Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where as of today we have 100 followers! I thank you, my faeries thank you, and the bored gods thank you! There is yet hope of returning the whole wide world to polytheism! Our operators are standing by to take your call.
Via Facebook I learned of the passing of one of my favorite high school teachers. His name was Nick Scallion.
And yes, he lived to a ripe old age! He was 81. That would have put him in his mid-40s when I had him for driver's education.
We did not have driver's education online at my Appalachian high school. And Mr. Scallion did not teach by today's model, which is basically let the students teach the class while you stand back and watch. Oh no. Mr. Scallion was an ex-Marine, and as a driver's ed teacher, he had you just where he wanted you. No backtalk to the guy who stands between you and the open road!
Sometimes I think of Mr. Scallion when I'm teaching. Sometimes I think of him when I'm driving.
I remember him when I am observed by an administrator who chides me for "too much teacher talk." All Mr. Scallion did was talk. He talked for 45 minutes, day after day. We listened and took notes. Ah, well, there were days when he didn't talk. Those were the days when he showed instructional movies like "Mechanized Death" and "Your Car, Your Coffin." I guess I don't need to share the plots of those films, except to say that I sometimes recall them when in heavy moving traffic on I-95.
Actually, Mr. Scallion was a good model of talking teacher. Yes, he lectured and harangued. But he did it with pizazz. Personality. He had vim and vigor, created by competitive tennis and being a basketball coach. Lady readers, I am not exaggerating. He looked like Paul Newman, right down to the blue eyes.
So, who is not going to listen to an engaging and energetic (albeit stern) lecturer who looks like Paul Newman? Dude could have been teaching bog biology, I still would have been riveted.
But what he taught was driving. He taught it well. If you screwed up behind the wheel, he yelled at you. Everyone knew it and tried hard not to screw up. (Another teacher faux-pas these days: yelling. You have to maintain a safe and secure learning environment. Scallion would have quit before doing that.)
This is the kind of bragging that I hardly dare to do, especially given the fact that I live in, and drive in, a major metropolitan area. But it's the truth. As of today, October 21, 2010, I have never been in a serious automobile accident. I have zero points on my license.
Yes, that could change tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. If you see this blog post, and nothing but, for the next three months, just figure that I tempted fate by bragging on my driving abilities.
But am I really doing that? How much of my driving was influenced by stern Mr. Scallion, who lectured, yelled, and flunked anyone who didn't do so much as one homework assignment?
Mr. Nicholas Scallion, may you have found the Summerlands. May you have found a high-octane dragon and highly competitive tennis faeries. Put it in drive and head home. Blue eyes.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Junior Health Class
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where every day's a gnu day! Yak, yak, yak. How are ewe?
Okay, that's enough now, Puck. You can go back to poking the parrot with a stick.
As the veil thins I continue to find myself in this odd state of insouciance where nothing seems to matter anymore. Things that would have bothered me or worried me in times hence are just making me laugh and shrug. I think perhaps that I am edging toward the veil myself, and I realize that the time to be happy is now. Not tomorrow, now.
An addendum to yesterday's post: I do not mind when my students come in to chat me up after school. I'm honored. The whole reason I'm there is to try to make a difference in peoples' lives. I try to do that by genuinely caring about my students. Ask me if they can tell who cares about them and who doesn't. They have extraordinary sniff-out skills.
But that's beside the point! Today's sermon is entitled JUNIOR HEALTH CLASS AND THE DAUGHTER IN YOUR LIFE!
Last night I came slogging upstairs to go to bed, and I found my daughter The Spare at an online website that sells home pregnancy tests. She was studying the site carefully.
The conversation went something like this:
Anne: Doing a little shopping online?
Spare: He expects me to go into the pharmacy and look at these. And even ask the pharmacist about them.
Anne: Who is HE?????? *anguish*
Spare: The health teacher. The assignment says to go into a pharmacy and compare the cost of home pregnancy test kits. And to read the box and figure out how they work. And then to find out which one is most accurate.
Anne: This is for health class. For real. Like, looking and not buying .... oh pleeeeeeeze!
Spare: Mom. Are you serious? Of course it's for health class! And I'm not going into any pharmacy to look at this stuff. Can you imagine me standing in the Snobville Family Drugstore, looking at these? What if Wanda saw me? What if Celeste saw me? What if the cross-country team saw me? Like, could anything be more embarrassing than that?
Anne: Well, yeah. Does every junior at Snobville High have this assignment?
Spare: Yep. It's online.
Anne: So the boys have to go do this too.
Spare: As if. Get real. No one is going to study home pregnancy tests at a drugstore!
Anne: One would think that the teacher might ask the boys to study the condoms instead of the home pregnancy tests.
Spare: EWWWWWW! Go away! This online health class is making me gag as it is! Don't make it worse!
Readers, it's true. It's true! Spare had to write a report on home pregnancy tests for her junior health class. I went to the school e-board, and the assignment was there. Spare doesn't even have a boyfriend right now, and she has dumped two who tried to get fresh.
But my curiosity was piqued.
The Snobville High School online health class (there are no in-school classes, the course is all done online) has videos about puberty, sexual reproduction, gestation and childbirth, parenting, and relationships.
There is nothing about how to obtain sensible family planning. The word "condom" does not appear anywhere.
There's an assignment for home pregnancy kits, but none about birth control pills or devices.
I have never seen anything more ridiculous in my life. This is New Jersey! This is not Kansas! These are college-bound, high-performance teenagers, brimming with libido! Damn it, I want my kid to know where to get The Pill!
Honestly, this is no joking matter. Spare may not be sexually active, but a number of her friends are -- and who am I kidding, she could be in a matter of weeks, if the right scruffy, guitar-playing skinnyboy came along. Any junior high health class on sexuality, pregnancy, and parenting that does not mention birth control is worse than useless. It's counter-productive. Literally, my kid has been asked to price pregnancy tests rather than to investigate HOW NOT TO BECOME PREGNANT.
Good thing Heir and Spare have me in their corner. I may not be a doctor, but I know how to teach high school health. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
I guess in next week's health class they'll be pricing multi-symptom cough syrups after not having learned to wash their hands before eating. It makes that much sense.
Okay, that's enough now, Puck. You can go back to poking the parrot with a stick.
As the veil thins I continue to find myself in this odd state of insouciance where nothing seems to matter anymore. Things that would have bothered me or worried me in times hence are just making me laugh and shrug. I think perhaps that I am edging toward the veil myself, and I realize that the time to be happy is now. Not tomorrow, now.
An addendum to yesterday's post: I do not mind when my students come in to chat me up after school. I'm honored. The whole reason I'm there is to try to make a difference in peoples' lives. I try to do that by genuinely caring about my students. Ask me if they can tell who cares about them and who doesn't. They have extraordinary sniff-out skills.
But that's beside the point! Today's sermon is entitled JUNIOR HEALTH CLASS AND THE DAUGHTER IN YOUR LIFE!
Last night I came slogging upstairs to go to bed, and I found my daughter The Spare at an online website that sells home pregnancy tests. She was studying the site carefully.
The conversation went something like this:
Anne: Doing a little shopping online?
Spare: He expects me to go into the pharmacy and look at these. And even ask the pharmacist about them.
Anne: Who is HE?????? *anguish*
Spare: The health teacher. The assignment says to go into a pharmacy and compare the cost of home pregnancy test kits. And to read the box and figure out how they work. And then to find out which one is most accurate.
Anne: This is for health class. For real. Like, looking and not buying .... oh pleeeeeeeze!
Spare: Mom. Are you serious? Of course it's for health class! And I'm not going into any pharmacy to look at this stuff. Can you imagine me standing in the Snobville Family Drugstore, looking at these? What if Wanda saw me? What if Celeste saw me? What if the cross-country team saw me? Like, could anything be more embarrassing than that?
Anne: Well, yeah. Does every junior at Snobville High have this assignment?
Spare: Yep. It's online.
Anne: So the boys have to go do this too.
Spare: As if. Get real. No one is going to study home pregnancy tests at a drugstore!
Anne: One would think that the teacher might ask the boys to study the condoms instead of the home pregnancy tests.
Spare: EWWWWWW! Go away! This online health class is making me gag as it is! Don't make it worse!
Readers, it's true. It's true! Spare had to write a report on home pregnancy tests for her junior health class. I went to the school e-board, and the assignment was there. Spare doesn't even have a boyfriend right now, and she has dumped two who tried to get fresh.
But my curiosity was piqued.
The Snobville High School online health class (there are no in-school classes, the course is all done online) has videos about puberty, sexual reproduction, gestation and childbirth, parenting, and relationships.
There is nothing about how to obtain sensible family planning. The word "condom" does not appear anywhere.
There's an assignment for home pregnancy kits, but none about birth control pills or devices.
I have never seen anything more ridiculous in my life. This is New Jersey! This is not Kansas! These are college-bound, high-performance teenagers, brimming with libido! Damn it, I want my kid to know where to get The Pill!
Honestly, this is no joking matter. Spare may not be sexually active, but a number of her friends are -- and who am I kidding, she could be in a matter of weeks, if the right scruffy, guitar-playing skinnyboy came along. Any junior high health class on sexuality, pregnancy, and parenting that does not mention birth control is worse than useless. It's counter-productive. Literally, my kid has been asked to price pregnancy tests rather than to investigate HOW NOT TO BECOME PREGNANT.
Good thing Heir and Spare have me in their corner. I may not be a doctor, but I know how to teach high school health. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
I guess in next week's health class they'll be pricing multi-symptom cough syrups after not having learned to wash their hands before eating. It makes that much sense.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
It's Just How I Am
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" "Know thyself," I always say. Focus that inner mirror. Figure out what makes you tick. Or what makes you a tick. Grammar trick!
Are you the kind of person who, given a job to do, just wants to dig in and get it done? I am. When I have something to do, and someone's trying to chat me up, I get annoyed.
A busy high school is not the optimal working environment for me.
