His Father’s Secret Journal

In 1990, when I was first becoming obsessed with the curious art of magic, I asked an agent her opinion about who was the best kids’ magician in Los Angeles.  She said, hands down, that Andrew Frost was.  So, since I was an ambitious sonuvabitch, I set about to insinuate myself into Frost’s good graces.

David Groves with Afro ca 1979At a party in the San Fernando Valley, I met Frost and Jackie, his girlfriend of more than a decade.  Smalltalk was small and insignificant until I mentioned that I’d just spent the previous ten years as a full-time journalist for such national magazines as Esquire, Harper’s Bazaar, Mademoiselle, McCall’s, Psychology Today, and many others.

“Wow,” he said.

“Whoa,” Jackie said.

“See, I’m dyslexic,” Andrew said, “so being able to master words like that is, like, wow.”

It was an instant entree into his world.  It was the beginning of something that sometimes resembled mentorship, sometimes resembled friendship, sometimes resembled dysfunction, and sometimes resembled a clown car soapbox derby.

Frost was not a polished character.  In fact, he was immersed in a depth of chaos that I had never experienced before.  He lived in the back unit of a house in Glendora.  His living area was a mess, detritus scattered across the floors, many of it bits and pieces of magic tricks.  It was like the room of a child whose mother had never made him clean it.  If you looked, you might easily find a stray ace of hearts or even half a rubbed-banded deck, a dirty sleeping bag smushed into the corner, empty liters of Coke, the white caps tossed somewhere unknown, and a stack of bootleg VHS pornos that had fallen from a shelf and never been picked up.  Plus, he never seemed to catch up on his dishes.

Our bunny Lulufifi.

Outside his window, his rabbits and doves lived in a chicken-wire cage perched above the overgrown lawn to keep them away from predators.  His house was nestled next to the San Bernardino foothills, and so mountain lions and other predators would sometimes cruise down in the dead of night.  Once, a predator scared the animals so badly that a rabbit died of fright.  Another time, he tried to breed rabbits and succeeded too well, and there were too many bunnies to fit in the cage.  So he just let them run free, bunnies of various colors hopping everywhere.

“We don’t need ’em all,” he said.  “Most of ’em’ll end up mountain lion food.”

What I remember about him most now was his voice, which was deep and slurred.  It had something to do with his dyslexia, because he slurred his words even when I knew he wasn’t drinking.  Every so often, a client would complain to a booking agent that the magician had showed up drunk, although they weren’t complaining about his behavior or any alcoholic aroma, only about his slurred speech.  They didn’t much complain about his shows, either, because they were always entertaining.

“Wuzza somethin’ I said?” he would sometimes suddenly say.

Every so often in the middle of a conversation, he would drop that particular bomb.  It took me days to unpack it.  It was a phrase that implied that you were attacking him in some way, and your natural response was to back-pedal: Did I offend?  What did I say?  I didn’t mean to offend.  In fact, it wasn’t about anything that you said, he was just determined to make you back-pedal, and for no other reason than to maintain his dominance.

Jim Skaggs and David Groves ca 1995 blurred 2a

One Monday after a weekend of kids’ shows, I was sitting with Andrew in his squalor talking tricks.  Across the room, he was making a bootleg copy for me of an instructional magic videotape when suddenly, he jumped out of his chair.

“Oh my God,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, just ran out of the room and out to the garage.  He walked up to one of the dove-vanishing boxes that he used during his kids’ magic shows.  When he performed the effect, he would lift up the lid and suddenly, as if by magic, the bird inside had transformed into a rabbit.  In fact, the bird had been safely transported to a secret compartment, which was narrow and dark.  After the show, when the audience was safely out of sight, the magician would remove the bird from the secret compartment, but Andrew had forgotten.  Andrew opened up the compartment, and sure enough, there was the dove.  Thankfully, the bird was still alive.

Formal promo shot

I followed Andrew around like a poodle for one reason: He had the secrets.  He had studied the secrets since he was 10, and now, at 27, possessed a bona fide repertoire. In magic, the secrets are golden, and can cost you thousands of dollars.  I had no money, having spent the previous ten years writing for the top magazines in the country.  That dove box alone cost $500, but even just simple instructional videos were expensive, as well, running $40 per.  Books started at $40 and ran up to $300 for the most highly prized ones.

The bowling ball production costs $1,000.

This coin trick costs $1,000, too.

I once paid $90 for a book that explained a trick that I desperately wanted, but when I sat down with it, I discovered that the writing was hopeless and I have never performed it the way it’s explained in the book, so that was $90 down the drain.  Here’s how I perform that trick today:

But more than the money, having perspective on those secrets is even more valuable.  So I followed Andrew around and considered every word that proceedeth from his mouth to be a pearl.  The pearl necklace that he eventually gave me consisted of both secrets and a philosophical approach to the secrets.

Here are some of the tricks that Andrew taught me, performed not by him, but by other people who had the secrets.

I was thrilled.  The magic was starting to happen in my hands.  At the same time, though, there was Andrew’s chaos to contend with.  To me, the road to success was orderly.  You learned things by applying yourself.  You succeeded by putting things together in a logical manner.  You memorized.  You studied.  You had Aha! moments in the shower and on the 405 freeway.

But to Andrew, order, logic, and studying were for chumps.  As much as possible, he thought, you should try to get away with things.  Don’t rehearse, just perform things on the fly and deal with the mistakes in the moment, the moment was everything.  Don’t read instructions, just do it.  Don’t memorize a script, because that would make your patter sound wooden and unspontaneous.  Don’t write your own jokes, just steal them from others.  Let your life fall apart and get your rocks off on the mess that lies around you.

I wondered if he was right.  After all, Einstein never combed his hair.  Jack Kerouac and the beatniks lived in squalor.  So many legendary musicians–Charlie Parker, Bill Evans, Ginger Baker, James Taylor, Kurt Cobain–created great music out of heroin addiction.  Andrew was a dyslexic, and I wondered if that, too, might be a source of genius.

At first, I tried to see how much disorder I could stand.  I adopted Andrew’s priorities.  Magic was on the highest shelf and cleaning didn’t even have a shelf.  The inside of my car became a mess, and unless I had a date, I didn’t care.  I started considering all the time we spend cleaning and arranging things as wasted time.  Doing the dishes, picking up your clothes, making the bed, putting away the iron, sponging off the kitchen table, everything.  I started to see my chaos as a whole new world.  I felt that, in some ways, it opened up new intellectual vistas to me.

