Another Setback for the Sacred Thunderbirds

I got my hopes up again. It was looking really good. The prospects were, as they say, ripe.

The television started reporting on a Thunderbird flyby two days ago. It seemed that New York City and Philadelphia were the specific locations of a Thunderbird flyby.

Well! says I. About time that the Sacred Thunderbird gets a good push-out!

Of course I shouldn't be driving to Philadelphia, but there is one place near my house where you can kinda sorta see Philadelphia. There's no such thing as a "high point" in my part of New Jersey, but there is one empty parking lot with a vague view.

So I went to that parking lot about 45 minutes before the worship of Sacred Thunderbird was scheduled to begin.

At first it was just me and two other cars in this big, wide parking lot. But slowly the lot began to attract more people. Not "oh my Gods I'm too close, I have to leave" numbers of people, but significant numbers of people. And off in the distance, over the Cooper River, a pair of Sacred Thunderbirds who seemed to be making their lazy way in our direction.

So many people arrived that I put on my mask. Not that anyone was too close, but there was a subdued excitement. Finally! Thunderbird worship on a grander scale! Should I lead? Should I follow? I had to remember to be humble. Not many people have been worshiping Thunderbirds as long as I have.

And then. Wouldn't you know.

EXHIBIT A: WRONG THUNDERBIRDS

I should have known, right? No respect for the real Thunderbird.

So it was this cluster of planes and then another of Blue Angels. Our tax dollars at work, my friends. Can't get a Covid test, but wow ... look at those planes!

They breezed right overhead, and really low too. I guess it was worth the 1 mile drive. Nice way to get out in the sunshine.

If you're jealous that you didn't get to see the Thunderbirds, take heart. There were 4,000 new cases of virus in New Jersey today. At least you aren't in New Jersey.

I guess the membership in the Church of the Sacred Thunderbird is back down to one. Oh well, at least there's one!

Stay safe, my friends.

Helen Dishaw Is Living My Dream

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your highway to hilarity in a world of woe! I'm Anne Johnson, denizen of this nuthouse garden, and you're very welcome to stop on by. Just don't stain the furniture. I'm very picky about my upholstery.

My regular visitors will recall that, last month, I took a real, live vacation to Salt Lake City to meet a fabulous condor named Andy who lives in a posh aviary there. But I was also keenly interested in meeting Andy's friend, Helen.

This is Helen with the aviary's black vulture, Chewie.

Helen is the reason Andy has become an international celebribirdy. Before she arrived in his life, he lived in a cave-like enclosure by himself (his sister died of cancer). Helen coaxed Andy out, and now he takes a daily stroll with her, in order to meet eccentric buzzard-lovers such as myself.

Helen has trained other birds in the aviary as well -- you should see Chewie with her. A vulture acting like a puppy! She and her crew also have shows featuring spoonbills, toucans, hawks, a turkey vulture, and an owl. 

The most impressive of Helen's accomplishments is that the birds in her care all seem so happy. Can birds be happy? If you have to ask, you've never had a meaningful relationship with a bird.

Someone at the aviary told me that Helen takes birds home with her when she is trying to bond with them. I'm sure she didn't do that with Andy, but he positively dotes on her. She coaxed him out for his birthday even though he had to go past some bright, flapping fabric and lots and lots of people. She calmly said, "You've got this, Andy." And he did.

Lots of people ask Helen how she got her job, and she demurs. She's not a university-trained bird person. Like so many folks who are really, really good at what they do, she's just been able to put her dreams into reality. She is very motivated.

As would I be, if every day began with a jovial stroll, just me and my Andean condor.

Helen's job isn't stress-free. Birds are touchy, and they can bite, so she needs to be vigilant without seeming so. She was pretty tense on Andy's birthday, because the aviary was so crowded. But all in all, she's clearly loving her work. I don't think I could prevail upon her to switch careers with me.

Imagine getting up every day to go see a veritable aviary full of cheery birds, who you will walk with, talk about, and perform with for people of all ages! No profession is a total bowl of cherries, but I'll bet working with Andy is at least a bowl of craisins.

All hail Helen, the lovely bird-whisperer of Salt Lake City! Helen is living my dream.

Novice and Nope Ropes

Did you know the Internet calls snakes "nope ropes?" I love that. I wish I had thought of it.

Springtime is a busy season for nope ropes. They're just waking up, and it's still cold at night, so what they chiefly want is to sun themselves on rocks. Often they haven't eaten in a whole season, which makes them extra venomous too. This is not good news if you're a human.

