Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," serving all bored deities who are lost to the mists of time! Modern isn't always better, you know.
Speaking of modern not being better ... is there anyone more fabulous than Shakespeare? I teach Romeo and Juliet every year, and 400 years down the line, it's still a fan favorite. My students love it.
Shakespeare has power by the hour, but he's also fine with a line. I was looking over some quotes the other day, and I found this one from Measure for Measure:
"But man, proud man,
Dress'd in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep."
By all the bored gods, Willie the Shake is KING. It will probably take me two days to memorize this.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
The D Word
There are a few places in America where you inevitably have to go. Everyone has to go, they have no choice in the matter.
One of those places is a court of justice for jury duty. The other is the Department of Motor Vehicles.
The two institutions are tied together, of course. You go to one, you're going to get called to the other.
I've had my share of adventures in both venues. The last time I had jury duty (it's always petit, and it's always Camden) I got called for a murder trial in which the defendant was African American and the victim African American. While on a break outside the selection room, I heard a young white guy in a Budweiser baseball cap say, "I hate n*****. They'll never put me on that jury." At the time I was standing with an African American man in a crisp suit who said, "I work for the government in a classsified manner. I have to be in Tokyo tomorrow morning. They'll never put me on that jury." There was also a creaky old lady I recognized from Snobville standing there with us. She was the one who wound up on the jury.
Have you ever looked around at a jury room or at the DMV? That's where you see the total cross section of America.No one can send someone else to get their driver's license. And so they come, everybody.
These are the people who form our democracy. And now I ask you, why should we even expect it to work? When you see a big room full of Americans of all stripes, it's stupefying.
Yes, yes, I live in a major metropolitan area, Camden County, NJ, which probably has a vastly more differentiated population than, say, Smalltown, Kansas. Still, I imagine everywhere there are educated people and uneducated people, rich and poor people, religious and irreligious people, people who hate minorities, and people who are tolerant, people who are gentle and kind, and people who are flaming assholes with loud voices and ugly opinions.
On any given Election Day, those people go out and vote.
Democracy is a tough enough proposition in countries with much more homogeneous populations. In America, it is bound to crash and burn, especially if it can pick up fuel and oxygen from dirty tricks, fake news, empty promises from second tier celebrities, and dissatisfaction with the trajectory of employment trends.
Bottom line: Even the Founding Fathers worried about all the stupid white men who would queue up to vote. They foresaw issues. They were right. Even when the only voters were white men (a much more homogeneous grouping than today) it didn't go well.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating dictatorship. But if you ask me, looking around the DMV or the jury room, I would have to say that democracy is one shaky motherfucker of a ship, just waiting to be swamped by a dictator, or anarchy, or civil war.
I hope I'm not right about this. I've been wrong about lots of stuff, so there's hope.
One of those places is a court of justice for jury duty. The other is the Department of Motor Vehicles.
The two institutions are tied together, of course. You go to one, you're going to get called to the other.
I've had my share of adventures in both venues. The last time I had jury duty (it's always petit, and it's always Camden) I got called for a murder trial in which the defendant was African American and the victim African American. While on a break outside the selection room, I heard a young white guy in a Budweiser baseball cap say, "I hate n*****. They'll never put me on that jury." At the time I was standing with an African American man in a crisp suit who said, "I work for the government in a classsified manner. I have to be in Tokyo tomorrow morning. They'll never put me on that jury." There was also a creaky old lady I recognized from Snobville standing there with us. She was the one who wound up on the jury.
Have you ever looked around at a jury room or at the DMV? That's where you see the total cross section of America.No one can send someone else to get their driver's license. And so they come, everybody.
These are the people who form our democracy. And now I ask you, why should we even expect it to work? When you see a big room full of Americans of all stripes, it's stupefying.
Yes, yes, I live in a major metropolitan area, Camden County, NJ, which probably has a vastly more differentiated population than, say, Smalltown, Kansas. Still, I imagine everywhere there are educated people and uneducated people, rich and poor people, religious and irreligious people, people who hate minorities, and people who are tolerant, people who are gentle and kind, and people who are flaming assholes with loud voices and ugly opinions.
On any given Election Day, those people go out and vote.
Democracy is a tough enough proposition in countries with much more homogeneous populations. In America, it is bound to crash and burn, especially if it can pick up fuel and oxygen from dirty tricks, fake news, empty promises from second tier celebrities, and dissatisfaction with the trajectory of employment trends.
Bottom line: Even the Founding Fathers worried about all the stupid white men who would queue up to vote. They foresaw issues. They were right. Even when the only voters were white men (a much more homogeneous grouping than today) it didn't go well.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating dictatorship. But if you ask me, looking around the DMV or the jury room, I would have to say that democracy is one shaky motherfucker of a ship, just waiting to be swamped by a dictator, or anarchy, or civil war.
I hope I'm not right about this. I've been wrong about lots of stuff, so there's hope.
Friday, December 09, 2016
Dog Story
In the days before fences and leashes, I had a dog.
He arrived in our back yard one cold winter day, friendly as all get-out. Then he moved on. The next afternoon my dad found him in the parking lot of the local grocery store. Someone had kicked the poor mutt in the face. Dad brought him home.
He stayed with us 14 years.
We called him Woofer.
Woofer was an extremely intelligent dog. He won a prize in obedience school for overall performance. He was a mutt of no particular mix, but he jumped through hoops, sang songs, and would sit and stay for hours if told to.
The story I tell for my students, written in a way that begs to be imitated, goes something like this:
There was a group of foul-mouthed hooligans in my neighborhood. They told dirty jokes on the bus. Since my own mother was a foul-mouthed hooligan who loved dirty jokes, I imported a good one from the school bus and told it to her over the dinner table, figuring she would laugh.
She didn't laugh. In high dudgeon, she marched to the middle school the next day and spoke to the principal. The principal disciplined the boys. They quickly figured out whose mom had snitched and vowed revenge.
I was a sixth grader who had nothing to do with that gang of kids. I also had no friends at the middle school except for a few shrinking violets like myself.
As we boarded the bus that afternoon, the gang of boys (and their "ladies auxilliary") predicted in loud and glowing terms how badly they were going to beat me up when we all arrived at our mutual bus stop. The bus driver, oblivious, drove on and said not one word.
When we arrived at the bus stop, every single kid got off to either participate in, or witness, the big fight. I lingered in the back of the bus -- with one other shrinking violet -- until the whole damn bus was empty.
It was my stop, but I didn't get off.
The driver closed the door, and off we drove to the next stop. It was about three miles away. For about 100 yards, the boys chased the bus, shaking their fists and promising more mayhem tomorrow.
Here's where the story grows murky for a moment. I seem to remember leaving the bus at the other stop and getting a ride home from the mother of the other shrinking violet. So I guess I was a little late coming home from school, but Dad was at work, and Mom was off my list forever. I didn't even tell them what happened.
The next morning, I invited Woofer to walk to the bus stop with me. Remember, there were no leashes in those times.
The whole gang of kids waited for me at the bus stop.
Woofer routed them.
He didn't even have to bite anyone. The growling, bared teeth, and bristled fur frightened even me. He stood there at my side until the bus drove up and everyone got on.
And he was there at the bus stop waiting for me seven hours later when the bus returned me to the neighborhood. He escorted me home without incident.
At this point in the story, my mesmerized students always want to know: Did Woofer sit there all day, waiting for me, or did he go home and come back? I honestly don't know, but it hardly matters. He was just there.
I've been a pet owner since I was a kid. I've had lots and lots of cats. I had a parrot who lived with me 29 years. But I have never adopted another dog.
I'm not ruling out having another dog in my life. It is hard, though, to embrace dog ownership in these days of fences and leashes. And Woofer is such a hard act to follow.
One final note that I don't share with my students. We never had Woofer neutered. About 15 years ago I was driving in Western Maryland not far from where I once lived, and a dog ran across the road not far from my car. That dog looked just like Woofer. A ringer. I absolutely endorse spaying and neutering -- my cats are both snipped. But in this case, I've got to say I'm glad Woofer's DNA is still in the mix. He was amazing.
He arrived in our back yard one cold winter day, friendly as all get-out. Then he moved on. The next afternoon my dad found him in the parking lot of the local grocery store. Someone had kicked the poor mutt in the face. Dad brought him home.
He stayed with us 14 years.
We called him Woofer.
Woofer was an extremely intelligent dog. He won a prize in obedience school for overall performance. He was a mutt of no particular mix, but he jumped through hoops, sang songs, and would sit and stay for hours if told to.
The story I tell for my students, written in a way that begs to be imitated, goes something like this:
There was a group of foul-mouthed hooligans in my neighborhood. They told dirty jokes on the bus. Since my own mother was a foul-mouthed hooligan who loved dirty jokes, I imported a good one from the school bus and told it to her over the dinner table, figuring she would laugh.
She didn't laugh. In high dudgeon, she marched to the middle school the next day and spoke to the principal. The principal disciplined the boys. They quickly figured out whose mom had snitched and vowed revenge.
I was a sixth grader who had nothing to do with that gang of kids. I also had no friends at the middle school except for a few shrinking violets like myself.
As we boarded the bus that afternoon, the gang of boys (and their "ladies auxilliary") predicted in loud and glowing terms how badly they were going to beat me up when we all arrived at our mutual bus stop. The bus driver, oblivious, drove on and said not one word.
When we arrived at the bus stop, every single kid got off to either participate in, or witness, the big fight. I lingered in the back of the bus -- with one other shrinking violet -- until the whole damn bus was empty.
It was my stop, but I didn't get off.
The driver closed the door, and off we drove to the next stop. It was about three miles away. For about 100 yards, the boys chased the bus, shaking their fists and promising more mayhem tomorrow.
Here's where the story grows murky for a moment. I seem to remember leaving the bus at the other stop and getting a ride home from the mother of the other shrinking violet. So I guess I was a little late coming home from school, but Dad was at work, and Mom was off my list forever. I didn't even tell them what happened.
The next morning, I invited Woofer to walk to the bus stop with me. Remember, there were no leashes in those times.
The whole gang of kids waited for me at the bus stop.
Woofer routed them.
He didn't even have to bite anyone. The growling, bared teeth, and bristled fur frightened even me. He stood there at my side until the bus drove up and everyone got on.
And he was there at the bus stop waiting for me seven hours later when the bus returned me to the neighborhood. He escorted me home without incident.
At this point in the story, my mesmerized students always want to know: Did Woofer sit there all day, waiting for me, or did he go home and come back? I honestly don't know, but it hardly matters. He was just there.
I've been a pet owner since I was a kid. I've had lots and lots of cats. I had a parrot who lived with me 29 years. But I have never adopted another dog.
I'm not ruling out having another dog in my life. It is hard, though, to embrace dog ownership in these days of fences and leashes. And Woofer is such a hard act to follow.
One final note that I don't share with my students. We never had Woofer neutered. About 15 years ago I was driving in Western Maryland not far from where I once lived, and a dog ran across the road not far from my car. That dog looked just like Woofer. A ringer. I absolutely endorse spaying and neutering -- my cats are both snipped. But in this case, I've got to say I'm glad Woofer's DNA is still in the mix. He was amazing.
Thursday, December 08, 2016
Postmodernist Pet
I am a school teacher. I teach English.
This week my students are writing memoirs about significant happenings in their lives. This is an emotionally fraught exercise.
As a teacher, I believe in teaching by model. So I wrote my own memoir about a time when my dog ... oh, wait! I've never told that story here.
Here's the dog in question, 1969. I'm actually writing this story about writing a story about a dog.
Basically I'm putting the photo here so I can show my students. Maybe some day I'll tell all of you about how this magnificent pet saved me from danger.
Yes, students, that's me on the right.
This week my students are writing memoirs about significant happenings in their lives. This is an emotionally fraught exercise.
As a teacher, I believe in teaching by model. So I wrote my own memoir about a time when my dog ... oh, wait! I've never told that story here.
Here's the dog in question, 1969. I'm actually writing this story about writing a story about a dog.
Basically I'm putting the photo here so I can show my students. Maybe some day I'll tell all of you about how this magnificent pet saved me from danger.
Yes, students, that's me on the right.
Wednesday, December 07, 2016
Don't Blame Me, Blame the Water Company
Did you know that there are some plant that are illegal to grow on your lawn?
Dumb question. I'll try again.
Did you know that a random poisonous plant can suddenly spring up in your yard, and you didn't plant it?
This happened to me over the summer. I feel blessed, truly blessed.
The saga began last winter when we had a brief spell of below-freezing weather. Soon thereafter I noticed water trickling down the street from under my sidewalk. It was a water main leak.
Thank goodness the doggone thing was on water company property, and not my own, because they came and fixed it. But in the process, they tore up my front lawn and did an indifferent job of re-landscaping it.
(I didn't bug them about it. My upholstery? I would have sued. My lawn? Meh.)
Some time in June I noticed a rather large and foreign plant growing in the bald spot. I had no idea what it was.
EXHIBIT A: MYSTERY PLANT KNOWN ONLY TO WITCHES
Within just a few weeks, my mystery plant had grown to this size and was sporting these beautiful white blossoms that opened at night. My friend Maebius correctly identified the plant as Datura stramonium, aka jimson weed, a highly poisonous hallucinogen in the nightshade family.
While Mr. J pleaded fruitlessly for me to chop down the charming little vegetable, I did some research. I learned that jimson weed seeds can lie dormant in dirt for more than a century, and, if they are roused from the depths, can sprout and grow.
So while Mr. J saw a poisonous plant, poorly placed curbside where any tot could pull and eat its blooms, I saw a throwback to a time when Snobville was a wild paradise of native life, unhampered by asphalt, concrete, and tract houses.
This was one of the few occasions where I prevailed. My jimson weed, which I named Omar, lived long enough to bear seed pods. When those ripened, I heeded my better judgment and pulled the plug. School was just about to start, you know, and lots of kids walk past my house.
Some time later, I attended a Pagan Pride Day talk given by a Witch who uses flying potions.
Oh my goodness, have you heard of these things? You dab on a little goo, and whoa ... only the strong survive!
Datura stramonium is one of the plants used occasionally in flying potions.
Might have been a time, oh, when I was 16 or so, that I might have liked to experiment with a Datura flying potion. Nowadays, thank you very much, I'll leave it to the experts. All the same, I can't find it in my heart to deny life to a plant just because you can't eat it. Look at those blooms!
