You know it happens. Your computer is tooling along, purring like a kitten, and then it does a little burp. From the burp it goes into slow motion, slower and slower, and that's how come I'm spending Sunday afternoon at the Snobville Public Library.
My school blocked Blogger. It was a dark day. Now it's laptop or library. And whoa, this library got a million dollar face lift since last I blogged from here! It's all done over in muted grays and white pillars, and I'm in a teen room that has bean bag chairs and neon pink squares of carpet. And teens, reading. On a Sunday afternoon. Somehow I find this hopeful.
On Saturday April 29, my daughter The Heir and I attended and participated in the Peoples' Climate March in Philadelphia. I think there might have been a thousand of us. We were way dwarfed by the NFL Draft festivities on Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Probably more than a million sports fans who don't care about the climate attended that. Boy, did we get stares from the NFL fans! At least everyone was polite ... maybe a first for Eagles followers, who notoriously booed Santa Claus and still keep a judge and courtroom on site at the stadium.
It was April 29, and it was hot. Like, July hot. I understand it was like this in Washington, DC as well.
When my computer recovers (which it is sure to in the hands of my very capable Yoda), I'll post the photos I took.
After the march ended, appropriately with chanting, "Water is Sacred. Water is life" on a bridge over the Schuykill River, I made my way home and curled up with the New York Times Magazine. Call me a dinosaur, but I love my paper copy of the newspaper. Anyway, the whole April 23 issue was about climate change, and by the time I finished reading it, dear bored Goddess Gaia had joined me on the front porch. Indeed, She does look feverish and irritable these days.
I made Gaia a nice cool smoothie, and we chatted a bit. Folks, it made me feel so much better! She told me all about how that big meteor hit the planet back in the dinosaur days, and how many species were totally wiped off the face of Her in the blink of an eye. She reminded me that, even though She is not everlasting, She is still in Her prime and very very resilient.
Gaia admits that humans are not a great contribution to Her history, but She says it will all work out, because it's inevitable that some virus or bacterium will evolve to wipe the slate clean. She's not drawing up blueprints, but She darkly hinted that, if we drive the horseshoe crab to extinction, she will assemble an advisory board to assess the whole "person" thing. (When she said "person," She rolled Her eyes. Not a good sign.) Gaia is a huge fan of horseshoe crabs. Can't say I blame her. They're basically adorable.
I loaded an ice pack for Gaia and told Her, sadly, that most of the people at the Climate March didn't know Her name. She wasn't surprised. She says that it all started going downhill when Her praise and worship team got shoved out by Daddy Gods and hordes who came to conquer. But She assures me She will have the last laugh. I don't doubt it for an instant.
This is a busy week here at "The Gods Are Bored." My daughter The Spare just signed a lease on a house in Philadelphia. She will be moving away from home, probably Friday. Oh my goodness! What will I write about, if not The Spare? I feel like Gaia must have felt when the last pterodactyl bit the dust. So ... a few nights this week I will be helping Spare prepare her new living space for habitation. To put it another way, there were two dudes living there, and the place is a shambles.
I also have to take my computer to my Yoda. He's a great Guy.
And then, on Friday, it's the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm! Spare and I will be there for the weekend, celebrating the Ladies and Gentlemen of Sidhe. If you're in the vicinity, please join us!
I end this lengthy epistle on a light note ...
I made a sign for the climate march. It said, "This Druid Loves Gaia."
A lady came up to me and said, "Oh! Can I take a photo of your sign? My dog is named Gaia."
"Sure," I said, holding it up. "I have a dog too. His name is Jehovah."
Every dog has his day, right?
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
The Standardized Slump
Welcome to The Mumble Mumble Mumble *yawn* Is it over yet?
Ah, friends, friends. It's Standardized Testing Season.
Last week was spring break at my school. The week before that was PARCC testing. If you don't know what PARCC stands for, it's Perfectly Awful Repugnant Corrupt Claptrap. My students have to sit through this every year, and they've done it every year of their lives.
Our current incarnation of standardized testing is so evil that teachers are not allowed to look at it at all. We can't so much as glance across a student's shoulder, let alone point out an errant comma. Students themselves are not to be trusted either. All cell phones are silenced and collected. Students have to sign a pledge that they don't have their phone. Students must be escorted to the bathroom, and only one student is allowed in the bathroom at a time.We wouldn't want anyone to give anyone else an answer, now would we?
Except, if that's the case, why is so much emphasis put on group work in the classroom?
This year my students endured three math tests of 90 minutes apiece and four language arts tests, two 90-minute and two 110-minute. Can someone add this up for me? How many hours is that? I keep wanting to say more than ten hours, but my brain won't let me. Clearly I wouldn't have a prayer of passing those math units!
Anyway, most of our testing occurred before the break. But today -- Tuesday -- on the second day back from break, we had one final 110-minute language arts unit.
It was raining outside.
The testing is done on chrome books. Testing began at 8:00 a.m.
Within the first 40 minutes, half the kids had fallen asleep. By 60 minutes, the slumber was universal. Even yours truly, the proctor, had to pinch herself to stay awake.
How many posts have I written on this wretched subject?
Back in the previous century, I had to take a high school proficiency test. It consisted of balancing a checkbook, using a train table, and following the directions to bake a cake. There might have been a short story and a couple of easy math problems. I particularly remember the train schedule and the checkbook.
Now, students taking the PARCC test have to write three whole essays based on long-winded passages of "classical" literature, much of it from across the pond. Need I say how unfair this is to urban youngsters of color? Nah, you already know.
I've been asleep on my feet since 8:00 this morning, so it's time to hit the sack. Like a ton of bricks. With sweet dreams of a world without standardized testing, where students are judged on their unique and particular abilities. On the content of their characters.
Good night!
Ah, friends, friends. It's Standardized Testing Season.
Last week was spring break at my school. The week before that was PARCC testing. If you don't know what PARCC stands for, it's Perfectly Awful Repugnant Corrupt Claptrap. My students have to sit through this every year, and they've done it every year of their lives.
Our current incarnation of standardized testing is so evil that teachers are not allowed to look at it at all. We can't so much as glance across a student's shoulder, let alone point out an errant comma. Students themselves are not to be trusted either. All cell phones are silenced and collected. Students have to sign a pledge that they don't have their phone. Students must be escorted to the bathroom, and only one student is allowed in the bathroom at a time.We wouldn't want anyone to give anyone else an answer, now would we?
Except, if that's the case, why is so much emphasis put on group work in the classroom?
This year my students endured three math tests of 90 minutes apiece and four language arts tests, two 90-minute and two 110-minute. Can someone add this up for me? How many hours is that? I keep wanting to say more than ten hours, but my brain won't let me. Clearly I wouldn't have a prayer of passing those math units!
Anyway, most of our testing occurred before the break. But today -- Tuesday -- on the second day back from break, we had one final 110-minute language arts unit.
It was raining outside.
The testing is done on chrome books. Testing began at 8:00 a.m.
Within the first 40 minutes, half the kids had fallen asleep. By 60 minutes, the slumber was universal. Even yours truly, the proctor, had to pinch herself to stay awake.
How many posts have I written on this wretched subject?