I went to Utah to meet a condor, but I wasn't going to sit around staring at him for five days. In a search for other fun activities near Salt Lake City -- outdoor only, no temple tours -- I discovered a hike to a hot spring.

Hot spring! That's been a bucket list item for me lo, these many decades!

There were several glitches, however:

1. Mr. J has never gone hiking, even in the benign Pine Barrens of New Jersey. He's a water person. Give him a rowboat and an oar, and he's all set. But hiking? Hasn't done it.

2. Nope ropes. Abundant nope ropes of the rattling variety have been documented on the trail I wanted to take. There's a particularly compelling YouTube of a cluster of rattling nope ropes right next to the hot spring. And it's the season when these creatures come out needing a little bath to keep them in tip-top shape.

3. Speaking of shape, I'm out of it. And the trail was ranked "moderate." I had no idea what that meant in Utah. In Pennsylvania it generally means steep and rocky.

But never mind the concerns! It's not like the hot spring was going to hike down to see me! Mr. J bought a pair of hiking shoes, and bright and early on a sunny morning, we set out for Diamond Fork (Fifth Water) Hot Springs.

The first thing I discovered is that Mr. J sets a nice pace for hiking. I'm used to watching my daughters disappear into the far distance, but I kept up nicely with him. The trail was pleasantly Poconos-like, meaning steep and rocky but not what Utah can throw at a hiker. The scenery was outstanding, and the creeks were muddy torrents of snow-melt.

It was a long slog, but we made it to Diamond Fork. And there it was, a real hot spring, bubbling up from creek-side, scalding and smelling of the sulfurous bowels of the earth!

The hot water flows into a series of man-made "tubs" where you can sit and soak. It's like the Three Bears: one tub is too hot, one tub is too cold, and one tub is just right. Actually, the high water in the creek meant that the tubs weren't their signature deep blue color (the creek was overflowing into them), but they also didn't reek quite as much as they would most days.

Right above the tubs there was a Poconos-grade waterfall too! Added to my collection!

There's something about waterfalls. They always bring out the bliss.

Now, here's a sad fact for you striplings: A time comes when it's harder to hike downhill than it is to hike uphill. Gravity might be helpful to the heart, but it's a bitch for the knees. Nevertheless, Mr. J and I (after a good long soak) limped back down the trail to our car. Round trip it was five miles. My knees felt every damn rock, but Mr. J -- a complete novice -- handled it with nary a complaint.

As for the nope ropes, we didn't see any. There were many other hikers on the trail and in the tubs, and one guy said he saw two, but not the rattling variety. Nor were there any insects except butterflies! Even as I write this there are mosquitoes humming around New Jersey.

The scenery, like the hot springs, was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I haven't gotten around much. I had my own piece of mountain for the longest time, and I spent much of my life there. These Utah mountains, though ... they made my mountain look like a lil' old knoll.

If not for Andy N. Condor, I never would have known about Diamond Fork (Fifth Water) Hot Springs. Never let it be said that buzzards won't do you a good turn.

My Grand 60th Birthday Gambit

If you're lucky, that day comes ... the day when the sun rises on your 60th birthday. You look in the mirror and say, "Wait a minute. Shouldn't I be turning 30?" But no. Daughter The Heir turns 30 soon. For me, it's 60. On Monday.

Those of you who have been with "The Gods Are Bored" since back in the grand old days know that I never opt for the sane and sensible thing to do, when instead I can do the wacky, frivolous thing.

And so, I am going on a mission to Salt Lake City to meet a very influential vulture named Andy N. Condor.

EXHIBIT A: ANDY N. CONDOR

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Anne! Why don't you go to the Andes and see real condors? This bird lives in an aviary!"

Yes, you're right. Andy lives at Tracy Aviary. Which means they know a lot about him. Including the day and year that he hatched. The year happens to be 1959.

Andy and I both turn 60 this spring.

The aviary is throwing a whopper of a birthday party for Andy, and I am going to be there. Additionally, I will be spending a day at the aviary earlier in the week for some quality time with this fine buzzard. It's going to be amazing.

What else did you expect of me? Something tame, like whale-watching? Pish tosh! The bored gods wouldn't have me any other way.

In preparation for my trip, I have done some research on hiking in the Salt Lake City area. Lo and behold, within a short drive of the city there's a fairly easy trail that leads to a waterfall and a series of hot springs. Soaking in a sulfurous hot spring has been on my bucket list forever!

