Things I Miss

Well, here we are again at "The Gods Are Bored," on May 72nd or some such. The only upside to teaching from home is that I get enough sleep. This is counterbalanced by a million downsides. It's awful.

But pish tosh! Why dwell on the negative? Hmmm. What can I write about that is positive?

Well, the Monkey Man visited on Mother's Day, with his monkeys in tow and an Eagles mask.

EXHIBIT A: MY DEAR OL' MONKEY MAN

He's behind that poster.

The Monkey Man is one person I don't have to miss during quarantine. He and I have been doing the pen pal thing. We help the postal service. And I write to him because I know he'll write back.

What are you missing in these stay-at-home times? I am really staying at home. Every other week I put on my Gritty mask and go to the supermarket. Otherwise the only time I go out is to walk around Haterfield. No one else wears a mask.

There's so much I miss! In no particular order:

1. the thrift store
2. the thrift store
3. the thrift store
4. teaching the ordinary way
5. the farmer's market
6. the beach (not going until I have a vaccine)
7. Mummers meetings, now being done online
8. LARP in the woods
9. daughters coming for dinner
10. hiking
11. festivals
12. road trips
13. petting other people's dogs
14. the gym
15. teacher workshops where they ladle out mountains of pastry and candy
16. senior student events
17. the thrift store
18. restaurants
19. being able to breathe while outside
20. fitting into my clothes

On the upside, my little back yard has never been more tidy. And there's a jenny wren nesting in the bird house I bought on March 9 before this all hit the fan.

What do you miss?

Virtual May Day Faerie Festival

So it was round about April 21, and I was sitting in my barca-lounger feeling sorry for myself. I thought, "Oh yeah, and no festivals this year. Great. Just great."

And then I thought of my online exercise classes, and I thought: "Wait a minute. Why couldn't we have an online Faerie Festival?"

I sent a Facebook message to two people I'm close to who I met at the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm. Basically, with my limited technology abilities, I just imagined a group page where we could all just post some photos of yesteryear. Just so we wouldn't feel totally alone on festival day.

You know, people know people who can work wonders with the Internet.

Within ten days a young Fairie Festival performer had created a whole virtual playground on Facebook, and on Sunday there was a full schedule of live performances! In ten days more than 1,000 people found their way to that page -- and the photos were shared in profusion! Then came the pre-recorded stories. Then the live interviews with the owners of Spoutwood Farm. More photos, more comments, love in abundance.

Even the dreaded Wotan the Fairy-Smasher sent a greeting from Washington State!

What a weekend! I put on my festival clothes and decorated my front door.

EXHIBIT A: FRONT DOOR

The weather was brilliant. I set my machine up on the front porch and went to a splendid place called Cyberwood.

EXHIBIT B: FESTIVAL CLOTHES, FESTIVAL FRIENDS

All my friends were there. And the one festival pal who doesn't have a Facebook page messaged me, and I was able to send him some of the content.

Festivals exist because people want to be in social groups with like-minded people. Many of us go through the world feeling like misfits ... until we find that sweet, sweet festival. Nobody ever said the festival has to be on a particular piece of ground on a particular weekend. It can be any time, in the safety of home.

All of this will make the reunion sweeter when we are able to gather again in the apparent world. For me this will not occur until I've held out my arm for a Covid vaccine.

The moral of this sermon is simple: If you are missing a yearly event because of the virus, find some bright young whippersnapper and make an online version of it!

Another Setback for the Sacred Thunderbirds

I got my hopes up again. It was looking really good. The prospects were, as they say, ripe.

The television started reporting on a Thunderbird flyby two days ago. It seemed that New York City and Philadelphia were the specific locations of a Thunderbird flyby.

Well! says I. About time that the Sacred Thunderbird gets a good push-out!

Of course I shouldn't be driving to Philadelphia, but there is one place near my house where you can kinda sorta see Philadelphia. There's no such thing as a "high point" in my part of New Jersey, but there is one empty parking lot with a vague view.

So I went to that parking lot about 45 minutes before the worship of Sacred Thunderbird was scheduled to begin.

At first it was just me and two other cars in this big, wide parking lot. But slowly the lot began to attract more people. Not "oh my Gods I'm too close, I have to leave" numbers of people, but significant numbers of people. And off in the distance, over the Cooper River, a pair of Sacred Thunderbirds who seemed to be making their lazy way in our direction.

So many people arrived that I put on my mask. Not that anyone was too close, but there was a subdued excitement. Finally! Thunderbird worship on a grander scale! Should I lead? Should I follow? I had to remember to be humble. Not many people have been worshiping Thunderbirds as long as I have.

And then. Wouldn't you know.

EXHIBIT A: WRONG THUNDERBIRDS

I should have known, right? No respect for the real Thunderbird.

So it was this cluster of planes and then another of Blue Angels. Our tax dollars at work, my friends. Can't get a Covid test, but wow ... look at those planes!

They breezed right overhead, and really low too. I guess it was worth the 1 mile drive. Nice way to get out in the sunshine.

If you're jealous that you didn't get to see the Thunderbirds, take heart. There were 4,000 new cases of virus in New Jersey today. At least you aren't in New Jersey.

I guess the membership in the Church of the Sacred Thunderbird is back down to one. Oh well, at least there's one!

Stay safe, my friends.

Dr. Annie's Guide To Beating the Deadly Coronavirus

NOTE TO MORONS: THE FOLLOWING POST IS SATIRE. LOOK UP THE WORD "SATIRE" BEFORE YOU READ ON.

Hello out there! Welcome to The Gods Are Bored Memorial Hospital! I know you are really interested in quick and easy remedies for the coronavirus. If you didn't see his briefing on April 23, our president offered the wisdom that injecting or ingesting disinfectant can cure the bug.

How about that? A splendid idea! Gotta tell you, my friends, I put out some lines of dishwasher detergent last night and snorted them. All of a sudden, I didn't care if I ever got the virus, or got a cure. I didn't even care to live, to be honest.

I was ready to try the ultraviolet light treatment the president recommended, too. I figured if I were to lay out in the bright sunshine for 8 hours nonstop, I would probably sterilize myself thoroughly. Promise you I'll try it on the next sunny day. It's pouring here in the Great Blue Northeast just now.

But President VillageIdiot is overlooking some other tried-and-true remedies for a novel virus the human body has never experienced before. Are you feeling under the weather? Try the following, and you'll live a long and happy life!

1. Dry Cat Food. Little known fact: Cat food cures everything from the heartbreak of psoriasis to ingrown toenails! Eat one bowl each day. Feed your cat the food you would otherwise be eating yourself. Omit salad.

2. Pothole Water. You know how water collects in those pesky potholes? Drink that right down! In addition to curing coronavirus, this will be a great colon cleanser.

3. Vitamins. Forget One-a-Day. Try One-Bottle-a-Day. Yes, take the whole bottle at once. Coronavirus is a dangerous foe! Halfway measures won't work.

4. Crayons. Hey, the box says non-toxic, right? Chow those puppies down! If you've got the big box of 64, you will be protected from coronavirus for 64 days! The magenta is particularly powerful.

5. Electricity. Since you were a little kid, people have been telling you not to stick a knife in an electrical outlet. Of course! You didn't need to, because you didn't have novel coronavirus! But now you should employ this sensible remedy. The searing pain and heart palpitations are unfortunate side effects, but hey ... hydroxychloroquine has pretty much the same effect.

