Red Nose

I Want To Believe It's Magic

We saw The Illusionist yesterday, a new movie starring Edward Norton, Paul Giamatti, and Jessica Biel. It's a lost-love-found and bad-guys-subverted-in-clever-ways plot, with elements of The Shawshank Redemption and The Usual Suspects. The acting is excellent, the costumes gorgeous, the cinematography perfect.

But that's not why I loved it. I loved it for the magic.

I know a little bit about magic -- the magic of sleight-of-hand manipulation, the magic of big illusions. I can do a bad rendition of The French Drop, which is one of the most basic sleight-of-hand tricks you can do. I can pull a quarter out of your ear, but it works best on little kids who don't know what I'm doing.

When you go to a magic shop, you don't pay for the prop; you pay for the knowledge, the secret behind the trick. I bought a few little magic tricks to add to my clown repertoire -- a floating cane, a rope that changes color -- but I never got very good at doing them. And I was far too lazy to become a good sleight artist.

I never lost my love of magic, though. Sleight-of-hand is my favorite. Up close and personal, no machinery but the human hand and the art of misdirection. I love watching it. I love being amazed by it. I don't want to know the answer.

I love the great magicians. I wish I could have seen Houdini. I have seen David Copperfield and Ricky Jay and Penn and Teller live. David Copperfield did great, great illusions. During the finale of his show, he made it snow throughout the arena. Ricky Jay (and his 52 assistants) did mindboggling card manipulation, from guessing the card you had in your hand to completely controlling the outcome of a poker hand. Penn and Teller, although they do tell you how some things are done, keep enough unknown to send you away shaking your head.

So the illusions in the film grabbed me and didn't let me go. I don't even care if some were CGI and special effects. I loved it anyway.

Maybe because I prefer to believe in magic.

---

PS: The haircut's great! And I apologize to everyone who has the helmet cut or the triangular sideburns. It's not that I don't like them -- I don't like them on me. I love them on you!

Rush-Hour Fantasy

I was driving home from work this evening after a bad sort of day when I heard the train whistle, the siren song of getting away from it all, and I thought I just might park the car right there on Route 29 and get on the subway to Union Station and buy a ticket on the Capitol Limited to Chicago.

I'd definitely get sleeping accommodations, because I just want to have my own private little world on this train, my own escape. I'd gaze out the window as we roll right through my childhood neighborhood, west toward Harper's Ferry, over the Appalachian Mountains. Every time the whistle blows, I'd smile.

I'd have some dinner in the dining car, probably along about Cumberland. I'd get the steak, medium rare, and a glass of red wine, and a dish of vanilla ice cream. I'd chat with the other folks seated at my table, chat about where we were going and what we would do when we got there, what we did for a living and why we loved the train. Over coffee, I'd tell the tale of our cross-country train trip in 1994, when we flew to Seattle, and stopped in Essex, and stopped again in Chicago, and then rode back to Washington through the New River Gorge in West Virginia.

Back in my roomette I'd gaze out the window, shifted into neutral, watching the mountains go by in the fading light as we head out of Maryland and into Pennsylvania. The porter would come by and set up my bed, and then I'd stretch out, read a little, and doze off as the train rocked over the tracks.

I'd wake up right around midnight or so, as the train pulls into Pittsburgh for a long stop. I'd stretch, get ready for bed, and settle in for the rest of the ride. As we pull out of the station, I'd watch the lights of the city unfold and recede as we ride through western Pennsylvania and into Ohio, and then I'd fall asleep.

I'd wake early as we chug through Elkhart, Indiana, when the sleeping car attendant knocks on my door with coffee and the newspaper. I'd wash up and take my breakfast in the dining car, seeing familiar faces from the night before, wishing the attendants and conductors and my fellow travellers a good morning. By the time I got back to my nest, my berth would be transformed back into a seat, and I'd sit and watch the city of Chicago rise up to meet me in the morning light.

I'd get a cab at Penn Station, right to Garrett's Popcorn on North Michigan Avenue, and I'd take my caramel corn to the lakefront, where I'd sit in the sun (for of course it will be sunny) and watch the lake glitter until lunchtime. Then I'd have lunch at a diner -- maybe Cambridge House -- and I'd go to the Field Museum and I'd take a cab back to Penn Station and catch the Capitol Limited back to Washington.

Just the thought of doing that, just that one little fantasy, the result of the long, low sound of the train whistle, made me sigh.

And then the light turned green and I drove on home, home to my Joe, and that was just fine.

Powerball Fantasy

So the Powerball lottery is up to 300 million bucks.

I'm reminded of the old joke:

Every night Bob prays fervently to the Lord: "Lord, please let me win the lottery. Lord, please let me win the lottery. Lord, please let me win the lottery." Finally one night, Bob hears the celestial voice of the Lord: "Bob, meet me halfway. Buy a ticket."

The late, great comedian Robin Harris did a bit about getting rich:

His buddy asks, "Robin, if you get rich, are you gonna change?"

And he replies, "You're god-damn RIGHT I'm gonna change!"

Finally, I remember once (back in the misty past) when Howard Stern asked people if they'd quit their jobs if they won the lottery. Joe actually called in and said, "No, I won't quit my job. But I'll go into work with a whole new attitude."

Imagine. Three hundred million dollars. Well, not that much, given taxes. Let's cut it in half, just to be on the safe side.

Imagine. One hundred and fifty million dollars.

Where you gonna spend that kind of money?

Oh, let me see:

Pay off everything, and I mean everything (including mortgages), and I still have $149,700,000.

Donate 10 million to save New Orleans, because I just need to. I still have $139,700,000.

Donate 10 million to the Whitman-Walker clinic, because they're actually making a difference in the lives of AIDS sufferers. I still have $129,700,000.

Buy a swell condo in Cleveland Park. I still have $129,000,000.

Buy SonnyeBoy a swell house in Ocean City. I still have $128,500,000.

Make sure my Mom has whatever she wants, wherever she wants it. I still have $128,000,000.

Frittering cash for impulse buying. I still have $127,000,000.

Travel! I still have $126,000,000.

Stash one hundred million in a high-yield money market account -- gotta look out for retirement. I still have $26,000,000.

Season tickets -- box seats -- to the Capitals, Redskins, and Nationals. I don't know how much I still have, but it's probably enough for a few dinners out.

And so on.

Excuse me. I better go buy a ticket.