And, finally, Saturday night begins with a roundtable discussion of the conference organizers. Hosted by Richard Kaufman, the panel sheds some light on what goes into producing such a marvelous event. Some old video clip highlights are shown and discussed. Mostly it is the audiences’ way to thank those who inspire us so.
Arthur Benjamin was one of the highlight acts of the week. Arthur is a math genius. He does a lighting math act. He obviously loves what he does. I wasn’t expecting much. I’m not a big math guy. His exuberance carried his set and swept away the audience. With Mac King and others on the stage being perfect foils. The expression of complete amazement on their faces made this non-magical act magical.
Michael McGiveney closes the weekend. I remember seeing years ago on, I think, a Ricky Jay special. He does his father’s quick change act. This is not like the changes now so popular. He does a scene from Oliver Twist, changing from one character to another when passing offstage. An interesting look at a popular turn-of-the-last-century entertainment.
The convention night finishes like most of the night by closing down the hotel bar with some new and some old friends. Again, I think about how lucky I am to have tripped into this magic life. You meet the most interesting people.
I would not trade it for anything.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Sunday, January 06, 2008
LA part 5
So now where was I...Ah, yes, Saturday morning. Early, I spend some time stalking Ricky Jay. Just kidding. Before going to LA, I arranged with Ricky to bring out copies of his books to be signed. I fully understand that he doesn’t like to do that sort of thing but he graciously agreed to do this for me. I think, or hope, he sees in me a kindred spirit and lover of lost performers. He really is part of why I love the history of the art of magic and the personalities involved.
Now I get to see the Hooker Card Rise.
Yes, it fools the hell out of me.
No, I don’t care. I am thankful.
After all these years in and around magic, it is such a rare occurrence when I am fooled. It is a good thing. How can we begin to clearly understand our audiences when we can’t experience what they do?
After the show, Jamy Ian Swiss and I talk. He feels that it is his job to figure out how it works. I do not. I want to enjoy the beauty of it. The challenge is to figure out how to give my spectators a similar experience.
Saturday afternoon Jim Steinmeyer does his usual good job telling the story of Hooker. Roxy gives a talk about the history of “lightning calculators”. It doesn’t interest me and his accent is impenetrable. So I leave. Hook up with Mark Kaschube for a couple of pints. We have a good talk, something we hadn’t done since before his divorce, new marriage, and baby. There was a lot to catch up on.
Being with people, hanging, talking, joking, that is the best part of this week.
Now I get to see the Hooker Card Rise.
Yes, it fools the hell out of me.
No, I don’t care. I am thankful.
After all these years in and around magic, it is such a rare occurrence when I am fooled. It is a good thing. How can we begin to clearly understand our audiences when we can’t experience what they do?
After the show, Jamy Ian Swiss and I talk. He feels that it is his job to figure out how it works. I do not. I want to enjoy the beauty of it. The challenge is to figure out how to give my spectators a similar experience.
Saturday afternoon Jim Steinmeyer does his usual good job telling the story of Hooker. Roxy gives a talk about the history of “lightning calculators”. It doesn’t interest me and his accent is impenetrable. So I leave. Hook up with Mark Kaschube for a couple of pints. We have a good talk, something we hadn’t done since before his divorce, new marriage, and baby. There was a lot to catch up on.
Being with people, hanging, talking, joking, that is the best part of this week.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
2007 Christmas Card Key
For those of you who received a Christmas Card from me this year and didn't solve the puzzle included. Here is the key... Write the alphabet backwards and underneath write it forwards and you'll be able to solve the puzzles.
Sorry about the lateness of this solution and yes, I know I forgot the "H".
Happy New Year--Bill
Sorry about the lateness of this solution and yes, I know I forgot the "H".
Happy New Year--Bill
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Christmas 2006
As I have related before every year I do a limited edition custom Christmas card. The year after I put it on my blog as a Merry Christmas to all my readers. This is the first story of all the cards. See the previous posts for my other cards, all poems. Hope you enjoy it. -- Bill
The Night Of...
He is old. Impossibly so. Old as long as he can remember, as long as anyone remembers. He must have been young once, everyone was young, once. So many years have passed since his youth that the very memory of it is a memory. He is fat, also. But he is sure that wasn’t always so, that he remembers.
They called him “big boned” and a “corn-fed country boy.” A man who was big and strong, like of legend and song. Long ago, not when he was young but certainly less old, he, ax in hand, chopped down half a forest. The owner told him to take what he needed and he did, not a stick more. It was an old growth forest, even then, some said biblically old. Then, alone, he hauled the timber mile after mile to build a business and a home. Well, a house, it wasn’t a home until she came, but that is another story.
Life yielded to time, muscle to fat, and the morning to a series of long, deep inhalations of air, short violent exhalations of the same, and an assortment of grunts and groans. Getting up was made more difficult by the shift in hours this time of year. He tried to work nights year round. It didn’t work. So, as the busy time of year approaches, he shifts his hours, going to bed earlier and waking up later until he can work the night through.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. At least, his wife saved him the jarring buzz of an alarm. Even though, he continued to lie, thinking. Wondering if he will ever not wake up. Just how long was he expected to do this? More often these last few years, he wondered why he did it any more. Had he outlived his usefulness?
Countless others were already performing his job anyhow. Yet, they missed the subtlety, the artfulness he liked to believe he brought to the job, often replacing quality with quantity and the punitory with ignorance. Perhaps he could find a replacement, turn operations over to someone younger, and train them in the traditions. Meanwhile he will continue to do as he has always done, as he was chosen to do, until he knows different.
He had to get moving, this night was the culmination of a year’s worth of work, around the clock, and massive product deliveries. He sucked in some air and held his breath as he maneuvered his considerable bulk upright and to the edge of the bed. “Whew,” out goes the breath. He just lets his bare feet dangle for a moment over the floor. It will be cold. Everything is cold here. He tried different types of insulation, increasing layers of clothing, forced air, radiant heat, and a Franklin stove in every room. It didn’t help. The cold always found a way in. You had to get used to it.
At the very least, you must co-exist. Most days the cold receded un-noticed to the background like the static of a needle on an old record album. He heard the music and shut out the noise. On this day that would not happen and he set his feet on the floor acknowledging the shock with a couple of halting breaths. Once feet hit the floor, it was better to move than linger. In his red flannel long johns, he padded his way to the washbasin. If the coolness of the floor didn’t fully awaken him, the splash of cold water did. The mirror reflected back a tired stranger, in dire need of some grooming. Under the spell of an immutable deadline, he ignored the basics. A brush and a comb will have to do. Tomorrow, he’ll tend to his wild white and scruffy white beard.
Next to the basin sat a chair and in the chair mother arranged his work clothes. At this age, he called his wife mother, not that she had any children of her own, still she was mother to so many. These clothes were an improvement over the old ones. He used to wear stiff leather breeches and an equally stiff leather coat. Over that went a cloak made from the hides of two full-grown grizzlies. The whole arrangement was warm, but difficult to work in. He loved the old ways and begrudgingly accepted his new work uniform, foisted on him by marketeers and consultants. It is the only thing they ever did he liked.
Now, he worked on two pairs of woolen socks. Over his flannel underwear, he put on a red sweatsuit. Then, he slipped on a pair of fuzzy shearling pants, dyed red. Layers—that was the key—layers provided warmth and mobility. Suspenders kept them from falling down.
Gore-tex, air exchange systems, and fine waterproofed leather keep his feet warm and dry. The large buckles and cuffs on his boots are a nod to tradition than necessary function.
At least partially dressed, he could have breakfast. The days of skirt steak and half dozen eggs are over. Coffee, grapefruit, and a warm bowl of oatmeal are now the breakfast of choice. A concession to his sweet tooth being maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal.
It is almost time.
On go the matching coat and a large patent leather belt to keep it in place. He pulls his hat down tight. Every year guaranteed that he’ll experience bad weather at one time or another. Finally, his well-worn deerskin lined gloves are loyal old friends.
A floorboard creaks as he heads to the door and reminds him of all the things he has neglected these last hectic months. No time for that now. His itinerary will be waiting for him programmed into the new GPS system. Everything will be ready. He gave control of those things to others. He will make up for his negligence later, but for now; he kisses his wife on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thank you.” She’ll worry. All these years he never had a problem, but it doesn’t change her feelings. Before he opens the door, he pauses to clear his throat.
The door opens to cheers and the spring in his step returns. He spreads his arms to encompass the cheering mass. His eyes twinkle as he smiles and laughs. His employees always see him off with a pep rally. There are pats on the back, “good lucks,” “boss,” and the odd tear. He tries to hide the welling up in his eyes. He liked the job. The listing. The compassionate balancing of accounts. The act of distribution. Every year this scene made him more and more emotional, the old fool. A gift of a heated ergonomic car seat will make the trip extra comfortable this year. There is one thing left to do.
And in a booming voice, he calls out, "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
The Night Of...
He is old. Impossibly so. Old as long as he can remember, as long as anyone remembers. He must have been young once, everyone was young, once. So many years have passed since his youth that the very memory of it is a memory. He is fat, also. But he is sure that wasn’t always so, that he remembers.
They called him “big boned” and a “corn-fed country boy.” A man who was big and strong, like of legend and song. Long ago, not when he was young but certainly less old, he, ax in hand, chopped down half a forest. The owner told him to take what he needed and he did, not a stick more. It was an old growth forest, even then, some said biblically old. Then, alone, he hauled the timber mile after mile to build a business and a home. Well, a house, it wasn’t a home until she came, but that is another story.
Life yielded to time, muscle to fat, and the morning to a series of long, deep inhalations of air, short violent exhalations of the same, and an assortment of grunts and groans. Getting up was made more difficult by the shift in hours this time of year. He tried to work nights year round. It didn’t work. So, as the busy time of year approaches, he shifts his hours, going to bed earlier and waking up later until he can work the night through.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. At least, his wife saved him the jarring buzz of an alarm. Even though, he continued to lie, thinking. Wondering if he will ever not wake up. Just how long was he expected to do this? More often these last few years, he wondered why he did it any more. Had he outlived his usefulness?
Countless others were already performing his job anyhow. Yet, they missed the subtlety, the artfulness he liked to believe he brought to the job, often replacing quality with quantity and the punitory with ignorance. Perhaps he could find a replacement, turn operations over to someone younger, and train them in the traditions. Meanwhile he will continue to do as he has always done, as he was chosen to do, until he knows different.
He had to get moving, this night was the culmination of a year’s worth of work, around the clock, and massive product deliveries. He sucked in some air and held his breath as he maneuvered his considerable bulk upright and to the edge of the bed. “Whew,” out goes the breath. He just lets his bare feet dangle for a moment over the floor. It will be cold. Everything is cold here. He tried different types of insulation, increasing layers of clothing, forced air, radiant heat, and a Franklin stove in every room. It didn’t help. The cold always found a way in. You had to get used to it.
At the very least, you must co-exist. Most days the cold receded un-noticed to the background like the static of a needle on an old record album. He heard the music and shut out the noise. On this day that would not happen and he set his feet on the floor acknowledging the shock with a couple of halting breaths. Once feet hit the floor, it was better to move than linger. In his red flannel long johns, he padded his way to the washbasin. If the coolness of the floor didn’t fully awaken him, the splash of cold water did. The mirror reflected back a tired stranger, in dire need of some grooming. Under the spell of an immutable deadline, he ignored the basics. A brush and a comb will have to do. Tomorrow, he’ll tend to his wild white and scruffy white beard.
Next to the basin sat a chair and in the chair mother arranged his work clothes. At this age, he called his wife mother, not that she had any children of her own, still she was mother to so many. These clothes were an improvement over the old ones. He used to wear stiff leather breeches and an equally stiff leather coat. Over that went a cloak made from the hides of two full-grown grizzlies. The whole arrangement was warm, but difficult to work in. He loved the old ways and begrudgingly accepted his new work uniform, foisted on him by marketeers and consultants. It is the only thing they ever did he liked.
Now, he worked on two pairs of woolen socks. Over his flannel underwear, he put on a red sweatsuit. Then, he slipped on a pair of fuzzy shearling pants, dyed red. Layers—that was the key—layers provided warmth and mobility. Suspenders kept them from falling down.
Gore-tex, air exchange systems, and fine waterproofed leather keep his feet warm and dry. The large buckles and cuffs on his boots are a nod to tradition than necessary function.
At least partially dressed, he could have breakfast. The days of skirt steak and half dozen eggs are over. Coffee, grapefruit, and a warm bowl of oatmeal are now the breakfast of choice. A concession to his sweet tooth being maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal.
It is almost time.
On go the matching coat and a large patent leather belt to keep it in place. He pulls his hat down tight. Every year guaranteed that he’ll experience bad weather at one time or another. Finally, his well-worn deerskin lined gloves are loyal old friends.
A floorboard creaks as he heads to the door and reminds him of all the things he has neglected these last hectic months. No time for that now. His itinerary will be waiting for him programmed into the new GPS system. Everything will be ready. He gave control of those things to others. He will make up for his negligence later, but for now; he kisses his wife on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thank you.” She’ll worry. All these years he never had a problem, but it doesn’t change her feelings. Before he opens the door, he pauses to clear his throat.
The door opens to cheers and the spring in his step returns. He spreads his arms to encompass the cheering mass. His eyes twinkle as he smiles and laughs. His employees always see him off with a pep rally. There are pats on the back, “good lucks,” “boss,” and the odd tear. He tries to hide the welling up in his eyes. He liked the job. The listing. The compassionate balancing of accounts. The act of distribution. Every year this scene made him more and more emotional, the old fool. A gift of a heated ergonomic car seat will make the trip extra comfortable this year. There is one thing left to do.
And in a booming voice, he calls out, "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
Friday, December 14, 2007
LA Conference Part 4
Friday, I get to go to dinner with Bob Higa, Mark Holstein, and Sue Holstein. These are old friends from home and I don’t see them often enough. They have all been very kind to me and good to my career for at least the last twenty years. After a few false starts, we end up at this wonderful Italian restaurant. One terrific meal and a fun waitress, who also was from the hometown Chicago area, later we wend our way back to the hotel and the evening program.
I like to sit in back. You give up very little in view. There is the advantage of being able to move about and talk a little when things get difficult. Luckily, with the night’s program, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Jules Fisher is a legend on Broadway. Eight Tony awards, many more nominations. He is arguably the best lighting director in the world. He is also an amateur magician and friend of Ricky Jay. He discusses the science and aesthetics of lighting. The thing that struck me is that while he did talk about certain technical issues, candlepower, red lighting for thread work; he spoke about lighting as feeling emotions. A wonderful concept for magicians.
Peter Lamont was one of the highlights of the last conference. He is a historian for the parapsychology unit at the University of Edinburgh. Look for his books; he has a light and humorous touch, which make for enjoyable reading. His talks take on that same quality. This year’s talk was on W. J. Vernon, a phrenologist, a mesmerist, and, finally, a radical political activist.
Mike Caveny finished the show in his typical easygoing manner. He performed Charles Carter’s Astral Hand and Einstein’s Problem. The Astral Hand is a rapping hand routine with predictable results. It fell flat and, probably deserved a more dramatic presentation. Einstein’s Problem is Carter’s version of the Million Dollar Mystery. It is a cool piece that plays more like a puzzle. I wonder if it has been talked about so much that, it just didn’t do much for me. Usually, Mike’s style is enjoyable, but it didn’t work with these pieces.
