Interview with Something or Other: Mothman

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today we would be remiss if we didn't mention our sweet daughter The Heir. She and a fellow artist were given the challenge to create installations for two different art galleries in as many days. She and her partner have been working like busy bees to get everything done. Last night was the first, and it was incredibly beautiful! They had bowls of colored Jello on a mirrored surface! It was gorgeous, and what a great idea! It even smelled good. It was like entering a kingdom of colored beauty. Tonight is another show at a different gallery. Wish her luck!

Last week, I think it was, West Virginia celebrated its 150th anniversary. Do you know the story? The part of Virginia that is now West Virginia was full of abolitionists who did not want to secede. Abraham Lincoln split up the state in 1863, and it's been that way ever since. Gosh, I sure do hope I live to see West Virginia's bicentennial. I'll be a geezer, but it's something to shoot for.

Now that the festivities in WV are over, we have a rare opportunity here at TGAB. Today's visitor isn't a bored god, but he's sure weird. Please give a wary, hold-your-breath welcome to Mothman!

Anne: Mothman, I suppose you know why I invited you here today to hang around my porch light.

Mothman: I'm not a god. I haven't a clue!

Anne: Well, my daughter The Spare and all her cheeky Snobville buddies are going to West Virginia to do some white water rafting. Spare has never done this before.

Mothman: You don't say ... nom nom nom...

Anne: Now, Mothman! That's exactly why I asked you to drop in! Don't scare the Spare!

Mothman: I get a bad rap. Where I'm from, Planet Mothman, I'm considered quite a handsome specimen. Here, everyone thinks I'm ugly and out to get them.

Anne: Then why don't you go home?

Mothman: I was just another mothman on Planet Mothman. Here they have a festival for me every September. And they even have a statue of me in bronze! I wouldn't get that kind of attention where I'm from.

Anne: So you would rather be a celebrity that everyone fears than an anonymous member of your species.

Mothman: Yes.

Anne: I think that makes you more "man" than "moth."

Mothman: So. This daughter of yours. Is she ... emmm ... chewy?

Anne: Stop it!

Mothman: A mothman's gotta eat, doesn't he?

Anne: Not my daughter.

Mothman: Then how about one of her friends?

Anne: This was exactly what I feared. You are a dangerous Something or Other! Okay, so I tried to be nice. Now here's the warning. I sent an arsenal of anti-Mothman weapons along with Spare.

Mothman: Such as?

Anne: Mothballs, of course.

Mothman: I've developed a tolerance.

Anne: Well, mister smarty-wing, have you developed a tolerance for Final Net hairspray?

Mothman: WTF? I'm supposed to be afraid of hair spray?

Anne: Have you seen what it does to the wings of a wasp?

Mothman: Your daughter wouldn't have the nerve.

Anne: Why test it? Look! Here's an invitation to a general panic-inducing nighttime attack on campers in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. Why don't you join the Jersey Devil for a long weekend ... you know, shoot the breeze, trample a few cars, appear to a few people who no one else will believe... just your average fun time.

Mothman: Sold! I haven't seen the Jersey Devil in forever! But I can't go to a party empty-handed. Mmmm. Anne! You look .... nom nom nom.

Anne: Oh, no you don't! Take this nice sweet potato casserole and hit the turnpike!

Mothman: Oh, thanks so much! To be perfectly honest, people don't taste very good anyway.

Image of the Mothman courtesy of the brave folks at  prairieghosts.com.

Buying Chicken from Big Brother

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's a Brave New World we live in. Our televisions can read our minds.

Of course the flat screen needs a little assistance with that. Computer geeks to the rescue!

I read an article in the New York Times Magazine over the weekend about how a team of computer-savvy white people (mostly male) figured out how to mine the data on people who were wavering about President Obama in order to convince those people to vote for him. The idea was to spend wisely on commercial advertising. The computer team used information from Facebook (duh) and from a more widespread Nielsen-like t.v. viewing tracker. There was math and code involved. And in the process, you and I became data.

The process of marketing President Obama can be, and is being, applied to the private sector now. It works something like this:

1. You were a big fan of Kentucky Fried Chicken, but you started to put on a little weight, so you stopped going there.

2. Your favorite television show is "Rugrats" re-runs that you watch just before hitting the sack at 10:30.

3. You start seeing commercials during "Rugrats" for roasted Kentucky Fried Chicken with low-fat side dishes.

4. Since you already know where the KFC restaurant is, and you always liked the product, you find yourself returning there as a customer.