I also find it compelling that the seeds lay dormant in the deep dirt for who-knows-how-long before they roared back to life. I do wish some people could do that. There are folks I miss very deeply, and if the water company could just re-animate them, that would be swell.
I gave one of Omar's seed pods to a Witch and kept another for myself. My back yard is dedicated to native flora, and I am sentimental. Omar was resurrected. His descendants have a right to reclaim their land.
Dumb question. I'll try again.
Did you know that a random poisonous plant can suddenly spring up in your yard, and you didn't plant it?
This happened to me over the summer. I feel blessed, truly blessed.
The saga began last winter when we had a brief spell of below-freezing weather. Soon thereafter I noticed water trickling down the street from under my sidewalk. It was a water main leak.
Thank goodness the doggone thing was on water company property, and not my own, because they came and fixed it. But in the process, they tore up my front lawn and did an indifferent job of re-landscaping it.
(I didn't bug them about it. My upholstery? I would have sued. My lawn? Meh.)
Some time in June I noticed a rather large and foreign plant growing in the bald spot. I had no idea what it was.
EXHIBIT A: MYSTERY PLANT KNOWN ONLY TO WITCHES
Within just a few weeks, my mystery plant had grown to this size and was sporting these beautiful white blossoms that opened at night. My friend Maebius correctly identified the plant as Datura stramonium, aka jimson weed, a highly poisonous hallucinogen in the nightshade family.
While Mr. J pleaded fruitlessly for me to chop down the charming little vegetable, I did some research. I learned that jimson weed seeds can lie dormant in dirt for more than a century, and, if they are roused from the depths, can sprout and grow.
So while Mr. J saw a poisonous plant, poorly placed curbside where any tot could pull and eat its blooms, I saw a throwback to a time when Snobville was a wild paradise of native life, unhampered by asphalt, concrete, and tract houses.
This was one of the few occasions where I prevailed. My jimson weed, which I named Omar, lived long enough to bear seed pods. When those ripened, I heeded my better judgment and pulled the plug. School was just about to start, you know, and lots of kids walk past my house.
Some time later, I attended a Pagan Pride Day talk given by a Witch who uses flying potions.
Oh my goodness, have you heard of these things? You dab on a little goo, and whoa ... only the strong survive!
Datura stramonium is one of the plants used occasionally in flying potions.
Might have been a time, oh, when I was 16 or so, that I might have liked to experiment with a Datura flying potion. Nowadays, thank you very much, I'll leave it to the experts. All the same, I can't find it in my heart to deny life to a plant just because you can't eat it. Look at those blooms!
I also find it compelling that the seeds lay dormant in the deep dirt for who-knows-how-long before they roared back to life. I do wish some people could do that. There are folks I miss very deeply, and if the water company could just re-animate them, that would be swell.
I gave one of Omar's seed pods to a Witch and kept another for myself. My back yard is dedicated to native flora, and I am sentimental. Omar was resurrected. His descendants have a right to reclaim their land.
Monday, December 05, 2016
Re-Introducing The Spare
Everyone's a critic. And is anyone more critical than your own kids, when you get to be a certain age, and they get to be a certain age?
For my many new readers (and I already love you all), I have two daughters. I call them The Heir and The Spare. I got the idea from something I read about Princess Diana back in the day. Apparently Wills and Harry are an Heir and a Spare.
The following conversation occurred a few days ago between myself and The Spare.
Spare: Mother.
Anne: Yes, darling?
Spare: About your blog.
Anne: Something wrong with my blog?
Spare: Yes.
Anne: I'm hanging on your every word. Do you want to see changes?
Spare: Of course! You aren't talking about me enough!
Anne: Right on it.
EXHIBIT A: THE SPARE HAD A BIG YEAR
I know this will make my four original readers feel ancient. I sure do.
Spare graduated from college! She has a good job, and she's doing improv comedy in Philadelphia. Last night I went to a show (it wasn't improv) in which she convincingly portrayed an RNA sequence fresh off a splice!
Spare's college is in Center City, Philadelphia. I love this shot.
EXHIBIT B: SPARE AND BILLY PENN
Then there was a happy day on the Fourth of July, long before politics weighed us down.
EXHIBIT C: SUMMER MUMMERS
Spare and I are all paid up to strut with the Two Street Stompers again on January 1. And just three weeks later, another march! We will wear holes in our shoes.
For my many new readers (and I already love you all), I have two daughters. I call them The Heir and The Spare. I got the idea from something I read about Princess Diana back in the day. Apparently Wills and Harry are an Heir and a Spare.
The following conversation occurred a few days ago between myself and The Spare.
Spare: Mother.
Anne: Yes, darling?
Spare: About your blog.
Anne: Something wrong with my blog?
Spare: Yes.
Anne: I'm hanging on your every word. Do you want to see changes?
Spare: Of course! You aren't talking about me enough!
Anne: Right on it.
EXHIBIT A: THE SPARE HAD A BIG YEAR
I know this will make my four original readers feel ancient. I sure do.
Spare graduated from college! She has a good job, and she's doing improv comedy in Philadelphia. Last night I went to a show (it wasn't improv) in which she convincingly portrayed an RNA sequence fresh off a splice!
Spare's college is in Center City, Philadelphia. I love this shot.
EXHIBIT B: SPARE AND BILLY PENN
Then there was a happy day on the Fourth of July, long before politics weighed us down.
EXHIBIT C: SUMMER MUMMERS
Spare and I are all paid up to strut with the Two Street Stompers again on January 1. And just three weeks later, another march! We will wear holes in our shoes.
Sunday, December 04, 2016
Feeling the Burn
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, more readers in a week than I had in a lifetime! Can't thank "She Who Seeks" enough!
Every year on the first weekend in December, the charming Pennsylvania hamlet of Phoenixville has a Firebird Festival. Artists in the community create a giant wooden bird (different every year), and at 8:15 on Saturday night, they set it on fire.
For a modest donation, you can put any kind of wish or intention on paper, and just before the burn, the organizers put the wishes inside the bird. Voila! Matter becomes energy.
My daughter The Heir and I always attend this event. Oh, dear Heir! She is an adult now. I don't see her as often as I like, but we make up for that in quality time. The Firebird Festival is quality time.
Someone I don't know named King Arthur took this video of the burning Phoenix.
Pictures and videos don't really do this event justice, because on your computer screen you can watch it without losing your eyebrows. Heir and I always get so close that we come home singed.
I put a wish in the Firebird. I also added some intentions from friends. May they all come true through the energy of the elemental fire!
There's a little Phoenix in all of us, don't you think?
Every year on the first weekend in December, the charming Pennsylvania hamlet of Phoenixville has a Firebird Festival. Artists in the community create a giant wooden bird (different every year), and at 8:15 on Saturday night, they set it on fire.
For a modest donation, you can put any kind of wish or intention on paper, and just before the burn, the organizers put the wishes inside the bird. Voila! Matter becomes energy.
My daughter The Heir and I always attend this event. Oh, dear Heir! She is an adult now. I don't see her as often as I like, but we make up for that in quality time. The Firebird Festival is quality time.
Someone I don't know named King Arthur took this video of the burning Phoenix.
Pictures and videos don't really do this event justice, because on your computer screen you can watch it without losing your eyebrows. Heir and I always get so close that we come home singed.
I put a wish in the Firebird. I also added some intentions from friends. May they all come true through the energy of the elemental fire!
There's a little Phoenix in all of us, don't you think?
Friday, December 02, 2016
The All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," with malice toward none ... oh, hell. Who am I kidding? Sometimes the world calls upon you to have attitude. It just does.
And perhaps since I'm feeling so bellicose lately, I received a visit today from the Great Goddess Tabiti, sacred to the Scythians and all Amazon warrior women!
Tabiti actually came because I called Her. In fact, I am petitioning Her as I once did Cloacina. Desperate times call for all the Goddess power readily available!
Maybe you have heard that there is going to be a Women's March on Washington on January 21, 2017. I have already made plans to attend, along with Heir and Spare. The current number of attendees is 100,000 -- but that's just people who clicked a button on Facebook. My guess is that this march could bring five times that many women to town.
Word of this activity has reached across the news spectrum, finally filtering its way down into the cesspit occupied by the old fartbag named Rush Limbaugh.
Rush couldn't resist. He called the march "The All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion," and suggested that the women in attendance would synchronize their periods so as to be bleeding all together on that day.
Ask any Amazon, and she will tell you: When your enemies mock you, cleave them in twain with a battleaxe. Having accomplished that, take anything they have of worth and use it against their tribe.
I asked the Goddess Tabiti what she thought of All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion, and she said it sounded wonderful ... noble ... powerful. I agree! Traditional Amazon women were badass as fuck! They wore tattoos and smoked weed and lived in a society where everyone wore pants. Makes you pine for antiquity, doesn't it?
To my veteran and new readers, take heed. I, Anne Johnson, have been named a lieutenant in the All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion. I take my commission from Tabiti herself. On January 21, 2017 I will obey the call to march. And you're gonna hear me roar.
And perhaps since I'm feeling so bellicose lately, I received a visit today from the Great Goddess Tabiti, sacred to the Scythians and all Amazon warrior women!
Tabiti actually came because I called Her. In fact, I am petitioning Her as I once did Cloacina. Desperate times call for all the Goddess power readily available!
Maybe you have heard that there is going to be a Women's March on Washington on January 21, 2017. I have already made plans to attend, along with Heir and Spare. The current number of attendees is 100,000 -- but that's just people who clicked a button on Facebook. My guess is that this march could bring five times that many women to town.
Word of this activity has reached across the news spectrum, finally filtering its way down into the cesspit occupied by the old fartbag named Rush Limbaugh.
Rush couldn't resist. He called the march "The All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion," and suggested that the women in attendance would synchronize their periods so as to be bleeding all together on that day.
Ask any Amazon, and she will tell you: When your enemies mock you, cleave them in twain with a battleaxe. Having accomplished that, take anything they have of worth and use it against their tribe.
I asked the Goddess Tabiti what she thought of All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion, and she said it sounded wonderful ... noble ... powerful. I agree! Traditional Amazon women were badass as fuck! They wore tattoos and smoked weed and lived in a society where everyone wore pants. Makes you pine for antiquity, doesn't it?
To my veteran and new readers, take heed. I, Anne Johnson, have been named a lieutenant in the All-American First Cavalry Amazon Battalion. I take my commission from Tabiti herself. On January 21, 2017 I will obey the call to march. And you're gonna hear me roar.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Donald Trump: Baby Christian
Honestly. You can't make this shit up.
My dear sister lives out in the country, and inevitably she has friends who are evangelical Christians. When she posted something against The Orange Menace on her Facebook page, one of these cockeyed morons replied:
"Yes! Donald Trump is a Christian! He's a baby Christian, but he's on his way."
EXHIBIT A: BABY CHRISTIAN
Don't know about you, but when the term "baby Christian" gets thrown around, this is the first thing I think of! Who hasn't been to one of these little ceremonies?
I suppose this is what the evangelicals are calling newly-mintedcharlatans converts. But when it comes to the Orange Menace, "baby" fits way better than "Christian."
An overwhelming majority of grown-up evangelical Christians supported the Orange Menace. This should forever put to rest the idea that such people are anything more than rank hypocrites. They actually flicked the "yes" switch for a womanizing, twice-divorced huckster who takes glee in stiffing his employees, plastering the world with dreary golf courses, and firing up factories in foreign lands.
EXHIBIT B: THE BUSY GOD RESPONDS
Now, this right here is the facepalm you make when everything you ever worked for, believed in, and died for is thrown overboard by people who pretend to believe in you. Poor Jesus! Even if you're a Pagan (like me), you can't help but feel a little bit sad for Him. Turns out His followers will overlook a whole lot of really bad behavior just for the vacuous promise of trying to overturn settled Supreme Court decisions.
Does any of this surprise you?
Well, this message has a (somewhat) happy ending. Upon hearing about this, quite a number of bored Goddesses spent the entire afternoon making macaroons from scratch for poor, sad Jesus. When it comes to understanding the perfidies of one's followers, no one can sympathize more than another deity.
I'm sure glad I lent my kitchen to the Goddesses for their baking. It smells heavenly -- and I can lick the bowls!
My dear sister lives out in the country, and inevitably she has friends who are evangelical Christians. When she posted something against The Orange Menace on her Facebook page, one of these cockeyed morons replied:
"Yes! Donald Trump is a Christian! He's a baby Christian, but he's on his way."
EXHIBIT A: BABY CHRISTIAN
Don't know about you, but when the term "baby Christian" gets thrown around, this is the first thing I think of! Who hasn't been to one of these little ceremonies?
I suppose this is what the evangelicals are calling newly-minted
An overwhelming majority of grown-up evangelical Christians supported the Orange Menace. This should forever put to rest the idea that such people are anything more than rank hypocrites. They actually flicked the "yes" switch for a womanizing, twice-divorced huckster who takes glee in stiffing his employees, plastering the world with dreary golf courses, and firing up factories in foreign lands.
EXHIBIT B: THE BUSY GOD RESPONDS
Now, this right here is the facepalm you make when everything you ever worked for, believed in, and died for is thrown overboard by people who pretend to believe in you. Poor Jesus! Even if you're a Pagan (like me), you can't help but feel a little bit sad for Him. Turns out His followers will overlook a whole lot of really bad behavior just for the vacuous promise of trying to overturn settled Supreme Court decisions.
Does any of this surprise you?
Well, this message has a (somewhat) happy ending. Upon hearing about this, quite a number of bored Goddesses spent the entire afternoon making macaroons from scratch for poor, sad Jesus. When it comes to understanding the perfidies of one's followers, no one can sympathize more than another deity.
I'm sure glad I lent my kitchen to the Goddesses for their baking. It smells heavenly -- and I can lick the bowls!
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
It's My Country, and I'll Cry If I Want To
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we prize sanity, not vanity. I'm Anne Johnson, and sometimes things make me cry.
On the morning after Election Day, my school district had a teachers' meeting scheduled. It's a good thing, because so many of us were in tears that I can't imagine how we could have taught anything in the classroom. The most grief-stricken of my colleagues? The history teachers.
You can therefore imagine my dismay and disappointment when one of my friends -- and a good one, a true one, someone I considered "bosom" -- posted on Facebook that all the crying people "ought to go live in China, or Cuba, or Iran, if you really want to cry about something." This post came from an intelligent man.
I've seen quite a few less intelligent individuals expressing the same sentiments. Don't like the fact that an incompetent, fractious, conceited blowhard has been elected to head the Ship of State? Move to China!