I get mildly annoyed when students come in my room to chat me up. But I get intensely annoyed when other teachers come gabbing at me when all I really want to do is get the doggone essays graded and get my butt home to the warm hearth.
This week I actually clocked how much time other people wasted for me by chit-chatting. Two-and-a-half hours! Why did I bother clocking this? Well, it just so happens that my daughter The Heir was home from college this week, and I wanted to get home early enough to enjoy her company.
I know this is a "Dear Abby" question, but what do I do about these pesky teachers who just want to gab? The Teacher Creature is the worst offender, but he's only in my room one afternoon a week. There are two lady teachers about my age who pester me every day. And this is how well the one knows me: She tells me all the latest gossip from her church choir. *hack up fur ball*
I know I would be hurt if someone told me, "Sorry, I would love to hear about your Druid Grove, but right now I have to get these forms filled out in triplicate so I can go home and see my daughter." I'd feel like a chump. I don't want to make anyone feel like a chump, but I would like to have some benign way to dismiss the pests.
If you can think of anything, please share. Alas, I have already tried telling Gabbing Methodist Teacher that I'm a Pagan. Any space that might have put between us was canceled when she discovered that I own a parrot. (She does too.)
When I'm at work, I just want to work. I'm all business. It's just how I am. Most of the teachers at my school are that way too. I just seem to be a magnet for the ones who aren't.
I am open to spell suggestions, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.
Oh, wait! The only upholstered furniture in my classroom is my teacher chair, and I sit in that! So bring on the grape juice ... I fear it not!
Are you the kind of person who, given a job to do, just wants to dig in and get it done? I am. When I have something to do, and someone's trying to chat me up, I get annoyed.
A busy high school is not the optimal working environment for me.
I get mildly annoyed when students come in my room to chat me up. But I get intensely annoyed when other teachers come gabbing at me when all I really want to do is get the doggone essays graded and get my butt home to the warm hearth.
This week I actually clocked how much time other people wasted for me by chit-chatting. Two-and-a-half hours! Why did I bother clocking this? Well, it just so happens that my daughter The Heir was home from college this week, and I wanted to get home early enough to enjoy her company.
I know this is a "Dear Abby" question, but what do I do about these pesky teachers who just want to gab? The Teacher Creature is the worst offender, but he's only in my room one afternoon a week. There are two lady teachers about my age who pester me every day. And this is how well the one knows me: She tells me all the latest gossip from her church choir. *hack up fur ball*
I know I would be hurt if someone told me, "Sorry, I would love to hear about your Druid Grove, but right now I have to get these forms filled out in triplicate so I can go home and see my daughter." I'd feel like a chump. I don't want to make anyone feel like a chump, but I would like to have some benign way to dismiss the pests.
If you can think of anything, please share. Alas, I have already tried telling Gabbing Methodist Teacher that I'm a Pagan. Any space that might have put between us was canceled when she discovered that I own a parrot. (She does too.)
When I'm at work, I just want to work. I'm all business. It's just how I am. Most of the teachers at my school are that way too. I just seem to be a magnet for the ones who aren't.
I am open to spell suggestions, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.
Oh, wait! The only upholstered furniture in my classroom is my teacher chair, and I sit in that! So bring on the grape juice ... I fear it not!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Shameless Plea for Self-Promotion
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," founded in 2005 to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of deities who deserve our devotion! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. Here today with my hat in my hand.
I have 24,856 profile views. I have 96 followers. So close, and yet so far.
My shameless plea is to you, my 96 readers. Would you please talk me up just four more notches? If I can get 100 followers, that's enough to convince the Snobville Fire Department to shut off the street for a block party.
Then all of you would be able to come to a vulture-themed block party on Sunday, October 31! We'll have people all dressed up in costumes, a bonfire, carved pumpkins, and pie pie pie! And we'll have mead! (Well, that is if you bring it. I stand alone among my friends in not knowing how to make, or where to purchase, good mead.)
I'm very grateful to have 96 followers, and I do hope I entertain you. If so, please phone a friend and ask them to join our "Gods Are Bored" family!
If I could be serious for a minute...
Wait. Who am I kidding? I'm never serious for a minute! I once made it through 46 seconds of seriousness, but that was as far as I got. And that was at my mom's funeral. You can't ask my mom to die again so that I'll be serious for a true 60 seconds.
Tell your friends that this is the place to visit for people and deities who want to dance, sing, grab all the beatnik madness of life and wring it joyfully across the abyss of despair!
Or just tell them about the block party. Whatever it takes. My goal is to have 100 followers by Samhain, and none of them relations or neighbors. Can you help this worthy cause?
Follow me, and I'll tell you how to become happy, sexy, rich, and famous!
Oh, wait. Too many religious blogs already make that claim.
Follow me, and I'll try to make you chuckle a few times a week.
The world may be all f****** up, but we're living through it anyway. Might as well laugh about it.
The way I see it, things work like this: If only the Bible is true, we're one and all screwed -- so let's be screwed with reckless abandon! And if there's more true than just the Bible, our gods will stand solid with us -- so let's engage deeply in life, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.
Follow me! Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead!
Thank you, and may the bored gods find you and lead you, and by leading you, so may they restore their worth!
PS: You might want to bring a pair of sensible shoes. I hate it when people show up for a hike wearing flip flops.
I have 24,856 profile views. I have 96 followers. So close, and yet so far.
My shameless plea is to you, my 96 readers. Would you please talk me up just four more notches? If I can get 100 followers, that's enough to convince the Snobville Fire Department to shut off the street for a block party.
Then all of you would be able to come to a vulture-themed block party on Sunday, October 31! We'll have people all dressed up in costumes, a bonfire, carved pumpkins, and pie pie pie! And we'll have mead! (Well, that is if you bring it. I stand alone among my friends in not knowing how to make, or where to purchase, good mead.)
I'm very grateful to have 96 followers, and I do hope I entertain you. If so, please phone a friend and ask them to join our "Gods Are Bored" family!
If I could be serious for a minute...
Wait. Who am I kidding? I'm never serious for a minute! I once made it through 46 seconds of seriousness, but that was as far as I got. And that was at my mom's funeral. You can't ask my mom to die again so that I'll be serious for a true 60 seconds.
Tell your friends that this is the place to visit for people and deities who want to dance, sing, grab all the beatnik madness of life and wring it joyfully across the abyss of despair!
Or just tell them about the block party. Whatever it takes. My goal is to have 100 followers by Samhain, and none of them relations or neighbors. Can you help this worthy cause?
Follow me, and I'll tell you how to become happy, sexy, rich, and famous!
Oh, wait. Too many religious blogs already make that claim.
Follow me, and I'll try to make you chuckle a few times a week.
The world may be all f****** up, but we're living through it anyway. Might as well laugh about it.
The way I see it, things work like this: If only the Bible is true, we're one and all screwed -- so let's be screwed with reckless abandon! And if there's more true than just the Bible, our gods will stand solid with us -- so let's engage deeply in life, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture doesn't get stained.
Follow me! Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead!
Thank you, and may the bored gods find you and lead you, and by leading you, so may they restore their worth!
PS: You might want to bring a pair of sensible shoes. I hate it when people show up for a hike wearing flip flops.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Autumn Saturday Navel Gaze
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, the veil grows thin! Can't you feel it? Thinking of lost loved ones? They're thinking of you too. They're making their reservations for dinner with you in two weeks. I'll bet you already have them penciled in on your calendar. Am I right?
Every now and then, we at "The Gods Are Bored" do a little navel-gazing here. It's a diary that everyone can read! (I edit out the dirty parts.) Today is one of those days, so if you're looking for wisdom ... hey, wait. There's never any wisdom here! You might as well stay.
Today was one of those breezy and crisp autumn Saturdays when you just want to kiss the sky, like Hendricks without the haze. And let me tell you, I was feeling the love!
At breakfast time, Spare, Mr. J and I went to the farmer's market in the neighboring borough of Not Snobville. The sun was out, but it was breezy and cold. Spare kept asking for hugs! Do I care if it was because she was cold? A hug is a hug.
No sooner did we get there than we saw the Monkey Man with his monkey! It was the first time I had seen him to talk to him in a long time -- not since well before his Fringe Festival show. He thanked me for the part I played in getting him publicity in the high and mighty Philadelphia Inquirer. Spare and I told him how much we enjoyed the show. Then he talked a little Phillies baseball with Mr. J. We all went off to shop together. (Even the monkey, who was wearing little bells on his paws.)
Somehow Spare and I found ourselves standing in front of a table brimming with a half dozen varieties of apple. I couldn't pry her arms from around my waist (not that I was trying). Talk about the veil: I could feel my great-grandfather standing there with us, scrutinizing the apples. Apples were his cash crop. So I told Spare that, and I told her how my grandfather would ride the farm wagon into Cumberland with the autumn apples, and once the apples were all sold, the family would have money to buy shoes and sugar and coffee and fabric. Spare is very interested in these stories. I'm glad.
As for my great-grandfather, I think he was confounded by the variety of apples, their worm-free perfection -- and the El, rumbling right over our heads.
Once we had bought cider and apples and broccoli, it was time for me to go to Recovery, Inc. Here is my incredible lucky autumn Saturday ... Heir was home, and when she's home, she goes to Recovery with me! (I'll talk more about Recovery some other time. Basically it's a free behavior mod program for nervous people.) Heir and I went to Recovery, and then ... and then ...
Heir, Spare, and I bought some plastic jack-o-lanterns and went to Woodstock Trading Company to help them decorate their front lawn for Halloween! If you click on my sidebar and go to their blog, you'll read all about it.
I love going to Woodstock. It's been a haven ever since I first walked into the door. All of my faeries followed me home from there. Nowadays it's more fun than ever, since I fostered a kitten for them and he now lives in the store. Whenever I go there, he gets all batty over me. Pinky swear that cat knows I saved his life when he was just a gerbil-sized sick kitten.
