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.

Thanksgiving 2020

 I've spent the last three hours making side dishes for Thanksgiving dinner. Cranberry sauce too. Ever notice how these recipes make enough for a large family and friends? Yeah, well, this year it's just me and Mr. J and one poorly-behaved orange tabby cat named Gamma. The governors of Pennsylvania and New Jersey have asked residents to limit their Thanksgiving guests to people living within the home.

Every year since 1989 I have hosted Thanksgiving at Chateau Johnson (now an official government residence). That first year my daughter The Heir was 5 months old, and we invited her godfather from Washington, DC. It snowed about 4 inches. Made for beautiful photos.

There was a memorable year when I hosted a couple of principle dancers from the Philadelphia Ballet. Mr. J had just finished writing a magazine profile of Arantxa (who was practicing to be the Sugar Plum Fairy in "Nutcracker"). She and her Russian husband had never been to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner before. He ate everything in sight. She had a small portion of white meat turkey and an undressed salad. They were lovely. Literally.

On several Thanksgivings the Monkey Man has come to eat with us. Once he brought his sister and her boyfriend. Of course the monkey, Bongo, came too. Therefore, in Bongo's honor, I made banana bread.

When The Heir started working for a sculptor named Kate Kamen, I invited Kate and her husband to Thanksgiving. We learned a lot about spear fishing and other Type A behavior that would have made the ballerinas wince.

But mostly on Thanksgiving I had my mother-in-law here with us. She was an exquisite chef and often brought dishes or dessert, until she grew too infirm to cook. Must have been at least 10 and probably more like 20 years that she joined us every year. She was with us on the fateful Black Friday when Decibel the parrot died.

One year when The Heir was about 22 and The Fair about 17, I had to drive to Baltimore on Thanksgiving morning to pick up Mother-in-Law. It's a good 100 miles from Philly to Baltimore, and then turn around and drive back ... and then put the turkey in the oven. The drive down was uneventful. But coming back -- mind you, 11:00 in the morning on Thanksgiving -- we got into a whopper of a traffic jam on I-95. It was a parking lot, and the clock was ticking on getting that bird in the oven.

When it looked unlikely that I would return to Chateau Johnson in a timely manner, I phoned home to ask for assistance from my grown daughters. The conversation went something like this:

Anne: Fair, I need you to put the turkey in the oven.

Fair: Not me. I'm not touching a raw, dead bird! Forget it! Eww, gross!

Anne: Please? I'll walk you through it.

Fair: No way. I'd rather eat peanut butter.

Anne (turning to an inferior Plan B): Put your sister on the line. Heir, are you there?

Heir: Oh, hi Mom! How's it goin?

Anne: Not good. Listen, I need for you to unwrap the turkey and put it in the oven. I'll walk you through it.

Heir: Uhhhhh ...... emmmmmm ..... uhhhhhhh ...... mmmmMMMMMMmmmmm .... um, Mom.

Anne: Please?

Heir: Ummmmmmm ..... emmmmmmm ..... uhhhhhh .... oh gosh, I ..... ummmmm.

At this point the traffic moved an inch.

Anne: Never mind.

Heir: Oh! You have a great trip, Mom! See you soon! *Click*

Long story short, that was the year I learned to use the convection setting on the oven.

In the time of novel coronavirus, I will not be stuck in traffic on I-95. I won't be making salads for ballerinas or banana bread for Bongo. I won't be going to the shopping mall at 6:00 a.m. with The Fair or to a Christmas tree-lighting in Haterfield with The Heir. My county is a hot spot, so I don't even want to go to the hardware store for new outdoor lights.

But I might do that last bit. If ever there was a year when we have to beat back the darkness, this is that year. We started with the election of Joe Biden, but it's a deep hole we're finding ourselves in, what with Trump tweeting RIGGED RIGGED RIGGED and 70 million Americans believing him and another 250,000 dead of a disease no one had this time last year. 

Light is what we need. Lots and lots of light.

Four weeks until Solstice. I'm here, it's Thanksgiving, and it's just me and Mr. J and a poorly-behaved orange tabby cat named Gamma.

Stay safe!

Things I Miss

Well, here we are again at "The Gods Are Bored," on May 72nd or some such. The only upside to teaching from home is that I get enough sleep. This is counterbalanced by a million downsides. It's awful.

But pish tosh! Why dwell on the negative? Hmmm. What can I write about that is positive?

Well, the Monkey Man visited on Mother's Day, with his monkeys in tow and an Eagles mask.

EXHIBIT A: MY DEAR OL' MONKEY MAN

He's behind that poster.

The Monkey Man is one person I don't have to miss during quarantine. He and I have been doing the pen pal thing. We help the postal service. And I write to him because I know he'll write back.

What are you missing in these stay-at-home times? I am really staying at home. Every other week I put on my Gritty mask and go to the supermarket. Otherwise the only time I go out is to walk around Haterfield. No one else wears a mask.

There's so much I miss! In no particular order:

1. the thrift store
2. the thrift store
3. the thrift store
4. teaching the ordinary way
5. the farmer's market
6. the beach (not going until I have a vaccine)
7. Mummers meetings, now being done online
8. LARP in the woods
9. daughters coming for dinner
10. hiking
11. festivals
12. road trips
13. petting other people's dogs
14. the gym
15. teacher workshops where they ladle out mountains of pastry and candy
16. senior student events
17. the thrift store
18. restaurants
19. being able to breathe while outside
20. fitting into my clothes

On the upside, my little back yard has never been more tidy. And there's a jenny wren nesting in the bird house I bought on March 9 before this all hit the fan.

What do you miss?

Another Old Friend Drops By

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," now apparently broadcasting mostly from Facebook! Oh well, it beats Twitter. If you search me and get Facebook, I promise I'll have this content on there so you can click it. If you want to pick it. Such a sticky wicket.

Ah ... Anne has lost a stride or two, but she hasn't forgotten the whole dance.

All three of you readers are likely to recall my many adventures with the Monkey Man, a local figure who started as a mystery and became a lifelong friend. Well, Thanksgiving is here, and guess who's coming to dinner? THE MONKEY MAN!

The clear light of day reveals our Monkey Man to be Rocky Wilson, and this year in the spring he published his first collection of poetry! Let's hear some applause!

Here's the Man himself, with his book and his monkey.

(This photo first appeared in the Camden Courier Post, and I hope they don't sue me, because I don't have any money anyway.)

