Put It to the Test

Good morning from "The Gods Are Bored!" I just read the most depressing article about county fairs in the New York Times. The drought in the heartland has wreaked havoc on prize-winning zucchinis and 200+ pound pumpkins.

For those of us who grew up eagerly anticipating the county fair, this is a sad story that illustrates the scary commencement of a new Dust Bowl in our primary food-producing regions.

But, hey! Let's all be distracted by silly stuff!

Just in on Yahoo News:

Johan Huibers, a Dutch contractor and millionaire has reproduced a copy of Noah's Ark, built the proportions laid out in The Bible.

Here it is:

EXHIBIT A: NOAH'S ARK REBUILT
 
Now, recall that we here at "The Gods Are Bored" believe in "production for use." This is why we abhor firearms and even those bottle rockets that take off peoples' fingers on the Fourth of July.

In this case, though, I think "production for use" applies.

Considering that the world could be headed into a new era of catastrophic flooding, I think we should pack up that ark with two of every living creature on the Earth. Of course we need also to leave room for the dinosaurs. We can calculate that space by using the existing dinosaur fossil skeletons for measurement purposes.

Rounding up insects will be difficult and, at times, perilous. However, it is not fair to exclude them, since they are the largest family of creatures on the planet. I volunteer a stink bug, gender unknown, and a pair of silverfish I found mating in one of Mr. J's boxes of newspaper clippings. Mosquitoes can fly, and there are too many in my yard to catch, so I'm going to leave that chore for someone else.

We also need to make comfortable space for eight people. And a storehouse for food supplies, 40 days' worth, including all the vast variety of foodstuffs animals nosh on. I have a shrubbery that could keep a pair of leaf miners going for 40 days. They can have it if they dig it up and take it away.

There you have it. Production for use. Load up that ark, set it adrift in the Sargasso Sea, and look for the snow-white dove bearing an olive branch. A sodden olive branch bearing no fruit, because it was submerged and drowned.

Hmmm. Problem there. All the plants drowned! How are we going to feed the leaf miners until new shrubbery can be nursed to maturity? 

Our Very Wonderful Well-Regulated Militia

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fellow soldiers! It's time to protect America!

You see, each and every one of us over the age of 18, with very few exceptions, are members of the well-regulated militia.

You've probably noticed that I write a lot about the First Amendment. In the interest of fairness, it's time to look at the Second Amendment:


"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to bear arms, shall not be infringed."


Here comes the Hun! Where's my gun?


It's not easy being a member of the United States of America well regulated militia. People so easily overlook your role in protecting our free state.

Just this morning, I heard that the mass transit police in Philadelphia apprehended a patriotic militia man on the busiest subway in the city. This soldier was carrying an AK 47 assault rifle and several rounds of ammunition. (His ration kit also included marijuana.) The cheek of those transit cops! Honestly!

My daughter The Heir rides mass transit in Philadelphia, and I am personally offended that a well-regulated militia man was hauled off the train and arrested. No doubt he was there in the first place to protect Heir and the other passengers from the ever-present danger of an enemy in our midst.

You are going to see more of this, readers. Our state security is going to be compromised because our militia members are being arrested, and in some cases denied firearms altogether. I quake, I absolutely quake, for my daughter's safety on the El. Everywhere you look there are Nazis, North Koreans, Viet Cong, and bearded terrorists shouting about Allah! What's the name of that little island in the middle of nowhere that the U.S. invaded back in the 1980s? Slips my mind, but you just know the leaders of that island are out for serious reprisals. (Just remembered: Grenada. Full of enemies.)

As for the arms we can bear, well, I say that whatever we can carry should be bearable. At my very next opportunity, I am going to a gun show in search of a surface-to-air missile. If I am going to be part of the well-regulated militia, I don't want to take any chances with those flocks of geese that pass this way in the fall. Haven't you ever heard of germ warfare?

Lughnasadh 2012

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Lughnasadh edition! Or, if you prefer the bored gods native to North America, Happy Feast of the Green Corn!

This is another of those fun summer parties we have (May Day being the other) that contain an underlying message of growth, fertility, making plans, and appreciating the weather that nourishes. For me, this holy day is also a moment to consider what happens when the weather (or life) does not nourish, when there's a drought, or a flood, or lightning strikes that decimate your favorite tree.

Well, this is where the atheists think that all religious people are silly. We thank the deities when our crops yield and mature, and we petition the deities when the sailing is rough.

With ample evidence to believe that the universe is completely random, there are also those uncanny moments that just don't seem possibly to be coincidences. This is my experience, anyway. Furthermore, I have said it before, and I'll say it again: If human beings represent the highest level available in the entire universe, then it's a damn sorry universe that ought to just fold in on itself and try again, sooner that later.

At the beginning of July, I went to Polish Mountain to walk the land and honor my ancestors. There's a very small burial plot near the foot of the mountain that has some recent graves in it ... enough for some kind of perpetual care fund. In that burial ground is a small stone for an ancestor of mine who fought in the Revolutionary War. Just as I was honoring this stone, a vulture swooped low over the hillside. It rounded once and then sailed off to the west.

I believe in free will, but I also believe in synchronicity and in  Higher Powers. Stored within us are parts of our brains that we don't even use. I'm stealing from Robert Anton Wilson when I say that, should we some day be able to tap into those unused brain areas, we might really experience the gods.

How does your garden grow? Has this season been plentiful, or has it been fraught with peril and uncertainty? Either way, kick up your heels today ... just because the time of life is short.

Blessed be,
Anne

Chick Fil-A

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fans of fried chicken since 1960! Man oh man, both of my grandmothers knew how to fry chicken! I can still taste those crispy, moist, flavorful bird bits in the digestion-related regions of my brain!

Which is one of the reasons why I can happily forgo any fast-food chicken on the market. Something tells me that the tender loving care that should be showered on young poultry is sadly lacking in today's chain store chew shops.

There's a lot of flap-flap and squawk squawk about Chick-Fil-A in the news right now. This fast food scourge has been in my neighborhood for twenty years, at least. While trying to grab market share from formidable rivals, Chick-Fil-A absolutely boasted about its Christian mission. If you missed this, you weren't looking for a waffle fry on a Sunday.

It's no surprise to me that the idea of gay marriage, or gays themselves for that matter, is anathema to Chick-Fil-A. This is a private, family-owned company with no ties to the workings of the government (save, no doubt, hefty contributions to any and every right-wing Dominionist wacko running for dog catcher and all else). The ownership of Chick Fil-A has every right to maximize its profits in the Bible Belt by minimizing profits elsewhere. Folks, seriously. The market share of this grease bucket was built on all the Christian consumers out there who didn't have good grannies with cast-iron skillets and bricks of lard.

I have not patronized a Chick-Fil-A in two decades. On the other hand, my daughter The Spare and her friends, while as liberal-minded as they come, consider the local CFA their gustatory hangout. Well, what can I say? Both of my grannies had found the Summerlands before Spare was born. Her experience of great fried chicken is limited to our annual vacation to the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

Truthfully, I wish more businesses were as honest as Chick-Fil-A. As consumers, we ought to know how private businesses are supporting political candidates, so that we can give our ducats to the stores that think our way, and avoid the ones that don't. For instance: Do you have a store named Urban Outfitters in your local hideous blight on the landscape shopping mall? Urban Outfitters is huge around here. This is a hip eporium that sells expensive clothes that look like they come from the thrift store. Forty bucks for a tee shirt with a faded logo and tears in the sleeves. Anyway, Urban Outfitters was recently outed for its huge contributions to conservative candidates nationwide. Cynical bastards love their Third World labor pool, no doubt, and want to insure that nothing in their wardrobe need be produced in the US of A.

Last Christmas Mr. J and I bought Spare a few threads from Urban Outfitters. This was before we knew about the company's agenda. Needless to say, I'll never shop there again. Spare doesn't need to, anyway. She is perfectly capable of buying a tee shirt at the thrift store, bleaching it, and cutting holes in the sleeves. In fact, she excels at this.

To shorten a long rant, I am glad Chick-Fil-A wears its dogma on its red-and-white logo. We are in the know about the company and can make our purchase decisions based on its transparency.

I don't know about you, but if I had to give up something, I'd sure as shootin' rather it be Chick-Fil-A than the Muppets. I am totally in love with Monster.

The Queen and I

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Well, the Summer Olympics are underway, in London, with all the fanfare expected (and not particularly watched).

As for me, I have trouble watching anything at all about Queen Elizabeth II without dissolving into tears.

QEII was born the same year as my mum, five months before. Growing up in a little village at the base of a mountain, my mother and her twin sister, Peggy, had two heroines: Shirley Temple and Queen Elizabeth II. I'm surprised I'm not named Elizabeth, actually. I was named after Princess Anne.

I would think it very interesting to grow up the exact same age and gender as a monarch of a mighty nation (albeit a figurehead). When my parents moved out of their home in 2004, there were more than 30 books about the royal family in the attic, dating from the 1930s (the princesses and their corgis) to the Princess Diana era. My mum told me how she and her sister listened to the radio for news of the two princesses, both before and during World War II. Then, as my own mother was coming of age in Appalachia, Princess Elizabeth was coming of age too, marrying the love of her life and becoming queen.

