Foot Make Good Eatin'

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," on the second consecutive gorgeous autumn Sunday in the Great Blue Northeast! Oh, it was beautiful here this morning. I wasted six good words on it before setting out on a walk.

There are several strings of dreaded words in every parent's life.

First there's AR (assembly required).

Then there's NI (needs improvement).

Let us not forget SAT (you know what that is)!

And the ultra-dreaded PDT (project due tomorrow).

Today's project for my charming daughter The Spare was to create an animal cell, somehow being creative about it. So she decided to make a cake, cover it with homemade fondant, and use candies as the organelles.

This necessitated a trip to the latest blot on the South Jersey landscape, a mega-supermarket called Wegman's.

Wegman's tries to be everything at once. It's a full buffet restaurant. You can buy lavish prepared foods that only have to be warmed in the microwave. Artisan breads. Gourmet desserts and chocolates. Organic. Greek olive bar. Cheese island. Flower shop. A model train chugging around overhead for the kiddies. And the biggest regular grocery store in the county ... except they don't stock TaB cola!

There's also a candy aisle.

This whole multi-acre spread has a metal ceiling painted some grisly hue of burnt goldenrod. Seriously the ugliest color of paint I have ever seen in my life. The lack of windows makes it dark inside, like a casino.

And the place was packed.

People drive across the bridge from Philly to shop in this over-the-top emporium. And I swear that today the whole Fourth Ward was in the store. Carts bumping together, people dodging other people, babies wailing, kids cajoling. And The Spare, blithely charging through the many aisles she needed to visit in order to get all her($$$$$) supplies.

Finally I just stopped pushing the cart and leaned my head down on it. The Spare didn't care. She wanted me to stay where she could find me.

So I guess I was just resting there, with my head in my arms on the shopping cart, maybe about two or three minutes. I felt someone tap my arm.

It was a young woman in jeans and a jacket. She said, "Are you all right?"

And I said, "Well, honestly I hate this store, and it's really extra-crowded today, and I'm alright, I was just resting."

She said: "There are chairs and comfortable sofas up in the restaurant area. Why don't you go sit down?"

And I said, "This is where my daughter expects to find me. So I'd better stay here. And honestly, I find all parts of this store equally repulsive, so I don't really care where I am in it."

She asked me again if I needed her help, or did I want her to call someone? I said no, really, I was fine. Just trying to escape the immediate reality.

At which point she said, "We're so sorry to hear you feel this way about our store. We try hard to make everyone happy here. Sometimes it's just not possible, especially when it's this crowded."

Oooooooops! She didn't have on one of those sappy uniforms! I had no idea she worked there! Must have just ended her shift or something! Lord love a fruit fly, I sure was embarrassed!

I didn't apologize, though. I meant it. Wegman's is a blight.

But the next time The Spare scampered into view, I told her I was going to go and sit down on a chair in the coffee section. Which I did.

Then we searched the checkout line for the hottest cashier. That cheered me up considerably. Because not only was he good-looking, but the employees are judged harshly if they're not super-nice. So he even smiled.

Then we came home, and the dreaded PDT commenced. What a day.

For the Love of Fruit Flies

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" What are those pesky insects hovering over the bowl of ripe peaches? Out, out, damn fruit flies! Stupid little insects! A blot on the ecosystem!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" will grant you that the U.S. government has spent some money on some silly things, just to keep the local legislators on good terms with their voters. Why, when I was a mere stripling, the U.S. Department of the Interior paid me minimum wage to clear brush and paint fences at Harper's Ferry National Park, under a program called Youth Conservation Corps, or YCC. (Our government, like most, loves acronyms.)

Ronald Reagan took an axe to the YCC long ago. And I hope you don't mind my saying this, but Harper's Ferry is a weedy mess these days. Fences haven't been painted in ... decades.

YCC is one of those examples of evil socialist pork that the defeated candidate for president railed against. But since the YCC was long ago squelched, sending its mostly urban minority workforce back to the kitchens of KFC, Mr. McCain and Mrs. Palin had to draw upon more recent examples of pork barrel spending to bolster their free enterprise platform.

McCain railed against a federally-funded project to study grizzly bear DNA in Montana. That project has ended. It cost $5 million. (Don't know how long it takes the military to spend $5 million in Iraq, but who's counting?)

The results of the grizzly bear DNA study prove that there are almost four times the number of bears in the targeted area than scientists thought were there.

