Bike in the basement of the Alamo

On my way to a bar in Park Slope last night, I saw a handmade sign that said "Psycic reading $2" pointing up some old stairs.

At the top, I rang a doorbell and met Candela, a 19-year-old gypsy. The light didn't work in the "fortune room" so she read my palms on the filthy purple davenport in her loud, brightly-lit living room. Her kids were playing in a sprawling toy estate which took up half the room. (see photo)

I've gone to a few psychics in my life and I feel like if I'm gonna pay to get ripped off, at least they can put some effort into it. I wanna be grifted by an artist, not some half-assed teen mother who isn't even willing to turn the TV off during my reading.

Candela seemed so bored. She told me all the standard crap, including that I like to travel, I will be very famous and some of my friends are actually my enemies. She wasn't even looking at my palms! (And before you ask what I expect to get for two bucks, it turned out the price was actually ten dollars. I expect to get a lot for ten dollars.)

How it ended:
"I sense there's some spiritual blockage in you. Some trouble you need to work through. May I light a candle for you?"
"Will it cost me more?"
"Yes, there is an additional cost for..."
"Not interested."
"I don't understand why you wouldn't want to take care of your spiritual health. This is no joke here."
"I don't want to spend more money. I've spent enough."
"You may regret this later. Feel free to come back if you change your mind."

Um, is that a gypsy curse? I think that's a gypsy curse. Damn it, those things are such a hassle.

Oh I forgot, I found out my spirit color is yellow and my spirit day is Sunday.

100 blog points to the first person to explain what my post title means.