Dear readers, The Spare's campaign to raise funds for her web series has ended, and you who visit "The Gods Are Bored" contributed about 75 percent of the money she raised! I am so grateful to all of you.Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Spare had her first weekend of filming last weekend. She called me on Saturday evening, very pleased at how everything had gone. One actor had been a no-show, but The Heir was on hand, so she got a promotion. For my money, The Heir is quite funny, indeed. She's a fearless kind of funny, not afraid to gyrate and screw up her face into extremes. Anyway, Day One was a success.
Then there was Day Two.
Spare called in tears at about 5:00 p.m. They had filmed all day, and the leading man worked hard. But after he left for the day, he sent a text message quitting the show. He was the leading man. He knew it! Didn't matter. He bailed. He has not answered any messages from Spare and her colleagues.
Well, you know, this is a situation that faces many auteurs who don't have a big budget for salaries. Spare was disconsolate for a few hours, but after that she and her team got started on Plan B. They are moving ahead.
It's evening here at "The Gods Are Bored," and I have been petitioning the Great Goddess Sedna for a snowstorm, yea verily a blizzard. It's very tense at my school just now, and I'm hoping for a snow day. Standardized tests are scheduled for next week, and nobody's happy.
Maybe Sedna will drop by for tea tomorrow! If I'm home I'm going to make muffins.
Thank you again, friends. May the Gods and Goddesses of multiple pantheons from every corner of the Earth bless you and keep you and shine Their faces bright upon you!
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Life of Spare: The Epic Sledding Adventure
In case you're just joining us for the first time, this little piece 'o' nothing web site is The Gods Are Bored, dedicated to the cause of downsized deities, buzzard worship, and plucky tales of can-do spirit! I'm Anne Johnson, your hostess, and today's sermon is definitely a p.t. of c.d.s.
We're walking back in time to the days when my daughters, Heir and Spare, were little fledglings still in the nest. Alas! *sigh* They are grown now.
You never can tell about winter weather in New Jersey. Some years we get big blizzards, some years we get a series of smaller snowfalls, and some years we don't get any snow at all.
One snowless winter occurred when Spare was about five years old. Heir would have been ten.
A certain bitterness settles on a kid who is enduring a snow-free winter. Heir and Spare, and their two best pals (sisters who were also an Heir and a Spare) were bemoaning the fact that they hadn't been sledding all year.
I don't know who suggested it. Might have been the Spare. But someone piped up and said:
"Do you think sleds would work on mud?"
I thought about it and decided that gravity should prevail, so I took all four girls to a steep hill beside the pond with one of those disc sleds that you can't steer. It was muddy. There was a little frozen water at the bottom.
Mind you, this is a hill that would be too steep and short to sled down if there was, indeed, snow. But it suggested itself for this experiment.
The youngsters piled onto the disk, and I gave them a shove. Slowly and pathetically, with many starts and stops, the disk descended the hill. And then we did it again. And again. And again. It was better than no sledding at all.
I still have that sled in the basement. I sold a few of our sleds last summer at a yard sale. Held on to the Epic Sledding Adventure one. To me it represents wanting something so bad that you're willing to use imagination to achieve it -- and you're willing to settle for a partial experience even though it might not be perfect.
It has snowed numerous times since that winter, and Spare has always gone sledding with her chums. Even into high school and beyond, they would sled on a snowy day. But the time that sticks out in my mind is the Epic Sledding Adventure, when we went sledding without the key ingredient you'd think you need to get the job done.
And speaking of key ingredient, my daughter The Spare is even now filming an ambitious web series for your enjoyment -- and after two days of rigorous (and expensive) filming, her leading man bailed. Unpaid performers will do that, with impunity. Spare is deeply disappointed but unbreakable. She's going to sled down this hill with or without snow.
There's a mere week left in Spare's fundraising efforts for her web series, Speed. She's gotten about two-thirds of the money she needs to complete the project. Reader, can you spare a quid for the Spare? Email me and I'll send you some goodies if you donate!
Spare's campaign to finance Speed, the Web Series is here. Please give! It will be on YouTube for all to see!
We're walking back in time to the days when my daughters, Heir and Spare, were little fledglings still in the nest. Alas! *sigh* They are grown now.
You never can tell about winter weather in New Jersey. Some years we get big blizzards, some years we get a series of smaller snowfalls, and some years we don't get any snow at all.
One snowless winter occurred when Spare was about five years old. Heir would have been ten.
A certain bitterness settles on a kid who is enduring a snow-free winter. Heir and Spare, and their two best pals (sisters who were also an Heir and a Spare) were bemoaning the fact that they hadn't been sledding all year.
I don't know who suggested it. Might have been the Spare. But someone piped up and said:
"Do you think sleds would work on mud?"
I thought about it and decided that gravity should prevail, so I took all four girls to a steep hill beside the pond with one of those disc sleds that you can't steer. It was muddy. There was a little frozen water at the bottom.
Mind you, this is a hill that would be too steep and short to sled down if there was, indeed, snow. But it suggested itself for this experiment.
The youngsters piled onto the disk, and I gave them a shove. Slowly and pathetically, with many starts and stops, the disk descended the hill. And then we did it again. And again. And again. It was better than no sledding at all.
I still have that sled in the basement. I sold a few of our sleds last summer at a yard sale. Held on to the Epic Sledding Adventure one. To me it represents wanting something so bad that you're willing to use imagination to achieve it -- and you're willing to settle for a partial experience even though it might not be perfect.
It has snowed numerous times since that winter, and Spare has always gone sledding with her chums. Even into high school and beyond, they would sled on a snowy day. But the time that sticks out in my mind is the Epic Sledding Adventure, when we went sledding without the key ingredient you'd think you need to get the job done.
And speaking of key ingredient, my daughter The Spare is even now filming an ambitious web series for your enjoyment -- and after two days of rigorous (and expensive) filming, her leading man bailed. Unpaid performers will do that, with impunity. Spare is deeply disappointed but unbreakable. She's going to sled down this hill with or without snow.
There's a mere week left in Spare's fundraising efforts for her web series, Speed. She's gotten about two-thirds of the money she needs to complete the project. Reader, can you spare a quid for the Spare? Email me and I'll send you some goodies if you donate!
Spare's campaign to finance Speed, the Web Series is here. Please give! It will be on YouTube for all to see!
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
She Will Never Forgive Me
I've been entertaining my six readers with tales of my daughter, Fair Spare. This is an amazing week for her. On Friday evening she will begin to film a web series that she has created with a team of writers. She is starring in it. She got a director, a camera crew, actors, extras, a set ... even a gaffer! Not sure what a gaffer does, but Spare has one!
In fairness (Spareness?), anything involving show business is a team effort. Spare's co-creators have been as hard at work as she has. They are an invigorating lot to be around. I hope they pull this off with panache!
What a long way Spare has come from the memorable day when she was a pancake.
This happened back in the 20th century, probably in the winter of 1995.
In those days I had a stand-alone pantry where I kept my spices and canned goods and such. I had baby-proofed it by twisting a rubber band around the handles that opened it. Now, all you moms and dads out there. You know how this baby-proofing stuff goes. It's Murphy's Law that, the one time when you forget the rubber bands, you also forget that the baby is in the kitchen.
Perhaps I was distracted by something happening to The Heir. I don't recall. What I vividly remember is walking into the kitchen and finding Spare sitting happily in a pool of spilled Log Cabin maple syrup. She was dipping her hand into the syrup and then into her mouth.
"Spare!" I said. "You're a pancake!"
And at that moment, just as I was congratulating myself on not keeping the Drano in the pantry, Spare missed her mouth and shoved her syrup-coated hand into her eye. This glued her eyelashes together. Not surprisingly, she began to cry.
I hope you have to trust me on this. It's a lot easier to wash maple syrup off a baby than it is to mop it up off the kitchen floor. In no time, Spare was all sparkly clean ... but my feet stuck to the floor for weeks. I triple-mopped that kitchen, and the sweetness remained.
Spare has absolutely no memory of this event. (Nor does she remember the time I tripped and spilled a pound of German potato salad on her head. She was still in her carry chair then.) Still, this little escapade has been the source of much laughter over the years. As if that poor little tot somehow set out to play "dress up as a pancake" or something!
The moral of this sermon is simple: Keep those kid-locks on stuff at all times! Like you didn't already know that.
Spare has a little fund-raising activity going on just now. For as little as a five dollar donation to her campaign to finance her web series, I'll send you some sea glass -- and there are bigger prizes! (See below) If you've already donated, email me your address, and I'll put a care package in the mail for you.
Honestly, the bulk of Spare's fund-raising to date has come from you kind readers of "The Gods Are Bored." Please, if you haven't flung some ducats at her, consider doing it! For the right price, she and I will re-enact The Great Pancake Fiasco on your kitchen floor!
You can donate here.
Thank you, my friends!
In fairness (Spareness?), anything involving show business is a team effort. Spare's co-creators have been as hard at work as she has. They are an invigorating lot to be around. I hope they pull this off with panache!
What a long way Spare has come from the memorable day when she was a pancake.
This happened back in the 20th century, probably in the winter of 1995.
In those days I had a stand-alone pantry where I kept my spices and canned goods and such. I had baby-proofed it by twisting a rubber band around the handles that opened it. Now, all you moms and dads out there. You know how this baby-proofing stuff goes. It's Murphy's Law that, the one time when you forget the rubber bands, you also forget that the baby is in the kitchen.
Perhaps I was distracted by something happening to The Heir. I don't recall. What I vividly remember is walking into the kitchen and finding Spare sitting happily in a pool of spilled Log Cabin maple syrup. She was dipping her hand into the syrup and then into her mouth.
