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Parting Glances: Riding on the reading

Two of my lesbian friends, Valrita and Margerita, make their living as psychics. They do tarot readings at house parties and pastor a New Age church where spirit messages are delivered from heavenly zip codes.
A reading for the host at a party I attended foretold an accident and serious health concerns. Within the week he broke his leg. At the year's end he crossed over to the other side, courtesy of an unexpected heart attack.
Coincidence? Who knows. I'm a skeptic when it comes to the paranormal. (Actually I wouldn't mind a pair of normals right now.) But I do have moments of extra sensory perception (it helps in unlighted backrooms).
These same psychic friends say that gay men make the best psychics. "After all, gays have had to rely on a sixth sense most of their lives in order to survive."
Once on a dare I sat in for Valrita at a Cobo Arena psychic fair. While I've only a nodding acquaintance with tarot cards (I can shuffle them), I did two readings off the top of my head. The first was godawful, and I got indignant looks. "If you're not satisfied, I won't charge you," I said sheepishly. She didn't pay.
The second reading somehow rang a cosmic bell. (It helped that the young woman sitting before me seemed pleasant, radiantly eager.) I shuffled with panache and flair, spread the cards out authoritatively, looked up to the ceiling reverently, breathed from my unlaced diaphragm, and jumped right in.
My impromptu script: "You were away for two weeks for your health," said I. "Wow!" said she, "How did you know? I had dental surgery and took time off." (Hey, what's going on here. Maybe my gaydar's gear shifting.)
"That college hunk you met last year," I continued, with just a touch of wishful thinking, "is playing games with your heart. Tell him marriage is out of the question 'til December." She trembled a bit, and looked at me as if I were a $3.95-a-minute TV psychic celebrity. "That's uncanny!"
All in all I think she got her money's worth. (And that no-account boyfriend of hers was probably on steroids anyway. And likely a cross dresser.)
Once in Chicago I visited a psychic near my hotel. Her room was filled with candles, incense, and pictures of saints. (I was immediately reminded of America's beloved Recovering Catholic, Sr. Serena Scatterpin, Renegade Sisters of Mary.)
Madam Tartini's handwritten door sign read, "Reading's Ten Dollars". In spite of this bargain, La Tartini saw nothing for me. Her reading wasn't even remotely focused; and one thing I found spooky: she avoided using personal pronouns. She never mentioned a he or a she (or a she/he) in my future.
This intrigued me until I chanced to leaf through a Chicago bar guide. It turns out that just above her inner sanctum was a gay club I knew nothing about. She wasn't blessed with gaydar, spiritual or otherwise. She just couldn't guess whether I was gay, straight, bi, or T (or, all of the above).
My favorite ESP story concerns BTL publishers Susan & Jan. A New York psychic told Susan that her next partner (13 years and counting) would have a connection to the Mexican painter Diego Rivera. That's really nuts thought Susan.
Sure enough, just weeks after their initial meeting Jan said, "Hey, Suze, while you're in town and I'm at work, be sure to see the Rivera murals at the DIA. They're stunning." (If somewhat unromantic.)

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Topics: Opinions
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