Human Conceit

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated to deities as old as dirt! This is another entry in Vulture Saturday, highlighting a sacred, totemic creature whose stature has fallen at the hands of modern American conceit.

Most people, if they think of vultures at all, think of them as ugly and disgusting. It hasn't always been that way. Some Native American cultures still venerate Vulture,

One thing Americans do brag about is being at the top of the food chain. It's all about us.

I'm sorry to disabuse random morons about this, but the actual pinnacle of the food chain is the vulture. By definition, the food chain is organized by what you will and won't eat. Aphids don't eat ants, so ants are higher on the food chain. Ants don't eat anteaters, so anteaters are higher on the food chain. And so on.

People don't eat vultures. Vultures will eat people. Therefore, vultures are higher on the food chain. They are, in fact, at the top. (I'm talking about complex organisms here, not the tip-top organism, the bacterium.)

Of course, the human race is all about, "What's in it for me?" What can vultures do for people?

Quite simply, they keep the country clean.

Just ask the citizens of India how it's going for them since their farmers used an anti-inflammatory medication called diflocenac to keep cattle alive. When vultures consumed the carcasses of animals treated with the drug, it killed the vultures. A huge die-off of native vulture species has led to rampant rabies among animals (big uptick in cases in people), an explosion of dangerous wild dogs, and garbage reeking everywhere. It will be decades before the vulture population regains its numbers, as they breed slowly.

Here in America, vultures serve the same purpose. They consume carrion. Rabies has no effect on them. Salmonella has no effect on them. They remove from the environment toxins that are dangerous and disgusting. In return, how do we treat them? Shabbily.

Vulture the Sacred joins all American citizens who care deeply about the environment we are creating for future generations. Future generations of people also presupposes future generations of vultures. Restoring forests, reducing CO2 and other pollutants, and designating wild areas will help not only our children, but those baby vulture chicks being hatched this spring -- who, in the absence of lead in their food -- could live 40 years.

The next time you see a vulture, think humbly about it. Promise it you will do what you can to keep it safe. Then notice the grace and, indeed, beauty of this apex creature. How can we humans claim any kind of superiority?

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

Ben Carson is a Total Disgrace

 How in the name of all that is holy did Ben Carson earn an advanced degree in anything? I've never heard one educated person say so many boneheaded things.

According to dictionary.com, an immigrant is "a person who migrates to another country, usually for permanent residence."

The definition seems to imply personal agency. As in, a person who chooses to get in a boat and go live somewhere else.

When a hostile power puts you in a boat and forcibly moves you to another country, for permanent residence performing slave labor, that hardly (to me) suggests "immigrant." Is there a word for this kind of profound and soul-stealing dislocation?

I got my DNA done by Ancestry.com. Spare gave me the little kit for Yule. Turns out each and every one of my ancestors was an immigrant to America. The vast, vast majority of them came willingly. Maybe one or two were sent here penal-style. (They all came hella early.) But yeah. They chose to come to America. The ancestors of my students did not.

Someone who can sugar-coat slavery as if it's just another steamboat full of hopeful Italians should be consigned to the basement of some dusty bowling alley and left there to set the pins.

Day Without a Woman

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, and last time I looked, I was a woman. So I guess I still am..Give me five seconds to confirm ... yes. Still female. This makes me eligible for March 8 Day Without a Woman protest!

Sadly, I must decline this opportunity to sound my political voice.

It's one thing to put on your pussy hat and go march in Washington, DC on a Saturday. It's another thing to participate in a general strike and call out from work. I'm a school teacher. I have 66 students, and it's my job to teach them to read and write.

I'll be wearing red, though. And I won't buy anything. I've got to save my money for future marches.

Speaking of marches, I was in a parade this weekend! It was so much fun.

EXHIBIT A: ANNE IS A TWO STREET STOMPER

If you think I look good in this satin, you should see it on the men! Oh, wait! I can show you that!

Back to a Day Without Women. I think this is a bridge too far.

Asking women to step away from their jobs for a day implies that their work is just a job, with no intrinsic value. I'm sure there are a lot of people (both genders) who just put in their eight hours every day, but I don't quite look at my work that way.

As I gaze out across my classroom, taking in the bored-stiff visages of my students, I feel that I am not making one damn bit of difference in their lives. I could leave tomorrow, and they wouldn't even miss me. Half of them forget my name or call me some other teacher's name. They would much rather look at their phones than at me.

But if I stay home from teaching on a general strike, then I become the kind of teacher that the creature Betsy DeVos claims all public school teachers are. To hear the voucher pushers tell it, we public school teachers are just in this profession for the paycheck and the tenure and the health insurance. Taking a day off on a whim is just the sort of thing we would flock to do.

So I'm not doing it. Red shirt, yes. Day off, no.

Spare is going to be disappointed, but I think even the thrift store counts as shopping. Maybe not? Your thoughts? I do need some new candles.

Vulture is PISSED

Welcome to First Church of Vulture, Apostolic and Unreformed. Hear the voice crying out in the wilderness for the family of Vulture!

The great God Vulture has learned that a minion of the Satan with False Hair Growth has, with the stroke of a poison pen, re-instated the use of lead ammunition in the nation's wild lands.

Vulture deems this an abomination.

Lo, Vulture has spoken unto me the curse He will visit on those who propel poisoned metals into the flesh, fields, and waterways of our land. Hear the word of Vulture!

VULTURE CURSES HUNTERS WHO USE LEAD BULLETS

1. Your spouse and children will not respect you.

2. You will worry about making enough money for all of your days.

3. Your private parts will be the smallest and ugliest in any locker room.

4. Your descendants will wait eagerly for your death, so they can have your stuff, yea most especially your guns and ammo.

VULTURE CURSES CABINET SECRETARIES WHO LEGALLY ABET THE USE OF LEAD BULLETS

1. The horse you came in on will shit on your shoes.

2. Your private parts will be the smallest and ugliest in the entire Western Hemisphere. Babies will laugh.

3. You will have the boss from Hell. He will torment your days, and even when you no longer work for him, your former people will remember. And hate you.

4. You, and all of your lead-loving buddies will die and go to

LEAD BULLET HELL

Where demons in the guise of Disney Princesses will make rude jokes about your private parts while pelting you with molten base metals, the more pustular skin diseases, and the ragged remains of Remington rifles.

Thus sayeth Vulture: READ THIS WHILE YOU STILL CAN, AND REPENT! The fate of the California condor is at stake!

If the California condors don't survive this wretched setback, I can double guarantee and promise you that Vulture will lay a SMITE on this wretched nation that will make us all beg to become carcasses.

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

Can't Even Joke about the New Job

All hail, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Put on your best frown, because there's nothing funny here tonight.

Today I was in a teacher's meeting with a few of my colleagues. After lunch as we were settling in to yet another wrestling match with curriculum, I turned to them and said, "Well, I won't have to do this much longer. I got a new job, $1500 a week to be a paid protester."

Their jaws dropped.

"Yes," I continued. "It's $1500 a week, and all I have to do is march in protests and go to Congressional town hall meetings and disrupt them."

And my colleague, holder of a master's degree, said, "Really?"

And the young student teacher, working on multiple certifications, looked at me and said, "Really?"

They believed it.

Sorry, but that is scary.

My colleague said that she believed me because I am trustworthy. I've never told a lie before, so why would I start now?

