Astrology has something frowsy about it. It comes to the door in hair curlers. It looks through the screen with squint-shrewd eyes. The caller who rang the doorbell stares in at crackpot mystery in the half-light, and senses + there a kind of disreputable plausibility. The dogs on the porch get restless and slink away. A universe of surreal connections unfolds.
What next? A little magic. Astrology, a radiance in pink housecoat and mules, looking eerily like Shirley MacLaine, dances from the shadows, out the door, and floats into a previous life. That's entertainment.
Astrology was once a statelier business. It...
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