Something has changed drastically in our society since I was a stripling.
That "something" is computers.
I can remember when there weren't any personal computers at all. I can remember when telephones were hooked to the wall. I even pre-date cordless phones.
Now everyone has a phone with them, all the time. (Except for me. I either lose or misplace or forget my phone frequently. I have never gotten used to having a phone on me all the time.)
Big Brother and Big Business are watching us as we use our computers. But there's a flip side to that. Equipped with phones that can record video, we are now watching Big Brother.
I call this the IPhone Rebellion.
If a police officer uses unusual or excessive force, someone might catch it on video and post it to the Internet. This has happened frequently over the past few months.
We had a situation in Baltimore, Maryland in which a young man was killed during the initial stages of arrest by the police. Has this ever happened before? You betcha. Has it ever been recorded on a cell phone? Not in Baltimore.
Who among us has not recoiled in horror at the video of that young person being dragged by police, his face twisted in agony? Speaking for Anne Johnson here, I was horrified. And I'm not young or African American. I cannot even imagine how African American citizens are dealing with this emotionally.
There are riots in the streets of Baltimore. I am calling this the second incident in the IPhone Rebellion. Someone snaps a video, loads it onto the Internet, everyone sees it, and some people react. Then we get soldiers on city streets, with armored vehicles and guns.
We also get alliances between urban gangs who have longstanding rivalries.
What do you call this? I lived through the 1960s, and I do know that rebellions are squashed with impunity in this country. But we have the Internet now. What are they going to do? Shut it down?
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Spoutwood Bound!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," humble home of an average human being! Nothing exceptional about me ... except for the way I go on about buzzards.
Every year at Beltane, my daughter The Spare and I sojourn to Glen Rock, PA, where we lead the Mountain Tribe at the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. We've been going to this festival for almost a decade.
Spoutwood is a beautiful spot, and everyone dresses up like faeries or creatures or free spirits. There's wonderful music, and food vendors, and drum circles, and ceremonies. As Mountain Tribe leader, Spare takes part in a midday ceremony each day that varies little from year to year. We do a lot of shouting, then we march in, then we sing some songs. We have a beautiful leather banner made by one of the artists at the Faire.
This is a picture from last year. The well-dressed fairy with the flute is my sister. Last year she came to the festival and stayed in our hotel room all three days. It was the first year I didn't have a good time. Or, I wouldn't say I didn't have a good time ... I just didn't have as much fun as usual.
The reason for that was that I found myself in a childhood dynamic with Sis. I really resented having her at my side for three days. She didn't want to do anything by herself, and at these things I always crave an opportunity to be alone in a crowd.
Growing up with a very ill mother, I often had to take care of my sister. So these days, even if I'm not really taking care of her, I am taking care of her in my mind. And it's a chore. Especially since, in her mind, I am supposed to take care of her.
Well. That was last year. I didn't invite Sis this year. I shouldn't need to -- it's an open event. She can come and go, and I would even be glad to see her there if I didn't have to care for her!
Just now I talked on the phone to Spare. She says she has a lot of school work to do and will need to curtail her hours at the festival. That's fine with me! I want to do some meditative drumming. I want to walk the land. I want to respectfully acknowledge the bored gods. Just me. Just me and a few thousand other people. Alone in a crowd.
Every year at Beltane, my daughter The Spare and I sojourn to Glen Rock, PA, where we lead the Mountain Tribe at the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. We've been going to this festival for almost a decade.
Spoutwood is a beautiful spot, and everyone dresses up like faeries or creatures or free spirits. There's wonderful music, and food vendors, and drum circles, and ceremonies. As Mountain Tribe leader, Spare takes part in a midday ceremony each day that varies little from year to year. We do a lot of shouting, then we march in, then we sing some songs. We have a beautiful leather banner made by one of the artists at the Faire.
This is a picture from last year. The well-dressed fairy with the flute is my sister. Last year she came to the festival and stayed in our hotel room all three days. It was the first year I didn't have a good time. Or, I wouldn't say I didn't have a good time ... I just didn't have as much fun as usual.
The reason for that was that I found myself in a childhood dynamic with Sis. I really resented having her at my side for three days. She didn't want to do anything by herself, and at these things I always crave an opportunity to be alone in a crowd.
Growing up with a very ill mother, I often had to take care of my sister. So these days, even if I'm not really taking care of her, I am taking care of her in my mind. And it's a chore. Especially since, in her mind, I am supposed to take care of her.
Well. That was last year. I didn't invite Sis this year. I shouldn't need to -- it's an open event. She can come and go, and I would even be glad to see her there if I didn't have to care for her!
Just now I talked on the phone to Spare. She says she has a lot of school work to do and will need to curtail her hours at the festival. That's fine with me! I want to do some meditative drumming. I want to walk the land. I want to respectfully acknowledge the bored gods. Just me. Just me and a few thousand other people. Alone in a crowd.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Can't Get Behind Her
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," ten years of joyous romping in the Realms of the Mountain Gods! I'm Anne Johnson, and I used to get far more riled up about politics than I do now.
Pretty much I have given up on the system. I have lived long enough to see how things are now, as opposed to how they were in the mid-20th century, when we actually ousted crooks instead of deifying them.
This is why, although it would be very nice to have a woman running the show in the US of A, I can't get behind Hillary Clinton. If the fix is in, she is one of the authors of it.
I remember when Bill Clinton was president. Hillary was way more than a "First Lady." No tea parties and back yard gardens for her! She set her sights on a Universal Health Care bill and lobbied tirelessly for it. She was unsuccessful.
Bill Clinton signed NAFTA into law. Jobs moved overseas in cartloads. Then he presided over the repeal of the Glass Steagall Act, which set up our too-big-to-fail banks and laid the path for the ruthless hedge funding that is now the way of the world. I don't call that a stellar liberal political record, right there. To say the Clintons, when they were running America, did a better job than George W. Bush, is damning them with faint praise.
I supported Obama because he was a fresh face, and he exploited that fact. Say what you want about him -- and say what you want about Obamacare, because it's sure not perfect -- he did get health care done.
Mrs. Clinton had my tepid support until it was revealed that she used her personal email to conduct the business of state. This should not be done. How do you justify that? If you say it was for convenience, you're lazy. If you say it was to avoid scrutiny, you're a Clinton.
This country should not be run by two or three powerful families. That's how dictatorships are born.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" can hardly believe that we would support a pudgy old white man over a woman, but Bernie Sanders it is. Doesn't matter anyway, because the fix is in. This is a nation run by a few very wealthy families, and they want us to eat cake.
Pretty much I have given up on the system. I have lived long enough to see how things are now, as opposed to how they were in the mid-20th century, when we actually ousted crooks instead of deifying them.
This is why, although it would be very nice to have a woman running the show in the US of A, I can't get behind Hillary Clinton. If the fix is in, she is one of the authors of it.
I remember when Bill Clinton was president. Hillary was way more than a "First Lady." No tea parties and back yard gardens for her! She set her sights on a Universal Health Care bill and lobbied tirelessly for it. She was unsuccessful.
Bill Clinton signed NAFTA into law. Jobs moved overseas in cartloads. Then he presided over the repeal of the Glass Steagall Act, which set up our too-big-to-fail banks and laid the path for the ruthless hedge funding that is now the way of the world. I don't call that a stellar liberal political record, right there. To say the Clintons, when they were running America, did a better job than George W. Bush, is damning them with faint praise.
I supported Obama because he was a fresh face, and he exploited that fact. Say what you want about him -- and say what you want about Obamacare, because it's sure not perfect -- he did get health care done.
Mrs. Clinton had my tepid support until it was revealed that she used her personal email to conduct the business of state. This should not be done. How do you justify that? If you say it was for convenience, you're lazy. If you say it was to avoid scrutiny, you're a Clinton.
This country should not be run by two or three powerful families. That's how dictatorships are born.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" can hardly believe that we would support a pudgy old white man over a woman, but Bernie Sanders it is. Doesn't matter anyway, because the fix is in. This is a nation run by a few very wealthy families, and they want us to eat cake.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Ten Years of "The Gods Are Bored!"
Wow. It's our tenth anniversary here at The Gods Are Bored!
There are over 2200 posts.
And a half million page views.
Dozens of bored deities have sat for interviews.
Goats were judged back in the day. Not so much anymore.
We will always love faeries! Remember Puck?
So many adventures with Decibel the parrot!
I couldn't afford to buy the family farm, so I've asked Gaia to reclaim it. This view is already lost due to tree growth!
I love the Goddess Brighid the Bright. She led me to the Light.
One day when they're older, my daughters The Heir and The Spare will come here to read about their lives! Spare was 11 when I started this blog. Tomorrow she turns 21. Oh my.
There's been one magnificent, overriding passion here at "The Gods Are Bored," celebrated with supreme devotion since this site's inception. That passion is the Rich Worship of the Great Sacred Thunderbird! Long may Vulture own the skies!
Thank you, readers, for your comments and support lo, these many years. It doesn't seem like a decade has passed since that day I read an article about a woman who got money to pay her dog's vet bills by blogging. I didn't set out to make money here ... but your generosity through several projects has been heart-warming and well-remembered.
Ten more years? Probably. There are still quite a few bored Gods and Goddesses out there who want their Voices to be heard!
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
There are over 2200 posts.
And a half million page views.
Dozens of bored deities have sat for interviews.
Goats were judged back in the day. Not so much anymore.
We will always love faeries! Remember Puck?
So many adventures with Decibel the parrot!
I couldn't afford to buy the family farm, so I've asked Gaia to reclaim it. This view is already lost due to tree growth!