Then the student teacher took out his phone and started punching in numbers. "That's $71,000 a year," he reported.

"Yes!" I said. "Now multiply that by all the other people who have been 'hired' after the Women's March: 500,000. Not even George Soros is that wealthy."

Tonight I was going to come into this space and tell you readers all about my "new job." I know you wouldn't have believed me, because my job description would have gotten more outrageous on here. But I'm so shaken by the belief I saw in my colleagues that I can't even joke. They believed that such a job, at such a salary, could be possible.

Oh my goodness, this is a hard time to be funny.

I was also going to write a blog post about how Donald Trump tortures puppies. Again, satire. But have you heard that federal records on animal welfare were deleted from the USDA web site?
How can I joke about something that might be true?

When the situation becomes sufficiently grim, satire is no longer possible. It could very well be that we are reaching that point.

Oh, and I might as well add that it was 75 degrees here in Snobville today, and my forsythia is blooming. This is not satire.

Lottery Ticket

Let me introduce you to my student. I will call her Sweetie Pie for reasons that will soon be obvious.

Sweetie Pie has perfect attendance. Every morning she says hello with a sweet smile. She gets her work and settles right in. Reading is very hard for her, but she tucks in and tries. It takes her longer to do her assignments, but she never misses one. She takes work home to complete it, if she doesn't finish during school time. At the end of class (I have her in the morning), she tells me, "Have a nice day!"

Sweetie Pie's written work shows elements of struggle. "Even though" in her writing comes out "even doe." She writes what she hears, of course. But she does write. She'll fill a page, and if the grammar and spelling aren't good, her ideas are. I probably wouldn't do much better at writing a page if I had to do it in a foreign language, and the people speaking that language around me didn't speak it so well.

I've got to hand it to Sweetie Pie. She wants to do her best at all times. She wants to be her nicest at all times. Everyone likes her. She is an angel.

Today I asked my students to do a free-write about the lottery. They had several options. One option was to imagine what they would do with the money if they won the lottery.

Sweetie Pie chose that option to write about. Then, in search of another bright sticker for her binder (I buy these myself), she read her one-pager. My blood ran cold.

What would Sweetie Pie buy with her lottery winnings? Citizenship.

Readers, how can we deport such a one as this? And she is one of many where I teach.

What will I do if I come to school one day and she isn't there?

I'm crying about something that might happen. What a world.

Saturday Sermon, First Church of Vulture, Apostolic

Hearken unto me, U.S.A! For verily I am a voice crying out in the wilderness (what's left of it). I am the humble and not-so-great I Am, namely, Anne Johnson. Look upon the prophetess of Vulture and take heed!

For upon this day, Vulture sulketh upon His holy fence post of Wenonah. He gnashes His beak on said post, which hurteth, and maketh Him even more petulant.

Thus speaks Vulture: "Hsssss Hssssss Hssssss."

(This, of course, is why religions always need prophetesses.)

Vile sinners of the U.S.A! Vulture hath hissed! And in his hsss is a message unto the people. To whit:

He who groweth hair unnaturally upon his head, lo, he is an abomination.*** Unto him and those who follow him will be a plague of those little biting flies that hover around beaches and bays in the summertime! For I am Vulture, and My ways will be followed. I am a jealous Bird, quick to rise to righteous rage. And this should be familiar unto ye who have come to My Holy Church from other venues.

Anyone who asks the High Prophetess (self) how so much meaning can be read from a few short hisses -- ye of little faith! Humble thyself before Vulture! Okay, just a suggestion, but if you know what is good for you...

 No, wait. I'm rusty.

HUMBLE THYSELF OR WATCH THY NATION CRUMBLE TO DUST UNDER THE WEIGHT OF TYRANNY.

That's better! It's been awhile.

The Great Vulture hath asked me to bring a sorry nation to heel. Verily, every Saturday during which I am not marching unto that end, I will deliver here a sermon, in obedience and submission to Vulture.

Vulture is the Highest of Holy. He killeth not. Nor doth he sound harsh calls unto the air. He keeps the world clean. And it is Vulture's expectation that His servants, the human race, likewise keep the world clean as a whistle. This is why He now gnashes His holy beak on the holy fence post of Wenonah and becomes petulant. U.S.A., we are failing Vulture.

O dreadful turn of events!

Vulture makes demands, which we must meet. Yea, verily the possum on the shoulder of the road is the smallest and most inconsequential of Vulture's demands. My Saturday sermons will acquaint you with the Great God Vulture and how to please Him, thereby bringing LIGHT INTO THE WORLD for everyone!

Don't miss one single Hsss, my flock. A world fit for Vulture is a world fit for humankind.

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




***Except should he or she be recovering from an illness which removeth hair due to medicinal treatment. But only then.

Top It Off!

I have 199 followers, thank you very much Deborah!

If you have been thinking of pushing that follow button, here's an incentive:

Push the follow button, then send me an email at

annejohnson17211 at gmail dot com,

containing your home address, and I will send you ...

a lovely piece of Atlantic sea glass in the color of your choice! (White, green, brown -- there are your choices.)

In addition to your genuine, not fake, Atlantic sea glass, you will receive first-hand posts about protest marches in Washington, DC, hateful humor by the fistfuls aimed directly at the current cesspool of politicians and the Christian hegemony, and free advice on all sorts of subjects!

I also often sit down for candid conversations with bored deities ... and they are getting restive.

Come along and follow me, all the best is yet to be!

Hateful Humor Can Trip You Up

I started this blog in 2005 as a way to make myself laugh. I read lots of other blogs by other people who were just trying to make themselves laugh. Let me tell you, it's easy to get nasty and step over the line. Today's sermon will consider what should and should not constitute humor. Basically, you've got to watch how you hate.

Take the new guy, for instance. Only recently did I become aware of this young fellow named Milo Yiannopoulous. I heard there were some heady protests out in Berkeley when the stripling planned to deliver an address that he promised was simply humorous, and quite within his First Amendment rights.  Then I saw him myself on Bill Maher. What I heard from the two of them got my quills in an uproar.

This Milo person (or Bill Maher, I can't remember which one) said that no one ever got offended by Joan Rivers, and she insulted everyone, yes everyone, and no one was safe.

It happens that I saw Joan Rivers live in Vegas back in the 1980s, and yes indeed, she insulted a whole lot of people in a very short time. But there was a difference between her humor and the humor you hear from people like Milo and Bill Maher.

When did you ever hear Bill Maher poke fun at himself? Call himself stupid, or complain about his looks or sexual abilities? The first half hour of Joan Rivers' live show -- and it was the filthiest 30 minutes I've ever witnessed, short of a John Waters movie -- was completely and utterly self-deprecating. Once she had insulted herself to the ninth circle of Hell, she moved on to others. But it was from a place of shared foibles. Not from a perch.

Rule #1 for Hateful Humor: Hate Yourself Hardest, Longest, and First.

Myself, I am a firm believer in freedom of expression. If ugly white men want to wrap themselves up in robes and claim racial superiority, oh well, look at those three-eyed morons. At least they aren't trying to sell their worldview by making jokes about it.

Rule #2 for Hateful Humor: Don't Try to Win Converts by Making Them Laugh.

You know what? Even the most depraved and degenerate humorists -- now I really am thinking of John Waters -- have lines they won't cross. Anything that could harm a child isn't funny. Anything that mocks a disabled person isn't funny. Any humor that could make a listener feel shame is not funny.

