May Day Faerie Festival at Marshy Point

 What do you know? All this Supreme Court s*** hits the fan, and I get so bummed out that I don't post about the first Faerie Festival I attended since the lockdown! It was already last weekend.

I thought I would cry, and I did.

Day to day I don't have any close friends around me. I have acquaintances like the Monkey Man and colleagues at work, but most of my spare time goes to the spouse and the daughters. There are only so many hours in the day.

I'll bet the same can be said for the other people who go regularly to faerie festivals, because wow, when we got together it was like a fresh breeze blowing away all the stale air! So very good to see everyone again, so good that we came through the pandemic and into each others' arms!

The festival outgrew its original stomping grounds before the pandemic and has since moved to Marshy Point Nature Center near Baltimore. This is a quite pretty setting. Along some of the walking trails there are vernal ponds full of tadpoles, and of course there's that classic Chesapeake Bay-style view of a swath of water with reeds and stuff. Another bonus was a black vulture named Dumplin on exhibit. (Turns out black vultures don't particularly care for bagpipes and shouting. Who knew?)

All the elements of May Day returned. The Maypole, calling the Quarters, Tribal rivalries. Which of course yours truly aced like a boss.

EXHIBIT A: MOUNTAIN TRIBE OF MARSHY POINT

Okay, okay. At least I had a tribe. With a hobgoblin. Something to be said for that. If you look close you can see Kwiplick the hobgoblin on the shoulder of Professor Greenman. That's me behind the banner.

The event was very well attended, and the vibe was merry, festive, and respectful to our great Mother Earth. It was incredibly great to see all my friends!

Beltane is one of the major holy days on the Pagan calendar. It's a day dedicated to youthful joy and the lust that's rising in the land at this time of year. Perfect moment for a bunch of people who have been holed up behind masks and locked up in their homes to come dancing out for a good ol' time!

The festival lasted two days. I went to Marshy Point a day early to help set up. And I actually set things up! Not my strong suit. 

All hail the return of festivals! All hail Beltane, the day of dancing! As for me and my house, we will serve the Green Man.

What Happens When It Happens?

 There was no particular controversy back in 1973 when women were guaranteed the right to bodily autonomy in the USA. Then as now, the majority of thinking people in American felt like the government shouldn't be messing in peoples' personal medical decisions.

The only blowback on Roe v. Wade came from certain sects of fundamentalist Christians. At first they made a lot of noise in their own domains. Then the Republican Party needed a platform to attract those voters, and abortion seemed tailor-made.

So, let's look for a moment at America since Roe v. Wade. At the time that decision was handed down, more than 24% of Americans were in labor unions. Now that percentage stands at less than 6. A family could live on one parent's salary. Now they can't. Housing and college were affordable. Now they aren't. There was government-provided day care. Now there isn't. Companies gave their employees health insurance that was pretty comprehensive. Now they don't.

Why is this important? Because both political parties stopped caring about the prosperity of the electorate, but the Republicans in particular.

No one has challenged the ridiculous stagnation of wages while prices rise ... because unborn babies. No one has challenged our deplorable health care in this wealthy nation ... because unborn babies. Heck, if not for one principled decision by a dying man, we wouldn't even have Obamacare anymore! Because unborn babies.

Just this past year, no one stood up for a terrific child care credit. It expired. Because the babies it served are born.

Now things stand to change.

States will pass draconian laws that roll back certain guarantees that have been in place since 1973. These laws will fall upon people who have never given their rights much thought.

It will be up to those people to go out to vote. If they don't, they deserve to live in the Hellscape that has been created for them.

Now, mind you, the Republicans are trying to find more red meat to fling at these same voters. But no amount of trans-bashing and teacher-bashing is going to overcome the sudden realization by millions of men and women that they may be saddled with an unwanted child. Saddled with pregnancy, which is a tough nine months. Saddled with expenses, one way or another.

It's not going to matter to Karen whether or not there's a trans student on the volleyball team when -- at age 40 -- she suddenly finds herself carrying a baby she doesn't want and can't afford. Critical Race Theory won't matter to Buffy when her cheerleading uniform starts fitting tight and she falls out of the running for 'Bama Cheerleader of the Year.

This is a test for our democracy. This is a test for workers. Breaking free of the "right to life" dogma, people might actually ask themselves what our government has given them in the past 50 years, as opposed to what the government has taken away. 

In New Jersey we have a blue legislature and a blue governor. A woman's right to bodily autonomy is enshrined in the state constitution. And just last week we got legalized weed!

If nothing else, the Republicans have just boosted New Jersey's tourism industry. But my feeling is, this regressive party has just Fucked Around and Found Out. And if it hasn't, the whole mess of a country should be divvied up. Just as when you lop off a rotting limb to save a whole person. 

Annie's Garden State Tourist Haven for Single Ladies

 Are you a single lady in need of a quick vacation to the Garden State? Have I got a deal for you!

My name is Anne Johnson (really), and I have a nice little house with two spare bedrooms, here in New Jersey, the Garden State. I'm just a hop and skip from Philadelphia International Airport.

Would you like to take the Bruce Springsteen tour and hear a concert at the Stone Pony? We can do that. How about a nice hike with a few waterfalls? You would never guess New Jersey has waterfalls, but we do ... lots of them!

But of course the best part of this Constitutionally sound state is the Shore! Dear old Jersey Shore. You might not believe it, but the Jersey Shore is just like they showed it on t.v. Cheesy gaudy boardwalks, bars upon bars where you can get blotto in your bikini, caramel popcorn and taffy by the gallons, and miniature golf! And that's just Seaside Heights. If you go to Atlantic City, there are glitzy casinos and a first-class health care system in case you need some emergency procedure.

You can't beat this deal, ladies. For an unlimited time, you can stay at Chateau Annie absolutely for free! Yep, you heard that right. I know how expensive travel can be, and how single ladies often struggle financially.

The best part of Annie's Garden State Tourist Haven is that we have a big, broad, flexible outlook. We don't judge other people or tell them what to do with their lives. Be yourself, single lady! You're safe and sound here.

I'll be putting up offers here, beginning this summer. A simple email can set up your stay at Annie's. When certain things become official, this here tourist destination will be open for business.

No Bibles by the beds, either. I can give you some great witchcraft volumes to peruse. The library will be open to all the single ladies.

Come to Annie's Garden State Tourist Haven! We all need some privacy from time to time.

I Have Returned from Anneland

 Anneland. That's what I'm going to call my mountain property. It's the most beautiful little scrub forest in the world! I'm just back from my first visit, and now I am going to bore you to death with the details!

I know, I know. I should be sticking to interviews. Who wants to look at photos of a scrub forest in the middle of nowhere?

Then I will be brief.

