Mushrooms and Moutharsing

I'm on the downtown train (I love you, Tom Waits) headed for more talent scouting with Fred and Tippy. I'm happy to have something free to do—we get comped since we're "industry professionals." How fun is that? My empty wallet finds it a perfect fit.

I didn't do much today except daydream, finish the Tom Robbins novel I was reading, and consequently hunt down every drop of info on him the Internet had to offer. I think I'm in love. He met his spousal equivalent over tarot cards. Shit. I could've had him if I'd been on the scene earlier. I can do tarot cards. I have some under my pillow right now, hexed toward a certain expatriate. I'm better at palm reading, though, and it gives me an excuse to be touchy-feely.

I'm thinking a trip to South America to sample shamanic hallucinogens is in my not-so-distant future. Robbins' is the second fabulous book I've read this year singing the praises of magic mushrooms. Both were chosen at random at friends' mothers' houses, oddly enough. Either I've got friends with uber-hip moms or the universe is sending me a message. Or both. (If you haven't read Victor Pelevin's Generation P, do the crazy half of your psyche a favor and pick it up. Moutharsing is the funniest, truest concept I've heard of in ages.)

I got some great kudos from Tippy's mom, Molly McMary. She loved the pieces I sent her (some creative non-fiction, a poem and a short story). I love the encouragement during this transition.