Rule #3 for Hateful Humor: If Your Target Can't Retaliate in Kind, It's Not Funny.

I didn't hear much of Milo's "humor," but seeing that he resigned in disgrace due to comments about child sexual abuse did not surprise me. And I'm sorry I didn't post Annie's Rules for Hateful Humor in time to save him! But heck, I can't be everywhere and on top of everything. I'm a school teacher.

But it's not too late for Bill Maher.

Bill, I know you're reading this! Say what you want about politicians. They are fair game. But if you are going to make jokes about whole swaths of the American populace, take aim at yourself first. Hop off that perch and question your own perfection. That's what made Joan Rivers funny. That's what gave her carte blanche to ladle out the hater-aid.

Rule #4 for Hateful Humor: Politicians are Fair Game.

My Congressman, Donald Norcross, is so stupid that he has to put lipstick on his forehead to make up his mind. Honestly, the guy tried to kill a bird by throwing it off a cliff. But that's okay, because Donald has a brother who can do the thinking for both of them -- and does it early and often. Funniest thing of all? I voted for the asshole. Twice.

I Want a Name When I Lose

 Everyone has a moment when they either realize their life's ambition or understand, irrevocably, that they never will. For me that moment came last summer, 2016.

On the fifth of July, at 5:45 in the morning, I found myself getting in my car to go to my school. I had landed a job painting the school for the summer. It was 8 hours a day, five days a week, at $13 an hour.

As I drove to work that morning, I felt that moment when all my youthful ambitions died, forever and ever.

Painting is hard work. Painting for an 8 hour day is really hard work. I had plenty of time to ask myself how I, Anne Johnson, Johns Hopkins University Class of 1981, Phi Beta Kappa, came to be painting 100-yard-long corridors in 90-plus degree heat.

EXHIBIT A: Anne Paints a Ceiling in the Auto Tech Shop, Summer of 2016

There's an old Steely Dan song with the lyrics, "They got a name for the winners in the world. I want a name when I lose." It kept running through my mind all day.

There's also the Langston Hughes poem:

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Some afternoons in the summer of 2016 I came home from my shift feeling like that broken-winged bird.

Then a curious thing happened. Not overnight, but slowly.

It started when I was lugging two full paint buckets up the two flights of stairs in my school. When I got to the top, I wasn't out of breath. I always used to get out of breath climbing those stairs, even if I wasn't carrying paint.

One day the buckets didn't seem as heavy anymore. It wasn't as hard to hold up that ceiling pole (still daunting, though).

One weekend when Mr. J was out of town. I phoned up The Heir, and we went hiking. Only we didn't just go hiking. We chose a waterfall crawl, on a trail rated difficult where a number of horrible hiking accidents have occurred. Heir is intrepid, and a stripling at 27. I am way older than that, and when I saw the trail (which was really only a steep boulder tumble) I almost bailed. But I didn't.

EXHIBIT B: Anne at Glen Onoko Falls, Like a Boss, Summer of 2016

I could not have made this hike without first spending five 40-hour weeks painting shop ceilings.

If you do anything 40 hours a week, you will learn how to do it well. I spent the summer of 2016 learning how to paint. As another year of teaching loomed, further corroborating my certainty that all hope of realizing any youthful ambition was gone, I came home from painting and looked at my house.

The walls hadn't been painted in over a decade. In some rooms, they hadn't been painted in 20 years.

I bought some supplies -- brushes, a paint bucket, rollers, spackle, frog tape -- and started painting my house.

Not everyone can achieve their life's ambition. I wanted to be a novelist. Well, I did write a novel. It got rejected by a half dozen agents and almost everyone who read it. Okay, at least I tried. I'm still a loser, though.

But I am a loser with a great new paint job in the foyer of my house.

Our current head of state likes to proclaim himself a winner. When you look at winning and losing through his lens, being a loser doesn't sting so much. This consoles me.

I want a name when I lose, and it might as well be "house painter." Maybe I can broaden it to include other home repairs. I've got some caulking to do in the dining room.

And Pennsylvania has a lot of waterfalls.

My Working Wand

Boy, is my working wand busy these days! There's so much tension and strife in the air. So much dark energy. Can one little stick make a difference?

Years and years ago I went to a workshop and made a magick wand. It is indeed a beautiful and wonderful wand -- oak from the second-oldest tree in New Jersey, a vulture feather, wire-wrapped all up and down with minerals and beads and a Goddess medallion. A fine wand. Only trouble is, I can't work with it. The piece has too much going on in and of itself to send energy outward.

Enter my working wand.

My daughter The Heir actually found my working wand for me. We were on a trip to Woodland Beach, Delaware, and the wand had drifted up on shore. It is perfectly smooth and a little less than 12 inches long. Fits right into my purse and feels good in my hand.

Even though I knew I had found a working wand the minute Heir gave it to me, I still energized it with the elements. It came from the Delaware Bay, so it didn't need any more Water. I took it home to Appalachia, to the property on Polish Mountain that belonged to my family from the 1800's to 2012 and stuck it into the rocky soil, infusing it with Earth. Then I took it to a gathering at Four Quarters Farm, where a friend named Tony used a magnifying glass to endow Fire from the Sun. One magnificent drum circle supplied all the vibrant Air this slender wand will ever need.

I often take my working wand to work with me and sit it on my desk. If I feel myself getting worked up, or if my students are getting worked up, I roll it in my hand. Wands exist to funnel inner intentions outward to the world. A driftwood wand is particularly helpful in drawing out peace and distributing it where needed.

I took my working wand with me to the Women's March on Washington and held it in my hand the entire day. Most of the time it felt like the wand was taking in energy rather than radiating it. However, I did put the most fervent prayers through the wand and into the bricks of the Environmental Protection Agency. The spell was very simple. Two words. "Stay put."

Stay put, EPA. The energy of my wand is with you. My intentions are holy, without hatred or guile. The Earth will be protected as long as the EPA does its work, so ... can I help it stay put? I have faith.

Postcards from the Hedge

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" At risk of alienating my newer audience, I've got to make an admission: I'm a Pagan. Ask me what I believe in, and I'll ask you, "What have you got?" I'm big on forgotten and overlooked deities -- hence the name of this blog.

Push comes to shove there's a good bit of hedge witch in me. I will cast a spell when I feel it necessary. (Never anything negative.) I carry a working wand, and my teacher's desk has a very VERY discreet altar, just sitting right there for anyone to see.

As I embark upon a new chapter in my life, a chapter in which I will be marching and demonstrating and engaging in political activities, I plan to practice the kind of magick for which I am universally known. This would be trickster stuff, humor as a weapon.

It recently came to my attention that there are plans to inundate the White House with postcards on March 15, the dreaded "Ides of March." Everyone who is anyone is being encouraged to send a postcard (or two or ten) to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20500.

Ha ha! I love postcards! Every time I go to Asbury Park, I always buy a few.

Some of you who have heard from me via snail mail have gotten one of these.

So, nice front, right? All that remains is to think of a nice message for the back. It has to be short and simple, both because there's not much space and the chief executive doesn't like to read.

Between now and March 15, I'll run some ideas past y'all. And do feel free to leave me any messages you would like to send in my comments section! I can lay my mitts on stacks of Jersey Shore postcards.

