I was sitting in Threadgill’s, doing a reading and dining on some of the fresh asparagus, and gratefully, I was doing a reading for a friend’s daughter so my client was rather understanding. Just the cutest little woman wearing a halter top and shorts walks up to the table, and asks, “Excuse me, are you Kramer?” She’s got a lipstick red phone glued to her ear, and she’s smiling at me. “Yes?” “Here,” she hands me the phone. “Kramer, this is my friend, what are you doing tonight?” I take one gander, shorts, halter top, “I’m suddenly very free this evening.” “She has a Pisces rising but don’t be fooled….” Handing the phone back, I just had to ask, “What sign are you?” “Virgo.”
We did have a fine afternoon at Guero’s, on the patio overlooking S. Congress. Imagine kicking around names for a Lawn Mower Racing Team, discussing the finer points of the selection of equipment while watching not one, not two, but three delightful Virgo girls knock back Margaritas. But the Virgo string isn’t broken yet, though, referring back to my previous comments about missing one Virgo on Thursday night, the game of cell phone tag in various establishments with music too loud to hear the phone ring continued. Instead, Bubba and I wound up discussing the proper placement of certain artifacts of my life and trying various arrangements to make the trailer more hospitable to the press. I really needed that fine Virgo hand in art direction. I fear that Bubba and I just didn’t do it justice. To be fair, the official FGS Crest is his idea, “Dude, see, it would make a great tattoo, a cow skull over two crossed fishing poles, what do you think?”