"Spare!" I said. "You're a pancake!"
And at that moment, just as I was congratulating myself on not keeping the Drano in the pantry, Spare missed her mouth and shoved her syrup-coated hand into her eye. This glued her eyelashes together. Not surprisingly, she began to cry.
I hope you have to trust me on this. It's a lot easier to wash maple syrup off a baby than it is to mop it up off the kitchen floor. In no time, Spare was all sparkly clean ... but my feet stuck to the floor for weeks. I triple-mopped that kitchen, and the sweetness remained.
Spare has absolutely no memory of this event. (Nor does she remember the time I tripped and spilled a pound of German potato salad on her head. She was still in her carry chair then.) Still, this little escapade has been the source of much laughter over the years. As if that poor little tot somehow set out to play "dress up as a pancake" or something!
The moral of this sermon is simple: Keep those kid-locks on stuff at all times! Like you didn't already know that.
Spare has a little fund-raising activity going on just now. For as little as a five dollar donation to her campaign to finance her web series, I'll send you some sea glass -- and there are bigger prizes! (See below) If you've already donated, email me your address, and I'll put a care package in the mail for you.
Honestly, the bulk of Spare's fund-raising to date has come from you kind readers of "The Gods Are Bored." Please, if you haven't flung some ducats at her, consider doing it! For the right price, she and I will re-enact The Great Pancake Fiasco on your kitchen floor!
You can donate here.
Thank you, my friends!
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Cute and Short
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where this month we are featuring vignettes about my daughter The Spare! She's rare, fair, and beyond compare!
We have a nice front porch here at Chateau Johnson. It can hold a whole party of people. Front porches are wonderful that way.
There's just one itty bitty problem. The front porch at Chateau Johnson does not have screens. It's open-air.
Nice, right? Well, this is New Jersey, the Mosquito State. No sooner does the balmy, porch-sitting weather arrive than the bloodsucking winged beasties descend in droves. If we're lucky, we get a little bit of unseasonably warm weather in March, before THEY hatch. Otherwise, our porch looks good but can't be used.
We use it anyway. I plug in a box fan, and as long as it's blowing on us, THEY can't land. I learned that trick a few years ago. It works pretty well.
One day long ago, way before the idea of the fan hit me, the Johnson family was trying to enjoy a balmy spring evening together on the porch. In those days Mr. J smoked cigars, and he was puffing amiably on one. A citronella candle was our only defense from THEM, and THEY sneered at it and began their onslaught.
Spare (she probably was about four years old) looked at Mr. J, and looked at the mosquitoes, and said, "GO AWAY, MOSQUITOES! WE'VE GOT CIGARS, AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!"
I've never forgotten that.
The Spare is raising money for a web series she has written and will star in. It's called Speed, and it's a comedy about speed dating. She has an indiegogo campaign to try to raise money for the production costs.
In order to sweeten the pot of your contribution, I've created a little giveaway/contest, which you can see below. The smallest donation is $5.00! And, in addition to the Annie Giveaway, you will get to see Speed in its entirety, FREE, on YouTube, whether you donate or not!
You can go straight to Spare's campaign here.
Thank you, and may the bored gods bless you and keep you and shine Their faces upon you!
We have a nice front porch here at Chateau Johnson. It can hold a whole party of people. Front porches are wonderful that way.
There's just one itty bitty problem. The front porch at Chateau Johnson does not have screens. It's open-air.
Nice, right? Well, this is New Jersey, the Mosquito State. No sooner does the balmy, porch-sitting weather arrive than the bloodsucking winged beasties descend in droves. If we're lucky, we get a little bit of unseasonably warm weather in March, before THEY hatch. Otherwise, our porch looks good but can't be used.
We use it anyway. I plug in a box fan, and as long as it's blowing on us, THEY can't land. I learned that trick a few years ago. It works pretty well.
One day long ago, way before the idea of the fan hit me, the Johnson family was trying to enjoy a balmy spring evening together on the porch. In those days Mr. J smoked cigars, and he was puffing amiably on one. A citronella candle was our only defense from THEM, and THEY sneered at it and began their onslaught.
Spare (she probably was about four years old) looked at Mr. J, and looked at the mosquitoes, and said, "GO AWAY, MOSQUITOES! WE'VE GOT CIGARS, AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!"
I've never forgotten that.
The Spare is raising money for a web series she has written and will star in. It's called Speed, and it's a comedy about speed dating. She has an indiegogo campaign to try to raise money for the production costs.
In order to sweeten the pot of your contribution, I've created a little giveaway/contest, which you can see below. The smallest donation is $5.00! And, in addition to the Annie Giveaway, you will get to see Speed in its entirety, FREE, on YouTube, whether you donate or not!
You can go straight to Spare's campaign here.
Thank you, and may the bored gods bless you and keep you and shine Their faces upon you!
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Monday, February 09, 2015
The Very True and Lovely Story of Spare and Her Beta Cat
I can be really cold-hearted at times, especially with animals. Perhaps that's due to my farm upbringing. But the upside to that is that I fostered over 100 kittens and gave them all back to the shelter without adopting any. When I adopt a pet, I become devoted to that pet, and others have to get by on scraps ... if that.
Many, many years ago, some foul miscreant dropped a mother cat and four kittens at the pond near our house. Inevitably, in search of food, the mother brought her kittens into our neighborhood, where they were found and nurtured by Heir, Spare, and their friends.
Of the four kittens, two quickly became tame and loving. The other two stayed wild as minks and wouldn't come anywhere near us.
I dipped into my pocket at the tune of $100 (serious cash then and now) to take the two tame kittens to the no-kill shelter. You have to pay a surrender fee there.
The two wild kittens disappeared, and I thought no further about it. Until reports began to circulate from Heir and Spare that they had watched the female do the mating thing with a local tomcat. Apparently the deed took place in my back yard.
No surprise, therefore, when the female wild kitten returned with a large brood of kittens of her own. The mother cat remained wild, and her kittens were wild as well.
We had a resident cat, Alpha, who we adopted under the terms that she would be an only cat. Alpha never did play well with others. Long story short: Big ol' cat fight in the back yard, and the wild mama cat caught a nasty cut over her eye, kind of like something George Foreman got from Muhammad Ali.
Little Spare was about seven years old. If it had fur and whiskers, she loved it, unconditionally. She took a keen interest in the wretched prospects of that wild mama cat.
I told Spare, "Look. I'll round up the kittens, but I can't afford to take them to the no-kill shelter. As for the mother cat, don't feed her. Whatever you do, don't feed her. She'll just stay around, and Alpha will continue to maul her."
We trapped the kittens while they were still young and cute. My guess is that they probably got fostered at the county shelter. In the meantime, there was a strict rule: Don't feed that mother cat. Next thing we know, she'll have more babies ... and then what?
Spare fed the mama cat. Totally against my commands, she took cat kibble and laboriously tamed that wild mink of a feral female. One day I looked out in the back yard, and Spare was petting a cat that had hissed her head off at me. Then Spare picked her up. Then mama cat head-butted Spare.
Spare was, as I said, no more than seven years old.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I wasn't even mad that my daughter had disobeyed me. It was just remarkable that, being such a little kid, she had been able to tame a feral cat.
That afternoon while the girls were still at school, I went outside. The mama cat was sitting in the yard.
I said to her, "Okay, sorry about your kittens. But you can stay. You have Spare to thank, so be good to her."
The first thing the mama cat did was run laps around the yard in total joy. I've never seen anything like it. It was as if she understood what I said to her.
The second thing the mama cat did was become totally and completely devoted to The Spare. When Spare was little and thought nothing of dragging around a big cat in her vice grip arms, that cat put up with it. And when Spare got older, that cat literally followed her around like a dog.
That cat is Beta. She still lives with us. When Spare comes home, Beta sleeps with her. When Spare's not around, Beta sort of mourns for her. I'm going to say that Beta Cat is now 13 or 14 years old, arthritic, but sweet as soda pop. She likes to drink from the faucet. She waits patiently at the foot of the bed until you wake up ... and only then does she get in your face, purring and asking for breakfast.
This is the first of many charming stories I'm going to offer you about my daughter, The Spare. I'm trying to raise money for her indiegogo campaign so she can finance the comedy web series she's making for YouTube. I have some offers of goodies if you'd like to contribute to the cause. Just look at the posts below.
The link to Spare's campaign is here.
I thank you, Spare thanks you, and there's a plain jane tabby cat named Beta who will thank you as well.
Peace.
Many, many years ago, some foul miscreant dropped a mother cat and four kittens at the pond near our house. Inevitably, in search of food, the mother brought her kittens into our neighborhood, where they were found and nurtured by Heir, Spare, and their friends.
Of the four kittens, two quickly became tame and loving. The other two stayed wild as minks and wouldn't come anywhere near us.
I dipped into my pocket at the tune of $100 (serious cash then and now) to take the two tame kittens to the no-kill shelter. You have to pay a surrender fee there.
The two wild kittens disappeared, and I thought no further about it. Until reports began to circulate from Heir and Spare that they had watched the female do the mating thing with a local tomcat. Apparently the deed took place in my back yard.
No surprise, therefore, when the female wild kitten returned with a large brood of kittens of her own. The mother cat remained wild, and her kittens were wild as well.
We had a resident cat, Alpha, who we adopted under the terms that she would be an only cat. Alpha never did play well with others. Long story short: Big ol' cat fight in the back yard, and the wild mama cat caught a nasty cut over her eye, kind of like something George Foreman got from Muhammad Ali.
Little Spare was about seven years old. If it had fur and whiskers, she loved it, unconditionally. She took a keen interest in the wretched prospects of that wild mama cat.
