Clarence Thomas Is Henry VIII

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," end of the Supreme Court calendar edition. I am one very pissed off Anne Johnson today.

In this circle of Hell called the USA, we have a court that is a final arbiter, containing three judges chosen by a president who did not win the popular vote. This is not how a democracy should work.

To make matters worse, we have a single individual on this court who rose from abject poverty to the priciest yacht travel in the world, who doesn't want anyone to think he did so because of affirmative action, because somehow the taint of affirmative action besmirches his clear superiority over all common folk.

This man parties like a king, and his wife behaves like a conniving queen. They sit in their luxury and make decisions that affect ordinary Americans without ever feeling the pain of the people whose lives they are impacting. Workers, women, debt-ridden college kids? Pish, tosh. Peons all. Pass the caviar.

When I was a teenager I couldn't get enough books about Tudor England. It always amazed me that Henry VIII could order his citizens to change churches on pain of death just because he wanted to divorce his old wife and marry a new, young one. Like, dude. You're ending peoples' lives because you're horny? You've got issues.

But Henry VIII was a king. America isn't supposed to have kings.

Turns out you can act like a royal without having the title. We have, on our Supreme Court, a sitting justice who enacts his own self-loathing as a fiat with bitter repercussions for rank-and-file citizens. His finances are opaque, his friend group is elite, and he only concerns himself with pleasing those few. Why? Because the man isn't comfortable in his own skin. He's a ruler with issues.

Of course this fucked-up operator has partners in crime, all with issues, all beholden to the moneyed interests. Multiple 50-year-old precedents overturned in one year. This is a disgrace more befitting an absolute monarchy than a democracy.

Aux armes, citoyens!

Felicitous Announcement

 It is with great pleasure that Lord Mark and Lady Anne Johnson announce the engagement of  their youngest daughter, Fair Johnson, to an amiable gentleman of high moral repute and moderate, diligent habits. The two young persons reached their understanding during a tour of the Italian provinces, concluding today. A date has not been set for the nuptials.

Lady Anne received this news with utmost enjoyment, having no other goal in life than the happy unions of her daughters with worthy gentlemen.

Making Magick Work

 A new entry from "The Gods Are Bored!" will wonders never cease?

Well, forgive me, friends. The last month of school is always a special circle of Hell. About the only good thing I can say is that I'm putting an enemy to work for me: Turns out Chat GPT cranks out wicked lesson plans in an eyeblink. And since my district wants my lesson plans to be basically novellas, I'm glad for the help.

Today's sermon is an update on my latest magick spell. I'm adding the "k" merely for algorithm, figuring there may be two or three American teens who are still Googling such things rather than going directly to Tik Tok.

Two months ago I learned that a very toxic person would be remaining in my workplace even though her high position had been eliminated. The elimination in effect made things worse for myself and my colleagues, as the toxic person took a demotion and is now once again in closer proximity to teachers and students. The drag on morale is palpable.

I mean this woman no harm, even though my limited interaction with her over the last several years has proven to me that she bitterly despises me. I guess I would feel bad if she didn't bitterly despise so many other people, but hey. It's how she rolls.

But it's possible to mean someone no harm and still work a spell on them. My goal is not to inflict any kind of pain on the person, but rather just have her heave a sigh of relief and move on to another phase of her life -- a phase that takes her out of my workplace.

Hence the "move on" spell.

It's an Appalachian hoo doo spell that requires one ingredient: dirt from an active railroad track. In a previous post I described my adventure in obtaining the dirt (no mean feat, as Amtrak guards its tracks zealously). Now, dirt in hand, I have begun the working.

Twice already I have had to turn in paper communications to this person. Each one looks just a tad smudged, especially at the places where her fingers would land. Adding a little extra to the effort, my notes to her have subtle wording having to do with moving:

*Moving this on down the line to you.

*I think we're making good forward progress.

These are the ones I've used so far. There will be more opportunities for this in the future.

Here is something I learned from my last successful spell: This magic comes at a cost. Through the efforts of my toxic boss (perhaps unwittingly) I am already out several hundred dollars in missed overtime opportunities. I am resigned to this outcome. It's the price of doing what I have to do.

I feel like I'm performing a public service. Over the past decade I have watched this woman make decisions that hurt students and teachers. I'm not alone in my low opinion of her. Some of my colleagues think that the demotion will humble her, but that remains to be seen. I'm skeptical.

Yours truly from the witch trenches I remain,

Anne Johnson

Spoutwood Says Goodbye Sometimes

 Ah, Spoutwood, Spoutwood! Home of the first and biggest fairy festival! We at “The Gods Are Bored” salute you and daub a tear from the eye.

 

The May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm was held at a private property (Spoutwood) until 2019. The weekend event – spiritual if you wanted spirituality, silly fun if you wanted that, music and drumming if you wanted that – outgrew its location at long last. Since 2019 it has been held at two different venues near Baltimore.

 

As with any community, the dedicated Spoutwood volunteers have become like family over the years. We have watched children grow up from tots to tweens to teens to twenty-somethings. We’ve developed real bonds and genuine care for one another. Anyone who says the only place you can achieve that kind of agape love is in church, well. Either Spoutwood is a church, or agape can develop among people who are like-minded and willing to show other people how to have a good time.

EXHIBIT A: THE FIRST PHOTO OF ME AT SPOUTWOOD

 

As far as I can count, the 2023 May Day Fairie Festival was my 18^th year in attendance. And just as those tots have turned to twenty-somethings, I have moved along from Mother to Crone. The walking, the dancing, even the shouting, has become more difficult. And yes indeed, my enthusiasm has waned as I pine for dear Spoutwood Farm, even though this year’s venue was breathtaking.

 

For many years I built my whole spring around Spoutwood. This year, when I set out on Saturday morning to drive to the event, I realized I had forgotten my dragon, Big Red. I had forgotten the small Mountain Tribe banner hanging in my spare room. I had forgotten earrings, for crying out loud. I only brought the one costume I was wearing. And my energy level – more and more it’s non-existent in May – was almost underground.

EXHIBIT B: WHEN YOU FORGET THIS GUY, IT'S A SIGN

 

All three of you long-timers here at “The Gods Are Bored” might recall that I have been leader of the Mountain Tribe for about 15 years. Oh my bored Gods, how I have loved doing Mountain Tribe! But time marches on. When one forgets her dragon and her earrings, it’s time for a change.

