Didja Ever..?
By Shane

So here I was, all set to pontificate on the pusillanimous state of This, That, and The Other Thing. Oh, let me tell you, Dear Reader: it was a sinfully solid sermon which would have changed the art of magic and the role of magicians now and for all time.

But after the last week, I really just want to dig a hole, bury myself in it, and not come out until The Masked Magician wins "Magician of the Year" at FISM. Yes, it was that bad.

It all started when I decided I wanted to create a new effect. I went down into the basement, er, I mean my workshop to begin the necessary gluing and assembling of the gimmick for said effect. Now, since I was prototyping, I wasn't too concerned about accuracy or workmanship -- hell, I wasn't even sure the idea would fly -- so off I went with vises and glues and bits of plastic and metal all over the place.

All. Over. The. Place.

Long story short, I Super-Glued my fingers together, on top of which sat a brand new Kennedy half-dollar. Yes, the half-dollar was also Super-Glued to my fingers. I have to say, in my defense, such a fine state of affairs was not my fault -- the tube busted on me and I didn't realize it until the direction "Wait thirty seconds for glue to bond" had already been observed. This is my official story and I'm sticking to it. Pun not intended. So off I go to grab some nail polish remover to rectify the situation. When applying the remover, the glue came off nicely.

However, it would appear I'm a wee bit sensitive in the skin department: the mixture of the glue and the nail polish remover resulted in fingers bright red and stinging. Yes, I'm somehow allergic to something no one in the world is allergic to. Lucky me.

Okay, so sleights would appear to be out of the question, but I really, badly, desperately, wanted to work on a new false shuffle I've been playing with. It had been a day since the Gluing, so I thought it would probably be okay and not too demanding on my epithelial layers. But I'd be careful so as not to irritate my rebellious skin any further.

Such care resulted in a paper cut. From a Bicycle deck. Well, the Bicycle deck case to be more precise. While not a long cut, or a deep cut, it was a painful cut, resulting in not the practice of a new sleight but the studied practice of new forms of the "F-word". I am pleased to report I think I can conjugate said curse word quite easily, and use it as a pronoun as well. Please notice, Kind Reader, that this wounding of my digit was not my fault -- I looked at the card case for hours and saw no applicable warning directing me to handle said deck with care. This is my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The next day, being a glutton for punishment and knowing -- in the truest Hollywood-horror-movie fashion that Nothing Bad Would Happen To Me -- I began to clean out my basement. In doing that daunting task, which rivals anything Hercules ever did, I found an old, old illusion wherein a drinking glass in placed in a box and the box riddles with steel blades (akin miniature Zig-Zag). I am still not sure what happened, but the end result was I had somehow slit my shorts, the leg contained in those shorts, and my elbow. I think that all happened when I sneezed. Why, Good Reader, do you think this is my fault? They shouldn't have sold such a dangerous contraption without proper protective surfaces on the blades! This is my story, and I'm sticking to it.

And did you know it's possible to correctly string the "F-word" together three times in such a way that it serves as noun, verb, adjective, and adverb?

Day Four of the Apocalypse began. A friend of mine called and wanted to come over to just "magic a while". Over he came and we talked and laughed and played around with silly ideas and stupid thoughts and just generally had a good time. We got onto the topic of the Muscle Pass and how John Cornelius used it for a penetration through a vertical glass window. Not knowing how Cornelius accomplished such a thing, we began toying with the concept. More accurately, I began toying with the concept. I performed the muscle pass against the sliding glass door with a half-dollar, timed exquisitely I might add. Unfortunately, that timing didn't include a period of microseconds where I could duck to avoid the half-dollar.

Don't worry. I'm getting my sight back in my left eye fairly steadily now. I can't read a marked deck, but I can make out shapes. As long as they're the shape of a semi-truck or Rosie O'Donnell. Please note, Faithful Reader, this mishap was not my fault; American coins should be made of Silly Putty so such things couldn't happen. This is my story and I'm sticking to it.