I did not know the boundaries of the land I bought, so when I arrived to find 5 inches of snow on the ground, I was also pleased to find that the surveyor had wrapped neon pink ribbons around trees on the property line. These same trees are also blazed white. No question where my place begins. And thank goodness for that, because here's my neighbor:

I made a list of things I was hoping to find on my property. One thing was a really mature tree. And, bingo.

I wasn't kidding about the snow. It's usually cold in those mountains in April, but it doesn't often snow this much. But hey, I love the white stuff!

Saving the best for last. When I got the survey at closing, I thought there *might* be a view. On that account I was surprised to the point of weeping.

I don't have any plans to build on this property. The land is not even on the grid. But if my ship were to come in, this would be what I saw while sipping the morning tea and doing my devotions to Venus Cloacina.

And oh yeah, that ridge is Polish Mountain, where my grandfather's farm was. It's not the farm pictured, but that's a good thing.

The only other item I have to report in this boring ass blog post is that I have vowed never to take the Pennsylvania Turnpike to access my property. For one thing, its pace is worse than frenetic. For another thing, the tolls would set me back $100 per trip. So I took little ol' Route 30, the Lincoln Highway. Through Lancaster (Amish buggies), York (Walmarts), Gettysburg (battlefield), Chambersburg (city square), Caledonia State Forest, McConnelsburg (unfortunate name), and down to Route 522. Skipped that turnpike completely, and it only took me about an hour more! (It takes a solid hour to go the first 20 miles out of Philadelphia).

Something funny did happen on this trip. Saving it for the next installment of this Endless Navel Gaze called "The Gods Are Bored."

I'm Going Forest Bathing

 You've got to hand it to the Japanese. They come up with some of the best ideas.

Take "forest bathing," for instance.

That's what the Japanese call it when they stroll off into the woods and just take in all the joy that Nature has to offer. Apparently the Japanese do this in droves.

I've done this, but I never had a name for it. And it's been way too long since I have done it, mostly because every time I've gone to a forest in New Jersey, it has been densely populated with other New Jerseyans. It's to be expected, I suppose.

But the forest I am about to bathe in has no one around. It has no trail through it and no significant landmarks that I know of yet. It's off the grid and probably off the world wide web as well. Forest bathing is not done in the nude, but if I wanted to I sure could.

Gonna stroll into the woods for a nice long forest bath. Gonna stand there and appreciate the miracle of owning mountain property again. Gonna pull out a chair and a good book and just take in the view. Gonna hug every tree and kiss the ground, because I belong in the mountains, and it's been too long. 

I will bore you with photos when I return.

I'm going home.

Frank Talk about Keeping Your Classroom Free of Any Mention of Gay or Trans

 Hi there, I'm Teacher Annie of "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm an expert on all things teachy, since teaching is my job. Okay, okay, I'm only proficient, never distinguished, but you fellow educators out there will appreciate this -- on my most recent evaluation, I was 0.02 away from distinguished! So close and yet so far.

But enough about me, let's talk about not talking about gay!

The beautiful thing about teachers is how we all share our best ideas with each other. Some hard-hearted bastard teachers ask for money, but by and large we are a wide-open profession.

That's how I have seen nice teachers in Florida sharing "best practices" for not saying gay. Or trans.

And before the big reveal of those b.p., let me say something about trans children. They know themselves by kindergarten. They just don't know it's wrong to know, unless their parents tell them it's wrong to know. Which, if you are a truly loving parent, how could you tell your child they're wrong about their fundamental self-image?

Back to the school setting.

So apparently the bill signed by the Florida legislature (which no I have not read, kiss my ass) bans the teaching of anything about gender.  This is what I'm getting from the Florida teachers who have to live with this thing, so they have read it.

Can't teach gender. Can't teach boy/girl. Can't have gender-specific bathrooms, because they would have to be designated Boy/Girl. Can't read books where there are boys and girls. All children have to be kids. Can't teach about gay families? Can't teach about straight families either. Kid wants their parents to come to school, it better be a pair of storks.

Me personally, I'm all for not teaching one damn thing about gender from kindergarten to third grade. No stories with people in them at all! Not even the Muppets! A steady dose of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, thank you very much.

Here's a book that would make the cut, so long as you don't mention that chickens are female and roosters are male.

And you can even get it from this nice Christian book distributor!

My elementary school had non-gendered bathrooms. Only one kid could use the bathroom at a time. They were basically little water closets. All good, right? Gosh, how is it done now? Do you have a bunch of little girls hanging out in a bathroom together? Bullying each other and smoking cigarettes, like they do in high school? DANG! 

I think if it's done carefully, this whole not saying anything about gender or sexuality could be a boon to Florida's schoolchildren. Take baseball, for instance. Scrap those sissy softball teams, let's play some hardball, kids! Kids! Kids! Don't draw a family picture of your mommy and daddy, kid! Draw your parents. Chances are they're both working themselves to death, so why differentiate the gender?

Halloween's here! You don't want to be a princess, you want to be royal. But why even be royal when you can be a skeleton, or Pac-Man ... oops ... Pac-Person. Super heroes? Spiderperson, Batperson, Wonder Person! Or just be a cat. It's easier.

I can honestly see the upside to a gender-free experience in K-3. Let's put the lil tykes in unisex uniforms too, while we're at it. No one will get bullied for wearing the wrong thing to school.

I'm not taking credit for any of these brilliant ideas. I've seen them shared on teacher blogs. Sharing is caring, and teachers know how to do both!

To conclude this sermon, I would like to shout out my elementary school principal, Miss Hazel Fridinger. She was very dedicated, to the point where she didn't have time to get married. Her female housemate never got married either. I love to think of that happy pair, sharing expenses and chores all their lives long. See what I mean? Teaching is such a sharing kind of experience. Always has been.

Have a nice day, kids! Children! Youngsters! Tots! Precious little gender-free souls.

Another Haterfield Rant: Leaf Blowers

 Ah, beautiful! It's Friday afternoon after a long week, the temperature is a balmy 65, and the sun is beaming down. Bliss?

Sorry, Bamp! Wrong. No bliss. Five o'clock, and my jackass millionaire neighbor has his landscaping crew scouring every inch of his sucky property for the one leaf that the leaf blowers didn't find last fall.

Don't you just fucking hate leaf blowers? I can't think of a tool I despise more. Loud, stinking, and stupid is no way to present yourself to the planet. And yet I smell and hear this pestilential equipment going full bore, just as I sit down on the porch with my mocktail. I deserve better.

Granted, I do not have a very big yard. But I rake it from back to curb a couple of times a year, with a damn rake. All you hear with a rake is scrape scrape scrape, crackle crackle crackle. And you don't smell a thing. I'm 63 and I still rake my yard. My neighbors half my age crank up their leaf blowers dozens of times a year. Yet somehow, I don't have any more leaf litter in my yard than they do.

