The Trouble with Free Speech

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you from the Land of the Free and the Home of the Not-So-Smart!

CIAO, MORON!

First, a bit of good news in this morning's Philadelphia Inquirer. Rick Santorum will no longer be appearing as a weekly columnist. Woot! This must have been the first executive decision of the new publisher. I don't know about the rest of the Inquirer's subscribers, but I canceled my subscription after a particularly virulent and self-serving Santorum rant. Now I'll be back on board with the "Inky!"

Rick Santorum's broken-record, impassioned pleas for a Constitutional amendment defining marriage as occurring between one man and one woman lost him his Senate seat in Pennsylvania. Well, that and the fact that he didn't live in Pennsylvania. He had moved his family to the deep blue suburbs of Washington, DC, from which he cannot now emerge to challenge his left-wing foes.

Before you tea party morons out there accuse me of not wanting to listen to opposing viewpoints, I will tell you that the Inquirer has a very good and very conservative columnist named Kevin Ferris. I hate the guy's politics, but he expresses himself well. He also answers his hate mail, which is rare in the newspaper biz.

But today's sermon is not about our sweet Ricky. It's about people who ardently support freedom of speech.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion. Trouble is, some people don't think their opinions through before they take them public.

If you're a member of the Tea Party, and you passionately believe in personal freedom (is this before or after cashing your Social Security check?), see what you have wrought! Onslaught without thought!

Each and every bored god and all busy gods forbid that we ever get a president like the two men with whom he's pictured on this billboard! Especially Hitler!

Excuse me, Tea Fartiers: Have you been rounded up, placed in "camps," tortured in the name of "medical research," and gassed wholesale? Do you honestly believe that could happen under our sitting president?

I'm trying to imagine our American military goose-stepping and Sieg Heiling President Obama in a vast parade of muscled might.

Ooops! Sorry. I've got a vivid imagination, but NOT THAT FRIGGIN VIVID.

In all fairness, some Tea Party higher-uppers have condemned this billboard. Sorry, dudes. It's too late. The thing is looming over a highway in Iowa, and it says "tea party" on the bottom. Freedom of speech! The rights of the individual! That's what y'all stand for. But you see, the "rights of the individual" includes every individual, even the ones with extremely bad judgment and extremely hefty bank accounts. Those individuals have just shot the Tea Party in the foot.

Let's see if I can guess what I'm going to see on "Countdown with Keith" tonight, when I sit down to yawn through it. If the Hitler/Lenin/Obama billboard isn't the first image on the screen, it will only be because the BP oil cap has exploded.

Just as most mainstream Christians flinch and flee when the Westboro Baptist Church slings its hate, most mainstream Republicans must be appalled at the Tea Party fringe "freedom fighters." At least I hope that's the case, because civil discourse is the hallmark of a healthy democracy.

The beauty is that the Tea Party can't police its own, can't ask for reason to prevail. This would tread on the freedom of speech of its members. Hopefully this will prove the downfall of this small group of political zealots who are doing the dirty work for Big Business -- and who presumably have lived such fortunate lives as to never have needed government assistance, even to fill the pesky pothole in front of their house.

Tea Party, when you go down, that billboard is going to be your life raft. Uh oh.

Little Stuff Pissing Me Off Today

Grrrrr! Anne is in a bad mood. It's a Loki hangover. He was here for the weekend, and then He departed. It's kind of like crashing after a sugar high.

In honor of this bad mood, I will now list the pesky items that are ticking me off today.

1. I now have to blog professionally. Thank goodness I was able to set up a different account. Still it's like being paid to taste salt water taffy, which means you have to try all the flavors you don't like.

2. My refrigerator broke down. Have you ever noticed that this always happens in the summertime?

3. Mel Gibson meltdown. Prior to "The Passion of the Christ," I rather liked Mel Gibson. He's about my age, and he used to be good-looking. Now he's a washed-out, scary raving lunatic who ought to be watched closely. I wonder what the fundies think of their altar boy now?

4. George Steinbrenner dies. First we must consider what they are listing as cause of death. Heart attack. If that guy had a heart, he never showed it -- just ask the people who worked most closely with him. I am mourning his death, though, because in this household he was the Number One Baseball Executive We Loved to Hate. The mere mention of his name would cause even Decibel the Parrot to hiss. I would nominate Mel Gibson to replace George as household hate-ee, but Mel doesn't own the @$$%^$%@#!! Yankees.

5. I saw someone run over a chipmunk yesterday. Worse than that, I was driving to my daily teacher workshop at the time! I couldn't even stop and consign the sweet little thing to the Green Man. This put me in a blue funk, I assure you.

6. Governor Fat Ass. Ask and ye shall receive! We've got a Republican governor in this state now, and he's acting just like every other Republican since poor Abe Lincoln got shot. He's balancing New Jersey's budget on the backs of the poor and middle class while allowing the state's wealthiest few to go right on being under-taxed and spoiled rotten. Cut your calories, not our salaries, asshole! (If you've never seen this sorry excuse for a human, his name is Chris Christie. I refuse to place his photo on my blog.)

7. The end to New Jersey's traffic circles. It's bad enough that we are losing the famed 1920s-era traffic circles that couldn't exactly handle today's suburban crush. But as the circles get re-made, the "upgrades," with their orange barrels and cones, have made travel far slower. I will sorely miss the take-no-prisoners-only-the-strong-survive mayhem of the circles. Everyone needs a little assertiveness training. Where will we get it now?

8. My readership is down. Booo hooooo! According to my stat counter, my readership has tumbled from three to two. What have I done? (I guess the better question is, "What haven't I done?")

9. Fridays with Thurber. Do you watch "Countdown with Keith?" Have you seen his Friday exercise in vanity, in which he sits in a chair reading James Thurber? James Thurber? Couldn't he had at least picked an interesting author? I don't want to hear about James Thurber's fourth grade class! I want to hear H. L. Mencken's rants against the popular preachers of his day!

10. Supreme Court nominees. You know, as long as Obama is getting accused of being a socialist, why doesn't he act like one? If I stood in his shoes, I would have picked the most rabid liberal activist judge in the nation and stuck him/her on the Supreme Court. How come the conservatives get justices who go to conservative parties and write letters of thanks to their far-right Christian base, while we get blank slates who may or may not change the face of the Supreme Court of the United Corporations?


Mr. Johnson just handed me my final, and perhaps most brutal, piss-off. It's an invitation to my 30-year college reunion next spring. Can I have been out of college for 30 years? I am totally ripening for the buzzards.

So, to my two faithful readers, have a nice day. What do you want me to blog about ... politics or religion ... or my sister? Or Rhodesian Ridgebacks? Kept women? Rat Finks? Tea Party morons? My garden? My cats? Decibel the Parrot? My sordid past as a pole dancer? Just asking.

Summer Camp

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We bring a whole new meaning to the phrase "camping out."

My daughter loves cheesy roadside attractions and wacky advertising. During a recent visit to Chicago, she took the El train, a bus, and a cab (plus walking) just to see a hot dog stand with neon wieners on top. When one thinks of what Chicago offers in the way of tourism, one can only conclude that Heir loves camp. Not "to camp," just "camp."

Enter the campy festivals.

My three regular readers are already familiar with the East Coast Vulture Festival, possibly the campiest of all campy fests in the Philadelphia metropolitan area. This is the only campy festival that I actually participate in. That's me, pictured.

But just this past weekend, the Philadelphia metro region offered not one but two campy festivals. Oh, the choices, the choices! Should we get pelted by Twinkies thrown off an abandoned prison parapet by a champagne-swilling Marie Antoinette? Or run screaming from the retro theater where they filmed "The Blob?"

Smackdown: Blobfest vs. Bastille Day.

I've already described Bastille Day to the best of my ability, below. The video is helpful. This year, the Johnsons chose Bastille Day -- and wisely, because Blobfest went all gooey in the rain.

Nonetheless, my daughter The Spare and I found ourselves in Phoenixville, PA yesterday, just a day in the wake of Blobfest. This meant that all the Blob art was still in the store windows and on the sides of the buildings. All the creative hats made of aluminum foil were still in the art gallery. I couldn't persuade The Spare to attend the final showing of "The Blob" at the Colonial Theater. (Campy as it is, "The Blob" can morph in one's dreams -- I'm living proof of that.)

Even without attending "The Blob," there was plenty of Blobilicious camp in Phoenixville. Next year, if the weather is fine, we'll go to Blobfest.

If you haven't seen "The Blob," it's a cheesy horror/sci fi movie starring a young Steve McQueen. It was filmed in the Phoenixville area, including at their vintage movie theater.

One of the things I admire about the human condition is the way we tend to latch onto any local irregularity and turn it into a reason to celebrate. You've got 75 vultures roosting in your back yard? Let's have a Vulture Festival, invite people to see them! A really, really dumb movie was filmed in your town? Party hardy! A matter of pride! Seven pubs within two blocks of an imposing, grim fortress that was once home to Al Capone? You can best bet those bartenders are going to hatch a festival of some sort -- and on a hot day, too. You sell more beer that way.

