Free Advice on Magick Wands

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Laughing through Cyber Monday -- got Spare's gift at a deep discount by being up at 5:00 a.m. for a cyber deal. Sure beats standing in line in the cold and dark for an hour, only to find that the bait-and-switch item you wanted is all "sold out."

Time to pass along a little free advice!

I thought of this while I was watching "Harry Potter and the Incessantly Endless and Pointless Plotline." If you're candid with yourself, you'll have to agree. Holes in the logic here, people.

One of the biggest holes in Harry Potter is the whole wand thing. Proof beyond shadow of a doubt that the author is not now, nor ever was, a Pagan.

How does one procure a wand in Harry Potter's world? Oh, gosh! One goes to a store. Buys it. Sure, the wand "speaks" to you. But you still have to buy it. I presume that the more doubloons you have, the better the wand that speaks to you. And in this saga, the most powerful wand is buried with a wizard whose grave is so easy to plunder it just boggles the mind. Wands. Bought and sold. Stolen. Borrowed. Grabbed and used by others.

Baaaaammmmmp! Foul! Pish tosh!

The whole point of a wand is this: You invest your time, energy, and love into it. Not your cash. Don't ever let anyone sell you a wand, no matter how beautiful it is.

Let me amend that. You can buy a beautiful wand for its appeal, but don't expect it to work for you. A working wand starts with a stick you pick up in the forest. Feathers you find here and there. A charm someone gives you. String. That little bead on the floor just at the edge of the fridge.

What does a real wand look like? It looks like you. It's a reflection of your personality, because you made it. If you're showy, it will be snazzy. If you're quiet, it may just be humble. The point is, to have an effective wand, you must make it yourself, from things that really speak to you.

On we go to the whole point of a magick wand. Have you ever tried pointing one at someone and saying, "Drop over dead, you wastrel?" Not that I've done it, but my guess is that this would not work.

My wand is an object to hold when I am meditating or reflecting. Good energy was stored in it when I made it, and I take it with me to places where I know it will absorb more good energy. I don't use it for protection, or for show, or for spell-making. I just hold it in my lap.

This morning I thought about my wand. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, 40 minutes before lunch, and my English Honors class bounded into the room like a pack of Tiggers. Hot on their heels came my Language Arts supervisor, newly hired by our district. He had come in for an informal "walk through." So, clipboard in hand, he watched as I spent about 15 minutes trying to calm a dozen 14-year-olds who must have had Sprite for breakfast.

The charming evaluation forms have a place for a numerical ranking. One (1) is "needs improvement." Two (2) is "barely ok." Three (3) is "decent." I got one-half. Not a 1-slash-2, a .5. Fifty percent. Half. Which isn't even on the sheet.

It's at times like this that one wishes for a Harry Potter wand. Just wave a fancy stick, shower everyone with "quiet dust," and zap the supervisor with the sinking feeling that he's forgotten his wedding anniversary and ought to biff off to the card shop.

Real wands aren't like that. A real wand welcomes you home at the end of a tough Monday and has you laughing into the wind and looking for faeries in the ivy. A real wand sits at your elbow as you make dinner, chat with your daughter, trash-talk the River Tribe on Facebook. Soon enough you might as well have had that quiet dust, because it doesn't really matter anymore. Tomorrow's another day, and maybe the Tiggers will be turtles, and maybe Gatsby will turn away from that green light on the dock and say to himself, "Can't repeat the past. Off to Tibet."

It's Cyber Monday. Get your magick wand today! It's not in a store or even online. Be like Dorothy. Look in your own back yard.

Things to Remember for the Future

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Please be patient while I record a few notes for my future reference.

When visiting the homes of my children and their families, I should:

*Figure out which chair is the favorite of the lady of the house and not inhabit it.

*Only volunteer in the kitchen when asked to.

*Go with the flow, not try to direct it. Others may be tired from working all week.

*Be very mindful of my aging body's bad habits and adjust to my surroundings.

*Spend time with grandchildren, not with children. Children work, and they're tired.

*No more than three nights.

*No organ recitals.

*No complaining about the schedule.

*Be very mindful who the alpha female is in a home.

*When tempers fray, seek a quiet corner.

What To Do with a Tame Buzzard

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sadly drawing toward the end of a long weekend! Don't pay attention to what the governor of New Jersey tells you. School teachers work hard. At least I haven't found a way to pace myself yet.

But today I come to you with a very serious message. Please be seated and pay attention.

I just heard from Kevin Spahr, the producer/director of "Glen Rock Fae," a documentary about the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Kevin didn't write to me about the festival or the film, however. He wrote to me because he saw that I like buzzards, and he had an up-close-and-personal conversation with one this summer in New Hope, PA.

As Kevin tells it, a young buzzard was strolling the streets of New Hope, cadging goodies from tourists. It was not intimidated by the crowds (which intimidate me) nor by the dogs. In fact, it tried to jump up on his lap.

Of course, having a vulture jump onto my lap is the stuff dreams are made of. Well ... let me re-phrase that. Having a tame vulture jump on my lap while I'm hale and hearty is the stuff dreams are made of. If I'm slowly expiring and a buzzard is overly eager to nibble, I might not be so pleased.

Pay attention, now. If a vulture ever acts this way around you (cadging treats, tugging at your shoelaces for attention, fearless of people and domestic animals), call 911 and track that bird. Don't let it out of your sight until Animal Control shows up to take possession.

Vultures are a protected species and should not be domesticated. However, every now and then some well-meaning human finds a baby buzzard and brings it indoors and tames it. Vultures are very intelligent. They learn fast who is feeding them. Unlike parrots, they are virtually noiseless. They can't vocalize at all hardly. Eventually, though, their toilet habits make them undesirable as pets. It's at that point -- when they're mostly grown and completely clueless about how to live as a buzzard -- that their foster parents drop them on the side of the road and tell them to find a possum.

The people at wildlife rescue do not kill these domesticated birds. They use them as teaching tools. I saw one domesticated turkey vulture on Hawk Mountain last September who was thoroughly enjoying being the object of attention while still living a quality life in a wildlife rehab center.

What happens to a tame buzzard who isn't taken in by wildlife rescue? It can get attacked by dogs or hit by a car. In rural areas it will starve. All this is needless suffering, because healthy turkey vultures, tame or not, are not euthanized at wildlife rehab centers. They are either nursed back to health and returned to the wild (if they know they're buzzards), used as teaching tools (if they think they're human), or allowed use of a flight cage (food and roost for life) if they can no longer fly and aren't tame.

If you can get close enough to a buzzard that you could pet its head, and it's not hissing at you and vomiting on your feet, call Animal Control. That's not the way buzzards behave. They are very shy and want nothing to do with humans who are alive.

The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.

Black Friday Bargains

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Why would you go sit in a traffic jam at the mall when you can shop right here, save a bundle, and get everything you want for your holiday extragvaganza? Yes, we at "The Gods Are Bored" are offering a one-day, half-off special on hard-to-find items. Whip out that credit card and fill your shopping cart!

1. Peace of mind: This HTF commodity is in very limited supply here at "The Gods Are Bored," but if you act right now, we will send you total and complete peace of mind at a 20% discount. Be wary of those who would offer you peace of mind by reading religious books or attending services! True peace of mind can only be achieved by .... no, wait! Buy first, find out the secret to peace of mind later! Heck, that's how most religions handle it. Why should we be different?

2. True Love: Very, very HTF! This is not a spell or an herbal enhancement here. It's pure true love, the complete works with significant other, heart strings, and "you complete me" kit. Lifetime guarantee. Yours on Black Friday at 10% discount and free shipping. (Sorry, no returns on this item.)

3. High Adventure: Tired of your dreary life? Chuck it all and climb into our fully functional Tardis! Travel this world and others, saving everything, all the time, in the nick of time. Limited offer: Buy today, get The Doctor free! You'll want to have him too, because it takes awhile to learn how to drive the Tardis.

4. Spiritual Enlightenment: Go for the real thing!  You know how many phonies there are out there trying to convince you they have all the answers? We've got the answers! Fresh from ancient and forgotten texts, these few, sure-fire steps will have you enlightened before you can say "ShamWow!"  Today only, buy one spiritual enlightenment, get the second at half price. You don't get offers like this every day. Just sayin.

5. Patience Extender: Back by popular demand, our patience extender helps you to deal with all annoying situations and people far longer than you ever could have imagined! If you're surrounded by aggravation, this is the perfect item for you. It is highly effective if used properly. Two-year limited warranty. Half price with mail-in rebate.

6. Breathtaking Beauty: Now mind you, people pay tons of money for this with no guarantee of success. There's a secret to it, and in our Perfect Beauty Sampler, we give you step-by-step directions to the kind of gorgeous visage usually reserved for starlets or baseball players. Change your life! You know it's all about looks. Walk the walk. Two-for-the-price-of-one special, great when combined with True Love, above.

7. Kittens and Puppies That Never Grow Up: Scientists have been trying to do this for years with no success. We know the secret to how this is done, and we will share it with you on a half price basis, today and today only. Some restrictions apply.

So there you have it, readers. Your Black Friday shopping early and in one spot, and useful gifts too! But don't stop here. Remember that "The Gods Are Bored" regularly offers free advice, and you can't do better than free!

Any other gifts you could possibly need can be found at the stores listed in my sidebar. Enjoy your Black Friday ... my mother-in-law is here at Chateau Johnson until Monday, so the Patience Extender is running on high.