So when I'm not fawning over Andy, I'll be up to my neck in a spring, or driving through big-ass mountains. This will allay some of the anxiety over the number of years I have been on the planet.

The trip is next month, during my spring break.

Please don't ask about my plans to retire. I don't have any, nor will I have any for another decade.

Alaska, Hawaii, Barbie, Andy, and me. Six decades along. Wow.

International Vulture Awareness Day

Drop everything! Today, Saturday, September 2 is International Vulture Awareness Day!

Without vultures, the world would be awash in putrefaction. If only they could clean up politics the way they do festering carcasses!

There are vultures in the Old World and vultures in the New World. They are not closely related genetically. They evolved in parallel manner because there's always a nice supply of rotting meat out there, no matter what (temperate) continent you fly across.

Here's Floppy, one of my favorite vultures! See the bald head? It's a cleanliness thing. No feathers to get all matted up with gore as the bird feeds. Ah, evolution! Magnificent.

So, why do we need to be aware of vultures? Well, in both Africa and India, massive vulture populations have been killed off catastrophically. What kills something that eats festering carcasses? The medicines or poisons those carcasses ingested while they were alive. In the wake of plummeting vulture populations, some countries (especially India) have seen a rise in rabies, wild dogs, and other diseases that vultures shrug off like a walk in the park.

Fortunately, there are vulture rehab programs out there. The San Diego Zoo has spearheaded a modest but significant return of the California condor to the wild, wild West. In Africa, Vulpro is working with several species of African vulture. Due to their reproductive behavior, vulture populations are hard to restore. Here's hoping for success, though. Who wants to slog to work through dead skunks and fly-covered garbage?

So, happy International Vulture Awareness Day! Salute the next buzzard you see! I'm talking about a bald bird, not a political boss.

The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.

Vulture Psalm

A vulture psalm.

If you're feeling sick
It's really a bitch,
But you ought to have health care
Even if you're not rich.

Vulture Doesn't Want To Eat Cold, Starved Senior Citizens

It's a little known fact that the construction of the Great Wall of China led to a severe famine in the country constructing the wall. All the able-bodied people in the nation were called upon to help with the wall. Between the cost of it and the lack of workers to do other things (like, for instance, plant and harvest crops), the country plunged into decline.

So now our government has money to build a wall, but not to finance Meals on Wheels?

Get ready for it. VULTURE IS PISSED.

Vulture does not want to dine on emaciated senior citizens! Vulture would vastly prefer a diet of ultra-wealthy fat cats who are harvesting ducats on the backs of the rest of us! Vulture likes his carcasses to be brimming with the finest caviar-crusted entrails!

The Great God Vulture would like me to add that He (just like a person) likes His food squishy and fleshy, not rock-solid frozen.

Before you get the misguided idea that you should point out to Vulture that Meals on Wheels is state-financed, let me tell you that I did some due diligence here. Some of the financing for Meals on Wheels comes from federal Community Block Grants, which have been around for decades and are used to prop up the poorest, neediest communities in all kinds of ways. You guessed it. The block grants will be gone. They are "failing."

Vulture. Is. Pissed.

So, how do the starving senior citizens also become frozen? Federal money also props up state grant money that helps the poorest among us to keep their furnaces lit all through the cold months. This I heard on the local news radio. Our local LIHEAP office is afraid that they won't be able to help poor folks next winter, due to the budget axe being wielded by our Carrion in Chief.

What kind of heartless scoundrels prey upon the weakest and most vulnerable citizens? Vulture cries foul! Vulture is not a predator -- He disposes. He does not kill. Governments that cut social services while increasing the budget for weapons of mass destruction ... those are the killers.

Thus sayeth Vulture: Oppose the draconian measures that are being contemplated with glee in the halls of power!

Anyone who begrudges poor people nutritious meals and warm homes deserves to die and go to

MISER HELL

Where they will be helplessly obese and overheated, trying in vain to avoid being pelted by those heavy-ass rolls of quarters you pick up on your way to the laundromat! All the while, perfectly polished mirrors will allow these miscreants to view themselves being taunted by Santa Claus and his righteously indignant elves!

The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.

Human Conceit

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated to deities as old as dirt! This is another entry in Vulture Saturday, highlighting a sacred, totemic creature whose stature has fallen at the hands of modern American conceit.

Most people, if they think of vultures at all, think of them as ugly and disgusting. It hasn't always been that way. Some Native American cultures still venerate Vulture,

One thing Americans do brag about is being at the top of the food chain. It's all about us.

