R U Rapture Ready?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we have long awaited Rapture and are now counting down the hours! The meek are about to inherit the Earth, my friends! All others go to Heaven, and ... ahem ... Godspeed them.

My friend Intense Guy alerted me to an article about Rapture that ran on some news site this week. Thanks, Iggy, for giving me the theme of my final pre-Rapture sermon! (And BTW, Iggy's post today is also about doomsday, but peppered with gorgeous photos of the Rail Trail to Cumberland, Maryland. So when you've ended your sojourn here at TGAB, by all means toddle over there!)

I have something very important to say regarding the End of the World.

For the sake of argument, let's buy the belief (however briefly) that the busy god, and only the busy god, exists. We've got either a few hours or a few months (depending on who you believe) before those of us who don't fit into His heaven get the axe.

It's time to say goodbye.

What do you have that is unsaid and unfinished in your life? Are you bearing a grudge against someone? Did you have harsh words with a spouse, offspring, or sibling recently? Is there anything, anything that you would regret not doing or saying if you knew that you only had a short time to live?

Fill in the blank: Just once before I die, I would like to ________.

Then, so long as it harms no one, go do it! This may be your last chance to visit those chateaux in the Loire Valley. Book the flight!

Do you have a close friend you haven't talked to in a long time, because you're too busy to bother? What if you knew that you wouldn't have another chance after tonight? (*Anne makes note to self: Call Celeste.*) Take a few precious minutes out of your final hours and phone a friend. Bonus points if you make plans to have coffee on Sunday!

Personally I have few regrets, no grudges I can think of with anyone, and no place on Earth I haven't visited that I feel like I need to see before I go. I'm always at peace with the bored gods (except Mars, He hates peace). Then what should I do with my last labored breaths?

Gratitude seems to be in order.

To my family and friends in the apparent world: I love you all, one and all, you are always on my mind and in my heart. As it appears we will all be going down together, let's hold hands and laugh and kiss and be of good cheer. Chins up, no surrender!

Friends, readers ... people who've been coming here to "The Gods Are Bored" for years, and you who have stumbled in recently: Thank you for visiting. I have actually met some of you (and merry was the meet in every case), and it's been so much fun to get messages from all over the planet. Over the course of my long run here, I've been elitist, righteously indignant, snarky, foolish, too personal on occasion, sentimental, silly, and sometimes stupid. You have forgiven my trespasses, shared my worldview, educated me, chastised me on occasion, and provided warmth on gloomy days. If this is farewell, then as the bored gods are my witnesses, it's been swell writing for you. I've enjoyed what I've done here.

And tra la la! I don't even have to go back and delete posts I regret writing, because I did that awhile back!

Let's make these next few days a time of frank gratitude amongst ourselves for all that is good in our lives, and perhaps rectify some relationships that have gone awry. I think the Jews have a day for this built into their calendar, but the rest of us, not so much.

Rapture ready? Sure, why not! Goodbye, kind world. Well done.

Photo: Anne and Spare, with Big Red and Mushu at the Spoutwood Fairie Festival, 2011.

The Beast's Short List

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," counting down to Rapture in three ... two ... one.

I find it hard to make predictions about deities. One time I was on a golf course, on a high piece of ground, with a titanium putter in my hand, just four feet from the hole. I missed the shot. As a thunderstorm roiled around me, I waved the putter in the air and dared God to strike me dead.

And here I am. You cannot trust these deities to do what they're purported to do.

At the same time, I can't help but draw up a wish list for the Great Beast.

You've heard of the Great Beast. He's the bad dude who's going to descend and enthrall us after Rapture ... only to dash our heads against the bricks, or some such.

Who would you like to see dashed on the bricks by the Great Beast?

Me, I'm a no-kill kinda gal, so maybe I ought to put it differently. Who do you think deserves to smell the Great Beast's breath up close and personal?

Here's my short list.

1. People who think there's only one way to salvation, and that is ... (enter your exclusionary religion here).

2. People who reap profit off human suffering. You know, insurance company execs, makers of fast food, the Military Industrial Complex ... enough examples. You're smart. You get it.

3. People who set themselves up as paragons of virtue, when really they're secretly boozing, drugging, and banging in reckless abandon. Have at 'em, Beast.

4. All of the people who have replaced the cute Mister Softee vendor who used to drive the ice cream truck through my neighborhood. (Yes, I know. It's personal.)

5. Rick Santorum, just because he would not believe his bad luck at not being Raptured.

Please feel free to leave your candidates for suffering at the hands of the Great Beast in the comments column. We at "The Gods Are Bored" really appreciate your patronage, which will be the subject of the next entry!

In Which I Predict the End of the World

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," counting down to Rapture on May 21! Yes, Rapture is scheduled, and we who are longing to be Left Behind can only hope that the 1,235th time is the charm.

The world will end some day. It surely will. You don't need "The Gods Are Bored" to tell you that.

Our planet has undergone several immensely significant extinction events, the most recent being the end of the Age of Dinosaurs. This wasn't a long, slow descent into darkness, but a catastrophic collision with an asteroid.

Think about it. One day, all the rich, varied plethora of dinos were out in their rain forests, munching those pretty big plants and gently nuzzling their babies, and the next day, the Earth said "ouch," and that was that. The large dinosaur species must have disappeared in a matter of months. Months, on a planet that has been rocking on for a couple billion years.

We've got fancy science now that could tell us if another asteroid might be on a collision path with Earth. But could we stop it? Oh yeah, that would get all of us to work together for awhile, or at least to view each other with more empathy. Once the impact occurs, though, it would be every Homo sapiens for himself, and none of us could cope with a sunless sky and the total loss of food crops. We're better organized than the dinosaurs, but we're still too fragile to survive a catastrophic extinction event.

Let's say Earth never gets hit by another asteroid. Well, we at "The Gods Are Bored" still predict that the world will end. The planet is warmed by a star that will change as it ages. One little burp that's bigger than usual will fry us one and all. It's inevitable that changes to the Sun will alter the surface temperatures on Earth beyond the survival capacity of biological life.

It might not even take a Sun burp. Humankind is its own worst enemy. Have you seen the population estimates for this century? Me too. The more crowded we get, the more meat we supply to an opportunistic bacterium or virus. In this era, a sickness that wiped out 90 percent of the population might cause the other 10 percent to die of attrition, since almost everyone on the planet now relies on some basic forms of technology. Would you know how to grow enough food and kill enough meat for ten percent of the people in your home town? Me neither.

We've got the Yellowstone caldera, global climate change, plate tectonics ... ah, face it, our rock is always in peril.

Notice this, however. I predict with 100 percent certainty the end of the world. I do not predict the exact date when it will happen. People who do this are foolish. Your better variety of deities never do it. Even the busy god says He has it on His calendar, but He's not telling anyone when.

The reason for not assigning a specific date to chaos is crystal clear. If you mark it on your calendar, and that day comes and goes with only the usual round of death and misery (off-balanced by birth and joy), you look like a moron. People may begin to doubt your predicting skills. Banquet halls might not want to book your daughter's wedding reception. The dry cleaner won't ask you when you plan to pick up your shirts ... heck, they might not even take your shirts in the first place! If you can't predict the big stuff with certainty, no one will trust you on the details either.

Casinos, however, will roll out the red carpet to you -- as will race tracks. You clearly, dearly love a long shot.

The world will end. Just not on Saturday. How do I know for sure? I don't know for sure. But the odds of me getting up to fix Sunday brunch on May 22 are astronomical. I like a safe bet.

Countdown to Rapture

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," cursing Facebook one virus at a time! Why, why, why did I ever fall for the latest stupid viral post? If you are my Facebook friend, never believe one thing you see posted by me. I'm about to swear off it for good.

There's a Rapture scheduled for Saturday, and I invite those of you who blog to think about what you might say to anyone who wanders, disillusioned, onto your site in the wake of it. Given the sad history of groups who have made reservations, seen them cancelled, and decided to seek the higher power by committing suicide, this really isn't exactly a laughing matter. (Although, trust me, I'll find some way to be snide about it.)

I was thinking about this Rapture event Sunday afternoon. My daughter The Spare had a choir concert at a local Episcopal church, so I went to hear it. And it was fabulous. There are some upsides to living in Snobville -- everyone else can afford to give their kids singing and music lessons. We even have a bongo player.

Before the concert began, I stared around at the church, which I'd maybe been in one time before. I got to thinking about it. Other than giving blood, I haven't been in a church for a long time. Even the funerals I've gone to in the past few years haven't been held in churches.

An awful lot of beautiful artwork goes into a church, doesn't it? All those stained-glass windows, and carved beams. Eye candy, for sure. Not distracting from the music, but nice to persue in between numbers.

And then the inevitable happened. Except it had been so long since I'd been in a church that I forgot the inevitabilities of every beautiful church building of any pantheon. Namely, you must pay the rent.

