 and 2. We were further allowed to go and stand by the locker room door before the game, where dear old Esther bear-hugged every single player except Frank Robinson. I was nearly speechless to be up-close-and-personal with every single Baltimore Oriole.
You probably know that baseball players arrive at the ball park hours before the game starts. They have to get dressed and warm up. So Esther and I were way, way early for the actual game. When we arrived in Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, The Kansas City Royals were warming up on the field.
Some of you old-timers might recognize this pretty boy. His name is George Brett, and in 1980 he was just about the best baseball player in the world. Damn if he didn't know it, too. He was not modest.
Back to my tale: Dear old Esther and I settled into our box, and before I knew it, George Brett was looking at me about as much as he was looking at the baseball. Then he smiled at me. Then he came over to the fence. He was super sweet to Esther and then turned his attention to me. Where did I live? Baltimore. What did I do? Student. Where? Johns Hopkins, right up the street. Did I like baseball? Oh yeah. So, what was I doing after the game? Would I like to go to a party?
George Brett, top of the heap in baseball in 1980, had just asked me out on a date.
I respectfully declined, pointing out that I would have to see Great-Granny home safely. He persisted, but politely. He told me to think about it, he would be at the Belvedere Hotel, I could drop by and find him any time.
I had no boyfriend, but I was pragmatic. I wasn't keen on mixing it with a ball player. Some girls were. The bored gods know that half of my friends would have jumped at this opportunity. Both then and now, I placed more emphasis on romantic love than on sexy stuff.
I've always wondered what my life would have been like if I partied with George Brett.
He was gorgeous. A physical specimen of unparalleled magnificence. Would that experience have altered the way I looked at a more ordinary (albeit 100 times brainier) Mr. J? Or, would I be sitting here now, teetering on crone-hood, fondly remembering a fun and angst-free night with a gorgeous athlete?
What if? I just do not know.
Back to the present.
Spare and I went to a concert together. This band is meant to be experienced on your feet. They usually play in venues with no seating. But this time they were in a theater with cushioned, stuck-to-the-floor seats. It just felt weird from the get-go.
Of course, the very energy of this band had everyone up on their feet from the second beat of the first song. Spare and I started grooving, back in Row H.
Then Spare pointed at Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, and said, "Come on, let's get closer."
No denying it, when you get down to the edge of the stage with this band, you feel like you're just another member of the outfit. There's 20 people on the stage, all playing and/or singing at maximum energy. So Spare and I just got the groove on, and before we knew it, the band's leader jumped off the stage and started high-fives ... and Spare got one.
But it wasn't the headliner who was staring at Spare. It was a musician, the closest one to us where we were standing. This musician was male, young, and playing a violin.
Spare turned around and said to me, "I think that guy is looking at me."
Understatement.
Moving on. The show ended with no encore, which is very strange for this group. Sometimes they play two. Maybe it was the venue. Anyway, Spare and I lingered, disappointed, until it was clear that no encore was forthcoming. Then, I saw a friend and went over to say hello to her. We talked about three minutes. THEN I saw a half-finished water bottle on the stage. I said to Spare, "Watch this!" And I went down to the stage and snatched it. By that time, the young violin player had returned to the stage.
He hopped down and shook my hand. He shook Spare's hand. Then we started talking, because I have about a million questions about this band, and he commenced to answering them. It was clear he was focusing his attention primarily on The Spare. And he sure looked young, probably not much older than her.
Was Spare facing her George Brett moment? Well, let me tell you: It was on the tip of my tongue to invite this young fellow out for a cheeseburger and a beer, but before I could alter her destiny, Spare said, "Oh, nice to meet you!" and started for the door.
When we hit the inhospitable pavement of Broad Street, I said, "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Leave! He clearly wanted to talk to you!"
She couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe that some musician would find her attractive. Yes, it is Ripley's. The girl doesn't know her charms.
Well, you see, I was also conflicted. There's not much difference at all between a musician and a baseball player, except that one is built like a god and the other creates god-like music well enough to be paid. Why should I ever want Spare to do something I didn't want to do when I was her age? Actually, in fairness, the musician was far more sweet and human, and humble, and affable... but he still was in town for one night, moving on to DC in the morning.
I teased Spare the whole way back to her apartment, which was a short six blocks from the venue. We were laughing about it, mostly, with her still amazed that I would think any male would find her attractive. Oh well, I left her on her Locust Street stoop and hopped on the El.
Was I trying to re-live my own youth? Shouldn't I be looking out for Spare's welfare? Oh! I beat myself up on that El! What the heck? No such thing as angst-free flirtation, right? What kind of mother would I be if I started encouraging friendships with wandering minstrels?
You know, there's something to be said for this younger generation. By the time I got off the El and descended to the Snobville sidewalk, Spare reported that she had established an Instagram conversation with the stripling performer, which continued at a safe and prudent distance through the wee hours. All of a sudden the 21st century is looking a little more appealing.
Life is funny. We get these "what if" moments. Some of them are life-altering, and some of them just leave you wondering.
One thing I do know. It's Spare's life, and I had best mess out. She's bound to come to her own "what if" moment. Or a dozen of them. Regrets are the spice of life.
Starting with me.
When I was a young woman, I spent a lot of time at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. It was summertime, and I loved the Orioles. The team had a very charitable policy for students: $1.85 for an upper box seat. I went to every home game in 1979 and quite a few in 1980.
I lived on the second floor in a Baltimore row house. On the third floor lived a Baseball Annie who was 85 years old. I thought she was senile when she told me that Brooks Robinson took her out to lunch. Then one day I saw Brooks drop her off in front of the house! That's when I knew that the Baltimore Orioles club was really treating this poor old lady like gold. I'll never forget it. Sure wouldn't happen in these times.
About mid-summer, 1980, my elderly baseball friend said she'd gotten seats for us to go to a game together. The seats were Row 1, Seats 1 and 2. We were further allowed to go and stand by the locker room door before the game, where dear old Esther bear-hugged every single player except Frank Robinson. I was nearly speechless to be up-close-and-personal with every single Baltimore Oriole.
You probably know that baseball players arrive at the ball park hours before the game starts. They have to get dressed and warm up. So Esther and I were way, way early for the actual game. When we arrived in Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, The Kansas City Royals were warming up on the field.
