You Love Me! You Really Love Me!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," liberally spicing our rants with bald sarcasm since 2005!

Lately this pretty little award has been making the rounds of Pagan blogdom. I was given the award by three different bloggers --- my goodness, I hope I have enough fresh peaches for three pies!

I'm honored that people like to read what I write. When I go to some of the other Pagan sites and see thoughtful, kind, gentle entries, combined with beautiful photographs and/or recipes and/or deep philosophy, I feel a little bit silly. But we at TGAB love to laugh! It's the best medicine.

Having been showered with love, I hereby follow the rules of the contest, which are:

*Pick seven of my favorites, and

*Let 'em know they should feel the love, and

*link 'em (not my forte, folks), and

*shove 'em into the sidebar, if they're not already there.

If you get the award, you can post the pretty graphic to your blog. And be sure to say where it comes from, Anne Johnson. Be careful with the spelling of that name.

Passing On the Love:

1. The Wild Hunt. I check Jason every day for what's happening in the news regarding Pagans, both here in the U.S. and abroad. This is a great blog, you probably already read it.

2. A Druid's Apprentice. Nettle is an herbalist and a natural medium for faeries, also a lovely human being. Anyone who can grow hefty yields of farm crops in a rowhouse backyard is special to the Bored Gods.

3. Radical Goddess Thealogy is as serious as I am flippant, but if Athana's religion suddenly took over the world, our troubles would be over.

4. A Druid's Journal is for all of you out there who want to read serious Druidry by someone who is really walking the walk with all the ups and downs daily life doles out. Again, Jeff is as serious as I am silly.

Okay, this being The Gods Are Bored, I just have to throw in some personal favorites that brighten my day.

5. Want to join a truly fringe-fringe praise and worship team? Try The Dude Who Worships Batman. He calls himself Reverend Elvis Drinkmo, and he quotes Scripture from Star Trek. Nuff said.

6. Buzzardbilly isn't a Pagan, but she's sharp as a tack and a fun daily read. Sadly there's no vulture worship at this site, just a really smart lady lobbing gobs of reality out of West Virginia.

7. Everyone should have a really fun granny, so I hereby shower love on Yellowdog Granny. She would rather be showered with Dublin Dr. Pepper and Dallas Cowboy wins, but hey. Can't get those from here, Gran! Luv u.

My luv bombs came from Beweaver at Weaving the Web, Sabrina at Pagan Dawn, and Livia Indica at Magic in These Hills.

If I got all this linking correct, I'm going to treat myself to a black-and-white milkshake.

Lucky Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on this special day! Yes, every year August 23 rolls around. Recall that we at "The Gods Are Bored" are fond of that number.

And no wonder. August 23 is my wedding anniversary. Twenty-four years of blissful freedom from divorce lawyers!

Who says life can't be like movie sex? This is me and Mr. Johnson. Okay, well, it isn't of course. But that's how I feel about my dude. Just when you think he can't get any sexier, he comes home and tells you he's been named to his labor union's executive board. Wowsa!

Baby, you rock my world! Shall we go for 48?

Her Noodly Master

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," praise and worship for deities old and new, lightly used and recycled! Waste not, want not!

Yesterday we dropped my daughter The Heir off at her new college. We could have left my daughter The Spare there too, because even though The Spare's only 14, everyone thought she was an incoming freshman. Especially the guys.

The Heir loaded our car with all kinds of stuff, her California Raisin collection, her musical saw, her pet rock, her pimple cream, on and on. And when we got there, she had no pillow for her bed. It had taken us 90 minutes to drive the 36 miles to her college, so we decided it was easier to go pick up a pillow at Target than run home and get hers. (Which proved true, as it also took 90 minutes to drive home. Could have walked faster.)

In the time it took Mr. Johnson and myself to go to Target for a pillow, The Heir did a little exploring of her new environment. She was thrilled to find, scrawled on a dumpster next to her butt-ugly dormitory, a likeness of the Noodly Master ... the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster!

As I hugged The Heir farewell, we both took solace in knowing that a fabulous deity will be watching her from the side of a dumpster. The Heir has Pastafarian leanings. It won't take much persuasion for her to embrace the FSM in a very serious way. Thank goodness for that, because she's heard enough non-noodly dogma this summer to gag a goat.

Room for Rent

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," practical parenting and problematic parroting. Watch your fingers!

My daughter The Heir is leaving for her first year of college.

I know how colleges work. The students, left to run free for the first time in their lives, stain the upholstery with mad abandon.

All you can hope in these situations is that you've set a good example of proper furniture maintenance and quick clean-up of any unintended spills.

The Heir has her own taste in upholstery. I've encouraged her to have a big, broad, flexible outlook. Let other folks flock to La-Z-Boy. She can take the sofa less traveled. Maybe it once belonged to Aleister Crowley (notorious for spotless ottomans).

If anyone wants to leave a good-bye wish for The Heir, just pop onto the comment sheet. You need not restrict your advice to upholstery care. She already knows enough about that.

Me and the NRA

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we shoot (off our mouths) and ask questions later. Bang bang! What the f***?

Sometimes I wonder what kind of profiling is being done on me out there in the great beyond. When your name's Anne Johnson, just about anything can come for you in the mail.

Last week it was an invitation to join the National Rifle Association.

They sent me a membership card with a bald eagle on it, and a questionnaire to fill out, and a self-addressed stamped envelope to mail back my membership payment in.

I kept the card for the moment. After I scrape the cat box with it, I'll send it back to them.

As for those membership dues, well, gosh. I think I'll join the ACLU instead. Sorry, NRA. But you can have your questionnaire back, in your handy prepaid envelope.

I've written about gun ownership before, and I know some of my readers own guns. And I say, you go. The Constitution, as currently interpreted, gives you the right.

As for me and my house, nope. No guns. Our only protection here is Decibel the Parrot. He's pretty formidable, I must say. His motto is "Fingers: The Other White Meat."

You know why I don't own a gun? Because I believe in production for use. If I had a gun, I would shoot something with it.

Isn't it nice that I'm self-aware enough to keep clear of such temptation?

Here's a "for instance":

Bringing daughter The Spare home from a visit to Granny in Baltimore. Heavy traffic on I-95, slowed to a rolling backup. Some shit-eatin' creep in a black Honda cuts us off so blatantly that I gasp and throw my hands over my eyes. Then, the minute our lane is slower than the one next to ours, he jumps back into the other lane again. He's a well-groomed white guy about 60 years old, talking on a cell phone while driving so recklessly you just gotta wonder how he lived to have gray hair.

Then our lane speeds up a little, and we pass him. For a moment I am staring straight at his profile, which has "K Street Lobbyist" written all over it.

If I am packing heat at that moment, a dude is wasted. Toast.

So I don't pack heat.

As for self-protection, well, if I can't brandish my parrot, I guess I'm shit outta luck. I'll take that chance. Because this is one Anne Johnson who could never be trusted with an active firearm. I should know. I live with her.

Christianity Is Stupid

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" On behalf of all the gods and goddesses out there who've been steamrolled by Christianity, we stand united to liberate you! Time to jam the gears on that steamroller and restore some sanity to the world!

Lately some people I love have come up against Christian fundamentalists who have used all the usual mind-control, fear-based tactics to win another convert to the faith. Frankly I am sick of this. You get that way when an over-zealous preacher uses your father's funeral as a chance to tell you that you're bound for hell.

So, we quote the immortal Negativland:

"Christianity Is Stupid."

Here's my personal view of how fundamentalist Christianity works:

You want to travel from Detroit to Tampa. There is only one route from Detroit to Tampa. It is Interstate 75. You may not take any other route from Detroit to Tampa. There are certain exits from the Interstate that you cannot take, because they may lead you to a store that sells fireworks or some such. Or worse, those exits might lead you to an alternative route to Tampa.

