The Not So Great Retail Boycott of February 28

 Here at “The Gods Are Bored,” we get most of our news from progressive sources. This is how we heard about the retail boycott on February 28, 2025. And yes, we are participating.

Sadly, we are still squarely in the FA phase of this dangerous new administration. If your unvaccinated child has measles, you have proceeded to the FO phase prematurely. The rest of us, it’s going to take a while.

An economic boycott could be extremely helpful in bringing real change to our relationship with our corporate overlords. But not just a day when you put off that Amazon purchase until tomorrow. You see, the MAGA Fuck Arounders have also gotten wind of this scheme, and they are intentionally buying stuff today. This will more than cancel the effects of the boycott.

In order to be successful, an economic boycott would need to last until shortly before the next election. Like, from now until then. The Montgomery Bus Boycott lasted 381 days. More than a year! And all that time, those boycotters had to walk in the Alabama heat, or arrange transportation and depend on others. It was a huge sacrifice.

I don’t see many people in America willing to make a real sacrifice.

Case in point: Apple. If my phone breaks I will need a new one from some corporate overlord. I can’t just say, “No phone? La di dah! No one calls me anyway!” I could shop around, but at the end of the day I’m pretty stuck.

On the other hand, my phone is still pretty new. I certainly won’t need one in the next 381 days. But I am notorious for having the oldest model phone on the block. Most people like to have the new stuff.

Here’s the other thing: Most people who aren’t actively growing have enough clothing in their homes to last a decade. (I have more, I think.) Still we love to shop. We crave the new item. We want to look fashionable.

This is one aspect of my life, personally, that I can change. They’re gonna weep at the thrift store, but as for me, the economic boycott begins today and will continue for 381 days. I will darn my socks if I have to.

I don’t have an Amazon account. I never buy from them. They won’t miss me. But if ten million people vowed not to use Amazon for 381 days, there’s no way the Fuck Arounders would be able to pick up the slack.

If done effectively, these economic boycotts will put people out of work. We could have a depression. My feeling is, we are going to have ourselves a depression anyway, and a string of plagues too. Might as well get that Finding Out under way on a wider scale.

Personally I like the idea of not buying anything. I’m 66 with sensible shoes. I’m going to stockpile some cash for the day eggs cost $20 a dozen and I have to drive to Canada for a flu shot.

After today I have 380 more days without spending on non-necessities. It’s going to be a struggle. One struggle among many. La di dah.

Interview with a Bored (And Angry) Goddess: Chalchiuhtlicue

 You read that name right, "Gods Are Bored" fans! If the Goddess's has that many letters, She almost has to be an Original American deity, in this case, Aztec. Those people must have had some dexterity in their tonsils, let me tell you!

It's a cold Sunday morning here, so I have brewed up a pot of tea and am hosting the bored Goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, sacred to the Aztec peoples. Please give her a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome!

Chalchiuhtlicue: Don't give me anything warm! FUCK warm!

Anne: Now, dear Goddess, please. This is a family blog.

Chalchiuhtlicue: No it isn't. You never get past the censors.

Anne: Somehow that's kind of comforting to me right now. Along with the fact that no one reads this. However, Chalchiuhtlicue, let's talk about You. Your name has been making the news of late.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Is that supposed to matter to me? I used to have 20 major celebrations each year. I had My own pyramid! Now I'm just stewing in My swimming hole. The hotter it gets, the more steamed I get. And then? Hurricanes. You people deserve it.

Anne: You're preaching to the choir here, Chalchiuhtlicue. Am I pronouncing it right?

Chalchiuhtlicue: No European could ever hope to pronounce it right. But go ahead and mangle it. It's mildly amusing.

Anne: Well, I just wanted to praise and worship You and tell You that I will be calling the body of water previously known as the Gulf of Mexico, the Sea of Chalchiuhtlicue. Or, if I have 15 minutes to say a name, Chalchiuhtlicueyecatl. I don't suppose I was any more successful pronouncing that.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Not a bit.

Anne: Sorry.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Just think. That name rolled off the tongue of millions of My people as a pleasant brook flows over a stone.

Anne: I need a Tums.

Chalchiuhtlicue: And now I'm supposed to be happy that my mangled name is trotted into some feeble protest. While every year My swimming hole gets more and more like a sauna!

Anne: How about a nice slice of sweet potato pie?

Chalchiuhtlicue: Pie? That might work with those vain Greek deities, but MY PEOPLE GAVE YOU HATEFUL EUROPEANS THE SWEET POTATO. And what did we get in return? Smallpox. Influenza. You can take that pie and ...

Anne: Honestly, I'm willing to if it will improve Your temper! I just invited You over to encourage my three readers to adopt the term Chalchiuhtlicueyecatl. But I can see it's totally insufficient. I get it. I really do. The injustices heaped upon Your people by Europeans does not sit lightly with me.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Well, that inconsequential show of sympathy will at least keep Me from flooding your basement. Maybe.

Anne: Thank You for that! It would be a flick of the wrist for You, an angst-producer for me. All of my Mummers suits are down there, and my fairy festival clothes, and Omega Cat's boxes, and ...

Chalchiuhtlicue: Changing my mind here.

Anne: No! No! Don't change your mind! All glory, laud, and honor, great Goddess of the Waters of the World! Water is life, and modern European humans don't realize it, and You will have Your revenge soon. Very soon.

Chalchiuhtlicue: I know.

Anne: In the meantime, I intend to use the historically correct Chalchiuhtlicueyecatl as the name for the body of water to the immediate south of the continent erroneously known as North America.