Back to my tale: Dear old Esther and I settled into our box, and before I knew it, George Brett was looking at me about as much as he was looking at the baseball. Then he smiled at me. Then he came over to the fence. He was super sweet to Esther and then turned his attention to me. Where did I live? Baltimore. What did I do? Student. Where? Johns Hopkins, right up the street. Did I like baseball? Oh yeah. So, what was I doing after the game? Would I like to go to a party?
George Brett, top of the heap in baseball in 1980, had just asked me out on a date.
I respectfully declined, pointing out that I would have to see Great-Granny home safely. He persisted, but politely. He told me to think about it, he would be at the Belvedere Hotel, I could drop by and find him any time.
I had no boyfriend, but I was pragmatic. I wasn't keen on mixing it with a ball player. Some girls were. The bored gods know that half of my friends would have jumped at this opportunity. Both then and now, I placed more emphasis on romantic love than on sexy stuff.
I've always wondered what my life would have been like if I partied with George Brett.
He was gorgeous. A physical specimen of unparalleled magnificence. Would that experience have altered the way I looked at a more ordinary (albeit 100 times brainier) Mr. J? Or, would I be sitting here now, teetering on crone-hood, fondly remembering a fun and angst-free night with a gorgeous athlete?
What if? I just do not know.
Back to the present.
Spare and I went to a concert together. This band is meant to be experienced on your feet. They usually play in venues with no seating. But this time they were in a theater with cushioned, stuck-to-the-floor seats. It just felt weird from the get-go.
Of course, the very energy of this band had everyone up on their feet from the second beat of the first song. Spare and I started grooving, back in Row H.
Then Spare pointed at Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, and said, "Come on, let's get closer."
No denying it, when you get down to the edge of the stage with this band, you feel like you're just another member of the outfit. There's 20 people on the stage, all playing and/or singing at maximum energy. So Spare and I just got the groove on, and before we knew it, the band's leader jumped off the stage and started high-fives ... and Spare got one.
But it wasn't the headliner who was staring at Spare. It was a musician, the closest one to us where we were standing. This musician was male, young, and playing a violin.
Spare turned around and said to me, "I think that guy is looking at me."
Understatement.
Moving on. The show ended with no encore, which is very strange for this group. Sometimes they play two. Maybe it was the venue. Anyway, Spare and I lingered, disappointed, until it was clear that no encore was forthcoming. Then, I saw a friend and went over to say hello to her. We talked about three minutes. THEN I saw a half-finished water bottle on the stage. I said to Spare, "Watch this!" And I went down to the stage and snatched it. By that time, the young violin player had returned to the stage.
He hopped down and shook my hand. He shook Spare's hand. Then we started talking, because I have about a million questions about this band, and he commenced to answering them. It was clear he was focusing his attention primarily on The Spare. And he sure looked young, probably not much older than her.
Was Spare facing her George Brett moment? Well, let me tell you: It was on the tip of my tongue to invite this young fellow out for a cheeseburger and a beer, but before I could alter her destiny, Spare said, "Oh, nice to meet you!" and started for the door.
When we hit the inhospitable pavement of Broad Street, I said, "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Leave! He clearly wanted to talk to you!"
She couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe that some musician would find her attractive. Yes, it is Ripley's. The girl doesn't know her charms.
Well, you see, I was also conflicted. There's not much difference at all between a musician and a baseball player, except that one is built like a god and the other creates god-like music well enough to be paid. Why should I ever want Spare to do something I didn't want to do when I was her age? Actually, in fairness, the musician was far more sweet and human, and humble, and affable... but he still was in town for one night, moving on to DC in the morning.
I teased Spare the whole way back to her apartment, which was a short six blocks from the venue. We were laughing about it, mostly, with her still amazed that I would think any male would find her attractive. Oh well, I left her on her Locust Street stoop and hopped on the El.
Was I trying to re-live my own youth? Shouldn't I be looking out for Spare's welfare? Oh! I beat myself up on that El! What the heck? No such thing as angst-free flirtation, right? What kind of mother would I be if I started encouraging friendships with wandering minstrels?
You know, there's something to be said for this younger generation. By the time I got off the El and descended to the Snobville sidewalk, Spare reported that she had established an Instagram conversation with the stripling performer, which continued at a safe and prudent distance through the wee hours. All of a sudden the 21st century is looking a little more appealing.
Life is funny. We get these "what if" moments. Some of them are life-altering, and some of them just leave you wondering.
One thing I do know. It's Spare's life, and I had best mess out. She's bound to come to her own "what if" moment. Or a dozen of them. Regrets are the spice of life.
Fun with the Polyphonic Spree
Every summer, the Polyphonic Spree visits Philadelphia.
This is a Texas-based band with the usual assembly of rock instruments, plus horns and strings and a choir and a harpist.
It's hard to describe their music, except to say that it starts out low (or solo) and then explodes into an avalanche of sound. The front man, Tim Delaughter, sets the pace, which is ... well, spree-like.
I was never a fan of big arena concerts. If I had been, the Polyphonic Spree would have changed my mind. There's nothing like being able to sit or stand so close to the music that you feel like you're part of the band. And on this particular evening, Tim Delaughter told the crowd of Philadelphians that he is a Dallas Cowboys fan ... and then he came off the stage and walked among the audience. (I wish I knew what health plan he has, because it must be pretty thorough. Admitting to loving the Cowboys is never prudent in Philly.) He slapped a high five on The Spare, as well he should. She's a huge fan.
After the show, the violinist came out and talked to me and Spare. This is another wonderful, beautiful thing about smaller venue performers. They'll talk to you. Shake your hand. Really, really civilized.
If you're looking for some new tunes for your IPod or whatever, I can't recommend the Polyphonic Spree enough. There's nothing wrong with happy music. It's actually inspiring.
This is a Texas-based band with the usual assembly of rock instruments, plus horns and strings and a choir and a harpist.
It's hard to describe their music, except to say that it starts out low (or solo) and then explodes into an avalanche of sound. The front man, Tim Delaughter, sets the pace, which is ... well, spree-like.
I was never a fan of big arena concerts. If I had been, the Polyphonic Spree would have changed my mind. There's nothing like being able to sit or stand so close to the music that you feel like you're part of the band. And on this particular evening, Tim Delaughter told the crowd of Philadelphians that he is a Dallas Cowboys fan ... and then he came off the stage and walked among the audience. (I wish I knew what health plan he has, because it must be pretty thorough. Admitting to loving the Cowboys is never prudent in Philly.) He slapped a high five on The Spare, as well he should. She's a huge fan.
