Wednesday, October 01, 2014
Keeping the Hallowed in Halloween, Part 1
Welcome, friends and neighbors, to "The Gods Are Bored!" We're well into our eighth year of sermonizing, so you'd think we would be running out of ideas. But no! Just when a twinge of writer's block sets in, something worthy falls into our laps -- and off we go again, preaching to the choir!
Recently at the Snobville annual book sale, this cute little paperback came into my hands. I always browse the Spirituality aisle, mostly fruitlessly, but this is a find. The purpose of the book, by evangelist Steve Russo, is to raise parental anxiety about our favorite Halloween customs. I pity the Christian kid whose mom buys this tome.
Over the next few weeks, as other bloggers prepare for Samhain with dignity and grace, we at "The Gods Are Bored" will be toasting marshmallows with this paperback puppy, chapter by chapter!
I'm sure you've thought of this, my dear friendly Pagans: We get holidays for Christian observances -- long ones, to boot -- but that's not enough for some Christians. The last card we have on the table is Halloween. No time off for this holy day, but at least our children see our traditions respected within the hallways and classrooms of their schools.
We do not ask for much. A prayer at a town council meeting here, a pentagram Yule display there ... and Halloween. It is sacred ground.
Steve Russo, meet Anne Johnson. When it comes to separation of church and state, Halloween is your nightmare. It's my holy day. You will not define it with your hogwash. I'm here to preach Samhain in all its sacred glory.
Raise the song of harvest home!
Recently at the Snobville annual book sale, this cute little paperback came into my hands. I always browse the Spirituality aisle, mostly fruitlessly, but this is a find. The purpose of the book, by evangelist Steve Russo, is to raise parental anxiety about our favorite Halloween customs. I pity the Christian kid whose mom buys this tome.
Over the next few weeks, as other bloggers prepare for Samhain with dignity and grace, we at "The Gods Are Bored" will be toasting marshmallows with this paperback puppy, chapter by chapter!
I'm sure you've thought of this, my dear friendly Pagans: We get holidays for Christian observances -- long ones, to boot -- but that's not enough for some Christians. The last card we have on the table is Halloween. No time off for this holy day, but at least our children see our traditions respected within the hallways and classrooms of their schools.
We do not ask for much. A prayer at a town council meeting here, a pentagram Yule display there ... and Halloween. It is sacred ground.
Steve Russo, meet Anne Johnson. When it comes to separation of church and state, Halloween is your nightmare. It's my holy day. You will not define it with your hogwash. I'm here to preach Samhain in all its sacred glory.
Raise the song of harvest home!
Monday, September 29, 2014
Some Things Surprise, Some Don't
Over the weekend, my daughter The Heir and I went to historic Cape May, NJ to the North American Sea Glass Association annual convention.
For those of you asking, "What is sea glass?" My answer is simple: It's glass (or anything sturdy made by humans) that has been in the sea for awhile and then is thrown back up on the beach.
You're not going to find gorgeous chunks like this lying around ready to scoop up. But as you can see, sea glass is very beautiful.
Heir and I like to go beachcombing in search of sea glass. It's kind of a bonding thing, plus she has great eyesight and gives me almost all the good stuff she finds.
However, on Sunday we went to Cape May to see other peoples' sea glass. There was a contest, for one thing, and for another, there was an expert available to help identify stuff.
Part of the day was surprising, and part wasn't. So I'll go in order:
Surprising: Thousands of people, overwhelmingly female and white, are passionate about sea glass. The Cape May convention center was so packed that the fire marshall was monitoring how many people were in the building. Heir and I had to wait in line 30 minutes to get inside.
Surprising: The shard I brought for identification was the bottom of a rum bottle, probably from the 1830s. I had found it wedged in the rocks of a jetty.
Not surprising: When I showed the bottle shard to my friend who is absolutely obsessed with sea glass, she told me not to bother entering it in the contest, because some people had already entered similar shards.
Not surprising: There were many vendors of sea glass art and jewelry. Everything was extremely expensive, especially since I know that the raw material, sea glass, is found for free.
Surprising: A guy had his personal collection there, which he had found in the Delaware Bay. He had glass that could only come from Colonial times or some kind of mammoth shipwreck, it was so weathered and frosted and in huge, thick chunks.
Not surprising: The old bottles actually entered in the contest were not as nice as mine.
Not surprising: After 90 minutes of that crowd and those prices, Heir and I bagged the convention and set off to find our own sea glass.
Surprising: The Garden State Parkway has more exits going south than it does going north. And it's a long way between exits if you're traveling northbound.
Not surprising: When Heir and I got to the sea glass beach, there was someone already there combing. She had gone to the convention the previous day. She described how someone called the police because the building was so jam-packed, hence the fire marshall restrictions Heir and I experienced.
Not surprising: Heir found some beautiful pieces, including a light yellow shard and two deep lavendar shards.
Not surprising at all: Heir and I just loved being together. It had been a long time since we took a road trip.
Surprising: My favorite fruit stand on the way home from the shore still had fresh peaches, canteloupes, and tomatoes.
Surprising: I went to bed at 8:00 and slept right through the night. Nothing beats an afternoon at the beach for getting you blissfully relaxed.
All glory, laud, and honor to King Triton and Goddess Oshun who rule the briny deep and all its contents, organic and fabricated! Shrine of the Mists has a special section dedicated just to Them.
For those of you asking, "What is sea glass?" My answer is simple: It's glass (or anything sturdy made by humans) that has been in the sea for awhile and then is thrown back up on the beach.
You're not going to find gorgeous chunks like this lying around ready to scoop up. But as you can see, sea glass is very beautiful.
Heir and I like to go beachcombing in search of sea glass. It's kind of a bonding thing, plus she has great eyesight and gives me almost all the good stuff she finds.
However, on Sunday we went to Cape May to see other peoples' sea glass. There was a contest, for one thing, and for another, there was an expert available to help identify stuff.
Part of the day was surprising, and part wasn't. So I'll go in order:
Surprising: Thousands of people, overwhelmingly female and white, are passionate about sea glass. The Cape May convention center was so packed that the fire marshall was monitoring how many people were in the building. Heir and I had to wait in line 30 minutes to get inside.
Surprising: The shard I brought for identification was the bottom of a rum bottle, probably from the 1830s. I had found it wedged in the rocks of a jetty.
Not surprising: When I showed the bottle shard to my friend who is absolutely obsessed with sea glass, she told me not to bother entering it in the contest, because some people had already entered similar shards.
Not surprising: There were many vendors of sea glass art and jewelry. Everything was extremely expensive, especially since I know that the raw material, sea glass, is found for free.
Surprising: A guy had his personal collection there, which he had found in the Delaware Bay. He had glass that could only come from Colonial times or some kind of mammoth shipwreck, it was so weathered and frosted and in huge, thick chunks.
Not surprising: The old bottles actually entered in the contest were not as nice as mine.
Not surprising: After 90 minutes of that crowd and those prices, Heir and I bagged the convention and set off to find our own sea glass.
Surprising: The Garden State Parkway has more exits going south than it does going north. And it's a long way between exits if you're traveling northbound.
Not surprising: When Heir and I got to the sea glass beach, there was someone already there combing. She had gone to the convention the previous day. She described how someone called the police because the building was so jam-packed, hence the fire marshall restrictions Heir and I experienced.
Not surprising: Heir found some beautiful pieces, including a light yellow shard and two deep lavendar shards.
Not surprising at all: Heir and I just loved being together. It had been a long time since we took a road trip.
Surprising: My favorite fruit stand on the way home from the shore still had fresh peaches, canteloupes, and tomatoes.
Surprising: I went to bed at 8:00 and slept right through the night. Nothing beats an afternoon at the beach for getting you blissfully relaxed.
All glory, laud, and honor to King Triton and Goddess Oshun who rule the briny deep and all its contents, organic and fabricated! Shrine of the Mists has a special section dedicated just to Them.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Late Night Study Break
I am pleased to announce that my daughter, The Spare, will be co-hosting a YouTube show called "Late Night Study Break." The show is comedy/music/interviews, and the first episode will be filmed before a live audience on Monday evening. Oh my!
