Shopping Tips and Guidance by Mandy Claire

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Right on time for the holiday break, my computer has sprung a leak and won't hold content. So this post is being done on the fly at school, and I don't know when I'll be able to post again. Maybe from the public library/church in my borough.

Update on the First Amendment: The menorah that I thought had been taken down out of a sense of reason was, in fact, stolen in the deep recesses of the night. Police are baffled. Durrrrhhhh. A five-foot aluminum menorah? Have they checked the prices being paid for scrap metal lately?

Apparently, as predicted, many citizens of Snobville (particularly at the high school) are weighing in against the religious displays on public property. The Snobville Weekly Tattler reports that the displays were done after permits were issued to Hay-bad (not the proper spelling, this is the Jewish group, they are very conservative) and a society called Citizens for Keeping Christ in Christmas. According to our lovely mayor, such permits are legal because they can be issued to any religious group.

Promptly and efficiently, I applied for a permit on behalf of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. (I can't copy the text of the email here. School computers have so much security on them they could double for CIA.) I described the beautiful holiday display the Church would do, using suitable pasta products, a Santa hat, and a sign that reads "Seasoning Is the Reason for the Season." I linked to the FSM home page and warned that failure to issue this nonprofit organization a permit would be deemed religious discrimination.

Readers, you know I'll do it. Given the sentiment at the high school, I'll have plenty of creative help.

Spare was the one who coined the phrase "Putting the Hollandaise in the Holidays." I think that is so beautiful! Won't that be inspirational on a waterproof sign?

To close -- for how long I don't know -- I would just like to say that I don't want to put up a Druid symbol on public land. I don't want any symbols on public land. Xmas trees are universal; to me, they don't really have a religious affiliation anymore. Even my school has one in the lobby.

Religious displays belong on religious property. Which is why you see so few for Druids and Wiccans. Where would we leave stuff? We worship in the woods.

A blessed Yule to all, especially the Flying Spaghetti Monster, a new God among us! Next winter, get ready for Spaghetti!

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.

FSM: That's a recent rendering. I'm boiling over that those idol-worshiping Christian fringe wingnuts would want the District of Columbia to be the District of Christ, and not the District of the Flying Spaghetti Monster!

Anne: District of the Flying Spaghetti Monster! Arrrghgh! That has a certain ring to it, it does! We could require the president to wear a frock coat and a feather in his pirate hat during his inauguration! (The irony of this does not escape me.)

FSM: My disciples will see that this is done. They are praying about it even as we speak.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.
This includes, and could for my money be limited to, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster!
Pray on, pirates!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sports fans! If you follow pro sports at all (and I know some of you do), you have to feel just a little bit sorry for a Phillies/Eagles fan today. Wowsa, did we have an awful weekend!

This is Joe Montana. He's a famous quarterback, and that's just about all I know about him. For the purposes of this post, Joe was chosen for his name. Montana. Get it?

Love him or hate him, Joe Montana did most of his playing on Sunday. A dizzying majority of NFL games are played on Sunday. You've got Monday night, Thanksgiving, and an odd Saturday here and there. Otherwise, the Day of Rest is anything but, if you make millions on the gridiron.

Can you imagine Sundays without football? Can you remember when the stores were all closed on Sunday? Do you recall a time when you didn't have to drive your kid to soccer games on Sunday? Golly, they play those puppies on Sunday mornings! The effrontery!

When it comes to entertainment, retail, and amateur sporting events, Sunday is the best day to git r done. Right, Joe? (I think he played in a few Super Bowls. If you know more, share.)

The Amish and the Old Order Mennonites do not work on Sunday. They even cook Sunday dinner on Saturday, so they don't have to work in the kitchen. The entirety of Sunday is spent in church, or lounging at someone's home. I don't know what they do about tending the livestock, but suffice it to say that they don't make book on the 49ers and then cluster around the big screen, cheering every play.

A national movement that would change the District of Columbia to the District of Christ might have its own ideas about how Sunday should be spent. No more NFL? No more quick jaunts to Target for trouser socks? No more kid soccer, band practice, Broadway shows? Would the new slogan be, "Bring Back the Blue Laws?" The founders of Chick-fil-a would sure go for that!

Way back when I was a Methodist, I remember one Sunday when the bishop came to preach at our church. He was a zealous dude, all done up in fancy robes. The first thing he said when he came to the pulpit was, "If you think you're getting home from here in time to watch the Eagles today, think again. If watching the Eagles is more important than your soul, get up and leave now."

He then preached a 90-minute sermon. If looks could kill, the Eagles fans in that congregation would have struck that pious windbag down like you stomp a spider that's after your kitten.

Long pass from Montana to Jerry Rice made short, a Christian theocracy could change the contours of Sunday for us all. Considering how poorly the Eagles played this week, I'd say to Cindy Jacobs ... bring it on.

Not.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion. Play ball!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's "Banned Books Week," so throw out that lascivious copy of the Bible under your desk and read something that isn't smutty! In this sermon, we at "The Gods Are Bored" will offer you safe and secure suggestions for eliminating banned books from your life. As you know, reading banned books has caused many of the social ills plaguing humankind. We have to do something about it, pronto.

You know what great, safe, and improving literature is regularly overlooked? Instruction manuals! Don't believe me? Go find the manual that came with your IPod or your microwave. Better yet, read that fascinating sheet that came with your Ikea book case. You won't find swear words, sexual situations, or violent content in there. And it just gets better, because instructional manuals fold up so nice and cozy -- you won't need the book case you just bought. Take it back!

I'm a school teacher, so it's very important for me to be aware of all these banned books. Such evil works as To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men can be found all over my school! But worry not, dear reader. I'm tossing that smut and replacing it with helpful and instructional literature. This week I made copies of my Verizon monthly statement for my entire class. Of course I blacked out HBO first, because we all know what kind of filth runs on HBO.

You might think cookbooks are safe. And I agree, so long as they don't have any recipes that are high in fat, salt, or sugar. The trouble is that a smart student, when given a Weight Watchers cookbook, will figure out how to re-introduce the salt, sugar, and fat into an otherwise slimmed-down recipe. So be warned. Cookbooks are not acceptable.

