Showing posts with label psychic phenomenon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychic phenomenon. Show all posts

Monday, May 22, 2017

Baker Street Irregulars




Writer Arthur Conan Doyle was born on this day in 1859. He's best know for creating this guy...






...Sherlock Holmes.







Holmes appeared in four novels, the best known of which is the third, The Hounds of the Baskervilles, and fifty-some short stories, where with the assistance of sidekick/first-person narrator Dr. John H. Watson he investigated and solved numerous crimes in late 19th-early 20th century London and thereabouts. So impressive was Holmes powers of observation that he could deduce a complete stranger's personality, occupation, biography, love life, etc., by a simple examination of a single article of clothing. Take this example from "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle". Some poor fellow was mugged of a goose he was bringing home to dinner, and, if that wasn't bad enough, he also lost his hat:



 "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
     to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
     inferences."

     "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

     He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
     which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
     it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
     which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
     strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
     is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
     well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
     upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
     pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
     of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
     drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
     that his wife has ceased to love him."

     "My dear Holmes!"

     "He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
     continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
     sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
     middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
     few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
     patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
     that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
     house."

     "You are certainly joking, Holmes."

     "Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
     these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

     "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
     unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
     was intellectual?"

     For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over
     the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
     question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
     must have something in it."

     "The decline of his fortunes, then?"

     "This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
     came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
     of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
     buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since,
     then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

     "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight
     and the moral retrogression?"

     Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his
     finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  "They are
     never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
     certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
     this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken
     the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
     has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
     weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
     some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is
     a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

     "Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

     "The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
     grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream,
     are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of
     the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
     by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and
     there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe,
     is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust
     of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
     time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive
     that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be
     in the best of training."

     "But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

     "This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
     Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
     your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
     also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

     "But he might be a bachelor."

     "Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
     Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

     "You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
     that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

     "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
     no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
     individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
     tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
     a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
     from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

    
And to think, Holmes deduced all that without the aid of Google!

The popularity of these stories did not go unnoticed by the generation or so of mystery writers that came after Doyle, as there was a whole parade of eccentric sleuths in the first half of the 20th century. Hercules Poirot, Miss Marple, Nero Wolfe, Charlie Chan, Father Brown, and Lord Peter Wimsey all owe a little something to Holmes. The actual mystery itself (as well as its solution) may have been completely forgotten by the reader about fifteen minutes after they'd finish the story, but the person who solved the mystery lingered on in the memory. No more so than Holmes, who has also lingered on in pop culture.

If you haven't read any of Doyle's stories, and you really should as they're quite good, you may know Holmes and Watson through these two fellows:


Basil Rathbone as Holmes (left) and Nigel Bruce (right) as Watson. They appeared in a  couple of movies for 20th Century Fox, and then a dozen more for Universal Studios. You're better off with the two Fox movies The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, both from 1939. Both were classy mysteries with just enough fog and shadows to give one a real sense of 19th century London (OK, re-reading that sentence, it occurs to me that London during ANY time period probably had it share of fog and shadows, but those two aspects play so much better when you know Queen Victoria is sitting on the throne.) The Universal offerings? These sometimes cheesy films, unnecessarily in my view, updated the Holmes tales to the 1940s. In at least one of them, Professor Moriarity is in cahoots with the Nazis! Still, it's fun watching Rathbone and Bruce play off each other.





Perhaps I'm being too hard on the Universal films. A popular British TV import (meaning it's on PBS) has Holmes (Benedict Cumberbatch) and Watson (Martin Freeman) solving crimes in the 21st century. What's interesting is that while 100 years or so separates this series from the original stories and only 50 years or so separates the Universal films, the Cumberbatch version is actually much more faithful to Doyle.