Cousins Behaving Well, Cousins Behaving Badly

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" You may be an only child. You may not have siblings. But I'll bet you have at least one cousin somewhere. Aren't cousins fun? I don't know where I would be without mine.

This past week my far-flung cousins sort of came together in an odd synchronicity.

First I heard from my dad's nephew, Cousin Brad. He had found a buyer (we hope) for our farm in Appalachia. He has been living there with his dad (and sometimes in the wintertime by himself) for a long time. Dad Brad is well-mannered and thoughtful, spiritual and an outdoorsman. He is engaging company and has always comported himself in a way that harms none.

Dad Brad wanted me to get in touch with some other cousins of another Dad uncle. Which I did, and they all want to sell the property, and they all are quiet and well-mannered people. It was a pleasure catching up with them. In a jiffy we had a consensus, and I assume that Dad Brad is proceeding with the details of the transaction.

I also have a Mom Brad ... another Cousin Brad who is a BAMF. Trouble is this dude's middle name, and it's been that way since he was a kid memorizing Hitler's political speeches and giving them in German to the general dismay of his WWII veteran father. Mom Brad was a frequent resident at my home when I was growing up, especially after he got expelled from his high school in Springfield, Virginia. Four decades of checkered career later, I also heard from him this week.

Now here's a piece of free "Gods Are Bored" advice: If you send out chain emails, be careful what you send when you hit "reply all."

A mutual cousin of Mom Brad and me sends this stuff all the time. I delete her mass mailings unopened. But Mom Brad opened it, saw that it was pictures of Muslims in London carrying signs threatening the safety and security of Europe, and read the message that we Americans should pretty much annihilate anyone wearing anything other than a baseball cap on his or her head.

Mom Brad, who has lived the past decade in Germany (surprise!) fired off a vitriolic response to the mass mail, sending it not only to our mutual cousin, but to everyone on her "reply" list. She blistered him back -- also to everyone on her "reply" list, and her son-in-law blistered him too. ("Take your medication." Apt as hell, but not funny.) Mom Brad sent an even more feverish response back -- again to everyone -- predicting that the Tea Party would bring our country down as Nero did Rome, or some such.

Coming the same week as the polite emails from my dad's family, I was struck yet again how different my parents were, and how different their families were. Mom's family had dough and patrician backgrounds, and they resolutely behaved like white trash regardless of the big houses and cars. Dad's family lived deeper in Appalachia, on less money, but they had better manners and gentle sensibilities.

Isn't it funny how childhood personalities stay with us as we grow old and gray? I could talk to Dad Brad all afternoon. If Mom Brad calls, I don't pick up. In fact, I go to the mall until bedtime.

Still I sent Mom Brad a private email saying he got mistreated, and that if I was him I just wouldn't open those forwarded emails, they are uniformly aggravating. He wrote back promptly, promising to call me soon.

Time to go to the mall. Oh, crap. It's Black Friday!

The Making of a Thug

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We passed exhaustion about 50 miles back. Literally can hardly hold my arms up to type.

But here's a story from my sister's neck of the woods, and Sis stories are always worth a read!

About a month ago, Sis and her spouse took in a Korean exchange student who was having issues with his host family. The young man in question does not speak English very well.

At first I thought the student was just a public school invitee, but it turns out that he's being hosted by a horrifically conservative Christian private school inconveniently located in a backwater redneck enclave near the Mason-Dixon Line. Sis has to drive him to and from this school every day, an hour round-trip.

I don't know the details, but the young man pulled a Saturday detention. Sis dropped him off at noon. When she picked him up, they had shaved his head. He was limping from all the running they made him do. He had additionally been made to do sit-ups and push-ups and yard work.

The big thing, of course, is the hair. Someone at that school shaved the kid's head.

The Facebook pictures tell it all. In the "before" pictures the little dude looks something like an Asian Justin Bieber, with one of those shaggy, combed-to-the-front, Beatles-style mops. Now? Now he looks like a thug. All he needs is a do-rag, and he could pledge a gang faster than you can say, "Some Christians are a menace to civilized society."

I guess the morons at the B******** Christian Academy don't keep up with trends. If they did, they would never shave a kid's head to the dome. I'm not sure of the legality of this in the first place, but the kid's family is in Korea. Sis is his only advocate, and she is maximum pissed. But what can she do? If the school dumps the kid, he'll have to go home.

Mind you, this young Christian Korean chappie is no blood kin to me, but if he's under my sister's roof, that makes him family. As a proud Pagan auntie, I intend to take steps.

First, I will research and call upon the bored deities sacred to the Korean people prior to the arrival of Christian missionaries. To these deities I will carry the grievances of a boy who -- whatever he did to deserve detention -- did not deserve to be shaved. I will ask the deities to speak to this young man and pull him back to their ways.

Then Ima gon' inna Philly and buy that dude a ghetto hoodie with badass graphix in a non-affiliated color. Got the hair, get the threads.


A cheerful thought to end this post: The person who shaved that poor boy's head goes into a voting booth and casts a ballot. Sweet dreams, reader!

In The Hands of the Goddess Cloacina

A very brief dispatch from "The Gods Are Bored." We have a potential buyer for our farm in Appalachia -- the owner of the adjoining property, who would be buying it as an investment and would be looking for vacation renters. I have asked the bored Goddess Cloacina, who is in that neighborhood just now, to shed Her brilliance on this transaction.

If the purchase is made, a property that was split up in the 1930s by my great-grandfather would all be in one person's ownership again. Not a family member, but a neighbor in good standing since 1987.

Please toss a coin in a charity fountain with a prayer to Cloacina on my behalf. The person who may buy my land would let me tread upon it in a most liberal way.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BEDFORD COUNTY

PS - Thirty, count 'em, 30 copies of The Great Gatsby! I love you all!

Vulture Festival Downsized

Ladies and gentlemen: Due to declining ticket sales and volunteer fatigue, the 2011 East Coast Vulture Festival will consist only of a children's fair in the afternoon. No evening festivities are planned.

This unexpected blow to the nascent vulture worship community of southern New Jersey will need to be dealt with somehow. Your suggestions would be most appreciated.

Yours in sorrow,
Anne Johnson
Shaman of the Sacred Thunderbird

I Don't Know Why I Didn't Think of This Sooner

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I have had a brilliant idea, and I aim to put it in place right away.

I've been teaching public school here in New Jersey for awhile, and I do love my students dearly. I look forward to every minute with them in the classroom. Trouble is, there's so much other stuff in teaching that is either drudgery, trivia, or psych-out. Constant observations by the brass. Bubble sheets for everything under the sun. Educational innovations that will soon be discredited but are now the rage.

Tonight I go job-hunting. I am seeking a position as Teacher of Bardic Poetry at Hogwarts.

You see, my daughter The Spare is going to the Harry Potter premiere. Only she's not going to attend the movie. She's going to the pre-screening party. And you should see her! She stole half my wardrobe (including my Xmas Troll earrings) and has decked herself out as Luna Lovegood. (The entire house smells like hairspray -- Spare has straight hair, so she had to curl it.)

Spare says these premieres bring out all the Hogwarts brass. What better opportunity than this to shop around my resume where my services would be best rendered?

Maybe if Hogwarts takes me on, I can bring some of my students. They would liven up that stuffy old castle. Plus, every day for them is Defense against the Dark Arts. They could teach the teachers!

So, readers, wish me luck as I float off to submit my resume.

In Which I Acquire a New Mom

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where the music of November rain is in the air and life is one faerie fine drama! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. Today I'm weighing my chances of dieting in the balance and finding the odds against me.

I've got a new mom.

She's a Puerto Rican immigrant. She cooks comfort food like only a great mom can.

This year at the Vo-Tech I pulled a 6th period lunch. That's the lunch that all the "shop" teachers get. The only other academic teacher who has lunch that period is the Spanish teacher, whose family is mostly in Puerto Rico. This teacher is a graduate of the Vo-Tech who has really pulled herself up by sheer hard work and her deep faith in God.

Let me tell you, readers. When you see what this one young teacher can accomplish in a day, you've got to ask yourself why we would ever close our borders. I've never seen anyone with more energy in my life.

But it started out frosty between me and "Maria" this September. We sat together out of that unspoken rule that groups teacher with teacher, and secretary with secretary, and lunch lady with lunch lady. We just didn't talk. I would try to get Maria to converse, and she would answer as shortly as possible.

It occurred to me that news of my praise and worship team might have filtered back to her. I don't know -- I'm not secretive about it, but I don't broadcast it either. I sat with a good Methodist man all year last year without ever mentioning my own faith at all.

But I think what it must have been with Maria was just sort of shyness. Because one day we bonded over a bowl of black beans.

We get good lunches at the Vo-Tech because they have a Culinary Arts program. One of the signature dishes they serve is a Southwestern chicken soup that has black beans in it. This soup is a gift from the bored gods, that's all I can figure. It's that good.

On this particular day, Maria was painstakingly picking each and every black bean out of her soup. Some of the secretaries were teasing her about it -- how can someone from Puerto Rico not like beans? She laughed and said her father never did either.

I can relate. Mr. Johnson's grandmother, born and raised in Baltimore, never ate a crab. Imagine that!

Long story short, I swapped my french fries for Maria's beans, and that turned out to be magic.

Ever since then, we've been swapping the portions of our lunches that we don't like. Starting last week, Maria began giving me tastes of the home-cooked food her mom makes. Starting this week, Maria has been bringing in enough lunch for both of us, hand-cooked by her mama.