Queen Elizabeth books were favorite birthday gifts between my mom and her twin. Many of the QE books I found were inscribed from Aunt Peggy. Later in my mother's life, she received numerous QE and Princess Di books from my godmother, Marianna.

Lifelong fascination with HRH Queen Elizabeth of England. That was my mom.

Perhaps as a reward for her devotion, my mother found herself one day expecting a personal visit from the queen, at our little two-bedroom house near Sharpsburg, Maryland.

It was an ordinary school day at first. But when I got home from school, my mother was working feverishly to prepare the house for Queen Elizabeth's visit. The fine china had been set upon the table, with the silver service Mom got for her marriage. Mom was dressed to the nines, and she ordered me to go to my room, tidy it to perfection, and put on my best Sunday dress. And fast, because the queen was on her way!

My dad was a school teacher, the sole earner in our household. When he got home, dead tired, he received the same instructions: Sunday suit, white shirt, the queen was on her way!

Dad and I stood there. We were never sure what to say in these moments. Our slacking got a huge tongue-lashing from Mom ... to the point that we acquiesced to her demands, all the while telling her the queen was not coming.

The evening proceeded as we sat in the small living room, waiting for Queen Elizabeth. Apparently the queen was supposed to bring the food, because Mom had not prepared dinner, only the appearance of the table. At about 9:30, Mom announced that the queen must have been detained. Dad went to McDonald's and got us some hamburgers.

Yes, this is a sad tale of life with a parent who had bipolar disorder. On that particular evening, Mom was in a manic state. Her mental wiring was a mess. She died of dementia at the age of 74. The queen, her peer, looks hale and hearty twelve years later.

I get teary over Queen Elizabeth because my mother was hell on earth to live with, but on the odd occasion when she could bury herself in a new Queen Elizabeth book, or see some royal event on the telly, she would  be lifted up from her demons for a short while. Mom never got to meet the queen (Aunt Peggy actually did). But Mom did get to see Prince Charles and Princess Diana once, in Washington, DC.

Prince William got married on the busiest morning of the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Never mind. I got up at 4:45 and watched the whole doggone wedding. Wept from start to finish, especially when they showed the queen. And that movie, The King's Speech? Did you see that? I cried whenever they showed the little princesses with their corgis. Mom would have loved that movie.

Gods save the queen! Long may she reign!

Mr. Applegate Shoulders the Blame -- Again

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's just a beautiful day in this neighborhood today, although I hear to my chagrin that many parts of the nation are being scorched. Why, it's as if Satan Himself sat down on the nation's bread basket for a nice long session of suntanning!

But Satan has better things to do. Like causing the murders in Aurora, Colorado.

Just out of prurient interest, I belong to several conservative Christian online magazines. There's one for women, and another called "Fire in My Bones" that seems to be for men, but not exclusively.

Today's "Fire in My Bones" cover story? You guessed it. Those killings in the movie theater? Work of Satan.

Here's what we in the writing biz call the "nut graph" from the story, author J. Lee Grady:

I’m not a crime sleuth. But if you ask me, the devil’s fingerprints are all over this tragedy.

This got me wondering if anyone has ever fingerprinted the devil. How would I know? So, reluctantly, I put in a text to one of my oldest "Gods Are Bored" interviewees, Satan. (Just like Floppy, Satan is sensitive about His name. With that in mind, I have agreed to call him "Mr. Applegate.")  Please give a tepid and/or mildly hostile "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Mr. Applegate.

Anne: Please extinguish all smoking devices, Applegate. This is a smoke-free work place.

Applegate: No can do, Anne. Get your netbook, and we'll go outdoors.

................. *done, and no one harmed in the process*

Anne: Well, you knew it was coming, didn't you?

Applegate: Yep. More predictable than the weather.

Anne: We all know that guns don't kill people. People kill people. So, is that young man in Your back pocket?

Applegate: Swear on my forked tail, I have never had a petition or even a casual nod from that kid. He's not one of Mine. Let's be logical for a minute. If I were to decide to initiate the killing of innocent people, I could start a World War, just by choosing the right human leadership for the job.

Anne: Have you ever done this?

Applegate: Last time was the Walls of Jericho. Pinky swear. As you point out, people kill people. Then they blame me, after the fact. I'm a convenient whipping boy, a useful target, a "round-up-the-usual-suspect" mark ... *weeps*

Anne: I've never seen anyone wallow in self-pity the way you do. Then again, you do get a lot of bad press, much of it undeserved. Not all of it undeserved, but some of it. In this particular case, I think it's undeserved.

Applegate: It was not my praise and worship team that created gunpowder. It was my praise and worship team that started using it to kill people ... but the humans always credited God for their use of firearms. Like it was okay with Him, He even supported the slaughter.

Anne: "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." Hmmm mmm mmmm.

Applegate: Exactly.

Anne: "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war..."

Applegate: You made your point. You're going to bore your readership.

Anne: Mr. Applegate, I'm sorry to say that at this juncture of my life, I tend to look for hidden messages and motives in many things. Today's place-the-blame on You just reeks. I can just imagine that many readers of J. Lee Grady's "Fire in My Bones" probably own firearms ... strictly for hunting and protecting their families from hoodie-wearing thugs, of course. These Christian readers don't like to think that guns are dangerous things, and that gun users can kill people completely free of Your guidance. I'd be willing to bet that, for many "Fire in My Bones" readers, guns are considered a good thing. So, used wrongly, guns become Your weapons of choice.

Applegate: Yes. The logic breaks down. Either all guns that can kill people are evil, or none of them are evil. No such thing as a good gun, if you ask me.

Anne: This killer in question planned his rampage very carefully and amassed $15,000 worth of firearms. And You say You had nothing to do with the carnage? You never whispered in his ear?

Applegate: He was a neuroscience major, for God's sake. Try finding a neuroscience major who believes in Me. There are some, of course ... but the data skews to atheism or agnosticism, not to Satanic Panic.

Anne: So, what do you think actually did motivate that shooter?

Applegate: Misplaced rage. White-hot fury that years of boring book learning, studying for amazingly difficult exams, and living the poverty-level student life could afford him neither a job with a decent wage in his chosen field nor the prospect of studying further, because neuroscience gets so damned hard at the graduate level that you have to be a titanic genius to make a dent in the work load. I'm no psychiatrist, but I don't even think the kid is crazy. He just blew his stack at The Man ... and he couldn't find The Man.

Anne: However, he could find $15,000 worth of weaponry on the Internet and in stores. He purchased everything legally.

Applegate: Now just remember, Anne. Guns don't kill people. People kill people.

Anne: Actually, Mr. Applegate, I don't believe that. My philosophy is "production for use." Guns are produced to be used -- to kill people.

Applegate: Well, you can also shoot locks off things, like safes and doors.

Anne: Splitting hairs, Applegate. People don't buy Glocks to shoot the locks off safes.

Applegate: Just playing devil's advocate for a moment. *knocks head on wall* I hate that term!

Anne: I'm going to go on record absolving You of any credit for the Aurora shootings, Mr. Applegate.

Applegate: Thank you.

Anne: On the other hand, I see Your work abundantly in the messy paws of pedophile priests. ... ... Applegate? Applegate? Where did He go? He was here one minute, gone the next! Gosh, look at the singed hostas! Why didn't I remember that He's hell on flower beds and upholstery?

Never Go Godless into the World

I can tell a lot about people based on the way they respond when I tell them I teach kids from Camden. And trust me, I've gotten responses from all over the board.

Mr. J had a publication party for his book, and at that event, one of the liberal columnists from his newspaper literally got teary-eyed and told me what a noble cause I was devoting myself to.

Day before yesterday, other end of the spectrum, a woman said to me, "Wow. How come you haven't been shot yet?"

Of course, the truth falls squarely in the middle of these extremes.

The noble cause is complicated by the fact that I'm trying to teach teenagers. Remember when you were a teenager? Did you like sitting still and writing essays? Okay, okay, I did. But I was still rowdy. It's in the teenage playbook to be rowdy. Sometimes it's in the teenage playbook to be nasty and rude, other times sullen and even teary. Emotions all over the place. Kind of complicates the high-minded mission of the dedicated educator.

I was highly offended by the stereotype that all Camden teenagers are trigger-happy. Let me tell you, quite the opposite is the case. My students live their lives surrounded by gun violence, and they have seen the consequences of it more closely than anyone this side of Iraq. Shootings like the one this past week in Aurora totally baffle my kids. They understand targeted violence (and try to steer way clear of it). They don't understand randomness, unless it's a drive-by with collateral damage.

Having said that, my school is state-mandated to practice Code Orange drills where we act like there's an active shooter in the building. These drills make my students anxious. Inevitably they ask: "What if the shooter just shoots out the glass in the door and comes into the room?"

And I tell them, "I would try to protect you, even if it meant that I got shot. I've lived a good long life, and you are still young."

The sad truth is that I'm not sure I would have the courage to do that. This bothers me exceedingly, readers. If I could put a finger on one thing that really scares me, it's how I would respond if some person made crazy by the inequities of our current economy senseless lunatic started spraying bullets through my school.

