Gob-Smacked by the 21st Century Again!

Hello, hello, and welcome to another installation of "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, hardy volunteer at Netroots Nation! Wow, did I bust my chops today!

EXHIBIT A: SELF AT NETROOTS NATION, WITH BOXES OF T-SHIRTS

Netroots Nation is a convention that pretty much gathers every sort of progressive group, from labor unions to First Nations protesters, Daily Kos, ActBlue, plus old standbys like the ACLU and the Society for the Separation of Church and State. On Saturday a few presidential candidates will drop in as well.

My volunteer shift, right at the opening of the convention, consisted of doling out swag bags and free t-shirts. I was part of a team of six volunteers doing this, and we all rose to the challenge.

Do you remember that "I Love Lucy" episode where the candies are coming down the conveyor belt and Lucy and Ethel have to wrap them up? It wasn't quite that intense, but readers, I flew around that swag table like a dervish for three hours straight! There were all kinds of steps for each person and each bag, from making note that they had received the bag, to stuffing it with a few pieces of swag that arrived late, and then getting the right sized t-shirt for the person. Plus, do you know me? How enthusiastic will I be to greet people who hate fossil fuels, love LGBTQ rights, believe in unions, and -- needless to say -- detest Donald Trump? I was all smiles and good cheer!

I've lived near Philadelphia for more than 30 years, and I've spent lots of time at the Convention Center. I know full well that the place never has enough water and snacks available. Today was no different. The bottle of water I brought was gone in the first 90 minutes of my 3-hour shift. And although many attendees wanted to refill it for me, none of them knew where to go to do it. It was okay, though. I made it through those hectic 3.75 hours and crawled panting to the water fountain ... and in a little while I felt fine again.

In the afternoon I attended the Labor Caucus, and it was good old-time union organizing and notes-comparing. Everyone was upbeat despite our current political climate. There were lots of unions represented too. Always a good time when a teacher can rub elbows with a Teamster. It was also interesting to hear about innovative ways that unions are gaining membership. There was no particular speaker, we just talked to the people at our tables and then sent up a brave soul to report out what we'd said that was important. No PowerPoint, no blah blah blah. Then we all gathered in the front of the room for a photo. Oh yeah, and they had snacks and lemonade too! Union, yes!

And then the 21st century came rushing up to club me like some kind of embittered cave man. Oddly enough, this happened at the kickoff for Elizabeth Warren's campaign in Philadelphia.

I've always loved Elizabeth Warren, and in the last year or two she's grown on me more. I started a monthly donation to her campaign awhile back, and she actually called me to thank me. So It was with great excitement that I attended the kickoff, and it was made even better because my daughter The Fair joined me there.

The Warren bash was extremely well-attended. The rented room filled up fast, the organizers put out all the extra seats that were available, and it was still standing-room. As is often the case at such grassroots things, the attendees were mostly (but not all) people of a certain age.

The nice young volunteers stepped up and -- of course -- thanked us for coming. Then they told us they were going to roll out something brand new and really special that they hadn't revealed before at any other event! Wowsa, what could it be? A Skype with Liz?

Turns out the really special thing was an app designed to gather voter data for the Warren campaign.

The Fair's phone was almost out of juice, so she downloaded the thing on my phone. I tried to follow the PowerPoint, but as is ALWAYS the case with me, the presenter flew through all the great things the app could do, and she lost me at the first slide. Haven't I written about this before? I'm a fucking fossil. If it's a new computer program, I just. Don't. Get. It.

My daughter The Fair is not a fossil. She's a sweet flower. As the event wound to a close (with more than a quarter of the attendees leaving early in a thunderstorm), she turned to me and said, "I can sure see how this app will help with organizing, but this is not what I expected this evening to be."

That made me feel a little better.

Elizabeth has a plan for everything, and her campaign will be whiz-bang on the smartphones. (It already is. I get texts all the time.) But on this flash-flood evening, a large number of older liberals were left shaking their heads as they sneaked out into the rain.

Well, what are you gonna do, after all? You can't call people on the phone and expect to speak to them. Heck, Elizabeth Warren called me, and I let it go to voicemail since it said "Unknown Caller!" It's even worse to knock on a door. When was the last time you answered the door to a stranger? So it makes abundant sense to be able to text people and be in touch with them nearer to election day. I just can't do it myself. I'll put my money in the collection plate and feel like a good church lady.

When I went to the elevated train this morning to ride into Philadelphia, I got down on the platform, and every single person was looking at their phone. Every last person. It was so unnerving that I began reciting Walt Whitman poetry. No one noticed anyway, so why not?

People don't own smartphones. Smartphones own people. It only stands to reason that this is the single best way for a geeky candidate to mobilize her base. But I don't like it.

You know what sucks about being a Baby Boomer? Knowing that your best century is behind you.

I'm returning to Netroots Nation Friday and Saturday. Elizabeth Warren will be there on Saturday. Perhaps she'll pat my hand and say, "There there, you can just donate. You don't need to use the app."

Missing the days when phones were attached to walls I remain,

Your reporter from the front lines,
Anne Johnson

I'm Going to Netroots Nation 2019

A couple of weeks ago, I got an invitation to an AFL-CIO caucus meeting at a thing called Netroots Nation. I suppose the AFL-CIO's algorithm recognized me as an active member who lives in the Delaware Valley.

I had sort of heard of Netroots Nation. It has something to do with online political organizing. But that's pretty much all I knew.

I expressed some interest, but upon investigation, I discovered that Netroots Nation 2019 is a humongous convention with a big price tag. But you know what? Being a volunteer at fairy festivals has taught me something: If you volunteer, you get a discount or a free admission.

I signed up for two volunteer shifts and got a discount. Then I sent in my RSVP for the AFL-CIO caucus meeting.

Readers, I'm going to a political convention. It begins on Thursday (I'm doing first morning shift doling out swag bags and selling t-shirts) and runs until Saturday (I'm doing first shift registering people to vote). The Labor caucus is on Friday.

Already, this opportunity has stretched my horizons. Without the help of my daughter The Fair, I downloaded the Netroots Nation app to my smart phone. This could be a game-changer.