Chalchiuhtlicue: I don't care one way or another, since I'm cooking in My own swimming hole. But you do you.

Anne: Look at this. A nice tall glass of iced sweet tea with lemon! A very modest European offering to Your overheated self.

Chalchiuhtlicue: Thank you. Your basement is safe. Can I chill in that fetching little pond behind your house?

Anne: I wouldn't. It's polluted to the plimsol line. Tell you what. The briny Absecon Inlet is just an hour's drive away. It has a nice Original American name. Let's go hang out there for the afternoon. I'll get my Under Armor. And my cashmere sweater. And my sweat pants. And my puffer coat. And my hat. And my gloves. And a scarf. And foot warmers. And wool socks.

Chalchiuhtlicue: I'll wait.

Whew! You never know about these deities, do you? They all seem pissed these days. Seems that my afternoon plans have changed. Wish me luck, friends. Chalchiuhtlicue is a bruiser. Rightly so, but wowsa.

My First Weigh-In on Project 2025

 Here I am again, blathering on “The Gods Are Bored.” And today I am going to be candid. I can’t predict to save my life. Since I was young I have been unable to see the future through anything but a foggy and self-important lens.

In and of itself, this wouldn’t be such a problem. But I have allowed the self-important piece of this equation to make me cheeky and snarky. Nowhere has this been more evident than in my sarcasm about Christian nationalists.

I was writing this blog in the Obama era. I absolutely could not imagine a moment in American history when Christian nationalists would take over the levers of power in government, in the courts, in significant portions of public opinion. To me these people were the butt of jokes for their backwardness and misogyny, their homophobia and doctrine of “pray and grow rich.”

Who’s laughing now?

The Supreme Court is a disaster. Precedent means nothing to these people. And now the dismantling of government protections begins in earnest with Project 2025. The wealthy and the gullible make excellent dance partners. And if Christian nationalism is anything, it’s the gullible tool of the powerful.

Maybe if I predict a dystopian future where only the rich thrive, waited on by a subservient class controlled by repressive religion, propaganda, and AI, it won’t happen. But this time I think I might be correct. Folks, it’s gonna get bad.

Part of me wants to sit back and watch the drama unfold. But a bigger part wants to rage against the machine. I don’t know what that will look like in the years to come, but oh well, la di dah, see this middle finger, Project 2025? It’s all for you.

Baby steps first. There’s a purchasing boycott on February 28. Buy nothing on that day. Not even groceries.

And as for me and my house, the buying boycott will persist. I have made it my calling not to use Amazon. I’ve written about that before. Now I’m adding Target. Walmart was already off the table.

A purchasing boycott seems like low-hanging fruit. I want to do so, so much more. Let’s see what opportunities arise.

The only prediction I make here today? I’m still teeing off against the oligarchy. Here, on this inconsequential blog. As always a vanity project, but hey. It’s where I stand.

One thing I know about Project 2025: In no time at all, 2026 will roll around. What happens then, you smug bunch of rich white bastards? FAFO.

Maybe with the Monkey Man

 Another installment of “The Gods Are Bored,” writing-with-my-phone edition!

This is my friend Rocky Wilson. Throughout my decades of writing this blog, I have always called him The Monkey Man. Here he is, holding his monkey. The monkey’s name is Bongo.

Rocky is a living legend in South Jersey. I’m not going to confine his fame to Camden, where generations of schoolchildren have loved him, or Haterfield, where he grew up. Dude is adored everywhere.

I mean, look at the photo. Captures him perfectly. He’s just adorable, case closed.

On a fateful Friday the 13th last December, Rocky was crossing a street in a shore town to go take a polar plunge in the mighty Atlantic. He was hit and flattened by a car, breaking numerous bones but not even denting his spirit. He’s in rehab now, and I have gone to see him a number of times.

I found out about Rocky’s injuries on Facebook, because - like so many other friends - I had let him drift. But his plight galvanized me to be better about connecting authentically.

Couldn’t have chosen a better friend to do this with. The last time I went to see him, he had me in stitches as he described life on a Vermont commune, presumably in the late 1960s. He might have lost a step or two with a broken hip, but his wit is as sharp as ever.

You should see the stack of get-well cards this guy got! Numbering in the hundreds, with more arriving every day. People are driving over from Philly, and up from the shore, to see him.

Tomorrow the Philadelphia Eagles will be honored with a Super Bowl parade. I am dying to go, but the logistics are daunting, and from being a Mummer I know well what boozy Philly crowds can be like. Instead of going to the parade, I think I will take Rocky a cheesesteak and watch it with him. The parade, that is. Not the cheesesteak.

Beauty of it is, Rocky got pretty pulverized in that accident, but he is bouncing back. Commune life circa 1969 will do that for you. A very hardy guy, my Monkey Man.

There’s so much to write about, so many bored Gods to interview! I’ve got to get busy with my pies and tea.

Rocky first, though. He may not be a God, but I would lay odds that he’s a Titan.

Weekly Life Top Ten

 This is a little exercise I began 10 days ago, inspired by a student who has been doing it for years.

Week of February 14, 2025

1. Elon Musk taking over the government.

2. The passing of Jackiesue Roycroft Denney (see below)

3. The passing of Jeff Marsden

4. Eagles in the Super Bowl

5. My LARP games

6. Snowstorms

7. The unaffordable housing market

8. Andy Kim

9. Sunlight Policy Center

10. Wholly Rollers

Wowsa! This is a good way to think up future posts! I cannot remember if I ever wrote about the Wholly Rollers. Probably, but it’s worth a second look.

