Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and your host, Annie. I'm a school teacher off for the summer. Today I'm enjoying the luxury of having nothing to do but blog and laundry.
I have two daughters, The Heir and The Spare. I got the idea for their names from Princess Diana's two boys. Some Brits call Wills and Harry "The heir and the spare."
Both Heir and Spare graduated from the same high school, Snobville Memorial High. When Heir graduated four years ago, her class was hailed as "the greatest class" ever to come through the school.
(I had to wonder about that, because the Monkey Man went to that school. He graduated in 1960, which was probably a greater year.)
June 19 was Spare's turn to graduate, and once again her class was lauded as "the greatest class" ever to come out of the school. Well, you can make a compelling case. There's not a single Ivy League school that isn't getting at least one Snobville graduate. The valedictorian (a math whiz) will be going to Princeton and is so like "A Beautiful Mind" that it's freakin scary. The class president got a full scholarship to Rutgers, independent of financial need. Someone is going to West Point.
Trouble is, there's a dark underbelly to these high-performing schools in towns made up mostly of extremely wealthy families.
For the past five years, the local PTA has paid for a post-graduation party at the Snobville Country Club. (You can imagine how posh a country club in Snobville would be.) This post-graduation party costs the graduates nothing, not a penny. There's a DJ and great raffle items, like Xboxes and mini fridges and gift certificates. All paid for out of PTA money and donations.
The rationale behind this party is that it would keep the students from going out after graduation and getting drunk, high, or both, and having a tragic accident.
There were no breathalizers at the door of the party.
More than half the students arrived drunk and, by virtue of flasks, got drunker still at the party. Midway through the evening, students began to stagger and vomit. Someone puked on the dance floor. One student had to be rushed to the hospital by ambulance when he aspirated his vomit. The policemen on duty were the same ones who had taught this class about drinking and drugs back in fifth grade.
Spare doesn't drink, and I don't think she had ever seen a true drunken party. She came home so dismayed that, after speaking about it for ten minutes, said she didn't want to talk about it any more. When I asked her to show me which kids were drinking by using her yearbook, she said it would take too long, because mostly everyone was drinking except her friends. (She runs with the Ivy League crowd.)
Snobville has an ugly history of teenage drinking. Heir lost two classmates to drinking/drug use, including a boy who jumped off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.
What is it that drives these kids to such extremes?
I imagine that part of it is biochemical, because, after all, alcohol is a drug, and many kids medicate depression and anxiety with alcohol. Every high school in the country has its drinkers and its stoners.
However, in the case of Snobville, I think there's an extra stress load. High-achieving parents are either not home much, or they demand excellence from their kids to maintain their financial status. It's like this: Where do you go but down if your parents are millionaires but not gazillionaires? We aren't talking one percent here, or if we are, it's the newly-minted and insecure one percenters. Students are pressured to keep the money flowing into the family bloodstream. The absentee parents are probably trying to haul in enough money to maintain the blood flow if Junior turns out to be average.
Spare has hosted more than six big parties here at our little Snobville house on the wrong side of town. Six parties in one year. When she finally asked me for a big graduation party, I was flabbergasted. I said, "Ten of these kids on this invite list live in mansions. Why are we throwing the parties?"
She said, "Mostly their parents don't give a shit, and the rest of the parents don't want kids in their houses."
Message to rich parents who don't give a shit: The sound of smart kids playing charades in a tiny back yard is priceless. Too late, you missed that. And having a warm and caring relationship with your flesh-and-blood is absolutely priceless. Too late, you missed that too.
Would you rather struggle financially and have a close and loving relationship with your kids, or rake in the bucks and hardly see Junior from week to week?
I had a very hard-working student at my school this year, an African American kid with a caring mom. One day he stayed after school on Friday to finish an assignment. When he was done, I said, "What are you going to do on the weekend?"
He said, "My mom and I usually drive around and look at the big houses in C**** H**** and Snobville. She wants me to live in one some day."
I told him, "If you and she could walk inside one of those houses and see what really happens there, you would save a lot of gas."
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Graduation 2012
Today I drive to Baltimore to fetch my mother-in-law. My sister is arriving in her own car, with her new adopted son and possibly her dog (although I asked her not to bring the dog). Who knows? She might bring all three of her dogs.
I will endure this because nothing is more important to me than my daughter The Spare, she who has enlivened my life for years with her comedy and her bright personality.
Spare, I'm walking the extra mile for you. I love you, and I'm proud that you were given your school's first-ever Technology Department award.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Spare Johnson, Snobville Memorial High School, Class of 2012.
I will endure this because nothing is more important to me than my daughter The Spare, she who has enlivened my life for years with her comedy and her bright personality.
Spare, I'm walking the extra mile for you. I love you, and I'm proud that you were given your school's first-ever Technology Department award.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Spare Johnson, Snobville Memorial High School, Class of 2012.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Every Happy Dictator Should have a Mommy and a Daddy
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and welcome to Anniebolic Steroid Anne! GrrrrrRRRRRrrrrr!
How angry am I? I've been blackballed from Anger Management classes!
Just kidding. But I am just. a. bit. out. of. the. sweetness. and. light. place.
I am an absolute sucker for people sticking their hands out for money. I have finally controlled the urge to give to the Knights of Columbus and the Salvation Army, but quite often I'll drop a dollar into a jar for a cause I know nothing about.
Thus Spare and I were at the local grocery emporium the other day, in a big ol' hurry, and there was a guy asking for change and handing out orange bookmarks. Never saw the guy, never heard of his outfit --New Jersey Council for Children's Rights. Children's rights? Well, everyone's in favor of children's rights ... oh ... except for genocidal dictators, those kind of vermin. So I dropped 27 cents into the jar.
The guy gave Spare a bookmark, saying, "You might need this." (Nope. Graduating on Tuesday.)
We got into the car, and Spare said, "Oh, crap! Look at this thing!"
There was a graphic of a little kid, with each hand being held by an unseen adult. "Because every child needs a mommy and a daddy."
Time to call Anniebolic Steroid Anne!
Last night when I ran into the store to get a bottle of olive oil, the dude wasn't around. So I scattered the change on the sidewalk. Hey, a kid has a right to a candy bar ... wasn't much more money in there than that.
Today I sat down with a little challenge. The kind of thing a school teacher can do in the summertime.
Here are some folks who grew up in traditional two-parent families (that being a mommy and daddy):
Adolf Hitler
Josef Stalin
Mao Zedong
Pol Pot
Mussolini
Emperor Hirohito
Fidel Castro did grow up in a single-parent household. Small potatoes compared to our nice, stable list above.
Granted, I did use Wikipedia, which I usually don't. But even if one or two of those dudes didn't deserve their Wiki press, that's still a pretty jaw-dropping load of genocidal maniacs.
I didn't even start on the serial killers, your basic Jeffrey Dahmers and Ted Bundys.
Suffice it to say that many children who got in the way of the group above had their rights (and their lives) snatched from them in an untimely and unsavory manner.
So, Anniebolic Anne made up a little list of these heartless dictators and went back to the store. First, she asked for her 27 cents back (even though she spilled more than that on the pavement yesterday). Then she informed the dude (same guy) that oftentimes children are far better served if one parent removes them from the daily battering and abuse of the other (personal experience).
I gave him back the book mark and said, "You are basically slapping the faces of a third of the people who walk into this store."
He asked if he could keep the list. I graciously allowed him to do so.
Then he asked if I had ever read the First Amendment to the Constitution.
Good news! I didn't punch him.
How angry am I? I've been blackballed from Anger Management classes!
Just kidding. But I am just. a. bit. out. of. the. sweetness. and. light. place.
I am an absolute sucker for people sticking their hands out for money. I have finally controlled the urge to give to the Knights of Columbus and the Salvation Army, but quite often I'll drop a dollar into a jar for a cause I know nothing about.
Thus Spare and I were at the local grocery emporium the other day, in a big ol' hurry, and there was a guy asking for change and handing out orange bookmarks. Never saw the guy, never heard of his outfit --New Jersey Council for Children's Rights. Children's rights? Well, everyone's in favor of children's rights ... oh ... except for genocidal dictators, those kind of vermin. So I dropped 27 cents into the jar.
The guy gave Spare a bookmark, saying, "You might need this." (Nope. Graduating on Tuesday.)
We got into the car, and Spare said, "Oh, crap! Look at this thing!"
There was a graphic of a little kid, with each hand being held by an unseen adult. "Because every child needs a mommy and a daddy."
Time to call Anniebolic Steroid Anne!
Last night when I ran into the store to get a bottle of olive oil, the dude wasn't around. So I scattered the change on the sidewalk. Hey, a kid has a right to a candy bar ... wasn't much more money in there than that.
Today I sat down with a little challenge. The kind of thing a school teacher can do in the summertime.
Here are some folks who grew up in traditional two-parent families (that being a mommy and daddy):
Adolf Hitler
Josef Stalin
Mao Zedong
Pol Pot
Mussolini
Emperor Hirohito
Fidel Castro did grow up in a single-parent household. Small potatoes compared to our nice, stable list above.
Granted, I did use Wikipedia, which I usually don't. But even if one or two of those dudes didn't deserve their Wiki press, that's still a pretty jaw-dropping load of genocidal maniacs.
I didn't even start on the serial killers, your basic Jeffrey Dahmers and Ted Bundys.
Suffice it to say that many children who got in the way of the group above had their rights (and their lives) snatched from them in an untimely and unsavory manner.
So, Anniebolic Anne made up a little list of these heartless dictators and went back to the store. First, she asked for her 27 cents back (even though she spilled more than that on the pavement yesterday). Then she informed the dude (same guy) that oftentimes children are far better served if one parent removes them from the daily battering and abuse of the other (personal experience).
I gave him back the book mark and said, "You are basically slapping the faces of a third of the people who walk into this store."
He asked if he could keep the list. I graciously allowed him to do so.
Then he asked if I had ever read the First Amendment to the Constitution.
Good news! I didn't punch him.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Granddad's diary
On this warm and sunny day in 1937, Granddad and his family visited Uncle Elmer. Then Granddad and my dad and my uncle Floyd went to children's church.
I suppose my grandmother was pregnant, because so far there's no mention of Uncle Richard.
I suppose my grandmother was pregnant, because so far there's no mention of Uncle Richard.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Holding pattern
My cousin cleaned out our family farmhouse. He sent me a few things:
1. Watch repair books that belonged to my grandfather (payed forward to a watch repairman)
2. My grandfather's notebooks from his year at Shippensburg Normal School in 1923.
3. The Bibles my grandparents used for their devotions. (thrown away, they were really moldy)
4. Granddad's daily diaries from 1933 to 1947. (not as moldy somehow)
Wow! A treasure trove of family diaries, from the grandparent I loved the most!
Except for one thing.
Almost all he wrote about was the weather. My grandfather was a weather freak. In his old age he found immense comfort in a newfangled thing called The Weather Channel. He watched it for hours at a time.
While I'm sorting through my life, I think it will be fun to post some of Granddad's diary entries here, just in case anyone in my family ever cares about life in Artemas, PA 17211.
On June 12, 1937 it was fair and warm in Artemas, PA. My grandfather took his family to Uncle Sam's in the morning. Granddad, Uncle Floyd, and my dad went to church at Mt. Hope in the evening. Dad and Floyd spent the night with their uncle Earl. Granddad stayed with his cousin, Palmer Robinette. His wife stayed over with her uncle Sam. Earl cut his arm pretty bad.
1. Watch repair books that belonged to my grandfather (payed forward to a watch repairman)
2. My grandfather's notebooks from his year at Shippensburg Normal School in 1923.
3. The Bibles my grandparents used for their devotions. (thrown away, they were really moldy)
4. Granddad's daily diaries from 1933 to 1947. (not as moldy somehow)
Wow! A treasure trove of family diaries, from the grandparent I loved the most!
Except for one thing.
Almost all he wrote about was the weather. My grandfather was a weather freak. In his old age he found immense comfort in a newfangled thing called The Weather Channel. He watched it for hours at a time.
While I'm sorting through my life, I think it will be fun to post some of Granddad's diary entries here, just in case anyone in my family ever cares about life in Artemas, PA 17211.
On June 12, 1937 it was fair and warm in Artemas, PA. My grandfather took his family to Uncle Sam's in the morning. Granddad, Uncle Floyd, and my dad went to church at Mt. Hope in the evening. Dad and Floyd spent the night with their uncle Earl. Granddad stayed with his cousin, Palmer Robinette. His wife stayed over with her uncle Sam. Earl cut his arm pretty bad.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
Hiatus
"The Gods Are Bored" will be on hiatus for an undetermined amount of time. Please, dear friends, check out our extensive Archives -- 1774 posts! Do leave your silly comment on the 2005 "Science (Not Creation) Proves Fairies Exist." Otherwise, please roam. I love you all.
PS - I am giving away a nearly-new box of The Faerie Oracle cards and guidebook. I will send it to the first person who emails me their address. My email is on the profile page for the blog.
PS - I am giving away a nearly-new box of The Faerie Oracle cards and guidebook. I will send it to the first person who emails me their address. My email is on the profile page for the blog.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Liberation Theology
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Unseasonably cool here in the Great Blue Northeast just now. I will take it!
This is the magic time of year when school teachers everywhere take down student work and start pinning newspapers over their bulletin boards. What a fabulous rite of passage! Can a realistic sleeping schedule be right around the corner?
Anyway, as I was plastering up the newsprint, I saw a story from the New York Times in which it states that the Christian Right wants to malign Obama for his association with "liberation theology." Apparently liberation theology is big among African American Christians and is considered ... oh, hell, I don't know what it's considered amongst the Christian Right, because anything nasty they say about it will send them straight to Hell.
Before I became a school teacher, I was a writer -- mostly reference books. I was asked to contribute entries to this huge project called the Catholic Encyclopedia. Mind you, I was never Catholic, but I could write to a deadline.
And speaking of dead, those were mostly the people I was asked to write about: priests and nuns who were murdered for their ties to liberation theology. Some of these martyrs (for that is what the RC church considers them) are being considered for sainthood. Which they damn well deserve more than the crooked bunch running the Vatican these days!
Liberation theology is the radical idea that everyone, including the government, should be deeply concerned with the plight of the poor. You may have missed it, but Jesus Christ is on record as being a champion of the destitute and the undesirable, going so far as to suggest that these poor folks might sail into Heaven while the rich ones won't.
The Catholic martyrs I wrote about were mostly young religious people who incited demonstrations and other nonviolent peasant uprisings in Third World Latin America, in an effort to stop exploitation of cheap labor and wholesale oppression of the lower classes. I admired these dudes. (Most, but not all, were dudes.) I think they had the stuff that martyrs are made of.
I would ask Jesus to come here for an interview about liberation theology, but He's too busy. Try pinning him down! Even his own followers can't find him.
So, here in a nutshell, is my untutored view of liberation theology:
It's a good thing. We should take care of the poor. There will always be poor people among us, but we should take care of them anyway. People who ignore or dismiss poor people, for whatever reason, cannot truly call themselves Christians.
My sister-in-law told me that the robes the Cardinals wear at the Vatican cost $30,000 apiece. Chew on that one awhile and ask yourself if those martyred priests in Colombia and Argentina are going to hold open the Pearly Gates for their church's bureaucrats.
As for the Christian Right ... they're not.
This is the magic time of year when school teachers everywhere take down student work and start pinning newspapers over their bulletin boards. What a fabulous rite of passage! Can a realistic sleeping schedule be right around the corner?
Anyway, as I was plastering up the newsprint, I saw a story from the New York Times in which it states that the Christian Right wants to malign Obama for his association with "liberation theology." Apparently liberation theology is big among African American Christians and is considered ... oh, hell, I don't know what it's considered amongst the Christian Right, because anything nasty they say about it will send them straight to Hell.