It's been hard for me to find things to write about in these dark days, but I'm feeling confident that this convention will dole out some moments of interest. At the very least I can feel with confidence that the Philadelphia Convention Center will be chock-a-block with people who think the way I do. That's always a comfort.

So yours truly will keep you informed and up-to-date on the events that will transpire at Netroots Nation!

I ordered a new Gritty pin for the occasion. It's what the well-dressed Philly progressive is wearing!

Happy Independence Day!

Let me see if I can hit the high points.

We have people at our border, caged in conditions we reserve for mass production of chickens.

We have a president who has ordered tanks into the nation's capital and will be turning a bipartisan holiday into a media spectacle.

This same president is showing a blind obedience to dictators abroad and oil barons domestically.

He has packed the Supreme Court with pro-business flunkies who will render decisions that will harm the people and help the powerful.

This all sucks.

But Gods damn it, this is my country too. My ancestors came here in wooden boats, settled inhospitable terrain, fought in the great wars (Revolutionary War, Civil War). They also opposed the government when it did not serve them (Whiskey Rebellion).

It is with the Whiskey Rebellion in mind that I prepare for participation in the Fourth of July parade and perhaps travel into Philadelphia to see the big-city fireworks. I will stand in opposition to this president and his party in every way possible. It is my patriotic duty. I am an American, and because this nation is headed down the toilet, I have to work harder than ever to see that its ideals are upheld and that its ordinary folks, its workers, its struggling masses, don't find themselves bereft.

The stakes are high. Even the entire planet is in danger.

Happy birthday, America! The Whiskey Rebellion is perhaps in need of re-enactment.

Miss Carol Is Living My Dream

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," summer vacation issue! Yes, for the first time in four years, I am taking the summer off, like they say school teachers do. It's probably a one-off summer, but I'm going to enjoy it! So far, so good.

Awhile back I started a series called "Living My Dream," where I look at other people and think how much I would like to be doing what they are doing. So far, the accomplishments of those people have been beyond my reach, but in today's installment I have someone who is more like a role model, and whose accomplishments I could sort of attain.

During the school year I begin every day with a 30-minute "duty" in the school cafeteria. I'm there pretty much to keep the peace, which is super easy first thing in the morning, and my standing post is right by the lines for free breakfast. Every morning for 30 minutes, from 7:04 until 7:34, I stand with Miss Carol.

EXHIBIT A: ANNE WITH THE LUNCH LADIES, MISS CAROL IN BLUE SHIRT

Miss Carol is a single mother with grown children, grandchildren, and a daughter still in high school. She works as a lunch lady, a modest salary with no benefits. And she is the most cheerful person I have ever met.

Every student who comes for breakfast gets a warm welcome from her, and a hug too, if they want one. Her own daughters, the ones I've met, are loving and respectful to her. She laughs a lot. And she cooks. A lot.

On Monday mornings, the lunch lady conversation revolves around what they cooked and ate over the weekend. On normal weekends the menus are lavish and comforting. On special occasions they are so mouth-wateringly over-the-top that I spend the whole morning fantasizing about them. Oh, the comfort food! Much of it overlaps with my own Appalachian upbringing, so I know how good those collard greens and homemade potato salad must be. And the pies. Mmmmmm Mmmmmm!

Carol has had some health problems and even surgery over the years I have known her, and when she comes back from a medical leave, the kids just completely fawn over her, as she fawns over them. If there is a human personification of love, it is this woman. She ought to be worshiped as a Goddess.

Now you must be thinking, "Anne, if you're so friendly with this marvelous woman, why don't you socialize with her?" Well, it's interesting. There's some kind of invisible line when it comes to out-of-school interaction between the teachers, the administrators, and the support staff. Each group stays with their group. I wouldn't say it's a racial thing, and I would like to change it, but this system is entrenched. She always calls me Miss Johnson, and I always call her Miss Carol. Point of fact, I don't even know her last name, and I've been standing, laughing, talking, and observing her for ten years.

Last summer the school had a picnic for incoming freshmen, and since I was there on the paint crew, I got to partake. Carol made the lunch, of course, and I sat with her to eat. We hadn't seen each other for two months, so we greeted each other like long-lost friends. And after I was finished eating, I had to get back to painting. As I was walking away, I heard Miss Carol say to another lunch lady, "Miss Johnson is so nice."

I may be nice, but Miss Carol is 10,000 times nicer than me. If she has hardships, she doesn't bring them to work. When she's under pressure, she doesn't grumble. There's no feuding with any co-worker. And there's nothing but love for the students. I'm sure some of them need it big time.

If you count happiness and contentment as wealth, this lovely lady is Bill Gates. I won't see her again until September -- we aren't even Facebook friends -- but I'll miss her every morning. Miss Carol is living my dream. I look up to her. She deserves it.

Summer Solstice Faerie Festival at Marshy Point 2019

All Hail, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," on this hot-and-humid summer morning! My name is Anne Johnson, your host with a boast.

I was a long-time attendee of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. Oh, dear readers, how I did adore that festival! But time marches on, and Spoutwood's popularity outstripped its infrastructure. The event was held on a private property that just got mangled by the crowd, especially in rainy weather.

So the fine minds behind Spoutwood sought a new venue, and they landed upon a nature preserve called Marshy Point, which is just outside Baltimore.

EXHIBIT A: MARSHY POINT NATURE CENTER

There's lots of mature woods in the nature preserve, as well as one of those visitor centers with exhibits. It's a beautiful place, give or take the pesky insects that like to burrow and bite (which are everywhere at this season).

In just three short months the Spoutwood/Marshy Point crew put together a Faerie Festival. That's way past record time. Fortunately, years of practice at Spoutwood -- and lots of saved props -- helped to make the new place feel like home.

EXHIBIT B: SAVED PROPS

It is customary for these new festival venues to draw fewer patrons for a few years, until word gets out. But Marshy Point, being about 50 miles from Spoutwood, was close enough that hordes of regulars descended. And then the newcomers arrived. Lots and lots and lots of them.

Some things were the same, like the Gathering of the Tribes. On Saturday, every stalwart of the Mountain Tribe was on the property. Some of them drove from Lancaster and Harrisburg! It was so touching!

