Blogging is so 2008, you know? So here's the first episode of The Gods Are Bored Podcast!
Let me know what you think! It's 4 and a half minutes.
Showing posts with label white magic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label white magic. Show all posts
Monday, May 17, 2021
Monday, January 23, 2017
What a Day!
You've got to understand. I grew up in a different century. We knew how to protest, all right, but the whole taking pictures thing? Not so much.
I went to the Women's March on Washington. I was surrounded by a sea of people, and the pussy hats were a great touch. But my experience of the event was limited by the crowd, by being literally stuck in one spot for two and a half hours and then being lugged by the determined Heir all the way to the White House.
I walked eight miles and stood for 150 minutes. Holding my working wand in one hand and my Heir in the other. I didn't take many photos, and the ones I took didn't turn out.
Words must suffice. Sort of.
Heir and I boarded a rally bus in Martinsburg, West Virginia at 7:00 a.m. We were each given a WV Resist button that I will treasure forever.
EXHIBIT A: On the Bus
As we rolled down the highway toward the capital, the road became chock-a-block with rally buses, from all over the place. The closer we got to DC, the more buses we saw. And then, gosh, the lot at the stadium! Acres and acres of buses, all alike! More than 1200 of them. This would become an issue later.
My eldest daughter is The Heir. I have learned this about The Heir: She wants to dig in and get the most out of any extreme experience.
We walked from behind RFK Stadium to the Capitol building. And that's when it became surreal for me.
I live very near Philadelphia. It is an historic city. I am used to historic buildings either being modest little brick structures like Independence Hall, or Victorian extravaganzas like City Hall and 30th Street Station. I hadn't been to DC in a decade, and I had never walked all around it.
The buildings are huge. They are imposing. They are gigantic. And they're all epic. Half of them are built to look like Ancient Greece. They lie across the landscape like sleeping giants. When your historical compass is set on Independence Hall, the Capitol building seems like an entire planet.
EXHIBIT B: Independence Hall, Philadelphia
EXHIBIT C: U.S. Capitol Building, Washington, DC
Well, I guess you had to be there. It just felt monstrous, this great big building that I'd only seen in pictures before, or maybe once when I was in grade school I went to see my senator.
Heir is big on surreal stuff. She saw the stage, and a crowd that even Godzilla wouldn't attack, and she waded right in. I got out my working wand (I carry it everywhere) and held tight to the sleeve of her coat. And in we went, right to the thick of things.
I work with a co-teacher in one of my classes. She, like me, is politically active. She and her daughter took a bus from New Jersey. Before we went our separate ways at school on Thursday, she teased me about running into her, predicting that I would. In all that crowd. And damn. I can't believe it.
EXHIBIT C: What Are the Odds?
See the pussy hats in the background? They made the march. If you see a crowd of a half million people, and the crowd shot is mostly pink, that is beyond a doubt the Women's March on Washington.
Heir and I bused in with a good friend of mine from West Virginia, and then we ran into my colleague and her daughter, but Heir was not in the socializing spirit. She wanted to DO THIS THING. So we went our way and wound up gridlocked on the far side of the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. There, people were climbing the trees to scope out the crowd. Heir found a high spot that wasn't in a tree, and we camped there for a long time. We couldn't move. The people around us couldn't move. We did what we could to ferry the people who were panicking to a less gridlocked area, but there wasn't much we could do.
There were no police in the crowd.
When you're stuck in a mob for hours, a lot of things run through your mind, especially if you're an anxious person. Like, what if someone sets off a bomb? Or, what if everyone has to run from something? Or, how can I get out of here and back to my bus?
But it didn't matter. We were all in this together. Everyone was polite, everyone was kind. Lots of people were very old! I couldn't believe all the senior citizens, the retirees. (One sign: "I did this in the '60's! I'm Back!" And of course: "Now You've Pissed Off Grandma."
Almost everyone had a sign. My favorites were "Never Underestimate the Power of a Faggot with a Tambourine" and "Resist, hon ... Baltimore." I also saw about a dozen people in various iterations of vagina costumes (head, whole body). Some folks will be creative!
You know what I may mostly remember about the Women's March on Washington? Talking about curriculum and standards with three retired teachers from Connecticut. We had lots of time to bond.
Finally, around 3:30, Heir reported that she saw movement. The pack started to break up a little bit. Some people went one way, some another. Someone told us that the march part of the day had been cancelled because there were too many people. Heir wasn't hearing it.
We surged off toward Pennsylvania Avenue, me clinging to Heir, and in 30 minutes we found ourselves marching and chanting right up the route the Orange Menace and his poor, sad spouse walked the day before. We knew this because the bleachers were still standing, and they were full of pink-hatted, screaming, chanting, sign-waving protesters.
Here is what we chanted:
*This is what democracy looks like.
*My body, my choice.
*Hey ho, hey ho, Donald Trump has got to go!
*Donald Trump, go away! How do you like your first day?
*Black lives matter.
Heir and I walked the whole way to the White House, and we even saw it off in the distance through about six fences. We left our signs there.
EXHIBIT D: We Left Some Reading Material for the Orange Menace
That's my Heir. Isn't she beautiful?
By this time we had marched four miles. All that remained was to retrace our entire route in time to get back on the bus at 6:00.
Heir seemed to know where to go. We walked and walked. Then Heir said, "Oh, look!"
It was the Environmental Protection Agency.
I had been near tears many times during the day. But this is where I lost it. I took my working wand, and I held it to the building, and I spoke intentions into the bricks. Stay put. Stay put. May all those working inside stay put. (I hope you'll add the EPA to your spell work as well.)
EXHIBIT E: Anne Doing Spell Work at the EPA
You can tell that's me because of the gold sneakers. Those are the shoes I wear to the Mummers Parade. I was sure I could walk miles in them, because I've done it before.
It got dark while Heir and I walked back to RFK Stadium. By the time we got to Lot 7 to find our bus, we had done eight miles or more. We had a tough time finding our particular rally bus, but with the help of my WV friend we finally collapsed into a seat, clutching the peanut butter sandwiches and water bottles the bus captain was handing out. Heir and I were the last ones back to the bus.
We rode back to West Virginia. The traffic was bumper to bumper almost the whole way. Heir and I were totally exhausted. We did it, though. We rallied, and we marched. I even did a little magick.
Sunday, Heir and I took the scenic route home. We passed my great-grandmother's house, which has not hardly changed at all from the old pictures from 100 years ago. We stopped by Baltimore, hon, to see Heir's grandmother. Then it was a long drive home in super heavy traffic, and then it was over.
Heir and I prepared for the worst. We wrote Mr. J's phone number on our arms in sharpie marker. We wore bandannas to protect our faces from tear gas. We didn't know what might happen. When push came to shove, though, I never saw a more benign crowd. Everyone was kind and gentle. Everyone drew energy from everyone else. In a crowd that size, such good will is essential. Any nastiness would have produced unparalleled mayhem.
Where do we go from here? As for me and my house, we will use our talents to oppose the Orange Menace. I imagine I'm preaching to the choir here. Please climb aboard.
I went to the Women's March on Washington. I was surrounded by a sea of people, and the pussy hats were a great touch. But my experience of the event was limited by the crowd, by being literally stuck in one spot for two and a half hours and then being lugged by the determined Heir all the way to the White House.
I walked eight miles and stood for 150 minutes. Holding my working wand in one hand and my Heir in the other. I didn't take many photos, and the ones I took didn't turn out.
Words must suffice. Sort of.
Heir and I boarded a rally bus in Martinsburg, West Virginia at 7:00 a.m. We were each given a WV Resist button that I will treasure forever.
EXHIBIT A: On the Bus
As we rolled down the highway toward the capital, the road became chock-a-block with rally buses, from all over the place. The closer we got to DC, the more buses we saw. And then, gosh, the lot at the stadium! Acres and acres of buses, all alike! More than 1200 of them. This would become an issue later.
My eldest daughter is The Heir. I have learned this about The Heir: She wants to dig in and get the most out of any extreme experience.
We walked from behind RFK Stadium to the Capitol building. And that's when it became surreal for me.
I live very near Philadelphia. It is an historic city. I am used to historic buildings either being modest little brick structures like Independence Hall, or Victorian extravaganzas like City Hall and 30th Street Station. I hadn't been to DC in a decade, and I had never walked all around it.
The buildings are huge. They are imposing. They are gigantic. And they're all epic. Half of them are built to look like Ancient Greece. They lie across the landscape like sleeping giants. When your historical compass is set on Independence Hall, the Capitol building seems like an entire planet.
EXHIBIT B: Independence Hall, Philadelphia
EXHIBIT C: U.S. Capitol Building, Washington, DC
Well, I guess you had to be there. It just felt monstrous, this great big building that I'd only seen in pictures before, or maybe once when I was in grade school I went to see my senator.
Heir is big on surreal stuff. She saw the stage, and a crowd that even Godzilla wouldn't attack, and she waded right in. I got out my working wand (I carry it everywhere) and held tight to the sleeve of her coat. And in we went, right to the thick of things.
I work with a co-teacher in one of my classes. She, like me, is politically active. She and her daughter took a bus from New Jersey. Before we went our separate ways at school on Thursday, she teased me about running into her, predicting that I would. In all that crowd. And damn. I can't believe it.