I just checked Amazon, and Rocky's book, The Last Bus to Camden, is not currently available there. Friends, it just about sold out its first print run. I am not exaggerating. You should have seen the reading Rocky gave in Snobville at the bookstore. People were spilling out onto the sidewalk. There was not even standing room!

Tomorrow when I see the Monkey Man, I'll ask him for permission to print a few of his verses here on "The Gods Are Bored" from time to time. It sure would lighten the mood.

Speaking of which, I haven't put my claw-sharpener away. In 2017 there will be more marching than just the Mummers Parade. Your reporter will be on the front lines in our nation's capital for the big protest on January 21.

But in the meantime, we are looking for the Light. Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" round of applause to Rocky Wilson, author, poet, and 100 percent fabulous guy! Best friends forever.

Navel Gazing under Friday Night Lights

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hope all is well with you.

The more footage and stories that come in about the hurricane, the worse I feel. It's horrible to see so much destruction. I hope that when rebuilding begins, people will think twice about construction right on the beach. But the ruination goes far beyond the barrier islands. We took it on the chin here on the East Coast of the USA. It was bound to happen. The atmosphere and the water and the cold fronts are going to bring stormzillas from time to time.

And then there's the day-to-day living that people do in the danger zone.

Some of you three readers might remember that my best friend in these parts is a street poet that I call The Monkey Man. I call him this because he rides around on a bike with a monkey puppet and is friendly to everyone, especially little kids.

The Monkey Man lives in downtown Camden, New Jersey. Most everyone there loves him dearly. But one evening, as he stood at the foot of the Ben Franklin Bridge admiring the sunset over Philadelphia across the river, someone (or more than one) attacked him from behind. He was severely beaten, and the assailants threw his monkey in the Delaware River. He was not robbed.

My friend required hospitalization. The story made the newspapers, and that is how I heard about it.

Well, that was a wake-up call for me. I've been so wound up in my own business for months that I have lost track of my local friends, principal among them the Monkey Man. So I invited him to dinner on a night when the Snobville Fighting Wombats had a football game. The Monkey Man graduated from Snobville High and retains a sporting interest in his hometown teams.

Last evening he arrived right on time, and I threw on a pretty good feed bag, chicken cordon bleu, topped off with a delicious red velvet cupcake. He was subdued during dinner. It's usually that way. When confined to a house he's mostly quiet.

Then we left for the game: Monkey Man, Heir, and me. And the puppets. Somehow the monkey had survived a dunking in the river and looked better than ever, like new, actually. The other puppet, Butchie the Wombat, is a fixture at football games.

Once out of the house, the Monkey Man got his game on. All of the curbs here in the neighborhood are piled with leaves. We have leaf collection here, and the sucker truck hasn't come yet. Monkey Man began by jumping in the leaf piles, then entertained the kids at the game better than the Wombats themselves. At one point, Butchie was being tossed so widely through the stands I was afraid he wouldn't make it back to the Monkey Man. But of course he did. The monkey chatted with everyone ... as always.

In Heir's era at Snobville High, most of the students were stand-offish towards the Monkey Man. But this new generation of youngsters are wonderful to him! They all seemed to know him, and one very nice student came up, shook his hand, and said, "Hope I'll see you in church soon." That kid's friends were all so kind and respectful. It was a lovely thing to see.

Of course Heir and I treated our Monkey Man like gold. We have known him more than ten years now. How time flies!

Snobville High basically got their hats handed to them by their opponents, the Blue Collarville Fighting Cacti. The Cacti are always a great team, hard to beat, and this game was no exception. Oh well, our cheerleaders were good.

We walked home to my house -- me, Monkey Man, and Heir. On the way we came to a gigantic leaf pile that we had missed on the way to the stadium. With a fine "whoop," Monkey Man fell over backwards into the leaf pile. I followed suit. It was a fabulous leaf pile! The leaves conformed to my back ... and we looked up at the stars. Heir just stood there staring at us. Finally we coaxed her to give it a try, but she was still hesitant. I guess leaf piles are like everything else -- you love them as a kid, you go through a stage where you lose touch with them, and then in late mid-life you re-discover your inner leaf-pile-jumper.

The only thing that coaxed us out of the leaf pile was the fact that the leaves underneath were damp. Finally we de-leafed, walked the rest of the way home, and bid farewell to the Monkey Man, who bundled his monkey and Butchie onto his bike and pedaled off toward Camden.

I'm so relieved that my friend hasn't lost his groove after being attacked. I hope it doesn't happen again. He lives in one of the most dangerous cities in America. Everyone knows him, but there are bound to be some haters ... some punks trying to get props ... some cowards acting on a dare. But so long as no one out-and-out kills him, his fine spirit will prevail. Camden needs him, and so do I.

Thus begins an intention to reconnect with the friends I have in this region. There's a pudgy cat at a local shop who hasn't gotten enough attention either. Time to venture out again with those I hold near and dear.

Thanksgiving 2011; Or, How I Learned To Love the 21st Century!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Thanksgiving edition, 2011! This century is now more than a decade old, and I have been less than impressed. But now I'm totally down with the 21st. Read on to find out how a "Dazed and Confused"-era teen finally went techno with success!

I have two daughters, The Heir and The Spare (pictured). I have a very close friend, the Monkey Man (pictured). All were invited to my table on Thanksgiving. Blessed be, they all accepted -- and Monkey Man brought his sister and another friend!

Alas, there was a snag. Mr. J, being a sportswriter, is often called upon to write at the holidays. He had a deadline. So I had to drive to Baltimore to pick up his mom. And back to Snobville for the feast.

It's a 200-mile round trip, all on a Thanksgiving morning.

Well, you have your Travel Wednesdays, and you have your Back Fridays, and in between people manage to have dinner with family and friends. I figured the traffic would not be bad on I-95 on Thanksgiving Day itself.

BAMP!!!!! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! Deduct 50 points from Anne's score!

As I was traveling south on I-95, I noticed the traffic volume moving north. When Mom-in-law and I began our return journey from Baltimore to Snobville, the traffic on I-95 was unbelievable. You could not have squeezed a Handi-Wipe between my car and the one in front of me. You could have tried, though. At the rate the traffic was moving, you'd have been clear to make about 25 attempts.

I'm a veteran traveler of I-95, and I know how to circumnavigate it. Will I share this information with you? Hmmmmm. Email me.

