Made from one Sharpie Ultra Fine Point permanent marker in black, my left arm (fist still attached), one whoopsy I lost count of the tequila shotz, and three unforgettable minutes.

I’ve been a freak my whole life for the paranormal—so much that for years I seriously considered a poverty-inducing career as a fearless parapsychology researcher.

I wouldn’t have made it very far, though, because I find it hard to remain skeptical in the face of uncanny personal experiences that can’t be easily explained away, especially when some, like my encounters with E.S.P. and ghosts, have been witnessed by other people right beside me.

Example: During a 2-week period my freshman year in college, my roommate David and I both witnessed a ghost many times throughout our dorm hall. The first time it appeared in our dorm room, I was sitting on my bed reading a book and David was sitting on his bed. Suddenly the air grew cold. I felt what seemed like static electricity all over my body. The hair on my arms stood up. I looked up at the door to our room and saw a large shadow-figure man about 8 feet tall with no features except for two glowing yellow eyes. I turned my head and looked at David and saw him FREAKING OUT and looking in the same direction. I said, “Oh my god, did you just see that?” And he responded: “THE EYES!” Then I looked down at my book. Against the white of the page I was reading I could see two white-yellow spots that had been burned onto my retina like a photo flash—except these were the same space apart as the figure’s glowing eyes. I looked at the floor, the ceiling, and the spots were still there; in other words, I’d had a physiological response to whatever David and I had just seen.

The above story isn’t bullshit; I didn’t make the apparition up. If I knew where David lives now I’d ask him to officially corroborate right here. Regardless, such experiences make me a sucky researcher; how could I possibly be objective?

With my full disclosure out of the way, of all there is to study, research, and learn about the paranormal, psychokinesis—the power to move objects, also known as telekinesis—excites me the most, and I’m not alone; googling ‘telekinesis experiment’ pulls up 77,900 results, probably to the chagrin of the world’s premier skeptic and debunker on these matters, magician James Randi.

Here’s where it gets interesting. In case you didn’t know, for many years Randi has had a standing offer of $1,000,000, now held in escrow by Goldman Sachs, to any person “who can demonstrate any psychic, supernatural or paranormal ability under satisfactory observing conditions.” Unfortunately, nobody has satisifed the offer’s demands, though many have tried.

I just learned that Randi’s offer sadly expires March 6, 2010. With time running short, I’ve decided to take up his challenge. That’s right: each day, for a few minutes at a time, I will attempt to move (or bend, which is called deforming, a subset of psychokinetic power) a small object. Since nobody apparently knows how to move junk with the mind (or else they would’ve already won Randi’s cash), I’m obviously going to have to try different mental tricks—a different key each day until I find the one that fits the lock. Should I push? Should I pull? Should I stare at the ceiling? Should I relax? I have no idea. But I’m going to try everything I can think of, and log my experiments here on this blog for your amusement. I may even create a special page or section just for results—I dunno, I’m too excited to say for sure. And I’m not kidding. I want that million bucks.

So it begins. I’m sitting at work right now with a plastic spoon, feet flat on the floor, wearing jeans, black Jackass-branded hi-tops, and a blue t-shirt. I’m slightly constipated and have to pee. My hair is normal. Eyes: normal. I’m not kidding here. I’m really going to do this!

Ok, first experiments—I’m going to try to move that spoon an inch.

Test: Staring at spoon relaxed, pushing with eye rays, thinking nothing.
Result: nothing so far

Test: Staring at spoon relaxed, eyes relaxed, thinking ‘move’.
Result: nothing so far

Test: Staring at spoon relaxed, eyes relaxed, picturing spoon twisting clockwise.
Result: nothing so far

UPDATE! — I’ve started a daily log for this experiment here—be sure to bookmark it, or use this permalink: http://www.scotchwichmann.com/psychokinetic-experiment/

I’m not kidding! Really! Look it up!

From today’s Science Daily: “…sex workers studied in Nairobi, Kenya, appear resistant to HIV infection…evidence suggests that certain biological factors in their vaginal fluid may play a role in resistance…“

Gay guys wanting innoculation are going, “Uh-uh, hell no, I ain’t drinkin THAT!” Pucker up to the hairy snare, pretty boys! The first fluffer to send me a fabulous foto of him drinking a refreshing glass of Snatch(TM) wins a free t-shirt with the nipples cut out!!!

My favorite coffee brand is Meth Coffee because it doesn’t taste burnt like Tarbucks, it has a mellow smooth flavor, and the super-caffeinated Arabica beans and Yerba Mate buck my ass up without the nervous shakes. Plus they’re a supporter of drug and alcohol recovery groups like the Comedy Addiction Tour. If caffeine is your favorite drug, try it.

If you’d rather drink poopoo and kaka, pick up a bag of Paradise Coffee, which is made from beans that’ve been eaten and shat out of an Asian Palm Civet’s butt. I’m serious. Civet coffee, a.k.a. Kopi Luwak, is the most expensive coffee bean in the world at $160/pound, and who can resist? Just read the alluring description on the Paradise web site:

“It has a rich, heavy flavour with hints of chocolate . . . the body is almost syrupy.”

Damn straight—it plopped out of a mongoose rodent’s ass!

Yum. I know what I’ll be drinking the next time I watch 2 Girls, 1 Cup.

Old but great 2005 article on her “quiet depravity”, panic attacks, SNL days, and process.

I work a day job in a gross carpeted cubical.

