Thirty-eight Books of the Bible make reference to psychic ability as a gift from the Holy Spirit.  And yet, many Christians, in particular, pooh-pooh clairvoyance as the subterfuge of demons.   Perhaps that is why they are more open to accepting signs or omens from forces they attribute as external, such as angels.

For the uninitiated, signs or omens are portents of danger lurking in the shadows.  Akin to electronic early warning systems, they are designed to keep us, and those around us, safe from harm.  Sometimes, a sign or an omen can also serve as a guidepost along the oft-darkened road of life.

The day before Christmas Eve of this year, I received one of the latter signs.  I was en route to the vet with my beloved older kitty, Gremlin, who had already been examined by three vets — none of whom could put their fingers on the source of her ailment.   As I sat with my husband in the waiting room of the state-of-the-art veterinary hospital, I glanced around, wondering which humans waiting with us might struggle to pay the vet’s bill that day.

The very thought broke my heart; I would sell the blood in my veins to get the proper treatment for Gremlin and I think most humans would do the same for their pets.

The minute we’d entered the practice, I had donated a dozen cans of expensive, prescription cat food back to the on-site pharmacy, for the express purpose of having them gifted to those who could not afford them.  I’d also startled the women behind the pharmacy counter by asking, very quietly, which of the people in the waiting room might have difficulty paying their bill today.  Because they did not know of any single case, I then placed a donation into the clear acrylic box, the box whose coffers were used to assist in the diagnosis and treatment of pets whose humans were in dire economic straits.  Pin no medals on me, for I was simply moved to do so.

Although my donation was larger than the single dollar bills already crammed into the box, I wished to do something more.  If only I hadn’t lost my little purse last fall, I mused, the one with my emergency money.  I’d looked high and low for that little purse, which contained not quite two hundred dollars.

For as long as I can remember, I’d always kept a little emergency stash, for “just in case.”  When I’d lost the purse months earlier, I even went through my trash, not so much for the money but for the purse, which had sentimental value.   It was not in the trash; it was not in one of my other handbags; it was not in my car.  It wasn’t anywhere.

In the car, I’d gone down on my hands and knees, poking under the seats with a coat hanger.  I’d unearthed gum wrappers, a few coins, and an old playbill, but no purse.  I moved the seats and checked the areas covered by them.  I investigated the glove compartment and every pocket in the car.  Nada.   The purse, by the way, was bright orange.  In the shape of a pumpkin, it was sequined and lined in matching orange silk.  It wasn’t an easy thing to lose, as its color was vivid and its little sequins caught and refracted the light.

In the vet’s office, I thought that if I hadn’t lost my purse, I would have emptied it into the clear acrylic box, to help out another pet lover.

We left with bad news about Gremlin, the kind of news you don’t see coming; the kind that leaves you blindsided, shocked, and making deals with God.   Riding home in stunned, silent hell, my husband suddenly said, “By the way, you must have dropped that little orange purse of yours in the car. It’s on the side of the passenger seat next to the console.  You can probably see it from the back seat, where you are with Gremlin.”

In disbelief, I stared at the spot he’d indicated.  I had gone over this car, months ago, with a fine-toothed comb.  There was no way that the purse could have become lodged there, for it was wedged in too deeply and too tightly for even my small fingers to budge.  I could not have put it there if I’d tried.  But there it lay, rammed in, sparkling like a flattened tangerine against the deep gray interior of the car.  Later, I retrieved the purse, but it took both my husband and me working together to dislodge it.  I looked at the liberated purse and knew that something else was at work here, something bigger, something more evolved than me.

If whatever messenger had placed it there had truly wanted me to make the larger donation, it would have allowed me to see the purse as I sat in the back seat en route to the vet, not on the way home.  But, the messenger had waited, perhaps testing my worthiness, until I’d donated the cat food and some cash to a needy pet-lover’s cause.  It was as if whoever had retrieved my lost purse, from literally God knew where, was telling me, “Here is a gift for you.  What was lost is now found.”

In light of Gremlin’s medical condition, I took a deep breath at this sign and paused.  Surely, this had to have been a positive omen that somehow, we could help her.  Three days later, against all odds, we found that our sweet kitty had gained three ounces over the long Christmas weekend.  Three ounces may not sound like much, but when one’s cat has lost three pounds, it’s a small, welcome miracle.  As I write this, my husband is researching homeopathic treatments for our cherished little cat, an avenue we’d never before explored.  So, we are hoping for the best.

Maybe the inexplicable reappearance of the purse was only the angels’ way of reminding me that we are all of us looked after and guided from above, even when we are ailing, even when we are small, non-human creatures.  Maybe it was only meant to bring me some small solace.  Whatever it was, I’m grateful for that sign.

This article will be far too long for the average reader if I cite chapter and verse about every single sign or omen I’ve gotten in my lifetime.  So I’ll just mention one more.

Years ago, basking in the sun at the beach with my family and dozing lightly, a voice in my head ordered me to open my eyes and look straight ahead.  As I did, a tiny, red headed boy toddled across my path, dragging behind him a very small surfboard.  I cast my gaze behind me, thinking to see his parents or grandparents in his wake.  But there was no one on that crowded beach claiming that lone child.

Stunned, I watched him toddle on chubby legs, heading straight for the water.  It was as if the kid was driven.

When you go after that kid and bring him back to the blanket, when you contact the police, the mental devil in my head advised, when they delve into your background, they’ll discover that you cannot have children.  They’ll think you set out to kidnap this child, or that you did away with his parents!  Meanwhile, my mental angel of the New York mouth spat, “The hell with that!  This is a helpless child, for God’s sake! What are you thinking?!?“

Immediately, I rose from my chaise lounge, imploring my family’s help.  They only mouthed back at me the very words of my mental devil!  Undeterred, I followed the little boy down to the water’s edge.  We were on a beach to which there was no access unless one paid to enter.  Ergo, there were lifeguards on duty, always … except for that one particular day!

Panic drove the heart up my throat, for I could not swim and the child was inches from the shore.  All around us, children and adults cavorted gleefully, in poignant counterpoint to the ache and fear in my heart.  They were ignorant of our dilemma and a moment later, I understood that they actually wanted to be.

“Oh, thank God!” piped up a woman from right beside me.  “Is he yours?”

“No! I saw him all by himself and I followed him down here.”

“Well, the same thing happened to me.  I looked, but his parents are nowhere in sight.  Neither are the lifeguards today; how odd!  He’ll drown if nobody watches out for him, poor kid.  Good thing you’re here.  Well, good luck with him, then.”