I like to sit in back. You give up very little in view. There is the advantage of being able to move about and talk a little when things get difficult. Luckily, with the night’s program, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Jules Fisher is a legend on Broadway. Eight Tony awards, many more nominations. He is arguably the best lighting director in the world. He is also an amateur magician and friend of Ricky Jay. He discusses the science and aesthetics of lighting. The thing that struck me is that while he did talk about certain technical issues, candlepower, red lighting for thread work; he spoke about lighting as feeling emotions. A wonderful concept for magicians.
Peter Lamont was one of the highlights of the last conference. He is a historian for the parapsychology unit at the University of Edinburgh. Look for his books; he has a light and humorous touch, which make for enjoyable reading. His talks take on that same quality. This year’s talk was on W. J. Vernon, a phrenologist, a mesmerist, and, finally, a radical political activist.
Mike Caveny finished the show in his typical easygoing manner. He performed Charles Carter’s Astral Hand and Einstein’s Problem. The Astral Hand is a rapping hand routine with predictable results. It fell flat and, probably deserved a more dramatic presentation. Einstein’s Problem is Carter’s version of the Million Dollar Mystery. It is a cool piece that plays more like a puzzle. I wonder if it has been talked about so much that, it just didn’t do much for me. Usually, Mike’s style is enjoyable, but it didn’t work with these pieces.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
LA Conference Part 3
Friday, I wake up. Early. Too early. I am going to the early opening of Ricky Jay’s exhibit of broadsides at the Hammer Museum. He has been kind enough to open early for the convention and be on hand to discuss the pieces. But first, breakfast...
In my traveling group are Tim Felix, Mark Kaschube, and Bob Higa. Tim and Mark insist we go to Jack-in-the-Box for our meal. This will be the first time for Bob and me, but Tim and Mark would eat at Jack’s for every meal while they are in California. The deep-fried tacos and only the deep fried tacos to be specific. I do not have a delicate system, but it is a mistake I will not make again.
After my trip to the bathroom, the broadsides amaze. If you have seen the book, Extraordinary Exhibitions, you’ve seen the pictures. They do not do the pieces justice. The depth and vibrancy of the colors, the textures of the papers, they can only be appreciated in person. One former Davenport, now Kellar and Fay bill, one I’ve only seen in black and white, was in full color. The blue shading had such a depth it looked like it was a separate transparency laid over the print.
After the museum, we head back to the hotel. Mostly I hang out talk to friends, make one of my many visits to the exhibit room and dealer rooms. The afternoon program begins at 2:00.
Diego Domingo talks about Ronald Coyne and the religious revivals of the 1950s. Coyne was able to see with his artificial eye as clearly as his real eye. Diego gave a lively talk on this nutball’s life including one smart Chicago doctor who examined and Coyne’s power were found lacking. This same doctor is also a magic enthusiast and now visits Tim Felix’s Midwest Magic often. I surprise to Tim and I, who never know this chapter of his life.
Bill Liles added to an earlier presentation he gave on Houdini and the Mirror cuffs. To be honest he had nothing particularly new or relevant to say and spent a lot of time saying it.
Peter Reveen finishes up with an informal talk about his life and career. I would have preferred a more structured approach to this presentation with, perhaps, a question and answer session or interview format. I do see how Peter commanded the stage. He is full of charisma.
Now it is off to dinner with some great old friends and the Friday night program.
In my traveling group are Tim Felix, Mark Kaschube, and Bob Higa. Tim and Mark insist we go to Jack-in-the-Box for our meal. This will be the first time for Bob and me, but Tim and Mark would eat at Jack’s for every meal while they are in California. The deep-fried tacos and only the deep fried tacos to be specific. I do not have a delicate system, but it is a mistake I will not make again.
After my trip to the bathroom, the broadsides amaze. If you have seen the book, Extraordinary Exhibitions, you’ve seen the pictures. They do not do the pieces justice. The depth and vibrancy of the colors, the textures of the papers, they can only be appreciated in person. One former Davenport, now Kellar and Fay bill, one I’ve only seen in black and white, was in full color. The blue shading had such a depth it looked like it was a separate transparency laid over the print.
After the museum, we head back to the hotel. Mostly I hang out talk to friends, make one of my many visits to the exhibit room and dealer rooms. The afternoon program begins at 2:00.
Diego Domingo talks about Ronald Coyne and the religious revivals of the 1950s. Coyne was able to see with his artificial eye as clearly as his real eye. Diego gave a lively talk on this nutball’s life including one smart Chicago doctor who examined and Coyne’s power were found lacking. This same doctor is also a magic enthusiast and now visits Tim Felix’s Midwest Magic often. I surprise to Tim and I, who never know this chapter of his life.
Bill Liles added to an earlier presentation he gave on Houdini and the Mirror cuffs. To be honest he had nothing particularly new or relevant to say and spent a lot of time saying it.
Peter Reveen finishes up with an informal talk about his life and career. I would have preferred a more structured approach to this presentation with, perhaps, a question and answer session or interview format. I do see how Peter commanded the stage. He is full of charisma.
Now it is off to dinner with some great old friends and the Friday night program.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
LA Conference on Magic History part 2
The Thursday evening program begins at 8:30
Richard Kaufman is the first presenter. Something I was not looking forward to. Richard gave a talk at the Collector’s convention, and not to good result. He reads his presentations lifelessly and goes on way to long. Except this time, his deadpan style garnered great laughs as he demonstrated some of Theodore DeLand’s card creations. Well, he did read a little too long, but overall it was a good presentation.
Trevor Dawson spoke next. I spent a couple of beer’s time at the Collector’s with Trevor. It was fun to tip a few with him. He spoke about “The Great Carmo,” a British hall artist and successor to the great Lafayette. The information imparted was fine, Trevor tends have that kind of mumbling British way of speaking, much to the annoyance of most of the audience.
Last on the bill was Jim Steinmeyer performing Amac’s Find The Lady. This amazing illusion has been in my mind since I saw the first pictures and drawings. It sounded like the coolest illusion. Me not being a fan of box tricks at all. (Sorry Jim.) I was right. Jim opened a window into vaudeville and showed why this effect was a sensation. It made great fun when Jim then performed the whole routine over again with see-thru cards.
After the night’s events, it was off to the bar. Although I didn’t make it too late of a night. Fist the bar closes at like midnight on weekdays. Boy are they losing out on a lot of money. Magicians love to drink. Second, I need to be up for breakfast at 8:30 because Ricky Jay had a special exhibition of his broadsides and it was opening early for conventioneers.
Richard Kaufman is the first presenter. Something I was not looking forward to. Richard gave a talk at the Collector’s convention, and not to good result. He reads his presentations lifelessly and goes on way to long. Except this time, his deadpan style garnered great laughs as he demonstrated some of Theodore DeLand’s card creations. Well, he did read a little too long, but overall it was a good presentation.
Trevor Dawson spoke next. I spent a couple of beer’s time at the Collector’s with Trevor. It was fun to tip a few with him. He spoke about “The Great Carmo,” a British hall artist and successor to the great Lafayette. The information imparted was fine, Trevor tends have that kind of mumbling British way of speaking, much to the annoyance of most of the audience.
Last on the bill was Jim Steinmeyer performing Amac’s Find The Lady. This amazing illusion has been in my mind since I saw the first pictures and drawings. It sounded like the coolest illusion. Me not being a fan of box tricks at all. (Sorry Jim.) I was right. Jim opened a window into vaudeville and showed why this effect was a sensation. It made great fun when Jim then performed the whole routine over again with see-thru cards.
After the night’s events, it was off to the bar. Although I didn’t make it too late of a night. Fist the bar closes at like midnight on weekdays. Boy are they losing out on a lot of money. Magicians love to drink. Second, I need to be up for breakfast at 8:30 because Ricky Jay had a special exhibition of his broadsides and it was opening early for conventioneers.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
LA Conference on MagicHistory part 1
Finally, I get to start writing again. Training a new employee and working on a new act taking up most of my time. Two weeks have elapsed since the Los Angeles Conference on Magic History. This may not be a bad thing. I was able to digest it more fully.
For those who don’t know the LA Conference in limited to 250 invitation only guests. It occurs every two years. Originally sponsored by John Gaughan, Jim Steinmeyer, and Ricky Jay. After the first couple, Mike Caveney replaced Ricky Jay. They are dedicated to bringing to life the history only read about in books.
I flew out to LA at 6 am on just a few hours sleep. Sleeping on a plane is not my favorite activity, reading is an option, but they were showing the film Transformers. Not the ideal place to see this movie, yet it killed the time nicely. I figure if I can check in early I’ll catch a nap at the hotel.
Arriving in LA, I took a shuttle van to the hotel. (Purchased on Orbitz, it is half the price of a cab to the hotel.) As the van driver loads in another passenger, I over-hear he is also going to the same hotel. And I meet Marvin Miller. Marvin, at one time wrote the puzzle column for Magic Magazine. He’s a former VP for Johnson and Johnson and still a “big-wig” in several other companies. He is a best selling author and editor of Games Magazine. We had a nice-getting to know you-talk on the way and spent a few other minutes here and there throughout my stay.
The hotel is the Beverly Garland Holiday Inn. Go to the website. Two years ago when I first went to the Conference, I thought, “Holiday Inn?” This place is a retreat, lush, green, almost isolated from the city. The rooms are serviceable. They are only for sleeping (it off) and showering (it off).
First, I head to registration to pick up my packet. The most prominent piece is a 100 page glossy program covering not only this weekend, but being the tenth anniversary, there are the previous nine programs. The graphic look of the Jim Steinmeyer created program is art deco, beautifully set and written as one would expect from a Steinmeyer production. My desire to read the book and take a nap pulls me in different directions. Nap wins.
The first program starts at 2:30; I’m fresh and ready to go. Down at the ballroom, it’s meet and greet time, renewing old acquaintances and find some friends in attendance that I didn’t know would be here.
In no particular order and, surely leaving a few out: Bob Higa, Mark and Sue Holstein, Jamy Ian Swiss, Max Maven, Ricky Jay, Brad Henderson, Stan Allen, Mark Kaschube, Richard Kaufman, Todd Karr, Aaron Fisher, Bill Kalush. I’ll meet a few more for the first time: Stephen Minch, Eric Mead, David Ben, for example. This is all heady stuff for me. I have always been on the out side looking in. To be a part and treated as an equal to my idols puts my world on tilt.
The program starts will John Carney in his character of Mr. Mysto. I’ve always been a big fan of John, but I don’t find his Mr. Mysto character hilariously funny. He does a black bit with the Indian Rope Trick. Amusing, at best.
Dustin Stinett followed with a talk about some new discoveries about the magic duo, Milo and Roger. The absolute best part was some rare tape of Milo and Roger performing on “The Hollywood Palace.”
John Gaughan takes the stage to perform the Shower of Gold effect described in Hoffmann’s More Magic. This is an amazing bit of Victorian conjuring. Later, in the exhibit hall, he will display the mechanism. Quite a complicated bit of machinery, but could be made into a fine performance today.
Mark Kalin and Jinger end the show with their presentation of the Spirit Cabinet. I will say that theirs is the closest in quality to Falkenstein and Willard. They are actually two of the better performers. Tightly scripted and in their own style.
After the show, it is to the hotel restaurant and dinner with Max Maven, Jamy Ian Swiss, and David Ben. We discuss Phenomenon, the upcoming Celebra-cadabra and life after surgery. David and I haven’t really spoken before, but being with Max and Jamy gives me credibility. Jamy and Max are two of my favorite people. Too smart and too direct for their own good, they make the most interesting conversationalists.
In another day or two, I’ll cover Thursday night.
For those who don’t know the LA Conference in limited to 250 invitation only guests. It occurs every two years. Originally sponsored by John Gaughan, Jim Steinmeyer, and Ricky Jay. After the first couple, Mike Caveney replaced Ricky Jay. They are dedicated to bringing to life the history only read about in books.
I flew out to LA at 6 am on just a few hours sleep. Sleeping on a plane is not my favorite activity, reading is an option, but they were showing the film Transformers. Not the ideal place to see this movie, yet it killed the time nicely. I figure if I can check in early I’ll catch a nap at the hotel.
Arriving in LA, I took a shuttle van to the hotel. (Purchased on Orbitz, it is half the price of a cab to the hotel.) As the van driver loads in another passenger, I over-hear he is also going to the same hotel. And I meet Marvin Miller. Marvin, at one time wrote the puzzle column for Magic Magazine. He’s a former VP for Johnson and Johnson and still a “big-wig” in several other companies. He is a best selling author and editor of Games Magazine. We had a nice-getting to know you-talk on the way and spent a few other minutes here and there throughout my stay.
The hotel is the Beverly Garland Holiday Inn. Go to the website. Two years ago when I first went to the Conference, I thought, “Holiday Inn?” This place is a retreat, lush, green, almost isolated from the city. The rooms are serviceable. They are only for sleeping (it off) and showering (it off).
First, I head to registration to pick up my packet. The most prominent piece is a 100 page glossy program covering not only this weekend, but being the tenth anniversary, there are the previous nine programs. The graphic look of the Jim Steinmeyer created program is art deco, beautifully set and written as one would expect from a Steinmeyer production. My desire to read the book and take a nap pulls me in different directions. Nap wins.
The first program starts at 2:30; I’m fresh and ready to go. Down at the ballroom, it’s meet and greet time, renewing old acquaintances and find some friends in attendance that I didn’t know would be here.
In no particular order and, surely leaving a few out: Bob Higa, Mark and Sue Holstein, Jamy Ian Swiss, Max Maven, Ricky Jay, Brad Henderson, Stan Allen, Mark Kaschube, Richard Kaufman, Todd Karr, Aaron Fisher, Bill Kalush. I’ll meet a few more for the first time: Stephen Minch, Eric Mead, David Ben, for example. This is all heady stuff for me. I have always been on the out side looking in. To be a part and treated as an equal to my idols puts my world on tilt.
The program starts will John Carney in his character of Mr. Mysto. I’ve always been a big fan of John, but I don’t find his Mr. Mysto character hilariously funny. He does a black bit with the Indian Rope Trick. Amusing, at best.
Dustin Stinett followed with a talk about some new discoveries about the magic duo, Milo and Roger. The absolute best part was some rare tape of Milo and Roger performing on “The Hollywood Palace.”
John Gaughan takes the stage to perform the Shower of Gold effect described in Hoffmann’s More Magic. This is an amazing bit of Victorian conjuring. Later, in the exhibit hall, he will display the mechanism. Quite a complicated bit of machinery, but could be made into a fine performance today.
Mark Kalin and Jinger end the show with their presentation of the Spirit Cabinet. I will say that theirs is the closest in quality to Falkenstein and Willard. They are actually two of the better performers. Tightly scripted and in their own style.
After the show, it is to the hotel restaurant and dinner with Max Maven, Jamy Ian Swiss, and David Ben. We discuss Phenomenon, the upcoming Celebra-cadabra and life after surgery. David and I haven’t really spoken before, but being with Max and Jamy gives me credibility. Jamy and Max are two of my favorite people. Too smart and too direct for their own good, they make the most interesting conversationalists.
In another day or two, I’ll cover Thursday night.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Magic Tripping
Off to Los Angeles and the LA Conference on Magic History and the Hooker card rise, plus other unannounced surprises.
Yahoo!
I'll report on the goings on next week.
Hope to see some of you there.
