F-ing Monkeys
Fucking with monkeys is just wrong. Indeed, Human Immunodeficiency Virus — the virus that causes AIDS — was derived from Simian Immunodeficiency Virus (a monkey disease).
But somehow, as this video suggests, when the Japanese fuck with monkeys, the resulting cruelty is a thing of unreasonable beauty.
J.J. Abrams’ Magic Box
I recently had the displeasure of watching the new X-Men movie (or, actually, the new Wolverine movie).
Bryan Singer, who had made the first couple of X-Men movies, had the brilliant idea of focusing on the characters, the idea being that these mutants were actually people, real people, who were just trying to find their place in the world. His successors, however, disagreed and fucked up an otherwise wonderful franchise with some very un-special effects.
Don’t get me wrong: I love good special effects (and yes, I’m on line for Transformers). But flash should never supplant substance. Story first. Always.
J.J. Abrams talks about this very thing at TED. He talks about, surprisingly, childhood memories at Tannen’s magic shop on 25th street and how a Tannen’s Mystery Box shaped his creative perspective on film-making.
Abrams’ premise is this: with the Tannen’s Box, $15 buys you $50 worth of magic, only you don’t know what is inside. He’s never opened the box, because, presumably, the box itself is magical: it represents infinite possibility. It’s as if Abrams’ is saying, “why open the box when my conception of it is so massive?” Or, more generally: when you wake up in the morning, life is a blank slate — What incredible thing are you going to do — right now — to live up to the value of one entire day of your life?
Abrams’, through his Mystery Box, reveals layered, abstruse intelligence — indicative of his directing style (i.e., using character depth to generate mystery, which generates more depth), and, you know what? I’ve never watched Lost and never cared for Alias, but Mr. J.J. Abrams, my name is James, and I’m your biggest fan.
Regifting Robin (a.k.a. Magician Revenge)
You ever been to a dork-party, you know, the kind where everyone gets drunk on Pepsi while re-enacting gory hentai scenes dressed as cuddly animals? If not, then you haven’t lived, sister.
Anyway, if you have(1), then you know there’s always one really annoying guy who does magic at the most inappropriate times. Like when you’re having sex with some semi-conscious girl in the bathroom and an old lady walks in and shouts “Michelle!” and the girl says “Mom!” and you go “damn. . . I’m glad I’m wearing this chicken suit.”(2) And, at that moment, Annoying Guy will bust in with a pack of cards and start doing a trick — no, not one of those cool tricks that involve fire and helicopters, but one of those kill-me-now-before-I-rip-my-testicles-off-to-ease-the-pain tricks that involve lots of counting and mathematics.
Well, as proof the internet contains everything, now all you have to do is pass your laptop over to Annoying Guy (since Mom is probably going through with that threat of calling the police, you should probably shut off the webcam anyway) and show him this: Regifting Robin. I think it’ll buy you enough time to escape.
Notes:
1. TO ALL JOB RECRUITERS AND ADMISSIONS COMMITTEES: I have never been to a party before, ever.
2. TO MY FRIEND ANGELINA: Remember when I told you that chicken suit was just for your wedding? I lied. Sorry.
(From KS at the MA board. Thanks.)
Paperballed
Slydini was the shit. It’s hard to estimate his influence in magic; it’s both great and obscure at the same time. But these posts (part 2 here) by Dick Cavett in the NY Times give us a clue.
[Slydini's] generosity in teaching other magicians and his young students sometimes ran up against the problem of their being unable to do his stuff, even when he showed them how. This related not only to his phenomenal digital dexterity, but to a central element in the world of magic. It’s a thing based in psychology and learned human behavior. It’s called “misdirection”: in brief, putting the attention where you want it.
Here’s Slydini in top form:
And here’s a modern re-envisioning of his paperballs-over-the-head-trick (courtesy of Lance Burton):
The Greatest Zucchini
In the movie Catch Me If You Can, Frank Abagnale Sr. tells his son that the Yankees win because everyone’s too busy looking at their pinstripes. The insight, within the body of the story, became more than the obvious “people believe what you tell them” by suggesting something deeper: to know someone, agitation is essential.
Recently, I read a wonderful, wonderful story on The Great Zucchini (Eric Knaus) in the Washington Post. It wasn’t just a good piece of human-interest journalism, it was also didactic and revealing and insightful — in a good way. You see, Eric Knaus’ life is a bit messy — and people don’t lead messy lives on purpose. There’s something lurking the background, and just a little bit of fishing usually gets you a glimpse:
Jane said she has no doubts that Eric’s mistreatment at the hands of his father influenced his life, though she isn’t sure exactly how. She knows he’s never fully accepted adulthood, growing up both guileless and naive — still in many ways a child, for better or worse
Fritz Perls, it was said, could peer into you and see these very things, the secrets you hide in plain sight, and unzip your skin such that your tortured soul would fall to the floor, chilled, writhing in its nakedness. I always thought this was much cooler than, say, juggling. Hence, I spent much of my adolescence perfecting this skill. Admittedly, some say it’s one of my few true talents.
It’s beautiful to see how someone like Knaus expresses himself. He is entirely uncommon and thus worthy of study. Specifically, Knaus is tragically unorganized, and in that chaos are glimmers of brilliance:
The Great Zucchini’s tattered loose-leaf appointment book is filled with the names and dates of his scheduled parties, months and months into the future. He keeps no backup — no other notes, nothing on a computer disk, nothing anywhere. If he were to lose that book, he’d have no idea where he was supposed to be, or when. For months of weekends, preschool children would be waiting expectantly in homes across greater Washington, and the Great Zucchini would simply never show.
Eric understands the importance of that book. Without it, the Great Zucchini would cease to exist, and all that would be left would be Eric Knaus. And so he carries it with him everywhere. He won’t leave it in a car, in case the car is stolen. When he goes out of his house, if he absolutely must leave the book behind, he hides it in a special place no burglar would think to look.
This is so obviously the story of a risk-taker, someone oblivious to fear, someone driven by more than the quotidian emptiness of Facebook status updates. And there is, indeed, beauty here; a raw innocence juxtaposed against the realities of adulthood: money, bills, sex, despair.
He’s stopped parents in the street to inform them that, at 3, a child is too old for a pacifier. Once, when a 4-year-old at a party seemed painfully timid, Eric told the mom to stop letting the child sleep in her bed. “How did you know he does that?” the mother asked. Eric just knew.
This “just knowing” is indicative of preternatural empathy, an uncanny ability to know and speak as if social boundaries didn’t exist, as if a single consciousness could be shared among two people, if only for a moment, and a real honesty achieved. And honesty is that too-rare commodity everyone thinks they have too much of when, in fact, they are dealing in counterfeit goods.
Not everyone is special. It’s a mathematical fact. But I venture to say The Great Zucchini just might be.