I love the Goddess Brighid the Bright. She led me to the Light.
One day when they're older, my daughters The Heir and The Spare will come here to read about their lives! Spare was 11 when I started this blog. Tomorrow she turns 21. Oh my.
There's been one magnificent, overriding passion here at "The Gods Are Bored," celebrated with supreme devotion since this site's inception. That passion is the Rich Worship of the Great Sacred Thunderbird! Long may Vulture own the skies!
Thank you, readers, for your comments and support lo, these many years. It doesn't seem like a decade has passed since that day I read an article about a woman who got money to pay her dog's vet bills by blogging. I didn't set out to make money here ... but your generosity through several projects has been heart-warming and well-remembered.
Ten more years? Probably. There are still quite a few bored Gods and Goddesses out there who want their Voices to be heard!
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Saturday, April 11, 2015
When He Says He's a Shaman, Believe It!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," a house of hilarity for nearly, almost, shortly, getting there -- ten years! I'm Anne Johnson, that's really my name, and here's a wild and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" story, fresh off just happening.
I couldn't sleep last night, so I got up at 4:30 a.m. to go see King Neptune in His briny deep.
From where I live, at 4:30 in the morning, you can cruise on down to the edge of the continent in about an hour. It was my intention to be on the beach, searching for beach glass, at "can see," which right now is about 5:50 a.m.
When I got to the sea glass beach, it was barely, barely light enough to see. All the casinos were still lit up (and empty, for all I know). When I pulled into a dead end street to park, there was a big rig cab with a dude inside. He was just staring out at the water.
This made me a little nervous, but I've always had a lot of luck being alone places with strange dudes. This time was no exception.
I got on the beach, paid respect to King Neptune and Queen Oshun, and I tucked into hauling in some sea glass.
It pays to be the first one there, because it's pretty much a candy shop after an overnight high tide. I'd never gotten so much glass so quickly. And after a few minutes, I saw the trucker dude, standing on the beach.
When I got a little closer to him, we struck up a conversation. He'd never been to Atlantic City before and was interested in its history. He knew a lot already and was a big fan of "Boardwalk Empire."
When daylight truly emerged and I got closer to where he was standing, I found that he was chock-a-block with Pagan bling: pentagram and Celtic knot rings, Green Man on a cord around his neck.
I said, "Whoa, you are my kinda guy." And then it was like we were long lost pals.
He was from Kentucky. He had never heard of sea glass before. He said he was a Shaman, and that his wife was into minerals and Tarot cards. I didn't press him about what kind of Shaman he was. I figure ... and I know I'm in the minority here ... if you go to the trouble to call yourself a Shaman, well then, by golly you are one.
I gave the Shaman a nice piece of sea glass to take home and wrap. Then he started looking for sea glass too. (I must warn you, this is an addiction that can happen very quickly. DO NOT START.)
We were chatting about the bootleggers who off-loaded their cargo in the area of Atlantic City where we were. I said, "Yeah, they used marbles as ballast in their ships, and finding them all washed by the sea is a real treat. They're very rare."
He looked down at his feet and said, "Here's one." And handed me a marble.
I've been going to AC for four years now, and I have found two marbles. Well, I found three, but King Neptune wanted to keep the third. It had been a long, long time since I found a marble, and I never, ever found one on that stretch of beach before! And this Shaman had never heard of sea glass, and the moment he heard of it, he found a rare piece!
Readers, the Shaman and I had the beach to ourselves for about 20 minutes. That's all. By 6:30, full daylight, hordes with rakes descended and started beach-combing like fiends. You snooze, you lose.
The Shaman asked me for suggestions as to where he should spend the rest of his day. He certainly wasn't keen on casinos, but he wanted to walk the boards in an "artsy" place, maybe with a few ink parlors. I directed him to Asbury Park.
We said our "Merry meets" and parted paths. I went to another section of beach and combed some more, very profitably, but (predictably) no marbles.
When I returned to the main sea glass beach, the truck was gone. I hope the Shaman found his way to Asbury Park. For my money (and it ain't cheap), Asbury Park is the best boardwalk in New Jersey. Anything beats Atlantic City.
So, who establishes the criteria for "Shaman?" I know you can read a load of books and study up on ancient Celtic lore, and all that. But at the end of the day, the title is nebulous. To my way of thinking, though, the performance of minor miracles most definitely gets you the Shaman badge. For a guy who had never been to AC before, had never even seen sea glass before, to just reach down and find a marble, well. I'll sign off on him.
Okay, okay, do you want to see? This was my best day ever ... even better than the day I found my own marbles!
I found two pieces of red (one is magenta!), a huge chunk of yellow, lavender, a nugget of cobalt, and lots of really pretty, well-rounded nuggets. And someone, I think a Shaman, gave me a marble!
I couldn't sleep last night, so I got up at 4:30 a.m. to go see King Neptune in His briny deep.
From where I live, at 4:30 in the morning, you can cruise on down to the edge of the continent in about an hour. It was my intention to be on the beach, searching for beach glass, at "can see," which right now is about 5:50 a.m.
When I got to the sea glass beach, it was barely, barely light enough to see. All the casinos were still lit up (and empty, for all I know). When I pulled into a dead end street to park, there was a big rig cab with a dude inside. He was just staring out at the water.
This made me a little nervous, but I've always had a lot of luck being alone places with strange dudes. This time was no exception.
I got on the beach, paid respect to King Neptune and Queen Oshun, and I tucked into hauling in some sea glass.
It pays to be the first one there, because it's pretty much a candy shop after an overnight high tide. I'd never gotten so much glass so quickly. And after a few minutes, I saw the trucker dude, standing on the beach.
When I got a little closer to him, we struck up a conversation. He'd never been to Atlantic City before and was interested in its history. He knew a lot already and was a big fan of "Boardwalk Empire."
When daylight truly emerged and I got closer to where he was standing, I found that he was chock-a-block with Pagan bling: pentagram and Celtic knot rings, Green Man on a cord around his neck.
I said, "Whoa, you are my kinda guy." And then it was like we were long lost pals.
He was from Kentucky. He had never heard of sea glass before. He said he was a Shaman, and that his wife was into minerals and Tarot cards. I didn't press him about what kind of Shaman he was. I figure ... and I know I'm in the minority here ... if you go to the trouble to call yourself a Shaman, well then, by golly you are one.
I gave the Shaman a nice piece of sea glass to take home and wrap. Then he started looking for sea glass too. (I must warn you, this is an addiction that can happen very quickly. DO NOT START.)
We were chatting about the bootleggers who off-loaded their cargo in the area of Atlantic City where we were. I said, "Yeah, they used marbles as ballast in their ships, and finding them all washed by the sea is a real treat. They're very rare."
He looked down at his feet and said, "Here's one." And handed me a marble.
I've been going to AC for four years now, and I have found two marbles. Well, I found three, but King Neptune wanted to keep the third. It had been a long, long time since I found a marble, and I never, ever found one on that stretch of beach before! And this Shaman had never heard of sea glass, and the moment he heard of it, he found a rare piece!
Readers, the Shaman and I had the beach to ourselves for about 20 minutes. That's all. By 6:30, full daylight, hordes with rakes descended and started beach-combing like fiends. You snooze, you lose.
The Shaman asked me for suggestions as to where he should spend the rest of his day. He certainly wasn't keen on casinos, but he wanted to walk the boards in an "artsy" place, maybe with a few ink parlors. I directed him to Asbury Park.
We said our "Merry meets" and parted paths. I went to another section of beach and combed some more, very profitably, but (predictably) no marbles.
When I returned to the main sea glass beach, the truck was gone. I hope the Shaman found his way to Asbury Park. For my money (and it ain't cheap), Asbury Park is the best boardwalk in New Jersey. Anything beats Atlantic City.
So, who establishes the criteria for "Shaman?" I know you can read a load of books and study up on ancient Celtic lore, and all that. But at the end of the day, the title is nebulous. To my way of thinking, though, the performance of minor miracles most definitely gets you the Shaman badge. For a guy who had never been to AC before, had never even seen sea glass before, to just reach down and find a marble, well. I'll sign off on him.
Okay, okay, do you want to see? This was my best day ever ... even better than the day I found my own marbles!
I found two pieces of red (one is magenta!), a huge chunk of yellow, lavender, a nugget of cobalt, and lots of really pretty, well-rounded nuggets. And someone, I think a Shaman, gave me a marble!
Sunday, April 05, 2015
Eostre 2015
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we didn't find out what those colored eggs and bunnies were about until we were in mid-life! Yes, it's another stolen holy day! But I'm wise to it now.
Don't you just love Thalia Took's work? This one is particularly beautiful.
Today my daughter The Heir and I got up at dawn, and instead of going to church we went to the beach. We spent five hours hunting sea glass and soaking in the sun. As we stood there staring into King Triton's briny deep, I said to her, "You are so lucky to be all done with church at such a young age. Just think of all the beautiful spring Sundays we spent holed up in a gloomy sanctuary, over-done with dead flowers! And you have your whole life ahead to spend this particular Sunday in some refreshing and bored-god-approved activity."
She said, "Mom, so do you."
And so I do.
The rocks, the mountains, the beach, the woods -- these are my Temples.
Dancing, and drumming, and meditating, and hiking, and laughing -- these are my devotions to the Gods.
It's Spring! Time to be out, to be alive, to shake off the cold and to welcome dear Persephone back into the land of the living. All that falls shall rise again. All.
Don't you just love Thalia Took's work? This one is particularly beautiful.
