**Content Warning: Racism**
Tiara for Sale
Tiara for Sale
Craigslist listing #17302
For Sale: Jewelry/Occult
Craigslist listing #17302
For Sale: Jewelry/Occult
Tiara for sale: $7,999 or best offer. No returns.
Condition: Seen Better Days
May or may not have a 672-year-old curse on it.
(Not responsible for damages if it does.)
Comes with the original box, but a ferret’s been living in it. The ferret may or may not
decide to stay in the box. There’s no charge for the ferret. His name is Clyde.
This tiara comes from a house of many ferrets so if you’re allergic to ferrets, this is not
the tiara for you.
I know what you’re thinking. Aren’t ferrets ferocious colonizers inclined to biting that are
illegal in the state of California? Yes, but really, so are tiaras.
The tiara’s name is Eazy, but not for the reason you think.
The name will change for you.
I know what you’re thinking. You want to call it Debbie. Just don’t.
I can’t say where this tiara came from specifically, but it comes with papers. You will, of
course, have to sign a liability waiver.
If you purchase this tiara and at some point you’re contacted by Dr. Dre or his assistant,
Ms. Ashley Palmer, and told Dr. Dre would like to have a word with the tiara, it’s not a joke. Do
not hang up on Dr. Dre or his assistant, Ms. Ashley Palmer. Yes, I mean the Straight Outta
Compton iconic rap genius and former president of Death Row Records. Do not ask Dr. Dre for
an autograph or to have a listen to your cousin’s demo and do not offer him a ferret. Trust me.
I know what you’re thinking—But does it get along with electricity?
If you know tiaras, you know electricity and tiaras hate each other. You’ll need to keep
extra light bulbs around. Of course it’s not the tiara’s fault. That’s the un-bodied channel that
follows it. On the upside, you won’t need a Ouija board to contact the other side.
I know what you’re thinking—But what if you solicit Adolf Hitler or Rush Limbaugh
when you meant to solicit Vladimir Lenin or Carrie Fisher? And what if you can’t get them out
of your kitchen once you’ve summoned them? This is a fair question.
That’s not exactly how it works, but if you’re particular about apparitions, you probably
shouldn’t be looking for a tiara. As I mentioned you’ll be asked to sign a standard Tiara Transfer
of Liability form, but don’t worry, it’s not going to bite you like some ferret.
I know what you’re thinking—But does it sing?
DOES IT SING.
I can’t say where this tiara came from specifically, but it comes with papers. You will, of
course, have to sign a liability waiver.
If you purchase this tiara and at some point you’re contacted by Dr. Dre or his assistant,
Ms. Ashley Palmer, and told Dr. Dre would like to have a word with the tiara, it’s not a joke. Do
not hang up on Dr. Dre or his assistant, Ms. Ashley Palmer. Yes, I mean the Straight Outta
Compton iconic rap genius and former president of Death Row Records. Do not ask Dr. Dre for
an autograph or to have a listen to your cousin’s demo and do not offer him a ferret. Trust me.
I know what you’re thinking—But does it get along with electricity?
If you know tiaras, you know electricity and tiaras hate each other. You’ll need to keep
extra light bulbs around. Of course it’s not the tiara’s fault. That’s the un-bodied channel that
follows it. On the upside, you won’t need a Ouija board to contact the other side.
I know what you’re thinking—But what if you solicit Adolf Hitler or Rush Limbaugh
when you meant to solicit Vladimir Lenin or Carrie Fisher? And what if you can’t get them out
of your kitchen once you’ve summoned them? This is a fair question.
That’s not exactly how it works, but if you’re particular about apparitions, you probably
shouldn’t be looking for a tiara. As I mentioned you’ll be asked to sign a standard Tiara Transfer
of Liability form, but don’t worry, it’s not going to bite you like some ferret.
I know what you’re thinking—But does it sing?
DOES IT SING.
Here’s the thing about tiaras. They “sing” when they want to sing and if they don’t like
you, they won’t sing to you. It doesn’t mean they can’t. You may think you’ve got a bunk tiara,
but really your tiara just doesn’t like you.
One more thing. I don’t know if all tiaras hate Prince Charles or if it’s just this one, and
maybe it’s not him, but monarchy itself. It’s possible it’s a political statement for the abolition of
monarchic imperialism in general and not a personal issue that this tiara hates Prince Charles like
Gatsby the Pembroke Welsh Corgi hates Selena Gomez. For this reason it would be best not to
take this tiara to England.
I know what you’re thinking.
Is this one of those yodeling tiaras that occasionally possesses a Tesla and drives it off a
cliff? Eazy is not a yodeler, but if given the chance, most likely he would toss a Tesla off the
Pacific Coast Highway. But really, who wouldn’t?
For liability purposes I’m required to disclose certain facts.
Although my name is on the papers, this tiara is not technically mine.
It belongs to Candace Dion. Yes, the propaganda prima donna who could rebrand death.
I’m her second assistant.
You may know Candace from such signature lines as, “Divorce is the new marriage,” and
“Step-moms are the new moms.” She won a GLAAD award for her groundbreaking Benetton
campaign, “Gay is the new straight, but straight is not the new gay.”