EXHIBIT C: THE GANG'S ALL HERE

We also got our usual spate of newcomers, who were persuaded to shout "Mountain Mountain Mountain" at the right moment, after which they were duly awarded with incentives.

As at Spoutwood, we called the Quarters. As at Spoutwood, we shouted "Kubiando," our special faerie word. We sang the same hymns and performed the same silly dances. The bands entertaining us were the same. The drum circle was led by the same facilitator, in a delightfully shady glen.

Summer Solstice is not the same as May Day. It was hot. But the coordinator had set up a misting tent, which was an inspired idea. Almost all the kid stuff was in the deep shade.

The biggest difference between Spoutwood and Marshy Point was that the latter is a state-run entity. We therefore had park rangers and police officers in attendance, a somewhat jarring sight at first. Most of the rangers seemed comfortable with our particular brand of mayhem and attire, and probably by mid-day the cops had figured out that we aren't the sort to pick fights or break stuff.

I felt sorry for this little guy, who was trotted out like they always do with critters at nature preserves.

EXHIBIT D: NOT THE HAPPIEST CAMPER

As for me, being Mountain Tribe, I was rather concerned about the flat land surrounded by water. Spoutwood is in the Piedmont, a place of rolling hills. But after ten minutes, I was completely sold on Marshy Point. There's more land, more shade (not necessarily where you need it most, but still), and really pretty water views.

When the coast clears and the nature preserve sees how we pick up after ourselves ... and the ducats are counted ... I imagine Marshy Point will feel warm towards the Spoutwood faeries. I hope so, because I can see myself visiting that pretty property again and again.

So, a bright Kubiando for new beginnings and a charming landing place! I'm happy for everyone who has put Spoutwood on the calendar each and every year.

Madonna, Ingrate

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," strolling through the years with gratitude for (almost) all of them! I'm Anne Johnson, a woman of a certain age. Glad to be alive!

I'm very, very, very behind in my blogging. I wanted to make some sweeping statements about a New York Times Magazine article called "Madonna at 60." A New York Times reporter spent a few days biffing around with Madonna to see what her life is like now, after all. these. years.

After reading it, Madonna said that she felt "raped." She was furious that the author of the article made so many references to her age, which ... you guessed it! ... is 60.

One could have some sympathy for aging pop singers, if not for the fact that said singers have made bank and are rolling in the ducats. If your career requires you to be come-hither sexy, and you suddenly find yourself north of the mid-century mark, you must feel a tad taken aback. But OH WELL, hon, you're rich! Get over yourself.

It happens that I am the same age as Madonna. Almost exactly. When I was in my 20s, I dressed like her and strutted my stuff, wore a kerchief around my curly locks, the whole bit. Then I moved on through the ups and downs of my 30s and 40s, a young mother ... then a mature mother ... with keening passions and deep loves. I dumped my religion and found another. I lost my career and found another. I've struggled with my weight, and yes, my age. But not to the point where the very mention of it is anathema to me.

I called this post "Madonna, Ingrate" because it seems to me she's as thoughtless at 60, yes the BIG 6-0 as she was through the rest of her years. She and I are part of a cohort. Maybe she has forgotten.

*Michael Jackson, born 1958
*Princess Diana, born 1961
*Prince, born 1958

Lordy, Lordy. I'm still breathing! And so is Madonna! Think of poor Princess Diana! And while it's impossible to muster a lot of sympathy for Michael Jackson, it does sound like his last days were Hell on Earth. The talented Prince, gone. No longer breathing.

It's a gift to live to be 60, and it's also a gift to do it gracefully. Grandmothers, crones, wise women -- call them what you will -- can still be sexy and daring, but it should be a different kind of sexy and daring. The time to strut around in lingerie and red lipstick is over, but life isn't over. Loving a partner isn't over. It should have evolved, though. These things should never be static.

So, Madonna, can we talk as contemporaries? You're rich as fuck, you're breathing, and you have a family. Bid the spotlight farewell and retire to a well-earned hammock, there to read some improving book. Be like me! Change careers, not because you want to, but because you have to! Time marches on. Aren't we lucky to be marching still?

Gosh, it's the most common joke you hear about aging: Consider the alternative. Madonna, consider. Seriously.  The Grim Reaper ain't at your door, and you should be thankful for that.

Interview with Bored Satellites: The Moons of Jupiter

Howdy and welcome to “The Gods Are Bored!” Do you want two tickets to paradise? Well then, we have to ask, Which paradise do you want to book? There are so many.

I’m not big on casting aspersions at any religion, because you never know what your next door neighbor is doing in the case of praise and worship. One can only imagine what my neighbors think of me, with my shrine and my candles and my drumming on certain nights.

It’s awfully hard, though, to look at some of these deity sets in a totally non-judgmental way, especially in light of the abortion laws being passed in certain who-the-hell-knows-what-they’re-thinking states. Suppose you are raped, or mistreated by the man who impregnates you? Should you have to carry an evil person’s child to term?

What better way to seek a response to this question than to interview some Ancients about it? The Moons of Jupiter will be visible with binoculars this week on Monday night, so their namesakes have arrived for a chat.  Please give a warm, wonderful “Gods Are Bored” welcome to Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto – the Moons of Jupiter!

Anne: First, Ancient Ones, I assure you that this is a safe space. I do not allow Zeus, Hera, or any of their fellow High Deities here unless the premises is clear of mortals. I even lock Gamma the cat in the basement!

Io: Thank you for that. Zeus seduced me, and jealous Hera turned me into a white bull.

Europa: Thank you for that. Zeus turned Himself into a white bull, took me to Crete, and seduced me.

Callisto: Thanks you for that. Zeus disguised Himself as Artemis so He could fool me into having sex with him.

Ganymede: Thank you for that. Zeus abducted me and put me to work carting around wine to Himself and His friends. Oh, and he molested me too.

Anne: For the love of living fruit flies! Gives you some insight as to how Christianity established itself. Better one Jealous God with only two paramours than a bunch of squabbling rapist Gods and raging Wife Goddesses, turning poor mortals into bulls and trees and such. And all of you had Zeus’s children, right?

Io, Europa, and Callisto: Yes we did. No choice in the matter.

Ganymede: My gender saved me from this fate.

