RU Raptor Ready #2: Free at Last

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," or, if you prefer, Buzzard Central. We just can't understand why anyone would refuse the life-changing opportunity to worship vultures.

And yet, day after day, we go knocking on doors, spreading the message of hope and purity, and people just look at us like we're weird. We even wear nice clothes and offer free vulture feathers. Not one convert. It's disheartening.

We guess Buzzard Heaven is going to be one wide-open playground. A few Egyptians, a few awesome Native Americans, and lots of magnificent aerial bliss.

Go ahead. Sit on your old cloud with your harp. We'll buzz right past ya. (Pardon the pun.)

This just in from Buzzard Central:

The East Coast Vulture Festival will feature a moment of worship that will kindle a flame in the coldest heart.

Last week a wounded vulture was found in the vicinity of the festival. The sacred bird was too weak to elude capture. It was taken to a wildlife rehabilitation clinic. There it has improved day by day. It is almost well.

On March 3, as part of the Vulture Fest, the wildlife rehab people will release the restored vulture so it can return to the flock. It probably has pair-bonded with a mate who has been searching frantically for it.

In the great grand scheme of things, one rescued vulture doesn't amount to a whole lot. That is, of course, unless you worship vultures. Then it's nothing short of a miracle. Who says miracles can only happen to people? Anything done for a Sacred Golden Purifier is an act of worship!

A quick note: It is illegal to keep vultures as pets. If you find a stranded baby vulture, leave it alone. Its parents are probably close by. If you see a wounded vulture, call Animal Control.

Another quick note: I guess it's a damn good thing it's illegal to keep vultures as pets, at least from my point of view.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

RU Raptor Ready #1

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where snark is a lark! When life is dark, kindle a spark.

Yeah, I know it's easier said than done. My life is dark too.

Every year between Imbolc and Equinox, we at "The Gods Are Bored" examine the sadly under-utilized religion of vulture worship. We are gearing up for the East Coast Vulture Festival, the only collective Buzzard Appreciation Event east of Hinckley, Ohio.

If you missed our series on Buzzard Worship last year, we invite you to check out the old archives and ground yourself in buzzard basics.

Just a quick "for instance": Wouldn't you be honored to worship something called the Golden Purifier? That's what turkey vultures are called in their Latin nomenclature. I don't know about you, but Golden Purifier sure sounds celestial to me.

My beloved grandfather was a lifelong Southern Baptist, very devout. When he died and was laid out in the funeral home, the pastor of his church came to talk to my dad and my uncles about the service. As always seems to be the case (or curse) at funerals in my family, this good Baptist pastor was a young fellow who hardly knew Granddad at all. The pastor did not know my father or my uncles, not even a little bit.

So the pastor gathered Dad and Uncle Superior and Uncle Diaspora into a little office. It must have been crowded in there, because they left the door open. I could hear every word.

And of course the pastor began as all pastors do. "What would you like me to say about Mr. X?" he asked. (Can you believe it? Damn pastor didn't even know that everyone always called Granddad "Zeb.")

There was a pregnant pause, which surprised me. Both Dad and Uncle Diaspora are great talkers. Uncle Superior could engage in a conversation on any topic under the sun and know more about it than the experts. But for a moment all three were at a loss for words.

Then my dad said: "Well, emmmmm. This is what I think. Human beings model their understanding of God upon the relationship they have with their parents. I have always felt that God must be a great deal like Pop."

(At this point my dad choked up and had to wait a moment before pursuing his philosophical statement.)

Dad added: "I've read the Bible all my life, and really you don't get a clear picture of God from reading it. He seems different in different parts of the book. But I've always felt in my heart that He must be kind, and gentle, and slow to anger, and eager to figure out vexing problems, and quick to forgive. Because that's how Pop was."