I got off I-95 and took an alternate route. Here's where the plot thickens.

It was after 11:00 in the morning. I had told my guests that dinner would be ready at 4:30. The reason I had made this audacious boast was that I had full confidence in my sous chef, The Spare. You should see some of the fabulous meals she whips up! Caught in traffic? No problem! Spare at the helm, all systems go!

At a red light, I phoned up Spare. Conversation went something like this:

Anne: Hey, have you made the stuffing?

Spare: No, but I'm getting around to it.

Anne: Have you peeled the potatoes?

Spare: I was just getting ready to do that.

Anne: Listen. It's going to take longer than anticipated for me to get home. I need for you to put the turkey in the oven. The directions for preparing it are on the sheet I left on the kitchen counter.

(Very long pause.)

Anne: Spare? Are you there?

Spare: I can't handle a turkey carcass. It will make me puke.

Anne: What are you talking about? You cook stuff all the time!

Spare: Yeah, but ... look, I'm not reaching into a turkey and pulling out the ... parts. Like, I can't do that.

(Anne thinks of a contingency plan.)

Anne: Put your sister on the phone.

(Heir comes to the phone. Mind you, she can boil water for tea and toast a PopTart. End of her cooking ability.)

Anne: Heir, will you help Spare put the turkey in the oven? The directions are on the kitchen counter.

Heir: Ummmmmm. Uhhhhhhh. (No enthusiasm) I guess .......

Anne: DO YOU CREATURES WANT TO EAT TODAY? IF SO, PUT THE TURKEY IN THE OVEN! I'M IN FREAKIN ABERDEEN, AND THE MONKEY MAN IS COMING TO DINNER!

(Green light. Phone off.)

Long story short, Mom-in-law and I crawled to a stop in front of my house at about half past never. The turkey was not in the oven. It had not been removed from the fridge. To her dubious credit, The Spare had made the stuffing and peeled the potatoes.

Time for a desperate contingency plan!

My oven is a modern, computerized gadget that has had its share of glitches, let me tell you. The oven has a "convection" option that I have never quite figured out. When you use it, time and space become altered as if it's an episode of Doctor Who gone awry. When you cook with convection heat, you dial down the temperature and dial back the time. It must save energy, doing that. But it's damned tricky.

I had no choice.

Slapped that bird in the oven. Convection heat, 300 degrees, 2 hours. Can you believe it, readers? That gobbler was ready for the table by 4:30! Sixteen pounds! Welcome to the 21st century, bored deities!

Monkey Man arrived, bearing home-made cranberry bread and a pumpkin pie. His sister arrived with the classic Green Bean Casserole, which was really and truly invented by a citizen of Snobville who worked in the test kitchen at Campbell's.

We all had a lovely dinner. Even the famed Monkey was happy, because I had a whole bunch of bananas set aside for him. We drank a toast and all said what they were thankful for. (Monkey Man's sister said she was grateful "that my weird brother always manages to find lovely friends.")

My mom-in-law was particularly impressed that the turkey was ready in the nick of time. During Thanksgivings past, she had been renowned for hounding me about when I was going to put the bird over the fire.

I saved the best for last. After dinner, the Monkey Man presented me with a gift. It was like 25 Yuletides came in one single second! Here's a picture of him, modeling my gift earlier in the day, at the annual Snobville-Snob Heights football game ...

EXHIBIT A: WHAT A HAT!

I am blown away by this fabulous headgear. It bothers me slightly that the thing was probably made in some poor Third World country, but man-oh-man. Never has product met consumer with more satisfaction!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" hope you had a happy Thanksgiving. We hope you took a pass on Walmart on Black Friday. If not, don't ask us to feel sorry for you if you were trampled, shot, or pepper-sprayed. (Seriously. Look it up. People got pepper-sprayed at Walmart.)

This Thanksgiving was really special. We all missed Great-Grandma (who is still hovering), but we delighted in new friends and family. I have to work on Spare's gag reflex, but that can wait for another day.

I hope your holiday was special too. If not, let me know. I could set a place for you next year ... and save a few bananas back for your monkey puppet. It's how I roll.

The Day Walt Whitman Came to School

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Spring Break edition! Not a moment too soon, there's a little lull in the school calendar.


I went to work today with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had. I could do little more than whisper.

You might ask, "How does a school teacher in that kind of shape, with 100 freshmen in six classes, impart any learning on the day before Spring Break, and a dress-down day at that?"

I get by with a little help from my friends.

Those three of you who have been lumbering along with "The Gods Are Bored" lo, these many years, will know the story of the Weird Stranger Who Became a Best Friend, a.k.a. the Monkey Man. My last rhumba with the Monkey Man was back at Samhain, when we blew away the competition in the Not Snobville Halloween Parade -- he as Edgar Allan Poe, me as Jabberwock. Since then I haven't seen him at all.

But it turns out that, in addition to being a poet himself, he actually knows Walt Whitman!

My friend the Monkey Man arranged for Walt Whitman to visit my classes today in order to recite poetry to them and get them excited about the famous man in their midst.

I arranged the tables so that there was a little theater-in-the-round, and Mr. Whitman entertained my troops with alternating stories about his life in Camden and passages from his poetry. By the end of the day, the classroom floor was strewn with grass and good will.

An odd thing happened, though. About a quarter of my students insisted firmly that Walt Whitman was not, in fact, Walt Whitman, but rather a poet who currently lives in Camden by the name of  Rocky Wilson. Some students were emphatic on this point, and they begged to see the monkey.

 In each class, when Walt Whitman bade farewell, he walked out, and a moment later Rocky Wilson walked in. Some coincidence, huh? But it made everyone happy. The students got to hear passages from "Song of Myself," and then they also got to pet Rocky's monkey (a fond friend from their childhoods in various Camden primary schools). The added benefit was that we have also been studying Nick Virgilio, a famous haiku poet who lived in Camden -- and Rocky Wilson knew Nick Virgilio.

Rocky could not move ten feet in the hallways of the Vo Tech without being recognized. Even the lunch lady lives on his street. We had a fine time together, he and I. We always do. I treated him to lunch (remember, it's a Vo Tech with a Culinary Arts shop, so we eat like Tudors every day), and we made plans to get to some poetry events in May.