This can happen anywhere. Last year this time, my daughter The Heir was in Oslo. She heard a pop like firecrackers, and all the glass blew out of the store she was in. A couple of hours later, more than four dozen teenagers had been shot dead on an offshore island. In Oslo. Freakin. Norway.

I find myself asking myself the most dreadful question. Would I have the courage, the faith in Higher Powers, to put myself in front of a bullet to save someone else's life?

See, this is why I take my bored gods with me to school. I may not talk about Them in class, but this economy is causing people to lose their minds. Never go Godless into the world, that's my philosophy. Hope that you can rise to any occasion. Hope even more that you'll never, ever face that test.

On Friendship

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," green background with white letters since I dunno when! This blog has been praising and worshiping downsized deities since 2005. It's fun, it's nutritious (for the soul, which means zero calories), and it's been a good way to make new friends.

Now, let's take Floppy here, for instance. I didn't know Floppy until I hit rock bottom, and one of my dear readers sent him and a flock of other golden vultures to cheer me up. Floppy and I hit it off immediately. It helped that he is a vulture, but he has many redeeming qualities. What is one important quality of a good friend? He or she makes you laugh. Well, Floppy has a great sense of humor, no doubt gleaned from a long association with Sacred Thunderbirds, who seem so serious when you see Them in the sky. Since he arrived at Chateau Johnson, Floppy has done everything to lighten my load, including allowing himself to take ribbing after ribbing about his name from the local turkey buzzards.

Those turkey buzzards are just jealous. Seriously. Look at Floppy! Straight outta Egypt, where the people knew what to worship and what bird should be guarding their kids.

Tonight I got an email from an old friend who I haven't seen since 1987. I still consider her a bosom buddy. We haven't chatted on the phone ever. She doesn't read this blog. But we worked for the same venal publishing house, we got downsized and abused together, and now we both have transitioned into other taxing jobs. So we have a lot in common. Three years ago, I bought a cute little teddy bear. I sent it to her at Christmas and told her to send it back to me the next Christmas. That way we always send each other a useful gift without having to spend any money. Floppy agrees: This is true friendship!

I live in one of the most densely populated states in America, but I can count on one hand my true local friends. I'm a fun person, not snobby, but I like people who can make me laugh and who will share their lives with me the way I share mine with them. Floppy has given his Golden Seal of Approval to: Celeste, Nettle, Monkey Man, and the entire workforce of Woodstock Trading Company. That's it.

I'm surrounded by four dozen colleagues or more at school, all very nice, but most of them don't float my boat. Just is. Can't help that.

A funny thing started happening when I began writing this blog. I started getting friends a whole new way. Back in the early days there was a dude named Scott. And then people just started flooding in ... and I love them all! I'd start mentioning names, but I would be afraid I would miss someone. Y'all know who you are. I've met some of you in the flesh-and-blood, and WOW, do I wish you were my neighbors! I'll bet you wouldn't even complain when Decibel the Parrot starts earning her name.

Awhile back someone wanted to be my friend. Since she had no religious affiliation that would be affronted by the content here, I told her that if she wanted to get to know me, she could do it the way all of my newest friends did -- by reading "The Gods Are Bored." Turned out she didn't like my snarky tone. Heave ho! Love me, love my blog. It's who I am.

Floppy loves my blog, principally because I've been writing about him. Turns out vultures are rather vain. They want to look good (mostly to other vultures).

Here's to friendship, new, old, near and far! Here's to meeting fascinating people who love the bored gods!

*If you have ever left me a warm comment, you are my friend.
*If you have ever sent me an email thanking me for my blog, you are my friend.
*If you have sent me links to vulture news, you are a true friend.
*If you come here because you are a Pagan and you want a chuckle ... are you local? Floppy and I will invite you to tea.

Gods bless you every one. Love you guys. *Anne starts to get sniffy and weepy*

BFFL!

Wiccans 4 Gettysburg

Greetings from "The Gods Are Bored!" My, it's hot out. Hope you and yours are staying cool.

I had a wonderful bored deity all lined up for an interview yesterday, but it turns out He got an assignment and had to postpone. We'll see if we can't get Him in here soon, because He does some really interesting things.

In the meantime, I grabbed this email from a Red Oak Grove member, to whom it was sent:

Greetings from Four Points by Sheraton Chambersburg in ******Chambersburg**,
**PA****! I hope that you are having a wonderful summer and had a blessed
Summer Solstice a few weeks ago!

 
It is my understanding that many followers of the Wiccan Tradition enjoy
making pilgrimages to places where there are a great number of reported
instances of supernatural activity—such as ****Gettysburg****. It is with
great respect and this understanding that I write to you today. As we are
only 30 minutes from **Gettysburg**, I would like to invite you and your
fellow followers to stay at our hotel should you ever decide to make a trip
to ****Gettysburg****!

 
Should you ever choose to bring a group to our hotel, we would like to
offer you a discounted rate on sleeping rooms. This rate would be valid
for rooms with either one king or two double beds, a full bathroom, free
wireless internet, a television equipped with in-room movies and games, a
telephone, a state-of-the-art one cup coffee maker, an ironing board and
iron, and so much more, including unbeatable comfort! Included in the
price of the room is also our hot and cold buffet style breakfast served
every morning. We have the largest indoor pool in town, a garden
overlooking Falling Spring Creek with a grilling area and picnic gazebo, a
workout room, a coin-operated laundry facility, and Premium Sustainable
Coffee available in our lobby 24/7! It just doesn’t get any better than
this!

 
We also have four different meeting rooms, should your group ever desire to
have a place to meet, talk, form a circle, or simply mingle while in our
area. If you decide to book a group with us, I am more than willing to
work out a great rate for you on the meeting rooms—if you book enough
sleeping rooms, you could even get the meeting room for free!

 
I hope that you will take advantage of this offer and bring a group to ****
Gettysburg****. I myself really enjoy learning about the supernatural
activity in ****Gettysburg****—it is simply fascinating! If you would like
to discuss booking a group with us, or would like more information, please
do not hesitate to contact me. I look forward to any opportunities to work
with you in the future! Blessed be!******


Well! I don't know where to start laughing about this one! A tremendous amount of research went into this email, don't you think? I, for one, did not know that people who follow the Wiccan Tradition make pilgrimages to places of mass slaughter in order to talk to ghosts. I thought that was what Psychics do. If you are a non-psychic Wiccan, and you would be interested in going to ****Gettysburg**** to enjoy the high quality supernatural activity there, would you please comment below? I just want to see if there's anyone who identifies as Wiccan who would want to book such a trip (and book it at a Sheraton hotel. And book it at a Sheraton in ***Chambersburg, PA***, which is 30 minutes from ****Gettysburg****, which has its own Sheraton).

Let's briefly and off the top of my head recount the facts of ****Gettysburg****.

The battle lasted three days and produced 44,000 casualties. It occurred during the July 4 week. The weather was hot as hell, so the wounded quickly got gangrene or died of dehydration. Think of this: Not one single battle in either WWI or WWII produced as many American deaths as ****Gettysburg****. In three days it produced more casualties than the whole Iraq War (not counting Iraqis).

Do any of you Wiccan readers want gory details on the weapons of mass destruction employed at ****Gettysburg****? I didn't think so.

Moving on. What's with the asterisks ringing poor ****Gettysburg**** in this missive? I guess it makes the name stand out better. Kind of like ****Mass Bloodletting**** or ****Bodies Strewn Everywhere over a Shell-Pocked Landscape****.

Do I think there are ghosts at ****Gettysburg?**** Yes indeed. Do I, as a Pagan, want to seek them out for a seance? Oh HELL no! I've been on that battlefield. It's hardly bearable in the bright daylight, with poorly-dressed tourists snapping pointless pictures at pathetic monuments to decimated regiments.

Now for you psychics out there who might want to help the remaining tortured soldiers to cross over. Let me ask you this: After a day (or night) of that kind of Work, would you want to retire to some sterile McMotel that looks like every other McMotel of its name brand, from Abilene to Yuma? Can you imagine having a circle meeting there to talk about the supernatural experience on that hollow ground? (It is hollow, there's limestone underneath with caves.)

I'm sure the Four Points Sheraton ****Chambersburg**** (not ****Gettysburg****) hires relatively intelligent people. I mean, the invitation above doesn't have any grammatical errors in it. But the assumption that Wiccans would want to go to Gettysburg and mess with its horrific karma is a bit of a stretch.

I saved the funniest part for last. The email was sent to a Druid grove. That's kind of like inviting a lot of  Methodists to ****Gettysburg**** because everyone knows that Baptists like to hunt for ghosts.

Geez, I was thinking of unsubscribing to that Druid message board! Changed my mind. Laughs are all what I'm about, even when the topic is more sad than funny.









 

Back Yard of the Bored Gods

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Long time, no see! But now I'm back from meandering the sacred mountains and ready to don the good ol' "Gods Are Bored" riot gear!

There is a campground in south central Pennsylvania where all the happy bored deities go to chill and be with their various homies. The place is called Four Quarters Farm. It doesn't matter which deity or pantheon you call your own, this place will welcome you with arms wide open. For a gal like me who praises and worships Anything and Everything, it's like Wonderland.