There is no other destination if you are leaving Detroit, except Tampa. No other city is as great as Tampa. Don't listen if anyone tells you that, say, Indianapolis is just as nice, or that you can actually proceed past Tampa to Sanibel Island. Or that you can get to Tampa by taking a little detour and winding up on the Blue Ridge Parkway, and maybe in comparison to the Blue Ridge Parkway, Tampa suddenly doesn't seem as appealing.

And here's another response to that Bible-thumping preacher who turned my father's funeral into a revival meeting. This preacher said that heaven was like a theme park. If you get to the turnstile, and you don't have enough money for a ticket, you can't get in.

Okay, I've arrived at the theme park with enough money to get in. But I don't like theme parks. I think they're phony-baloney. I'd rather go hiking or tubing. And now I hear that cats and dogs aren't allowed in the theme park. Well, I can take my trusty dog hiking with me. So shove your theme park, I'm going hiking!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" recognize that many, many Christians regard their beliefs as personal and not to be pushed on others. But lurking everywhere is a lunatic fringe few who want to fill their heaven to the plimsol line. They are well-trained to meet every resistance with practiced arguments. They can make people very uncomfortable indeed.

These stupid Christians can have their theme park in Tampa. As for me and my house, we'll go hiking along the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

Deliver Us from Monotheism: The Purpose Driven Lie

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," drunk and pissed, and not necessarily in that order!

It seems that the two presidential nominees have gathered with Rick Warren, pastor of one of those sick-ass mega-churches (author of A Purpose Driven Life), for a televised address about their "faith."

Did you notice the headline to this post? There's an "F" missing. "F," as in why the fuck should it matter what religion the candidate has, or doesn't have?

This is seriously embarrassing, America. The last time a candidate crowed so loud about his religion was 100 years ago. That was William Jennings Bryan, and he fuckin' lost THREE presidential elections! The only thing Bryan has to show for his sojourn on this planet is everlasting belittlement for his role in the Scopes "Monkey" trial ... and the only college in America where you can take CREATION SCIENCE as a minor!

And so, I, Anne Johnson, am protesting this egregious assault on the U.S. Constitution by boycotting the television for the rest of the evening. I think I'll go slip on something silky, mist some Paris Hilton cologne twixt the ta tas, and see if Mr. Johnson wants to boycott as well. My guess is that he'll join me in my solitary protest.

Yep.

Anne Scolds Anne

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Reality check on Aisle One, please!

I'm losing my grip on the big, broad, flexible outlook. Going nutso because daughter The Heir is going to college ... 45 miles of grueling freeway from my door.

See? There I go again! I'm driving The Heir crazy.

Just now I told her not to play her musical saw in public, because some serial killer might see her and befriend her and saw her to pieces.

If you have unused sedatives in your medicine cabinet, please send them to me. I'm acting like a kid who's about to be deprived of her blankie.

The Heir is taking a poetry class at college. For the love of fruit flies, if she keeps up that sort of thing, she'll be back under my roof in four years, drinking my TaB Cola and eating all my Hershey bars. So what's the big deal?

There I go again! She might be the next Sylvia Plath ... Ann Sexton ... someone please call the authorities, Anne has lost the few marbles she owned!

Yeah, and I still have daughter The Spare at home. I've been cleaning her room today, while she's out of town. You would too if your kid's room looked like this.

Anne. Get a grip. Stiff upper lip. Pip pip! Hey, Spare! Spare! Are you under there? Come and say farewell to The Heir!

White Magic Going Bad?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," counting down the days until my daughter The Heir goes to college.... Seven. *weeps*

Okay. Enough of that. Self-pity ain't pretty.

Did you see Stuart Shepard from Focus on the Family ask his viewers to pray for a torrential rain on Barack Obama's acceptance speech? You did? Tell me how that is different from black magic. The dude is even holding a wand! (Actually it's an umbrella, but he uses it like a wand.)

You gotta be careful what you ask for, Stu. The family of four swept away in a Rocky Mountain flash flood may be your own.

Magic is very, very tricky. My two white magic projects are making me feel my amateur status quite painfully.

1. Spell #1: Saving the Small Stream

For several years I've been engaged in trying to save a small mountain stream from becoming the sewage sluice for a town of 11,000 people. That town doesn't exist right now -- the tract of land is free of human habitation. Attempts to keep it that way are still slowly grinding forward, a victory here, a setback there. You know how it is with developers. They never give up.

I asked the bored Goddess Cloacina to guard the stream for me. She is the ancient Roman Goddess of Cleanliness. Cloacina was eager to have the work. She paid her own transportation costs to the site. But in typical ancient Roman fashion, She has used every tactic in Her considerable power to git r done.

The proposed Appalachian Mountain development is called Terrapin Run, after the pretty little stream. Its developer, the shadowy PDC Corporation, has made the news lately for lapses in completion of other Maryland developments. These lapses have led to burglaries (because PDC did not install mandatory street lights), and automobile accidents (because PDC did not complete storm water runoff ponds). My source for this information is a July 24, 2008 article in Gazette.net: Maryland Community Newspapers Online, by Andrea Noble.

Has the bored Goddess I petitioned actually tried to scuttle the Terrapin Run project by allowing innocent folks in other suburban developments to be burglarized?

This is why I never, ever pray for rain.

2. Spell #2: The Enchanted Plastic Dinosaurs

My legions and legions of readers will recall that my daughters and I decided to liven up a local park that was dedicated to dinosaurs (but had only a boring plaque) by putting toy dinosaurs out for kids to play with. Of course we do this anonymously. And we've watched happy kids play with the dinos. This looks like a white magic slam-dunk.

Nope. While my daughters and I have always put out only larger dinosaurs that cannot be swallowed, it seems that other anonymous folks have taken up the cause, and some of the dinos they leave could be swallowed by a little kid. Now my family has to prowl that site vigilantly, removing all undersized plastic dinos. But are we vigilant enough? What sort of dangerous project have we unleashed here?

Can you tell I'm a little insecure today? Advice, anyone?

Deliver Us from Monotheism: Necromancer, Burned

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we run from One! "Mono" isn't even a pretty-sounding prefix. Whereas "Poly" just rolls off the tongue. Example: mononucleosis .... polypeptide .... monotonous .... polly wanna cracker?

Oh. Sorry about that.

News just in my email box, from regular posts I receive through Charisma magazine. About once a week I get a little pep talk from a Christian preacher named J. Lee Grady whose column is called Fire in My Bones.

Remember that dude I told you about down in Lakeland, Florida, who was doing all those faith healings, even unto bringing dead people back to life? (An impolite Pagan would call that "Necromancy" and denounce it.) His name is Todd Bentley. Well, the 100-plus day heal-fest down in Lakeland has come to an untimely end, with Mr. Bentley separating from his wife and three young children.

I will grant you that there were Christians who already distrusted Mr. Bentley, his odd speaking-in-tongues, his tattoos, his whacking disabled people to the floor, all of that. But now that Mr. Bentley is having marital problems (unspecified), the entire corpus of Christian pastors has lined up to denounce him.

Here's a bit from J. Lee Grady's email:

"A prominent Pentecostal evangelist called me this week after Bentley’s news hit the fan. He said to me: “I’m now convinced that a large segment of the charismatic church will follow the anti-Christ when he shows up because they have no discernment.” Ouch. Hopefully we’ll learn our lesson this time and apply the necessary caution when an imposter shows up."

I'm not sure I follow you, J. Lee. If Todd Bentley was an imposter, what happens to the people who were healed by him? Do they seek to be sick again because what happened to them was the work of an imposter?

Quick. Somebody tell the zombies! "It's okay, you can go back to bed now. Just a false alarm. An imposter."

I'm not one to throw stones, but I think this is a picture-perfect case of an overworked god not paying enough attention to detail. When a third of the population of an overcrowded planet is some sort of Judeo-Christian follower, you're bound to stress the reigning deity to the max.