Perhaps the oddest version of Doyle's creation to date. Jonny Lee Miller plays a somewhat surly Sherlock Holmes and Lucy Liu is Dr Joan Watson (figure out for yourself which is which) Elementary, produced for American network television (perhaps that explains the oddness) has Holmes as a British emigre solving crimes (very grisly crimes in the episodes I've seen--less "The Red-Headed League" and more Silence of the Lambs) in New York City. Watson is there to make sure he doesn't slip back into his old cocaine habit (actually a feature of the original stories, believe it on not, though this new version treats the whole subject of addiction more thoroughly than Doyle, who portrayed it more as an eccentricity.) While I'm not quite a fan of this series, I do watch it whenever I come across it channel surfing.  Miller makes a fun, if a not always mature, Holmes.

Though we may think of Doyle as a 19th century writer, he was still alive by the time sound came to movies:


Doyle may not be the most animated speaker in the world, but I think his ample wit, so essential to the Holmes stories, comes through in that clip. One surprise--he calls Watson "stupid". In the stories themselves, the good doctor never strikes me as stupid. He's just not the obsessive-verging-on-anal retentive that his friend seems to be. The prose Watson, that is. However, once Universal Studios got their hooks into the former army doctor, he was transformed into a doddering old fool who could barely follow Miss Hudson the housekeeper's train of thought, much less Holmes. Actors other than Bruce never played Watson that way. If fact, Bruce himself didn't play him that way in his first two outings as the character. Yet, according to Doyle, I guess maybe that's the way he should have been played all along. Who knew, other than Bruce and Universal?



If you watched the whole clip, Doyle talks quite a bit about his investigations into psychic phenomenon. This is what he really wished to be known for, not Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, he tried killing of Holmes only to resurrect him after the public outcry (as well as having lots of money thrown at him.) I don't want to debate what's true or what's not true when it comes to the paranormal, only to point out that Doyle was willing to believe in just about anything. He was a Mulder badly in need of a Scully, especially after the pictures below surfaced right after World War I:




Photographic evidence of the existence of fairies. Aw, aren't they cute? Doyle didn't take these pictures, but he championed them, and went to his grave (in 1930) believing in their eventual validation, and that his publicizing of the pictures would be his lasting legacy.

The photos were never validated, and Doyle's lasting legacy seems to be Sherlock Holmes, after all. A much better outcome, in my view.



Don't you agree, Watson?


Monday, November 14, 2011

Archival Revival: Futures Market

(originally posted on 4/19/2009)

I once went to a psychic fair. I don't really believe in that stuff, but, like Fox Mulder on The X-Files, I want to believe. In anything. God, Zeus, Ouija boards, fortune cookies, eight balls, etc. If you don't believe in anything, then you're just stuck with, and stuck in, a cold, meaningless Universe, constantly seeking succor in soulless materialism. Quite frankly, I'm sick and tired of soulless materialism. At least I am when I get my credit card statement. With that in mind, I set out on my spiritual journey. Holiday Inn. The Cypress Room. 12-8. $10 entrance fee.

I entered the Cypress Room, and sat down with the first available soothsayer. I had expected an exotic looking woman dressed like a gypsy, but this was just a 40sh lady in a blouse and slacks who looked like she could have been a cub scout den mother.

"What can I do for you?" she asked cheerfully.

"I want you to tell my fortune," I replied.

"Palm reading or astrology? I do both."

"Which is more accurate?"

"That all depends which one you believe in more."

"I'm not sure I believe in either."

"Oh, you don't believe? But you should always believe, because if you don't--"

"Give me those two choices again"

"Palm reading or astrology."

"You said palm reading first. I'll go with palms"

"That's an odd way to decide, but OK. It'll cost you $20.

"Um...Is astrology cheaper?"

"Nope. They're both $20"

I pulled $20 out of my wallet, and handed it to her. She took the money, and then my right palm, and studied it carefully.

"Ah, you have one line going across, and then a smaller one running parallel, and then one long slant. See?"

I looked at my palm. Sure enough, I had one line going across, a smaller one running parallel, and one long slant.

