I’ve been wanting to write about this hot cross deal we’re all weenie roasting on. I can’t remember what the name of the film was, but I remember seeing a matinee with my uncle at the local theater when I was around seven. It was a film about Jesus, maybe it was “King of Kings” I can’t quite be sure, but I remember the crucifixion scene and recall fire, smoke and what looked like someone roasting sausages. Perhaps this was a deceptively placed subliminal that I picked up on, which somehow was supposed to trigger me to run to the snack bar and get one of those fine, roasted hot dogs in a nicely steamed bun. For years, I associated the cross with a hot dog picnic–kosher of course.
I’ve been moving, a moving target in the cardinal cross hairs. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had some intensity–far from it.
On Saturday, I learned deep insight into the sign of Pisces, the epoch and era of the Prince Of Peace. On Saturday, I realized that my son is a scapegoat. He’s also a Pisces. I’ve been witnessing the mechanics around this and it’s utterly fascinating.
He plays little league baseball, in two leagues. He plays in his rec league, the team that I manage and he also plays on a Select/Elite team.
His first year here, last year, when we moved here from California, he was just eight when he tried out. He played well and was drafted into a league dominated by ten-year-olds. It was a bit much for him both physically and psychically. He also had a bit of a young douche teammate who froze him and two other boys out of his inner circle. Welcome to Texas. I had to talk to him numerous times as his Piscean storm clouds would gather at strike three looking. Shrink. dad, hitting coach, the hats were often really confusing. We got through the season, but I was witnessing my son’s penchant for blame (a Piscean strategy when overwhelmed) and the fog of victimization that clouded over our talks, which would then seep into his practices on occasion. By the end of the season, he was getting it. He was hitting and it felt like we overcame a number of obstacles, both emotionally and skill wise.
Fast forward on Saturday, a tournament with his Select team south of San Marcos in the first bright Sun of the season.
In the first game, the team pounced on a nine-and-under team and did what they had to do. The second game rolled around and the faced a ten-and-under team. Equals. What has been an ongoing theme reared it’s not so-handsome-head again; this team hasn’t been able to overcome adversity. They have been bullied by slightly better teams and when they have squared off against squads of similar talent, they haven’t been able to stave them off or come back. For whatever reason, they haven’t found their pulse when needed. Saturday was no exception. Poor pitching and lack of timely hitting, mixed with some errors on poor decisions had them down by five runs headed into the last inning and guess whose kid was up? Yep. He managed to fight off a few pitches and fist a weird grounder to first and got on base. That’s when things got strange and scapegoaty.
He led off first base and his coach (the manager of the team) told him to get a bigger lead. He did and the pitcher threw over to first. My son dove back in and he was safe–barely. The cagey pitcher knew he could get him though if my son got a bigger lead, so like a skilled fly fisherman, he let the line out a little longer as my son inched closer to second base and then he struck like a baby cobra. My son knew he was going to be picked off and tried to hot foot it to second. He was out cold. Embarrassed he jogged back until he crossed the foul line then began to mope into the dugout when his coach barked at him to get off the field. It was the first time I had ever seen the coach blow his cool like that in public, usually his wrath was saved for his own son, out of which he expects nothing but perfection.
Perhaps, ironically, I had chosen not to wear a hat and my face was burned and red, my physical approximation of my son’s inner state. Instead of the scarlet letter, I had the scarlet head.
I’ve been tracking him at practice and he’s getting uptight. He gets flustered when he makes a mistake and then loses his cool and confidence and as he does, it sends reverberations into the heads of the coaches who then beam back their displeasure, cycling into an unconscious feedback loop, which my Piscean/Cancer rising son intuits as judgment, which makes him more uptight and prone to making more mistakes as the natural flow and grace exits the body, leaving him without poetry, enthusiasm and joy. He is becoming the shadow fetish of the team, a function that both he and the coaches seem more than willing to agree upon in their semi-unconscious role play.
This is how Pisceans become victims and lead actors in the blame game. Their sensitivity and their unconscious need to find their own excuses at failure lead to the eventual projection of a group or a collective failure. It is here where the Pisces character must forgive and compassion for himself and the other, must be channeled. Without it, a two-thousand-year-old drama gets played out, again and again. Maybe I should have had the hot dogs on Saturday to engage my own, curious relationship with this phenomenon. But I had plenty of time this past 48 hours to indulge in a little forgiveness and surrender myself.
Exhausted from moving, blistered by the central Texas Sun, worn out from watching my kid become that kid, all I wanted to do was watch TV in my new place with him. Didn’t happen. Time Warner was supposed to come out and they didn’t. No cable. I spoke with the CS rep and of course he has no answers. He can’t just flip a switch so that we can zone out in a field of projected, plasma trance induction. What am I supposed to do? Yell? Shake my fist and tell him that Direct TV wouldn’t treat me this way? While it isn’t like I am forgiving a criminal (let’s be real), there was nothing else I could do except accept and with that, I took my little scapegoat down to South Congress. Sometimes I go there at night when I feel a little blue. I asked him where he wanted to eat and he said, “Lucky Robot.” It’s a sushi place that somehow manages to fuse both “Hello Kitty” and “Astro Boy.”
We sat at the sushi bar and I turned him onto “Spider Roll” his first, soft shell crab and a killer, smoked salmon roll with goat cheese. I figured we would take part in a communion of sorts and consumed his rising sign (Cancer/Crab), his sun sign (Pisces/Salmon) and some churned scapegoat (Goat Cheese). I didn’t plan the menu, but it turned out that way as we partook of his astrological body and it’s gustatory affiliates. So I guess, the moral of the story is that when you feel like a scapegoat, or life is conspiring, along with you, to flesh that role out, eat yourself, symbolically speaking of course, because at some point, you’ll have to deal with the shit anyway. Now onto much more important matters than my son and his holographic learning lab.