I'll tell you something else that should be banned. Used book sales. There's no oversight in these things! Kids can wander around and just choose whatever they want to read. Chances are that Mom is over looking at the tennis or yoga paperbacks. She won't even notice her susceptible youngster poking a curious eyeball into Leaves of Grass.

The very best way to protect innocent children from banned books is to not teach them to read in the first place. How many times have I had to remind you people that the entire Captain Underpants series is banned, banned, banned! And it's written for third graders. You can't have third graders reading about a character named Professor Pippy P. Poopypants! This will warp them for life. Better not to read at all than to be tempted to read a banned book.

Further banning: the bestseller list. Have you read  The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo or any of its sequels? Horrific! (I actually mean it. Turned my stomach.) And yet ... and yet ... that book is in my school's library! Heck, let's ban bestsellers and the library. Purity of mind, purity of mind.

I have been trying to decide what core curriculum I should teach my sophomores next, after they're through with the Verizon bill. Aha! Here's my high school yearbook! (*Anne blacks out the ribald comments by her classmates*) What a relief! My students will love this.

This is at least the tenth post I've written about banned books. Lately I've been wondering why I get all riled up about them. I hardly ever see anyone reading a book anymore, unless it's a student who's been told they have to read. So we stop teaching students to read, and then no one will read, and there will be no reason to ban books.

I say, give everyone a Droid and burn all the books. A modest proposal.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today we begin a little experiment. Kind of like Job in reverse. I am going to mention Cindy Jacobs and DC40 frequently in my posts, giving them ample opportunity to find this site. Let's see if they can harm me through their prayers. I stand in flat-out opposition to their agenda, so ... have at me, varlets! Jesus is too busy to look after me, so I put myself in the hands of the bored gods. Na na na na BOO BOO! (Bronx cheer with rude gesture)

I've just finished writing 25 spells for next year's Llewellyn Spell Almanac. Many of them are based on the Appalachian hedge magick I grew up with, so they tend to be cautionary and protective. And serious. My grandmother showered me with dire predictions of what the "black dog" and the "booger men" would do if I strayed too far from home. (This, of course, was for her convenience. Much magick works this way.)

As for me, I find that the strongest spells are those laced with humor. How many times have I said it here? Laughter is the best medicine!

(Speaking of which, when you're through here, go look at Yellowdog Granny's spine-ticklers. She usually puts a slew of them up on Monday morning, and if that isn't strong magick, I don't know what is.

Let's look at a recent event, and you'll see what I mean.

I invited the Great Goddess Freya here, knowing that She's getting busy again but hoping for a moment of Her time. She penciled me into her schedule, dropped by and played with my cats, and shared a horn of local lager. Four weeks later, my daughter The Heir was in downtown Oslo when she was literally rocked by a bomb blast. She was a ten-minute walk from the government complex.

Freya was probably busier than ever that day, but She found time for The Heir. All glory, laud, and honor to thee, Freya, Mother of the North!

Here at Chateau Johnson, the only event that is not mocked and saturated with humor is the death of a loved one. At that time, and that time only, I become serious. But it passes. As for being angry at the spouse and kids, I turn that over to Anansi, who helps me disappear into a story-world until I've cooled down.

Laugh through the Apocalypse. It's happening to you anyway. Will crying make it any different?

Maybe that's a bad analogy, because all of us Pagans will be laughing through the Apocalypse. We're going to turn all those mega-churches into skate parks and have Rituals at the National Cathedral.

My family has so far been spared from the ravages of fire, flood, and hurricane. But I've been through job loss, work frustrations by the cartload, and the heartbreak of my child's chronic illness. I don't laugh at these things, I laugh at myself going through these things. Best. Medicine. Ever.

With that in mind, I remembered that Philadelphia has its own amazingly powerful counter-spell for malefic magick. It's called the Mummer's Parade, it happens every year on January 1, and this year I will be in it. What ill-guided intentions can stand up to 15,000 crazy revelers in sequins and feathers, carrying parasols and wearing wigs? Get real, DC40. Philadelphia is free!

Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, and a couple of tra la las! That's how I laugh my day away, as I cheerfully thumb my schnoz!

Yo, Philly, there's a group of people who wanna change our karma here in da City of Brotherly Love. They call themselves DC 40, and just so you'll recognize them when you see them, here's a pitcher of one of 'em.


Okay, okay, okay! I know I'm supposed to be serious. But humor is my magick. So let us laugh away the hate!

PS - Granny, this spell will work in Dallas too, with a few modifications.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on Harry Potter, Part II  # VII movie premiere night! Spare has spent two days transforming our house into Hogwarts. (Alas, just the first floor. The second floor now looks like it was hit with one of those movie wind machines.)

We're having a Potter Party!

Yesterday, in anticipation of this event, Spare asked my husband, Mr. J, what character he planned to be. Not missing a beat (and never having read a word of the opus), Mr. J said, "Dean Martin."

Spare exclaimed, "He's a muggle!"

Dean Martin, a muggle? Who says? Harry Potter is only fiction, but Dean Martin ... Dean Martin! He's a Titan! Grovel in the muck, you pathetic wretch Voldemort! You are no match for Deano.

I've done Harry Potter Smackdowns before, but this one is a no-brainer. There is no one, no one, in the whole of Harry Potter who could generate as much magic as Dean Martin. Other people can cower and run from Death Eaters. I'll just slip in my Dean Martin DVD, select "That's Amore," play it at a sensible sound level, and CRUSH SEVERAL EVIL EMPIRES SIMULTANEOUSLY. Voldemort? Down! Vader? Down! The Vanger clan? Cat food!

You want to send a bored war god packing? Play Deano singing, "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

If J.K. Rowling had been a Dean Martin fan, she could not even have conceived Harry's opponents. Every time her thoughts turned to the Dark Side, she would have been completely disarmed. Ought to be a spell named "Volare." Just saying it causes the bad guys to dissolve into dust.