What people don't know about campy festivals is that many of them are inspired by the not-so-bored god Loki, who whispers into the brains of folks who are eager to organize something. Festivals require organization. The bigger the fest, the more whispering Loki has to do. Vulture Fest alone has more than a dozen dedicated volunteers who put in hours and hours and hours for an event that celebrates turkey buzzards. If there's no bored god behind that, I'll eat my hat.

I must say that Loki has found America fertile ground for weird and wacky local celebrations. Thank you, Loki, from the bottom of my heart.

I have two festivals in my future that are in the way of holy pilgrimages. One day, somehow, some way, I am going to attend the Moth Man Festival in Point Pleasant, West Virgina. The other festival (it falls on The Spare's birthday, alas) is Hillbilly Days in Pike County, Kentucky.

Once I have been to those two events, my life will be complete. Then I can die, and Snobville will finally get its campy festival, Annefest, in which people will dress as bored gods and have contests to see which pantheon is the most powerful.

These days, Snobville's only festival is an arts and crafts fair. It was held this past weekend too. I guess we also need some events for normal people to attend, however boring they may be.

A journey of 3,000 Twinkies begins with a single snow shovel.

Of Tyrants and Tastykakes

Today it's raining, but this unfortunate weather will not halt the patriotic march of self, Heir, Spare, and even Mr. Johnson as we attend the annual re-enactment of Bastille Day as only Philadelphia can stage it. Some festivals are so campy that they defy description, so it's easier to watch the video below of a previous year (Spare and I are in the crowd somewhere). The projectiles being hurled upon the crowd are packages of our local junk food pastries, Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets.

If you're stuck inside by the weather, and you want to read something astonishing, Google the lyrics of the French national anthem. "The Star Spangled Banner" will suddenly look much better to you.

Allons!

Bastille Day 2007, Philly

Time To Found My Very Own University

Welcome to the brand-new home of Phuque University! Inspired by the grand example of Mr. Glenn Beck, I, Anne Johnson, am going to launch an online college! How hard can it be?

Well, first you need a mascot. I happen to know that this darling fellow has been out of work for awhile. So, for the Phuque U Fighting Liberals, here's "Perfy!" What an inspiration!

Phuque U will be applying for federal financial aid, and you will qualify for federal loans if you enroll. All the same, we're not going to allow any of those pesky Christian social groups to organize on our campus. If the government says we have to allow them in order to qualify for government subsidies, we'll wring our hands and say it's a violation of our moral values!

Should our liberal course list, liberal standards of deportment, and liberal views on each and every civil issue not dissuade the enrollment of, say, Mormon young men, then guess what? They're not allowed! And if they say it's not fair, because we're taking government money to run Phuque U, we'll just tell them to Phuque Off! This is our university, we set our applicant and social standards, and we say, NO MORMONS. Don't try to sneak past us either. We're not running some "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" operation here. We will find you and make you feel extremely unwelcome!

What does every university need to be successful and financially stable -- besides federal subsidies? Of course! A vibrant, take-no-prisoners football team, Division I-A!

Glenn Beck ... where's your football team? You're goin down, chump!

Okay, so this is an online university. Where will our football team play? We need a stadium! Naah. We'll just send our best gamers to some virtual war site and let them pummel opponents wholesale in the proud name of Phuque U.

EXHIBIT A: THE PHUQUE U FIGHTING LIBERALS VARSITY WORLD OF WARCRAFT TEAM

(Beck should have hired me. Now it's too late. One up.)

Actually we do plan to borrow something from Glenn Beck, but we'll do it better.

Phuque U will not tolerate fact-based learning or peer-reviewed research. This much we get from Beck. However, we take this up a notch. We don't want you to learn anything that's been proven or accepted as a fact for any amount of time. At Phuque U, we reject the Bible, Beowulf, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and Australopithecus equally, because they're all fraudulent! Lies, lies, lies!

You say the Book of Revelation was actually written during the worst days of the Roman Empire? Silly goose! My good friend  Itzack Bunchacrap wrote that one night when he got some bad shrooms. I have the primary sources to prove it: a slightly soiled map of the Adirondacks with Itzack's shroomy scrawl in the margins. You don't even have to see it to believe it. Trust me. You do trust me, right?

Our very first course here at Phuque U will be "States of Confusion: The Delaware Conspiracy."

I'll bet you believe that the state of Delaware exists. Forget it! You were taught that by dangerously subversive manipulators of bogus information! There's no such place as the state of Delaware. If you live in Kansas, you already know this. But there are a lot of fools here on the East Coast who actually think they're driving through Delaware, just because some sign on I-95 says, "Welcome to Delaware." What kind of proof is that? Anyone with any kind of devious motive can put up a sign! Take it from Anne Johnson, Professor of Everything at Phuque U: "Delaware" is a Russian plot to take over America. And you fall for it! You stop at that so-called "Delaware toll booth" and fork over $4.00 (both ways), thinking it pays for the highway. Ha ha, blind lemming! All of that money goes straight to the Kremlin! There is no Delaware. Repeat after me. There is no Delaware.

Now that you see the kind of high quality instruction you'll receive here at Phuque U, I'm sure you're eager to enroll. You can get the entire course, "States of Confusion: The Delaware Conspiracy" for three easy payments of $399! Go ahead, try to find cheaper tuition than that! Best part is, you don't have to buy any books. We frown on books. Nasty things, full of lies.

To save you time, we've prepared the following list of people who won't qualify for Phuque U, so don't bother applying to our federally-funded university:

1. Mormons (aforementioned).
2. Anyone even remotely affiliated with the Tea Party movement (It's a commie conspiracy, like Delaware).
3. People who don't shave the hair off their toes.
4. Lithuanians, even with valid American citizenship. Can't trust Lithuanians.
5. Mimes.

On the other hand, we dole out generous scholarships to the following:

1. High-scoring online gamers.
2. People who know how to fix broken kitchen cabinets.
3. Anyone willing to wear that Perfy costume in hot, humid weather.
4. People who can trace their ancestry to those who remained loyal to King George during the so-called American Revolution (which is actually a lie, it should be called "The Casting Off," because Britain just didn't want responsibility for America anymore).

Sign up today and receive a 1 percent discount on your first semester of enrollment!

Welcome to Phuque U. And remember our motto: "Mentiri, Semper Mentiri."

Never Mix, Never Worry

I have been told to join a group blog using my Google account. This is a professional blog that I am supposed to join.

I am not going to do it. I've been with Blogger since 2005, I like Blogger -- no offense to you WordPress folks out there -- and this is my thing, right here.

I have made a point not to talk about my work here at this site. And I know that this blog can be seen by anyone in the world. But to link it purposefully to a work-related site. eeeek. Not gonna happen.

I was here first with "The Gods Are Bored." If having this blog and not being willing to contribute to another (save through anonymous comments that will be lengthy and signed at the end) means I'll get fired, then phooey. Start filling out the pink slip.

My many close friends among the bored gods --with the possible exception of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, who wants to be written into classroom curriculum -- feel that matters of church and state should remain separate. I'm not relocating my religion blog because some educational consultant got the bright idea to open up a site on Blogger.

HERE you will find "The Gods Are Bored." I like it here. Feels like home.

All hail the Sacred Thunderbird, etc. etc. You know the drill, and the drill is HERE.

Coming Out

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home page of Anne Johnson, She Who Believes in Everything! Don't believe me? Put it to the test! I don't even snicker when I drive through East Baltimore and see the window shrines to Elvis. Someone is drawing solace from meditating on a King, looking at his picture, and lighting candles to him. To me this is a sacred thing, and who am I to belittle it?

There's been some talk over at The Wild Hunt about having a Pagan Coming Out Day, where presumably anyone who considers themselves Pagan would openly declare their path to family, friends, and -- ulp -- workplace colleagues.

When I told my sister I had become a Druid, she asked if that meant I was going to slaughter kittens in a pentagram.

See? That could have snapped our relationship right there if I hadn't bitten my cheek and dug deep for the big, broad, flexible outlook.

Now we're down the road a few years, and Sis has come to a few faerie festivals. She calls herself a "Pagan Christian." I'm not sure what that means, exactly, but I do know that Sis has been more reflective on the people around her at her fundie church and has rejected their "legalistic" agenda. She has friended some of my Druid Grove members on Facebook. So I think "coming out" to Sis did help her to begin to question all those answers she was getting on "Focus on the Family."

But soft! What exactly does it mean to "come out" as a Pagan in the workplace?

My workplace is a public school. If my students were ever to ask my religion, I would evoke the First Amendment. I'm not Wiccan, so wearing a Pentagram is not an issue. I wear a wooden acorn on a hemp string at least twice a week, and my students sometimes ask me, "Why do you wear that acorn all the time?" I tell them I like trees. Which is true.