Before I became a school teacher, I was a writer -- mostly reference books. I was asked to contribute entries to this huge project called the Catholic Encyclopedia. Mind you, I was never Catholic, but I could write to a deadline.
And speaking of dead, those were mostly the people I was asked to write about: priests and nuns who were murdered for their ties to liberation theology. Some of these martyrs (for that is what the RC church considers them) are being considered for sainthood. Which they damn well deserve more than the crooked bunch running the Vatican these days!
Liberation theology is the radical idea that everyone, including the government, should be deeply concerned with the plight of the poor. You may have missed it, but Jesus Christ is on record as being a champion of the destitute and the undesirable, going so far as to suggest that these poor folks might sail into Heaven while the rich ones won't.
The Catholic martyrs I wrote about were mostly young religious people who incited demonstrations and other nonviolent peasant uprisings in Third World Latin America, in an effort to stop exploitation of cheap labor and wholesale oppression of the lower classes. I admired these dudes. (Most, but not all, were dudes.) I think they had the stuff that martyrs are made of.
I would ask Jesus to come here for an interview about liberation theology, but He's too busy. Try pinning him down! Even his own followers can't find him.
So, here in a nutshell, is my untutored view of liberation theology:
It's a good thing. We should take care of the poor. There will always be poor people among us, but we should take care of them anyway. People who ignore or dismiss poor people, for whatever reason, cannot truly call themselves Christians.
My sister-in-law told me that the robes the Cardinals wear at the Vatican cost $30,000 apiece. Chew on that one awhile and ask yourself if those martyred priests in Colombia and Argentina are going to hold open the Pearly Gates for their church's bureaucrats.
As for the Christian Right ... they're not.
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
A Land Called Fantasy
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," running amok with the faeries since 2005! Bring all your deities, and we'll have a picnic! Hurry up, though. I'm running out of my last jar of Marzetti slaw dressing, and I can't seem to find it in the stores anymore. Please, Gods, give me Marzetti!
Now there's a prayer that just might get answered.
If you're one of the three or four readers who come here frequently, you might have guessed that I had something like a crisis over the past weekend. It's too personal for a blog, having to do with serious matters of the heart. But let me tell you -- I felt your energy keeping me afloat. I only had one really bad moment, and that was when I was alone in my classroom. Otherwise you would have been proud of me. And while the situation is not exactly settled to my satisfaction, it is at least a little less freighted than it was.
Therefore, let us move onward and downward in classic "Gods Are Bored" fashion!
I've trashed, maligned, berated, and heaped disdain upon the Dominionist movement since I first heard about it. Nary a single troll in that loathsome company has slithered from under his bridge to challenge me. But the minute I started in on the Mormons ... oh boy. Always a sensitive lot, they're even more defensive than usual in this particular election cycle.
A recent troll took issue with my bafflement over the LDS position on masturbation (hereafter known in this blog as "turtle dove love"). I think in a nutshell that serious followers of this faith must have to use industrial strength scrub brushes in certain anatomical regions, just to keep hand from touching flesh.
I had forgotten what the troll pointed out. This stricture stems from the fantasies that accompany turtle dove love. These fantasies are sinful and lead to doom and destruction.
Once I read somewhere that the average male thinks about sex every three minutes. If that is the case, then being a Mormon must be hell on earth. Mind control that the CIA can only dream about. Imagine that the only time you can think about sex is when you are contemplating or undertaking coitus with the exhausted wife who has already borne you six children! What a way to live! I'd rather be an earthworm.
I'm not afraid to use myself as an Exhibit A here, even though I'm a woman. I have fantasized about every sort of sex except sadistic or pedophilia. I'm a lady of a certain age, so lots and lots of stuff has crossed my mind. Paul Newman, turtle dove lover! House painter home from college for the summer ... turtle dove lover! Great big orgy of good-looking people, all sharing the bounty? Wheee! I think about it. Haven't ever done it. Seriously, does this harm anyone, just thinking about it?
Anticipating the troll, I will add the LDS stance on this. If you imagine "doing it" with someone you actually know, this can lead to really doing it, which must be a far greater sin than turtle dove loving. My counter argument for this is pretty simple, really.
The savvy turtle dove lover applies higher consciousness to the situation.
Higher consciousness is that little bug in your ear that warns you to keep it in the turtle dove realm. It's the sensible little something that reminds you of your home and hearth, that weighs the consequences. I can't decide whether Mormons are totally lacking this skill, or whether they have honed it to such perfection that they've robbed themselves of the need for it. Either way, their lives must be dull and difficult. And sadly fraught with shame.
As Exhibit A I will plead the Fifth on my own personal life except to say that turtle dove love has kept me out of trouble, it's kept my family to a manageable size, and it's sex with someone I love.
I got that last line from Woody Allen. It's a keeper.
Have a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" day!
Now there's a prayer that just might get answered.
If you're one of the three or four readers who come here frequently, you might have guessed that I had something like a crisis over the past weekend. It's too personal for a blog, having to do with serious matters of the heart. But let me tell you -- I felt your energy keeping me afloat. I only had one really bad moment, and that was when I was alone in my classroom. Otherwise you would have been proud of me. And while the situation is not exactly settled to my satisfaction, it is at least a little less freighted than it was.
Therefore, let us move onward and downward in classic "Gods Are Bored" fashion!
I've trashed, maligned, berated, and heaped disdain upon the Dominionist movement since I first heard about it. Nary a single troll in that loathsome company has slithered from under his bridge to challenge me. But the minute I started in on the Mormons ... oh boy. Always a sensitive lot, they're even more defensive than usual in this particular election cycle.
A recent troll took issue with my bafflement over the LDS position on masturbation (hereafter known in this blog as "turtle dove love"). I think in a nutshell that serious followers of this faith must have to use industrial strength scrub brushes in certain anatomical regions, just to keep hand from touching flesh.
I had forgotten what the troll pointed out. This stricture stems from the fantasies that accompany turtle dove love. These fantasies are sinful and lead to doom and destruction.
Once I read somewhere that the average male thinks about sex every three minutes. If that is the case, then being a Mormon must be hell on earth. Mind control that the CIA can only dream about. Imagine that the only time you can think about sex is when you are contemplating or undertaking coitus with the exhausted wife who has already borne you six children! What a way to live! I'd rather be an earthworm.
I'm not afraid to use myself as an Exhibit A here, even though I'm a woman. I have fantasized about every sort of sex except sadistic or pedophilia. I'm a lady of a certain age, so lots and lots of stuff has crossed my mind. Paul Newman, turtle dove lover! House painter home from college for the summer ... turtle dove lover! Great big orgy of good-looking people, all sharing the bounty? Wheee! I think about it. Haven't ever done it. Seriously, does this harm anyone, just thinking about it?
Anticipating the troll, I will add the LDS stance on this. If you imagine "doing it" with someone you actually know, this can lead to really doing it, which must be a far greater sin than turtle dove loving. My counter argument for this is pretty simple, really.
The savvy turtle dove lover applies higher consciousness to the situation.
Higher consciousness is that little bug in your ear that warns you to keep it in the turtle dove realm. It's the sensible little something that reminds you of your home and hearth, that weighs the consequences. I can't decide whether Mormons are totally lacking this skill, or whether they have honed it to such perfection that they've robbed themselves of the need for it. Either way, their lives must be dull and difficult. And sadly fraught with shame.
As Exhibit A I will plead the Fifth on my own personal life except to say that turtle dove love has kept me out of trouble, it's kept my family to a manageable size, and it's sex with someone I love.
I got that last line from Woody Allen. It's a keeper.
Have a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" day!
Friday, June 01, 2012
The Bitter Pill
At springtime Rituals, I'm fond of saying, "If not for the dark of winter, would we really appreciate the bright, new spring?"
Of course this would make no sense to someone from the tropics (as many bored deities have pointed out to me), but to those of us in the nether regions of the Hemispheres, we "get it."
Without the bad, would we appreciate the good? Without the worst, would we shrug off the best?
Life gives us bitter pills to swallow sometimes. Gotta gulp 'em down. One of the most foul-tasting pills is quinine -- but forgo it in malaria country, and you'll be toast.
Then again, some bitter pills actually are poison. It's best to ponder deeply before you pop anything. Ask yourself what the consequences of that bitter pill will be. Will it make you better or worse? Will it kill you or make you more vibrant? Will it ease pain or increase it?
The bitter pill in our lives can be uncertainty. Uncertainty must be swallowed bravely, because it's going down your gullet whether you want it or not.
Without uncertainty, would we enjoy living in the moment? I think not. And I'm big on those live-in-the-moment experiences.
Take that tough, bitter pill. The sun will come out another day, and it will feel so good.
Of course this would make no sense to someone from the tropics (as many bored deities have pointed out to me), but to those of us in the nether regions of the Hemispheres, we "get it."
Without the bad, would we appreciate the good? Without the worst, would we shrug off the best?
Life gives us bitter pills to swallow sometimes. Gotta gulp 'em down. One of the most foul-tasting pills is quinine -- but forgo it in malaria country, and you'll be toast.
Then again, some bitter pills actually are poison. It's best to ponder deeply before you pop anything. Ask yourself what the consequences of that bitter pill will be. Will it make you better or worse? Will it kill you or make you more vibrant? Will it ease pain or increase it?
The bitter pill in our lives can be uncertainty. Uncertainty must be swallowed bravely, because it's going down your gullet whether you want it or not.
Without uncertainty, would we enjoy living in the moment? I think not. And I'm big on those live-in-the-moment experiences.
Take that tough, bitter pill. The sun will come out another day, and it will feel so good.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Worth Reading
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bleary-eyed on a Thursday morning! I feel like the bored deity in my sidebar today who has to hold the whole world up with His two hands.
Anyone who has children knows that you worry your brains out about them, even if they go from looking like the Gerber baby to grabbing that Ph.D. at Harvard. Their trials are your trials, and when things go awry for them, you inevitably blame yourself ... up to a point.
Because we all have free will, and the person you raise into young adulthood may make decisions that wrench you in twenty different directions -- but you still have to let go and let Gods.
I say this by way of introduction for a blog in which a father is writing a real-time chronicle of his son's tortured journey through depression and drug addiction. If you have a child that you are worried about, you can take real solace from this blog, just feeling that you aren't alone in the struggle. If you don't have a child with problems (yeah, right ... liar, liar, pants on fire!), please read this blog occasionally just to hold the writer in the comforting circle of the Many Gods and Goddesses.
Here's a terrific link. I know this man. He and his wife are wonderful people.
http://mylifeas3d.blogspot.com/
Anyone who has children knows that you worry your brains out about them, even if they go from looking like the Gerber baby to grabbing that Ph.D. at Harvard. Their trials are your trials, and when things go awry for them, you inevitably blame yourself ... up to a point.
Because we all have free will, and the person you raise into young adulthood may make decisions that wrench you in twenty different directions -- but you still have to let go and let Gods.
I say this by way of introduction for a blog in which a father is writing a real-time chronicle of his son's tortured journey through depression and drug addiction. If you have a child that you are worried about, you can take real solace from this blog, just feeling that you aren't alone in the struggle. If you don't have a child with problems (yeah, right ... liar, liar, pants on fire!), please read this blog occasionally just to hold the writer in the comforting circle of the Many Gods and Goddesses.
Here's a terrific link. I know this man. He and his wife are wonderful people.
http://mylifeas3d.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Welcome, "Seekers!"
I have a feeling that I'm getting a few nips today from Debra, She Who Seeks, one of my personal favorites here in the sphere. If you're peeping in from over there, howdy howdy howdy!
Quick nutshell about "The Gods Are Bored":
We're all about praising and worshiping all deities of all pantheons, through all historic and prehistoric eras. The Forgotten Ones are not forgotten here, by golly! I've built a shrine in my back yard just for Them. Heck, your great-great-great-times-x-to-the-tenth-power granny prayed to one of Them. It's only fitting that we respect all that is, and ever was, holy.
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me. He complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not tamed, I too am untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
--Walt Whitman
Oh! It's gonna be May 31, and I'll be too put upon to post! Happy birthday to Walt Whitman, our bard and our joy, our Natural Man!
Please keep me in the light.
Quick nutshell about "The Gods Are Bored":
We're all about praising and worshiping all deities of all pantheons, through all historic and prehistoric eras. The Forgotten Ones are not forgotten here, by golly! I've built a shrine in my back yard just for Them. Heck, your great-great-great-times-x-to-the-tenth-power granny prayed to one of Them. It's only fitting that we respect all that is, and ever was, holy.
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me. He complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not tamed, I too am untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
--Walt Whitman
Oh! It's gonna be May 31, and I'll be too put upon to post! Happy birthday to Walt Whitman, our bard and our joy, our Natural Man!
Please keep me in the light.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
One Good Turn Deserves Another
Well, my lieblings, this is going to be a very interesting week indeed. As in the Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."
The week sort of began in the wee small hours of Sunday morning, when I was wakened and could not go back to sleep. Thus begins a sermon on paying forward -- a "Gods Are Bored" staple.
Where to begin? Ah yes. Startled awake, couldn't go back to sleep, got restless way before dawn, and set out for the beach. (Now that my farm in the mountains is no longer mine, I am trying to bond with the beach. It's only 50 miles away.)
A few months ago, one of my colleagues, who is a zealous and passionate collector of sea glass, showed me the beaches where she gets her best stuff.
If you are a passionate collector of anything found in nature, you understand how reluctant people are to reveal their collecting grounds. I was very, very grateful to this gal, not because I'm going to make it a great quest to find sea glass, but because finding sea glass calms me. The stuff is a great tranquilizer, especially combined with the soft swish of surf on sand.
Back to square one. I drove to the sea glass beach. It's not in a tourist neighborhood. There were some really weird people there, but enough fishermen that I figured I'd be safe.
I started picking up sea glass.
One section of the beach is now a deserted wasteland of bleached oyster and scallop shells, but it used to be a thriving -- and huge -- tourist trap. The business was there from the 1920s until the 1980s. It closed. And instead of auctioning off all the stuff (it had a big restaurant, for one thing), it was just bulldozed straight into the Atlantic. With all its contents.
You can't believe what washes up on that beach. Bathroom tiles, flooring, creamers, mugs, plates, flatware. Mostly in pieces, because, after all, the ocean is a punishing place for ceramics.
There were a few sanderlings on that stretch of beach, and I didn't want to disturb them. Just as I was turning to head back toward my car, I saw, at my feet, a small tan coffee mug buried in pebbles and mud.
On the bottom it said "Inca Ware, Shenango China, New Castle, Pa."
It could only have come from the business that got dozed into the drink.
And it was completely intact. When I washed it, it shone like new.
I searched all the usual online sites, looking for a similar mug. Didn't see one. Couldn't even get a Google image of this particular item. It may have been made specifically for that business, and that business only.
A few hours ago, I handed the mug over to the gal who showed me the beach in the first place. She was tickled pink. She said she had found bits and pieces of that particular kind of ceramic, but never a whole mug. She couldn't believe what good shape it was in.
As happy as she was, I was happier. She showed me a place where I can go to deal with my issues and come home again with a bag full of sand-scoured glass shards. The least I could do was hand over my best "find" to date. It's called "paying forward," and we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend it.
Now, I want all three of you who are reading this to hold me in the light for the next six days. I am about to undergo a test of character unlike any I have ever experienced before. By this time tomorrow, the test will have commenced, and it will not conclude until Sunday, after which I pretty much expect an extended aftermath. Please petition your bored deities to come lend Their strength to mine. Where deities are concerned, no crowd is too large.
The week sort of began in the wee small hours of Sunday morning, when I was wakened and could not go back to sleep. Thus begins a sermon on paying forward -- a "Gods Are Bored" staple.