EXHIBIT C: What Are the Odds?
See the pussy hats in the background? They made the march. If you see a crowd of a half million people, and the crowd shot is mostly pink, that is beyond a doubt the Women's March on Washington.
Heir and I bused in with a good friend of mine from West Virginia, and then we ran into my colleague and her daughter, but Heir was not in the socializing spirit. She wanted to DO THIS THING. So we went our way and wound up gridlocked on the far side of the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. There, people were climbing the trees to scope out the crowd. Heir found a high spot that wasn't in a tree, and we camped there for a long time. We couldn't move. The people around us couldn't move. We did what we could to ferry the people who were panicking to a less gridlocked area, but there wasn't much we could do.
There were no police in the crowd.
When you're stuck in a mob for hours, a lot of things run through your mind, especially if you're an anxious person. Like, what if someone sets off a bomb? Or, what if everyone has to run from something? Or, how can I get out of here and back to my bus?
But it didn't matter. We were all in this together. Everyone was polite, everyone was kind. Lots of people were very old! I couldn't believe all the senior citizens, the retirees. (One sign: "I did this in the '60's! I'm Back!" And of course: "Now You've Pissed Off Grandma."
Almost everyone had a sign. My favorites were "Never Underestimate the Power of a Faggot with a Tambourine" and "Resist, hon ... Baltimore." I also saw about a dozen people in various iterations of vagina costumes (head, whole body). Some folks will be creative!
You know what I may mostly remember about the Women's March on Washington? Talking about curriculum and standards with three retired teachers from Connecticut. We had lots of time to bond.
Finally, around 3:30, Heir reported that she saw movement. The pack started to break up a little bit. Some people went one way, some another. Someone told us that the march part of the day had been cancelled because there were too many people. Heir wasn't hearing it.
We surged off toward Pennsylvania Avenue, me clinging to Heir, and in 30 minutes we found ourselves marching and chanting right up the route the Orange Menace and his poor, sad spouse walked the day before. We knew this because the bleachers were still standing, and they were full of pink-hatted, screaming, chanting, sign-waving protesters.
Here is what we chanted:
*This is what democracy looks like.
*My body, my choice.
*Hey ho, hey ho, Donald Trump has got to go!
*Donald Trump, go away! How do you like your first day?
*Black lives matter.
Heir and I walked the whole way to the White House, and we even saw it off in the distance through about six fences. We left our signs there.
EXHIBIT D: We Left Some Reading Material for the Orange Menace
That's my Heir. Isn't she beautiful?
By this time we had marched four miles. All that remained was to retrace our entire route in time to get back on the bus at 6:00.
Heir seemed to know where to go. We walked and walked. Then Heir said, "Oh, look!"
It was the Environmental Protection Agency.
I had been near tears many times during the day. But this is where I lost it. I took my working wand, and I held it to the building, and I spoke intentions into the bricks. Stay put. Stay put. May all those working inside stay put. (I hope you'll add the EPA to your spell work as well.)
EXHIBIT E: Anne Doing Spell Work at the EPA
You can tell that's me because of the gold sneakers. Those are the shoes I wear to the Mummers Parade. I was sure I could walk miles in them, because I've done it before.
It got dark while Heir and I walked back to RFK Stadium. By the time we got to Lot 7 to find our bus, we had done eight miles or more. We had a tough time finding our particular rally bus, but with the help of my WV friend we finally collapsed into a seat, clutching the peanut butter sandwiches and water bottles the bus captain was handing out. Heir and I were the last ones back to the bus.
We rode back to West Virginia. The traffic was bumper to bumper almost the whole way. Heir and I were totally exhausted. We did it, though. We rallied, and we marched. I even did a little magick.
Sunday, Heir and I took the scenic route home. We passed my great-grandmother's house, which has not hardly changed at all from the old pictures from 100 years ago. We stopped by Baltimore, hon, to see Heir's grandmother. Then it was a long drive home in super heavy traffic, and then it was over.
Heir and I prepared for the worst. We wrote Mr. J's phone number on our arms in sharpie marker. We wore bandannas to protect our faces from tear gas. We didn't know what might happen. When push came to shove, though, I never saw a more benign crowd. Everyone was kind and gentle. Everyone drew energy from everyone else. In a crowd that size, such good will is essential. Any nastiness would have produced unparalleled mayhem.
Where do we go from here? As for me and my house, we will use our talents to oppose the Orange Menace. I imagine I'm preaching to the choir here. Please climb aboard.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Nary a Spade Has Been Turned
Have you ever seen a cat that knows it has a mouse cornered under the refrigerator? That cat will sit there for days, totally attentive, waiting for the mouse to emerge. Cats are tenacious that way.
Housing developers are tenacious, too. Once they've bought a parcel of land, it doesn't matter how much common sense, local opposition, and state regulations stand in their way. They just keep sitting there, waiting for the pay day, waiting for that moment when a commissioner can be bribed, or the administration changes in the state capital, or the opponents run out of money for a land-use lawyer.
One such determined individual, Michael Carnock, has now been trying for years and years to get something built on a choice morsel of land that is hell-and-gone into the mountains of Western Maryland. The aforementioned morsel is called Terrapin Run, named after a delightful seasonal stream that tumbles through it.
Mr. Carnock's plans for a 4,000-unit, 11,000-person town in an area where there is currently nothing but a two-lane road and lots of woods has hit upon a few snags. As in, there aren't even any churches in the neighborhood, let alone schools, sewage treatment plants, or CVS pharmacies. Finally seeing the light, the bone-headed Mr. Carnock has scaled his plans back to 900 units. Even this has met with a polite but firm "no way" from Maryland's natural resources people. So of course Mr. Carnock is suing everyone in sight, like a cat whose coveted mouse slipped through a hole in the siding and escaped.
Sometimes, when developers buy mountain land and can't build cities on it, they timber it to smithereens. I've driven past Terrapin Run at least once a year for the past decade, and I don't think the land has been disturbed at all. (It had been timbered by previous ownership. That helps.)
Oh, but you should just see that pretty little stream, Terrapin Run! I know you've seen one like it. The water is so pure that you can count the stones on the bottom. And it makes that charming swishy, trickly noise that those cunning little dry run creeks make.
Awhile back, I placed an intention on that land and petitioned the Goddess Cloacina to guard it for me. She has been doing a fabulous job as the litigation drags on. In July I'll be going up that way again, so if you want to add your protective spells to the place and its sacred little stream, just communicate with me or Cloacina.
If all else fails, if Maryland is suddenly beset with a Koch brother as governor, or a clamor arises for housing units 35 miles from the nearest doctor, we still have an ace in our hands, my friends.
The Terrapin Run watershed is home to Harperella, a bona fide endangered plant that relies on seasonal fluctuations in freshwater streams. Granted, our federal endangered species laws are being trampled, but this plant literally only grows on two waterways. I'm pinning my faith on a little white flower.
We who love the land should love not to build on it where it otherwise has been undisturbed. That should be a tenet of sensible world stewardship. Rebuild before starting something new.
I'd be willing to bet that you're seeing such foolishness in your own community -- big, ugly developments springing up like pimples on a cheek, while nearby sit older neighborhoods just ripe for rehab.
If it's your lifetime dream to live in the mountains, take some advice from this expat Appalachian: Move to an established town. If you thought this past winter was bad, just re-live it in your mind, but add complete solitude and steep, windy roads to the mix. Mr. Carnock not only neglected to provide for churches and pharmacies when he proposed his fetching hamlet. He forgot all about the weather. He could have asked any Johnson. We'd have been glad to tell him how much and how often the flakes fly in that neck of the woods.
May no spade be turned on Terrapin Run. May no spade ever be turned on Terrapin Run. In this little slice of the world, may the peace of the land prevail.
Sermon's over! Time to watch a baseball game!
Housing developers are tenacious, too. Once they've bought a parcel of land, it doesn't matter how much common sense, local opposition, and state regulations stand in their way. They just keep sitting there, waiting for the pay day, waiting for that moment when a commissioner can be bribed, or the administration changes in the state capital, or the opponents run out of money for a land-use lawyer.
One such determined individual, Michael Carnock, has now been trying for years and years to get something built on a choice morsel of land that is hell-and-gone into the mountains of Western Maryland. The aforementioned morsel is called Terrapin Run, named after a delightful seasonal stream that tumbles through it.
Mr. Carnock's plans for a 4,000-unit, 11,000-person town in an area where there is currently nothing but a two-lane road and lots of woods has hit upon a few snags. As in, there aren't even any churches in the neighborhood, let alone schools, sewage treatment plants, or CVS pharmacies. Finally seeing the light, the bone-headed Mr. Carnock has scaled his plans back to 900 units. Even this has met with a polite but firm "no way" from Maryland's natural resources people. So of course Mr. Carnock is suing everyone in sight, like a cat whose coveted mouse slipped through a hole in the siding and escaped.
Sometimes, when developers buy mountain land and can't build cities on it, they timber it to smithereens. I've driven past Terrapin Run at least once a year for the past decade, and I don't think the land has been disturbed at all. (It had been timbered by previous ownership. That helps.)
