Thursday, May 15, 2014

#BringBackOurChildren

I share the horror and dismay over the 200 young women kidnapped in Nigeria, just because they were attending school. However, my horror does not stop there. It hardly even registers there.

Millions of children all over the world are forced into sexual slavery or heavy labor every year. Pre-teen girls and boys are smuggled into India, where they become the playthings of traffickers. American children are brutalized for pornography -- babies, even. Kids make bricks, dig gold, pick cocoa beans and coffee. They sew hair on Barbie dolls and make sneakers.

When did children cease to be important, except as commodities?

One of the most chilling books I've read in recent years is this one, about a boy in Sierra Leone who became a child soldier. But there's no smirking from me on this side of the pond. Camden has child soldiers too.

When did children cease to be important?

I submit that the brutalization of children began when the world population grew to saturation point. At some time in our past, there must have been more food than there were people to eat it. This was before recorded history, so we have no way of knowing when that time might have been. Then children were valued. Then their education and health were important. Both genders.

Last night, I was looking at Facebook and someone had posted a picture of a child's skull that still had all its adult teeth. The caption was, "They really are aliens." I sat there aghast. That skeleton with the adult teeth still up in the gums represents a dead child, one who died at a very tender age. Little do we care. Call it an alien, make it a joke.

Again, far be it from us to point fingers at Nigeria and cry for justice there. Our culture has a pervasive anti-child bias as well. From the age of three children are told to sit still and learn their letters and numbers, sitting ever stiller for ever longer as they grow, facing ever more rigorous school work, until many of them need drugs to be able to stand it. Their play has become regimented, their imaginations usurped by technology. There are 12 children under 10 years of age on my block, and I never see them outside, just playing. They aren't making bricks, but they're not being kids, either.

Lately I have noted another interesting phenomenon, as well. Two weeks ago or so, there was an outcry over a rape scene in Game of Thrones. After that I saw several earnest editorials about the cavalier rapes in the book and on the television show. But I have not seen one commentary on the heroine Arya Stark, who is a killer by age eight. As I read that series, I grew ever more uncomfortable with Arya. She is a child soldier, and we root for her to kill people. Maybe if I wasn't acquainted with Ishmael Beah, I wouldn't mind Arya's role, either. But kids don't belong in armies any more than they belong in brothels. And they populate both. Seems alright if they're killers, especially if the victims are adults.

If this episode in Nigeria does anything, it should remind us to put a value on childhood. We grow too soon old in this world. And yet still we rush the process along. It is our worst sin.

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

The Similarities and Differences between Riding a Bicycle in New Jersey and Appalachia, by Anne Johnson

      This essay will describe the similarities and differences between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia. There are many similarities and many differences between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia.

     First, one similarity between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia is that in both places, bikes have wheels. The wheels go around and the bike moves forward. You push the wheels with pedals, and this happens in New Jersey and Appalachia.

     Second, another similarity between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia is that in both places, bikes have handle bars. You use the handle bars to steer the bike. If you push them to the right, the bike goes right. If you push them to the left, the bike goes left. This is the same in New Jersey and Appalachia.

     Third, in both New Jersey and Appalachia, bikes have brakes. Brakes cause the bike to stop. This is important and it happens in both places. You sometimes have to stop.

     The first difference between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia is that in New Jersey you have to wear a helmet. This is the law. It is not a stupid law. If you are riding a bike in New Jersey and you get  crushed by a NJTransit bus, you want to look pretty in your coffin. In Appalachia you are not going to get crushed by a transit bus, so you don't need a helmet.

     The second difference between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia is that Appalachia has hills and New Jersey doesn't. New Jersey is basically as flat as a pancake, except where the road goes over another road, and that's a bridge, and it has a hill. In Appalachia there are basically hills everywhere you look. You have to pedal real hard to get up the hill, and then use your brake to go down, so your bike doesn't go out of control. In New Jersey you only need your brake to go around road construction, like those big orange barrels or the traffic cones. Which slows you up but not much, not like puffing up those steep hills in Appalachia.

     The third difference between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia is that you crash in very different ways. In Appalachia, you crash when you ride smack dab into a big-ass spider web with a spider as big as a half dollar sitting in the middle of it, which it then hits you between the eyes. Guarantee you are going to wipe out if that happens. In New Jersey, you crash because a speeding line of ginormous SUVs go roaring past you, honking for you to get out of the way, and then you come to an intersection with five lanes and you have to sit there surrounded by cars until the light changes, praying that everyone sees you and hoping that a few of them at least don't have active road rage against bicycles. This can lead to a crash. But it won't matter because you have a helmet.

      In conclusion, these are the similarities and differences between riding a bike in New Jersey and Appalachia. Thank you for reading my essay.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Mother's Day

One of the toughest tasks I ever faced was buying a Mother's Day card for my mom. You see, I didn't love her. So those heartfelt Hallmark fluffy bunny cards seemed hypocritical to me.

When I got old enough to be independent of my mom, and more savvy about the world, I would just go into the store and choose the first card in the first row, and just sign it without even looking at the text.

Mom taught me how to read and write when I was three. She was a public school teacher who was thwarted by her bad health and was unable to work.

Her bad health was bipolar disorder.

When I was two she had her first major breakdown requiring hospitalization. I don't remember what she did during that episode, but judging by how she like to discipline with her fists and/or a paddle, she may have hurt me. Certainly in subsequent episodes of mania she hurt my sister and my father, and once threatened my life.

Mom's bipolar disorder was complicated by her upbringing. Her parents hated each other, and she was in fact a "love child" born of an extramarital relationship. The father who raised her, in short, was not her father. He was a nasty racist with an awful temper, but so, apparently, was the man who was my mom's biological dad. Mom grew up to be a nasty racist with an awful temper.

Growing up, I made one vow. I would not be the kind of mother that fate dealt me.

Having raised two daughters of my own now, the youngest an incredible 20, I think I know the glitch that made parenting so hard for my mother. I don't think she looked at me as a person. I had to be what she wanted, which early on was a Shirley Temple doll, and later on was a show-off prodigy. Seems like I was always performing on demand, usually at family gatherings as my cousins smirked and the adults studied their feet.

I've looked at my children as human beings since the moment they were born. I respected them. Of course we have had arguments, but I never called them names or whacked them with a paddle. I wasn't ever a model mother (if there is such a thing), but I wasn't a nightmare, either.

Heir and Spare are both fabulous individuals. They both love me. Today, Mother's Day, one of them is in Romania and the other is in Baltimore. But they didn't have to lard me with flowers and cake. I know how they feel about me.

As for how I feel about my mom, well, let's just say that being able to understand her, forgive her, and move on has been one of the major challenges of my life. I'm working on it, though.

On this Mother's Day, may the Goddess look down upon those whose mothers are damaged and dysfunctional. May those who suffer such mothers reach around and beyond them and find the wellspring of mother-love, which is the Divine.

Blessed be the Goddess. Love your Mother.

Tuesday, May 06, 2014

The Incredible, Passionate Collaboration of Heir and Spare

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are all about making you laugh. All three of you readers! Check out this original film by Spare, starring Heir.

Damn.

Francis in Nature

Monday, May 05, 2014

Shall We Pray?

Wow! I'm so excited! Today we scored yet another victory for prayers to the busy God at government meetings! This is great news for those of you who feel that municipal matters are best handled after consulting a higher power, in public, and on the taxpayer dime.

Our Supreme Court, which is laden to the plimsol line with sneaky legislators impartial Constitutional experts, has decided that an iddy biddy prayer at the beginning of a meeting doesn't violate that ... oh, what was it called? Forget it. Not important. Let us pray.

All of this is so very fair, after all. If enough Pagan people in a community ask for their share of the praying, and they get it, then what harm is done? At the government meeting we will get our Prayer That Unites All Druids before a heated discussion on the local raccoon population and what can be done about it.

But wait a minute. There are quite a large number of people who don't believe in any deity whatsoever. (Yes, reader, I feel bad for them too, but everyone has a right to their own views.) These people are known as atheists. When do they get their turn to pray? And if they do pray, what will they pray?

Maybe we at "The Gods Are Bored" can help with that.

AN ATHEIST'S PRAYER

Our Municipal Government, which in City Hall doth dwell, hear our prayer.
There is no god. There never was a god. There never will be a god.
Praying to a god is a waste of time.
So let's get down to business, and thank you for supporting the atheist cause.

I should copyright this, don't you think?

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

When No Means "Know"

The great philosopher What's-His-Name said, "Know thyself." This makes abundant sense, but how many of us really, really do know ourselves? And once we get to know ourselves, what if we change? Yikes! And does studying up on yourself make you conceited? I guess that depends on what part you're studying, whether it's the package or what's inside.