Anne: Wait. What? Ganymede, you got the same foul treatment, but because you are male, you didn’t have to carry children to term.

Ganymede: Correct.

Anne: I’m seeing yet another major crack in the core of the anti-abortion laws. So, all you mortal ladies who were preyed upon by Zeus, what were these offspring like who you had to bear to Him, even though you were duped, seduced, and raped by this ancient criminal?

Europa: Our children were handfuls. Chips off the old block: physically stronger, more willful, narcissistic, and ambitious than your run-of-the-mill mortal child.

Io: Nor were they particularly heroic, even if they were called heroes and were given cities to rule. They continued their Daddy’s ways.

Anne: Well, did Zeus at least provide them child support? Was he a presence in their lives?

All: Nope.

Anne: You know, it's bad enough that Zeus treated you that way, but you had Hera after you too. What was that all about?

Io: That one's easy. Zeus always told her it was us doing the seducing!

Anne: Works in the trailer park, so of course it would work in Olympus. It figures Hera would never turn Zeus into a tree or a bear or something. Me personally? I would have turned Him into a storm drain at the dog park.

Europa: You know what makes matters worse? We are still satellites around Him! Talk about humiliation.

Anne: I know. Damn. Then again, Europa, you have a continent named after you. The rest of you are zodiac signs and constellations and stuff too, right? And the only thing I know named Zeus is a Great Dane with prodigious bowels.

Callisto: Anne. Please tell us it gets better!

Anne: Honestly, I had high hopes for this country for awhile, but it's sliding backwards into darkness faster than I ever thought it would. But I'm determined to live to see AOC elected president.

Callisto: Who is AOC?

Anne: Is Zeus lurking?

Io: He's in Vegas.

[Anne shows her guests a photograph of Alexandria Ocacio Cortez.]

All: Ohhhhhhh!

Ganymede: If Zeus gets a look at her, he'll turn her into some kind of creature...

Anne: Ha! I doubt it. She already deals with Fox News. Zeus will be no match. Anyone want a scone?

Morons At Play

What can I say? It was a sunny day, and I had a few hours to spare while my daughter The Heir and her s.o. went canoeing. That's how I found myself on Main Street in Haterville in time to watch a Revolutionary War re-enactment.

 What was I thinking?

EXHIBIT A: BOYS AND BIGGER BOYS



The gaggle of colonials in the street had a cannon that they fired with reckless abandon at a small aggregate of Redcoats advancing on them. Lots of noise. But just like in Star Wars, no matter how much the two sides shot at each other, no one fell down.

I honestly wouldn't mind battle re-enactments if they were really authentic, as in people paying a good couple hundred bucks for movie-quality gaping wounds, which they would claw at in futility as they screamed for their mothers. Another compelling element always missing is the panic in the populace. There were lots of women standing around in colonial attire, just watching. Whereas, to be authentic, they should have been screaming and running, their few possessions or a child clutched in their arms.

All this is my way of saying there's nothing historical about re-enactments. They are a more expensive form of LARP with different rules and no dragons.

But, to make matters worse, this particular "skirmish" had a new loathsome attraction.

EXHIBIT B: UGLIEST "GODS ARE BORED" PHOTO SINCE THE END OF THE CHRIS CHRISTIE ERA

So they had a guy re-enacting an Iroquois Indian. He was on the British side.

See, if I didn't write this blog, I would have just uttered a few select expletives and walked away. But I wanted to get the reporting done, so I could bring this travesty to y'all.

This person said he has no Iroquois ancestry, he dresses like this "for the history." I asked what his gear cost, and he said around $1,000. I asked him about the red paint, and he said it's what the Iroquois wore into battle, so they could wash up afterwards and go about blithely, like blend in with the populace.

I couldn't resist. I have such a smart mouth. I said, "Well, you're lucky to be in a brand of entertainment that is more accepted than mine. I'm a Mummer, and if we came out looking like this, we would be fried on a spit." And I walked away.

Mind you, I know the difference between a battle re-enactment and a Mummers parade. In one, grown men dress up in weird costumes and make a lot of noise. In the other, grown men dress up in weird costumes and are silent.

The way I carry on with every deity from every kind of pantheon, both Old World and New World, you would think I would be okay with cultural appropriation. But for a Caucasian man to dress up like this, "for the history" or otherwise, is disrespectful beyond the pale.

I've never liked watching people shoot at each other. I think it shows bad taste. It minimizes the suffering that wars inflict upon an entire populace and the ecosystem as well. I doubt that you see many of them done in Syria or Afghanistan these days.

Well! Enough of the sermon! I know you need to have your palate cleansed, so feast your eyes on this short video clip of my Mummers club, the Two Street Stompers, covering the same material a few years back.

Palate cleanser found here.

Another Milestone Birthday

Hard on the heels of Walt Whitman's birthday comes that of my daughter The Heir. This is a milestone for her as well, but she doesn't want to talk about the number, and neither do I.

The Heir has a style all her own. It's definitely out there somewhere in the ether.

EXHIBIT A: CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK

My family is definitely "grab a costume and ride." The Heir has the most flair in this regard.

EXHIBIT B: THE APPLE DOESN'T FALL FAR

I remember once, on Halloween, Heir went out dressed as a drag queen. That's a girl dressing up like a guy dressing up like a girl.

It's such a cliche, the idea that the moment you hold your baby in your arms, you become smitten and the Earth quakes. That certainly doesn't happen for everyone, and I would be the last to suggest it ought to be this way. Speaking only for me, it was. When the nurse handed me The Heir, the ground moved under me. I was never the same. Eventually the love I felt for her and her sister pushed me to the Goddesses, because for me, the mother/daughter bond was transcendent.

At a very low moment in my life, the Heir had occasion to read me the riot act. The fact that I had angered her altered my behavior completely. I changed overnight. That's the power a loving child can have over you: that you're willing to be your best self to make them happy, even if that takes a hell of a lot of work.

The Heir got a bachelor's degree from a 4-year liberal arts college, where the deans assured her she would be employable once she clutched the sheepskin to her bosom. Well, she does work ... and five days (sometimes six) a week, too. The jobs she has require that sheepskin. But they don't pay well, and they don't provide benefits. Her college loans hang over her, not enough to color her world, but enough to feel the flecks of pigment when she wants to be part of the purchasing economy,

I've got to hand it to her, though. She had a good season at Penn Christmas this year, snagging (among other goodies) a lifetime supply of freezer bags.