You are now data, and the numbers crunch in a way that reveals that enough KFC patrons watch "Rugrats" at 10:00 to make it worth KFC's dollar to advertise there.

The way it worked for President Obama was pretty much the same. Anyone who liked Obama's Facebook page had to open that page to all their friends, other likes, and photos. The data miners searched out friends of yours who were on the fence about Obama and then looked at what they liked. The algorithms kick in, and Obama ads get placed on "Judge Joe Brown," which is one of the shows that the computer program identified as being viewed by Obama waverers. One of the beauties of this computerized, data-driven process is that it was highly unlikely that a viewer of "Judge Joe Brown" was going to see a Romney ad in the same 30 minutes.

The people who designed this computer program for President Obama were passionate about getting him elected. Now they are equally passionate about getting customers to return to Caesar's Resorts in Las Vegas. In other words, the geeks have taken their prowess to businesses. In this case, they're trying to lure people back to gambling. Never mind that the data in this case includes people with gambling addictions who will have to see Caesar's ads during their favorite television shows. It's all about turning a buck for Caesar's.

The only way to avoid this manipulation, which may damn well be unhealthy for you (but do they care?) is to drop off the grid. We don't want to do that, though. So let us all welcome in the 21st century, where our lives are open to scrutiny not just by the N.S.A. (which, though despicable, is at least logical), but to the vices we pay for and then try to kick.

God bless America.

Occasional Photo

My computer is more than ten years old. It has been overhauled a few times, but it overheats and runs slow. Built for obsolescence, it is a veritable dinosaur.

Therefore, over the summer, I'll be posting some photos here to preserve them for the mists of time. This is one that was taken in 2011 in Bedford County, PA. Many generations of my family are buried in the same churchyard. The stone says Johnson, but the two behind it, Lashley, are also ancestors.

Computers start from scratch and are molded by their owners. People start from ancestors and are molded by legacy. Blessed be those who went before.

Snake and Potatoes

A few weeks ago I saw a t.v. commercial in which a shopper specifically compared prices between Wal-Mart grocery items and the same items from a local Mid-Atlantic grocery chain, one that I happen to patronize with great fidelity. The chain, which has Acme Market stores all over the place, pays its workers good wages and gives them health benefits. The Wal-Mart ad mentioned Acme by name and showed the price comparisons on screen.

What I wanted to do after that was go to Wal-Mart and photograph its disgusting grocery aisles, which I have only traversed two or three times, in every case with great dismay that anyone would purchase such suspicious-looking foodstuffs.

In the news today is a story about a woman who found a live snake in a bag of potatoes she bought at Wal-Mart.

http://www.inquisitr.com/808443/woman-finds-living-snake-in-bag-of-walmart-potatoes/

Wal-Mart says it will refund her money on the sack of potatoes if she has the receipt.

Now, I'm not saying I totally buy this story hook, line, and reptile. It's rather convenient that this lady had the right kind of container to put the snake in. If I found a snake in my potato bag (which I wouldn't, because I get my potatoes at Acme Markets), I wouldn't be able to catch or contain it. But the fact that my local news radio is running with this story says a whole lot about Wal-Mart groceries.

It's been several years now since my mother-in-law suddenly found her apartment infested with giant black ants. These ants arrived suddenly and were like nothing any of us had ever seen before. They weren't the teeny tiny little pismires typical to Mid-Atlantic kitchens. They were more than a quarter inch long. And fearless.

Finally my mother-in-law found the source of the ants. They were living in the bottom of a box of Wal-Mart brand breakfast cereal. When she threw out the cereal, the ants disappeared.

And then she continued to shop at Wal-Mart, because the prices are so low!

I'm not here to tell you how to spend your grocery dollar. I'm here to tell you how I spend mine. I pay more for my groceries than I would if I bought them at Wal-Mart. But here's what I'm paying for: ant-free cereal, snake-free potatoes, fresh local produce, and health care for workers. The local Acme Market is very small -- smaller than those super-pharmacies that are popping up everywhere. You can do as you like, but for me, smaller is better. If I want to take a hike, I'll go to the mountains. If I want a quart of milk, I want it in three minutes, from pickup to purchase.

One last anecdote, and I'll close with another shout-out to Acme Markets.

One night I was in a hurry. I went to the Acme and grabbed a bunch of things, including enough filet mignon to feed self, Mr. J, Heir and Spare. When I got home, I discovered that I had left the bag with the filet mignon in the cart in the parking lot.

I drove back to Acme, and I asked at customer service whether or not anyone had turned in a bag of filet mignon. Yeah, right. Of course not! Whoever found that puppy in the parking lot sort of hit the lottery!