I'm sorry to disabuse random morons about this, but the actual pinnacle of the food chain is the vulture. By definition, the food chain is organized by what you will and won't eat. Aphids don't eat ants, so ants are higher on the food chain. Ants don't eat anteaters, so anteaters are higher on the food chain. And so on.

People don't eat vultures. Vultures will eat people. Therefore, vultures are higher on the food chain. They are, in fact, at the top. (I'm talking about complex organisms here, not the tip-top organism, the bacterium.)

Of course, the human race is all about, "What's in it for me?" What can vultures do for people?

Quite simply, they keep the country clean.

Just ask the citizens of India how it's going for them since their farmers used an anti-inflammatory medication called diflocenac to keep cattle alive. When vultures consumed the carcasses of animals treated with the drug, it killed the vultures. A huge die-off of native vulture species has led to rampant rabies among animals (big uptick in cases in people), an explosion of dangerous wild dogs, and garbage reeking everywhere. It will be decades before the vulture population regains its numbers, as they breed slowly.

Here in America, vultures serve the same purpose. They consume carrion. Rabies has no effect on them. Salmonella has no effect on them. They remove from the environment toxins that are dangerous and disgusting. In return, how do we treat them? Shabbily.

Vulture the Sacred joins all American citizens who care deeply about the environment we are creating for future generations. Future generations of people also presupposes future generations of vultures. Restoring forests, reducing CO2 and other pollutants, and designating wild areas will help not only our children, but those baby vulture chicks being hatched this spring -- who, in the absence of lead in their food -- could live 40 years.

The next time you see a vulture, think humbly about it. Promise it you will do what you can to keep it safe. Then notice the grace and, indeed, beauty of this apex creature. How can we humans claim any kind of superiority?

The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.

Vulture is PISSED

Welcome to First Church of Vulture, Apostolic and Unreformed. Hear the voice crying out in the wilderness for the family of Vulture!

The great God Vulture has learned that a minion of the Satan with False Hair Growth has, with the stroke of a poison pen, re-instated the use of lead ammunition in the nation's wild lands.

Vulture deems this an abomination.

Lo, Vulture has spoken unto me the curse He will visit on those who propel poisoned metals into the flesh, fields, and waterways of our land. Hear the word of Vulture!

VULTURE CURSES HUNTERS WHO USE LEAD BULLETS

1. Your spouse and children will not respect you.

2. You will worry about making enough money for all of your days.

3. Your private parts will be the smallest and ugliest in any locker room.

4. Your descendants will wait eagerly for your death, so they can have your stuff, yea most especially your guns and ammo.

VULTURE CURSES CABINET SECRETARIES WHO LEGALLY ABET THE USE OF LEAD BULLETS

1. The horse you came in on will shit on your shoes.

2. Your private parts will be the smallest and ugliest in the entire Western Hemisphere. Babies will laugh.

3. You will have the boss from Hell. He will torment your days, and even when you no longer work for him, your former people will remember. And hate you.

4. You, and all of your lead-loving buddies will die and go to

LEAD BULLET HELL

Where demons in the guise of Disney Princesses will make rude jokes about your private parts while pelting you with molten base metals, the more pustular skin diseases, and the ragged remains of Remington rifles.

Thus sayeth Vulture: READ THIS WHILE YOU STILL CAN, AND REPENT! The fate of the California condor is at stake!

If the California condors don't survive this wretched setback, I can double guarantee and promise you that Vulture will lay a SMITE on this wretched nation that will make us all beg to become carcasses.

The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.

Saturday Sermon, First Church of Vulture, Apostolic

Hearken unto me, U.S.A! For verily I am a voice crying out in the wilderness (what's left of it). I am the humble and not-so-great I Am, namely, Anne Johnson. Look upon the prophetess of Vulture and take heed!

For upon this day, Vulture sulketh upon His holy fence post of Wenonah. He gnashes His beak on said post, which hurteth, and maketh Him even more petulant.

Thus speaks Vulture: "Hsssss Hssssss Hssssss."

(This, of course, is why religions always need prophetesses.)

Vile sinners of the U.S.A! Vulture hath hissed! And in his hsss is a message unto the people. To whit:

He who groweth hair unnaturally upon his head, lo, he is an abomination.*** Unto him and those who follow him will be a plague of those little biting flies that hover around beaches and bays in the summertime! For I am Vulture, and My ways will be followed. I am a jealous Bird, quick to rise to righteous rage. And this should be familiar unto ye who have come to My Holy Church from other venues.

