One Damn Sturdy Tomcat

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we lasted six days between hair-washes and only shampooed this morning because the supervisor was scheduled to come in for a pre-observation conference. Did I feel like washing my hair when it was six degrees outside, with two inches of new snow? Hell no!

But this sermon isn't about hair. It's about a tomcat that I asked Freya to look out for. She has been right on it!

This tomcat has been hanging around my neighborhood for at least two years. He's just a generic tabby, with that chunky tomcat face. Except that somehow the skin got pulled clean off the right side of his face, so now he's decidedly less chunky in the mug. It's a wicked bad injury, and I got some antibiotics from the cat lady at the PETCO, but this frisky tom wouldn't eat the food laced with the medicine.

Right there's a tip-off that Freya's got Her hands on this cat. If he's really and truly homeless and unloved, he would eat cat food with red pepper flakes on it.

Sweet Goddess. The tom pulls her chariot, I'm sure!

Anyway, to make a long sermon longer, yesterday the tom was having a trash talk extravaganza chummy chat with my trophy feline through the barrier of the basement window. This drives the trophy cat crazy, because it's boring in the house.

We've had the coldest winter in recent memory here, and snow was again in the forecast. So I put out a can of food for the tom, without the medicine. He ate it, but not like a starving cat eats ... more like a pampered pet nibbles daintily. Then he went away.

Awhile back I put a little shelter together for this interloper, out on my front porch. Other than the fact that it smells like tomcat, I had no evidence he was crawling in there to keep warm. (The neighbor feline, Mestopheles, was spied napping in it during the day.) But this morning, when I went out in the pre-dawn, six-degree cold to go to work, I saw a set of footprints in the new snow. They began near the shelter and proceeded down the porch stairs, down the sidewalk, and off into the distance. It seems the tom is indeed camping in his lean-to. At least occasionally.

Through all of our bitter cold, this intrepid puss has rocked on, with half his face pulled off. I can't tell you how many nights I've gone to sleep listening to the roar of the wind and imagining the critter slipping into mortal hypothermia. Oh, me of little faith! I petitioned Freya for her help, and She is caring for this cat.

On Freya's day next, I will have a dual-purpose party. Extra Chair, not surprisingly, wants a bit of the old home culture for Chinese New Year. So we'll eat hot pot, but I'm going to decorate everything in red and then set off some sparklers. This will honor Freya on Her day and perhaps bring a little holiday cheer to poor Chair, who had two weeks off for a meaningless holiday last month and now must work through her country's biggest fun time.

Hail Freya, the great not-so-bored Goddess!

Frank Talk about Clean Hair

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," free content, always and forever, which is a great value for you! And now we're going to save you more money yet! Stick with "The Gods Are Bored." We make a dollar holler.

Last night I was browsing through Facebook, and I saw a post from a friend in West Virginia who has been without usable tap water since the chemical spill. She wrote about going to the grocery store and seeing all the local people with scarves over their hair, or caps hiding the locks they can't wash. It's been two weeks or more since that spill, and I don't blame anyone for not wanting to wash their hair with Charleston's water.

But it is saddening to think that people are embarrassed about their dirty hair.

Before I go one step further with this, I want to add that people in any region of the country would feel this way under similar circumstances, so this in no way impugns the character of West Virginians.

How often do you wash your hair? What products do you use? Do you buy conditioner? Moisturizing shampoo? Ever asked yourself if you really need all that stuff?

I reveal my geezerhood here when I tell you that, when I was a kid, no one I knew washed hair more than once a week. Women who could afford a visit to the beauty parlor got a wash and a set on Saturday, in time for looking good at church the next day. After that, women slept and showered in hair nets to protect the set of their hair until the week was out.

Something happened in the late 1960s. From a source unknown, people began to believe that they needed to wash their hair almost every day. The market became flooded with daily shampoos and conditioners. All of a sudden, you could find products for oily hair, dry hair, straight hair, curly hair, and colored hair. Where before you had basic regular or dandruff shampoo and cream rinse.

This coincided with changes in hair style. It became vogue to blow-dry your hair after that daily shampoo. The styles began to require blow-drying. Which meant more washing. And more conditioning. Which meant more buying of specialty shampoo. Conditioner. Mousse.

News flash: Somewhere, a handful of entrepreneurs have become billionaires selling us on the idea that we need to wash our hair frequently. It just isn't true. In the absence of cooties, no one needs a daily hair-washing, or even two times a week.

I have a specialty haircut that looks best when it's washed and gelled. But a combination of laziness and the sneaking suspicion that all that hair-washing is actually bad for my hair often leads me to go days and days without a hair wash. I'm writing this on a Sunday, and I last washed my hair on Thursday. I'll probably go at least two more days before I wash it again. That's almost a week.

As if this admission won't lose me two of my three readers, I confess even further. I don't shower every day. I don't use deodorant. Basically, the only part of me that gets daily cleaning is my pearly whites. The rest? Situational. I heed the need, not the norm.

So, Anne ... what's it like to go a week without washing your hair?

Admittedly, the roots start to tingle a little, and it does get a bit oily. But a headband is a terrific concealer. No one has ever sniffed disdainfully at my tresses. Ever noticed? Dirty hair doesn't smell bad. It just looks greasy (sometimes) or frumpy (Anne).

I find it terribly sad that people would cut their hair or be embarrassed about it if unsanitary water conditions did not allow them to wash it in a couple of weeks. This represents not a reasonable reaction to uncleanliness but a triumph for the hair care industry.

In solidarity with the citizens of Charleston, WV, I, Anne Johnson, will only wash my hair once a week for the next three weeks at least. When I get to Day One, I'll start posting photos.

If you wish to avoid me due to my dirty locks, I live in New Jersey.

Visit West Virginia: Harper's Ferry

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," offering free advice, and I pay you to take it! Send me an invoice after you visit Harper's Ferry, West Virginia.

