Me, happy? Sorry, it’s not in the cards

If there’s any truth at all to astrology, fortune telling, tarot cards, precognition or any other psychic phenomena in which the future is predicted, I may as well climb into bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay there. Forever.

My actual, day-to-day life is OK, but the future prognosticators typically foresee for me — on those occasions I’m foolish enough to ask — is flat-out lousy. 

The first time I was psychically slapped upside the head I was at Cedar Point with my friend, Rose. I’m not a big roller coaster guy (unless you count my relationships) but Rose loved them, so there we were. 

After getting my brains scrambled on the aptly named Mean Streak, I was ready for something more sedate. Fortunately, the park maintains a “Frontier Town” area, complete with a quiet, non-brain scrambling museum filled with old stuff that’s fun to look at while your corn dog and cheesy fries digest.

Hidden away in a dark corner of this museum is an actual, working fortune telling machine. You slip in your penny, pull a lever and voila, a card bearing your fortune in 7-point type pops out.

I’m not sure what the science is behind this device. Probably has something to do with chaos theory, black holes and the space-time continuum, but I was an English major and can’t even balance my checkbook without a calculator. Esoteric physics theories are forever beyond me.

At any rate, Rose’s penny delivered a card with the sort of fortune one might expect for a penny; happiness, wealth and a rich, full love life lay in her future. The fortune my penny delivered was considerably less rosy.

According to the card — and I only wish I were kidding here — my future included ill health, disastrous financial decisions and (this is an exact quote) “dying alone and lonely.” The only “good” thing the card predicted was a long life; the better to enjoy my poverty and sickness, lucky me.

What sort of fortune telling sadist would even write a card like this? Being a rational, 21st century man, I decided to ignore it. Time passed and I forgot all about that card.

Until last Friday.

That’s when I met with the tarot card reader, a “clairsentient” named Pam. Pam runs a fortune-telling service and I was interviewing her and one of her clients for a story. After the interview, Pam offered to give me a free “reading.”

I told her I don’t really believe in all that hooey, but the price was right and the place I had interviewed her served martinis. I figured what the heck.

As soon as she began dealing from the tarot deck, I knew I was in trouble. The initial hand — something called the Celtic Cross, if I’m remembering correctly — showed that I was going to have problems at work. As she moved around the cards, she also predicted problems at home, financial troubles and a romantic future more devoid of life than the surface of Mars.

“That’s OK,” Pam said, looking worried, shuffling the deck. “Why don’t you try asking a few yes/no questions and we’ll see what the cards say?”

“OK,” I said, hoping for a reprieve from the previous fortune, or at least an amendment of some sort. “Will I find love?”

Pam shuffled, dealt three cards, all but one of which appeared upside down. Upside down cards, it turns out, are not a good thing. Pam looked apologetic, and maybe a little nervous to be sitting so close to me when it was fast becoming apparent lighting could strike at any moment.

“Money?” I asked. “Will I finally have some this year?”

Three cards, including “Death” and “The Hanged Man,” slipped out of the deck, all upside down. Pam casually inched away from me.

“Well, I’ll be broke and alone,” I said. “Will I at least be happy?”

The cards didn’t actually burst into flames, but they might as well have. I don’t remember which cards Pam dealt, but they were all upside down, all bad.

Pam spent the next hour or so trying to assure me the message of the cards was not written in stone, that things could, conceivably, maybe, possibly, change. But I could tell she didn’t really believe it.

Between antique penny carnival machines and professional mediums, there seems to be a psychic consensus forming around my life. Is it enough to make me a true believer? Let’s just say, the cards say no.

But it makes me wonder if my recent purchase of a black cat was such a great idea.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,”  is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in Kindle format from Amazon.com. Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’m afraid of what I may be doing to international relations and Boise, Idaho

 A couple weeks ago I told you about my new job, writing horoscopes for an English language newspaper in Moscow, Russia. Yes, really. Turns out the editor there liked my work so well he asked me if I’d also be willing to write horoscopes geared toward romance and business, along with a monthly “overview” horoscope. He represents several publishing concerns, apparently, all of which have readers who can’t make life decisions without a little help from the stars (not Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but Neptune, Mars and so on, though they’re not stars, but planets—even I know that much, but I digress).

After stressing to the editor yet again that I know absolutely nothing about astrology other than that there are twelve months in the year and a sign to accompany each, I agreed to take on the job.

How? you may ask. How can someone who knows nothing about astrology accurately predict the future of 10 million Muscovites? The short answer is: I make stuff up.

Are you a Pisces? Romance will blossom in August! Aquarius? Keep your eye on financial matters and expect a long trip in your near future. Leo? Too late, you will regret a recent, really, really bad decision. (My ex-girlfriend is a Leo, so I’m afraid all news is bad for the poor suckers in Moscow born under that sign, at least for a while.)

When I first started writing these things, I took it pretty lightly. I mean, I don’t believe in all this astrology hoo-hah, surely others don’t either, right?

