Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Crickets: a gateway bug

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):   I know there are people who think crickets are just a gateway bug for me, but that's not so.  It's possible I'll get an ant colony someday, but that's a long way off.  And Pisces, is it so wrong to want a little companionship, anyway?  Speaking of which, will I ever see you?  Make it happen!

Aries (3/21 - 4/19): It's time to review the rules of what not to talk about, Aries.  I've added a few more.  The original seven:
  1. Route talk
  2. Period talk
  3. Aches and pains
  4. How you slept
  5. Dietary needs
  6. Dreams
  7. Money
And a few new ones:
  1. Detailed descriptions of procedures that the listener will never need to perform.  
  2. Detailed descriptions of a movie, book, or video that the listener hasn't seen.
  3. What day it was when something happened.  If you don't know, just say it was Tuesday.  DON'T STRUGGLE TO FIGURE OUT IF IT WAS TUESDAY OR WEDNESDAY UNLESS YOU'RE BEING INTERVIEWED BY THE POLICE.
  4. The weather, unless it's super dramatic.
Ok, there are more but I'll leave it there.  Let's get some cards made up and leave them around, shall we?  There's nothing wrong with a bit of silence.  We don't need to fill in all the gaps, Aries.  If you have gaps this week, fill them with your brilliance!  We need more of that.
A crematorium in upstate NY, and
site of a famous Fata Morgana
Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  It takes a village to do a crossword puzzle.  An intergenerational village.  But that's not your horoscope, it's just something I've noticed.  But here we go:  I was talking to an efficiency expert the other day, and it was remarkable -- he got right to the point the quickest way.  But we want more than that in our lives, Taurus.  We want getting to the point the most interesting way.  We have time.  

Gemini (5/21 - 6/21):  I just finished reading a memoir about a woman who grew up with hoarders as parents; it was pretty grim.  And it made me think how grateful I am that I don't have that particular malady.  The hoarders form strong attachments to objects and feel grief about the prospect of getting rid of them.  I, personally, have a great deal of trouble caring about objects.  I often wish my house would just burn up, poof!  No more stuff!  I would start over with just one pillow, a sleeping bag, a small acorn bowl, and a spoon.  Sigh of happiness.  And bees.  And crickets.  That's all I need, as Steve Martin said.  (When's the last time you saw that movie?  Go do it!)

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  One of my sisters is thinking of starting a blog called, "What Makes You Think My Sister Has Crickets?"  I don't think that's such a great idea, Cancer.  No one ever really thought that.  I hope.  But whatever.  If she starts it, I'll let you know, Cancer.  Meanwhile, your week is going to be delightful.  

Leo (7/23 – 8/22)It seemed like for a while, maybe a month, every time I listened to the news, they'd mention that they're about to get to the sentencing phase for the Boston Marathon bomber.  Now they've done it.   And no one asked me, but I don't think taking another life advances us, as a culture, towards greatness.  What advances us toward greatness, Leo, is forgiveness and compassion.  Do what you can this week.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): Write for one minute.  Play solitaire for 5 minutes.  Watch crickets for 7 minutes.  Write for one more minute.  And so my life goes by.  But you have to admit that the crickets are pretty damned interesting.  And beautiful.  Dare I say appetizing? 



Libra (9/23 – 10/22): It turns out that we each have a genetic chronotype, and even though you already know yours, there's a test, and it turns out that the humans love tests! It turns out I'm a lark.  Getting the worm isn't all it's cracked up to be, Libra.  See if you can sleep in once in a while.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I did what's called a "walkaway split" of my hives.  The real way to do it is to take a bunch of frames from a strong hive and move them into a new empty hive and then walk away for a month.  I didn't do it exactly that way because I'm not good at walking away.  I have two character flaws involving extreme missing (if it's a person) and extreme curiosity (if its something else).  So, I took a few frames, including one with a couple of queen cells, and put it in a new empty hive with some honey, some bees, and some capped brood.  And then looked in there way too often, and added more brood if it seemed like the bees looked lonely, or just not super happy -- if one can tell such a thing about another being. I didn't look every single day, because I have a tiny bit of restraint. There are two kinds of people, Scorpio -- the "out of sight, out of mind" sorts, and the missers.  We know which kind I am. But the good news is that the other day, I found newly laid eggs, which means that either there's a laying queen, or the workers have given up and they're laying drones in a last ditch effort to get their DNA out into the planet.  Time will tell, Scorpio.  In the meantime, I urge you not to give up.  Believe good things until you're forced to do otherwise.  