In preparation for the Potter party, we decided that Mr. J should not be Dean Martin, because he would be totally cooler than anyone in the entire Potter pantheon, and far more powerful than the sad, befuddled wizards who led poor Harry down so many blind alleys.

Is anyone else laughing over this? Pinky swear, if I had video skills, I would do a YouTube where Dean faces off against Voldemort. Sports analogy: New York Yankees vs. Snobville T-ball All-Stars.

So now we have established a male icon who could crush Voldemort like a spent cigarette. Time to move on to the other gender. What living goddess could wither pathetic Voldemort on the vine?

Potter fans, I give you Aretha Franklin. Swish, smack! Voldemort's toast.

RESPECT. Find out what it means to me. Is there any fictional character in the entire Potter oeuvre who even has the credentials to give Reefa a pedicure? See, this is why I give Potter a C-plus, and no more. When I think of magic, I can find actual humans who produce it by the gallon, and they are real.

Reefa never needed no wand, sucka. And let's not stop at Potter. I pity the Orc who seeks to subdue her. One little shake of her pointer finger would eliminate the entire race of Daleks and every single zombie that ever dared to crawl out of its grave. When she sings a scale, she purifies the Detroit River. Let's see Hermione do that!

As we close the chapter book on Harry Potter, let us be ever aware that evil is relative. If you are facing a powerful wizard, fight back with the best ammo in the world: a few choice songs from America's classic singers.

When I picture Voldemort facing Dean Martin and Aretha Franklin, the image that comes to mind is the Loony Tunes coyote falling off a cliff, then being further crushed by a giant rock. Soul is not for sale.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you are new here and have come to this location for information on Buddy Miley, well, ahem ... this is actually a zany site run by a wacky woman who can't keep her faeries out of the wine. But welcome anyway! We're all about laughter here. Or mostly about laughter. Sometimes a rare chuckle. Trying for at least a little hmmm hmmmm occasionally. Not always getting it.

Whoa. I just looked out my window and saw two goldfinches fighting in mid-air! I didn't know they did that! Mockingbirds, yes. Finches ... learn something new every day. (Maybe the finches learned it by watching the mockingbirds.)

Tidbits of information for immediate release:

1. Mr. J's car broke down in Reading, PA last Saturday. I've had to make two trips out and back, first to get him, and then to take him back to the mechanic shop. It's a longish drive. But he and his car are okay. Today is his birthday -- now he gets the senior citizen discount. Can't tell you how thrilled he is about that.

2. Heir is having a swell time in Norway, learning all about castles and stuff that we don't have here in the USA. She calls me on Skype, and we talk just like the phone, and she swears it's free.

3. I am reading American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. I like it so far.

4. Ivy is growing into my shrine. So far it looks beautiful, but I know I'll have to watch carefully for excess coverage.

5. The other day I was near a J Jill store. I went inside and saw two pieces of clothing I liked. The total came to $110, so I passed on the purchase. Next day went to the thrift store and got very similar items (not kidding) for $10. If you would like lessons on how to do this, we can arrange it. But I'll bet you already know.

6. If you have ideas on how I can set some pretty new wallpaper on my blog, please email me at luvbuzzards at yahoo dot com. It's time for a change.

7. I don't know why I am so reluctant to upload my novel, Gray Magic, to Kindle and Nook. What is holding me back?

8. I set a big mound of tree limbs and brush at curbside for pickup, and the Borough of Snobville will not take it for some reason. Now it's all dried out, and the only thing keeping me from setting it on fire is that it's already too hot around here. I can't compost these big limbs!

This post is somewhat like a "Dear Abby" letter written after smoking toad. Pinky swear I haven't done toad today. It's Mr. J's birthday, and I don't want to be slobbering wacky when he comes home from work.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," counting down to Rapture in three ... two ... one.

I find it hard to make predictions about deities. One time I was on a golf course, on a high piece of ground, with a titanium putter in my hand, just four feet from the hole. I missed the shot. As a thunderstorm roiled around me, I waved the putter in the air and dared God to strike me dead.

And here I am. You cannot trust these deities to do what they're purported to do.

At the same time, I can't help but draw up a wish list for the Great Beast.

You've heard of the Great Beast. He's the bad dude who's going to descend and enthrall us after Rapture ... only to dash our heads against the bricks, or some such.

Who would you like to see dashed on the bricks by the Great Beast?

Me, I'm a no-kill kinda gal, so maybe I ought to put it differently. Who do you think deserves to smell the Great Beast's breath up close and personal?

Here's my short list.

1. People who think there's only one way to salvation, and that is ... (enter your exclusionary religion here).

2. People who reap profit off human suffering. You know, insurance company execs, makers of fast food, the Military Industrial Complex ... enough examples. You're smart. You get it.

3. People who set themselves up as paragons of virtue, when really they're secretly boozing, drugging, and banging in reckless abandon. Have at 'em, Beast.

4. All of the people who have replaced the cute Mister Softee vendor who used to drive the ice cream truck through my neighborhood. (Yes, I know. It's personal.)

5. Rick Santorum, just because he would not believe his bad luck at not being Raptured.

Please feel free to leave your candidates for suffering at the hands of the Great Beast in the comments column. We at "The Gods Are Bored" really appreciate your patronage, which will be the subject of the next entry!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" What a beautiful day it is outside! I think I'll keep this post short.

As my three readers already know, a date for The Rapture has been officially set. It is exactly 10 days hence, on May 21, 2011.

So far, those of us who promote the bored gods have pretty much been thinking about the commercial and ecological ramifications of this long-awaited event. How could we have overlooked the spiritual dimension?

The Bible pretty much lays out this scenario where those who are not Raptured will face great strife from such vile opponents as celestial horsemen and a Great Beast that we'll all recognize because he'll be spray-painted with a great big 666.

That sounds scary.

There's also the matter of people being Left Behind. Suppose some of those people (more likely a lot of them) think they should have been promoted? There's bound to be bitterness.

Some people scared, some people bitter ... and some of us not giving a fig, because we're with the bored gods.

So I, Anne Johnson, am now going to create a 501 C3 nonprofit organization called Friends of the Bored Gods. We at Friends of the Bored Gods will be offering post-Rapture counseling and education for all of those who are either scared or pissed. No one need look over a shoulder for the Great Beast! At least, not if you're taking an alternate route. Friends of the Bored Gods will provide alternate routes to healing and closure in the post-Rapture world. Trust me, friends, the hundreds of bored deities who've been ousted by Yahweh are already camping around the pond behind my house, just waiting for a new influx of mortal followers. (We've been having some lively, family-friendly parties.)

If you would like to donate to Friends of the Bored Gods, just remember our rules here at "The Gods Are Bored." It's all about the economy. You write to me, tell me how much you would like to donate. I'll send you a check for that amount, which you will then return to me. Let's face it, times are tough. This is our way of letting you feel good without having to sacrifice your pin money.

Friends of the Bored Gods has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Gosh, I thought that up all by myself! Rather proud.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we have very, very, very good news today!

The date for Rapture has been set. According to a huge billboard about a mile away from where I'm sitting, Armageddon begins on May 21, 2011.

In less than two weeks, the busy god will call his best pupils away, and the world will suddenly become less populous. That is, if you believe that more than 144,000 people can get into heaven.

For the sake of celebration, let us assume that more than 144,000 people will get into heaven.

On May 21, as I said, the best and brightest of Yahweh's bustling entourage will be whisked straight away. What will the rest of us do?

On Facebook, someone has set up an After Rapture Party for May 22. I'm cool with that. I'll dig out a nice casserole recipe for nostalgia's sake, and all of us Left Behinders can revel in the removal of the very most sanctimonious amongst us.

Think of all the mega-churches we'll have, totally empty and at our disposal! Well, there's a nice gap-filler in the school budget, for one thing. Art supplies! Tables, chairs, and desks, for kids of all sizes! Take the school stuff out, put in some lightly-used furniture, and voila! Housing for people who are living in tents! Some of these places even have showers and basketball courts. Sweet!

The Raptured will leave behind homes, cars, clothes, jewelry, furniture, pets, and other swell things that can be doled out to the non-Raptured on an as-needed basis. I think we can be fair about this. Take me, for instance. My car works pretty well, so I won't need the late model Ford Escalade belonging to the pastor who figured out when The Rapture would begin. But I'll bet there's someone out there whose beat-up old pickup just breathed its last. And I'll bet that person just missed Rapture by a smidgen, maybe bet the Kentucky Derby last weekend or something equally pernicious. Justice! That's what I'm all about. The Escalade goes to the guilty gambler. It'll take the sting out of not being Raptured (and missing out on that fabulous $300-plus exacta).

Just a warning: We at "The Gods Are Bored" may be a little late for the After Rapture Party. Awhile back, we went to give blood at the Snobville United Methodist Church, in the process getting an eyeball of some high quality upholstered furniture in the church foyer. No one will miss it! Ask any Snobville Methodist, they will shyly admit they're on the Rapture roster.

So I get first dibs on the easy chairs, okay? You all must know me by now.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today we're gazing southbound at some top-quality morons at work. You go, morons! It's not my tax dollars you're wasting!

Today's Baltimore Sun had a front-page story about a group of African American legislators from Baltimore who have decided that Negro Mountain in Garrett County should be re-named. I didn't even know there was a Negro Mountain in Maryland, but I do know that there's a Warrior's Ridge. It's the next mountain over from Polish Mountain...

... emmmm ... Polish Mountain. That would be the Polish Mountain where my farm is...

The selfsame Polish Mountain that is now "under study" for a name change as well.

I kid you not, readers. A committee led by two Maryland lawmakers named Nathanial Oaks and Lisa Gladden has decided to look into dubious mountain names with the hopes of changing them to something more politically correct.

EXHIBIT A: MOUNTAIN TO BE NAMED LATER



I'll go out on a politically-incorrect limb here and say that I don't find "Negro Mountain" to be particularly offensive. But it's not my right to say. I don't live on Negro Mountain, and I'm not African American.

However, I do own property on Polish Mountain (at least for now), and I'm extremely affronted by Ms. Gladden and Mr. Oaks' sudden attention to its name.

Maryland's state anthem has pro-Confederate lyrics that are so offensive no one ever dares sing it in public. If the state's black lawmakers want a cause celebre, they could certainly begin with that song. Or they could re-name the statue dedicated to Confederate mothers in north Baltimore. Right in their own back yard.

But to suggest that the name of Polish Mountain is "under study" for a change is, to me, the finest waste of taxpayer dollars and hot air in the history of the Free State.

There's a whole scene in the Penn-Faulkner Award-winning novel, The Chaneysville Incident, that takes place on Polish Mountain. The author uses the name Polish Mountain. Just like everyone has since before any data was recorded on paper. No one really knows how the mountain got its name. It certainly didn't have to do with anyone of Polish ancestry. And it certainly wasn't a stab at Polish people. It's a beautiful mountain. Any Pole would be proud to live on it.

I have of course fired off a blistering email to Sens. Gladden and Oaks, telling them to get about some more important and relevant business. The time they spend studying Polish Mountain's name could be better spent ... oh, I dunno ... blocking development along the Chesapeake Bay? Improving the quality of Baltimore's public schools? Curbing irrational exurban development projects? Blocking the pending plans to drill for gas underneath the doggone mountains, with possible environmental devastation?

Oh, but it's so much easier to re-name the mountains! We'll just let the natural gas people in on the changes, so they can plan accordingly.

This is not the first time that I have noticed the preponderance of morons in politics. Where do we find these people?

I can't speak for Negro Mountain, but I think with Polish Mountain, my mountain, the crusading legislators may have met their match. You see, Polish Mountain begins at the Potomac River and runs due north into Pennsylvania. Yes, this name change would have to go through not one but two state legislatures. Who would have to approve sign changes, and map changes. And who would have to explain to the African American author of The Chaneysville Incident why his novel would no longer be geographically accurate.

I'm glad my mother-in-law alerted me to this pending legislation in Maryland. I have plenty of time to go home to Polish Mountain and speak to each and every one of its 376 residents. We will no doubt decide to secede from the state and the nation and form our own country. We'll name it the Democratic Republic of Polish Mountain. And we'll pick a better anthem, something meaningful like "Rocky Top."

If they re-name my mountain, I'm going to be so offended that I'll insist that they also re-name Druid Hill Park (in Baltimore). As a Druid, I STRONGLY OBJECT to having an urban park named after my religion!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," taking a break from breaking news for a little funny navel-gazing.

Do you go to the movies? I do. I don't mind going alone to see a film, so if I've got a few hours to squander, I'll take in a flick. In that way I saw "The King's Speech," which is about as good as movie-making gets.

This past Thursday evening, Mr. J and I went into Philly to an advance screening for a new movie. The producer and screenwriter were both in attendance at the screening. The idea was to create a "buzz" for the picture, since apparently they had the dough to hire Robert Redford to direct it and a cast of fairly well-known actors and actresses to appear in it, but not enough left over for a media campaign.

I'm not going to name the movie, because I only saw about half of it. I'll get to that in a minute.

First let me say that this screening did have some heavy-hitters in the audience. A mayoral candidate was there, as was Mark Bowden, the author of Black Hawk Down. (Mr. J has known Mr. Bowden for 30 years.) There were also swells from Penn and the local history museums, since the film in question is a costume drama about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

With one thing and another, Mr. J and I didn't get inside the theater until the movie was just about to start. The place was packed. Also, it was an older-style art house without the fancy seats and stadium layout you get these days at the Cineplex. Mr. J and I were forced to sit way down in the front, so that we had to lean back and practically stare straight up to see the film.

I suffer from motion sickness. No sooner had the doggone thing started than I began to feel queasy. About an hour into it, my choices were either to make a scene in the theater by becoming ill, or just getting up and going out into the lobby. I chose the latter.

The thing about motion sickness is that, as soon as you remove the irritant causing it, it goes away. But this queasiness didn't go away. It got worse. Turns out I was in the beginning phases of a light bout of stomach flu. Thank goodness I didn't have to run for the bathroom, but I also did not return to the theater.

Anyway, I was sitting in the lobby, just me and the two dudes who were selling tickets and popcorn. All of a sudden, out came the producer and the screenwriter, and they ensconced themselves in seats that were near me.

You would think that they would leave well-enough alone, especially considering the fact that there were two other movies being screened in the art house at that time. But no. These two swells started up a chat with me. The first thing the producer said was, "Oh my. You didn't like the film?"

????

I replied, "Oh no, I liked the film, but I was sitting in the front, and I got motion sickness." Trying to put a good ol' spin on it, I added, "So you see? You've already sold a ticket, because now I'll have to go back and pay to see how it ends."

(This is the moment that separates the Hollywood A-listers from the Hollywood wannabes. An A-list producer would have given me his card and instructed me to call his office for free tickets for myself and my friends. This guy's eyes lit up. Aha! A sale!)

Then I asked, "There's a really nice art house over in New Jersey. It's called The Ritz. Will this be showing there?"

The producer said he didn't know. I said, oh well, I could always look on Fandango.

To which the producer looked at the screenwriter and said, "Wow, we ought to look into being listed on Fandango."

It's hard to break into the Hollywood scene, as any Sundance finalist will tell you. But one would think that this producer would at least have consulted his A-list director to find out the basics of distribution. And one would also think that a producer might have a BlackBerry or other palm device that he could consult to find out exactly where his film would be opening in major metropolitan areas.

Then they began to ask me politely whether or not I'd liked what I saw, to which I politely replied in the affirmative, even though it's hard to get excited about a movie when you feel like you're going to throw up in the middle of it.

Apropos of nothing, the screenwriter asked me, "Do you know much about the Civil War?"

Maybe it's just me, but I thought that question was impertinent. What sort of American would answer in the negative to that?

I replied, "Do I know much about the Civil War? Oh, I suppose I know as much as anyone would who grew up five miles from Antietam Battlefield."

Don't you admire my restraint? I said nothing about the two great-great-great uncles buried in the red Georgia clay at Andersonville, nothing about working in Harper's Ferry when I was a teen, nothing about close friends who do extreme re-enactments, nothing about multiple school field trips to all the area battlefields where I grew up, nothing about the regiment, unit, and division of my four direct ancestors whose service I have documented from the National Archives, nothing about my membership in the nearly-defunct Ladies of the Grand Army of the Republic, nothing about the two biographies of Stonewall Jackson I read in 2009, nothing about my re-tracing Jackson's forays in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, nothing about my signed copy of Maryland Civilians in the Antietam Campaign, nothing about my financial support to the successful efforts at keeping shopping centers from being built at the boundaries of Antietam Battlefield, nothing about my favorite blog post, "Pickett's Slots," about the travesty of a casino being built in Gettysburg, nothing about my special invitation to the premiere of Gods and Generals in Hagerstown, nothing about my dear mama asleep with the Confederate dead, and nothing about passing lines of fake cannons, monuments, and tour markers every time I took a bike ride growing up.

I also did not tell this young fella that I've read the entirety of Shelby Foote's history of the war in question. Because that would be a stretcher. I stopped midway through Volume Three.

Nor did I tell him that upper class people in the 1860s did not say, "Uh huh," as they do in his film. Nor did young people kiss in public, as they do in the film. Nor did people get wounded in the war and then stride about exuding Hollywood health. Nor did dungeons have enough light for people to actually see into them. Nor did dirt roads look like mulched roads (they usually get this part of it right in Civil War movies). Nor did Marylanders ever speak with broad Southern accents, even those Marylanders living on the Eastern Shore.

Ah, but those are minor quibbles. The kind that will get this movie picked to pieces by all the re-enactors out there who will go to see it.

You would never know it to read this blog, but I'm a fairly likable human being. The way I go about being likable is to encourage other people to talk about themselves. So that's what I did with these two. I just started asking innocuous questions. All the while thinking to myself, "I can't believe he just asked me if I knew much about the Civil War."

I, Anne Johnson, will neither praise nor pan a movie that I have not seen in full. But this I will say. The brain trust behind this costume drama (it's the first full-length film for the production house) does not seem to me to be ready for prime time.

If you want someone to buzz your movie, you damn well should know exactly where it will be showing in the area.

If the person you're speaking to is apparently literate, you should not ask if they know much about the Civil War. Especially if your special invitees run high to Philadelphia's most prominent historians and curators.

So readers, if you want to support independent cinema, my advice to you is to click on my sidebar and contribute to the maker of Glen Rock Fae. He, at least, is not going to ask you if you know anything about faeries.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are relentlessly dedicated to fun! "O gentlemen, the time of life is short. To spend that shortness basely is too long."

Shut up, Shakespeare, before I hit you with a water balloon!

On the count of three, everyone's going to salute William Shakespeare with a Bronx cheer! Ready? One ... two ... three ...


PFFFFTTTTTTFFFTTTTTTT!!!

I am seriously thinking of starting my own religion. Rule number one would be not to take anything seriously except the sanctity of human life. Beyond that, anything goes!

This musing is brought about by a change in leadership for the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm.

I got an email yesterday from someone who has taken up some slack left by the departure of Bard Andrew (see sidebar). The new arrival found numerous grammatical errors in the Spoutwood site, particularly in the area of its Tribes. This same scholar had plenty to say about Bard Andrew's take on Celtic spirituality -- from spelling errors to major quibbles about the British Isles and some such.

This same editor suggested that we in the Mountain Tribe should strike the "Meka leka hi, meka hiney ho" from our Mountain Tribe chant, because -- get this, readers -- it must be an "inside joke."

Gauntlet thrown, "Gods Are Bored" takes arms.

If you were thinking of coming to the Spoutwood Fairie Festival and becoming part of the Mountain Tribe, please take heed of the following scholarly arrangements:

1. Be very, very well-versed in "Pee Wee's Playhouse." All hillbillies love it. Don't try to join our tribe without knowing the exact upholstery pattern on Cherry.

2. New this year: You must also have watched every episode of "Dr. Who," Doctors 10 and 11 ... and you'd better be pretty well-versed in Eccleston as well. There will be a quiz. And the Mountain Tribe MAY have a Tardis. If you question the authenticity of hillbillies in a Tardis, you are a HERETIC.

3. DFTBA. Don't know what that means? You are inauthentic. Go and spend 15 years researching archaic Celtic lore (and another six months on the latest internet banter), or you don't qualify for Mountain Tribe.

Bamp! Just kidding.

Ha ha, la di dah! Whoever edited the tribal page for Spoutwood doesn't get faeries at all! Faeries want to be up on the latest, greatest, most amazing, and -- most importantly -- FUN innovations! Do they care if you spell "faerie" as "fairy?" Oh HELL no! Every morning, every evening, ain't we got fun!?!

Spare and I are the leaders of the Mountain Tribe. No one can dispute my authenticity. My ancestors marched to the Whiskey Rebellion from the mountains of Western Maryland. And as a card-carrying hillbilly, I make the decisions for the Mountain Tribe.

We will say "Meka leka hi, meka hiney ho." That is not an inside joke. Pee Wee is a friend to Faerie.

We will wear fezzes, because Dr. Who likes fezzes. Since when is a British science fiction creation a hillbilly? Oh, since never -- but in Cumberland, Maryland there's a fraternity called the Ali Ghan Shrine ... and those dudes wear fezzes!

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are serious in our support for scholarship. We proudly count a few college professors among our readership. But those professors would immediately recognize the difference between innovative sweet fun and strict adherence to some sort of rule of propriety. The former belongs at Fairie Festivals. The latter belongs in books, papers, and in serious stuff.

We are not serious here. A faerie named Puck lives in our midst, and he has told us point-blank that Shakespeare never wrote a word for anything but money or sex. Did you really believe otherwise?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we delightfully dally with deities daily! If you need a bored god (or goddess), just check the sidebar, where we feature a new one every day.

Today, however, we put aside our deity devotions for more worldly matters.

As I drove to work this morning, I learned that Jesse Ventura is suing the federal government for the pat-downs he receives at airports.

Probably very few of you have the fond feelings I hold for Jesse "The Body" Ventura. Back in the 1980s, after he had been a Navy Seal -- but before he became governor of Minnesota -- Jesse was a professional wrestler with the World Wrestling Federation. And he was funny as the day is long. The guy was inspiring. My kind of humor, too. Witty put-downs, oversized boasts, flamboyant boas and statements and strutting. I started every Saturday morning with Jesse "The Body" and even went to live events at the Joe Louis Arena (much to Mr. Johnson's chagrin).

Everyone else must have forgotten Jesse "The Body's" antics, because he was the last dude on the planet I ever thought would be elected to government. (Oh well, not necessarily. We've got Arnold in Cali after all.) From time to time I have wondered how "The Body" would do in national politics. He's got the gift of gab, big time.

Let's put all of that aside, though. Here's an ex-Navy Seal who served as a state governor, and when he flies he has to be patted down. Why? Because he has a titanium hip.

I too have a titanium hip.

I don't fly much in the apparent world. The last time I was on a plane, I had a real hip with no problems in it whatsoever. It's rather disconcerting to know, however, that when I do get ready to board a plane, chances are good that I'm going to be frisked like a caught crook. If Jesse "The Body" gets patted down, what will Anne "The Druid" get? Full cavity exploration?

The automobile is looking better and better.

Jesse "The Body" was a wrestler in the 1980s, so he must be quite a bit diminished by now in terms of physical prowess. Nevertheless, I would not like to be the one who had to say, "Okay, Mr. Ventura. Hands on the wall, spread your legs." Jesse didn't get a titanium hip because he got arthritis. He must have busted every joint in that wrestling ring. Or in the Seals ... the friggin Seals! We are frisking Navy Seals!

Go Greyhound. The energy saver.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," live from Snobville, New Jersey! I'm Anne, a fine lady of a certain age. And with age comes wisdom ... if not money. I'm poor, but I'm smart.

The thing about wisdom is that every experience adds to it. It accrues, if you aren't a forgetful moron.

Tonight I accrued some new wisdom and recalled some old wisdom, and it all boils down to this: Don't go looking for those brightly-colored Christmas houses two weeks after the Christmas season ends.

Remember this. You heard it here, so don't do it.

Earlier this evening, the Vo Tech had its annual talent show. My daughter The Heir is about to go back to college this weekend, and I didn't want to spend another long evening at school without her. So I asked her to come over and be with me in the after-school hours (I'm co-leader of a club) and then go with me to the talent show.

Heir's dad dropped her off at 4:00, and we attended the talent show at 6:00. It ended at 7:30, and we started driving back toward Snobville. When we got to Snobville, the whole place was lit up like Christmas never ended (We've had a few snowstorms here, and the wealthy residents don't care about their electric bills).

Heir and I, not wishing to call it a day, decided to go into the neighboring borough and scope out one of our all-time favorite Crazy Christmas houses, just in the off chance that it was still lit up. We drove to the neighborhood, and slowly drove around looking for the house. Found it -- cruised by -- it not only wasn't lit, but it also looked forlorn, because not all of the decorations had been put away yet. So I slowly eased toward the main thoroughfare again ... and suddenly there was a cop car behind me, lights flashing.

I pulled over, wondering what the Sam Hill could possibly be wrong. I sure wasn't exceeding the speed limit, and I'd recently had my car in the Vo-Tech shop, so I knew no bulbs were burnt out or anything. But here came the cop with his flashlight, asking me for my license and registration.

He said, "You were driving slowly and making frequent stops."

I said, "Yes, we were looking for that crazy Christmas house. You know, the one all lit up."

He said, "That's four miles from here." (Were do they get these men? Heir and I were one block from a house that has been featured in the Philadelphia Inquirer.)

I said, "Well, I know this is silly, because it's way after Christmas, but I was hoping the lights were still on."

He said, "There's been a lot of drug activity in this neighborhood, so we are pulling over anyone who's acting suspicious."

(New Jersey and you ... perfect together.)

The cop bid me farewell, and Heir and I tooled off toward Snobville.

I was reminded of a time when my mother was getting elderly and she was out driving at night. A policeman stopped her and made her walk the white line because she was driving too slowly. He thought she was lit. She chewed him out because it was cold, and she was old -- and he made her late for her bridge game.

Annie's free advice for the night: Drive fast. And don't look for Christmas lights on January 13. If you can't get the Christmas house thing done by the time Santa plops down his last sack of coal, bag it.

Can you think of anything more embarrassing than being pulled over by a cop for driving too slow, and then your registration has expired?

Yeah, I'm Annie the Cailleach. Learn from me.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Laughing through Cyber Monday -- got Spare's gift at a deep discount by being up at 5:00 a.m. for a cyber deal. Sure beats standing in line in the cold and dark for an hour, only to find that the bait-and-switch item you wanted is all "sold out."

Time to pass along a little free advice!

I thought of this while I was watching "Harry Potter and the Incessantly Endless and Pointless Plotline." If you're candid with yourself, you'll have to agree. Holes in the logic here, people.

One of the biggest holes in Harry Potter is the whole wand thing. Proof beyond shadow of a doubt that the author is not now, nor ever was, a Pagan.

How does one procure a wand in Harry Potter's world? Oh, gosh! One goes to a store. Buys it. Sure, the wand "speaks" to you. But you still have to buy it. I presume that the more doubloons you have, the better the wand that speaks to you. And in this saga, the most powerful wand is buried with a wizard whose grave is so easy to plunder it just boggles the mind. Wands. Bought and sold. Stolen. Borrowed. Grabbed and used by others.

Baaaaammmmmp! Foul! Pish tosh!

The whole point of a wand is this: You invest your time, energy, and love into it. Not your cash. Don't ever let anyone sell you a wand, no matter how beautiful it is.

Let me amend that. You can buy a beautiful wand for its appeal, but don't expect it to work for you. A working wand starts with a stick you pick up in the forest. Feathers you find here and there. A charm someone gives you. String. That little bead on the floor just at the edge of the fridge.

What does a real wand look like? It looks like you. It's a reflection of your personality, because you made it. If you're showy, it will be snazzy. If you're quiet, it may just be humble. The point is, to have an effective wand, you must make it yourself, from things that really speak to you.

On we go to the whole point of a magick wand. Have you ever tried pointing one at someone and saying, "Drop over dead, you wastrel?" Not that I've done it, but my guess is that this would not work.

My wand is an object to hold when I am meditating or reflecting. Good energy was stored in it when I made it, and I take it with me to places where I know it will absorb more good energy. I don't use it for protection, or for show, or for spell-making. I just hold it in my lap.

This morning I thought about my wand. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, 40 minutes before lunch, and my English Honors class bounded into the room like a pack of Tiggers. Hot on their heels came my Language Arts supervisor, newly hired by our district. He had come in for an informal "walk through." So, clipboard in hand, he watched as I spent about 15 minutes trying to calm a dozen 14-year-olds who must have had Sprite for breakfast.

The charming evaluation forms have a place for a numerical ranking. One (1) is "needs improvement." Two (2) is "barely ok." Three (3) is "decent." I got one-half. Not a 1-slash-2, a .5. Fifty percent. Half. Which isn't even on the sheet.

It's at times like this that one wishes for a Harry Potter wand. Just wave a fancy stick, shower everyone with "quiet dust," and zap the supervisor with the sinking feeling that he's forgotten his wedding anniversary and ought to biff off to the card shop.

Real wands aren't like that. A real wand welcomes you home at the end of a tough Monday and has you laughing into the wind and looking for faeries in the ivy. A real wand sits at your elbow as you make dinner, chat with your daughter, trash-talk the River Tribe on Facebook. Soon enough you might as well have had that quiet dust, because it doesn't really matter anymore. Tomorrow's another day, and maybe the Tiggers will be turtles, and maybe Gatsby will turn away from that green light on the dock and say to himself, "Can't repeat the past. Off to Tibet."

It's Cyber Monday. Get your magick wand today! It's not in a store or even online. Be like Dorothy. Look in your own back yard.

Don't you just love October? Even if you live in the Southern Hemisphere, you must love October. October rules, reigns, and rises above! Give me autumn, or give me death. Or both. I'm cool with that.

I'm going to start this post with a shout-out to the incredible Mrs. B, over at Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom.  http://www.confessionsofapagansoccermom.com/ 

Every year between October1 and October 31, Mrs. B throws every ounce of energy into providing Pagans with enjoyable giveaways, guest blogs on thoughtful topics, and haunted blog tours. (I did a guest and a tour last year.) If you don't already have Mrs. B. on your radar, go and visit!

Now, on to today's sermon: WHAT A WACKY DAY!

When you live in New Jersey, it's almost a given that September brings some kind of tropical storm. We just had one, Nicole by name. She didn't look like a beast until yesterday after dark, when the sky opened up and it poured like God had reneged on the rainbow thing.

By this morning, there was water, water everywhere, and still it fell from the sky. Off I went to school, wiper blades doing double shift.

(Funny aside: I still have the same teacher parking space that I had last year. My space ends at a chain-link fence, behind which live four big, loud German Shepherds and two yappy canines of some other breed. Last year before I achieved wisdom, the sinister barking and snarling of these hounds added to my misery. Now that I'm enlightened, I get out of my car -- 6:45 a.m. -- and sweetly call, "HERE, KITTY KITTY KITTY..." You should just see and hear the rage! Starts me off laughing every day.)

Back to the sermon.

I went into the school. In the mornings I have cafeteria duty, meaning that I stand in the cafeteria while the kids get their breakfast (your tax dollars at work). Today, the cafeteria was under a few inches of water. No breakfast. And pandemonium as we tried to explain that fact to 600 kids.

Finally settled into the morning routine, and -- ZAP! -- out goes the power. And it stays out. And stays out. And stays out.

WHIRRRRRR! On comes the emergency generator. Enough juice for the principal to make an announcement over the intercom: "Please keep all students in their second period classes."

Am I lucky, or what? My second period class only has nine students, and two were absent. The rest were working on computers, but when the juice ran dry, they switched to paper and pen and kept right on working. Yeah. I'm flabbergasted too. But size (or lack thererof) does matter in this case. It's not hard to keep seven kids on task.

You won't believe me, but it's true. School is more boring when you don't have something to do than when you do. Students don't understand this, but teachers do.

The power was out for more than a half hour, but when it came up again, school resumed and the bell schedule was adjusted. Excitement enough for a month of Sundays!

October. In like a lion, out like a lion. Don't give me that lamb stuff. I'm a cat person.

 So anyway, it was another long day. On Fridays I like to get my lesson plans done for the following week, and my room tidy, before I come home.

By the time I did get home, around 6:25, the sky had cleared, and beautiful cool autumn weather was descending. Better yet, I discovered that The Spare was going out with her gal pals, and Mr. Johnson was biffing off to do research for his book. Home with nothing to do on a Friday night!

Snobville has these puffy affairs called "First Friday," where all the boutiques and restaurants are open, and there's live music on main street.

BAMP! I would rather swallow a chicken bone.

Beautiful autumn evening, a home football game ... right across the pond ... an 8-minute walk ...

BAMP! Had to buy cat food. And supper. By that time it was dark.

So, what's a happy Druid to do with an evening alone? I got a little supper, some tonic on the rocks, and went to enjoy the solitude of my back porch and a little candle-light from the Shrine of the Mists.

Shrine was fine, but wouldn't you know ... I plopped into a patio chair ... Tropical Storm Nicole ...

So here I am, blogging in my home office, listening to the roar of the crowd in the stadium (next block), with a moistened tooshy to keep me company.

I love October. Don't you?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," twelve miles out from Kettle Point, bound for Boston, with ... nothing in particular.

(Every now and then I have to borrow from another author for my opener. I run out of ideas.)

A trickle of news tells us that Jon Stewart is proposing a "Restoring Sanity" march in Washington, DC on October 30. Apparently the target participant for this thing is someone who is sane and reasonable. Someone who doesn't hold strong views on either side of the partisan divide.

Putting aside the fact that I'm not sane enough to gain admittance to this march, I'm not sure I would go anyway. Talk about a boring event! This promises to be a major snooze-fest. A march by Middle Americans who don't feel strongly either way on the issues facing our country? zzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzzz!

How about a "Restoring Insanity" march? We could wave Flying Spaghetti Monster banners, drink Red Bull, speak Klingon, and throw red Fizzies into the Reflecting Pool. Then we could play paintball in the Lincoln Memorial before settling down to a Residents concert, followed by a midnight showing of "Harold and Maude."

Now that's an event I could see myself at!

Seriously. The only people who go to marches are people who feel strongly about something. Can you imagine getting up on the morning of the "Restoring Sanity" march and trying to decide what to wear? Navy Dockers and white button-down, or khaki Banana Republic crop pants with a basic J. Jill t-shirt? zzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ!!!!!

None of that dull attire at my "Restoring Insanity" march! Come in your faerie wear, your best cosplay get-up, your favorite glistening yellow raincoat! And while we're at it, let's do some cosplay of our own. Travis Bickle re-enactors! Scary clowns! Reward for the best impersonator of Bob's Big Boy!

Boom boom, ain't it great to be crazy?

The moral of this story is simple enough. Sane people don't go to Washington to demonstrate their sanity. They stay home and mow the lawn.

While they're doing that, I say let's march, crazy lunatic people! Remember, our nation's motto is, "Out of many, one." There are plenty of crazies out there, and it's America -- they have to keep us. Let's show our gratitude by reminding America that we're nuts, and we vote in nutty ways, and democracy is the lunatic's best friend!

Who's with me on this? I have to know how much Red Bull to bring.