Four Quarters Farm is in the same zip code as my former property. It's near Artemas, PA, a town that is hopelessly waiting for its one-horse application to be approved. I cannot tell you how happy I am to find a new home in 17211!

Over the weekend, the whole of 17211 sweltered just like everywhere else. But Four Quarters Farm has the answer to the heat: several first-class swimming holes, surrounded by fabulous geologic shelf formations. Instead of attending workshops, or yoga, or any of the other fun deity-service activities, yours truly just ensconced herself in the upstream swimming hole, the one by the fairy cairn. Floppy the vulture sunned himself on the rocks, and Puck the faerie and I spent three entire days swimming.

When I pruned up like a California Raisin, I just got out of the water long enough to study up on my Walt Whitman ... trying to learn a new poem this summer.

In the evening, there's big-time drumming. And a bonfire. If you don't like that, you can have a brilliant tea party with all the bored deities. If They ever had quarrels amongst themselves, They've patched things up. It's great to see them laughing as the little kids run themselves ragged.

Four Quarters Farm is a family campground that even has a meal plan (delicious stuff). Caveat: the swimming areas are clothing optional. Not a problem for the bored gods or me.

I did some ancestor work on Sunday, and as I was visiting the most ancient spot in my Appalachian heritage, I was buzzed by a buzzard. Literally, the gorgeous fellow was just above my head. The moment was ruined when that buzzard started laughing about Floppy's name. Vultures are like that sometimes.

Going Walkabout

When my family farm was sold, and I got my share of the evil ducats, I thought about going to Scotland or England, to the land of my forebears.

Except you've got to ask yourself: How many generations of your family has to live in a place before you cut loose the cords with Europe? If the answer is more than ten but less than sixteen, I'm better off doing walkabout in Appalachia.

Therefore, for the next six days, I will be in Appalachia, walking among my ancestors, paying them the respect that has gone missing since my grandparents died. I will leave tokens for them from my shrine and petition their help for me.

I plan to take the waters at Berkeley Springs, a meditative site that is chock-a-block with faeries.

Then I'm also going to this thing called Drum & Splash, which is held yearly at Four Quarters Farm. There are two nice swimming holes at Four Quarters Farm, and the place is pretty much open to any and every bored deity you could imagine. I've never spent much time there before, but I do like to drum. I've got a great drum. It's an old wash pan that belonged to my grandma, that I found out in the woods. I beat on it with a wooden spoon. If the other drummers object to this heirloom musical instrument, I will take my talents to the perimeter.

Basically, I'm going home without going home.

Floppy and his band of merry golden vultures will be going with me as a Sacred Thunderbird escort. I hope the turkey vultures up on Polish Mountain will be polite. It turns out that Floppy is sensitive about his name. He's like me: very easily vexed. I think we are going to be great friends.

Oh yeah, one last thing. That reprehensible moron developer who wanted to turn 1,000 acres of mountain land into a town of 14,000 people is starting to make noise again. Therefore, also on the agenda is some earnest petitioning to Cloacina for her continued protection of that pristine watershed.

I will try to check in with all three of you readers on July 6. Until then, have a safe and happy 4th of July. Be careful with those fireworks!

PS: Heir and I spent two hours chasing a yellow budgie around Cooper River Park this afternoon. I think I taught him how to fly with my overzealous pursuit. We left him some bird food and a pamphlet entitled "Surviving Hawk Attacks: A Bird's Guide to Public Safety." I borrowed it from Decibel's library. 

Pushing Off the Rock with Floppy

Well, of course there are many rock bottoms in a life, and none of us miss getting a few. I'm rebounding from one right now, and today was maybe the beginning of a better time.

It started this morning when five golden vultures arrived at my house and perched on my Dodge Neon. The leader said his name was "Floppy."

EXHIBIT A: FLOPPY

So I said, "Okay, birds, we are going to a Druid Ritual at Bodine Field in Wharton State Forest. Any of you know where that is?"

They all did, of course. So I trusted them to draw me an excellent set of instructions and then fly ahead to make sure I was on the right course.

Everything was going swell until we got into spitting distance of Wharton State Forest. Then the bunch of them got scent of some big ol' deer that got winged and not flattened. They flew off and left me stranded with no map and vague directions that I copied down because my printer doesn't work.

I got all turned around and finally wound up at the Jersey Shore. (When you live in New Jersey, you quickly learn that all roads lead to the Jersey Shore eventually.) I've got a bitchin' great season beach pass for Ventnor/Margate, which is just south of Atlantic City. I went for a swim.

So, after being battered and flattened myself by the rough surf, I sprawled in my beach chair and told my sad story to a couple of Bonaparte gulls. Trust me, reader, seagulls are not vultures. Those gulls were eyeballing the goodies I meant to take to Druid Grove but was instead trying not to get sand in while I ate them myself. No self-respecting vulture would eat a slice of ciabatta bread. I had to beat the gulls away with a towel.

On my way home on the Atlantic City Expressway, I discovered that Floppy and his four comrades were following my car. We wound up back here at Chateau Johnson. I flung open the trash cans for them, because those doggone vultures were more of a lift than any other bored gods could ever be.

To all who sent me vultures, especially Floppy, blessed be.

Rock Bottom

I'm at Rock Bottom.

It's not a place, it's a state of mind.

My life has been pretty blessed in terms of Rock Bottoms. The last one I had was 1977. At that time, all I needed to do was get the hell out of Dodge. Which I did, and I slept three days straight at my family farm.

This time I have obligations to other people, and I'm not doing a very good job of performing them. My daughters have had to parent me, because at Rock Bottom it's hard to interact well with others.

I've actually been sliding toward Rock Bottom for three weeks, but I still didn't see the rock at the bottom. Being an optimist, I've been trying to weasel my way out of it and look on the bright side.

Sometimes there just isn't a bright side.

You know who you find at Rock Bottom? All the scary, horrific bored deities who want to devour your soul and put you in some dreary afterworld. Can't even give these Types a graham cracker or a glass of iced tea. I don't want to hang with Them. It's not how I roll.

Therefore I will try to claw my way out of Rock Bottom by petitioning bored deities of every sort to come to my emotional rescue.

Send me vultures. Send me many vultures.

The "Greatest Class" Comes Unglued

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and your host, Annie. I'm a school teacher off for the summer. Today I'm enjoying the luxury of having nothing to do but blog and laundry.

I have two daughters, The Heir and The Spare. I got the idea for their names from Princess Diana's two boys. Some Brits call Wills and Harry "The heir and the spare."

Both Heir and Spare graduated from the same high school, Snobville Memorial High. When Heir graduated four years ago, her class was hailed as "the greatest class" ever to come through the school.

(I had to wonder about that, because the Monkey Man went to that school. He graduated in 1960, which was probably a greater year.)

June 19 was Spare's turn to graduate, and once again her class was lauded as "the greatest class" ever to come out of the school. Well, you can make a compelling case. There's not a single Ivy League school that isn't getting at least one Snobville graduate. The valedictorian (a math whiz) will be going to Princeton and is so like "A Beautiful Mind" that it's freakin scary. The class president got a full scholarship to Rutgers, independent of financial need. Someone is going to West Point.

Trouble is, there's a dark underbelly to these high-performing schools in towns made up mostly of extremely wealthy families.

For the past five years, the local PTA has paid for a post-graduation party at the Snobville Country Club. (You can imagine how posh a country club in Snobville would be.) This post-graduation party costs the graduates nothing, not a penny. There's a DJ and great raffle items, like Xboxes and mini fridges and gift certificates. All paid for out of PTA money and donations.

The rationale behind this party is that it would keep the students from going out after graduation and getting drunk, high, or both, and having a tragic accident.

There were no breathalizers at the door of the party.

More than half the students arrived drunk and, by virtue of flasks, got drunker still at the party. Midway through the evening, students began to stagger and vomit. Someone puked on the dance floor. One student had to be rushed to the hospital by ambulance when he aspirated his vomit. The policemen on duty were the same ones who had taught this class about drinking and drugs back in fifth grade.

Spare doesn't drink, and I don't think she had ever seen a true drunken party. She came home so dismayed that, after speaking about it for ten minutes, said she didn't want to talk about it any more. When I asked her to show me which kids were drinking by using her yearbook, she said it would take too long, because mostly everyone was drinking except her friends. (She runs with the Ivy League crowd.)

Snobville has an ugly history of teenage drinking. Heir lost two classmates to drinking/drug use, including a boy who jumped off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.

What is it that drives these kids to such extremes?

I imagine that part of it is biochemical, because, after all, alcohol is a drug, and many kids medicate depression and anxiety with alcohol. Every high school in the country has its drinkers and its stoners.

However, in the case of Snobville, I think there's an extra stress load. High-achieving parents are either not home much, or they demand excellence from their kids to maintain their financial status. It's like this: Where do you go but down if your parents are millionaires but not gazillionaires? We aren't talking one percent here, or if we are, it's the newly-minted and insecure one percenters. Students are pressured to keep the money flowing into the family bloodstream. The absentee parents are probably trying to haul in enough money to maintain the blood flow if Junior turns out to be average.