This is what I have learned about life. Proceed with patience, accept small miracles that accrue into larger miracles. (Who makes much of a miracle?) Then, sit back and smile when, just for a moment, all the Legos snap into place and you've built a pretty doggoned fine palace.

Mr. Whitman recited these lines, which I find particularly inspiring:


The spotted hawk swoops  by and accuses me,

he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am

untranslatable.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of

the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true

as any on the shadow'd wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at

the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in

lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from

the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under

your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.  ef·fuse 
adj. Botany
Spreading out loosely.

v. ef·fused, ef·fus·ing, ef·fus·es

v.tr.
1. To pour out (a liquid).

2. To radiate; diffuse.

v.intr.
..... Click the link for more information.



And you, and you, and you ... and you ...

Better than "The Gods Are Bored"

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home to an amateur writer who used to be a pro. Even in my heyday, however, I was not as good as today's link. If you really want to meet the Monkey Man, click!

http://www.philly.com/inquirer/columnists/20100916_Daniel_Rubin__Free_spirit_spins_yarns_in_Camden.html

Another Marvelous Monkey Man Magical Mystery Tour!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we ask for nothing more than true love and high adventure! And to use our netbook off the new neighbor's wireless. Simple pleasures, simple pleasures.

My daughter The Heir was a little stripling in sixth grade when the Adventure of the Monkey Man began. Brief recap: She was walking home from school on a back street with a friend, when an odd fellow on  a bike passed them. He was wearing a jester hat and carrying a monkey puppet. He greeted the girls by way of the monkey: "Hello, kids! ooo ooo ooo AH AH AH!"

Being a rather benevolent parent who believes in freedom of speech, I did not freak out when Heir told me about this person. I just counseled her to stay on the main street.

From those humble origins began the saga of the Monkey Man. He became an obsession with our family, each of us competing for sightings. They were infrequent enough to make it an adventure, but frequent enough to make it suspenseful. Legend clung to the man. You never got the same story twice about him. Street person, school teacher, strung-out stoner ... everyone claimed to know all about him.

One fateful day, he lost his monkey. He ran into my daughter The Spare on Main Street and gave her an email address and a description of the monkey. He was asking everyone -- surely someone had seen his monkey!

Some cross country runners recovered the monkey from the riverbank and turned the monkey in to the police. We heard about this and sent the Monkey Man an email. He wrote back.

Now he's one of my very best friends.

A few of the urban legends were true. He is a part-time school teacher. He did spend some formative years in the late 1960s in Berkeley. But he also spent his boyhood in the house behind the one I live in now. He writes poetry. He recites multiple passages of "Leaves of Grass." He always stops by on Thanksgiving.

A few weeks ago, I got an email from the Monkey Man. He and his monkey had scheduled a performance at the famous Philadelphia Fringe Festival. Trouble was, his venue was moved from an auditorium with 90 seats to an auditorium with 900 seats. Popular as he is in these parts, he can't summon an audience that size!

Thank you, Facebook!

It's possible to friend newspaper reporters. Did you know that? Columnists especially. I had friended one Philadelphia Inquirer columnist who I read all the time. So I wrote to her via Facebook, suggesting she do a story on the Monkey Man. She wrote back, "What's with that guy? All the moms around here are concerned."

I replied, "I am solid with the dude. Please write about his Fringe Festival performance."

Well, that columnist wasn't keen on the story, but she passed it on to another Philadelphia Inquirer columnist. His story on the Monkey Man will be in Thursday's Philadelphia Inquirer! You can read it and weep! (Actually, laugh.)

I doubt if one newspaper story will fill the 900 seats, but I do believe the Monkey Man will get a bigger audience than if he got no publicity at all.

For years the magickal flow has mostly been from the Monkey Man to me. This week it was payback time. I'm so happy I could drum up product placement for my friend!

And now, the details from here:

Read about the Monkey Man in a column by Daniel Rubin in Thursday's Philadelphia Inquirer.

Come meet and greet me at the Monkey Man's performance of an original show, "Seal Moon," part of the Philadelphia Fringe Festival. Saturday, September 18. 401 South Broad Street, 7:30 p.m. Admission $15.00, and free for puppets.

If you want to join the Monkey Man's poetry group, we meet at Slice of New York Pizza, 3rd and Cooper in Camden. Email me to be added to the contact list. Puppets eat free but sometimes perform poems.

Puppets. Have you ever thought about carrying one in a committed way? I'm here to tell you that people who do make extremely interesting companions!

One Theme Retires, Another Returns

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, what a beautiful early summer eve! So glad you could stop by. Watch where you're stepping, there are faeries about!

This evening I spent some time tending my little Shrine of the Mists. I noticed that my daughter The Heir had added some items to it. New offerings include little pieces of geode, sea glass, random chunks of semi-precious stone that had once been on a necklace, and even some jacks. Everything that brings joy to the Shrine of the Mists brings peace to my little yard.

I took a moment from my tending to show the neighbor boys a fossil from the farm on Polish Mountain that is also in the Shrine: unspeakably ancient brachiopods, turned to stone by a couple hundred million years of burial. I used to think fossils were magical. I still think so. Not magical in the Young Earth Theory respect, but just sort of miraculous. Our planet has kept pretty good records of its history. The miracle part is that we find the stuff on mountainsides.

One chapter of TGAB comes to a close on Wednesday. It is my final session of night school. Oh, goodbye, Dear Mr. Bigwand! I'll try not to spray you with gravel as I drive off into the sunset! And yes, Bigwand is not going into the Great "Gods Are Bored" archives without a swan song. He mandated that our final meeting be held at his house, where he will heave hamburgers and hot dogs at us, along with his usual lengthy, self-aggrandizing sermons.

I may get misty-eyed. It's allergy season.

The good news is that the end of night school heralds the return of the enriching sorts of activities that have also been recorded here in the annals of TGAB. My, but it has been months since I even mentioned the Monkey Man! Next week is his annual birthday bash in Camden ... an event that dependably becomes rowdy because the booze is cheap and plentiful. Someone will read a haiku. Someone will sing a bawdy song. Sometimes we have a puppet show. Then we stumble out into a charming urban landscape with our heads full of poetry and our throats hoarse from laughter.

When I think of all the people I know and call "friend," I'm sure the world will never become boring to me.

Weird New World

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we can recall a time when making a telephone call required standing close to a wall ... and asking Aunt Belle nicely if she could stop gossiping on the party line. Do you remember phone booths? Other than in scary movies? Remember how they had phone books with hard plastic covers dangling underneath? Remember dialing "0" to get an operator to help you place a collect call?

