Bittersweet Birthday

I have been blessed that both of my daughters have stayed in the Delaware Valley, where they were born and where Mr. J and I live. Therefore we are always together as a family on or near birthdays.

April 15, 2020 bid fair to be the first exception to the rule.

My daughter The Fair lives in Philadelphia, not far from the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. So close, and yet so far! We're not supposed to engage in non-essential travel, and it would be dangerous to get near her, seeing as how she lives in a house with a Whole Foods worker and a bike deliveryman.

But damn. Her birthday. And the lilac bush is blooming ... her favorite flower.

So it was that I cut a few lilacs, put them in one of the glass bottles I scavenged from the middens on Polish Mountain, and Mr. J and I drove to Philadelphia.

It took us 15 minutes to get to her house. The traffic was about half what it would be for that time of the day.

EXHIBIT A: NON-ESSENTIAL TRAVEL?

We drove to her house. We stopped in the street and turned off the car. There's very little traffic on her tiny street on busy days.

We cried. We kept our social distance. I put the flowers on the sidewalk.

Then we talked for about a half hour, maybe a little more. Mostly about her job situation and pandemic funds and school plans deferred until next year. She looked good and healthy and about as happy as anyone can be in this situation, which is, you know, meh with a heaping dollop of anxiety.

It was the most bizarre birthday ever, and it didn't help when I got home and started going through old photographs just to get them in better order. When do people take photographs? At birthday parties! Those old pictures showed years and years of birthdays, going back to her first, which she celebrated in a bunny ears headband.

The next fraught occasion of this sort will occur on June 1, when the Heir has her birthday. We might have to do the same thing then. I'm really hoping that we will all be able to get together as a family by July 6, Mr. J's birthday. Right now I must say it isn't looking too hopeful.

So, Governor Murphy, if you want to give me a fine, I'll pay it. What price can one attach to missing a birthday when a daughter is a scant 7 miles away?

Yours in the trenches,
Anne

Two Bedroom One Bath, Philly Fringe Festival

It's a real honor to have a production in the Philadelphia Fringe Festival. This festival has been around for a long time. It runs through the whole month of September and includes numerous shows at multiple theaters in and around Philly.

I direct your attention to this "dramady," about a mismatched pair of roommates:

I happen to know the writer/director of this play very well. I read the play in progress, and again when it was finished. It's awesome.

Elise has her life planned out perfectly, keeps her room perfectly tidy, and has her act together. Maura lolls on the floor in a heap of blankets, hitting an apple bong and bringing home dodgy fellows for hookups. Which roomie will flake out first? How can they survive a landlord who breaks the pipes on purpose, because he has a crush on one of them? What kind of boyfriend puts a brawl with a Cowboys fan ahead of a marriage proposal? (Answer to the last question: Half of Philadelphia.)

"Two Bedroom One Bath" makes its Fringe Festival debut tonight at the Philadelphia Improv Theater at 7:30. I'll be there on the front row. Taking tissue for many reasons.

If you're local, hop on down! The show will run through Saturday night and has a Saturday matinee as well.

Gob-Smacked by the 21st Century Again!

Hello, hello, and welcome to another installation of "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, hardy volunteer at Netroots Nation! Wow, did I bust my chops today!

EXHIBIT A: SELF AT NETROOTS NATION, WITH BOXES OF T-SHIRTS

Netroots Nation is a convention that pretty much gathers every sort of progressive group, from labor unions to First Nations protesters, Daily Kos, ActBlue, plus old standbys like the ACLU and the Society for the Separation of Church and State. On Saturday a few presidential candidates will drop in as well.

My volunteer shift, right at the opening of the convention, consisted of doling out swag bags and free t-shirts. I was part of a team of six volunteers doing this, and we all rose to the challenge.

Do you remember that "I Love Lucy" episode where the candies are coming down the conveyor belt and Lucy and Ethel have to wrap them up? It wasn't quite that intense, but readers, I flew around that swag table like a dervish for three hours straight! There were all kinds of steps for each person and each bag, from making note that they had received the bag, to stuffing it with a few pieces of swag that arrived late, and then getting the right sized t-shirt for the person. Plus, do you know me? How enthusiastic will I be to greet people who hate fossil fuels, love LGBTQ rights, believe in unions, and -- needless to say -- detest Donald Trump? I was all smiles and good cheer!

I've lived near Philadelphia for more than 30 years, and I've spent lots of time at the Convention Center. I know full well that the place never has enough water and snacks available. Today was no different. The bottle of water I brought was gone in the first 90 minutes of my 3-hour shift. And although many attendees wanted to refill it for me, none of them knew where to go to do it. It was okay, though. I made it through those hectic 3.75 hours and crawled panting to the water fountain ... and in a little while I felt fine again.

In the afternoon I attended the Labor Caucus, and it was good old-time union organizing and notes-comparing. Everyone was upbeat despite our current political climate. There were lots of unions represented too. Always a good time when a teacher can rub elbows with a Teamster. It was also interesting to hear about innovative ways that unions are gaining membership. There was no particular speaker, we just talked to the people at our tables and then sent up a brave soul to report out what we'd said that was important. No PowerPoint, no blah blah blah. Then we all gathered in the front of the room for a photo. Oh yeah, and they had snacks and lemonade too! Union, yes!

And then the 21st century came rushing up to club me like some kind of embittered cave man. Oddly enough, this happened at the kickoff for Elizabeth Warren's campaign in Philadelphia.

I've always loved Elizabeth Warren, and in the last year or two she's grown on me more. I started a monthly donation to her campaign awhile back, and she actually called me to thank me. So It was with great excitement that I attended the kickoff, and it was made even better because my daughter The Fair joined me there.

The Warren bash was extremely well-attended. The rented room filled up fast, the organizers put out all the extra seats that were available, and it was still standing-room. As is often the case at such grassroots things, the attendees were mostly (but not all) people of a certain age.

The nice young volunteers stepped up and -- of course -- thanked us for coming. Then they told us they were going to roll out something brand new and really special that they hadn't revealed before at any other event! Wowsa, what could it be? A Skype with Liz?

Turns out the really special thing was an app designed to gather voter data for the Warren campaign.