The study was conducted in order to see if that region could be opened to oil and natural gas drilling without decimating the grizzly population. So we spent $5 million to allow the oil barons a green light to dig for Texas tea in a previously off-limits part of Montana. They'll shove fistfuls of free enterprise largesse into their pockets, and the grizzlies will rock on. This is kind of like spending $1.00 on a lottery ticket and winning big.

But the more egregious example was Mrs. Palin's attack on the noble fruit fly, the species from which we've learned the lion's share of what we know about DNA and what can go wrong with it.

To my mind, belittling fruit fly research ranks right up there with not knowing that Africa is a continent. Can any student -- even those home-schooled in Mormon compounds -- get through school without being introduced to red-eyed fruit flies? Heck, your well-funded public high school is gonna be doing simple experiments with the critters right in the classroom.

We owe huge debts to the humble fruit fly when it comes to research in genetics, pesticides, plant biology, and hereditary illnesses. And it's hard to work up a lather of sympathy for something so short-lived as a fruit fly, even for me. Were we going to breed mutant puppies to learn about DNA? I think not.

Everyone has a different reason for being happy (or sad) about the outcome of this presidential election. As for me, I'm happy as hell that we've elected a leadership that won't sneer at science.

Nevertheless, I do advocate a line item veto -- at least make the Congressperson or Senator explain exactly why they need the new bridge, who's gonna use it, and what long-term benefits it brings to our nation. Under this scrutiny, fruit fly research in France and grizzly research in Montana will pass the muster with flying colors.

Flying colors ... flying ... flying ... oh, for the love of those flying fruit flies! Sign off, Anne.

I Have Started a New Blog

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," world-weary, wobbly, and woozy. Wow.

It's Friday evening, and I would like to take a moment to thank all of you who commented on the final destination of my Obama/Biden sign (see below). I'll let you know if it's still there when I go back on Memorial Day to spruce the place up.

Today's sermon:

Lately I've seen much scorn heaped upon web logs, most of it suggesting that the form does not rise to artistic heights. In other words, snobs still get into print, while we bloggers multiply like Tribbles and are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Harsh.

Yes, I wanted to be a newspaper columnist. For awhile I reviewed books for the Detroit Free Press. I loved that. But it was as close as I got to being a real print journalist.

I also wanted to keep a diary. But I'm left-handed, and writing longhand has always been a messy struggle for me. So when this blog business came along, it was like a miracle. I can keep a typed diary, and you can read it! And I can read yours!

Web logs may be the maggots of the lit-tra-cha world, but let me tell you this. Over a year ago I wrote a post about an award-winning author named David Bradley, and a book he wrote called The Chaneysville Incident. Lo and behold, about three weeks ago I opened my email, and there was a nice note from Mr. Bradley -- a person I've wanted to meet since I was 20 years old! He saw my blog post about him. (I bet he would love "Sign," below, even though I'm not a real writer.)

In a similar way I have made contact with Professor Rodger Cunningham and an old friend in Detroit City, Dean Dauphinais. People do Google their names occasionally. Unless they've been stuck with a moniker like "Anne Johnson."

Actually, I beg to differ with the smarty-pants people out there. All sorts of folks who have had the urge to write but never the time, or the encouragement, have done some great stuff on web logs. Rosie is one writer who springs to mind. She is getting published all over the place, and she deserves it.

Partly inspired by Rosie, and partly inspired by a newspaper story I read last week, I have inaugurated a new web log that is now listed in my sidebar.

The web log is called Six Word Web Log, and that's what it will be. No entry will be longer than six words. The punctuation will vary, as will the subject matter. But six words it is, and that's all.

Think how long it will take you to read it! I hope you'll try it out. I'm going to keep everything over there very minimal (needless to say), so please keep coming here for the worthless verbiage of another useless blogger.

The Sign

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," endeavoring to be as serious as Sponge Bob since 2005! I'm your host, Squidward Johnson. I play the clarinet.

Just two days before the election, my daughter The Spare and I got a Barack Obama sign for our front lawn. It stood proudly in our yard the moment he was declared victorious in the election.

This morning, after the fact, we found ourselves suffering through one of our fabulous Nor'Easters, which means rain and wind and all-around bleakness. The Spare had a report to do, and I'm old-school, so I insisted on going to the public library.

But first, I told her, we had to give away the Obama/Biden sign to people who deserved it more.

The Spare leveled her super-drama f-bomb scowl at me and demanded to know who we would be giving the sign to. Who, @#$#@ it, who?

I wouldn't tell her. I just pulled up the spikes and loaded it into the back seat of the car.

Have you ever experienced the scorn of a 14-year-old girl? Do you recall that look they can give you? Kind of like your fourth-grade teacher when your long division didn't come out right ... ratcheted up by a factor of ten.