6. Prayer. Petitions should be addressed to Yahweh and should be undertaken at a mega-church. Many of the mega-churches are open, because remember -- Jesus is stronger than the virus. Pay no attention to the people who couldn't get this to work! They were lacking in faith.



So there you have it. I feel fairly confident of all these treatments, because heck ... I took Health in high school and (if memory serves) passed with a solid C.

MORON: THIS IS SATIRE.

Sheesh.

The Joys of Teaching Online

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," banging my head against the wall edition! At the ripe young age of 50 I began a new career as a public school teacher. I've gotten better at it over the years, but it never came naturally. Now I'm in a whole brave new world, "virtual classroom."

Here's what a regular class period looks like for me, in  easy steps:

1. Get students going with a period of silent reading.
2. Get students to write a little something about what they read during silent reading.
3. Entertain the students with hyper-dramatic teaching for 10-15 minutes. In the lingo, this is a "mini lesson."
4. Students do an assignment based on the "mini lesson," while I walk around the room and make sure they are doing it.
5. If time permits, some students share their answers. Sometimes I "check for understanding" by having them tell me on an index card whether they get it or not.

One glance at this list will tell you how little of it can be done online. Basically I post an assignment on Google Classroom. Students can ask questions on their assignment document. There's a chat feature in Classroom. I can post grades on there.

Seemed like enough to me. After -- how many, I can't even count -- four weeks of remote learning, the motivated kids have done their assignments and asked questions as needed. The unmotivated kids (the ones I have to prod individually in the classroom) haven't done anything. It's either all or none.

And of course I have covered my kiester by calling parents and students who didn't do the work.

Now our assistant superintendent (Janie Junebug, I hope you're reading this!) has demanded that we have Meet-ups using audio and video through our computers. Attached to her chirpy email was "directions," consisting of six different documents with about 16 hyperlinks in each document.

It was hard enough already!

Once more I find myself hopelessly adrift in the world of computers. Me! Anne Johnson! The first person at a publishing house to have used a computer to generate encyclopedia entries!

The world has passed me by. I'm obsolete. Jesus, I wonder what it will be like when I'm 70 and still trying to eke a living from teaching? Or will I even make it? That second wave of Covid is going to hit when school is in session. Then maybe it really won't matter if I couldn't master Google Meet.

Okay, self-pity session over. What problems are you experiencing right now?

Sign me,
Clueless Annie

Wartime Shopping

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," pandemic edition! The virus is still raging here in New Jersey, and we've got an at-risk household here at Chateau Johnson. May all the Goddesses of all the pantheons known and unknown protect us! (Spreading a wide net as usual!)

I'm trying to stay as far from people as I can in this densely populated state. It's not easy. Go out for a walk, lots of people. Can't go to the park in the next block, it's closed.

Alas, there's no avoiding the grocery store.

In this big and busy county of mine, there are innumerable grocery stores, including Whole (Paycheck) Foods and Wegman's. If you haven't heard of the latter, it's a pinky-in-the-air gigantic place that I wouldn't set foot in even before the pandemic. You couldn't hire me to go in there now. Of course Walmart is out of the question.

The borough of Haterfield has its own Acme supermarket, a very tiny little store in what used to be a Friends meeting house. I have always given this Acme my custom, since its workers are unionized and it's a bearable size. Even though I am now doing two weeks of shopping in one trip, I won't go to the mega stores.

My local Acme instituted senior citizen hours from 7-9 in the morning, which was very kind of them. This morning I arrived there promptly at 7:00, hoping the store wouldn't be crowded. It was crowded. Worse, there were so many things out of stock -- bananas, oranges, salad greens, fresh spinach. The shelves were empty. Forget about toilet paper or paper towels or hand sanitizer. The paper products aisle was emptiest of all.

I was trudging around in my bandanna, thinking about how this is like a war. No fresh tomatoes, but they had the specific brand of apple that Mr. J likes. No fresh poultry products at all. (I think there's an outbreak at a chicken processing plant in PA.) And silly things like Pam spray all sold out.

But the place was crowded, and people weren't following the arrows and footprints the Acme posted on the floor to help with social distancing. Not only that, most of the people in the store were indeed senior citizens, way older than me, and they were buying a little this, a little that. For the love of fruit flies, why?

Then again, I filled two carts with stuff, and it took me over an hour to unpack it all and put it away. I sure wouldn't want to try that at age 80.

But soft! A wee bit of luck! As I was checking out -- a process that took 30 good minutes -- I saw that the green grocer was putting out salad greens and bananas ... eureka! The things I was going to miss the most!

Now it's another two weeks before I'll need any foodstuffs. Still teaching from home, so there won't be any need to biff about.

How do the grocery stores look where you live? I'm not sure my little Acme is typical.

Yours in the trenches,
Anne

PS - I have been writing letters to the Monkey Man and getting some back.

Bittersweet Birthday

I have been blessed that both of my daughters have stayed in the Delaware Valley, where they were born and where Mr. J and I live. Therefore we are always together as a family on or near birthdays.

April 15, 2020 bid fair to be the first exception to the rule.

My daughter The Fair lives in Philadelphia, not far from the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. So close, and yet so far! We're not supposed to engage in non-essential travel, and it would be dangerous to get near her, seeing as how she lives in a house with a Whole Foods worker and a bike deliveryman.

But damn. Her birthday. And the lilac bush is blooming ... her favorite flower.

So it was that I cut a few lilacs, put them in one of the glass bottles I scavenged from the middens on Polish Mountain, and Mr. J and I drove to Philadelphia.

It took us 15 minutes to get to her house. The traffic was about half what it would be for that time of the day.

EXHIBIT A: NON-ESSENTIAL TRAVEL?

We drove to her house. We stopped in the street and turned off the car. There's very little traffic on her tiny street on busy days.

We cried. We kept our social distance. I put the flowers on the sidewalk.

Then we talked for about a half hour, maybe a little more. Mostly about her job situation and pandemic funds and school plans deferred until next year. She looked good and healthy and about as happy as anyone can be in this situation, which is, you know, meh with a heaping dollop of anxiety.

It was the most bizarre birthday ever, and it didn't help when I got home and started going through old photographs just to get them in better order. When do people take photographs? At birthday parties! Those old pictures showed years and years of birthdays, going back to her first, which she celebrated in a bunny ears headband.

The next fraught occasion of this sort will occur on June 1, when the Heir has her birthday. We might have to do the same thing then. I'm really hoping that we will all be able to get together as a family by July 6, Mr. J's birthday. Right now I must say it isn't looking too hopeful.

So, Governor Murphy, if you want to give me a fine, I'll pay it. What price can one attach to missing a birthday when a daughter is a scant 7 miles away?

Yours in the trenches,
Anne

My Perilous Journey through Haterfield

Are you bored? Many Gods are. Seek them out in this time of trial and tribulation. One of them is bound to be available and easy to please. Our operators are standing by to take your call!

I live in Camden County, New Jersey. It's in the southern part of the state, and therefore not nearly as overrun with the killer virus as other areas. Still and all, there are 1400 cases of coronavirus in the county right now, including a reported 20 in Haterfield, where I live. Eighty people have died.

As contrast, on March 13 when I left my classroom and locked the door, there were 3 cases in Camden County.