EXHIBIT C: HEART OF BRIGHTNESS

In so many ways she has surpassed me. Almost every Sunday she goes into Kensington, which is the worst drug neighborhood in the Mid-Atlantic, and she hands out clean needles, first aid supplies, and food to the addicts living there. She is part of a group. I worry for her, but I'm also proud of her. She cares about her world and the people in it.

So, here's to The Heir! May she rock on and on and on! I love her beyond words.

Bicentennial Birthday

Two hundred years ago today, a son was born to a struggling carpenter living on Long Island. The oldest child in a large family, he was sent to work at an early age in a printing shop. But he longed to write, so he pursued a career in journalism, wandering here and there, keeping his observations in little notebooks he stored in his pockets or travel bag. He wrote about everything and anything: spiders, grass, slavery, working people, ferryboats, the beach, the Gods, the jealous God, the spirit, the soul, the passion of lovers, science, family, politics, war, and this country, America. Eventually he turned all these observations into poetry. And then he became our national poet.

This is the bridge that bears his name today. He would be flabbergasted.

When I despair about this country, when I think it cannot get any worse, I remember that he saw worse. He worked in an Army hospital during the Civil War. He wrote about it, too. And yet he kept his optimism about America, about love, about the soul, and about the body and its place in the world.

I feel his spirit in Camden, the city where he chose to be buried. I stopped to see his tomb today, and it was open.

His work is timeless. If you want to see its latest iteration, try this. It's amazing.

Happy birthday, Walt Whitman! Prop us up here! Keep America singing -- its varied carols, for all of us.


"Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness,

All seems beautiful to me."

--Walt Whitman, "Song of the Open Road"

Helen Dishaw Is Living My Dream

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your highway to hilarity in a world of woe! I'm Anne Johnson, denizen of this nuthouse garden, and you're very welcome to stop on by. Just don't stain the furniture. I'm very picky about my upholstery.

My regular visitors will recall that, last month, I took a real, live vacation to Salt Lake City to meet a fabulous condor named Andy who lives in a posh aviary there. But I was also keenly interested in meeting Andy's friend, Helen.

This is Helen with the aviary's black vulture, Chewie.

Helen is the reason Andy has become an international celebribirdy. Before she arrived in his life, he lived in a cave-like enclosure by himself (his sister died of cancer). Helen coaxed Andy out, and now he takes a daily stroll with her, in order to meet eccentric buzzard-lovers such as myself.

Helen has trained other birds in the aviary as well -- you should see Chewie with her. A vulture acting like a puppy! She and her crew also have shows featuring spoonbills, toucans, hawks, a turkey vulture, and an owl. 

The most impressive of Helen's accomplishments is that the birds in her care all seem so happy. Can birds be happy? If you have to ask, you've never had a meaningful relationship with a bird.

Someone at the aviary told me that Helen takes birds home with her when she is trying to bond with them. I'm sure she didn't do that with Andy, but he positively dotes on her. She coaxed him out for his birthday even though he had to go past some bright, flapping fabric and lots and lots of people. She calmly said, "You've got this, Andy." And he did.

Lots of people ask Helen how she got her job, and she demurs. She's not a university-trained bird person. Like so many folks who are really, really good at what they do, she's just been able to put her dreams into reality. She is very motivated.

As would I be, if every day began with a jovial stroll, just me and my Andean condor.

Helen's job isn't stress-free. Birds are touchy, and they can bite, so she needs to be vigilant without seeming so. She was pretty tense on Andy's birthday, because the aviary was so crowded. But all in all, she's clearly loving her work. I don't think I could prevail upon her to switch careers with me.

Imagine getting up every day to go see a veritable aviary full of cheery birds, who you will walk with, talk about, and perform with for people of all ages! No profession is a total bowl of cherries, but I'll bet working with Andy is at least a bowl of craisins.

All hail Helen, the lovely bird-whisperer of Salt Lake City! Helen is living my dream.

Geezer Wasteland

So I was driving to work one pre-dawn morning, and I heard an advertisement on the radio for a Who concert at Citizens Bank Park in Philly. "Whoa, that might be fun," I thought. Mind you, I had not had my morning caffeine at the time.

But even after the caffeine was restoring my neural tissues, the idea persisted that a Who concert might be a fun Saturday evening, especially in a ballpark where you could count on some affordable tickets. I asked The Fair if she wanted to go, she said yes, and I flung some ducats at a pair of seats in the nosebleed region of the structure.

The Who has always been my favorite rock band -- with apologies to Bruce Springsteen, who I also adore. I just go back farther with The Who.

EXHIBIT A: THE WHO 1970

As I plunked down $45 for two seats, I fondly recalled such seminal Who lyrics as "Hope I die before I grow old" and "We won't get fooled again." Classic anthems of rebellious youth, those.

With the Fair's schedule being what it is, inevitably she baled on the invite. This left me with two tickets to see The Who and only one person who wanted to go. I turned to poor Mr. J, who firmly feels that ballparks should be used to play ball -- but that hard-working wives need to be humored sometimes. He agreed to tag along.

Do you believe in magick? Sometimes it's hard to be skeptical.

The Fair came over for Concert Day even though she couldn't stay until evening. We went to the thrift store. Mr. J went too, and there he found, among the men's clothing, a t-shirt that said "Pinball Wizard." Never before has there been anything remotely Who-related in that store, because I would have bought it. This seemed like just the omen I needed to strengthen my resolve to actually attend the event.

Evening fell, and Mr. J was snoozing on the couch while I, pencil in hand, assayed the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. Before we knew it, the clock said 8:00 and we hadn't even printed out the tickets. More reason to bag. But we persisted, because hey ... I remember the 1970s ... there's always a warm-up band, and the main attraction doesn't even take the stage until 10:00, and they play three encores. Plenty of time to get to The Who portion of the show.

We took the train into Philly and changed onto SEPTA. It was now 9:15. We waited awhile for the south-bound train, idly watching the rats scurry along the tracks.