The reality at my particular school is that a great many of my students are Roman Catholic, and some of the rest are Evangelical Christian, with a smattering of Jehovah's Witnesses. Not only can I not "come out" to these kids, I have to be especially vigilant not to let it slip that I'm a Pagan. Do I need to sit here and tell you why it wouldn't work for me to be open about my Path? Because just now I have a workshop to attend, and I need to take a shower, and if you want more explanation you'll have to ask for it.

Having had extremely mixed results when I tell people I'm a Druid, I will go on record as not being supportive of a "coming out" movement. For Pagans, not for gays. The difference between Pagan and gay is that you choose to be Pagan. And as for closeted gays, I can totally see their point too.

Everyone's comfort level is different when it comes to discussing religion. My personal comfort level has declined over the past year, after I confided in a few teachers who I thought were friends, only to see them shun me and make snide comments about my apparel and behavior.

Remember that our U.S.Constitution gives you the right to worship in any way you please (or not at all) and does not demand that you reveal how you worship, to authorities, friends, or family. This, to my way of thinking, should be a personal decision on your part. The only pressure you feel to "come out" should come from within. Let your conscience be your guide.

Up Close and Personal with Big Government

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," with liberty and justice for owls! Let's talk about the long arm of Big Government with someone who has seen it at work.

Actually I'm not even to the federal level. Let's talk about the long arm of Big State Government with someone who has seen it at work.

Case #1: School Oversight Committees

The school district where I teach is monitored by some acronym-laden state entity that demands "adequate yearly progress" in our student population. In other words, each year more of our students have to pass the state standardized graduation test than the year before. We teachers work hard to improve our skills so that all of our students pass the test. But the state doesn't take into consideration that adequate yearly progress can only be made if each and every cohort of students is exactly the same. Which, as you know if you're a teacher, doesn't happen. Some years bring better students than other years. But our state, strapped for money, pays consultants to evaluate teachers, administrators, janitors (just kidding about that one, but I wouldn't be surprised), and facilities to make sure we're dancing as fast as we can in the classroom.

So, everything we do in our little school district, we do with an eye toward the state regulators. Personally I look at this as everyone pulling for the same goal -- educating at-risk students and getting them through high school. I know that some of my fellow teachers hate the state regulators. And some teachers do give it their all, then wind up on the cutting room floor when the kids take a dive on the tests. I think overall, though, we teachers try harder because we know "they" are watching. Logical use of data and state funding? Debatable. Overall goal? Commendable.

Case #2: Maryland's Department of Environmental Protection

Have you noticed that when states get strapped for cash, one of the first things to go is environmental protection? This is because a small group of tree-huggers can't compete with corporations that want less oversight of what they dump in the waterways. Will this BP mess change that? I hope so, because I'm pulling for the Maryland DEP.


My three long-time readers will remember that I have blogged about a despicable beast of a man named Michael Carnock who wants to build 4300 housing units just east of the Middle of Nowhere in Western Maryland. This greed-monger envisions a town of 11,000 souls on a property he bought for a song. (Just now there's nothing on that land but woods and weeds and critters.) Michael Carnock is even willing to pay to have one nearby creek dammed as a water supply, and he has promised to build a sewage treatment plant, the water from which will spill into a wet-weather stream called Terrapin Run.

Well, you see, the Maryland Department of Environmental Protection wants some information first. Those Big Government pencil-pushers in Annapolis -- the nerve of these guys -- want environmental impact studies! The poor put-upon Mr. Carnock has brought a lawsuit against MDEP for holding up his business venture.

Ask your average tree-hugger, and he or she will tell you there's not enough Big Government. I am one of those tree-huggers, and while I'm ranting, let me just say that I wish President Obama was an evil big spender! But he's not. It's business as usual in America, which -- although we love its flag and its history -- is a country dedicated to the enrichment of the few at the expense of the many.

Big Government is not going to knock down your door and take your guns away. It's not going to appoint some "chairman" on your block to keep an eye on you in case you do something "unpatriotic." It will send someone to investigate what's in those pesky drums that were dumped in the vacant lot. It will send a check to your aging mother-in-law, thus keeping her in her own home instead of in your spare room.

As for the complaints against Big Government, how is it that we only hear them when domestic issues are involved? I guess Government isn't Big when all it's doing is fighting wars overseas.

There's a Tier II stream in eastern Allegany County, Maryland that desperately needs Big Government. Is it foolish of me to root for the pencil-pushers in Annapolis?

Sunday, July 4

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where no deity scores an Epic Fail! Winning and losing is for baseball, not religion. Everything needn't be a contest. Sheesh!

Every now and then the Fourth of July falls on a Sunday and throws a monkey wrench into everyone's holiday plans. What is the Fourth without a morning parade? I guess we're gonna find out, because no town I know of would ever schedule a parade to conflict with church services.

Those of us who don't plan to don patriotic attire and toddle into the Methodist sanctuary in red heels might actually use Sunday, July 4 to a higher purpose.

Let us join in serious silent meditation for our nation and our planet and try especially to address the imbalances between our nation's consumption and our planet's preservation.

Whoa. Look at all those big words! No way will the Tea Party be able to read that!

On Sunday, July 4, you should:

1. Petition the deity or deities of your choice to send this country down a better road, and

2. Petition the deity or deities of your choice to save our planet.

If your deities are anything like mine, They will lob your petition right back at you and say, "DIY."

Know what? They're right!

What will you do to save the world? Me, I'm off to the laundromat. Laugh if you like, but those big ol' machines save energy by the fistfuls!

Where Pilgrimage Takes Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Everything's hunky dory here today ... so far. Alpha is curled up in her cat basket, Beta is out under the tree waiting for a baby bird to fall from a nest, Decibel the parrot is unusually quiet. Heir is at work. Spare is puttering about the kitchen. And I, Anne Johnson, am here to entertain you! Good times, good times.

Since America is such a melting pot, people tend to think of themselves as being "from" somewhere, even if their families have lived here for generations. Until recently, I've been as guilty of that as anyone else. I've always loved telling people I'm "Scotch Irish."

Then one day recently, I found myself by a pretty little stream with nothing in particular to do, and I began to consider where I'm really from and what I should call myself based on my ancestors' "points of origin."

I'm Appalachian.

So far back as I can trace, three lines of my dad's ancestors were living in Appalachia a dozen generations ago. Long enough to outlast an Old Testament curse! So far back as I can trace on my mom's side, a German named Peter Mittelkauf arrived in Philadelphia on the ship Morehouse from a place called the Palatine in 1740. He moved straight to Western Maryland, not stopping first in Chester County, PA as Mom's Scotch-Irish ancestors did.

Dad's kin probably win the prize for longevity of occupancy in Appalachia. And what rich names appear in the family tree! There are Mountains and Kennards (sure sounds French to me), Tewells, Imeses, Bennetts, Martins, and (of course) Johnsons. There are Lashleys, which back in the day would have been pronounced Locks-lee.

Conservatively, if I were to book intercontinental, I would have to visit France, Germany, Scotland, and England. And in none of these places did my ancestors have anything going for them -- otherwise they would have stayed put. Where they did stay put was Appalachia. Ten generations. Twelve generations. Fourteen generations (the hardy Bennetts).

I am the first of my family to leave home and live elsewhere. Even my sister still lives in Appalachia.

Therefore, when I think of connecting with Ancestor, my thoughts do not wander to Stonehenge, but rather to Hopewell Township, PA. I like kilts and bagpipes excessively, but given a choice I'll go with a basement bluegrass band first. In fact, bluegrass music bears out my point. It is a coherent melding of African, Scottish, Irish, and English rhythms, melodies, and instrumentation. It is uniquely American music.

You could argue, of course, that probably a thousand generations of my ancestors lived in Scotland. Maybe they fought with Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. Well, that would be a point of pride indeed. But still I would have to return to one fact: At some point, recognizing the immense danger and strong possibility of death, my ancestors climbed on little rickety wooden ships and braved the fierce Atlantic. Then, although life was no bowl of cherries in the fortress hills of Appalachia, they settled in and stayed. And loved it.

Where are my ancestors from? Appalachia. Where do I pilgrimage? Appalachia. Hail the hills and valleys, hail the creeks and cliffs. Hail the spot that will be my grave among my people.

Now, you say, "Anne. Wait a minute. You're chucking the whole of history and settling for a mere 14 generations?"

Okay, scrap that! Let's get serious about this ancestor piece!

Come, all of you reading this. We are all siblings. Let's do the deep ancestor crawl! Off we go to East Africa, to the Afar Valley, to Kenya and Tanzania. There to meet the bored gods that unite all humankind in the cradle of Homo sapiens.

Is that too far back? I don't know. I like thinking of all of us as one big family. It's true, they say. Still, I think I'll let someone else sort out that family tree. And once they do, they can find me on Polish Mountain, sticking little American flags around Joseph Bennett's marker. To me, that's pilgrimage.