Woodstock looks awesome. Who would ever have thought of using a Maypole as the center pole for a gigantic spider web? There are some creative people down there, readers. We tied our jack-o-lanterns in the trees, petted the pussy cat, admired the huge spider that we didn't make, and then bid our farewells.
When we got home from Woodstock, I took some sun on the back porch with my cat, Alpha, on my lap. Then I baked a pie and made a pot of stew in the kitchen. Decibel the parrot kept me company, but he got a little nervous when I started humming "Sing a Song of Sixpence."
Oh yes, and we decorated the house for Samhain. My favorite holy day, and always has been.
Just now Heir, Spare, and I are back from the debut performance of a new local band that contains some friends of the Spare. The band is named Big Folkin Deal. It was such a gorgeous autumn evening that even Snobville seemed friendly, at least for an hour or so. (I will reserve judgment on Big Folkin Deal for now.)
Now it's evening. There's a cheery fire and hot stew. Decibel is clucking contentedly in his cage, Alpha is snug on my lap, and my two wonderful daughters, Heir and Spare, are upstairs looking at "College Humor" videos. The Monkey Man is studying Chinese at his rowhouse in Camden, and Monstro the cat is sleeping in his cat bed at Woodstock.
Great-granddad is out in the kitchen, staring at the apples. I won't burst his ghost bubble by telling him that they look better than they taste.
Every now and then, we at "The Gods Are Bored" do a little navel-gazing here. It's a diary that everyone can read! (I edit out the dirty parts.) Today is one of those days, so if you're looking for wisdom ... hey, wait. There's never any wisdom here! You might as well stay.
Today was one of those breezy and crisp autumn Saturdays when you just want to kiss the sky, like Hendricks without the haze. And let me tell you, I was feeling the love!
At breakfast time, Spare, Mr. J and I went to the farmer's market in the neighboring borough of Not Snobville. The sun was out, but it was breezy and cold. Spare kept asking for hugs! Do I care if it was because she was cold? A hug is a hug.
No sooner did we get there than we saw the Monkey Man with his monkey! It was the first time I had seen him to talk to him in a long time -- not since well before his Fringe Festival show. He thanked me for the part I played in getting him publicity in the high and mighty Philadelphia Inquirer. Spare and I told him how much we enjoyed the show. Then he talked a little Phillies baseball with Mr. J. We all went off to shop together. (Even the monkey, who was wearing little bells on his paws.)
Somehow Spare and I found ourselves standing in front of a table brimming with a half dozen varieties of apple. I couldn't pry her arms from around my waist (not that I was trying). Talk about the veil: I could feel my great-grandfather standing there with us, scrutinizing the apples. Apples were his cash crop. So I told Spare that, and I told her how my grandfather would ride the farm wagon into Cumberland with the autumn apples, and once the apples were all sold, the family would have money to buy shoes and sugar and coffee and fabric. Spare is very interested in these stories. I'm glad.
As for my great-grandfather, I think he was confounded by the variety of apples, their worm-free perfection -- and the El, rumbling right over our heads.
Once we had bought cider and apples and broccoli, it was time for me to go to Recovery, Inc. Here is my incredible lucky autumn Saturday ... Heir was home, and when she's home, she goes to Recovery with me! (I'll talk more about Recovery some other time. Basically it's a free behavior mod program for nervous people.) Heir and I went to Recovery, and then ... and then ...
Heir, Spare, and I bought some plastic jack-o-lanterns and went to Woodstock Trading Company to help them decorate their front lawn for Halloween! If you click on my sidebar and go to their blog, you'll read all about it.
I love going to Woodstock. It's been a haven ever since I first walked into the door. All of my faeries followed me home from there. Nowadays it's more fun than ever, since I fostered a kitten for them and he now lives in the store. Whenever I go there, he gets all batty over me. Pinky swear that cat knows I saved his life when he was just a gerbil-sized sick kitten.
Woodstock looks awesome. Who would ever have thought of using a Maypole as the center pole for a gigantic spider web? There are some creative people down there, readers. We tied our jack-o-lanterns in the trees, petted the pussy cat, admired the huge spider that we didn't make, and then bid our farewells.
When we got home from Woodstock, I took some sun on the back porch with my cat, Alpha, on my lap. Then I baked a pie and made a pot of stew in the kitchen. Decibel the parrot kept me company, but he got a little nervous when I started humming "Sing a Song of Sixpence."
Oh yes, and we decorated the house for Samhain. My favorite holy day, and always has been.
Just now Heir, Spare, and I are back from the debut performance of a new local band that contains some friends of the Spare. The band is named Big Folkin Deal. It was such a gorgeous autumn evening that even Snobville seemed friendly, at least for an hour or so. (I will reserve judgment on Big Folkin Deal for now.)
Now it's evening. There's a cheery fire and hot stew. Decibel is clucking contentedly in his cage, Alpha is snug on my lap, and my two wonderful daughters, Heir and Spare, are upstairs looking at "College Humor" videos. The Monkey Man is studying Chinese at his rowhouse in Camden, and Monstro the cat is sleeping in his cat bed at Woodstock.
Great-granddad is out in the kitchen, staring at the apples. I won't burst his ghost bubble by telling him that they look better than they taste.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Stonewall and Me
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" How much do you know about the American Civil War? All I'll say is that it was the only time I rooted for the Yankees.
When I was a little shaver, I used to ride my bike all the time on a road called "Stonewall Jackson's Way." The road was the route Jackson and his troops took to Antietam Battlefield.
Stonewall is a pretty interesting person to read about. Any biography will do. They all end the same way. He dies. Shot by his own troops when he became disoriented while wandering alone at night.
Stonewall Jackson's fatal failing was going without sleep. In battle-ready situations, he would stay awake three or four full days at a time ... or he would settle down to a one-hour nap and then be awake for 48 hours. Needless to say, he made many errors due to sleep deprivation. Including the one that got him shot.
I thought of Stonewall this morning.
You see, Wednesday evening was Back-to-School Night at the Vo-Tech. We teachers were there meeting and greeting parents and kids until 9:00 p.m.
I don't know about you, but when I'm closely engaged with something into the evening hours, I have trouble getting to sleep when I get home. Exhausted as I was, I tossed and turned a bit.
Thursday morning I got up at 5:30 as usual. Except I had to be perky right away, because Spare had to get to school by 6:00 for a field trip (counting shore birds and razor blades at the Jersey beach).
So I dragged my desperately fatigued carcass to work. I opened my school email, and there was a cheery little missive from the superintendent: I would be getting a walk-through by the School Leadership Committee some time that morning.
Isn't that the way the world works, my friends? The minute you get a little worn-out, your boss sends six administrators to observe your class.
Whew. I saddled up Little Sorrel and rode straight into the breach.
At least I think I did. Truly I can't remember enough about this morning to say for certain how well I did.
Good night.
When I was a little shaver, I used to ride my bike all the time on a road called "Stonewall Jackson's Way." The road was the route Jackson and his troops took to Antietam Battlefield.
Stonewall is a pretty interesting person to read about. Any biography will do. They all end the same way. He dies. Shot by his own troops when he became disoriented while wandering alone at night.
Stonewall Jackson's fatal failing was going without sleep. In battle-ready situations, he would stay awake three or four full days at a time ... or he would settle down to a one-hour nap and then be awake for 48 hours. Needless to say, he made many errors due to sleep deprivation. Including the one that got him shot.
I thought of Stonewall this morning.
You see, Wednesday evening was Back-to-School Night at the Vo-Tech. We teachers were there meeting and greeting parents and kids until 9:00 p.m.
I don't know about you, but when I'm closely engaged with something into the evening hours, I have trouble getting to sleep when I get home. Exhausted as I was, I tossed and turned a bit.
Thursday morning I got up at 5:30 as usual. Except I had to be perky right away, because Spare had to get to school by 6:00 for a field trip (counting shore birds and razor blades at the Jersey beach).
So I dragged my desperately fatigued carcass to work. I opened my school email, and there was a cheery little missive from the superintendent: I would be getting a walk-through by the School Leadership Committee some time that morning.
Isn't that the way the world works, my friends? The minute you get a little worn-out, your boss sends six administrators to observe your class.
Whew. I saddled up Little Sorrel and rode straight into the breach.
At least I think I did. Truly I can't remember enough about this morning to say for certain how well I did.
Good night.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Goldilocks Planet
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," scanning the skies and baking fresh pies! No lies.
A few years ago, my daughter The Heir came home and told me that her science teacher stood in front of the class and categorically ruled out any chance of biological life on any other planet in the universe.
Granted, this was a biology teacher, but get real! Heir wasn't attending some crazy private religious school. Seems to me that your average high school biology teacher ought to have a basic grasp of the size of the universe and the statistics that go with it.
You read it here first, friends. We are not alone in the universe. I'm grabbing a number out of a hat when I say there are probably more than 10 million planets with fully diverse ecosystems, including sentient beings. Universe is a big place, yo. Whole lotta stars out there.
I'm a little late getting to this, but last week an astronomy journal published news of the discovery of a planet revolving around a star just a few trillion miles from here. The planet has ideal conditions for liquid water, which is, of course, a prerequisite for life. One of the scientists called the planet a "Goldilocks planet" because it isn't too hot or too cold. It's just right.
Within a hundred years we'll have identified a bevvy of Goldilocks planets. They're out there in droves.
Of course, what we do with this map of great planets will say a lot about us and our deities. Have we made any progress on our penchant for conquest, or will we send a Columbus in a spacesuit to check out Goldilocks IV and take note of what can be pillaged or "settled?" Or will we behave like intelligent life ... leave the planet alone, entirely alone, just like we would want to be free of aliens who would drink our water and suck our brains out through our noses?
I won't be around for the "take me to your leader" phase of Earth history, but I tell you this: It's coming. Whole lotta planets out there. Let's show them some respect, eh?