Wrong.

Turns out some folks believe in astrology the way I believe in beer and Mexican food; it’s a religion. I discovered this fact recently after telling my favorite waitress, Crystal, about my new gig.

“You really write horoscopes?” Crystal enthused. Crystal is cute, half my age, and was obviously impressed, so I pretended it was a big deal.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, the picture of nonchalance. “For a big publishing concern in Moscow.” Now, I have no idea if any of those Moscow papers for which I’m writing has a million readers or seven. Point is, neither does Crystal.

“I’m a Virgo,” Crystal said, pushing her long, blond hair behind one ear. “What’s going to happen to me next week?”

“Um,” I said, “I dunno.”

“C’mon,” Crystal said. “You can tell me.”

“No. I mean, I really don’t know. I make it all up.”

“Ri-ight,” Crystal said. “You’re not supposed to say anything until it’s been published, is that it?”

“No, I mean I really make it up. It’s all fake.”

Crystal looked suddenly worried. “Do they all do that?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m the only astrologer I’ve ever met.”

Crystal took my order, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was thinking about the plans she’d made for the upcoming weeks; plans predicated on the alleged accuracy of whichever horoscope she peruses every night.

And so, like Crystal, I’m worried, but for a different reason. Somewhere in Moscow, there is somebody reading the nonsense I’m spewing forth each month and imbuing it with a validity and accuracy it does not in any way, shape or form possess. Someone is making life decisions based on my off the cuff BS!

Someone is leaving his wife. Someone is buying stock in K-Mart. Someone is selling everything he owns and embarking on a cross-country bicycle trip (a Sagittarius, like me. Seemed like a good idea when I was writing the prediction, but I was drinking beer and eating Mexican food at the time).

What really scares me is that somewhere, somewhere in the Russian countryside, a lone soldier, a Leo like my ex-girlfriend, is sitting in a near-defunct, Cold War era missile silo, reading a newspaper. He’s sitting on 300 megatons of radioactive death, targeted at Boise, Idaho. His horoscope reads, “Now’s the time to just go ahead and do it! Your life stinks anyway. What have you got to lose?”

I’m really hoping he’s not a true believer.

Mike Taylor’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available at mtrealitycheck.com or in ebook format from Barnes and Noble, Borders and other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I can see the future and it has me in it, making a quick buck

I found another part-time job. Since I haven’t been able to track down a full-time job, a bunch of part-time gigs is what I’m left with. But that’s OK; this particular job is actually fun.

I am now—brace yourself—an astrologer. Or astrologist? Astrologian? Since it’s turning a paycheck, I should probably at least research the topic enough that I know what I’m called.

Other than “fraud,” I mean.

Now, if you’re one of those folks who can’t get out of bed in the morning without first checking your horoscope, don’t panic; you’re never going to read my dubious astrological predictions. Not unless you go to Moscow, as in Russia. That’s where my horoscope column is running.

That’s right, I can’t find a writing gig in the United States, but I’m about to become the Next Big Thing in the former Soviet Union. And to think I was once worried these folks were going to drop atomic bombs on me!

I got the job online, by sending in a writing sample to a Russian guy with the cool name of Vladmir Aleksander. In addition to sharing a name with the infamous Balkan ruler credited with starting the Dracula myth, Vlad also publishes an English language newspaper in Moscow. And he’s decided to add an astrological forecast to the paper’s lineup.

I explained to Vlad up front that I know diddly about astrology. I don’t know if Pices is compatible with Leo or whether either does well when paired off with Taurus. The little I do know about astrology I learned from that Fifth Dimension song Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In, and they don’t really go into too much detail there.

Vlad said he didn’t care.

“But comrade,” I responded, trying to get into the spirit of international relations but coming off like an extra in an old James Bond movie. “How will I be able to write horoscope predictions when I know nothing about astrology?”

“Make something up,” Vlad said. “Pretend you’re writing for Pravda.” (Pravda was the “official” newspaper of the Soviet Union and according to Vladmir, was almost wholly fictional during that time.)

So I made something up. I warned Sagittarians to avoid fried foods, told Capricorns that romance was in store for the evening, admonished Leos to stop being selfish and manipulative (my ex-girlfriend is a Leo and I’m still bitter!), and suggested to Cancers that this might be a good time to quit smoking. (I mean, just consider the name of their astrological sign! Duh!)

Oh, I plan to bone up on astrology, if for no other reason than that my columns will seem more plausible to people who buy into this hooey. But at best, it’s like hiring an atheist to write for the Southern Baptist Journal of Theology.

Still, a paycheck is a paycheck. And if my Russian brethren are willing to fork over the rubles, I’ll don a turban once a week and predict the future.

Don’t blame me. As a Sagittarian, my sense of ethics is somewhat underdeveloped.

Mike Taylor’s book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available at mtrealitycheck.com or in eBook format from Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon, and other online booksellers.