A silence descended in that room. You could have cut it with a knife. If I hadn't been sitting wake by my dearest granddad's coffin, I would have burst out laughing. To this day I wish I could have seen that Baptist pastor's face when confronted with the heresy that people base their worship of deities on the behavior of other people around them, especially their parents.

If pastors were allowed to say WTF, I think that one might have uttered it.

Anyway, I waited for my uncles to chime in with their opinions, but neither one of them said anything. And I took that as silent consent. Because as I say these weren't men of few words when they got going.

My dad was a very intelligent man. I mean, look around at the various pantheons of bored gods. Look at the behavior of the popular modern gods. Look at the way they're drawn or painted or sculpted, for the love of fruit flies. Most of them look a heck of a lot like people, give or take an extra set of arms or some horns and a tail.

So, if I might be so bold as to say so, it takes a true leap of faith to be an animist and worship some creature that isn't a thing like a human, in looks or behavior.

Ack, forget you read this. I was probably just a vulture in a previous life or something.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Fighting Impure Thoughts

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where every road map takes you to Sin City! Or is it Cincinnati? We're terrible with directions.

One of the bloggers in my sidebar is a very bad girl. Every Friday night she posts pornography. It's so graphic I find myself dropping everything and careening off to the gym for an hour of over-pumped stationary biking.

What is this Internet, that people can post detailed photos of goat milk fudge and the recipe too? In my granny's day, such things were kept in locked kitchen cupboards and shared only with the closest of kin.

I'm all for fighting fire with fire.

EXHIBIT A: THE CURE FOR FOOD PORN ADDICTION

O ye who fear an addiction to food porn, absolve yourselves! Drink this holy potion, yea verily especially first thing in the morning. In just two or three short weeks, you'll forget you ever tasted goat milk fudge. As for me and my house, we will follow the Tab.

I think this is what they used to cure Pastor Haggard of his little problem.

FROM ANNE

THE VERY, VERY AWAKE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

The Rapture Race

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where you're a school kid, and every day's a snow day! Go get your sled, pal, and let's ride!

Rapture is right around the corner, you know. The only question is, which one?

On the one hand, you've got the growing body of ChristiNazis who aren't sure whether they want Jesus or Hitler to return. Then you've got the New Saxons who are still seeking that perfect nation of blonde, blue-eyed purebreds.

Saxons and Christians invading with the idea of turning you into them, or else?

Okay, with apologies to all my gentle goddess readers, there's only one way to fight this invasion. We need to pray for the immediate return of King Arthur.

Remember, in the oldest legends ... errr ... scientific sources about King Arthur, his mortal remains went to Avalon. From there he will return to claim his immortal kingship! I'm not making this up. It's in the literature.

If you forget that part of King Arthur's history, it's okay. Generations of clergymen have tried to pass King Arthur off as either a myth or a living human who died just like the rest of us.

I've got news for you. He will return. If Jesus can do it, then King Arthur can do it too. No one knows better than we at "The Gods Are Bored" that resurrection is part of every god and goddess's playbook. They learn how to do it in school.

A quick recap for those of you waffling between which Rapture you'd prefer (Jesus's or King Arthur's).

Jesus told his followers to go out and make everybody worship him. Jesus advocated nonviolent approaches, but you know how it is. You get a few hundred years in your pocket, and violent and/or coercive conversion tactics seem perfectly acceptable.

On the other hand, King Arthur understood that he would have to find room in his house for folks of many religions and races in order to fight off the invading hordes of Mono-Thinkers. He was all about inclusion. There's no reason to believe he wouldn't hold to that course during his Second Coming.

So, be on the fence no more! Choose the polytheistic, race-uniting King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, and especially his Lady of the Lake! Here's a Rapture we can live with.

King Arthur, please come and rescue your people -- there are so many more now, all living in fear of the death of their freedom. They're of all races and all genders, and they need your defensive prowess and your sensible governing practices.

So, get it on King Arthur, and hurry! The ChristiNazis and the New Saxons want us to burn. Only you can stem the tide.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Do U Remember Middle School?