You gotta see it from God's point of view. He gets a memo that some young fella in tattoos is doing healings down Florida way, he sprinkles down a few healings like you quickly toss oregano into your pasta salad, and alas. Insufficient background check on the healer.

Now, some of you are saying, "Okay, Anne Johnson, it's easy for you to belittle necromancers from other religions. What exactly do Druids do if they want healing?"

1. Herbs and homeopathy, reiki and acupuncture. And if those aren't enough, then ...

2. Modern medicine, with all the accumulated knowledge of humankind at its disposal.

As for bringing dead people back to life, well, that depends on how long they've been dead. If modern medicine can't do the job, we at "The Gods Are Bored" say it's time to call in the Sacred Thunderbirds to dispose of the meat, and the faeries to beckon the soul.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

My Blessed Druid Navel

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," beseeching peace from the Four Quarters, for without peace can no work be done!

What does one do with 24 unused water balloons?

That was the question facing me when my Druid Grove's Lughnasadh ritual had to be sandwiched between raging thunderstorm cells. We had our worship, but the fun and games had to be postponed. So, home I went with all the water balloons I'd filled for the day.

Yesterday I told my daughters, The Heir and The Spare, to invite a few friends over for a picnic. Guess I should have been more specific, because tonight the backyard was lively with a dozen college-bound or high school-bound youngsters, all learning for the first time what Lughnasadh is all about!

We didn't have a dragon to toss, so we made do with an octopus. Heck, they've made a tradition of this in Detroit, so I knew how it was done.

Then they did the water balloon toss ... twice ... and they all wanted more water balloons after that. Except for my boss's daughter, who took a shot to the face and got drenched. (Expecting pink slip tomorrow.)

We ate hot dogs and potato chips and watermelon. Then ... oh, great Sacred Thunderbirds! Along comes the Good Humor man, and everyone paid for their own dessert!

We retreated to the back yard. I had sent all the party-goers to the woods nearby to fetch home some kindling. We had a bonfire (small), and around it we had a traditional (at least for my Grove) round of toasts with sparkling cider.

Here's how it works. You offer a toast, take a sip of the sparkling cider, and pass it to the person next to you. They, too, offer a toast. This keeps going on until someone finally drains the cup. That person has to pay a forfeit.

Tonight's loser was my daughter The Spare, whose forfeit was to kiss the foot of my daughter The Heir. When I told the assembled faithful that they could have made The Spare kiss everyone's foot, they begged for another round of toasts!

Oh, readers. Such sweet toasts. Friends who have been together since sixth grade, now bound far and away to colleges ... fond memories ... silly comments ... the occasional "to my friends" and nothing else. And me, of course, keeping it all Celtic by saying, "May there be peace throughout the world."

Even Decibel the Parrot had a good time. Decibel likes noise and confusion. So do the faeries.

Speaking of faeries. I had left my faeries (Puck, Princess, Aine) up in my room. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. After watching a picture frame and two bowls smash, I realized I'd better fetch them all into the action. No more glassware was harmed after that. Lesson learned. Again.

You would never know it, nor would the friends of my daughters, but I'm in constant pain with my bum hip ... sometimes it freezes completely ... but when there are two dozen water balloons just sitting in the trunk of the car, the hip is of no consequence.

The peace of the Four Quarters I send to you. The wisdom of the Salmon I send to you. We must all leap with our last bit of strength to ascend the top of the waterfall, but oh, what a joyous trajectory through the air!

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Fairy Nice Picture

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Clap if you believe in faeries!

Someone issued a dare. Do you have a photograph of your faerie?

As my legions and legions of regulars know, I have several unique pictures of my personal faeries. But I think this person wanted proof that faeries exist.

Do you remember that movie Miracle on 34th Street, where some old dude with a white beard was ruled Santa Claus in a court of law after he got all the Christmas letters from kids in New York?

Well, this works something like that. Our featured faerie today is so well known that there's probably not a single kid in America (save the Amish) who could not identify her by name. I imagine the same could be said for Europe and even the Far East.

Everyone knows Tinker Bell. I have at least six t-shirts with her on them. Loves it.

So, the universal recognition of Tinker Bell by name and exploits proves the existence of faeries. She's sort of their poster child in this day and age. Thank you very much, J.M. Barrie, with an assist from Walt Disney.

If you don't believe in faeries, who the heck hides your car keys?

Deconstructing Genesis

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ankh if you love polytheism!

My daughter The Heir begins college in 10 days. At her college, every freshman is required to take two semesters of this course called "Common Intellectual Experience." It's sort of a mini-Great Books, and I'm gnashing my teeth because my college (The Johns Hopkins University) didn't have anything that big, broad, and flexible.

At Johns Hopkins when I was there, we just learned how to deconstruct literature. And postmodernism was all the rage. Ick. I wonder if they're still teaching postmodernism?

The first two books on The Heir's reading list for CIE were the Epic of Gilgamesh and Genesis. The Bible book, not the rock band.

Gilgamesh is chock-a-block with bored gods and goddesses, sort of like the Iliad and those old Greek plays. Sometime we'll have to invite those Sumerian deities here to TGAB for an interview. Maybe we can find them a new praise and worship team.

Actually I was more interested in the scholarly, texty-looking Genesis that The Heir had to buy, required. You've seen these books. An Introduction running to 50 pages on the nuances of ancient Hebrew and Aramaic, followed by three or four pages of acknowledgements of other diligent scholars. Then the text itself, consisting of maybe a quarter page of the actual Genesis and three quarters of a page of margin notes, usually more long-winded stuff about Hebrew verbs.

So what the heck? It's been awhile since I read Genesis from A to Z, so I did it. Here and there consulting the voluminous scholarly notes.

Regarding those notes: Did you know there's no archeological evidence for the use of camels in the Middle East during the supposed era of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? I didn't know that either. And neither did the author of Genesis. Maybe we should ask the camels.

Having read Genesis before, I was not surprised by the stories therein. Like Clarence Darrow before me, I tried to imagine how the snake got around before God cursed it. But you can drive yourself to the brink wondering about stuff like that. Just dig up William Jennings Bryan if you don't believe such musings can kill you.

There is, however, a short poem stuck toward the very end of Genesis. The scholarly translator identified this poem as one of the most ancient texts in the Biblical canon.

Here are the most interesting lines from that poem:

A fruitful son is Joseph
a fruitful son by a spring
daughters strode on the rampart.
They savaged him, shot arrows, the archers did.
But taut was his bow, his arms ever moving
Through the hands of the champion of Jacob,
through the name of the Shepherd and Israel's rock.
From the God of your fathers, may He aid you,
Shaddai, may He bless you--
blessings of the heavens above
blessings of the deep that lies below,
blessings of breast and womb.

It is funny how all religions start to sound alike. Those last lines sound like the Carmina Gaedelica, don't they?

But what interests me is this description of Joseph, said to be one of the most ancient in the Bible. Where's Pharaoh? Where's that fancy jacket? Omitted. The picture we get is of a warlord in a fort, defending his family from archers. And far be it from me to suggest that God didn't help Joseph, because we're still reading about God and Joseph today. (God probably wasn't nearly as busy in those times as he is now. I'll bet he gets nostalgic about it at the end of a hectic week.)

The poem goes on to say that Joseph was singled out as special by his dad. What makes me think it's because of Joseph's ability on the ramparts and not his larger-than-life sojourn in Egypt?

There's a pattern here, whether it be Gilgamesh (who has been identified as a historical figure), Joseph, King Arthur, even George Washington. A dude goes out and kicks a little butt, saves his people, and the next thing you know, he's endowed with all sorts of special skills and actions.

So here's to Joseph and his taut bow. He got the job done, probably didn't have to sell but two or three of his daughters. I never thought he was really real, but after reading that poem I'd say he did indeed rock on.

As long as we're pondering historical heroes, let me say this about George Washington. I've seen places on the Potomac River where just about anyone with a decent arm could lob a silver dollar from shore to shore. So I believe George did it, and that's the gospel truth.