Ah, comfort food, comfort food! Meat and potatoes, steaming hot leftovers from the microwave, cooked by Mom! And now Maria and I are fast friends. I want to be her sister.

Bottom line of this sermon: Never, EVER underestimate the magic of home cooking by Mom. It is the most powerful elixir in the universe. Proof that the bored gods love us and want us to be happy.

The Tricky Thicket of Temptation

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on a spectacular autumn day! Oh my goodness, the weather was gorgeous this weekend! And thanks to Snobville's munificent Leaf Retention taxes (see below) the colors here are still at their peak. Lovely weather for strolling ... around the flea market.

Remember the good ol' days, when swap meets and flea markets were the only Ebay? Well, near our house there's a flea market that tries gamely to retain some of that old-time charm. Today the whole Johnson family went there, and I bought a magnificent tie-dyed shirt from a grizzled old hippie who hand-dyed it, took it to the laundromat, and washed and dried it to perfection. I'd never seen this dude there before, and now I have a real, REAL tie-dyed shirt, not the neon kind you see in my pictures.

I also got the items I went to the market for: toy dinosaurs, a small seasonal decoration for my teacher desk, dried catnip, and Italian seasoning. I could have had a huge bag of ground-fall apples for six bucks, but they were too heavy to carry. Here in New Jersey they call them "deer apples!" Never heard that term.

You would think that a long morning at the flea market would scratch my spending itch. But when I got home from the market, I remembered that I had to pick up a birthday card for a friend. So I drove to the nearest pharmacy, walked in ...

For the love of fruit flies.

The seasonal aisle was perfectly arranged with everything one could ever need to turn one's home into a Crazy Christmas House. Surge protectors. Indoor-outdoor lights. Hooks. Gilded snowmen that light up. Lamp post decor. Front door wreaths.

My breathing got shallow. I started to perspire. Everything was there! Everything that even the most clueless electrically-challenged idiot (me) would need to stage a brilliant display with minimal hassle!

And outside, at that very moment ... a spectacular autumn afternoon with three hours of daylight left to it.

Temptation! Temptation! My trembling hands reached out for the boxes of multi-colored garland lighting ... 200 bulbs per box ... 9 feet of lighting ... pre-season sale ... I was doing the math. Ohhhhh. To have a house lit up like Vegas! One of my few unrealized lifetime goals!

I am proud to say I left that store with the birthday card I went to buy, and nothing else. I took a walk around Hoppy's Pond to cool off, but I just couldn't stop thinking about that perfect display of outdoor lights. Heck, I'm a working woman now! I have a little bit of disposable income (well, not really with one kid in college and another on the way).

What saved me from this tricky thicket of temptation was the remembrance that spring will come, and with it the East Coast Vulture Festival. Gotta hold onto the ducats in order to rent the buzzard costume! (Saved, again, by the Sacred Thunderbird. Thanks be to Thunderbird.)

When I got back from my walk, my neighbor down at the end of the block was outside. He was draping his bushes with holiday lights. He already had two dozen big light clusters hanging in his trees. While his daughters scampered around him, he pulled lights from carefully-packed duffel bags and began to outline his house. I stopped long enough to praise his effort to the skies and tell him how glad I was to have him as a neighbor.

The moral of this sermon is simple: When you feel a temptation coming on, watch your neighbors. Chances are, one of them is already doing it. Save yourself the trouble, and just live vicariously through that person. No one is worse for wear, and no upholstery gets stained.

Starting The Great Gatsby this week at the Vo-Tech. Wish me luck.

Governor Chris Christie and the Leaf Retention Laws

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where DECIBEL THE PARROT is screaming, Heir and Spare are laughing upstairs, and the faeries are dancing, dancing, dancing, in the newly-fallen leaves!

Here in the state of New Jersey, we have local Leaf Retention Boards. Funded by taxpayers, these Leaf Retention Boards are charged with prolonging autumn by keeping the most colorful and beautiful leaves on the trees.

Snobville is a high-income borough. The manager of the Philadelphia Phillies rents here. (Like me, he's an Appalachian expatriate.) Some of the Phils live here too, and the Eagles ... you know, assorted New Money. Many other residents just have fistfuls of cash. So much of the stuff, in fact, that they can afford very high Leaf Retention fees. As a consequence, those of us who live on the other side of the Snobville tracks get to enjoy stunning autumn displays way until the end of November.

In defense of Home Rule, I did my part. I rescued a Japanese maple seedling that would never have survived the winters around here in George Washington's era. But now, readers. Now ... oh, you should see it! It's just beginning to turn a magnificent hue of scarlet/magenta/burgundy, with yellow highlights. Takes your breath away, this tree.

During the previous election cycle, New Jersey's Democrats slept through election day, paving the way for a porcine moron named Chris Christie to assume the mantle of governor.

Governor Christie thinks the Leaf Retention taxes are too high. He says the trees don't deserve the money we pay them to hold their leaves until Thanksgiving. As proof of their failure, he points to the bare branches that we see here and there. You know, some trees just get hit by high winds harder than others.

Governor Christie wants to cut down any tree that loses its leaves before Thanksgiving. He wants all trees to be subject to rigorous oversight, in case they get lax about their leaf-losing. Furthermore, he wants to streamline the taxation process on the trees, so that one overseer will look after all deciduous trees in each of New Jersey's counties. Leaf Retention taxes will be collected not locally, but on a county-wide basis, saving taxpayers money both by eliminating local involvement in Leaf Retention and by putting more of the burden on the trees to keep their leaves.

Here in Snobville we have a state champion black oak that has needed a great deal of taxpayer support in recent years. The tree dates to 1840, so needless to say it's not doing the shade job (or autumn color job, or squirrel protection and feeding job) that it did 100 years ago. This tree is very scared that it will be cut down in favor of some sapling that will be less of a burden to county taxpayers.  Imagine being 160 years old and fearing for your future!


You might think that this dire news for the old oak would be good news for my young Japanese maple. But the maple's prowess at delivering autumn splendor is impacted by the weather. If we have a cold and rainy autumn, this tree goes bare in an eye blink. Our local Leaf Retention administrator knows this and judges the maple accordingly. But will a county-wide administrator have the time to get to know 500,000 trees? (Yes, this county has a small tree population. It's suburban, not rural.)






I don't understand why Governor Chris Christie doesn't get it. So many factors impact Leaf Retention -- the weather, the winds, the quality of the soil. Can all trees, regardless of age or location, be held to the same high standards for Leaf Retention? What about the ones in elementary school playgrounds, where the kids amuse themselves by ripping whole branches off just for fun?


The moral of this sermon is that Chris Christie is a moron, and a dangerous moron. He wants to be your president, and the only thing that will stop him is his weight (immense) and/or the collective strength of the trees he's trying to cut down.


Don't hold out much hope for the trees. If you've seen pictures of  Mountaintop Removal mining, you know what a few greedy bastards can do to entire populations of trees in record time. Our only hope is to stop the Christie menace right here in New Jersey, before he spreads his anti-tree message far and wide.


Home Rule for Scotland. Home Rule for Snobville. Keep our Leaf Retention statutes local, where we know our trees and the lay of our land.

Great Gatsby!

I want to thank all of you who have donated copies of The Great Gatsby to my needy classroom. It seems counter-intuitive to teach a book like this to students who maybe ought to be reading Toni Morrison. However (transition word), stories like The Great Gatsby reveal so much about our "American Dream," the dark side of it that my upwardly-mobile students might never have thought about.

Gotta go. I'm at school and a student has just come in.

We Are Not Cookies

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have you ever wondered what makes Americans special? I know, I know, I'm starting to spout platitudes like a school teacher. Please forgive me. Every now and then I have to drink some water from the fountain here at the Vo-Tech, and they put platitudes in the tank.

What makes Americans special? Let's not dwell on the negative here -- our conquer, conquer, conquer mentality. That's not particularly unique to America, although we are good at it.

My name is Anne Johnson, and I am going to write this essay about what makes Americans special. Americans are special for three reasons. First, they come from many countries. Second, they are creative. Third, they come from many countries. This is why I think Americans are special.

Forgive me again. I'm making fun of my students. But look at that paragraph above. I'm supposed to teach writing -- essays based on platitudes or nebulous topics like the state school budget. Why do I do this? So my students can pass standardized tests, like students in China, and Japan, and Korea, and Switzerland.

Trouble is, we are not a "one test fits all" nation. Look at how we rail against the kind of life the Religious Right would have us live! It's not only an abomination for Pagans, it would be unacceptable to the vast majority of Americans.

Have you ever thought about why students don't do well on these standard tests here in America?

Start with this.

I have a student who might not pass the standardized test. Recently he turned in a short writing sample. It started, "I remember going fishing with my grandpa. That is when I lived in Vietnam."

Reader, this high school freshman has traveled farther in the first 14 years of his life than I have in all my Phi Beta Kappa 51 years. He's bilingual. Not only is he bilingual, but he knows a valuable language for American business and industry. He's kind of a jovial kid, but underneath that, he wants to work hard and succeed. Talk to him one-on-one, and a very serious side emerges. The joviality masks his insecurity about his difficulties with English.

When did we become a nation of cookies, cut by some machine, rolling along the conveyor belt in perfect rows?

That kind of homogeneity sounds repulsive to all but a handful of Americans. You're always going to have some people who want everyone to look, think, and act like they do. But most of us find the variety of experiences in this country just simply fascinating. I know I do. Who called it "Rugged Individualism?" I like that term, even if I'm not all that rugged myself.