Welcome to 7th grade, courtesy of "The Gods Are Bored!"

Here's just one small part of tonight's assignment in just one course area, geography:

1. Find the absolute and relative locations of Panama and its capital city.

2.List all the countries and bodies of water that border Panama.

3. Write a sentence describing the relative location of the country.

4.List at least two human characteristics of the country.

5. What climate(s) are found in the country? Describe with details.

6. What is the most recent population of Panama? List the various ethnic groups found there.

7. List at least three physical highlights and/or landforms.

8. List the capital and two major cities and their most recent populations. What sites are especially noteworthy in each city?

9.List the natural resources, agricultural products, and chief industries of Panama.

10. What type of government is found in Panama? Explain.

11.What is the name of the currency used? How does it compare to the U.S. dollar?

12. What physical or recreational activities can a visitor do in Panama?

13.What major manmade changes can be seen?

14. How has man used the natural resources?

15. How has the country used technology to make better use of the land or natural resources?

Stop Here! There are TWO MORE FULL PAGES, plus documentation of 4 sources in MLA format!

Well, it could be worse. My daughter The Spare might have gotten Russia.

Cookbook Update

Okay, I'm a goat judge, not a public relations specialist.

I talked up a cookbook and didn't tell you how to snag your own copy.

Here's the destructions:

1. Mail $12 in any format along with your name and address to:
Citizens for Smart Growth in Allegany County
P.O. Box 401
Cumberland, MD 21502

I promise they will not start sending sweet-faced college kids to your door at suppertime. You'll just get a lil' ol' Granny cookbook flung into your mailbox. Yum yum. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may goose-step ...

Emmm ... that's in the depressing post underneath this one.

All They Need Is a Hitler

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," officially sanctioned by the International Federation of Gods and Goddesses (IFG&G) since 2005!

Decibel the Parrot and I are home alone this evening. Mr. Johnson took the daughters to a family party in a faraway locale. It's too cold to go buzzard-watching, so I'm going to catch up with a topic that I've been meaning to address for a few weeks.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" cannot speak for every Christian who has decided to leave Christianity for another faith. But one small component of our decision to bolt from the Bible was the fact that we found ourselves in church surrounded by people who didn't seem to be getting it. By "it," I mean Jesus Christ's central message of separation from the affairs of state in order to contemplate (at whatever cost financially and socially) the Great Divine.

Put more simply, true Christians should not vote, although they should pay their taxes. They should not seek retribution for any grievance, be it a shooting of little girls in a one-room Amish schoolhouse or a bombing of a pair of New York high rise buildings with thousands of innocent souls inside.

Jesus said the meek will inherit the earth.

I guess we could give Jesus credit for some future vision of a globally-warmed earth boiling the meek into dehydrated submission. But I don't think that's what he had in mind.

Decibel the Parrot has had his bath, and after I'm finished up here I'm off to the mega-bookstore to buy a book. It's called American Fascists: The Christian Right and the War on America, by Chris Hedges. Mr. Hedges has a degree in divinity from Harvard University and is the son of a Presbyterian pastor.

In his book, Hedges demonstrates that the Christian right is not "Christian" at all, but instead a large group of politically-motivated people who have not found security in the new global economy. These people find comfort in a mass movement that promises them a better future after the Rapture.

That's not enough, though. Two things happen to people in this movement:

1. They fall victim to smoke screens. They focus on issues like gay marriage and teaching evolution in schools rather than the forces that are disrupting their lives, like the burgeoning costs of the war in Iraq and the tidal wave of job losses to cheaper overseas markets.

2. They want to use the government as a tool to turn their particular beliefs into law.

No, I'm not smart enough to think up fancy stuff like this. Chris Hedges proposes all of the above in his book.

Then he goes one chilling step further.

For this next part, you'll need to dust off those black boots and spruce up your goose step.