There's not a single image on Google that begins to capture the beauty and majesty of Harper's Ferry. I've been around a little bit (not much, I must admit), and I have never seen a place more magnificent. Three states and two mighty rivers converge there, amidst roiling white water and sheer cliffs, with a quaint hysterical little town on the West Virginia side and pretty much rugged hiking/climbing on the others. I chose this modest photo as a teaser.

EXHIBIT A: HARPER'S FERRY FROM THE WEST VIRGINIA SIDE

My sister, who never left home, taunts me regularly with photos from one or the other clifftops of Harper's Ferry, usually accompanied by commentary on the local, abundant vulture population. Her husband popped the question on one of those cliffs. He knew what he was doing: No one could take in that vista and say no to anything.

My first job was in Harper's Ferry. I worked for the Park Service, as a visitors' guide in the general store exhibit. And here is that very store, by golly! But you can't smell it, which was the best part. We kept seasonal produce there, and a barrel of biscuits, and sides of cured ham, and coffee beans.

 My employment was part of a federal initiative called the Youth Conservation Corps, which was axed with great glee by Ronald Reagan a few years later.

Oh, happy summer so long ago, spent in blissful contemplation of the most stunning mountain scenery east of the Mississippi River! There is just. Literally. No describing this place. I'm not even going to try.

Harper's Ferry is about 50 miles west of Washington, DC. These days you park your car in a big lot outside the town and take a bus into the hysterical part. At first I was appalled to hear this, but when you visit and see how wonderful the town is without all the traffic congestion, it makes abundant sense. And of course, that's the easy, touristy way. You more rugged types can park at various places below the cliffs and hike your way around. Honestly, the climbs are steep as hell but not very time-consuming. When you get to the top, you are literally in the realm of the Sacred Thunderbird. You can look down upon them as they ride the thermals and bathe from the rocks in the rivers.

As for the rivers, they are, in no particular order, the Shenandoah and the Potomac.

I know my three readers, and you are all far away from Washington, DC. But if you ever do find yourself in that area, know this: Just 50 miles away is one of Gaia's utmost wonders. Go there. Remember the John Denver song, "Almost Heaven?" Ditch the "almost."

Play Misty for Christie

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you from New Jersey, the Smokestack State! If you ever watched "Jersey Shore" and saw those morons on there, you will understand how this state got saddled with the sorry nasty head case known as Governor Chris Christie.

You would have to be living in a cave to have missed Governor Christie's recent scandal, in which his closest advisers went entirely behind his back and, without any knowledge on his part, altered the traffic patterns on our nation's busiest bridge, the George Washington Bridge from Jersey to Manhattan. Poor Governor Christie! Imagine being double-crossed by the people you trust the most!

Well, if you believe his story, then talk to me. I'll sell you the George Washington Bridge, and you can manage the traffic. Good luck with that, by the way.

You know what, though? I'm going to give Governor Christie the benefit of the doubt on this. Maybe he is just a really poor leader who pays virtually no attention to what his staff members are doing, even when it makes headlines. It could be as simple as that. But what I read in the Sunday New York Times  about him did give me pause.

According to the Sunday Times, this recent scandal has forced Mr. Christie to change his schedule somewhat. He was supposed to take a tour of Europe to improve his grasp of foreign policy. And then he had planned to do major fundraising for the election of other Republican governors. Both of these duties baffle me. What could they possibly have to do with running the state where I live? How could a tour of Europe make the lives of my Camden students better? Are the Swiss going to set up chocolate shops on Haddon Avenue?

It sounds like, if this scandal hadn't happened, I would be paying a salary to a guy who would be spending more time off the job than on it.

It's no surprise that Mr. Christie wants to be president, even though he's been too coy to say so. But just now he's supposed to be running the government of New Jersey, and he is supposed to do so with competent staff, and he's supposed to be polite to constituents. He's not, and he's not, and he's not.

Yes, the left wing media is overdoing its skewering of Chris Christie. But take it from one of the citizens of his state: After a thorough evaluation using the Danielson Model, I find him ineffective as a public servant.

Stop Chris Christie right here at the gates of New Jersey! Don't let him bring his bully tactics and abrasive personality onto a wider platform. The man is not fit to govern. If he thinks the first duties of the governor should be a whirlwind tour of Europe, he's clearly out of touch with his voters.

Hey! I'm here, serving a life sentence in New Jersey. Send me some orange cones, and I'll be glad to block the lanes that would lead Chris Christie onto the highway to Washington, DC. I would consider this the first act of a patriot. The man is a menace.

Saving West Virginia

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do you have bumper stickers on your car? I have one on the rear bumper. It says "I (heart) Mountains." I bought it in West Virginia.

There's been a great deal written about West Virginia in the past week, some of it by Pagans who see the Mountain State as a microcosm for our rape of Gaia. Well, they are dead-on correct about that. And it's nice to see the collection plate going around to buy water and supplies for the thousands of people affected by the recent chemical spill. But sending packs of bottled water to residents of the Elk and Kanawha watersheds is akin to doling out broth to starving kids in Africa. Until the root reasons for environmental disaster are addressed and remedied, West Virginia is a region where calamities can happen and will happen.

Why would anyone want to live in West Virginia? It's a mess, isn't it?

I can answer both questions.

As an expatriate Appalachian, I can tell you exactly why people want to live in West Virginia. It is beautiful. If you can step out on your back porch and lose your breath in awe of the vista beyond your house, you live in West Virginia. Many of the people who live there have ancestry going back centuries. I could wax poetic, as some bloggers have, about the ecosystem, and the sense of place, and the grounding in tradition, and all of that. I'm not a poet. I tell it like it is. West Virginia is beautiful. If you live there, you don't want to leave ... especially for some big city in some flat tidewater state.

But West Virginia is a mess, isn't it?

West Virginia has been ruled by big monied interests since the first tunnel was dug into the first mountain in the pursuit of coal. The politicians are on the payroll of Big Coal, and they have been since that first tunnel was dug. The current crop of Democrats are only Democrats because Lincoln won the war ... they act like Republicans and are often the serious movers and shakers behind efforts to squelch the EPA. How do they get by with such antics? By persuading their constituents that the EPA will raise the jobless rate, and environmental activists are by and large replants from other areas of the country. (That is certainly not true in either case, I'm just giving you the politicians' talking points.)