Back in the previous century, I had to take a high school proficiency test. It consisted of balancing a checkbook, using a train table, and following the directions to bake a cake. There might have been a short story and a couple of easy math problems. I particularly remember the train schedule and the checkbook.
Now, students taking the PARCC test have to write three whole essays based on long-winded passages of "classical" literature, much of it from across the pond. Need I say how unfair this is to urban youngsters of color? Nah, you already know.
I've been asleep on my feet since 8:00 this morning, so it's time to hit the sack. Like a ton of bricks. With sweet dreams of a world without standardized testing, where students are judged on their unique and particular abilities. On the content of their characters.
Good night!
Saturday, April 22, 2017
"Science Is the Poetry of Reality"
It's a very odd feeling when you participate in a March for Science, out of concern for the anti-science sentiments in government, and you find yourself marching in the footsteps of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. This was the principal thing on my mind as I took to Market Street, with Spare and her friends, for the Earth Day Science March.
My simple sign was a photo of my dad, in his lab coat, with a beaker and an equation on the chalk board behind him. I also included his birth and death dates. In this way I felt that he was marching with me.
Spare, of course, is more flamBEEant.
This was the strangest crowd of marchers I've ever been in. I guess you could just say that these were all smart people. Call them geeks or nerds if you will, but you could almost feel the intelligence beaming off of everyone. Honestly, the signs weren't as creative as at the Women's March (Spare being the exception), but they were sincere. No one is taking this lightly, is I guess what I'm saying.
We barely got to Penn's Landing before it began to rain. It rained in earnest. Spare and her friends floated off, but I had a rain slicker, so I puffed out my chest and stayed for the speakers. I stayed and stayed. You remember how boring those chemistry lectures were in college? Well, those were the people who were speaking. It doesn't matter, though, because all the sentiments were the same. Science made this country great. Science has unending potential to benefit humankind. Science brings progress. Inventors should be respected. Energy should be renewable. We can all be scientists, even in small ways like monitoring our local creek. We should run for office, call our government officials, keep the pressure on. Vaccinations are a good thing, de-funding the EPA and Planned Parenthood isn't. Not all scientists are atheists. Geology is a helpful predictor of history. And I forget the rest, there were lots and lots of speakers.
Spare is in a dark place just now, so it was good to see her engaged in this worthy pursuit.
Benjamin Franklin was very much on my mind as I marched. Funny thing, as I was walking back up Market Street after the event was over, I passed a historic landmark that I'd never noticed before -- what's left of his house. So I walked back there to what might have been his front door. I thought about knocking, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. How could I look a Founding Father in the eye and say that the same great nation that put a man on the Moon is now dumping data and denying climate change? I let him rest.
The title of this sermon comes from a sign I saw but couldn't get a good picture of. It said "Science is the Poetry of Reality." Okay, well, poetry is the poetry of reality too, but I thought it was a good slogan anyway.
And of course we chanted as we marched:
What do we want?
SCIENCE!
When do we want it?
AFTER EVIDENCE-BASED PEER REVIEW
As I said, it was a rather strange march.
My simple sign was a photo of my dad, in his lab coat, with a beaker and an equation on the chalk board behind him. I also included his birth and death dates. In this way I felt that he was marching with me.
Spare, of course, is more flamBEEant.
This was the strangest crowd of marchers I've ever been in. I guess you could just say that these were all smart people. Call them geeks or nerds if you will, but you could almost feel the intelligence beaming off of everyone. Honestly, the signs weren't as creative as at the Women's March (Spare being the exception), but they were sincere. No one is taking this lightly, is I guess what I'm saying.
We barely got to Penn's Landing before it began to rain. It rained in earnest. Spare and her friends floated off, but I had a rain slicker, so I puffed out my chest and stayed for the speakers. I stayed and stayed. You remember how boring those chemistry lectures were in college? Well, those were the people who were speaking. It doesn't matter, though, because all the sentiments were the same. Science made this country great. Science has unending potential to benefit humankind. Science brings progress. Inventors should be respected. Energy should be renewable. We can all be scientists, even in small ways like monitoring our local creek. We should run for office, call our government officials, keep the pressure on. Vaccinations are a good thing, de-funding the EPA and Planned Parenthood isn't. Not all scientists are atheists. Geology is a helpful predictor of history. And I forget the rest, there were lots and lots of speakers.
Spare is in a dark place just now, so it was good to see her engaged in this worthy pursuit.
Benjamin Franklin was very much on my mind as I marched. Funny thing, as I was walking back up Market Street after the event was over, I passed a historic landmark that I'd never noticed before -- what's left of his house. So I walked back there to what might have been his front door. I thought about knocking, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. How could I look a Founding Father in the eye and say that the same great nation that put a man on the Moon is now dumping data and denying climate change? I let him rest.
The title of this sermon comes from a sign I saw but couldn't get a good picture of. It said "Science is the Poetry of Reality." Okay, well, poetry is the poetry of reality too, but I thought it was a good slogan anyway.
And of course we chanted as we marched:
What do we want?
SCIENCE!
When do we want it?
AFTER EVIDENCE-BASED PEER REVIEW
As I said, it was a rather strange march.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
More Marching Philosophy
The March for Science, being ... well ... scientific, asked everyone who has committed to march to explain why they are doing it. No doubt this is data gathering for further targeted political activity, so I was only too glad to do it. Besides, the George guy paid me $200, again. Talk about the gift that keeps giving!
I am participating in the March for Science because my grandfather and father were scientists. Two of my uncles were doctors. I have a cousin who is a doctor as well, and another who is a chemical engineer. (All male, which for me is another issue.)
Science runs deep in our family. My grandfather grew up in a tiny house on a farm in Appalachia. He was the first to attend college, and he was only there two years. All the same, he learned to use a microscope. He went on to design microscopic drill bits for a company called American Celanese. The synthetic fibers he helped to create went into gas masks that were used during World War II.
Dad taught high school chemistry. He loved teaching. I've posted his closed-circuit t.v. lessons on YouTube, and they are still being watched!
For me, going to this march is rather (believe it or not) a Pagan practice. My ancestors were scientists. If they were alive, they would be appalled by climate change and by efforts to squelch research and data. That would infuriate them. Ancestral work is part of the Pagan path. This fits the bill. Dad and Granddad aren't here to express themselves, so I'm going to do it. I'm going to take one of my photos of Dad in his classroom and tape it (gently ) to a sign. So he can be there.
Dad and Granddad both voted Republican their whole lives, because Lincoln won the war. I fervently believe that neither one of them could have pulled the lever for Donald Trump -- Granddad because of his deep and genuine Christian faith, and Dad because, well, science.
I'm going away for a few days but will return in time for the Science March in Philadelphia. You'll see the photos here.
Anyone who tries to undermine science is a villain. In the Shakespearean sense.
I am participating in the March for Science because my grandfather and father were scientists. Two of my uncles were doctors. I have a cousin who is a doctor as well, and another who is a chemical engineer. (All male, which for me is another issue.)
Science runs deep in our family. My grandfather grew up in a tiny house on a farm in Appalachia. He was the first to attend college, and he was only there two years. All the same, he learned to use a microscope. He went on to design microscopic drill bits for a company called American Celanese. The synthetic fibers he helped to create went into gas masks that were used during World War II.
