Why I Hated the Barbie Movie

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS 

Oh boy, here comes that curmudgeon from "The Gods Are Bored," about to sneer and jeer at the summer's most iconic (and history's highest earning) movie. Trust me, though, this will not be a defense of Ken. Instead I feel like someone ought to point out the failure of imagination, the indefensible and incomprehensible messages about mothers and daughters, and about the autonomy of tweens in this troubling confection of a film.

What? Barbie is a failure of imagination? But Greta Gerwig! Nah, it's not Greta's fault. It's that big ol' Mattel, trying to be cute and boost the bottom line with more sales of a flagship product.

Let's start with the character Weird Barbie. Oh boy! This movie is going to explore the fact that some kids clip their Barbies' hair and bend them out of shape!

Oh brother.

Let me tell you about the Weird Barbies that dwelled in my home when one of my daughters was a tween and the other an impressionable stripling.

Oh yes, my tween daughter played with Barbies. Gosh, we had a bin of them.  We had:

*anorexic Barbie

*pathological tattooed Barbie

*drug addicted Barbie

*parkour Barbie with attendant injuries

and

*gender fluid Ken

One day I heard a lot of drama being performed in the living room, and when I investigated, these are the Barbies my daughter introduced me to. Now, I have lived long enough to know that nothing -- and I mean nothing about my lives or my children's lives -- is unique to our home. I'm 100% certain that other imaginative youngsters in other imaginative homes were playing with their too-skinny-too-cheerful dolls in the same manner.

See the dark turn this film takes if a director tackles the reality of this toy meant to be sold in the truckloads to enhance shareholder value? But wait, there's more.

In the film, our heroine Stereotypical Barbie becomes existential when her real-world owner starts entwining real-world thoughts with the toy. Okay, that's an interesting premise. Whoa, see above! But I have a deeper question. If Barbie's toy behavior is interwoven with her owner's behavior, what happens to

*naked thrift store Barbie hanging upside down in a plastic bag?

I'll leave that to you to ponder.

Let's move along.

In the opening sequence, listless young girls are seen playing with baby dolls, an activity that the narrator ensures us lacks all imagination and prepares the children for nothing but motherhood. As if motherhood in and of itself has no worth. Thank you, feminists of the 1960s and 1970s, for vilifying the human race's most important task, thereby providing the oligarchy with a workforce it could pay less and work harder while dumping children in daycare! And thank you, Barbie creator, for Supreme Court Barbie, as if every youthful beauty with a 26-inch waist can sit on our nation's highest court! You know what Barbie has never been in all her incarnations? A mom. And that is our nation's disgrace. But it does make rich men richer.

Ironically, the secondary hero of this film is a mom. This mom is sad because her tween daughter is dressing in grunge and separating from her, as all tweens do. The tween caught my attention more than the mom. For my money the best scene in the whole film is where Barbie, in all her blonde fake pinkness, introduces herself to the grungy teen and quickly gets showered with disdain and sent packing. I loved that! If there was a brief moment of verisimilitude in this film, that was it.

But as the film unfolds and the tween's mom becomes ascendant, the tween goes along for the ride and winds up pretty in pink, dancing and laughing with the Barbies. Friends, this was seriously offensive. Tween girl, you've got it all wrong, with your grunge and dirty hair! Get with the Mattel program! Here's a pink bolero jacket. Look how cute you are in it!

No. Just no. Grunge tween should have had the autonomy to tell Barbie and her mom that clothes don't matter. Thinking matters. Being yourself matters. And if your self loves dark shapeless clothing, you have the right to your choice. And you're a tween. It's natural to be seeking some distance from your parents and to make a statement about who you are.

Now it gets personal.

Barbie was created the year I was born. Of course I had one of these dolls by the time I was four. I didn't play with Barbie much. Her big tits and wasp waist bothered me. Also, she came clad in a swimsuit, and if you wanted her to be dressed you had to buy clothes. All my friends had better Barbie clothes than I did. So I ditched Barbie in favor of playing Vietnam War with the boys.

In the film we meet Barbie's creator, an actress who I just love who here plays against type as a gentle, struggling grandma who wanted to earn a living wage. Okay, Mattel. Whatever you say.

SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER STOP HERE IF YOU LIKE SURPRISES

This gentle grandma creator gives Stereotypical Barbie the greatest gift - becoming human. And what does it mean to be human? Well, many of the images projected on the screen are of mothers loving and nurturing children. Very sweet indeed. But, Barbie? You were born in 1959. You are no longer the Maiden or the Mother. You're now a Crone. Welcome to being a 64-year-old woman! You are:

*hip replacement Barbie

*arthritis Barbie

*anxious mammogram Barbie

*chronic earache Barbie

*underpaid overworked bullied Barbie

*true existential crisis Barbie

*anxiety disorder Barbie

and

*OK Boomer Barbie

How do you like it so far?

The bottom line is that the Barbie movie was funded and produced by two companies, Universal Studios and Mattel, whose interests lie in market share. So they got a talented director to make a pretty film that takes shots at the patriarchy but certainly never addresses the problematic role Barbie has played in the lives of generations of young girls. I have to give credit to my own daughter for sinking her Barbies deep into the dark side of America, making them suffer the way so many American women do.

And by the way, that same daughter reversed an overdose on the streets of Philadelphia this weekend. The victim was a slender young girl who ran away as soon as she could stand.

A Rant about Baseball

 This is "The Gods Are Bored," and I assure you, I love baseball. It's my favorite sport, because I am in constant awe that anyone could hit such a small ball, moving so fast, in such a way that it will fall somewhere in a field. It's amazing. And it's the only sphere (ha ha) of life where being 1/3 good at your job makes you a superstar.

As a child, I went to sleep listening to the Baltimore Orioles on the radio. My parents were Orioles fans, and they would put the game on at night. I can clearly remember wondering how all the players' names were spelled. Sure, Jim Palmer and Brooks and Frank Robinson, easy. But Andy Echebarran? Carl Yazstremski? Mike Cuellar? Woof.

The Orioles were great throughout the 1960s and early 1970s. Then they got hot again in 1979, just in time for me to be living six blocks from the stadium through the summer. To sweeten the pot, the Orioles had a student ticket price of $1.75 for upper deck. Yes, the decimal point is in the right place.

I went to every home game that summer.

The way it worked was, I would walk down to the stadium, go to a ticket booth, show my student ID, get a paper ticket, and go to the turnstile. At the turnstile, one of many ushers would tear the ticket in half and give back the stub. Done! Find a seat. Sometimes I sat by myself, sometimes I had friends with me, and sometimes I sat in a section full of rowdies who, like me, went every night.

When I got home from a game, I would take a piece of scotch tape and tape the ticket stub to the wall in my apartment. I didn't start doing this until nearly mid-season, but I'm pretty sure I had more than 50 stubs on that wall.

Good times, good times.

But enough of the great bygone days. Let's look at a modern trip to the ballpark, shall we?

The Orioles were in Philadelphia for a three-game visit. Self, Fair, and Mr. J got seats for the 7/25/23 game, which cutely happened to be "Christmas in July." I am fully aware of how Philadelphia fans treat visiting teams and their fans, but I was determined to wear my bright orange Orioles Hawaiian shirt that The Heir had trash-picked from West Philly. More about that in a moment.

Mr. J purchased the tickets, lower deck on the third base side. They cost $60 apiece, with another $20 for guaranteed parking near the third base entrance. The cost alone is jaw-dropping. But to make matters worse, I had to download an app to access a QR code that was my ticket. Ponder this. Go ahead, I'll give you a moment.

This is Philadelphia, so of course I got trash-talked before even getting within spitting distance of the ballpark. But the Orioles are hot at the moment, and Baltimore is only 100 miles from Philly, so I had plenty of fellow fans in orange to commiserate with. (Mr. J wore neutral colors and Fair, a fan of all things Philadelphia, was decked in home team colors.)

When we got to the entry kiosk, I didn't know how to hold my phone so the stadium could scan the code. Fair had to do it for me. And oh yes, before that step we had to go through a security checkpoint that took an X-ray of the contents of our purses.

Finally in the stadium, $200 out of pocket, and one "go back to Baltimore" so far.

Reader, have you been in one of these modern ballparks? They are as loud as the halls of Hell. It isn't fans cheering, it's the jumbo-trons. DANG you cannot hear the person sitting next to you! (Which, given that I was surrounded by Phillies fans, might have been a good thing.)