The Bored Gods and the Pledge

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" at the commencement of a Fourth of July weekend! Mannanan MacLir Bless America!

Who?

Mannanan is one of my favorite bored deities. He visits frequently. And if anyone has a beef about the Christian Church, it's Him. He fixed a gold cauldron for a Catholic priest, only to hear that the job was so good it had to have been done by the devil. Incensed, Mannanan took himself to the Isle of Man, where He usually stays except for the week when they have that noisy car race.

The reason I bring up Mannanan MacLir is because of the Pledge of Allegiance. I imagine that pledging allegiance to a flag or banner is a very ancient thing, and that deities of all sorts have been evoked during these pledges for just as long. For most of its life, our national Pledge of Allegiance did not evoke any deity. Then came the Cold War, and the words "under God" were added to our official pledge.

As if this God isn't busy enough. Now he has to listen to millions of school children every day, crediting him with being the ruler of our wide land!

Of course this "under God" business is completely spurious, unconstitutional, and insulting to all the non-Christian Americans out there, be they of other faiths or atheist.

So. Let's band together, all you Pagans, atheists, Sufis, Farsis, Santerians, etc. (let's not forget the followers of the Flying Spaghetti Monster), and go have a sit-in on the mall in Washington, DC to protest this unconstitutional outrage!

Ah, never mind. Who wants to plan such a thing? Not me. I can't get a cake baked for the block party.

This is a situation where a big, broad, flexible outlook is quite helpful.

As a school teacher, I have to say the Pledge of Allegiance every day. Before I commenced doing so last September, I talked it over with some bored gods (over tea and biscuits -- it was a lovely afternoon). We collectively decided that saying, "One nation, under the Salmon of Wisdom" would disturb the peace of my classroom.

Therefore, I say the Pledge of Allegiance and omit the part about "under God." Every single day of the school year, I omitted "under God," and my students never noticed. This was good, because I didn't want to spark a debate on the Constitution. I'm an English teacher, not a history teacher.

I'm a fairly patriotic person. My ancestors came here early. They settled in the rugged Appalachians, from which they sallied forth in numbers to lend their hands to wars from the French and Indian to WWII. So I'm down with pledging the flag.

I'm not down with the "under God" part. But most Americans are.

Let sleeping dogs lie, I say. When I pledge, it's just me, and while I think we are one nation, we certainly aren't all "under God."

Pledge the flag -- or not -- as you like, but hey. This battle is not worth fighting. Leave it alone. After all, you could just as easily question the whole "liberty and justice for all" thing, if you look closely at how our country works.

I'm Anne Johnson, and I approve this message.

Pitch It

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Anne Johnson here, for the Awesome Jersey Shore!

Hi, I'm Anne Johnson! Are you tired of household chores that never end? Tired of trudging the same old streets around home? Get away! Have some fun! Leave your troubles behind!

Look at this. Doesn't this look enticing? This is the fabulous, Awesome Jersey Shore! Try it for an overnight, and you'll say Wow every time you use your beach towel!

Look what the Jersey Shore can do for you:

1. Drop quarters by fistfuls into arcade games you can never win! But hey, it's fun to play!

2. Ah, the food, the food! Corn dogs, cotton candy, funnel cakes, french fries, taffy, fudge, pizza, ice cream! This is a diet-blasting destination, folks! Food makes you feel good, so eat up! Life is short.

3. Shop till you drop for stuff you don't need! Trinkets, bracelets, t-shirts, hermit crabs, postcards, the inevitable hoodie that you forgot. Just think how you'll stimulate the economy and provide jobs for all those hard-working college kids who would rather spend the summer at the shore than clerking in Dad's law office!

And last, but not least ... certainly not least ....

4. Oh, just LOOK at that GORGEOUS OCEAN! What a vista! An unbroken swath of water as far as the eye can see, ending in rough surf and interesting "beachcomber items" at the shoreline! Can you imagine a better way to spend the day than dodging breakers, listening to squeaky kids, digging up debris, brushing the sand from between your .... ummmm .... WELL ANYWAY, THE JERSEY SHORE IS GREAT! TERRIFIC! I CAN HARDLY WAIT TO GET THERE!

This vacation destination is yours for three small payments of $133. Yes! You can spend one night in Ocean City, New Jersey, for just three small payments of $133! (I hope.) What a bargain for memories that will last a lifetime!

Don't wait! Call now! Our operators are standing by! Tell them Anne Johnson sent you, and you'll get a free, yes FREE seashell! So, you'll get one night in Ocean City, New Jersey ... food ... arcades ... rough surf ... unique debris ... yawning vista ... PLUS A FREE SEASHELL!

New Jersey and you. PERFECT together! The number is on your screen. Are you getting this, camera guy?

QUALITY JERSEY SHORE OVERNIGHTS: 1-800-FLEECEME

Return to Us

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored." Sometimes we search for a topic. Sometimes a topic appears on our plates.

I am greeted today by the feed from my hometown newspaper. Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV) has died in office. He was 92. No senator in history has served longer.

Those of us with West Virginia ties used to joke that, even after he died, we would elect his corpse to the Senate. As leader of the Appropriations Committee, he steered gazillions of dollars into one of this country's most impoverished states. Pork barrel projects? So be it. West Virignians need to earn a living wage. Without Senator Byrd, this will be more difficult to do.

My dad didn't like Senator Byrd. Dad thought Byrd was arrogant. I didn't particularly care about Senator Byrd's personality. He brought jobs and strong leadership to a state that needed both.

Once, about a decade or so back, I was out driving with my sister and her husband. We passed a humongous construction site, nearly in the middle of nowhere.

I said, "What the heck is that?"

And my brother-in-law said, "It's a new headquarters for the Coast Guard."

I said, "You're kidding me. West Virginia doesn't even have a coastline!"

And my brother-in-law said, "Yes, but it has Robert Byrd."

When people think of West Virginia, they think of coal. And most certainly Robert Byrd was friendly to the coal industry. He wanted the people of his state to have jobs. But imagine for a moment: Today, as you read this, people are working on behalf of the Coast Guard, in West Virginia. These people are making good wages and paying taxes to West Virginia. They live in West Virginia. They buy stuff in West Virginia, which means the state needs stores and people to run them. And a Coast Guard facility isn't going to rip down a mountain.

Yes, yes, Byrd was briefly in the Klan. He was against the Civil Rights legislation of the 1960s. He later openly regretted both decisions. What dumb thing did you do when you were young that you wish you didn't have to own up to now?

My moment of greatest pride in Robert Byrd came when our former president sent our nation's troops into Iraq for no good reason at all. At a time when many people were still being convinced by the bogus claims of WMD, the pictures of missile sites, all of those BIG FAT LIES, Robert Byrd would have none of it.

The speech below occurred in 2003, when Senator Byrd was well into his eighties. Don't you wish we had listened to him? Me too.

Faeries, please do not yet escort Robert Byrd to the Summerlands. We need his return. If I live to see a U.S. senator described as "Robert Byrd all over again," I will be overjoyed.

The Iraq Invasion Archive-Robert Byrd-I weep for my country

Coming Soon to a Big City Art Cinema, and Nowhere Else

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Would you rather be trapped inside by blizzard conditions or by a heat wave? Anne votes BLIZZARD! And not just because it sounds like "buzzard." I hate hot weather!

Smack dab in our nation's mid-section there's a snobby clique-ish artsy smartsy Master's degree program called the Iowa Writers Workshop. It's the toughest academic writing program to get into, and many many of its graduates wind up getting something in print. Most of the work that comes out of the Iowa Writers Workshop is not to my taste. I saw the same kind of stuff at Johns Hopkins: long, erudite stories about the academic community or about high-achieving, fucked up middle class misfits.

Daniel Woodrell is the exception.

A native of the Ozark Mountains who joined the Marines at 17 and didn't even start college until he was in his twenties, Woodrell has a knack for writing and a subject matter of interest. I cannot imagine how this talented individual got into the Iowa Writers Workshop, or why he even bothered to attend.

If you are looking for a good summer read, try Woodrell's Tomato Red, or maybe Give Us a Kiss. They're both short, well-written, and funny as hell.

Of a more serious nature is Winter's Bone. Set in the Ozark Mountains, it's about a teenage girl who has to find her bail-skipping dad before her family's property (and its timber acres) are forfeited to the bail bondsman. The dad in question cooked meth. As do most of this girl's family members. Of course no one has seen Dad, dead or alive.

I read Winter's Bone when it first appeared in 2006 and loved it. Now it has been made into a movie. Like all movie treatments of novels, the film skims where the book dips deep, but the movie is still terrific. So terrific, in fact, that it won the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival this year. See if you think it looks good. You can watch the trailer at http://www.wintersbonethemovie.com.

Now, here's the bitter irony, dear readers.

