prophesy a la mode, part one

Greetings,

I am posting this here (astrology.com 's relaunch has been delayed -- this was originally written in March 09)

Here's part one -- have fun with it!

To be or not to be; that is the question. – William Shakespeare

Hypothesis du jour: If a Maya Prophesy fell in the woods and no one was there to hear it, would it make a sound?

Prophesy, like the rise and fall of hemlines in time-space, is relative, but take it as you will, or Not. I always find that it tastes better with a grain of salt, or with a dash of tongue in cheek. So without further ado, here’s a fresh scoop of Prophesy a la mode.

Wicked wit and compassion hold hands and fears are faced with elegant repurposing of classic curves to lead the exiles like colonists into a fashionable Revolution: One which ruffles the sterile lines of sleek mid centuries and pop-mods with Elizabethan collars, applied feathers, and sparkles -- as if, “Pouf”-- right out of Genie’s bottle.

Renaissance pixies in corset vests and Hepburn slacks trade epithets for epaulets like Joan of Arc, while those well connected by long ropes, and pearly bling to the social fringes flap or slink along unnoticed and swing in big as if by some psychedelic tutu chandelier.

Red heads are big, flower-power by the “Wi-ppies” and other wireless “brownies” return old bombshells to blonds and inspire a big bang liberation, or a tipping of the hourglass institutions (at full saturation) away from an endless game of Pong against its own inevitable obsolescence. All this while hopping Ann Margret-like to Technicolor hybrid beats of harmony from discord-- fused in the organic polyester fabric of space-time like Ragtime Rap to Reggae.

Meanwhile, fantasy is reclaimed with reckless abandon, glamour is redefined all around, and old icons make a return-- not a comeback— as if dizzy tourists on a pulp fiction safari to familiar but reinvented haunts. Others arrive at the swanky cocktail party in droves; drawn into the lounge by a re-visioning of the Bossa-Nova (or virtually by Robert Osborne).

Striped awnings, front porches, and lemonade are in. Quick fixes, vinyl siding, and gift cards are out, garden jewelry, urban tree huggers, and hybrid projects are in. Gaping Mc Mansions are way out, and faster than a passé granite countertop installs in a flop, “The New Jan Brady” flips her funkadelic wig to return to her roots—learning to fly on her own, unencumbered by the middle or the high hats, and crowning Green the New Pink in the process.

(END PART ONE)