Mr. J and I had been determined to eat an early dinner before we went to the ballpark. But one thing led to another, and we didn't. The worst place in the world to be hungry is a modern baseball park. The food is dreadful, and you have to take a second mortgage to purchase it. No exaggeration: a bottle of water is five bucks. I don't know what Mr. J spent on the inedible sandwiches he bought for us, but he tells me they don't take cash at the food stands. Lord love ten thousand fruit flies! I'll bet he paid more for the food and beverages we consumed during that game than we did for the half bushel of large, fat crabs from TL Morris Seafood last week.

The stadium was packed. The fans were loud. The Phillies either trailed or tied until the bottom of the ninth, when they got two outs and then scored and won the game. This exhibit about sums it up.

EXHIBIT A: CITIZENS BANK PARK, 7/25/23

About all I can say is, my shirt is the tits.

I wish I could say I'm done with live baseball for all time, but I already have a ticket to another game in late August. This ticket only cost $40, but then I bought a plus-one for Mr. J, so oh boy. It's possible for us to use mass transit to get to the ballpark, which will maybe save us a whopping $10. But I am going to be like Persephone in Hades and not let a morsel of food or drink pass my lips while there.

Just think of it. I saw a whole damn season of home games in 1979 for less than one game in 2023. And I had something to tape on the wall when I got home.

About the only thing that's stayed the same is my devotion to the Baltimore Orioles. What a great team. Go Birds!

Bonding with the Philly Tarot Deck

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We're from Philly, fuckin' Philly. No one likes us, we don't care. Go Birds! Wanna cheesesteak?

If anyone had told my little self in 1969 that I would live my life out 6 miles from Philadelphia (thereby investing all my heart and soul in that hapless hamlet), I would have either cried or jumped off a cliff, depending if there was a cliff available at the moment. I didn't have any interest in Philly, any connections to Philly, or even a smidgen of desire to set foot in it.

Hold that thought in your mind through the back story.

Like almost every modern Pagan, I have dabbled in the Tarot deck from time to time. But never with any enthusiasm. As with religion in general, Tarot is so doggone earnest. All drama, no humor. I could never wrap my mind around the standard deck. Then I got a Knights Templar deck, and that one was worse. But I do believe there's some wisdom to be had from Tarot readings, so I never discounted them completely. Just wasn't my cup of tea.

Until now.

For Xmas, my daughter The Fair asked for two prints from a "Philly Tarot" deck. I had never heard of it. I followed the link she sent me, and the two she particularly asked for were Xed out. I don't know if that was because they were sold out or not. I couldn't see them.

But a quick perusal of the Philly Tarot deck made me think, "Gee, Fair must want the whole deck, really, she's more besotted with Philly than I am!" So I ordered it.

She didn't want the deck. Only the prints.

I didn't cancel my order for the deck. Hey, I live in fuckin' Philly, I should promote the local businesses, right?

Then my daughter The Heir and I went to Phoenixville, PA for the annual Firebird Festival. This shindig is always a highlight of the year. I like to get to Phoenixville early, in order to find a parking spot and do some shopping. Phoenixville never disappoints when it comes to Xmas shopping.

Nor did it disappoint this year. The local book store had the Philly Tarot prints, signed by the artist. And Oh. My. Gods.

EXHIBIT A: THE DEVIL

This was the print Fair wanted.

But as I leafed through the other prints I found this one:

EXHIBIT B:  THE KING OF SWORDS

I think that's when I started to cry. Because I had ordered the deck without knowing that this was in there.

In due time the Philly Tarot deck arrived in the mail, right in the swirl of the holiday, so I put it aside to examine later. And it only got better, if that could be possible.

EXHIBIT C: THE STAR

In addition to being beautifully created, these cards are a real love song to Philadelphia. Ben Franklin is the Emperor. Betsy Ross is the Empress. The Liberty Bell is the Hanged Man. And that ominous Tower, so foreboding that we have a whole era called Tower Time, is the detested Comcast Tower that everyone in the city hates with a passion.

I could go on and on.

You know how Tarot decks are. You have a major arcana and then the four suits, which are pretty much playing cards. Well, when I finally got to leafing through the suit cards, the Cups were on the bottom. In the Philly Tarot, Cups are cheesesteaks. And the figures on the Cups cards are Mummers.

I just want to throw these on the floor and roll around in them, I love them so much.