After the show, the violinist came out and talked to me and Spare. This is another wonderful, beautiful thing about smaller venue performers. They'll talk to you. Shake your hand. Really, really civilized.
If you're looking for some new tunes for your IPod or whatever, I can't recommend the Polyphonic Spree enough. There's nothing wrong with happy music. It's actually inspiring.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Free Advice on the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge
ALS is a terrible, horrible illness, and that's the only reason why I would do something as stupid as pour ice water over my head. That is stupid. It must have been thought up by some Alabama frat brother.
I was nominated by my daughter The Spare. How's them apples? She must have found out that I have a life insurance policy.
Anyway, I rarely do something stupid before researching the specs on the matter. Free advice? The specs pretty much let you off the hook.
1. The site says don't do it in areas where there's a shortage of water. That's everywhere, my friends! Everywhere! Water should never be wasted. Potable water is a finite resource. You will be completely covered if (like me) you drop a single ice cube on your head and flick a few drops of water in your face.
2. You're not supposed to do it if it would impact your health. How would you know until you did it? Single ice cube, flick of water. That's not going to hurt anyone.
3. This is the part I don't like. You have to nominate three more people to do the challenge. This makes me uncomfortable. I think people should be free to donate to the charity of their choosing. But a close reading of the web site doesn't demand that you nominate living people! Thank the bored gods for that! There are any number of famous historical hot-heads for you to nominate, should this stupid challenge fall into your lap.
So there you have it -- helpful free advice which, the economy being what it is, I will pay you to take. Send me an invoice.
I was nominated by my daughter The Spare. How's them apples? She must have found out that I have a life insurance policy.
Anyway, I rarely do something stupid before researching the specs on the matter. Free advice? The specs pretty much let you off the hook.
1. The site says don't do it in areas where there's a shortage of water. That's everywhere, my friends! Everywhere! Water should never be wasted. Potable water is a finite resource. You will be completely covered if (like me) you drop a single ice cube on your head and flick a few drops of water in your face.
2. You're not supposed to do it if it would impact your health. How would you know until you did it? Single ice cube, flick of water. That's not going to hurt anyone.
3. This is the part I don't like. You have to nominate three more people to do the challenge. This makes me uncomfortable. I think people should be free to donate to the charity of their choosing. But a close reading of the web site doesn't demand that you nominate living people! Thank the bored gods for that! There are any number of famous historical hot-heads for you to nominate, should this stupid challenge fall into your lap.
So there you have it -- helpful free advice which, the economy being what it is, I will pay you to take. Send me an invoice.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Thoughts on My 30th Wedding Anniversary
You would hardly know it to look at me, youthful and sprightly as I am, but I have been married for 30 years. August 23 is my wedding anniversary.
I have no free advice regarding how to make a marriage work. There are a gazillion married people on this planet, yet no two relationships are exactly the same.
Oh, wait. Here's some free advice for the young, single readers of The Gods Are Bored.
(Okay, freely admitting here that there probably aren't even a dozen young, single readers of The Gods Are Bored.)
Avoid this, even if you can afford it. That's not marriage, it's a Broadway show.
Marriage is what happens after you take off the gooey gown. It's tough sledding. Not gonna pull the wool over your eyes. On the other hand, the right partner can help you find yourself. Mr. J has done that for me.
So we're offto Paris, London, and the Riviera to the Chesapeake Bay for two days. Free advice on a long marriage? Don't live beyond your means.
See you Tuesday! Keep your deities warm.
I have no free advice regarding how to make a marriage work. There are a gazillion married people on this planet, yet no two relationships are exactly the same.
Oh, wait. Here's some free advice for the young, single readers of The Gods Are Bored.
(Okay, freely admitting here that there probably aren't even a dozen young, single readers of The Gods Are Bored.)
Avoid this, even if you can afford it. That's not marriage, it's a Broadway show.
Marriage is what happens after you take off the gooey gown. It's tough sledding. Not gonna pull the wool over your eyes. On the other hand, the right partner can help you find yourself. Mr. J has done that for me.
So we're off
See you Tuesday! Keep your deities warm.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Teardown Times Three
There's a tenet of Paganism called the Threefold Law: Any harm you do comes back upon you threefold.
Today I am sending the intention of the Threefold Law against the developer who built this hideous mess:
This mess of McMansions sits on land that was once a farm. The land is about five miles from Antietam Battlefield.
Sitting in the midst of this heinous assault upon the rural countryside was this:
A Regency Era home (just ditch the porch and you'll see it) with the original cellar, flooring, and kitchen cabinetry. In 2008 I toured this home, because the developer of the McMansions expelled the tenant and left the place unlocked, hoping it would be vandalized.
There are all sorts of rules and regulations about tearing down houses that are on the Historical Register. Houses that probably served as hospitals during the Civil War. Houses that retain their original architectural elements.
Rules don't mean squat.
Today on her Facebook page, my sister lamented the overnight destruction of this property. It has been completely razed.
I tried to alert the county Historical Society to the plight of this home. I also fruitlessly searched for an old friend who was once a preeminent historian in the county. Sis, who lived within 200 yards of the house, did nothing.
There are three abandoned McMansions in Sis's neighborhood. The grass has grown up around these houses, and it's not clear if they are even up for sale. The families just stole away in the night, probably after being unable to make the mortgage note.
This is rural disaster. This is the character of a region being sucked down the drain.
I feel guilty. I should have done more to try to save that house.
But worse, I feel furious. This is a historic area, prime valley farmland, full 70 miles from Baltimore and Washington.
Threefold cursed be they who ordered the teardown of this house. Threefold cursed be they who carried out the act. And may the owners of the McMansions on the tract, one and all, face the reality of modern home construction. What do you think my sister's house will look like when it is as old as the one that was just razed?
Today I am sending the intention of the Threefold Law against the developer who built this hideous mess:
This mess of McMansions sits on land that was once a farm. The land is about five miles from Antietam Battlefield.
Sitting in the midst of this heinous assault upon the rural countryside was this:
A Regency Era home (just ditch the porch and you'll see it) with the original cellar, flooring, and kitchen cabinetry. In 2008 I toured this home, because the developer of the McMansions expelled the tenant and left the place unlocked, hoping it would be vandalized.
