Parades and Protests

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" There's nothing we like better than a parade. Before this previous weekend, we would have said any parade, anywhere. 

That no longer holds true.

As a kid growing up, I always saw those little clips of military parades from Nazi Germany and North Korea as part of public education's plan to teach us about evil dictators. Who can forget the Nazi-saluting storm troopers passing Hitler's reviewing stand?

Against all odds (not), our current sitting president decided to have one of these military parade shindigs for himself. Don't believe for one minute it was about the Army. It was (as usual) all about him. Which is what makes it so damn funny, how it actually turned out.

So the first thing you see in the good ol' Nazi parade Hitler clip is the precision of the marching. Those troopers, impeccably clad, are absolutely in lockstep. North Korea goes even further, making their military parades pageants, no doubt a cheap way to entertain the starving populace. 

This past Saturday afternoon, my curiosity warred with my disgust. Curiosity won. I pulled up a livestream of Trump's parade. And my jaw just about hit the floor. Platoon after platoon of soldiers, in their baggiest fatigues, not even particularly trying to stay in step. Group after group after group, all looking the same. The only other attractions in the mix were military machines, which -- face it -- after you've seen one tank, you've seen them all. But it seemed like there were at least 125,000 in this parade. At least that's how it felt after I watched about 30 minutes.

Then an even funnier thing happened. Somehow the cameras stopped showing the parade and started showing the reviewing stand exclusively. Trump was on camera, next to his stone-faced wife and his chisel-chinned moron secretary of defense, for at least 15 minutes. What a character study! He glowered, he pouted, he stood occasionally and saluted like the decorated war veteran he is ... oh, wait. Scratch that last part.

Hey, I understood. I would have pouted too. That parade was mad boring. And the weather sucked. Never mind that Washington didn't get the torrential downpours that were forecast. That city is a swamp on a good day. This was not a good day. Not raining hard, but just misting. You know what I mean -- that type of mist that, when you're driving, you keep having to adjust the wiper setting. So annoying!

It's not like I was just sitting in my house all day waiting for the Trump parade to start. Oh no, I had to go to another goddamned protest march. Sweet Osiris, it's endless.

I had to make another dumb sign.

Might have been better with a color printer.

Then I had to interrupt my busy Saturday of laundry and doom scrolling to leave the house and drive a half mile to the El station, where I joined a local "No Kings" group to walk 1.5 miles to Collingswood, New Jersey. We had to use the sidewalk -- they didn't even close the street. Joke was on the cops, though, because you never heard so much sympathetic honking in your life. Most drivers just laid on the horn and didn't let up.

Sheesh. Another slog holding a sign. More chanting "this is what democracy looks like." Ironically, I was walking with the same friend who I ran into by chance at the 2017 Women's March in DC. At least this "No Kings" march was local. I didn't have to drag my tired teacher ass into Philadelphia for the 10,000th time to protest. Don't ask me why, but being a Mummer hasn't gotten old, but being a protester has.

Actually I do know why protesting has gotten old. It's because it's not helping. I was one of a cool million women who converged on the nation's capital back in 2017. Look how well that all turned out for us.

Yes, it's nice to get together with old protesting buddies, and sing songs and carry signs. But it's not enough. I want it to matter. And with this creature Donald Trump in the White House, the only thing that matters is, are there cop cars burning? Then, great! Send in the Marines!

Here in my little nation, the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, I certainly have disgruntled citizens. The possums haven't forgiven me for putting bricks on the trash can lid. I know they're pissed. But if they took the time and trouble to make signs and plan a march, I sure would watch them and sincerely consider their demands. This has never happened with our sitting president. It's like he makes a list of what we're demanding and then does exactly the opposite. The more we march, the worse he gets.

So I spent as little time as I could at the "No Kings" protest on Saturday, just so I could be part of the national headcount. Excuse me if I'm cynical, but when Trump got elected a second time, I lost complete respect for the United States of America. Thank goodness for dear ol' Johnsonia!

I do think it's funny, though, that Trump thought he would get a spiffy, precision parade full of fancy weapons just by wishing it would be so. Take it from someone who knows her way around an intricate parade routine, involving impeccable costumes and timing. It takes practice to get it right. Those poor North Koreans probably practice that shit endlessly. Nobody practiced for Trump's parade. Nobody worked out a showy routine. Almost everyone looked bored, from the chief spectator to the robotic dogs.

In closing I offer up a little patriotic routine my Mummers group did back in the day. Just to show Trump and the U.S. Army how it should be done.

Summer Reading! Fever Beach, by Carl Hiaasen

 "Gods Are Bored" fans, I have to work until June 24. That is a late, late, late end date. It has to do with how long our Xmas vacation was, I guess. Administration always has its rationale.

But weep not! I teach seniors. As far as they are concerned, it's already summer! Can't say I blame them. Feels like summer to me, too. Nap time!

Summer wouldn't be summer without beach reading. And we are in a world of good luck this summer, my friends. Carl Hiaasen is out with a new novel called Fever Beach, and it slays.

I read all kinds of stuff, from Great Classics to self-published friend fiction. Hands down, Carl Hiaasen is my favorite modern humor writer. He stands alone. His novels are all set in Florida, and most of them feature at least one Florida Man. (For those of you who don't know, Florida Man is what you Google if you want to see the most ridiculous things on the Web.)

Fever Beach is this author's best effort in a while. It has a great, grand cast of loathsome miscreants, a hero who has featured in other books, and several scrappy heroines.

Anne loves her a scrappy heroine.