But you know what the on-duty manager at the Acme told me? She said, "Go on back and pick out what you lost. Just take it." Maybe she recognized me, but I don't know. I didn't recognize her. How did she know I was telling the truth? She didn't. I could have been a cunning filet mignon thief. I also could have taken twice as much as I bought and lost.

Okay, compare that to Wal-Mart demanding to see the receipt for a bag of potatoes that had a snake in it before they would refund the price of the potatoes!

Acme Markets, this commercial is for you. In this world, we get what we pay for. I'm not rich, but I want good food and happy staff. And no snakes with my potatoes.

Thanks Be to King Triton

I promised King Triton I would thank Him if He gave me some sea glass today on this, my first day of summer vacation. But the message I brought back from the Jersey Shore was the same one Triton always delivers: He is not to be trifled with.

Pulling a few trinkets from the drink does not bother Triton, nor does it please Him. He's indifferent to sea glass. But He's none too keen on cheeky humans who build houses and hotels on islands that are supposed to shift with His every fit of temper.

Well, it was a gorgeous day at the Jersey Shore today, and there were plenty of beach-combers. The sea glass beaches are in a residential area, not along the casino-clogged avenues. Thus it's easy to strike up conversations with people around and about there.

What I brought home today were a few pieces of sea glass and three stories of Hurricane Sandy. One lady who was also looking for sea glass said the whole first floor of her home was destroyed. She had to build bonfires on her patio to keep warm, and all the repairs are still undone. She evacuated, but she was allowed in sooner than others, because she works for the state police. Another lady (not the brightest bulb, no offense) said she refused to evacuate. A parking garage was allowing people to park their cars on higher levels for free, so when she saw the water lapping at her tires, she moved the car to the garage. Then she took the elevator down. Door opened to a gush of water, knee-high. Even this did not encourage our brave heroine to seek higher ground. Oh well, she's alive -- proof that you absolutely don't have to follow sage advice if Triton decides He'd rather give you up to some other deity.

The third story is mine. I was sitting alone on a deserted stretch of un-swimmable beach when a dude hollered down to me from the boardwalk. He had seen me beach combing and wanted to know what I was looking for. I told him about sea glass. He had never heard of it. And he grew up in Atlantic City! Long story short, we got to talking, and I said I couldn't bring myself to beach comb after the storm because I couldn't bring myself to take pleasure from the shoreline when so many people were suffering. The dude gave me some serious props and said he wished there were more people like me in the world. We both agreed that we live in a world of self-centered, greedy people who don't have the common good in mind. I told him I planned to spend what money I could at the Jersey Shore this summer to help the economy. But I sure am not going to resuscitate New Jersey with my little sack of ducats. Anyhow, the dude was really nice. He made me feel good about being there.

We've had unusually clement weather as Solstice is upon us, and even the Jersey Shore was absolutely brilliant today ... beaches littered with people looking for glass, jetties lined with fishermen, little kids cavorting in the water. Made it easy to overlook the stray disposable razor at the water's edge. When you live in Jersey, you don't consider a beach visit complete without seeing, or stepping on, something with a really sharp edge. It's how we roll.

Blessed be Triton, mighty God of the briny deep! Blessed be New Jersey, the state that defies the sea!

Interview with a Bored God: Morpheus

Howdy, hello, and welcome! Summer vacation begins in two hours ... and all of my paperwork is finished! Nineteen items on the checklist. Each initialed by a different administrator. Re-sent my requisitions three times to the new supervisor. An auspicious beginning to a new regime.

But, la di dah! Sprung from cages on Highway 9, four-wheeled, fuel-injected and steppin out over the line!

Guess what? The bored deity Morpheus is here, at my request. He's stretched out on a school table. Having had to rise from bed at 5:30 from September to June (therefore programmed to wake up at that hour on the weekends as well), it's not surprising that I want to sleep for two weeks straight. But that's only part of the reason He's here.

Please give a warm, wonderful Gods Are Bored welcome to Morpheus, deity of sleep and dreams!

Anne: Long time, no see, Morpheus! Been busy?

Morpheus: Can't complain. There's the Gaiman stuff, and the lingering interest in Matrix movies. And of course the medication. It's like, planetary in its importance.

Anne: One of the lucky ones, you are! Unlike my poor Cloacina, whose sole raison d'etre these days is to protect a Tier I stream in Allegany County, Maryland.

Morpheus: It's very bright in this classroom.