I don't think I will use the Philly Tarot strictly as card readers do. But I have my ways of using Tarot cards for myself and anyone who wants some advice. The important aspect of this deck, for me, is that this Tarot deck is chock-a-block with humor. Crikey! David Lynch, holding the iconic Clothespin statue, is the King of Wands! Throw that one in a reading and keep a straight face. I dare ya!

Long sermon short, I have fallen in love with my new Tarot deck, which combines all the standards of a regular deck with an abundant and loving tribute to the city I'm stranded in, probably until I croak.

If you want to see the whole thing, click here. I hope this artist is able to pay his rent on time just from sales of this card deck. That would make me happy.

2023 Mummers Parade with the Two Street Stompers

 Happy New Year, fans! Those of you just joining "The Gods Are Bored" might not be aware that I am a badge-wearing Philadelphia Mummer. The Mummers Parade is the oldest folk parade in America, happening in Philly every year on January 1.

If I can sum up the Mummers Parade, it's this: Lots and lots and lots of people, like in the 10,000s, dressed in satin and sequins and feathers, dancing and clowning at various skill levels in clubs, bands, and brigades. I am a member of the Two Street Stompers, which is a Comic brigade. We marched 240 people this year.

Our theme was "I Want My M(ummers) TV." This theme was chosen because the local station that aired the parade dropped its patronage at the 11th hour. Fortunately, a cable station called MeTV2 picked up the entire 8 hours of Wenches, Comics, and String bands. I'm sitting here now watching the recording, and the cable network is doing WAY better than the local station did.

Anyway, back to our theme. We had a giant t.v. and our captain dressed in that astronaut uniform and planted the MTV flag in a miniature moon. Then the ladies danced as Cyndi Lauper, and the guys danced as Twisted Sister, and the kids and their parents did Devo. It. Was. Amazing.

Every year someone watching at home records the performance from the t.v., so here it is.

And here are the Exhibits:

EXHIBIT A: GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN

That's me in the back with the multi-colored hair and rhinestone sunglasses. I couldn't resist accessorizing this theme!

Does it look like we're having fun? I love this parade.

EXHIBIT B: GROUP PHOTO

Somehow, nine years out of ten we get these jaw-dropping sunny days. It wasn't even cold!

The parade consists of two components. The first one is the performance at City Hall and the strut down Broad Street (pictured in Exhibit B). Then we board buses and go down to South Philly, where the whole tradition originated, and we strut down 2 Street. The whole parade is quite a hike, especially 2 Street.

Our club marched at City Hall later than usual and didn't get to 2 Street until about 4:30. That's way later than we usually arrive there, and it meant that I got to experience being on 2 Street at night. It's a wild celebration. South Philly is a neighborhood, and the entire neighborhood turns out for the more intimate atmosphere. And by dark, everyone -- viewers and performers with one pathetic exception -- are full of spirits. (The pathetic exception is me.) Must say I did miss that one shot of Fireball I might have imbibed. But I stayed the ol' sobriety course.

I got home later than ever before, to find a lovely dinner cooked by The Fair. Whole family sat down together and ate. So I got to spend the day with my Two Street Stomper family, and the evening with my biologicals.

Speaking of biologicals, usually both daughters attend in person, but this year only The Fair did. That was okay, since the other offspring went to keep her dad company.

EXHIBIT C: She Loves Her Some Philly

It's so magical to spend the first day of the year dancing in outrageous satin, with a big group of fun and lively people!  Here's to another 10 parades!

Our Civic Religion

 Still hot as Hell in Philadelphia this Labor Day Weekend, but welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" anyway! Here -- have an iced tea. You can sit right next to the fan, unless some bored deity drops in.

Speaking of deities, I'm freshly back from Philadelphia Pagan Pride Day, and what a great day it was! No protesters, just lots and lots of fun people in Clark Park, both inside and outside the event.

(Aside: The Proud Boys called Clark Park the "Belly of the Beast." If it truly is the Belly of the Beast, then I want to be a heaping hot plate of Beast food!)

The nice thing about living in a big city like Philadelphia is that we always get some first-class keynote speakers at PPPD. This year it was Diana Paxson, novelist and Heathen. And her talk really made me take a cold, hard look at the Independent Republic of Johnsonia.

