Guest Blogger Margot Berwin

Hi readers! Earlier this summer, a publicist for novelist Margot Berwin contacted me to review Margot's novel. Margot has an MFA in creative writing. I read the book and decided it would be best if Margot took the floor and wrote about the book herself. So please give a "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Margot Berwin!

I’m new at guest blogging so I want to start by saying thanks to Anne for giving me space on her blog! I’m so excited—I get to reach some new people and actually say the things that I want to say.

So my book is called Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire. It’s been published by Random House, Its been translated into 15 languages and it was optioned (just once) by Sony pictures.

Hothouse is the story of a woman and two men who meet in NYC and travel to southern Mexico in search of the nine rarest plants on earth. As they say at Sony, think The Orchid thief meets The Alchemist. Two of my favorite books by the way so I didn’t mind the standard Hollywood descriptor.

The woman, Lila Nova, works in advertising, Armand owns a Laundromat, and David Exley works in the green market in Union Square. Lila is not the most adventurous woman going and she more or less gets shoved onto the road less traveled as opposed to taking it, herself.

The book moves from the advertising and modeling world of New York to the rainforests of the Yucatan peninsula. From the plant dealers at the green market in NYC to the curanderos, healers and herbalists of Mexico.

A lot of people are curious about how I managed to get my first novel published. I have to correct them immediately and let them know that this was the THIRD novel I wrote and the first and only one that was published, so the road was rather…um…arduous. While I was writing Hothouse Flower I said to myself, Margot, this is your third book, if you don’t get a green light on this one, it’s going to be your last. Thankfully it was published so I can go on writing and now guest blogging too.

I’d been interested for a long time in all kinds of paranormal experimentation. I’m a huge fan of Carlos Castaneda whom I did my graduate school thesis on (much to the chagrin of the fiction department). I was focused primarily on shamanism and various techniques of plant and trance induced ecstasy.

I didn’t know quite enough about plants at the time to write a book so I had to do a huge amount of research.

I spent a year in the south of Mexico and several months in Guatemala where I became more and more fascinated by the magical, spiritual, and scientific properties of plants-the way they could affect the physical, emotional and mental states of human beings as well as the symbiotic relationship between people and plants especially through, of course, medicine.

A lot of people including writing teachers will tell you to write about what you know. Personally, I think that’s kind of boring. The joy in writing for me is that I can learn new things all the time. In this case I learned a lot about plants.

But that said I couldn’t quite figure out how to write a novel on this topic without sounding annoyingly new-agey until one night I had the following experience:

I was at a birthday party in the east village for my very best friend; the party was in a hot, smoky bar, on a warm may night. It was very crowded so we decided to go outside and take a walk.

As we were strolling down the block I noticed an old, decrepit Laundromat. Not unusual for the neighborhood, except for the fact that this one was both open and filled to the brim with plants. I wanted to go inside and check it out. My friend of course had no interest in spending the night of her birthday in a Laundromat, so she said goodnight and I went inside.

Even though it was very late the owner happened to be there and I asked him why he had so many plants in his laundry. He said he was from Colombia and they made him feel at home. He told me that the mist from the washing machines and the heat from the dryers created a perfect greenhouse for his plants and he considered his Laundromat to be a greenhouse with some clothes going around in circles. He gave me a cutting and told me to come back if it took root and he would give me another.

I left the Laundromat clutching the cutting to my chest like a lunatic and I walked home the 14 blocks to my apartment. During that walk the entire book downloaded into my head like it was coming from a piece of computer software. I began writing that night and didn’t stop until the book was done. Now I had a place to hide the nine plants of desire, a myth I had already created, I would put them in a back room of a Laundromat in Manhattan. A place no one would ever think to find rare tropical plants.

And that’s the story of how the book really came about.

I would also like to say that one of the most consuming problems I had at the time of writing this book was a kind of desperate need to escape from Manhattan.

I was living in a tiny studio and I was experiencing an illness that everyone in this city has had at one time or another. It’s called

I-must-get-out-of-new-york-or I’m-going-to-kill-someone-itis.

I would lay on my bed for hours, avoiding both the thought of employment and unemployment, which I think is quite a talent, and dreaming about getting away. Beaches, jungles, beautiful men, blue, blue water. My brain was a font of stock photography. In fact a lot of reviewers have called this book escapist, which of course really annoyed me-this was my literary baby, not a work of escapist commercial fiction. But then I thought yeah, it kind of is. It’s a bit of a romp through New York City, the world of advertising and high fashion modeling, and then it moves into the magical world of plants and the rainforests of southern Mexico, so I’ve learned to live with the escapist description.

I was personally in the mood for adventure, so I created this myth of the nine plants of desire and I used plants as a way to discuss shamanism, magic and ecstasy. All of the things I’m trying to get closer to in my life.

Someone asked once me if I believed in magic and I said yes, it’s what keeps me going. It’s what keeps me interested.

I have this feeling, and I may be the only one who does, that as a culture it’s not only celebrity we’re after, or fame and money. But underlying all of those things what we really want is magic.

 We have a deep desire for ecstasy and dreams and visions. We want to be surprised! We want gods and demons and spirits and myths. We want to dance around fires on sandy white beaches and sing until the sun comes up. So I thought a lot about magic while I was writing this book. And I came up with the thought that magic is simply the feeling of surprise. And that’s what I wanted for Hothouse Flower and the nine plants of desire. I wanted the people who read the book to be surprised.

Before I close, I’d like to share some thoughts on getting published.

If you’re out there trying to sell your work, I’ve got a few tips I’d like to pass on. And believe me I know they work because I spent many years trying just about everything.

1.      Get published in smaller venues first. I went right for the big novel but I might have gotten published sooner if I’d had some smaller pieces out there. Getting published in journals or magazines, literary or otherwise, online or off, lets editors and agents know that you have an audience and that someone else believed in you enough to publish you. They love this.

2.      I really hate this one but it works. If at all possible, get an MFA. While it’s true that no one can teach you to write, editors use this degree as a weeding out process. They’ll say they don’t, but they do. They get so many manuscripts; they have to separate them out in some way, and having an agent plus an MFA and a few published short stories, really helps. On another note, people in MFA programs become very close. They share information. Three people in my class of twelve have the same agent and two are being published at Random House. It’s a place for serious networking that actually works.

3.      Go to readings. Read your work at readings. Network at readings. Being on the shy side, I never read out-loud. I was the only person in my class who skipped the reading portion of the MFA graduation. When I finally got published and Random House called me to tell me they were sending me on an 18-city book tour, I acted excited and then immediately got a prescription for beta-blockers. It was terrifying and I wish I’d practiced all along. And besides, I met my agent at a reading for Amy Hempel and he’s since signed two of my MFA classmates.

If anyone wants to connect and chat more about publishing or my novel, contact me on facebook. I get back to everyone. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the book!

A Haunting Issue

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," weighing humanity in the balance and finding it wanting since 2005! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. That's me in the picture. I'm the one who's alive.

Ever since I read in National Geographic that fossil-hunters found a 400,000-year-old Homo sapiens skull with a larger brain case than our modern noggins, I've been wondering about that person and the people who surrounded him (I think it was a male).

So far as I remember, sloppy blogger that I am, the entire human race had a common female ancestor who lived about 135,000 years ago. This means that if any DNA from that larger-brained sapiens is in us at all, it's not a thimble-full.

So what do you think these larger-brained people were like, 400,000 years ago? Take away all our stuff, all our techno, and they were probably smarter than we are. Maybe they had enhanced psychic powers.

Maybe they were so intelligent that they were free of hate -- and thus fair game for haters.

Because it does seem to me that much of the goodness we do as a species is counterbalanced by hate, hate, hate. If you have one person, he or she will sit down and write a rant. If you have two people, they will either argue, or they'll agree that the other guy is wrong. If you have three people, at least one of them will be hated by the other two.

Figure this one out. Among the students of my school who are Hispanic, there's a degree of animosity between the Dominicans and the Puerto Ricans. You cannot convince these kids that Dominica and Puerto Rico are two islands, very similar, in a similar part of the world, and after all, the kids themselves all now live in America. Why can't they get along?

In the area where I grew up, Appalachia, there were gangs that fought one another. Go and figure that one out. We all lived in the mountains, but it mattered which mountain and which high school you attended.

So if you take this tendency to hate, and you lard onto it genuine differences in opinion, then your species just will never get along like a happy herd of wildebeests. Even if your species is supposed to be so much more intelligent than wildebeests.

Then we take this tendency to hate, and we lard onto it popular leaders who stoke the hatred with their rhetorical fire, and just look at us now! Makes you long for the Maya to be right about 2012. Turn the planet back over to the ants! They've got it going on.

What do you think? Were those long-ago humans superior to us? Could they have lived in a society free of hate? Are we actually devolving?

Personally I weigh in as at least wishing we knew more about the Big Brains. And less about haters.

Fridays With ...

We all make promises to our dying parents that just don't get carried out. Heck, I promised my dad that he would have a funeral that reflected his ambivalence about the Christian faith. Instead he got an old-fashioned tent revival that would have put William Jennings Bryan in a blissful mood.

Although I love Keith Olbermann, I can't quite get over his decision to sit in an armchair every Friday night and read aloud from James Thurber for upwards of ten minutes. Therefore, in the honor of blossoming egos everywhere, we at "The Gods Are Bored" are inaugurating a new series. We call it "Fridays With ..."