A few years ago, my daughter The Heir came home and told me that her science teacher stood in front of the class and categorically ruled out any chance of biological life on any other planet in the universe.
Granted, this was a biology teacher, but get real! Heir wasn't attending some crazy private religious school. Seems to me that your average high school biology teacher ought to have a basic grasp of the size of the universe and the statistics that go with it.
You read it here first, friends. We are not alone in the universe. I'm grabbing a number out of a hat when I say there are probably more than 10 million planets with fully diverse ecosystems, including sentient beings. Universe is a big place, yo. Whole lotta stars out there.
I'm a little late getting to this, but last week an astronomy journal published news of the discovery of a planet revolving around a star just a few trillion miles from here. The planet has ideal conditions for liquid water, which is, of course, a prerequisite for life. One of the scientists called the planet a "Goldilocks planet" because it isn't too hot or too cold. It's just right.
Within a hundred years we'll have identified a bevvy of Goldilocks planets. They're out there in droves.
Of course, what we do with this map of great planets will say a lot about us and our deities. Have we made any progress on our penchant for conquest, or will we send a Columbus in a spacesuit to check out Goldilocks IV and take note of what can be pillaged or "settled?" Or will we behave like intelligent life ... leave the planet alone, entirely alone, just like we would want to be free of aliens who would drink our water and suck our brains out through our noses?
I won't be around for the "take me to your leader" phase of Earth history, but I tell you this: It's coming. Whole lotta planets out there. Let's show them some respect, eh?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Prresidential Motorcade
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you from a major metropolitan area smack in the middle of Eastern America's megalopolis! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, just another anonymous honeybee in the colony known as the Delaware Valley.
I've had a great weekend bonding with my daughters. On Saturday, The Spare and I took the El into Philadelphia and cruised the consignment shops on South Street. On Sunday I drove out to Valley Forge to see The Heir at her college. A wonderful time was had by all!
If you have never visited Philadelphia, the City of Buzzardly Love, let me acquaint you with the infrastructure. Why? Because it's essential for today's sermon.
Philadelphia has exactly one freeway running into it from the west. This roadway is the Schuykill Expressway ... lovingly known hereabouts as the Sure-kill Expressway. The Sure-kill has baffling lane-changes and is, in some cases, two lanes going one way, two the other, with a concrete barrier between the eastbound and the westbound lanes. The southern side of the Sure-kill is a cliff, and the northern side is the Schuykill River, down a steep bluff. In other words, there's no way to expand this nail-biter of a deathtrap highway.
The Sure-kill is always packed with traffic. Always. Three in the morning, it's jammed. Sunday afternoon (even when the teams are away), it's jammed. If the radio announcer calls the mess a "rolling backup," that's good news. At least we're rolling. The snail on the bank of the Schuykill River's gaining ground on us, but yo ... we're in motion.
Whenever I set out for Valley Forge from Snobville, I always check the traffic report before I get on the Sure-kill. Today's report was ominous. President Obama and Vice President Biden were going to be at a rally in Germantown.
The rally was already in progress when I set out for Valley Forge, so I took the Sure-kill and flowed out to the western suburbs like semi-warm molasses.
Heir and I spent a lovely afternoon together watching the steam rise from the cooling towers at the Limerick nuclear power plant. Good times, good times. Then I got her some groceries and toiletries, slipped her fifty bucks, and bid her adieu with a warm maternal hug.
Time to go back to New Jersey on the Sure-kill Expressway.
Except there was a problem. A snag, so to speak.
President Obama needed to use the Sure-kill Expressway and its north-south cousin, Interstate 95, to get to Philadelphia International Airport.
You know what they do in these cases, reader? They close down the friggin freeway to all traffic, so that the presidential motorcade can proceed without impediment.
Both of Philadelphia's major arteries, closed completely for 40 minutes. Wow, what a mess.
Luckily, I checked the traffic report before leaving Valley Forge and thus was given a heads-up on our Fearless Leader's freeway use.
I know a round-about route that takes me down 476 almost to Wilmington, crosses the Delaware on an obscure bridge, and winds back north through the wilds of Jersey to Snobville. It's miles and miles out of the way, but you know what? I'm home now. If I had tried to get from Point B to Point A the same time that President Obama wanted to get from Point C to Point D, I would still be sitting in traffic on the Sure-kill Expressway. How do I know? As I was closing in on Snobville I checked the traffic report again. Sure enough, the traffic was bumper to bumper from Valley Forge right into Center City. Snails, tortoises, and sloths were making quicker progress than automobiles.
So this is my question. Why do presidents get to shut down freeways?
Seems to me that presidents could have bullet-proof SUVs that would proceed anonymously through major metropolitan traffic. Windows you couldn't see through. A few companion vehicles just in case there's a fender-bender.
Why should our president go to some urban neighborhood and pretend to be just an ordinary joe, then snarl traffic in a major city so he can get to the airport to his big ol' jet? This does not compute. Especially since there are Air Force bases in the vicinity, and he could get to Philly in a helicopter if he wanted to.
I wasn't inconvenienced by Fearless Leader today, because I checked the traffic report. But what about the other travelers on the Sure-kill Expressway on Sunday afternoon at 6:00? What if there was a woman in labor, stuck in that shut-down? What about the day-tripper returning from the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire with not much gas in the tank?
Causing inconvenience to the American public is business as usual for our country's leadership. Obama is not the first to require sacrifices of ordinary commuters. Lots and lots of presidents have done it before him. I guess I just thought that he would be a little different. He said it was time for a change. Couldn't that have included the way he moves between Points A and B?
I've had a great weekend bonding with my daughters. On Saturday, The Spare and I took the El into Philadelphia and cruised the consignment shops on South Street. On Sunday I drove out to Valley Forge to see The Heir at her college. A wonderful time was had by all!
If you have never visited Philadelphia, the City of Buzzardly Love, let me acquaint you with the infrastructure. Why? Because it's essential for today's sermon.
Philadelphia has exactly one freeway running into it from the west. This roadway is the Schuykill Expressway ... lovingly known hereabouts as the Sure-kill Expressway. The Sure-kill has baffling lane-changes and is, in some cases, two lanes going one way, two the other, with a concrete barrier between the eastbound and the westbound lanes. The southern side of the Sure-kill is a cliff, and the northern side is the Schuykill River, down a steep bluff. In other words, there's no way to expand this nail-biter of a deathtrap highway.
The Sure-kill is always packed with traffic. Always. Three in the morning, it's jammed. Sunday afternoon (even when the teams are away), it's jammed. If the radio announcer calls the mess a "rolling backup," that's good news. At least we're rolling. The snail on the bank of the Schuykill River's gaining ground on us, but yo ... we're in motion.
Whenever I set out for Valley Forge from Snobville, I always check the traffic report before I get on the Sure-kill. Today's report was ominous. President Obama and Vice President Biden were going to be at a rally in Germantown.
The rally was already in progress when I set out for Valley Forge, so I took the Sure-kill and flowed out to the western suburbs like semi-warm molasses.
Heir and I spent a lovely afternoon together watching the steam rise from the cooling towers at the Limerick nuclear power plant. Good times, good times. Then I got her some groceries and toiletries, slipped her fifty bucks, and bid her adieu with a warm maternal hug.
Time to go back to New Jersey on the Sure-kill Expressway.
Except there was a problem. A snag, so to speak.
President Obama needed to use the Sure-kill Expressway and its north-south cousin, Interstate 95, to get to Philadelphia International Airport.
You know what they do in these cases, reader? They close down the friggin freeway to all traffic, so that the presidential motorcade can proceed without impediment.
Both of Philadelphia's major arteries, closed completely for 40 minutes. Wow, what a mess.
Luckily, I checked the traffic report before leaving Valley Forge and thus was given a heads-up on our Fearless Leader's freeway use.
I know a round-about route that takes me down 476 almost to Wilmington, crosses the Delaware on an obscure bridge, and winds back north through the wilds of Jersey to Snobville. It's miles and miles out of the way, but you know what? I'm home now. If I had tried to get from Point B to Point A the same time that President Obama wanted to get from Point C to Point D, I would still be sitting in traffic on the Sure-kill Expressway. How do I know? As I was closing in on Snobville I checked the traffic report again. Sure enough, the traffic was bumper to bumper from Valley Forge right into Center City. Snails, tortoises, and sloths were making quicker progress than automobiles.
So this is my question. Why do presidents get to shut down freeways?
Seems to me that presidents could have bullet-proof SUVs that would proceed anonymously through major metropolitan traffic. Windows you couldn't see through. A few companion vehicles just in case there's a fender-bender.
Why should our president go to some urban neighborhood and pretend to be just an ordinary joe, then snarl traffic in a major city so he can get to the airport to his big ol' jet? This does not compute. Especially since there are Air Force bases in the vicinity, and he could get to Philly in a helicopter if he wanted to.
I wasn't inconvenienced by Fearless Leader today, because I checked the traffic report. But what about the other travelers on the Sure-kill Expressway on Sunday afternoon at 6:00? What if there was a woman in labor, stuck in that shut-down? What about the day-tripper returning from the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire with not much gas in the tank?
Causing inconvenience to the American public is business as usual for our country's leadership. Obama is not the first to require sacrifices of ordinary commuters. Lots and lots of presidents have done it before him. I guess I just thought that he would be a little different. He said it was time for a change. Couldn't that have included the way he moves between Points A and B?
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Glen Rock Fae Trailer
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Well, let's see. What's new in the world? One percent of Americans control about half of the wealth, the Westboro Baptist Church is standing before the Supreme Court defending its right to shout at grieving military families (in person and online), Mr. Bigwand is still a six-foot spout of gushing ego, and I'm dead beat from another day of teaching!
Time for a little re-adjustment.
Some time in 2011 a film producer will be releasing a documentary about the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Here is the trailer. If you live anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard, and you watch this and think, "Oh, I don't want to go to that," then where do you want to go?