There is so much I could say about this, but I'll try to be brief.
First of all, if your candidate won, and you are happy about it, why does it bother you that people -- particularly women -- are crying? Oh! I can answer that! You are just a little bit uncomfortable about this election yourself. You feel in your bones that this won't turn out well. But hey, you are celebrating anyway! And how dare anyone fling a little reality at your glee?
Secondly, do you mind if I ask how you would be responding right now if the polls had been correct, and Mrs. Clinton won? Don't answer that. I know. You'd be out on the range, shooting your AK at human-shaped targets. You'd be standing by your man, who would be DEMANDING a RECOUNT and CRYING FRAUD. Don't tell me you would have bowed to the will of the people, stone-faced and stoic. I'm not buying it.
Thirdly (please give me extra credit for these thoughtful transition words), why move to China, Cuba, or Iran when it's going to be just like China, Cuba, and Iran right here? I don't have the money for a plane ticket. And let's see: Where would I be going if I did have that ticket? To a country ruled by a handful of above-the-law elites who oppress their citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law. Why fly, when I can get all those perks right here? It's only a matter of time.
And now, to all of you "Stop Crying and Move to China" white males, I will say this:
Okay, I'll go. Now, here's where you need to go.
You need to hop inside the covers of a Charles Dickens novel. Yes, propel yourself back to Victorian England, where a handful of above-the-law elites oppressed citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law! I understand there's a partnership opening at Scrooge and Marley. You're perfect for the job.
On the morning after Election Day, my school district had a teachers' meeting scheduled. It's a good thing, because so many of us were in tears that I can't imagine how we could have taught anything in the classroom. The most grief-stricken of my colleagues? The history teachers.
You can therefore imagine my dismay and disappointment when one of my friends -- and a good one, a true one, someone I considered "bosom" -- posted on Facebook that all the crying people "ought to go live in China, or Cuba, or Iran, if you really want to cry about something." This post came from an intelligent man.
I've seen quite a few less intelligent individuals expressing the same sentiments. Don't like the fact that an incompetent, fractious, conceited blowhard has been elected to head the Ship of State? Move to China!
There is so much I could say about this, but I'll try to be brief.
First of all, if your candidate won, and you are happy about it, why does it bother you that people -- particularly women -- are crying? Oh! I can answer that! You are just a little bit uncomfortable about this election yourself. You feel in your bones that this won't turn out well. But hey, you are celebrating anyway! And how dare anyone fling a little reality at your glee?
Secondly, do you mind if I ask how you would be responding right now if the polls had been correct, and Mrs. Clinton won? Don't answer that. I know. You'd be out on the range, shooting your AK at human-shaped targets. You'd be standing by your man, who would be DEMANDING a RECOUNT and CRYING FRAUD. Don't tell me you would have bowed to the will of the people, stone-faced and stoic. I'm not buying it.
Thirdly (please give me extra credit for these thoughtful transition words), why move to China, Cuba, or Iran when it's going to be just like China, Cuba, and Iran right here? I don't have the money for a plane ticket. And let's see: Where would I be going if I did have that ticket? To a country ruled by a handful of above-the-law elites who oppress their citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law. Why fly, when I can get all those perks right here? It's only a matter of time.
And now, to all of you "Stop Crying and Move to China" white males, I will say this:
Okay, I'll go. Now, here's where you need to go.
You need to hop inside the covers of a Charles Dickens novel. Yes, propel yourself back to Victorian England, where a handful of above-the-law elites oppressed citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law! I understand there's a partnership opening at Scrooge and Marley. You're perfect for the job.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Cyber Monday Offer from The Gods Are Bored
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Cyber Monday: Buy it here, buy it now!
Just kidding. We aren't selling anything. But we are making you an offer.
Every year in December, The Heir and I attend the Phoenixville Firebird Festival. The citizens of Phoenixville work together to erect a giant bird made of plywood. At a designated time, they set it on fire.
This is quite an amazing event.
The best part of the Firebird Festival is that the organizers accept Intentions and put them into a box that is set inside the bird before it is lit.
Dear readers, those of you who checked back in after my long absence, I have an offer for you.
You can email me your Intention for the upcoming year -- anything you wish to affect for better or worse -- and I will write it on a card and place it in the box.
You have two options: If you are a Facebook friend, you can place your Intention in a private message. If you connect to me via this platform and don't want to put your Intention in a comment, you can email me.
My email is a gmail account and runs like this, you get the drift:
annejohnson17211 at gmail dot com
I feel that these are troubled times. Any time we can turn Intentions into energy, we should do it. The Firebird Festival offers one of these opportunities.
I would say meet me in Phoenixville, but look at the size of that crowd! Send me a message, and you'll be there in spirit.
Just kidding. We aren't selling anything. But we are making you an offer.
Every year in December, The Heir and I attend the Phoenixville Firebird Festival. The citizens of Phoenixville work together to erect a giant bird made of plywood. At a designated time, they set it on fire.
The best part of the Firebird Festival is that the organizers accept Intentions and put them into a box that is set inside the bird before it is lit.
Dear readers, those of you who checked back in after my long absence, I have an offer for you.
You can email me your Intention for the upcoming year -- anything you wish to affect for better or worse -- and I will write it on a card and place it in the box.
You have two options: If you are a Facebook friend, you can place your Intention in a private message. If you connect to me via this platform and don't want to put your Intention in a comment, you can email me.
My email is a gmail account and runs like this, you get the drift:
annejohnson17211 at gmail dot com
I feel that these are troubled times. Any time we can turn Intentions into energy, we should do it. The Firebird Festival offers one of these opportunities.
I would say meet me in Phoenixville, but look at the size of that crowd! Send me a message, and you'll be there in spirit.
Friday, November 25, 2016
Sidelined
I was going to write a blog post today, but I came home from work Wednesday with a cold. I couldn't taste the Thanksgiving dinner I put on the table (Spare helped -- we had seven dishes and two desserts). Today I am worse.
So here is a "lick and a promise," as my mama put it. I'll write when I feel better.
News flash: I now have four readers! Maybe five, if Spare checks in.
It's the anniversary of Decibel's passing, sort of. She flew for the Summer Lands on Black Friday.
So here is a "lick and a promise," as my mama put it. I'll write when I feel better.
News flash: I now have four readers! Maybe five, if Spare checks in.
It's the anniversary of Decibel's passing, sort of. She flew for the Summer Lands on Black Friday.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Another Old Friend Drops By
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," now apparently broadcasting mostly from Facebook! Oh well, it beats Twitter. If you search me and get Facebook, I promise I'll have this content on there so you can click it. If you want to pick it. Such a sticky wicket.
Ah ... Anne has lost a stride or two, but she hasn't forgotten the whole dance.
All three of you readers are likely to recall my many adventures with the Monkey Man, a local figure who started as a mystery and became a lifelong friend. Well, Thanksgiving is here, and guess who's coming to dinner? THE MONKEY MAN!
The clear light of day reveals our Monkey Man to be Rocky Wilson, and this year in the spring he published his first collection of poetry! Let's hear some applause!
Here's the Man himself, with his book and his monkey.
(This photo first appeared in the Camden Courier Post, and I hope they don't sue me, because I don't have any money anyway.)
I just checked Amazon, and Rocky's book, The Last Bus to Camden, is not currently available there. Friends, it just about sold out its first print run. I am not exaggerating. You should have seen the reading Rocky gave in Snobville at the bookstore. People were spilling out onto the sidewalk. There was not even standing room!
Tomorrow when I see the Monkey Man, I'll ask him for permission to print a few of his verses here on "The Gods Are Bored" from time to time. It sure would lighten the mood.
Speaking of which, I haven't put my claw-sharpener away. In 2017 there will be more marching than just the Mummers Parade. Your reporter will be on the front lines in our nation's capital for the big protest on January 21.
But in the meantime, we are looking for the Light. Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" round of applause to Rocky Wilson, author, poet, and 100 percent fabulous guy! Best friends forever.
Ah ... Anne has lost a stride or two, but she hasn't forgotten the whole dance.
All three of you readers are likely to recall my many adventures with the Monkey Man, a local figure who started as a mystery and became a lifelong friend. Well, Thanksgiving is here, and guess who's coming to dinner? THE MONKEY MAN!
The clear light of day reveals our Monkey Man to be Rocky Wilson, and this year in the spring he published his first collection of poetry! Let's hear some applause!
Here's the Man himself, with his book and his monkey.
I just checked Amazon, and Rocky's book, The Last Bus to Camden, is not currently available there. Friends, it just about sold out its first print run. I am not exaggerating. You should have seen the reading Rocky gave in Snobville at the bookstore. People were spilling out onto the sidewalk. There was not even standing room!
Tomorrow when I see the Monkey Man, I'll ask him for permission to print a few of his verses here on "The Gods Are Bored" from time to time. It sure would lighten the mood.
Speaking of which, I haven't put my claw-sharpener away. In 2017 there will be more marching than just the Mummers Parade. Your reporter will be on the front lines in our nation's capital for the big protest on January 21.
But in the meantime, we are looking for the Light. Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" round of applause to Rocky Wilson, author, poet, and 100 percent fabulous guy! Best friends forever.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
Baby, It's Cold Inside
Brrr! The wind is whipping out there! Finally, a cold day.
Time to put some resolve to the test.I have the thermostat in Chateau Johnson set at 60 degrees. It's going to stay there. I'm determined.
We have an oil-burning furnace. It was here when we moved in, back in 1987. The old thing can't have much longer to live. But I am crossing my fingers and trying not to work it too hard.
It was always my goal to nurse the old furnace along until the whole solar thing gets really cranked. Sadly, I feel like that goal will go unmet. All signs point to the ascendance of Big Oil to a position of even greater power.
I hate to see my hard-earned wages go to the oil company. The only thing I can do is minimize how much oil I use. Having a fireplace helps a little, I must admit.
Here's some free advice tips I'll give you (and pay you to take) if you want to use less oil or natural gas:
1. Do some home improvement project, preferably one that requires going up and down stairs/ladders many times. I did some interior painting today and then swept down the house with a good, old-fashioned broom. Sixty degrees in the house, and I worked up a sweat.
2. Go to the thrift store and buy some warm, fuzzy clothes. When you get home from work, put on the warm, fuzzy clothes. So what if they aren't sexy? (Hope Mr. J doesn't read this.)
3. Those afghans that Grandma knitted for you 40 years ago? Get them out! Snuggle under them! They're bought and paid for.
EXHIBIT A: ANNE IS UNDER THERE SOMEWHERE
4. When you've finished baking something in the oven, leave it open for a few minutes after you've turned it off. This is a brief fix, but it does work.
5. This is an old one, and the hardest one for me to enact. Turn off the lights and all appliances you aren't using whenever you leave the room. Electricity isn't oil, but it's energy all the same.
6. Ask a bored deity for help. I guarantee you, if you complain that your house is cold to a Goddess like Sedna, She's going to laugh at you and call you a weakling.
7. Bonus: Being cold means you're burning more calories. Which means you can binge on the candy corn that's still here from Halloween!
It comes down to this. Every time that furnace comes on, Big Oil wins. Every hour you can go without it, you win. If you can't avoid doing business with these evil fucks, at least you can minimize what you put in their pockets.
Big Oil isn't going to get bigger on my account. Now I've got to say goodbye, because my fingers are too numb to type.
Time to put some resolve to the test.I have the thermostat in Chateau Johnson set at 60 degrees. It's going to stay there. I'm determined.
We have an oil-burning furnace. It was here when we moved in, back in 1987. The old thing can't have much longer to live. But I am crossing my fingers and trying not to work it too hard.
It was always my goal to nurse the old furnace along until the whole solar thing gets really cranked. Sadly, I feel like that goal will go unmet. All signs point to the ascendance of Big Oil to a position of even greater power.
I hate to see my hard-earned wages go to the oil company. The only thing I can do is minimize how much oil I use. Having a fireplace helps a little, I must admit.
Here's some free advice tips I'll give you (and pay you to take) if you want to use less oil or natural gas:
1. Do some home improvement project, preferably one that requires going up and down stairs/ladders many times. I did some interior painting today and then swept down the house with a good, old-fashioned broom. Sixty degrees in the house, and I worked up a sweat.
2. Go to the thrift store and buy some warm, fuzzy clothes. When you get home from work, put on the warm, fuzzy clothes. So what if they aren't sexy? (Hope Mr. J doesn't read this.)
3. Those afghans that Grandma knitted for you 40 years ago? Get them out! Snuggle under them! They're bought and paid for.
EXHIBIT A: ANNE IS UNDER THERE SOMEWHERE
4. When you've finished baking something in the oven, leave it open for a few minutes after you've turned it off. This is a brief fix, but it does work.
5. This is an old one, and the hardest one for me to enact. Turn off the lights and all appliances you aren't using whenever you leave the room. Electricity isn't oil, but it's energy all the same.
6. Ask a bored deity for help. I guarantee you, if you complain that your house is cold to a Goddess like Sedna, She's going to laugh at you and call you a weakling.
7. Bonus: Being cold means you're burning more calories. Which means you can binge on the candy corn that's still here from Halloween!
It comes down to this. Every time that furnace comes on, Big Oil wins. Every hour you can go without it, you win. If you can't avoid doing business with these evil fucks, at least you can minimize what you put in their pockets.
Big Oil isn't going to get bigger on my account. Now I've got to say goodbye, because my fingers are too numb to type.
Friday, November 18, 2016
An Old Acquaintance Heads to Washington
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," emitting sardonic snorts since 2005! I'm Anne Johnson - it's my real name. Honest, I wouldn't make that up.
Wow, it's been a long time since I got bombarded with fire and brimstone and the sulfurous odor of foul Hell itself. But here it is, wafting in the wake of Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, The Beast, aka The Devil. Get this: He wants to be called "Mr. Applegate." He's a fan of old Broadway shows.
I guess I'd better intervene before he sits down. No getting that stink out of a well-upholstered sofa.
EXHIBIT A: MR. APPLEGATE, UNVARNISHED
Anne: What are you doing here? I thought I'd seen the last of you. You're so 2005.
Applegate: Ha ha! Joke's on you. I was down, but not out. I was wounded, but not killed. I was battered, but not broken. I was ...
Anne: Jesus! I get the picture! Enough with the tired cliches!
Applegate: I just stopped by on my way to Washington, DC.
Anne: Of course. Why did this not occur to me? I suppose you've found gainful employment.