There are all sorts of rules and regulations about tearing down houses that are on the Historical Register. Houses that probably served as hospitals during the Civil War. Houses that retain their original architectural elements.
Rules don't mean squat.
Today on her Facebook page, my sister lamented the overnight destruction of this property. It has been completely razed.
I tried to alert the county Historical Society to the plight of this home. I also fruitlessly searched for an old friend who was once a preeminent historian in the county. Sis, who lived within 200 yards of the house, did nothing.
There are three abandoned McMansions in Sis's neighborhood. The grass has grown up around these houses, and it's not clear if they are even up for sale. The families just stole away in the night, probably after being unable to make the mortgage note.
This is rural disaster. This is the character of a region being sucked down the drain.
I feel guilty. I should have done more to try to save that house.
But worse, I feel furious. This is a historic area, prime valley farmland, full 70 miles from Baltimore and Washington.
Threefold cursed be they who ordered the teardown of this house. Threefold cursed be they who carried out the act. And may the owners of the McMansions on the tract, one and all, face the reality of modern home construction. What do you think my sister's house will look like when it is as old as the one that was just razed?
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Public School Education Prior to 1975
Wow, this one sounds dull as dirt, doesn't it? But hold tight, because don't I always offer you some laughs?
I am in a unique position to evaluate this premise. My public school education began in 1964 and ended in 1977. Spoiler alert: I didn't learn diddly squat about guns.
I did learn stuff, though.
I learned how to turn chicken eggs in an incubator so that the chicks would develop properly. By doing this, I learned that birds turn their eggs. This stuck with me. That was kindergarten.
Grade 1 I learned to love snowfall. The teacher let me stay in the hallway and watch a snow storm, all by myself, while the other kids had recess in the classroom.
Second grade I learned that being left-handed sucks. Cursive writing was a horror.
Third grade I memorized all my times tables. I understand they do it differently now. Rote worked for me. We had flash cards and practiced at home.
Fourth grade I learned that there was an author named Laura Ingalls Wilder, and that she wrote fabulous books about growing up on the prairie in the 19th century. Literally, I think all I did in fourth grade was read "Little House" books and solve long division problems. Oh yeah! The teacher was so furious that none of us knew the words to the National Anthem that she gave us one night to memorize it and then made all 31 of us sing it, solo, the next day.
In fifth grade I learned that if you can't play kickball very well, you can earn props from the more athletic kids by being a fair umpire.
In sixth grade *spoiler alert kinda gross* I learned in health class that I had been putting certain feminine items on backwards. My mother never showed me.
In seventh grade I didn't learn much of anything, because my mother had a major nervous breakdown, and that made me irritable, distracted, and prone to acting out in school. I would have been keenly interested in gun use classes at this moment in my life, but I didn't get them. There was no gun in my home, at any stage of my life, and that's why I'm sitting here writing this today. I might be dead otherwise.
Eighth grade I remember looking in the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature about a movie star and then getting magazine articles from the school library to write a report. It's funny how things work. I wound up making a decent living doing exactly that task, from 1984 until 2005.
In ninth grade biology class, I learned that eating a balanced diet every day makes multivitamins unnecessary.
When I was in tenth grade I learned that it's possible to fall head-over-heels, deeply in love with someone that modern society would bar me from pursuing.
Again in 11th grade, life was chaos at home, so I didn't learn anything. As with seventh grade, I would have remembered vividly having gun lessons.
In my senior year of high school, I learned a little bit of Latin. I wish I had studied it from freshman year forward. It's really great, and not just because of the bored gods.
So there, not terribly abridged, is my public school education! It did not include gun safety or gun use.
You know what? I'm going to tag this post with a "moron" label. Think about that quote above. In order to teach gun safety, there would have to be a gun or guns in school. That gun would have to be a common enough model to have readily available ammunition. For the love of fruit flies! What an explosive situation!
So, now addressing the moron who said I had gun safety classes in school, I reply most forcibly: Oh HELL no, I did not! The closest I got to a safety lesson upon which my life depended was in geology class, where we learned protective measures for exploring wild caves. Bite me, Mr. Gun Owner. There was a war being fought almost throughout the entirety of my public schooling. Three major political figures were assassinated. People thought differently about firearms in those days. Trust me on that, reader.
I am in a unique position to evaluate this premise. My public school education began in 1964 and ended in 1977. Spoiler alert: I didn't learn diddly squat about guns.
I did learn stuff, though.
I learned how to turn chicken eggs in an incubator so that the chicks would develop properly. By doing this, I learned that birds turn their eggs. This stuck with me. That was kindergarten.
Grade 1 I learned to love snowfall. The teacher let me stay in the hallway and watch a snow storm, all by myself, while the other kids had recess in the classroom.
Second grade I learned that being left-handed sucks. Cursive writing was a horror.
Third grade I memorized all my times tables. I understand they do it differently now. Rote worked for me. We had flash cards and practiced at home.
Fourth grade I learned that there was an author named Laura Ingalls Wilder, and that she wrote fabulous books about growing up on the prairie in the 19th century. Literally, I think all I did in fourth grade was read "Little House" books and solve long division problems. Oh yeah! The teacher was so furious that none of us knew the words to the National Anthem that she gave us one night to memorize it and then made all 31 of us sing it, solo, the next day.
In fifth grade I learned that if you can't play kickball very well, you can earn props from the more athletic kids by being a fair umpire.
In sixth grade *spoiler alert kinda gross* I learned in health class that I had been putting certain feminine items on backwards. My mother never showed me.
In seventh grade I didn't learn much of anything, because my mother had a major nervous breakdown, and that made me irritable, distracted, and prone to acting out in school. I would have been keenly interested in gun use classes at this moment in my life, but I didn't get them. There was no gun in my home, at any stage of my life, and that's why I'm sitting here writing this today. I might be dead otherwise.
Eighth grade I remember looking in the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature about a movie star and then getting magazine articles from the school library to write a report. It's funny how things work. I wound up making a decent living doing exactly that task, from 1984 until 2005.
In ninth grade biology class, I learned that eating a balanced diet every day makes multivitamins unnecessary.
When I was in tenth grade I learned that it's possible to fall head-over-heels, deeply in love with someone that modern society would bar me from pursuing.
Again in 11th grade, life was chaos at home, so I didn't learn anything. As with seventh grade, I would have remembered vividly having gun lessons.
