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

Idiot

Genius

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

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

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."

-- Picasso, 1954, to Giovanni Papini

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.

Although, not to the exception of working to be a better performer, that is.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Soapbox Quote Me

Hey, it has been a while since I got up on my soapbox, but I wanted to make sure we all started 2007 correctly. Much of my thoughts this coming year will center on not only magic history, but responsibility you have when you live as a magician, and what makes good, good. Two places to start:

1. Eric Mead's book Tangled Web (especially his essays)

2. The Jon Stetson interview, Magic January 2007. Use this quote to start your year and restart the way you approach your magic. If you don't want to listen to me. Listen to him.

"Magicians who think the show is all about them are wrong.

It's not about you, it's about the people who come to see you--your audience."

Have a safe and happy new year.

(And for you non-magicians, I hope to have some stuff for you also.)

Christmas Card 2005

The
Melancholy December
of Lionel T. Lunt.


Lionel T. Lunt needed a something special
to brighten a certain once a year December day.

But he had not a thought,
not a hint or a spark or a seed
or an inkling of a idea.

He usually had ideas, many ideas
This time he needed to find just one.

He looked to jog a memory in a
box of curios, but the box only
held some long forgotten dust.

He paged through a album of photos,
but the faces there had all faded into ghosts.

Lionel went from avoiding
to meditating, ruminating,
endlessly debating.

He re-arranged his cabinets,
alphabetically.

He looked under the bed, but
dust bunnies do not answer questions.
(even under the most vigorous interrogation)

Lionel stared at his writing paper;
it stared back blankly.

He went to the store and
read every Hallmark card.
even the funny, but not too funny ones.

He made-up solitaire rules
for popular board games.

He tried to drink--which really
worked for Hemingway--
but it just made Lionel sleepy.

He drank some milk and ate sugar cookies.

He dreaded the reminding,
tock, tock, tock,
sound of the clock.

Lionel asked for help from a passing caroler.
She refused to stop singing until he finally brought
her a hot chocolate.

He watched reruns on the television,
mostly b&w sitcoms from the 50's.

He listened to talk radio.

He eavesdropped on several
indiscrete conversations between
a newly widowed woman and
his clergyman.

Sometimes, he would save his random thoughts
written on note paper and left in the pockets of his old suits.

All he found was a few balls of lint
saved in his pocket corners.

He searched every tradition and
seasonal song on the internet for just
the right sentiment.

But the single idea he had was that
to say something simply is usually the best.

So Lionel told everyone to
Have a Merry Christmas.

And so do I...Bill

Quote Me - Christmas Style

"Dear Lord, I've been asked, nay commanded,

to thank Thee for the Christmas turkey before us...

a turkey which was no doubt a lively, intelligent bird...

a social being... capable of actual affection...

nuzzling its young with almost human- like compassion.

Anyway, it's dead and we're gonna eat it.

Please give our respects to its family..."

--Berke Breathed, Bloom County Babylon

Quote Me x 8

"Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man,

and writing an exact man."
--Sir Francis Bacon

"Cynicism is an unpleasant way of saying the truth."
--Lillian Hellman

"Always be nice to those younger than you,

because they are the ones who will be writing about you."
--Cyril Connolly

"Writing gives you the illusion of control,

and then you realize it's just an illusion,

that people are going to bring their own stuff into it."
--David Sedaris

"Honesty pays, but it doesn't seem to pay enough to suit some people."
--Kin Hubbard

"The first step in blogging is not writing them but reading them."
--Jeff Jarvis

"It is not a bad idea to get in the habit of writing down one's thoughts.

It saves one having to bother anyone else with them."
--Isabel Colegate

"If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing."
--Kinsgley Amis

Christmas 2004

Still posting my custom cards from Christmas' past. Sometimes I have original ideas, sometimes I like to do tributes to those who inspire me. The poem was inspired by the great Shel Silverstein. No one ever did this kind of poetry better than him.

Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee
Just loved to decorate the Christmas tree,
On other holidays she would not have fun,
It was something that just wasn’t done,
Those July Fireworks could remove a finger or toe,
And turkey dinner made her go real s - l - o – w,
Halloween spooks aren’t her kind of thrill,
And thoughts of Valentine love make her quite ill,
It’s way past bedtime for a fancy New Year’s ball,
And, let’s face it; Kwanza makes no sense at all,
As for Easter eggs . . . . well . . . . uhm . . . . (They make her fart.)
And about Presidents day, please don’t even start!
“Christmas is the only day for me,”
Oft said Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
Now once dad stands the tree is straight in its stand,
Margaret Mercedes assumes decoration command,
First, ‘round the base goes a thick skirt of white;
As if it had snowed both day and night,
On and in and around this avalanche of cotton snow,
Went a miniature village full of Christmas glow,
With a grand old town hall,
And a new strip mall,
A police station, a court house, a dingy jail,
The last with a cashier, in case you make bail,
A theater for plays,
A kennel for strays,
A doctor’s office, a clinic, a hospital that’s new,
With a big pharmacy in case you get the flu,
There’s a retirement home,
And a Corporate Sports Dome,
House after house in row after row,
Filling the space where the presents should go,
In went loud saloons and sleepy inns,
A church or two to confess your sins,
A spacious Wal-mart and a smelly pet shop,
An empty train station and a lonely bus stop,
There’s an old toy shop spelled with an extra P E,
And cars in a jam, as far as I can see,
Shovelers shoveling, shoppers shopping, salesmen selling,
And four mini carolers that won’t stop caroling,
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells” is their constant refrain,
And I can’t wait for the triple A batteries to drain,
Look, there’s George Bailey near the Building and Loan,
And an angel named Clarence with wings of his own,
A snowman stands by as a dog barks at it,
And, why there’s one dog all alone, I think having a fit,
Here’s a park with a tall hill and a smooth ice rink,
And a little wood shack with hot chocolate to drink,
There’s skating and sledding and a snowball fight,
All this and lots more made for true wintery sight,
Yet, for Margaret Mercedes nothing was too much,
And a Lionel train ‘round all was her final touch,
But there were so many train cars and so little train track,
The front of the front touched the back of the back,
There was not a smidgen of space left under the tree,
But now was not the time to sit and see,
‘Cause Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
(With almost an uncontrollable glee,)
Finally could start on the actual tree,
Now Margaret began with the illumination,
(Well, actually first, she tapped a power station,)
For she added light string to light string, line to line,
And lost count after some seventy-nine,
Big round bulbs and little Italian lights,
Guaranteed to make days of nights,
Lights of blue, white, red, yellow, green, but not pink,
Bulbs that can twinkle and bulbs that will blink,
Dazzling, blinding, glaring, flashing,
Margaret Mercedes thought nothing of clashing,
So in went bulbs of every shape and style,
Even some with that odd bubbling liquid vial,
And with the heat from many bulbs so bright,
The room temperature raised 20 degrees Fahrenheit,
Lest her holiday plans were to be upset,
Margaret Mercedes ignored the sweat,
She started the next part of her plan,
THE HANGING OF THE ORNAMENTS began,
With jolly Santa faces and a plaster snowman head,
Sticky, sweet candy canes striped with red,
Family pictures in tiny frames,
And heirlooms with painted dates and names,
Ceramic moons and metallic stars,
A pair of die cast motor cars,
Styrofoam balls wound with shiny gold thread,
Soldiers made from hand cast lead,
Sleds, skis, skateboards, and bicycles,
Half-melted imitation icicles,
There’s a tiny pickle, though small is size,
Be the first to find it and you’ll win a prize,
There are wooden drums and horns cut from tin,
And some expensive glass made in Dresden,
Realistic Pine cones and spicy cinnamon stick,
A bearded old man dressed like St. Nick,
Fragile angels with spun glass wings,
And all sorts of odd indescribably shaped things,
A fully decorated miniature wooden tree,
A tree on a tree? Is that irony?
There are orange slices, bunches of grapes,
And assorted other fruit-like shapes,
Silver bells made from hand blown glass,
And, I think, a little rubber bass,
Clear plastic balls hold cheap plastic toys,
Yet, somehow, still hold fun for both girls and boys,
And sure to elicit wide toothy grins,
Are the reindeer made from three clothespins,
And Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
Was still not yet finished with the Christmas tree,
Although the time was well past Twelve o’clock,
She would not stop to hang up her sock,
She would not pause to read a single card,
But she hung the garland yard after yard,
Some of it was silver; some of it was gold,
It was more than any tree could hold,
Margaret twisted and tied and hung,
She wrapped and piled and strung,
Margaret worked day and night, night and day,
Until the tree looked just the right way,
And as she put the star on the very top,
She was ‘bout ready to drop,
But, what happened was really the worst,
The tree branches would sag, just a little at first,
The tree trunk began to list,
And the tree trunk, it started to twist,
Then the tree trunk did crack,
And could not ever ever be put back,
Then from under the stress of that decorating weight,
The floor just would not stay straight,
The boards were heard to squeak and creak,
And things for Margaret were looking quite bleak,
Now don’t even think to bat an eyelash,
‘Cause I know you are expecting a terrible crash,
But rather then let this get Stephen King gory,
Here is the moral of this little Christmas story,
Don’t be like Margaret Mercedes Mellon-McGee,
And only want to decorate the Christmas tree,
Let joy and goodwill be throughout your whole year,
Don’t save it all for just one day of cheer.