Dad taught high school chemistry. He loved teaching. I've posted his closed-circuit t.v. lessons on YouTube, and they are still being watched!
For me, going to this march is rather (believe it or not) a Pagan practice. My ancestors were scientists. If they were alive, they would be appalled by climate change and by efforts to squelch research and data. That would infuriate them. Ancestral work is part of the Pagan path. This fits the bill. Dad and Granddad aren't here to express themselves, so I'm going to do it. I'm going to take one of my photos of Dad in his classroom and tape it (gently ) to a sign. So he can be there.
Dad and Granddad both voted Republican their whole lives, because Lincoln won the war. I fervently believe that neither one of them could have pulled the lever for Donald Trump -- Granddad because of his deep and genuine Christian faith, and Dad because, well, science.
I'm going away for a few days but will return in time for the Science March in Philadelphia. You'll see the photos here.
Anyone who tries to undermine science is a villain. In the Shakespearean sense.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Tax March Philly
We have a leader in this nation who has refused to reveal his personal finances. We therefore cannot judge whether he is working for the American people, or working for foreign governments, or working to enrich himself.
This should be an outrage.
We have a leader in this nation who has absolutely no experience in governance. He has filled his inner circle with others -- including his own daughter -- who have absolutely no experience in governance. He has, with the help of a majority party in thrall to Big Business, set in motion efforts to dismantle public education, scientific research, health care and social services for the poor and elderly, and pollution controls.
This should be an outrage.
Know this: If you can't walk, I'm marching for you. If you care, I'm marching for you. If you believe, I am working the Work for you. If you are worried, I will worry with you. And I will act.
My feet are sore, but thank you bored Gods, I can still walk. The cause is just, the time is now.
This should be an outrage.
We have a leader in this nation who has absolutely no experience in governance. He has filled his inner circle with others -- including his own daughter -- who have absolutely no experience in governance. He has, with the help of a majority party in thrall to Big Business, set in motion efforts to dismantle public education, scientific research, health care and social services for the poor and elderly, and pollution controls.
This should be an outrage.
Know this: If you can't walk, I'm marching for you. If you care, I'm marching for you. If you believe, I am working the Work for you. If you are worried, I will worry with you. And I will act.
My feet are sore, but thank you bored Gods, I can still walk. The cause is just, the time is now.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Job Opportunity
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where our good fortune is your good fortune! Let's face it. None of us have all the money we'd really like to have, right? An extra Benjamin for a half-day's work always helps, huh?
I'm Anne Johnson, here to share with you a fool-proof money-making opportunity. For those of you nine-to-fivers, this still works because it is always on a Saturday!
About midway through last December, I got a phone call from a nice man who asked me just to call him "George." He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And now he's making it three more times this month. Whoever he is, this George has, as my students would put it, "stacks and stacks and stacks."
George offered to pay for me to go to the Women's March on Washington. He paid for my two-night stay in a Hampton Inn, two tickets on a Rally bus for myself and the Heir, and he paid us each $200 for the day to march. Pretty generous, huh? I think so too!
At first I didn't want to take George's money, but he assured me that he was paying everyone who marched the same amount. This means if I hadn't needed to stay in a hotel or take a bus, I would have earned $500 for the day! And actually, at the Women's March, I met dozens of ladies who were equally impressed by his generosity. Many of them got all cash, since they lived close enough to take the Metro.
I asked them, "Do you know who this George guy is?"
"Who cares!" they chortled. "He's got stacks and stacks and stacks. After the march, we're going on a spa vacation!"
Seemed like everywhere you looked at that march, you saw a woman happily clutching a few Benjamins in her fist. One told me, "This is great, because I really don't want to work. I can just do this and get some money the easy way. I intend to spend it on drugs."
Who am I to tell people what to do with their money?
Long story short, George called me in March and asked what I was doing on the weekends of April 15, 22, and 29. I said, "Well, sir, you tell me. What am I doing?"
He hired me to march all three weekends. Heir too. We get a little less since we're staying in Philly -- $200 each -- but the math is still compelling. Between us we will earn $1200, just for protesting Donald Trump. George, it seems, does not like the sitting president.
At the Women's March it didn't occur to me to crunch the numbers and see just how much George actually pays for these events. Doesn't matter. I suck at math. I can't count that high.
For these April marches, George even sweetened the pot. He gave me a clothing allowance! I bought a Union Thugs t-shirt and a baseball cap with the meanest-looking pussy you ever saw on it. Sent the bill to George.
Any of you who want to protest Donald Trump and earn some pocket change, give me a holler. I'll set you up with George. I think I even get a referral fee, so sign on and come aboard!
I'm Anne Johnson, here to share with you a fool-proof money-making opportunity. For those of you nine-to-fivers, this still works because it is always on a Saturday!
About midway through last December, I got a phone call from a nice man who asked me just to call him "George." He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And now he's making it three more times this month. Whoever he is, this George has, as my students would put it, "stacks and stacks and stacks."
George offered to pay for me to go to the Women's March on Washington. He paid for my two-night stay in a Hampton Inn, two tickets on a Rally bus for myself and the Heir, and he paid us each $200 for the day to march. Pretty generous, huh? I think so too!
At first I didn't want to take George's money, but he assured me that he was paying everyone who marched the same amount. This means if I hadn't needed to stay in a hotel or take a bus, I would have earned $500 for the day! And actually, at the Women's March, I met dozens of ladies who were equally impressed by his generosity. Many of them got all cash, since they lived close enough to take the Metro.
I asked them, "Do you know who this George guy is?"
"Who cares!" they chortled. "He's got stacks and stacks and stacks. After the march, we're going on a spa vacation!"
Seemed like everywhere you looked at that march, you saw a woman happily clutching a few Benjamins in her fist. One told me, "This is great, because I really don't want to work. I can just do this and get some money the easy way. I intend to spend it on drugs."
Who am I to tell people what to do with their money?
Long story short, George called me in March and asked what I was doing on the weekends of April 15, 22, and 29. I said, "Well, sir, you tell me. What am I doing?"
He hired me to march all three weekends. Heir too. We get a little less since we're staying in Philly -- $200 each -- but the math is still compelling. Between us we will earn $1200, just for protesting Donald Trump. George, it seems, does not like the sitting president.
At the Women's March it didn't occur to me to crunch the numbers and see just how much George actually pays for these events. Doesn't matter. I suck at math. I can't count that high.
For these April marches, George even sweetened the pot. He gave me a clothing allowance! I bought a Union Thugs t-shirt and a baseball cap with the meanest-looking pussy you ever saw on it. Sent the bill to George.
Any of you who want to protest Donald Trump and earn some pocket change, give me a holler. I'll set you up with George. I think I even get a referral fee, so sign on and come aboard!
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
We Interrupt the Regularly Scheduled Ranting
... asking you to click the link and vote for my daughter The Spare's improv team. They want to get back into a competition they were eliminated from by one lousy vote!
Her team is Windows 98
https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/DTRC57D
One of the good things about living in a big urban area is the opportunities it affords for chasing your Muse. The Spare's Muse loves to laugh!
EXHIBIT A: WINDOWS 98 (Spare on far right)
Don't ask me why, but Spare is convinced that my blog readership will push her team over the top in voting. I heard her boasting to her teammates: "Yeah, we'll put it on my mom's blog." Like I'm some kind of presence on the Web.