Off we go!

Mosques of the Illuminati

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," doling out obscure wordplay since 2005! If you get this title, you can't help yourself. You are Discordian!

Before today's sermon gets under way, I want to direct your attention to an interesting new blog called You, Me & Religion. This is an ongoing interview site in which people of various faith paths answer the same series of questions, from the point of view of their religions. It's the kind of broad spectrum forum that we of "The Gods Are Bored" find fascinating. The administrator only posts once a week, so it's an easy follow.

And now, on to today's sermon: The mosque at Ground Zero.

Yawn, yawn, yawn! Hasn't enough been said about this, and loudly, and with liberty and justice for all? Rants from the Right about a religion so evil that it celebrates the killing of 3,000 people and now wants to rub (Christian) America's nose in the destruction! Rants from the Left (yeah, Keith, that would be you) about our Founding Fathers weeping in their graves because those opposing a mosque near Ground Zero are trampling on the sacred Constitution... Rants, rants, rants!

It's time for some calm.

America (and here I include Islamic America), make yourself a cup of chamomile tea. Ground. Center. Breathe.

Now, let's be sensible.

If it is indeed true that Islam is just another religion with no motive beyond the worship of Allah (busy god, that Allah), then it would be good form for the people wishing to worship close to Ground Zero to heed the pulse of the nation and relocate. Polls indicate that the majority of Americans (myself included) think that this chosen site near Ground Zero is not the best for an Islamic community center. You will convince me otherwise if this center will be serving a resident Islamic community in that neighborhood. If there aren't Muslim kids playing stickball in the street around where that center would go, I say ... relocate.

However, having said that, I find it disgraceful that so many Americans would lump every follower of Allah into the same tarball as the jihadists who bombed the Trade Center. Are you serious, America? If Muslims were that dangerous, who would dare go to the shopping mall?

I guess some Muslims would want to tell me that building a community center near Ground Zero would be their way of memorializing the Muslims who were killed on 9/11. Point taken, but can I politely tell you to seek another means to that end? Now I will tell you why.

There's been so much publicity about this building, and so much hate and vitriol aimed at it, that I would be very surprised if the place got built and used without any social friction. This is my polite way of saying, "If you build it, they will bomb." And by they, I don't mean the grieving 9/11 families. I mean the nut cases out there who really believe every Muslim wants to bash buildings and brag about it.

The Muslim people who want to use that building will not be safe. It's as simple as that. Some maniac, inspired more by the Second Amendment than the First, will do a vigilante thing.

So, what exactly is the point of proceeding with this community center at this location, at this time? Reader, you know how I feel about the First Amendment. I'm not arguing their right to open a Mosque near Ground Zero. I'm arguing their reason for doing it. Did Allah tell them they had to buy that building?

So I guess if I was on a show called Countdown with Anne Johnson, I wouldn't spend 11 minutes railing about freedom of religion. I'd spend two minutes counseling a little common sense. Then I would have nine minutes in which to show you how to remove that pesky chocolate smear from your favorite recliner. There's high-minded principle, and there's everyday reality. And in everyday reality, if you're gonna build a place of worship that will serve your people safely, you heed the social tenor before breaking ground.

As our ushers pass the plate, it's time to remind you that Druids don't build any kind of structures for their worship. We're not smarter or better than Muslims. But in today's America I think we run less risk of drawing nutcase ire ... and hence, nutcase fire.

Good night and good luck.

Always Loved Badges

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," polytheism for your soul and polyester for your sofa since 2005! We're dedicated to the notion that One is the loneliest number and that newer ain't always better. In fact, let's just trash that whole idea of "better." Two-thirds of what's wrong with this world is that people think their religion is better than the other guy's. How about this? The other guy's religion is different, not better. Vive la difference!

When I was a Girl Scout, I was in this gung-ho troop run by some Alpha Mom who never thought small. In those days we wore sashes, and we earned cloth badges that we would sew on our sashes. It was a point of pride to earn so many badges that you had to sew some of them onto the rear of the sash because they wouldn't all fit on the front. This Alpha Mom pushed us relentlessly, and we earned badges by the barge-load.

Would you believe I still have that sash? My daughter The Heir used it last year on Halloween. Don't ask for details.

I'm really hazy on how I earned all those badges, especially ones for art (can't draw) and international relations (never have been outside the USA). Probably about the only two I really deserved were the reading badge and the camping badge. Honestly, where I grew up, if you walked out on your porch you were practically camping, and since there's not much to do while camping, you read a lot.

All of this by way of saying that I got an email telling me I'd won this award for Best Pagan Blog, 2010. Okay, that's like a Girl Scout badge. I don't know what I did to earn it, I don't know how they found me, I don't know what it was they liked about me ... I don't even know who they are. Maybe it's that Alpha Mom Girl Scout troop leader again! Still out there hunting down badges for her babies. Thanks, Mom!

Anyway, the pretty trophy matches my blog color, and as my three regulars know, I'm very choosy about color schemes on my upholstered furnishings. So what the heck. This badge goes nicely with the background, and I'm told it's stain-resistant (two words I look for in anything I use).

The honor of a pretty new badge brings with it a short mission statement for "The Gods Are Bored," based on the ever-so-slight possibility that someone has wandered in without seeing the trailer.

Here at "The Gods Are Bored" we honor the ability of humans to perceive and connect with Higher Powers. We do not discriminate between the Higher Powers being praised and worshiped today and the Higher Powers that have been lost to the mists of time. Any and all deities are divine, whether they were painted on rock cliffs with ocher 30,000 years ago or pressed onto a t-shirt yesterday. In fact, we here at "The Gods Are Bored" make it a point to seek out the Ancient Ones and give Them a nod, because who is you to say They ain't holy?

Our other mission (please pass the plate) is to enliven this crazy world with a little bit of humor. The first medicine the gods gave us was shrooms .... emmmm .... yeah, well, the second medicine They gave us was laughter! And now there's a law against shrooms, but you can chortle, guffaw, snicker, roar and LOL to your heart's content. We're here to help with that.

Now that "The Gods Are Bored" has won a badge, we ought to have a pledge. The two are inextricably linked in my mind somehow. So here goes:

Place your pointer and middle finger in the air, wide apart. Smile.

"On my honor, I will try, to do my duty, to the bored gods and their countries, to help other people at all times, and to obey ........"

Obey. What should I obey? Stuck here. Let me think......

Got it!

"... and to obey the rules of the road."

We at "The Gods Are Bored" appreciate the award. Our operators are standing by to take your call.

My bloated wage as a government employee

Welcome to "The Gods Are Laughing Their Butts Off!" Hey, we give them plenty of entertainment, don't we? If they don't laugh, they're taking afterlife way too seriously.

I didn't know that President Obama dedicated federal government money and part of the Recovery and Reinvestment Act to re-hiring laid-off public school teachers. But boy-oh-boy was there a rant against this decision in today's Philadelphia Inquirer.

In a shameless waste of ink and newsprint called "Bureaucracy gets a bailout," Jim Powell (senior fellow at the Cato Institute) writes:

"In voting to spend $10 billion to save schoolteachers' jobs last week, Congress bailed out government employees who have fatter paychecks and pensions than those doing the same kind of work in the private sector."


Guilty as charged, Jim ol' boy! I'm a public school teacher, and my bloated salary of $46 and change is higher than those in the regional parochial schools. Some of our local Catholic schools pay as little as $36,000.

So why should I get a better salary than a private school teacher? Okay, fathead Jim Powell, you tell me.

It's not only parents and students who opt out of public education. It's teachers. I went to night school. I know. When Mr. Bigwand wasn't blabbing, I heard the Catholic school teachers bragging about the "better quality" of their students and the "fabulous" parent involvement in their schools. I also heard them complaining bitterly about their salaries and even more bitterly about having to seek state certification for their continued employment at their Catholic schools.

Well, maybe the state of New Jersey could give Catholic school teachers a break on that certification. This does seem unfair to me. However, their lower salaries do not. Private schools can pick and choose their clientele. Public schools can't. We public school teachers fling wide our doors for every child.

Does this sound like the evil doings of a bloated bureaucracy to you? Does this sound like a terrible inequity for the "private sector" in my "industry?"

Jim Powell, please floss before you bite me. I am a public employee. I'm working with kids who have nothing, trying to give them skills so that they can get something. Be something. Take a shot at the American dream. You know the dream I'm talking about, right Jim? It's the one that's easier to reach if you go to a private school.

God forbid we pay public school teachers more than parochial ones! And I really mean God in this case, because it's God who's running those Catholic schools, where they work religion into the curriculum and put crucifixes with poor Jesus above every blackboard.

I make no apologies for my "bloated" government salary and my pension (which will be pennies, since I just started teaching last year and I'm already 50). For my wage, I teach kids who can't afford private school, I teach hard, I care if they learn, I put in long hours, and I love my students one and all. AND ... and here's the biggie, Jim Boy, the BIGG-GIE. I do not teach religion, espouse religion, encourage or discourage religion, or express my personal views on spiritual matters. Right there's where I deserve the higher wages and better pension. I teach English and keep my mouth shut about both Jesus and the Salmon of Wisdom.