At only 27, she’s the rising star of Hollywood marketing. “A branding genius,” according
to Forbes’ “Sexiest Unapologetic Capitalists of 2022.
you, they won’t sing to you. It doesn’t mean they can’t. You may think you’ve got a bunk tiara,
but really your tiara just doesn’t like you.
One more thing. I don’t know if all tiaras hate Prince Charles or if it’s just this one, and
maybe it’s not him, but monarchy itself. It’s possible it’s a political statement for the abolition of
monarchic imperialism in general and not a personal issue that this tiara hates Prince Charles like
Gatsby the Pembroke Welsh Corgi hates Selena Gomez. For this reason it would be best not to
take this tiara to England.
I know what you’re thinking.
Is this one of those yodeling tiaras that occasionally possesses a Tesla and drives it off a
cliff? Eazy is not a yodeler, but if given the chance, most likely he would toss a Tesla off the
Pacific Coast Highway. But really, who wouldn’t?
For liability purposes I’m required to disclose certain facts.
Although my name is on the papers, this tiara is not technically mine.
It belongs to Candace Dion. Yes, the propaganda prima donna who could rebrand death.
I’m her second assistant.
You may know Candace from such signature lines as, “Divorce is the new marriage,” and
“Step-moms are the new moms.” She won a GLAAD award for her groundbreaking Benetton
campaign, “Gay is the new straight, but straight is not the new gay.”
At only 27, she’s the rising star of Hollywood marketing. “A branding genius,” according
to Forbes’ “Sexiest Unapologetic Capitalists of 2022.
If you’ve heard of Candace you know she has a habit of throwing extravagant surprise
parties for herself. How does one surprise oneself? She does it by having three exhausted
assistants with a blank check book and rolodex of Kardashian proportions.
After she signed her divorce papers, to celebrate getting Fennel the Yorkie, she informed
us, “I wanna be surprised with one of those Astral Ancestry seances everyone’s talking about.”
By everyone, she meant the Westside Wives’ Club where Arden Winston discovered she
was Charlemagne in a past life. Yvette Westeimer discovered she was a Swiss war hero and
Evelyn Bancroft was a Florentine princess. The women had all the money and ex-matrimony to
be invited anywhere, but, like Candace, had none of the breeding to be satisfied with their
superiority in Hollywood, were vindicated and wore it with the westside swagger of a Hilton.
Discarded trophy wives and marketing brass began throwing “astral reveal” parties all
over town, but Candace was in no hurry until a string of bad luck and bad blood on red carpets.
It started at a Unicef benefit, when she overheard a Kennedy telling a Kardashian she
should be seated at the Scientology table to be punished for her GAP sweatshop re-brandization
campaign. There was what could only be described as a helium-pitched fit of cubic zirconium
laughter in the key of Spice Girls Reunion.
I stood behind Candace, holding her flaming Caviartini, while her botox swelled and I
braced myself for her vaguely Texas wrath. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Kennedy or an absent-
minded valet smoking crack in the backseat of a 1998 Saturn sedan parked behind the Casa Vega
on Ventura Boulevard—you don’t cross Candace Dion.
She tried to command relevance with a campaign to take over Oscar swag bags
parties for herself. How does one surprise oneself? She does it by having three exhausted
assistants with a blank check book and rolodex of Kardashian proportions.
After she signed her divorce papers, to celebrate getting Fennel the Yorkie, she informed
us, “I wanna be surprised with one of those Astral Ancestry seances everyone’s talking about.”
By everyone, she meant the Westside Wives’ Club where Arden Winston discovered she
was Charlemagne in a past life. Yvette Westeimer discovered she was a Swiss war hero and
Evelyn Bancroft was a Florentine princess. The women had all the money and ex-matrimony to
be invited anywhere, but, like Candace, had none of the breeding to be satisfied with their
superiority in Hollywood, were vindicated and wore it with the westside swagger of a Hilton.
Discarded trophy wives and marketing brass began throwing “astral reveal” parties all
over town, but Candace was in no hurry until a string of bad luck and bad blood on red carpets.
It started at a Unicef benefit, when she overheard a Kennedy telling a Kardashian she
should be seated at the Scientology table to be punished for her GAP sweatshop re-brandization
campaign. There was what could only be described as a helium-pitched fit of cubic zirconium
laughter in the key of Spice Girls Reunion.
I stood behind Candace, holding her flaming Caviartini, while her botox swelled and I
braced myself for her vaguely Texas wrath. It doesn’t matter if you’re a Kennedy or an absent-
minded valet smoking crack in the backseat of a 1998 Saturn sedan parked behind the Casa Vega
on Ventura Boulevard—you don’t cross Candace Dion.
She tried to command relevance with a campaign to take over Oscar swag bags
I know what you’re thinking. You thought Sasha Farro was the Duke of Oscar swag bags.
That’s because he out-swagged my boss and she’s been hell-bent on getting even and saving her
image ever since.
Known in branding circles as the man who killed exclamation points, Sasha Farro was
unstoppable. He could out-brand, out-breed, out-gay anyone and his incapacity to be impressed
made Hollywood worship him.