"So, what does that mean?" I asked.

"I won't know until I examine your left palm."

So I held out my left palm.

"Ah," she said. "You have two kind of parallel slants that fade away."

I looked at my palm. Sure enough, two kind of parallel slants that faded away.

"And?" I asked.

"Hold on," she replied. From under the table, she pulled up a soft cover book about half the size of the metropolitan yellow pages. It was titled Bilgewater's Complete Guide to Palm Reading .

"You're consulting a book?" I asked.

"Well, you said you're not sure whether you believe or not. I thought a book might seem more credible."

She lay the book out in front of me so I could read along. She flipped to a chapter or section titled RIGHT PALM, and from there to a subsection titled PARALLEL LINES and from there to a sub-subsection titled LONG SLANT, eventually coming to a drawing that sort of looked like my right palm, except there seemed to be more space between the parallel lines. Anyway, she went to a left palm box on the right hand side. She guided her index finger down until she came to sub-sub-subsection titled FADE AWAY. She turned to the next page, and found a sub-sub-sub subsection titled PARALLEL LINES. Underneath all that was a prediction:

You are due for a surprise.

"What kind of surprise?" I asked.

"Oh, the book won't say. If you knew what it was, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"

"Well, when will this surprise happen?"

"The book won't tell you that either. If you knew the exact day and time of the surprise, you'd be expecting it, and there'd be no surprise."

"Can I see that book a second?"

She slid the book toward me.

I looked at the copyright. "This book came out four years ago. How do I know the surprise didn't happen in the last four years?"

She slid the book back toward her, and flipped through a few pages. "OK, it's right here in the introduction. 'Prophecies are not retroactive. Recipient must be fully informed'"

"I don't feel like I'm fully informed."

"Let me see what they mean by 'fully informed'. I'll look in the index."

"I'm surprised you're so dependent on a book. It kind of takes the mysticism out of it."

"Ah! Did you hear what you just said?! You're surprised! The prophecy came true!"

"What are you telling me? That the prediction is the prediction?!"

"As long as you heard the prediction before the prediction came true. There's nothing retroactive going on here!"

At that point I was ready to walk away in anger, except...the prediction had come true. I was surprised. But wait--when she first plunked that book on the table I was a bit surprised, and that was before the prediction. Of course, after the prediction, I was even more surprised that my surprise was the surprise.

"Do degrees of surprise count?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. You said you do astrology?"

"That will be another $20."

Another $20! I had already spent $10 to get into the fair in the first place, and then $20 on the palm reading. This spiritual journey was costing me more than soulless materialism! Still, when better to take the leap of faith then when you're in the hole? I gave her another $20.

"First off," she said. "When's your birthday?"

"December 15."

"So you're a Sagittarius. What year were you born?"

"1961"

"What time?"

"I don't know the exact time. It was in the morning."

"Predawn or post dawn?"

"Um, predawn, because I remember my father once telling me he was about to go to bed, when he suddenly had to rush my mother to the hospital."

The fortune teller nodded, reached under the table, and produced a book titled Bilgewater's Complete Guide to Astrology. Again, she laid the book out in front of me to see. She flipped the pages to a section or chapter titled, not surprisingly, SAGITTARIUS , then to a subsection titled DECEMBER, 15, then to a sub-subsection titled 1961, and to a sub-sub-subsection titled MORNING, and finally, a sub-sub-sub-subsection titled PRE-DAWN . Underneath all that was a prediction:

You shall experience sorrow.

"What kind of sorrow?" I asked.

"Oh, the book won't tell you."

"Now, why not? There's no surprise involved!"

"Maybe not. But if you know what the sorrow is, you'll steel yourself against it, and it won't be as sorrowful."

"OK, this is enough psychic phenomenon for me. I'm sorry I even came."

"Ah! Did you hear yourself? You said you were sorry!"

"So?"