But at the same time, I had doubts.  A voice deep within me told me that Andrew’s chaos was simply the result of family dysfunction.

I remember the day he confessed to me that he was cheating on Jackie, his girlfriend of 10 years, who was a lovely rebel who idolized him.  He was now secretly sleeping with his landlady Jennifer, the woman who lived in the main house.  Both Jackie and Jen worked as clowns, and were friends.  On Mondays, after a weekend of kids’ shows, they would all pal around together in Andrew’s place, laughing and having fun.  This continued even after Andrew started sleeping with Jen.

It became even more complicated one day when I came over and witnessed a strange scene.  As usual, Andrew was sitting in the center of the dining room, the center of the vortex, while Jackie and Jennifer chatted amiably, talking about their weekend’s shows.  Jackie, of course, was clueless about the infidelity, and Jen was playing dumb, hoping she would catch the big fish in the end.  And all the while, the big fish, Andrew, was talking on the phone with another woman that he had secretly slept with a couple nights earlier.  Everybody was screwing over everybody else, but Andrew was doing the most screwing of all.

One day, Andrew himself offered up a psychological self-diagnosis that rang a bell of recognition.

“You know, so many of the tricks that I choose to do involve tearing or cutting things,” he said.  “I tear up a newspaper and restore it.  I tear up a playing card and restore it.  I cut up a rope and restore it.  I just love destroying things!”

Here’s a video of one of those torn-and-restored tricks, performed by someone else.

And another.

But that diagnosis only told me what, not why.  That all-important why wasn’t explained until Andrew started talking about his father.  It was a sad story.  The man used to earn six figures as a computer programmer, but had lost his job due to drug use.  Every so often, I had seen Andrew’s father.  This sad white-haired man would drive over when he was low on money, shuffle up the driveway, ask for money, and Andrew could never say no.

“This is a loan, all right?” Andrew said, handing over five C notes.

“Oh yeah, I’ll pay you next Friday.”

“Next Friday.”

“Definitely.”

Next Friday would come and go, and the next time Andrew saw him, his father was broke and would need more money.  And Andrew would give it to him, over and over again.  His girlfriend Jackie told me that the old man was into him to the tune of 10k.

“He drove up with bald tires on his car,” Andrew said in his defense.  “What could I do?  I don’t want him to have a blowout on the freeway because of me.”

Eventually, Andrew realized what everyone else knew, that repayment of the money wasn’t coming at all, so he started asking for repayment in kind.  Since his father had worked in the tech field, he repaid him in computers.  To Andrew, it was almost as good as money.

One day, I came over to Andrew’s house and found him huddled over one of those computers with intense interest.

“You gotta see this,” Andrew said, a solemn tone to his voice.

A bronze statue in Bewley's Oriental Cafe

In one of the computers, Andrew had discovered a personal journal that his father had kept.  It recounted his exploits with prostitutes in the San Fernando Valley in suburban Los Angeles.  He had documented in great detail how he had picked up prostitutes, what acts they had performed on him, and how much it had cost.  There were dozens of girls.  It was like reading the unexpurgated diary of an addict.  And suddenly, he realized: That was where all his money had been going.

One encounter particularly riveted us.  It involved a 15-year-old prostitute he had picked up on a Sunday morning.  At this point, Andrew’s father had to be in his sixties.  She had taken him to her parents’ house.  While they were away at church, they had engaged in various sexual acts described in copious detail, all the time worrying whether her parents were going to come home.  Then he paid her and fled the scene.

Andrew was devastated, to say the least.  He was disappointed in his father’s reprehensible behavior.  He was disappointed in so many things.  And as we talked it out, Andrew’s emotions hanging in the air like ozone, everything suddenly fell into place.  It was absolutely clear.  I knew exactly from whence Andrew’s dysfunction had derived.

Very soon, my accomplishments grew in the art of magic.  I started following another magician around like a poodle, and this one was the bona fide world champion who had high standards for his life.  My stage repertoire grew, as did my abilities to manipulate a crowd.  I started wrapping street audiences on the Third Street Promenade around my little finger, holding out my hat and collecting dollar bills.  I started performing at corporate parties for adults, not just children.  I began reading minds.  I wrote a magic book about the street–Be a Street Magician!: A How-To Guide–and published it.  I began traveling around the world lecturing on the subject of magic, first to the Midwest (Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma), then to the South (the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Texas), then to the East Coast (D.C., New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut), and then overseas (Hong Kong, Sydney, Melbourne, Dublin).

 

Be a Street Magician cover 3 smaller

My knowledge grew, as well, until I possessed a closeup repertoire that stretched to several hours and a stage repertoire nearing two hours.

And as my abilities grew, Andrew mysteriously began to make himself scarce, almost in an inverse proportion.  He would rarely return calls.  He would make an appointment to get together and then not show.  It was like he wanted to keep me in the subordinate position that I no longer occupied.  The more I chased him, the more he fled from me.

Once, we were booked at an event together, and afterwards, we talked.  By that time, he was no longer working full-time as a magician, but had landed a regular job as a tech advisor for some widget company, doing magic only on the weekends.  By that time, he had been with Jennifer for nearly 10 years and they owned a house together, although not a wedding ring. He was a kind stepfather, too, although the kids weren’t turning out too well.

“Show me some magic,” I said, trying to conjure up old times.

Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and showed me a photograph.  It was of a young female employee of his.  The woman was nude, her tongue out and an erotic expression on her face.  Then he showed me pictures of another young woman, also cheesecaking it up for the camera.  He no longer had any magic to show, only this.

[All names in this article have been changed.]

Being Himself, in More Ways Than One

Bill Perron is a born entertainer.  He made his living as a carpet cleaner for many years, and hated it.  He hated swinging that big, heavy machine around.  It took its toll on his poor, aching back.  Not only that, but he didn’t find any glory or satisfaction in his job.  But one day, Bill was hired to clean the carpets at the Icehouse Comedy Club in Pasadena.  In that club, Bill experienced a life-changing moment.

Bill stepped up onto the stage, just to see how it felt.  In the semidark theatre, he faced all the empty seats.  He took a deep breath.  He imagined what it would be like to entertain a roomful of people.  He imagined all the people applauding at the entertaining things he said, laughing and enjoying themselves because of every word that proceedeth from his lips.