“Wait!” I cried, too ashamed to holler, on a crowded beach, that I couldn’t swim a stroke at the retreating back of the strange, apathetic woman.

The kid came abreast of me, determined as only three-year-olds can be.  He lay his little surfboard in the water and I swear, he was no more than three years old.  Jesus, help me, I implored inside my head.  Give me the right words to say to this child, not to frighten him, but to get him to come back with me to my umbrella, where we can call the police.

I’m not exactly sure of what I said to the boy, but whatever it was, it put suspicion immediately into his eyes.  My heart sank.  If I grabbed him and hauled him onto the sand, if he screamed and kicked and we drew a suddenly interested crowd, surely I’d be arrested for attempted kidnapping.  As I prepared to wrestle the kid onto the sand, still nattering away at him, his blue eyes squinted up at me.  Silently, he pulled the surfboard from the water.  Refusing to take my hand but miraculously allowing me to lead him, we walked side by side up the burning sands until we came within a few yards of my umbrella and my lackadaisical family.

Instantly, a gruff, beefy man appeared out of nowhere.  “There you are!” he admonished the child, as if the boy’s foray down to the water had been the kid’s fault!   “Who are you?” I demanded at once.  “Why, I’m his father, that’s who I am!” the oaf thundered.  I ignored him and looked down at the child.  “Do you know this man?”  The little boy nodded once, but there was no joy in the reunion.  “Daddy,” was all he said.

A thousand words bloomed and died on my tongue.  I wanted to ask that father if he knew how lucky he was to have had a child.  I wanted to say, “If I were a rat bastard instead of the person I am, I could have snatched your boy in a heartbeat and been halfway to Philly by now!”   I only said what came out instinctively: “Thank God!”

Thank God, indeed.  Had the voice in my head — the sign, the omen — not alerted me to wake up and look in the right direction, God only knows what may have happened to that little boy that day.

Do you have a compelling story about a sign or an omen that either saved you or another person from harm, or uplifted you to face another day?  If so, please share it with us. 

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Do Angels Exist?

Seances, Psychics, and Ghost Hunters: Smoke and Mirrors or the Real Deal?

Love Never Dies

The Mystery of the Veiled Ring

For Whom the Clock Chimes: A Paranormal Tale

A True Tale of Things that Go Bump in the Night…and the Day!

How cool is it to be a guest on a great, live radio station?  This past Monday, I found out just how cool, at WDVR FM/89.7.  Invited by DJs Sande Neske and Manny Garcia of the engaging Out and About with Sande and Manny program, I headed west to beautiful Sergeantsville, New Jersey, with Tom Petruzzelli, Editor of WriteOnNewJersey.com. The kind invitation was prompted by Manny’s discovery of the Write On New Jersey article, The Faces of the Haunted and to his and Sandy’s interest in such things, as evidenced by their own information-rich website, ParanormalUnlimited.com.

I’d never been in a radio studio during a live broadcast, so I was revved to do this show.  After a wrong turn or two en route along the gorgeous, turning leafed lanes leading to Sergeantsville, Tom and I slid into our seats with all of two minutes to spare, still panting as we adjusted our mics.  Sande and Manny were both extremely professional and friendly, putting us immediately at ease.

The DJs asked for more details about the abandoned and reportedly spirited schoolhouse highlighted in The Faces of the Haunted.  From there, we segued easily into other paranormal topics, not limited to the true tale of the night that my uncle passed into God’s hands (For Whom the Clock Chimes) and how my sister-in-law, a woman who’s got her head screwed on straight, was once visited in my guest room by something otherworldly.

During the broadcast, Tom’s niece, Cherene Petruzzelli, called the station.  Cherene has her own haunting tales to tell, and I don’t want to rain on her parade by talking about them here.  Sande took her call and graciously offered to bring Cherene on the show to discuss her deliciously frightening experiences, which have been witnessed by a number of people and documented by a team of paranormal investigators.

After the brief conversation with Cherene, we went to a station break.  Off air for a few minutes, Sande’s eyes flew wide open.  “I just heard a growl through my earphones!” she cried.  “I’m not imaging that.  I’m not making it up.  Oh, my God — there it is again!“   And then Sande pointed to the On Air signs on the wall, explaining that those are never lit when the DJs are not broadcasting.  But the four of us clearly saw those lights blazing brightly!

When human beings pass into spirit (pure energy), they sometimes “kidnap” electrical devices to make their presence known.  There are numerous, documented cases in which street lamps, house lights, and appliances turn on and off, unaided by humans, in the presence of ghosts and spirits*.  Were we visited by something otherworldly in the WDVR studio?  Did we unwittingly invite it in by speaking live, of things that go bump in the night, to an audience of 50,000 people?  Well, things go bump in the day, too, as they did on Monday!  Whatever it was, I’m glad it was friendly!

After the uninvited visitor left (or did it?), we touched briefly on the topic of music and I clued the listeners in to the talent of Taylor Hicks, who has worked and/or performed with, among other notables in the industry, The Allman Brothers, Gladys Knight, and Eric Clapton/BB King producer Simon Climie.

Manny then engaged Tom, owner of Objective: Resumes, to educate the audience on the importance and competitive edge of a professionally written resume, particularly in this economy.

Having crafted resumes, cover letters, and other professional documents for 31 years, Tom is an expert on the topic.  He’s quite knowledgeable about the job market, the ever-evolving trends in resume writing, and how technology continues to dictate those trends.   Through the kindness of Sande and Manny, Tom informed the listening audience as to how they can contact either Tom or myself to develop a compelling resume and cover letter designed to secure interviews.

The hour that we spent on air went by too quickly.  I had a ball, and so did Tom.  We couldn’t have asked for better hosts than Manny and Sande!  If you’d like to catch them live, on air or streaming on the ‘net, check out Out and About with Sande and Manny (Mondays, 3 PM to 5 PM, Eastern Time).  And, if you’re a fan of a broad range of music and interesting, community-oriented topics, tune in to WDVR FM/89.7 any time.  The station broadcasts live, 24/7.

*          A ghost is an entity, often disturbed, that remains behind in the space it once occupied on Earth, while a spirit has moved on peacefully to the next world.