"The word sorry is derived from sorrow. Or sorrow is derived from sorry. One of the two. Sorry-sorrow, sorry-sorrow, sorry-sorrow!"

I guess she had me there. I had come in contact with the supernatural. If only the supernatural hadn't ended as soon as it had begun.

"I don't suppose you read tea leaves?" I asked.

"Oh, I left that book at home."

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Unpredictable

(I've decided to take a little break from this blog. In my absence, my good friend Marty Volare has agreed to recount for you one of his many romantic misadventures. See if you can read it without choking up. In fact, choke up enough, and Marty might just respond to your comments--KJ)

My name is Martin Dangerfield Volare, and the story I'm about to tell is one of love found and love lost, of love born and love died, of love opened and love closed, of love created and love destroyed, of love bloomed and love withered, of love premiered and love canceled, of love invented and love made obsolete, and of love brand-new right out of the box and love left out on the curb to be taken away with the rest of the trash. It is an old story, as old as the sun and the moon and the sea and the ground and the redwoods and the bones of dinosaurs, but also a story of continual renewal, as new as a baby's laugh, a puppy's bark, a kitten's meow, a chick's chirp, and a lamb's baa. For this tale I tell is not meant to depress but inspire, that though love may burn to a crisp like a marshmallow left too long over a fire at a Labor Day picnic on that last sweet, sultry night of summer, its' smoke will nonetheless rise gently above the Metropark and the trees and the birds and up, up toward the clouds and the heavens and the stars and the galaxies and the extraterrestrials beyond.

Her name was Sonya, and she worked as a barmaid at the Looking-Glass Cafe, where I sometimes go to escape and evade and avoid and elude the desperation and desolation of my lonely existence. Ah, how shall I describe Sonya? She was as lovely as the dawn, as beautiful as the dusk, and as sweet as a mango. And she had a nice smile. I was smitten.

Alas, difficulties loomed! For starters, she slept with this one guy. However, she told me he meant nothing to her and would probably break up with him soon as she got the air conditioning, driver's side power window, and CD player fixed on her Buick Enclave and so wouldn't have to borrow his Mustang all the time. That filled me with hope. She then revealed that she had a two-year old daughter. I asked if the guy she slept with was the father. She said she didn't think so. I was naturally relieved to hear that. Still, if me and Sonya were to get married, it would mean I would have to raise the daughter as my own. Would I be up to the challenges of parenthood? I needed to know the answer.

I found the answer, or thought I had found the answer, or hoped with the hope that gives all sentient beings sustenance that I had found the answer when I saw this flier shoved between one of my windshield wipers while leaving the laundromat. It read as follows:

MADAME IMELDA

Forecaster of Fate, Prophetess of the Paranormal, Seer of the Supernatural, Assessor of the Astral Plane

will predict your future for

$10

Hurry! Limited time offer.

I know it now seems a bit desperate of me to go to a fortune teller to help solve a romantic dilemma, but at the time desperate blood pumped into and out of my desperate heart. I made up my mind to the see the seer.

Her simple clapboard house was located next to a payday lender in a part of town noted for its potholes, pawn shops, foreclosed property, and abandoned cars. I actually found it rather heartening that Madame Imelda should live in such a neighborhood. I like my psychics on the humble side. However, I may have overestimated her humility, for when I walked into her simple clapboard home I was greeted by a giant middle-aged lady dressed in gypsy garb and speaking in a foreign accent, mostly Hungarian, but with what sounded like a little Spanish and Scandinavian thrown in. I took her for a worldly woman.

"I am Madame Imelda" she intoned. "Mistress of Mysticism, Empress of Enchantment, and Diva of Divination! I know past, present, and future! I have access to those worlds beyond normal sight, sound, smell, touch, and thought! I speak with the spirits, hobnob with the hobgoblins, and play host to the ghosts! Now, what can I do for you?"

