The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars but in ourselves.

July 15, 2004 10:30 AM

Last night, after two beers but before the pool competition, I had the misfortune to be cornered by someone with a deep, abiding belief in astrology.

"So when's your birthday?"
"December."
"Ah, a Sag?"

Warning bells start going off about now. The only people who refer to Saggitarius as 'Sag' are those who use the word often enough to be dangerous.

"So, you're an outgoing guy, then. Life of the party."
"I'm a toxic introvert."
"Like the outdoors?"
"Er, not really."
"Ah, but you said you just came back from America. So you like travel. Typical Sag."

At this point, I can feel my brain-cells dying en masse just from being forced to listen to this. Or maybe it's a mass suicide to avoid having to process any more of it. I picture my neurons lined up, cups of poisoned kool-aid gripped tightly in dendrites: "It's this, or having to work out what your rising sign is! You know what you have to do!"

I have a pretty laissez faire attitude to spirituality. If you believe in a God, or several Gods, or a nebulous spiritual ether that encompasses all living things, that's really none of my business.

At least, that's what I thought. Now I know that I have one exception, in the same way that Country is my exception to having no musical biases.

If you honestly think that a human being's personality or destiny is shaped by the fact that some guy looked up at a pattern of dots in the sky a few thousand years ago and thought "Ooh! Horsey!", then I'm sorry, you're an idiot.

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