It's 11:00. Do You Know Where Your Ancestors Are?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we love apple dumplings, baby ducklings, and cats that look like Hitler.

On Saturday I'm attending the yearly luncheon feed of my Daughters of the American Revolution chapter. The vittles are always superb at the Country Club where it's held, and there's a cash bar to boot. Nary a spring chicken attends this event, self included. As the wait staff brings out the soup, a vast sea of blue hair will perk up, dash for a last Manhattan, and tuck into the eats.

You might wonder why I bothered to join and pay dues to a stuffy group like the D.A.R.

The answer is simple. We live in a culture that holds forebears/ancestors in no regard whatsoever. I happen to think that's a sin.

Many great religions have been founded and run on ancestor worship. Ancestor worship is endorsed by the Intergalactic Federation of Gods and Goddesses (IFG&G) as a valuable tool for enlightenment.

Okay, so maybe your great-great grandfather was a booze-swilling saloon-keeper who ran cockfights on the side. But probably not. And even if he was, don't you feel his spirit at work in your life? You would if you knew his name and beseeched his help.

Think about all the women who had to go through childbirth to create the babies who grew up to be your ancestors, until you came along. Do you know their names? It's hard, in this country where we come from all over the globe, to keep a good record of "who's who." (It's particularly difficult for African Americans, and that's why I pray so often to Chonganda. I always ask him to help his people re-connect to their spiritual roots.)

Aside from the Mormons, whose ancestor worship is upside down, just about the only group you can join where you can blather on and on about your ancestors is the D.A.R. And they don't give you a test on your ability to blather before you join. You have enough hoops to jump through to get that little round gold pin. After you're safely in the fold, though, you learn quickly to blather -- or better yet, to listen raptly as others blather.

The best listeners get to be national presidents. Look for me, I'll be there in about 2029.

I beseech the blessings of my ancestors, without whom I wouldn't be quaffing a nice glass of chablis overlooking a sea of blue hair and the golf course where snowboarding got its start.

All hail those who have gone before. So might it be.

FROM ANNE
N.S.D.A.R.

Digging Up Grandma

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We enjoy your company, but please watch your beverage and see that you don't stain the furniture.

Something's been bothering me for a long time.

I think this nagging idea came back to me when I heard that the treasures of King Tut are scheduled to make a stop at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Actually I've been nagged by this notion before but never resolved it. The notion is this: Should we perform archeology?

Well, now you think I'm a rube. (Have I ever disabused you of that idea?) How in the world would we learn about the past if we didn't open up these old tombs and shove their contents out into the hands of scholars? Think of all we've gained from the excavations of the Mississippi Mound Builders, the Pharaohs, the Barrows of the British Isles, the Catacombs!

Except for one thing. We're digging up dead people and taking their stuff.

Oh, it's all well and good if the stuff we dig up and take belonged to some kid king 3000 years ago or such much. What, are his children going to complain? Are his heirs going to step forward and demand the items be returned? Hardly.

Suppose for a moment, though, that an archeologist dug up your grandmother's coffin, pried it open, and used those sharp little exacto-knives to pull apart and study the strands of polyester fabric in her best church dress. That's your granny on display at the Philadelphia Museum of Art! And she looks a mess! She looks ... dead. And there's her wedding ring, under a glass. And the thick spectacles she wore because they didn't have good cataract surgery then. And the Eastern Star pins she earned from years of service, hung on a wall, also behind shatterproof glass.

Rich people with museum memberships are staring at your dead granny while sipping champagne.

I started feeling uncomfortable with this little wrinkle years ago, during my college years. One of my classes was Human Osteology. We studied normal skeletons. They came from poor people in the Third World who actually sold their skeletons before they died and got good money for something they eventually wouldn't need anymore.

The abnormal skeletons came from the aforementioned Mound Builders of Mississippi, ca. 900 AD. These scattered bones, all helter skelter and stained with age, showed missing teeth from arthritic jaws, bone spurs jutting from heels, long growths of arthritic deposit on vertebrae. Once we finished looking at them, the bones went back to their carefully-numbered drawers in the Smithsonian Institution.

That's someone's granny, in a drawer in a big concrete building. She thought her bones would spend eternity in a spectacular mound, with all her kinfolk of a dozen generations. But no. Now a few pieces of her rest in Washington, DC, and the rest of her -- and the kin -- have been scattered all over the place, in the name of science.

This bothers the bored gods very much. Just so you know.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Why Are the Gods Bored?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your primary pathway to prosperity!

Oh yeah, if only.

This is a site dedicated to worship and respect for the bored gods and goddesses. Some people think its author, moi, is actually a cynical atheist poking fun at all religion.

Not so.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are not able, by virtue of familial and work obligations, to go off to a cave or a sacred spring for long-term meditation.

We would if we could, but we can't so we won't.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are true polytheists. (poly=many; thea [or theo]=deity). That means we accord reverence and respect to all deities, but especially to the ones that have been overrun by zealous missionaries for other faiths.

You see, we at "The Gods Are Bored" feel that you can't respect a human being if you think that person's religion is wrong, or less worthy, or less meaningful than yours.

Our tongue-in-cheek put-down posts against the Christian god are motivated not by the deity himself, but by the actions of his followers and the intentions of the authors of his literary texts. We object to any religion that sees itself as the "only true religion."

It's human nature to want to share great discoveries with other people. For the love of fruit flies, where would we be without that impulse? But the same impulse that drives us to share the secrets of the internal combustion engine, the polio vaccine, and water purification can go sour when they are expended on matters philosophical and religious.

To put it another way: If there can be one heaven, why can't there be a thousand heavens? Or ten thousand? Or 100,000? Wouldn't you find it a pleasant surprise if every nice person you ever met, no matter what religion they followed (or none at all), found their way into a nice heaven?

Over the decades, when we at "The Gods Are Bored" worshipped in the Christian faith, we often found ourselves doubting the whole idea of life-after-death. We've since been convinced of its probability, thanks to authors like the recently-deceased Robert Anton Wilson, as well as personal experiences in our lives.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" therefore feel that every human being should be given a clean shot and his or her heaven of choice, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture isn't stained.

Peace to all,

ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

"Rebel," by Seitou, reprinted only with permission of "The Gods Are Bored," please.

The Gods Aren't Bored Enough to Go to 7th Grade

Welcome to "The Gods Aren't Bored Enough to Go Back to Seventh Grade!" Yes, my daughter The Spare is completely correct. No god or goddess in his or her right mind would turn back the eon clock and go back to Deity Middle School.

If you missed the post below, you haven't yet reveled in the special hell that is raising a 12-year-old whose mind rests only on boys, friends, clothes, makeup, pop music, vapid t.v. shows, and hanging out with friends who have video systems.

Tonight at dinner, I said, "The Gods Are Bored."

The Spare replied, "Well, they'll be worse than bored if they go back to Middle School."

Can't argue that one.

For my newer readers: My daughters are named The Heir and The Spare because once I was watching something about Princess Diana, and the commentator said, "Well, at least she produced what every princess is supposed to produce: an Heir and a Spare."

Sounded logical to me.

So tomorrow I spend the day at a Vo-Tech teaching English and the evening badgering The Spare. Calgon, take me away.

FROM ANNE

GOING THROUGH 7TH GRADE FOR THE THIRD TIME

AND YES, IT SUCKS.