I told Spare, "Look. I'll round up the kittens, but I can't afford to take them to the no-kill shelter. As for the mother cat, don't feed her. Whatever you do, don't feed her. She'll just stay around, and Alpha will continue to maul her."
We trapped the kittens while they were still young and cute. My guess is that they probably got fostered at the county shelter. In the meantime, there was a strict rule: Don't feed that mother cat. Next thing we know, she'll have more babies ... and then what?
Spare fed the mama cat. Totally against my commands, she took cat kibble and laboriously tamed that wild mink of a feral female. One day I looked out in the back yard, and Spare was petting a cat that had hissed her head off at me. Then Spare picked her up. Then mama cat head-butted Spare.
Spare was, as I said, no more than seven years old.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I wasn't even mad that my daughter had disobeyed me. It was just remarkable that, being such a little kid, she had been able to tame a feral cat.
That afternoon while the girls were still at school, I went outside. The mama cat was sitting in the yard.
I said to her, "Okay, sorry about your kittens. But you can stay. You have Spare to thank, so be good to her."
The first thing the mama cat did was run laps around the yard in total joy. I've never seen anything like it. It was as if she understood what I said to her.
The second thing the mama cat did was become totally and completely devoted to The Spare. When Spare was little and thought nothing of dragging around a big cat in her vice grip arms, that cat put up with it. And when Spare got older, that cat literally followed her around like a dog.
That cat is Beta. She still lives with us. When Spare comes home, Beta sleeps with her. When Spare's not around, Beta sort of mourns for her. I'm going to say that Beta Cat is now 13 or 14 years old, arthritic, but sweet as soda pop. She likes to drink from the faucet. She waits patiently at the foot of the bed until you wake up ... and only then does she get in your face, purring and asking for breakfast.
This is the first of many charming stories I'm going to offer you about my daughter, The Spare. I'm trying to raise money for her indiegogo campaign so she can finance the comedy web series she's making for YouTube. I have some offers of goodies if you'd like to contribute to the cause. Just look at the posts below.
The link to Spare's campaign is here.
I thank you, Spare thanks you, and there's a plain jane tabby cat named Beta who will thank you as well.
Peace.
Thursday, February 05, 2015
Clarification on the Great Annie Giveaway and Prize Drawing!
My heart is warmed by the donations that have come in for The Spare's web series (see below).
Here is how you can play a part in the success of a budding young writer/acress:
Contribute to The Spare's indiegogo campaign here
Amounts as low as five bucks get you a prize!
THEN,
Send me an email, tell me you donated, give me your address, and you'll get a care package. The items up for grabs are listed below.
If you donate $10 or more, your name will be entered in a drawing for a unique and vivid tie-dye t-shirt in your size from Woodstock Trading Company.
FYI, as of now the field vying for the t-shirt is not crowded.
This campaign runs for a few more weeks, so I'm going to devote those weeks to a loving portrait of The Spare.
Just to reiterate, Spare is working on a ten-episode web series that will be available for free views on YouTube. Whether or not you donate, you will be able to watch the show, Speed, a comedy about speed dating.
Here is how you can play a part in the success of a budding young writer/acress:
Contribute to The Spare's indiegogo campaign here
Amounts as low as five bucks get you a prize!
THEN,
Send me an email, tell me you donated, give me your address, and you'll get a care package. The items up for grabs are listed below.
If you donate $10 or more, your name will be entered in a drawing for a unique and vivid tie-dye t-shirt in your size from Woodstock Trading Company.
FYI, as of now the field vying for the t-shirt is not crowded.
This campaign runs for a few more weeks, so I'm going to devote those weeks to a loving portrait of The Spare.
Just to reiterate, Spare is working on a ten-episode web series that will be available for free views on YouTube. Whether or not you donate, you will be able to watch the show, Speed, a comedy about speed dating.
Tuesday, February 03, 2015
Five Dollars Gets You a Prize and a Chance To Win Big!
Oh, my dear friends. All six of you. I come to you in an hour of need. But I'm no charity case. I'm going to make you an offer you just can't refuse!
My daughter The Spare is creating a Web series called Speed. She and three of her classmates have been working on it for over a year. Now it's time to shoot the scripts, and they need a modest amount of money to complete ten episodes.
When Speed is finished, it will be a free view on YouTube.
Do any of you love The Spare?
Wow, that's a shameless plea, isn't it?
Spare has created an indiegogo campaign to raise the funds she needs to complete the project. After a few days, she and her colleagues have gotten a number of small donations -- not one of them from a friend, family member, or acquaintance of The Spare.
That can make a girl feel pretty doggone lowdown blue.
But wait! You, yes YOU, can help The Spare and get something for your trouble! Let's call this the Great Annie Giveaway and Prize Drawing!
GREAT ANNIE GIVEAWAY AND PRIZE DRAWING!
Donate $5.00 to Spare's indiegogo campaign and get a magick item from the Shrine of the Mists! This could be any one of the following, your choice:
*beach glass
*Marcellus shale
*quartz crystal
*Mardi Gras beads left over from the Mummers Parade
*pebbles from the briny Atlantic
*marbles
*random minerals
All items have been lovingly dedicated to the Bored Gods and the faeries and will come with that dedication attached.
Donate $10.00 to the Spare's indiegogo campaign and get two magick items from the Shrine of the Mists (see above) PLUS
You will be entered to win a neon tie-dye t-shirt from Woodstock Trading Company in your size!
This is a Woodstock shirt. They are done exclusively for the store by local New Jersey tie-dye artists.
Okay, that's the GREAT ANNIE GIVEAWAY AND PRIZE DRAWING! Everyone gets something, and one person will get a fabulous, brand-new t-shirt!
PLEASE NOTE: The item below has SOLD, but is left here to show a mother's devotion to her daughter's cause.
The donor of $100 to The Spare's indiegogo campaign received an authentic Philadelphia Mummers Parade Comic Brigade suit, complete.
My email is luvbuzzards@yahoo.com
And that indiegogo campaign is https://life.indiegogo.com/fundraisers/speed-the-web-series
Please?
My daughter The Spare is creating a Web series called Speed. She and three of her classmates have been working on it for over a year. Now it's time to shoot the scripts, and they need a modest amount of money to complete ten episodes.
When Speed is finished, it will be a free view on YouTube.
Do any of you love The Spare?
Wow, that's a shameless plea, isn't it?
Spare has created an indiegogo campaign to raise the funds she needs to complete the project. After a few days, she and her colleagues have gotten a number of small donations -- not one of them from a friend, family member, or acquaintance of The Spare.
That can make a girl feel pretty doggone lowdown blue.
But wait! You, yes YOU, can help The Spare and get something for your trouble! Let's call this the Great Annie Giveaway and Prize Drawing!
GREAT ANNIE GIVEAWAY AND PRIZE DRAWING!
Donate $5.00 to Spare's indiegogo campaign and get a magick item from the Shrine of the Mists! This could be any one of the following, your choice:
*beach glass
*Marcellus shale
*quartz crystal
*Mardi Gras beads left over from the Mummers Parade
*pebbles from the briny Atlantic
*marbles
*random minerals
All items have been lovingly dedicated to the Bored Gods and the faeries and will come with that dedication attached.
Donate $10.00 to the Spare's indiegogo campaign and get two magick items from the Shrine of the Mists (see above) PLUS
You will be entered to win a neon tie-dye t-shirt from Woodstock Trading Company in your size!
This is a Woodstock shirt. They are done exclusively for the store by local New Jersey tie-dye artists.
Okay, that's the GREAT ANNIE GIVEAWAY AND PRIZE DRAWING! Everyone gets something, and one person will get a fabulous, brand-new t-shirt!
PLEASE NOTE: The item below has SOLD, but is left here to show a mother's devotion to her daughter's cause.
The donor of $100 to The Spare's indiegogo campaign received an authentic Philadelphia Mummers Parade Comic Brigade suit, complete.
My email is luvbuzzards@yahoo.com
And that indiegogo campaign is https://life.indiegogo.com/fundraisers/speed-the-web-series
Please?
Monday, February 02, 2015
Interview with a Goddess: Imbolc 2015
Greetings from "The Gods Are Bored" on Imbolc, the festival day that honors Queen Brighid the Bright!
And what do you think? I took the day off from work and cooked the Snow Day turkey, and would you believe it? Queen Brighid has stopped by for a steaming plate! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Goddess Brighid!
Anne: Thank you so much for stopping by, Great Goddess! What an honor to have you here on Your feast day!
Brighid: How nice of you to invite Me to your Imbolc dinner table.
Anne: I praise and worship You all the time, since You are my Patroness Goddess and the Guardian of my altar. But just lately I've been thinking about You even more.
Brighid: Why is that?
Anne: I got a new polyester blanket for ten bucks at Ross Dress for Less. I even got a senior citizen discount on it -- my first ever!
Brighid: That's my sensible Annie!
Anne: Here it is. Feel it!
Brighid: Oh! How did they get it that soft?
Anne: Completely synthetic fabric! Nothing natural about this blanket at all. I have no idea what technology went into making it, but my soul, isn't it just the softest, most gooey blankie you've ever touched?
Brighid: Best in the apparent world, most certainly. And I like that shade of green. There's not a single plant in all the world that is that shade of green, but it's pretty.
Anne: Indeed! And I've been sleeping like a buzzard under this artificial textile. I wish my grandfather was alive to see it! He spent his whole career in the synthetic fabric industry. I'll bet this would fascinate him. Anyway, when I pull its buttery softness around me, I think of Your mantle that you spread upon the world, back when it was a place of chaos and savage beasts.
Brighid: Yes, My silver mantle. To this day some people call Me Brighid of the Mantle.