The swag bag wars escalated to a liquid nitrogen ice sculpture showdown in the
Palisades. As artisan ice melted and tabloid ink echoed, Sasha’s bid was accepted. Clutching
Strudel, his toy Pomeranian, he whispered over the ice to Candace, “You are nobody.”
Drunk Candace slurred, “Infinity is the new fuck you,” as we ushered her away.
“You’re a one-trick Okie,” Sasha Farro countered in the key of yawning Warhol.
“I’m not from—” Candace’s voice was a flood of indignant exclamation points that
lowered to an oppressed hush in the key of Handmaid’s Tail as she added, “Oklahoma.”
“You’re nobody,” Sasha Farro said again in the key of bored white truffles. “Nobody.”
“Sometimes you just wanna punch a Pomeranian,” Candace told us. “Get me out of here
before I get arrested for animal cruelty.”
“It’s not the worst thing to be nobody,” said Assistant One.
“It’s technically impossible to be nobody,” said Assistant Three.
“Spiritually speaking everybody is everybody,” I told them, because I’d had one too
many avo-quinoa martinis, hashtag: NO.
“Get me some Vicodin and one of those seance tiaras,” she said. “People need to know
I’m somebody. I’m not some dime-a-dozen Texas oil debutant and I’m gonna prove it.”
That’s because he out-swagged my boss and she’s been hell-bent on getting even and saving her
image ever since.
Known in branding circles as the man who killed exclamation points, Sasha Farro was
unstoppable. He could out-brand, out-breed, out-gay anyone and his incapacity to be impressed
made Hollywood worship him.
The swag bag wars escalated to a liquid nitrogen ice sculpture showdown in the
Palisades. As artisan ice melted and tabloid ink echoed, Sasha’s bid was accepted. Clutching
Strudel, his toy Pomeranian, he whispered over the ice to Candace, “You are nobody.”
Drunk Candace slurred, “Infinity is the new fuck you,” as we ushered her away.
“You’re a one-trick Okie,” Sasha Farro countered in the key of yawning Warhol.
“I’m not from—” Candace’s voice was a flood of indignant exclamation points that
lowered to an oppressed hush in the key of Handmaid’s Tail as she added, “Oklahoma.”
“You’re nobody,” Sasha Farro said again in the key of bored white truffles. “Nobody.”
“Sometimes you just wanna punch a Pomeranian,” Candace told us. “Get me out of here
before I get arrested for animal cruelty.”
“It’s not the worst thing to be nobody,” said Assistant One.
“It’s technically impossible to be nobody,” said Assistant Three.
“Spiritually speaking everybody is everybody,” I told them, because I’d had one too
many avo-quinoa martinis, hashtag: NO.
“Get me some Vicodin and one of those seance tiaras,” she said. “People need to know
I’m somebody. I’m not some dime-a-dozen Texas oil debutant and I’m gonna prove it.”
The thing is Candace was a dime-a-dozen Texas oil debutant that Miss Dallas-ed her way
into her Maserati-collecting ex-husband’s heart to hitch a ride to Rodeo Drive. But Texas beauty
queens didn’t turn heads in Hollywood, so when Candace’s husband gave half her dignity to a
pilates instructor from Burbank and Sasha Farro stole the other half, she knew she’d need more
than a trust fund and a marketing empire to prove she wasn’t nobody.
She needed a 672-year-old tiara.
into her Maserati-collecting ex-husband’s heart to hitch a ride to Rodeo Drive. But Texas beauty
queens didn’t turn heads in Hollywood, so when Candace’s husband gave half her dignity to a
pilates instructor from Burbank and Sasha Farro stole the other half, she knew she’d need more
than a trust fund and a marketing empire to prove she wasn’t nobody.
She needed a 672-year-old tiara.
It wasn’t easy to find Astral Ancestries Inc., because it was not a company that wanted to
be found. Candace gave us a credit card and said, “Do what you’ve gotta do.”
Assistant Three finally found it, I ordered it and we set a date for the astral reveal party
that would prove Candace Dion was not nobody.
“All these years my husband treated me like some ill-bred secretary, but now I can prove
my true identity.”
It never occurred to the pageant-banged oil heir that she could be anything but better.
“I’ve always felt a special connection to Versailles,” she told us as we auditioned caterers.
“The first time I went there I was sure I’d been there before. I’m not saying I was Louis XIV, but
maybe Napoleon. Or Napoleon’s wife—I feel like I’ve been a woman in all my lives.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” said Assistant One, adding quickly, “but if anyone could
pull that off, it’d be you.”
“I know, right?” Candace tapped her Swarovski glass for someone to refill it.
Assistant One didn’t notice. Assistant Three pretended not to notice. I refilled it smugly
in the key of German farm hand as she carried on. “I just feel it, you know, like how you feel
money being yours before it’s yours.”
Convinced of her royalty, Candace went to work on the guest list.
“Invite everyone,” said Candace. “Hiltons, Clintons, Baldwins, Oprah. Can we get
Lebron? Is he still trending?”
“But Candace—” I said.
“Make sure you invite my diabolical ex and his three-hyphen pilates girlfriend from
Burbank. I heard they’re on the waitlist for tiaras too.
