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Sat On a Tuffet

Aquarius 25° (February 13)

The only way out is through. Singing the blues. I was reading through old posts and I think I leave myself secret messages only I can’t really follow them, so I don’t truly try. All in a days work really and I will write a few pages and otherwise rest and make a lovely dinner (chowder tonight, lunch was lefties.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1586-1590. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Sometimes I just want to run away to Divinty School or spend whole nights smoking weed and drinking red wine. Sometimes I want to dissapear to some tertiary town in France or Belgium or Spain or Holland and get a bike and a studio apartment and just live off whatever I’ve created. Only thing is I’ll have to create more. I will change rooms this morning, which I’ll have to do in a few trips, which will not be that fun. The room I’ve been in is so much better.  I will do my emails and make a plan for this evening. Does anybody read Carlos Casteneda anymore. Has it all become irrelevant. Everyone I knew in college were misanthropes in the making and I think I obviously knew that. This is the day I get picked up at the hotel, I think. I just sort of pace myself I guess as far as I can remember. I feel like I got picked up early and we went somewhere. I think we sent to lunch at Nor’Easter. Yes that’s it we had both our meals there that day. In regards to the shows I saw that night I later said this: Sincerest thanks to Monique Jenkinson/Fauxniquefor returning to the Afterglow Festival this year. It’s so wonderful to see performers change and grow over the years and keep adding to their toolboxes! Fauxnique’s tender, honest and vulnerable show “Imposter Syndrome” was as on point as her ballet moves! Mwah Monique! X And I also said this:Hooray for Mollywood! Thanks to other returning champions to this year’s Afterglow Festival: Molly Pope blew us away once again with her funny, poignant narrative and that beautiful belting voice of hers. Such a pride and pleasure to present this great performing artist who always surprises and never disappoints. And with Drew Wutke, one of ze best musical directors in the biz! Lurved it.

I wish I could have been mindful enough to take pictures the whole time but I’m so so lame. Tomorrow which isn’t tomorrow marks the day I have to really start my return to love, self-love that is. I am on the precipice, on the brink I can feel it. You’ve heard me say it before. You might diagnose this entire nearly five year Blague as an exercise is some disorder. I once had a friend who was clearly bi-polar (he thought my ‘wisdom posts” on social media were masked messages to him…yeah). I do need to reach out to R&R suddenly I feel we are friends maybe. That’s a paraphrase of a line from Darleeling Limited. I am doing the best I can. I will ask Paisley. Not only does she take a lot of pictures but she also takes really good ones. Oh and Bobby Miller was there. You know what—it’s fine. I just said yes to everything and offered hugs all around. Molly and Drew had arrived the night before and we all went out after those amazing Thursday shows for pizza at Spiritus. I paid for everything. What else is new. Note: add Spiritus to my petty cash list of deductions. I’m so generous with people and they barely appreciate it. I do want to say that in regard to a certain accompanist whose meals and drinks I’ve bought and to whom I gifted priceless tickets to a certain Broadway shows who had the pluck to write me after the fact to say that I hadn’t paid him enough here’s the T, you ‘re a fucking ingrate. Just one more Virgo who doesn’t fucking get it.

Being a Virgo, the virgin, metaphorically speaking means they don’t always quite get it. It’s not naivite necessarily, it’s a certain disconnect. When the character Mary Magdalene, a Virgo archetype, sang I don’t know how to love him she was being totally honest about herself, not Him (whoever he might be). Virgo women are notoriously attracted to the most high-impact figures on the planet. And they do orbit close to tony figures who have a sweeping sphere. Virgo begins August 23, the date of the festival of Vulcanalia, for the Roman god Vulcan (Greek: Hephaestus), the potter (mutable-earth!) god, and there is a theory that their is a planet Vulcan, the true ruler of Virgo, that orbits even closer to the Sun than Mercury. May we some day discover it because it would explain a lot about Virgo people, women in particular, securing themselves so extreme an inside track, becoming inside circle, and doing so quite unseen.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Farmer Efface

Aquarius 24° (February 12)

I go into town to grab some groceries and I get aggressed by the freak. I tell the lawyer and I call the cops. That happened. Getting very little done these few days but I kind of don’t care. Turning a corner and what I am writing I am pretty much liking. I will give you a bit of a taste. 

Gemini woman doesn’t miss a trick. She is a no-nonsense character who pulls no punches and is thoroughly engaged in the daily process of living. A go-to family member and friend, Gemini takes charge of small-group and community aims and endeavors, acting as the headquarters for common goals and campaigns and as the social director for pleasure outings and shared holidays. She is the boots on the ground for any loved one needing assistance, and she excels in start-up or pop-up projects and as a manager of people, an expert delegator and unapologetic negotiator. Her true affections are reserved for a select few, but she can sweet talk total strangers into doing her bidding like nobody’s business, slapping on a saccharine demeanor that loved ones find comically false but highly effective. Unlike others who are endowed with natural talents, when she is gifted, intellectually or creatively, specifically, one might say she is touched by genius, often never having to hone her talents, as if they divinely endowed, in spite of herself. Gemini considers herself a regular girl, if not a plain Jane, even when she is blessed with surpassing beauty, as are many women of the sign. She dispels any sense of possessing status or privilege, and yet she tends to be obsessed with the gritty details of tabloid gossip, along with that of her residential or professional community, dishing the dirt being her favorite form of entertainment. Her penchant for such low-brow amusements doesn’t stem from a superficiality on her part, but rather it’s the absurdity of it all that tickles her fancy and funny bone. Very few of the total twenty-four signs love to laugh as much, as often, or as full throatedly as the Gemini, who draws on the archetype of the air sprites, fairies and other mythic winged creatures, as befits her status as the sole female born under the mutable-air sign. Her mind is a steel trap, keen and penetrating, and before there were technological terms like downloading or clouds, Gemini woman was always a receiver, and a transmitter, of endless information, to which, it almost defies logic, she is privy. Despite her flighty astrological assignation, she is extremely practical, decisive and black-and-white in her thinking, likes and dislikes, and her leveling of opinions. She typically bonds for life with a single best friend or two, cutting most ties from her youth without compunction. Her immediate family provides ninety percent of her human interaction, and she is fiercely protective, often overly so, of her brood. She can be a tough bird, not the friendliest of characters, stemming from shyness, insecurity, if not outright social anxiety. Gemini does not readily do karaoke or audience participation.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1581-1585. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

The whole idea of the gods being alive. The fact that astrology finally put that all into context. That the gods were alive again. That it started up that I knew what my mother was talking about. There were some scary moments. My psychic ability would get stronger when I drank because my conscious mind would get out of the way. Talk about partying a bit. Take poetic license during that time in France as well. All the stuff about isolation puting the pot into that place and then the astral projecting shaky hands and eyeballs. I have no idea why just wrote that. I didn’t hang out with them 24/7 they legitimized me but I only saw them socially on occasion. There was no static cling the way I thought friends were supposed to be, my friendships were always very intense. I always had a best friend. I talk about how life became magic. Maybe word got out and they thought I was a bit psycho? A lot of psychosis also sort of come to light at puberty but that thing with Peter Reynolds got me the reputation that I was psycho. The dreams started. I have predictive powers I still get them. Some times I remember to tell Stella about them so that I have proof in case they come true. I’ll give you a for instance. Tell the dream about the man. We were in Boston in the dead of winter it was freezing outside.

These people didn’t want anything from me they weren’t codependent. Make a giant scroll out of the poem “As if I don’t have enough to do”Conceit that images pop out of my phone. Jewish eye candy and the Suzy Menkes story. I didn’t do anything of the sort but the ideas were at least flowing. I have to write a blurb on a new sponsor:


To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

There You Go

Aquarius 23° (February 11)

Took the very dry tree down last night, needles everywhere. New Moon today and yet we don’t really start a new Blent. Looks like we are waiting until Sunday which is fine by me. Going to make some lovely dinners, thus, over next three days. And we will experiment a bit with some new reds to go with and then nada, which is a-okay. I be ready. I am completely glued to the impeachment trial, which is probably not going to end well, oh well.

At risk of typecasting Gemini as a perennial philanderer, we maintain it is the are Twins bird who remains completely faithful in long-term love relationships. And though it isn’t the only marker of an evolved native of this sign, an ability to eschew the kick that kicking it with other lovers might provide does generally signal a Gemini personality that isn’t reliant on what is for him, a rather regressive means of providing himself stimulation, which, in time, isn’t a great look on him. The reason being is that it is a symptom, not the cause, of Gemini’s proclivity to suffer from a Peter Pan complex, a way to signal to himself that he is still the same schoolyard Romeo he has always been, that he still possesses the same boyish charm and slick courtship moves to score a romantic goal. In this way, he is typically honest in saying that the someone with whom he is taking up “means nothing,” which is obviously dehumanizing toward that individual, but it is likewise debilitating for himself. There is so much positive power in being born under this sign and its many archetypes of ageless adolescence, but it isn’t meant to be manifest literally, but fuel the Gemini individual energetically, and indeed spiritually. And it isn’t just a compulsion for romantic conquests as would occupy the thoughts of a real, hormonally raging teen that characterize this faulty channeling of this archetypal power—we see this, too, in other Gemini tendencies to spend a surplus of time with other males, playing games and even sports with obsessive regularity, shirking other adult responsibilities such that their spouses or steady mates overly perform a role of housekeeper, cook, nanny to children, while Gemini comes and goes from the homestead like an errant teen whose recently received his driver’s license, hiding his habits as an adolescent would from his parents. It is no secret that Gemini is the premier dealmaker of the zodiac, but it comes down to the setting in which this proclivity is being channeled. There is a danger in Gemini getting a fix from the excitement of employing this native skill on petty levels, gambling or getting involved in schemes that promise a short cut to hitting some kind of jackpot. We tell our Gemini friends that short cuts only end up cutting you. And we point out here, that, the combined stimulation of all of the above—secret trysts, deals, plans, bets, schemes, and the like—is not a recipe for growth but for stasis or, worse, a series of setbacks. Back to that if-he-only-used-his-powers-for-good cliché, it is important to understand that these types of activities and preoccupations, all of which might come under that larger heading of letting off steam to Gemini’s mind, does exactly that. We ask you, Gemini, don’t you want that steam in reserve? Do you not want to operate, as only you can, under the power of your own steam? Can you not see the detriment in thus constantly letting it out, depleting your power out of a serial need for instant gratification? Peter Pan lives in Neverland and in emulating and perpetuating the negative juvenile aspects of that figure, determined to keep thinking and behaving like an eternal teen, there is every possibility, Gemini, that you will never land the kind of big deals for yourself and your loved ones that you were designed to do in this lifetime. 