As some of you might know, I am no longer doing my show on Gaiam. I have been put on hiatus, this despite the relative success of the show inside of Gaiam itself. It’s a numbers game and I have no one to blame other than me. I haven’t been keeping my website current enough, not tweeting enough, not doing as many horoscopes as I could. In short, being a father, manager, producer, radio host, personal astrologer to clients and a writer has spread me more than a little thin and yet, this is where it’s at right now on Terra. Life is a numbers game, from metrics, to money managers. Speaking of money, this dead bankers trail is getting ridiculous. They’ve gone from the questionable suicides, to outright gang-styled hits. It’s reminding me of Ecstacsy dealers getting knocked off in Manchester, circa 1992. Somewhere, sometime, someone will spill the beans that the whole shit house is going to come down and that we’re all going to be fleeced and fucked. Pensions will be swallowed whole by Wall Street whales. Bank accounts will be seized and the public won’t know what hit them until it is far too late.
The cow and tortoise show over at the Bundy place is just a warm up, a primer for when the feds decide to keep poking the big-old-dog who farts too much with a stick. At some point the dog will snarl and snap back. It’s not far off now. Then there’s Ukraine and neo-nazis and neo-cons. It’s said that the US is amassing troops at the Ukraine border. Hey, did any of you know that the head of the Navy, shares the last name of Nostradamus’s third antichrist? That’s right, his name is “Mabus.” Life is downright funny sometimes, isn’t it?
Meanwhile, Mad Men has returned and I am still waiting for Matt Weiner to kick it it into high gear. That’s not to mean that he isn’t loading the symbolic chamber with some high-caliber-ammo. Don has been sent packing, cast out of heaven or hell, depending on one’s relationship to gnostic deities and salvation.
Don has been replaced by “Lou” which of course is short for Lucifer. “Lou Avery” to be precise is the new Don, or new DON or new dawn. His name evokes both the rebellion of a fallen angel and the ordinariness of an office supply, like an Avery stapler. Yes, he is all that and less. In William Blake’s universe he is the ponderous and gravity afflicted, Urizen.
Then there’s black “Dawn” who used to work for Don and is now feeding him information while Don is in one of Dante’s rings of limbo. At one point, Don tries to get a little cozy with black Dawn, which would almost be too much of an alchemical marriage for us to handle. It would be an illuminated wet dream. But in tonight’s episode, things got even weirder. Dawn was messing with another receptionist at SCG, also black, named “Shirley.” At one point, they switched names and Shirley was Dawn and Dawn was Shirley. Then they both got moved from their secretarial positions because Peggy is an unhappy bitch and Lou is an evil office accessory with no sense of humor. But neither can sit at the front desk and be the face of SCG, because, well, they are just not the right face.
Don’s daughter, Sally, is away at boarding school and her room is littered with butterfly prints and cut outs and lo and behold, there’s a yarn painting of an owl, looking down upon her and her roomies. Weiner has packed her room with triggers and occult eye candy galore. Speaking of packed, Joan is stuffed once again in her “Lady In Red,” boob hugging dress, making Jack Parsons clap with glee in Hell. Meanwhile, Megan is in Topanga or Laurel Canyon, right around the same time Charlie Manson is dropping acid and screwing hippie chicks and lost hookers out at Spahn Ranch. It’s a simmering cauldron, but that’s all it is at the moment. It’s the Neptunian allure of two-martini lunches and psychopathology masquerading as liberation at the end of the sixties. Altamont is still just a shot away.
So where the hell are we? Oh yeah, I’m not doing Gaiam any more, I’ve moved into a new place and hopefully I can start doing videos again–soon. I want to do them every morning and figure out a way to stream it all live and keep a roof over my head. I’ve got the bones for a new website and gosh darnit, I don’t care what it takes now. We’re in the stretch run and we might as well let it all hang out so that when the party’s over and they turn out the lights, you know that you didn’t just sit back and let candles burn into the dark, like McArthur Park, or just go mute on the day the music died or didn’t try to stop Puff from sadly slipping into his cave. In essence, you’d better get your licks in now.
The Grand Cross will escalate and the tensions will rise. It might not manifest in the fall of the dollar or the government quite yet, but I can tell you that on a personal level, especially ye fair cardinal signs, or peeps with planets in cardinal signs, from 10-15 degrees, the demand that you apply your energy in meaningful areas of your life has never been greater than now. No matter what the circumstances look like, no matter how rough the finish of the spiritual sandpaper grinding you down, try not to worry or freak out. This is only a test and believe it or not, it’s rocket fuel for your trip into deep, inner space, reaching those places you haven’t had the courage or payload to get to. It’s all energy. Use your conviction to the fullest and we might just snuff out these evil plans to herd us like Cliven Bundy’s cattle long enough until they show us the horrific and pitiful visages behind their ancient and cracking masks. The real disclosure has nothing to do with aliens or ET’s–it’s all about the parasitic virus that’s been living amongst us for eons, adopting new and different names, using philanthropy as a cover. This my friends will be the true disclosure and if we wait them out long enough and live by the peaceful commandments of the most universal and high, they will simply show themselves and in so doing, lose the power of spells and illusions cast upon us. Until then, live your life like there’s no tomorrow and do it with commitment so you won’t feel cheated. Stay cool you groovy cats and kittens.