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.

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.