            Gemini’s duality may extend to engaging in some shady secret shenanigans, while he presents a squeaky clean, grown-up altar-boy public and social profile. He will play the proverbial family man, determining that his entire brood project a goody-goody image, keeping up appearances and some of his operations under wraps. In the lauded streaming television series Ozark, created by Bill Dubuque (who also penned a Nightwing film), it isn’t just the surname of the main character Martin Byrde that carries an avian meaning, but his first name as well, a martin being a type of swallow and the main target of the introduced, invasive European starling species, the culprit of the martin’s near extinction in North America, a fact which obsesses “Marty” Byrde’s son Jonah in the series. Marty’s secret life as a money-launderer becomes a tangled web as he negotiates an increasingly expanding underground den of thieves, involving him in crime upon crime, including multiple murders, all against a dark comedic backdrop of trying to lead a normal home and family life, clinging to the American dream, offering fatherly directives to do homework, brush teeth, observe bedtimes and refrain from swearing. Gemini man is likewise a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do type, unlike Byrde, keeping his underground dealings hidden from his kids, and he can be very strict and controlling, one might say, overcompensating for his own questionable antics by forcing his offspring to toe a moral line. Gemini’s signature urge to game the system is an expression of his scrappy personality, being someone who is not content with accepting the scraps society largely hands us, but it also points to his infamous fear of his own mortality. Greed, and other forms of grabbiness is a signature Gemini vice that drives him to take those aforementioned shortcuts, while running counter to the glaringly factual phrase, you can’t take it with you. And, as if we needed a connection to the Martin Byrde archetype and that of Peter Pan, his enabler wife is called, you guessed it, Wendy.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1576-1580. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

And not only that but I am stalled too because I’ve found myself with just six days to write this show that it became four days as I was triggering myself and suddenly writing to Midge Hurst things like I did The delivery of which is just so cringey and embarrassing but I hope so devoid of guile that it will be received in the spirit it was sent. I seem this year to be in confessional mode telling all my friends with whom I grew up in high school that this thing happened to me and also it is why to this day I hold up the B. And why it is that my best friend all through junior high and high school was also well, you get the idea. His name I will not name but somehow, some way, this kid with whom I became close friends in sixth grade and who was thus my best friend during this summer of 1975, did I tell him? I didn’t tell him? somehow he knew? These mysteries of life at these innocent, lost times in our life where, you know what?, everything was magic, they become the occult, the personal occult we explore. Occult simply means hidden. And at a time when life is accelerating so fast and all the first adult things happen too soon we hide them. We crush them down into our subconscious. They become the occult, hidden. Exploring our own occult is one and the same with exploring the occult, it is shot through with the same intrigue and latent power. I have no idea where I’m going with this. I was meant to speed the plow, in my premier autobiographical show, from eleven to adulthood, at this point of the show but I can’t seem to get out of neutral; and at the same time being this hurricane stalled over the Bahamas, I am raining down, I am broken, I am exposed and seriously stalled and I think I am forever in this place.

I don’t think that’s the way to go

Actually it’s fine that I got stuck in the summer of my eleventh year because I’m going to very quickly employ another device here, a sort of equivalent of the movie montage—let’s call it the Encapsulation technicque—and I’m going to use it to speed us from seventh grade to college, ready? We begin with me being a social outcast as I start junior high, low man on the totem pole, the usual name-calling of the faggot sort suddenly cutting me deeply now. I kept to myself. I continued my mythological and metaphysical studies. I dove into chorus and theater which I didn’t know at that time shared an origin with ritual magic and earliest religious rites but it does all fit together. I had a bright singing voice before puberty hit and I always had the solos. I was Randolf in Bye Bye Birdie so the first words I ever sang in a musical were Ed Sullivan, Ed Sullivan, which is kind of cool since we share the same birthday and are both impressarios. I played all the lead roles in eighth grade. And all through high school I was being groomed for a theater career, taken under the wing of older students, and for brief shining moments when plays were running I experienced brief waves of, well I won’t say popularity, but a reprieve from the tormentors who continued to attack me, and yes the stranger things. I would get flashes, future glimpses of these individuals, as if the fear, or adrenalin I suppose, that they triggered in me would surge and manifest in these images in my mind; I’d see these bullies driving away staring out of the rear car window or falling down a flight of stairs or being, themselves ridiculed and red-faced crying, things like that. Then these images would bear out. Bullies who would threaten to beat me up after school would that day break a limb or one psycho kid who pledged to kill me before the start of a new year moved away. Once, and really only once, a redhead kid Peter Reynolds, who looked like that pugnose puppet on Pee Wee Herman, Randy, remember him? Well this kid jumped me and pinned me and started pummeling me and all I could do was warn him which made him laugh. I don’t know why I knew to warn him, but he just kept it up, and then he spit in my face and then I don’t really remember much except a full body adrenalin sweep and springing to my feet flinging him off me as if he was blown back by an explosion then jumping on to him and pinning him down so hard his wrists were disappearing into the grassy soil. And though I never punched him or spit on him or anything he was screaming and crying and yelling get him off me get him off me with this wild trapped animal look in his eye. And people pulled me off and I continued home where I puked my guts out.


In the social heirarchy of my highschool there were various levels of popularity, and as I said I was the lowest of the low, among the pariahs. At the very top were the beyond crowd, a small, elite, sophisticated crew including a soccer player who made varsity his freshman year whose French father was the chef at LeCirque, and the cheerleading captain whose family owned a cycle shop and lived with a single mother in a mid-century modern house like in that film the Ice Storm. At the core, there were three girls, all of whom had straight blond hair, and three boys who were swarthy, brooding and intense. And then a half a dozen characters, mainly loners or type-A academics, who floated in and out. And then there were the four hundred and fifty everybody in between on various scales of popularity. It’s those people you have to watch out for. That’s where the bullies and tormentors lay. Somewhere in that samey samey sea of docksiders, Lacoste shirts, grosgrain, teabury pink and kelly green, red-faced, sweaty Bruce Springsteen fans, which, if you actually grew up in New Jersey, made you very ordinary indeed.

So one morning I got one of my flashes only this time it was of me; and I decided to act on it. This was my flash and this is what I did. I was in the cafeteria, sitting by myself as usual, and I crossed the entire room, walking through that preppy snarling sea, and up to the table where these creme de la creme kids were sitting and I said hi and sat right down and, as if I had been there every day since, they said hi and started chatting and asking questions about classes we had in common and what I thought of this or that and, like in my flash, I remained cool and unflustered and just answered and quipped and I never sat alone again. And what I realized with, just like when you’re at the very bottom of the social food chain it’s basically the same as being at the very top. At the bottom you’re not included and at the top you aren’t either. Only here the choice is yours. It’s not up to the hundreds of insecure middledwellers jockeying for position. This whole notion of this circle of friends being elites was an invention of those in betweeners just as they invented the category of pariah I had previously been relegated to.

The alchemy had changed in an instant. I had changed it. Or these psychic flashes did. But that was me anyway, right? Okay maybe it was some kind of outside source or higher power intervening but as I’ve come to learn that is also me. I don’t believe in A higher power necessarily I believe in MY higher power. Anyway it literally worked like a charm. And those Mr. InBetweens who had previously attacked and tormented me were suddenly silenced. I could almost see them biting their tongues as they passed me in the halls now because they couldn’t bring themselves to insult one of the elite crowd since it was their own invention. Meanwhile, I had known these new friends for years I just never spoke with them before, a fact of which they were blissfully unaware.

We had dinner parties and listened to vintage music, the Doors, Buffalo Springfield, Jefferson Starship and CSNY, not typically together, but on lesser known solo and duet records. We took the train to New York to see matinees of Equus, Deathtrap and Bent. Everyone was kind and had a moral compass. There was light sexual experimentation of varying kinds. And the boys smoked pot and went camping and took mushrooms or mescaline and laughed till our faces ached. But I was in with some classy people and it wasn’t determined by money or membership at the country club. It was based on books and food and culture and travel, even though these people were athletes they weren’t jocks. Everyone went off to a good college and stayed loosely in touch and I had a model for the kind of tribe I would seek to find as an adult. I wanted to be around kind people. The word kind has that double meaning. And what I’ve learned is that people who are reallly at the top of their game tend to be the kindest people and they use their influence to help other people. Those with trumped up ideas of themselves are forever those middling insecure types, the bully cowards, who hoard and lie and cheat and steal, things that only entail their lower reptilian minds.


What you might not have noticed was that I employed yet another device I guess you can call it in that last bit. Something called poetic license which is absolutely another element, the fifth element I think now, maybe in the constructing of a one-person show. This one anyway. So I didn’t study theater in college; the high school mentor acting teacher and drama department head moved away after my sophomore year and took all inspiration with him. But as fate has it I ended up on the Performing Arts floor of my dorm at Boston University and to this day are close friends with people I met there, many of whom went on to do great things. I was an English major and by year two I was bored and wanted out. While sitting with the same stoned faces on Buswell Street where I lived, now, at the Earth House next door to Marc Maron, and, as I say we both ate at “Veg”,

I felt myself falling into a rut. Freshman year I did okay academically but I partied too much. Sophomore year I got super academic for the first time in my life and got straight As proving true what every teacher since Kindergarten had told my parents: He could be the top student if only he applied himself. I did so now because it was an individualist pursuit. I was sick of my surroundings, and as I say I was sitting with the same stoned faces of so-called friends I have to admit I didn’t like and I got one of my flashes. Call the Study Abroad office. I picked up the dorm phone, hit Zero and asked the operator to connect me. Got anything going to France? Funny you asked: We have a final meeting for a first ever year abroad in Grenoble but all the other students are already signed up. You would have to get us parental permission and a letter from one of your French professors stating you are proficient enough to matriculate directly into a french university. I went to call my mother when the phone rang her ring. Parental approval check—she would call the Study Abroad Office. The only problem was my French was terrible. But I asked my professor who, it turned out was predatory, called Adrienne who had invited me over to her apartment once and terrified I didn’t go and she felt slighted. I need you to give a proficiency test

You never came over. Small stand off then she gave me the test which I didn’t pass. She changed a few answers for me so it looked like I did and I went to the meeting at the Study Abroad office. You might say my life started then I could have started the show here. Every single good thing in my life can be traced to my deciding to go to France, literally, in a flash.


Now, I have one more trope, device call it what you will. I’ve not seen it used before so I think I invented it. It should speed us along and will serve as some scaffling for some future stories. I’m calling this a quasi-epic poem, without rhymes, to which I will add stanzas over time. It is titled: Well I Never.

Well I Never met a girl at Logan Airport at whom I made funny faces, then started dating, married and am still with 36 years later

Well I Never Flew to Paris and, jet-lag dreamed, I was French currency, in coins, being poured through a sorting machine.

I never climbed an alp with my girlfriend to stay in a ruin left over from the 1968 Olympics and nearly together froze to death

Well I Never staged a sit in when I discovered our school in France cost BU $1K that year but our parents were paying $16K

I never organized an educational field trip for a dozen of us to go to Rome and had the whole thing paid for by Study Abroad office

Well I never met, my girlfriend and I, an elderly man after midnight, in a bar who spoke in tongues but we understood him and my girlfriend never never remembered him being young not elderly

I was never given the nickname Credit Leone for swiping taxi receipts from French cabs and giving them to students to get reimbursed by the program

I never went to Paris every weekend but one because it was eight francs to a dollar and hotels cost nothing in those days

Well I Never flunked most of my classes including Cubism because I didn’t speak French until that year was nearly over

I Never returned to BU for senior year and got straight A plusses but still didn’t graduate with honors. Then moved back to Paris.

I was Never swept up by an Italian futball team and taken to a Club on the C. E. where naked women danced around giant plastic phalluses

A man in a car with a driver never picked me up off the street to take me to an ceremony on the C.E. for a French futball team celebrating a win and was lobster on gold plates as the players sat on a multi tier dais pouring champage over each other’s heads

Well I Never danced at Le Castel with my girlfriend next to a woman was it Jerry Hall? whose gold lame dress only covered on breast

I never worked at a magazine called Passion that was this big because it was the 80s by day and at a restaurant in the Marais before it was the Marais called Dizzy Place not Dizzy’s Place or The Dizzy Place.