I believe that public schools are America's crowning achievement, and I am proud to be employed by one of them. Jim Powell, when you begin collecting Social Security checks, the money to pay for them will be coming from the paychecks of people educated in public schools. Again, I will ask you politely to floss before you bite me. I don't know where your teeth have been.

Fightin' Fire with Fire

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on a rainy afternoon! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. Today we're gonna talk about flag-burning, specifically the Confederate battle flag better known as the "Stars and Bars."

Depending upon where you went to school, you learned this about the Civil War:

1. It was a war aiming to keep the United States together rather than allowing it to break into two nations. The issue that caused the division was human slavery and a state's right to decide whether or not to allow said slavery. When the North perceived it was winning the war, President Lincoln freed the slaves. The North won the war, and the United States remained united, thus beginning an international superpower state that today is one of the dominant nations in the world.

2. It was a war of aggression foisted upon a peace-loving group of states whose economy was influenced by the gentle use of agreeable domestic servants. Though a vast majority of its soldiers fought not because of slavery but because of states' rights, the cause was in vain. This brave attempt to create a nation was brutally crushed, in some cases by slash-and-burn methods. Nevertheless, almost a century and a half since the end of the conflict, a nationalist pride still burns in the breasts of the people so brutally treated, especially but not exclusively those who can trace ancestry to soldiers who participated in the failed attempt at nationhood.

I'm gonna let you figure out which history lesson you're likely to get in New Jersey, and which you'll get in Mississippi.

However you feel about the good ol' Confederate States of America, you can't deny that its battle flag (which was never the national flag) still has a mighty potency as a symbol. Many of the people who wear it, fly it, display it, or revere it, are racists. A few are nationalists who've never accepted Lee's surrender. There's also another core group of people who use this flag as a symbol not because they're racist, or want the South to rise again, but just to look like badass rebels.

You'll see the Stars and Bars all over the place in West Virginia,  even though that state exists because the people living there in 1860 did not want to secede. Just recently, I saw a teenager in the Eastern Panhandle with the Stars and Bars on the back of his t-shirt. The caption read: "This shouldn't piss you off, but if it does, oh well." The kid knows he's gonna piss people off by wearing that shirt ... and most of the people he'll piss off aren't black people, because there aren't very many black people in that area. This kid is probably racist, but more probably he's rebellious. If he can fight you one-on-one and win, what does it matter why he's fighting? He's a big badass, a tough guy, someone who ought to get laid by pretty girls.

I'm a big fan of Jesus' General, one of the blogosphere's premiere commanders in the War on Morons. JG has begun a Facebook group called "Burn the Confederate Flag Day" and has named September 12, 2010 for the first conflagration. Why 9/12? Because it's a big Tea Party rally day. What better way to expose the racism in the Tea Party than to set the Stars and Bars ablaze at counter protests?

I joined the "Burn the Confederate Flag Day" not because I intend to burn a Confederate flag. (I'll get to that in a minute.) Principally I just want to see the level of vitriol that Jesus' General is going to incur by suggesting such an affront. So far the spectacle has been interesting, to say the least -- and the concept hasn't gone viral yet.

Yes, I am a little afraid that "belonging" to such a group will get me hacked. But I love a good debate.

Here's why I'm occasionally in favor of burning Old Glory but not in favor of burning the Stars and Bars.

Burning Old Glory generally happens when a portion of the populace is disgruntled by the decisions being made by the national government. It is therefore a protest against a national policy.

Burning the Stars and Bars is different. It sends a message of contempt to a certain segment of the population, not to the government. And whenever you heap contempt on certain segments of the population, you reflect badly in the glare of the fire.

And yet the glorious Jesus' General has had to take this step because no one with a reasonable agenda has risen to oppose the Tea Party. Where are the organizers of "Wear a Red Cross If You're Uninsured Day?" How about a nostalgic, "Make Love Not War" protest (considering that the Tea Party's aim is to cut government spending, but they don't ever say a word about the defense budget)? As a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, I would personally be thrilled with a "Go Back Home If Your Ancestors Weren't Here in 1776" Day. Quick! Someone tell me how that would affect the population of the USA? If you said there would be a much higher percentage of African Americans, BING! You're right.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" heartily endorse counter-protests on Tea Party Day. It's just the whole Stars and Bars flag-burning thing we don't like. They lost the war like egg-sucking dogs, and they're still waving that flag. Isn't that pathetic enough? They used it to frighten black people, and now our president is black. Isn't that statement enough about the power of that loser flag? Gosh, if you burn it, how will we know which ones are the moron rebel racists?

My solution for Jesus' General? Let's collect the Social Security and Medicare cards of the Tea Partiers and burn those instead! Assuming, of course, that the Tea Partiers aren't going to resort to such effective statements themselves.

Isaac Bonewits

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we've swapped the great I Am for the great We Are! There's a long line of deities who would love to have your attention -- why direct it to One who is chock a block with followers? Explore, explore!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" add our sorrow to the many who are marking the passing of Isaac Bonewits to the Summerlands. What a wise and interesting man! Isaac was possibly the most visible Druid in America, author of many works on magick and theology, founder and leader of the ... oh gosh, we declared war on acronyms here ... Ar nDraiocht Fein (accents missing), translating to A Druid Fellowship. It's hard to pin numbers on Druid activity in America, but Ar nDraiocht Fein is probably either the largest or second largest group in the United States.

Several years ago, Spare and I went to an Ar nDraiocht Fein gathering in the Jersey Pine Barrens at which Isaac spoke at length about the founding of ADF (okay, I give up) and its organizational goals. He said two things that day that sat in my mind: First, that Druid leaders should be as scrupulous about their theological educations as pastors of other faiths; and second, that doing praise and worship out of doors eliminates not only the costly church buildings that become drains on personal and outreach income, but also "boxes" that shut humanity off from the fabulous world in all its majesty.

We did a Ritual that day in the Pinelands, but Isaac did not preside, nor did Skip Ellison, who was the Archdruid at that time. One of the principal glories of Druidism is that no one in particular "presides." We stand in a circle, the tall and the small. I like that.

From personal experience and from everything I've ever read by and about Isaac, I can only conclude that he was a first-rate champion of the bored gods whose life was dedicated to Them. May Queen Brighid the Bright guide him to the gates of Avalon!

Postscript: Isaac was a freelance writer and speaker whose costly medical treatments were not covered by insurance. If you would like to donate to his memorial, you can go to http://www.neopagan.net and put a little jingle toward his expenses. If everyone who reads "The Gods Are Bored" would do that, Isaac's family might be able to buy a few bottles of mead with which to toast his memory.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

I'll bet I'm not the only school teacher who tries to catch up on doctors' appointments in the summertime. But I went to one appointment, and it led to tests, and now I need blood work and more tests, and in the meantime I scheduled other routine maintenance, plus I have teacher workshops all week. Any deity who's bored will need to lob some meteors or something, because things aren't looking good here for our daily little chit-chats.

My three readers know I stink at doing links (but take a snobby pride in it). So here's the URL for a cool site that reports "pings" every time there's a meteor passing over an observation site in Texas.

http://topaz.streamguys.tv/~spaceweather/index.html

 Considering that this is the Perseids week, you might like the cool white noise, with an occasional "whoosh" of fireball. The Perseids will reach their peak in the wee hours of Friday morning, but any night this week, especially after midnight, you could spot Perseus streaking across the sky.

Perseus has stopped by here a few times -- never for a very long stay. He declares that he's never bored, because in August everyone starts looking for him.

I expect "The Gods Are Bored" will be back in business by Thursday. In the meantime, here's a philosophical question. Would you attend a rally at which someone burned the Confederate battle flag, otherwise known as the "Stars and Bars?" Would you be willing to burn a "Stars and Bars" yourself? If so, why? If not, why not?

(Damn, that does sound like a school teacher, doesn't it?)

The Rules of First Lady Leadership

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," pledging allegiance to the flag since 1964 without really knowing why. Seems so medieval to me somehow, pledging to a banner. Like you'd expect Richard the Lionheart to ride off with it affixed to his lance or something.

Ever since there's been a President of the United States, there has also been a First Lady, or at least some female who served tea in the White House. My first memory of a First Lady was Mrs. John F. Kennedy. I loathed the woman because she dressed her daughter Caroline so well. You see, Caroline and I are the same age, and my mother always used to say, "Caroline Kennedy doesn't complain about crinoline slips or Mary Janes." Then Mom would point to the t.v. -- at a very well-dressed and perfect Caroline -- and I would just seethe.

Of all the First Ladies I can remember, the ones I liked best were Hillary Clinton (because I felt like I was getting twice the bang for my taxpayer buck with her in the White House) and (now it's your turn to seethe) Nancy Reagan.

Just because Hillary's been acting like a queen for the past two weeks or so doesn't make her permanently queenly. She's a hard-working, serious person who helped her horny husband run the USA for eight years.

Nancy Reagan was more of a "traditional" First Lady. She had her soft little "Just Say No" agenda, but mostly all she did was stand beside Ronnie and beam. Did you find it embarrassing that she consulted astrologers about Ronnie's schedule? I didn't. Say what you will about Nancy ... go ahead, I mean it ... but she loved Ronald Reagan. How that is possible is not for me to judge, but she did it and did it well.