“But—” said Assistant One.
“I want everyone to witness this.”
“But—” said Assistant Three.
“And invite Sasha Farro,” Candace’s voice enflamed to the key of Polo club middle child.
“I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out I’m like, Helen of Troy!”
The guest list went from pretentious to theatrical to obscene.
in the key of German farm hand as she carried on. “I just feel it, you know, like how you feel
money being yours before it’s yours.”
Convinced of her royalty, Candace went to work on the guest list.
“Invite everyone,” said Candace. “Hiltons, Clintons, Baldwins, Oprah. Can we get
Lebron? Is he still trending?”
“But Candace—” I said.
“Make sure you invite my diabolical ex and his three-hyphen pilates girlfriend from
Burbank. I heard they’re on the waitlist for tiaras too.
“But—” said Assistant One.
“I want everyone to witness this.”
“But—” said Assistant Three.
“And invite Sasha Farro,” Candace’s voice enflamed to the key of Polo club middle child.
“I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out I’m like, Helen of Troy!”
The guest list went from pretentious to theatrical to obscene.
When the silver box with a lavender stenciled tiara emblem arrived on her doorstep,
Candace’s tan was burned into place, her Dallas pores were Ayurveda-glazed and her hair was
honeyed as a pink Himalayan salt lamp. She was ready.
The box opened itself when Candace touched it. Inside was a shining white gold tiara
wrapped in a starry silk net. It was so bright I swear the sun looked away.
Inside the box there was an owner’s manual that looked biblically satisfied with itself and
it shined too.
“Read the instructions.” Candace tossed it to me as she sauntered into a sun room that
faced the untouched infinity pool.
We followed her, cramming ourselves onto a narrow pearl-tone sofa while she sprawled
across a matching chaise lounge.
She kicked off her heels and sighed. “I wanna be present—current—now with myself so I
can really hear this, like cellularly, you know?”
We nodded as we were paid to nod in the key of Hollywood Hills guest house and I
started to read:
it shined too.
“Read the instructions.” Candace tossed it to me as she sauntered into a sun room that
faced the untouched infinity pool.
We followed her, cramming ourselves onto a narrow pearl-tone sofa while she sprawled
across a matching chaise lounge.
She kicked off her heels and sighed. “I wanna be present—current—now with myself so I
can really hear this, like cellularly, you know?”
We nodded as we were paid to nod in the key of Hollywood Hills guest house and I
started to read:
Congratulations on receiving your certified Astral Ancestries Tiara, the
gateway to understanding your cosmic identity.
There are some vital rules to understand before you activate your tiara.
Do not let anyone handle your tiara. They tune to their owners by
imprinting on them in the first hour they’re unwrapped from the protective cover.
Keep lemurs, harpsichords, Australians, mariachi bands or photographs of
mariachi bands away from your tiara, for obvious reasons.
When you hold your tiara, you will have the urge to call it Debbie.
Do not under any circumstances call your tiara Debbie.
In the event you find the relationship unagreeable to you or to your tiara,
you can deactivate your imprint, but there are no refunds or returns. See the
instructions on page 17 of your owner’s manual to begin the 111-day deactivation
process.
How your tiara works:
Every sentient being has a channel of lifetimes linked in a spiritual lineage
that is your astral pedigree. The previous incarnation is often the most dominant
spirit influencing your current incarnation, but not always. Our clients have been
thrilled to find past incarnations that had dominant personalities tend to dominate
the astral lineage. That is your dominant disembodied incarnation or DSO,
Dominant Spirit of Origin.
The DSO you conjure during your imprint is the spirit you are most
bonded to, without exception.
FAQ:
1. What is a DSO? Is it a ghost? Is it an angel? Is it a past incarnation?
Yes. The astral plane makes no distinction between these. There is no
hierarchy. There is only you, the physical, and them, the non-physical, which is
also you.
2. Does my DSO know the answers to all my cosmic questions?
Yes, but they won’t tell you. Humans respond unfavorably to truth.
Occasionally a tiara comes across a human with one foot on the other side.
They are not generally functioning members of society, but their questions
can be answered.
3. How long does it take?
process.
How your tiara works:
Every sentient being has a channel of lifetimes linked in a spiritual lineage
that is your astral pedigree. The previous incarnation is often the most dominant
spirit influencing your current incarnation, but not always. Our clients have been
thrilled to find past incarnations that had dominant personalities tend to dominate
the astral lineage. That is your dominant disembodied incarnation or DSO,
Dominant Spirit of Origin.
The DSO you conjure during your imprint is the spirit you are most
bonded to, without exception.
FAQ:
1. What is a DSO? Is it a ghost? Is it an angel? Is it a past incarnation?
Yes. The astral plane makes no distinction between these. There is no
hierarchy. There is only you, the physical, and them, the non-physical, which is
also you.
2. Does my DSO know the answers to all my cosmic questions?
Yes, but they won’t tell you. Humans respond unfavorably to truth.
Occasionally a tiara comes across a human with one foot on the other side.
They are not generally functioning members of society, but their questions
can be answered.