“Despite thousands of years of theological study from every different form of religion, the duality of nature, light and dark, remains unfathomable.” ***

Everyone loves a good ghost story, particularly if the story bears evidence of a genuine haunting.  Born on Halloween and gravitating from earliest memory to “things that go bump in the night”, I relish true ghost stories.  Why, then, when I first tuned in to the A&E series, Paranormal State, was I not so much chilled and thrilled as I was thinking, “Hey, these kids are smart. They got the network to bankroll and film their paranormal investigations and made names for themselves. They’re probably theatre majors seeking careers in that vein.”

Although this reaction was probably the result of too much exposure to reality TV, Ryan Buell, founder and captain of the Paranormal Research Society (PRS), would probably appreciate my healthy dose of skepticism.  Ryan, you see, is a skeptic himself.  But he’s much more than that, and he and I have a bit more in common, as I discovered in reading his absorbing book, Paranormal State, written with Stephan Petrucha.

Tormented by paranormal activity as a child, Ryan’s nightly confrontations with things either beyond the grave or not of this world — or perhaps both — were met with confusion and ultimately, repression on the part of his family.  He grew up with these issues unresolved, turning inward for solutions that never quite materialized, as well as the writings of respected researchers and authors, which also left questions unanswered.  Driven to uncover those answers, while studying at Penn State University, Ryan founded the PRS (Paranormal Research Society) in 2001.  Its objective was to find the truth behind reported hauntings.

In establishing his core group, Ryan’s criteria was no less stringent than that of the classes created and taught by his professors.  He desired associates who were serious and hardworking; cohorts who did not frighten easily, and who could balance their course loads with the rigors of conducting investigations (primarily, long after the sun had set), gathering and documenting evidence, and arriving at well-supported conclusions, conclusions that either affirmed or refuted otherworldly activity in reportedly haunted settings.

What Ryan didn’t want were jokesters and thrill seekers, including students who showed up for investigations after getting tanked in the local taverns.  The resulting, well-culled group was a collection of unique, focused, dedicated, and interestingly diverse young people as thirsty for knowledge of the paranormal as their leader.

The team’s first cases were an old, unsolved murder that had occurred on campus and the 2001 disappearance of a coed.  For the latter case, the PRS collaborated with the local police, who welcomed the assistance.  Soon, the PRS was branching out into other cases, which people often brought to the team.

As word of their investigations spread, the PRS attracted the attention of A&E, which offered to craft a series (originally, 13 episodes) centered upon the investigations.  Contrary to my initial opinion of how the show was created, Ryan did not curry the favor of the producers or directors; they came to him.  When they did, he laid down the law.

The series, like the investigations themselves, had to be conducted with the utmost of integrity: no special effects, no coaching of clients, psychics, or anyone else concerned prior to the explorations, no subterfuge whatsoever for the sake of ratings.  The network’s onus was, essentially, to condense days’ worth of investigations into meaningful half-hour formats appealing to viewers.  In so doing, A&E financed more sophisticated equipment for the team, paid travel expenses, and perhaps most importantly, sought out and identified potential cases beyond the geography of Penn State and surrounding areas.  With input from his team, Ryan would have final say as to accept the cases or not.  And, all investigations, as they had from the inception of the PRS, were to be conducted without monetary compensation from the clients.

In crafting the series, Ryan Buell arrived at a deeper understanding of the paranormal, himself, and his talents.  He also became confident and courageous enough to share some very personal data with his readers.  Like me, Ryan was raised in a Catholic family and retains a strong faith.  While I walked away from the Catholic Church many years ago, and while I got the sense that Ryan no longer practices scheduled rituals as the Church demands, neither one of us threw Baby Jesus out with the bathwater.  We both honor the core of the faith while refusing to bow to manmade constraints that remove it from the teachings, and indeed, the life lived and the examples set by Jesus Christ.

But even with his roots firmly planted in Catholicism, Ryan is accepting of other religions — or the lack thereof.  One of his associates is agnostic; two are pagans (and before you conjure images of devil worship at the mention of “pagans,” please understand that paganism is an ancient religion that respects life in all its forms and those who created that life).  Ryan’s openness allows him to utilize the services of both priests and psychics, often simultaneously: partnerships never sanctioned by the Catholic Church at large.  (And this, I have always found odd, as 39 Books of the Bible mention prophesy, including direct references to it being a gift from the Holy Spirit).

But Ryan himself was not keen on the use of psychics, as many of those with whom he’d had previous contact proved themselves to be charlatans and thieves.  Chip Coffey, a reputable, tell it to ya straight psychic, was more or less thrust upon him by A&E as, I suspect, was soft-spoken psychic Michelle Belanger.  Ryan grew to develop a genuine respect for, as well as friendships with, both of these individuals featured frequently on the series. Michelle, in fact, wrote the enticing forward to Ryan’s book.

Lorraine Warren, a psychic of worldwide renown, was not dropped in Ryan Buell’s lap.  Initially leery of an association with the series, Lorraine came around on her own, impressed by Ryan’s focus and commitment, and that of his team. Lorraine and her deceased husband Ed were, respectively, the psychic and demonologist who had conducted the most extensive work on the “The Amityville Horror” case.  Interestingly, I have a connection to that case via less than six degrees of separation.  My uncle, who passed over several years ago, was friends with the head of the household murdered along with the rest of the family in that infamous house in Amityville on Long Island, New York. Ironically, my uncle and the murdered man had been hunting buddies.

If you’re a fan of the series, Paranormal State, and have yet to read the book, you’ll want to know what cases the volume covers.  I’m not going to give you a lot of details.   Life should hold a few surprises, and those in the book include some behind the scenes information that, because of time restrictions or other reasons, never made it to the screen.  There are a few horrific cases, not limited to those involving demonic activity, the investigation of long-lived urban legend, physical manifestations of spirits at a pub, and the haunting of an asylum whose departed denizens scared two former military men away from the place, with vows of never stepping foot onto the property again.

In the book, as in the series, Ryan and his team debunked a few of the cases as having no basis in the paranormal.  They always seek, first, to attribute unexplained activity to the here-and-now.  These include the creaking of an old house, vibrations caused by nearby train tracks, blackouts precipitated by a power company, or – most interestingly — the beleaguered emotional states of some clients.  Anything else must be proven to be paranormal, as far as one can prove things in an evolving science.

The book is a very basic primer for those uninitiated into matters of the occult; it whets the appetite of those who may wish to delve further into this broad and fascinating domain.