(For those who need to know this is based on Shel's poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out. If you have never read Shel Silverstein's work, turn off you computer, go to your local bookstore, and by a compilation of his poems. NOW.)

Quote Me

Markus Clegg is one of the demonstrators at my store. He is a very good demo'er and, also, a knowledgeable magician. We were talking today and sometimes one joke will jog the memory and dislodge another thought. Well... this was one tangent...

I believe it was Rene Lavand who said,

"Cards tricks are the poetry of magic."

If that is the case, its no wonder many people don't like it,

most people don't understand it,

and those who do it are often bad at it.

Christmas Card from 2003

It's Bad to be a Monster on Christmas


I.
It’s bad to be a monster on Christmas.
The size of your family is sure to increase
When you are put together piece by piece.
Each part of me has its own family tree,
Why, in moms alone I equal thirty-three.
Brothers and sisters fill the dining room,
Nieces and nephews play down in the tomb,
Aunts and Uncles in the parlor, den, and hall,
And there’s just no room for cousins at all.
It’s bad to be Frankenstein’s monster on Christmas.

II.
I found a fine place to lurk,
While Molly finished her late holiday work.
But, it certainly was not the place to be,
‘Cause a few too many hours of work did she.
For, Molly, who was just doing her job,
Dressed me in a hat, vest, watch chain and fob.
I guess since I’m covered head to toe with hair,
I’ve been mistook for a Vermont teddy bear.
GRRR...It’s bad to be a Werewolf on Christmas.

III.
Of this Christmas thing I’ve not been told,
Though I am over five thousand years old.
Are bandages part of the holiday theme?
They must, for a pre-wrapped gift I must seem.
Freddy added a tag and stuck on a bow
And now I’m gift to his crazy Aunt Flo.
It’s bad to be the Mummy on Christmas.


IV.
I’m to be greeted with shock, surprise, or fright,
When I try to take my nightly bite,
But, at Xmastime, I’m the one all agog,
‘Cause everyone I bite tastes like eggnog.
Yuk....It’s bad to be Dracula on Xmas.

V.
Terrorizing a lagoon can be really quite nice,
Until swimmers become skaters and you’re stuck under thick ice.
It’s bad to be The Creature from the Black Lagoon on Christmas.

VI.
Every other time of year,
When at the witching hour I did appear,
My shocked victims would run far and fast.
Now they ask, “Which one are you? Future, Present or Past?”
It’s bad to be a Ghost on Christmas.

VII.
I once was the monster under your bed,
But now that’s filled with presents instead.
I tried to spook the closet next, but that made me blue,
When the monster there said, “There’s no room for two!”
I was fit to be tied,
A monster with no place to hide.
Hmmm, maybe behind that strange tree,
Oh no...what’s this...more gifts I see?
And this one... it’s addressed to... (gulp) ... me!
It’s good to be a monster on Christmas.