Internet Influencer

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," an old-school communication on an old-school platform! I'm your has-been host, Anne Johnson.

This technology we live with just morphs overnight, doesn't it? One day Blogger is the new, hip thing. The next day it's in the rearview mirror.

I say this because I have a colleague who started writing poetry two years ago and then decided to publish a book. I'm afraid I didn't encourage her much, because after all, Mr. J wrote two books, both with major publishing houses, and neither one earned back its advance.

But some people don't need encouragement.  (You probably know the type.) My friend got herself fired up on Instagram with her poems all done up spiffy in their own page, and then she went on Tik Tok, and before you know it she's making a profit on her self-published books. She just released her third.

Okay, okay, I'm a bit jealous. But jealousy is perfectly fine! Lots of deities are known for it, and if it's good enough for a deity *cough Yahweh* it's good enough for me.

I hate being outdone this way! I've been writing "The Gods Are Bored" for 16 years, and I can't even get it considered by a damn museum! Life is so unfair!

Then I got to thinking ... how hard could it actually be to become an Internet influencer?

I started looking into this dodge, and I learned quickly that Internet Influencers are by and large:

*good-looking

*relentless

*undaunted

This was discouraging. I needed look no farther than the first criterion to know I don't have a shot at this whole Influencer thing.

But waaah waaaah waaah! I want it!

So I looked about me, and my eyes fell on Gamma, who though past his prime, is a handsome feline.

EXHIBIT A: GAMMA

Now there's some serious sex appeal! This cat can influence a can of meaty food out of me every morning, so he has potential.

The next step was to position Gamma. I found a Facebook page called "Disapproving Cats," and I began posting photos of him, asking for people to post their cats to show me.

It's that easy. Gamma (re-named Big Red because that page already has an influential cat named Big Frank) has gotten 450 likes on his third photo and is up to 125 on a picture I posted yesterday!

I figure it's only three or four weeks before I'll be able to self-publish The Gods Are Bored Greatest Hits and sell 6,000 copies.

First Day of School, April 22, 2021

 What a wacky week! September behavior in April! And I'm not talking about the weather.

This past week marks the first time I have had students physically in my classroom for over a year. I have been trying to teach them over the Internet since last fall, and it's been a challenge.

But I guess I won them over, because they seemed so happy to see me in the flesh! Was I an influencer somehow? And wowsa, did I entertain them when they sat down in their desks! I did Mummers strut. I did happy dances. I squealed. I wiped fake tears. When the wind caused the cheap windows to vibrate, I told them it was a nest of murder hornets, sit very still. Oh I was in rare form!

Only about half of my students have returned, and the rest are still online. So I am teaching in a mask, online and in person simultaneously. It's like having a litter of kittens to foster. Soon as you pay attention to one, another one wanders off to walk in fresh paint.

Perfect time for poetry, don't you think? I compiled 40 poems, mostly by writers of color, to do a poetry unit. I call it "Poetry Playoffs" and use brackets like the NCAA to find the class favorite poem.

When freshmen arrive at high school, we teachers get what we call a "honeymoon." They are timid and well-behaved and eager to please. This phase usually lasts about six weeks.

Well, there are only six weeks left in the school year, and the past two days I got small classes of honeymooning freshmen, sitting quiet and attentive (and laughing at me).

It's wonderful to finally have students back in class. Wonderful. The only reason anyone would do this grueling job is the chance to be around young people. And what terrific students I have! Great kids. Their lives matter.

P.S. - I've been doing an SAT prep class online since September, and I gave those students an "out" by asking them if they think they're good to go. Darn if those lil pups didn't say they want to keep doing SAT prep because they like getting together with me. Four kids, opting to do SAT prep! Give me a damn Oscar.

P.P.S. - I saw a bald eagle fly over the school three times this week. This afternoon it lingered long enough for me to be absolutely positive what I was looking at. I don't see it as an omen, just an incredibly uplifting sight.

Short Takes

Hi there, Gods Are Bored fans! Did you miss me? I missed y'all, but I don't want to bore you with more missives about quarantine. I've kind of waited for some little bits to accumulate before tucking them all into a post. So here goes:

1. No visits from bored deities for awhile. However, I just brewed an ugly-looking concoction using magnolia petals, and it might bring a few Ancient Ones out of the woodwork if I have the nerve to try it. Stay tuned.

2. Long-timers here will remember how I anonymously supply plastic dinosaurs to an otherwise boring dinosaur-related site in Haterfield. Well, I haven't done it for a whole year. I figured no one should be touching shared toy dinosaurs. Last week I went to the site for the first time since February 2020. This is what I found.

EXHIBIT A, BELIEVE IN MAGIC

Not one of those dinosaurs came from me! Not one! In fact, I didn't even leave any new ones.

3. My amaryllis, Plantzilla, bloomed magnificently, producing 8 flowers. Take that, Philadelphia Flower Show!

4. Monday I go back to work on site at the Vo-Tech. Some students will be returning to my classroom on April 22. If the case counts aren't lower in New Jersey by that time, it won't be pretty. Oh, and the state of New Jersey has decreed that schools will not be allowed to use room fans for the rest of the year. This decision was made without any state official visiting my classroom to discern that it becomes an Easy-Bake Oven from May 15 on.

5. I got my second shot, and wowsa. Had a tough 24 hours. But now I'm done with that.

6. Gamma the cat trended briefly on Facebook when I posted a photo of him to a page called Disapproving Cats.

7. There are now 7 children and 4 adults living across the street from me. The oldest child is 10 at most. Parents seem to think it's no longer important to teach kids to look both ways when they try to cross the street. Stay tuned.