Anne: That was a straight-up swell gesture of You, Goddess. What would the world have been like without Your blessed silver mantle? Unfit for humans, at the very least. Every time I cuddle up under my new gooey fake fabric blankie, I think of Your magic mantle and how it tamed the world. Thank You for doing that.
Brighid: You're welcome, Anne. Thanks for remembering.
Anne: In my mind I picture You spreading Your mantle out. Like, see how I lay my totally artificial blanket softly over my bed? I imagine You doing it that way. Or, like a mother covers up her sleeping child. Or, how a camper lays down a ground cloth before erecting a sturdy tent. Ummm.....
Brighid: Go ahead, I can read your mind anyway.
Anne: ... how we lay blankets down before a picnic to deter the pismires.
Brighid: You speak so eloquently! My praise and worship team has always valued intelligent women.
Anne: It's nice to feel valued by your deity. In some praise and worship systems, women don't really feel the love.
Brighid: And that's a crying shame! You should go door-to-door, Anne.
Anne: I wouldn't presume. But I'm glad You call me Yours, Goddess.
Brighid: Forever and always.
Anne: Would you like a serving of blueberry cobbler for the road? Nothing artificial about the blueberries!
Brighid: Thank you, and thank you for the altar ... are those vulture feathers?
Anne: Yes.... ummmmmm ......
Brighid: Oh, don't be embarrassed! No liturgy, no worries! If you want your wand to have the feathers of a carrion-eating scavenger, that's fine by Me. I will continue to bless your home and hearth.
Anne: I love you, Queen Brighid the Bright.
Brighid: And I love you too, Anne. All is well.
And what do you think? I took the day off from work and cooked the Snow Day turkey, and would you believe it? Queen Brighid has stopped by for a steaming plate! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Goddess Brighid!
Anne: Thank you so much for stopping by, Great Goddess! What an honor to have you here on Your feast day!
Anne: I praise and worship You all the time, since You are my Patroness Goddess and the Guardian of my altar. But just lately I've been thinking about You even more.
Brighid: Why is that?
Anne: I got a new polyester blanket for ten bucks at Ross Dress for Less. I even got a senior citizen discount on it -- my first ever!
Brighid: That's my sensible Annie!
Anne: Here it is. Feel it!
Brighid: Oh! How did they get it that soft?
Anne: Completely synthetic fabric! Nothing natural about this blanket at all. I have no idea what technology went into making it, but my soul, isn't it just the softest, most gooey blankie you've ever touched?
Brighid: Best in the apparent world, most certainly. And I like that shade of green. There's not a single plant in all the world that is that shade of green, but it's pretty.
Anne: Indeed! And I've been sleeping like a buzzard under this artificial textile. I wish my grandfather was alive to see it! He spent his whole career in the synthetic fabric industry. I'll bet this would fascinate him. Anyway, when I pull its buttery softness around me, I think of Your mantle that you spread upon the world, back when it was a place of chaos and savage beasts.
Brighid: Yes, My silver mantle. To this day some people call Me Brighid of the Mantle.
Anne: That was a straight-up swell gesture of You, Goddess. What would the world have been like without Your blessed silver mantle? Unfit for humans, at the very least. Every time I cuddle up under my new gooey fake fabric blankie, I think of Your magic mantle and how it tamed the world. Thank You for doing that.
Brighid: You're welcome, Anne. Thanks for remembering.
Anne: In my mind I picture You spreading Your mantle out. Like, see how I lay my totally artificial blanket softly over my bed? I imagine You doing it that way. Or, like a mother covers up her sleeping child. Or, how a camper lays down a ground cloth before erecting a sturdy tent. Ummm.....
Brighid: Go ahead, I can read your mind anyway.
Anne: ... how we lay blankets down before a picnic to deter the pismires.
Brighid: You speak so eloquently! My praise and worship team has always valued intelligent women.
Anne: It's nice to feel valued by your deity. In some praise and worship systems, women don't really feel the love.
Brighid: And that's a crying shame! You should go door-to-door, Anne.
Anne: I wouldn't presume. But I'm glad You call me Yours, Goddess.
Brighid: Forever and always.
Anne: Would you like a serving of blueberry cobbler for the road? Nothing artificial about the blueberries!
Brighid: Thank you, and thank you for the altar ... are those vulture feathers?
Anne: Yes.... ummmmmm ......
Brighid: Oh, don't be embarrassed! No liturgy, no worries! If you want your wand to have the feathers of a carrion-eating scavenger, that's fine by Me. I will continue to bless your home and hearth.
Anne: I love you, Queen Brighid the Bright.
Brighid: And I love you too, Anne. All is well.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
What's Really Behind Our Education Crisis?
On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Camden County Courthouse in Camden, NJ, to see some of my students compete in a thing called "Mock Trial." Mock Trial is hard to describe, but I'll try: Every year, school teams get a "case" that is fictitious but on a timely topic. The students have to be attorneys and witnesses -- they have roles to learn, but it's not a drama: It's a court case. The competition is held over two weekends in the courthouse and is presided over by real judges who accord points to each team. The team with the most points at the end goes on to a state-level competition.
I went because four of my eleven Freshman Honors students are on the mock trial team. When I got there I found out which opposing team my freshmen would be facing: Our county's most expensive and exclusive parochial school, Bishop Eustace Prep.
So here are my minority kids from Camden, who collect their free lunches every day, going up against kids whose parents can fork over $16,000 a year in high school tuition, knowing that college is just around the corner.
My students acquitted themselves very well, under the circumstances. Given that they are freshmen, if they stick with it they could really contend in a year or two.
It was what I saw when I left the courthouse that made me want to cry.
Right across the street from the Camden courthouse is a branch of the Camden City Library. The building was vacant and boarded up. No books there!
Our American government has sunk millions upon millions into a standardized test that is based upon the notion that students are only ready for college and careers if they are literate and critical thinkers. The coffers of Pearson, Inc. are brimming with taxpayer ducats that have been used to develop this test.
On top of that, our sitting president just told us, in his State of the Union Address, that he wants to make community college free. Everyone needs two years of community college to get a good job in this modern world, and four-year institutions are way too expensive.
So we have money that has been spent developing a national standardized test for grades 3 through 11. And ostensibly we will spend more taxpayer money on free college.
And the public library in Camden sits shuttered and empty.
Billionaire Bill Gates want to influence our national educational curriculum to better reflect the way he learned. To his way of thinking, school teachers are enemy number one, because they aren't all like the professors he admires.
Did I mention that the public library in Camden is shuttered and empty?
I'm not Bill Gates, not by a long shot. But I did comport myself well at Johns Hopkins University. I graduated 15th in my class. To me, that makes me as much an expert on education as he is. Quite.
Mr. Gates, open the libraries! President Obama, open the libraries! Get every one of those public libraries open, warm, well-lit, and filled to the brim with books! Have a whole floor just for ages one through six -- books, toys, computers, fish tanks, guinea pigs, toddler time, movie night! Have another floor for elementary school. Another for high school. Another for adults who need to use computers to take online classes. Open the goddamn libraries!
Our country will never meet its literacy and critical thinking objectives by designing fancier tests. Our students will never become great readers just through the efforts of school teachers. WE NEED LIBRARIES, AND WE NEED THEM NOW.
Take that free community college earmark and use it to re-open, refurbish, and re-stock all the shuttered libraries in all the poor communities across this wide nation!
I learned to read at the public library.
I got all my reading material, growing up, from the public library.
I did my homework in a public library.
I researched my family history in a public library.
I wrote encyclopedia entries -- hundreds and hundreds of them -- using public library resources.
My imagination caught fire within the walls of a public library.
Do you want to know why America lags behind many other nations in its education scores? Look no farther than the SHUTTERED LIBRARIES. There's no root under the tree.
I went because four of my eleven Freshman Honors students are on the mock trial team. When I got there I found out which opposing team my freshmen would be facing: Our county's most expensive and exclusive parochial school, Bishop Eustace Prep.
So here are my minority kids from Camden, who collect their free lunches every day, going up against kids whose parents can fork over $16,000 a year in high school tuition, knowing that college is just around the corner.
My students acquitted themselves very well, under the circumstances. Given that they are freshmen, if they stick with it they could really contend in a year or two.
It was what I saw when I left the courthouse that made me want to cry.
Right across the street from the Camden courthouse is a branch of the Camden City Library. The building was vacant and boarded up. No books there!
Our American government has sunk millions upon millions into a standardized test that is based upon the notion that students are only ready for college and careers if they are literate and critical thinkers. The coffers of Pearson, Inc. are brimming with taxpayer ducats that have been used to develop this test.
On top of that, our sitting president just told us, in his State of the Union Address, that he wants to make community college free. Everyone needs two years of community college to get a good job in this modern world, and four-year institutions are way too expensive.
So we have money that has been spent developing a national standardized test for grades 3 through 11. And ostensibly we will spend more taxpayer money on free college.
And the public library in Camden sits shuttered and empty.
Billionaire Bill Gates want to influence our national educational curriculum to better reflect the way he learned. To his way of thinking, school teachers are enemy number one, because they aren't all like the professors he admires.
Did I mention that the public library in Camden is shuttered and empty?
I'm not Bill Gates, not by a long shot. But I did comport myself well at Johns Hopkins University. I graduated 15th in my class. To me, that makes me as much an expert on education as he is. Quite.
Mr. Gates, open the libraries! President Obama, open the libraries! Get every one of those public libraries open, warm, well-lit, and filled to the brim with books! Have a whole floor just for ages one through six -- books, toys, computers, fish tanks, guinea pigs, toddler time, movie night! Have another floor for elementary school. Another for high school. Another for adults who need to use computers to take online classes. Open the goddamn libraries!