Carl Hiaasen offers up the best escapist fiction around. Every one of us would just love to punch a Neo-Nazi. Yes, I am speaking for you. Admit it. You would love to punch a Nazi. Well, in Carl Hiaasen's books, Nazis get punched. Repeatedly. But in story after story, it's the villains' own stupidity that finally does them in. This, too, is rewarding.  It's quietly satisfying, and it seems perfectly plausible.

I'm sure there are many sensitive Floridians who have watched the state get slathered in asphalt and high-rises and just wept quietly into their hankies. Carl Hiaasen rages against the machine. In his fiction, greedy developers get their just desserts. And politicians? Whoa, baby, they get roasted like a rump of fine Angus beef.

Fever Beach has all those good things I gobble up. There are knuckle-dragging Florida men, the aforementioned scrappy females, a strong leading man, and a satisfying plot. I didn't just read the book, I wallowed in it. Before summer's end, I will read it again.

In order to enjoy Carl Hiaasen, you have to have a fairly sick sense of humor and not get rattled by sex toys and perverts. Sometimes I don't like such things in my fiction, but Carl does it right. So, the book is not for prudes, but for those of us who like our smut to be funny, it's the champagne of the genre.

So if you're looking for a great beach read, I heartily recommend Fever Beach. If you've already read Carl Hiaasen, you're probably as excited as I am. If you haven't ever heard of the guy, start with his classics: Stormy Weather and Sick Puppy. Native Tongue is also a side-splitter. You can get all of those in cheap paperback. But if you are caught up on this great humorist (as I am, alas), go plunk down your ducats for the hard cover of Fever Beach. 

Carl Hiaasen makes me laugh. And I need to laugh right now. We all do.

Lawson

 This morning I woke up around 6:15, and the first thing that came to my mind was, "Oh no. I forgot Lawson!"

Lawson is a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient who is buried in the nearby cemetery in Lawnside, New Jersey. He was long deceased when he received his award -- the commendation came around 130 years after he pulled a dozen fellow soldiers out of the bottom of a burning ship during the Civil War. See, Lawson was African American. To me it's a miracle he ever got the citation at all.

Lawnside is an African American community. During the Civil War, Black soldiers were not buried in official government cemeteries. So the community of Lawnside agreed to take any soldier of color who needed a respectful place to rest. There are well over 100 Civil War soldiers buried in the Lawnside cemetery. The exact number is unknown because every time the community clears more brush, they find more stones.

America, picture Arlington in your head, and then look at how this veteran of color is remembered.

Kind of sums up our nation in a nutshell.

That is not Lawson's grave in the photo, but this pictured stone is close to Lawson's. 

Every year, prior to Memorial Day, I take a bouquet of silk flowers -- red, white, and blue -- to Lawson's stone. I respectfully acknowledge to the other soldiers there that the bouquet is for them as well. I do this anonymously, in time for the services that the community performs in the cemetery.

This year I made it in the nick of time, about 9:00 a.m. Usually I do this the day before, or even earlier.

I forgot Lawson this year because I am heartsick. It's all well and good to live in the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, but I still see and hear what's happening in the USA. It's tragic. 

I was able to soldier on until the president started targeting Harvard. That was the final straw. I guess it's because I attended a similar elite university. Yes, there are many foreign students at our top universities. Some of them can't even speak much English. But they are the creme de la creme of their nations, intellectually. They come to study at the best universities in the USA, and then they either return home to become the leaders of the future, or they stay and become part of the nation's brain trust. If that process ends, it will be the nail that seals the coffin of America's future.

I don't find it a reach to think that this is because the president's son wasn't accepted to Harvard. Or the president himself. It's also a performance for his uneducated base, the ultimate owning of the libs. Whatever. It's a self sabotage ... the likes of which no one has ever seen before. 

This Memorial Day, my mind wasn't on Lawson. It was on the ravages of the New Gilded Age. 

In today's baseball standings, the Baltimore Orioles are 18-34, buried in the basement of their division. There is no port in the storm.

My Neighbor Channels His Inner Trump

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" New pope? Just say nope! Choose a deity who won't be hitting you up for tithes so his priests can wear expensive dresses.

Different topic: We're quite upset here in Johnsonia. I guess it's bound to happen when houses are built too close together. In short, despite the five Harris signs he put on his lawn last fall, my neighbor is straight up a Trump wannabe.

Look at how he has marked the boundary between his regular old New Jersey property and the Independent Republic of Johnsonia!

EXHIBIT A: THE BIG, BEAUTIFUL WALL

A few weeks ago, our next door neighbor told Mr. J that a fence update was in the works. Previously, the fence was a little picket unit, about up to my navel. You know the type. Well, look at what replaced that little picket fence! On the neighbor's side it has decorative planks. On ours, zilch. Neighbor didn't even ask the construction worker to inquire if we wanted decorative planks on our side.

Admittedly, Johnsonia has allowed some emigration. Specimens of common milkweed, for instance. It's native to New Jersey, and it will grow even amongst grass in the lawn (especially if you don't mow your lawn but once a summer, as this neighbor has done in the past). And granted, we have seen mint crossing the border, but come on. Mint! Put it in your iced tea! It's a gift.

About ten years ago, when some kind of critter took my first ripe tomato, snapped a bite out of it, and discarded it, I gave up on gardening. Instead I sowed the garden patch with native plants, like milkweed, goldenrod, and asters. The patch doesn't get a great deal of sun, so these natives do flourish, but they grow tall and rangy. They aren't well-groomed shrubbery.

But when Mr. J apologized to the neighbor for the wildness of our yard, the neighbor said he didn't care about that, it didn't bother him. Why, then, did he pay someone to construct such a monstrosity?