Yours in the Haterfield trenches,

Anne

Pandemic Anniversary

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," looking back on a year of living minimally! I'm the inmate, Anne Johnson, number 031159. Today, on this anniversary of the first lockdowns, I will look back briefly on what my year has been like.

New Jersey locked up on March 15, I think. At least I know that Friday, March 13, 2020 was my last day with students in my classroom.

The quarantine was supposed to stop the spread of Covid-19, so we all thought it would last two weeks, at which time we would all reconvene at school. I gave my students paper assignments. Imagine that!

But between March 13 and March 30, all Hell broke loose in this country, and the Hellhounds have not even been collared even now.

I live with an obese senior citizen with breathing problems. This was terrifying from the get-go. Mr. J had already been hospitalized with pneumonia in the final days of December, 2019. In hindsight this was probably good, because he took the virus very seriously and was happy to comply with the quarantines and mask mandates.

In those first weeks I only ventured from home every 14 days to buy food. I spent $500 at the grocery store more than once, and used two carts more than once. And nothing went to waste. We were preparing and eating three meals a day, seven days a week. And lots of home-baked cookies (when I could get ingredients), because what else was there to do but bake cookies?

So in the spring I sat in online classrooms, fruitlessly waiting for students to turn in assignments. I cooked. I stayed home, home, home. I did not see my daughters, except to briefly drop off lilacs to The Fair on her birthday.

In May The Fair came with her cat and stayed with us 8 weeks. Tensions had gone through the roof in her rental. It was great having her around, and healthier for her to be out of the city. She worked from our house. Her cat is adorable.

In July The Heir came for a long weekend and wound up staying 10 days. During both daughter visits we observed social distancing and masks until a week passed without any symptoms. During the time The Heir spent with us, she purchased the most wonderful car, her first. It's a low mileage 1994 Ford Escort station wagon, refreshingly free of the bewildering computerization found in today's machines.

At the end of August I had the Monkey Man over for a porch supper. He was the last visitor of 2020.

When fall came I returned to school but taught my students online. I have not gazed upon my students' faces even now. Going back to the building meant that I could no longer see my daughters. The fall was long and dreary, and I increasingly felt unsafe at school. When I saw a security guard who I knew to be a Trump supporter wearing his mask wrong right outside my classroom, I got a doctor's note and stayed home.

Thanksgiving, it was just Mr. J and me. The family Christmas celebration consisted of the four of us gathering on The Heir's front porch for a short chat and gift exchange. No Mummer's Parade on New Year's Day.

When the cases started spiking after the holidays, Mr. J and I went into strict lockdown again. More big hauls of groceries, more days spent completely indoors. Working at home, staying home, watching the Capitol attack on t.v. and the briefings from Governor Murphy on Facebook.

It is now March, and we have been in our bubble since December. Shortly I will be returning to the classroom with live students again, but many kids are being kept home by wary parents. I don't blame the parents. My students don't even qualify for the vaccine. They are too young.

Mr. J and I got our first shots on February 24.

2020 was a year where I felt that I wasn't me anymore. My exuberance has faded. I look older. I feel like the social parts of my brain have atrophied. Literally, I feel more stupid than I did when this started. I've gained 10 pounds from cookies and being lazy. No festivals, no parades, no drum circles, no Pagan gatherings, no flowers on my grandmother's grave, no travel. Anywhere.

I have become so concerned about my atrophying brain that I did two things to boost it: I took two courses offered by John Beckett that were very helpful. And then, in desperation, I turned to the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, where egos go to die.

If you do something enough, you get good at it.

I hadn't done a cross stitch project in 30 years. I did a whole jacket and a fine display on another. I finished a huge baby quilt.

If you were to ask me what my finest accomplishment was in the whole year of 2020, I might say two things:

*getting a license and registration for The Heir's car -- in New Jersey, in a pandemic, with the notorious DMV.

*This ...

I did this without a chart, only using a photo. I was able to track the artist down and compensate her, which was awesome.

President Biden (long may he reign) says we should all be able to get together with close family and friends by the Fourth of July. So Mr. J and I just plunked down our stimulus on a rental along the Chesapeake Bay for that whole week. Crabs will be consumed. Mosquitoes will be swatted.

Here's to 2021! I can hope for a parade.

In Which I Defend Motherhood as a Profession

 I'm old. I can remember a time and place where the vast majority of women stayed home to care for their families. The women who worked were few and far between, and those who did were either school teachers or secretaries. And a lot of the female school teachers were single.

Television -- all three black-and-white channels -- showed happy homemakers like Donna Reed, dressed to the nines making fragrant meat loaf.

Then came the Women's Movement, which basically said, "Enough with the barefoot and pregnant slavery! We want education, good jobs, and fulfilling careers!"

The oligarchy perked its ears.

So women went into the work force in numbers. They dropped their kids at the child care they could afford by working long hours for less wages than their children's fathers.

Motherhood was looked down on as a form of submission. Which of course it was, considering that stay-at-home women worked long hours for no wages at all.

Just recently, Senator Romney introduced the idea of paying women $350 per month per child (up to a point) to help allay the costs of rearing a human being in our modern society. And the hue and cry against it, once again led by the New York Times, is making me so furious I could dine on penny nails and window panes.

I don't only blame the assholes who are saying that giving women money to stay at home and raise children will encourage them to be lazy. I also hold that early Women's Movement to blame for making motherhood seem like an extraneous duty, instead of the crucial one it is.

Let's address this nonsense.

