This is the surreal allure of watching TV psychic Ms. Cleo croon at a swanky jazz club. Channeling lyrical prophecies in a hazy, leather-bedecked room. Blackberry bison burger embellishments. Honey-dipped steel vibrato. Black satin bass drum. Rose-petal switchblade scatting. Dark-roast Costa Rican coffee a cappella. And when you finally come to, she’s flipping over the Knight of Cups on TV, and you’ve been on the line for two hours, and the cards say you should stop falling asleep on the couch.
