Mummer, It's Cold Outside!

I'm just back from a more fun than all get out serious and grueling Two Street Stompers practice, in which we danced and partied the afternoon away rehearsed our routine until it reached epic silliness perfect precision!

It was cold as the Devil's cheeks out there, but I like cold weather.

I'm going to date myself beyond all doubt. Back in the day, there was a family called "The King Family" that performed musical specials on t.v. once or twice a year. It was an extended family of about 50 people -- cousins, uncles, in-laws, grandparents. And they all seemed to get along so well together! Anyway, long story short, the Two Street Stompers sort of remind me of the King Family. Most of them are related in some way. Some have been marching since they were kids. They took me in, and I'm glad. I love it.

A local t.v. station did a short piece on the Stompers. I've posted it below. When you see people dancing Gangam style, I'm the one in the black jacket with gold sleeves behind the TNT box. Clearly in my element.

Two Street Gold Rush!

Two Street Stompers

Visit from Bored Goddesses: Bast and Freya

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Seems like a while since I checked in. Well, we have been making merry here at Chateau Johnson. My daughters Heir and Spare got me the nicest gifts! Heir bought me a portable drum for drum circles, a real one from India, and Spare got me a faerie that I named Yule.

Here is a photo of the three of us that Spare's gentleman caller snapped for Mr. J:

EXHIBIT A: THE STARS OF THIS BLOG

That's Heir on the left, me, and Spare.

We have had some company here in the way of bored Goddesses. You see, my cat Alpha has entered extreme old age and is getting more frail by the day. Alpha has long been blessed by Bast and by Freya (the Latter loving it when Alpha bore Her chariot), and They are here giving solace to Alpha as she dwindles. I cannot tell you how lovely it is to have Goddesses caring for my cat!

Oh well, and yes, Mr. J and I are spoiling Alpha rotten by giving her all the foods she has been denied her whole life, like lunch meat and table spoils.

Bast is also quite tickled about the upcoming 2013 Philadelphia Mummers Parade. I showed Her some film footage from previous parades, and She was quite impressed! She said that Alexandria never had a finer spectacle, even at the height of its power! So, how about that?

This afternoon Bast helped me spray paint my sneakers a shiny metallic gold, Rustoleum reluctantly purchased from my nemesis store, Home Depot. While She and I were busy spraying, Alpha went missing for a time, outside. Of course I thought immediately of faerie abduction, and for the next hour I searched for Alpha fruitlessly. But some time after dark, Bast and Freya found Alpha and brought her back inside.

Tomorrow is Mummers practice. I get my suit! Stay tuned for some photos that will hardly be fit to print!

Results Must Be Measurable

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" The title of this post is "teacher lingo." It means that you must have some written proof that your students have learned what you set out to teach them.

But I think "results must be measurable" can apply to lots of other things as well.

For years I wondered why Christmas came five days after the winter solstice, and not right on it.

Voila! I'm not the quickest thinker, but I might have figured it out.

After the shortest period of daylight each year, we gain a half minute to a minute of extra daylight per 24-hour cycle. I guess it would take five days or so before the extra daylight would be measurable. It's like our ancient forebears had to be certain that the Sun was returning before they threw a party for it.

Yuletide, explained ... at least to my not-so-nimble mind.

On behalf of the staff of "The Gods Are Bored," and all the Ancient Ones whose praise and worship teams marked this part of the year with feasts, I wish you a peaceful and pleasant holiday. Set some mulled wine aside for the faeries, sing a carol or two, and enjoy the company of your nearest and dearest.

Blessings to all,

Anne
Crazy Buzzard Lady

Funny Holiday Banter

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do you think this is the most wonderful time of the year? Me neither!

It's dark. It's cold. The traffic is terrible. And it's hard not to overspend when the too-loud Xmas carols mess with your mind.

I've always said that I could gladly go from Thanksgiving to New Year's Eve without stopping for Xmas at all.

Well, problem with that, these days, is that I would miss crucial Mummers practices, mid-month and toward New Year's Eve. So I've become reconciled to the whole Christmas season.

Today Mr. J and I bravely sallied forth to obtain foodstuffs for the holiday feasting. We went to this behemoth of a store called Wegman's. The thing about Wegman's is that they have a lot of stuff that is partially prepared, and all you have to do is bung it into the oven and set the timer. That's my kind of cooking.