A jovial fellow (the music pastor from the church) got up and made a merry little speech about how wonderful it was to have the Snobville choirs perform, but please, as you leave, put a little money in the plate so we can continue to have these concerts. Because,  you see, we need to have the lights on for the concert, and we need the air conditioning, and all that stuff costs money. So be generous.

Well, right up pops my faerie Puck, and that bad thing, he whispers in my ear, "Hey, Anne, there's going to be a bowlful of money at the back of this place, and you need to buy a baby shower gift!"

The brat. Can you believe him?

Seriously, however, I found myself thinking: "It's a beautiful day outside. Why do we need to be in this air-conditioned, lit building anyway? We could have had this concert in the courtyard of Snobville High! No air-conditioning, no lights, no stained glass that needs its weekly Windex, no pews that need their Pledge. Just songs in the air, under the sky.

I know that my tax dollars cover music concerts held inside Snobville High. (The building is pretty run-down, given the average income level, but that's because of the way school taxes are collected here in New Jersey.) Snobville High's auditorium is not air-conditioned. It does have microphones and stage lighting. But they never charge admission to a concert. Nor do they ask for an offering. They sell t-shirts and Hershey bars in the lobby, but that's different. You get something in return for your payout.

Part of what always bothered me about the busy god was this constant plea for rent money. I guess it makes sense to petition the faithful for cash on Sunday morning. But an audience of mostly parents who have come in to hear a concert by their kids? Does this suddenly make me responsible for the air-conditioning all the rest of the time when I'm not in the building?

Needless to say, the church did not get any money from me. Also needless to say, I did not heed Puck's suggestion to line my pockets from the coffers. It's just bad form, bad form, to need money so badly that you stick your hand out for an hour-long concert by the local high school, in which the audience was three-quarters or more parents of same.

Get this. The air conditioning wasn't even on. As I said, it was a beautiful day.

On Kept Women and Rhodesian Ridgebacks ... Again!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," praise and worship for everybody still on solid ground as of this hour next week! It's countdown to Rapture, after which we will deal with the remainders by providing warm blankets, bottled water, and counseling through Friends of the Bored Gods (501 C3).

This should be an interesting week.

Today's post, however, concerns two of my favorite topics: kept women and Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Well, they're not really my favorite topics, but the two posts I did about them got more viewings than anything else I've written.

Keeping the crowd happy, so to speak.

I live in a New Jersey suburb of Philadelphia called Snobville. It bears a scary resemblance to Stars Hollow in that t.v. show The Gilmore Girls, if you ever happened to see it. (This may not be a coincidence. One of the leading actors on that show grew up in Snobville.) Mr. J and I moved to Snobville in 1987, purchasing a fixer-upper where the only thing in top-notch condition was the poison ivy in the back yard.

Previously I had written about a doctor here in Snobville who kept his purebred Rhodesian Ridgeback hunting hounds at his home on the other side of town. I've been soundly excoriated in previous posts for bad-mouthing these pooches, but I stand by my view that dogs bred to chase lions might not make cuddly pets. In our local case, two dogs owned by this doctor (father and son dogs) bit a series of children and adults over about 10 years, one of them being the oldest daughter of my friend Wanda. Wanda's daughter will have scars all her life on her neck and shoulder.

Last week, so the local newspaper says, one of the dogs bit yet another kid. The doctor was under some kind of court order respecting the animal, and apparently this was enough. The dog was euthanized. But look how long it took. The dog's father, also a biter, was never put down, and this dog (I believe) might have sired some puppies -- who should be chasing friggin lions instead of pulling on leashes while being walked through the groomed precincts of Snobville.

I can say anything I want here about the pope, or the Book of Revelation, or snake-handlers, or Mormon missionaries, and I don't get a peep from the haters. But if I go thumbs-down on Rhodesian Ridgebacks, I get pounded.

Who cares? I'll say it again. Certain dog breeds are BRED to behave in certain ways. They're BRED for certain climates. Have you ever seen some poor Huskie suffering through a summer afternoon on the end of some leash? Breaks my heart.

Want a good dog? Go to the pet shelter, adopt a mixed breed (read: mutt), and you will find yourself with a lovely companion pet who is wired to think the world of you and not wired to wonder if an overly-affectionate toddler might perhaps be a lion.

Moral of this sermon: Send the Ridgebacks back to Rhodesia! Seriously, do not tell me these dogs make great pets. Mutts make great pets. You have that dog for a whole different reason. Status.

And it is that oh-so-Snobville word, status, that brings me to the kept women.

Mr. J doesn't like it when I tee off on the women here in Snobville whose spouses make so much money that they don't have to work. You see these females all over the place, and you can spot them a mile away. How? They're all thin, tan, and they all wander around in workout suits and high-end athletic shoes. A busy day includes a tennis lesson, mani-pedi, lunch, and shopping. A quiet day minimizes the shopping but might have a bit of yoga somewhere at a convenient hour.

Yesterday my daughter The Heir (newly home from college, yay!) found herself at Snobville's town center around noon. It was a lovely afternoon. Right in the middle of the town center, a small but significant group of kept women were having a yoga class outside. Sun Salutation, right between the Coldstone Creamery and the By Hand Art Gallery. Meanwhile, Heir told me, some construction workers were doing something in the street, and they were staring, pointing, and laughing at the women.

Now, don't go hating me on yoga! I love yoga! Can't do it, but I think it's great. But to me, yoga is rather like prayer. If you're going to do it outside, it would be better to find a quiet, leafy glen -- not the semi-bustling, concrete, bistro-heavy center of Snobville.

There's something about doing yoga in a public location of that nature that just invites you to be mocked by men who are working their butts off, presumably in relationships with women who also work their butts off.

Message to kept women: I know Mr. J says I'm jealous, but really I'm not. Because if Mr. J suddenly became a surgeon with a hankering to breed Rhodesian Ridgebacks, I would still work at something. Yoga in Snob Center? Never, not even the day before Spare marries Prince Harry!

It would really be swell if some of these kept women were Raptured, but I'm not very hopeful. I've read enough of the Bible to know that, no matter how hard they try to stay thin, they're still not going to get those buffed buns through the eye of a needle. Sadly, they will remain among us, bemoaning the loss of their favorite Vietnamese manicure artist.

Okay, haters. Off you go!

Our New Nonprofit

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" What a beautiful day it is outside! I think I'll keep this post short.

As my three readers already know, a date for The Rapture has been officially set. It is exactly 10 days hence, on May 21, 2011.

So far, those of us who promote the bored gods have pretty much been thinking about the commercial and ecological ramifications of this long-awaited event. How could we have overlooked the spiritual dimension?

The Bible pretty much lays out this scenario where those who are not Raptured will face great strife from such vile opponents as celestial horsemen and a Great Beast that we'll all recognize because he'll be spray-painted with a great big 666.

That sounds scary.

There's also the matter of people being Left Behind. Suppose some of those people (more likely a lot of them) think they should have been promoted? There's bound to be bitterness.

Some people scared, some people bitter ... and some of us not giving a fig, because we're with the bored gods.

So I, Anne Johnson, am now going to create a 501 C3 nonprofit organization called Friends of the Bored Gods. We at Friends of the Bored Gods will be offering post-Rapture counseling and education for all of those who are either scared or pissed. No one need look over a shoulder for the Great Beast! At least, not if you're taking an alternate route. Friends of the Bored Gods will provide alternate routes to healing and closure in the post-Rapture world. Trust me, friends, the hundreds of bored deities who've been ousted by Yahweh are already camping around the pond behind my house, just waiting for a new influx of mortal followers. (We've been having some lively, family-friendly parties.)

If you would like to donate to Friends of the Bored Gods, just remember our rules here at "The Gods Are Bored." It's all about the economy. You write to me, tell me how much you would like to donate. I'll send you a check for that amount, which you will then return to me. Let's face it, times are tough. This is our way of letting you feel good without having to sacrifice your pin money.

Friends of the Bored Gods has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Gosh, I thought that up all by myself! Rather proud.

Save the Date!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we have very, very, very good news today!

The date for Rapture has been set. According to a huge billboard about a mile away from where I'm sitting, Armageddon begins on May 21, 2011.

In less than two weeks, the busy god will call his best pupils away, and the world will suddenly become less populous. That is, if you believe that more than 144,000 people can get into heaven.

For the sake of celebration, let us assume that more than 144,000 people will get into heaven.

On May 21, as I said, the best and brightest of Yahweh's bustling entourage will be whisked straight away. What will the rest of us do?

On Facebook, someone has set up an After Rapture Party for May 22. I'm cool with that. I'll dig out a nice casserole recipe for nostalgia's sake, and all of us Left Behinders can revel in the removal of the very most sanctimonious amongst us.