I'm a woman of a certain age, married to a man who was hospitalized with pneumonia back before any of this got under way. You can best bet I am heeding all the warnings. It helps to read the New York Times every day, because they are pulling no punches in their descriptions of the course of the illness. To call it a blow-by-blow worst case scenario would be hitting the nail on the head.

When one is confined to one's home, surrounded by foodstuffs one amassed prior to any governmental decrees, one tends to wander into the kitchen to whip up a batch of cookies. Every day. This, of course, has led to the COVID 15, meaning weight gain.

Inevitably it becomes necessary to take a stroll outside.

There's a little county park nearby, but it is knee-deep in mud, and I have the ruined pants and shoes to prove it. Therefore, today I decided to walk through the small Haterfield downtown district. What a disaster.

First of all, everybody is saying that there's so much less traffic than usual. Nobody told Haterfield. The traffic is as bad as ever. There are lots of pedestrians, too. Most of them weren't wearing masks.

I had my bandanna on and my hoodie pulled up over my head, and my sunglasses. I know all that stuff won't protect me, but I am courteous.

Pure foolishness led me through the door of the small CVS on Haterfield's main street. There was an employee right inside the door. She was not wearing a mask.

I asked her, "Do you have toilet paper?"

"No!" she barked. Like to take my head off.

I did a 180 and got the hell out of Dodge as quick as I could. Perhaps it was my "thug chic" attire? Perhaps she has had to answer that question 1000 times? Maybe she's just not a nice person.

So I'm walking back toward home, down a street that I hoped wouldn't be crowded. There was a woman walking on the other side of the street, no mask, talking loudly on the phone. To whit:

"YEAH THEY SENT HIM HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL. THEY SAID HIS OXYGEN LEVELS WERE BETTER. AND NOW HIS GIRLFRIEND DOESN'T FEEL GOOD AND HIS DAD, AND I'M REALLY WONDERING..."

I didn't hear the rest because I was holding my breath and sprinting in the other direction as fast as my flabby legs could take me.

Wowsa! The perils of walking in Haterfield!

Stay at home, my friends. I've learned my lesson. Tomorrow and for the unforseeable future I intend to sweep my floors briskly every day. Rake the yard even if it doesn't need it. Make my cookies heavier, so that I'll be working out by lifting them to my mouth.

No more Haterfield for me.

Bernie

I always precede posts about Bernie Sanders by noting that I voted for Hillary Clinton in the general election, even though I live in a Blue state and my vote meant less than nothing.

Having said that, I've never admired a politician more than I have admired Bernie Sanders.

He has pointed out the obvious for decades and has voted accordingly. He has never changed his position for the sake of expediency, except perhaps becoming anti-gun over the years.

When a handful of people sit atop mountains of lucre and flaunt their excessive lifestyles while the rest of us struggle with endless debts and uncertain employment, a great wrong is afoot in the country. Bernie called it out. Every damn day.

Don't expect Joe Biden to allude to this injustice. He's going to rely on Bloomberg money and fistfuls of dollars from other fat cats who will want business as usual when November has come and gone. He is an empty suit with a pretty smile, and I am seriously concerned about his ability to express himself. What is he going to do in a debate with Trump? Trump will lie, Joe will say, "You're lying," and that will be that.

Meanwhile the rich will get richer on the backs of the poor. Our younger generations will drown in debt and be unable to participate in the middle class lifestyle of their parents (which, in the case of this household, means having a house we have never paid for and never will).

And the latest tactic of the oligarchs? Pit the younger generation against the older. "Okay Boomer" is exactly what the one percent wants to hear.

As long as we had Bernie, we had someone who cared about the younger generation. Now we don't. Kids, it's sink or sink for you. Your options? I don't know, but whatever you decide to do, this Boomer is with you.

Bernie may be out of the race, but the need for Bernie rocks on. Power to the people.

Gods Save the Queen

She's never been touchy-feely. She's always been stiff and stuffy. At times she has been flat-out clueless.

But today, and always, I am asking the Bored Gods to save the queen of England.

It boggles the mind that Queen Elizabeth II is still alive and able to make a coherent speech, given that she was born in 1926 (five months before my long-deceased mother) and that she bravely contributed to the effort in World War II while a princess and heir to the throne.

I know she's a figurehead with no political standing in the UK. Still, she's a symbol of the continuity of rule by a series of fairly educated and benign monarchs. She may only be an old lady in pearls, but she descends from Queen Victoria and does it nicely.

When you contrast her message to the citizens of the UK with the horrible, dishonest, self-serving and insulting daily briefings our chief executive is offering, you can't help but wonder if we would have been better off if England had crushed the colonial rebellion in 1781.

View the queen's address here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2klmuggOElE

How are you getting along? I'm having some difficulties.

Go Directly To Jail, Moron Televangelist

Greetings, my friends, and a hearty virtual hug from Pastor Annie at "The Gods Are Bored!" You know, science is a wonderful thing. So is history. And when you're asked to shelter in place during a highly contagious pandemic, you're relying on science and history as your guides!

Of course, your stone cold moron element -- widely represented in America -- respects neither science nor history.

Hot off the press, here's a little tale of a televangelist inviting people from all over the country to a huge outdoor Easter ceremony. He wants it to be of Woodstock proportions, because Christians sheltering from the pandemic are just "pansies."

There are way too many people out there who think Jesus will protect them from anything, even when proven abundantly wrong, time and again. My dad taught Sunday School for 60 years, and Jesus didn't keep him from getting Parkinson's Disease and breaking his hip and dying of a heart attack. Hey, for a brief period in the 1960s I believed in Jesus healing the sick, but my prayers on my mother's behalf did not yield results ... in fact her condition worsened.

Well. I'm no dummy. Pray and don't get results? Either change the prayer, or change the God. Or both.

The particular pastor inviting a national flock for a shindig hasn't been following the news. There has already been one conservative pastor who has died in the prime of life after suggesting the disease is a hoax. And honestly, I don't mind that guy. He didn't invite a festival's worth of people to hug and kiss in the midst of a killer plague.

Mark my words. On Easter Sunday there is going to be a mighty flood of civil disobedience as the stupider brand of Christian heads out to harp and hosanna in numbers. I would say, have at it ... except that these "Jesus will protect me" morons will disperse into their communities and start killing dear old grannies right and left.

Chew on this, morons: If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a noise? Put it another way. Will Jesus still rise from the dead if you don't go hug 300 people in a crowded church?

At least one televangelist has already been arrested, and the Pennsylvania dude in the linked story says he'll gladly go to jail over his big Woodstock Jesus bash. Okay. Lock them up! Menaces to society.

Hey, Christian kids! Are you worried about your granny getting sick if you go to church on Easter? Well, you should be. Let me tell you about religions that respect science and history and would never expect their members to put any human being in the path of a novel coronavirus! Jeez, where should I start? You want the whole list, or just the top 100?

Moron televangelists should go to jail, directly to jail. They should not pass Go. They should not collect $200. Lock. Them. Up.

Reply Here

I don't do Twitter. There's a reason. I can't curb my enthusiasm. Inevitably I would get in big trouble, because on Twitter the trolls are everywhere. 

But here, safely ensconced at "The Gods Are Bored," mostly among like-minded -- and therefore highly intelligent and enlightened -- people, I can post tirade after tirade.

So today I'm inaugurating a new recurring motif: Replying Here. When our sorry excuse of a commander in chief tweets some brainless drivel that heightens my ire, I'm going to post it here and then smack the shit out of it. This is my comfort zone, and I need to vent.