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  Speaking of attachments to things, I've been looking at this book, which consists of pictures of what people would save from their burning house.  I honestly don't know if I'd save anything.  I'd walk away and try not to do a little jig, because that would make me seem guilty, like that woman who pushed her rich bf out of the kayak into the Hudson River, and then went to sing karaoke.  If you like podcasts about karaoke, btw, here's one I've been enjoying.

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19):  They've added signage on a local roadway to show us how to do the zipper merge: stay in this lane, merge here, take turns.  I wasn't surprised to see the new instructions; I know the Zipper Merge is all the rage these days.  But what did surprise me, and kind of choked me up, is that no one follows the instructions.  It turns out that sign or no sign, we tend to think it's the behavior of an asshole to pass on the right, and we won't do it.  I don't know precisely why it actually brings a lump to my throat, but I think it's because people taking a stand.  Even if it's a stand for something tiny and insignificant.  We, the people of the valley, aren't for line cutting.  We'll rot in traffic before we take up the damned zipper merge!  Displays of courage and conviction always cause me to weep just a little bit.  Did you see that movie Pirate Radio?  Like that.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  If you've somehow missed this video, go watch it.  Ok, in 1969, my sister and I had a club called The Peace People.  Our main activities were creating science museums in the basement, solving mysteries, sending away for free things from the back of the Saturday Review, and making floral collages on old meat trays. I'd like to get that going again now, if anyone's interested.  And speaking of mysteries, this might be my new favorite podcast.  Check it out, Aquarius.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Horoscopes in Times Square

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):   I took my kids out to my new fort the other day.  They were my first guests; we sat and drank coffee, which was was exciting.  The best part about forts is making them.  But what you think about while you're working on it, and tell me if this isn't true, is 1)  bringing other people there, and 2) bringing food and drink.  It doesn't feel like a real fort until you've eaten crackers in it.  So it was lovely that the young people indulged me.  It's situated so that one can keep an eye on the swarm trap, which is still empty.  A swarm trap is sort of like a crab pot for bees.  No, it's more like one of those sign that says, in bee, "If you lived here, you'd be home now!"  Pisces, make time for your own fort this week.  Build it, then eat crackers.  

Aries (3/21 - 4/19): The 24 hour mite count on my hives was: 10 in A, 13 in B, zero in the new split.  That doesn't sound too bad until you consider:  if this were your home, and there were ten blood-sucking creatures, that would be way too many.  But bees don't have regular blood like the humans because their liquid (hemolymph) isn't tasked with carrying oxygen to tissues. Instead, honeybees have little tiny openings, spiracles, direct conduits from the air to the tissue that needs it.  Efficient!  I know, Aries, you're thinking jeez, let's get back to my horoscope already!  Here it is:  Spiracles are the reason that you never see a bee panting, which I'm sure you've been wondering about.  It is also why you never see a bee wearing pants (they would cover up the spiracles).  Aries, see if you can grow some metaphorical spiracles.  (Two shots of tequila, then say "metaphorical spiracles" 10 times. It's going to be that sort of week.)

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I grew up in a town that had a noon whistle. I forgot about it until the other day when I heard a similar sound, and then I wished for that again.  Lunchtime for a whole town.  Put down your shovel, open up your metal lunch bucket, and crack out your baloney sandwich -- everybody's doing it.  I may start wearing a whistle around my neck and just blow it at noon.  What do you think, Taurus?  Noon whistles, quaint or annoying?  This week, Taurus, listen for whistles.

Gemini (5/21 - 6/21): Someone said I should rename my blog, "What makes you think I have crickets?"  But um, that just hits a little close to home.  Me and the insects.  And seriously, I don't think someone could look at me and know that I'm an actual cricket rancher. Gemini, the crickets are magical, and if you have a little bamboo cage I'll set you up.  

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): My friend suggested I stop planning to eat the crickets, and instead, develop a cricket circus.  I don't think that's a thing, but she thought I could train them to do tricks, wear clothes, and sing little songs.  Maybe bring them to yoga so they can learn a few poses.  But Cancer, I think being a carney for a cricket circus is weirder than being a cricket farmer.   Although both could be considered exploiting the poor insects, I think one has a more legitimate purpose.  Cancer, follow your legitimate purpose this week.  Don't join the flea circus!