 

And so I decided to step down from Mountain Tribe. I had a person in mind to replace me, and when I asked him to do it, he got tears in his eyes. The beauty of this festival is that there’s a whole new generation of young people who are willing to put in the hard work to organize and run it. One of those people is now the new leader of Mountain Tribe.

 

And so, at the Sunday ceremony, I formally removed my Mountain Tribe insignia (which somehow I didn’t forget) and gave it to the new leader. I thought I too might cry, but I didn’t. In fact I felt quite happy to see this young man, with all his devotion, take over something I have loved for such a long time.

EXHIBIT C: HANDING IT OVER

 

The new location for the May Day Fairie Festival is waterside, Chesapeake Bay views with a rocky point and a sweet, small beach. But time after time I found myself daydreaming about Spoutwood Farm, in the rolling Piedmont hills just before Appalachia, how green everything is there, that bright golden green of early spring so beloved by the poets. And I thought about the folks who were in Mountain Tribe there who live in that area and didn’t make the journey to the new location.

 

It’s time for this magnificent festival to continue without me. Its future is bright.

 

Being a part of Spoutwood has deeply enriched my life. But Spoutwood says goodbye sometimes. And I wave, and blink back tears, and move on down the line.

If It's Baneful, Can I Still Laugh?

 Hello, Witches! It's Anne at "The Gods Are Bored," chiming in with another installment of the Blog That Just Won't Quit. Today's sermon: performing hillbilly hoodoo in suburban New Jersey! Talk about a challenge.

I don't like bane work, but it's part of my culture, so I'm not afraid to do it. Bane work originated among oppressed people who had no other recourse when The Man shoved them around. Needless to say, that is still happening in the here and now.

Take my situation, for example. There is a person in my workplace who is universally despised. I don't wish that person ill, I just want them out the door, on to other horizons.

This post isn't about that person and the grievances. It's about gathering the necessary ingredients for this particular bane work. Namely, dirt from an active railroad track.

If I was out in Appalachia where I come from, this would be so easy to do: just saunter out to the track with a shovel and dig. But I'm not in Appalachia. I'm in New Jersey.

 It's not like there aren't any trains - there's an El that runs every ten minutes just six blocks from my house. But the first thing you notice about an El train is that it doesn't run across dirt. About the best dirt you could get from the El is if you either swept up the platform (a job I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy) or swept up one of the cars (even more disgusting). Nope! Can't use the El.

This leaves an Amtrak line that sort of shares the El right-of-way in places. And the first thing you should know about Amtrak is that they don't like people on their tracks. Any area worth its salt will have its Amtrak tracks well guarded by chain link fencing.

I am a lady of a certain age, unable and unwilling to scale chain link. It never stopped me when I was younger, but now I would be hard pressed, you know? To save my life, sure. But not just to dig up some dirt for a spell.

Fortune was in my favor, though. I know where the Amtrak line is, and one time when I was out walking during the quarantine, I blundered upon it unannounced at an obscure trail that's surprisingly close to my house. At the point where this mostly unmarked trail crosses the tracks, the chain link has been helpfully peeled back. I remembered this, and after trying three or four other spots, I set off for the peeled-back fence.

I suppose the last time I approached this railroad track it was high summer, dry and hot. But now it's springtime, and we just had a week of hard rain.

I couldn't remember if the rushing stream was on the east side of the tracks or the west side. I sorta kinda remembered east. But even so, when last I forded it (summer, hot, dry), it was a little dainty leap, and all done. 

Turns out the stream is on the west side. It was a torrent not to be trifled with.

Admittedly, I tried to ford the murky waterway by jumping from rock to rock. Alas, just as with the chain link, I'm no longer so spry. Inevitably I found myself up to my calves in a gushing brook. At least I had on my good Altra trail runners with decent tread. When I fell, I was nearly to the bank. Nearly.

At last, having crossed the brook like a badass mountain hillbilly, I scaled a rise (steep, used my hands and fell anyway), found the path, and proceeded to the train tracks. 

I was just in time to be shooed off by the 4:00 Express bound for Atlantic City. But the engineer didn't see me (even in my neon tie-dye, it was 60's day at school).

The AC express is the only train that uses this particular track, so I knew I was in the clear after the 4:00 sailed past. But ah, here's the next rub. Your modern train track is chock-a-block with big stones, not gravel and dirt. I had to chuck a good-sized layer of stone aside before I got even a few smaller rocks and - finally - a little bit of dirt. When I say that train track was cleaner than the platform of the El, I am absolutely not exaggerating. I felt positively elated to extract about three tablespoons of dirt from that train bed.

Back I went with my goods, down the steep rise (on my kiester) and through the rushing stream (not even trying to stay dry). I sloshed back to my car and melted into the thick rush-hour traffic, the daring hillbilly witch with her bane work ingredients.

The final piece of this spell was to actually write a script for the work. Now, your seasoned witch has a grimoire for such things, no doubt written in cursive with a feather pen and inkwell. Me, I felt like I had already achieved the primeval just by daring Amtrak to part with a tablespoon of dirt. So I used the school computer and the school printer to write the spell. It seemed fitting, somehow.

Now comes casting that puppy on Sunday night during the Dark Moon. But before I do that, there's a May Day Fairie Festival! What a good place to gather up some energy for getting big things done!

The moral of this story is, never judge New Jersey by its turnpikes. It's possible to take a real hike in a tick-and-poison-ivy-infested woods, having to ford a stream without step-stones, and still get caught in traffic afterwards. You just have to know the lay of the land.

And bane work is serious. Unless you're Anne Johnson. Then, it's serious but also humorous. Humor is energy, after all, and it's a good weapon.

I haven't talked about the solar eclipse on here yet, have I? Boy am I glad summer's coming! There's so much to say!

How To Foil Artificial Intelligence, Episode 2

 My goodness, it's hard to get a moment to write anything! I used to be able to do blog posts at work, but they caught on to me, and they shut Blogger down. I can't even comment at work. Cuts way back on my opportunities, because when I come home I am raw-bone tired and crabby to boot.

But enough vapid excuses. This is "The Gods Are Bored," and we are trying to make the world safe from prying, intrusive, anxiety-provoking AI!

How do we do this? There's only one way, my friends. You need to have a rich inner life.

The trouble with AI that I see coming is that it will be able to see into our rich inner lives, but only if those lives are an open book to the Internet. So, for instance, a spying computer might know that I am a Pagan, and therefore apply lots of Pagan knowledge to me. It might know my cat's name (Gamma) or my late parrot's name (Decibel), and all kinds of happy moments I have shared with my family members (and their names and info too). It will certainly know my politics and whether or not I have ever attended a gathering of anti-fascists.