In my senior year of high school, I learned a little bit of Latin. I wish I had studied it from freshman year forward. It's really great, and not just because of the bored gods.
So there, not terribly abridged, is my public school education! It did not include gun safety or gun use.
You know what? I'm going to tag this post with a "moron" label. Think about that quote above. In order to teach gun safety, there would have to be a gun or guns in school. That gun would have to be a common enough model to have readily available ammunition. For the love of fruit flies! What an explosive situation!
So, now addressing the moron who said I had gun safety classes in school, I reply most forcibly: Oh HELL no, I did not! The closest I got to a safety lesson upon which my life depended was in geology class, where we learned protective measures for exploring wild caves. Bite me, Mr. Gun Owner. There was a war being fought almost throughout the entirety of my public schooling. Three major political figures were assassinated. People thought differently about firearms in those days. Trust me on that, reader.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Anti-Bucket List of "The Gods Are Bored"
Everyone has a bucket list, right? I'll bet you have one. I won't hazard a guess what's on it.
My bucket list is boring and trivial. If you don't believe me, try this: It's my dearest wish to travel across Eastern Europe looking for mineral water towns. *YAWN* And more of that ilk.
But you know what most people don't have? An anti-bucket list -- things they absolutely, positively don't want to do before they die. For my money, that's just as important as a real bucket list. You don't want to wander into a situation that you would absolutely deplore, just because you forgot to make an anti-bucket list.
Here's mine:
1. Disney World. Hard to believe, huh? I'm nuts about the old Disney movies, especially Peter Pan. But there's something about the expense, and the excess, and the lines, and the sun, and the canned fun that just makes Disney World a "must miss" for me.
2. Rolling Stones Concert. Gimme shelter from those guys! Their music is great, but they performed in Atlantic City last summer and charged $190 for a ticket. With parking and slots, that's almost three hundred bucks to see two geezers who were hideous when they were young. Cheerfully saving money on this endeavor.
3. Mega church Sunday service. No explanation needed on this one, and I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir.
4. Cottage cheese. Hate it. Always have, always will, not going to eat it anymore.
5. Tornado chasing. This is not for me. It's tempting fate. Those storms kill people. It's like inviting bad luck into your life.
6. Anything having to do with falling through the sky. Including, but not limited to, skydiving, hang gliding, cliff diving, zip lines, bungee jumping, and most of the more extreme amusement park rides.
7. Battle re-enactment. I know some of you like to do this. It's not for me. Not while people are running for their lives anywhere on the planet. I think it's bad form to play war.
8. Alabama. I don't even want to wander across the state line of Alabama by accident on a dark night. If you're reading this, and you live in Alabama, set me straight. If I get no impassioned defenses of that place, it stays firmly off the Anne chart.
9. Pony. I don't really want a pony. They eat a lot, they need a large plot of ground, they attract horse flies. No, I don't ever, ever want a pony. [sour grapes bucket list]
10. Get eaten by Megalodon. Every anti-bucket list should have something on it that is easy to accomplish ... or, in this case, not.
So there you have it! All the things I certainly don't want to do, eat, or see before I die. If you don't have an anti-bucket list, I highly recommend it. You'll feel more satisfied on your death bed if you just review what you never wanted to do and know that you didn't do it.
My bucket list is boring and trivial. If you don't believe me, try this: It's my dearest wish to travel across Eastern Europe looking for mineral water towns. *YAWN* And more of that ilk.
But you know what most people don't have? An anti-bucket list -- things they absolutely, positively don't want to do before they die. For my money, that's just as important as a real bucket list. You don't want to wander into a situation that you would absolutely deplore, just because you forgot to make an anti-bucket list.
Here's mine:
1. Disney World. Hard to believe, huh? I'm nuts about the old Disney movies, especially Peter Pan. But there's something about the expense, and the excess, and the lines, and the sun, and the canned fun that just makes Disney World a "must miss" for me.
2. Rolling Stones Concert. Gimme shelter from those guys! Their music is great, but they performed in Atlantic City last summer and charged $190 for a ticket. With parking and slots, that's almost three hundred bucks to see two geezers who were hideous when they were young. Cheerfully saving money on this endeavor.
3. Mega church Sunday service. No explanation needed on this one, and I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir.
4. Cottage cheese. Hate it. Always have, always will, not going to eat it anymore.
5. Tornado chasing. This is not for me. It's tempting fate. Those storms kill people. It's like inviting bad luck into your life.
6. Anything having to do with falling through the sky. Including, but not limited to, skydiving, hang gliding, cliff diving, zip lines, bungee jumping, and most of the more extreme amusement park rides.
7. Battle re-enactment. I know some of you like to do this. It's not for me. Not while people are running for their lives anywhere on the planet. I think it's bad form to play war.
8. Alabama. I don't even want to wander across the state line of Alabama by accident on a dark night. If you're reading this, and you live in Alabama, set me straight. If I get no impassioned defenses of that place, it stays firmly off the Anne chart.
9. Pony. I don't really want a pony. They eat a lot, they need a large plot of ground, they attract horse flies. No, I don't ever, ever want a pony. [sour grapes bucket list]
10. Get eaten by Megalodon. Every anti-bucket list should have something on it that is easy to accomplish ... or, in this case, not.
So there you have it! All the things I certainly don't want to do, eat, or see before I die. If you don't have an anti-bucket list, I highly recommend it. You'll feel more satisfied on your death bed if you just review what you never wanted to do and know that you didn't do it.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Interview with a Bored Goddess: Minerva
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we stray from our mission more than we serve it! (This makes us human.)
I've been thinking lately about how stupid I am when it comes to computers and their technology. I'm old enough to remember the first word processors that were sold for use -- first in universities, then in business. Back in the day, I was one of the first to use the computer that was installed at the company where I worked. Alas, my ground-breaking days are long gone. Computers have moved far more swiftly than my ability to understand them.
This is the moment when I have to get my arms around computers. "Woe is me," I thought. "There's no bored deity who understands web design and coding!"
BAMP! Wrong.
Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Minerva, ancient Goddess of Wisdom, who has come here today for a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, muffins, and local blueberries!
Anne: Oh, you brought an owl!
Minerva: It wants to visit with Decibel the parrot.
Anne: Have at it, owl! Steer clear of Decibel's beak.
Minerva: Anne this is a wise owl. Can I have some blueberries?
