Upsetting Day: Lessons from the Light (Patreon)

We’ll use these in a minute. For now, let me reintroduce George Anderson, bestselling grave robber. Or medium, if you think crystals cure polio.

George Anderson’s a Jesus psychic, kind of. His Possessed Love profile would say “moderate” and “spiritual.” Then ask how many baby ghosts you’ve smothered to slut around, followed by twelve guesses at your first name. Just know that George disavows earthly factions, but would run a Haunted 250 seance.

Sorry, George is a tithe-friendly medium. Which, based on this errata, is a strictly worse class. Psychics remain open to several forgiveable, boardwalk-friendly forms of fraud, while mediums are pure hearse-chasers.

He supervised Our Children Forever, a book about scamming dead kids’ parents. Not a how to, per my usual beat, but a longform confession. Transcripts, real names, dates, locales, motive, gloating, the works. George tried to become Rikers’ strongest esper. Instead, he got a bestseller.

Still, I give everyone a second chance. However many reverse orphans they’ve robbed. So I bought George Anderson’s Lessons from the Light.

Never give second chances. I just ate 320 pages of George quoting ghosts to their families. Deluded grifter nonsense, like all psychics. The cards, on the other hand, have shown me your questions. In order: cover to cover, mostly adults this time, the path of suffering, stew peas with brined pork tails, Strapping Young Lad, and a life sentence.

What did Andy beat George with to earn this dedication? His dog’s body? The galley for this trash? Why dishonor the dead? Even if Vincenza’s choice in friends looks guilty, they both deserve trials.

There’s a living Barone on the cover—this round’s accomplice. Penguin’s website calls Andrew executive director of George Anderson Grief Support Programs, and I don’t need a second fact to hate him. I sense that George co-authors books the way Jack the Ripper co-authored From Hell. While central, George isn’t facing tendinitis, editorial, or justice anytime soon.

While George’s other stooges rotate, Andrew comes back a few times.

With the same topic and title font in tow—harassing the dead and Hideous Serif. For the record: if you fucks bother me in Summerland, the only acceptable topics are resurrection, [sexual deviance redacted], and gunpla. If I have news, I’ll haunt Signal, not George.

The humility to seek help is George’s best feature. Most psychic manuals are less organized than channelled. Some readers value that formal purity. Purity’s generally shorthand for disaster. Instead, George’s sins have readable clarity, sorted by victim type and sentencing. This doesn’t help George, but I’m grateful. For once, I spent more time coping with lies than deciphering them.

George also needs help talking to ghosts, his only skill. Sadly, the 777th Street Saints are on his side.

Saint Peter spends his time off-shift with George. Personally, I’d sneak in some free sinning before The Boss gets back from wherever he’s been jelqing since Verdun, but that’s why I don’t want to meet Peter. Still, I’m not sure if seance backup’s that helpful. Can you imagine calling your dead aunt, and finding Buddha? He warned you about all life being suffering, but left out performance anxiety.

The flavor’s churchier than Our Children Forever, and we were already waist-deep in holy water. George even carries the weight of a martyr. Psychically. Sorry, mediumly.

Heavy are the thorns. Because his heathen family rejects the light, George explains Patreon, comic tangents, and the lack of grandchildren every holiday. Still, with a little perseverance, he found his people:

Ireland has a longstanding ban on sarcastic mockery, so take this at face value.

There’s a bit more fluff about George’s hard-knock life. I’ll go easy here, in case he’s not bullshitting about the three months he couldn’t walk as a tyke. Save the fact that three months is just enough time to go mad, Gotham-style. “If I can’t run, then I’ll rob the world’s widows” doesn’t make sense to us, but we’re not bedridden children. Mostly. Hang in there, Cynthia.

I’m more interested in his take on nightmares. Evidently, they’re poser discernments. Or scabs.

Bit of a flat rule. Is Pol Pot chill now that he’s crossed over? In fact, forget despots and slashers. What about peers that live for strife? You know at least one emotional gladiator. If they get a message across the veil, to their beloved allies/opponents/tweeners, it’d be cruel to deny them one last chance to start shit. I hope the Infinite Light knows better.

After George’s lies about the past, you’re ready for his lies about the present. Lessons From The Light has one major upgrade on Our Children Forever: raw action. This book’s wall-to-wall seance. It’s a Jakarta hallway of fraud. I haven’t seen this many mourners victimized at once since Katrina. If you love discernments, great news: the future looks like Lessons From The Light, forever.

I honestly don’t know where to start. We’ll need some proper magick to guide us. Introducing: The Tragi-Dice.

The perfect divination tool for reading George Anderson. The black die scries the next victim. The red die scries the next disaster. For example:

That’s wrong. Rerolling.

Okay, here’s a fresh pair. Rerolling.

Maybe I’ll go back to the old pair.

No fakeouts today: George has a whole chapter about flight-sized bodies.

Quite a few—this cover hides more kids than DC algae. It’s George’s signature as an artist; your new album might explore new sounds, but the single hits old notes to keep the label calm.

How odd. You’d need some kind of perceptive extra sense to solve that puzzle. Though future sight might tell you to cut this intro and go back to counting college funds.

Instead, George plays the middle on abortion again. But with a unique definition of middle.

Now I see a discernment’s appeal. For an unknown amount of money, Buddha can watch my talking soul-baby say “I forgive you for my murder. You murdered me, and you’re a murderer. But I’ll be reborn to someone with unstained hands.”

Truth be told, I’d pay almost anything for this experience, as described. But I’m out of my goddamned mind. No child of God or future fossil deserves this. I see why George pivots into leukemia.

To any true psychic reading: this is your chance. Save us.

Mind blast George through time, before he scams two parents that know Keytruda’s co-pay better than “Let It Go.” You can do it. Today, I believe in you.

Belief rescinded.

In his transcripts, George takes a warts and all approach. Fuckups like this litter the dialogue, at length, in a sly reach for authenticity. Mistake. The only things I expect a necromancer to know are who is dead and the copay on olanzapine.

For context, not that it matters: Colin’s ghost hits the discernment with an entourage of older relatives. A brute force answer to “Who will care for my children,” but credit to Andrew Barone for closing the loop. Unfortunately, each extra needs their own game of Guess Who:

Gripping stuff.

I am, admittedly, not the most social Dayle. But if the two ghosts I like cross over, everyone else can get fucked. No plus-fours. If you’re too busy for my book launch, you’re too busy for my seance.

Kids still grind pre-calc in the afterlife? Is Colin speaking from the Infinite Light? Sounds more like George’s destination. I’m not (only) trying to be crass: high school has more in common with salt mines than heaven. Just ask Colin if his wings have feathers or scales.

Who tolerates this? Well, George attracts intense fans. People as stable as their circumstances allow, really. I skipped a bit of color from James:

If you’re stuck on the Infinite Light’s waiting list, consider kidnapping George. Why not? You’re already paying to make the worst year of your life worse. Kidnapping George is consumer advocacy.

Reading will always, for good or ill, teach you about other people. After reading “volunteer work,” I finally understand the spirituality, ethics, and motives of Kratos. PS2 Kratos. I have many rewards for George, in this life or the Infinite Light.

That’s the federal limit on leukemia jokes. Time to reroll.

Let’s see…

Ah.

Maybe today isn’t the Great Grifter Plague. That’s likely the American version of “that time the Yellow River made trouble.” There’s more shameless fraud in our air than smog. While “The New Colossus” is nice, there’s another message beneath it:

Once again, George opens with worldbuilding. He almost gets stopped clock points for saying you don’t suffer forever for suffering in life. Then he loses the thread:

Cosmic solitary confinement! Kind of like hell, but via incompetence instead of malice. George uses cute keywords, but after a year here you might repeat your entrance. The psychic afterlife sucks cosmic balls. If God sent you to a “hospital of reflection” for stabbing an angel, Jesus would call it a bit much.

This round’s guest narrator, Connie, brings some levity to affairs:

See? Today’s first full-grown, taxpaying death. George still searches their pockets for change, but an improvement.

“Good news, boys! We all knew it’d be a cult, meth, or chain suicide. Well, mom has a brand new robe.”

I hear a few of Andrew’s keystrokes. I don’t doubt that George has eager cultists, since he targets decomposing support systems. Just their use of commercial-break language. I almost married my PS2, but rarely said “I live in my world, play in theirs.” If Connie really said this, she’s gunning for Andrew’s job.

Either way, Connie’s enthusiasm isn’t contagious:

It’s tough with teenagers. Even as the meteor approaches, hormones have them in a funk. Sad, when George did his best.

I didn’t say well. Just his best. Revising lies in real time is hard work, and George is being paid enough to try. He still won’t. For all his self-celebration, George remains a nerfed echo fighter of—

—John Edwards, and talks like it. Based on his ass performance here, George flunked the primaries.

Then again, people like games. That’s why, ten pages after divining the victim’s suicide and estranged father, George starts playing Hangman.

If this were my first discernment, I’d tell George to focus. Now, I sense that it’s the main thing he gets out of this. Other than piles of tear-soaked money. This is the cold reading version of ego lifting, including the accident and public humiliation.

I could read six books of him drowning like this. And will.

It’s Geoffrey.

Why? Fuck off, that’s why. George took a red-eye flight to nowhere just to hear about your dead cat or whatever. Did its name start with a V? Q? Nevermind, he gives up. That’ll be two grand.

Boring note: I suppose the name game pulls victims further in. There must be a less embarrassing way, like pissing yourself. Or shiny props, like playing cards. Ah, another win for the craft.

That’s every suicide joke my contract allows. Time to roll the bones:

Easy.

First, George lets us inside the esper’s studio. An old mark’s returned:

Take that highlight in. It’s a glitch in the world. Whether you think George is a criminal or paint is delicious, the idea that any of this funeral mining has been for George’s psychic gamerscore is bonkers. And now it’s lore. George canonically plays psychic Guess Who for the same reason Milwaukee drivers drink: warrior honor. Moreover, your dead Mom only wants to talk to you if it’s hard. She’s all about that FromSoft pain loop.

It’s baffling, yet tracks perfectly, that George has reached the stunt-fucking phase of his medium career. In his mind, he’s just that good. Even though his cold reading is less Mob Psycho 100 and more Similar Manga About a Fucking Idiot.

This section’s off to a cute start, unless he was…let’s assume it’s a cute start. Though sixteen is still…let’ s pretend it's a cute start. You could stop here with your faith in love and illithids reaffirmed. Or turn the page with me.

Ready?

Perhaps George, born out of his depth, sees no difference between failing here and a palm reading. It may even be a brand of courage. If I scammed enough DV survivors to unpack the finer points, I’d never publish them. I’d be busy in the Hospital of Reflection.

The formula holds: before the discernment, we hear right from the subject. George introduces Deborah with what I pray isn’t a pun:

“Love” becomes George’s Pokemon name for the chapter. If he keeps saying it, we might forget what happened the last time we trusted him. Here’s what love without condition looks like:

Holy fuck, right? I’m retyping this and I’m still surprised.

Deborah’s a steady hand—John’s body dies here. But his love lingers on. I think love is madman for untreated trauma, though I’m not a therapist. Which is why I don’t counsel women that double-tapped their husbands to survive. That takes a gentle, discreet, unpublishable touch.

Or playing thirty questions, and sending it worldwide.

Maybe the Infinite Light doesn’t need everyone. At the very least, we don’t need everyone’s messages. Some of us can stay in the Infinite Campfire, the cozy hearth that keeps the rest of the afterlife warm. Residents can share one seance to say “it burns.”

She understands? She understands! Despite being a spiritual cripple, I finally see the gears here. Customers fill in readings themselves. George might as well be a doll that burps random letters. The only psychic stats are shamelessness and headshot quality. Today, I’m less mystified by his crime, and more by publishing the evidence. He’s already forgotten what happened to the last person that fucked with Deborah.

George is a wild DM. Is “he forgives you” the lesson? Is there a phrase that sounds less like Deborah forgot his parachute, and more like she parried family annihilation?

Are you sure, George? This example’s extreme, but once I read a book where this crazy motherfucker tries to shoot his wife and kids. She puts him in the news instead. Does she need his forgiveness? Or does that dynamic breed family tyrants in the first place?

Love isn’t all you need, despite what John’s Infinite Campfire roommate says. The tragi-dice tell me it’s time to move on. For our palate cleanser, we have…

Nice. Since we’re already beneath hell, we can find Cerberus.

Until now, the holy helpers have been on break. One might doubt that George sees them at all, or that Andrew remembers. One might even think “St. Valentine hasn’t shown up for one mortal. In fact, he showed up negative times for Deborah. What chance does a cat have?”

Cats get Jesus. Live. Your cancer son, suicide husband, and homicide husband can chug shit. Mr. Scritches has a VIP litter box behind Metatron.

See, George adores pets and scamming their owners. Deeply. Enough to make his sole virtue sound stupid.

Mankind publishing books like this? Making funnier sounds when we weep? Owing Odin twenty bucks? The gods torture us for the same reason we climb mountains. In fact, I bet watching Timmy drown rats feels a bit too familiar.

George takes a long, controversial stand against beating animals. Surprising, given his diplomatic approach to birth control and spousal gunfights. This spiel feeds into Chapter Ten’s model student, Geri. Don’t worry, no cats are at risk in this world. But ghost cats face ghost danger in the next:

Four years. There must’ve been an up-and-coming psyker to take Geri’s money. Everyone specifically wants to give George their mortgage. What is it? The dead kids? Does adrenochrome work for careers?

While the creed asks for cat lady jokes, I feel Geri here. The report card for dads in Lessons From The Light looks bleak. You rarely have to blow your pet cat away to live, except in Vegas.

You know, George has a type for emotional heists. And struggled with his own father not thinking he was magic. Sure, the author George likely doesn’t give a shit, but the character seeks out dad-shaped psychic footprints.

Geri enters a group discernment—maybe there’s a coupon. I need you to know there are people mourning people in this room, while we chase this cat.

Oh, my ass. Whatever, it’s the last example. With virtuoso shamelessness, George details Geri’s shattered personal life. Facts only ESP or four years of desperate letters could tell you.

Including her daughter's spiral. Pretending, gamely, not to know it’s a fucking cat.

Now things are looking up. Annie had the nicest death so far, and the interest of the Catholic Gods. Though dignified euthenasia makes me worry about the PetCo of Reflection. Hopefully Annie fought all the way down, to avoid the Infinite Light’s mercy.

Geri’s fixed, thanks to her dirtbag dad’s ghost. George is all about enthusiastic forgiveness. We don’t know what her father did in life, but it’s irie now. After all, it wasn’t an abortion. Unless Geri’s a ghost.

Wait, is Geri a ghost?

False alarm, not a ghost. Just dead inside.

With stronger words, I could spin this. I’d weave a cute story about ghost redemption, instead of a wounded soul paying still-untold sums for ten minutes of cold reading. A robbery subsequently resold to secondary marks worldwide.

Jesus and I are left with the aftermath of Satan’s strongest, least psychic soldier. After decades bilking desperate people with nothing to lose, George still sells discernments. And moral lessons:

A beautiful closer for the chapter on children, a hundred pages later. I’m glad George likes cats, and that cats can’t read his work. He can enjoy fraud-free respect until the day they eat him.

The dice served us well. I’d say they’ve earned one last shake.

Fate has spoken.

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