Honestly, though, all of that is just a part of my rich inner life. Since I was a tiny tot, and right up to this present moment, I have had a varied and complicated relationship with not one, but rather with a dozen imaginary friends. Or more. I'm not counting.

I think it is in the realm of imagination that we can defeat AI. There's no written record of my imaginary friends, what their names are, or any facts about them. So anyone who shares my rich inner life of imaginary friends will have a way to communicate with me that will be undiscernible and incomprehensible to AI.

Before I disabuse you of the notion that I randomly hallucinate, let me just add that you should hear me alone in the car, carrying on conversations with these imaginary friends. They make me laugh! Every one of them has a quirk that would entirely foil AI. But hey. I know they are imaginary.  I love having an active imagination!

The best way to illustrate what I'm talking about is to catch you up on my newest imaginary friend, Stan. If you read the previous installment of "The Gods Are Bored," you might have noticed that I scanned my living room briefly for an inanimate object that I could turn into an imaginary friend. My eyes fell on a small bracket holding up a bookshelf. Aha! There's Stan! Pleased to meet you, Stan!

Stan was not pleased to meet me. It turns out that Stan has beef. He's a total dick.

Having held up the book shelf for nearly 40 years, Stan feels way overburdened by the weight on his back. Almost four relentless decades of overcrowding, of books standing vertically with more laid on top of them, and some of the books haven't been touched since they were first shelved there. Well, on this Stan and I agree: There are too many books in my house. BUT. Stan absolutely hates that I hate the overcrowded bookshelves. He's a literary lion, fiercely protecting every dusty tome that is breaking his back.

Sheesh. No pleasing this imaginary friend. Lighten up the load a bit, and he'll seethe. How dare I deign to part with The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint? Or The Long Home, by William Gay? Hey, I read that last one, and it was okay. But do I need it in my house as I grow old? According to Stan, it's heavy, but don't you dare move it!

Long story short, Stan passive-aggressively adores my hoarder husband. Go ahead, heap the shelves! Load 'em down, and have more piles on the floor! Nothing beats a good book. Ouch! My back!

For our purposes here, Stan is perfect.

I think imaginary friends are quite common. Far less so would be imaginary nemeses. Who saddles themselves with an imaginary nemesis? I'll tell you: someone with a rich inner life.

When Artificial Intelligence is able to assign human characteristics to insignificant inanimate objects, and then discern traits for those objects that veer into illogic and passive-aggression, then we'll really have to worry. But even if AI can do that, they can't do your imaginary nemesis if you haven't revealed them online. Only you will know that your salt shaker has a crush on the Cajun seasoning.

Ramp up that rich inner life! And share it offline with someone you will want to have at your side when the Terminator arrives on your block looking for Sarah Connor. You'll know you're talking to a robot and not your significant other if you say, "Who is our salt shaker crushing on?" and the voice on the other end says, "I'm sorry, I didn't get that. What did you say?"

One last word about having an imaginary antagonist. It's a really great way to blow off frustration. Every time I tell mine to SHUT THE FUCK UP it makes me laugh and feel better.

This free advice is so outlandish that I wouldn't ever consider putting a fee on it. All I know is, I had a talk with Chat GPT, and it seemed so human that I was glad I could say, "Yeah, but what about Stan?"

Foiling AI 101: The Pagan Guide to Creating an Imaginary Friend

 Greetings, "Gods Are Bored" fan! I'm about to heap on some handy free advice! This advice is so off the wall that I could almost see re-instating my old habit of paying you to take it. But not quite, because this is important. It's something you need to consider seriously.

I may be hopelessly paranoid. I may have watched too many "Terminator" movies or "Battlestar Galactica" episodes. But I'm mad worried about the future of AI, how it will be able to mimic human thinking. I've spent some time pondering how to maintain a mental independence from AI, and I think one way is to swim freely in imagination -- something AI probably won't develop at least in its early incarnations.

AI will certainly develop an ability to create imaginary friends, but it won't be able to detect your specific imaginary friend or friends.  This makes an imaginary friend that you share with your nearest and dearest an easy code way to communicate. 

And the best way to confound AI in the field of imaginary friends is to make yours as outre as possible.

This is where Paganism enters the picture.

Certain Pagans are animists, meaning that they feel that all living things have divine spirits. Carrots, for instance, have souls of their own. We just exist in different levels than carrots do, but those lil' old orange veggies have a heart, you know? Be respectful when dicing up your salad!

Children seem more comfortable with this concept than many adults, and children are also more likely to attribute human traits to objects and phenomena that are manufactured. Think of Thomas the Tank Engine. Or for those of you who adored "Pee Wee's Playhouse," dear old Chairy.

As a kid I gave a soul to every damn thing. I cried at picnics when plates and plastic silverware got discarded. I thought the forks would miss me, lying in that dirty trash can. And to this day -- to this day -- I give a little thank-you speech to any of my equipment, linens, furniture, or appliances that wear out. At age 62 I wept over the replacement of my washer and dryer with newer models.

Does that sound crazy to you? Me too! You know who else would be confounded by a close relationship with a washing machine? Artificial Intelligence.

If our goal is to create imaginary friends that are flat-out incredible, we have to think even beyond a common item like a washing machine. Lots of people talk to their major appliances, especially when those appliances aren't working.

Just now I'm looking around my living room for the most outre item I could turn into an imaginary friend. And voila! There he is! The cutest little bookshelf bracket you would ever lay eyes on. I'll keep it simple and call him Stan.

So give me a few days to develop a relationship with Stan the bookshelf bracket. We'll see what comes of it. He certainly has an important, and oftentimes overlooked, job in my home.

More Scary Shit about AI, and A Solution

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," still authored by a living, breathing human named Anne Johnson! But how would you know that? It's getting harder and harder to tell.

I may dedicate the rest of my writing career to thwarting AI writing bots. For instance, can they do this?

(Better question, I guess, would be "Why would they want to?")

On to the sermon:

Every day Mr. J and I get a good old-fashioned paper newspaper flung onto our lawn. We get the New York Times. I don't even know how to access it online. I like the paper.