Initially a skeptic, I came away from the book with a much greater respect for Ryan Buell and his team.  This includes original members Elfie Music, who serves as spiritual advisor, Serg Poberezhny, technical guru, and Josh Light, another original member now acting primarily behind the scenes.  Heather Taddy and Katrina Weidman began as trainees assigned to conduct interviews and historical research prior to the investigations, and who became active participants in those investigations.  As with most casts in most series, Paranormal State‘s has gone through changes demanded, in part, by the graduation of the students from the university.

What began at first as a quest for the truth behind alleged hauntings or possessions wound up being exactly that — and much more.  For Ryan and his team’s greatest joy is to bring peace to their clients, whether by helping lingering spirits to  pass over, ousting demons from other realms, or assisting clients to purge themselves of their own, internal demons that prevent them from pursuing fulfilling lives.

If you’re looking for something different in your reading material, something that will leave you still wondering, but in a good way, look no further than this book.

***  Excerpt, page 220, Paranormal State by Ryan Buell with Stephan Petrucha (2010, A&E ibooks, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers)

Editorial Note:  The aliens depicted in the story are fictional and any resemblance

 to any alien lifeforms – past, present, or future – is purely coincidental.

Scwk rolled his third eye stalk around in his cranium and croaked, “I don’t know about this, Bzls; I think we ought to give this planet a pass.”  Of course, he didn’t vocalize this thought, and not just because he lacked vocal chords.  As befitted his kind, he simply beamed his thoughts at his sole shipmate.

Excitedly, Bzls waved his tentacles and beamed back, “We can’t just write Earth off so blithely,” he countered reasonably.  “Humans have been around about a quillion pqjs, and theirs is the only planet in this solar system to support intelligent life.  This indicates evolution.”

“After even minimal monitoring of their communications, you call them intelligent?!?  You call this evolution?!?” Scwk sneered.

“Look.  We don’t have enough fuel to leave this solar system, swing by Alpha Centauri to see what’s shakin’ there, and still make it safely back home.  I say we hang out on Earth for a bit and see who … and what … may be worth saving.  Or exploiting.”  In anticipation, Bzls flushed a fetching shade of lime green.

In two shakes of a qlkg’s tail, the aliens had landed smack in the middle of Greenwich Village on All Hallow’s Eve.  Transvestites of all shapes, sizes, and adornments cavorted flamboyantly and merrily down Sixth Avenue or rode on floats, trailed by street-clad butches of both sexes.  Music trumpeted, confetti fell liberally, and cameras flashed.  Steam rose from open manholes, rookie cops averted their eyes, and the air was redolent of gyros, dirty water hot dogs, and rotting garbage.  No one paid a lick of attention to the two aliens.

“Would you look at this?” Scwk scowled.  “Other aliens beat us to it! Scads of them!”

“No, no,” his companion argued.  “Take a closer look.  All of these beings are bipeds: humans!  We hit the jackpot!”

No sooner were the words out of his Bzls’ brain than he was grabbed by one of his tentacles and pulled into the crowd.  Scwk swooshed off in hot pursuit.

“Well, aren’t you the inventive one!” chirped Bzls’ kidnapper.  He bore an uncanny resemblance to Cher, but for the telltale athletic cup bulging from his Bob Mackie knock-off gown.  “Great costumes! I’m Timmy, by the way.”

The aliens introduced themselves and Timmy batted his false lashes.  “Excellent get ups!  I don’t even see your lips moving!  Actually … I don’t see any lips at all.  This your first Village Halloween parade?”

“Well, yes.  We’re from out of town … way out of town.”

Timmy sniffed. “Hmmmfff.  The Bible Belt.  I hear that.  Don’t worry; you’re among your own kind now.”

“We are?!?“

“Sure, sugar.  And you’ll both probably take First Prize in the parade this year.  Ohhhhhh … there’s that adorable biker who likes to hang out by the record shop on St. Mark’s.  He’s got a real way with that whip that he cracks oh so subtly.  You two will excuse me, won’t you?  Love is in the air!”

In a pouf, Timmy was gone.  Confounded by all the hoopla, the aliens sought a human not caught up in the revelry.  In the darkened alcove of an adult toy shop, closed for the festivities, lolled a male human in torn, dirty clothes.  With a mouth minus a few teeth, he grinned oily at the parade, happy for this annual distraction.  Scwk nudged his companion, indicating their target.

“Aliens, huh?” the man squinted.  “Well, breathe easy. Obama’s in office and even he wasn’t born here.  I’m Harold, by the way.  I used to be a computer programmer in better days.  You guys sightseeing?”

“Actually, we are in need of much information, and we require it quickly.  Information about your society.”

“What, you guys got no Internet hook up?  The economy hit you two hard, too?  What sort of info ya need?”

Blzs said, “We wish to know who or what is worth saving here and who or what is not.”

Harold scratched his head.  “Geez. Ya really are from out of town, ain’t ya?  Well, ya can’t be terrorists; ya wouldn’t even be askin’ that.  And ya wouldn’t be botherin’ with the likes o’ me.  What the heck?  I’ll bite; you two are more entertaining than the parade.  Come with me.”

He led them to an all-night newsstand and threatened the owner with loitering there all night long and stinking up his air supply if the guy didn’t hand over a copy of a thin magazine, gratis.  “Here ya go,” Harold said, after the Chinese newsagent had given him what he’d wanted.  “Here’s yer Bible.”

“Bible?”

“Info.  Condensed.  With photos, too, lots of ‘em.”

“The National Perspirer?” Scwk asked.

“You got it.  Come over here under the street lamp, and I’ll show ya.”  Fascinated, the aliens watched as Harold turned the pages.

“This here’s Kim Kardasian.  Her family blew $10 million clams on her wedding.  Ten million!  I can’t get a job but these people are tossing away millions.”

“This is bad?”

“This is a crime!  She ain’t worth savin’.  And this here babe with this itty bitty dog?  I seen rats that could eat her pooch for an appetizer on this very street.  That’s Paris Hilton.  A waste of life.  Not worth savin’.  Ah, and this is Tiger Woods.  Rich as Croesus, famous as hell, and he bopped whatever walked.”

“Bopped?”

“Screwed.”

“Screwed?”

Harold sighed.  “He attempted to procreate with many women other than his wife.  He’s gotta go, too.  Now we come to the politicians.  Oh hell.  Just off ‘em all, I say.”

“All?“

“We need to clean house.  Well, maybe spare Sarah Palin.  I hate her politics, but she’s a babe.  A guy needs a little eye candy.”

“Is there anyone worth saving?”