To clarify, fence zoning in Haterfield says that he who fences first fences last. When Mr. J and I moved into Johnsonia, we had fencing on every side, none of it in our control. It's still like that. We can't put up a fence because our neighbors already did, before we even moved in, closing in on 40 years ago.

Who builds a 7-foot wall between themselves and their neighbors, knowing what it will look like on the neighbor's side? My daughter The Fair says she thinks the neighbor is trying to hide something. I'm not going to argue the point. This family used to be sweet and friendly, and we socialized from porch to porch with them. But the dude in particular has gone from chummy to peculiar. The wall is the result.

In contrast, Johnsonia's neighbors on the other side worked with us when they updated their fence.  We even offered to help them pay for it (they never billed us). It looks the same on both sides. Pretty.

EXHIBIT B: JOHNSONIA'S OTHER BORDER

That is also a tall fence, but it's civilized. Neighborly. And yeah, that green mess is what passes for a garden in Johnsonia. I can't bring myself to try to eradicate the wisteria. It was here when I got here. Like the fences.

Reader, I do actually feel like Canada or Mexico. I feel like my next door neighbor has acted in bad faith.

But time is on my side.

This wall is going to look like the rim of Hell for about two years. After that, the abundant Virginia creeper that swathes everything it can crawl onto will have a field day (!) with it. Virginia creeper is also native. I'm constantly pulling it off the sides of Johnsonia's garage. Well, I won't have to pull it off the wall! It will be an improvement.

I do honestly want to hear your opinion on this matter. Why did my neighbor do this? He who has a Pride flag by his door? I don't get it.

The Accidental Tourist Ex Patriate

 What a mouthful of a title! You'll just have to follow along to see how it applies.

This is a "Gods Are Bored" entry on how I am keeping myself sane in these troubled times. And right now, more than sea glass, and Mummers, and especially the Baltimore Orioles, this is the anesthesia of absolute preference.

Nerds, rejoice! My anesthesia of choice is LARP.

So, for those of you with the wits in your head not to do LARP, the acronym stands for Live Action Role Play. It is an immersive game that you play in the woods or on a campground with other humans. In my case I play two different LARPs on a private property near the Pine Barrens. Although the setting is the same and many of the people overlap, my two LARPs are very different. I'll get into that, probably, in a later installment.

"Anne," you're asking. "How did you ever get involved in LARP? You don't mention a word about it in the entire Gods Are Bored archives until about 2024."

It's a funny story, actually.

Well, if you're an old-timer in this silly space, you know that I have gorged on fairy festivals since the turn of the century. It was through a fairy festival that I met Otter, and he was my catalyst to get into LARP. (Catalysts are a big deal in LARP.)

EXHIBIT A: ANNE AND OTTER, 2011

Just before the pandemic, say 2019, Otter started posting photos of himself and his buddies at some event that required fairy festival clothing. When I asked him where he was, and he named a municipality not far from my own, I decided to look into joining him in whatever he was doing down there. He told me the name of the game and the address, and that was all. He didn't encourage me to come, and that should have been a red flag, because we are pretty tight.

So I dressed in my fairy clothes and found the place, and the gate personnel eyeballed me up and down and said I looked the part, what did I know about the game?

Answer: nothing.

What did I know about LARP?

Answer: again, nothing.

It was game day, so no one had time to sit down and teach me. They just kind of shrugged, took my entrance fee, had me sign a waiver, and pointed me in the direction of "town."

"Town" turned out to be about two dozen makeshift buildings with tarp roofs. In and around these buildings were people dressed in armor, with horns and face paint and various other costuming, all very busy preparing for the next incursion of monsters and the next plot-driven quest.

I saw someone I knew from Otter's inner circle, and he greeted me warmly. I just couldn't understand why he couldn't sit down and have a nice long chat with me. Nor could anyone. They were busy speaking another language (rules jargon, plot twists) and going about their role play. I did not understand this at all. I tried pulling people off task to chat about anything but what was going on. And if you do LARP, you will know that this is the ABSOLUTE NO of the game.

Eventually I found someone who was pulled off task long enough for a talk, and she was very nice. Otherwise I was completely adrift, and Otter wasn't there to explain things to me. So I just kind of stood around in the way, and when the battle started, my first thought was, "Oh this ain't for me."

To this day I don't know why I went back a second time. But I did, and it was absolutely the same as the first time. People were nice, but distant. It was clear I had no idea what was going on, and the game was so doggone complicated that no one had time to take in a newbie, especially one who didn't even know what an NPC is.

On this second occasion, however, Otter was there, and when he wasn't swashbuckling, he was perfectly content to sit and gab "out of game." So I had a better time, and some of the players even began prompting me to take baby steps and learn how to do this thing. Still, I felt like I was an American tourist in a foreign country. Nothing made sense, and the monster attacks were seriously scary.

One winter morning in early 2020, just before the pandemic began, I found myself once again driving to the LARP, wondering what the fuck I was even doing it for. I still didn't understand the first thing about it, except that I couldn't just sit and gab. I felt like the people were barely tolerating me. It literally felt like I was about to enter that foreign country again, and the natives don't like tourists.

Then I passed a road sign that said ATLANTIC CITY  36.

Thirty-six miles from the hobby that I excelled at -- sea glassing! And it was a bright sunny day! Never mind that it was winter. I'm an idiot. I wade in the briny Atlantic in every season, if there's a shard of sea glass burbling in the surf. Ah, sea glassing. That was it. I should just breeze right by the turnoff for the LARP and make my way to AC.