After living in this incarnation for more than half a century, I know this about myself: I've got to say no.

I've finally learned that good intentions aren't always best acted upon. It's better to say no up front than it is to say yes and do a half-assed job, or be angry and put-upon, thus eroding those good intentions and replacing them with frustration.

A few years ago, the organizers of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm (see below) asked me, as leader of the Mountain Tribe, to create a banquet table-sized display for my tribe. Luckily I knew a first-rate seamstress who made me a gorgeous banquet-sized tablecloth, complete with dragons and gnomes and the tribal name, and (of course), mountains. What a thing of beauty! And then, to top it off, I channeled some heretofore untapped creative pool and covered that table with gorgeous rock displays (authentic Polish Mountain rock at that), along with snowdrifts and faerie pictures and the TARDIS.

Of course I didn't take a picture! I'm Anne Johnson, the doddering idiot.

Long story short, the first two days of the festival were gorgeous and crystal-clear. On the final day, the skies darkened and a deluge of epic proportions commenced. It rained everything from aardvarks to zebras, along with the requisite cats and dogs.

The ground at Spoutwood is spongy anyway, since there's a delightful little creek flowing through. But this rain storm turned everything into a quagmire, through which I had to haul all my Polish Mountain rocks a quarter mile to the car. I'll bet I had my weight in rocks on that table.

This misadventure may have been my "Eureka" moment.

I'm thinking about this today because it's pouring buckets outside. All of South Jersey is under water. I may have to evacuate Decibel the parrot to higher ground.

A dedicated crew of volunteers and vendors are trying to set up Spoutwood in this mess. They must have their hands full. And while my heart is there with them, I'm dry at home, half dead from a day of teaching with dinner yet to prepare, but knowing that there's nothing heavy I have to lug through a marsh.

Awhile back a fellow Pagan blogger wrote to me about an elderly Pagan lady who is in a nursing home and who would like to get visits from some members of her faith. My heart said, "YES YES YES YES! I'm off to see the sweet lady post haste!" But the older, wiser me told the f.P.b., "I'd love to do it, but I'll have to wait until school lets out this summer."

Harsh? Sadly, yes. Realistic, YES YES YES! Negative energy is ruinous. This I have learned. And for me, loading my plate with heaps of well-intentioned but poorly-planned volunteering is a fail.

When it comes to self-discovery, I'm not sure whether all of this falls under "no" or "know."

Monday, April 28, 2014

May Day: Because It Just Makes Sense

There are a couple of things I've never understood.

The first is: Why do we schedule a merry holiday at the darkest time of the year, and then expect everyone to be happy and gay? Christmas doesn't compute. Yes, let's get that Sun back and all such ... but lords a' leaping? Oh please.

The second is: Why do we schedule a romantic holiday in the middle of a snowy month when everyone has the flu? I'm talking about Valentine's Day, of course, and I know the answer to this one! It's a reason to go shopping, when otherwise people would be at home by the fire.

Now let's look at Beltane, aka May Day. Was there ever a more sensible time to get romantic and be happy and gay? I respectfully submit ... ah, nope. May Day has it going on. Let us count the ways:

1. The weather is perfect. Not too hot, not too cold.

2. Everything is coming back to life. There are flowers everywhere! The trees are robed in Mother Nature's first green!

3. There are no gifts to buy for anyone. With a sturdy pole and some bright ribbon, you're set.

4. The warmth and extra sunlight re-charge the ol' libido. Spin those Marvin Gaye albums, please!

5. You can dance outside without being bundled up in layers of fur.

6. The birds sing magnificently, like a symphony. At Christmas you get a miserable partridge and a couple of wretched turtle doves.  Contrast that to your garden jenny wren. Case closed.

7. The school year is almost over, which means evaluation season has passed. (Granted, this one is more personal than the rest, but it's a biggie.)

8. May is when all the cute baby animals appear in the fields. And in your back yard, for that matter. Look at that adorable baby possum rooting through your compost!

9. Azaleas

10. May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm

You knew this was about to become a shameless plug for the faeries, right? Well now, if you want a first-rate place to celebrate Beltane, with a fabulous maypole, a couple thousand people dressed like Celts/fae/steampunks/goths/hippies, you cannot go wrong with the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm in sunny Glen Rock, PA! Spare and I go every year. Spare is the leader of the Mountain Tribe.

If you live in the grand megalopolis that is called Philadelphia/Baltimore/Washington, you are within reach of this cheerful Beltane gathering. Please come and join Spare and me, and the faeries and the Nature Spirits as we dance in the May!

'Tis really really really the season to be jolly!

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Smart Growth

On Wednesday evening I will be attending a gala dinner at which the keynote speaker is the governor of Maryland. I am an invited guest of the nonprofit organization responsible for the gala.

I'm a little bit nervous. I'm not even sure my best behavior is good enough for such a bash.

This nonprofit group, which has been instrumental in keeping development out of Terrapin Run, is all about "smart growth." Smart growth is amazingly logical. It's an intentional decision to grow communities where infrastructure and residences already exist.

The state of Maryland has a dizzying array of ecosystems. It has ocean beaches. It has the mighty Chesapeake Bay. It has the rolling farmlands of the Piedmont, and in its nether reaches, it has mountains. At its far western extreme, there's one place that actually has a few hundred acres of Arctic tundra (it's called a "frost pocket bog").

Maryland also has Baltimore. And the suburbs of Washington, DC.

Beginning in the 1960s, people moved out of the big cities in droves, to suburbs that kept cropping up farther and farther from the urban areas, in those beautiful natural regions of Maryland. The line of suburban sprawl has crept across the state in every direction. There are many people who drive 70 miles one way to work, so they can go "home" to the Chesapeake, or to the mountains, or to the Mason-Dixon Line.

 If you want to see something sickening, go visit the Antietam Battlefield and then travel around that neck of the woods. You'll be cruising along a country road, and all of a sudden, up springs a hideous development of over-sized houses, with brick fronts and vinyl sides and grassy front lawns. These developments suck up farmland while older suburbs (and downtown real estate like Hagerstown, MD) abound with unused housing.

Smart growth advocates are trying to change that. They want to rehab existing houses in neighborhoods closer to urban centers. They want to concentrate housing on smaller parcels to save open spaces and farms. And they want to preserve wild lands in the state.

These are extremely laudable goals.

My heart, my soul, and my grave are in Appalachia. But it's easier for me to deal with not living there if I feel like I'm a "smart growth" kinda gal. And I am. There are 11 houses on my block. I can walk to the grocery store and the El train. This tiny plot of land where I lay my head could not be more different from the magnificent, empty vista that I cavorted through, summer after summer. But it's smart growth. I'm not sprawling in some former farm field. I'm not bulldozing trees for a mountain view. I live in a crowded neighborhood in a crowded county at the edge of a huge city.

It's idyllic to want to go "back to Nature" by living in the deep woods or on the edge of the rolling Chesapeake. Truth is, though, people don't go back to Nature. They bring the city with them when they move ... and suddenly Nature isn't natural anymore.

I pine for my mountains. I do. But when the fickle finger of Fate dropped me in Philadelphia, I just indifferently looked for a house near the El. Turns out I was a smart growther before it got called "smart growth."

My house is 90 years old. The yard is tiny. But suddenly, this expatriate hillbilly feels better. I'm proud to be part of the smart growth movement. It's one way to respect Mother Earth.

Every Day Should Be Earth Day

Is today Earth Day? I really couldn't tell you.

I can't tell you when Earth Day is because, what do we do the other 364 days of the year? Anyone can pick up some trash and plant some flowers one day a year.

Yes, yes, Earth Day helps to raise awareness of environmental issues. Kind of like Mother's Day raises awareness of the hard work and sacrifice of our nation's moms.

Years ago, I used to tease a co-worker who coordinated my assignments from another state. When I talked to him on the phone, I would say, "Your first thought upon awakening in the morning is, 'What can I do for Anne today?'"

I was being silly, of course. But when it comes to Planet Earth, wouldn't that philosophy apply in a serious way?

When you wake up, think to yourself, "What can I do for the planet today?"

Are you drawing a blank? Of course not! This is a Pagan site! You three readers know exactly what I'm talking about!

Here are a few steps that I, Anne Johnson, Druid, have taken to help the planet.

*After many years of trial and error, I've finally gotten used to those re-usable grocery bags! Damn, those things are fine. I've got about a dozen, folded up and stored in one that I carry into the store. The trick is keeping them in your car trunk. It takes a little discipline to remember to put them there. At least for me it does. I have poor short-term memory.