By the time we got to the ballpark, it was 9:45. The ticket-taker said, "You're kind of late." (I guess so, no one else was ticketing in.) The Who had been performing since 9:00. Can you imagine, fellow people-of-a-certain-age?

Well, we entered at the concourse level and couldn't even find a ramp to ascend to the rafters. And at about that moment, the place rocked up with "Join Together." Being who I am, I just started dancing on the concourse. The fact that I was the only one dancing did not daunt me. Mr. J suggested that we just stay on the concourse and not even try to find our seats.

And after some trial and error, we found ourselves standing just behind a rail with a decent (albeit remote) view of the stage and a better view of the jumbo-tron.

It was at first bittersweet and even humorous, because to hear these two men sing "We won't get fooled again" is a great relief. Getting fooled again at their age would be humiliating, don't you think?

EXHIBIT B: THE WHO 2019

When I bought the tickets and saw the price range, I thought to myself, "The only way I would buy some of these high-end tix are if the entire evening was 'Quadrophenia' from end to end."

 It was "Quadrophenia" that bonded me to The Who back in the day. I was an angry teenager, living with a mentally ill, abusive mother in a dead-end small town. I got bullied in school and at home, and much of the responsibility for managing day to day household tasks fell upon me, along with my school work. Someone actually gave me my first copy of "Quadrophenia" (released in 1973). I wore that one out and bought another. The rage in that album, the sense of loneliness and isolation, parental disapproval and the solace of nature just spoke to my alienated soul. I'll bet I've listed to "Quadrophenia" over 500 times, if you count all the years I used it to exercise to as well. I know most of the lyrics, more or less, adjusting for accents and colloquialisms.

Back to the narrative: Mr. J and I had missed fully 45 minutes of the show. But what we didn't miss was a 30-minute run exclusively of songs from "Quadrophenia." Daltrey and Townsend tucked into this challenge the moment I got a place at the rail.

Reader (if you've even gotten this far in this opus), I stood there and cried. And of course, sang along.

Mr. J had never heard "Quadrophenia." Neither, apparently, had the drunken millennial Sad Boys sitting in the high end seats in front of the rail. But deeper down in the crowd, other people my age were as passionate as me.

Sometimes when I describe my childhood, people ask how I came out of it without being badly bent myself. Well, I do have scars that have affected my life, and make no mistake about it. But I credit The Who, and most especially "Quadrophenia," for keeping me sane when the world was burning down around me. I wasn't angry and alienated alone. It made all the difference.

So it was very, very special to re-visit "Quadrophenia" live in the open air, on a beautiful night in Philly, surrounded mostly by people my own age or older. It was like, "You know what? I survived, by all the Gods, and this is what saved me."

The "Quadrophenia" segment was so lengthy that after it ended, there was only time for one more song: "Teenage Wasteland." Which Townsend and Daltrey sang without a hint of irony. (They must laugh some other time, offstage.) Then they said goodnight, thanks for coming, Philly.

I turned to Mr. J and said, "They will play an encore." This is what happens at rock concerts.

They didn't. The entire light bank of Citizens Bank Park came roaring to life, and 28,000 gray Boomers and 2,000 bleary-eyed Sad Boys headed for the exits.

Bruce Springsteen has aged gracefully, turning his rocking tunes into mournful, slow ballads that he croons over a minimalist acoustic guitar. And I have to say there's something noble about that. It's easy to mock The Who for belting out their teenage angst anthems with all the theatrical moves and blasting drums of yesteryear. But you know what? It never hurts to switch off the internal clock for an evening and re-immerse yourself in your teenage experiences. And how illuminating it is to see them brought to you by someone who looks as world-weary as you feel yourself. Damn. We survived, and we won't get fooled again!

EXHIBIT C: GEEZER WASTELAND, ONLY GEEZER WASTELAND

We're all wasted!

Cat Blogging Keeps Me Sane

Now there's an innovative blog post title, don't you think???

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that so many state legislatures have so many white men who can make laws that literally rob people of their essential bodily freedom. But pish tosh! What, me worry? Not when there are cats, cats, and more cats!

On Sunday morning I went to see my daughter The Fair. She lives in Philadelphia in a nice little row house with several roommates. And four cats.

EXHIBIT A: HOW THE FAIR SEES HERSELF

Like me, she is painfully aware that the only way to survive the Trump onslaught is to be surrounded by cats.

A few months ago, Fair adopted her first stand-alone cat. Her cat's name is Bijoux, and she is a pretty little thing! She's very tiny. And quite friendly. Even though Bijoux hardly knows me, she greeted me warmly.

EXHIBIT B: BIJOUX

Bijoux has a housemate named Fitz. Truth be told, I dig Fitz. He's very chill, a real bro, and also friendly to everyone. He and Bijoux exist in a kind of suspended warfare ... you know how cats are.

EXHIBIT C: FITZ

But the cats who really pull on my heartstrings at The Fair's residence are The Boys. Their names are X and XXX (I mean, who knows?), but we call them Rollo and Don Gato. These two rounders are what you would call neighborhood moochers. And it's their fault they don't have a cushy indoor gig, because The Fair tried bringing them indoors, and they went absolutely nuts. Their ears are snipped, which means they've been neutered by someone. For awhile, Rollo had on a collar with a little tag that said "Adopt Me." But he must have ditched it, because he just is an outdoor kinda guy.

Don Gato has one fang, which I guess is why he's so thin. It's painful to watch him eat. But he's one of those vocal fellows who will sing you an aria. I like that in a feline.

EXHIBIT D: THE BOYS

These two sure don't look like they've got a tough life, do they?

As it turns out, Fair was propping them up pretty good for awhile, but she discovered they have a feeding station in the neighborhood. I guess this is why they don't want to make the leap to rowhouse living. But when they hear Fair in her yard, they come strolling in, looking for a hand-out. She can pet them, but they were wary of me.

It's nice to see my Fair surrounded with cats. Somehow they seem like a bulwark against all the madness raining from the sky. There are Goddesses aplenty who look out for cat-lovers, and I can only hope that one or many of those deities are protecting my Fair.

To conclude this sermon, I would like to say farewell to Grumpy Cat. May she have found the Summer Lands. I won't miss her, because she will live forever in meme land.

