this morning, i was the piano teacher with a champagne hangover. i made one of my students, a seven year old girl, cry over half notes. i spoke with her father about this afterwards, and he smiled. "dont worry about it; she's had a long week," he said. "yesterday, she burst into tears when she found out that the butter we were using wasn't organic."

i dont feel bad about that anymore.

hangover cure at the fair: ten dollars for a palm-reading and five dollars for a soydog with extra sauerkraut. this is the best of humboldt for fifteen bucks.

the woman who read my palm hadn't shaved her arms in a couple of days and told me i'd have three children, two girls, one boy, one marriage, a smart upcoming career change, a lot of writing and school in my future, that i would move to the midwest and then back with my family "in the south" and in three or four years time, meet my soul mate, whom i would know immediately upon seeing, and that my life would be healthy and extend into my 90's. i spent a lot of the time not staring at her beard.

some years ago, "in the south," i had my cards read. the woman, russian this time, also imparted the tri-child prophecy. i dont recall her having a beard.

this doesnt mean i'm giving either of them credit.