In today's New York Times, Maureen Dowd (a progressive columnist) took aim at our current First Lady. While her husband celebrated his 49th birthday in Chicago, Michelle jetted off to Spain, where she has been living large with her daughters in tow. The Spanish government closed a public beach so that she could bathe serenely with her kids and her friends. While her husband turned 49 half a world away.

According to Ms. Dowd, this is just a recent chapter. Quote Dowd: "When health care passed after a difficult year and the president celebrated with his staff on the Truman Balcony, the first lady was with her daughters on Broadway to see 'Memphis.'" On the night when her spouse faced the nation to talk about the Gulf oil spill from the Oval Office, Michelle was at a Lakers game in L.A. (and staying at the Beverly Wilshire).

Here's the message we at "The Gods Are Bored" are drawing from the behavior of our current First Lady:

1. She doesn't love her husband enough to celebrate his birthday with him. Okay, maybe President Obama is a very secure man, but my husband would FREAK if I went to Spain with Heir and Spare on his birthday. Even if this trip is all hunky-dory between the two, it can be inferred that there may be a lack of conjugal bliss.

2. I do not like acronyms, so. What the fuck? Lakers games, Broadway ... while the husband is dealing with difficult national issues? Do you really think Hillary would have let Bill take all the credit for that mostly meaningless health care reform without standing at his side to celebrate?

Okay, okay. It's easy for me to sit here and say what I, Anne Johnson, would do if I suddenly woke up and found myself to be First Lady. But I mean this, because I've lived it. When my husband works hard, I try to help him as much as I can. When he celebrates (he gets a lot of awards), I usually go along. And for the love of every fruit fly buzzing around every peach in every orchard in America even as I write this, I would not leave my husband on his birthday to jet about Spain with my daughters and my chums!

Michelle, I hate to say this, but if you can't rest as high in my regard as Nancy Reagan -- and I'm as blue as Lake Michigan in the sunshine -- whatever are the right-wingers saying about you? Stop playing like a First Lady and work like one. What Would Eleanor of Aquitaine Do?

Understanding the Ancient Goddess

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you were with us yesterday, you'll recall that an extremely ancient (and therefore presumably bored) Goddess has dropped by for a visit. This Goddess is from so far back in the mists of time that nothing remains of her praise and worship team except one 400,000-year-old Homo sapiens skull found by fossil collectors in Africa. She brings a whole new meaning to "older than dirt," because she is literally older than the dirt as deep as you can dig.

There's an incredible cultural divide between me and this Goddess. She keeps looking at me like I'm a moron. Which, as you know, it's usually me looking at other people as if they're morons. I'm tempted to turn on Fox News and point to it, in hopes She'll find a bigger moron than me to scowl at.  But I don't think that would work. She seems to regard the lot of us as lesser mortals.

There could be something to this. The African Homo sapiens skull from so long ago actually had a bigger brain than the brains we have now. We have devolved.

(Before I proceed, please understand that this Goddess, like so many who come here to "The Gods Are Bored" for interviews, is part of a distinct pantheon, attached to a culture and an era. She's not a universal Goddess, nor has she indicated that she was ever as busy as Yahweh is today.)

The most recent science traces the whole human race back to a single female ancestor who lived 140,000 years ago. This Goddess, so far as I can tell, came from a different, and far more ancient, gene pool.

Let me tell ya, this snobby Goddess is making me think that the best of Homo sapiens is dead and gone.

She has sneered at my house and everything in it. Not surprisingly, she aimed an absolutely withering glare at the television while The Spare was watching iCarly. Her deepest disdain, however, seems to focus on our domestic pets. She hissed at Alpha. Which was enough for me, because no one hisses at my Alpha!

That hiss was the only sound she has made. Considering that my ears ring every time I get close to her, I'm going to postulate that her praise and worship team communicated by reading each other's minds. Whoa, trippy, I know. But I'm not going to argue that evolution always moves in a progressive fashion. They say there's Tyrannosaurus rex DNA in canaries. If you were to put the two creatures on a timeline, which one would you say was oldest?

Well, excuuuuuse me if I happen to be inferior to some bunch of big-brained lugs way, way, way back in the day! I have to work with what I have at my disposal! Tonight I'll put my fiber-optic light-up lawn gnome on the Shrine of the Mists and set it on High Glow. Hopefully that will send Goddess Superior packing. If She's that superior, she must lack the capacity for boredom anyway.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean the coop in which I keep the foster kittens, then clean Alpha and Beta's cat box, then go to the store for cat food, and then fix dinner. I won't have a moment to think!

The Difficulties of Communication with an Extremely Ancient Goddess

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," for god's sake! Great to have you on board.

Yesterday I came home from a long teacher conference. I sat out on the back porch for awhile, and then I noticed the hammock. It's hard not to notice the hammock in my back yard, since the hammock nearly fills the whole doggone yard.

It occurred to me that I'd never taken a nap on the hammock, ever. So I laid down in it. My cat Beta promptly joined me.

EXHIBIT A: BETA

I didn't fall asleep. Instead, after a few minutes, I heard a small, sweet cough, like someone clearing her throat. Beta hit the ground running. Isn't it funny how cats can sense the supernatural better than people?

I looked, and in the yard sat a bored Goddess. I quickly assembled the Deity Translator software and asked Her if She wanted to do an interview.

Turns out this Goddess was so ancient that Her language caused the Deity Translator to crash. We were thrown back on the oldest form of communication ... gesture.

Somehow this irritated the Goddess. She seemed to be frustrated by our inability to communicate. Finally I got the idea that she was trying to speak with me psychically, but all I got in my head was a buzz that sounded like those annoying horns they used at the World Cup.

(Just FYI, it's impossible draw any conclusions about bored deities from their clothing. They all dress really nice.)

Whenever I'm at a loss for how to entertain a bored deity, I always propose a home tour. Chateau Johnson isn't fabulous in any way, but ancient deities are almost always interested in all the gadgets. I've had a few that just couldn't get over stretchy material. Once a bored god shut Himself in the freezer ... just to see what it was like.

This Goddess was totally different. She wasn't at all interested in any of the technology, the art work, my fabulous upholstery (this is usually a winner), the kitchen appliances, peanut butter, chocolate. No, not even pie. The one thing that she found fascinating was the cats. Currently we have five -- three foster kittens and the permanent residents, Alpha and Beta. The Goddess was not terribly surprised that I could hold the kittens, but when Alpha came purring up asking for supper ... that was a shock. When I picked Alpha up, and Alpha nuzzled me and purred, the Goddess was nearly overwhelmed. The Goddess acted like she'd never seen a domestic cat before.

Okay, I thought. This deity has really traveled through the mists of time to be here. Wow! My shrine works!

Sadly, the Goddess and I quickly came to a stalemate after that. Nothing but the cats brought any shock and awe. Trust me, I've had bored deities who played with my easy-clean windows all afternoon! This one didn't even reach out to touch the glass. She seemed, well, disappointed.

Last month I read in National Geographic that scientists in Africa had found a Homo sapiens skull that was 400,000 years old. The remarkable thing about the skull was that its brain case was larger than our own. I began to wonder if this Goddess could possibly have been praised and worshiped by those big-brained Homo sapiens from the super-distant past.

I still had the magazine. I showed her the picture of the fossil. It rang a bell, I could see it in her expression. So she has to be the most ancient Goddess ever to visit "The Gods Are Bored."

She is still here, sitting in the ivy next to the shrine. I'm wishing I could be more psychic, because the Deity Translator software has never let me down before. (Oh well, I can't say never, but always in the past it's been user error, not a fault of the software.) Anyway, I really want to learn something from this exceptionally ancient deity. And where there's a will, there's a way.

Hubris

The surest way to screw something up is to brag about what a good job you've done on it. Wouldn't you agree? Is this Karma or hubris? I'm too tired to look it up.

Chelsea and Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today some stranger sent me an email that said, "You are a nut case." Well, I must admit this never would have occurred to me. Everyone else is a nut case. I'm the sane one. I think.

With a Lughnasadh observance and a little prayer to Faerie Aine in between, I will now continue to explore the pitfalls of lavish and expensive weddings. Frankly I'm superstitious about them. I've seen many that have crashed and burnt, a few more where that day was the highlight of a long and soggy marriage, and a few that have gone awry due to participant intake of alcoholic concoctions.

It's not fair to disrespect big weddings in a vacuum, though. What if I, Anne Johnson, had a largish, expensive, scrupulously-planned nuptial? Then I would be a hypocrite.

I'm not a hypocrite. Let me, in a nutshell, describe the Johnson marriage ceremony.

Mr. Johnson and I had been living together, on and off, for about four years before we tied the knot. I therefore felt it bad form to plan and execute a lavish wedding. I know, I know. How 20th century of me! Besides, my dad was a school teacher in Appalachia, earning something like $35,000 a year at the time. I had paid my way through college, and I wanted to keep the independent streak going.

Quick Facts about Anne's Wedding

1. Contacted minister on Tuesday, scheduled wedding for Thursday ... but only after minister cleared it with Anne's notoriously temperamental mom.