What does a hedge witch put on a postcard to Donald Trump?

Roses are red
Violets are cute
You will look great
Turned into a newt.

Nice! I feel the creative juices flowing!

As above, so below
Donald Trump has got to go.

Help me out here. We've got four weeks until mailing day, and I just bought a new book of stamps.

The Last Time

Welcome to the spruced-up and modernized "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm your host, Anne Johnson -- it's not even a pen name. It's a measure of anonymity in the age of 15-minute fame.

One blessing I have received multiple times in this life is the gift or purchase of a splendid car at a bargain price (or for free). My grandfather gave me his glittering Oldsmobile when he could no longer drive. When that wore out, I bought a  Ford Escort hatchback from a church lady who had used that car so lightly it was just begging to be driven. More recently, my mother-in-law gave me her car, a dubiously road-worthy relic that reluctantly creeps from Point A to Point B.

In the great state of New Jersey, we must get our vehicles inspected every two years. The relic (I affectionately call this vehicle "The Bucket") was up for inspection last month. The only thing they inspect in NJ anymore is emissions, and the "check engine" light had been on in this car since Mother-in-law purchased it in 2005. For the record, it's a 2001 Saturn. Vintage!

The mechanic said he would fix an emission sensor that might be the problem, and if we drove the car 100 miles without the light coming on, it would pass inspection. Voila! Done! In fact, I've now tootled 200 miles, and the light has not returned!

That's a big deal. The car was free. And the insurance is cheap, since the only thing I would pay for is damage I did to someone else's car.

To celebrate the Rite of Inspection Passage, I took some time this afternoon to clean out The Bucket and spruce her up a bit. While I was doing so, my next door neighbor pulled up in front of his house, showing off his new bumper sticker because he knew I would be jealous as fuck. And I was. He felt so sorry for me that he went inside and brought out an identical bumper sticker for my Bucket!

Even in New Jersey I'm courting slashed tires. No matter. I believe in putting my views out there to be scorned or embraced.

My neighbor and I inevitably began talking about these tense weeks since the Orange Menace assumed office. He said he couldn't remember any time like this in his life, and -- since he's younger than me -- I agreed that it was the worst in his time.

However, I do remember something worse. It was an awful time.

I remember when Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated, and the cities erupted in rioting. I was still a kid, maybe about 10 years old. I remember how scared everyone was. I grew up south of the Mason Dixon basically, so I was surrounded by white people who thought black people were just biding time until they could unleash fury on the very fabric of society. So everyone around me was scared.

It was an extremely tense time. There were soldiers on the move, and curfews, and martial law, and other stuff that sounds extremely frightening to a kid. This went on for a few weeks, and then life resumed a tense state of near normal.

Yes, I can foresee similar behavior on the horizon, but this time I don't think it will emanate from the ghettos in the big cities. This time I think it will start in the country and move toward more populous areas. It's scary to contemplate. A lot of people have guns. Remember what I said about guns: production for use. It's easy to imagine many, many itchy trigger fingers out there in the hinterland right now. All they need is a word or two of encouragement from someone who feels he isn't being given enough respect.

Nevertheless, my car identifies me as a member of the resistance. If it goes ill for me, well, who wants to be the last one standing when the world goes to Hell? I cede the future to my daughters. I'm scared as all get-out, but someone has to go down with the ship. Hope it's not me, but oh well.

My blog has received over 800,000 views since 2005. Post by post, I've become a best-seller.

Handy Guide to the New Presidential Cabinet

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It has come to my attention that many of my new readers are sliding in here from She Who Seeks. This means that you have the great good fortune to live in Canada. Do you need major renovations on your house? I'll do them, if I can live in your basement for a few years.

Anyway, if you're looking at the US of A from a safe distance, you may be having trouble keeping track of all the new cabinet appointees being introduced by the Orange Menace our esteemed head of state. Fear not! Here's a quick and handy guide to the new cabinet! Some of the have not been confirmed yet, but it'$ only going to take a $hort time to $ort them all out and $eat them.

ANNIE'S HANDY GUIDE TO THE NEW WORLD ORDER!

Exhibit A: Secretary of State Rex Tiller$on

Mr. Tiller$on used his charm and his wide knowledge of the fossil fuel hegemony delicate balance of international affairs to win the enthusiastic support of the nation's duly elected supervillains. With his steady hand on the wheel of state, we are sure to ride right off the cliff and plunge, like Wile E. Coyote, to a puffy death on the canyon floor.

Exhibit B: Attorney General Jeff $e$$ion$

The law of the land rests in the sooty hands of Mr. $e$$ion$, who will be the first to tell you that the South will Rise Again, just as soon as we require all African Americans to have notarized letters from Abraham Lincoln, personally attesting to their right to vote. We don't want just anyone voting, now do we? Equality is for snowflakes, not He-Man Republican$!

Exhibit C: Education Secretary Betsy DeVo$$

I'll be posting this a day before Ms. DeVo$$ is set to be confirmed, but the bet is safe. Never mind that hordes of taxpaying parents have deluged their senators' phone lines, inboxes, office fronts, and Twitter feeds begging them not to confirm her, Ms. DeVo$$ is very popular with Republicans. Does it matter that she personally feels that public schools are breeding grounds for criminal minds, egged on by evil, unionized teachers? Ah, no. She'll fix it. It's her mission!

Exhibit D: Director of the Environmental Protection Agency, $cott Pruitt

This photo is metaphorical. Think of the planet Earth as the coast of Florida, and Pruitt as the force pictured above. Any questions?

There were so many promises heaved about during the election season. One of them was to get big money out of government and "drain the $wamp." Honestly, it seems like the swamp is not so much drained as deluged. Which is all good, because you don't have to call it a swamp anymore. Now it's a lake, which isn't a swamp. So there!

Yes, I am sucking my thumb. Can you blame me?

If the Women Don't Find You Handsome, They Should At Least Find You Handy: A Gods Are Bored Tribute to the Red Green Show

This is "The Gods Are Bored," and we are thrilled to be participants in the 2017 O Canada Blogathon! The time is right for a chuckle or two, so here and now the Bored Gods will pay homage to the funniest show on America's Public Broadcasting network ... The Red Green Show.

If you've never heard of The Red Green Show, well, wow. How would you know how to turn a washing machine into an easy chair? You've got some catching up to do.

The Red Green Show has over 300 free episodes on YouTube, so if you've never seen it, you're going to have a great year! Biff on over and take a look.

If you have seen it, you will be interested to know that numerous bored Goddesses absolutely adore it. Really! I should know, I'm the one who got them hooked.

It all started when my daughter The Spare and I would curl up in bed together to watch our DVDs of The Red Green Show. Gosh, we really enjoyed that. Even if we'd seen the episodes ten times. Anyway, I suppose our hearty guffaws caught the attention of a deity or two. Before you could shake a serpent out of an apple tree, we found ourselves joined by some of the highest quality Goddesses of yore. If there's anything a Goddess can't get enough of, it's men making fun of being men. Goddesses find that refreshing, you know, because they generally have to associate with Gods who are super insecure and also unfamiliar with the versatility of duct tape.

Word of this silly show passed from pantheon to pantheon, and it seemed like every Goddess chose a favorite Red Green character. (Goddesses love to play favorites, but you already knew that.) I particularly recall that Athena had a mad crush on Hap Shaughnessy. She said he reminded her of Odysseus.