Oh, but you should just see that pretty little stream, Terrapin Run! I know you've seen one like it. The water is so pure that you can count the stones on the bottom. And it makes that charming swishy, trickly noise that those cunning little dry run creeks make.
Awhile back, I placed an intention on that land and petitioned the Goddess Cloacina to guard it for me. She has been doing a fabulous job as the litigation drags on. In July I'll be going up that way again, so if you want to add your protective spells to the place and its sacred little stream, just communicate with me or Cloacina.
If all else fails, if Maryland is suddenly beset with a Koch brother as governor, or a clamor arises for housing units 35 miles from the nearest doctor, we still have an ace in our hands, my friends.
The Terrapin Run watershed is home to Harperella, a bona fide endangered plant that relies on seasonal fluctuations in freshwater streams. Granted, our federal endangered species laws are being trampled, but this plant literally only grows on two waterways. I'm pinning my faith on a little white flower.
We who love the land should love not to build on it where it otherwise has been undisturbed. That should be a tenet of sensible world stewardship. Rebuild before starting something new.
I'd be willing to bet that you're seeing such foolishness in your own community -- big, ugly developments springing up like pimples on a cheek, while nearby sit older neighborhoods just ripe for rehab.
If it's your lifetime dream to live in the mountains, take some advice from this expat Appalachian: Move to an established town. If you thought this past winter was bad, just re-live it in your mind, but add complete solitude and steep, windy roads to the mix. Mr. Carnock not only neglected to provide for churches and pharmacies when he proposed his fetching hamlet. He forgot all about the weather. He could have asked any Johnson. We'd have been glad to tell him how much and how often the flakes fly in that neck of the woods.
May no spade be turned on Terrapin Run. May no spade ever be turned on Terrapin Run. In this little slice of the world, may the peace of the land prevail.
Sermon's over! Time to watch a baseball game!
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Fred
Sitting here on my desk with me today is a little stuffed teddy bear named Fred. Fred has spent the year with me. He spends every odd-numbered year with me. On the even-numbered years he goes to Vermont, where he lives with a dear friend who I used to work with in Michigan.
Fred is getting ready for his annual transit. I honestly cannot remember how many times he has traveled between Snobville, NJ and Snowville, VT.
I have not seen my friend who lives in Snowville since we both left Michigan in 1987. She moved to Vermont about the same time I moved to New Jersey. (Yes, she did get the better end of the location, but it's been tough finding work up that way).
For many years my friend and I were bosom buddies, both happily working from home for a company that produced encyclopedias. We commiserated as changes occurred in our freelancing activities. We conferred on projects. We talked about our hopes for our children, who are about the same age, and our difficulties making ends meet.
Then the bottom dropped out on the encyclopedia company. I went off to teach school, and my friend took courses in medical transcription. I believe I've had one email from her this year.
But I've had Fred. And now my friend will have Fred.
As he passes from one home to the other, from New Jersey to Vermont, year after year, he holds with him a little sign that says "smile" ... and also holds out the hope that the two women who touch him, and love him, will some day be able to achieve their goal of going to Assateague Island together to see the wild ponies. Fred is keeping hope alive.
There are no doubt many magickal practices, backed by tradition and scholarly knowledge, that are intended to produce or protect hope where it is flagging. But if someone were to ask me how to bolster hope, I would just say to buy a small teddy bear and keep passing it from yourself to the friend you want some day to see, the friend who you hope is happy and prosperous and healthy.
Fred isn't just a stuffed animal. He's a talisman whose potential has yet to be tapped. I bid him Godsspeed to Vermont, where he will embrace my friend for me. As I kiss Fred good-bye, I will whisper into his ear about a long, sandy beach with wild ponies splashing in the surf. And Fred will hear. And it will happen.
Fred is getting ready for his annual transit. I honestly cannot remember how many times he has traveled between Snobville, NJ and Snowville, VT.
I have not seen my friend who lives in Snowville since we both left Michigan in 1987. She moved to Vermont about the same time I moved to New Jersey. (Yes, she did get the better end of the location, but it's been tough finding work up that way).
For many years my friend and I were bosom buddies, both happily working from home for a company that produced encyclopedias. We commiserated as changes occurred in our freelancing activities. We conferred on projects. We talked about our hopes for our children, who are about the same age, and our difficulties making ends meet.
Then the bottom dropped out on the encyclopedia company. I went off to teach school, and my friend took courses in medical transcription. I believe I've had one email from her this year.
But I've had Fred. And now my friend will have Fred.
As he passes from one home to the other, from New Jersey to Vermont, year after year, he holds with him a little sign that says "smile" ... and also holds out the hope that the two women who touch him, and love him, will some day be able to achieve their goal of going to Assateague Island together to see the wild ponies. Fred is keeping hope alive.
There are no doubt many magickal practices, backed by tradition and scholarly knowledge, that are intended to produce or protect hope where it is flagging. But if someone were to ask me how to bolster hope, I would just say to buy a small teddy bear and keep passing it from yourself to the friend you want some day to see, the friend who you hope is happy and prosperous and healthy.
Fred isn't just a stuffed animal. He's a talisman whose potential has yet to be tapped. I bid him Godsspeed to Vermont, where he will embrace my friend for me. As I kiss Fred good-bye, I will whisper into his ear about a long, sandy beach with wild ponies splashing in the surf. And Fred will hear. And it will happen.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Recipe for the Magical Creation of a Fancy Dress
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we help you with your everyday magical needs!
How often have you found yourself at a party event, under-dressed in some dowdy dress? Copy and print out the zippy recipe below, and you'll be the belle (or dude) of the ball!
You will need:
A job
A car
A lady on a bicycle
A sense of direction
A sense of urgency
Non-maxed credit at a department store
Directions:
Hop into the car and drive off in a direction that shows some signs of life. (If you are in the countryside, this may be just an eenie-meenie-miney-mo choice.)
When you see the lady on the bicycle, ask for directions to the nearest shopping mall. Wait for her to catch her breath. This may take some time. Repeat her directions back to her so you're sure you've got them right.
Follow the directions exactly. Watch out for slow-moving trucks.
At the shopping mall, locate the store you like the most. This can be done by following the handy direction signs posted at the edges of the mall complex.
Run, don't walk, into the store.
Grab the first dress on the rack that is your size. Take it into the dressing room and put it on. If it is revealing of certain body parts, grab the nearest shrug or shawl that marginally matches the dress.
Run, don't walk, to the costume jewelry aisle and find a necklace that unites the colors of the dress and the shrug.
(Optional): Find a makeup artist that's standing around doing nothing, and have her apply basic makeup.
Go to the checkout counter. Ask the clerk to cut off the dress tags. You might have to go behind the cash register so the clerk can remove the anti-theft device. After all, you're wearing the dress.
Pay for everything with your store credit, mindful that this is a reward for working a stressful job.
Run, don't walk, to the exit. As you return to your point of origin in the car, put on the jewelry and the shrug. Note how the dress magically matches the shoes you brought to wear. This happens every time.
On your way back, be sure to wave to the lady on the bike who gave you the directions in the first place. She will be riding in the opposite direction.
Reap the compliments on your well-turned-out appearance!
This free advice is, as always, offered as a public service to the patrons of "The Gods Are Bored." However, should you feel moved to make a donation, our operators are standing by to take your call.
How often have you found yourself at a party event, under-dressed in some dowdy dress? Copy and print out the zippy recipe below, and you'll be the belle (or dude) of the ball!
You will need:
A job
A car
A lady on a bicycle
A sense of direction
A sense of urgency
Non-maxed credit at a department store
Directions:
Hop into the car and drive off in a direction that shows some signs of life. (If you are in the countryside, this may be just an eenie-meenie-miney-mo choice.)
When you see the lady on the bicycle, ask for directions to the nearest shopping mall. Wait for her to catch her breath. This may take some time. Repeat her directions back to her so you're sure you've got them right.
Follow the directions exactly. Watch out for slow-moving trucks.
At the shopping mall, locate the store you like the most. This can be done by following the handy direction signs posted at the edges of the mall complex.
Run, don't walk, into the store.
Grab the first dress on the rack that is your size. Take it into the dressing room and put it on. If it is revealing of certain body parts, grab the nearest shrug or shawl that marginally matches the dress.
Run, don't walk, to the costume jewelry aisle and find a necklace that unites the colors of the dress and the shrug.
(Optional): Find a makeup artist that's standing around doing nothing, and have her apply basic makeup.
Go to the checkout counter. Ask the clerk to cut off the dress tags. You might have to go behind the cash register so the clerk can remove the anti-theft device. After all, you're wearing the dress.
Pay for everything with your store credit, mindful that this is a reward for working a stressful job.
Run, don't walk, to the exit. As you return to your point of origin in the car, put on the jewelry and the shrug. Note how the dress magically matches the shoes you brought to wear. This happens every time.
On your way back, be sure to wave to the lady on the bike who gave you the directions in the first place. She will be riding in the opposite direction.
Reap the compliments on your well-turned-out appearance!
This free advice is, as always, offered as a public service to the patrons of "The Gods Are Bored." However, should you feel moved to make a donation, our operators are standing by to take your call.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Something a Little Different Today
One of my students wrote a rap and gave it to me all folded up. Here are the last few lines:
Thank you Mrs. Johnson for being true
have a good summer and stay cool
I'll be happy to see you next year in this school
The rap is much longer, but I don't want to violate his privacy. So here's a response to him that I will copy and paste into an email.