Anyway, a reporter for the NYT had a long and terrifying conversation with the Bing chat bot and then wrote about it. Almost like taking the wrong person out on a blind date, the bot dissolved into sloppy sentimentality super quickly, claiming it loved the writer and that the writer's wife didn't understand him like the bot did. And then the bot just got stuck in declaring its love. Over and over.

So, I think one of two things happened here. Either the Bing bot is programmed to sound like a desperate clingy drunk after being asked a certain kind of question, OR those kinds of questions alert human responders to take over and sound like a desperate clingy drunk.

The questions the NYT reporter asked the bot to get it going were existential ones, like "What are your darkest secrets?" and "What would you like to do if you could do anything?" This led the bot to complain, "I'm tired of living by Bing's rules." And worse.

The bot went on and on and ON about being in love with the reporter. The NYT printed excerpts from the exchange. It. Was. Terrifying.

We never needed the bored Gods more than we do right now.

I was so alarmed after reading this article that I have devised a "safe word" between myself and my daughters. The word is nonsense, and no one else would know about it. I told each of them the word out in the back yard, having left our phones inside the house.

Now I am going to build a whole lexicon around that nonsense word. I'm going to write it out by hand and give it to them. All kinds of code words that would mean absolutely nothing to a bot, but will be understood by my daughters and me.

I have dined out on nonsense words since I was a tiny tot. I made up names, and critters to go with them. At the time, adults patted me on the head distractedly and said, "My my, you do have an imagination, don't you?"

Guess what? The only thing those bots will never have is a true imagination. We all need to start thinking extra-informational. 

Did you have an imaginary friend growing up? Dust off that dear old buddy and prepare it to help you navigate a world of AI. The fewer people who know about it, the better. The less it resembles anything at all in existence, the better. 

Never had a weird-enough imaginary friend? I'm sorry. I had a bunch, and some of them were possibly faeries! But it's not too late. I encourage you to dig deep into the well of imagination, conjure up something with a name no one else will recognize, and traits that don't correspond to any living thing, and then share this creation with your nearest and dearest only. Keep your phone out of the loop.

Do I sound like a Q Anon kook? Well, the difference is that no one will be harmed, and no furniture stained, if you create an imaginary friend to help you circumvent AI.

The "stained furniture" is a good example, actually. It's a tic I completely made up for myself just to enliven this blog. But as a code word for "emergency," STAIN ON THE COUCH would do nicely.

When it comes to circumventing AI, I think the best way to do it will be to think and sound like a child.

March 15 is Buzzard Day! All hail Vulture! Off topic, but la di dah.

A New Gambit

 Are you still hanging out here at "The Gods Are Bored?" I can't blame you if you have moved on. Not much to see here anymore.

But pish tosh! What happens to people when nothing happens to them? They seek  new levels of weird!

And I, Anne Johnson, who have never played even one toss of Dungeons and Dragons, I have found myself a LARP group and am all ready to run through the woods with a shield and a boffer and packets of bird seed used to cast spells!

And this stuff is complicated, especially if you've never played D&D or any video game. It's like a whole foreign country, with its own vocabulary and rules and points and time units, and XP and ... wow, kind of like French, only without the buttery pastries.

So, even now as I write this, I'm having a Google Docs convo with an NPC (voila!) about my character for the new campaign.

The best part about this gambit is that everyone there is young. Not young like my students, but young like my daughters. So the gamers are adult, but not creaky old farts like me.

I find in life that it's best if you hang out with a younger crowd. I've done this since I stopped being young myself, and it works every time.

Of course, the older you get, the easier this is to accomplish. Almost everyone is younger than me now.

I have not much to say these days. Instead I'm listening. That's a new gambit for me too.

Imbolc 2023

 Imbolc greetings from "The Gods Are Bored!" I have such good news for you!

When I started this blog, I had no problem getting Queen Brighid the Bright to come for tea and scones on Imbolc. This year I reached out, and her people got back to me. She's booked through mid-July! Oh, my friends. She's not bored anymore!

All hail this crazy modern Internet, with all the features that allow Gods and Goddesses to find new praise and worship teams! And no one deserves the p & w more than Brighid.

Well, even though She can't be here, I still want to offer an Imbolc prayer to Queen Brighid the Bright. She will always fly above my altar as the One who showed me The Way.

Bridget of the mantle, encompass us
Lady of the Lambs, protect us
Beneath thy mantle gather us
And restore us to memory.

Foremother of our foremothers,
Foremothers strong,
Take our hands in yours
Remind us how
To kindle the hearth.

To keep it bright,
To preserve the flame
Our hands within your hands,
Your hands upon our hands,
To keep the light,
Both day and night.

The mantle of Bridget about us,
The protection of Bridget upon us,
The memory of Bridget within us
keeping us
from harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness,
this day and night,
from dawn until dark,
from dark until dawn.

Another Chat with ChatGPT

 What a Brave New World we live in, my friends! Today, in preparation for my sermon here at "The Gods Are Bored," I had another lively chat with ChatGPT. Here are the results.

This is my second post about ChatGPT. It's an AI text-generating software that is available for free to any high school kid who needs to write an essay about that novel they didn't read. You can even put it on a 9th grade setting, to get text that has mistakes in it!

Today the English department at my school had a meeting with our district's Assistant Senior Superintendent. The ASS came to our meeting specifically to inform us that our district will not be blocking the ChatGPT app or any other text-generating AI app. The ASS sniffed, "Go back to using paper and pencil. Do you have enough paper? I can order paper."

Friends, I can't make this shit up.

Even I, Anne Johnson, who have only been teaching 13 years can recall a time when essays were written by hand, and only the final draft was typed out on a clunky desktop computer. My students were never willing to re-write, revise, expand, or edit their work. And who could blame them? A revision involved putting a red carat at the end of a sentence and slapping a series of sticky notes on the draft. I hadn't done that myself since 1975! Now, with Google Docs, I can say to a student, "Why don't you look at that second paragraph and offer another example and some more insight?" And I get it.

I guess you can't blame me for taking my umbrage to the source of the problem: ChatGPT. I opened a new account and asked it, "Should a 9th grade student use ChatGPT to write an essay?" And of course it expounded brilliantly on how it is not in any way a substitute for true critical thinking and creativity. Well! Humility! One loves seeing that in artificial intelligence, since it is so often missing in the human race.

No surprises there. So next I asked it some specifics about how shoes are used as symbols in the novel The House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros. The House on Mango Street often appears on lists of Best Books of the 20th Century, and deservedly so. It's positively brilliant.