Today my daughter The Heir and I got up at dawn, and instead of going to church we went to the beach. We spent five hours hunting sea glass and soaking in the sun. As we stood there staring into King Triton's briny deep, I said to her, "You are so lucky to be all done with church at such a young age. Just think of all the beautiful spring Sundays we spent holed up in a gloomy sanctuary, over-done with dead flowers! And you have your whole life ahead to spend this particular Sunday in some refreshing and bored-god-approved activity."
She said, "Mom, so do you."
And so I do.
The rocks, the mountains, the beach, the woods -- these are my Temples.
Dancing, and drumming, and meditating, and hiking, and laughing -- these are my devotions to the Gods.
It's Spring! Time to be out, to be alive, to shake off the cold and to welcome dear Persephone back into the land of the living. All that falls shall rise again. All.
Friday, April 03, 2015
Real Christians Sell Cakes
Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," pouring tea and baking scones for bored deities from multiple pantheons for almost ten years! Yes, we've got a big anniversary coming up next week!
Today's sermon: Christians Baking Stuff for Gay People
There's a very famous market in Philadelphia called Reading Terminal Market. It's a big place, and on the weekends it is stuffed to the gills with locals and tourists. You can get a Philly cheese steak sandwich there, or fried oysters, or the best, freshly made donuts in the city. There are a dozen different ethnic foods, both for raw purchase and already cooked. I'm a total sucker for the crawfish etouffe at the Cajun stall.
Some of the booths in Reading Terminal Market are staffed by the Amish.
The market is open on Sunday, but the Amish booths are closed. On Sundays they are at home, being Christians.
With all this anti-gay bigotry on display in our nation's heartland, I have been thinking about the Amish in Reading Terminal Market. They sell stuff. Lots of stuff. Mostly food, both fresh and preserved.
So, who shops at Reading Terminal?
People. All kinds of people. City people, artsy people, tourist people, gay people, straight people, Goth people, Pagan people, atheist people, drunk people, high people, Jewish people, teenagers, senior citizens, Asians, African Americans, and foreigners of all stripes.
I have never seen an Amish vendor turn away a customer, for any reason.
Why is this? Aren't the Amish really, really super religious?
Indeed they are! They think we are all going to Hell. Every last one of us who isn't Amish. We are all sinners in their eyes, and all doomed.
Then why do they serve us?
They serve us because it isn't their business to care about our souls. It's their business to care about their large families and keeping food on their own tables. Selling to sinners, you see, isn't a sin.
If these extremely strict Christians can sell donuts to drag queens, why should it be an issue anywhere?
It's an issue because many people are just hateful. They don't want anyone to be happy. Boils down to that, folks.
You don't see much hate coming from the Amish. A few years ago, a crazy gunman took hold of one of their school houses and shot a bunch of girl students, even some very young ones. There was no call of vengeance from their community. In fact they comforted the killer's wife. And they steadfastly refused to speak to the press.
In my opinion, the Amish set the gold standard for what Christians should be and do. They keep their views to themselves, they live and let live, and they do not discriminate in matters of commerce. Whatever their expectations for behavior may be, they confine those expectations to their own communities and leave the rest of us alone.
You know what else I love about the Amish? You never get them at your door on Saturday morning, trying to persuade you to become Amish. Live and let live. Some people -- I'm not saying who -- could sure take a lesson from these folks.
Today's sermon: Christians Baking Stuff for Gay People
There's a very famous market in Philadelphia called Reading Terminal Market. It's a big place, and on the weekends it is stuffed to the gills with locals and tourists. You can get a Philly cheese steak sandwich there, or fried oysters, or the best, freshly made donuts in the city. There are a dozen different ethnic foods, both for raw purchase and already cooked. I'm a total sucker for the crawfish etouffe at the Cajun stall.
Some of the booths in Reading Terminal Market are staffed by the Amish.
With all this anti-gay bigotry on display in our nation's heartland, I have been thinking about the Amish in Reading Terminal Market. They sell stuff. Lots of stuff. Mostly food, both fresh and preserved.
So, who shops at Reading Terminal?
People. All kinds of people. City people, artsy people, tourist people, gay people, straight people, Goth people, Pagan people, atheist people, drunk people, high people, Jewish people, teenagers, senior citizens, Asians, African Americans, and foreigners of all stripes.
I have never seen an Amish vendor turn away a customer, for any reason.
Why is this? Aren't the Amish really, really super religious?
Indeed they are! They think we are all going to Hell. Every last one of us who isn't Amish. We are all sinners in their eyes, and all doomed.
Then why do they serve us?
They serve us because it isn't their business to care about our souls. It's their business to care about their large families and keeping food on their own tables. Selling to sinners, you see, isn't a sin.
If these extremely strict Christians can sell donuts to drag queens, why should it be an issue anywhere?
It's an issue because many people are just hateful. They don't want anyone to be happy. Boils down to that, folks.
You don't see much hate coming from the Amish. A few years ago, a crazy gunman took hold of one of their school houses and shot a bunch of girl students, even some very young ones. There was no call of vengeance from their community. In fact they comforted the killer's wife. And they steadfastly refused to speak to the press.
In my opinion, the Amish set the gold standard for what Christians should be and do. They keep their views to themselves, they live and let live, and they do not discriminate in matters of commerce. Whatever their expectations for behavior may be, they confine those expectations to their own communities and leave the rest of us alone.
You know what else I love about the Amish? You never get them at your door on Saturday morning, trying to persuade you to become Amish. Live and let live. Some people -- I'm not saying who -- could sure take a lesson from these folks.
Wednesday, April 01, 2015
A Great Day
Well! Let me tell you, my friends ... being a supporter of the bored gods pays off big time!
Today my principal came into my classroom during home room. He said, "Mrs. Johnson, your services to this school have been unappreciated for too long. Effective immediately, we are doubling your salary!"
My students stood and applauded. That's right, I got a standing ovation. One of the "mean girls" who sits right in front whispered, "It's about time, too!"
Bolstered by this good news, I quickly purchased a brand new gown for this year's Fairie Festival:
I think I'll look smashing in this.
Then I thought, "Whoa! I'm no longer leader of the Mountain Tribe! Spare will need a new fairy gown too!" So I bought her one.
I love how we'll be color-coordinated! (Don't tell her -- it's a surprise!)
After home room, the principal gave me the rest of the day off. So Mr. J and I drove down to Atlantic City. The conditions were perfect for collecting sea glass. Look what I found!
In my whole time communing with King Triton, I had only ever found three marbles before! Today I found four dozen! Aren't they stunning?
When I got home, I got a call from the animal shelter. They needed someone right away to foster a kitten.
I'm going to name her Kimba.
The Gods are good to me! I hope you all have the kind of day I had -- whew! I'm going to sleep well tonight!
Today my principal came into my classroom during home room. He said, "Mrs. Johnson, your services to this school have been unappreciated for too long. Effective immediately, we are doubling your salary!"
My students stood and applauded. That's right, I got a standing ovation. One of the "mean girls" who sits right in front whispered, "It's about time, too!"
Bolstered by this good news, I quickly purchased a brand new gown for this year's Fairie Festival:
I think I'll look smashing in this.
Then I thought, "Whoa! I'm no longer leader of the Mountain Tribe! Spare will need a new fairy gown too!" So I bought her one.
I love how we'll be color-coordinated! (Don't tell her -- it's a surprise!)
After home room, the principal gave me the rest of the day off. So Mr. J and I drove down to Atlantic City. The conditions were perfect for collecting sea glass. Look what I found!
In my whole time communing with King Triton, I had only ever found three marbles before! Today I found four dozen! Aren't they stunning?
When I got home, I got a call from the animal shelter. They needed someone right away to foster a kitten.
I'm going to name her Kimba.
The Gods are good to me! I hope you all have the kind of day I had -- whew! I'm going to sleep well tonight!
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Bad Time To Be Young
I hate to say how long ago I was young, so I won't. Things weren't great for young people then. But as far as learning stuff in a taxpayer-funded building was concerned, it was okay.
Not so these days.
I'm going to do some counting here:
September -- 3 to 4 days
October -- 2 days
March -- 3 days
April -- 4 days
May -- 2 days
That's 15 days this year that young people I am closely associated with will be taking ass --- es --- ments. These are not mere queries from me on topics the young people have recently delved into. These are standard + ized t and e and s and t and s.
Three weeks of every 180-day cycle are spent on standard + ized material! In one case the young people have to do the same one, exact same one, twice!
And they wonder why young Americans are not performing similar to their peers in Vietnam.
This has great import for the people (like me) who work with the teenagers. The object is not to advance our nation's mental capacities. It is to under + mine one of the few remaining powerful collective bargaining units in this country.
If medicine can be for profit, and pharmaceuticals can be for profit, and energy can be for profit, and college can be for profit, why not learning institutions for younger kids? There's money to be made and pensions to chop!
The victims are the young people. How stifling of all creativity, how anxiety-provoking, how deadly dull their year between Labor Day and Summer Solstice must seem! I feel for them. To Hell with what happens to me. It's them I feel bad for. This country is a joke.
Not so these days.
I'm going to do some counting here:
September -- 3 to 4 days
October -- 2 days
March -- 3 days
April -- 4 days
May -- 2 days
That's 15 days this year that young people I am closely associated with will be taking ass --- es --- ments. These are not mere queries from me on topics the young people have recently delved into. These are standard + ized t and e and s and t and s.
Three weeks of every 180-day cycle are spent on standard + ized material! In one case the young people have to do the same one, exact same one, twice!
And they wonder why young Americans are not performing similar to their peers in Vietnam.