My students would be surprised
how much I think about them when I'm not at school.
I wonder, what happens to them when they go home?
Are they safe? Are they happy?
I wasn't when I was in high school. Life is tough that way.
I hope my students live to the year 2200.
I hope they earn more money than they need to pay the bills.
I hope they laugh more than they cry,
and when they cry I hope it makes them feel better.
The world's a monster waiting to swallow you up,
but you just have to suck it up and keep fighting,
fly under the radar,
believe in magic.
The good die young, but so do the bad.
Take cover, keep warm, watch your back, family first.
I never thought I would like teaching school,
but poems like yours make me feel like I'm cool.
Thank you Mrs. Johnson for being true
have a good summer and stay cool
I'll be happy to see you next year in this school
The rap is much longer, but I don't want to violate his privacy. So here's a response to him that I will copy and paste into an email.
My students would be surprised
how much I think about them when I'm not at school.
I wonder, what happens to them when they go home?
Are they safe? Are they happy?
I wasn't when I was in high school. Life is tough that way.
I hope my students live to the year 2200.
I hope they earn more money than they need to pay the bills.
I hope they laugh more than they cry,
and when they cry I hope it makes them feel better.
The world's a monster waiting to swallow you up,
but you just have to suck it up and keep fighting,
fly under the radar,
believe in magic.
The good die young, but so do the bad.
Take cover, keep warm, watch your back, family first.
I never thought I would like teaching school,
but poems like yours make me feel like I'm cool.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
A Nobler Goal, Thanks to Heather
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have you ever had an "Uh oh" moment, when you opened a work assignment and found it to be three times the load you thought it would be?
Dumb question. This is happening to almost every American worker who hasn't been laid off.
Anyway, that's my plight today. And how else would I spend a Saturday? It's been a long time since the word "weekend" had any meaning.
I began this web log in 2005 after reading about a woman who blogged about her sick dog and received over $500 in contributions from readers. That sounded good to me! I have a parrot, DECIBEL THE NOISY AND VICIOUS, and two cats -- Alpha the Sweet and Beta the Stupid. At present we also have two foster kittens from the animal shelter, Bamp and Bambi. They are "hissy spitties," meaning that they're feral and in need of taming.
All of these animals are the picture of health. So put your checkbook away, dear reader.
However, I did make a request on this blog about a month ago. I discovered that the dinosaur magic I'd been doing with my daughters had hit a five-year low. We had been leaving plastic dinosaurs at a local mini-park since about 2003 ... anonymously. The magic kicked in when other anonymous donors also left dinosaurs at the same site.
On occasion there have been as many as 40 dinos in the park. Last month there were none. The bench was empty. Oh, what a sad sight!
It being the Yuletide, I was unable to purchase any new used dinos at the thrift stores and flea markets that usually serve as my supply depots.
Yesterday afternoon a whopping big box arrived on my front porch. The mailman struggled up the steps with it. The box was addressed to me, but when do I get to open my mail? My daughter The Spare had at it while I situated the new foster kittens. (As hissy spitties go, they're not bad. Once a hissy spittie bit straight through my thumb.)
When the box was pried open, it was found to contain one zillion beautiful plastic dinosaurs, enough for years of magic at the park! It was a multicolored multitude of prehistory, arrayed on the living room rug ... every species imaginable, and some that are probably mostly imagination.
This was one of the best holiday gifts I received.
Thank you, Heather of Baltimore (but really Appalachia, like me), and especially your sweet son who gave up his abundanat herd of Jurassic playthings! The dinos will be parceled out sparingly and will be played with by little kids who expect to see dinosaurs at a park dedicated to a famous dinosaur.
Wow. I am blown away!
Dumb question. This is happening to almost every American worker who hasn't been laid off.
Anyway, that's my plight today. And how else would I spend a Saturday? It's been a long time since the word "weekend" had any meaning.
I began this web log in 2005 after reading about a woman who blogged about her sick dog and received over $500 in contributions from readers. That sounded good to me! I have a parrot, DECIBEL THE NOISY AND VICIOUS, and two cats -- Alpha the Sweet and Beta the Stupid. At present we also have two foster kittens from the animal shelter, Bamp and Bambi. They are "hissy spitties," meaning that they're feral and in need of taming.
All of these animals are the picture of health. So put your checkbook away, dear reader.
However, I did make a request on this blog about a month ago. I discovered that the dinosaur magic I'd been doing with my daughters had hit a five-year low. We had been leaving plastic dinosaurs at a local mini-park since about 2003 ... anonymously. The magic kicked in when other anonymous donors also left dinosaurs at the same site.
On occasion there have been as many as 40 dinos in the park. Last month there were none. The bench was empty. Oh, what a sad sight!
It being the Yuletide, I was unable to purchase any new used dinos at the thrift stores and flea markets that usually serve as my supply depots.
Yesterday afternoon a whopping big box arrived on my front porch. The mailman struggled up the steps with it. The box was addressed to me, but when do I get to open my mail? My daughter The Spare had at it while I situated the new foster kittens. (As hissy spitties go, they're not bad. Once a hissy spittie bit straight through my thumb.)
When the box was pried open, it was found to contain one zillion beautiful plastic dinosaurs, enough for years of magic at the park! It was a multicolored multitude of prehistory, arrayed on the living room rug ... every species imaginable, and some that are probably mostly imagination.
This was one of the best holiday gifts I received.
Thank you, Heather of Baltimore (but really Appalachia, like me), and especially your sweet son who gave up his abundanat herd of Jurassic playthings! The dinos will be parceled out sparingly and will be played with by little kids who expect to see dinosaurs at a park dedicated to a famous dinosaur.
Wow. I am blown away!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Dino Disaster
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," o ye of good cheer! Curmudgeons are not welcome here!
All ten of you who follow the exploits of "The Gods Are Bored" will know that we have been leaving toy dinosaurs in a local park anonymously for about five years. The park is dedicated to a famous dinosaur found locally. Before we began our white magick, the site was marked by a plaque and a bench. *yawn* We decided to make the little spot more kid-friendly. And we succeeded, as measured by anecdotal evidence.
About a month ago, the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a story about the aforementioned famous dinosaur. Lo and behold, there on the front page of the Science section, was an artful picture of our official "Gods Are Bored" dinos, arrayed across their bench! The caption reads: "Toy dinosaurs are left at the site where Tyrannosaurus Oliviana was found in 1847."
I was so proud! Anonymous magick, given colorful, front-page coverage in a major metropolitan newspaper!
I'll bet you can guess where this is leading.
Today when I went to the dino park, all of the toy dinosaurs were gone. The bench stood completely empty for the first time in five (or more) years.
Luckily I had four dinos in the trunk of my car. I put them on the bench, at the very far edge, in a craven cluster. It's almost as if they're saying, "Please don't steal us! Just play and move on!"
Then I went to the thrift store to get more dinosaurs. But alas, it's the most wonderful time of the year. The toy dinos they had there were great-looking, and big, and high-priced, and definitely items anyone would steal.
If you are tripping over unwanted plastic dinosaurs in the dark of the night, send me an email. I'd like to replenish the population. No, let's say I will replenish the population. There are plenty of thrift stores and flea markets around here with affordable merchandise. As soon as Christmas is over, the dinos will start accumulating again.
It's just sad to see, after all these years, that some person decided to pinch the toys. I hope at least that they're going to a kid who loves dinosaurs and wouldn't get any otherwise.
All ten of you who follow the exploits of "The Gods Are Bored" will know that we have been leaving toy dinosaurs in a local park anonymously for about five years. The park is dedicated to a famous dinosaur found locally. Before we began our white magick, the site was marked by a plaque and a bench. *yawn* We decided to make the little spot more kid-friendly. And we succeeded, as measured by anecdotal evidence.
About a month ago, the Philadelphia Inquirer ran a story about the aforementioned famous dinosaur. Lo and behold, there on the front page of the Science section, was an artful picture of our official "Gods Are Bored" dinos, arrayed across their bench! The caption reads: "Toy dinosaurs are left at the site where Tyrannosaurus Oliviana was found in 1847."
I was so proud! Anonymous magick, given colorful, front-page coverage in a major metropolitan newspaper!
I'll bet you can guess where this is leading.
Today when I went to the dino park, all of the toy dinosaurs were gone. The bench stood completely empty for the first time in five (or more) years.
Luckily I had four dinos in the trunk of my car. I put them on the bench, at the very far edge, in a craven cluster. It's almost as if they're saying, "Please don't steal us! Just play and move on!"
Then I went to the thrift store to get more dinosaurs. But alas, it's the most wonderful time of the year. The toy dinos they had there were great-looking, and big, and high-priced, and definitely items anyone would steal.
If you are tripping over unwanted plastic dinosaurs in the dark of the night, send me an email. I'd like to replenish the population. No, let's say I will replenish the population. There are plenty of thrift stores and flea markets around here with affordable merchandise. As soon as Christmas is over, the dinos will start accumulating again.