What's Unique about Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you want your prayers to be answered, cast a wide net! Pray to every god and goddess you can think of. One of them's bound to be waiting by the celestial telephone to take your call.

Most of us yearn to be unique in some way. And with 400 million people just in this country alone, it's a doggoned challenging proposition.

Fortunately for me, I can make claim to an unparalleled level of uniqueness.

Oh sure, there are scores and scores of people who spend hours sitting under pine trees staring up at turkey vultures. Gosh, we talk about it every day in the lunchroom at the school where I work. You know, trading good roost sites and describing a particularly fetching buzzard, or remembering buzzard-watching of days past. Old hat. So commonplace.

But me, ah! I stand alone.

I have an unruly twelve-year-old.

My daughter The Spare, age 12, is beautiful and a talented actress. She had the lead in her school play back in November. But -- I know this will surprise and mystify all of you -- she doesn't give a fig for her schoolwork. Her grades have tanked. She lies about being prepared for tests, she lies about having her homework finished, she gives up when the going gets tough -- and of course she tries to sneak all of this past myself and Mr. Johnson.

Friday she was supposed to attend an after-school study group on science, for a test on Monday. But Friday night was also the date of the Middle School's only semi-formal dance -- an event she had been slobbering over in anticipation for weeks. She had a dress all ready (custom altered by her grandma), a cute bolero jacket, shoes, and about 50 ideas on hair dressing.

At the prompting of her friends, she blew the science study and went out for pizza.

Mr. Johnson and I had no choice but to forbid her to go to the dance. We stood like a united front as she:
1. Wept loudly.
2. Pitched a fit and threw things around.
3. Abused the teddy bear that belonged to her late grandfather.
4. Hurled insults at me (I wish I could remember the ones that made me laugh, but alas, the only ones I can remember are the ones that made me want to cry.)
5. Bemoaned her stupidity and predicted a future of worse failure.
6. Spent the rest of the evening crying.

I'm sure those of you reading this simply cannot imagine such a one-of-a-kind scenario. Yes, you completely understand my collection of vulture feathers and my willingness to sit through a two-hour planning meeting for the East Coast Vulture Festival, but you must be entirely baffled by this extraordinary young teenager.

Yeah, I'm well nigh stumped too.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Don't Shoot at the Buzzard!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your premiere site on the World Wide Web for vulture worship! I'm Shaman Annie, head priestess of the Church of the Golden Purifier!

I'm off in five minutes to go "buzzarding." Ah, there is no more sublime way to spend an evening! I travel to Wenonah, NJ, site of the East Coast Vulture Festival, to watch the unparalleled majesty of about 200 buzzards who come into the charming hamlet to roost at night.

It is my honor and privilege to be a member of the ECVF's steering committee. Let's just say it makes all other volunteer work die in the dust. (Good for hungry vultures.)

As for the title of this post, it's a standing joke in my household that when a basketball game is won when some player "shoots at the buzzer," we all freak out because it sounds like "shoots at the buzzard."

Quoth Shaman Annie: "He who shooteth the Sacred Golden Purifier will suffer from facial blemishes, yea unto seeking medical help."

Do you suffer, poor soul? Does your heart yearn for meaning? Let the Sacred Golden Purifier inhabit your life! Know buzzards, know peace.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Do the Right Thing

On this, Dr. Martin Luther King's 78th birthday, we at "The Gods Are Bored" ask that, if you have not already performed a good deed, you consider sending a donation to Save Terrapin Run.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" think Dr. King would care about a small stream as much as he cared about humankind.

Peace,

Anne

The Merlin of Berkeley Springs

An Afternoon at the Bijou: Pan's Labyrinth

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Perhaps the gods wouldn't be so bored if they went to the movies more often. But alas, some of the bored gods get so little praise and worship they can't even afford the 10:00 a.m. senior citizen budget schedule!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" live by a few simple rules:
1. Never stain the furniture.
2. Never forget to feed the goats.
3. Never attend an R-rated movie that lists "violence" as one of the reasons for its rating.

You know what? That rules out a hell of a lot of movies. We at "The Gods Are Bored" have never seen any of the following:
Apocalypse Now
Schindler's List
Saving Private Ryan
The Passion of the Christ
Silence of the Lambs
The Exorcist

Pulp Fiction

On and on and on. You see, we at "The Gods Are Bored" are squeamish. We most certainly don't set out the fatted calf for Mars, or any of those manly War Gods.

So it was with great trepidation that we broke our standing rule on R-ratings to go see Pan's Labyrinth. We felt that, as the subject matter contained faeries, we needed to go. So, on Sunday, Anne and her daughter The Heir (a fully-fledged 17-year-old) went to see Pan's Labyrinth.

The Heir absolutely loved it. She frothed at the mouth. And The Heir knows her movies. She's a film buff of the first stripe. When she heard that the writer/director of Pan's Labyrinth turned down the gazillion dollars offered to him to direct Chronicles of Narnia in order to make Pan's Labyrinth instead, she praised the director to the skies for having such high artistic and moralistic standards.

I agree that Pan's Labyrinth is a brilliant movie, the best I've seen this year. However, it did remind me that when the rating is "R," and that rating has been gleaned for "violence, torture," and you're a squeamish little earthworm, you'd best pass.

I even read a "spoiler" plot description on Wikipedia. And, par usual, Wicked-pedia got it wrong, but close enough that I knew when to dash from the theatre. Still, the entire subject matter of this film, and its view that children (especially female children) have no port in the storm -- even in other dimensions -- was unsettlingly close to my own childhood.

So, yes. This is a four-star film. But don't round up the kiddies from the playground and take them to this fairy tale. And while you're at it, don't take your personal faeries either. I can't tell you how glad I was that I left Puck and Princess behind. After I told them what happened in the flick, they gave my husband back his Rolex watch, missing since October. I am not even kidding.

Oh, and just so you'll know. My aversion to R-rated movies does not extend to those with torrid sex scenes, drug use, or potty language. Bring 'em on!

FROM ANNE

THE SQUEAMISH MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Don't Know How I Missed It

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your oversight capital of the World Wide Web!

Tennessee Jed, one of my favorite bloggers, noticed the "23" above Robert Anton Wilson's head in the photo below. Twenty-three skiddoo! That's no coincidence. Wilson wrote a great deal, especially in Cosmic Trigger, about the number 23 and its mystical significance. If I recall correctly, he wrote that the fact that the digits add up to five make 23 a particularly potent number. I do recall vividly that he added: "If you haven't noticed the number 23 before now, you will certainly notice it now." (Cosmic Trigger)

Wilson was also quite eloquent on the concept of synchronicity, i.e., that nothing is a coincidence.

EXHIBIT A: MICHAEL JORDAN

We at "The Gods Are Bored" endorse the philosophy of synchronicity and urge our readers to try to find a copy of Cosmic Trigger. Don't look for it at Barnes & Noble. You'll have to try the Web.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Vote for Anne! http://2007.bloggies.com/
Best Blog that No One But Very Very Smart People Read

Freshman at the God College - Robert Anton Wilson

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your turnpike truck stop for Twinkies and testimonials!

Bored gods and goddesses everywhere are today marking the passing of author Robert Anton Wilson. Wilson, who wrote more than 50 books (fiction and nonfiction), and was an original thinker of the first stripe.

