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.

Weekly Life Top Ten

 Here at “The Gods Are Bored,” we know genius when we see it. One of my students this year is a genius.

I won’t go into detail to protect this student’s privacy. But by all the Bored Gods, my jaw hit the floor when I saw the scope of a personal project he has been doing for the last five years. Completely self directed.

Public school doesn’t serve such students well. It’s all about pegs and holes, and anyone outside the parameters doesn’t usually get credit for their outside endeavors. I truly hope this young person finds a way to use these prodigious talents in our cold cruel world.

But enough sermonizing! This is what the student has done. Stemming from an interest in the Billboard Top 100, he has created a Weekly Life Top Ten, in which he assesses what has been most on his mind each week.

It’s an idea worth stealing. I’m going to do it!

ANNE’S PREMIER WEEKLY LIFE TOP 10

(Forgot to add that we omit family members and pets, as of course they occupy the bulk of our thoughts.)

1. Government in chaos

2. Eagles winning championship 

3. Union busting propaganda online

4. Weight

5. Bronxwood (novel)

6. How Sophocles could improve the end of “Oedipus Rex.”

7. Sea glass

8. Student absent since January 20 (she came back today, whew!)

9. Eagles fan who died celebrating by falling off a greased light pole

10. Mabel Stark (novel)

I’m going to try to do this every week. My student uses spreadsheets to track trends in his thought processes (!) but that’s not in my skill set.

The student who was absent is Hispanic, so I’m sure you know what I was thinking.

The Only Time To Be in Philadelphia

 Yo, welcome to “The Gods Are Bored,” bro! Grab a cheesesteak and a beer and GO BIRDS!

I have lived just outside Philadelphia for more than 35 years. I never thought I would land where I have. But here I am.

Philadelphia has a reputation for being a tough city.  Personally I haven’t found it to be any tougher than the other cities I have called home. Show me the city of a million people where everyone greets each other with a hearty handshake. Maybe in Canada?

Yes, Philadelphians are notoriously grumpy. No one likes us, we don’t care.

The one time when Philadelphians are jovial to one another is when either the Phillies or the Eagles have made the playoffs. We don our gear and say “Go Birds” to each and every stranger. For a few brief weeks there’s an emerald glow to all interactions.

Case in point: I don’t ever go into the city at night anymore. But last night I did! There was a drone show over the iconic Art Museum in honor of the Eagles advancing in the playoffs.

I met my daughter The Fair in Rittenhouse Square (ah, nice rhyme!) and we walked down to the museum. It was cold as the Arctic tundra, but when we got walking it wasn’t so bad. 

The crowd was cheerful, the cheerleaders were cute, and the drone show - well, to truly enjoy a drone show you need to be there. Walking back to the El station, we shouted “Go Birds” to everyone wearing Eagles gear, which was pretty much everyone.

Behind us you can see our museum, tastefully decorated. This city is a class act.

My bro, there’s no better anesthesia than a successful sports team. When your team is winning, you don’t have to dwell in the real world. Everything is green, everyone is stoked, every jabroni keeps his rude comments to himself. If the team is winning, we’re all in this together.

It’s nice while it lasts. Fly Eagles Fly!

Interview with a Bored God: Apollo

 For the love of fruit flies. He is as handsome as they all said he was. My aging heart is aflutter. Please give a warm, wonderful Gods Are Bored welcome to Phoebus Apollo!

Anne: I’m sorrry, great Sky Archer, but I am in very, very low spirits today.

Apollo: You mean about this new leader and all his reign portends?

Anne: Yes.

Apollo: This is my doing.

Anne: WHAT?

Apollo: You heard me.

Anne: But, Phoebus Apollo! Why?

Apollo: That sinking feeling in your soul, Anne? It’s hubris. First you laughed and jeered at the Jehovah prayer warriors and supremely underestimated their power. Then you asked my sister Aphrodite for help with a spell and then neglected Her shrine. The infamous “dead mouse on the altar” episode.

Anne: Oh snap.

Apollo: And the final blow? Showing a YouTube video to your students called “Apollo Was Evil” by some smartass podcaster. What were you forgetting amidst all this, Anne?

Anne: That you Greek deities are not only immortal, but abundantly supplied with human traits like fury.