Won't take you a minute. No sea glass on offer this time, but if you stay tuned I'll tell you whether or not her team returns to the competition, and how well they do.
They are a hoot. She gets her talent from me, of course.
Her team is Windows 98
https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/DTRC57D
One of the good things about living in a big urban area is the opportunities it affords for chasing your Muse. The Spare's Muse loves to laugh!
EXHIBIT A: WINDOWS 98 (Spare on far right)
Don't ask me why, but Spare is convinced that my blog readership will push her team over the top in voting. I heard her boasting to her teammates: "Yeah, we'll put it on my mom's blog." Like I'm some kind of presence on the Web.
Won't take you a minute. No sea glass on offer this time, but if you stay tuned I'll tell you whether or not her team returns to the competition, and how well they do.
They are a hoot. She gets her talent from me, of course.
Monday, April 10, 2017
On the March Again
The rest of April will be a busy time for marchers. I guess I'll be flinging on my golden sneakers again ... not once, but three more times.
On Saturday, April 15, I will be in Philadelphia for the Tax March, sponsored by one of my all-time favorite nonprofits, Jobs with Justice. Look at this brilliant balloon we'll be floating over Market Street!
EXHIBIT A: TRUMP, RELEASE YOUR DAMN TAXES
I hope I can get my picture taken with this fine creation.
Having left my protest sign in Washington, DC during the Women's March, I need something new to carry. Okay, I suck at art. Luckily, my gig as a school teacher has provided me with inspiring signage.
Last fall I taught my students about symbolism. As most unimaginative teachers do, I Googled "how do I teach symbolism." I got a list of children's picture books that have symbolism in them. One of them was
EXHIBIT B: IT WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013 BUT IS OH SO RELEVANT
This is the cover! It's a picture book, so it's larger than a conventional book. How perfect is this to carry in a march that features a giant golden rooster?
The Snobville Public Library carries this riveting little volume. The story is so completely pertinent that when I used it to teach symbolism, my students were blown away. In this timely tale, a hedgehog wanders into the barnyard, slightly alarming the chickens because they've never seen one before. But the chickens are all ready to adapt until the rooster (who wants more attention) incites the chickens to be afraid -- very very afraid -- of the hedgehog.
EXHIBIT C: DID I SAY THIS WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013?
This is the rooster, exhorting his chickens to construct a huge, tall wall to keep out invaders. Does life imitate art, or what?
I won't give away the end of the story, because we are going to live through it. Suffice it to say that The Chickens Build a Wall will travel with me to the Philly Tax March. When we all get to the People's Plaza at Independence Mall, it may just be story time.
On Saturday, April 15, I will be in Philadelphia for the Tax March, sponsored by one of my all-time favorite nonprofits, Jobs with Justice. Look at this brilliant balloon we'll be floating over Market Street!
EXHIBIT A: TRUMP, RELEASE YOUR DAMN TAXES
I hope I can get my picture taken with this fine creation.
Having left my protest sign in Washington, DC during the Women's March, I need something new to carry. Okay, I suck at art. Luckily, my gig as a school teacher has provided me with inspiring signage.
Last fall I taught my students about symbolism. As most unimaginative teachers do, I Googled "how do I teach symbolism." I got a list of children's picture books that have symbolism in them. One of them was
EXHIBIT B: IT WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013 BUT IS OH SO RELEVANT
This is the cover! It's a picture book, so it's larger than a conventional book. How perfect is this to carry in a march that features a giant golden rooster?
The Snobville Public Library carries this riveting little volume. The story is so completely pertinent that when I used it to teach symbolism, my students were blown away. In this timely tale, a hedgehog wanders into the barnyard, slightly alarming the chickens because they've never seen one before. But the chickens are all ready to adapt until the rooster (who wants more attention) incites the chickens to be afraid -- very very afraid -- of the hedgehog.
EXHIBIT C: DID I SAY THIS WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013?
This is the rooster, exhorting his chickens to construct a huge, tall wall to keep out invaders. Does life imitate art, or what?
I won't give away the end of the story, because we are going to live through it. Suffice it to say that The Chickens Build a Wall will travel with me to the Philly Tax March. When we all get to the People's Plaza at Independence Mall, it may just be story time.
Sunday, April 09, 2017
Palm Sunday Jackass
I'm sure you've noticed. People who drive luxury cars are more reckless than people who don't. They're more likely to run a red light and to speed on the expressway. It's entitlement, of course. The fact that they deserve such a nice vehicle also means that they deserve to get where they're going faster than the rest of us.
This morning my daughter The Spare and I went out for a little tootle in my 2001 Saturn, which belonged to my dear mother-in-law before it came to me. I have a whole philosophy of driving. First of all, no matter how slow you go, it always beats walking ... so why hurry? Second of all, the good state of New Jersey posts signs telling you how fast to go, and if there's a single house on the street where you're driving, the limit is likely 25. At best, 35.
As I said, Spare and I were tootling along, in an ancient and sputtering machine, when suddenly a gleaming black Lexus passed us on the right on a two-lane road!
"Jesus!" Spare exclaimed, rather taken aback.
"What a douchebag!" I responded helpfully.
Then, as befits the slight differences in our worldview, Spare complained about men and I complained about rich people. (She's a feminist, I'm a socialist.)
We watched this luxury automobile as it tailgated the next car on the road, a car that was no doubt minding the speed limit the way I was.
And then the entitled driver reached his destination: a church. He fairly leaped into the parking lot.
I looked at the clock in my Saturn. 5:00. (I can't get the Saturn's clock to work. It's always either five or six hours fast.)
Of course. Palm Sunday. The entitled driver was rushing to Mass! Jesus likes his rich people to be on time to church!
I believe that Jesus was a historical figure. I also believe he thought he was the Messiah. I believe the account of Palm Sunday that is in the Bible, and the crucifixion too.
I also believe that Jesus disdained the rich. His followers included well-off intellectuals (How else would we know about him?) but consisted mainly of ordinary, everyday kinds of people. Those people, and Jesus himself, would be flabbergasted to see what passes for a Christian these days.
This is the holy week ofthe bored Goddess Eostre the Christian calendar, so what better time to take a barometric reading of American Christianity? It's a topic I've explored at vast length over the years at The Gods Are Bored, but it never gets old. It only gets scarier.
One Christian got his butt into a pew on Palm Sunday by driving with reckless disregard for the other people on the road. Hallelujah! The jackass is important to the narrative.
This morning my daughter The Spare and I went out for a little tootle in my 2001 Saturn, which belonged to my dear mother-in-law before it came to me. I have a whole philosophy of driving. First of all, no matter how slow you go, it always beats walking ... so why hurry? Second of all, the good state of New Jersey posts signs telling you how fast to go, and if there's a single house on the street where you're driving, the limit is likely 25. At best, 35.
As I said, Spare and I were tootling along, in an ancient and sputtering machine, when suddenly a gleaming black Lexus passed us on the right on a two-lane road!
"Jesus!" Spare exclaimed, rather taken aback.
"What a douchebag!" I responded helpfully.
Then, as befits the slight differences in our worldview, Spare complained about men and I complained about rich people. (She's a feminist, I'm a socialist.)