Applegate: And how! It's like a candy store. Whatever I want, in whatever portion I choose, for however long I want it. Times have changed, thank goodness. I was really getting bored.
Anne: I don't even need to ask for whom you will be working in the nation's capital. In fact, don't even say his name. It's like Voldemort; I can't bring myself to utter it.
Applegate (rubbing his hands together): Just doesn't get better. You're in for a treat, Anne! Watch as I transform into my newest incarnation! I've been working hard on it.
EXHIBIT B: MR. APPLEGATE, BELTWAY BOUND
Anne: You'll fit right in.
Applegate: About time, too. I thought I'd get America back when they ditched the whole e pluribus unum thing back in the 1950s. Oh well, if you look at the course of history the way I can, a half century isn't any time at all.
Anne: I'm not even curious about what you're going to do in DC, so don't tell me.
Applegate: So glad you asked! So many tasks, where do I start? Do I ramp up the steam on climate change first and take charge of women's bodies second, or should it be the other way around? Build the Wall, or bomb Iran? Maybe I could multi-task and do it all at once! Why not? I'm a deity, after all.
Anne: You won't get away with it. Most Americans don't want your boss, and they sure don't want to lose their Medicare.
Applegate: Medicare is done! Hey, if you can't afford a hospital, don't get sick! It's a very simple game.
Anne: Applegate, I always figured you for an equal opportunity kind of guy. Like, I never thought you cared more about one race than another, or more about one religion than another. You just liked bad people of all stripes.
Applegate: And I still do! But I know some first-class haters when I see them, and the folks who voted in the regime change are going to be excellent ... brilliant ... at inflaming the masses. I haven't seen this quality since ...
Anne: Don't even say it. Just. Don't. In fact, get your Aryan ass out of my house! This property has been a No Republican Zone since 1987.
Applegate: What a pity, Anne! You could get a nice, plum assignment down there in DC right now. There are staffing opportunities aplenty. And look at you. Teaching inner city kids. You could do so much better.
Anne: Get the FUCK off my LAND you VILLAIN!
Applegate: Tsk tsk. Such rudeness! Just for that, my first priority as part of the new regime will be to end all free and reduced lunches for those loser poor kids that you teach. Yes, that will be a brilliant beginning. Brilliant! Are those tears I see in your eyes, Anne?
Anne: Go away.
Applegate: Oh, yes. Absolutely. Bon voyage! My years of self-pity are behind me! It's time to get to work.
And there he goes, off toward the Amtrak with his suit and his briefcase. You know what the worst part is? Everything he'll be doing down there, he'll give all the credit to Jesus. What a fucking world.
Wow, it's been a long time since I got bombarded with fire and brimstone and the sulfurous odor of foul Hell itself. But here it is, wafting in the wake of Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, The Beast, aka The Devil. Get this: He wants to be called "Mr. Applegate." He's a fan of old Broadway shows.
I guess I'd better intervene before he sits down. No getting that stink out of a well-upholstered sofa.
EXHIBIT A: MR. APPLEGATE, UNVARNISHED
Anne: What are you doing here? I thought I'd seen the last of you. You're so 2005.
Applegate: Ha ha! Joke's on you. I was down, but not out. I was wounded, but not killed. I was battered, but not broken. I was ...
Anne: Jesus! I get the picture! Enough with the tired cliches!
Applegate: I just stopped by on my way to Washington, DC.
Anne: Of course. Why did this not occur to me? I suppose you've found gainful employment.
Applegate: And how! It's like a candy store. Whatever I want, in whatever portion I choose, for however long I want it. Times have changed, thank goodness. I was really getting bored.
Anne: I don't even need to ask for whom you will be working in the nation's capital. In fact, don't even say his name. It's like Voldemort; I can't bring myself to utter it.
Applegate (rubbing his hands together): Just doesn't get better. You're in for a treat, Anne! Watch as I transform into my newest incarnation! I've been working hard on it.
EXHIBIT B: MR. APPLEGATE, BELTWAY BOUND
Anne: You'll fit right in.
Applegate: About time, too. I thought I'd get America back when they ditched the whole e pluribus unum thing back in the 1950s. Oh well, if you look at the course of history the way I can, a half century isn't any time at all.
Anne: I'm not even curious about what you're going to do in DC, so don't tell me.
Applegate: So glad you asked! So many tasks, where do I start? Do I ramp up the steam on climate change first and take charge of women's bodies second, or should it be the other way around? Build the Wall, or bomb Iran? Maybe I could multi-task and do it all at once! Why not? I'm a deity, after all.
Anne: You won't get away with it. Most Americans don't want your boss, and they sure don't want to lose their Medicare.
Applegate: Medicare is done! Hey, if you can't afford a hospital, don't get sick! It's a very simple game.
Anne: Applegate, I always figured you for an equal opportunity kind of guy. Like, I never thought you cared more about one race than another, or more about one religion than another. You just liked bad people of all stripes.
Applegate: And I still do! But I know some first-class haters when I see them, and the folks who voted in the regime change are going to be excellent ... brilliant ... at inflaming the masses. I haven't seen this quality since ...
Anne: Don't even say it. Just. Don't. In fact, get your Aryan ass out of my house! This property has been a No Republican Zone since 1987.
Applegate: What a pity, Anne! You could get a nice, plum assignment down there in DC right now. There are staffing opportunities aplenty. And look at you. Teaching inner city kids. You could do so much better.
Anne: Get the FUCK off my LAND you VILLAIN!
Applegate: Tsk tsk. Such rudeness! Just for that, my first priority as part of the new regime will be to end all free and reduced lunches for those loser poor kids that you teach. Yes, that will be a brilliant beginning. Brilliant! Are those tears I see in your eyes, Anne?
Anne: Go away.
Applegate: Oh, yes. Absolutely. Bon voyage! My years of self-pity are behind me! It's time to get to work.
And there he goes, off toward the Amtrak with his suit and his briefcase. You know what the worst part is? Everything he'll be doing down there, he'll give all the credit to Jesus. What a fucking world.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Crossing the Delaware
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, and this is my safe space. Come on in. Weep with me, or have a cup of tea. Extra credit if you admire the upholstery on my settee.
My three readers know that I grew up in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania, out where you can throw a stone right across Maryland and into West Virginia. I spent a lot of time along the Potomac, and what a beautiful river it is. At this very moment it is much cleaner than it was when I was a kid, and much wildlife has returned to its shores.
Rivers are funny things. They can sometimes be forded on foot (I'm thinking of the upper Potomac) and yet they so often serve as boundaries. They separate states and nations. In our culture, they also separate mindsets.
In September I went home to Appalachia and took a long walk along the Potomac. I was on the Maryland side, which is a national park. But I couldn't help looking across to West Virginia, literally a stone's throw. I could see little vacation cottages and even hear snippets of conversation over the still water. I thought, for the 10,000th time, how wonderful it would be to retire to West Virginia and buy a little cottage along the Potomac.
Then I got in my car, and I was almost forced off the road, quite intentionally, by a monster truck carrying two males and flapping a Confederate flag. They flipped me the bird as they roared around me at a no-passing part of the road. My sin? Pretty sure it was the New Jersey tags on my car.
Look at this pretty stretch of river! It's not the Potomac. It's the Delaware. This is the Delaware Water Gap, and I beheld it for the first time last weekend. Yes, I live 100 miles from the Delaware Water Gap and have never been there. Boy, have I seen the error of my ways!
The Delaware River separates Pennsylvania from New Jersey. I've traversed it hundreds of times, riding the train between my home and Philadelphia. Never gave it a second thought, really.
It deserves a second thought.
Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, I am intensely glad to live on the eastern bank of the Delaware River.
Gone, with the swoosh of a rebel flag from an over-sized pickup truck, is any last vestige of nostalgia I might have had for the homeland I have cherished all these years. Gone, with this presidential election, is any expectation that I could live among the generations of mountain people who have succeeded my grandparents and parents. I'm not painting with a broad brush in any glib way. This is painful to me. How can you do anything but mourn when a state that was created because of its anti-slavery population turns blood-red?
Well, one way is to embrace a whole new river. Like George Washington, I have crossed the Delaware triumphantly, and it turns out to be a swell waterway.
More about water in future posts. There will be future posts. Lots of them. Written and published on the eastern bank of the wet and wonderful Delaware River.
My three readers know that I grew up in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania, out where you can throw a stone right across Maryland and into West Virginia. I spent a lot of time along the Potomac, and what a beautiful river it is. At this very moment it is much cleaner than it was when I was a kid, and much wildlife has returned to its shores.
Rivers are funny things. They can sometimes be forded on foot (I'm thinking of the upper Potomac) and yet they so often serve as boundaries. They separate states and nations. In our culture, they also separate mindsets.
In September I went home to Appalachia and took a long walk along the Potomac. I was on the Maryland side, which is a national park. But I couldn't help looking across to West Virginia, literally a stone's throw. I could see little vacation cottages and even hear snippets of conversation over the still water. I thought, for the 10,000th time, how wonderful it would be to retire to West Virginia and buy a little cottage along the Potomac.
Then I got in my car, and I was almost forced off the road, quite intentionally, by a monster truck carrying two males and flapping a Confederate flag. They flipped me the bird as they roared around me at a no-passing part of the road. My sin? Pretty sure it was the New Jersey tags on my car.
Look at this pretty stretch of river! It's not the Potomac. It's the Delaware. This is the Delaware Water Gap, and I beheld it for the first time last weekend. Yes, I live 100 miles from the Delaware Water Gap and have never been there. Boy, have I seen the error of my ways!
The Delaware River separates Pennsylvania from New Jersey. I've traversed it hundreds of times, riding the train between my home and Philadelphia. Never gave it a second thought, really.
It deserves a second thought.
Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, I am intensely glad to live on the eastern bank of the Delaware River.
Gone, with the swoosh of a rebel flag from an over-sized pickup truck, is any last vestige of nostalgia I might have had for the homeland I have cherished all these years. Gone, with this presidential election, is any expectation that I could live among the generations of mountain people who have succeeded my grandparents and parents. I'm not painting with a broad brush in any glib way. This is painful to me. How can you do anything but mourn when a state that was created because of its anti-slavery population turns blood-red?
Well, one way is to embrace a whole new river. Like George Washington, I have crossed the Delaware triumphantly, and it turns out to be a swell waterway.
More about water in future posts. There will be future posts. Lots of them. Written and published on the eastern bank of the wet and wonderful Delaware River.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Then and Now
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you are one of my three readers still looking in to see if I'm here, let it be known ... Anne is back! The stakes are high, and the steaks are dry. Or some such.
Wow. A lot has happened since almost a year ago, when the passing of Decibel the parrot was my last entry. So, what did I do between then and now?
One thing I did, happily and with an abundance of enthusiasm, was attend a Bernie Sanders rally at Temple University on April 6.
Look at Spare and me in this photo! It was freezing cold that day, not a speck of sun and a whipping wind. We got to the Liacouris Center at noon and stood outside until 5:30. Then we went inside. Spare went onto the floor to get as close to Bernie as she could, and I grabbed a seat. The arena slowly filled to capacity, which is 10,000 plus the standing room only on the floor. Bernie began his speech at about 8:30 or 9:00, and when it was over, he shook Spare's hand as he left the stage. When we caught up to each other, we wept tears of joy.
Senator Sanders' message resonated with both of us. We desperately wanted him to be the Democratic nominee for president.
We were deeply disappointed when he lost.
I personally went to a Bernie rally during the Democratic National Convention (it was 105 in the shade that day), but after marching down Broad Street I had an impromptu conversation with a Jamaican immigrant lady who was furious with the Bernie-or-Bust crowd. When she confronted me, the conversation went kind of like this:
Lady: How can you do this? Don't you see you make it possible for that man, Donald Trump, to win?
Anne: Oh, let me promise you! I will vote for Hillary. I know the stakes are high.
Lady: Because, seriously, I'm afraid I will be sent back to Jamaica if that man Donald Trump gets elected. And I am a citizen of the USA.
Anne: Oh, don't worry about a thing! The American people would never elect such an unprepared and temperamental man to such a serious and demanding position of power!
Lady: We'll see.
That was Then.
This is Now.
On Thursday, November 10, 2016 Spare and I (and our friend Nettle) took part in a hastily-organized protest against Donald Trump. It was a Women's March. Spare made her sign. Again we wept together, this time in the dark and the cold, this time in despair.
Presidential primaries exist for a reason. They serve as platforms for the exchange of ideas. They serve to put as many issues and positions on the table as possible. Bernie Sanders was quite clear and articulate about the issues he saw as important. Hillary Clinton skirted these issues mostly, setting herself up as (a) someone about to make history, and (b) not Donald Trump.
I voted for her. Spare voted for her. So did lots and lots of other people. But the cold, dark times are upon us. The worst possible set of faux Christians has grabbed power-- the very people I used to poke such fun at on this blog.
The bored Gods are appalled. For the love of fruit flies, even Jesus is appalled.
I'm not a terrorist, I'm not being paid by George Soros or anyone else. But I'm going to speak. I'm going to protest. I'm going to cover this apocalypse with my Swiftian blog. I feel that, as a Pagan, I am being called upon to support religious liberty ... not to mention trying to keep Social Security checks rolling in to my ailing mother-in-law. And so much else. I'll cover it all.
I wonder what happened to that Jamaican lady I met in Philly last summer. I guess she's blaming me for this. Well, there's blame aplenty to be assigned. If my support of Bernie Sanders brought Donald Trump to office, then burn me at the stake. You've got to stand for something in this world.
Wow. A lot has happened since almost a year ago, when the passing of Decibel the parrot was my last entry. So, what did I do between then and now?
One thing I did, happily and with an abundance of enthusiasm, was attend a Bernie Sanders rally at Temple University on April 6.
Look at Spare and me in this photo! It was freezing cold that day, not a speck of sun and a whipping wind. We got to the Liacouris Center at noon and stood outside until 5:30. Then we went inside. Spare went onto the floor to get as close to Bernie as she could, and I grabbed a seat. The arena slowly filled to capacity, which is 10,000 plus the standing room only on the floor. Bernie began his speech at about 8:30 or 9:00, and when it was over, he shook Spare's hand as he left the stage. When we caught up to each other, we wept tears of joy.
Senator Sanders' message resonated with both of us. We desperately wanted him to be the Democratic nominee for president.
We were deeply disappointed when he lost.