Trouble is, that's the kind of cooking that appeals to most people. For the love of fruit flies, that place was packed! It was shopping cart gridlock. Every aisle was impassible. Gods forbid you had to stop and look at something, because you would start a huge bottleneck. Damned good thing that shopping carts don't have horns on them! It would have been honk heaven in there.

After an hour or more of wrestling our way through the store, Mr. J and I had a modest cartful of groceries. We took our place in one of the long lines by a cash register. Then Mr. J went to look for another item. I was on my own, and in my usual friendly Appalachian way, I just started talking to everyone around me.


First I told the checker, "I think you're lucky to be working here. This company is really going gangbusters."

He said, "Yeah, we're doing pretty well."

I said, "Now, the guys at the top might tell you otherwise, but don't believe it. I know success when I see it."

Then he rang up my total, and it was the highest price I have ever paid in a grocery store. My jaw dropped. I gasped. Mr. J walked up, and I tried to shield him from the bottom line.

That's when it got funny. The guy behind me in line, seeing my dismay, started singing, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." He looked at me and laughed and said, "Aren't you glad it only happens once a year?"

And I said, "Well, I don't know about you, but my family is going to be like the Waltons -- living on love until the end of January."

All of us cracked up. The checker, the other customer, me, and even Mr. J. Then Mr. J and I brought home our modest-in-size, maxed-in-price haul, and I'm set to do some mild cooking.

Wegman's has good groceries, but the real reason to go there is that they consistently stock TaB cola. I paid dearly for needing that today.

Happy Saturnalia! Once a year ... and that's enough.

Write a Letter

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," one of the voices of America's Pagan community since 2005.

Speaking of communities, there are very few these days who don't have at least a few practicing Pagans, especially here in the Great Blue Northeast.

I suppose, without a shred of evidence, that Newtown, Connecticut has its small share of Old Religion adherents of various pantheons. I talk to the Bored Gods all the time, but like doctors, they don't reveal names unless the person wants to be known. Nothing worse than being pulled out of a closet when you're not ready to leave it.

One of the teachers at my school secured the address below. The man in question grew up in Newtown and plans to go there on December 28 to distribute letters of condolence.

I wrote one on behalf of the Bored Gods (very serious, which you know is unlike me). On the outside of the envelope, I wrote "Druid/Wiccan/Asatru." Hopefully this message of comfort, naming the deities of those pantheons, will find its way into the hands of someone there who counts himself or herself a member of the praise and worship team for those deities.

If you feel likewise inspired, here's the address. I withhold the man's name so that he doesn't Google himself ten years from now and find this post:

Resident


3 Woodmansee Ct

Richmond, RI 02892

I suggest you write "Druid/Wiccan/Pagan" on the envelope yourself ... and "message for Newtown" ... and then we can only hope that this man has an open mind to go with his open heart.

On Monday I handed out index cards to my students and invited them to write anonymous questions or comments about the shooting. I wanted to allay anxieties, since my classroom is the first one beyond the front door.

When I collected them, one of my students had written:" I think that in that type of situation that we are in a great clasroom with the perfect teacher."

I got so choked up I had to daub my face with a paper towel.

Now ... to lighter things ... If you haven't watched the fabulous 3 minute video, "Momma Bird," starring MOI, scroll down and help my talented filmmaker daughter rack up points on YouTube! Leave a comment on YouTube for her, and win a blessing from the bored deity of your choice!
From Anne, the Momma Bird

Here I Am!

Here's The Spare's awesome documentary film on me! Let it uplift us all in these dark hours!

I have just one request of you, readers. Please consider leaving a comment on The Spare's YouTube space. It will make her happy. And the more of you who watch "Momma Bird," the better Spare's rating will be.

If watching this heartfelt testimonial for the Sacred Thunderbird moves you to wish to praise and worship Vulture, our operators are standing by to take your call. (It's only 3 and a half minutes of your day. And it could change your life.)

Momma Bird, starring ME!

Momma Bird

Twice a month my school has a fire drill. Two or three times a year we have lockdown drills. Everyone takes them seriously.

Once I found myself in a Tier Three lockdown drill with 25 freshmen at 1:30 in the afternoon. There were quite a few snarky girls in that class who excelled in disrespectful put-downs.