Anyone who asks the High Prophetess (self) how so much meaning can be read from a few short hisses -- ye of little faith! Humble thyself before Vulture! Okay, just a suggestion, but if you know what is good for you...

 No, wait. I'm rusty.

HUMBLE THYSELF OR WATCH THY NATION CRUMBLE TO DUST UNDER THE WEIGHT OF TYRANNY.

That's better! It's been awhile.

The Great Vulture hath asked me to bring a sorry nation to heel. Verily, every Saturday during which I am not marching unto that end, I will deliver here a sermon, in obedience and submission to Vulture.

Vulture is the Highest of Holy. He killeth not. Nor doth he sound harsh calls unto the air. He keeps the world clean. And it is Vulture's expectation that His servants, the human race, likewise keep the world clean as a whistle. This is why He now gnashes His holy beak on the holy fence post of Wenonah and becomes petulant. U.S.A., we are failing Vulture.

O dreadful turn of events!

Vulture makes demands, which we must meet. Yea, verily the possum on the shoulder of the road is the smallest and most inconsequential of Vulture's demands. My Saturday sermons will acquaint you with the Great God Vulture and how to please Him, thereby bringing LIGHT INTO THE WORLD for everyone!

Don't miss one single Hsss, my flock. A world fit for Vulture is a world fit for humankind.

The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture. Hsss Hsss




***Except should he or she be recovering from an illness which removeth hair due to medicinal treatment. But only then.

Birthday Buzzards

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home of Vestal Vultures since 2005! My name is Anne Johnson, and today I am 55 years old.

I celebrated by walking home from work. It took me one hour and 45 minutes, maybe 20 minutes longer than I thought it would. But gosh! That's not bad for 4.5 miles. My time will improve!

If I had gone west instead of east, I would be in Center City Philadelphia right now. I feel empowered.

Over the weekend I scavenged a deceased opossum from a Snobville street and threw it into the back yard. I was hoping to lure some Thunderbirds here for my special day. But it's been a long, cold, lonely winter, and this area isn't chock-a-block with buzzards even in the best of weather. Holding out hope here, but in the meantime,  I can always scare up a wake of buzzards, thanks to the magic of computers!

EXHIBIT A: DAYS OF YORE, WENONAH, NJ

EXHIBIT B: BLACK VULTURES

EXHIBIT C: FLOPPY

EXHIBIT D: SOMEONE SENT ME THIS GORGEOUS SHOT THAT WAS HARD TO NAB

EXHIBIT E: HAPPIER TIMES

EXHIBIT F: MORE HAPPIER TIMES

May the wisdom of the Sacred Thunderbird roost in your belfry! Bird is the word.

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.

Virtual Vulture Festival 2013!

From humble origins in a small train station ...

Came the renowned and highly original

Dedicated to the most fantastic and singular bird,

The vulture!

With its kicky motto

A festival was born.

This unparalleled event not only celebrated the visitation of hundreds of vultures to a small New Jersey hamlet,

It also raised thousands of dollars for nature clubs, children's education, and otherwise sprucing up the wild spots in the town!

The festival reached its apex of popularity around 2009, with sacred vulture dances

(featuring our friend the Monkey Man, second from right...)

And a fan favorite at every festival was the peerless mascot, Buzzy!

The people attending the festival thought Buzzy was just a cute, big bird. But underneath all that paper mache and layers of old polyester was a Shaman who felt it her religious duty to don the attire of the Sacred Thunderbird.

Of course, this sense of the sacred did not detract from the fun.

Worship of the Sacred Thunderbird spans history and cultures in the Eastern and Western Hemispheres. An archeological excavation 10,000 years old revealed that the Zawi Chami people of what is now Iraq dressed in vulture feathers for their rituals. In ancient Egypt, Vulture guarded the Pharaoh's children, and the bored Goddess Maat is pictured with the wings of a vulture.

In both African and Native American traditions, Vulture has interceded on behalf of the human race during times when the Gods were angry. The Goddess Oshun was said to have taken the shape of a vulture and flown toward the sun to end a famine.

But back to being silly:

It's doubtful that this raccoon will get well. What's more likely is that, before it starts stinking up the joint, a kindly and gentle vulture (or several) will dispose of it by eating it right down to the bones. Let's celebrate this wise custodianship of our planet!

I love faeries
and the Monkey Man
and those Pillsbury hot rolls with the orange icing.

I love drumming
and Polish Mountain
and cats that look like Hitler.

I love parades
and puns
and the art work of Thalia Took

But most of all, I love vultures. This is no recent thing, readers. I've loved vultures my whole life.