Now you can talk on the phone while driving a car 70 miles per hour on the Jersey Turnpike. That's what I call progress! Maybe.

At the risk of sounding like an old fogey, I never thought I'd see some of the technological advances that I now live with every day. I thought cordless telephones were a miracle when they first came out. Needless to say, cell phones baffle me completely.

That's what a half century of lively living will do for you. All hail being baffled! It keeps one young.

All this is prelude to my suggestion that you poetry lovers out there might want to watch the little video below. (I finally figured out how to put YouTube stuff on my blog ... Progress!)

Almost ten years ago my daughter The Heir came home from school one day and said a weird man with a monkey puppet and a jester hat had ridden by her on a bike. He waved the monkey at her and said, "Hi kids, ooo ooo ooo AAAH AAAH AAAAH!"

Thus began for my family the Mighty Saga of the Monkey Man. First he was an elusive creature who we searched for, then a strange person that we stalked, then a subject of wild urban legends, then ... suddenly ... a real person. Who grew up in the house behind ours. Who knew all the neighbors. Who graduated from the Heir's high school. Who hosts a poetry get-together every month in Camden. From mysterious stranger to best friend in a decade! And the only technology used in the process was a little email and a bike.

Those of you who've been following TGAB for awhile have heard of this person. Here he is in the 'tubes! Now that's a technological advancement worth its weight in bytes!

Even if you're new here, you might want to take a look. Rocky is a great poet, and this is one of his best poems, done in his signature radiant style.

Mystery no more. World, please welcome the Monkey Man!

Who Does He Hear Singing Now?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today we add a new hero to our Pantheon of Special Mortals. He is Walt Whitman.

I think Walt Whitman must have been very brave to pen the poetry he did in an era so dedicated to rhyme and meter. His courage certainly bore fruit. Who among us does not love the guy?

If you're not singing the body electric, you're missing out. The bored gods will say you squandered your mortality, and they'll send you back for another try.

Two nights ago, my daughter The Spare sat down at the computer and labored mightily over a poem that she was writing. I won't bore you with the details, but the big picture in her poem was how nourishing she finds it to go to the mountains.

Her poem was created as an assignment from her English teacher, who plans to send the best class poems to a poetry contest open to high school students in Camden and Gloucester Counties, NJ, and Philadelphia City.

The contest honors Walt Whitman, who is buried up the street from me in Camden City.

This morning, on my way out to the Vo-Tech, I stopped in my home office to freshen Decibel the Parrot's water bowl. When I looked at my desk, the faeries shoved into sight the information on the poetry contest. The Spare had left the flier on my desk. (Along with an empty Sprite bottle and some Cheez-It crumbs.)

I looked down at the flier, and the faeries looked up at me, and it occurred to me to take the flier to the Vo-Tech and encourage the students there to enter the contest.

After all, who does Walt Whitman hear singing these days? His spirit may still be in Camden City ... among my students.

I'm not a regular classroom teacher. I'm a special needs tutor. But this is actually better, because I can cruise through the school like the Pied Piper, handing out the flier and offering to expedite the mailing of the poems the Vo-Tech kids write.

Just today I got my first two poems from students. The students wrote the poems out by hand, and I typed them up. If enough students contribute, I may have sufficient material for a little chapbook by the end of the year, whether they win the contest or not.

Odds are they won't win. Gosh, two heavily-populated suburban counties and the City of Philadelphia ... and all four grades of high school? Walt Whitman himself probably couldn't win the doggone thing. But I'm not going to tell my students that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And when what you gain is a poem you've written, that's enough in itself.

Mr. Whitman, meet your new neighbors.

Sacred Thunderbird Blogging

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" When February doldrums set in, it's time for the fabulous, mystical, uplifting and otherwise highly spiritual East Coast Vulture Festival! Get your ticket now, and learn the Secrets of the Sacred Thunderbird!

Tonight I am driving to Wenonah to practice our annual Vulture Shamanic Dance Routine. (It's different every year.) We dress up like buzzards and do a little routine for the congregation. (This is last year's photo. That's me in the front, in the big mascot costume.)

Those of you who've only been here a short time haven't heard about the Monkey Man. Suffice it to say that he's the kind of guy who can dress up like a vulture and do timed wing-flaps at the drop of a jester's hat. So I recruited him to the flock. He's my first official Thunderbird convert. (Okay, well, he hasn't stopped being a Quaker. Yet.) He and I are going to have a slice of pizza, and then we're going to make the trek to Wenonah, do a little sacred flapping, and drive back north again in time to get some decent shuteye.

Yesterday when The Spare and I went to the zoo, we saw the Andean condor. A little sign by the condor's flight cage said: "In many parts of South America, people still celebrate the myths of divinity associated with this bird."

Myths? Myths? Tell me what's more sacred than a Thunderbird. Go ahead. I dare ya.

Wish me luck learning to flap in time to a rap.

My Navel's Still There

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where unfortunately a little navel-gazing is sometimes necessary! My memory isn't what it used to be, and I might want to re-visit my life at some point. (The better parts of it, anyway.)

It seems like an eternity ago, but it was just Monday past when daughters Heir and Spare, and artist Seitou went on a crawl through the New Jersey suburbs looking for over-the-top lawn displays. Some that we visited are "old standards" -- folks that have been doing this for years. And some have evolved over time from modest to lavish, as folks keep the old and add the new. Heir and Seitou opted to stay in the car while Spare and I prowled the exhibits. Spare and I weren't trespassing. One dude who does a Crazy Christmas House sits on his porch dressed like Santa Claus, dispensing candy canes. (I'd have pictures, but the faeries hid Spare's camera ... again.) Another one has a collection box for leukemia research. Now that's magic! Put your obsession to use for a good cause!

Seitou made an odd suggestion during the Crawl. She thought we ought to go to Snobville's most posh neighborhood, locale of the 4mil-and-up houses. It has been my experience that these kinds of people do not fill their yards with plastic snowmen and vinyl bubbles with penguins dancing in snow to cheesy holiday carols. However, when we got to Lane Of Success, we discovered a mansion with huge trees in the front yard, and from the trees hung glowing balls of light in many colors. Seitou did not know this would be there, which made it all the more special. We discovered a faerie world in high-end Snobville! (We did not prowl this property, but instead ogled it from the street. No use courting a release of the hounds.)