Leo (7/23 – 8/22): I was impersonated twice on Facebook last week, which seems creepy.  I can't imagine what the point is.  Why would anyone want to get my particular news feed?   Right?  To see cute pictures of the children of my friends, learn what various people are eating, and see the same old memes and reposts from a different source?  But I'll try to take it as a good thing, as if there's a human on the planet thinking, "wow, all the cool kids are cricket farmers, I should impersonate her!  I will pose as someone who lives alone with 80,000 bees and 35 crickets.  How cool is that?"  Anyway, I should probably find that person and be their actual friend.  But back to you, Leo.  Mars is in Gemini, and you know what that means.  (Me neither.  But I think it's good.)

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Have you ever noticed how men's names are often verbs, but women's names rarely are?  Rob, Jack, Bill, Bob, Chase, Grant, Mark, Wade, Foster?  The only woman's name I can think of that's a verb is Hope, which, though it's a lovely name, isn't the strongest verb we know of. Live like a verb, Virgo.  Just do it. 

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  I found myself near a pet store the other day, and thought it was as good a time as any to purchase my crickets.  I went inside and asked the employee, who disappeared into a back room. He returned and handed me a small plastic bag with 35 crickets in it, and asked, "So, what are you feeding?"  
I didn't have an answer ready, and tried to think quickly -- would they be for a pet chameleon?  Or a snake?  But what if I made something up and he asked more questions?  And I'm a terrible liar. So, after a long, awkward silence, I said, "Humans."

He didn't miss a beat, and said I might want to be careful because they 'plump them up'.  I asked what that was, and learned that the pet store injects crickets with vitamins to increase their nutritional value before they're consumed by a snake or lizard.  That seemed especially sad -- one creature being cultivated as a vitamin for another creature that's being used as a pet for a human.  At any rate, I left the store with 35 live crickets and a plastic terrarium with a nice snap-on breathable lid.  So much for no plastic, Libra.  But, if all goes well, I'll be eating home-grown meat that doesn't get plastic wrapped in Arkansas and shipped here in a truck.
  
Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Good work, NYT.  I've always thought it was inappropriate to go have a non-english-speaking stranger wash my feet and paint my toenails, though I have done it a few times.  But I'm glad of this journalism, and I hope the whole pedicure thing goes out of fashion as something unethical, like wearing fur coats.  Scorpio, do what you can about this.  Although its sandal season, don't succumb to the pedicure thing.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I killed  8 crickets today (although I prefer to say "harvested." Side note:  why isn't Harvest a man's name?)  I gently extracted the insects from their little habitat, scooped them into a plastic (again!) yogurt container, and put them into the freezer; I'll do this every week until I have a cup.  Which could take a while.  I think their last days were better than they could have been -- in a little area with plants and soil and little tiny bits of watermelon, potatoes, and pineapple to eat. Freezing must be preferable to being chased around a cage by a hungry venomous snake.  The crickets are sub-social, meaning they'll hang out with other crickets but don't need them; they prefer some alone time.  I might be subsocial myself.  Oops, I didn't mean to say that aloud.  Sag, there's nothing wrong with preferring some alone time.  One thing I will not do, though, is post a picture of myself lying next to the dead crickets like that one lady, Sag.  

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19):  There are some great recipes available, but I think I might go off on my own.  How about Jimminy Croquette?  Although Cricket Pad Thai and Hoppin' Good Cricket Fried Rice do sound yummy.  Picture this:  Food Truck in Times Square.  Capricorn, be careful out there this week.  Did you know that Capra is the term for a male goat, while Capella is the term for a female goat?  Capellacorn has a nice ring, although it sounds edible.  

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Speaking of pants, I have a vague idea for a massage gown -- sort of a one-piece pants suit with slits and openings so you could discretely extract the body part you needed without all that complicated draping business.  Any ideas on that, Aquarius? 

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Horoscopes.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):   If your needs are within the bell curve, it's reasonable to expect them to be met in a group setting, but if they're in one of the tails, not so much.  Manners for the 21st century, according to me, dictates that if you have challenging food restrictions, you manage it on your own to the best of your ability, and don't expect the whole world revolve around you and these particular needs.  Pisces, I believe I'm correct on this.  Your week will involve you being correct about all manner of things.  