Where to begin? Ah yes. Startled awake, couldn't go back to sleep, got restless way before dawn, and set out for the beach. (Now that my farm in the mountains is no longer mine, I am trying to bond with the beach. It's only 50 miles away.)
A few months ago, one of my colleagues, who is a zealous and passionate collector of sea glass, showed me the beaches where she gets her best stuff.
If you are a passionate collector of anything found in nature, you understand how reluctant people are to reveal their collecting grounds. I was very, very grateful to this gal, not because I'm going to make it a great quest to find sea glass, but because finding sea glass calms me. The stuff is a great tranquilizer, especially combined with the soft swish of surf on sand.
Back to square one. I drove to the sea glass beach. It's not in a tourist neighborhood. There were some really weird people there, but enough fishermen that I figured I'd be safe.
I started picking up sea glass.
One section of the beach is now a deserted wasteland of bleached oyster and scallop shells, but it used to be a thriving -- and huge -- tourist trap. The business was there from the 1920s until the 1980s. It closed. And instead of auctioning off all the stuff (it had a big restaurant, for one thing), it was just bulldozed straight into the Atlantic. With all its contents.
You can't believe what washes up on that beach. Bathroom tiles, flooring, creamers, mugs, plates, flatware. Mostly in pieces, because, after all, the ocean is a punishing place for ceramics.
There were a few sanderlings on that stretch of beach, and I didn't want to disturb them. Just as I was turning to head back toward my car, I saw, at my feet, a small tan coffee mug buried in pebbles and mud.
On the bottom it said "Inca Ware, Shenango China, New Castle, Pa."
It could only have come from the business that got dozed into the drink.
And it was completely intact. When I washed it, it shone like new.
I searched all the usual online sites, looking for a similar mug. Didn't see one. Couldn't even get a Google image of this particular item. It may have been made specifically for that business, and that business only.
A few hours ago, I handed the mug over to the gal who showed me the beach in the first place. She was tickled pink. She said she had found bits and pieces of that particular kind of ceramic, but never a whole mug. She couldn't believe what good shape it was in.
As happy as she was, I was happier. She showed me a place where I can go to deal with my issues and come home again with a bag full of sand-scoured glass shards. The least I could do was hand over my best "find" to date. It's called "paying forward," and we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend it.
Now, I want all three of you who are reading this to hold me in the light for the next six days. I am about to undergo a test of character unlike any I have ever experienced before. By this time tomorrow, the test will have commenced, and it will not conclude until Sunday, after which I pretty much expect an extended aftermath. Please petition your bored deities to come lend Their strength to mine. Where deities are concerned, no crowd is too large.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
My Cult
After being all snarky about Mormons (below), I thought I would remind all three of my readers that I belong to a cult called the Polyphonic Spree. Here's a representative video. The Tabernacle Choir pales in comparison.
My Personal Experience with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
Awhile back, one of my three readers asked me what I thought about the LDS Church, given that Mitt Romney is a choir boy therefrom.
It happens that I personally brushed up against this particular branch of religion many decades ago, when I was a late teen. I can't remember if this was before or after God told the church's bishop that black men could be Elders.
I had a high school boyfriend who was deeply dedicated to the LDS church. As I was dedicated to the boy, we talked about his church quite a bit. It seems that at a dark time in his family's life, some missionaries had come to the door and amended things. (Apparently this family patch was incompletely applied, because my boyfriend lived in the projects with his mom and four siblings, Dad having disappeared.)
My boyfriend loved his church, and he was deeply distressed that he didn't have the money to go on mission. He had to work to help support his family -- and the church, which skimmed ten percent, whether it came from Marie Osmond or the kid making milkshakes at the Dairy Queen.
One night my boyfriend asked to talk to me outside my house. He was deeply agitated. He had met with the leader of the local LDS church to confess that he had committed the sin ... the sin ... he couldn't say the word, but it has to do with self-pleasure. The church leader chided him and suggested that he either get me to convert and marry me, or dump me and keep himself in a state of exhaustion with a cold shower nearby.
I really liked the guy, but I was 18 and a newly-minted college freshman. I also was skeptical of a church that had such a low opinion of turtledove love (my term, I like it better than "masturbation"). I became further skeptical when I took a stab at reading the Book of Mormon, which seemed to me incomprehensible.
Still, I thought I should suspend my disbelief and attend church with boyfriend a few times. I thought I was in love with the guy, and although the prospect of a hasty early marriage did not appeal, I wasn't ready to dump him.
I attended the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints Sunday service twice.
It wasn't the crazy extra book that appalled me.
It wasn't even the rules against turtledove love.
It was the women.
Here is what I saw on those two Sunday mornings: Profoundly exhausted women sitting in pews with stair-step children (as many as eight in one case), often holding another baby, or pregnant. Whew. When you're a young girl at life's doorstep, you need only take one or two good looks at that to run in the other direction, screaming for The Pill.
When I demurred from further immersion in the LDS church, the boyfriend dumped me. After crying over him for a few days, I got to thinking about the bullet I'd dodged.
I often think about that bullet today. I can still picture those wretched mega-moms, slumped in the plain pews, fighting to stay awake or to keep the kids quiet, or to contain the squirming toddler despite a bloated, pregnant belly. What kind of life is that? What kind of church sets that up as an ideal, in an overpopulated world?
This is a site with a big, broad, flexible outlook, so I say, if you want to be a Mormon, knock yourself out. But every time I look at Mitt Romney, I wonder whether he was successful in the daunting task of abstaining from turtledove love. I also wonder if I want a president who looks at such a thing as a sin. After all, he does belong to that church. And that church lists its sins. And why does he only have a few kids? Suspicious. He should have about a dozen.
Church of Jesus Christ of LDS? Not for me. And they must know it, because I get Jehovah's Witnesses at my door all the time, and I've never gotten a pair of those pinch-faced Mormon missionary boys. If I do, I will be hard-pressed not to torment them with questions about turtledove love.
I've labeled this post with an alternate spelling for Mormon. I suspect I will be using this alternate spelling in future posts about Mitt.
It happens that I personally brushed up against this particular branch of religion many decades ago, when I was a late teen. I can't remember if this was before or after God told the church's bishop that black men could be Elders.
I had a high school boyfriend who was deeply dedicated to the LDS church. As I was dedicated to the boy, we talked about his church quite a bit. It seems that at a dark time in his family's life, some missionaries had come to the door and amended things. (Apparently this family patch was incompletely applied, because my boyfriend lived in the projects with his mom and four siblings, Dad having disappeared.)
My boyfriend loved his church, and he was deeply distressed that he didn't have the money to go on mission. He had to work to help support his family -- and the church, which skimmed ten percent, whether it came from Marie Osmond or the kid making milkshakes at the Dairy Queen.
One night my boyfriend asked to talk to me outside my house. He was deeply agitated. He had met with the leader of the local LDS church to confess that he had committed the sin ... the sin ... he couldn't say the word, but it has to do with self-pleasure. The church leader chided him and suggested that he either get me to convert and marry me, or dump me and keep himself in a state of exhaustion with a cold shower nearby.
I really liked the guy, but I was 18 and a newly-minted college freshman. I also was skeptical of a church that had such a low opinion of turtledove love (my term, I like it better than "masturbation"). I became further skeptical when I took a stab at reading the Book of Mormon, which seemed to me incomprehensible.
Still, I thought I should suspend my disbelief and attend church with boyfriend a few times. I thought I was in love with the guy, and although the prospect of a hasty early marriage did not appeal, I wasn't ready to dump him.
I attended the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints Sunday service twice.
It wasn't the crazy extra book that appalled me.
It wasn't even the rules against turtledove love.
It was the women.
Here is what I saw on those two Sunday mornings: Profoundly exhausted women sitting in pews with stair-step children (as many as eight in one case), often holding another baby, or pregnant. Whew. When you're a young girl at life's doorstep, you need only take one or two good looks at that to run in the other direction, screaming for The Pill.
When I demurred from further immersion in the LDS church, the boyfriend dumped me. After crying over him for a few days, I got to thinking about the bullet I'd dodged.
I often think about that bullet today. I can still picture those wretched mega-moms, slumped in the plain pews, fighting to stay awake or to keep the kids quiet, or to contain the squirming toddler despite a bloated, pregnant belly. What kind of life is that? What kind of church sets that up as an ideal, in an overpopulated world?
This is a site with a big, broad, flexible outlook, so I say, if you want to be a Mormon, knock yourself out. But every time I look at Mitt Romney, I wonder whether he was successful in the daunting task of abstaining from turtledove love. I also wonder if I want a president who looks at such a thing as a sin. After all, he does belong to that church. And that church lists its sins. And why does he only have a few kids? Suspicious. He should have about a dozen.
Church of Jesus Christ of LDS? Not for me. And they must know it, because I get Jehovah's Witnesses at my door all the time, and I've never gotten a pair of those pinch-faced Mormon missionary boys. If I do, I will be hard-pressed not to torment them with questions about turtledove love.
I've labeled this post with an alternate spelling for Mormon. I suspect I will be using this alternate spelling in future posts about Mitt.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Free Advice on spell work
I just totally and completely forgot to tell my three readers that next year, 2013, I will have some entries in the Llewellyn Spell Calendar! I wrote them last summer, and Llewellyn took a few of them. This is very humbling, given the many folks out there who know so much more about spell work than I do. Much of the spell work in my tool kit concerns predicting the future, and it comes from my grandmother, who learned it from her mother, who learned it who-knows-where. All those foremothers of mine were deeply into omens.
The tricky part about spell work is that you don't want to harm anyone, either directly or indirectly.
I did a spell out in Western Maryland to save a tract of land from being bulldozed and developed into an uber suburb. When the project was scuttled, amidst widespread disdain in the Maryland press and among the state's environmentalists, I thought my spell had turned out just dandy. Then I read that the developer who planned to execute the super-burb had gone bankrupt. He was unable to construct required street lights in developments he had already built -- and the good citizens who had the bad luck to buy from him were being attacked and burgled in the darkness of their neighborhoods.
See how you have to think out spell work like a spider-web, considering all the contingencies and possibilities before doing the spell?
It's pretty paralyzing, I must admit.
The easiest spell work for intentions is done for self-improvement, but think through that as well. Someone who likes you the way you are now might not like the spell-enhanced you.
It never ends. Exercise caution. Think deeply before working an intention.
Update on that developer. He has found new investors and is making noises about the super-burb again. He still owns that tract of land out in Western Maryland. Do you see my dilemma? I want to do more work, but:
1. I will not be going out to my farm anymore (it's in the vicinity), and
2. I don't want some little kid hurt in a dark house because of this developer moron.
Any suggestions you have about this and any other intentional spell work will be warmly welcomed.
The tricky part about spell work is that you don't want to harm anyone, either directly or indirectly.
I did a spell out in Western Maryland to save a tract of land from being bulldozed and developed into an uber suburb. When the project was scuttled, amidst widespread disdain in the Maryland press and among the state's environmentalists, I thought my spell had turned out just dandy. Then I read that the developer who planned to execute the super-burb had gone bankrupt. He was unable to construct required street lights in developments he had already built -- and the good citizens who had the bad luck to buy from him were being attacked and burgled in the darkness of their neighborhoods.
See how you have to think out spell work like a spider-web, considering all the contingencies and possibilities before doing the spell?
It's pretty paralyzing, I must admit.
The easiest spell work for intentions is done for self-improvement, but think through that as well. Someone who likes you the way you are now might not like the spell-enhanced you.
It never ends. Exercise caution. Think deeply before working an intention.
Update on that developer. He has found new investors and is making noises about the super-burb again. He still owns that tract of land out in Western Maryland. Do you see my dilemma? I want to do more work, but:
1. I will not be going out to my farm anymore (it's in the vicinity), and
2. I don't want some little kid hurt in a dark house because of this developer moron.
Any suggestions you have about this and any other intentional spell work will be warmly welcomed.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Frank Talk about Divorcing the Word from the Act
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," cheating death on the New Jersey Turnpike edition! I'm your host, Anne, home from a rain-drenched excursion to scenic Union, New Jersey... if the term "scenic" includes a post-apocalyptic landscape of smokestacks and chemical plants, that is.
A friend of mine was musing about the fact that some Pagans seem bothered by the "f" word. The friend wondered if this was a carry-over from Christianity, from which most Pagans have escaped at some point in their lives.
You may have noticed, if you stop by here, that I rarely use the f bomb. Doesn't mean I don't like to f. In fact, I rather love f-ing. It's a fun way to spend the hours, depending upon partner and circumstance.
I just think this is a word that has gotten away from us to the point of absurdity. It's thrown around as an insult, it's combined with other gentle words, like "mother," as an insult, and except for occasions where it is used in private moments of sexual rapture, it's just not appropriate for the instances in which it is used.
The f bomb has definitely cornered the market on insulting and over-used words. When I was a kid, you very rarely heard it from anyone. We cursed, of course, but f*** was not the epithet of choice. (Trust me, my mother used every curse word in the English language except ones that included the f bomb.)
Therefore, I would say that my aversion to the f bomb stems not from the act which it is purported to describe, but rather to the way it is used in conversation. Which is way too much and for all the wrong reasons.
Let's ditch the f word for a term that could be coined to describe the act of love in all its wonder and beauty.
"Make love" is too long. "Fornicate" is too clinical. "Sexual intercourse" sounds Medieval.
You know what I like? "Lay." As in, I wanna lay you, baby! Sounds nice and relaxing. And we aren't chickens, so no one's going to expect a nest of eggs to appear in the satin sheets.
Everybody, go get laid! Leave the f word out of it.
A friend of mine was musing about the fact that some Pagans seem bothered by the "f" word. The friend wondered if this was a carry-over from Christianity, from which most Pagans have escaped at some point in their lives.
You may have noticed, if you stop by here, that I rarely use the f bomb. Doesn't mean I don't like to f. In fact, I rather love f-ing. It's a fun way to spend the hours, depending upon partner and circumstance.
I just think this is a word that has gotten away from us to the point of absurdity. It's thrown around as an insult, it's combined with other gentle words, like "mother," as an insult, and except for occasions where it is used in private moments of sexual rapture, it's just not appropriate for the instances in which it is used.
The f bomb has definitely cornered the market on insulting and over-used words. When I was a kid, you very rarely heard it from anyone. We cursed, of course, but f*** was not the epithet of choice. (Trust me, my mother used every curse word in the English language except ones that included the f bomb.)
Therefore, I would say that my aversion to the f bomb stems not from the act which it is purported to describe, but rather to the way it is used in conversation. Which is way too much and for all the wrong reasons.
Let's ditch the f word for a term that could be coined to describe the act of love in all its wonder and beauty.
"Make love" is too long. "Fornicate" is too clinical. "Sexual intercourse" sounds Medieval.
You know what I like? "Lay." As in, I wanna lay you, baby! Sounds nice and relaxing. And we aren't chickens, so no one's going to expect a nest of eggs to appear in the satin sheets.
Everybody, go get laid! Leave the f word out of it.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Slate.com: Epic Fail
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," just about as tolerant as the average human being ... which means we need work. Admitting it. If you consider yourself tolerant, blessed be! Work in progress here.
I always thought Slate.com was a serious site, but a video making the rounds proves otherwise. I saw the repulsive thing over at The Wild Hunt Blog (in my sidebar), and I will now try with my extensive superpowers to place the link below:
http://bcove.me/l3bz7b44
This pathway will take you to a little video of "advice" offered by one of Slate.com's contributors. Apparently a Christian wife wrote in to complain of her failing marriage. When she married "Mr. X," he was an atheist, but he would occasionally attend church with her. Then he became Wiccan, and that is just too much for "Mrs. X." She considers it a personal affront.