Awed, I lowered my head, pulled the flier out of my pocket, and handed it to her. She nodded, and led from the foyer into a room full of lit candles, burning incense, and lave lamps. Hanging on one wall was a black velvet painting of a wizard seated on a unicorn, his magic wand doubling as a riding crop. In the middle of the room was a small table with a crystal ball. I sat on one side, Madame Imelda on the other. She held out her hand, and I gave her the ten dollars. She turned away and beckoned,

"Daughter, Daughter, bring me my purse!"

From another room emerged a girl of about nine or ten wearing a Miley Cyrus T-shirt and carrying an oversized purse. Madame Imelda deposited my ten dollars into the purse and the tyke left. Madame Imelda then got down to the business of forecasting the future.

"You shall experience great happiness and great sadness!" she intoned as she peered into the crystal ball. "You shall climb great peaks and descend into deep valleys. You shall laugh and you shall cry. You shall know joy and you shall know heartbreak. That is your destiny. Now leave and tell all your friends about me. I'm here seven days a week, half a day on holidays. I accept credit cards."

Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed at this rather vague prediction. I began to wonder if Madame Imelda was on the level.

"Couldn't you be more specific?" I asked. "I wanted to know about my soon-to-be-girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancee-soon-to-be-wife."

"Oh, it's specificity you seek? That will be $350. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"

"$350?!"

"Prophecy is not some low-hanging fruit that can be plucked from a tree. You have to go to the farmer's market and pay a little extra for it."

My anger rising, I blurted out, "A farmers market wouldn't try to cheat me like you are!"

The big woman stood up and yelled, "You dare impugn the integrity of Madame Imelda, Chief Executive of the Extrasensory?! Take leave of my prescient presence at once, you worm!"

Faced with such a torrent of sincerity, I had no choice but to apologize, yet so great was my shame, I couldn't even open my mouth. I turned and reluctantly headed toward the door.

"Wait!"

I turned away from the door!

"Madame Imelda is nothing if not fair. Knowing the past, present, and future does that to a person. Ask me a question about this lady friend of yours, and if I get it right, you pay for a full reading."

That sounded reasonable, but what could I ask? Sonya's last name? No, it had to be something I already knew the answer to, just in case Madame Imelda answered falsely. It was Sonya's baby daughter that brought me here in the first place. I could ask something along those lines. The daughter's name, maybe? No, I didn't know that either. Wait, I could just ask the psychic if she even knew Sonya had a baby daughter.

"Tell me, Madame Imelda, who is the most important female in my future girlfriend/fiancee/wife's life?"

Madame Imelda sat down and peered into the crystal ball. In less than a second, she intoned, "Her mother is the most important person in her life!"

"Wrong. Not her mother."

"Not her mother? I'd like to think I'm the most important female in my daughter's life!"

"I said it's not her mother!" I could feel my anger almost returning.

"Her sister?"

"No."

"Grandmother?"

"No."

"Best friend?"

My anger had now most assuredly returned. "Her daughter! Her baby daughter is the most important female in her life!"

"Oh, her baby daughter! You didn't tell me she had a baby daughter."

"You were already supposed to know that!"

Madame Imelda looked back into the crystal ball. "Ah, I see my mistake now. I was looking at the ball's northern hemisphere, when I really should have been looking at its' south. There's the baby, in plain sight. Daughter, daughter, bring me my purse!"

I left in disgust.

Driving home, I was at first despondent, but it didn't last long. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned here. I had wanted easy assurance from a fortune teller that I wasn't making a mistake, but there are no shortcuts in romance. Love is a matter of faith. This thought put me in a good mood. The Madame Imeldas of the world weren't going to keep me from my soul mate. By the time I arrived at the Looking-Glass Cafe, I was so filled with joyful ardor I skipped right in the place. A couple guys at a pool table laughed at me, but what did I care? I was a paramour in paradise!

"Hiya, Marty," said Sonya from behind the bar. "You look like you're in a good mood."

"I am. I just exposed a fortune teller as a fake."