This has great import for the people (like me) who work with the teenagers. The object is not to advance our nation's mental capacities. It is to under + mine one of the few remaining powerful collective bargaining units in this country.
If medicine can be for profit, and pharmaceuticals can be for profit, and energy can be for profit, and college can be for profit, why not learning institutions for younger kids? There's money to be made and pensions to chop!
The victims are the young people. How stifling of all creativity, how anxiety-provoking, how deadly dull their year between Labor Day and Summer Solstice must seem! I feel for them. To Hell with what happens to me. It's them I feel bad for. This country is a joke.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
SNBN
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," swirling in the Moronic Inferno since 2005! My name is Anne Johnson, and I work with young people in a society setting.
Last night I dreamed that I was getting my score back on the life-altering examination that my young people just sat through. I looked at my results, and it was just enough to proceed. Right on the money. But I was red-hot furious. "Look at this result!" I shouted. "I went to Johns Hopkins and graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and this is the best I can do on this thing? What about my young people?"
Pardon me for being so oblique in my vocabulary. But you see, the creators of a certain widespread examination for young people is actively mining social media for peoples' opinions of said exam. Any person who works with young people who says anything about the examination will be investigated for possible discipline. This is an attempt to silence dissenters who feel this examination makes young people sick, not better.
With a respectful nod to Voldemort, I will call this t and e and s and t "The Examination That Shall Not Be Named." And then, as this is a certain sector of society known for copious acronyms, I'll call it SNBN, for Shall Not Be Named.
There are some hallmarks of SNBN that boggle the mind.
One is that it's so hard that young people will be forced to learn more to meet its demands. This is backwards thinking to me. I feel like all the excitement and interest can be sucked out of something if it's too difficult to understand. Young people tend to give up easily on stuff they think they will never get, stuff that they see no point to. Of course, if they do give up and cry "uncle," the burden and blame will fall upon the folks like me who are working with the young people to help them proceed in life.
Two is that every young person who takes SNBN becomes part of a pool of information to be stored by the federal and state governments. We don't know who will be able to swim in that pool; namely, whether or not future employers will be able to see the Score! s. We don't know who the government will sell the information to, either. We do know that the government will use it to ... how can I say this to sneak it past Older Male Sibling? ... map the navigation and chart the course of our striplings.
Last, but to my mind the most pernicious, is that SNBN is being administered and Score! d by computers. Basically where SNBN is concerned, it's not what you have to say that counts, it's whether or not it's said according to arbitrary, hidebound, and confusing vernacular. Although one part of SNBN asks young people to create fiction, it is Judge ing for skills that used to be inculcated using diagrams and smart slaps with the ruler across the hand if not completed properly.
To me, all of this runs counter to the kind of imagination and spontaneous thinking that has been a hallmark of this nation. Suddenly, young people are no longer individuals, they are d plus a plus t plus a. And what they have to say, no matter how creative, will not matter, because how can you entertain a computer?
Our society is becoming a vicious place where your numbers will drive everything you achieve. If your numbers go down, you will be sacked. A world of mercy and understanding will be washed away as pre-Christmas Scrooges rule the day.
I weep for my young people. I really do. And since it's International Water Day, I'll add that all of this will reach critical mass when that most essential of commodities -- water -- becomes scarce. Hope I'm wrong, but could a day come when your SCORE! on SNBN will determine how many gallons of essential fluids you receive?
Hoping I have foiled attempts to divine my purpose I remain,
Anne Johnson
Last night I dreamed that I was getting my score back on the life-altering examination that my young people just sat through. I looked at my results, and it was just enough to proceed. Right on the money. But I was red-hot furious. "Look at this result!" I shouted. "I went to Johns Hopkins and graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and this is the best I can do on this thing? What about my young people?"
Pardon me for being so oblique in my vocabulary. But you see, the creators of a certain widespread examination for young people is actively mining social media for peoples' opinions of said exam. Any person who works with young people who says anything about the examination will be investigated for possible discipline. This is an attempt to silence dissenters who feel this examination makes young people sick, not better.
With a respectful nod to Voldemort, I will call this t and e and s and t "The Examination That Shall Not Be Named." And then, as this is a certain sector of society known for copious acronyms, I'll call it SNBN, for Shall Not Be Named.
There are some hallmarks of SNBN that boggle the mind.
One is that it's so hard that young people will be forced to learn more to meet its demands. This is backwards thinking to me. I feel like all the excitement and interest can be sucked out of something if it's too difficult to understand. Young people tend to give up easily on stuff they think they will never get, stuff that they see no point to. Of course, if they do give up and cry "uncle," the burden and blame will fall upon the folks like me who are working with the young people to help them proceed in life.
Two is that every young person who takes SNBN becomes part of a pool of information to be stored by the federal and state governments. We don't know who will be able to swim in that pool; namely, whether or not future employers will be able to see the Score! s. We don't know who the government will sell the information to, either. We do know that the government will use it to ... how can I say this to sneak it past Older Male Sibling? ... map the navigation and chart the course of our striplings.
Last, but to my mind the most pernicious, is that SNBN is being administered and Score! d by computers. Basically where SNBN is concerned, it's not what you have to say that counts, it's whether or not it's said according to arbitrary, hidebound, and confusing vernacular. Although one part of SNBN asks young people to create fiction, it is Judge ing for skills that used to be inculcated using diagrams and smart slaps with the ruler across the hand if not completed properly.
To me, all of this runs counter to the kind of imagination and spontaneous thinking that has been a hallmark of this nation. Suddenly, young people are no longer individuals, they are d plus a plus t plus a. And what they have to say, no matter how creative, will not matter, because how can you entertain a computer?
Our society is becoming a vicious place where your numbers will drive everything you achieve. If your numbers go down, you will be sacked. A world of mercy and understanding will be washed away as pre-Christmas Scrooges rule the day.
I weep for my young people. I really do. And since it's International Water Day, I'll add that all of this will reach critical mass when that most essential of commodities -- water -- becomes scarce. Hope I'm wrong, but could a day come when your SCORE! on SNBN will determine how many gallons of essential fluids you receive?
Hoping I have foiled attempts to divine my purpose I remain,
Anne Johnson
Friday, March 20, 2015
Bless Me, Ultima
Another day, another winter storm! Welcome to my Equinox blizzard!
Alas, there is no Goddess Ultima. That's just as well, because the weather's not conducive to shopping for biscuits and tea. We were supposed to get a slushy inch of snow, but that was five inches and all day ago. It's coming down in buckets.
This is a good time to argue: Who decides it's Spring, the cosmos or the weather?
We've already picked up about 90 minutes of daylight since the Solstice. The birds are singing lustily in the morning. But there's not a single swollen bud on the trees, and -- at least in my yard -- only the pathetic first shoots of daffodils. When the calendar says Equinox, First Day of Spring, and the elements say Whopping Snowstorm, I come down squarely on the side of the elements.
March is almost always a dreary month around here, and April's not substantially better. The temperatures can vary so much that I prefer to think of Spring not as a date but as a change in the weather. This is why I sometimes minimize the Equinox/Eostre celebrations in favor of Beltane. It may rain on May Day, but it sure isn't likely to snow!
There's a lot of evidence to prove that many animals and birds go less by the elements than by the daylight. Can you spot the bald eagle?
Yes, this was an eagle on a nest on March 6 (we had a snow day that day) somewhere in Pennsylvania. Greater love hath no bird ... I know, right?
There's a pair of sparrows building a nest on my front porch. They're sitting out there right now, with their half-finished hut, looking at each other as if to say, "WTF?"
Anyway, it's been a long, tough week. My students sat for The Exam Which Shall Not Be Named on Monday and Tuesday. I will tell you about that tomorrow.
Keep warm!
Alas, there is no Goddess Ultima. That's just as well, because the weather's not conducive to shopping for biscuits and tea. We were supposed to get a slushy inch of snow, but that was five inches and all day ago. It's coming down in buckets.
This is a good time to argue: Who decides it's Spring, the cosmos or the weather?
We've already picked up about 90 minutes of daylight since the Solstice. The birds are singing lustily in the morning. But there's not a single swollen bud on the trees, and -- at least in my yard -- only the pathetic first shoots of daffodils. When the calendar says Equinox, First Day of Spring, and the elements say Whopping Snowstorm, I come down squarely on the side of the elements.
March is almost always a dreary month around here, and April's not substantially better. The temperatures can vary so much that I prefer to think of Spring not as a date but as a change in the weather. This is why I sometimes minimize the Equinox/Eostre celebrations in favor of Beltane. It may rain on May Day, but it sure isn't likely to snow!
There's a lot of evidence to prove that many animals and birds go less by the elements than by the daylight. Can you spot the bald eagle?
Yes, this was an eagle on a nest on March 6 (we had a snow day that day) somewhere in Pennsylvania. Greater love hath no bird ... I know, right?
There's a pair of sparrows building a nest on my front porch. They're sitting out there right now, with their half-finished hut, looking at each other as if to say, "WTF?"
Anyway, it's been a long, tough week. My students sat for The Exam Which Shall Not Be Named on Monday and Tuesday. I will tell you about that tomorrow.
Keep warm!
Monday, March 16, 2015
Photos from the Flower Show
I'm so lazy I've never hooked my phone to my Wi-Fi. So when I tried to email myself the photos of the Philadelphia Flower Show, the messages didn't go through ... until I went out roaming about and caught someone else's signal.
It's hard to describe the Flower Show. Hard to photograph it, too. The theme was "Movies," and so each display, large and small, had something to do with films. They even had some really cute homages to screen writers! Anyway, here are some pathetic attempts to capture the moment.