Spare has hosted more than six big parties here at our little Snobville house on the wrong side of town. Six parties in one year. When she finally asked me for a big graduation party, I was flabbergasted. I said, "Ten of these kids on this invite list live in mansions. Why are we throwing the parties?"

She said, "Mostly their parents don't give a shit, and the rest of the parents don't want kids in their houses."

Message to rich parents who don't give a shit: The sound of smart kids playing charades in a tiny back yard is priceless.  Too late, you missed that. And having a warm and caring relationship with your flesh-and-blood is absolutely priceless. Too late, you missed that too.

Would you rather struggle financially and have a close and loving relationship with your kids, or rake in the bucks and hardly see Junior from week to week?

I had a very hard-working student at my school this year, an African American kid with a caring mom. One day he stayed after school on Friday to finish an assignment. When he was done, I said, "What are you going to do on the weekend?"

He said, "My mom and I usually drive around and look at the big houses in C**** H**** and Snobville. She wants me to live in one some day."

I told him, "If you and she could walk inside one of those houses and see what really happens there, you would save a lot of gas."

Graduation 2012

Today I drive to Baltimore to fetch my mother-in-law. My sister is arriving in her own car, with her new adopted son and possibly her dog (although I asked her not to bring the dog). Who knows? She might bring all three of her dogs.

I will endure this because nothing is more important to me than my daughter The Spare, she who has enlivened my life for years with her comedy and her bright personality.

Spare, I'm walking the extra mile for you. I love you, and I'm proud that you were given your school's first-ever Technology Department award.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Spare Johnson, Snobville Memorial High School, Class of 2012.

Every Happy Dictator Should have a Mommy and a Daddy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and welcome to Anniebolic Steroid Anne! GrrrrrRRRRRrrrrr!

How angry am I? I've been blackballed from Anger Management classes!

Just kidding. But I am just. a. bit. out. of. the. sweetness. and. light. place.

I am an absolute sucker for people sticking their hands out for money. I have finally controlled the urge to give to the Knights of Columbus and the Salvation Army, but quite often I'll drop a dollar into a jar for a cause I know nothing about.


Thus Spare and I were at the local grocery emporium the other day, in a big ol' hurry, and there was a guy asking for change and handing out orange bookmarks. Never saw the guy, never heard of his outfit --New Jersey Council for Children's Rights. Children's rights? Well, everyone's in favor of children's rights ... oh ... except for genocidal dictators, those kind of vermin. So I dropped 27 cents into the jar.

The guy gave Spare a bookmark, saying, "You might need this." (Nope. Graduating on Tuesday.)

We got into the car, and Spare said, "Oh, crap! Look at this thing!"

There was a graphic of a little kid, with each hand being held by an unseen adult. "Because every child needs a mommy and a daddy."

Time to call Anniebolic Steroid Anne!

Last night when I ran into the store to get a bottle of olive oil, the dude wasn't around. So I scattered the change on the sidewalk. Hey, a kid has a right to a candy bar ... wasn't much more money in there than that.

Today I sat down with a little challenge. The kind of thing a school teacher can do in the summertime.

Here are some folks who grew up in traditional two-parent families (that being a mommy and daddy):

Adolf Hitler
Josef Stalin
Mao Zedong
Pol Pot
Mussolini
Emperor Hirohito

Fidel Castro did grow up in a single-parent household. Small potatoes compared to our nice, stable list above.

Granted, I did use Wikipedia, which I usually don't. But even if one or two of those dudes didn't deserve their Wiki press, that's still a pretty jaw-dropping load of genocidal maniacs.

I didn't even start on the serial killers, your basic Jeffrey Dahmers and Ted Bundys.

Suffice it to say that many children who got in the way of the group above had their rights (and their lives) snatched from them in an untimely and unsavory manner.

So, Anniebolic Anne made up a little list of these heartless dictators and went back to the store. First, she asked for her 27 cents back (even though she spilled more than that on the pavement yesterday). Then she informed the dude (same guy) that oftentimes children are far better served if one parent removes them from the daily battering and abuse of the other (personal experience).

I gave him back the book mark and said, "You are basically slapping the faces of a third of the people who walk into this store."

He asked if he could keep the list. I graciously allowed him to do so.

Then he asked if I had ever read the First Amendment to the Constitution.

Good news! I didn't punch him.

Granddad's diary

On this warm and sunny day in 1937, Granddad and his family visited Uncle Elmer. Then Granddad and my dad and my uncle Floyd went to children's church.

I suppose my grandmother was pregnant, because so far there's no mention of Uncle Richard.

Holding pattern

My cousin cleaned out our family farmhouse. He sent me a few things:

1. Watch repair books that belonged to my grandfather (payed forward to a watch repairman)
2. My grandfather's notebooks from his year at Shippensburg Normal School in 1923.
3. The Bibles my grandparents used for their devotions. (thrown away, they were really moldy)
4. Granddad's daily diaries from 1933 to 1947. (not as moldy somehow)

Wow! A treasure trove of family diaries, from the grandparent I loved the most!

Except for one thing.

Almost all he wrote about was the weather. My grandfather was a weather freak. In his old age he found immense comfort in a newfangled thing called The Weather Channel. He watched it for hours at a time.

While I'm sorting through my life, I think it will be fun to post some of Granddad's diary entries here, just in case anyone in my family ever cares about life in Artemas, PA 17211.


On June 12, 1937 it was fair and warm in Artemas, PA. My grandfather took his family to Uncle Sam's in the morning. Granddad, Uncle Floyd, and my dad went to church at Mt. Hope in the evening. Dad and Floyd spent the night with their uncle Earl. Granddad stayed with his cousin, Palmer Robinette. His wife stayed over with her uncle Sam. Earl cut his arm pretty bad.

Hiatus

"The Gods Are Bored" will be on hiatus for an undetermined amount of time. Please, dear friends, check out our extensive Archives -- 1774 posts! Do leave your silly comment on the 2005 "Science (Not Creation) Proves Fairies Exist." Otherwise, please roam. I love you all.

PS - I am giving away a nearly-new box of The Faerie Oracle cards and guidebook. I will send it to the first person who emails me their address. My email is on the profile page for the blog.

Liberation Theology

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Unseasonably cool here in the Great Blue Northeast just now. I will take it!

This is the magic time of year when school teachers everywhere take down student work and start pinning newspapers over their bulletin boards. What a fabulous rite of passage! Can a realistic sleeping schedule be right around the corner?

Anyway, as I was plastering up the newsprint, I saw a story from the New York Times in which it states that the Christian Right wants to malign Obama for his association with "liberation theology." Apparently liberation theology is big among African American Christians and is considered ... oh, hell, I don't know what it's considered amongst the Christian Right, because anything nasty they say about it will send them straight to Hell.

Before I became a school teacher, I was a writer -- mostly reference books. I was asked to contribute entries to this huge project called the Catholic Encyclopedia. Mind you, I was never Catholic, but I could write to a deadline.

And speaking of dead, those were mostly the people I was asked to write about: priests and nuns who were murdered for their ties to liberation theology. Some of these martyrs (for that is what the RC church considers them) are being considered for sainthood. Which they damn well deserve more than the crooked bunch running the Vatican these days!

Liberation theology is the radical idea that everyone, including the government, should be deeply concerned with the plight of the poor. You may have missed it, but Jesus Christ is on record as being a champion of the destitute and the undesirable, going so far as to suggest that these poor folks might sail into Heaven while the rich ones won't.

The Catholic martyrs I wrote about were mostly young religious people who incited demonstrations and other nonviolent peasant uprisings in Third World Latin America, in an effort to stop exploitation of cheap labor and wholesale oppression of the lower classes. I admired these dudes. (Most, but not all, were dudes.) I think they had the stuff that martyrs are made of.

I would ask Jesus to come here for an interview about liberation theology, but He's too busy. Try pinning him down! Even his own followers can't find him.

So, here in a nutshell, is my untutored view of liberation theology:

It's a good thing. We should take care of the poor. There will always be poor people among us, but we should take care of them anyway. People who ignore or dismiss poor people, for whatever reason, cannot truly call themselves Christians.

My sister-in-law told me that the robes the Cardinals wear at the Vatican cost $30,000 apiece. Chew on that one awhile and ask yourself if those martyred priests in Colombia and Argentina are going to hold open the Pearly Gates for their church's bureaucrats.

As for the Christian Right ... they're not.

A Land Called Fantasy

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," running amok with the faeries since 2005! Bring all your deities, and we'll have a picnic! Hurry up, though. I'm running out of my last jar of Marzetti slaw dressing, and I can't seem to find it in the stores anymore. Please, Gods, give me Marzetti!

Now there's a prayer that just might get answered.

If you're one of the three or four readers who come here frequently, you might have guessed that I had something like a crisis over the past weekend. It's too personal for a blog, having to do with serious matters of the heart. But let me tell you -- I felt your energy keeping me afloat. I only had one really bad moment, and that was when I was alone in my classroom. Otherwise you would have been proud of me. And while the situation is not exactly settled to my satisfaction, it is at least a little less freighted than it was.

Therefore, let us move onward and downward in classic "Gods Are Bored" fashion!