Think of all the mega-churches we'll have, totally empty and at our disposal! Well, there's a nice gap-filler in the school budget, for one thing. Art supplies! Tables, chairs, and desks, for kids of all sizes! Take the school stuff out, put in some lightly-used furniture, and voila! Housing for people who are living in tents! Some of these places even have showers and basketball courts. Sweet!

The Raptured will leave behind homes, cars, clothes, jewelry, furniture, pets, and other swell things that can be doled out to the non-Raptured on an as-needed basis. I think we can be fair about this. Take me, for instance. My car works pretty well, so I won't need the late model Ford Escalade belonging to the pastor who figured out when The Rapture would begin. But I'll bet there's someone out there whose beat-up old pickup just breathed its last. And I'll bet that person just missed Rapture by a smidgen, maybe bet the Kentucky Derby last weekend or something equally pernicious. Justice! That's what I'm all about. The Escalade goes to the guilty gambler. It'll take the sting out of not being Raptured (and missing out on that fabulous $300-plus exacta).

Just a warning: We at "The Gods Are Bored" may be a little late for the After Rapture Party. Awhile back, we went to give blood at the Snobville United Methodist Church, in the process getting an eyeball of some high quality upholstered furniture in the church foyer. No one will miss it! Ask any Snobville Methodist, they will shyly admit they're on the Rapture roster.

So I get first dibs on the easy chairs, okay? You all must know me by now.

My Man Jeff

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Mother's Day edition 2011! Spare made breakfast, and she also made a beautiful video for me with pictures from throughout my whole life. It was hugely touching. As for Heir ... hmmm ... Heir ... still at college, not even a phone call. Maybe later.

Just now I was out tending Shrine of the Mists. Seemed like a nice way to honor my Mother.

Every time I visit Polish Mountain I bring back more stone for my Shrine. This batch of stone just added is extra special, since it first attended the Fairie Festival ... and I'm pretty sure it's Marcellus shale. So the Shrine is all dressed up and looking beautiful. It just needs the new Orangina bottle to be complete.

This is a picture of My Man Jeff. I only know him as My Man Jeff. Twice now he has come to the Fairie Festival and joined the Mountain Tribe. And two years in a row he has brought water for me in an Orangina bottle.

Last year at the festival, it was hot as all get out, and Jeff might have saved me from heat stroke with his gift. This year wasn't as hot, but I still was glad for the water.

Jeff does not have a Facebook. For all I know he's a faerie who materializes for the festival and then drifts away again beyond the veil. Except I have a feeling he's mortal, because this year he had a pleasant young female friend with him (not pictured).

I put Jeff's Orangina bottles on the Shrine because he is probably the very most random person I call "friend." We know nothing about each other except that we are in Mountain Tribe at the Spoutwood Fairie Festival.

Here's to My Man Jeff, magick in a small yearly dose. One day a year we are happy together. I pray that the other 364 he's just as serene.

So might it be.

The Company You Keep

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated silly Paganism since 2005! Some people only think they hear the Horned One whispering in their ears. I'm taking it to a whole new level, people. Here I am, taking His advice on how best to proceed in this and every other dimension!

Today's sermon: Is it bad to be bad?

The trouble with many people is that they can't distinguish between bad and evil. Any rule broken, any convention challenged, it's evil. Having a great time in a very rowdy way? Evil! Saying what's on your mind, even if it's an inconvenient truth? Evil! We should be serious. Uphold all standards of social respectability. And to whom do we look for those standards of respectability? Why, nice, church-going middle class white people, of course!

BAMP! Wrong.

Suppose we stop the clock for a day or two and allow The Horned One to call the shots. See, I know this Guy. He's a misunderstood bored god. Yes, He is going to encourage you to be bad. But no, most emphatically no, He is not going to want you to be evil. He wants you to have the time of your life, without harming yourself or anyone else. Yes, sadly, he wants you to overlook what might happen to the quality of the upholstery on your favorite ottoman. Stains happen. But they're stains, not sins.

People think the Horned One likes to lead young innocents astray. In my experience, there's no need of a deity to do the pushing when it comes to lust, especially in May. On the other hand, it's convenient to have Someone to blame it on when you creep off into the woods with a cutie. Devil made me do it, dontcha know.

Truth is, the Horned One doesn't make you do anything. He encourages you to enjoy yourself. My friends, our time of life is short. Let us all have fun being bad! And heck, if we stay outdoors we won't even threaten the purity of the chintz!

First Thing on My Mind

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we're slowing to a crawl after a very busy spring break! This week I'll be posting some pictures of the Fairie Festival as they become available, and I would ask anyone who has any to send me some. There's a few good ones on my Facebook profile, but I can't get them to download properly.

I wish I could revel in the festival, but earlier in the week I had an experience that shook me up and has stayed with me. I'll get that out of my system and then move on to cheerier topics!

Last Monday I drove out to Polish Mountain in southern Bedford County, PA. My family lived there for 14 generations, and I'm mostly related to everyone who was living in the area before 1970.

When I was growing up, I spent many a fine summer afternoon with my aunt Belle and my uncle Earl. Uncle Earl was my grandfather's oldest brother, and he doted on me fondly, as retired shop steward factory workers will do. He let me roam in his sturdy barn (but I was not allowed in the hayloft) and play in the spring near his house. Aunt Belle had a garden that was the talk of the township, and she, too, doted on me as only a gardening grandma can.

None of us noticed the view from Uncle Earl and Aunt Belle's house, really. It was just mountains. The only time it became important was when a storm was rolling in. At that time it was a splendid lookout for any kind of rough weather, since the kitchen window faced due west.

After Uncle Earl and Aunt Belle passed in the early 1980s, one of their sons insisted that the farm be sold. That's the way it works. If more than one person owns a property, it must be sold if any of the owners wants out.

None of Uncle Earl's family members wanted the place. The little house (a log cabin with an addition and tar paper siding) wasn't big by today's standards, and the well wasn't altogether reliable either. So, onto the market the property went.

One of Uncle Earl's sons called me and told me the asking price. It happened that Mr. J and I were just getting ready to move to Snobville, and we needed all of our money to buy a house there. We couldn't take on the responsibility or the expense of absentee landlording (even though one of my cousins -- reliable too -- was renting). We had to pass on Uncle Earl's property.

The property from which my great-grandfather's grandfather marched to the Civil War.

The place was bought by a single woman whose idea of upkeep was to bring in her mail. She did nothing. NOTHING, to keep up the house or the barn. Barn wood is greatly prized by artisans, especially the big beams that hold the structure together. She either didn't know this or didn't care.

Some years she didn't even mow the yard. But she was living there, mostly.

Last month she put the property on the market. Her asking price is $250,000.

It's a 70-acre plot with an absolutely breathtakingly beautiful view of three states. This lady knows that the view is the selling point.

Up pops a buyer, right off the bat. Local blood, distantly but directly related to Uncle Earl and Aunt Belle. The offer: $200,000.

The seller turned him down.

Last Monday while I was visiting my granddad's place (also now up for sale, but at least well maintained), I walked over to Uncle Earl's house. Oh, the shame! The weeping and wailing of my kin! I could hear it through the Veil, readers! Word!

The big, sturdy barn is ready to crumble. A good windstorm will finish the job. Carpenter bees have consumed even the milled beams. But worse than that is the house. A log house, no doubt a candidate for the Historical Register, left to rot and ruin, to carpenter bees and termites and mold. Windows broken. Roof useless. Knee-high grass right up to the door that won't shut. Collapsed outbuildings, trash strewn everywhere.

But oh boy, that view. What a view! A quarter million dollar view! Forget that local buyer, hold out for the lobbyist from DC who likes his hunting and wants his martinis on a redwood deck overlooking three states.

I know that one should never Work in heightened temper. But I did it anyway. What was I going to do, wait around until I could get over my ancestral home having gone to rack and ruin?

I wish no ill upon the owner/seller, but I did lob one heck of an Intention onto that property.

Well, we all know you can't turn back the clock, and I shouldn't expect a place to look the same as it did 45 years ago. But wait. Why not? When you buy a property, you should be prepared to undertake routine maintenance. Log homes are built to last, with a little appropriate care. And, as I said, the barn could have been dismantled and lovingly used for artistic purposes.

Does anyone want to purchase a beautiful view of three states? And a ... tear ... down?

Buyer, beware.

I'm Cool with Solomon

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" In my previous post I complained about having to read from "Song of Solomon" at the Fairie Festival this weekend, and no less than 15 bored deities showed up to set me straight (along with my enlightened readers). "Song" is all about sex, and it's very ancient, so tra la la!