This was the sign at the large Peter Pan display. The display was mounted by a grower of orchids. It had a lagoon, all sorts of palms and ferns, and of course -- orchids, cascades of them! Nestled in among the greenery was Peter Pan's hat, Captain Hook's hat, an Indian headdress ... and I am totally sure Tinker Bell was there somewhere, I just couldn't find her.
Obviously I didn't take this one. It is the central display, Cinderella's Wedding. Disney, Inc. lent a glass slipper, which is under a dome on the right side of the photo.
Frozen! This one was appropriate, seeing as how the only reason I was there was because there was a snowstorm that day.
The table top ones are always beautiful.
They're easier to photograph, too!
Patio! Not yours or mine, of course.
Mr. J next to the Nightmare Before Christmas display.
Critter made of flowers! Look at his hair!
This was the entrance.
And of course, yours truly, all decked out in her snowstorm apparel!
I never had more fun at the Flower Show. Usually it's so packed with people you can't move. But hardly anyone was there. Only a lunatic would go out in a major winter storm to look at flowers, right?
It's hard to describe the Flower Show. Hard to photograph it, too. The theme was "Movies," and so each display, large and small, had something to do with films. They even had some really cute homages to screen writers! Anyway, here are some pathetic attempts to capture the moment.
This was the sign at the large Peter Pan display. The display was mounted by a grower of orchids. It had a lagoon, all sorts of palms and ferns, and of course -- orchids, cascades of them! Nestled in among the greenery was Peter Pan's hat, Captain Hook's hat, an Indian headdress ... and I am totally sure Tinker Bell was there somewhere, I just couldn't find her.
Obviously I didn't take this one. It is the central display, Cinderella's Wedding. Disney, Inc. lent a glass slipper, which is under a dome on the right side of the photo.
Frozen! This one was appropriate, seeing as how the only reason I was there was because there was a snowstorm that day.
The table top ones are always beautiful.
They're easier to photograph, too!
Patio! Not yours or mine, of course.
Mr. J next to the Nightmare Before Christmas display.
Critter made of flowers! Look at his hair!
This was the entrance.
And of course, yours truly, all decked out in her snowstorm apparel!
I never had more fun at the Flower Show. Usually it's so packed with people you can't move. But hardly anyone was there. Only a lunatic would go out in a major winter storm to look at flowers, right?
Sunday, March 08, 2015
The Dubious Ethics of Performance Art
Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" My name is Anne Johnson, it's on my birth certificate (with an appropriate middle name), and I'm the chief loudmouth on this site.
Today's sermon is about a piece of performance art. You be the judge. Is it appropriate? Is it ethical?
My daughter The Heir is an artist. Over the weekend she agreed to photograph a series of performance artworks in the pedestrian tunnels under City Hall in Philadelphia. These tunnels are part of Philadelphia's subway system.
Heir was particularly perturbed by one of the pieces.
It was a younger woman, slightly older than Heir. This woman had cut a slit in her tight skirt where her butt was. And she wore no underwear. Basically she was strolling around the subway pedestrian tunnels with her derriere on display. She also had a paper bag which contained hard core pornography pictures. Occasionally she would drop the contents of the bag and let passers by help her to pick them up, or just see them.
When Heir caught up to this artist, the artist was not in the main pedestrian tunnel, but instead in a side tunnel that is popular with the city's homeless population. It was a cold day, so there were homeless men in the tunnel.
One of the men noticed the woman's butt and began to comment on it. He took out a sweater and tried to wrap it around the woman. Then he tried to get a feel. At that point, Heir stopped photographing and intervened, telling the woman they ought to move elsewhere. As they started off, the man followed them. When they started walking faster, he yelled at them. Then he got into an argument with another homeless man who also accosted Heir and artist. A policeman appeared and began to argue with the loud homeless man. The last thing Heir heard was the homeless man shout, "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"
I think this performance is unethical and inappropriate. My daughter The Spare says I'm victim-shaming, and that this brave artist was bringing attention to the plight of objectified women.
My ethical dilemma with this piece is not that it was being performed, but that it was being performed in a remote place, and its viewers could face police prosecution for their response to the art. I think the woman did not do the right thing by choosing a tunnel where the homeless congregate for her performance. I wonder, however, if she might have faced charges herself if she chose to perform this piece in a more crowded concourse.
Then there's the bag filled with pornography. I think this is also inappropriate.
Personally, I have to be really careful what I look at, because pictures of starving children and gory violence make me physically ill. I think that some people have the same reaction to pornography, especially people who have been raped or sexually abused as children. And again I'm wondering what sort of charges might occur if this artist dropped her bagful of pictures and a policeman saw them.
What do you think of this piece of performance art? Spare would have me know that performance art is supposed to make the viewer uncomfortable. Heir and I feel that people who view performance art by appointment at an advertised event would indeed be prepared for such a piece, but that people just walking, or basically living, in a pedestrian tunnel under a city are not, nor should they be, prepared to see this artwork. It is, in fact, intrusive beyond appropriate bounds.
I anxiously await your take on this.
Today's sermon is about a piece of performance art. You be the judge. Is it appropriate? Is it ethical?
My daughter The Heir is an artist. Over the weekend she agreed to photograph a series of performance artworks in the pedestrian tunnels under City Hall in Philadelphia. These tunnels are part of Philadelphia's subway system.
Heir was particularly perturbed by one of the pieces.
It was a younger woman, slightly older than Heir. This woman had cut a slit in her tight skirt where her butt was. And she wore no underwear. Basically she was strolling around the subway pedestrian tunnels with her derriere on display. She also had a paper bag which contained hard core pornography pictures. Occasionally she would drop the contents of the bag and let passers by help her to pick them up, or just see them.
When Heir caught up to this artist, the artist was not in the main pedestrian tunnel, but instead in a side tunnel that is popular with the city's homeless population. It was a cold day, so there were homeless men in the tunnel.
One of the men noticed the woman's butt and began to comment on it. He took out a sweater and tried to wrap it around the woman. Then he tried to get a feel. At that point, Heir stopped photographing and intervened, telling the woman they ought to move elsewhere. As they started off, the man followed them. When they started walking faster, he yelled at them. Then he got into an argument with another homeless man who also accosted Heir and artist. A policeman appeared and began to argue with the loud homeless man. The last thing Heir heard was the homeless man shout, "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"
I think this performance is unethical and inappropriate. My daughter The Spare says I'm victim-shaming, and that this brave artist was bringing attention to the plight of objectified women.
My ethical dilemma with this piece is not that it was being performed, but that it was being performed in a remote place, and its viewers could face police prosecution for their response to the art. I think the woman did not do the right thing by choosing a tunnel where the homeless congregate for her performance. I wonder, however, if she might have faced charges herself if she chose to perform this piece in a more crowded concourse.
Then there's the bag filled with pornography. I think this is also inappropriate.
Personally, I have to be really careful what I look at, because pictures of starving children and gory violence make me physically ill. I think that some people have the same reaction to pornography, especially people who have been raped or sexually abused as children. And again I'm wondering what sort of charges might occur if this artist dropped her bagful of pictures and a policeman saw them.
What do you think of this piece of performance art? Spare would have me know that performance art is supposed to make the viewer uncomfortable. Heir and I feel that people who view performance art by appointment at an advertised event would indeed be prepared for such a piece, but that people just walking, or basically living, in a pedestrian tunnel under a city are not, nor should they be, prepared to see this artwork. It is, in fact, intrusive beyond appropriate bounds.
I anxiously await your take on this.
Friday, March 06, 2015
Interview with a Bored God: Thor
On Wednesday last, I wore my lucky snow man necklace to work. I petitioned the Bored Goddess Sedna for inclement weather. I lit all my candles and did some deep breathing, mostly to dispel the angst I brought home from the work day.
It wasn't Sedna who came through for me, though. It was Thor.
Poor Boston! Like they needed more snow. And things are a mess in the mountains ... flooding from so much water and snow all descending at once. For me and my household, however, Winter Storm Thor was a blessing. So I've invited Thor for lunch ... because today is another snow day. Two days off school for six inches of snow! I tell you. The Mid-Atlantic. Sheesh.
Anyway, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Thor! (I don't think He needs any further descriptors.)
Anne: Welcome, Thor! All Hail! Have another plate of eggs!
Thor: THANKS! I WILL.
Anne (to herself) These manly deities always seem to speak in caps. (to Thor) Great One, how does it feel to have a winter storm named after You?
Thor: IT FEELS WONDERFUL! YOU KNOW WHAT'S BEST ABOUT IT? PEOPLE KNOW WHO THE HELL THOR IS.
Anne: Yes, Your renaissance began way back. For me it was comic books. Honestly, next to Spiderman, you were my favorite. I felt like this little girl, in fact:
Thor: THIS IS AWESOME.
Anne: I know, right? I wanted to be You, too, when I was a kid. I don't care what anyone says, inside every person (especially little kids) is a bit of bad ass. It's all in how you manage that piece of your personality. I'm not inclined to exercise my inner bad ass too often. When I was a kid, though, I wanted to be able to whack stuff with hammers.
Thor: EVERYONE SHOULD BE PREPARED TO WHACK STUFF WITH A HAMMER. WHERE IS YOUR HAMMER, BY THE WAY?
Anne: Oh, gosh. I guess I have one on the tool table downstairs. It pays to be meek in my line of work.
Thor: IT NEVER PAYS TO BE MEEK.
Anne: Not gonna argue with a Norse deity. I concede the point.
Thor: ARE YOU GOING TO EAT THAT ORANGE?