I personally went to a Bernie rally during the Democratic National Convention (it was 105 in the shade that day), but after marching down Broad Street I had an impromptu conversation with a Jamaican immigrant lady who was furious with the Bernie-or-Bust crowd. When she confronted me, the conversation went kind of like this:
Lady: How can you do this? Don't you see you make it possible for that man, Donald Trump, to win?
Anne: Oh, let me promise you! I will vote for Hillary. I know the stakes are high.
Lady: Because, seriously, I'm afraid I will be sent back to Jamaica if that man Donald Trump gets elected. And I am a citizen of the USA.
Anne: Oh, don't worry about a thing! The American people would never elect such an unprepared and temperamental man to such a serious and demanding position of power!
Lady: We'll see.
That was Then.
This is Now.
On Thursday, November 10, 2016 Spare and I (and our friend Nettle) took part in a hastily-organized protest against Donald Trump. It was a Women's March. Spare made her sign. Again we wept together, this time in the dark and the cold, this time in despair.
Presidential primaries exist for a reason. They serve as platforms for the exchange of ideas. They serve to put as many issues and positions on the table as possible. Bernie Sanders was quite clear and articulate about the issues he saw as important. Hillary Clinton skirted these issues mostly, setting herself up as (a) someone about to make history, and (b) not Donald Trump.
I voted for her. Spare voted for her. So did lots and lots of other people. But the cold, dark times are upon us. The worst possible set of faux Christians has grabbed power-- the very people I used to poke such fun at on this blog.
The bored Gods are appalled. For the love of fruit flies, even Jesus is appalled.
I'm not a terrorist, I'm not being paid by George Soros or anyone else. But I'm going to speak. I'm going to protest. I'm going to cover this apocalypse with my Swiftian blog. I feel that, as a Pagan, I am being called upon to support religious liberty ... not to mention trying to keep Social Security checks rolling in to my ailing mother-in-law. And so much else. I'll cover it all.
I wonder what happened to that Jamaican lady I met in Philly last summer. I guess she's blaming me for this. Well, there's blame aplenty to be assigned. If my support of Bernie Sanders brought Donald Trump to office, then burn me at the stake. You've got to stand for something in this world.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
At Dusk We Ride
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are emerging from a long period of mental lassitude and thwarted ambitions. These are desperate times, and no one can afford to sit around in an easy chair mindlessly clicking Like on Facebook.
To arms, Pagans! Time to kick some butt.
After no visits from bored deities for over a year, I've got a whole house full today. There's Bellona, Athena, Freya, and The Morrigan. Macha is scrubbing the sofa cushions furiously, and Sedna is shaking her fist at the sky. Spider Woman is making us war bonnets.
At dusk we ride.
The patriarchy has emerged from the presidential election in its most primitive and brutal form. Supported by no small number of American women, a powerful team of old, lecherous and repressive white men stand poised to determine our future. They will take control of our wallets and our wombs. They will smite the oppressed and reward the affluent.
At dusk we ride to stop them.
The victors in this election cycle are calling for unity and calm. This is not what they would have given us had they emerged the losers. Why should we lie down and take this? Would they? Why should we shrug and say, "What will be, will be?" We have to MAKE what will be. And so we say
NO to repealing a woman's right to choose
NO to the Christian hegemony
NO to the curbs on collective bargaining
NO to racism and discrimination
NO to the acceptance of an unprincipled, unprepared, and undignified man as America's leader, never mind the Free World.
No. We have to fight.
Find the protest in your neighborhood. Take your ID card, water, and fury. Do it now, do it often, and be sure to do it on January 20. Really do it then. The eyes of the world are upon us.
And look at all these bored Goddesses who are with us! They aren't two-faced deities who preach love and promote slavery. They are here to protect us, but we have to follow when They take the lead. Otherwise They will give us up as a lost cause.
As for Anne, aka moi, I'm back, and I'm bad, and I offer no apology. It's all well and good to hug trees and call peace from the Quarters, but the whole world is poised to fry -- and soon -- if we choose a leafy glen and hold hands and breathe deep.
Take a shallow breath for a change. Be anxious, be angry! It's time.
ALL WOMEN PROTEST IN PHILADELPHIA
City Hall
5:00 p.m.
November 10, 2016
At dusk we ride.
To arms, Pagans! Time to kick some butt.
After no visits from bored deities for over a year, I've got a whole house full today. There's Bellona, Athena, Freya, and The Morrigan. Macha is scrubbing the sofa cushions furiously, and Sedna is shaking her fist at the sky. Spider Woman is making us war bonnets.
At dusk we ride.
The patriarchy has emerged from the presidential election in its most primitive and brutal form. Supported by no small number of American women, a powerful team of old, lecherous and repressive white men stand poised to determine our future. They will take control of our wallets and our wombs. They will smite the oppressed and reward the affluent.
At dusk we ride to stop them.
The victors in this election cycle are calling for unity and calm. This is not what they would have given us had they emerged the losers. Why should we lie down and take this? Would they? Why should we shrug and say, "What will be, will be?" We have to MAKE what will be. And so we say
NO to repealing a woman's right to choose
NO to the Christian hegemony
NO to the curbs on collective bargaining
NO to racism and discrimination
NO to the acceptance of an unprincipled, unprepared, and undignified man as America's leader, never mind the Free World.
No. We have to fight.
Find the protest in your neighborhood. Take your ID card, water, and fury. Do it now, do it often, and be sure to do it on January 20. Really do it then. The eyes of the world are upon us.
And look at all these bored Goddesses who are with us! They aren't two-faced deities who preach love and promote slavery. They are here to protect us, but we have to follow when They take the lead. Otherwise They will give us up as a lost cause.
As for Anne, aka moi, I'm back, and I'm bad, and I offer no apology. It's all well and good to hug trees and call peace from the Quarters, but the whole world is poised to fry -- and soon -- if we choose a leafy glen and hold hands and breathe deep.
Take a shallow breath for a change. Be anxious, be angry! It's time.
ALL WOMEN PROTEST IN PHILADELPHIA
City Hall
5:00 p.m.
November 10, 2016
At dusk we ride.
Tuesday, December 01, 2015
Decibel the Parrot, 1986-2015
I thought she would live to be 70 years old. That's what I'd heard that parrots do. When the vet told me she was nearing the end of her lifespan at age 29, I couldn't believe it. I wasn't prepared.
Decibel the parrot died of atherosclerosis on Black Friday. She had had a heart attack two weeks earlier, and I rushed her to the vet. That's how I got the diagnosis. She was given an X-ray that showed fatty buildup in her heart. I got her a prescription of blood thinner, and she was taking it very well twice a day, but it wasn't enough to prolong her existence in the apparent world.
Well, she didn't fly, and she did love her sunflower seeds and snack cakes. Just like a human.
When Decibel was young, my grandfather was alive, and my children weren't born. She came to me as a partly-feathered chick and lived with me all her life. I loved her, but I grew to understand that she was a wild animal forced into an unnatural state of living that was not even remotely close to what she should have had or what she might have been. It's great that she could call for my daughter, say my name, chuckle, cry, sing off key ... but what she couldn't do was soar above the rain forest with her own kind, mate, raise her family, and get all the exercise and proper food her little body required.
Life will be so odd now.
It's not like my whole day revolved around Decibel -- far, far from it -- but she was always in my mind, in my reality, part of the daily routine. She was an antagonist, a source of laughter, an obligation, a friend, a needy child. With all of that removed suddenly, there's quite a void. My mind still expects her to be there. I'm sure it will be that way for awhile.
I buried Decibel the parrot with the poppet Mrs. B made for her, under a young oak tree near the infamous Snobville Pond. There's a bench where I can sit and see her well-hidden resting place (didn't want the resident night critters to dig her up).
I'm still in the close-to-tears phase of mourning. I'm racked with guilt that I didn't spend more time with her ... although I did in these ending years.
I owe an apology to Decibel and to Gaia. Goddess, I was young. I didn't know this "pet" should be a wildling. Forgive me.
Decibel, you did good with what you were given. You did real good, ol' girl. May you have found a Summerland that is 100 percent rain forest, 100 percent of the time.
Decibel the parrot died of atherosclerosis on Black Friday. She had had a heart attack two weeks earlier, and I rushed her to the vet. That's how I got the diagnosis. She was given an X-ray that showed fatty buildup in her heart. I got her a prescription of blood thinner, and she was taking it very well twice a day, but it wasn't enough to prolong her existence in the apparent world.
Well, she didn't fly, and she did love her sunflower seeds and snack cakes. Just like a human.
When Decibel was young, my grandfather was alive, and my children weren't born. She came to me as a partly-feathered chick and lived with me all her life. I loved her, but I grew to understand that she was a wild animal forced into an unnatural state of living that was not even remotely close to what she should have had or what she might have been. It's great that she could call for my daughter, say my name, chuckle, cry, sing off key ... but what she couldn't do was soar above the rain forest with her own kind, mate, raise her family, and get all the exercise and proper food her little body required.
Life will be so odd now.
It's not like my whole day revolved around Decibel -- far, far from it -- but she was always in my mind, in my reality, part of the daily routine. She was an antagonist, a source of laughter, an obligation, a friend, a needy child. With all of that removed suddenly, there's quite a void. My mind still expects her to be there. I'm sure it will be that way for awhile.
I buried Decibel the parrot with the poppet Mrs. B made for her, under a young oak tree near the infamous Snobville Pond. There's a bench where I can sit and see her well-hidden resting place (didn't want the resident night critters to dig her up).
I'm still in the close-to-tears phase of mourning. I'm racked with guilt that I didn't spend more time with her ... although I did in these ending years.
I owe an apology to Decibel and to Gaia. Goddess, I was young. I didn't know this "pet" should be a wildling. Forgive me.
Decibel, you did good with what you were given. You did real good, ol' girl. May you have found a Summerland that is 100 percent rain forest, 100 percent of the time.
Friday, November 06, 2015
Another Goodbye
Welcome to The Gods Are Bored, where we find our mission accomplished! Many bored deities of many pantheons are no longer bored. They have growing praise and worship teams who are seeking to communicate with them genuinely, humbly, and with curiosity. That's all a deity really wants. I should know, I've interviewed dozens of Them.
I've come to an end of the road. I find I have trouble infusing my life -- and this blog -- with the humor that once animated it. But before you bag The Gods Are Bored, pick a year. Any year. I wrote a lot of funny stuff, and it's all still here online. You could literally read me three times a week for five or six years. Some of the political screeds are stale, but the rest of it, the interviews, social commentary, and Pagan child-rearing, hasn't changed. And maybe I'll re-discover my funny bone. There are many reasons that it has disappeared. I'm hopeful it will return in the fullness of time.
Yesterday I got up at 4:00 a.m. to go to the beach for one of my favorite pastimes, collecting sea glass. When I got to the beaches on Absecon Inlet, they were covered with bulldozers and chain link fences. Somehow, economically depressed Atlantic City has found money to construct a sea wall straight down the inlet, so that the five sea glass beaches will disappear. Two of them were already off limits.
I watched the sun rise over one of the smaller beaches that has yet to be bulldozed. It was so peaceful and beautiful. The tide was going out, and the waves lapped gently on the shore.
This realm of King Triton and Queen Oshun will be altered because storms like Hurricane Sandy impinge upon the high-end real estate in the area. The sea wall is being constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers, those humans who seek to impose their will on the Goddess, to little avail.
I had bonded with this stretch of beach, pleased that it soothed my aching longing for Appalachia. Now I'm aching for Appalachia and Absecon Inlet. Change, change. Daughters grown, farm sold, beaches bulldozed, aching joints, vultures no longer wintering in the area, dissolution of spiritual bonds. Can't shrug things off like I used to with a la-di-dah.
Yesterday was my swan song at the sea glass beach. The God and Goddess took pity on me and gave me a parting gift that will forever be special in my heart. Where do I go now?
There's one more post I'll put up. Yet another agent has showered my novel, Gray Magic, with indifference. Therefore, my next post will be the PDF of Gray Magic. It's yours, free, to shower with your own indifference. It's not perfect. It needs the editorial hand it never got,because it didn't ever get that far into the process. Still I think it's a good story, with a real ending.
Here's my gift from King Triton and Queen Oshun. It's my fourth and final beach marble. All glory, laud, and honor to the Deities of the Deep!
Blessed be,
Anne Johnson
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
I've come to an end of the road. I find I have trouble infusing my life -- and this blog -- with the humor that once animated it. But before you bag The Gods Are Bored, pick a year. Any year. I wrote a lot of funny stuff, and it's all still here online. You could literally read me three times a week for five or six years. Some of the political screeds are stale, but the rest of it, the interviews, social commentary, and Pagan child-rearing, hasn't changed. And maybe I'll re-discover my funny bone. There are many reasons that it has disappeared. I'm hopeful it will return in the fullness of time.
Yesterday I got up at 4:00 a.m. to go to the beach for one of my favorite pastimes, collecting sea glass. When I got to the beaches on Absecon Inlet, they were covered with bulldozers and chain link fences. Somehow, economically depressed Atlantic City has found money to construct a sea wall straight down the inlet, so that the five sea glass beaches will disappear. Two of them were already off limits.
I watched the sun rise over one of the smaller beaches that has yet to be bulldozed. It was so peaceful and beautiful. The tide was going out, and the waves lapped gently on the shore.
This realm of King Triton and Queen Oshun will be altered because storms like Hurricane Sandy impinge upon the high-end real estate in the area. The sea wall is being constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers, those humans who seek to impose their will on the Goddess, to little avail.
I had bonded with this stretch of beach, pleased that it soothed my aching longing for Appalachia. Now I'm aching for Appalachia and Absecon Inlet. Change, change. Daughters grown, farm sold, beaches bulldozed, aching joints, vultures no longer wintering in the area, dissolution of spiritual bonds. Can't shrug things off like I used to with a la-di-dah.
Yesterday was my swan song at the sea glass beach. The God and Goddess took pity on me and gave me a parting gift that will forever be special in my heart. Where do I go now?
There's one more post I'll put up. Yet another agent has showered my novel, Gray Magic, with indifference. Therefore, my next post will be the PDF of Gray Magic. It's yours, free, to shower with your own indifference. It's not perfect. It needs the editorial hand it never got,because it didn't ever get that far into the process. Still I think it's a good story, with a real ending.
Here's my gift from King Triton and Queen Oshun. It's my fourth and final beach marble. All glory, laud, and honor to the Deities of the Deep!
Blessed be,
Anne Johnson
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
Monday, September 28, 2015
Pope Party
Well well! His holiness Pope Francis has left Philadelphia! His plane flew right over Chateau Johnson on the way out of town. And that's as close as I got to him, thank you very much.
