Be Magical!
Naming one’s associations with magicians can really date you. Until very recently, I considered magicians to occupy the same province as pick-up artists and men who use mousse in their hair. The imprinted magicians of my youth are of the sexy goth variety. Remember Criss Angel? He appeared to always be coated in a sheen of oil and spray tan, laden with costume jewelry. My Criss Angel tell cements me as an elder millennial, rather than, say, referencing Harry Houdini. Then I’d be a baby boomer.
At the behest of Nobar, I went to my very first magic show on a double date with my beloved Scott, (now betrothed, HEY! Until now, I’ve treated our engagement as a “soft opening,” telling people in person, one-on-one. Now I’m sending email blasts. I’ll do anything for this newsletter.) and Shawn. It was just after a snowstorm and I debated canceling, as I am loathe to leave the house pretty much ever, let alone in precipitation. Nobar smartly counseled us to attend, since the tickets were a million non-refundable dollars. The tickets also stated that a more elegant attire was required of guests—skirts and “pantsuits” for ladies, jacket and tie for gentlemen. The show was to take place in a suite in the Waldorf-Astoria. Was I off to the stodgiest orgy of all time? I donned my finest pantsuit to find out.
And lemme tell ya, I’m a convert. This week I recommend to you: MAGIC!
The star of the show was Steve Cohen, a positively Lilliputian fellow in tails who teleported from the 1950s Borscht Belt, who has performed his act for royalty, dignitaries, and Woody Allen. He did some card tricks, I recall, though the specifics don’t stick. For me, all card tricks blend together in a miasma of confused wonder. Where Cohen did get me, though, was in a trick called Think-a-Drink. He urged audience members to write down the most esoteric of their favorite drinks on slips of paper—I believe I wrote Arnold Palmer (goddamn that is a fine beverage!). We then passed the slips of paper up to the magician, who then produced said drinks from a tea pot, including blue raspberry Vitamin Water and an Old Fashioned. Audience members tasted the liquids to confirm—it was true! We were stunned! We were awed! How did he do it?! Magic, of course. The mechanics of this feat have been the subject of many a heated debate in my household since.
So, we were on the magic circuit! Which is embarrassing to admit. Magic is so corny. Why pay for a magic show when you can watch hours of hedgehog videos without getting your socks wet? And imagine for how many years you must fully suck at magic until you get good? How many aborted tricks and mulligans?
I’ve heard it said (by Scott) that most magicians start out in an effort to woo ladies. Which tells you a lot about what they think of women. “Oooo shiny trick! Me want your dick!” Well, x out the d part and I couldn’t agree more! Life in 2018 is traumatizing. Life, generally, is. The other day as I folded laundry I did the thing you are not supposed to do: I considered the pile of laundry before me, and thought about how in another week I’d be in the exact same place with the exact same laundry. And then how every week after that, year after year, pushing my laundry basket up the hill like Sisyphus, and the meaninglessness, and the pointlessness, and on and on. Somebody let me write down a secret drink on a slip of paper and then make that drink materialize! One Fresca with extra ice and lime, please! I fancy myself an intellectual, a lady of letters. But at the end of the day I’m just damn delighted to see a magical ass drink. If this makes me a simple person, I’ll take it.
Our next stop on the Magical Mystery Tour was Magic After Hours at Tannen’s. The show takes place in New York City’s principle magic supply store—what are magic supplies, you ask? Top hats, spats, ladies to cut in half, of course. A fellow named Noah Levine, who looks very regular and not like Criss Angel, leads an intimate group (no pantsuits required) through some classic tricks. A senior citizen had it in his mind to menace me all night by obscuring my view with his person, enchanted by tricks he simply could not believe. He finally capitulated his position after my heavy sighing, and Scott tapping him on the shoulder and asking him sharply to please move so the lady can see. Scott loves norm enforcing. In a movie theater, no LCD screen of a cell phone or crinkly bag of snacks is safe, and don’t you even dare consider speaking in even a whisper once the credits have rolled. I’ve taken to calling this tic of his Normin’ Thomas, like his last name, like the New York City public high school. You think you’re going to obstruct the view of a magic show, sir? You have just matriculated into the Normin’ Thomas School for Wayward Men!
I was grateful because Mr. Levine pulled off an incredible trick with some cups and ping pong balls, somehow transforming the tiny balls into limes before our very eyes. When those limes materialized, I just couldn’t believe it. Most of the time when you don’t see something coming you feel dumb rather than delighted. Like the results of the 2016 election….yeah, didn’t see that coming. Wasn’t delighted. But pull a lime out from under a cup, and man, I will revel in that forever. Now I’m just waiting to be cut in half.
But the most impressive magician I’ve seen to date is a young man called Adam G. who performs card tricks at the mouth of Prospect Park by Grand Army Plaza on weekends. I realize I’m getting old because no longer can I guess ages and assume everyone I’m talking to is my age of 34 9/10. I am confident, however, that Adam G. is not in his thirties and is maybe 15? Anyway, he performs card tricks for park goers and he’s really good!!! He even has his own business card that reads Adam G: Magician with an endorsement from Teller of Penn & Teller stating: “This kid is very good!” This endears me for so many reasons. Can you imagine the conversation between he and his parents in their Park Slope brownstone? “Fine, Adam, you can go perform your magic tricks for strangers and give out your business card, but you CANNOT use your last name!” Sage advice. Scott and I reflect upon our fifteen minutes with Adam G. frequently, and speak his name in volumes that might alarm his parents.
So go get yourself some magic! Be magical!
News:
I’m teaching a nonfiction writing workshop at the Catapult, so if you are in NYC get at me!
I’m writing a monthly column for Medium loosely related to the subject of moi’s forthcoming Love Lockdown. Stay tuned.
Things I’m enjoying:
This season of High Maintenance is so perfect. Episode Two, “Fagin,” is the platonic ideal of a 25-minute television episode.
This American Life episode Five Women. Three cheers for context. Let’s do more of that.
I can’t decide if I love, hate, or want to be this guy.
Daylight saving time, beeyotch!!! Spring Forward is my favorite day of the year! Let me prance in the evening light while y’all complain about missing your hour of sleep, waaaawaaaaaa. I’ve been up since Saturday anyway.