Anne: No! Have it! I sliced it up for Decibel, but Decibel only needs one slice. Anyway, back to the interview. So I had a snow day named after You. Looked out the window, the white stuff was piling up. But it doesn't honor Thor to stay inside, under a blanket by a fire, on a snowy day.
Thor: I DON'T KNOW. IT DEPENDS ON HOW MUCH FOOD YOU'VE GOT STORED THIS LATE IN THE SEASON. IF YOU'RE WELL-STOCKED, A DAY UNDER THE BLANKETS IS ACCEPTABLE. YOU WORKED HARD SOME OTHER TIME.
Anne: Well, my pantry was well-stocked, and it was indeed tempting to build a fire and be sluggish. But Thor! It's the first week of March in Philadephia!
Thor: SO WHAT?
Anne: So it's Philadelphia Flower Show week! Ah, the Flower Show! The Flower Show! It's one of the highlights of the year in the City of Brotherly Love.
Thor: IS THAT WHAT THEY CALL PHILADELPHIA? WHAT A DUMB NAME. SO, LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. YOU WENT OUT IN A SNOWSTORM TO SEE FLOWERS?
Anne: Yes! The best florists and landscapers in the Delaware Valley create huge exhibits and turn the Convention Center into a floral paradise! This year's theme was the movies. It was amazing.
Thor: THIS LOOKS RIDICULOUS.
Anne: No! It's beautiful! Remember, we must always stretch our concepts of beauty ... just like that little girl who thought You were beautiful.
Thor: WHY IS THE SKY BLACK?
Anne: It's inside a building. The Convention Center.
Thor: SO YOU WENT INTO A BUILDING TO LOOK AT FLOWERS.
Anne: Yes. It's kind of an antidote to winter.
Thor: THERE SHOULD BE NO ANTIDOTE TO WINTER EXCEPT SUMMER!
Anne: Again, not going to argue with You. That's a zero sum game. Suffice it to say that I thank you, Thor, for a snowstorm that:
a) gave me a day off school
b) during Flower Show week
c) with weather so bad that the show wasn't packed with people -- or even particularly crowded.
Thor: NEXT TIME YOU GO OUT INTO A STORM, HAVE A DECENT REASON! GO HUNTING.
It wasn't Sedna who came through for me, though. It was Thor.
Poor Boston! Like they needed more snow. And things are a mess in the mountains ... flooding from so much water and snow all descending at once. For me and my household, however, Winter Storm Thor was a blessing. So I've invited Thor for lunch ... because today is another snow day. Two days off school for six inches of snow! I tell you. The Mid-Atlantic. Sheesh.
Anyway, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Thor! (I don't think He needs any further descriptors.)
Anne: Welcome, Thor! All Hail! Have another plate of eggs!
Thor: THANKS! I WILL.
Anne (to herself) These manly deities always seem to speak in caps. (to Thor) Great One, how does it feel to have a winter storm named after You?
Thor: IT FEELS WONDERFUL! YOU KNOW WHAT'S BEST ABOUT IT? PEOPLE KNOW WHO THE HELL THOR IS.
Anne: Yes, Your renaissance began way back. For me it was comic books. Honestly, next to Spiderman, you were my favorite. I felt like this little girl, in fact:
Thor: THIS IS AWESOME.
Anne: I know, right? I wanted to be You, too, when I was a kid. I don't care what anyone says, inside every person (especially little kids) is a bit of bad ass. It's all in how you manage that piece of your personality. I'm not inclined to exercise my inner bad ass too often. When I was a kid, though, I wanted to be able to whack stuff with hammers.
Thor: EVERYONE SHOULD BE PREPARED TO WHACK STUFF WITH A HAMMER. WHERE IS YOUR HAMMER, BY THE WAY?
Anne: Oh, gosh. I guess I have one on the tool table downstairs. It pays to be meek in my line of work.
Thor: IT NEVER PAYS TO BE MEEK.
Anne: Not gonna argue with a Norse deity. I concede the point.
Thor: ARE YOU GOING TO EAT THAT ORANGE?
Anne: No! Have it! I sliced it up for Decibel, but Decibel only needs one slice. Anyway, back to the interview. So I had a snow day named after You. Looked out the window, the white stuff was piling up. But it doesn't honor Thor to stay inside, under a blanket by a fire, on a snowy day.
Thor: I DON'T KNOW. IT DEPENDS ON HOW MUCH FOOD YOU'VE GOT STORED THIS LATE IN THE SEASON. IF YOU'RE WELL-STOCKED, A DAY UNDER THE BLANKETS IS ACCEPTABLE. YOU WORKED HARD SOME OTHER TIME.
Anne: Well, my pantry was well-stocked, and it was indeed tempting to build a fire and be sluggish. But Thor! It's the first week of March in Philadephia!
Thor: SO WHAT?
Anne: So it's Philadelphia Flower Show week! Ah, the Flower Show! The Flower Show! It's one of the highlights of the year in the City of Brotherly Love.
Thor: IS THAT WHAT THEY CALL PHILADELPHIA? WHAT A DUMB NAME. SO, LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. YOU WENT OUT IN A SNOWSTORM TO SEE FLOWERS?
Anne: Yes! The best florists and landscapers in the Delaware Valley create huge exhibits and turn the Convention Center into a floral paradise! This year's theme was the movies. It was amazing.
Anne: No! It's beautiful! Remember, we must always stretch our concepts of beauty ... just like that little girl who thought You were beautiful.
Thor: WHY IS THE SKY BLACK?
Anne: It's inside a building. The Convention Center.
Thor: SO YOU WENT INTO A BUILDING TO LOOK AT FLOWERS.
Anne: Yes. It's kind of an antidote to winter.
Thor: THERE SHOULD BE NO ANTIDOTE TO WINTER EXCEPT SUMMER!
Anne: Again, not going to argue with You. That's a zero sum game. Suffice it to say that I thank you, Thor, for a snowstorm that:
a) gave me a day off school
b) during Flower Show week
c) with weather so bad that the show wasn't packed with people -- or even particularly crowded.
Thor: NEXT TIME YOU GO OUT INTO A STORM, HAVE A DECENT REASON! GO HUNTING.
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Thank You!
Dear readers, The Spare's campaign to raise funds for her web series has ended, and you who visit "The Gods Are Bored" contributed about 75 percent of the money she raised! I am so grateful to all of you.Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Spare had her first weekend of filming last weekend. She called me on Saturday evening, very pleased at how everything had gone. One actor had been a no-show, but The Heir was on hand, so she got a promotion. For my money, The Heir is quite funny, indeed. She's a fearless kind of funny, not afraid to gyrate and screw up her face into extremes. Anyway, Day One was a success.
Then there was Day Two.
Spare called in tears at about 5:00 p.m. They had filmed all day, and the leading man worked hard. But after he left for the day, he sent a text message quitting the show. He was the leading man. He knew it! Didn't matter. He bailed. He has not answered any messages from Spare and her colleagues.
Well, you know, this is a situation that faces many auteurs who don't have a big budget for salaries. Spare was disconsolate for a few hours, but after that she and her team got started on Plan B. They are moving ahead.
It's evening here at "The Gods Are Bored," and I have been petitioning the Great Goddess Sedna for a snowstorm, yea verily a blizzard. It's very tense at my school just now, and I'm hoping for a snow day. Standardized tests are scheduled for next week, and nobody's happy.
Maybe Sedna will drop by for tea tomorrow! If I'm home I'm going to make muffins.
Thank you again, friends. May the Gods and Goddesses of multiple pantheons from every corner of the Earth bless you and keep you and shine Their faces bright upon you!
Spare had her first weekend of filming last weekend. She called me on Saturday evening, very pleased at how everything had gone. One actor had been a no-show, but The Heir was on hand, so she got a promotion. For my money, The Heir is quite funny, indeed. She's a fearless kind of funny, not afraid to gyrate and screw up her face into extremes. Anyway, Day One was a success.
Then there was Day Two.
Spare called in tears at about 5:00 p.m. They had filmed all day, and the leading man worked hard. But after he left for the day, he sent a text message quitting the show. He was the leading man. He knew it! Didn't matter. He bailed. He has not answered any messages from Spare and her colleagues.
Well, you know, this is a situation that faces many auteurs who don't have a big budget for salaries. Spare was disconsolate for a few hours, but after that she and her team got started on Plan B. They are moving ahead.
It's evening here at "The Gods Are Bored," and I have been petitioning the Great Goddess Sedna for a snowstorm, yea verily a blizzard. It's very tense at my school just now, and I'm hoping for a snow day. Standardized tests are scheduled for next week, and nobody's happy.
Maybe Sedna will drop by for tea tomorrow! If I'm home I'm going to make muffins.
Thank you again, friends. May the Gods and Goddesses of multiple pantheons from every corner of the Earth bless you and keep you and shine Their faces bright upon you!
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Life of Spare: The Epic Sledding Adventure
In case you're just joining us for the first time, this little piece 'o' nothing web site is The Gods Are Bored, dedicated to the cause of downsized deities, buzzard worship, and plucky tales of can-do spirit! I'm Anne Johnson, your hostess, and today's sermon is definitely a p.t. of c.d.s.
We're walking back in time to the days when my daughters, Heir and Spare, were little fledglings still in the nest. Alas! *sigh* They are grown now.
You never can tell about winter weather in New Jersey. Some years we get big blizzards, some years we get a series of smaller snowfalls, and some years we don't get any snow at all.
One snowless winter occurred when Spare was about five years old. Heir would have been ten.
A certain bitterness settles on a kid who is enduring a snow-free winter. Heir and Spare, and their two best pals (sisters who were also an Heir and a Spare) were bemoaning the fact that they hadn't been sledding all year.