Whether whimsical like Floppy

Or spooky like my good friend Clem,

Vultures are the best the world has to offer.

If you see one this weekend, give it a howdy and a hearty handshake. If anyone stares, who the hell cares?

VIRTUAL VULTURE FESTIVAL WEEKEND 2013


Artwork by ancient Egyptians, unknown hillbillies, and Thalia Took; some buzzard photos by Bird Chick and Shelly Castorino.

Lemonade

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bringing you tragic news today ...

There will be no East Coast Vulture Festival in Wenonah this year.

I have not gotten the flurry of emails that I would have gotten in the past. I have not rented the vulture costume. This is a day that no one looked forward to more than me, and it is not to be.

My guess is that the vultures have moved on. Since Spare filmed "Momma Bird," it has been very hard to find the huge flocks of turkey and black vultures that were descending on the town in droves. I think it's that way with vultures. They stay awhile and then they go.

However, just because there's no East Coast Vulture Festival this year doesn't mean that we, yes we, you and I, can't create one!

"The Gods Are Bored" hereby declares Saturday, March 2 East Coast Vulture Day!

Contribute your favorite vulture pictures, stories, or comics to this blog, all to be published on March 2, 2013!

All you have to do is email your submission to   luvbuzzards at yahoo dot-you-know-the-drill. That's me.

We can turn this happy space into a Vulture Day and have some laughs doing it!

Who is with me?

Behind the Scenes on the "Mommy Bird" Movie Set: A Buzzard-Worship Navel Gaze

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," about to be immortalized on the silver screen! Okay, well, about to be gobbled up in the maw of YouTube. Any way you shoot it, I'm gonna be in a movie!

You know how it is. The semester is ending at art school, you've got a dozen projects to finish, and a five-page essay ... and one last film to make. This is the sad fate of my daughter The Spare, who has had to scramble for a film idea at the last minute.

Her topic: Why her mom loves buzzards. This is a nonfiction documentary.

As the star of this timeless cinematic masterpiece-to-be, I rather bridled at having to curb my more rowdy impulses for the filming. But I get it. When one has an opportunity to do mission work for the Sacred Thunderbird, one considers the audience. Tamped down on the rowdy. A little.

In order to find Sacred Thunderbirds, Spare, Heir, and I had to drive down to Wenonah, where a flock sometimes 200 strong roosts in the winter. I won't say the town was buzzard-free this weekend, but there weren't nearly as many wretches as there used to be. Nevertheless, there were buzzards on the water tower, and a small flock fussing in a tall pine tree.

It was Spare's idea to set up the camera while I went to the tree and tried to flush the buzzards out, so she could get shots of them flying. Well, this I was very glad to do, especially when I discovered that they were roosting in a tree in the back yard of a house for sale. House for sale! Carte blanche to go screaming and gyrating up to a pine tree in the yard. I leaped. I yelled. I waved my puny arms.

Forty feet above me, the Sacred Thunderbirds regarded me with disdain and went right on with their nightly routines. Not one single vulture took flight.

On the other hand, an alarmed woman in the house across the street opened her door and peered out at me. I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to get the vultures to fly."

Her response was to slam her door and pull down a blind. Heir thought this was embarrassing. I just felt like you have to forgive the sinner. Poor woman has two dozen vultures right across the street, and she lacks all appreciation! Sad, that. Very sad.

All in all I alarmed two homeowners in my hearty pursuit of the Sacred Thunderbird in the process of providing footage for Spare's documentary. Meanwhile I alarmed not a single Thunderbird. They were too high.

I'm sure Spare will be creative in her use of the footage she was able to shoot. And what fun we'll have here at "The Gods Are Bored" when this film hits the Intertubes!

The best part of being the star attraction in a documentary is the fun you have making it with your daughters. I hope this isn't apostasy, but the buzzards were kind of a sweet afterthought.

Thoughts on Yom Kippur

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sundown on Yom Kippur!

I have a colleague who is Jewish. She says if she doesn't go to Synagogue on Yom Kippur, she will go to Hell. She has to atone for her sins.

Can you imagine asking the busy god to forgive your sins? That's like asking some Goldman Sachs hedge fund manager to forgive you for pinching a candy bar from a Cub Scout. Even Hitler didn't flood the whole damn world.

I'm not just hurling stones at the busy god, though. I'm hurling stones at the way we look at gods.

We aren't created in the image of God. God is created in the image of us. This is why so many pantheons are populated with jealous, crazy, downright mean, and vengeful deities. They are who we are.