Anne: Help yourself! Minerva, I have a problem. This whole computer technology has eluded me. I want my students to be able to use their smart phones in class, but I'm so stupid with my phone that I hesitate to try it. I read all the time in the newspaper that coding is the latest and greatest job-creator, and I would like to help my students learn it. But I myself know next to nothing about coding.
Minerva: Ha! Coding is a snap! Can I see your computer?
[Minerva taps a few keys on Anne's laptop. The machine leaves the table and starts to do the breakfast dishes.]
Anne: How did you do that?
Minerva: I'm a Goddess of wisdom. These days, wisdom includes computer technology. Do you know how much time I have on My hands in this desperately dark era? Enough to hang out at MIT -- and in the basements of geeks looking for vulnerabilities to exploit in software applications. By the way ... that weird Russian message in your email inbox? Change your password.
Anne: So, will you teach me coding?
Minerva: What, do you want Me to wave some magic wand and make you a geek? Slacker! Teach yourself! How do you think your students got way ahead of you? They weren't praying to Me, that much I know. They were working. Experimenting. Sharing knowledge. Want to be humbled? Ask your students to teach coding to you.
Anne: Wise Goddess. I was looking to cut some corners, I'll admit. Coding is complicated.
Minerva: Start here. Get up off your duff and stop moaning about how much better the 20th century was! You know what century was great? 24 BCE! Now there was a century!
Anne: Yes. That puts it in perspective. You deities kind of have to move with the times, don't You?
Minerva: It's that, or be twice as bored as We already are. If the only language I knew was Etruscan, I wouldn't even be able to talk to you. Are you going to eat that last muffin?
Anne: It's all yours, Great Goddess. Oh, I wonder if you would grant me at least a small petition?
Minerva: It depends.
Anne: Can you keep the dishwashing program in my computer? Look at the job it's doing on that bacon grease!
Minerva: Done, darling.
[Conversation is interrupted by a loud bout of squawking in a nearby room.]
Minerva: Your parrot is a menace to society. You know that, don't you?
Anne: Yes, Goddess. This is one wisdom I have acquired through long observation. Some jam for Your muffin?
Minerva: Thanks ever so much.
I've been thinking lately about how stupid I am when it comes to computers and their technology. I'm old enough to remember the first word processors that were sold for use -- first in universities, then in business. Back in the day, I was one of the first to use the computer that was installed at the company where I worked. Alas, my ground-breaking days are long gone. Computers have moved far more swiftly than my ability to understand them.
This is the moment when I have to get my arms around computers. "Woe is me," I thought. "There's no bored deity who understands web design and coding!"
BAMP! Wrong.
Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Minerva, ancient Goddess of Wisdom, who has come here today for a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, muffins, and local blueberries!
Minerva: It wants to visit with Decibel the parrot.
Anne: Have at it, owl! Steer clear of Decibel's beak.
Minerva: Anne this is a wise owl. Can I have some blueberries?
Anne: Help yourself! Minerva, I have a problem. This whole computer technology has eluded me. I want my students to be able to use their smart phones in class, but I'm so stupid with my phone that I hesitate to try it. I read all the time in the newspaper that coding is the latest and greatest job-creator, and I would like to help my students learn it. But I myself know next to nothing about coding.
Minerva: Ha! Coding is a snap! Can I see your computer?
[Minerva taps a few keys on Anne's laptop. The machine leaves the table and starts to do the breakfast dishes.]
Anne: How did you do that?
Minerva: I'm a Goddess of wisdom. These days, wisdom includes computer technology. Do you know how much time I have on My hands in this desperately dark era? Enough to hang out at MIT -- and in the basements of geeks looking for vulnerabilities to exploit in software applications. By the way ... that weird Russian message in your email inbox? Change your password.
Anne: So, will you teach me coding?
Minerva: What, do you want Me to wave some magic wand and make you a geek? Slacker! Teach yourself! How do you think your students got way ahead of you? They weren't praying to Me, that much I know. They were working. Experimenting. Sharing knowledge. Want to be humbled? Ask your students to teach coding to you.
Anne: Wise Goddess. I was looking to cut some corners, I'll admit. Coding is complicated.
Minerva: Start here. Get up off your duff and stop moaning about how much better the 20th century was! You know what century was great? 24 BCE! Now there was a century!
Anne: Yes. That puts it in perspective. You deities kind of have to move with the times, don't You?
Minerva: It's that, or be twice as bored as We already are. If the only language I knew was Etruscan, I wouldn't even be able to talk to you. Are you going to eat that last muffin?
Anne: It's all yours, Great Goddess. Oh, I wonder if you would grant me at least a small petition?
Minerva: It depends.
Anne: Can you keep the dishwashing program in my computer? Look at the job it's doing on that bacon grease!
Minerva: Done, darling.
[Conversation is interrupted by a loud bout of squawking in a nearby room.]
Minerva: Your parrot is a menace to society. You know that, don't you?
Anne: Yes, Goddess. This is one wisdom I have acquired through long observation. Some jam for Your muffin?
Minerva: Thanks ever so much.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
May He Have Found the Summerlands
Robin Williams died Monday after a long illness.
Mr. Williams was one of America's most beloved entertainers. He was a hilarious stand-up, he starred in comedy television shows, and his list of films is longer than almost anyone else his age.
But even in his earliest years, Mr. Williams suffered from _________________, a chronic ailment that is treatable only by medication that has debilitating side effects.
During the early stages of his illness, Mr. Williams didn't know his diagnosis. He allayed his pain with over-the-counter medications, which some people who suffer from ____________________ find easier to use than the prescriptions available for the illness.
Eventually Mr. Williams received his diagnosis. He also understood that there was no hope for a cure, that he could only manage the sickness with a relentless and careful use of prescription medications. Unfortunately, for some people who have this illness, medication can interrupt or alter their abilities to do their jobs. Although I have no evidence, I would say that probably Mr. Williams was one of these people.
Many people who have ________________________ either deny it or are ashamed of it, or both. This is because ___________________ is an internal degenerative illness that has no clear physical symptoms. The kind of sympathy people lavish on patients with broken limbs or cancer is almost always unavailable to people with ______________. It's basically a sickness that has to be borne in silence.
Today we're hearing the usual outpouring of grief over Mr. Williams's death. Knowing his illness the way I do, I'm actually glad he lived as long as he did, and worked as hard as he did. An untreated case of _________________ can lead to much earlier mortality.
