ADVENT OF THE 13th SIGN
On January 13th 2011, Ozzy Osbourne’s
daily horoscope took a sudden turn:
This is your big day, truly your biggest yet.
That vague feeling you’ve always had–
that people have been ignoring you
(at least since 167 AD)–is suddenly affirmed
by a global burst of sub-cosmic recognition. The stars insist
this would be a perfect day for you to wear something
other than black, to court favor with people in really really high positions,
to gamble on adventure, to feed the serpents,
and to flirt with strangers. But you must take great care,
at all costs, to avoid accountants, firearms and transfats.
What a frigging ruckus. Well, I suppose it’s not every day the astrologers
add a sign to the zodiac. And this revision has implications.
Two and a half millennia of celestial symmetry now irrevocably
ruptured. Suddenly, one star sign matches everything or nothing.
Is that sign mine? The operators at e-Harmony are standing by
to take your calls all night long. And, oh yes, they are bothered.
OK, I’ll be the first to admit that, like Ozzy,
I too admire reality. Even so, I just can’t help feeling
that the advent of the 13th sign is just one more thing
bigger than ourselves. Just another looming otherly thing—
like big government, like grizzly moms, like Goldman Sachs,
like Glenn Beck, Wikileaks and nymphomaniacs–
merely the latest in a series of big-assed little things sent here to afflict us,
to inhabit us with no higher purpose than to Ophiuchus.