The Big, Broad, Flexible Christian

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we're exploring the difficulties presented to those of us who want to raise good Pagan children in an increasingly Christian world! Keep the faith, fellow followers of the Ancient Ways! It can be done.

Sunday our Druid Grove held its Lughnasadh ceremony, undaunted by extremely bad weather. My daughter The Spare had never seen hail before. She got her chance. Our many fun games were scrapped, but our Ritual went off as planned, between huge, fierce thunderstorm cells.

When the elements are part of your worship, you worship within them. Drip drip, boom! ZZZZZt! Blessed be the rain.

One of our Druid Grove members is a lovely young woman named Melissa. Melissa is in her early twenties but seems older in terms of serenity and wisdom. She has an unusually fair skin type, so she can't be out in the sunshine for more than a few minutes, or else she burns badly. This condition has made Melissa look rather like a Raphael painting, her skin very soft and smooth against big, deep eyes.

The weather was so uncooperative after our Ritual that we had to seek the solace of a nearby public house. I was sitting near Melissa (a treat). She said the following:

"My birthday present to my mom is the same every year. I attend Christmas Eve services at her church."

I said, "So your mom's a serious Christian?"

"Yes, she's the head of Christian education at her church."

I said, "Well, how does she feel about your attending these Druid Groves?"

"She's just glad I believe in something."

Oh, what an eloquent word ... something. My fellow Pagans, take heart: There are many Christians out there who are just glad you believe in something! Ah, what a relief! I told Melissa her mom is awesome.

Melissa's mom joins a large group of Christians. People like the Masons, the Eastern Star, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Boy Scouts. These groups don't ask you to believe in Yahweh. They just want you to believe in a higher power.

Now, I can't speak for you, but as far as we at "The Gods Are Bored" are concerned, we believe in higher powers. Lots of them. Because if human beings are the highest power, then the universe has a lot of evolution ahead of it. We're talking mega-eons.

So tonight, we salute Melissa's mother as a role model for the big, broad, flexible Christian. Momma, your daughter believes in something. You should be proud.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Belated Lughnasadh Celebration

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," a central clearinghouse for the big, broad, flexible outlook! One size never fits all -- in apparel, opinions, or deities!

I filled two dozen water balloons today in preparation for Lughnasadh 2008, Coille dhe Darach Dhubh, Grove of the Black Oak. I also updated the Ritual. And found this year's dragon for the dragon toss. (His name is Puff.) There will be a brand new faerie joining us who is about to begin its particular destiny. Marshmallows for roasting, incense, sea glass ... hmmm ... have I forgotten anything?

I'm sure I'll get out to Ridley Creek State Park and realize I forgot something important. Like maybe my daughter The Heir will be sitting in the driveway of the house saying, "Where are they?"

Lughnasadh is one of the dedicated Druidic holy days, and it's a favorite of mine. Our Grove is always merry, but we're particularly merry on this day, whether we've reaped a great harvest, a mediocre harvest, or we're actually going into hock (moi).

If there's any one thing that all religions have in common, it's celebrations. So on Sunday, thank the bored deities of your choice for helping you glean, reflect on how you're going to get through the dark days ahead, and ... hurl Puff the Dragon as far as you can! But only after he's roasted the marshmallows by breathing on them.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Deliver Us from Monotheism: Our Bum Rap

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fanning interest in downsized deities since 2005! And wow, we've had 6,000 profile views! Enough people to fill a minor league baseball park in the Blue Ridge Mountains!

Such vast popularity brings great responsibilities. And so, I, Anne Johnson, will now continue to bring you helpful advice on keeping your Pagan household free from Christian influences.

Why would I do such a thing? Well dear ones, just remember: Wherever Christianity lurks, so also lurks its dark alter ego, Satanism. If you're following the path of some other praise and worship team, then the Christian devil can't make your kids do bad things. Because Satan's not part of your Pagan package.

Many of the most hidebound Christians mistake all Paganism for "occult" or "Satan worship." Like, so not true!

Which religion is it, exactly, that's drinking human blood and eating human flesh? Mmmmmm hmmmmmm. And that's on the bright side of Christianity! Dearly beloved, don't get me started on the dark side of that faith, the moonlight desecration of gravestones, the slaughter of innocent kittens, the twisting of the peaceful Pentagram to evil ends.

You gotta keep your kids away from that stinkin' bad karma, yo. Word.

So, how do you do it? How do you maintain the faith of the Old Ones through the onslaught?

Here's Annie's first thought on this most crucial topic:

Certain sects of Christianity are giving the whole faith a black eye. You know which ones I'm talking about. The ones that go to the anti-abortion rally on Friday night and the gun convention on Saturday. The ones who support bombing foreign children to bits while demanding cutbacks in social welfare programs for needy Americans. The ones who find it more important to safeguard their 2,000 year old tract than to see to it that American children get modern science educations.

The ones who complain about free breakfasts for poor students because sometimes the students don't eat everything they're given. (Yeah, I got that in an email just yesterday.)

Let's ride this out together, my friends of the Old Religions. Let us seek sanity in this time of trial. So much is at stake.

Oh, doggone it, there I go again. Bad words, very bad: trial and stake. No gentle Druids will be put on trial here and burnt at the stake, right? This is America ... yep ... no one wishes us ill ... emmmm ... not really. I guess.

Deliver Us from Monotheism: Putting a Stop to Christian Influences in Your Home

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Are you a Pagan parent, concerned about the pressure your child may be under to experiment with Christianity or some other monotheistic religion? It would be handy to have a nice paperback you could read with strategies and suggestions to keep your kids out of trouble, wouldn't it?

Yeah. I know. Let's not hold our breaths until that one hits the stores.

So, in the absence of such a book, I, Anne Johnson, will be offering helpful hints on how to keep your precious children on your chosen Pagan path (or their chosen Pagan paths, if differing from yours). You can look to me for advice on how to steer your precious offspring clear of male-dominated monotheism ... the kind of religious philosophy that can and does lead to suicide bombings, spouse abuse, disavowal of sexual orientation, superiority complexes, narrow-mindedness, and voting patterns inconsistent with the general welfare of the citizenry. Readers, I am evoking bored deities to protect and preserve your children! So might it be.

Trust me, the monotheistic influence is pervasive in our culture. There's no escaping it. Politicians pander shamelessly to it, popular celebrities espouse it, and its adherents are constantly, and openly, trying to insert it into schools and other Constitutionally-protected institutions. Your beloved children can hardly leave the threshold of your home without having it shoved in their faces. Geezy peezy, half the time when someone knocks on your very door, they're peddling it -- right on your front porch!

How can you fight this tide without alienating your youngster?

Have no fear, precious reader! I, Anne Johnson, am here to help you! In future posts we will meet happy Pagan families and talk to them about how they keep their children strong in the big, broad, flexible outlook. We'll search for secret signs of budding monotheism in your child's life ... and we'll give you answers to the questions your kids will pose when you intervene!

Oh, we do have a lot of work ahead of us, don't we? Thank goodness for blogs! Because nothing is more serious, more consequential, and more essential to your life than raising an offspring steeped to the plimsol line in such essential Pagan concepts as acceptance of cultural differences, government assistance to the needy (through taxation if necessary), separation of church and state, and respect for sexual orientation.

My friends, stick with me as we place polytheism where it so richly deserves to be -- in your hearth and home. And especially in the tender minds of your vulnerable loved ones.

Their future is at stake ... emmmm ... maybe I ought to re-phrase that. We don't want to use the word stake, do we?

It's important. Now I'll pass the plate. Dig deep.

This Works on Every Level

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" This morning we're finding religion and social justice in up-ended junk stock cars! Pinch me on this one, I think I'm dreaming.

An Ogden, Utah farmer found his life transformed when a developer put in a subdivision at the edge of his farm.

The newly-built "luxury homes" sold pretty quickly, because everyone likes to gaze out on a peaceful farm scene as they gulp their coffee in preparation for a long commute to work.