The advice columnist (this loathsome project is called "Dear Prudence") peppered her anti-Wiccan commentary with ridiculous images of Satanic beings drinking goat's blood ... and many other stereotypes that do Pagans an injustice. Then, in her moment of seriousness, this "advisor" told the woman to go ahead, dump her husband, and get on with her good Christian life.
I'm really offended by the cavalier way Slate.com treated a serious philosophical difference in a marriage, particularly since they made such a joke of Wicca.
So, let's be serious about this topic for a moment, which is something Slate.com seemed unable to be.
When one marries, he or she enters into a contract that assumes a static situation. In other words, you pledge to love a person as he or she stands before you at that moment. But life isn't static. It's dynamic. People change, sometimes drastically. Honestly I would say about 50 percent of the changes are good, and 50 percent are bad. The only constant is that change happens.
I admit, on this one I am stumped. When someone you have married changes beyond your wildest expectation, and you don't like it one bit, do you stay? Do you go?
Let's flip-flop the situation that Slate.com treated with such contempt. Suppose you're a Pagan, and your spouse is an atheist, and suddenly your spouse becomes a Christian. It goes without saying that your newly-minted Christian spouse is going to try to convert you ... otherwise, according to the busy god, you go to Hell.
Kinda hearing rock lyrics in my head. "Should I stay, or should I go?"
A Pagan could go without qualm. Things have changed, the marriage isn't working out, and we must harm none, including ourselves.
Now, if the woman who wrote in to Slate.com is really as Christian as she claims, however, she has absolutely no grounds upon which to end her marriage. The New Testament is silent on many things, but explicit in its denunciation of divorce. Therefore, if she divorces her Wiccan spouse, she will go to Hell, while he may get a posh Summerland full of fabulous bored deities.
My very serious advice to this woman is that she should try to maintain her marriage and be a bit more open-minded about her husband's dynamic change. Truth be told, Wiccans have no particular axe to grind with Christians, so long as the latter are respectful. And the Bible tells women to respect their husbands. So there you have it.
See, this is why I pay you to take my free advice. If you consult moron websites like Slate.com and run up against "Prudence," and she makes light of your plight, well, you could have come here to "The Gods Are Bored" for the big, broad, flexible outlook!
You want a good advisor? Tell your troubles to the mirror.
I always thought Slate.com was a serious site, but a video making the rounds proves otherwise. I saw the repulsive thing over at The Wild Hunt Blog (in my sidebar), and I will now try with my extensive superpowers to place the link below:
http://bcove.me/l3bz7b44
This pathway will take you to a little video of "advice" offered by one of Slate.com's contributors. Apparently a Christian wife wrote in to complain of her failing marriage. When she married "Mr. X," he was an atheist, but he would occasionally attend church with her. Then he became Wiccan, and that is just too much for "Mrs. X." She considers it a personal affront.
The advice columnist (this loathsome project is called "Dear Prudence") peppered her anti-Wiccan commentary with ridiculous images of Satanic beings drinking goat's blood ... and many other stereotypes that do Pagans an injustice. Then, in her moment of seriousness, this "advisor" told the woman to go ahead, dump her husband, and get on with her good Christian life.
I'm really offended by the cavalier way Slate.com treated a serious philosophical difference in a marriage, particularly since they made such a joke of Wicca.
So, let's be serious about this topic for a moment, which is something Slate.com seemed unable to be.
When one marries, he or she enters into a contract that assumes a static situation. In other words, you pledge to love a person as he or she stands before you at that moment. But life isn't static. It's dynamic. People change, sometimes drastically. Honestly I would say about 50 percent of the changes are good, and 50 percent are bad. The only constant is that change happens.
I admit, on this one I am stumped. When someone you have married changes beyond your wildest expectation, and you don't like it one bit, do you stay? Do you go?
Let's flip-flop the situation that Slate.com treated with such contempt. Suppose you're a Pagan, and your spouse is an atheist, and suddenly your spouse becomes a Christian. It goes without saying that your newly-minted Christian spouse is going to try to convert you ... otherwise, according to the busy god, you go to Hell.
Kinda hearing rock lyrics in my head. "Should I stay, or should I go?"
A Pagan could go without qualm. Things have changed, the marriage isn't working out, and we must harm none, including ourselves.
Now, if the woman who wrote in to Slate.com is really as Christian as she claims, however, she has absolutely no grounds upon which to end her marriage. The New Testament is silent on many things, but explicit in its denunciation of divorce. Therefore, if she divorces her Wiccan spouse, she will go to Hell, while he may get a posh Summerland full of fabulous bored deities.
My very serious advice to this woman is that she should try to maintain her marriage and be a bit more open-minded about her husband's dynamic change. Truth be told, Wiccans have no particular axe to grind with Christians, so long as the latter are respectful. And the Bible tells women to respect their husbands. So there you have it.
See, this is why I pay you to take my free advice. If you consult moron websites like Slate.com and run up against "Prudence," and she makes light of your plight, well, you could have come here to "The Gods Are Bored" for the big, broad, flexible outlook!
You want a good advisor? Tell your troubles to the mirror.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Moron's Guide to Medicine
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hoping you're in great health ... and always will be.
Because Gods forbid you get sick in this country.
I've been seeing the same doctor for more than 10 years, in a tiny little office built for one doctor. I know my doctor. He knows me. This is the way family practice doctors ought to be. Seriously, I once took in my wand to show him! Don't know about you, but I hardly ever show anyone my wand.
Yesterday I had to go in to see Doctor Mushroom. (That's my pet name for him -- he's into holistic stuff and pretty open-minded, and if he's wearing anything other than a Hawaiian shirt it's because all his Hawaiian shirts are dirty.)
When I arrived at Dr. Mushroom's office, I had to give the new desk girl my driver's license so she could scan it into my records. This disheartened me, readers. Imagine that you are so desperate for health care that you would try to get it on someone else's account! That's the only reason I can think of that the health conglomerate that swallowed Dr. Mushroom's practice would need a photo ID of me. As I said, Dr. Mushroom knows me.
I already knew that I wouldn't be seeing Dr. Mushroom, because I was told that a new doctor had joined his practice. This doctor is a young woman who looks like she ought to be dressing for a prom, not dressing wounds.
Anyway, a new nurse (temp) took my vitals, and then the new doctor came in. Of course I asked why she had suddenly appeared. Turns out she was "transferred" from an office out in the country that didn't get enough business.
She was very nice, but completely detached, the way the vast majority of doctors are these days. I won't be showing this gal my wand, trust me. I only reluctantly pulled up my pants leg to let her look at my case of poison ivy. Out the door I went two minutes later with a prescription for steroids and a stern warning that they cause osteoporosis.
Dr. Mushroom would have turned a case of poison ivy into a 20 minute chat. That's how he rolled. Note that I use past tense. He's still alive, but so is Big Health. They must be after him to ratchet up the billables.
The only nurse I recognized told me that Dr. Mushroom and his new associate will be moving to a larger office on the region's busiest commercial highway. The little office a mile from my house is too small for two doctors.
Just now I sent a freakin Facebook friend request to my freakin doctor! This. Should. Not. Be.
Because Gods forbid you get sick in this country.
I've been seeing the same doctor for more than 10 years, in a tiny little office built for one doctor. I know my doctor. He knows me. This is the way family practice doctors ought to be. Seriously, I once took in my wand to show him! Don't know about you, but I hardly ever show anyone my wand.
Yesterday I had to go in to see Doctor Mushroom. (That's my pet name for him -- he's into holistic stuff and pretty open-minded, and if he's wearing anything other than a Hawaiian shirt it's because all his Hawaiian shirts are dirty.)
When I arrived at Dr. Mushroom's office, I had to give the new desk girl my driver's license so she could scan it into my records. This disheartened me, readers. Imagine that you are so desperate for health care that you would try to get it on someone else's account! That's the only reason I can think of that the health conglomerate that swallowed Dr. Mushroom's practice would need a photo ID of me. As I said, Dr. Mushroom knows me.
I already knew that I wouldn't be seeing Dr. Mushroom, because I was told that a new doctor had joined his practice. This doctor is a young woman who looks like she ought to be dressing for a prom, not dressing wounds.
Anyway, a new nurse (temp) took my vitals, and then the new doctor came in. Of course I asked why she had suddenly appeared. Turns out she was "transferred" from an office out in the country that didn't get enough business.
She was very nice, but completely detached, the way the vast majority of doctors are these days. I won't be showing this gal my wand, trust me. I only reluctantly pulled up my pants leg to let her look at my case of poison ivy. Out the door I went two minutes later with a prescription for steroids and a stern warning that they cause osteoporosis.
Dr. Mushroom would have turned a case of poison ivy into a 20 minute chat. That's how he rolled. Note that I use past tense. He's still alive, but so is Big Health. They must be after him to ratchet up the billables.
The only nurse I recognized told me that Dr. Mushroom and his new associate will be moving to a larger office on the region's busiest commercial highway. The little office a mile from my house is too small for two doctors.
Just now I sent a freakin Facebook friend request to my freakin doctor! This. Should. Not. Be.
Time To Pray
In the interest of keeping up with some of the Dominionist agenda, I subscribed to a couple of their email lists. Yesterday I got an email from Charisma Media that said "IT'S A NATIONAL EMERGENCY."
Curious as to what this national emergency might be, I opened the email.
The nature of the national emergency was not revealed in the email. Instead, through a big, bright picture, Charisma Media urged its readers to pray every day at 9:11.
The email didn't specify a.m. or p.m., so I assume that is up to you.
Readers, I urge you to pray every day at 9:11. Your deities need to be kept up-to-date on nebulous national emergencies. I would go farther and say that as Pagans, our deities need to be part of this prayer agenda, because what we see as a process of civilized growth might be viewed by some people as a NATIONAL EMERGENCY.
Pray today and every day!
If you need a deity to pray to, there's a new bored god posted in my sidebar every 24 hours, thanks to GodChecker.
Peace,
Anne
Curious as to what this national emergency might be, I opened the email.
The nature of the national emergency was not revealed in the email. Instead, through a big, bright picture, Charisma Media urged its readers to pray every day at 9:11.
The email didn't specify a.m. or p.m., so I assume that is up to you.
Readers, I urge you to pray every day at 9:11. Your deities need to be kept up-to-date on nebulous national emergencies. I would go farther and say that as Pagans, our deities need to be part of this prayer agenda, because what we see as a process of civilized growth might be viewed by some people as a NATIONAL EMERGENCY.
Pray today and every day!
If you need a deity to pray to, there's a new bored god posted in my sidebar every 24 hours, thanks to GodChecker.
Peace,
Anne
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Frank Talk on Proving Gender
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are crafting Constitutional Amendments! It's really fun. Kind of like a connect-the-dot on a diner place-mat!
Let's craft an amendment that defines marriage as between one man and one woman.
Now it's time to file for the marriage license.
How are you going to prove that this license is being issued to a man and a woman?
In my opinion, since this topic is ever so much more important than the inability of college graduates to find jobs, the proliferation of "part-time" work that offers no benefits, and the continuation of predatory banking, we ought to set some pretty strict standards for what exactly qualifies as a "man" and a "woman."
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF TEST OF GENDER!
Before issuing a Constitutionally-mandated marriage license, observe the following rules:
1. If it likes cats, make it strip naked.
2. If it arrives at the courthouse in a hybrid car, make it strip naked.
3. Any kind of left-wing or Pagan bumper-sticker, make it strip naked. Pat down for strap-ons.
4. Males in button-down Oxford shirts: strip naked.
5. Females wearing Converse sneakers: strip naked.
6. Multiple tattoos or piercings: strip naked.
7. Civil wedding outside a church: strip naked.
8. Suspiciously recent manicure/haircut: strip naked.
9. Lived above the Mason-Dixon Line for more than two months: strip naked, query relentlessly about "lifestyle."
10. Blogger: strip, query, DNA test.
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF GENDER-CERTAINTY
A marriage license can be issued immediately to:
1. Anyone with one of those fish thingies on the bumper, so long as it's the real thing and not a knock-off.
2. Anyone who applies shirtless.
3. Anyone who has a nursing baby in their arms. (Baby must be actively nursing.)
4. Anyone wearing a kilt ... what are the odds?
5. Navy Seal/NFL defensive tackle/heavyweight boxer/Teamster ... why risk it?
6. Anyone who just ate at a Chik-Fil-A. Sniff their breath.
7. Anyone who is so young they come in with Mom and Dad. Parents don't lie.
8. Anyone who can produce a Brownie sash or a Cub Scout sash with identifying characteristics.
9. Anyone willing to vote the way you want them to vote in the next election.
10. Anyone who hands you a big wad of cash and winks at you.
Now, see? That wasn't really hard, was it? You can think this stuff to death. Not necessary. The less thinking we all do, the better. Dudes, buy that kilt. Gals, root around the attic for your Brownie sash.
I'm old enough to remember a time when prospective couples had to take blood tests before they could get married. Come on, folks.. Marriage is a sacred institution... just like that liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. These things need to last forever.
Let's craft an amendment that defines marriage as between one man and one woman.
Now it's time to file for the marriage license.
How are you going to prove that this license is being issued to a man and a woman?
In my opinion, since this topic is ever so much more important than the inability of college graduates to find jobs, the proliferation of "part-time" work that offers no benefits, and the continuation of predatory banking, we ought to set some pretty strict standards for what exactly qualifies as a "man" and a "woman."
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF TEST OF GENDER!
Before issuing a Constitutionally-mandated marriage license, observe the following rules:
1. If it likes cats, make it strip naked.
2. If it arrives at the courthouse in a hybrid car, make it strip naked.
3. Any kind of left-wing or Pagan bumper-sticker, make it strip naked. Pat down for strap-ons.
4. Males in button-down Oxford shirts: strip naked.
5. Females wearing Converse sneakers: strip naked.
6. Multiple tattoos or piercings: strip naked.
7. Civil wedding outside a church: strip naked.
8. Suspiciously recent manicure/haircut: strip naked.
9. Lived above the Mason-Dixon Line for more than two months: strip naked, query relentlessly about "lifestyle."
10. Blogger: strip, query, DNA test.
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF GENDER-CERTAINTY
A marriage license can be issued immediately to:
1. Anyone with one of those fish thingies on the bumper, so long as it's the real thing and not a knock-off.
2. Anyone who applies shirtless.
3. Anyone who has a nursing baby in their arms. (Baby must be actively nursing.)
4. Anyone wearing a kilt ... what are the odds?
5. Navy Seal/NFL defensive tackle/heavyweight boxer/Teamster ... why risk it?
6. Anyone who just ate at a Chik-Fil-A. Sniff their breath.
7. Anyone who is so young they come in with Mom and Dad. Parents don't lie.
8. Anyone who can produce a Brownie sash or a Cub Scout sash with identifying characteristics.
9. Anyone willing to vote the way you want them to vote in the next election.
10. Anyone who hands you a big wad of cash and winks at you.
Now, see? That wasn't really hard, was it? You can think this stuff to death. Not necessary. The less thinking we all do, the better. Dudes, buy that kilt. Gals, root around the attic for your Brownie sash.
I'm old enough to remember a time when prospective couples had to take blood tests before they could get married. Come on, folks.. Marriage is a sacred institution... just like that liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. These things need to last forever.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Lull
Life is going to be very interesting around here over the next few weeks. But remember that the Chinese curse is this: "May you live in interesting times."
Ever notice how we try to lull ourselves into a sense of peace?
I don't count praise and worship of the bored gods as lulling us into a sense of peace. Proper deities challenge you to confront the social ills around you, to guard the planet and do right by those who want to harm you.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" applaud those of you who confront the world head-on and hold your banner high. You go.
It's just that, right at this particular moment, we at "The Gods Are Bored" need some lulling. Therefore it has been hard for me not to drop everything I ought to be doing to go ogle the many fabulous pictures of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, now pouring into the Spoutwood site.