 Athena wanted to make Hap immortal, or at least buy him a decent skiff. But you know, Her skills are a little eroded these days because she doesn't have a wide following. The best She could muster was a fan letter, which for Hap was damned good enough -- he already owns the Parthenon and more statues of Zeus than the British Museum.

Turtle Woman couldn't get enough of Edgar K. B. Montrose, the explosives expert. He's not in very many episodes, so she made us play his bits over and over.

 The neighbors still accuse Spare of blowing up their dog house, but it was actually Turtle Woman, making a futile bid to win Edgar's scorched heart. Have you ever tried explaining a bored Goddess to irate neighbors with a singed Corgi? Trust me, blaming it on the Red Green Show won't work.

I thought Aphrodite and Freya were going to arm wrestle for the right to seduce dorky young Harold, Red Green's nephew and sidekick.

 This should not surprise any of you readers who already are familiar with the ways of ancient Goddesses. Nothing bores a Goddess quicker than a buff, handsome man. Heck, they can craft a buff, handsome man out of a couple ounces of Tang and a half-chewed pencil! But you find yourself an awkward, bespectacled and buck-toothed Canadian geek, and the Celestials swoon. Can't just craft those dudes from tree bark and prayers.

The worst, by far, were the dryads. Oh my bored gods, they went nuts over Ranger Gord!

Just the thought of that guy sitting, lonely and horny, in a fire tower all by himself, made them giddy with desire. With great effort I was able to convince them that it was just a television show, that he wasn't really spending his long days ogling a log through binoculars, thinking it was a woman named Samantha. But wouldn't you know? They went out looking for real forest rangers and came back bitterly disappointed by how well-adjusted they are. Art doesn't always imitate life.

You know, when push comes to shove, what the Goddesses love best about The Red Green Show are the aphorisms. "Keep your stick on the ice?" They eat that up. "I'm a man, but I can change, if I have to, I guess?" They howl themselves silly. They know men can't change, and don't want to, and never will. It's fun to see a few men try, and fail, and try again. And fail again.

Well, that's what the Goddesses like. As for me and my household ... we love Red Green. The creative uses of duct tape. The gravelly voice. The plaid shirts and mismatched suspenders. The timeless beard. We're nuts about him. We want to bake him a pecan pie and leave it on the windowsill at Possum Lodge.

Whenever I'm feeling down and out, Red Green's cheery slogan sees me through:

"Remember, I'm pulling for you. We're all in this together."

So might it be.

Imbolc 2017

All hail and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today is Imbolc, the lambing season, when all the candles are kindled and all the faithful stay home to freshen their hearths!

Well, that was then. This is now.

Now I do truly hope Queen Brighid the Bright will forgive me, but I must squirrel away the sick days I will actually be compensated for. This will be the final Imbolc that finds me healthy enough to work, so Goddess ... please understand. I had to go to work today. My religious holidays are not recognized by the state of New Jersey, and my compensated sick time ends with June 2017.

My home and hearth has been tense since November 9 and especially since January 20. Tempers are short and anxieties high. Every night brings a new and alarming report. If that isn't bad enough, I have the unfortunate habit of reading Yahoo comments. Today I saw a little note from someone who wants to shoot and bury all "libtards." Yes. Shoot and bury.

Although I feel extremely unworthy, I will still petition the Goddess to preserve my home and hearth, to restore what passes for balance in this environment, to keep minds easy -- including mine.

Imbolc is a good moment to reflect that at least we have seasons, that the darkness can diminish in the sky, if not in the headlines. This is the moment between solstice and equinox, rolling toward a new growing season. Let's light the candles, it'll be all right. Light the candles, it'll be all right.

When You Bet Against American Education

You've heard it, again and again. American education lags way behind other countries. Look at the test scores, and they tell the whole story. American students just can't cut it. There are little nations in Europe that leave us in the dust.

Whew! I'm so damned glad!

I'm pretty sure the United States has led the way in research on climate change. Maybe our nation has done the heavy lifting so far. But think of all those smart people in all those other countries. They will be able to pick up the baton, carry on the research, and publish it far and wide. I further have confidence that the people working inside the Environmental Protection Agency in Washington, DC made the best of the two months they had between election day and inauguration to disseminate any data they had been keeping just for Americans.

There are smart people everywhere, and if the Orange Menace shuts down the EPA, the science will continue.

What won't continue is the cleanup of our nation. If you're under 40, you can't even remember what it was like back in the day. Let me tell you: It was horrible. Our air and water is so much better now. I wonder if people will be willing to sit by and let everything go all smoggy and carcinogenic again.

Oh well. I'm looking for the silver lining here. For the first time in my life, I'm placing my faith in the smart students, teachers, researchers, and scientists in other countries. You go, Finland!

What a Day!

You've got to understand. I grew up in a different century. We knew how to protest, all right, but the whole taking pictures thing? Not so much.

I went to the Women's March on Washington. I was surrounded by a sea of people, and the pussy hats were a great touch. But my experience of the event was limited by the crowd, by being literally stuck in one spot for two and a half hours and then being lugged by the determined Heir all the way to the White House.

I walked eight miles and stood for 150 minutes. Holding my working wand in one hand and my Heir in the other. I didn't take many photos, and the ones I took didn't turn out.

Words must suffice. Sort of.

Heir and I boarded a rally bus in Martinsburg, West Virginia at 7:00 a.m. We were each given a WV Resist button that I will treasure forever.

EXHIBIT A: On the Bus

As we rolled down the highway toward the capital, the road became chock-a-block with rally buses, from all over the place. The closer we got to DC, the more buses we saw. And then, gosh, the lot at the stadium! Acres and acres of buses, all alike! More than 1200 of them. This would become an issue later.

My eldest daughter is The Heir. I have learned this about The Heir: She wants to dig in and get the most out of any extreme experience.

We walked from behind RFK Stadium to the Capitol building. And that's when it became surreal for me.

I live very near Philadelphia. It is an historic city. I am used to historic buildings either being modest little brick structures like Independence Hall, or Victorian extravaganzas like City Hall and 30th Street Station. I hadn't been to DC in a decade, and I had never walked all around it.

The buildings are huge. They are imposing. They are gigantic. And they're all epic. Half of them are built to look like Ancient Greece. They lie across the landscape like sleeping giants. When your historical compass is set on Independence Hall, the Capitol building seems like an entire planet.

EXHIBIT B: Independence Hall, Philadelphia

EXHIBIT C: U.S. Capitol Building, Washington, DC

Well, I guess you had to be there. It just felt monstrous, this great big building that I'd only seen in pictures before, or maybe once when I was in grade school I went to see my senator.

Heir is big on surreal stuff. She saw the stage, and a crowd that even Godzilla wouldn't attack, and she waded right in. I got out my working wand (I carry it everywhere) and held tight to the sleeve of her coat. And in we went, right to the thick of things.

I work with a co-teacher in one of my classes. She, like me, is politically active. She and her daughter took a bus from New Jersey. Before we went our separate ways at school on Thursday, she teased me about running into her, predicting that I would. In all that crowd. And damn. I can't believe it.

EXHIBIT C: What Are the Odds?

See the pussy hats in the background? They made the march. If you see a crowd of a half million people, and the crowd shot is mostly pink, that is beyond a doubt the Women's March on Washington.