What a wonderful thing it would be to be a performer! he thought.

Suddenly, an orange light suffused the stage.  Bill swears it wasn’t one of the stage lights, but instead, an otherworldly orange light that shone down upon him.  And suddenly, in that moment, he realized that performing was his destiny.  As soon as he could, he went out and learned some magic tricks, and soon, he was working full-time as a magician.

I met Bill in 1990, when I was first getting into magic.  At that time, Bill had been a performer for five years already.  In fact, Bill taught me some of my first tricks.  He threw some shows my way.  He introduced me to some booking agents.  But the most extraordinary thing about Bill was that funny things were always happening to him.  And to tell the truth, I know exactly why.  It’s because he makes unusual decisions.  He’s a wacky, offbeat guy in so many ways.

Case in point: A few years ago, Bill was taking an improvisational comedy class.  His teacher assigned him the homework of creating a unique comedic character, and Bill went to town coming up with new ones.  The best of the bunch was Carlos Caliente, who was a spoof of a sexy, indeed, arrogantly sexy Spanish guy who is, in Carlos’ own words, “hot hot hot!”

Carlos Caliente 1a

Bill developed some comedy routines for Carlos, and through the years has gone out on many gigs performing as Carlos.  He even created some modest advertising to promote Carlos.  He placed Carlos’ face onto a magazine cover and put that onto the Internet.  Over the years, Carlos has become one of his favorite characters, as you can see in this clip with his lovely assistant, Joycelyn.

A couple weeks ago, Bill’s commercial agent sent him a casting notice.  A production company wanted lookalikes of latino celebrities for a commercial aimed at the latino television market.  At first, it seemed like he had nothing to offer them.  Bill doesn’t look like Enrique Iglesias or Lou Diamond Phillips, and certainly not Sofia Vergara.  But then an idea popped into his mind.   As a kind of spoof, why not propose that he’s a lookalike for…Carlos Caliente? 

Bill immediately started to laugh.  In fact, he thought idea was so hilarious that in the end, that’s exactly what he did.

I look very much like Carlos Caliente, a famous latino celebrity.

He didn’t expect to hear anything more about it.

[http://guestofaguest.com/los-angeles/galleries/2012/november/hollywood-weekly-magazine-and-celebrity-suites-la-host-ama-reception/764205]

A week later, though, Bill received a callback.  Bill was driving, so Joycelyn took the call.  Yes, they had seen a photograph of Carlos Caliente on the Internet, and yes, Bill did look remarkably like Carlos.  And so they had a request: Would Bill come in and shoot a commercial posing as a lookalike to Carlos Caliente?

Yes, he’ll be there, she said.

At this point, I would have laughed for about 90 minutes and then figured that I’d had my fun.  I would have called off the joke and told the production company the truth.  But that’s what makes Bill different from me.  Bill felt obligated.  Joycelyn had said yes, so he had to go along with it.  Bill showed up at the commercial ready to make some money.

In the studio, the director had a photograph of Carlos pinned to a bulletin board.  In fact, it was the same magazine cover that Bill had mocked up several years ago and placed on the Internet.

collegehumor.19248682858a17a732ded6f080b48913

“You look very much like Carlos Caliente,” the director said.

“Yes, I do,” Bill said.

“I mean, very much like him.”

“Yes, I’m fortunate in that.”

“We’re going to dress you up in a 3-piece suit.”

“If you want, I have a suit that looks exactly like Carlos’ suit in that photo.”

“No, we just want to do a lookalike thing.  We don’t want you to look too much like him.  In fact, you already look too much like him.”

“All right.”

It was for a latino department store, so they shot him doing things around the store–shopping, buying things, helping people.  In all, Bill spent seven hours shooting that commercial.

Bill assumes that the commercial is now playing on latino television, although he can’t be sure because he doesn’t watch Univision.  But he wonders what it looks like.  And I wonder what latinos think when they see this guy in a 3-piece suit noodling around a latino department store like he’s Somebody.

Who’s that guy supposed to be, anyway?

He’s just being himself, people, in more ways than one.

Mouse Skeleton in a Trap

I was always missing the moment. Jane was a girl in my Christian youth group. While ten or more of us were talking, she reached over and secretly held my fingers under a jacket for a few minutes. I froze, didn’t turn my head or anything. Eventually, she let go. Nothing ever came of it. Another time, fifteen of us went to an amusement park. We were high school journalists from area schools. During one of the rollercoaster rides, one girl was forced to sit between my legs. The rest of the day, I guess she gave off signals, or that’s what my friends said. She was pretty enough. I was stupid. Didn’t go anywhere.

My religion didn’t help. I had a hard time crossing boundaries. I made hardly a distinction between seduction and rape. To make matters worse, my self-control was absolutely stonewall. Something to be proud of, really. I guess that’s how I reached my junior year in college with innocence intact.

College, I knew, wasn’t about girls. I had to keep my eye on the ball. It was about becoming somebody. You never knew who you were going to be. Lawyer, doctor, physicist, politician, psychologist, the die was rolling. Brilliant, tragically average, heroin addict passed out in an oily gutter, the die was bouncing. Sometimes, I looked into the mirror for clues as to who I was. Studied it. My facial expressions would give me a clue. The set of my mouth. Something in my eyes. Once, in the twenty minutes after answering a question in Victorian lit that drew a loud “Exactly!” from the professor, I knew I was a supernova, after all.

138 (2)

The guy next to me clearly wasn’t. Too skinny, not serious, denigrated the impenetrability of As I Lay Dying. When I got to know him, he gave a name to his chin: Hapsburg, after royal recessive inbreeding. We met in 20th-century American, taught by a bearded young prof in tight pants who smirked at the girls and thought that all literature, past and present, was based on the template of one poem published in 1922, as if that were Ground Zero of a nuclear explosion.

“Bullshit,” Nathan said, his footsteps echoing through the hallway. “What, all literature? J.D. Salinger? Zane Grey? Winnie the Pooh?”

“Give the idea a chance,” I said. “He’s the one who grades us.”

“And the day after the quarter ends, we never think about this shit for the rest of our lives.”

I didn’t speak Obscenity. It was another difficult boundary, as were kissing others on the cheek as a greeting, calling adults by their first names, daring to fill the air with words and convictions, and going outside with morning hair.