Anne: Oh! My bad! Let me douse the fluorescent lights .... (*three minutes later*) zzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzz

Morpheus: Wake up! You don't want your colleagues to see you drooling. They already think you're weird. And a butt-kisser too.

Anne: Negative nellies. It's not butt-kissing, it's "everything's swell" whenever anyone asks. White lies = "positive attitude."

Morpheus: Why am I here, Anne?

Anne: Well, my daughter The Spare devised the idea of getting an aquarium and keeping a ghost shrimp in it as a pet.

Morpheus: Not very practical. Aren't they used as fish food?

Anne: Yes. They're delicate. She bought an aquarium, borrowed a filter, and brought one home. It promptly died. However, one of her friends gave her a black molly, and she named it Morpheus.

Morpheus: Matrix, probably.

Anne: Yeah, she's totally into the first one. Anyway, I called You here to ask You to safeguard Spare's fish. Since it's your namesake and all that. It's a pretty little thing, and it's more reliable company than Beta Cat.

Morpheus: How is Spare's aquarium hygiene? Fish aren't necessarily easy. Especially algae-eaters.

Anne: This is Spare's first fish. And I think she still plans to get another shrimp. She'll learn as she goes.

Morpheus: I'd be delighted to drop in on the little fishy at night, at least once a week. I'll put it on my to-do list. Are you still at the same address?

Anne: Glad you asked. That brings me to my other request. You used to dole out sexy dreams to me all the time. Now I dream about work, work, work. Last day of school, and I dreamed last night that I was being evaluated by a team of the hardest asses in the district. Unfair, Morpheus! Where's Clint Eastwood?

Morpheus: Making a horse's ass of himself on national t.v. You really want to dream about someone who talks to empty chairs?

Anne: Good point. I like the dudes on American Pickers.

Morpheus: Even Frank? He'd be flattered. But come on, now. If you want sexy dreams, you have to broaden your viewing repertoire a little bit. More movies, more t.v. shows. Vikings and American Pickers ain't gonna do it. And all the gods know that there's no one at your school who warrants a second glance. Geeze, you're like every other person who prays. You want Me to fix things, but you aren't willing to be proactive and do your part!

Anne: You've got a point there. I just don't know where to begin. I thought I would try Game of Thrones, but I started reading the first volume ... and it seems like it could be a tad bloody on screen.

Morpheus: I don't keep up with American t.v. I've got a half dozen Italian soccer teams that I follow. Don't ask me for recommendations.

Anne: Maybe my readers will help me. They sure were a gods-send when I asked them to recommend music for my hand-me-down MP3 player.

Morpheus: Hey, Anne's readers! Suggest some sexy male stars for Anne to watch on t.v. or in the movies! I can't work on fumes!

Anne: Thanks be to Thee, o Great God Morpheus, Dealer of Dreams! One last favor...

Morpheus: Name it.

Anne: Nix the nightmares about school evaluations. I'll owe you.

Morpheus: I got you. Least I can do. Say, how much longer do you have to stay here in this classroom, if you're finished all your administrative paperwork?

Anne: ZzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ *drools*

Brief Hiatus

Hello, one and all, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"

It's just been too darned busy at Chateau Johnson and at the Vo Tech. I thought I would get something penned here today, but doggone if I'm not needed by the SkillsUSA team here at school. Anyway, tomorrow is the last day for students, and Wednesday I get released from incarceration sent home for the summer. Then it will be back to the business of the bored gods!

If I am detained or delayed, don't forget to do the following:

On Summer Solstice, take a glass bottle with a stopper and place it, opened, in the sunniest part of your yard. After dark, stopper it and put it in the freezer, to take out as needed during the dark months. Remember, magick is action plus intention ... this works.

Anne

"War Is Hell"

On "trash night" in my neighborhood, I always see people driving around in vans and trucks, doing their trash-picking. And in a place like Snobville, let me tell you, I do my share as well. I've never bought porch furniture -- picked it all. I've gotten a couple of nice book cases that way too.

My daughter The Heir is an avid trash-picker. She'll root through anything that isn't clearly garbage.

Last week, Heir found herself in Chestnut Hill (a part of Philadelphia). She saw a sign for an estate sale at a house. And there were boxes at the curb.

Heir spied a box with a photo album on top. When she opened it up, she found it to be full of photographs ... of the Vietnam War. She looked around to see if there was anyone to talk to about it, but no one was about. So she brought it home. She's sure it wasn't overlooked and thrown out by mistake, because it was right on the top of the stuff in the box.