Given America's lack of homogeneity, why are we expected to do well on standardized tests?

There's some kid out in Montana whose family has been here since 1800. In this kid's spare time he raises Angus beeves for 4-H contests. He's blonde and Cacucasian and Christian and Republican. Tiny high school 45 miles away from home.

Then there's my student. Right off the plane from Vietnam, living in Camden. Likes to tinker with electronics. Good in math. Asian (duh). Don't know if he's Christian or Republican ... but does it matter?

Both of these boys have to pass the same test, and it's the same test the Chinese kids take. Oh yes, and their English teachers have been given a set of national standards that suggests they read Little Women in their freshman year.

I say, give the kid in Montana a test on cattle, and give the Vietnamese kid a test on electronics. One will breed a bull with less fat in its meat, and the other will design the next generation of Iwhatever.

Let's keep America special. Let's get back to that rugged individual mentality. In our religion, in our studies, and in our habits. Vive la difference.

Can't Sit Still

Some days defy our ability to sit still indoors. This is one of them. I'm going outside for a walk.

When I was a kid I recall November as being barren and gray. Not snowy, but past autumn and always raining or looking like it was going to rain. Here in the flatlands, the trees are still bright, and it's often crisp and sunny.

A little fresh air never hurt anyone. And walking here in Snobville is joyous, because we have a champion black oak -- and it's just up the street. So long, readers, I'm going out to hug a tree.

Frank Talk about Risky Business

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Let's talk about sex! Okay, I'm female. And you?

Another day, another junior-in-high-school online health class. Poor Spare! Imagine having to watch a half dozen videos about how your life gets ruined when you're a teenage girl who "does it," leaving not too much of the "doing it" to imagination! Spare was groaning and cursing the screen. "GROSSSSSSS!" and "EWWWWWW!"

Spare hasn't met that special dude yet who will render the idea of sex less gross and ewwy. She's 16. I remember when I was 16, I didn't think sex was gross and ewwwy, but I wasn't ready for it either. And not because I was afraid I'd get pregnant. In those good ol' days, you could go to the free clinic and get The Pill without even having parental consent. Any age. Groovy, huh?

Spare had to answer a lot of questions about risky behavior. The first one was, "Why do people say to themselves, 'Bad things only happen to other people, not to me'?"

By "bad things," I suppose the teacher means PREGNANCY or STDs, both covered exhaustively in sex ed class.

Let's take a look at this mentality, though. Why do people think they won't suffer any ill effects if they behave in risky ways?

Risky behavior with little regard to the consequences. Yes, this leads to unwanted pregnancies, drunken driving accidents, all kinds of bad, bad, bad stuff.

But risky behavior also leads to a defiant leap to catch a towering fly ball in the World Series. It leads a person to strap himself or herself into a spaceship that may or may not land safely. It leads an Italian entrepreneur to sail west beyond any previous western sail, thence to find land. It puts people on top of Mount Everest, in submarines, in laboratories and rescue vessels.

Where would we be without any risk?

I took this question to the bored gods.

Some of my Work involves deities that guided the human species long before anyone got the idea to write anything down. Those deities speak of a time when "survival of the fittest" meant "survival of the ones who took risks and lived." We are a risk-taking species. Especially when we're young, and our danger clocks haven't been chimed by too many calamitous events.

Raise your hand if you've never done anything risky. Oh yes, I see you back there! Wimp. Exit "The Gods Are Bored" now, and go console your fears by watching "Jerry Springer" re-runs.

All the bored gods know that I don't want my daughters to run around having drunken, casual sex with strangers. I never did anything like that. I'm a born romantic with a philosophy given to me by James Baldwin: The most powerful, most enduring love is unrequited. I can't imagine having casual sex. Eww.

But that's me. That's not everyone. We have risk-takers in our species. Some of them drink too much and have sex. And make babies.

If our world was suddenly deprived of every human who had the moxie and/or bad judgment to get it on with someone they hardly know, who would be left? Would we as a species be as adventurous as we are? Would we cheer at sporting events (okay, I live in Philly ... would we BOO at sporting events)? Would we venture outside on a snowy day? Would we even have invented houses?

Raise your hand if you don't know anyone who was conceived by the coupling of two people who didn't know each other very well but who got caught up in the moment, through drinking, drugging, or just plain horniness. Aha! No hands. Because that's just how we are as a species.

I'm sitting here today because my grandmothers (BOTH of them) engaged in risky behavior. I owe my life to it! So did my mom and dad! Aunts, uncles, and cousins galore! All the end result of risky sexual encounters.

The moral of this sermon is simple. Risky behavior is dangerous, but it also informs who we are. Don't go out and get drunk and screw around because you read "The Gods Are Bored" and decided to be a sexual Christopher Columbus. But don't fear the risk, either. Modern life gives us tools to manage risk. Use them and live a little.

Heir and Spare, if you're reading this, forget it. You are the exception to the rule. Go to your rooms, pick up those samplers, and get to your cross-stitching. And I mean NOW!

Miss Annie's Halloween Guide to Lighter Living!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where yet another election cycle proves us right: Democracy doesn't work. Stupid people vote stupidly, against their own interests. So let's all eat cake as if we really have some! And stay healthy, folks. By all means, stay healthy.

No politics here today. There's more important news afoot. To whit, you are looking at the 2010 Community Group Costume First Prize Winners in the Snob Township Halloween Parade!

Yes, yes! The Monkey Man and I decided, quite upon the spur of the moment, to enter the Snob Township Halloween Parade instead of marching in the Snobville parade, which is really only a bunch of cute rich kids walking down the street with their parents. Snob Township has a real parade that gives out cash prizes for costumed "mummers." (Sorry that I stiffed you for photos, Wanda! Do you forgive me?)

Given about two hours to prepare for the event, I fell back on my Fairie Festival couture, and of course summoned the loyal dragon, Big Red. I figured the Monkey Man would be attired in his customary tie-dye and jester hat.

I was wrong. Monkey Man decided to attire himself as Edgar Allan Poe. He has a crow puppet that used to make a "caw" noise (until one liquor-fueled poetry gathering in which I made the crow caw too much and broke his vocal apparatus). On the beak of the crow you can see a sign: "Nevermore." And because the raven sits on a bust in the poem, Monkey Man had brought a bust of Mr. Spock. So when the judge came around to ask who we were, we said we represented Pizza and Poetry of Camden (true) and that MM was EAP and Big Red was the Jabberwock.

And so we marched into the autumn air, surrounded by other lively mummers. My guess is that we won in the community group category because we didn't have much competition. The costumed mummers were mostly families, teens, small floats. Stuff like that.

On Samhain morning I rose very early and drove to Ridley Creek State Park, where our Druid Grove meets. The only other member of our Grove who could come that day was Muin, and his time was limited. So we took a hike to the Pennsylvania champion black oak, out in the woods, and sat for awhile talking about our ancestors. We did nothing formal in the way of Ritual, but there was certainly something holy about sitting in the crisp leaves, backs to a 150-year-old oak, talking about faraway Scotland. I learned a good deal more about Muin than I knew before, all of it adding to the high esteem in which I hold him.

Drove back home, carved some jack-o-lanterns to keep away the bad spirits, and had the pleasure of spending the afternoon with my nearest and dearest. Heir was home from college, and she cobbled together a costume so she could walk around Snobville with the elusive Seitou (who only comes out on Halloween. Really.) Spare, now 16, insisted on trick-or-treating, but she came back with a small trove. It was the idea that counted, not the booty.

Family Johnson had a feast of a supper. Then Mr. Johnson had to drive Heir back to college.

I wanted to build a bonfire, but the hour was advancing and the breeze was just a tad stiff. So I kindled some dragon's blood and candles on the Shrine of the Mists and greeted the most deeply ancient bored deities, lost to the mists of time. It was like a receiving line -- me honoring Them, Them bestowing peace and gladness on me. After all the festivities, it was transporting to sit in wafts of incense, meditating on the Divine and all goodness.

Later, Spare and I watched "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" on YouTube. Amazing. If you haven't seen that in awhile, don't forget the inspired segment about the World War I Flying Ace. Terrific.

It wasn't until I slogged home Monday evening, dead exhausted from teaching, that I learned of the great triumph Monkey Man and I achieved. Oh, readers! I'm thrilled with it yet! And since it was the Monkey Man's idea to go to Snob Township instead of Snobville, I'm giving him the entire $25.00, even though I picked it up from Snobmont Hardware yesterday. I've got a nice buzzard card all picked out to put the dough in. Monkey Man deserves it!

If someone were to ask me the secret to life, I would have to say this: Act like a kid on those occasions when society welcomes it. Feel like a kid at all times. Lastly, on holy evenings, be still and know that They are with you. Your most distant ancestors appreciate the devotional.

The word of the Gods for the people of the Gods. Thanks be to the Gods! Breathe and be happy.

No Big Deal, but I Need Books

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," 100 followers and change! We are oh so happy to have you aboard. Our ship will be leaving the dock as soon as Captain Ahab charts the course.

If you've ever worked for a bureaucracy, you know how it is. The inventory lists 40 copies of The Great Gatsby, but the shelves are Gatsby-free. The brand new supervisor just knows someone is using it ... who? ... dunno.

Could it be that no one has used The Great Gatsby for so many years that the copies were discarded? Oh, my goodness gracious! Discard a classic work of American literature? Emmm, yeah. Wouldn't surprise me a bit. There's this idea that lower-income urban kids couldn't possibly understand The Great Gatsby because it's all about rich white people a long time ago. That, and it's got big words.