Now it's time to sally forth to the festival! Here's a partial list of stuff I have already packed in the car:

1. Beautiful tablecloth for Mountain Tribe, made from scratch by Pam and Rita (thereby saving my sorry hide).
2. Three bags stuffed dragons
3. Two large rocks, a box of small ones (all but one Marcellus shale)
4. Framed Terrence McKenna quote with art by Seitou (pretty proud of this ... waiting to see how many people ask who Seitou is)
5. Shameless plea for membership in Mountain Tribe (you must have a pulse)
6. TARDIS
7. Picture of Big Red
8. Big Red
9. Picture of me and Spare (Spare will be arriving by separate transportation)
10. Banner with tribal chant on it, made by Spare
11. "My Heart, My Soul, and My Grave are in Appalachia" pin
12. Mushu and Grape (dragons from Seattle out on a spree)
13. bag of Lucky Trolls
14. Basket of purple ribbons
15. 300 safety pins and bowl to put them in


Here's what I have still left to pack:

1. Outfit #1: Neon tie-dye, red skirt, mountain hat
2. Outfit #2: Neon tie-dye tunic, capri leggings, hiking boots
3. Outfit #3: Will be a combination of above
4. Outfit #4 for Tribe games: Dalek t-shirt, shorts, sneakers
5. Most important, therefore most likely to be forgotten: Green Man earrings, Puck, and Chance

Assorted socks, underwear, and toiletries, Advil and Zyrtec (been shoving those puppies down)

It's not so bad taking all this stuff with me, but the thought that I'll have to shove it all back in the car on Sunday and drive home, then go straight into work the following day ... whoa, gonna need some good faeries on this one.

The Odds Were One in Four

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today I'm taking a little excursion to my family property on Polish Mountain, 312 Johnson Road to be exact. I dearly love that place and can't wait to get there.

I've been moaning and groaning here at this space for five years, so I guess one more piece of bitching won't send you packing.

Every year the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood has ceremonies at which are chosen the King and Queen of the May. This is a right and proper Celtic custom, like the Maypole.

This year's festival has a new Master of Ceremonies, and he has written an elaborate ceremony for the coronation. He attached the script to an email, in which he wrote: "We will be quoting from Taliesin, The Bible, Buddha, and (forget the other one)."

Before I even opened the attachment, I said to myself, "I just know I'm going to get the Bible."

Sure enough. Song of Solomon.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" praise and worship each and every bored deity who has ever had a population of faithful. The one deity we don't care to recognize is YHWH, because He's busy enough and never bored. It's a bitter pill I have to swallow to do this, but I'll do it. Not sure why the OT was tapped for this, I guess it's so that we are "inclusive."

But why me?

Excuse me while I wallow in self-pity (Not really, it's not that important and will be over in a second, like a flu shot ... oh, wait. Flu shots hurt for hours.)

Do you think they'll notice if I substitute "Song of Myself?" It's a song.

Eostre Meditation

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," out early this morning and hearing on the radio about Jesus cheating death. I hate to break it to our modern world, but this is not a concept unique to Christianity. Ask around amongst the bored gods, and you'll find any number from any number of pantheons who have done the same thing (or know Someone who did).

I went to get bagels early  -- because nothing is more sacred than commerce these days -- and on the way I was listening to news radio.

Of course it's a slow news day, so the reporters were making the rounds of sunrise services and interviewing pastors.

One local Christian pastor says Easter is the most important date on the Christian calendar because "Jesus rising from the dead is the central most important tenet of our faith. Because he died and rose, we can have eternal life."

Getting past all that "eternal life" stuff, which I pondered through many and many a dull sermon back in the day, I have to feel disappointed in what this pastor had to say.

First of all, he basically told Christians what a majority of them already know: It's just fine if you only go to church once a year, on Easter. The rest of it is window dressing.

But second, I think that pastor was selling Christianity way short. Even when I was a Christian, I would not have said that Jesus's resurrection was the central tenet of my faith. I'd have said something like, "Love your neighbor," or "be kind to your enemies," or "the meek will inherit the Earth." I might have said something about putting others' needs before (or at least next to) your own.

Sitting in some heaven listening to angel choirs for eternity would not have even made the top ten.

Death creeps us out, so it's nice to have a little happy story in the back of your head about living with God forever. But since no one except Jesus has come back from the dead to tell us what it's really like -- and he didn't say much -- I think our modern religion ought to have a little more philosophical heft to it. It should be grounded in moral responsibility to self, others, and surroundings. And with that grounding should come deeds to back it up. These deeds should not be performed in anticipation of immortality, but just because something right and good needs to be done.

Well, my zero atheist readers are now saying, "Dammit, Mom, quit praying over me! It's annoying!" (I'm fairly certain that few atheists read "The Gods Are Bored.")

  Back to my sermon: Actually what I just suggested is probably the atheist creed, certainly not needing to be tied to any particular faith. However, if you combine that creed with a quiet appreciation of the reality of Higher Powers, you can feel  that the good you're doing becomes part of a tradition, perhaps one your ancestors followed.


GIANT WASP IN MY ROOM. Goodbye!

House in Faerie and Dragon Overload

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," just a few short days east of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm!


I sure hope I'm feeling better by that time, because I think I've had two different bouts of flu this week, plus pinkeye. Today I scuttled my plans to see my friends in Allentown, and just sitting here at the computer is exhausting work.


Oh, but the festival preparations continue!


In times past, leaders of Tribes were not asked to bring anything but themselves and little tokens to give out to anyone who wanted to join the tribe. I thought I had finally volunteered for something that would ask little and give a lot.


But I'm doomed to the "say yes syndrome." With about a dozen members of the Mountain Tribe spread over three states, we have been asked to:


1. Prepare a table display explaining all about the Mountain Tribe (partially finished with the great help of Pam and Rita).


2. Create a big sign with a chant on it that our Tribe will have to chant. (Spare is working on this now.)


3. Learn the chant.


4. Be more systematic about the tokens we dole out.


5. Learn the chant.


6. Run games for kids. (That's why I needed the dragons. I still need more.)


7. There was also a rehearsal that I missed last weekend because I was sick, and it rained.


So we went from needing nothing more than boffo costumes, to needing to put on a quarter of a pageant! Faeries help me and Spare, and Pam and Rita, and Bibi as we try to prop up this venture!

The Day Walt Whitman Came to School

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Spring Break edition! Not a moment too soon, there's a little lull in the school calendar.


I went to work today with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had. I could do little more than whisper.

You might ask, "How does a school teacher in that kind of shape, with 100 freshmen in six classes, impart any learning on the day before Spring Break, and a dress-down day at that?"

I get by with a little help from my friends.

Those three of you who have been lumbering along with "The Gods Are Bored" lo, these many years, will know the story of the Weird Stranger Who Became a Best Friend, a.k.a. the Monkey Man. My last rhumba with the Monkey Man was back at Samhain, when we blew away the competition in the Not Snobville Halloween Parade -- he as Edgar Allan Poe, me as Jabberwock. Since then I haven't seen him at all.

But it turns out that, in addition to being a poet himself, he actually knows Walt Whitman!

My friend the Monkey Man arranged for Walt Whitman to visit my classes today in order to recite poetry to them and get them excited about the famous man in their midst.

I arranged the tables so that there was a little theater-in-the-round, and Mr. Whitman entertained my troops with alternating stories about his life in Camden and passages from his poetry. By the end of the day, the classroom floor was strewn with grass and good will.

An odd thing happened, though. About a quarter of my students insisted firmly that Walt Whitman was not, in fact, Walt Whitman, but rather a poet who currently lives in Camden by the name of  Rocky Wilson. Some students were emphatic on this point, and they begged to see the monkey.

 In each class, when Walt Whitman bade farewell, he walked out, and a moment later Rocky Wilson walked in. Some coincidence, huh? But it made everyone happy. The students got to hear passages from "Song of Myself," and then they also got to pet Rocky's monkey (a fond friend from their childhoods in various Camden primary schools). The added benefit was that we have also been studying Nick Virgilio, a famous haiku poet who lived in Camden -- and Rocky Wilson knew Nick Virgilio.

Rocky could not move ten feet in the hallways of the Vo Tech without being recognized. Even the lunch lady lives on his street. We had a fine time together, he and I. We always do. I treated him to lunch (remember, it's a Vo Tech with a Culinary Arts shop, so we eat like Tudors every day), and we made plans to get to some poetry events in May.

This is what I have learned about life. Proceed with patience, accept small miracles that accrue into larger miracles. (Who makes much of a miracle?) Then, sit back and smile when, just for a moment, all the Legos snap into place and you've built a pretty doggoned fine palace.

Mr. Whitman recited these lines, which I find particularly inspiring:


The spotted hawk swoops  by and accuses me,

he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am

untranslatable.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of

the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true

as any on the shadow'd wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at

the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in

lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from

the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under

your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.  ef·fuse 
adj. Botany
Spreading out loosely.

v. ef·fused, ef·fus·ing, ef·fus·es

v.tr.
1. To pour out (a liquid).

2. To radiate; diffuse.

v.intr.
..... Click the link for more information.



And you, and you, and you ... and you ...