3. How long does it take?
After one hour of uninterrupted contact with your tiara, your DSO will
appear exactly 11 feet from your tiara. The image may appear faint or translucent,
like a hologram, but it’s very real. Once activated, your DSO will always stay
within 22 feet of the tiara.
4. Are there side effects?
If you’re inclined to seasickness, have some Dramamine on hand. Some
clients report motion sickness when looking directly at their DSO.
5. Is my tiara cursed? (Or) What if I don’t like my DSO?
Astral Ancestries Inc. has been producing past life channels for an
exclusive cliental since the 14th Century, but have only recently been discovered
by the western market.
The alleged 672-year-old curse is less a curse and more a truth. Some
clients aren’t satisfied with their result and blame the tiara. On page 8, please
initial the waiver acknowledging you recognize it’s not the tiara’s fault your DSO
is a genocidal warlord, inventor of Karaoke, murderous fava-bean-phobic
mathematician, et cetera.
Dominant spirits can often be aggressive and finicky. That’s how they’ve
come to dominate your astral lineage, but that’s why so many satisfied Astral
Ancestries customers have been delighted to discover their DSOs are powerful
historical figures.
This is not a Ouija board. The spirit you summon is not random. It is
yours. More accurately, your DSO is you.
appear exactly 11 feet from your tiara. The image may appear faint or translucent,
like a hologram, but it’s very real. Once activated, your DSO will always stay
within 22 feet of the tiara.
4. Are there side effects?
If you’re inclined to seasickness, have some Dramamine on hand. Some
clients report motion sickness when looking directly at their DSO.
5. Is my tiara cursed? (Or) What if I don’t like my DSO?
Astral Ancestries Inc. has been producing past life channels for an
exclusive cliental since the 14th Century, but have only recently been discovered
by the western market.
The alleged 672-year-old curse is less a curse and more a truth. Some
clients aren’t satisfied with their result and blame the tiara. On page 8, please
initial the waiver acknowledging you recognize it’s not the tiara’s fault your DSO
is a genocidal warlord, inventor of Karaoke, murderous fava-bean-phobic
mathematician, et cetera.
Dominant spirits can often be aggressive and finicky. That’s how they’ve
come to dominate your astral lineage, but that’s why so many satisfied Astral
Ancestries customers have been delighted to discover their DSOs are powerful
historical figures.
This is not a Ouija board. The spirit you summon is not random. It is
yours. More accurately, your DSO is you.
Welcome to the real you!
Candace was so overcome with possibilities, she screamed in the exultant and exfoliated
key of drunk spa day in Palm Springs.
“Last night I dreamt I was waltzing in a purple Chanel across the ballroom of a Tudor
castle. What if I’m a royal? That would make so much sense.”
“You could be Cleopatra,” said Assistant One. “Somebody has to be.”
“Go ahead,” said Assistant Three. “I’m dying to find out who you are.”
“It won’t be an authentic reveal party if I already know,” said Candace, which mystified
us, since she’d never been interested in doing anything for the sake of authenticity and then she
added, “Also, I don’t want my DSO to see me until I’ve had my turmeric scrub. See if you can
get me into Tomoko.”
In the time it took for the party to be organized, the turmeric gold mud to settle and the
right caterer to be available, it seemed every well-divorced wife Candace knew had thrown an
astral reveal party. In every case, the result was a triumphant validation of a worth beyond red
carpets and ex-husbands. The results were so consistently extravagant, from duchesses to the
mistresses of emperors, Candace had begun to wonder if the tiaras were rigged.
After one particular tiara, that wonder turned to hope.
The day before Candace’s party, Assistant Three brought a curve ball home from the
cleaners after running into Dahlia Evangeline’s fourth assistant.
According to the assistant, Dahlia had gathered 60 of her closest friends at Chateau
Marmot to have her tiara reveal and it turned out the identity of her DSO was her own hillbilly
great-grandmother from Valtrax, Nebraska.
Dahlia said, “Discovering I’m my own great-grandmother is a priceless gift I will cherish
always,” but her mascara said otherwise.
“Her assistant said she’s like, totally humiliated,” said Assistant Three in the key of
gleeful dungeon.
“She’ll never live this down,” said Candace. “Might as well move to the valley.”
“I think it’s kinda cool to be your own grandmother,” I told her.
“It would be devastating,” said Candace. “If I found out I was my dumbass great-granny
Octavia Sappington, I’d be on suicide watch.”
“But if these tiaras are the real deal—” Assistant One hesitated. “You could be anyone,
even—”
“Don’t say Hitler,” fake-yawned Assistant Three.
“But it’s true,” said Assistant One. “The instructions said the most dominant personality
in your lineage is the incarnation that shows up. What if you’re like, a slave trader or a serial
killer or Stalin?”
“What if you invented Crocs?” Assistant Three fake-gasped. “What’s worse, genocide or
foam clogs?”
That night Candace couldn’t sleep. Could she be blamed for the Crocs against humanity
in her astral lineage? What if she was Hitler or worse, what if her dominant spirit was just
nobody? What if she was her own hillbilly grandmother, Octavia Sappington, whose greatest
Marmot to have her tiara reveal and it turned out the identity of her DSO was her own hillbilly
great-grandmother from Valtrax, Nebraska.