But then reality set in. Because the farmer really does farm. He has cows. They eliminate waste, and the product does not smell nice. He also makes hay, which makes dust, which rises through the air and lands on upholstery. And all that machinery! It's noisy!

The farmer's neighbors complained. He offered to split the price of a privacy fence. They declined, saying that they didn't want to ruin their view of his pretty property.

So the farmer evoked the bored gods. He went out and got a few junked stock cars, fired up the backhoe, and upended those suckers in the ground, in a nice array, at the edge of his property.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you

REDNECK STONEHENGE

That's what this inspired farmer called his creation.

I remember sitting in the breakfast nook of my sister's new "luxury home," staring down upon a pair of unhappy Old Order Mennonites as they did their farm chores with full knowledge that they were being gawked at. I thought to myself, "Gosh, if I suddenly found myself surrounded by monstrosities of vinyl siding on every boundary line, I think I'd just shuck my clothes and start doing my work buck naked."

Oh, my lack of imagination! Why work naked amongst horse flies when you can erect a henge? Heck, you don't need old cars. You could use just about anything stiff enough to stack. Like laundry baskets. Or junked computers. Or random pieces of furniture, trash-picked from sidewalks.

Of course, all of that pales in the presence of a Car Henge, but we can't all operate back hoes.

If you need a henge in your life, beseech the wisdom of the bored gods. They will help you with your creation. And those pesky neighbors deserve just what they get.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

Fundamentals of Necromancy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Seen any good zombies lately? Stick around.

About a week ago, I ran into a former neighbor who is ruggedly fundamentalist. She noticed I was limping and asked what was wrong. I told her about my hip, and how I had surgery scheduled for September.

She said, "Cancel that surgery and book a flight to Lakeland, Florida instead. There's a healer down there who will get the Holy Spirit to fix your hip."

She started telling me all about this guy she was watching every night on the God Channel. The dude is a charismatic healer from Canada, name of Todd Bentley.

And then she said: "He's brought fifteen people back from the dead!"

Whoa. Hold the phone. When did bringing people back from the dead become a holy thing, and not some fright-fest fit for a horror flick?

It's taken me awhile, but I finally got around to checking out this Todd Bentley and his claims. You can see him live streamed on the God Channel's web site. Also, Todd has his own site called Fresh Fire Ministries. More about that in a moment.

This is Todd Bentley. If we Pagans claimed him as our own, we'd get a bad rap for it.

Among the testimonials about Todd Bentley on the God Channel's web site was this one:

"Praise God for healing but we're still praying for God to Complete. My sister Ruth's husband, Chris, had a massive heart attack and was diagnosed clinically dead. The family were called in to spend the last day with him before they switched off the life support the next day. After much prayer, the next day he was sat up in bed and talking to his family. There's still a long way to go but what a miracle! Praise God."

Okay, you could argue that the guy probably wasn't really and truly across the bar. But wouldn't Christian doctrine at that point want to shove him toward the bar and not away from it?

Please note that I have nothing against faith healing (except that it usually doesn't work and only leaves people more depressed). Bringing people back from the dead, though. That's xtreme.

I told Mr. Johnson about this, and he and I began to wonder how long people would have to be dead before Mr. Bentley would no longer be able to resuscitate them. For instance, would Mr. Bentley have a shot at revivifying William Jennings Bryan, the great Democratic reformer of the late 19th century who was simultaneously a devout Christian and a progressive, pro-labor, pro-women's rights presidential candidate?

Maybe it would be neat to shove Mr. Bentley into Westminster Abbey. He could wake up Chaucer, Isaac Newton, and Charles Darwin. But maybe that would be counter-productive to his ministry.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" go on record as being against necromancy. To us it's kind of like having your vacation flight to Jamaica re-routed back to the departure airport. Where there's life, there's hope, but where there's not life ... toodle-oo. Anything else is kind of creepy.

Further research on this young charismatic, tattooed, pierced whirlwind of a Christian preacher reveals that he has his own school. It's called The Supernatural Training Centre. When you go there, amidst a great deal of Christian preaching and praying, you're taught to perform miracles.

I guess the place differs from Hogwarts in that they don't use owls to deliver the mail.

The Vampire Edward Cullen

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we've never been keen on blood-sucking parasites ... until now.

Every year the dreaded summer reading assignments come pouring in from over-zealous Language Arts teachers in the Borough of Snobville. And this summer was no different. My daughter The Spare, about to become a high school freshman, was slapped with two reading requirements. One is an assigned book, The House on Mango Street. According to the assignment instructions, she has to deconstruct the work paragraph by paragraph, using Jacques Derrida's methods as her rubric.

Slight exaggeration, that. But only slight.

The other assignment was a self-chosen novel. Spare has to write a three-paragraph summary of that one.

There was one catch. Spare hates to read. If she peruses her Facebook in the course of the day, she figures she's done all the reading necessary to her life.

Our ballerina friend Cassie has been reading this series of books called Twilight. She had become so obsessed with the lead character that she stayed up all night for three nights in a row so that she would be conditioned to all-nighters. It was her intention to read the final installment in the series the minute it came out at midnight last Saturday and not stop until she'd done it.

Spare and I spent almost two hours in a Barnes & Noble last week trying to find a novel that would be as captivating as Facebook. I loathe big-box stores of any kind, and with a hurting leg this was a hellish afternoon. Finally, in desperation, I suggested that The Spare try this Twilight thing. It's long -- over 500 pages -- but we did the math and figured we could git r done with time left over for the Derrida project.

Spare brought the book home and opened it with all the enthusiasm you feel when you get your electric bill. And within two hours I could not pry the book from her hand. She read a 500 page novel in less than a week and begged for the sequel. Right now she's sitting downstairs, reading.

Twilight is about a normal high school girl and her love for a sexy vampire dude she meets in her classes. The prose is horrendous, the pace makes a sloth look lively, but apparently this ill-fated love story is candy to the teenage taste buds. Twilight is the "it" series this summer, and the movie will soon be in theaters near you. Here's the leading man. Not my cuppa tea, but everybody can't be Cary Grant.

So, what's your favorite book-to-movie? Mine is the recent version of Pride and Prejudice.

Oooops! What do I hear downstairs? The Spare is lending the first installment of Twilight to her friend. How come I'm the one who had to pay for it?

Lughnasadh 2008

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on Lughnasadh, 2008! Let all disturbing thoughts be set aside!

August is a month in which many praise and worship teams of the northern climes celebrate harvest by setting aside a holy day. We thank the gods and goddesses for creating bounty. And if the harvest is slim -- if there's been dark weather or disaster, or even rising gas prices -- we politely request the help of our deities to see us through the dark times.

Harvest in the apparent world means fat tomatoes off the vine, big ears of sweet corn and bulging ripe watermelons. It's time to can peaches and make jam and freeze pints of blueberries for the winter.

But harvest is also a metaphor. Have you stored enough wisdom to see you through rough patches? Have you canned enough patience to last out an illness? Have you saved all the love you'll need to shower it abundantly on the people who mean the most to you?

If so, blessed be! Advance to the dragon-tossing round! Let the Lughnasadh Games begin!

If not, pray for rain on that dry old ground you call your life. Don't be too proud to petition a deity for Her or His help. If you were sitting around with not enough to do, and you saw your neighbor struggling to get the lawn mower started, wouldn't you go and help out?

Well then, why are you hesitant to ask Mannanan MacLir to send healing rain? Why would you not swim in the pool of the Salmon of Wisdom until you filled the gaps in your learning? Why not put your parenting issues before Danu and Bile, your mercantile concerns before Queen Brighid the Bright and Cernunnos? Is your life in peril? Surely The Dagda and Morrigan will walk with you.