The very next evening, Heir and I went to Pizza and Poetry in Camden. Those of you who have visited TGAB for years will recall our ongoing friendship with the Monkey Man. He runs Pizza and Poetry. On this occasion he was wearing a multi-colored top hat with a sunflower growing out of the top of it. His monkey spent half of last year at the spa (ungrateful wretch worried the Monkey Man sick). But monkey is back with man now, so all is well. We read Emily Dickinson and haiku. (Haiku is big in Camden, that's where Nick Vergilio lived.) I actually had something of my own to read this time -- from the peerless Six Word Blog!

Wine flowed freely. We re-enacted the Twelve Days of Christmas. Leave it to the Monkey Man to get a stodgy Rutgers professor to flap his wings like a partridge.

Christmas morning at dawn I worked an empowerment spell for someone. If I don't recall it in years to come, it won't matter. Just making note of it.

For Christmas The Spare gave me a Witch's calendar with all the phases of the moon on it and all sorts of astrological information that I will find extremely useful. It's a beautiful calendar. Heir gave me dragon's blood incense and a lilac-scented candle. They know me! They really know me! Mr. Johnson signed me up for a reasonably-priced gym that has a pool. So now I can regain my strength without over-taxing my legs doing weight-bearing exercises.

I watched "It's a Wonderful Life." The part that always chokes me up is when the angel points out to poor old George Bailey that because he wasn't there to save his brother, his brother died as a kid. And because his brother died as a kid, his brother didn't live to become an Air Force pilot who saved the lives of 150 soldiers. All those soldiers died. See, that's how I think magick works. A series of insignificant events, having no foreseeable consequences, work together to become a miracle.

Friday Mr. Johnson's second family came to visit. (His dad divorced, remarried, and had three children by the second wife.) This family has a brand-new baby ... and we all know there's nothing more fabulous than that! Lucky kid too, to be born into a family full of urban professionals with good educations and level heads.

Today we are driving to Croton-on-Hudson, New York to see Mr. Johnson's first family. This is the kind of trek that makes me wish I was a buzzard -- three hours of New Jersey Turnpike and related roads that run way too close to Manhattan. It would be so much easier to spread one's wings and fly there! But I also have some fabulous nieces and nephews from this family, so it will be great to see them. (I've got to run out and get them some candy. Hooray for the post-Xmas sales!) We are spending the night in Croton, also a plus. The Hudson Valley is beautiful. I would love to see more of it.

Saved the best for last. My sister sent me a beautiful Pan faerie pin that she bought at a celebrated Wiccan shop in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. I have seen a sea change in Sis since she discovered the tiny faerie in her spare bedroom. Her outlook is definitely broadening and becoming more flexible! Planning to go see her this coming spring. Will take Spare to Shepherd University, which I think would be a good college for Spare.

When I get back from Croton I have a new gym membership, a few writing assignments, and a full-time (sans benefits) job at the Vo-Tech. Oh yeah. And I turn 50 in 2009, so I'll definitely want to see some fireworks on New Year's Eve.

This has been navel gazing by Anne Johnson. Thank the bored deities -- and you -- for the patronage!

All Navel, All the Time

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we will dispense with our usual peppy opening paragraph!

Snobville High School Prom 2008

The Heir wore a black cocktail dress, splashed with color, sporting a swishy chiffon skirt. She enjoyed the company of her escort. His name is really John.

Snobville High actually has an old-fashioned promenade. Each couple comes out the high school door into a courtyard and walks down a sidewalk through a phalanx of parents (and half the rest of the town as well, everyone comes to this thing).

It's right out of Jane Austen, and you get to see everyone's attire. For my money The Heir had the prettiest dress of all, and best of all it's re-usable, doesn't look like a prom dress.

I would love to post a picture, but The Heir wishes to remain anonymous.

Heir & Spare Graduation Party, Today!

The first two hours consisted of poor Spare and her boyfriend having to chat endlessly with self and Mr. Johnson. How an 8th grade boy bore up under this I cannot tell you. But he is a swell kid. Then Mr. Johnson's family arrived, and my mother-in-law lost no time in telling 8th grade boyfriend that he was so pretty, no wonder there are pedophiles in the world!

(Spare looked like a slug that had just gotten hit with a dash of salt. Can't say I blamed her, but you've gotta make concessions for grandmothers, they are a special breed.)

Once Mr. Johnson's lively family came in, all the rest of the guests started to show up. My blessed Seitou, faerie artist, came in and disappeared upstairs with The Heir for awhile, and sure enough, weird music started floating down the stairwell. Then several of The Heir's co-workers arrived with their children, and my best friend Celeste, and my editor at The Smart Set with his two darling little boys.

The boys plus my peerless nephew Vincent, all under age 10, were quite taken with Decibel the Parrot, so I entertained them by giving Decibel a hose-down on the front porch. Who says kids need computers for amusement?

The Spare's boyfriend had to leave. The Heir gave him a little light listening: The Velvet Underground. Nothing like loading a little Lou Reed into an 8th grader's brain. So off toddled Spare's bf, and in came Heir's bf, who really is more like a bff.

We were anxiously awaiting Grandma's pronouncement on Heir's bff, but Grandma was chatting with Celeste. (Sigh of relief.)

By 5:00 the guests had mostly eaten, chatted, and said their polite toodle-oos. Heir's bff had to mosey along to another party. He was no sooner out the door than I looked out the window and said, "Here comes someone with orange hair. It must be one of our party guests."

It was the Monkey Man, resplendent in a torn t-shirt and curly silver wig. (The orange hair turned out to be his jester hat.) With him came my favorite of his puppets, the Crying Crow.

Nephew Vincent lives in Baltimore and thus was totally ignorant of Monkey Man and the wealth of urban legends clinging to him. But within moments, Vincent and Monkey Man were best of friends, shoving jewel weed into a bowl of water to watch its leaves turn silver. (Did you know that happens, Nettle? I didn't.)

Monkey Man had prepared a special puppet show for Heir and had written a poem in her honor. The highlight of the puppet show was the return of the Monkey after a long year of absence! And I must say the Monkey had a better year than the rest of us, he looked brand new. I've gotta find that damn spa and spend a year there myself.