Heir and I bused in with a good friend of mine from West Virginia, and then we ran into my colleague and her daughter, but Heir was not in the socializing spirit. She wanted to DO THIS THING. So we went our way and wound up gridlocked on the far side of the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. There, people were climbing the trees to scope out the crowd. Heir found a high spot that wasn't in a tree, and we camped there for a long time. We couldn't move. The people around us couldn't move. We did what we could to ferry the people who were panicking to a less gridlocked area, but there wasn't much we could do.

There were no police in the crowd.

When you're stuck in a mob for hours, a lot of things run through your mind, especially if you're an anxious person. Like, what if someone sets off a bomb? Or, what if everyone has to run from something? Or, how can I get out of here and back to my bus?

But it didn't matter. We were all in this together. Everyone was polite, everyone was kind. Lots of people were very old! I couldn't believe all the senior citizens, the retirees. (One sign: "I did this in the '60's! I'm Back!" And of course: "Now You've Pissed Off Grandma."

Almost everyone had a sign. My favorites were "Never Underestimate the Power of a Faggot with a Tambourine" and "Resist, hon ... Baltimore." I also saw about a dozen people in various iterations of vagina costumes (head, whole body). Some folks will be creative!

You know what I may mostly remember about the Women's March on Washington? Talking about curriculum and standards with three retired teachers from Connecticut. We had lots of time to bond.

Finally, around 3:30, Heir reported that she saw movement. The pack started to break up a little bit. Some people went one way, some another. Someone told us that the march part of the day had been cancelled because there were too many people. Heir wasn't hearing it.

We surged off toward Pennsylvania Avenue, me clinging to Heir, and in 30 minutes we found ourselves marching and chanting right up the route the Orange Menace and his poor, sad spouse walked the day before. We knew this because the bleachers were still standing, and they were full of pink-hatted, screaming, chanting, sign-waving protesters.

Here is what we chanted:
*This is what democracy looks like.
*My body, my choice.
*Hey ho, hey ho, Donald Trump has got to go!
*Donald Trump, go away! How do you like your first day?
*Black lives matter.


 Heir and I walked the whole way to the White House, and we even saw it off in the distance through about six fences. We left our signs there.

EXHIBIT D: We Left Some Reading Material for the Orange Menace

That's my Heir. Isn't she beautiful?

By this time we had marched four miles. All that remained was to retrace our entire route in time to get back on the bus at 6:00.

Heir seemed to know where to go. We walked and walked. Then Heir said, "Oh, look!"

It was the Environmental Protection Agency.

I had been near tears many times during the day. But this is where I lost it. I took my working wand, and I held it to the building, and I spoke intentions into the bricks. Stay put. Stay put. May all those working inside stay put. (I hope you'll add the EPA to your spell work as well.)


EXHIBIT E: Anne Doing Spell Work at the EPA

You can tell that's me because of the gold sneakers. Those are the shoes I wear to the Mummers Parade. I was sure I could walk miles in them, because I've done it before.

It got dark while Heir and I walked back to RFK Stadium. By the time we got to Lot 7 to find our bus, we had done eight miles or more. We had a tough time finding our particular rally bus, but with the help of my WV friend we finally collapsed into a seat, clutching the peanut butter sandwiches and water bottles the bus captain was handing out. Heir and I were the last ones back to the bus.

We rode back to West Virginia. The traffic was bumper to bumper almost the whole way. Heir and I were totally exhausted. We did it, though. We rallied, and we marched. I even did a little magick.

Sunday, Heir and I took the scenic route home. We passed my great-grandmother's house, which has not hardly changed at all from the old pictures from 100 years ago. We stopped by Baltimore, hon, to see Heir's grandmother. Then it was a long drive home in super heavy traffic, and then it was over.

Heir and I prepared for the worst. We wrote Mr. J's phone number on our arms in sharpie marker. We wore bandannas to protect our faces from tear gas. We didn't know what might happen. When push came to shove, though, I never saw a more benign crowd. Everyone was kind and gentle. Everyone drew energy from everyone else. In a crowd that size, such good will is essential. Any nastiness would have produced unparalleled mayhem.

Where do we go from here? As for me and my house, we will use our talents to oppose the Orange Menace. I imagine I'm preaching to the choir here. Please climb aboard.

It's All About Justice

The prayer that unites all Druids has lines about justice, the knowledge of justice, and the love of justice. How can a species be endowed with an understanding of justice and then just disregard it?

When a handful of families control more wealth than all the rest of the people on the planet, this is injustice. They can use any tool to divide the rest of us, to have us quarreling on any number of issues, to encourage us to form tribes based on birth, location, ideology. While we fight and die, they watch.

If our species engaged in egalitarianism, with level heads and warm hearts, we would soon set this planet right. We would have respect for animals, plants, the soil, the water, and our population growth. Employers would pay workers a living wage, and the bosses would live modestly themselves. Respect and camaraderie would rule, and justice would follow.

This cannot be achieved by coercion (it's been tried), which is why I despair for our species.

All the same, I will march for justice.  This is the sign I will carry to the Women's March on Washington.
                                                                           
The last resort for the few at the top is to abolish group efforts toward seeking living wages and respectful treatment. People living in fear can be controlled. The end game for the billionaires is control. They are truly supervillains.

So, while I feel that destruction of the environment is the most pressing issue facing the human race at this time, I am moved to speak for justice. For collective bargaining, a process that helps anyone within its gates -- Black, White, Muslim, Pagan, man, woman, child.

It's 5:00 and I've been awake two hours. I'm frankly scared about the march. But I will go anyway. This is my last post before I leave, so if you have an extra moment or two over the next few days, I beg you to watch this wonderful scene from the film "Matewan," by John Sayles. It perfectly articulates my philosophy, and it's why I'm carrying my union sign.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RSaBoDl_9k


Peace to you all,
Anne

Why I'm Marching #4: Cosplay Time!

You know what I love but have never been able to do? Cosplay.

I can't sew. My hair is thick and unruly. And -- probably the biggest reason I've never done cosplay -- I don't interact with anime. At all.

Nevertheless, I do have a screen character that I have idolized for most of my adult life. I have loved the actress and the role so much that the opportunity to attempt a cosplay of this character is too good to pass up.

I've been reading everything on the Internet about the Women's March on Washington, and don't ask me why, but the organizers really want us to bring signs.

I gave the sign a lot of thought, since I'm a teacher and I know my way around those punch-out alphabet letters you get for bulletin boards. What in the world could I put on my sign that would simply and totally express my deepest wishes for this nation?

And then it came to me. I will cosplay.

I've got my piece of white cardboard. I've got a black marker. This, this is my sign.

Now, to really cosplay this properly, I would need the sleeveless t-shirt, white high-rise jeans, orange ear buds, and whatever that is around her waist. But I do think the sign says it all for this character.

And for me, too.

Why I'm Marching #5: Because Spiders Bite

I know someone, a single person, who lives on $12,000 a year. Sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. This person has a college degree and $30,000 in student loan debt.

But other than that pesky federal debt, this person I know makes ends meet on $12,000 a year. It is possible to do this if you are single, share living space in certain urban neighborhoods, don't own a car or a smart phone, and you have a keen eye for trash picking.