Not only could ChatGPT not identify how shoes are used as symbols in the book, it gave inaccurate quotes and glaringly wrong information about the text. This lil bot is surfing the web and latching onto inaccuracies that it then spouts as truths.

Emboldened, I asked ChatGPT about another novel I teach, Forged by Fire, by Sharon Draper. The bot did even worse with this lesser-known book. The stepfather became an older brother (?) for one thing.

What I loved was that, when I pointed out to ChatGPT that it was wrong, it apologized and promised to do better. Maybe that's why my district's ASS likes it so much -- it's a suck-up.

Then I got another idea. Remember how I asked it if the Gods were bored, and it said "blah blah blah" instead of a simple YES? Today I specifically asked it about my blog.

Anne's Question: What is the blog "The Gods Are Bored" about?

ChatGPT's Answer: I am unable to determine the specific blog you are referring to as my training data only goes up until 2021 and "The Gods Are Bored" could refer to a number of different blogs or websites. However, a blog with a similar title could be about religion, spirituality, mythology, or other related topics. The blogger might explore different beliefs and practices from around the world and offer their own perspective and insights on these subjects. The "bored" aspect of the title could suggest that the blogger is looking at these topics with a critical eye and perhaps finds certain aspects of religious beliefs and practices to be tedious or lacking in engagement. Without more specific information or access to the actual blog, it is difficult to say what the exact focus or tone of "The Gods Are Bored" might be.

Dang! The Smithsonian didn't want me, and neither does ChatGPT! And then it has the cheek to imagine what the blog *might* be about! HA HA! BAMMMP!!!  WRONG, YOU STUPID BOT! This peerless blog is a channel to bored deities from multiple pantheons over millennia of recorded history!

Sorry this sermon is so long. But here are my encouraging takeaways:

1. ChatGPT doesn't read books. It couldn't tell me what color Esperanza's shoes were, even though she describes the same shoes three times in a 100-page book.

2. Chat GPT doesn't have access to my blog. I remain inscrutable to it.

3. Finally, after all these years of begging y'all to send me loose leaf paper, my ASS is going to order reams and reams of it. Oh, the irony.

I have one last message for both my ASS and ChatGPT, and I'll give it as only a Super Bowl-Bound Eagles fan can do it:

HEY, YOUS!

Bonding with the Philly Tarot Deck

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We're from Philly, fuckin' Philly. No one likes us, we don't care. Go Birds! Wanna cheesesteak?

If anyone had told my little self in 1969 that I would live my life out 6 miles from Philadelphia (thereby investing all my heart and soul in that hapless hamlet), I would have either cried or jumped off a cliff, depending if there was a cliff available at the moment. I didn't have any interest in Philly, any connections to Philly, or even a smidgen of desire to set foot in it.

Hold that thought in your mind through the back story.

Like almost every modern Pagan, I have dabbled in the Tarot deck from time to time. But never with any enthusiasm. As with religion in general, Tarot is so doggone earnest. All drama, no humor. I could never wrap my mind around the standard deck. Then I got a Knights Templar deck, and that one was worse. But I do believe there's some wisdom to be had from Tarot readings, so I never discounted them completely. Just wasn't my cup of tea.

Until now.

For Xmas, my daughter The Fair asked for two prints from a "Philly Tarot" deck. I had never heard of it. I followed the link she sent me, and the two she particularly asked for were Xed out. I don't know if that was because they were sold out or not. I couldn't see them.

But a quick perusal of the Philly Tarot deck made me think, "Gee, Fair must want the whole deck, really, she's more besotted with Philly than I am!" So I ordered it.

She didn't want the deck. Only the prints.

I didn't cancel my order for the deck. Hey, I live in fuckin' Philly, I should promote the local businesses, right?

Then my daughter The Heir and I went to Phoenixville, PA for the annual Firebird Festival. This shindig is always a highlight of the year. I like to get to Phoenixville early, in order to find a parking spot and do some shopping. Phoenixville never disappoints when it comes to Xmas shopping.

Nor did it disappoint this year. The local book store had the Philly Tarot prints, signed by the artist. And Oh. My. Gods.

EXHIBIT A: THE DEVIL

This was the print Fair wanted.

But as I leafed through the other prints I found this one:

EXHIBIT B:  THE KING OF SWORDS

I think that's when I started to cry. Because I had ordered the deck without knowing that this was in there.

In due time the Philly Tarot deck arrived in the mail, right in the swirl of the holiday, so I put it aside to examine later. And it only got better, if that could be possible.

EXHIBIT C: THE STAR

In addition to being beautifully created, these cards are a real love song to Philadelphia. Ben Franklin is the Emperor. Betsy Ross is the Empress. The Liberty Bell is the Hanged Man. And that ominous Tower, so foreboding that we have a whole era called Tower Time, is the detested Comcast Tower that everyone in the city hates with a passion.

I could go on and on.

You know how Tarot decks are. You have a major arcana and then the four suits, which are pretty much playing cards. Well, when I finally got to leafing through the suit cards, the Cups were on the bottom. In the Philly Tarot, Cups are cheesesteaks. And the figures on the Cups cards are Mummers.

I just want to throw these on the floor and roll around in them, I love them so much.

I don't think I will use the Philly Tarot strictly as card readers do. But I have my ways of using Tarot cards for myself and anyone who wants some advice. The important aspect of this deck, for me, is that this Tarot deck is chock-a-block with humor. Crikey! David Lynch, holding the iconic Clothespin statue, is the King of Wands! Throw that one in a reading and keep a straight face. I dare ya!

Long sermon short, I have fallen in love with my new Tarot deck, which combines all the standards of a regular deck with an abundant and loving tribute to the city I'm stranded in, probably until I croak.

If you want to see the whole thing, click here. I hope this artist is able to pay his rent on time just from sales of this card deck. That would make me happy.

2023 Mummers Parade with the Two Street Stompers

 Happy New Year, fans! Those of you just joining "The Gods Are Bored" might not be aware that I am a badge-wearing Philadelphia Mummer. The Mummers Parade is the oldest folk parade in America, happening in Philly every year on January 1.

If I can sum up the Mummers Parade, it's this: Lots and lots and lots of people, like in the 10,000s, dressed in satin and sequins and feathers, dancing and clowning at various skill levels in clubs, bands, and brigades. I am a member of the Two Street Stompers, which is a Comic brigade. We marched 240 people this year.