Today's Sunday New York Times reports that only 4 percent of West Virginians are employed in the coal industry. Seem low to you? Be advised that you need far fewer workers to rip the tops off mountains with bulldozers than you do to go deep into the underground and blast the coal out. Nor is there a great need for a vast workforce to sink natural gas wells. The extraction of coal for our nation's energy needs is more and more done efficiently with machinery and a few people who know how to work it.

Fracking is also coming to West Virginia, big time. Once again, people who love the mountains will be convinced that they will have good jobs that will keep them in the mountains if they extract natural gas, and never mind how safe or unsafe it is, who cares?

So, Anne. Do you have any free advice on how to save West Virginia?

I sure do. Go there.

The whole state doesn't look like the picture above. Most of it is gorgeous. Do you love Gaia? Do you love the outdoors, the majesty of the land, the joy of exerting yourself on a hike, on a bike ride, on a raft? Would you love to spend an afternoon having a spa treatment at a mineral spring? Do you live in that great megalopolis on the East Coast, or in the Rust Belt? Take your tourist dollars and spend them in West Virginia. Heck, if the one-percenters can do it at The Greenbriar (to which I could not successfully link you *conspiracy*), you can do it at Spruce Knob.

Most of the Appalachian mountain states have vibrant tourism industries, but West Virginia lags behind, possibly due to the ridiculous and insulting notion that the entire state is an environmental wasteland peopled by violent, inbred, three-eyed hillbillies. What utter nonsense! By the same line of reasoning, New Jersey is nothing but gun-toting mafia dons plotting murder over plates of linguine.

Visit West Virginia, reader. Make your vacation plans. You'll find that, if you avoid the above-mentioned one percenter hideaway, you'll make a dollar holler. My personal favorite part of West Virginia is Berkeley Springs, pictured at the top of this post, and the adjacent Cacapon Mountains. If you're more of the rugged type, try hiking in the Alleghenies.

Pagans, if you want to help the Earth, West Virginia should be a pilgrimage destination. Every dollar you tip a waitress, every campground you reserve for a Ritual, every piece of original artwork or crafting you bring home, will help the state far more than a package of plastic water bottles, shipped and forgotten when the next disaster hits elsewhere.

But Anne ... I live thousands of miles from West Virginia. What can I do?

Turn down your heat, turn off the lights when you leave the room, power off your electronics when you aren't using them, live close to your workplace, take mass transit, use the laundromat, eat local and seasonal produce, have a small family. Notice I don't say write to your Congressman. That is whistling in the wind. I visited a coal-burning power plant this past summer, and I heard it right from the foreman's mouth. The plant burns less coal when there's less use of consumer electricity. Vote with your thermostat.

I moved away from the mountains when I was 18. I have lived in big cities or their suburbs ever since. But the lion's share of my tourist money has gone back to Appalachia. I will move home some day, either as a live person or in an urn. Either way, the mountains are my final destination. Fourteen generations of my ancestors are waiting for me there.

Hitting the Wall with Floppy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" A few minutes ago, I hit the wall. That means, I reached a point past exhaustion where nothing much makes sense, and therefore everything is funny. At this point it's either laugh or cry ... tears roll in either case.

It's a good time to visit with my friend Floppy, who came here to live one day when I was low-down and blue. Floppy is an Egyptian vulture. Quite a snappy friend, don't you think? Anyway, I think Floppy has some news for me, so let's find out:

Anne: Floppy! You look excited!

Floppy: Oh, you betcha, Anne! You're going to love this too! I've been named to the Committee for Ranking Appalling Putridity!

Anne: Seriously? You made CRAP? Congratulations! But please re-acquaint me with the aims of this worthy association.

Floppy: Well, we smell things and rank them according to their foulness. The aim is to get everything stinky into one long line of stinkiness, leading up to the worst stench on the planet.

Anne: I can't imagine many creatures who would know more about rancid odors than a vulture. Still, you must have beaten out a lot of vultures for this honor, Floppy.

Floppy: Can't really answer that, Anne. The balloting is highly secretive.

Anne: I'll bet they're all about secretions on that committee ... *hitting the wall laughter* So, Floppy. Tell me a little bit more about CRAP. And I mean a little bit, because I don't have a strong stomach.

Floppy: Well, you've got your basic stink bugs, your skunks, your hagfish, that tomcat in your back yard ... gee, I wonder if he helped me get the nod!

Anne: No doubt. So your committee sits around and sniffs stuff and then votes on what smells the worst.

Floppy: Correct.

Anne: I hope these aren't home-based meetings.

Floppy: No, CRAP is scheduled to meet next week in Trenton. Right up the road!

Anne: Just so I know for sure ... it is literal and actual stink you're measuring, not metaphorical or figurative stink, right?

Floppy: I think it's literal stink. Otherwise, why would they appoint a vulture?

Anne: Well, Floppy, it's like this. In the world of metaphorical stink, vultures get appointed all the time. Trenton is lousy with metaphorical vultures. If I were you, I would take a quantity of stink bugs as security. And fly there. Don't commute.

Floppy: Oh, I intend to fly. These roads in New Jersey ... you just can't trust them to get you places on time.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," winning a wide readership one meme at a time! My name is Anne Johnson. Really. I couldn't make that up. I'd have left off the "e" or added a "t." Something stupid like that.

This lovely honor was passed on to me from Yellow Dog Granny, who loads her page with so many laughs that your floor better be nicely padded. You're going to do some serious rolling, don't want to snap any bones.

I'm supposed to choose other blogs to bestow the honor upon. I'm thinking about that. I'm sure I'll have a long list in a day or two. But in the meantime, if you're just showing up here for the party ... well ...