Many and many a Saturday morning has been marred by the gas-powered blowing menaces. Here I am, biffing out onto my front porch with a steaming cup and the morning paper, and OOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOwwwwOOOOOOOwwwoOOOOOO. The leaf blowers start moaning. Here I am, biffing back inside to the kitchen table.

I hear that California has banned gas-powered leaf blowers. A sound move. Did you know that a leaf blower emits more pollution than a car? Way more. A thousand times noisier too.

Mr. J actually joined the Haterfield Environmental Commission in an effort to get some local leaf blower ordinances going. Ha! He lasted six months. In that six months, the Commission talked endlessly about backyard hens and nary a breath about leaf blowers. "Bad for small businesses, any kind of ban," the town councilman sniffed.

Can you believe that bunch wanted me to write an essay about micro meadows for their "Gold Star Community" checklist? Suck it, Haterfield. I'm not writing squat for you.

So here I am, all ranty and pissy on a Friday afternoon, instead of basking in the glow of spring sunshine.

Is it any wonder I bought four acres of trees? All leaves welcome, all the time.

Haterfield Is For the Birds

 Good day to you from "The Gods Are Bored!" Today's sermon: Great news if you're a stuck up, snobby chicken!

Haterfield, NJ is now accepting applications for backyard hen ownership. Great news, yes? Except this is Haterfield, so both you and your bok boks will have to jump through some pretty damn tricky hoops first.

I do not exaggerate when I report this headline from the local rag: "Haterfield Residents Can Now Apply for Backyard Chicken Permit."

Yes. You need a permit for your chickens. And that permit doesn't come cheap (cheep?). First you have to take a class on chicken care and produce a certificate that you completed the course. Friends, I have a vivid imagination, and I could not make this up. Yes! A course on chicken care!

I don't object to the idea of taking a class on fowl husbandry. Definitely a good idea. But my guess is that you could learn everything you need to know and then some just by watching YouTube videos, or talking to your grandma. Those are free, of course. Not so the chicken class Haterfield requires.

But the class is just Step One. Step Two is applying for a permit that must be reviewed and approved not just by Haterfield's new Backyard Chicken Advisory Board but also by the Board of Commissioners.

These entities come to your house first, to inspect your coop and chicken run. Don't try to free range those pullets, that won't fly.

There is a required annual inspection and a yearly permit fee of $50.

Needless to say, roosters are not welcome. Nor can you sup upon your own chickens. Or sell their eggs.

The first year you can have four chickens. If, upon inspection the next year you are deemed to be worthy, you can increase your flock to eight. No more than eight. 

I really wish I was exaggerating this, or outright making it up. I'm not. Haterfield now has a Backyard Chicken Advisory Board. Town can't keep its teens from pooping in pianos, but you better not try to sneak a ninth chicken onto your property.

See, I only want a rooster. I would call him Cluck Norris and allow him free range in the front yard. When the Backyard Chicken Advisory Board came to confiscate him, I would release the white farm geese and watch the carnage from my porch.

No one needed to tell me Haterfield is for the birds. I've known it since 1987. But what do I care? I have four acres of WOODS.

Tough Time for Farmhouses

 All hail Venus Cloacina, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, school teacher, and I got observed today. What an ordeal! I hope you don't ever have to endure such an indignity yourself.

But the subject of the sermon today isn't observations. I always get a C+, nothing better. I'm used to it.

Today's sermon is yet another rumination on the evils of modern capitalism.

My grandparents lived up in the mountains, but my family and I lived in the Cumberland Valley, which is nestled between the Blue Ridge and the Allegheny mountains. It's a lovely, fertile area with rolling hills and limestone outcroppings (technical name, Karst topography). The Antietam Creek meanders through. So perhaps you have heard of this place.

When I was a kid, there were a few factories north of Hagerstown, and a few more within the city limits. But the major industry in the Hagerstown area was farming. There were cows everywhere. Corn everywhere.

You think I'm kidding? Look at this vintage photo from August 23, 1984. That there is vintage Cumberland Valley. It was so pretty.

Was.

Two scourges have descended on the Hagerstown vicinity. The first is bedroom suburb sprawl. Thousands and thousands and thousands of acres of farmland have disappeared under the onslaught of ugly subdivisions. And as those eyesores multiplied, the grand old farmhouses on the land got ripped down.

It gets worse.

Lately Hagerstown has revived its reputation as the "Hub City." Two major freeways intersect there, Interstates 81 and 70.

You know what you really don't want? You really don't want to live near a freeway.

Have you seen those big, ugly Amazon warehouses? Guess what they need to be near? Ding ding ding ding! Yes! A freeway!

And so there is now a new building boom going on where I grew up. Thousands and thousands and thousands of acres of farmland are being bulldozed and turned into HUGE GODDAMN WAREHOUSES. Folks, we are talking about the razing of farmhouses that were there during the Civil War. In favor of Carvana auto storage facilities and Amazon and Walmart warehouses.

Of course there's a hue and cry when yet another venerable farmhouse (often crafted with native stone) becomes the target of the greedy corporate barbarians. So you know what the barbarians do? They deliberately knock the house down and leave a pile of rubble just to make a point. Sometimes they pull down the house months before any construction begins. Because they can.

I always loved the Cumberland Valley. And it is large enough that portions of it won't be maimed. But the scenic areas where I grew up, near the major highways, well. They are now either crammed with ugly housing or ruined with mile-wide warehouses.

My poor sister still lives there. She spends her days driving around the counties, taking photos of the farmhouses that are about to be torn down. More power to her. I can't imagine doing that. It's easier to stay away.

The moral of this sermon is simple. If you live near a highway, move now! You could wind up staring at an Amazon warehouse and the trucks that move its goods. As opposed to that quaint antebellum farmhouse with its outbuildings and barns. Put your home on the market now, before it's too late. You don't want to watch concrete smother your beloved valley.

The Deed Is Done

 All three of my readers are saying, "For the love of fruit flies, Anne! Enough about buying land in the mountains! When are you going to start interviewing bored gods again and ranting about Republicans?"

Okay, okay, okay. I hear you. It's dull as dirt, reading about someone else's dreams coming true.

So today I'll just record the fact that the deed to 322 Mountain Road came in the mail. (The land is on Mountain Road, but I just made up the address. No house, no number. Sheesh! Go figure!)

Isn't it weird how these pieces of paper confer stuff to us? I have a title to my Subaru. A piece of paper that says I own the car. Gives the paper a lot of power, don't you think?

I don't have a deed to my house in Haterville, and I never will. It's mortgaged to the gills. Some bank has the paper for this house. I wonder where that paper is? In some file cabinet, I suppose. 

Sheafs of paper. Dang! Who thought this up? Shouldn't I just be able to go out there into the mountains and say, "THIS IS THE LAND OF MY PEOPLE, YOU JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE ME?"