The Fair's phone was almost out of juice, so she downloaded the thing on my phone. I tried to follow the PowerPoint, but as is ALWAYS the case with me, the presenter flew through all the great things the app could do, and she lost me at the first slide. Haven't I written about this before? I'm a fucking fossil. If it's a new computer program, I just. Don't. Get. It.

My daughter The Fair is not a fossil. She's a sweet flower. As the event wound to a close (with more than a quarter of the attendees leaving early in a thunderstorm), she turned to me and said, "I can sure see how this app will help with organizing, but this is not what I expected this evening to be."

That made me feel a little better.

Elizabeth has a plan for everything, and her campaign will be whiz-bang on the smartphones. (It already is. I get texts all the time.) But on this flash-flood evening, a large number of older liberals were left shaking their heads as they sneaked out into the rain.

Well, what are you gonna do, after all? You can't call people on the phone and expect to speak to them. Heck, Elizabeth Warren called me, and I let it go to voicemail since it said "Unknown Caller!" It's even worse to knock on a door. When was the last time you answered the door to a stranger? So it makes abundant sense to be able to text people and be in touch with them nearer to election day. I just can't do it myself. I'll put my money in the collection plate and feel like a good church lady.

When I went to the elevated train this morning to ride into Philadelphia, I got down on the platform, and every single person was looking at their phone. Every last person. It was so unnerving that I began reciting Walt Whitman poetry. No one noticed anyway, so why not?

People don't own smartphones. Smartphones own people. It only stands to reason that this is the single best way for a geeky candidate to mobilize her base. But I don't like it.

You know what sucks about being a Baby Boomer? Knowing that your best century is behind you.

I'm returning to Netroots Nation Friday and Saturday. Elizabeth Warren will be there on Saturday. Perhaps she'll pat my hand and say, "There there, you can just donate. You don't need to use the app."

Missing the days when phones were attached to walls I remain,

Your reporter from the front lines,
Anne Johnson

Cat Blogging Keeps Me Sane

Now there's an innovative blog post title, don't you think???

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that so many state legislatures have so many white men who can make laws that literally rob people of their essential bodily freedom. But pish tosh! What, me worry? Not when there are cats, cats, and more cats!

On Sunday morning I went to see my daughter The Fair. She lives in Philadelphia in a nice little row house with several roommates. And four cats.

EXHIBIT A: HOW THE FAIR SEES HERSELF

Like me, she is painfully aware that the only way to survive the Trump onslaught is to be surrounded by cats.

A few months ago, Fair adopted her first stand-alone cat. Her cat's name is Bijoux, and she is a pretty little thing! She's very tiny. And quite friendly. Even though Bijoux hardly knows me, she greeted me warmly.

EXHIBIT B: BIJOUX

Bijoux has a housemate named Fitz. Truth be told, I dig Fitz. He's very chill, a real bro, and also friendly to everyone. He and Bijoux exist in a kind of suspended warfare ... you know how cats are.

EXHIBIT C: FITZ

But the cats who really pull on my heartstrings at The Fair's residence are The Boys. Their names are X and XXX (I mean, who knows?), but we call them Rollo and Don Gato. These two rounders are what you would call neighborhood moochers. And it's their fault they don't have a cushy indoor gig, because The Fair tried bringing them indoors, and they went absolutely nuts. Their ears are snipped, which means they've been neutered by someone. For awhile, Rollo had on a collar with a little tag that said "Adopt Me." But he must have ditched it, because he just is an outdoor kinda guy.

Don Gato has one fang, which I guess is why he's so thin. It's painful to watch him eat. But he's one of those vocal fellows who will sing you an aria. I like that in a feline.

EXHIBIT D: THE BOYS

These two sure don't look like they've got a tough life, do they?

As it turns out, Fair was propping them up pretty good for awhile, but she discovered they have a feeding station in the neighborhood. I guess this is why they don't want to make the leap to rowhouse living. But when they hear Fair in her yard, they come strolling in, looking for a hand-out. She can pet them, but they were wary of me.

It's nice to see my Fair surrounded with cats. Somehow they seem like a bulwark against all the madness raining from the sky. There are Goddesses aplenty who look out for cat-lovers, and I can only hope that one or many of those deities are protecting my Fair.

To conclude this sermon, I would like to say farewell to Grumpy Cat. May she have found the Summer Lands. I won't miss her, because she will live forever in meme land.

FINAL EXHIBIT: GRUMPY'S LAST MEME

Thank Goddess for cats!

We Interrupt the Regularly Scheduled Ranting

... asking you to click the link and vote for my daughter The Spare's improv team. They want to get back into a competition they were eliminated from by one lousy vote!

Her team is Windows 98
https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/DTRC57D


One of the good things about living in a big urban area is the opportunities it affords for chasing your Muse. The Spare's Muse loves to laugh!

EXHIBIT A: WINDOWS 98 (Spare on far right)

Don't ask me why, but Spare is convinced that my blog readership will push her team over the top in voting. I heard her boasting to her teammates: "Yeah, we'll put it on my mom's blog." Like I'm some kind of presence on the Web.

Won't take you a minute. No sea glass on offer this time, but if you stay tuned I'll tell you whether or not her team returns to the competition, and how well they do.

They are a hoot. She gets her talent from me, of course.

Re-Introducing The Spare

Everyone's a critic. And is anyone more critical than your own kids, when you get to be a certain age, and they get to be a certain age?

For my many new readers (and I already love you all), I have two daughters. I call them The Heir and The Spare. I got the idea from something I read about Princess Diana back in the day. Apparently Wills and Harry are an Heir and a Spare.

The following conversation occurred a few days ago between myself and The Spare.

Spare: Mother.

Anne: Yes, darling?

Spare: About your blog.

Anne: Something wrong with my blog?

Spare: Yes.

Anne: I'm hanging on your every word. Do you want to see changes?

Spare: Of course! You aren't talking about me enough!

Anne: Right on it.

EXHIBIT A: THE SPARE HAD A BIG YEAR

I know this will make my four original readers feel ancient. I sure do.

Spare graduated from college! She has a good job, and she's doing improv comedy in Philadelphia. Last night I went to a show (it wasn't improv) in which she convincingly portrayed an RNA sequence fresh off a splice!

Spare's college is in Center City, Philadelphia. I love this shot.

EXHIBIT B: SPARE AND BILLY PENN

Then there was a happy day on the Fourth of July, long before politics weighed us down.