When everything is topsy-turvy, it's really tempting to sit for hours and watch a slide show of beautiful people, dancing in the sunshine. Beautiful children with big smiles and face paint. Performers. Faerie houses. Some crazy muddy guy with a gorgeous dog. Men in kilts. Tattoos. Dancers and drummers.
I'm going to let the world go on without me while I watch Fairie Festival photos. Tra lull lull.
Photo of Spare and Friend, Spoutwood 2012.
Ever notice how we try to lull ourselves into a sense of peace?
I don't count praise and worship of the bored gods as lulling us into a sense of peace. Proper deities challenge you to confront the social ills around you, to guard the planet and do right by those who want to harm you.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" applaud those of you who confront the world head-on and hold your banner high. You go.
It's just that, right at this particular moment, we at "The Gods Are Bored" need some lulling. Therefore it has been hard for me not to drop everything I ought to be doing to go ogle the many fabulous pictures of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, now pouring into the Spoutwood site.
When everything is topsy-turvy, it's really tempting to sit for hours and watch a slide show of beautiful people, dancing in the sunshine. Beautiful children with big smiles and face paint. Performers. Faerie houses. Some crazy muddy guy with a gorgeous dog. Men in kilts. Tattoos. Dancers and drummers.
I'm going to let the world go on without me while I watch Fairie Festival photos. Tra lull lull.
Photo of Spare and Friend, Spoutwood 2012.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
A Warm, Wonderful "Gods Are Bored" Welcome!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," tolerating love, love, love since 2005! Two people, happy together! Or more! What could be better than that?
Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" extend a welcoming hand to the citizens of North Carolina who have felt the sting of their fellows' votes on marriage.
Come on up to New Jersey! Sorry we don't have mountains as pretty as yours, but our beaches are nice (not so snobby), and we will enjoy having you as neighbors and friends. Despite the pestilence that is our current governor, we New Jerseyans would never do something as moronic as add a definition of marriage to our state constitution. We will legislate the length of sandwich rolls before we do that.
So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, all ye GLBT North Carolinians, and hie ye northwards to the Garden State!
Look at it as a colossal brain drain from a state where you aren't wanted.
See you soon!
From Anne and the bored gods
P.S. -- check out the video below. Poor Henri! I laughed until I turned blue.
Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" extend a welcoming hand to the citizens of North Carolina who have felt the sting of their fellows' votes on marriage.
Come on up to New Jersey! Sorry we don't have mountains as pretty as yours, but our beaches are nice (not so snobby), and we will enjoy having you as neighbors and friends. Despite the pestilence that is our current governor, we New Jerseyans would never do something as moronic as add a definition of marriage to our state constitution. We will legislate the length of sandwich rolls before we do that.
So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, all ye GLBT North Carolinians, and hie ye northwards to the Garden State!
Look at it as a colossal brain drain from a state where you aren't wanted.
See you soon!
From Anne and the bored gods
P.S. -- check out the video below. Poor Henri! I laughed until I turned blue.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Update on The Heir
It is with great pleasure that I announce the graduation of The Heir, YourMoney College, Class of 2012.
She needed 56 points to pass the final in Neuroscience. She got 63. If you don't think this is the work of bored gods, toddle off now, take Neuroscience, and see how you do it without their help!
I fear that Neuroscience is the easiest test Heir will face this year. She comes home to find a job in this sour economy. Although she has many useful skills and has worked part time since she was 16, she doesn't know where to begin looking. Her college helped her not at all in this respect.
We live in tough times, folks. Either you're working too hard or not working at all. Stay tuned at Ground Zero of a college graduate's search for a job. Any job.
She needed 56 points to pass the final in Neuroscience. She got 63. If you don't think this is the work of bored gods, toddle off now, take Neuroscience, and see how you do it without their help!
I fear that Neuroscience is the easiest test Heir will face this year. She comes home to find a job in this sour economy. Although she has many useful skills and has worked part time since she was 16, she doesn't know where to begin looking. Her college helped her not at all in this respect.
We live in tough times, folks. Either you're working too hard or not working at all. Stay tuned at Ground Zero of a college graduate's search for a job. Any job.
Thursday, May 03, 2012
Off to the Fairie Festival!
Spare is tearing her room apart in search of faerie wear. My bedroom is awash in neon tie-dye. The car is full of rocks and dragons.
This can only mean one thing. The May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood begins tomorrow!
And Saturday night is a maximum full moon ... time to drum and dance in the May!
I hope you find springtime in your heart. To be truthful, I often struggle with the blues. Best way to kick 'em is to grab a drum, find a spot in the sunshine, and bang out a rhythm for the Great Bored Gods.
Proudly Mountain Tribe ... by way of New Jersey. Okay, that peg is really gonna fit that hole.
This can only mean one thing. The May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood begins tomorrow!
And Saturday night is a maximum full moon ... time to drum and dance in the May!
I hope you find springtime in your heart. To be truthful, I often struggle with the blues. Best way to kick 'em is to grab a drum, find a spot in the sunshine, and bang out a rhythm for the Great Bored Gods.
Proudly Mountain Tribe ... by way of New Jersey. Okay, that peg is really gonna fit that hole.
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
Nail-Biting in Snobville
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and I hope that any and every, and every EVERY bored deity drops His or Her knitting and comes here post-haste!
My daughter The Heir is scheduled to graduate from college a week from Friday. She has never gotten below a B in any of her courses, and she managed to double-major. Her collection of paintings won a prize for creativity bestowed by some well-heeled alumnus.
This young woman has crossed every t and dotted every i through 16 years of education, and most of it has been stuff she didn't like doing.
Try though she might to schedule a course, she was unable to fulfill her university's science requirement until the final semester of her senior year. Then, she had scheduling conflicts for the courses that might have been easy.
She wound up in Neuroscience. If she doesn't pass it, I don't know if she'll be wearing that cap and gown the university loaned her last week. Going into the final, she's sporting an encouraging "D."
The Heir has been trying to find out what the procedure is for students like herself, and the university is being less than helpful. Her advisor won't answer her emails. The deans are playing pass-the-buck. And Heir is trying, really trying to pass Neuroscience, a discipline she knew nothing about before taking it.
So, along with the bored gods, I'm asking for your energy and support as Heir takes the final exam on Thursday.
Our country needs to re-think the whole idea of "liberal arts education," if an honor student can't get a degree without a rigorous and completely irrelevant science class.
Gods and Goddesses, please be with The Heir.
My daughter The Heir is scheduled to graduate from college a week from Friday. She has never gotten below a B in any of her courses, and she managed to double-major. Her collection of paintings won a prize for creativity bestowed by some well-heeled alumnus.
This young woman has crossed every t and dotted every i through 16 years of education, and most of it has been stuff she didn't like doing.
Try though she might to schedule a course, she was unable to fulfill her university's science requirement until the final semester of her senior year. Then, she had scheduling conflicts for the courses that might have been easy.
She wound up in Neuroscience. If she doesn't pass it, I don't know if she'll be wearing that cap and gown the university loaned her last week. Going into the final, she's sporting an encouraging "D."
The Heir has been trying to find out what the procedure is for students like herself, and the university is being less than helpful. Her advisor won't answer her emails. The deans are playing pass-the-buck. And Heir is trying, really trying to pass Neuroscience, a discipline she knew nothing about before taking it.
So, along with the bored gods, I'm asking for your energy and support as Heir takes the final exam on Thursday.
Our country needs to re-think the whole idea of "liberal arts education," if an honor student can't get a degree without a rigorous and completely irrelevant science class.
Gods and Goddesses, please be with The Heir.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Getting Lost in the Shuffle!
Part of the reason I haven't said much about this year's Fairie Festival is that it will be very bittersweet for me. Don't tell anyone ... shhh ... but I'm going to resign as Tribe leader after this year.
You can't talk me out of this. It's not ethical to be leader of the Mountain Tribe when you live in the tidal flats and own no property in the mountains. Say what you want about the mountains being in my heart and my heritage. It's still not the same.
Also, I'm just getting to a time in life when I don't want any responsibilities outside the enormous burden of school and family. I've ranted about this before. There comes a time in the life of every sane person when they just say NO to volunteering.
Fairie Festival isn't like the Mummer's Parade, where you show up for one drunken rehearsal, pay for a costume you don't have to make, and spend a day pie-eyed in the streets of Philly.
It also isn't like Buzzard Day, which consists of renting a costume and spending three hours strutting around in it.
Fairie Festival is more like performing ... and serious performing at that. There's a deep spirit there that must be taken seriously.
Well, that should tell you all you need to know. "Serious" is not in my vocabulary. It sends me into blue screen. Go ahead. Say it. Tell me, "Anne you have to be serious about this." And then watch me curl up into a fetal position, whimpering for my blankie.
Spare has been my co-leader for the past three years. But next May she will be in finals week ... college. Wouldn't be right to continue without her.
So, if you're in the neighborhood of Glen Rock, PA, and you want to join the Mountain Tribe for the swan song of Anne and Spare, please make yourself known! Look for the neon tie-dye on Saturday and a more muted robe on Sunday. 2012 will forever be the year I lost my farm. Moving forward, I'll be in the Tribe, but it deserves a leader who walks the walk.
Friday, April 27, 2012
The Lottery: Just For Morons
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Luck, be a lady tonight! It's time to run the numbers!
It occurred to me, earlier today, that I can continue to post about my husband's book on the same post I wrote about it earlier in the week. The Internet is a marvel. The best part about this is, we can all move along to what "The Gods Are Bored" does best: laughing at stupid stuff.
Do you play the lottery? Hand tip here: The lottery is stupid stuff. If you disagree, you may want to shuffle off to the convenience store before the 7:00 drawing.
I guess it was about two weeks ago, I went to the neighborhood quick-stop to get a bottle of tonic water. Don't know about you, but I'm devoted to tonic water. Nectar of the bored gods, and all that.
Anyway, my neighborhood 7-11 is never very busy, but on this particular night, there was no parking in the lot, car horns were beeping like crazy, and a line of people snaked out the door and onto the sidewalk of Snobville's eastern edge.
Everyone was buying a Powerball ticket. Or 200 of them. You see, the jackpot had skyrocketed. I forget how much it was. I don't keep track of such things. Apparently, a lot of people do.
While everyone else stood in line to snatch Powerball tix, I got my tonic water and a nice Tastykake to boot. (The chiefest joy of living in the Philly area is unlimited access to fresh Tastykakes.)
It was quite diverting to watch the queue (great word) of wanna be gazillionaires forking over hard-earned ducats for little pieces of nondescript paper. I mean, come on, dudes! At least the scratch-off kind are pretty to look at! People were buying, and buying, and buying, while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
Earlier in the day, I had heard a radio news report. I may be wrong on this number, but I'm pretty sure I heard the announcer say that your chances of winning the lottery are 171 million to one.
Note I say "your." I don't play the freakin' lottery! You know what's 171 million to one? A Great White Shark leaping up and eating me, fresh off the Atlantic City Expressway, 20 miles east of the coastline! A meteor the size of my parrot, Decibel, missing me by two inches as I watch a Vo Tech junior varsity baseball game in the rain! A call from my mother-in-law, totally devoid of drama! I mean, come on, friends. Some things just. don't. happen.
If I did play the lottery, and I won, I would be afraid to step outside. The next FedEx truck I saw would flatten me like a pancake. One of those deer ticks would sneak up my leg and give me Lyme Disease. I'd blow a tire on the Jersey Turnpike at high rush hour. The odds are vastly in favor of these outcomes.
Bottom line of this sermon: If you're an unbridled optimist (or a moron), you play the Powerball at 171 million-to-one odds. If you're a diehard pessimist, you buy tonic water and a Tastykake.
And, boy, does that Tastykake taste good going down ... especially after a long, hard day.
I think this little column falls under the category of free advice. Remember that, in this economy, everyone must make sacrifices. So I'm paying you to take my free advice. Email me.
It occurred to me, earlier today, that I can continue to post about my husband's book on the same post I wrote about it earlier in the week. The Internet is a marvel. The best part about this is, we can all move along to what "The Gods Are Bored" does best: laughing at stupid stuff.
Do you play the lottery? Hand tip here: The lottery is stupid stuff. If you disagree, you may want to shuffle off to the convenience store before the 7:00 drawing.
I guess it was about two weeks ago, I went to the neighborhood quick-stop to get a bottle of tonic water. Don't know about you, but I'm devoted to tonic water. Nectar of the bored gods, and all that.
Anyway, my neighborhood 7-11 is never very busy, but on this particular night, there was no parking in the lot, car horns were beeping like crazy, and a line of people snaked out the door and onto the sidewalk of Snobville's eastern edge.
Everyone was buying a Powerball ticket. Or 200 of them. You see, the jackpot had skyrocketed. I forget how much it was. I don't keep track of such things. Apparently, a lot of people do.
While everyone else stood in line to snatch Powerball tix, I got my tonic water and a nice Tastykake to boot. (The chiefest joy of living in the Philly area is unlimited access to fresh Tastykakes.)
It was quite diverting to watch the queue (great word) of wanna be gazillionaires forking over hard-earned ducats for little pieces of nondescript paper. I mean, come on, dudes! At least the scratch-off kind are pretty to look at! People were buying, and buying, and buying, while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
Earlier in the day, I had heard a radio news report. I may be wrong on this number, but I'm pretty sure I heard the announcer say that your chances of winning the lottery are 171 million to one.
Note I say "your." I don't play the freakin' lottery! You know what's 171 million to one? A Great White Shark leaping up and eating me, fresh off the Atlantic City Expressway, 20 miles east of the coastline! A meteor the size of my parrot, Decibel, missing me by two inches as I watch a Vo Tech junior varsity baseball game in the rain! A call from my mother-in-law, totally devoid of drama! I mean, come on, friends. Some things just. don't. happen.
If I did play the lottery, and I won, I would be afraid to step outside. The next FedEx truck I saw would flatten me like a pancake. One of those deer ticks would sneak up my leg and give me Lyme Disease. I'd blow a tire on the Jersey Turnpike at high rush hour. The odds are vastly in favor of these outcomes.
Bottom line of this sermon: If you're an unbridled optimist (or a moron), you play the Powerball at 171 million-to-one odds. If you're a diehard pessimist, you buy tonic water and a Tastykake.
And, boy, does that Tastykake taste good going down ... especially after a long, hard day.I think this little column falls under the category of free advice. Remember that, in this economy, everyone must make sacrifices. So I'm paying you to take my free advice. Email me.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
The Restorative Moment
Today was a particularly trying day of teaching. It's getting late in the year, and as usual my students are not terribly smitten by Romeo and Juliet. To make matters worse, I'm battling a really nasty virus that has taken my voice.
Ah, but at the end of the day I paused to check in on my favorite web cam buzzards...
http://www.sandiegozooglobal.org/video/condor_cam
Just in time to see mother and chick preening and bonding with each other. Oh, blessed mystery of life, at last I've found you!
The baby Condor now has a name. So the family consists of Sisquoc (the father, I met him long ago in San Diego), Shatash (the mom), and Saticoy (the chick). The names are all Native American.
I don't know about you, but I think "Saticoy" is a lovely name. It's too bad I'm too old to have more children.
Perhaps I'll suggest it for a grandchild.
Ah, but at the end of the day I paused to check in on my favorite web cam buzzards...
http://www.sandiegozooglobal.org/video/condor_cam
Just in time to see mother and chick preening and bonding with each other. Oh, blessed mystery of life, at last I've found you!
The baby Condor now has a name. So the family consists of Sisquoc (the father, I met him long ago in San Diego), Shatash (the mom), and Saticoy (the chick). The names are all Native American.