Hedges writes that all America needs is a severe economic depression or a major terrorist attack to set these so-called "Christians" into Heil Hitler mode. Remember, the aforementioned dictator came to power in Germany at a time when the German economy was in the tank. And he never won over ALL Germans, just ENOUGH Germans to subdue the dissenters. The Germans who didn't care one way or another just went along for the ride.

Chris Hedges envisions a future America built on a "Christian" fascist model, in which "good Christians" spy on their neighbors to make sure everyone is living a "moral" life. The morals being legislated, of course. Anyone found in violation of the legalized "morals" would face penalties.

"Pish tosh," you say. "Anne, why don't you try a little light reading, like Harry Potter or something? Our U.S. Constitution would protect us from fascists."

Emmm hemmm. Excuse me if this is spelled wrong, but the Brown Shirts burned down the Reichstag. Germany was a technologically forward nation filled to the plimsol line with university-educated citizens. No one stopped the fascists there.

Even before Mr. Hedges came along with his book, I had been thinking about an old-time politician named William Jennings Bryan.

Let's leave behind the fact that Bryan, an ardent Christian, would find precious little common ground with today's Christian Right. Let's just imagine that someone as charismatic, and as dedicated, and as magnificent at speechmaking, came along in troubled times to lead America both politically and spiritually. Now let's imagine that this charismatic political/religious leader accepted the Christian Right agenda.

Okay, I'm even scaring myself. Where's my blankie?

A handful of my legions and legions of readers might think that "The Gods Are Bored" and Mr. Hedges are overstating the case.

Think again.

I invite you to take a look at Exhibit A below. I can't link to this guy's blog, "R U Rapture Ready," for some odd computer-related (or fae-related) reason. So I'll copy and paste. The author's name is Alberto Trippe:

EXHIBIT A: CHRISTIAN FASCIST

Beware you liberals, I am back and I am mad as heck at what has happened to our country.We God-fearing America-loving Christians are not going to let you flag-burning bleeding heart tree-hugging liberals destroy our country with your anti-gun pro-homosexual agenda.NO, NO, NO!Don't even begin to think that we will accept this with no fight!Get ready because there are a lot of us and we are really mad at what you and all you phony baloney limo-liberals are doing, or well attempt to do with this God-blessed Christian nation.

Lest you think the above Exhibit is satire, I assure you that I have been following Mr. Trippe's posts for some time. Every time a commenter proposes that he must be joking, Mr. Trippe responds that every word he writes is dead serious.

Please excuse me now. I've got to go find my blankie. Or my passport. Or both.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

My Very Strange Bedfellow

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," lovely liberalism lavishly applied! Blue isn't good enough for us. We say, Go Green!

Today when I came home from work, there was an email waiting for me from a reporter at Fox News in Baltimore.

Yeah, well, there are more than 341,000 Anne Johnsons in the U.S.A. Some of them must watch O'Reilly. Sure as hell not me.

Then I read the reporter's note: "Please call me if you're the Anne Johnson interested in Terrapin Run."

Bingo. That's me. I called Fox News. Me. Anne Johnson, calling Fox News. Geez, it's like taking lunch with Darth Vader.

But wait. Let's not jump to conclusions here. The only thing we at "The Gods Are Bored" jump to conclusions about is the indisputable fact that ALL POLITICIANS CURRENTLY IN OFFICE ARE POCKET MONKEYS FOR THE RICH, RICHER, AND RICHEST.

The kind young reporter alerted me to a sneaky bill that will be introduced in the Maryland State Senate on February 20, just a mere 3 weeks before the issue of Terrapin Run (a little stream trying to avoid becoming a sewer hole) was to be taken to Maryland Circuit Court.

I rapidly directed the kind young reporter to the head of Citizens for Smart Growth in Allegany County.

Here are the two kickers:

1. The reporter at Fox News said: "Yes, we're ultra-Republicans, but we oppose this bill and the ramifications it has for the environment in Western Maryland."

