Taurus 26°

You would think I would remember what Libra I had planned to send this to…

Hello Again

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 25°

Okay it’s 6:20 and I have spent my whole Sunday on this which I don’t think is fair.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 24°

Chere Christine,

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 23°

So inspired by the last spoke whereby a guy named Duncan sent me a note he never should. I was glancing at my email “drafts and noticed I have an even 240 said drafts. I suspect they are mainly made up of emails I wrote in some state of emotion than thought the better of. I’m twenty-eight Blagues behind, spanning the signs of Taurus and Gemini. So what better way to bridge that gap then by publishing narcissistic emails that, in so doing, might take on a comic rather than tragic purpose.

I’m going to start with a letter I wrote recently that I knew, when writing it, I couldn’t send—it was meant for two individuals:

If a certain friend of ours whom we adore ever knew the way you spoke of her it would break her heart.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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Taurus 22°

So I came upon a Facebook message this awful person sent me before immediately blocking me. He is a notorious criminal and an even more notorious asshole called Duncan. I think he was on a celebrity rehab show. Anyway, he was in Provincetown for the first Afterglow, sharing a house with one of the performers. I managed not to meet him the entire festival because I wasn’t one to party with the performers which is a good policy to maintain. On the final night John Cameron Mitchell had a show and it was surely going to sell out. I told the hangers-around the theater including close friends that they should buy tickets before they were gone. My friends did. Not only did we sell out but JCM arrived at showtime with an entourage that we also had to somehow “fit” into the room. I had limitations—fire codes imposed by the venue. We got everybody in except this asshole Duncan who threw a fit. I said: “I told you hours ago to buy tickets before we were sold out.” He went around in a heightened state of Don’t You Know Who I Am? No, I don’t; and I don’t care. He was miserably rude to me. I ignored it. But then he went around bullying young people I had volunteering as ushers. That was it. I told him to get out. He called me a “Fat AIDS Dwarf” among other thing. Then he flung a water in my face and stormed out but not before being hit with two (closed) bottles of water my hands had found and flung at him before my brain even had a chance to process. JCM was meant to introduce me onstage. I was soaking wet. He came into the lobby asking what had happened. I went on stage soaking wet. Meanwhile Stella was seated next to Taylor Mac whom she told I had had an issue with Duncan, not knowing the upshot. Oh that guy, said Taylor. He had a bunch of performers come to the West Coast for a performance and then didn’t pay anybody. (I’m paraphrasing). Apparently en route leaving the theater he bent and broke the radio antennae on my antique Mercedes. He’s a bad egg. He has been in trouble with the law I learned since. Three years ago, when I was in Paris, I awoke to this note on FB….at least he didn’t call me “fat” this time.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 21°

Taking a bath in an aluminum tub with my first cousin Karen outside at my Aunty Margies house. My father, the oldest, had three siblings: Marge, Junior and Donny (surely not their actual names—I told you all my life my father’s name was James, right, until he told me in my thirties that his name was really Vicenzo?). Marge lived in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. And like I tried to tell Georgeann Walken (Christopher’s wife) who was the casting director of The Sopranos (on which a slew of friends and acquaintances like Michael Imperioli and Aida Turturro appeared): I knew the entire landscape of that show from growing up and going to Auntie Margie’s, passing, like the Soprano’s opening credits, all they pictured there plus the endless cemetaries and cemetary themed shops—yes I think they were cemetary shops where you could by tombstones and fake flower decorations because, in that part of New Jersey, death-themed outlets and fledgling fast food restaurants—the first ever McDonald’s I ever saw—was in Lyndhurst and Kearny, where New Jersey children of immigrants went to die. You could entered Auntie Margie’s house without ever going into the house at all. They had the first electric garage door opener I ever saw. It was just a doorbell near the garage door that you pushed, meaning anyone could at any time but didn’t because people didn’t assume such a thing existed then. The door opened and before it was fully raised, as soon as you could, you ducked into the garage and then immediately into the “basement” which was all tile and lineoleum (easily wiped down with cleaner on a cloth) and there was a kitchen and a cheap outdoor/indoor table, glass and iron, and other smaller, mainly card, tables, that doubled as “kids tables” and places where poker would happen. Karen was uncle Donny’s daughter. I never saw her growing up past the age when we were three. But for that time we were inseparably bathed, bedded and put to play together.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 20°