"Oh, yeah? What'd ya do that for?"

"I asked her a question about you, and she didn't know the answer."

"Oh, yeah? What'd ya ask?"

Smiling, I said, "Who is the most important female in your life?"

"Oh, that'd be my best friend Amy. She let me sleep on her couch this one time when I--"

Panicked, I said, "No, not your best friend Amy!"

"Well, I sometimes spend time with my kid sister."

"No, not your kid sister!"

"My grandmother? I like her. I hope you don't think it's my mother. Me and her just don't see eye to eye."

"It's you're daughter!," I blurted. "You're baby daughter should be the most important female in your life!"

"Oh, yeah. That's right. My daughter."

To make a long lament short, things never did work out between me and Sonya. She left the Looking-Glass Cafe not long after. I hear she's now at some bikers bar near Sandusky. The guy she sleeps with works grill.

And, in case you're wondering, I eventually did pay Madame Imelda her $350. It was only fair.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Quips and Quotations

Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.

--Kurt Vonnegut

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Moniker Miracle

It seems I'm now up to three followers. One, the lovely Akeru, has been here for quite some time. Michael Williams came aboard a couple of weeks ago. And, just today, I logged into my blog to find a second Michael Williams! Imagine that! Out of the billions of people with access to the Internet, I gain two followers with the exact same name.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

--William Shakespeare, Hamlet, act I, scene V

Welcome, guys.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

God's Odds

I am not a religious person. I haven't written off the idea of a supreme being, but neither have I committed it to incombustible paper and indelible ink. At best, Our Heavenly Father is scrawled on a Denny's napkin with one of those little pencils they give you at putt-putt golf and filed away between a rejected Jack and Jill Magazine manuscript (I shouldn't have patterned the talking squirrel after Simon Cowell, and the kidnapped princess after Amy Winehouse), and a rough draft (written with a Sharpie marker on the back of some High School Musical -themed holiday wrapping paper) of a pilot script for a proposed Englebert Humperdinck sitcom. I'm sorry, but stuck as I am on this third rock from the Sun (I've got a decade old rejection slip from them, too, along with a Jane Curtin refrigerator magnet), I see no evidence of divine intervention, divine revelation, miracles, guardian angels, the supernatural, the paranormal, Bewitched -caliber magic, or an 8-ball reading not fraught with internal contradictions. The closest I've ever come to spiritual transcendence is the occasional coincidence.

The occasional coincidence.

That might be something to grasp at, a reason to make that leap of faith. If you could only form a religion around a coincidence. Only problem is what often happens after a coincidence occurs, which is often nothing.

I remember once I was driving home and decided to put on an oldies station. The first song to come on was "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head". About halfway through the song, guess what happened? It started to rain! I pulled my car to the side of the road, got out, and started dancing with joy. A coincidence had occurred! Suddenly, the universe made sense! Hallelujah!

Just as suddenly, landing smack dab in a puddle, it made no sense at all. What exactly was I supposed to do next? Cast aside all my possessions and follow B.J. Thomas to the ends of the Earth? I didn't even know where the hell B.J. Thomas was! Was he still alive? Was he performing in Branson, Missouri? Was he on The Surreal World ? So many questions. So few answers.

No, if you were going to form a religion based on a coincidence, I'm afraid it would need some other savior than B.J. Thomas. Well, I suppose you could also throw in Burt Bacharach and Hal David. That would be some Holy Trinity, wouldn't it? Still, it just doesn't seem weighty enough. It doesn't seem historic enough.

There are indeed historic coincidences. One involves September 11 and the twenty dollar bill. It came out shortly after the terrorist attacks that if you fold a twenty a certain way, you'll have a picture of what looks like the twin towers on fire. And if you fold it another way, you'll get a burning Pentagon. Well, that's certainly a historic coincidence. But there's already too much religion surrounding the events of September 11. And as for the twenty dollar bill, I think our society worships money enough as it is.