Anyone with this attitude is welcome in my circle of friends, no matter where they may be employed.

2. Big kicker: The reporter tracked me down through this blog. Oh yes, I am proud to say that Fox News firewalls "The Gods Are Bored," but he found a computer that lets him read about Zeus.

And so my magickal quest to save Terrapin Run and its environs from townhouses, asphalt, shopping centers, and fatal deer-vs.-SUV encounters has found an ally in ... drum roll ... Fox News.

Yeah. I've pinched myself black and blue.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
SAVE TERRAPIN RUN!

Morel Values

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," serving savory suppers since the seventies! I'm Chef Annie. Are you interested in hearing tonight's specials?

For appetizer, we have Morels Baked in Cream.

We're also offering our signature Corn Crabmeat Soup.

Our salad tonight is Winter Fruit Salad with Lemon Poppy Seed Dressing. Of course all of our salad dressings are made from scratch.

Tonight's entree of choice is Roast Loin of Venison with a juniper berry and white onion reduction, served on a bed of fresh baby spinach tossed with goat cheese and Tuscan olive oil.

Got that? Don't forget to leave room for Lemon Verbena Cake.

Okay, if almost all of this sounds like dressed-up hillbilly food, you're absolutely correct. And you're just dying for the recipes, aren't you? You were wondering what to do with that deer you ran over last week.

All of the above (with the exception of the fresh baby spinach bit) come from a brand-new cookbook called I've Got to Have That Recipe! It's a collection of homestyle recipes from distinctly rural and ruggedly Appalachian Allegany County, Maryland.

You can own a copy of this magnificent and quite original cookbook for just $12.00. Just click "Save Terrapin Run" in my sidebar, and you'll find your way to an order form.

For about the last two years, my magickal quest has been to help the Citizens for Smart Growth in Allegany County preserve the rural character of the county. This rural character is steeped in morel values. It deserves to be taken seriously.

What threatens the morel values of Allegany County is developers. One wants to build a full-sized town of 11,000 people where there's nothing now but ... morels. How im-morel is that?

This new town would be called Terrapin Run, after the tiny little dry branch creek that the 4400 housing units would destroy. Because of course 11,000 people are gonna have to go to the bathroom. When they flush, the water has to go somewhere. That somewhere is going to be Terrapin Run, a tributary (however small) of the Potomac.

This could be devastating for the morels of Allegany County. And if you think that doesn't matter to you, well. You've never had morels to begin with.

The Citizens for Smart Growth in Allegany County have to pay a lawyer to fight the big city developer who wants to build the town. Have you noticed that lawyers don't come cheap? Even high-minded, well-meaning ones?

In short, please buy a cookbook to Save Terrapin Run.

You won't find any recipes for morels on this site. As for morals, I'll tend my own, and you tend yours. If you want to let your furniture get stained, that's fine with me.

FROM ANNE

PLEASE HELP SAVE TERRAPIN RUN

You're Kidding Me!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Peer-reviewed by fabulously intelligent and open-minded superior individuals since 2005!

The karma's been rippin' poor for me since I didn't take Imbolc seriously and wrote that silly haiku with the faeries whispering in my ear. Thankfully, something has happened that raises me once again in Brighid's favor.

Queen Brighid the Bright has a brand new little nanny kid named after her. You can read all about Bridey the Goat here.

Rosanne, the author of "Smokey Mountain Breakdown" (now in a sidebar near you) has earned top "Gods Are Bored" honors for her aptitude with goats, especially under trying circumstances. If you want to know about goats, don't ask me. I don't talk shop on this site. Rosanne is your best bet.

Those of you not interested in goats will be drenched in desire when you see Rosanne's special brand of porn.

(I just lost my entire male audience.)

For you girls left behind, you'll be pleased to know that I suggested Rosanne name her newest kid Bridey, and she took me up on it. I'll be judging that goat someday, and I'll bet she takes the blue.