The Appalachian Mountains Must Dress Sexy and Ask for It

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored." Usually we're just riotously funny here, and it's been a minor hit. But there's a new danger on the horizon, and it's not a Weeping Angel.

This danger is hydraulic fracturing. Better known as fracking.

Just when you would think that Appalachia has been f***** enough for centuries, there's a new kid on the block. Well, actually it's an old bully -- Big Energy, with a new agenda: fracking (yeah, I know, even Puck couldn't have picked a better name).

Fracking is the process of extracting natural gas from shale layers up to and exceeding a mile beneath the surface of Appalachia. And this time we're not talking about just West Virginia and Kentucky. This time we're including Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Maryland.

The way fracking works is, they drill a hole into the shale layer, and then drill a horizontal hole along a part of the shale bed. Then they pump chemical-laden water into the drill hole. The water causes pressure that releases natural gas, which is captured and piped to ... oh hell, to wherever they make the power that's driving this computer.

I went to a lecture last month at Philadelphia's Academy of Natural Sciences. One of the speakers said that there's a minimum of $1.3 trillion worth of natural gas just in the Marcellus Shale. Other shale layers beneath the Marcellus layer also have gas in them.

Well, I love sitting here using electricity to power my computer. So I'm not going to come down hard on fracking, even in the face of this early indication of what's to come:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/04/20/pennsylvania-fracking-spill-gas-blowout-2011_n_851637.html

Here's my take on it. We know the gas is there. Could we just possibly stop, take a cleansing breath, and create safe technology for extraction?

What's the frackin rush here? That gas has been in those rocks for eons and eons and eons! Could we be patient for 50 years and put our best minds to work on getting it out cleanly, and without so much disruption in the form of tanker trucks, refineries, and toxic waste?

Oh, of course not. It doesn't work that way. Big Energy wants to grab, grab, grab.

To which the bored gods say: "Frack you."

When the watershed that may be polluted is the Delaware River, rest assured that B.E. will have to move cautiously. What's in that fracking fluid? Are the citizens of Manhattan going to wake up one day, turn on the shower, and have flames (or radioactivity) come pouring out?

Patience is a virtue that is not often cultivated. Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" inaugurate a new theme with a new slogan: "Don't pass gas fast."


It begs the question: What next for Appalachia? How many times can these mountains be raped, in how many ways? Oh, my dear friends! The mighty Appalachians are not "just asking for it." They are ancient and sacred ... and how we treat them will show just what we're made of.

No Wonder They Always Ask Us about the Kittens

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" A quick note to President Obama: Yes, dear, Republicans think Democrats are stupid. You should have learned that in grade school. Bear it in mind in the future and act accordingly.

I was supposed to drive to Spoutwood Farm on Saturday to participate in a rehearsal of the pageant we're putting on there during the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood, happening in just 11 short days! (Come and join the Mountain Tribe! We need you!)

On Friday I scuttled the trip after looking at the weather forecast. I've driven home from that area in driving rainstorms before, and I wasn't keen to revisit the experience.

Good thing I decided to stay home, because by mid-afternoon I'd developed a late season bout of the flu. I was pretty sick for about 24 hours, which nicely coincided with a "Tudors" marathon on the telly that was punctuated with numerous Doctor Who commercials.

Today I stayed home because I'm still weak as water. Zero energy. So Mr. J and I were watching random shows this morning. While I half dozed in the chair, he started watching a movie.

Eventually it woke me up because of all the screaming. Turns out it was about four girls in a coven who were wreaking black magic havoc, killing their schoolmates and eventually turning on each other. In the end, the "good witch" girl held all the power, having sent the "bad witch" girl to a padded cell, totally insane, and nearly killing the two others with a fallen tree branch.

This piece of rot was made probably in the 1980s or early 1990s, but it illustrates the pitfalls facing modern Pagans who are asked to speak to the media. Sadly, the people in the media who are asking the questions have most likely been raised on doses of bad witch movies rather than authentic experiences of Pagan practice. My friend Hecate has written some powerful and informative posts about the inevitable plight Pagans find themselves in when dealing with the press -- having to say what they are by explaining what they are not, and then the not gets thrown into the newspaper/telly/etc.

For example:

"We venerate the natural world and the deities within it, promising to harm none and to help all. We seek to restore a positive balance to our place on the planet by promoting sound environmental practices and by advocating for peace. We do not slaughter kittens in pentagrams or paint pentacles on tombstones in Christian cemeteries."

Quote used in the newspaper: "We do not slaughter kittens in pentagrams or paint pentacles on tombstones."

Most people really don't know what Pagans do or how they do it. Most people don't realize that the nice next-door neighbor is a Pagan, the librarian is a Pagan, the seamstress who alters your prom dress is way into Faerie, the fresh spice lady at the farmer's market is a Pagan.

Americans' views of Pagan practice are informed by bad movies, misinformation linking Paganism to Satanism, and deliberate smears on popular programs such as "Focus on the Family." It's very hard for us to counter these stereotypes, and frankly I don't see any pressing need to do so. Maybe it's the hillbilly in me speaking now, but I find that no amount of sane, scientific, or reasonable information will change the thinking of someone who has grown up believing that Pagans slaughter kittens (and hillbillies are lazy and ignorant). If you add to this the sad reality that the media will always chase down the one kitten-killer or lazy Appalachian and do a feature story on that person, you're just sunk.

Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" suggest that Pagans stop talking and start doing. By doing, I mean acts of public charity. Fairy festivals. Earth Day observations. And yes, National Day of Prayer, at which we behave with all the humility and decorum of other faiths.

And as for Pagan Coming Out Day (May 2), I say move with extreme caution. You are up against hundreds of years of bad press that is still in full swing. Don't be surprised if, when you come out, the first thing you get asked about is kittens. I know. It happened to me.

Spare's Birthday Party

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Yes, that's leftover birthday cake you see there on the countertop. I wish I could say, "Help yourself," but Spare is pretty parsimonious when it comes to doling out cake.

Spare turned 17 recently. Last night she had a few friends over to dine with her. I served them spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and cake.

I decorated with a Star Wars tablecloth and Yoda napkins. One of her friends gave her a light saber, and another gave her a sonic screwdriver. No other kinds of screwdrivers were requested, craved, or consumed.

Spare has taken an interest in science fiction, which is always a bed of fertile ground for lively imaginations. She is particularly interested in Doctor Who, but she and I had a wonderful time watching the 1976 Star Wars together.

Have you caught any of this Doctor Who? Some of the episodes are pretty creative. I don't get to watch it much, but I approve of Spare immersing herself in it.

Spare wanted me to list ten things about her that I like, here at "The Gods Are Bored." Alas, I can't do it. I can't narrow it down to a mere ten things. I could say 50 nice things about her sweet, sober, smart friends before I even got to her.

Spare's birthday always makes me think about her tree.

When Spare was a year old, I found a tiny little ornamental maple sapling growing under the huge pine tree in my neighbor's front yard. This little thing was only one stick, literally the size of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. Could not have been more than 16 inches tall.

I asked my neighbor if I could dig it up and replant it. He asked me why I would want to.

I said, "I'm patient."

For a short time, Spare and her tree were the same height. I have pictures. But no more. The maple is a stunning, mature tree now, as broad as it is tall, and beautiful every month of the year. In the spring (right around now, through mid-May) its leaves are a combination of magenta and chartreuse. They go green for the summer, and then turn a brilliant red in the fall. I suspect that only global climate change allows this plant to live at all around here, because it holds its leaves the longest of any other tree around here -- and it blooms fairly early.

So, here's some of that advice that used to be free, but now I'm paying you to take. If you know you're going to stay somewhere for awhile, plant some little twig that would otherwise be overlooked. Why go to the garden store and shell out $400 for a maple that has just sat in some nursery for six years? Grow your own! Once you get through that gangly childhood phase, your twig will be fabulous. With the money you save you can pay your federal income taxes!

I think I'll get Spare to pose with her tree for another portrait. Both are growing and thriving in the fertile soil of the Garden State.

This Fucked Up Place Called America

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," waxing righteously indignant tonight and every night over the great gap between the wealthy few and the needy many. Oh, say. We've come a few baby steps from the slave labor used to build the Pyramids and grow cotton! But generally we're still wired either to dominate or recede.

I live in a place named Snobville. I teach in a place named Camden. It takes me nine minutes to drive to work, from Snobville to Camden.

Yesterday my daughter The Spare used this space to record a conversation she overheard from her classmates in which they extolled the virtue of bikini-shopping and moaned about having to fly to various resorts in coach amongst the "dirty people."

Yesterday and today I walked around my classroom as my students wrote about memorable moments in their lives. My students are nearly the same age as Spare and those girls she overheard.