Today's Assault on Humanity comes from March 29, 2020.

Real Donald Trump on Twitter:

"Because the 'Ratings' of my New Conferences etc. are so high, "Bachelor finale, Monday Night Football type numbers" according to the @nytimes, the Lamestream Media is going CRAZY. "Trump is reaching too many people, we must stop him." said one lunatic. See you at 5:00 P.M.!


Anne's Reply:

For real, are you kidding me, you bone-headed, knuckle-dragging insult to everything Neanderthal? Where's your empathy? Oh, wait! I go way back, watching your antics. You lost your extremely limited supply of empathy during a coke binge at Studio 54 in 1978. A janitor sweeping up the next morning dumped it in the trash and didn't even notice, because it was so small.

Empathy is what we need right now. We need a leader who is actually a human being.

EXHIBIT A: IF YOU CAN'T BE EVEN THIS HUMAN, YOU ARE HOPELESS

Nobody's asking you, Donald Trump, to stride in to an emergency room and kiss elderly women on ventilators. But you should be able to express something more than a brag-out about your television ratings! Oh, right. Maybe you did. Maybe there are 42 compassionate tweets that I don't know about. But it doesn't matter, you chimp! One stupid, ridiculous tweet like the above totally cancels out any sympathetic tweets you send.

Trump, you execrable egg-head, you are only as good as your worst tweet. You are president. You should think, and think hard, about the contents of each tweet. And if you can't think (there is abundant evidence of this), you should turn this task over to someone who can. Oh, wait. There's abundant evidence that you have surrounded yourself with toadies who don't think much either, if their wallets aren't in the game.

Repent, clueless tweeter! Take that ridiculous, unprotected cell phone and fling it into the Reflecting Pool. Your boasting has always added insult to injury, but right now it is intolerable.

From Anne Johnson
Citizen

Sacrificing Grandparents on the Altar of the Economy: A Rant

Did you see where the wealthy Caucasian lieutenant governor of Texas went on Fox t.v. and said that senior citizens would be willing to sacrifice their lives to keep the economy humming? He's 70 or some such himself, so of course he could speak for all the wealthy white motherfuckers loving grandparents out there.

Count me the fuck out, Tex. I'll hang on to my life, Dow Jones be damned.

There is hardly anyone alive now who can remember the Great Depression. My mother was a little kid in the 1930s, and if she were still alive she would be 95. But the point is, America made it through the Great Depression. Without killing grandma! Jesus, has nobody read the last chapter of The Grapes of Wrath?

This bonehead Texas lt. gov. had the bloody nerve to speak for all older Americans everywhere. What does he know about the many households that are headed by grandparents? I'll tell you: He knows squat. Bupkus. Nada. Less than zero. There are significant numbers of such households, including in his state.

And excuse me for pointing something out to this clueless moron, but he forgot to ask grandchildren if they value their jobs over their grandparents. That's a big omission! Oh my Bored Gods, the stories I could tell him about my students and the bonds they share with grandparents! I wish I felt comfortable telling you all about it, but it would violate my students' privacy. But what does an old white guy care about people of color in New Jersey? The economy! Jobs! Executive Compensation! Salaries! Asshole.

I can only talk about myself.

When I was a child, growing up in a household ravaged by mental illness and redneck mentality, my father's parents were a bastion of strength and sanity. My life would have unfolded entirely differently if I had not had them and their gentle care, their little mountain home, and their comfort.

EXHIBIT A: BELOVED ANCESTORS

That's me on the far right. Smiling.

In order to keep my grandparents from dying before their time, I would gladly have worn feed sacks and eaten potato peels, or stood in line for soup, or lost my job. What amount of money can you place on the lives of your grandparents?

This is not to say I would never be willing to sacrifice my life for my daughters. Pish, tosh! I certainly would! But the reason for that self-sacrifice would have to be more than the national economy. My daughters are already suffering from this recession, and they will continue to after the quarantine ends. But I have confidence in the sweep of history.  We will bounce back. And if it gets grim, if we find ourselves in a Great Depression, we will live as they did then. Sharing sacrifices.

I want to live to see my grandchildren, if at all possible, thank you very much you clueless moron of a lieutenant governor. A plague upon your house! Go ahead and sacrifice yourself. As for me and my house, we need each other more than that.

Names and Places

One night a few months ago, I heard the doorbell ring. Someone delivered a package to me from LL Bean. My name and address were on the front.

I told Mr. J, "I didn't order anything from LL Bean." But maybe someone sent me a gift out of the blue, for no reason? So I opened it. Inside was one of the ugliest shirts I've ever seen. You know that LL Bean look. Aggressively plain navy with some sort of snot-colored print. It was my size, though.

There was no gift card with it, but the invoice said the item had indeed been paid for.

So I called LL Bean. And surprisingly enough, after a very short wait, I got a real human being on the line. She read me the last 4 digits of the credit card used to purchase the ugly shirt. Not my card. Whew!

The question remained: Why did this hideous waste of cotton arrive on my doorstep? And then the customer service rep and I figured it out. The shirt belonged to the other Anne Johnson.

The other Anne Johnson lives down the street in the next block. (I notice her house is up for sale). Things used to get really mixed up between our two houses, but in recent years about all I've gotten is thank-you notes from the Boy Scouts.

I told the LL Bean customer rep that I would just schlep the item down to the other Anne Johnson. Which I did. She wasn't home. I left it in the mailbox.

Now it's just a few months later, and Mr. J and I find ourselves isolated in our house, with two daughters who hardly ever see eye-to-eye absolutely united in their demand that we not go out.

Bowing to the requests from the old kith-and-kin, Mr. J set out to order some groceries from the local store where we do the vast majority of our shopping. We can walk to this store from our house. But to get our asparagus and oranges delivered, we had to go through InstaCart.

At precisely 5:52 yesterday evening, InstaCart sent Mr. J a text message, reporting that our $100 of groceries had been delivered. Only they hadn't. Nor were they placed on the porch at any later hour, and they weren't here this morning.

My nimble fingers did a Google Maps search, and wouldn't you know it? There's another house with our exact address in the very next borough! When I called the house up on Maps, it was clearly and distinctly a single-family dwelling.

Someone else got my oranges. And InstaCart is out of the question, because Mr J spent 90 minutes on hold with them trying to sort this out ... and got nowhere. Never even talked to a human being.

I'm glad I stocked up on March 10, but I didn't buy any perishable fruits and vegetables. I didn't get cheese, either. Guess Mr. J and I will have to do without those luxuries. First world problems.

This is a mixed-up, fucked up country at the best of times. These are not the best of times.

Offer of Services

Hello and a hearty wave from a distance! It's another day at "The Gods Are Bored!" As of 4:00 this afternoon I will have been home bound for an entire week. It has happened before when I had babies and surgery. So far I'm okay.

I am posting the following message from my daughter The Fair. It is an offer of reasonably-priced services regarding web design and other tasks.

Her email is olivia.kram@gmail.com

Olivia Says:

Life update: I still have a job. I'm very fortunate to work for a company that cares about its employees during these trying times. Not everyone is that lucky and you should definitely give those people your business first. That being said, I am drastically having my hours reduced to keep the business afloat. I have a history with surviving on little but both due to needing something to do and to make sure I can keep up with my bills I'm re-opening my freelance services and I'm drastically reducing my prices to accommodate everyone's limited resources.

