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By Demian

First things first: No, I don't speak Romanian, and yes, I'm misguided enough to believe tonight's incessant babbling in what the captioning insists is that little-known tongue is the writers' way of exacting revenge on us for slamming their misuse of more widely-known languages. Like English. Thanks for asking.

We fade up on Phoebe roaming the narrow, teeming alleyways of San Francisco's infamous Gypsy Quarter. Just go with it. The area's residents, in keeping with their time-honored tradition of warding off outside threats to the community, huddle in the alcoves of nearby buildings, crossing themselves repeatedly while forking the Evil Eye at Phoebe and her hateful ensemble of filmy Edwardian undergarments masquerading as outerwear. Or maybe the alleyway is pretty much deserted and I'm the superstitious soul cowering in a corner muttering dark oaths under my breath in a language I don't speak as that bony hag crosses into my frame of vision. What's with the knit hat, Feebs? We covering the bald spot left behind after that operation we had to remove the tumor? She doesn't answer me. Perhaps the surgery left her deaf. One can only hope she's now mute as well. The camera follows Phoebe into the storefront parlor of the local palmist, who's lighting a couple of candles by the register. "Are you closing?" Phoebe inquires. Dammit. She can still talk. The palmist turns, regards Phoebe with a smile, and replies, "Not anymore -- please come in." "I am Madame Tereza," the woman continues. Phoebe introduces herself in kind. Madame T reveals that she already knows Phoebe's name. "Did you read my mind?" splutters the Feebs. "No," Madame T smirks with a kindly twinkle in her eye. "I read your column." You know, I would love to see for myself one of these Bay Mirror advice columns that have so captured the hearts and minds of Northern California's chatterati. They keep telling us the Feebs is some mystical, compassionate font of wit and wisdom, but they have yet to produce actual evidence in support of this claim. I mean, should Dan Savage be watching his back? Should Sars be watching hers? These are the questions that keep me awake at night, dammit!

In any event, Madame T is quite the vivid stereotype, what with the thick Central European accent, the red silk blouse, the paisley-patterned head scarf, and enough jangly, bejeweled baubles dangling from her ears, neck, and wrists to choke Elizabeth Taylor. "You're not sure if you're a believer, are you?" she asks of the Feebs. Phoebe assures her that she does indeed believe in the power of the Gypsies, and confides, "I didn't know where else to turn." Madame T gestures towards a nearby pair of chairs and joins Phoebe as she sits at the table. At the center of the table is a crystal ball as big as Phoebe's head. "Let's see what your hands tell us," Madame T grins. She examines Phoebe's right palm, then exclaims, "You have the gift of foresight!" Phoebe flinches and withdraws her hand, afraid that she's revealed her secret bitchcraft to a stranger. Madame T assures her that whatever they discuss shall remain in the shop, so Phoebe relaxes a bit. Madame T whips out a Sharpie and enhances the various lines on Phoebe's palm. We're informed that Phoebe is "creative," "sensitive," "street-smart," and blessed with strong, close family ties. Again, I must insist on proof. Although now that I think about it, Madame T could be a fortune teller of the shrewdly polite sort, editing down to more flattering sound bites a reading that actually tells us Phoebe is "creative" in manipulating any given situation to her benefit, "sensitive" to the needs of no one but herself, "street-smart" in the way a hooker knows which is the most profitable corner to work, and "blessed with strong, close family ties" she has no problem breaking whenever things aren't going her way. That sound about right to you? Works for me