That was actually a turning point in my life, right there. If I had gone on to Atlantic City, instead of taking the turnoff and braving the challenges of LARP, I would have sealed my fate as an old white lady content to lumber up and down a beach. But I made the turn. You see, LARP is populated by people young enough to be my children. There are a few others my age, but there are way more who are teen, twenty-somethings, and up from there. I just wasn't ready to walk away from the chance to be around younger people for a solitary and, frankly, monotonous hobby.

I stretched. I learned. They patiently corrected me when I said or did something the wrong way. I created a character and inhabited that character and forged friendships with other characters. And when I felt overwhelmed, I strolled off into the pines. (It's a 14 acre property, with a small Christmas tree farm and lots of woods.)

We just finished a campaign called "Caravan," in which I played a character named Feather. I thought it was an appropriate name for a LARP lightweight.

Our next campaign begins (for me) in June. It's called "Outpost" and is set at a new research facility in the fantasy world we inhabit. So this time, in a bold stroke of hubris, I created a character who is a serious scientist, a savant. Now is the time for me to understand this foreign country called LARP. My character is intensely interested in everything, including all the minute rules and regs.

The girl who runs this thing tells me that everyone loves me. They think I'm cute, and they appreciate how I keep trying even when I'm hopelessly flailing. And like a good expatriate American, I'm starting to fit into the culture and the language and the lore. I'm a regular LARP Emma Goldman.

EXHIBIT B: HAS ANNE FOUND HER PEOPLE?

This is a happy little photo from about a year ago. There I am, a slightly-past-prime monster, on the far right in the rear.

LARP aggressively removes itself from the here-and-now. I think all these people need a break from politics, and bills, and tough jobs, and emotional ups and downs. It sure helps me to disentangle myself from the CHAOS. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Pep Rally

 Ugh, have you ever had to suffer through a pep rally? I don't mean a fun one, like when your NFL team is in the playoffs. I mean a high school one.

For those of you who need a refresher course, high school pep rallies are held to celebrate the sports teams. Twice a year (fall and spring), the entire student body files out and sits on the bleachers to scream and shout for the jocks.

To make an already dreadful celebration worse, students are seated together by grade level. At my school, each grade has a different color, and classes get points based on how many kids wear that color to school on pep rally day.

Then some admin or teacher grabs a mic and whips the students up by grade level, seeing which grade can scream the loudest.

Then the coaches of each sport stand up and introduce every member of every team. This afternoon my school had baseball, softball, boy's volleyball, robotics, and esports. Well, being a nerd who hates noise, I could get behind the robotics and esports clubs. Still, a lot of shy people got introduced for (in my opinion) no good reason.

Then more screaming, because the first time wasn't enough.

Then there are games that pit one grade level against another, again for points. Stuff like tug of war and musical chairs and water balloon toss. Stuff involving a small number of students from each grade, and even then they have to beg ten seniors to participate.

This riveting spectacle invariably falls on an unseasonably hot and humid afternoon when everyone (including the jocks) would rather be inside dozing through the final class period of the day.

Having endured pep rallies as an alienated teenager back in the 1970s, I can't tell you how positively soul-sucking it is to be sitting through two of these things a year at my current age. As a teen I only had to slog through eight of them, total. Now they just stretch into the distance, almost to the horizon. Pep rallies, pep rallies, rah rah rah.

What is it about our species, that we want to be separated into tribes that compete against other tribes, and we want to celebrate our warrior men and women? Why is screaming and stomping on aluminum bleachers more appealing than, say, making a nice craft at a table, in the shade?

It seems to me that the human race spends much too much time screaming and stomping and forming ridiculous tribes.

I can't end this rant without admitting that I, too, am in a tribe -- the Radical Lunatic Left, and we do get together in big groups from time to time. Looks like I'll be joining some peppy little protests in the weeks to come. But to be completely honest here, I'm ready to pivot. I want my craft table in the shade. I want to sit in a circle and talk about my feelings.

*Sigh* Guess I shouldn't sit down to write a blog post an hour after a high school pep rally. Don't worry, though. I'll bounce back. I'm always ready to MAKE. SOME. NOISE.

By the Beautiful Sea

 Avast, mateys! This cheerful pirate lass is back on her laptop, which smells very faintly of cigarettes. My dear Computer Whisperer has resurrected my old machine and breathed new life into it as if it were the risen Osiris! Praise be to all the bored deities of all the pantheons both known and lost to history!

You know what's funny? I was galvanized to get my dinosaur of a laptop fixed because my spouse gave me an IPad for my birthday. I didn't ask for an IPad, he just got it for me so I could read the New York Times. (We switched to digital.) When it took me about 45 seconds just to type in my email address on what goes for a keyboard on the IPad, I knew it was time to rekindle my relationship with the ancient and venerable laptop.

In the last installment of "The Gods Are Bored" I wrote about how rooting for the Baltimore Orioles helps me to deal with the catastrophe unfolding on our national stage. That was before the Orioles nose-dived onto the bottom of the sea floor. Mr. J and I drove all the way to Baltimore to see the team lose 24-2. We stayed until the bitter end. Last night the O's had a better showing, losing 15-3. This is a team that made the playoffs last year! Now they're buried in the basement, alongside my hopes and dreams.

Luckily, I have other forms of anesthesia to help distract me from the Trump Disaster.

Aww, look at this decade-old photo of Chicken Bone Beach! The sun's just rising, and it's low tide. And the beach is really called Chicken Bone Beach. I'm not making that up.

I never thought, as an Appalachian born and bred, that I would bond in any way with the beach. But it's only an hour's drive from my doorstep, and we have lots of hot days around here. So I found this beautiful beach through a sea glass collector friend, and since then I have been visiting in every season.