*Green transportation! Our family has moved from two cars to one. This is a real sacrifice. It requires the kind of planning and self-denial that we Johnsons aren't used to. But damn, when you get it going, a 4.5 mile walk or bike ride home from work is great exercise.

*Living close to work. If you have to drive more than 20 minutes to get to your job, look closer in. If "closer in" takes you into a city neighborhood, ask yourself, "Is this an area that could use my presence? How much will I save if I ditch my car?"

*Lobby for the environment. Okay, most of us don't have a lot of money. I know I don't. But when Mr. J and I pared our budget back to the bone, I insisted that we stay with our Nature Conservancy donation. I've given up a lot as our circumstances have changed, but supporting conservation is something I have to do. (However, I did get quietly insistent with the youngster from Nature Conservancy who called me on the phone, imploring me to raise my donation amount. I'm doing what I can. And that's all I can.)

*Pray to the Goddess, to the Four Quarters, to Pan, to Gaia, to the Ancestors. Raise your intentions where the Earth is concerned. Not just one day a year, but all the time.

My three readers deserted me at paragraph two. They already know this stuff and don't need further lectures. Tweet tweet! I'm entertaining myself!

Monday, April 21, 2014

Fun in King Triton's Playground

Well well! If it's April, 2004, "The Gods Are Bored" has turned nine! Closing in on a decade of praise and worship suggestions for those longing for the Rapture! Don't you wish Armageddon would happen? A whole bunch of people would suddenly disappear, leaving more room for the rest of us. And it would be easy enough to convince the remaining Christians to switch praise and worship teams. After all, being Left Behind means you're plump pickings for the Great Beast. I'm quite sure gentle Queen Brighid the Bright would be an appealing alternative. She already is, and the Horsemen haven't even left the gate.

Easter Sunday used to be one of those rush-rush days. Rush to church. Rush to Sunday School. Rush to make dinner. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. And not once did I hear a sermon that didn't mention the fact that the re-greening of the Earth mirrors Jesus' return from the grave. Never in the other order, though. But if you think about it, it's really all about Spring. No real pressing need to throw Jesus into the mix. The revealed religion of Demeter and Persephone makes far more sense, and it invites bored Goddesses into our lives. All hail!

But I digress.

It's kind of wonderful to see the sunrise on Easter morning, so my daughter The Heir and I got up in the wee hours and drove to Atlantic City for a 6:00 a.m. low tide. This was no ordinary Easter egg hunt. We were jonesing the trove of sea glass that King Triton and mighty Oshun can occasionally heave up on the beach. We figured that nobody would be out looking for sea glass at daybreak on Easter morning, especially with 30-mph sustained winds and temperatures in the 40s.

Wrong, of course. The same old chap with the yappy dachshund we see every time we go was out there ahead of us, and he of course had pulled the super treasure from the beach: an antique bottle stopper, beautifully frosted from a century at sea.

But this local geezer and his sifter are no match for the sharp-eyed Heir, who found a fistful of gorgeous stuff, jewelry grade and in vivid colors. We nearly froze, but it was worth it. Then, hot breakfast at a classic South Jersey diner, and then a side trip to the thrift store!

As Walt Whitman said, "To me, the sea is a continual miracle." No wonder so many bored deities make Their homes within! How sad it is that humankind has so little respect for this precious part of the planet. When I stand at water's edge on the beach, I feel how puny our landmasses are, set aside its flowing grandeur.

Long story short, this was the happiest Easter I can ever remember. All glory, laud, and honor to Triton and Oshun for allowing Heir and I to grace Their world with our presence! The land springs anew, but the sea is alive always. So mote it be.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Nary a Spade Has Been Turned

Have you ever seen a cat that knows it has a mouse cornered under the refrigerator? That cat will sit there for days, totally attentive, waiting for the mouse to emerge. Cats are tenacious that way.

Housing developers are tenacious, too. Once they've bought a parcel of land, it doesn't matter how much common sense, local opposition, and state regulations stand in their way. They just keep sitting there, waiting for the pay day, waiting for that moment when a commissioner can be bribed, or the administration changes in the state capital, or the opponents run out of money for a land-use lawyer.

One such determined individual, Michael Carnock, has now been trying for years and years to get something built on a choice morsel of land that is hell-and-gone into the mountains of Western Maryland. The aforementioned morsel is called Terrapin Run, named after a delightful seasonal stream that tumbles through it.

Mr. Carnock's plans for a 4,000-unit, 11,000-person town in an area where there is currently nothing but a two-lane road and lots of woods has hit upon a few snags. As in, there aren't even any churches in the neighborhood, let alone schools, sewage treatment plants, or CVS pharmacies. Finally seeing the light, the bone-headed Mr. Carnock has scaled his plans back to 900 units. Even this has met with a polite but firm "no way" from Maryland's natural resources people. So of course Mr. Carnock is suing everyone in sight, like a cat whose coveted mouse slipped through a hole in the siding and escaped.

Sometimes, when developers buy mountain land and can't build cities on it, they timber it to smithereens. I've driven past Terrapin Run at least once a year for the past decade, and I don't think the land has been disturbed at all. (It had been timbered by previous ownership. That helps.)

Oh, but you should just see that pretty little stream, Terrapin Run! I know you've seen one like it. The water is so pure that you can count the stones on the bottom. And it makes that charming swishy, trickly noise that those cunning little dry run creeks make.

Awhile back, I placed an intention on that land and petitioned the Goddess Cloacina to guard it for me. She has been doing a fabulous job as the litigation drags on. In July I'll be going up that way again, so if you want to add your protective spells to the place and its sacred little stream, just communicate with me or Cloacina.

If all else fails, if Maryland is suddenly beset with a Koch brother as governor, or a clamor arises for housing units 35 miles from the nearest doctor, we still have an ace in our hands, my friends.

 The Terrapin Run watershed is home to Harperella, a bona fide endangered plant that relies on seasonal fluctuations in freshwater streams. Granted, our federal endangered species laws are being trampled, but this plant literally only grows on two waterways. I'm pinning my faith on a little white flower.

We who love the land should love not to build on it where it otherwise has been undisturbed. That should be a tenet of sensible world stewardship. Rebuild before starting something new.

I'd be willing to bet that you're seeing such foolishness in your own community -- big, ugly developments springing up like pimples on a cheek, while nearby sit older neighborhoods just ripe for rehab.

If it's your lifetime dream to live in the mountains, take some advice from this expat Appalachian: Move to an established town. If you thought this past winter was bad, just re-live it in your mind, but add complete solitude and steep, windy roads to the mix. Mr. Carnock not only neglected to provide for churches and pharmacies when he proposed his fetching hamlet. He forgot all about the weather. He could have asked any Johnson. We'd have been glad to tell him how much and how often the flakes fly in that neck of the woods.

May no spade be turned on Terrapin Run. May no spade ever be turned on Terrapin Run. In this little slice of the world, may the peace of the land prevail.

Sermon's over! Time to watch a baseball game!

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Dinner Plans

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," a favorite haunt for all the Spirits of Trickery and Mayhem since 2005! Sly Anansi and cheeky Loki do really funny things when they're bored (which is less and less often these days). I've had me some grand times with them over the years.

Which is why they've both popped in for an interview today! Other people ask Heloise for hints, but me? I go straight to the Jokers. Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Loki and Anansi, Gods of Trickery!

Anne: Sacred Fellows, I have a problem.

Anansi: Oh, I love problems! I tend to think of them as challenges.

Loki: Brain teasers, if you will.

Anne: Here's the scoop. My daughter The Spare has celebrated turning 20 by getting herself a boyfriend.

Loki: You've got the wrong deities here, Anne. Love is not our specialty.

Anansi: Anne knows that, for the love of fat flies!

Anne: Yeah, I do know that. Here's the scoop. This new boyfriend has strictly religious parents ... and I don't mean Pagan ... there's a deep well of conservatism there. He hates Maryland. But worst of all, he's allergic to cats!

Loki and Anasi burst into sustained laughter.

Anansi: It worked, Loki! We chose the perfect boyfriend for The Spare!

Loki: Don't take credit where it isn't due, Anansi ... although I know you love to do that. Even we would not have thought to throw in the cat allergy. Classic!

Anne: Spare is bringing this fellow around for a spot of supper next Saturday. She wants him to think she has a normal family.

Loki and Anansi burst into sustained laughter.

Loki: Of course you aren't going to comply with this directive.

Anne: I don't see how I can! Spare has specifically requested that I abstain from throwing road kill carcasses into the back yard. What if I see some bloated possum that would be a fit offering to the Sacred Thunderbird?

