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.