Going to see Mary Poppins which was made a year after I was born so I suppose I would have saw it at age two. My mother’s mother’s sister, who looked like my grandmother but excactly, only taller, took me and maybe my sister. Although I do feel that my sister was already becoming my sworn enemy, through the warped machinations of her own mind; in fact I remember some drama that day but can’t put my finger on it. My sense is that it involved jealousy and the giving of presents. Me thinks she might have been judging love and loyalty via the quality of a present and perhaps I got a better one that day than she did from aunt Kate. I wasn’t alive when Darby O’Gill and the Little People first came out in 1959, but I know for some reason that it was in theaters in the sixties because I saw it around the same time as I saw Mary Poppins. I think I had lots of Mary Poppins paraphenalia—and I’m also sure that I couldn’t sit through the whole film, especially the cartoon parts, because, quite simply, they sucked. I might have napped or spent some time in the lobby with an adult feeding me candy. It was the same some years later with Bedknobs and Broomsticks when they merged with cartoon characters and backgrounds. I hated that. Give me real live flesh. Darboy O’Gill spoke to me. I had already been to those places where the little people live. And because it was probably at Radio City or something and we saw it at Christmas (we probably saw all the above mentioned movies at Radio City during Christmas—Bedknobs for sure, along with Oliver and other such films like Charlie Brown movies, although, they might have been at Easter not Christmas)—I was saying: because it was probably at Radio City and there was merch I had Darby O’Gill “rub ons” which were sort of decals on wax-y paper that you placed against things—in my case my shared (with my sister) bureau—and you rubbed, typically with a nickle against the wax-y paper that held the decal on the other side until it transferred to, in this case, the furniture. I don’t know what they put in those things but they never came off.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 19°

Driving my Fisher Price car around the apartment. We lived in a small flat in Jersey City; two bedrooms, a bathroom a hallway a kitchen and a combined dining living room. I would drive my little wagon—it really wasn’t a car—around it and when I say drive I mean sit in it and move my feet. I remember the horn the most. It was in the middle of the “steering wheel” slash wagon pull and it beeped for a while. Soon it sort of was permanently caved in and out of air to create a beep. This was around the time when I would go into completely other worlds via duvet covers but I think I spoke about that in a previous Blague.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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The painters are painting the apartment. I’m young—I don’t go to school yet (and I started school, “play school” at three); yes, my mother wanted someone else taking care of me until I could take care of myself, completely, by the age of 5. I remember my mother’s friend Joan coming down to check on the apartment. Later, I remember seeing photos of her visiting and I really was still a baby. Like a baby baby. And if this is my second memory than that crib one goes way back. I remember everything was one color. The walls, the painter himself, his clothes, the drop clothes. I don’t know why I look back on the painter as someone very kind and who I wish would have kidnapped me. He was a Norman Rockwell painter, a television sitcom painter, a kindly American fellow. I remember that much.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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Taurus 17°

My sister leaning over my crib. Also Barrel of Monkeys holding hands and tails from the sealing to just over my face. I think there was something about them I didn’t like, the Monkeys—something to do with the sharp thin plastic from which they were made. I think perhaps one fell and poked me in the eye. I can see different colors—red, brown, yellow, blue—and I can see their expression. Of course the second after I write this I’m going Google Barrel of Monkeys and I know I’ll recognize their simean grins.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

Copyright 2017 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Get your HAUTE ASTROLOGY 2017 Weekly Horoscope ebooks by Starsky + Cox