 We at "The Gods Are Bored" feel that laughter is not only the best medicine, it's sometimes the best religion. Let's face it. The time of life is short. It seems longer if you're serious all the time. So blaze a bright path through the unknown universe, with a tra la la!

Many a good religion is built around the philosophy that it is holy to be miserable. Now, see, I'm a conspiracy theorist. I think these sorts of religions are created by The Man to keep poor people satisfied with their lot. Rage against the misery! The bored gods don't want you to be the richest person in town, but They do want you to be the happiest person in town. But be careful out there. If your happiness causes suffering to others, the bored gods will take due note and deal with you harshly. Be good and kind. Laugh abundantly. If you don't have anything to laugh about, read the comments under any Yahoo! news story. You'll be laughing in no time.

"The Gods Are Bored" has been around since 2005 and has dumped more than 2,000 posts into the World Wide Web. The vast, vast majority of these posts are both nonsensical and prose-based. I like to write because in 1973 my mother made me take a typing class in summer school. Once my fingers learned to skate across the keyboard, there was no stopping me. (Sometimes I wish Mom had forced me to take auto repair in summer school. Think of all the oil changes I could have done since then! I would probably still be driving my grandfather's Oldsmobile!)

Here's a quick cast of characters who serve as fodder regularly feature in the action on "The Gods Are Bored":

*The Heir and The Spare (my daughters, thus nicknamed because that's what the press has called Prince William and Prince Harry)
*Beta and Gamma, my cats (Alpha has gone with the faeries.)
*Decibel the parrot, the only bird in America with his own personal poppet
*Puck and Princess, faeries
*Sacred Thunderbird, aka Vulture, my totem
*Morons ... They rotate.
*Bored deities who drop by for tea and chat

The setting for most of this mayhem is my current abode in Snobville, New Jersey. Except, of course, if there are mushrooms about ... and then the setting is Alternate Universe. I'll let you know.

Some days around here, it's blog or go nuts. So I blog. Welcome to the show.

Conversation Overheard in the Back Yard

Did you know that many bored deities can speak Cat? One very venerable ancient Goddess from what is now the forested regions of Transylvania left me this little dramatic conversation She overheard the other night. She even knew the names of the cats in question: Gus, the wounded tom cat; Mestopheles, the jet-black snob who lives down the street; Beta (my itty bitty tabby); and Gamma, my indoor "trophy feline."

Here's the report:

Scene: Anne's tiny back yard in Snobville and the surrounding, equally tiny yards.

Time: 7:30 p.m., Wednesday, January 8. Temperature: 25 degrees Fahrenheit. Winds out of the north.

Mestopheles: Gus! How they hanging?

Gus: They're here, that's all that matters. But this wound on my neck hurts like a sonofabitch.

Mestopheles: Listen. Steer clear of the free food out front of the house. It's a trap. I went for it and got caught in a box. It took three humans to get me out! And Beta was laughing at me the whole time.

Gus: Ha ha ha ha ha ha! You idiot, that's a Have-a-Heart trap! If I walk into that thing, it's bye-bye balls.  I would never get fooled by that.

(Great sounds of commotion in the back yard. Human calls "Kitty kitty kitty! Here, Gamma!"

Mestopheles: Snap, Gus! Look! That pampered, indoor pretty boy has escaped! Look at him run! 

Gus: Life of Riley, that one. Warm roof over his head, all the vittles he can eat...

Mestopheles: Yeah, but look. He's inside all the time. And neutered. And right now, he's outside. At our mercy. Let's corner him and kick his butt.

Gus: Not sure I'm up to much butt-kicking. But it's too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Gus and Mestopheles melt into the darkness to watch two hysterical humans trying to catch Gamma, who is running scared, but still running. Finally the humans give up and go in the house. As they go inside, they let Beta out.

Beta: Hey, you guys seen the orange slacker?

Gus: He's hiding behind the discarded windowpanes beside your neighbor's shed.

Beta: Scare the shit out of him, willya? This back yard is mine. I don't want him jackin' my style.

Mestopheles: When we're finished with him, he'll hide in the dark corner of your basement for a week! C'mon, Gus, let's go put some Chris Christie on that pretty boy!

Gus and Mestopheles surround Gamma, pinning him behind the panes of glass. Beta watches, satisfied, from the back porch. Ten minutes pass. Beta asks to be let back inside. Her wish is granted. Another ten minutes pass, and out the back door comes a human, in a warm winter coat, with a flashlight from a smart phone. The human begins calling for Gamma (who doesn't really know his name).

Mestopheles: rrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr.......

Gus: rrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrreeeeeowwwwwrRRRRRRrrrr

Gamma: rrrrrrrrr...... rrrrr ...rrrrr..r......rrrrr

Human: Gamma? Gamma? Where are you? Here, Gamma!

Mestopheles: rrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrr...

Gus: rrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrreeeeowwwwwwRRRRRRRRRRRRR! Oh, damn, Mestopheles, the human is finding the pretty boy by listening to us!

Mestopheles: Yeah. Oh shit. Here she is.

Human (to Mestopheles): Thanks for helping me find him, but get outta here!

Mestopheles: Call it off, Gus. The human has located her boy toy!

Gus: Don't bad mouth that human too much, Mes. She made me up a swell lean-to.

Mestopheles: Which is more than you deserve, marking every square inch of her yard.

Gus: I'm a tom. It's how we roll.

Mestopheles and Gus peel off, watching in amusement as the human tries to pry her house cat out from behind jagged panes of glass, finally chasing him back into his own yard, then enticing him with the one thing he has learned ... the sound of a spoon clicking on a cat can, and the sound of the can being opened. He inches just into the human's reach, and she grabs him by the scruff of the neck and hauls him back indoors.

Mestopheles and Gus roar with laughter.

Mestopheles: Well now, that's about the most pathetic thing I've seen in a month of Sundays.

Gus: Yep. For all this wound ... and it's a doozy, might be the end of me ... I wouldn't give up my freedom to come and go where I please, when I please, horny all the time.