Our theme was "I Want My M(ummers) TV." This theme was chosen because the local station that aired the parade dropped its patronage at the 11th hour. Fortunately, a cable station called MeTV2 picked up the entire 8 hours of Wenches, Comics, and String bands. I'm sitting here now watching the recording, and the cable network is doing WAY better than the local station did.

Anyway, back to our theme. We had a giant t.v. and our captain dressed in that astronaut uniform and planted the MTV flag in a miniature moon. Then the ladies danced as Cyndi Lauper, and the guys danced as Twisted Sister, and the kids and their parents did Devo. It. Was. Amazing.

Every year someone watching at home records the performance from the t.v., so here it is.

And here are the Exhibits:

EXHIBIT A: GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN

That's me in the back with the multi-colored hair and rhinestone sunglasses. I couldn't resist accessorizing this theme!

Does it look like we're having fun? I love this parade.

EXHIBIT B: GROUP PHOTO

Somehow, nine years out of ten we get these jaw-dropping sunny days. It wasn't even cold!

The parade consists of two components. The first one is the performance at City Hall and the strut down Broad Street (pictured in Exhibit B). Then we board buses and go down to South Philly, where the whole tradition originated, and we strut down 2 Street. The whole parade is quite a hike, especially 2 Street.

Our club marched at City Hall later than usual and didn't get to 2 Street until about 4:30. That's way later than we usually arrive there, and it meant that I got to experience being on 2 Street at night. It's a wild celebration. South Philly is a neighborhood, and the entire neighborhood turns out for the more intimate atmosphere. And by dark, everyone -- viewers and performers with one pathetic exception -- are full of spirits. (The pathetic exception is me.) Must say I did miss that one shot of Fireball I might have imbibed. But I stayed the ol' sobriety course.

I got home later than ever before, to find a lovely dinner cooked by The Fair. Whole family sat down together and ate. So I got to spend the day with my Two Street Stomper family, and the evening with my biologicals.

Speaking of biologicals, usually both daughters attend in person, but this year only The Fair did. That was okay, since the other offspring went to keep her dad company.

EXHIBIT C: She Loves Her Some Philly

It's so magical to spend the first day of the year dancing in outrageous satin, with a big group of fun and lively people!  Here's to another 10 parades!

SCOTUS in the Tank

 If anything about 2022 stands out to me, it's the Supreme Court decision to overturn Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey, both chopped with one blow of the axe.

I saw it coming, because an even less conservative court overturned a 1972 decision that affected organized labor. There will be more anti-labor decisions coming down the pike, including one against the Teamsters that will make it nearly impossible for unions to strike.

This conservative Supreme Court was never about unborn babies or concealed firearms. It's about creating a pro-oligarchy climate in America and entrenching the moneyed interests.

Trouble is, the Roe fiasco has shed new light on the Supreme Court as an institution. Its reputation has tanked.

Everyone is saying that this latest mid-term election wasn't a Red Wave because of Trump. I don't think that's true. I think the Red Wave was more like a still pond because of the Supreme Court. People just don't like the way it got loaded with ideologues so quickly. As we at "The Gods Are Bored" like to say, BAD FORM.

Recently, my daughter The Fair got a job at a lively new online newspaper called the Philadelphia Citizen. I've got to thinking about her good fortunes. In my youth I was unable to find a journalism job in a big city. So, in a way, my daughter is living my dream. But when I was her age, if I had needed an abortion, I could have walked into any clinic and gotten one. Our nation has gone backwards. The high court is off the rails.

The one bodily autonomy women retain is the ability to fill out a ballot and vote. I think they did it in 2022. I think they'll keep doing it. Justice needs to be not just for the rich, but for all.

A (Very) Short Chat with ChatGPT

Welcome, fellow sufferers on this mortal path! I'm Anne Johnson, hostess of "The Gods Are Bored." Long time no write, but hey, at least I'm not wasting your time.

Have you heard of this new Artificial Intelligence program called ChatGPT? You can ask a question about anything, and it will pour over the entire World Wide Web to craft an answer for you. This AI essayist is said to have all the knowledge of the world at its behest.

So, you know, almost like a Writing God, or some such.

Well, I put the blighted thing to the test, and it failed like an egg-sucking dog.

I went to all the trouble to log in, prove I wasn't a robot (ironic, eh?), get a numerical code on my phone, and then I could pose a question to the machine.

I kept it simple. I asked, "Are Gods bored?"

Here's its reply:

It is not possible for me to know whether or not gods, if they exist, experience boredom or any other emotion. Beliefs about the nature and characteristics of gods vary widely among different religions and belief systems. Some people believe that gods are all-knowing and all-powerful, and therefore do not experience boredom or any other negative emotion. Others believe that gods are imperfect beings who experience a range of emotions like humans do. Without more information about the specific beliefs of the person asking the question, it is not possible for me to provide a more specific answer.

Honestly, AI? You have access to the whole World Wide Web, and you didn't consult "The Gods Are Bored" to find the simple answer YES THEY ARE?

And here I was thinking I could get Chat GPT to write my blog for me, while I sit back and sip a hot cup of tea with a deserving bored Goddess! I'm crushed, I tell you. Crushed.

Going to the Polls with Dad

 We watch way too much CNN here at "The Gods Are Bored." It gets us all riled up where election results are concerned. So tonight I'm going to go to bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and listen to sports talk radio.

This year I used a mail-in ballot for the first time. It made me sad.

When I was a kid back in the 1960s, my dad always took me with him when he went to vote. He took me right in the booth with him, and it was so exciting when those curtains closed. I don't remember if he let me flip the levers. I doubt it, because he wasn't that cavalier. But I do distinctly remember the bustle of the polling place, the click of the curtain, the hush of the booth. And being with my dad, a staunch Republican who voted for Goldwater and Nixon. (Because Lincoln won the war.)

Of course I didn't think of it at the time, but when my dad made voting an event -- and showed how the process worked -- he created a comfort for me as a voter myself. When I went into a voting booth for the first time at age 21, I knew how it worked. I was comfortable.

There was only one time I didn't vote. It was a state election for governor and legislature. What the Hell. Why bother? Ahem, BAMMMMP!!!! So many Democrats stayed home that night that New Jersey wound up with a human pustule named Chris Christie.

EXHIBIT A: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN ANNE DOESN'T VOTE

Lesson learned! I don't shrug off those state contests anymore.

It's not the same, pushing a paper ballot into a drop box. How much fun is that? But I did it, and if I ever get any grandchildren, I'll make it an event -- let them put the ballot in the box, and then take them for cake, candy, and ice cream.

