IT'S IN THE STARS

Sometimes, not too often but often enough to muddy the waters, Hollywood decides to portray newspaper work as breathlessly exciting and heroic. The cinematic newsroom is a hive of Fourth Estate virtue as committed journalists toil valiantly to protect the public interest. Their work matters, they know it and they are rewarded and validated by breaking The Big Story.

Naturally, the real buzz is a lot different.

A real newsroom is a little like something out of the Cold War. It is a realm of simmering frustrations and resentments in which peace exists as long as everybody stays within acknowledged spheres of influence. I don't tell reporters and shooters (photographers) how to do their jobs and they don't tell me how to do mine. Break faith with me on this, and I will trim your story by taking out every other word instead of cutting from the bottom.

You see, our spheres of influence can be pretty small, which is a tough truth for people who got into this biz looking to save the world, so we tend to be pretty protective of them. We just want to hold on to whatever shreds of power we have, so we can tell ourselves that we are, indeed, helping to save the world.

But copy editors have something that shooters and reporters don't have: an almost godlike way to reach into individuals' lives and shape them. We get to edit the horoscopes and advice columns.

Syndicated horoscopes are the kiss that newspapers blow to the gullible, and, as far as divination scams go, are up there with the Oracle at Delphi. The oracle was a priestess of Apollo in Ancient Greece whom anxious pilgrims would consult when facing a difficult decision. By some accounts, the priestess was a virgin who would -- provided the pilgrims made sufficient sacrifices and payments -- inhale noxious gases, go into a trance and then prophesy. Unfortunately, the prophecies were hopelessly vague and open to wide interpretation, but the oracle did booming business for centuries. And so you have one of the great oddities of history: the ancient Greeks, who produced Plato, Socrates, Pericles, Aeschylus and other great minds, hazarded travel and fortune to talk to a stoned, teenage girl when they wanted to learn about what really mattered to them.

(Which brings us to an interesting question: What would modern American parents -- in debt up to their eyeballs -- do if their 15-year-old daughter began accurately predicting stock market trends after taking a few bong hits?)

Syndicated horoscopes take a similar tack, speaking in chirpy generalities that you might hear from your mother or an enthusiastic elementary school teacher. "Be optimistic." "Persevere through difficulty." Don't lose your temper."

Well, if that's the best that the stars can offer us, why shouldn't I add a little kick to the horoscopes, y'know; add some specifics.

For instance, here's a typical horoscope item: "Exert yourself at work. Someone will notice." Wouldn't it be better if it had been this instead: "Exert yourself at work. Someone will notice. And tell the boss that you screwed up." Or what about this: "Romance will bring a surprise today. You will find out that your girlfriend is really a guy." Or this: "Share you feelings by making a gesture to somebody, like a slow-moving driver on Interstate 75."

Horoscopes also play it safe way too much of the time. You'll never get arrested for following their advice. But bad people need love from the stars, too. So couldn't there be an item or two like this: "With Mercury rising in your sign, the chances are good that you will get away with whatever you are planning. The widows and orphans fund is just sitting there. Go for it."

But, really, if I am going to play with the horoscopes, I should make them work for me, like this: "Look for romance with the erudite and learned, yet financially humble. Throw yourself into the arms of a copy editor. Trade sex for tutorials about the subjunctive mood. You'll be glad you did."

Advice columns offer even more ways to control the masses because they are more specific about what should be done. But they, too, often play it safe. Whenever a wronged party writes into Dear Abby, wondering how the world can be so cruel, Abby usually says the same thing over and over: Get help.

But some of these people don't want help. They want revenge. And they should be encouraged. Sometimes their self-pity is so nauseating that they deserve the harshness that Abby just can't dish out.

For instance, suppose you read a letter from a guy who was jilted by a woman whom he had sheltered in her hour of need -- just cast aside as soon as she found somebody richer and better-looking.

The normal Abby response would probably be something, "You sound like a really great guy, so don't give up hope. But if you do, then get professional help. And I don't mean a hooker."

But maybe the best advice about how to deal with a broken heart comes from the guys at the Gas 'n' Sip in Say Anything. So the response should go something like this:

Dear Sad Guy: The only way you are going to get over this woman is find somebody (not a cross-dresser) who looks just like her, hook up with her and then dump her. Only then will you be able to look yourself in the mirror again.

Or maybe this:

Dear Sad Guy: B-----s, man! (Rhymes with riches. Sorry about the dashes; this is for a family newspaper, after all)

There is, however, something creepy about guys this "caring." They reek of that sort of sympathetic, sensitive weasel who looks for women in distress. Those guys prey on vulnerability and use it to manipulate some poor chick who's on a losing streak.

These guys need to get out of the gene pool.

And so maybe the best answer would be this:

Dear Sad Guy: The world is just too ugly for a soul as beautiful as yours. I suggest you head to the remotest part of Wyoming, where there is a monastery for guys like you -- The Sacred Order of Holy Celibacy. It's best for you. And us.

Yes, changing around horoscopes and advices columns is totally unethical and would totally get me fired. But we in journalism live to do good, and I could do a lot of good this way. Why, failing to do so would confirm what Cassius told Brutus in Julius Caesar: The fault lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.