When I started collecting sea glass, the hobby hadn't been discovered widely. Now it's hella popular, especially among white ladies of a certain age. I used to have this beach all to myself, but now when I go, there's almost always someone else hunting there, usually white ladies of a certain age.

I'm very particular about the sea glass I bring home. In order to qualify to even be called sea glass, the product has to show some signs of having been in the drink.

These are pieces I have picked up over the years. They are round and "frosted" and rough to the touch. That's what sea glass should be. But don't tell that to these eager white ladies of a certain age. They are pleasing themselves pink just picking up broken glass no matter how shiny and sharp it is, just because it's on a beach. Oh, they do get lucky sometimes, but in general I don't feel like it's a competition.

On one occasion last summer, I watched two WL of a CA labor for an hour with custom made sieves, trying to find sea glass on Chicken Bone Beach. Finally I sauntered over and watched the pebbles sloshing to and fro, and within a half minute I reached down and picked up a little shard of orange, which is a rare color. I keep my methods to myself. Then again, it's been awhile since I offered free advice, so here you go:

When hunting sea glass, train your eye to look for colors that don't appear in nature and shapes that also don't appear in nature. Once your eye can skim a pebble bed and see those oddball shades, you won't need a sieve.

It's late April, and I went to the beach last weekend and waded in up to my shins. That's the other trick to successful sea glassing. No wind or water too cold, you've got to wade. And let me tell you, nothing will rid your mind of the Trump Menace quicker than slogging through sea water in April in New Jersey.

Friends, it has been a pure pleasure typing out this blog post. I have one last type of anesthesia to describe, and then by golly I am going to put on my tried-and-true big girl panties and take on these contemptible "prayer warriors" who need a good butt kicking from some bored God.

I broke in a new pair of flip flops on Sunday, during a red flag warning for high winds. There is still a lot of butt kicking left in me, even though I am indeed a WL of a CA.

Anesthesia

 What a time to be alive! The more you think about it, the more those dusty quaaludes in the back corner of the medicine cabinet beckon. Know what I mean?

If there’s any word in the English language that triggers anxiety, it’s chaos. The name of a bored God! But He sure isn’t bored anymore. His name is plastered all over everything these days. You can’t read a news story, or even a headline, without seeing the dread C word. Chaos! And WHOOSH! The old anxiety just rears up its head and shouts BEWARE!!!

That’s no way to live. Time for some dependable anesthesia.

You see, Mummers parades are few and far between. Gotta have something regular. Preferably something that costs money, so you feel compelled to do it.

For the purposes of this blog, “anesthesia” is defined as anything that makes one forget, however briefly, that Donald Trump is president.

One might say this is not a good thing, that Anne Johnson, the Grand Wazoo of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia should be hyper attentive to the zeitgeist. But dang, reader. Do you see how shabby they are treating any world leaders they don’t like? And if they invaded Johnsonia, they would overrun it in five seconds. And then, who would feed the cat?

Anesthesia. Highly recommend. Look around you. Everyone is using it.

I have two types of anesthesia that I have been using to great effect. I think I will split them into two different posts, since I am still pecking away on my phone.

ANESTHESIA #1: The Baltimore Orioles

When I was a little kid, my mom made me go to bed every night at 7:30. I don’t know why. Maybe she got the idea from Dr. Spock or some such moron. Let me tell you, when you’re a little kid, and it’s summertime, hence broad daylight at 7:30, you sure as fuck don’t want to go to bed. My father couldn’t override Mom’s strict edicts, but he did something at least. He turned the radio on and set it to the Baltimore Orioles.

My first and forever love, the Baltimore Orioles.

If you didn’t know, the O’s are a baseball team. And in my childhood they rocked and rolled. They were on the map. Three World Series appearances before I was 12 years old!

Fast forward, and as luck would have it, I enrolled in a college that was six blocks from the Orioles ballpark. Imagine. I could walk to games. And in those enlightened times, the club had a student ticket priced at $1.75. In the summer of 1979 I went every night. And when the games were away, I watched them in a campus pub. I was young then, so the West Coast away games didn’t faze me.

That year the Orioles returned to the World Series.

I broke up with a boyfriend who said baseball was stupid, the opiate of the unwashed masses. And I petitioned Aphrodite to give me a life partner who loved the O’s. By golly, She did just that.

It sure doesn’t cost $1.75 to watch an Orioles game anymore. But a few years ago, Mr. J splurged on the MLB t.v. package, so we could watch Orioles games every night. What a goddamn godsend it has been.

This year, before the tariffs, before Mr. J broke two teeth, before our 401K crashed, Mr. J bought a Sunday package of two seats at Oriole Park at Camden Yards. 

Mind you, we live six miles from the Phillies and can get to that ballpark on mass transit. But hell to the nope. Baltimore or bust! It’s only 100 miles one way!

Last Sunday was our first game. Our seats are padded. The weather was beautiful. And to be perfectly honest, Orioles fans are positively choir boys compared to Phillies fans. (I’m sure you already knew that.)

Anesthesia! A baseball game every night until October! 12 more live games! The “Birdland” perks doled out to season ticket holders! Crab cakes on the stadium menu!

Honestly if I didn’t have this, I would be lost.

I know they say that Hitler came to power because ordinary German citizens weren’t affected by his machinations at first. But my household has been affected. My daughters’ lives are being affected. My students’ lives may be profoundly affected. So to use a baseball metaphor, I’m on the DL but ready to spring into action if my team summons me. I just can’t even, right now. My elected officials are wringing their hands. So what can I possibly do myself?