EXHIBIT C: SUMMER MUMMERS

Spare and I are all paid up to strut with the Two Street Stompers again on January 1. And just three weeks later, another march! We will wear holes in our shoes.

Life of Spare: The Epic Sledding Adventure

In case you're just joining us for the first time, this little piece 'o' nothing web site is The Gods Are Bored, dedicated to the cause of downsized deities, buzzard worship, and plucky tales of can-do spirit! I'm Anne Johnson, your hostess, and today's sermon is definitely a p.t. of c.d.s.

We're walking back in time to the days when my daughters, Heir and Spare, were little fledglings still in the nest. Alas! *sigh* They are grown now.

You never can tell about winter weather in New Jersey. Some years we get big blizzards, some years we get a series of smaller snowfalls, and some years we don't get any snow at all.

One snowless winter occurred when Spare was about five years old. Heir would have been ten.

A certain bitterness settles on a kid who is enduring a snow-free winter. Heir and Spare, and their two best pals (sisters who were also an Heir and a Spare) were bemoaning the fact that they hadn't been sledding all year.

I don't know who suggested it. Might have been the Spare. But someone piped up and said:

"Do you think sleds would work on mud?"

I thought about it and decided that gravity should prevail, so I took all four girls to a steep hill beside the pond with one of those disc sleds that you can't steer. It was muddy. There was a little frozen water at the bottom.

Mind you, this is a hill that would be too steep and short to sled down if there was, indeed, snow. But it suggested itself for this experiment.

The youngsters piled onto the disk, and I gave them a shove. Slowly and pathetically, with many starts and stops, the disk descended the hill. And then we did it again. And again. And again. It was better than no sledding at all.

I still have that sled in the basement. I sold a few of our sleds last summer at a yard sale. Held on to the Epic Sledding Adventure one. To me it represents wanting something so bad that you're willing to use imagination to achieve it -- and you're willing to settle for a partial experience even though it might not be perfect.

It has snowed numerous times since that winter, and Spare has always gone sledding with her chums. Even into high school and beyond, they would sled on a snowy day. But the time that sticks out in my mind is the Epic Sledding Adventure, when we went sledding without the key ingredient you'd think you need to get the job done.

And speaking of key ingredient, my daughter The Spare is even now filming an ambitious web series for your enjoyment -- and after two days of rigorous (and expensive) filming, her leading man bailed. Unpaid performers will do that, with impunity. Spare is deeply disappointed but unbreakable. She's going to sled down this hill with or without snow.

There's a mere week left in Spare's fundraising efforts for her web series, Speed. She's gotten about two-thirds of the money she needs to complete the project. Reader, can you spare a quid for the Spare? Email me and I'll send you some goodies if you donate!

Spare's campaign to finance Speed, the Web Series is here. Please give! It will be on YouTube for all to see!

She Will Never Forgive Me

I've been entertaining my six readers with tales of my daughter, Fair Spare. This is an amazing week for her. On Friday evening she will begin to film a web series that she has created with a team of writers. She is starring in it. She got a director, a camera crew, actors, extras, a set ... even a gaffer! Not sure what a gaffer does, but Spare has one!

In fairness (Spareness?), anything involving show business is a team effort. Spare's co-creators have been as hard at work as she has. They are an invigorating lot to be around. I hope they pull this off with panache!

What a long way Spare has come from the memorable day when she was a pancake.

This happened back in the 20th century, probably in the winter of 1995.

In those days I had a stand-alone pantry where I kept my spices and canned goods and such. I had baby-proofed it by twisting a rubber band around the handles that opened it. Now, all you moms and dads out there. You know how this baby-proofing stuff goes. It's Murphy's Law that, the one time when you forget the rubber bands, you also forget that the baby is in the kitchen.

Perhaps I was distracted by something happening to The Heir. I don't recall. What I vividly remember is walking into the kitchen and finding Spare sitting happily in a pool of spilled Log Cabin maple syrup. She was dipping her hand into the syrup and then into her mouth.

"Spare!" I said. "You're a pancake!"

And at that moment, just as I was congratulating myself on not keeping the Drano in the pantry, Spare missed her mouth and shoved her syrup-coated hand into her eye. This glued her eyelashes together. Not surprisingly, she began to cry.

I hope you have to trust me on this. It's a lot easier to wash maple syrup off a baby than it is to mop it up off the kitchen floor. In no time, Spare was all sparkly clean ... but my feet stuck to the floor for weeks. I triple-mopped that kitchen, and the sweetness remained.

Spare has absolutely no memory of this event. (Nor does she remember the time I tripped and spilled a pound of German potato salad on her head. She was still in her carry chair then.) Still, this little escapade has been the source of much laughter over the years. As if that poor little tot somehow set out to play "dress up as a pancake" or something!

The moral of this sermon is simple: Keep those kid-locks on stuff at all times! Like you didn't already know that.

Spare has a little fund-raising activity going on just now. For as little as a five dollar donation to her campaign to finance her web series, I'll send you some sea glass -- and there are bigger prizes! (See below) If you've already donated, email me your address, and I'll put a care package in the mail for you.

Honestly, the bulk of Spare's fund-raising to date has come from you kind readers of "The Gods Are Bored."  Please, if you haven't flung some ducats at her, consider doing it! For the right price, she and I will re-enact The Great Pancake Fiasco on your kitchen floor!

You can donate here.

Thank you, my friends!

Cute and Short

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where this month we are featuring vignettes about my daughter The Spare! She's rare, fair, and beyond compare!

We have a nice front porch here at Chateau Johnson. It can hold a whole party of people. Front porches are wonderful that way.

There's just one itty bitty problem. The front porch at Chateau Johnson does not have screens. It's open-air.

Nice, right? Well, this is New Jersey, the Mosquito State. No sooner does the balmy, porch-sitting weather arrive than the bloodsucking winged beasties descend in droves. If we're lucky, we get a little bit of unseasonably warm weather in March, before THEY hatch. Otherwise, our porch looks good but can't be used.

We use it anyway. I plug in a box fan, and as long as it's blowing on us, THEY can't land. I learned that trick a few years ago. It works pretty well.