Nathan ate his sack lunch sitting on the wall outside Rolfe at noon, after morning classes. I joined him. One day, we bluffed our way into the English Reading Room, which was reserved for grad students. It was like King Tut’s tomb—“Wonderful things!”—packed with all the most esoteric and obscure journals. Nathan sat down with a thumbed copy of the PMLA while I immersed myself in a short story in The Sewanee Review. It was about Hitler’s whore. He made her lie face-up on the bed while he repeatedly defecated upon her, crying out, “Die, England, die!” My mind was being broadened.

Jacqueline was researching the Walloon poetry of Guillaume Apollinaire. Nathan started riffing on Walloon, and within seconds, the both of them were laughing uncontrollably. The next day, Jacqueline saw us eating on the wall.

“It’s the Walloon girl,” Nathan said.

“That’s your opening gambit?” she said. “Girl?”

Which got us into an unfunny debate about appellations and the political sequeliae thereof. She preferred, when referring to a gender-neutral nonspecific pronoun, to default to s/he. Watching her essay volubly, short dark hair, light freckles, and slender frame, I mused over the length of a woman’s hair and how that told you something about her priorities, how many hours a day she wanted to mess with it. This literary goddess had opted for four minutes.

There’d been straitjackets and screams during the month Nathan had spent in a mental institution. He was fifteen and had taken too much LSD and couldn’t stop tripping. It went on for days, which the doctors hadn’t seen before. He’d be watching television with the other loonballs when suddenly, in his peripheral vision, another inmate would grow a faucet from his shoulder and brown water would flow out, or the doctor would tap him on the shoulder and he’d turn and see a Cyclops in a white coat. Back in his cell, there were padded walls and a sloping floor that led to a grating to facilitate the hosing down of blood and vomit. The amazing thing was that he seemed not just normal, but extraordinary. The paradox he embodied made us best friends.

Every day, we would all sit on the wall for a bit. Jacqueline had an ungenerous curl to her mouth. Nathan made her laugh, though. She had graduated with a class of only 100 from the Castilleja School in Palo Alto. I had rarely known rich kids—had gone to school with only one or two—and didn’t understand their complexions. I didn’t know the snakes that crawled through their perfect skulls.

“I’ve eaten Top Ramen for three days running,” Jacqueline said, shaking the bag. We were in her tiny kitchen. “This stuff proves there is a God.”

“I’m eating lots of Chef Boy-ar-Dee,” I said.

“You guys gotta be kidding,” Nathan said.

“It’s easy, cheap, and good,” Jacqueline said.

“You’d have to take upper-level chemistry just to figure out what various flavors of cancer you’re getting.”

Jacquie was wearing a blue wool pullover, and when she pulled it over her head to remove it, she had an unwanted encounter with her breasts.

“I hate these things,” she said, arranging her hair again.

“What things?” Nathan asked.

“Tits,” she said. “They get in the way.”

“I have to tell you, dear, that’s not the majority opinion,” Nathan said, smiling.

“And your clothes have to go over them. And men are always looking at them. Judging them. Like they’re trying to calculate.”

“Calculate what?”

“Whether they’ll fit whole inside their mouths, I guess.”

They weren’t that big. They weren’t that pretty.

Jacqueline handed me one of her poems. It cut a difficult path through the wild, the poet dodging meaning as deftly as she could, nonetheless turning some striking phrases. I looked in vain for sentiment. Upon second reading, the poem began to unfold itself to me.

“I don’t speak French,” I said.

She gave me a look that sunk its teeth into my self-worth.

“It means little breakfast.”

“Oh.”

She closed her eyes, saying: “I’d like to hear what you think.”

I paused for a long moment, looking at the page.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I have enough understanding of poetry to judge it. You’re obviously very good.”

My thing was fiction, so I became the fiction editor of Westwind. I never imagined how bad some writing could be. I was surprised that these students: a) thought they could submit something for publication so crawling like worms in a corpse with typos, and b) could express themselves well enough to order Tommy’s burgers. It buoyed my spirits. Clearly, I stood on a dramatically lit pedestal that towered far above them.

But other submissions were more puzzling. Maybe I just didn’t get it. Avant garde, plotless fiction, postmodernism. Character before story. Or maybe it’s like this: You’re holding a piece of excrement in your hand and you don’t realize he’s the next Kafka, but fuck, you say, who would want to meet Kafka, anyway, he’d probably just engage you night after night in long, draining conversations in the back of a smoke-filled Prague beerhouse about how many different flavors of shitty a person can feel, and no matter how much you tried to talk him down off the ledge, you couldn’t convince him that life was worth living—“It’s shit! It’s shit!”—and then one day you’d hear he starved to death in a Vienna sanitarium and you’d think, Well, who didn’t see that coming?

One manuscript blew my ducky out of the water. Eunice and her three friends were at the beach rummaging through the clothes of people who were swimming. They scored seventy dollars, five rubbers, and a class ring. Later, they were teaching these guys they’d just met how to play mumbledepeg.

“You’re pretty,” one of the guys said.

“You’re the Prince of Who the Fuck Cares.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re the Prince of I Don’t Have a Fucking Clue.”

Using the blood from a knife wound, Eunice and her three friends pledged to tell ten lies a day. Swear, swear, swear, swear, like a knife stabbed between outstretched fingers, bam, bam, bam, bam. They were telling lies to friends, boyfriends, teachers, even parents and strangers.

I’m still a virgin, Momma

My brother lost his legs in Vietnam

My history teacher is from Africa and teaches us in Pig Latin

I have gonorrhea, you wanna have sex?

My mother isn’t dead, she’s gone back to her hometown in Mexico which is Mind Your Own Fucking Business

No, she didn’t feel any pain

I’m okay, don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right, I’ll be just fine.

Eunice’s wound got infected and she lost the ring finger. She didn’t care. Didn’t want to get married, anyway. She dared boys to touch the stub. If they touched it, they could touch anything else they wanted. Eunice looked in the mirror and decided to slash her face because for a moment, there in her eyes, she’d seen a flash of her mother. She wanted to feel the wound. She wanted to stick her fingers into it. She wanted to pull her mother out of the muscles and blood and slap her on the back and she would start breathing and crying. And Eunice would be free.