“Sure, lookee here.”

And Harold went on to show the “out of towners” several stories of hard working individuals and families.  They reached out to each other with food, clothing, and shelter.  They established and promoted charities and other grass roots organizations designed to give comfort, both concrete and emotional, during the one of the darkest periods in the nation: 2011.

“You wanna save these folks,” Harold confided.  “And you wanna save people like me, too.  People who, through no fault of their own, lost their jobs, their homes, their lives.  Save, also, the educators, the artists, the writers, the doctors and nurses and engineers — heck.  Ya just gotta get ridda the rich and powerful, basically, as well as the terrorists: it’s a pretty small group compared to the rest of us.”  Wishful thinking, Harold thought, but the aliens had caught it.

Sagely, they nodded.  They had seen the light, and it wasn’t the streetlamp.

Nearly a year later, peace reigned in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  All wars had ceased.  The Earth began to replenish herself and the humans lived happily off her.

The rich and powerful had been beamed out into space … sans spacecrafts.  Their wealth had been distributed equitably amongst the hard working, the newly poor, and the age-old destitute.  Decisions were made by consensus and every vote counted; there were no hanging chads.  Neither were there any “I never inhaled” and draft-dodging Presidents.  America had returned to its initial intended state: a true democracy, with life and liberty for all.

Timmy married the biker in a lovely ceremony in Washington Square Park.  The bride wore petal pink and his groom wore leather, chains, and tattoos.  Harold, Scwk, Bzls, Mayor Bloomberg, Wendy Williams, and a host of others celebrated the nuptials with champagne toasts and revelry.  The aliens had hired Harold to run their IT unit — with one caveat.  He was to convey nothing but good news through the ‘net, which Scwk and Bzls now ran in full cooperation with Bill Gates.

A year after Timmy’s prediction, Scwk and Bzls did indeed take First Prize in the annual Village Halloween Parade.  Eyewitness News reporters covered the event and then joined in the annual march.

All’s well that ends well.  Except, of course, for the s***bags, who were now space dust!  

A number of years ago, I had a boyfriend who, for the sake of this article, we’ll call Evan.  Evan and I were engaged, and although we never made it to the altar, we were very close.   Many years after we’d broken up, to this very day, in fact, our parents are still friends.  Evan and I shared many things.  One New Year’s Eve, we nearly shared passage into the light of the Lord.  On that New Year’s Eve, we nearly died.

But, something intervened.

Perhaps it was an angel; perhaps it was simply not our time.  Whatever happened, something inexplicable, something otherworldly, carried us out of harm’s way in a manner that defied the laws of physics.

Evan had booked a chalet for us in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains, so that we could spend a quiet evening ringing in the New Year together, without the forced hoopla that usually accompanies this holiday.  The weather had called for snow and lots of it later in the day, but we weren’t worried.  We’d planned to leave his home at mid-day and arrive at the our cozy destination by sundown.  But an unforeseen emergency had cropped up at Evan’s place of business.  And, being a responsible man, he offered to remain behind in the office to fix the problem so that his co-workers could leave early to make merry.

What appeared at first to be a relatively minor problem proved to be anything but, and our departure time was delayed.  Hour after hour, the clock ticked on.   The sun had set by the time we set off, and it was snowing in big, fat flakes that were gathering speed.

We discussed canceling our plans, but the thought of that nice, warm, quiet chalet waiting for us was too tempting.   Southwest we drove, through the snow, out of New York, past New Jersey and into Pennsylvania.   On that dark, moonless night, few vehicles were on the road.  The windshield wipers fought the driving flakes, but it was a losing battle.  Visibility was poor, and we’d become lost in the storm.  We must have missed our exit as we were all but blind.  We had no idea where we were in Pennsylvania, a State we had visited many times before.

We vowed to pull into the next motel we found and offer to pay to sleep on the couches in the lobby, if there was no room at the inn.  But with the snow pummeling the windshield and unsure of our location, we made a wrong turn — a terrible wrong turn.

Up a narrow, winding mountain road we went; to say that it was slippery going is a gross understatement.  It was flat-out dangerous.  From what I could still see from the passenger window, tall, blanketed pines stood like Shakespeare’s Burnham Wood very close to that one-lane road, for what appeared innocuous was not.  It might have been beautiful had that road not been treacherous and us, so utterly lost.  Evan sighed and said that we’d probably find a house up ahead, into whose driveway we could make a U-turn to get us back onto the original road.

But suddenly, from up ahead shone two bright headlights, aiming straight at us.  It was another car, skidding on the ice and snow down the same road that we were ascending!  There was nowhere for us or the other car to turn.  Any turn we would have made would have smacked us right into the thick pines; we’d have been injured or crushed to death.   “Hold on!” Evan hollered, his knuckles white on the wheel.

In the moment that the other car was about to crash head-on into us, its headlights were blinding.  The light was brighter than anything I’d ever seen made by man or nature.  And, as what I was sure was the final prayer I’d ever say winged through my mind, the light grew brighter still.  It blotted out the trees, the oncoming car, even my boyfriend.

Before my eyes flashed a sort of filmstrip.  It was my life, from the moment of my birth until the present.  I saw every single action I’d ever taken: every kindness, every small cruelty I had visited upon others.  And I saw all of the kindnesses and small cruelties done to me by other people.  This all happened in the space of 30 seconds, no more.  And then, suddenly, all was dark and peaceful, as it is in the woods on a snowy night.

The other car was miraculously gone!  Evan turned his head, searching desperately for that car, worried that it had skidded into the trees and that the people inside needed medical assistance.  But the car was gone, vanished — as if plucked out of thin air by a divine hand!

Shaken, for a long moment, neither one of us spoke.  Finally, I ventured, “Evan, are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he gulped and then looked me full in the face, a question burning in his dark eyes.

I explained what had happened to me, about seeing my life flash before my eyes, and Evan said that the same thing had happened to him.  “No,” I insisted.  “I’m not speaking in metaphors; I mean I saw a film of my life, an epic collapsed into 30 seconds!”

“That’s exactly what I saw, Kat,” he nodded.  “I think an angel just saved us, and the other car, from horrible deaths.”

Many human beings who have cheated death claim to have seen a bright white light in the moment that their souls separated from their bodies.  Some claim to have traveled down into that light, to receive a message on the other side that it was not their time.  Some claim to have pleaded with the light to return back to this Earth for their loved ones.