May Robin Williams have found the Summerlands. He fought the good fight with a dreadful illness, and he was remarkably productive despite his sickness. I admire him.
Mr. Williams was one of America's most beloved entertainers. He was a hilarious stand-up, he starred in comedy television shows, and his list of films is longer than almost anyone else his age.
But even in his earliest years, Mr. Williams suffered from _________________, a chronic ailment that is treatable only by medication that has debilitating side effects.
During the early stages of his illness, Mr. Williams didn't know his diagnosis. He allayed his pain with over-the-counter medications, which some people who suffer from ____________________ find easier to use than the prescriptions available for the illness.
Eventually Mr. Williams received his diagnosis. He also understood that there was no hope for a cure, that he could only manage the sickness with a relentless and careful use of prescription medications. Unfortunately, for some people who have this illness, medication can interrupt or alter their abilities to do their jobs. Although I have no evidence, I would say that probably Mr. Williams was one of these people.
Many people who have ________________________ either deny it or are ashamed of it, or both. This is because ___________________ is an internal degenerative illness that has no clear physical symptoms. The kind of sympathy people lavish on patients with broken limbs or cancer is almost always unavailable to people with ______________. It's basically a sickness that has to be borne in silence.
Today we're hearing the usual outpouring of grief over Mr. Williams's death. Knowing his illness the way I do, I'm actually glad he lived as long as he did, and worked as hard as he did. An untreated case of _________________ can lead to much earlier mortality.
May Robin Williams have found the Summerlands. He fought the good fight with a dreadful illness, and he was remarkably productive despite his sickness. I admire him.
Friday, August 08, 2014
Snobville Annual Sidewalk Sale!
Howdy howdy! It's me, Anne Johnson, your favorite gal on the street, bringing you highlights of the Snobville, New Jersey sidewalk sale!
Every year during the first week of August, Snobville holds a sidewalk sale so that the merchants can get rid of their summer merchandise. There are great deals to be had, if you're rich and like to feel like you're saving money.
There are three kinds of stores in Snobville: Stores that sell stupid stuff, stores that sell designer stuff, and CVS Pharmacy.
Snobville abounds with chic little boutiques. They all participate in the sidewalk sale. What bargains there are to be had! The $315 pair of blue jeans are 50 percent off!
Seriously. How did I ever wind up in this town?
If what you want is a cat coffee mug, or some little sign about your dog, or yoga pants that started life at $175, or yet another little clutch purse, or Nike sneakers made in Vietnam, then Snobville is your go-to sidewalk sale. If, on the other hand, you buy clothing for comfort and durability, you can give this little affair the brush.
There's one exception to this Rule of Expensive Sidewalk Sales.
If you are looking for a bridal gown or a prom dress, then Snobville's sidewalk sale is your bargain-hunting dream.
Snobville has four stores that sell gooey gowns. We all know the deal with bridal gowns: the samples get tried on by legions of cranky Bridezillas. Then the season ends and the new styles come out. So the stores sell the sample gowns at the very reasonable price of $150. Now, that's what I call a deal! (Are you reading this, Heir and Spare?)
Ditto, but to a lesser extent, prom gowns. Usually the bargain prom gowns at the sidewalk sale have some issue, missing sequins being the predominant gripe. But seriously. Who looks at prom gowns that closely? Put it another way: How hard is it to sew a sequin back where it belongs, when it's hanging there by a thread already?
If you paid more than $25 for your prom gown, you should have come to Snobville in August.
There's no moral to this sermon. I just spent the morning strolling around Snobville and the afternoon reading library books. It's how I rolled today. Other people go to Paris on their vacations, but I'm perfectly content to peruse bargain bridal gowns, cat coffee mugs, and jeans that will go onto someone else's butt.
Every year during the first week of August, Snobville holds a sidewalk sale so that the merchants can get rid of their summer merchandise. There are great deals to be had, if you're rich and like to feel like you're saving money.
There are three kinds of stores in Snobville: Stores that sell stupid stuff, stores that sell designer stuff, and CVS Pharmacy.
Snobville abounds with chic little boutiques. They all participate in the sidewalk sale. What bargains there are to be had! The $315 pair of blue jeans are 50 percent off!
Seriously. How did I ever wind up in this town?
If what you want is a cat coffee mug, or some little sign about your dog, or yoga pants that started life at $175, or yet another little clutch purse, or Nike sneakers made in Vietnam, then Snobville is your go-to sidewalk sale. If, on the other hand, you buy clothing for comfort and durability, you can give this little affair the brush.
There's one exception to this Rule of Expensive Sidewalk Sales.
If you are looking for a bridal gown or a prom dress, then Snobville's sidewalk sale is your bargain-hunting dream.
Snobville has four stores that sell gooey gowns. We all know the deal with bridal gowns: the samples get tried on by legions of cranky Bridezillas. Then the season ends and the new styles come out. So the stores sell the sample gowns at the very reasonable price of $150. Now, that's what I call a deal! (Are you reading this, Heir and Spare?)
Ditto, but to a lesser extent, prom gowns. Usually the bargain prom gowns at the sidewalk sale have some issue, missing sequins being the predominant gripe. But seriously. Who looks at prom gowns that closely? Put it another way: How hard is it to sew a sequin back where it belongs, when it's hanging there by a thread already?
If you paid more than $25 for your prom gown, you should have come to Snobville in August.
There's no moral to this sermon. I just spent the morning strolling around Snobville and the afternoon reading library books. It's how I rolled today. Other people go to Paris on their vacations, but I'm perfectly content to peruse bargain bridal gowns, cat coffee mugs, and jeans that will go onto someone else's butt.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
180
Has this ever happened to you?
I had a colleague with whom I had to work closely, because we were the only sophomore teachers at our school. I loved her dearly, but wow, she was a challenge at times. First of all, she wore makeup like a movie star, perfect every day (which, folks, will take 20 years off your age). Then, she dressed impeccably every day, with matching jewelry and heels. Last but not least, she was one of the most anxious people I ever met. Last year was her final year of teaching. She sweated through her evaluations and worried herself sick about new test prep lessons. Sweet lady, but boy oh boy did she fret. She retired with no little fanfare on June 27.
I was afraid they might not replace my colleague at all, but they did. For the last two days I have been in a workshop with the replacement teacher.