Monkey Man's poem had us all crying, because it was about both Heir and Spare, and how much they mean to him. And then he gave Heir a Jackson Pollack-inspired scribble drawing done by his students in Camden. They had signed it on the reverse with special greetings, so it's hard to know which side to display.

The Heir then entertained us with a few ditties on the musical saw. Enough said about that.

I had to run the Monkey Man up to the El, and kiss my dear niece and nephew farewell, and when I returned our neighbors had come in for a late sandwich -- including the boy The Heir played with throughout her childhood until they were pre-teens. Said boy is now the captain of the Snobville varsity basketball team, about ten feet tall and chiseled like a statue. Seeing him made me feel how the years melt into one another, how two little toddlers playing on a swing set become adults going out into the world.

We Johnsons have compared notes just now. We determined this was one of the, if not the single weirdest day in the history of this household. The sheer variety of guests, all coming in and going out, boggled the mind.

Not a single piece of furniture was stained, and The Spare is doing the dishes. I think I'll take a walk on the wild side!

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

faerie image by Seitou

The Otherworldy Spirit at Pizza and Poetry: A Monkey Man Moment

My ten regular readers will remember that I often write about an eccentric but gifted poet named The Monkey Man. It's a long story, how we met the Monkey Man and his cast of puppets, but we're glad we did.

Once a month the Monkey Man hosts a Pizza and Poetry night at Slice of New York Pizza, 3rd and Market, Camden, NJ. My daughter The Heir and I try to go every month.

I fear the Monkey Man's group may outgrow Slice of New York Pizza, because on Tuesday night we filled every seat. It's not a big place, but it's big enough -- we're just getting more and more folks all the time. Our collective Walt Whitman "barbaric yawp" rattled the walls of the place and caused the dear old dead poet to smile in his nearby grave.

The theme of Tuesday night's P&P was death.

Well, gosh, what else do poets write about but love and death? Okay, okay, nature. I'll give you that. But death's a biggie.

The Heir and I each took a seat at one of the tables. A well-dressed black man sat down next to The Heir. I couldn't estimate the man's age, but he might be in my ballpark, maybe a bit younger. (More and more people are younger than me all the time.)

Across the table from The Heir and me sat a couple who would not stop talking to us long enough for me to share even a polite "hello, I'm Anne" with the African American gentleman. But then the poetry commenced. After a few of the regulars had shared their latest, the gentleman stood and read a very moving poem about his late grandmother and how there was a ring on the coffee table from her pie plate that was once filled with delicious lemon meringue pie.

After the gentleman read, the Monkey Man announced the awaited pizza break. The Heir dashed off to get her slices, giving me a chance to introduce myself to the gentleman.

I praised his poem, and I told him of an incident that happened in my house that week.

My daughter The Spare is studying chemistry in 8th grade. My late father (who now fights pirates with Peter Pan) was a chemistry teacher. Back in the 1960s, I told the gentleman, my dad did chemistry classes on closed circuit t.v. that could be shown in high schools scattered across our Appalachian county. A few of Dad's episodes survived on an old VHS that Dad gave me before he went off with Peter Pan. The Spare wanted to take the VHS to school to show bits of grainy footage of Dad blowing up everything in sight.

I was willing to part with the precious VHS, but I suggested that The Spare and I should pick one particularly vivid explosion to show her class. And there, on the footage, stood my precious dad in the prime of life, mixing up chemicals in a mortar and pestle that now sits in my kitchen.

Of course the sight of that old tool of Dad's, now mine (and -- gulp -- used to grind spices!) made me weep. But then it comforted me to realize that an important piece of Dad's equipment will forever be with my family.

So, I told all of this to the African American gentleman, and he started writing things down. He apologized for being rude and then said, "You are just radiating so much energy on this that I'm being inspired."

By the time we had finished eating pizza, the gentleman -- who had never been to Pizza and Poetry before -- had written a moving poem about Daddy the Chemistry Teacher and his mortar and pestle, now used to grind cinnamon. Like, I mean the dude wrote a fabulous poem in less than 15 minutes. He impressed the hell out of everyone and caused me to weep again.

This was, of course, powerful magic at work. If you don't believe in magic, what are you doing on my site? Go toddle off to Hanna Montana dot com or some such place.

The gentleman had extremely scratchy handwriting and resisted copying the Daddy poem out in more legible form because he said he wanted to work on it some more. So I gave him my email and begged him to send me the final draft when he finished it. At the end of the evening we shook hands and went our separate ways. I do not remember his name.

Driving home, I told The Heir that I wasn't sure this gentleman was even a mortal. You never can be sure about the celestial status of anyone who hangs around the Monkey Man. So, if I never see or hear from this extraordinary African American poet again, I will assume he was a messenger from the Great God Chonganda, sent to ease my sorrow about losing my dad to Peter Pan.

If that dude is mortal, I wish him a long life, good health, and that his pen never runs out of ink. Because I don't think I've ever witnessed greater magic from an inkpen in my life.

To date I have not heard from him.

Navel ad Nauseum

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we can't help it but pull up the old Budweiser t-shirt every now and then and gaze at our navel. Oh goodie, it's still there, all puckered and cute!




There'll be nothing particularly informative about this post, so skip it if you're looking for our usual logic. We're keen to lay down a personal narrative today.



First, we at "The Gods Are Bored" remain baffled by puberty. Two weeks ago my daughter The Spare informed me that she wished I would die so she could sell all my stuff. Last night she asked me to make a list of all my favorite songs. She got on the web, found 'em, and burned them all onto one CD. On the CD she wrote, "To Mom with love from The Spare."



For a geezer like me it is perfectly amazing to hear the New Grass Revival's medieval "Spring Peepers," followed closely by "Who Are You?" The Spare even found a really super version of Anne's personal Pagan anthem, "Everything Is Round." Hey, don't look for a link here. Ask the 13-year-old nearest to you.



Amazement. I think the world is much more complicated than we can fathom.



Herewith we begin the personal narrative we want to save for the Anne Archives.



Older daughter The Heir is a multi-media artist. Sometimes she paints, sometimes she draws, sometimes she makes films, sometimes she writes poetry. She's not technically inclined (just like her mom), so her films are short, stream-of-consciousness things. This year's offering to her school's annual Student Film Festival was a three-minute excursion through maximum weirdness called "Static Bliss." When I mention that the background music was an obscure track by Lou Reed, you'll understand The Heir's no ordinary 17-year-old.