I've never had any lasting trolls at this site. I've read other blogs full of horror stories -- threats of bodily harm, name-calling, cursewords. But here at "The Gods Are Bored" I've made friends I'll probably never see face-to-face ... but you're alive and you know who the hell you are.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

What Luck! It's Puck!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Boarded Up!"

When does a faerie carry a cherry to Ben & Jerry in Tipperary? When Hairy Larry doesn't need it on the prairie for nary a Mary nor a Gary! Don't be wary ... come and tarry! I'm extraordinary!

My name's Puck. It rhymes with ... emmmmm ... ahem ... oh yeah, Duck!

I've been away many a day from the lair of A.J. But hey, that's okay, she's bad pay anyway.

A.J.'s so sad and blue. And there's one thing she can't do. And that's write a poem or two. She tried a haiku. It died, boo hoo! The bored gods want to sue. Or to cook A.J. as stew.

She's feeling it now. And how. Transgression, confession, depression. Dejection, rejection, alienation of affection.

But she's in luck, cuz here comes Puck! She'll be unstuck from all her muck.

Just remember: It's always better to be mucked up than to be f ..... emmmm .... screwed.

A RHYME JUST IN TIME

FROM PUCK THE SUBLIME

Awesome Imbolc Poetry

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" When the bored gods close a door, they open a window. And that's how that ugly wasp got in your shower stall.

Some people will feel that we at "The Gods Are Bored" are rather irreverent when it comes to religious feeling. Yesterday was Imbolc, for the love of fruit flies, and we made light of it. (pardon the double entendre)

It's our position here at "The Gods Are Bored" that even heaven can be humorous and that what makes us laugh makes us lighter. We're not big on solemnity here, and we don't prefer heavens that accent the devotion and eliminate the emotion.

We also can't write poetry. Our example in the previous entry proves it. We got two lovely lines, and then we had to turn the thing over to faeries to finish. On a Friday. After a long week of work.

Fortunately, we at "The Gods Are Bored" do read other bloggers. Two of them, both Appalachians with all the gifts that word implies, created awesome Imbolc poems. Here's the entry from Buddy Don, the Wandering Hillbilly:

Brigid

Upon a day that legends say hog shadows can fortell
The ending of the hoary winter season,
A child was born one early morn between heaven and hell,
Between the warmth of spirit and cold reason.

The year was old, the winter cold, yet tiny shoots of grass
Still bravely pierced the hardened frosty rime –
Their shoots unbowed they stood the vow that like the newborn lass
The spring would quickly grow and reach her prime.

For from that start twixt head and heart a small girl bathed in milk
Would grow to be the saint of three great arts –
She would exalt distiller’s malt, weavers craft, poet’s ilk –
All treasures from the soul’s liminal parts.

Our faith is clear in times most drear, when earth is bleak and frigid –
The gods did send a guide, a friend, to all in lovely Brigid.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I hear Appalachia all over this. Beautiful.
I encourage my readers to visit Buddy Don at "Wandering Hillbilly." When he's not posting poems he's posting photography or political commentary, all of it right nice stuff.

Not to be outdone, another of my favorite daily reads, Tennessee Jed, took a coffee break from his job repairing lights on a big bridge and wrote this charmer:

The sun fell away autumnal

So your forecast is worth

When your view is successful

Vernal sun of spring birth

Oh bone aches are dreadful

Small creature humble in Earth

Solaris cure this head full

Weather provide me my mirth.

If you want you some righteous poetry, just ask a hillbilly, wandering or otherwise.

(I didn't ask Jed if I could use his poem, I hope he doesn't mind.)

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Imbolc 2007

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your cosmic cornucopia! A blessed Imbolc to one and all!