We started off in an odd direction, and she kept peppering me with questions, harsher and harsher. So finally I told her.

"We're taking it to the colored cemetery," I said.

She did not utter one single peep of complaint thereafter.

There's a borough near here that is a historically African American community. During the Civil War, the black soldiers who were killed were not interred in the federal cemeteries ... because the federal cemeteries were white only. So this little borough volunteered to pay for the shipment and burial of any Union Army soldier of color who was unknown or unclaimed by family.

More than 100 African American soldiers wound up in this little local cemetery, including one who earned a Congressional Medal of Honor.

You can find pictures of anything on the Internet. This is the place.

The Spare and I took the Obama/Biden sign and placed it at the head of a parallel row of Civil War-era tombstones, all decked with their American flags.

I said to The Spare, "These men deserve this sign more than you and me."

And she agreed.

As a species we feel that the dead often linger around or near burial places. Very few cultures just heave their deceased off cliffs and forget about them. And so I feel that those soldiers, who knew damned well what they were fighting for, deserved a sign that proves they won.

I did it for them. I did it for my dad's people buried at Andersonville. I did it for freedom of the mind, which every good person should have.

And my daughter, who like all people her age covets souvenirs, gladly parted with a nice one.

I bet when we go back next year on Memorial Day it will still be there.

Bad Day for Bullwinkle

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" No sanity, no Hannity, save the manatees!

Anyone coming here for enlightenment would be better served by a 40-watt GE from the supermarket.

Yes, yes, I know. I KNOW. All the smart, sane, intelligent people are taking the high road here, celebrating a historic moment in our history and pledging to try to unite our fractured nation.

Go ahead, with my blessings. Because I just have to pucker up and do some razzing!

PAGING BULLWINKLE THE MOOSE. BULLWINKLE THE MOOSE. URGENT CALL FOR BULLWINKLE THE MOOSE ON LINE 1.

Here I am! You want to see me pull a rabbit out of my hat?

BULLWINKLE. TAKE COVER IMMEDIATELY. TAKE COVER IMMEDIATELY. EVACUATE TO CANADA IF POSSIBLE.

Gee whiz. I'm not sure I can! Why should I?

BECAUSE SARAH PALIN IS COMING BACK TO ALASKA WITH A CHIP THE SIZE OF CONNECTICUT ON HER SHOULDER. SHE'S GONNA WANT TO HUNT HER A MOOSE.

Oh, no worries there! Not a one! I've got a nice new pair of binoculars...

BINOCULARS, BULLWINKLE? YOU THINK BINOCULARS ARE GOING TO SAVE YOUR MOOSELY HIDE?

Well now, that depends on what you can see through them, doesn't it?

How Faeries Vote

Welcome to The Day I Never Thought I'd See! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. I've been in this world awhile, but it has not ceased to amaze me. Thank goodness. Because why get out of bed in the morning if you've seen it all?

There's a law on the books in New Jersey that you can't wear political items into a polling place. No shirts, hats, pins, etc. At first blush this seems like a violation of the First Amendment. But if you live in New Jersey, you understand pretty fast that you could get in a rather rancorous disagreement with someone intead of voting, just based on your tie tack.

Nevertheless, being bluer than blue, I wanted to wear some sort of little token that subtly gave away how I planned to vote.

I had a teeny tiny AFL-CIO pin with the American flag and "Union Yes!" on it. I knew exactly where I put it, because I planned to wear it to the polls.

So yesterday morning, I reached for it, exactly where I had left it ...

You're a regular reader, right? You know what's coming...

The pin was gone. I searched the shelf, the surrounding countertop, my sparse jewelry box upstairs, my bowl of faerie wear. Little pin gone. Or not gone (as we know), just hidden by the faeries.

In a last-ditch attempt to find it, I opened The Big Junk Drawer. Every kitchen has one -- that place you throw stuff that you hardly, if ever, use. And in there I found a pin. Not the one I was planning to wear, but a pin nevertheless.

The pin was an Allied Orders of the Grand Army of the Republic pin.

The Grand Army of the Republic was, of course, the Union Army in the Civil War. My father's ancestors enlisted in the Union Army by the fistfuls, some in the infantry, some in the cavalry. Two of them are buried at Andersonville Prison National Cemetery in Georgia.

So I went to vote yesterday wearing my Allied Orders pin. (Allied Orders is a society of descendents of Civil War veterans.)