I never met my tribe of people that year, still my dearest friends, and one of them didn’t one day write the Harry Potter books

Well I never lived in Harvard Square for a year and wore a Marrimeko uniform working at the Harvest restaurant dancing away nights at Man Ray

I never crashed a party in Allston where someone put pcp in the pot or dosed my drink and then ended up being arrested at the 7-11 for eating Vienna Sausages out of the can and was thrown into a cell with scary people who were soon screaming to get out because I was scarier. I didn’t sing Sweet Chariot substituting words that suggested I was a Mafia prince and when my girlfriend and a friend picked me up I didn’t dive roll out of the car going 40 miles an hour on soldiers field road and absorb the impact with multiple forward rolls, seeing the math and blueprint in my head, then spring to my feet and run back to the 7-11 because my bike was there and I didn’t crouch down and propel myself into the air and clear the eight foot fence without touching and get my bike and smash my way out and back to my house where another chain link gate enclosed the shared driveway between my house with my landlords house and I didn’t see the math in my head again that told me where to ram the fence with my bike so that it came out of its cement pilings and then ride over the fence with my feet never having left the pedals and run into kitchen back door and take off all my clothes and start breaking all the dishes in the house and back into the backyard and the landlord’s golden retrievor wasn’t going crazy and crash through it’s screen door to jump around with me and I didn’t wake up naked in the back yard spooning the dog which comforted me all night long and I didn’t stumble into the house and look in the mirror and every muscle in my body wasn’t supersized so I looked the the Hulk and I wasn’t so sensitive to light that I couldn’t go out of the house in the daytime for a week

I never moved to Hoboken to work at Avenue Magazine on 57th Street while my girlfriend also worked on 57th at Bergdorf Goodman

Well I never studied acting with Uta Hagen who didn’t hate me because a class applauded an exercise I did and she didn’t have this thing called the Hagen Wagen where a student had to bring in lunch for everyone and I made a Full Mediterranean meal, including humus in a bread bowl and she never said “what is this shit?

My neighbor Tony Goldwyn never offered to give me a list of agents and he never called to invite me over greeting me wearing nothing but those tiny striped nylon Richard Simmons shorts and I never made a lame excuse and went running from his brownstone and never kicked myself later.

Well I never had Julianna Margulies over with her then boyfriend to play charades and she was never really good at it

Well I never studied comedy improv and came up with a sketch where I was Tony Randall doing a commercial which went like this: “Hi I’m Tony Randall and I want to talk to you about Oscar Wilde Camp for Sensitive Boys. At Oscar Wilde you don’t learn the usual ruff and tumble fistacuffs and other sports and skills. No. At Oscar Wilde Camp you learn proper ascot tie, quipping, inuendo, Maugm. That’s right Oscar Wilde it’s truly camp.


Well I never the, two weeks later, met Tony Randall, who made me a member of his theater company where I appeared in two Broadway plays

The rehearsals weren’t in the building across the street from the Time Life Building where I worked at the Book of the Month Club as the person who writes all the tiny captions and I didn’t come in early and mess up my desk and come back and lunchtime to make sure I was seen and rehearsed for a month without anyone at work knowing I wasn’t there.

While reading with starlets coming in to audition for the role of Nina in The Seagull, none of them knowing Laura Linney, who wasn’t going to be blood awful, already had the part, Elizabeth Shue never came in to read and we never did the final scene where Nina and Treplov see each other one last time and something incredible didn’t happen where we barely looked at our scripts and both somehow knew the lines and we WERE the characters and we had this out of body experience and then like Nina she fled the room only she didn’t come back and I wasn’t told to go after her and she wasn’t sobbing uncontrollably in the hallway with her manager and then she didn’t run at me and fling herself into my arms hug and kiss me with her wet face and whisper in my ear I will never for get you and then go running out of the building at which time I didn’t fall to the ground having what I told was an actor’s breakthrough where my muscles were siezing and the assitant director didn’t jump on top of me and kneed out all the trapped tension while saying soothingly good for you, good for you

Well I never had just one line in The Seagull that I delivered to Tyne Daly and Jon Voight never came to my dressing room every night after to give me notes on it.

I never lived in the West Village for twenty years during the best time to live in the West Village.

I never wrote for the New York Times Styles Section, nor wrote celebrity features for Glossy Magazines, interviewing Jean Reno in Paris on the set of Ronin or Peter Greenaway at his studio in Hampstead. Or Helena Bonham Carter at the Lenox Hotel during which she kept her hands down her pants taking them out to sniff them at intervals.

I never went to Paris, doing runway reports for magazines, and field producing for Fashion Telelveion, to be there when my wife was working there with designers, and I never saw Kate, Cindy, Naomi, Christy, Tatiana, or any of the supermodels walk in countless shows.

I wasn’t an on-the-spot reporter for Instyle where I would ask people like Roman Polanski and Catherine Deneueve what the first record was they ever bought or what is your favorite article of clothing.

While reporting on a party for InStyle, Darren Starr didn’t come up to me and ask if I could act and say I was exactly the person he needed to play a reporter role on his new tv show Central Park West and made an appointment for me to come in and read and Central Park West wasn’t cancelled the next day.

Well I never with my wife did astrological readings for friends in Milan and Paris late night, after a day in the fashion trenches, and this didn’t lead to our writing horoscopes for magazines under pseudonyms.

Well I never got a call from a publisher who was secretly reading our column in Teen People to offer us a deal to write a book for adults based on our premise that the signs were broken down by gender.

We never launched our book at Barneys and Parker Posey who was playing the manager of Barneys on Will and Grace didn’t come to the launch and confuse the hell out of everybody

Well I never met Princess Caroline twice, once when she didn’t come to our book launch in Paris at Colette and say slash lie probably that she heard so much about us

I was never with my wife on Chelsea Handler’s show several times and she never called me a funny little nugget.

We never bought a house on Cape Cod in the late 90s but ultimately settled in Provincetown where I started a festival


To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Oui, The People

Aquarius 22° (February 10)

Blent 2. Next stop Friday, April 9. I am speeding up this process because ripping off the band-aid is the most important thing to do. I’m actually excited now to make this a reality.

Queen Esther (aster), so called, was originally named Haddasah, the Hebrew word for myrtle, the flowers of which form the shape of a five-pointed star—living in exile in the Persian diaspora, she disguised her Jewish identity while being ushered into the Persian king’s harem and prepped as a candidate to be his quuen, which she did become, by virtue of her youth and surpassing beauty. In the year-long preparation to even meet him, Esther was purified daily with myrrh, which was typically used for embalming, thus ritually dying as her old self to be reborn as one anew (the Magi offering myrrh as a gift to the infant Jesus is also a foreshadowing of his sacrificial death). Esther is a helpless, compliant character for much of her story, but becomes savior to her the Jews, preventing their annihilation, though she does so unwittingly, as if by chance. It was never her idea to be in the right time and the right place to fulfill this destiny, but there she was; and even though she claims helplessness when initially urged to intervene, she ultimately springs into action. One thinks of a bull which must be incited to charge by the sending up a red flags. Esther is so adored by the king, that she can stop pretending she is who she isn’t and convinces him to save her people from ruin. Likewise, after a particularly furious scene with the now phantom teen, Nancy, Myrtle Gordon, declares to her director  of the play within the film, fittingly entitled The Second Woman—to be interpreted multiple ways—that she is “not acting,” as the film begins to blur the line between being and performing, addressing the larger theme of a woman, women, playing their prescribed roles, or refusing to do so. Myrtle got to where she is, the star of the play, like Margo Channing, by virtue of her talent, yes, but also because of her youth and beauty and sacrifice—both women are single and childless—to their ambition for ubiquitous (audience) praise. Both women get to a point along their individual paths where youth and beauty are forsaking them—Myrtle is relegated to playing no longer the first but “the second woman,” just as Margo is appearing in Aged in Wood, a nod to the Myrrha myth, in the play within that film. Their artistic talent, it turns out, doesn’t sustain them and, indeed, both characters stop acting i.e. pretending, onstage and off. Myrtle continues in the play but, little by little goes completely off-script and breaks the “fourth wall,” thus allowing her true self to emerge and dispel the pretense of illusion. Ironically, unaware, the audience responds in glorifying applause. End scene.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1571-1575. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

But for perhaps a brief moment in the late seventies/early eighties being bisexual wasn’t the desired and celebrated, and let’s face it, the preferred assignation of sexual identity that it is today. I know, shocking right. Because we are all, everybody is, bisexual now. but, even just a few years back, most people were like I don’t buy it; you have to choose; you can’t be both; you’re hiding, you’re lying. Can you believe it. We used to tell this joke in our Starsky + Cox show, well, why don’t we do it together, can you believe we actually used to make fun of the fact that bisexuals, now the most potent and thriving sector of the larger LGBT community, was pretty invisible. I would say something about how I always strived to put the the B in LGBT and I would cite my work with the larger bisexual community and you would say:

Hang on, hang on. G yes, the gays, I love them. The L word, yes, lesbians, they love me. T. Trans. We wear the same shoe size and it can get pretty ugly at Ruthies sometime, but B, bisexual community, I don’t know it seems like a contradition in terms.

Well I recently attended the international bisexual men’s conference

Another pilgramage to Cologne

And I ended up saying to the other guy there….ba dum bum

Even just a few short years later the joke doesn’t make as much sense now. Not only does a greater part of the younger generation identify as bisexual or eschew labels altogether, because of a more visible and outspoken Trans community advocating for a non-binary perception and reality of gender, it just follows that, if only retroactively, the Bi’s were like um, that non-binary thing. It applies to us too. And because most people will admit (or not) to having a same-sex experience, we’ve gone from nobody being bisexual (that there’s no such thing) to seemingly everyone being like, yeah, you know there’s a great area. And that is mainly being driven by those we would heretofore label straight men who, now this is just my theory, have felt left out of the conversation. So instead of hiding, repressing their same-sex experiences, or even just their feelings about it, they’re like me too. Not that me too. Different me too. Which, as someone who has gotten a bit handsy over the year himself, is probably a good thing. I’ll just say this: That someone as supposedly woke as I always thought I was, I’ve had to recognize the times in my life that I have been, shall se say, overly insinuating. I admit it. I’ve been there. I’ve thought my attentions harmless or even flattering. I want to say I was never “that bad” but that’s a stupid thing to think let alone say. I can say my intions have only ever been harmless, but I didn’t get to decide that. And I think that what Aunt Mickey didn’t realize when she introduced me to Paulie when I was thirteen was that I had already had sexual interaction with both sexes because I grew up in the seventies and we had the opposite of helicopter parents and we were latch key and often “baby sat” by predatory hormone raging teens who were only a few years older than we were. That boys specifically were left in the company of only sligtly older boys who were likely lectured on how to treat girls but whose parents never laid down any rules about targeting other boys. My situation is not unusual. The physically developed fourteen year old boy who quote unquote molested me when I was a pre-adolescent with undeveloped (click click) didn’t know he was doing anything wrong. He was just doing to me what was done to him, in large part back through history. I was taught to be a gentleman with girls, but bets were pretty much off with boys. In some ways sexual interaction between boys of a certain age didn’t feel that different from sports. So maybe I wasn’t using creepy words playing Mad Libs with my friends, but I know I wasn’t alone in experiencing the things I did at a tender age. There were alpha males I went to junior high with, some of them who have high profile jobs, even whole careers, on television, who were caught playing with each other on field trips. They would go on to spend their adult lives denying it, mainly to themselves, and certainly never would have labelled themselves with B. For me, it’s the old chicken or the egg question. Who knows if I would have been turned on to guys if I hadn’t been turned on TO IT by another guy. Maybe, maybe not. There’s no way to know and I have never cared. I have always been happy with the B and I’ve made no bones about it. No pun intended. I’m happy to count myself among the number that includes Cary Grant and Marlon Brando and Tom Hardy and Robbie Williams and David Bowie and Mick Jagger. It is rumoured that this song by the Rolling Stones was written by David Bowie’s wife Angela who, in her autobiography, claims she walked in on David and Mick in bed together. I invite my own wife to join me on it.