I kept the story with me in my bag for days, sometimes reading bits in the back row during boring classes. On the phone, the writer had a high, girly voice that made more concessions than Eunice ever did. I invited her to lunch. Cute didn’t begin to capture it. Angelique looked and moved like Geronimo’s daughter. Hair the same color, I’m sure, and long, too, twelve minutes a day.

“Did the stuff in the story happen?”

Her eyes tracked slowly, but by no means unintelligently.

“Some of it. It was a girl I knew in high school. She always wore short dresses. I never knew what she was thinking. Her boyfriend got a girl pregnant that I’d known since third grade. Eunice messed the girl up and she lost the baby. It was all about babies and dying.”

I had become a born-again at age twelve during a mountain retreat. Sometimes I think I accepted Jesus into my heart to impress this pretty girl in a peasant blouse. After she moved away, the religion took on a momentum of its own. By 17, born-againism had constructed an impressive Plexiglas box around me. Everything was always bouncing off it. Girls on rollercoasters, for example.

This guy Neil was leading Bible studies with me on Sunday mornings in an avocado grove. His eyes tended to get watery and his smile overwide with religious fervor and I wondered what he knew that I didn’t. He was the leader of a cult of one, I guess. I thought it was what my parents wanted, but they were secretly stunned by it. At my age, my mother was wrapping unsuspecting guys around her little finger and crashing motorcycles. My father was losing it in Koto-ri, South Korea.

I was writing a lot of short fiction. I had grown up studying piano, and knew that to play a Bach concerto, a Debussy arabesque, and a Beethoven sonata in recital, as I had in my senior year, thirty-three pages of patterned wheels within wheels within wheels to memorize and play perfectly, you had to start out at age seven with scales, work your way up through John Thompson, and toil for years in the intermediate coal mines before you tackled anything that made people gasp. Short stories made my hands black.

With each story I wrote, I tried something new. Experiment with pov. Tell a true tale of a horrific industrial accident my grandmother once told me. Describe violence. Each story had an objective. I would grow, but only if I had good feedback. Hence, my readership. Nate was a good reader, but always frustratingly unspecific. Mauro was excellent as far as his burro mind would carry him. Jacquie was excellent without reservation. Angelique had a quirky response that I couldn’t penetrate. Tom was eager but egotistical. He later became a personal-injury lawyer and made his first million at age 27 by paying kickbacks to tow-truck drivers.

Every couple months, I would type up the finished manuscript of my next short story, make copies, and hand them out. Later, my readers would give me their reactions in detail. I desperately wanted to know what my readers liked and didn’t like, but in the end, I disregarded half of their critiques. It’s like I didn’t know what I thought about my own story until they said something that I knew was bullshit. That’s how it was with the rest of my life, too.

I was changing and I knew it. One day when I was visiting home, Neil came over. We were sitting in the backyard in chairs where years ago my swingset used to be, among ghosts of my former self. I was wearing brown corduroy pants and no shirt. I said that college was teaching me things. Neil, with his towhead blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, said he was worried about me.

“Worried that I won’t believe the exact same things as you?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What is it, then?”

“That you’re following a secular humanist path. It’s not about me, it’s about the Lord’s plan for your life.”

“This is the same Lord that says it’s okay to own slaves, right? Or are you talking about another one that you’ve just invented who believes that all thinking is from Satan?”

“You sound exactly like a person who’s in the world.”

“That’s where I live, Tonto.”

“Jesus wants so much more for you.”

I had fallen for his liturgical shell game in high school and felt stupid for it now. Neil was already starting with the waterworks. His smile was turning into a metal claw. He had acquired those tools growing up with an alcoholic father.

“Why do you need to control everything?” I said.

“God isn’t about control, my brother, He’s about deep, overwhelming, overpowering love.”

“No, you. I’m talking about you.”

Neil never played defense. It’s not that he played offense. He just wanted the opportunity to scratch your face with that metal claw.

“I’m just afraid,” Neil said, getting up from his plastic chair, the gravest of looks splattered over his face like a cream pie, plus a touch of denigration that topped it off like a red rubber nose, “that your Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ may have lost you, and you’re so very precious to Him.”

Nate was rolling a joint. I remember thinking, I’m going to remember this, and here I am remembering it.

“When he’s onstage,” Nathan was saying, “Fahey plays these long guitar masterpieces that nobody never heard of before he rescued them from obscurity.”

“Every time a hillbilly with a banjo dies, man, an angel cries,” Jacqueline said, picking seeds out of the weed.

“He went door to door in Appalachia collecting songs,” Nathan said. “I saw him at McCabe’s last spring. In between songs, he spits into this bucket, I mean, these long, disgusting spittles easing down to the spittoon right in front of the audience.”

“He doesn’t care,” Jacqueline said.

We all toked up in Jacquie’s kitchen and walked the two miles into the village.

“Is it safe for me to walk all that way?” I asked.

“For Chrissake,” Nathan said, “I didn’t give you PCP.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Walking up the big hill, getting more winded than usual, feeling the dope descend like a cloud on my head, I suddenly saw my bare feet through my shoes. They were 7-year-old feet. The grass glowed and fluttered like radioactive jello. It all meant something terribly important.

Later, we all sat in the dark together. Jacquie loved Truffaut, but I was convinced they were all speaking Egyptian, so we left. In a village café eating French fries, I couldn’t stop talking. Expectations are what we all have in abundance, I said. Ambition is an expectation. Born-againism is a locust cloud of expectations. Virginity is the Everest of Unrealistic Expectations, the proof of which can be seen simply by tossing two bunnies into a cage. And it’s Everest in another way, too, because you can’t breathe up there. And what about parents’ expectations? You carry them around on your back like the bundle of firewood on the cover of that Led Zeppelin album.

“I’m never going to have an expectation for the rest of my life,” I said.

“Okay,” Jacquie said, grinning.

Looking at the two of them sitting across the table from me, the curly haired folkie and the small-breasted poet, an amused look on each of their faces, I suddenly blurted it out.

“You guys are like twins, you know that? Except you don’t look anything like each other.”

The next morning, I drove to the grocery store with my hands clamped tightly on the wheel, terribly worried that pedestrians were going to jump out from behind cars. I didn’t feel right for three days.