Mestopheles: I've got the best of all worlds. I have a warm home and owners who let me run wild.

Gus: Yeah, but for all that, don't brag on yourself too much. You're the one who got nabbed in the trap.

Mestopheles: Oh, go spray the wood pile!

Beta (from the back porch): Thanks for your help, homies! Pretty boy's hiding in the basement with his plume-like orange tail between his legs!

Gus: Tell that human to leave out some food without the trap, will ya!

Beta: Right on it, handsome!

Hello? Hello?

Dear Goddess Freya,

I hope you can help me with a problem here in my neighborhood. It's getting very cold out there, and so time is of the essence.

I'm sure You know our local tomcat, who I have affectionately named "Gussie." Gus announces his presence with a spray of scent and a "hello" that sounds almost human. He makes his rounds in an orderly manner, and most times I just greet him and go about my day.

But on the night it snowed, I could have sworn I heard him say "hello" most pathetically at 4:30 a.m. I got up and looked outside ... no footprints. But it got me thinking, "What does Gus do on these cold nights?"

Well, Goddess, You know that better than I do. You also must know the identity of whoever is feeding Gus to plumpness. Because he just isn't your typical feral tomcat by any means. He's fat and friendly.

Freya, Gus has sustained a very bad injury. He has a laceration on his neck, two inches square. The PETCO cat lady says she'll keep him in her basement and give him antibiotics if I can trap him. But he's too plump to be enticed into the trap by Fancy Feast and catnip. He even let me pick him up and hold him, but he balked big time when I tried to put him in the cat carrier.

Dear Freya, someone is caring for this cat, but not caring enough. Please send Gus back to my house, so I can get him into a warm shelter and get him the antibiotic he needs for his cheek. It's cold as the upper reaches of Norway out there tonight. Gus could fend for himself, if not for that injury. But it's a bad, bad scrape.

Yes, Freya, I know that I'm bigger than a cat and that I should be able to shove one into a carrier. But these big males, they can do some mighty fancy squirming. So please help me out on this. Give Spare and me another chance to collar this kitty and get him the help he needs.

Affectionately Your servant,
Anne Johnson

If It's All Poison, Why Can't We Choose?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," day three of a snow day weekend! Oh, by all the bored gods, it's so nice to be sort of, a little bit, okay somewhat, caught up on some things!

Here's a nice photo, taken by a man named Bruce Lin, of some of the wenches in the Two Street Stompers. This is just about the best photo I have ever seen of the "rank and file" members of our club. It's hard to describe men in dresses to people who've never seen the Mummers Parade. This helps bundles, so thanks, Mr. Wonderful Photographer!

Today's sermon sort of begins with the Mummers, but it diverges quickly, so settle in.

The Mummers Parade is sponsored by one of Philadelphia's big casinos. There are now casinos in Philly, Atlantic City, Allentown, and Valley Forge. The Philly casinos are expanding. A new one will soon be built just two blocks from Independence Hall. These casinos advertize on radio and television. Needless to say, if you want them to, they will email you early and often.

I grew up in genteel poverty. My father, who was not particularly religious, thought gambling was a sin. He said it ruined lives. And you might say, "Well, yes, it ruins people financially ... puts perfectly good families out on the street, breaks up relationships, and is addictive to at least some of its users." Let me tell you, congregation: I know someone who died of gambling. Died of it. She was so addicted to casino gambling that she ignored every sign of sickness in order to keep playing poker. On her premature deathbed, she begged her family to take her to Atlantic City.

Do I need to go into the many and varied woes associated with alcohol? I think not. Some people can drink all they want and never have a bad day. Other people aren't so fortunate. Blah blah blah ... this is a tired re-hash. I'm moving on.

Both gambling and booze are bad for some people, but our society accepts them.But now the plot thickens.

The state of Colorado has legalized the recreational use of marijuana. The state expects a financial windfall from taxation of the product, and there's no way to project how this legalization will affect tourism. And from many quarters there is loud lamentation and hand-wringing about how dangerous weed is, how it will fall into the hands of teenagers and contribute to fatal automobile accidents and cause a whole generation of Colorado youngsters to become brain-damaged, listless stoners with no future.

I'm not going to hop on a jet and go out to Denver for a Rocky Mountain high anytime soon, but I honestly applaud Colorado for this move. It has never been difficult for teenagers to obtain marijuana. There is no difference between stoned driving and drunk driving. As for young, developing brains, well ... they've already been under siege from booze and pharmaceuticals, both of which can usually be found in Pop Pop's kitchen cabinets.

Smoking reefer is exactly as perilous as gambling and drinking. I do not see one iota of difference. Most people will be able to light up the occasional doobie and enjoy themselves immensely without harm to themselves or others. Some people will have problems with it. To be completely candid, however, I will say that I've seen people really, really drunk, and I've seen people really, really stoned. The stoners get my vote. They're not likely to pick a bloody fight over the relative merits of the Philadelphia Eagles and the Dallas Cowboys.

Brothers and sisters, many things that are legal and pleasurable are bad for us. No one has proven that weed is worse than the legal poisons of booze and gambling. Therefore, why are these cash-strapped states depriving themselves of a taxable product that would be regulated for its purity?

I say, give us freedom of choice with this all-natural pleasure-enhancer! And I am not saying this because I use weed. I'm saying it because it's no worse than the highly-taxed alcohol and casino industries.

When it comes to picking your poison, I say we should have extreme latitude. How would legalization of pot in my state affect me? Oh my soul. Have you ever rolled up to a turnpike toll booth without enough money to pay your way ... because they just raised the rates again?

Rocky. Mountain. High.

Navel Gazing on the Mummers Parade 2014

Maybe it was the arthritic hip. Maybe it was my daughters growing up. All I knew was that I had spent too many years sitting on my perfectly-upholstered barcalounger, watching the Philadelphia Mummers Parade. So I had surgery on my hip and joined a comic club.

Here I am with fellow Two Street Stompers at this year's parade. Our theme was "Salute to the Troops." I'm the one without the nurse cap.