Call me if you need me. I’m blissed out in Birdland.

PS - The only time I cried over the passing of a celebrity was when Brooks Robinson died. I’m tearing up even now, thinking about it.

Johnsonia Announces Reciprocal Tariffs

 

Special Statement from the Independent Republic of Johnsonia 

In response to the 10% tariffs imposed by the Trump administration upon the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, our nation hereby will impose a 35% reciprocal tariff on the products exported by Johnsonia. Expect to pay more for white cat fur, pine needles, pinecones, carpenter bees, and milkweed seeds.

These tariffs will commence immediately.

We apologize for the hardship this will cause in the realm of international trade, but it is not a decision we arrived at lightly. We must do what is best for the citizens of Johnsonia.

Special statement by press secretary Taffy the Boardwalk Cat

April 5, 2025

Laugh or go mad.

Staring at a Tesla until My Eyeballs Explode

 O pity poor me, readers! I really mean it this time. Here in the Independent Republic of Johnsonia I am besieged by a Swasticar constantly! Or at least whenever my rich neighbor isn’t at work. It’s excruciating.

Some of you long-time fans might recall that a developer demolished the house across the street from mine (as well as four beautiful mature trees), I guess about six years ago now. In place of the one house and four trees, the developer built two ugly McMansions. These atrocities were quickly snapped up at a cool million each.

I have never been rude to my new neighbors, but I never baked them a pie either. I sit on my porch with my back to their hideous homes. Guess that speaks volumes.

Some time ago, an electrical contractor spent the better part of three days at the house right across from mine. Part of the work was creating a charging station. Soon thereafter, a gleaming white Tesla sedan appeared on the right side of the double driveway.

Even then I wouldn’t have swapped it for my 2001 Saturn. Looked to me like status and conspicuous consumption.

One day I happened to be on the sidewalk when my neighbor came out to get into her fancy machine. I said, “Do you like it?”

She said, “Yes.” Got in and drove away.

Longest conversation we ever had.

Election season arrived, and the Tesla family peppered their lawn with Harris signs. Hey, this is the Great Blue Northeast. A Trump sign would have surprised me more.

Now the election has come and gone, with disastrous results. And there sits that goddamn Tesla sedan, day after day, an assault to my eyes every time I venture out my door.

Oh reader. How my hands tingle as I flex my keys on their ring. How my lip curls! How my nasty thoughts turn to the gold spray paint in my cellar!

Thank goodness I have achieved a modicum of common sense in my dotage. Twentieth century me would have been hard pressed to show such restraint. Even now, the ghost of badass young Anne says, “But you could at least fling a little roadkill behind it…”

No worries. I have finally (mostly) grown up. And it’s hard to find roadkill in Haterfield.

From time to time I think of my terse young neighbor. (She’s a surgeon.) No doubt she purchased the machine for its carbon impact and its subtle hint that she earns some serious ducats. But now she’s stuck. She’s in the Great Blue Northeast behind the wheel of a loathed automobile. I wonder if anyone has bad-mouthed her at a stoplight yet. It’s bound to happen.

There is no moral to this story, no takeaway lesson. I’m just very bummed that I have to stare at this piece of shit car right outside my house. I do take some solace that the thing doesn’t belong to me. Nor will it ever.

I had a jaundiced view of Tesla before 2025. Let your imagination run wild on how I feel about it now.

My Very Famous and Influential Cat

 Hi there, “Gods Are Bored” peeps! It’s me, Anne Johnson. Don’t leave that “e” off the end of my name. It’s posh!

I have to put the photos at the top, because I am still using my phone to do this.

This is my cat, Omega, aka Taffy the Boardwalk Cat. She is on page 42 in the just-released, soon-to-be bestseller “How to Rate a Cat.” Look! There she is, with a solid rating of 1000/10 for her Jersey Shore cattitude!

I entered Omega in an online contest with a cat influencer, and lo, she got chosen! It went to her head before the cheery little tome was published last week, and since the volume has arrived she has been insufferable.

Then again, this is a feline who puts the suffer in insufferable, so it’s hard to tell whether fame has changed her or not.

The Cat Distribution System saw fit to stick me with this animal after my dear Gamma cat crossed the Rainbow Bridge, leaving behind a hole in my heart and a floor needing repair in numerous corners. Omega did indeed come from the Jersey Shore, Neptune, NJ specifically. She is exceedingly tidy in her bathroom habits (something I sure was ready for), but she’s cuddly as a rock pile. Doesn’t even know how to make biscuits.

And while dear Gamma was nothing less than a trophy cat, 16 pounds of luscious orange floof, Omega is just one wacky white package flecked with tabby spots. But it is the name and that goofy appearance that got her noticed by a premiere Internet influencer!

I can’t put more than one photo on a post using my phone, but the title of the beguiling little book, again, is “How to Rate a Cat.” And the beauty of its publication history is that my cranky feline is in it, but I don’t have to promote it. I can just sit back and peruse page 42.

Her blog name is Omega because I hope she will avoid my caresses and bite my knuckles until my days of cat stewardship end. She is three years old, and I can add.

All hail Taffy the Boardwalk Cat, page 42! I’m proud of the little wretch.

Possum Position

 A little background for any newcomers to “The Gods Are Bored”: In 2017, at the beginning of the Reign of Terror, I decided to secede from the United States of America and form my own nation, the Independent Republic of Johnsonia. For awhile I waited, fortified with provisions, for an attack by General Sherman or Attila the Hun, but the attacks didn’t materialize. Johnsonia has enjoyed modest prosperity and peace.