One day long ago, way before the idea of the fan hit me, the Johnson family was trying to enjoy a balmy spring evening together on the porch. In those days Mr. J smoked cigars, and he was puffing amiably on one. A citronella candle was our only defense from THEM, and THEY sneered at it and began their onslaught.

Spare (she probably was about four years old) looked at Mr. J, and looked at the mosquitoes, and said, "GO AWAY, MOSQUITOES! WE'VE GOT CIGARS, AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!"

I've never forgotten that.

The Spare is raising money for a web series she has written and will star in. It's called Speed, and it's a comedy about speed dating. She has an indiegogo campaign to try to raise money for the production costs.

In order to sweeten the pot of your contribution, I've created a little giveaway/contest, which you can see below. The smallest donation is $5.00! And, in addition to the Annie Giveaway, you will get to see Speed in its entirety, FREE, on YouTube, whether you donate or not!

You can go straight to Spare's campaign here.

Thank you, and may the bored gods bless you and keep you and shine Their faces upon you!

The Very True and Lovely Story of Spare and Her Beta Cat

I can be really cold-hearted at times, especially with animals. Perhaps that's due to my farm upbringing. But the upside to that is that I fostered over 100 kittens and gave them all back to the shelter without adopting any. When I adopt a pet, I become devoted to that pet, and others have to get by on scraps ... if that.

Many, many years ago, some foul miscreant dropped a mother cat and four kittens at the pond near our house. Inevitably, in search of food, the mother brought her kittens into our neighborhood, where they were found and nurtured by Heir, Spare, and their friends.

Of the four kittens, two quickly became tame and loving. The other two stayed wild as minks and wouldn't come anywhere near us.

I dipped into my pocket at the tune of $100 (serious cash then and now) to take the two tame kittens to the no-kill shelter. You have to pay a surrender fee there.

The two wild kittens disappeared, and I thought no further about it. Until reports began to circulate from Heir and Spare that they had watched the female do the mating thing with a local tomcat. Apparently the deed took place in my back yard.

No surprise, therefore, when the female wild kitten returned with a large brood of kittens of her own. The mother cat remained wild, and her kittens were wild as well.

We had a resident cat, Alpha, who we adopted under the terms that she would be an only cat. Alpha never did play well with others. Long story short: Big ol' cat fight in the back yard, and the wild mama cat caught a nasty cut over her eye, kind of like something George Foreman got from Muhammad Ali.

Little Spare was about seven years old. If it had fur and whiskers, she loved it, unconditionally. She took a keen interest in the wretched prospects of that wild mama cat.

I told Spare, "Look. I'll round up the kittens, but I can't afford to take them to the no-kill shelter. As for the mother cat, don't feed her. Whatever you do, don't feed her. She'll just stay around, and Alpha will continue to maul her."

We trapped the kittens while they were still young and cute. My guess is that they probably got fostered at the county shelter. In the meantime, there was a strict rule: Don't feed that mother cat. Next thing we know, she'll have more babies ... and then what?

Spare fed the mama cat. Totally against my commands, she took cat kibble and laboriously tamed that wild mink of a feral female. One day I looked out in the back yard, and Spare was petting a cat that had hissed her head off at me. Then Spare picked her up. Then mama cat head-butted Spare.

Spare was, as I said, no more than seven years old.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I wasn't even mad that my daughter had disobeyed me. It was just remarkable that, being such a little kid, she had been able to tame a feral cat.

That afternoon while the girls were still at school, I went outside. The mama cat was sitting in the yard.

I said to her, "Okay, sorry about your kittens. But you can stay. You have Spare to thank, so be good to her."

The first thing the mama cat did was run laps around the yard in total joy. I've never seen anything like it. It was as if she understood what I said to her.

The second thing the mama cat did was become totally and completely devoted to The Spare. When Spare was little and thought nothing of dragging around a big cat in her vice grip arms, that cat put up with it. And when Spare got older, that cat literally followed her around like a dog.

That cat is Beta. She still lives with us. When Spare comes home, Beta sleeps with her. When Spare's not around, Beta sort of mourns for her. I'm going to say that Beta Cat is now 13 or 14 years old, arthritic, but sweet as soda pop. She likes to drink from the faucet. She waits patiently at the foot of the bed until you wake up ... and only then does she get in your face, purring and asking for breakfast.

This is the first of many charming stories I'm going to offer you about my daughter, The Spare. I'm trying to raise money for her indiegogo campaign so she can finance the comedy web series she's making for YouTube. I have some offers of goodies if you'd like to contribute to the cause. Just look at the posts below.

The link to Spare's campaign is here.

I thank you, Spare thanks you, and there's a plain jane tabby cat named Beta who will thank you as well.

Peace.

Breathless: John Walsh, Olivia Kram, Late Night Study Break: #So Proud!

My three readers have been with me a long time. I started this blog in 2005.

At that time, my daughter The Spare was 11 years old.

You've watched her blossom at the Fairie Festival. You've shared her heartaches, her love of cats and comedy, her long, miserable, wretched trudge through Snobville Memorial High School. You've heard time and again what a wonderful daughter she is. The trips we've taken together. Our discovery of, and befriending of, the Monkey Man.

Proms. Problems. Pets. Peers. Personality.

Every May Day at the Maypole. Every Memorial Day at the flag pole. Ever summer in a kayak, floating on the mighty Chesapeake, drinking in its energy ... because this is a water woman.

Dear readers, my daughter is trying to live her dream. And you can help her. I hope you will, in droves. And tell your friends. And tell them to tell their friends. Please watch Olivia Kram's new show, "Late Night Study Break!" I've loaded the pilot episode below. Please subscribe. Please, please, please.

I am so breathlessly proud of my daughter. This show -- all the writing, the taping, the skits, everything -- is being done in addition to a full course load at her university. Let's get her started, shall we? Please?

Late Night Study Break

I am pleased to announce that my daughter, The Spare, will be co-hosting a YouTube show called "Late Night Study Break." The show is comedy/music/interviews, and the first episode will be filmed before a live audience on Monday evening. Oh my!

Here she is with her co-host.

These two have together:

*gotten a six-piece band to write and perform original music
*found a studio for the filming
*engaged a cast of a dozen actors and actresses
*arranged for cameramen and sound engineers
and ...
*they've written all the content!

The show will be up on YouTube in about a week. It's going to be between 20 and 30 minutes long. Further episodes are planned.