Here she is with her co-host.
These two have together:
*gotten a six-piece band to write and perform original music
*found a studio for the filming
*engaged a cast of a dozen actors and actresses
*arranged for cameramen and sound engineers
and ...
*they've written all the content!
The show will be up on YouTube in about a week. It's going to be between 20 and 30 minutes long. Further episodes are planned.
The Spare has always forecast that she would be on Saturday Night Live some day. You know what? I admire a girl who, seeing the long odds, sets out to create her very own Saturday Night Live.
Can I get a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome for "Late Night Study Break?"
And yes, I'll be in the audience on Monday. I like this girl's pluck.
Here she is with her co-host.
These two have together:
*gotten a six-piece band to write and perform original music
*found a studio for the filming
*engaged a cast of a dozen actors and actresses
*arranged for cameramen and sound engineers
and ...
*they've written all the content!
The show will be up on YouTube in about a week. It's going to be between 20 and 30 minutes long. Further episodes are planned.
The Spare has always forecast that she would be on Saturday Night Live some day. You know what? I admire a girl who, seeing the long odds, sets out to create her very own Saturday Night Live.
Can I get a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome for "Late Night Study Break?"
And yes, I'll be in the audience on Monday. I like this girl's pluck.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Planning for My Retirement
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm not alone here today. I've got seven bored gods giving me sound advice on my declining years. These are very ancient deities. Sometimes, though, you've got to get back to your deep origins to help you plan for the future to come.
This is one of those times.
The deities with me today have eaten a whole box of chocolate while I've explained to them the ins and outs of social security, vested pension benefits, and Roth IRAs. Then I explained how the sitting governor in my state isn't contributing the legal amount to the public employee pension fund. Then I explained how the stock market works. Then I showed some Congressmen predicting that social security will be gone just about at the moment I'll need it. Then I told them how Mr. J's pension fund is predicted to run completely dry before he is old enough to die.
The ancient deities then explained how it worked for Their praise and worship teams.
When you can't work any longer, you go out into the woods and starve to death. You remove yourself as a burden to the society, and in doing so, you please the Gods.
I pointed out to them that I'm pretty much a woos about suffering and death. They would have none of it. If I'm not productive, I've got to remove myself from society. They kindly pointed out that we all die, and these social safety nets could pass like a whisper of wind.
By golly, as advice from the bored gods goes, this seems spot on. Can't pay for bread? Don't eat any.
The best news is that I have a decade, maybe two, of productive ability ahead of me. Surely in that time I will overcome my aversion to hunger and hypothermia. Surely I'll see that the most holy death is that which feeds the buzzards ... a skinny snack, but a snack nonetheless.
I like this group of bored gods. No nonsense about them. No mercy. You should hear what they think I ought to do to the standing governor.
This is one of those times.
The deities with me today have eaten a whole box of chocolate while I've explained to them the ins and outs of social security, vested pension benefits, and Roth IRAs. Then I explained how the sitting governor in my state isn't contributing the legal amount to the public employee pension fund. Then I explained how the stock market works. Then I showed some Congressmen predicting that social security will be gone just about at the moment I'll need it. Then I told them how Mr. J's pension fund is predicted to run completely dry before he is old enough to die.
The ancient deities then explained how it worked for Their praise and worship teams.
When you can't work any longer, you go out into the woods and starve to death. You remove yourself as a burden to the society, and in doing so, you please the Gods.
I pointed out to them that I'm pretty much a woos about suffering and death. They would have none of it. If I'm not productive, I've got to remove myself from society. They kindly pointed out that we all die, and these social safety nets could pass like a whisper of wind.
By golly, as advice from the bored gods goes, this seems spot on. Can't pay for bread? Don't eat any.
The best news is that I have a decade, maybe two, of productive ability ahead of me. Surely in that time I will overcome my aversion to hunger and hypothermia. Surely I'll see that the most holy death is that which feeds the buzzards ... a skinny snack, but a snack nonetheless.
I like this group of bored gods. No nonsense about them. No mercy. You should hear what they think I ought to do to the standing governor.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Taking Some Sting from the Equinox: Navel Gazing
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where you can skip this item if you basically don't read diary entries. I had a swell Mabon, and I want to record it here for those years ahead when I forget everything.
What a lovely day! The weather was beautiful, and Mr. J and I were up at the crack of dawn for Snobville's annual book sale. There's also a boss of a flea market in the same part of town, so it was a win for all ... even Extra Chair, who went to the flea market too. And other folks that I'll get to in a moment.
So, I went to the flea market, hoping to get another nonstick dutch oven like the one I bought last year for $15 that Spare ruined unintentionally by whipping potatoes in it. Auspicious sign of a good day: The same seller was back, I got another dutch oven, same price, and a much-needed ladle.
Then to the book sale. By that time, Spare and her boyfriend had hopped off the El and joined me. I perused the tired-looking paperbacks that get shipped from sale to sale, and all of a sudden, Spare snuck up behind me and gave me a copy of Faeries, by Brian Froud, that she had found among the mishmash! What a grab! I didn't have a copy, and even Snobville's thieving prices of $4 for a hard cover seemed reasonable for this tome.
But wait, there's more.
My browsing yielded me a little gem for a swell and timely Gods Are Bored series. The book is titled Halloween: What's a Christian To Do? Friends, we will have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away with this one!
Snobville, as I said, charges usurious fees for its used books, but sometimes it's worth it.
After lunch, Spare and I deposited her flame back onto the El. We went to the Philadelphia Zoo, which has been touting its new batch of lion cubs. If you're a zoo, and you want to keep your wounded-and-unable-to-fly turkey vultures in dog food, you need to trot out some baby lions occasionally.
Aren't they adorable? When Spare and I got there around 4:00, they were playing with their mom and each other, gambling about their too-small enclosure. The lioness was giving us humans the evil eye, and I cannot blame her one little bit. But every time a little lion bounded past, all of the viewers just emitted a collective coo. Can't describe it any other way.
Spare and I are no strangers to this zoo. As an aside I'll say that zoos make me uncomfortable, because the animals look so unhappy. But at least the Philly zoo has upgraded its facilities, and particularly the great apes have it pretty good, at least for inmates.
Back to not being strangers. Spare and I had only one short hour to hit all of our favorite critters. We adore the pygmy marmosets.
Spare also loves the European harvest mice, and who can blame her? A mouse that can fit on a quarter? So damn cute!
Now having gorged on cuteness, Spare and I eschewed the giraffes and made a beeline for my personal favorite, a pair of turkey vultures who cannot be released to the wild. I praised and worshiped them, they looked at me with baleful glares and no little suspicion, but thirty minutes in we had achieved a sort of tidy understanding. Spare is so patient. Why hang around a vulture cage when you can see zebras? But such is the love of a daughter that she cleaved to my side.
The zoo had closed the other exhibits by the time we ambled back to see if we could get one last ogle at those cubs. The zookeepers had corralled the mom and the cubs and had let the papa lion out for some air. And he was apparently pissed as hell that he had to sit inside all day, because he was roaring at the top of his lungs. You know what, reader? As cute as baby lions are, I don't think I would want to come across a handful of them in the wild. Their parents are forces of Nature.
I dropped Spare off at her apartment (*my baby left home*) and headed back across the B Franklin Br to Jersey. Lit up my shrine for the coming darkness, lit up my altar for same, offered Thanksgiving to the deities, made a pot of soup in my new dutch oven, and sat down to read about faeries.
This was a day that went well from end to end. How often does that happen?
What a lovely day! The weather was beautiful, and Mr. J and I were up at the crack of dawn for Snobville's annual book sale. There's also a boss of a flea market in the same part of town, so it was a win for all ... even Extra Chair, who went to the flea market too. And other folks that I'll get to in a moment.
So, I went to the flea market, hoping to get another nonstick dutch oven like the one I bought last year for $15 that Spare ruined unintentionally by whipping potatoes in it. Auspicious sign of a good day: The same seller was back, I got another dutch oven, same price, and a much-needed ladle.