Our country will never meet its literacy and critical thinking objectives by designing fancier tests. Our students will never become great readers just through the efforts of school teachers. WE NEED LIBRARIES, AND WE NEED THEM NOW.
Take that free community college earmark and use it to re-open, refurbish, and re-stock all the shuttered libraries in all the poor communities across this wide nation!
I learned to read at the public library.
I got all my reading material, growing up, from the public library.
I did my homework in a public library.
I researched my family history in a public library.
I wrote encyclopedia entries -- hundreds and hundreds of them -- using public library resources.
My imagination caught fire within the walls of a public library.
Do you want to know why America lags behind many other nations in its education scores? Look no farther than the SHUTTERED LIBRARIES. There's no root under the tree.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Other Side of the Coin
Okay, so the other day I went to town on people who post nude photos of themselves onto social media. Not a great idea.
But you know what else isn't a great idea? Overdone dress codes.
Where are we living if a teenager can't wear this to a dance?
Oh my Bored Gods! Where do we draw the line? Poor kid! (Well, she's not that poor, she bought the dress in Paris.)
You know what I think? I think this must have been a Utah high school full of gossiping Mormons. The Mormonism contributes to the dress-shaming, but so does the gossip. Do you think it was a secret that this teenager went with her mom to Paris and bought a beautiful, classic dress to wear to dances?
When you combine repressive religious rules with gossip and jealousy, you're going to get a situation where an extremely modestly attired young lady gets shamed for her dress. In this case I think there was more going on than a bare shoulder. This story stinks of two things: religious extremism and sour grapes.
But you know what else isn't a great idea? Overdone dress codes.
Where are we living if a teenager can't wear this to a dance?
Oh my Bored Gods! Where do we draw the line? Poor kid! (Well, she's not that poor, she bought the dress in Paris.)
You know what I think? I think this must have been a Utah high school full of gossiping Mormons. The Mormonism contributes to the dress-shaming, but so does the gossip. Do you think it was a secret that this teenager went with her mom to Paris and bought a beautiful, classic dress to wear to dances?
When you combine repressive religious rules with gossip and jealousy, you're going to get a situation where an extremely modestly attired young lady gets shamed for her dress. In this case I think there was more going on than a bare shoulder. This story stinks of two things: religious extremism and sour grapes.
Monday, January 26, 2015
One Crone's Opinion
This post isn't going to win me friends or influence people. Have to get it off my chest anyway.
"They had it coming" is an ugly phrase that's thrown around a lot, and to my mind it obscures an incovenient truth.
That inconvenient truth is that decisions have consequences, and if these consequences can be foreseen, this somewhat mitigates the damage done.
Harsh? Yes. But the world is a place where decisions have consequences.
Let us take the unfortunate example of a young woman who playfully posts nude pictures of herself on Facebook, or even in an Instagram to her boyfriend. Did she ask herself the important question about the nature of online platforms? What happens when you post a nude photo of yourself on an online platform, even if only your friends or your lover can see it?
First of all, you are assuming that life will never change for you, that the people you love and trust now will always be lovable and trustworthy. This is not a safe assumption to make, even after you're happily married for 30 years, still chumming around with your high school buddies. The Internet is a public forum. Anything you post can wind up anywhere ... do people forget that?
As harsh as it sounds, I cannot summon a whole lot of sympathy for a young woman whose naked photos, playfully entrusted to her Facebook wall, wind up on a pornography site. This woman would not have sat in the hot tub at her health club naked, where it is extremely unlikely that anyone would see her, let alone post a photo of her. Why not? Because strangers might see her naked. And that's a health club. The Internet might as well be Times Square. Would anyone walk naked in Times Square? (If you've seen Birdman, I won't spoil, but ...)
Gentlemen, this applies to you as well. The Internet is a public forum. Your decision as to what you post will have consequences.
At least a young woman who finds her photos hacked is an adult. (Now Anne's really gonna rub people the wrong way.) It really, really, really bothers me when people post photographs of their young children on any kind of online forum. I probably would have done this when the Heir and the Spare were babies. Oh, they were really cute! But wait. Your baby is an autonomous person who cannot ask kindly that you not post photos of him online. Will he want a record of his every baby smile on the Internet? Maybe. Maybe not. Will a pedophile stumble upon those beaming baby pictures and re-purpose them? Unlikely, but still in the realm of possibility. The Internet is a public forum. I'm so glad it wasn't around when my daughters were children.
Now we move on to another touchy topic, the satirists at Charlie Hebdo.Decisions have consequences. You can make a science of it:
Fact: The Muslim religion considers it a sin to create pictures of any human being, most notably their prophet.
Fact: Muslims live in France.
Fact: Some of those Muslims are dangerous terrorists.
If you know these three facts, and you choose to satirize Muhammad, then you should know that this could have consequences. You don't even have to buy into the whole "respect a religion" argument. Nothing says you have to respect a religion. You do need to be aware of potential repercussions from extremists if you satirize the religion.
I'm not saying I don't have any sympathy for the artists and writers who were killed. Of course I do. I'm just not surprised that it happened. When you place something controversial into a public forum, you know who might see it. You have made a decision.
I don't expect everyone to agree with me on this issue, but to my way of thinking, it's important to weigh the possible consequences of your actions before you act. Call me anxiety-ridden or paranoid if you like ... remind me of the essence of "freedom of speech" if you like. I'll still say that when you're in a public forum, weigh your decisions carefully. Decisions have consequences.
"They had it coming" is an ugly phrase that's thrown around a lot, and to my mind it obscures an incovenient truth.
That inconvenient truth is that decisions have consequences, and if these consequences can be foreseen, this somewhat mitigates the damage done.
Harsh? Yes. But the world is a place where decisions have consequences.
Let us take the unfortunate example of a young woman who playfully posts nude pictures of herself on Facebook, or even in an Instagram to her boyfriend. Did she ask herself the important question about the nature of online platforms? What happens when you post a nude photo of yourself on an online platform, even if only your friends or your lover can see it?
First of all, you are assuming that life will never change for you, that the people you love and trust now will always be lovable and trustworthy. This is not a safe assumption to make, even after you're happily married for 30 years, still chumming around with your high school buddies. The Internet is a public forum. Anything you post can wind up anywhere ... do people forget that?
As harsh as it sounds, I cannot summon a whole lot of sympathy for a young woman whose naked photos, playfully entrusted to her Facebook wall, wind up on a pornography site. This woman would not have sat in the hot tub at her health club naked, where it is extremely unlikely that anyone would see her, let alone post a photo of her. Why not? Because strangers might see her naked. And that's a health club. The Internet might as well be Times Square. Would anyone walk naked in Times Square? (If you've seen Birdman, I won't spoil, but ...)
Gentlemen, this applies to you as well. The Internet is a public forum. Your decision as to what you post will have consequences.
At least a young woman who finds her photos hacked is an adult. (Now Anne's really gonna rub people the wrong way.) It really, really, really bothers me when people post photographs of their young children on any kind of online forum. I probably would have done this when the Heir and the Spare were babies. Oh, they were really cute! But wait. Your baby is an autonomous person who cannot ask kindly that you not post photos of him online. Will he want a record of his every baby smile on the Internet? Maybe. Maybe not. Will a pedophile stumble upon those beaming baby pictures and re-purpose them? Unlikely, but still in the realm of possibility. The Internet is a public forum. I'm so glad it wasn't around when my daughters were children.
Now we move on to another touchy topic, the satirists at Charlie Hebdo.Decisions have consequences. You can make a science of it:
Fact: The Muslim religion considers it a sin to create pictures of any human being, most notably their prophet.
Fact: Muslims live in France.
Fact: Some of those Muslims are dangerous terrorists.
If you know these three facts, and you choose to satirize Muhammad, then you should know that this could have consequences. You don't even have to buy into the whole "respect a religion" argument. Nothing says you have to respect a religion. You do need to be aware of potential repercussions from extremists if you satirize the religion.
I'm not saying I don't have any sympathy for the artists and writers who were killed. Of course I do. I'm just not surprised that it happened. When you place something controversial into a public forum, you know who might see it. You have made a decision.
I don't expect everyone to agree with me on this issue, but to my way of thinking, it's important to weigh the possible consequences of your actions before you act. Call me anxiety-ridden or paranoid if you like ... remind me of the essence of "freedom of speech" if you like. I'll still say that when you're in a public forum, weigh your decisions carefully. Decisions have consequences.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
SunSmart Solar: A Worthy Cause
We at "The Gods Are Bored" are somewhat reluctant to put commercial breaks in the proceedings. After all, you might just hit the clicker to pass the commercial and then bypass the whole blog right along with it. Every now and then, however, a fundraiser comes onto the radar that is so epic in its worthiness that we pause for a word from our sponsors.
I call your attention to an indiegogo campaign for a product called SunSmart Solar. Check out their page, their video, and their product. I was sold on the thing even before I saw it, feeling for quite some time that what this country needs is small solar generators.
I wish I had some big-time ducats to fling at this fledgling entrepreneur, but alas, all I can do is urge you to check out the SunSmartSolar campaign and decide for yourself. If you feel (as I do) that our biggest energy provider is just sitting there in the sky every day, beaming down upon us, you'll see the merits of SunSmartSolar.
To check it out, click here: http://igg.me/at/SunSmartSolar
I call your attention to an indiegogo campaign for a product called SunSmart Solar. Check out their page, their video, and their product. I was sold on the thing even before I saw it, feeling for quite some time that what this country needs is small solar generators.
I wish I had some big-time ducats to fling at this fledgling entrepreneur, but alas, all I can do is urge you to check out the SunSmartSolar campaign and decide for yourself. If you feel (as I do) that our biggest energy provider is just sitting there in the sky every day, beaming down upon us, you'll see the merits of SunSmartSolar.