It's been gratifying to surf through the pagan web sites and find how many of them have lauded this unique individual. We at "The Gods Are Bored" had no idea what a groundswell of popularity existed for Wilson's work, particularly Cosmic Trigger, which was our personal favorite as well.

It's impossible to summarize Wilson's philosophical/theological/cosmological writings, way past the ability of humble goat judges like me. But here's a nice quote I found out in the wild, wild web:

"I have an open mind about things
I don't have any dogmas,
I await further enlightenment."

Based on this simple utterance, Robert Anton Wilson has been accepted into the 2007 class at the Intergalactic Academy of Gods and Goddesses (IAG&G), located in the Crab Nebula. Largely unappreciated on this planet in this era, he will have a chance to work his wonders elsewhere, among those who will truly appreciate him.

Bon voyage, RAW!

From your fan,

ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

The Gods Are Deaf

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," holistic help for your hellish dilemmas! Got a vexing problem? Bring it to Auntie Anne.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are especially adept at interpreting weird dreams. Take advantage of our two-for-one special, and save 15%!

Do you know anyone who got from the age of 15 to the age of 30 without making a terrible mistake along the way?

Usually it's a bad marriage, or experimenting with drugs until addiction sets in, or running up massive credit card debt, or plunging your car off a cliff after a long night in the pub.

These things can be cured. You can go to rehab, AA, get a divorce, find a payment plan, and generally settle down into a sane, reasonable life.

Anne made a mistake in her 20s that can never, ever be rectified. This terrible mistake will outlive her and be a burden to her children, possibly even her grandchildren. It's a mistake that haunts her daily, with piercing ferocity. It cannot be fixed in any humane fashion.

In 1987, Anne bought a macaw. The macaw was a baby, a little chunk of pink flesh with no feathers.

The macaw (I'll call him Decibel) can talk. A few words. What he does best, however, is SCREAM HIS FOOL HEAD OFF TILL HE CAN BE HEARD DOWN THE BLOCK. (They say you should use capital letters only to indicate screaming.) When this bird starts, he sounds like someone being assaulted slowly with a very deadly weapon.

He has spent 20 years in a cage, removed from his kind and his homeland. Every time I see him, guilt pierces me worse than his noise. I wish I could find some happy bird sanctuary for him, but 9 out of 10 people who buy macaws wish the same thing. Sanctuaries for captive-bred macaws do not exist.

Lately I've been working away from home, long hours. When I step through the door he goes nuts, screaming and whistling so loud the jet pilots overhead can detect the racket.

There's no turning back time for me. But consider this little entry your Birdaholics Anonymous testimonial.

Do not buy a captive bird. Birds are supposed to live outside, in the trees. They are social species who make lots and lots of noise.

The next time you hear a blue jay or a crow calling to its cohorts, imagine if that sound was coming from a creature sitting right next to you in a cage.

The bored gods are going to send me back for another round of hell on earth for buying and keeping a caged parrot. And I'll deserve it too. No complaints uttered, it is my forever sin.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

No President Left Behind

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," polytheism and politics wrapped in a polyester pantsuit! I'm your host, Annie. I'm old enough to remember a time when girls couldn't wear pants to public school. (It was a very good excuse for sucking in kickball.)

Today I'm going to address our Commander in Chief, Mr. George W. Bush. He's the architect of the "No Child Left Behind" rhetoric now wreaking havoc in school systems everywhere.

In my era of public schooling, we recognized that the guys who wanted to fix cars and the girls who wanted to dress hair probably would not need to write essays about the political-sociological implications of early Medieval Italian politics as revealed in Canto XVI of Dante's Inferno.

You think I'm kidding you, right? Right? Right?

It happens that I have been teaching in a Vocational-Technical school that draws students from one of the most impoverished cities in this country. These students are kind, lively, intelligent, and optimistic. But they just simply haven't had the educational background or parental prodding of their cohorts in the tony burbs. Don't get me wrong. The students love their parents, and vice versa, but sometimes those parents don't even speak English.

These students -- your future auto mechanics, electricians, nursing home aides, and word processors -- have to pass the same standardized test that every other student in New Jersey has to pass.

Okay, you say, fair is fair. No Child Left Behind.

Except that the damned standardized test is so friggin hard that 2/3 of the adults in New Jersey (including moi) couldn't pass both parts of it. How long has it been since you determined the area of a rhombus?

Let's get past the math. I know more about English.

The English portion of New Jersey's standardized high school proficiency test is so hard, I've seen college exams that were less rigorous. I saw a group of Juniors taking a sample test in a class at my school. The reading they had to do was from Edith Wharton, Ethan Fromme. For the love of fruit flies! I stared at that assignment and wondered if my own kids would be Left Behind. Or if I would be Left Behind, if I had to take the sucker.

One thing I'd bet my house on, and everything in it. George W. Bush could not pass both parts of that test.

I'm not completely against standardized tests for passing high school. Heck, I took one back in 1521. I remember it clearly. The reading assignment came from the back of a boxed cake mix. There might have been a newspaper article or two. The math portion was balancing a checkbook and figuring interest on credit card purchases. So, if you can't read enough English to bake a cake from a box, maybe you don't deserve a high school diploma. Fair is fair.

But giving kids from, say, Gary, Indiana a selection of Ethan Fromme? Is that fair?

You can imagine where all this is heading. The teachers at my school have to drill and drill and drill the kids to prepare them for this one stupid test. Everyone frets about it. And of course some of the kids don't pass, and then they have to jump through even more hoops. When all they want to do is change your oil.

I have an idea that we could turn this whole nation into Edith Wharton-loving savants, if we just spent on education what we spend on spewing flames in foreign countries. But assuming that our nation's spending priorities won't change, shouldn't we cut the auto kids and the floriculture kids, and the welding kids a break and give 'em a friggin career-area test instead?

I say, if they can pass a written driver's test, they can read. And if they can balance a checkbook, they can do math.

Pass.

Oh yeah, did I mention that there are no exceptions to this test? Kids with Down Syndrome who could once clutch a high school diploma as a matter of pride now have to read friggin Ethan Fromme.

And all of this from a president who has otherwise done his level best to increase the discrepancy between the "haves" and the "have-nots." At that little task, Dubya's succeeded brilliantly.

What a pity he doesn't have to craft a 5-paragraph essay about the steps he took, with perfect grammar and flowing sentences, in 60 minutes! Spelling counts.

Once again longing to be Left Behind, I remain,

Your Merlin of Berkeley Springs,
Anne Johnson

Shameless Plea for Promotion

Exhibit A: Roman Bath House, Berkeley Springs, West Virginia

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," o ye legions and legions of readers!

Well, maybe it's all you small clusters of readers.

Okay, Anne, who the hell are you fooling?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," o ye sparse handful of readers! We value your patronage.

This weblog was inaugurated in 2005 after Anne heard a televised lecture in which an atheist said, "If you want to know how stupid the concept of God is, just substitute the name 'Zeus.' Now try it: 'In Zeus We Trust.' 'One Nation under Zeus.' See? Isn't that ridiculous?"

Anne was overcome with pity for poor Zeus. Here's a deity who once had an extensive praise and worship team, talented and intelligent, and so dedicated to Zeus that Zeus's huge shrines stand to this day, ancient as they are.