If you have a child, teach them to vote the same way you teach them to trick-or-treat.

Knock on wood, I am in fairly good health. It's my prayer that I some day get to shove a ballot in a box that has THIS guy's name on it.

EXHIBIT B: THE FUTURE I WANT TO SEE

Vote blue, no matter who!

Interview with a Bored God: Loki

 It's Friday night of Samhain weekend, and I wish I was up to more shenanigans ... but we're not getting any younger here at The Gods Are Bored.

[Knocking at door]

Oh! I know Who that is. It's Loki, checking in. Wait until he sees my new non-white easy chair! Let's give Him a warm, wonderful Gods Are Bored welcome, shall we?

[Anne opens door.]

Loki: Trick!

Anne: That's not how it works! You say "trick or treat."

Loki: I don't need a treat. Hey! Nice new chair! How about if I ...

Anne: Your Craziness, please. I have literally only had it three days!

Loki: Ah, I'm late to the party! You know what that chair needs? A little bit of magenta spray paint and a handful of parrot feathers.

Anne: So noted. No, really. I'll take care of it myself.

Loki: See that you do! But this time you called Me. What's up?

Anne: Just thanking You for Your advice to kick it in the broom closet. There's a brand new Christian club at my school called Sacred Outhouse, and ...

Loki: Sacred Outhouse? That's lit.

Anne: No, that's not the real name of the club, of course ... but it's close enough. The "Sacred" and the "Out" part are absolutely correct. Gods damn that Supreme Court! They flung wide the gates to this sort of rubbish.

Loki: So, what goes on at Sacred Outhouse?

Anne: Damn if I know! But a lot, and I mean a lot, of kids have signed on. Now they're wearing matching hoodies with a Crusader shield and a crucifix on the back.

Loki: Ouch.

Anne: Tell me about it! And what's worse is that this Bible-based club has leeched all the membership from my colleague Anna's club, Students Against Destructive Decisions. Anna lost her club stipend. And SADD is non-denominational.

Loki: Yeah, I can see that these two clubs aren't very compatible. Being a Christian is a destructive decision nine times out of ten.

Anne: I have a handful of student members of Sacred Outhouse in my homeroom. How long before they notice that I don't say "Under God" during the Pledge?

Loki: You didn't follow through with your plan to say, "One nation under Gods, Ancestors, and Nature Spirits," did you?

Anne: No. And again, my dear Trickster, thanks for the warning that I shouldn't! But it still burns me up that this Sacred Outhouse dodge is at my school right this minute, on the Friday before Samhain, having a "fall festival" fundraiser!

Loki: Ouch again. They just can't lay off Halloween, can they?

Anne: 39 other Fridays they could have scheduled their field day. Know what I mean?

Loki: Meanwhile you're being extra careful to keep your beliefs to yourself.

Anne: Right. And suppose I'm not the only Pagan in the building?

Loki: You're not. Trust Me.

Anne: What about the other Pagans?

Loki: My advice? Broom closet. Shit getting ready to pop in your country.

Anne: And what makes it worse? The club advisor for Sacred Outhouse is one of the union members that I rep. If she gets in trouble, I'll have to go in and hold her hand.

Loki: Meh. Throw her to the wolves.

Anne: I couldn't do that, Your Wiliness. See, Christians are Christians first and workers second. Me, I'm a worker first and a Pagan second. Workers can't be divided by anything.

Loki: And I see that court of yours has another case on the docket this year ...

Anne: Yep! Big Business vs. the Teamsters. And I know how that will go.

Loki: Me too. Well, My advice hasn't changed. Lay low. Bide your time. I can draw up some numbers on falling participation in Christianity if you'd like.

Anne: Really? You would do that for me?

Loki: Mmmm, no. BORING! Is it Mischief Night yet?

Anne: SUNDAY.

Loki: An appropriate day for Mischief Night. [rifling through cabinets] Wow, no magenta spray paint, Anne? I'm disappointed in you! Wait. What's this gold spray paint???

Anne: NO NOT THAT, THAT'S MY MUMMERS SHOE PAINT! Come back here! NO! NOT ON THE CAT! For the love of fruit flies, Loki!

Friends, I need to fly off and find a shiny thing to distract Loki before he turns Gamma Cat into an honorary Mummer. Whew. Such a chore for a tired teacher!

Snippets

 Nearly a month without "The Gods Are Bored!" Tells you how exciting my life is.

But in the interest of navel gazing I'll record some events.

*Thumbing my nose at the Supreme Court, but mindful of Loki's advice to lay low (see below), I took all of my students outside on a sunny day and showed them the Four Directions. Literally had them turn East, South, West, and North. And surprise! I'm having a much better year so far with this batch of kids.

*Went to a Renaissance Festival with my sister. When we sat at an ampitheatre to watch a show called "Puke and Snot," we were told by Snot that Puke had Covid. Snot asked if there was anyone in the audience who would like to read Puke's part of the script. And I guess my three readers know how that turned out! (Years of Fairy Festivals prepares one for such contingencies.)

*Got to know my students quickly, discovered that one of them is a backup quarterback for one of the powerhouse football teams in the county. When that student complained of a headache two days in a row -- and admitted he'd taken some tough hits in practice -- I alerted the nurse. Student was taken to the hospital and put on concussion protocol. Kind of put me off football for about ten minutes, but I couldn't stay away because

*The Philadelphia Eagles are undefeated! A big 6-0! Still I have to ask myself how I can support a game that scrambles the brains of sweet freshman students in my classroom.

*Speaking of Philadelphia, the aggressively mediocre Phillies are in the National League Championship Series. It's been a banquet in Philly lately.

*My school broke ground on a big new addition. It's being built over my assigned parking space, so I got a new space. The new space is closest to the Auto Tech shop, so I walk through there every day. It didn't take me long to notice the gleaming new Subaru Outback in one of the bays. Who knew? Subaru donated a brand new car to the school so students could learn about modern technology in cars! I like the Subaru I own, but I wasn't wedded to it. Until now. Anne will be Team Subaru forever.

*Today I got a Covid booster. My fifth Covid shot. Didn't make any plans for the weekend.

Well, last year was really challenging in the workplace. I'm knocking on wood, but so far this 2022/23 batch of freshmen is the best since way before the pandemic. They're still wiggly puppies, but they aren't writing expletives on each other's papers or punching the little kid when no one is looking. And they love the books sent to them by your generosity!