FINAL EXHIBIT: GRUMPY'S LAST MEME

Thank Goddess for cats!

Smoke Screens

In my favorite movie, Matewan, by John Sayles, striking miners confront union organizer Joe Kinnehan about being a conscientious objector during World War I. The miners can't understand why Joe, an able-bodied man, would rather be in jail than fighting for his country.

Joe had an easy answer: "It was just workers murdering workers."

In these days of technology and unbridled ownership, it's oh-so-easy to pit workers against workers.

Mind you, I am absolutely appalled by these draconian abortion laws being passed by state legislatures. And I am sure the lawmakers are looking with hopeful eyes to the Supreme Court to remove a woman's right to the autonomy of her own body.

But that's not why those conservative justices are sitting there. Sure, they may overturn Roe. But abortion is a "worker vs. worker" issue.

The Supreme Court was carefully constituted by men who serve the needs of the wealthiest members of the global elite. While the spotlight is on abortion, this court has ruled against class action lawsuits and has overturned a decision that required people who were receiving the benefits of a union to pay a fair share fee for those benefits. This is the court that gave us Citizens United. Remember, the Constitution was written by wealthy aristocrats, so it's not a particularly difficult reach for "originalists" to look out for the interests of the few at the expense of the many.

The people in the highest levels of our government are doing the bidding of the moneyed elites. Abortion is a smokescreen issue that allows Congress and the courts (and, needless to say, the president) to undermine our democracy and make us all weaker, poorer, and powerless.

If I have to open my home to out-of-state women seeking health care in my state, I will do it, because it's worker helping worker. But that won't make me feel any more capable of shaping the laws of this land in a way that favors working people.

Oh, and by the way. The moneyed elite don't care about climate change, either. It won't affect them, except to undermine their profit margins if people begin to care about it.

Worker! Stop fighting other workers! Fight the owners. Forget the unborn, let's make this nation safe, equitable, and fair for everyone.

When Good Luck Looks Like New Jersey

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Did you see that the U.S., Russia, and China are squabbling over the new shipping lanes opened up in the Arctic Sea? Well, they had better tread lightly, because Sedna has gotten wind of it, and She is pissed to the plimsol line. I personally hope She smites the politicians first and the ship captains second, but I don't particularly care what order She chooses. Transporting crude oil across seas that are thawed because of the burning of crude oil is just ... oh, for the love of fruit flies. How bad can it get?

You go, Goddess! Feed them all to the polar bears!

Well, that first little bit is not my main sermon of the day. I just read about it on page 10 in the New York Times and thought it was a new low, even for the Orange Menace and his minions.

My sermon is about appreciating the great good luck I have had to live in the post-industrial-apocalyptic-and-climate-change-inducing state of New Jersey.

Last fall I took yet another foray to an event called FaerieCon, hoping I would like it better this time. I didn't. There was even a notable Pagan speaker there, and I attended her workshop, but the whole thing still smelled like Teen Spirit to me.

Anyway, I was sitting in the Pagan workshop, thinking to myself, "Can there be any less hospitable place for a Pagan workshop than a conference room in a Marriott?" when the woman next to me turned to me and said, "Oh, isn't this wonderful? I drove all the way from Ohio to attend this! I'm so happy! No one where I live understands me at all."

Imagine that. I had driven a whopping 100 miles to the event. I even resented that distance. Imagine needing to drive several hundred miles just to lay eyes on a group of Pagans! I'm sure I would throw up my hands and return to the Christian fold, grumbling all the way. Okay well, maybe not.

My point is that over this past weekend, I got together with a few dozen crazy faerie-loving Spoutwood people, and wowsa, we meshed well!

How well, you ask?

Try this: Instead of looking at me sideways when they heard I had flown to Salt Lake City to meet an Andean Condor in an aviary, they all wanted to see pictures!

Speaking of pictures, here I am with my party program and #1 Andy Fan party hat on the day of!

Yes, the sun shone bright on Salt Lake City that day.

What I'm telling myself is this: I grew up in the mountains and miss them every day. But where I live now gives me wonderful opportunities to find people who won't judge me harshly. Yes indeed, I have heard many a comment in the vein of, "Why the hell would you fly all that way just to see a bird?" But not from my friends. Not. From. My. Friends.

I have found the mother lode of eccentric people, all well within driving distance ... and for that I thank all the Gods and Goddesses of multiple pantheons, known and forgotten by history.

If you're that poor gal from Ohio, have faith! It took me a long time to wind my way to the weird. Keep at it. The race is to the steady, not the swift.

Artwork by the incomparable Thalia Took.

Charming Chain of Command

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and today just call me Miss Bliss! Here I have just returned from one swell getaway, and I'm fixing to take another tomorrow! Wowsa.

So today I'm going to share a series of posts by author Chas Clifton. It has been a few months since he contacted me about a problem with pesky pixies. What I loved about the subsequent correspondence was that, when I couldn't help him, I suggested walking his issues up the chain of command to a more experienced practitioner, and then he sought the advice of yet another expert we both know, and between all of us, a plan was crafted.

This is what I love about the Pagan community. It's still so small that one can easily meet or correspond with published authors in many paths. I have never found any of these authors to be anything but kindly and helpful.

You can find Chas's pixie adventure here.

It's a short read, and it sure gave me the happy feels!

Novice and Nope Ropes

Did you know the Internet calls snakes "nope ropes?" I love that. I wish I had thought of it.

Springtime is a busy season for nope ropes. They're just waking up, and it's still cold at night, so what they chiefly want is to sun themselves on rocks. Often they haven't eaten in a whole season, which makes them extra venomous too. This is not good news if you're a human.

I went to Utah to meet a condor, but I wasn't going to sit around staring at him for five days. In a search for other fun activities near Salt Lake City -- outdoor only, no temple tours -- I discovered a hike to a hot spring.

Hot spring! That's been a bucket list item for me lo, these many decades!

There were several glitches, however:

1. Mr. J has never gone hiking, even in the benign Pine Barrens of New Jersey. He's a water person. Give him a rowboat and an oar, and he's all set. But hiking? Hasn't done it.