However, his presence blessed my little corner of the world in a wonderful way.
About 18 months ago, a gay couple bought a big house across the street. The house had been lived in by a family, probably since the 1960s or even longer ... so it had fallen to a sort of shabby disrepair, outside and in.
Boy, did that house get a makeover! Fresh exterior paint, a fish pond, chain-link fencing torn down, tasteful exterior lighting, and a whole, new, lavish interior as well. That aside, these new neighbors (and their cute kids and their big, happy, black dog) are just a joy to be around. It's always a pure pleasure when a nice family moves into your everyday sphere of existence.
So the pope came to Philadelphia, and the whole city closed down to keep him safe. This disruption in routine reached into Snobville, since we're not very far from the city. It occurred to me that our little block should have a party, since probably everyone would be home. (Turned out they were.) The only trouble with parties is that you have to plan them. Which this Pagan did not want to do.
On Saturday I had just settled into the easy chair to grade papers when there came a knock upon my door. It was the gay neighbors. "Oh! You're here!" they exclaimed. "We're having a party! Come on over!"
So I went.
Reader, those fellows had their back yard looking like Party with a capital P. There were yellow and white balloons in clusters, a life-size cutout of the pope, pope "masks," pope candles, and a big banner that said "MEETING OF THE FAMILIES."
They had a DJ. They had a bbq rib contest, and I got to be a judge! Mr. J came over after awhile, and he had a good time too. When it got dark, they lit the pope candles, and the DJ turned on a portable disco ball. All the neighborhood tots went swimming in the pool (yes, they even have a pool) and then entertained us by dancing and lip-syncing. The adults got gently plastered (self and Mr. J and hosts excepted). The music lasted long into the night.
This was the pope party I wanted to throw, except I didn't have to lift a finger. Gosh, I didn't know about it until it was too late even to cook a church lady casserole! Not that I would have needed to -- the place was chock-a-block with delicious food and icy cold beverages.
The funny thing about organized religion is that it does have a spillover effect. Because we Snobvillains were stuck in our neighborhood, as opposed to running all over the place, we got together as families and enjoyed each other's company. So I would have to thank Pope Francis and the World Meeting of Families for a genuine trickle-down experience.
Regarding the pope's message to Americans, wow, was this Druid pleasantly surprised! Save the planet, cooperate as lawmakers, end the death penalty, families are great, kiss babies ... could have been worse, much worse.
And since I used to be all about humor, I leave you with this very short and completely hilarious article from The Onion about Papa Frankie's experience in Philadelphia. He sure got it right.
However, his presence blessed my little corner of the world in a wonderful way.
About 18 months ago, a gay couple bought a big house across the street. The house had been lived in by a family, probably since the 1960s or even longer ... so it had fallen to a sort of shabby disrepair, outside and in.
Boy, did that house get a makeover! Fresh exterior paint, a fish pond, chain-link fencing torn down, tasteful exterior lighting, and a whole, new, lavish interior as well. That aside, these new neighbors (and their cute kids and their big, happy, black dog) are just a joy to be around. It's always a pure pleasure when a nice family moves into your everyday sphere of existence.
So the pope came to Philadelphia, and the whole city closed down to keep him safe. This disruption in routine reached into Snobville, since we're not very far from the city. It occurred to me that our little block should have a party, since probably everyone would be home. (Turned out they were.) The only trouble with parties is that you have to plan them. Which this Pagan did not want to do.
On Saturday I had just settled into the easy chair to grade papers when there came a knock upon my door. It was the gay neighbors. "Oh! You're here!" they exclaimed. "We're having a party! Come on over!"
So I went.
Reader, those fellows had their back yard looking like Party with a capital P. There were yellow and white balloons in clusters, a life-size cutout of the pope, pope "masks," pope candles, and a big banner that said "MEETING OF THE FAMILIES."
They had a DJ. They had a bbq rib contest, and I got to be a judge! Mr. J came over after awhile, and he had a good time too. When it got dark, they lit the pope candles, and the DJ turned on a portable disco ball. All the neighborhood tots went swimming in the pool (yes, they even have a pool) and then entertained us by dancing and lip-syncing. The adults got gently plastered (self and Mr. J and hosts excepted). The music lasted long into the night.
This was the pope party I wanted to throw, except I didn't have to lift a finger. Gosh, I didn't know about it until it was too late even to cook a church lady casserole! Not that I would have needed to -- the place was chock-a-block with delicious food and icy cold beverages.
The funny thing about organized religion is that it does have a spillover effect. Because we Snobvillains were stuck in our neighborhood, as opposed to running all over the place, we got together as families and enjoyed each other's company. So I would have to thank Pope Francis and the World Meeting of Families for a genuine trickle-down experience.
Regarding the pope's message to Americans, wow, was this Druid pleasantly surprised! Save the planet, cooperate as lawmakers, end the death penalty, families are great, kiss babies ... could have been worse, much worse.
And since I used to be all about humor, I leave you with this very short and completely hilarious article from The Onion about Papa Frankie's experience in Philadelphia. He sure got it right.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Alban Elfed 2015
Someone asked me, "Under what circumstances would you go to see the pope?"
I said, "Not while there's one tree that needs a hug."
A blessed Alban Elfed to you all! Not long ago we had a wonderful Pagan Pride Day in Philadelphia. How very different from the circus that will come to town with Pope Francis! Here is our altar for the Main Ritual:
Beautiful, huh? Everyone in the circle got to Hail their deity of choice. No one even flinched when I said VULTURE. Pagans understand these things.
This is actually the hardest holy day for me. I don't like to bid farewell to the Sun, the bright Sun, that kisses our fields and brings the fruits of the harvest. It's not a good-bye, though, it's a "see you later." The Southern Hemisphere needs to have summer too.
Therefore, on behalf of all the (not so very) bored deities out there, I wish you and all those you love a bountiful and happy Alban Elfed. May Vulture love you, and keep you, and make His wings to fly above you.
Blessed be!
I said, "Not while there's one tree that needs a hug."
A blessed Alban Elfed to you all! Not long ago we had a wonderful Pagan Pride Day in Philadelphia. How very different from the circus that will come to town with Pope Francis! Here is our altar for the Main Ritual:
Beautiful, huh? Everyone in the circle got to Hail their deity of choice. No one even flinched when I said VULTURE. Pagans understand these things.
This is actually the hardest holy day for me. I don't like to bid farewell to the Sun, the bright Sun, that kisses our fields and brings the fruits of the harvest. It's not a good-bye, though, it's a "see you later." The Southern Hemisphere needs to have summer too.
Therefore, on behalf of all the (not so very) bored deities out there, I wish you and all those you love a bountiful and happy Alban Elfed. May Vulture love you, and keep you, and make His wings to fly above you.
Blessed be!
Monday, September 07, 2015
Labor Day Laundry List
Hello and welcome to The Gods Are Bored, Labor Day 2015!
No one's just joining me now, so you all know how I feel about organized labor.
I can't say one more word on this topic without weeping. Unions have been all but busted. Our only hope is a candidate like Bernie Sanders. Slim hope indeed.
So ... will catch you up on the doings!
Item: I now have 8 chapters of my novel, Million Dollar View. And it appears that yet another agent has tossed the manuscript of Gray Magic into the dustbin. On November 1, 2015, I will put Gray Magic on here for free download. Just because various agents haven't liked it doesn't mean you won't. I'm not going to see all my wonderful characters, who walked with me through a large part of my life, just sit on the shelf like unwanted teddy bears. As for Million Dollar View, I've decided it needs more than the sleigh ride I'd been giving it. I can make it shine, it will just take a little longer than planned.
Item: On Saturday I facilitated my very first drum circle! Yes, I volunteered to do a drum circle at Philadelphia Pagan Pride Day, and by golly, they signed me up, and we had a nice group of seven people ... including two who could drum way better than me! (That was what I was hoping would happen.)
That's me in my mountain hat, far right on orange chair. Thanks for the photo, Cliff!
Item: I met The Heir's boyfriend. He's adorable. I'm happy for her! He had many questions for me about Paganism, since he grew up in a strict Christian household.
Item: Mr. J and I made four excursions to Gunnison Beach this summer. It is a clothing optional beach. It's a long drive, especially in traffic, but the payoff is swell.
Item: School started this past week. I have more than 60 students in three classes (block schedule), all freshmen. We are in the midst of a heat wave here in Philadelphia. My classroom was moved from an air-conditioned room to an older room. It was fully 90 degrees in the room every day last week. I cannot project sound from my computer so that anyone can hear it, even with the fans off. Anyone in the market for a challenging profession?
Item: There is a brand new Extra Chair. This one is male. He will be starting his sophomore year at the local parochial school. If he likes us, and we like him, this is three years of guaranteed monthly income. Withholding judgment on this right now.
Item: Spare is a Resident Assistant in a posh dorm! I trash picked a beautiful love seat for her apartment. She's still working on her web series ... a task more challenging than teaching in an urban school.
That's the news! Thanks for dropping by. Be sure to look here November 1 for Gray Magic, free to many good homes.
No one's just joining me now, so you all know how I feel about organized labor.
I can't say one more word on this topic without weeping. Unions have been all but busted. Our only hope is a candidate like Bernie Sanders. Slim hope indeed.
So ... will catch you up on the doings!
Item: I now have 8 chapters of my novel, Million Dollar View. And it appears that yet another agent has tossed the manuscript of Gray Magic into the dustbin. On November 1, 2015, I will put Gray Magic on here for free download. Just because various agents haven't liked it doesn't mean you won't. I'm not going to see all my wonderful characters, who walked with me through a large part of my life, just sit on the shelf like unwanted teddy bears. As for Million Dollar View, I've decided it needs more than the sleigh ride I'd been giving it. I can make it shine, it will just take a little longer than planned.
Item: On Saturday I facilitated my very first drum circle! Yes, I volunteered to do a drum circle at Philadelphia Pagan Pride Day, and by golly, they signed me up, and we had a nice group of seven people ... including two who could drum way better than me! (That was what I was hoping would happen.)
That's me in my mountain hat, far right on orange chair. Thanks for the photo, Cliff!
Item: I met The Heir's boyfriend. He's adorable. I'm happy for her! He had many questions for me about Paganism, since he grew up in a strict Christian household.
Item: Mr. J and I made four excursions to Gunnison Beach this summer. It is a clothing optional beach. It's a long drive, especially in traffic, but the payoff is swell.
Item: School started this past week. I have more than 60 students in three classes (block schedule), all freshmen. We are in the midst of a heat wave here in Philadelphia. My classroom was moved from an air-conditioned room to an older room. It was fully 90 degrees in the room every day last week. I cannot project sound from my computer so that anyone can hear it, even with the fans off. Anyone in the market for a challenging profession?
Item: There is a brand new Extra Chair. This one is male. He will be starting his sophomore year at the local parochial school. If he likes us, and we like him, this is three years of guaranteed monthly income. Withholding judgment on this right now.
Item: Spare is a Resident Assistant in a posh dorm! I trash picked a beautiful love seat for her apartment. She's still working on her web series ... a task more challenging than teaching in an urban school.
That's the news! Thanks for dropping by. Be sure to look here November 1 for Gray Magic, free to many good homes.
Thursday, September 03, 2015
Pope Bait and Switch
Hello and welcome to The Gods Are Bored! If you happen to be in the Philadelphia area on Saturday, come share a drum circle with me at 3:00 in Clark Park! Yes, and if you can really drum, I sure could use your help!
My last sermon concerned a scheduled visit from His Holiness, Pope Francis, to Philadelphia. The pope will be here from Friday evening until Sunday evening. And basically the city is grinding to a halt to cater to him.
EXHIBIT A: POPE PIZZA BOX FROM VENTNOR, NJ ... YES, THEY CATER!
Crowd estimates have been hard to come by. Some are as high as two million. Some favor 60,000. Well, that's a big difference, right?
I guess reality has caught up with Philadelphia -- and the pope. Today, out of the blue, the Archdiocese of Philadelphia (had to look up how to spell it) announced that people would need tickets to get close to the pope. Independence Hall, where His Holiness will deliver some sort of speech, is releasing 5,000 tickets at 9:00 Friday morning, online only.
So much for democracy.
What the heck happened? This was a chance for anybody to see the pope! All you had to do was rent a hotel room, or someone's house, and stroll out on the day of the event, and there he would be!
Um, nope.
Nobody asked me, a practical Pagan, to make suggestions about the pope's visit. I'm not sure why they didn't come to me for advice, because, after all, I spent a memorable 12 hours with Isaac Bonewits and Skip Ellison a few years back, so I know all about communing with holy leaders of religious affiliations. My suggestion would have been to announce tickets way ahead of time. Knowing the basic size of the crowd might have saved a lot of people from being put out for a whole weekend.
This afternoon I heard on the radio that many of the booked-up hotels have been seeing a tidal wave of cancellations. I imagine the same might be happening to the good citizens of Philly who put their residences up for rent (at widely varying prices). Nothing could possibly soften the blow of learning that your prospective renters -- who were going to give you $8000 for your efficiency on Walnut Street just so they could see the pope -- have decided to go to Tahiti instead.
This was a bait and switch, pure and simple. People are finding out now that their chances of celebrating Mass with Pope Francis are slim to none. Meanwhile, there's been no talk of scaling back the mammoth road closures planned for the Delaware Valley on Pope Weekend.
I would hate to be a Roman Catholic today. I really suck at being the first in line online, so it would be really, really frustrating for me to think that a man I revere could be six miles away ... without me being able to see him.
If for no other reason than this, being a Pagan is wonderful. If you admire a particular leader in any of our many Paths, chances are you can rub elbows with that person as soon as you want, for as long as you want. Size matters.
My last sermon concerned a scheduled visit from His Holiness, Pope Francis, to Philadelphia. The pope will be here from Friday evening until Sunday evening. And basically the city is grinding to a halt to cater to him.
EXHIBIT A: POPE PIZZA BOX FROM VENTNOR, NJ ... YES, THEY CATER!
Crowd estimates have been hard to come by. Some are as high as two million. Some favor 60,000. Well, that's a big difference, right?
I guess reality has caught up with Philadelphia -- and the pope. Today, out of the blue, the Archdiocese of Philadelphia (had to look up how to spell it) announced that people would need tickets to get close to the pope. Independence Hall, where His Holiness will deliver some sort of speech, is releasing 5,000 tickets at 9:00 Friday morning, online only.