Faeries. Lots and lots of faeries. Enough said.
http://www.glenrockfae.com/Video/Pages/The_First_Trailer.html
Time for a little re-adjustment.
Some time in 2011 a film producer will be releasing a documentary about the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Here is the trailer. If you live anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard, and you watch this and think, "Oh, I don't want to go to that," then where do you want to go?
Faeries. Lots and lots of faeries. Enough said.
http://www.glenrockfae.com/Video/Pages/The_First_Trailer.html
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Big, Broad, and Flexible
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," spreading joy as if it were Jif and the bread was the size of Texas! Tra la la!
Ah, sheesh. I'm exhausted. Being a second-year teacher is no easier than being a first-year teacher.
Below I posted a link to a rant by a British right-winger who excoriated Druids and the recent government decision in the UK to grant charitable trust status to Druids. You'll see there are comments under my link, and some of them are terrific.
Here's what I think about getting a tax-free status as a faith.
If you've got loosely-associated people in parts of your country who are communicating and doing similar Rituals to similar deities, and all those people opt to be called Druids, or Wiccans, or Pastafarians, then to me, that's a religion. Some people object to the word "religion," seeing it as weighted and freighted with baggage and expectations. Well, by the same light we ought to object to the word Pagan, as its original meaning is "backward."
Let us put all semantics aside, all quarrels and woes, and join with our UK Druid kindred in blessing the Great Celtic Deities and honoring the sanctity of the Earth!
When it came to warfare, the Celts were not pansies. They could smite with force. But within their society, the Druids were the lawgivers, the poets, the teachers, the composers, the singers, and the historians. A very fine group to make a comeback, if you ask me.
As we Pagans step out into the light, remember that Druid gatherings are open to anyone who doesn't sneer, and they are egalitarian as far as they can be. (Deference is usually paid to the person who knows the most Craft, so long as that person doesn't get carried away by ego.) I'm preaching to the choir here, but if you want to see what Druidry is all about, seek out your nearest OBOD (Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids) or ADF (Ár nDraíocht Féin) by way of websites.
We may be a religion, but you don't need to bring a casserole. See you there!
Ah, sheesh. I'm exhausted. Being a second-year teacher is no easier than being a first-year teacher.
Below I posted a link to a rant by a British right-winger who excoriated Druids and the recent government decision in the UK to grant charitable trust status to Druids. You'll see there are comments under my link, and some of them are terrific.
Here's what I think about getting a tax-free status as a faith.
If you've got loosely-associated people in parts of your country who are communicating and doing similar Rituals to similar deities, and all those people opt to be called Druids, or Wiccans, or Pastafarians, then to me, that's a religion. Some people object to the word "religion," seeing it as weighted and freighted with baggage and expectations. Well, by the same light we ought to object to the word Pagan, as its original meaning is "backward."
Let us put all semantics aside, all quarrels and woes, and join with our UK Druid kindred in blessing the Great Celtic Deities and honoring the sanctity of the Earth!
When it came to warfare, the Celts were not pansies. They could smite with force. But within their society, the Druids were the lawgivers, the poets, the teachers, the composers, the singers, and the historians. A very fine group to make a comeback, if you ask me.
As we Pagans step out into the light, remember that Druid gatherings are open to anyone who doesn't sneer, and they are egalitarian as far as they can be. (Deference is usually paid to the person who knows the most Craft, so long as that person doesn't get carried away by ego.) I'm preaching to the choir here, but if you want to see what Druidry is all about, seek out your nearest OBOD (Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids) or ADF (Ár nDraíocht Féin) by way of websites.
We may be a religion, but you don't need to bring a casserole. See you there!
Monday, October 04, 2010
Don't talk to me tonight...
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1317490/Druids-official-religion-Stones-Praise-come.html
Read this and let the author know what you think. Then copy your comment to her and paste it in a comment here at "The Gods Are Bored." Then pass this link on to every Pagan friend you have so they can let the author know what they think too.
Go ahead. Vent your spleen. She sure did, and got paid for it too.
Read this and let the author know what you think. Then copy your comment to her and paste it in a comment here at "The Gods Are Bored." Then pass this link on to every Pagan friend you have so they can let the author know what they think too.
Go ahead. Vent your spleen. She sure did, and got paid for it too.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
My Guest Blog Stint for "You, Me & Religion"
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you are coming here from "You, Me & Religion," howdy! I hope you brought your deities with you, so long as they're polite and don't spill anything on my upholstery.
"You, Me & Religion" is a questionnaire blog that invites people from various paths to answer a specific set of questions. Some of the questions do not apply to some of the respondents. However, most of them are general enough that they fit a variety of faiths. I've been reading "You, Me & Religion" for awhile, and it gets a hearty "Gods Are Bored" endorsement for the big, broad, flexible outlook.
If you want to read my post there, and you already know me, Godsspeed. Here's the link again:
http://youmereligion.blogspot.com/
"You, Me & Religion" is a questionnaire blog that invites people from various paths to answer a specific set of questions. Some of the questions do not apply to some of the respondents. However, most of them are general enough that they fit a variety of faiths. I've been reading "You, Me & Religion" for awhile, and it gets a hearty "Gods Are Bored" endorsement for the big, broad, flexible outlook.
If you want to read my post there, and you already know me, Godsspeed. Here's the link again:
http://youmereligion.blogspot.com/
Friday, October 01, 2010
My Favorite Month, Bar None!
I'm going to start this post with a shout-out to the incredible Mrs. B, over at Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom. http://www.confessionsofapagansoccermom.com/
Every year between October1 and October 31, Mrs. B throws every ounce of energy into providing Pagans with enjoyable giveaways, guest blogs on thoughtful topics, and haunted blog tours. (I did a guest and a tour last year.) If you don't already have Mrs. B. on your radar, go and visit!
Now, on to today's sermon: WHAT A WACKY DAY!
When you live in New Jersey, it's almost a given that September brings some kind of tropical storm. We just had one, Nicole by name. She didn't look like a beast until yesterday after dark, when the sky opened up and it poured like God had reneged on the rainbow thing.
By this morning, there was water, water everywhere, and still it fell from the sky. Off I went to school, wiper blades doing double shift.
(Funny aside: I still have the same teacher parking space that I had last year. My space ends at a chain-link fence, behind which live four big, loud German Shepherds and two yappy canines of some other breed. Last year before I achieved wisdom, the sinister barking and snarling of these hounds added to my misery. Now that I'm enlightened, I get out of my car -- 6:45 a.m. -- and sweetly call, "HERE, KITTY KITTY KITTY..." You should just see and hear the rage! Starts me off laughing every day.)
Back to the sermon.
I went into the school. In the mornings I have cafeteria duty, meaning that I stand in the cafeteria while the kids get their breakfast (your tax dollars at work). Today, the cafeteria was under a few inches of water. No breakfast. And pandemonium as we tried to explain that fact to 600 kids.
Finally settled into the morning routine, and -- ZAP! -- out goes the power. And it stays out. And stays out. And stays out.
WHIRRRRRR! On comes the emergency generator. Enough juice for the principal to make an announcement over the intercom: "Please keep all students in their second period classes."
Am I lucky, or what? My second period class only has nine students, and two were absent. The rest were working on computers, but when the juice ran dry, they switched to paper and pen and kept right on working. Yeah. I'm flabbergasted too. But size (or lack thererof) does matter in this case. It's not hard to keep seven kids on task.
You won't believe me, but it's true. School is more boring when you don't have something to do than when you do. Students don't understand this, but teachers do.
The power was out for more than a half hour, but when it came up again, school resumed and the bell schedule was adjusted. Excitement enough for a month of Sundays!
October. In like a lion, out like a lion. Don't give me that lamb stuff. I'm a cat person.
So anyway, it was another long day. On Fridays I like to get my lesson plans done for the following week, and my room tidy, before I come home.
By the time I did get home, around 6:25, the sky had cleared, and beautiful cool autumn weather was descending. Better yet, I discovered that The Spare was going out with her gal pals, and Mr. Johnson was biffing off to do research for his book. Home with nothing to do on a Friday night!
Snobville has these puffy affairs called "First Friday," where all the boutiques and restaurants are open, and there's live music on main street.
BAMP! I would rather swallow a chicken bone.
Beautiful autumn evening, a home football game ... right across the pond ... an 8-minute walk ...
BAMP! Had to buy cat food. And supper. By that time it was dark.
So, what's a happy Druid to do with an evening alone? I got a little supper, some tonic on the rocks, and went to enjoy the solitude of my back porch and a little candle-light from the Shrine of the Mists.
Shrine was fine, but wouldn't you know ... I plopped into a patio chair ... Tropical Storm Nicole ...
So here I am, blogging in my home office, listening to the roar of the crowd in the stadium (next block), with a moistened tooshy to keep me company.
I love October. Don't you?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Annual Banned Book Blog
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Dr. Who is on in just three minutes, and it's my experience that if you miss the opening credits you won't have a clue what's happening in the rest of the show.
But how can we let Banned Books Week go past without nodding in its general direction?
Have you ever noticed that some of the most popular and widely-read books actually ought to be banned?
I jest, of course. One does wonder, however, what the world would be like without certain exclusionary religious tracts.
I don't think any book should be banned. I would have trouble taking a book from one of my students if it was titled A Beginner's Guide to Undetectable Incendiary Devices. Hey, the kid's reading! Reading, I tell you ... and a science book at that!
The whole banned book thing has been on my mind recently because our school has a daily free-read where students spend 15 minutes minimum reading a "personal choice" book. This year the school administration issued a new directive: all "personal choice" books must be from the school. Students cannot bring books from home.
I guess you can imagine why this might be. Give an adolescent kid a couple of bucks, send him/her to WalMart, and he/she's likely to pick up some salacious, sexy, smutty tome that celebrates the lavish lifestyle of playas in the hood. Bring that to school, everyone's gonna want to read it, yo.
So. Let them read it.