Anansi (to Loki): We've got to find a dead possum. This is South Jersey. Piece of cake.

Anne: What should I wear?

Loki: How about that t-shirt that says, "God is a comedian, playing to an audience that is afraid to laugh?"

Anansi: You have four Vulture Fest t-shirts ... I like the bright red one. But for the best effect, most definitely ...

Anansi and Loki together: MUMMER'S SUIT!

Anne: You don't think that's over the top?

Loki: Anne, with you there is no top.

Anne: This is the problem. Spare wants her family to look normal. I'm not even sure what normal looks like anymore. I haven't been a Methodist since 2005, and that was where I got all my clues on normal.

Anansi:  Christians. So damn serious. Not one funny story in a book 1,000 pages long!

Loki: Well, some of them are funny without meaning to be. The one about the woman being created out of the man's rib ... cracks me up every time.

Anne: How in the world do I prepare this house for someone who is allergic to cats? Right now I've got three inside and another one outside.

Anansi: Yeah, and the couch you just trash-picked for fifty bucks comes from a house that had two cats. Didn't you see how Gamma was sniffing it up when Mr. J and Heir hauled it in here?

Loki: That one was my dodge.

Anansi: Do say! Good job!

Loki and Anansi high-five.

Loki: What did you do with the little sign that said, "$50?"

Anne: I threw it away, of course!

Loki: Dig it out. Put it back on the couch.

Anansi: At the very least, brag about it. Not everybody gets a nice couch like this off the street for fifty bucks.

Loki: Out of deference to you, Anne, I chose one that didn't have any stains.

Anne: Well, thank you for that, Loki, but ... asking again ... where do I draw the loony line?

Anansi: I dunno ... Kansas?

Loki: I'm going to steal your pencils so you can't even draw a line!

Anne: This young fellow is coming to dinner. I'll miss "The Rachel Maddow Show!"

Anansi: No! Turn it on! Blast it! You might miss some important breaking news about Chris Christie!

Loki: I'll take care of hiding Mr. J's shaving cream.

Anansi: I'll open the New York Times to Maureen Dowd.

Loki: I'll round up all the neighborhood cats. The air won't be breathable inside or out.

Anansi: I'll arrange the Spoutwood Fairie Festival photos in loving order on the mantelpiece.

Loki: Don't include the ones with Spare in her corset.

Anansi: I was thinking rather of this little number.


Anansi: And this one.

Loki: Bumper stickers! Anansi! We need more bumper stickers for the remaining Johnson vehicle! "I Heart Mountains" is not sufficient!

Anansi: Yeah, Anne, what happened to the one that says, "I Do Whatever My Rice Crispies Tell Me To Do?"

Anne: I ditched it.

Loki: And you call yourself Our disciple! Get another one!

Anansi: And this pin: "A Woman's Place is In Her Union." It's not prominent enough on the kitchen corkboard. Wear it!

Loki: ... on the "God is a comedian" t-shirt.

Anne: Good suggestions all, but I really don't want to embarrass The Spare. She's a great kid.

Anansi: Anne, face facts. The only way you are going to appear "normal" is to re-decorate your house, throw out your whole wardrobe, ditch your entire library, and dismantle the Shrine of the Mists.

Loki: And even then, with us at your back, you're going to commit every faux pas imaginable.

Anansi: Yep! Every last one!

Anansi and Loki high-five on their way to search for road kill and bumper stickers.


Image of Loki, Thalia Took. Image of Anansi, Janice Skivington.

 

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

One Healthy Druid, Sort Of

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm your host, Anne Johnson, and I'm healthy. Well, not really. If you consider mental health part of health, then I have a chronic condition. I take medication for the condition. If I miss the medication, I will become ill.

I take two medications. One is controlled. One isn't.

My local pharmacy fills my prescriptions automatically. When I went to pick them up on Sunday, the controlled medication wasn't there. The prescriptions had expired, and apparently my doctor, Doctor Mushroom, was out of town. So I got my one medicine (filled by some doctor I'd never heard of), but the other one was a no-show. That would be the controlled medication.

I had enough of the controlled medication to last two more days. So today I called Doctor Mushroom's office to get him to front me a 30-day supply until I could get an appointment. That's how it's worked before, once or twice, when this happened.

Recently, Doctor Mushroom merged his practice with another doctor. So there are secretaries working for him now who don't know me. I got one of these pleasant individuals on the telephone, and the conversation went like this:

Anne: Hello, my prescription for XXXXX expired, and I didn't notice. Can you get Doctor Mushroom to call in a prescription and make me an appointment?

Secretary: He won't call in a prescription for you until he sees you.

Anne: When can I come in? I'll need to see him some time today or tomorrow.

Secretary: His next available appointment is next Monday.

Anne: So what am I going to do for medication until then?

Secretary: I don't know. You'll just have to do without it. Why didn't you notice that it needed authorization?

Anne: The pharmacy has been filling it and calling Doctor Mushroom right along! Ma'am, I need this medicine. I've been a patient of Doctor Mushroom's since he began his practice. He knows me. Can I talk to him?

Secretary: He's got patients.

Anne: You can't work me in? He could always work me in.

Secretary: His next available appointment is next Monday. Do you want that appointment?

Anne: I can't go without my medication for that long. I can't believe this is happening. You mean to tell me if I had high blood pressure, I wouldn't be able to get my medicine for a week? I could be dead by then.

Secretary (patronizing): You aren't going to die.

Anne: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I'M NOT GOING TO DIE? I WON'T BE ABLE TO WORK! I'LL BE SICK, MAKE NO MISTAKE!

Secretary: You should be more careful about your refills. Here. I've looked up your file. You haven't been to see Doctor Mushroom since 2012.

Anne: Wow. That can't be true.

Secretary: It's true. Your last appointment was July 2012. Do you want that Monday appointment?

Anne: I want you to go right now and tell Doctor Mushroom that it's Anne Johnson, and I need some XXXX, and he needs to call it in.

*beep*beep*beep* (on hold for about three minutes)

Secretary: He will not prescribe the medicine for you until he sees you Monday. Do you want the appointment?

Anne: Yes. Because I want to look him in the eye when I tell him that he has become a bad doctor who has forgotten his Hippocratic Oath.

Secretary: Well, whatever.

Anne: I'm leaving this practice.

Secretary: Suit yourself.

Anne: But I still want the appointment, as I said.

Secretary: Monday at @#:#$.

I hung up on her, with that snarky "you won't die" ringing in my ears. Oh, the stigma! It's only a mental health medication. How bad could I need it?

The cell phone hadn't cooled off before I rang up my psychiatrist, also a very longtime physician in my life. The difference between this psychiatrist and Doctor Mushroom is ... $120. Yes, it costs $130 to get the medication from the psychiatrist. Again with the stigma. Have you noticed that mental health professionals who are any good don't take insurance?

The medication was secured and an appointment made with the mental health professional.

Three hours later, someone from Doctor Mushroom's office called. He faxed in the prescription. But the damage is done.

I'll bet I'm preaching to the choir here amongst you broad-minded and thoughtful Pagans, but mental health is not really considered part of health at all. You see it all the time. Addicts are "weak," depressives should "just get over it," anxious people (like me) should just settle down. It fucking doesn't work like that, and medical secretaries should know it.

I haven't been to a doctor since 2012. Wow, the picture of health! On the surface.





Saturday, April 05, 2014

National Poetry Month, Gods Are Bored Edition!

The parrot and the carrot one may easily confound.
They're very much alike in looks, and similar in sound.
We recognize the parrot by his clear articulation,
For carrots are unable to engage in conversation.

From How To Tell the Birds from the Flowers, by Robert Williams Wood

Friday, April 04, 2014

National Poetry Month

Some primal termite
knocked on wood,
and tasted it,
and found it good.
And that is why
your cousin Mae
fell through the parlor floor today.