Dahlia said, “Discovering I’m my own great-grandmother is a priceless gift I will cherish
always,” but her mascara said otherwise.
“Her assistant said she’s like, totally humiliated,” said Assistant Three in the key of
gleeful dungeon.
“She’ll never live this down,” said Candace. “Might as well move to the valley.”
“I think it’s kinda cool to be your own grandmother,” I told her.
“It would be devastating,” said Candace. “If I found out I was my dumbass great-granny
Octavia Sappington, I’d be on suicide watch.”
“But if these tiaras are the real deal—” Assistant One hesitated. “You could be anyone,
even—”
“Don’t say Hitler,” fake-yawned Assistant Three.
“But it’s true,” said Assistant One. “The instructions said the most dominant personality
in your lineage is the incarnation that shows up. What if you’re like, a slave trader or a serial
killer or Stalin?”
“What if you invented Crocs?” Assistant Three fake-gasped. “What’s worse, genocide or
foam clogs?”
That night Candace couldn’t sleep. Could she be blamed for the Crocs against humanity
in her astral lineage? What if she was Hitler or worse, what if her dominant spirit was just
nobody? What if she was her own hillbilly grandmother, Octavia Sappington, whose greatest
accomplishment was moving the gene pool from Marmaduke, Missouri to Fort Worth? What if
her ex-husband came for her astral reveal redemption only to have that cruel tiara conjure a
mailman named Fred from San Bernardino? The more she thought about it, the more Candace
was convinced that the worst thing wasn’t to be a vicious, infamous somebody, but to be a dull
nobody like Edna Kramer, the Avon Lady from Chanoote who dropped dead on Rutan Street
reading the weather report, drinking decaf Sanka with her poodle, Steve.
her ex-husband came for her astral reveal redemption only to have that cruel tiara conjure a
mailman named Fred from San Bernardino? The more she thought about it, the more Candace
was convinced that the worst thing wasn’t to be a vicious, infamous somebody, but to be a dull
nobody like Edna Kramer, the Avon Lady from Chanoote who dropped dead on Rutan Street
reading the weather report, drinking decaf Sanka with her poodle, Steve.
The next day, the worry of the night before was forgotten in the rush of preparations.
By the second hour of the astral reveal party, the Saint Manson of Melrose pairing team
had kept the party just buzzed enough to be revelatory, but not so trashed they wouldn’t
remember Candace’s moment in the spotlight. The Winter-Core event team from BlackTieOrDie
projected a flawless mist of indoor snow-lights across the house for Candace’s “Winter is the
new summer” theme.
As astral reveals go it was pretty low key, but most importantly, everyone was there.
At the reveal moment, Candace took her seat at the center of the room where her
spotlight waited. She straightened her tiara and settled into a Versailles replica throne that
matched the cotton white baby grand piano no one had ever played.
Candace scanned the room to make sure Sasha Farro’s 323 entourage was paying
attention, the 310 wives were watching and her ex-husband’s 818 girlfriend was listening. We
three assistants braced ourselves for Egyptian queens, English duchesses or Hitler.
I closed my eyes as I heard a howl of wind wild enough to reverse the turn of the earth.
The room shook with the words, “Yo, khaki bitches! Welcome to the real 3-1-0,
muthaphuckkin’ she-thangs. It’s about to get real.”
My eyes opened to flickering lights. At the center of the white carpet, just as the
instructions promised, eleven feet from Candace’s horrified face, was a glowing silver figure, a
swaggering angel made of static and Compton.
Sulking under a black Raiders hat and Jheri curls were the sullen eyes of Godfather of
Gangsta Rap, Eazy-E. He slid barefoot across the albino white carpet in his charcoal and
chainlink-colored flannel over a gold chain big enough to hang a ferret-sized messiah.
“Ask me why I’m barefoot,” said Eazy.
Candace’s smile looked like it was stolen from a Miss American wax museum.
The room fell into stunned silence, collective shock reaching for a gasp, but too confused
to get there.
I broke the silence. “Why are you barefoot, Eazy?”
“Cuz I’m real, muthafuckkas! I’m real!”
I can’t explain why my skin reached for the electricity in the air or how it possessed me
with two overwhelming desires. One, I was urgently attracted to Eazy-E and two, I was nearly
overcome by an inexplicable impulse to call him Debbie.
As he sauntered across the room, I wasn’t the only one spellbound. Sasha Farro’s eyes
were locked on Eazy with a look that can only be described as Desperate Housewife in the key of
velcro. Nobody ever looked so cheap in Versace.
There was a high voltage buzz in the room, an electric charge that crackled the way two
alternating currents might if they hooked up behind the 7-Eleven on Crenshaw.
muthaphuckkin’ she-thangs. It’s about to get real.”
My eyes opened to flickering lights. At the center of the white carpet, just as the
instructions promised, eleven feet from Candace’s horrified face, was a glowing silver figure, a
swaggering angel made of static and Compton.