Apollo: Sums it up nicely. Enjoy that heaping helping of mea culpa you’re going to be feasting upon. My siblings have had enough of your disrespect. And while we’re at it, we’re paving the way for the Jehovah people to wreck things good and proper. You deserve it, and your blighted (in every respect) country deserves it. We will enjoy Our front row seats.

Anne: I am guilty as charged, Phoebus Apollo. How can I reverse this curse? Oh no! You have the power to unleash bird flu!

Apollo: Indeed I do. Plagues are my thing, both causing and curing. And I am not in a curing mood.

Anne: What can I do? You aren’t deaf to pleading. Help me make this right.

Apollo: Start by developing some humility. Deep six that flippant attitude. I know that’s what has attracted your three readers, but it’s not acceptable. Gods are Gods. Please be aware of that.

Anne: This has occurred to me. I’m at fault here. I feel like I need to make a serious reparation. 

Apollo: Nothing less than a pilgrimage to Delphi will do. Just so you know.

Anne: I hate traveling. I have only left the USA as far as Canada.

Apollo: Suit yourself. The damage is done, and I have decreed the cure. Steer clear of birds. Just a helpful tip.

And He’s gone without saying goodbye. No amount of tea and pie would matter anyway.

Seeking the Spheres to Connect Them

Welcome back to “The Gods Are Bored!” I’m Anne Johnson (still and always), and I’m typing with one finger. Guess it’s like doing things with one hand behind my back.

The title of this post comes from a Walt Whitman poem called “A Noiseless Patient Spider.” The poem is about the soul’s attempts to seek connection.

In the past few years, as I interacted with people on Facebook, I would often be quite surprised by their coldness and distance when I would see them in person. I would comment warmly and faithfully on all the photos they put up of pets and peeves. Then, in a true social situation, I would expect authentic connection, only to be met with bafflement on the other person’s part.

At the same time, my sphere of true connection shrank to bones. I have no close friends. When I am off work I socialize with my nuclear family and occasionally my sister and siblings-in-law.

It’s a narrow view of the world.

Last week, via Facebook, I discovered that one of my dearest former friends, the Monkey Man, had been hit by a car and was well nigh crushed. Tells you all you need to know that I wasn’t sure he would remember me when I showed up at his rehab center. But he did. We had a lot to talk about.

How could I have let this wonderful person go in favor of a computer screen? 

Well, for one thing, my job exhausts me. And I have joined this larp group full of fun people who I wouldn’t call friends. Yet.

But no more excuses. I need to form real bridges. It’s my new goal for 2025.

Ha ha! Isn’t it rich that I’m announcing this resolution on a blog? Ironic. But it is a goal.

Maybe there’s a bored deity who will help me. They sure understand this kind of isolation.

I’m Anne Johnson, and I’m an Addict.

 My addiction is social media.

Like other addicts, I’m quick to say, “Well, I’m not as bad as other people.” But “bad” isn’t a continuum. At least for me.

I could also say, “Well, there are circumstances.” My old laptop isn’t serving me well anymore, and now I do everything on my phone. I’m typing this with one finger.

Social media exists to create user engagement. The more time you spend on it, the more the algorithm tweaks your content. You like cats? A million cute kitten videos are at your command. You want to end the oligarchy? You’ll find your people, thanks to the oligarchs themselves. They put up with radical left wingers the way the tobacco companies offered low tar cigarettes.

I feel very fortunate that I never engaged with X or TikTok. But it’s so easy to spend 45 minutes scrolling Facebook. I’m going to see New Jersey sea glass and stunning photos of turkey vultures. I’m going to smack down anti-union propaganda and discover that my friend the Monkey Man has been hit by a car. On Instagram I am going to see my daughter The Fair’s personal and professional content. It’s so hard to back away.

The precipitating factor in my decision to curb my impulses is the decision by that mutant Zuckerberg to curtail fact checking. If we are in a car accelerating on Hitler Highway, I suddenly don’t want to take in the scenery. Who wants to gawk at a  hellscape?

So I am back here on “The Gods Are Bored,” punching the air for no one in particular. Like so many sensible people, I feel defeated and anxious. That mindset doesn’t lend itself to engaging content, but I’ll try. My broken brain needs the re-set.

I have content moderation on this blog now, so your communication may not get seen right away. But I will get to it.

It took me 25 minutes to type this, and that’s 25 minutes I spent somewhere other than the toxic platforms.

One day at a time.