Here is what is on the mind of my students:

*Mom dying of cancer, making plans with student to care for the younger siblings.
*Cousin being shot in a drug deal gone bad.
*Dad dying of liver cancer.
*Mom dying of a heart attack.
*Mom having so many heart attacks student learned how to dial 911 at age six. Mom has since died.
*Mom can't go home to Mexico to see her dying father because she doesn't have papers.
*Student gets called a gringo by his family in the Dominican Republic because he was born in America.
*Apartment fire, everything lost but our lives.
*Mom and Dad fought so much that a divorce is a relief.
*Cousin died, shot in crossfire.
*First ride in a squad car.
*Mom works six days a week, but on Sunday we have breakfast.
*My brothers were deported. I'll never see them again.
*Dad works three jobs to give us what he never had.
*I'm not allowed to write about my family. We are distantly related to Trujillo.
*No one in my family can speak English but me.

The misery these young people have seen is stunning. Their triumphs are few. Those who are upbeat write about love, parties, music, friends. Teenage things. But a patina of fear and resignation cloaks everything.

Even Spare, dear Spare, does not live with the expectations that her cousins will be shot and her apartment burnt down. But when I think that there are teenagers who wax indignant because they have to fly coach to a Mexican resort, I ... I ...

oh, crap. I feel a Billy Jack meltdown coming on. Clear the streets of Snobville while there's still time.

Blood Donor Day Guest Blogger

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"  I've just had to beat my faeries back from the computer. One of my Facebook friends posted, "Be still and know that I am God" as a status. Damn Puck! I caught him in the action of typing, "Be gill and know that I am Cod." Disrespectful! Know whine for Puck two knight!

I gave blood today and then was observed by ten school administrators bearing clipboards. It seems like a good time for a guest blogger. So here's a transcript of the email I received this afternoon from my daughter The Spare, who is serving a four-year sentence in Snobville High with no time off for good (or bad) behavior.

Take it away, Spare:

Boy do I have a story for you. Get ready because this is great.

 

     So it was forth period study hall, and I was going around the school hanging up signs telling people to go look at the the Snobville HS Digital Gallery website. (I'm not sure why though, no one reads the newspaper, what would make anyone want to look at pictures?) I hung up a total of 11 signs. I know, I'm pretty legit. Anyways, I realize that I have a good 10 minutes left in the period and nothing to do. "Hmm," I ponder to myself, "I am quite hungry, I might as well stop by the cafeteria and grab a mere pretzel." Of course the stupid cafeteria ladies aren't at the snack place so I say, "Whatever, there is a vending machine. I'll just go to that." So I put in my dollar, and as usual it wouldn't accept it. ARG! So I flattened my dollar out for a good 5 minute and finally it accepted it. Just as I was about to get my delicious chips, they get stuck. DOUBLE ARG! I then try TWO MORE TIMES to get the snack. Nothing seems to work. Alone. Scared. Angry. And in some major need of chips, I just gave up.  I went back to my study hall in a super bad mood. And just who do I see but a bunch of clone girls in a circle talking. It was like Star Wars: Clone Wars, only much MUCH worse. AMIRIGHT?! Their conversation went like so:

 

Ditzy Blonde 1: 7 days until I go to the Cayman Islands! Oh my gee!!!

Ditzy Blonde 2: First class?

Ditzy Blonde 1: Are you fucking joking, of course.

(Spare puts her Ipod in anticipating a horrible conversation. The Ipod dies. Spare's health goes down.)

Ditzy Blonde 2: UGH. My stupid dad won't let us. Like we're staying in the like resort thing in Mexico and its really pretty and all but like how much money is it for like 4 people to take first class? I'm taking coach all the way to Mexico. That's gross. Like the people who take coach, like they're dirty, right? Ugh, I want to throw up just thinking about it.

Ditzy Blonde 3: That's stupid. Your dad shouldn't do that to you. Like its the way you were raised. You've always taken first class.

Ditzy Blonde 2: I know, right? The only good thing about this stupid trip is that the gym overlooks the beach in my resort.

Ditzy Blonde 1: That's good. At least you can work out while you're there. You have to look skinny for Junior Prom. What are you gonna do about food there? You're gonna get so fat.

Ditzy Blonde 2: Oh I'm just bringing some granola and yogurt and I'm gonna eat that when I get hungry.

Ditzy Blonde 1: Good Idea. I think I'll do that too.

(By this time Spare is attempting to kill herself with her plastic spoon. It is not effective.)

Ditzy Blonde 2: Oh my god, I'm gonna look so great for prom if this diet works out.

Ditzy Blonde 3: Speaking of prom, what are we gonna do about Ditzy Blonde 4? If she doesn't get a date she can't come with us to the beach afterwards.

Ditzy Blonde 1: Ugh I don't know but it's so annoying. Anyways I bought my two bikinis for after prom. They are so cute. I got them at Nordstroms.

Ditzy Blonde 2: Congratulations! The bikini is like the second most important thing about prom, next to the dress. Are you guys gonna get a tan before prom?

Ditzy Blonde 1 and 3: Duh.

Ditzy Blonde 2: Good. I think I'm going to (insert some stupid tanning salon name here).

(Spare hits her head on the desk purposely.)

(All Ditzy Blondes look over in disgust, they then look at each other and snicker.)

(Spare looks at the clock. Only 2 more minutes of this. She considers drawing pictures of Daleks eating granola and yogurt. Or fashioning a weapon out of old gum wrappers.)

Ditzy Blonde 1: As I was saying, Cayman in 7.

(Spare decides on fashioning a weapon out of gum wrappers.)

Ditzy Blonde 2: Whore I'm so jealous! I'm only going to Key West!

(Spare is about to stab herself with the home-made weapon because she is Macgyver.)

(Bell Rings)

(Spare heads to Film as Art where she is watching Annie Hall)

Spare: Thank god for Woody Allen

Ditzy Blonde 1: (Under breath) She is so weird. 

 

 

Sincerly,

Your Weird Daughter :)

 

 

Postscript from Anne: If any of you out there think the rich shouldn't get their taxes restored to Clinton-era levels, perhaps you're right. We wouldn't want these poor Snobville girls to fly coach, now, would we?

Why do I feel like hacking up a fur ball?

The New Civil War: Another Interview with Mars

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today marks the 150th anniversary of the American Civil War, the bloodiest conflict in America's short history. Make note that we were fighting each other, not some invader from across the briny deep.

Here we are, 150 years farther down the road, and we at "The Gods Are Bored" ask a question: Could there ever be another Civil War?

Ah, well, in all matters of war, pestilence, famine, bloodshed, and violence, I automatically call a bored god for an interview. With some trepidation (because last time he set my sofa on fire), I offer you Mars, the God of War. Please give a cool, calm, gentle welcome to Mars! Some hail!

Anne: Hello, Mars. Can I get you anything? A few anabolic steroids? Night vision goggles?

Mars: GOT 'EM ALREADY. DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION FOR ME, IMPUDENT RISK-TAKER?

Anne: Yes. As You no doubt know (and approve), America is involved in a number of armed conflicts at present.

Mars: THE MORE THE MERRIER, I ALWAYS SAY.

Anne: I'm wondering if you see any civil wars in our future.

Mars: I'M WORKING ON IT.

Anne: What do you mean, you're working on it? You're trying to start a war, American against American? Something that could conceivably leave mounds of bodies in cornfields?

(Mars begins to slobber at the thought.)

Mars: FORGET IT. I MISSPOKE.


Anne: Crap on that! What do you have up your sleeve?

Mars: I DON'T HAVE TO DO MUCH HEAVY LIFTING HERE. YOU'VE GOT SOME HIGH-END MOVERS AND SHAKERS WHO ARE DIVIDING AND CONQUERING THE WORKING CLASSES. LOOK AT THIS THING IN WISCONSIN. NO FISTS FLEW ... THIS TIME. BUT JUST YOU WAIT.

Anne: I get you, God. If the drudge fights the drudge, and the rich look on from a comfortable distance, all that really happens is a convenient reduction in the workforce.

Mars: EVEN A SENATOR COULDN'T PHRASE IT BETTER THAN THAT.

Anne: Red states, blue states. Presidents of both parties that consistently support the wealthiest few at the expense of the many...

Mars: OH, WELL, YOUR LEADERSHIP WILL ALWAYS DO THAT. AND IF THEY CAN GET HALF THE POPULACE TO BUY INTO IT,  ONLY THE SMALL WILL SUFFER.

Anne: I don't know why it is ... I interview bored deities here all the time ... but you are the only one who gives me a stomach ache and hives. I suppose you absolutely adored the American Civil War.

Mars: LOVED IT.

Anne: Favorite general?

Mars: IT SURE WASN'T MCCLELLAN. MY MONEY GOES WITH JACKSON, EXCEPT I COULD NOT GET THAT MAN TO TAKE A NAP.

Anne: So you were on the side of the South?