I've trashed, maligned, berated, and heaped disdain upon the Dominionist movement since I first heard about it. Nary a single troll in that loathsome company has slithered from under his bridge to challenge me. But the minute I started in on the Mormons ... oh boy. Always a sensitive lot, they're even more defensive than usual in this particular election cycle.

A recent troll took issue with my bafflement over the LDS position on masturbation (hereafter known in this blog as "turtle dove love"). I think in a nutshell that serious followers of this faith must have to use industrial strength scrub brushes in certain anatomical regions, just to keep hand from touching flesh.

I had forgotten what the troll pointed out. This stricture stems from the fantasies that accompany turtle dove love. These fantasies are sinful and lead to doom and destruction.

Once I read somewhere that the average male thinks about sex every three minutes. If that is the case, then being a Mormon must be hell on earth. Mind control that the CIA can only dream about. Imagine that the only time you can think about sex is when you are contemplating or undertaking coitus with the exhausted wife who has already borne you six children! What a way to live! I'd rather be an earthworm.

I'm not afraid to use myself as an Exhibit A here, even though I'm a woman. I have fantasized about every sort of sex except sadistic or pedophilia. I'm a lady of a certain age, so lots and lots of stuff has crossed my mind. Paul Newman, turtle dove lover! House painter home from college for the summer ... turtle dove lover!  Great big orgy of good-looking people, all sharing the bounty? Wheee! I think about it. Haven't ever done it. Seriously, does this harm anyone, just thinking about it?

Anticipating the troll, I will add the LDS stance on this. If you imagine "doing it" with someone you actually know, this can lead to really doing it, which must be a far greater sin than turtle dove loving. My counter argument for this is pretty simple, really.

The savvy turtle dove lover applies higher consciousness to the situation.

Higher consciousness is that little bug in your ear that warns you to keep it in the turtle dove realm. It's the sensible little something that reminds you of your home and hearth, that weighs the consequences. I can't decide whether Mormons are totally lacking this skill, or whether they have honed it to such perfection that they've robbed themselves of the need for it. Either way, their lives must be dull and difficult. And sadly fraught with shame.

As Exhibit A I will plead the Fifth on my own personal life except to say that turtle dove love has kept me out of trouble, it's kept my family to a manageable size, and it's sex with someone I love.

I got that last line from Woody Allen. It's a keeper.

Have a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" day!

The Bitter Pill

At springtime Rituals, I'm fond of saying, "If not for the dark of winter, would we really appreciate the bright, new spring?"

Of course this would make no sense to someone from the tropics (as many bored deities have pointed out to me), but to those of us in the nether regions of the Hemispheres, we "get it."

Without the bad, would we appreciate the good? Without the worst, would we shrug off the best?

Life gives us bitter pills to swallow sometimes. Gotta gulp 'em down. One of the most foul-tasting pills is quinine -- but forgo it in malaria country, and you'll be toast.

Then again, some bitter pills actually are poison. It's best to ponder deeply before you pop anything. Ask yourself what the consequences of that bitter pill will be. Will it make you better or worse? Will it kill you or make you more vibrant? Will it ease pain or increase it?

The bitter pill in our lives can be uncertainty. Uncertainty must be swallowed bravely, because it's going down your gullet whether you want it or not.

Without uncertainty, would we enjoy living in the moment? I think not. And I'm big on those live-in-the-moment experiences.

Take that tough, bitter pill. The sun will come out another day, and it will feel so good.

Worth Reading

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bleary-eyed on a Thursday morning! I feel like the bored deity in my sidebar today who has to hold the whole world up with His two hands.

Anyone who has children knows that you worry your brains out about them, even if they go from looking like the Gerber baby to grabbing that Ph.D. at Harvard. Their trials are your trials, and when things go awry for them, you inevitably blame yourself ... up to a point.

Because we all have free will, and the person you raise into young adulthood may make decisions that wrench you in twenty different directions -- but you still have to let go and let Gods.

I say this by way of introduction for a blog in which a father is writing a real-time chronicle of his son's tortured journey through depression and drug addiction. If you have a child that you are worried about, you can take real solace from this blog, just feeling that you aren't alone in the struggle. If you don't have a child with problems (yeah, right ... liar, liar, pants on fire!), please read this blog occasionally just to hold the writer in the comforting circle of the Many Gods and Goddesses.

Here's a terrific link. I know this man. He and his wife are wonderful people.

http://mylifeas3d.blogspot.com/

Welcome, "Seekers!"

I have a feeling that I'm getting a few nips today from Debra, She Who Seeks, one of my personal favorites here in the sphere. If you're peeping in from over there, howdy howdy howdy!

Quick nutshell about "The Gods Are Bored":

We're all about praising and worshiping all deities of all pantheons, through all historic and prehistoric eras. The Forgotten Ones are not forgotten here, by golly! I've built a shrine in my back yard just for Them. Heck, your great-great-great-times-x-to-the-tenth-power granny prayed to one of Them. It's only fitting that we respect all that is, and ever was, holy.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me. He complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not tamed, I too am untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
--Walt Whitman

Oh! It's gonna be May 31, and I'll be too put upon to post! Happy birthday to Walt Whitman, our bard and our joy, our Natural Man!

Please keep me in the light.

One Good Turn Deserves Another

Well, my lieblings, this is going to be a very interesting week indeed. As in the Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."

The week sort of began in the wee small hours of Sunday morning, when I was wakened and could not go back to sleep. Thus begins a sermon on paying forward -- a "Gods Are Bored" staple.

Where to begin? Ah yes. Startled awake, couldn't go back to sleep, got restless way before dawn, and set out for the beach. (Now that my farm in the mountains is no longer mine, I am trying to bond with the beach. It's only 50 miles away.)

A few months ago, one of my colleagues, who is a zealous and passionate collector of sea glass, showed me the beaches where she gets her best stuff.

If you are a passionate collector of anything found in nature, you understand how reluctant people are to reveal their collecting grounds. I was very, very grateful to this gal, not because I'm going to make it a great quest to find sea glass, but because finding sea glass calms me. The stuff is a great tranquilizer, especially combined with the soft swish of surf on sand.

Back to square one. I drove to the sea glass beach. It's not in a tourist neighborhood. There were some really weird people there, but enough fishermen that I figured I'd be safe.

I started picking up sea glass.

One section of the beach is now a deserted wasteland of bleached oyster and scallop shells, but it used to be a thriving -- and huge -- tourist trap. The business was there from the 1920s until the 1980s. It closed. And instead of auctioning off all the stuff (it had a big restaurant, for one thing), it was just bulldozed straight into the Atlantic. With all its contents.

You can't believe what washes up on that beach. Bathroom tiles, flooring, creamers, mugs, plates, flatware. Mostly in pieces, because, after all, the ocean is a punishing place for ceramics.

There were a few sanderlings on that stretch of beach, and I didn't want to disturb them. Just as I was turning to head back toward my car, I saw, at my feet, a small tan coffee mug buried in pebbles and mud.

On the bottom it said "Inca Ware, Shenango China, New Castle, Pa."

It could only have come from the business that got dozed into the drink.

And it was completely intact. When I washed it, it shone like new.

I searched all the usual online sites, looking for a similar mug. Didn't see one. Couldn't even get a Google image of this particular item. It may have been made specifically for that business, and that business only.

A few hours ago, I handed the mug over to the gal who showed me the beach in the first place. She was tickled pink. She said she had found bits and pieces of that particular kind of ceramic, but never a whole mug. She couldn't believe what good shape it was in.

As happy as she was, I was happier. She showed me a place where I can go to deal with my issues and come home again with a bag full of sand-scoured glass shards. The least I could do was hand over my best "find" to date. It's called "paying forward," and we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend it.

Now, I want all three of you who are reading this to hold me in the light for the next six days. I am about to undergo a test of character unlike any I have ever experienced before. By this time tomorrow, the test will have commenced, and it will not conclude until Sunday, after which I pretty much expect an extended aftermath. Please petition your bored deities to come lend Their strength to mine. Where deities are concerned, no crowd is too large.

My Cult

After being all snarky about Mormons (below), I thought I would remind all three of my readers that I belong to a cult called the Polyphonic Spree. Here's a representative video. The Tabernacle Choir pales in comparison.

Light and Day (Original Version)

My Personal Experience with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints

Awhile back, one of my three readers asked me what I thought about the LDS Church, given that Mitt Romney is a choir boy therefrom.

It happens that I personally brushed up against this particular branch of religion many decades ago, when I was a late teen. I can't remember if this was before or after God told the church's bishop that black men could be Elders.

I had a high school boyfriend who was deeply dedicated to the LDS church. As I was dedicated to the boy, we talked about his church quite a bit. It seems that at a dark time in his family's life, some missionaries had come to the door and amended things. (Apparently this family patch was incompletely applied, because my boyfriend lived in the projects with his mom and four siblings, Dad having disappeared.)

My boyfriend loved his church, and he was deeply distressed that he didn't have the money to go on mission. He had to work to help support his family -- and the church, which skimmed ten percent, whether it came from Marie Osmond or the kid making milkshakes at the Dairy Queen.

One night my boyfriend asked to talk to me outside my house. He was deeply agitated. He had met with the leader of the local LDS church to confess that he had committed the sin ... the sin ... he couldn't say the word, but it has to do with self-pleasure. The church leader chided him and suggested that he either get me to convert and marry me, or dump me and keep himself in a state of exhaustion with a cold shower nearby.