Andy Kim is the new Senator from New Jersey. The Sunlight Policy Center is a pit of evil. Time to write about that too.

May She Have Found the Fucking Summer Lands

 We at “The Gods Are Bored” are mourning the loss of sister blogger Jackiesue Roycroft Denney, author of Yellow dog Granny Jackiesue and I never broke bread together, but we managed to build a friendship through our blogs and phone calls and social media. She was a pip.

Nothing I like better than a salty lady who shares my politics, religion, and general philosophy of life. We both wanted to see the same people get fucked. We both liberally distributed f-bombs (well, she kind of lapped me on that, but I fucking tried to keep pace). We celebrated each other’s milestones, and I’m happy to say that my oldest daughter did actually get to meet her in Texas. But I never did. Fuck.

One time when the Philadelphia Eagles were playing the Dallas Cowboys, I kept track of the game by counting the number of times Jackiesue posted FUCK on her Facebook page. She loved me, but her affection did not extend to the Eagles. I think she passed on Saturday as to not have to witness the fucking Eagles appearing in the fucking Super Bowl. She would have had one word to say about the Eagles’ decisive victory. You can guess it.

Jackiesue was a larger-than-life presence in the small town of West, Texas. My daughter reported that the citizens of West deferred to her as if she was a Grand Wazoo. Small wonder at that. She was always doling out home made cake balls and potato salad and casseroles for 60 people, or else she was collecting money for the residents of the local nursing home or driving Meals on Wheels.

On April 17, 2013 I overheard the morning news, and they were talking about an enormous explosion in West, Texas. It made the national news. I was sick with worry about Jackiesue until I saw her back online again. At the young age of 70 she was front and center in all of the rescue efforts and the subsequent aid and comfort to the displaced.

What do you think about the spirit world? I can’t even picture Jackiesue lolling around in some paradise with a harp in her hand and a hosanna on her lips. I like to think she will blissfully haunt all the miscreants and morons who she opposed so fucking successfully while here in the apparent world. 

Of all the strange things to find at the thrift store, I found a geode the day Jackiesue died. It’s on my shrine in her honor, as she always gave the Goddess shiny things for other people.

Well, she’s somewhere with that badass cat of hers, flinging the f-bomb and (I hope) haunting the horrible. She had the good fortune to enjoy the youth of her great-grandchildren and robust health until just recently.

The awesome outlaw friend I never met in the flesh but held in my heart. Here’s to you, JS. Go give those fuckers hell. You’re just the woman for the job.

Zumba Goals

 Hi there, “Gods Are Bored” fans! I’m here today to sing the praises of Zumba.

Yes, you heard that right. Zumba. It’s either the place where young, nubile cheerleaders go to get their cardio, or the place where sagging senior citizens go to try to keep their hearts working at all. Or both.

They say that you need to do something regularly for six months in order for it to become a habit. I’ve been doing Zumba since the pandemic, so it qualifies as a habit. (During quarantine I did online classes.)

No doubt you know what Zumba is, but here’s a quick definition nevertheless. Zumba is a form of aerobic exercise that uses Indian and Latin music to encourage vigorous flailing of limbs and stomping more or less to a beat. The studio I go to is dark except for disco lights (perfect), and the music is deafening (also perfect). Nobody can see you fuck up, and nobody can hear you groan. Although Zumba instructors always tell the newcomers that nobody judges you …. pffffft! Of course you’re being judged! Especially if you reserve someone else’s favorite spot! There are whole cliques who go out for drinks together after class! If you don’t want to be judged, you better arrive late and stay in the back by the door.

Zumba instructors use the same songs over and over again, only introducing a new routine about once every 8 weeks. This means the regulars and the cliques learn the routines, and the newbies often flounder. If I hadn’t taken Zumba online for months during quarantine, I would have had the dickens of a time learning it. And I did tap dance from the time I stood up and walked. (For real. In my first recital they pushed me out on the stage in a stroller.)

Most Zumba instructors don’t say another word between “Let’s warm up” and “Let’s cool down.” But my current instructor, who I adore, is a raucous Guatemalan who makes us croak like crows and otherwise shout and trill during and between routines. We sound like a flock of parrots who have missed a few meals. Juni (he’s the instructor) says this helps with our breathing. No use begging to differ.

Two years ago, before I wandered into Juni’s class and braved the judgment of the clique, I couldn’t climb the stairs at my school without gasping for breath. Now I sprint up like a spring chicken. (Not really, but I no longer huff and puff.)

I love Zumba. For real there are young cheerleaders in the class, and I like judging them. There’s also a very charming and handsome fellow who can really cut a rug. And Juni is so fun and flamboyant.

You’re supposed to have goals when you exercise. Until recently I didn’t really have one beyond the whole “get up the stairs at school” thing. But that has changed. I now have a goal.

My goal is to outlast the current commander in chief.

Cha cha cha! CAW CAW CAW. One session at a time.

Imbolc 2025

 Folks, I don’t know if you think about the nature of deities, but I do. And I’m not sure those Ancient Greek deities are worth shrugging off.

Last night there was a terrible plane crash at a busy intersection in Philadelphia. A medical transport jet had just taken off with a crew of four and two passengers (tanks full of fuel) when it just nose-dove and exploded.

The passengers were a child who had just been released from Shriners Hospital and her mom. Thru were going home.

There’s no explaining a tragedy like this in the Judeo-Christian worldview. How could an all-loving, all-knowing deity put a child through harrowing treatment, only to have her die the moment she survived it? If you can explain it, I will listen.