Scientists scoff at these near death experiences.   Their logic insists that what occurs when the human body prepares to die is a sort of mind dump.  They state that this process is similar to dumping all of the files from a computer in the moment before the system crashes.

Speaking from a purely clinical perspective, that may be.

But no scientist will ever be able to explain what happened to that other car that night, or how Evan and I were saved from certain death.  Or, perhaps more importantly, why we were saved.

Have you ever had a near-death experience?  If so, if the experience was genuine, please, and not fictional, and if you would like to share it, we would enjoy hearing about it through your comments to this article.  Thank you, from another soul who lived to tell of her own experience! 

Have the traditional horoscope signs gone the way of hula hoops and bellbottom jeans?  They have, if you believe the calculations of our current crop of astronomers.   These men and women of science have now determined that the shift in the Earth’s axis, occurring over the three millennia since the Zodiac was first established, has resulted in a shift in natal signs.  Moreover, the transformation has given birth to a new, thirteenth sign know as Ophiuchus.  Pronounce that name slowly, phonetically, and I think you’ll find a message there.  “Ffffffewwww!” denotes something that reeks like a fish reeled in three days ago!

Not long ago, these self-same astronomers downgraded one of my ruling planets — Pluto — to an asteroid.  But since the ancient God of War (Mars) still governs my other heavenly sphere, I wasn’t intimidated in the least for having lost Pluto.  I never really lost him, you see; I simply refused to give him up.  And I’m not relinquishing my birth sign, either, just because some scientist who doesn’t know me from Eve says I have to.   Here, you see, is how the new, 2011 Zodiac breaks down:

Capricorn – January 20th – February 16th
Aquarius – February 16th – March 11th
Pisces – March 11th – April 18th
Aries – April 18th – May 13th
Taurus – May 13th – June 21st
Gemini – June 21st – July 20th
Cancer – July 20th – August 10th
Leo – August 10th – September 16th
Virgo – September 16th – October 30th
Libra – October 30th – November 23rd
Scorpio – November 23rd – November 29th
Ophiuchus (the new kid on the block) – Nov 29th to December 17th
Sagittarius – December 17th – January 20th

One could suffer an identity crisis, if one were not secure in the knowledge that one’s natal sign has, indeed, remained intact.  I can’t speak for anyone else, but before the rest of you go running around breaking off relationships, for instance, because science has brainwashed you into thinking that you’re no longer compatible with a person of a certain sign, consider my own evidence to the contrary.

I was born on Halloween.  October 31st is that mystical and magical day upon which the veil between the living and the dead has long thought to hang at it’s thinnest.  This day dovetails perfectly with the so-called dark sign of Scorpio, whose entire raison d’etre is major transformation (birth and death).

According to the new Zodiac, I am now a Libra.  The hell I am!  I like being a Scorpio!  I relish the reactions I get when people ask me my sign, for Shakespeare was right when he said that the eyes are the windows of the soul.  The puzzlement is written clearly on the faces of the inquisitive.  I watch with perverse delight as they try to figure out if the myths are not myths at all.

They wonder if I’m really, truly the sexiest thing in the Zodiac behind closed doors, or the vindictive bitch that I’m predisposed to be, due to my birth sign.  Y’all will die pondering the answer to the first question … unless you happen to get very, very lucky.  A Scorpio is the most discreet sign of all.  She never kisses and tells.  In fact, confide to her a deep, dark secret and she’ll die with it.

Unless you cross her, that is.  Then her celebrated penchant for vengeance will kick in, when you least expect it.  Do me dirty or hurt someone I love and/or respect, and you’d best sleep with one eye open.  Like the woman in the old Billy Joel song, I’ll carelessly cut you and laugh while you’re bleeding.  But the execution won’t be careless.  The fatal blow will be well plotted and exquisitely timed to strike when you are at your most vulnerable.  After all, where’s the sting in revenge … or the fun … if it’s not expertly timed?

I am most definitely not a Libra.  Libras don’t have the stomach for this sort of thing.  They’re too busy blowing kisses to themselves in the mirror (all right, so they are the most gorgeous things in the Zodiac) and sniffing out their next conquests … who must measure up by being just as beautiful as they are, if not more so.  And they’re too busy trying to play fair with everyone, seeing both sides of an issue and making decisions accordingly.  Which is a dichotomy, of course, given that perspective.  No wonder their golden scales are always out of balance.

By contrast, Scorpio’s focus is intense and unwavering.  I always get my man, one way or another.  Without ever landing a blow, I have waylaid would-be several would-be muggers and mashers on the streets and subways of The Big Apple.  I did it with my stiletto tongue and withering Scorpio gaze.

A good friend of mine was born an Aries and is now a Pisces according to the new system (a truly cosmic joke, if you knew her and know anything at all about dreamy Pisces).  Aries folk are born leaders; they are not wishy-washy or easily intimated.  And yet, my friend once wrote a rather lengthy treatise about me once, admitting that she could see how some people could be terrified of me, despite my diminutive stature.  I took her words as the highest praise!  And she appreciates our friendship, for she understands the fierce loyalty that a Scorpio demonstrates for her kin, blood or not.

I can’t be a Libra; no way.  Libras are known for their natural grace.  I trip over my own two feet.

Libra women are ultra feminine, drawing men to them effortlessly, like the Sirens of mythology drew sailors to their deaths.  Me?  I was the tomboy the teacher was always pulling out of the boys’ corner of the room during recess.  Of what use were Betsy Wetsy dolls to me, or Easy Bake ovens, when I could build and destroy entire cities of Legos?  Or have my T-Rex go toe to toe with one of the boys’ Allosaurus and eat it alive?

Nope.  I’m a Scorpio, all right, and so I’ll remain one until the day I die.  Even if the scientists decide to play fast and loose with the planets again.

_________________

This article was meant to make our readers think and smile.  It was not the author’s intent to insult any Zodiac sign, only the anal-minded scientists.  But if you think you’ve been insulted, we encourage you to leave a comment below.  Our web administrator will be happy to track your IP address.  I have him in my pinchers; he’ll have to give you up, you see.  Just remember to sleep with one eye open!  

Perhaps nothing tells more about a culture than its art.  From paintings on cave walls carved by prehistoric tribes, representational art has evolved to chronicle historical events, fashion, religious and social mores, and political views.  When written language emerged, artists signed their work with pride.  They signed their paintings and chiseled their names onto sculptures to inform the world as to the originators of the creations.  How, then, do we explain a large, chillingly realistic work created in our own time and left unsigned?

