Gettin It Done without Amazon

 Howdy again, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where patience is a virtue and the small business rules! I'm Anne Johnson, and I'm not paying for frivolous space travel for billionaires. Period, end of sentence.

This post begins with my fear of Coronavirus as the school year loomed last fall. I was lucky enough to discover a book called Backwoods Witchcraft by Jake Richards. This excellent work has all kinds of spells and conjures and amulets in it, and from the author's expertise I learned that copper items help to guard from illness. So I bought a beautiful copper bracelet with mountains on it, which I received a few weeks before school began. 

I've been wearing the bracelet constantly, and it has protected me from Covid. I know because my supervisor at school caught the virus and got terribly ill. This was before the vaccine.

If you have ever owned anything made of copper, you know it's hard keeping that shiny, minty fresh exterior. It's also such a bendable metal that it can lose its shape. So here I am, 12 months in with this bracelet, and it needed to be adjusted.

I took it to my splendid friend of long standing, Muin, who works with metal in fantastic ways. It was the work, literally, of 20 seconds for him to knock the shape back into my bracelet. And then he gave me tips on how to polish it and keep it minty fresh. Turns out I need Wright's copper polish, which I can pick up at the local hardware store. I also need stuff called Renaissance Wax. (One can also use beeswax, but who can resist a product called "Renaissance Wax?") Muin applied some polish, and then some of this magical Ren Wax, and my bracelet looks better than it did when it arrived in the mail.

You might think that something so esoteric as Renaissance Wax would be hard to find outside the evil Amazon Empire. But no! I clicked into the first web site that wasn't Amazon and found a real he-man's paradise of a small business down in Texas.

If you had asked me four weeks ago, I would have said, "Pandemic be over" (famous words of a friend of The Fair). But it's not, and even if I'm vaccinated, I still see a chance of serious illness. So I am going to continue to wear my amulet bracelet. It's just going to look and fit better.

All the links in this post lead to the products described at web sites that are not Amazon. Full disclosure, I did buy Backwoods Witchcraft from Amazon, but I could have done my due diligence. Honestly I would like to drive to Tennessee and purchase Jake Richards's books right from his hands, but that's not possible.

"Renaissance Wax." What a great product to put through the "Anywhere but Amazon" test! Got it, gettin' it, thanks Texas!

Keep the author of "The Gods Are Bored" in your magic the next few weeks. Big events are on the horizon. I will tell all as things unfold.

A New "Gods Are Bored" Series: Anywhere But Amazon

 Did you see this?

"I want to thank every Amazon employee and every Amazon customer because you guys paid for all of this," Bezos said during a post-flight press conference. "Seriously, for every Amazon customer out there and every Amazon employee, thank you from the bottom of my heart very much. It's very appreciated."

Yeah, Jeff. Fuck you, and your dick spaceship! "I just want to thank all the little people who got me on this nice trip to outer space. Everyone who works long hours, breaking their backs in my warehouses (and pissing in bottles), and all of you customers who get your socket wrenches and yoga pants from me, rather than shopping locally or even searching a little bit online."

For the love of red-eyed fruit flies! Is this demon spawn for real?

Got to assume so, I guess. So, what can I, Anne Johnson, do to thwart this King Louis XVI wannabe (short, of course, of following the same fate that met ol' Louie)?

Announcing a new "Gods Are Bored" series, ANYWHERE BUT AMAZON!

In this occasional series, I will choose a random item that could easily be purchased on Amazon, and I will direct you to another outlet. And please, I would like some reader participation here! If you are thinking of buying something on Amazon, let me help you find an alternate vendor!

Today's item to not buy on Amazon: a shower curtain.

Simplest thing in the world, right? I mean, you can pick up a vinyl shower curtain in a lot of supermarkets. But suppose you can't? And suppose you want a stylish one?

Annie's advice? Target.com

Target ships as fast as Amazon, costs the same, and sometimes they give you a deal for free shipping if you spend a certain amount. The last time I ordered an item from Target.com, I obtained six pairs of cotton cuff socks for the same price I would have paid to ship the item I originally bought. I needed socks and basically got them for free.

Now, if you really want to go the ANYWHERE BUT AMAZON route, you could search up a shower curtain on Etsy. I just looked, out of curiosity, and there are 55,470 shower curtains on Etsy! If you can't find one from a small vendor on there, you are the most discriminating shopper of all time -- and in that case you sure aren't using Amazon.

Readers, I am at the point where I wouldn't buy from Amazon if it was the only place selling air. Bezos is not only a spoiled-ass billionaire, he is clearly so tone deaf he couldn't carry a tune across the room.

What are you tempted to buy on Amazon? Ask Annie ... she'll help you find it somewhere else!

Links are directly to shower curtains.

Interview with a Bored God: Tezcatlipoca

 Hello out there in the Google-space, it's time for another installment of "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm just back from a little week-long visit to the Chesapeake Bay. It was hot. There were crabs.

So I got home last night, steaming and exhausted, and I turned on CNN in time to see this bearded Branson billionaire being interviewed about his trip into space. He was so damn effervescent about seeing the Earth from that height. Until the CNN interviewer asked him if the experience gave him an increased sense of what he might do to save said Earth. Then he hemmed and hawed, because, like, should he care?

Next up, Jeff Bezos. Going into space in his craft week after next.

Enough of this, already! Let's get a Bored God to put a stop to it. Please give a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Tezcatlipoca, sacred Sky Deity to the Aztec people!

Anne: All glory, laud, and honor, great God! Must say, Your people had the right idea about how a deity should look.

Tezcatlipoca: You called, white woman. I answered. Get to the point.

Anne: Yes, Sir. Well, I just have a simple petition, and since You are a Sky God, I thought I might put it to you.

Tezcatlipoca: Don't tell Me what I am! I know what I am! What's your petition?