We watched this luxury automobile as it tailgated the next car on the road, a car that was no doubt minding the speed limit the way I was.
And then the entitled driver reached his destination: a church. He fairly leaped into the parking lot.
I looked at the clock in my Saturn. 5:00. (I can't get the Saturn's clock to work. It's always either five or six hours fast.)
Of course. Palm Sunday. The entitled driver was rushing to Mass! Jesus likes his rich people to be on time to church!
I believe that Jesus was a historical figure. I also believe he thought he was the Messiah. I believe the account of Palm Sunday that is in the Bible, and the crucifixion too.
I also believe that Jesus disdained the rich. His followers included well-off intellectuals (How else would we know about him?) but consisted mainly of ordinary, everyday kinds of people. Those people, and Jesus himself, would be flabbergasted to see what passes for a Christian these days.
This is the holy week of
One Christian got his butt into a pew on Palm Sunday by driving with reckless disregard for the other people on the road. Hallelujah! The jackass is important to the narrative.
Saturday, April 08, 2017
Haiku
A Haiku about the New Supreme Court Justice
no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no hell no
no no no no no
no no no no no no no
no no no hell no
Sunday, April 02, 2017
Afoot and Lighthearted
Last week I was sitting watching something on the t.v., and I saw a commercial for a high-end Volvo. "Hey," says I, "that narration sounds very familiar."
Volvo liked the commercial so much they made an extended version. My students liked it too. Never before have I had such an easy time getting them to like "the bridge guy."
Video below.
Volvo liked the commercial so much they made an extended version. My students liked it too. Never before have I had such an easy time getting them to like "the bridge guy."
Video below.
Friday, March 31, 2017
This Pagan Says Prayers
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we've always had a healthy respect for Plan B. This is especially true when choosing our praise and worship team. Mainstream might work for media, but it's less appealing in matters of the soul.
I left the Christian church in 2005 after a long period of disenchantment followed by a sudden and profound glimpse of the Other Voices in the Other Rooms. Since then I have hardly set foot in a Protestant church, but having a Roman Catholic husband, I have occasionally had to do the Mass thing. And by doing it, I mean showing up, sitting in the back, and suddenly becoming absolutely fascinated by the shrubbery outside when the going gets meaty.
Until Thursday night, when there was no shrubbery option.
If my mother-in-law had been a devout Catholic who tithed and attended, she would have found it easier to get a priest to say her last rites. She made it clear that she wanted one (and her siblings separately made the same request -- stridently). My Catholic siblings-in-law, whose children have attended parochial school from K to 12, set about the business of drumming up someone who could fit the bill. Mind you, we were in Baltimore, the only one of the Thirteen Colonies set up specifically for Roman Catholics. How hard could it be?
It took awhile, but the specimen who finally arrived was a fine one from central casting. Tall, white-haired, well-groomed, and with a soothing baritone voice that was perhaps lost on my poor deaf mother-in-law in her state of semi-consciousness. And the guy was efficient. A cursory shake of the hand all around, and he got right down to business.
There was one problem. The only purportedly Catholic person in the hospital room besides priest and patient was my husband. The other Catholic siblings had melted away, leaving
weeping husband
Pagan self, and
Jewish brother-in-law,
(America is a wonderful place at times, don't you think?)
Things were proceeding as these things do ... you know, oil, and signs and such. But then the priest turned around and motioned for all of us to hold hands. And he tucked into an "Our Father" expecting us to be fully participatory.
Acutely aware of my husband's grief, and my dear mother-in-law's need for these rites, I intoned an "Our Father," carefully remembering that the Catholics cut theirs a little shorter than the Protestants. I had fortunately learned the "Hail Mary" from listening to my mother-in-law say it over the years at this and that occasion. I don't know what my brother-in-law did. Guessing he melted into the medical monitors.
You know, a lot of people who follow the jealous God are very tolerant towards those of us who don't. Fortunately, my mother-in-law was one of them. This is why I had no problem joining a prayer to the jealous God for the salvation of a soul who was so worthy of Heaven she wouldn't even have had to ask my Gods "pretty please."
The priest biffed out as quickly as he came, and shortly thereafter we moved my mother-in-law to hospice. She died about six hours later, of a broken shoulder. Those of you who have had elderly relatives with multiple health problems know how this can happen.
I had some misgivings about the last rites. I don't know if the jealous God will release my mother-in-law to come see me in the Summer Lands, so I offered up my own rite (no oil, no signs) petitioning the bored Goddess Queen Brighid the Bright to open the portals so that Mom in law can visit me from time to time. Seems only fair. My mother in law was full 50 percent Irish.
I echo The Spare's sentiments (below) about her grandmother. I've heard it through the grapevine that many people do not get along well with their mothers-in-law. I'm not one of them. Mine was a prime specimen, top notch.
May she have found the Summer Lands. Indeed.
I left the Christian church in 2005 after a long period of disenchantment followed by a sudden and profound glimpse of the Other Voices in the Other Rooms. Since then I have hardly set foot in a Protestant church, but having a Roman Catholic husband, I have occasionally had to do the Mass thing. And by doing it, I mean showing up, sitting in the back, and suddenly becoming absolutely fascinated by the shrubbery outside when the going gets meaty.
Until Thursday night, when there was no shrubbery option.
If my mother-in-law had been a devout Catholic who tithed and attended, she would have found it easier to get a priest to say her last rites. She made it clear that she wanted one (and her siblings separately made the same request -- stridently). My Catholic siblings-in-law, whose children have attended parochial school from K to 12, set about the business of drumming up someone who could fit the bill. Mind you, we were in Baltimore, the only one of the Thirteen Colonies set up specifically for Roman Catholics. How hard could it be?
It took awhile, but the specimen who finally arrived was a fine one from central casting. Tall, white-haired, well-groomed, and with a soothing baritone voice that was perhaps lost on my poor deaf mother-in-law in her state of semi-consciousness. And the guy was efficient. A cursory shake of the hand all around, and he got right down to business.
There was one problem. The only purportedly Catholic person in the hospital room besides priest and patient was my husband. The other Catholic siblings had melted away, leaving
weeping husband
Pagan self, and
Jewish brother-in-law,
(America is a wonderful place at times, don't you think?)
Things were proceeding as these things do ... you know, oil, and signs and such. But then the priest turned around and motioned for all of us to hold hands. And he tucked into an "Our Father" expecting us to be fully participatory.
Acutely aware of my husband's grief, and my dear mother-in-law's need for these rites, I intoned an "Our Father," carefully remembering that the Catholics cut theirs a little shorter than the Protestants. I had fortunately learned the "Hail Mary" from listening to my mother-in-law say it over the years at this and that occasion. I don't know what my brother-in-law did. Guessing he melted into the medical monitors.
You know, a lot of people who follow the jealous God are very tolerant towards those of us who don't. Fortunately, my mother-in-law was one of them. This is why I had no problem joining a prayer to the jealous God for the salvation of a soul who was so worthy of Heaven she wouldn't even have had to ask my Gods "pretty please."
The priest biffed out as quickly as he came, and shortly thereafter we moved my mother-in-law to hospice. She died about six hours later, of a broken shoulder. Those of you who have had elderly relatives with multiple health problems know how this can happen.