If you actually want to watch Winter's Bone in a theater, you had better live in or near a great metropolis. This one ain't showing at your neighborhood cineplex. Want to see some computer-generated animation or a badly-acted vampire flick? Oh, lucky you! Six screens, all hours of the day and night, right up the street! Winter's Bone, a superbly-acted piece with flawless cinematography and a great story, suitable for serious adults? Fly to Philly. Boat to Baltimore. Two screens in Manhattan.

Heir and I took the El to Philly last night to see Winter's Bone. Heir had just finished reading the book. We both loved the movie, and our quibbles were minor. I didn't like the fact that the houses did not have threatening dogs and geese. Heir thought that the meth lab was located too close to a road. Other than that, we were impressed.

I will have more to say about Appalachia and meth labs in future posts, but today's sermon focuses on cinematic entertainment. When a theater has 24 screens, how hard would it be for it to reserve one for documentaries and art flicks? I don't mind going into Philly, but if I lived in, say, Lancaster, I would not have gotten to see Winter's Bone.

In conclusion, you may have to settle for Edward and Bella on the big screen. Ick. But thanks to modern purchase and distribution options on reading material, you can obtain the written works of Daniel Woodrell quite simply with the click of a mouse. Do please buy retail in this case, thereby supporting the rare Iowa Writers Workshop author who deserves to earn his keep by writing.

Figures It's Not Men

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," summer edition! We are fiercely dedicated to providing you with more of our ground-denting, earth-splattering commentary this summer! It's been a long, cold, lonely school year -- and is sure to be a long, grueling, workshop-filled July and August -- but damn the textbooks, full speed ahead!

Are you a weather buff? I am! Like my grandfather before me, I could sit and watch the Weather Channel all day, even when it's bright and sunny.

Of course, it's always more interesting to watch the Weather Channel when there's a line of tornado-laden thunderstorms moving in from the west, or a pink/white rain/snow line inching ever closer to your home. Admit it. You love Doppler radar, don't you? No? Then don't ever start looking at it! You'll be a Doppler junkie in no time. Seriously, I do my Doppler check before even opening my emails.


If you know that NOAA is not a dude who built a big boat that couldn't hold dinosaurs, you're like me. Addicted to frontal boundaries!

We weather junkies have been speculating about atmospheric conditions relating to the Gulf oil spill. A good portion of the East Coast's precipitation comes from moisture gathered into the clouds over the Gulf of Mexico.

News is just in from credible sources like the Huffington Post (search Raining Oil) that Louisiana is already getting oily rain that leaves behind a sheen on blacktop and other smooth surfaces. Of equal concern is the chemical dispersant Corexit 9500, currently being used to break up the spill. Oil may not evaporate easily, but what about Corexit? And what is in Corexit 9500 to begin with?

"The Gods Are Bored" is a blog, not a sharp piece of professional investigative reporting. But if I was one of the few remaining investigative journalists with a salary, I sure would be researching this. What is in Corexit 9500, and what will it do to us when it rains down on us?

Thank goodness for fine professional work like this blog, huh? I know exactly where to turn for every answer.

The Oracle at Delphi predicts that Oil Rain and Corexit Rain will begin polluting large portions of the United States as soon as hurricane season arrives. Come winter, Oil Snow and Corexit Snow will blanket the East Coast.

Wow, that's going to look beautiful -- snow with a rainbow sheen! And think how zippy your sled will be on it! I don't know about you, but I'll be watching the Weather Channel more than ever, just waiting for that Oil Snow!

America, America. God shed His grace on thee. And look at the results. I'd rather worship a buzzard.

Laugh or Go Nuts

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Canape, anyone? No? How about some pickled pigs' feet?

Today the students at my school sprinted out to their buses, headed for summer vacation. I too thought I would get a little reprieve, in which I intended to read up on teaching skills, create models for my classroom, etc. And of course I was looking forward to blogging and reading your blogs and all that! Teaching is known for its summer vacations, after all.

Instead, at 8:00 in the morning of the final day of the school year, I learned that I will be expected to attend seminars three days a week, beginning July 7 and lasting through the rest of the summer. I will be paid for these seminars, but they are not open to negotiation. I should have been told about them two months ago, but my division supervisor (who was fired this spring) never mentioned them to me.

Bit of a nasty shock. Until I took stock and recalled that I have a job. It's not the "Tab A fits into Slot B" perfect job for me, but it's a job. So I get one week off and then go back to work in the "Rigor and Excellence" workshop for first-year teachers.

Why am I feeling like I'd rather go to the "Rigor (Mortis) Is Excellent" workshop for buzzards?

Hello, Goodbye, Big Purple Bear

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," saying so long to friends on this first day of summer!

Three more foster kittens have come and gone. We had them about six weeks. They were rowdy. I took them back to the shelter this afternoon.

Today's sermon, however, is about Big Purple Bear.

You know how you get something, and it just becomes part of life, and you never think of taking a picture of it? Big Purple Bear was like that.

About three years ago, Heir, Spare, and I were going to the local supermarket when we passed one of those big bins for donated clothes. Sitting in front of the bin was Big Purple Bear. He was one of those enormous stuffed animals that take up half a double bed when you prop them on it.

Spare has a queen sized bed that she inherited from Mr. Johnson and me, so we brought Big Purple Bear home. For three years he kept Spare company on her bed. Then she turned 16 and decided she didn't need him on her bed anymore.

Trouble is, the dude was huge. Where do you keep a Big Purple Bear? We tried him in my home office, but he took over.

So we paid him forward.

We took Big Purple Bear back where we found him in the first place -- the used clothing bin at the supermarket. We left him sitting in front of the bin, just where we found him.

This afternoon, while driving home from school (yes, I am still teaching school ... after Solstice!), I had a nasty shock. I saw three boys, middle school age, lugging Big Purple Bear up the street. Well, I had paid him forward, but, but, but, three middle school  boys? Visions of stuffed bearicide flooded my brain. What possible use could a trio of pubescent boys have for a huge stuffed bear, other than to torture it?

I pulled over to the side, and I rolled down my window. I said to the boys, "I left that bear in the grocery store parking lot. I paid him forward. You take care of him. You pay him forward just like you found him."

They looked at me like I was nuts and kept dragging Big Purple Bear up the street.

When fostering kittens and stuffed animals, one must be an optimist. I've had more than 60 kittens come and go through Chateau Johnson. Most certainly some of them have not found good homes. I can only act on my faith in the shelter where I volunteer, my friendship with the people there, and my trust that they are careful when they send animals out for adoption.

The same sort of optimism must now animate me with Big Purple Bear. Perhaps one of those young chaps has a little sister. Or maybe they're just going to sit Big Purple Bear in some space they share. At any rate, Big Purple Bear, and three kittens named Ariel, Cinderella, and Princess (not my names) have gone out into the world. Luck be with them on this new summer's eve.

Longest Day

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored Here in the Northern Hemisphere!"

I don't know about you, but I feel very blue on Summer Solstice. The light has reached its peak and now will dwindle again. First we must endure a long, hot summer. I'm 51, and I can tell you -- summer was not this hot in the 1970s.

My only consolation is that the sunshine returns to my friends in Australia and South Africa. They've been waiting for it. Friends, here She comes!

The Very First Druid I Knew

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Father's Day Edition 2010!

This is a portrait of my father in his younger years. Honestly, can you believe this is my relative? I mean, do I ever behave this way?

Apple. (points at self) Tree. (points at picture)

Most of the time when people think of Druids, they think of holy leaders. In fact, so far as I have been able to read and research, "Druid" was a class of people within the ancient Celts. If you were a teacher, a poet, a lawyer, a healer -- basically working middle class -- you were a "Druid."

Only after he waltzed away with the faeries did I realize that my dad was a Druid.

I always knew he was an Alchemist. (See his wizardry, below.) I never gave much thought to his philosophies until after he passed and I didn't hear them anymore.

Being a scientist, Dad felt pretty strongly that life ends with death and that nothing -- no soul, no spirit -- survives. And yet he spent almost every Sunday of his life at church, teaching Sunday School and singing in the choir. He was profoundly ambivalent about Christianity. You see, being a Sunday School teacher, he actually read the whole Bible. He found a lot of it unsettling -- and that includes swaths of the New Testament that most Christians lap up with fervor.

Uninspired by visions of eternal life in Heaven, Dad pursued a philosophy of self-sacrifice and moral courage. He was what you would call an "upstanding man." I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who knew he didn't believe the Bible, didn't buy into Christianity's salvation agenda, and yet embraced the portion of the religion that encouraged people to do the right thing even at pain of death.

When my father married my mother, he was warned that she was "high strung." He witnessed it himself. Nevertheless, he wed a woman with a near-fatal case of bipolar disorder and spent his life caring for her, even though, day after day, she abused him verbally and sometimes physically for his efforts. Without his support, my mother would have become institutionalized. Instead she was able to keep her place in society. (Admittedly, most people avoided her company if they could.)