Mars: I HAVEN'T TAKEN A SIDE SINCE ROME FELL. STRICTLY FREE LANCE THESE DAYS. PRAY TO ME, AND I FIGHT WITH YOU. THE CAUSE IS NOT IMPORTANT.

Anne: Just what this planet needs. A war god for hire. I suppose business is good.

Mars: BOOMING.

Anne: Show yourself out, you sorry excuse.

Advice You'll Have To Pay for, but Worth It

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, there's nothing like the first warm days of spring to remind me what a lazy lump I am and how pathetic my garden grows. I can look out my window and see my neighbor pruning her perfect flower beds ... oh hey! I can see them, and not my own yard! WIN!

Some of you have asked me how to lure faeries to your garden. You will be happy to know that there's a new book out called The Faeries' Guide to Green Magick from the Garden. It is by Jamie Wood with gorgeous illustrations by Lisa Steinke.

For those of you who can grow rosebushes through cracks in the sidewalk, this pretty little guidebook may be far too simplistic. No doubt you have herbal books that you use to press sunflowers. But for newbs like me, this little guide gives the names and purposes of several dozen herbs, flowers, and even trees, as well as recipes to make teas, breads, and remedies. There's advice on green gardening, magickal gardening, and co-existing with the fae. On this basis, I would heartily recommend it to those who've contacted me on the finer points of making the backyard faerie-friendly.

Given the fact that my one and only claim to fame is a half decent compost pile, I'm likely to derive some benefit from this book beyond just the quick essays on summoning faeries. That is, if I get past staring at the paintings. They really are beautiful.

As gardening season gets under way (for all the rest of you -- I see it as outdoor nap time), you might want to pick up a copy of The Faeries' Guide to Green Magick in the Garden.

Now. Where's my hammock?

Paying It Forward with Music

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bringing you a strict diet of old-time religion ... emphasis on the old. Accept no substitutes, all of our deities are time-tested with high approval ratings.

I don't have much time today, because Heir is sick and needs my attention. But I did want to thank those of you who recommended music for my second-hand, gently used MP3 player. Just as with clothing and kitchen supplies, I will never buy new or retail. I'll just wait for someone to outgrow or discard old electronics and basically be a step behind everybody else.

The MP3 player works. I've loaded Faun, Decemberists, Coyote Run, and even a selection of "Leaves of Grass."

Now I'm going to make a suggestion to y'all.

When I listen to Celtic music, I feel myself saying, "Where's the banjo?" That's because I grew up on hillbilly music, bluegrass to be precise. Bluegrass is a fusion of Scottish-Irish and African influences. Because the banjo is an African instrument, albeit modified in its stylistics for bluegrass.

Traditional bluegrass really is hillbilly music, and not many people like big doses of it unless they've got a little hillbilly in them.

In the late 1970s a group of young performers got together and created a sound called New Grass. This was a fusion of bluegrass, reggae, jazz, and country. It surely would have fizzled (and it since has), except the musicians in question were absurdly talented. They were:

John Cowan, vocals. Unparalleled in bluegrass music.
Sam Bush, fiddle and mandolin. A master of both, with jazz stylings. Sam's the one who covers Bob Marley.
Bela Fleck, banjo. He learned jazz banjo, moved to bluegrass, returned to jazz and now plays with the Flecktones.

These three dudes were in a band called The New Grass Revival. They were pretty successful in their time, but they broke up in (I think) 1989. If you watch their videos on YouTube, you can see that John Cowan wore his hair in that classic ugly 1980s style. It doesn't detract from his incredible vocals.

So, we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend that you sample the New Grass Revival. Let me know if you like them. Sam Bush also has a solo album called "Glamor and Grits" that travels new ground, and both Sam and John contributed to a Leftover Salmon album. I could tell you the name of it, but Spare is listening to Doctor Who music on the MP3 right now. She recommends a terrific band called Chameleon Circuit. Nuff said.

Anyone have any idea how many albums I can put on a 5g MP3 player? The clock is still ticking -- I have until April 27 to fill it to the gills.

Turkey Vultures -- Scary Scavengers

Now We Are Six!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," on or around our sixth anniversary! What began in 2005 as a peevish Pagan rant against anything and everything has become .... um .... okay, so evolution doesn't happen so quickly! Give me another ten million years, and I'll be the picture of calmness and sanity.

It's tempting to look back and re-live all the highlights, but oh crap. They are few, and the list of posts is loooooong. Onward and upward, I say.

May 5 has been designated the National Day of Prayer, again. I'm not sure whether the sitting president has issued some sort of decree, but I guess he probably will. Seems like he's for sale in every other area, so he's probably going to overlook the First Amendment as well.

So, once again on May 5, 2011, we'll have a big display of pastors, rabbis, and Imams praying for a nation founded on the premise that government should be unaffiliated with any and every faith path.

Do you believe in prayer? I sure do! Not a night goes by that I don't spend a few reflective moments with some deserving bored deity or another. If you haven't tried communing with a Higher Power who hasn't gotten a shred of attention in 2000 years, you really ought to. It's sort of a situation where you ask not what the god can do for you, but what you can do for the god.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" plan to find out where and when Snobville's observance of National Day of Prayer will occur. We will go there in all our numbers (that being one) and call Peace from the Quarters. It's a day of prayer. So who is choosing the recipient of the prayers? We Pagans have a Constitutional guarantee that we, too, can pray for the great, grand US of A.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" encourage fellow Pagans to get out the prayer! Take your circle, your coven, your blot, your local Pastafarians, find out where and when, and go to the local event.

Let's use this fabulous National Day of Prayer as a platform from which to proclaim that we, too, Pagans all, have our very own deities, rituals, and practices that are valid and affirming.

Honestly, does Yahweh need more press? No, but a little ink dedicated to Mannanan Mac Lir might be nice.

More on this in the future. Thank you for reading "The Gods Are Bored." I love what I do here. I've met so many fascinating Ancient Ones!

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

The Great Grand Album Challenge

Well, my friends, there's so much going on in the world right now that I wish I had time to write more. I promise I'll have an interesting post tomorrow or the next day.

In the meantime, I have three weeks. The clock is ticking.

Three weeks to load my MP3 player with everything under the sun. Then the stupid monthly subscription fee runs out. We've been paying this fee for over a year without downloading a single snippet of music.

Therefore I intend to make up for lost time. I'm going to load as many albums as I can. That way I recoup the money we've spent for the doggone Rhapsody all along.

Fling your recommendations my way! I do not like jazz. I'm pretty versed in classical. I'd rather swim in Jello than listen to most Broadway, so forget that too. Never liked opera. If it's country music, it has to be edgy.

Need: music that gives you that extra boost at the end of the day. Ethnic music, especially Scottish and Celtic. Fusion, so long as it has a beat. Drums. Dance.

What do you like that the bored gods would party to? Make a list and check it twice. Subscription ends April 27.

And yes, listening to this little MP3 player is like being let out of silence jail. Currently "Earth, Wind & Fire." Highly recommend. Although it pegs me age-wise.

Please don't recommend The Residents. I will block you.

Peace to all -- some Walt Whitman this week, I think.

Oh, Brave New World without Music

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Alas, I am singing the blues this weekend. A cappella. Just my quivery voice going out into a void.

On Friday night my daughter The Heir and I journeyed to the World Cafe for a return engagement of The Residents. I triple dog dare you to find a weirder group of performance artists than these. In fact, many psychiatrists use live performances of The Residents as a test of sanity. If you sit and listen to the entire show, you're crazy. If you run screaming from the venue, you're sane.

Poor Heir. Totally certifiable. Not only did she attend the concert, she stood at the rail by the stage, the only girl amongst a crush of nerdboys who had that never-leave-the-basement pallor.

It's not fair to the concept of music to call a Residents performance music. So I can be safe in saying that since January, my entire experience of music has been reduced to short bursts of classic rock in the car, classical music during dinner (from the t.v., Mr. J's idea), and one lovely concert by Delhi 2 Dublin, which definitely qualifies as music.

No wonder I'm going nuts.

When I was a teenager, my parents gave me a record player from Montgomery Ward. I used my spare change to buy albums, and I played them on the record player. Some of my friends had 8-track tape players. Later I got a car with a cassette player, and that was great. Still later the CD player came out, and that was great too -- just seemed like little records. Pop them into the player and hit play.

Nowadays you need an IPod to listen to music. I don't have one. If I had one, I wouldn't have the foggiest notion how to use it.

I'm not the kind of person to block out the world by filling my ears with buds and listening to music instead of what's going on around me. But damn. I live in a suburb of Philadelphia. It's not like I'll be missing the trills of the nightingale if I hear a few tunes I like.

The Residents drove me to desperation. This can't be my only music! I've got to be able to hear "Fire and Rain" whenever I want! "Winchester Cathedral." Sam Bush. Earth, Wind, and Fire. "Get Up, Stand Up."

I want one of those gadgets that gets music off the Internet. The clock is not moving backwards. I have to step into the 21st century.

