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Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated silly Paganism since 2005! Some people only think they hear the Horned One whispering in their ears. I'm taking it to a whole new level, people. Here I am, taking His advice on how best to proceed in this and every other dimension!

Today's sermon: Is it bad to be bad?

The trouble with many people is that they can't distinguish between bad and evil. Any rule broken, any convention challenged, it's evil. Having a great time in a very rowdy way? Evil! Saying what's on your mind, even if it's an inconvenient truth? Evil! We should be serious. Uphold all standards of social respectability. And to whom do we look for those standards of respectability? Why, nice, church-going middle class white people, of course!

BAMP! Wrong.

Suppose we stop the clock for a day or two and allow The Horned One to call the shots. See, I know this Guy. He's a misunderstood bored god. Yes, He is going to encourage you to be bad. But no, most emphatically no, He is not going to want you to be evil. He wants you to have the time of your life, without harming yourself or anyone else. Yes, sadly, he wants you to overlook what might happen to the quality of the upholstery on your favorite ottoman. Stains happen. But they're stains, not sins.

People think the Horned One likes to lead young innocents astray. In my experience, there's no need of a deity to do the pushing when it comes to lust, especially in May. On the other hand, it's convenient to have Someone to blame it on when you creep off into the woods with a cutie. Devil made me do it, dontcha know.

Truth is, the Horned One doesn't make you do anything. He encourages you to enjoy yourself. My friends, our time of life is short. Let us all have fun being bad! And heck, if we stay outdoors we won't even threaten the purity of the chintz!

Welcome to ... pant pant pant ... "The Gods Are Bored!" pant .. pant. I'm your scorched hostess, Anne Johnson. Hot! Hot! Hot!

The school building I work in is 80 years old and counting. It has an old-fashioned boiler room.

When I arrived in my classroom after Christmas break on Monday morning, the temperature hovered ... I kid you not ... at least in the 80s if not nearing 90. It was like walking into a sauna.

Our New Jersey governor is all for firing teachers and busting our union, but I wonder how much moolah the state could save if it upgraded old boiler rooms.

In an effort to lower the output of hot air (in my classroom, not from the governor's mouth -- latter being impossible), I took a hike downstairs to the boiler room to see what was up.

And here's just the problem that arises when there are bored gods around with no meaningful employment. Lounging in the boiler room I found Vulcan. He was staring vacantly at the furnace, occasionally adjusting the intake valves.

Granted, there are some bored gods who we can live without, and Vulcan certainly is one of them. Who needs a volcano erupting all over the place? Just ask those poor folks in Pompeii what they think of Vulcan. All the same, this Dude is out of place in a public school.

I'm frankly afraid to do a praise and worship for Vulcan, to get him out of the boiler room and on to bigger, better things. I didn't even say howdy to him. For all I know, I could offer him an interview here at TGAB, and he would respond by blowing my house sky-high so my humble belongings will make the lunar eclipses red. On the other hand, I have to spend 10 hours a day, sometimes more, in a room where it's becoming impossible not to sweat the small stuff.

I guess I'll have to approach Vulcan and, picking my words carefully, offer Him some sort of olive branch. Somehow I feel like He won't be any more enthusiastic about turning down the heat than the school janitor. More capable, yes. More willing, no.

Perhaps I'll send Vulcan an anonymous note gently suggesting He may wish to visit the Mid-Atlantic Trench until March or April. I could even pass myself off as one of the World Cultures teachers, in case Vulcan gets pissed. Something's gotta change, though. In this era of energy conservation, I hate having to open windows on the coldest day of the year.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Are you ready for some praise and worship? You are? Well, WOOT!

(WOOT is the new Hallelujah. Change with the times, already!)

It's high time ... and I mean high time ... that we had a friendly interview with a bored god. Honestly, you'd think we'd forgotten our mission statement or something.

The bored god we've invited today can get out of hand sometimes and be quite destructive. But you know what? Life and death being what they are, if you get killed by this God's work, it won't be the worst way to go.

The God in question is Catequil, sacred to the Inca peoples. Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Catequil! WOOT!

Anne: Catequil, you were busy here in New Jersey yesterday. Your thunderclouds flooded every major artery that I needed to travel in order to pick The Heir up from her job.

Catequil: Hey. Wait a minute. I thought this was "praise and worship!" Are you complaining?

Anne: Not on Your eternal life, I'm not! I swear I could hear the plants in my back yard drinking up the water. We needed every drop of that inch-and-a-half rainstorm.