I don't know who suggested it. Might have been the Spare. But someone piped up and said:
"Do you think sleds would work on mud?"
I thought about it and decided that gravity should prevail, so I took all four girls to a steep hill beside the pond with one of those disc sleds that you can't steer. It was muddy. There was a little frozen water at the bottom.
Mind you, this is a hill that would be too steep and short to sled down if there was, indeed, snow. But it suggested itself for this experiment.
The youngsters piled onto the disk, and I gave them a shove. Slowly and pathetically, with many starts and stops, the disk descended the hill. And then we did it again. And again. And again. It was better than no sledding at all.
I still have that sled in the basement. I sold a few of our sleds last summer at a yard sale. Held on to the Epic Sledding Adventure one. To me it represents wanting something so bad that you're willing to use imagination to achieve it -- and you're willing to settle for a partial experience even though it might not be perfect.
It has snowed numerous times since that winter, and Spare has always gone sledding with her chums. Even into high school and beyond, they would sled on a snowy day. But the time that sticks out in my mind is the Epic Sledding Adventure, when we went sledding without the key ingredient you'd think you need to get the job done.
And speaking of key ingredient, my daughter The Spare is even now filming an ambitious web series for your enjoyment -- and after two days of rigorous (and expensive) filming, her leading man bailed. Unpaid performers will do that, with impunity. Spare is deeply disappointed but unbreakable. She's going to sled down this hill with or without snow.
There's a mere week left in Spare's fundraising efforts for her web series, Speed. She's gotten about two-thirds of the money she needs to complete the project. Reader, can you spare a quid for the Spare? Email me and I'll send you some goodies if you donate!
Spare's campaign to finance Speed, the Web Series is here. Please give! It will be on YouTube for all to see!
We're walking back in time to the days when my daughters, Heir and Spare, were little fledglings still in the nest. Alas! *sigh* They are grown now.
You never can tell about winter weather in New Jersey. Some years we get big blizzards, some years we get a series of smaller snowfalls, and some years we don't get any snow at all.
One snowless winter occurred when Spare was about five years old. Heir would have been ten.
A certain bitterness settles on a kid who is enduring a snow-free winter. Heir and Spare, and their two best pals (sisters who were also an Heir and a Spare) were bemoaning the fact that they hadn't been sledding all year.
I don't know who suggested it. Might have been the Spare. But someone piped up and said:
"Do you think sleds would work on mud?"
I thought about it and decided that gravity should prevail, so I took all four girls to a steep hill beside the pond with one of those disc sleds that you can't steer. It was muddy. There was a little frozen water at the bottom.
Mind you, this is a hill that would be too steep and short to sled down if there was, indeed, snow. But it suggested itself for this experiment.
The youngsters piled onto the disk, and I gave them a shove. Slowly and pathetically, with many starts and stops, the disk descended the hill. And then we did it again. And again. And again. It was better than no sledding at all.
I still have that sled in the basement. I sold a few of our sleds last summer at a yard sale. Held on to the Epic Sledding Adventure one. To me it represents wanting something so bad that you're willing to use imagination to achieve it -- and you're willing to settle for a partial experience even though it might not be perfect.
It has snowed numerous times since that winter, and Spare has always gone sledding with her chums. Even into high school and beyond, they would sled on a snowy day. But the time that sticks out in my mind is the Epic Sledding Adventure, when we went sledding without the key ingredient you'd think you need to get the job done.
And speaking of key ingredient, my daughter The Spare is even now filming an ambitious web series for your enjoyment -- and after two days of rigorous (and expensive) filming, her leading man bailed. Unpaid performers will do that, with impunity. Spare is deeply disappointed but unbreakable. She's going to sled down this hill with or without snow.
There's a mere week left in Spare's fundraising efforts for her web series, Speed. She's gotten about two-thirds of the money she needs to complete the project. Reader, can you spare a quid for the Spare? Email me and I'll send you some goodies if you donate!
Spare's campaign to finance Speed, the Web Series is here. Please give! It will be on YouTube for all to see!
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
She Will Never Forgive Me
I've been entertaining my six readers with tales of my daughter, Fair Spare. This is an amazing week for her. On Friday evening she will begin to film a web series that she has created with a team of writers. She is starring in it. She got a director, a camera crew, actors, extras, a set ... even a gaffer! Not sure what a gaffer does, but Spare has one!
In fairness (Spareness?), anything involving show business is a team effort. Spare's co-creators have been as hard at work as she has. They are an invigorating lot to be around. I hope they pull this off with panache!
What a long way Spare has come from the memorable day when she was a pancake.
This happened back in the 20th century, probably in the winter of 1995.
In those days I had a stand-alone pantry where I kept my spices and canned goods and such. I had baby-proofed it by twisting a rubber band around the handles that opened it. Now, all you moms and dads out there. You know how this baby-proofing stuff goes. It's Murphy's Law that, the one time when you forget the rubber bands, you also forget that the baby is in the kitchen.
Perhaps I was distracted by something happening to The Heir. I don't recall. What I vividly remember is walking into the kitchen and finding Spare sitting happily in a pool of spilled Log Cabin maple syrup. She was dipping her hand into the syrup and then into her mouth.
"Spare!" I said. "You're a pancake!"
And at that moment, just as I was congratulating myself on not keeping the Drano in the pantry, Spare missed her mouth and shoved her syrup-coated hand into her eye. This glued her eyelashes together. Not surprisingly, she began to cry.
I hope you have to trust me on this. It's a lot easier to wash maple syrup off a baby than it is to mop it up off the kitchen floor. In no time, Spare was all sparkly clean ... but my feet stuck to the floor for weeks. I triple-mopped that kitchen, and the sweetness remained.
Spare has absolutely no memory of this event. (Nor does she remember the time I tripped and spilled a pound of German potato salad on her head. She was still in her carry chair then.) Still, this little escapade has been the source of much laughter over the years. As if that poor little tot somehow set out to play "dress up as a pancake" or something!
The moral of this sermon is simple: Keep those kid-locks on stuff at all times! Like you didn't already know that.
Spare has a little fund-raising activity going on just now. For as little as a five dollar donation to her campaign to finance her web series, I'll send you some sea glass -- and there are bigger prizes! (See below) If you've already donated, email me your address, and I'll put a care package in the mail for you.
Honestly, the bulk of Spare's fund-raising to date has come from you kind readers of "The Gods Are Bored." Please, if you haven't flung some ducats at her, consider doing it! For the right price, she and I will re-enact The Great Pancake Fiasco on your kitchen floor!
You can donate here.
Thank you, my friends!
In fairness (Spareness?), anything involving show business is a team effort. Spare's co-creators have been as hard at work as she has. They are an invigorating lot to be around. I hope they pull this off with panache!
What a long way Spare has come from the memorable day when she was a pancake.
This happened back in the 20th century, probably in the winter of 1995.
In those days I had a stand-alone pantry where I kept my spices and canned goods and such. I had baby-proofed it by twisting a rubber band around the handles that opened it. Now, all you moms and dads out there. You know how this baby-proofing stuff goes. It's Murphy's Law that, the one time when you forget the rubber bands, you also forget that the baby is in the kitchen.
Perhaps I was distracted by something happening to The Heir. I don't recall. What I vividly remember is walking into the kitchen and finding Spare sitting happily in a pool of spilled Log Cabin maple syrup. She was dipping her hand into the syrup and then into her mouth.
"Spare!" I said. "You're a pancake!"
And at that moment, just as I was congratulating myself on not keeping the Drano in the pantry, Spare missed her mouth and shoved her syrup-coated hand into her eye. This glued her eyelashes together. Not surprisingly, she began to cry.
I hope you have to trust me on this. It's a lot easier to wash maple syrup off a baby than it is to mop it up off the kitchen floor. In no time, Spare was all sparkly clean ... but my feet stuck to the floor for weeks. I triple-mopped that kitchen, and the sweetness remained.
Spare has absolutely no memory of this event. (Nor does she remember the time I tripped and spilled a pound of German potato salad on her head. She was still in her carry chair then.) Still, this little escapade has been the source of much laughter over the years. As if that poor little tot somehow set out to play "dress up as a pancake" or something!
The moral of this sermon is simple: Keep those kid-locks on stuff at all times! Like you didn't already know that.
Spare has a little fund-raising activity going on just now. For as little as a five dollar donation to her campaign to finance her web series, I'll send you some sea glass -- and there are bigger prizes! (See below) If you've already donated, email me your address, and I'll put a care package in the mail for you.
Honestly, the bulk of Spare's fund-raising to date has come from you kind readers of "The Gods Are Bored." Please, if you haven't flung some ducats at her, consider doing it! For the right price, she and I will re-enact The Great Pancake Fiasco on your kitchen floor!
You can donate here.
Thank you, my friends!
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Cute and Short
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where this month we are featuring vignettes about my daughter The Spare! She's rare, fair, and beyond compare!
We have a nice front porch here at Chateau Johnson. It can hold a whole party of people. Front porches are wonderful that way.
There's just one itty bitty problem. The front porch at Chateau Johnson does not have screens. It's open-air.
Nice, right? Well, this is New Jersey, the Mosquito State. No sooner does the balmy, porch-sitting weather arrive than the bloodsucking winged beasties descend in droves. If we're lucky, we get a little bit of unseasonably warm weather in March, before THEY hatch. Otherwise, our porch looks good but can't be used.
We use it anyway. I plug in a box fan, and as long as it's blowing on us, THEY can't land. I learned that trick a few years ago. It works pretty well.