Yes, Gatsby is a word-fest. However, as you and I know, The Great Gatsby is not about rich white people a long time ago. It's about what we hold dear, our values, our fruitless and exhausting pursuit of perfection and the American Dream. It's also just about the best example I've ever read on the topic of what money can and can't buy.

Long story short, I want to teach The Great Gatsby to my freshman honors class -- two Vietnamese students, four African American students, and six Hispanic students. I have asked the students to purchase their own copies, and I haven't heard from any parents regarding the impossibility of the task. Nevertheless, I would like to have a few copies for my classroom, in case some of the kids either don't have the money or the motivation to buy their own.

The other teachers at the Vo-Tech are staring at me slack-jawed. They think I'm crazy even to propose teaching this book, when there are so many copies of Go Ask Alice just lying around waiting for an honors class to snatch them up.

It may be my fatal flaw, but I need to be motivated myself in order to want to go to work every day. I want to get my students thinking. No more right-and-wrong, good-guy-gets-girl. Time to explore the gray area.

If anyone is willing to purchase a copy of The Great Gatsby for my Vo-Tech, please email me through my profile. The Scribner authorized paperback is $11 new, but used would be just as good.

I'm waiting to talk about Samhain until my daughter The Heir uploads the photos. Monkey Man and I marched in a Halloween parade together -- we are quite a pair! Stay tuned.

Blessings Abound

Well, my friends, my navel is here under the costume somewhere, and I have a lot of gazing to do, but Samhain is still ongoing, and there are jack-o-lanterns to attend. I hope all of you had a fabulous day. To me, this is the most wonderful time of the year.

Will write more soon.

Beneath the Sugar-Coating

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have a seat! I'll see if there's any pie left in the pantry.

If any of you are wondering why I'm not attending Saturday's March for Sanity, when it's just a little Amtrak hop from Philly, let me just say this: My application was denied.

That's okay. I don't want to be away from home on Samhain. Let's not sugar-coat things. There's a reason for the "spooky" traditions associated with Halloween.

Somewhere I read a snarky remark about the "superstitious Celts," who lit bonfires on Samhain because they were afraid of ghosts.

Just goes to show you that the way you word something can either make it sound brilliant or ridiculous.

So let's re-phrase.

Samhain marks the moment when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin. We wish to commune with Spirits, if those Spirits are loved ones or friends on the other side of the veil. But the existence of those Spirits presupposes that there are other, far less benign Spirits who we'd rather not have crashing around in the spare room.

You can call it superstition if you like, but I would prefer to say that we ought to be frightened of some energy. Not everyone goes peaceful into that long night. So at this time of the year, in addition to feeling my dear friend Tom in my kitchen, helping me tease the parrot, I also protect my home from the evil dead.

(Stop whistling Stevie Wonder! If you don't take Spirits seriously, you deserve their misguided wrath.)

You might ask: How does one protect a home from the evil dead? Well, what do you think that jack-o-lantern is for? And the funny thing is, the Celts didn't have pumpkins! Pumpkins are a New World food. The Celts carved turnips and hung them outside the door. They would have loved pumpkins!

Samhain is a good evening on which to smudge your home with a sage stick. Light the fragrant incense outside for your Ancestors and smudge the interior to keep unwelcome Guests out. There's a darker side to Samhain, under all that sugar-coating. It's the eerie awareness of death, the acceptance of a long tunnel of winter, a submission to the bored God Cernunnos -- He who knows both the bounty and the savagery of the forest. It's time to dance, but choose your partners carefully.

If any of this sounds "backward," then I have a question for you: How is it different from being told, by a guy in a long fancy robe, that some deity is going to come out of the sky and call your loved one up out of the grave ... but only if your loved one followed that deity while alive?


When you get right down to it, any engagement with death can be called "superstitious." None of it is, though. None of it.

Crazy Halloween Houses!

Oh my goodness, readers! What can be said about the commercialization of Halloween? The picture above is not of Snobville, but it might as well be. This whole borough is lit up in orange and purple! Big giant spiders in the yards, ghosts hanging from the trees! People are doing up their houses with gaudy decorations!

My three readers will know that I adore crazy Christmas houses. But if this yard-decorating trend continues, I'll just foam at the mouth with glee! Will my golden years include crazy Halloween house crawls? Catch me, I'm fainting!

Bewitched

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" at the height of fall colors! I could never live in a place where the seasons don't change. Could you?

Today a substitute teacher who is new to the school walked up to me and said, "I've been thinking about you. You made an impression on me." (We had lunch together once.)

Laughing, I said, "I'm memorable!"

Truth is, I bewitched him.

You read so much about what witches aren't, but very little about what they are, with the notable exception of my friend Hecate and some other serious bloggers.

See? I used the term "bewitched," and perhaps your mind already goes toward something sexual or dark. Actually, it's quite easy to bewitch people, and it is not done to harm them. I do it for mutual aid in almost all cases. In the other cases I do it for self-protection.

As I said, it's very easy to bewitch someone. All you need to do is listen to them talk and be genuinely interested in what they have to say. In the case of mutual aid, the person will trust you and have positive feelings about you. In the case of self-protection, the person will think you find them interesting, and that will deflect negativity.

What did I do to bewitch this substitute teacher? I listened to him tell his life story. It was an interesting story, told with verve and satisfaction, and I rewarded him for it by frankly telling him what a fascinating life he has led. I said very little about myself in the conversation. I concentrated on him.

Before you level the criticism that he might have been flirting, let me whack that idea down with the palm of my hand. I can bewitch a woman as easily, or more easily, than a man. Who ever listens to a woman, in our modern society? I do. And let me tell you, I have any number of women friends who find me "memorable."

I know some men who are quite adept at bewitching. (Again you start on the sex thing, again I smack you silly.) My husband's best friend has the charming ability to make anyone and everyone seem uniquely special. No matter how dull you think your life is, he will ask questions until he finds something in you that you are proud of, and then he celebrates it with you. Once he visited here when The Spare was nine. He spent an hour talking to her ... and she has never forgotten that, or him. And he is like that with everyone. He would not see himself as a witch, because our culture has been taught to hate and fear witches. But what he does is bewitch people. Thoroughly, without thought to personal gain.

What happens to a man who can bewitch people without conscious knowledge that he's doing so? Well, he grows up poor in Chicago, works his way into the journalism business without a college degree, becomes a famous columnist in Chicago, Detroit, and L.A., and winds up living in Palm Springs, married to Dean Martin's daughter. Unconscious magick! You've got to love it. This man deserves all the blessings he has received, and more.

Every day I face the daunting task of bewitching 115 students, age 14 and 15. Wow. Talk about a challenge! It is possible to do it, though. Rather exhausting, but doable.

If you strip the concept of bewitching of its sexual and romantic overtones, it becomes simply this: deep engagement with another person. If you are genuinely interested in other people's lives, a strange thing happens. They start liking you.

Yes, this power can be abused. I'll admit I've used it for my own ends at times. But never, never for sexual or romantic power over another. That would be harmful to myself and the other person. I recently bewitched someone because he has the power to get me fired, and he's a young, immature fellow. Trust me, I am not flirting with this man. I'm trying to alter the power grid.

Like Hecate, I'm tired of reading about what witches don't do. So here's something I actually practice, and do, and believe in. I mean no harm. This is a holy thing.

Year's End

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Samhain 2010 edition! Just think: It's been five years since we posted our first thoughts on Samhain. For those of you who are new here, you can find them in the archives.

Yes, over the years, we at "The Gods Are Bored" have had plenty to say about witches, pumpkins, black cats, Chick tracts, on and on. True to our maxim never to take anything seriously, we've generally made light of the waning of the light.

As this year draws to an end, we don't see much of a change on the horizon, vis a vis "Gods Are Bored" and its inability to maintain a respectful demeanor. So, for my new followers, please be aware that the following sermon is uncharacteristically modest.

With that in mind, let's look at the New Year mindset of the Celts and the Romans.

The Celts celebrated the beginning of the New Year on what is now November 1. By this date all the crops were in, and it was good weather for outdoor bonfires.

The Romans celebrated the beginning of the New Year on January 1. I wanted to ask the Roman deities why that date was chosen, and you know what? Since Percy Jackson happened onto the best seller list, those deities are hard to get on the phone! Busy again! Yowsa yowsa yowsa!

Therefore I will speculate. I think the Romans chose January 1 because by that time the amount of daylight is just noticeably greater. The Romans were big on the sun. The Celts were big on the moon.

You know what I say? I go with the Celts on this one. It's a close call, though. Two good lawyers could put on quite a show making a case for solar vs. lunar.

I would take lunar because, as the descendant of farmer after farmer after farmer, I know how important it is to bring in the crops and to take stock to see if there's enough to get through the winter, and seeing that there is, to celebrate that fact. I remember the frenetic sessions of canning in my grandparents' kitchen, and I remember as well how beautiful those jars looked, sorted and stored on shelves, each with its own kind. Yellow peaches, red tomatoes, green beans, white corn, jelly. And when Grandma opened those peaches in the dead of winter -- oh, they tasted so good!

Bring in your harvest. Arrange it on the shelves and count. Do you have enough of everything to get through the long, cold winter?

I speak in metaphors, of course. Nevertheless, winter is coming. It will be cold and dark for months. Light a fire of gratitude to your deities if you feel grateful for what they have given you since the world grew warm.