Once I asked my father why he didn't divorce my mother before I was born. He said, "When I married your mom, I made a vow. A vow is just that. A promise. I wasn't going to break my promise."

Well well. A college-educated science teacher and avowed atheist Promise Keeper. This puzzle piece, my dad, does not fit easily into any tableau unless you consider "Druid" to mean a class of person and not simply a religious leader.

Taking Druidism as a caste system, my dad's piece fits. He was a scientist. A singer. A teacher. A parent whose favorite way to spend an afternoon was hiking in the woods with his daughter and showing her all the mountain's secrets, so that she would never fear that which needn't be feared. My dad knew justice, loved justice, and found divinity in all existences. Like both his brothers and his own dad, he was interested in everything. I never saw him bored, ever.

No wonder Peter Pan came for him, called to him, and led him to the Summerlands! My dad, my friend, my inspiration in weirdness. My first Druid.

Eternal youth be yours, Dad. Now, go take your beaker and blow up the whole doggone pirate ship!

Below, one of my favorite episodes of "Principles of Combustion." That is my dad, Daniel Johnson Jr.

Principles of Combustion 3: Putting Out Water with Fire

How Does Your Garden Glow?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" This is not your grandfather's Oldsmobile nor his garden. This is faerie, faerie, quite contrary ... how does your garden glow?

This year I decided to plant some flowers. The groundhog kept eating my tomatoes, so what was the point?

My grandmother was the queen of flower gardening and quite proud of her zinnias. With Grandma in mind, I set out to purchase a few zinnias for my brand new flower garden.

Just like everything else, though, these modern, 21st century zinnias have been genetically engineered to have blooms as big as apples and as bright as clown suits. Even the snapdragons I planted are suspiciously vibrant in their hues. Grandma would be astonished by these hyper-plants.

Have you ever read that H.P. Lovecraft story called "The Colour out of Space?" If you have, you will understand my qualms about these plants I just put in the ground. They're too pretty. Too perfect. Too large. Where are the spindly little zinnias of yesteryear?

These flowers don't look real. It's like I've spent my lifetime playing with mutts, and someone just gave me a Great Dane with a big red bow around its neck.

My usual way of dealing with this dilemma would be to let the aggressive flora in the rest of my yard just gnaw into those leafy marvels of enhanced DNA. But it's kind of nice having some neon flowers near the back door. So today I began my Very Marvelous Cheesy Garden Project.

This project will combine flea market ceramic houses, a handful of Rat Finks, and whatever other weird stuff I can find, with the too-perfect blossoms. My quest is to create a miniature village that will turn the sublime into the subliminal.

I don't know about you, but I think this is a swell idea. Why doesn't everyone mix flowers and cheap ceramics? It's all colorful, and at least the ceramics won't need to gorge themselves with Miracle-Gro.

If I get enough weird ceramic stuff, next year I might not buy any flowers at all. Just think! A garden that grows all year long, never needs water, and keeps the neighbors at bay. Perfect!

Updating the Endangered Deities List

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where downsized deities come to chill! No pantheon is too obscure, no praise and worship team too small, to gain our respect and regard!

With all this sad news from the Gulf of Mexico, it's a good time to bring your attention to something uplifting. Actually, this is great news! Just recently, some bored gods and goddesses have been moved from Endangered to Protected status by the federal Bureau of Assessment of Deities. BAD has lifted the Endangered category from the following:

1. Celtic deities. The rise of Wicca, Druidism, and the ongoing international passion for Faerie has swollen the praise and worship teams of the ancient Celts to a break-even point. The Internet has been a huge help to these deities who, 100 years ago, were clinging by their fingernails to a little bit of literature in the British Isles. Hat tip to William Butler Yeats for getting the ball rolling.

2. Scandinavian deities. Boy, was this crowd ever sore when all the press they got was in Marvel comic books! The ever-growing ranks of Asatru have restored Thor! All hail, and drink a horn of mead!

3. Greek deities. They've had it up to here, being called "myths." To Hades with "myth!" This crowd now has a praise and worship team again! As well they should. Many a great thinker worshiped Athena. She is way overdue getting some more.

4. Mayan deities. Still considered Endangered, but in better shape than in the 20th century. The whole 2012 business has brought needed attention to some awesome Meso-American gods. What They will do in 2013 is up to Them, but by that time They'll be up in praise and worship numbers significantly.



5. Vulture worship. Hate to pat myself on the back here, but hat tip on this one goes straight to "The Gods Are Bored!" A handful of people are starting to look at buzzards and see more than just ugly birds with bald heads and bad diets. Job well done. Sacred Thunderbird, Peace Eagle, You fly again!

Of course there's always some bad news behind the celebration. In a nutshell, the fruitful labors of archeologists are unearthing ever more forgotten and discarded deities. And so, if you are seeking a very rare praise and worship experience, possibly being the only person on the planet to give prayers to a particular deity, all you need to do is keep current with your Science Digest. Almost every month they've got a new "myth" from some culture so far past gone that even your DNA has trouble remembering the details.

Yes, the ongoing "Gods Are Bored" agenda of restoring faded pantheons continues. It's just nice to see a bit of progress here and there. Personally, we here at TGAB were feeling quite burdened by the need to promote the Celtic deities. With so many other people hard at it, we will be able to catch up on all those back issues of National Geographic and the aforementioned Science Digest, without shirking our duties to Thunderbird.

Life moves on.

Stan Goes to High School

Hi, my name's Stan, and I'm Anne's Velociraptor. Today she took me to work.

Being a reptile, I really liked the classroom temperature, especially in the afternoon. I think it topped out at about 95 degrees. Everyone else got listless, but the heat made me more frisky. I don't see why Anne is complaining. She had no beef with the school calendar when she got all those snow days.

Being of carnivorous bent, I scouted Anne's class for the tastiest-looking victim. Would you believe she told me HANDS OFF THE STUDENTS? I'll bet if her darling buzzards went in there with her, she would hum a different tune!

Anne has three freshmen classes. The two classes in the morning watched "Romeo and Juliet." The class in the afternoon (last of the day) was so rowdy they didn't do anything at all. (Don't tell anyone!) That's where I got my name -- Stan. One of Anne's 9th period freshmen named me. Anne was calling me "Cuddles," which was not amusing.

Lunch was great! Today's special was fried chicken. When I finished that, I ate the Culinary instructor. So then it was nap time.

Anne had reserved an air-conditioned computer lab for her afternoon classes. Don't ask me why. Her regular classroom was a terrific place to take a nice, long nap full of dinosaur dreams. When I woke up I had missed the three sophomore classes altogether. Anyway, Anne's school seems like a nice enough place. I brought home a great new name for a souvenir.

As long as I have this forum, I would like to tell you Homo sapiens types that you don't know everything about everything. All the dinosaurs were destroyed in a flood just a few thousand years ago. Noah couldn't fit them on his ark. He had too many fleas and ticks and scorpions to accommodate. But that flood didn't reach everywhere. Some of us dinosaurs have survived. We live in the tunnels under Manhattan and in all the abandoned bomb shelters from the Cold War era. Those places can be downright cozy, especially in the wintertime. Oh yeah, and stop worrying about the doggone plastic that covers everything in sight! We post-Jurassic dinosaurs eat plastic when we run out of sewer rats and stray cats. Which is often. We're hungry critters.

If you don't have a Velociraptor in your life, let me know. I can arrange a match for you. Remember, dinosaurs are just like elephants, except with sharp teeth and bad tempers. Can't you use a pet like that in your daily stroll through this vale of tears?

Anne's operators are standing by to take your call.

ROAR, and all that. Whatever.

FROM STAN THE VELOCIRAPTOR

Bring Your Velociraptor to Work Day

I should have posted this sooner, but Monday, June 14 is Bring Your Velociraptor to Work Day! Mine is already in the car, seat-belted in. Her name is Cuddles. She may be shy at first, but I'm sure she'll soon make many friends.

My Very Awesome Experience at the Firewalk Gala

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Just remember: Here at "The Gods Are Bored," there's no guarantee that Tab A will fit into Slot B. Or that you can get there from here. We say what we mean, but we don't always mean what we say. You get the pitcher.

There's a recurring theme in my life, and my Very Awesome Experience at the Firewalk Gala fits into it perfectly.

For many months I had planned to spend Saturday, June 12 at a public Firewalk. The event was scheduled with a 6:00 p.m. start, and I got there a few hours early. In the life of Anne Johnson, either you arrive very much earlier than planned, or you wind up lost in the wilderness and arrive an hour or more late.

Upon arrival at the Firewalk site, I was told that the non-public portions thereof had not ended. So I went off in search of adventure in a part of Pennsylvania I don't know very well.

For those of you who have never been to Pennsylvania, well. It's the best state in the United States. Don't argue with me. I will beat you.

