Archives For Ghostly Chats

In the past I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with some illustrious figures from history–you may recall my conversations with Abraham Lincoln and Edgar Allan Poe. It had been quite some time since I had communed with the spirit world so I decided it was time to say hi again.

I began my session by dimming the lights, closing my eyes, and meditating. But just as a spirit began to materialize, the connection was abruptly severed. One of the Weeblettes had wandered in, saw the ectoplasm and went batshit crazy, swatting at it and hissing. I really need to remember to keep the cats out of the room when I’m summoning the dead.

I had just closed the door when I heard swearing. I turned around to see a woman’s glowing head hovering in front of me and scowling: “It’s bad enough I was beheaded once, now I have to be disembodied too??”

History has no shortage of women who had their heads chopped off so I quickly made a mental list of Beheaded Women. Marie-Antoinette…Mary, Queen of Scots…Anne Boleyn…

She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Nice of you to remember me,” she said. I didn’t think the attitude was called for but in fairness I had never been locked in the Tower of London and executed. I’d probably be pretty bitchy too if I were her. [Editor’s note: A lot of people think Madame Weebles is pretty bitchy anyway.]

MW: So…I’d invite you to have a seat but…well, you know.
AB: You don’t expect me to hover here indefinitely, do you? I can still sit, I’m still able-headed.

Her head floated over to the chair opposite me and settled onto the seat. I considered offering her a cup of tea but decided against it.

MW: Let’s get to the questions about the beheading first.
AB: Not much to tell, really. My rat-bastard husband accused me of adultery, incest, and high treason, threw me into the Tower, and had me executed. End of story. He’s since apologized but frankly it’s too little, too late. I’m still not speaking to him.
MW: That sucks. You deserved better.
AB: At least he had the decency to get an executioner who knew what he was doing—he took off my head cleanly with just one blow of his sword. Mary, Queen of Scots wasn’t so lucky, it took them 3 blows of an axe to remove her head completely. Really grisly stuff. If you meet her and she volunteers to stage a reenactment of her execution, decline. Consider yourself warned.
MW: Duly noted. Okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I have to ask…
AB: You want to know about the codpiece, don’t you.
MW: How did you know??
AB: Easy. Everyone wants to know about the codpiece.

Henry VIII’s armor and codpiece. To protect the Crown Jewels.

MW: Well?
AB: Let’s put it this way: he had delusions of grandeur, if you know what I’m saying.
MW: I think I do, yes.
AB: You have no idea how many people have asked me about it. Catherine the Great was especially disappointed to learn the truth.
MW: I’m sure she was. Now tell me about your daughter, Queen Elizabeth I.
AB:I laugh my ass off every time someone refers to her as the Virgin Queen. As if. But she was the best queen ever. Victoria hates it when I say that—if she says, “We are not amused” one more time I’m going to bitch slap her into next year.
MW: You know, for someone who died almost 500 years ago, you have a remarkable grasp of modern vernacular and swear words.
AB: I try to keep current with the lingo, it helps when I meet the newbies. Not many of them speak 16th-century English.
MW: Have you befriended many of the recently dead?
AB: Oh, plenty of them. At the moment I’m angling for an introduction to David Bowie because he’s really hot. But Johann (Bach, of course) has been monopolizing his time since he arrived, giggling like a little fanboy. So embarrassing. You have no idea how awful “Suffragette City” sounds when played on the harpsichord.
MW: When you finally do meet David Bowie, please tell him we miss him down here. And please send Prince our fond regards too.

And with that, Queen Anne and I bid each other farewell. Her head floated gracefully into the air and slowly vanished.

You may recall my very enlightening chat with Abraham Lincoln from a few months ago.

Last week I communed with the spirit world once again in hopes of interviewing another famous dead soul. The first one to make himself known was a lovely, warm being, but not the best interview subject. I’m so sorry, Monsieur Marceau. Perhaps another time.

After bidding him adieu, I sat in silence for several minutes. Then I heard something rattle across the floor. It was the pit from a peach I had eaten earlier.

Message from beyond, or cat toy?

Message from beyond, or cat toy?