It's just sad to see, after all these years, that some person decided to pinch the toys. I hope at least that they're going to a kid who loves dinosaurs and wouldn't get any otherwise.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Wizard of the Y
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where Samhain is nearly upon us! May your ancestors greet you with pride and joy!
Okay, maybe not this kind of Pride and Joy.
I am still rehabbing my newly titaniumized hip joint. I have moved on to swimming pool therapy. Except that Mr. Johnson and I can't afford a swimming pool membership. So we did a kind of sneaky thing. We got a two week trial period at a posh health club in the neighboring borough. When that "tryout" runs out, I hope I'm ready to rehab on dry land.
Can't afford physical therapy either. $30 copay per visit. I'm doing the pool exercises on my own.
Today I was at the pool in the morning for about 90 minutes. (Who has time for this, day after day?) In that time, I saw four moms bring in their cute little tots for swimming lessons. The moms sat and made cellphone calls while their tots learned to swim with a certified instructor.
Watching those cute kids with their perky teacher reminded me of how my kids learned to swim.
A long time ago I decided to teach my daughter The Heir how to swim. Why pay someone else to do it? So I got a membership at the local YMCA (since torn down) and began teaching her myself.
Mind you, my definition of swimming is pretty simple. You've got to be able to tread water, swim underwater a short distance, dive or jump into deep water, and swim four laps, dog-paddling if necessary.
Well, The Heir was young and afraid of almost everything. She was especially reluctant to put her head underwater. We went to the YMCA week after week, and she started dog-paddling pretty well, and treading, but she wouldn't put her face in the water.
An elderly gentleman was always there in the pool, doing a little bit of exercise but otherwise just people-watching. Once when The Heir got out of the pool to fetch a noodle, I struck up a conversation with the guy. It turned out he was a retired elementary school principal, and he was getting a kick out of watching me with The Heir. I told him about the brick wall I'd hit, trying to get her to go underwater.
He said, "Tell her I'm a wizard, and I'll work magic on her."
So when The Heir came back to the pool, I pointed out the guy. Of course she had seen him there all along, but it was news to her that he was a magical wizard who would work magic so that going underwater wouldn't be scary anymore.
The Heir looked at the guy. He bowed his head grandly and made a lordly gesture.
I took The Heir over to the lane rope that I'd tried a thousand times to get her to duck under. This time, with one last glance back at The Wizard, she ducked right under, came up sputtering, and pronounced it not so bad. After a few more tries, she was comfortable going underwater.
We thanked The Wizard for his magic.
Many, many years have passed now. Both of my daughters can swim and ride bikes. I taught them. I'm glad. It's a pleasant memory, the little daughter slipping into my arms from a jump into the pool, or holding my hands as she kicks to the center. It's warming to think about those first tentative pedal-pushes on the bike, the sense of pride when it all fell in place.
Now that I'm sort of a wizard myself, I do sorely want to tell those cell phone moms at the posh health club that they're missing something big by allowing professionals to teach the kiddies to swim. Those kids won't make the Olympics ... why care about stroke technique? Why, when you can swirl your tot around in the water as she giggles and squirms?
Funny how you think of these things sometimes. I guess that Wizard of the Y has long ago gone to Great Sidhe, there to live with the bored gods forever. And if The Heir falls off a boat, she knows how to swim. And when I remember teaching her, I am full of grace.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Pagan White Magic at Work!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," counting down the hours to the end of this dreadful retrograde! Soon. Oh so soon.
I know there have been many Pagans doing the good work to sink the McCain/Palin ticket. And blessed be, no one's shouting for the death of either candidate ... or calling them terrorists. Most religions have rules about that kind of thing. And sensible people don't wish anyone else dead, even if there's no religion in the picture.
But magick is in the air, oh yes! Faeries in a frenzy, deities dancing with delight!
Skeptic, you may call this a coincidence if you like. But tonight, Wednesday, is the final presidential debate. And at exactly the same hour, the Philadelphia Phillies will be on the verge of making it to the World Series!
So who's going to watch a silly baseball game instead of a serious presidential debate? HALF OF THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA, including ALL THE PHILLY SUBURBS, that's who!
Yes, Pennsylvania, that big, sought-after battleground state, will mostly be otherwise engaged tonight. The timing is impeccable.
I might be wrong about this, but I think the last time the Phillies were in the World Series was 1983. So if they punch their way through tonight, it will be a small (and lovely) miracle. And if they distract the Pennsylvania electorate as I think they inevitably will, no amount of McCain improvement will change the numbers in the Keystone State.
Mindful that magic works in mysterious ways, I shout: "Play ball!"
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Dinosaur Magic Update
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," magic for the masses! Dream it, do it, laugh about it later!
My legions and legions of readers will remember that the town I live in is famous for the discovery of an extensive dinosaur skeleton back in the 1800s some time or the other. So the town has a little tiny park dedicated to that discovery. It's called the "Dinosaur Site."
Generations of tourists sought out the "Dinosaur Site" only to discover a bench and a plaque. That was it. A bench and a plaque. Oh, and a comment box where most of the comments were, "This is boring."
So my daughters and I decided to liven up the "Dino Site." We started buying cheap plastic dinosaurs at flea markets and thrift stores. And we left them on the bench for kids to play with. Anonyously.
(This is classic. After the toy dinos had been there awhile, one of the comments read, "I like the toys, but there's nowhere to sit." MORON.)
For the first time in a long time, I was able to drive a car this week. Which was good, because I was flat out of TaB cola. First things first, I made a TaB run to the market. Then, when I opened the trunk of the car, I discovered some plastic dinos that my daughters bought just before my surgery. So I took them to the dino site.
A funny thing has happened at that dino site. Other people leave stuff there now. (And some nasty people take the plastic dinos, they constantly have to be replenished.)
This time the dino site had a stack of drawings, held down by a heavy rock. Of course I started looking through them. I figured they were left behind by some preschoolers.
But these drawings were not by preschoolers. Yes, they were silly and cartoonish, the kind of dinos a five-year-old would draw. But these dinos had decidedly teenaged issues. One, "Deathosaurus," stood beside a tombstone. The caption read, "Decided to take biology, chemistry, and physics all at the same time -- now I'm dead."
Then there was "Umbilical Cordosaurus." Caption: "I sever heads, not umbilical cords." The dinosaur pictured was bound with some kind of blue cord that looked like sausage.
My favorite was "Depressosaurus." Poor dino, crying ... broke up with boyfriend.
The giveaway was "Superiorsaurus," who announced his school's superiority over a rival -- both local parochial high schools.
By this time I was ROFL ... and there were more than 20 of these drawings!
They say if you laugh, the world will laugh with you. Sometimes all it takes is leaving a few plastic toys on a park bench.
My legions and legions of readers will remember that the town I live in is famous for the discovery of an extensive dinosaur skeleton back in the 1800s some time or the other. So the town has a little tiny park dedicated to that discovery. It's called the "Dinosaur Site."
Generations of tourists sought out the "Dinosaur Site" only to discover a bench and a plaque. That was it. A bench and a plaque. Oh, and a comment box where most of the comments were, "This is boring."
So my daughters and I decided to liven up the "Dino Site." We started buying cheap plastic dinosaurs at flea markets and thrift stores. And we left them on the bench for kids to play with. Anonyously.
(This is classic. After the toy dinos had been there awhile, one of the comments read, "I like the toys, but there's nowhere to sit." MORON.)
For the first time in a long time, I was able to drive a car this week. Which was good, because I was flat out of TaB cola. First things first, I made a TaB run to the market. Then, when I opened the trunk of the car, I discovered some plastic dinos that my daughters bought just before my surgery. So I took them to the dino site.
A funny thing has happened at that dino site. Other people leave stuff there now. (And some nasty people take the plastic dinos, they constantly have to be replenished.)
This time the dino site had a stack of drawings, held down by a heavy rock. Of course I started looking through them. I figured they were left behind by some preschoolers.
But these drawings were not by preschoolers. Yes, they were silly and cartoonish, the kind of dinos a five-year-old would draw. But these dinos had decidedly teenaged issues. One, "Deathosaurus," stood beside a tombstone. The caption read, "Decided to take biology, chemistry, and physics all at the same time -- now I'm dead."
Then there was "Umbilical Cordosaurus." Caption: "I sever heads, not umbilical cords." The dinosaur pictured was bound with some kind of blue cord that looked like sausage.
My favorite was "Depressosaurus." Poor dino, crying ... broke up with boyfriend.
The giveaway was "Superiorsaurus," who announced his school's superiority over a rival -- both local parochial high schools.
By this time I was ROFL ... and there were more than 20 of these drawings!
They say if you laugh, the world will laugh with you. Sometimes all it takes is leaving a few plastic toys on a park bench.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
White Magic Going Bad?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," counting down the days until my daughter The Heir goes to college.... Seven. *weeps*
Okay. Enough of that. Self-pity ain't pretty.
Did you see Stuart Shepard from Focus on the Family ask his viewers to pray for a torrential rain on Barack Obama's acceptance speech? You did? Tell me how that is different from black magic. The dude is even holding a wand! (Actually it's an umbrella, but he uses it like a wand.)
You gotta be careful what you ask for, Stu. The family of four swept away in a Rocky Mountain flash flood may be your own.
