Having lost more than my share of loved ones, it’s not surprising that I’ve been to a psychic or two. Or three. Or…well.

I’ve participated in some one-on-ones. A few group “séances.” And just one of the hundreds in the audience at the local casino. I’ve come away less than impressed, surprised, and once or twice speechless. But one constant in all instances of group encounters is the puddin’- headed people that inevitably show up in the audience.

“I’m getting a name like Richard or Rich or something like that,” says the soothsayer to one such knucklehead. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Uh, no. Richard? Rich? No.”

“Are you sure,” she persists. “I’m sure this message is for you.”

“I don’t think so,” she says shaking her head. My husband’s name was Rick, but…”

It was all I could do to not roll up my program, run down to her seat and smack her about the head and shoulders. I had to settle for a loud “For Chrissakes, lady!”

There was one celebrity psychic who comes out looking like a showgirl in glitz and glamour and six-inch heels supporting amazing gams. She’s clever, witty, and does not suffer fools.

“Your father says he’s really sorry about everything,” she says to one man frozen in the spotlight of the cameras. “He should have been nicer to you when you were a little boy. He made you feel inadequate, and he wants to tell you he just didn’t know how to be a father, but he really loved you and is so proud of you. He’s wrapping his arms around you. He’s wearing a Dodgers cap. Does this make sense to you?” she asks, teary-eyed.

“Oh, yeah. The Dodger cap. He always wore that,” he replies, seemingly underwhelmed.

“The Dodger cap!” she screams. “That’s what you got from this incredibly moving and heart-wrenching message? The farkakteh ball cap?!”

At a recent seance there were twenty of us in a circle with our seer moving among us, Phil Donahue-esque, asking “Who? Who were we hoping to connect with?”

People had recently lost spouses, parents, siblings and one—a young child. Their grief weighing heavy on their weary shoulders, hoping for connection to soothe their souls.

“Mary Meshugenah,” said one elderly woman and future member of the Psychic Bonehead Club. “Do you see Mary Meshugenah?

“Mary. Mary. Mary Meshugenah,” the psychic ponders, examining the asker. “Well, I see a very independent, strong woman who has had to scratch and claw for everything she had. She was abandoned by her husband, left to raise three children alone. Extreme poverty and alcohol abuse. Very sad. But a tough broad. Does this make sense to you?”

“I have no idea. Mary was my great aunt, twice removed, once inserted and three times returned, new paragraph, on my biological father’s side of the family that I know nothing about.”

I almost choked on the muffin I snuck in my purse.

“Fred,” said another younger lady. “Do you see Fred?”

“Fred. Fred. Fred,” the psychic muttered. “Yes, I see him. He really loved you and was sorry he had to leave. Loved cuddling with you and particularly enjoyed the meals you set before him. But, like Arnold Schwarzenegger, he’s saying ‘I’ll be back.’ Sounds like he’ll be returning in some incarnation. Does this make sense to you?”

“I guess,” she scoffed, like we interrupted her TikTok selfie.

“Was Fred your husband?”

“My do-o-o-g,” she said like the word had three syllables.

I wanted to shout out, “Fred may love you but the rest of us think you’re an asshat and need to get out before a certain post-menopausal woman in the group flings you like a javelin out the front door.”

I was fully expecting someone to ask to speak to George.

“George. George. George. I see him in a leadership role. He had had many soldiers depending upon him. He’s the type that would rather stand in the boat than sit. He had a great many issues with his teeth. I see termites. Not sure what that means. Does this mean anything to you?”

My turn came and I got a message or two. From my recently departed brother, Mickie,

“He loved you and knew you were the responsible one. He says ‘don’t mess with my sister!’ and has your back.”

And my late wife, Pepper.

“Pepper never complained, or trash talked anyone (ahem). But she says it’s time to get on with your life and have more fun.”

Thank you, Pep. Now stop complaining and talking trash and get on with your afterlife, honey.

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