A strong breeze passed through the room even though the windows were closed. The cord from the blinds began to sway, back and forth. Back and forth. Like a…pendulum.

Waaaaaaaaaaitaminute. Pit and pendulum??

“Mr. Poe!!”

“Blast, you startled me. Now I’ve spilled my wine.”

“Sorry, I’m just so excited, it’s not every day the Master of the Macabre drops by, you know. Here, I’ll pour more wine for us.” I opened a nice cabernet—I thought he would enjoy that (don’t ask for the details on how ghosts drink, it’s very complicated and somewhat messy). We toasted and settled in for a nice chat.

MW: So how have you been? What have you been doing lately?
EAP: For the past year or so I’ve spent much of my time haunting the creators of The Raven in hopes of driving them mad. I think that would be quite fitting. Did you see that movie? It was an abomination.
MW: Yeah. It sucked mightily. I’m sorry, Mr. Poe, you deserved much, much better.
EAP: I agree. And please, call me Edgar. This wine is quite nice, by the way.
MW: Would you care for some more? I’ll top off our glasses. I’m so glad to have this time with you—you died too young. By the way, speaking of people who died too soon, Abraham Lincoln visited me too. Have you met him?
EAP: Oh yes, Abe and I drink together regularly. He’s the best wingman. That “Honest Abe” shtick of his works every time. Me, I just work the “tortured writer” angle. Chicks love that shit.
MW: So you’re both basically players. Nice.
EAP: Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.
MW: Whatever you say.
EAP: You know, it’s too bad I’m not alive now, I’d be a fantastic movie or TV writer.
MW: Yes you would. Do you have any favorite TV shows?
EAP: Twilight Zone was genius, of course. Which reminds me, I’m having brunch with Rod Serling next week. I loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The American Horror Story series is excellent too. I also enjoyed WKRP in Cincinnati.
MW: Excuse me?
EAP: Loni Anderson. She was a hot number.
MW: I wouldn’t have expected you of all people to like a sitcom.
EAP: Did you hear me? Loni Anderson. We need more wine, by the way, this bottle is empty.
MW: I’ll get another. So tell me, which movie version of your stories did you like best?
EAP: I liked Pit and the Pendulum with Vincent Price. But I was disappointed that Roger Corman didn’t take more liberties with the stories to give the women skimpier costumes. Vincent is in my regular poker game—he has an amazing poker face. Then there’s Hazel Court, who was in a few other Corman versions. What a great rack. I keep inviting her for a little afternoon delight, with—
MW: Yeah. I don’t want to hear details. Now—
EAP: Have you ever tried absinthe?
MW: Once or twice, yeah.
EAP: I happen to have a bottle with me. Be a lamb and pour us some. Better yet, let’s just drink from the bottle.
MW: We’ve already had a lot of wine, you know.
EAP: Exactly. Now it’s time for some real alcohol (takes a few swigs and drains half the bottle). Here, have a few belts. Now where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about my torrid affair with Mata Hari. She might have been a spy but I discovered exactly which button to push to get her to reveal her secrets, if you know what I mean…
MW: Eww. No. You weren’t telling me about that.
EAP: No? Oh yes, you’re quite right. It was about my delicious weekend of debauchery with a buxom peasant girl from medieval France. I bent her ov—
MW: No. It wasn’t.
EAP: …that was right before I met some of Nefertiti’s beautiful Nubian handmaidens. Those maidens know how to use their hands all right. And don’t you just love that word, Nuuuuuuuubian. Come on, say it with me.
MW: I don’t want to.
EAP: And then there was the time I met up with some of the Vestal virgins from Rome. Virgin in name only, by the way. They were wild.
MW: I really don’t—
EAP: But nowhere near as wild as Mary Queen of Scots and Queen Mary. I had a threesome with them many years ago. Those Catholic girls really know how to get their freak on. You’re Catholic, right?
MW: Edgar! Give me that absinthe. You’re skeeving me out.
EAP: What a delightful word. Skeeeeeeve.
MW: This conversation makes me want to bathe.
EAP: Excellent idea! Would you like me to scrub your—
MW: Goodnight, Edgar.
EAP: You’ll invite me back soon. You’ll see.