In conclusion, I intend to teach transition words in composition class this week. Last week I taught rhetorical questions. Indeed, would you ever have guessed?

May He Have Found the Summerlands

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where as of today we have 100 followers! I thank you, my faeries thank you, and the bored gods thank you! There is yet hope of returning the whole wide world to polytheism! Our operators are standing by to take your call.

Via Facebook I learned of the passing of one of my favorite high school teachers. His name was Nick Scallion.

And yes, he lived to a ripe old age! He was 81. That would have put him in his mid-40s when I had him for driver's education.

We did not have driver's education online at my Appalachian high school. And Mr. Scallion did not teach by today's model, which is basically let the students teach the class while you stand back and watch. Oh no. Mr. Scallion was an ex-Marine, and as a driver's ed teacher, he had you just where he wanted you. No backtalk to the guy who stands between you and the open road!

Sometimes I think of Mr. Scallion when I'm teaching. Sometimes I think of him when I'm driving.

I remember him when I am observed by an administrator who chides me for "too much teacher talk." All Mr. Scallion did was talk. He talked for 45 minutes, day after day. We listened and took notes. Ah, well, there were days when he didn't talk. Those were the days when he showed instructional movies like "Mechanized Death" and "Your Car, Your Coffin." I guess I don't need to share the plots of those films, except to say that I sometimes recall them when in heavy moving traffic on I-95.

Actually, Mr. Scallion was a good model of talking teacher. Yes, he lectured and harangued. But he did it with pizazz. Personality. He had vim and vigor, created by competitive tennis and being a basketball coach. Lady readers, I am not exaggerating. He looked like Paul Newman, right down to the blue eyes.

So, who is not going to listen to an engaging and energetic (albeit stern) lecturer who looks like Paul Newman? Dude could have been teaching bog biology, I still would have been riveted.

But what he taught was driving. He taught it well. If you screwed up behind the wheel, he yelled at you. Everyone knew it and tried hard not to screw up. (Another teacher faux-pas these days: yelling. You have to maintain a safe and secure learning environment. Scallion would have quit before doing that.)

This is the kind of bragging that I hardly dare to do, especially given the fact that I live in, and drive in, a major metropolitan area. But it's the truth. As of today, October 21, 2010, I have never been in a serious automobile accident. I have zero points on my license.

Yes, that could change tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. If you see this blog post, and nothing but, for the next three months, just figure that I tempted fate by bragging on my driving abilities.

But am I really doing that? How much of my driving was influenced by stern Mr. Scallion, who lectured, yelled, and flunked anyone who didn't do so much as one homework assignment?

Mr. Nicholas Scallion, may you have found the Summerlands. May you have found a high-octane dragon and highly competitive tennis faeries. Put it in drive and head home. Blue eyes.

Junior Health Class

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where every day's a gnu day! Yak, yak, yak. How are ewe?

Okay, that's enough now, Puck. You can go back to poking the parrot with a stick.

As the veil thins I continue to find myself in this odd state of insouciance where nothing seems to matter anymore. Things that would have bothered me or worried me in times hence are just making me laugh and shrug. I think perhaps that I am edging toward the veil myself, and I realize that the time to be happy is now. Not tomorrow, now.

An addendum to yesterday's post: I do not mind when my students come in to chat me up after school. I'm honored.  The whole reason I'm there is to try to make a difference in peoples' lives. I try to do that by genuinely caring about my students. Ask me if they can tell who cares about them and who doesn't. They have extraordinary sniff-out skills.

But that's beside the point! Today's sermon is entitled JUNIOR HEALTH CLASS AND THE DAUGHTER IN YOUR LIFE!

Last night I came slogging upstairs to go to bed, and I found my daughter The Spare at an online website that sells home pregnancy tests. She was studying the site carefully.

The conversation went something like this:

Anne: Doing a little shopping online?

Spare: He expects me to go into the pharmacy and look at these. And even ask the pharmacist about them.

Anne: Who is HE?????? *anguish*

Spare: The health teacher. The assignment says to go into a pharmacy and compare the cost of home pregnancy test kits. And to read the box and figure out how they work. And then to find out which one is most accurate.

Anne: This is for health class. For real. Like, looking and not buying .... oh pleeeeeeeze!

Spare: Mom. Are you serious? Of course it's for health class! And I'm not going into any pharmacy to look at this stuff. Can you imagine me standing in the Snobville Family Drugstore, looking at these? What if Wanda saw me? What if Celeste saw me? What if the cross-country team saw me? Like, could anything be more embarrassing than that?

Anne: Well, yeah. Does every junior at Snobville High have this assignment?

Spare: Yep. It's online.

Anne: So the boys have to go do this too.

Spare: As if. Get real. No one is going to study home pregnancy tests at a drugstore!

Anne: One would think that the teacher might ask the boys to study the condoms instead of the home pregnancy tests.

Spare: EWWWWWW! Go away! This online health class is making me gag as it is! Don't make it worse!

Readers, it's true. It's true! Spare had to write a report on home pregnancy tests for her junior health class. I went to the school e-board, and the assignment was there. Spare doesn't even have a boyfriend right now, and she has dumped two who tried to get fresh.

But my curiosity was piqued.

The Snobville High School online health class (there are no in-school classes, the course is all done online) has videos about puberty, sexual reproduction, gestation and childbirth, parenting, and relationships.

There is nothing about how to obtain sensible family planning. The word "condom" does not appear anywhere.

There's an assignment for home pregnancy kits, but none about birth control pills or devices.

I have never seen anything more ridiculous in my life. This is New Jersey! This is not Kansas! These are college-bound, high-performance teenagers, brimming with libido! Damn it, I want my kid to know where to get The Pill!

Honestly, this is no joking matter. Spare may not be sexually active, but a number of her friends are -- and who am I kidding, she could be in a matter of weeks, if the right scruffy, guitar-playing skinnyboy came along. Any junior high health class on sexuality, pregnancy, and parenting that does not mention birth control is worse than useless. It's counter-productive. Literally, my kid has been asked to price pregnancy tests rather than to investigate HOW NOT TO BECOME PREGNANT.

Good thing Heir and Spare have me in their corner. I may not be a doctor, but I know how to teach high school health. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

I guess in next week's health class they'll be pricing multi-symptom cough syrups after not having learned to wash their hands before eating. It makes that much sense.

It's Just How I Am

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" "Know thyself," I always say. Focus that inner mirror. Figure out what makes you tick. Or what makes you a tick. Grammar trick!

Are you the kind of person who, given a job to do, just wants to dig in and get it done? I am. When I have something to do, and someone's trying to chat me up, I get annoyed.

A busy high school is not the optimal working environment for me.

I get mildly annoyed when students come in my room to chat me up. But I get intensely annoyed when other teachers come gabbing at me when all I really want to do is get the doggone essays graded and get my butt home to the warm hearth.

This week I actually clocked how much time other people wasted for me by chit-chatting. Two-and-a-half hours! Why did I bother clocking this? Well, it just so happens that my daughter The Heir was home from college this week, and I wanted to get home early enough to enjoy her company.

I know this is a "Dear Abby" question, but what do I do about these pesky teachers who just want to gab? The Teacher Creature is the worst offender, but he's only in my room one afternoon a week. There are two lady teachers about my age who pester me every day. And this is how well the one knows me: She tells me all the latest gossip from her church choir. *hack up fur ball*

I know I would be hurt if someone told me, "Sorry, I would love to hear about your Druid Grove, but right now I have to get these forms filled out in triplicate so I can go home and see my daughter." I'd feel like a chump. I don't want to make anyone feel like a chump, but I would like to have some benign way to dismiss the pests.

If you can think of anything, please share. Alas, I have already tried telling Gabbing Methodist Teacher that I'm a Pagan. Any space that might have put between us was canceled when she discovered that I own a parrot. (She does too.)

When I'm at work, I just want to work. I'm all business. It's just how I am. Most of the teachers at my school are that way too. I just seem to be a magnet for the ones who aren't.

I am open to spell suggestions, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.

Oh, wait! The only upholstered furniture in my classroom is my teacher chair, and I sit in that! So bring on the grape juice ... I fear it not!

Shameless Plea for Self-Promotion

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," founded in 2005 to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of deities who deserve our devotion! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. Here today with my hat in my hand.

I have 24,856 profile views. I have 96 followers. So close, and yet so far.

My shameless plea is to you, my 96 readers. Would you please talk me up just four more notches? If I can get 100 followers, that's enough to convince the Snobville Fire Department to shut off the street for a block party.

Then all of you would be able to come to a vulture-themed block party on Sunday, October 31! We'll have people all dressed up in costumes, a bonfire, carved pumpkins, and pie pie pie! And we'll have mead! (Well, that is if you bring it. I stand alone among my friends in not knowing how to make, or where to purchase, good mead.)

 

I'm very grateful to have 96 followers, and I do hope I entertain you. If so, please phone a friend and ask them to join our "Gods Are Bored" family!

If I could be serious for a minute...

Wait. Who am I kidding? I'm never serious for a minute! I once made it through 46 seconds of seriousness, but that was as far as I got. And that was at my mom's funeral. You can't ask my mom to die again so that I'll be serious for a true 60 seconds.

Tell your friends that this is the place to visit for people and deities who want to dance, sing, grab all the beatnik madness of life and wring it joyfully across the abyss of despair!

Or just tell them about the block party. Whatever it takes. My goal is to have 100 followers by Samhain, and none of them relations or neighbors. Can you help this worthy cause?