The Heir goes to a posh Blue Ribbon School where you're dirt if you're not smart and good at sports. The Heir's class is dominated by a golden boy I'll call Adonis. Adonis is a multi-sport phenomenon, an accomplished artist, girls swoon over him (Heir excepted), teachers suck up to him, he's in the National Honor Society ... and he made a film for the festival.



Festival hour arrives. Five students are present to view "Static Bliss." But when word gets out that Adonis's film is about to air, a couple dozen "populars" file in to watch the Adonis offering. Which, of course to these adult eyes writing this entry, was nothing more than a self-indulgent, glitzy techno-snobbery, poorly filmed and pretentious.



It didn't help that the asshole teacher introduced Adonis's offering by saying, "Now, here's the one we've all been waiting for. It has proven to be very popular."



So Heir and I are sitting there watching this thing, and the substitute teacher in me starts deconstructing it. How did Adonis get free rein in the school to manipulate empty corridor lights and film in parts of the school that are off limits to students? When The Heir left a textbook at school one weekend the janitors wouldn't even let her in the door to go to her locker. Slurp slurp slurp! Someone's sucking up to Adonis big-time.



Didn't you go to school with one of these perfect pricks?



Anyway, Adonis's film just crushed the poor Heir flat. When it was over, she left the room, rushed out of the school, dashed her VHS with "Static Bliss" on the ground, and tore into the park. I let her go. Sometimes we just need to walk off our anger, don'tcha know?



When I got home myself, though, she was sitting in the living room weeping. Mr. Johnson and I just couldn't get her calmed. It sure didn't help that she was preaching to the choir when she said that no matter how hard some people work on perfecting their visions, their efforts go completely unappreciated by the boobs and morons who populate the globe.



A little blur of movement caused me to look out the window. And there was the Monkey Man, streaking past on his bike. First time he's been on our street since New Year's Day.



I leaped from my seat and rushed out to the street. He was already half way down the block. I yelled, "Yo! Monkey Man!"



He turned around and came back. He had two puppets with him. His monkey, of course, and a butterfly. There was a lot of other stuff in his bike basket too.



I sketched out what had just happened to The Heir. By that time The Heir had come out of the house with her face all puffy and teary-eyed. We talked awhile in the front yard. The Monkey Man is a locally regarded poet, so he was probably the very best person to settle The Heir. Like me, he's a substitute teacher. Who can make it as a poet? And yet he's reading Monday night at the Philadelphia Public Library. You have to calibrate your expectations when you're creative. He's done that.



Then the Monkey Man asked if he could see The Heir's film.



Next thing I knew, the Monkey Man himself was sitting in this very chair I'm using now. He flirted with Decibel the parrot. And how was it that Decibel, usually hell on wheels with strangers, talked and laughed with the Monkey Man?



The Heir had shattered her VHS when she threw it on the ground. It was her only copy except what was saved in her camera. So the Monkey Man had to watch the tiny little screen on the camera. Which he did.



The Monkey Man graduated from high school when I was two years old. And that makes him Vietnam generation. Except he didn't go to Nam, he went to San Francisco, Haight to be specific. The residue of that experience clings to him resolutely.



He said to the Heir: "God, you can just see some great weird rock band using this footage behind them on the stage."



The Heir said, "I never thought of that."



This was news to me, as Cy has indoctrinated the Heir thoroughly on the very weirdest bands of all time. Lou Reed is the tamest among the Heir's favorites. I actually though the Heir had been inspired by some video of a Residents concert or something.



Shortly after that, the Monkey Man returned to his bicycle. I said to him, "What brought you by here this afternoon?"



He said, "The wind blew me this way when I got off work." He admitted that usually when he rides through our neighborhood he uses the street on which he grew up. It's the one behind ours. But somehow he found himself on our street.



It wasn't like he was lurking in front of our house. He was rippin when he passed here. I had to shout to get his attention.



Then I reminded the Monkey Man that he'd have 7 miles of riding home, face into the west wind. He said, "I'll cheat and take the El."



Mr. Johnson and I are still puzzling about the strange synchronous appearances of the Monkey Man. By chance on New Year's Day when he was bike riding alone in a drizzle of rain. That day he needed some companionship and a warm supper. By chance yesterday when most needed as a hippy role model for The Heir. When you factor in the long, convoluted story of how we came to know the Monkey Man after puzzling over him for years, it's just ... emmm ... maybe bored gods or dead parents at work or something

If you're still reading this, wow. You must like "The Gods Are Bored" a hell of a lot. We appreciate your patronage.

Long enough post? Not hardly. While writing it, I've been listening to the CD the Spare made for me. So I've had to stop and cry a few times. Here are my all-time favorite songs (factoring in that I had a notion what the Spare was up to, so I used all easy stuff to find):



By Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (or combinations thereof)
"Wasted on the Way"
"Southern Cross"
"Johnny's Garden"
"Ohio"
"Find the Cost of Freedom"



By the New Grass Revival
"Spring Peepers"



By Jonathan Edwards and the Seldom Scene
"Blue Ridge"



By James Taylor
"Fire and Rain"

By The Who
"Who Are You?"
"Join Together"



By Elton John
"Rocket Man"



By Earth, Wind & Fire
"Fantasy"



By the Doobie Brothers
"Black Water"



By the Commodores
"Easy Like Sunday Morning"



By the Moody Blues
"Nights in White Satin"



By Ricky Scaggs (cover)
"The Walls of Time"



By an unknown folk artist
"Everything Is Round"



Spare added "Lean on Me." We like to sing that together when she's not feeling like killing me and plucking out my eyeballs.



Geezer stuff all, except "Everything Is Round." Which it is. Awen.



FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Poetry from the Monkey Man

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wild and weird, wonderful and wacky since 2005! Please have some holiday cookies before they get stale!

Today we are in receipt of a holiday card from the Monkey Man. My legions of regular readers will remember him. To you newcomers, well ... it's a long story.

Anyway, the Monkey Man is a poet. He lives in Camden, New Jersey. And here's the poem he hand-wrote into my card:

beside the lawn full
of lights and Jesus' birth,
the Happy Buddha Delivery Van.

I'm sending him a haiku in return. The Monkey Man is keen on haiku because of Nick Vergilio, who also lived in Camden.

Anyway, here's my feeble effort:

two dogs yelp at me
while I am cutting holly.
Rocky, please come home.

As I said, it's a long story.