I don't know about you, but I think "Saticoy" is a lovely name. It's too bad I'm too old to have more children.
Perhaps I'll suggest it for a grandchild.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Going Out Tonight...
... to the Oxford Valley Mall for my husband's first-ever book signing. Bless his heart, he's been rehearsing in the garage!
Tomorrow or the next, I'm going to write a few posts about my experiences with the characters in Like Any Normal Day. I've met some of them, and they really are wonderful people. The mark of a good person is when life tests you to the max, and you stare it in the eye and don't blink. The Miley family has more non-blinkers than I've ever met in one household.
The previous post was visited, quite unexpectedly, by my one-and-only troll. I've flung the gauntlet at supporters of Cindy Jacobs, Sarah Palin, Rick Santorum, DC40, the Tea Party, Rush Limbaugh, and the Westboro Baptist Church. Only once, long ago, did I get a tepid response from someone who approves the messages of these pustules. My troll seems to have no political allegiance, but he holds a damned good grudge.
This is my favorite bridge, Troll. Do not collect toll at this bridge. The ghosts will kick your butt.
This is my second favorite bridge. Knock yourself out.
For the curious: The first bridge (yes, Iggy) is Burnside Bridge on the edge of Antietam Battlefield. The second bridge is (yes, Iggy) the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, mid-span.
Tomorrow or the next, I'm going to write a few posts about my experiences with the characters in Like Any Normal Day. I've met some of them, and they really are wonderful people. The mark of a good person is when life tests you to the max, and you stare it in the eye and don't blink. The Miley family has more non-blinkers than I've ever met in one household.
The previous post was visited, quite unexpectedly, by my one-and-only troll. I've flung the gauntlet at supporters of Cindy Jacobs, Sarah Palin, Rick Santorum, DC40, the Tea Party, Rush Limbaugh, and the Westboro Baptist Church. Only once, long ago, did I get a tepid response from someone who approves the messages of these pustules. My troll seems to have no political allegiance, but he holds a damned good grudge.
This is my favorite bridge, Troll. Do not collect toll at this bridge. The ghosts will kick your butt.
This is my second favorite bridge. Knock yourself out.
For the curious: The first bridge (yes, Iggy) is Burnside Bridge on the edge of Antietam Battlefield. The second bridge is (yes, Iggy) the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, mid-span.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
To the Pole and Back
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on April 24, 2012 -- the official publication date of Like Any Normal Day, by my husband, Mark Kram Jr. It's very surreal to think of his book being unpacked from boxes and placed out on tables in Barnes & Noble and fine independent booksellers like http://www.jacksonst-books.com/?page=shop/privacy Jackson Street Books!
Writing this book, for my husband and me, was kind of like setting out on a journey to reach the North Pole. We didn't know if we would ever make it, and we weren't prepared for the ordeal of getting there and back again.
I like to use metaphors, and this is an apt one. Extending now:
Let's say Mark was an explorer who had done Arctic expeditions before, but never all the way to the Pole. And I was confident he could make it, but whoa. What a trip! We have both come back changed. Not for better or worse. Just changed.
Like a wilderness sojourn, this story tested our bond and our resolve. Mark had to immerse himself into other peoples' lives and try to understand the thoughts and dreams of a quadriplegic man. I was just starting a brand new job too, with a steep learning curve and no margin for error. Some days it did feel like a teetering sled, pulled by poor, exhausted, under-fed Buck ... just trying to get us there.
While he worked on his book, Mark kept his day job in the dwindling print journalism industry. He also wrote a monthly column of 2,000 words for a magazine in South Africa. Another metaphor: If he was John Henry, he would have beaten that steam-driven hammer by a country mile. I never saw anyone work harder, keep more balls moving in the air.
Sometimes we ask the rhetorical question: If we knew then what we know now, would Mark have embarked on this literary challenge? Whenever we are tempted to say no, always in the back of my mind comes the thought that it's better to get frostbite on an epic journey than to stay and stagnate in your comfort zone.
And so we have come to pub date. The journey is not over. It's just entering a new phase. My guess is that it will never really end until we do. Writing is like that.
Writing this book, for my husband and me, was kind of like setting out on a journey to reach the North Pole. We didn't know if we would ever make it, and we weren't prepared for the ordeal of getting there and back again.
I like to use metaphors, and this is an apt one. Extending now:
Let's say Mark was an explorer who had done Arctic expeditions before, but never all the way to the Pole. And I was confident he could make it, but whoa. What a trip! We have both come back changed. Not for better or worse. Just changed.
Like a wilderness sojourn, this story tested our bond and our resolve. Mark had to immerse himself into other peoples' lives and try to understand the thoughts and dreams of a quadriplegic man. I was just starting a brand new job too, with a steep learning curve and no margin for error. Some days it did feel like a teetering sled, pulled by poor, exhausted, under-fed Buck ... just trying to get us there.
While he worked on his book, Mark kept his day job in the dwindling print journalism industry. He also wrote a monthly column of 2,000 words for a magazine in South Africa. Another metaphor: If he was John Henry, he would have beaten that steam-driven hammer by a country mile. I never saw anyone work harder, keep more balls moving in the air.
Sometimes we ask the rhetorical question: If we knew then what we know now, would Mark have embarked on this literary challenge? Whenever we are tempted to say no, always in the back of my mind comes the thought that it's better to get frostbite on an epic journey than to stay and stagnate in your comfort zone.
And so we have come to pub date. The journey is not over. It's just entering a new phase. My guess is that it will never really end until we do. Writing is like that.
Friday, April 20, 2012
The Bored Gods Have To Stay at Home
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," not looking for any trouble on a beautiful spring evening! I'm just back from watching the j.v. baseball game at my school. It was very touching when my students smiled and waved at me as they waltzed around the bases, time after time. Yes, it was a rout. Go Tech!
I lost my last contract as a writer in 2005, and so I wandered into a thicket called teaching. If you haven't tried teaching, let me just say that there's a lot more to it than you'd think if you watched Welcome Back, Kotter. It wasn't like I transitioned from writing to, say, editing ... or medical transcription ... or anything involving typing. Oh no, I did a complete and utter career change. And for a long time it seemed to me I didn't have the chops to pull it off.
Yesterday the principal came into my room, shook my hand, and confirmed that I have been hired for the 2012-13 school year. This means that I have tenure.
And Chris Christie, if you mess with my tenure, so help me I'll buy every Hershey bar in the state ... starting in Trenton and moving through the wealthiest neighborhoods first.
I want to be a good teacher. I want to see my students succeed. I also want to abide by our U.S. Constitution. Ergo, when I go to school, the bored gods stay home.
I have pledged allegiance to the flag at the Vo-Tech more than 600 times. Never once have I said, "Under God." God does not belong in public schools. And if he doesn't belong, then Mannanan Mac Lir will have to stay outside too.
I feel very strongly about this. If I have Christian students who write religious papers or express religious opinions, I encourage them to be proud of their faith. But offer mine up for inspection? BAAAAMP! Not even if I taught World Religions. Which thankfully I don't.
So, here's to a public school teacher, earning enough to be self-sufficient ... finally ... at age ... oh, snap, never mind!
Don't forget to pick up your copy of my husband's nonfiction book, Like Any Normal Day. If you go to his site, he'll tell you a story ain't got no moral.
http://www.markkramjr.com/
I lost my last contract as a writer in 2005, and so I wandered into a thicket called teaching. If you haven't tried teaching, let me just say that there's a lot more to it than you'd think if you watched Welcome Back, Kotter. It wasn't like I transitioned from writing to, say, editing ... or medical transcription ... or anything involving typing. Oh no, I did a complete and utter career change. And for a long time it seemed to me I didn't have the chops to pull it off.
Yesterday the principal came into my room, shook my hand, and confirmed that I have been hired for the 2012-13 school year. This means that I have tenure.
And Chris Christie, if you mess with my tenure, so help me I'll buy every Hershey bar in the state ... starting in Trenton and moving through the wealthiest neighborhoods first.
I want to be a good teacher. I want to see my students succeed. I also want to abide by our U.S. Constitution. Ergo, when I go to school, the bored gods stay home.
I have pledged allegiance to the flag at the Vo-Tech more than 600 times. Never once have I said, "Under God." God does not belong in public schools. And if he doesn't belong, then Mannanan Mac Lir will have to stay outside too.
I feel very strongly about this. If I have Christian students who write religious papers or express religious opinions, I encourage them to be proud of their faith. But offer mine up for inspection? BAAAAMP! Not even if I taught World Religions. Which thankfully I don't.
So, here's to a public school teacher, earning enough to be self-sufficient ... finally ... at age ... oh, snap, never mind!
Don't forget to pick up your copy of my husband's nonfiction book, Like Any Normal Day. If you go to his site, he'll tell you a story ain't got no moral.
http://www.markkramjr.com/
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Mark Kram Jr. and "Like Any Normal Day"
My daughter wasn't even born on the day when my husband, Mark Kram Jr., drove out to Warminster, PA to meet a gentleman named Buddy Miley. Buddy's life, death, and legacy are the subjects of Mark's book, Like Any Normal Day, on sale now at Amazon.com and many fabulous independent bookstores near you.
Okay, I'm the dude's wife, so do you really expect me to say mean things about his brand-new book? Of course not! But you probably also would think that I might embellish the greatness of the tome in the interest of grocery money. Therefore, I yield the floor to a few reviewers, first among them Pulitzer Prize-winner Richard Ford:
"Like Any Normal Day looks piercingly beyond the moment when the lights dim and the crowds go home in any young athlete's life. Kram's acuity and sympathies stretch far beyond his sportswriter's practiced gaze -- indeed, all the way to the realm of literature. It is not a happy story he has to tell us. But it seems to me -- perhaps for that very reason -- it is an essential and cautionary one."
And O, aka Oprah Magazine:
"Whether you agree or disagree with their decision, you'll be unable to turn away from the heartbreaking true story of a paralyzed man and the devoted brother who helps him die."
Also, Kirkus Reviews gave the book a star. If you're a librarian, you know how hard it is to get a star from Kirkus. I've seen claw machines that were far more generous.
Another review can be found in the April 20 issue of Sports Illustrated. Yeah, well, I know, I know ... SI ain't Oprah. Except that long-time readers of SI will recall Mark Kram Sr. and perhaps give an approving nod to the next generation.
As an assistant to my husband, I read that book in manuscript at least three times. I still cried when it went into final pages. Don't get me wrong: This isn't a book that's going to leave you with a bad case of the blues. Oh no. It's touching. You root for the hero, and he doesn't let you down.
Bookmark this page if you want more information and updates on Like Any Normal Day. I'll be keeping a diary of the book's progress, posting photos, and sharing interesting commentary on Mark and his book. Here's Mark's website:
http://www.markkramjr.com/
And here's a really wonderful extended conversation with Mark, complete with a fabulous portrait done by his daughter:
http://www.bronxbanterblog.com/2012/04/24/bronx-banter-interview-mark-kram/
If you are anything like me, you hate giving your hard-earned largesse to the big box booksellers, so here's a nice review of Mark's book and a link to a wonderful independent bookstore, Jackson Street Books.
http://jacksonstreetbooks.blogspot.com/2012/04/like-any-normal-day.html
Jimmy Miley has put a poster of the book on every side of his moving van. The large and lovely Miley family turned out for Mark's first-ever book signing on April 24, 2012. After decades -- I mean decades -- of attending other author readings/signings, it was surreal to actually see Mark in the author's chair. He handled it well, having practiced in the comfort of his home office.
Reviews are trickling in, almost all of them overwhelmingly positive. If you liked the book, please post something nice over at Amazon.
Okay, I'm the dude's wife, so do you really expect me to say mean things about his brand-new book? Of course not! But you probably also would think that I might embellish the greatness of the tome in the interest of grocery money. Therefore, I yield the floor to a few reviewers, first among them Pulitzer Prize-winner Richard Ford:
"Like Any Normal Day looks piercingly beyond the moment when the lights dim and the crowds go home in any young athlete's life. Kram's acuity and sympathies stretch far beyond his sportswriter's practiced gaze -- indeed, all the way to the realm of literature. It is not a happy story he has to tell us. But it seems to me -- perhaps for that very reason -- it is an essential and cautionary one."
And O, aka Oprah Magazine:
"Whether you agree or disagree with their decision, you'll be unable to turn away from the heartbreaking true story of a paralyzed man and the devoted brother who helps him die."
Also, Kirkus Reviews gave the book a star. If you're a librarian, you know how hard it is to get a star from Kirkus. I've seen claw machines that were far more generous.
Another review can be found in the April 20 issue of Sports Illustrated. Yeah, well, I know, I know ... SI ain't Oprah. Except that long-time readers of SI will recall Mark Kram Sr. and perhaps give an approving nod to the next generation.
As an assistant to my husband, I read that book in manuscript at least three times. I still cried when it went into final pages. Don't get me wrong: This isn't a book that's going to leave you with a bad case of the blues. Oh no. It's touching. You root for the hero, and he doesn't let you down.
Bookmark this page if you want more information and updates on Like Any Normal Day. I'll be keeping a diary of the book's progress, posting photos, and sharing interesting commentary on Mark and his book. Here's Mark's website:
http://www.markkramjr.com/
And here's a really wonderful extended conversation with Mark, complete with a fabulous portrait done by his daughter:
http://www.bronxbanterblog.com/2012/04/24/bronx-banter-interview-mark-kram/
If you are anything like me, you hate giving your hard-earned largesse to the big box booksellers, so here's a nice review of Mark's book and a link to a wonderful independent bookstore, Jackson Street Books.
http://jacksonstreetbooks.blogspot.com/2012/04/like-any-normal-day.html
Jimmy Miley has put a poster of the book on every side of his moving van. The large and lovely Miley family turned out for Mark's first-ever book signing on April 24, 2012. After decades -- I mean decades -- of attending other author readings/signings, it was surreal to actually see Mark in the author's chair. He handled it well, having practiced in the comfort of his home office.
Reviews are trickling in, almost all of them overwhelmingly positive. If you liked the book, please post something nice over at Amazon.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Odd Thing To Pay Forward
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, what a busy week! It's so nice to get a spring break. If I hadn't had one, I would have had to create it.
One of the highlights of this week was the visit Spare and I made to the special Van Gogh exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The exhibit focused on Van Gogh's nature paintings, and it was amazing. "Starry Night" was not there, but there were several woodland vista works that reminded me of home. And one haunting canvas of a rainstorm, painted while looking out of the window of a mental asylum.
Van Gogh was also in the mental asylum when he painted this beautiful canvas for his brand-new namesake nephew. It is Spare's favorite, and she spent quite a long time gazing at it.
I know fashions and tastes change, but I just cannot imagine how this artist was overlooked in his lifetime. Maybe if he lived longer, like Walt Whitman (both alive and working at the same time, different continents). Maybe he lacked Whitman's self-assurance ... certainly lacked Whitman's mental health. Say what you will about Walt Whitman, he was supremely happy in his skin.
The same day we saw Van Gogh, Spare and I visited the Magic Gardens on South Street in Philadelphia. This is an art installation created by a local man named Isaiah Zagar. Words and pictures do not do it justice. It's as if the artist went to a landfill full of old bottles, plates, coffee mugs, tiles, and a zillion other things, and just waved a magic wand and turned it into a gleaming, mirrored palace. Here is a place you could go 30 times and never see it the same way twice. And while it was a daunting $25 per person to see Van Gogh, the Magic Gardens (probably same square footage or larger than the Van Gogh exhibit) was $5 per person.
Ha ha! Some day the Magic Gardens will be as famous as "Sunflowers in a Vase," and it will cost $75 per person to get in, after waiting in a long line and being issued headphones so you can hear famous critics talk about it! Yay! Spare and I got there before the fashions and tastes did!