So this afternoon, my daughter The Spare said she would help me set up her old MP3 player to get some tunes. (She upgraded to an IPod at Christmas.) We sat down together. She got online and began clicking buttons. Click click click.

Two hours later we were still sitting there with no music to show for Spare's monumental efforts. We wound up calling the Rhapsody people and letting some dude named Earl with an Indian accent hack into our computer to try to fix whatever was wrong with Rhapsody on our end. Spare says it's fixed now and ready to load all the stuff of my dreams, but I'm afraid to touch the doggone little box -- and she's out with her friends.

Maybe you have to have been born into the digital age to be comfortable with music machines the size of credit cards. Maybe you have to be a Type A personality to work with this technology. I am sitting here in a silence broken only by the bizarre paranoiac screeches of The Residents, wishing I could just go back to those scratchy old records on a dusty turntable.

On Magical Creatures

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," quick-blogging while the spaghetti sauce simmers! I'm Anne Johnson, your hostess, and sadly I have no pie tonight. Try me on Sunday.

All too often, when we think of Faerie, we think only of human-like creatures. In fact, Faerie is chock a block with non-human beings. Think of your local wildlife refuge, then transfer it across the veil. Yep, magical creatures. Scads of them.

When I was young, I had the companionship of a furry creature I called "Ewt." He had a long face like a deer, and pointed ears, but they were high on his head like a cat's ears. He was furry and could change sizes at whim.

Not only did I have Ewt, but he was one of a big flock of ewts. There were many ewts. Mine just liked me. The rest were his friends.

I had an uncle who was a doctor. When he first began practicing medicine, my dad and I visited his office. He had a little figurine on his desk. I identified it immediately as my ewt. Uncle, always obliging ( to his dying day, alas! Oh, I loved him!) gave me the ewt statue.

But this was just a statue, a representation of the Ewt I knew from the Other Side. I played with Ewt all the time, and I talked to him too.

Many, many years later I purchased a book called The Notebooks of Brian Froud. Brian draws Faerie. Not just Gothic steampunk fairies like Amy Brown. Brian draws Faerie. And in that book I found a perfect rendition of Ewt.

I can't say I was surprised. If anyone else was going to see ewts, it was Brian Froud. I was just amazed that he got so many of the details spot-on. It was a pleasant confirmation that I wasn't alone in enjoying such a fabulous magical creature.

A few years ago, I met Brian Froud. I had him sign my copy of Notebooks right next to the ewt drawing. I asked him where he had seen this creature, and he said the woods. I told him that this was not a unique creature, but a whole species of creature that had many, many individuals. He had never seen a herd of ewts and was intrigued by the possibility.

Beyond the veil are creatures. Not just humanoids with pointy ears. There are creatures with fur, feathers, and wings. Reptilian beasts and little furry gerbil-like cuties.

Why should life beyond the veil be any leaner than the apparent world?

But don't wait to cross the veil before you embrace the creatures of Faerie. Look and listen for them just before you dream. Encourage your children to play with them -- kids see them. I should know.

Embrace the ewt in your back yard. Ewts do not eat your garden.

Say Yes to Dragons, Say What to Siblings

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where things get curiouser and curiouser. Is life that way for you? I guess if I live long enough never to be surprised by people, I should just part the veil and step on through.

Thank you to all who have offered the aid of your dragons to the cause of the Mountain Tribe! I would only ask that you not send any dragon who has deep sentimental value for you, as we will be tossing them about a bit, and they might get torn or dusty or (OH PLEASE NO) muddy! If your dragon still wants to come to the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood, my email is luvbuzzards at yahoo dot com.

And now, a personal message, so skip this if you aren't PAM OR RITA! YES, PAM AND RITA, I NEED FABULOUS STUFF FOR THE MOUNTAIN TRIBE! We have an official banner, but a beautiful Mountain Tribe tapestry that can stand alone would be fabulous to have in the brand-new Tribe tent -- where there's no competition, oh no, but two of the four tribe leaders are ARTISTS. Contact me as above, and we can brainstorm! Do you want a challenge? Make me a 3-D tabletop mountain!

On to today's sermon. Tired old topic, I know, but this is what's on my mind as Mercury goes into a nasty Aries retrograde.

In the past year, my sister has adopted two dogs and five cats. She has gotten a tattoo. She and her husband paid to have their basement finished, pretty much just to give the cats somewhere nice to live. Now they are planning to travel to China to adopt a child.

Last week, my sister's wonderful, adorable Amazon parrot flew into a wall and died. Sis grieved for about 48 hours before her husband presented her with a new Eclectus parrot. Sis had had her Amazon for almost 25 years, but never mind, now she has a new parrot. "It is helping with the grieving process," she said.

Today I got an email from Sis. I'm sick over what she had to say, but not because of the money involved or any of that. It's just another red flag rising amongst a sea of red flags -- think of a bathing beach 1,000 miles long with a gale warning along the entire length of it. I'm talking that kind of red flag alert.

Must have been four years ago, Sis gave me some pierced earrings that she had gotten from her mother-in-law's estate. Two of the pairs were pretty valuable.

I'm not much of a wearer of fancy jewelry, and I'm pretty cavalier with gold and gems. It's all rock to me. (Well, except for my wedding ring.) So when the good folks battling development at Terrapin Run were seeking items for a silent auction (to help pay the land use lawyer), I donated the earrings to the cause. And they fetched a nice sum too.

In her email this afternoon, Sis asked if she could borrow one of those pairs of earrings. It seems that she has gotten her ears pierced. She is five years younger than I am, and she has worn clip earrings her whole life.

Whatever possessed her to get her ears pierced, she wanted the gift earrings back. Which of course can't happen, because the baubles in question saved a little stream.

The bigger alarm flag rose when she wrote that she could not afford a pair of 14-carat gold earrings right now.

With all the expenditures she and her husband have made in the past year (vet bills alone must be high four figures), what moved her to get her ears pierced in the first place? What is moving her to do all the things she's doing? I've told her I'm scared for her. I've told her to take the slow track on adopting, to outsource a few of the cats. I sent her a sympathy card for her bird, figuring there was no replacing that special parrot... It could not have arrived before the new bird was bought.

What's wrong with my sister? I'm so worried! I'm sure she'll provide a better home for a disabled Chinese boy than some orphanage, but it's not the child that gives me pause, it's her.

At this point I'm keeping things civil, because a while back I confronted her and was told that Druids must be bad people if they were so judgmental. I can't help but feel, though, that I'm watching construction of a house of cards. A pair of earrings is nothing compared to the magnitude of impulsive decision-making I'm seeing.

Oh snap. Thanks for listening. If you look at how the bored gods get along with their siblings, it's often similar stuff. Please light a calming candle for this sis of mine. Fire can only rage for so long before it consumes its fuel.

Shout Out for Dragons!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today's sermon is on a fabulous beast from beyond the veil: the dragon.

I believe in dragons. We have their bones all around us and are still digging more up. We put those bones together and call them dinosaurs, but what they really are is dragons.

Dragons live in the Other World now, but still we can feel their intentions, both dangerous and benign. Only a stone cold fool would court a dangerous dragon, but you see people who do it -- big old tattoos on their arms, t-shirts that breathe fire. Don't come crying to me, tough guy, when that dragon thrashes you into a puddle of karma.

As for me, I prefer benign or beneficial dragons. A benign dragon just wants to play fetch, climb trees, and laugh as you beg it to come down. Beneficial dragons, though not seeming to be fierce, can protect you when the world is coming to pieces around you.

Big Red is a benign dragon. As you can see, he climbed a tree and laughed when I begged him to come down. I laughed too. Laughter is a good thing.

All of this is prelude to the most bizarre but necessary "Gods Are Bored" shameless plea ever.

I need stuffed dragons. At least a dozen. If you have a stuffed dragon, or you know where to get one cheap, I will pay its postage from you to me, and back from me to you.

When I said that the Mountain Tribe would sponsor a dragon toss at the Spoutwood Farm Fairie Festival, I thought it would be nothing to pick up a dozen dragons from the thrift store. Over the years I have seen dragons there aplenty. I got Big Red there. Since then I've passed over quite a few cute dragons simply because I had no need for them, and I figured there were kids out there who needed benign dragons.

In the past four weeks, I have rescued exactly one dragon from the thrift store. There's a distinct dragon deficit.

So if you have a dragon, or you know where you can get one cheap, or you see one between now and mid-April, help me out here! I'll pay you to send me your dragon. I'll keep scrupulous records of which dragon belongs to which person. And then, after your dragon has gotten a chance to soar and fly for a weekend, I'll send it back to you. It will be extremely contented and bring you scads of good luck and happiness.

Talk to Miss Annie. I need to borrow your dragon.

PS - In this post I have called dragons "it" because dragons come in both genders, and I didn't want to say he/she.