Just two hundred yards from the Firewalk location, across a metal bridge, lay one of Pennsylvania's innumerable Cute Little Creek-side Parks. The whole state is crawling with these charms. Usually they consist of a babbling brook, two or three picnic tables, a trash can, and a "public park" sign. This was one such park.

Another feature of Pennsylvania's Cute Little Creek-side Parks is that they're usually empty or nearly empty. This park was empty. And it had the prettiest stream I've ever seen east of the Appalachians. Trouble was, the bank was a little bit steep. You couldn't sit on the bank and dangle your feet in the water.

It was a hot day.

What a theological dilemma! To which element does this day belong -- fire or water?

I guess they don't call me The Merlin of Berkeley Springs for nothing. Before you could say, "Anne, you don't have any other clothes packed along," I was dancing with the Nixies and the damsel flies in a fabulous, wonderful stream.

A pretty stream indeed. I wish it was closer to my house, not separated from me by the notoriously nail-biting Sure Kill Expressway and its sister in mechanical death, the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. In short, this was my one-night stand with a gorgeous creek.

Splish, splash! Soaking wet. Took a nap, wrote a letter to a friend. More splashing. Then squishing back to my car. Wistful kiss toward the Cute Little Creek-side Park, and back to the flat lands.

I set out for a Firewalk and wound up in the water. So typical. Send me out for a gallon of milk, I'll come home with cotton candy and cat food.

Never can resist the Nixies. Never.

Romeo and Juliet

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" But soft, what light from yonder window breaks?

It be Juliet, and she chippin.

All teachers approach required curricula with their own philosophies. I am charged with teaching my freshmen "Romeo and Juliet," and I have a philosophy about it.

I studied the works of William Shakespeare for two semesters at the Johns Hopkins University, during which we read almost every play except "A Midsummer Night's Dream." We dissected the noble bard's great soliloquies and sonnets, his masterful plays on words and his lunatic characters. I recall that the professor told us he couldn't bear to lecture about the scene in which King Lear plucks out his eyes, so we skipped that scene. Onward and onward we went through an impressive body of work.

When I looked at the recommended notes for teaching "Romeo and Juliet" provided by my school district, I found a document more than 100 pages in length. There were enough lessons there to stretch  the play through an entire marking period.

I don't operate like that.

Most of my students won't ever see or read a Shakespeare play when they leave high school. Hey, most of us don't! So why not present Shakespeare as entertainment? That's what he was intending when he wrote the doggone plays, wasn't it?

Make a barnyard noise if you think William Shakespeare sat at his desk and wrote plays, all the while thinking to himself, "I bet some intellectual college scholar will give 40 lectures on this stuff 400 years from now!"

My students are zipping through a simplified version of "Romeo" and watching the 1973 movie stocked to the plimsol line with gorgeous teenage actors and actresses. And after watching a sword fight, the students are peppered with such thought-provoking questions as, "Why are they wearing tights?" and "Raise your hand if you think parents should arrange your marriage."

But you know what? When I roll the play, and I look out at a classroom full of freshmen from Camden, New Jersey who are actually caught up in it, even if they don't get every double entendre (or know what one is), I feel like I'm doing Bard William a good turn. It's what he would have wanted. Not the stuffy lectures. Just the teenagers, watching and connecting ... and asking for clarity when they don't understand.

You can teach Shakespeare if you want. I'd rather make it a play.

Bye bye, Bigwand!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Put on your dancin' shoes, cuz tonight we're gonna party like it's 1999!

Night school is over! I have bid farewell to Mr. Bigwand on the stoop of his McMansion, after attending the mandatory last-night-of-night-school barbecue there. I think I can speak for the other inmates ... errr ... night school students when I say we were all happier than landfill buzzards!

I have endured ... errr ... learned (not) from Mr. Bigwand since last September, in search of a teaching credential that I need to teach what I'm already teaching. In September I was kind of in the YKMR (You're kidding me, right?) stage. Late in October, when he began to brag about scaring the piss out of little kids on Halloween, my minor annoyance turned to righteous wrath. At Christmas, when he said, "SO, WHAT DO YOU WICCANS CELEBRATE AT THIS TIME OF YEAR?" my wrath turned to the white hot loathing of a thousand galactic stars.

But spring has sprung, and I have come to look on Bigwand with the sort of resigned indifference one bestows on an elderly uncle who can't stop gushing about the glory days of Ronald Reagan. In other words, my parting with Mr. Bigwand was cordial. I even paid him the ultimate hypocrisy of thanking him for his hard work on behalf of our class.

I hate to say it, because it shows that I can be small-minded, but I loved watching him admit he doesn't like to take his beloved boat into the Chesapeake "because it's only a single engine." Whatever that means. I've been in the Chesapeake with just my arms and legs, and have seen every kind of boat besides. It is comforting, though, to know that I'll never be tucking into a dozen hard shell crabs and a pitcher on some dock, only to see him and Mrs. Bigwand tootling toward shore with worksheets in their hands.

It is customary for a student to reflect upon what he or she has learned in a class in order to pass a final examination. What I learned from Mr. Bigwand that is useful is this: Teaching is like salesmanship. If you don't hook the students in and get them excited about what they're going to do, you might as well whistle into the wind. Also, it's a good idea to close each lesson with a teaser for the next day, so the students will want to come back for more.

How long did it take you to read that? Okay, I spent 9 MONTHS LISTENING TO THIS ADVICE, AND PAID $1600 FOR IT!

Might as well get something for my money, eh?

Readers! Guess what? Tomorrow I'm going to teach you how to ward off boredom and hex people who use sacred holy days as a reason to frighten children! So come on back now, you hear?

One Theme Retires, Another Returns

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, what a beautiful early summer eve! So glad you could stop by. Watch where you're stepping, there are faeries about!

This evening I spent some time tending my little Shrine of the Mists. I noticed that my daughter The Heir had added some items to it. New offerings include little pieces of geode, sea glass, random chunks of semi-precious stone that had once been on a necklace, and even some jacks. Everything that brings joy to the Shrine of the Mists brings peace to my little yard.

I took a moment from my tending to show the neighbor boys a fossil from the farm on Polish Mountain that is also in the Shrine: unspeakably ancient brachiopods, turned to stone by a couple hundred million years of burial. I used to think fossils were magical. I still think so. Not magical in the Young Earth Theory respect, but just sort of miraculous. Our planet has kept pretty good records of its history. The miracle part is that we find the stuff on mountainsides.

One chapter of TGAB comes to a close on Wednesday. It is my final session of night school. Oh, goodbye, Dear Mr. Bigwand! I'll try not to spray you with gravel as I drive off into the sunset! And yes, Bigwand is not going into the Great "Gods Are Bored" archives without a swan song. He mandated that our final meeting be held at his house, where he will heave hamburgers and hot dogs at us, along with his usual lengthy, self-aggrandizing sermons.

I may get misty-eyed. It's allergy season.

The good news is that the end of night school heralds the return of the enriching sorts of activities that have also been recorded here in the annals of TGAB. My, but it has been months since I even mentioned the Monkey Man! Next week is his annual birthday bash in Camden ... an event that dependably becomes rowdy because the booze is cheap and plentiful. Someone will read a haiku. Someone will sing a bawdy song. Sometimes we have a puppet show. Then we stumble out into a charming urban landscape with our heads full of poetry and our throats hoarse from laughter.

When I think of all the people I know and call "friend," I'm sure the world will never become boring to me.

Free Advice from Anne for When Your Kids Are Flunking a Class

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" A warm thank-you to all who helped The Spare with her French story about dragons! She turned the project in today, on deadline. Debra, She Who Seeks offered assistance, but I have to say THE Michael's brilliant idea to run the thing through a translation program (see Comments) was uplifting. And the ever-helpful Yellowdog Granny shortened and simplified the tale in ways calculated to warm the heart of any French teacher. Well, maybe. Okay, maybe not. But I liked it!

The Spare has had the very devil of a time with French. There's been ongoing antagonism with the teacher practically since Day One of Spare's freshman year.

As with anything else in this world, you can learn valuable lessons from having to deal with an unmotivated student and a stubborn teacher. I've taken the scenic route to this lesson, so I'm going to give you the short cut.

The short cut is this: If a teacher sends home a failure notice, don't freak! Teachers expect parents to freak and wig out on the kids. Especially in Snobville, where every single brat goes Ivy League or is branded a Failure for Life.

Try this approach instead. Tell the teacher to go ahead and flunk your kid.

What? No grounding? No extra chores, no withheld allowance? No speech about High School Setting the Scene for the Rest of Your Life?

Who needs such aggravation in the household at the end of a long day?

And so, last year when Spare got a letter home that said she might flunk French, I wrote back to the teacher thus:

Dear Madame,

If Spare flunks French, that means that Spare has not mastered the material. She needs to take the year over and really master the material. So if you feel she has not learned French, then flunk her till she learns it.


Spare passed.