My daughter The Heir and I went into the voting booth together, because she was keen to press the Obama button, and I was equally keen to let her do it. But I also felt in there the presence of my ancestors who did what they could to help runaway slaves during the dark times, and fought as they could to free the slaves when the war came. My father's people voted with me.

Later in the evening, as we were watching the returns, I went into the kitchen to clean up. Lying there on the counter, in plain view, was the little AFL-CIO pin.

The faeries wanted me to reflect not on my own immediate struggles, but on the desperate historic struggles that my ancestors saw and sought to avenge. Let no one say this election was not about race. It is about race. It's about stepping away from the way things were and trying out a new path for how things should be.

Leave it to the faeries to understand that.

Well, Glory Be...

America the beautiful. Blessed be!

I'm Not Really Voting for Thomas Jefferson

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" This is the first Election Day for this blog. What do I say?

If you're a longtime reader of "The Gods Are Bored," you know I take a dim view of democracy, because it imposes no test of mental capacity in order to cast a vote. Trust me, there are end-term Alzheimer's patients who will vote today, thinking that they're casting a ballot for Gerald Ford or Lyndon Johnson. The people who "help" them will be very helpful indeed.

If this sounds cynical, it's not. My sister saw to it that my father voted in the last election. Dad went off with the faeries three months later, convinced he'd cast his final ballot for Eisenhower.

That said, we are given the right (sort of) to choose our representatives. So we should do it. It is a civic obligation.

We are sure to see history made today. Either the nation will elect a president of color or a female vice-president. Don't believe the polls! It's going to be close.

As for me and my house, we will call upon the bored gods of Kenya in their North American incarnations and petition their aid in the elevation of Barack Obama to the presidency. Because as much as we would love it to be the case, there's really no separation of church and state in this country -- only the possibility that some religions cancel out others in the power struggle.

Continued safety to you, Candidate Obama. May it be the will of the bored gods!

Election Endorsements 2008

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"

Mindful that presidential elections are very important, and that everyone should vote for the person they think can run this very large, very important country, we offer the following endorsement for President of the United States of America:

Thomas Jefferson.

Grizzabella the Faerie Continues Her Reign

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and Happy New Year! Make a resolution, find a solution, avoid electrocution, you say you wanna revolution?

If it's rhyme time there must be faeries about!

Last spring my daughters and I went to visit my sister at her new house. I left behind a teeny tiny faerie, just to provide a little solace to me when I happened into such a rigorously Christian abode.

My sister found the faerie, named her Grizzabella. And since then Grizzy has been hard at work, sowing the big, broad, flexible outlook among my sister's many collections of childhood belongings!

You may have trouble seeing Grizzy in some of these photos, so let's just call it a sort of "Where's Waldo" enterprise!

Yes, that is a little rubber toy vulture. She is my sister, after all!

Samhain 2008

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on Samhain 2008! The air is crisp, the veil is thin, the year has ended, the crops are in.

Is there any more sane time of year to consider the 365-day cycle complete? When the last frosted pumpkin has been hauled from the field, when the apples have all been collected, when even the grass shrinks back in the cold, a circuit has come to an end.

We have arrived at the holy evening of the bored gods. It has endured through the millennia and is still one of the most highly-anticipated days on the calendar. Some will dress to frighten. Some to fulfill fantasies of themselves. Some with the mirth that either fills all their days or only peeks through once a year. At any rate, we honor the Old Ones by donning special clothing on Their holiday.

The veil thins. Some of us might feel our loved ones, our lost friends, at our sides. Others (myself among them) might receive messages in the apparent world that could only have been sent from another world, another dimension, a different plane.

Why do we believe in deities, in faeries, in spirits and shades and the Summerlands? Because to think that our Homo sapiens senses are adequate to experience and understand the whole of the universe is setting a low baseline for the universe. Are we the best that can be done? Have our brains developed as far as they can go, or do new perceptions await, some of them humming in the corners of our consciousness even now?

I have felt the nourishing love of the Blessed Mother. I have cavorted with The Trickster. I have made people smile who have never seen my face in the flesh. I want to be a disciple and a shaman. I believe there are greater Ones out there. I can feel Them. Can you?

If you call at my house this evening, I will be attired as Mother Nature. My talented mother-in-law created a costume very much like this for me, and I have achieved an age where I can wear it with grace.

Stop by for a treat. Have a glass of warm cider. Sit by my fire, which I think I'll build inside this year!

May all evil be banished from my doorstep. May all disturbing thoughts be set aside. Happy New Year, my friends, my readers, my fellow walkers of The Path.