In a nutshell, Diana Paxson feels that Pagans should not cede the American experiment to the Christian nationalists but should instead fight for the nation's civic religion. Then she explained what that civic religion is.

If you think about it, it's so obvious. America, being a pluralistic nation, has created a whole religion independent of any sect or creed. We have founding documents and iconic figures ("mighty ancestors"). We have holy days, and a Pledge of Allegiance that sounds a whole lot like an oath. We have hymns. And a flag that flies in both blue states and red states. Not only that, we have Lady Liberty out in New York Harbor, and the Goddess Columbia (I've interviewed her here before) whose statue graces the very pinnacle of the Capitol building.

Rather than rejecting this civil religion, Diana Paxson suggests we embrace it, because it has dope rituals and is predicated on everyone being equal, which let's face it, most religions aren't.

Well, this fine lady already had me swayed pretty firmly, and then she sealed the deal. She told everyone to put off shopping for bargains on Labor Day and instead celebrate the workers, because Labor Day is a holy day! And boy, did I swell with self-righteousness, because I was already planning to do just that!

Ms. Paxson then led a ritual that touched on the same themes and included Lady Liberty as the deity of moment. And she again mentioned Labor Day as a time to honor all the workers, past and present, that have moved this country forward.

Gosh, I wanted to bake her a pie.

Now I'm feeling as if the ol' US of A actually needs me. I would call the government of Johnsonia into session with the prospect of dissolving the union, but I can't wrangle a quorum of squirrels in this heat.

Happy Labor Day, America!

Raining on My Parade

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wishing we could sneak into Davos and eat the rich! Or at least eat what the rich are eating, which I bet are some exceptionally fine vittles.

Mr. J and I are just emerging from an epic grippe. He was hospitalized with it, and I coughed for three weeks straight. Today was the first time since the Mummers Parade that I was able to get out and even exercise a little bit.

And with everything else going on in the world, today's post is yet again about the Mummers Parade.

The city of Philadelphia is quite clearly sick of this parade. They have shortened the route and put a third of the performances indoors. But the worst enemy of the Mummers Parade are some of the participants themselves.

The use of blackface in the parade has been banned since the 1960s, and even entries with "tanned" or red skin have been called into question. All Mummers know that appearing in blackface gives the press and the city ammunition in denouncing the spectacle. It also provides reason for the city's majority population groups to hate the parade.

And yet there are always two or three pinhead cracker morons who insist on blacking their faces.

The difficulty arises in the size of some of the wench clubs. (If you think of the parade as a hierarchy, even the wenches will tell you that they are the bottom feeders.) When you have a club marching a thousand people, your leadership can't police everyone. Sadly, it appears that self-policing or group admonition is beyond these fools.

The largest and rowdiest wench brigade was disqualified this year from their division for having members in blackface. The leadership of the brigade said those offenders will not march with the group again. But the damage is done. The appearance of those two or three wannabe Nazi creepers was the only thing the various news outlets wanted to talk about in the wake of the parade. And of course this malfeasance has been seized upon by everyone who wants the parade to be seen as racist, lawless, and a blot on the spotless reputation of the City of Brotherly Love.

I know there are racist and homophobic people who march in the Mummers Parade. Those people are not in my comic club. Do I stand down and denounce the event, or do I participate?

Well, I look at it like this. You go to a party, and over in the corner there's a pinhead cracker moron with a t-shirt that shows Trump dressed like Rambo, holding a semi-automatic weapon. (No lie, I have seen such shirts. Not at the Mummers Parade.) Do I get a plate of food and sit as far away as I can from the offender, or do I leave? Do I offer myself and my friends as better examples of the average party-goer, or do I just decamp in a huff?

I have no plans to decamp from the Mummers Parade. It hurts my heart to see it showered with disrespect by groups that I like (aka Antifa), but the experience does remind me that the biggest story is always the ugliest story. "Nice Mummer Lady Poses with Crowds on Her Way Back to the El Train" would hardly be something that anyone would want to read.

For the record, my club (Comic, not Wench Division) finished third. We had over 200 members in our group. None in blackface. That. Would. Not. Fly.

My Perilous Day in the Activist Trenches

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," leaning left since 1978 ... and that's just the way it is. Two weeks of living in Baltimore schooled me pretty quick on the notion that the government should be responsible for its poorest and most vulnerable citizens.