So much for democracy.
What the heck happened? This was a chance for anybody to see the pope! All you had to do was rent a hotel room, or someone's house, and stroll out on the day of the event, and there he would be!
Um, nope.
Nobody asked me, a practical Pagan, to make suggestions about the pope's visit. I'm not sure why they didn't come to me for advice, because, after all, I spent a memorable 12 hours with Isaac Bonewits and Skip Ellison a few years back, so I know all about communing with holy leaders of religious affiliations. My suggestion would have been to announce tickets way ahead of time. Knowing the basic size of the crowd might have saved a lot of people from being put out for a whole weekend.
This afternoon I heard on the radio that many of the booked-up hotels have been seeing a tidal wave of cancellations. I imagine the same might be happening to the good citizens of Philly who put their residences up for rent (at widely varying prices). Nothing could possibly soften the blow of learning that your prospective renters -- who were going to give you $8000 for your efficiency on Walnut Street just so they could see the pope -- have decided to go to Tahiti instead.
This was a bait and switch, pure and simple. People are finding out now that their chances of celebrating Mass with Pope Francis are slim to none. Meanwhile, there's been no talk of scaling back the mammoth road closures planned for the Delaware Valley on Pope Weekend.
I would hate to be a Roman Catholic today. I really suck at being the first in line online, so it would be really, really frustrating for me to think that a man I revere could be six miles away ... without me being able to see him.
If for no other reason than this, being a Pagan is wonderful. If you admire a particular leader in any of our many Paths, chances are you can rub elbows with that person as soon as you want, for as long as you want. Size matters.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Pope Francis Is a Blizzard
Hello, and welcome to The Gods Are Bored! Guess what? We are going to have an unprecedented event in the Philadelphia region. We're going to have a crippling blizzard -- like, the blizzard of the century -- the last weekend in September!
I know, I know, that sounds weird. But I'm not kidding you.
What do we know about blizzards?
*They shut down highways.
*They close schools.
*They make travel hazardous, if not impossible.
*They cause disruptions in health care and public safety.
*They make people run out to the store ahead of time for bread, eggs, and milk.
All of that is going to happen in Philadelphia during the final weekend in September.
Pope Francis, he of the "everyman" and "feed the poor" ilk, is coming to the City of Brotherly Love for a fluffy thing called World Meeting of Families. We in the Delaware Valley have already been told that Pope Francis will not be including gay people in his definition of marriage and family. That's to be expected.
What's also to be expected is total chaos in Philly. (I wonder if anyone will be able to tell? It's always partially chaotic in Philly.)
This lunatic pope is going to Independence Hall on Saturday and is giving an open-air Mass at 4:00 Sunday afternoon. Anyone -- I mean anyone -- who wants to go see him is warmly invited to do so.
Not that it will be easy in blizzard conditions.
Let's go back over those blizzard prerequisites:
*Shutting down highways -- Every major highway except Interstate 95 will be closed while the pope is in Philadelphia. All highways coming in from the east. All highways going out to the west. Both major bridges into Philadelphia will be closed. (The Ben Franklin Bridge will be open to foot traffic, but everyone has to go through scanners, like airport security.)
*The pope must be guarded by the FBI, local and state police, the sheriff's department, and Homeland Security. They are already at work on plans to erect a fence around a huge swath of Center City Philadelphia -- including Spare's college.
*My school will be closing at noon on Friday and not opening up again until Tuesday. This is because all major thoroughfares in Camden will be closed to traffic.
*Spare's school in Center City will be closed from Wednesday until the following Tuesday. All students are being strongly urged to go home, if possible.
If it disrupts traffic and requires extra police, and closes the schools, it's a blizzard.
Maybe that's why he wears white.
I had the utter bad fortune to have to spend the day with a devout Roman Catholic colleague. She proudly said that this pope will seek out the poorest neighborhoods in the region to visit. He has a lot of ground to cover, if that's the case. But what I think (and I didn't share this with my colleague) is that this blizzard visit is a colossal case of hubris. This pope is asking for a terrorist attack, he's asking for crowds to crush each other in an effort to get to him, and he's basically giving criminals of all stripes a wonderful chance to rob, pilfer, and scam.
La di dah! This will be a funny adventure for those of us at The Gods Are Bored! We'll lay in our stores of milk and bread. We have plenty of firewood and space for Heir and Spare. Gonna hunker down and ride out this storm, praising and worshiping the Bored Gods!
Stay tuned.
I know, I know, that sounds weird. But I'm not kidding you.
What do we know about blizzards?
*They shut down highways.
*They close schools.
*They make travel hazardous, if not impossible.
*They cause disruptions in health care and public safety.
*They make people run out to the store ahead of time for bread, eggs, and milk.
All of that is going to happen in Philadelphia during the final weekend in September.
Pope Francis, he of the "everyman" and "feed the poor" ilk, is coming to the City of Brotherly Love for a fluffy thing called World Meeting of Families. We in the Delaware Valley have already been told that Pope Francis will not be including gay people in his definition of marriage and family. That's to be expected.
What's also to be expected is total chaos in Philly. (I wonder if anyone will be able to tell? It's always partially chaotic in Philly.)
This lunatic pope is going to Independence Hall on Saturday and is giving an open-air Mass at 4:00 Sunday afternoon. Anyone -- I mean anyone -- who wants to go see him is warmly invited to do so.
Not that it will be easy in blizzard conditions.
Let's go back over those blizzard prerequisites:
*Shutting down highways -- Every major highway except Interstate 95 will be closed while the pope is in Philadelphia. All highways coming in from the east. All highways going out to the west. Both major bridges into Philadelphia will be closed. (The Ben Franklin Bridge will be open to foot traffic, but everyone has to go through scanners, like airport security.)
*The pope must be guarded by the FBI, local and state police, the sheriff's department, and Homeland Security. They are already at work on plans to erect a fence around a huge swath of Center City Philadelphia -- including Spare's college.
*My school will be closing at noon on Friday and not opening up again until Tuesday. This is because all major thoroughfares in Camden will be closed to traffic.
*Spare's school in Center City will be closed from Wednesday until the following Tuesday. All students are being strongly urged to go home, if possible.
If it disrupts traffic and requires extra police, and closes the schools, it's a blizzard.
Maybe that's why he wears white.
I had the utter bad fortune to have to spend the day with a devout Roman Catholic colleague. She proudly said that this pope will seek out the poorest neighborhoods in the region to visit. He has a lot of ground to cover, if that's the case. But what I think (and I didn't share this with my colleague) is that this blizzard visit is a colossal case of hubris. This pope is asking for a terrorist attack, he's asking for crowds to crush each other in an effort to get to him, and he's basically giving criminals of all stripes a wonderful chance to rob, pilfer, and scam.
La di dah! This will be a funny adventure for those of us at The Gods Are Bored! We'll lay in our stores of milk and bread. We have plenty of firewood and space for Heir and Spare. Gonna hunker down and ride out this storm, praising and worshiping the Bored Gods!
Stay tuned.
Friday, August 07, 2015
My New Job as a Video Production Assistant
Well, I'm not PAID or anything, but ...
My two readers will recall that my daughter The Spare has decided to do a comedy web series called Speed. She is trying to get a 24-minute pilot episode done so she can shop the concept.
Folks, I've always been impressed with my daughter, but you should see her now.
I've helped her the last two weeks, because inevitably someone (or everyone) in her crew can't make it to the shoot. So I have seen her set up expensive cameras and lights, microphones and test shots. I've seen her direct actors and then jump in to play her own role.
She is working her shapely little butt off for this project. To those of you who donated, your ducats did not fall into an abyss.
At least I hope not.
You see, it's not a solo show. There are eight cast members, none of them being paid. Cross your fingers that everyone hits the mark until Spare can call it a wrap and start editing. It's been dicey so far.
So, you may ask, what is my role in this ambitious project? I'm glad you asked!
*I carry heavy stuff.
*I decorate sets.
*I get water from the Rite Aid when the actors are thirsty.
*I take care of wardrobe malfunctions (a reach for me).
*I run errands.
But wait! There's more! Spare has also enlisted the help of Heir! Yes, Heir has a role in the show, and when she's not acting in it, she helps out too. That's how these things get done, after all. It's a family effort!
The moral of this sermon is, I haven't raised a pair of slackers who spend the day watching other people's YouTubes. I'm right proud of that.
My two readers will recall that my daughter The Spare has decided to do a comedy web series called Speed. She is trying to get a 24-minute pilot episode done so she can shop the concept.
Folks, I've always been impressed with my daughter, but you should see her now.
I've helped her the last two weeks, because inevitably someone (or everyone) in her crew can't make it to the shoot. So I have seen her set up expensive cameras and lights, microphones and test shots. I've seen her direct actors and then jump in to play her own role.
She is working her shapely little butt off for this project. To those of you who donated, your ducats did not fall into an abyss.
At least I hope not.
You see, it's not a solo show. There are eight cast members, none of them being paid. Cross your fingers that everyone hits the mark until Spare can call it a wrap and start editing. It's been dicey so far.
So, you may ask, what is my role in this ambitious project? I'm glad you asked!
*I carry heavy stuff.
*I decorate sets.
*I get water from the Rite Aid when the actors are thirsty.
*I take care of wardrobe malfunctions (a reach for me).
*I run errands.
But wait! There's more! Spare has also enlisted the help of Heir! Yes, Heir has a role in the show, and when she's not acting in it, she helps out too. That's how these things get done, after all. It's a family effort!
The moral of this sermon is, I haven't raised a pair of slackers who spend the day watching other people's YouTubes. I'm right proud of that.
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Frank Talk on Shopping for Folding Chairs
This is "The Gods Are Bored," and this is a public service announcement:
If you go to a nude beach, don't sit on someone else's chair.
Free advice! I'll pay you dearly to take it.
Two weeks ago, at the nude beach, a very vile human unfolded my beach chair and deposited his man-parts on it without asking or even looking around to see who might own the chair.
After that I wouldn't take the thing home, partly because it was gross, and partly because the particular person who used it is particularly loathsome. (In a fair and stable world, I would have taken it home and scrubbed it. But not after THAT guy.)
Anyway, the loss of a perfectly good folding chair led me on a quest to find a new one. Have you done this sort of shopping lately, reader? I couldn't believe my eyes.
EXHIBIT A: SIMPLE BEACH CHAIR
I know you won't believe me (and maybe it's still season), but the item above costs $40, no matter where you shop. I wouldn't stoop to Wal-Mart, but all the other stores were pretty consistent in their pricing. Since the chair I was trying to replace had been given to me, I hated like Hell to think of spending $40.
So I went to the camping store.
EXHIBIT B: RIDICULOUS FANCY CHAIR
This is what passes for a camping chair these days. Lord love a fruit fly! A cup holder? Are you kidding me? And some of them have little zipper pouches to put your valuables in. Very handy! The thief will know where to look first! If the simple beach chairs were expensive, these were even more so. And they're kind of heavy. At least to my spindly arms.
You know what I've discovered in the prime of life? (Wait for it -- more free advice!)
The best place to look for affordable, traditional merchandise is a mom-and-pop hardware store.
Thank goodness there's still one of those near me! Home Depot has just about decimated the species.
So I went to the mom-and-pop hardware store, and lo and behold:
EXHIBIT C: WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED
This is exactly what I wanted! A good, old-fashioned mesh folding chair. Not so great for the environment, but neither are the other ones. And this unit set me back ... yep ... twenty bucks! I can lift it, and in my experience these puppies last a good long while if you don't leave them out in the weather during the winter.
All that remains for me to do at this point is to make a sweet little sign that says:
ATTENTION
DO NOT SIT ON THIS CHAIR
UNLESS YOUR NAME IS ANNE JOHNSON
At least this narrows it down some.
If you go to a nude beach, don't sit on someone else's chair.
Free advice! I'll pay you dearly to take it.
Two weeks ago, at the nude beach, a very vile human unfolded my beach chair and deposited his man-parts on it without asking or even looking around to see who might own the chair.
After that I wouldn't take the thing home, partly because it was gross, and partly because the particular person who used it is particularly loathsome. (In a fair and stable world, I would have taken it home and scrubbed it. But not after THAT guy.)
Anyway, the loss of a perfectly good folding chair led me on a quest to find a new one. Have you done this sort of shopping lately, reader? I couldn't believe my eyes.
EXHIBIT A: SIMPLE BEACH CHAIR
So I went to the camping store.
EXHIBIT B: RIDICULOUS FANCY CHAIR
This is what passes for a camping chair these days. Lord love a fruit fly! A cup holder? Are you kidding me? And some of them have little zipper pouches to put your valuables in. Very handy! The thief will know where to look first! If the simple beach chairs were expensive, these were even more so. And they're kind of heavy. At least to my spindly arms.
You know what I've discovered in the prime of life? (Wait for it -- more free advice!)
The best place to look for affordable, traditional merchandise is a mom-and-pop hardware store.
Thank goodness there's still one of those near me! Home Depot has just about decimated the species.
So I went to the mom-and-pop hardware store, and lo and behold:
EXHIBIT C: WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED
This is exactly what I wanted! A good, old-fashioned mesh folding chair. Not so great for the environment, but neither are the other ones. And this unit set me back ... yep ... twenty bucks! I can lift it, and in my experience these puppies last a good long while if you don't leave them out in the weather during the winter.
All that remains for me to do at this point is to make a sweet little sign that says:
ATTENTION
DO NOT SIT ON THIS CHAIR
UNLESS YOUR NAME IS ANNE JOHNSON
At least this narrows it down some.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Lughnasadh 2015
Hello, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's me, Anne Johnson, Pagan since 2005, and that doesn't include the years spent in the closet!
This is the time of early harvest. Gardens are full of ripening fruit, the corn is sweet and tender, and the wheat has been scythed and stacked. The cat is asleep in a paper bag, and ...
Oh. Delete that last part! Cats sleep in paper bags at all times of the year!
I'm solitary this year, missing the group I was with last year, but unable to coordinate anything. But I do have a prayer and petition to the bored Gods on this Lughnasadh Day.
Dear bored Gods: Is my old-in-the-tooth fruit finally ready for harvest?
Last week, an agent in New York City asked to see my finished novel, Gray Magic. (I'm working on a new, and very different, novel right now.) Gray Magic has languished for a decade on my shelf, having made it into PDF but no further. Famously, Mr. J took it to St. Martin's Press, where not one but two editors deemed it a superior wrapping for dead fish, should it be in paper form. But I've never lost faith in Gray Magic. I've read all 4,000 or whatever pages of Game of Thrones, and I think my book, at a slender 450 pages, is better.