We have not yet come to an era when reading isn't important, but we have come to an era where it's not something that some people want to do. In my opinion, anything that these people decide to read should not be banned for content, language, sexually explicit situations, or poor moral values. If it's words on a page, and someone is interested in reading it, I say --- here's a bookmark!
Now I'm missing Dr. Who. But I'm not finished with this topic for the year.
I recently had to pry a book out of the hands of one of my students and turn it over to the vice principal. It was about a ruthless gangsta who decided that nothing was gonna get in the way of his getting his woman back, even though she was with another dude and even had a kid with that dude. So the gangsta flashes some bling at the girl, and she goes running back, but her new bro's also a billionaire, so she can't decide. For awhile she hooks up with both of them, but in the end her baby daddy fixes it so that the gangsta gets shot. And the girl doesn't really care, because it's all about the money.
Trash. Utter trash!
Except that this is the plot of The Great Gatsby, which I will be teaching in Honors class this year.
You'll never see me ban a book. The most troublesome book I've ever read is the Bible, and even that I would say we should keep ... with some judicious edits.
But how can we let Banned Books Week go past without nodding in its general direction?
Have you ever noticed that some of the most popular and widely-read books actually ought to be banned?
I jest, of course. One does wonder, however, what the world would be like without certain exclusionary religious tracts.
I don't think any book should be banned. I would have trouble taking a book from one of my students if it was titled A Beginner's Guide to Undetectable Incendiary Devices. Hey, the kid's reading! Reading, I tell you ... and a science book at that!
The whole banned book thing has been on my mind recently because our school has a daily free-read where students spend 15 minutes minimum reading a "personal choice" book. This year the school administration issued a new directive: all "personal choice" books must be from the school. Students cannot bring books from home.
I guess you can imagine why this might be. Give an adolescent kid a couple of bucks, send him/her to WalMart, and he/she's likely to pick up some salacious, sexy, smutty tome that celebrates the lavish lifestyle of playas in the hood. Bring that to school, everyone's gonna want to read it, yo.
So. Let them read it.
We have not yet come to an era when reading isn't important, but we have come to an era where it's not something that some people want to do. In my opinion, anything that these people decide to read should not be banned for content, language, sexually explicit situations, or poor moral values. If it's words on a page, and someone is interested in reading it, I say --- here's a bookmark!
Now I'm missing Dr. Who. But I'm not finished with this topic for the year.
I recently had to pry a book out of the hands of one of my students and turn it over to the vice principal. It was about a ruthless gangsta who decided that nothing was gonna get in the way of his getting his woman back, even though she was with another dude and even had a kid with that dude. So the gangsta flashes some bling at the girl, and she goes running back, but her new bro's also a billionaire, so she can't decide. For awhile she hooks up with both of them, but in the end her baby daddy fixes it so that the gangsta gets shot. And the girl doesn't really care, because it's all about the money.
Trash. Utter trash!
Except that this is the plot of The Great Gatsby, which I will be teaching in Honors class this year.
You'll never see me ban a book. The most troublesome book I've ever read is the Bible, and even that I would say we should keep ... with some judicious edits.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Fabulous Shift into Wisdom
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," discoursing occasionally on Pagan topics, but otherwise just fluff and frizz. I'm Anne Johnson, your host. My Pagan name is Peace Eagle. Jot it down so you don't forget!
Do you believe in reincarnation? I never did, for a long time. The older I get, though, the more plausible it seems.
I'll tell you why it's making more sense to me.
You'd never know it to see my wrinkle-free face and my girlish figure, but I'm now officially a Crone. Since becoming a Crone, I have had the strange notion that I have lived previous lives but never came this far before. The age I am now is so "new" to me. It's as if I don't recognize myself because I'm covering ground I've never been over before.
Oh yes, the skeptic would say this is because I'm now teaching school instead of writing books. New profession brings a feeling of oddity. Of course that could be part of it. But many times lately, I've experienced something annoying that would have, in my earlier years, sent me into a big blue funk.
Take, for instance, my recent (negative) teacher evaluation by our newly-hired department chairman. I'm not tenured, and this dude seems intent on seeing it stays that way. Even as recently as a year ago I would have been all upset, convinced that I would be out of a job, living on the lawn of my foreclosed house, dying of strep throat because I don't have insurance. Now, on this very day, all I can do is smile. Why don't I care anymore? Where has this calm come from that has enveloped me?
Know what I think? I think that in a past life I must have been in agony on my deathbed at this age. Something has shifted. I feel wise and whole, and every pain-free step I take is a blessing. (Some of you might recall that I have a titanium hip, so I have been through some health stuff.)
This coming Saturday is South Jersey Pagan Pride Day, and I intend to celebrate my entree into the Cailleach years.
Guess what else? Next Wednesday I'm going out to dinner with ... Mr. Bigwand and his wife!
See? I told you something has changed.
Do you believe in reincarnation? I never did, for a long time. The older I get, though, the more plausible it seems.
I'll tell you why it's making more sense to me.
You'd never know it to see my wrinkle-free face and my girlish figure, but I'm now officially a Crone. Since becoming a Crone, I have had the strange notion that I have lived previous lives but never came this far before. The age I am now is so "new" to me. It's as if I don't recognize myself because I'm covering ground I've never been over before.
Oh yes, the skeptic would say this is because I'm now teaching school instead of writing books. New profession brings a feeling of oddity. Of course that could be part of it. But many times lately, I've experienced something annoying that would have, in my earlier years, sent me into a big blue funk.
Take, for instance, my recent (negative) teacher evaluation by our newly-hired department chairman. I'm not tenured, and this dude seems intent on seeing it stays that way. Even as recently as a year ago I would have been all upset, convinced that I would be out of a job, living on the lawn of my foreclosed house, dying of strep throat because I don't have insurance. Now, on this very day, all I can do is smile. Why don't I care anymore? Where has this calm come from that has enveloped me?
Know what I think? I think that in a past life I must have been in agony on my deathbed at this age. Something has shifted. I feel wise and whole, and every pain-free step I take is a blessing. (Some of you might recall that I have a titanium hip, so I have been through some health stuff.)
This coming Saturday is South Jersey Pagan Pride Day, and I intend to celebrate my entree into the Cailleach years.
Guess what else? Next Wednesday I'm going out to dinner with ... Mr. Bigwand and his wife!
See? I told you something has changed.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Decibel's Antagonist Revealed
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where all parrots are lean, green, biting machines! Here's an update on the story below, in which Decibel, my macaw, got doused with Coca-Cola and otherwise pestered by an elementary school kid on her way home in the afternoon.
Today I clocked out at school just as soon as the "teacher bell" rang. I rushed home so I could be at my house in time for the local elementary to let out. I "baited" my porch with Decibel, who had been inside all day.
Sure enough, at about 3:20 I saw a girl come up on my porch. She started talking to Decibel and sticking her fingers in the cage.
So I went outside, calmly. Immediately it became clear that the girl in question has neurological difficulties.
First of all, she was old enough to know better than to pester a parrot, but she greeted me in a friendly way, with no remorse about what she was doing. I asked if I could walk to her home with her, and as we walked, she asked a dozen questions about Decibel that you might expect a much younger kid to ask. The one thing she asked me was, "Is he always that excited?" And I said, "No, he gets mad when someone puts their fingers in his cage."
Long story short, the girl was being babysat by her aunt, who told me that the girl has autism and has been bitten by other animals.
Decibel will stay indoors for now. Perhaps in the spring we will return him to the porch, but only if someone is watching him during after-school walk-home.
Personally I am ashamed of myself for thinking that Decibel's tormentor was malicious. Snobville has a heaping helping of mean kids, but this little girl is not among them.
Today I clocked out at school just as soon as the "teacher bell" rang. I rushed home so I could be at my house in time for the local elementary to let out. I "baited" my porch with Decibel, who had been inside all day.
Sure enough, at about 3:20 I saw a girl come up on my porch. She started talking to Decibel and sticking her fingers in the cage.
So I went outside, calmly. Immediately it became clear that the girl in question has neurological difficulties.
First of all, she was old enough to know better than to pester a parrot, but she greeted me in a friendly way, with no remorse about what she was doing. I asked if I could walk to her home with her, and as we walked, she asked a dozen questions about Decibel that you might expect a much younger kid to ask. The one thing she asked me was, "Is he always that excited?" And I said, "No, he gets mad when someone puts their fingers in his cage."
Long story short, the girl was being babysat by her aunt, who told me that the girl has autism and has been bitten by other animals.
Decibel will stay indoors for now. Perhaps in the spring we will return him to the porch, but only if someone is watching him during after-school walk-home.
Personally I am ashamed of myself for thinking that Decibel's tormentor was malicious. Snobville has a heaping helping of mean kids, but this little girl is not among them.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Awesome Magickal Victory of the Great Goddess Cloacina
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson at the helm. And doing the dishes. It's just me running this ship. No wonder it's drifting aimlessly!
Actually, though, all is not aimless drift. The magickal intention I began in 2006 has been realized!
Here to celebrate with me on this blessed day is the great bored Goddess to whom I entrusted the magick, and to whom falls the continued task of protecting a pretty little mountain waterway. Please give a great, glad, warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Cloacina, Goddess of clean water, sacred to Ancient Rome!
Praise and worship to you, Wonderful Awesome Cloacina! Here's the text of an email I received over the weekend from our little group, Citizens for Smart Growth in Allegany County, Maryland:
Actually, though, all is not aimless drift. The magickal intention I began in 2006 has been realized!
Here to celebrate with me on this blessed day is the great bored Goddess to whom I entrusted the magick, and to whom falls the continued task of protecting a pretty little mountain waterway. Please give a great, glad, warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Cloacina, Goddess of clean water, sacred to Ancient Rome!
