A New Yorker trapped in Los Angeles
                                
     "What's your sign?" he asks, as he's asked people a thousand
times before.
     "No parking," I reply, as I've replied a thousand times
before at Los Angeles parties.
     "Very funny.  So what's your sign?"
     "You should be able to tell  me  what my
sign is, if that stuff means anything." 
     "You probably didn't believe Nostradamus's predictions when
you lived in the middle ages," he continues unfazed.
     "Oh, so now we're into reincarnation," I say.  "Perhaps I've
been inflicted upon you because of your bad karma."
     "I was a dog in ancient Egypt," says a woman munching on a
carrot stick.
     I look at her to see if she's grinning or something.  She's
not.  There seems to be no escaping these people in La La Land. 
I can see the Statue of Liberty waving at me to come home where I
belong, and escape the clutches of California Metaphysical
Fruitcakes (CMFs).
     "I'm not quite sure what kind of dog I was," adds the Carrot
Lady.  "But I've been doing research on what kinds were common
back then."
     Others in the group nod wisely and sympathetically, while I
resist the temptation to ask her whether she had been
housebroken, or whether they had canned dog food in ancient
Egypt.
     "That stuff about astrology has been disproved by science
time and again, honest to guru," I venture to Horoscope Man. 
"It's all a bunch of Taurus."
     "Science can't prove or disprove anything with absolute
certainty," he says.  "The very act of examining a phenomenon
changes it."
     "We all create our own reality," a lady nursing a Perrier
chimes in.  "I'm creating you right now.  I created the medium. 
I created the spirit entities.  So therefore I've created
everything."
     I look around for a little man with a big net.  When I turn
back to the Perrier Lady, I suddenly realize she bears a striking
resemblance to Shirley MacLaine.
     At this point, perhaps sensing a soul in need of saving, the
Carrot Lady offers to read my palms, my tea leaves, my aura, my
horoscope, and my tarot.  As a wave of utter disinterest washes
over me, I reflect on the fact that Los Angeles has 15
metaphysical bookstores and is the place you can get your car
repaired through an "Astral Mechanix" that will do a full
astrological profile of your car based on the time it left the
manufacturer (using the engine block number).  You also get a set
of instructions on psychic healing exercises for your car.
     Girolamo Cardano would have been at home in L.A., he being
the 16th century mathematician, doctor and astrologer, whose
faith in astrology reputedly led him to commit suicide so that he
might die on the very day predicted by his horoscope.  Hmmm,
could that possibly catch on here?
     The Perrier Lady now delivers a lecture for my benefit on 
aromatherapy, colortherapy, ayurveda, hypnotherapy, meditation,
sound therapy, candles, crystals, hot-sesame-oil massages, herbs,
herbal steam therapy, astanga yoga, spas, yantra yoga,
acupressure, tao yoga, scrying, kundalini yoga, venus kriyas,
tantric yoga, goddess worship, angi yoga, numerology, bokomaru,
vegetarianism, tai chi chu'an, tai chi qi gong, circle dances,
Indian sweat cabins, mantras, zen sheshin, ESP, precognition, and
other sacred shrines visited by spiritual hypochondriacs.
     As I fade in and out of consciousness, I hear the word
"oneness" five times, "unity" six times, "spiritual" eight times,
"healing" and "holistic" eleven times each, and "energy" twenty-one 
times.  I am promised that I'll unlock my inner awareness,
harmonize my chakras, make the mind-body connection, open up to
my higher power, heal internal organs and emotional problems, be
elevated to another astral plane, and achieve Nirvana.
     The Perrier Lady is smiling, the smile of a saleswoman who
knows secrets that are good for you.
     What did I do in my previous life to deserve this?
     I am already half out the door, heading for LAX ... any
flight destination Big Apple, as long as the pilot doesn't
believe in reincarnation.


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