--Ogden Nash

Thursday, April 03, 2014

National Poetry Month: More Top-Notch Silly Stuff

One of my favorite poets is the late Don Marquis. Here's one of his. Remember, for all your silly poetry needs, check us out here at "The Gods Are Bored."

pete the parrot and shakespeare

i got acquainted with
a parrot named pete recently
who is an interesting bird
pete says he used
to belong to the fellow
that ran the mermaid tavern
in london then i said
you must have known
shakespeare know him said pete
poor mutt i knew him well
he called me pete and i called him
bill but why do you say poor mutt
well said pete bill was a
disappointed man and was always
boring his friends about what
he might have been and done
if he only had a fair break
two or three pints of sack
and sherris and the tears
would trickle down into his
beard and his beard would get
soppy and wilt his collar
i remember one night when
bill and ben jonson and
frankie beaumont
were sopping it up
here i am ben says bill
nothing but a lousy playwright
and with anything like luck
in the breaks i might have been
a fairly decent sonnet writer
i might have been a poet
if i had kept away from the theatre
yes says ben i ve often
thought of that bill
but one consolation is
you are making pretty good money
out of the theatre
money money says bill what the hell
is money what i want is to be
a poet not a business man
these damned cheap shows
i turn out to keep the
theatre running break my heart
slap stick comedies and
blood and thunder tragedies
and melodramas say i wonder
if that boy heard you order
another bottle frankie
the only compensation is that i get
a chance now and then
to stick in a little poetry
when nobody is looking
but hells bells that isn t
what i want to do
i want to write sonnets and
songs and spenserian stanzas
and i might have done it too
if i hadn t got
into this frightful show game
business business business
grind grind grind
what a life for a man
that might have been a poet
well says frankie beaumont
why don t you cut it bill
i can t says bill
i need the money i ve got
a family to support down in
the country well says frankie
anyhow you write pretty good
plays bill any mutt can write
plays for this london public
says bill if he puts enough
murder in them what they want
is kings talking like kings
never had sense enough to talk
and stabbings and stranglings
and fat men making love
and clowns basting each
other with clubs and cheap puns
and off color allusions to all
the smut of the day oh i know
what the low brows want
and i give it to them
well says ben jonson
don t blubber into the drink
brace up like a man
and quit the rotten business
i can t i can t says bill
i ve been at it too long i ve got to
the place now where i can t
write anything else
but this cheap stuff
i m ashamed to look an honest
young sonneteer in the face
i live a hell of a life i do
the manager hands me some mouldy old
manuscript and says
bill here s a plot for you
this is the third of the month
by the tenth i want a good
script out of this that we
can start rehearsals on
not too big a cast
and not too much of your
damned poetry either
you know your old
familiar line of hokum
they eat up that falstaff stuff
of yours ring him in again
and give them a good ghost
or two and remember we gotta
have something dick burbage can get
his teeth into and be sure
and stick in a speech
somewhere the queen will take
for a personal compliment and if
you get in a line or two somewhere
about the honest english yeoman
it s always good stuff
and it s a pretty good stunt
bill to have the heavy villain
a moor or a dago or a jew
or something like that and say
i want another
comic welshman in this
but i don t need to tell
you bill you know this game
just some of your ordinary
hokum and maybe you could
kill a little kid or two a prince
or something they like
a little pathos along with
the dirt now you better see burbage
tonight and see what he wants
in that part oh says bill
to think i am
debasing my talents with junk
like that oh god what i wanted
was to be a poet
and write sonnet serials
like a gentleman should well says i pete
bill s plays are highly
esteemed to this day
is that so says pete
poor mutt little he would
care what poor bill wanted
was to be a poet

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Celebrating Poetry Month in True, Gods-Are-Bored Style!

April is National Poetry Month! Hooray! We at "The Gods Are Bored" love poetry!

Now, a lot of bloggers offer you the finest literary verse during this thirty-day period. But this is The Gods Are Bored, where life is a laugh! (alliteration)

So this month, we will be offering poetry as well, but just the funny stuff.

We'll start with a bang!

Moose and Goose
by Theodore Seuss Geisel

A moose is asleep. He is dreaming of moose juice.
A goose is asleep. He is dreaming of goose juice.
That's well and good when a moose dreams of moose juice.
And nothing goes wrong when a goose dreams of goose juice.
But it isn't too good when a moose and a goose
Start dreaming they're drinking the other one's juice.
Moose juice, not goose juice, is juice for a moose.
And goose juice, not moose juice, is juice for a goose.
So, when goose gets a mouthful of juices of mooses
And moose gets a mouthful of juices of gooses
They always fall out of their beds screaming screams
So, I'm warning you, now! Never drink in your dreams.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Free Advice on Avoiding Child Molesters in Your Praise and Worship Team

Let's be brutally frank. Religious activities are rife with opportunities for people to engage in power trips, seductions, abuse, and mind games. I've seen it almost everywhere I've ever seen a group of people gathered for worship, no matter the faith path. This is part of the reason I've joined the teeming masses of folks who revere buzzards.

There's a lot of Scottish DNA in me, and I feel that's were I get my skepticism. I'm always on the lookout for a hidden agenda, and at times I've actively put people to the test to see if they have such agendas without them knowing they were being tested.

Friends, we would like life to be all kindness and good will, but be skeptical. Start from a position of caution, and remain cautious. Always ask yourself, "Is this a balanced relationship?" If you feel that someone has more to gain from you than you have from them, proceed with caution.

Go into every situation with the aim of full disclosure. I had to have a full criminal background check to be able to care for the diaper babies in the United Methodist Church. I mean, fingerprints and all. You know what? I applaud the UMC for this oversight. AND for sending other church ladies randomly to spy on me. On this, the Methodists had it going on.

The sad fact about child abusers is that they are the sneakiest of all. They will toe the straight and narrow for years and years, gaining everyone's trust ... and then they strike. So, how are they to be avoided?

Keep track of your kids everywhere you go. If they are going to be out of your sight with some church elder, demand that this person have a criminal background check.

Yes, your youngsters want some time outside your purview, especially perhaps at the Pagan campground. Okay, let them take that nature hike, but spy relentlessly. Maybe you won't enjoy yourself quite as much, but that's your kid. How many people out there wish they'd never let their sons be altar boys?

Oh, Anne Johnson. So paranoid. What an awful way to go through life.

Hold that thought.

One of my very best friends was busted with a computer full of the most horrendous child abuse pornography. He's still doing time, and when he comes out, what exactly will he do with the rest of his life? He's a pariah. You know what this man was before that computer got seen by the wrong eyes? A pillar of the community, a deacon in the church, a youth group leader. That's what. Oh yeah, and president of the regional Big Brothers chapter.

Skepticism is a virtue. Better to be pleasantly surprised than bitterly disappointed. Proceed with caution. Trust only that the Sun will rise in the east.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Are You Gay and Christian? Why?

Make no mistake about it. The ongoing campaign of hate perpetrated by the Westboro Baptist Church is continuing to give Christianity a black eye. Most Christians are appalled by the WBC. But when push comes to shove, evangelical Christians still think homosexuality is a sin, even among monogamous, morally upright gay couples.

Every once in awhile I get a blog post in my mailbox by a Christian pastor named J. Lee Grady. His most recent post had the promising title, "Fred Phelps Didn't Speak for Me". Pastor Grady rightly pointed out that Jesus loved everyone, even sinners and "clueless pagans." Therefore, Christians are called to love homosexuals -- but not to condone their "sin."

If you are gay and a Christian, the book from which you take your moral compass deems the way you were born and oriented to be sinful. You have two choices: either adopt a straight lifestyle if you want a partner, or live celibate your whole life long.

Well, you actually have a third choice. You can find a deity that will love you just the way you are, so long as you harm none.

Interestingly, the Bible never says God is the only deity. In fact, God actually has cause to be jealous, because there are other deities. It's widely known among not-so-clueless Pagans that homosexuality is established at birth and is not in the least sinful.

The WBC says God hates fags. From where I stand, I would have to agree. Any deity that demanded some of His followers to live either false lives fraught with emotional pitfalls, or lonely lives of celibacy, must at least be playing favorites.

Feeling short-changed by your deity, gay Christian? Maybe you're just worshiping the wrong deity.  Book with a different carrier.  The love of justice is central to Druidism, and it's just unjust. Just unjust for a deity to discriminate based on sexual orientation.

One of the main reasons I left the Christian church is the hidebound, entrenched bigotry against homosexuals, in an era when science has advanced understanding of human behavior so much. I set out to find deities Who could embrace these advances and give every human being an equal chance to find a loving and devoted partner. Enter stage right, bored gods! They aren't burdened by a book that is frozen in time.

I saw ten vultures while walking home from work. Could any day be better?

Sunday, March 23, 2014

The Holy No

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dispensing free advice and then paying you to take it since 2005! We're closing in on another anniversary. Oh my goodness, so much has happened since then!

Saturday afternoon, Heir and Extra Chair and I went to the local PETCO to pick up a foster kitten. I had asked the lady who runs the cat cages at PETCO to choose a kitten for me to foster based on personality and not on looks. Let's face it ... except for those naked monstrosities bred for cat shows, there's no such thing as an ugly kitten.

As the cat lady was boxing up my new charge, she and I got to talking about kitten fostering. If you go back into the archives of this blog, you'll see no end of cute kittens that I bottle-fed. I'll bet I raised more than 75 kittens (and lost about 20). But I dropped kitten care when I went to work full time. This kitten I'm raising now is a special exception. It's just too much work.