But Apollo, now, Apollo’s response would be completely understood. Apollo might have considered the child marked as dead (because He caused illness), only to be thwarted by the mortal doctors (when only Apollo can heal). If one were to ask, “How can a tragedy like this happen?” there would be an answer, at least. The cure angered Apollo because it tried to usurp His power.

Maybe messy, human, complicated Gods are what this world needs.

We don’t really know how messy and complicated Queen Brigid the Bright was. She guards the home and hearth, which suggests She might not have taken kindly to disruptions in that purview. I wish right this moment that She would reach out and help my daughter The Heir, who is yet again putting in a bid on a house coveted by the many rapacious flippers out there. But I haven’t been diligent in my Brighid worship, so if She’s a messy deity, she has every reason to ignore my wishes.

Case in point? How am I celebrating Imbolc? I’m at the beach, walking the frigid shoreline. Messy messy Anne, trying (and failing) to ditch her worries at low tide.

Weekly Life Top Ten

 Here at “The Gods Are Bored,” we know genius when we see it. One of my students this year is a genius.

I won’t go into detail to protect this student’s privacy. But by all the Bored Gods, my jaw hit the floor when I saw the scope of a personal project he has been doing for the last five years. Completely self directed.

Public school doesn’t serve such students well. It’s all about pegs and holes, and anyone outside the parameters doesn’t usually get credit for their outside endeavors. I truly hope this young person finds a way to use these prodigious talents in our cold cruel world.

But enough sermonizing! This is what the student has done. Stemming from an interest in the Billboard Top 100, he has created a Weekly Life Top Ten, in which he assesses what has been most on his mind each week.

It’s an idea worth stealing. I’m going to do it!

ANNE’S PREMIER WEEKLY LIFE TOP 10

(Forgot to add that we omit family members and pets, as of course they occupy the bulk of our thoughts.)

1. Government in chaos

2. Eagles winning championship 

3. Union busting propaganda online

4. Weight

5. Bronxwood (novel)

6. How Sophocles could improve the end of “Oedipus Rex.”

7. Sea glass

8. Student absent since January 20 (she came back today, whew!)

9. Eagles fan who died celebrating by falling off a greased light pole

10. Mabel Stark (novel)

I’m going to try to do this every week. My student uses spreadsheets to track trends in his thought processes (!) but that’s not in my skill set.

The student who was absent is Hispanic, so I’m sure you know what I was thinking.

The Only Time To Be in Philadelphia

 Yo, welcome to “The Gods Are Bored,” bro! Grab a cheesesteak and a beer and GO BIRDS!

I have lived just outside Philadelphia for more than 35 years. I never thought I would land where I have. But here I am.

Philadelphia has a reputation for being a tough city.  Personally I haven’t found it to be any tougher than the other cities I have called home. Show me the city of a million people where everyone greets each other with a hearty handshake. Maybe in Canada?

Yes, Philadelphians are notoriously grumpy. No one likes us, we don’t care.

The one time when Philadelphians are jovial to one another is when either the Phillies or the Eagles have made the playoffs. We don our gear and say “Go Birds” to each and every stranger. For a few brief weeks there’s an emerald glow to all interactions.

Case in point: I don’t ever go into the city at night anymore. But last night I did! There was a drone show over the iconic Art Museum in honor of the Eagles advancing in the playoffs.

I met my daughter The Fair in Rittenhouse Square (ah, nice rhyme!) and we walked down to the museum. It was cold as the Arctic tundra, but when we got walking it wasn’t so bad. 

The crowd was cheerful, the cheerleaders were cute, and the drone show - well, to truly enjoy a drone show you need to be there. Walking back to the El station, we shouted “Go Birds” to everyone wearing Eagles gear, which was pretty much everyone.

Behind us you can see our museum, tastefully decorated. This city is a class act.

My bro, there’s no better anesthesia than a successful sports team. When your team is winning, you don’t have to dwell in the real world. Everything is green, everyone is stoked, every jabroni keeps his rude comments to himself. If the team is winning, we’re all in this together.

It’s nice while it lasts. Fly Eagles Fly!

Interview with a Bored God: Apollo

 For the love of fruit flies. He is as handsome as they all said he was. My aging heart is aflutter. Please give a warm, wonderful Gods Are Bored welcome to Phoebus Apollo!

Anne: I’m sorrry, great Sky Archer, but I am in very, very low spirits today.

Apollo: You mean about this new leader and all his reign portends?

Anne: Yes.

Apollo: This is my doing.

Anne: WHAT?

Apollo: You heard me.

Anne: But, Phoebus Apollo! Why?

Apollo: That sinking feeling in your soul, Anne? It’s hubris. First you laughed and jeered at the Jehovah prayer warriors and supremely underestimated their power. Then you asked my sister Aphrodite for help with a spell and then neglected Her shrine. The infamous “dead mouse on the altar” episode.

Anne: Oh snap.

Apollo: And the final blow? Showing a YouTube video to your students called “Apollo Was Evil” by some smartass podcaster. What were you forgetting amidst all this, Anne?

Anne: That you Greek deities are not only immortal, but abundantly supplied with human traits like fury.

Apollo: Sums it up nicely. Enjoy that heaping helping of mea culpa you’re going to be feasting upon. My siblings have had enough of your disrespect. And while we’re at it, we’re paving the way for the Jehovah people to wreck things good and proper. You deserve it, and your blighted (in every respect) country deserves it. We will enjoy Our front row seats.

