So Not a Scam

Originally written Saturday, December 24, 2005

This is another morning entry. We were out late last night, just hanging out at some bar in Santa Monica. It was fun, but not in any kind of significant way. Venice, on the other hand….

First, the normal stuff: Sand, pitbulls with heavy collars and heavy testicles (really, I wish the owners would neuter, not just because those beasts shouldn’t reproduce but because there aren’t any indecency laws against dogs), cheap shopping, and such. I picked up some dorky souvenirs for Trudy and the boys… and for Richard, although I don’t know when I’ll be able to give it to him. We got henna tattoos and chair massages, and we saw what’s-his-name, the guy with a turban and a guitar, who glides around on roller skates all day and shows up in movies whenever they need Venice Beach stock footage.

See, it’s not that I don’t have normal or boring things going on; it’s just that it seems there’s always more important stuff to get to. And on to that….

We were sitting on a bench on the boardwalk, eating our greasy boardwalk food, when Aunt Elizabeth said, “So, Marya, have you ever been to a psychic?”

Ian groaned. “Oh, for shit’s sake, Liz.”

“What?”

To me, he said, “She’s got this new psychic. Medusa.” I snickered along with him. “Her new obsession. She keeps trying to get me to get a reading.”

“So why don’t you?” I asked, though Ian is perhaps the most pragmatic person I know, and getting a reading from a psychic is probably the last place I could imagine him, and that’s after imagining him running a nude marathon in Alaska. (Hint: he’s not the most fit person I know, nor the least modest. He also lives in Southern California because four winters in upstate New York scared him from ever drifting north of the Mason-Dixon line again.)

“Cuz he’s above such childishness,” said Liz in a really bad faux-snooty-British voice.

“It’s not… I just don’t believe in passing my money off on scams like that, that’s all.”

“Oh, she is so not a scam.”

“Oh yeah, right, because she predicted that you’d be working with water.”

“And I did—my next job was that submarine movie.” Liz is a sound editor for films and TV.

“And it could have been a movie set at a beach. Or with a pool. Or in the fucking rain. Or maybe it would have rained while you were working. Oooooh,” he concluded in a creepy melody.

Liz sighed. “It’s more than the water movie. It’s a connection. Most of the other things she’s told me have been a lot more specific.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like… I dunno. It was less specif—I mean, uh, concrete. Like, feelings and moods, plans. She helps me redirect what I should be putting my energy into. Work, home, dating, creativity. That sort of thing.”

“Based on what? Do you know?” I was genuinely curious. Energy balancing actually did sound valid.

“Oh, the usual. Palm reading, tea leaves, tarot cards.”

Oh well. I made sure she couldn’t see me rolling my eyes. Nonetheless, she seemed rather enthusiastic about this Medusa person, so I asked a bit further about how the readings have worked out for her and listened to about six months’ worth of success stories. Better jobs, better sex… she even came close to attributing her cat’s recent behavioral adjustments to Medusa’s advice.

“So what you’re saying,” said Ian, “is that she’s basically a therapist with a turban and a room full of incense. I get that.” To me, he explained, “I did go with her for one of hers.”

Although he was probably right, he was hitting a personal nerve, and I didn’t want his kneejerk skepticism to take the day. “Well, whatever she is,” I said to Liz, “she sounds really interesting. And hey—it’s OK to lose a thousand dollars in Vegas if the gambling was a thousand dollars’ worth of fun.” This metaphor I addressed to Ian.

“Does that mean you’ll go for a reading?” asked Aunt Elizabeth hopefully.

“Sure, why not? And Ian, if you’ll get one, too, I’ll pay for it. Holiday present.”

Now that it was framed as a recreational activity that might return the investment with its entertainment value, he was more amenable to the idea. Medusa’s place was on the upper floor of what in Venice passes for a strip mall, a small, horseshoe-shaped, two-story building with outdoor staircases in the U. It was mainly a patchouli-scented new age store filled with knickknacks and doodads and books, for everyone from the practicing Buddhist to the curious wicca wannabe.

(It does annoy me sometimes how, although most of the traditions and religions that are represented in such stores are fully legitimate practices, they somehow take on an exoticized/fetishized element when collected all together, as if Sufi enneagrams, Lakota sweat lodges, and communicating with the archangel Gabriel had anything to do with each other except for their marginalization in comparison to Western ideals. It means that those who are drawn to them are, to be more precise, more likely drawn away from whatever “sensible” upbringing they had, whether Judeo-Christian or secular, rather than to a particular system of beliefs that speaks to them. Whenever I’m in such stores, I grow depressed with the thought of Grey Orchid books stacking the shelves. I delight in the fact that our history is still largely an oral one. It has traditionally been for practical purposes, of course—I find it hard to imagine someone learning the curriculum without a teacher—but the lack of commodification is a definite bonus.)

The events of this day to be continued...