You know I know I’ve been sort of going back and forth, chronologically a bit here. I white-witch excited to the suburbs when I was eight in large part due to what, or rather whom, my father called the Mullingyams, which is an Italian dialect version of the word Mellanzane which means eggplant, his charming word for black people. In Jersey City I was often styled as an albino junior member of the Jackson Five, for instance, one outfit I had was a wet-look alligator vinyl aviator suit, bell bottoms and bomber jacket with matching Tito type hat that came with a faux silk white shirt with attached scarf, which I wore, of course, with platform shoes. This is how I dressed for school. Culture shock moving to Wyckoff where everyone, boys and girls, were in Levi 501 jeans or cords, Adidas or Puma sneakers, and Lacoste, or sorry Izod or striped long-sleeved rugby shirt, depending on the season. It took me one trip to the Gap to blend in but years to assimilate internally. In large part because I was only ever in town for the school year–we always rented and ultimately owned a summer house at the Jersey shore—so I never got to bond with kids from my town in summer the way others did. It seemed the return to school each year was like one giant inside joke I was never let in on. Also a few times during my upbringing I missed the first two weeks of school due to some mystery illness which I now realize was some form of Munchausen by Proxy because, as sick as I was, my mother always managed to take me shopping and to lunch and to see films that I was too young to see like Sweet Charity or Cabaret or Ryan’s Daughter or The Other Side of Midnight.

And I know I did get as far as age thirteen in this story telling, but oh man—you know I had a feeling this was happening when I was writing this—but I didn’t realize to what extent I mean I seem to get stuck in the summer of my eleventh year. I have so much here (holds up book with pages and pages) and I mean, on and on and on. Why would I write so much. Why do I get stuck at this point.Yes that was the summer I was quote unquote molested—but there has to be more to it than that doesn’t it. I mean my first one-man show can’t get stalled at this one juncture in my life, do you think? I don’t know maybe I’m meant to question it. Maybe its a fourth trope of the solo play. Appealing to the audience. Solicity their participation at least in so far as asking them to draw their own conclusions. I know is that I refuse to get stuck here for pages and pages So I’m going to distill it for you and try to move on.

First of all I actuall hate that word, molested, as it relates to me anyway, I prefer the term, initiated. It feels less victimy, more empowering perhaps, more Greek, somehow which is fitting because in the previous school year, sixth grade we studied Greek mythology and I became immediately obsessed and I would remain so for the rest of my life. Also at the Jersey Shore in summer I had no friends but for the kids of the friends of my parents, most of whom I called Aunt and Uncle, who would stay, for a weekend or longer, in rotation. My father only visited us on weekends, my bad seed sister never spoke to me or acknowledged my existence, and my mother read giant Maeve Clincy novels under an umbrella in her beach chair in the day and drank increasingly more with girlfriends from Jersey City who also stayed “down the shore” or alone watching the black and white TV in her bedroom, door half closed, the hallway a play of light and shadow with each scene change of An American Family or Upstairs Downstairs or Marcus Welby or The Movie of the Week.

I was always alone, even when I wasn’t. Besides being vulnerable to any such initiations I was also free to explore my solo interests unseen. I could walk to the library and back, carrying stacks of books on mythology and ny new side-hustle obsession, witch craft. I somehow blended the two. I specifically remember finding old curtains in the attic which I hand stiched into robes, special vestments if you will, that I would wear when I would invoke the gods, making my own original incantations, mainly to Dionysus. I don’t know if I started doing this before or after being pinned down for a week by my initiator, Kenny Doyle, who ended up killing himself in his late twenties early thirties, but I do have the sense that my foray into wizardry for juniors was rapidly accelerated after the fact. I wasn’t really aware what was going on with me because I was just in it. Only a couple of years ago did I come across my sixth grad picture from the year before that summer and my seventh grade picture and, putting them side by side I felt really bad for this kid who, though always on the fringes went from being very forthright and funny, extroverted and the proverbial class clown to completely broke,n withdrawn, sad and now purposefully isolated not wanting to be seen. The beginning of seventh grade was one of those years I didn’t show up for two weeks. But here I am still talking about it. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? That thing they say about being broken. Well it’s definitely true because it was at this very low point that stranger things began to happen.

At the time I didn’t know that religion and theater shared the same route.

Actually it’s fine as I say I spent a long time im the summer of my eleventh year and what happens between that time and by the time I’m well into college, well, (holds up script) I’ve got that drafted too, for the most part, but, really, I really think I can distill the next nearly ten years. And after that I have another TROPE already prepared so I’m at least goint to leave this show by the time I’m forty. We may need to rethink the autobiographical set up actually.


So cutting and pasting. I’m talking about how IN WRITING this I got stuck in this groove and the obvious answer is because this was that summer where sexual shit went down but it is more than that. There’s the witchcraft and the incantations and there all of that. And I look at my school photos now sixth seventh grade and it is like day and night. But that’s the story and it’s a good story so a plot twist isn’t necessarily a bad thing. And here we go with perhaps another device, I’m not sure but, I would call this bit the encapsulation because I can pretty much sum up the entering into seventh grade, well into college in a paragraph: Entering junior high you are suddenly grouped together with students from, in my case four other schools, and hormones are flying everywhere, and suddenly the landscape is about heteronormative power couples walking the halls with their hands in each others back pockets—look out for the comb!—remember when combs in your back pocket were such a thing that they actually wore a hole in the corner of the pocket? Well that person in the powder blue shirt was the lowest of the lowest on the totem pole. And I found that I had so-called friends from grammar school who were so insecure and so jockeying for social position that they targeted me as an object of ridicule in an attempt to make themselves popular with this new uneasy mash-up of hormonal young egos being thrown together into what amounted to a junior-high snakepit. Midge. Whom I’m friends with now because I’m amazing but she threw me specifically under the bus. She got chummy with Adele Mimnaugh (the greatest mane ever but for Yvette Mimieux) and, also, to this day, I’m friends with. I’m very forgiving. And anyway, Adele wasn’t really buying it. She and (the then love of my life) Laurie Best, who was “so-outta-m’league—and this other kid, Mark Bennet, who is also dead, I think?, and who was also troubled, and would not have not intersected with my crazy cousins the next town over, we, in 7th grade, became a foursome on a fieldtrip to Philadelphia and Gettysburgh. Yeah, that’s the sort of perk public school once afforded in the quiet dutch settlement of Wyckoff.  This was not the fieldtrip where those alpha male boys were discovered … red handed??? probably more than that—and outed pretty violently—NO this was a romp through Philadelphia and Amish Country, eating shoo-fly pie, but nonetheless: Mark Bennet and I who shared one double bed fell asleep to the sound of giggling coming from the other boys, Steve and Tim, obviously in the throes of some sexual interlude. Why did we only just laugh at that ourselves? Because something in our basic natures said, yeah, well, this is normal. Mark and I weren’t feeling it and my gut is he was on the very straight end of the spectrum for sure; and I knew who my friend and my bedmate was and it never entered my mind ape our neighbors. Good grief no. I feel my straightness sometimes so accutely and it actually manifests as revulsion. I understand how certain straight people feel revulsion at the thought of being with someone of the same sex. I’m also 100% convinced they just haven’t met the best best friend for them.

As I said I stuck to myself. The above shit is not going in the show but it is recorded here.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Tuff Nuggies

Aquarius 21° (February 9)

I need to go back into one of the previous chapters today and tomorrow into another just to get those a bit more fleshed out during this initial draft phase.

We don’t speak lightly of the term responsibility when exploring the Taurus human condition. In literal terms it means the ability to respond—which may be a conscious reaction or a purely reflexive, subconscious one—of course the word came to carry weightier definitions of reliability, obligation, duty, accountability, onus; and even blame, fault and liability—all of which could trigger conversations on a Bull theme. But there is one word under which all the rest fall, and that is the very punny term: Charge! That which, or whom, is under Taurus’s charge, is what most concerns, if not consumes, women of the sign especially. JFK, paraphrasing Luke 12:48 said, “for of those to whom much is given, much is required,” and you Taurus are gifted more than most, and you should feel that onus on you to pinpoint what it is you do best and do the best with it. We mentioned earlier that the tandem Io and Europa myths are like a call and response across time-space. Well, that sort of dynamic goes on inside you, too, characterizing your inner dialogue, whereby the increasingly worldy and mature you guides and reassures that eternal nymph that resides at your core,; while she, in turn, keeps your progressively more sophisticated and seasoned self, real. Incidentally, this call-and-response dynamic is at play in your external experience as well—being still and present-minded, as we said up front, to properly “field” what life throws your way. Life calls, you answer. You plot out your bit of territory (that garden) and you play your position. You step up and into whatever balls in the air serve your larger, soulful—creative, romantic, humanitarian, familial, et al—ambitions; otherwise you should let them fly by, understanding it’s just as important to know what not to hustle and reach for—what is meant for other players—as it is to scoop up chances, opportunities you’re sure fall comfortably, right in your pocket. You mustn’t ever be a moving target if it’s a bullseye you’re seeking to score. But let’s get back to that internal dynamic and the enduring, dangling conversation between those bi-directional voices blabbing on deep down inside. 

You’ve heard the term “old soul” bandied about, but what about a young one? That’s what you are, Taurus, a young soul, so-called, which is not to say you’re new on the eternal celestial scene (if that could be a thing) but, rather, in our estimation, someone who, it has been determined, is and/or should be learning life’s lesson, and earning its just rewards, from a most archetypally fresh perspective. It’s easiest enough to do in your youth, Taurus, despite being distracted by all those aforementioned curve balls and monkey wrenches; which makes you wonder, as you get older, if you were as available as you could have been to all the good (and goods) life was throwing at you. Regrets, you’ll have a few, but it really is best not to mention, let alone dwell on, them. You wonder if you could have done more, sooner, such that you could have enjoyed a proverbial cocktail of youth and success. But don’t we all. Mostly, it hinges on that performative aspect of being a Taurus player on this stage called life. Could you have performed, and can you keep performing, your part even more to the hilt to dispel any self-doubt that you’ve done all you can to provide yourself every happiness—or did you overplay, and are you still, chewing the scenery, obsessing over your role to the exclusion of other joys you might have afforded yourself if you weren’t so charged with making your mark? Good questions, and ones central to the Taurus female experience wherever we find her along her present timeline. 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1566-1570. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

The last of the baby boomers, I was born a city kid in Jersey City to be exact. We lived in an apartment building complex called College Towers near what was then called State Teacher’s hospital. This was before the white witch exodus to the suburbs of the 1970s. My mother, a celtic Pisces with red hair and freckles and eyes that looked inward and she was born Margaret Anna Mary McDonough, but everyone knew her as Peggy—and she was a good witch. And she had a sister, Muriel, whom everyone called Mickey, and she wasn’t. She was a mean girl. And was what you would called fast back in the days before slut shaming and had a child out of wedlock, living with my mother and her parents in their cold water walk up flat, and, as my mother put it, news traveled fast and guys were “coming out of the woodwork” assuming she was cut from the same sexual cloth as Mickey, which she wasn’t. My mother was a good girl who worked from the age of fourteen (as I later did) scrimping and saving to buy herself clothes, suits and dresses, that she could wear on interviews and to secretarial school and for church and socials and for other good girl reasons. These suits and dresses would consistently go missing; of course my mother knew Mickey was stealing them but she never saw her wear them. Anyway it was that type of dynamic, growing up with a bad seed (as I later did); and by the time my mother was pregnant with me at the age of 32, late in the game, and nearly six years since her first child, Peggy and Mickey had been estranged, already, for nearly a decade.