Praise and worship to you, Wonderful Awesome Cloacina! Here's the text of an email I received over the weekend from our little group, Citizens for Smart Growth in Allegany County, Maryland:
PNC Bank filed an action on September 16, 2010, in Allegany County Circuit Court to foreclose on three of Carnock's properties - Church Road Development, PDC-Collingbrook, and Terrapin Run. A group called TR Forty, of which Michael Carnock is Manager, had taken a pre-development loan for $5.5 million from PNC Bank in 2007 as nearly as I can tell and had pledged those properties as security.
As of July 6, 2010, amounts owed were Principal - $4,727,240, Interest - $402,209, and Late Charges - $7,621 for a total of $5,137,070.
Now, to my three regular readers, you know what all this $$$ stuff means. For the rest of you, a little back story. Take it away, Cloacina!
Cloacina: The man named "Carnock" in the above-mentioned foreclosure statement is Michael Carnock. In 2006 or thereabouts, Michael Carnock bought several large wooded tracts of land in a rural area of Allegany County, Maryland, with the intention of creating a residential/commercial town of 11,000 people -- more than 400 units of housing, a business area, and a water treatment plant that would have placed a dam on one Tier II stream and sent the sewage runoff into Terrapin Run, a little wet-weather brook that trickles alongside the boundaries of a wildlife refuge. Have I got that correct, Anne?
Anne: Absoluetly, Great Goddess. Continue, please.
Cloacina: In order to block this action, Anne began to do magick at the place where Terrapin Run passes under U.S. Scenic Route 40. If you want to find this place, take the Little Orleans exit off Interstate 68 and follow 40 west to the base of Town Hill. There's a little stone bridge. It's easy to miss. Terrapin Run (my precious baby) is very small.
Anne: Size doesn't matter, does it, Goddess?
Cloacina: Oh, indeed it does not! To continue my tale: After working solitary magick for awhile, Anne summoned Me and petitioned My aid. Anne prayed that I would settle in and protect Terrapin Run from Michael Carnock and his bulldozers. I was eager and willing! Words do not suffice to describe how bored I was until Anne gave Me this assignment. And I cannot say enough about the beauty of Allegany County. Talk about stunning countryside! I've seen all kinds of animals that I never saw in Ancient Rome, from rattlesnakes to raccoons to luna moths. Salamanders! Newts! Crayfish! Oh, I adore my Terrapin Run!
Anne: This is the end of the demon Michael Carnock, but our job is not finished along Terrapin Run, is it, Goddess?
Cloacina: No, dear. Now the property (bought at inflated prices) belongs to PNC bank. Rest assured they will try to find another despoiler. It won't be easy for them to identify another chump as clueless as Michael Carnock, but they will try. Remember, this area lies overtop that Marcellus Shale deposit that's full of natural gas ... PNC will be all over that.
Anne: Then we will continue our Work. Together forever, Anne and Cloacina! Blessed be! May all the deities of all the pantheons bless our Work to save Terrapin Run from any ill-conceived development or mining that would foul its shining waters! Cloacina, please stay for dinner. Homemade chicken cacciatore and a special red velvet cake just for You -- and the altar candles lit with praise prayers for You as well.
Cloacina: Music to my ears. And while I'm here, I'll take a look at that little pond in the next block, across the street from the Monkey Man's childhood home. Looks like it could use some Work.
Anne: Knock yourself out. Dinner's at six.
Readers, when I heard about this huge, ridiculous housing development, I vowed to do everything in my power to keep Michael Carnock and his corps of destroyers from even breaking ground on the Terrapin Run development. In addition to on-site spells, I gave the Citizens for Smart Growth monetary donations, fine jewelry and collectible ceramics that belonged to me, and shout-outs all along the way. If any of you gave money to the Citizens, this victory belongs to you as well as me!
As to my "zero tolerance" vow, I'm not sure they didn't bulldoze a road back into the heart of the property (and they blazed some trees they planned to cut down), but not one foundation was set. The land lies untrampled, and one greedy hellhound of a developer must be doing fry-cook night shift at the Waffle House.
A busy god might not have heard my cries for help on such a seemingly insignificant petition. Cloacina embraced Terrapin Run ... and saved it. May Her name be holy unto all.
Now, to my three regular readers, you know what all this $$$ stuff means. For the rest of you, a little back story. Take it away, Cloacina!
Cloacina: The man named "Carnock" in the above-mentioned foreclosure statement is Michael Carnock. In 2006 or thereabouts, Michael Carnock bought several large wooded tracts of land in a rural area of Allegany County, Maryland, with the intention of creating a residential/commercial town of 11,000 people -- more than 400 units of housing, a business area, and a water treatment plant that would have placed a dam on one Tier II stream and sent the sewage runoff into Terrapin Run, a little wet-weather brook that trickles alongside the boundaries of a wildlife refuge. Have I got that correct, Anne?
Anne: Absoluetly, Great Goddess. Continue, please.
Cloacina: In order to block this action, Anne began to do magick at the place where Terrapin Run passes under U.S. Scenic Route 40. If you want to find this place, take the Little Orleans exit off Interstate 68 and follow 40 west to the base of Town Hill. There's a little stone bridge. It's easy to miss. Terrapin Run (my precious baby) is very small.
Anne: Size doesn't matter, does it, Goddess?
Cloacina: Oh, indeed it does not! To continue my tale: After working solitary magick for awhile, Anne summoned Me and petitioned My aid. Anne prayed that I would settle in and protect Terrapin Run from Michael Carnock and his bulldozers. I was eager and willing! Words do not suffice to describe how bored I was until Anne gave Me this assignment. And I cannot say enough about the beauty of Allegany County. Talk about stunning countryside! I've seen all kinds of animals that I never saw in Ancient Rome, from rattlesnakes to raccoons to luna moths. Salamanders! Newts! Crayfish! Oh, I adore my Terrapin Run!
Anne: This is the end of the demon Michael Carnock, but our job is not finished along Terrapin Run, is it, Goddess?
Cloacina: No, dear. Now the property (bought at inflated prices) belongs to PNC bank. Rest assured they will try to find another despoiler. It won't be easy for them to identify another chump as clueless as Michael Carnock, but they will try. Remember, this area lies overtop that Marcellus Shale deposit that's full of natural gas ... PNC will be all over that.
Anne: Then we will continue our Work. Together forever, Anne and Cloacina! Blessed be! May all the deities of all the pantheons bless our Work to save Terrapin Run from any ill-conceived development or mining that would foul its shining waters! Cloacina, please stay for dinner. Homemade chicken cacciatore and a special red velvet cake just for You -- and the altar candles lit with praise prayers for You as well.
Cloacina: Music to my ears. And while I'm here, I'll take a look at that little pond in the next block, across the street from the Monkey Man's childhood home. Looks like it could use some Work.
Anne: Knock yourself out. Dinner's at six.
Readers, when I heard about this huge, ridiculous housing development, I vowed to do everything in my power to keep Michael Carnock and his corps of destroyers from even breaking ground on the Terrapin Run development. In addition to on-site spells, I gave the Citizens for Smart Growth monetary donations, fine jewelry and collectible ceramics that belonged to me, and shout-outs all along the way. If any of you gave money to the Citizens, this victory belongs to you as well as me!
As to my "zero tolerance" vow, I'm not sure they didn't bulldoze a road back into the heart of the property (and they blazed some trees they planned to cut down), but not one foundation was set. The land lies untrampled, and one greedy hellhound of a developer must be doing fry-cook night shift at the Waffle House.
A busy god might not have heard my cries for help on such a seemingly insignificant petition. Cloacina embraced Terrapin Run ... and saved it. May Her name be holy unto all.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Incredibly Horrific Ordeal of Decibel the Parrot
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We've got some good news and some bad news. So in the grand tradition of Appalachians everywhere, we'll start with the bad news. Tomorrow we'll pony up the good stuff. So if you don't like bad news, biff off for now and come back later.
For about ten years now, la famille Johnson has placed Decibel the parrot on the front porch during the warm months. Decibel isn't out there 24/7, only during daytime hours when someone is home. Mr. Johnson works at home, but way in the back where he can't see the front porch.
Decibel is 24 years old now -- more or less the same in parrot years as in people years. He was captive bred, so he really doesn't know what it means to be a macaw. He's just a little human with feathers. Who screams loud. And bites hard. Really hard. He can't break an adult finger bone (although he's certainly tried), but I don't know about the slender digit of an elementary school kid.
Why would I care about Decibel biting a kid? I'll get to that.
First I would like to say that Decibel has become a happy fixture in our neighborhood, which is walker-friendly. Kids and adults alike greet him from the sidewalk, and I always warn the little ones to look and not touch, to only come close when Mom or Dad is with them.
Imagine my consternation, then, when on Friday at 3:30, The Spare called me (I was still working at school). One little girl -- name, age, address unknown -- had come up on our porch, banged Decibel's cage, pulled his food out and dumped it, then started shoving her fingers in between the bars. When Decibel did what Decibel does, i.e. lunged with intent to maim, the unruly child threw Coca-Cola all over Decibel, his cage, and my front porch.
Spare told me that this same child has come onto the porch before, usually with friends, and that she has agitated Decibel before, but never to this extent. (Spare did not speak up and chase the kids off because she was partly raised Methodist and, as she put it, "knows what it's like to be yelled at by a stranger." Of course the yelling occurred at church, and nowhere but church.)
I could use your advice on this, readers. Am I liable if some moron twisted girl gets bit by my parrot because a parrot's gonna do what a parrot's gonna do? Decibel won't bite if you don't stick your fingers in his space. It's not like he's a dog on a leash. He's sitting in a cage on my porch.
Should I keep Decibel indoors?
We have a few more prime weeks of "parrot weather" here in October. Decibel likes the porch ... under normal circumstances. And all the other parents and kids in my neighborhood like seeing Decibel out there.
I don't want any kid to get bitten, though. This is Snobville, a village of 11,000 people -- 9,000 of them lawyers.
Forget the twisted kid. What are Decibel's rights?