As we crouched on the floor in silence, one of the girls started to snicker. I turned around and whispered to her, "If you want to get me fired, keep laughing. If you don't, be quiet."

She stayed quiet after that. They all did.

Once we had a Tier Two lockdown that was unscheduled. We kept on teaching, only with the doors shut and locked. The students were not allowed to leave the classroom. This put everyone on edge, and the inevitable questions ensued:

"Miss. We are the first classroom by the front door. Won't we be the first ones shot?"

"Miss. What will you do if a shooter comes in?"

I've said it before here at "The Gods Are Bored." I don't know what I'd do if a shooter came in. But I hope I would call upon the Great Bored Gods and try my very best to save the lives of my students. They are my kids. And they're just kids. I would try to save them.

We can joke about the end of the world, but if you ask me, things are proceeding not with a bang, but with a whimper. The pace of these horrific mass shootings is accelerating. Our well-regulated militia is not well regulated. Maybe we ought to reconsider who gets to bear arms.

The End of the World Is Nigh -- Again!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I wish I had $100 for every time I've heard that the world was about to end, don't you? We could all go on a joyous summer cruise together!

This is a true story. The first time I heard that the world was going to end was in 1967. I told the neighbor girl that I was going to my cousin's wedding that night, and the neighbor girl said no, I wasn't, because she was going to destroy the whole Earth before I could even get there.

It was a beautiful wedding. My cousin looked stunning in her 1960s-era gown, and the fine man she married has been at her side ever since. It was my first wedding. My cousin took time out of her busy evening to make sure I got a root beer, after someone stuck a glass of champagne in my hand. I was eight years old.

Shortly thereafter, I attended a Pentecostal church for about two years. If you've ever done anything as bone-headed as that, you'll know that people who frequent these establishments wake up every day expecting to be in Heaven by nightfall, sitting in the clouds watching with sadistic glee as the rest of us get sulfurated by demons.

It must be so depressing to spend your day waiting for the Rapture, only to find it bedtime, and your bunion is still hurting and the sinners are still sinning.

Now we have an ancient Native American calendar, endowed as are most Native American things (out of guilt mostly) with tremendous religious and metaphysical import. This Solstice the world will end. Again.

Haven't you always wondered what the end of the world would be like? We could ask cockroaches or horseshoe crabs if they have any deep memories -- their forebears have been through a few, unscathed.

One of the great things about being cool with the bored gods is that I can go straight to the source and get the scoop on Apocalypses Now. In this case I am glad to report, from the lips of the bored God Macuilxochitl, that the world will not end if we all party hearty on December 21, 2012! You see, Macuilxochitl is the God of Partying, and apparently He wants to have a good time that night.

Hmmm. It is a Friday night, December 21. So here's what you do: Line up a designated driver, or fill your home with the nearest and dearest, and celebrate ... it's all right! Macuilxochitl wants you to!

Come on. If Rhiannon wanted you to do it, you would. So go for it! Party away Doomsday!

(Either that, or fruitlessly wait for the Four Horsemen ... or do an overnight meditation on the darkest day in the North, pulling the Sun back with your thoughts and focus.)

Or a little of most of the above.

The Gods Are Bored

If you've been Googling "The Gods Are Bored" these days, you might be finding a brand new song by a British band called the Datsuns. It's a terrific song, and one cannot fault the band members for their awesome youthful energy.

Since I only have about a dozen readers here, I seriously doubt that the Datsuns checked out my site before creating this epic song. Instead, I will be the interloper and adopt "The Gods Are Bored" and the Datsuns as another bored deity-endorsed musical ensemble.

I don't really share the philosophy that the gods entertain themselves by watching us fuck up, but I'm not discounting it either. Remember, we humans are the ones that endow deities with Their human-like qualities. Since that is the case, surely there must be some embittered Gods and Goddesses who chart our miseries with sadistic glee.

Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to The Datsuns and their new song, "The Gods Are Bored!"


Pictures of chaos fill our screens day and night

Is this sensational or is it merely playtime?