I’ll dig out the national anthem when I return to work. Wrote it a bit ago, and must say it was a solid effort.

Even in the smallest of nations, there will be opposition parties. It is to be expected, and I don’t mind the give and take.

Earlier this week I gave a state-of-the-union address. You can read it right below. Now it’s time for the opposition response.

Possum Opposition to the Grand Wazoo of Johnsonia 

Folks, our Grand Wazoo makes Johnsonia sound like Heaven on Earth. But that depends on who you ask. The chipmunks, being dealt an endless supply of peanuts and seeds all summer, and protected from harm by keeping the stupid cat indoors, are still sleeping off the winter with full bellies. THEY love Johnsonia. The songbirds, kept satisfied by a year-round subsidy of high-end bird seed, LOVE Johnsonia. Oh yes, for these populations everything is just great. Just great.

But for us possums, Johnsonia has become a land of privation and cruelty. The Grand Wazoo’s environmental policies have put the whole possum population at danger of extinction!

I refer to the policy that the Wazoo calls “composting.”

Three years ago the Wazoo came home from her travels with three small green buckets with air tight lids. She began to throw her food scraps into the bucket and take the buckets SOMEWHERE, who KNOWS where, when they were full. Our food source evaporated overnight! And when it began to sporadically return, she bought … [shudders] TRASH CANS WITH LIDS! And put bricks on top the lids!

Since then we have been mostly thrown back into the USA, in desperate search of provisions. We can’t let our children starve! Once a land of plenty, Johnsonia has become, for us, a [dramatic pause] food desert.

So say what you like about Johnsonia, but you can’t say it’s a country with no discrimination. Great for chipmunks, a bitter disappointment for possums. Do better, Grand Wazoo. This is a disgrace.

Thank you.

State of the Union: Independent Republic of Johnsonia

 What a way to celebrate a birthday! Home sick with the flu! Every symptom under the sun too. As dear departed Jackiesue was fond of saying, I feel like hammered sh**.

But life goes on. As Grand Wazoo of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, I have to make my annual State of the Union address! The wildlife has assembled, and many of the plants are waking up. So here goes:

My fellow Johnsonians,

[uproarious applause lasting 5 minutes]

I come to you tonight committed to maintaining the independence of Johnsonia and its beloved Constitution (which I haven’t written yet, but it’s all in my head). Now more than ever, with the whole world reeling around us, we must take a firm stand for our sovereignty!

[more applause]

Please rest assured, mammals, birds, and English ivy, I will NOT require you to show proof of citizenship to visit or inhabit Johnsonia. You are free to come and go as you see fit!

[applause from mammals, birds, and ivy. Native plants hold up little paddles that say UNFAIR.]

As your president, I vow to keep Johnsonia as diverse, equitable, and inclusive as possible. This might be a period of transition for the ivy, but this is necessary to insure the growth of butterfly-friendly plant life.

[Ivy boos lustily, native plants remain sullen.]

Look. I have never sought to eradicate the ivy, but we have to hold all in balance. So please expect some belt-tightening. It will all work out. You’ll see.

My administration will also seek to increase the number of insects in Johnsonia, since all of our neighbors laden their lawns with insecticide.

[birds chirp with joy, plants hold up paddles saying UNFAIR]

Insects are a crucial element of the ecosystem, and they are WELCOME IN JOHNSONIA!

Now I know that you, my citizens, feel threatened and extremely anxious about the absolute freefall of the USA, due to its unstable and basically insane leadership. As your leader, I am suffering constant, nearly debilitating anxiety myself. But you are SAFE here! I am committed to tightening my OWN belt rather than sacrificing YOUR bird seed and YOUR peanuts and YOUR tasty trash can treats! I know some of you don’t like the policy of composting…

[possums and raccoons boo lustily]

… but I PROMISE to leave behind enough scraps to satisfy your appetites!

[possums hold up signs saying LIES]

Now I turn to your domestic enemy, the terrorist known as Omega. 

[widespread boos]

I vow before the Gods, to do everything I can to contain the terrorist within the confines of the presidential palace. The cat should NOT go outside, I KNOW it, and trust me I am doing everything I possibly can to keep her indoors!

[tepid applause]

My final item tonight is the nuisance on our border. I’m referring to the Tesla we all have to stare at in the neighbor’s driveway.

[five minutes of universal booing]

I beg you to remember, citizens, that the owner is a brain surgeon, and her yard signs indicate that she doesn’t support the USA’s current regime. She bought the car for its status and carbon footprint, and no doubt she now feels saddled with the goddamned thing. So I would ask you to show some restraint and not vandalize the offending automobile. Birds, you are exempt from this requirement. Have at it!

[and the birds go wild with glee]

In closing, I want to assure you that Johnsonia is a stable, peaceful land, and I will defend it to my final breath. Gods bless us, and Gods bless Johnsonia!

[applause, standing ovation from the birds and squirrels]

The opposition will address the nation tomorrow, with statements from a possum and the English ivy.

In Solidarity with Congressman Green

 Not gonna lie, “Gods Are Bored” buddies. I’m a stick shaker. I sometimes resort to colorful language as well, especially if the situation warrants it.

And if ever there was a situation where some sticks needed to be shaken, it was at the ridiculous 100 minute Blab by the Blob on Tuesday night.

I was not invited to this Address to Congress, and frankly, I am affronted by that. My independent nation, Johnsonia, is completely surrounded by the USA, and I benefit from some of that nation’s services. You would think that the U.S. government would be more gracious to a Head of State, even if her national borders are a quarter acre in New Jersey.

