In the end, we wear the black suit (with alligator bag) to our meeting with "Linda," a 35-ish woman who is sporting trendy, form-fitting pants, heavy-duty makeup, and almost-black nail polish. Among the 20 or so Craigslisters who show up are plenty of disheveled hippie-girls in misshapen sweaters and saggy skirts or pants, occasionally sporting an ever-so-subtle layer of what we assume is cat hair. There are two fortysomethings looking bitter and vaguely '80s, a few conservative Asian girls who do not speak, and one striking woman who later explains she is a stylist.
To start, Linda gives a history of her company, which makes a product called "spirit rocks,"* small, attractive, jewel-toned discs of alternately polished and frosted glass. The history extends from the very beginning, when the rocks were but a dream, to the glory of their appearance on the Oprah television show in 1999. She believes in the spiritual power of the rocks and wants everyone who makes them to really believe, too, lest negative energy be left on the product, and we suddenly realize: This is about to get ugly.
Yes, we are actually going to create spirit rocks -- en masse, in a dank, crowded basement, right in front of Linda.
Spirit rocks are made via a semi-industrial process that involves drawing inspirational words with masking fluid that, after drying, gets sandblasted off. The words are applied with a tiny, spray-gun- type gadget that releases hot pink gel when you press a foot pedal. This process is likened to driving a stick shift car, but before we can pop the spirit rock clutch, we must learn Linda's "font."
We are given scratch paper and pens and then gather round to watch Linda demonstrate how to make the word "believe" in her font, which really isn't a font in any typographic sense, but simply left-handed writing. "Is anyone in the room left-handed?" she asks. No -- but one of the hippie girls says she is trying to learn. (We feel somewhat lightheaded as Linda notes that left-handedness is really not something that can be learned: "You are or you aren't," she explains.)
Soon we are sitting in a room full of right-handed people trying to write row upon awkward row of the word "believe" in a way that makes the word seem to have been written by a lefty. Linda paces around, making notes on a clipboard. Inevitably, it is time to put aside practice paper and step up to the spirit rocks themselves, and we become an utter disaster, creating rocks that are illegible and covered with little pink blobs of gel. Linda looks disapprovingly at our hideous efforts; we are speechless, ashamed, and vaguely guilty.
Now -- interviews. One by one, we explain, in front of one another, why we want to make spirit rocks, and why we are the best choice for the job. The prattle is as sad and clichéd as one might imagine; there is talk about a "family environment" and work that is "spiritual" and "more about the heart rather than money." Practical applicants claim to "enjoy repetitive tasks" or feel the job will help them "hone their skills."
Finally, it's our turn, and, frankly, we're having a bit of a personal crisis. How have we ended up, at age 28, in a moldy basement, competing unsuccessfully with strangers for the right to write on chunks of glass? How?
We proceed to stumble into an explanation that our long-term goals involve bringing our own line of products to market, and we would like to learn from a small company that has had success in doing so. Several candidates look at us with open contempt; Linda frowns and picks up our script-practicing papers while we're talking -- which makes us angry somehow. We know it's wrong, but we hear ourselves taking a little stab at Linda: "You know, I mean, how do I take an idea from my studio to ... Oprah?"
Linda looks at us with profound sadness and sympathy. Some applicants mirror her expression and shake their heads in sad agreement. Others laugh, but we know they are the bitter few whose rocks were as bad as ours. Clearly we have failed on many levels. But where do we go from here? Well, Oprah's on at 4. We'll see what she has to say about success.-- Andrea Nelson
*Names and some details have been changed, just to be nice.
Psychics, clairvoyants, tarot card readers, and the non-telepathically inclined massed earlier this month for a "Psychic Faire and Spiritual Healing Festival" in Golden Gate Park. We attended in hopes of unraveling the mystical ball of yarn that is our confused mind, and also for workshops with titles like "Male Energy: Creating as a Spirit in a Male Body" and "Manifesting Money the Psychic Way." (We imagine the latter going something like this: "Now, close your eyes and breathe deeply. Put your hands on the table and slowly read off the numbers of your credit card. Good, good. Now the expiration date. OK, and tell me: Is it a Visa or an American Express? Visa? I had a feeling you would say that.")
Our first stop is the bake sale, where a chicken quesadilla costs $6; we assume its negative saturated-fat energies have been cleansed. Next we pursue a "free aura cleansing," which procedure is undertaken by Steven, a psychic healer wearing an orange polo shirt, blue swim trunks, and flip-flops. He sits us down on a metal folding chair in the middle of a noisy auditorium and instructs us to set our hands -- palms upward -- on our knees. He then begins circling, flailing his arms up and down and from side to side, along the way informing us that he will be removing all of our psychic energies, the good and the bad. Afterward, he says, he will put back the good.
About halfway through, he asks us how the cleansing is making us feel so far. "Um," we say, racking our devoid-of-psychic-energy brain, "relaxed." In truth, though, we aren't so much relaxed as bored. For one thing, Steven doesn't seem to be taking the cleansing very seriously. He spends much of the time having a conversation with another healer. We can't quite make out what they are talking about. Perhaps sailing.
When he returns his attention to us, we ask him how he became a psychic healer. "I just started taking classes recently," he says, making a motion like he's pulling out our heart, which indicates that the session is over. "You can take them, too. It's quite easy, actually."
We wander around the rest of the auditorium, stopping at the "Men's Healing" information stand. Behind it about three or four men are being healed, in contrast to the women's stand, which has about 16 or 17 participants. We ask Greg, the organizer of the booth, what the difference is between male and female energy. "Criminy!" he says, looking at us like we were a 3-year-old. "They make babies and we don't!"
He smiles to suggest he's been joking and gives the serious explanation: "Men and women have totally different energies, see. The problem is that women tend to take on too much male energy, and men tend to take on too much female energy."
At this point, a young woman wearing a bright-red sweater steps up to the microphone and announces it is time for a "Psychic Tea Break." No actual tea is to be consumed, however. The break is instead a time to "find the center of [our] head." Before we can determine if she means the metaphorical or the literal center of our head, she tells us to imagine we are back in kindergarten. "Imagine the playing, the fun, the discovery ...."
The ostracizing, the bed-wetting, the alienation, we immediately think, but, for people who call themselves psychics, they don't seem to do a very good job of reading our mind. When the Tea Break is over we ask Greg for clarification.
"Being a psychic doesn't necessarily mean being clairvoyant," he says. "Reading other people's minds is just a small part of it. It's more about understanding your own aura."
"So it's like reading your own mind?" we ask.
He looks at us now with a smile, not, this time, as if we were a 3-year-old, but as though we were a high school student, graduating with honors. "Exactly," he says, bids us farewell, and resumes the healing. -- Ben Westhoff