Early in the pregnancy, the phone rang and my mother picked up and it was Mickey who said, no more no less, you’re going to have a child, it will be a boy, and he will be born on my birthday, September 28, which I was. Now these sorts of predictions, apparently, weren’t strange in their small world, but it was typically my mother who had the psychic flashes, which she largely kept to herself, she later told me, as they happened so often and so early in her young life that she tried tried to train her mind to fight them off becaue they frightened her. Apparently she never could fight them off completely. And it was at those times when I would see her standing looking out a window or seated in a chair, trancelike, with those eyes pointed inward that I knew she was in some sort of stat of revelation. All my life I never had to pick up a phone to call my mother, I would simply send her a message to call me. Or,the other way around: I would get a flash the phone would ring and seconds later it would. The phone also had a special ring when she called.

By the time I was born, which was some thirteen or fourteen years after Mickey’s first child, she had married her baby daddy and had a total six children. Fertile Murtile my mother called her with a slightly abhorrent tone. Anyway, my mother decided, due to the psychic flash and because, as a good witch, she was hoping for some repair with her only sister, perhaps for her own mother’s sake, as her father, my gradfather died, during her pregnancy with me.


The day of my christening came and Mickey was holding me as the priest did his whole water thing, dripping in on my forehead or whatever, and well, even to this day, I’m sure this is true for most of you, but just the sound of dripping water, let alone the feel, can inspire, well as my mother put it. And as if on cue, your little thing rose up and you let loose and peed right in Mickey’s face. That was a sign I guess, or an excuse, or something, for which my mother was blamed, as if she was working her powers through my little, as my father would call it cummasicuam, an Italian dialect version of come si chiamo which means “how do you say” in this case a watchamacallit because, the Italian side of my family, not mafia per se, but maybe a bit bookyish, not bookish, decidedly not bookish, but bookyish, never talked about sex or body parts or anything of that nature. They didn’t even call it a peepee. Cummasicuam. Watchamacallit. I we getting a picture of my formative influences? Anyway, it was another eight or so years until we moved to the suburbs, originally an old Dutch settlement called Wyckoff, a name which you can imagine every young boy growing up there had fun with, and not knowing that her sister had moved to the next town over, Peggy and Mickey literally bashed their shopping carts together at Stop n’ Shop; but still I didn’t meet my aunt until I was thirteen. Of course on my birthday every year I would get gifts from her address to Master William Leone, that’s my real name, William Leone, and they would be weird gifts princely gifts like velvet waistcoats or a chain for a pocket watch or a monagrammed tie clip. I had met two or three of my first cousins once or twice—they were weird, wild animals for the most part, and overly sexed, now that I think of it, as a young age, the youngest Anne Marie or Am A-M, who was just three years older than me, I remember, once, we were doing mad libs, I was 11 and I would say Noun and she would say Masturbation; I would say Verb and she would say Fucking. She was fourteen.

Anyway, I was finally going over during Christmas, at age thirteen, to meet Aunt Mickey who looked like a severe version of my own mother who was forever being mistaken for Rue Maclanahan, a fellow Pisces, all of five one, with her tiny hook button nose, aristocratic airs (despite being raised with no hot water) all Estee Lauder youth due, her soft, sage, siren sense of drawing everybody in. When she drank, she caved in on herself. Not Mickey, who was taller and tough with a long, sharp pointy nose; she stood like this; her hair was a dyed version of my mother’s natural sandy red, a little to bright, her fingers covered in huge rocks, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, all gigantic, and she carrid a giant key chain which you knew was mainly a weapon. The first inappropriate thing she did—she was surely drunk and unlike my mother, came out of herself, emboldened—the first thing she did was I need to introduce my two favorite people (I’m just meeting her remember) to each other and we have to be friends. She dragged my tiny thirteen year old self over to meet her best friends son, Paulie, who looked like Andrew Stevens and Rex Smith had a love child and, who I realize now, of course, was gay, and Mickey was trying to put us together. The second inappropriate thing she did, before it was time for me to go (which I knew because my mother was sending me mental signals which were confirmed by my father’s beigy pink champagne Cadillac Coupe de Ville outside, back to pick me up where he left me, probably, just forty minutes before), was to usher me upstairs where she said she had something to give me. I was terrified. On the way I caught my first ever and only glimpse of Mickey’s son Tommy who by then was already a heroin addict who would die of AIDS. She led me up the shag covered, fairly dramatic stairs, of her colonial style home and to her impossibly large bedroom where she opened a closet-dressing stuffed with hanging clothes and stacked clothes and boxes and racks of shoes. She got up on a low round foot stool, like the ones you still see in libraries, and reached up so high her arm disappeared from view and pulled down these folded items, fabric it was, and said they were a present to me. M’ok. They were tied with string or ribbon or some combination thereof. She put them in a bag. When I got home my mother asked to see what Mickey gave me. And as she loosened the string or ribbon I could see the light of realization being cast across her face. “Son of a bitch, she said, these are all my suits and dresses—she’s taken them apart at the seems, stitch by stich.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Maga Terrorism

Aquarius 20° (February 8)

Still dealing with some fall out. I have eight pages of draft to create. It will be a challenge but it is absolutely necessary.

Mercury is the streetwise god of the crossroads, the marketplace, the agora and those who inhabit it, his namesake merchants along with barkers, buskers, businessmen and beggars, as well as thieves, thugs, urchins, snake oilers and every kind of streetwalkers. Gemini man, with his ear to the ground, is thus occupied with all the hustle bustle of life, the stuff of immediate existence, cutting a path through life like an artful dodger winding his way through a crowded avenue, reveling in covert action and certain legerdemain. He is a celebrator of the experiential self, an operator and a manipulator. That word has its negative connotations of course, but it once again speaks to Gemini’s premier superpower—that of positive thinking—which is the highest form of manipulation in that it suggests that experience itself is malleable and can be directed by the determination of our thoughts, which like Mercury, have wings—along with the nerves and breath, the sign rules the arms and shoulders, the blades of which are called wings. For as long as we can remember we have linked the pattern of the Old Testament to that of the zodiac, the first sign of Aries, cardinal-fire, being big-bang Creation; Taurus, fixed-earth, being Eden; and Gemini duality characterizing the consciousness of opposites like good and evil upon biting, the Fall and expulsion into the wilderness, the Geminian urban jungle. But in recent years, too, we see the zodiac pattern applies, as well, to the New Testament story of Jesus and it is uncanny how they synch up: The star appears to shepherds watching their sheep (Aries, the Ram), and then the “adoration” happens in the manger, a cow trough (Taurus, the Bull) and then, next thing we know, Jesus is this rebellious young upstart, preaching on the streets, expelling the merchants, moneychangers and thieves (those under Mercury’s godhead) from the temple, challenging the corrupt establishment orthodoxy which is ripping off the poor, doing his best Robin Hood, to even the score, with some pretty gangster moves. 

Still dealing with some fall out. I have eight pages of draft to create

Mercury is the streetwise god of the crossroads, the marketplace, the agora and those who inhabit it, his namesake merchants along with barkers, buskers, businessmen and beggars, as well as thieves, thugs, urchins, snake oilers and every kind of streetwalkers. Gemini man, with his ear to the ground, is thus occupied with all the hustle bustle of life, the stuff of immediate existence, cutting a path through life like an artful dodger winding his way through a crowded avenue, reveling in covert action and certain legerdemain. He is a celebrator of the experiential self, an operator and a manipulator. That word has its negative connotations of course, but it once again speaks to Gemini’s premier superpower—that of positive thinking—which is the highest form of manipulation in that it suggests that experience itself is malleable and can be directed by the determination of our thoughts, which like Mercury, have wings—along with the nerves and breath, the sign rules the arms and shoulders, the blades of which are called wings. For as long as we can remember we have linked the pattern of the Old Testament to that of the zodiac, the first sign of Aries, cardinal-fire, being big-bang Creation; Taurus, fixed-earth, being Eden; and Gemini duality characterizing the consciousness of opposites like good and evil upon biting, the Fall and expulsion into the wilderness, the Geminian urban jungle. But in recent years, too, we see the zodiac pattern applies, as well, to the New Testament story of Jesus and it is uncanny how they synch up: The star appears to shepherds watching their sheep (Aries, the Ram), and then the “adoration” happens in the manger, a cow trough (Taurus, the Bull) and then, next thing we know, Jesus is this rebellious young upstart, preaching on the streets, expelling the merchants, moneychangers and thieves (those under Mercury’s godhead) from the temple, challenging the corrupt establishment orthodoxy which is ripping off the poor, doing his best Robin Hood, to even the score, with some pretty gangster moves. 

Gemini loves the world of the living, gravitating toward social hubs of activities, where a vibrant demonstration of life can distract him from what is a signature underlying loneliness (not to mention an intense fear of his own mortality, but we’ll get to that). At the root of Gemini not wanting to think too deeply, is that more underlying fact that he doesn’t want to feel things because he has a sneaking suspicion, and he might be right, that doing so might be too much for those infamously delicate nerves. And what is the best way to ward off feelings? For one, staying busy, and second, having others around to distract him from being forced to face them. Gemini likes to keep it light and keep it moving(did we say for Taurus?) immersed in temporal activity; and yet he is more prone than most to subscribe to an eternal element of self—let’s call it a soul. He takes from various religions and philosophies that which they all share, tending not to fully subscribe to any one path (though he may pretend to do so). In love he is the least monogamist most philandering of fellows, forgiving what he might label human frailty, particularly in himself. He doesn’t linger on thoughts or doubts that might undo him—there is always something more cheering to alight on. A nod to his airborne archetype, the winged capped and footed Mercury, Gemini likewise wings it on his way through life, not one to become, what he might consider waylaid, in processes of preparation. He doesn’t aspire to higher and higher achievement in the course of his professional life—rather he seeks to reap fullest benefit for doing what comes most easily to him, which tends to fall under the larger heading of processing and proliferating his own personal observances. Gemini man is the master of the three-minute pop song, the elevator pitch, snappy patter, killer slogan or pithy pun. He is ephemera incarnate, living life to its fullest, like a mayfly on limited liberty. Truly owning the fact that we live on borrowed time, Gemini doesn’t become mired in guilt, doubt or regret. Each next moment provides a new opportunity to rewrite the proverbial headline. Being mercenary comes with his etymologically rooted Mercury rule, such that money-grubbing is just one of the ways he gets all he can from life. Lucrative deals are just human interaction with material pay off; another form of whistling in the graveyard and challenging the notion that you can’t take it with you. The management of people, too, is one of his greatest talents. If not the poet of the age, or the singer-songwriter with a string of top singles, we find Gemini at his happiest when heading some kind or other of a creative agency, the meaning of that word not being lost on this free-wheeling character. He revels in endless meetings and brainstorming sessions and in the fostering of a work family, forever blurring the lines between professional and private life. Seriously, of all the guys in the zodiac, Gemini is mostly likely to have what he will deem casual affairs with colleagues, employees or employers. Though the motto of the sign of Gemini is I think, it isn’t necessarily followed by the words it through

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1561-1565. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

I was looking up Ezra Miller for obvious reasons; he is from my same home town of Wyckoff, New Jersey. And he is also quite the extraordinary being, if not only, in looks. I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that I would have given anything to look and have a body like Ezras when I was in my twenties. I probably wouldn’t need a sex coach like he does; or be as insecure. In fact, even with my squidgy little body I had way more confidence at that age than he does. Okay, well…I was going to say I take it back but I don’t. Imagine what an incredible person like me would have done with the amazing form he has. Oh this is stupid. I’m kidding for the most part. The thing is is he is lost in the cosmos as much, well, actually, more than I ever was at that age. And he has that terrible hanger-on who people seem to accept as valid. He is the worst charlatan on the planet. And no J.W. it is not because he isn’t white. That was one weird thing: I felt at various times that I had to defend myself against someone who was an invitee just like me. I’m not sure why exactly that she guns for me but she does. She went after me at dinner in NYC in regard to what kind of women I like and then she did it again on consecutive nights on vacation together. She said she was following me but she doesn’t. I know too many sort of famous people who think they are the cat’s meow. Really they just act like kitty litter.