Then to the book sale. By that time, Spare and her boyfriend had hopped off the El and joined me. I perused the tired-looking paperbacks that get shipped from sale to sale, and all of a sudden, Spare snuck up behind me and gave me a copy of Faeries, by Brian Froud, that she had found among the mishmash! What a grab! I didn't have a copy, and even Snobville's thieving prices of $4 for a hard cover seemed reasonable for this tome.
But wait, there's more.
My browsing yielded me a little gem for a swell and timely Gods Are Bored series. The book is titled Halloween: What's a Christian To Do? Friends, we will have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away with this one!
Snobville, as I said, charges usurious fees for its used books, but sometimes it's worth it.
After lunch, Spare and I deposited her flame back onto the El. We went to the Philadelphia Zoo, which has been touting its new batch of lion cubs. If you're a zoo, and you want to keep your wounded-and-unable-to-fly turkey vultures in dog food, you need to trot out some baby lions occasionally.
Aren't they adorable? When Spare and I got there around 4:00, they were playing with their mom and each other, gambling about their too-small enclosure. The lioness was giving us humans the evil eye, and I cannot blame her one little bit. But every time a little lion bounded past, all of the viewers just emitted a collective coo. Can't describe it any other way.
Spare and I are no strangers to this zoo. As an aside I'll say that zoos make me uncomfortable, because the animals look so unhappy. But at least the Philly zoo has upgraded its facilities, and particularly the great apes have it pretty good, at least for inmates.
Back to not being strangers. Spare and I had only one short hour to hit all of our favorite critters. We adore the pygmy marmosets.
Now having gorged on cuteness, Spare and I eschewed the giraffes and made a beeline for my personal favorite, a pair of turkey vultures who cannot be released to the wild. I praised and worshiped them, they looked at me with baleful glares and no little suspicion, but thirty minutes in we had achieved a sort of tidy understanding. Spare is so patient. Why hang around a vulture cage when you can see zebras? But such is the love of a daughter that she cleaved to my side.
The zoo had closed the other exhibits by the time we ambled back to see if we could get one last ogle at those cubs. The zookeepers had corralled the mom and the cubs and had let the papa lion out for some air. And he was apparently pissed as hell that he had to sit inside all day, because he was roaring at the top of his lungs. You know what, reader? As cute as baby lions are, I don't think I would want to come across a handful of them in the wild. Their parents are forces of Nature.
I dropped Spare off at her apartment (*my baby left home*) and headed back across the B Franklin Br to Jersey. Lit up my shrine for the coming darkness, lit up my altar for same, offered Thanksgiving to the deities, made a pot of soup in my new dutch oven, and sat down to read about faeries.
This was a day that went well from end to end. How often does that happen?
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The Dangers of Un-Analyzed Data
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," basically a Pagan site with way too much tasteless humor to give Paganism a good name. Yes, we are pretty much ignored by the serious folk. But we aren't ignored by everyone.
Witness this email that came to my inbox today:
Hi there,
My name is [name delted by blogger]. I'm the Community Outreach Coordinator for [fashion company deleted by blogger]. It's hard to believe that summer is finally winding down, but that means that the fall fashion season is right around the corner! We're super excited for fall colors, so we came up with a great infographic to help you transition from your favorite summer brights into some beautiful fall shades.
With that in mind, we'd like to get your take on transitioning to fall colors. We're asking bloggers like you to pick a fall shade of nail polish, and create a stunning look that highlights that color! Feel free to create a styleboard showing what items you'd wear or beauty products you'd use to compliment your fall inspired color, then challenge one of your friends to do the same. We'll be picking some of our favorite posts each week to share on social media, and once the fall season really gets underway, we'll be sharing some of the very best posts on our blog as well.
We're only offering our infographic to a select group of bloggers, so we'd love to have your participation! Please let me know if you'd be interested in taking part and I can send it over for you to use in your post.
Hope to hear from you soon,
[name deleted by blogger]
Community Outreach Coordinator, [fashion company deleted by blogger]
[email of home page of company]
Well, by golly, I'm up for that! Here's my shade of nail polish:
Witness this email that came to my inbox today:
Hi there,
My name is [name delted by blogger]. I'm the Community Outreach Coordinator for [fashion company deleted by blogger]. It's hard to believe that summer is finally winding down, but that means that the fall fashion season is right around the corner! We're super excited for fall colors, so we came up with a great infographic to help you transition from your favorite summer brights into some beautiful fall shades.
With that in mind, we'd like to get your take on transitioning to fall colors. We're asking bloggers like you to pick a fall shade of nail polish, and create a stunning look that highlights that color! Feel free to create a styleboard showing what items you'd wear or beauty products you'd use to compliment your fall inspired color, then challenge one of your friends to do the same. We'll be picking some of our favorite posts each week to share on social media, and once the fall season really gets underway, we'll be sharing some of the very best posts on our blog as well.
We're only offering our infographic to a select group of bloggers, so we'd love to have your participation! Please let me know if you'd be interested in taking part and I can send it over for you to use in your post.
Hope to hear from you soon,
[name deleted by blogger]
Community Outreach Coordinator, [fashion company deleted by blogger]
[email of home page of company]
Well, by golly, I'm up for that! Here's my shade of nail polish:
It's literally called "wet cement."
No time for the styleboard, sorry, but I would be wearing this with attire in the colors of our school's mandatory student uniform. This uniform is composed of a gray or maroon polo shirt, black pants, and a maroon or gray hooded sweatshirt. I wear these colors every day. Although this is a fall-specific request, I find these colors easiest to wear in deep midwinter.
How did I get into a select group of fashion bloggers? It could only be the number of pageviews I get every day for my Pagan content. I get that number of pageviews because I've been blogging nonstop since 2005 and have over 2,000 posts online, every topic imaginable except fashion. When it comes to fashion, I'm strictly a faerie cosplayer or just simply ... simply attired.
You know what else is annoying about this randomly data-driven email? There's not one single offer for me, the blogger, except a possible profile on their blog. No free cosmetics, no sample swatches, nada. Even if I was into fashion, why should I provide content for them?
I'm going to make a new label, because I have been getting a fair number of
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Monday, September 15, 2014
Interview with a Bored God: Dazbog
You look up in the sky, and there it is: the Sun. And you know that something so warm and dependable is going to have loads of bored deities looking after it, right? Indeed! I mean, the best NASA can do is watch it through a telescope and tell us when it gets spots. But making it rise and set on time? You need deities for that!
With the Sun on my mind, I sought about to find a bored Sun god with a chip on His shoulder. Well, Who should wander in (wearing a swell pair of Ray-bans) but Dazbog, the ancient Slavic God of the Sun! I'm a woman with a mission today, and I'm hoping Dazbog will help me. Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Dazbog the Sun God!
Anne: YeeeOWWWWCH! Hello, Might One. Would you mind sitting a little further away? You're scorching my eyebrows.
Dazbog: No problem. How about over here on the couch?
Anne: Emmmm .... ahhhhhh ... would you consider one of these dining room chairs? It's not upholstered.
[Dazbog promptly reduces the chair to ash.]
Dazbog: Maybe I should just stand.
Anne: You are indeed a very bored god, Dazbog. The Christians showed you no respect, toppled your statues and undermined your ministry. Must have made you hot under the collar .. tee hee!
Dazbog: Dumb, Anne, even by your low standards. I was by turns furious and heartbroken. Poland was a paradise when I was its God. Now look at it!
Anne: I've never been there. I've only seen photos. But I presume that the sun still shines down on it.
Dazbog: Not like it used to, when they were all praying to me. I only give it a half-hearted attempt these days. They deserve those long, cold winters!
Anne: Now, that's exactly why I asked You here today. I like long, cold winters, but what I don't like is the early darkness. I could have turned to dozens of gods in multiple pantheons, but I chose you, Dazbog, to ...
Dazbog: To stay in the sky a little longer, huh?
Anne: Yes! Exactly!
Dazbog: Not doing it.
Anne: Please?
Dazbog: Nope.
Anne: I can't change your mind?
Dazbog: No, and I double dog guarantee you that you won't get any other Sun deities to do it either. We've all been usurped -- and not by another Sun god, but a Father god. It would be hard enough to lose custom to one of your own, but to a Father god? Pathetic! I've had it with the human race!