2. Nope ropes. Abundant nope ropes of the rattling variety have been documented on the trail I wanted to take. There's a particularly compelling YouTube of a cluster of rattling nope ropes right next to the hot spring. And it's the season when these creatures come out needing a little bath to keep them in tip-top shape.

3. Speaking of shape, I'm out of it. And the trail was ranked "moderate." I had no idea what that meant in Utah. In Pennsylvania it generally means steep and rocky.

But never mind the concerns! It's not like the hot spring was going to hike down to see me! Mr. J bought a pair of hiking shoes, and bright and early on a sunny morning, we set out for Diamond Fork (Fifth Water) Hot Springs.

The first thing I discovered is that Mr. J sets a nice pace for hiking. I'm used to watching my daughters disappear into the far distance, but I kept up nicely with him. The trail was pleasantly Poconos-like, meaning steep and rocky but not what Utah can throw at a hiker. The scenery was outstanding, and the creeks were muddy torrents of snow-melt.

It was a long slog, but we made it to Diamond Fork. And there it was, a real hot spring, bubbling up from creek-side, scalding and smelling of the sulfurous bowels of the earth!

The hot water flows into a series of man-made "tubs" where you can sit and soak. It's like the Three Bears: one tub is too hot, one tub is too cold, and one tub is just right. Actually, the high water in the creek meant that the tubs weren't their signature deep blue color (the creek was overflowing into them), but they also didn't reek quite as much as they would most days.

Right above the tubs there was a Poconos-grade waterfall too! Added to my collection!

There's something about waterfalls. They always bring out the bliss.

Now, here's a sad fact for you striplings: A time comes when it's harder to hike downhill than it is to hike uphill. Gravity might be helpful to the heart, but it's a bitch for the knees. Nevertheless, Mr. J and I (after a good long soak) limped back down the trail to our car. Round trip it was five miles. My knees felt every damn rock, but Mr. J -- a complete novice -- handled it with nary a complaint.

As for the nope ropes, we didn't see any. There were many other hikers on the trail and in the tubs, and one guy said he saw two, but not the rattling variety. Nor were there any insects except butterflies! Even as I write this there are mosquitoes humming around New Jersey.

The scenery, like the hot springs, was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I haven't gotten around much. I had my own piece of mountain for the longest time, and I spent much of my life there. These Utah mountains, though ... they made my mountain look like a lil' old knoll.

If not for Andy N. Condor, I never would have known about Diamond Fork (Fifth Water) Hot Springs. Never let it be said that buzzards won't do you a good turn.

A Sacred Thunderbird Navel Gaze

For a long time I have talked the talk. But last week I walked the walk. I, Anne Johnson, flew in a plane to Salt Lake City to meet a Sacred Thunderbird named Andy N. Condor.

They say you're not supposed to cross the country to meet someone you've just known online. Well, that certainly holds true for humans, but condors ... totally different story.

Andy N. Condor lives at Tracy Aviary. He is frequently online, where he performs essential ministry on the subject of vultures and their importance to the life of the Earth. I first started seeing his posts about two years ago. Then I found out that he and I both turned 60 this spring.

So I went to see him.

The very patient and understanding Mr. J and I arrived at Tracy Aviary at 9:00 on the dot for our tour. O blessed Sacred Thunderbird! Andy knew I was coming, so I got to take a special private walk with him and pose for photographs. It was a transcendent moment, dear reader.

What a magnificent specimen! I tried to contain my praise and worship so I wouldn't get tossed out. It was hard. Several times I had to ask myself why I put on makeup.

I took this photo myself. We had quite a stroll. I got to talk to Andy's best friend, a lovely Bird Whisperer named Helen, and she told me everything about him that I didn't already know. Which took about 25 seconds.

After my walk and chat with Andy, I perused the rest of the birdies at Tracy Aviary, and then Mr. J and I drove out to Park City. This was just Day One of our sojourn, so stay tuned for further missives about the adventure.

Before signing off, though, I'll have to say that I don't travel much. I hadn't flown in a plane since 2000. I haven't taken a summer off since 2015, and I've never gone anywhere on Spring Break. This brief jaunt made up for some lost time. Those of you who've known me awhile might well imagine what it meant to me to get this up-close and personal with a Sacred Thunderbird.

More soon! I'm not finished with this vulture!

Making a Pact

I am about to make a pact with an Andean condor who lives in an aviary.

He was hatched in the spring of 1959 and is celebrating a 60th birthday on Saturday.

They say he's in excellent health and could perhaps shatter records for his species in captivity.

Therefore, with a wink and a nod, I will enter into an agreement to see him again in 2029.

I have been in touch with the aviary, and they are awarding me a private audience with the dapper fellow. After our tete-a-tete, I will be spending the day doing volunteer work to help the staff prepare for the big birthday bash on Saturday.

I'm dragging poor Mr. J along, but after all this time he's well accustomed to my eccentricities.

Dear readers, I will report back when I return.

--Anne

Projects Completed and Occupied

The new luxury homes across the street are completed, upgraded, and occupied.

Behind Door Number One is a family of four: parents and children aged 3 and 1.5. The children don't understand the concept of "street." They run blithely where they please. Basically sucking entitlement from the breasts of their svelte mama, I guess.

Behind Door Number Two is a family of six: parents and children, the oldest of which is about 7. Double stroller often left on the double driveway beside the identical SUVs (well, one is gray and the other is white).

Family behind DN2 also has a dog, although my cat Gamma is about three times larger than said canine. This animal is one of those yappy pedigrees (Pom, maybe, but smaller). It makes some noise.

To say I have rolled out the red carpet of welcome to these families would be a misstatement of Trumpian proportions. I have offered a modest handshake. When the mother of the brood behind DN2 said, "I suppose you must have heard my noisy children," I didn't say, "What? Your little darlings, noisy? Why, I adore kids!" Nah. I just gave a thin grin and said, "I've lived here since 1987, and I've never seen so many children on this block."

SsssssSSSSSSSSsssssss. Petty, Anne. Very petty. Actually I don't mind the kids as much as the teacup pooch.

The one thing I have noticed that these two households have in common is this: Both dads look tired. They are prematurely gray, and they don't smile. Whenever I see them, they look grim.

Both sets of parents in both luxury homes are attorneys. That's all I know, and all I care to know.

I miss the trees.