Magic is very, very tricky. My two white magic projects are making me feel my amateur status quite painfully.
1. Spell #1: Saving the Small Stream
For several years I've been engaged in trying to save a small mountain stream from becoming the sewage sluice for a town of 11,000 people. That town doesn't exist right now -- the tract of land is free of human habitation. Attempts to keep it that way are still slowly grinding forward, a victory here, a setback there. You know how it is with developers. They never give up.
I asked the bored Goddess Cloacina to guard the stream for me. She is the ancient Roman Goddess of Cleanliness. Cloacina was eager to have the work. She paid her own transportation costs to the site. But in typical ancient Roman fashion, She has used every tactic in Her considerable power to git r done.
The proposed Appalachian Mountain development is called Terrapin Run, after the pretty little stream. Its developer, the shadowy PDC Corporation, has made the news lately for lapses in completion of other Maryland developments. These lapses have led to burglaries (because PDC did not install mandatory street lights), and automobile accidents (because PDC did not complete storm water runoff ponds). My source for this information is a July 24, 2008 article in Gazette.net: Maryland Community Newspapers Online, by Andrea Noble.
Has the bored Goddess I petitioned actually tried to scuttle the Terrapin Run project by allowing innocent folks in other suburban developments to be burglarized?
This is why I never, ever pray for rain.
2. Spell #2: The Enchanted Plastic Dinosaurs
My legions and legions of readers will recall that my daughters and I decided to liven up a local park that was dedicated to dinosaurs (but had only a boring plaque) by putting toy dinosaurs out for kids to play with. Of course we do this anonymously. And we've watched happy kids play with the dinos. This looks like a white magic slam-dunk.
Nope. While my daughters and I have always put out only larger dinosaurs that cannot be swallowed, it seems that other anonymous folks have taken up the cause, and some of the dinos they leave could be swallowed by a little kid. Now my family has to prowl that site vigilantly, removing all undersized plastic dinos. But are we vigilant enough? What sort of dangerous project have we unleashed here?
Can you tell I'm a little insecure today? Advice, anyone?
Okay. Enough of that. Self-pity ain't pretty.
Did you see Stuart Shepard from Focus on the Family ask his viewers to pray for a torrential rain on Barack Obama's acceptance speech? You did? Tell me how that is different from black magic. The dude is even holding a wand! (Actually it's an umbrella, but he uses it like a wand.)
You gotta be careful what you ask for, Stu. The family of four swept away in a Rocky Mountain flash flood may be your own.
Magic is very, very tricky. My two white magic projects are making me feel my amateur status quite painfully.
1. Spell #1: Saving the Small Stream
For several years I've been engaged in trying to save a small mountain stream from becoming the sewage sluice for a town of 11,000 people. That town doesn't exist right now -- the tract of land is free of human habitation. Attempts to keep it that way are still slowly grinding forward, a victory here, a setback there. You know how it is with developers. They never give up.
I asked the bored Goddess Cloacina to guard the stream for me. She is the ancient Roman Goddess of Cleanliness. Cloacina was eager to have the work. She paid her own transportation costs to the site. But in typical ancient Roman fashion, She has used every tactic in Her considerable power to git r done.
The proposed Appalachian Mountain development is called Terrapin Run, after the pretty little stream. Its developer, the shadowy PDC Corporation, has made the news lately for lapses in completion of other Maryland developments. These lapses have led to burglaries (because PDC did not install mandatory street lights), and automobile accidents (because PDC did not complete storm water runoff ponds). My source for this information is a July 24, 2008 article in Gazette.net: Maryland Community Newspapers Online, by Andrea Noble.
Has the bored Goddess I petitioned actually tried to scuttle the Terrapin Run project by allowing innocent folks in other suburban developments to be burglarized?
This is why I never, ever pray for rain.
2. Spell #2: The Enchanted Plastic Dinosaurs
My legions and legions of readers will recall that my daughters and I decided to liven up a local park that was dedicated to dinosaurs (but had only a boring plaque) by putting toy dinosaurs out for kids to play with. Of course we do this anonymously. And we've watched happy kids play with the dinos. This looks like a white magic slam-dunk.
Nope. While my daughters and I have always put out only larger dinosaurs that cannot be swallowed, it seems that other anonymous folks have taken up the cause, and some of the dinos they leave could be swallowed by a little kid. Now my family has to prowl that site vigilantly, removing all undersized plastic dinos. But are we vigilant enough? What sort of dangerous project have we unleashed here?
Can you tell I'm a little insecure today? Advice, anyone?
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Spreading Happiness at the Thrift Store
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do not adjust your television dial. That strange noise you hear is The Heir practicing her musical saw! Either that or we just proved that there's intelligent life on other planets.
We're kind of weird here in the Johnson family. On a hot afternoon when everyone else is at the swim club or the movies, we hop in the car and go to the thrift store. There's a whopper of a thrift store nearby. It's as big as a Sam's Club, only packed to the plimsol line with clean, mended, used clothing.
My daughter The Spare loves the thrift store because she's a tiny little thing, and there's always gorgeous stuff in tiny sizes. And The Spare is brave about setting her own fashion trends. No friggin fifty dollar Hollister t-shirts for her! She can make a dollar holler.
Today, while browsing (and leaning heavily on the shopping cart to keep weight off my bad leg), I found a big plastic bag of Calico Critter stuff. My daughter The Heir had a bunch of Calico Critter toys when she was little. (We were in the chips in those days, not like now.) She played and played with that stuff.
Anyway, the bag at the thrift store had the whole family of bunnies and a bunch of furniture. At two bucks, it looked like a nice little ebay turnaround. So I flung it in the cart.
We were at the thrift store for about two hours. Yes, you got that right. Keep your movies and your shopping mall! At almost the end of that time, I saw a mom and young daughter moving down an aisle. The daughter, maybe 5 or 6, was pushing a shopping cart. In the cart was a dollhouse.
I got the mom's attention, put the bag of bunnies behind my back, and showed it to her. I said, "Would your daughter want these for the dollhouse?" And the mom was thrilled. When the little girl saw the cute bunnies and the furniture, she just about flipped.
So I did my good deed for the day. I'm sitting here thinking about that cute little girl, at home in her room, putting those bunnies to bed in her dollhouse. Somehow that's a nice feeling. Like white magic or something.
Friday, May 30, 2008
White Magic Friday: Gotta Be More Hip
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"
Have you ever had an MRI?
I had one today. It was the first thing in the morning, and I sure was glad I skipped my coffee before I went, cuz caffeine would not have made matters better.
Here are the tactics I used to get through the MRI:
1. I kept my eyes closed the whole time.
2. I thought about a person in my life who would be unable to endure it (Mr. Johnson) and congratulated myself that I would be able to warn him in advance.
3. I thought of a person who would consider it awesome performance art and want to stay in there all day, (daughter The Heir) and marveled that some inventor created something that sounds just like the stuff she listens to on her MP3.
4. I compared it to living with my mother. (This always works, no matter how bad things get.)
Can I have the envelope, please? The results of the MRI are...
I need a new hip.
White magic will not fix this, of course. Back in the day when the Druids took care of things, I would be given herbal remedies and a good, stout staff, and on I'd go as long as I could.
So, what will white magic do?
It will help.
The bulk of white magic consists of the positive feelings we emit towards others. So, dear readers, think kindly on me and let me know when you're doing it.
Tomorrow, if time permits: We'll catch up with the Monkey Man!
Sunday is The Heir's birthday, and I can't avoid it any longer. She will receive her musical saw.
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Friday, May 23, 2008
White Magic Friday: 23 Skiddooo!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Look for our special Memorial Day Weekend Sale: Buy one deity, get another deity of equal or lesser value for free!*
I know exactly who started me down the road to Paganism. It was Robert Anton Wilson. And in keeping with his philosophy that there's no such thing as a coincidence, it was quite by coincidence that I learned of his writing and his line of thought.
Perhaps "line of thought" isn't the right phrase. I think he would have preferred "nebulous cloud of thought." He wasn't a linear kinda dude.
In his book Cosmic Trigger, Wilson talks about the number 23. And I've talked about it on this site before, and I've even run a photo of this guy here before.
EXHIBIT A: MICHAEL JORDAN, BEST NBA PLAYER OF ALL TIME
Here's the magical thing about the number 23. If you haven't noticed it before, after reading this you will start noticing it. Absolutely positively correct. Wait and see. It's gonna crop up all over the place.
There's all this complex numerology stuff about 23, because it's made up of prime numbers, and they add up to another prime number, etc. etc. and so on and so forth. But what Robert Anton Wilson noted (and Anne too) is that the minute you single out any number you're gonna find that number haunting you and taunting you.
Okay, so maybe it won't work for 4,273,849. But anything under 100, just trust me.
But you don't trust me. So here is the very true story of My First Encounter with the Number 23.
The very same day I read about the number 23 in Cosmic Trigger, I came home from work and got a phone call from Mr. Johnson. We were newly married at the time. He was on his way to the convenience store, and he asked me if he should pick up a lottery ticket. (We hardly ever played the lotto then, and we don't play it at all now.)
It was almost time for the lottery drawing. So I told him to plunk down a dollar on the number 023. He said he'd try, if they still were taking bets.