As a side trip, I am going to try to see 90+ years old, father of the magazine Famous Monsters of Filmland, Forrest J. Ackerman. He lives 15 minutes away from the hotel and has an open house on Saturday to view his collection. Forry, if you don't know popularized the term Sci-Fi. How is that for a claim on history.
If you want to learn more on this amazing man, visit his web site:
http://4forry.best.vwh.net/
Yahoo!
I'll report on the goings on next week.
Hope to see some of you there.
As a side trip, I am going to try to see 90+ years old, father of the magazine Famous Monsters of Filmland, Forrest J. Ackerman. He lives 15 minutes away from the hotel and has an open house on Saturday to view his collection. Forry, if you don't know popularized the term Sci-Fi. How is that for a claim on history.
If you want to learn more on this amazing man, visit his web site:
http://4forry.best.vwh.net/
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Blog watch
Here is yet another great blog. I'll let it speak for itself.
"Raffaele De Ritis' Novelties and Wonders
Journal, Cabinet, Multilingual Parlour, Untranslated Conference Room, Repository of Erudite Pastimes, even a Gymnasium for the Polemist and the Humorist; Consacrated to Oddities and Facts Concerning Peculiarities of Theatrical Amusements related to the Circus, Conjuring, Comedy etc.; their Connections with Fine Arts; the Uncovering the Curiosities of their Past, and the Critical and Hopefully Provocative Account of what of Interest is Remaining of their Uncertain Present. Profusely Illustrated."
"Raffaele De Ritis' Novelties and Wonders
Journal, Cabinet, Multilingual Parlour, Untranslated Conference Room, Repository of Erudite Pastimes, even a Gymnasium for the Polemist and the Humorist; Consacrated to Oddities and Facts Concerning Peculiarities of Theatrical Amusements related to the Circus, Conjuring, Comedy etc.; their Connections with Fine Arts; the Uncovering the Curiosities of their Past, and the Critical and Hopefully Provocative Account of what of Interest is Remaining of their Uncertain Present. Profusely Illustrated."
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
October 31 All Hallows Eve
HALLOWE'EN
Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite
All are on their rounds to-night,-
In the wan moon's silver ray
Thrives their helter-skelter play.
Fond of cellar, barn,or stack,
True unto the almanac,
They present to credulous eyes
Strange hobgoblin mysteries.
Cabbage-stomps-straws wet with dew-
Apple-skins, and chestnuts too,
And a mirror for some lass,
Show what wonders come to pass.
Doors they move, and gates they hide,
Mischiefs that on moon-beams ride
Are their deeds, and, by their spells,
Love records its oracles.
Don't we all, of long ago,
By the ruddy fireplace glow,
In the kitchen and the hall,
Those queer, coofllke pranks recall?
Eery shadows were they then-
But to-night they come again;
Were we once more but sixteen,
Precious would be Halloween.
-Joel Benton
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Just in Time for Halloween
This is one of the coolest, most addictive blogs ever. I must go there daily to be inspired. You should also. Don't forget to go through all his past posts.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Soapbox, Shut up
It is an old oft-repeated adage or an old oft-repeated aphorism or, maybe, neither. I am sure it can, at least, be called an old oft-repeated saying, perhaps aspiring to be an adage or aphorism.
“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
Oh sure, a fine bit of verbiage, a solid enough sentences as far as sentences go, I guess. The thought best suited for the slow-witted and consistently foolish who wish not to be spoken ill of and yet probably deserve it.
Yet, just think about how disastrous it would be if we all ran around not saying un-nice things. It’s 1860, “Those slaves down in the south? Well, if you can’t say anything nice...” Or how about 1935, “I say, that Hitler chap just invaded Poland. Well, if you can’t say...”
Extreme? Nevertheless, certainly valid. This is taking the thought to its logical conclusion. It is a sentiment that has permeated the magic world and editorialized as recently as a couple months ago in Magic Magazine. This kind of thought has helped keep magic in the dark ages for practically ever.
Nay, I say. Do speak ill. Don’t hide your distain.
There are signs of it changing. The internet has helped, Tim Ellis’ wonderful blog and Magic Fakers website for example. Honest and, in the face of the sniping magic world, brave writers like Jamy Ian Swiss are exerting influence in the magic world. Although too often, the criticized attack back with little reason and personal attacks.
To keep those who treasure truth over lies and pursue perfection over mediocrity in a safe zone, I offer up a correction to our insidious thought.
“If you can’t say anything nice, have evidence.”
Previously, I wrote about my dislike of a couple of big shots in the magic world. This was not just random name calling. I believe I had a reasonable argument. That is the most important point. It is not just enough to say some one sucks. There must be a why. Like Tim Ellis, it is not enough to say that some is a rip off artist, show where they stole from.
There are two other variations of this theme.
“If you can’t say anything constructive, don’t say anything at all.”
“If you have nothing to say, don’t say it.”
Both should be heeded by those denizens of the message boards. I have no vested interest in what people write. I lurk. I see how people treat and react to others. It is embarrassing.
Repeatedly I see people post honest questions only to be attacked:
“I am working on a new show. A complete mentalism show under the theme of Water.I am writing something very different and, in my opinion, interesting.All kinds of effects, will be presented, and I was wondering if you know of one effect that is done with water ...I would be interested in your opinions and ideas.”
Answer: “I think that this would have a limited appeal to an audience, and would seriously limit the scope of your performance options.”
Was that what the poster asked? What do you care? Answer the question.
I saw another response to a post, the answer to the poster’s request was, “I don’t know, ask someone else.”
What the fuck? I am too annoyed to write any more about it.
Another saying to remember is, “It is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt." (Thank you, Mark Twain.) Alternatively, try this, “It is better to be silent and thought a fool than to type online and remove all doubt."
So let us review the rules. Write them down, paste them above your computer, and before you type, review.
1) “If you can’t say anything nice, have evidence.”
2) “If you can’t say anything constructive, don’t say anything at all.”
3) “If you have nothing to say, don’t say it.”
“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
Oh sure, a fine bit of verbiage, a solid enough sentences as far as sentences go, I guess. The thought best suited for the slow-witted and consistently foolish who wish not to be spoken ill of and yet probably deserve it.
Yet, just think about how disastrous it would be if we all ran around not saying un-nice things. It’s 1860, “Those slaves down in the south? Well, if you can’t say anything nice...” Or how about 1935, “I say, that Hitler chap just invaded Poland. Well, if you can’t say...”
Extreme? Nevertheless, certainly valid. This is taking the thought to its logical conclusion. It is a sentiment that has permeated the magic world and editorialized as recently as a couple months ago in Magic Magazine. This kind of thought has helped keep magic in the dark ages for practically ever.
Nay, I say. Do speak ill. Don’t hide your distain.
There are signs of it changing. The internet has helped, Tim Ellis’ wonderful blog and Magic Fakers website for example. Honest and, in the face of the sniping magic world, brave writers like Jamy Ian Swiss are exerting influence in the magic world. Although too often, the criticized attack back with little reason and personal attacks.
To keep those who treasure truth over lies and pursue perfection over mediocrity in a safe zone, I offer up a correction to our insidious thought.
“If you can’t say anything nice, have evidence.”
Previously, I wrote about my dislike of a couple of big shots in the magic world. This was not just random name calling. I believe I had a reasonable argument. That is the most important point. It is not just enough to say some one sucks. There must be a why. Like Tim Ellis, it is not enough to say that some is a rip off artist, show where they stole from.
There are two other variations of this theme.
“If you can’t say anything constructive, don’t say anything at all.”
“If you have nothing to say, don’t say it.”
Both should be heeded by those denizens of the message boards. I have no vested interest in what people write. I lurk. I see how people treat and react to others. It is embarrassing.
Repeatedly I see people post honest questions only to be attacked:
“I am working on a new show. A complete mentalism show under the theme of Water.I am writing something very different and, in my opinion, interesting.All kinds of effects, will be presented, and I was wondering if you know of one effect that is done with water ...I would be interested in your opinions and ideas.”
Answer: “I think that this would have a limited appeal to an audience, and would seriously limit the scope of your performance options.”
Was that what the poster asked? What do you care? Answer the question.
I saw another response to a post, the answer to the poster’s request was, “I don’t know, ask someone else.”
What the fuck? I am too annoyed to write any more about it.
Another saying to remember is, “It is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt." (Thank you, Mark Twain.) Alternatively, try this, “It is better to be silent and thought a fool than to type online and remove all doubt."
So let us review the rules. Write them down, paste them above your computer, and before you type, review.
1) “If you can’t say anything nice, have evidence.”
2) “If you can’t say anything constructive, don’t say anything at all.”
3) “If you have nothing to say, don’t say it.”
Monday, August 06, 2007
Ed and other people I know
This is a first draft, but since I haven't blogged in a while I thought I should post something. The summer has been a serious drain on me energy. I hope you enjoy this anyway. -Bill
Working in a public forum, I meet a lot of people. Most drift in and out of the store and barely leave a ripple in my water. Some become memories. A few just annoy me. There is something about a magic shop that acts as a magnet for every nut bag, jerk or loon.
A class of people exists solely to show me a magic trick. Well, we are not that kind of magic store. It is not the magicians; usually they understand and are content to hang out. It is the amateur who pushes to show a trick.
“You gotta deck? Gimme a deck. I’ll show you a trick. See if you know this one.”
Believe me, I do know that one and every other one they are going to do. As soon as they start describing the trick I can finish their sentences. Of course, they have to continue long past any time a reasonable person would’ve stopped.
Worse is the parent pushing their child to show that trick.
“Hey show him your trick. Do that trick. Here’s a quarter. Do your trick. See if he knows that one. Betcha don’t know this one.”
Really…I guess I got the job because I work cheap. (I don’t.) I might have a little experience with magic trick considering they are my job. If the Chinese ever need me to confess my secrets they now know what to do.
A second species inhabiting Navy Pier is the mall walker. There are several antiqued gentlemen and gentlewomen who visit the mall to pass their golden years. (Days?)
An older Italian man used to come into the store for a visit. This I found hilarious because, although in this country for many years, his English was terrible. He spoke with a thick accent, in a half English, half Italian vocabulary. Only once in a while would I understand a “Fuck” through the garbled talk. But he spoke on and on while I smiled and politely nodded. Until, he started calling the black people he saw monkeys and showed me a picture of Hitler he kept reverently in his wallet. I pulled the plug after that. Was my polite nodding an agreement to his racist ranting? I sure hope not.
Our most regular visitor is Ed. He is nearly 80 years old. Not a real deep thinker, but mostly harmless, and he has some interesting stories. At seventeen, he joined the army and served food on Navy Pier to the soldiers returning from World War 2. He was a drunk, a vagrant, and homeless for many years. He spent a lot of time in theaters, a cheap place to be sheltered, and remembers seeing many legendary performers live. He did a little time in prison again for vagrancy. He goes out to jazz clubs every Friday night, gets his drink on, dances a little, and brags about imaginary girlfriends. Ed was hit by a bus last year, but gets around as well as always. Ed is a survivor.
There is an anonymous man in a wheelchair that rolls by everyday and waves hello.
The other day an 80 year plus black woman, who has also anonymously limped by the store for the past couple of years, finally decided it was time to talk to the magic guy.
“How do I look?”
Well, a novel way to start out I think. She looks the same as she always has, as far as I can tell. I am unusually observant and notice much that happens past my store. The woman is average. Maybe a little shorter than average, but otherwise medium build. Medium brown skin tone. What I did notice was the limp and that one leg was considerably thicker than the other. She moves a little unsteady like she is always off balance.
“Um…you…you look fine.” I reply.
“Oh, I was just wonderin’. So I look okay, huh?”
“The same as you have every other time you walked by the store.”
“Well, I used to be 350 pounds.” She shows me the skin hanging from her arm. “I am going to the doctor and gonna get this fixed and down here,” pointing to her stomach, “this too. All fixed.”
Hmmm, I think this may be trouble.
“I’m alone now.” She continues.” My kids they all met someone out of state and married them. But I get along okay. My clothes, where I live they all think they’re new, but I go to the thrift store on North Ave. and the woman there she saves stuff for me and I go and buy it. And they all think I got me a new fur coat. But I look okay huh?”
I want to say, “When I am as close to death as you are, I should be so lucky.” Instead I say, “Fine.” It is taken as her cue to continue.
“I’m alone now, but I had a brother he was a boxer. Here in Chicago. But he never got scarred up. No. The women he had around him. They were like syrup. Honey.”
I will be patient. She is a harmless lonely old woman who needs someone to talk to. I nod my head. Smile. And generally ooh and aah in all the right places. Least, I can understand her.
“Well, I’m glad I look okay. I was a nurse in the war and I was giving the doctor a scalpel when a bomb went off and I looked up and there was no one around. They all dove under the table. I was there with patient. I still have a bullet in my leg. They never took it out. They didn’t want to show me the x-rays, so I called my lawyer Bernstein. He made them. I still got it in my leg.”
She lifts her swollen leg up to show an Ace bandage wrapped around it, slightly above the knee.
“But I’m not afraid to be alone. I lived with my mother. And she was alone, but I never saw her with no boyfriends. My brother he went with all the women. I’m okay. I go anywhere. You got to the liquor store over by **** and they will sell you. Give the cash. I put a silencer on my 45 caliber. No one comes up to me.”
“Gulp.” I gulped.
A family comes in the store and I ask if they need any help, hoping they do. They don’t. But they will just look a moment.
“Bernstein, he’s good. He won’t do a dirty deal. I go there and get some papers done. He won’t charge me. He’s got two sons and they’re lawyers too, but he says come to me. They do dirty deals. They are in the same building. Same floor. But he won’t have anything to do with them. He says, ‘go away, stay there.’ Yep, I had my last baby when I was fifty years old.”
“Wow.” I wowed.
“The newspapers came out. And the doctor he had to do a caesarian because he said my womb was too small. And he said I couldn’t have intercourse with a larger man because of my tiny vagina.”
“ ” I blanked.
I did the only thing I could. “Don’t you folks have any questions yet?”
They did.
The elderly woman turned and left in a wisp of an unintelligible mumble.
As she left, I quietly thanked that family. The mom, who was standing right next to the conversation, asks, “I was only half listening. What was she talking about? Her kitchen?”
I laughed, “Sort of…it was a little more… more anatomical than that. So do you guys do some magic already?”
Yes, another day in the store. I can’t wait until Wednesday when we’ll both be back. Maybe I should introduce her to Ed.
Working in a public forum, I meet a lot of people. Most drift in and out of the store and barely leave a ripple in my water. Some become memories. A few just annoy me. There is something about a magic shop that acts as a magnet for every nut bag, jerk or loon.
A class of people exists solely to show me a magic trick. Well, we are not that kind of magic store. It is not the magicians; usually they understand and are content to hang out. It is the amateur who pushes to show a trick.
“You gotta deck? Gimme a deck. I’ll show you a trick. See if you know this one.”
Believe me, I do know that one and every other one they are going to do. As soon as they start describing the trick I can finish their sentences. Of course, they have to continue long past any time a reasonable person would’ve stopped.
Worse is the parent pushing their child to show that trick.
“Hey show him your trick. Do that trick. Here’s a quarter. Do your trick. See if he knows that one. Betcha don’t know this one.”
Really…I guess I got the job because I work cheap. (I don’t.) I might have a little experience with magic trick considering they are my job. If the Chinese ever need me to confess my secrets they now know what to do.
A second species inhabiting Navy Pier is the mall walker. There are several antiqued gentlemen and gentlewomen who visit the mall to pass their golden years. (Days?)
