Zeus wears pin-striped togas and storms around his boardroom. He still has an eye for the ladies. At the office, we call him Dad, because there’s a pretty good chance he is. His son, Ares, is a badass. He could pick a fight in an empty room. Another son, Hermes, got caught last year lifting Chuck Taylors from the Parkway Mall. He still works at FTD.

Poseidon lives on Daytona Beach:  Hawaiian shirt, flip flops—a Jimmy Buffett type—schmoozing fishermen, posing for tourists. But don’t catch him in one of his moods. He can whip up a hurricane toot sweet—massing thunderheads, crashing waves, the whole nine fathoms.

As for the other members of the Olympus Rod and Gun Club—well, Casio is still the god of bad timing, and Amnesia wooed a meadow by posing as an adjacent meadow but couldn’t remember her original form. She was later sold for development.

Nothing changes with our bunch. Small wonder mortals dwell on our follies while we recline on couches in the stars and the earth spins merrily beneath. Demeter’s hell-bound daughter turns on her heels, and voilà! It starts to snow.

– Michael Steffen