I really liked the guy, but I was 18 and a newly-minted college freshman. I also was skeptical of a church that had such a low opinion of turtledove love (my term, I like it better than "masturbation"). I became further skeptical when I took a stab at reading the Book of Mormon, which seemed to me incomprehensible.

Still, I thought I should suspend my disbelief and attend church with boyfriend a few times. I thought I was in love with the guy, and although the prospect of a hasty early marriage did not appeal, I wasn't ready to dump him.

I attended the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints Sunday service twice.

It wasn't the crazy extra book that appalled me.

It wasn't even the rules against turtledove love.

It was the women.

Here is what I saw on those two Sunday mornings: Profoundly exhausted women sitting in pews with stair-step children (as many as eight in one case), often holding another baby, or pregnant. Whew. When you're a young girl at life's doorstep, you need only take one or two good looks at that to run in the other direction, screaming for The Pill.

When I demurred from further immersion in the LDS church, the boyfriend dumped me. After crying over him for a few days, I got to thinking about the bullet I'd dodged.

I often think about that bullet today. I can still picture those wretched mega-moms, slumped in the plain pews, fighting to stay awake or to keep the kids quiet, or to contain the squirming toddler despite a bloated, pregnant belly. What kind of life is that? What kind of church sets that up as an ideal, in an overpopulated world?

This is a site with a big, broad, flexible outlook, so I say, if you want to be a Mormon, knock yourself out. But every time I look at Mitt Romney, I wonder whether he was successful in the daunting task of abstaining from turtledove love. I also wonder if I want a president who looks at such a thing as a sin. After all, he does belong to that church. And that church lists its sins. And why does he only have a few kids? Suspicious. He should have about a dozen.

Church of Jesus Christ of LDS? Not for me. And they must know it, because I get Jehovah's Witnesses at my door all the time, and I've never gotten a pair of those pinch-faced Mormon missionary boys. If I do, I will be hard-pressed not to torment them with questions about turtledove love.

I've labeled this post with an alternate spelling for Mormon. I suspect I will be using this alternate spelling in future posts about Mitt.

Free Advice on spell work

I just totally and completely forgot to tell my three readers that next year, 2013, I will have some entries in the Llewellyn Spell Calendar! I wrote them last summer, and Llewellyn took a few of them. This is very humbling, given the many folks out there who know so much more about spell work than I do. Much of the spell work in my tool kit concerns predicting the future, and it comes from my grandmother, who learned it from her mother, who learned it who-knows-where. All those foremothers of mine were deeply into omens.


The tricky part about spell work is that you don't want to harm anyone, either directly or indirectly.

I did a spell out in Western Maryland to save a tract of land from being bulldozed and developed into an uber suburb. When the project was scuttled, amidst widespread disdain in the Maryland press and among the state's environmentalists, I thought my spell had turned out just dandy. Then I read that the developer who planned to execute the super-burb had gone bankrupt. He was unable to construct required street lights in developments he had already built -- and the good citizens who had the bad luck to buy from him were being attacked and burgled in the darkness of their neighborhoods.

See how you have to think out spell work like a spider-web, considering all the contingencies and possibilities before doing the spell?

It's pretty paralyzing, I must admit.

The easiest spell work for intentions is done for self-improvement, but think through that as well. Someone who likes you the way you are now might not like the spell-enhanced you.

It never ends. Exercise caution. Think deeply before working an intention.

Update on that developer. He has found new investors and is making noises about the super-burb again. He still owns that tract of land out in Western Maryland. Do you see my dilemma? I want to do more work, but:

1. I will not be going out to my farm anymore (it's in the vicinity), and

2. I don't want some little kid hurt in a dark house because of this developer moron.

Any suggestions you have about this and any other intentional spell work will be warmly welcomed.

Frank Talk about Divorcing the Word from the Act

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," cheating death on the New Jersey Turnpike edition! I'm your host, Anne, home from a rain-drenched excursion to scenic Union, New Jersey... if the term "scenic" includes a post-apocalyptic landscape of smokestacks and chemical plants, that is.

A friend of mine was musing about the fact that some Pagans seem bothered by the "f" word. The friend wondered if this was a carry-over from Christianity, from which most Pagans have escaped at some point in their lives.

You may have noticed, if you stop by here, that I rarely use the f bomb. Doesn't mean I don't like to f. In fact, I rather love f-ing. It's a fun way to spend the hours, depending upon partner and circumstance.

I just think this is a word that has gotten away from us to the point of absurdity. It's thrown around as an insult, it's combined with other gentle words, like "mother," as an insult, and except for occasions where it is used in private moments of sexual rapture, it's just not appropriate for the instances in which it is used.

The f bomb has definitely cornered the market on insulting and over-used words. When I was a kid, you very rarely heard it from anyone. We cursed, of course, but f*** was not the epithet of choice. (Trust me, my mother used every curse word in the English language except ones that included the f bomb.)

Therefore, I would say that my aversion to the f bomb stems not from the act which it is purported to describe, but rather to the way it is used in conversation. Which is way too much and for all the wrong reasons.

Let's ditch the f word for a term that could be coined to describe the act of love in all its wonder and beauty.

"Make love" is too long. "Fornicate" is too clinical. "Sexual intercourse" sounds Medieval.

You know what I like? "Lay." As in, I wanna lay you, baby! Sounds nice and relaxing. And we aren't chickens, so no one's going to expect a nest of eggs to appear in the satin sheets.

Everybody, go get laid! Leave the f word out of it.

Slate.com: Epic Fail

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," just about as tolerant as the average human being ... which means we need work. Admitting it. If you consider yourself tolerant, blessed be! Work in progress here.

I always thought Slate.com was a serious site, but a video making the rounds proves otherwise. I saw the repulsive thing over at The Wild Hunt Blog (in my sidebar), and I will now try with my extensive superpowers to place the link below:

http://bcove.me/l3bz7b44

This pathway will take you to a little video of "advice" offered by one of Slate.com's contributors. Apparently a Christian wife wrote in to complain of her failing marriage. When she married "Mr. X," he was an atheist, but he would occasionally attend church with her. Then he became Wiccan, and that is just too much for "Mrs. X." She considers it a personal affront.

The advice columnist (this loathsome project is called "Dear Prudence") peppered her anti-Wiccan commentary with ridiculous images of Satanic beings drinking goat's blood ... and many other stereotypes that do Pagans an injustice. Then, in her moment of seriousness, this "advisor" told the woman to go ahead, dump her husband, and get on with her good Christian life.

I'm really offended by the cavalier way Slate.com treated a serious philosophical difference in a marriage, particularly since they made such a joke of Wicca.

So, let's be serious about this topic for a moment, which is something Slate.com seemed unable to be.

When one marries, he or she enters into a contract that assumes a static situation. In other words, you pledge to love a person as he or she stands before you at that moment. But life isn't static. It's dynamic. People change, sometimes drastically. Honestly I would say about 50 percent of the changes are good, and 50 percent are bad. The only constant is that change happens.

I admit, on this one I am stumped. When someone you have married changes beyond your wildest expectation, and you don't like it one bit, do you stay? Do you go?

Let's flip-flop the situation that Slate.com treated with such contempt. Suppose you're a Pagan, and your spouse is an atheist, and suddenly your spouse becomes a Christian. It goes without saying that your newly-minted Christian spouse is going to try to convert you ... otherwise, according to the busy god, you go to Hell.

Kinda hearing rock lyrics in my head. "Should I stay, or should I go?"

A Pagan could go without qualm. Things have changed, the marriage isn't working out, and we must harm none, including ourselves.

Now, if the woman who wrote in to Slate.com is really as Christian as she claims, however, she has absolutely no grounds upon which to end her marriage. The New Testament is silent on many things, but explicit in its denunciation of divorce. Therefore, if she divorces her Wiccan spouse, she will go to Hell, while he may get a posh Summerland full of fabulous bored deities.

My very serious advice to this woman is that she should try to maintain her marriage and be a bit more open-minded about her husband's dynamic change. Truth be told, Wiccans have no particular axe to grind with Christians, so long as the latter are respectful. And the Bible tells women to respect their husbands. So there you have it.

See, this is why I pay you to take my free advice. If you consult moron websites like Slate.com and run up against "Prudence," and she makes light of your plight, well, you could have come here to "The Gods Are Bored" for the big, broad, flexible outlook!

You want a good advisor? Tell your troubles to the mirror.

Moron's Guide to Medicine

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hoping you're in great health ... and always will be.

Because Gods forbid you get sick in this country.

I've been seeing the same doctor for more than 10 years, in a tiny little office built for one doctor. I know my doctor. He knows me. This is the way family practice doctors ought to be. Seriously, I once took in my wand to show him! Don't know about you, but I hardly ever show anyone my wand.

Yesterday I had to go in to see Doctor Mushroom. (That's my pet name for him -- he's into holistic stuff and pretty open-minded, and if he's wearing anything other than a Hawaiian shirt it's because all his Hawaiian shirts are dirty.)