Blessed be the deities who have marked our human way through the long march of time.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Help

Just because of one nasty commenter, I have somehow disabled the comment portion of my web log. Will some patient person please email me and tell me how to get it back?

But Wait, There's More!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," celestial infomercials for deserving deities! Are you feeling cranky or blue? Let our pantheons work for you!

Most of you probably did not watch the Philadelphia Phillies win the World Series last night. (Yay!) However, I bet you did watch Barack Obama's infomercial on his qualities as a presidential candidate.

It was John McCain's idea to call the spot an infomercial, but doggone, no other valid definition exists.

My daughter The Heir has two endearing qualities:

1. She is fascinated by advertising of all sorts, especially infomercials.
2. She is as gullible a human being as you'll ever find anywhere.

Last night she called right after the Phils won the Series. She lives in a co-ed college dormitory, so you can imagine the mayhem I could hear in the background.

I asked The Heir if she had watched Obama's infomercial.

She said, "His WHAAAAT?"

Oh, readers. Can you blame me?

I told her that Barack Obama was offering a set of carving knives that would slice through paper and never need to be sharpened. That he demonstrated how to comb every last hair out of his pet Persian. That he revealed the secret to his tight abs and made bruschetta from scratch using a Magic Bullet.

She believed this much, so I went on.

I told her Candidate Obama would show her how to get rid of those pesky chin hairs without tweezing. I said his miracle vitamins would help her build muscle mass, study harder, see better, and turn blonde. I told her Candidate Obama would send her a free CD showing everything she needed to know about how to buy and sell on Ebay.

She believed this too.

"But wait," I told her "..... THERE'S MORE!"

So I told her that a vote for Candidate Obama would bring an end to people with no health insurance, a restoration of labor unions, the return of outsourced jobs to America, drastically reduced college tuition bills, a complete cessation of lobbying on behalf of fatcat corporations, green energy, and world peace.

She finally caught on that I was pulling her leg.

Let's face it. Whoever wins the presidential race inherits a mess worse than Great-Granny's hoarder house. America didn't fall into the toilet in one day, and it's going to take more than one day to drag it out again ... if indeed the task can be done. I happen to think Mr. Obama has a better chance of extricating the U.S. from the crapper, but while he's doing it he's going to look like he's spinning his wheels instead of bringing change.

And when the change comes, it's not going to work any better than the Magic Bullet, which looks great on t.v. but has serious flaws in the kitchen. So before you call those operators who are standing by to take your credit card information, don't get your hopes up too high. Our previous presidents have allowed cockroaches to run rampant through Washington, and extermination is not a perfect science.

I would love to believe that part about the college tuition, though. Where's the phone? Where's my credit card? Just a few easy payments...

One Down...

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," located just outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania!

If the Phillies can win the World Series, surely Barack Obama can become president.

At any rate, we at "The Gods Are Bored" picked a good evening to sit in front of the television set.

And just now it's rather noisy outside. Better bring in the cats and the lawn gnomes.

Redistributing the Common Sense

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," freezing our butts off eight miles from Philadelphia! Brrrrrrrrr! It's windy. It's pouring. The foster kittens are huddled under a blanket, and so am I. Common sense, don't you think?

Some of you might have heard that a certain candidate for president is accusing the other candidate of wanting to "redistribute the wealth." I say it's high time for that, because trickle down doesn't.

While we are redistributing things, can we also spread around some common sense?

Those of you who are in the prime of life, like moi, can remember a time when the Baseball World Series was held in the earliest part of October. If you're edging toward geezerhood, you can even recall a time when all of the Series games were played during the day. In the sunshine of balmy early October afternoons.

I don't know when Major League Baseball instituted the League Playoff Series, but in my gung-ho baseball years I can remember these as simple best-of-five playoffs. Now (correct me if I'm wrong) we have two rounds of best-of-seven playoffs before the World Series. Maybe it's one, but I know it's best-of-seven.

And we have a World Series being played in Philadelphia during the final week of October.

What has brought this fiasco into being? Nothing but greed.

Greedy owners, greedy parking lot attendants, greedy television networks, greed ... greed ... greed!

Where does that leave the fans? Shivering under tarps in a Perfect Storm Nor'Easter, wind-driven rain, not fit weather for oystering on the Chesapeake, and those oystermen are tough dudes.

What we need is a correction in the distribution of common sense. Take the heaping helpings of common sense from fans who'd like to attend the World Series but can't justify spending the big bucks for tickets, and distribute it to the greedy owners trying to play a summer game in -- I kid you not -- a wintry mix.