Imbolc is the Celtic holy day dedicated to the Goddess Queen Brighid the Bright, keeper of home and hearth, guardianess of the forge, and Muse of creativity. She also plays a mean game of Monopoly, and she will make you pay if you land on Park Place. Don't try to dodge.

In honor of Imbolc this year, many pagan bloggers are posting poetry on their sites. Alas and alack, I've had no time to peruse the 986 verses I've penned about turkey vultures to find an appropriate entry. Sadder still, the poet whose poem I wanted to use (as it is one of the most wonderful "Mom" poems I've ever heard) never got back to me about it. I ain't postin no poetry without permission.

So the faeries and I pooled our talents. And since one of the locals was the great Nick Virgilio, famous for his haikus, we decided to praise the Goddess with an awesome haiku.

Here goes:

Darkness of winter

Made warm by the bright Goddess.

Now it's Miller Time.

When we have haiku readings in Camden, we always say the poem twice:

Darkness of winter

Made warm by the bright Goddess.

Now it's Miller Time.

Thanks be to the faeries, and have a wonderful Imbolc!

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

(BURP)

"Kyrie," by Seitou. Godlove's Liquors, Hagerstown, Maryland, photo by author.

More Great Advice from Annie

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where our legions of readers support us each and every day!

Okay, not necessarily true, but we don't want welfare. We're able-bodied and willing to work our own magick.

This item was just slopping along among the drivel on my Yahoo! home page:

"How do I stop the pain of wearing heels?"

Asked by Buffy, the Bachelor-Slayer.

Buff, here's a real quick solution.

Go to the thrift store and get yourself a pair of slightly-used sneakers. Wear them.

Problem solved.

PS - No bored gods were harmed in the preparation of this advice.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Imagine We the People ...

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," just three days before Imbolc! If you don't know what Imbolc is, you're not alone. We'll talk about it tomorrow, and we hope to post a fabulous poem on Friday, pending permission of the author of the poem.

You, too, can post a poem on Friday and be part of the Great Imbolc Blog-a-Poem! Spread the word.

If we don't get the poem we want, brace yourself for one about buzzards. I've written volumes and volumes of poems about buzzards, so the only hard part will be picking the best one.

Okay, tonight I'm asking my legions and legions of readers for their prayers and/or positive thoughts.

I have sent my resume, a copy of my book, Defining Moments: The Scopes Monkey Trial (Omnigraphics Press, 2006), and a cover letter that falls just short of an abject plea to ....

Drum roll ...

The National Constitution Center Museum.

The resume was solicited by an employee there, so I am on my knees to every bored god and goddess of every pantheon in every lovely land, and of every lovely era.

Oh, pleeeeeeeeeeeze!

If you've never been to the National Constitution Center Museum, you're missing a treat. It's in Philadelphia, cheek-to-jowl with Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. And it is just a wonderful, terrific, fabulous, inspiring, and humbling place to spend a long afternoon. It opened I guess about four years ago. I've visited it three times.

One of the most interesting aspects of the NCC is how they have managed to make the U.S. Constitution interesting to people of all ages. The first time I went there was with my daughter's Middle School class. Her teacher had given the kids a bitch-long study sheet of stuff they were supposed to learn and write down while they were there. The kids groused and moaned about it all the way to the museum. But once they got there, it was like a scavenger hunt for information. They loved it. And they learned a truckload about how our government ought to be run.

The next time I went was with my other daughter's class. She was in 4th grade at the time. Having seen the museum, I couldn't imagine how kids that young could get anything out of it at all. But trust me, the 4th graders loved it even more than the Middle Schoolers. The NCC has interactive exhibits designed especially for kids, and one of those spiffy multi-media introductions that the young set seems to crave.

As for me, I was most impressed by two things. Each Amendment has its own black marble monument, running around the roof in chronological order. Beneath the Amendment are exhibits geared to that Amendment and the time period in which it was passed.

