"I left there in a hurry, looking forward to my big surprise. the next I discovered, that the fortune teller told me a lie." The Rolling Stones from "Fortune Teller"
The nurse had what I can only describe as a queer look upon her face. Not queer in the Isiah Washington calls her a faggot way, but in the Daniel Day Lewis is a nutty brilliant bastard kind of creep. She looked off kilter. As she forced a handful of meds into my pie hole I mumbled something about her not quite seeming like her dirty whore self. After a moments pause, she fessed up that she had been to a psychic and she was a little tossed by what she had learned. I swallowed my dose of peaceful easing feelings and drifted off thinking about what the nurse had told me.
Dionne Warwick and I are never going to be friends. It has nothing to do with her niece, Whitney Houston, being a crack addicted wack-o. It has everything to do with her lending name and image to her ridiculous Psychics Friends Network. She might as well of called it the How To Rip Off The Gullible Sheep Of The World Network. I would think that she was Satan incarnate, a title that rests on Dick Cheney's mantel, if it weren't for the lemmings that racked up ginormous phone bills because they wanted to get real answers from a telephone operator. Now I know you think that I'm gonna start bitching about lack of hope and mob mentality, but I have something different in mind. A story about my own trip to see Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic.
On one gray and gloomy Southern California Saturday I was bored to the point that masturbation wasn't even going to help anymore. So, in order to save myself some chaffing I decided to bomb up to Hollywood to visit my favorite record store, The Rock Shop. As fate would have it I found a meter parking spot on Hollywood Blvd about 50 yards from the musical nirvana that was my destination. As I looked down at the stars beneath my Chuck Taylor's, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a neon sign that changed my plans for the day. Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic, my skeptical bones perked at the pure rapture of hearing what lie in store for me from this low rent Sylvia Brown. I ponied up the greenbacks that I was going to purchase an Otis Redding Anthology with and sat in a straight back chair staring at my Nostradamus Whore with greedy, wanting eyes.
Stella wasn't the showwoman that I was hoping for. No Barnum nor Bailey was she. No chanting with eyes closed and hands raised to the ceiling. No speaking in tongues. No jittering table or other flabbergasting special effects. She just reached across the small round table, took hold of my hands, and asked if there was any specific things I wanted to know about. I shrugged. Half because I figured if she was such a great psychic she would know why I was there, and half because I had no idea what I wanted to be lied about. Love. Career. Money. I choose love. I wanted to know who and when I would get married. At the time I was probably 25 or so, and it didn't seem out of the loop that I should want to know about my bride.
After a few minutes of "deep concentration" or it might have been a quick nap, Stella informed me that I would find my bride in my 32nd year. For a bonus she threw in an interesting tid-bit. She said that 32 would be a "mystic age" for me in which job, family, and happiness would converge. Needless to say, I waited on pins and needles for my 32nd birthday. You know what happened that year? Nothing. 32 sucked just like the previous 31. No great love, no great job, certainly no great grins. My skepticism was renewed and that's when I knew that Dionne and I would never exchange Christmas cards.
Do you believe in psychics? ESP? Tarot Cards?
Dixie Cup of Love: Nostradamus for keeping it cryptic.
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