In Which I LARP

Welcome back to "The Gods Are Bored," if you've kept the faith all this time. My name is Anne Johnson, and I talk to book case brackets and bored deities. Not necessarily in that order.

It's no secret that I've been struggling at work since September. Mightily. But this here girl knows her some struggle. That which does not kill me only makes me more stubborn.

One gambit that has always worked for me when I'm struggling is to veer off into a fantasy world. And knowing this about myself, I have to wonder: Where has LARP been all these years that it took me so long to find it?

Since I myself didn't know what LARP was until about 2019, I'm going to attempt to define it for you. LARP stands for Live Action Role Play. Basically you join a group, create a character for yourself that fits the parameters of whatever game that group is playing, and you go off into the woods to be that character for a weekend with lots of other people doing the same thing.

Like, dang. This was my entire childhood in the 1960s. 

There is, of course, a big difference between pretending a fallen log is a dragon and riding it while your buddies slash the underbrush with sticks (1965) and attending a modern LARP (2023). LARPs are, so far as my limited understanding goes, based on rules that have descended from Dungeons & Dragons. In other words, the whole thing is complicated. It's almost akin to going to an exotic foreign port as a tourist who knows a few basic phrases of the language and nothing else.

Not only that, these LARPers really know their stuff. They have fabulous gear and deep understanding of the process. They camp overnight at the LARP property from Friday until Sunday! Again, dang. Hats off. This is serious fun.

Several times before the pandemic I attended this LARP and gave it up as a botch. I just couldn't get it at all. It didn't help that I was clearly at least a decade older than the other "older" players, and basically old enough to be almost everyone's mom.

But last spring, this group of LARPers started a whole new campaign. I went down a few times to help spruce up the property, and I got to know them. They, in turn, took me under their wings and helped me fit in. Since everything was new in a fresh campaign, I was a little less lost (only a little).

This fall, LARP has saved me.

My character is Feather. She has an arcane shield and direct knockback, level five wing it, arcane restore, and umami blood type. She has joined a monster-fighting vanguard as a healer. If that makes no sense to you, I totally get it. Still wrapping my own noggin around it.

The LARP is held on a private property near the Pinelands. It's part piney woods and part Christmas tree farm, all tucked away from the world of public education and highway upgrades. The people are smart, funny, cheerful and youthful. There are golems, and basilisks, and hydras, and zombies, and booby traps, and lava pits, and then dinner is served.

I have attended three events since school started. The game is held once a month.

When I set off for LARP last weekend on an early Saturday morning, I was so beaten down and dispirited that I mulled just driving to the beach instead to spend the day pacing some lonely stretch of boardwalk. Instead I went to the game, and it totally breathed life into this withered brain of mine.

You want to get LARP in a nutshell? I was with a group of players, and a vulture happened to fly overhead. I launched into my whole Sacred Thunderbird prayer, which invariably draws strange looks, and instead of those s. l., the whole group that I was with dropped their gear and started praising the Sacred Thunderbird without really knowing what they were praising. When they discerned that it was a carrion bird, they praised it with all the enthusiasm of true Vulture believers!

I think I have found a new tribe.

Readers, I'm still wading through the Gods Are Bored archives, excising spam comments. It's a herculean task, but heartwarming to see all the great comments left on this site by so many of you, over and over again. May the bored Gods bless you, early and often!

A "Weird New Jersey" Hike To Remember

Nothing fills me with gratitude and joie de vivre quite like hiking.

You see, I gave up hiking for years -- actually decades -- and then re-discovered it because the government of Atlantic City put up a sea wall that blocked all the sea glass from coming ashore.

Before the sea wall, I was content to spend a sunny day in winter looking for sea glass in Atlantic City. Who can blame me? Look at this view.

EXHIBIT A: THIS BEACH IS GONE

EXHIBIT B: THIS VIEW IS GONE TOO

I could have met the loss of the beaches with a sad, old lady sigh. Instead I shook my fist at the fickle finger of Fate and decided to collect waterfalls. This requires hiking.