1. No one who has small children to care for is lazy. Even in these days of video games and 2,000 t.v. channels. Kids need to eat, they need supervision, they need baths, they need stimulation. These are the formative years of a human being's life! And yet moms are paid zero, and day care center workers are paid like they're slinging burgers at Wendy's. Paying people to stay home and perform child care might not result in better-nurtured kids 100 percent of the time. But it would improve American humans exponentially.

2. Motherhood is a sacred profession. Many cultures recognize this. There is no more important job than bonding with and nurturing children. Do we have a Goddess of Cubicle? BAMP! No. But all the enlightened religions have Mother Goddesses. Even Christianity venerates Mary. So why is staying home to raise children looked upon as a life lacking meaning? Because the feminists of the 1960s and 1970s declared it to be that way.

I fully support paying women directly to stay at home with their children. If I was in charge, I would give them a universal basic income of $1500 a month and call it money well spent.

"Well, Anne," the oligarch says, "there are child tax credits."

NOT ENOUGH. (And by the way, oligarch? I'm going to eat you as soon as I finish this column.)

There's a difference between a tax credit and a payment. One is buried in paperwork, the other comes to the door and is tangible.

Women should be paid to do parenting. Or men. I imagine a lot of men would love to stay home with their kids. Parenting should be considered a profession, and a noble one at that.

Notice I'm not saying that parenting should be an obligation. If you want a meaningful career outside the home and still want children, you go girl! That $350 a month will help you pay for excellent child care. If you want a meaningful career and no children, you go girl! One needn't measure meaning entirely through raising kids.

So let's put some weight behind this whole "pay the mom" movement. We would be investing in the very future of the nation. The way things are going now, women work long hours for poverty wages (thanks, oligarchs! Pass the salt.), and then they come home to neglected children. Talk about slavery! Might as well be the damn plantation.

Pay moms to be moms! 

Expendable

 In end stage capitalism, the only lives that are important are the owners. The workers matter not. Someone keel over? Replace the slave and move on.

This is driven home by the push to re-open schools fully, before the real end of the pandemic is in sight. Teachers are expendable. Students are expendable. And with no differentiation between a cluster of kindergartners and big, crowded classes of 15-year-olds, there is bound to be a spike in the virus. A big one.

I read the New York Times every day, and for hours on Sunday. I know the works of all the prominent columnists. It was expected to see David Brooks slam teachers for not wanting to be in school. Not surprising. But when Nicholas Kristof offered his slam a week later, well. I thought he cared about low-paid working people.

Teaching is a profession that has a high percentage of women serving in the basic role of classroom instructor. Most men who enter the profession (including the new Secretary of Education) spend, at most, four years in a classroom while completing their principal certification. The men move up. Most of the long-time classroom teachers are women.

And that means that teachers are expected to martyr themselves for their students.

Don't believe me? Who "saves the day" by getting killed during school shootings? Some poor heroic teacher with a family at home.

Now teachers are being sent back into classrooms prematurely, when the end of the pandemic could otherwise be in sight. I teach high school. This will matter greatly to my students. They are 14 through 16. They and their families will be at risk.

To be fair to my district, they are offering parents the option to keep their kids at home. Those students will go to class virtually, as they have been doing since September. The difference is, teachers will now be instructing in-person classes and online classes simultaneously, while wearing a mask.

The teachers who are already doing this report that it is a massive, overwhelming fail.

My classroom has no air conditioning. In the last 4-5 weeks of school, the temperature can climb to 90 degrees and stay that way. It's global warming in miniature, like a car.

So picture me, Anne Johnson, a teacher of a certain age, working in a stifling hot classroom, in a mask for four hours without a bathroom break. Because that's what I'm looking at, comrades. I have a colleague who will have five hours straight. She's older than I am.

If David Brooks and Nicholas Kristof happened to ring my doorbell right now, I would quickly plug in the cattle prod and give them a good what's for. I never had much respect for Brooks, who is sanctimonious on a good day. But Kristof was one of my favorites. No more. The only way he could redeem himself at this point is to swap jobs with me for the next three months. Then we would see who knows what.

A Year Ago

 Welcome aboard, "Gods Are Bored" mateys! All hands on deck! It's another installment in this vast online diary of mine.

March 1, 2020 was on a Saturday. The sky was completely clear -- that color of blue that you get only in the fall and winter. Temperatures hovered in a comfortable 50s, as I recall.

I remember this clearly for two reasons: One, because it's always memorable when I march with the Two Street Stompers, and two because it was the last social event I would attend in 2020. I just didn't know it at the time.

We were all joking that day about how early the Gloucester City St. Patrick's Day was. Sixteen days before the actual holiday? But we figured it was because they invite so many string bands to perform in that parade. The demand for string bands definitely grows the closer you get to any holiday.

Boy, did I have fun that day! The Gloucester City parade is a good one. The street is pretty narrow, and chock-a-block with revelers on either side. The dancing is universal. And the route is just the right length. Not too long, so we run out of gas, but not so short that we say, "Wait. What? It's over already?"

When we were done parading, there was a big party in a crowded pub, everyone quaffing the spirits, and a double dose of bagpiping in the parking lot. A great time was had by all.

I suppose COVID 19 was on the map by then, but I hadn't started to register much alarm. A week later, that had changed, and I was stacking my house to the plimsol line with every conceivable foodstuff, both perishable and nonperishable. Quarantine did not find me unprepared.

Since then I have been home. Home, home, home.

Here's an interesting fact about this pandemic, here at Johnson Penitentiary.