Anne: I was just wondering if You could kick these space travelers to the curb. I mean, they are getting right there in the sweet zone, basically Your living room. Can't You give them the boot with Your onyx foot?

Tezcatlipoca: You mean, like I should have done with those conquistadors?

Anne: Yes! You've got the gist!

Tezcatlipoca: And you think that would be the end of it. I mean, I could crush these assholes like bugs, but just turn over another rock, you're going to find more bugs.

Anne: One certainly understands Your cynicism. But with all due respect, the conquistadors never soiled your carpeting. These rich fucks building their own spaceships are leaving tracks of dirt everywhere they go. Now it's landing right on Your stoop. I don't know, that would bother me.

Tezcatlipoca: Are you talking about that "Aguirre the Wrath of God" wannabe that disturbed My nap the other day?

Anne: Yes! Exactly! Blonde guy, conquistador to the bone! He woke You up? Mmmm. I mean, I'm not You, but I wouldn't have that.

Tezcatlipoca: I just didn't see the point of flicking My wrist at that gnat.

Anne: Trouble is, there are more gnats on the way. They may start making a habit of it. 

Tezcatlipoca: That won't do. I just re-did my stoop.

Anne: There's another one planning to invade Your space in just eight days. And let me just tell you, this man has no respect for stoops. He flings stuff at stoops millions and millions of times a day! Thinks like a conquistador in every respect.

Tezcatlipoca: He'd better not fling something at My stoop!

Anne: He will, great God, and it's likely to be something useless like a shoe horn or a pair of yoga pants.

Tezcatlipoca: How many days until this man dares to invade My home? It will be his last dare.

Anne: Eight. And if I might add, now You're showing the right spirit.

Tezcatlipoca: Thank you for the alert. I will unleash the Serpents and Jaguars. He'll rue the day he soiled anyone's stoop!

Anne: All glory, laud, and honor.

Paganism for Profit

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," school-is-out edition! I'm your sweltering host, Anne Johnson. It's 98 degrees outside. Real feel temperature is 2,680.

For some years I beat heat waves like this by attending a Fourth of July event at an "Interfaith Church" (quotes are mine) out in the cool mountains. But that was then. I haven't gone to the event in four years. The reason is simple: The place may be a nonprofit, but the bottom line is still the most important line on the document. Some things just raise red flags, you know? The place is skeevy, and it doesn't take a psychic to pick up the vibe.

 Today's sermon is a cautionary tale about Paganism for Profit.

*Paganism for Profit Rule #1: If the leadership seems always to need money to fight lawsuits or to buy the next shiny thing, beware! Chances are the leader has his or her own agenda and will use your money to pursue it. This holds true for campgrounds and "Cons" and even local covens. Be especially suspicious of the leadership that humble brags about their own sacrifices to obtain the shiny thing. This is merely a ruse to get you to want the shiny thing enough to invest in it.

*Paganism for Profit Rule #2: If the leadership attracts "interns" and then works them like draft horses, beware! Interns are notoriously underpaid and overworked, but this should not be the case at a church.  This isn't the Middle Ages. People who enter into work arrangements as interns may be doing it to learn skills or simply out of religious zeal, and in both cases they are done wrong if they wind up sweeping barracks and mowing lawns from can-see-to-can't-see.

Paganism for Profit Rule #3: If volunteers are working so hard they can't enjoy the religious festivities, there's something amiss. Like the interns, the volunteers are being taken advantage of, either because there aren't enough of them or because they are so dedicated that they do way too much for way too little recognition from the leadership. If you go to a religious rite and some people there seem to be doing all the work, steer clear of that. (I have seen this at several different Pagan events.)

Paganism for Profit Rule #4: If your festival has absolutely no connection whatsoever to any established rite or ritual on any religious calendar, it's not a church event. It's a party. So don't promote it as something spiritual, even if it has speakers or meditations or whatnot. Likewise, if you go to an event expecting it to be spiritual, and it turns out to be a bunch of stoners setting off fireworks, don't go back! You won't find what you're looking for there.

Paganism for Profit Rule #5: If there's an "in crowd" and an "out crowd," partially or mostly based on how much money individuals donate, you do not need that foolishness. Isn't this partly why you left the Christian church? Don't be surprised that it happens in the Pagan community too. But don't buy into it. Literally.

Paganism for Profit Rule #6: If you feel like the whole thing is skeevy, if you're just getting uncomfortable vibes even though you're having a good time, proceed with caution. I have been at several events where excessive imbibing of alcohol was part of the rite. Whiskey isn't ayahuasca, okay? That person who is "channeling" by slurping spirits -- is she even 21? Ick.

So yes, I'm feeling a little sour grapey that I'm not sitting in a swimming hole with a whole evening of drumming ahead of me at a bucolic campground that nonetheless always skeeved me solid. But today I'm concentrating on the skeevy and not the sweet. I can't support a place that is baldly profit-driven and badly run. Nobody will miss me anyway. I was never an elite donor, or any kind of donor for that matter.

The moral of this sermon is simple: When you go to an event or a place that purports to be New Age spiritual, take a good look and listen before you commit. If it seems like there's one person in charge that everyone else defers to passionately, or if it seems like profit is a motive, move on. Build yourself a shrine in your back yard and drum on your porch. It's safer that way.

Mackenzie Scott Should Read the Bible, or Be Eaten. I Don't Care Which.

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we don't comfort the afflicted ... we afflict the comfortable. Today's comfortable person is Mackenzie Scott, formerly Mrs. Jeff Bezos.

In case you haven't heard, this chewy and nutritious plutocrat has been giving billions of dollars to the charities of her choice.

I found out about this by seeing a Facebook page called "YOU Are Now RBG." This article was posted, followed by dozens of ordinary women, applauding dear Mackenzie's generosity.