But if I had been there, I would have indulged in Bronx cheers, hand gestures, and, yes, stick shaking. The only Democrat who gets it is Congressman Green.

Times have changed. The Orange Menace—old, ugly, vulgar, and stupid as he is—has provoked a sea change in the USA. My students, most of whom are 17, have grown up with Trump as either president or a top candidate. This is what they have grown up seeing as presidential behavior.

Let that sink in for a minute.

The blustering, big-mouthed boaster is now our norm. Behaving with decorum only makes people look weak in the eyes of today’s young voters. Wearing pink and holding up little paddles? Really? Where is that getting you?

If I learned anything from 2017, it’s that pussy hats don’t cut it. It’s time to elect leaders who will call bullshit and shake sticks!

I’m sure one or two of you disagree. Heck, there are only one or two of you anyway! And it’s not like I would opt for hooliganism if everyone else was sipping tea. But the young people of the USA now have been weaned on ugly politics and the adoration of perhaps the most detestable human on the planet. They would not “get” affable Bill Clinton or Ronald Reagan. Presidents are supposed to be big and loud and combative!

Now is the time to meet this menace with some pushback from the other side.

So if some senior citizen congressman wants to vent his spleen, I am all for it! On a couple of notable occasions I have successfully smacked down attempts at bullying by big, loud men. Not by being cordial, either. Basically by shaking a stick.

Democrats, appoint some stick shakers! And then watch while they rise in politics because the young folks think this is what politicians do.

Not that any of this matters to me. I’m the Grand Wazoo of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia! Next Tuesday I will give MY State of the Union address. I hear the possum is planning to wear pink.

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.

Zumba Goals

 Hi there, “Gods Are Bored” fans! I’m here today to sing the praises of Zumba.

Yes, you heard that right. Zumba. It’s either the place where young, nubile cheerleaders go to get their cardio, or the place where sagging senior citizens go to try to keep their hearts working at all. Or both.

They say that you need to do something regularly for six months in order for it to become a habit. I’ve been doing Zumba since the pandemic, so it qualifies as a habit. (During quarantine I did online classes.)

No doubt you know what Zumba is, but here’s a quick definition nevertheless. Zumba is a form of aerobic exercise that uses Indian and Latin music to encourage vigorous flailing of limbs and stomping more or less to a beat. The studio I go to is dark except for disco lights (perfect), and the music is deafening (also perfect). Nobody can see you fuck up, and nobody can hear you groan. Although Zumba instructors always tell the newcomers that nobody judges you …. pffffft! Of course you’re being judged! Especially if you reserve someone else’s favorite spot! There are whole cliques who go out for drinks together after class! If you don’t want to be judged, you better arrive late and stay in the back by the door.

Zumba instructors use the same songs over and over again, only introducing a new routine about once every 8 weeks. This means the regulars and the cliques learn the routines, and the newbies often flounder. If I hadn’t taken Zumba online for months during quarantine, I would have had the dickens of a time learning it. And I did tap dance from the time I stood up and walked. (For real. In my first recital they pushed me out on the stage in a stroller.)

Most Zumba instructors don’t say another word between “Let’s warm up” and “Let’s cool down.” But my current instructor, who I adore, is a raucous Guatemalan who makes us croak like crows and otherwise shout and trill during and between routines. We sound like a flock of parrots who have missed a few meals. Juni (he’s the instructor) says this helps with our breathing. No use begging to differ.

Two years ago, before I wandered into Juni’s class and braved the judgment of the clique, I couldn’t climb the stairs at my school without gasping for breath. Now I sprint up like a spring chicken. (Not really, but I no longer huff and puff.)

I love Zumba. For real there are young cheerleaders in the class, and I like judging them. There’s also a very charming and handsome fellow who can really cut a rug. And Juni is so fun and flamboyant.

You’re supposed to have goals when you exercise. Until recently I didn’t really have one beyond the whole “get up the stairs at school” thing. But that has changed. I now have a goal.

My goal is to outlast the current commander in chief.

Cha cha cha! CAW CAW CAW. One session at a time.

Imbolc 2025

 Folks, I don’t know if you think about the nature of deities, but I do. And I’m not sure those Ancient Greek deities are worth shrugging off.

Last night there was a terrible plane crash at a busy intersection in Philadelphia. A medical transport jet had just taken off with a crew of four and two passengers (tanks full of fuel) when it just nose-dove and exploded.

The passengers were a child who had just been released from Shriners Hospital and her mom. Thru were going home.

There’s no explaining a tragedy like this in the Judeo-Christian worldview. How could an all-loving, all-knowing deity put a child through harrowing treatment, only to have her die the moment she survived it? If you can explain it, I will listen.

But Apollo, now, Apollo’s response would be completely understood. Apollo might have considered the child marked as dead (because He caused illness), only to be thwarted by the mortal doctors (when only Apollo can heal). If one were to ask, “How can a tragedy like this happen?” there would be an answer, at least. The cure angered Apollo because it tried to usurp His power.

Maybe messy, human, complicated Gods are what this world needs.

We don’t really know how messy and complicated Queen Brigid the Bright was. She guards the home and hearth, which suggests She might not have taken kindly to disruptions in that purview. I wish right this moment that She would reach out and help my daughter The Heir, who is yet again putting in a bid on a house coveted by the many rapacious flippers out there. But I haven’t been diligent in my Brighid worship, so if She’s a messy deity, she has every reason to ignore my wishes.

Case in point? How am I celebrating Imbolc? I’m at the beach, walking the frigid shoreline. Messy messy Anne, trying (and failing) to ditch her worries at low tide.