The work in question resides in a haunted and otherwise abandoned schoolhouse sitting atop a hill in Lambertville, New Jersey.  Erected in 1854, The Lambertville School closed its doors in the 1950s.  Two decades later, a fire that destroyed part of the building was also rumored to have taken the lives of several children.  Considering that classes had not been held in this decrepit structure for approximately twenty years prior to the blaze, the rumors are unsettling.  And yet, they seem to have their basis in truth.

A number of people who have summoned the nerve to explore as well as spend the night in the ramshackle building have published their tales of the strange goings-on within the school’s crumbling walls.  These stories include hearing the horrific screams of children when no children were present, as well as heavy footsteps tromping up and down stairs and through corridors.  One visitor described hearing a demonic, disembodied growl.

These reports make me question the origin of the artwork found in a second floor classroom.   

On the blackboards ringing three-quarters of the room are the images of children.  Little ones are depicted giving the Pledge of Allegiance.  Others stare bored into space, and one child is positioned like a corpse in its coffin.  There is no joy in the children’s faces, none whatsoever.  But what is most striking about this artwork is that the images were not chalked onto the boards or even painted on them: they are, in fact, etched permanently into the dark gray slate.  Painstakingly crafted, they are also extremely realistic, making the blackboards genuine works of art.  And yet, they stand unsigned.

 A vast body of empirical evidence supports the theory that things and places hold the energies of former owners or occupants.  Could the blackboards in The Lambertville School not be art, after all?  Could the

images be modern-day bas-reliefs, seared into stone by the energies of the dead in the moment that they departed this earth?  And is this the reason the blackboards were never signed?

It seems only yesterday that Barack Obama was sworn in as our 44^th President.  Yet, the mid-term elections are upon us and, as we go to the polls to determine the composition of the U.S. House of Representatives and Senate as well as members of state and local governing bodies, we are also asked to consider a number of public questions and ballot initiatives on issues ranging from property taxes to healthcare to abortion.  Among the most bizarre is a ballot initiative in Denver denoted as Initiative 300 to create an Extraterrestrial Affairs Commission for collecting and sharing evidence that extraterrestrials are visiting Earth and for assessing the risks and benefits of making contact with those aliens.  Its primary proponent, Jeff Peckman, a practitioner and teacher of transcendental meditation and UFO writer for the Denver edition of Examiner.com, is the very same individual who – in 2008 – publicly displayed a video purporting to show an extraterrestrial caught on videotape by Stan Romanek outside his Nebraska home in 2003.  Verified as “authentic” by an instructor at the Colorado Film School, the video showed a moving image of the head of an alien as captured by Romanek peering through his kitchen window (see videos below).

Whether or not the video presented plausible evidence of Earth’s visitation by beings from other worlds or dimensions (you can be the judge), the more significant question is:  how might awareness of alien visitations of planet Earth alter our perceptions of ourselves and the destiny of humankind?

The visitation of planet Earth by extraterrestrials has long been a matter of speculation.  There are many who fervently believe that humankind’s development at various points in history has been both inspired and assisted by alien intelligence.  They point to architectural achievements like the construction of the pyramids in Egypt, prehistoric monuments like Stonehenge, and ancient images and writings arguably depicting alien spacecraft or encounters.  Others theorize that man has benefitted from an evolutionary perspective by virtue of ancient matings of extraterrestrials with Earth women.  Some point to the prediluvian Genesis account of the “Nephilim,” a race of supermen created “when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them” (Genesis 6:4) as evidence of inter-mating between human and extraterrestrial species.

Until now, the evidence in the public domain for Earthly visitation by extraterrestrials has been circumstantial and flimsy.  As technology has advanced and proliferated, however, opportunities to capture credible evidence of alien encounters with Earthlings have increased dramatically.  Whether the video presented by Jeff Peckman in support of his ballot initiative provided such evidence is a matter of conjecture.  But, it should be noted that the motives of both Peckman and Romanek are suspect, as both have attempted to profit from the video.  One also wonders about the nature and composition of the proposed Extraterrestrial Affairs Commission as well as how and to whom any public expenditures relating to the Commission and its functioning would be disbursed.

Nonetheless, if extraterrestrials do visit and roam our planet, I do not doubt that their days of passage incognito are numbered.  If they are truly here, someone somewhere will capture incontrovertible evidence of their presence.  By the way, if there are any extraterrestrial readers of this website (and, I have been told there are many), don’t phone home, phone Denver. 

I have often had the desire to travel back in time, to observe events or meet people about whom I have only read.  Always a “doubting Thomas” by nature, I would love the opportunity to travel back and witness Biblical events like Moses’ encounter with the burning bush, the parting of the Red Sea, God’s presence with the wandering Israelites in the form of a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, Jesus bringing his deceased friend Lazarus back to life, or Jesus’ resurrection and meeting with his disciples that first Easter evening almost 2,000 years ago.

The skeptic in me thinks that I might discover that these events are not as they have been recorded and perhaps, not at all miraculous.  Yet, in my soul, I believe that all of these things happened in just the way they have been written.

I wonder further – if I met the heroes or villains from history, how might I assess them?  In my time travels, might I have considered George Washington a man of integrity or a pompous ass?  If I had gotten to know Attila the Hun or Adolf Hitler, might I have liked them personally or considered them friends?  If I encountered any of a number of people over the centuries who have been deemed Saints, would I have assessed them as devout and committed or mentally disturbed?

Until today, I considered these ponderings merely idle reflection.  Now, however, I have seen the light:  people have been traveling through time since its beginnings.  Perhaps, H.G. Wells’ story The Time Machine was not a work of fiction, but a biographical account from a time traveler.  As evidence, I present the video below.  It is a film clip from a Charlie Chaplin movie premier in 1928.  Note the woman in the dark hat who appears to be talking on a cell phone.  Is this proof positive of the validity of time travel?  Or, has this video been doctored? 

Throughout my twelve years of Catholic school, I’d been taught to avoid fortunetellers like the plague, for some were thought to do the work of the devil.  But, like the length of my uniform skirts and the friends with whom I hung out, I didn’t give much credence to what the nuns had preached.  From the time that I could read fluently, I had researched — through books and whenever possible, personal experiences — palmistry, tarot card readings, phrenology, ghosts/spirits, seances, Egyptology, the Loch Ness monster, UFO’s, lycanthropy, vampirism, astral travel, meditation, tea leaf readings, and Eastern theosophy.