EXHIBIT C: A VALUED PIECE IN MY NEW COLLECTION

In the process of hiking to waterfalls, I made a discovery that made me shake my fist at myself. Within a 2-3 hour drive of my home in Haterfield are miles and miles and miles of amazing hiking trails! Me, with my "I'm from Appalachia, I don't have time for the Poconos" attitude ... I almost blew it. I could have gone to my grave without ever bonding with my own back yard.

A few days ago, my daughter The Heir and I went on a hike to a rock formation that was once featured in Weird New Jersey magazine. Even though we got lost on the way to the park, we still got there in two hours. In other words, we could do a hike as a day trip ... a hike in the mountains.

EXHIBIT D: TRIPOD ROCK

Heir and I hiked to this rock. It's called Tripod Rock because it's a glacial anomaly. As in, you can't believe the sight of this freakin rock.

EXHIBIT E: OTHER SIDE OF TRIPOD ROCK

Yes, you're seeing that right. One big rock, balancing on three little rocks. This actually could be the work of some bored deity. Hard to imagine a glacier being that precise.

The hike to and from Tripod Rock was not even strenuous, and I only fell two times. Heir and I had a swell afternoon together, and we got to the rock before the steady stream of hikers who came in our wake. You see, Tripod Rock is only 30 miles outside New York City.

How did I get to be a woman of a certain age without knowing about all the hiking trails in the New Jersey Highlands? Why did I sneer like a snob at the Poconos? Alas, some time has been wasted.

On the other hand, I'm still fairly hale and hearty, and there's nothing like a bracing hike to make you feel hale and hearty. There is still time. I have found new mountains to climb.

EXHIBIT F: LOVE THE ONE YOU'RE WITH

The bored gods uprooted me from the mountains of my birth and dropped me in a state that is the punch line in a million jokes. It has been up to me to make the best of this fact. It's getting easier all the time. All the time.

A Shameless Plea for the Jersey Shore

Yes. It's an ugly stretch of real estate, with rough surf and bad food. Yes, there are indeed drunken idiots of both genders on certain boardwalks. And yes. The accommodations are overpriced. And yes, its governor is a big-mouthed moron who lets the invisible strings do the talking.

Having said all that, won't you please visit the Jersey Shore this summer?

Last fall, Hurricane Sandy walloped Jersey really hard. People have been working like bees in a hive ever since, trying to prepare for the summer tourism season.

What I'd like you to keep in mind, my three readers, is that tourism is a big employer, especially of college-aged students. A summer job at the Jersey Shore has paid many a school year tuition bill. Many year-round small businesses depend upon these three short months ahead, too. We at "The Gods Are Bored" are all in favor of helping out the little guys. In this case, the Jersey Shore is full of such folks.

Well, it's a long stretch of beach, beginning at Cape May and ending within spitting distance of Manhattan. Along such a vast expanse of seashore, it is possible to avoid Snookie and her ilk. Here's a helpful "free advice" guide to the Jersey Shore (which, as I said, desperately needs your tourist dollar this year):

1. Asbury Park -- great run-down but hipster boardwalk, decent beach (tags a bit pricey). Stay for the concert at the Stone Pony! And let me know when you'll be there. If I'm not working, I'll meet up wicha.


2. Ocean City -- this is a nice place for families, especially if you've got those pesky tweens that complain about everything. If you want to gain three pounds in three days, this is your spot! I dare you to avoid the Johnson's Popcorn. (no relation).

3. Margate -- You gotta see the house that's shaped like an elephant. It's so cute! And Margate (and neighboring Ventnor) are beaches tailor-made for lounging and reading a good summer book.

4. Cape May -- Victorian charm, if you're drowning in ducats. Also great birdwatching.

5.Avalon -- This is a nice, laid-back kind of town with a great beach and not a lot of places for people to get in trouble. You can get an intimate little rental property for you and 25 of your best friends, beach-front and everything!