To check it out, click here: http://igg.me/at/SunSmartSolar
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Interview with a Bored God: Stan
I've said it time after time. We don't know the names and ranks of a fraction of all the deities who were ever praised and worshiped. Gosh, we only go back a few millenniums when it comes to recorded history, with names and images and that sort of rot. Before people started drawing horses on cave walls, they already had Gods and Goddesses.
Therefore, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods-Are-Bored welcome to Ancient Stan, the bored God of Ultimate Respect!
Anne: All hail, Stan!
Stan: The "all hail" is acceptable. But you must address me as Sir Stan, Sir.
Anne: Wait a minute! Are you in the Corps?
Stan: No, but I admire the way they do things. Respect! Yes sir! Have you ever noticed that all gods demand respect?
Anne: Actually, no. Some deities don't care that much about respect.
Stan: About respect, what?
Anne: Huh?
Stan: ABOUT RESPECT, WHAT?
Anne: Oh! About respect, Sir Stan, Sir!
Stan: Better. But you're not on your knees with your nose to the ground.
Anne: Ah, you're one of those gods.
Stan: I don't like your tone. What do you mean, one of those gods?
Anne: All I mean, Sir Stan, Sir, is that you seem more bent upon getting respect than upon bestowing blessings or curing the ills of the world.
Stan: Wrong, insolent modern mortal! I will bestow blessings upon you abundantly when you accord Me the proper respect! Respect comes first, and then you get a treat!
Anne: I think I'm in rebellion against that model, actually. But it never hurts to be polite.
Stan: REBELLION? I SMITE rebellion! Disrespect me, and I'll send you a tornado! And you know what else? I don't even have to OPENLY SEE the disrespect. If I THINK you're disrespecting me, I will rot the crops with too much water!
Anne: Yes sir, Sir Stan, Sir! Far be it from me to want the crops rotted in the fields! Oh, wait. It's wintertime. I have a question for you, Sir Stan, Sir. Here. Let me get down on my knees...
(Anne has creaky knees, especially when it's going to rain.)
Anne: Nose to the ground ... wow, this is awkward. Why do people do this?
Stan: TO HUMBLE THEMSELVES! You are extremely cheeky. You are trying My patience.
Anne: You're not the first to notice my cheekiness, Sir Stan, Sir. Is this totally prostrate posture good enough for you?
Stan: How old are you?
Anne: I'll call you "Sir" all night, but I won't tell you that.
Stan: WHERE'S MY TORNADO?
Anne: Golly, you are impossible, Sir Stan, Sir! My nose is practically putting a dent in the linoleum! I just wanted to ask ... This whole respect thing ... How did it work out for You? What happened to Your praise and worship team?
Stan: They forgot to show Me respect, so I sent tornadoes and crop failure. Then a neighboring tribe took over their land and enslaved. them.
Anne: I guess You showed them, huh? But where did that leave You, if Your praise and worship team got walloped?
Stan: I had My respect intact. And I was busy doing other things.
Anne: Other things, Sir Stan, Sir? What could possibly be more important for a deity than having a praise and worship team?
Stan: I was having Children. Strong, strapping Sons. Wait until I leave before you rise from the floor.
Therefore, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods-Are-Bored welcome to Ancient Stan, the bored God of Ultimate Respect!
Anne: All hail, Stan!
Stan: The "all hail" is acceptable. But you must address me as Sir Stan, Sir.
Anne: Wait a minute! Are you in the Corps?
Stan: No, but I admire the way they do things. Respect! Yes sir! Have you ever noticed that all gods demand respect?
Anne: Actually, no. Some deities don't care that much about respect.
Stan: About respect, what?
Anne: Huh?
Stan: ABOUT RESPECT, WHAT?
Anne: Oh! About respect, Sir Stan, Sir!
Stan: Better. But you're not on your knees with your nose to the ground.
Anne: Ah, you're one of those gods.
Stan: I don't like your tone. What do you mean, one of those gods?
Anne: All I mean, Sir Stan, Sir, is that you seem more bent upon getting respect than upon bestowing blessings or curing the ills of the world.
Stan: Wrong, insolent modern mortal! I will bestow blessings upon you abundantly when you accord Me the proper respect! Respect comes first, and then you get a treat!
Anne: I think I'm in rebellion against that model, actually. But it never hurts to be polite.
Stan: REBELLION? I SMITE rebellion! Disrespect me, and I'll send you a tornado! And you know what else? I don't even have to OPENLY SEE the disrespect. If I THINK you're disrespecting me, I will rot the crops with too much water!
Anne: Yes sir, Sir Stan, Sir! Far be it from me to want the crops rotted in the fields! Oh, wait. It's wintertime. I have a question for you, Sir Stan, Sir. Here. Let me get down on my knees...
(Anne has creaky knees, especially when it's going to rain.)
Anne: Nose to the ground ... wow, this is awkward. Why do people do this?
Stan: TO HUMBLE THEMSELVES! You are extremely cheeky. You are trying My patience.
Anne: You're not the first to notice my cheekiness, Sir Stan, Sir. Is this totally prostrate posture good enough for you?
Stan: How old are you?
Anne: I'll call you "Sir" all night, but I won't tell you that.
Stan: WHERE'S MY TORNADO?
Anne: Golly, you are impossible, Sir Stan, Sir! My nose is practically putting a dent in the linoleum! I just wanted to ask ... This whole respect thing ... How did it work out for You? What happened to Your praise and worship team?
Stan: They forgot to show Me respect, so I sent tornadoes and crop failure. Then a neighboring tribe took over their land and enslaved. them.
Anne: I guess You showed them, huh? But where did that leave You, if Your praise and worship team got walloped?
Stan: I had My respect intact. And I was busy doing other things.
Anne: Other things, Sir Stan, Sir? What could possibly be more important for a deity than having a praise and worship team?
Stan: I was having Children. Strong, strapping Sons. Wait until I leave before you rise from the floor.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Conversation
Just now I had to go and check New Jersey's abortion laws, because a conversation I had today made me wonder if I had just slipped into Alabama without knowing it. Still a little shaky, but believing the Kaiser Family Foundation when it tells me that New Jersey does not require an ultrasound before an abortion.
I had a conversation with an acquaintance. I'll call her Davida. We've known each other a long time. The conversation went something like this:
Davida: Guess what? My son's going to be a father!
Anne: Really? Is he going to marry the girl?
Davida: No, but he moved in with her. They were fighting for awhile, but I kicked him out because he was drunk all the time, so he moved in with her. He's pretty shocked about the responsibility. But the girl says he's being nicer to her these days.
Anne: Does he have a job?
Davida: Yes! He works three days a week! He got his degree ... finally. And the mom is almost through with her college work too. Get this: The girl's mother tried to get her to have an abortion. I even talked about it with the girl's mother. I said, "Wow, that's a little life in there!" But the mother wouldn't hear it. She took the girl to the clinic, but they had to have an ultrasound, and when the girl saw the ultrasound, she couldn't go through with it.
Anne: I didn't think that was the law in New Jersey.
Davida: It is! But anyway, the girl is keeping the baby, and my son is just going to have to get used to the idea. He'll have to get a full-time job. Well, after all, he is 25.
Anne: Not making any predictions here, but it sounds like you're going to wind up with a lot of child care.
Davida: Oh no! I'm not going to give them a dime or spend one hour taking care of that baby! It's all on them. I told my son, "All that money you spend partying with your boys is going to have to go toward taking care of that baby!"
Anne: How about the girl's mom?
Davida: Well, she's just furious. She doesn't want a thing to do with it all. This girl hasn't ever gotten along with her mother. That mom isn't going to help out at all. Just think! She wanted the girl to have an abortion! Can you imagine?
---------------------------------
At that point, I had heard enough about this little domestic arrangement. The part that puzzled me was the ultrasound. I just looked it up. New Jersey doesn't require an ultrasound. So, did the girl lie, or did the clinic misrepresent the law?
Either way, I feel like I just heard the pre-narrative of another poor human soul who will enter this world in less-than-ideal circumstances. Oh well. All I really wanted to do was to ascertain the laws of my state, because when our governor isn't rooting for the Dallas Cowboys, there's no telling what he's up to.
I suppose in due time I will meet this little tyke, since Snobville's a small town and I do run into Davida a good bit. But I needn't worry. Davida won't be hosting a baby shower. No way. Not one penny for that "little life in there" -- before, during, or after!
I had a conversation with an acquaintance. I'll call her Davida. We've known each other a long time. The conversation went something like this:
Davida: Guess what? My son's going to be a father!
Anne: Really? Is he going to marry the girl?
Davida: No, but he moved in with her. They were fighting for awhile, but I kicked him out because he was drunk all the time, so he moved in with her. He's pretty shocked about the responsibility. But the girl says he's being nicer to her these days.
Anne: Does he have a job?
Davida: Yes! He works three days a week! He got his degree ... finally. And the mom is almost through with her college work too. Get this: The girl's mother tried to get her to have an abortion. I even talked about it with the girl's mother. I said, "Wow, that's a little life in there!" But the mother wouldn't hear it. She took the girl to the clinic, but they had to have an ultrasound, and when the girl saw the ultrasound, she couldn't go through with it.
Anne: I didn't think that was the law in New Jersey.
Davida: It is! But anyway, the girl is keeping the baby, and my son is just going to have to get used to the idea. He'll have to get a full-time job. Well, after all, he is 25.
Anne: Not making any predictions here, but it sounds like you're going to wind up with a lot of child care.