Imagine my astonishment when, a few years ago, my research uncovered the fact that the gift of prophesy is not only mentioned in 38 of the 66 books of the standard Bible, it is deemed to be a gift from the Holy Spirit!   While the Bible differentiates between the practice of consulting charlatans versus those who demonstrate true psychic ability, and issues warnings against the former, it is sometimes difficult, in this life, to discern the between the two.

As a child, I remember reading that virtually every human being is born with a sixth sense, the capacity to predict future events with a reasonable degree of accuracy.  The general consensus was that psychic ability was a type of survival mechanism, and that it could be cultivated if one removed from one’s self, as much as possible, from negative events and persons.

Later, I learned that the discipline of meditation enhanced one’s clairvoyance.  By meditation, I refer to focused and frequently practiced spiritual meditation, not the type designed simply to reduce one’s stress level.

I had my first, unplanned reading as a young woman in her early twenties. I’d been seeing two young men at the same time, and was very much interested in the one we’ll call Dave; in fact, Dave and I wound up getting formally engaged.  Romping through New York City’s East Village one Saturday night with friends, including Sam, the other guy I’d been seeing, we stumbled upon a storefront card reader, replete with the headscarf, gold hoop earrings, and crystal ball.  Everyone thought would be fun to consult her.

Approaching this as a lark, I was shocked to discover that the woman who was not much older than myself saw me with the two men: one blonde (Sam) and one dark (Dave).  She finished the reading almost in shock, saying that although I’d come far in my career for one so young and otherwise had a good head on my shoulders, I’d insisted upon falling in love with Dave, who would “bring me to ruin.”   Well, I was far from ruined, but Dave and I did split up and the schism, at the time, was deeply painful.

For years, this experience haunted me.  How had she known?  She had to have been very gifted, I’d supposed.

But further investigation enabled me to understand that “all of the information is already out there” and it’s just a matter of tapping into it.  Also, a psychic can read a subject more accurately if that subject approaches him or her with an open mind or at least, a generally positive mindset.  Not all clients do, despite their strong desire to be read.  Against my better judgment, and because I’d been pestered to do so, I had once referred a very difficult person to an excellent psychic.  Thoroughly exasperated, the clairvoyant later told me, “He’s enough to make you want to throw away your cards!”

The second reader into whom I ran — quite literally — was sitting, oddly enough, at a little card table on a quiet corner just off New York’s Little Italy.  She, too, had the scarf and the gold hoops, but no crystal ball: just a pack of regular playing cards and a very quiet, slightly amused air, as if she’d known I was about to barrel right into her.

I’d gone to the Feast of San Gennaro with the man I would eventually marry, and remembering well the incident with the first psychic, refused her offer to read my cards!   However, my future husband was very much interested.  His was a short reading, and all I remember was that she’d told him that he had an honest woman in his life, a very honest woman, and that she wasn’t sure if he could handle her.  Considering that the woman was me and that my husband is still wondering, after all these years, what to do with me, I’d say that reader was also dead on!

The next reader and I crossed paths like ships in the night, and this, she foretold, was through destiny (and thereby hang tales too long for this article).  She nailed every physical ailment in my body in the first few seconds — though I had not thought to consult her about those — and then she picked up the brochure of my realtor that I’d brought for her to see.  I was in the process of moving to Jersey and the reader, whose name was Christie, intoned, “There is a job for you across the other side of a covered bridge.”  Neither one of us understood what this meant (yes, spirits do move through genuine psychics), but months later, the light dawned.  My realtor’s office was located at the foot of a sort of covered bridge … one that enabled foot traffic over a busy highway … directly across from the writing job I’d landed!   This was just one of the many things that Christie had predicted, that later came to pass.

Bonnie, whom I met next and befriended, added to my education.  She was the first one I’d known to use a tarot deck other than the original Waite deck familiar to most of us.  The deck she used was called The Rose Deck; it was dark and beautiful, with intricate artwork.  The Rose Deck was but one of many different designs that I would later access through other readers.  Bonnie explained that she used the tarot only as an icebreaker, as some clients were not comfortable with her just pulling their most intimate secrets out of the ether.

This lady explained that when her beloved grandmother had passed on, she was a young child of four.  On the night of the day that her grandmother was laid to rest, Bonnie’d dreamed that her gran had appeared to her, advising her that, at the age of twelve, the young girl would come into the gift of prophecy.  As foretold, that is exactly what happened to Bonnie.  Fascinated with the planets and their influences, she studied astrology and was gifted in this form of reading as well.

Eventually, the accuracy of her work came to the attention of law enforcement agencies in both New York and New Jersey … and I’m talking about both State and local levels.  Often grudgingly by Bonnie, who abhorred violence, her talents were utilized in cracking major cases.  To protect her privacy, I’ll just tell you that these cases all made the headlines in their day: murder, kidnapping, and theft of a large fortune.

Bonnie also had the uncanny ability to simply touch an object and “read” its owner.  One night over dinner in a restaurant, she’d admired an emerald bracelet my husband had given me and reached across the table to stroke it.  Immediately, she got that glazed look in her eye that I’d come to know and began telling me very personal things about a certain in-law that I had never shared with her!  An in-law that had only touched that bracelet once!

Kit, a.k.a. Katherine, was another lovely reader, an older, deeply spiritual woman lauded by the Catholic Church for her continuous contributions to the community.  Kit, in my experience, was an anomaly in that she was a devout Catholic who also practiced as a psychic.  Among the many things that this wife and mother foretold in two readings, she saw me following a certain musician, approximately two years before I’d ever heard his name.  She also spoke of the wonderful friendships, travels, and experiences that my following him would bring me.

A few years later, Trish saw me journeying to the city of that musician’s birth, and the adventures — and great music — that awaited me there, and the good friend with whom I’d traveled.

Most recently, a very nice lady named Robin, who shares my love of music, foresaw me being asked by Sneak Attack, The Counting Crows’ media representatives, to cover one of their recent concerts.  She did not name the band by name but intimated that it was a large, well-respected, well-known act.

If your curiosity is peaked and you wish to consult a psychic, I have but two bits of advice to give you, which I myself have followed.   Seek a psychic, please, through the recommendation of someone that you trust.  And then feel that psychic out.  As I’d learned long ago, we are all indeed born with at least a modicum of clairvoyance, so use yours.  You want a reader who is spiritual; one who believes in a Higher Power, and a positive power.  Anyone who gives you another sort of vibe, avoid at all costs.