He wears tie-dye shirts that he makes himself. Every day. He shaves if he feels like it. He would rather talk about bluegrass than teaching. He's a union rep. And he's my age. He and I will be the sophomore teachers this year.
Have you ever found someone in your life replaced by someone so completely and utterly opposite that you can't quite get over it? I've never been in this situation before. Every time the presenter at our teacher workshop says, "Pair up with the other teachers at your level," I find myself looking across the table at a person so completely opposite his predecessor that it boggles the mind.
Please tell me if this has ever happened to you. I'm not upset about it, I'm just adjusting to the new, completely different, reality.
I had a colleague with whom I had to work closely, because we were the only sophomore teachers at our school. I loved her dearly, but wow, she was a challenge at times. First of all, she wore makeup like a movie star, perfect every day (which, folks, will take 20 years off your age). Then, she dressed impeccably every day, with matching jewelry and heels. Last but not least, she was one of the most anxious people I ever met. Last year was her final year of teaching. She sweated through her evaluations and worried herself sick about new test prep lessons. Sweet lady, but boy oh boy did she fret. She retired with no little fanfare on June 27.
I was afraid they might not replace my colleague at all, but they did. For the last two days I have been in a workshop with the replacement teacher.
He wears tie-dye shirts that he makes himself. Every day. He shaves if he feels like it. He would rather talk about bluegrass than teaching. He's a union rep. And he's my age. He and I will be the sophomore teachers this year.
Have you ever found someone in your life replaced by someone so completely and utterly opposite that you can't quite get over it? I've never been in this situation before. Every time the presenter at our teacher workshop says, "Pair up with the other teachers at your level," I find myself looking across the table at a person so completely opposite his predecessor that it boggles the mind.
Please tell me if this has ever happened to you. I'm not upset about it, I'm just adjusting to the new, completely different, reality.
Sunday, August 03, 2014
Don't Be Jealous of My Druid Grove
Envy is a sin. I want you to keep that in mind as I describe my Druid Grove's Lughnasadh ritual. Of course we all strive for perfection. Can I help it that this Grove has been together so long that we have achieved it?
A good location is important for any worship. Here's ours. It's an easy 26-hour flight to Fiji. We don't mind the commute a bit. Worth it to praise the bored gods the way they ought to be praised!
Our leader, Archdruid Wallace, insists upon careful observation of all ritual activities. You'd better not forget your lines or your cues.
This is one of our seven altars. We used this one today because all the native flowers were coincidentally blooming at this one moment.
Our Chief Priestess is so misunderstood! Her colleagues at the Fed belittle her all the time about her "silly hobby." And props to her. She works in a building with $80 million in the basement, and she never contemplates revenge. Strong woman.
I know attendance can be an issue for some of you folks, but as you can see, Black Oak Grove has it going on. Not to brag or anything.
We held our Lughnasadh Ritual on August 3, and as always, it was perfect. Let's face it, perfection should be the goal of every worship service. The Gods and Goddesses will not accept a ho-hum performance.
OKAY, ALREADY, BACK TO REALITY
Black Oak Grove met in a local state park. The pavilion was not available; it had been leased. We were eight in number, a high for us since about 2009. We didn't have an altar ... or mead ... it started raining ... our fire was small and listless ... and we loved every minute, and the Gods love us. Wherever and whenever someone raises a prayer to the bored deities, They are simply delighted.
Postscript:
A reader of this blog came to our ritual! His name is Cliff, and he's a great guy. I snapped this little photo of him while he wasn't looking:
Black Oak Grove: Bored God approved since 2005!
A good location is important for any worship. Here's ours. It's an easy 26-hour flight to Fiji. We don't mind the commute a bit. Worth it to praise the bored gods the way they ought to be praised!
Our leader, Archdruid Wallace, insists upon careful observation of all ritual activities. You'd better not forget your lines or your cues.
This is one of our seven altars. We used this one today because all the native flowers were coincidentally blooming at this one moment.
Our Chief Priestess is so misunderstood! Her colleagues at the Fed belittle her all the time about her "silly hobby." And props to her. She works in a building with $80 million in the basement, and she never contemplates revenge. Strong woman.
I know attendance can be an issue for some of you folks, but as you can see, Black Oak Grove has it going on. Not to brag or anything.
We held our Lughnasadh Ritual on August 3, and as always, it was perfect. Let's face it, perfection should be the goal of every worship service. The Gods and Goddesses will not accept a ho-hum performance.
OKAY, ALREADY, BACK TO REALITY
Black Oak Grove met in a local state park. The pavilion was not available; it had been leased. We were eight in number, a high for us since about 2009. We didn't have an altar ... or mead ... it started raining ... our fire was small and listless ... and we loved every minute, and the Gods love us. Wherever and whenever someone raises a prayer to the bored deities, They are simply delighted.
Postscript:
A reader of this blog came to our ritual! His name is Cliff, and he's a great guy. I snapped this little photo of him while he wasn't looking:
Black Oak Grove: Bored God approved since 2005!
Friday, August 01, 2014
Two Thirds of the Year
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Lughnasadh Edition 2014. It is a time of reflection.
Pagan practice centers upon the ancient cycle of planting and harvesting followed by our ancestors. But I have always felt that the Wheel is also a metaphor for our lives, both on a year-to-year basis and on a lifetime basis. This Lughnasadh I am thinking about the fact that my life is probably two-thirds over, and my First Harvest is bearing fruit.
My daughters are grown into level-headed young women. They are my most precious fruits.
My husband still loves me. Can you imagine tolerating my antics for 35 years? Hats off to the guy.
This blog is a nice fruit. It's been a good place to kick up my heels, laugh, and let off steam.
Blessed First Harvest to you, reader. Dip into the John Barleycorn for me.
Pagan practice centers upon the ancient cycle of planting and harvesting followed by our ancestors. But I have always felt that the Wheel is also a metaphor for our lives, both on a year-to-year basis and on a lifetime basis. This Lughnasadh I am thinking about the fact that my life is probably two-thirds over, and my First Harvest is bearing fruit.
My daughters are grown into level-headed young women. They are my most precious fruits.
My husband still loves me. Can you imagine tolerating my antics for 35 years? Hats off to the guy.
This blog is a nice fruit. It's been a good place to kick up my heels, laugh, and let off steam.
Blessed First Harvest to you, reader. Dip into the John Barleycorn for me.
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