This was a week of no gigs for me, so I took the break in stride and concentrated on writing. I'm finally going to do those books I've been putting off for so long. I started working on it, but felt a searing pain in my right thumb... I jammed it against the "enter" key. The swelling is going away and it's not as blue as it was when it first happened; I figure I'll be wearing a thumb tip again in no time. In the meanwhile, the thumb tip at least hides the fact I no longer have a thumbnail. Again, Gentle Reader, this is not my fault; keyboards should be made out of Goshman spongeballs and nothing else. This is my story and I'm sticking to it.

Did I say "no gigs"? I get a phone call and suddenly I have a gig. "Great!" I think, so innocently. "There's a ton of stuff I really want and the money will come in handy." It's a strolling bit, two hours, not a big deal. I load myself up with the tools of the trade, do a quick run-through to make sure my various... miscalculations will not be a problem, and off I go.

In the space of two hours, I managed to accomplish the following:

• I closed my locking Scotch and Soda set on my finger, resulting in an immediate blood-blister and a sore tongue (I bit it to keep from showing my linguistic skills with the "F-word").
• I cut myself underneath a finger nail with an English penny shell from my Hopping Half set. This was not to be my typical "bizarre" set, so the blood was a bit out of place.
• Of course, I didn't notice the cut until I started in with my sponge routine. I like to think I'm the first magician in history to produce a quite-dead-but-still-bleeding sponge rabbit.
• I nicked the inside of my mouth while I was doing the old "card from mouth" bit. It's hard to look magical and mystifying when you're sobbing and calling for your mommy.
• I gained a new emotion from my audiences: sympathy. He's an insurance salesman specializing in accidents.
• I brought new life to the term "geek magic". Also to the term "slum magic".
• I grabbed a soda from a vending machine at the height of all this violence. If anyone needs a magnetic American quarter, well, buy a Mountain Dew -- you may find it in your change.

This is the point where I should tell you that, despite all the mishaps, I weathered the storm of Self-Mutilation By Magic, knocked everyone for a loop, made a wonderful impression and the spectators were left complimenting me and offering me their daughters in tribute to my awesome powers.

Phooey.

What happened was I finished the gig as best I could, doctored myself on the fly, and fought the good fight. The show really does have to go on, and this one did, despite trips to the bathroom to bind and bandage. I was thanked and paid and nothing was ever mentioned by the hostess regarding the problems, though I'm sure it will be a cold day in Hells before I ever hear from her again.

So, Good and Kind and Patient Reader, for one week I lived in torment and for two hours of one horrifying night I was Your Worst Nightmare, the hack who gives magic a bad name. Until I'm sure this whole episode has blown over, I am not talking to nobody about nothing magic-wise. I am also changing my name to Margaret and moving to Antarctica until I think it's safe to talk about magic without someone telling me their friend "saw this guy who...".

I like to write things which you can benefit from, which make you think perhaps, or maybe give you an advantage when performing your magic. Here, then, is what you can learn from this:

1. Pack a first aid kit when you go out to perform. Band Aids, Ace bandages, you name it. Even if it sits in your car and never sees the light of day, at least you'll be prepared for the worst.
2. No matter how thoroughly you've practiced, no matter how much you've rehearsed, things will still go wrong you do not expect. Deal with it.
3. A sense of humor -- and wits -- may not completely save the day, but they can take the sting out of the loss. For your audience if not for you.
4. When you start having a run of bad luck, lock yourself in your closet until you can safely count to ten on your fingers without needing a paramedic afterwards. Trust me on this one.

And last but not least...

5. Everyone has "one of those shows" where nothing goes right. Everyone. Anyone who says different just hasn't had "that special show" happen to them... yet. When it does happen, when you do suddenly fall short of what you know you can do, don't panic. Magic is about thinking, and you can think your way out of problems. Sometimes the only way of doing that is admitting the problem and moving on. But whatever happens, keep your chin up, keep your respect for your audience, and you'll be fine -- though when you tell the tale and replay the awfulness in your mind's eye, it will sound so much worse. Truthfully, no matter how bad you think it was, it could have been worse.

For myself, I'm just going to sit here in my bandages and be grateful: in my bizarre show, you see, I use a ten-inch steel dagger instead of a wand for effect.

See? Things could have been worse.

Shane