Sulking under a black Raiders hat and Jheri curls were the sullen eyes of Godfather of
Gangsta Rap, Eazy-E. He slid barefoot across the albino white carpet in his charcoal and
chainlink-colored flannel over a gold chain big enough to hang a ferret-sized messiah.
“Ask me why I’m barefoot,” said Eazy.
Candace’s smile looked like it was stolen from a Miss American wax museum.
The room fell into stunned silence, collective shock reaching for a gasp, but too confused
to get there.
I broke the silence. “Why are you barefoot, Eazy?”
“Cuz I’m real, muthafuckkas! I’m real!”
I can’t explain why my skin reached for the electricity in the air or how it possessed me
with two overwhelming desires. One, I was urgently attracted to Eazy-E and two, I was nearly
overcome by an inexplicable impulse to call him Debbie.
As he sauntered across the room, I wasn’t the only one spellbound. Sasha Farro’s eyes
were locked on Eazy with a look that can only be described as Desperate Housewife in the key of
velcro. Nobody ever looked so cheap in Versace.
There was a high voltage buzz in the room, an electric charge that crackled the way two
alternating currents might if they hooked up behind the 7-Eleven on Crenshaw.
I know what you’re thinking.
We were all wondering the same thing. Do I want to jump Eazy’s astral bones because
he’s Eazy or do I want him because he has some kind of exotic necromantic spell over us?
The only one who wasn’t possessed by this inexplicable gravitation was Candace, who
had finally regained enough control of her Miss American cheekbones to usher us to the balcony.
She closed the glass door behind us. “Okay, spin it,” she said.
“He’s gansta, he’ll totally trend,” said Assistant One.
“What if I don’t keep him?” Candace whispered.
“No matter how you spin it, if you reject him, you look racist,” said Assistant Three.
“If you don’t want him I’ll take him home,” I offered. “Do you think real Eazy was that
hot, or is he just hot because he’s like, astral?”
“You think my DSO’s hot?” Candace asked. “He’s a dead gangster.”
“Gang-sta,” corrected Assistant Three.
“It’s not like he killed anyone,” said Assistant One. “I mean gangsta rappers aren’t
actually gangstas.”
“He killed seven people,” said Assistant Three, waiving his iPhone. “I googled it. Look,
he was a Crip.”
“Weren’t you just saying at brunch yesterday how you wanted an edgier look?” said
Assistant One.
“I was talking about getting bangs!”
“He died of AIDS,” said Assistant Three, skimming Wikipedia.
“You can’t spin AIDS, it’s so anti-trending,” said Candace.
We were all wondering the same thing. Do I want to jump Eazy’s astral bones because
he’s Eazy or do I want him because he has some kind of exotic necromantic spell over us?
The only one who wasn’t possessed by this inexplicable gravitation was Candace, who
had finally regained enough control of her Miss American cheekbones to usher us to the balcony.
She closed the glass door behind us. “Okay, spin it,” she said.
“He’s gansta, he’ll totally trend,” said Assistant One.
“What if I don’t keep him?” Candace whispered.
“No matter how you spin it, if you reject him, you look racist,” said Assistant Three.
“If you don’t want him I’ll take him home,” I offered. “Do you think real Eazy was that
hot, or is he just hot because he’s like, astral?”
“You think my DSO’s hot?” Candace asked. “He’s a dead gangster.”
“Gang-sta,” corrected Assistant Three.
“It’s not like he killed anyone,” said Assistant One. “I mean gangsta rappers aren’t
actually gangstas.”
“He killed seven people,” said Assistant Three, waiving his iPhone. “I googled it. Look,
he was a Crip.”
“Weren’t you just saying at brunch yesterday how you wanted an edgier look?” said
Assistant One.
“I was talking about getting bangs!”
“He died of AIDS,” said Assistant Three, skimming Wikipedia.
“You can’t spin AIDS, it’s so anti-trending,” said Candace.
“Hold up,” said Assistant Three, still scrolling. “They say it was a conspiracy.”
“Conspiracies are totally trending,” said Assistant One.
“O-M-G there are so many conspiracy theories,” said Assistant Three. “LAPD, CIA,
Death Row Records—”
“We can work with that,” said Assistant One.
“I’m seeing reality show whodunnit—Medium meets CSI in a tiara,” said Assistant Three.
“We could add one of those mercenary realtors,” said Assistant One. “That’s so hashtag.”
“Realtors having tantrums is so trending right now,” said Assistant Three.
“I just got chills!” Assistant One said.
“So you think we should embrace this?” Candace asked.
“Look at the bright side, at least you’re not nobody,” said Assistant Three, opening the
sliding glass door.
When we returned to the party, Eazy was sharing the bench of the baby grand, his arm
around the golden Versace-d shoulder of Sasha Farro, the two of them rapturously crooning,
Luck be a Lady in the key of Dynasty on Broadway, while Eazy howled, “This is real,
muthaphuckkas, it’s reeeeeeeeal!”
Sasha poured over the piano keys with lush abandon, the music bouncing and swinging
as Eazy waved his other hand like some drunk maestro. Their voices bellowed across the
captivated crowd that began singing along. Even Candace’s ex-husband yipped whitely, snapping
his fingers, his 818 girlfriend swaying with her arm around a Kardashian. The catering staff took
off their aprons and Lindy-hopped across the carpet.