Mercury retrograde in 1sthouse

Mercury’s energy is somewhat interiorized for me, manifesting in a reflective, subjective, contemplative manner. Being in my first house, I think it makes me self-critical (in Virgo yikes!) and self-conscious. I think I felt apprehension, tension in expressing who I was from an early age. Though I am “spritually” outgoing, I was not physically so in youth and therefore spent a lot of time alone, playing. And I didn’t even rely on toys. Rather I would draw people, cut them out and play with them. I could almost perfectly draw cartoons like the Flintstones who I would then move around a set, also of my own design. Having my own personal nearly living-breathing cartoon to play with. Solo, obsessive stuff like that. Conjunct Pluto intensifies this. I believe this placement makes me easily misunderstood. I have an unusual way of expressing myself. I internalize experience. Repressing information. I love the concept Erin Sullivan points to of the planet Mercury mirroring the god Hermes going from the surface world to the underworld as mirroring the communication between the conscious and unconscious which I think is a well worn path of information for me. I might repress information, and not express it. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not perfectly aware of what that information is. I understand the symbolic language of my own selfconscious. My dreams communicate to me. My “shining” first house abilities are surfacing as I mature—even those I studied as a child (like piano) I only  now “understand” how to play it (though I haven’t played it in nearly 30 years until I sat at one recently). Suddenly it clicks. The “information” is just now formulated and being articulated. I learn from going inward. I find connections to the external worlds through information that arises from inside me, not from information in books. I think this makes me a good predictor of trends…I can sense manifestation and then think to express it. My relationship to the world is one intrinsically designed, not adopted through learning. More on my Mercury retrograde is discussed below in exercise.

Jupiter retrograde in Aries in 6thhouse

My Jupiter retrograde definitely falls into the Sun-opposition category, rather than one of the trine aspects, as mentioned by Erin Sullivan. And this is meant to “collude” well with the Sun even when in this position. Ego inflation is meant to be a symptom of this configuration. There may be truth in that. What I relate to most from reading her is the sense of feeling restless or unsatisfied with my home background. And needing to branch out, even emigrate in hopes of finding my own “tribe”. I definitely am at odds with my family. I think I mentioned once that I picture my parents and sister as hurtling through time and space in some sort of cosmic construct or prison. And that I’ve always felt outside of that. If Jupiter and the Sun together explain my relationship with society then with Jupiter in the 8thhouse I might feel even more the outsider. I think that my Jupiter retrograde dictates a need to find my own way and place in society at large, separate from the world I come from. Indeed, I am cut off from the world of my origin, and through no fault or action of my own. I have rather been cast out in so many ways. The idea of Jupiter retrograde specifically in my 8thhouse is initially hard to get my brain around. I think of hidden assets, even hidden talents, the unconscious, other people’s money, mysteries and occult matters, the inner workings of things, sex, death, regeneration etc. (and it has been very helpful as of late, in reading Bil Tierney, to think of the 8thhouse in terms of being in the 3rdquadrant, therefore the most mundane “of the world” and the least personal area of the chart—because the 8thhouse can seem so personal (the sex and death bit especially) but it really is so much about other’s isn’t it. In this light, Jupiter in the 8thhouse, retrograde might simply translate to being less materially motivated, more focussed on inner growth, self-wisdom and expansion of philosophical and spiritually insights. Having a more “ponderous” Jupiter—you would think I wouldn’t like the sound of that but I do! I am so NOT materially minded, it’s not real. I never think about money except when being urgently flat broke necessitates action. But I am not materially hungry by any stretch of the imagination. I want to feel expansive within myself. I like knowing what I know, but I don’t feel a need to telegraph it to others. This placement in the 8thhouse seems like a good fit to me where I can thus explore philsophical mysteries. I have strong inner visions and I do even get messages in my sleep. I trust my self and my own abilities and aren’t as open to opportunities offered by other people as a result. I don’t trust people as much as I trust myself. And I am probably not as receptive to other peoples money as I could be—oh, boy: I would change this first and foremost. Not from a greed point of view, but because delegating could make my path easier. But I can’t help living by the old adage: if you want something done right you better do it yourself     ! Money mightn’t greatly manifest for me—oh well—but my vision of abundance is rather of an internal wealth of truth, beauty, principles, freedom, artistry, all the intangibles I suppose. My 8thhouse mightn’t appear lucky unless, as Tierney says, you dig deeper.


Saturn regrograde in Aquarius in 6thhouse

Well, I have to first address the most startling revelation here triggered by Erin Sullian who is brilliant by the way. The Sun-Saturn relationship as referring to father in her book has sent a shiver down my spine. Working the center and perifery of experience, signalling an absentee father who nontheless made himself the center of all experience nonetheless. I get a panic attack just thinking about him in this regard. Satellite and central star. Ugh. And thus, I am meant to feel alternately powerful and centered and then completely impotent as a result Pretty accurate.Strength and vulnerability. My Sun and Saturn are somewhere between trine and quincunx, but for purposes here more trine (right?) which is chacterized as having difficulty with being zapped of energy and having creativity being stymied. Hello “pre-creative” depression. And of course it’s in my sixth house. That means I get to experience this lovely feeling everyday. Jealous? On top of all this, it seems I can be meglomanical. Great. I’m not sure which trine I have as I can’t get my brain around that as yet. But the concept of quincunx is intriguing in this Sun-Saturn relationship as my penname/character Quinn Cox is based on this aspect and much of his mythos is taken from an upbringing riddled with father angst. Anxiety over being loved is definitely something I felt as a child. Daily life feeling like a chore—yes. Fear surrounding health issues—I’m a paranoid when it comes to diseases and won’t even go to doctors. Chiron in the 6thhouse as well opposed my ascendent must have something to do with this as well. The Saturn-myth interpretation of swallowing ones creativity definitely rings true in terms of never liking what I create. I am not at all accessed when it comes to exercise or daily routines. I am naturally healthy with my diet. But I have had my issues with cigarettes and alcohol. I can be extreme with habits. And self-destructive to some degree. Or rather I think I am because I’m hard on myself. Hard to tell.

 I may unconsciously construct a rigid construct for self protection based on fears, anxiety, lack of self-worth. I self-generate pressures and am much more vulnerable than I might appear. In short, I’m way too hard on myself. Instead of structuring my world externally, and in this case the 6thhouse points to routines, I do so to myself and guilt myself for not living up to expectations. Tierney is really bleak on this subject—wow: Oversensitive to perceived lack in oneself. Self-negating, self-denying, masochistic. One who can withstand stress without seeking to change the cause.Frustrated, resentful, easily intimidated. Blocked toward fulfilling own desires. Difficulty weilding power in a balanced manner. Feelings of incompetency. And then there is a bit of sunlight: Ability to face difficulties with detachment and insight. That’s something to look forward to. Otherwise, there is fear of not being accepted by the status quo, or not having creative works well received. I’d love to hear some good news on this if you have any?!

The one planet I have which changed direction as per Exercise 2c was Mercury. And I really do think that it has both intensity and significance in my chart, which the planet rules. Mercury’s placement is in my first house in retrograde (stationary direct)  just about at its station before going direct. All that which is associated with stationary direct seems to ring true in my case—as I am definitely over-anticipatory, anxious, hyper-expectant and urgent in my need to self-express. Indeed, I define myself in terms of how I communicate and yet I’m often self-conscious in my expression, sort of desperate to be understood, as I feel people don’t readily comprehend me, either in what I’m saying, or as a person, all together. I am a quck study. I typically don’t miss a trick, and I am rather gymnastical with my verbal skills. However, I do think that I see things rather differently than most people. And that I internalize much of what I could communicate, just because I feel it is a chore to explain my perceptions, and the mental connections my mind makes. I know what I mean. But it’s hard for me to tell others, easily or succinctly. People probably think I ramble. You may be thinking that right now. I also can’t stand anything hanging in the air—that urgency factor of stationary direct really hits home for me. I can’t abide dangling conversations. I must always clear the air. I over-analyse down to a nub. I used s in analyse instead of z because I think that’s how the english spell it. I am incredibly impatient. It really is something I need to work on. I am often too busy. I need to do everything now. If I think of a great idea, I must put it into motion. Never mind the fact I already have a full schedule. That plus being a libra to begin with which is already refracted, indeed prismatic, in its expression (cardinal air, to me, symbolically translates to “light” –apollo god of light, order, reason all those libran things—lucifer, the morning and evening star, venus, the prince as opposed to elias the king—not the blaring sun, but reflected light, light has seven colors in its spectrum, 7 notes to the scale…the scales) this all adds up to doing a lot of things a little bit which only, over time, can add up to anything “accomplished”.

 I like a lot of what Erin Sullivan has to say. I think that having a mercury retrograde, lending a subjective view, which is stationary direct, for me, means that I can’t help but constantly verbalize and otherwise express my inner connections with outer reality. I think and express myself abstractly and symbolically. I am a believer, and a willing participant, in synchronicity. I do think that reality is abstract and abstraction reality. I sense a paradoxical pattern of accident, and I am happy with that. I enjoy the serendipities of life and I am eager to express my subjective experiences with them. I look before I leap. I put that cart before the horse. And I do so gladly. Action does precede thought. It is rather seize the day, isn’t it? I’m ever willing to translate my “sensory perceptions into concepts.” I think people can find me fatiguing. Because, symbolically, my mind is just coming out of a rest (retrograde) and is thus refreshed, with ideas assimilated, and ready to speak itself. Lynne, for instance, has Mercury stationary retrograde also in first house, and is therefore not ready to receive my machine-gun ideas at any given point. Especially not over breakfast. The Epimethean vs. Promethean concepts are also very interesting. And I am definitely experimental in my attitudes. Yet, in this view of “promethean retrograde” I am experimental with caution. “Driving with the emergency brake on”—that’s a fantastic analogy. Excitement for the new combined with sense of restraint. I’ve always chalked that up to Libra. But perhaps my Mercury explains it better. (Funny too that I have always equated Prometheus with Libran energy anyway as he is the lightbringer, the way lucifer is—the bearer of the lightning stick, stolen from the father. Luke Skywalker—cardinal air, hello!—whose name means light moving across the sky. He gets his arm chopped off from trying to overthrow his father just as lucifer was cast into the pit and prometheus was bound and then de-immoralized. Mark Hamill who played Luke was a Libra. I love that tidbit.) You see, I don’t have a problem with reality reading symbolically. I don’t put much stock in introspection, but rather seek to bring about my accomplishments. I’m very ready, steady, go about things and figure I have what I need in the mental bank so to speak. And what I mightn’t have, I’ll wing it. A good Mercury phrase. Much beauty and genius can be had through improvisation, learning on ones feet, trial by fire, hitting the ground running and all such cliches that carry similar meanings.