Readers, this is pinky swear truth. I turned on the t.v. 10 minutes later, and the winning daily number was called: 023.
Happy ending? Only in the movies, muchachos. Mr. Johnson just missed getting a ticket by a heartbeat.
It was some time after that, not too long I think, that Michael Jordan asked me what number he should choose for his Chicago Bulls jersey. He wanted to have a stellar career in the NBA, you see. So I told him about Cosmic Trigger, and Robert Anton Wilson, and the rest is history.
All right. All right. That last part isn't true. But the lottery thing is true. And it's also true that Jordan played his whole career as #23. Coincidence? I think not.
Put the number 23 to work in your life. Or don't. We at "The Gods Are Bored" aren't trying to tell you what to do.
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
5/23
*Offer not good on Judeo-Christian deities or demons, Isis, Sedna, Loki, statues from the Canary Islands, Venus, Pluto, Mercury, Coyote, Anansi, Chac and other Aztec deities, Sacred Thunderbirds, Kali, Krishna, the Salmon of Wisdom, assorted faeries and faerie products, hallucinogenic mushrooms, DC Superheroes, The Green Man, Chaos, Demeter, Pan, or assorted Price-Reduced Tikis. Offer cannot be combined with other coupons. Offer cannot be converted to cash or be used for the remission of sins. While supplies last.
Friday, May 16, 2008
White Magic Friday: Designer Clothing
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's White Magic Friday, and we're gonna make a dollar holler!
Are you going into sticker shock every time you go for groceries? Never mind the gas station. Check out the price of apples. Sheesh! Time to cook the parrot. Here, Decibel! Here polly polly polly...
Where's my turkey axe?
In these (or any) might-be-but-can't-be-certain-maybe-who knows-pre-pre-pre recessionary times, it's tough making ends meet. And still you want to look sharp. Like the old ancestral blue-faced mandrills, we humans tend to feel the need to update our wardrobes frequently.
Here's where the sticker shock really sets in. Have you checked out some of these trendy new fashion emporiums? There's one called Abercrombie, and one called Hollister, and a local favorite called Urban Outfitters. You plunk down fifty bucks, they'll deign to sell you a t-shirt with their name on it. A t-shirt that looks like your cousin Jake wore it when he was pulling out a stump.
I've got a clothes horse daughter who attends school alongside girls who wear nothing but these Hollister threads. So here is how my daughter The Spare worked her own white magic and became the trendiest, best-dressed gal in Snobville Middle School:
1. The Spare has a girlish figure. This helps but is not mandatory.
2. The Spare goes to a gigantic thrift store in Camden, New Jersey and cruises the aisles. Into her hands fall cute clothes that we can afford. When your new shirt costs $3.00 instead of $30.00, you can get a new shirt every Saturday!
3. Now here's where the magic comes in. Our thrift store is called Village Thrift. So if someone asks, "Where did you get that cute top?" You can't say "Village Thrift," now can you? So, The Spare calls Village Thrift "VT Outfitters." She has been quicker than most teens to discover that you can buy a t-shirt that looks like it's been used in stump-busting for fifty cents, and no one will be the wiser.
Today my daughter The Spare came out of school looking like a million bucks, but in reality she was done up at about $6.50 from head to toe, including shoes. The trick is giving the thrift store a snobby name.
And be sure the thrift store isn't the one on the main street of your town. Because someone might get wise to you. Go to a neighboring town. (This is easy where we live. We could bike to Village Thrift. But we would be tired when we got home.)
Here's extra magic for you faerie festival fanatics:
Thrift stores are treasure troves of faerie festival attire. If you don't find a suitable faerie gown in a month or two, you can always start snapping up a bevvy of lightly-used prom gowns and re-assembling them in novel ways. Okay, so if you can't sew this can be a problem. Call in those magic mice! Or else just have patience. The right gooey gown will eventually find its way into the racks. (Always look among the lingerie, gross as that sounds. I got me a dazzling nymph gown that way a few years -- and festivals -- back.)
Guys, you too can bypass the useless Abercrombie label. Let some dumb schlub pay $75 for a hoodie. You get yours at the thrift store, whack it with a stick and douse it with bleach, and you've saved yourself $70! Think of all the beer that will buy.
If this seems less like white magic than sound advice, just remember ... most white magic is just pure common sense, liberally applied. Go therefore and do it abundantly!
Are you going into sticker shock every time you go for groceries? Never mind the gas station. Check out the price of apples. Sheesh! Time to cook the parrot. Here, Decibel! Here polly polly polly...
Where's my turkey axe?
In these (or any) might-be-but-can't-be-certain-maybe-who knows-pre-pre-pre recessionary times, it's tough making ends meet. And still you want to look sharp. Like the old ancestral blue-faced mandrills, we humans tend to feel the need to update our wardrobes frequently.
Here's where the sticker shock really sets in. Have you checked out some of these trendy new fashion emporiums? There's one called Abercrombie, and one called Hollister, and a local favorite called Urban Outfitters. You plunk down fifty bucks, they'll deign to sell you a t-shirt with their name on it. A t-shirt that looks like your cousin Jake wore it when he was pulling out a stump.
I've got a clothes horse daughter who attends school alongside girls who wear nothing but these Hollister threads. So here is how my daughter The Spare worked her own white magic and became the trendiest, best-dressed gal in Snobville Middle School:
1. The Spare has a girlish figure. This helps but is not mandatory.
2. The Spare goes to a gigantic thrift store in Camden, New Jersey and cruises the aisles. Into her hands fall cute clothes that we can afford. When your new shirt costs $3.00 instead of $30.00, you can get a new shirt every Saturday!
3. Now here's where the magic comes in. Our thrift store is called Village Thrift. So if someone asks, "Where did you get that cute top?" You can't say "Village Thrift," now can you? So, The Spare calls Village Thrift "VT Outfitters." She has been quicker than most teens to discover that you can buy a t-shirt that looks like it's been used in stump-busting for fifty cents, and no one will be the wiser.
Today my daughter The Spare came out of school looking like a million bucks, but in reality she was done up at about $6.50 from head to toe, including shoes. The trick is giving the thrift store a snobby name.
And be sure the thrift store isn't the one on the main street of your town. Because someone might get wise to you. Go to a neighboring town. (This is easy where we live. We could bike to Village Thrift. But we would be tired when we got home.)
Here's extra magic for you faerie festival fanatics:
Thrift stores are treasure troves of faerie festival attire. If you don't find a suitable faerie gown in a month or two, you can always start snapping up a bevvy of lightly-used prom gowns and re-assembling them in novel ways. Okay, so if you can't sew this can be a problem. Call in those magic mice! Or else just have patience. The right gooey gown will eventually find its way into the racks. (Always look among the lingerie, gross as that sounds. I got me a dazzling nymph gown that way a few years -- and festivals -- back.)
Guys, you too can bypass the useless Abercrombie label. Let some dumb schlub pay $75 for a hoodie. You get yours at the thrift store, whack it with a stick and douse it with bleach, and you've saved yourself $70! Think of all the beer that will buy.
If this seems less like white magic than sound advice, just remember ... most white magic is just pure common sense, liberally applied. Go therefore and do it abundantly!
Friday, May 09, 2008
White Magic Friday: Besting Barbie
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on White Magic Friday! We've just inaugurated this new weekly series in order to assure our legions and legions of anxious Christian readers that Pagan magic comes not in black, but in all the lighter shades of pale! Ask Sherwin Williams. We know our eggshell whites.
The year I was born, Mattel, Inc. introduced a new doll called Barbie. Here is how she looked at her birth.
I was about five when I got my Barbie. I say "my Barbie" because in the day you only had one Barbie. She was your Barbie, and you knew not only her but also all of your friends' Barbies. You never changed Barbies, you only changed their clothes. And if your mama could sew, you were the envy of the neighborhood.
Barbie always made me nervous. I didn't like her body. I thought her boobs were too big and her waist too small, and those perpetually pointed toes just bothered the hell out of me. I pinky swear this is true. Even as a kid I had Barbie issues.
My mom couldn't sew a lick, but she noted my Barbie issues and bought me a gorgeous blue velvet Guinevere gown for my Barbie. It covered Barbie's toes. And if I'd kept the damned classic Barbie and the dress, they would cover my daughter's first semester of college.
My sister loved Barbies and was also very fussy about her belongings. So when my daughters came along, Sis had all this vintage Barbie stuff in mint condition. She gave it to me. Did I put it on ebay like a smart person? Nope. Handed it over to my kids, who played it into the ground and then some. Not a piece left.
I have changed a great deal since 1959, but look at Barbie. She's not only prettier, she's still got those whopping gazongas and that wasp waist. And I can state for a fact that her feet still hold the high heel pose, because when The Heir and The Spare were little, I stepped on about 1,283 Barbie high heels in the dark of the night.
The Barbie culture changed a lot between my Barbie days and my kids' Barbie days. By the time The Heir was about 12 and The Spare about five, we had a whole bin of Barbies, most of them naked. Oh yeah, and we also had Sis's classic Malibu Ken. (I saved him, but he's naked. He used to have a leather leisure suit that really buttoned.)
