"The Hanged Man"

Sooo, Monday is my birthday. I'll be in New York. I've been harboring this fantasy about either eating pot brownies and going to the Bronx Zoo or paying a visit to a sidewalk psychic. The last time anyone read my tarot cards (Buki, on a train from Rome to Florence in 2001) the hanged man showed up as the future of my love life and given all the stalled drama I'd been trying to pitch to Richard, it seemed depressingly appropriate. The last time I got stoned (a 2003 Halloween party with Shannon in Long Island City), I had to walk around the room leaning into the wall because I was convinced that we were on a boat in the middle of a storm and I was about to fall overboard. I'd also gotten separated from Shannon and stuck in the company of some guy who kept offering me Dixie cups of grain alcohol and lemonade and didn't understand until he saw me sitting on her lap what I meant when I told him that I was with Shannon.

Robert is coming to town on Sunday night, for two days, and I think the chances of my getting him excited about caged monkeys in an outer borough are slim at best. Better to forget that and ask if anyone can recommend a psychic of, at least, not ill repute?