In an ordinary calendar year, I generally cook two turkeys. One at Thanksgiving, of course, and a frozen one in dead winter -- usually on a snow day.

A whole year has rolled along, and in that year I have cooked four turkeys. Yes, four. And those of you who do it know that's a task.

I cooked the first turkey in April of 2020, because when I took my bi-weekly trip to the grocery store there wasn't any other poultry product except frozen turkeys.

I cooked the second one on Thanksgiving. It was only me and Mr. J.

I cooked the third one for Christmas. It was only me and Mr. J. The turkey in question was one that Mr. J picked up at deep discount right after Thanksgiving.

I cooked the fourth one last week. It was a frozen one I got with a coupon prior to Thanksgiving.

That's four turkey dinners, 12 turkey casseroles, 8 large pots of soup, and a dozen sandwiches. All consumed by just me and Mr. J.

In an ordinary year I would have had four parades instead of four turkeys. I vote for a return to that.

My Awesome, Smithsonian-Worthy Pandemic Experience Getting My First Vaccine

Welcome to the blog that was summarily dismissed by the Smithsonian Institute for who knows why? I'm Anne Johnson (really), and today I'm going to walk through my experience getting my first COVID-19 vaccine! I know this process varies from state to state, so your experience might be different. Up to a point. And then your experience will be exactly the same as mine. We'll get to that.

Step One: I signed up online with the state of New Jersey's official COVID website. I put in all the info, like being a teacher, and a lady of a certain age and weight. I got told I was 1C. Then I heard nothing else.

Step Two: My younger, more computer-savvy colleagues found a county registry. It was through Cooper Hospital system, which I don't use. But I registered anyway, and they gave me a date of March 27. I think they were fast-tracking people already in the Cooper system, because all of my younger, more computer-savvy colleagues got earlier appointments.

Caveat: Your experiences of signing up will vary. I had lots of help.

Step Three: On a Saturday afternoon a month ago, a younger colleague sent another link in a text message. This was through the hospital system I do use. And the vaccine site was closer too! I went through the online registration and got a date of February 24 ... more than a month sooner than the first site where I registered.

Step Four: I fretted and fretted that something had gone wrong with the online registry, because I grew up in the 20th century, and we used telephones and paper.

Step Four: On Vaccination Day, Mr. J and I drove to the vaccination site at Moorestown Mall. (I signed him up the same time as myself. Wasn't that smart?) The gig was set up in the empty Lord & Taylor department store. Enter one door, exit another. We parked and went to the entrance.

Step Five: A member of the National Guard met us at the door, made sure we had an appointment, took our temperatures, squeezed a little hand sanitizer in our palms, and directed us to a clearly-marked line.

Step Six: There were about 25 people ahead of us in line, but the line moved quickly. We were in it about ten minutes. Then we came to another member of the National Guard, who asked us if we were able to come back on March 17. When we said yes, he directed us to the numerous and well-run registration kiosks, all of them manned by the National Guard.

Step Seven: We both signed in with an extremely mannerly and cute National Guardsman (cute even through the mask!). Can you believe it? The magical Internet had indeed saved my applications! A few questions, driver's license, insurance card (optional), sign here and here. We were then directed to clearly-marked vaccination bays, where right next to each other, we

Step Eight: answered questions about how we were feeling, whether or not we had COVID, if we were allergic to ingredients in shots, and had we had any shots in the last two weeks? (I'm pretty sure they weren't talking about whiskey.) This was the only place manned by health care workers not in fatigues. My vaccinator's name was Kelly, and she loved my fairy sweater.

Step Nine: Here is the part that you and I will have in common... I got a shot! Little dab of alcohol, little pierce, band-aid, informed that it was the Pfizer item, told to follow the clearly-marked yellow pavers to the waiting area.

Step Ten: We were directed by another courtly National Guardsman to seats that were six feet apart. We were given a sticky note with 4:35 on it -- the time we could leave. We sat there until that time, and then we were dismissed. We were asked if we wanted to make our next appointment online. OH no. So we were directed through another clearly-marked area where a nice National Guardsman made our next appointment, which is on St. Patrick's Day.

Step Eleven: Out the door, with actual paper cards to bring with us to our next appointment!

The entire process, from going in the door to leaving, took about 45 minutes.

Readers, I am used to the Department of Motor Vehicles and the Camden County justice system, where I go way too often for jury duty. Both of these entities are maddening in their inefficiency. People line up at NJDMV at 5:00 in the morning. I kid you not -- I did it with Heir last summer.

This National Guard dodge was completely different. I never saw anything move more smoothly. I felt like my taxpayer dollars were being well-spent. Additionally, there were lovely motivational posters hanging everywhere, but the signs said not to take any photos.

EXHIBIT A: FACSIMILE OF POSTER AT COVID-19 VACCINATION SITE

Mr. J and I emerged into a seasonably warm late winter afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. 

That was yesterday. Today I feel fine. My arm isn't even as sore as it gets with the seasonal flu shot. I don't have much appetite. That's the only change I see.

It does appear that my school district will be hauling the teenagers back to school very soon. I feel like I'm ready, though. I've done my part.

I have no idea how to cancel my March 27 appointment. 

More Free Advice: Have One? Get One!

 Welcome to the latest installment in "The Gods Are Bored!" Today, more helpful advice from someone who has been around the block so often that there's a groove in the sidewalk.

When I was a kid, I recall that my parents got a new kitchen appliance that they absolutely adored. It was an electric can opener.

The thing was a marvel. The can stuck to a magnet, and when you pushed down on a lever, it rotated and got cut open. There was a whirring sound that the cats learned quite quickly.

