It's a high class problem, a very modern feeling one, that when your computer bids you permanent ni-ni, you feel like your life imploded. Everything could be worse, way worse (I could live in Haiti); but I now fear that the all-you-can-eat shit buffet of this past week is perhaps a personal astrological issue. Either that or god is Catholic and he's pissed at how resentful I was about presenting the host at my grandma's funeral. The host is only wine and wafers and yes it was just about honoring my grandma's faith, but to paraphrase Joni's song, don't interrupt my sorrow with any crackpot tradition that involves standing near a priest.
Carl Sagan, in his all his turtlenecked wisdom, explains astrology.
I love that dude. No one on TV now talks that unbearably slow or moves their hands like that, all loose and sensual and up near his face, like his paws are birds and he's sculpting mashed potato mountain.