The flip side to that is, every now and then we endow a deity or deities with the better parts of our natures. That's how we get Mother Goddesses who nurture us. Nevertheless, at this point in our evolutionary history, we humans have not achieved the ability to separate the traits of deities from our own imperfect natures.

If this makes sense to you, reader, you might be a candidate for vulture worship. At least we can observe what vultures are like and then model ourselves after them.

Excuse me while I go scavenge through the landfill for some supper. The sun is setting, and the busy god might be real. The only sin I can think of that needs atonement is rage ... a trait that no godly vulture would stick at any price.

Conducting Important Missionary Work Today

I don't know about you, but I dislike missionaries.

It's not just that their sex position is a little bit boring. It's that they all seem to work for the busy god, in one way, shape, or form. Seems to me their God doesn't need the leg work.

Upon hearing today that one of our intrepid American ambassadors had been killed by a faction that ascribes to the busy god, I began to re-think my lack of personal missionary zeal.

Maybe it's time for me to knock on some doors.

If you've just arrived here, mistakenly thinking I'm the newest voice for teachers' rights, you may want to biff off now. What I really am is a High Priestess for the Sacred Worship of Vulture.

Have you had enough of these religions where people kill other people and think it's a holy thing? Come join us in the Sacred Worship of Vulture!

I'll dispel one myth, and you'll be ready to pledge.

Vultures do not kill anything that isn't already 90 percent dead. And they much prefer their food to be really, really dead. In my religion, you will never hear anyone say, "I killed that sinner because Vulture told me to." Vultures don't kill! And they don't want followers who do!

You could stand on a roadside and insult a vulture until you are blue in the face, and it will not be offended. Vultures are called nasty names all the time. Does it bother them?  Nope. They are not jealous or wrathful or easily angered. If you frighten them, the worst they will do is barf.

You'll never see a vulture hoist a bloody standard and sally into the fray. Very peaceful bird. They don't even squawk. (Decibel, please take note and try to be more holy.)

All that remains, then, is to ascertain that Vulture's prophet (that being me) can also be insulted without demanding revenge on the disrespectful.

Trust me, unbeliever, I can be insulted. Grievously. I can be dismissed with a disdainful flick of the wrist, lied to bare-faced, trash-talked and mocked. You could fling a rotten vegetable in my direction and say mean things about my mama. And still I would not ask anyone to deck you on my behalf. Nor would I deck you myself.

The High Priestess of Vulture is basically wimpy, like her deity, and expects you to be wimpy too.

There may be a few individuals in this big, wide world who deem me capable of extreme foul play. Don't believe it for a millisecond. All followers of the Sacred Worship of Vulture are forgiving of insult and unwilling to do harm.

Join now! Needless to say, there are no dietary restrictions. As for clothing, we have no restrictions down to, and including, your pink skin. No sexual position or inclination is disallowed, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture remains free of stain. The only commandment is to harm none.

Church of Vulture: Don't kill. Wait for it to die. Don't hate the infidel who calls you names. Give that person a mirror. Soar over it all, exercising patience and embracing solitude.

Time to pass the plate. Dig deep. The parrot vet is costly!

Pushing Off the Rock with Floppy

Well, of course there are many rock bottoms in a life, and none of us miss getting a few. I'm rebounding from one right now, and today was maybe the beginning of a better time.

It started this morning when five golden vultures arrived at my house and perched on my Dodge Neon. The leader said his name was "Floppy."

EXHIBIT A: FLOPPY

So I said, "Okay, birds, we are going to a Druid Ritual at Bodine Field in Wharton State Forest. Any of you know where that is?"

They all did, of course. So I trusted them to draw me an excellent set of instructions and then fly ahead to make sure I was on the right course.

Everything was going swell until we got into spitting distance of Wharton State Forest. Then the bunch of them got scent of some big ol' deer that got winged and not flattened. They flew off and left me stranded with no map and vague directions that I copied down because my printer doesn't work.

I got all turned around and finally wound up at the Jersey Shore. (When you live in New Jersey, you quickly learn that all roads lead to the Jersey Shore eventually.) I've got a bitchin' great season beach pass for Ventnor/Margate, which is just south of Atlantic City. I went for a swim.

So, after being battered and flattened myself by the rough surf, I sprawled in my beach chair and told my sad story to a couple of Bonaparte gulls. Trust me, reader, seagulls are not vultures. Those gulls were eyeballing the goodies I meant to take to Druid Grove but was instead trying not to get sand in while I ate them myself. No self-respecting vulture would eat a slice of ciabatta bread. I had to beat the gulls away with a towel.