Anne: Then why do You shine at all?
Dazbog: It's not easy to find re-training at my age. I tried the refrigeration industry ...
Anne (to herself): And he called me dumb.
Dazbog: I tried solar power. But all the Sun gods are trying solar power. We're all fighting over it.
Anne: I'll be in your corner Dazbog, if you just cancel the whole Northern Hemisphere thing. If you just stay the course.
Dazbog: Shame on you! One of your three readers is from Australia! Would you have him freeze to death?
Anne: I'm not talking about hours and hours here ... just an hour a day more sun than You give us here in New Jersey in the wintertime.
Dazbog: Not doing it. Neither will Ra. Neither will Helios. Neither will Aja. You want the whole list, or just the top ten? Besides, there's a simple solution to your problem. Move to the western edge of your time zone.
Anne: I did that! I lived in Detroit for four years. And yes, You stayed in the sky longer in the evenings, but it was dark when I walked to work! I almost got hit by a bus! Pleeeeeeze, Dazbog? Just a simple hour? Oh pleeeeeeeeeze?
Dazbog: Sorry, Anne. Unlike Father gods, we Sun gods are predictable in our ways. We're by-the-book. And the book says that, this time next week, you start getting less sunshine.
Anne: For a little fame? A few tithes and offerings?
Dazbog: Where are you going to find those? In case you haven't noticed, Poland is a very Christian country. My praise and worship team is still going on about that pope they sent to Rome!
Anne: Yeah, you're right. I have zero influence and no money to tithe. It was a shot in the dark ... I mean, in the light ... oh Hell, you know what I mean.
Dazbog: I appreciate the invite. What's in the fridge?
Anne: Nothing edible now, I'm afraid. Doggone it. I was really looking forward to that Jello mold.
Dazbog: I'm so sorry. Here you are being kind to Me, and I scorch your storehouse!
Anne: Surely that's worth an extra hour of daylight.
Dazbog: No, it's worth $236, and 23 of those little green stamps you're collecting to get free pots and pans. I'll send you a check.
Anne: Sorry for saying this, but you're pretty cold.
Dazbog: Bitter, yes. Cold, never. A Father god indeed! If I live to be ten billion, I'll never get over it!
[Dazbog ascends to the sky, muttering under his breath.]
It was worth a try. I basically hate it getting dark at 5:00 p.m. But I guess I'll just have to grin and bear it. Or move to the tropics. Now there's a solution I'd like to try!
With the Sun on my mind, I sought about to find a bored Sun god with a chip on His shoulder. Well, Who should wander in (wearing a swell pair of Ray-bans) but Dazbog, the ancient Slavic God of the Sun! I'm a woman with a mission today, and I'm hoping Dazbog will help me. Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Dazbog the Sun God!
Anne: YeeeOWWWWCH! Hello, Might One. Would you mind sitting a little further away? You're scorching my eyebrows.
Dazbog: No problem. How about over here on the couch?
Anne: Emmmm .... ahhhhhh ... would you consider one of these dining room chairs? It's not upholstered.
[Dazbog promptly reduces the chair to ash.]
Dazbog: Maybe I should just stand.
Anne: You are indeed a very bored god, Dazbog. The Christians showed you no respect, toppled your statues and undermined your ministry. Must have made you hot under the collar .. tee hee!
Dazbog: Dumb, Anne, even by your low standards. I was by turns furious and heartbroken. Poland was a paradise when I was its God. Now look at it!
Anne: I've never been there. I've only seen photos. But I presume that the sun still shines down on it.
Dazbog: Not like it used to, when they were all praying to me. I only give it a half-hearted attempt these days. They deserve those long, cold winters!
Anne: Now, that's exactly why I asked You here today. I like long, cold winters, but what I don't like is the early darkness. I could have turned to dozens of gods in multiple pantheons, but I chose you, Dazbog, to ...
Dazbog: To stay in the sky a little longer, huh?
Anne: Yes! Exactly!
Dazbog: Not doing it.
Anne: Please?
Dazbog: Nope.
Anne: I can't change your mind?
Dazbog: No, and I double dog guarantee you that you won't get any other Sun deities to do it either. We've all been usurped -- and not by another Sun god, but a Father god. It would be hard enough to lose custom to one of your own, but to a Father god? Pathetic! I've had it with the human race!
Anne: Then why do You shine at all?
Dazbog: It's not easy to find re-training at my age. I tried the refrigeration industry ...
Anne (to herself): And he called me dumb.
Dazbog: I tried solar power. But all the Sun gods are trying solar power. We're all fighting over it.
Anne: I'll be in your corner Dazbog, if you just cancel the whole Northern Hemisphere thing. If you just stay the course.
Dazbog: Shame on you! One of your three readers is from Australia! Would you have him freeze to death?
Anne: I'm not talking about hours and hours here ... just an hour a day more sun than You give us here in New Jersey in the wintertime.
Dazbog: Not doing it. Neither will Ra. Neither will Helios. Neither will Aja. You want the whole list, or just the top ten? Besides, there's a simple solution to your problem. Move to the western edge of your time zone.
Anne: I did that! I lived in Detroit for four years. And yes, You stayed in the sky longer in the evenings, but it was dark when I walked to work! I almost got hit by a bus! Pleeeeeeze, Dazbog? Just a simple hour? Oh pleeeeeeeeeze?
Dazbog: Sorry, Anne. Unlike Father gods, we Sun gods are predictable in our ways. We're by-the-book. And the book says that, this time next week, you start getting less sunshine.
Anne: For a little fame? A few tithes and offerings?
Dazbog: Where are you going to find those? In case you haven't noticed, Poland is a very Christian country. My praise and worship team is still going on about that pope they sent to Rome!
Anne: Yeah, you're right. I have zero influence and no money to tithe. It was a shot in the dark ... I mean, in the light ... oh Hell, you know what I mean.
Dazbog: I appreciate the invite. What's in the fridge?
Anne: Nothing edible now, I'm afraid. Doggone it. I was really looking forward to that Jello mold.
Dazbog: I'm so sorry. Here you are being kind to Me, and I scorch your storehouse!
Anne: Surely that's worth an extra hour of daylight.
Dazbog: No, it's worth $236, and 23 of those little green stamps you're collecting to get free pots and pans. I'll send you a check.
Anne: Sorry for saying this, but you're pretty cold.
Dazbog: Bitter, yes. Cold, never. A Father god indeed! If I live to be ten billion, I'll never get over it!
[Dazbog ascends to the sky, muttering under his breath.]
It was worth a try. I basically hate it getting dark at 5:00 p.m. But I guess I'll just have to grin and bear it. Or move to the tropics. Now there's a solution I'd like to try!
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Rent-a Cat
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have you noticed how hard it is to make a living these days? I mean, really. I don't know about you, but I'm always on the lookout for a way to make money.
What do you think of Rent-a-Cat?
My daughter The Spare moved into an apartment in Center City, Philadelphia in June. The apartment is on the second floor in a townhouse. From the get-go she's had mice.
I don't have any problem personally with small rodents, but they are gross in their habits. I had them in my house before I got my cats. Hated to poison them, but, as I said: gross.
It's harder in a townhouse with shared walls. Spare put out poison, but it didn't seem to make a difference. And her roommate is terrified of mice.
Spare wanted to take one of our cats to her flat. I put the kibosh to that. Beta is an outdoor cat, and Gamma has anxiety issues.
Folks, for the first time it has paid off to volunteer. The pet shelter where I donate my time kindly lent me a hard-to-place kitty to take to Spare's apartment. Basically Spare is fostering this kitty, who simply cannot tolerate any others of her species.
I wish I had a photo of Spare, walking up the Philadelphia sidewalk with a cat carrier as the locals stared at her from outdoor bistro tables.
This is an experiment in rodent extermination. I don't know how it will go. I'm also more than a tad concerned that Spare will bond with the feline. Also not sure a cat will be able to deal with townhouse mice, and not sure how long it will take. I am sure that cat will catch mice, though. Even Gamma can do that, and he's a dim bulb.