Follow me, and I'll tell you how to become happy, sexy, rich, and famous!

Oh, wait. Too many religious blogs already make that claim.

Follow me, and I'll try to make you chuckle a few times a week.

The world may be all f****** up, but we're living through it anyway. Might as well laugh about it.
The way I see it, things work like this: If only the Bible is true, we're one and all screwed -- so let's be screwed with reckless abandon! And if there's more true than just the Bible, our gods will stand solid with us -- so let's engage deeply in life, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.

Follow me! Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead!

Thank you, and may the bored gods find you and lead you, and by leading you, so may they restore their worth!

PS: You might want to bring a pair of sensible shoes. I hate it when people show up for a hike wearing flip flops.

Autumn Saturday Navel Gaze

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, the veil grows thin! Can't you feel it? Thinking of lost loved ones? They're thinking of you too. They're making their reservations for dinner with you in two weeks. I'll bet you already have them penciled in on your calendar. Am I right?

Every now and then, we at "The Gods Are Bored" do a little navel-gazing here. It's a diary that everyone can read! (I edit out the dirty parts.) Today is one of those days, so if you're looking for wisdom ... hey, wait. There's never any wisdom here! You might as well stay.

Today was one of those breezy and crisp autumn Saturdays when you just want to kiss the sky, like Hendricks without the haze. And let me tell you, I was feeling the love!

At breakfast time, Spare, Mr. J and I went to the farmer's market in the neighboring borough of Not Snobville. The sun was out, but it was breezy and cold. Spare kept asking for hugs! Do I care if it was because she was cold? A hug is a hug.

No sooner did we get there than we saw the Monkey Man with his monkey! It was the first time I had seen him to talk to him in a long time -- not since well before his Fringe Festival show. He thanked me for the part I played in getting him publicity in the high and mighty Philadelphia Inquirer. Spare and I told him how much we enjoyed the show. Then he talked a little Phillies baseball with Mr. J. We all went off to shop together.  (Even the monkey, who was wearing little bells on his paws.)

Somehow Spare and I found ourselves standing in front of a table brimming with a half dozen varieties of apple. I couldn't pry her arms from around my waist (not that I was trying). Talk about the veil: I could feel my great-grandfather standing there with us, scrutinizing the apples. Apples were his cash crop. So I told Spare that, and I told her how my grandfather would ride the farm wagon into Cumberland with the autumn apples, and once the apples were all sold, the family would have money to buy shoes and sugar and coffee and fabric. Spare is very interested in these stories. I'm glad.

As for my great-grandfather, I think he was confounded by the variety of apples, their worm-free perfection -- and the El, rumbling right over our heads.

Once we had bought cider and apples and broccoli, it was time for me to go to Recovery, Inc. Here is my incredible lucky autumn Saturday ... Heir was home, and when she's home, she goes to Recovery with me! (I'll talk more about Recovery some other time. Basically it's a free behavior mod program for nervous people.) Heir and I went to Recovery, and then ... and then ...

Heir, Spare, and I bought some plastic jack-o-lanterns and went to Woodstock Trading Company to help them decorate their front lawn for Halloween! If you click on my sidebar and go to their blog, you'll read all about it.

I love going to Woodstock. It's been a haven ever since I first walked into the door. All of my faeries followed me home from there. Nowadays it's more fun than ever, since I fostered a kitten for them and he now lives in the store. Whenever I go there, he gets all batty over me. Pinky swear that cat knows I saved his life when he was just a gerbil-sized sick kitten.

Woodstock looks awesome. Who would ever have thought of using a Maypole as the center pole for a gigantic spider web? There are some creative people down there, readers. We tied our jack-o-lanterns in the trees, petted the pussy cat, admired the huge spider that we didn't make, and then bid our farewells.

When we got home from Woodstock, I took some sun on the back porch with my cat, Alpha, on my lap. Then I baked a pie and made a pot of stew in the kitchen. Decibel the parrot kept me company, but he got a little nervous when I started humming "Sing a Song of Sixpence."

Oh yes, and we decorated the house for Samhain. My favorite holy day, and always has been.

Just now Heir, Spare, and I are back from the debut performance of a new local band that contains some friends of the Spare. The band is named Big Folkin Deal. It was such a gorgeous autumn evening that even Snobville seemed friendly, at least for an hour or so. (I will reserve judgment on Big Folkin Deal for now.)

Now it's evening. There's a cheery fire and hot stew. Decibel is clucking contentedly in his cage, Alpha is snug on my lap, and my two wonderful daughters, Heir and Spare, are upstairs looking at "College Humor" videos. The Monkey Man is studying Chinese at his rowhouse in Camden, and Monstro the cat is sleeping in his cat bed at Woodstock.

Great-granddad is out in the kitchen, staring at the apples. I won't burst his ghost bubble by telling him that they look better than they taste.

Stonewall and Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" How much do you know about the American Civil War? All I'll say is that it was the only time I rooted for the Yankees.

When I was a little shaver, I used to ride my bike all the time on a road called "Stonewall Jackson's Way." The road was the route Jackson and his troops took to Antietam Battlefield.

Stonewall is a pretty interesting person to read about. Any biography will do. They all end the same way. He dies. Shot by his own troops when he became disoriented while wandering alone at night.

Stonewall Jackson's fatal failing was going without sleep. In battle-ready situations, he would stay awake three or four full days at a time ... or he would settle down to a one-hour nap and then be awake for 48 hours. Needless to say, he made many errors due to sleep deprivation. Including the one that got him shot.

I thought of Stonewall this morning.

You see, Wednesday evening was Back-to-School Night at the Vo-Tech. We teachers were there meeting and greeting parents and kids until 9:00 p.m.

 I don't know about you, but when I'm closely engaged with something into the evening hours, I have trouble getting to sleep when I get home. Exhausted as I was, I tossed and turned a bit.

Thursday morning I got up at 5:30 as usual. Except I had to be perky right away, because Spare had to get to school by 6:00 for a field trip (counting shore birds and razor blades at the Jersey beach).

So I dragged my desperately fatigued carcass to work. I opened my school email, and there was a cheery little missive from the superintendent: I would be getting a walk-through by the School Leadership Committee some time that morning.

Isn't that the way the world works, my friends? The minute you get a little worn-out, your boss sends six administrators to observe your class.

Whew. I saddled up Little Sorrel and rode straight into the breach.

At least I think I did. Truly I can't remember enough about this morning to say for certain how well I did.

Good night.

The Goldilocks Planet

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," scanning the skies and baking fresh pies! No lies.

A few years ago, my daughter The Heir came home and told me that her science teacher stood in front of the class and categorically ruled out any chance of biological life on any other planet in the universe.

Granted, this was a biology teacher, but get real! Heir wasn't attending some crazy private religious school. Seems to me that your average high school biology teacher ought to have a basic grasp of the size of the universe and the statistics that go with it.

You read it here first, friends. We are not alone in the universe. I'm grabbing a number out of a hat when I say there are probably more than 10 million planets with fully diverse ecosystems, including sentient beings. Universe is a big place, yo. Whole lotta stars out there.

I'm a little late getting to this, but last week an astronomy journal published news of the discovery of a planet revolving around a star just a few trillion miles from here. The planet has ideal conditions for liquid water, which is, of course, a prerequisite for life. One of the scientists called the planet a "Goldilocks planet" because it isn't too hot or too cold. It's just right.


Within a hundred years we'll have identified a bevvy of Goldilocks planets. They're out there in droves.

Of  course, what we do with this map of great planets will say a lot about us and our deities. Have we made any progress on our penchant for conquest, or will we send a Columbus in a spacesuit to check out Goldilocks IV and take note of what can be pillaged or "settled?" Or will we behave like intelligent life ... leave the planet alone, entirely alone, just like we would want to be free of aliens who would drink our water and suck our brains out through our noses?

I won't be around for the "take me to your leader" phase of Earth history, but I tell you this: It's coming. Whole lotta planets out there. Let's show them some respect, eh?

Prresidential Motorcade

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you from a major metropolitan area smack in the middle of Eastern America's megalopolis! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, just another anonymous honeybee in the colony known as the Delaware Valley.

I've had a great weekend bonding with my daughters. On Saturday, The Spare and I took the El into Philadelphia and cruised the consignment shops on South Street. On Sunday I drove out to Valley Forge to see The Heir at her college. A wonderful time was had by all!

If you have never visited Philadelphia, the City of Buzzardly Love, let me acquaint you with the infrastructure. Why? Because it's essential for today's sermon.

Philadelphia  has exactly one freeway running into it from the west. This roadway is the Schuykill Expressway ... lovingly known hereabouts as the Sure-kill Expressway. The Sure-kill has baffling lane-changes and is, in some cases, two lanes going one way, two the other, with a concrete barrier between the eastbound and the westbound lanes. The southern side of the Sure-kill is a cliff, and the northern side is the Schuykill River, down a steep bluff. In other words, there's no way to expand this nail-biter of a deathtrap highway.

The Sure-kill is always packed with traffic. Always. Three in the morning, it's jammed. Sunday afternoon  (even when the teams are away), it's jammed. If the radio announcer calls the mess a "rolling backup," that's good news. At least we're rolling. The snail on the bank of the Schuykill River's gaining ground on us, but yo ... we're in motion.

Whenever I set out for Valley Forge from Snobville, I always check the traffic report before I get on the Sure-kill. Today's report was ominous. President Obama and Vice President Biden were going to be at a rally in Germantown.