One day long ago, way before the idea of the fan hit me, the Johnson family was trying to enjoy a balmy spring evening together on the porch. In those days Mr. J smoked cigars, and he was puffing amiably on one. A citronella candle was our only defense from THEM, and THEY sneered at it and began their onslaught.
Spare (she probably was about four years old) looked at Mr. J, and looked at the mosquitoes, and said, "GO AWAY, MOSQUITOES! WE'VE GOT CIGARS, AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!"
I've never forgotten that.
The Spare is raising money for a web series she has written and will star in. It's called Speed, and it's a comedy about speed dating. She has an indiegogo campaign to try to raise money for the production costs.
In order to sweeten the pot of your contribution, I've created a little giveaway/contest, which you can see below. The smallest donation is $5.00! And, in addition to the Annie Giveaway, you will get to see Speed in its entirety, FREE, on YouTube, whether you donate or not!
You can go straight to Spare's campaign here.
Thank you, and may the bored gods bless you and keep you and shine Their faces upon you!
We have a nice front porch here at Chateau Johnson. It can hold a whole party of people. Front porches are wonderful that way.
There's just one itty bitty problem. The front porch at Chateau Johnson does not have screens. It's open-air.
Nice, right? Well, this is New Jersey, the Mosquito State. No sooner does the balmy, porch-sitting weather arrive than the bloodsucking winged beasties descend in droves. If we're lucky, we get a little bit of unseasonably warm weather in March, before THEY hatch. Otherwise, our porch looks good but can't be used.
We use it anyway. I plug in a box fan, and as long as it's blowing on us, THEY can't land. I learned that trick a few years ago. It works pretty well.
One day long ago, way before the idea of the fan hit me, the Johnson family was trying to enjoy a balmy spring evening together on the porch. In those days Mr. J smoked cigars, and he was puffing amiably on one. A citronella candle was our only defense from THEM, and THEY sneered at it and began their onslaught.
Spare (she probably was about four years old) looked at Mr. J, and looked at the mosquitoes, and said, "GO AWAY, MOSQUITOES! WE'VE GOT CIGARS, AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!"
I've never forgotten that.
The Spare is raising money for a web series she has written and will star in. It's called Speed, and it's a comedy about speed dating. She has an indiegogo campaign to try to raise money for the production costs.
In order to sweeten the pot of your contribution, I've created a little giveaway/contest, which you can see below. The smallest donation is $5.00! And, in addition to the Annie Giveaway, you will get to see Speed in its entirety, FREE, on YouTube, whether you donate or not!
You can go straight to Spare's campaign here.
Thank you, and may the bored gods bless you and keep you and shine Their faces upon you!
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Monday, February 09, 2015
The Very True and Lovely Story of Spare and Her Beta Cat
I can be really cold-hearted at times, especially with animals. Perhaps that's due to my farm upbringing. But the upside to that is that I fostered over 100 kittens and gave them all back to the shelter without adopting any. When I adopt a pet, I become devoted to that pet, and others have to get by on scraps ... if that.
Many, many years ago, some foul miscreant dropped a mother cat and four kittens at the pond near our house. Inevitably, in search of food, the mother brought her kittens into our neighborhood, where they were found and nurtured by Heir, Spare, and their friends.
Of the four kittens, two quickly became tame and loving. The other two stayed wild as minks and wouldn't come anywhere near us.
I dipped into my pocket at the tune of $100 (serious cash then and now) to take the two tame kittens to the no-kill shelter. You have to pay a surrender fee there.
The two wild kittens disappeared, and I thought no further about it. Until reports began to circulate from Heir and Spare that they had watched the female do the mating thing with a local tomcat. Apparently the deed took place in my back yard.
No surprise, therefore, when the female wild kitten returned with a large brood of kittens of her own. The mother cat remained wild, and her kittens were wild as well.
We had a resident cat, Alpha, who we adopted under the terms that she would be an only cat. Alpha never did play well with others. Long story short: Big ol' cat fight in the back yard, and the wild mama cat caught a nasty cut over her eye, kind of like something George Foreman got from Muhammad Ali.
Little Spare was about seven years old. If it had fur and whiskers, she loved it, unconditionally. She took a keen interest in the wretched prospects of that wild mama cat.
I told Spare, "Look. I'll round up the kittens, but I can't afford to take them to the no-kill shelter. As for the mother cat, don't feed her. Whatever you do, don't feed her. She'll just stay around, and Alpha will continue to maul her."
We trapped the kittens while they were still young and cute. My guess is that they probably got fostered at the county shelter. In the meantime, there was a strict rule: Don't feed that mother cat. Next thing we know, she'll have more babies ... and then what?
Spare fed the mama cat. Totally against my commands, she took cat kibble and laboriously tamed that wild mink of a feral female. One day I looked out in the back yard, and Spare was petting a cat that had hissed her head off at me. Then Spare picked her up. Then mama cat head-butted Spare.
Spare was, as I said, no more than seven years old.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I wasn't even mad that my daughter had disobeyed me. It was just remarkable that, being such a little kid, she had been able to tame a feral cat.
That afternoon while the girls were still at school, I went outside. The mama cat was sitting in the yard.
I said to her, "Okay, sorry about your kittens. But you can stay. You have Spare to thank, so be good to her."
The first thing the mama cat did was run laps around the yard in total joy. I've never seen anything like it. It was as if she understood what I said to her.
The second thing the mama cat did was become totally and completely devoted to The Spare. When Spare was little and thought nothing of dragging around a big cat in her vice grip arms, that cat put up with it. And when Spare got older, that cat literally followed her around like a dog.
That cat is Beta. She still lives with us. When Spare comes home, Beta sleeps with her. When Spare's not around, Beta sort of mourns for her. I'm going to say that Beta Cat is now 13 or 14 years old, arthritic, but sweet as soda pop. She likes to drink from the faucet. She waits patiently at the foot of the bed until you wake up ... and only then does she get in your face, purring and asking for breakfast.
This is the first of many charming stories I'm going to offer you about my daughter, The Spare. I'm trying to raise money for her indiegogo campaign so she can finance the comedy web series she's making for YouTube. I have some offers of goodies if you'd like to contribute to the cause. Just look at the posts below.
The link to Spare's campaign is here.
I thank you, Spare thanks you, and there's a plain jane tabby cat named Beta who will thank you as well.
Peace.
Many, many years ago, some foul miscreant dropped a mother cat and four kittens at the pond near our house. Inevitably, in search of food, the mother brought her kittens into our neighborhood, where they were found and nurtured by Heir, Spare, and their friends.
Of the four kittens, two quickly became tame and loving. The other two stayed wild as minks and wouldn't come anywhere near us.
I dipped into my pocket at the tune of $100 (serious cash then and now) to take the two tame kittens to the no-kill shelter. You have to pay a surrender fee there.
The two wild kittens disappeared, and I thought no further about it. Until reports began to circulate from Heir and Spare that they had watched the female do the mating thing with a local tomcat. Apparently the deed took place in my back yard.
No surprise, therefore, when the female wild kitten returned with a large brood of kittens of her own. The mother cat remained wild, and her kittens were wild as well.
We had a resident cat, Alpha, who we adopted under the terms that she would be an only cat. Alpha never did play well with others. Long story short: Big ol' cat fight in the back yard, and the wild mama cat caught a nasty cut over her eye, kind of like something George Foreman got from Muhammad Ali.
Little Spare was about seven years old. If it had fur and whiskers, she loved it, unconditionally. She took a keen interest in the wretched prospects of that wild mama cat.
I told Spare, "Look. I'll round up the kittens, but I can't afford to take them to the no-kill shelter. As for the mother cat, don't feed her. Whatever you do, don't feed her. She'll just stay around, and Alpha will continue to maul her."
We trapped the kittens while they were still young and cute. My guess is that they probably got fostered at the county shelter. In the meantime, there was a strict rule: Don't feed that mother cat. Next thing we know, she'll have more babies ... and then what?
Spare fed the mama cat. Totally against my commands, she took cat kibble and laboriously tamed that wild mink of a feral female. One day I looked out in the back yard, and Spare was petting a cat that had hissed her head off at me. Then Spare picked her up. Then mama cat head-butted Spare.
Spare was, as I said, no more than seven years old.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I wasn't even mad that my daughter had disobeyed me. It was just remarkable that, being such a little kid, she had been able to tame a feral cat.
That afternoon while the girls were still at school, I went outside. The mama cat was sitting in the yard.
I said to her, "Okay, sorry about your kittens. But you can stay. You have Spare to thank, so be good to her."
The first thing the mama cat did was run laps around the yard in total joy. I've never seen anything like it. It was as if she understood what I said to her.
The second thing the mama cat did was become totally and completely devoted to The Spare. When Spare was little and thought nothing of dragging around a big cat in her vice grip arms, that cat put up with it. And when Spare got older, that cat literally followed her around like a dog.
That cat is Beta. She still lives with us. When Spare comes home, Beta sleeps with her. When Spare's not around, Beta sort of mourns for her. I'm going to say that Beta Cat is now 13 or 14 years old, arthritic, but sweet as soda pop. She likes to drink from the faucet. She waits patiently at the foot of the bed until you wake up ... and only then does she get in your face, purring and asking for breakfast.
This is the first of many charming stories I'm going to offer you about my daughter, The Spare. I'm trying to raise money for her indiegogo campaign so she can finance the comedy web series she's making for YouTube. I have some offers of goodies if you'd like to contribute to the cause. Just look at the posts below.
The link to Spare's campaign is here.
I thank you, Spare thanks you, and there's a plain jane tabby cat named Beta who will thank you as well.
Peace.
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