An older Italian man used to come into the store for a visit. This I found hilarious because, although in this country for many years, his English was terrible. He spoke with a thick accent, in a half English, half Italian vocabulary. Only once in a while would I understand a “Fuck” through the garbled talk. But he spoke on and on while I smiled and politely nodded. Until, he started calling the black people he saw monkeys and showed me a picture of Hitler he kept reverently in his wallet. I pulled the plug after that. Was my polite nodding an agreement to his racist ranting? I sure hope not.
Our most regular visitor is Ed. He is nearly 80 years old. Not a real deep thinker, but mostly harmless, and he has some interesting stories. At seventeen, he joined the army and served food on Navy Pier to the soldiers returning from World War 2. He was a drunk, a vagrant, and homeless for many years. He spent a lot of time in theaters, a cheap place to be sheltered, and remembers seeing many legendary performers live. He did a little time in prison again for vagrancy. He goes out to jazz clubs every Friday night, gets his drink on, dances a little, and brags about imaginary girlfriends. Ed was hit by a bus last year, but gets around as well as always. Ed is a survivor.
There is an anonymous man in a wheelchair that rolls by everyday and waves hello.
The other day an 80 year plus black woman, who has also anonymously limped by the store for the past couple of years, finally decided it was time to talk to the magic guy.
“How do I look?”
Well, a novel way to start out I think. She looks the same as she always has, as far as I can tell. I am unusually observant and notice much that happens past my store. The woman is average. Maybe a little shorter than average, but otherwise medium build. Medium brown skin tone. What I did notice was the limp and that one leg was considerably thicker than the other. She moves a little unsteady like she is always off balance.
“Um…you…you look fine.” I reply.
“Oh, I was just wonderin’. So I look okay, huh?”
“The same as you have every other time you walked by the store.”
“Well, I used to be 350 pounds.” She shows me the skin hanging from her arm. “I am going to the doctor and gonna get this fixed and down here,” pointing to her stomach, “this too. All fixed.”
Hmmm, I think this may be trouble.
“I’m alone now.” She continues.” My kids they all met someone out of state and married them. But I get along okay. My clothes, where I live they all think they’re new, but I go to the thrift store on North Ave. and the woman there she saves stuff for me and I go and buy it. And they all think I got me a new fur coat. But I look okay huh?”
I want to say, “When I am as close to death as you are, I should be so lucky.” Instead I say, “Fine.” It is taken as her cue to continue.
“I’m alone now, but I had a brother he was a boxer. Here in Chicago. But he never got scarred up. No. The women he had around him. They were like syrup. Honey.”
I will be patient. She is a harmless lonely old woman who needs someone to talk to. I nod my head. Smile. And generally ooh and aah in all the right places. Least, I can understand her.
“Well, I’m glad I look okay. I was a nurse in the war and I was giving the doctor a scalpel when a bomb went off and I looked up and there was no one around. They all dove under the table. I was there with patient. I still have a bullet in my leg. They never took it out. They didn’t want to show me the x-rays, so I called my lawyer Bernstein. He made them. I still got it in my leg.”
She lifts her swollen leg up to show an Ace bandage wrapped around it, slightly above the knee.
“But I’m not afraid to be alone. I lived with my mother. And she was alone, but I never saw her with no boyfriends. My brother he went with all the women. I’m okay. I go anywhere. You got to the liquor store over by **** and they will sell you. Give the cash. I put a silencer on my 45 caliber. No one comes up to me.”
“Gulp.” I gulped.
A family comes in the store and I ask if they need any help, hoping they do. They don’t. But they will just look a moment.
“Bernstein, he’s good. He won’t do a dirty deal. I go there and get some papers done. He won’t charge me. He’s got two sons and they’re lawyers too, but he says come to me. They do dirty deals. They are in the same building. Same floor. But he won’t have anything to do with them. He says, ‘go away, stay there.’ Yep, I had my last baby when I was fifty years old.”
“Wow.” I wowed.
“The newspapers came out. And the doctor he had to do a caesarian because he said my womb was too small. And he said I couldn’t have intercourse with a larger man because of my tiny vagina.”
“ ” I blanked.
I did the only thing I could. “Don’t you folks have any questions yet?”
They did.
The elderly woman turned and left in a wisp of an unintelligible mumble.
As she left, I quietly thanked that family. The mom, who was standing right next to the conversation, asks, “I was only half listening. What was she talking about? Her kitchen?”
I laughed, “Sort of…it was a little more… more anatomical than that. So do you guys do some magic already?”
Yes, another day in the store. I can’t wait until Wednesday when we’ll both be back. Maybe I should introduce her to Ed.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
PC Bastards
Those of you looking for a rant about Apple vs. PC, look elsewhere. This is a rant about a group of out-of-touch, power mad public “servants”, Chicago’s Aldermen.
First, a word about the so-called PC movement.
While I do agree that we should not discriminate against those that may be different from us, this movement has created an atmosphere of over sensitivity. Every I turn I see imagined slights and transgressions causing offense. Neutral language and equivocated statements are rendering our interactions beige, bland, and, at times, incomprehensible. Worse yet, boring. Look at the first sentence of this paragraph. I have to equivocate or else I know the PC fools will be on the attack. They want to impose rules onto other people.
I am not a smoker. I hate when I come home and my clothes smell from smoke. I would never date anyone again that smoked. My father had a horrible decade long battle within his body because of what smoking unfiltered Camel cigarettes did to it. Nasty things happened to my father. It finally killed him two years ago. Yet, I am against this smoking ban fad running rampant through America right now.
Smoking, while personally distasteful, is a legal act. You can buy cigarettes. You can pay the taxes on them. You just can’t smoke them. Prohibition, that worked out well, didn’t it? How about that war on drugs, glad we stamped them out. Whew!
My main complaint is that the free market should decide whether a particular business should be smoke free, limited smoking, or smoke filled. If enough people complain or refuse to patronize a business, the business must adapt. This is a time honored successful capitalist tradition. We do not need it to be legislated.
I don’t like Burger King’s French fries. I don’t eat Burger King’s French fries. I go to McDonald’s or Wendy’s. I do not go to Burger King. If enough people feel the same as I do then either Burger King will change or go out of business. No laws are required to change the fries at Burger King. The system we created, we depend on, works.
But, the Chicago City Gestapo has not only banned smoking, it has banned food and wants to further limit the free market by limiting the choices of how our food is made.
On May 4th, the City Gestapo’s Buildings Committee voted to reject an exemption that would have allowed actors on stage to by-pass the city ordinance that bans smoking in public places. So, if a play requires smoking, say to re-create a period or as an important metaphor, you can’t do it. A court in Colorado has already rules that an actor doesn’t have a First Amendment right to light up.
To a magician, this means the death of cigarette tricks. Violence and sex are protected on stage, but not cigarette manipulation. No, no, no.
Perhaps, this isn’t a battle I should be fighting or caring about, but I believe this is a chip knocked off the Constitution. This slow erosion of our rights is frightening. The process is so small that we hardly recognize that we are ceding the control of our lives to a political machine, bought and paid for by the highest bidder.
I’ve not performed my cigarette act in years, but I would like the option. I would like my audience to have the option of whether they want to see it or not. I want the system created by our founding fathers to be allowed to work.
The problem is one ban always follows another.
The real question to ask is, what’s next?
Without freedom, no art; art lives only on the restraints it imposes on itself, and dies of all others.
-- Albert Camus
Freedom is poetry, taking liberties with words, breaking the rules of normal speech, violating common sense. Freedom is violence.
-- Norman O. Brown
If we don’t believe in freedom of expression for people we despise, we don’t believe in it at all.
-- Noam Chomsky
The condition every art requires is, not so much freedom from restriction, as freedom from adulteration and from the intrusion of foreign matter.
--Willa Cather
The true danger is when liberty is nibbled away, for expedience, and by parts.
--Edmund Burke
For the article that inspired this entry please read Perform Ink.
http://performink.com/Framesets/2frmBody.html
Friday, June 22, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
True History for the Showman
The Many Legs of Santa Anna
Antonio de Padua MarÃa Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón was born with the standard two, although mirror imaged, matching legs. They served their master, Santa Anna, for many good years.
In 1810, at the age of sixteen, the three of them, Santa Anna and his legs, joined the Mexican army. By the time a dozen years had passed, Santa Anna’s stellar military service earned the rank of General. In 1836, he defeated the troops at the Alamo. Despite the victory, he was not received as a hero by the Mexican government.
In 1838, he saw a way to redeem himself when the French invaded Mexico. During the so-called Pastry War, cannon fire struck the General. His leg and ankle were shattered and amputation was the only option. In a ceremony befitting any war dead, the detached leg was buried with full military honors. His leg wasn’t the only loss, the battle was also a defeat, yet, Santa Ana styled himself as a hero.
During this era, wooden legs were little more than sticks. Santa Ana preferred a cork leg sculpted to a more realistic shape. This leg he would hold high above his head and wave it during parades to remind the onlookers of the sacrifice he made for Mexico.
However, he wasn’t finished with the formerly attached leg. On the year anniversary of his loss in the Pastry War and the ten-year anniversary of his greatest victory over Spain in Tampico, the leg was disinterred. Santa Ana had the limb paraded through the streets in an imperial coach and laid to rest in an ornate mausoleum. He commissioned songs and poems to eulogize, lovingly, his former member.
Santa Ana was president of Mexico eleven non-consecutive times over a period of twenty-two years. Sometimes handed the power of state, sometimes seizing it for himself, only to be thrown out of office for his extreme corruption. After one such event, a riotous mob destroyed his leg’s crypt. They dragged the desiccated appendage through the streets chanting “Death to the Cripple, Long Live Congress.” The leg hasn’t been heard from since.
In 1846, the United States declared war on Mexico. Santa Anna commanded the Mexican forces the battle of Cerro Gordo. American troops forced the General into a hasty retreat. Illinois guardsmen discovered Santa Ana’s personal carriage abandoned. Its contents included the General’s personal wardrobe, $70,000 in silver to pay his troops, and his favorite leg. The troops immortalized the leg in song parodies. To this day, the war prisoner (cork leg) is still being held at the Illinois State Military Museum in Springfield, Illinois.
Mourning the loss, Santa Ana never again would sport cork; wood would have to do. There is an unconfirmed rumor that Texas is also in possession of a wooden Santa Anna leg and tried to trade it for a flag that flew over the Alamo, which is owned by Mexico.
I can just imagine some industrious owner of a 19th cabinet of curiosities touring with wax copies of the many legs of Santa Ana.
Must have been quite the draw.
PostScript: The former legs of Heather Mills and Monty Stratton could not be reached for comment on the previous totally bizarre, mostly true, story.
Antonio de Padua MarÃa Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón was born with the standard two, although mirror imaged, matching legs. They served their master, Santa Anna, for many good years.
In 1810, at the age of sixteen, the three of them, Santa Anna and his legs, joined the Mexican army. By the time a dozen years had passed, Santa Anna’s stellar military service earned the rank of General. In 1836, he defeated the troops at the Alamo. Despite the victory, he was not received as a hero by the Mexican government.
In 1838, he saw a way to redeem himself when the French invaded Mexico. During the so-called Pastry War, cannon fire struck the General. His leg and ankle were shattered and amputation was the only option. In a ceremony befitting any war dead, the detached leg was buried with full military honors. His leg wasn’t the only loss, the battle was also a defeat, yet, Santa Ana styled himself as a hero.
During this era, wooden legs were little more than sticks. Santa Ana preferred a cork leg sculpted to a more realistic shape. This leg he would hold high above his head and wave it during parades to remind the onlookers of the sacrifice he made for Mexico.
However, he wasn’t finished with the formerly attached leg. On the year anniversary of his loss in the Pastry War and the ten-year anniversary of his greatest victory over Spain in Tampico, the leg was disinterred. Santa Ana had the limb paraded through the streets in an imperial coach and laid to rest in an ornate mausoleum. He commissioned songs and poems to eulogize, lovingly, his former member.
Santa Ana was president of Mexico eleven non-consecutive times over a period of twenty-two years. Sometimes handed the power of state, sometimes seizing it for himself, only to be thrown out of office for his extreme corruption. After one such event, a riotous mob destroyed his leg’s crypt. They dragged the desiccated appendage through the streets chanting “Death to the Cripple, Long Live Congress.” The leg hasn’t been heard from since.
In 1846, the United States declared war on Mexico. Santa Anna commanded the Mexican forces the battle of Cerro Gordo. American troops forced the General into a hasty retreat. Illinois guardsmen discovered Santa Ana’s personal carriage abandoned. Its contents included the General’s personal wardrobe, $70,000 in silver to pay his troops, and his favorite leg. The troops immortalized the leg in song parodies. To this day, the war prisoner (cork leg) is still being held at the Illinois State Military Museum in Springfield, Illinois.
Mourning the loss, Santa Ana never again would sport cork; wood would have to do. There is an unconfirmed rumor that Texas is also in possession of a wooden Santa Anna leg and tried to trade it for a flag that flew over the Alamo, which is owned by Mexico.
I can just imagine some industrious owner of a 19th cabinet of curiosities touring with wax copies of the many legs of Santa Ana.
Must have been quite the draw.
PostScript: The former legs of Heather Mills and Monty Stratton could not be reached for comment on the previous totally bizarre, mostly true, story.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
News and Quotes
I have to apologize to my regular readers; I’m way behind in my writing.
Too many projects, too little time.
Keep your eyes open this week for the bizarre story of the many legs of Santa Ana. Also, there will be a review of last weeks opening of Chicago’s newest weekly magic show, The Magic Cabaret.
For now, here are a few choice quotes about Chicago:
It used to be a writer’s town, and it’s always been a fighter’s town. For writers and fighters and furtive torpedoes, cat-bandits, baggage thieves, hallway headlockers on the prowl, baby photographers, and stylish coneroos, this is the spot that is always most convenient, being so centrally located for settling ancestral grudges. Whether the power is in a .38, a typewriter ribbon, or a pair of six-ouncers, the place has grown great on bone-deep grudges of writers and fighters and furtive torpedoes.
--Nelson Algren, (Chicago’s greatest writer)
Here’s the difference between us and Dante. He wrote a lot about hell and never saw the place. We’re writing about Chicago after looking the town over.
--Carl Sandburg, (Chicago’s 2nd greatest writer)
Chicago is the glory and damnation of America all rolled up into one. Not to know Chicago is not to know America.
--Neal R. Pierce and John Keefe
Eventually I think that Chicago will be the most beautiful great city left in the world.
--Frank Lloyd Wright
I find the whiskey unexpectedly good.
--William Butler Yeats, (visiting Chicago during prohibition)
I wish I could go to America if only to see Chicago.
--Otto Von Bismarck
Loving Chicago is like loving a woman with a broken nose.
--Nelson Algren
Too many projects, too little time.
Keep your eyes open this week for the bizarre story of the many legs of Santa Ana. Also, there will be a review of last weeks opening of Chicago’s newest weekly magic show, The Magic Cabaret.
For now, here are a few choice quotes about Chicago:
It used to be a writer’s town, and it’s always been a fighter’s town. For writers and fighters and furtive torpedoes, cat-bandits, baggage thieves, hallway headlockers on the prowl, baby photographers, and stylish coneroos, this is the spot that is always most convenient, being so centrally located for settling ancestral grudges. Whether the power is in a .38, a typewriter ribbon, or a pair of six-ouncers, the place has grown great on bone-deep grudges of writers and fighters and furtive torpedoes.