2. Went through wardrobe, found white skirt and top. No white shoes. Wore brown ones.

3. Applied for marriage license in home town. Picked it up the next day. Ordered a corsage from a local flower shop.

4. Loaned my sister a dress that sort of matched mine.

5. Made a luncheon reservation at hometown's upscale-but-not-at-the-top eatery.

6. A few phone calls, inviting family and arranging carpools.

The Ceremony

1. Held in small chapel of one of the smallest country churches in the county. No video. No professional photos. No music. No sermon. No scripture. No fancy personalized vows. No tears.

2. Fourteen guests, plus pastor makes 15 in attendance.

The Reception

1. Fourteen hosted for lunch at the eatery. No booze. (I let Dad foot the bill for this. It was less than $150 with tip. He was pleased.)

2. About 60 hosted at the home of Mr. Johnson's mother a few days later. She made all the food. We reimbursed her for costs, using money our family members had given us in congratulations cards.


You would think, wouldn't you, that many a trailer park gunshot wedding has more flair than this. True, very true. But this little teeny tiny wedding has stuck for a quarter century.

I'm superstitious about big weddings. If you had one, and it was fun and the beginning of a great life filled with love and happiness, please challenge my superstition. But do me one favor. Wait a few years, until my daughters are married, before you sing the praises of a high-ticket nuptial!

Lughnasadh 2010

Lady Aine of the waters,
My first harvest is brought to the table.
But I have so many more crops to tend,
So many people whose needs are more important than mine.
Queen of Faerie,
Make me laugh.
Be with me now.
Guide me across when my work is done.

Wretched Excess

Maybe you won't agree with what I'm about to say, but I think the way people get married (or handfasted) says a great deal about their values.

You'll hear some women say, "This is my day, and I want it to be like a fairy tale -- perfect from start to finish." Yes, honey. Any one day can be like that. Now go live the rest of your life, wondering if you spent too much time planning a wedding and not enough time getting to know your groom.

You'll see men, bleary-eyed and wasted from bachelor parties featuring strippers and excessive drinking. If I'm a self-respecting woman, do I want to tie myself to someone who does this kind of thing?

But the worst offenders, in my eyes, are the people who turn weddings into playbooks for wretched excess. If you've got it, flaunt it. Right?

I'll bet you can guess where I'm going with this.

There's little clear fact clinging to Chelsea Clinton's nuptials. An anonymous spokesman for the family said the wedding cost "in the six figures." But other estimates, based on the people the Clintons have hired for planning, the venue, the designer creating the dress, the catering, etc., have placed the price tag at $3 million.

Either way, six figures or seven, this is the height of hypocrisy. It is vindicating my choice of Obama in the primary race (although we have yet to see how being president will mold Obama and his family).

You cannot run for president among blue collar workers, touting your own blue collar background, and then turn around and approve a million-dollar wedding at the summer playground of John Jacob Astor. This wretched excess sends a clear message to the American people that, while the price tag is chump change to you, at least you have the change. The people who voted for you don't.

I personally got up in the wee hours to watch Princess Diana's lavish wedding ... and enjoyed every minute of the ceremony. What's the difference between Diana and Chelsea Clinton? Diana was about to be a princess. With no genuine ties to the governance of England. This nation, although founded by wealthy white men, at least should give lip service to the "created equal" philosophy. If Chelsea Clinton has two sons who are not called "The Heir" and "The Spare" by the press, why should she cavort like a princess? Isn't she a ... democrat?

This is only my opinion, but the daughter of our Secretary of State should not be getting married in the style of royalty, surrounded by doting television celebrities and movie directors. It's bad form. It sends a message about our collective national values.

Last night I was reading in bed. I came upon the following paragraph, describing a diplomatic mission Benjamin Franklin undertook in March of 1776 to try to win Canadian support for American independence. Franklin was 70. It was March. The destination was Montreal.

"They rowed in a small boat up the Hudson, had to fight their way through ice on Lake George, landing frequently on shore to light fires and drink tea. They slept in the forest at night, two in the woods, Franklin on the boat. They had forgotten to bring camp cots with them. To get to Lake Champlain, they had to go through the woods by portage. It was agony for the gout-ridden septuagenarian. They had set out in March and arrived in Montreal at the end of April."

-- Triumph in Paris: The Exploits of Benjamin Franklin, by David Schoenbrun.


Later in that same year, 1776, Franklin sailed for Paris. That Atlantic sea voyage -- into the teeth of November gales -- almost killed him.

Franklin wouldn't have turned down an invitation to Chelsea Clinton's wedding. He liked his creature comforts. But would there be anyone at the wedding with whom he cared to converse? Any scientists, any economists, any philosophers? Oh well, I would imagine Bill Gates and Warren Buffet are both going to be there. So maybe our founding father would have amiable companions, even though he might find himself seated next to Barbra Streisand for the wedding toast.

My point is that Benjamin Franklin struggled for this country, putting his body and fortune equally at the mercy of a long-odds cause. Would our Clinton family do this? Or are they rather behaving like the final residents of Versailles, oblivious in a protective cocoon of privilege?

Bad form. A shameless spectacle behind closed doors. Where cake will be served.

Greetings from Asbury Park

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," New Jersey at its finest since 2005! Baby, we were born to run!

Two months ago, my daughter The Heir turned 21. Her request for a birthday gift was simple enough. She wanted to go spend the day in Asbury Park, NJ.

The Heir does not particularly like Bruce Springsteen. She simply had seen some pictures of Asbury Park portraying it as a Jersey Shore destination that is down on its luck. Anything crumbling, deserted, rotting, or just plain weird is candy to The Heir. She adores New Jersey because it's chockablock with crumbling, deserted, rotting, and extremely weird locations.

I'm actually very partial to The Boss and his music, although not to the extent that I've ever tried to get a ticket to one of his concerts. Nevertheless, I thought it would be splendid to biff off to Asbury Park for a day amidst the crumbling ruins.

Little did I know how easy it is to get to Asbury Park from Chateau Johnson. You'll think I'm kidding, but literally, you turn out of our street, turn right at the second stop light, and go straight. Absolutely straight. Not a single turn. When you come to the beach, you're in Asbury Park.

Some people like their shore destinations to be bustling with tourists and shops and candy stores and amusement parks. I began to like Asbury Park the minute I saw the shoreline. First thing, it was ridiculously simple to find a parking space. No driving around for hours or trying to shove the economy car into a spot big enough for a bicycle.

I pulled into the parking space. I said to The Heir, "I wonder how far we are from the Stone Pony. I would like to see it before we go home."

The Stone Pony was across the street from the parking space. Literally.

Heir was correct that Asbury Park features some crumbling structures, but it also has some charming architecture from the early part of the previous century. Another feature I loved about the place was the proximity of the surf to the boardwalk (always good except for during Nor'Easters) and the affordable beach tag price. The boardwalk wasn't crowded, nor was the beach -- but there were people, and shops, and pubs.

Best of all, Heir and I found a charming pinball parlor where you paid by the hour and not by the game. It was all pinball -- none of those hideous modern killer games that give off such bad vibes. Each vintage pinball machine had a little poster on top of it with the history of that model, the year it was designed, the artist, and how many units were made. There was a hotdog stand with old 1960s-era tables. And the place just radiated happiness and good energy. Heir and I both love pinball, so we could easily have stayed longer than the hour we bought.

The weatherman had predicted thunderstorms, and as we sat on the beach I was able to teach Heir how to see rain on the horizon and how to judge how long until a thunderstorm hit. She was baffled that I made her run to the indoor pier, but just as I warned, the hard rain began practically the moment we got a roof over our heads.

On the way home, Heir and I stopped at an eatery called "The Circus Drive-In." From the street it looks like a round circus tent with clowns dancing on top. The sign outside consisted of a neon clown face. To Heir this was heaven. Okay, already, to each his own! The food was good, and cheap. Then we drove straight home -- I mean, straight home -- to Snobville.

Asbury Park proved to be the perfect place for Heir and me to sit and stare at the surf and talk about matters both large and small. Thanks to the unstable air mass, the day was breezy, cloudy and cool. Couldn't have asked for better beach weather or a more pleasant seaside beach, if you happen to be Anne Johnson.

When my life gets rough and I need to recall pleasant days and the glory of my daughter and her infamous, ongoing immersion in the weird, I will return to this post and think of the sea monsters carved on the ancient pier at Asbury Park. I'll think of the squat little bar that launched Bruce Springsteen into a deserved career. I'll think of a tattoo convention and of teenagers practicing their skateboard moves. I'll think of the lights and bells in the old pinball machines and the glowing neon clown sign. I'll show a little faith, there's magic in the night.

A Counter Spell That's Working

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," mixing magick, mayhem, and mirth since 2005! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, author of The Porpoise Driven Life. Everything you would want to know about my attempts to build a theme park for dolphins that would feature humans tap-dancing for cheeseburgers.

It only takes a handful of evildoers to stir up a very caustic black magick spell. That's exactly what Fred Phelps and his band of dirty demons of the Westboro Baptist Church are doing, even though he would argue vigorously to the contrary. It's certainly not novel to suggest that a deity is behind the death of soldiers, but the idea that the deity is letting the soldiers die because certain fellow citizens are homosexual ... Mmmm. Well, let's just say I'm glad it's the busy god who's taking the heat for these haters, and not some poor bored god already down on His or Her luck.

But we all know the Threefold Law, right? Fred Phelps, meet the counter spell of goodness that you have wrought!