Here are some things I offer:

1. Website: Let me build your website! I can build you a website from scratch and teach you how to make edits on your own.

2. Graphic Design: Need a logo? Business Card? Resume Facelift? I can build a template for you so that you've got you a working copy you can continue to edit.

3. Social Media: Need some content? I can create that content. I can build posts and write copy for you. I can also show you how to use scheduling platforms and create a strategic plan for your profiles.

4. Copywriting: I have a degree in writing and can create content for you in no time at all. It doesn't matter what you want me to write. I'll write it.

Message me for rates. I'm going to be giving a HUGE discount to artists. I can also be flexible. Let's talk and I can see what we can do.

Solitary Religious Service for a Time of Pandemic

           Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne, always Anne, and today I'm offering some terrific free advice. We could all use something free right now.

In troubled times, religious worship takes on even more significance. I remember during 9/11, the churches were packed. Sadly, we can't pack ourselves into anything right now, even if we feel the need to access the Divine more than usual.

This is where solitary-practicing Pagans can lend a hand. This post is long because it contains the text of a ritual that I have practiced for a long time, doing all the roles. It's a broad and general ritual, which I will make even more broad by suggesting deities instead of leaving specific deities named.

Christian teens, you can totally do this! Just plug in "God." And take a good look at the rest of this, because it might have some real appeal.

If you're comfortable in your solitary practice, you go! I'm so happy for you.                                    

Ritual for Solitary Worship

If a specific speaker is identified, just read all those roles.

Herald:        By the Light of the Sun and Moon, by the Power of Sea and Stone, by the Beauty of Flower and Field, I will now undertake this moment of worship. This is my ceremony to honor the Gods, Ancestors, and Nature Spirits. 

Druid 1:       Let us take three breaths…

                        Together with the Earth beneath us…

                        Together with the Sky above us…

                        Together with the Sea around us…

Druid 2:       I have sought this holy light, in the Sun’s (or Moon's) sight, to celebrate this, a Rite of Worship. Let all disturbing thoughts be laid aside. May I be granted peace from all quarters, for only with peace can the work proceed.

Face East:              I salute the Hawk of Dawn, from which rises the warmth of the Sun. I call upon the Powers of the East. May there be Peace in the East!

Face South:           I salute the Great Stag in the heat of the chase, and the crucible of the Sun. I call upon the Powers of the South. May there Peace in the South!

Face West:             I salute the Salmon of Wisdom, who dwells within the sacred waters of the pool from which all rivers flow. I call upon the Powers of the West. May there be peace in the West!

Face North:           I salute the Great Bear lighting the darkened sky at night, whose path marks the fruiting of the bountiful Earth.  I call upon the Powers of the North. May there be Peace in the North!

Back to Center:                 May there be Peace throughout the whole world.

Druid 1:       Gods and Goddesses of this most sacred place, I ask for your blessings in this my  ceremony. I will recite the prayer that unites all Druids.

                 Grant, O Gods and Goddesses, thy protection, and in protection, strength,

                        And in strength, understanding,

                        And in understanding, knowledge,

                        And in knowledge, the knowledge of justice,

                        And in the knowledge of justice, the love of it,

                        And in the love of it, the love of all existences,

                        And in the love of all existences,

                        The love of the divine and all goodness.

Face in the direction of your choice:           Why do I come today to the Gods?

            I honor the power of the Gods in every season, as all times and seasons are important to the life of humankind. I celebrate growth, the dance of life, vibrancy shimmering through the day and night. I honor the sun in the sky, with its many faces, as it makes the transition from its northernmost rising at the summer solstice toward the south for the winter. I honor the waning of the year, the slide into darkness, the harvest home. I honor the Wheel of the Year.

Druid:            I will let my sickle down

                        As the nourishing ear is in my hand

                        I will raise my eye to the heights

                        I will turn on my heel to the right

Druid:                As the sun travels

                             From the eastern quarter to the west

                             From the northern quarter to the southern quarter

                             As the sun rests at center, I will honor the Gods.

Druid:        Let us meditate upon the things in our lives that nourish us, the things that we wish to preserve in troubled times. 

All: Meditate quietly.

Druid:  Think of how you can open yourself to that which would smooth you and soften your way as you pass along this challenging path. This is a time for meditation: for relaxing what is hard and sharp and becoming at peace with the elements of time and tide. Think of the power you have to protect yourself, and those things which are outside your control. Both of these are sacred. They are the way of the world.

At this time you address your deities personally, petitioning them for clarity or asking them to hold you and your loved ones in the Light. Any concerns or celebrations are acknowledged. Stay in the presence of the Divine as long as you like. You can kindle a bonfire, do a dance, some drumming or singing, or even make a craft. At the end of this period, complete the ritual as below.

Druid 2:      This time has passed; may it come again in the fullness of the year. As the celebration ends, let its fire be lit in my heart. May my memory hold what the eyes and ears have gained.

 (3 times) 

I swear, by peace and love to stand,

Heart to heart and hand in hand.

Mark, O Spirit, hear me now,

Confirming this, my sacred vow. 

 Three Awens or other closing spiritual exclamation

Druid 2:       May the spirits of the four directions be thanked for their blessings.

                                    

Face East:              In the name of the Hawk of Dawn, from which rises the warmth of the Sun;  I thank the Powers of the East.

Face South:           In the name of the Great Stag in the heat of the chase, and the crucible of the Sun, I thank the Powers of the South.

Face West:             In the name of the Salmon of Wisdom, who dwells within the scared waters of the pool from which all rivers flow, I thank the Powers of the West.

Face North:           In the name of the Great Bear lighting the Darkened Sky at night, whose Path marks the fruiting of the bountiful Earth, I thank the Powers of the North.

Return to Center:                 May the harmony of the land be complete.

Herald:         May the blessings of the Divine be always with us. I declare this ceremony is now closed in the apparent world. May its inspiration continue within my heart.

Plague in the Time of Oligarchy

Back in the day, when a plague broke out, the rich would quickly gather their tots and their pets and hoof it to the old country estate, where they would be less likely to become infected. This is happening in America right now, rest assured. These rich fucks have bunkers in Montana or wherever. They're all set.

The rest of us are getting laid off, or our hours are reduced, or we've been downright fired. Or maybe you were looking for a job, and had your finger right on one ... and then this happened. Our nation's workers are being sucker-punched.

And as usual in America, the government is going to step in to try to help. It will be the stupidest Republican of all time who votes against stimulus that includes a basic income, a pause in college loan payments, and deferral of income tax.

How is our government going to pay for this? The bill will come due. Here's a modest proposal. Tax those rich bunker-dwelling motherfuckers! They are the reason the rest of us are living paycheck-to-paycheck in the first place.

In special circumstances like this, companies that are highly profitable should dip into those profits to help their workers. You think McDonald's doesn't have a bottomless pit of money somewhere? The C.E.O. should re-invest 9/10 of his salary and all his bonuses into private stimulus grants to employees. (Hint: He would still be crazy rich.)  Wal-Mart? Don't get me started. If justice prevailed, the Walton family would be announcing a vast employee assistance program, established with funds from their own personal fortunes.

Sadly, oligarchs have proven abundantly that they don't care how much pain and suffering they cause humanity. An opiate epidemic can claim 100,000 lives -- husbands and wives, beloved sons, daughters, nieces, nephews -- and the Sackler family will blithely collect fine art and yachts. They don't care who they kill.

