It’s unavoidable these days. At some point on your first date, somewhere just after you both know you wouldn’t mind having sex with each other – and just before you start figuring out you’re both walking Freudian freakshows who should stay the hell away from each other – the inevitable question arises: “So what’s your sign?” There is no way to get around this. You can’t say you don’t know, because then you’ll be asked your birthday. You can’t say “Leo or something” because then you sound like you want to sound like you don’t care, which means you sound like a prat. So the best I could come up with on my date in Cihangir was: “Leo, supposedly.”
“Supposedly? Are you or aren’t you?” she asks, annoyed.
“Yes, I’m a Leo,” I say, not without a little sense of pride. After all, if you’re going to be part of the cosmological space zoo, what better than a lion? I’m no astrologer or anything, but it must be better to be a lion than, say, a virgin or a fish or a scale or something. It’s a lion after all, leader of the pride, king of the jungle, the symbol of virile masculinity, power and courage, the master of…
“They’re full of themselves,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. My chest deflates back to its original size. “They’re egotistical, shallow, attention-starved wankers,” she continues matter-of-factly
“Boy, you’re good at this dating thing. Who was the last person you scared away?”
She ignored me.
“Ok, so what’s your sign?” I asked this time, hoping to get back at her.
“Taurus,” she replied. Now it was my turn to grill her… except I didn’t know anything about Tauruses, except that they were horny beasts.. or is that horn-ed?
“Bull,” I blurted out.
“No really, I’m a Taurus.”
“No, I mean the sign. It’s a bull, right?”
“Supposedly,” she said, smirking sarcastically. Now I was annoyed.
“But you’re female, and a bull is male. So, being a female Taurus, that would make you …a cow?”
“No it wouldn’t, they’re all bulls.”
“Look it up, a female bull is a cow. It’s not me saying that, it’s science.”
“Well thank you, Mr. Science...” she said before the waiter came to take our order.
"We're obviously not going to get along, you're a Taurus and I don't believe in bullshit"
"That's funny, for someone who doesn't believe in bullshit, there sure is a lot of it coming out of your mouth"
The waiter was confused as my date and I continued to passive-aggressively peruse the menu.
“Oh boy, let’s see," I said. "I’d love a nice big fat juicy steak, something carved fresh off the belly of a nice fat heifer... how about you? Something vegetarian, I would assume...”
“I’ll have the chicken,” she said to the waiter before looking at me to add “they’re dumb and insensitive so I don’t care if they get their heads chopped off.”
Obviously the date was going great. We had now reached that point where we both knew we would never see each other again but would still see this date through just for the pleasure of torturing each other to see who gives in first.
“It’s all a load of crap anyway,” I said after the baffled waiter had left. “All that Lenny the Lion, Billy the Bull stuff…”
“You would say that, you’re a typical Leo. You want admiration for your groundbreaking cynical insight. Regular genius, bravo.”
“Oh come on, isn’t there a sign with its own bunch of personality traits for every planet? Then there’s that rising sign and even a sign for the moon and the sun. When you put all those together wouldn’t everyone just have a bit of everything anyway?”
“No, because there would be subtle differences which distinguish each and every one… not everyone’s love sign is a Virgo, not everyone’s rising is a Capricorn.”
“Capricorn… what is that, a goat?”
“Look,” she said, ignoring my last question, “I believe the stars have an effect on our lives and characters… if the moon can affect our emotions, then so can stars in other ways.”
“The moon? It’s virtually up earth’s nostril, of course it would have a gravitational effect. Those stars you’re talking about are a gazillion light years away.”
“Yeah, well, everything’s connected. That’s SCIENCE too…”
“Oh come on, people only like talking about horoscopes because it’s a way to talk about themselves without actually talking about themselves. Insert “Taurus” instead of “I” and you’re off. We’re all flattered when someone asks our sign because it’s like they’re actually asking about us. It would just be too annoying for people to actually talk about themselves.”
“Well it doesn’t seem to be stopping you – oh but I forgot, you’re a Leo.”
“You love that, don’t you – categorizing people with smug star signs, ‘he’s typical this’ and ‘he’s typical that.’ It makes everything so much easier.”
“Why can’t you just accept another person’s beliefs and respect them even if you don’t agree with them? You know why? Because horoscopes also have another function… they’re easily used by pseudo-intellectual dilettante assholes like you who think they’re making an earth-shattering revelation to the rest of us mere mortals by dissing something other people believe in with banal arguments thinking you’re some prophet of revolutionary new ways of thinking when really you’re just another pigeon-chested bird-brained git who gets off on being an annoying little pimple on the face of society because you think at least pimples stand out. Well guess what, you’re still a pimple.”