One of our least appreciated harvests is the abundance of bored deities among all the peoples of the world. Deities, bursting out of your shrubbery at a moment's notice -- not with terrible swift swords, but with the Divine Wisdom of the Ages. Ancient Ones who were sacred to your ancestors. Go chat with them. Can't hurt, unless you're afraid of someone who's smarter than you are.

Bored Gods, give us rain on this dry old ground. Water the tomato and the termite alike. Make us wise, patient, and loving. On our part, we'll try to put your names out there, where they deserve to be ... in big, bold lights.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Trying To Take the Plunge

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Water, water, everywhere, and even the boards did shrink ... water, water everywhere, but nary a drop to drink!

Today's sermon: Going for a Swim?

I don't know if it's easier living in the best house in a poor neighborhood, or the worst house in a fancy neighborhood. I actually have the latter, and it don't come easy.

Most communities have public pools where you pay a couple of bucks for a swim. Here in Snobville, you've got to belong to a swim club. Swim clubs require big bucks. However, sometimes they try to maximize the profit margin by offering August-only memberships to lesser mortals. (Here in New Jersey, many towns empty out in August as everyone goes downa shore.)

Yesterday I called Snobville's three swim clubs to see about an August-only membership.

Club #1: Sorry, no. We have a waiting list.

Club #2: Yes, it costs $500.00. We don't have a half-season rate.

Club #3:

Manager: Um, do you know anyone who belongs to Segregation Swim?

Anne: I've lived in Snobville for 20 years, so I suppose I do. No one springs to mind.

Manager: Well, here's how it works. You have to get two endorsements in writing from valid members of Segregation Swim. Once we have those, you fill out an application. When that's approved, you can pay the fee and come swim with us.

(long pause as Anne tries to think of some perfect put-down)

Manager: If you've lived in Snobville for so long, I'm sure you could just come here and look around, and you'd recognize someone. They could fill out the form right on the spot for you.

Anne: Thanks so much, you've been ever so kind.

Nice restraint, huh? Actually my mind just went blank, and I couldn't think of anything sufficiently nasty to say.

Where I grew up we had many inexpensive or free options for swimming. There were swimmin holes, of course. There were also two mountain lakes, $3.00 for a carload (before the days when everyone had to be strapped into a seatbelt). And there was the municipal pool. It had recently integrated, and many white mothers wouldn't let their kids go there anymore. Some days it was pretty much me, my cousin Ray, and a bunch of very happy black kids, scattered throughout a big-ass pool with slides.

So I'm not used to having to pay a hefty fee or get character endorsements in order to loll in a friggin swimming pool.

Damned plumber. Why did he have to fix the leaky pipe in the basement? I had a lovely pool right downstairs, but now it's gone.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Tale of Two Bad Monicas

Once upon a time, there was a great white house, with many people coming and going inside. As it had twisted corridors and numerous rooms, the white house often played host to bemused and befuddled people who weren't quite sure which way was west.

As you know from peering into your own dark closets, little mice like to scurry about and grab what they can while no one is looking. Thus it was for the Two Bad Monicas in the big white house. They were very, very bad -- so bad that it's sad.

The Bad Monicas both dreamed of the day when they would be as successful and sought-after as their predecessors, The Two Bad Mice (Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca). You may well recall that Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca wasted a white house when no one was watching. What they didn't destroy they dragged off to their den.

Our first Monica, better known as Lewinsky, preyed upon presidential prick, not within a deep recess of the white house, but right smack in the centre of the big, oval nursery. This greedy Monica couldn't eat her fill inside the white house, so she took something home for later. Lo and behold, the popular president plunged in the polls, dragging the Democratic Party with him into the depths of despair. Bad Monica left in her rear only rack and ruin, and a blue dress that probably doesn't fit her fanny.

Our second Monica, chaste and Christian, cheated charmingly by creeping through the Justice Department (another big house, I think this one is red brick) and chucking everyone who ate bleu cheese. This Monica, Goodling by name, conspired to conscript Conservatives into corner offices, from conspicuous to cubicle. Oh my! She did it too! And what a mess -- just like the blue dress.

What havoc they wreaked, these Monicas -- squeak squeak! Our nation's a wreck. Go ahead, take a peek.

And so our two Monicas, let no one say they're dumb, made mincemeat of those old mice, Hunca Munca and Tom Thumb.

Daddy Deities

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," o ye of great faith! So glad you could drop by! The New Jersey blueberry crop is in, so you've picked a great day for a luscious piece of pie.

Evn has been writing his own -- and linking to -- posts about the nature of deity. Deep, ponderous questions, such as How Does the Goddess Feel about Us Moderns, and Is There a Common Deity from which All Others Flow?

If you write a blog post about such things, you're a Thinker. If you write a treatise about them on vellum, later published, you're a Saint.

Myself, I tend to consider deities in relation to the praise and worship teams they serve. Granted, we are all Homo sapiens. A Maori tribeswoman could mate with a Wall Street banker and produce a perfectly sound kid with ten fingers and ten toes. Are both of these people united by one deity that takes separate forms, or are they tapped into deity systems that are unique to them?

You would hardly think that someone who entitles her web log "The Gods Are Bored" would feel that all humanity can trace its religion back to a unifying deity. That's deity as DNA in my book. I like to think that any group of people who takes the time and effort to communicate with the divine gets a whole pantheon, perhaps somewhat related to others' pantheons, but actually unique to that culture. In other words, I think the universe is big enough for a grand number of deities, both here and on other planets where blobs of thinking carbon ponder such issues.

Having said that, you can understand why I'm reluctant to throw Daddy Deities out with the bathwater. Granted, some of those we know the best aren't great prizes. One need only point to the jealous, sexist, xenophobic, baby-killer in the Old Testament to find a perfect example of God Gone Bad.

Are all Daddy Deities like that, though?

When my grandfather died (I grieve for him to this day), the good ol' Southern Baptist preacher who would be giving Granddad's send-off called my father and my two uncles into a conference room to get some personal stuff to shove into the sermon. The first thing the preacher asked was, "How did your father contribute to your religious faith?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. My dad was agnostic, his younger brother was a physician who never attended church, and Uncle Foggy attended Old Order Mennonite meetings simply as an anthropological exercise.

Finally my dad said: "We all think of God in personal ways, and our feelings about God are based on our experience of our fathers. Whenever I think about God, He has all the traits of my dad."

So, for my father, God was a kindly, gentle, family-centered man who always did the right thing and set an example of love and charm that trickled down into his grandchildrens' generation.

I take this one step further.

My dad was even more loving and nurturing than his father. To the end of his life he lavished me with tenderness and care. Yes, I put a picture of To Kill a Mockingbird at the top of this post, because my dad was very much like Atticus Finch. The dog had to be rabid before he would shoot it. He had principles that meant more to him than public approbation. He taught Sunday School for 50 years, and every single one of his classes had the same theme: "How can we all live in harmony?" Like Thomas Jefferson, he snipped the Bible down to the good stuff and left the rest in shards on the floor.

Most of all, he had a lap to hide in. A tender pat for the shoulder when the going got rough. An open invitation to consult him about anything and everything. His spare time was devoted to taking me for hikes, helping me with my science, canoeing and biking with me, and attending every horrible, squeaky, orchestra concert I ever appeared in.

Dad taught high school chemistry and was beloved by all his students. Yes, all. When he took to his deathbed and I had to go help him out, I sought solace in the local bar. The bar owner told me, "Your dad flunked me, but I deserved it. If I'd done any work for him, he'd have passed me. I liked the guy. Drinks on the house as long as you're in town."

With such a shining example of male parental nurture, it's no wonder I looked around for a personal pantheon that included male deities. Just because the busiest male deity is a jealous, vengeful, woman-hating, child-killing loser doesn't mean that all male deities share those ugly traits.

There are a great many women all around the world who have been treated horribly by men who, if they even bother to justify their behavior, can lean upon some nasty male deity for excuses. I count myself the lucky one to have had a dad who was steadfast and godly. Even as I write this, he's playing games with Peter Pan and the other boy faeries, his eternal reward being perpetual, blithe youth.