The biggest problem for a person like this is the catastrophic health issue. So verily, the Affordable Healthcare Act is a Gods-send.

This person I know got bit on the hand by a smallish spider. It wasn't a black widow or a brown recluse. Let's just call it the Itsy Bitsy Spider.

After 24 hours, the Itsy Bitsy spider bite was a small red pimple. Another day later, it was bigger, redder, and tender to the touch.

At that development, the person was persuaded to go to urgent care and get the spider bite checked out.

The doctor prescribed a pretty strong round of antibiotics for the spider bite. Itsy Bitsy Spiders, while not necessarily venomous, can leave some weird bacteria behind when they bite. It's this kind of thing, the doctor said, that needs to be caught early.

My dear friend recovered from her spider bite without incident.

Let's imagine, though, that my friend had no health insurance. Even that initial visit to the doctor would run $100. Then the antibiotic, depending on what kind it was, might be another $100. So it would be very, very easy to ignore an insignificant little spider bite, even after a week when it got larger. It might even be worrisome but not actionable when the bite got really large and the whole hand started to swell. After all, a swollen hand would cost more to treat than a little pimple, so the price tag gets larger.

A person with a spider bite could wind up with a grossly swollen hand and arm, and a fever. Treatment might or might not be successful. It could include amputation. It could end in tragedy, if the victim let it go long enough.

Friends, I can tell you that, in the population of students I teach, there are many stories of grandmas and grandpas (usually in their 40's or 50's) who went untreated for treatable illnesses and then died young. This is shameful for a First World country! Absolutely shameful! Talk about right to life! Despicable.

I am going to Washington, DC. I will be marching for single-payer health care that is affordable for everyone. No one should prosper from the sickness of others, except the people who actively help them to get well. Hospitals and medicines should not be a business!

It's a little less than a week until the march. If you want me to carry an intention for you, leave it in the comments box. I will write or copy out all the intentions and put them in my pockets, so that your concerns will go with me to the march. Once more unto the breach.

Why I'm Marching #3: It Wasn't That Great

I'm a woman of a certain age. Must admit, past my prime. It's all good, though. With age comes wisdom. With age also comes ... age. I've been around the track a few times. Heck, I can even remember when America was "great!"

Here's a little story about that time.

I grew up in that part of the world where Maryland, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania are all three only a few miles apart. It's pretty rural out there, and in the 1960's it was definitely a place where people over-respected the Confederacy.

It must have been 1964 or 1965 when the nearest large municipality to my house, Hagerstown, Maryland, was ordered to open the large municipal pool to Black people.

In those days, all the Black people in Hagerstown lived in one neighborhood. That neighborhood had its own "separate but equal" pool. But it wasn't exactly equal. It wasn't even near equal. It was so far from equal you would have had to use a homing pigeon to find equal on the map.

I was a little kid, but I remember the moms in my neighborhood, swearing that they would not take their children to the municipal pool to swim with those "dirty n*****s." Yes, that is exactly what I heard. Middle class White ladies actually thought Black children were literally dirtier than their own kids. Full of diseases and who knew what?

My mother rounded me and my cousin up. She gave us each a quarter. She said, "I'm going to drive you to the pool. And guess what? It won't be nearly as crowded today as it usually is! You'll have a great time!"

Off we went to the pool, which opened at noon. There was always a line of kids waiting to get into the pool the moment it opened on a hot summer day. Sure enough, there was a line that day, too -- almost all Black kids.

I lived in a segregated world. I had never been near a Black person before. (My elementary school principal retired when she heard that "her" school would admit Black students. That was after my time.)

My cousin and I took our place in line, and it was somewhat awkward on everyone's part. But once we got into the pool, lo and behold, Mom was right! There was way more room than usual. No lines at the sliding boards or anything!

You would think that the moral of this story is going to be about equality. And you would be right. There was nothing, and I mean nothing great about America in the 1960's, if you were Black. This was a hostile nation then, bent upon keeping Black people at the rock bottom. I'll be damned if I call that a great time. It was an awful time.

But wait. There's more.

The Hagerstown Municipal Pool had three metal sliding boards with jets of water that shot out from the top, to make them more slippery. There were a few signs that said, "Do Not Go Down Head First" scattered here and there, and if a lifeguard saw you attempting head-first, you would get thrown out for the day. Nevertheless, three or four kids died of broken necks going down those slides. Another kid died falling off the top.

Government regulators shut down the Hagerstown Municipal Pool, I think around 1970, because of the metal slides. The pool did not re-open until it had been rehabbed and brought up to the strict codes of safety that should apply to public swimming pools.

Black Lives Matter. Government regulations matter. Want to see America become "great" again? Turn the clock back to 1962, and break your neck on a sliding board in a swimming pool full of White kids.

Why I'm Marching #2: I'm Part of the Problem

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," clumping along with a too-large carbon footprint since the mid-20th century! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, wasteful and privileged American.

There have been so many studies done of climate change, using ice cores, tree rings, pond scum, temperature and rainfall data, glacial melt, sea level rise, unicorn extinction, and species migration, that a sensible person could not possibly doubt that the globe is warming.

(Yes, I know that unicorn extinction is unrelated to climate change, but shhhh! Maybe the deniers will believe it.)

Remember when we were kids, and our parents said, "Eat those carrots. There are children starving in China who would love to have those!" and we said, "Can't we just send the carrots to them?" Well, honestly, nothing has changed. My cats eat better than the vast majority of Third World humans. I'm sitting here in an oil-warmed house (okay, the thermostat is set at 60), with two cars in the driveway (okay, my commute is 9 miles round trip, and my husband works at home), getting ready to eat a pretty doggone good dinner, and my lifestyle is harming the planet.

Every Sunday there's another story in the New York Times about how climate change is affecting other parts of the world. And I weep for the poor families whose lands have gone to drought. But just like I can't mail my carrots to China, I can't reverse climate change on my own.

That's what we want the world governments to do.

Our government had made some strides over the last eight years (thanks, Obama!) but is now poised to renege on all the half-assed promises we've been able to make (#notmypresident). Instead of investing in alternate power sources, we are going to drill, baby, drill. Emboldened by our indifference, the other world powers will follow suit.

By the time America starts to fry, some other countries will be baked to death.

(It is good news for my Canadian readers. Go, therefore, and lead the free world!)

I am attending the Women's March in Washington to protest indifference to global climate change. I stand opposed to rollbacks in environmental protection, to increased use of fossil fuels, and to unbridled greed for finite natural resources.

Having studied my geology, I know that the Age of Humans will be a brief blip in the long and storied history of Gaia. Nothing we can do short of setting off every nuke simultaneously will be enough to destroy the planet thoroughly. (On the other hand, one burp from the Sun could crisp us instantly.)

It's not that it doesn't matter in the geological history of Earth. It's that it does matter in the human history of Earth. We are riding on this rock, and we should take better care of it. And that starts with laws and regulations curbing carbon-dioxide-producing chemicals.

I'm marching to protest indifference to global climate change. Once more unto the breach. Who's with me?

Frank Talk about Stripping

Wow! I had forgotten the many fun categories of post I used to write for this blog! One of my favorites is "frank talk." Way too often, people beat around the bush about things like stripping.

You might not believe this, but I'm a woman of a certain age, and I've never stripped before. I've painted, spackled, and even done light carpentry. Never stripped.