--Nelson Algren, (Chicago’s greatest writer)
Here’s the difference between us and Dante. He wrote a lot about hell and never saw the place. We’re writing about Chicago after looking the town over.
--Carl Sandburg, (Chicago’s 2nd greatest writer)
Chicago is the glory and damnation of America all rolled up into one. Not to know Chicago is not to know America.
--Neal R. Pierce and John Keefe
Eventually I think that Chicago will be the most beautiful great city left in the world.
--Frank Lloyd Wright
I find the whiskey unexpectedly good.
--William Butler Yeats, (visiting Chicago during prohibition)
I wish I could go to America if only to see Chicago.
--Otto Von Bismarck
Loving Chicago is like loving a woman with a broken nose.
--Nelson Algren
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Quote Me
Keep this in mind when writing and routining:
"tanto nadar para morir en la orilla"
(So much swimming only to perish at the shore)
--Arthur Plotnik, from The Elements of Expression,
Putting Thoughts into Words
Friday, May 18, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Late Reviews from the Collectors' Weekend
Okay, it took me a couple of days to recover from Collectors', but here are some thoughts and reviews. Better late than never.
Wednesday
The Magic Collectors' did not have any events, but Chicago's own Knights of Sleights put on their annual flea market. Auctions seem to be all the rage. Thankfully, the Knights (in an effort for full disclosure, I am a member-at-large.) stuck to tradition and organised a wonderful event. I look forward to this Wednesday every year because it is a social event. I see people that I may only see once a year. Oh, and there is good stuff to buy, too.
Thursday
Check in, Dealer rooms open, It seems like much less dealers than I remember. I look longingly at all the things I can't afford. The Jay Marshall auction previews begin. I look longingly at all the things I'll never afford. In the evening, Richard Kaufman spoke on the book Greater Magic. Most of what he said could be found in the introduction of the book itself. He never said the only words I wanted to hear: "reprint". Jim Steinmeyer gave his customary professional talk on Amac, Jarrett, and historical notables.
Friday
I start off the program with a talk on the new discoveries I made concerning Spirit Medium Carrie M. Sawyer, the star of my book, EXPOSED! The Untold Story of Harry Kellar and The Tribune Spook Cases. (I have only 10 books left out of the 100 I printed. I will not be printing it again. When I promise a limited edition I mean it.) The talk went well. Better than my first talk in LA, I was much more comfortable this time. Transplanted Chicagoan David Parr Followed me with a wonderful talk about rediscovering your own magical past. Digging up some of his earliest magic books and finding what made him love magic in the first place. After lunch, Michael Claxton, a researcher after my own heart, waded through 150 years of Punch magazine collecting everything on magic. He covered the first 75 years in his lightly entertaining talk. David Charvet returned with an updated talk about Alexander and new version of his Alexander book from Mike Caveney's Magic Words company. David Avadon spoke in support of his book, Cutting up the Touches, from Squash Publishing. (the event organiser, Gabe Fujari's company.) This was one of the low points of the weekend when he clearly could not handle the speaking assignment, especially odd considering he just wrote a book on the subject. In the evening, Chicagoan Lee Levin spoke on two newly discovered Houdini window cards. I wrote about this subject previously, check my archives. John Carney spoke and performed his take on three magical marvels. Filling in for the recovering Max Maven, David Ben recounted a few anecdotes and introduced a Canadian documentary on Max. What didn't help is the singles party next door blasting their music to constant distraction.
Saturday
Woke up in time for the Jay Marshall auction. Spent $140 on a small picture album of Chicago stage performers. Over all most items went for much more than thought. I one piece I really wanted went to my friend, Dave Odette. Who will now be known as That Bastard. The evening show featured local juggler Andy Head, who did a nice turn. Andy is an incredible juggler, but not nearly as entertaining as he could be. David Avadon surprisingly did not perform pickpocketing. I thought that was what he did. He performed a newspaper tear and a spirit cabinet stunt in which he, while tied up, ends up wearing a spectator's coat. David only cannot speak his own speech, but can't perform his own act. Again Chicagoan and life long friend of Guest-of-Honor Jim Steinmeyer, Bob Higa performed classic manipulations well and had Jim introduce three of own illusions while Bob performed them.
The final result was a good, but not great or special convention. I was happy to see it back in Chicago. It is our continuing shame that the is not a regular convention in Chicago.
Finally, I got to spend time and meals and excessive cocktails with David Parr, Dan Mindo, P.T. Murphy, Arthur Trace, Gordon Meyer, Jon Stetson, Dave Odette, Jim Steinmeyer, Tim Felix, Rodger Dreyer, Bill Kalush, John Carney, Graham Putnam, Jim Alferson, and probably a few others that I can't remember. All of these guys engaged each other in a few days of interesting talk and hilarious stories.
I wouldn't trade that for anything.
Maybe the convention was pretty special, after all.
Wednesday
The Magic Collectors' did not have any events, but Chicago's own Knights of Sleights put on their annual flea market. Auctions seem to be all the rage. Thankfully, the Knights (in an effort for full disclosure, I am a member-at-large.) stuck to tradition and organised a wonderful event. I look forward to this Wednesday every year because it is a social event. I see people that I may only see once a year. Oh, and there is good stuff to buy, too.
Thursday
Check in, Dealer rooms open, It seems like much less dealers than I remember. I look longingly at all the things I can't afford. The Jay Marshall auction previews begin. I look longingly at all the things I'll never afford. In the evening, Richard Kaufman spoke on the book Greater Magic. Most of what he said could be found in the introduction of the book itself. He never said the only words I wanted to hear: "reprint". Jim Steinmeyer gave his customary professional talk on Amac, Jarrett, and historical notables.
Friday
I start off the program with a talk on the new discoveries I made concerning Spirit Medium Carrie M. Sawyer, the star of my book, EXPOSED! The Untold Story of Harry Kellar and The Tribune Spook Cases. (I have only 10 books left out of the 100 I printed. I will not be printing it again. When I promise a limited edition I mean it.) The talk went well. Better than my first talk in LA, I was much more comfortable this time. Transplanted Chicagoan David Parr Followed me with a wonderful talk about rediscovering your own magical past. Digging up some of his earliest magic books and finding what made him love magic in the first place. After lunch, Michael Claxton, a researcher after my own heart, waded through 150 years of Punch magazine collecting everything on magic. He covered the first 75 years in his lightly entertaining talk. David Charvet returned with an updated talk about Alexander and new version of his Alexander book from Mike Caveney's Magic Words company. David Avadon spoke in support of his book, Cutting up the Touches, from Squash Publishing. (the event organiser, Gabe Fujari's company.) This was one of the low points of the weekend when he clearly could not handle the speaking assignment, especially odd considering he just wrote a book on the subject. In the evening, Chicagoan Lee Levin spoke on two newly discovered Houdini window cards. I wrote about this subject previously, check my archives. John Carney spoke and performed his take on three magical marvels. Filling in for the recovering Max Maven, David Ben recounted a few anecdotes and introduced a Canadian documentary on Max. What didn't help is the singles party next door blasting their music to constant distraction.
Saturday
Woke up in time for the Jay Marshall auction. Spent $140 on a small picture album of Chicago stage performers. Over all most items went for much more than thought. I one piece I really wanted went to my friend, Dave Odette. Who will now be known as That Bastard. The evening show featured local juggler Andy Head, who did a nice turn. Andy is an incredible juggler, but not nearly as entertaining as he could be. David Avadon surprisingly did not perform pickpocketing. I thought that was what he did. He performed a newspaper tear and a spirit cabinet stunt in which he, while tied up, ends up wearing a spectator's coat. David only cannot speak his own speech, but can't perform his own act. Again Chicagoan and life long friend of Guest-of-Honor Jim Steinmeyer, Bob Higa performed classic manipulations well and had Jim introduce three of own illusions while Bob performed them.
The final result was a good, but not great or special convention. I was happy to see it back in Chicago. It is our continuing shame that the is not a regular convention in Chicago.
Finally, I got to spend time and meals and excessive cocktails with David Parr, Dan Mindo, P.T. Murphy, Arthur Trace, Gordon Meyer, Jon Stetson, Dave Odette, Jim Steinmeyer, Tim Felix, Rodger Dreyer, Bill Kalush, John Carney, Graham Putnam, Jim Alferson, and probably a few others that I can't remember. All of these guys engaged each other in a few days of interesting talk and hilarious stories.
I wouldn't trade that for anything.
Maybe the convention was pretty special, after all.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Random Acts of Sideshow
How to go from Ordinary Human to Blockhead.
It started in the pain and torture acts, sideshow performances in which the performers endured or seemed to endure intense pain.
Some survived crucifixion on a nightly basis. Others just pushed needles through their skin. Not like in this age when gratuitous piercing has rendered shoving a spike through your tongue meaningless. Nope, these guys and even a few girls shoved needles through parts rarely pierced today, like arms and legs. One nutty bastard even thrust a sword through his chest. And when I say through his chest, I mean it. From the front and out the back, not just through a bitsy piece of skin, impalement is the correct terminology. If you want to see the pictures visit the link to The Human Marvels, check his archives.
One of the common torture tests was for the performer to pound a large nail or spike into his nasal passage. It horrified. The audience believed the nail pierced skin, bone, and, perhaps, even brain to make its way into the head. Of course, the performer hammed it up.
Then came a man by the name of Melvin Burkhart, he changed everything. He took a minor torture piece, turned it into a showstopper, and gave birth to a generation of blockheads. The big change was that he played it for laughs. This made it accessible to audiences. Sure, it was still shocking, especially because he used a HUGE spike.
I have performed the Human Blockhead act for at least a decade. What makes a man pound a spike in his face? I think for Melvin, it was work; it was show business. For me, it was another challenge.
So many years ago when I decided being a magician was preferable to working for a living, I also decided that I wanted to learn everything about magic and its allied arts. I learned to juggle, ventriloquism, and eat fire. Right now, I am working on whip cracking.
I digress. Ten years ago, a friend, Scott Wagmeister, introduced me to the act. After some experimentation with Q-tips, I moved to nails. First, just sliding them in and then figuring how to “pound” them into my nose. I tried larger nails until I settled on a size and length that was comfortable. I believe my sinus passage would stretch, but I don’t want to go through the pain of enlarging it.
Now, you can find performers who have backslid into making the act a torture act again. They shove ice picks, screwdrivers, and drills into their heads. Whatever works. (Whatever sells!)
I prefer the middle road, a little shock, a little fun.
Make ‘em squirm, then make ‘em laugh; pull them and let them know everything is safe.
The other day a new addition for the act came in the mail. Glass Nails!
I’ll get to the maker in a moment. The nails are made from Pyrex. They look great and slide in smooth. One of their amazing properties is that they conduct light, much like fiber optics. When the nail is deep in my nose, I can put a flashlight in my mouth and light up the nails.
Cool. I’m the Human Lite-Brite.
(Lite-Brite is a registered trademark of blah, blah blah.)
The maker of these wonderful new tools is Brett Loudermilk, The Freak Prodigy. I found out that he made these in the sideshow section on the Magic Café. No, never fear, I am not a member. I lurk, mostly shaking my head in disbelief, except in the sideshow section, which seems pretty decent.
Back to the commercial, Brett has made an incredible product. I urge anyone reading this that does the blockhead act already to purchase some nails from him. Don't waver. For a few bucks, it will make your act better. Even if you just perform it for fun, these nails add a lot to the show. Here is his e-mail: bretteloudermilk@gmail.com
Hey, get your freak on.
It started in the pain and torture acts, sideshow performances in which the performers endured or seemed to endure intense pain.
Some survived crucifixion on a nightly basis. Others just pushed needles through their skin. Not like in this age when gratuitous piercing has rendered shoving a spike through your tongue meaningless. Nope, these guys and even a few girls shoved needles through parts rarely pierced today, like arms and legs. One nutty bastard even thrust a sword through his chest. And when I say through his chest, I mean it. From the front and out the back, not just through a bitsy piece of skin, impalement is the correct terminology. If you want to see the pictures visit the link to The Human Marvels, check his archives.
One of the common torture tests was for the performer to pound a large nail or spike into his nasal passage. It horrified. The audience believed the nail pierced skin, bone, and, perhaps, even brain to make its way into the head. Of course, the performer hammed it up.
Then came a man by the name of Melvin Burkhart, he changed everything. He took a minor torture piece, turned it into a showstopper, and gave birth to a generation of blockheads. The big change was that he played it for laughs. This made it accessible to audiences. Sure, it was still shocking, especially because he used a HUGE spike.
I have performed the Human Blockhead act for at least a decade. What makes a man pound a spike in his face? I think for Melvin, it was work; it was show business. For me, it was another challenge.
So many years ago when I decided being a magician was preferable to working for a living, I also decided that I wanted to learn everything about magic and its allied arts. I learned to juggle, ventriloquism, and eat fire. Right now, I am working on whip cracking.
I digress. Ten years ago, a friend, Scott Wagmeister, introduced me to the act. After some experimentation with Q-tips, I moved to nails. First, just sliding them in and then figuring how to “pound” them into my nose. I tried larger nails until I settled on a size and length that was comfortable. I believe my sinus passage would stretch, but I don’t want to go through the pain of enlarging it.
Now, you can find performers who have backslid into making the act a torture act again. They shove ice picks, screwdrivers, and drills into their heads. Whatever works. (Whatever sells!)
I prefer the middle road, a little shock, a little fun.
Make ‘em squirm, then make ‘em laugh; pull them and let them know everything is safe.
The other day a new addition for the act came in the mail. Glass Nails!
I’ll get to the maker in a moment. The nails are made from Pyrex. They look great and slide in smooth. One of their amazing properties is that they conduct light, much like fiber optics. When the nail is deep in my nose, I can put a flashlight in my mouth and light up the nails.
Cool. I’m the Human Lite-Brite.
(Lite-Brite is a registered trademark of blah, blah blah.)
The maker of these wonderful new tools is Brett Loudermilk, The Freak Prodigy. I found out that he made these in the sideshow section on the Magic Café. No, never fear, I am not a member. I lurk, mostly shaking my head in disbelief, except in the sideshow section, which seems pretty decent.
Back to the commercial, Brett has made an incredible product. I urge anyone reading this that does the blockhead act already to purchase some nails from him. Don't waver. For a few bucks, it will make your act better. Even if you just perform it for fun, these nails add a lot to the show. Here is his e-mail: bretteloudermilk@gmail.com
Hey, get your freak on.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Play Time
From the UMA website:
ORANGE LEMON EGG CANARY
by Rinne Groff
April 18 - May 18, 2007
Chopin Studio Theatre
Uma is proud to present the Midwest premiere of Obie Award-winning playwright Rinne Groff's ORANGE LEMON EGG CANARY. Great, a renegade magician with a mysterious legacy finds more than meets the eye in his sexy new assistant Trilby, who pursues him for the truth of his past and the truth behind his tricks. This funny, quirky modern love story has plenty of disappearing coins, floating objects, and the infamously dangerous and thrilling "chick-on-a stick." Not to mention a lovely assistant who talks a lot for being a dead woman. A magical exploration of the cheap tricks, smoke and mirrors and bonds of faith in modern romance, ORANGE LEMON EGG CANARY is sure to be an amazing night at the theatre, especially when experienced amidst one of Uma's fantastical "umavironments."