The other thing that fascinated me about NCC is that it gives visitors a chance to air their views on constitutional issues. They'll ask a question like, "Do you think public schools should teach the creation story as told in Genesis as a viable alternative to evolution?" And they have those little post-it notes there for you to write your opinion on. Well, that's just right up my alley. Of course you're gonna get the usual teenage crap like "For a good time call Buffy." But you'll see some thoughtful answers stuck up there, reflecting both sides of the issue. We the People. I like that.

So, being a pessimist I predict that I'll either never get an interview at NCC, or I'll get a job and find myself in some underground cubicle dealing with impossible deadlines. But I don't think even that would blunt my enthusiasm for working at the National Constitution Center. Fragile though it may be, our U.S. Constitution is the document that separates us from fascists and barbarians -- for the time being, anyway.

Today I sent them my resume. Gosh, you'd think they'd want to hire America's only Pagan member of the Daughters of the American Revolution!

Wish me luck.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Image: "Waiting," by Seitou.

Quick Head's Up

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and to all a good night.

My artist friend Seitou now has her own site. It has been linked to my sidebar. Be sure to ask Seitou if you want to use Seitou's artwork. It's only polite, right?

EXHIBIT A: ARTWORK BY SEITOU

This one is called "Torn."

The very important Holy Day Imbolc is Friday. Hecate (also in sidebar) tells me that there will be a poetry blogfest that day. We at "The Gods Are Bored" will be posting a fabulous poem. If you read this, please post a poem on Groundhog Day. I know I can count on the Wandering Hillbilly (also in sidebar).

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

A Woman of Constant Sorrow

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming soon to a theatre near you!

Today, Saturday, protesters against the Iraq War
gathered en masse in Washington to demand an end to the madness. People traveled by bus great distances to be there.

Me, I sat at a D.A.R. banquet, praying to God to protect our brave troops in the war.

Well, I didn't really pray. Me, pray to Mr. Jealousy, God Almighty? I gave that up for Lent.

But this afternoon, as I left the posh nosh with my door prize (a box of tea), I felt, to quote Huck Finn, "tolerable cheap." Like I was part of the problem and not part of the solution.

Well, we all have issues, don't we? Mine is very simple.

I'm a pessimist.

The combination of Scots-Irish Appalachian DNA and a bipolar mother imbued in me from an early age the steadfast notion that nothing will ever get better, no matter what I do or don't do. I don't attend political protests because it doesn't change a damn thing. Once in awhile someone like Martin Luther King Jr. comes along, and it looks like things will change, so someone shoots him. Done.

I have written a novel. A couple of agents have looked at it. One kept it a year. The rest turned it down within weeks. One rejection letter even got the title of the book wrong. Did I keep trying? Hell no. I can't even bring myself to send a few chapters to OakWyse. When the going gets tough, I quit. To be honest, I'd have been far more surprised if some publisher had accepted my novel than I am to have been rejected.

Pessimist.

Pessimists believe there will always be wars, because too many human beings seem hell-bent on exercising their worst impulses. Pessimists believe that no politician can be trusted, that they're all out for personal gain, and if they aren't they get assassinated.

Pessimists believe that they can't even protect one little tiny mountain stream from a big city developer.

But on that one I keep trying.

Fortunately I'm far from alone in this bleak world view. 'Tis an Appalachian who wrote "I am a man of constant sorrow, I've seen trouble all my days."

Misery loves company, and in Appalachia misery has always been abundant.

Every now and then the stars align. I visit Berkeley Springs and soak my head. I attend a ritual. For awhile I feel better. Then my nature re-asserts itself, and the whole world turns dark again.

Writing this web log helps me to laugh at it all, but it hasn't changed my ultimate mindset, which is simply that things won't get better no matter what I do, no matter how many bored gods I invite to dinner.

Fortunately for me, the bored gods accept that. And deep down I do believe that things will get better -- on the other side. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

What the heck do you expect from someone whose favorite pastime is watching turkey vultures?

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELY SPRINGS

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