——-

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Subpar

Aquarius 19° (February 7)

Gone a bit fetal and watching Gone With The Wind. There is such a backlash against it but it is still an amazing film that doesn’t warrant being cancelled. I need to turn a corner emotionally and break some patterns I’ve had in place as coping mechanism that have since backfired. Some more astrological thoughts.

Mercury and Puck are messengers, instruments of communication, but they are also tricksters of the first order. And Gemini man struggles with this archetypal inheritance in the sense that, instead of being straight forward in his dealings, he tends to employ a signature slight-of-hand, if only to make his interactions more interesting, which isn’t always considered appropriate, that is to say rarely or never, by those on the opposite side of the table. Needing to get away with stuff or get things over on other people is like an addiction for the Twins man. It imparts a thrill. The real trick is to find a healthy outlet for this, namely sports and games, but even so it might be a challenge for Gemini to resist catching a buzz from, what he would consider harmless, cheating. The zodiac’s Robin Hood just can’t seem to help stealing from the rich—most everybody else—and giving to the poor—himself and those he labels his people. There is always something of the anti-establishmentarian about him, a bucking of whatever the system might be, the perennial rebel in search of his next cause. He naturally possesses the pluck, the nerve, to go against the grain, the original upstart of the zodiac, which is yet another one of his superpowers that can be employed for bigger purposes than he usually uses it for. Among its rule of body parts, the sign of Gemini governs the nerves, along with the breath, respiration, which, as anyone who has ever suffered a panic attack will attest, are related one to the other, deep breathing soothing the overloading of nerves and neurons. Neither deep breathing nor deep thinking come naturally to the Gemini man, the paradox being that, with proper meditative focus his efforts in so doing can reap profound results. But it takes some work, and especially around your realizing, Gemini, that this is not going against your nature. You may consider yourself a surface dweller but that isn’t even the half of your true story. We will delve more into that topic before long. Meanwhile, to say that Gemini is the least introspective of characters would be an understatement, and, yes, he will need to endeavor harder than others to gain even a glimmer of understanding to meaning and beauty of an inner life. Even the work of the great Twins poet Walt Whitman—his name being something of an aptronym in that Gemini man lives most by his wits—is an exploration of what he sees, feels, senses right in front of him, a celebration of what is right under his feet, the street-level of existence. What can be more exhilarating and exalting, though, than finding the sublime right there on the sidewalk.

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1556-1560. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Movie opens. Credits rolling over Yves Arden (a JVB type) working the phones or rather fielding calls coming in—they are an exec type in stunning Balenciaga and Blahniks. Dialogue focusing on the whereabouts of Stella and Quinn. Yves says these like they are due in Paris/Stockholm/Copenhagen to be awarded/deliver speack on their new philoosophy The Turn Theory or some such (the philosophy is Kabbalistic? but relating to “the energy of the mind in its ability to alter outcomes”) maybe Stella kissing goodbye to the boulangere Quinn studying “Aries Phenomenon” in Iceland or some such, making ways back separately to meet at NY Headquarters, first with Yves. Former dialogue or Yves: “Sorry ang but I can’t squeeze you in, said in Taiwnese with subtitles “He/she/they are only here for a day before heading to Stockholm”, etc. At some point Stella and Quinn appear in a show in the West End. In fact every scene sees them coming off a different “expert activity” as if they are living testament to the power of their own theory “something,” one of them will say “which I always believe in but never thought could be formalized into being—literally have a mathematical formul for (this is what The Turn of the Whell from Pisces “I bleieve” to Aries “I am” means. Before Arien Being is Piscean beleiving…anyway..as living examples of this power. again this is why S + Q have so many expert adjustments one reason whey they are real-magical (their being, their understanding of time and experience. However they never predict times for their clients It conflicts with turning the wheel and limits/alsters the piscean power of beleiving maybe Quinn does some rant on theory. quinn is a sexy theorest, James Bond of academia. Someone else says “astrology is not academia” “the other person says ahh tell it to the Sorbonne. IN a To the maniess style. I have no idea what any of that meant.


To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Say Something

Aquarius 18° (February 6)

I’m just going to post more astrological thoughts. Otherwise today is yet another wash, which I can’t really afford. Anyway, I have to be strong and bold and just keep forging forward.

The fairytale version of Mercury, Peter Pan, whom we’ve long associated with the sign, amasses his own tribe of lost boys who seek solace and guidance in equal measure. The sign of Gemini rules the hormonally raging age group of 14-21 a time when boys band together into schoolyard gangs, socially gathering together, into flocks of boon companions. And the Twins guy an embodied snapshot of those salad days all his life. He runs on the steam of such tribalism, if not mob mentality, like that other fellow in green tights, Robin Hood, operating in secret, employing the element of surprise, being rather thuggish, even, in the loftiest of enterprises. We might add that DC Comics’s original character Robin (Dick Grayson), Batman’s sidekick cum superhero in his own right is likewise attired and, as we’ll explore, is archetypally on brand. (And yes, nerds, we know that there is more than one Robin.) In keeping with this character, in our first book Sextrology we titled the Gemini man chapter The Goodfellow, a major nod, too, of course to Robin Goodfellow, aka Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Not only is midsummer the culmination of the sign of Gemini, but Puck is the fairy incarnation of the mythic Mercury (Greek: Hermes), both being messengers to their king masters, Oberon and Zeus, respectively. Where we are going with this: Born under the premier air-sign in the zodiac, and the sole mutable one at that, Gemini people draw on the archetypes of the air spirits, sprites, fairies and, arguably, some angels and demons in equal measure. Not Shakespeare’s invention, Puck is a pagan spirit out of ancient northern European folklore, whose name may derive from the Old Irish and Old English puca, or the Old Norse and Old Icelandic puki—in either or both case, it is from whence we get the word pixie and, by extension, pixilated, which was first introduced by Mary Chase in her Pulitzer prize-winning 1945 stage play, and the 1950 film of the same name, Harvey, the title role being an invisible pooka, a benign but mischievous creature out of Celtic mythology who takes the form of a giant rabbit. To be pixilated, is to be dazed and confused, which is very much what it is in Mercury and Puck’s—and by extension Gemini man’s—power to do to others, not to be, well, confused with the similarly spelled digital pixelization (although that word presents a good visual to describe the deconstructive atmosphere the Gemini guy is wont to create). 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1551-1555. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Getting my brain around a timeline today. We will make salmon with salad and stewed tomatoes and avocado for dinner tonight with some wine from the Orleans shops. I spent the day mostly in bed feeling very weird and sweaty. The fou-fous are now in full force. This is proving to be the kind of week you wanted to be a period of immediate snap back; but instead it has been a one of somewhat dysfunctional aftermath. It happens. There is no real crime in it and I can only do as much as I can do. I did have some good time alone to myself and I did manage to get a few things done, but today is going to have to be a something of a rerun. So here is something I’ve written in the past:

I love Julia Child. Who doesn’t, I know, but she has always held a special fascination for me. When I was a waiter in 1986 at the Harvest in Harvard Square, she and her husband Paul would come in for lunch. You would here “Bonjour Roger” in that booming unmistakeable tenor as she greeted the tiny alcoholic nicotine sodden  maitre d’ whose name she properly prounced in French, ro-jay. Paul, a curled shrimp of a man who had already suffered his series of small strokes, followed hist towering wife into the dining room where she would always order the same thing: a burger, rare, no bun. She is a Leo and I’ve often remarked on the similarity between her choice of lunch and the bloody meat one would throw into a lion cage.

Before the book and movies about her during the last decades, I always thought she would make a great subject for a work of art. I won’t go any further into that thought lest I actually end up pursuing this instinct myself. At the very least I think she and her husband would make great costumes for Stella and me, come Halloween. But, obviously, there’s more to it. Here was a couple who worked together (even though you didn’t know he was behind the scenes), who had no kids and were rather late bloomers. They were also obsessed with France and had an affinity for Cambridge, Massachusetts and Maine. All of this I can relate to.

She described herself “as the cat looking at the king” when she was a student of Le Cordon Bleu—what can be more Leo an expression than that. And what person from any other sign could turn what was for her a personal passion into an entire movement, changing the way Americans cooked, forever. What other sign could see a chef superstar embodied in the form of a fifties something woman. I’m happy I had the few opportunities I did to wait on Mrs. Child whose name couldn’t be more fitting for someone who lived life with a childlike exuberance and who gave so much to the world.


As we often are, we were approached by an event planner to do readings for guest at a private party. But there was something mysterious about this whole affair as the planner didn’t seem to be someone who threw a lot of parties, and we came to learn she worked for just a few clients helping them with their private and corporate events which kept her busy. This event was to be at a private home in Rhode Island and we took it as an opportunity to see a new part of New England. Only was there did we realize the island was where much of Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom was filmed. So we drove around to visit location spots, most notably, the “cove” of the place that serves as the film’s title.

The party itself only had about forty people in attendance but it was pretty elaborate and the grounds on which it was held, a private home on the water with multiple acres and buildings, was something the likes of which I’ve never seen; and I’ve spent a lot of time around rich people. We were set up in a sort of tower structure from which we could look down on the partygoers whom one couldn’t help imagine lived very privileged lives. One never knows exactly on which side of the political equation people might be in this position but, we were in short order led to assume that these people here assembled were on the right side of politics and history. How did we know this? Because they were all incredibly nice and unassuming people. In a world where the biblical adage that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven often rings so true, this party of people was to prove twrong that saying.

We had no idea the name of the hosts all the while we were at the party. Only by doing a bit of Google detective work the next day were our assumtions corrobarated. The host of the party was indeed a well-known, celebrated, very wealthy man of the Warren Buffet school of philanthropy where he was determined to give a great deal of his wealth away and to put it in service of others. We’ve always said that when it comes to private clients the best people in the world seem to find us and to be genuintely interested in raising their consciousness, making it a joy to help them in that aim. What we realize is that the same holds true for those who come to hire us for events. In either case we have never solicited interest but allow word of mouth and, I’d like to say, some good karma, make the referrals for us.


Emerging from the fog. I have what we call round these parts the “fou-fous”; (I caught some kind of something that my body is trying to rid itself of by way of sweating). A surplus of things is occuring to me. I need to run down the list of existing sponsors and send them the party invite. I also need to go for the jugs with getting “the persuadeables” (sorry) to donate. Scallops and leeks for dinner tonight. I need to fill in with more rerun material:

Why do I do what it is I do in regard to the half of each year, I spend, putting together performing arts festivals and series. Well, the simple answer is that Ed Sullivan and I share more than a birthday. Like Ed, I was a journalist from the age of 22 to about 40. IN fact the main reason I thought to adopt the pseudonym of Quinn Cox was because I wanted to keep my journalistic world—editors and publishers and the subjects I wrote about—separate from what might or not be a success as an astrological duo which has affectionately come to be known as Starsky + Cox. But you see paradoxes began to spring up. Like my Libran brother Oscar Wilde said, and I paraphrase because I’m too lazy to look this shit up: Give a man a mask and he’ll reveal his truths to you. Okay I’m going to look it up and see how close I got. What he actually said was: “Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.” Which is much simpler and better but I was close.

