Random Horoscope-like Stuff

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  I did a little mapping project the other day, and one minute into it, the tape came off the spool, and rather than looking like the first class consultant that I pretend to be, I was that sketchy person crashing around in the bushes in the pouring rain with a wad of plastic tape, doing both ends of the tape, which involves, as you surely know, Aries, attaching one end, crashing along a compass bearing to some distant other end, tugging on the tape, having the first end come unhooked, going back and starting over, with the wad of tape getting increasingly tangled.  This, my friends, is why I can charge such high fees for my important services.  BUT.  The difference between a giant ball of yarn and this tape is that the tape is numbered, and in theory, at least, you can get some direction.  An idea of where to head for the great untangle.  Do the great untangle this week, Aries.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  So, I know, this blog is turning out to be all about one particular customer, but seriously, he's full of material, and I'm not.  Most of it I can't write about, but I will say that although I suppose I have some OCD traits myself, he's so far out of my league that I don't even try to keep up.  Is it wrong that I only answer calls from him about 3 times a day?  And, is it wrong that I say, "I was out in the field," when in in fact I'm just napping?  That's a form of field work, right?  My field is napping.  And is it okay if I lie, or do I have to say, "yes, I turn the ringer off because I'm so tired and you call way too much?"  Taurus, do we have any vacations planned?  Or parties?  I know someone who has those umbrellas for umbrella drinks.  I can hook you up.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  So, David Foster Wallace's widow created a Forgiveness Machine, where you write down what you need to be forgiven for or what you want to forgive, and the paper gets sucked into a vacuum tube, macerated, and voila.  It turns out that people got pretty freaked out by doing that, and Karen (the artist) herself was too chicken to try it.  I imagine I have a million things to be forgiven for, some that I don't even know about.  There's a beauty to the machine idea, like someone out there could just put something together, and poof.

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21:  Need I write about my other almost-customer, the one who was having a delineation emergency (right?) and wanted me to come out with my stupid wad of tape within 2 hours of our first contact, and when I delayed by a day, she ended up canceling because her "significant other"  (Was that the lamest phrase ever to come out of the 80's?) is "apparently moving out."  Apparently?  Okay, funniest movie ever is Down By Law, and there's a part where the woman is in a total rage, throwing her boyfriend's (Tom Waits) stuff, breakable items like an album collection, out the window, screaming about what a loser he is while he sits quietly on the bed looking down and then finally says, "Um, so does this mean we're breaking up?"  That's all I could think about when this woman said her SO was apparently moving out and the project was cancelled.  In 24 hours, she couldn't see that coming?  I don't have a horoscope for you, Cancer.  Maybe watch that movie.  See if it's still funny.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Each morning I lie in bed and decide what kind of clothes to put on, and then try to use that as a guide to remember wtf I'm supposed to be doing.  "Oh, right, I'm dressed for yoga."  Or, "Oh, I'm dressed for going to the library."  (Right?  That has an actual outfit?  Why yes.)  Today, it turns out I'm dressed for dealing with the compost in my truck.  Looks like I got off track.  Tomorrow for sure.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  I got a text the other day from one of my favorite people, who, by the way, I haven't seen in forever, that said, "Please come over some day 'cause playing together just creates total queers."  I like to think I'm one of those people whom you'd text when you're stuck in a weird hostage situation.  You'd send me a coded message, and I'd solve the riddle and send someone out.  But I was stumped, and had to ask him for the answer, which is that it's a mnemonic for the geo timescale.   It seems like I'm probably not the one to text after all.  How 'bout that beer, though, Virgo?  I was even in Ballard the other day.  Drove right past Gorditos.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  This story was recommended by David Plotz, one of my imaginary friends, and as he predicted, it blew me away.  I'm pretty sure you won't be able to stop thinking about it if you do read it, so don't say I didn't warn you.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Wake me up when the book of William Gaddis letters comes out, will you?  Here's an excerpt: 

Of course the problem is setting the goals in the first place; many enough ‘successful’ men end up drunks for having fulfilled goals the world set for them and then finding they’ve fulfilled nothing in themselves; many enough kids end up junkies for having decided the world’s goals aren’t worth trying for and being unable to set any of their own. A few fortunate combine the two (I don’t mean drink and drugs, but meaning your own and wordly goals), and your education and growing up now are vitally important because learning the world’s goals (even marks in school) gives you the material to form your own—and don’t misunderstand, I don’t mean that by your 16th birthday you should know whether you want to be a poet or an astronaut, but only have a hungry curiosity in all directions for anything that brings you and your mind to life.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I have four chords now, but still can't play that song, which is the whole point of all this, right?  Bb?  Really?  I need more fingers, but they need to be smaller.  Eight-limbed pose in the hand area, which I suppose I could work on.  But really, it's just about naptime again.  Tomorrow for sure.

The only thing that could improve this miracle is if the egg shell looked like the Virgin of Guadalupe

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Okay, a small egg miracle just happened:  I had no eggs, and then I bought a dozen.  I made 6 hardboiled eggs, because there's no downside to making lovely units of protein that fit in your pocket.  I ate one while it was still hot.  Not because it smelled good, of course, but because it was so pretty.  I'm absolutely sure that happened because there's a shell and my mildly burned tongue as evidence.  I go to put the remaining eggs back in the carton, thinking I'll use the empty  space to distinguish the hb from the raw, and when I loaded them all up there was no space.  I know.  I'm sitting here, looking at the shell, and looking at the carton, and scratching my head and wondering.  And thinking how lucky I really am.  The mystery of which came first pales in comparison, Capricorn.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  "Cavitation occurs when the tension of water within the xylem of plants is so intense that water vaporizes, and dissolved air fills the vessel elements."  I know.  That happens a lot, I hear, but don't worry, this isn't really the season for that.  Phew.  Aquarius, avoid cavitation when possible.  Instead, just exhale normally.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  So I'm reading Veramo by Cesar Aira, and it reminds me of being in my twenties, you know when you read all that stuff by Milan Kundera and Gunter Grass?  (Oh, just typing the name Gunter Grass conjures that horrible scene with the eels.  Uggh.)  But Veramo is about a typical day in the life of a government worker who does taxidermy in his closet at night.  But he has problems, like getting paid in counterfeit money, and gouging out a fish eye to put in a piece of glass, but making the hole too big, and putting the fish back in water and having it swim around even after it was dead.  Pisces, for some reason that reminded me of you.  Your horoscope?  Don't gouge out the eyes.


PS -- Do these seem even a little bit like real horoscopes?