How would you like it if you were on top of the world one minute, and shit out of a job the next? I know it's happened to me. It feels terrible.

I decided to dedicate a website not only to Zeus, but to all the deities, ancient and modern, who've been drubbed out of business by take-no-prisoners praise and worship teams. And you know if you're in one of those. Chances are there's a nice brick building dedicated to your deity right in the next block.

Oh well, the church in the next block to me is made of stone. Stone, brick, it's all the same. No Zeus, no Hera, no Queen Brighid the Bright, no Sedna, no Loki, no Sacred Thunderbird.

We've had a lot of fun here at "The Gods Are Bored," talking to bored gods and goddesses from all kinds of praise and worship teams, on all sorts of topics. And if I might brag a bit, we've dispensed fabulous wisdom on seminal subjects like Tab Cola, supersized flatware, casinos on Civil War battlefields, and where to go in New Jersey for your civil union.

Now we're shamelessly asking you to vote us into the stratosphere. Please nominate "The Gods Are Bored" for a Bloggie award! If you do, and you let us know, we'll send you a free candy cane.

Well, not really, we didn't buy any candy canes this year.

How about a wine cork with the likeness of the Green Man on it? Pinky swear.

Here's the link: http://2007.bloggies.com

We suggest the "unsung hero" category, or whatever it's called, for blogs no one reads.

Might miss posting for a few days. Not feeling well.

(Now see? There's nothing we won't do for your vote!)

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Pagan Summer Camp: Four Quarters Farm

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do you keep all your fish in one boat? Is that wise? Adopt a pantheon of bored gods today, and spread those fishies through a whole fleet of clipper ships!


My legions of readers know all about the Boy Scouts and how they won't allow any gay members. And we at "The Gods Are Bored" say, oh well, the Klan probably doesn't allow black members either. Clubs are clubs, you know what I mean?


But what exactly is a strapping young gay guy going to do if he wants to go to summer camp? And we haven't even addressed the other gender, the gals who crave scouting opportunities in the great outdoors.


We also haven't addressed the fact that the vast, vast majority of summer camps are allied with some Christian denomination. And one can just imagine that these camps would not be eager to fling wide the gates to a bunch of Asratus, Wiccans, or Druids.


Weep not, wise ones! There's a great camp for you! And as an added bonus, it's only about 20 miles from Berkeley Springs!


Four Quarters Farm is a huge, beautiful property located along scenic Sidling Hill Creek in the extreme south of Bedford County, Pennsylvania. To say this place has a big, broad, flexible outlook is putting it mildly. You can worship any way you want, dress any way you want, and otherwise commune with your deities whoever they may be.


Exhibit A: Four Quarters Farm



One of the many joys of this locale is its swimming hole. Appalachian creeks always have great swimming holes, and Four Quarters has got a whopper. For the less intrepid there's wading in shallower sections of the creek - bring an old pair of sneakers, because the rocks are sharp.



Old geezers like me can't tent camp anymore. But if you're a young, spry scout or a prime-of-lifer who digs canvas, there are campsites galore. Communal fire rings. A circular henge of stones, half complete, that gets closer to completion every year. They even have hot showers and a bistro. (As a young, spry non-scout, I would have scoffed at these luxuries. I have done me some wild camping in the years when my knees and hips worked.)


The aspect of Four Quarters I find most intriguing is the opportunity to erect private shrines in the woods. You'll be meandering along, and suddenly you'll see a little cairn of stones, decorated with mementos. As a person who thinks everyone should have their own personal deity to whom they dedicate a shrine, this is simply sublime.


Needless to say, every public campground must have some basic rules, if only to cover their keisters against lawsuits. This holds true for Four Quarters, of course. But if you want to drink yourself blind and slaughter deer with your bare hands, you can go camp in nearby Green Ridge State Forest. If you see a forest ranger coming, just dart into a thicket, dragging your deer carcass behind you.


We at "The Gods Are Bored," having attained a certain age (but having kept our girlish figure), prefer the comforts of a mattress and roof. These can be had in Berkeley Springs (posh), Hancock (reasonable) and Town Hill B&B (quaint and right up the road). We also can't forget to mention the inimitable Road Kill Cafe not far from Four Quarters. We strongly recommend at least one breakfast there. The possum gravy and biscuits can't be beat. So tender.


Four Quarters has large rituals on all the pagan holidays, Dark Moon meditations, and drum circles. All faiths are welcome.


So there you have it. Poo poo to the Eagle Scouts! They can have their god and country, no homos allowed exclusivity, not to mention all those militaristic badges and scarves. We at "The Gods Are Bored" like a variety of veggies in our soup.


One final note: If you take Interstate 68 to Four Quarters Farm, you have to make a right turn off the exit ramp. If you turn left and pass the Town Hill B&B, you'll wind down a mountain and at the bottom find an iddy biddy crick called Terrapin Run. We at "The Gods Are Bored" encourage you to seek out this crick (see sidebar) and do what you can to save it. You might earn your first Pagan Scout badge.


Ack. Forget the doggone badges. Don't you think they're way imperial?


FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Suckin That Aquifer Dry

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we want to take just a moment to salute Nancy Pelosi, the new Speaker of the House. We at "The Gods Are Bored" have less than a thimbleful of respect for any sitting member of U.S. Congress. However, Ms. Pelosi is the best of a bad bunch. Long may she preside!

We here at Chateau Johnson got a water bill a few weeks ago. It was a whopper. The meter reader hadn't gotten in for awhile. Even so, it was a stinker of a bill. So Mr. Johnson called City Hall and talked to the water people.

They said we used 25,000 gallons of water in 4 months.

After Mr. Johnson recovered from fainting dead away, he asked how that could possibly be true. And the water people told him that our usage is conservative compared to the average in our sleepy little borough!

Quoth the water people: "The folks who water their lawns with sprinklers use far more water than you Johnsons do."

No one knows better than me the weight and volume of a gallon of water. Whenever I can get home to Berkeley Springs, I fill about 25 gallons to bring back to the Great Blue Northeast. It is one heck of a chore, lugging those one-gallon containers to the car parked less than 100 yards away.

So, if I repeated that arm-straining task 1000 times, I'd have our family's 4-month water use. It boggles the brain. Especially my brain. I spent the summers in my grandparents' house in Appalachia that didn't have running water. Ain't no doggone way they used 25,000 gallons of H2O in 4 months.

Sipping a precious glass of Berkeley Springwater, I prayerfully consulted King Triton about my family's abuse of a precious (and dwindling) natural resource. He gave me some tips.

*low-flow potties (already had those)

*showers, not baths (this hit daughter The Heir like a ton of bricks)

*water-conserving appliances

*don't water the lawn (wouldn't dream of it)

I thanked King Triton with a suitable flower arrangement cast into the nearest moving body of water. Then I did an assessment of my appliances.

I found the outlaw. It's my clothes washer.

With two kids, self, and spouse, I could do a load of laundry every day of the week. Usually I would let the stuff pile up over time and then do seven loads in a day. But that only works if you're employed in your home as a goat judge. When you've got to go out and be a teacher, you can't be chained to the washing machine.

Enter the local laundromat.

Did you know they have machines there that can wash six loads of laundry at once? It costs a little over five bucks. And those big, efficient dryers! In, out, la dee dah!