When I was a kid I had a comic book that featured an ad for a two-headed Lincoln penny. Why Lincoln's head was on both sides of this penny, I have no idea. I suppose it could have been a mistake made at the mint, thus worth a lot of money, but numismatists have their own publications, don't they? I suppose the coin could be fake, but a counterfeiter is taking quite a risk advertising in a comic book. Don't G-men read X-men? Anyway, in a kind of sidebar, this ad contained some amazing coincidences between the Lincoln and Kennedy assassinations, such as:

Abraham Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846. John F. Kennedy was elected to congress in 1946.

Lincoln was elected President in 1860, Kennedy in 1960.

The names Lincoln and Kennedy both contain seven letters.

Both were involved with civil rights.

Both lost children while living in the White House.

Both were shot on a Friday.

Both were shot in the head.

Both were assassinated by Southerners.

Both successors were named Johnson.

Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Lincoln, was born in 1808. Lyndon Johnson, who succeeded Kennedy, was born in 1908.

John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839. Lee Harvey Oswald in 1939.

Both assassins are known by their three names.

Both assassins names are comprised of fifteen letters.

Booth shot Lincoln in a theater and was caught in a warehouse. Oswald shot Kennedy from a warehouse and was caught in a theater.

WOW! Those are coincidences of historic proportions, ones you could build a major religion around. Welcome to the Church of Coincidental Assassinations. Lincoln could be the Old Testament, Kennedy the New. And just as Judaism has Jerusalem, Catholicism has Rome, and Islam has Mecca, so, too, this religion could have Dealey Plaza as a place of pilgrimage. Or maybe it should be Ford Theater. Hmmm. I see a possible schism developing.

Another historic coincidence involves the very founding of our country. On July 4, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, both signatories to the document, died within hours of each other. Well, I don't have to tell you the religious implications of that coincidence. The United States is God, and God is the United States. American exceptionalism by divine decree! We can do anything, because God is always on our side! We can invade other countries! We can invade countries with oil fields...

As with any religion, any god, doubt always rears its ugly head.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Futures Market

I once went to a psychic fair. I don't really believe in that stuff, but, like Fox Mulder, I want to believe. In anything. God, Zeus, Ouija boards, fortune cookies, eight balls, etc. If you don't believe in anything, then you're just stuck with, and in, a cold, meaningless Universe, constantly seeking succor in soulless materialism. Quite frankly, I'm sick and tired of soulless materialism. At least I am when I get my credit card statement. With that in mind, I set out on my spiritual journey. Holiday Inn. The Cypress Room. 12-8. $10 entrance fee.

I entered the Cypress Room, and sat down with the first available soothsayer. I had expected an exotic looking woman dressed like a gypsy, but this was just a 40sh lady in a blouse and slacks who looked like she could have been a cub scout den mother.

"What can I do for you?" she asked cheerfully.

"I want you to tell my fortune," I replied.

"Palm reading or astrology? I do both."

"Which is more accurate?"

"That all depends which one you believe in more."

"I'm not sure I believe in either."

"Oh, you don't believe? But you should always believe, because if you don't--"

"Give me those two choices again"

"Palm reading or astrology."

"You said palm reading first. I'll go with palms"

"That's an odd way to decide, but OK. It'll cost you $20.

"Um...Is astrology cheaper?"

"Nope. They're both $20"

I pulled $20 out of my wallet, and handed it to her. She took the money, and then my right palm, and studied it carefully.

"Ah, you have one line going across, and then a smaller one running parallel, and then one long slant. See?"

I looked at my palm. Sure enough, I had one line going across, a smaller one running parallel, and one long slant.

"So, what does that mean?" I asked.

"I won't know until I examine your left palm."

So I held out my left palm.

"Ah," she said. "You have two kind of parallel slants that fade away."

I looked at my palm. Sure enough, two kind of parallel slants that faded away.

"And?" I asked.

"Hold on," she replied. From under the table, she pulled up a soft cover book about the half the size of a metropolitan yellow pages. It was titled Bilgewater's Complete Guide to Palm Reading .

"You're consulting a book?" I asked.

"Well, you said you're not sure whether you believe or not. I thought a book might seem more credible."

She lay the book out in front of me so I could read along. She flipped to a chapter or section titled RIGHT PALM, and from there to a subsection titled PARALLEL LINES and from there to a sub-subsection titled LONG SLANT, eventually coming to a drawing that sort of looked like my right palm, except there seemed to be more space between the parallel lines. Anyway, she went to a left palm box on the right hand side. She guided her index finger down until she came to sub-sub-subsection titled FADE AWAY. She turned to the next page, and found a sub-sub-sub subsection titled PARALLEL LINES. Underneath all that was a prediction:

You are due for a surprise.

"What kind of surprise?" I asked.

"Oh, the book won't say. If you knew what it was, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"

"Well, when will this surprise happen?"

"The book won't tell you that either. If you knew the exact day and time of the surprise, you'd be expecting it, and there'd be no surprise."

"Can I see that book a second?"

She slid the book toward me.

I looked at the copyright. "This book came out four years ago. How do I know the surprise didn't happen in the last four years?"

She slid the book back toward her, and flipped through a few pages. "OK, it's right here in the introduction. 'Prophecies are not retroactive. Recipient must be fully informed'"

"I don't feel like I'm fully informed."

"Let me see what they mean by 'fully informed'. I'll look in the index."

"I'm surprised you're so dependent on a book. It kind of takes the mysticism out of it."

"Ah! Did you hear what you just said?! You're surprised! The prophecy came true!"

"What are you telling me? That the prediction is the prediction?!"

"As long as you heard the prediction before the prediction came true. There's nothing retroactive going on here!"

At that point I was ready to walk away in anger, except...The prediction had come true. I was surprised. But wait--when she first plunked that book on the table I was a bit surprised, and that was BEFORE the prediction. Of course, after the prediction, I was even more surprised that my surprise WAS the surprise.

"Do degrees of surprise count?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. You said you do astrology?"

"That will be another $20."

Another $20! I had already spent $10 to get into the fair in the first place, and then $20 on the palm reading. This spiritual journey was costing me more than soulless materialism! Still, when better to take the leap of faith than when you're in the hole? I gave her another $20.

"First off," she said. "When's your birthday?"

"December 15."

"So you're a Sagittarius. What year were you born?"

"1961"

"What time?"

"I don't know the exact time. It was in the morning."

"Predawn or post dawn?"

"Um, predawn, because I remember my father once telling me he was about to go to bed, when he suddenly had to rush my mother to the hospital."

The fortune teller nodded, reached under the table, and produced a book titled Bilgewater's Complete Guide to Astrology. Again, she laid the book out in front of me to see. She flipped the pages to a section or chapter titled, not surprisingly, SAGITTARIUS , then to a subsection titled DECEMBER, 15, then to a sub-subsection titled 1961, and to a sub-sub-subsection titled MORNING, and finally, a sub-sub-sub-subsection titled PRE-DAWN . Underneath all that was a prediction:

You shall experience sorrow.

"What kind of sorrow?" I asked.

"Oh, the book won't tell you."

"Now, why not? There's no surprise involved!"

"Maybe not. But if you know what the sorrow is, you'll steel yourself against it, and it won't be so sorrowful."

"OK, this is enough psychic phenomenon for me. I'm sorry I even came."

"Ah! Did you hear yourself? You said you were sorry!"

"So?"

"The word sorry is derived from sorrow. Or sorrow is derived from sorry. One of the two. Sorry-sorrow, sorry-sorrow, sorry-sorrow!"

I guess she had me there. I had come in contact with the supernatural. If only the supernatural hadn't ended as soon as it begun.

"I don't suppose you read tea leaves?" I asked.

"Oh, I left that book at home."