It's probably been five or six years now since the Patriot Guard was formed, and a little less since the Warrior Watch started. These two groups are composed primarily of Vietnam vets, along with anyone else who likes to wave the American flag while driving a Harley. The Patriot Guard and the Warrior Watch both attend military funerals to keep a human barrier between grieving families and the Westboro demons. One look at these men and women is enough to know you wouldn't want to get on their bad side for any reason, let alone for disrespecting a fallen soldier.

Monday I saw these groups in action for the first time.

It's hard for me to imagine that Vietnam veterans are starting to die from the illnesses that take us in late middle age. One of my co-workers lost her husband to cancer. He was a Marine during the Vietnam War. The Patriot Guard/Warrior Watch showed up at his viewing, funeral, and burial.

I went to the viewing, but I was doggoned if I was going to sit through a funeral Mass. Thus I found myself outside the church, observing the Patriot Guard as they prepared to escort the deceased to his final resting place. It turned out I knew one of the guys. He's the yearbook photographer at my school. We started up a conversation while the tough-looking PC/WW dudes set up their honor guard.

I said, "What a world, that we've come to this. People can't even grieve their loved ones without protection from lunatics."

This is what the Patriot Guard member said in reply:

"You know what? It's actually a good thing. So many of these guys say it's healing for them to perform this service. They've bonded with each other, and they know they're doing a good thing. And it helps to blunt their own leftover pain."

And thus the vorpal blade goes snicker-snack ... and black magick begets healing! What an amazing counter spell! You don't have to be a Pagan to see the alchemy in this. Especially if you're the same age as me, and you can remember how those Vietnam vets were treated when they came back from that savage war.

Reader, you should have seen that funeral procession. It was headed by four dozen Patriot riders, all of them flying large American flags from their motorcycles. From the distance they looked like a mad dance of red and white ribbons atop a float of shiny chrome.

I'm not one to wave the American flag with mad passion, but for some people the act of doing it restores their souls. Forget the politics of the Vietnam War ... the guys doing the grunt work couldn't change it any more than the poor souls on patrol in Afghanistan. What's happening now is that former soldiers are protecting their own from haters. To me this is a righteous thing, a holy thing, a sowing of goodness to offset evil.

As I left the cemetery, some of the Patriot Guard were leaving as well. I saw one grizzled dude turn to another and say, "Well, see you next time."

So mote it be.

Free Advice on Thawing Frozen Turkey

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and our popular ongoing series of free advice! Visit often -- maybe someday you'll actually find something useful. Or not. No guarantees.

Today we're talking turkey, both the gobbler kind and the vulture kind. Sit back as our story unfolds.

Every year, our local Acme Market gives away frozen turkeys to any customer who spends $300 in a certain number of weeks. I'm not sure if it's six weeks or eight, but I shop there all the time, so I never fail to qualify for a frozen turkey. What I love about this giveaway is that I can get a turkey, keep it frozen, and heave it out when the weatherman predicts a blizzard. Call it my Appalachian DNA, but there's something soothing about knowing you've got a big-ass frozen turkey on hand as a contingency plan.

If you buy frozen turkeys, you know that the advice on how to thaw them is printed on the plastic wrap that coats their poor icy carcasses. "Do not thaw frozen turkey at room temperature. Thaw overnight in the refrigerator, or run cold water over turkey for two hours."

Ever tried either one of those tactics, reader? Ever wake up on Thanksgiving morning to a rock-solid frozen turkey that was supposed to be thawed after an overnight stay in the fridge? Have you ever wasted a reservoir of water trying to soften the thing up, only to wind up facing a hungry family with nothing more than cranberry sauce and sweet potato casserole?

Don't try this at home, but my mama (may she rest in peace among the Confederate dead) just sat the frozen turkey on the counter top to thaw. Then she cooked it, and we ate it, and none of us died from it or even got sick. As I say, though, don't take chances! Here's where the free advice comes in.

Thaw that bird at least five days in the fridge, and then don't be surprised if it's still rock-solid inside. Free advice, freely given, all hail free!

Now you're asking, "Anne, dear, why are you talking turkey in July? Wouldn't this be best left for early November?"

Yes, of course this would be best left until early November, but that would be logical. I hope you didn't come here for logic! If you did, you took a wrong turn somewhere.

I'm talking turkey now because last week along the mighty Chesapeake Bay I made my annual donation to the local vulture population. I shoved a big frozen turkey (sans plastic wrap) into a soybean field near our Bed and Breakfast inn.

(Last year's donation was a fresh roadkill possum, adult, that hadn't even drawn flies. But one cannot always be this lucky.)

Picture a 15-pound frozen turkey, lying in a soybean field under the bright sunshine, with the temperature hovering at 97 or higher. How long will it take to thaw?

By my unscientific calculations, any frozen carcass would thaw rapidly under such conditions. I figured two, maybe three hours. But judging by the behavior of the local vulture population, that frozen turkey took 24 hours to gain any notice at all, and another 8 hours before it got consumed. By contrast, I heaved last year's dead possum into the same field at about 8:00 in the morning and found nothing but a spine and a tail (and much vulture down) at 2:30 the same day.

Of course you could argue -- and I wouldn't dispute you -- that roadkill possum is a familiar dish to the Golden Purifiers, and Acme frozen turkey is exotic fare. Still, vultures aren't very picky about what they eat. Think about it: It took one whole day of 97 degrees sunshine, followed by a night where the temperature did not drop under 80, and then half of another 97-degree day, before the turkey vultures found their treat.

Keep this in mind the next time your local grocery store lets you walk out with a free frozen turkey. The thawing directions are bogus. Don't expect a quick turnaround time. Let the vultures of St. Michaels, MD be your guide, and plan accordingly.

Our ushers will now pass the plate. Dig deep.

(*snort* I hope this starts popping up in Google searches on this topic, but I doubt it will.)

Free Advice on Beach Reads from Anne

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have book, will travel! Today's topic is beach reads.

Most of us, when we go on vacation, like our surf-side literature to be as fluffy as the cotton candy on the boardwalk. This explains the perennial popularity of Nora Roberts. If her novels aren't the literary equivalent of cotton candy, I don't know what is.

Are you a huge fan of Nora Roberts, and thereby offended by what I just wrote? My friend, your difference of opinion doesn't change my respect for you one bit! Of all the pleasurable experiences out there, reading is the most self-directed. And thank goodness for that. Variety is the spice of life. We would have much less of it if reading was like golf, something you have to learn to do just like other people do it.

Last summer my sister gave me two "beach reads." I read and hated them both. One was the award-winning The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood. The book kept me turning pages, but in the end I just didn't like it. In return, I gave her one of my favorite beach reads, Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots, by Jim Paul. She's never mentioned it, so I'm guessing she tried it and didn't like it. Oh well. I just hope she gives it back.

This past week when we were at the beach (sort of, see below), my daughter The Heir said she didn't have anything to read. She and her dad went into Easton, and she returned with her brand-new beach read: Junky, by William S. Burroughs. She sat there engrossed in it for the duration of our vacation.

See what I mean? Who picks Junky for summer reading? The Heir! You go, Heir. Read all about it, just don't try it. That's the whole point of a beach read ... to let us live vicariously.

There are two universally adored summer reads that I have not been able to penetrate past page 100 ... and not for lack of trying. One is The Mists of Avalon. The other is Twilight. Length is not an issue. The Thorn Birds, weighing in at a whopping 689 pages, is a personal favorite. I just couldn't become engaged in Mists or Edward Cullen. But go figure -- I've read every page of every Harry Potter volume. Sometimes I like the popular stuff, sometimes I hate it.

Here's my free advice on beach reading, just in time for your getaway.

1. Know what you've liked in the past. Nowadays, with Amazon at your fingertips, it's easy as pie to find similar authors to those you already love.

2. Ask people who have your personality type. I discovered one of my favorite authors, Carl Hiaasen, by borrowing a book from a totally unscrupulous local doctor with a sick sense of humor. Judging by the recommender, I knew what I was getting when I opened my first Hiaasen. I've since read every one of Carl Hiaasen's novels. Beach reads par excellence, according to Anne.

3. Vacation is not the time to strengthen your intellectual muscles. There's nothing quite so dismal as being stranded in a hotel room on a rainy day with nothing but Gravity's Rainbow for company.

4. Don't be embarrassed if you hate to read! It's your vacation. You can spend it in the library playing Farmville. Be proud of your strawberries!

5. Beach reads don't have to be books. Gosh, Heir's August issue of Rolling Stone just arrived, and I could for sure go to the beach with that puppy. There's an article in it about the BP oil spill. And a profile of Leonardo DiCaprio. I can't believe Rolling Stone is still so trippy after all these years. Leo on one page, dead pelicans on the next. It's like Hunter Thompson never died.

6. This may be a personal prejudice, but beach reads ought to be easily replaced without a trip to the poorhouse. No Kindles, no signed first editions (fine, in fine dw), no ebooks on your latest Droid. The person who steals your beach read in this case might not actually be taking it for content.

7. Don't travel light! If you're a picky reader, take along three or four (or more) books. Sample each one and stick with the one you like the best. I wish I had taken this advice myself when I was at the beach last week. I had a perfectly delightful history of Benjamin Franklin's diplomatic mission to the court of Louis XVI, but I passed it over for a more conventional beach read that turned out to be disappointing.