I had some misgivings about the last rites. I don't know if the jealous God will release my mother-in-law to come see me in the Summer Lands, so I offered up my own rite (no oil, no signs) petitioning the bored Goddess Queen Brighid the Bright to open the portals so that Mom in law can visit me from time to time. Seems only fair. My mother in law was full 50 percent Irish.
I echo The Spare's sentiments (below) about her grandmother. I've heard it through the grapevine that many people do not get along well with their mothers-in-law. I'm not one of them. Mine was a prime specimen, top notch.
May she have found the Summer Lands. Indeed.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
For a Beloved Grandmother from The Spare
Hello Gods are Boreders, it's me the Spare. It's been quite some time since I've last written anything on here. If I can recall, the last time I was a guest on The Gods Are Bored was when I was 18 and had just had my heart broken. Well I'm 23 now (or just three weeks shy of it), and I'm coming to you all with something much more important than a silly boy.
All my life, I've been told just how much like my grandmother I am. Growing up she had a real knack for entertaining. Readers, if you'll recall, I throw a mean party. More than that though, she dedicated all her life to taking care of the people she loved, getting almost nothing in return. This is where I see myself most in my grandmother. When I love you, you'll know. Taking care of people was what she wanted to do and when her heath declined, it's clear that this is what she struggled the most with.
One summer I spent the week with my grandmother and I ate a whole box of strawberries in two days. I don't even remember really liking strawberries. I guess I was simply hungry and growing. Every summer for the next eight summers, the first thing she'd say to me when I got in the door was that she had just purchased a couple boxes of strawberries for me. She'd bake me strawberry cupcakes when she'd come to visit me. She'd always point out any recipes with strawberries in them. I love strawberries now. I love my grandmother.
It was hard watching her struggle with her heath these past couple of years. The grandmother I remember who was once so vibrant and sassy molded into someone who was plagued by sadness. She's always been my hero. I'd say this after I heard her say something brash or unbecoming, but when I think back on it there's a deeper reason that she's my hero. My grandmother is the most genuine, selfless, and loving person I know. I will be lucky if I can ever become half the woman she is.
Today my grandmother was put in hospice. I got the call at the end of my work day. They said it could be hours, days or weeks before she passes. She's going in an out of consciousness, My brave beautiful mother does not want me to be there to see her. She doesn't want me to remember her like this. She's smart - she knows my heart is hurting right now (I've just been dumped again, things never change readers). In truth, no boy could ever hurt my heart more than knowing that very soon my dear grandmother and I will no longer exist in the same realm.
Here is my call to action. Please pray for her readers. I don't care who it is to and I don't care how it is done. All I want is her to be comfortable right now and for her to know how much she is deeply loved. I have a beautiful vivid memory of singing George Gershwin's, "Someone to Watch Over" about 10 years ago on a night much like tonight's. I'd like it if someone could watch over her tonight.
Please excuse any typo's. My copywriter is at a hospital in Baltimore. <3
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Sunday with Walt
March 26, 2017 is the 125th anniversary of Walt Whitman's death. I found out, recently, that he actually isn't dead at all. He just stopped somewhere, waiting for us. We need him again.
EXHIBIT A: PRETTY GIRL WITH GOOD TASTE IN POETRY
This is my daughter The Spare. She's more photogenic than me. We went into Camden today to a special reading at his tomb. And he was there. He gave us a few verses of his work. I think he would have said more, but it was a bitter cold day for the end of March. Death does not seem to have fazed him at all, which should be a solace to all of us.
EXHIBIT B: YOU THOUGHT I WAS NUTS, RIGHT?
Some people took videos of the event -- alas, I forgot my phone (I used Spare's to take this photo). Perhaps in a few days someone will upload a video so that you can all see the great, gray poet speaking to us.
In the meantime, here's a little bit:
Love the earth and sun and animals,
Despise riches, give alms to everyone who asks,
Stand up for the stupid and crazy,
Devote your income and labor to others,
And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
This week I will be teaching my students about Walt Whitman. They only know him as a bridge.
EXHIBIT A: PRETTY GIRL WITH GOOD TASTE IN POETRY
This is my daughter The Spare. She's more photogenic than me. We went into Camden today to a special reading at his tomb. And he was there. He gave us a few verses of his work. I think he would have said more, but it was a bitter cold day for the end of March. Death does not seem to have fazed him at all, which should be a solace to all of us.
EXHIBIT B: YOU THOUGHT I WAS NUTS, RIGHT?
Some people took videos of the event -- alas, I forgot my phone (I used Spare's to take this photo). Perhaps in a few days someone will upload a video so that you can all see the great, gray poet speaking to us.
In the meantime, here's a little bit:
Love the earth and sun and animals,
Despise riches, give alms to everyone who asks,
Stand up for the stupid and crazy,
Devote your income and labor to others,
And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
This week I will be teaching my students about Walt Whitman. They only know him as a bridge.
Friday, March 24, 2017
Vulture Psalm
A vulture psalm.
If you're feeling sick
It's really a bitch,
But you ought to have health care
Even if you're not rich.
If you're feeling sick
It's really a bitch,
But you ought to have health care
Even if you're not rich.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
An Open Letter to the Jackass with the Donald Trump Bumper Sticker
(Apologies, y'all. I've been watching a lot of really, really terrific spoken word poetry. I'm not a poet, but I did steal the "open letter" concept.)
An Open Letter to the Jackass with the Donald Trump Bumper Sticker
Yes! I saw you in the east bound lanes of Route 70 Thursday afternoon! You pulled up parallel to me, honked your horn, and held up your TRUMP bumper sticker that you must have had handy on the passenger seat next to you.
It was handy because you had no passenger. No one to fill the empty seat in your snowy white Cadillac Escalade. No one to hold your tiny hand or your TRUMP sticker. Lonesome boy!
I couldn't help noticing that your Escalade, while painted snowy white, had a thickish coat of gray grime. You know why, jackass? YOU LIVE IN NEW JERSEY, the Smokestack State! Your tags give it away! Who buys a white car in New Jersey? My guess is, a racist.
And now I have another rhetorical question. Why isn't the TRUMP bumper sticker ON YOUR CAR? I have my RESIST sticker right where everyone can see it. That's how you knew to flash me your TRUMP. You saw RESIST and pulled up beside me.
Holding your bumper sticker in your hand. In your Escalade. Where you were alone.
Could it be that you aren't proud enough of your candidate to put his name on your SUV? No, wait. It's not that. YOU LIVE IN NEW JERSEY. This state voted so blue that you can't tell the sky from the ground. This state is so blue that Elvis sings about it at Christmas time. It's so blue it needs Prozac. This state is so blue it could be a Viking's eyes. In this state, Dorothy and Toto go to the Sapphire City. NEW JERSEY IS THE FREAKIN PAST TENSE OF BLOW.
So while I can tootle around in my decrepit Saturn with my RESIST bumper sticker proudly displayed, You, jackass, run risks putting TRUMP on your Escalade. Your prissy truck could get keyed at the mall!
But wait. There's more.