We all had dinner at Woody’s in the village. Nate and Jacquie were on one side, Angelique and my cousin Mauro on the other, ketchup and mustard and a couple of wrapped presents in the middle of the table. Nathan and Angelique had beers. I couldn’t have a drink till midnight.

I punched a Carpenters song into the jukebox and then walked back to the table. They all ribbed me. We all had guilty pleasures we had brought from our childhoods. I mourned the loss of sentimentality. As I learned from my professors to live without so much of it slathered on everything like ketchup, I began feeling differently about things. It was a different world, a lighter sleep, filled with surprising things like Thomas Pynchon, D.H. Camus, Leonard Cohen, the Velvet Underdog, Michelangelo Antonioni, subtitled Swedish movies, moral relativism, alienation chic, sushi, eggplant, ennui, pi.

Mauro was talking about how marijuana was so much more natural than liquor, because it entered your bloodstream through your lungs.

“Didn’t you just try it for the first time?” Mauro said. “That must have been, like—how many weeks ago was what?”

“Two months.”

“Did you like it?”

“If liking it means being a week behind in my assigned reading of the Henriad, then yes, I loved it.”

“God, I’ve got a ton of pages to read, too,” Angelique said.

“First time I did it,” Mauro said, “I had profound revelations.”

“What, that you like potato chips?” Angelique said.

“No, just to live in the moment.”

“I’m always missing the moment,” I said.

Mauro and I exchanged glances. We had been in Boy Scouts together. We had taken the oath together. If I recall correctly, getting high isn’t found anywhere in the oath, correct me if I’m wrong.

“Did you ever drop acid?” I asked Angelique.

“Once. The stereo was on, and the lyrics to Joni Mitchell’s songs were appearing on a ribbon”—Angelique raising her finger toward the spot—“high up on the walls.”

The way she said it, her hair falling down over her shoulders, her eyes filled with remembering, she suddenly seemed unspeakably beautiful.

“I was in a bookstore the other day,” I said, “and I thought, ‘What is it that I’d like to buy?’ And then it occurred to me: A novel written by you.”

Angelique seemed displeased. “You’re still high.”

By 12:01, we were in a dark nightclub in Hollywood with flashing lights and pounding music and I was showing my driver’s license to the bartender for the first time. Angelique watched, transfixed, as Bo Diddley played onstage. I couldn’t care less. His day had come and gone. I asked Angelique to dance.

“It’s Bo Diddley!”

“What?!”

“I’m listening!” Pointing to her ears.

Between sets, with canned rock ‘n’ roll taking over, I tried to get the ball rolling, but Angelique still couldn’t hear me. I leaned in closer and my lips touched her hair. Suddenly, everything that had been muddy became clear. The moment was no longer a problem. The thought of her hair on my lips was tattooed onto my loins. I had three more Rum and Cokes, and by two, Angelique was driving me home.

I tried to tell her about when Mauro and I were seven and he won a Halloween costume contest with a Raja toga and turquoise turban and he fell on his face when he stepped on his robe and chipped his front tooth, but my tongue was thick. I asked her to walk me up, but she politely declined.

“I ha’ some Kahlu’ and milk upstairs,” I said.

“Go to bed.”

I unpacked myself from Angelique’s old red Datsun and climbed the steps. Made it to the top and waved goodbye, watched her taillights drift down the hill. It was the saddest thing I ever saw.

Her high school boyfriend was still in the picture. He was living in Sonoma in an old house with a dog that she missed. Bastard had so much going for him. Hair that stretched all the way to Calexico. Attitude that spilleth over. Dope dealer. Or maybe he was just an excuse. Maybe he didn’t even exist, I don’t know. I was falling, I didn’t know what into, maybe a haystack of needles.

When I got to my front door, I couldn’t go in. Nobody in there but my roommates, two of whom hated me, one of whom hadn’t even talked to me for five months because I had blow-dried my hair on his bed and he hated stray hair and had jammed Spackle into the electrical outlet holes. So I took off my clothes, left them in a pile. Walked towards the pool, stumbled once, said to myself, Don’t worry, I got it, get your fuckin’ hands off me. Stepped onto the diving board, took an unsteady step towards the water, another, sat down, legs dangling, feet underwater. Looked up at the fifteen apartments that faced the courtyard. Two had lights in the window.

I knew what would happen. Some girl would look out the window, see me sitting there, and come down. She would want what I wanted. She would have been scribbling page after page of journal entries in a spiral notebook about how lonely she was. She would have been stuffing the pages into the crawlspace, hiding them but hoping they would be found. I had a name for what I was, and it wasn’t happy. Her name would be Carly or Sophia, but I would settle for Chloe. She would invite me inside. She would have silky dark hair. She would have an unexpected smile that no one had yet discovered. I knew it would happen. It was supposed to be a magical night. Everybody said so. Everything was supposed to happen tonight.

After a half-hour, I knew there wasn’t a God. The night was just one long, empty boxcar. I walked back to the door, let myself in, and collapsed on the bed. Fuck the caffeine. Fuck the moment. I went right to sleep.

The beach was nothing to speak of. Grey sand and lots of litter. We wandered back to the main drag, where a brown guy with only a few teeth in his smile and no English at all, I mean, not an ounce in his whole body, sold shark tacos on the street corner.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“They’re fully cooked. You can see him cooking them.”

“Nate, you’re buying food from a guy on the street.”

We pondered where to stay. There was a $3 hotel, a $5 hotel, and a $6 hotel.

“Let’s try that one,” I said, pointing.

It looked like an American motel, with four floors, a new paint job, nice cars in the parking lot, and American families on the balcony in nice leisure clothes.

“I don’t want to pay that kind of money.”

“What kind of money? How much could it cost? I’ll go check.”

I walked over and talked to the clerk. Turned out to be $12 a night.

“Look, we’ve got a chance to pay only $6. You just don’t pass that up.”

So we went with the bargain basement. We checked in. The shower looked scary. The whole room looked like the inside of some fat slob’s dirty mind. I had wanted to read a little Hemingway on the bed—I was rereading his entire works now—but it wasn’t a pleasant place to spend any time. It was exactly what $6 bought us. We left our luggage, but when we were walking along the boulevard, I began to wonder about my stuff. Then again, what would they steal? My short stories? We wandered over to a bar that was famous, I don’t know what for, getting deadass drunk, I guess.

“You want a beer?” Nathan asked.

“Naw,” I said.

“I’m buying.”