On my way home on the Atlantic City Expressway, I discovered that Floppy and his four comrades were following my car. We wound up back here at Chateau Johnson. I flung open the trash cans for them, because those doggone vultures were more of a lift than any other bored gods could ever be.

To all who sent me vultures, especially Floppy, blessed be.

Heavenly Livestream

Buzzard Central, as usual today!

Over the weekend, my dear fellow bloggess Yellow Dog Granny alerted me to a live feed from the San Diego Zoo. One day before my birthday, a new baby California condor chick hatched in a nesting cavity at the zoo's "condorminium."

Each day, during daylight hours in San Diego, the camera is recording the condor parents as they care for their newborn. Depending upon how long the zoo leaves the baby with the parents (ideally it won't be removed until it can remove itself), this live stream will become more and more ... well ... lively.

What's most touching to me is that the father of this chick, Sisquoc, was the father of the first captive-bred condor chick ever born at the San Diego Zoo. I had the pleasure and privilege of seeing Sisquoc (from a distance) when I went to write a newspaper story about the condor restoration program back in 1983. I suppose Sisquoc has done him some breeding over the past 29 years. He seems to be quite the doting father.

If you watch the stream, Sisquoc, the dad, is the condor with the tag. The mom doesn't have a tag. They work in shifts, and right now the best chance of seeing the hatchling is when they switch duties. Eventually the baby will grow and be more visible.

I was watching when the chick hatched.

Now here's some free advice for all of you out there who are looking for one of the following things:

1. Proof that someone loves you no matter how weird you are

2. A method to rid yourself of a pesky in-law/co-worker/clingy friend

3. Enlightenment

Visit the Condor Cam frequently and at length. Point it out to any of the people above. Meditate on the parenting you see and on the slender recovery of this magnificent vulture species.

And ask yourself: What is so special about the human race?

Here's the link to Condor Cam. Get used to seeing it here:
http://www.sandiegozooglobal.org/video/condor_cam

Another Year, Another Vulture Fest

I have to laugh at Facebook and its Timeline. We Druids see life as circular, not linear. My daughters are grown, my husband and I enjoy looking at each other, and therefore life goes round and round and round. Hopefully for awhile.

The first weekend in March is always the East Coast Buzzard Festival, at which I serve as Shaman. I am winning young hearts and minds for the worship of the Sacred Thunderbird. What a noble calling!

Here is the fabulous photo of me bearing witness to the children of Wenonah in my Shamanic attire. Please don't try to take my place! I love this day, this activity, and the bird that I hereby portray.

For purposes of navel gazing, here are the highlights of Buzzard Fest 2012:

*I finally got to hear and dance to the buzzard songs written for the festival by Jim Six. Sometimes in the past, Jim has performed inside the building. It was good to see him unplugged, with just the acoustic guitar.

*Some delightful little tot roared with laughter as he tried to feed me popcorn and I shoved it against my beak. Could have been a YouTube viral if someone had been recording it. Funniest part was, the tot was so young that he had never had popcorn before himself. Once he tasted it, he stopped feeding it to me and started eating it himself.

*A teenager gave me a buzzard paper airplane he had crafted at the craft table. Destined for my altar.

*A little girl hugged me and said, "I love vultures. I will always love vultures! They aren't ugly and scary, they're really nice!" And so the buzzard worship flock grows, cute little tot by cute little tot!

*Another little Cindy Lou Who would not leave my side when it was time to go home. She didn't cry, she just stood there. Her parents couldn't coax her to leave the bird. (Didn't help that I was petting her soft little head.)

Best part:

*This year the Wenonah Elementary School Band played in all its ten-member glory. Actually the kids were pretty good for beginners! I've heard a lot worse. Once the music teacher noticed that the big buzzard mascot had rhythm, the big buzzard got offered the honor of conducting the final number! It was classic. I'm such a ham. I felt like Snoopy doing "Long Road to Tipperary."

Unfortunately, the buzzards who inspired this annual festival have seemingly moved on to a more rural roost, about three miles away. Last year buzzards were everywhere ... I mean, over 100 kettling in the sky at the end of the day. This year I saw two lonely wretches on the water tower ... that was it.

Oh well, I think the Vulture Fest is here to stay. Time after time, the kids would say, "See you next year, Buzzy!"

When the wheel comes around to this time again, I hope it will find me at the Buzzard Festival.

So might it be, so might it be, so might it beeeeeee.