But if it goes well, what a business opportunity! Rent a cat to deal with your mice, cave crickets, spiders, and bouncy balls! Flexible rates, choose from a wide variety of colors. No purebreds allowed, only nice, fresh, mature rescue cats with proven survival skills.
Can I get some investors?
What do you think of Rent-a-Cat?
My daughter The Spare moved into an apartment in Center City, Philadelphia in June. The apartment is on the second floor in a townhouse. From the get-go she's had mice.
I don't have any problem personally with small rodents, but they are gross in their habits. I had them in my house before I got my cats. Hated to poison them, but, as I said: gross.
It's harder in a townhouse with shared walls. Spare put out poison, but it didn't seem to make a difference. And her roommate is terrified of mice.
Spare wanted to take one of our cats to her flat. I put the kibosh to that. Beta is an outdoor cat, and Gamma has anxiety issues.
Folks, for the first time it has paid off to volunteer. The pet shelter where I donate my time kindly lent me a hard-to-place kitty to take to Spare's apartment. Basically Spare is fostering this kitty, who simply cannot tolerate any others of her species.
I wish I had a photo of Spare, walking up the Philadelphia sidewalk with a cat carrier as the locals stared at her from outdoor bistro tables.
This is an experiment in rodent extermination. I don't know how it will go. I'm also more than a tad concerned that Spare will bond with the feline. Also not sure a cat will be able to deal with townhouse mice, and not sure how long it will take. I am sure that cat will catch mice, though. Even Gamma can do that, and he's a dim bulb.
But if it goes well, what a business opportunity! Rent a cat to deal with your mice, cave crickets, spiders, and bouncy balls! Flexible rates, choose from a wide variety of colors. No purebreds allowed, only nice, fresh, mature rescue cats with proven survival skills.
Can I get some investors?
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Back in the Saddle: Let's Talk!
Well, what do you know? My school upgraded to Google Chrome over the summer, and they forgot to block Blogger! Yippee kay i ay!
So, let's talk.
How about ISIS, or ISIL, or whatever the fuck. Thank goodness that wouldn't happen here! We've got lots of people carrying firearms who would never put politics and religion before humanit ..... emmm, forget it.
How about the Walton family creating charter schools? I guess they want to teach a new generation to have super low expectations. Why wait for the real world to crush kids? Teach them to expect to be crushed ... use crushable teachers.
Five casinos close in Atlantic City, 10,000 people lose their jobs, and all I can think about is how unsafe it will make the sea glass beaches. I'm a selfish bitch.
Has anyone noticed that the super hero movies aren't any good anymore? I wanted to strangle that raccoon.
I do like the new Doctor, though.
Why did I leave the wet cat food out overnight? Damn.
Speaking of pets, I've got to get some bird seed.
My daughter The Heir is going to a wedding this weekend. It's the first one of her college chums to tie the knot. She's 25.
Aerosmith or Coldplay? ah HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Dream on.
I'm thinking of writing a book: How To Wallow in Self-Pity. Trouble is, I'm not sure anyone would buy it. Comes naturally to most of us.
If practice makes perfect, how come Pagans don't win the lottery?
You know what baffles me? How 25 teenagers can be jumping around the room at 7:30 in the morning. Aren't they supposed to be on a different biorhythm?
You know what's really stupid? Of course you do! There's something in your life that's stupid as hell, and you know just what it is. Because you aren't stupid.
Well, this was a lovely tea and chat. Except I left my travel mug in the classroom yesterday, so the tea is a little fermented. And that's a good thing, reader. That's a good thing.
So, let's talk.
How about ISIS, or ISIL, or whatever the fuck. Thank goodness that wouldn't happen here! We've got lots of people carrying firearms who would never put politics and religion before humanit ..... emmm, forget it.
How about the Walton family creating charter schools? I guess they want to teach a new generation to have super low expectations. Why wait for the real world to crush kids? Teach them to expect to be crushed ... use crushable teachers.
Five casinos close in Atlantic City, 10,000 people lose their jobs, and all I can think about is how unsafe it will make the sea glass beaches. I'm a selfish bitch.
Has anyone noticed that the super hero movies aren't any good anymore? I wanted to strangle that raccoon.
I do like the new Doctor, though.
Why did I leave the wet cat food out overnight? Damn.
Speaking of pets, I've got to get some bird seed.
My daughter The Heir is going to a wedding this weekend. It's the first one of her college chums to tie the knot. She's 25.
Aerosmith or Coldplay? ah HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Dream on.
I'm thinking of writing a book: How To Wallow in Self-Pity. Trouble is, I'm not sure anyone would buy it. Comes naturally to most of us.
If practice makes perfect, how come Pagans don't win the lottery?
You know what baffles me? How 25 teenagers can be jumping around the room at 7:30 in the morning. Aren't they supposed to be on a different biorhythm?
You know what's really stupid? Of course you do! There's something in your life that's stupid as hell, and you know just what it is. Because you aren't stupid.
Well, this was a lovely tea and chat. Except I left my travel mug in the classroom yesterday, so the tea is a little fermented. And that's a good thing, reader. That's a good thing.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
A Mad Mess
It seemed like a good idea. Atlantic City, New Jersey was quickly becoming a forgotten backwater, so to bring it around, the powers that be decided to build casinos. The reincarnation of Atlantic City began in 1978.
And all went swimmingly for awhile. AC offered the only non-Indian gambling outside Las Vegas. Great, grand casinos were built, equipped, staffed, and visited. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, the area was knee-deep in the moolah and *some* of the residents of the city prospered.
Did the powers-that-be ever look up from those money-soaked years and ponder the possibility that casino gambling might become legal elsewhere? Because that is exactly what has happened. If you live in Philadelphia, why would you drive to Atlantic City when there's Sugar House practically at your back door?
Atlantic City's casinos are closing like dominoes. The most notable bankruptcy is Revel, the casino lately made famous as the site where egg-sucking-dog football players beat up their girlfriends.
To date, three casinos have closed and two more are preparing to close. Total job loss: 10,000 people.
So, what happens now? What a mad mess! Our fearless idiot governor issued an edict to allow sports betting. You know, like the kind you can do from your computer, in your Barcalounger.
Who's going to save Atlantic City this time?
Well, I'll do my part. I liked Atlantic City better before they built all those butt-ugly behemoth casinos. I'll go. But I'm only one person ... a person who goes there because the beaches are free.
What happens to AC now? What happens to the people who worked there who now have no jobs?
Monday, September 08, 2014
The Slower Lower
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," seasoned travelers ... if you begin and end with the state of Maryland.
Maryland is a small state in the Mid-Atlantic. For someone on a tight budget, it's just the bees' knees.
Maryland starts at the beach. You have a choice of a standard boardwalk-style beach town, or you can go to wild Assateague, with its famed horses.
Moving west from the beach you pass through all kinds of ecosystems, from tidal rivers with Southern flora and fauna, to the Chesapeake Bay, to the rolling Piedmont, on to the Blue Ridge and Allegheny Mountains. You've got your history (Fort McHenry, Antietam Battlefield, Braddock Heights, Harper's Ferry), and your big city (Baltimore). Voila! Something for everyone!
Through my whole life I have preferred the mountains, and I've always hatched plans to move back there some day. But as I grow older, remembering the harsh winters and steep terrain, I've begun to shy away from the dream of a mountain home.
Enter the "Slower Lower."
The "Slower Lower" is extreme southeastern Maryland. A river runs through it. The river is called The Pocomoke. That's Native American for "black water."
Mr. J and I took a little jaunt to the Slower Lower this past weekend for a family wedding. I hadn't laid eyes on the Pocomoke River in 30 years. I had forgotten how swell it is. It looks so black because of the tannin in the water, and it's deep. As my little photograph illustrates, in the general vicinity of the sleepy little hamlet of Snow Hill, the Pocomoke is as quiet and serene as a sleeping tot.
This part of Maryland is so hell-and-gone from everywhere that it's never going to be fertile ground for meaningless McMansions. It's flat as a pancake and only about ten miles inland from the coast.
I didn't really hear the voices of the bored gods when I went there over the weekend. It was more like the dawning reality of aging that spoke to me. The Slower Lower has a mild climate, flat terrain, affordable housing, and a wild beach within a short hop and skip. The pace of life is so slow that the local snails die of boredom.