Davida: Oh no! I'm not going to give them a dime or spend one hour taking care of that baby! It's all on them. I told my son, "All that money you spend partying with your boys is going to have to go toward taking care of that baby!"
Anne: How about the girl's mom?
Davida: Well, she's just furious. She doesn't want a thing to do with it all. This girl hasn't ever gotten along with her mother. That mom isn't going to help out at all. Just think! She wanted the girl to have an abortion! Can you imagine?
---------------------------------
At that point, I had heard enough about this little domestic arrangement. The part that puzzled me was the ultrasound. I just looked it up. New Jersey doesn't require an ultrasound. So, did the girl lie, or did the clinic misrepresent the law?
Either way, I feel like I just heard the pre-narrative of another poor human soul who will enter this world in less-than-ideal circumstances. Oh well. All I really wanted to do was to ascertain the laws of my state, because when our governor isn't rooting for the Dallas Cowboys, there's no telling what he's up to.
I suppose in due time I will meet this little tyke, since Snobville's a small town and I do run into Davida a good bit. But I needn't worry. Davida won't be hosting a baby shower. No way. Not one penny for that "little life in there" -- before, during, or after!
Friday, January 09, 2015
Tough Day in the Trenches for Decibel and Gamma
It's hard out there for a pet. We Northern Hemisphere humans struggle with seasonal lack of sunlight. Couldn't our pets feel the same?
I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.
Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.
So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.
It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!
When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.
To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.
Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"
No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.
Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.
Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.
Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.
But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.
My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.
Gamma watched intently as I took the ornaments and lights off the tree. Then he stood in shocked disbelief as I dragged his forest out the front door. Then he paced the open space where the tree had been, batting petulantly at the snowdrift of fallen needles.
Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.
I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.
All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.
It's hard out there for a pet.
I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.
Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.
So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.
It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!
When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.
To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.
Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"
No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.
Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.
Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.
Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.
But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.
My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.
Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.
I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.
All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.
It's hard out there for a pet.
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
New Year's Resolutions
We all make them. Right? A number changes, and everything must change with it. Never mind that the next day is just like the previous day, and the next week will bring the same challenges as the week before. It's 2015! Time to resolve!
Anne's New Year's Resolutions 2015
1. I hereby resolve to look at one or more cat videos a day. I think I might have missed some days last year.
2. I hereby resolve to eat as much chocolate as I want, all year long. Again, I might have missed some opportunities to eat chocolate in 2014. This will not happen again.
3. I hereby resolve to wear silk pajamas to bed. I have a pair of silk pajamas. Sometimes I'm too lazy to look for them at bedtime, so I hope into the sheets in some stupid thermal shirt or something. Unacceptable.
4. I hereby resolve not to attend a single Christian church service this year. Excluding funerals of close family, should they arise. (Hopefully they won't arise.)
5. I hereby resolve to have a negative attitude at times. I've tried resolving to be more positive in the past. F*** that. Gonna be crabby whenever I feel like it.
6. I hereby resolve to begin smoking cigarettes. I'm 55, and I've never smoked. High time I start.
7. I hereby resolve to look at the weather report only once a day. This one will be hard, especially whenever a snowstorm is in the forecast.
8. I hereby resolve to see the Perseids meteor shower this year. There's to be a new moon that night.
9. I hereby resolve to avoid the state of Alabama completely and utterly, throughout the whole year.
10. I hereby resolve to continue writing "The Gods Are Bored" throughout 2015. This is the decade year for my blog!
Anne's New Year's Resolutions 2015
1. I hereby resolve to look at one or more cat videos a day. I think I might have missed some days last year.
2. I hereby resolve to eat as much chocolate as I want, all year long. Again, I might have missed some opportunities to eat chocolate in 2014. This will not happen again.
3. I hereby resolve to wear silk pajamas to bed. I have a pair of silk pajamas. Sometimes I'm too lazy to look for them at bedtime, so I hope into the sheets in some stupid thermal shirt or something. Unacceptable.
4. I hereby resolve not to attend a single Christian church service this year. Excluding funerals of close family, should they arise. (Hopefully they won't arise.)
5. I hereby resolve to have a negative attitude at times. I've tried resolving to be more positive in the past. F*** that. Gonna be crabby whenever I feel like it.
6. I hereby resolve to begin smoking cigarettes. I'm 55, and I've never smoked. High time I start.
7. I hereby resolve to look at the weather report only once a day. This one will be hard, especially whenever a snowstorm is in the forecast.
8. I hereby resolve to see the Perseids meteor shower this year. There's to be a new moon that night.
9. I hereby resolve to avoid the state of Alabama completely and utterly, throughout the whole year.
10. I hereby resolve to continue writing "The Gods Are Bored" throughout 2015. This is the decade year for my blog!
Friday, January 02, 2015
No Time for Losers
Most people stay up on New Year's Eve to be awake at 12:00 when the next year begins.
Not me. I go to bed early.
I go to bed early because I get up early on January 1 (basically 6:15 a.m.). I put on a satin-and-sequined costume and go to the clubhouse of the Two Street Stompers, a Philadelphia Mummers Parade comic brigade.
We wish each other a Happy New Year. We put on makeup and wigs. We partake of beverages of our choice. Then we get on buses and ride over to Philly to be in the Mummers Parade.
Our youngest marchers are actually carried or pushed in strollers. Not sure how old the oldest marchers are, but they are certainly senior citizens who know that being able to dance all day gives you a longer, healthier life.
Philadelphia has been hosting a Mummers Parade since 1901, when rowdy behavior in the neighborhoods was cause for concern. Now the parade is a tradition, and I think the Powers-That-Be have been trying to marginalize it for awhile. Good luck with that, because 10,000 marchers and over eight hours of entertainment aren't going to be something you just sweep under the rug.
The parade was live-streamed on computer and broadcast on t.v. Ahem. Our Two Street Stomper routine lasted exactly one minute and 52 seconds, and somehow the network cut to a commercial after the first five seconds, resuming live coverage with five seconds left in the routine. Basically a commercial break of two minutes right in the middle of a routine? Curious. Could our content be deemed worthy of censorship?
It's difficult to get a video of the routine. Even in these days of YouTube. With that in mind, I hereby re-create it with still photographs shamelessly stolen from the Internet.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE MISS MUMMERDELPHIA PAGEANT, 2015!
Out comes our "host," Donald Trump (a member in a suit and wig) and all the kids under 12, dressed as judges with cute white wigs.
OUR FIRST CONTESTANT, FROM 9TH AND WASHINGTON, MISS ITALIAN MARKET, IN HER SWIM SUIT!
(cue "Rocky" music)
SHE'S A REAL KNOCKOUT.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 8TH AND ARCH, MISS CHINATOWN!
(This was the unit I was in.)
(cue Donna Summer, "Lookin' for Some Hot Stuff")
SHE'S HOT AND STEAMY.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 5TH AND CHESTNUT, MISS OLD CITY, DOING HER SPECIAL TALENT, THE MUMMER STRUT!
(Miss Old City's unit limps out, then cue music, "Get Up Off Of That Thing." The whole unit, with Miss Old City front and center, begins the energetic and traditional Mummer strut.)
AND THE WINNER IS, MISS OLD CITY!
(Miss Old City is crowned.)
HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR!
And we're finished. Exit stage right, onto Broad Street.
The weather was absolutely glorious.
And, thanks to some special fans on Broad Street, I got this terrific image of Self and Spare.
The Two Street Stompers strutted. And strutted. And strutted. We were on Broad Street, basically Philadelphia's main drag, and the cross traffic was allowed to go at the green lights. It took us a long time to complete our entire circuit. Not that we minded. Did I mention that the weather was beautiful?
Between the weather and our general good humor, the miles seemed like ... well, today I must say they felt like miles, because my bones ache from stem to stern. At the time they felt more like furlongs.
At length we danced up to the banquet hall on Oregon Avenue, where a warm lunch awaited. (Beverages are distributed bountifully along the route.) As we chowed down, our captain came in, hushed us all, and told us ...
...Some members who passed away this year looked down upon us, and ...
We won.
Not me. I go to bed early.
I go to bed early because I get up early on January 1 (basically 6:15 a.m.). I put on a satin-and-sequined costume and go to the clubhouse of the Two Street Stompers, a Philadelphia Mummers Parade comic brigade.
We wish each other a Happy New Year. We put on makeup and wigs. We partake of beverages of our choice. Then we get on buses and ride over to Philly to be in the Mummers Parade.
Our youngest marchers are actually carried or pushed in strollers. Not sure how old the oldest marchers are, but they are certainly senior citizens who know that being able to dance all day gives you a longer, healthier life.
Philadelphia has been hosting a Mummers Parade since 1901, when rowdy behavior in the neighborhoods was cause for concern. Now the parade is a tradition, and I think the Powers-That-Be have been trying to marginalize it for awhile. Good luck with that, because 10,000 marchers and over eight hours of entertainment aren't going to be something you just sweep under the rug.
The parade was live-streamed on computer and broadcast on t.v. Ahem. Our Two Street Stomper routine lasted exactly one minute and 52 seconds, and somehow the network cut to a commercial after the first five seconds, resuming live coverage with five seconds left in the routine. Basically a commercial break of two minutes right in the middle of a routine? Curious. Could our content be deemed worthy of censorship?
It's difficult to get a video of the routine. Even in these days of YouTube. With that in mind, I hereby re-create it with still photographs shamelessly stolen from the Internet.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE MISS MUMMERDELPHIA PAGEANT, 2015!
Out comes our "host," Donald Trump (a member in a suit and wig) and all the kids under 12, dressed as judges with cute white wigs.
OUR FIRST CONTESTANT, FROM 9TH AND WASHINGTON, MISS ITALIAN MARKET, IN HER SWIM SUIT!
(cue "Rocky" music)
SHE'S A REAL KNOCKOUT.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 8TH AND ARCH, MISS CHINATOWN!
(This was the unit I was in.)
(cue Donna Summer, "Lookin' for Some Hot Stuff")
SHE'S HOT AND STEAMY.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 5TH AND CHESTNUT, MISS OLD CITY, DOING HER SPECIAL TALENT, THE MUMMER STRUT!
(Miss Old City's unit limps out, then cue music, "Get Up Off Of That Thing." The whole unit, with Miss Old City front and center, begins the energetic and traditional Mummer strut.)
AND THE WINNER IS, MISS OLD CITY!
(Miss Old City is crowned.)
HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR!
And we're finished. Exit stage right, onto Broad Street.
The weather was absolutely glorious.
And, thanks to some special fans on Broad Street, I got this terrific image of Self and Spare.
The Two Street Stompers strutted. And strutted. And strutted. We were on Broad Street, basically Philadelphia's main drag, and the cross traffic was allowed to go at the green lights. It took us a long time to complete our entire circuit. Not that we minded. Did I mention that the weather was beautiful?
Between the weather and our general good humor, the miles seemed like ... well, today I must say they felt like miles, because my bones ache from stem to stern. At the time they felt more like furlongs.
At length we danced up to the banquet hall on Oregon Avenue, where a warm lunch awaited. (Beverages are distributed bountifully along the route.) As we chowed down, our captain came in, hushed us all, and told us ...
...Some members who passed away this year looked down upon us, and ...
We won.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
In Which I Admit My Total Failure as a Parent
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, a whole week and no post! Annie has been a lazy girl.
Let me tell you parents out there: You can raise your children in a loving household, showing them the difference between right and wrong, fucking up before their very eyes, and by golly, when they get to adulthood, they are going to do as you did, not as you said. In other words, they're going to muddle through, making all the same mistakes you did ... and you have to watch, just watch and hope that some of the sensible things you told them sank in.
Today I am dismayed to report that my daughter The Heir has risen in total rebellion of all I hold dear. I'm heartbroken. Heartbroken, I tell you!
Tomorrow is Philadelphia's annual Mummer's Parade, and as my six readers know, I'm a regular participant in this gala. I am in a Comic Brigade called the Two Street Stompers.
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And boy, oh boy I am proud to be a Two Street Stomper!
Many Mummer's units are comprised of extended families and friends who have been marching together for years. It's sometimes hard to find a club to join.
In 2011 when I decided to become a part of the Mummer's Parade, I read in the newspaper about a new group called the Vaudvillains. The name was intriguing, and Mr. J actually knew someone in the group. So that was my first call -- to the Vaudvillains, who are mostly artists and writers. Actually I sent a text to Mr. J's friend, he asked his club, and he got back to me. The Vaudvillains were not accepting new members.
I'm sure there was nothing personal about it, but I still felt totally and utterly rejected by the Vaudvillains. This doubled my determination to find a club that would have me.
That's when I started making phone calls. That's when I found the Stompers. My first conversation with their captain was warm and welcoming, his philosophy being basically "the more, the merrier." If I could come up with the reasonable fee for a costume and beer, I was in.
The first year I strutted with the Stompers, we finished first. It's a competition, you see. We are in contention with numerous other brigades ... one of them being the Vaudvillains.
During this calendar year, my daughter The Heir moved away from home. She now lives in West Philly, down the block from the Fresh Prince. She's an artist, and she runs with the artistic set.
Bet you can see where this is going.
At least she had the nerve to tell me.
She is going to be a marshal for ... the Vaudvillains.
Oh! Disloyal and rebellious offspring! In vain did she protest that the Vaudvillains practice in a big studio chock-a-block with discarded art supplies that she could cart away for her own use! So what if one of her house mates is in the group? Shouldn't she remain steadfast for her own dear mama? And oh yes, she is apologetic, full of excuses like the high cost of art supplies and a chance to network with her own kind. Snap! I'm crushed. Crushed, I tell you! Crushed!
Now see, this is where you need to have two children -- an heir and a spare. Hearing of her sister's perfidy, my daughter The Spare promptly went out and bought posters. Last night she and her best friend spent the better part of the evening creating signs to cheer on the Two Street Stompers. That's Mama's little girl! Never mind that she lives one block from the parade route. She knows where loyalties lie. I'm sure she'll hiss and jeer at the Vaudvillains if she still happens to be watching when they glide past in all their artistically-created, socially conscious, message-laden costuming.
(I'll add here that we Two Street Stompers have a message with our routine as well. It's that men look funny in women's swim suits.)
This is us. See these lavish costumes? I don't have to make mine ... trust me, I couldn't even choose the fabric. But every year I get a new one, and I get to keep it. Someone in my family is going to have a treasure trove of authentic Philadelphia Mummer apparel in the years to come. Guess we know which daughter that will be!
(For the record, I'm the second gold girl from the left, front row.)
Let me tell you parents out there: You can raise your children in a loving household, showing them the difference between right and wrong, fucking up before their very eyes, and by golly, when they get to adulthood, they are going to do as you did, not as you said. In other words, they're going to muddle through, making all the same mistakes you did ... and you have to watch, just watch and hope that some of the sensible things you told them sank in.
Today I am dismayed to report that my daughter The Heir has risen in total rebellion of all I hold dear. I'm heartbroken. Heartbroken, I tell you!
Tomorrow is Philadelphia's annual Mummer's Parade, and as my six readers know, I'm a regular participant in this gala. I am in a Comic Brigade called the Two Street Stompers.
And boy, oh boy I am proud to be a Two Street Stomper!
Many Mummer's units are comprised of extended families and friends who have been marching together for years. It's sometimes hard to find a club to join.
In 2011 when I decided to become a part of the Mummer's Parade, I read in the newspaper about a new group called the Vaudvillains. The name was intriguing, and Mr. J actually knew someone in the group. So that was my first call -- to the Vaudvillains, who are mostly artists and writers. Actually I sent a text to Mr. J's friend, he asked his club, and he got back to me. The Vaudvillains were not accepting new members.
I'm sure there was nothing personal about it, but I still felt totally and utterly rejected by the Vaudvillains. This doubled my determination to find a club that would have me.
That's when I started making phone calls. That's when I found the Stompers. My first conversation with their captain was warm and welcoming, his philosophy being basically "the more, the merrier." If I could come up with the reasonable fee for a costume and beer, I was in.
The first year I strutted with the Stompers, we finished first. It's a competition, you see. We are in contention with numerous other brigades ... one of them being the Vaudvillains.
During this calendar year, my daughter The Heir moved away from home. She now lives in West Philly, down the block from the Fresh Prince. She's an artist, and she runs with the artistic set.
Bet you can see where this is going.
At least she had the nerve to tell me.
She is going to be a marshal for ... the Vaudvillains.
Oh! Disloyal and rebellious offspring! In vain did she protest that the Vaudvillains practice in a big studio chock-a-block with discarded art supplies that she could cart away for her own use! So what if one of her house mates is in the group? Shouldn't she remain steadfast for her own dear mama? And oh yes, she is apologetic, full of excuses like the high cost of art supplies and a chance to network with her own kind. Snap! I'm crushed. Crushed, I tell you! Crushed!
Now see, this is where you need to have two children -- an heir and a spare. Hearing of her sister's perfidy, my daughter The Spare promptly went out and bought posters. Last night she and her best friend spent the better part of the evening creating signs to cheer on the Two Street Stompers. That's Mama's little girl! Never mind that she lives one block from the parade route. She knows where loyalties lie. I'm sure she'll hiss and jeer at the Vaudvillains if she still happens to be watching when they glide past in all their artistically-created, socially conscious, message-laden costuming.
(I'll add here that we Two Street Stompers have a message with our routine as well. It's that men look funny in women's swim suits.)
(For the record, I'm the second gold girl from the left, front row.)
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
All Is Calm
There's no use looking back at your life and thinking about what might have been. All you can do is move forward.
On this Christmas Eve, I am indeed looking back at all of the years I spent dragging my daughters to Children's Service, and then dragging them home, and then dragging them out again for a later service. And wedging in a big meal between the two services.
It was insane.
Tonight, here I sit, with The Spare next to me, and The Heir expected later, and the cats, and the bird, and Mr. J and Extra Chair, and it's time to chill.
Time to build a fire and let Spare make the dinner.
I am happily finished with the Christian faith. What remains is an appreciation of the vacation I get at the darkest time of the year ... time I can spend quietly, with my family.
I've lit some Frankincense for the bored gods. You know many, I'm sure, who claim this holy time as Their own. But of course there are 1,000 times as many -- that is no exaggeration -- who also claim this time as Their own. The smoke is for the Forgotten Ones. Before Jesus started doing it, these deities brought back The Light.
Someone ought to throw them a party.
On this Christmas Eve, I am indeed looking back at all of the years I spent dragging my daughters to Children's Service, and then dragging them home, and then dragging them out again for a later service. And wedging in a big meal between the two services.
It was insane.
Tonight, here I sit, with The Spare next to me, and The Heir expected later, and the cats, and the bird, and Mr. J and Extra Chair, and it's time to chill.
Time to build a fire and let Spare make the dinner.
I am happily finished with the Christian faith. What remains is an appreciation of the vacation I get at the darkest time of the year ... time I can spend quietly, with my family.
I've lit some Frankincense for the bored gods. You know many, I'm sure, who claim this holy time as Their own. But of course there are 1,000 times as many -- that is no exaggeration -- who also claim this time as Their own. The smoke is for the Forgotten Ones. Before Jesus started doing it, these deities brought back The Light.
Someone ought to throw them a party.
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