8. While on vacation, do something! Hike, swim, tour, ride a roller coaster. Do stuff you can't do at home. If you're at the beach, reading is fine -- but you should also take your chances with the sharks and play in the arcades. Because if your idea of vacation is to curl up with a good book, you should just stay home. With all the money you save, you can buy more books!

As always, this advice is offered for free. Of course, if you would like to make a donation, the ushers will be circulating with the collection plate.

What's your favorite beach read? Mine, along with the aforementioned Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots, is Stormy Weather, by Carl Hiaasen.

Back from Bay, Found That Beach!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home safe and sound after another pleasant week alongside the mighty Chesapeake Bay! Yes, there's nothing quite like watching the sun set behind Kent Island amidst a balmy 97-degree evening. I am not saying it was hot there. It was hell there. When it's too hot to go kayaking, how much hotter can it get?

This is how hot it was. By Friday I was back in search of the elusive Claiborn Beach, bound and determined to find it. And I did! I credit a kindly local lady who told me how to get there -- exactly -- if I promised not to walk on her lawn. She did, I didn't, and -- voila! The public beach.

Claiborn Beach (deliberately misspelled) is a teeny tiny little spit of sand, liberally laden with oyster shells. The shells are hard to walk across in order to get into the water, but once you're in the drink, past the shoreline, you've got a sandy bottom. As in many parts of the Chesapeake, this shallow, sandy strand extends out into the water several hundred yards. You could literally wade two or three football fields in length out into the water before it got even up to your armpits.

You could, that is, except for that evil nemesis of the Chesapeake, the sea nettle.

Sea nettles are white, sheer jellyfish that range in size from a marble to a parasol. Once you've made an acquaintance with a sea nettle, you are no longer inclined to bathe in the mighty Chesapeake ... unless the temperature is a balmy 97 under cloudless skies.

How can I describe the sting of a sea nettle? It hurts. And not in just one little spot, like a wasp sting. It hurts wherever the tentacles touch. During my memorable bout with this vicious spineless Kraken, it got wrapped around my arm and stung me from shoulder to wrist. I yelped like a pup.

When the temperature is about to give you a heat stroke, however, you have to weigh the dangers of the Kraken against the knowledge that your hours are numbered if you don't cool off. So we plunged reluctantly into the surf -- self, Spare, Mr. J -- all three of us keeping vigilant watch for jellyfish.

We never ventured more than 15 feet from shore. Even there, several Krakens chased us back to the beach.

On such a bloody hot day, that little beach should have been filled with people. We were the only fools there. This was a good thing, however, because -- in addition to the much-needed cool-down -- I wanted some sea glass. And the bay gave liberally.

Have you ever seen sea glass? I love it. Let me explain what it is. Sea glass is a piece of a beer bottle, or other glass item, that somehow found itself in the bay. The sand scours the glass, removing all the sharp edges and dulling the sheen.

For some time now, I have felt that sea glass is a metaphor for my life. I once was all sharp edges, and crystal clear, and I could make people bleed by my pointy shards. Now I've been rounded and dulled. I'm calm. I won't hurt you, and my beauty lies in the changes time has wrought on me. Anne Johnson = sea glass.

Spare and I combed the beach and, in 30 minutes, found two handfuls of pretty sea glass. Oh! I wish I could go there every day, and then learn how to wrap the beautiful sea glass in wire for necklaces! Every person of a certain age should own a piece of sea glass, just to remind them that it's good when the sharp edges get erased by the sands of time.

Claiborn Beach is notable for sea glass, so whenever I can get down to the Chesapeake again, I'm going to search for more. I would like to be able to offer you a piece, reader, when I get a stable supply.

In the meantime, beware the "sea glass" sold at craft stores. It's factory made. Real sea glass is the color of ... well ... of glass. Most of it is milky white, or semi-clear, or the dark bronze so coveted by beer drinkers.

I'm glad I found some sea glass without getting stung in the process. I'm glad I found that beach. The prettiest places are hidden just at the edge of obscurity. You almost need to be sea glass to find it.

When It Pays To Be Lost

Left-handed people are lousy with directions. I'm left-handed, so I know. I get lost all the time.

Take today, for instance. I'm still down here with the nuclear family along the shore of the mighty Chesapeake Bay.

In some places the bay has beaches, but not everywhere. Much of its shoreline is rip-rap, some of the rest is eroding bluffs, and then there are the piers, and boat launches, and slips, and marinas, and over-built waterfront properties.

The place we stay has a swimming pier, but you have to climb down a ladder into the murky depths -- in which hide jellyfish just waiting for human flesh to sting.

Ever so much better to go to a beach.

There is a very small public beach in the area. Trouble is, it's hard to find. Once I tried for two hours to find it, unsuccessfully. Today (the temperature hovering around 95), Heir, Spare and I set out in search of the beach again.

This time I had directions from a townie at the pub. Take the right side at the Y, follow the road to the end, turn left, then you'll see a little lane that looks like a private road. The beach is at the end of that road.

Off we went in my little economy car with the helpful New Jersey license plates. Round and round we drove in the tiny community of Claiborn, asking residents, recreational boaters -- where's the beach? Hunting for street signs, always winding up at the boat slip, ask another boater -- WHERE'S THE BEACH? Finally we found a good ol' boy getting his crab boat out. He showed us where the beach was. We were one little spit of land to the left of it (ooops, I mean right). Then he said, "There are homes back there now. The owners will tell you you're trespassing if you want to use the beach. They're wrong, it's a public beach, but they have dogs and attitude."

I'm not easily cowed, so I got in the car and drove down the road, which was well-peppered with "no trespassing" and "private property" signs. And it was just as the crabber said. We could see the beach between high-end waterfront homes, but we could also see Cheney wannabes sizing us up for the kill.

This was the first time ever that I was in a situation where you can't get there from here.

But this dilemma of being lost, of driving around fruitlessly for hours... That I know. Happens all the time. As I said, I get lost easily.

So, sweaty and feeling cheated, my offspring and I came back to the B&B. And there I overheard an earnest conversation between the owner of the B&B and a kind missionary trying to drum up funds for work in Africa.

My regular readers know exactly what I think of missionaries, especially those who go meddling in Africa. And this one sounded like a pharmaceutical salesman. Apparently the B&B owner has given generously in previous times, but the mission has changed leadership, and our host is no longer digging deep. So the missionary was giving her the hard sell. Much of it had to do with handing out pamphlets and Bibles, but some of it was scarier -- like his description of the actual crucifixion that his flock somehow staged in his absence. Or some such, I was not close enough to hear much.

What I did hear was the B&B host. She said, "I just think the money should go to the Lost."

To which the missionary emphatically agreed, but with caveats about administrative budgets and travel and Bible-buying.

But it was that word "lost" that stuck in my mind. Presumably, the "Lost" are those who aren't Christians.

Well, folks, I've been lost many, many times in my life, but this is the first time when being Lost was not just a good thing, but a great thing. Tra la la! I'm Lost! Hopefully without a trace.

If missionaries want to find me, they can start looking at Claiborn Beach. It's ever so easy to find.

FTLOFF: The War on Acronyms

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," still broadcasting from the shore of the mighty Chesapeake Bay. What a lovely spot. Today the weather is fine, and I wish you were here.

Last evening, Mr. Johnson and I stopped by a local eatery to get some soft shell crabs. The sign in front of the dining establishment said "AUCE Crabs Mon-Thur."

Mr. Johnson said, "What are auce crabs?"

Then and there, I declared The Great Gods Are Bored War on Acronyms!

It was bad enough when crabs were "All U Can Eat." But "AUCE?"

This has gottten OOH (out of hand). FTLOFF (for the love of fruit flies), are we descending into the Orwellian nightmare of 1984, just 26 years behind schedule?

Well, here at The Gods Are Bored, we have occasionally acronymed our title. No more! When you come here, everything will be spelled out for you in that sweet, old-fashioned way! Down with acronyms! The pox take all acronyms! A plague upon the house of all acronyms!

In other news, we at The Gods Are Bored were driving some back roads here in the wilder parts of the Chesapeake, and we found the residence of the FVPOTUS.

See what I mean about acronyms? The devil's spawn, I say!

Laugh out loud, just kidding smiley face, see you later! Best friends forever. Ta ta for now.

The Chesapeake Bay Can Bite Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," from the fine lands sacred to the Nanticoke Peoples! We are long-distance blogging from the shores of the Chesapeake Bay.

The word "Chesapeake" derives from a Native American tongue. Roughly translated, it means "Water filled with stuff that bites and stings."

Mr. Johnson was born and raised in these parts, and it's no wonder he's a reluctant swimmer. He can drive a boat, but he's pretty ungainly in the water. His grandmother, who lives right on the water, never learned to swim at all.

Water, water everywhere, but don't go in the drink!

There is a swimming pier here at the pretty B&B where we stay. This morning I went to take a look-see on the pesky issue of sea nettles.

For those of you who live inland, let me describe sea nettles. They float like jellyfish (which they are) and sting like a hoard of rabid wasps. You just don't want to see one of those things being tossed your way on a balmy wave. Trust me on this. I had an intimate conversation with one two years ago, and it's still fresh in my mind.

Today, gazing from the pier, I didn't see a single sea nettle. "Oh, good!" thinks I. "Time for a dip!"