“Every time I drink or smoke, I lose three days.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Coke. In the bottle.”

Nate went away and came back with a Dos Equis and a Coke in the bottle, the cap freshly popped. There was moisture around the lip. Imagining Montezuma waiting for me with fangs and talons, I left it untouched. I surveyed the room. It was filled with things. Framed photos of Pancho Villa and Emilio Zapata. American celebrities who had visited the bar. Men posing with huge swordfish and big smiles. There were two barefoot teenagers going up to each table with a wooden box and trying to sell something, I couldn’t tell what.

“Where’s Jacquie?” I asked.

“She’s with her parents till January 6.”

“Did you ask her to come down here with us?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t slept with her yet, if that’s what you were asking.”

“I wasn’t asking that.”

“She doesn’t want me.”

“There are guys who seem to know just what to say.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ve seen them. I wish I knew what those things were so I could tell you.”

“I don’t know if anything’s going to work.”

“I mean, they’re no more good looking than other guys. They just know what to say.”

The teenagers were suddenly at our table with the wooden box. The 14-year-old was speaking to us in broken English.

“You…real man?” he said.

“Who wants to know?” Nathan asked.

“If you are real man, you able to hold thees.”

“Do you understand the adverse sequeliae of chauvinistic appellations?” I said.

He made a face.

“You hold thees. We put electricidad.”

“You think I should try it?” Nathan asked me.

“What the hell for?”

“I could use some good shock treatment right now.”

“Don’t do it.”

“It helped Sylvia Plath.”

“Nate, Plath killed herself.”

Nathan reached into his pocket and gave the kids a couple quarters. He took a deep breath.

“How long seconds?” the kid asked.

“Thirty.”

“Are you sure?” the kid asked.

“Yes.”

The kid looked at me. “You should to bet. Five dollars he hold thirty seconds.”

I ignored the kid. Nathan took the metal rods into his hands and rested them on the table. The kid cranked up the box, and then suddenly Nathan got this weird look on his face, frozen, as if he had left the planet. It was a long thirty seconds. I sat forward in my chair. A muscle in his upper arm began to twitch wildly.

“Nathan!” I said and almost touched him, but pulled back.

I worried about doing something, or yelling something or anything. When he finally came back from wherever he was, he took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Nathan looked at the kids.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said in a weak voice.

They took the box to the next table.

“Do you feel any better now?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Nathan kept shaking his hands out. After dinner, we went to a nightclub and met a couple girls from San Diego. I liked the Asian girl named Joanne and danced with her a bit. I looked over at Nathan dancing with the chubby blonde. He claimed to be a great dancer but he was actually pretty awful, and every so often, he would shake out his hands, which made him look like a bad dancer who had just finished washing dishes. They had the countdown to midnight and people blew horns and cracked confetti eggs on people’s heads and kissed. But I didn’t kiss Joanne and Nathan didn’t kiss his blonde. I wanted to be a gentleman, but I misunderstood the ground rules. Those girls had wanted to be kissed. When it’s New Year’s Eve, you kiss the girl. You always kiss the girl. I still hadn’t found my route across the desert.

It seemed crazy. It seemed like there should be some way to ask the question and get a straight answer, but there wasn’t. Would you mind if I kissed you? or May I have your consent to be intruded upon? Or some window you could apply at, fill out a form, like “Form 1492: Application for Consent to Physical Invasion,” or even work for it, like collect boxtops or green stamps or pull some weeds. I would gladly clear all of western Kansas if that were the reward. But to not have any way to ask was just crazy.

Three years later, Mauro recommended R.D. Laing’s work, and I sat down one afternoon in a hot tub and read with surprise his theory that all insanity is simply a sane response to an unlivable situation. Over the next few years, I began fitting my ideas about life into that construct, because that was the word for this way of living: unlivable. Two years after that, I visited Metro State Mental Hospital as a journalist and saw a twentysomething man walking around aimlessly in circles like a zombie, saying over and over again, as he had every day for the past fifteen years, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it.” The nurse said that when he was nine, his father had shot and killed his mother in front of him, then turned to him and said, “You made me do this.” Then he killed himself. Unlivable.

By three, Nathan and I were driving lost through unlit suburban neighborhoods. We both had to take a leak. We got out in front of a wooden white house with a dead brown palm tree growing next to the curb.

“That tree needs watering,” Nathan said with a smirk.

Nathan was not a little drunk and got my light-brown Florsheims wet. I kept a lookout for the house’s owners.

“Listen, you’re twins, I told you that,” I said.

“We’re not twins. We’re strangers.”

“You just have to be more aggressive with Jacquie. Try to think like those guys who get the girls.”

“It’s worse than that. She’s a whacker and I’m a mole.”

“Why the negativity, man? Jeez, you sound like my Dad.”

“Because she wants you.”

“What?”

When Croatians wish you luck, they say, “Bowl of shit.” They’re a cynical people. They’ve been dominated for centuries by outside powers, Austria-Hungary on one side, Romans on another, Turks on still another. But sometimes, Bowl of shit is just what you get. I looked at Nathan uncomprehendingly for a moment, then looked away. On the one hand, it is sad to hear that your best friend is disappointed in love, and doubly so when the fault seems to fall on your own mesomorphic shoulders. On the other hand, it is not enough for one to succeed; one’s friends must fail.

“You should go after her,” Nathan said. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

I didn’t want to be impolite.

“Yes, she is.”

There was a difference, my fiction prof had told us, between sentimentality and sentiment. The former was a blemish, the latter, a mere option among many. What had moved me growing up had not, contrary to what I had assumed, been a formative experience, but instead, a juvenile response. Sentimental books—anything that made my heart ache or soar or that touched it in any way—were childish. But there was one thing I knew: I did not want to live in a world without sentiment. The prospect took away my joie de vivre. That was the world that Jacqueline thrived in. Or, as she would insist on putting it, in which she thrived.

“She said you look like her father,” Nathan added.

Opening up a whole other can of Freud.

“She asked me if I could set something up with you.”

I had begun to stop wishing for specific things when I threw a penny into a fountain. It seemed childish to wish for a job, or a car, or a girl. Those were things you earned. It was like a spoiled rich brat wishing for a pinball game for Christmas. And getting it. There was no guy in a big red suit. I always closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and just before tossing the penny, let one word flow through my head: Fulfillment. It meant there were no boundaries, no limits. It meant I was claiming everything, the whole world, without restriction. I hesitated, though, to claim black cats.