Oh, and by the way, I intend to come home from work early on Monday. If this child goes for Decibel again, she will find herself in the stern hands of a Title One District school teacher who not only loves Decibel but also hates coming home before all her work is done and her desk is tidy.
For about ten years now, la famille Johnson has placed Decibel the parrot on the front porch during the warm months. Decibel isn't out there 24/7, only during daytime hours when someone is home. Mr. Johnson works at home, but way in the back where he can't see the front porch.
Decibel is 24 years old now -- more or less the same in parrot years as in people years. He was captive bred, so he really doesn't know what it means to be a macaw. He's just a little human with feathers. Who screams loud. And bites hard. Really hard. He can't break an adult finger bone (although he's certainly tried), but I don't know about the slender digit of an elementary school kid.
Why would I care about Decibel biting a kid? I'll get to that.
First I would like to say that Decibel has become a happy fixture in our neighborhood, which is walker-friendly. Kids and adults alike greet him from the sidewalk, and I always warn the little ones to look and not touch, to only come close when Mom or Dad is with them.
Imagine my consternation, then, when on Friday at 3:30, The Spare called me (I was still working at school). One little girl -- name, age, address unknown -- had come up on our porch, banged Decibel's cage, pulled his food out and dumped it, then started shoving her fingers in between the bars. When Decibel did what Decibel does, i.e. lunged with intent to maim, the unruly child threw Coca-Cola all over Decibel, his cage, and my front porch.
Spare told me that this same child has come onto the porch before, usually with friends, and that she has agitated Decibel before, but never to this extent. (Spare did not speak up and chase the kids off because she was partly raised Methodist and, as she put it, "knows what it's like to be yelled at by a stranger." Of course the yelling occurred at church, and nowhere but church.)
I could use your advice on this, readers. Am I liable if some moron twisted girl gets bit by my parrot because a parrot's gonna do what a parrot's gonna do? Decibel won't bite if you don't stick your fingers in his space. It's not like he's a dog on a leash. He's sitting in a cage on my porch.
Should I keep Decibel indoors?
We have a few more prime weeks of "parrot weather" here in October. Decibel likes the porch ... under normal circumstances. And all the other parents and kids in my neighborhood like seeing Decibel out there.
I don't want any kid to get bitten, though. This is Snobville, a village of 11,000 people -- 9,000 of them lawyers.
Forget the twisted kid. What are Decibel's rights?
Oh, and by the way, I intend to come home from work early on Monday. If this child goes for Decibel again, she will find herself in the stern hands of a Title One District school teacher who not only loves Decibel but also hates coming home before all her work is done and her desk is tidy.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Damn Your EYES, Spare!
Welcome to The Gods Are Bored, where the last thing we need is another addiction! Damn! Damn! Damn! Teenagers and their habits! Gonna bring me down.
I am so old (though well-preserved) that I can remember the original episodes of Star Trek. I watched it in re-run in the early 1970s when it was gaining a fan base. Then I saw the first three Star Wars films, and they were awesome. After that, I parted ways with science fiction. No more Trek films, no Lord of the Rings, haven't seen Darth Vader since James Earl Jones was the voice. Anne and science fiction went their separate ways.
Until now.
DAMN IT ALL! Spare has been consumed by "Dr. Who" since summer. Here's the quote she wanted me to record: "How I spent my Independence Day: Watching 'Dr. Who' and eating Italian food."
A few times I caught a rare glimpse of "Dr. Who," and of course I began to belittle Spare about it. The show seemed incomprehensible to me, kind of all silly action with no coherent story line. (Say what you want about Star Trek, its original episodes had chippin story lines.)
Earlier this week, I settled into the easy chair to blog on my netbook. Spare was, as is her daily habit, absorbed in "Dr. Who."
I started to watch it. And now I can't stop. David Tennant is wicked adorable, and the story lines are silly but somewhat Trekkie. And the doggone show is on every day.
I really and truly thought I was beyond any chance of getting hooked on a cheesy science fiction t.v. show. Just goes to show ya, wicked temptations lie around every corner. But, Spare, Spare, did it have to be this way? Why are you watching "Dr. Who" just when I want to catch the occasional episode of "Dr. Phil?"
Wait. Hold the friggin phone! I'm watching "Dr. Who" when I could be watching "Dr. Phil?" Need I ask you, reader, which one would rot my brain faster and with less-appealing visuals?
I may raise The Spare's allowance.
I am so old (though well-preserved) that I can remember the original episodes of Star Trek. I watched it in re-run in the early 1970s when it was gaining a fan base. Then I saw the first three Star Wars films, and they were awesome. After that, I parted ways with science fiction. No more Trek films, no Lord of the Rings, haven't seen Darth Vader since James Earl Jones was the voice. Anne and science fiction went their separate ways.
Until now.
DAMN IT ALL! Spare has been consumed by "Dr. Who" since summer. Here's the quote she wanted me to record: "How I spent my Independence Day: Watching 'Dr. Who' and eating Italian food."
A few times I caught a rare glimpse of "Dr. Who," and of course I began to belittle Spare about it. The show seemed incomprehensible to me, kind of all silly action with no coherent story line. (Say what you want about Star Trek, its original episodes had chippin story lines.)
Earlier this week, I settled into the easy chair to blog on my netbook. Spare was, as is her daily habit, absorbed in "Dr. Who."
I started to watch it. And now I can't stop. David Tennant is wicked adorable, and the story lines are silly but somewhat Trekkie. And the doggone show is on every day.
I really and truly thought I was beyond any chance of getting hooked on a cheesy science fiction t.v. show. Just goes to show ya, wicked temptations lie around every corner. But, Spare, Spare, did it have to be this way? Why are you watching "Dr. Who" just when I want to catch the occasional episode of "Dr. Phil?"
Wait. Hold the friggin phone! I'm watching "Dr. Who" when I could be watching "Dr. Phil?" Need I ask you, reader, which one would rot my brain faster and with less-appealing visuals?
I may raise The Spare's allowance.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Restoring Insanity March
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," twelve miles out from Kettle Point, bound for Boston, with ... nothing in particular.
(Every now and then I have to borrow from another author for my opener. I run out of ideas.)
A trickle of news tells us that Jon Stewart is proposing a "Restoring Sanity" march in Washington, DC on October 30. Apparently the target participant for this thing is someone who is sane and reasonable. Someone who doesn't hold strong views on either side of the partisan divide.
Putting aside the fact that I'm not sane enough to gain admittance to this march, I'm not sure I would go anyway. Talk about a boring event! This promises to be a major snooze-fest. A march by Middle Americans who don't feel strongly either way on the issues facing our country? zzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzzz!
How about a "Restoring Insanity" march? We could wave Flying Spaghetti Monster banners, drink Red Bull, speak Klingon, and throw red Fizzies into the Reflecting Pool. Then we could play paintball in the Lincoln Memorial before settling down to a Residents concert, followed by a midnight showing of "Harold and Maude."
Now that's an event I could see myself at!
Seriously. The only people who go to marches are people who feel strongly about something. Can you imagine getting up on the morning of the "Restoring Sanity" march and trying to decide what to wear? Navy Dockers and white button-down, or khaki Banana Republic crop pants with a basic J. Jill t-shirt? zzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ!!!!!
None of that dull attire at my "Restoring Insanity" march! Come in your faerie wear, your best cosplay get-up, your favorite glistening yellow raincoat! And while we're at it, let's do some cosplay of our own. Travis Bickle re-enactors! Scary clowns! Reward for the best impersonator of Bob's Big Boy!
Boom boom, ain't it great to be crazy?
The moral of this story is simple enough. Sane people don't go to Washington to demonstrate their sanity. They stay home and mow the lawn.
While they're doing that, I say let's march, crazy lunatic people! Remember, our nation's motto is, "Out of many, one." There are plenty of crazies out there, and it's America -- they have to keep us. Let's show our gratitude by reminding America that we're nuts, and we vote in nutty ways, and democracy is the lunatic's best friend!
Who's with me on this? I have to know how much Red Bull to bring.
(Every now and then I have to borrow from another author for my opener. I run out of ideas.)
A trickle of news tells us that Jon Stewart is proposing a "Restoring Sanity" march in Washington, DC on October 30. Apparently the target participant for this thing is someone who is sane and reasonable. Someone who doesn't hold strong views on either side of the partisan divide.
Putting aside the fact that I'm not sane enough to gain admittance to this march, I'm not sure I would go anyway. Talk about a boring event! This promises to be a major snooze-fest. A march by Middle Americans who don't feel strongly either way on the issues facing our country? zzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzzz!
How about a "Restoring Insanity" march? We could wave Flying Spaghetti Monster banners, drink Red Bull, speak Klingon, and throw red Fizzies into the Reflecting Pool. Then we could play paintball in the Lincoln Memorial before settling down to a Residents concert, followed by a midnight showing of "Harold and Maude."
Now that's an event I could see myself at!
Seriously. The only people who go to marches are people who feel strongly about something. Can you imagine getting up on the morning of the "Restoring Sanity" march and trying to decide what to wear? Navy Dockers and white button-down, or khaki Banana Republic crop pants with a basic J. Jill t-shirt? zzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ!!!!!
None of that dull attire at my "Restoring Insanity" march! Come in your faerie wear, your best cosplay get-up, your favorite glistening yellow raincoat! And while we're at it, let's do some cosplay of our own. Travis Bickle re-enactors! Scary clowns! Reward for the best impersonator of Bob's Big Boy!
Boom boom, ain't it great to be crazy?
The moral of this story is simple enough. Sane people don't go to Washington to demonstrate their sanity. They stay home and mow the lawn.
While they're doing that, I say let's march, crazy lunatic people! Remember, our nation's motto is, "Out of many, one." There are plenty of crazies out there, and it's America -- they have to keep us. Let's show our gratitude by reminding America that we're nuts, and we vote in nutty ways, and democracy is the lunatic's best friend!
Who's with me on this? I have to know how much Red Bull to bring.
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