This was back in the 1960s, when even small appliances were built to last. If we got the can opener when I was five, we still had it and used it when I left for college.

I don't recall anyone ever cleaning it. My mother's kitchen was a multi-hazard zone.

My second year of college I moved into an apartment, and I got one of these lil babies, probably at Goodwill.

Reader, this gadget is a marvel. It clamps down on a can, and you turn the crank (seen in rear of unit in photo), and the can opens. There is no sound, and you can immerse it in water and wash it after every use.

I won't say these puppies don't wear out. I think I'm on my second one in 40 years.

Caveat: For some reason this will not open Hunts brand cans. The problem is the can, not the opener.

I love my hand-crank can opener! I've never been the slightest bit tempted to purchase an electric one. And until a helpful reader pointed out that one of these is good to have in an electrical outage -- well, I've used it so long that I didn't even think about that!

Short sermon, free advice: If you don't have a hand-crank can opener, pick one up at any store. You'll have more space on your countertop, and in the event of a blackout you'll be able to get those baked beans open in a jiffy.

You know what I love about this blog? One day we'll talk to a Great Goddess, and the next we'll evaluate minor kitchen tools. Anything and everything, that's me.

Buy Bins or Barrels

 Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," natural disaster edition! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, and today (for once) I'm going to be serious.

When the forecasters began to predict Hurricane Sandy in 2012, I did something that caused no end of derision within my household: I emptied all the bins of fairy costumes and Christmas ornaments and school mementos, and I put all the empty bins out in the back yard, topless.

When the storm clouds gathered and the wind picked up, I filled the bathtub and the washing machine to the tip top, and I filled every large pot to the brim with water. I used the hose to fill the bins.

And oh, was I ever disrespected for it! Mr. J and The Fair thought I was being alarmist and ridiculous.

Hurricane Sandy made landfall on Samhain and wiped out power for 8.7 million East Coasters. A cold front came after the storm (really cold). Some people were without power for a month. A colleague of mine lost her whole house to the ravenous waves.

Turns out I didn't need all that water I poured in the bins and pots. But what if I had needed water?

Water is taken for granted in most of America. You turn on the tap, and out it comes. You flush the john, and off goes the waste. You jump in the shower, and voila! Minty fresh!

But what happens if your water supply is cut off? I mean, open the tap and nothing comes out? This could happen anywhere.

Even with low-flow toilets, you need about two gallons of water to flush. This was what I had in mind when I filled all those bins. Three people were living in my house during Hurricane Sandy, and I would need to flush the toilet at least once a day. Even my meager math skills were sufficient to see how much water we would need.

And then there's tooth-brushing, and minimal washing, and just plain old drinking.

Humans can survive a few weeks without heat or food, but nobody's gonna go that long without drinking water. And let me tell you from experience: Life with a restricted water supply is really, really different than what we take for granted here in the USA.

Call me paranoid or alarmist if you like, but I know the location of every spring in my vicinity, the flow of the spring, and ease with which I could fill water vessels from its banks. I hope I never have to put this knowledge to the test, but maybe I will. Gods know I won't give myself much of a chance of survival if I have to drink New Jersey spring water straight from the ground, but I sure could flush a toilet with it, or boil it, or just take a leap of faith and drink it.

My free advice to you, valued reader, is this: When a weather forecast is very dire, and the worlds "widespread power outages" are used, that's the time when you should get out your bins and your pots, and fill your tub and your washing machine. It's even better if you have a rain barrel or a few trash cans that are on the clean side. What harm does it cause if you fill up all those vessels against a dire emergency?

If you live in a relatively moist area (like New Jersey), take a look around your basic neighborhood, within walking distance. Is there a water source? How clean is it? Could you carry water back from it to flush your crapper? These are things you should consider.

This preparation won't keep you from having to stand in line for bottled water, but it will be very helpful in keeping yourself and your bathroom clean.

As long as we're on the subject, latrine pits can be dug if the ground isn't frozen. Not pleasant to contemplate, but hey. Our ancestors survived it. Heck, I survived it.

Water is more valuable than petroleum, diamonds, sportscars, and mansions. Make sure you're prepared in an emergency. If you don't have bins full of fairy costumes and Christmas ornaments, go out and buy a few. Bins, that is ... not fairy costumes. It's no skin off your nose if you find yourself with a well-watered lawn in the wake of a disaster. But it could be quite dire to find yourself waterless while everyone else around you is waterless too.

This advice is offered free of charge, because you are all such wonderful people! Peace out.

Rush To Judgment

I heard about Rush Limbaugh before I heard him on the radio.

And the first thing I heard about him is that he said that the vast majority of Americans are conservative. Which had to be true, because Rush said it.

Rush, in this case, was whispered with reverence. The hapless soul doing the whispering was my Uncle Foggy, who had tuned in to the radio one day in 1988 and never looked back.

By 1988 Uncle Foggy had been unemployed for 10 years. It wasn't his fault that he lost his job. His line of work (lamp manufacturing) was off-shored. He was in his 50s when he got laid off, and then as now, a person that age wasn't going to waltz into another good-paying job.

So Uncle Foggy moved in with my grandparents in their home on Polish Mountain and took care of them as they aged. After they died, my dad and my other uncle demanded that our family allow Foggy to live out his days in the house on Polish Mountain without having to pay rent.

This was not a hardship for me. I loved my uncle Foggy, and I loved going to see him. He was well-read and affable, and a good cook to boot. Not a bad senior citizen to subsidize with my private income, in the form of taxes on an appreciating property.

And then came Rush.