We're going down down down down at their choosing

Among the heartache, the tears and the bruises



You know the gods, yeah the gods are so bored

We entertain with our lives and our flaws

You know the gods, yeah the gods are so bored

Come get wild tonight



Holy rollers, hypocrites knock on the door

Microscopic, tectonic war

We're going down down down down at their choosing

Among the heartache, the tears and the bruises



You know the gods, yeah the gods are so bored

We entertain with our lives and our flaws

You know the gods, yeah the gods are so bored

Come now die hey hey hey hey tonight



You know the gods, yeah the gods are so bored

We entertain with our lives and our flaws

You know the gods, yeah the gods are so bored

Come now why hey hey hey hey tonight

The Datsuns - Gods Are Bored

Frank Talk about Rapid Weight Loss

Well, here's one you've never seen before on "The Gods Are Bored!" With the exception of a few potshots at Governor Chris Christie, there's not much to be said about weight loss chez moi.

It's tough as all get out to shed pounds once you've put them on. This is especially true if the weight gain is gradual, the accumulation of years of bad eating habits. Once you feel like you're overweight, it's the very devil dieting your way out of it. And once the weight is off, you struggle day by day, hour by hour, to maintain.

There is, of course, one way to achieve rapid weight loss without purpose-driven dieting. You get sick.

Take my cat, Alpha. Alpha is a relic. She has lived with us for a dozen years and was about six when we rescued her. She has no teeth left. Over the past six to eight months, she has lost about half her body weight. Food disagrees with her. She can't bite the hard stuff, and the soft stuff causes digestive issues.

There's nothing particularly novel about this. Very elderly people usually lose a lot of weight too. It's just sad, for me, when I gently pick up my Alpha and feel every bone just barely covered with skin. Yes, readers, we did take her to the vet -- and our vet's office is in Camden, so this doctor knows people on a budget. He said we should just take Alpha home and be nice to her.

I, too, have experienced rapid weight loss since June. At the end of the school year I was about 25 pounds heavier than I am now. People notice and compliment me on it, as if I'm a poster child for Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig. Then comes the dreaded question: "How did you do it?"

How did I do it? I was sick! Still am! It's easy to lunch on a small salad and water when your appetite says, "Oh, just forget it."

Here's how you can tell the difference between someone who is dieting with Weight Watchers and someone who is losing weight because they are sick. The Weight Watchers person talks about it and seeks moral support. The Weight Watchers person cheers when he or she drops pounds. The sick person just shows up in the lunch room trying to hitch up her pants, because they have become too large.

The fact that my malady is not exactly life-threatening makes it even harder to explain.

My complexion is pink, my energy level is normal, my smile is bright, and my teeth are white. I still love buzzards, and faeries, and festivals, and my family. I'm just not hungry. It is a result of anxiety. And since many people think anxiety is something you can overcome by shaking yourself like a wet dog and moving on, it's very, very difficult to explain my rapid weight loss.

The frank scoop on weight loss is this: If someone is getting thinner, assume first that they're sick and let the story unfold. They'll tell you if they're dieting. If the visibly-reduced person says little or nothing about the weight loss, chances are there's some underlying issue. Best to err on the side of ignorance.

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

The Fabulous Firebird Festival

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice ... ahh, I forget the rest...

In these dark days, we automatically feel that the year is coming to an end, and a new one will begin. It's right and fitting -- and bored god-endorsed -- to turn this moment into a symbolic spectacle.

There's a town in Pennsylvania named Phoenixville. Nine years ago the enlightened citizens decided to have a Firebird Festival in honor of the Phoenix after which their town is named. They built a big bird out of wood and set it on fire, with drummers and dancers and music. They did this in December.

Now it's a tradition. If you read this little site at all, you will know that this sort of thing is right down my alley.

Here's a picture of this year's Phoenix. I would say it was 30 feet tall, maybe more. Now imagine a parade of fire dancers and drummers dancing up to it and setting it aflame. And this is not damp wood that smoulders for weeks. It's chock-a-block with accelerant and cherry bombs. It flames up fast and huge, popping and sparking ... and then in collapses into a huge bonfire with coals in every color of the rainbow. There goes 2012! And from the ash heap will rise 2013 ... so long as the Aztecs made some errors in their mathematics. (The bored deities of the Aztec pantheon have been reassuring me frequently.)