You moved into my lane and got in front of me. You have a Cadillac. And yet when we got to the exit for Snobville, I was the one who exited, and you kept going down Route 70 toward Cherry Hill and its eight large synagogues. Was that your destination? Jersey tags, you must live in the area. But you don't live in Snobville. I do! Tra la la, Snobville went 65% for Hillary Clinton! I used to hate Snobville, but since those election results came in, I've been quite happy in my snobby home.
Stupid conspicuous consumer in your ugly high-end gas guzzler! Drive on. Alone. Right to the end of the road ... and then into the ocean. Because you should be shark food.
Sincerely,
Anne Johnson
An Open Letter to the Jackass with the Donald Trump Bumper Sticker
Yes! I saw you in the east bound lanes of Route 70 Thursday afternoon! You pulled up parallel to me, honked your horn, and held up your TRUMP bumper sticker that you must have had handy on the passenger seat next to you.
It was handy because you had no passenger. No one to fill the empty seat in your snowy white Cadillac Escalade. No one to hold your tiny hand or your TRUMP sticker. Lonesome boy!
I couldn't help noticing that your Escalade, while painted snowy white, had a thickish coat of gray grime. You know why, jackass? YOU LIVE IN NEW JERSEY, the Smokestack State! Your tags give it away! Who buys a white car in New Jersey? My guess is, a racist.
And now I have another rhetorical question. Why isn't the TRUMP bumper sticker ON YOUR CAR? I have my RESIST sticker right where everyone can see it. That's how you knew to flash me your TRUMP. You saw RESIST and pulled up beside me.
Holding your bumper sticker in your hand. In your Escalade. Where you were alone.
Could it be that you aren't proud enough of your candidate to put his name on your SUV? No, wait. It's not that. YOU LIVE IN NEW JERSEY. This state voted so blue that you can't tell the sky from the ground. This state is so blue that Elvis sings about it at Christmas time. It's so blue it needs Prozac. This state is so blue it could be a Viking's eyes. In this state, Dorothy and Toto go to the Sapphire City. NEW JERSEY IS THE FREAKIN PAST TENSE OF BLOW.
So while I can tootle around in my decrepit Saturn with my RESIST bumper sticker proudly displayed, You, jackass, run risks putting TRUMP on your Escalade. Your prissy truck could get keyed at the mall!
But wait. There's more.
You moved into my lane and got in front of me. You have a Cadillac. And yet when we got to the exit for Snobville, I was the one who exited, and you kept going down Route 70 toward Cherry Hill and its eight large synagogues. Was that your destination? Jersey tags, you must live in the area. But you don't live in Snobville. I do! Tra la la, Snobville went 65% for Hillary Clinton! I used to hate Snobville, but since those election results came in, I've been quite happy in my snobby home.
Stupid conspicuous consumer in your ugly high-end gas guzzler! Drive on. Alone. Right to the end of the road ... and then into the ocean. Because you should be shark food.
Sincerely,
Anne Johnson
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
Riveting Conversation
Hello again! It's me, Anne Johnson, and this is "The Gods Are Bored," a sort of deity diner. Yes, the bored gods are becoming restless and snarly again and are itching for me to return to my agenda. Today, though, I had a fascinating conversation with myself that I thought I would share with you.
ANNE TALKS TO HERSELF
Me: Anne? Anne?
Me: Huh? *yawn*
Me: Remember last September when you swore up and down that you wouldn't come home and flop down in your barca-lounger like some sloth on quaaludes?
Me: *mumble mumble yawn*
Me: Remember you said that you were going to embark upon vigorous housework and other heart-strengthening activities the minute you walked through the door? I do vividly recall that you vowed to visit Decibel's resting place twice a week or more.
Me: Leave me alone, Me! I'm exhausted!
Me: Whose fault is that? Go to bed at bedtime!
Me: I do, dammit! It's just the getting-up time that's ridiculous. Especially now, with daylight savings time. Feels like it's the middle of the night. *yawn*
Me: Whine Whine Whine! Look at this house! It's a mess!
Me: Well then, you clean it up.
Me: Me? Why? I'm tired too! I stayed up late too!
Me: Uh huh, you sure did! And let's not forget why you stayed up late. You were looking at fairy clothes again! You don't have a brass farthing for a new fairy outfit! Why are you even looking?
Me: Get off my case. I've been wearing the same shirt to Fairie Festival for ten years!
Me: And there's not one damn thing wrong with it. Besides, the coffers are low. You've been marching, remember?
Me: I'm too tired to remember anything!
Me: You should have thought about fairy clothes when you bought that Union Thugs t-shirt. News flash: Why don't you wear that to the Fairie Festival?
Me: I suppose I could glam it up ...
Me: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I WAS JOKING!
Me: How the hell am I supposed to know when you're joking? Do you think I'm a mind reader?
Me: Anne, you need a glass of wine.
Me: We gave it up, packed it in, vowed to live sober. You surely remember that.
Me: Yes, alas, I do. But it's okay, because to get a glass of wine I would have to move out of the barca-lounger.
Me: Which, under the circumstances, I would never ask you to do. I have an idea: Why don't we go to Etsy and shop for fairy clothes?
Me: I give up. Anne, you're right. In fact, you're always right. Everyone says that about you.
Me: I know. Thanks all the same.
Tune in for another session of "The Gods Are Bored," where we'll go see Walt Whitman, or Decibel's ghost, or have Asherah over for scones. You never know.
ANNE TALKS TO HERSELF
Me: Anne? Anne?
Me: Huh? *yawn*
Me: Remember last September when you swore up and down that you wouldn't come home and flop down in your barca-lounger like some sloth on quaaludes?
Me: *mumble mumble yawn*
Me: Remember you said that you were going to embark upon vigorous housework and other heart-strengthening activities the minute you walked through the door? I do vividly recall that you vowed to visit Decibel's resting place twice a week or more.
Me: Leave me alone, Me! I'm exhausted!
Me: Whose fault is that? Go to bed at bedtime!
Me: I do, dammit! It's just the getting-up time that's ridiculous. Especially now, with daylight savings time. Feels like it's the middle of the night. *yawn*
Me: Whine Whine Whine! Look at this house! It's a mess!
Me: Well then, you clean it up.
Me: Me? Why? I'm tired too! I stayed up late too!
Me: Uh huh, you sure did! And let's not forget why you stayed up late. You were looking at fairy clothes again! You don't have a brass farthing for a new fairy outfit! Why are you even looking?
Me: Get off my case. I've been wearing the same shirt to Fairie Festival for ten years!
Me: And there's not one damn thing wrong with it. Besides, the coffers are low. You've been marching, remember?
Me: I'm too tired to remember anything!
Me: You should have thought about fairy clothes when you bought that Union Thugs t-shirt. News flash: Why don't you wear that to the Fairie Festival?
Me: I suppose I could glam it up ...
Me: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I WAS JOKING!
Me: How the hell am I supposed to know when you're joking? Do you think I'm a mind reader?
Me: Anne, you need a glass of wine.
Me: We gave it up, packed it in, vowed to live sober. You surely remember that.
Me: Yes, alas, I do. But it's okay, because to get a glass of wine I would have to move out of the barca-lounger.
Me: Which, under the circumstances, I would never ask you to do. I have an idea: Why don't we go to Etsy and shop for fairy clothes?
Me: I give up. Anne, you're right. In fact, you're always right. Everyone says that about you.