When I dared to suggest that someone who has $60 billion giving away $4 billion is laughable, insulting, and grounds to be chopped up for soup, I got scolded. I was (in no specific order):

*anti-feminist

*hard-hearted

* cynical

* a danger to woke society

Several clearly intelligent women seemed to have a complete inability to grasp the fact that giving four dollars away when you have 60 dollars is nice, but giving $4 billion away when you have $60 billion is LAUGHABLE.

"But she has plans to give away half her fortune!" one Karen exclaimed.

Half of 60 dollars is a lot. Half of $60 billion is NOTHING.

This person could give away 99.9 percent of her wealth and still live large. She would still have millions!

Next question: How much did she pay last year in taxes to the government of her native land? The answer is not available, but my guess is, not much. Certainly nowhere near the percentage we common middle class scum pay. And why give money to the U.S. government when you can fund theater projects and colleges? Well, let's start with public fucking schools. And go from there. Did you know that America's senior citizens have to pay the entire cost of hearing aids? And there sits Mackenzie, on a fortune that would buy hearing aids for every damn senior citizen in America.

Final question: How did Mackenzie Scott acquire $60 billion (with a b) dollars? Well, for those of you who do your shopping in stores, there's a company called Amazon that has practically monopolized the purchase and delivery of every item you could ever want. Amazon has done that by creating inhumane conditions for their workforce and by strenuously blocking efforts at unionization of said workforce. It's basically the 21st century's answer to coal mines and shirtwaist factories.

So, to the dear feminists at "YOU are now RBG," I've got to say: This is not about a woman. It's about an owner who exploits workers. Who does Mackenzie Scott think she is? To me she seems like some emperor of old, flinging ducats into the crowds of starving subjects on Festival Day.

EXHIBIT A: FEED HER TO GRITTY

Speaking of Festival Day, this is Juneteenth! Now a federal holiday! I had 12 years of public schooling, then four years of college, then a lifetime of reading and watching the news, and I never heard of Juneteenth until last year. So please allow me to catch up and learn how to celebrate this holiday before I begin to comment on it.

This sermon will end with that rarest of recommendations from "The Gods Are Bored." Mackenzie Scott should read Jesus Christ's advice to the rich man, and then follow it. Same goes for anyone who has more money than they could spend in 100 lifetimes.

Heartbroken Hillbilly ISO a Little Piece of Land

 I have never gotten over the sale of my grandfather's property on Polish Mountain. I couldn't afford to buy my cousins out. And the house would have needed upkeep. I'm no starry-eyed romantic when it comes to unattended homes in the middle of nowhere.

Still I have grieved. That's the Land of My People -- seven, eight generations -- and I've felt adrift since the property passed out of my life.

I've been looking at the real estate listings in that neck of the woods, and the prices are astonishing. I had pretty much given up ever buying even a little shard of ground in the zip code where I grew up. (It's about 100 miles from DC and Baltimore, which explains everything.)

But now I spy a glimmer of hope. It is just a glimmer.

There's a slip of land for sale by owner. Sitting right smack dab in Land of My People Central. A really small lot covered with rock and hardwood saplings, bordered by a wildlife refuge.

If I am able to acquire this land, I don't plan to build on it. I'll just take a folding chair and go sit in the woods there. It'll be the largest ancestor shrine in the region, but no one will know because I don't intend to disturb one single rock. I'm not going to hang one shiny bauble from a tree limb. I'm not going to pester the bears or the rattlesnakes. It's woods now, it'll stay woods. But it will be my woods.

Well, y'all know that buying and selling even the simplest piece of ground is a mammoth undertaking. So I'm not putting a lot of emotional investment in this. I'll go up and see it this summer, if it's still available, and then I'll decide.

Did you know that one cannot build a good ol' outhouse in PA anymore? What is the world coming to?

I'm not a huge or even medium Woody Allen fan, but this clip is short and apropos of the situation.

Say a little prayer for me to the deity of your choice. It would be wonderful to be a card-carrying hillbilly again.

Red-Eyed Menaces

 My dear ol' dad taught me to respect and appreciate insects. I'm pretty tolerant of most bugs, with the usual exceptions for cockroaches and biting flies. It's never been part of my playbook to be disconcerted by harmless insects, no matter how large they are.

That tolerance was tested to the max over the weekend when I went to Maryland for my nephew's high school graduation.

The state of Maryland is experiencing a brood year for 17-year cicadas. I took some photos that are better than others online, but my technology isn't working for me tonight. I will have to paint a picture with words.

These HUGE, LOOMING MENACES have beady red eyes, transparent wings, and the vocal prowess of 100,000 HEAVY METAL BANDS. They consider all parts of the human body to be swell perches. They collide with windshields with resounding splats. And YOU CANNOT HEAR ABOVE THEIR DIN.

The worst of it was on the Baltimore Beltway, a place where one doesn't want to be distracted by SWARMS OF SIZABLE BUGS. It felt like they were raining from the sky. Glancing at the trees beside the highway revealed packs and packs of them. And then ... SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT. Windshield wipe-out.

At first I thought the Red-Eyed Menaces weren't as numerous in Western Maryland. But then my sister and I took a kayak paddle down a local waterway, and WE HAD TO SHOUT TO BE HEARD OVER THE CICADAS. They were flailing in the stream, zooming through the air, and using the kayaks (and our shoulders, and our heads) as helpful landing zones.

Oh, I wish my photos would load! Then I could subject you to the trauma!

17-year cicadas are about the length and size of a thumb. That's a little bit more insect than I want to find on my kneecap, glaring at me from beady red eyes.

Well, reader. I did survive. I'm back in New Jersey, which is remarkably free of the scourge. I don't know how I have gotten to the ripe age I am without ever having been confronted with a 17-year cicada brood, but it happened. Now my education on the subject of Red-Eyed Menaces is complete, and I'll know to take a pass on Maryland in 2038.

I Must Admit, It Stings

Here I was, all full of vigor and great ideas. Time to move on, time to join the deluge of podcasts just the way I leapt into blogging in 2005!  Time to stay edgy and relevant and young.