The rally was already in progress when I set out for Valley Forge, so I took the Sure-kill and flowed out to the western suburbs like semi-warm molasses.

Heir and I spent a lovely afternoon together watching the steam rise from the cooling towers at the Limerick nuclear power plant. Good times, good times. Then I got her some groceries and toiletries, slipped her fifty bucks, and bid her adieu with a warm maternal hug.

Time to go back to New Jersey on the Sure-kill Expressway.

Except there was a problem. A snag, so to speak.

President Obama needed to use the Sure-kill Expressway and its north-south cousin, Interstate 95, to get to Philadelphia International Airport.

You know what they do in these cases, reader? They close down the friggin freeway to all traffic, so that the presidential motorcade can proceed without impediment.

Both of Philadelphia's major arteries, closed completely for 40 minutes. Wow, what a mess.

Luckily, I checked the traffic report before leaving Valley Forge and thus was given a heads-up on our Fearless Leader's freeway use.

I know a round-about route that takes me down 476 almost to Wilmington, crosses the Delaware on an obscure bridge, and winds back north through the wilds of Jersey to Snobville. It's miles and miles out of the way, but you know what? I'm home now. If I had tried to get from Point B to Point A the same time that President Obama wanted to get from Point C to Point D, I would still be sitting in traffic on the Sure-kill Expressway. How do I know? As I was closing in on Snobville I checked the traffic report again. Sure enough, the traffic was bumper to bumper from Valley Forge right into Center City. Snails, tortoises, and sloths were making quicker progress than automobiles.

So this is my question. Why do presidents get to shut down freeways?

Seems to me that presidents could have bullet-proof SUVs that would proceed anonymously through major metropolitan traffic. Windows you couldn't see through. A few companion vehicles just in case there's a fender-bender.

Why should our president go to some urban neighborhood and pretend to be just an ordinary joe, then snarl traffic in a major city so he can get to the airport to his big ol' jet? This does not compute. Especially since there are Air Force bases in the vicinity, and he could get to Philly in a helicopter if he wanted to.

 I wasn't inconvenienced by Fearless Leader today, because I checked the traffic report. But what about the other travelers on the Sure-kill Expressway on Sunday afternoon at 6:00? What if there was a woman in labor, stuck in that shut-down? What about the day-tripper returning from the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire with not much gas in the tank?

Causing inconvenience to the American public is business as usual for our country's leadership. Obama is not the first to require sacrifices of ordinary commuters. Lots and lots of presidents have done it before him. I guess I just thought that he would be a little different. He said it was time for a change. Couldn't that have included the way he moves between Points A and B?

Glen Rock Fae Trailer

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Well, let's see. What's new in the world? One percent of Americans control about half of the wealth, the Westboro Baptist Church is standing before the Supreme Court defending its right to shout at grieving military families (in person and online), Mr. Bigwand is still a six-foot spout of gushing ego, and I'm dead beat from another day of teaching!

Time for a little re-adjustment.

Some time in 2011 a film producer will be releasing a documentary about the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Here is the trailer. If you live anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard, and you watch this and think, "Oh, I don't want to go to that," then where do you want to go?

Faeries. Lots and lots of faeries. Enough said.

http://www.glenrockfae.com/Video/Pages/The_First_Trailer.html

Big, Broad, and Flexible

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," spreading joy as if it were Jif and the bread was the size of Texas! Tra la la!

Ah, sheesh. I'm exhausted. Being a second-year teacher is no easier than being a first-year teacher.

Below I posted a link to a rant by a British right-winger who excoriated Druids and the recent government decision in the UK to grant charitable trust status to Druids. You'll see there are comments under my link, and some of them are terrific.

Here's what I think about getting a tax-free status as a faith.

If you've got loosely-associated people in parts of your country who are communicating and doing similar Rituals to similar deities, and all those people opt to be called Druids, or Wiccans, or Pastafarians, then to me, that's a religion. Some people object to the word "religion," seeing it as weighted and freighted with baggage and expectations. Well, by the same light we ought to object to the word Pagan, as its original meaning is "backward."

Let us put all semantics aside, all quarrels and woes, and join with our UK Druid kindred in blessing the Great Celtic Deities and honoring the sanctity of the Earth!

When it came to warfare, the Celts were not pansies. They could smite with force. But within their society, the Druids were the lawgivers, the poets, the teachers, the composers, the singers, and the historians. A very fine group to make a comeback, if you ask me.

As we Pagans step out into the light, remember that Druid gatherings are open to anyone who doesn't sneer, and they are egalitarian as far as they can be. (Deference is usually paid to the person who knows the most Craft, so long as that person doesn't get carried away by ego.) I'm preaching to the choir here, but if you want to see what Druidry is all about, seek out your nearest OBOD (Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids) or ADF (Ár nDraíocht Féin) by way of websites.

We may be a religion, but you don't need to bring a casserole. See you there!

Don't talk to me tonight...

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1317490/Druids-official-religion-Stones-Praise-come.html

Read this and let the author know what you think. Then copy your comment to her and paste it in a comment here at "The Gods Are Bored." Then pass this link on to every Pagan friend you have so they can let the author know what they think too.

Go ahead. Vent your spleen. She sure did, and got paid for it too.

My Guest Blog Stint for "You, Me & Religion"

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you are coming here from "You, Me & Religion," howdy! I hope you brought your deities with you, so long as they're polite and don't spill anything on my upholstery.

"You, Me & Religion" is a questionnaire blog that invites people from various paths to answer a specific set of questions. Some of the questions do not apply to some of the respondents.  However, most of them are general enough that they fit a variety of faiths. I've been reading "You, Me & Religion" for awhile, and it gets a hearty "Gods Are Bored" endorsement for the big, broad, flexible outlook.

If you want to read my post there, and you already know me, Godsspeed. Here's the link again:
http://youmereligion.blogspot.com/

My Favorite Month, Bar None!

Don't you just love October? Even if you live in the Southern Hemisphere, you must love October. October rules, reigns, and rises above! Give me autumn, or give me death. Or both. I'm cool with that.

I'm going to start this post with a shout-out to the incredible Mrs. B, over at Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom.  http://www.confessionsofapagansoccermom.com/ 

Every year between October1 and October 31, Mrs. B throws every ounce of energy into providing Pagans with enjoyable giveaways, guest blogs on thoughtful topics, and haunted blog tours. (I did a guest and a tour last year.) If you don't already have Mrs. B. on your radar, go and visit!

Now, on to today's sermon: WHAT A WACKY DAY!

When you live in New Jersey, it's almost a given that September brings some kind of tropical storm. We just had one, Nicole by name. She didn't look like a beast until yesterday after dark, when the sky opened up and it poured like God had reneged on the rainbow thing.

By this morning, there was water, water everywhere, and still it fell from the sky. Off I went to school, wiper blades doing double shift.

(Funny aside: I still have the same teacher parking space that I had last year. My space ends at a chain-link fence, behind which live four big, loud German Shepherds and two yappy canines of some other breed. Last year before I achieved wisdom, the sinister barking and snarling of these hounds added to my misery. Now that I'm enlightened, I get out of my car -- 6:45 a.m. -- and sweetly call, "HERE, KITTY KITTY KITTY..." You should just see and hear the rage! Starts me off laughing every day.)

Back to the sermon.

I went into the school. In the mornings I have cafeteria duty, meaning that I stand in the cafeteria while the kids get their breakfast (your tax dollars at work). Today, the cafeteria was under a few inches of water. No breakfast. And pandemonium as we tried to explain that fact to 600 kids.

Finally settled into the morning routine, and -- ZAP! -- out goes the power. And it stays out. And stays out. And stays out.

WHIRRRRRR! On comes the emergency generator. Enough juice for the principal to make an announcement over the intercom: "Please keep all students in their second period classes."

Am I lucky, or what? My second period class only has nine students, and two were absent. The rest were working on computers, but when the juice ran dry, they switched to paper and pen and kept right on working. Yeah. I'm flabbergasted too. But size (or lack thererof) does matter in this case. It's not hard to keep seven kids on task.

You won't believe me, but it's true. School is more boring when you don't have something to do than when you do. Students don't understand this, but teachers do.

The power was out for more than a half hour, but when it came up again, school resumed and the bell schedule was adjusted. Excitement enough for a month of Sundays!

October. In like a lion, out like a lion. Don't give me that lamb stuff. I'm a cat person.

 So anyway, it was another long day. On Fridays I like to get my lesson plans done for the following week, and my room tidy, before I come home.

By the time I did get home, around 6:25, the sky had cleared, and beautiful cool autumn weather was descending. Better yet, I discovered that The Spare was going out with her gal pals, and Mr. Johnson was biffing off to do research for his book. Home with nothing to do on a Friday night!

Snobville has these puffy affairs called "First Friday," where all the boutiques and restaurants are open, and there's live music on main street.

BAMP! I would rather swallow a chicken bone.

Beautiful autumn evening, a home football game ... right across the pond ... an 8-minute walk ...

BAMP! Had to buy cat food. And supper. By that time it was dark.

So, what's a happy Druid to do with an evening alone? I got a little supper, some tonic on the rocks, and went to enjoy the solitude of my back porch and a little candle-light from the Shrine of the Mists.

Shrine was fine, but wouldn't you know ... I plopped into a patio chair ... Tropical Storm Nicole ...

So here I am, blogging in my home office, listening to the roar of the crowd in the stadium (next block), with a moistened tooshy to keep me company.

I love October. Don't you?