I will have a few more pictures to upload over the next few days, as fellow Stompers put images up on Facebook. There's no link yet to the performance. It was magnificent. We were patriotic and funny at the same time ... something that was lost on the judges, who awarded us 8th place.

It might not sound like fun to get up before dawn on New Year's Day and go outside in the cold for twelve hours or more, dressed in satin and dancing with a parasol. But trust me, it's fun. It's really fun. If you've ever had a period of your life when you could hardly walk, and then suddenly you could walk, and dance, through a city in a parade, it is fabulous fun.

Here's a photo someone snapped of us as we came north on Broad Street toward City Hall. The nurse in this picture isn't me, but we all basically looked the same.

The television announcer said that the Philadelphia Mummers Parade is the longest-running folk parade in American history. It began in 1901. There's a competency level for everyone in this 12-hour extravaganza, from people who just want to walk down the street with an umbrella to professional dancers, costumers, and musicians.

Anyway, I felt considerably lively today, thanks to the post-parade happy high. I want to thank the Two Street Stompers for having me. I want to remember the upscale dad and baby daughter in the crowd that I chatted with while we waited for our turn in the judging area. I want to honor the Red Cross nurses who cheered for us gals as we went by in our white satin.

And as for the window cat on Two Street who watched, fascinated, as we floated by with our sequins shining and our ruffles floating ... Happy New Year, cat! Bet you don't see the likes of us every day.

Two Street Stompers 2014 ... starting the year with a smile and a strut.

It's Mummer Time!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and Happy New Year! It's time to strut your stuff!

Every year on the first of January I march in a parade. It's a very fun thing to do, marching in a parade. I highly recommend it.

I march ... well, we prefer the term "strut" ... with a sizable group called the Two Street Stompers. We are part of Philadelphia's infamous Mummers Parade.

This is a picture of us last year. Our theme was "Gold Rush." The males (known as "wenches") dressed in ruffled miner dresses. The little kids were the dynamite. We gals were the golden nuggets, and the fat guys were the "mother lode," meaning that they wore gold bikinis and very little else. In the picture, they are the ones lying in front.

This year our theme is a salute to the troops. As you three readers know, I'm an unreformed history snob and a bemused proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. So this theme is A-Okay with me. As usual, the suits are a visual splash, and the routine manages to be funny and respectful at the same time. I can't say more because you never know who might be lurking here, trying to steal our ideas at the 11th hour (aka rival clubs like the Jesters).

People sometimes ask me how you get to be a Philadelphia Mummer. And the truth is that many Mummer groups are basically family and friends. When I decided to be a Mummer, I contacted the only person I knew who was in a brigade. His group is called the Vaudvillains. They make their own costumes. When I inquired as to joining up with them, I was told that they weren't taking new members.

Contrast this to the Two Street Stompers, whose informing philosophy is, "the more, the merrier, no sewing required, previous prade experience not necessary."

This is my third march with the Stompers, and they have made me feel right at home, even though most of them are family and friends, and I was a total stranger when I showed up there in 2012. So if you're reading this, and you're a Vaudvillain ... take a lesson. Don't turn anyone away! This is supposed to be fun! You might be overlooking someone with a theatrical flair and a fun personality, a real ham who knows people who can sew like a pro!

Have an enjoyable New Year, reader. If you happen to be awake between 9 a.m. and noon on New Year's Day, the Philadelphia Mummers Parade will be live streamed on PHL-17's web site. Look for us. We are. The Two. Street. Stompers. Fired up!

Hereby Resolved

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's nearing New Year's Day 2014, and we Two Street Stompers are getting together for a good ol' time practicing our tootsies off for the infamous Philadelphia Mummer's Parade!

 I am proud to be a Mummer. I had to basically show up at the right place audition strenuously for the honor of being in the Stompers. I'm a good fit for this bunch of crazies seamless performing troupe.

But more about the Stompers later in the week! Right now, 2013 is closing down, and it's time for those important resolutions ... you know, the ones you always make, and then epically fail on, within weeks?

I've never made a single New Year's resolution that I have kept. Not one. Oh, I've resolved this and that over the years, especially when I was younger. Nothing stuck. Let's face it. If you behave a certain way on December 31, and you have behaved that way during the entirety of 2013, it's highly unlikely that you'll suddenly be inspired to change drastically just because you have to remember to put a new number on your paperwork.

Here's a short list of things you should not resolve to do in 2014:

give up chocolate
give up beer
give up swearing
give up having a negative attitude (whatever the fuck that means)
exercise more
work harder
ease up on the caffeine

 Come on, already! If you want to resolve to exercise more, why don't you wait until April 15, when the weather is nice? As for giving up chocolate, well, I can't speak for you, but if I had to crawl to Mexico on hands and knees to get chocolate, I would do it. Even in my most resolute years, I never resolved to give up chocolate. Life is short! Any day spent without chocolate is a day you can't get back!

I've been around the pike a few times, and this is what I will say. Occasions arise when we all have to take stock and accept some lifestyle changes. This stock-taking does not occur on January 1. It happens when it happens. So ditch the resolutions. They only cause you to have a negative attitude about yourself. Resolve to live each day at a time! How are you going to respond when some idiot who's texting while driving rear-ends your car? "Oh, say, I resolved not to swear anymore, but look at what you did to my car, you naughty person!"

The road to Hell is paved with New Year's resolutions. Don't add another brick to that motorway.

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.

Interview with a Bored God: Krampus

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hey, is it the longest night of the year, here in the Northern Hemisphere? Are there thoughtful and appropriate celebrations honoring the bored and the busy gods? Well, that's all fine and dandy! But here at "The Gods Are Bored," we're just hanging with the silly, same as it ever was.

In fact, we have an interview guest tonight, taking time out of His busy schedule of whipping little kids and shoving them in sacks to chat with us! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to The Krampus!

Anne: Wow, you are one scary-looking monster.

Krampus: Sank you. Ze Spare vant me to tell you zat if you make fun of me, you are Number Von on my naughty list.