What's a girl to do? I hatched the idea to interview bored deities for a podcast! Sounds great, right?

I put out a call to all the bored Gods and Goddesses who so graciously enjoyed my hospitality over the past decade and a half, here at "The Gods Are Bored." I figured they would be all keen to do the latest, greatest social experiment.

Monday afternoon as I was tearing into my Memorial Day hamburger, a ... what shall I call it? ... delegation of Goddesses knocked politely at the front door. They wouldn't come inside, preferring to sit on the porch. At first I found this a hopeful sign, as it was an exceedingly temperate day.

Hel did the talking, which was surprising as I had never interviewed Her before. But the others sat primly nodding their heads in agreement.

Long story short, there will be no interviews with deities from Anne. I am relegated to that special realm of disdain reserved for women over 60 and under 102.

Hel did not mince words: Obsolete. Washed up. No longer relevant. Like, when was the last time you wielded a sword? Can you even lift one?

This is the kind of harsh shit you would expect from a Goddess like Hel, but the oh-so-polite pursing of lips and gentle nods of Her companions hurt more. I'm not gonna name names here. But it was a thorough inventory of Goddesses who have dipped my scones in their tea for years.

Well, then, what about the bored Gods -- as in, the male deities? Hel flicked her wrist and had me understand that the only deity who agreed to sit for a podcast interview was Zeus. And He only wants to "explain the whole swan thing."

Needless to say, this visitation from the Exulted Ones was brief. I watched Them go, the ingrates, and was sorely tempted to tell them this is how Yahweh got His stranglehold on the praise and worship racket.

Nobody in Johnsonia noticed that I was blue and distracted the rest of the day. If you're over 60, you know the feeling.

Now please excuse me while I go wallow in atheist snark on social media.

And fuck podcasts. They're boring.

An Open Letter to the White Boomer Singers at the Farmer's Market

 Dear White Boomer Singers at the Haterfield Farmer's Market:

What in the name of red-eyed fruit flies are you thinking, daring to cover "What's Goin On?" For the love of all that's holy! Just because you're Boomers with guitars (acoustic), that sure doesn't make you worthy to sing Marvin Gaye! Sweet Jesus in the manger. Here I am, on my first maskless outing since March 13, 2020, and I have to hear some gray-bearded white guy mangle "What's Goin On?" What a buzz kill.

Music is an infrequent topic here at "The Gods Are Bored." I'm not a rock snob. But I do know a bit about music, having written for an American Music reference book for five years. Point of fact, one of the entries I did was on Marvin Gaye.

You can search far and wide through the canon of mid-century American music and not find a more soulful song than "What's Goin On." Or its sister "Mercy Mercy Me." Marvin Gaye went way out on a limb putting together that album. The people at Motown were against it, but he persisted. And thank all the bored Gods he did, because his velvety voice questioning war and brutality and pleading for brotherhood was unparalleled. That is some deeply moving music, there.

I remember when that song first came on the radio. It turned my head. I was always a Motown fan, but this was different. And what made it different in a groundbreaking way was the actual presentation of the song. Marvin owned that music. His voice was like a warm pool he had built himself, and he was swimming around in it.

Maybe he should have taken those songs to the grave with him.

The effrontery of two saggy white people covering that at a farmer's market in a damn near segregated suburb! You cannot sing that well, chumps. Even if you could sing, you couldn't sing that. You can't sing "What's Goin On." Stop. Stop. Stop.

One Saturday morning before the pandemic, I found myself at the Berlin Flea Market, which is quite a different vibe from Haterfield. That market had hired a similarly craggy Boomer dude to provide some music. He sat down on a stool and gave up some high quality Bob Seeger. It was sublime. Then he did a little Gordon Lightfoot, a little Chicago. The man was on safe turf. He was where he should be. No Motown! Dude had some respect.

White people singing at farmer's markets should stick to any damn country song about losing your girl, your dog, your pickup, and your gun. No white person has any business covering Marvin Gaye. Don't do it again, unless and until you wake up some morning and you actually are Marvin Gaye.

Brother brother brother.

About the Podcast/Moron Sighting

 You can blame my school district.

They blocked Blogger.

I can see my blog but can't write new posts.

I guess I should write them in Google and then copy and paste them here, but there's something comforting about composing on this platform. Blogger and I go way back. Blogger is basically my blankie.

It occurred to me that I could do a podcast and put it up here.

Nowadays there are now thousands of podcasts out there. It's ridiculous, really. And when things get ridiculous, it's time to spoof them! You didn't expect "The Gods Are Bored" to go straight, did you? BAMP. No! If you're gonna spend time with me, I want you to have fun!

My first podcast was serious. If I do a serious one, I'll give you a head's up that it's serious or informational. If it's a spoof, I'll tell you that, too.

I'll also tell you how long the recording is. It won't ever exceed 10 minutes, because the platform I use maxes out at 10 minutes.

I'm not gonna switch completely to podcasting. That would make me snobby.

In today's news, Maximum Moron on the loose! Story below.

I joined a New Jersey hiking group on Facebook. Last night I saw a post, and I only wish I could find it to include the compelling photo here. Alas, it might have been axed from the feed. The post featured one of those morons that you stroke your chin and wonder: How the hell did this person live to adulthood?

The picture was of a young bro in his early 20s, out in the woods, holding up a snake. The bro was grinning ear to ear.

The photo caption: "I'm from Idaho, so I don't know much about the wildlife in New Jersey. What kind of snake is this?"

For the love of fruit flies!

The comments had been disabled, needless to say. But not before people informed the young idiot that he was holding a Nope Rope, a Danger Noodle, a Savage String. And someone else said, "We don't go pulling your damn potatoes out of the ground, do we?"

It's been quite a while since I saw a classic moron. Trump had the moron market cornered for so long, it's actually refreshing to see one outside of politics.

The Gods Are Bored Premiere Podcast!

 Blogging is so 2008, you know? So here's the first episode of The Gods Are Bored Podcast!

Let me know what you think! It's 4 and a half minutes.

The Gods Are Bored Epic Podcast #1

Internet Influencer

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," an old-school communication on an old-school platform! I'm your has-been host, Anne Johnson.

This technology we live with just morphs overnight, doesn't it? One day Blogger is the new, hip thing. The next day it's in the rearview mirror.

I say this because I have a colleague who started writing poetry two years ago and then decided to publish a book. I'm afraid I didn't encourage her much, because after all, Mr. J wrote two books, both with major publishing houses, and neither one earned back its advance.

But some people don't need encouragement.  (You probably know the type.) My friend got herself fired up on Instagram with her poems all done up spiffy in their own page, and then she went on Tik Tok, and before you know it she's making a profit on her self-published books. She just released her third.

Okay, okay, I'm a bit jealous. But jealousy is perfectly fine! Lots of deities are known for it, and if it's good enough for a deity *cough Yahweh* it's good enough for me.

I hate being outdone this way! I've been writing "The Gods Are Bored" for 16 years, and I can't even get it considered by a damn museum! Life is so unfair!

Then I got to thinking ... how hard could it actually be to become an Internet influencer?

I started looking into this dodge, and I learned quickly that Internet Influencers are by and large:

*good-looking

*relentless

*undaunted

This was discouraging. I needed look no farther than the first criterion to know I don't have a shot at this whole Influencer thing.

But waaah waaaah waaah! I want it!

So I looked about me, and my eyes fell on Gamma, who though past his prime, is a handsome feline.

EXHIBIT A: GAMMA

Now there's some serious sex appeal! This cat can influence a can of meaty food out of me every morning, so he has potential.

The next step was to position Gamma. I found a Facebook page called "Disapproving Cats," and I began posting photos of him, asking for people to post their cats to show me.

It's that easy. Gamma (re-named Big Red because that page already has an influential cat named Big Frank) has gotten 450 likes on his third photo and is up to 125 on a picture I posted yesterday!

I figure it's only three or four weeks before I'll be able to self-publish The Gods Are Bored Greatest Hits and sell 6,000 copies.

First Day of School, April 22, 2021

 What a wacky week! September behavior in April! And I'm not talking about the weather.

This past week marks the first time I have had students physically in my classroom for over a year. I have been trying to teach them over the Internet since last fall, and it's been a challenge.

But I guess I won them over, because they seemed so happy to see me in the flesh! Was I an influencer somehow? And wowsa, did I entertain them when they sat down in their desks! I did Mummers strut. I did happy dances. I squealed. I wiped fake tears. When the wind caused the cheap windows to vibrate, I told them it was a nest of murder hornets, sit very still. Oh I was in rare form!

Only about half of my students have returned, and the rest are still online. So I am teaching in a mask, online and in person simultaneously. It's like having a litter of kittens to foster. Soon as you pay attention to one, another one wanders off to walk in fresh paint.

Perfect time for poetry, don't you think? I compiled 40 poems, mostly by writers of color, to do a poetry unit. I call it "Poetry Playoffs" and use brackets like the NCAA to find the class favorite poem.

When freshmen arrive at high school, we teachers get what we call a "honeymoon." They are timid and well-behaved and eager to please. This phase usually lasts about six weeks.

Well, there are only six weeks left in the school year, and the past two days I got small classes of honeymooning freshmen, sitting quiet and attentive (and laughing at me).

It's wonderful to finally have students back in class. Wonderful. The only reason anyone would do this grueling job is the chance to be around young people. And what terrific students I have! Great kids. Their lives matter.

P.S. - I've been doing an SAT prep class online since September, and I gave those students an "out" by asking them if they think they're good to go. Darn if those lil pups didn't say they want to keep doing SAT prep because they like getting together with me. Four kids, opting to do SAT prep! Give me a damn Oscar.

P.P.S. - I saw a bald eagle fly over the school three times this week. This afternoon it lingered long enough for me to be absolutely positive what I was looking at. I don't see it as an omen, just an incredibly uplifting sight.

Short Takes

Hi there, Gods Are Bored fans! Did you miss me? I missed y'all, but I don't want to bore you with more missives about quarantine. I've kind of waited for some little bits to accumulate before tucking them all into a post. So here goes:

1. No visits from bored deities for awhile. However, I just brewed an ugly-looking concoction using magnolia petals, and it might bring a few Ancient Ones out of the woodwork if I have the nerve to try it. Stay tuned.

2. Long-timers here will remember how I anonymously supply plastic dinosaurs to an otherwise boring dinosaur-related site in Haterfield. Well, I haven't done it for a whole year. I figured no one should be touching shared toy dinosaurs. Last week I went to the site for the first time since February 2020. This is what I found.

EXHIBIT A, BELIEVE IN MAGIC

Not one of those dinosaurs came from me! Not one! In fact, I didn't even leave any new ones.

3. My amaryllis, Plantzilla, bloomed magnificently, producing 8 flowers. Take that, Philadelphia Flower Show!

4. Monday I go back to work on site at the Vo-Tech. Some students will be returning to my classroom on April 22. If the case counts aren't lower in New Jersey by that time, it won't be pretty. Oh, and the state of New Jersey has decreed that schools will not be allowed to use room fans for the rest of the year. This decision was made without any state official visiting my classroom to discern that it becomes an Easy-Bake Oven from May 15 on.

5. I got my second shot, and wowsa. Had a tough 24 hours. But now I'm done with that.

6. Gamma the cat trended briefly on Facebook when I posted a photo of him to a page called Disapproving Cats.

7. There are now 7 children and 4 adults living across the street from me. The oldest child is 10 at most. Parents seem to think it's no longer important to teach kids to look both ways when they try to cross the street. Stay tuned.

Yours in the Haterfield trenches,

Anne

Pandemic Anniversary

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," looking back on a year of living minimally! I'm the inmate, Anne Johnson, number 031159. Today, on this anniversary of the first lockdowns, I will look back briefly on what my year has been like.

New Jersey locked up on March 15, I think. At least I know that Friday, March 13, 2020 was my last day with students in my classroom.

The quarantine was supposed to stop the spread of Covid-19, so we all thought it would last two weeks, at which time we would all reconvene at school. I gave my students paper assignments. Imagine that!

But between March 13 and March 30, all Hell broke loose in this country, and the Hellhounds have not even been collared even now.

I live with an obese senior citizen with breathing problems. This was terrifying from the get-go. Mr. J had already been hospitalized with pneumonia in the final days of December, 2019. In hindsight this was probably good, because he took the virus very seriously and was happy to comply with the quarantines and mask mandates.

In those first weeks I only ventured from home every 14 days to buy food. I spent $500 at the grocery store more than once, and used two carts more than once. And nothing went to waste. We were preparing and eating three meals a day, seven days a week. And lots of home-baked cookies (when I could get ingredients), because what else was there to do but bake cookies?

So in the spring I sat in online classrooms, fruitlessly waiting for students to turn in assignments. I cooked. I stayed home, home, home. I did not see my daughters, except to briefly drop off lilacs to The Fair on her birthday.

In May The Fair came with her cat and stayed with us 8 weeks. Tensions had gone through the roof in her rental. It was great having her around, and healthier for her to be out of the city. She worked from our house. Her cat is adorable.

In July The Heir came for a long weekend and wound up staying 10 days. During both daughter visits we observed social distancing and masks until a week passed without any symptoms. During the time The Heir spent with us, she purchased the most wonderful car, her first. It's a low mileage 1994 Ford Escort station wagon, refreshingly free of the bewildering computerization found in today's machines.

At the end of August I had the Monkey Man over for a porch supper. He was the last visitor of 2020.

When fall came I returned to school but taught my students online. I have not gazed upon my students' faces even now. Going back to the building meant that I could no longer see my daughters. The fall was long and dreary, and I increasingly felt unsafe at school. When I saw a security guard who I knew to be a Trump supporter wearing his mask wrong right outside my classroom, I got a doctor's note and stayed home.

Thanksgiving, it was just Mr. J and me. The family Christmas celebration consisted of the four of us gathering on The Heir's front porch for a short chat and gift exchange. No Mummer's Parade on New Year's Day.

When the cases started spiking after the holidays, Mr. J and I went into strict lockdown again. More big hauls of groceries, more days spent completely indoors. Working at home, staying home, watching the Capitol attack on t.v. and the briefings from Governor Murphy on Facebook.

It is now March, and we have been in our bubble since December. Shortly I will be returning to the classroom with live students again, but many kids are being kept home by wary parents. I don't blame the parents. My students don't even qualify for the vaccine. They are too young.

Mr. J and I got our first shots on February 24.

2020 was a year where I felt that I wasn't me anymore. My exuberance has faded. I look older. I feel like the social parts of my brain have atrophied. Literally, I feel more stupid than I did when this started. I've gained 10 pounds from cookies and being lazy. No festivals, no parades, no drum circles, no Pagan gatherings, no flowers on my grandmother's grave, no travel. Anywhere.

I have become so concerned about my atrophying brain that I did two things to boost it: I took two courses offered by John Beckett that were very helpful. And then, in desperation, I turned to the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, where egos go to die.

If you do something enough, you get good at it.

I hadn't done a cross stitch project in 30 years. I did a whole jacket and a fine display on another. I finished a huge baby quilt.

If you were to ask me what my finest accomplishment was in the whole year of 2020, I might say two things:

*getting a license and registration for The Heir's car -- in New Jersey, in a pandemic, with the notorious DMV.

*This ...

I did this without a chart, only using a photo. I was able to track the artist down and compensate her, which was awesome.

President Biden (long may he reign) says we should all be able to get together with close family and friends by the Fourth of July. So Mr. J and I just plunked down our stimulus on a rental along the Chesapeake Bay for that whole week. Crabs will be consumed. Mosquitoes will be swatted.

Here's to 2021! I can hope for a parade.

In Which I Defend Motherhood as a Profession

 I'm old. I can remember a time and place where the vast majority of women stayed home to care for their families. The women who worked were few and far between, and those who did were either school teachers or secretaries. And a lot of the female school teachers were single.

Television -- all three black-and-white channels -- showed happy homemakers like Donna Reed, dressed to the nines making fragrant meat loaf.

Then came the Women's Movement, which basically said, "Enough with the barefoot and pregnant slavery! We want education, good jobs, and fulfilling careers!"

The oligarchy perked its ears.

So women went into the work force in numbers. They dropped their kids at the child care they could afford by working long hours for less wages than their children's fathers.

Motherhood was looked down on as a form of submission. Which of course it was, considering that stay-at-home women worked long hours for no wages at all.

Just recently, Senator Romney introduced the idea of paying women $350 per month per child (up to a point) to help allay the costs of rearing a human being in our modern society. And the hue and cry against it, once again led by the New York Times, is making me so furious I could dine on penny nails and window panes.

I don't only blame the assholes who are saying that giving women money to stay at home and raise children will encourage them to be lazy. I also hold that early Women's Movement to blame for making motherhood seem like an extraneous duty, instead of the crucial one it is.

Let's address this nonsense.

1. No one who has small children to care for is lazy. Even in these days of video games and 2,000 t.v. channels. Kids need to eat, they need supervision, they need baths, they need stimulation. These are the formative years of a human being's life! And yet moms are paid zero, and day care center workers are paid like they're slinging burgers at Wendy's. Paying people to stay home and perform child care might not result in better-nurtured kids 100 percent of the time. But it would improve American humans exponentially.

2. Motherhood is a sacred profession. Many cultures recognize this. There is no more important job than bonding with and nurturing children. Do we have a Goddess of Cubicle? BAMP! No. But all the enlightened religions have Mother Goddesses. Even Christianity venerates Mary. So why is staying home to raise children looked upon as a life lacking meaning? Because the feminists of the 1960s and 1970s declared it to be that way.

I fully support paying women directly to stay at home with their children. If I was in charge, I would give them a universal basic income of $1500 a month and call it money well spent.

"Well, Anne," the oligarch says, "there are child tax credits."

NOT ENOUGH. (And by the way, oligarch? I'm going to eat you as soon as I finish this column.)

There's a difference between a tax credit and a payment. One is buried in paperwork, the other comes to the door and is tangible.

Women should be paid to do parenting. Or men. I imagine a lot of men would love to stay home with their kids. Parenting should be considered a profession, and a noble one at that.

Notice I'm not saying that parenting should be an obligation. If you want a meaningful career outside the home and still want children, you go girl! That $350 a month will help you pay for excellent child care. If you want a meaningful career and no children, you go girl! One needn't measure meaning entirely through raising kids.

So let's put some weight behind this whole "pay the mom" movement. We would be investing in the very future of the nation. The way things are going now, women work long hours for poverty wages (thanks, oligarchs! Pass the salt.), and then they come home to neglected children. Talk about slavery! Might as well be the damn plantation.

Pay moms to be moms! 

Expendable

 In end stage capitalism, the only lives that are important are the owners. The workers matter not. Someone keel over? Replace the slave and move on.

This is driven home by the push to re-open schools fully, before the real end of the pandemic is in sight. Teachers are expendable. Students are expendable. And with no differentiation between a cluster of kindergartners and big, crowded classes of 15-year-olds, there is bound to be a spike in the virus. A big one.

I read the New York Times every day, and for hours on Sunday. I know the works of all the prominent columnists. It was expected to see David Brooks slam teachers for not wanting to be in school. Not surprising. But when Nicholas Kristof offered his slam a week later, well. I thought he cared about low-paid working people.

Teaching is a profession that has a high percentage of women serving in the basic role of classroom instructor. Most men who enter the profession (including the new Secretary of Education) spend, at most, four years in a classroom while completing their principal certification. The men move up. Most of the long-time classroom teachers are women.

And that means that teachers are expected to martyr themselves for their students.

Don't believe me? Who "saves the day" by getting killed during school shootings? Some poor heroic teacher with a family at home.

Now teachers are being sent back into classrooms prematurely, when the end of the pandemic could otherwise be in sight. I teach high school. This will matter greatly to my students. They are 14 through 16. They and their families will be at risk.

To be fair to my district, they are offering parents the option to keep their kids at home. Those students will go to class virtually, as they have been doing since September. The difference is, teachers will now be instructing in-person classes and online classes simultaneously, while wearing a mask.

The teachers who are already doing this report that it is a massive, overwhelming fail.

My classroom has no air conditioning. In the last 4-5 weeks of school, the temperature can climb to 90 degrees and stay that way. It's global warming in miniature, like a car.

So picture me, Anne Johnson, a teacher of a certain age, working in a stifling hot classroom, in a mask for four hours without a bathroom break. Because that's what I'm looking at, comrades. I have a colleague who will have five hours straight. She's older than I am.

If David Brooks and Nicholas Kristof happened to ring my doorbell right now, I would quickly plug in the cattle prod and give them a good what's for. I never had much respect for Brooks, who is sanctimonious on a good day. But Kristof was one of my favorites. No more. The only way he could redeem himself at this point is to swap jobs with me for the next three months. Then we would see who knows what.

A Year Ago

 Welcome aboard, "Gods Are Bored" mateys! All hands on deck! It's another installment in this vast online diary of mine.

March 1, 2020 was on a Saturday. The sky was completely clear -- that color of blue that you get only in the fall and winter. Temperatures hovered in a comfortable 50s, as I recall.

I remember this clearly for two reasons: One, because it's always memorable when I march with the Two Street Stompers, and two because it was the last social event I would attend in 2020. I just didn't know it at the time.

We were all joking that day about how early the Gloucester City St. Patrick's Day was. Sixteen days before the actual holiday? But we figured it was because they invite so many string bands to perform in that parade. The demand for string bands definitely grows the closer you get to any holiday.

Boy, did I have fun that day! The Gloucester City parade is a good one. The street is pretty narrow, and chock-a-block with revelers on either side. The dancing is universal. And the route is just the right length. Not too long, so we run out of gas, but not so short that we say, "Wait. What? It's over already?"

When we were done parading, there was a big party in a crowded pub, everyone quaffing the spirits, and a double dose of bagpiping in the parking lot. A great time was had by all.

I suppose COVID 19 was on the map by then, but I hadn't started to register much alarm. A week later, that had changed, and I was stacking my house to the plimsol line with every conceivable foodstuff, both perishable and nonperishable. Quarantine did not find me unprepared.

Since then I have been home. Home, home, home.

Here's an interesting fact about this pandemic, here at Johnson Penitentiary.

In an ordinary calendar year, I generally cook two turkeys. One at Thanksgiving, of course, and a frozen one in dead winter -- usually on a snow day.

A whole year has rolled along, and in that year I have cooked four turkeys. Yes, four. And those of you who do it know that's a task.

I cooked the first turkey in April of 2020, because when I took my bi-weekly trip to the grocery store there wasn't any other poultry product except frozen turkeys.

I cooked the second one on Thanksgiving. It was only me and Mr. J.

I cooked the third one for Christmas. It was only me and Mr. J. The turkey in question was one that Mr. J picked up at deep discount right after Thanksgiving.

I cooked the fourth one last week. It was a frozen one I got with a coupon prior to Thanksgiving.

That's four turkey dinners, 12 turkey casseroles, 8 large pots of soup, and a dozen sandwiches. All consumed by just me and Mr. J.

In an ordinary year I would have had four parades instead of four turkeys. I vote for a return to that.

My Awesome, Smithsonian-Worthy Pandemic Experience Getting My First Vaccine

Welcome to the blog that was summarily dismissed by the Smithsonian Institute for who knows why? I'm Anne Johnson (really), and today I'm going to walk through my experience getting my first COVID-19 vaccine! I know this process varies from state to state, so your experience might be different. Up to a point. And then your experience will be exactly the same as mine. We'll get to that.

Step One: I signed up online with the state of New Jersey's official COVID website. I put in all the info, like being a teacher, and a lady of a certain age and weight. I got told I was 1C. Then I heard nothing else.

Step Two: My younger, more computer-savvy colleagues found a county registry. It was through Cooper Hospital system, which I don't use. But I registered anyway, and they gave me a date of March 27. I think they were fast-tracking people already in the Cooper system, because all of my younger, more computer-savvy colleagues got earlier appointments.

Caveat: Your experiences of signing up will vary. I had lots of help.

Step Three: On a Saturday afternoon a month ago, a younger colleague sent another link in a text message. This was through the hospital system I do use. And the vaccine site was closer too! I went through the online registration and got a date of February 24 ... more than a month sooner than the first site where I registered.

Step Four: I fretted and fretted that something had gone wrong with the online registry, because I grew up in the 20th century, and we used telephones and paper.

Step Four: On Vaccination Day, Mr. J and I drove to the vaccination site at Moorestown Mall. (I signed him up the same time as myself. Wasn't that smart?) The gig was set up in the empty Lord & Taylor department store. Enter one door, exit another. We parked and went to the entrance.

Step Five: A member of the National Guard met us at the door, made sure we had an appointment, took our temperatures, squeezed a little hand sanitizer in our palms, and directed us to a clearly-marked line.

Step Six: There were about 25 people ahead of us in line, but the line moved quickly. We were in it about ten minutes. Then we came to another member of the National Guard, who asked us if we were able to come back on March 17. When we said yes, he directed us to the numerous and well-run registration kiosks, all of them manned by the National Guard.

Step Seven: We both signed in with an extremely mannerly and cute National Guardsman (cute even through the mask!). Can you believe it? The magical Internet had indeed saved my applications! A few questions, driver's license, insurance card (optional), sign here and here. We were then directed to clearly-marked vaccination bays, where right next to each other, we

Step Eight: answered questions about how we were feeling, whether or not we had COVID, if we were allergic to ingredients in shots, and had we had any shots in the last two weeks? (I'm pretty sure they weren't talking about whiskey.) This was the only place manned by health care workers not in fatigues. My vaccinator's name was Kelly, and she loved my fairy sweater.

Step Nine: Here is the part that you and I will have in common... I got a shot! Little dab of alcohol, little pierce, band-aid, informed that it was the Pfizer item, told to follow the clearly-marked yellow pavers to the waiting area.

Step Ten: We were directed by another courtly National Guardsman to seats that were six feet apart. We were given a sticky note with 4:35 on it -- the time we could leave. We sat there until that time, and then we were dismissed. We were asked if we wanted to make our next appointment online. OH no. So we were directed through another clearly-marked area where a nice National Guardsman made our next appointment, which is on St. Patrick's Day.

Step Eleven: Out the door, with actual paper cards to bring with us to our next appointment!

The entire process, from going in the door to leaving, took about 45 minutes.

Readers, I am used to the Department of Motor Vehicles and the Camden County justice system, where I go way too often for jury duty. Both of these entities are maddening in their inefficiency. People line up at NJDMV at 5:00 in the morning. I kid you not -- I did it with Heir last summer.

This National Guard dodge was completely different. I never saw anything move more smoothly. I felt like my taxpayer dollars were being well-spent. Additionally, there were lovely motivational posters hanging everywhere, but the signs said not to take any photos.

EXHIBIT A: FACSIMILE OF POSTER AT COVID-19 VACCINATION SITE

Mr. J and I emerged into a seasonably warm late winter afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. 

That was yesterday. Today I feel fine. My arm isn't even as sore as it gets with the seasonal flu shot. I don't have much appetite. That's the only change I see.

It does appear that my school district will be hauling the teenagers back to school very soon. I feel like I'm ready, though. I've done my part.

I have no idea how to cancel my March 27 appointment. 

More Free Advice: Have One? Get One!

 Welcome to the latest installment in "The Gods Are Bored!" Today, more helpful advice from someone who has been around the block so often that there's a groove in the sidewalk.

When I was a kid, I recall that my parents got a new kitchen appliance that they absolutely adored. It was an electric can opener.

The thing was a marvel. The can stuck to a magnet, and when you pushed down on a lever, it rotated and got cut open. There was a whirring sound that the cats learned quite quickly.

This was back in the 1960s, when even small appliances were built to last. If we got the can opener when I was five, we still had it and used it when I left for college.

I don't recall anyone ever cleaning it. My mother's kitchen was a multi-hazard zone.

My second year of college I moved into an apartment, and I got one of these lil babies, probably at Goodwill.

Reader, this gadget is a marvel. It clamps down on a can, and you turn the crank (seen in rear of unit in photo), and the can opens. There is no sound, and you can immerse it in water and wash it after every use.

I won't say these puppies don't wear out. I think I'm on my second one in 40 years.

Caveat: For some reason this will not open Hunts brand cans. The problem is the can, not the opener.

I love my hand-crank can opener! I've never been the slightest bit tempted to purchase an electric one. And until a helpful reader pointed out that one of these is good to have in an electrical outage -- well, I've used it so long that I didn't even think about that!

Short sermon, free advice: If you don't have a hand-crank can opener, pick one up at any store. You'll have more space on your countertop, and in the event of a blackout you'll be able to get those baked beans open in a jiffy.

You know what I love about this blog? One day we'll talk to a Great Goddess, and the next we'll evaluate minor kitchen tools. Anything and everything, that's me.