Born on July 25, 1789 (or possibly 1792, or some say 1795, or even 1799), James Barry passed his heart-breakingly odd and quarrelsome existence as a medical doctor throughout the British colonies, ever accompanied by his many dogs and his manservant John. Famous for performing the first successful Ceasarean section, he also once berated Florence Nightingale from horseback during the Crimean War, and introduced the pear-fruit to common English soldiery. Barry was sadly discourteous in his efforts to improve medical hygiene across the Empire, for which he developed many enemies. A vegetarian and an advocate for wine-baths, he dueled eagerly with anyone who commented on his strange features or his high-pitched voice. Upon his death, the charwoman Sophia Bishop observed that he had the parts of a lady.
A message from Abraham Lincoln:
When Dice contacted me to make a speech to the future, I confess I was a little disappointed. Seriously Dice? A speech? Isn’t that kind of obvious, coming from me? I mean, it just feels a little ‘take your kid to work day’ or something. Let’s skip the cute, okay? This is the internet.
Anyway, from where I’m sitting on this golden throne in the heart of the sun, I don’t see a lot on earth that I exactly feel like commenting on. “Eat more ice cream.” How’s that? “Children are special.” “Be a better person.” I could do this all day, but then, so can Lululemon. You know what’s depressing? Saying obvious things and pretending like you’re learning.
The other option is praise. I used to make a lot of speeches about stuff I thought was glorious. Sobriety! Universal mind! Obscure birds! (Did I talk about birds? I don’t even remember, but it sounds like me.) People would get pretty jazzed on stuff that I thought was glorious. I liked that about people, the way they admired me.
But that was back when anything that wasn’t a tooth ache or a skin rash seemed completely amazing. Now that I abide in eternal mystical congress with the greatest souls that ever existed in the gleaming foyer of the gods, I think it might come across as more than a little smug if I was like, “Isn’t life just so great?!” For some people it clearly sucks.
I guess if I was going to make some sort of pronouncement, it would be: don’t ever lie… ha! You should have seen how serious you looked right there. What am I, George Washington? Just live your life, okay. And don’t ever ask me to do this again.
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Astral wisdom and your song for the month of June, brought to you by Pseudo and Dice at Sound Scheme.
You’re serving up dinner all month, Aries, and we’re not talking about cold cuts and mustard. We’re talking feathers, clip-ons, and fancy belt buckles. I’ve got a menu plan for you: it’s called Spread the Fuss. No napkins necessary. This is for when there’s more than enough to go around.
You’re a study in good handwriting, Taurus. It’s something I like to call ‘fine penmanship’. Do you wear special mittens for that, or do you do use the bottle cap technique? Never mind, the family won’t like it. I use to write words, but now I just draw skulls, because everything dies. This is for getting it done right the first time.
Don’t phone it in, Gemini. You haven’t got the shoulders for that, you’ll just get a crick in your neck. Anyway, how are going to punch in the numbers with those crazy flippers? Better to roll on over there and show them what you’ve got… tusks! Enormous spikes sticking out of your head! This is for giving them your game face.
You remind me of the word ‘McGrath’, Cancer. Some guy named McGrath. And you know what? This guy McGrath is going to come and put a bunch of Skittles into your already delicious pudding cup of a heart. You’re going to love it, and so are your snack buddies. But it’s just you that did it. This is for when McGrath is you.
You’re the best, Leo. That’s what everyone says. Even God says so. I’d congratulate you, but those guys say that to everybody. You’re more just like some hilarious dancing monster, and you’re all cute and sleepy because you’ve been yowling at the trees and tall buildings all day. This is for inappropriately sitting on people and smiling too much.
You’ve got a lot of books for a kid, Virgo, and you’ve got a lot of cheek for a mope. Also, you carry too many keys. The shit needs kicked, everybody knows that, but who’s to say you can’t put on some adorable slippers and go shuffling about like everybody else? Jesus, that would make me laugh, to see you do that. This is for how weird you’ll feel.
We were talking about you the other day, Libra, and Pseudo was all, “Libra is so Tex- Mex.” I wanted to slap him in the damn face, cause you’re more than that Libra. You’re Euro-turkey, you’re Arctic slush monkey, you’re New Caledonian knuckle bunny. Who pulled you out of the pantry? This is for when you’ve got them guessing.
It’s all be done before, Scorpio: the fancy ribbon, the face painting, the jumped up apple pie, all of it, but with more butterflies. Here’s something no one has tried… sparklers. Lots of them, running around and going crazy. Throw in some sammies and some triple-deckers and you’re doing alright. This is for keeping it basic.
You’re deep, Sagittarius. You’ve got that oceanic thing going on, so you can’t blame people for thrashing around when they look at you. Quit scaring everybody with your briny tears and your implacability. You’ve got options. You could be a cloud, or maybe some sort of rolling fog. It just takes a bit of sun. This is for when you’re switching it up.
You ever get the feeling that no one is watching, Capricorn? That’s because you refuse to come down from your magic treehouse. The irony is that the ninja pirates and the talking buffalo are throwing a party for you, but no one knows how to reach you. It’s okay to be scared, they might kill you. This for when it’s a good thing you can fly.
Sow your buttons at breakfast, Aquarius, and reap sweater vests by starlight. The insufferable midnight hour advances on a tide of cats and old furniture. Nudity is not an option… unless you’ve got some terrible secret that even I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past you, Aquarius. This is for doing what you do.
It’s a calamity, Pisces: everything is working perfectly. The folding chairs all fold the same direction, the cups are all stacked. The barbers stand in line for miles, but no one has any hair. It’s time to simply hit the lights and work it on the inside. You’ll make a mess in no time. This is for ‘fuck it, I’m sticky.’
FROM: PSEUDO and DICE