This production is appearing in Chicago for the first time. Dennis Watkins from the House Theater is playing the lead and did the magic consulting. He is a fine magician and actor, who many in Chicago remember from his role as Houdini in Death and Harry Houdini by the House Theater. I am looking forward in seeing this new show.
by Rinne Groff
April 18 - May 18, 2007
Chopin Studio Theatre
Uma is proud to present the Midwest premiere of Obie Award-winning playwright Rinne Groff's ORANGE LEMON EGG CANARY. Great, a renegade magician with a mysterious legacy finds more than meets the eye in his sexy new assistant Trilby, who pursues him for the truth of his past and the truth behind his tricks. This funny, quirky modern love story has plenty of disappearing coins, floating objects, and the infamously dangerous and thrilling "chick-on-a stick." Not to mention a lovely assistant who talks a lot for being a dead woman. A magical exploration of the cheap tricks, smoke and mirrors and bonds of faith in modern romance, ORANGE LEMON EGG CANARY is sure to be an amazing night at the theatre, especially when experienced amidst one of Uma's fantastical "umavironments."
This production is appearing in Chicago for the first time. Dennis Watkins from the House Theater is playing the lead and did the magic consulting. He is a fine magician and actor, who many in Chicago remember from his role as Houdini in Death and Harry Houdini by the House Theater. I am looking forward in seeing this new show.
If you are in Chicago, it's a must do thing.
For more info, dates, and ticketing visit the website:
Also see the article in the Friday, April 20, Weekend section of the Chicago Sun-Times for the article by their theater critic Hedy Weiss.
Or google the play's title, Orange Lemon Egg Canary for information on the original off-broadway production.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Quote Me
"One should not be nostalgic about too many things,
because more often than not, the memory takes the
form of a wish rather than a fact.
Sort of a soothing or a bitter deception."
--Stanley Crouch
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Discovery
It is a wonderful thing to be curious. I never know what I might discover.
Find a website that has a link page; follow the links to another page and their link page, and so on and so on. (Of course, you better set aside some extra time to do this.)
I followed a link to a sideshow page, which moved me to a performer’s page, and linked me to the page linked at the end of this article.
Did I ever mention I am selfish? I almost want to keep this a secret, a little piece of magic I own. Yet, I realize there are so few opportunities to experience something so original and so magical.
In my experience, I come across a lot of performers, some good, a few great, most bad. Most don’t know good from bad, but that is another essay. The great masses of performers fall into a predictable cookie-cutter blur. It is why I stopped hanging around comedy clubs. Airplane routine, followed by cat routine, fast food routine, “I broke up with me girlfriend because she dumped me.” etc. etc. etc.
Rarely, a performer will stand out, like a Mac King. Original. Cirque Du Soleil creates its own alternate universe. Original. (Not that a classic act can’t work and work well, a la Lance Burton.) In is just when you see something new to your world, it adds so much more.
Back to this website, it describes a show I have never seen and may never see. It could suck. But not in my head. See it, I felt lost in a daze of wonder like Alice down the rabbit hole. They created such an alternate world as Alice experienced.
As a writer, I should be able to describe anything; a loss for words is not an option. I look at what they’ve done with awe, admiration, a bit of jealousy, and wonder.
See it for yourself: Insect Circus Museum & Peep-Show Mechanical Menagerie
Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
--Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898), Alice in Wonderland
Find a website that has a link page; follow the links to another page and their link page, and so on and so on. (Of course, you better set aside some extra time to do this.)
I followed a link to a sideshow page, which moved me to a performer’s page, and linked me to the page linked at the end of this article.
Did I ever mention I am selfish? I almost want to keep this a secret, a little piece of magic I own. Yet, I realize there are so few opportunities to experience something so original and so magical.
In my experience, I come across a lot of performers, some good, a few great, most bad. Most don’t know good from bad, but that is another essay. The great masses of performers fall into a predictable cookie-cutter blur. It is why I stopped hanging around comedy clubs. Airplane routine, followed by cat routine, fast food routine, “I broke up with me girlfriend because she dumped me.” etc. etc. etc.
Rarely, a performer will stand out, like a Mac King. Original. Cirque Du Soleil creates its own alternate universe. Original. (Not that a classic act can’t work and work well, a la Lance Burton.) In is just when you see something new to your world, it adds so much more.
Back to this website, it describes a show I have never seen and may never see. It could suck. But not in my head. See it, I felt lost in a daze of wonder like Alice down the rabbit hole. They created such an alternate world as Alice experienced.
As a writer, I should be able to describe anything; a loss for words is not an option. I look at what they’ve done with awe, admiration, a bit of jealousy, and wonder.
See it for yourself: Insect Circus Museum & Peep-Show Mechanical Menagerie
Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
--Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898), Alice in Wonderland
Monday, April 02, 2007
Jamy Ian Swiss
Either you love him or you hate. That seems like the consensus of the magicians that I speak with. He is a person that gets strong reactions. He is not afraid to have an opinion. (That, by the way, is a very good thing.)Yet, even when I disagree, I respect his choices. They are generally backed by actual thought, unlike much of what I see written on message boards, magazines, and blogs. Not only that, but he is a pretty good and interesting writer.
Here is a link to an excellent essay of his on the search for street magic, appearing in Antinomy. Read it.
http://antinomymagic.com/swiss.htm
Here is a link to an excellent essay of his on the search for street magic, appearing in Antinomy. Read it.
http://antinomymagic.com/swiss.htm
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Second Hand Jokes
Here are a few jokes that were sent to me and thought were worth retelling:
A woman had just visited her doctor and he informed her that she was pregnant.
As she sat on the bus, on her way home, she felt that she had to share the good news with someone. The man sitting next to her seemed as good as anyone to share the news.
"Sir," she said, "I just received the best news you could ever imagine. I have to share it with someone or I'll bust."
"What's that?" asked the stranger.
"After years of trying, FINALLY I'm pregnant!" exclaimed the woman.
The man shared her enthusiasm as he shared his own experience -- he said he was a farmer and he had trouble with his hens laying eggs. He stated that he went out to the hen house one morning and all of his hens had laid eggs. He was so happy. He added, "But, confidentially, I changed cocks."
The newly pregnant woman responded, "Confidentially...so did I!"
On a farm out in the country lived a man, a woman, and their three sons. Early one morning, the woman awoke, and while looking out of the window onto the pasture, she saw that the family's only cow was lying dead in the field. The situation looked hopeless to her -- how could she possibly continue to nourish her family now?
In a depressed state of mind, she hung herself!
When the man awoke to find his wife (as well as the cow) dead, he too began to see the hopelessness of the situation, and he shot himself in the head!
Then the eldest son awoke to discover his parents (and the cow!) dead, and he decided to go down to the river and drown himself. When he got to the river, he discovered a mermaid sitting on the bank...
The mermaid said, "I've seen all, and know the reason for your despair. But if you will have sex with me five times in a row, I will restore your parents and the cow to life." The son agreed to do this, but after four times, he was simply unable to satisfy her again. So, the mermaid drowned him in the river!
Next, the second oldest son awoke. After discovering what had happened, he too decided to throw himself into the river. The mermaid said to him, "If you will have sex with me ten times in a row, I will make everything right!" And while the son tried his best (seven times!), it was not enough to satisfy the mermaid, so she drowned him in the river!
The youngest son awoke and saw his parents dead, the dead cow in the field, and his brothers gone. He decided that life was a hopeless prospect, and he went down to the river to throw himself in... and there he also met the mermaid. "I have seen all that has happened, and I can make everything right if you will only have sex with me fifteen times in a row."
The young son replied, "Is that all? Why not twenty times in a row?"
The mermaid was somewhat taken aback by this request. Then he said, "Hell, why not twenty-five times in a row?" And even as she was reluctantly agreeing to his request, he said, "Why not thirty times in a row?"
Finally, she said, "Enough!! Okay, if you will have sex with me thirty times in a row, then I will bring everybody back to perfect health.” Then the young son asked, "Wait! How do I know that thirty times in a row won't kill you like it did the cow?"
President George H. W. Bush, President George W. Bush, and President Bill Clinton are traveling by car through Kansas. A tornado comes along, whirls them up into the air, and tosses them many miles away. They fall into a daze. All the colors are now brighter and more vibrant. They realize they are in the fabled Land of Oz. George W. announces: “I’m going to see the Wizard and I'll ask him for a brain."
George H. W. responds: "I'm going to ask for some courage.”
Clinton looks around and says: "Where's Dorothy?"
Happy April First!
(By the way, Happy Anniversary to me. This is my 100th post--Bill)
A woman had just visited her doctor and he informed her that she was pregnant.
As she sat on the bus, on her way home, she felt that she had to share the good news with someone. The man sitting next to her seemed as good as anyone to share the news.
"Sir," she said, "I just received the best news you could ever imagine. I have to share it with someone or I'll bust."
"What's that?" asked the stranger.
"After years of trying, FINALLY I'm pregnant!" exclaimed the woman.
The man shared her enthusiasm as he shared his own experience -- he said he was a farmer and he had trouble with his hens laying eggs. He stated that he went out to the hen house one morning and all of his hens had laid eggs. He was so happy. He added, "But, confidentially, I changed cocks."
The newly pregnant woman responded, "Confidentially...so did I!"
On a farm out in the country lived a man, a woman, and their three sons. Early one morning, the woman awoke, and while looking out of the window onto the pasture, she saw that the family's only cow was lying dead in the field. The situation looked hopeless to her -- how could she possibly continue to nourish her family now?
In a depressed state of mind, she hung herself!
When the man awoke to find his wife (as well as the cow) dead, he too began to see the hopelessness of the situation, and he shot himself in the head!
Then the eldest son awoke to discover his parents (and the cow!) dead, and he decided to go down to the river and drown himself. When he got to the river, he discovered a mermaid sitting on the bank...
The mermaid said, "I've seen all, and know the reason for your despair. But if you will have sex with me five times in a row, I will restore your parents and the cow to life." The son agreed to do this, but after four times, he was simply unable to satisfy her again. So, the mermaid drowned him in the river!
Next, the second oldest son awoke. After discovering what had happened, he too decided to throw himself into the river. The mermaid said to him, "If you will have sex with me ten times in a row, I will make everything right!" And while the son tried his best (seven times!), it was not enough to satisfy the mermaid, so she drowned him in the river!
The youngest son awoke and saw his parents dead, the dead cow in the field, and his brothers gone. He decided that life was a hopeless prospect, and he went down to the river to throw himself in... and there he also met the mermaid. "I have seen all that has happened, and I can make everything right if you will only have sex with me fifteen times in a row."
The young son replied, "Is that all? Why not twenty times in a row?"
The mermaid was somewhat taken aback by this request. Then he said, "Hell, why not twenty-five times in a row?" And even as she was reluctantly agreeing to his request, he said, "Why not thirty times in a row?"
Finally, she said, "Enough!! Okay, if you will have sex with me thirty times in a row, then I will bring everybody back to perfect health.” Then the young son asked, "Wait! How do I know that thirty times in a row won't kill you like it did the cow?"
President George H. W. Bush, President George W. Bush, and President Bill Clinton are traveling by car through Kansas. A tornado comes along, whirls them up into the air, and tosses them many miles away. They fall into a daze. All the colors are now brighter and more vibrant. They realize they are in the fabled Land of Oz. George W. announces: “I’m going to see the Wizard and I'll ask him for a brain."
George H. W. responds: "I'm going to ask for some courage.”
Clinton looks around and says: "Where's Dorothy?"
Happy April First!
(By the way, Happy Anniversary to me. This is my 100th post--Bill)
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Jay's Jokes
I am not a collector, not by any real meaning of the word. Unless you count stories, I love stories. There are a few books inhabiting a few shelves and boxes that are collectable. I have first edition Dracula, a Blackstone’s Secrets of Magic (signed), a valuable edition of Edgar Allen Poe’s poems with drawings by Edmund Dulac, and there are a few others.
As far as the magic world goes, it is just too darn expensive to amass a collection.
Although, I have acquired some nice pieces on that remarkable worldwide rummage sale, eBay. If you watch closely and keep a budget, you can find some deals. You have to be patient and not worry about losing something. I bought a broadside 6 months ago for $60. The same broadside sold recently for $179. But I like mine too much to sell.
This all leads me to my point. I just paid $300 for a notebook on eBay. A very special notebook.
For some time now, Sandy Marshall (son of Jay), his wife Susan, and their family have been selling many of Jay Marshall’s non-magic books on eBay. Many are circus and entertainment related books. Some are much more interesting like, How to run a Bassoon Factory for Fun and Profit.
Sandy first approves most of the books sold, just to make sure a treasure doesn’t slip through. Despite the safety checks, one such treasure did slip through.
The notebook, my notebook, is part of Jay Marshall’s private joke file. Talking to the Marshalls, there are about 20 volumes of joke that Jay collected and hand typed. This is the only one that should go to auction, but that may change seeing the worth. There was one other persistent bidder, but he topped out at just under $300 not even close to my high bid of $350. Whew!
It is a shameful thing, I think, not wanting anyone else to have it, but it meant a great deal to me.
Jay, for those who may not know, knew every joke ever. No, really. It was a supreme achievement to be able to tell him a joke and not have him finish it for you. I never tried. (My achievement was to bring him some advertising from the 1800s that he just had to copy.) My favorite memories of Magic, Inc. are going to lectures. A lecture could not, would not start without Jay sharing a ribald joke or bawdy limerick. Jay knew how to tell a joke.
Jay’s joke book collection is huge. Knowing him, he read them all. And could tell them all.
The binder smells of dust and age. The notebook is a standard 8 ½ X 11, much of it thin onionskin paper. The years of shelf wear has blotted the type making some of it difficult to read. It must date to the 1930s or 1940s because he included some WPA jokes. The book is 2 ½ inches thick. It divided into 26 categories from Juggler to Zoo. Some subjects contain a single page of jokes, others multiple pages, and a few only half pages. They are impeccably organized. After a visit to the magic shop during Jay’s tenure, this is a surprise.
Remember there are 19 other volumes, I cannot imagine how many jokes are collected in totality.
Does this sound like gloating? It is not meant to be. (Okay, well maybe a little.) This is just such an amazing thing. I want to share a piece of it, so I’ll close my eyes and pick one random page.
RABBITS
Girl with fur coat goes through the woods and a mother rabbit says to her children, “There’s your father-second pelt to the left-still hanging around other females.
Rabbit: We certainly know how to multiply.
Snake: I’m a tricky little adder myself.
Rabbits have shiny noses. That’s because their powder puffs are on the other end.
If Peter Rabbit gets sick, should he be given some hair tonic?
“I bought a pair of rabbits while you were away on your trip.”
“Where are they now?”
“Some of them are back in the coal shed, some are in the pen in the yard, and the rest are down in the basement.”
Two rabbits talking:
“I hear brother skunk has been drinking again.”
“Yes, he sure is stinko.”
The thoughts of a rabbit on sex,
Are practically never complex.
A rabbit in need, Is a rabbit indeed,
And his actions are what one expects.
“What happened to all these dead rabbits? Did you kill them?”
“Heck no, the boll-weevils run ‘em to death trying to get the cotton out their tails.”
Maybe I should have read the page first.
Some of the joke are dialogues, a few sound like they were captions for cartoons. I did edit out a couple that just did not make any sense. Like this one:
Three rabbits. Xmas story. Hungo, hungo.
What? I have no idea.
This is fun I think I will make it a regular feature. Jay’s joke page.
