Fishing Guide to the Stars starting 6.30.2011

“Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.”
Apemantus in Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens [IV.iii.355]

Cancer: Happy Birthday! During the next week, the Sun “squares” Saturn. Means that mean Mr. Saturn is going to apply some pressure to certain aspects of the otherwise kind and gentle Moon Child. During the next couple of days, especially if your birthday is around now, there’s a point where there’s a problem. Needs some attention. The more traditional interpretation of this, during your birthday week, is that your home’s foundation needs to be bolstered. In the simple trailer park analogy, this merely translates to more cinder blocks under the old homestead. Simple. Easy. Maybe a few pieces of boards as shims for the “foundation” repair. Since this is a birthday time for Cancer, my first words of advice: seek assistance. Don’t undertake that foundation repair all by your lonesome. The second batch of words of advice? Instead of a concrete foundation repair? Given where the rest of the planets, not Saturn, but other influences might be? Go back to my idea of wooden boards, cinder blocks, building blocks and removable adjusters instead of more permanent items. Might want to change this again, in the future.

Leo: The boulevard of broken dreams, there’s a place, just, well, it’s not close to me, but I’m sure there’s a location that has a similar sentiment, someplace close to you. It’s a long, narrow block of mid-rise buildings, adjacent to downtown, like a seldom used corridor, leading to the center of the city. One of the building’s is now a hotel and another building is apartments (Weekly rentals available! All bills paid!). At one time, the buildings have been a high-class restaurant and bar, a nice hotel, a diner, lawyer offices, and basically abandoned downtown real estate. It’s really three different facades, at one time, part of it was a department store. The exterior sign is still there. For that and the hotel. The apartment building one is just a simple board, hanging below the roof.

I was in West Texas and New Mexico, and the canyon lands reminded me of that single corridor downtown. Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Many different facades that have been upscale, down scale, and now, abandoned until a cool and hip developer comes along. Or the city just levels the historical site. Boulevard of broken dreams. That’s what we’re looking at in Leo. Do you have the vision and backing to “redevelop” downtown real estate, Leo real estate? Or are you going to let the city — or some other government entity (authority figure) — just demolish everything and start over?

Virgo: There’s an early morning aroma. Conditions have to be just right for this, first off, it has to be dry, no rain, last few days. Then, there has to be lawn on one of those automated sprinkler systems, goes off every morning, at, like, three A.M. Finally part of the equation, the lawn service, I’ll assume it’s a service, not just an individual, the service needs to have just visited yesterday, preferably, yesterday afternoon. So the dry lawn was mowed yesterday afternoon, and then the sprinkler kicked in early this morning, earlier than it should’ve, maybe, and there I was, just before sun-up, able to appreciate the aromatic blend. It’s like fresh, dry grass that’s just been shorn. It’s crackling with the fresh watered smell, a summer fragrance that only happens when all the conditions are just perfect. The astrological conditions are just right. What was I doing up at that hour, without a fishing pole in my hand? Coolest part of the day. So part of this message is about getting up and being the most correct person in the right place at the best time. The results, while I won’t promise success for sure, but lining up as much as possible for the best solution, goes a long way towards insuring Virgo success. This next few days. Early. Earlier than everyone else.

Libra: In New Mexico (New Mexico State, a united state since 1912), the most common breakfast question, frequent culinary inquiry, the one I heard every morning? “Red or Green?” Refers to either piquant and smokey red sauces or zesty and piquant green sauce. Fire-roasted chilies, as grown in New Mexico, and the counterpoint question I had? “Which one is hotter?” Implied in my counter-question is the heat index of the sauce, as most Texans don’t fare well with the hotter New Mexico Chilies. I do. Hotter is better. Food should be painfully hot to be really enjoyable. Saturn is in Libra, making some uncomfortable energy. What works, as I’ve asked this question from Las Cruces (south part of the state) to Taos & Raton (north part of the state), I’ve inquired, “Which is hotter, red or green?” What I found out: it depends. The relative heat factor of the food varies from location to location and store to store. Kitchen by kitchen, cook by cook, even. I never got a consistent answer, sometimes it was Red and sometimes, it was Green. No two alike. No consistency. Ask. Politely inquire. As a Libra, you’re good with the idea that it varies from location to location, and as we wrestle with Saturn’s implications, don’t hesitate to ask which is hotter. Might not be the question, but don’t hesitate to inquire. The answer changes, so be prepared to ask every time.