A woman with stinky perfume who works on the other side of my wall is constantly complaining. Loudly. She bitches and moans all day about her job and the coffee and the lighting and her daughter and the customers and the people in other departments with snark and venom, interrupting co-workers to yell, “IS IT ME, OR IS SO-AND-SO JUST A STUPID FUCKING IDIOT?”

Day after day after day after day after day. And so loudly my noise-cancelling headphones don’t do shit. Please lady, o please let me suffer in silence. I live for her sick days, I really do. Asthma. Poison ivy. A broken hip. Anything.

Today during her rants I couldn’t help but think: “My god, this woman sounds hysterical, and I mean that in the most politically incorrect and historical sense of the term.”

And then, right on cue:

“UHHHHH! I JUST WANT TO SCREAM!!!”

Somebody just fuck her already. Anyone.

what is this thing?

What do Lao Tzu, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, Adam Smith, Milton Friedman, Robert Heinlein, Denis Leary, Trey Parker, Clint Eastwood, Danny Elfmann, Bruce Willis, Penn & Teller, Drew Carey, Kurt Russell, Tom Selleck, Howard Stern, Dennis Miller, Chris Rock, Jimmie ‘JJ’ Walker, Neil Peart, Zora Neale Hurston, and Jimmie Vaughan all have in common?

They’re all Libertarians.

Try this quiz. Do you . . .

• Oppose all forms of censorship?
• Think the Federal gov’t is ridiculously bloated?
• Oppose special treatment for any gender or race?
• Believe military service should be voluntary?
• Oppose all laws regarding sex & marriage between consenting adults?
• Support drug legalization?
• Oppose overseas invasions?
• Think America’s militia kicked Britain’s arse in the 1770s?
• Disapprove of corporate subsidies?
• Think gov’t “no-fly” passenger lists don’t counter terrorism?
• Agree that abortion must remain a personal decision?
• Favor free markets and trade?
• Believe teachers should be paid more?
• Support incentives for non-profits instead of welfare?
• Believe in the Bill of Rights?

.
If so, maybe you’re a Libertarian too.

The two Georgia men claiming to have found Bigfoot’s body last week came forward today to admit it was all a hoax. In truth the carcass they unveiled was just a rubber Sasquatch costume filled with . . . wanna guess?

Possum roadkill and slaughterhouse leftovers.

Think of it: these guys could’ve filled the suit with anything—old rags, pillows, even dirt. Any of these would’ve been convincing enough for a grainy photograph. But they actually opted for decaying animals—even though nobody but them would know there were carcasses inside. That’s dedication, people. Deadication.

Makes you wonder what Star Wars’ costume maker stuffed into Chewbacca.

“So, did you give the wookie a heart?”

“No. Pig intestines!”

I wish I were a reporter on the scene—I’m so filled with questions I could burst! Is fat roadkill better than flat? Do tire tread marks add structure? I can totally picture those good ole boys driving around Georgia backroads looking for roadkill: “There’s a possum, Jeb! Stop the truck! I’ll get the shovel!” Scraaape.

And what, pray tell, are ‘slaughterhouse leftovers’? Spleens? Hair? Teeth? That must’ve been some nasty-ass dumpster diving.

“Thank you for calling MovieFone. Press 1 for Deliverance: The Early Years, starring Hannibal Lecter.”

Now the men are being threatened with lawsuits, which is sad. The “Blowoff”—carny slang for the bonus attraction at a sideshow where you’re charged an extra quarter to see a woman with a hairy spider legs, a three-legged fetus in a jar, or some other display you know is probably faked out—is a great tradition of traveling American and English sideshows dating back to the 1820s, and still exciting today. That’s all these Georgia bubbas are guilty of.

A lawsuit? Come on. We all hoped it was Sasquatch, but did anyone really believe? Really? Truly?

Ok, maybe this guy did. And boy, does he look pissed.

I went to dinner at Farina, a Ligurian joint in the Mission district last night. Being only 10:30, the place was filled with diners, clinking wine glasses, and chefs’ lively Spanish and Italian banter.

Suddenly I heard the high-pitched pops of Chinese firecrackers right outside the restaurant’s front window—one, then two more, then yelling, then something in my gut screamed, “Get down!” and I hit the concrete floor about the same moment as everyone else around me. We heard more bullets popping and people running outside. I glanced up and saw women in dresses sprawled flat, men in suits, busboys, waiters, napkins, bits of food . . . anybody looking in from outside would’ve seen a desolate restaurant full of empty chairs. A woman next to us started having violent muscle cramps in her hamstring with her back arched—looked like a grand mal seizure. A few of us asked another woman who was face down if she was ok, but she just shook her head and refused to lift her face from the concrete—too scared. I crawled to my cellphone as the manager dashed for the restaurant phone. Gangbangers in black hoods were scattering in all directions outside, then police car lights, then a dozen cops darting past on foot—it was like being on the sideline of an insane foot race.

It’s hard to describe how surreal it is to suddenly receive a gut message to violate social norms and throw yourself to the ground without knowing for sure if your gut is correct or not, and at the risk of looking like a freak if it only turns out to be some crazy outside with crackers and a lighter. It’s not the same as your nervous system automatically throwing you out of harm’s way; with gunfire it takes a second to register if you haven’t heard it before—it sounds higher-pitched in person than it does in movies—and to overcome the sheer disbelief that this shit is happening right now. I still feel wobbly. My thoughts go out to anyone who has to face that regularly—in Iraq or on the street—developing that awkward reflex to dive. Oh my god, I’d have to wear a diaper.