Mr. J and I both liked the Slower Lower. Can't say he likes the mountains like I do. He's devoted to the Chesapeake Bay. (Little does he know that the Slower Lower is 100 miles from the mighty Chesapeake!)
Maybe I am destined to end my life a flat-lander. I'll put it in the hands of the bored gods and let them call the shots. If they fling me into the Slower Lower, I'll be happy enough.
Maryland is a small state in the Mid-Atlantic. For someone on a tight budget, it's just the bees' knees.
Maryland starts at the beach. You have a choice of a standard boardwalk-style beach town, or you can go to wild Assateague, with its famed horses.
Moving west from the beach you pass through all kinds of ecosystems, from tidal rivers with Southern flora and fauna, to the Chesapeake Bay, to the rolling Piedmont, on to the Blue Ridge and Allegheny Mountains. You've got your history (Fort McHenry, Antietam Battlefield, Braddock Heights, Harper's Ferry), and your big city (Baltimore). Voila! Something for everyone!
Through my whole life I have preferred the mountains, and I've always hatched plans to move back there some day. But as I grow older, remembering the harsh winters and steep terrain, I've begun to shy away from the dream of a mountain home.
Enter the "Slower Lower."
The "Slower Lower" is extreme southeastern Maryland. A river runs through it. The river is called The Pocomoke. That's Native American for "black water."
Mr. J and I took a little jaunt to the Slower Lower this past weekend for a family wedding. I hadn't laid eyes on the Pocomoke River in 30 years. I had forgotten how swell it is. It looks so black because of the tannin in the water, and it's deep. As my little photograph illustrates, in the general vicinity of the sleepy little hamlet of Snow Hill, the Pocomoke is as quiet and serene as a sleeping tot.
This part of Maryland is so hell-and-gone from everywhere that it's never going to be fertile ground for meaningless McMansions. It's flat as a pancake and only about ten miles inland from the coast.
I didn't really hear the voices of the bored gods when I went there over the weekend. It was more like the dawning reality of aging that spoke to me. The Slower Lower has a mild climate, flat terrain, affordable housing, and a wild beach within a short hop and skip. The pace of life is so slow that the local snails die of boredom.
Mr. J and I both liked the Slower Lower. Can't say he likes the mountains like I do. He's devoted to the Chesapeake Bay. (Little does he know that the Slower Lower is 100 miles from the mighty Chesapeake!)
Maybe I am destined to end my life a flat-lander. I'll put it in the hands of the bored gods and let them call the shots. If they fling me into the Slower Lower, I'll be happy enough.
Wednesday, September 03, 2014
Hour of PowerPoint
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we put the "fun" in Pagan! Oh, wait. It doesn't fit. How 'bout this? We put the "fun" in funeral! Spot on.
Speaking of funerals, what do you think of PowerPoint presentations?
I don't know how I missed PowerPoint until about 2006. I was strictly a Word kinda gal. As a writer, I never needed PowerPoint. As a teacher I use it sparingly.
But I've had to sit through PowerPoint presentations by the fistful, and ... pardon my vernacular ... what the fuck?
The presenter throws up a slide and then reads it word for word. This happens over and over and over again. I can read! Why is the presenter here? He could have just forwarded the PowerPoint.
Have you ever sat down for a meeting with a sheet of all the PowerPoint slides, and you leafed through it and counted them? When you got up around 60, didn't you just want to swill some laudanum and make the world go away?
When I was a kid, school teachers used to show film strips. They would put on a recording, and then wind a still-photo set of shots through a projector. This was sort of like a PowerPoint, except the audio was not identical to the video. They complemented each other.
Now striplings, I know ... I know ... times have changed. PowerPoints are an easy way to impart vast swaths of information. Fie, I say! The pox take PowerPoints! May they be scoured clean by locusts. May their first slide perish mysteriously in the darkest part of the night.
I went to college before the advent of Microsoft Office (if you can believe that). Some of the professors at Johns Hopkins (notably the paleontologists) drew on chalk boards while they lectured. Most of them just stood at a podium and talked. I had a professor named Charles Singleton. He was about 80 years old when I took his "Dante's Inferno" class. He shuffled out onto the stage and sat down in a chair. A grad student would place a microphone where he could speak into it. And then Charles Singleton talked. For 90 minutes, with a few water breaks. No slides, no script. Call me weird, but I loved it.
I wonder if Christian preachers are using PowerPoints in their sermons? Anyone know?
The moral of this diatribe is this: Either talk to me, or let me read what you want me to know. Don't stand with your back half to me and read off a slide. Worse, don't lob a slide at me and say, "This is the form you'll have to fill out, it's not as complicated as it looks." NEWSFLASH! Seeing it splayed on a big screen makes it look as formidable as the Minotaur.
PowerPoint ... the slide show gone bad. Convince me I'm wrong.
Speaking of funerals, what do you think of PowerPoint presentations?
I don't know how I missed PowerPoint until about 2006. I was strictly a Word kinda gal. As a writer, I never needed PowerPoint. As a teacher I use it sparingly.
But I've had to sit through PowerPoint presentations by the fistful, and ... pardon my vernacular ... what the fuck?
The presenter throws up a slide and then reads it word for word. This happens over and over and over again. I can read! Why is the presenter here? He could have just forwarded the PowerPoint.
Have you ever sat down for a meeting with a sheet of all the PowerPoint slides, and you leafed through it and counted them? When you got up around 60, didn't you just want to swill some laudanum and make the world go away?
When I was a kid, school teachers used to show film strips. They would put on a recording, and then wind a still-photo set of shots through a projector. This was sort of like a PowerPoint, except the audio was not identical to the video. They complemented each other.
Now striplings, I know ... I know ... times have changed. PowerPoints are an easy way to impart vast swaths of information. Fie, I say! The pox take PowerPoints! May they be scoured clean by locusts. May their first slide perish mysteriously in the darkest part of the night.
I went to college before the advent of Microsoft Office (if you can believe that). Some of the professors at Johns Hopkins (notably the paleontologists) drew on chalk boards while they lectured. Most of them just stood at a podium and talked. I had a professor named Charles Singleton. He was about 80 years old when I took his "Dante's Inferno" class. He shuffled out onto the stage and sat down in a chair. A grad student would place a microphone where he could speak into it. And then Charles Singleton talked. For 90 minutes, with a few water breaks. No slides, no script. Call me weird, but I loved it.
I wonder if Christian preachers are using PowerPoints in their sermons? Anyone know?
The moral of this diatribe is this: Either talk to me, or let me read what you want me to know. Don't stand with your back half to me and read off a slide. Worse, don't lob a slide at me and say, "This is the form you'll have to fill out, it's not as complicated as it looks." NEWSFLASH! Seeing it splayed on a big screen makes it look as formidable as the Minotaur.
PowerPoint ... the slide show gone bad. Convince me I'm wrong.
Tuesday, September 02, 2014
Brief Burst of Optimism, Squashed
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wishing on a star since 1975! Dunno why those dreams haven't come true.
Today I woke at 5:45 and got in my new car to drive to the teacher meetings that herald a new year of school.
My heart wasn't exactly light, but I did feel a touch of optimism as the shiny Subaru cruised to our mid-county campus. After all, wasn't it good to be working toward a cause, educating and inspiring young people? Wasn't it right and fine to be heading to a job?
That noble feeling lasted about one hour. First they overlooked me for my five years of service. Then they started in on evaluations, standardized testing (15 days this year), contract negotiations, and our district's draconian implementation of the state "reform" requirements.
I'll let this cat express my feelings about what is expected of me this year. And oh, I do feel sorry for my students!
Today I woke at 5:45 and got in my new car to drive to the teacher meetings that herald a new year of school.
My heart wasn't exactly light, but I did feel a touch of optimism as the shiny Subaru cruised to our mid-county campus. After all, wasn't it good to be working toward a cause, educating and inspiring young people? Wasn't it right and fine to be heading to a job?