Anne: I am guilty as charged, Phoebus Apollo. How can I reverse this curse? Oh no! You have the power to unleash bird flu!

Apollo: Indeed I do. Plagues are my thing, both causing and curing. And I am not in a curing mood.

Anne: What can I do? You aren’t deaf to pleading. Help me make this right.

Apollo: Start by developing some humility. Deep six that flippant attitude. I know that’s what has attracted your three readers, but it’s not acceptable. Gods are Gods. Please be aware of that.

Anne: This has occurred to me. I’m at fault here. I feel like I need to make a serious reparation. 

Apollo: Nothing less than a pilgrimage to Delphi will do. Just so you know.

Anne: I hate traveling. I have only left the USA as far as Canada.

Apollo: Suit yourself. The damage is done, and I have decreed the cure. Steer clear of birds. Just a helpful tip.

And He’s gone without saying goodbye. No amount of tea and pie would matter anyway.

Seeking the Spheres to Connect Them

Welcome back to “The Gods Are Bored!” I’m Anne Johnson (still and always), and I’m typing with one finger. Guess it’s like doing things with one hand behind my back.

The title of this post comes from a Walt Whitman poem called “A Noiseless Patient Spider.” The poem is about the soul’s attempts to seek connection.

In the past few years, as I interacted with people on Facebook, I would often be quite surprised by their coldness and distance when I would see them in person. I would comment warmly and faithfully on all the photos they put up of pets and peeves. Then, in a true social situation, I would expect authentic connection, only to be met with bafflement on the other person’s part.

At the same time, my sphere of true connection shrank to bones. I have no close friends. When I am off work I socialize with my nuclear family and occasionally my sister and siblings-in-law.

It’s a narrow view of the world.

Last week, via Facebook, I discovered that one of my dearest former friends, the Monkey Man, had been hit by a car and was well nigh crushed. Tells you all you need to know that I wasn’t sure he would remember me when I showed up at his rehab center. But he did. We had a lot to talk about.

How could I have let this wonderful person go in favor of a computer screen? 

Well, for one thing, my job exhausts me. And I have joined this larp group full of fun people who I wouldn’t call friends. Yet.

But no more excuses. I need to form real bridges. It’s my new goal for 2025.

Ha ha! Isn’t it rich that I’m announcing this resolution on a blog? Ironic. But it is a goal.

Maybe there’s a bored deity who will help me. They sure understand this kind of isolation.

I’m Anne Johnson, and I’m an Addict.

 My addiction is social media.

Like other addicts, I’m quick to say, “Well, I’m not as bad as other people.” But “bad” isn’t a continuum. At least for me.

I could also say, “Well, there are circumstances.” My old laptop isn’t serving me well anymore, and now I do everything on my phone. I’m typing this with one finger.

Social media exists to create user engagement. The more time you spend on it, the more the algorithm tweaks your content. You like cats? A million cute kitten videos are at your command. You want to end the oligarchy? You’ll find your people, thanks to the oligarchs themselves. They put up with radical left wingers the way the tobacco companies offered low tar cigarettes.

I feel very fortunate that I never engaged with X or TikTok. But it’s so easy to spend 45 minutes scrolling Facebook. I’m going to see New Jersey sea glass and stunning photos of turkey vultures. I’m going to smack down anti-union propaganda and discover that my friend the Monkey Man has been hit by a car. On Instagram I am going to see my daughter The Fair’s personal and professional content. It’s so hard to back away.

The precipitating factor in my decision to curb my impulses is the decision by that mutant Zuckerberg to curtail fact checking. If we are in a car accelerating on Hitler Highway, I suddenly don’t want to take in the scenery. Who wants to gawk at a  hellscape?

So I am back here on “The Gods Are Bored,” punching the air for no one in particular. Like so many sensible people, I feel defeated and anxious. That mindset doesn’t lend itself to engaging content, but I’ll try. My broken brain needs the re-set.

I have content moderation on this blog now, so your communication may not get seen right away. But I will get to it.

It took me 25 minutes to type this, and that’s 25 minutes I spent somewhere other than the toxic platforms.

One day at a time.

My Very Inspired Museum Idea

 Hi! Remember me? I'm Anne Johnson, by golly, and today I applied for Medicare!

Time to start posting in large print, so I'll be able to see what I've written.

Just kidding! I'm hale and hearty, as fine a specimen of crone as you'll find anywhere.

On April 1 I went into Philadelphia to meet my daughter The Fair at the Macy's department store that's right across the street from City Hall. This Macy's is located in the flagship store for the John Wanamaker chain, which I think was local to Philly before it went out of business.

The building dates to a time when going to the department store was an Event. There are hand-tiled mosaics in the entryways, and there's a central atrium with an eagle statue. Above the statue on the second and third floors are the enormous pipes of a huge organ. There are still two organ recitals per day, with a real live person playing the music. In the atrium you can see all five floors of the building. These days the top two floors are dark.

We got there during the organ recital, and it was so beautiful it took my breath away. Prettier than a church, for sure.

But quickly I noticed that the store was almost empty of people. There were a few advanced senior citizens listening to the music, but otherwise it wasn't crowded at all. When Fair and I went to the third floor to look at linens and such, we were the only people on the entire floor. Literally the only customers, and one employee wandered by after we had been there an hour. It felt spooky, like we had stayed inside somehow after closing time.

Truly sad.

I began reminiscing to Fair about how department stores were when I was a kid. How you would dress up to go there, and how each department had multiple employees ready to help you with anything. How bustling the stores were. They had tea rooms and restroom attendants and managers that strolled around in fancy suits. So swanky!