The final product of this redistribution of common sense would be:

1. Sensible ticket prices and reasonable schedules, tailored to the elements.

2. Owners who still are rich, though perhaps not quite as rich as God.

And that's how you redistribute common sense! Does this make me a socialist? I don't care if it does!

I'm Anne Johnson, Philadelphia Phillies fan, and I approved this message.

I'm Really It!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," mounds of mirth for what it's worth! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, the "It Girl."

"It" because I've been tagged three times for the same meme. Y'all are too kind! My taggers are: Pom, Thalia, artist of the Bored Gods, and Aquila ka Hecate. Lovely Pagan bloggers all! Blessings to them.

I'm supposed to list six random things about myself.

1. I'm having deja vu at the moment.

2. I'm raising three foster kittens for the animal shelter. Two of them are polydactyl (six toed). See photo above and count for yourself.

3. I haven't been to Berkeley Springs since last February. But I'm still its Merlin.

4. My parrot, Decibel, is downstairs ripping something to shreds.

5. If you want to befriend me on Facebook and can't find me because of my name, add "Vultures" to your list of interests and then click on it. I'm the only person on Facebook who lists vultures as an interest. Ponder that for a moment. Maybe you don't want to be my friend.

6. My faeries are mad at me. They broke my printer and flattened a tire on my car. I need to gain back their favor by taking them on a lark.

I am supposed to tag six more people, but from looking around the old sidebar, most of you have already fulfilled this command, and the rest of you are more serious than that. I'll just ask The Hillbilly Fairy if she wants to do it, all nice and polite.

Any thoughts on pacifying faeries run amok?

FROM ANNE

HEART FOREVER IN BERKELEY SPRINGS

Halloween at Public School!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where Halloween is Holy unto the Bored Gods and Goddesses! All glory, laud, and honor to the holy day that has survived from the Old Time Religions!

Every year around this time, the Christian Wrong starts moaning and groaning about the fact that public schools celebrate Halloween, but they do not celebrate Christmas or Easter or St. Patrick's Day ......... ooops!

Okay, you get the gist. Halloween, is not a holy day to "evil occultists," but rather to good, sweet, law-abiding, tree-hugging Druids and Wiccans, as well as a huge contingent of Hispanic Roman Catholics.

Isn't celebrating this occasion at school a violation of church and state?

Well, it would be if even one school teacher sat down with the class and explained in detail the history and religious meaning of Halloween. But that's not usually (if ever) the order of the day. School Halloween parties consist of kids showing off their wonderful costumes and harried moms handing out cupcakes, popcorn, candy corn, Juicy Juice, potato chips, pretzels ... oh, it goes on and on! Trust me, I've been there.

No one even tells kids who dress up like wicked witches that witches aren't wicked, nor do they wear black pointy hats. Nor does anyone point out to the kids done up like Satan that there's nothing Satanic about Halloween ... wrong pantheon.

All the same, I'll concede to the Christian Wrong that public schools devote an afternoon every year to a Pagan holiday.

My solution to this terrible, monstrous, obscene, unacceptable practice? Simple.

Make October 31 a religious holiday, like December 25.

Wouldn't you love that, Pagans?

Not only would you not have to work on the most holy day of the calendar, you could also expect many, many questions from kids as to why Halloween has suddenly become a day off school! A win-win situation! Think of the parties! The family togetherness! The establishment of traditions, like Halloween brunch!

So I'm with the Christians on this one. Halloween is a religious holiday. Let's accept that, snatch it off the school schedule, and make it what it should be: HOLY. But still fun! Trick or treat!

Natural Selection at Work

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," mystified by morons since 2005! Actually it was long before that, but I only just started writing about it.

The Intelligent Design morons like to prove their case that some things are too complicated to have evolved. They trot out some bacteria that moves with this little propeller that looks -- and works -- like the rotor on a helicopter. Had to have been made like that! Where's the intermediate step?

Okay, all you ID morons, explain MRSA.

Over the past year, my daughter The Spare has gotten two nasty boils on her leg. They started as little nicks and wound up red, hot, and oozing pus. For the second time, she will be taking antibiotics ten days straight, for something you or I would have cured with a little Bactine, back in the day.

The Spare has MRSA (Methycillin Resistant Stapholo .... oh for the love of Sarah Palin's fruit flies! It's a long name.)

MRSA is bacteria that can withstand the onslaught of antibiotics. It is proof positive that natural selection works -- and works fast -- especially with bacteria.