That noble feeling lasted about one hour. First they overlooked me for my five years of service. Then they started in on evaluations, standardized testing (15 days this year), contract negotiations, and our district's draconian implementation of the state "reform" requirements.
I'll let this cat express my feelings about what is expected of me this year. And oh, I do feel sorry for my students!
Saturday, August 30, 2014
The First Amendment Conundrum of the Pagan English Teacher
My school is composed entirely of minorities, half of whom speak English as a second language. Nevertheless, our school district mandates a Shakespeare play at each level. This would be okay, except that it takes my students about six weeks to make it through a Shakespeare play.
Someone with clout in my district said, "Oh, don't have them read the whole thing! Just read the good parts and watch the rest on video."
Have you ever heard of a more intellectually dishonest practice? Just read the good parts? Does this prepare our underprivileged students for college and career?
In desperation I cast about for something other than Julius Caesar to teach my students. Lo and behold, in the grimy and crumbling 10th grade textbooks, there's a translation of Antigone. It's readable, too!
Who can resist Oedipus, Jocasta, Tiresias, Creon, Antigone? Not me! I love those stories! Greek tragedy: a staple of the well-rounded public school education. Problem solved. Out with Julius, in with the brave princess who doesn't want to leave her brother to the buzzards.
Houston, we have a problem.
Can I teach Antigone if I believe in those Gods and Goddesses? Am I being intellectually honest if I call the stories "myths?" When Antigone refers to God (translation), how can I help but tell my fine young minds that the God in question is Zeus?
I want to teach Antigone, but I can't use the word "myth." If "myth" applies to the Greek deities, it applies to all deities, including You-Know-Who, the one we can't talk about in school.
I think that as Pagans, we run into First Amendment issues with Greek tragedy. I just simply can't stand in front of my students and call Zeus a "myth." Zeus is a God. People still pray to Him.
Since September through April is the window for evaluations -- and I absolutely don't want my bosses walking in with clipboards while I'm talking about Greek deities -- I have plenty of time to think of ways to discuss the religious aspects of Greek tragedy. Maybe I'll interview a few Greek deities and see what They think. (Not inviting Mars here anymore, he torched my chintz armchair.)
If you have a helpful tip on this issue, I would love to hear it. I'm almost feeling like teaching this play could violate the First Amendment if I am a polytheist.
No use asking Zeus for His opinion. Given half a chance, He would come teach the class Himself.
A few weeks ago I was casting about to see if there was anything on YouTube in the way of a summary of Oedipus Rex. I came upon the video posted below. Nearly busted a lung laughing. Then I discovered there's a whole series of these. Watch and learn, choir!
Someone with clout in my district said, "Oh, don't have them read the whole thing! Just read the good parts and watch the rest on video."
Have you ever heard of a more intellectually dishonest practice? Just read the good parts? Does this prepare our underprivileged students for college and career?
In desperation I cast about for something other than Julius Caesar to teach my students. Lo and behold, in the grimy and crumbling 10th grade textbooks, there's a translation of Antigone. It's readable, too!
Who can resist Oedipus, Jocasta, Tiresias, Creon, Antigone? Not me! I love those stories! Greek tragedy: a staple of the well-rounded public school education. Problem solved. Out with Julius, in with the brave princess who doesn't want to leave her brother to the buzzards.
Houston, we have a problem.
Can I teach Antigone if I believe in those Gods and Goddesses? Am I being intellectually honest if I call the stories "myths?" When Antigone refers to God (translation), how can I help but tell my fine young minds that the God in question is Zeus?
I want to teach Antigone, but I can't use the word "myth." If "myth" applies to the Greek deities, it applies to all deities, including You-Know-Who, the one we can't talk about in school.
I think that as Pagans, we run into First Amendment issues with Greek tragedy. I just simply can't stand in front of my students and call Zeus a "myth." Zeus is a God. People still pray to Him.
Since September through April is the window for evaluations -- and I absolutely don't want my bosses walking in with clipboards while I'm talking about Greek deities -- I have plenty of time to think of ways to discuss the religious aspects of Greek tragedy. Maybe I'll interview a few Greek deities and see what They think. (Not inviting Mars here anymore, he torched my chintz armchair.)
If you have a helpful tip on this issue, I would love to hear it. I'm almost feeling like teaching this play could violate the First Amendment if I am a polytheist.
No use asking Zeus for His opinion. Given half a chance, He would come teach the class Himself.
A few weeks ago I was casting about to see if there was anything on YouTube in the way of a summary of Oedipus Rex. I came upon the video posted below. Nearly busted a lung laughing. Then I discovered there's a whole series of these. Watch and learn, choir!
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Frank Talk about What Ifs
I wasn't intellectually honest in my post below about the concert The Spare and I attended. This is because I didn't want to link Spare's experience to the name of the band. Now I'm going to talk about the tricky wicket of getting flirtatious with famous people.
Starting with me.
When I was a young woman, I spent a lot of time at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. It was summertime, and I loved the Orioles. The team had a very charitable policy for students: $1.85 for an upper box seat. I went to every home game in 1979 and quite a few in 1980.
I lived on the second floor in a Baltimore row house. On the third floor lived a Baseball Annie who was 85 years old. I thought she was senile when she told me that Brooks Robinson took her out to lunch. Then one day I saw Brooks drop her off in front of the house! That's when I knew that the Baltimore Orioles club was really treating this poor old lady like gold. I'll never forget it. Sure wouldn't happen in these times.
About mid-summer, 1980, my elderly baseball friend said she'd gotten seats for us to go to a game together. The seats were Row 1, Seats 1 and 2. We were further allowed to go and stand by the locker room door before the game, where dear old Esther bear-hugged every single player except Frank Robinson. I was nearly speechless to be up-close-and-personal with every single Baltimore Oriole.
You probably know that baseball players arrive at the ball park hours before the game starts. They have to get dressed and warm up. So Esther and I were way, way early for the actual game. When we arrived in Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, The Kansas City Royals were warming up on the field.
Some of you old-timers might recognize this pretty boy. His name is George Brett, and in 1980 he was just about the best baseball player in the world. Damn if he didn't know it, too. He was not modest.
Back to my tale: Dear old Esther and I settled into our box, and before I knew it, George Brett was looking at me about as much as he was looking at the baseball. Then he smiled at me. Then he came over to the fence. He was super sweet to Esther and then turned his attention to me. Where did I live? Baltimore. What did I do? Student. Where? Johns Hopkins, right up the street. Did I like baseball? Oh yeah. So, what was I doing after the game? Would I like to go to a party?
George Brett, top of the heap in baseball in 1980, had just asked me out on a date.
I respectfully declined, pointing out that I would have to see Great-Granny home safely. He persisted, but politely. He told me to think about it, he would be at the Belvedere Hotel, I could drop by and find him any time.
I had no boyfriend, but I was pragmatic. I wasn't keen on mixing it with a ball player. Some girls were. The bored gods know that half of my friends would have jumped at this opportunity. Both then and now, I placed more emphasis on romantic love than on sexy stuff.
I've always wondered what my life would have been like if I partied with George Brett.
He was gorgeous. A physical specimen of unparalleled magnificence. Would that experience have altered the way I looked at a more ordinary (albeit 100 times brainier) Mr. J? Or, would I be sitting here now, teetering on crone-hood, fondly remembering a fun and angst-free night with a gorgeous athlete?
What if? I just do not know.
Back to the present.
Spare and I went to a concert together. This band is meant to be experienced on your feet. They usually play in venues with no seating. But this time they were in a theater with cushioned, stuck-to-the-floor seats. It just felt weird from the get-go.
Of course, the very energy of this band had everyone up on their feet from the second beat of the first song. Spare and I started grooving, back in Row H.
Then Spare pointed at Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, and said, "Come on, let's get closer."
No denying it, when you get down to the edge of the stage with this band, you feel like you're just another member of the outfit. There's 20 people on the stage, all playing and/or singing at maximum energy. So Spare and I just got the groove on, and before we knew it, the band's leader jumped off the stage and started high-fives ... and Spare got one.
But it wasn't the headliner who was staring at Spare. It was a musician, the closest one to us where we were standing. This musician was male, young, and playing a violin.
Spare turned around and said to me, "I think that guy is looking at me."