The best part of this week, though, was the magick I performed for my late grandfather.
Granddad spent his entire working life creating machinery that worked on a microscopic level. He must have wondered how he came upon such a fascinating occupation, having grown up on a piece-of-nothing mountainside farm. In his spare time he fixed timepieces of all sizes, from little wristwatches to great, big grandfather clocks. He was an early browser of yard sales, and from them he procured many pocket watches that he fixed and doled out. I have one. Sometimes I take it to school, just to feel its warmth against my hip.
While Granddad was still alive, he kept his watch repair books on a shelf in the family farm house. After he died, my uncle moved the books in order to have room for his own library. I thought the books had been lost, thrown away. But when my cousin cleaned out the house in preparation for sale, he found the watch repair books. I asked him to send them to me.
The books were a motley lot, smelling moldy and broken at the spine. But I could see that they were really great how-to manuals for watch repair. Two of them were published in 1922.
It happens that there is a watch repairman in Snobville who has been in the trade for a long time, certainly as long as I have lived here. I once had him "tune up" my pocket watch, which he said was a good one, well cared for.
Yesterday I walked into the jewelry store where the watch repairman works. I gave him all of the watch-making books. He was like a kid in a candy store. He pointed to my grandfather's name in the front of one of them and said, "Is this the man who owned the books?" And I said yes, that was my beloved granddad, and I know he would want useful books to be paid forward into the right hands.
The repairman said he was in the process of creating a workshop in his home. I told him my grandfather had a table where he kept all his watch books and supplies, and people used to give their watches to him to be fixed.
The only request I made of the watch repairman was to keep paying the books forward, to be sure that someone who worked with clocks would always have them. He said, "No problem!" Then he added: "Wait until my wife sees these!"
It's such a comfort to me to know that those books are in the hands of someone who can understand them, use them, and appreciate them.
The moral of this sermon: Holding onto certain things for sentimental reasons robs them of their essence. Pay it forward. Tick. Tick. Tick.
One of the highlights of this week was the visit Spare and I made to the special Van Gogh exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The exhibit focused on Van Gogh's nature paintings, and it was amazing. "Starry Night" was not there, but there were several woodland vista works that reminded me of home. And one haunting canvas of a rainstorm, painted while looking out of the window of a mental asylum.
Van Gogh was also in the mental asylum when he painted this beautiful canvas for his brand-new namesake nephew. It is Spare's favorite, and she spent quite a long time gazing at it.
I know fashions and tastes change, but I just cannot imagine how this artist was overlooked in his lifetime. Maybe if he lived longer, like Walt Whitman (both alive and working at the same time, different continents). Maybe he lacked Whitman's self-assurance ... certainly lacked Whitman's mental health. Say what you will about Walt Whitman, he was supremely happy in his skin.
The same day we saw Van Gogh, Spare and I visited the Magic Gardens on South Street in Philadelphia. This is an art installation created by a local man named Isaiah Zagar. Words and pictures do not do it justice. It's as if the artist went to a landfill full of old bottles, plates, coffee mugs, tiles, and a zillion other things, and just waved a magic wand and turned it into a gleaming, mirrored palace. Here is a place you could go 30 times and never see it the same way twice. And while it was a daunting $25 per person to see Van Gogh, the Magic Gardens (probably same square footage or larger than the Van Gogh exhibit) was $5 per person.
Ha ha! Some day the Magic Gardens will be as famous as "Sunflowers in a Vase," and it will cost $75 per person to get in, after waiting in a long line and being issued headphones so you can hear famous critics talk about it! Yay! Spare and I got there before the fashions and tastes did!
The best part of this week, though, was the magick I performed for my late grandfather.
Granddad spent his entire working life creating machinery that worked on a microscopic level. He must have wondered how he came upon such a fascinating occupation, having grown up on a piece-of-nothing mountainside farm. In his spare time he fixed timepieces of all sizes, from little wristwatches to great, big grandfather clocks. He was an early browser of yard sales, and from them he procured many pocket watches that he fixed and doled out. I have one. Sometimes I take it to school, just to feel its warmth against my hip.
While Granddad was still alive, he kept his watch repair books on a shelf in the family farm house. After he died, my uncle moved the books in order to have room for his own library. I thought the books had been lost, thrown away. But when my cousin cleaned out the house in preparation for sale, he found the watch repair books. I asked him to send them to me.
The books were a motley lot, smelling moldy and broken at the spine. But I could see that they were really great how-to manuals for watch repair. Two of them were published in 1922.
It happens that there is a watch repairman in Snobville who has been in the trade for a long time, certainly as long as I have lived here. I once had him "tune up" my pocket watch, which he said was a good one, well cared for.
Yesterday I walked into the jewelry store where the watch repairman works. I gave him all of the watch-making books. He was like a kid in a candy store. He pointed to my grandfather's name in the front of one of them and said, "Is this the man who owned the books?" And I said yes, that was my beloved granddad, and I know he would want useful books to be paid forward into the right hands.
The repairman said he was in the process of creating a workshop in his home. I told him my grandfather had a table where he kept all his watch books and supplies, and people used to give their watches to him to be fixed.
The only request I made of the watch repairman was to keep paying the books forward, to be sure that someone who worked with clocks would always have them. He said, "No problem!" Then he added: "Wait until my wife sees these!"
It's such a comfort to me to know that those books are in the hands of someone who can understand them, use them, and appreciate them.
The moral of this sermon: Holding onto certain things for sentimental reasons robs them of their essence. Pay it forward. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Rare Post about the Busy God: Did Jesus Exist?
Every now and then someone flings a book at me that is kind of out of my regular line of reading. This is how I came to read Did Jesus Exist? The Historical Argument for Jesus of Nazareth, by Bart D. Ehrman.
Had to ask myself two questions about this tome before I even opened it:
1. Why should I read about the historical existence of Jesus when I already believe it, and
2. Should I waste my time reading about the busy god?
Just goes to show you ... move beyond those pesky, nagging questions sometimes. This title turned out to be very interesting, and one of those rare books written by a scholar for a lay audience that is actually understandable and accessible.
Apparently there's a largish movement underway to cast Jesus of Nazareth as a mythical being, totally made up from the fertile imaginations of ancient people. Well, as we all know, the best way to discredit a deity is to stick the "m" word onto His or Her exploits.
Bart Ehrman takes on these mythicists and discredits them ... actually trounces them soundly, using logical, fact-based arguments. But in doing so, in establishing the existence of a real historical figure named Jesus of Nazareth, Professor Ehrman doesn't do the Christian religion any favors. As the author notes, "Jesus would not recognize himself in the preaching of most of his followers today."
Actually, the historical Jesus wouldn't recognize anything about himself in the actions of his followers today, because (as this book explains in refreshing detail), Jesus didn't anticipate the future lasting longer than his lifetime. He was an "apocalypse now" preacher who saw himself as the head of the table in the aftermath of a Rapture that was scheduled to occur before he died. Then, counter to all expectations, he died.
Like many a stripling before me, I used to sit in church, through long, boring sermons of which I can remember nothing. I used to wonder how much of the Bible was real, and how much was made up. (Most of it is made up.) But I never doubted that Jesus was a historical person, mostly for the same reasons that Professor Ehrman discusses in his book: There are just too many sources of somewhat-overlapping data about Jesus, from too many different individuals.
Turns out I was pretty good at honing in on the human Jesus, even as a kid. It seemed to me that Jesus held a high opinion of himself (in my view to the point of megalomania), and all that humility and suffering to save the world was grafted onto a slender stalk of reality at a later date. Did Jesus Exist? may not arrive at this conclusion out-and-out, but the scholarly parsing of the oldest texts does give us evidence of a charismatic human being who came to believe his own press releases to the point of reckless public behavior.
So, while Did Jesus Exist was out-of-the-box reading for me, it was a worthwhile endeavor. I'm not surprised that this author has drawn the ire of the fundamentalist movement, because he has discovered what's really fundamental in Jesus' ministry ... emmm ... awkward.
As a postscript I'll add that I also believe King Arthur was a historical figure, or at least a series of historical figures from a particular moment in the history of the British Isles. Believing as I do in King Arthur, I'm glad there aren't texts like The Gospel of Lancelot, written within a century of Arthur's passing and then revised by hidden hands here and there as fashion and necessity dictated. A little knowledge is not always a bad thing when it comes to poking holes in your heroes.
Had to ask myself two questions about this tome before I even opened it:
1. Why should I read about the historical existence of Jesus when I already believe it, and
2. Should I waste my time reading about the busy god?
Just goes to show you ... move beyond those pesky, nagging questions sometimes. This title turned out to be very interesting, and one of those rare books written by a scholar for a lay audience that is actually understandable and accessible.
Apparently there's a largish movement underway to cast Jesus of Nazareth as a mythical being, totally made up from the fertile imaginations of ancient people. Well, as we all know, the best way to discredit a deity is to stick the "m" word onto His or Her exploits.
Bart Ehrman takes on these mythicists and discredits them ... actually trounces them soundly, using logical, fact-based arguments. But in doing so, in establishing the existence of a real historical figure named Jesus of Nazareth, Professor Ehrman doesn't do the Christian religion any favors. As the author notes, "Jesus would not recognize himself in the preaching of most of his followers today."
Actually, the historical Jesus wouldn't recognize anything about himself in the actions of his followers today, because (as this book explains in refreshing detail), Jesus didn't anticipate the future lasting longer than his lifetime. He was an "apocalypse now" preacher who saw himself as the head of the table in the aftermath of a Rapture that was scheduled to occur before he died. Then, counter to all expectations, he died.
Like many a stripling before me, I used to sit in church, through long, boring sermons of which I can remember nothing. I used to wonder how much of the Bible was real, and how much was made up. (Most of it is made up.) But I never doubted that Jesus was a historical person, mostly for the same reasons that Professor Ehrman discusses in his book: There are just too many sources of somewhat-overlapping data about Jesus, from too many different individuals.
Turns out I was pretty good at honing in on the human Jesus, even as a kid. It seemed to me that Jesus held a high opinion of himself (in my view to the point of megalomania), and all that humility and suffering to save the world was grafted onto a slender stalk of reality at a later date. Did Jesus Exist? may not arrive at this conclusion out-and-out, but the scholarly parsing of the oldest texts does give us evidence of a charismatic human being who came to believe his own press releases to the point of reckless public behavior.
So, while Did Jesus Exist was out-of-the-box reading for me, it was a worthwhile endeavor. I'm not surprised that this author has drawn the ire of the fundamentalist movement, because he has discovered what's really fundamental in Jesus' ministry ... emmm ... awkward.
As a postscript I'll add that I also believe King Arthur was a historical figure, or at least a series of historical figures from a particular moment in the history of the British Isles. Believing as I do in King Arthur, I'm glad there aren't texts like The Gospel of Lancelot, written within a century of Arthur's passing and then revised by hidden hands here and there as fashion and necessity dictated. A little knowledge is not always a bad thing when it comes to poking holes in your heroes.
Saturday, April 07, 2012
Frank Talk about Sex between Teachers and Students
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," turning to the tricky subject of teacher/student relations of a carnal nature. This will be one of our series of frank talks, so if you're a stripling, go play in the sunshine.
Like it or not (and most kids don't like it even a little bit), teachers are authority figures. Let's see if we can rank teachers in the hierarchy of authority figures:
EXHIBIT A: AUTHORITY FIGURES IN A YOUNG PERSON'S LIFE
1. Parents
2. Law enforcement
3. Pastors
4. Teachers
If a kid doesn't get much notice from #1 above, he or she may or may not wind up tangling with #2 or #3 above. But regardless of whether or not parents care, kids absolutely must deal with teachers. They can avoid cops or preachers, but not teachers.
This is a very, very slippery slope for both student and educator, especially young educators who are only a handful of years older than some of their charges. We hear all the time of newly-minted teachers being respectable and then marrying a student who they have taught for a year or two.
We also hear of teachers of both genders who do the deed with their students.
Go into any high school anywhere and look around. The students there are at a beautiful age. They look great. The boys are handsome, and the girls are pretty. It's very easy for a teacher (who, after all, has the authority) to compliment, charm, and seduce a student. Very often when these relationships are uncovered, the relationship is considered to be consensual. In other words, the student is loving it as much as the teacher.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" don't necessarily discourage sexual relationships between older men/women and younger men/women. It's just the teacher thing that's problematic.
Teachers who become overly romantic with their students are taking advantage of:
1. Their authority over a largish population of people
2. The pool of beautiful youngsters at their disposal
3. The need for young people to attract adult attention, and
4. The many nooks and crannies in every school where trysts can at least be verbally arranged, if not out-and-out consummated.
I'm a school teacher, and let me tell you, even the most rebellious kid on campus, even the senior about to walk out the high school door, yes, even that senior, has a little bit of fear of teachers. Even the students who love you to death and bring you cookies at Christmas still have a sense that you have control. Therefore, as a teacher you should never:
1. Over-exert that control by being authoritarian, manipulative, or favoritism-prone,
2. Under-exert that control by chillin with your pupil-peeps, even to the degree of off-campus friendship,
3. Get romantic with someone whose essay you'll have to grade on the weekend.
The teachers at Snobville High School have their students as Facebook friends. They go on lunch dates and travel together. They talk on the phone at night.
BAMP! Wrong.
Teaching is a profession. Teachers should be professionals. Would you think of friending your dermatologist who you only see for your pimple medicine, or your accountant who does your taxes?
Teaching is a profession. Students are clients. They are sweet, needy clients, but clients nevertheless. A true professional knows there's a line, knows not to cross it, and knows in his/her heart of hearts that when it is crossed, it's wrong.
Guys, you want a young, peppy girlfriend? Go to Wet T-Shirt Nite at the sports bar and fling around some bling. Girls, you want a solid, dependable older guy? Good luck with that. Most of them are married. Which is a whole separate kettle of frank-talk fish.
Teacher, leave those kids alone.
Like it or not (and most kids don't like it even a little bit), teachers are authority figures. Let's see if we can rank teachers in the hierarchy of authority figures:
EXHIBIT A: AUTHORITY FIGURES IN A YOUNG PERSON'S LIFE
1. Parents
2. Law enforcement
3. Pastors
4. Teachers
If a kid doesn't get much notice from #1 above, he or she may or may not wind up tangling with #2 or #3 above. But regardless of whether or not parents care, kids absolutely must deal with teachers. They can avoid cops or preachers, but not teachers.
This is a very, very slippery slope for both student and educator, especially young educators who are only a handful of years older than some of their charges. We hear all the time of newly-minted teachers being respectable and then marrying a student who they have taught for a year or two.
We also hear of teachers of both genders who do the deed with their students.
Go into any high school anywhere and look around. The students there are at a beautiful age. They look great. The boys are handsome, and the girls are pretty. It's very easy for a teacher (who, after all, has the authority) to compliment, charm, and seduce a student. Very often when these relationships are uncovered, the relationship is considered to be consensual. In other words, the student is loving it as much as the teacher.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" don't necessarily discourage sexual relationships between older men/women and younger men/women. It's just the teacher thing that's problematic.
Teachers who become overly romantic with their students are taking advantage of:
1. Their authority over a largish population of people
2. The pool of beautiful youngsters at their disposal
3. The need for young people to attract adult attention, and
4. The many nooks and crannies in every school where trysts can at least be verbally arranged, if not out-and-out consummated.
I'm a school teacher, and let me tell you, even the most rebellious kid on campus, even the senior about to walk out the high school door, yes, even that senior, has a little bit of fear of teachers. Even the students who love you to death and bring you cookies at Christmas still have a sense that you have control. Therefore, as a teacher you should never:
1. Over-exert that control by being authoritarian, manipulative, or favoritism-prone,
2. Under-exert that control by chillin with your pupil-peeps, even to the degree of off-campus friendship,
3. Get romantic with someone whose essay you'll have to grade on the weekend.
The teachers at Snobville High School have their students as Facebook friends. They go on lunch dates and travel together. They talk on the phone at night.