Alas, just as I turned away with a refreshing swim on my mind, I caught a glimpse of another nemesis of the bay, the common blue crab. A sea nettle can sting you, but a blue crab can rip a hole in your flesh. This is why I have no compunction about eating big heaps of them, steamed and spiced.

Upon further investigation, I noticed that someone had sunk a single crab trap about 30 feet from the ladder off the swimming pier. It's open invitation for crabs today in the old swimming hole.

Gotta face facts. This waterway bites. Even the minnows gnaw on you.

Nevertheless, the vista is swell, and there's a breeze, and plenty of shady hemlocks to sit under, and cheerful sailboats dotting the waves. And inland ... ah, sweet flat inland ... there are plenty of buzzards who will gratefully consume anything one buys for them and flings into the field.

Wherever there are vultures, life is good.

Annual Trek

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Some like it hot. They must be liking at maximum force this summer.

Every year 'round about this time, the intrepid Johnson family leaves Snobville for a brief respite along the shores of the mighty Chesapeake Bay. There we lie on chaise lounges drinking iced tea while watching the sailboats glide by. In the evening we drive into St. Michaels, which is basically Snobville except with a waterview.

I used to bemoan the missed opportunities to write these little posts while sunning along the mighty Chesapeake. But since there's absolutely nothing to do there except lounge around, it's a simple matter to go to the St. Michaels library, get a pass, and go online.

If I had my choice, we would vacation in the mountains. But the mere mention of this possibility would bring instant and wholesale opposition from the nest. So I have stopped worrying and learned to love the bay.

How Modesty Will Keep Me Thin This Summer

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you today with much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Well, not exactly. I don't know how to gnash my teeth. Do you know how to do it? Post a YouTube! It's a talent I wish I had.

Readers of yesteryear will remember that our local ice cream man was not, in fact, a man but a bored god related by blood ties to Adonis. At least it seemed that way. The dude was so doggone handsome that the stars in the sky developed a taste for soft serve. The very sound of his annoying truck ditty would bring every female on the block sprinting from her home, digging into the folds of her sweatpants for quarters while taming the wild wisps of her bangs with trembling fingers.

You think I'm kidding. I'm not. All three of us -- Heir, Spare, and me -- would fight to be the first one out the door to see the ice cream man. My sister came to visit for a day. She saw him. She's talked of nothing since. Pinky swear on my mama's grave amongst the Confederate Dead: That ice cream man was the best-looking male human on the planet.

I say was. I should say is. He hasn't died. He has just become the victim of modesty.

I'm trying to imagine how this individual could get up and look in the mirror every day and say, "Damn, I'm not a bad looking dude. Maybe that's why I sell so much ice cream in the summertime."

Instead, the guy quit his day job, bought five Mister Softee ice cream trucks, and is now managing them.

Spare and I found this out the hard way yesterday, when we heard the ice cream truck ditty and sprinted for the curb. We shaded our hands from the sun's glare ... was it our man? Slowly, slowly the truck advanced.

It wasn't our man. It was a different man. An ordinary mortal who wasn't even very good at dishing out ice cream. I bought one small, for the Spare. If it had been our former Adonis of the Ice Cream World, I would have bought one for Spare, one for myself, and tipped him a buck or two. (Yes, I did that. Many times. You had to be there to understand.)

Over the past few summers, I bought and drank quite a few milkshakes. These are not good for the waistline. But I never bought them because I like soft serve from an ice cream truck. I bought them for that moment when I could ogle the ice cream dude.

Now that the opportunity to ogle has passed, so has my taste for milkshakes. Heir and Spare feel the same way. I bet many of the dude's former customers have similar cases of Adonis withdrawal that they are not medicating with truck-dispensed soft serve.

The sad thing is that this promising young entrepreneur entered into a business venture without taking into consideration that it wasn't the product he was selling that was making him rich -- it was the seller. There are four ice cream parlors in Snobville, and all four of them have better ice cream than you get from a truck.

One man's lack of vanity has been his undoing. Damn! He should have handed out anonymous customer surveys before quitting a day job and buying into a subpar franchise!

Do you think, when the profits plunge and he's earning less from five trucks driven by others than he did from one he drove himself, he'll finally look in the mirror and say, "I'm not a bad-looking dude. Maybe people bought ice cream from me just to see me!"

Modesty: refreshing or ruinous? You make the call.

Look! Up in the Sky!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Are you ready for some praise and worship? You are? Well, WOOT!

(WOOT is the new Hallelujah. Change with the times, already!)

It's high time ... and I mean high time ... that we had a friendly interview with a bored god. Honestly, you'd think we'd forgotten our mission statement or something.

The bored god we've invited today can get out of hand sometimes and be quite destructive. But you know what? Life and death being what they are, if you get killed by this God's work, it won't be the worst way to go.

The God in question is Catequil, sacred to the Inca peoples. Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Catequil! WOOT!

Anne: Catequil, you were busy here in New Jersey yesterday. Your thunderclouds flooded every major artery that I needed to travel in order to pick The Heir up from her job.

Catequil: Hey. Wait a minute. I thought this was "praise and worship!" Are you complaining?

Anne: Not on Your eternal life, I'm not! I swear I could hear the plants in my back yard drinking up the water. We needed every drop of that inch-and-a-half rainstorm.

Catequil: Thank you. I endeavor to give satisfactory deluges.

Anne: Job well done, Mighty God! But you know, Catequil, I think all the NORADS and Dopplers and such have taken some of the magic out of sky-gazing. People still get all steamed up over stars and eclipses and meteor showers (I'm guilty as charged on that), but I think the fine mystical experience of cloud-watching has not gotten its share of press.

Catequil: Here's what I have to say to that!

Anne: Now, now. This is not how to win friends and influence people! I'm trying to interest my readers in the finer arts of cloud appreciation. In order for me to do that, you need to be less confrontational and more "with the flow."

Catequil: Oh, no one understands cloud-gazing anymore! In the eons before barometers, radar, and telegraphs, wise men and women interpreted the clouds and could thereby predict the weather. Nowadays even the school children don't learn about Cumulonimbus and Stratus clouds!

Anne: I learned them.

Catequil: In an elective high school science class.

Anne: That was a chippin class, Catequil. You see? I don't remember much about the 1970s, but I do remember Mr. Brown teaching us about cloud types. Combine that with all the afternoons spent lying on a blanket on Polish Mountain, staring up at the ....

Catequil: Don't you dare say clouds! I know you were buzzard-watching!

Anne: It's a big sky. Clouds, buzzards ... all is good. If I may be serious for a moment...

Catequil: Go ahead and try. I'd like to be in on this "first."

Anne: I just want to praise You and thank You, O holy Catequil, for the dramatic pre-thunderclouds and fully-formed thunderclouds, and shift-shaping Nimbus clouds, and puffy soft Cumulus clouds that you blew across the horizons of my life this week. I absolutely marveled at Your creations. Yes, modern science can explain every little twist and turn of colliding pressure systems, but the human eye -- and the human heart -- can still thrill to the miracle of clouds.

Catequil (scornful): Now your airplanes fly right through them.

Anne: Yes, but to me this does not diminish their greatness. It only provides humble humans with a different perspective on a holy creation.

Catequil: I'm starting to like you.

Anne: Well, I've always loved You, and I always will. Let me bore You with one little naval gaze before you head over to Africa.

Catequil: I've got time.

Anne: Glad to hear it. Okay, so here's the story:

Our house on Polish Mountain looked out to the west, and so did Uncle Earl's. Uncle Earl had a better view, but basically we all knew when a thunderstorm was coming ... We could literally watch it cross over Warrior's Ridge and advance up the valley and overtop the houses.

One evening, a whopper of a thunderstorm came roaring through just minutes before sundown. As it passed over, the sun came out on the far side of it. The setting sun turned everything -- everything -- magenta. Then crimson. Then lilac. Then violet. The clouds were magenta, and the weeds in the pasture were magenta!

We were all bustling around. Grandma and I were clearing the dinner dishes, Granddad had gone to the shed. But when those colors started turning the world into a natural Purple Haze, everything just ground to a halt, and we stood there admiring Your work, O mighty Catequil!

As soon as the magic sunset passed, and the thunder roared off to the east, Uncle Earl and Aunt Belle walked over from their house. Uncle Earl was the oldest of Granddad's family, and he said he'd never seen a sunset like that in his life.

Uncle Earl looked at me and said, "Anne Janette, you may never see another sunset that magnificent as long as you live."

So far he is correct, and almost 40 years have passed since that evening.

Catequil, I know the science behind cloud formations, but I still see Your work in them. Clouds are sacred things, mighty things, holy things. We who cannot be You must salute You. Thanks be to You, again, for the beauty and nourishment of Your holy clouds this past week!

Catequil: You're welcome. But you might want to go back and edit that anecdote. Little more of your name in there than you usually allow.

Anne: It's okay. I'm not going to change my uncle Earl's words. He was a Titan among men, and that's what he called me.

Catequil: Suit yourself. Oh say. Can I get a glass of water for the road? I'm parched.

Anne: How about if I fill the bathtub?

Catequil: If it's not too much trouble.

All glory, laud, and honor to Catequil, God of clouds! Next time you see the sky, blow a kiss to this fabulous deity. That's not moisture up there, it's mystery.