6. Seaside Heights -- because maybe you really do want to see 5,000 Snookie wannabes partying like rock stars.


"So, Anne," you ask. "What about all those hypodermic needles in the sand?"

Oh, ye of little faith! Have you no trust in King Triton or Queen Oshun? Would your bored gods let you step in medical waste? Seriously, with all the beach replenishment that goes on, particularly in the wake of Sandy, there are hardly any seashells on the shoreline, let alone discarded surgical sponges.

I spent a good bit of time at the Jersey Shore last summer, and while it will never hold a place in my heart (for many reasons), it is enjoyable, refreshing, and a great place to sit and read. One of my first criteria for a vacation spot is the ability to sit and read unmolested. For this, I cannot recommend Ventnor enough. I'll see you there, because I just started Game of Thrones.

Images: Jersey shoreline by Maggie Magee Molina; "Lucy" the Elephant by dinofa.com

Another Chesapeake Odyssey

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I salute and praise the bored Goddess Oshun for a very brief but enjoyable two days on the mighty Chesapeake Bay!

Oshun's praise and worship team was brought to the Chesapeake area in the 1600s to do all the heavy lifting and farming. Now, in their honor, the main road through the peninsula where we stay is named Frederick Douglass Highway. He got his start (and not a good one) on a plantation in that area.

Today, Dick Cheney lives in the same region, so you might say the karma is not exactly blissful. But we Johnsons can't resist the view from the ever-more-expensive inn where we stay. This year's visit was the shortest yet. Like everybody else, we're watching the economy with great anxiety.

You know what? There's bitter irony everywhere. A tanking economy means fewer people buying boats and shorefront properties. And this is the lead-in for today's sermon.

Spare and I always go kayaking when we visit the Chesapeake. Not far from the inn, as a buzzard flies, there's a little wild spit of sand where you can beach the boat and wade. The water isn't deep for hundreds of feet out into the channel, so it's like a gigantic natural swimming pool.

Except a miracle has happened, readers. We should all Hail Oshun, Queen of the Bay!

When Heir, Spare and I first made landfall at this little wild beach, there was a sandy bottom all the way out. Nothing much to step over except a few dead horseshoe crabs. This year, in addition to the fabulous and unexpected dearth of jellyfish, the beach showed a fantastic transformation. Basically, it was all but gone.

Acres and acres of seaweed has sprouted where once there was only barren sand. This puts an end to human swimming but marks the beginning of a new nursery for the teeming life that calls the Chesapeake home. Seaweed is a sign of health for the bay, so even a little bit of it makes my soul glad and loosens my tongue for the praise of Oshun, may her people recall her name!

Mr. J and Spare love the Chesapeake for its water, and its steamed crabs, and its pretty sailboats. But let me tell you, the buzzarding is good there too. When Nature provides, I always heave a nice roadkill into the field for the local vulture population, but it's not necessary. There's never a vulture-free sky, and if you know where they hang out, you can do a devotion that they will see, hear, and ponder!

The news gets even better. My daughter The Heir is home safe and sound from beautiful Oslo! (Thanks be to the deities of the Norse pantheon!) She climbed mountains, she survived a frightening terrorist attack, and she got to see how another nation handles a horrific tragedy. Suffice it to say that Norway is very, very different from America. The people there are determined that this event will not change the freedoms they value. Heir tells me that within a week of the bombing, all the barricades were removed, and the police presence returned to normal. Not that Norway has no problems -- Heir saw the junkies -- but it's not a paranoid, "eye for an eye" culture.

Heir's bummed to the max about being home. Suddenly her beloved New Jersey isn't quite as appealing. Just now she was telling me about taking a 10-minute El train ride to a fresh water lake with a swimming beach. HA! A 10-minute El train ride here gets me to foul, fetid, fuming, foggy, filthy ... Philadelphia. Somebody open up a window!

Here's some free advice that I'll gladly pay you to take. If you or a loved one takes a flight out of Newark International Airport (famous as being the departure site for the 9/11 bombers), use a GPS to get yourself in and out of that place! The signs are terrible, and if you take a wrong turn, you damn near wind up in New York City, and you find yourself surrounded by honking commuters who have no patience when it comes to lost drivers.

Back to the Chesapeake: I'll try to get Oshun here this week for an interview. She must be thrilled at even the smallest sign of improvement in Her domain. I know I was! Forget swimming. It's seaweed, seaweed, seaweed for me!

I've got to ask you something. How many blogs talk about the Chesapeake Bay and illustrate the sermon with pictures of buzzards and the Jersey Turnpike? That's why you should stop by here frequently. Nothing makes sense. And that's a damn good thing.

"Oshun," by the truly incomparable Thalia Took.

Don't Talk to Strangers!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," taking you back to your earliest childhood when your mama taught you never EVER to talk to strangers!

This is sound advice for tots. I do not dispute it. For tots.

However, where I grew up, you talk to strangers once you've become an adult. Waiting in line at the grocery store? You talk to the person in front of you. Doctor's office running a little slow? You complain to the other folks sneezing over the magazines. Heck, you could practically make a new bosom buddy at the bus stop in bad weather, if the transit was running behind.

I took this habit of talking to strangers with me to Detroit, where it met with success far and wide.

Here in New Jersey, the only place you can talk to strangers is in the thrift store. Everyone is nice there. Even the people who can't speak English smile at you. What a welcome relief from the rest of this sorry state!

This afternoon I was out doing errands, and the closest grocery store was the huge, expensive, yuppie paradise known as Wegman's. If there's no Wegman's where you live, count on it. There will be one soon.

Wegman's is an enormous store, but when you push past the aisles of greeting cards, "organic" food (don't believe it), expensive tableware and kitchen goods that no one can afford, bins of old-timey candy, flower shop, and sample tasting tables, you don't find many more groceries than you do in any other store.

Thus I found myself in the grocery section looking for an elusive item: Shake and Bake.

If I hadn't pegged myself as a hillbilly before, you surely know it now. Shake and Bake has been a staple in the kitchens of three generations of Johnsons. But I actually wasn't looking for Shake and Bake. My local Acme stocks a chicken coating from the deep South somewhere that is dee-licious. I figured if I could locate the Shake and Bake in the Mammoth Cave that is Wegman's, I'd also find the deep South coating mix.

I couldn't find the Shake and Bake.

I asked a guy stocking the shelves with McCormick spices. He said he didn't work there and had no idea where it could be.

So I picked a likely aisle, and in that aisle was another customer with a cart half-filled with groceries. She was younger than me, and the little "New Jersey Yuppie" warning bell did go off, but I figured, what the heck. She's clearly been up and down these aisles, she might have seen the Shake and Bake.

In my nicest, down-home way, I said, "Excuse me, have you seen the Shake and Bake?"

She looked at me as if I had said, "Excuse me, can I rip your lungs out, kick them across the floor, and leave them for the rats to devour?"

Then she replied, "No. And I haven't been looking for it either." On she walked, gently stroking her traumatized organic whole grain bagel chips.

Jeez. What did I say? She couldn't have thought I mistook her for an employee. She had a cart, and she wasn't wearing a chirpy Wegman's polo shirt.

Call it my Appalachian upbringing if you like, but I don't have a problem with strangers asking me for directions, or for assistance, or whether or not a jacket makes them look fat (thrift store). I even give change to panhandlers! What harm is done? Maybe I can't pay someone's bill for that pesky emergency room visit, but I can at least have a little courtesy.

There are certain stereotypes that cling to places. New Jersey is known for having belligerent, unfriendly residents. Just today I'm not going to disabuse anyone of that notion. If you're in a store, looking for Shake and Bake, find the guy with the chirpy polo shirt. Whatever you do, don't talk to a stranger. Pretend you're three years old again and act accordingly.