My good friend Seth put it this way: "If you use an antibacterial soap on your countertop that promises to kill 99 percent of all germs, guess what? You leave behind one percent of germs that rock on, immune to the soap. These multiply, and pretty soon you've got a big, fat, naturally selected problem on your hands."

Just think of bacteria that live by the rule, "That which doesn't kill me only makes more of me."

Antibiotics have only been around for about 60 years. That's not even a blip of time in the great, grand history of Planet Earth. Even so, there are now bacteria that can thumb their flagella at antibiotics. Because their predecessors lived through previous assaults by antibiotics.

It's called NATURAL SELECTION, YOU ID MORONS!

It's very worrisome to me that The Spare, at 14, has already had problems with MRSA. This does not bode well for her future. (This, and the fact that she doesn't give a fig about her schoolwork.)

On the other hand, MRSA has a Right to Life. I'm sure Mrs. Palin would agree that MRSA is a living thing, and all living things have a Right to Life. Except perhaps fruit flies.

I've saved the worst part for last. The doctor says that Mr. Johnson and I are also carrying MRSA, although we're hardy enough to keep it at bay -- just now. (I'm surprised the little buggers didn't get in my surgical site, but I might not be out of the woods on that.)

The doctor wants my spouse and I to swab the inside of our nostrils twice a day with antibacterial ointment. And to not pick our noses.

Dammit, when you get to my age, nose-picking and flatulence are two of life's pleasures that it's hard to live without! I'll try not to pick my nose, but my fingers just want to gravitate to my nostrils. I'll have to take up knitting or some such.

Yours from the forefront of Natural Selection,

ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Boo!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," praise and worship for the sane and sensible!

Today, as a public service, we're reprinting (in its entirety, as its author demands) a screed against Halloween by --- duuuuuh --- a put-upon Christian columnist. As usual, this poor persecuted man of faith decries the fact that Christmas can't be celebrated in schools, but Halloween can.

I will weigh in on this subject next week, but for now here's the screed. Don't blame me for how long it is. The caveat at the bottom said it had to be reprinted in full, with no editing. Done.


Ten Reasons Christians Should Not Celebrate Halloween
by J. Kerby Anderson

Many in our secular society believe Halloween is nothing more than a harmless festival that allows kids to collect candy. But is it? Its origins lie deeply rooted in the occult, and Christians should stay away. Here are ten reasons why.

1. October 31st has long been known as "The Festival of the Dead." The Celtic tribes and their priests the Druids celebrated this day as a marker for the change from life to death.

2. Halloween today is performed usually by adherents of witchcraft who use the night for their rituals. Witches celebrate Halloween as the "Feast of Samhain," the first feast of the witchcraft year. Being a festival of the dead, Halloween is a time when witches attempt to communicate with the dead through various forms of divination.

3. Christians should not be involved with occultic practice or divination. Note God's command against divination in Deuteronomy 18.

4. Occultists believe Halloween is a time of transition between life and death. Some occult practitioners practiced divination and believed you could learn the secrets of life and wisdom by Iying on a grave and listening to the messages from the long-departed.

5. Occultists also taught that spirits and ghosts left the grave during this night and would seek out warmth in their previous homes. Villagers, fearful of the possibility of being visited by the ghosts of past occupants, would dress up in costumes to scare the spirits on their way. They would also leave food and other treats at their door to appease the spirits so they would not destroy their homes or crops but instead move on down the road. That is the real reason why kids dress up in costumes today and go door-to-door seeking treats.

6. Occultists also would try to scare away the spirits by carving a scary face into a pumpkin. This horrible visage would hopefully move the spirit on to another home or village and spare that home from destruction. Sometimes the villagers would light a candle and place it within the pumpkin and use it as a lantern (hence the name, Jack-o-Lantern). This is the origin of carving pumpkins at Halloween.

7. In some witchcraft covens, the closing ritual includes eating an apple or engaging in fertility rites. In the Bible (Genesis 3), eating a piece of fruit brought sin and death into the world. In witchcraft, eating an apple is symbolic of bringing life. The practice of bobbing for apples brings together two pagan traditions: divination and the fertility ritual.

8. Schools are removing any religious significance from Christmas (often called winter break) and Easter (spring break). Isn't it ironic that most public schools still celebrate Halloween even though it has occultic origins?

9. Participating in Halloween gives sanction to a holiday that promotes witches, divination, haunted houses, and other occultic practices.