Understatement.
Moving on. The show ended with no encore, which is very strange for this group. Sometimes they play two. Maybe it was the venue. Anyway, Spare and I lingered, disappointed, until it was clear that no encore was forthcoming. Then, I saw a friend and went over to say hello to her. We talked about three minutes. THEN I saw a half-finished water bottle on the stage. I said to Spare, "Watch this!" And I went down to the stage and snatched it. By that time, the young violin player had returned to the stage.
He hopped down and shook my hand. He shook Spare's hand. Then we started talking, because I have about a million questions about this band, and he commenced to answering them. It was clear he was focusing his attention primarily on The Spare. And he sure looked young, probably not much older than her.
Was Spare facing her George Brett moment? Well, let me tell you: It was on the tip of my tongue to invite this young fellow out for a cheeseburger and a beer, but before I could alter her destiny, Spare said, "Oh, nice to meet you!" and started for the door.
When we hit the inhospitable pavement of Broad Street, I said, "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Leave! He clearly wanted to talk to you!"
She couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe that some musician would find her attractive. Yes, it is Ripley's. The girl doesn't know her charms.
Well, you see, I was also conflicted. There's not much difference at all between a musician and a baseball player, except that one is built like a god and the other creates god-like music well enough to be paid. Why should I ever want Spare to do something I didn't want to do when I was her age? Actually, in fairness, the musician was far more sweet and human, and humble, and affable... but he still was in town for one night, moving on to DC in the morning.
I teased Spare the whole way back to her apartment, which was a short six blocks from the venue. We were laughing about it, mostly, with her still amazed that I would think any male would find her attractive. Oh well, I left her on her Locust Street stoop and hopped on the El.
Was I trying to re-live my own youth? Shouldn't I be looking out for Spare's welfare? Oh! I beat myself up on that El! What the heck? No such thing as angst-free flirtation, right? What kind of mother would I be if I started encouraging friendships with wandering minstrels?
You know, there's something to be said for this younger generation. By the time I got off the El and descended to the Snobville sidewalk, Spare reported that she had established an Instagram conversation with the stripling performer, which continued at a safe and prudent distance through the wee hours. All of a sudden the 21st century is looking a little more appealing.
Life is funny. We get these "what if" moments. Some of them are life-altering, and some of them just leave you wondering.
One thing I do know. It's Spare's life, and I had best mess out. She's bound to come to her own "what if" moment. Or a dozen of them. Regrets are the spice of life.
Starting with me.
When I was a young woman, I spent a lot of time at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. It was summertime, and I loved the Orioles. The team had a very charitable policy for students: $1.85 for an upper box seat. I went to every home game in 1979 and quite a few in 1980.
I lived on the second floor in a Baltimore row house. On the third floor lived a Baseball Annie who was 85 years old. I thought she was senile when she told me that Brooks Robinson took her out to lunch. Then one day I saw Brooks drop her off in front of the house! That's when I knew that the Baltimore Orioles club was really treating this poor old lady like gold. I'll never forget it. Sure wouldn't happen in these times.
About mid-summer, 1980, my elderly baseball friend said she'd gotten seats for us to go to a game together. The seats were Row 1, Seats 1 and 2. We were further allowed to go and stand by the locker room door before the game, where dear old Esther bear-hugged every single player except Frank Robinson. I was nearly speechless to be up-close-and-personal with every single Baltimore Oriole.
You probably know that baseball players arrive at the ball park hours before the game starts. They have to get dressed and warm up. So Esther and I were way, way early for the actual game. When we arrived in Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, The Kansas City Royals were warming up on the field.
Back to my tale: Dear old Esther and I settled into our box, and before I knew it, George Brett was looking at me about as much as he was looking at the baseball. Then he smiled at me. Then he came over to the fence. He was super sweet to Esther and then turned his attention to me. Where did I live? Baltimore. What did I do? Student. Where? Johns Hopkins, right up the street. Did I like baseball? Oh yeah. So, what was I doing after the game? Would I like to go to a party?
George Brett, top of the heap in baseball in 1980, had just asked me out on a date.
I respectfully declined, pointing out that I would have to see Great-Granny home safely. He persisted, but politely. He told me to think about it, he would be at the Belvedere Hotel, I could drop by and find him any time.
I had no boyfriend, but I was pragmatic. I wasn't keen on mixing it with a ball player. Some girls were. The bored gods know that half of my friends would have jumped at this opportunity. Both then and now, I placed more emphasis on romantic love than on sexy stuff.
I've always wondered what my life would have been like if I partied with George Brett.
He was gorgeous. A physical specimen of unparalleled magnificence. Would that experience have altered the way I looked at a more ordinary (albeit 100 times brainier) Mr. J? Or, would I be sitting here now, teetering on crone-hood, fondly remembering a fun and angst-free night with a gorgeous athlete?
What if? I just do not know.
Back to the present.
Spare and I went to a concert together. This band is meant to be experienced on your feet. They usually play in venues with no seating. But this time they were in a theater with cushioned, stuck-to-the-floor seats. It just felt weird from the get-go.
Of course, the very energy of this band had everyone up on their feet from the second beat of the first song. Spare and I started grooving, back in Row H.
Then Spare pointed at Row 1, Seats 1 and 2, and said, "Come on, let's get closer."
No denying it, when you get down to the edge of the stage with this band, you feel like you're just another member of the outfit. There's 20 people on the stage, all playing and/or singing at maximum energy. So Spare and I just got the groove on, and before we knew it, the band's leader jumped off the stage and started high-fives ... and Spare got one.
But it wasn't the headliner who was staring at Spare. It was a musician, the closest one to us where we were standing. This musician was male, young, and playing a violin.
Spare turned around and said to me, "I think that guy is looking at me."
Understatement.
Moving on. The show ended with no encore, which is very strange for this group. Sometimes they play two. Maybe it was the venue. Anyway, Spare and I lingered, disappointed, until it was clear that no encore was forthcoming. Then, I saw a friend and went over to say hello to her. We talked about three minutes. THEN I saw a half-finished water bottle on the stage. I said to Spare, "Watch this!" And I went down to the stage and snatched it. By that time, the young violin player had returned to the stage.
He hopped down and shook my hand. He shook Spare's hand. Then we started talking, because I have about a million questions about this band, and he commenced to answering them. It was clear he was focusing his attention primarily on The Spare. And he sure looked young, probably not much older than her.
Was Spare facing her George Brett moment? Well, let me tell you: It was on the tip of my tongue to invite this young fellow out for a cheeseburger and a beer, but before I could alter her destiny, Spare said, "Oh, nice to meet you!" and started for the door.
When we hit the inhospitable pavement of Broad Street, I said, "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Leave! He clearly wanted to talk to you!"
She couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe that some musician would find her attractive. Yes, it is Ripley's. The girl doesn't know her charms.
Well, you see, I was also conflicted. There's not much difference at all between a musician and a baseball player, except that one is built like a god and the other creates god-like music well enough to be paid. Why should I ever want Spare to do something I didn't want to do when I was her age? Actually, in fairness, the musician was far more sweet and human, and humble, and affable... but he still was in town for one night, moving on to DC in the morning.
I teased Spare the whole way back to her apartment, which was a short six blocks from the venue. We were laughing about it, mostly, with her still amazed that I would think any male would find her attractive. Oh well, I left her on her Locust Street stoop and hopped on the El.
Was I trying to re-live my own youth? Shouldn't I be looking out for Spare's welfare? Oh! I beat myself up on that El! What the heck? No such thing as angst-free flirtation, right? What kind of mother would I be if I started encouraging friendships with wandering minstrels?
You know, there's something to be said for this younger generation. By the time I got off the El and descended to the Snobville sidewalk, Spare reported that she had established an Instagram conversation with the stripling performer, which continued at a safe and prudent distance through the wee hours. All of a sudden the 21st century is looking a little more appealing.
Life is funny. We get these "what if" moments. Some of them are life-altering, and some of them just leave you wondering.
One thing I do know. It's Spare's life, and I had best mess out. She's bound to come to her own "what if" moment. Or a dozen of them. Regrets are the spice of life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)