It's time for ordinary Americans to demand that oligarchs care about the greater good.

Call this what you like: socialism, communism, whatever. I don't care. In the best case scenario, the ridiculously rich would voluntarily surrender wealth in service to the common good. In the next best scenario, the government would compel the billionaires to pay taxes.

In the worst case scenario, citizens will rise up and make the matter very, very personal. The two scenarios outlined above would be far better options.

Workers of the world, unite.

News Flash: You all know my daughter, The Fair, right? She just went from full-time employment to 12 hours a week. The Fair has mad skills. She can make or improve a web site for you. She knows how to market your product on social media. If there's anything of an online nature you've been wanting to do but aren't sure quite how, contact her!  olivia.kram@gmail.com

I'll post more about Fair tomorrow.

Stay safe, only eat the rich!
Anne

New Feature: Recipes for Quarantine

Here at "The Gods Are Bored," we have identified a need for helpful recipes to get us all through this dangerous pandemic. I am very helpfully posting the recipe I prepared last night. I hope you have all the ingredients on hand.

ANNE'S PANDEMIC HILLBILLY TURKEY

1 frozen turkey from Thanksgiving promotion, thawed and roasted
1 tranquilizer in the benzodiazapine family (I used clonopin) whiskey can be substituted
jar of turkey gravy, or gravy you made when you roasted the turkey
Bisquick
frozen peas

EASY STEPS

1. Take the tranquilizer or imbibe the whiskey. This will be the only way your nervous stomach will accept food.
2. Put 2 cups cooked turkey in a pan with the gravy. Heat.
3. Make Bisquick biscuits according to recipe.
4. Cook peas according to recipe
5. Serve when you're calm enough to eat.

It is recommended that you do not watch television, most especially the nightly newscast, before you begin to prepare this recipe.

Hey, let's trade! If you have a pandemic recipe, post it in comments, or put it on your blog and let me know. We're all in this together.

Home for Quite A While

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," CORVID-9 edition! Forget the coronavirus, I'm avoiding the crow-navirus!

EXHIBIT A: THE DANGER IS REAL

Mr. J and I are in a high-risk group for the virus, so we are chilling at home for at least the next two weeks. I'm essentially an alarmist, so I stocked the freezer on March 7. I didn't stockpile more than Mr. J and I would need, though. That's despicable, doing that.

Even when I went on March 7 there was no bleach, no wipes, and no hand sanitizer. I did get a package of toilet paper, and let me just say...

EXHIBIT B: THE DANGER IS REAL

I know some of you who donated paper and pencils to my classroom are wondering: How are my students going to do their schoolwork at home? There are indeed many kids at my school who don't have Internet, or only have smart phones. I made paper-based packets for all my students, and their work will go into writer's notebooks that we set up in September and use all year. I gave some precious loose leaf to the kids as well. No one should have to type a paper on a smart phone with their thumbs. And those assignments? They're based on personal choice books the kids took from my classroom -- books that y'all sent me. Books that they will want to read.

As you might imagine, being confined to my house means I'll have plenty of time to blog. I'm going to try to figure out how to set up a blog for my classroom that will be independent of this one. But I'm also going to get back up to speed on this one.

May the Bored Gods bless and keep you. Stay safe, maintain a distance at work, and remember to check Etsy for all the vendors you'll miss at your spring festivals!

Talk to you tomorrow, crow-navirus willing,

Anne

Homesick

On any given day, I miss living in the mountains. At certain times that general sadness blossoms into a deeper woe.

My grandparents lived 12 miles from the nearest convenience store and 25 miles from town. Their little cottage sat on the mountainside, and you couldn't see another house in any direction -- just mountains and forests.

Being that remote, my grandparents were ready to hunker down. They had shelves of canned goods and boxes of powdered milk and potato flakes. They had big jars of medicine and even cans of motor oil. It wasn't that they wanted to stay home all the time, it's just that frivolous trips to the store were a waste of time and gasoline.

I'm in the thick of coronavirus scare, and my store doesn't even have powdered milk. It's gross, I know, I know. But it serves a purpose.

Although I just ignored another birthday, and I feel like a spring chicken today, I had a whopper of a virus in January. I coughed for weeks. Worse than that, Mr. J had the same virus and developed pneumonia. He was in the hospital for two days.

The minute I heard "novel coronavirus" on the local news, I went out and bought a boatload of supplies. (Too late for hand sanitizer, but I'm not a fan anyway.) I stocked the freezer and the pantry and took some heat for it from picky Mr. J, who likes his foodstuffs minty fresh.

I have reason to believe my public school will be closed on Monday.

When Donald Trump was elected, I soothed myself by reading books about contagious diseases. The big ones, like smallpox and bubonic plague. Little did I know that this seemingly irrational choice of literature would be a cautionary tale. Not that the coronavirus is smallpox (which killed 3 of 10 who caught it), but if you're over 60 and have a history of pneumonia, it might as well be.

I think I have everything I need to live in this house for two weeks except one prescription that can be delivered.

There are people quarantined in my county. We have had one case confirmed.

As you might imagine, I'm sitting here thinking about the little cabin on the mountainside, bulging at the seams with foodstuffs and medicines, with rain barrels and kerosene lamps and pup tents and army blankets. Oh, to be at home once more!

Kind of hoping some bored deity will protect me, considering how much I do for Them. Okay, so I don't do much for them. But I used to, and they have good memories.

I Got It Done!

If you want to drop off the map, go to the hobby store and purchase a baby quilt kit. Your trembling hands will be busy for months and months. Finally, with the recipient a healthy 4 weeks old, the Great 2020 Baby Quilt is finished!

EXHIBIT A: I MADE THIS JAWN

It's revealed now because it has been delivered. I did enjoy making it, because while it's a cheesy kit, it has a little bit of an edge to it. The elements kind of sneak out of their squares, and the central tulip spreads over two squares. I didn't put a back on it or any ruffles, because I wanted it to be light and portable, and washable (which it is).

I also didn't sign it because I didn't want to mess with its vibe.

I hope this pleases the Bored Gods. They let me live long enough to finish it, so there's that.

Passing the Torch

It's not like I'll never write again. It's not like I'm going to stop entertaining you. But a certain apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, so now I have help!

Here's the thing to read today instead of Anne.

Young, hip, and a timely bit of self-help!

Imbolc 2020

[Enter Queen Brighid the Bright]

Brighid: Anne? Anne! Are you home? My goodness, look at this place! Gamma! Where's Anne? Oh, look at Gamma's cat bowl! It's empty!

Anne: Oh, Goddess! Look at me. It's the first Imbolc on a Saturday that I can remember, and I'm just so low and listless.

Brighid: This is so unlike you, Anne.

Anne: I'm worn to a frazzle, Goddess. It's more than the day-to-day grind. I haven't had my usual vim and vigor since 2016. For all my talk of fighting the good fight, it just gets harder every day. My creativity is shot, my daughters are struggling, my husband is nocturnal. I've lost touch with some people I love. My farm is gone, my youth is gone, and there's nothing ahead but Republicans and corona virus.

Brighid: Dear child, have faith! The winter is turning.

Anne: What winter? We haven't had winter! It has snowed for one hour. It's been warm as March and April since December, which was warm as September. And September was a veritable July.

Brighid: I have noticed this curious change in temperature. It does confuse Me. But in the long, thousands-years history of humankind, the weather has ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it's colder. Sometimes it's warmer. But My light never changes. Always, always in this week the light seeps back into the land. Always, always in these weeks the blackness of the morning gives way to soft gray. Don't pay heed to the warmth, Anne, pay heed to the light.

Anne: A beautiful sentiment, Goddess! I wish I could feel the light. But the darkness seems to reign supreme. Our nation and Your beautiful green land are both under a blight. Here they say "Make America Great Again," and over there they say "Brexit." Both are a curse.

Brighid: And yet the light returns. As it did in the days of yore. You must keep the faith. Light will shine into this mess. Take My word for it.

Anne: Oh, Goddess. How could I not take your word? You're a Goddess. And a smart one. Beautiful, too. No wonder you've inspired so much poetry and art!

Brighid: Flattery is one thing. Tea and muffins are another. Look at this nice cream and butter I brought!

Anne: Well, I do have some muffins ... but they're low-calorie bran.

Brighid: We'll make do, Anne. Fresh butter makes the most ridiculous muffin taste good.

Anne: Hold that optimistic thought, Goddess. I'll warm up the muffins.

Brighid: And fill Gamma's bowl. He looks hungry!

Something Really Important

Okay, so there's an impeachment trial. Trump is going to appear at the Right to Life march. Last year was the second hottest on record, the first being 2016. Billionaires are lining up to influence the presidential election. Important? Not as important as this:

Planters has killed off Mr. Peanut.

Apparently he dies selflessly, saving two actors I've never heard of, and bringing his 104-year-old iconic life to an end.

And of course the Twitter trolls and Facebook fools are all cheering, because with the monocle and top hat and spats, Mr. Peanut apparently is the epitome of the one percent.

Well, fuck Planters! And fuck the haters!

You know what's gonna die, Planters? Your lousy peanuts! There are many other brands of nuts that one can purchase easily. And I'm that one. DAMN! Who kills Mr. Peanut?

Mr. Peanut is particularly beloved in this household. We've always adored food product characters, and Mr. Peanut is one of the oldest. He paved the way for the whole concept of anthropomorphism of foods, cleansers, electricity, auto parts, you name it.

When I first heard about Mr. Peanut's death, I thought to myself, "Mr. Peanut can't be killed. He's an advertising character. Aren't they immortal?"

Nope. As a matter of fact, they aren't. Who remembers the name of this snazzy chap?

And get this. The way I understand it, they are going to have a "Mr. Peanut Funeral" commercial during the Super Bowl!

Fuck you, Planters.

My guess is that a "new" Mr. Peanut will be introduced. Maybe he'll even be Peanut Bro or Ms. Peanut. Why is this necessary? Are sales of peanuts down drastically? I kind of doubt it.

Somewhere, in an upscale conference room overlooking a Manhattan panorama, some advertising executives (no doubt male and white) decided that they needed to update Mr. Peanut ... and then they came up with the brainstorm of killing him and holding a funeral for him! FOR FUCK'S SAKE DON'T BUY PLANTERS, THEY FUNDED THIS TRAVESTY!

All of us reading this blog have grown up with Mr. Peanut. He's been on wrappers and on t.v., on holiday tins and key chains. He's been a kindly part of our landscape. Isn't it bad enough that organic creatures die? Do food product characters have to die too?

I mourned the loss of Lil Bub, but her passing seemed normal and was certainly expected. This destruction of Mr. Peanut was unnecessary and cruel to those of us who loved the debonair legume.

Even if Planters miraculously resuscitates Mr. Peanut and puts him back to work, they have lost my custom. Killing off a well-liked product mascot ... how will children react?

For the love of all that is lovable, may Gritty destroy Planters and scatter its seeds far and wide on the land! This company can go to Hell on a highway of hazel nuts and rot like a skunk in the noonday sun.

I will never stop loving Mr. Peanut.

Raining on My Parade

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wishing we could sneak into Davos and eat the rich! Or at least eat what the rich are eating, which I bet are some exceptionally fine vittles.

Mr. J and I are just emerging from an epic grippe. He was hospitalized with it, and I coughed for three weeks straight. Today was the first time since the Mummers Parade that I was able to get out and even exercise a little bit.

And with everything else going on in the world, today's post is yet again about the Mummers Parade.

The city of Philadelphia is quite clearly sick of this parade. They have shortened the route and put a third of the performances indoors. But the worst enemy of the Mummers Parade are some of the participants themselves.

The use of blackface in the parade has been banned since the 1960s, and even entries with "tanned" or red skin have been called into question. All Mummers know that appearing in blackface gives the press and the city ammunition in denouncing the spectacle. It also provides reason for the city's majority population groups to hate the parade.

And yet there are always two or three pinhead cracker morons who insist on blacking their faces.

The difficulty arises in the size of some of the wench clubs. (If you think of the parade as a hierarchy, even the wenches will tell you that they are the bottom feeders.) When you have a club marching a thousand people, your leadership can't police everyone. Sadly, it appears that self-policing or group admonition is beyond these fools.

The largest and rowdiest wench brigade was disqualified this year from their division for having members in blackface. The leadership of the brigade said those offenders will not march with the group again. But the damage is done. The appearance of those two or three wannabe Nazi creepers was the only thing the various news outlets wanted to talk about in the wake of the parade. And of course this malfeasance has been seized upon by everyone who wants the parade to be seen as racist, lawless, and a blot on the spotless reputation of the City of Brotherly Love.

I know there are racist and homophobic people who march in the Mummers Parade. Those people are not in my comic club. Do I stand down and denounce the event, or do I participate?

Well, I look at it like this. You go to a party, and over in the corner there's a pinhead cracker moron with a t-shirt that shows Trump dressed like Rambo, holding a semi-automatic weapon. (No lie, I have seen such shirts. Not at the Mummers Parade.) Do I get a plate of food and sit as far away as I can from the offender, or do I leave? Do I offer myself and my friends as better examples of the average party-goer, or do I just decamp in a huff?

I have no plans to decamp from the Mummers Parade. It hurts my heart to see it showered with disrespect by groups that I like (aka Antifa), but the experience does remind me that the biggest story is always the ugliest story. "Nice Mummer Lady Poses with Crowds on Her Way Back to the El Train" would hardly be something that anyone would want to read.

For the record, my club (Comic, not Wench Division) finished third. We had over 200 members in our group. None in blackface. That. Would. Not. Fly.

The Heir Makes a Special Delivery

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fearfully dodging World War III since 2016! I'm the hostess with the most-est, Anne Johnson. Ask me anything! I won't know the answer, but I'll nod thoughtfully.

Some of you who blog-hop will be tickled by what I am about to say.

As I write this, my daughter The Heir is having dinner in West (by Goddess) Texas with the fabulous Yellowdog Granny! I hope they love each other as much as I love both of them.

Yellowdog Granny and I go all the way back to the dawn of this blog. We found each other early and often. Two hearts that beat as one, you might say. If you have never visited her blog, you'll see why we mesh so well if you click on the link.

Of course, I have known my daughter The Heir even longer. She has flown from Philadelphia to Waco to help create a giant Snickers bar at a Mars candy factory there. Yes, you read that right. If you're willing to live in a drafty room and trash pick all your stuff, you get cool jobs like making giant candy sculptures. And puppets for Disney.

