There's a local masseuse who, in addition to rubbing you down, gives psychic readings. Like it or not.

Cheryl -- or as her plaque reads, "Starbright" -- claims that messages come to her through people's energy fields. Massage ... message ... The riddle was unfolding.

Starbright and I had barely shaken hands when she started in. Turns out that in a past life my dad was enslaved by Egyptian warlords and I was his taskmaster.

That had a nice ring to it.

Not pausing for breath, Cheryl moved on to my mom, who in her past life was a nun beaten and raped by a nobleman who could not be stopped on account of his contributions to the church.

I never realized there was so much going on in my energy field. No wonder I needed a message -- I mean, massage.

Starbright stroked my back -- kinda -- as she moved from story to story. They strung together like so many blurbs in TV Guide.

"Young nurse cares for stroke victim at spooky mansion."

"Drug-addicted brothers dare to get straight."

As you may have guessed, I was royalty, a prince betrayed by my confidante who resented my power and devilish charm. And as much as I'm prone to believe that someone might slay me out of jealousy, there is something I believe even more ...

Some people are just plain nuts.

I don't doubt Starbright's sincerity. I'm sure she believes every word, just like the president. But in the 30 minutes I lay there aching for an actual, physical massage, Starbright spewed out so many stories that I wanted her to stop and flush.

Finally, happily, the massage came to an end and I was sent back to the real world, where I am not a prince or a taskmaster but just a guy with a tender back. I gave Starbright a little more than she charged, suggesting that she take a vacation somewhere quiet, preferably in the present tense.

Then I went home and whipped my father.