My confidence in this pronouncement was so profound that I went the traditional route and sought out the proper papers.

I'm sure you've noticed this whole paper dodge. You go to the eye doctor, you get a little slip of paper with some weird markings on it, you take it to a store where they sell glasses, and by Gods, you can see again! How does this work?

And do you do any shopping at CVS? You go in for a pot of lip balm, give them some plastic card, and a strip of paper long enough to wrap up a mummy comes spitting out at you from the checkout. Why? Why do I need a piece of paper to get three bucks off the shampoo? Why don't you just price the shampoo three dollars less to begin with?

I guess I can blame my ancestors for this. They made their way up Town Creek until they didn't see any signs of life, then they started notching their initials or some kind of marking on the trees. Well, after all, trees are just raw, unprocessed paper. They raw-papered a complete landscape.

If you ask me, there's nowhere that this paper obsession seems more absurd than in paintings. Have you seen the ridiculous amounts some people are paying for paintings? Like, excuse me, it's a piece of paper with some color applied? You might look at it a few times, and then what? There it sits.

This is not really a sermon or a rant, it's just kind of me wondering how the whole paper thing got started. It's not what I would call a brilliant idea. You know what would work so much better? If you saw something you liked, and the person who had it just said, "Okay, here. You take it." And out of gratitude you might give that person something in exchange -- like a hearty handshake or a pizza or something.

So much better. But anyway, I got my papers. If my file cabinet catches fire, will I still own the land?

Another Year, Another Yawn

 All hail Venus Cloacina! Today's my birthday. Gonna have a party tonight!

Here's the guest list:

1. Mr. J (doing the cooking)

2. Heir and significant other

3. Fair and significant other

4. Gamma

The menu is Chicken francaise served on a bed of linguine with a lemon white wine butter sauce, and a salad with strawberries and feta cheese.

And of course let us not forget dessert, a fabulous Smith Island cake!

Best thing about the cake is, there will be plenty for any bored deity who drops in, even Gods with appetites like Zeus! 

At the age I have come to be, one appreciates a pain-free existence and the company of family. And the weekend. Always the weekend.

Blessed be,

Pisces Anne

On Teenagers and Masks

 Masks became optional at my school on Monday, March 7.

I figured I would walk in and finally see all the dewy young faces that have been partially obscured since September.

Guess what? The masks are all firmly in place! The only kids not wearing them are kids who wouldn't comply with the mandate. Those kids are unmasked. Everyone else didn't skip a beat. It's wall-to-wall masks, about 93 percent of everyone!

I never expected this, but now that I think about it, well. Teenagers. You know? They all want to hide their faces. Or to do what their friends are doing. If the cool kids keep wearing their masks, everyone else will.

Now I'm wondering if the principal will have to decree an end to mask wearing at some point. Until he does, I'm quite content to reside behind a sheath of cloth.

My Plans

 All hail Venus Cloacina, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, what mayhem. First we had Donald Trump, then we had a deadly pandemic, and now we have World War III. It's like the 1960s all over again. What can I do except go along with the flow and hope for the best?

For those of you just hopping aboard, I am an Appalachian American, living ex patrium for most of my life. Up until 2011 I had a hold on the old sod as part owner of my grandfather's farm, but then it was sold, and I was truly bereft.

Now I have land again, praise Cloacina, and only about a mile and a half from my grandfather's farm. At four acres it's small by mountain standards, but oh boy it has some qualities.

Probably the best thing about it is how flat it is. This is the mountains, after all. And it's shady! Lots and lots and lots of trees. You can feel them talking to each other underground. On top there's leaf litter and moss and fallen branches. The ground is springy, soft on your feet, from all the years of undisturbed leaf fall.

The ink is dry on the transaction. The seller has been paid. And everyone is asking: Anne, what are you going to do with it? The land, they mean. Tiny house? Big house? Vacation house? Gonna move there?

Nope.

When those trees talk to one another, I don't want them saying, "OH SHIT, CHAUNCY, SHE'S CUTTING ME DOWN!" Nor do I want to plow in a driveway, or sink a septic system, or try to persuade the state of Pennsylvania to run an electrical line up through the woods.

I don't want to start a trash heap (though it's a time-honored Appalachian tradition). I don't want to build a fire ring in all that leaf litter. I don't want to hang fairy garlands from the tree limbs or build some monument (though there is already a nice cairn there probably made by some farmer 100 years ago).

I've had ten long years to think through what I would do if I got a little bit of land in the mountains. And what I decided some years ago was that I didn't want a parcel with a house on it. Why do I need something more to worry about? Or a place I'll feel obliged to go just to "keep it up?" Phooey on that!

I want this land to look just like it does now. Worst I'll do is snip down a few pine seedlings to make myself a place where I can view the sunset and the meteor showers.

Some people think it's ridiculous to purchase a property while having no plans to alter it in any way. Those people aren't Druids.

See, the way I look at it, I bought a church. I'm going there to worship, and when I leave there will be no trace that I visited at all. This I consider to be bliss.

I'll close today's sermon by thanking my dear Yellowdog Granny for the bear spray. When your new next door neighbor is the state game lands, it's better safe than sorry. Hope I never, ever need it!

Of Goddesses and Birthday Angels

 Did you ever have something happen to you that absolutely defied all odds and just seemed basically incredible? I have experienced this a few times, and it's always startling. Makes the most logical person scratch their head, because it is just magic.

Two weeks ago, after a long day at work, I popped into the thrift store. They always have a shelf of trinkets right inside the door -- they have Christmas stuff on it all year around, as well as other little do-dads and statuettes and such.

The moment I looked at the shelf I saw her:

EXHIBIT A: THE ODDS ARE PHENOMENAL

This is a Lefton birthday angel ca. 1966. I have never seen anything ceramic of this vintage in the thrift store before. And of course, March is my birthday month.

It gets better.

You see, I actually had a birthday angel like this, had her for decades in fact.

I gave her away as part of a fundraiser to save Terrapin Run.

Only my oldest of old-timers will remember how a rural community in Western Maryland had to pay a land-use lawyer to fight a developer who wanted to build housing for 11,000 people alongside a little Tier I stream called Terrapin Run. While the lawyer supported our cause, he needed to eat. So the little consortium to save the stream had all kinds of auctions and such to pay the lawyer bills. I sent them jewelry, and I sent them my little March angel I had owned since I was a kid. Had tears in my eyes when I turned her over.

In addition to giving what I could to the fundraising, I worked magic along the bank of Terrapin Run. For years. The Goddess I petitioned was Venus Cloacina, the Roman Goddess of the sewers. I figured if any deity would object to a crystal clear stream being turned into a wastewater dumping ground, it would be Cloacina.