EXHIBIT A: HEIR HELPED MAKE THESE. IT WAS HARD.

So on my behalf, Heir is having supper with Yellowdog Granny, and delivering to her some Philadelphia Tastykakes. Oh to be a fly on the wall!

Heir says it's not so hard to get to West, Texas. I'm listening.

Marching After All

Goodness, it was a close call, but at the 11th hour I did this ...

I will be able to march, if briefly, in the 2020 Mummers Parade!

Mr. J was in the hospital for two days, and I thought I might have to scratch the parade from my dance card. But they discharged him, so I'll be able to join the club in Philly and do the competition and the Broad Street portion of the event. All is well!

If you want to watch my portion of the parade, it will be on from 10:00 until 1:00 - ish, live streamed on PHL 17 dot com. I can't give more precise coordinates for when the Two Street Stompers will perform.

Apologies for not being a better correspondent this year. To be perfectly honest, I feel like my writing skills have eroded. It's a consequence of career change, the political climate, and possibly just age. Nothing seems to be a laughing matter anymore.

But pish tosh! A new decade dawns, the next Roaring Twenties, and it's time to dust off the flapper gowns and elect a boring president!

If there's any topic you'd like me to tackle in 2020, fling it in a comment. Maybe what I need is inspiration. Or to live a somewhat interesting life ... which I mostly don't.

Thank you again, sweet readers, for helping get books and supplies for my students. May all the Gods and Goddesses of multiple pantheons both known and unknown bless you and keep you, and make Their light shine upon you.

I got to meet this Thunderbird in 2019. That will be hard to top.

Sweet, Sweet Lil BUB

I'm having trouble with this site being linked to some raunchy websites, but what can I do? I have no idea how the Internet works. Over the years I've written less about sex than any other topic, but I guess there are people out there who really do want to hook up with deities. More power to those people. They are not me.

I'm just going to put my two cents in about the death last week of Lil BUB. If you are a cat-lover like me, you no doubt wept, like me, when you saw on Facebook or Instagram that she passed in her sleep after a battle with bone infection. She was eight years old, which to me is phenomenal, considering how wacky she looked.

Maybe in ordinary circumstances I would have been mildly amused by BUB. But over the last three years I have sought her out often as an antidote to the times we live in. I know her owner made bank on her, and I don't fault him for a second. She raised lots of money for homeless pets. And she was so cute. You'll never see her in pessimistic memes like Grumpy Cat. She'll always be a special lil waif, destined for an early departure from this vale of tears until a kind man took her in.

I don't know about you, but I felt like lil BUB was my cat-away-from-home. I have followed her on every platform, although I never went out of my way to meet her. She seemed to have a cheerful personality ... and those videos of her slurping her food ... (her teeth never came in) ... well, has there ever been any feline content more adorable?

BUB got an obituary in the New York Times, that venerable publication that I read every Sunday. Glad to know that she was important enough that her passing was duly noted. I will miss the new photos of her but always look at the archives. As for purchasing BUB merchandise, I already have it. The Heir gave me a BUB calendar last year for Yule. I have literally looked at BUB every day this year.

So, lil BUB, what a cat you were! Trundle off now to the Summer Lands, and say hello to my Alpha. And my Beta. And Ozzie. And Dusty. And all my foster kittens who didn't make it. You made Trump World slightly more bearable. No mean feat.

Oh, the Things I'll Never Buy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Thanksgiving edition! And considering there was no Halloween Edition, or Veteran's Day edition, I think it's a sign of life.

Black Friday is upon us, followed closely by Cyber Monday. The principal beneficiary of our need to purchase gifts is a company called Amazon.

I was all for Amazons when they were fearsome female warriors. I still endorse them wholeheartedly and wish they would return in numbers. But the company called Amazon? May it tank and burn as if struck by the Flaming Meteor of Doom.

About a week ago Mr. J ordered something for me from Amazon. He has a Prime membership. He placed the order about 9:00 on a Friday night, and the packet got flung on the porch before noon on Saturday. I was impressed.

I guess in the back of my mind I knew the dark side of this delivery. But imagine. Me, a good Union girl, not really confronting the scourge that is Amazon Prime!

Here's an essential article on the business from Atlantic Monthly magazine. It will make you stroll out on Cyber Monday and buy the first locally-sourced gift you see.

No more Amazon for this writer. I can't enjoy products that represent the worst sweatshop since the heady days of Upton Sinclair and the meat-packing plants.

The thing that makes me angriest about Amazon is that its founder is so putridly rich that he could hire ten times the number of employees and pay them ten times as much, and he would still be so rich that he couldn't spend all his money in ten lifetimes.

We can't let this go on. Where's Upton Sinclair when we need him?

On a happier note, Melania Trump went to Baltimore to make a speech to middle school students and got a hearty round of full-throated boos. Out of the mouths of babes sometimes come gems.

On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City

It's Friday afternoon, about 90 minutes before sundown, and I'm on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. There's a cold-as-hell wind out of the northwest, sending the sand swishing across the dunes. The boardwalk merchandise flaps. The sky is cold front blue and, although it's only 3:00, the shadows are long across the boards.

The Atlantic City boardwalk is never crowded but never empty. Today is typical, with clusters of tourists scattered here and there, the usual panhandlers and store owners, and those guys that will pedal you in a little wicker cart for a fee. I used to sneer at those. Who is too feeble to walk on a boardwalk?

I had been walking into the wind -- about a mile, I think -- and it tore right through my sweater coat as if I had nothing on at all. But now I have turned around and am walking back the way I came, south, and the autumn sun beams into my face. It feels good. It also bleaches out the tattered landscape, sad gilded AC, home to poverty and distorted dreams.

I'm passing a pier to my left, and a tall, rather ragged man stands alone between me and the t-shirt store where you can get 3 for 9 dollars. He says to me, "Will you be here tomorrow?"

I keep walking. "No," I say. My voice is maybe just a tad harsh. Everyone you pass on these planks wants something.

Twenty paces later I'm passing the Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum, with its own eager barker, and it occurs to me that the tall man probably works for the museum, maybe offering discount tickets or a late season pass.

It's not the tall man himself that lingers in my mind, but his question. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

There are three levels to this question, and all of them solicit the same clipped "no."

Level One: I won't be on the boardwalk in Atlantic City tomorrow. I'm leaving town before sunset. I want to clip some phragmites from the bay side salt marsh to make a tasteful seasonal arrangement. Then I will drive home. It will be dark almost the whole way.

Level Two: I won't be at the same spiritual moment that I am in Atlantic City on this Friday afternoon in early November, 2019. My religious path flows and morphs, sometimes in little subtle changes, and sometimes with massive upheavals. But it does change. It's never just here.

Level Three: If "here tomorrow" is metaphorical, then no. I won't be here. As much as I would like to be the exception to the rule, I will some day face a tomorrow-less moment. I won't be here. My great-grandchildren, should I have any, won't know the first thing about me if they lack curiosity. Their great-grandchildren won't even know my name.

If I won't be here tomorrow, today is freighted with importance. The ability to walk, to breathe, to see the "WELCOME NJEA" signs, to hear the Guy Fieri restaurant loop outside Bally's ... none of that is trifling. I must seize the moment. I must start putting onto paper the sentences that crowd my mind. I must clip phragmites, clean the bathroom, feed the cat, and write. I must write. Because tomorrow I won't be here.