Aries (3/21 - 4/19): I'm grateful that I don't have a serious illness, but if I did, I think I'd want one of these cards. (Tuck that away for future serious illnesses, Aries, just in case).  But back to you: aren't we all so lucky you're on the planet?  A resounding yes! This week, look out at the moon and stars and remember how much you love space.  And then take up more.  Breathe big!

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I've been trying to understand my attachment to the little honeybees that live outside my bedroom window, three little hives, each with 60,000-ish bees.  Ok, two hives with lots of bees, and one that's the bee equivalent of young adults that just moved out on their own.  (As in, light on decor, heavy on joy.)  Thing number one that I love:  the noise and activity.  A constant, busy little hum in the day that fades into stillness as the evening comes on.  Taurus, don't fad into stillness!  You are not a bee!

Gemini (5/21 - 6/21): Speaking of manners for the 21st Century, there are people in the library using their outside voices.  Here's a rule of thumb: If you look up and see a ceiling, 65 decibels max!  If you look up and see a ceiling, and look straight ahead and see books, 30 decibels max.  If you don't know how big a decibel is, it's smaller than an avocado and larger than a thrip.  But don't worry about it; just get the app.  This week, let's help the planet quiet down just a bit.  What if, the way Jerry Brown did with water in Cali, we were all required to cut our decibel useage by 35%?  I know.  Sigh of contentment.  If only.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): You know that thing when you're about to offer someone a ride to the airport and then you learn that they need to leave at 3:00 a.m., and thankfully, you haven't opened your mouth yet?  Me neither.  I don't know that thing at all.  Tips:  1.  buy a Rolling Stone for the plane.  People will think you're hip.  2. Don't bother with the ridiculously overpriced neck pillow.  3.  Enjoy what you can.  Traveling mercies, my friend.  

Leo (7/23 – 8/22): One of my favorite radio journalists has a podcast now.  Or maybe he's had it for a while and I'm late to the game. But sheesh, he's brilliant.  And so are you, Leo!  May this week be full of your shiny open heart.  Off leash.  Let it go!

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):   I'm about to order my crickets from the internets, and try to make some high protein snacks.  I know, it seems a little cruel, but it seems like I should try to kill my own meat.  The mammals I've killed in my life time:

  • 9 roosters, Amarillo, Texas, 1981.  
  • 1 deer, east of Duvall, 2010.  Accidental.
  • 9 chickens, Carnation, 2014
Oh wait.  Chickens aren't mammals.  But they do have a face and a family.  I've eaten way more than that, and it seems like I should woman up and start eating protein that I kill.  Are you in, Virgo?

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Here's the plan:  order a bunch of crickets.  Feed them some organic grass or something that they like for a few days.  If possible, see what they'd like.  Maybe use rosetta stone to translate.  Freeze them.  Because isn't that how we all want to die?  (Or is that just me again?)  Roast in the oven.  Grind into flour.  Make food with it.  Come over for some brownies soon!

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I was listening to my podcasts, the way I do, and realized how much the advertisers cater to shut-ins, and then I realized, uh oh, that could me me.  Mattress delivery?  Bagels?  Razors?  (Right?  Who orders razors from a podcast?)  What do you need, Scorp?  There are people hovering outside, ready to bring you stuff.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  It's a little hard to get honest feedback on a massage, because no one is like, "Wow, that was a bad free massage.  The part where you were working on my back?  Creepy."  No, no one says that, so we must look for clues, like deep breathing or snoring or, if it's going badly, wincing.  Sag, look for clues in your own week.  They're all over the place.  Don't wait to be told the truth, because it's hard for the humans.

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19):  There are about two or three people on the planet that I'll miss forever, not just because I like to think we understand each other that feels rare, but because there's a particular brand of brilliance that I don't get a chance to interface with, and missing is just the way it will go because it's irreplaceable.  But when a friendship is a one way street, and the other person is enduring it politely but didn't ask for it and doesn't want it, it's best to try let it go with as much grace and humility as you can summon, and not be that pain in the ass person who clings and doesn't get the message.  Message received.  Blessings, Capricorns.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):   Did you realize that the age of aquarius is like, 2600 years?  Me neither.  You get a long turn, my friends.  Make good use of it!  It doesn't even seem like they hold elections, you're just in.  Forever.

I'm excited to report that the author Celeste Ng has selected m y modern love essay to read for the Modern Love podcast next week. Suc...