Too much work. When you work all week and come home dead exhausted, it's a rude and thoughtless deity who expects you to volunteer your weekend hours to some religious cause.

For 15 years while my daughters were young, I martyred myself to the United Methodist Church. I helped with the children's choir, and the Sunday School. I donated baked goods to sales and deposited money in the collection plate. I listened to hundreds of sermons, and I don't remember a single word of any of them.

The kitten foster years were just as hectic. The kittens were always hungry, or messy, or sick, or hidden under the furniture. Their coop had to be washed. Their box had to be disinfected. If it was a big litter, all of this needed to be done twice a day. Looking back, I don't know how I did church or kittens. Sometimes I was doing both simultaneously.

Then I decided I was in the wrong praise and worship team. I joined a Druid Grove, and we all hit it off like age-old pals. We got together eight times a year. Wouldn't you know, even that turned out to be too much, not only for me but also for the other members? Last year we re-united for a Lughnasadh ritual ... and we haven't seen each other since.

Briefly I joined an ADF Grove that is convenient to my home. But if I couldn't muster the pulse to be a Methodist, I sure didn't have the chops to keep up with this Grove. Their rituals lasted whole weekends and were outdoors, camping. And the financial output was similar to the UMC, in other words, a reach.

I have learned that it is holy to say no.

The young girl who handed me the foster kitten had the tired eyes of an over-worked church lady. I said I had given up fostering in 2008. She said that was about the time she started. Now she co-runs the shelter. It's an enormous responsibility. Cats come, and cats go, and all kittens start to look the same.

Holy no. This woman has a husband and a job. And she's at PETCO on Saturday, in the middle of a beautiful spring day, volunteering.

We set aside time for the worship of our deities because we want Them to know how special They are. We may be exhausted, we may have too many obligations, but here we are, because our deities require of us devotions.

How about this? How about it if worked the other way around?

There are bored gods who feel the love when we lie in bed on Sunday morning talking to our spouses, then amble down to the kitchen for a cup of tea. There are bored gods who accept as worship our decision to take a walk, to take a nap, to haul in firewood or shop for groceries. These are the deities who love us not for what we can do for them, but for what we do for the people we care about. These are the gods of the holy no.

I work hard, and on the weekend I'm tired. The bored gods love a hard worker.

I love my husband and daughters, and I want to spend time with them. The bored gods love devoted mothers.

I need to be completely lazy sometimes. Thank goodness the bored gods don't see sloth as a deadly sin, but rather as a healing practice!

The moral of this sermon is simple enough. Gods and Goddesses don't make demands. Other people make demands. Be sure the voices you're hearing are your deities. Have the holy no in your tool kit and use it.  Otherwise, trust me on this, you will some day regret joining a praise and worship team that once looked so promising but is now torturing you with high expectations.

I want to thank the bored gods for giving me this time to write a blog post while talking to my parrot.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Sun, Sun, Sun, Here It Comes!

With apologies to my friends Down Under, this equinox has been highly anticipated here in the snowy north.

I don't mind the cold weather so much, and I love snow, but the dark days are hard to bear. The moment when our daily allotment of sunshine becomes greater than our allotment of darkness is always greeted with a cheery what-ho around here.

Now lively Persephone escapes the clutches of her cold but beloved Husband and returns to Her grieving Mother, Demeter. As any loving mother would, Demeter responds by bathing the land in green, by bidding every living thing to step lively again.

In the decades before this blog was born, I used to send Demeter a Mother's Day card every year because no one seemed to remember or worship Her anymore. All of that has changed! She is now a busy deity with many fervent members in her praise and worship team. When I sent her a text message Thursday at 12:57 p.m., I didn't hear back from her for three whole hours, and then it was only a brief <3 anne="" i="" u=""> I call that progress.

Light an extra candle for your deities tonight. Thank Them for seeing you through the dark spell. And whatever else you do, don't petition Them for a winning lottery ticket. I've never met a deity who wasn't pissed off when you ask for winning numbers. You're breathing. That's a win.

Happy spring!

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Herding Cats

I stand guilty as charged of having a swollen ego. This time I think it might have gotten me in over my head.

It must have been eight years ago that I fostered a trio of kittens who were born behind a dumpster in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. The first kitten came into my nurture at about three weeks of age, and he was in pretty bad shape. Lucky thing I had some antibiotics on hand when I got him. Well, he's rocking on -- literally. He is the store cat at Woodstock Trading Company.

After I finished with that kitten, a similar kitten appeared the following spring in basically the same location. This one, too, I fostered. The staff at the store found him a happy home.

Yesterday I got a message from the owner of Woodstock Trading Company. The lady who adopted my foster kitten still has him, but she wants a companion for him ... and only a cat fostered by Anne will do. (emphasis mine)

Who among us is strong enough to stand up and say, "Oh, I have no magick where cats or anything else is concerned. Cats just have basic personalities; you can't mold them."

Oh no. Not me. I'm the original Cat Whisperer. You give me two dozen cats, I'll herd them neatly into rows. It's just my special touch, you know?

Like a blithering idiot, I called the shelter where I volunteer and asked for a foster kitten. Regular Gandalf, that's me. On Saturday I will receive an eight-week-old male kitten. Through my peerless magickal powers, I will turn this ordinary, nondescript feline into something really, really special. A cat fostered by Anne.

I did ask the shelter to choose for personality and not looks. Is that cheating?

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

On Bullies

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have you noticed the increased attention to harassment, intimidation, and bullying in these modern times? It's not like these problems haven't been around since Og and Mog duked it out on the savannah, but we're trying to improve detection of bullies as well as how we deal with them.

Religion is not very helpful, if you agree with the philosophy that one does not answer bullying with a like show of force. Jesus may have said "turn the other cheek," but he also upset the tables in the temple. And then there's Sampson, David and Goliath, and any number of warrior kings in the Old Testament.

Some pantheons have a God of War. Mars is one. I would invite Him for an interview on this burning issue, but alas, He burns. Last time He visited, He torched a perfectly good porch rocker, one that had belonged to my departed granny.

I'm thinking about bullies just now because rumor has it that Fred Phelps, founder of the notorious "God Hates Fags" Westboro Baptist Church, has been moved into hospice care. Now there's a bully for you. How do we handle a guy like that? This is the question I mulled this afternoon during my 4.5-mile hike home from work.

Psychologists say that you should never counter a bully with a like show of force, that it only reinforces bullying behavior. It's true that bullies usually pick on someone smaller than they are. Bullies also tend to run in groups where they can support one another. Meeting them an eye for an eye is a dicey proposition.

And yet, to me (and this is only my opinion, endorsed by Mars and other warlike deities) the best defense against bullies is a good counter-punch.

In my stripling days there wasn't a vice-principal in charge of anti-bullying tactics at my middle school. A gang of bullies set their sights on beating the crap out of me and warned me they were going to do it. I set my dog on them. And that mutt did not suffer fools. A few throaty growls was all it took for me never to be bullied again. The bullies continued to hate me, but they sure kept their distance.

It seems to me that our nation's way of dealing with Fred Phelps has been a certain measure of sensible counter-bullying. I don't know that any blows have been exchanged between the WBC and the sizable counter-crowds it draws to important events, but you've got to admit that a bunch of leather-clad bikers waving American flags and riding Harleys sure do look intimidating.

Bullies can trample your sense of self and your sense of security. The fact that they take their greatest pleasure from exploiting your weakness is just sickening. So, how do we deal with people holding posters that say "God gave you cancer! Hooray for cancer!" outside an oncology clinic?

I only speak for myself here. And for Mars. You just don't suffer this shit. I'm sorry. I know that all the research shows that mediation is the word. I know that wars have been started when two groups of bullies get active against one another. Sadly, that is our human condition, and I (just me and Mars) believe that bullies cannot be stopped by anything more than a stronger showing of force.

Yes, yes, there's Gandhi and Martin Luther King, and they are heroes. But there are also our ancient deities who say, "Stand up for yourself, get others to help you, don't suffer the fools."

I guess I'm not the kind to turn the other cheek. It hurts to be slapped. Why take another blow?

Fred Phelps, you are lying on your deathbed suffering because God hates you. Yes, you, bully. Hand me that American flag, I'm riding out.

Friday, March 14, 2014

All STEM and No Flower

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home of a proud Pagan who grew up in the era of Mad Men! Yes, my darlings, I am just a tad too young to have been at the Summer of Love, but I only missed it by an eyebrow.

I think of my childhood often. It was a time when little girls wore dresses to school and played with dolls. It was a time when bedrooms were filled with pink, fluffy pillows, and playing dress-up. Girls competed to be cheerleaders, baton twirlers, and beauty queens. The expectation was that we would all grow up to be good mothers and wives, careful of our appearances and deft with pinking shears.

And then the feminist movement came along. Suddenly all those pink teddy bears were considered the harbinger of domestic slavery. In order to be fulfilled, a woman had to have a job. Beauty queens were denounced as vapid, and sewing classes were ripped from the curriculum.

You know what? I'm sitting here today, having grown up alternately hugging my pink teddy bear and playing Vietnam War with a toy machine gun, wishing for all the world that I knew how to sew.

I'm rambling. Maybe you need to scroll down and watch the commercial for GoldieBlox and then return to the sermon while I gather my thoughts.

I saw this commercial Thursday at a seminar I attended for school teachers. The topic of the seminar was STEM. If you've been snoozing through the more boring parts of the national news, you might have missed the fact that STEM stands for Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math. This is a serious acronym.Be forewarned: ALL the jobs of the future, EACH and EVERY ONE, will be STEM jobs.

If you're a little girl who likes to dress up like a faerie, or a princess, or (Gods forbid) you like to play with baby dolls, you are SOL (acronym for Shit Outta Luck). You are going to be left in the dust by all those brainy STEM girls who played with GoldieBlox!

When did undermining the patriarchy become mashing the matriarchy?

We worship Venus, the Goddess of love and beauty; Athena, the Goddess of wisdom; Brighid, the Goddess of creativity; and Danu, the nurturing Mother of all. Oh, let me not forget Freya, who can hold Her own in battle with the best of 'em.

The Goddesses have many faces and many talents. Within Their ample spheres of influence, there's plenty of room for little frilly dresses (Versace makes them for big people and earns a swell salary), teddy bears (love the stuffed one, love the polar one), and baby dolls.

To me, a commercial that glorifies blowing up a baby doll is horrific. The implication is crystal clear. If you want to make it in a man's world, little girl, there's no room for motherhood. Why practice nurture on a doll?

It's time for a push-back on this, friends.

STEM is fine, it is indeed where the jobs will be. But it is being touted as the only reason for developing problem solving and critical thinking. Which is about the biggest heap of rubbish as I've ever seen. The only technology Emily Dickinson used was a pen and some paper. And yet even the finest psychological scientists use her work to explain and examine the human condition. Not sure on this, but I'll bet Emily had a baby doll in her childhood.

I'm deeply concerned about several things that I see as dangerous to the GoldieBlox generation:

1. the notion that there's no reward or creativity in the nurturing of children
2. the notion that there's no creativity in princess/beauty queen/dress-up play
3. the notion that girls are compartmentalized into "pinks" (dolls, boas, teddies) and "just like boys" (blocks, STEM, career success)
4. the appalling worry that market share for Legos will plummet because now girls have their own damn blocks, just for girls

When it comes to gender, it's not "them against us." The lines are completely blurred. And when it comes to fine minds, the lines are just as blurred. STEM creates the pen, but it doesn't write the poem. STEM makes the machine, but Versace designs the dress. When the world is all STEM and no flower, who will want to tend the garden?

One thing is for damn sure. When you disrespect the noble calling of motherhood, you inherit the wind.GoldieBlox sux. End of sermon.

GoldieBlox, Come On Bring The Toyz Intuit QuickBooks TV Commercial Ad ...

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Birthday Buzzards

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home of Vestal Vultures since 2005! My name is Anne Johnson, and today I am 55 years old.

I celebrated by walking home from work. It took me one hour and 45 minutes, maybe 20 minutes longer than I thought it would. But gosh! That's not bad for 4.5 miles. My time will improve!

If I had gone west instead of east, I would be in Center City Philadelphia right now. I feel empowered.

Over the weekend I scavenged a deceased opossum from a Snobville street and threw it into the back yard. I was hoping to lure some Thunderbirds here for my special day. But it's been a long, cold, lonely winter, and this area isn't chock-a-block with buzzards even in the best of weather. Holding out hope here, but in the meantime,  I can always scare up a wake of buzzards, thanks to the magic of computers!

EXHIBIT A: DAYS OF YORE, WENONAH, NJ

EXHIBIT B: BLACK VULTURES


EXHIBIT C: FLOPPY




EXHIBIT D: SOMEONE SENT ME THIS GORGEOUS SHOT THAT WAS HARD TO NAB

EXHIBIT E: HAPPIER TIMES

EXHIBIT F: MORE HAPPIER TIMES


May the wisdom of the Sacred Thunderbird roost in your belfry! Bird is the word.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Make No Mistake: This Is a Pagan Blog

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we celebrate polytheism with reckless abandon! Oh, snap. Why just stop at polytheism? How about omnitheism? If it's considered a deity by anyone, we'll consider it a deity here!

At least twice a year I get a nice email from some Christian publisher who wants me to review a book on my blog. These books are for Christians, about Christians. Today's book review request was for a tome on the importance of attending church services.

How do these people find me?

Hey, Christian publicist! It's me, Anne Johnson! I'm a Pagan! I may not be the last person you would want reviewing your book, but I'm probably toward the end of the very long line.

Now for the flip side of this aggravating coin.

I do love to review books. I've done some for The Gods Are Bored, ones that I thought would be of interest to my general readership. If you've got a book you would like to have reviewed, and it's about more than one deity, or a female deity, or faeries, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, fling it at me and I'll start hatching the complimentary adjectives forthwith! But write about going to church? Pass.

*Key change.*

Saturday morning early, I had to take Extra Chair to SAT testing. On the road we used, I found a perfectly sound deceased possum. I brought it home, and it's lying in the back yard just begging for a buzzard.

I took no small amount of heat for this lifeless marsupial from the other residents of Chateau Johnson (except for Chair, who just figures all Americans throw dead animals in their gardens). I can't blame them. It's kind of depressing to see the poor lil' possum just lying there with no vulturous attention. I remain hopeful, but gosh. How can I be happy in a world so lightly populated with buzzards? If this were the Eastern Shore of Maryland, I'd have had a flock within two hours. How do I know? I did this experiment there, and a huge possum was reduced to bones in less than half a day.

Where are the Sacred Thunderbirds? Why am I forsaken?

Friday, March 07, 2014

They Will All Be Shakespeare

Welcome to "Thy Gods Are Bored!" If ye with patient eyes attend, what here shall see is naught to offend!

Have you ever, just for the fun of it, written something in which you mimicked the style of a famous author? Confession here: I do this sometimes for the fun of it. It's kind of a nice cerebral challenge.

What do you know? It turns out that this particular talent is one that will determine whether our high school students are college and career-ready.

I wish, oh how I wish that I was making this up. But the latest teachers' meeting regarding our nation's new standardized testing brought more information about what is in store for our youngsters. One task they will have to complete -- on computer -- is to finish a narrative in the style of its author, taking care to follow the plot and character interrelations.

Are you confused yet, reader? Here's an example:

The test will give students the first 1,000 or so words of a story like "The Gift of the Magi," by O Henry. This was written, I think, between 1890 and 1910. After the students read the passage, they will be expected to continue the narrative, using O Henry's style and higher-level vocabulary. Another example used a passage from Frederick Douglass with the same instructions: read it, finish writing it, use his style.

The task must be completed in 50 minutes.

Did you do this in college? I didn't do this in college. Not for an assignment, anyway. Maybe it was my major that didn't require this kind of assignment. Oh, wait. I majored in creative writing. 

We teachers also got treated to another of the tasks we must teach in our English classrooms. Students will have 80 minutes to read two pieces of informational text (probably scientific or health-related), study a chart or other graphic, and watch a YouTube. Then they will have to write a position paper and use the information to support their point of view, taking care to quote from the texts and videos. This sounds more like college, but a whole hell of a lot less like the high school English classes I took, where we did such useless things as reading Charles Dickens and Oedipus Rex.

Basically these new standardized tests could expect high school juniors and seniors to be able to write like Shakespeare. Even though the highest talents in the world have not produced another Shakespeare in 400 years.

Needless to say, every teacher in my meeting, which included all the faculty for history and English, was appalled. Remember, we teach in an urban school where more than three quarters of the kids get free breakfast and lunch every day. But I'm also wondering how this will play out in Levittown. Even in Snobville, where one of the snobbiest things is the school system.

But wait. There's more.

Fourth graders. Fourth graders will be sitting for one 50-minute session of writing (narrative) and an 80-minute session of writing (analytical), followed by two 50-minute sessions of math. All on computer.

When I was in fourth grade, the only thing we did for an 80-minute nonstop stretch was watch the Baltimore Orioles in the World Series one afternoon in October.

If you are reading this, and you are a parent of a school-aged child, I urge you to find out all you can about your state's standardized testing platform. (New Jersey is using the more difficult one, PARCC.) Ask yourself: Will these high-stakes tasks fill my son or daughter with a joy for learning? Will these tasks spark their individual creativity? Will they have the mental endurance to complete the tasks at the tender age of ten?

Parents, you've got to fight this. If we teachers try to, we'll be called slackers.

Oh, gosh! I almost forgot! Look at this splendid YouTube video my daughter The Spare shot for one of her classes! (Below) Please leave her some kind words of encouragement. She's taking Shakespeare in college right now, but she's not being asked to write like him.

Thursday, March 06, 2014

Hang Me, Oh Hang Me

My Very, Extremely, Wonderful and Green Transportation Machine!

Welcome to The Gods Are Bored! Decibel and I are here today to tell you about our fabulous and wonderful life, just a few days shy of 55! (Actually Decibel is 55-27= 28.)

In a way it's the same old story. You know the drill. You're hard up for money, you're driving the same car you drove in the 20th century, and the old bird just ain't what she used to be ... even with large infusions of cash. Then she dies, and the mechanic who lavished such $$$ attention on her offers you the princely blue book sum. And suddenly a two-car family becomes a one-car family, second car also being a junker on the brink.

One of the only things I really had going for me in these belt-tightening days of taking in boarders and shepherding 87 urban kids into basic literacy was my little putt-putt economy car. But now that our big, burly sedan has gone to the scrap pile, the putt-putt becomes dual property.

And somehow I can't bear the idea of being picked up and dropped off at my urban high school when most of the senior class has cars.

But you know me, right? Is Anne one of these "woe is me" kinda gals? Oh HELL no!

My daughter The Spare has a roadster that has sat idle so long it's kinda rusty and faded. But that lil' baby works. All I need is a visit to the bike shop for some oil, seat adjustment, and a helmet, and off I go into the wild blue yonder!

I used to ride my bike everywhere when I was a stripling. And I grew up in some seriously hilly country. The only hills in these flatlands are the inclines on the overpass bridges. It's 4.5 miles one way to my school. Come on, Joe. That's seriously a piece of cake.

The timing could be a little bit better, because daylight savings time starts Saturday, which means it will be pitch dark at 6:15. I might have to suck it up and get driven to school for a few more weeks. Then spring will arrive, and with it blue dawn mornings, and by golly, they say you never forget how to ride a bike!

Some people might say, "Anne, you're going backwards! You've had your own car for 13 years!"

Well, I have some witty reposts for that:

*I am going backwards in many things, so what's one more?
*First World problems! There are plenty of hard-working miners in Sierra Leone who would love to have a rusty roadster!
*It's time to lower my already-rock-bottom carbon footprint even further! Living close to where you work, or working from home, is one great way to save the planet. Now I'll be driving even less!
*Yes, this sucks, and yes, I have had to make extreme compromises due to the changing employment climate. But damned if I'm going to wallow in self-pity. Okay, maybe I'll allow myself a little self-pity. Okay, maybe I'll wallow. But I'll do it in the plastic chairs on the front porch, because (not exactly sure of this) tears may stain upholstery.

When all that's left to me is my flawless chintz settee, at least I'll be able to point to it and say, "That's my chair, and it is perfect."

Monday, March 03, 2014

Not So Fast

For the past two days, every weather forecast on every web site and every television station predicted six to ten inches of snow for my location. For my money, the best weather site is the National Weather Service. It too issued a winter storm warning for six to ten inches of snow, plus a trace of ice.

Given that forecast, most local school districts cancelled during the early evening hours, meaning that today, Monday, was yet another snow day! I love them one and all!

But the certainty of that forecast got me thinking about computers.

Weather forecasts used to be based on barometric pressure, and these were far less certain about how much precipitation would fall. Now computers do modeling, based on far more specific data, including the behavior of every other winter storm since data began to be stored. Despite this blossoming of computer-generated forecasting, the actual storms are still not terribly predictable. We know snow is coming, but we don't know how much we'll be getting until it ceases to fall. In today's case, the six-to-ten-inch forecast yielded a scant three inches, if that.

A little twist in the sermon here, but follow me on it:

Have you ever sat, stone-faced, as someone talked at you? I did it just last week when someone who evaluated me took me to task for not demanding that one of my students stand for the pledge to the flag. This person went on and on about it, and I just nodded blandly. All the while, I was thinking to myself, "This is utter nonsense, this woman is clearly clueless on federal pledge policies. Now I'm going to smile and nod and tell her she's right just to shut her up. But what a moron. I can't believe that I have to listen to this moron and take her seriously. Hmmmmm. I wonder if I brought in enough firewood? It's going to snow day after tomorrow. What am I going to make for dinner? I wonder if I can bring in firewood while dinner is cooking. Is she finally finished? Wow! She is!"

And then I said, "Oh, yes, you're right. I'll speak to that student."

After which she re-asserted her point at length, leading me into another reverie, this one about the new season of "Vikings."

When she asked if I had any questions, I said no, everything was great. While of course, in my head, I had all kinds of questions, beginning with, "Lady, do you know anything about our essential freedoms in this country?"

My point is this: If this educated woman could sit two feet from me and have no idea what was going on in my mind, with the full force of her brain power focused on me, how could a computer possibly do a better job under exactly the same circumstances?

Some people are easier to read than others. Individuals may have nervous tics or fluttery eyes, or they may drum their fingers impatiently when they're angry. But a person who is making a conscious effort to mask his or her emotions can damn well do it.

I think, in the absence of truth serum, a computer would have no less trouble reading the human mind than another human. We are a long way from the time when computers will be able to pick our brains. I have no doubt that day will come, but not tomorrow or next week.

The great wonder of the human brain is how it can compute but also be totally random. A very discerning evaluator might have picked up on my annoyance at her because she was asking me to pester one of my most emotionally fragile students. But there's no way she would have followed the rest of my mental meandering, which was basically tuning her out completely while pretending to listen carefully. People can do that. Human brains can do that. How long will it take computers to be that sophisticated?

I figure that when I look at the National Weather Service, and they get the forecast 100 percent correct, right down to the start time, end time, and exact amount of precipitation, then I will have to start worrying about some computer picking my brain. In the meantime, if I just go on being weird, and thinking randomly while nodding seriously, I need fear no mechanical tool.

Go ahead. Read my mind. You'll see that I'm just jamming with Jimmy on "The Immigrant Song." AaaahhhIIIIaaaaaHHHHHAAAAA!

Sunday, March 02, 2014

Personal Best: The Gods Are Bored Goes 5K

Yesterday I did something for the first time. I participated in a 5K race.

The cause was fighting the stigma of addiction. (Look! I finally learned how to link!) The location was scenic New Castle, Delaware, a town even more hysterical than Snobville.

I believe in holding my own opinion and not mandating it for others, so I've never quite gotten the whole 5K thing. You're paying to run or walk five kilometers. On any given day I can do that for free. But in this case the cause was laudable, and an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time was going to be there. Plus, when I woke up in the morning, it was a smashing gorgeous day, not a cloud, and not below zero.

This particular 5K had never been run before. It was an inaugural event. Expectations were that about 200 people would come. Eight hundred people came. And of course I got there late, because even if I have been to a place three or four times before, that doesn't mean I can find it again.

So, with all the crush of people, and a tardy arrival, I had a great deal of trouble locating my friend, even with a phone in hand. I lingered in the gymnasium until all the other runners had gone out to the starting line. Seeing that I had pinned a number to my jacket, one of the racing organizers said to me, "You need to go outside now. The race is about to start."

To which I replied, "Why do I need to go outside? Someone has to finish last."

But that someone wasn't me, after all. I found my friend and his wife, and we strolled the course through charming New Castle at a brisk but not taxing pace. Lo and behold, when I crossed the finish line 59 minutes and 58 seconds later (not kidding ... really), it was a personal best time for me!

I was glad to see such a fine turnout for this race, because AtTACK Addiction is a relatively new charity, founded by a family who lost a young and handsome son to heroin addiction. Once again offering my opinion here: Addiction is an illness, and a deadly one. As someone who has gone a year and a half without a drink, I can speak to how difficult it is to live with. My family members would tell you the same.

Long story short, I kind of liked the 5K thing. I had forgotten how cool it is to walk through streets that ordinarily would be full of traffic, chatting with friends and ogling the quaint colonial era architecture.

I think I'll add 5K races to my list of fun things to do. Nothing beats the Mummers Parade, but hey ... it's one way to keep in shape for New Year's Day.