My formerly affable uncle became argumentative. Snarky. He said mean things about liberals and feminazis. He reserved special ire for people sucking the government's tit.

The man was living on $500 a month in Social Security, as well as Medicare and Medicaid.  If not for the privately-subsidized family roof over his head, he would have needed food stamps and SSI. But he couldn't see that Rush (reverent whisper) was talking about people like him.

Point of pride, I have never listened to more than 10 minutes of a Rush Limbaugh broadcast. I knew poison when I heard it. The inside jokes, the "we get this because we're special" jeers. The predator seeking lonely rural people and then inviting them to his toxic worldview with chummy hatred.

I stopped going to see Uncle Foggy. To me that poor man stands as a microcosm of the brutal fallout from the ending of the Fairness Doctrine. So many people who should have known better got sucked into the Limbaugh orbit, and that orbit spins directly into what happened on January 6 of this year.

Therefore, I, Anne Johnson, Grand Wazoo of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, hereby decree GREAT REJOICING at the DEATH AT A RELATIVELY EARLY AGE of the MENACE known as RUSH LIMBAUGH. To Hell with him, and speedily!

I would love to think that this PUSTULE ON THE BUTTOCK OF SOCIETY won't be replaced in the American psyche, but alas, HE HAS SPAWNED A DEVIL ARMY OF CLONES. With more to come, I'm sure!

It's ironic that this creature died of cancer. His words were cancerous, they spread throughout the land, and they POISONED THE WELL.

The Christians get him for eternity. And if that isn't a good pitch to become Pagan, I don't know what is.

WOOT WOOT! Let's get this party started!

Trouble in Johnsonia

 It's not easy running a nation, even if that nation is a quarter acre. We've had some trouble here in the Independent Republic of Johnsonia.

On Groundhog Day, which is also Imbolc, our resident groundhog emerged from his lair, saw his shadow, and became furious at the thought of six more weeks of winter.

He lumbered out into the yard and called together a pack of savage (but not particularly intelligent) possums.

The groundhog whipped the possums into a frenzy by suggesting that after six more weeks of winter they would be dead of starvation. They wouldn't have their lives anymore! Then the groundhog pointed at the Gray House (where live the Wazoo and First Man) and said that the possums should go in there and help themselves to the foodstuffs!

In the darkness of night (because that's when possums operate), the beasts attempted to storm the Gray House. The only sentinel on alert that night was Gamma the cat, who fears his own shadow and is not inclined to move far from the fireplace. He was no help.

Fortunately, possums will take the course of least resistance. Finding the doors locked on the house, they raided the trash cans. And since it was just shy of pickup day, the cans yielded the kind of dross that possums just crave. They sated themselves on chicken bones, potato peels, and some pork roll that had grown a patina of furry mold, and then they dispersed. Left a mad mess behind, of course.

No harm, no foul. Just possums being possums.

But that groundhog. He's a troublemaker. He's gotta go.

We held a Tribunal about the groundhog. Rude Gamma just slept right through it. Nevertheless, the vote was unanimous. Groundhog has got to go.

It's a matter of borrowing a have-a-heart trap, luring that dangerous groundhog into it, and carting said hog deep into the Pine Barrens, where he will trouble the Independent Republic of Johnsonia no more.

That groundhog has been a source of frustration for years, but this whole possum thing was a bridge too far. Know what I mean?

Anne Johnson

Grand Wazoo, Independent Republic of Johnsonia

Interview with a Bored Goddess: Queen Brighid the Bright

My goodness, have we ever strayed from our Mission Statement here at The Gods Are Bored! How long has it been since a deity sat for an interview? Can't even recall the last time. Thankfully, Imbolc is upon us, and Queen Brighid the Bright has settled in by the fire with a piping hot cup of Irish breakfast tea. Please give a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to the Goddess Brighid the Bright!

Anne: How's the tea, great Goddess?

Queen Brighid the Bright: First rate! Your firewood is not well seasoned, though. 

Anne: Our first shipment was so well-seasoned that we burnt through it all. Now we're stuck with this smoky stuff that sizzles and leaves creosote in our chimney.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well, we can't have that, now can we? (Blows on the fire, and it leaps with purple flame.)

Anne: Snap! Thank you!

Queen Brighid the Bright: Anne. Anne! What's this?

Anne: Emmm .... the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle? (hides her head)

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well! I'm not inclined to scold you, Anne, but what the hell?

Anne: It's a pandemic, Goddess. I'm basically in quarantine. So I sit around here and cross stitch and do the Sunday crossword puzzle.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Like a geezer.

Anne: Oh, you cut me to the quick! Don't think I don't know that these stodgy hobbies are pathetic. But take it from me, they beat Twitter.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Twitter? You mean the sound birds make?

Anne: Close enough. But fear not, dear Goddess. I have enrolled in an online course called "Navigating Tower Time". I'm going to start it tomorrow.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well, see that you do! We don't want to get lax in our spiritual path, do we?

Anne: It's hard not to get lax in everything when I'm pent up at home, day after day, week after week, month after month.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Chin up, Anne! Imbolc is here, the lambs are being born, it's halfway to equinox, and my goodness! Your larder is bulging.

Anne: Pandemic supplies.

Queen Brighid the Bright: What are these six bottles of Clorox all in a row?

Anne: Five mistakes based on a shortage.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Four dozen rolls of toilet paper?

Anne: We ordered it in bulk from Amazon.

Queen Brighid the Bright: How are Amazons to work with? I should imagine they drive a hard bargain. I've never met one.