King Triton said that I'll break even financially using the laundromat, but I'll save time and water. Time that is better spent at the pub, drinking beer.

Do you need good advice from a bored god or goddess? Our operators are standing by to take your call.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Weirdest Turn Yet in a Very Long Story

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we must navel-gaze about a very odd occurrence on January 1, 2007.

Only my most dedicated readers know the long saga of the Monkey Man. I guess it quickly bears repeating, the way Carl Hiaasen writes over and over about Clinton Tyree.

1. Four years ago, my daughter The Heir was walking home from school when a man passed her on a bicycle. He was wearing a jester hat, clown pants, and carrying a stuffed toy monkey. In monkey voice, he said, "Hello, girls ... ooo ooo ooo AH AH AH!"

2. For a short time I wondered if there was a Mark Foley in our midst. But The Heir, loving all forms of weirdness, made it her personal goal to find out as much as she could about the Monkey Man.

3. Literally for two and a half years after that, a Monkey Man sighting, or any information on said individual, was coveted like the Holy Grail. It seemed everyone had an opinion on the guy -- everything from the assertion that he lived under the railroad tracks to the assertion that he had grown up in this town and was known and loved by many.

4. Turns out the latter is true. The former is not. He has a house. He used to own the house behind mine. The one that now contains two beastly yappy dogs.

5. Once when the Monkey Man lost his monkey, he gave my daughter The Spare his email address. He also posed for a snapshot with The Spare. (That was proof enough for me that he had nothing to hide. When did you ever see a picture of Foley with his arm around a page?)

6. After an exchange of emails, it transpired that the Monkey Man did indeed know all the neighbors who used to inhabit this tightly-packed block. The neighbors unanimously spoke warmly of him.

7. Nevertheless, the guy is a distinct individual, which is a nice way of saying he wears a jester hat and rides around on a bike with a monkey puppet. He also writes poetry and recites Walt Whitman, who he resembles to a proper degree.

Now, here's the weird thing.

My mother-in-law was visiting for New Year's. That means I had to stage one lavish meal after another for two days. The most lavish of all, of course, was the New Year's feast. Trust me, it rivalled anything they've ever dished out in Whoville, either pre- or post-Grinch.

Get this.

About an hour before the feast was set to be served, I walked out to my car to go get The Spare from a friend's house. As I looked in my rearview, I saw a bicyclist coming up the street. Then I saw the jester hat. Total, complete coincidence. If I had come out 5 minutes later, he'd have been gone. If he'd been 5 minutes sooner, he wouldn't have seen me.

No one in my family had laid eyes on the Monkey Man in 3 months. And there he was. He said he just happened to ride up my street instead of the one his old house was on.

I invited him to the feast. What the heck?

At this point I'll add that my spouse, Mr. Johnson, is pretty tolerant of my bouts of weirdness. Not many men would take it in stride when their wife got up at 5:30 a.m., drove 30 minutes to a neighboring town, and watched vultures for two hours. (I did that on Friday.)

So we set another place at the table for the Monkey Man -- daughters gawking, mother-in-law highly amused.

Guess what he had been doing in the old neighborhood? He'd taken a Polar Plunge into Dog Poop Pond! His hair was still wet. Even his monkey was a tad moist.

Last point of weirdness.

Mr. Johnson always likes to listen to music during dinner. He prefers Big Band. While we were eating the roast beast, a song came on. It's called "Mairzy Doats."

Simultaneously, I and the Monkey Man shouted: "Oh, my Dad/Mom loved that song!" (His mom, my dad.)

I've never heard "Mairzy Doats" on the Big Band channel before.

Occasionally, as befits an educated Druid, I am given to bouts of doubt on all things spiritual. So I wanted to record this navel gaze for those days when I see the world in that gray Orwellian light. There can be no other explanation for the weird entree of the Monkey Man into our New Year's dinner other than intervention by my dad/his mom, both, alas, gone to the Summerlands.

For those of you who haven't nodded off, here are the words to "Mairzy Doats":

Mairzy doats

And doezy doats

And little lambsie divey,

A kiddle ee divy too, wouldn't you?

Now if the words sound queer

And funny to your ear

A little bit jumbled and jivey,

Think "Mares eat oats,

"And does eat oats,

"And little lambs eat ivy..."

The world is weird. Who am I to buck it?

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

More Infallible Logic from Anne

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Don't expect any New Year's greetings here. The New Year began November 1 in our preferred pantheon. And the weather was really nice then.

Follow my logic:

1. People like Saddam, Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and Pol Pot deserve to die for torturing great groups of people to death.

2. The victims of the above dictators suffered horribly and then died. Human beings with empathy find this appalling.

If the above two statements are true, then:

3. The God of the Torah/Bible/Koran should be promptly tried and hanged. Somehow this deity has discovered a method of torture for eternity, eliminating even the possibility of a peaceful death. And this deity is inflicting said perpetual torture on masses of good people in numbers that so dwarf Mao's achievements as to make Mao look like a wee little krill in the wide Sargasso Sea.

Judged by human standards, God Almighty is a brutal, despotic dictator. Get the rope, Chauncey.

I've been told to my face that when I arrive at the Pearly Gates, my dad will be standing there crying because he got into heaven and I won't. But I've got news for you, folks. My dad once pulled over in his car to break up a violent domestic dispute between two complete strangers. Ain't no way he'd sit by and let God Almighty do an eternal Stalin on me. Ain't no way I'd take up a harp and a plate of casserole and sit in heaven while my kids were being tortured forever, either.

Why don't we put a "Help Wanted" Ad in USA Today and see if we can find ourselves a sane bored goddess to set all this right? I'll bet She's out there right now, whispering in a few ears. Hey. I'll listen.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Is It Just Me, or Are You Afraid to Get Sick Too?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dispensing essential wisdom for free since 2005! Before that it cost you a stick of gum, so you're ahead of the game.

Some people like to cook. Some consider it a chore. I fall into the latter category. Therefore I am rarely in my kitchen during the half hour of national nightly news on the telly.

This week I've heard the telly news several times while dicing and slicing. And it wasn't the sorrowful passing of Gerald Ford that made me sit up and take notice. It was the commercials.

Do you watch the nightly news? Have you seen and heard all the pharmaceutical commercials? These aren't happy jingles for Speedy Alka-Selzer. These are ads for serious prescription medications.

So, I'm idly decimating an onion, and I hear the following ad, or something like it:

"Is that persistent anxiety getting you down? Interfering in your life? Putting a wall between you and your loved ones? We can help! Prescription OxyContin will have you feeling completely at ease with yourself and others in just two or three doses! With continued use, you'll find such an improvement in your life you'll hardly know yourself."

(Personal testimonial from an actress) "I had trouble just getting into the elevator at work. Now I'm the life of the party! OxyContin has given me my life back. I'll never be without it again!"

Now here's the part that gets my attention:

"OxyContin is a prescription medication for use only as directed.
Side effects can include the following: cessation of breathing, cardiac arrest, constipation, vomiting, bleeding from the eyes, lack of motor control, insomnia, drowsiness, lack of appetite.
Discontinue use of OxyContin immediately if you stop breathing, as this can lead to serious medical conditions, not limited to brain damage.
Prolonged use of OxyContin can be habit forming. Consult your doctor before discontinuing use of OxyContin, as you may experience violent withdrawal symptoms too numerous to mention in this ad."