So today, we at "The Gods Are Bored" salue Bile and the Dagda, Ogma and other numerous male Celtic deities who are far better Daddy Gods than some of the deities in wider usage. Praise be to the Good God Fathers. It's a damn shame more people don't know They're out there.

Our operators are standing by to take your call.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Small Miracle (Are There Any Other Kinds?)

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," anxious and depressed 23 out of 24 hours a day! Aren't you glad you get the product of that one odd hour?

First, we at "The Gods Are Bored" send prayers and sympathy to the members of the Unitarian Universalist church in Tennessee where a gunman opened fire at random on the congregation. It seems the fellow disagreed with the UU platform and tried to take the argument to a higher court. It's a big miracle (not small) that more people weren't hurt. And just remember, these sorts of shootings can happen anywhere, so the local fundamentalist mega-church probably isn't any safer than the UU church down the block.

Many, many bored gods are just as happy if you stand out in a field or forest and praise them. I highly recommend this practice.

My legions and legions of regular readers will know that my daughter The Heir and I both have a hopeless addiction to TaB Cola. TaB is the grandmother of today's Red Bull and other similarly caffeine-laced beverages. It tastes like yesterday's horse pee, but after three cans you can't get through a day without it. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they put tobacco in it.

For awhile back in the 1970s there was a TaB scare. Researchers claimed that it caused cancer. They fed lab rats the equivalent of 300 cans of TaB a day, and the rats got cancer. How the poor rodents didn't die of heart attack I do not know.

TaB almost went off the market through bad publicity. But eventually it was exonerated and returned to some shelves.

Some is the word. Around here where we live, finding TaB is an adventure fraught with anxiety. (See greeting above.)

Today, while the clothing rolled in the dryers at the laundromat, I set off to replenish the TaB supply. I drove to the huge grocery store that carries it ... I don't buy any other item there, just TaB.

The huge grocery store was shuttered. Out of business.

I stood in the parking lot uttering small whines of dismay. Then I drove to another big grocery store, the only other store that I've seen TaB in. But that store doesn't always have it. Only sometimes.

I limped back to the beverage aisle. (Anecdotal evidence, as yet unproven, has linked consumption of TaB cola to degenerative arthritis of the hip.) Lo and behold, there stood a modest stash of the essential pink cans... oh, bliss!

But it gets better. There was a cute little young guy there, wearing a Coca-cola uniform shirt, taking inventory of the Coke products in the aisle.

Talk about taking your prayers right to the source!

Grabbing six-packs of TaB like a dervish, I pleaded with the young fella to keep stocking the store with The Pink Wonder. This is what he said:

"There aren't many people who drink TaB, but those who do, drink a lot of it."

Thereafter he promised to continue to provide modest portions of TaB to that store.

Here's the kicker: The guy said if I hadn't come in and purchased a cartload of TaB at that moment, in front of his very eyes, he would have cancelled TaB from that store! But he won't, because of me.

I wish every listless woman in South Jersey was reading this. They would owe me big time.

When The Heir gets home today, I will tell her of this adventure, and she will sigh with joy and relief. The bonds between generations are forged by such small miracles.

Or, to put it another way: When The Heir can't pay off her college loans, I'll be able to say, "Hey, I kept you in TaB. That should count for something."

And it will.

The New Toy in the Car

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," patiently waiting for the tomatoes to ripen! Any day now ... I guess.

Mr. Johnson travels frequently, and he's man enough to admit that he gets lost from time to time. So he went out and bought one of those GPS thingies you put in the car. It tells you how to get from Point A to Point B. And it's so polite!

Mr. Johnson programmed in a direction-giving voice that is female and British. I immediately called her "Celeste" and got jealous of the sexy way she said, "Bear right, then ... take the motorway."

So, I've been re-programming the GPS to make it more interesting. Here's what I've come up with so far:

GPS, drunk: "Get oudda da car, let summun else do it."

GPS, stoned: "Hey, man, like, I guess you could go right if you wanted to, but y'know, any way you wanna go is okay with me, man. So long as we end up at an ice cream store, okay, man? Whoa, is this a car, man?"

GPS on meth: "Go right. I said RIGHT! Right, you idiot! Gaaaa! Want anything done, you gotta do it yourself! Here! Give me the wheel! I'll drive the damn car, and I'll GO RIGHT!!!"

GPS, passive-aggressive: "I know which way to go, but I'm not telling you. I am so sure you'll be able to figure it out... (mumbling) yeah, forget it."

GPS, Mormon: "Keep both of your hands on the wheel."

GPS, Fundamentalist: "At the crossroads, turn right. You must turn right. If you turn left, you will be Left Behind and go to hell. Thus sayeth The Lord."

GPS, Druid: "Turn towards the way of the Salmon of Wisdom, who dwells within the waters of the sacred pool from which all rivers flow. That would be West. May there be peace in the West."

GPS, Hillbilly: "What you wanna do is look for the big chestnut tree, it's about three, maybe four, maybe five miles up along the creek. When you see the tree, there's a road maybe a hundred yards, maybe a half mile, on your left. Take that road. Now, I think someone said something about having that tree cut down, and if they've done it, you're just outta luck."

GPS, having a bad day: "Do me a favor, okay? Turn off the damn car, go back inside, and have another cup of coffee. Because I don't feel like dealing with you. Say what? You've got a 10:00 appointment in Southwest Philly? Like I care. Take mass transit."

GPS, programmed by Anne: "After 1500 yards, turn right. Oh, wait! There's a vulture over there! Turn left! Follow that buzzard! Hold on. Hold on. He's swinging around..... Okay, go straight. No, he's listing to the right! Hang a sharp right! Watch out for that treeeeeeeeee!!!!!

I think we might have been better off in the days of those maps that you could never fold up right once you unfolded them.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Yes. Her Name Was Asherah

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," speed-blogging today! Please keep visiting this site. We're only temporarily stalled -- not shelved. Big difference in the two.

Here's a copy of an email I just received from one of the weird women I can't seem to shake from my church lady days:

The Public Broadcasting System (PBS), probably the most liberal network in America, will present a program this fall that says the Old Testament is a bunch of made-up stories that never happened. "The Bible's Buried Secrets" says the Bible is not true. It is scheduled to air on November 18.
Producer Paula Apsell said: "...It's (The Bible's Buried Secrets) designed for intelligent people who are willing to change their mind. …it will give intelligent people who want to read the Bible in a modern way a chance. If we insist on reading the Bible literally, in 25 years, nobody will read it any longer."
Among highlights of "The Bible's Buried Secrets":
• The Old Testament was written in the sixth century BC and hundreds of authors contributed.
• Abraham, Sarah and their offspring didn't exist.
• There is no archaeological evidence of the Exodus.
• Monotheism was a process that took hundreds of years.
• The Israelites were actually Canaanites.
• The Israelites believed that God had a wife.
I have often said that PBS should not receive tax dollars. "The Bible's Buried Secrets" is simply one more reason Congress should stop supporting PBS with our tax dollars. Congress gives PBS hundreds of millions of tax dollars to help support the network.
For more information, go here.
Sincerely, Donald E. Wildmon, Founder and Chairman American Family Association

We haven't heard much from Pastor Wildman ... err ... Wildmon in awhile. But it's always nice when we do. Actually I think these PBS folks are on to something. Apparently they've been rooting around in Yahweh's closet and found the abundant evidence that Yahweh had an ex-wife and that the Red Sea didn't part.

Now, see, I can't understand why Pastor Wildman is crackin on PBS. If it turns out the Old Testament is partly fiction -- and that part includes how Yahweh went rampaging against all those Egyptian babies, thereby violating their Right to Life, why, that would just be great for a lotta birds.

FROM ANNE
NOPLACE IN PARTICULAR

On Hold

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Due to circumstances beyond our control, we will be out of touch for a few days.