I have just returned from Netroots Nation, which is probably the most lefty gathering you can find that isn't an out-and-out Communist Manifesto.

Front loading: Elizabeth Warren was there, at the candidate forum, but I didn't get to meet her. It doesn't matter. She owned that forum. She was fearless, funny, and genuine. And smart. And she shouted out for public school teachers and unions. (Unions always get tepid applause. No one remembers what it was like back in the day.)

Of more moment to me was my perilous morning registering voters on the streets of Philadelphia. I volunteered for this task in order to make the cost of the convention more affordable. With this task, I moved over from an anonymous face in a march to an activist -- and I promptly learned the difference between marching and acting.

My voter registration tutorial consisted of the following information. Approach people with the idea that you're looking to defeat Trump, you want to register Democrats. Are they registered? If the person wanted to register Democrat, I was to fill out the form. If the person wanted to register Republican, I was to hand them the form, tell them to fill it out and mail it in. Seemed perfectly reasonable to me, to be honest.

The voter registration leader said we would be lucky if we got two forms in our three hour shift. Within 90 minutes I had registered four Democratic voters.

I was congratulating myself on seeming to have a knack for it when I was approached by a mixed-race couple. They wanted to register. The woman, African American, went first. She registered as a Democrat. The man then smirked and said he wanted to register as a Republican. So I took a blank form off the clipboard and handed it to him with a smile.

I guess you can imagine how that went.

It escalated with just the amount of rapidity you would expect in these troubled times, but I would not engage the man with words. I said, "I tried to give you the form."

He said, "No you didn't! I'm going to get you!" And he snapped a photo of my Netroots Nation badge, which (unfortunately) listed my school as my affiliation. So the dude knows who to call. (This was a rookie error on my part when I filled out my Netroots application. I should have put NJEA and not my local school.)

I've never gotten a disciplinary memo on my job, so if I do it will be my first. I think the dude will have to make up some big-ass story, but he certainly seems capable of doing it. There are no doubt security cameras on City Hall Plaza that caught the exchange, but what the hell.

Still, that irked Republican will have to call my school, find an administrator on duty in the summertime, and concoct a tale that will suggest I'm not providing a safe, secure, and caring environment for my students. More power to him.

If my administration takes me to task for wearing the school name while registering voters, then I will apologize and not do it again. As I say, rookie error.

So, Anne, you ask ... will you do any more voter registration?

Count on it. Pennsylvania went for Trump by 44,000 votes statewide. I know who to approach about registration, I know what neighborhoods to visit, and it turns out I'm not afraid to approach people respectfully. I believe I could register as many as 50 people by November of 2020.

When I returned from my shift with five voter registration forms, the coordinator was so impressed he asked me to spearhead the entire Philadelphia operation. That was an easy "no," but I feel really good about the fact that there are now five new Democrats in Philly, thanks to me.

I'm Going to Netroots Nation 2019

A couple of weeks ago, I got an invitation to an AFL-CIO caucus meeting at a thing called Netroots Nation. I suppose the AFL-CIO's algorithm recognized me as an active member who lives in the Delaware Valley.

I had sort of heard of Netroots Nation. It has something to do with online political organizing. But that's pretty much all I knew.

I expressed some interest, but upon investigation, I discovered that Netroots Nation 2019 is a humongous convention with a big price tag. But you know what? Being a volunteer at fairy festivals has taught me something: If you volunteer, you get a discount or a free admission.

I signed up for two volunteer shifts and got a discount. Then I sent in my RSVP for the AFL-CIO caucus meeting.

Readers, I'm going to a political convention. It begins on Thursday (I'm doing first morning shift doling out swag bags and selling t-shirts) and runs until Saturday (I'm doing first shift registering people to vote). The Labor caucus is on Friday.

Already, this opportunity has stretched my horizons. Without the help of my daughter The Fair, I downloaded the Netroots Nation app to my smart phone. This could be a game-changer.

It's been hard for me to find things to write about in these dark days, but I'm feeling confident that this convention will dole out some moments of interest. At the very least I can feel with confidence that the Philadelphia Convention Center will be chock-a-block with people who think the way I do. That's always a comfort.

So yours truly will keep you informed and up-to-date on the events that will transpire at Netroots Nation!

I ordered a new Gritty pin for the occasion. It's what the well-dressed Philly progressive is wearing!

