Where is my mind? Way out in the water, see it swimming -The fucking Pixies
TGIF truthseekers. Today I have a heartwarming tale of travel, adventure and friendship, and with Godless Mom, you can trust that translates into trouble, debauchery and inebriation.
It was the year 2006, early August, about 11pm on a Thursday night in Venice Beach, California (read as: freak banquet). My 3 friends, my boyfriend and I had spent the day, our last day in LA, at Santa Monica Pier and wanted to squeeze in some time at Venice Beach. So, we headed over there a little late, when all that was really left open were some places to grab a beer and couple of psychics.
About two weeks prior to this, my boyfriend and I had been in the Mayan Riviera where we were to move for two years shortly. This was, of course, pre-mommyhood, but the man I was with is now my husband. We had beach-bummed around Playa Del Carmen, Tulum and motorbiked around Cozumel, went diving, snorkelling and swimming and by the end of the whole trip, I had swimmer’s ear. It didn’t seem so bad the morning we flew out. It was painful, but I packed my bags, bused to the airport and flew to LA where we were meeting up with a friend for her birthday.
But when we landed, my ear was bleeding. I was freaked right the fuck out. I mean, not only was my ear killing me, but I was a Canadian in the US. I had travel health insurance, but I was still terrified I was about to go $40,000 in debt for fucking swimmer’s ear. I could not ignore it though, so I headed straight to the ER after checking in to our hotel.
Our hotel was in Anaheim, naturally, because Anaheim is full of ridiculously happy places that we’d planned on hitting. The ER was not one of those places. Anaheim may have happy places in it, but Anaheim itself is a goddamned ghetto (no holy). The injuries I saw in the ER there, were like shit I’d seen in mobster flicks. I was more nervous than Michael Vick stumbling into a Peta party.
Just for the record, I had to wait almost as long as I would have in socialist Canada.
I finally got in to see a doc. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen an American doctor before, but they don’t fuck around. The man handed me a pile of potent narcotics and a prescription for fucking Vicodin. Being the degenerate I am, I got more excited than Bill Clinton at a cigar convention. I filled my prescription and promptly got fucked up. Doctor’s goddamned orders (no holy).
The next day, I literally floated around Universal Studios, high as a kite. There’s a picture of me and my friends on the Jurassic Park ride: they all have their hands up, gaping-mouthed smiles and looks of pure delight, and I look like a content zen master after reaching nirvana. Afterwards, we headed to Bubba Gump for dinner, where all my friends ordered booze and beer and drank their faces off. I couldn’t have any because I was on antibiotics, but I didn’t fucking care. I was like Snoop D-O-Double-G, laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind. My arms were folded, my eyes squinting and all my laughs came out more like, “HAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…aaaaa……aa”.
And I was all, “haaaaaaaaaaa”
This went on for a few days, while we wandered Hollywood and amusement parks and all the normal crap tourists do in LA. Until finally, late Thursday night, we found ourselves in Venice beach.
When we arrived , it was obvious there wasn’t really anything to see, so the birthday girl suggested we just head back to the hotel. My other friend, we’ll call her Jackie for anonymity’s sake, said she just wanted to see if there was still time to get a psychic reading. Jackie had always been into shit like that, and at the time, had been studying to be what’s called an angel card reader. I have no fucking clue what an angel card reader is but I am 100% sure it involves stupidity, gullibility and cheating people out of their money. Regardless, she was sucked right in to the spook parade, and the rest of us had to quickly find something else to do in the middle of a freak show. Naturally, being Canadian, we went for beers and this time, I decided I was going to add beer to the already powerfully inebriating mix of narcotics I had in my system.
We sat at a bar where Jackie could see us and drank and drank for what seemed like forever. We were getting tired of waiting for Jackie, so we texted her and asked how long she would be. She didn’t answer us. We were close enough that we could hear her phone make sound and yet she was ignoring us. Now, in a state of sobriety, I would have just gone over to where Jackie was and said that we had to go soon, but I was nowhere near any such state. I was straight up bombed.
What did you do instead then, Godless Mom?
I convinced my friends to hide on Jackie. At midnight. In a foreign country, on a strange, strange beach, amongst strange, strange people.
But, why did you want to hide on her, Godless Mom?
That’s easy. I wanted to prompt her to ask where we were, so I could text back, “ask your psychic” thus proving that her psychic’s magical powers were as ridiculous as the lone gunman theory.
While we waited for her to notice we were gone, I stole my friend’s sun hat and started acting like Steve Irwin while my friend took video of it,
“We’re heah in Venice Beach, looking for the WOILD Jackie Jackerson. Oh look, we’ve spotted hah! She’s ROIGHT OVAH THEAH!”
The beach began to spin. I approached a random man.
“Have you seen the WOILD Jackie Jackerson, sah? In true Jackie form, she’s consulting a PSYCHIC to locate her prey!”
More spinning. Strange looks. I ask what appears to be a juggler,
“Or do you suppose this is hah mating ritual? What is the WOILD Jackie Jackerson up to?”
Finally, my phone buzzed and I stumbled in circles trying to get it out of my pocket.
“Where are you guys?” A text from Jackie read.
“Whyy don sk a syhcic?” I responded, or something just as poorly typed. I clicked send and then reread it, suddenly realizing how incoherently I’d spelled everything.
I swore a few times, apparently loud enough so that Jackie could hear me and with that, my plan had been foiled. I was so disappointed in myself.
The whole way home, Jackie was pissed off at us, while we all roared in inebriated laughter (minus designated driver). She still brings it up with bitterness to this day. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good idea, but what can I say? Never trust a heathen trying to disprove bullshit while shitfaced, amirite?
We still watch the video of me as Steve Irwin and die laughing, though. Maybe one day I’ll get permission to share that with you guys.
The moral of the story is, if you want to prove to your friend that psychics are lying, do it sober. She still sees psychics all the time and it drives me insane.
Do you have any friends who believe in all that new age voodoo crap? How do you deal with it?