Thanks, Jay....For everthing.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Quote Me
"Let us be thankful for the fools,
but for them the rest of us could not succeed."
--Mark Twain
"Nothing is foolproof,
because fools are so ingenious."
--Mark Twain
"That's the penalty we have to pay for our acts of foolishness,
someone else always suffers from them."
--Alfred Sutro
"However big the fool,
there is always a bigger fool to admire him."
--Nicolas Boileau-Despreaux
"I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools.
Let's start with typewriters."
--Solomon Short
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Happy Birthday Chicago
On March 4, 1837 Chicago incorporated as a city. Happy 170th
CHICAGO
HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
--Carl Sandburg's "Chicago"published 1916 in Chicago Poems
CHICAGO
HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
--Carl Sandburg's "Chicago"published 1916 in Chicago Poems
Where is the Chicago of Carl Sandburg and Nelson Algren?
I am afraid it been lost to the generic homogenization engineered
by corporate gluttons and the PC mafia.
Is the city that has been bought and paid for by the blood and sweat
and money of its citizens been bought out, sold out by the politicos?
Players at politics, who try to erase the history, forgetting it is the past
that made us, them, who we are; got us where we are.
But they better learn to love it, because they are it,
and it ain't going away--Bill
Monday, February 26, 2007
Quote Me
"The rich, the professional idlers, desire only the peculiar, the sensational, the eccentric, the scandalous in today's art. And I, myself, since the advent of cubism, have fed these fellows what they wanted, and satisfied the critics with all the ridiculous ideas that have passed through my head. The less they understood, the more they admired me! Through amusing myself with all these farces I became celebrated, and very rapidly. For a painter celebrity means sales and consequent affluence. Today, as you know, I am rich. But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word.
Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown...I have understood my time, and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, more painful than it may seem, but at least, and at last, does have the merit of being honest."
Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown...I have understood my time, and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, more painful than it may seem, but at least, and at last, does have the merit of being honest."
-- Picasso, 1954, to Giovanni Papini
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Soapbox
Deception and Art
Lately, I am filled with all sorts of half-baked, crackpot theories. This, I hope, is a relief for the crack-baked, half-pot theories that are pervasive on some blogs and the message boards around which I lurk. Actually, many of the blogs don’t impart much useful information or even ideas for thought. They are of the “today I blew my nose” and “there is a new movie in my town” or the “look I have nothing to say so I will continue to say it” ilk. The message boards, on the other hand, rate a whole other essay.
Today, I want talk a little more about this magic as art theory.
First, it is hard for me to go with this pretentious “art” idea. I must use the term for lack of a better one. The problem is that until the Victorian era, the idea of a low art and high art did not exist. The terms came to be as class distinctions grew during the 1800s.
America, for its first 60 years or so, acted as if it were a classless society; “all men created equal” and such. The reality was that there were two classes the haves and the have-nots. This became clearer during and after the civil war. The rich could buy their way out of the fighting. After the war, the nation had to deal with the new found equality of the Negroes.
Pre-war, pre-1900, magic was on the same level as all the other performance arts. As America, really the world, approached the turn-of-the-century, the elite of society split the arts into high and low. Let’s take the example of the ballet. I do not believe any now could argue that the ballet is considered a high art. Well you can argue, but you would be an idiot. Ballerinas, before the split, were considered whores because the showed their legs. Now, not so much.
As a notion, art, high or low, comes from the society and usually, but not always, the elite and the critics. It is a divisive term. It does not come from within.
Why, then, isn’t magic accepted by society as a high art? I have already explored several reasons. Answers to questions like these rarely have single easy answers. The answers are numerous and hard.
One of those answers may be the nature of magic itself will always hold it back.
Magic is the only art where deception is the goal. Further, the method of deception is the secret. I hear the argument already, “doesn’t acting require deception?” Well, no, you may believe some one in a character, but they are not trying to deceive you that they are that person.
As opposed to that, magic actively tries to deceive. We are defying the laws of nature, spitting in the eye of god. People don’t like when someone tries to deceive them. In most of art, the goal is to reveal truth. Magic’s goal is to deceive.
I hear the bizarrists and storytellers out there crying foul. Yes, you are trying to show some greater truths about the world in your stories. Yet, you use a deception to convey it. The deception undercuts the truth making it less trustworthy.
Neither do people like secrets being kept from them. We are answer-seeking people, so much so that we look for answers where there are no questions. We look for answers where there are none. We will not loosen our grip on wrong answers, any answers. My mother is a good example. As much as I try to teach her that psychics are not real, she wants to believe. When one is disproved, I hear, “well, I believe some people have powers, but those fakers on TV ruin it for the real ones.” She needs to have the answer of “greater powers” however wrong.
Could it be these components, inherent to magic, that will always hold it back?
Now we can look at two exceptions, each a different side of the magic coin. Several people e-mailed me a video of Jerome Murat from Dailymotion, a YouTube type of video web site. Find the video if you haven’t seen it. This is a very artistic act. I wonder, though, if the audience watching it realizes that it is a magic act or do they see it as a character performance and puppetry. Clearly, deception is not his goal, it is an artifice used to create the character. That artifice is well hidden, also. His secret is kept from the audience, but his deception is a special effect rather than a trick. The audience, entertained, sees art.
Time after time, the name Ricky Jay pops up in my store. When it does, the lay people who bring him up always express their admiration in terms of his high level of art. A while ago, I watched an old Ton Snyder show. The guests were a very young David Copperfield, a very hairy Ricky Jay, and a very Scarne, John Scarne. Ricky Jay performed this effect:
He displayed a shuffled deck and removed the ace through eight of clubs. He turned the deck face down, spread it out, and lost the selected cards in it. The deck was shuffled and cut repeatedly as he produced those cards. After the first eight productions, he continued to produce the balance of the clubs. At the end of which, he showed the deck not to be shuffled, but in numerical and suit order.
In this case, I believe his artifice is an open secret. He does not reveal how he does the trick, but he does show he is doing it with great skill. The audience sees his art in action. It is not hidden. In fact, the impossibility of it overwhelms the audience. He fools them with the trick, but does not keep the secret away from them. The audience, with great admiration for an artist’s technique, sees art.
Perhaps, having only one of the “bad” elements is acceptable to the audience, whereas two elements would be too much for an audience to bear. I am not sure myself.
Nevertheless, it is worth thinking about.
Lately, I am filled with all sorts of half-baked, crackpot theories. This, I hope, is a relief for the crack-baked, half-pot theories that are pervasive on some blogs and the message boards around which I lurk. Actually, many of the blogs don’t impart much useful information or even ideas for thought. They are of the “today I blew my nose” and “there is a new movie in my town” or the “look I have nothing to say so I will continue to say it” ilk. The message boards, on the other hand, rate a whole other essay.
Today, I want talk a little more about this magic as art theory.
First, it is hard for me to go with this pretentious “art” idea. I must use the term for lack of a better one. The problem is that until the Victorian era, the idea of a low art and high art did not exist. The terms came to be as class distinctions grew during the 1800s.
America, for its first 60 years or so, acted as if it were a classless society; “all men created equal” and such. The reality was that there were two classes the haves and the have-nots. This became clearer during and after the civil war. The rich could buy their way out of the fighting. After the war, the nation had to deal with the new found equality of the Negroes.
Pre-war, pre-1900, magic was on the same level as all the other performance arts. As America, really the world, approached the turn-of-the-century, the elite of society split the arts into high and low. Let’s take the example of the ballet. I do not believe any now could argue that the ballet is considered a high art. Well you can argue, but you would be an idiot. Ballerinas, before the split, were considered whores because the showed their legs. Now, not so much.
As a notion, art, high or low, comes from the society and usually, but not always, the elite and the critics. It is a divisive term. It does not come from within.
Why, then, isn’t magic accepted by society as a high art? I have already explored several reasons. Answers to questions like these rarely have single easy answers. The answers are numerous and hard.
One of those answers may be the nature of magic itself will always hold it back.
Magic is the only art where deception is the goal. Further, the method of deception is the secret. I hear the argument already, “doesn’t acting require deception?” Well, no, you may believe some one in a character, but they are not trying to deceive you that they are that person.
As opposed to that, magic actively tries to deceive. We are defying the laws of nature, spitting in the eye of god. People don’t like when someone tries to deceive them. In most of art, the goal is to reveal truth. Magic’s goal is to deceive.
I hear the bizarrists and storytellers out there crying foul. Yes, you are trying to show some greater truths about the world in your stories. Yet, you use a deception to convey it. The deception undercuts the truth making it less trustworthy.
Neither do people like secrets being kept from them. We are answer-seeking people, so much so that we look for answers where there are no questions. We look for answers where there are none. We will not loosen our grip on wrong answers, any answers. My mother is a good example. As much as I try to teach her that psychics are not real, she wants to believe. When one is disproved, I hear, “well, I believe some people have powers, but those fakers on TV ruin it for the real ones.” She needs to have the answer of “greater powers” however wrong.
Could it be these components, inherent to magic, that will always hold it back?
Now we can look at two exceptions, each a different side of the magic coin. Several people e-mailed me a video of Jerome Murat from Dailymotion, a YouTube type of video web site. Find the video if you haven’t seen it. This is a very artistic act. I wonder, though, if the audience watching it realizes that it is a magic act or do they see it as a character performance and puppetry. Clearly, deception is not his goal, it is an artifice used to create the character. That artifice is well hidden, also. His secret is kept from the audience, but his deception is a special effect rather than a trick. The audience, entertained, sees art.
Time after time, the name Ricky Jay pops up in my store. When it does, the lay people who bring him up always express their admiration in terms of his high level of art. A while ago, I watched an old Ton Snyder show. The guests were a very young David Copperfield, a very hairy Ricky Jay, and a very Scarne, John Scarne. Ricky Jay performed this effect:
He displayed a shuffled deck and removed the ace through eight of clubs. He turned the deck face down, spread it out, and lost the selected cards in it. The deck was shuffled and cut repeatedly as he produced those cards. After the first eight productions, he continued to produce the balance of the clubs. At the end of which, he showed the deck not to be shuffled, but in numerical and suit order.
In this case, I believe his artifice is an open secret. He does not reveal how he does the trick, but he does show he is doing it with great skill. The audience sees his art in action. It is not hidden. In fact, the impossibility of it overwhelms the audience. He fools them with the trick, but does not keep the secret away from them. The audience, with great admiration for an artist’s technique, sees art.
Perhaps, having only one of the “bad” elements is acceptable to the audience, whereas two elements would be too much for an audience to bear. I am not sure myself.
Nevertheless, it is worth thinking about.
Although, not to the exception of working to be a better performer, that is.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Soapbox
I have been thinking, which, in and of itself, is not always a great thing. There is much written about how the bunglers of our art are bring us all down. If only we could eliminate the slag and magic will be respected as an art.
Do the other art forms have this problem?
Did Van Gogh think, “Gee, if we could only get Pierre to draw nudes instead of stick figures, this ‘painting thing’ will really take off?”
I thought I couldn’t speak about other art forms. Music, song, painting, sculpture, dance, acting, writing, do they have their own seedy underworld of half-assed deluded fiends? Well, the simple answer is yes.
I do not travel in these other worlds, having no other discernible talent other than lying, but like many I enjoy the car crash that is the auditions for American Idol. Just picture a Svengali deck in the hands of these crazed lunatics and you will begin to see the average magic club meeting. Now, we can extrapolate this to the other art forms with little argument.
So, where has magic gone wrong?
1) The truly bad of the other arts have a much more difficult time making money at what they do. Bad singers go to karaoke. Bad painters fill their garages with unsold paintings. Bad actors serve food. Bad sculptures make ashtrays. Bad magicians still seem to find work. Maybe not repeat work, or regular work, but work. The public really has a difficult time separating the good from the bad. Usually because they have little reference, I find, working at magic masters, that the last magician anyone ever saw is the best magician they ever saw. How we became generic in the public’s eyes is a whole other essay. Even Criss Angel is more often known as “that mindfreak guy” not as Criss Angel.
2) The other arts do not have the same kind artificial support systems. There are fewer SAMs and IBMs in the other arts. There are teachers and classes. I belong to a writer’s group. That is a place where we analyze each others’ work. It is not a place for fake back slapping and equalizing. The magic bunglers can network with the magic screw-ups and crossbreed with the magic clueless. Magic clubs give the terminally idiotic a chance to be on an equal footing with professionals, as do the conventions. Don’t get me started on this internet thing.
3) The comodization of magic hurts the art. Magic is sold everywhere and anywhere. When someone sells magic at a price reflecting its worth, we think they are ripping us off. Magicians are notoriously cheap. Magic is sold at cut-rate lack-of-respect prices. We, as human beings, rarely respect what is not gained through work. Magic sets proclaim a whole show in one box, just like the pros, with no work. While the painting kit does not profess that you will be opening a gallery any time soon.
4) True professionals, true artists in any art forms worry about themselves. Being an artist is ultimately an egotistical pursuit. Do you think Prince gives a flying fuck about some hack guitar player working the local VFW in Mokena? Is Brad Pitt staying up nights tapping out a blog on how bad of an actor Keanu Reeves is? Fill in your own artist from you favorite art as an example. Artists and Professionals worry about themselves and doing the best job they can. While many professionals do give classes, they do it in actual music and acting schools. They do not give away their art to any jerk with $25 and a mom to drive them to the magic shop.
Respect what you do and work to improve yourself is all the advice you will ever need to make the magician a respected artist.
Do the other art forms have this problem?
Did Van Gogh think, “Gee, if we could only get Pierre to draw nudes instead of stick figures, this ‘painting thing’ will really take off?”
I thought I couldn’t speak about other art forms. Music, song, painting, sculpture, dance, acting, writing, do they have their own seedy underworld of half-assed deluded fiends? Well, the simple answer is yes.
I do not travel in these other worlds, having no other discernible talent other than lying, but like many I enjoy the car crash that is the auditions for American Idol. Just picture a Svengali deck in the hands of these crazed lunatics and you will begin to see the average magic club meeting. Now, we can extrapolate this to the other art forms with little argument.
So, where has magic gone wrong?
1) The truly bad of the other arts have a much more difficult time making money at what they do. Bad singers go to karaoke. Bad painters fill their garages with unsold paintings. Bad actors serve food. Bad sculptures make ashtrays. Bad magicians still seem to find work. Maybe not repeat work, or regular work, but work. The public really has a difficult time separating the good from the bad. Usually because they have little reference, I find, working at magic masters, that the last magician anyone ever saw is the best magician they ever saw. How we became generic in the public’s eyes is a whole other essay. Even Criss Angel is more often known as “that mindfreak guy” not as Criss Angel.
2) The other arts do not have the same kind artificial support systems. There are fewer SAMs and IBMs in the other arts. There are teachers and classes. I belong to a writer’s group. That is a place where we analyze each others’ work. It is not a place for fake back slapping and equalizing. The magic bunglers can network with the magic screw-ups and crossbreed with the magic clueless. Magic clubs give the terminally idiotic a chance to be on an equal footing with professionals, as do the conventions. Don’t get me started on this internet thing.
3) The comodization of magic hurts the art. Magic is sold everywhere and anywhere. When someone sells magic at a price reflecting its worth, we think they are ripping us off. Magicians are notoriously cheap. Magic is sold at cut-rate lack-of-respect prices. We, as human beings, rarely respect what is not gained through work. Magic sets proclaim a whole show in one box, just like the pros, with no work. While the painting kit does not profess that you will be opening a gallery any time soon.