As we headed out of the palatial old building, I descended into gloom. Macy's won't keep that store open forever, if no one shops there. Then what happens to all the mosaics, the organ, the eagle, the marble columns?

That's when I had my brainstorm. The whole thing could be a National Museum of American Retail!

Can you imagine a re-created department store circa 1940, with vintage clothes and sundries and appliances and toys? Docents dressed up like salespeople? And of course the organ recitals would go right on, as well as the Christmas displays the store always does on the holiday. This could be such a fun museum! Interactive, you know? A floor where kids could play with Lincoln Logs and jacks and hug teddy bears and put their feet in those measuring things for shoes. A maze of clothing racks to run through. And I don't know about you, but I would completely froth at the mouth over a display of 1940s-era formal wear.

The building is already there. It's already a department store. It's nine freakin' blocks from Independence Hall!

See what happens when you attain geezerhood, as I have? You start pining for the good ol' days of epic department stores, and you realize those days are bygone. So then, as your own bones would fit into many a museum at this point, you start to think of fabulous museum ideas.

Ah, me.

KEY CHANGE

How long has it been since I've written? No matter. I did a thing.

In New Jersey there are stray cats that live under the boardwalks along the shore. That is, until they come live with me! Behold my new feline, appropriately named Taffy!

Yes, she's goofy-looking, and yes, she climbs every level. She pushes stuff off on the floor and grabs whole chunks of food to drag away. And if we scold her, she says "Waddya mean I can't have spaghetti? Fuggedabbout it."

Taffy didn't look like this when we got her. She's put on a good pound, and her fur is fuller. She wants to know where I've stashed her surf board, and I don't have the heart to tell her she's now 55 miles from the beach.

Until we meet again, whenever that is, I remain,

Your correspondent from the cobwebbed corners,

Anne Johnson

Don't Do the Magic If You Can't Face the Tragic

 Welcome to "The Gods Aren't Bored, At Least in My Classroom!" I'm Anne Johnson, and I have been teaching nothing but Greek literature since before the winter break. This means I have had to wrestle with the stories of the Greek pantheon through the lens of modernity. It's been interesting.

Today, however, I have a serious and stern lecture for those of you young striplings who are thinking of doing magic workings.

It's fashionable these days to think one can hex and spell and bane with impunity. I'm here to tell you, that's not the case. When you set out to do a hex on that person who is making your life a circle of Hell, be very careful how you word your spell. I mean, very careful. Also, choose your deity helper wisely. Some deities don't like to be "used," particularly by careless moderns who don't pay proper, culturally exact, respect.

There is a person who continues to make my life a circle of Hell. Last spring I started a bane spell on her, and I didn't set out the proper parameters for the outcome. Mistake.

After starting the spell, the following things happened to me:

1. Andy N. Condor died suddenly of unexplained causes. I flew all the way to Salt Lake City to meet him in 2019, and I promised to return in 2029. Now they're making a statue of him.

2. I met the closest neighbor to my sweet mountain property only after he drunkenly accosted me on a dark, deserted road, with a German shepherd in tow, taking particular umbrage with my New Jersey license plates. Not feeling so safe on Anneland anymore.

3. Brooks Robinson died. Okay, you had to be there, I suppose, to see little 10-year-old Anne idolize this particular saint of a human being. He was the favorite athlete of both Mr. J and myself, old, yes, but still. Losing two of my heroes in as many months was a blow.

4. The person I'm doing the bane work against had control of my schedule at work and gave me the worst students in the school. This has been one of the hardest years of my teaching career, and the loathed supervisor is still there.

5. Again completely unexpectedly, my cat Gamma developed severe weight loss and was diagnosed with aggressive lymphoma. We had to send him across the Rainbow Bridge.

6. Breast cancer scare. Forever more I will be on the mammogram fast track.

That's a heaping helping of bad juju there for just a five-month span. And yes, it might all be a coincidence. But dang. All that stuff at once?

This is where you would expect me to offer the free advice to quit the bane work. But I haven't done that. I have not wavered. The only critique I have to give myself is the wording I used when I initiated the spell. It was too strong. And if you haven't noticed, it's hard to re-word a spell once you've set it into motion. It's not like editing a blog post, let me tell you.

When we choose to work magic, we have to be prepared for blowback. The spell I chose to work didn't have any verbal instructions, just physical ones. Left to my own devices for the wording, I employed too much hyperbole. I took the work too lightly.

Don't take magic lightly. But do it all the same. It's a tool against the oppressor, a tool that is ancient and holy.

In lighter news, my Mummers club won the 2024 championship! Follow the link to see our routine. I appear onscreen at around the 3 minute mark briefly as the club frolics around the street cameraman.

Two Street Stompers 2024: West Side Shipping

New Birds in the Yard

 If they gave out awards for trash picking, my daughter The Heir would garner the gold. But if you think about it, championship trash picking is intrinsically rewarding. You come home with better stuff than some stupid trophy.

Yesterday we had a little pre-Thanksgiving get-together here at Chateau Johnson, since the Heir is going to Harrisburg to have Thanksgiving with her significant other's family. When Heir and her s.o. arrived at our house yesterday, I head a little hubbub in the front yard. Then she came to the door and said, "Mom, there's someone here to see you!"

EXHIBIT A: Someone

It was a breezy afternoon. The birds were teeter-tottering back and forth, and their wings flap too. The unit still had its sale tag (although not the price).