Developers almost always win these battles. But this developer didn't. He lost like an egg-sucking dog and limped his saggy, broke-ass butt back to Washington, DC.

Ever since then I have thanked Cloacina whenever I visit that area, because I truly believe She answered my prayers.

Back to the present: What are the vast odds of finding a 50-year-old ceramic angel, exactly like the one I donated, just sitting on the shelf at the thrift store I visit twice a month? (By the way, she cost me $3.50.)

It gets better.

I had been waiting six weeks to hear from the attorney in Bedford who was handling my purchase of a property in the land of my ancestors. Not two days after bringing home the March angel, the documents and paperwork arrived in my email.

I am as scientific as the next guy, but that angel was nothing but an omen. Sent by Cloacina.

Don't pish tosh me now, reader. Terrapin Run is less than 10 miles from the property.

Which is now my property. It has closed.

I have land. And a Goddess. Bless them both.

Problems

 My knees really hurt. Especially the right one. I have to go up and down the stairs at my work, and I'm literally gripping the bannister and grimacing with every step.

My Altra Lone Peak 5 trail runners would be a game-changer with this, but I am not allowed to wear my Altra Lone Peak 5 trail runners to school. The school has a dress code. Teachers are forbidden to wear sneakers without a valid doctor's note.

I got a note from my doctor in March of 2021 so I could wear my Altra Lone Peak 5 trail runners to work. Last month I was told that since my doctor's note is not dated after September 1, 2021, it's no longer valid.

The principal nicely asked me to call my doctor and have him write out another note. But when I saw how the doctor rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue and sighed that any 63-year-old school teacher would actually need a note to wear comfortable shoes, I was so embarrassed that I would rather work barefoot than bother him again.

I could get a healthy checkup in March, but now I have to wait until September, so I can get the properly dated note for next year.

It's very hard for me to find comfortable shoes, as I have bad bunions on both feet. I often have to buy shoes that are a size or two too large to accommodate my feet. I actually have to rotate three pairs of shoes that are "suitable" when I go to work, because each pair has issues for my feet. I'm sure these shoes are contributing to the knee pain.

This is my problem right now. By all that is holy, what a lucky woman I am! Such a trivial damn thing, compared to all the tragedies all around, all the time. I have no doubt that some day I'm going to look back with longing at the time when my knees hurt because I couldn't wear sneakers to school.

May we all struggle with minor nuisance problems. Things can change overnight.

You're Really Dissing the Thrift Store, Country Magazine?

 It's President's Day weekend, and what does that mean? Everything's half off at the thrift store! And whoa, doggies. The place was packed.

Have you seen the average thrift store shopper these days? No you haven't, because all kinds of people shop at the thrift store now. Lots of artsy Gen Z, lots of handsome metrosexual men, and lots of school teachers. Tons of school teachers.

I have a favorite thrift store that I visit at least once a week for retail therapy. Over the years I have almost completely outfitted myself and my house from that store. I've gotten towels, bath rugs, sheets, bedspreads, throw pillows, small pieces of furniture, books, shoes, decorations, and small kitchen appliances there. Clothing? Almost all my clothing comes from the thrift store. The only clothing I buy retail is fairy attire!

Fact: Last week I went to Target to buy a Valentine's Day gift for Mr. J. I picked up the one thing I'm loath to buy at the thrift store (underwear) and saw a cute set of pajamas that I liked. With Mr. J's gift I spent ... get ready ... $70. My jaw dropped. That's three or four hefty hauls from the thrift store!

So you can imagine my surprise when Country Magazine, that chic bastion of finding cute stuff at the antique mall, came out with an article entitled "40 Things You Should Never Buy at the Thrift Store."

40, mind you. Should have titled it "Don't Shop at the Thrift Store, Buy Something Expensive Instead."

Needless to say, I was intrigued to see what Country Magazine deemed unworthy of purchase from a thrift store.

*Old furniture. Might have lead paint. As opposed to stuff at the antique mall, which is presumably pristine.

*Anything upholstered. Well, they don't sell such things at my thrift store, thank you very much.

*Bedding. Might have bedbugs. Except you can see the industrial-sized washing machines in the back room at the thrift store.

*Stuff for kids, as in, car seats, strollers, and toys. Excuse you, Country Magazine. While my local thrift store is chock-a-block with cutie pie young skinny guys, it's also always full of poor people. You know, the people the thrift store is supposed to serve. And those people might not be able to go out and buy a brand new car seat. Shit's expensive.

*Throw pillows. Again, bedbugs. The magazine's advice? Buy a throw pillow from Target, where it's $10 - $20. News flash: $20 will buy 10 pillows at the thrift store. It's a bedbug gamble, but so is staying at the Hilton.

*Clothes. Say that again? Yes, you heard me. Clothes! They might be torn or stained, and you can't return them! For the love of fruit flies. As if anyone goes into the thrift store, plucks something from the rack, flips it on the counter, and doesn't so much as glance at it to see if it's stained! I'll admit, I did buy a shirt two weeks ago that is missing the bottom button. But stains and tears? Everyone checks for stains and tears.

*Anything that smells bad. Duh. That's advice for trash-pickers, not Goodwill shoppers.

*Kitchen appliances. They might not work. Well, let's see. I got my crock pot there, and it works. I got my hand mixer there, and it works. Case closed.

In this slideshow article, the list goes on and on, and most of the stuff on it isn't stuff I see in the thrift store where I shop. Who buys old windowpanes at the thrift store?

I can't imagine that many readers of Country Magazine actually shop in thrift stores, but I guess maybe the sport is getting so trendy that even rich faux-chic snobs are going there now. I'm stretching it with this one, but do you think perhaps Target paid the magazine to run such a spurious slide show? Hmmm. 

One last powerful point to this sermon, and it's the kind of whopper of a point that would bring any new congregant to the altar call. Have you read that little tag on the brand new pair of blue jeans you bought at Target? WASH BEFORE WEARING. WASH SEPARATELY. You see this on everything new. Everything. So how is that different from bringing home thrift store garments and flinging them in the washing machine? Well, maybe all the poisonous dyes have been leeched from the thrift store attire already!

I'll bet you're wondering what I bought today at the thrift store. Oh, readers. I got an NFL brand zippered hoodie with the Eagles logo, in my size, for $2.50. Have you priced out official NFL merchandise in the retail sector? Don't. Go to the thrift store, especially after the team has had a bad year.

There will be more in this space about the thrift store in coming installments. But this sermon has run long, and I know you want to get on with your day.

 

An Auspicious Full Moon

 Thank you for visiting "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson. How can I help you? Please hold.

Had to add that last part, for those of you who actually remember how phones used to work.

Just now I got home from work and opened my home email. (Can't do it at work without spying.) Nestled among the come-ons for Hello Fresh and the latest God Pod and my Patreon payments and my electronic pay stub, there was another email.

An email with a deed.

And another email with information on how to close on a property from afar.

Full moon tomorrow, perfect time to sign documents and cut a check and get everything under way.

This is the part where I add that the property is coming to me from a private sale. On the multiple listings land of this sort goes for twice to three times the amount I am paying per acre. I've been looking at the online listings for years and years and years and years.

Four acres and change, all of it forested, off the grid with nothing built on it. No house for me to fret about. One contiguous human neighbor whose house cannot be seen and who was a chum of my uncle's. The other boundary belonging to the State of Pennsylvania, game lands.

Feature this. For the price of a middling cruise to Alaska, I will have a forest. A forest all of my own. Just for me and whichever bored deities like to go camping. I know Cloacina is wild about the area. She'll be my first invite.

Hold me in the light for this last haul, but it does look like all systems go.

Haiku from a Teacher

 Please stop banning books

I'm trying to teach reading

Can't if you ban books

Three Gross-Outs before Noon

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sunny Sunday edition! I'm Anne Johnson, as always your hostess with the mostest!

Dang! Three gross-outs before noon, on a Sunday! Trigger warning: gross stuff follows.

First thing, I went out to sweep off my front porch and put away my Yule lights. There was an advertising flier in my mailbox from a new evangelical church in close proximity to my home. It was a glitzy production, including the following quip:

    From attraction and dating to marriage and sex, the Bible contains eye-opening advice...

yada yada yada.

I promptly sent this church a Facebook message, to whit:

Dear *** Church, I am a hedge witch, and my house is particularly warded against such intrusions as your flier in my mailbox. The wards are not hidden. Whoever was distributing fliers over the weekend should be notified.

That ought to give them pause.

Second thing, I had to go to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. On the way, I smelled it before I saw it: a dead skunk in the middle of the road. Looked up in the sky, and already there was an inquisitive vulture circling. But you know ... a busy road! The cars regularly go 40 miles an hour along there.

So, on my way back from the pharmacy, I pulled over and (trying not to heave) heaved that full-grown, freshly smashed specimen right to the curb. Now if the homeowners just leave it alone, it'll be gone in a few hours. 

Well, you know, as you might imagine, one can't pick up a dead skunk by the tail without suffering a little blowback. But after a thorough scrubbing my hands are fine, and the car doesn't reek.

Tempted to drive by later and see if the skunk attracted any customers.

Third thing, it's not a biggie. A regular occurrence, really. My Gamma Cat suffers from crystals. Not the kind on my altar. Some kind that make him uncomfortable and therefore an outside-of-the-box thinker. We've got him on urinary tract food, and he's been better about the box, but there's still quite the cleanup to do. But that's kind of a gross-out I'm used to.

You know what? N95 masks are great for cat clean up! Another use for a useful tool!

For the love of fruit flies. This all happened before noon. I hope the afternoon is less eventful regarding gross stuff. I've reached today's capacity.

Imbolc 2022

 It's Imbolc here at "The Gods Are Bored," and I must say this is a very special holy day. We're socked under some snow, but the days are bright longer. Already we have gained more than a half hour of daylight.

I feel like a spring bulb just beginning to quicken under the frozen ground. Still awaiting word on the property I hope to buy ... you know how that is. But Imbolc is the holy day of yet-to-come, and I'm feeling it in my bones. Something is stirring.

Something has happened in the 17 years I've been writing this blog. The Goddess Queen Brighid the Bright has gone from bored to busy. I could not even schedule her for an interview today. She now has a vibrant and growing praise and worship team! No more lurking behind "Candlemas" and sainthood for her. She's on the move!

This is the season of home and hearth, of the interior work we all have to do to keep our souls spiffy.

It is also the time of making plans and of anticipating the spring. We've been through the wringer the past two years. There's been a pestilence abroad in the land. It has claimed many people's lives. Now, though, there are vaccines and medications for the illness. No one need get a deadly case if they follow the protocols. Look how far we have come since we all crept home in March of 2020, fearing for our lives!

Let's prepare to plant and harvest the way we did before Covid came along. Imbolc is the time of preparation. Can you feel the possibilities in the air? Even if the Goddess is too busy to pop in and chat? I can.

Bright Imbolc blessings to you, readers of "The Gods Are Bored!" Light the candle, everything's all right.

Got It!

 You might have read that the Least Coast got a snowstorm on Friday night.

Here in Haterfield, we got about 7 inches of snow. Most of it fell in the overnight hours. By morning my yard was chock a block with wild birds, all fussing around the feeder.

The snow tapered off by noon, and I went out to shovel. My next door neighbor helped with the hardest part, so I was done in about 30 minutes. 

Then I went inside to bake cookies for my neighbor. But they didn't turn out quite right. I think I put too much sugar in them. So I ate them myself.

The Fair and her boyfriend stopped by in the evening to borrow the sleds. Fair made a snow angel in the front yard.

I built a fire in the fireplace as soon as it got dark.

Best part? I bought a new pair of Altra hiking shoes, and I wore them all day, and they didn't hurt my feet at all.

Best year of my life so far.

In Which I Report a Rogue Teacher in Narrows, Virginia to the Governor of That State

 Hey, fans! Do you remember when the worst thing about the Commie governments was that they encouraged citizens to snitch on other citizens who were thought to be "subversive?"

Wait. You're not that old? Well, trust me that it's a thing we elementary kids learned about in Social Studies when we were taught about Communist China and the Soviet Union.

The idea of citizen espionage sounded bad in 1966, and it sounds bad now. How awful to live under a regime that would target certain people (almost always intellectuals, teachers, and writers) and persecute them as enemies of the state!

Welcome to Virginia in 2022.

The newly-elected Republican governor of the state has created a special email box for people to report public school teachers who are teaching "critical race theory" or other curricula that makes white students feel bad about themselves.

It's a public email that anyone can write to.

Of course they are asking correspondents to be serious and not to send frivolous emails.

And of course this stricture is being completely ignored.

Someone reported Professor Dumbledore for punishing students who discriminate against mudbloods.

Gods bless America.

However, it's not enough for us here at "The Gods Are Bored" to let other people sneer at authoritarian regimes. So I went to my email address that I keep just for these types of correspondences, and I penned a little note to Virginia. I titled the email REPORTING A ROGUE TEACHER IN NARROWS, VA. Here's the text:

I'm a 63-year-old teacher of English at the high school level. When I was a kid in school, our nation had two enemies: Communist China and the Soviet Union. What we as students were chiefly told was that those societies were evil because they encouraged citizens to "report" other citizens for subversive behavior. Gosh, everyone thought that was awful. Just think, ordinary people spying on each other!

But isn't this tipline exactly that? A tool of an authoritarian regime? It has always been the goal of fascist governments to be thought police and to subvert intellectual advancement. Welcome to the club.