4) True professionals, true artists in any art forms worry about themselves. Being an artist is ultimately an egotistical pursuit. Do you think Prince gives a flying fuck about some hack guitar player working the local VFW in Mokena? Is Brad Pitt staying up nights tapping out a blog on how bad of an actor Keanu Reeves is? Fill in your own artist from you favorite art as an example. Artists and Professionals worry about themselves and doing the best job they can. While many professionals do give classes, they do it in actual music and acting schools. They do not give away their art to any jerk with $25 and a mom to drive them to the magic shop.
Respect what you do and work to improve yourself is all the advice you will ever need to make the magician a respected artist.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Quote Me
"Planning to write is not writing.
Outlining...researching...talking to people
about what you're doing, none of that is writing.
Writing is writing."
--E. L. Doctorow
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Truth and The Magician--Soapbox Special
I lie. That’s okay considering my chosen life. I am a magician and all magic tricks are based on lies. Overt lies and lies by omission. Also, I am a writer. In non-fiction, sometimes a writer lies as an expedient way to the truth. In fiction, it is the little lies that become truth. I excel at lying.
Some magicians I know have a problem with this lying thing. Not that they cannot do it, it is that they are uncomfortable with the term when performing magic. As if telling someone that the coin is in one hand when it is really in the other, isn’t a lie. Lies do not have to be malicious to be lies. Let’s face it; deception is at the heart of magic, without it, magic cannot exist. We must lie and lie well.
No, not a glorious way to put it, but it is the truth. No lie.
It does keep me humble. One of the temptations of a magician is to believe that we are somewhat better than the average person. Smarter. Cleverer. The rush of pulling one over on some feels great. When I can do it with the simplest of means, even better. Foolish mortals.
Lying seduces. Any action performed often enough becomes a habit. Any habit can become an addiction. I lie, often. Far more often than the average person. If I am not careful, it can become a habit.
Does this lead to a "chicken and egg" kind of argument? Yes. Do people that have a propensity to lie become drawn to magic? In some cases, yes. Do people find they cannot draw the line between performance lying and real-life lying? YES.
Applause rewards our lies. It starts out just for performance and then we fudge the amount we really received for a gig. The little lies begin to pile up. We lie to ourselves about how great we are and how much audiences love us. Habit becomes addiction. Little lies beget bigger lies.
Soon, we steal other’s material and justify it. Or, we knock off a product and sell it. Copy something and resell the original on ebay. Down the rabbit hole we gooooooo.
The magic world itself lives as its own worst enemy. We revere the some of the worst offenders. What Harry Kellar couldn’t buy, he stole. Our hero. Frank Garcia once lifted all of Fred Kaps’ promotional material, not even changing the Danish newspaper quotes to American newspapers. The list of magic luminaries that are douche bags does not end.
My friend Tim owns one of the best magic shops in the world. He does not over-charge, even when he can. He contains a several lifetimes of valuable knowledge. He will give magicians, people he knows and people he has known for many years, wide access in his store. How is he rewarded for this? They steal. A DVD here, a book there, a trick or two, it adds up to real money. These are “brother” magicians.
Another brother magician, a lecturer, conned Tim out of an extra $40 by lying about his hotel bill. Tim will tell you who it is. I wonder if that lie will be worth it in the end. Some magicians just cannot stop lying.
Magic dealers, especially manufacturers and wholesalers, continue to offend at an even greater pace. The second dealers ever in business ripped off the first. We give lip service to ethics and the buy from the con artists we decry. One of the things we should look at is the power of our dollar to make a difference. Don’t buy copies. Don’t buy knock offs. Don’t buy anything, even the real stuff, from someone who abets the knock off artists. Strangle them to death. It is better to do without.
My advice is to clean your own house. Remember, lies and deceits are for the stage, not for life. As a child, you may not know the boundaries of right and wrong, but as an adult, it is time. If we do that then the magic world will come along for the ride.
Some magicians I know have a problem with this lying thing. Not that they cannot do it, it is that they are uncomfortable with the term when performing magic. As if telling someone that the coin is in one hand when it is really in the other, isn’t a lie. Lies do not have to be malicious to be lies. Let’s face it; deception is at the heart of magic, without it, magic cannot exist. We must lie and lie well.
No, not a glorious way to put it, but it is the truth. No lie.
It does keep me humble. One of the temptations of a magician is to believe that we are somewhat better than the average person. Smarter. Cleverer. The rush of pulling one over on some feels great. When I can do it with the simplest of means, even better. Foolish mortals.
Lying seduces. Any action performed often enough becomes a habit. Any habit can become an addiction. I lie, often. Far more often than the average person. If I am not careful, it can become a habit.
Does this lead to a "chicken and egg" kind of argument? Yes. Do people that have a propensity to lie become drawn to magic? In some cases, yes. Do people find they cannot draw the line between performance lying and real-life lying? YES.
Applause rewards our lies. It starts out just for performance and then we fudge the amount we really received for a gig. The little lies begin to pile up. We lie to ourselves about how great we are and how much audiences love us. Habit becomes addiction. Little lies beget bigger lies.
Soon, we steal other’s material and justify it. Or, we knock off a product and sell it. Copy something and resell the original on ebay. Down the rabbit hole we gooooooo.
The magic world itself lives as its own worst enemy. We revere the some of the worst offenders. What Harry Kellar couldn’t buy, he stole. Our hero. Frank Garcia once lifted all of Fred Kaps’ promotional material, not even changing the Danish newspaper quotes to American newspapers. The list of magic luminaries that are douche bags does not end.
My friend Tim owns one of the best magic shops in the world. He does not over-charge, even when he can. He contains a several lifetimes of valuable knowledge. He will give magicians, people he knows and people he has known for many years, wide access in his store. How is he rewarded for this? They steal. A DVD here, a book there, a trick or two, it adds up to real money. These are “brother” magicians.
Another brother magician, a lecturer, conned Tim out of an extra $40 by lying about his hotel bill. Tim will tell you who it is. I wonder if that lie will be worth it in the end. Some magicians just cannot stop lying.
Magic dealers, especially manufacturers and wholesalers, continue to offend at an even greater pace. The second dealers ever in business ripped off the first. We give lip service to ethics and the buy from the con artists we decry. One of the things we should look at is the power of our dollar to make a difference. Don’t buy copies. Don’t buy knock offs. Don’t buy anything, even the real stuff, from someone who abets the knock off artists. Strangle them to death. It is better to do without.
My advice is to clean your own house. Remember, lies and deceits are for the stage, not for life. As a child, you may not know the boundaries of right and wrong, but as an adult, it is time. If we do that then the magic world will come along for the ride.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Convention Lecture
I just finalized an agreement with Gabe Fajuri to give a talk at the Magic Collector’s Association. The convention returns to Chicago after some years. Nice to see a convention in Chicago for a change. I find it a shame and personal embarrassment that there is no annual or even semi-annual convention in Chicago. If any of you attend, please stop me and say, “Hello.”
This is a basic synopsis of my talk:
Harry Kellar and the Tribune Spook Case
Less than two years ago, I introduced a previously undiscovered event in the life of magician Harry Kellar at the L.A. Conference on Magic History. In dramatic fashion, police and Chicago Tribune reporters crash Medium Carrie Sawyer’s séance room exposing a far ranging financial fraud. Harry Kellar, coincidentally in Chicago, is called to testify in front of the grand jury about Carrie’s spiritual hi-jinks. Something of which he is personally familiar.
Now, I’m returning with more untold details of spirit medium/con woman Carrie M. Sawyer and Harry Kellar including; their jailhouse meeting 20 years after the original events, Sawyer’s missed chance at stardom, her shady mentor, and her surprising connection to Anna Eva Fay. Along the way, you will meet a cast of fraudulent mediums, their gullible supporters, and the Chicago that made it all possible.
This is a basic synopsis of my talk:
Harry Kellar and the Tribune Spook Case
Less than two years ago, I introduced a previously undiscovered event in the life of magician Harry Kellar at the L.A. Conference on Magic History. In dramatic fashion, police and Chicago Tribune reporters crash Medium Carrie Sawyer’s séance room exposing a far ranging financial fraud. Harry Kellar, coincidentally in Chicago, is called to testify in front of the grand jury about Carrie’s spiritual hi-jinks. Something of which he is personally familiar.
Now, I’m returning with more untold details of spirit medium/con woman Carrie M. Sawyer and Harry Kellar including; their jailhouse meeting 20 years after the original events, Sawyer’s missed chance at stardom, her shady mentor, and her surprising connection to Anna Eva Fay. Along the way, you will meet a cast of fraudulent mediums, their gullible supporters, and the Chicago that made it all possible.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Ralph Pierce
He is dead now. His stories are only second hand, but Ralph Pierce wanted to do magic. It was a dream he achieved, spending most of his life as a tall grass magician. A tall grass magician worked the great breadbasket of America’s Middle West, moving from small town to small town.
Just out of his teens and with adventure in his heart, Ralph answered an ad for a magician’s assistant. It could have been in Variety or Billboard or some other trade paper whose name is lost to history. This was some 70 years ago. The ad asked for a male magician’s assistant for a world traveling professional magician and his full stage show.
Answering the ad Ralph expected to find an old master of the art, a Thurston or his like, instead he interviewed with a man only a couple of years older than himself. The globetrotting magician? His name was John Calvert. And Ralph joined his show.
During the tour, John decided he needed a publicity stunt to boost ticket sales. He chose a buried alive stunt. First, they formed a box from rough unvarnished wood, slightly larger than a coffin. Then, they found a place in or out of town where they could dig a deep hole. And as Calvert put it, “We nail you into the box.”
“What?” Ralph thought.
“Then we bury the box, in about six hours we’ll dig you up.”
Ralph thinking, “There’s that pesky word again, you.”
“An ambulance, all lights and sirens, will speed the box to the theater. Roll it down the center aisle. We’ll stand the box up center stage and open it up right in front of the audience.”
“Um...John,” Ralph asked, “why do I have to be in the box?”
“Well, I have to up top to talk it up. Sell it to the papers.”
“Is this safe?”
“Oh sure, safe, no problem, you have at least eight hours of air in there, maybe ten or twelve.”
Ralph said he was never more afraid than when the first shovel full of dirt landed on the coffin.
There are two postscripts. Ralph said, in time, he did get used of the stunt and mostly napped while confined. He also said more than once the box was set on stage upside down and when the top was removed he was dumped on his head.
I’d like to thank my employee, Markus Clegg for this story. When Markus worked at Andy Dallas’ magic shop in Champaign, IL., he heard it first hand from Ralph.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Quote Me
The Magician’s Vulnerability
“It is human nature to want to believe in the wizardry of the magician,
but also to turn against him and to scorn him the moment
he commits the slightest error that reveals his trickery.
Those in the audience are embarrassed to be so easily astonished
and they blame the performer for their gullibility.”
--Dean Koontz, Odd Thomas, Random House 2003
--Dean Koontz, Odd Thomas, Random House 2003
Sunday, January 07, 2007
The Poacher’s Pocket
I never intended this blog to be a confessional. Personally, I'm not a fan of those blogs that relate every sordid detail about a blogger's life. Frankly, I don’t feel particularly guilty at the moment, anyway. This is not about baring my soul. Even though, twice before, I wrote about a darker side to my personality. (See the label: me, if you want to catch up)
This was all Patrick Page’s fault. Sure, he is a fine, funny fellow, but my third successful liaison with larceny I blame on him. And, he doesn’t know me.
From age 11 to age 18, I worked at my neighborhood costume and magic shop, Izzy Rizzy’s House of Tricks. It was there I discovered a product produced by Patrick Page known as The Poacher’s Pocket. For the magic types out there, the pocket was early version of the topit.
Patrick purloined the Poacher’s Pocket from the world of crime, specifically shoplifting. The pocket is a small fabric bag. The thief pins one side of the bag to the inside of their coat and the other side to his pants forming a pocket. A small lift of the arm opens the pocket and creates space to toss in a desired object. A whole Internet away and I can still see the wheels turning in your heads.
While my other previously described moral violations are rare, especially at the ages I committed them, about every kid I knew, at one time or another, shoplifted. It may have been a pack of gum, a toy, or a magazine. Most got caught, I didn’t. Thanks, Patrick.
My thefts were no larger or smaller than any other kid’s. They were not committed to have that object. I did it to learn how to to it, how to make it work. I did it better because of my magic knowledge. Most of the time I did not have my specially made pocket with me. However, when I buttoned the bottom of my jean jacket if fit snugly around my waist; the rest “poofing” out enough to facilitate my moves.
Second, I knew misdirection. For example: Say I wanted to steal a pack of gum. I would reach into the display box and grab two packs, one on top of the other. Then, in a larger circular action, I would throw a pack into my jacket while replacing the other pack. The action was invisible.
I stopped being a thief many, many years ago. It was the right thing to do. My time surely would have run out. Although, the year I spent cheating at cards may nullify that statement, but that is another story.
Next, I hope to explore Honesty and the Magician. I believe that my magic and my felonious side are connected. I also believe this is true for many magicians, but many don’t ever realize right from wrong or the time and place for it. The worlds of crime and magic have a long association and continue to overlap. The second magician, ever, ripped off the first one. We, magicians, revere the criminal while decrying the same behavior in modern magicians. Worse, we are complicit, with a romantic wink and a nostalgic nod.
Oh, those lovable rogues.
This was all Patrick Page’s fault. Sure, he is a fine, funny fellow, but my third successful liaison with larceny I blame on him. And, he doesn’t know me.
From age 11 to age 18, I worked at my neighborhood costume and magic shop, Izzy Rizzy’s House of Tricks. It was there I discovered a product produced by Patrick Page known as The Poacher’s Pocket. For the magic types out there, the pocket was early version of the topit.
Patrick purloined the Poacher’s Pocket from the world of crime, specifically shoplifting. The pocket is a small fabric bag. The thief pins one side of the bag to the inside of their coat and the other side to his pants forming a pocket. A small lift of the arm opens the pocket and creates space to toss in a desired object. A whole Internet away and I can still see the wheels turning in your heads.
While my other previously described moral violations are rare, especially at the ages I committed them, about every kid I knew, at one time or another, shoplifted. It may have been a pack of gum, a toy, or a magazine. Most got caught, I didn’t. Thanks, Patrick.
My thefts were no larger or smaller than any other kid’s. They were not committed to have that object. I did it to learn how to to it, how to make it work. I did it better because of my magic knowledge. Most of the time I did not have my specially made pocket with me. However, when I buttoned the bottom of my jean jacket if fit snugly around my waist; the rest “poofing” out enough to facilitate my moves.
Second, I knew misdirection. For example: Say I wanted to steal a pack of gum. I would reach into the display box and grab two packs, one on top of the other. Then, in a larger circular action, I would throw a pack into my jacket while replacing the other pack. The action was invisible.
I stopped being a thief many, many years ago. It was the right thing to do. My time surely would have run out. Although, the year I spent cheating at cards may nullify that statement, but that is another story.
Next, I hope to explore Honesty and the Magician. I believe that my magic and my felonious side are connected. I also believe this is true for many magicians, but many don’t ever realize right from wrong or the time and place for it. The worlds of crime and magic have a long association and continue to overlap. The second magician, ever, ripped off the first one. We, magicians, revere the criminal while decrying the same behavior in modern magicians. Worse, we are complicit, with a romantic wink and a nostalgic nod.
Oh, those lovable rogues.
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