I’m sorry. It may be wrong to judge people based on their ideas and expectations, but I just wouldn’t date a magician.
I feel like I should let that be known before any more magicians try to pick me up in my favorite coffee place. Do I believe in magic? No. I do not.
I was waiting in line at Everyman coffee when this guy tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Do you like magic?”
I shook my head and stared at the chocolate croissant in front of me.
“Everybody likes magic,” he assured me and started doing a coin trick. He touched my hand a lot. The coin “thing” (hoax, sham, hornswoggle?) was followed by two or three card tricks. I can’t quite remember what happened next; I was a bit woozy and looking around for the nearest exit. Finally, “Magic Pete” tried to close the deal by pulling out a stack of blank business cards.
“I want to give you my number,” he said, “but . . . ” I stopped myself just short of saying, “. . . you can read my mind?” He smiled. It was that creepy “get ready for this, it’s going to blow you away!” smile that never fails to make me uncomfortable because whatever it is that is about to happen will most assuredly not blow me away.
“Uh-oh,” he said. Apparently, he had mistaken my look of discomfort for concern or interest. “There doesn’t seem to be any writing on this card!”
This is one of my biggest problems with magicians, clowns, and comedians. What are you supposed to do at that moment? Widen your eyes? Open your mouth into a cartoon “O” and look worried/turned on/constipated? Punch the guy in the stomach and make a break for it?
“But wait, don’t worry,” he said, raising his eyebrows. He took one of the blank cards and slid it through his hand. Then he made typing sounds. I think there was some whirring involved. He then repeated this act, seeming surprised that it “wasn’t working.”
This is my second biggest problem with magicians. They are crappy actors. Their acting is patronizing, insulting even. They shake their heads, wrinkle their foreheads, and say, “Are you sure that’s not your card?” They usually repeat this three times. After an exhausting expanse of seconds, their astonishment turns out to be a big set-up for the fact that the trick does work out, but not in the way you expected.
“This may not be your card, but look, your card is in your pocket!!!” They pull the card you chose out of your pocket and then look at you like they’ve just opened your wardrobe and showed you the snow falling in Narnia. And, now that I mention it, what the hell are they doing in your pocket? That’s the suburbs of Vaginatown. If they were able to insert a card into the suburbs without you even noticing, you can only imagine what might suddenly materialize in your downtown metropolis.
The whole thing makes me feel dirty. I know I’m supposed to be amazed and astounded, but I cannot help being older than six years old. And six-year-olds aren’t in their sexual prime.
The enchanted pick-up artist stared at me as I flashed back on the horrors on the Harry Blackstones of my youth. Finally, the whirring stopped and the card popped out of his hand. And what do you know? This guy’s name and number was on it! HOLY CRAP! I never would have expected that! Magic!??! And, what a turn on!
And what about that? Would he always be doing magic? Even in the bedroom? My mind reels over the creepy smiles and befuddled questioning that might go on while I was naked. Befuddled is not a reaction that I am looking for when my pants are off.
“Are you sure that’s not your orgasm? Are you sure? Are you really sure?” And then when it turned out “magically” to be my orgasm after all (it was behind my ear!), should I clap? Instead of smoking cigarettes, would we make balloon animals? What about the classic “Cups and Balls” trick for an encore?
This all seems rather unfair. I am sure that there are some very nice magicians out there.
But, my advice to Harry Houpenie, and all his rabbit-carrying friends, is to keep the magic tricks in your pocket when trying to date a lady. A little mystery is a good thing. A lot of mystery is a great thing. You disappearing altogether is better. And, most important, please don’t make typing sounds before giving me your number, or I’ll show you a trick that I’ve been working on called, “THE MAGICAL TRASHCAN.” The secret? It’s a dick (you) in a box (trashcan). Okay, I’m a jerk. But I don’t carry around props to prove it.
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Original art by Ilyse Magy.
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