Heir trash picked this from in front of a house in Germantown. It was in a plastic garbage bag at the curb. She lugged it all the way to West Philadelphia before she unwrapped it to see if it was damaged. That's a bus and a regional rail line and another bus.

It works perfectly.

EXHIBIT B: L'Oiseau en Up de Close

If I had stacks and stacks of cash, my whole yard would be covered with such wonderful things. But this is far sweeter than buying a dozen silly metal lawn ornaments. This one was free!

EXHIBIT C: L'autre Oiseau

This is the happy outcome of teaching your youngsters to sift through other people's discards. Both of my daughters learned trash picking at my knee, but living in the city they can elevate their achievements to new heights.

Never mind that they both have jobs they like, jobs that make a positive difference in their communities. Never mind that they both have amiable gentlemen as partners. My kids can trash pick. Say what you want, that's a skill.

In Which I Ponder the Ultimate Fate of My Altra Lone Peak 6 Trail Runners

 Wow! Look at the length of that title! Might be a Gods Are Bored record! Long story short, I'm at a crossroads with my beloved Altra Lone Peak 6 Trail Runners. It's decision time.

A little background information first.

My feet are the part of my body that scream "She's a witch! BURN HER!" I have bunions, hammer toes, and fallen arches. Between 2009 and 2021 I didn't have one single pair of comfortable shoes. I had to size up two numbers to find anything that would fit over my gnarly feet.

Finally, in desperation, I went with The Fair to R.E.I. to look at their shoes. If there's no R.E.I. in your hood, let me introduce you: It's an outdoor goods emporium that manages to be rugged and bougie simultaneously. Not my kind of shopping experience, necessarily, but desperation will do that to you.

Fair and I went to the shoe department, and a nice outdoorsy kinda guy listened to my foot woes and disappeared into the stockroom. He returned with a box. When he unwrapped the goods inside, Fair exclaimed, "Ew! Don't buy those, they're hideous!"

Undeterred, I tried them on. It was like Dorothy landing back in Kansas with Toto in her arms. Ugly they might have been, but Altra Lone Peak 6 Trail Runners were the absolute tits.

EXHIBIT A: ALTRA LONE PEAK 6

Fair wasn't lying. They aren't things of beauty. But they are joys forever.

Altras are lightweight and arch-support-free, with zero drop and roomy toe boxes. The price point is competitive. The colors are a bit ... umm ... intense, but oh well! When you have witch feet, you'll settle for any hue.

And boy, did I settle. I settled right into those Altra puppies like I was born in them. I was such a satisfied customer that I joined the Altra fan page on Facebook. There, when I wistfully commented that I wish I could get Altras in black leather, I was led to Altra Torins. In shiny black leather. The best old lady teacher shoes ever.

So I had a pair of Altra Lone Peak 6 and a pair of Altra Torin 5. Then I bought a second pair of both. Then, in an uncharacteristic burst of self-indulgence, I bought the Altra Lone Peak waterproof hiking boots. For Anneland, and boy oh boy are they perfect.

This is where the Ultimate Fate part comes in.

It's November. That time of year when the Philadelphia Mummers Parade is coming into view.

Last year one little thing marred my Mummers Parade bliss. My feet hurt. The shoes I bought at the thrift store and painted gold might have been two sizes too big, but they still bit my bunions savagely.

My first pair of Lone Peak Trail Runners have given me two good years and are still rocking on. But I need a pair of gold shoes for the parade. Once I douse the trail runners in gold spray paint, they won't be good for daily use anymore. But they will give me many awesome struts on Broad Street...

It's a quandary.

I have until December 31, 2023 to make a final decision. I'm inclined to sacrifice the daily use of my first pair of Altra Lone Peak 6 Trail Runners on the altar of having a super comfortable pair of golden slippers to strut in during every Mummers Parade for the rest of my life.

Sacrifices, sacrifices! Let no one say Anne Johnson doesn't sweat for her art.

In Which I LARP

Welcome back to "The Gods Are Bored," if you've kept the faith all this time. My name is Anne Johnson, and I talk to book case brackets and bored deities. Not necessarily in that order.

It's no secret that I've been struggling at work since September. Mightily. But this here girl knows her some struggle. That which does not kill me only makes me more stubborn.

One gambit that has always worked for me when I'm struggling is to veer off into a fantasy world. And knowing this about myself, I have to wonder: Where has LARP been all these years that it took me so long to find it?

Since I myself didn't know what LARP was until about 2019, I'm going to attempt to define it for you. LARP stands for Live Action Role Play. Basically you join a group, create a character for yourself that fits the parameters of whatever game that group is playing, and you go off into the woods to be that character for a weekend with lots of other people doing the same thing.

Like, dang. This was my entire childhood in the 1960s. 

There is, of course, a big difference between pretending a fallen log is a dragon and riding it while your buddies slash the underbrush with sticks (1965) and attending a modern LARP (2023). LARPs are, so far as my limited understanding goes, based on rules that have descended from Dungeons & Dragons. In other words, the whole thing is complicated. It's almost akin to going to an exotic foreign port as a tourist who knows a few basic phrases of the language and nothing else.

Not only that, these LARPers really know their stuff. They have fabulous gear and deep understanding of the process. They camp overnight at the LARP property from Friday until Sunday! Again, dang. Hats off. This is serious fun.

Several times before the pandemic I attended this LARP and gave it up as a botch. I just couldn't get it at all. It didn't help that I was clearly at least a decade older than the other "older" players, and basically old enough to be almost everyone's mom.