A moonwalking Kennedy slid by and said, “This guy’s a hoot, Candace. Great party.”
“Conspiracies are totally trending,” said Assistant One.
“O-M-G there are so many conspiracy theories,” said Assistant Three. “LAPD, CIA,
Death Row Records—”
“We can work with that,” said Assistant One.
“I’m seeing reality show whodunnit—Medium meets CSI in a tiara,” said Assistant Three.
“We could add one of those mercenary realtors,” said Assistant One. “That’s so hashtag.”
“Realtors having tantrums is so trending right now,” said Assistant Three.
“I just got chills!” Assistant One said.
“So you think we should embrace this?” Candace asked.
“Look at the bright side, at least you’re not nobody,” said Assistant Three, opening the
sliding glass door.
When we returned to the party, Eazy was sharing the bench of the baby grand, his arm
around the golden Versace-d shoulder of Sasha Farro, the two of them rapturously crooning,
Luck be a Lady in the key of Dynasty on Broadway, while Eazy howled, “This is real,
muthaphuckkas, it’s reeeeeeeeal!”
Sasha poured over the piano keys with lush abandon, the music bouncing and swinging
as Eazy waved his other hand like some drunk maestro. Their voices bellowed across the
captivated crowd that began singing along. Even Candace’s ex-husband yipped whitely, snapping
his fingers, his 818 girlfriend swaying with her arm around a Kardashian. The catering staff took
off their aprons and Lindy-hopped across the carpet.
A moonwalking Kennedy slid by and said, “This guy’s a hoot, Candace. Great party.”
Everybody loved Eazy.
Candace took in the scene and frowned existentially. Something deeply angry and
American stirred in her Texas soul as she watched. Her eyes returned to Sasha and Eazy, to the
narrow space between them that was so full of music she could almost see the notes unfurl in
golden sprinkles, staccato blues, silver waves tangling in rolling ribbons like candy that had
come to life, meeting in a crescendo that enraged her.
“That’s it!” Candace seethed, throwing the tiara across the room. “He’s gotta go.”
Candace took in the scene and frowned existentially. Something deeply angry and
American stirred in her Texas soul as she watched. Her eyes returned to Sasha and Eazy, to the
narrow space between them that was so full of music she could almost see the notes unfurl in
golden sprinkles, staccato blues, silver waves tangling in rolling ribbons like candy that had
come to life, meeting in a crescendo that enraged her.
“That’s it!” Candace seethed, throwing the tiara across the room. “He’s gotta go.”
As page 17 promised, it took 111 days for the tiara to be deactivated.
Candace sent Eazy home with me to the valley. In those 111 days I never took off the
tiara. I became quite attached to Eazy and Clyde the ferret became quite attached to the box.
Despite Eazy’s incompatibility with ferrets and electricity, the truth is I would’ve given
all my ferrets away and lived without electricity if it meant Eazy could stay, but it was too late.
Candace had already begun deactivation and there was no way to stop it.
When word spread Eazy was back, we had occasional visitors, including his 11 kids and
the original members of NWA.
Tinted SUVs were often spotted circling Magnolia Boulevard, which the Kennedys had
warned me about.
Today’s the 111th day and as promised, when I woke this morning, Eazy was gone.
The channel is closed, the tiara has lost its soul and it’s ready for a new one. It’s hard to
put a price on something so priceless, but as I mentioned, my boss wants $7,999 OBO.
In case you’re wondering what became of Candace, she’s writing a memoir called, “Lies
my tiara told me,” about the traumatic past life encounter that inspired her to become a certified
life coach. I put in my two weeks notice the day she got her license.
I know what you’re thinking.
You want to know what I did for 111 days in a studio apartment without electricity on
East Magnolia Boulevard mostly alone with the ghost of the Godfather of Gansta, Eazy-E, while
the ferrets were away.
All I can say is it was real and I don’t have any more questions.
It’s real.
my tiara told me,” about the traumatic past life encounter that inspired her to become a certified
life coach. I put in my two weeks notice the day she got her license.
I know what you’re thinking.
You want to know what I did for 111 days in a studio apartment without electricity on
East Magnolia Boulevard mostly alone with the ghost of the Godfather of Gansta, Eazy-E, while
the ferrets were away.
All I can say is it was real and I don’t have any more questions.
It’s real.
*This story was ghost-written by the spirit formerly known as Eazy-E. If you don’t believe it,
ask him yourself. I dare you.
About the Author
Page Getz is an author and MFA candidate at the University of British Columbia with an emphasis in fiction and screenwriting. Raised in Kansas, she packed her least practical boots and a black cat named Vertigo and fled to California where she became a journalist and social justice activist, reporting for the Los Angeles Times and Pacifica Radio. Many of her stories, essays and poems have been published in literary journals including Tidal Basin Review, Vermillion, UCSB’s Spectrum, Whistling Fire and an upcoming issue of Atlanta Review. Obsessed with yoga, socialism and penguins, she lives in Vancouver with her family and a constant procession of dogs. She is represented by Jenissa Graham at BookEnds Literary.