18-Jul-2006

The Honeybee and I have several longstanding traditions.  Some examples include playing the Jurassic Park game at Chuck E. Cheese, re-watching and reciting Brain Donors, and, of course, visiting psychics.  This last tradition was started during a road trip to Memphis.  The psychic we went to on Beale Street seemed extremely bored and detached when we walked through the door (I think she was reading an Us magazine or a crystal ball or some other such filth), but both of our readings were very specific and enjoyable. 

Saturday night, I suggested we continue said tradition by paying a visit to an L.A. psychic.  With stomachs and hearts full, we ventured deep into the ghetto of Westwood and found a storefront that simply stated "Readings by Rose," and the sign on the door flickered "Open."  We tried said door.  Locked.  We knocked on said door.  No answer. 

"I guess she's off for the night," I mused.

"But didn't she know we would be coming by?"  The Honeybee replied.

After some bickering, I finally sucked it up and called the number on the sign.  A woman picked up, and I immediately hit "End" on my cell. 

"What'd you do that for?"  The Honeybee asked.

"Because she picked up!"

"Wasn't that the point of calling her?" 

I, of course, had no response.  Truth is, I got freaked out because we could see her phone resting on a small side table in the shop.  But no one came to pick it up, yet here was this woman on the other end of the line... granted, it could have been a cell phone, but I was in no mood for Rose and her trickery.  She'd already killed my post-Mexican-food buzz. 

So we tried again, this time in Culver City.  The storefront was nicer, more like a house actually, and all appeared to be well until we got to the door.  Slipped under the knocker was a handwritten note:

Where my money?  You owe me, and I come to collect.

And... no, thank you.  Fast forward to a little joint right off the PCH, no parking, and an open sign that really meant closed.  We took Santa Monica back east and FINALLY hit another psychic venue.  This one was "Readings by Dorothy," and the Honeybee and I were so determined to have our palms read that we disregarded the man with laptop and headphones sitting in his SUV, which was parked right outside the establishment. 

While the Honeybee was having her palm read, I made a mad dash for the 711 and the cash machine - I may be stupid enough to consult a psychic, but I'm not stupid enough to give said psychic my credit card info.  On my way back (I was gone three minutes, tops), I got a call from the Honeybee - "The reading lasted less than a minute." 

Well, I certainly wasn't going to pay $25 for that!  So what have we learned?  That $25 can be better spent on margaritas or Chuck E. Cheese, and that psychics named Dorothy can suck it. 

Meanwhile, I still have no clue what the future holds for me.  Sigh...