Shopping Tips and Guidance by Mandy Claire

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Thanksgiving edition, 2011! This century is now more than a decade old, and I have been less than impressed. But now I'm totally down with the 21st. Read on to find out how a "Dazed and Confused"-era teen finally went techno with success!

I have two daughters, The Heir and The Spare (pictured). I have a very close friend, the Monkey Man (pictured). All were invited to my table on Thanksgiving. Blessed be, they all accepted -- and Monkey Man brought his sister and another friend!

Alas, there was a snag. Mr. J, being a sportswriter, is often called upon to write at the holidays. He had a deadline. So I had to drive to Baltimore to pick up his mom. And back to Snobville for the feast.

It's a 200-mile round trip, all on a Thanksgiving morning.

Well, you have your Travel Wednesdays, and you have your Back Fridays, and in between people manage to have dinner with family and friends. I figured the traffic would not be bad on I-95 on Thanksgiving Day itself.

BAMP!!!!! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! Deduct 50 points from Anne's score!

As I was traveling south on I-95, I noticed the traffic volume moving north. When Mom-in-law and I began our return journey from Baltimore to Snobville, the traffic on I-95 was unbelievable. You could not have squeezed a Handi-Wipe between my car and the one in front of me. You could have tried, though. At the rate the traffic was moving, you'd have been clear to make about 25 attempts.

I'm a veteran traveler of I-95, and I know how to circumnavigate it. Will I share this information with you? Hmmmmm. Email me.

I got off I-95 and took an alternate route. Here's where the plot thickens.

It was after 11:00 in the morning. I had told my guests that dinner would be ready at 4:30. The reason I had made this audacious boast was that I had full confidence in my sous chef, The Spare. You should see some of the fabulous meals she whips up! Caught in traffic? No problem! Spare at the helm, all systems go!

At a red light, I phoned up Spare. Conversation went something like this:

Anne: Hey, have you made the stuffing?

Spare: No, but I'm getting around to it.

Anne: Have you peeled the potatoes?

Spare: I was just getting ready to do that.

Anne: Listen. It's going to take longer than anticipated for me to get home. I need for you to put the turkey in the oven. The directions for preparing it are on the sheet I left on the kitchen counter.

(Very long pause.)

Anne: Spare? Are you there?

Spare: I can't handle a turkey carcass. It will make me puke.

Anne: What are you talking about? You cook stuff all the time!

Spare: Yeah, but ... look, I'm not reaching into a turkey and pulling out the ... parts. Like, I can't do that.

(Anne thinks of a contingency plan.)

Anne: Put your sister on the phone.

(Heir comes to the phone. Mind you, she can boil water for tea and toast a PopTart. End of her cooking ability.)

Anne: Heir, will you help Spare put the turkey in the oven? The directions are on the kitchen counter.

Heir: Ummmmmm. Uhhhhhhh. (No enthusiasm) I guess .......

Anne: DO YOU CREATURES WANT TO EAT TODAY? IF SO, PUT THE TURKEY IN THE OVEN! I'M IN FREAKIN ABERDEEN, AND THE MONKEY MAN IS COMING TO DINNER!

(Green light. Phone off.)

Long story short, Mom-in-law and I crawled to a stop in front of my house at about half past never. The turkey was not in the oven. It had not been removed from the fridge. To her dubious credit, The Spare had made the stuffing and peeled the potatoes.

Time for a desperate contingency plan!

My oven is a modern, computerized gadget that has had its share of glitches, let me tell you. The oven has a "convection" option that I have never quite figured out. When you use it, time and space become altered as if it's an episode of Doctor Who gone awry. When you cook with convection heat, you dial down the temperature and dial back the time. It must save energy, doing that. But it's damned tricky.

I had no choice.

Slapped that bird in the oven. Convection heat, 300 degrees, 2 hours. Can you believe it, readers? That gobbler was ready for the table by 4:30! Sixteen pounds! Welcome to the 21st century, bored deities!

Monkey Man arrived, bearing home-made cranberry bread and a pumpkin pie. His sister arrived with the classic Green Bean Casserole, which was really and truly invented by a citizen of Snobville who worked in the test kitchen at Campbell's.

We all had a lovely dinner. Even the famed Monkey was happy, because I had a whole bunch of bananas set aside for him. We drank a toast and all said what they were thankful for. (Monkey Man's sister said she was grateful "that my weird brother always manages to find lovely friends.")

My mom-in-law was particularly impressed that the turkey was ready in the nick of time. During Thanksgivings past, she had been renowned for hounding me about when I was going to put the bird over the fire.

I saved the best for last. After dinner, the Monkey Man presented me with a gift. It was like 25 Yuletides came in one single second! Here's a picture of him, modeling my gift earlier in the day, at the annual Snobville-Snob Heights football game ...

EXHIBIT A: WHAT A HAT!



I am blown away by this fabulous headgear. It bothers me slightly that the thing was probably made in some poor Third World country, but man-oh-man. Never has product met consumer with more satisfaction!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" hope you had a happy Thanksgiving. We hope you took a pass on Walmart on Black Friday. If not, don't ask us to feel sorry for you if you were trampled, shot, or pepper-sprayed. (Seriously. Look it up. People got pepper-sprayed at Walmart.)

This Thanksgiving was really special. We all missed Great-Grandma (who is still hovering), but we delighted in new friends and family. I have to work on Spare's gag reflex, but that can wait for another day.

I hope your holiday was special too. If not, let me know. I could set a place for you next year ... and save a few bananas back for your monkey puppet. It's how I roll.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Spring Break edition! Not a moment too soon, there's a little lull in the school calendar.


I went to work today with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had. I could do little more than whisper.

You might ask, "How does a school teacher in that kind of shape, with 100 freshmen in six classes, impart any learning on the day before Spring Break, and a dress-down day at that?"

I get by with a little help from my friends.

Those three of you who have been lumbering along with "The Gods Are Bored" lo, these many years, will know the story of the Weird Stranger Who Became a Best Friend, a.k.a. the Monkey Man. My last rhumba with the Monkey Man was back at Samhain, when we blew away the competition in the Not Snobville Halloween Parade -- he as Edgar Allan Poe, me as Jabberwock. Since then I haven't seen him at all.

But it turns out that, in addition to being a poet himself, he actually knows Walt Whitman!

My friend the Monkey Man arranged for Walt Whitman to visit my classes today in order to recite poetry to them and get them excited about the famous man in their midst.

I arranged the tables so that there was a little theater-in-the-round, and Mr. Whitman entertained my troops with alternating stories about his life in Camden and passages from his poetry. By the end of the day, the classroom floor was strewn with grass and good will.

An odd thing happened, though. About a quarter of my students insisted firmly that Walt Whitman was not, in fact, Walt Whitman, but rather a poet who currently lives in Camden by the name of  Rocky Wilson. Some students were emphatic on this point, and they begged to see the monkey.

 In each class, when Walt Whitman bade farewell, he walked out, and a moment later Rocky Wilson walked in. Some coincidence, huh? But it made everyone happy. The students got to hear passages from "Song of Myself," and then they also got to pet Rocky's monkey (a fond friend from their childhoods in various Camden primary schools). The added benefit was that we have also been studying Nick Virgilio, a famous haiku poet who lived in Camden -- and Rocky Wilson knew Nick Virgilio.

Rocky could not move ten feet in the hallways of the Vo Tech without being recognized. Even the lunch lady lives on his street. We had a fine time together, he and I. We always do. I treated him to lunch (remember, it's a Vo Tech with a Culinary Arts shop, so we eat like Tudors every day), and we made plans to get to some poetry events in May.

This is what I have learned about life. Proceed with patience, accept small miracles that accrue into larger miracles. (Who makes much of a miracle?) Then, sit back and smile when, just for a moment, all the Legos snap into place and you've built a pretty doggoned fine palace.

Mr. Whitman recited these lines, which I find particularly inspiring:


The spotted hawk swoops  by and accuses me,

he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am

untranslatable.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of

the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true

as any on the shadow'd wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at

the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in

lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from

the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under

your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.  ef·fuse 
adj. Botany
Spreading out loosely.

v. ef·fused, ef·fus·ing, ef·fus·es

v.tr.
1. To pour out (a liquid).

2. To radiate; diffuse.

v.intr.
..... Click the link for more information.



And you, and you, and you ... and you ...

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home to an amateur writer who used to be a pro. Even in my heyday, however, I was not as good as today's link. If you really want to meet the Monkey Man, click!

http://www.philly.com/inquirer/columnists/20100916_Daniel_Rubin__Free_spirit_spins_yarns_in_Camden.html

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we ask for nothing more than true love and high adventure! And to use our netbook off the new neighbor's wireless. Simple pleasures, simple pleasures.

My daughter The Heir was a little stripling in sixth grade when the Adventure of the Monkey Man began. Brief recap: She was walking home from school on a back street with a friend, when an odd fellow on  a bike passed them. He was wearing a jester hat and carrying a monkey puppet. He greeted the girls by way of the monkey: "Hello, kids! ooo ooo ooo AH AH AH!"

Being a rather benevolent parent who believes in freedom of speech, I did not freak out when Heir told me about this person. I just counseled her to stay on the main street.

From those humble origins began the saga of the Monkey Man. He became an obsession with our family, each of us competing for sightings. They were infrequent enough to make it an adventure, but frequent enough to make it suspenseful. Legend clung to the man. You never got the same story twice about him. Street person, school teacher, strung-out stoner ... everyone claimed to know all about him.

One fateful day, he lost his monkey. He ran into my daughter The Spare on Main Street and gave her an email address and a description of the monkey. He was asking everyone -- surely someone had seen his monkey!

Some cross country runners recovered the monkey from the riverbank and turned the monkey in to the police. We heard about this and sent the Monkey Man an email. He wrote back.

Now he's one of my very best friends.

A few of the urban legends were true. He is a part-time school teacher. He did spend some formative years in the late 1960s in Berkeley. But he also spent his boyhood in the house behind the one I live in now. He writes poetry. He recites multiple passages of "Leaves of Grass." He always stops by on Thanksgiving.

A few weeks ago, I got an email from the Monkey Man. He and his monkey had scheduled a performance at the famous Philadelphia Fringe Festival. Trouble was, his venue was moved from an auditorium with 90 seats to an auditorium with 900 seats. Popular as he is in these parts, he can't summon an audience that size!

Thank you, Facebook!

It's possible to friend newspaper reporters. Did you know that? Columnists especially. I had friended one Philadelphia Inquirer columnist who I read all the time. So I wrote to her via Facebook, suggesting she do a story on the Monkey Man. She wrote back, "What's with that guy? All the moms around here are concerned."

I replied, "I am solid with the dude. Please write about his Fringe Festival performance."

Well, that columnist wasn't keen on the story, but she passed it on to another Philadelphia Inquirer columnist. His story on the Monkey Man will be in Thursday's Philadelphia Inquirer! You can read it and weep! (Actually, laugh.)

I doubt if one newspaper story will fill the 900 seats, but I do believe the Monkey Man will get a bigger audience than if he got no publicity at all.

For years the magickal flow has mostly been from the Monkey Man to me. This week it was payback time. I'm so happy I could drum up product placement for my friend!

And now, the details from here:

Read about the Monkey Man in a column by Daniel Rubin in Thursday's Philadelphia Inquirer.

Come meet and greet me at the Monkey Man's performance of an original show, "Seal Moon," part of the Philadelphia Fringe Festival. Saturday, September 18. 401 South Broad Street, 7:30 p.m. Admission $15.00, and free for puppets.

If you want to join the Monkey Man's poetry group, we meet at Slice of New York Pizza, 3rd and Cooper in Camden. Email me to be added to the contact list. Puppets eat free but sometimes perform poems.

Puppets. Have you ever thought about carrying one in a committed way? I'm here to tell you that people who do make extremely interesting companions!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, what a beautiful early summer eve! So glad you could stop by. Watch where you're stepping, there are faeries about!

This evening I spent some time tending my little Shrine of the Mists. I noticed that my daughter The Heir had added some items to it. New offerings include little pieces of geode, sea glass, random chunks of semi-precious stone that had once been on a necklace, and even some jacks. Everything that brings joy to the Shrine of the Mists brings peace to my little yard.

I took a moment from my tending to show the neighbor boys a fossil from the farm on Polish Mountain that is also in the Shrine: unspeakably ancient brachiopods, turned to stone by a couple hundred million years of burial. I used to think fossils were magical. I still think so. Not magical in the Young Earth Theory respect, but just sort of miraculous. Our planet has kept pretty good records of its history. The miracle part is that we find the stuff on mountainsides.

One chapter of TGAB comes to a close on Wednesday. It is my final session of night school. Oh, goodbye, Dear Mr. Bigwand! I'll try not to spray you with gravel as I drive off into the sunset! And yes, Bigwand is not going into the Great "Gods Are Bored" archives without a swan song. He mandated that our final meeting be held at his house, where he will heave hamburgers and hot dogs at us, along with his usual lengthy, self-aggrandizing sermons.

I may get misty-eyed. It's allergy season.

The good news is that the end of night school heralds the return of the enriching sorts of activities that have also been recorded here in the annals of TGAB. My, but it has been months since I even mentioned the Monkey Man! Next week is his annual birthday bash in Camden ... an event that dependably becomes rowdy because the booze is cheap and plentiful. Someone will read a haiku. Someone will sing a bawdy song. Sometimes we have a puppet show. Then we stumble out into a charming urban landscape with our heads full of poetry and our throats hoarse from laughter.

When I think of all the people I know and call "friend," I'm sure the world will never become boring to me.