There are 40 snapshots, a couple of them in black and white and a couple of old-time polaroids. Most of them are the kind of color snapshot you see from that era. Some are dated. Some have names on the back, making them traceable through the National Archives.

Most of them are in country. Chinook helicopters, platoon on the march, base camp, soldier holding a machine gun. Others are from the city -- a tall man with a pretty Asian woman half his height. A few of little kids and signs.

There were two postcards in the album. The first was a picture of Boathouse Row in Philadelphia. On the back it said, "Remember this place? We're thinking about you."

The other one is a picture of the Sydney opera house in Australia. On the back it said, "I'm losing my mind, but at least the beer is good. War is hell." Postage was waived.

War is certainly hell. But I find myself wondering how much hell awaited this man when he returned. Did he have anyone who loved him, any family to whom he might give these historic photos? I guess not. Then again, someone organized the estate sale. Did that person just not care about the photos? Heir is a very cautious person. She would not pinch something she thought someone put out by mistake.

In any case, Heir now has a small cache of primary source documents on a much-maligned conflict. We might be able to find the commander whose name is on the back of the one photo, but I'm almost afraid to research it. I already know two people on The Wall.

Last year Heir found a stack of photographs that were mostly habit-clad nuns smiling in little clusters. Scattered amongst the nun photos were shots of naked women in erotic poses.

It boggles the mind to think of the photograph collection Heir might amass by the time she's in her prime. Makes you think. Who will want your photos when you're gone?

The Illusion of Privacy

Driving home, I heard on the news radio that a class action suit has been filed against Verizon and the NSA, by people who have had their phones surveyed without probable cause.

I am probably among those who've been "followed." I'm a Verizon customer. But when I try to get angry about this, all I can think of is how boring my phone use is.
"Mom, I'm at the Ferry Avenue station. Can you pick me up?"

"Yeah, I'll be there in five minutes."

"Where are you, Spare?"

"Playing Risk at Andrew's house."

"Okay. Lock up when you come in."

"Honey, what do you want for dinner?"

"Would you like me to pick up some fish?"

"Well, that would be nice, but don't go to Wegman's hungry. And if you go there, don't forget to pick up some TaB for Heir."

"She shouldn't be drinking that stuff."

On and on and on and on. It bores ME to tears.

How about this little fascinating exchange:

Anne: Thanks for returning my call.

Dr. Dixon: How's Decibel doing?

Anne: Well, blah blah blah blah ... *bird talk for 10 minutes*

Long sermon short, the NSA or anyone else for that matter can listen to my phone calls all they want. Why they would want to is beyond me, but there you go. Privacy is an illusion. You want privacy? Find some dark holler where the sun don't never shine and the cell service don't never work.

Anyone who has ever had any sense of privacy in this country must use a short form for their federal taxes. I'm sure the IRS could tell you my underwear size and the name of the person in front of me in line at the gas station this afternoon.

 Privacy is an illusion. Therefore, live as publicly as possible. Make your life a statement. Secrets are for sissies.

Bald

The amount of paperwork thrown at teachers during the final weeks of school is incredible.

My printer keeps malfunctioning due to the humidity in the classroom.

My overhead projector is overheating due to same.

Not a single student wants to learn anything. They have cashed out. Their minds have left the building.

When I introduced the summer reading and handed out the books, you would have thought I told them to do 90 minutes of vigorous calisthenics in the hot sun every day for the rest of the summer. Many solemnly swore they would not read the book. At least they took it.

I'm tearing out my hair. Soon I will be bald. I could say I'm looking forward to final exams, but I will have about 300 pages of work to read before June 17.

People who bad-mouth public school teachers ought to have to be one ... for just a few hours.

"A" Storm

Well, we had our first Two Street Stompers meeting of the year last Friday evening. It happened that the first named tropical storm of 2013, Andrea, was passing overhead at the time. This did not cancel our meeting. Heck, it could be snowing during the parade, and we would still have to march!

While I was driving to the meeting, I won't say it was raining cats and dogs. I'll say it was raining lions and wolves. This was no passing drencher. This was a solid, sustained drencher ... which turned low-lying New Jersey into one vast swimming pool. I was a little concerned about getting to the clubhouse, because one of the traffic circles I had to drive through is notorious for flooding, but it was okay.

Once I got to the meeting, the conversation (among other things) turned to this tropical storm. I was mainly talking to Buzz, who is one of the shining lights of the Stompers ... a really great guy and in my age bracket. We put our heads together on it, but we couldn't ever remember a storm this bad so early in June. Then we recalled that last year's disaster, Sandy, occurred almost at Halloween, which is way late in the season for such a bad storm.