For two dollars you can write a wish and have it put in a box that is placed into the Firebird before it goes up. My daughter The Heir and I always do this. Maybe next year I'll invite you to submit wishes from afar. The alchemy consists of turning intention into energy by having your thoughts turned into flame. If you don't believe in this, what are you doing here at "The Gods Are Bored?" Go watch crime t.v. or something.

There is a very nice impromptu drum circle at this event, which gives it even more energy. Before the burning of the Phoenix, they have smaller bonfires and barrel fires and vendors of candles and food.

Some people worship quietly, alone or in small groups. My favorite form of praise and worship is loud, full of people, and dramatic. The Firebird Festival fits that bill. Fire is not my element (I'm a water gal), but the energy is so high that I could feel it in my soul.

2012.  I wish I could say this was the best year of my life, but it is a year I want to put into the archives ASAP. The first step toward this end is the Phoenixville Firebird Festival. The last step is a strut at the Philadelphia Mummers Parade.

What apocalypse? The Phoenix has risen!

It Appears that the Constitution Is in Force

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

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

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

Where would it end?

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

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

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

First Amendment triumphant! Fa la la la laaaaah!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Shame of Place

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you from the "Smokestack State" since 2005! I'm your hostess, Anne, and I live in New Jersey, USA. We just had a hurricane, and it was awful.

Lately I have been thinking a good bit about place. What happens if you find yourself living somewhere, and the people there don't share your values ... and you don't share theirs?

I think of this because we Northerners stereotype the American South as if the Civil War was still raging. It's Crackerville, it's the Bible Belt, it's the land of Honey Boo Boo and universities that did not admit minorities until the National Guard showed up with tear gas. It's the locus of violent reprisals against peaceful civil rights marches and the region that gives us country music.

This is partly on my mind because today I was discussing the death penalty with my sophomores, and certain states kept popping up. Georgia. Florida. Texas. Lots of other states allow the death penalty (including Pennsylvania), but it seems like Florida and Texas especially actually pull the switch. Often.

My own forays into the South have ended at the state line of South Carolina. It just felt prudent for me to turn around and head back to colder climes.

After the presidential election, many maps showed a distinct Southern bias against President Obama. (Actually it turns out that the bias is more rural than regional.) Facebook abounds with vitriol against Dixie, and I confess I snicker at it frequently.

Then, somewhere, I read a comment from someone who actually lives in the South and is an ardent Obama supporter. Point of fact, I know that one of my readers lives in the South and is a cheeky liberal.

It must be Hell on Earth to be stuck in an area where you disagree vehemently with almost everyone around you, and the local traditions make you sick, and you feel that you're being discriminated against or at least dismissed. Alabama liberal, I feel your pain. Every time you get into the car, you get smacked with Lynyrd Skynyrd lovin' the guvnor. Every corner a church. Every store a Walmart. And you're wiser than all of this ... maybe even a Pagan ... and you are stuck due to family ties, or work ties, or just inertia. Texas, I feel your pain. Electric chair working overtime, who cares if the poor defendant is guilty?

I used to hate New Jersey because it is so flat (mostly) and so crowded (truly), and so chock-a-block with industrial plants both active and inactive. But at least, in such a crowded state, it's possible to find like-minded individuals (many) and whole sections of roadway that are church-free. I don't think anyone would argue that it's easier to be Pagan in New Jersey than it would be in Georgia.

Am I as much of a bigot as everyone else if I express sympathy for Southerners who don't tear up at the sound of "Bonnie Blue Flag?" Are there more of these people than I think, based on my very unscientific collection of data from individuals?

I don't know, but all I'll say is this: If you find yourself living in a place where you feel like you don't belong, hold up your chin. It's your place too. You don't need to change the world, or change your location. To thine own self be true -- start there.

Hell is not in my future, but if I found myself in Hell, I would work at it until I made the best of it. Trust me, if you can find one thing to like about New Jersey, you could pretty much tolerate any chunk of the entire US of A.

Interview with a Bored God: Mammon

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Thanksgiving edition 2012! We had a lovely feast here at Chateau Johnson. In addition to my hardy mother-in-law, we were joined by the husband-and-wife sculptors who have hired The Heir as an assistant. They snapped this photo of the lot of us, missing only our kitty cat Alpha and the perpetually pissed off parrot, Decibel.

Thanksgiving is remarkable in that it is tied to no particular deity. Oh sure, there's that myth about the Pilgrims and the Indians, but it wasn't until the 1930s that the holiday became official. Having been created by the government, Thanksgiving is open to all the bored gods, as well as the busy one.