Last winter, I worked as a substitute history teacher in a minority school during Black History Month. The New Jersey world history curriculum demanded that I teach the Scientific Revolution, the Enlightenment, and the Cultural Revolution. In other words, all white dudes, all the time. During Black History Month.

So I assigned a do-at-home project. The students had to interview someone in their family about their personal family history, and then do a family tree as far back as they could manage.

Some of those reports were fascinating. There was one kid, a tall, silent black guy, who wrote that his grandmother lived on the Nanticoke Indian Reservation. Another kid discovered that he was related to Philadelphia's recent mayor, John Street. And one girl who stood up to read her paper said, "I am going to tell you about my strong, proud, African American grandfather..." It went uphill from there.

The student who stands foremost in my mind, however, was a fellow I'll call Orlando. (My regular readers will notice I use this name alot.) One morning, Orlando came in with the most amazing news: His grandfather told him that his great-great-grandfather had cut his own leg off with a machete. And died in the process.

The G-G-G-granddad in question worked in the sugar cane fields in the Dominican Republic. He got some kind of infection that worked on his leg until the pain became unbearable, and in a moment of insanity, he hacked his leg off.

Right now I'm glad I don't have a machete, because I would be adding a whole interesting new twist to the old Johnson family history. My leg hurts like hell, and I can sure see how someone would go crackers and start slashing.

So I'm going to lie low for a few days, trying to keep my mind off machetes and other extreme pain-relieving measures.

Judging from some of the weblogs in my sidebar, many of you know about bad-ass pain, so you'll bear with me, won't you?

Meanwhile, if you want religious enlightenment, go to YouTube and search for Vulture vs. Phone Book.

If you want yet another reason why you should avoid fundamentalist Christianity like unto the verminous plague, go to YouTube and search Electric Pickle. Trust me, you will find this video funnier than anything I've ever written here.

Please bear with me. The sugar cane harvest will be over soon.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Spreading Happiness at the Thrift Store

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Do not adjust your television dial. That strange noise you hear is The Heir practicing her musical saw! Either that or we just proved that there's intelligent life on other planets.

We're kind of weird here in the Johnson family. On a hot afternoon when everyone else is at the swim club or the movies, we hop in the car and go to the thrift store. There's a whopper of a thrift store nearby. It's as big as a Sam's Club, only packed to the plimsol line with clean, mended, used clothing.

My daughter The Spare loves the thrift store because she's a tiny little thing, and there's always gorgeous stuff in tiny sizes. And The Spare is brave about setting her own fashion trends. No friggin fifty dollar Hollister t-shirts for her! She can make a dollar holler.

Today, while browsing (and leaning heavily on the shopping cart to keep weight off my bad leg), I found a big plastic bag of Calico Critter stuff. My daughter The Heir had a bunch of Calico Critter toys when she was little. (We were in the chips in those days, not like now.) She played and played with that stuff.

Anyway, the bag at the thrift store had the whole family of bunnies and a bunch of furniture. At two bucks, it looked like a nice little ebay turnaround. So I flung it in the cart.

We were at the thrift store for about two hours. Yes, you got that right. Keep your movies and your shopping mall! At almost the end of that time, I saw a mom and young daughter moving down an aisle. The daughter, maybe 5 or 6, was pushing a shopping cart. In the cart was a dollhouse.

I got the mom's attention, put the bag of bunnies behind my back, and showed it to her. I said, "Would your daughter want these for the dollhouse?" And the mom was thrilled. When the little girl saw the cute bunnies and the furniture, she just about flipped.

So I did my good deed for the day. I'm sitting here thinking about that cute little girl, at home in her room, putting those bunnies to bed in her dollhouse. Somehow that's a nice feeling. Like white magic or something.

Treatise on Movie Sex

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" No tithes, no offerings, just good ol' front porch rambling! Set a spell. You'll see what I mean.

This morning I read a movie review for a French film called "The Mistress." The movie is not MPAA rated, but the reviewer noted that the film is crammed to the plimsol line with nudity and hot sex.

The review got me to thinking. Once before I die I'd like to have movie sex. But it ain't gonna happen.

I'm not talking about having sex while being filmed. (I think that's been done, but not by me.) I'm talking about the kind of sex people have in the movies.

Movie sex is always perfect. No one gets a cramp, the bed doesn't creak, the cat doesn't explode into the middle of everything looking for a bowl of Meow Mix. With movie sex there aren't any kids creeping around the house, even when there are kids in the movie. With outdoor movie sex, no one ever gets stung by a bee or pricked by a thistle. It's bliss, bliss bliss!

Don't take this as a quibble about my life partner. He's a hot hunk, and we have had us some good times. Lots of good times. But it's never been movie sex. He's not Clark Gable. I'm not Vivian Leigh. If he lifted me into his arms and kissed me at the same time, he'd strain his back. And his arms gripping me that tight would hurt. The sunset would be covered in haze, and someone would steal the damn wagon.

I'm not gonna name any names, but I knew someone who knew someone whose cousin had sex outside once and got poison ivy on her elbows and her knees. With movie sex you can roll around in an acre of poison ivy and never get a pimple of it.

Sometimes movie sex is accompanied by appropriate music. Real-world sex is usually accompanied by a ringing telephone. Or the doorbell ... oh there are the nice Seventh Day Adventist ladies again!

Think about the wildest ride you ever had, and then compare it to movie sex. Was it that good? I'm thinking. Thinking. Mulling over my wild youth...

Okay, maybe twice we came close. Pardon the double entendre.

Please be advised that we aren't talking about pornography here. Porn is just fake as hell. Everyone knows that. What I'm talking about is the makeout scenes in your standard film fare. One of my favorite examples is Madonna getting a piece while perched on a pinball machine in Desperately Seeking Susan." Perched on a pinball machine? Does that sound like a fun place for whoopie? Maybe I'm missing something.

There's one bit of sweet revenge we can all enjoy as we contemplate that oh-so-perfect movie sex we're watching on the silver screen. Those scenes are hell to film. It takes hours, there are directors and gaffers and who knows who else watching, analyzing, saying "cut" and "action" and "could you open your mouth a little bit more as you orgasm?"

In real life, it's hey baby baby, cha cha cha ... and put out the cat.

At Play on the Social Network Site

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's great to see all of you here today. And for those of you who are new, well, hello. I'm Pastor Annie, leader and Grand Poobah of the Great Church of Every Deity!

Our agenda at this site? Resurrection! --- of any and all ancient, new, or very recent pantheons who've been shoved aside by One God zealots. One is the loneliest number. Everybody sing ... I wanna hear a choir!

Jesus' General, poor misguided Conservative that he is, always is talking up this spot called Second Life.

Have you heard of Second Life? Because I like the General so much, I actually screwed up my courage and took a look at Second Life. It's one of these virtual worlds. You can pick a new name and better looks, shed those pesky pounds, and flit around meeting people ... all without ever leaving your comfy computer chair.

But there's a catch. You've got to earn money on Second Life.

They lost me. I can't hardly earn a buck in my First Life. Now I've got to go shove around and rake in largesse in some virtual world? Pass.

However, maternal necessity dictated that I had to open a Facebook.

Facebook is a little different. It's just sort of seeing who you can connect with by whatever obscure (or close) connections you generate. I don't live for Facebook, but it's kind of fun to go on my home page and see my assortment of friends. There are Pagans, and inlaws, and Appalachians, and locals ... it's a lively mix.

If you have a Facebook and you want to be my friend, I use the same name (Anne Johnson) and the same beautiful portrait you see on this site. I am Anne Johnson from Philadelphia, which narrows it down from 340,000 to about I guess 600.

Yellowdog Granny has found me, and so has Elvis Drinkmo, so I guess you can track me down on Facebook.

The only reason I'm touting my social network site today is because I successfully posted the fabulous YouTube "Vulture vs. Phone Book" on Facebook. I couldn't get it to work here.

Our operators are standing by to be your friend.