Anne: They're ruthless, and they dominate the landscape. Great Goddess, will you listen to a petition?

Queen Brighid the Bright: Of course! I'm not as bored as I used to be, but I still grant petitions! What can I help you with, Anne?

Anne: Place your gentle hand on my daughters.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Done. Anything else?

Anne: Protect me from COVID-19.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Perhaps The Morrigan would do that better. She is crackerjack with corvids.

Anne: COVID-19 is the name of the disease. It doesn't have anything to do with crows.

Queen Brighid the Bright: What a ridiculous name! What happened to descriptive disease names like smallpox and yellow fever?

Anne: Good question. Maybe people would take it more seriously if it was called "drowning on dry land."

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well, whatever it's called, I'll protect you from it. Looks like you've got all kinds of solid Appalachian magic going on already. But I'm always glad to pitch in.

Anne: I imagine you'll be really busy on Imbolc, but if you have a chance, pop in. I have a wonderful smudge stick that my daughter The Fair gave me for Yule. I'm going to purify the whole house.

Queen Brighid the Bright: As well you should. And keep the faith, Anne. Quarantines don't last forever. It only seems that way.

Anne: And how, Goddess. And how.

WWG1WGOTR

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," broadcasting from the Independent Republic of Johnsonia! Did you watch that fluffy inaugural celebration on Wednesday night? I did, and I wept the whole way through. Seriously, Jon Bon Jovi singing "Here Comes the Sun?" And did you see Yo Yo Ma? For the love of fruit flies. And then fireworks at the end. Johnsonia is going to send the Biden administration a nice pecan pie!

Don't know about you, but when I was growing up I had lots of cousins that were good friends to me. Now they're all scattered to the wind, and I don't even try to keep up with them. I carry a grudge against my father's people for wanting to sell the farm, and some of my mom's nieces and nephews climbed on the Trump train. Meh, cousins. 

Therefore I was decidedly unenthusiastic when I got a text message from one of my cousins, asking if she could give my phone number to her older brother. This particular brother was a blister on my heel growing up. I have no fond memories of him. But I'm not heartless, so I said sure, fling him my digits.

He called a few days later, and it happened that Mr. J was out. So I picked up the call.

Y'all see me here, I can blather on and on with no brakes whatsoever. But get me in a social situation, or on a phone line, and I have next to nothing to say. Mostly that doesn't matter, though. My experience is that the most I ever need to say is "uh huh" and "oh yes, you're right." And that covers it.

So this cousin starts off somewhat sane, politely asking me about my family and telling me how much I meant to him back in the day (not mutual). But it soon turned out that his real reason for calling was to see if I knew about The Storm.

Yes, that Storm. The lunatic lives in Florida, so at first I thought he might be talking about an off-season hurricane, but no.

He launched into a long diatribe about the Deep State that included the most ridiculous things you have never heard, and me telling him that I did some anti-fascist actions didn't even slow him down. Antifa is "infiltrated," like pretty much everything else from Maine to Hawaii.

And when I called him on his bullshit, which I did frequently, he said, "Anne Janette, you know I'm smart, right?" (Not really) Then he delivered up the juiciest: "It's all over the Internet. All you have to do is look."

Just look on the Internet?

Well, for a hot second I thought he might be right, because hardly anyone believes that the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus is nearly extinct. I know I've talked myself blue about the tree octopus, because it's all over the Internet.

I finally got the windbag off the line by telling him I had firewood to stack. Yes, readers. I used that very excuse. Wasn't even fake. After getting an earful of QAnon, I grimly stacked a cord of hardwood like it was cotton candy.

Gave this no more thought until the day before Inauguration, when I saw him trying to call me again. I sent him a text and said I didn't have time in my life for advanced crazy.

To which he replied that, if I know what's good for me, I'll go right away and tank up my car with gas and get a big wad of cash and be ready for Judgment Day Armageddon The Apocolypse the Overthrow of America by a Worldwide Papal Conspiracy That Controls Everything. He said I should be very afraid. Where would I even go? Did I know?

I texted him back, "I'll go to Camden. No one cares about Camden."

KaChing! Anne for the win! That shut him up. Because of course it's true.

There's a streak of crazy a mile wide that runs through my mother's family. You can literally trace it backwards in the family tree. All the same, it's sad to see someone so deluded that he thinks the world is going to come to an end because the members of the Supreme Court are pedophiles. What a burden, these delusions of grandeur! ("I know what I'm talking about, I've done my research on the Internet!")

If any of my cousins are reading this, please be aware. My happy writing career was put out of business by the Internet. In my reference book work, I had to fact-check everything. And Gods forbid I misspelled someone's name! No one knows better than I do what a stinking swamp of misinformation can be found on the Internet.

Ever notice that I don't fact-check anything on this blog? I don't have to! It's the Internet!

Gosh, now I can say I know someone who believes QAnon. Where They Go One, They Go Off The Rails.

Really wish these people would be Raptured.

Who Else?

 Who else feels like they can finally breathe again? Is it too soon to be hopeful?

Here in Johnsonia, we're absolutely delighted.

Read This for Laughs! (Do I Ever Lead You Wrong?)

 Well, proving positively that she is a product of my genomic sequence plus someone else's, my daughter The Fair has written a funny little piece about playing pro football! Now, dear readers, it costs you nothing to peruse this piece, but she gets paid by the click ... so won't you click for me? I wouldn't bother if it wasn't just the sort of silly thing we all need right now.

CLICK HERE!!!