When I arrived at Dr. Mushroom's office, I had to give the new desk girl my driver's license so she could scan it into my records. This disheartened me, readers. Imagine that you are so desperate for health care that you would try to get it on someone else's account! That's the only reason I can think of that the health conglomerate that swallowed Dr. Mushroom's practice would need a photo ID of me. As I said, Dr. Mushroom knows me.

I already knew that I wouldn't be seeing Dr. Mushroom, because I was told that a new doctor had joined his practice. This doctor is a young woman who looks like she ought to be dressing for a prom, not dressing wounds.

Anyway, a new nurse (temp) took my vitals, and then the new doctor came in. Of course I asked why she had suddenly appeared. Turns out she was "transferred" from an office out in the country that didn't get enough business.

She was very nice, but completely detached, the way the vast majority of doctors are these days. I won't be showing this gal my wand, trust me. I only reluctantly pulled up my pants leg to let her look at my case of poison ivy. Out the door I went two minutes later with a prescription for steroids and a stern warning that they cause osteoporosis.

Dr. Mushroom would have turned a case of poison ivy into a 20 minute chat. That's how he rolled. Note that I use past tense. He's still alive, but so is Big Health. They must be after him to ratchet up the billables.

The only nurse I recognized told me that Dr. Mushroom and his new associate will be moving to a larger office on the region's busiest commercial highway. The little office a mile from my house is too small for two doctors.

Just now I sent a freakin Facebook friend request to my freakin doctor! This. Should. Not. Be.

Time To Pray

In the interest of keeping up with some of the Dominionist agenda, I subscribed to a couple of their email lists. Yesterday I got an email from Charisma Media that said "IT'S A NATIONAL EMERGENCY."

Curious as to what this national emergency might be, I opened the email.

The nature of the national emergency was not revealed in the email. Instead, through a big, bright picture, Charisma Media urged its readers to pray every day at 9:11.

The email didn't specify a.m. or p.m., so I assume that is up to you.

Readers, I urge you to pray every day at 9:11. Your deities need to be kept up-to-date on nebulous national emergencies. I would go farther and say that as Pagans, our deities need to be part of this prayer agenda, because what we see as a process of civilized growth might be viewed by some people as a NATIONAL EMERGENCY.

Pray today and every day!

If you need a deity to pray to, there's a new bored god posted in my sidebar every 24 hours, thanks to GodChecker.

Peace,
Anne

Frank Talk on Proving Gender

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are crafting Constitutional Amendments! It's really fun. Kind of like a connect-the-dot on a diner place-mat!

Let's craft an amendment that defines marriage as between one man and one woman.

Now it's time to file for the marriage license.

How are you going to prove that this license is being issued to a man and a woman?

In my opinion, since this topic is ever so much more important than the inability of college graduates to find jobs, the proliferation of "part-time" work that offers no benefits, and the continuation of predatory banking, we ought to set some pretty strict standards for what exactly qualifies as a "man" and a "woman."

ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF TEST OF GENDER!

Before issuing a Constitutionally-mandated marriage license, observe the following rules:

1. If it likes cats, make it strip naked.

2. If it arrives at the courthouse in a hybrid car, make it strip naked.

3. Any kind of left-wing or Pagan bumper-sticker, make it strip naked. Pat down for strap-ons.

4. Males in button-down Oxford shirts: strip naked.

5. Females wearing Converse sneakers: strip naked.

6. Multiple tattoos or piercings: strip naked.

7. Civil wedding outside a church: strip naked.

8. Suspiciously recent manicure/haircut: strip naked.

9. Lived above the Mason-Dixon Line for more than two months: strip naked, query relentlessly about "lifestyle."

10. Blogger: strip, query, DNA test.


ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF GENDER-CERTAINTY

A marriage license can be issued immediately to:

1. Anyone with one of those fish thingies on the bumper, so long as it's the real thing and not a knock-off.

2. Anyone who applies shirtless.

3. Anyone who has a nursing baby in their arms. (Baby must be actively nursing.)

4. Anyone wearing a kilt ... what are the odds?

5. Navy Seal/NFL defensive tackle/heavyweight boxer/Teamster ... why risk it?

6. Anyone who just ate at a Chik-Fil-A. Sniff their breath.

7. Anyone who is so young they come in with Mom and Dad. Parents don't lie.

8. Anyone who can produce a Brownie sash or a Cub Scout sash with identifying characteristics.

9. Anyone willing to vote the way you want them to vote in the next election.

10. Anyone who hands you a big wad of cash and winks at you.


Now, see? That wasn't really hard, was it? You can think this stuff to death. Not necessary. The less thinking we all do, the better. Dudes, buy that kilt. Gals, root around the attic for your Brownie sash.

I'm old enough to remember a time when prospective couples had to take blood tests before they could get married. Come on, folks.. Marriage is a sacred institution... just like that liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. These things need to last forever.

Lull

Life is going to be very interesting around here over the next few weeks. But remember that the Chinese curse is this: "May you live in interesting times."

Ever notice how we try to lull ourselves into a sense of peace?

I don't count praise and worship of the bored gods as lulling us into a sense of peace. Proper deities challenge you to confront the social ills around you, to guard the planet and do right by those who want to harm you.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" applaud those of you who confront the world head-on and hold your banner high. You go.

It's just that, right at this particular moment, we at "The Gods Are Bored" need some lulling. Therefore it has been hard for me not to drop everything I ought to be doing to go ogle the many fabulous pictures of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, now pouring into the Spoutwood site.

When everything is topsy-turvy, it's really tempting to sit for hours and watch a slide show of beautiful people, dancing in the sunshine. Beautiful children with big smiles and face paint. Performers. Faerie houses. Some crazy muddy guy with a gorgeous dog. Men in kilts. Tattoos. Dancers and drummers.

I'm going to let the world go on without me while I watch Fairie Festival photos. Tra lull lull.

Photo of Spare and Friend, Spoutwood 2012.

A Warm, Wonderful "Gods Are Bored" Welcome!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," tolerating love, love, love since 2005! Two people, happy together! Or more! What could be better than that?

Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" extend a welcoming hand to the citizens of North Carolina who have felt the sting of their fellows' votes on marriage.

Come on up to New Jersey! Sorry we don't have mountains as pretty as yours, but our beaches are nice (not so snobby), and we will enjoy having you as neighbors and friends. Despite the pestilence that is our current governor, we New Jerseyans would never do something as moronic as add a definition of marriage to our state constitution. We will legislate the length of sandwich rolls before we do that.

So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, all ye GLBT North Carolinians, and hie ye northwards to the Garden State!

Look at it as a colossal brain drain from a state where you aren't wanted.

See you soon!

From Anne and the bored gods

P.S. -- check out the video below. Poor Henri! I laughed until I turned blue.

Henri 2, Paw de Deux

Update on The Heir

It is with great pleasure that I announce the graduation of The Heir, YourMoney College, Class of 2012.

She needed 56 points to pass the final in Neuroscience. She got 63. If you don't think this is the work of bored gods, toddle off now, take Neuroscience, and see how you do it without their help!

I fear that Neuroscience is the easiest test Heir will face this year. She comes home to find a job in this sour economy. Although she has many useful skills and has worked part time since she was 16, she doesn't know where to begin looking. Her college helped her not at all in this respect.

We live in tough times, folks. Either you're working too hard or not working at all. Stay tuned at Ground Zero of a college graduate's search for a job. Any job.

Off to the Fairie Festival!

Spare is tearing her room apart in search of faerie wear. My bedroom is awash in neon tie-dye. The car is full of rocks and dragons.

This can only mean one thing. The May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood begins tomorrow!

And Saturday night is a maximum full moon ... time to drum and dance in the May!

I hope you find springtime in your heart. To be truthful, I often struggle with the blues. Best way to kick 'em is to grab a drum, find a spot in the sunshine, and bang out a rhythm for the Great Bored Gods.

Proudly Mountain Tribe ... by way of New Jersey. Okay, that peg is really gonna fit that hole.

Nail-Biting in Snobville

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and I hope that any and every, and every EVERY bored deity drops His or Her knitting and comes here post-haste!

My daughter The Heir is scheduled to graduate from college a week from Friday. She has never gotten below a B in any of her courses, and she managed to double-major. Her collection of paintings won a prize for creativity bestowed by some well-heeled alumnus.

This young woman has crossed every t and dotted every i through 16 years of education, and most of it has been stuff she didn't like doing.

Try though she might to schedule a course, she was unable to fulfill her university's science requirement until the final semester of her senior year. Then, she had scheduling conflicts for the courses that might have been easy.

She wound up in Neuroscience. If she doesn't pass it, I don't know if she'll be wearing that cap and gown the university loaned her last week. Going into the final, she's sporting an encouraging "D."

The Heir has been trying to find out what the procedure is for students like herself, and the university is being less than helpful. Her advisor won't answer her emails. The deans are playing pass-the-buck. And Heir is trying, really trying to pass Neuroscience, a discipline she knew nothing about before taking it.

So, along with the bored gods, I'm asking for your energy and support as Heir takes the final exam on Thursday.

Our country needs to re-think the whole idea of "liberal arts education," if an honor student can't get a degree without a rigorous and completely irrelevant science class.

Gods and Goddesses, please be with The Heir.