Monday, June 16, 2025

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.



Monday, June 02, 2025

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.