Buzz and I arrived at a conclusion that is admittedly unscientific, since it rests on our shared memory of summers past. We think the planet is warming up. I know that's silly, but you must forgive Buzz and me for having been around awhile. Things might be totally different for you when you get to the mid-century mark.

I just did some quick surfing. (Not in the Atlantic, the rip currents are killer today.) Hurricane season officially starts on June 1. Going back through time, there have been tropical storms that formed in January and hurricanes as late as December. And what a varied lot!

I remember Hurricane Agnes in 1972. Agnes hit in mid-June. She really walloped the mountains where I lived. It poured lions and wolves for seven days straight. People started building arks and calling the radio station to say that the storm was because God was angry at our nation. Now, fast forward to 1992 -- Hurricane Andrew, one of the worst of all time. Happened in August.

Here's a fast fact that you may or may not know: The word "hurricane" actually comes from the bored god of bad storms, Hurakan. This deity received worship from the Taino Indians of Puerto Rico prior to the arrival of the Spanish Inquisition.

I do petition Hurakan in my meditations, as well as Triton and Oshun. One must be very respectful of water deities, especially oceanic deities. Think you're safe in the surf because you know how to swim? Take care, ye of little faith, that Triton does not make a statement with you.

Anyway, the first storm of the Atlantic hurricane season has departed today, leaving behind verdant grass and hungry mosquitoes. We'll see what B through Z bring. Hurakan seems not to like being bored any more.

Remember to follow us on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/TheGodsAreBored

Emergency Request to My Kind Readers

On May 24, our school district supervisors decided to implement a summer reading program.

The supervisors told us teachers we had to have summer reading figured out by June 17, with assignments.

We can't use assignments already in our district database. This is the direct order of the supervisor.

I desperately need seven copies of Death of a Salesman, by Arthur Miller. Any condition. Written in, stomped on, paperback, cover missing, I don't care. I just need them by June 14!

Needed because some of my Camden students do not have Internet access at home.

Needed because my school district does not teach this classic in our curriculum.

Needed.

email luvbuzzards at yahoo dot com for my address.

Anne Johnson

I Wish It Mattered

Sometimes politicians sit in office so long that they become iconic. Then they can pretty much do or say anything, and it doesn't affect their electability.

I famously remember Senator Robert Byrd of West Virginia standing on the Senate floor and soundly denouncing the decision to send troops to Iraq. Not that Mr. Byrd was any prince among men, but by the time of the Iraq War he didn't care who he pissed off.

Frank Lautenberg was kind of that way. He had been a senator from New Jersey for a long, long time, so his wheeling and dealing days were over and done with. He voted blue pretty consistently.

So today I learned that New Jersey's esteemed villain governor will be setting a special election in October for Mr. Lautenberg's seat. Never mind that this is pretty quick. It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter who replaces Frank Lautenberg. No politician supports collective bargaining anymore. Those who say they do are the most reprehensible (*cough*Obama*cough*). No one has stood up to the dangerous genetic engineering of food crops (*cough*EVERYONE*cough*). We can't even get a vote for background checks at gun shows! Will the successor of Frank Lautenberg change any of this? Oh HELL no. His election will be financed by firearms manufacturers, big business, Monsanto ... probably even Massey Energy. For sure he will have to kiss the ring of New Jersey's political Boss Hawg, George Norcross.

Democracy is a flawed system, because any fool can vote. The Powers That Be have figured that out, and They give us good-looking, earnest-seeming "folks" who get into office and slip the reins of power to the Powers.

Read it right here: The last time I will ever be fooled by a politician is Mr. "Change We Can Believe In." He really had me going. Lesson learned. It doesn't matter who runs for office. It doesn't matter which party controls the legislatures. All that matters is money. Change we can believe in? Nope. Everything's just the same.

In Which the Bored Gods of Guatemala Give Us All a Gift

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, those ancestral deities of Guatemala have really got some plum material in Their holy hands! Let me explain:

As the school year winds down, I've been having my freshmen write a research report. I told them they could write about any famous person they wanted, so long as they used the school library databases and not Wickedpedia.

I have a student who is an immigrant from Guatemala. He works very hard, and I don't think he has been absent a single day this year. Of all my students, I've seen the most progress in his work, because he does every assignment to the best of his ability.

Long story short, he chose to research a Guatemalan singer named Ricardo Arjona. And in his report, he wrote that this singer is the first one from Guatemala to achieve any sort of international recognition.