Catequil: Thank you. I endeavor to give satisfactory deluges.

Anne: Job well done, Mighty God! But you know, Catequil, I think all the NORADS and Dopplers and such have taken some of the magic out of sky-gazing. People still get all steamed up over stars and eclipses and meteor showers (I'm guilty as charged on that), but I think the fine mystical experience of cloud-watching has not gotten its share of press.

Catequil: Here's what I have to say to that!

Anne: Now, now. This is not how to win friends and influence people! I'm trying to interest my readers in the finer arts of cloud appreciation. In order for me to do that, you need to be less confrontational and more "with the flow."

Catequil: Oh, no one understands cloud-gazing anymore! In the eons before barometers, radar, and telegraphs, wise men and women interpreted the clouds and could thereby predict the weather. Nowadays even the school children don't learn about Cumulonimbus and Stratus clouds!

Anne: I learned them.

Catequil: In an elective high school science class.

Anne: That was a chippin class, Catequil. You see? I don't remember much about the 1970s, but I do remember Mr. Brown teaching us about cloud types. Combine that with all the afternoons spent lying on a blanket on Polish Mountain, staring up at the ....

Catequil: Don't you dare say clouds! I know you were buzzard-watching!

Anne: It's a big sky. Clouds, buzzards ... all is good. If I may be serious for a moment...

Catequil: Go ahead and try. I'd like to be in on this "first."

Anne: I just want to praise You and thank You, O holy Catequil, for the dramatic pre-thunderclouds and fully-formed thunderclouds, and shift-shaping Nimbus clouds, and puffy soft Cumulus clouds that you blew across the horizons of my life this week. I absolutely marveled at Your creations. Yes, modern science can explain every little twist and turn of colliding pressure systems, but the human eye -- and the human heart -- can still thrill to the miracle of clouds.

Catequil (scornful): Now your airplanes fly right through them.

Anne: Yes, but to me this does not diminish their greatness. It only provides humble humans with a different perspective on a holy creation.

Catequil: I'm starting to like you.

Anne: Well, I've always loved You, and I always will. Let me bore You with one little naval gaze before you head over to Africa.

Catequil: I've got time.

Anne: Glad to hear it. Okay, so here's the story:

Our house on Polish Mountain looked out to the west, and so did Uncle Earl's. Uncle Earl had a better view, but basically we all knew when a thunderstorm was coming ... We could literally watch it cross over Warrior's Ridge and advance up the valley and overtop the houses.

One evening, a whopper of a thunderstorm came roaring through just minutes before sundown. As it passed over, the sun came out on the far side of it. The setting sun turned everything -- everything -- magenta. Then crimson. Then lilac. Then violet. The clouds were magenta, and the weeds in the pasture were magenta!

We were all bustling around. Grandma and I were clearing the dinner dishes, Granddad had gone to the shed. But when those colors started turning the world into a natural Purple Haze, everything just ground to a halt, and we stood there admiring Your work, O mighty Catequil!

As soon as the magic sunset passed, and the thunder roared off to the east, Uncle Earl and Aunt Belle walked over from their house. Uncle Earl was the oldest of Granddad's family, and he said he'd never seen a sunset like that in his life.

Uncle Earl looked at me and said, "Anne Janette, you may never see another sunset that magnificent as long as you live."

So far he is correct, and almost 40 years have passed since that evening.

Catequil, I know the science behind cloud formations, but I still see Your work in them. Clouds are sacred things, mighty things, holy things. We who cannot be You must salute You. Thanks be to You, again, for the beauty and nourishment of Your holy clouds this past week!

Catequil: You're welcome. But you might want to go back and edit that anecdote. Little more of your name in there than you usually allow.

Anne: It's okay. I'm not going to change my uncle Earl's words. He was a Titan among men, and that's what he called me.

Catequil: Suit yourself. Oh say. Can I get a glass of water for the road? I'm parched.

Anne: How about if I fill the bathtub?

Catequil: If it's not too much trouble.

All glory, laud, and honor to Catequil, God of clouds! Next time you see the sky, blow a kiss to this fabulous deity. That's not moisture up there, it's mystery.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" New Year's resolution: blog more, not less. It sucks being too busy to entertain bored deities with marzipan and petits fours! They go for that stuff like nobody's business.

Did you ever wonder why Christmas is celebrated on December 25? Some people think it's because the date is associated with Mithras, a truly bored god of post-Jesus Rome.

As for me, I don't buy into the Mithras thing. If you're a careful observer of the cosmos, which at least some learned people must have been in the Old Times, you begin to notice, right on or about December 25, that the days are indeed getting longer. This definitely calls for a celebration! I think this holy day must have been far wider spread than the followers of Mithras.

Speaking of the followers of Mithras, I have a treat for those of you who are. He agreed to drop by this morning, having nothing else in particular to do. And how nice! He brought some fine-looking steaks! Say what you will about Mithras, he can butcher like only a God can butcher.

Please give a wild, warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Mithras, ancient deity of male soldiers and statesmen!

Anne: Thanks for the steaks, Mithras!

Mithras: They aren't for you. They're for your husband.

Anne: But there are enough to share, not only with my husband, but also with ...

Mithras: Your two female children. Forget it. Give your husband the steaks he can eat, and freeze the rest for him to eat later.

Anne: Whoa. It's not only politically incorrect and environmentally unfriendly to eat steaks in the first place, it's also discriminatory not to give them to women.

Mithras: Women don't matter. Except for breeding. Male children.

Anne: Lovely. I could be wrapping gifts, I'm talking to a sexist God with a bloody dagger. Hey! You get that thing near my upholstery, and I'll show you what I know about butchering!

Mithras: Don't threaten me. I'll have my followers squash you like a bug.

Anne: Do you even have any? Seems to me like all the sexist meat-eaters drifted away from you about 1600 years ago. Look, I don't know much about your praise and worship team, but I do know it was only open to men, and the rituals were conducted underground. When you were designing your agenda, did you ever think your team would work better if you admitted the gals too? And maybe had some nice, airy, user-friendly worship spaces?

Mithras: Women don't matter. Except for breeding. Male children.

Anne: (to her readers) Sheesh. You wonder why this one is bored? Some of them ought to be bored! (to Mithras) Your name always pops up around this time of year. Like, December 25 was your birthday, and you had disciples, and all that.

Mithras: Male disciples.

Anne: Male disciples are popular in many praise and worship teams. Here at "The Gods Are Bored," we have a big, broad, flexible outlook that includes women in the practice of Divine Mysteries.

Mithras: Sacrilege! (brandishes dagger perilously close to Anne's pristine wing chair) WOMEN DO NOT MATTER!

Anne: Sez you, Chump. Here's an idea. Why don't you buy yourself an all-terrain vehicle, drink a couple of six-packs, and go hunting?

Mithras: I don't have the money for an all-terrain vehicle.

Anne: Imagine that! And who do you think is to blame for your obscurity and its attendant financial woes?

Mithras: Women! Damn all women! No women allowed!

Anne: I'm a woman. So please don't let the door hit your butt as you leave. Take your steaks with you. I don't know whether this date has anything to do with you or not, but any deity who excludes half the population from his praise and worship team doesn't stand a chance against deities with more decency. Steer clear of my furniture, too! I'm not spending my holiday scrubbing chintz because of a sloppy macho deity!

(Exit Mithras in a huff.)

Readers, if you take anything away from today's interview, it's that some deities are born to be bored, some achieve boredom, and some have boredom thrust upon them. Mithras seems to be to have achieved boredom in spades. They say his remaining temples are interesting, but if I ever have money to travel, I think I'll seek out some cheery spa town instead.

Enjoy some days off, remember the poor (of both genders and all ages), and go in peace.

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," hosted by an expatriate Appalachian named Anne Johnson. Anne Johnson is my real name. What it lacks in originality is more than compensated for by its fabulous properties of anonymity. I am me, and we are many, and go ahead and Google, try to pick me out from the crowd!

It has long been known that a supply of natural gas exists deep beneath the mountains of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and northern West Virginia. This gas is trapped in a kind of rock layer called Marcellus shale. Recently, engineers have perfected a means of extracting the gas by blasting water through horizontal drills that are somehow plunged deep beneath the mountains' surfaces.

Several things have happened as a result of this little jump in drilling technology:

1. People who own piece-a-nothin' farms overtop the Marcellus Shale Deposit could be potential Jed Clampitts and are already being lured by big-money energy companies.

2. Those big-money energy companies (think Dick Cheney) are trying to do what they do best -- circumvent paying out dough to property owners and low-balling what they do give in compensation.

3. Environmentalists are debating the pros and cons of getting clean energy (natural gas) by doing more mountain-rape, which brings us to the debate that...

4. Drilling for gas beats mountaintop removal mining for coal and brings a similar payoff: energy from a domestic source.

My granddad had a natural gas lease on our 75-acre farm. The farm sits on top of Marcellus shale.

My uncle, who has lived on the farm for the past 25 years, canceled the gas lease long ago.

The farm could go up for sale shortly. I own a share of it, but so do several cousins who are strapped for cash. My sister also has a share in the place, and she wants to sell. I would like to keep the farm, but with two kids to educate and a house in New Jersey, I can't afford to buy a second property -- even though I would only have to pay 5/6 of the agreed-upon price.

Usually I can get a grip on issues pretty quickly, but this Marcellus shale thing has me all at sixes and sevens. Does the gas beneath my mountain make the property more valuable? How would I feel if the Cheney trucks came roaring in and started to drill, baby, drill? Would I rather keep the farm in the family, and reap the potential Clampitt windfall, or sell to some speculator? How much respect do I have for the beauty and purity of my mountain? What happens if my neighbors have differing opinions and open their properties to the Cheney drillers?

It's times like this when one needs a bored god's advice. And who knows the underworld better than Hades? So today I put in a call, and it happened that He wasn't too busy (imagine that!). Here he comes now, trailing a little fire-and-brimstone that smells like Retsina. Please give a wild, warm, wonderful TGAB welcome to Hades, Greek God of the Underworld!

Anne: Welcome, God of the Underworld! How are things down below?

Hades: Oh, man, I'm stoked. Stoked! Yowsa! I've got Tiger Woods!

Anne: You mean Tiger Woods is dead? I didn't see that on the news.

Hades: Not yet. But when he dies, I get him! Turns out he's a cheetah, not a tiger! (Laughs)

Anne: Oh, for the love of fruit flies! I didn't invite you hear to listen to bad puns. I have a serious philosophical issue to discuss with Someone who knows the inside of the Earth.

Hades: I'll show him a thing or two about golf.

Anne: Now. Let's go over this whole Marcellus Shale Deposit thing. Where does the deposit lie in relation to Your kingdom?

Hades: Every time he tees up, I'll melt his irons right out from under him.

Anne: Could we please not talk about Tiger Woods?

Hades: Hey. This is a big catch for me. I've never gotten over missing out on Lou Gehrig.

Anne: You've gotta have a hundred thousand top-quality athletes in your collection, Hades. Not to stereotype or anything, but they're kind of a randy lot.

Hades: Yes, and golfers are no exception. But Tiger. Tiger! Huge acquisition. Huge.

Anne: Just for a moment can You give me some insight on the Marcellus Shale Deposit?

Hades: This also gives me all his concubines. More cuties to keep me warm in the wintertime!

Anne: You know what, Hades? You're not the first bored god I've interviewed from the ancient Greek and Roman pantheons. And to be quite blunt, I can see why it was easy for Christianity to get a toehold in those cultures. You Greek deities all seem to have such flagrant human failings. Try to be serious for two seconds! Please!

Hades: I am serious. I'm a collector. Don't you get excited when you get a valuable new item for your collection?

Anne: I don't collect anything except memories.

Hades: Boooorrrrring! You should collect something! I suggest stamps. You don't have to be rich to own a first-class stamp collection.

Anne: You know what, Hades? I just remembered. I'm alive. And I have a lot to do today.  Look! Watch me move around, shoving the socks into the sock drawer! La di dah. Oh, it's great to be alive, with a wonderful new memory of dancing in the snow with the Spare, in the parking lot of the thrift store in Pennsauken...

Hades: I'll be back for you some day.

Anne: No you won't. I'm booked with another carrier. Thank goodness. Because it truly would be hell to spend eternity watching Tiger Woods try to play golf with molten putters.

Hades: Speak for yourself! I've got Tiger! I've got Tiger! (Dances into the storm drain and disappears.)


Well, readers, you never know what you'll get when you ask a bored god for an interview. Sometimes they help, sometimes they advise you to start a stamp collection. As always I'm open to your suggestions for a serious bored deity to which I can pose my ethical questions on the Marcellus Shale Deposit conundrum. Also, if you are reading this, and you have a personal opinion on the issue, I sure would like to hear that too. Even if you can spell "shale" and do nothing else, you'll offer me more than Hades just did.

Have a great day, and don't forget to look alive!