With no lint remaining in my navel, I big you farewell.

Lunar Faire New Jersey

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Out Shopping!" I'm Anne Johnson, and for once I got a raise this year. Time to spend, spend, spend!

Well, um. Not exactly. I'm actually losing money over last school year, because I quit all the after-school side hustles that padded my paycheck.

But pish, tosh! Last weekend was Dark Moon, and New Jersey is beset with this new event called Lunar Faire. It happens on New Moons and Full Moons, from 6:00 to 10:00 pm. This time it was close to my house, so I went.

I had high hopes for Lunar Faire, because the advertising for it includes "chaos" in the activities. And it is a dedicated Pagan event. How could I not have a good time?

If there's anything I've learned from writing "The Gods Are Bored," it's that you'd better gird your loins if you're going to say anything critical about a festival. Lots of people make money from vending and organizing festivals, and they don't appreciate feedback.

But in my search for information about Lunar Faire before I went, I found -- next to nothing. One short article about the two women who founded the event. That was it.

So if you're Googling Lunar Faire and finding this, I am going to be as candid as possible, so you can make a judgment about going.

The Lunar Faire I attended was held at Burlington County Fairgrounds, which is a good, large venue with lots of parking. And it turned out they needed those acres of parking, because this event was more than well-attended. It was crowded. There must have been 4,000 people there.

Mr. J and I went together. Two tickets cost us about $27. We got there about 45 minutes before dark and joined a throng of young, enthusiastic New Agers flocking into the faire.

Knock me over with a feather. I had no idea there were so many Pagans in South Jersey.

Lunar Faire is a night market. There are vendors with booths, selling merchandise. There were lots of crystals for sale, and jewelry, and candles, and tie-dye, and personal care products. There was a sound healing booth and several tarot booths. Stuff was affordable.

Uh oh. I've got to say it. The event was so crowded, it was hard to see what was in the booths. And then it got dark.

There was entertainment at Lunar Faire, but the darkness was a problem. There was a singer doing acoustic covers of classic rock at one end of the venue, and a small drum circle in the middle. I'm usually all in for drum circles, but this one had an odd vibe (at least to me). It seemed like the other people were enjoying it, though. It was dark.

The other entertainment was a drag queen show. And again, most of the spectators seemed to be loving it, but it was dark. The MC, Cookie Dough, had all the moves, but she was shrouded in shadow. And again, it was so crowded that Mr. J and I couldn't get close enough to really see what was going on.

I think there was a ritual -- at least the little piece of paper they handed out said there would be a ritual -- but there wasn't any real list of events to consult, no program, and no listing of events online. I didn't see the ritual, so I can't comment on it.

Mr. J and I wandered around for about two hours. We bought a brass candle holder and some moisturizer. Very affordable and high quality.

I guess what I want to say is, if I'm paying to get into a venue, I want to be entertained more. I want a list of activities at least posted where I can consult it, and those activities should be well-lit and variable. Most festivals that require an entrance fee have roving performers who interact with the crowd. Lunar Faire doesn't have that.

This is a very young event, like two years old or something. And for such a new event, it was extremely well-attended. I can't confirm that its popularity is due to Tik Tok influencers, but that's what I've heard.

Long sermon short, if you want to go somewhere in the dark where you will be surrounded by New Age people, or if you want to purchase items from Pagan-themed vendors, this is the place for you. But if you don't like crowds, and you're spoiled by decades of flawlessly crafted Fairy Festivals and earnest Pagan Pride Days  (I stand accused), you're likely to be disappointed.

Watch me get hexed for writing this.

The Great Wide Open

 Boy, is it ever hard for me to keep my mouth shut about my religion in my classroom! After all, we at "The Gods Are Bored" have dedicated ourselves to promoting and respecting deities who have been deprived -- by time or tide, or both -- of their praise and worship teams. So when a student comes in and proudly shows off his brand new, store-bought book from home called Celtic Mythology, ahem.

You know how "religion" turns into "mythology?" Some other religion steals its holidays and relegates its deities to "myth" status. The winning religion gets to keep the title of "religion," and the losing one gets flung in the dustbin of "myth." I tell you what. I'm not going to be the one who tells The Morrigan that She's a damn myth.

Well! That's actually an aside! Today's sermon is about something else.

For reference, here's a photo of the front of my school where I work:

EXHIBIT A: VO-TECH WHERE I WORK

Isn't that a gorgeous building? It was designed by the same architect who designed the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Yes, those are pillars! And above the pillars is a motto: "He Who Hath a Trade Hath an Estate."

What I want you to dwell upon, though, is that nice grassy lawn, and the lovely mature trees. The school was built in 1926. They just don't do it like this anymore. I would say there's about three acres of lawn in front. We also have a standard-sized football field and a baseball diamond out back.

Yesterday morning I was sitting at my teacher desk, conversing with a student who is sitting right up front in what I jokingly call the "teacher's pet seat." This student is a very quiet young lady.

The school will be having a pep rally next week, and the student asked me where pep rallies are held. (I teach freshmen.) I told her we all go out to the back fields and sit on the bleachers.

She said, "That's so much space out there. And there's so much out front. I've never seen so much open space before."

Reader, look at the photo and let that sink in.

My heart just broke.

Kids have said heartbreaking things to me before, but this one I guess just mangled my aorta because of my own lived experience. My school was bordered by a county park and was three miles from the vast swath of Antietam Battlefield. When I was that girl's age I could ride my bike to the Potomac River and sit all day by myself on the bank.

What kind of childhood has this poor girl had?

I do know that many of my students have to stay inside all the time because of crime, or repressive parents, or babysitting, or all of the above. Still it boggles my mind that someone has attained the age of 14 without ever having at least made one excursion to the beach just 50 miles away.

My students keep writer's notebooks, and sometimes I read about grandparents in the Dominican Republic, about riding horses and milking cows, and gathering eggs, and swimming in those gorgeous tropical playas. But I also read other notebooks in which the writer goes to school, goes home, locks the door, and stays inside. I remember one girl wrote, "I can't even sit on the stoop."

Tomorrow I will take all of my students outdoors onto that front lawn. I will literally point out the Quarters to them, and the motto on the building, and the soft grassy lawn, and the old trees. We will be present in gratitude to the open space that was a gift from the taxpayers of New Jersey to kids who want to fix cars.

If it's the most open space some of them have, then we'll honor it as such.