Speaking of bored gods, I have a visitor here with me today on Black Friday who thinks He doesn't get credit where credit is due. Please give a tepid and disdainful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Mammon, God of Excess.

Anne: Hello, Mammon ... I suppose. What's that you're carrying? It looks heavy.

Mammon: These? These are my latest Black Friday circulars. Look, Anne! Deals! Deals! Deals!

Anne: You must really be bored to be spending time with me today. I've got one thing to purchase: a new tire. Why aren't you up at Best Buy?

Mammon: If only! Those idiots in the tents don't know they're praising and worshiping me! They think they're just chasing bargains. I hate being ignored.

Anne:  You must really boil when you see all the wretched excess spending in this nation, and no one gives you credit for it.

Mammon: They could throw me a feast, you know. The Romans gave credit where credit is due.

Anne: ... Thus paving the way for a prophet like Jesus who touted sharing and self-denial.

Mammon: Rub it in, why don'tcha. Greed is good.

Anne: Greed without compassion is a great evil. Trust me, if I wasn't so worn out from preparing yesterday's Thanksgiving feast, I would be picketing Walmart today.

Mammon: Walmart ... ahhhhhh .... Walton clan .... mmmmmm (drools)

Anne: Look what you're doing to my upholstery! Get outta here! Go be bored at the mall!

Mammon: Yeah, I can see this isn't a good fit. I wish the right people would be on the lookout for bored gods.

Anne: I'm the right person for this job. Tough beans, Mammon. I'm not promoting your stinking agenda. It doesn't serve the greater good. Oh, wait! You're a deity! Fix that upholstery stain before you go.

Mammon: Hold on and I'll give you an estimate.

Anne: STUFF YOUR ESTIMATE! Just go! You are in the wrongest of wrong places on a day when there are so many other places you could be! Hey! What are you doing with Mr. J's apple pie! Damn it!

Readers, can you believe it? He ate three quarters of a pie in one despicable gulp. And this deity drool on the chintz... it's a Black Friday indeed!

Oh Please, Like We Won't Have Twinkies!

The companies that bought Hostess face a daunting reality. People just don't buy Twinkies and Wonder Bread like they did back in the day when I was young. But soft (for a millennium), dear reader. Both products are still popular and still rolling off the shelves.

We are seeing here another case of union-busting. Owners make unreasonable demands that workers cannot accept. Bankruptcy is declared, and the "new owners" hire back the old workers with all the concessions and more. This is not good faith collective bargaining. It is despicable.

The workers at Hostess were fully aware of the depressed sales. I'm sure they would have been willing to negotiate a fair collective bargaining agreement. In this national climate, however, they never got a chance.

If the Hostess workers go back to their factories at pennies on the dollar, you should really forgo those snack cakes and Wonder Bread. What, you don't stock your pantry with such toxic waste? Me neither!

Still, we love our sweet stuff, don't we? If the Hostess workers get a fair contract, we'll need to buy Twinkies to support the cause!

How can we do that and not kill ourselves with Twinkies? Which, if you'll pardon me, are about the most unhealthy food product available to humankind.

BETTER USES FOR TWINKIES: FREE ADVICE!

1. Draft dodgers: Place those puppies end-to-end at the doors to your house to keep out the cold air.

2. Squirrels getting on your bird feeder? Put out a box of Twinkies. A cruel way to end the lives of cute furry mammals, but hey. Birds gotta eat.

3. I'll bet the cream inside those things works just like WD40. Haven't put it to the test, but for a fair labor contract, I sure will try.

4. Create a time capsule for your back yard. Put in ten boxes of Twinkies. Your descendants will wonder why they are so intelligent, if this is what you did in your time.

5. Parrot food. If you are really sick of your parrot.

6. I'll bet crumbled Twinkies would make your sidewalk less slippery in an ice storm, if you scooped out the white stuff first.

7. Target practice.

8. Keep a box or two around to prove that you can bypass bad, sugary, carb-laden food for good, healthy food like turnips. Remember to buy new boxes and throw away the old ones unopened. I don't think there's much danger that vultures will eat Twinkies -- and if they do, they're probably the only creature that could digest the damn things without bodily harm.