I asked my student to find me a YouTube of this Ricardo Arjona, because I had never heard of him.

By all the bored deities of every pantheon that ever was into the mists of time, this singer is the handsomest human being I've ever laid eyes on. Apparently I'm not alone in that assessment, because his YouTube below has many more hits than you would expect from someone living in Guatemala.

What I like about this video, other than the incredibly handsome singer, is the footage of the country itself, including the monuments to the bored deities of that region. The fact that the video includes the pyramids leads me to believe that the bored gods of Guatemala heartily endorse this person. Rightly so!  Echo would freakin forget Narcissus in a heartbeat.

So, anyone who wants to see a really, really really sexy singer (admittedly the song is Top 40 fodder) should click on the video below. FF through the stupid commercial, but be grateful that the money from it is going into the pocket of Ricardo Arjona.


All hail the bored deities of Guatemala! What a silver foxxxxxxxxxxx.....!

Ricardo Arjona - Fuiste tú feat. Gaby Moreno (Video Oficial)

I Could Not Make This Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know where this is headed, right?

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

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

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

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


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

Train Wreck Hatred

Well! A heat wave has settled over the Delaware Valley, and my eastern-facing classroom is now a balmy 85 degrees. But the school year is almost over. We've had a nice, cool spring.

Just now one of my students cut me a piece of cheesecake that he had made in Culinary Arts. Wow, it was delicious! It had some orange flavor somehow ... never had a cheesecake quite like it before.

Sermon:

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are limping into modern social media one misstep at a time. We now have a Facebook page, which is (I think) https://www.facebook.com/TheGodsAreBored. I can't double-check because I'm at school, and as you might imagine, school computers block Facebook.

Nor can I check the all-new "The Gods Are Bored" Twitter feed @TheGodsAreBored. Both of these platforms might come in handy if I actually do something interesting, which does happen every now and then.

In order to get started with Twitter, you've got to find some stuff to follow. I'm pretty boring, so I don't have a slew of t.v. shows or entertainers or politicians whose every word I hang on. I thought it might be good for some dudgeon if I "followed" the Westboro Baptist Church.

You know these morons par excellence. They need no introduction. They're probably one of the best things to happen to the modern American Pagan movement. Still, it's not worth it if a million people leave Chrisianity because of them. Which is a real possibility.

Geez, talk about haters! I've never seen such a thing. They tweet all day long, reveling in each and every disaster that befalls our nation, small and large. Pretty sophisticated Tweets, too, with links (which I don't follow) and pictures and the works. If I set myself the goal of hating, loathing, despising and abominating at the very peak of my energy, I couldn't even hate through the whole rest of my life the way these people do in a short afternoon.

Step aside, Galactus. You are no match.

If I think about it, I cannot find any fictitious villain as bad as the Westboro Baptist Church. Gotta turn to real life for that. In the context of human history, WBC doesn't even register on the radar. But ... who's with me in thinking that, if they somehow grasped the reins of power, they could rank right up there with Adolf and Josef? I totally see that possibility.

Basically, if you're out in your garden, and you step on an earthworm and crush it, that worm died because God hates fags. My dear kitty cat Alpha passed away a few months ago. Wow! I thought it was from old age. Turns out she died because God hates fags. (I guess God must love parrots, because Decibel is rocking on.)

Last night I went on Twitter, and there must have been a train derailment near Baltimore. Yes, you guessed it. That train went off the track because God hates fags. Everything, everywhere that goes wrong, even a little bit wrong ... even if it leads to the death of a single bacterium in the eyelid of a chubby, happy infant, that bacterium died because God hates fags.

So, who is the train wreck? God, or WBC?

Actually, though, if you flip-flop the logic, it's marvelous. Julian cut me a piece of cheesecake because the bored gods love fags. I saved a baby blue jay from the jaws of Beta cat because the bored gods love fags. Some sick child is just being told that she is going to get better ... because the bored gods love fags. The bored gods love fags! Yes, truthfully! This whole anti-homosexual business is a product of the Judeo/Christian mindset. Other cultures and their deities don't hate fags!

I'm not often on a computer that supports Twitter, but I think "The Gods Are Bored" could have a lovely, purifying presence on there if all I do is Tweet about happy stuff, credit the bored gods, and send it to the Westboro Baptist Church.

Ah, summer plans! Come one, come all, downsized deities ... let's have a Jellicle ball!