Think of something to say… think of something to say…
“I bet you’ll write about this in that wisecrack magazine of yours,” she said as she got up to leave. “By the way, do you have to have your name on everything in there?”
Well, I am a Leo after all.
“Supposedly? Are you or aren’t you?” she asks, annoyed.
“Yes, I’m a Leo,” I say, not without a little sense of pride. After all, if you’re going to be part of the cosmological space zoo, what better than a lion? I’m no astrologer or anything, but it must be better to be a lion than, say, a virgin or a fish or a scale or something. It’s a lion after all, leader of the pride, king of the jungle, the symbol of virile masculinity, power and courage, the master of…
“They’re full of themselves,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. My chest deflates back to its original size. “They’re egotistical, shallow, attention-starved wankers,” she continues matter-of-factly
“Boy, you’re good at this dating thing. Who was the last person you scared away?”
She ignored me.
“Ok, so what’s your sign?” I asked this time, hoping to get back at her.
“Taurus,” she replied. Now it was my turn to grill her… except I didn’t know anything about Tauruses, except that they were horny beasts.. or is that horn-ed?
“Bull,” I blurted out.
“No really, I’m a Taurus.”
“No, I mean the sign. It’s a bull, right?”
“Supposedly,” she said, smirking sarcastically. Now I was annoyed.
“But you’re female, and a bull is male. So, being a female Taurus, that would make you …a cow?”
“No it wouldn’t, they’re all bulls.”
“Look it up, a female bull is a cow. It’s not me saying that, it’s science.”
“Well thank you, Mr. Science...” she said before the waiter came to take our order.
"We're obviously not going to get along, you're a Taurus and I don't believe in bullshit"
"That's funny, for someone who doesn't believe in bullshit, there sure is a lot of it coming out of your mouth"
The waiter was confused as my date and I continued to passive-aggressively peruse the menu.
“Oh boy, let’s see," I said. "I’d love a nice big fat juicy steak, something carved fresh off the belly of a nice fat heifer... how about you? Something vegetarian, I would assume...”
“I’ll have the chicken,” she said to the waiter before looking at me to add “they’re dumb and insensitive so I don’t care if they get their heads chopped off.”
Obviously the date was going great. We had now reached that point where we both knew we would never see each other again but would still see this date through just for the pleasure of torturing each other to see who gives in first.
“It’s all a load of crap anyway,” I said after the baffled waiter had left. “All that Lenny the Lion, Billy the Bull stuff…”
“You would say that, you’re a typical Leo. You want admiration for your groundbreaking cynical insight. Regular genius, bravo.”
“Oh come on, isn’t there a sign with its own bunch of personality traits for every planet? Then there’s that rising sign and even a sign for the moon and the sun. When you put all those together wouldn’t everyone just have a bit of everything anyway?”
“No, because there would be subtle differences which distinguish each and every one… not everyone’s love sign is a Virgo, not everyone’s rising is a Capricorn.”
“Capricorn… what is that, a goat?”
“Look,” she said, ignoring my last question, “I believe the stars have an effect on our lives and characters… if the moon can affect our emotions, then so can stars in other ways.”
“The moon? It’s virtually up earth’s nostril, of course it would have a gravitational effect. Those stars you’re talking about are a gazillion light years away.”
“Yeah, well, everything’s connected. That’s SCIENCE too…”
“Oh come on, people only like talking about horoscopes because it’s a way to talk about themselves without actually talking about themselves. Insert “Taurus” instead of “I” and you’re off. We’re all flattered when someone asks our sign because it’s like they’re actually asking about us. It would just be too annoying for people to actually talk about themselves.”
“Well it doesn’t seem to be stopping you – oh but I forgot, you’re a Leo.”
“You love that, don’t you – categorizing people with smug star signs, ‘he’s typical this’ and ‘he’s typical that.’ It makes everything so much easier.”
“Why can’t you just accept another person’s beliefs and respect them even if you don’t agree with them? You know why? Because horoscopes also have another function… they’re easily used by pseudo-intellectual dilettante assholes like you who think they’re making an earth-shattering revelation to the rest of us mere mortals by dissing something other people believe in with banal arguments thinking you’re some prophet of revolutionary new ways of thinking when really you’re just another pigeon-chested bird-brained git who gets off on being an annoying little pimple on the face of society because you think at least pimples stand out. Well guess what, you’re still a pimple.”
Think of something to say… think of something to say…
“I bet you’ll write about this in that wisecrack magazine of yours,” she said as she got up to leave. “By the way, do you have to have your name on everything in there?”
Well, I am a Leo after all.