9. Adopt one as a pet. They're the size of gerbils and would last just as long.

10. Okay, okay, if you must do something kinky with them, well ... maybe as a massage item, but I wouldn't be keen on oral. Just me, though. If you don't swallow, then maybe.

As usual with my free advice, I'm mindful that this economy stinks. Therefore, as part of my salary and benefit givebacks, I must pay you to take this advice. Send me an invoice care of my email.

Ten Things To Do on Black Friday That Won't Get You Near Walmart

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," waging war on Walmart since its first slimy minions slunk out of Bentonville, Arkansas! No sirreee, you will find no support of this despotic, underhanded, and business-killing behemoth here among the Old Ones!

I've just finished reading a few stories about the first stirrings of labor unrest at Walmart. A fraction of the company's million or more hopeless slaves "associates" will stage strikes or walk-outs on Black Friday!

Walmart, you've done it this time. The company has ordered workers to its stores on Thanksgiving Day, in order to sell, sell, sell ... get a foot up on the competitors, who at least have the decency to stay closed until midnight.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" can remember a day when local families owned local department stores. The big spoiler was a retailer named Sears. It started putting older business districts on the skids in the 1960s. And now look! Sears can't keep its head above the water either! On rolls Walmart, the only game in town in far, far, FAR too many places. The company pays so poorly that some of its workers get Medicaid, food stamps, and child support welfare. We're subsidizing that place. So whatever ducats you save getting stuff cheap there, you are putting out in your tax bill.

Enough common sense! Let's generate a list of fun things to do that are better than going to Walmart on Black Friday!

1. Search your house for each and every stray sock. Put them all in a huge pile, and sort them by size and relative color. Fold them neatly. Re-arrange your drawers so that everything is neat and tidy. Then start looking for stray change in the same manner.

2. If you have a cat or dog, comb out every single strand of hair that might get shed onto your carpet (or worse, your upholstery). Don't stop combing until no more fur gets caught in the comb! And don't be a cheater. Use a real cat comb ... not some thing you pull out of the bathroom that you would use on your wet hair.

3. Organize your grocery coupons and clipped recipes. Group the coupons according to product, in alphabetical order, then put them in chronological order with the nearest date of expiration first, and the latest date last.  Recipes should be laminated, alphabetized by category, and carefully placed into file folders. Don't stop there. Alphabetize your cookbooks and put sticky notes on the pages of your favorite recipes. As you do this, study other recipes in case you missed something easy and tasty. (Considering that you will be doing this the day after Thanksgiving, you won't be as hungry while doing it.)

4. Clean out your email queue. Open and read any email that you don't remember the contents of. Make new folders and sub-folders for family, friends, associates, fans of "The Gods Are Bored" and enemies. (Hopefully the last two don't overlap!) Individually contact everyone in your email box just to say howdy.

5. Re-read all the statuses on your Facebook and make new comments on them. Individually contact each Facebook friend you have and write him or her a thoughtful, personal note based on fond memories you share.

6. Oh, look, there's that neglected ukelele! Practice makes perfect! Just make sure that your quickly-departing house guests aren't planning to biff off to Walmart!

7. Try on your Ren Faire/Fairy Festival/Pagan/Steampunk/LARP outfits and model them for an appreciative partner. If your partner is not sufficiently appreciative, sulk. If your partner is appreciative, switch on the Marvin Gaye music and ... mmmMMMMMMMmmmmm! Sexual healing, baby.

8. Repeat #7 as needed.

9. Enough with the factory-made sequins! Hand-sew those puppies onto your favorite costume! You only have 335 days until the next Halloween, so get cracking.

10. Put on your coat, your hat, your scarf, your sturdy boots. Seek out the small, local merchants ... the local farm store ... the local thrift store ... the crafter, the corner pub. Tip liberally. Tie one on in time to go to your local tree-lighting ceremony. Everyone in town already knows you're crazy.

BONUS ACTIVITY THAT WILL KEEP YOU OUT OF WALMART ON BLACK FRIDAY

11. If there are job actions planned in your area, buy a humongous bag of bagels (local baker) and distribute them to the strikers. Walmart is the poster child for corporate greed, the visible Scrooge among us. Just in time for the holidays, let's resuscitate old Mr. Fezziwig and do it his way!