Women's March on Philadelphia 2018

If you sit on the left side in the elevated train from New Jersey to Philadelphia, there's one place where you can look out the window and see the skyline of Philly all arrayed just two or three miles away. On a day when the sky is clear, it's a sight -- not Manhattan, but a vast, gleaming city nevertheless.

Growing up in the mountains, I never, ever expected to spend most of my life a stone's throw from Philadelphia. But as I looked out of the train on Saturday morning, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to become a citizen of the Great Blue Northeast. I even teared up a little bit. Sheesh. I'm a sentimental slob.

When I was young I thought the government taxes were too high, and I thought that through hard work and bootstraps and all that, anyone could become rich and successful. Moving to the city (first Baltimore, then Detroit, then Philadelphia) changed my worldview. Perhaps if I had stayed in Appalachia I would be like so many people living there now: conservative to a point where they don't even vote in their own best interests.

Instead, I live in the suburbs of Philadelphia. So on Saturday, January 20 (a day that will live in infamy), I got on the el with my tambourine and my fairy sweater and my Pagan jewelry, and I rode into Center City, Philadelphia. There were lots of other suburban white women on the train, even though I went in two hours early. Lest anyone sneer at suburban white women, please remember that we are a demographic that gets courted by politicians of every stripe. It's up to us to do the right thing, which is never a given.

I disembarked the train at 13th and Locust and got myself a breakfast sandwich at a little cafe called Jean's on Walnut Street. Then I walked around City Hall, in the opposite direction that I had come on New Year's Day with the Mummers, and walked down to Logan Square, across from the Free Library of Philadelphia (where Gumby works! I'm proud of her.) I had learned that a group called Drum Like a Lady would be forming at the fountain, and I wanted to get there before it got too crowded to see if I could find the drummers.

It's easy to find drummers. Have you ever noticed? They give themselves away. And in this case, the leader of Drum Like a Lady is not only an accomplished drummer, she's almost a goddess in human form -- tall, beautiful, vigorous even in a leg brace, and ready to do some upbeat leadership.

I joined the circle just as it began to gear up, and what a phenomenal experience it turned out to be. These lady leaders knew what they were doing. They had designated one person as the heartbeat (more circles should try this ... it's the essential piece so often missing). Drawing on the heartbeat, all sorts of women with all kinds of percussion were able to play along. I think we had it all, except for those hella heavy djembes and dun duns. I'd thought about taking my doumbek, but the tambourine turned out better, because occasionally I danced -- and the tambourine can keep an easy beat and fill in some spaces.

When we lady drummers got our groove going, we were sending energy to the sky. It was a very multi-racial and multicultural group, all in happy harmony. The leader, LaTreice Branson, took turns addressing the crowd through a bullhorn and playing a small djembe.

The crowd got thicker and thicker, pushing our circle in on itself. Only once did I have to ask a tall, young white boy to take his camera elsewhere when he pushed in front of me to get photos. Mmm mmm, yeah, they are always around. But at least he did as I asked.

As I said, the drum circle's diversity was awesome. No one would have mistaken me for anything but a Pagan in my fairy sweater, with my acorn necklace dangling. There might have been one or two other Pagan women there, judging simply by attire and hair. Readers, we all sounded great. And we drummed for two and a half hours.

We led the march (sort of), but in the throng we kind of got spread out a bit. All of a sudden I felt a tug on my elbow, and there was Gumby, grinning from ear to ear! We hugged, and I hugged Gumby's boyfriend (I really like him), but I had to move on to keep up with my circle.

Once we got to the Art Museum, we drummed for another long stretch before the speeches started. Then the leaders left, and the minute they did, all the rhythm went with them. It was okay, though. There were plenty of speeches. Dozens and dozens. I stayed for them all.

When the whole thing was over, I walked alone back to the train.

Quite a few of my teaching colleagues had gone in a group. Both Olivia and Gumby attended. But on this day I elected to make my own way and find my rhythm sisters and make a noise for the Resistance. It turned out swell.

It sure looks like we'll be marching for years to come. I can take it. I'm a Mummer.

Resist.
Persist.
And rise!

Photos from the Flower Show

I'm so lazy I've never hooked my phone to my Wi-Fi. So when I tried to email myself the photos of the Philadelphia Flower Show, the messages didn't go through ... until I went out roaming about and caught someone else's signal.