But you get to a time in life when everything must go. The old is dingy, and the new beckons. That's when stripping becomes not only preferable, but absolutely necessary.

I spent this whole weekend stripping. It was a rocky experience. I'm a novice, after all! You can't master these techniques overnight.

One of my downfalls was that I watched a ton of YouTube videos about stripping. Every one of them made it look hella easy. That paper was coming off in long, sweet swathes, and all the vloggers were either ruggedly sexy (men) or sassy and blonde (women). Both genders made stripping look like a stroll in the park.

It isn't.

I stripped for four hours on Saturday and three on Sunday. I worked up a sweat both days and got my arms soaking wet on Sunday. The only feedback I got from Mr. J was that perhaps I should try some chemicals from the basement.

Can't say I made much progress towards being a master stripper. However, some stripping was done, and my technique had improved a little bit by 5:00 on Sunday.

At the rate I'm learning, I'll be stripping for quite some time. Anyone who wants to help me, or even keep me company while I'm stripping, is welcome to contact me. As with so much in life, stripping is a lot more fun in the imagination than in real life, and it always looks better when the professionals do it.

Have you ever stripped? If so, can you give me tips?

Why I'm Marching #1: Production for Use

I thought I would give my reasons for marching in order of importance. I've changed my mind on that. There are so, so many reasons to brave freezing temperatures and a long day on flat feet in Washington, DC for a march against the Republican juggernaut. No use to front load all the big ones.

Here's a reason that I would put on the lower end of the "Why I'm Marching" scale -- probably because I live in a state with tough gun laws.

I'm sure you've heard the saying, "Guns don't kill people. People kill people."

Well, folks, I don't believe that. Here is a meme I had to make myself, because apparently no one else has thought of it:

What is a gun? It's a tool. What does this tool do? It shoots bullets. It has been produced to shoot bullets that can kill things.

Gun owners can spend their whole lives shooting tin cans off fence posts, but bottom line, the whole reason for gun production is to be able to kill another human being. You shoot at the tin can so your aim is good when the time comes to use your tool for its primary raison d'etre.

I call that "production for use."

President Obama called constantly for comprehensive background checks as a precursor to gun ownership. Candidates Clinton and Sanders were both anti-gun. Candidate Trump enthusiastically endorsed gun ownership.

A government run by Republicans will be very tolerant of rampant gun purchases with little to no oversight of the individuals purchasing the tools.

What is overlooked in the heated discussion on the free purchase of firearms is how profitable they are for the factory owners who make them. Each weapon costs a lot of money. Someone is making bank. And there are those who profit from the sale of ammunition and the rental of target practice facilities. Somewhere out there, a person is living large on the profits of these tools, while other people are mourning the deaths of loved ones when the tools were put to use. Don't ask me how these people can sleep at night. They must have "Guns Don't Kill People. People Kill People" written on their mirrors with shaving cream.

I will be marching on January 21, 2016 in Washington, DC because I believe that no individual who is not on active duty in the military should be allowed to own a semi-automatic weapon. This is my reading of the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution. Guns should only be in the hands of "a well-regulated militia."

I've written a lot about this, mostly after senseless shootings of unsuspecting, innocent Americans. Today was one of those days.

My Next March Won't Have Satin Parasols

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson -- white, female, worker.

In 17 days I will be heading to Washington, DC to participate in the Women's March on Washington. The very day I heard there was to be such a thing, I signed up to go. Since then I have read everything on the Internet about the march, both positive and negative.

Day before yesterday, I read a negative. It is called "The Women's March on Washington Has Already Failed."

Long story short, the article suggests that the march lacks focus. What is the main aim of this protest? There are so many factions! For some people, it's about women's health. For others it's about health care in general. Some people are worried about the environment. Some people are opposed to tax cuts for the rich. There are LGBTQ folks and Black Lives Matter folks and gun control advocates and opponents of charter schools. So, who's in charge here?

Who's in charge? Who cares! Look at all these concerns! Which one is more important than the next? Do we need to prioritize them?  Okay, then. I offer my own humble prioritization:

1. climate change
2. social safety net
3. human rights

This is just my opinion. I mean, really. This is just me.

It would be really nice if the only purpose for the Women's March on Washington was the preservation of women's individual rights to choose what happens to their bodies. One issue! Great! Except that, all at once, all of these huge issues are crashing down simultaneously. To choose one, and focus just on that one, would marginalize the others. And that goes for any one of the concerns listed above.

Plenty of people will line up to tell you that protest marches have no lasting effect on public policy. The marchers gather, shout, disperse, and that's it. No one needs to pay attention to silly marches. They don't matter.

Bamp! Wrong.

Let's run the highlight film of the twentieth century, shall we?

Oh my goodness! This march on Washington had no lasting impact on public policy! Heck, the guy in the photo wound up getting shot! (*Anne being sarcastic*)

Marches can, and do, change things. The changes don't happen overnight, the moment the tired protesters go home and take off their shoes. But the changes do happen. Marches can become defining moments in history. Not all of them do, of course, but enough of them do.

I suppose when some cheeky reporter tells me that a women's march has already failed, I just have a hard time believing it. Yes! Maybe on January 22, 2017 the march will look like a failure. But maybe, over the long haul, gathering 200,000 (or more, I'm hoping more) citizens in the nation's capital, for a dizzying array of serious issues, will influence public policy in the decades to come.

Does this march need a unifying theme? A focus? I don't think so. In fact, the more voices we get, and the wider diversity they represent, the better. Not one issue, not one person, should be left along the margins.

Over the next two weeks, I'll be giving you all of my many reasons for marching. When I'm all through, maybe you can help me decide what to write on my sign.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends. Will I see you there?

Mummers Parade 2017

Wow, what a beautiful day! Look at that sky!

It's Spare and me, out with the Two Street Stompers on New Year's Day, brightening up Broad Street in the City of Brotherly Love! Our routine was amazing. At some point I'll be able to upload a video of it, but it hasn't been made public yet.

Our routine went something like this: The Redcoats marched out first, behind Lord Cornwallis. (The tiniest tots carried fifes and drums. It was adorable.) Then the Colonials came marching out behind George Washington to some badass music. Then there was a dance off between the two armies to see who could bust the best move. Then, we ladies -- led by Betsy Ross -- came out to sort things out. To the strains of James Brown ("Living in America') the troops mixed and mingled in an orderly fashion, until the whole unit was all conglomerated. Point being that everyone is welcome in America.

Nice point, don't you think?

Here's a photo of our fighting Colonials. Check out the darling tot.

If you judge a person by the company they keep, here's my posse. Come to your own conclusion.

We had over 200 participants this year. The Two Street Stompers is one of the largest comic brigades. I think I counted seven school buses that we filled in New Jersey for the transit to Philadelphia.

So this parade is a competition. We finished in third place. Today I watched a recording of the entire Comic Division, and I didn't see the two clubs that finished ahead of us. Not every club gets on t.v. If there are commercials while you're performing, it's just the luck of the draw.

You would think, given the current political turmoil, that I wouldn't be in the spirit of a patriotic routine just now. But this did my heart good. This country is just as much mine as anyone else's. I'm an American, proud of it, and I won't back down. I live here, with my opinions that I'm entitled to.

Next year is the 40th anniversary of the Two Street Stompers. I'll be saving my pennies from this day forward. Wouldn't want to miss that!