If this agent turns Gray Magic down, I will post the PDF here on The Gods Are Bored, and you can read it for free, or just send me a donation. That is my Lughnasadh pledge. I'm tired of people telling me this book I worked on for 15 years and four drafts is a sad waste of good words. I'm not buying it anymore. It's a good story.
Time to harvest what I planted, don't you think? Nothing should die on the vine.
This is the time of early harvest. Gardens are full of ripening fruit, the corn is sweet and tender, and the wheat has been scythed and stacked. The cat is asleep in a paper bag, and ...
Oh. Delete that last part! Cats sleep in paper bags at all times of the year!
I'm solitary this year, missing the group I was with last year, but unable to coordinate anything. But I do have a prayer and petition to the bored Gods on this Lughnasadh Day.
Dear bored Gods: Is my old-in-the-tooth fruit finally ready for harvest?
Last week, an agent in New York City asked to see my finished novel, Gray Magic. (I'm working on a new, and very different, novel right now.) Gray Magic has languished for a decade on my shelf, having made it into PDF but no further. Famously, Mr. J took it to St. Martin's Press, where not one but two editors deemed it a superior wrapping for dead fish, should it be in paper form. But I've never lost faith in Gray Magic. I've read all 4,000 or whatever pages of Game of Thrones, and I think my book, at a slender 450 pages, is better.
If this agent turns Gray Magic down, I will post the PDF here on The Gods Are Bored, and you can read it for free, or just send me a donation. That is my Lughnasadh pledge. I'm tired of people telling me this book I worked on for 15 years and four drafts is a sad waste of good words. I'm not buying it anymore. It's a good story.
Time to harvest what I planted, don't you think? Nothing should die on the vine.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
I'm Back with a Weird Tale about Another Encounter with the Menace Named Michael Divine
Well! It's been awhile! How are you? I'm okay, I guess. You know what would make me feel better? A little laughter, Gods Are Bored style.
Over the weekend, Mr. J and I made our first trip to Gunnison Beach. A picture paints a thousand words:
Yes, Gunnison Beach is New Jersey's only lifeguard-staffed, clothing optional beach. As for the option, the vast, vast majority of people there opt to doff the threads.
I loved the place. Great vibe, good-looking people, beautiful view of Manhattan across the water, happy party atmosphere. I wish it was closer! Anyway, on with the story:
Mr. J and I went to Gunnison Beach because some people I'd met at Four Quarters Farm were going to be there. It was sort of a Pagan/polyamory/bi meetup that was advertised as having a little drumming too. Finally, a reason to make the 2-hour commute and the grueling trudge to the nudie beach! I even brought my hand drum.
We found the folks at the meetup, and after some swimming, and people-watching, and sun tanning, we just chilled and chatted with the Four Quarters folks. Much of our talk was about Four Quarters Farm itself and all the fun we had there.
All of a sudden I looked around, and ... what are the odds? ... I saw the same jerk who was rude to the Spare at the Fairie Festival! Yes, there he stood in his birthday suit, wearing a little hat with a feather in it.
Back story: This person is a show-off drummer. At a drum circle, he asked Spare if he could see the drum she was using, then took it to another part of the circle and dumped it. He didn't want to use it, you see ... he just didn't want her to use it. At least that's how it came off at the time. Who asks for a drum and then doesn't even bang on it? Then, to make matters worse, when we called him on it, he exploded at Spare and shouted in her face. Suffice it to say we found the man unpleasant.
And just about the last person on Earth who I would want to bond with on a nude beach. So I did my best to ignore him. (For one thing, I knew my drum would never leave its travel pouch.)
Thank goodness he didn't sit down in our group! But alas. He did sit down.
How's this for bad form? This guy ... same one who outdid himself at Spoutwood ... saw my folded-up beach chair in the sand. He picked it up, unfolded it, and sat his naked butt down on it without asking anyone! Who does this at a nude beach? Would you sit in a stranger's chair at a nude beach? Without even inquiring who it might belong to?
So he sat on my folding chair for about five minutes, banging his precious drum. Then he got up and walked away.
I liked that chair.
I really liked that chair.
It was a special chair. It was given to me on Ventnor Beach by a Canadian tourist who had bought it for her week-long vacation and didn't want to take it home. It was lightweight and easy to carry. It was also sturdy and a good fit for me.
What are the odds that the same person who threw a dark blanket over the Fairie Festival would rise from the rubble to bedevil me again? Because you know what I'm going to say, right?
No way would I ever sit in that chair again. I'm trying to wipe the very image from my mind!
On my way off the beach for the day, I ruefully paid that nice, lightweight, sturdy chair forward to a group of bathers who needed extra seats. They were grateful for it. I was sorry to see it go.
Today I went out and priced beach chairs. Even though it's mid-season, the doggone things are costly. Oh, by all the bored gods ... I may be faced with the options of sitting on the sand, or shopping at Wal-Mart!
Michael Divine, if you Google your name and find this, please know that I could make concessions for you regarding your behavior in the drum circle. But I can't even imagine how you could show the colossal bad form to use a beach chair -- on a clothing optional beach -- without first asking to do so. Where did you learn your manners, the Planet of the Apes?
And oh, by the way? You're a lousy drummer. A legend in your own mind.
Over the weekend, Mr. J and I made our first trip to Gunnison Beach. A picture paints a thousand words:
Yes, Gunnison Beach is New Jersey's only lifeguard-staffed, clothing optional beach. As for the option, the vast, vast majority of people there opt to doff the threads.
I loved the place. Great vibe, good-looking people, beautiful view of Manhattan across the water, happy party atmosphere. I wish it was closer! Anyway, on with the story:
Mr. J and I went to Gunnison Beach because some people I'd met at Four Quarters Farm were going to be there. It was sort of a Pagan/polyamory/bi meetup that was advertised as having a little drumming too. Finally, a reason to make the 2-hour commute and the grueling trudge to the nudie beach! I even brought my hand drum.
We found the folks at the meetup, and after some swimming, and people-watching, and sun tanning, we just chilled and chatted with the Four Quarters folks. Much of our talk was about Four Quarters Farm itself and all the fun we had there.
All of a sudden I looked around, and ... what are the odds? ... I saw the same jerk who was rude to the Spare at the Fairie Festival! Yes, there he stood in his birthday suit, wearing a little hat with a feather in it.
Back story: This person is a show-off drummer. At a drum circle, he asked Spare if he could see the drum she was using, then took it to another part of the circle and dumped it. He didn't want to use it, you see ... he just didn't want her to use it. At least that's how it came off at the time. Who asks for a drum and then doesn't even bang on it? Then, to make matters worse, when we called him on it, he exploded at Spare and shouted in her face. Suffice it to say we found the man unpleasant.
And just about the last person on Earth who I would want to bond with on a nude beach. So I did my best to ignore him. (For one thing, I knew my drum would never leave its travel pouch.)
Thank goodness he didn't sit down in our group! But alas. He did sit down.
How's this for bad form? This guy ... same one who outdid himself at Spoutwood ... saw my folded-up beach chair in the sand. He picked it up, unfolded it, and sat his naked butt down on it without asking anyone! Who does this at a nude beach? Would you sit in a stranger's chair at a nude beach? Without even inquiring who it might belong to?
So he sat on my folding chair for about five minutes, banging his precious drum. Then he got up and walked away.
I liked that chair.
I really liked that chair.
It was a special chair. It was given to me on Ventnor Beach by a Canadian tourist who had bought it for her week-long vacation and didn't want to take it home. It was lightweight and easy to carry. It was also sturdy and a good fit for me.
What are the odds that the same person who threw a dark blanket over the Fairie Festival would rise from the rubble to bedevil me again? Because you know what I'm going to say, right?
No way would I ever sit in that chair again. I'm trying to wipe the very image from my mind!
On my way off the beach for the day, I ruefully paid that nice, lightweight, sturdy chair forward to a group of bathers who needed extra seats. They were grateful for it. I was sorry to see it go.
Today I went out and priced beach chairs. Even though it's mid-season, the doggone things are costly. Oh, by all the bored gods ... I may be faced with the options of sitting on the sand, or shopping at Wal-Mart!
Michael Divine, if you Google your name and find this, please know that I could make concessions for you regarding your behavior in the drum circle. But I can't even imagine how you could show the colossal bad form to use a beach chair -- on a clothing optional beach -- without first asking to do so. Where did you learn your manners, the Planet of the Apes?
And oh, by the way? You're a lousy drummer. A legend in your own mind.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Why I'm Not Here
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," culture vultures and bad-ass buzzards since 2005! I proudly bear the name Anne Johnson and am grateful for its sublime anonymity.
At one point I was up to five readers, so I'll address you as if that's the number.
I haven't been here at "The Gods Are Bored" lately. There are two reasons:
1. Now that the tots are grown and I've settled into a Path that is written about so much better on other sites, I'm running out of things to say.
2. I'm writing a novel.
Yes, after spending 15 years writing a grand, sweeping, historical fantasy that was widely deemed suitable to line a bird cage, I've started a whole new project. This one's not a grand, sweeping historical fantasy. It's a droll little fluffy thing, aimed more at the heart than the head. In short, it's like "The Gods Are Bored," only fiction.
Here's the good part: When I finish this novel, tentatively titled Million Dollar View, I am going to copyright it and post it online as a free read. Oh, there will be a PayPal button, but I'll ask only a goodwill offering, if you choose to do so.
I expect this little confection to be completed within the calendar year. In the meantime I will still be dropping by TGAB with my usual blend of giddy and fluffy.
Speaking of which, isn't this adorable? I've started a garden of these around my shrine. Yard sales are chock-a-block with bowls and vases. The beauty of this craft idea is twofold: First and foremost, it's easy to do. Second, it's impermanent. If you need the bowls or vases, there they are!
At one point I was up to five readers, so I'll address you as if that's the number.
I haven't been here at "The Gods Are Bored" lately. There are two reasons:
1. Now that the tots are grown and I've settled into a Path that is written about so much better on other sites, I'm running out of things to say.
2. I'm writing a novel.
Yes, after spending 15 years writing a grand, sweeping, historical fantasy that was widely deemed suitable to line a bird cage, I've started a whole new project. This one's not a grand, sweeping historical fantasy. It's a droll little fluffy thing, aimed more at the heart than the head. In short, it's like "The Gods Are Bored," only fiction.
Here's the good part: When I finish this novel, tentatively titled Million Dollar View, I am going to copyright it and post it online as a free read. Oh, there will be a PayPal button, but I'll ask only a goodwill offering, if you choose to do so.
I expect this little confection to be completed within the calendar year. In the meantime I will still be dropping by TGAB with my usual blend of giddy and fluffy.
Speaking of which, isn't this adorable? I've started a garden of these around my shrine. Yard sales are chock-a-block with bowls and vases. The beauty of this craft idea is twofold: First and foremost, it's easy to do. Second, it's impermanent. If you need the bowls or vases, there they are!
Friday, May 08, 2015
Change of Heart
It's funny what's left to learn when you reach your golden years.
I'm not exactly golden yet ... but I'm sure not green.
Last weekend my daughter The Spare and I went to a festival that we attend each year to honor Beltane and the faeries. We look forward to this festival eagerly, all year long. Yes, all through my long and horrible work year I dream of the festival. My work is awful, dreadful, stressful, unappreciated, and unrecognized. The festival is wonderful, awesome, happy, joyous, and otherwise perfect.
Except when it's not.
Spare and I had an unpleasant -- very unpleasant -- experience in a drum circle, featuring a man who acted disrespectfully and then made matters worse by laying the blame on Spare. She was reduced to tears, and I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to see someone act like this in what is supposed to be a nurturing space. But this happens sometimes with drumming. People who are really good at it can become annoyed with people who are not good at it, or only beginning to be good at it. But that's beside the point.
The point: We left the festival rather shaken up.
And then Monday came.
When I walked into my workplace, it looked and felt different to me. What do you know? NOTHING is all good or all bad! I spent 150 work days this year miserable, living only to go to the festival ... and then something stressful happened at the festival!
This week has been different than any I have ever spent on this job. And not because I got a great gift from my school for Teacher Appreciation Week. (Not even exaggerating, each teacher got a 12-ounce bottle of water with a packet of instant iced tea mix tied to it with a ribbon.) Things were different because of the shock I experienced at the festival.
Ask me how valuable it was to spend my Beltane weekend at the festival. I'll tell you: It was Earth-shaking. I am a different person now. I hope it lasts!
As for the festival itself, I now love it more than ever, because I love it a little less, and my work a lot more.
Thanks be to the bored gods for lessons learned in unexpected ways! This week has flown by. It's Friday, and I'm going home to drum.
I'm not exactly golden yet ... but I'm sure not green.
Last weekend my daughter The Spare and I went to a festival that we attend each year to honor Beltane and the faeries. We look forward to this festival eagerly, all year long. Yes, all through my long and horrible work year I dream of the festival. My work is awful, dreadful, stressful, unappreciated, and unrecognized. The festival is wonderful, awesome, happy, joyous, and otherwise perfect.
Except when it's not.
Spare and I had an unpleasant -- very unpleasant -- experience in a drum circle, featuring a man who acted disrespectfully and then made matters worse by laying the blame on Spare. She was reduced to tears, and I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to see someone act like this in what is supposed to be a nurturing space. But this happens sometimes with drumming. People who are really good at it can become annoyed with people who are not good at it, or only beginning to be good at it. But that's beside the point.
The point: We left the festival rather shaken up.
And then Monday came.
When I walked into my workplace, it looked and felt different to me. What do you know? NOTHING is all good or all bad! I spent 150 work days this year miserable, living only to go to the festival ... and then something stressful happened at the festival!
This week has been different than any I have ever spent on this job. And not because I got a great gift from my school for Teacher Appreciation Week. (Not even exaggerating, each teacher got a 12-ounce bottle of water with a packet of instant iced tea mix tied to it with a ribbon.) Things were different because of the shock I experienced at the festival.
Ask me how valuable it was to spend my Beltane weekend at the festival. I'll tell you: It was Earth-shaking. I am a different person now. I hope it lasts!
As for the festival itself, I now love it more than ever, because I love it a little less, and my work a lot more.
Thanks be to the bored gods for lessons learned in unexpected ways! This week has flown by. It's Friday, and I'm going home to drum.
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