I was just kidding about the Narrows, VA part. My grandparents lived there for awhile. I'm in New Jersey, and so far as I'm concerned, Virginia is off the tourism table as long as you are encouraging people to persecute school teachers.

Anne Johnson

I would have liked to be wittier, but I figured all the good literary allusions had probably already been flung.

I'll bet you would like to report a rogue teacher yourself, wouldn't you? All you'll need is the address and a map of the state, so you can pick out some cute little mountain town to mention in the tagline.

And here's the address:

helpeducation@governor.virginia.gov

Tell them Anne Johnson sent you.

 

Don't Look Up Is Weak Broth

 Oh, all my peppy young readers! All you who are up-to-date on everything! I usually envy the fuck outta you, but not today.

Over the weekend, Mr. J and I sat down to watch this new movie called "Don't Look Up." We watched and watched and watched. And then the cable signal went out (as it often does).

Usually when the cable signal goes out, we collectively groan and fuss like two old doddering wrecks.

In this case we were 90 minutes or more into the movie, and suddenly it just wasn't there, and we didn't care.

Sorry, striplings, but that movie was so boring I won't ever watch the rest of it.

I get it, I get it. Filmmakers want to say something important about the flaws in our society. Hey, I do too! I've been writing this blog since 2005! But, as Hamlet said, "brevity is the soul of wit." Drawl on too long, you lose the crowd.

Forced to make conversation amidst the silence, I said to Mr. J: "Anyone who has ever seen 'Dr. Strangelove' would hate 'Don't Look Up'."

EXHIBIT A: "Dr. Strangelove, or: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned To Love the Bomb"

"Dr. Strangelove" was released in 1964 and is about the end of the world. It was written, produced, and directed by Stanley Kubrick before he, too, went off the rails and started making 3 hour movies.

"Dr. Strangelove" clocks in at 95 minutes and covers all the ground that "Don't Look Up" covers except the billionaires, of which there were fewer in 1964. It's a succinct, hilarious comedy founded on the tragic possibilities of nuclear annihilation. And if you minty fresh young'uns don't think nuclear war was as much of a threat as climate change, well. You don't know what it was like in 1964. 

How many roles did Peter Sellers play in  "Dr. Strangelove?" I think three. Yep, I'm counting three.

I'm not making light of climate change here, my pets. I'm making light of heavy-handed, didactic filmmaking. "Don't Look Up" is too long. It loses steam. At the 90 minute mark I was rooting for the asteroid.

If you've never seen "Dr. Strangelove," I recommend it wholeheartedly. I'll bet I've watched it seven or eight times, including as part of some foofy college course I took at JHU.

The moral of this sermon: If you find yourself with time on your hands on a Saturday night and a vague worry about how human fuckups could bring about the end of the world, your go-to film should be "Dr. Strangelove." Not "Don't Look Up."

This is free advice, and it's good. You'll most likely thank me, if you like this blog.

A Rant about Snow

 I'm Anne Johnson, and I love snow.

I have always loved snow. My fondest childhood memories include feet and feet of the stuff, sledding with my dad, building forts and snowmen, and just watching the fat white flakes fall from the sky.

But that was Appalachia. Now I live in southern New Jersey, 50 miles from the coast.

It's just really great to be able to hop in the car on a whim and drive to the beach in an hour's time. Breakfast ... ZOOM! ... sand under my feet.

But you know what happens in the wintertime? That ocean just 50 miles from my door influences the weather. It almost always feeds warmer air into snowstorms that change the snow over to rain. Or keep the rain from turning to snow. Or, if a storm hugs the coast, it snows like mad on the beach resorts and passes my town by.

DAMN YOU, OCEAN, WITH YOUR 40-DEGREE TEMPERATURE!

You know how frustrating it is to see winter storm warnings for freakin' North Carolina, and rain for New Jersey? Happens all the time.

Take this past weekend for example. The forecasters started their hype days in advance, for a snow event on Sunday night. When the event actually hove into sight, the forecast totals took a swan dive. From 3 - 6 inches we got downsized to 2 - 4. Then, when the precipitation started falling, it snowed beautifully for one hour, turned over to rain, and the rain washed away what little snow had accumulated. Meantime, the Poconos got a swell haul of 6 inches.

A similar scenario reared its head last night. The forecast called for a period of rain to turn to snow and accumulate between 1 - 3 inches. Sure enough, the rain moved in. AND IT STAYED. Around 10:00 it snowed lightly for about an hour, leaving no accumulation. Happens all the time.

Last year was better. We actually had a period of three weeks where there was snow on the ground every day. Unheard of in New Jersey! We actually got snow on top of snow! 

Alas, that was a one-off. This year has brought back the usual hyped-up forecasts that devolve into rainstorms. There's nothing quite so dispiriting as a rainy January afternoon.

You would think that a lady of my age would not want to have to deal with a snow event requiring a shovel. Ha ha! I don't mind shoveling at all! I'll shovel the rare blizzard event with a vim that quite belies my age.

You know what I love? Shaking my fist at the snowplow as it undoes all the shoveling I accomplished. That's my idea of a good time.

The most heart-rending part of this rant is this: A good snowfall means an unscheduled holiday for school teachers and students. O frabjous snow day! Caloo, Callay! Nothing to do but linger over breakfast and shovel.

So far this year we have had zero snow days and zero delayed openings.

Where are the bored deities of snow? Why are they leaving me so rain-soaked this year, when all I ask is a little 3 - 6 inches of white loveliness?

It's the damn ocean. Remind me, next summer when I blithely set out for it with my beach bag, that it ROBS ME OF SNOW.

I Stand Corrected

 January 6 was not, as I scoffed last week, a bunch of drunken yahoos run amok. It was a group of terrorists with a plan who drew in a bunch of angry, whipped-up ill-informed rubes.

New indictments handed out (finally) by DoJ. A long article in New York Times Magazine about the officers who were killed or injured due to that riot. Those are the two things that changed my mind.

One can only hope that this country includes enough citizens who don't want to see the government overthrown by bad white men with guns. One can only hope that this country includes voters who don't want their elected officials to glad-hand terrorists in support of an unhinged dictator.

What we need, to keep this from happening again, are some serious penalties. All these goobers have gotten off easy, except the one that was shot. But when you think that we have kept a number of Islamic men in Cuba for decades without a charge, shouldn't we be preparing similar accommodations for the people who planned this Capitol attack?

I have asked myself what these people would have done to Nancy Peolosi, or AOC, or Mike Pence, if they had laid hands on them. Would they have had the nerve to actually kill them? Well, they damn near killed a dozen Capitol police officers and injured dozens more.

So for the record, I went way too easy on the Capitol terrorists. Now the American justice system is doing the same. Pack them off to Gitmo. Deny them shade and Bibles.