BAMP! Wrong.
Teaching is a profession. Teachers should be professionals. Would you think of friending your dermatologist who you only see for your pimple medicine, or your accountant who does your taxes?
Teaching is a profession. Students are clients. They are sweet, needy clients, but clients nevertheless. A true professional knows there's a line, knows not to cross it, and knows in his/her heart of hearts that when it is crossed, it's wrong.
Guys, you want a young, peppy girlfriend? Go to Wet T-Shirt Nite at the sports bar and fling around some bling. Girls, you want a solid, dependable older guy? Good luck with that. Most of them are married. Which is a whole separate kettle of frank-talk fish.
Teacher, leave those kids alone.
Friday, April 06, 2012
Good Friday
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," celebrating the very-widely-observed seasonal festival of Eostre!
Here's an important philosophical question that I hope to pose to Eostre after the holy day. Is she bored (because her holy day has been usurped by another religion), or is she busy (because people dress up and celebrate Her holy day each year on the appropriate day)?
It's way past time for another "Gods Are Bored" interview, so hopefully we can get Eostre here next week.
In the meantime: Good Friday.
When you are a public school teacher who hasn't had a break since President's Day, Good Friday takes on a whole new meaning. Sorry for your suffering, Jesus ... really ... but having today off was WAY PAST FABULOUS.
No Stations of the Cross, no hours of mournful Bach cantatas. We at "The Gods Are Bored" slept until 9:00, prepared a simple breakfast, read Time magazine (Santorum: The First Amendment's best friend), and browsed the thrift store for candles and tablecloths. Accompanied by daughter, The Spare.
The sole black cloud on this day was a literal one, from a forest fire in the New Jersey Pinelands. Otherwise, again with apologies to the busy god, this day was good.
I've got my desktop computer back, it's purring like a kitten, and next week I'm OFF EVERY DAY!
Good, Good Friday! My Friday is like a red, red rose that newly blooms in April...
(Sorry, Shakespeare, but global climate change is upon us.)
Happy Eostre! Gods Are Bored busy blogging next week! LUV IT!
So nice to have the computer and the fabulous, wonderful artwork of Thalia Took!
Here's an important philosophical question that I hope to pose to Eostre after the holy day. Is she bored (because her holy day has been usurped by another religion), or is she busy (because people dress up and celebrate Her holy day each year on the appropriate day)?
It's way past time for another "Gods Are Bored" interview, so hopefully we can get Eostre here next week.
In the meantime: Good Friday.
When you are a public school teacher who hasn't had a break since President's Day, Good Friday takes on a whole new meaning. Sorry for your suffering, Jesus ... really ... but having today off was WAY PAST FABULOUS.
No Stations of the Cross, no hours of mournful Bach cantatas. We at "The Gods Are Bored" slept until 9:00, prepared a simple breakfast, read Time magazine (Santorum: The First Amendment's best friend), and browsed the thrift store for candles and tablecloths. Accompanied by daughter, The Spare.
The sole black cloud on this day was a literal one, from a forest fire in the New Jersey Pinelands. Otherwise, again with apologies to the busy god, this day was good.
I've got my desktop computer back, it's purring like a kitten, and next week I'm OFF EVERY DAY!
Good, Good Friday! My Friday is like a red, red rose that newly blooms in April...
(Sorry, Shakespeare, but global climate change is upon us.)
Happy Eostre! Gods Are Bored busy blogging next week! LUV IT!
So nice to have the computer and the fabulous, wonderful artwork of Thalia Took!
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
The Very Tragic Tale of Poor Sad Tom
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm here blogging at school today, so this sad tale will be brief.
Both of my daughters attended Snobville High School, a bastion of cutthroat academics and one-upsmanship. The goal of almost every Snobville High student is to be accepted into multiple Ivy League schools. Just for backup, many students also apply to prestige universities like Duke, Stanford, and my alma mater, Johns Hopkins.
Rare is the student who fixates on one particular university and bends all of his or her accomplishments toward admittance to that institution. Poor Sad Tom did just that.
PST has spent the last ten years lusting in his heart for Princeton University and only Princeton University. He was class president all four years at Snobville High, did community service until he dropped from exhaustion (literally he was dazed at last year's Snobville Community Book Sale from stacking heavy boxes of books in the hot sun). He took the requisite accelerated and AP courses and did well on them. He aced the SATs after much diligent practice. He's a polite, sincere young man with just the slightest pinched expression to indicate his obsessive ambition.
Admission letters went out last week. While a few other Snobville High students made the grade and got into Princeton, PST did not. He wasn't even wait-listed.
PST only applied to one other university, the lowly Rutgers, seen as a venue of last resort for Snobville's Ivy-bound egotists. (Can you imagine not being happy about getting accepted at Rutgers University? Me neither.)
Apparently, PST is overcome with grief. He is literally re-living his past four years and looking at the places in his life (sparse though they are) where he wasted time that he could have spent studying. Literally, as Spare recounts it, PST is berating himself for watching some t.v. series that he liked. And he deeply regrets the dating he did. Could have been home studying.
I don't fault PST for this tragedy. It's bigger than him. It begins with the idea that some universities are like diamonds that, once obtained, assure you a magical ascent into the one percent. It extends to the despicable notion that affordable state colleges are beneath contempt because, oh gosh, they admit lots of normal people. It morphs into the idea that your identity is the college you attend, your standing with your peers rests on acing the SAT and pulling in that "on behalf of the ... welcome to ..." letter.
If I knew PST well enough, I would have this sage advice for him:
In two weeks a major publishing house will release my husband's nonfiction title, a real, live book for which he was paid an advance.
My husband has so many award plaques that we have nowhere left to hang them. He's also gotten tropies, framed artwork, been collected in anthologies, and received an effusive blurb for his book from one of the major authors of this era.
Any Princeton professor of writing would cut off a finger for this kind of success.
My husband dropped out of college after two years in which what he mostly did was fail his courses.
PST, weep no more. Life begins at 18. Watch some t.v., take that girl out for an ice cream, and then find yourself a bored deity who will inhabit you, shower you with worth, and help you discover the special you that you've stuffed in some drawer in your bedroom. Don't sit in the lecture hall listening to the Learn'd Astronomer! Get out there in the mystic night and stare at the stars.
Both of my daughters attended Snobville High School, a bastion of cutthroat academics and one-upsmanship. The goal of almost every Snobville High student is to be accepted into multiple Ivy League schools. Just for backup, many students also apply to prestige universities like Duke, Stanford, and my alma mater, Johns Hopkins.
Rare is the student who fixates on one particular university and bends all of his or her accomplishments toward admittance to that institution. Poor Sad Tom did just that.
PST has spent the last ten years lusting in his heart for Princeton University and only Princeton University. He was class president all four years at Snobville High, did community service until he dropped from exhaustion (literally he was dazed at last year's Snobville Community Book Sale from stacking heavy boxes of books in the hot sun). He took the requisite accelerated and AP courses and did well on them. He aced the SATs after much diligent practice. He's a polite, sincere young man with just the slightest pinched expression to indicate his obsessive ambition.
Admission letters went out last week. While a few other Snobville High students made the grade and got into Princeton, PST did not. He wasn't even wait-listed.
PST only applied to one other university, the lowly Rutgers, seen as a venue of last resort for Snobville's Ivy-bound egotists. (Can you imagine not being happy about getting accepted at Rutgers University? Me neither.)
Apparently, PST is overcome with grief. He is literally re-living his past four years and looking at the places in his life (sparse though they are) where he wasted time that he could have spent studying. Literally, as Spare recounts it, PST is berating himself for watching some t.v. series that he liked. And he deeply regrets the dating he did. Could have been home studying.
I don't fault PST for this tragedy. It's bigger than him. It begins with the idea that some universities are like diamonds that, once obtained, assure you a magical ascent into the one percent. It extends to the despicable notion that affordable state colleges are beneath contempt because, oh gosh, they admit lots of normal people. It morphs into the idea that your identity is the college you attend, your standing with your peers rests on acing the SAT and pulling in that "on behalf of the ... welcome to ..." letter.
If I knew PST well enough, I would have this sage advice for him:
In two weeks a major publishing house will release my husband's nonfiction title, a real, live book for which he was paid an advance.
My husband has so many award plaques that we have nowhere left to hang them. He's also gotten tropies, framed artwork, been collected in anthologies, and received an effusive blurb for his book from one of the major authors of this era.
Any Princeton professor of writing would cut off a finger for this kind of success.
My husband dropped out of college after two years in which what he mostly did was fail his courses.
PST, weep no more. Life begins at 18. Watch some t.v., take that girl out for an ice cream, and then find yourself a bored deity who will inhabit you, shower you with worth, and help you discover the special you that you've stuffed in some drawer in your bedroom. Don't sit in the lecture hall listening to the Learn'd Astronomer! Get out there in the mystic night and stare at the stars.
Monday, April 02, 2012
What the Frogs Said
What did one frog say to another?
"My, how time is fun when you're having flies."
The faeries love that one.
I pose this silly joke because this week marks the seventh anniversary of "The Gods Are Bored." I can hardly believe it myself.
Seven years ago I was an unemployed ex-writer whose beloved father had just died. I was already a Pagan.
One morning I sat reading the newspaper, and I saw a story about a woman who had gotten her vet bills paid by her blog readers. This blog stuff had already filtered in to my not-so-computer-savvy radar. So I went into my home office, wandered onto this site, and found it unreasonably easy to set up a blog.
What to call it? Would you believe that I didn't even have a name planned out? "The Gods Are Bored" just came to me from ... hmmmmmm ..... oh, golly, it must have been the bored gods themselves! Finally, the voice They needed to get a little buzz on Their sadly downsized Existences!
I've written over 1700 posts. Excuse me if I repeat myself.
Navel gazing, daughter stories, Pagan stuff, politics, rants, revenge, humor. This place has been my funhouse. Wheee!
Tonight my home computer returns from a long stay in the hospital. This means that I'll be posting more pictures again, as always blithely disregarding intellectual property.
It's a special week. Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"
PS - I don't own a dog.
"My, how time is fun when you're having flies."
The faeries love that one.
I pose this silly joke because this week marks the seventh anniversary of "The Gods Are Bored." I can hardly believe it myself.
Seven years ago I was an unemployed ex-writer whose beloved father had just died. I was already a Pagan.
One morning I sat reading the newspaper, and I saw a story about a woman who had gotten her vet bills paid by her blog readers. This blog stuff had already filtered in to my not-so-computer-savvy radar. So I went into my home office, wandered onto this site, and found it unreasonably easy to set up a blog.
What to call it? Would you believe that I didn't even have a name planned out? "The Gods Are Bored" just came to me from ... hmmmmmm ..... oh, golly, it must have been the bored gods themselves! Finally, the voice They needed to get a little buzz on Their sadly downsized Existences!
I've written over 1700 posts. Excuse me if I repeat myself.
Navel gazing, daughter stories, Pagan stuff, politics, rants, revenge, humor. This place has been my funhouse. Wheee!
Tonight my home computer returns from a long stay in the hospital. This means that I'll be posting more pictures again, as always blithely disregarding intellectual property.
It's a special week. Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"
PS - I don't own a dog.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Room for One, Room for All
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," democratic deity worship in action! If you've got the God, we've got the seer! Remember Miller beer?
Lots of cheer here. Yesterday I had a lovely lunch with Maebius and Nettle, two dear friends that I rarely see. Proof that you can continue to evolve as a Nature Girl even after leaving the mountains: Maebius taught me how to make a really loud whistle from an acorn cap. Who'da thought? I could have been bouncing shrill whistle sounds off the Allegheny Mountains for decades. Alas ... but never too late to learn a new trick.
Maebius and Nettle and I had a little chat beside the Shrine of the Mists. (It was a misty day, interestingly enough.) Needless to say, the conversation turned to the bored gods and our responsibility towards them.
Recently I joined a national Druid group called ADF. The main reason I joined was to undertake its scholarly program, which is intended to be rigorous and thorough.
One of the things ADF asks its members to do is to choose a pantheon of House Gods. These would be the deities to whom you give honor inside and outside your home.
Actually I had already done that by having an altar to Queen Brighid the Bright in my house and a shrine in the back yard. But the "House Gods" idea is somewhat perplexing all the same.
To me, all Gods and Goddesses are my House Gods. The most ancient deities that have long been forgotten are my House Gods. Sometimes I feel the name-forgotten Ancient Ones stirring around, especially by the shrine, but also indoors. When history forgets groups of people, it also forgets their deities. This is a sad and sorry thing.
What will history say some day about our society and our busy God? Will archeologists find multiple relics depicting a man nailed to a tree and say, "What a barbaric culture that was!" And would they be wrong in making that assumption?
Who has the right to declare one deity better than all others? What egotistical deity would make such a claim and require it to be believed by His or Her followers? Isn't this all a construct of human nature?
An atheist would tell you that all deities are constructs of human nature. I don't buy that, but I do believe that we humans sense a Higher Power and then endow It with all sorts of human characteristics (including gender) that It might not have at all.
Therefore, while I will honor Mannanan Mac Lir as my House God of the shrine, I will still invite each and every bored deity to feast at my table, to marvel at my refrigerator (They can't get over frozen food on a hot day), and to inhale the fragrant steam of a cup of tea.
To my friends far and wide, I say ... bring back the Bored Gods! Those whose names are known, and those who have been relegated to the mists of time. How very sad it is to be forgotten.
Lots of cheer here. Yesterday I had a lovely lunch with Maebius and Nettle, two dear friends that I rarely see. Proof that you can continue to evolve as a Nature Girl even after leaving the mountains: Maebius taught me how to make a really loud whistle from an acorn cap. Who'da thought? I could have been bouncing shrill whistle sounds off the Allegheny Mountains for decades. Alas ... but never too late to learn a new trick.
Maebius and Nettle and I had a little chat beside the Shrine of the Mists. (It was a misty day, interestingly enough.) Needless to say, the conversation turned to the bored gods and our responsibility towards them.
Recently I joined a national Druid group called ADF. The main reason I joined was to undertake its scholarly program, which is intended to be rigorous and thorough.
One of the things ADF asks its members to do is to choose a pantheon of House Gods. These would be the deities to whom you give honor inside and outside your home.
Actually I had already done that by having an altar to Queen Brighid the Bright in my house and a shrine in the back yard. But the "House Gods" idea is somewhat perplexing all the same.
To me, all Gods and Goddesses are my House Gods. The most ancient deities that have long been forgotten are my House Gods. Sometimes I feel the name-forgotten Ancient Ones stirring around, especially by the shrine, but also indoors. When history forgets groups of people, it also forgets their deities. This is a sad and sorry thing.
What will history say some day about our society and our busy God? Will archeologists find multiple relics depicting a man nailed to a tree and say, "What a barbaric culture that was!" And would they be wrong in making that assumption?
Who has the right to declare one deity better than all others? What egotistical deity would make such a claim and require it to be believed by His or Her followers? Isn't this all a construct of human nature?
An atheist would tell you that all deities are constructs of human nature. I don't buy that, but I do believe that we humans sense a Higher Power and then endow It with all sorts of human characteristics (including gender) that It might not have at all.
Therefore, while I will honor Mannanan Mac Lir as my House God of the shrine, I will still invite each and every bored deity to feast at my table, to marvel at my refrigerator (They can't get over frozen food on a hot day), and to inhale the fragrant steam of a cup of tea.
To my friends far and wide, I say ... bring back the Bored Gods! Those whose names are known, and those who have been relegated to the mists of time. How very sad it is to be forgotten.
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