Sometimes It's Hard Not To Be a Hater

I think everyone ought to practice a religion that allows for a little hate, so long as it doesn't harm anyone. It's enormously difficult to love everyone all the time. As for that part about hate being bad for you, as in making you stressed or sick? Well, I'm not talking about being a seething ball of unrelenting hatred. I'm talking about taking a genuine look at some people and having a healthy dose of dislike.

I don't have to want to inflict physical or emotional damage on people just because I hate them. However, I believe it is actually healthy to admit that you hate someone. If you ask me, it's more stressful to find love in your heart when there isn't any, and shouldn't be any. Rational people will inevitably find certain individuals to be worthy of hatred. To me, that is perfectly okay. Just don't release the hounds.

Case in point: There is a married couple, man and wife, who are related somehow to one of my brothers-in-law. Every time we have a family party, this couple comes to it. They have been coming to every family get-together for 23 years. And they drink heavily.

As with anyone who drinks heavily, eventually these people get loud and lose track of politeness.

This past weekend Mr. J and I, Heir and Spare, and Extra Chair went to a family gathering. As usual, the repellant couple was there. As usual, drinking heavily.

Late in the afternoon, the female portion of this couple, when introduced to Extra Chair, began grilling EC on forced abortions in China. As you might recall, Extra Chair is a Chinese exchange student who is boarding with us. Before we could stop the hard-drinking female, she had shrilly peppered poor Chair with nasty questions about Chair's native land. Chair is 16.

Can you imagine being taken to task for your country's political positions as a teenager, in a language you don't entirely understand? Now, reader, let me ask you. Would you pose hard questions about Chinese public policy to an exchange student who was just standing there, minding her own business, awkward to begin with?

I hate this couple. I hate this woman. I hated her before this past weekend, and I hate her now. My reasons for hating her extend beyond her bad behavior toward Extra Chair. In my judgment, she and her husband pose a threat to my brother-in-law's safety.

Notice a few things about this hatred:

1. I am not asking anyone else to hate these people.
2. I am not obsessed with them.
3. I do not wish them harm, nor would I inflict harm upon them. Hatred does not presuppose bad behavior.

I spent about 50 miles of I-95 apologizing to Extra Chair for the drunken tirade she experienced at our so-called lovely family get-together. She was very kind about it and said it didn't bother her. Well, it bothered me. I might not like or agree with Chinese public policy, or how the country provides for its citizenry, but I'm not going to expect Extra Chair to understand her homeland's woes or fix them. She just needs to read The Great Gatsby.

Yes, I'm a hater. No, I don't think it's bad, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained. Feel free to argue with me in the comment thread. I speak only for myself and a few warlike bored gods.

Gods Bless America

I don't care where you go, or who gives the speech, or what the occasion. It's just fashionable these days at any patriotic event to end with "God bless America." I mean that politicians say it, or the crowd sings the song, or both.

The phrase "under God" appears in the Gettysburg Address as it's chiseled on the side of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, but there are some versions of the speech that leave that out.

I don't like the phrase "God bless America." Obviously, as a Pagan, I feel that it isn't inclusive enough. But it goes deeper than that.

The idea that God blesses America presupposes that He damns other countries, especially our "enemies." There's also the idea that, as "people of God," we Americans are nicer, kinder, and more loving than other people in other parts of the world. Well, we all know that this isn't true. There are wonderful people everywhere, and the Christian god is believed to bless all of them who ask for it. I don't think a particular deity should be tied to a particular nation, especially a secular nation where lots of people who are nice, kind, and loving don't believe in deity at all.

On the other hand, I can understand why Memorial Day ceremonies include so much God stuff. The vast majority of Americans, especially those who attend Memorial Day ceremonies, are Christians or Jews. For them, the whole "God bless" thing is a comfort and solace. I wouldn't deny people that comfort at a Memorial Day ceremony, but it's pretty annoying at other times and in other political venues.

Snobville holds a Memorial Day ceremony every year, and it is exactly the same every year. The local American Legion post rotates its invite amongst the local churches. This year's official church leader was the local Catholic priest, who, in his Invocation and Benediction ended with "the God who made us all." Pretty cheeky if you ask me. Does God make Hindus and atheists, too? If so, why?

Another perennial tradition in Snobville is to sing "God Bless America." Now this is more my speed. One can easily pluralize the "god" part of it and feel mighty patriotic while singing along.

Gods bless America. Gods bless people who deserve blessings everywhere. Bored gods, don't bother blessing evil people. But do look out for our fallen soldiers. And the soldiers on the other side too. Most of them are just kids who need a job and do what they're told to do.  What a shame we can't use them more wisely.

A Shameless Plea for the Jersey Shore

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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