Absinthe

On behalf of Edgar, Madame Weebles would like to apologize to Poe fans, Roger Corman fans, Hazel Court, Catholics, Nefertiti, Nubians, medieval French peasants, Vesta and her virgins, Mata Hari, Mary Queen of Scots, Mary Tudor, and women in general. It was the absinthe talking.

You know about my experiences hearing dead people. I’ve even shared my psychic predictions from time to time. So I thought, hey, why not have a sit-down with some dead people and interview them, like Barbara Walters except interesting?

I turned off the lights and lit a candle for ambience. Except I didn’t realize the candle was some sort of cloying scented thing. It made my eyes water and I almost passed out from the fumes. I blew it out. Darkness is better for communing with spirit anyway.

Soon, I felt a presence. I called out, “Who’s there?”

I heard the sound of a coin dropping on the floor and rolling to a stop. From the street lamps outside, I had enough light to see that it was a penny, heads up. Hmm.

Penny

“Mr. Lincoln?? Is that you?”

“Yes it is. I’m so glad you figured that out. Do you know how many other people just say ‘Hey look, a penny!!!!’ and then grab it and run off and forget I’m here? It’s very annoying.”

We chatted for a while about this and that. But then I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to know.

MW: So, Mr. President, I hate to bring up bad memories, and I don’t want to seem tacky, but I have to ask: what did you think of the play before you were so rudely interrupted?
AL: You know, I was really enjoying it. But Booth shot me right during the funniest line—he did that on purpose, you know. At first he said he did it so the laughter of the crowd would drown out the gunshot. But he admitted to me later that he did it just for spite so that I’d miss the best part.
MW: What an ass. Did you ever see John Wilkes Booth act? Was he any good?
AL: Eh. He was okay. I might have been more generous with my opinion about his acting ability if he hadn’t been a president-murdering son of a bitch.
MW: That’s fair. I assume when he died he didn’t go upstairs, am I right?
AL: That’s correct, he’s down below. Last I heard, he was being moved to different quarters. The Night Stalker—he just arrived down there—got dibs on being his bunkmate. You have no idea how happy that makes me.
MW: But Mr. President, in your second inaugural address, you spoke so eloquently of a time when the war was over, and welcoming the Confederates back to the country with “malice toward none.” You don’t sound like the man who wrote of such forgiveness.
AL: I know. I lied. It made for good press. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not like I’m the only president who ever lied.
MW: You have a point there. Anyway, what have you been doing since your assassination?
AL: You mean in these past seven score and eight years? Well, I recently took up yoga. And I learned Thai cooking. In fact, just the other night I gave a dinner party—the food turned out really well but the guests were a bit rambunctious. Cleopatra drank all the wine as fast as Jesus could make it. And I have to remember never to leave Queen Victoria alone with Marco Polo…they disappeared for a few hours and when they came back, the Queen’s gown was all disheveled and wrinkled and Marco high-fived everyone.
MW: Wow. I had no idea they were such party animals.
AL: Remind me to tell you about the time I had drinks with Florence Nightingale. She might have been a bit of a prig when she was alive, but now, once you get a few apple martinis in her, she lets her hair down and starts slipping the tongue to the barmaids.
MW: Is that right?? I would have thought she’d be more of a teetotaling sort.
AL: Let’s just say the “Lady With the Lamp” becomes the “Lady Wearing the Lampshade” pretty quickly when alcohol is involved.
MW: You’re starting to fade, Mr. Lincoln. Is there anything else you want to say before you leave?
AL: There is, as a matter of fact. Why is everyone so fascinated by Kim Kardashian? Am I missing something? She has a great behind—I don’t think she’d even need a bustle to fill out her dress. But other than that, she seems as useless as George McClellan.
MW: A lot has changed since you were here, sir.
AL: Not really. Next time I’ll tell you about the time Edwin Stanton and I put on some of Mrs. Lincoln’s dresses and paraded in front of the Capitol Building. We acquired the calling cards of quite a few senators and congressmen.

Stay tuned for my next chat with the spirit world…who knows who will come through next??