It's hard to describe the Flower Show. Hard to photograph it, too. The theme was "Movies," and so each display, large and small, had something to do with films. They even had some really cute homages to screen writers! Anyway, here are some pathetic attempts to capture the moment.

This was the sign at the large Peter Pan display. The display was mounted by a grower of orchids. It had a lagoon, all sorts of palms and ferns, and of course -- orchids, cascades of them! Nestled in among the greenery was Peter Pan's hat, Captain Hook's hat, an Indian headdress ... and I am totally sure Tinker Bell was there somewhere, I just couldn't find her.

Obviously I didn't take this one. It is the central display, Cinderella's Wedding. Disney, Inc. lent a glass slipper, which is under a dome on the right side of the photo.

Frozen! This one was appropriate, seeing as how the only reason I was there was because there was a snowstorm that day.

The table top ones are always beautiful.

They're easier to photograph, too!

Patio! Not yours or mine, of course.

Mr. J next to the Nightmare Before Christmas display.

Critter made of flowers! Look at his hair!

This was the entrance.

And of course, yours truly, all decked out in her snowstorm apparel!

I never had more fun at the Flower Show. Usually it's so packed with people you can't move. But hardly anyone was there. Only a lunatic would go out in a major winter storm to look at flowers, right?

Palin in Comparison

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where our magic is white, our faeries are bright, and if you don't like us, we'll punch out your lights!

Sorry about that last part. Just channeling my inner Philadelphian. I've been living near the City of Brotherly Love for more than 20 years, and the general tenor of daily living here has worn off on me.

There are things Philadelphians boo with reason:

1. The Dallas Cowboys (always #1).

2. Last call at the bar.

3. The Schuykill Expressway (richly deserves the razz).

4. Republican politicians.

Which was why Sarah Palin had no business dragging her little daughter to a Philadelphia Flyers game and stuffing the poor tot into a Flyers jersey. If Sarah thought the sight of her little daughter in Flyers orange would deflate the innate Philly hatred of Republican politicians, then she really is a moron of the first stripe.

Hey. You sow hatred like she does, you oughta reap some in return.

A Letter to the Editor from the Philadelphia Inquirer, October 14, 2007:

"Of course Philadelphia fans booed vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin. We booed Santa Claus, and he is more qualified to be president than Palin. Don't forget, the North Pole shares a border with Russia."

Classic!

Alice Doesn't Buy Here Anymore

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" At 7:22 p.m. on December 21, the sun officially crossed the equator. So sorry to all my fabulous readers Down Under, but the bored gods of the Northern Hemisphere are just tugging at that big star that warms our world! Bless them for doing it.

When does $68 million seem like chump change?

I'll tell you: It's when you've got $18 billion or so, earned dollar by stinking dollar from enslaving the world. Hello, Alice Walton. If the shoe fits, my dear, you've gotta wear it. Did the shoe in question come from Wal-Mart? Oh, I didn't think so! Only poor people shop there. Come to think of it, only poor people work there, too.

Just a few short weeks ago, the Thomas Jefferson University Hospital announced that it would sell its Philadelphia masterpiece oil painting, "The Gross Clinic," to Ms. Alice Walton for her new museum in Bentonville, Arkansas. "Jeff," as the hospital is locally known, gave the citizens of Philadelphia until December 26, 2006 to match the price. If all the Longshoremen and Carpenters and Teamsters out there -- and all the "Jeff" alumni, and all the art worshippers -- couldn't cobble together $68 mil, the painting was outta here, Adrian.

Philly has done it.

I was just driving home from a long day in the Ag shop at the Vocational Technical School, and I heard it on the radio. With pledges of all sizes, the citizens of Philadelphia (and presumably the art world) have acquired "The Gross Clinic" for the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Yo, that's the big building with the "Gotta Fly Now" steps.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" say once again that we deplore a world in which a single painting costs $68 million -- a sum, one imagines, that could build maybe a dozen hospitals in Congo. But if people are going to pony up ridiculous bucks for oil slathered on canvas, it sure makes my day that THE LOSER IS......

Alice Walton.

Hey, Alice. Go have tea with the Mad Hatter and then buy some art that reflects the way you've earned your living. To whit:

Wow, a lot of pictures in this one! It feels like a holiday.

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS