The 54th Skeptics Circle: The Stuff That Woos are Made Of

The ever-present fog flitted, ghost-like, through the streetlamps as I made my way southwest on Stockton street. San Francisco fog is unlike anything you've ever seen. It moves too fast, too nimble, almost like it's alive. I exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke, and it floated skyward, mixed with the fog, and the two became as one. I ground the butt out on a wall and smiled. There was glee and confidence in my step as I walked down the street. I had on my best slate grey suit, and all for good reason. I was on a high-paying case.

I've been on my own since the Department cut me loose over the Pendelton incident, when I decked that con-artist "psychic" the chief saddled me with during a murder case. Made no nevermind to me. The suits at the department were all jerks anyway, and I don't want to work at a place where they made me take a liar on a joyride chasing wild geese when lives were at stake. I cleaned out my desk and rented some space with a room above. My cat Loki and I moved in, I arranged the furniture to minimize qi flow, and I called the painter. He made me some very pretty words on the front door: "Jack Bixby, Skeptical Investigator."

I was walking from my office down to Union Square to meet a contact my client had hooked me up with. The entree tonight was woo, and word was this guy might have a line on the chef. As I neared the meeting place, the fog seemed to clear of its own volition and reveal a dark man in a darker suit standing among the gloom. His dark eyes were set in a dark face, and his suit was coal black. He looked like a hulking shadow of a man, but he fit the description I had been given. I sauntered up to him and inclined my head in greeting.

"Jack Bixby. I'm a PI. I hear you have something for me."

"Mr. Bixby, indeed I do," he said in a voice that rumbled like thunder over Alcatraz. "I don't know exactly who you're looking for, but I can tell you a few things. I have it on good authority that your guy's a crazy one, and I know just How to Spot a Cuckoo." He handed me a folded index card. "Look it over. You can thank my friend Moonflake."

"Is that it? Is that all you have?" I wasn't sure what to make of him. I looked down and unfolded the index card, read over the list of signs that you might have a woo on your hands. I flipped it around and found a scrawl on the backside. Consult the Oracle. Consult the oracle? What the hell? I looked back up and he was gone, swallowed by the fog. I didn't even hear him leave.

*****

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself back in my office, flicking the card with my right index finger. Loki meowed and I gave him a pat. On a hunch, I reached for my list of underworld contacts. Every PI knows you can't make it a day in the business without one. I flipped through and got lucky. There was an entry I didn't remember making, and it fit perfectly: "Underground medical advice from the soundest of sources: call ORAC." I dialed the number and, lucky for me, the Doc must have been writing a late grant. I told him about the case. "My source inside the precinct tells me they think the culprit was autistic, says there's an epidemic of autism, but I don't buy it. Old girlfriend named Sandy was a nurse, did research in Junkfood Science, told me all about the real Anatomy of an Epidemic. Sometimes it just isn't what it seems to be."

"You're probably right, Mr. Bixby," the Doc said. " What about the coroner? What's the verdict there?"

"Coroner's a creduloid, too. Says the victim's chakras weren't aligned properly."

"Sounds like you have quite a case. The next time you deal with the corner, you might want to give him my paper on Critical Thinking and the Scientific Method in Medical Education. There are all sorts of problems in med school, but some folks just don't see it or don't care. It really rises my ire and deserves my Respectful Insolence. I'm sorry I couldn't help more, Mr. Bixby."

The Doc hung up and I swore angrily. I was getting nowhere fast. If there's one thing I've learned, though, it's that a little knowledge goes a long way. I'm not a huge Infophile, like one guy I know, but Infophilia is infectious. Conversations with this guy are always enlightening, and he really knows how to answer the question "Why Skepticism?" The library was closed, so I hit the hay. Tomorrow is always another day, unless you're like EoR, and you have The Second Sight and know that The End is Nigh thanks to some crazy Atlantean technology or something.

*****

As I was walking to the library the next afternoon (I sleep late), I was fuming over something the doc said. I lit a cigarette so the metaphor would have some company and tried to get my thoughts in order. See, sometimes it just seems like 95% Of You Are Morons. I mean, people have so much apathy towards harmful nonsense that it drives me nuts. Are they really okay saying the Stupid Things People Say #5- "It Doesn't Matter to Me!"? Rockstars aren't, that's for sure.

I hit the old library like the time The Two Percent Company was Beating Sylvia Browne About the Head and Neck With the Tack Hammer of Reality. The library was an old one, and part museum. That day, the enormous entranceway was playing host to a display of ancient human skeletons. I stopped to look at one of the plaques. "Prehistoric humans discovered by Martin Rundkvist on an Aarvarchaeology expedition," it read. I was somewhat surprised they were still there, as often as those damned Neo-Pagans Demand Reburial.

First thing I looked at was Rebecca's TAM 5 Report. Getting a handle on the latest in skeptical thinking would really help me get my hands on the woo I was hunting down. Damn, though, Rebecca's a prolific girl. She had not 2, not 3, 4, or 5, but 6 parts to her report! Her Memoirs of a Skepchick are always worth a read. My mind was full with one in the clip, but I wasn't done yet.

I never make a stop at the library without flipping through The Skeptics Dictionary. PIs have to have their addictions. Holmes had morphine, Marlowe had alcohol and cigarettes, and I have Robert Todd Carroll. And cigarettes. I opened the book to a random page and saw the title "What Darwin Means to Me." Looked like he wrote it for Darwin Day. It had a lot of good to say about Darwin and evolution in general, but didn't give me any leads, so I closed the book and left the library. Rebecca's report had given me an idea.

I had a hunch the the woo I was looking for was small time woo. He or she didn't move in the same circles as the Woo Kingpins like Van Praagh or Chopra. I remembered an old case I had to deal with when I was still on the force, small-time woo, when my partner plittle and I investigated Homeopath Asha Frost, who was selling empty cures to sick people out of a local clinic . After that, plittle took an Aurora Walking Vacation, and I haven't seen him since.

I made my way down to the Hyde Street Pier. There was a fortune teller down in that area I wanted to shake down for information. She had her ear to the ground and knew about all the woo smalltimers. She might know who I was looking for. It was already dark outside before I was halfway there. I guess I had spent too much time in the library. I stopped to light a smoke and as I sparked the Zippo, I heard a scuff behind me. I turned as fast as I could but it wasn't fast enough. A goon was on top of me. He socked me in the gut with a mitt the size of Allison Dubois' ego. The cigarette flew from my mouth along with all the oxygen I had breathed in the last four years. I gasped like a beached tuna and tried to look up, but he held my head down, grabbed the back of my collar, and dragged me into an alley. I didn't have the strength to resist. All I could see was a pair of expensive Doc Martens and the blunt instrument the goon was holding. He threw me up against a wall face-first.

"I gots a message for you, Bix." His voice was thick and slurred. "It's from The Bronze Dog. He says You Want to Disprove Love, and you better stop before someone gets hurt."

"I don't want to disprove love," I said, and the effort almost made me pass out. "I love as much as anyone. I just--"

The next thing I heard was the goon saying "Shut up!" Then I heard him growl, a low rumble in an oversized throat. Then I saw stars as the back of my head exploded. Then I saw nothing.

*****

I woke up in a dumpster with my vision doing somersaults. The goon was quite the virtuoso. He used that instrument to great effect, and my head felt like a bass drum after the symphony was over. My mind was going a mile a minute. Who was The Bronze Dog? Was he a new force in the underworld? And what did the message mean? Was it some kind of code? It reminded me of my mentor, Skeptico, when he asked me "Why Did the Chicken Re-cross the Road?" That time it turned out to be an exercise to get inside the head of a woo.

Just then I had a flash of inspiration, coupled with a flash of pain. It had been so long I had forgotten how to think like a woo, but remembering old Skep put me back in the right investigative frame of mind. I pulled myself out of the dumpster and brushed off my suit. It was time to make like Dr. Steven Novella, master of NeuroLogica, and have a Debate with a Chiropractor.

The chiropractor in question was an old nemesis, but I kept him around because he could be useful. He had a low patient load and was such a pushover that the info he gave me saved more people than his bone-cracking screwed up. Some would call it karma. I call it utilitarian, and I call them deluded. I showed up at his office just in time to see him locking the door behind him. Inspired by the goon, I grabbed the back of his jacket and shoved him into his own door. "Who is it, Jerry?"

"Who's who? Who are you? B-b-bixby? I don't know what you're--"

"Don't give me that line again, Jerry!" I grabbed him by the hair and gave it a good pull. "You always know what's going down. Who's the killer?"

"Bix...Stop..."

"I'll stop when you start." I gave him a wicked grin and pulled harder.

"Fine! Fine!" He was squealing. "I don't know exactly who but I heard that whoever it was was gonna be giving a talk at the old Our Lady of Woo Church!"

I brought his head into solid contact with his office door. "You just made that up, didn't you!"

He whimpered. "No, Bix, I swear, I swear! It's down on Van Ness! It was all over the news last week, when the Pooflingers Anonymous support group fell off the wagon and their leader Matt took them down there to protest some fake doctor named Gillian McKeith! Come on, Bix, you have to remember the news!"

I loosened my grip. He was right. I did remember. It was a big to-do, and apparently involved someone from the UK Guardian as well. I let go of Jerry entirely and walked away without a word.

"Aren't you going to thank me, Bix?"

"Do I ever?"

*****

Later that night, I sat in my office, feet on the desk, cat on the feet, quietly purring. I was satisfied and quite impressed with myself. I had broken the case in about twenty-four hours. I had hung my suit coat on the rack, loosened my tie, and was celebrating with a Hot Cup of Joe, Cfeagans brand. Turns out my hunch was wrong, and the culprit was a Big Woo: Kevin Trudeau, Pseudo-Advocate for the Consumer. Two books and a thousand crappy infomercials later, Jack Bixby had brought him to justice.

Sometimes the job is hard. Sometimes I lose all hope that anyone, anything can truly combat woo no matter their tactics. But I remain hopeful. I guess it's just A Sceptic's Lot, like this post from Eclectics Anonymous.

And that's the Skeptics Circle, folks! I hope you all enjoyed the hard-boiled adventures of Jack Bixby, Skeptical Investigator. The next meeting of the Skeptics Circle will be located at The Second Sight in two weeks on March 1st. May you enjoy my Circle until then.

All the best!