Scorpio: As a winter dish, the chili I make, my usual recipe, I’m all about process, not a strict cookbook format, and that recipe, I tend towards a dozen or more “winter” jalapeños. The winter produce is sweet, tender. Hot but not overwhelmingly so. Peppers that are almost as sweet as bell peppers, for example. Just sweet, tender fruit, not even a pepper. Good flavor, mild chili. Excellent flavor as it has that “jalapeño” scent without the burn. Or without the afterburner. I grabbed a dozen peppers the other day at the little grocery down here, last of the barrel, so to speak, the peppers had seen better days. Summer produce, as well, which means they’d been hanging out in that little grocery for a few days. Not as perky as I’m used to. There was reason. Those were full-on, mean-spirited ‘summer’ peppers. Hot. Hot like the Habaneros in the bin next to the jalapeños. Really hot. Hotter than usual. I was making stuffed peppers, slice the japs open, gut them, add cheese, wrap a piece of bacon around it, and grill it until the bacon is cooked. The winter version is tasty and delightful. Those summer japs? Too hot for even me. Mean peppers. Ornery. Okay, from my little culinary exercise, what does Scorpio learn? Test produce. Test product. Test, sample, taste test before you cook up a whole batch. Especially this next ten days or so.

Sagittarius: “Thank you, that was very good, you’re an excellent cook.” I was addressing the waitress. Cute, young thing, too. Sagittarius. I had followed her recommendation on the evening’s special, and it was, predictably, good. Excellent. Her quick response, “Oh, honey, it’s all the kitchen, I can’t cook. I can’t even boil water.” (“Ah cain’t EVENNNN bo-ahl waterh…..” Very distinct West Texas Twang) The rest of the evening was filled with comments about her cooking, and every time, she popped on around, she would point out, with great pain, that she wasn’t a good cook. Which just meant that I pursued the question further with a semblance of ribald riposting from either side. It was fun, it was amusing and it was an evening’s delight. The language and couched reticence, call and answer singsong, a delicious Sagittarius sentiment warmed by the running gag. Food was good; I ordered coffee and dessert. Running gags are of dubious value. As the summer (summer in the northern hemisphere) boils away, there’s fine-tuned sense of the absurd that is required. Whether it’s the idea of the Sagittarius cook (some Sagittarius are good cooks), or the prolonged running gag (that one of us just won’t let alone), there’s the inherent sense of the absurd that is required to help negotiate this next couple of days. Week.

Capricorn: In my various meanderings around the American Southwest, one image that seared its way into my mind — it was a Native American Artist, a potter. His medium was the traditional clay, fired in a traditional manner; however, the artwork on the glazing? One piece was titled “Paris and Helene,” as in Trojan War stuff. Trojan War Motif. Myth. The two characters on the pottery were engaged in a possibly pornographic act. “Pottery porn,” what ran through my prurient brain. Couldn’t help it. Glazed, forever, or, at least, for a long time. Shards of some pottery has lasted, like 30,000 years, or more. In an art gallery, I’m sure this stuff was a high art. I was impressed with the price tag, the art itself was a little less than I was willing to pay for, but that could be me, and if you’ve ever seen my typical attire, you’ll understand that I’m not the best when it comes to style and color combinations. The pottery porn, though, reminded me of Capricorn. This week. This very week. Careful about what you commit to a medium that is, literally, set in stone. Or cast in stone, as was the example of the pottery. That stuff can follow you around for years. Millenniums, really.

Aquarius: Spend enough time traveling, and sooner or later, there’s something that defies description. It was an older (Japanese) sedan, little four door, faded paint, chrome strip still in place. Going the opposite way on the interstate highway, windows down on a hot summer afternoon, and there was obvious baggage in the back seat, on top, strapped to the roof. Prominent, was a Dish TV dish, facing forward, on the roof, in front of the other boxes and suitcase. Then, with both windows down? Passenger side, the passenger had his right foot out. Driver’s side? Left barefoot. Looked like, with that dish antenna pointed forward and the individual feet out? Looked sort of like a person. Or an alien, some kind of space alien. Strangest image, just a quick glance revealed that much. Matter of paying attention to the details, assimilating as much information — Aquarius in data-acquisition mode — get as much information as possible. First glance, first blush? Looked weird. Turns out it was car with at least two people in it, not some hybrid person fleeing down the freeway.