Official Statement from the Grand Wazoo of Johnsonia on the Recent Traitorous Rebellion in the USA

 January 7, 2021

The leaders of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia hereby express our dismay at the unsuccessful but nevertheless alarming insurrection in the United States of America that occurred on January 6, 2021.

 For 200 years, the United States has been held in high esteem (not always deserved) as a bastion of freedom and justice. The reckless and lawless behavior of January 6, urged upon a rabble by the sitting president, is a stark departure from the orderly operation of government most often associated with America.

Good leadership is important, and the lack thereof can be catastrophic. The inability of Donald Trump to govern the United States is the entire reason that Johnsonia declared independence in favor of home rule. We see now that our decision in this regard was a sound one. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the citizens of the United States, in hopes that this dark episode will not be repeated in this or any other era.

Respectfully submitted,

Anne Johnson

Grand Wazoo, Independent Republic of Johnsonia

Pardon Me While I Wallow in Self Pity and Nostalgia

 Oh, Wretched New Year! This would have been my 10th year marching in the Philadelphia Mummers Parade. Alas, quite sensibly, the 2021 parade was canceled. Here I sit, on yet another day of self-imposed quarantine, dodging COVID and watching Mummers recordings on t.v.

Strutting down memory lane is the best I can do.

EXHIBIT A: 2017 with The Fair

EXHIBIT B: My 3rd Parade, 2013

EXHIBIT C: OUR 1st Place Finish, 2018 (I'm in the rear in the red hat -- it was 6 degrees F at the time.)

EXHIBIT D:  2019 on Broad Street

EXHIBIT E: 2020 St. Patrick's Day, Luckily Held in February, Most Recent Strut

EXHIBIT F: Gritty and I Need Another Assignment ... Maybe Overthrowing the Oligarchy

EXHIBIT G: 2021

I'm crossing my fingers that 2021 will bring us a new, effective president and an end to this pandemic nightmare. COVID is real, it's a killer, and I wouldn't be in the parade this year if I was the only one missing it.

Stay warm, stay safe, Happy New Year!

Another 2020 Sucker Punch

 In the grand scheme of things, losing your favorite soft drink for all time is a small disappointment. But this is 2020, Year of Horrors, and Coca-Cola's decision to discontinue production of TaB is One. Last. Kick. In. The. Keister.

Yes, here I sit looking at my last two 12-packs of TaB, purchased at great expense from Ebay. By the time the fucking assholes management team at Coca-Cola announced the discontinuation of this worthy beverage, all available stocks of it had been snapped up by opportunists.

I've been drinking TaB since the early 1970s, and it is literally the only Coke product I like. TaB was Coke's first diet cola, and it doesn't taste anything like Coke or Diet Coke. It's not sweet. It has a hint of cinnamon. And until Red Bull came along, it was the best soda to rev up the heart rate.

It hasn't been easy to get TaB here in New Jersey for the past 10 years, but if you had a good eye you could find it. And then you just bought every 12-pack on the shelf. In this way I've kept my larder stocked with TaB pretty continuously. Alas, no more!

So a big, fat FUCK YOU to Coca-Cola! You had ONE product I bought. You DISCONTINUED it. I hope it's the beginning of the END OF YOUR COMPANY!

You know who drinks Diet Coke? Donald Trump. Case closed, the company can drown in rat poison.

A Smithsonian-Worthy Yule Navel Gaze

 We stubborn hillbillies never forget a slight. When the Smithsonian said this page wasn't worthy of inclusion in its ranks, it rankled. Take this holiday, for instance. It screams, bleats, shouts, and roars "pandemic diary."

People are getting tired of observing pandemic guidelines, and the case numbers are rising again. I'm not an ordinary person, though. I'm a stubborn hillbilly. So when my school deemed it unsafe for small cohorts of students to walk in the door, I flung them a doctor's note so I didn't have to either. I've been working at home ever since. I don't like it, but it beats getting the virus. I gerry-rigged the home office I used for so long as a writer, which is weird in the extreme. 

The worst part is having virtual teachers' meetings at home. All those administrators you can't stand? Suddenly they're in your living room. Makes my skin crawl.

The pandemic has put a lot of time on my hands with nothing to write about, so I have returned to the teenage hobby of cross stitch and embroidery. Look at this Xmas gift I made for The Fair! 

She says everyone will ask where she got it!

I've never been apart from my daughters during the Xmas holidays, and like everyone else in America, I wanted to observe traditions. But ... stubborn hillbilly. Luckily, both daughters live in Philadelphia, so on Xmas morning early (between the period of driving rain and the period of plunging temperatures) we convened on the porch of The Heir's West Philly rowhouse. Heir lives on the third floor. We used the porch.

Heloooo? Smithsonian????? How many pandemic photos do you have of ordinary families following the goddamn CDC guidelines?

The other thing I have never done without on the holidays is a Yule tree. About two weeks before the winter break, I bought a little tabletop "fresh" tree from a supermarket. By Xmas Eve it looked gray as a ghost. So I got in my old car (which needed a spin) and drove to where I knew there was a vacant lot with some pine saplings, and I ethically sourced an organic, free range tree. Third time I've done this, and although it's mean to maim a tree, it certainly cheers things up here.

These New Jersey pines aren't fragrant, but I like the long needles.

Here I am, another American affected by the pandemic, but not nearly or even remotely as dreadfully as a lot of people. Now it's just a countdown until the day the USA is rid of Donald Trump (cross fingers) forever. He's bent upon ruining the nation the way he tanked all his other businesses. What a train wreck.

The Light returns, we'll get through this mess, and the next time you hear from me it'll be from a bottomless pool of self-pity. But I'll leave that for later.