See, many of these dire teacher letters are -- how shall we say this -- penned with an ulterior motive. "Your daughter may fail French" translates from teacher-ese to parent-ese thus: "Your daughter isn't paying attention and doing her work, and I want you to punish the crap out of her."

Worst punishment I could think of would be to flunk French and have to take it over. And rare though it is for a teenager to agree with a parent, Spare felt the same way. Spare picked up her game a bit and never missed a single trip to the thrift store.

So here's my free advice. If your child is about to enter high school, have them take Latin, or some other useful language. And have your kid start at Level 1, unless you've got some future Mensa genius under your roof. Those years playing with foreign languages in Middle School? Useless! Spare had two years of French in Middle School, and all she learned was that she likes quiche but not escargot.

I will reiterate for clarity:

FREE ADVICE ON LEARNING A LANGUAGE IN HIGH SCHOOL by ANNE

1. Pick a useful language.
2. Start at Level 1.
3. If the teacher sends home a failure notice,
     A. take a new language at Level 1, or
     B. call the teacher's bluff and let the kid fail.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pick up the unfinished dragon drawings on my office floor. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for foreign language classes. I hope some day to journey to New Zealand to learn English.

Le French Fractured: Can Vous Helpez?

Dear Friends,


My daughter The Spare must turn this little bit of French into a picture book before bedtime tonight, Sunday. If you are willing to edit it into readable French, please copy and paste to an email, luvbuzzards@yahoo.com, by 5:30 p.m. Sunday, June 6. Anyone who helps out with this will receive a fabulous care package from "The Gods Are Bored," chock-a-block with goodies!

Il était une fois, il y avait une famille de dragons dans un magasin d'animal favori. Chaque dragon était robuste à leur façon. L'un pourrait lancer un grand rocher avec sa queue, et un autre pourrait souffler un trou par un mur avec le feu. Ils très ont été tout aimés à cause de leur force, sauf un dragon. Ceci est l'histoire d'un petit dragon qui ne pourrait pas faire beaucoup de et n'était pas très fort mais a eu un grand cœur.

Tous les autres dragons ont été adoptés par les gosses et ont obtenu toute l'attention, mais le petit dragon n'a pas fait. Il s'est assis juste dans sa cage et pleuré. Quelques fois un gosse viendrait et le regarde. Le gosse attendrait le dragon pour faire intéresser de quelque chose, mais le dragon était très timide. Si personne ne l’adopterait.

Un jour, un petit garçon sur les béquilles est entré regarder les dragons. Ce garçon était aussi timide. Il est devenu effrayé des dragons qui étaient robuste et grand. Le garçon a voulu un ami qui était petit et timide comme lui. Tiens, il a vu le petit dragon.

Tout de suite, le petit garçon a aimé le dragon et le dragon a aimé le petit garçon. Le petit garçon a demandé sa mère s'il pourrait avoir le petit dragon. Sa mère a dit non, parce qu'ils n'ont pas eu assez d'argent. S'ils sont partis le magasin sans ayant acheté le dragon.

Le garçon s'a pleuré toute la nuit. Il a manqué le dragon il était devenu avec des amis. Le dragon a manqué aussi le petit garçon. De tous les jours le garçon est retourné au magasin et a donné le bonbon au dragon. Ils sont devenus des meilleurs amis.

C'était Noël matin et le petit garçon est descendu l'escalier pour trouver le dragon effrayé et séance sous l'arbre. Quand ils ont vu, le dragon est devenu très heureux et a fait si le garçon. Ils ont embrassé. Pour le jour entier qu'ils ont joué. Alors ils se sont endormis à côté du feu chaud.

La morale de cette histoire est d'accepter la diversité. Quand l'un le trouve qu'est différent que l'un ne craint pas que les ou pense qu'ils sont étranges. L'un plus apprend de la chose, et accepte leurs différences et les prend en amitié. Parce que devenir des amis avec quelqu'un qui est différent ont une meilleure issue que conformer.

S.O.S.

Does anyone out there know enough  French to give assistance to The Spare on her project today? It's a simple fable, no more than a few lines on seven pages. I could type it all in here, and you could comment in your changes. Of which I'm sure there will be many.

The bored gods of Lescaux snorted at my request.

I Did It. I'm Sorry.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Who needs to be Catholic to feel guilty? Even Druids get the blues.

Being a first-year school teacher has insulated me from the news. I'm not home in time to watch CBS, and I don't have time to read the newspaper. Usually I sleep through "Countdown with Keith," which is fine by me. He's kind of snobby.

Last night I was awake for "Countdown." Keith trotted out the photos of oil-coated shore birds and marshes mired in crude. I knew this was happening, but you know what they say about a picture painting a thousand words.

Keith was pointing fingers. Who's to blame for this catastrophe? For catastrophe it is, my friends. Here on the East Coast, I expect next winter's snowfalls will contain oil from this spill.

It's a disaster. Can't blame any deity. So, where do we really point the finger?

It's me. I did it. I am at least partly to blame for this mammoth catastrophe, for those dead birds and reeking marshes. It's my fault.

I consume the oil that is pumped from those wells. I drive a car, air condition my house, use electricity to run appliances -- even this computer. I make useless trips to stores, drive long distances for leisure activities, and buy stuff that's encased in layers of plastic. This is my lifestyle, and is it BP's fault that they are profiting from it?

I wish I could say that I'm going to change my ways, but I can't remember a time when the places I lived had no electricity (even our farm in Appalachia had electricity by the time I was born). I can't remember a time without cars. Everything I do is based on the oil/coal economy. Granted, my drive to work is short, but it's just far enough that I can't bike it. My house has 38 windows and no cross-ventilation. Even if each and every window is open, no air blows in. Only light. Which is great in the winter, but today it's 92 degrees outside.

I'm sorry, birds. I'm sorry, marshes. I'm sorry, fishermen.

There's no need to apologize to Gaia, however. She has seen worse. Stupid schlubs like me pale in comparison to massive meteors, supervolcanoes, and Ice Ages.

That doesn't make me happy about being a stupid schlub, though. It just means I won't be driving my car to BP headquarters to protest their profit-making. If I want to point a finger at who's to blame for this oil spill, I only need to walk to a mirror. Turn on the light first, so I can see my polluting self all the better.

Forever 21

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today we are Forever 21!

Actually, "Forever 21" is the name of a popular young women's clothing shop in this area. Personally, I go there and look at the stuff, then wait for it to hit the thrift store in a year or two.

My daughter The Heir turned 21 this week. She was kind of depressed about it. She has the silly idea that turning 21 means you have to be an adult. This is only true in the necessity of having to provide for your bodily needs yourself. Otherwise, it's playtime!

Do you like to play? It's okay with us here at TGAB if you consider running five miles or playing a couple rounds of golf playing. But there are so many other ways to play! Let us count the ways to play!

FREE ADVICE ON HOW TO PLAY, FOR MY DAUGHTER THE HEIR AND ANYONE ELSE WHO NEEDS FREE ADVICE, by ANNE

1. Dress up in a costume. Wear a wig. Go to an event, any event that invites people in costumes and wigs. I guarantee you did this as a tiny tot -- and loved it -- and you're going to love it while being Forever 21!

2. Make fun stuff. Cakes, pies, clay sculptures, rock gardens, a magick wand. Construction is work. Tinkering is play. A wand made in a spirit of joy is going to rock on with positive energy.

3. Have a child or two. You'll play with them, and that will be fun.

4. Adopt a pet. You'll play with it, and that will be fun.

5. Do something naughty. Not "against the law" naughty, but just on the edge of that. Remember that great feeling of getting away with something when no one was looking? Definitely will make you feel Forever 21.

6. Ask stupid questions. When people laugh, laugh with them. If you ask intelligent questions, that's too much like school. Keep it stupid or silly. In that way you will retain your childlike innocence. Can I have some Oreos, please?

7. Root for a losing team. That'll take you back into the day, won't it?

8. Buy crayons and Play-dough. Just the smell of those things keeps you young.

9. Don't worry about your weight or your health. You didn't worry about these things when you really were young, so why start now? If you feel good in the skin you're in, you're young!

10. Invite multiple faeries to every occasion, activity, everyday occurrence, and event. Enough said on that!

THINGS NOT TO DO IF YOU WANT TO STAY FOREVER 21

1. Buy trendy clothes.

2. Put your job ahead of your family and friends.

3. Expect your house to be neat all the time.

4. Cultivate a sense of decorum.

5. Fail to giggle when you burp or experience flatulence.

There now! More fabulous free advice, a veritable Fountain of Youth, poured out for The Heir and the many, in forgiveness of adulthood!

May The Force Be with You.

Artwork: Eyeball Vulture, by The Heir

Energizer Annie

My daughter The Heir turned 21 yesterday -- we had a sober dinner at a posh nosh in Philly. I want to write something special for her here, but just now I have a date with Mr. Bigwand's weekly night school service. This is the next-to-last week of night school. Oh, how I shall miss it! Oh yeah.