Me: I know. Thanks all the same.
Tune in for another session of "The Gods Are Bored," where we'll go see Walt Whitman, or Decibel's ghost, or have Asherah over for scones. You never know.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Vulture Doesn't Want To Eat Cold, Starved Senior Citizens
It's a little known fact that the construction of the Great Wall of China led to a severe famine in the country constructing the wall. All the able-bodied people in the nation were called upon to help with the wall. Between the cost of it and the lack of workers to do other things (like, for instance, plant and harvest crops), the country plunged into decline.
So now our government has money to build a wall, but not to finance Meals on Wheels?
Get ready for it. VULTURE IS PISSED.
Vulture does not want to dine on emaciated senior citizens! Vulture would vastly prefer a diet of ultra-wealthy fat cats who are harvesting ducats on the backs of the rest of us! Vulture likes his carcasses to be brimming with the finest caviar-crusted entrails!
The Great God Vulture would like me to add that He (just like a person) likes His food squishy and fleshy, not rock-solid frozen.
Before you get the misguided idea that you should point out to Vulture that Meals on Wheels is state-financed, let me tell you that I did some due diligence here. Some of the financing for Meals on Wheels comes from federal Community Block Grants, which have been around for decades and are used to prop up the poorest, neediest communities in all kinds of ways. You guessed it. The block grants will be gone. They are "failing."
Vulture. Is. Pissed.
So, how do the starving senior citizens also become frozen? Federal money also props up state grant money that helps the poorest among us to keep their furnaces lit all through the cold months. This I heard on the local news radio. Our local LIHEAP office is afraid that they won't be able to help poor folks next winter, due to the budget axe being wielded by our Carrion in Chief.
What kind of heartless scoundrels prey upon the weakest and most vulnerable citizens? Vulture cries foul! Vulture is not a predator -- He disposes. He does not kill. Governments that cut social services while increasing the budget for weapons of mass destruction ... those are the killers.
Thus sayeth Vulture: Oppose the draconian measures that are being contemplated with glee in the halls of power!
Anyone who begrudges poor people nutritious meals and warm homes deserves to die and go to
MISER HELL
Where they will be helplessly obese and overheated, trying in vain to avoid being pelted by those heavy-ass rolls of quarters you pick up on your way to the laundromat! All the while, perfectly polished mirrors will allow these miscreants to view themselves being taunted by Santa Claus and his righteously indignant elves!
The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
So now our government has money to build a wall, but not to finance Meals on Wheels?
Get ready for it. VULTURE IS PISSED.
Vulture does not want to dine on emaciated senior citizens! Vulture would vastly prefer a diet of ultra-wealthy fat cats who are harvesting ducats on the backs of the rest of us! Vulture likes his carcasses to be brimming with the finest caviar-crusted entrails!
The Great God Vulture would like me to add that He (just like a person) likes His food squishy and fleshy, not rock-solid frozen.
Before you get the misguided idea that you should point out to Vulture that Meals on Wheels is state-financed, let me tell you that I did some due diligence here. Some of the financing for Meals on Wheels comes from federal Community Block Grants, which have been around for decades and are used to prop up the poorest, neediest communities in all kinds of ways. You guessed it. The block grants will be gone. They are "failing."
Vulture. Is. Pissed.
So, how do the starving senior citizens also become frozen? Federal money also props up state grant money that helps the poorest among us to keep their furnaces lit all through the cold months. This I heard on the local news radio. Our local LIHEAP office is afraid that they won't be able to help poor folks next winter, due to the budget axe being wielded by our Carrion in Chief.
What kind of heartless scoundrels prey upon the weakest and most vulnerable citizens? Vulture cries foul! Vulture is not a predator -- He disposes. He does not kill. Governments that cut social services while increasing the budget for weapons of mass destruction ... those are the killers.
Thus sayeth Vulture: Oppose the draconian measures that are being contemplated with glee in the halls of power!
Anyone who begrudges poor people nutritious meals and warm homes deserves to die and go to
MISER HELL
Where they will be helplessly obese and overheated, trying in vain to avoid being pelted by those heavy-ass rolls of quarters you pick up on your way to the laundromat! All the while, perfectly polished mirrors will allow these miscreants to view themselves being taunted by Santa Claus and his righteously indignant elves!
The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Postcard Day
Here we are again at "The Gods Are Bored," where the only Goddess joining us today is Sedna. She gets a kick out of the fuss we make in New Jersey whenever it snows. She has seen it all: No amount of sleet and freezing rain ruffles Her fur.
In our last installment I told you that Walt Whitman was joining me for dinner and an overnight stay. Fortunately I had a day off for stormy weather, so before the sun came up the next morning, I towed the Great Gray Poet into Camden on a Flexible Flyer sled. I deposited him at his home, which is now a museum. So as not to disturb him too much with our modern ways, I stayed along the Cooper River until we got into the heart of Camden -- and from there parts of it don't look much different, just way way more run-down.
I wish I had kept him handy, though, because I nearly forgot ... today is the Ides of Trump! I had to send my postcard to the White House!
With a deep sadness I unearthed one of my "Greetings from Asbury Park" postcards. And there was even greater regret when I had to affix a nice little "forever" stamp with a cardinal on it. Worst money I ever spent. But these things must be done.
It's important to be succinct on a postcard. There's nothing I hate more than getting a card from someone who has the money to travel someplace that I would like to go, and I'll never get there, and it looks so good in the picture, and how come I never have any money to travel? Wait. Emmm. Off topic. Re-direct: I don't like postcards where the person runs out of room at the bottom and writes extra small, or curves the text around the side. Pet peeve, you know?
I wanted to keep things short. And secular.
Drum roll ...
I'm not gonna cuss ya
You puppet of Russia,
But I want to know why
You put tape on your tie.
The beauty of this is, neither Walt Whitman nor Sedna helped me with this fine verse! I did it all on my own.
In our last installment I told you that Walt Whitman was joining me for dinner and an overnight stay. Fortunately I had a day off for stormy weather, so before the sun came up the next morning, I towed the Great Gray Poet into Camden on a Flexible Flyer sled. I deposited him at his home, which is now a museum. So as not to disturb him too much with our modern ways, I stayed along the Cooper River until we got into the heart of Camden -- and from there parts of it don't look much different, just way way more run-down.
I wish I had kept him handy, though, because I nearly forgot ... today is the Ides of Trump! I had to send my postcard to the White House!
With a deep sadness I unearthed one of my "Greetings from Asbury Park" postcards. And there was even greater regret when I had to affix a nice little "forever" stamp with a cardinal on it. Worst money I ever spent. But these things must be done.
It's important to be succinct on a postcard. There's nothing I hate more than getting a card from someone who has the money to travel someplace that I would like to go, and I'll never get there, and it looks so good in the picture, and how come I never have any money to travel? Wait. Emmm. Off topic. Re-direct: I don't like postcards where the person runs out of room at the bottom and writes extra small, or curves the text around the side. Pet peeve, you know?
I wanted to keep things short. And secular.
Drum roll ...
I'm not gonna cuss ya
You puppet of Russia,
But I want to know why
You put tape on your tie.
The beauty of this is, neither Walt Whitman nor Sedna helped me with this fine verse! I did it all on my own.
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