Anne: Chill! I'm all about giving good press to downsized deities ... even if they don't deserve it.

Krampus: Backhanded compliment. Vatch it.

Anne: Let me be sure I have this straight. These days, You are a nasty badass who travels with Santa Claus.

Krampus: Correct.

Anne: And if a kid has been naughty, he or she doesn't get a nice gift from Santa. Instead, You either steal the gift, leave coal or kindling, whip the kid, or stuff the kid in a sack.

Krampus: Zis is how I roll.

Anne: So basically, when the days get short and the nights get long, parents start telling their kids to be good, or else. Behave, and kindly Santa gives you gifts. Be bad, and mean Krampus whips you and steals your stuff.

Krampus: It pays ze bills, okay?

Anne: Oh, I totally understand! It's freakin' hard for a deity of Pagan origin to find any kind of employment that isn't demeaning or difficult! Honestly, though. How many kids do You actually scourge or kidnap?

Krampus: None.

Anne: Not one single kid? Never?

Krampus: Not one single kid.  Even ze ones who say, "Okay, I know I've been bad, I'm ready for ze Krampus." But I have been known to pinch ze gifts. Not wholesale, like ze Grinch, but here and there.

Anne: There's been a lot of talk lately about the racial origin of Santa Claus. But what goes missing in this dialogue is Santa's agenda. So ... one more time ... You and Santa go hand-in-hand on the gift-giving binge. A kid is good, he gets a gift. A kid is bad, he gets sticks.

Krampus: You are repeating yourzelf why?

Anne: Because I think this is just a rotten way to keep kids well-behaved in the autumn months, that's why! Yeah, it's real nice. Every time little Hans commits some little error, he faces the threat of being bagged and lashed by a furious, horn-rimmed monster! (to herself) I wonder which came first ... the widespread adult-onset anxiety disorders or the childhoods traumatized by savage Christmas monsters?

Krampus: Ze vorst part is, I usually only take gifts from ze poor kids whose parents couldn't afford to buy any. Rich kids can be bad as zhey like. Zhey still get gifts.

Anne: Oh, this just gets worse and worse! So, a kid who has been good can still feel bad if Christmas comes and he doesn't get a gift? He can sit on the stoop and review his entire year, looking for those naughty moments that might have brought the Krampus to his hovel?

Krampus: Blame ze Christians! Blame ze Christians! I vas once a perfectly fine and honorable forest spirit! I punished only the fools who vandered into ze woods with no respect for Nature. Now I gotta pick on ze littlest kids. Look at me! I vonce vas handsome!

Anne: Krampus, I totally and completely believe You. Both You and Santa Claus are basically enforcers of docile behavior amongst those little humans who are naturally the most lively and rowdy. What a bum rap. You have my sympathy.

Krampus: Sank you.

Anne: What do You do the rest of the year?

Krampus: I try to make enough money in November and December to get me through. In the summer months I can find some vork as a substitute Boogey Man. But nossing full-time.

Anne: Well, Krampus, I tell you what I'm going to do. On Xmas Eve I'm going to set out a fine, large stein, chock-a-block with an amber lager of your choice. And a plate of strudel. Don't share it with Santa Claus. He's no doubt the source of your bad press. Would You like apple strudel?

Krampus: Honestly, I love ze black forest cake.

Anne: Lucky day! I have one of those right downstairs in the kitchen! Krampus, let's go drink a toast to rowdy children everywhere!

Krampus: Hip hip hooray!

Anne: Just be careful with that chocolate. I don't want to get any stains on my recliner. I'm just a little bit particular about my upholstery.

Krampus: Anne, zis is known by ze bored gods everyvhere. I vill sit at ze table. Did you say amber lager?

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I'm Liking Penguin Santa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megyn Kelly: 'Santa Is What He Is,' Which Is White

Stalked, but It's All Good

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," the sorry platform of a wacky woman named Anne Johnson. Yes, that's me, Anne Johnson, the one with the unique name.

There's news off the pathetic Yahoo wire today about a young fellow in New Zealand who launched a cyber-stalking event as he tried to search for someone named Katie who lived in Washington, DC. Apparently the gent had made merry last New Year's Eve with said Katie in Hong Kong.

http://shine.yahoo.com/love-sex/lovelorn-man-s-online-search-for-woman-backfires-175804100.html

My, these youngsters get around, don't they?

Anyway, the young fellow got a great deal of bad press and scolding for trying to locate this young woman by creating a Facebook page and enlisting the help of fellow Facebookians.

I've always loved my name (it's real) for the privacy it affords me online. There are oodles of Anne Johnsons in America. There's even another Anne Johnson living in the next block on my street. It's a hassle for the local pharmacy, let me tell you.

This delight in the anonymity of my name evaporated when my high school boyfriend called Mr. J on Mr. J's land line, looking for me.

Mr. J came in with a phone number. "Do you know someone named **** ****?" he asked.

I did. I haven't seen or spoken to this person since 1978.

Well, Mr. J said, ***** ****** wanted to talk to me.

Frankly I was creeped out. It was unnerving to think that someone could actually find the specific me in all that wide Sargasso Sea of Anne Johnsons. It had to have taken some work, even if he knew my hometown (which I falsified on Facebook), my college, and my parents' names.

I could not imagine in a million years why this man would want to speak to me on the phone. We dated for a year, we were not intimate, and although I loved him at the time in that giddy, teenage way, he would not have been suitable as a long-timer. He was a Mormon. I attended church with him twice. No amount of love could have made that lifestyle palatable to me.

I debated whether or not to call him back and finally decided to do it. I figured he must have something important to tell me, if he spent valuable time stalking my girlish butt across the length and breadth of the Internet.

One day last week after school, I dialed him up and got him on the phone. It was indeed weird. He said he "died and was brought back to life" a few years back, and when he came back to life he dedicated himself to the task of finding and thanking everyone who had made a positive impact on his life. He had tracked me down, he said, because I turned him on to the love of books and learning. I changed his life.