It irked me that humans grow old, die, and decompose, while Barbie stays forever young and doesn't even fall apart in the landfill. Not that I'd want to be an immortal, big-boobed, wasp-waisted zombie who can only walk in high heels, but I got tired of staring into that bin.
What does this have to do with white magic? Well, I just made a wish. I wished someone would do something about the Barbies in my house to make me feel better about them.
Some time later, I heard the unfamiliar sound of my daughters playing together amiably, up in the room where the Barbies were stored. I guess The Heir was about 14 and The Spare was about 9.
I went upstairs to lurk.
The Heir had put the whole force of her artistic abilities to work on the collection of Barbies. She had drawn dark circles under their eyes, given them bad haircuts, punked their clothing, and splayed their limbs in grotesque poses.
The Heir was entertaining The Spare with a show about Barbies Gone Bad. Some of the Barbies were on drugs. Others had gotten bad boob jobs. They were all malajusted, except for Malibu Ken, who was attired in the prettiest dress in the bin and flirting with a picture of Charles Barkley. (This photo illustration is not one of The Heir's efforts. Her Barbies had varicose veins from shooting up.)
The Spare was wide-eyed throughout the exhibition. She was a tad young to understand the whole plot The Heir was crafting on the fly. But she got the jist. The over-arching theme, so to speak.
When playtime was over, the Barbies Gone Bad were flung back into the bin. They looked about 50 times more horrific than the Transylvanians in Rocky Horror Picture Show. As time went on, The Heir and The Spare competed to see how low they could get their Barbies to stoop. Malibu Ken was the only one who retained a shred of dignity, because The Heir loves drag queens.
Sorry, but I found this refreshing. Barbies Gone Bad not only looked frightful, they imparted wholesome messages about avoiding drugs and unneccessary plastic surgery. And they also said that The Heir and The Spare would never buy into Barbie as a role model. Can I get a yee-haaa for that? Thanks!
White Magic Lesson: Keep your wishes small and harmless, and you'll be happy whether or not they come true. And if they do come true, you'll be even happier. Until you remember that leather leisure suit and how well it would have done on ebay.
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Friday, April 25, 2008
White Magic Friday #2: Go For the Weird
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" and our recurring feature, "White Magic Friday!" We are seeking to prove that magic need not be feared, that it can lighten everyone's burden or whatnot.
There's a park near where we live that is dedicated to a dinosaur. When my daughter The Heir was a tot, I took her there, telling her we were going to the "Dinosaur Park." And when we got there, all we saw was a plaque with a picture on it. The Heir said, "Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?"
A few years later the subject came up of the boring dino park. Heir, daugther Spare and I decided to use magic to make the park better.
We combed flea markets and thrift stores for cheap plastic dinosaurs. We made sure we didn't buy any that a kid could choke on. And then, under cover of darkness, we took them to the dinosaur park and put them all around.
About a week later The Heir was out riding her bike. She went past the dino park and saw a mom with two little kids. The kids were playing happily with the dinosaurs. One of the kids asked if they could keep them, and the mother said, "No, they belong here, so that next time you come you can play with them again."
Over the years we've replenished the supply of dinosaurs when it runs low. But here's the magic part of it. Since we started dino-stocking, other people have been doing it too. We always find dinosaurs we didn't buy ourselves. And one time, when some bad demon took each and every dinosaur away, we found that we weren't the only ones re-stocking the site.
So here's our white magic tip for today: If you see a park where you know that kids play, make it more fun for them. Quietly leave some sandbox toys, or plastic dinosaurs. This is a cheap proposition, and it heightens happiness in the world. And even if it's only a little bit of happiness in a small park, it's adding to the conglomerate of worldwide happiness.
Pick a spot. Make it weirdly kid-friendly. Remember to use stuff that kids won't be tempted to put in their mouths. And don't take credit for it. That's the magic part.
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
There's a park near where we live that is dedicated to a dinosaur. When my daughter The Heir was a tot, I took her there, telling her we were going to the "Dinosaur Park." And when we got there, all we saw was a plaque with a picture on it. The Heir said, "Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?"
A few years later the subject came up of the boring dino park. Heir, daugther Spare and I decided to use magic to make the park better.
We combed flea markets and thrift stores for cheap plastic dinosaurs. We made sure we didn't buy any that a kid could choke on. And then, under cover of darkness, we took them to the dinosaur park and put them all around.
About a week later The Heir was out riding her bike. She went past the dino park and saw a mom with two little kids. The kids were playing happily with the dinosaurs. One of the kids asked if they could keep them, and the mother said, "No, they belong here, so that next time you come you can play with them again."
Over the years we've replenished the supply of dinosaurs when it runs low. But here's the magic part of it. Since we started dino-stocking, other people have been doing it too. We always find dinosaurs we didn't buy ourselves. And one time, when some bad demon took each and every dinosaur away, we found that we weren't the only ones re-stocking the site.
So here's our white magic tip for today: If you see a park where you know that kids play, make it more fun for them. Quietly leave some sandbox toys, or plastic dinosaurs. This is a cheap proposition, and it heightens happiness in the world. And even if it's only a little bit of happiness in a small park, it's adding to the conglomerate of worldwide happiness.
Pick a spot. Make it weirdly kid-friendly. Remember to use stuff that kids won't be tempted to put in their mouths. And don't take credit for it. That's the magic part.
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Friday, April 18, 2008
White Magic Friday #1: Hot Rod Nite
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Oooooo Weeeeeee! That headline sounds half sexy, doesn't it? Well, that's the problem. At my age, I'm only half as sexy as I used to be. And half as good a wage earner, too. But I'm holding my own.
Emmmmm. Mmmmmm. Holding my own? Perhaps I should say I'm still in the game. There's a dance or two in this lame dame!
Thursday brought one of those rare spring evenings that just drive you outdoors and beg you to party on. And it happened that a town near us was having an odd, middle-of-the-week classic car night. So I told my daughters The Heir and The Spare to drop their homework and toddle off with me for an adventure. Which they were only too glad to do.
We went to the neighboring town, and the joint was jumpin'. There was an Elvis-era rock n roll band set up in front of City Hall, and the street was lined with souped-up classic cars.
When we go to stuff like this, I almost always embarrass The Heir and The Spare. The reason: I talk to everyone like I've known them all my life. It's just the way I am. I was raised in a place where everyone did that, and it stuck with me.
So we were passing this totally bitchin' maxed-out rod with a body circa 1962 and an engine stolen from NASA. The owner, a largish fella with a white ponytale and bandanna, was leaning proudly against the machine.
I said to him, "Whoa, this car is bitchin'. How fast does it go?"
And he said, "I don't know. The speedometer's broke."
And I said, "Well, that's an inessential piece of equipment anyway."
And he said, "When the paint starts to peel off her, I know she's goin' fast."
And we both laughed.
To me, this is white magic at work. If you can make a stranger laugh, and he or she makes you laugh in return, the bored gods just shower you with positive energy.
I'm not finished with Cindy Jacobs's nasty diatribe about the occult, Deliver Us from Evil. Not by a long shot. We haven't gotten to the demon-possessed cats yet! But reading this loathsome book has got me determined to share white magic with y'all in order to counteract the widespread notion that all magic comes from de debbil. From now on, whenever I post on Friday, the topic will be How To Improve Your Life through White Magic.
So here's White Magic Lesson #1: Make a stranger laugh.
Please don't use dumb blonde jokes. That really big dude with the white ponytail might have been blonde back in the day.
Emmmmm. Mmmmmm. Holding my own? Perhaps I should say I'm still in the game. There's a dance or two in this lame dame!
Thursday brought one of those rare spring evenings that just drive you outdoors and beg you to party on. And it happened that a town near us was having an odd, middle-of-the-week classic car night. So I told my daughters The Heir and The Spare to drop their homework and toddle off with me for an adventure. Which they were only too glad to do.
We went to the neighboring town, and the joint was jumpin'. There was an Elvis-era rock n roll band set up in front of City Hall, and the street was lined with souped-up classic cars.
When we go to stuff like this, I almost always embarrass The Heir and The Spare. The reason: I talk to everyone like I've known them all my life. It's just the way I am. I was raised in a place where everyone did that, and it stuck with me.
So we were passing this totally bitchin' maxed-out rod with a body circa 1962 and an engine stolen from NASA. The owner, a largish fella with a white ponytale and bandanna, was leaning proudly against the machine.
I said to him, "Whoa, this car is bitchin'. How fast does it go?"
And he said, "I don't know. The speedometer's broke."
And I said, "Well, that's an inessential piece of equipment anyway."
And he said, "When the paint starts to peel off her, I know she's goin' fast."
And we both laughed.
To me, this is white magic at work. If you can make a stranger laugh, and he or she makes you laugh in return, the bored gods just shower you with positive energy.
I'm not finished with Cindy Jacobs's nasty diatribe about the occult, Deliver Us from Evil. Not by a long shot. We haven't gotten to the demon-possessed cats yet! But reading this loathsome book has got me determined to share white magic with y'all in order to counteract the widespread notion that all magic comes from de debbil. From now on, whenever I post on Friday, the topic will be How To Improve Your Life through White Magic.
So here's White Magic Lesson #1: Make a stranger laugh.
Please don't use dumb blonde jokes. That really big dude with the white ponytail might have been blonde back in the day.
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