But last spring, this group of LARPers started a whole new campaign. I went down a few times to help spruce up the property, and I got to know them. They, in turn, took me under their wings and helped me fit in. Since everything was new in a fresh campaign, I was a little less lost (only a little).

This fall, LARP has saved me.

My character is Feather. She has an arcane shield and direct knockback, level five wing it, arcane restore, and umami blood type. She has joined a monster-fighting vanguard as a healer. If that makes no sense to you, I totally get it. Still wrapping my own noggin around it.

The LARP is held on a private property near the Pinelands. It's part piney woods and part Christmas tree farm, all tucked away from the world of public education and highway upgrades. The people are smart, funny, cheerful and youthful. There are golems, and basilisks, and hydras, and zombies, and booby traps, and lava pits, and then dinner is served.

I have attended three events since school started. The game is held once a month.

When I set off for LARP last weekend on an early Saturday morning, I was so beaten down and dispirited that I mulled just driving to the beach instead to spend the day pacing some lonely stretch of boardwalk. Instead I went to the game, and it totally breathed life into this withered brain of mine.

You want to get LARP in a nutshell? I was with a group of players, and a vulture happened to fly overhead. I launched into my whole Sacred Thunderbird prayer, which invariably draws strange looks, and instead of those s. l., the whole group that I was with dropped their gear and started praising the Sacred Thunderbird without really knowing what they were praising. When they discerned that it was a carrion bird, they praised it with all the enthusiasm of true Vulture believers!

I think I have found a new tribe.

Readers, I'm still wading through the Gods Are Bored archives, excising spam comments. It's a herculean task, but heartwarming to see all the great comments left on this site by so many of you, over and over again. May the bored Gods bless you, early and often!

Huge Housekeeping Chore

I'm going to make this quick because Blogger just ate my more polite post.

My blog comments section, going back years, is full of bad spam. There's no easy way to delete the bad comments. I'm going to have to look at each and every post and hand-delete the spam.

I have begun this project because the stats reveal that half my readership is in the nation of Singapore (?) and I'm getting thousands of views a day on a blog with less than 250 subscribers.

And so I have turned on moderation (already caught a dozen spammers), and I'm going back laboriously through each blog post and deleting the spam.

In August 2020, a single spammer put a comment on every single post I wrote in 2019.

I don't even want to think about the thousands of blog posts I have written. They all have to be checked. I'll look at it like climbing a mountain: one batch at a time. The last thing I want is to wake up some morning and find that Google has excised "The Gods Are Bored" because of criminal activity through its comments section. This blog is my life's proudest work, and I'm going to get it all cleaned up and protected from further pollution.

Thank you for your patience while I perform this essential task.

There is a future for "The Gods Are Bored," trust me. Wait until you hear my plans to host the entire Greek pantheon in my classroom for a whole marking period!

Dark Night of the Soul

 The bored Gods know I've been through some things and have had some dark times. This is one of those times.

On or about August 7, I got a call from the schedule director at my school. He told me I had been moved from freshmen to seniors for my entire school schedule. In 15 years I had never taught seniors. I have always made it abundantly clear that I like freshmen.

Not only do I have seniors, I have all the seniors who don't qualify for Honors or Advanced Placement. Our school also sends our best and brightest seniors to the junior college. So the seniors I have are mostly male and mostly cashed out already. I gave them a questionnaire about their reading habits (or lack thereof) and only one of 76 students reported liking to read.

Two teachers of seniors quit last spring. The only other teacher of seniors this year has all the Honors and Advanced Placement seniors. She is starting her sixth year, while I am starting my 15th.

Rarely does my reality match my anxieties about what might happen, but the first two and a half weeks of this school year are coming damn close. Students who flounder academically are more likely to act out. They are more likely to have poor attendance. And if they have perfected any skill, it's manipulating the system.

I have poured vast amounts of energy into engaging these students, and the best I can say is that they are not openly defiant. But I am dreading each and every morning and coming home exhausted every afternoon.

No worries! Only five more years to go after this one! [Sarcasm]

It's not clear who made the decision to put me in this position. The man who called me on August 7 blamed the woman upon whom I had already initiated banework. She, in turn, told me to my face that she had no hand in the schedule.  It could have been the principal himself. He only cares whether or not the students are wearing their uniforms and IDs, which is an easy ask with freshman but impossible with seniors.

I could have been placed with 76 students who hate school simply because I had success keeping my freshmen in their uniforms and IDs.

Or, more likely, it was yet another vindictive act from someone who bears me ill will and can lie with a straight face as well as any cheap politician.

Either way, I have ramped up my work for the union. Our steward has noted that the chronologically oldest teachers at both campuses have suddenly been given seniors for the first time.

Yes, I have initiated my banework, using multiple tactics.

The only consolation I have in this dark night of the soul is that I have so many great connections with the support staff in my building. I know all the janitors and security guards and enjoy warm, friendly relationships with them. They don't blink an eye if I ask them to unlock an office door or point out a parking space. This is my only blessing in the workplace just now.

I have so little energy at the end of the day that I can't even contemplate writing an amusing blog post. Best I've been able to do so far is drag myself to the gym to exercise, but I'm not sure how long that will last when it starts getting dark earlier.

Last week I took a plate of fresh scones and a pot of tea to Sisyphus, just to ask for a little good advice. He said I should go review The Exile and the Kingdom by Camus and adjust my enthusiasm to match my students'. Sounds like a plan.

Here's hoping this Equinox finds you in a patch of sunlight with a soft cat on your lap. Don't give up on "The Gods Are Bored." I'm a stubborn someone. I'll be back.