This was an inspiring thing to hear. I remembered watching him play chess, beating my super-smart dad two out of every three games, and ripping through other opponents. He was not stupid, but he could barely eke out passing grades in school. I remember giving him books, most notably Lord of the Rings.

The conversation was pretty short for two people who hadn't spoken since 1978. I'd heard he married. He said his first wife died at age 47. He said he was remarried with a second family. He told me his employment history, and I told him mine. He did not elaborate on the "died and came back to life" issue, and I did not press. It was just too spooky, and yet he sounded pretty normal on the phone.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to how he had found me, Anne Johnson, amongst the plethora of Anne Johnsons out there in cyberspace. He said Facebook had been no help (thank you, bored gods, for that). But he did a lot of other sleuthing and found a very old, extremely old something on Yahoo where I had left my father's phone number in search of a new home for the dog that outlived my parents. Then he got my dad's obit from the Cumberland Times and in it found my married name and current place of residence, Snobville. It would have ended there, except Mr. J has the last listed Snobville phone number in existence.

**** ******** thanked me for making him a lifelong learner, for changing his whole attitude toward education. I told him I was touched by his call and that I hoped some of the karma was seeping into my school, because I was still sitting in the parking lot. He idly inquired how to find the exact me on Facebook, and I told him. But then I quickly added that I use "Anne Johnson" for reasons of anonymity, that not everyone exactly approved of my lifestyle choices. I deliberately left that as vague as his "back from the dead" pronouncement. He has not arrived on my Facebook page, that I know of.

I just did a Google image search of "Anne Johnson" and of my entire name. I'm not there. Doesn't matter, folks. If *** ******* had evil in mind, he found me. I'm just lucky that he's as nice now as he was in 1978. And just as odd.

Faeries at Work!

A scant two months ago, the remains of a young African American man were found in a wooded area near my house. The chopper hovered overhead as the police oversaw the removal of the body. The man was identified ... and that was that. Not another word has been said about him in any news source.

I have lit candles for this young soul at my Shrine of the Mists. He was two years older than The Heir. I wonder every day how he came to his end -- not out of fear of some dangerous "other," but out of sadness that some people mean so little to our society. I feel very sad for this young life taken, for a person discarded in the woods.

Today we had another snow day here in Snobville. I didn't get the text message, so I got up, showered, dressed, and drove to school. When I saw the empty parking lot, I sort of put two and two together. So I came home.

Heir was here, also sidelined by the underwhelming weather. By two o'clock we were both going stir crazy. So we took a walk around our little neighborhood pond, in the vicinity of that unsolved death.

There's mad faerie activity all through those woods. I am not exaggerating, reader.

I will need Spare and her fancy camera to get you photos ... but she's coming home this weekend.

In the meantime, take my word for:

Item: Two gravity-defying cairns of round boulders of a type not found in these parts.

Item: Two dream-catchers crafted completely of autumn leaves and twigs.

Item: Woven autumn leaves in mosaics fanning over fallen logs and skirting up standing trees.

Item: Four miniature cairns in a cleft in a fallen tree, rocks that are found around this pond.

Item: Four magick wands, hanging vertically from another fallen tree, crafted of twigs and vines.

Item: sweet gum sticker balls hanging from a tree branch by unseen string.

Item: Two human-sized lean-to's made entirely of branches, using another fallen tree as a roof.

I hope I'll be able to get some pictures soon.

This is not the first instance of supernatural activity around this pond. Famously (or infamously), a Tiki lived there for months. But a faerie portal is now open, with tangible energy flowing into the apparent world.

Heir and I were blown away by this faerie energy. And you know me well, reader. I'm not a liar. I had no hand whatsoever in this faerie activity. I'm just glad it's there.

Maybe there's a new faerie in those woods. If so, he's a fabulous artist.

Snow Day!

The words, the text, the phone call every school teacher wants to hear: "School is canceled due to inclement weather."

Remember when you were a kid, and you got a snow day? Off you went to sled, or build a snowman, and at least one parent had to stay home to take care of you ... so it was a win/win.

I'm a weather nutcase. I inherited it from my grandfather. I check the weather forecast at least twice a day, even when it's sunny. I watch the local news forecast, because that's the only place where the announcers give a more scientific explanation of the weather.

But everyone got this one wrong.

On Saturday, each and every forecast for my region called for a scant slushy coating of wintry mix, followed by a Noah's flood of rain. So when it started snowing on Sunday, no one thought it would last more than an hour.

It snowed like batshit all afternoon. By dinnertime we had seven inches and counting. The Philadelphia Eagles football game was highly entertaining when viewed from an armchair. Wouldn't have wanted to be in the stadium. Couldn't have seen the action from the nosebleed seats.

I'm glad I had the foresight to haul in a ton of firewood. But I didn't go to the grocery store.The cupboard was interesting ... challenging ... and I'm not a great cook in the best of times.

Of course, there are many, many weather geeks out there who took the forecast seriously. Therefore, when the real weather event arrived, these fine people were out in their cars, on the highway, going places. There were traffic accidents, and lots of them, jam-ups everywhere.

You would think that the world that has given us computers, cutting-edge health care, nuclear power plants and moon landings, would have made significant strides in weather forecasting. Just hasn't happened. Either they call for a blizzard and we get a scant coating, or they call for a scant coating and we get buried.

This time it was personal. I was ready with firewood but not with groceries. The infamy!

Cernunnos just popped by and tipped His helmet. He says that the bored gods have so little to amuse themselves with these days that They deliberately fuck up the weather forecast. He says to pay no mind to the vapid talking heads on the Weather Channel. The white stuff is in the hands of the bored gods. They dump it where They will.

And today I'm home, it's a snow day, and that's like a gift ...I never stopped being ten years old. Thanks be to the bored gods!

Now I'm off to check the weather forecast, in defiance of Cernunnos. Not a wise thing to defy that deity, as I have well learned. Maybe He'll give me a pass this time.