10. Christians should avoid Halloween and develop creative alternatives. Churches can hold a Fall Fun Festival and/or celebrate Reformation Day (also October 31). They should not endorse or promote Halloween.
Copyright © 2001 Probe Ministries

About the Author
Kerby Anderson is the president of Probe Ministries International. (emphasis Anne's) He received his B.S. (emphasis Anne's) from Oregon State University, M.F.S. from Yale University, and M.A. from Georgetown University. He is the author of several books, including Genetic Engineering, Origin Science, Living Ethically in the 90s, Signs of Warning, Signs of Hope, and Moral Dilemmas. He also served as general editor for Marriage, Family and Sexuality.
He is a nationally syndicated columnist whose editorials have appeared in the Dallas Morning News, the Miami Herald, the San Jose Mercury, and the Houston Post.
He is the host of "Probe," and frequently serves as guest host on "Point of View" (USA Radio Network). He can be reached via e-mail at kerby@probe.org.
What is Probe?
Probe Ministries is a non-profit corporation whose mission is to reclaim the primacy of Christian thought and values in Western culture through media, education, and literature. In seeking to accomplish this mission, Probe provides perspective on the integration of the academic disciplines and historic Christianity.

In addition, Probe acts as a clearing house, communicating the results of its research to the church and society at large.

Further information about Probe's materials and ministry may be obtained by writing to:
Probe Ministries
1900 Firman Drive, Suite 100
Richardson, TX 75081(972) 480-0240 FAX(972) 644-9664
info@probe.org
www.probe.org

--END OF SCREED--

PS: It takes cheek to call your ministry "Probe" in this day and age!

The Wizard of the Y

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where Samhain is nearly upon us! May your ancestors greet you with pride and joy!

Okay, maybe not this kind of Pride and Joy.

I am still rehabbing my newly titaniumized hip joint. I have moved on to swimming pool therapy. Except that Mr. Johnson and I can't afford a swimming pool membership. So we did a kind of sneaky thing. We got a two week trial period at a posh health club in the neighboring borough. When that "tryout" runs out, I hope I'm ready to rehab on dry land.

Can't afford physical therapy either. $30 copay per visit. I'm doing the pool exercises on my own.

Today I was at the pool in the morning for about 90 minutes. (Who has time for this, day after day?) In that time, I saw four moms bring in their cute little tots for swimming lessons. The moms sat and made cellphone calls while their tots learned to swim with a certified instructor.

Watching those cute kids with their perky teacher reminded me of how my kids learned to swim.

A long time ago I decided to teach my daughter The Heir how to swim. Why pay someone else to do it? So I got a membership at the local YMCA (since torn down) and began teaching her myself.

Mind you, my definition of swimming is pretty simple. You've got to be able to tread water, swim underwater a short distance, dive or jump into deep water, and swim four laps, dog-paddling if necessary.

Well, The Heir was young and afraid of almost everything. She was especially reluctant to put her head underwater. We went to the YMCA week after week, and she started dog-paddling pretty well, and treading, but she wouldn't put her face in the water.

An elderly gentleman was always there in the pool, doing a little bit of exercise but otherwise just people-watching. Once when The Heir got out of the pool to fetch a noodle, I struck up a conversation with the guy. It turned out he was a retired elementary school principal, and he was getting a kick out of watching me with The Heir. I told him about the brick wall I'd hit, trying to get her to go underwater.

He said, "Tell her I'm a wizard, and I'll work magic on her."

So when The Heir came back to the pool, I pointed out the guy. Of course she had seen him there all along, but it was news to her that he was a magical wizard who would work magic so that going underwater wouldn't be scary anymore.

The Heir looked at the guy. He bowed his head grandly and made a lordly gesture.

I took The Heir over to the lane rope that I'd tried a thousand times to get her to duck under. This time, with one last glance back at The Wizard, she ducked right under, came up sputtering, and pronounced it not so bad. After a few more tries, she was comfortable going underwater.

We thanked The Wizard for his magic.

Many, many years have passed now. Both of my daughters can swim and ride bikes. I taught them. I'm glad. It's a pleasant memory, the little daughter slipping into my arms from a jump into the pool, or holding my hands as she kicks to the center. It's warming to think about those first tentative pedal-pushes on the bike, the sense of pride when it all fell in place.

Now that I'm sort of a wizard myself, I do sorely want to tell those cell phone moms at the posh health club that they're missing something big by allowing professionals to teach the kiddies to swim. Those kids won't make the Olympics ... why care about stroke technique? Why, when you can swirl your tot around in the water as she giggles and squirms?

Funny how you think of these things sometimes. I guess that Wizard of the Y has long ago gone to Great Sidhe, there to live with the bored gods forever. And if The Heir falls off a boat, she knows how to swim. And when I remember teaching her, I am full of grace.