People do not know me and that’s been okay. I think I’m getting ready to reveal myself in teaspoonfuls. The fact is that back around 2005 I thought Stella and I needed to take to a stage, something we had only done together, rarely, in acting classes where, at HB Studios, we were labelled “the Lunts” which, I won’t lie, I loved. I had a sort of rock-bottom epiphany where I thought, hang on, our book Sextrology came out last year and it has been a success, so we should take to the stage and somehow combine comedy and astrology with some music thrown in. At a place called (under) Elmo in Chelsea, which one tried to convince oneself was a boutique version of Fez under Time Cafe which had recently closed down, we launched our first “Cosmic Cabaret” to a full house of wonderful people we knew personally and periferally. Lots of fashion people—Zaldy and Ruben and Isabel Toledo and John Bartlett—as opposed to performer folks. And, I have to say, after another decade or so “being” with performer folk, I much prefer the people in the fashion and design world, despite the fact I was so utterly convinced, in 2005, that I wanted to stop hanging around with fashion folks whom I did at the time find fatuous and enter the “real” world of performing artists who were down, dirty, honest and true.

Performing artists, who had been down, dirty, honesty and true for the whole time I dipped in and out of their circles, for the past 20 years since I made my way to NYC, but when, in 2006, I began to seek their company, they were on their last gasp of genuine experience. Now, first, let me say, there is no downtown. And I say this as both a journalist and a downtown denizen who more dabbles in performance. I have said this for a decade now: Round about 2007, “downtown artists” began emulating some hybrid breed of Upper East Side Socialite and opera, indie-movie and/or rock star. Quite a leap, I know; but one felt, downtown, that one should speak in a mid-Atlantic accent previously reserved for Rosiland Russell and garb oneself from head to toe in outfits that were spontaneously ready to pass, if pressured, at a Met or Whitney Event.

Suddenly the creme de la creme of the downtown scene used words like creme de la creme. Though they might still live in apartments where the bath tub was recently or still, in the kitchen, they thought they should no longer have to pay for meals or makeup or plastic surgery because they were iconic, and they were. Some still are although that particular brand of enchantment is wearing off and, dare I say, thin.

And I started to miss my friends that worked at magazines that no longer existed. I started to miss the art directors and fellow writers, like myself, who live such solitary lives that it takes a proper poking or, at the very least, a more gregarious partner to stap you into interaction. But what I missed most about living life as a more anonymous character was the ability to move on a dime, to travel, undetected, without needing to be any one place on any certain date….


Awoke from a dream about the Olsen Twins. They were landing a helicopter onto a plane that we were traveling in. They looked old and terrible and one of them (Mary Kate I think) was binging on licorice. Today will not be a good day. Yesterday was too frought for that. More car trouble. More professional impasses. More fundraising pleas falling on deaf ears. There is no time for joy it seems. And my other dream was me looking for a car I parked somewhere and wondering if it got towed. That happened once in real life back in the very early nineties when I went to visit Dean Niarkis at his apartment somewhere in the twenties. I had parked my car and slept over and in the morning I went looking for it and couldn’t find it—I suppose I didn’t remember where I had put it. I was so desperate looking for probably a full hour and then, not giving up, I finally found it. Anyway even though the title of today’s posting is slightly rosier sounding it is a total lie. Things are super shitty right now and no matter what I attempt in hopes of reversing the fact it just leads to more problems and psychological warfare. Anyway I’m still have fever dreams and I’m still trying to feel physically better. I have thirty days now until festival eve and I am determined not only to enjoy the last vestiges of summer, which really lasts a good long time after the fact. And I have to look at these darker hours this week as a way of touching a certain kind of rock bottom from which we can rise.

Happily things did turn around and we did some emotional housework and then went for a second sushi of the week (don’t judge). The weather was changing, the oppressive heat being sent out to sea, as winds and clouds from the east swept over us, plunging the temperature to a tolerable level. We shared a bottle of rosé bought from the shops in overcrowded Wellfleet and then still had a little Chinon to take to bed with us. I am urging someone to watch Years And Years somewhat against her will. Yes, the subject matter is really scary; however the product is such top quality and the acting/ensemble superb. Belfast is on my mind today—I do love Maine so very much. But I have to stop my real-estate porn addiction because it doesn’t keep me in the now which is where I want and need to be. This should be an interesting month as I allow the intermittent fasting thing to take hold while I make the beach an everyday thing and go off any and all sauce for the duration. With so much holiday fun this summer already under my belt I don’t really expect this to be much of a challenge. And anyway I have to be all foward movement. It’s a psychological thing. I almost want to be awake as much as possible. Why is that? I’m predicting I will live until eight-four. Is that weird to say? I just have a vibe.

I have to clear out my brain and get my psychic self buzzing. That’s what these daily summits will be all about. We have to create our own excitement. And part of that is also clearing away the cobwebs of past negativity and dysfunction and, yes, destruction. I for one have never been perfect (I know that might come as a shock) and I have behaved badly in my life but it has never really, at the core, been anything but beating myself up, whether I’ve done it privately or in public. I want to fall back in love with writing again. This is one of my goals for the coming year. I’m prolific I know but I have to be a bit more purposeful. I need to find an almost physiological focus, a literal unscrambling of my brains. There is something about me always that feels as if I’ve been shaken by a giant babysitter. I sent a note to JCM asking if he would give a little shout here and there for the Afterglow Festival and he wrote back in gleeful affirmation. I’m so grateful for this kindness. I really am counting my blessings and friends as one.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

Frou Frou

Aquarius 17° (February 5)

Blent, Day 6. The good news is I’m feeling rested, although my dreamscape still has the quality suggestion of my having suffered a brain injury. I wish I could explain to you better what I mean by that but I really don’t have the time. For sure my nerves are smoothing out and I can attribute that to Blent. I’m going to stick close to bed and pajamas today and try to write what needs writing as if I’m just here doing my Blague. I am trying to ease into it all. I am learning what I need to learn. I will start a list of evening activities as I get into a rhythm. Off the top of my head these will include packing, working on fundraising, and doing the extra book writing and reading and listening to books by the fire. That is what I’m looking at. My basic mantra for the day is: don’t think. I just want to assemble, to treat blocks of text like furniture and just chuck them willy nilly into different chapter sections, as if they are rooms, to rearrange and then decorate later. 

It was a noble thought and then I fell off the axis. It upsets me that I haven’t been able to sustain what needs sustaining but it doesn’t help me to wallow so I’m just going to post some notes on current astrological observations:

Gemini is forever striking some kind of bargain or another, internally negotiating opposing forces—along the proverbial right vs. wrong dichotomy—and outwardly navigating his needs against what, he supposes, others want from him, exacting his next move, the next deal, to further any number of his agendas. His can be a tricky head to be in; and yet there is very little the Gemini doesn’t do mindfully, being less prone than most to unconscious motivations, compulsions, and the like. He is determined to keep others guessing for as long as he may, which can make him appear indecisive or confused, when in fact he is dazzling others with infinite information and imagined possibilities, outcomes, and other such shiny objectives, if not sowing confusion, creating distractions, to better move his own needle, undetected. The Twins man is self-aware, if to a fault, purposely creating a buzz, excitement aimed at keeping spirits bright, especially his very own; and he will do so all the more if he knows that what he’s selling—always something—isn’t quite what he’s cracking it up to be. Beyond personifying the old refrain, fake it till you make it, Gemini has the ability to convince himself, in a flash, that whatever he is saying is actually true. If only he would use this superpower of positive thinking for good. (Ah, but you can Gemini, you can.) For the Twins man, it’s all about his field of experience, and what electricity he can create within it. Immediacy is his watchword in more ways than one. Ruled by Mercury, named for the eternally teen-aged, quicksilver god who can be here or there in an instant, the sign of Gemini is hinged on both the instantaneous and the intimate, the immediacy of both time and space. This nervy powerhouse of a person is focused on the moment, needing to be occupied by interaction, physical activities or conversation, and surrounded by loyal and compliant cronies who consider him the bee’s knees and themselves fortunate to be in his posse. Gemini has a knack for taking those with broken wings under his own, and he trades his bestowal of affection for, and approval and validation of, these fellows in exchange for their fidelity. He thus attracts (scouts for?) those who may lack a strong will or direction of their own, and provides these malleable peeps a sense of purpose they mightn’t otherwise gain for themselves. 

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1546-1550. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

So the five Blagues from these days chronicle the return from Rome via London, where that amazing Jenny (who cured herself of a hernia by jumping up and down) breezed us through to terminal back to Boston, the Eliot, the ferry to Provincetown and the windwhield of my car being smashed by my hood which flew up and cracked it while I was on the highwy. Yikes.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

There There

Aquarius 16° (February 4)

Day 5, Blent. The Mercury retrograde is making itself known and today felt really quite depressing as a result of being denied something we were sure was, well, a sure thing. Faith is being tested and that’s okay. This year is all about the book and my challenge is not to just do it but to enjoy the process. I have an opportunity to put everything into th project at hand. It is active faith hou might say, and I’m very willing to have this be a thing. Now a little bit of astrological thought:

He is the best of guys, he is the worst of guys. Sometimes wholly gravitating toward one extreme or other, Gemini mostly embodies a provocative mix of both polarities, placing him somewhere midway along that spectrum. That may sound a bit ominous, but least of all to the Gemini, who embraces and indeed celebrates badass elements of self. One thing is for sure, there is rarely a dull moment in the life of the Twins guy, not for him, and certainly not for his immediate associations. His protocol, be it voluntary or not, is to keep the rest of us guessing, the element of surprise being endemic to his experience. Gemini likes to shake things up, as if all the world were one big snow globe, challenging the status quo, and letting the chips fall where they may. He seems the most spontaneous of characters, but that can be part of his cunning, as he would rather others not comprehend just how precalculated he can be. Exuding youthful charm and exuberance, designed to enliven situations and people he finds too staid or serious, Gemini seems to possess the power to change the very arrangement of molecules in the air, and typically, for the better. Not to say he always lightens the mood, because when things are not going his way, the turned-down atmosphere all around will seem to be on a dimmer switch. Thankfully, for the most part, he seeks to infuse life with that much more fun, his animated, near cartoon expressions registering his every reaction and emotion as he intently listens to others—or is it a well-rehearsed display designed to signal he’s engaged while his brain alights elsewhere. The thing is we will never know. Even the most angelic Gemini has, shall we say, an interesting relationship with the truth, which is hardly ever an absolute in his book. Nobody thinks quicker on his feet than this fleet-witted fellow, while his signature snappy repartee often belies a broad, original philosophical mind, which can be reluctant to develop. Gemini is impatient, which, on one hand can make him prolific, able to churn out whatever he puts his mind to, without over thinking; on the other, he can sell his intellectual alacrity short, only employing it in ways that won’t tax his notoriously short attention span. One of the natural-born leaders of the zodiac, he sticks to an inner circle, surrounding himself with seconds, lieutenants who can carry out his bidding. Even when in great positions of power, over many people, he runs his operation like a mom-and-pop shop, relying on close friends and family who provide cover and run interference. Charismatic to the core, he breathes life into circumstance

The following blocks of text are exceprts from my first year of  Blagues, nos. 1546-1550. I am reading through all of my Blagues, five per day, and posting some samples here. Now, in my sixth year of writing this Blague, by the time I get to my seventh, I will have journeyed through all the daily Blagues of my first five years. If that’s confusing I apologize. Year seven, I’ll only have to read through year six, once a day.

Full on Blagues from our trip from Ithaca to Sicily and Islands so not going to repost them. But if you were to go back to read you can just type in Ischia.

To view the original Sabian Symbol themed 2015 Cosmic Blague corresponding to this day: Flashback! The degree point of the Sabian Symbol may at times be one degree higher than the one listed here. The Blague portrays the starting degree of for this day ( 0°,  for instance), as I typically post in the morning, while the Sabian number corresponds to the end point (1°) of that same 0°-1° period. There are 360  degrees spread over 365/6 days per year—so they nearly, but not exactly, correlate.

Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2020 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved. Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2020 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox.

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