So, for the love of fruit flies, who's going to rush to the doctor and beg for OxyContin? (Maybe I shouldn't have used the word "rush.") And that's just an example. I'm pretty sure I heard a commercial for a prescription arthritis drug that can cause bleeding ulcers and stroke.

You've gotta be in pretty serious pain to prefer stroke to your sore hip.

Of course the million dollar question is: "How much of the price of the medication goes into these moronic advertisements?" And the answer is: plenty.

I guess this is what happens when the real medicine-makers get booted from the airwaves. Jack Daniels and Bacardi spring to mind. But I guess they'd have to list their side effects too, and that would make any barfly think twice.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

A Pox Calypso

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bringing you the very best and brightest gods and goddesses from around the world! Ask yourself how you would feel if folks used to throw festivals and slaughter the fatted calf for you, and now you're selling rip-off Dior handbags from a kiosk on a side street in Philly.

Remember, gods and goddesses are immortal. If they get downsized by zealous missionaries from another faith, they've still gotta earn a living.

It's always a pleasure to welcome a bored god to our site. That's why we're here! And it's a bonus if that god or goddess has a name that's easy to spell. Today we have just such a one here at our side. Please give a great big "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Chac, sacred god of the ancient Mayan people!

Anne: First off, Chac, thanks for the easy name. I thought all the Mesoamerican deities had hard-to-spell monikers.

Chac: Ah, that's the Aztecs and Incas. We Mayans had an extensive alphabet, and our scribes didn't want to get writer's cramp.

Anne: I suppose you're probably here because you want to comment on Mel Gibson's new movie, Apocalypto.

Chac: Absolutely correct. Have you seen it?

Anne: No, afraid not. I'm not into gore. The last Mel movie I saw was Braveheart, and to be frank I laughed through it. English soldiers weren't the only thing butchered in that flick. History took a shellacking as well. Is Apocalypto any more accurate?

Chac: Take a nut case with an agenda and a big budget, set him loose in the jungle, and you can just imagine what you get for your $8.50.

Anne: Yeah, I was afraid of that. So it's about as accurate a portrayal of the Mayan culture as Bonanza is an accurate portrayal of the Old West. I mean, you've got three guys living on a ranch, and never once do they get laid. You'd think just once Little Joe would say, "I'm so horny, I've got such a hard-on..."

Chac: Errr. Anne. I think you're quoting from a pretty authentic movie called Tin Men.

Anne: Why, so I was at that! Back to topic. Chac, I understand that despite the dissolution of your empire in pre-Colombian times, followed by centuries of smallpox, alcohol, genocide by various governments, and the inexorable missionaries, you still have a small praise and worship team.

Chac: It's just big enough that I can get by. And for that I'm very grateful. You should hear the tales poor old Baal tells!

Anne: And your verdict on Apocalypto?

Chac: Inaccurate in all but the smallest details. Insulting. Especially coming from a person whose praise and worship team has done its share of torturing, maiming, mass executions, and psychological damage.

Anne: Yes. Well. One would like to see Mr. Gibson tackle a bloody topic like the suppression of the Cathars or the Knights Templar by the Catholic Church. If he wants to wade knee-deep through blood he need look no further than Jacques de Molay.

Chac: Thank you for making that point. My sentiments exactly.

Anne: How did you like the part where the good Catholic missionaries came riding in to save the day ... like, 400 years early or something?

Chac: I tossed my ayahuasca.

Anne: I daresay.

Chac: Every bored god and goddess is wondering when Mel Gibson is going to descend on their praise and worship teams and make nasty movies about them. What a hypocrite! A certified wackadoo going 140 mph down Loony Lane without a map!

Anne: Chac, I think I like you exceedingly. Let me brew you a cup of ayahuasca. Can you stay for supper?

Chac: Sorry. This climate doesn't agree with me. My feet are cold.

Anne: Then by all means wing it back to the Yucatan. Drop by any time!

So there you have it. Straight from a bored god's mouth. But in case that isn't enough for you, here's the opinion of an expert.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Poetry from the Monkey Man

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wild and weird, wonderful and wacky since 2005! Please have some holiday cookies before they get stale!

Today we are in receipt of a holiday card from the Monkey Man. My legions of regular readers will remember him. To you newcomers, well ... it's a long story.

Anyway, the Monkey Man is a poet. He lives in Camden, New Jersey. And here's the poem he hand-wrote into my card:

beside the lawn full
of lights and Jesus' birth,
the Happy Buddha Delivery Van.

I'm sending him a haiku in return. The Monkey Man is keen on haiku because of Nick Vergilio, who also lived in Camden.

Anyway, here's my feeble effort:

two dogs yelp at me
while I am cutting holly.
Rocky, please come home.

As I said, it's a long story.

Santa Claus Meets the Establishment Clause

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated to the self-evident truth that all human beings, past, present, and future, should be free to worship the way they choose. What makes one praise and worship team think they've got an exclusive ticket to Six Flags Great Adventure Heaven Park?

In honor of this holiday that certain people think should be theirs and theirs alone, we march out some bored gods and goddesses to wish you and yours a happy Establishment Clause!




































Constitution of the United States of America, Bill of Rights


Amendment I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

























Happy Holidays from "The Gods Are Bored!" Blessed be you, your family, and your freedom.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Alice Doesn't Buy Here Anymore

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" At 7:22 p.m. on December 21, the sun officially crossed the equator. So sorry to all my fabulous readers Down Under, but the bored gods of the Northern Hemisphere are just tugging at that big star that warms our world! Bless them for doing it.

When does $68 million seem like chump change?

I'll tell you: It's when you've got $18 billion or so, earned dollar by stinking dollar from enslaving the world. Hello, Alice Walton. If the shoe fits, my dear, you've gotta wear it. Did the shoe in question come from Wal-Mart? Oh, I didn't think so! Only poor people shop there. Come to think of it, only poor people work there, too.

Just a few short weeks ago, the Thomas Jefferson University Hospital announced that it would sell its Philadelphia masterpiece oil painting, "The Gross Clinic," to Ms. Alice Walton for her new museum in Bentonville, Arkansas. "Jeff," as the hospital is locally known, gave the citizens of Philadelphia until December 26, 2006 to match the price. If all the Longshoremen and Carpenters and Teamsters out there -- and all the "Jeff" alumni, and all the art worshippers -- couldn't cobble together $68 mil, the painting was outta here, Adrian.

Philly has done it.

I was just driving home from a long day in the Ag shop at the Vocational Technical School, and I heard it on the radio. With pledges of all sizes, the citizens of Philadelphia (and presumably the art world) have acquired "The Gross Clinic" for the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Yo, that's the big building with the "Gotta Fly Now" steps.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" say once again that we deplore a world in which a single painting costs $68 million -- a sum, one imagines, that could build maybe a dozen hospitals in Congo. But if people are going to pony up ridiculous bucks for oil slathered on canvas, it sure makes my day that THE LOSER IS......

Alice Walton.

Hey, Alice. Go have tea with the Mad Hatter and then buy some art that reflects the way you've earned your living. To whit:

Wow, a lot of pictures in this one! It feels like a holiday.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Give me that Old Time Religion

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" O come, all ye stressed church ladies. Lay down those lamb costumes and kiddie choir songs. Take thee to the woods, for what building made by the hands of humans can match the splendor of Mother Nature's creation?

I've just returned from my Druid Grove celebration of Yule. We always gather on the Sunday before the date of the holy day.

What a warm and wonderful invocation of peace and light we shared! We're getting to know each other and like each other, and some of us drive quite a distance to be there. Every time we have a ritual, we get two or three new people, and two or three people who came the time before don't return. Somehow we always have enough folks to take all the roles. Today I was Holly.

The ancient bored gods have jars of jam older than Christianity. Give me that old time religion ... it was good for the Stonehenge craftsmen, and it's good enough for me!

Looking at the distant winter sun, it is possible to believe that the light will return. Mourn the loss of this old year and accept a new dawn, whatever it brings. See the blazing Yule before us -- strike the harp and join the chorus.

Fa la la! We'll talk again on Friday! Please do drop by, I baked cookies.

FROM THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

New Jersey and You - Perfectly Rainbow

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," broadcasting live from New Jersey, the Asphalt State. We get no respect here in Jersey. We give you Frank Sinatra and Bruce Springsteen, you give us your toxic waste.

Forget the part about the toxic waste. Because New Jersey is really the Garden State, and if you're gay, we want you!

If you live in Mississippi or Kansas, or some other dreadful Red State, and you're blissfully in love with your same-gender partner, then pack up the old kit bag and move to New Jersey! We've got brand new civil union laws that will provide your loved one with peace of mind in his or her old age.

And hey. Once you get around these mammoth property taxes, you can get yourself a really nice little bungalow, fix it up, and get along great with your broad-minded neighbors!

Gay Americans, New Jersey wants you! We know how to judge character here. Heck, it's a lot easier than judging the commuting time from Clifton to Wall Street.

In Praise of Fairy Tales

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," flying under the radar since 2005! Come gather 'round Mama Annie for a funny little anecdote.

As my legions and legions of readers already know, I have had to accept a long-range substitute teaching assignment because of the rampant corporatization of the goat-judging business. Goat judging profits are now flowing into the hands of two or three billionaires, while the rank and file starve. So what's new? That makes me a modern American.

Anyway, when I took over the ag shop on Monday evening, the first thing I did was rip down all the autumn decorations that had probably been there since the first day of school. Tuesday morning I brought in the following:

1. A silk holly wreath.
2. A metal wreath that said "Merry Christmas" with angels on it.
3. Pictures of my kids and my dad (Duh).
4. A Brian Froud card with the Faerie Godmother depicted in stunning purple tones.

I was quickly intercepted in the school foyer and told that some of my decorations were "politically incorrect."

To whit: The "Merry Christmas" wreath!

The Faerie Godmother flew right into the shop and is now beaming at me from my temporary desk.

Needless to say I don't try to spread my religion in school. I'm a firm believer in the Establishment Clause. But my goddess gets to sit there because, hey. She's a fairy. And everyone loves fairies!

I'll bet this has been happening for two thousand years.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

They're Baaaaack! Praise the Bird!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your drive-thru dive with gods for you! Go ahead. Supersize 'em.

We've had a tense few weeks here in Wenonah, New Jersey, waiting to see if the Sacred Thunderbirds would indeed return to their winter roosting sites in the town limits.

Tonight it's confirmed. Both black and turkey vultures are flocking to Wenonah, finding the big old white pines and enjoying the view from the water tower. Oh happy day! When buzzards washed my blues away!

Here's the latest shot, hot off the press:

You too can embrace the Sacred Thunderbird, Golden Purifier! Come to the second annual East Coast Vulture Festival, and experience the inner joy only buzzard worship can bring.

You will not all weep, but you will be changed.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Volunteers Needed

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Tis the season to be stressed to the max by overwork! Take your troubles to the bored gods. They're partly responsible for this predicament.

There's a dirty little word out there that sounds all noble and high-minded but is really just a synonym for slave.

That word is volunteer.

Everyone from popes to presidents lauds the work of volunteers. But aye, that's the rub. Volunteers work. They work their babyfat off, and for what? The State of New Jersey has given me a coffee mug, two t-shirts, and a plastic lunchbox for my volunteer work at a local museum. (Oh, yeah, I forgot the annual Certificate of Appreciation and Volunteer Brunch that I never have time to attend because it's hell and gone in Hoboken.)

In order to earn those certificates, uneaten bagels, and trinkets, I've had to deal with a "Here's Johnny" museum director who loves his volunteers one minute and treats them like chattel the next. If you say, "I just bought a wreath for the front door," he says, "Great! But you know, it has to be absolutely authentic to 1777, or, well, oh, em, well, we just can't use it, but you know it's your call." And then he'll spend 30 minutes telling you about the nice little old lady who's too old to volunteer now, but who always got every last detail absolutely perfect.
Yeah. My cat box stinks, and I'm volunteering to work for this guy.

Never is the volunteer drudgery heaped on you more than at this joyous Holiday time. Call the holiday whatever you want, you're gonna be expected to bake 12 dozen cookies, plan two parties (one of them for loud, destructive, furniture-staining kids), and --- here's the hardest part --- keep your regular damned life moving along at its regular manic clip.

I'll be the first to admit that the award for selfless slavery volunteerism goes to church ladies. Set foot in any church and say hello, and the next thing you know you're up to the neck in volunteer quicksand, making 15 lamb hats and 27 shepherd costumes while baking those 12 dozen cookies and five casseroles for the congregational dinner. Then rushing off to choir practice. But oooops! You forgot the holiday acolyte run-through for Xmas Eve! Now you're in trouble.

I'm not a church lady anymore, but I'm still loaded to the plimsol line with volunteer duties, which weigh all the heavier now that I'm out of the goat pasture and into a 10-hour-a-day paid position.

Please don't tell me I can "Just Say No." How can you Just Say No when your 12-year-old wants to be president of the local chapter of Children of the American Revolution? Even if that means planning not one, but two big parties? Parties that will be attended by D.A.R. Poobahs who know how a finger sandwich ought to look. And taste. And be displayed on a platter.

Have you ever heard of a caterer who knows what a finger sandwich is? If they do, they know how to charge top dollar for the skimpiest of nourishments.

Now let's ratchet this rant up one more notch.

Volunteering reaches its peak of need at the darkest time of the year, when every sane person is suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.

So now you're doing your job, keeping your house, watching your kids' faces fall when you tell them you can't take them to the Macy's Christmas Display downtown because you have to buy groceries, and you're rushing off for five hours of volunteering at the museum, because hey, it's Christmas, and that's the time for a extra festive Open House! And Oh Holy Night, you didn't notice your prescription for Quaaludes has run dry!!!!!!

NOTE TO READERS: ANNE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO POST AS OFTEN, SO HER POSTS WILL BE LONGER. STOP HERE AND COME BACK TOMORROW IF YOU'RE LATE FOR THAT VOLUNTEER JOB.

I know this post is meaner than my usual meanness. Because without volunteers, homeless people wouldn't have blankets and hot soup, scientists wouldn't have the money for breast cancer research, and every single community everywhere would be a bleaker, darker place. It's not pretty to conceive of a world run by Ebenezer Scrooges.

That's the trouble, though. The Scrooges are in the ascendant. They're expecting more work for less pay, and no pensions or health insurance. What does that mean to the future of volunteering?

Just this: No one will be able to retire with enough pulse, energy, and extra gas money to hand out blankets. The golden days of little old lady volunteers who got every detail right is over. This is the end, my friend.

Oh yes, there will always be legions of high schoolers trying to pad their college aps by tutoring and picking up litter. And there will always be church ladies. Yes, there will always be church ladies. Especially in churches where it's considered a sin for women to work outside the home. But overall, the level of volunteerism in America is dropping at about the same rate that the global temperature is rising. People just don't have the time.

Don't believe me? Attend a meeting at your local Masonic Lodge and find a man under the age of 65. The Masons helped found this nation and have rocked on with charity work ever since, but in 30 years they'll be gone. Gone.

The D.A.R. might last a bit longer, but it too will eventually sag into the sea. Who has time to spend four days in Washington every year, marching in formation with badges on shoulders and listening to national Treasurer's Reports? Who's available to attend that local luncheon on a Wednesday? Who wants to spend a weekend driving to the other end of the state for a convention?

Squeezed by Scrooge, new generations will volunteer no more. Don't believe me? Try picturing a Ladies' Auxilliary for the Veterans of the Iraq War. Trust me, these vets' wives will be working two jobs, and the vets will too. Until they drop dead, victims of illnesses they had no insurance to cover.

In summary:

1. If you have time to volunteer, you must have a nice pension.
2. If your volunteer assignment is worse than your job, cut bait.
3. If all your volunteer duties climax in this darkest of months, and are tied to your place of worship, think hard about your religious choices.
4. If you're that little old lady who knows how to get every last detail right, you'd better dive into the bunker. The world will be clamoring for you, and you've already proven you don't know how to say no.

Now you must excuse me. I'm late for my appointment with the speech therapist. She's going to teach me how to say "NO!"

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Puck, Grounded

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your headquarters for the harried, hurried, worried, and not-yet-buried!

By this time next week my husband may be out on strike. The owner of his plant wants to freeze the pension, thank you Ronald Reagan and Ken Lay!

But what's the rule here at "The Gods Are Bored?" Rose-colored glasses only! That way, when the sun goes super-nova, we won't even be able to tell!

Awhile back it became apparent that I'd have to give up freelance goat-judging and go into the workforce. So for the next 10 weeks I'll be a longterm substitute teacher in the Ag shop at the local Vo-Tech school. I've had four days to prepare for the profession that people earn doctorates in -- secondary education.

It's bad enough that this Ag shop is almost exclusively horticultural in emphasis. Heck, they don't even keep any cows on site! But what makes it worse is that the classroom has the worst infestation of faeries I've ever seen.

I've been "in service" with the teacher who's leaving for the last two days. I swear by all the fae that every time that teacher puts something down, it disappears. And have you seen the amount of paperwork teachers have to do? Computers only make it worse.

Before I can do anything else I'll have to tame those bad faeries. That means my own, Puck and Princess, are grounded here at home until matters come under control.

Exhibit A: Puck the Faerie











And that means I won't be able to find my slippers at night, for sure. But the grade book is more important than the slippers.

FROM ANNE
THE LAPSED GOAT JUDGE
"Puck," by Seitou, reprinted only with permission of "The Gods Are Bored," please!

Saved by the Buzzards

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Was it St. Paul who said, "In the midst of winter I find in myself an eternal summer?"

No? Mmmmmm. Yeah, does sound a bit like Tim Leary. Or Henry David Thoreau, maybe. I never can keep these people straight.

For those of you fearing that Annie might be brewing up some hemlock for herself, take heart! This news just in makes the hardest road walkable. Barefoot.

Drum roll please ...

Ladies and Gentlemen, with humility and religious zeal, I give you:

The East Coast Vulture Festival 2007.

Yes, you ... YOU ... can experience a night of unbridled buzzard worship, madcap mayhem, poetry, music, and great eats! Come and meet Anne, the High Priestess of Vulture Worship, and her many fellow priests and priestesses! Come dressed as your favorite carrion bird. It's okay. Really.

No matter what the world throws at me between now and March 3, 2007, I will not care. Just take me to the buzzard festival and all will be well with my soul!

Here's a shot from last year's event. The 2007 festival will be even better!















FROM ANNE
"Let the bald head set you free!" (from The Bible of Buzzard Worship, New Revised Edition with Concordance and Maps)

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we light candles and curse the darkness.

It's 5:15 p.m. It's pitch dark. The nearly full moon shining in the window offers little encouragement.

I hate this time of year. Pardon my use of an expletive, but it sucks.

Call this holiday whatever you want. Christmas, fine. Yule, great. Kwanzaa, you go. Hanukkah, super duper. Solstice, rock on. JUST GET THE DAMNED THING DONE SO THE SUN COMES BACK!

Please.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELY SPRINGS

The Virgin Mary and Intelligent Design

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have you ever wondered why all those deities that got steamrolled by this One God guy didn't take up picket signs and protest? Me too.

A reminder to my legions and legions of readers: My longterm substitute teacher assignment has been moved to a start date of December 6. I may therefore have less time to create these stunning essays every day. C'est la vie du goat judge unemployee. (Fill in the accents if you know where they belong.) Oh, my cloven-hooved wonders! How I will miss you!

Today we at "The Gods Are Bored" are fresh off a glowing review of the new movie based on the Christmas story in the New Testament. Now here's one that will rake in the dough. It's rated PG. You know all those good Christians will flock (pardon the pun) to see it.

The movie review reminded me of something I'd forgotten about this sweet tale. The Virgin Mary was a tot of 14 when she was chosen by the Holy Spirit to give birth to Jesus.

I'm not quibbling with this virgin birth stuff at all. Because I've read accounts of people being abducted by aliens and impregnated with half/alien/half/human babies. So of course it could be done.

What has me baffled is how this story contradicts Intelligent Design.

Giving birth is always a risky proposition. It is especially perilous to two age groups: women almost too old to have babies and young teenagers. I'm a goat judge, not a public health official, but I've seen the newspaper stories about the complications arising from pregnancies and deliveries in the youngest age demographic.

But budding teens do have healthy babies, even hardy babies that can spend their first days surrounded by pooping stable animals. (If this wasn't true there would be no Scotch Irish - and I can say that because I am Scotch Irish.)

My qibble is this: Why did an Intelligent Designer take a chance on a 14-year-old kid when there must have been, oh please, at least a few 21-year-old virgins in the neighborhood? Wouldn't it have been safer and more humane to go with a slightly sturdier female?

I should contact the Discovery Institute and see what their scientists say about this.

Now, this second little issue I have arises from the first chapter in the Gospel According to Matthew. The writing in question begins with a long, involved genealogy of Joseph, showing how he was related to the House of Father Abraham. But then the author, Matthew, says that Mary's baby was not fathered by Joseph! So why the tedious genealogy? Jesus would not have been eligible for the Sons of the American Revolution if he was only adopted by Joseph, or not blood kin to Joseph.

So, if you ask me, someone filled out a massive S.A.R. form for no good reason.

I guess maybe it's a good thing I won't be able to write so much in the future. I give myself a headache. Imagine what I do to you!

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS