Girls in Gooey Gowns

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hope you had a fine Fourth of July.

It's been awhile since Spare and I gussied up in our gooey (and cheesy) colonial-repro gowns. But this year, with a new president in office -- and a new director of the local museum -- we decided to go help out at an Open House at the museum.

Our little borough has its own fireworks display on July 3. There's also a bigger display nearby on the Fourth, sponsored by a local geezer rock station. This year's geezer band concert was headlined by Foghat.

If you remember Foghat, don't be surprised if your knees hurt after you do your gardening.

As I sat in a crowd of 60,000 people, listening to Foghat, I began to wonder how it is that my family has lived 8 miles from Philadelphia for 22 years and has never gone into the city on the Fourth of July. That's sort of a no-brainer, isn't it?

Next year, it's time for a change.

More Work by Fierce Bad Faeries

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ask not what your faeries can do for you. Ask what you can do for your faeries.

My daughter The Heir and I will be attending a wedding next Saturday. The Heir's college roommate is the bride. The bride is 19. She is a conservative Christian, daughter and granddaughter of conservative Christians. When The Heir went to this young woman's bridal shower, the grandmother asked Heir: "So. What church do you go to?" (Like the Grinch, Heir thought up a lie, and thought it up quick.)

I have to drag my carcass to this wedding, deep in the heart of Amish country, because the drive is long and complicated, and Heir is notoriously rough on automobiles.

Lo and behold, the other day Spare and I got an invitation from Otter the River God (from the fairy festival) to a block party. Same day as the fundie wedding in Amish land. Closer drive by about 45 minutes.

When I floated the idea to Heir that perhaps her dad could take her to the wedding, she pulled the sympathy card. Hadn't I already done enough fun fairy stuff with Spare, and without her?

Couldn't argue about that. So, off to the wedding I go.

Except for one thing. I can't find the pants to my Church Lady Pant Suit.

The top is in the closet. The matching pants are nowhere to be found. I could swear I had the doggone thing on not long ago for some other dreadful event. How could I lose a pair of ugly blue linen pants?

How, indeed. The resident faeries, hearing of my decision to forego a fun block party for a church wedding of two horny but abstinent 19-year-olds, promptly disposed of the pants. My guess is that I'll never find them, ever.

So now I'm off to the consignment shop to find a dress suitable for a church wedding, one that will also see me through an upcoming D.A.R. event. I hate dresses, unless they're gooey re-enactor gowns.

Bad faeries! Bad! No chocolate tonight!

Image: My favorite bad faerie, "Rebel," by Seitou.

When Good Psychics Go Bad

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," my friends! Today I'm going to navel-gaze about something going on in my household. The scenario has a long back story, so if you're not into long-winded oratory, today might be a good one to check out my other blog. It's anything but long-winded.

Years ago, during a rough patch in my brain chemistry, my family doctor referred me to a psychic. Yes, you read that correctly. This doctor (although thoroughly skilled in dispensing Cipro for infections, etc.) was into pendulums and chakras and accupuncture. For awhile he had been referring patients to this psychic with good results.

The psychic lived in northern Maryland, which is a hop-skip from South Jersey, so I drove down. She was very pretty and very nice, and very Christian. Part of the session was psychic, and part was Tarot. Bottom line: By the time I turned 50, I would be a famous artist, financially comfortable, and my only problem would be with my younger daughter.

Now I'm 50, I'm anything but famous and financially comfortable, and I enjoy a warm relationship with The Spare.

After my visit to the psychic, Mr. Johnson decided to go see her himself. She was more helpful to him, and they struck up a friendship.

At that time, Mr. Johnson and I were trying to get some interest going in a screenplay we had written together. The psychic knew some people in show business. She arranged a meeting. The people she knew turned out to be putzes, but that's okay. Most everyone with even tenuous ties to filmmaking is a putz.

More time passed, and Mr. Johnson went to see the psychic a few more times. Then she asked us to help her market a television series she had mapped out in her imagination. The only thing I found interesting about her concept was that it was about three psychic sisters named Morgan, Bridget, and Dana. Pinky swear. When I asked her where she got the names, she said she just thought them up. When I told her they were Celtic Goddesses she more or less freaked.

It was bound to come out to this gal that I am a Pagan. I didn't particularly care about that, because I didn't intend to see her for services anymore. But that fact, plus my daughter The Heir's interest in studying cults, plus (my guess) the gal's jealousy of my stable marriage sort of stewed together into a toxic mix.

Mr. Johnson went to see this psychic last week for a reading. And if her predictions ring true, just about everything that can go wrong in this household will go wrong, with the possible exception of Decibel the Parrot getting eaten by a jaguar.

She started the psychic portion by telling my husband that the spirit of his dead father was pronouncing our marriage "stagnant." Dead Dad went on to accuse me of causing my daughter's illness (it's an inherited condition). Dead Dad predicted that I would melt down in my new job, and Mr. Johnson was about to lose his job too. One after another the dire predictions unfolded. No one (except the aforementioned Decibel) was spared.

Mr. Johnson came home and told me about it. Of course, steam came out of my ears. He and I have been married almost 25 years, have collaborated on professional work, and have produced two wonderful daughters. Stagnant marriage? Yeah, uh huh. I saw right through that.

There's no use going on and on about this. The upshot is that Mr. Johnson is still shaken by this reading. And I'm still pissed about it, because it was so obviously an abuse of power.

If you ever go to a psychic, my advice is to pick someone who knows absolutely nothing about you. I absolutely believe that psychics are attuned to the spirit world. However, their interpretation of the spirit communications is always filtered through their own sensibilities. The less they know about your life, the less baggage they'll bring to the reading.

Worst case scenario is when the psychic is holding a grudge against you for something, like not paying enough attention to her television ambitions. Or her view that all Pagans worship the devil and destroy their children in the process. Or -- most especially -- her thinly-veiled desire for someone else's husband.

Damage has been done. It's time for a real bonfire, not just a kitchen match and some charcoal. Mr. Johnson and I will have to perform a banishing ritual to dispel the negativity this woman sent into our home.

Please send your good wishes as part of this banishment process. One way you can do that is to describe a positive experience you had with the spirit world, either through a medium or on your own.

The iron faeries in my backyard are going to eat good tonight!

Deity of Your City

Welcome to "Gods and the City!" I'm your host, Anne Johnson, and I look just like Sarah Jessica Parker!

Well, maybe a little...

Okay, so maybe just a teensy weensy bit ...

All right, already! I look nothing like Sarah Jessica Parker! I didn't like that stupid show anyway.

The always fascinating Hecate posted the other day about modern city-dwelling Pagans and how they might search for an urban deity particular to their places. What a fitting way to end Pagan Values Month! Let's dole out some deities!

The ancient Greeks associated various deities with cities. We should bring back the practice, but we should find new deities who fit the personality of the cities in which we live.

Yes, I can hear you skeptics. "Now look what Anne's doing. First she re-names the constellations, then she creates a custom pantheon. That's just heretical!"

Easy does it, readership.

First of all, this site is called "The Gods Are Bored." And I'm sure you'll agree that some deities are so bored and forgotten that their names are lost to history. So let's try lighting a small bonfire, calling to these, the most bored deities of all, and re-assigning them to modern urban centers.

Why stop there? The Celts understood that deities could be very particular to even the smallest spot. A wayside well could have its own Goddess. Now, think how many of these wells have gone dry over the course of millennia. There are oodles of Goddesses out there waiting for new assignments! Invite one to your small town today!

In this spirit, and mindful that the Fourth of July is nearly upon us, I pondered the deity situation in the big city nearest to me -- Philadelphia. And it is a big-ass city.

The name Philadelphia means (in Greek) "City of brotherly love." So this metropolis is not named after a deity already.

We have a totally open playing field.

And so, after a little bit of thought in the grocery store parking lot, I turned on my car (ignition causes engine to fire, that counts as a fire), and I invoked a brand new Deity for the "City of brotherly love."

She is a Goddess who will gladly (and charmingly) wear patriotic red, white, and blue. Except on Sundays in the fall, when she will attire herself in hunter green. She will champion those who love justice and liberty, those who do not seek to rule over others but rather to work with them on a level playing field. She is an equal opportunity Goddess who welcomes to her stately bosom people of every race and ethnic origin. Her totem is an eagle, her direction is East. Her holy day is July 4.

I thought and thought about what proud name this fine Goddess should carry into the modern world.

All right. Actually the name came to me right away, because I've lived outside Philly since 1987, and I know its people.

Ladies and gentlemen, please give a wild, warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Bueue, Great New Goddess of Philadelphia and the Delaware Valley!

If you're wondering how to pronounce "Bueue," well, it rhymes with "queue."

Now I have given a wonderful city a Goddess whose name will be lovingly chanted at every sporting event, most political rallies, and almost every social occasion except the annual Mummer's Parade.

At times, specifically when teams like the Dallas Cowboys and the New York Giants arrive in the city for football games, the Great Goddess Bueue will be loudly and continuously praised by the citizens of Philadelphia, for hours at a time!

What bored deity wouldn't jump at a chance like this?

Thalia, do you have any untitled Goddess portraits lying around? Bueue would like everyone to know how She looks!

Now, the rest of you have to get busy drawing a bored deity to your locality. Bueue informs me she will remain strictly in the environs of Philly, never straying even so far away as Wilmington.

Oh, Bueue. How I love you!

Techopagan Magic Wand

Welcome 2 da Gods r bored! Who's ready 4 da modern age? LOL.

Back when Og and Gog perfected the wheel, there were probably priests around that said it was a sin to roll things around. By the time the wheel became a fixture, poor old Og and Gog were probably sitting in the tummies of some buzzards.

Therefore, we @ da Gods r bored applaud modern tech. Keep up w/ da times! Choose what u like and use it in ur religion!

Do you have a magic wand? I do. I made it myself. To me, self-creation is the only prerequisite for a magic wand. You don't have to be an expert artisan to have a wonderful wand. If you pick up a stick that calls to you from the ground, and you don't do anything else to it but shower it with blessings, it will be your wonderful wand forever.

Last Saturday my daughter The Heir went into Philly to a place called The Hacktory. She paid ten dollars for an afternoon workshop led by a team of geeky techy types. Over the course of three hours, she made a thoroughly modern magic wand.

"I actually soddered it myself!" she exclaimed proudly upon her return.

This wand is a pencil fitted with electronic devices, an AAA battery, and an On/Off switch. When Heir draws with it and puts her other finger on the page, it emits theremin-like sounds: little beeps, squeaks, siren noises, and even recognizable tunes. It can also buzz in that very modern electronic way.

Heir is thrilled beyond measure with her creation. She made a video for Facebook, but she's very private -- she wouldn't put the video on YouTube.

Heir's pencil-theremin satisfies every TGAB requirement for a magic wand. She made it herself, she's enriched by its presence in her life, and its use dovetails with her need to be weird in the apparent world.

Even the way she learned about the workshop -- through an artistic friend she works with in the summer -- jibes with the way wand-creation is supposed to work. Sometimes we need help creating our wands, and that help should come from like-minded individuals in a comfortable setting.

So, give it up for the very model of the modern magic wand! It beeps, it squeaks, it makes its creator happy! So might it b!

Other TGAB news:

*Both The Heir and The Spare had their wisdom teeth taken out today. They are predictably wretched. Heir got the worst of it, since hers had already rooted and erupted. But Spare's not doing great either.

*There's a new way to chase down the elusive Anne Johnson on Facebook! If you become a fan of Woodstock Trading Company, you will see me listed among the fans. You can network with me through there ... I think.

ttyl,
Anne
jiggy with 21st c

The Family That Buys Useless "As Seen on T.V." Products Together Stays Together

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on this dark Sunday! Alas, found dead in his home -- Billy Mays!

I wonder what my family will talk about around the dinner table now.

It's unusual for a family actually to sit down to dinner together these days. And I must admit, we don't do it every night. My daughters The Heir and The Spare have busy social calendars. And The Spare only eats french fries and macaroni and cheese. One can't fix that every night.

Most nights the conversation at the dinner table sounded something like this:

Heir: Billy Mays is done. Vince, the ShamWow guy, is so much cooler and more 21st century.

Spare: Vince is cool, but he totally stole the SlapChop from Billy.

Heir: Yeah, but Billy's turning this whole thing into a feud. Like, Vince is trying to steal his territory or something. Billy talks too loud. He's not changing with the times....


On and on and on, as Mr. Johnson and I stare at each other, wondering what we did wrong. Our children are obsessed with the relative merits of television pitchmen.

About 30 minutes ago I was on Facebook, and Seitou posted that Billy Mays had died. For once the t.v. had the info before the Internet. But not long afterwards, the news came over the wire onto Yahoo.

The Heir was completely staggered. "I never would have said all those bad things about him if I knew he was going to die!" she exclaimed.

(Remind me to teach Heir the important lesson that everyone dies eventually, so are you going to say only nice things all the time?)

Just now the telephone rang. It was The Spare, dialing tearfully from Starbucks. "Let me talk to Heir," she said. The sisterly commiseration became quite emotional.

So now I have two daughters, one sobbing into the OxyClean, the other clutching her Mighty Putty to her breast. And there won't be anything to talk about at dinner anymore. We'll just sit there in silence, brooding over our SlapChopped salads and wiping the tears with our ShamWows.

Thorough check reveals no god who rewards wealth acquisition

By Anne Johnson

After completing a comprehensive search of the Holy Database, our research team has been unable to uncover a single deity that actively encourages humans to become as rich as possible and maintain a lifestyle so lavish that it slides off the top of the scale.

We spoke to deities from the Celtic, Norse, Inca, Aztec, Chinese, Japanese, North American, Indian, and Middle Eastern pantheons. Many of these deities supported the idea of prosperity among their followers, but by prosperity they meant a modest degree of creature comfort and the probability that children will live to adulthood. The vast majority of them agreed that greed and gluttony are sinful, especially if other people in the community are unable to find basic sustenance.

We could not get an audience with YWHW, or however you spell His name. He's way too busy to see us. A quick consultation of his Users Manual revealed a certain loathing for golden statues and such that would lead one to believe that He doesn't go in much for that kind of thing. But again, we at "The Gods Are Bored" cannot speak for this overworked deity. Maybe He has changed His mind about greed and just didn't tell anyone but a few select members of His mortal leadership team.

Whatever bored God or Goddess you choose to follow, you can take comfort in knowing that your deity does not expect you to suck in more than your share of the fat of the land. Now go clip some coupons and be glad you own a functional pair of scissors. Your deity loves you just the way you are.