Adopt a SadCloud!

 My daughter The Heir is fostering a bank of SadClouds. You could say The Heir made these from scratch and has nurtured them right along. They are now ready for adoption!

If you haven't heard of SadClouds, they are very useful and a lot cheaper to own than a mammalian or reptile pet. SadClouds exist to absorb depression and to soften anxiety. Because they understand completely. The world leaves us floundering, especially in these dark times of the year. SadClouds get it.

EXHIBIT A: Bank of SadClouds

The thing about adopting a SadCloud is, you don't have to care for it. It cares for you. Everything you are feeling is immediately recognizable to the SadCloud. It understands completely, whether you're just seasonally depressed or literally battling for a toehold. SadClouds feel you. You can look at them and see it in their eyes.

These SadClouds are immediately available for adoption to a good home. Their fee is $35, which includes all shots and examinations, postage and handling.

If you want one, you can email me at annejohnson17211  at  gmail  dot  com.

Here are some closeups of each individual SadCloud. Alas, they have no names yet. That would be up to you.

EXHIBIT B:  Blue SadCloud

Photographed in its current foster home in West Philadelphia.

EXHIBIT C: Purple SadCloud

Those eyes. Those eyes.

EXHIBIT D: Half and Half SadCloud

This SadCloud, so I'm told, is for someone who has up-and-down cycles and is never sure what the day will bring.

EXHIBIT E: Pink SadCloud

This pink SadCloud draws energy from light sources and then distributes it like a cooling rain.

Any and all of these sweet little SadClouds can be had for the fee of $35 each. They have been lovingly hand-fed with no resort to machinery! Organic, free range, ethically produced, locally sourced in West Philadelphia. Crafted in the USA.

Contact me if you or someone you love needs a SadCloud in their life!

My Case of COVID is Postponed

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, working at home again until January 18. Because flattening the curve has been so very successful in the US of A.

Well, maybe it will be this time. But my guess is that I will return to school on January 18 to a miasma (great word) of Omicron variant and no N95 mask for my mug.

I do have the paper mask I wore at the Mummers Parade, and lots of microfiber cloth masks. I'll double up.

Yesterday, January 6, there was a lot of hoo hah about the riot at the Capitol last year. CNN and MSNBC have been harping on this event nonstop for 365 days, so it's not surprising they were slobbering all over the anniversary.

Here is my two cents on that awful event:

1. This was not a well-organized, well-planned attempt to instigate a coup d'etat. This was a rabble of stupid white men (mostly), many of them liquored up*, all of them fired up by the hateful rhetoric of the person who was president at the time.

2. These people had been encouraged not just by the former president, but also by his "superstar" propagandists, to expect "something big," or to cause it to happen. It happened organically, maybe driven by a few individuals who weren't drunk and had read Crowds and Power by Elias Canetti ... oh wait. A few individuals who felt like they could get something going and weren't drunk.

3. The most despicable piece of this is the recent news that the former president sat in a White House dining area and watched with glee while the attack was occurring. Sat there, apparently re-ran parts of it, and refused to speak against it even when begged to by the superstar propagandists.

4. The even more than most despicable piece of this is that the entire elected Republican party, except for two members, has made peace with all the lies, deceit, and violence behind that day. Some of them even say the thing was a false flag, or a happy tourist romp, or no big deal -- let's move on. Elected Republicans don't believe this bullshit. They're just too craven to tell the truth.

5. Liz Cheney loses nothing by losing her seat in Congress. Her father is richer than God, and she'll be all over CNN and MSNBC even though her conservative bona fides should put her under a general gag order. And while I'm ranting, have you noticed that Wyoming has two Senators and one Congresswoman? Tell me why Wyoming should have that much senatorial power. I'll wait.

6. The liberal news media is beating 1/6 to death. By the crucial election next November, people will be sick of hearing about it. So shut up, already. We've seen the footage. Let it marinate until election season instead of re-running it every night. Here's a tip: Talk about how efforts to unionize are meeting with success. That would be refreshing.

*My evidence for the drinking is this: I have one Facebook friend who attended that debacle. When I saw her plans on her page, I started following her posts. And those planning to attend with her bragged not about bringing firearms, but about bringing Fireball. Which makes men mean, for sure.

Triumphant Return of the Two Street Stompers

 On New Year's Day 2021 I sulked around the house and watched reruns of past Mummers Parades. Not so 2022! Back on Broad Street with the Two Street Stompers!

Considering that Christmas was 50 percent here in Chateau Johnson, a 100 percent Mummer experience was welcome indeed. The parade was delayed one day by rain, so we stepped off on January 2 under cloudy skies and balmy temperatures.

This year our theme was "Not All Heroes Wear Capes." It was a salute to essential medical workers. Our suits were designed to look like scrubs, and we all had surgical caps and - yes - masks! (Well, I wore mine, except for photos.)

Sorry, but I don't have a video of the routine. If it's posted on YouTube by someone, I'll show y'all at another time. It was a touching show. We all wore the same color satin, and the kids came out in front and did a little dance (which was eye-popping adorable). Then all the health care workers in the club came out of the ranks and waved to the crowd.

I have to hand it to our captain. It's hard enough to get 230 sober people to move in straight lines and follow some dance steps. When your troupe has been liberally lubricated and still can bust the moves, you're doing something right!

We did our routine at City Hall and then headed down Broad Street. The crowds were sparse, needless to say, but my daughter The Fair and her boyfriend came down to watch. When we finished up at Broad and Washington, we made our way down to the Mummers Museum on Two Street for a group photo.

EXHIBIT A: Two Street Stompers NYB 2022

I'm in there somewhere. Aren't those dresses gorgeous?

From the museum, we strutted all the way down Two Street to Oregon Avenue. It's a long hike, but that's where the real mumming occurs. That neighborhood is steeped to the gills in Mummers clubhouses, and the people love seeing us.

EXHIBIT B: Two Street Strut!

That's me on the left, and looking over my shoulder is Mummers Hall of Fame member Ed "Buzz" McLaughlin, basically my brother from another mother. Buzz's grandfather was a Mummer, and now Buzz's grandson is a Mummer too. Generational wealth!

The day finally wound to a close in our home base of Gloucester City, New Jersey. It was an 11-hour strut, and every second of it a pure joy.

EXHIBIT C: But Wait, There's More!

Guess which club made the local newspaper, above the fold, on January 3? Bing bing bing! The Two Street Stompers! And this is a huge honor, given how elaborate the string band costumes are.

Another parade is in the history books. I'm so stoked that I can dance that much and strut that far at my age! I love being a Two Street Stomper. Such fun.

Working from home the next two weeks, I remain

Your correspondent from the City of Brotherly Love,

Anne Johnson, Fired Up!