Pisces: “Twelve Hours, all it took.” I was explaining, it was a situation, and I’d been visiting my “wee Scorpio mum,” and in less than 12 hours, I took off in car to run an errand, and I succeeded in finding the longest, most time-consuming, least effective route to get from one place to another. Ten-minute errand took two hours. More. It’s the familial influence. 12 hours in her direct presences and I was completely reduced to the boy-child, and worse, discombobulated. Doesn’t take long.

Aries: One of my great quests, one of the undertakings I’ve attended to in this lifetime is the Holy Grail of Chili Cheese Fries. In a small resort in Northern New Mexico, I found a close runner-up in the contest. Can’t say they were really chili cheese fries, not in the conventional sense of the food group. What they were? Long, thin strips of green chili, probably, allegedly Hatch Green Chilies, and those strips were dusted with potato dust, potato flakes, and then flash-fried. Not really “chili cheese fries” in the conventional sense. However, as long as we’re dealing with Uranus in Aries, unconventional is a working phrase. Let’s work it in. Instead of turning your Aries nose up at my suggestion, stop. Think about it. It’s not traditional, yet it was very tasty. Certain, rather loose, parameters were met, like, it was fried, it did have potato parts, and there was chili. That one didn’t have cheese, but then, some have suggested I’m cheesy enough. The quest is ever ongoing. It’s open-ended. There will be new number one each week or year. Guidelines shift and change. Which doesn’t mean that there isn’t a new goal, or, for that matter that the new champion, Green Chile/Potato (flake) Crusted fries aren’t a new contender. Open your eyes — and other senses. See what your Aries quest turns up. I’m still open for new suggestions for chili cheese fries, too.

Taurus: One novelist I’m fond of, in his online material, he claimed that his latest and greatest secret was “gravity boots.” He would turn himself upside down for a period of minutes between bouts with the word processor. Claimed it expanded his horizons while not having to leave his apartment. Gave him that “other worldly perspective” for which his novels are (justifiably) famous. I don’t believe it. That he’s famous? No, that he uses gravity boots several times a day. That’s time-consuming and disconcerting. Not to mention turns my whole world upside down — guess that’s the purpose — but still. I’d lose my lunch. Or breakfast. Or I’d lose that quart of coffee I just consumed. I just fail to understand why turning myself upside down would help. Maybe I’m too narrow minded about this. I don’t get it. Then again, my novels don’t make the best seller lists and reprinted ad infinitum. Maybe there is a trick to hanging upside down. Would you be willing, as a Taurus experiment, as an astrological experiment, to hang upside for a few moments? There’s a particular influence, and all I would encourage, in the Taurus world, all I’m suggesting is that we try looking at this “situation” from a different angle. Personally, I’m not going to hang upside down. I don’t really think you need to, either. But try a different perspective.

Gemini: I heard the perfect homeopathic cure for Mars in Gemini — “You soak golden raisins in gin….” I recall none of the rest of the problem, nor, for that matter, do I recall much about how this “homeopathic” solution was supposed to work. However, I’d suggest, as natural cures go, a gin-soaked raisin, or a liquor soaked fruit of any kind, would be a good way to start. I’m not really a doctor, and I doubt I could ever play one on TV; however, legally, I can be addressed as Dr. Kramer. Or, as I prefer, the “Good Dr. Kramer and his astrological solutions.” My astrological solution is seek out a good, realistic, homeopathic cure. I understand that liquor doesn’t solve all problems. Some of us no longer touch the stuff. Vary and modulate the solution as need be for individual exigent circumstances. I still like the purported effects of grain alcohol (ever clear) on Baptist watermelon. Seemed to work wonders. I’m not saying this is an excuse to drink excessively, but there’s a hint, a party solution, a homeopathic remedy, something that works for Gemini. Still, the original versions, “Golden raisins soaked in Gin,” that might be the correct remedy. It’s mostly Mars, and anything helps.