The Spare has always forecast that she would be on Saturday Night Live some day. You know what? I admire a girl who, seeing the long odds, sets out to create her very own Saturday Night Live.

Can I get a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome for "Late Night Study Break?"

And yes, I'll be in the audience on Monday. I like this girl's pluck.

Fun with the Polyphonic Spree

Every summer, the Polyphonic Spree visits Philadelphia.

This is a Texas-based band with the usual assembly of rock instruments, plus horns and strings and a choir and a harpist.

It's hard to describe their music, except to say that it starts out low (or solo) and then explodes into an avalanche of sound. The front man, Tim Delaughter, sets the pace, which is ... well, spree-like.

I was never a fan of big arena concerts. If I had been, the Polyphonic Spree would have changed my mind. There's nothing like being able to sit or stand so close to the music that you feel like you're part of the band. And on this particular evening, Tim Delaughter told the crowd of Philadelphians that he is a Dallas Cowboys fan ... and then he came off the stage and walked among the audience. (I wish I knew what health plan he has, because it must be pretty thorough. Admitting to loving the Cowboys is never prudent in Philly.) He slapped a high five on The Spare, as well he should. She's a huge fan.

After the show, the violinist came out and talked to me and Spare. This is another wonderful, beautiful thing about smaller venue performers. They'll talk to you. Shake your hand. Really, really civilized.

If you're looking for some new tunes for your IPod or whatever, I can't recommend the Polyphonic Spree enough. There's nothing wrong with happy music. It's actually inspiring.

I'm Liking Penguin Santa

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Fa la la la la ... la la la LOL. It's the most wonderful time of the year ... for morons.

There's something about this seasonal holiday, name it what you will, that saturates the atmosphere with extra crazy juice. It makes even the clearest-headed amongst us wacky. That being the case, you can imagine what it does to people who are already walking in a weirder wonderland.

Below I have taken the time and the trouble (unusual for this blogger) to load a viral interview in which Fox News moron par excellence commentator Megyn Kelly assures all young viewers out there that both Santa Claus and Jesus are white. This need to calm the nerves of the Caucasian population came about because some blogger (alas, not me) complained that, growing up, she had felt excluded from Christmas because she is black and Santa Claus is white.

One or the other of those fellow morons talking heads on the panel suggests that maybe we should have a penguin Santa, since penguins are both black and white. Tra la la! What an excellent idea! My three readers know how I feel about birds! Penguin Santa, take a bow!

Now, the sugar plum faeries, who are of no particular racial hue, have composed this little holiday carol for all you boys and girls who either think Santa Claus is a spirit who lives within your heart, or think Santa Claus ought to be a penguin!

Up on the house top, just because
Here comes Penguin Santa Claus,
Down through the chimney with lots of toys
All for inclusion, girls and boys!

Ho ho ho! Fox oughta go,
Ho ho ho! Fox oughta go...

Up on the house top, quick quick quick,
Santa's a penguin, that's the trick!

You know, even as a little kid I found it hard to buy the notion that Santa Claus was a fat old man who covered the whole earth and had toys for everyone out of a sled pulled by a few deer. But gosh ... a happy penguin flying here and there, dropping stuff down chimneys ... that's plausible.

Better yet ... now that Santa is a penguin, Spare can get a job at the mall as one of its "helpers!" Tout va bien.

Guest Blogger: The Spare

The days are getting shorter, there is a hipster wearing every item of clothing in his closet, drinking a pumpkin spiced something or other, and I’ve got a wicked cold. These could all only mean one thing: It’s the beginning of fall. 

 While drinking a spicy gourd is not really my thing, fall definitely is. I love the colorful foliage, and the (to quote my hero circa 2005, Rachael Ray) yum-o food. Being from a quaint, albeit snobby, small town, autumn was our time to shine. I fondly remember not paying attention at the big high school football games. I would even have to work at our pathetic but cute fall festival which showcased horrifying homemade scarecrows and blue haired woman giving out sugar-free candy if you promised to donate to the church.

 

But there was one special day where we really pulled out all the big guns. Halloween.  

Oh my bored gods, was Halloween the main event of Snobville! Kids went ham, adults used up disposal cameras by the dozen, snapping the best shots of their children in the most up to date costumes out there. Parades, haunted houses, free candy, overly kitschy theme parties, and goofy decorations as far as the eye could see. It was perfect.

 

Once I got to college, I found myself very sad as Halloween approached. This was a shocking first. Had I become too old to enjoy my favorite holiday? Soon the existential crisis checked in for what seemed like an extended stay. To make things even worse, I had class until 10:00 pm on Halloween so I couldn’t even go home to steal candy from little kids give out candy. My class was late enough that I couldn’t even watch a cheesy Halloween movie afterwards because I had class the next day at 8:30. Talk about mega bummer.

 

So I put my best foot forward. Put on my classiest pair of cat ears and high tailed it (pun intended) to my six hour studio class. When I came home that night I was blown away by how much of a nut my mother is. She managed to sneak into my dorm room and tee-pee my side of the room, right down to the pictures I had of my cat. She did this through what I could only imagine was a Grade A espionage mission. For the full story check out the blog post on November 1st, 2012.
Readers, if you haven’t picked up on it by now, my mom is incredible. She always finds ways to make life interesting and unconventional. Growing up it wasn’t her activity in the PTA that made her special to me. It was her ability to make even the most mundane things seem silly. To give you some perspective, she used to moo at my sister and our friends, and for some reason we just LOVED this. Even when she was in the PTA she did things that made me feel so special. For our fifth grade holiday party she made a huge batch of my favorite Christmas punch and served it from a fountain! I felt like the most important person in the world that day.
I guess that’s what is so incredible about my mom. When you least expect it, she will do something so amazing that will make that existential crisis go find someone else to bother. When she asked me to do a guest blog post about a Halloween memory, I knew right away that I had to write about my first Halloween in college. Because no matter how many wonderful years of parades and trick or treating I had, nothing will be sweeter than knowing you have a nut for a mom who loves you so much she’ll waste a whole two rolls of toilet paper just to brighten up your day. 

Spare in the Square

It was a muggy morning. I had just finished getting a hair cut when I got a phone call from my daughter The Spare.

(For those of you just joining "The Gods Are Bored," we have two daughters: Heir and Spare. This is what the British press called Prince William and Prince Henry back when they were kids, and ... well, it works.)

Over the phone, Spare said, "Mom, I'm having a panic attack. It's only three days until I go to college!"

I told her to come up and meet me at Starbucks.

We live in Snobville, New Jersey, and like every other hamlet on the map, it has a Starbucks in the dead center of town. I've never liked the joint. It rarely wrenches ducats from my hands. But it was nearby, and I was pretty certain that Spare hadn't eaten anything, although it was almost noon.

Quick as a wink, here came Spare on her cruiser bicycle. She must have peddled like mad to get to the center of Snobville from the far side of the tracks. And when she sat down at an outside table with me, she was shaking and blinking. She said she felt sick. Then she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she said, "I can't see." She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them she said, "I can't see. I can't hear either."

Next thing I knew, she was sliding out of her chair as if her bones had turned to mush. She fainted in my arms. I laid her down on the sidewalk, center of town, and put my purse under her head.

Needless to say, this unusual drama attracted a lot of interest from the locals. One fellow went to fetch the paramedics from the fire house across the street. Another lady went into Starbucks and brought out a cup of ice water, with lid and straw. As Spare came around, another lady hovered, saying she was a nurse.

Spare was lucid again within about 20 seconds, and ten seconds later she remembered to be embarrassed. This was, after all, the square of her home town, and she was lying on the sidewalk with a purse under her head.

The paramedics arrived in the ambulance (from right across the street they had to come by truck). They got Spare seated again and took her vitals. Spare's dad came around the corner and was shocked to see the health care professionals surrounding his pale offspring.

No, Spare had eaten nothing that morning.
No, she had nothing to drink.
No, she had not taken her medication.
Yes, she was wearing a cardigan even though it was muggy.

Spare's blood pressure was a little bit low. We got her some orange juice and a bagel, and she drank both the juice and the water the lady had brought to her. The paramedics stayed for awhile and suggested that Spare go see a doctor, or go to the emergency room.

Spare and I sat in front of Starbucks for over an hour. She inhaled a bagel with cream cheese, an apple, and some grapes, which bucked her up considerably. Then her dad drove her home, while I, Anne Johnson, rode her bike. And it's true. You never forget how.

Long story short, I called the doctor, and we got an appointment. Our usual physician, Doctor Mushroom, was out of town. But he recently got shoved into a multi-doctor practice, so there was another doctor in the office.

We went there. Another set of vitals was obtained, and yet another just in case, because Spare's blood pressure was still low.

I'm sure I've written before about my dear Doctor Mushroom, so named because he would rather rub moss over you than prescribe some fancy drug. (His predecessor used pendulums, so it's all good.) Lo and behold, the lady doctor in this multi-doctor unit is rather of the same mindset. It's refreshing.

Upon ascertaining that Spare's blood pressure was still a little low, this estimable physician did not inundate us with blue prescription slips. She gave sound medical advice. She told Spare to eat something salty. Like potato chips.

There you have it, my dear readers. Under certain circumstances, the very best thing you can do for your health is to eat potato chips. Don't let anyone tell you to take those vitamins! Potato chips are the go-to cure for low blood pressure.

If you're not sure whether your blood pressure is low or not, my advice would be to eat potato chips just to be on the safe side.

And yes, Spare is fine now. She had a hamburger and a milk shake with her potato chips, ensuring she'll live to be 100.

I Could Not Make This Up

For 23 years I sat on the sofa on New Year's Day, watching the Philadelphia Mummers Parade. It's a fabulous parade. It lasts all day.

About 15 years into the watching, I started to think it might be fun to be in the parade. I just didn't know anyone who was a Mummer. I had no idea how to seek one out.

About 20 years into the watching, my hip failed and I could hardly walk. Then I got my hip fixed, and I could walk again.

At year 22 I became determined to become a Mummer. I'd been living in the Delaware Valley since 1987. Surely that made my Philly bona fides acceptable!

I called around. One group did not accept me because they already had too many members. That's when I contacted the large comic clubs in South Philly and discovered that for most ... nay, the vast majority ... of comic clubs, size is not an issue. The more, the merrier!

During this exploratory phase, I got gracious phone calls from the presidents of the two biggest comic clubs. Through the Goodtimers, I got connected to a South Jersey unit called the Two Street Stompers. I officially became a Stomper in November of 2011.

I marched with the Two Street Stompers on January 1, 2012. Our routine, "Wenchtoberfest," won first prize.

I marched with the Two Street Stompers on January 1, 2013. Our routine, "Two Street Gold Rush," finished fourth. Honestly, I thought we got robbed. It was hysterical.

Next week is the first meeting of the Two Street Stompers aimed at the 2014 parade. You can best bet I will be there with bells on.

Here's where all of this begins to feel like a blessing from the bored gods.

Back in April, my daughter The Spare learned (quite by chance) that her university has a scholarship specifically for the child of a Mummer. This sounds far-fetched until you understand that Spare goes to the University of the Arts, which is chock-a-block with musicians and performers and dancers. Some grateful graduate must have gone on to have a wonderful career as a Mummer.

Well, Spare applied for the scholarship. But frankly I didn't think she would get it, because on the totem pole of Mumming, comic clubs are closer to the bottom than to the top. I figured there must be a second-generation Mummer at Spare's college, someone who actually performed music in a string band or something.

You know where this is headed, right?

Spare got the scholarship. And it's not chump change. And instead of deducting it from her financial aid package, the university applied it to her tuition.

My daughter got a college scholarship because I dress up in sequins on New Year's Day and go out and perform a funny routine with a big, well-organized bunch of people who absolutely personify the monnicker "Goodtimers."

You can't make this up. Mummers are supposed to be speechless. I am.

Now, before I finish bragging about my role in this, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that my daughter The Spare ... drum roll ... made dean's list both semesters of her freshman year. That might have had a lil' bit of influence on the Mummer scholarship committee!


Happy birthday to Walt Whitman! I don't know about you, but right at this moment I'm really feeling like sounding a barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm 2013

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Story time! My story, that is. Annestory. Sometimes it just happens that I have to open my shirt and gaze into the ol' navel for the sake of future reminiscences. This is one of those times.

Every year my daughter The Spare and I go to the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. There are more and more faerie festivals popping up all the time, but Spoutwood is one of the oldest and best situated for pleasing the fae.

If you pop around YouTube or any other image place, you'll find an abundance of video and photos of this annual event. What follows here is a written narrative, from one person's point of view. So maybe I'm doing this for more than just my own sagging memory. Maybe there's a niche for words about Spoutwood.

I had my little Dodge all packed to go last Thursday night when I got a call from Spare. Here's how it went:

Spare: Mom, please don't scream at what I'm about to tell you.

Anne: ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?

Spare: It's good news. But you've got to promise not to scream.

Anne: I'll do my best.

Spare: I won a scholarship at my school for the child of someone who marches in the Philadelphia Mummer's Parade!

Anne: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! *gets all teary*

Spare: Yes, pretty much I'm being rewarded because of your crazy antics.

Anne: *teary* All's right with the world!

The moment I clicked off the phone, I went to my Two Street Stompers treasure trove and fished out this year's suit, my slippers (Adidas spray painted gold), and my parasol. For good measure I pinned on the 2012 championship ribbon we got this year as well. I hadn't planned on rocking Spoutwood in my Mummer's suit, but I was too proud of dear Spare not to.

Anne's List of Portables to the May Day Fairie Fesival at Spoutwood Farm:

1. Stuffed dragon, "Big Red." Goes every year.
2. Wearable faeries, Puck, Chance, and Yule. They go every year.
3. Blindingly neon tie-dye t-shirts and yoga pants from Woodstock Trading Company. The pants were new this year.
4. Mountain hat, also from Woodstock. Pin on hat, "My Heart, My Soul, and My Grave are in Appalachia." Goes every year.
5. Druid cloak. Goes sometimes in cooler weather, glad I had it this year.
6. Money. Because money spent at Spoutwood helps artists, performers, and an organic farm.
7. Drip-dye camisole made by Spare.
8. Comfortable sandals.
9. Comfortable boots.
10. Quartz crystals. Take them every year.
11. Mountain tribe flag made by Pam and Rita Kryglik. Second year.
12. Star Wars Day sign, made by me and Extra Chair.
13. Drum.
14. Sunscreen.

DAY ONE, JUST ANNE. WEATHER: MAGNIFICENT

*Sat at a standstill on the Pennsylvania Turnpike for 30 minutes, feeling sorry for whoever had the accident that caused the backup (note the Spoutwood frame of mind already asserting itself).
*Driving through the verdant Pennsylvania countryside on the way to Spoutwood, I noticed a dead deer at the edge of the road. A portent of deity?
*Arrived one heartbeat shy of missing the opening event at which I had to represent Spare and Mountain Tribe. Had to barter my way into the festival by leaving my Mummer parasol as surety.
*Bid hello from the Mountain Tribe on behalf of Spare. Nick of time.
*Looked out over the landscape and cried for joy at being there.
*Retrieved parasol and paid for a 3-day pass.
*Ate lunch with Michael Bull.
*Drum circle with King Trolland. Forever after known as Drum and Mum.
*Said hello to vendors, old and new. This year Cucina Aurora was there! Squeee!
*Party at the Hampton Inn where we stay. All visitors, performers, vendors, and volunteers were invited. This was a lovely way to get to talk to otherwise very busy people.
*Spare, Mr. J and Spare's friends arrived.

DAY TWO, ANNE, SPARE, and MANY FRIENDS. WEATHER: BEYOND MAGNIFICENT

*Nice buffet breakfast at the Hampton Inn. I'm too old for camping, and Spare is pretty prissy.
*Driving through the verdant Pennsylvania countryside on the way to Spoutwood. Wait! What do I see? A DEER CARCASS COVERED WITH VULTURES!!!!! Oh, blessed festival that is sanctioned by Sacred Thunderbird!
*Arrived at Spoutwood full of Mountain Sass.
*Greeted incoming guests with Star Wars Day signs, to whit
                     Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi
                     You're our only hope
                     May the Fourth
                     Be with You
(Okay, nerds, I know I got it wrong. But it's the thought that counts.)
*SISTER! With her cutest dog!
*Mountain Tribe friends! Wow, we are getting clicky! Big Red makes friends for keeps! Maebius and his fantastic son, Jeff, Sis, Jeff's friends, Spare's friends, and (as always) a few people strolling past who were offered the bribe incentive of a token if they would march with Mountain Tribe.
*Tribe Ceremony to Crown the Spoutwood King and Queen. This was Spare's first year as leader. Oh, my three readers, if you only could have seen her strut! In her shiny white Winter Faerie tutu, she's the perfect counterpart for the leader of the River Tribe, who smears himself with mud from head to toe. She was so poised and beautiful. The mountains are proud to call her theirs.
*Drum circle
*Musical interlude -- watched Telesma with Sister, danced to Cu Dubh with Sister.
*Healthy hot dog and smoothie
*Drum circle
*Closing ceremony, where everyone who cared to said how long they had been coming to the festival, and why they like it. I said it was good to have a farm to come home to, now that I'm no longer an Appalachian landowner. Now Spoutwood is my farm.
*Supper with Spare and her posse at Ruby Tuesday, literally the only restaurant approaching real food in the general vicinity.
*Nightcap with the sprightly Bibi!

DAY THREE, ANNE, SPARE, AND EVEN MORE FRIENDS. WEATHER: GLORIOUS

*Caught a set of Cu Dubh before Tribal Ceremony.
*Mountain Tribe! Maebius and Sis not there, Pam and Rita there, Jeff and friends there again, Spare's posse taking photos and toting banners! Spare and the other Tribe leaders each got a flute. They are challenged to learn a song (or bribe encourage some musical friend to do it) for next year's ceremony. Whew. Sis plays every kind of flute known to humankind and the Bored Gods! River Tribe boasting they have two professional flute players ... well, I'm sure they're no match for the piccolo soloist for the Williamsport Community Marching Band!
*Hugged the Moss Man.
*Pictures and chat in the soft spring grass with Pam and Rita.
*Another nice healthy hot dog! I'm gonna live to be 100!
*Final drum circle. Some dude proposed marriage to his sweetheart in the middle of the dancing throng. (And for the record, this was the very first year I had my own drum. Heir gave me a drum for Christmas, a little, portable bongo drum. So sweet of her, and the perfect instrument for someone like me who is challenged by the idea of counting to four.)
*Stood on the hillside with Spare, hugging and crying because the festival was over.
*Drove back to the city via Pennsylvania Turnpike. Dropped Spare and roomie off in the city, took Spare's other friend home to Snobville.

There's a magic word that everyone says at Spoutwood. It's "Kubiando." The word is original to the festival and was coined by a little girl who went there, many years ago. The faeries gave this word to this festival so we would all have a way to channel great energy from the Earth into ourselves and out to the sky. So we say "Kubiando" a lot at Spoutwood. Sometimes in large groups, sometimes just as a greeting, sometimes as a cheer.

There are other Beltane observances at Spoutwood as well.

• Love your Mother.
• Love the faeries.
• Be kind to yourself.
• Be kind to the Earth.
• Be kind to each other.

Now I will finish this narrative with a thanks to Rob and Lucy Wood, Spoutwood's owners, for throwing open their lovely, stream-fed farmland to 10,000 guests every year. May Kubiando be with you two wonderful people, and to everyone who volunteers their time and trouble for the festival. Those who work on behalf of the fae will be rewarded by the fae. So mote it be.

To friend this blog on Facebook, search The Gods Are Bored. We're still learning how to tweet, not ready for prime time yet.

It Appears that the Constitution Is in Force

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do you have any idea how many bored deities there are out there in their respective Heavens? Me neither.

But just imagine if we were to mount a display to honor each and every one at this dark time of the year. After all, the dark days have been with humankind for a very long time. Time out of mind to petition deities to bring back the light.

Suppose government property became egalitarian and allowed every single praise and worship team to erect a Yuletide memorial on the public lawn. Gosh, it would be as crowded as some of these crazy Christmas houses! In fact, if you start inviting the bored gods, you might have to stack displays on top of one another, just to be fair.

Where would it end?

The three of you who read "The Gods Are Bored" all the time will probably recall that, last Yule, a Christian group and a Jewish group both set up lit displays at the public library: a manger scene and a menorah that was 15 feet high.

After Yule had come and gone, I wrote an email to Snobville's mayor and to her two henchmen city councilmen. I politely asked to be notified when the permits for religious displays at the library would be issued. I said I wanted one on behalf of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (a legitimate 501.C3 nonprofit religious order). I said that a dedicated group of FSM adherents was even then crafting a giant Noodly Master out of swimming pool noodles and pasta. In my mind I pictured something like this fabulous shrine from www.deeppencil.com:

This year we have no manger scene or menorah on taxpayer-funded property.

First Amendment triumphant! Fa la la la laaaaah!

There is, of course, a Christmas tree, that universal, powerful symbol of beating back the darkness and protecting the wildlife from the harsh ravages of winter. Ramen!

You may be wondering if Snobville is now bereft of Christian influence.

Fear not, o stranger! There's a lovely Baptist church one block from the library, right on the main street. This church has a large, well-lit nativity scene that goes live on Friday nights, thanks to cute little kids willing to stand in the cold dressed like Mary and Joseph. Menorah? I haven't seen one. There are certainly Jewish people living in Snobville, but I wonder ... perhaps some of them didn't like the constitutional issues behind the big menorah, either. Truth to tell, if I was Jewish, I would have hated that thing. It was ugly!

I like to think that my email about the Noodly Master had something to do with Snobville's decision to back off displays of religious origin on public land. However, my daughter The Spare tells me she thinks that probably lots of Snobvillians complained. And hey -- ever since The Spare decided to make a film about moi, I'm taking her word for everything.

My taxes aren't lighting the nativity scene at the Baptist Church. That's how I like it.

Nontraditional Halloween

Wow, what a world of woe we are experiencing here in the East in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy! If you love big, old trees (which I do), this is a heartbreaking time. All over the place they are lying uprooted, in lawns, on cars, on houses. And of course there are limbs down everywhere, so much so that it's frightening just to walk around. More could come down at any time.

I couldn't argue with Snobville's decision to postpone trick-or-treating until Friday. I would almost agree with Governor Wheezer Christie that it should be held on Monday. Nevertheless, I'm having Mr. J go out today and stock some more candy in anticipation of little cutie pies in costumes. Also, my dear friend the Monkey Man is coming for supper and a home town football game. Go Wombats!

This Samhain was a non-traditional holy eve, and I have to thank my dear father for his spiritual guidance.

Dad was not the kind of man to be sad for long. He found the fun in every situation. My maternal grandmother was much the same, even more so. Therefore, they led me into a shiny platinum prank on my daughter The Spare.

It occurred to me over a cup of tea in the late afternoon. It was Halloween, and The Spare had a scheduled class until 10:00 p.m.

Back story: When I was a teenager, growing up in the country, my gang and I would toilet paper houses. Not just at Halloween, either. All year long. We called ourselves the Wholly Rollers, and we did some whopper jobs. Out where I grew up, everyone had huge trees in their yards, and toilet tissue was affordable. We got such a rep for TP that people "contracted" us to do houses. Maybe I'll blog more about this, if you'd like some anecdotes.

Anyway, I got the idea to toilet paper Spare's desk and bed in her dorm room. Heir supplied the name of a roomie (Spare has three), and as luck would have it, that roomie was home. (Facebook is a marvel in these situations. There was no problem getting in touch with this delightful roommate.)

Mr. J and I drove into Philly. Roomie met us at the guard desk, and we proceeded to Spare's room. There I expertly wrapped her desk, paying particular attention to mummifying the picture of her beloved feline. We moved to the bed ... the extensive jewelry rack ... the full-length mirror ... the dresser. Toilet papering is like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it. I only used one piece of tape.

Photos to come. I'm at school right now.

I also left behind a little jack-o-lantern with candy, and a little bit of paper that college students really need, this one with Andrew Jackson on the front. I also left a "Wholly Rollers" calling card, as Spare knows of my checkered youth in great detail.

Two hours later I got a phone call. "You are the best mother in the world."

On Samhain, the veil is thin. If your family ran high to pranksters, they may stock your brain with notions that would not necessarily occur to you. This happened to me, it raised my spirits in more ways than one.

A happy new year to all. Did you make a resolution? I did. Pass the toilet paper!

For the record, Spare's 2012 costumes:
Rosie the Riveter
Angler fish
cat