For months and months, I steered clear.

It was bothering me, though, why I didn’t have any luck with women. I thought about it constantly. It made me wonder whether I might fit into this new category people were talking about: gay. I didn’t think about men in an erotic way. The first time I heard the mechanics of it, I mean, really had it explained to me, I said, “What?! No! You’ve gotta be kidding!” But I did get terribly nervous when I was around girls that I wanted. And I never got any of them.

Susana was perfect. Perfect blonde hair and perfect blonde face. She went on one date with me. I called her the next day and left messages for the next twelve days in a row to ask her out again. I must have become the big joke around the sorority house: Another guy’s in love with Susana. So what else is new? Fiona was perfect, too, but in a more refined way. She sat next to me in the back row of Victorian Lit. We wisecracked beautifully together. On the last day of class, I screwed up the courage to ask her out. She beat me to it. Showed me her engagement ring. Never got any of those women.

There was an unconscious, Freud said, that gave you everything you truly wanted. But I didn’t get those women. Did I not want women?

“You’re too intense,” Nathan said. “Women like men who don’t care.”

“How do I not care?”

Nate and I had moved into a place together six miles south of campus. Once, I went down to the carport to my green Datsun and found behind my windshield wipers a couple pages torn out of a pornographic gay magazine. It was photos of naked men having sex with other men. On the bottom was scrawled: “This could be us.” That evening when I took a walk, the middle-aged dolt in the house across the street gawked with a grin on his face.

Nathan was in limbo. He had graduated, took a shit job at a clipping service, and was falling more heavily into THC. I would come home and he would be sitting on the couch with red marijuana eyes and an album cover in his hands, listening to “Give Me Cornbread When I’m Hungry.” He had devised a plan to plant marijuana in his closet under grow lights, but I nixed it. It wouldn’t be good for either of us.

“I’m visiting my mother in Passaic all next week,” Nathan said. “You should call up Jacqueline while I’m gone. You’ll have the whole place to yourself.”

Our apartment was a two-bedroom in a cheap neighborhood. The bedroom doors were as thin as our voices were loud. The carpet was green, thin, and old. If you picture an apartment building that’s nothing special, I mean, nothing special at all, you’ve hit it on the nose.

I invited Jacqueline in without a kiss. She entered in ominous silence. I had spent so much of my life working hard not to think about the actual specifics of sex. What comes first, what comes next. We had no real furniture, only bricks and planks for bookcases and a mattress covered in an orange bedspread in the living room for a couch. I poured us both some German Riesling because that’s what you were supposed to do. As she walked into the bedroom, the dog in the yard below started barking. He was a vicious old black dog on a chain that barked all the time. Months later, someone shot him dead and the cops did nothing about it.

Jacqueline laid her purse down on my desk, a door laid across two used filing cabinets. This was before I had accumulated a lot of junk in my bedroom. That’s not to say it was clean. It was what a guy thought was clean. We took off our clothes in silence and laid down. We began to kiss and fondle, as I’d seen them do in Three Days of the Condor. She may not have been gorgeous, but she was pretty enough. I didn’t really know what came next. She put her hand on me. I reached my hand between her legs and it came back sticky, as if I’d touched jam.

“Uush,” I said.

“Well, yours doesn’t feel too good, either.”

And that was that. In a huff, she was out of there. I didn’t really see that I had said anything wrong. I was lost for awhile. Played some New Chautauqua. Read a few pages of something. Then went into the kitchen and turned on the TV, which was playing the 1958 schlockfest, The Naked and the Dead. Soldiers were fighting and yelling. War was hell. I sat down and propped my feet on the kitchen table. It was so difficult to tell if you had become a man. Nobody issued you a license. The tribe no longer gave you an initiation ceremony in which you ate panther intestines or spent the night in a sweat lodge. Seeing guys in khaki buoyed me. These guys were men. War had made them men. I wondered if what I’d had was sex, and whether that had made me a man. My father had been to war, but he didn’t say anything about it. Did he give me a roadmap to manhood? Was he going to help me? What would he say if I told him I’d touched it and said what I’d said? He’d say he didn’t want to hear about it and take a drive.

Two days later, Jacqueline called me. I wasn’t going to apologize.

“You get only one first time,” she said. “You want it to be special.”

Jacqueline and I had dinner at her place by candlelight. That was more the way it was supposed to be, she said. She was wearing a blue cotton blouse, and I was wondering whether it bothered her tits. I was wondering whether any of her other protuberances got in the way, too, like her nose or her butt.

“Where do you want to live when you get out of school?” Jacqueline was saying.

“I don’t know. Hemingway had four homes. I’d like that.”

Her eyes were lit up above the candles.

“Where?”

“He had a home in Spain.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve read a few biographies.”

“How many?”

“Twelve.”

She gave me a look. I had read the first biography, and at the end, wondered where the secret was. Because he knew something. I read the second and the third biographies, then just kept reading. It was clear in the very seams of his prose that he had an understanding. When Robert Jordan was preparing to blow the bridge and knew he would die in the act, the author knew something. When Santiago brought back the stripped carcass of the massive marlin, the author knew something. But the more I read of his life—which was a very different thing, something that couldn’t be revised and which you couldn’t change the events of to make yourself look heroic—the more I realized just how much of a prick he was.

“Have you ever been to Spain?” Jacqueline asked.

No.”

“I love Barcelona, especially Las Ramblas. Where else?”

“He lived in Ketchum, Idaho, which was great for skiing. There’s a picture of him skiing with Gary Cooper.”

“Do you ski?”

“A little.”

“We should go skiing sometime.”

“Okay.”

“Did he ever live in New York City?”

“No.”

“I want to move there.”

“Because it’s the center of the publishing industry?”

“Because there are so many things to do all day and all night. Plus, I can speak French and people will know what I’m saying.”

I had brought a record that I loved. It was Keith Jarrett, who played improvisational solo piano. Ever since I had broken the surly bonds of classical, I had luxuriated in improvisation. It allowed you to follow the music in your hands. Jarrett’s improvisation was the kind of music that, like Fahey, pulled you into an ever-deepening whirlpool. You could drown in it. Jacqueline dropped it on the stereo.

I was on top of her. It came more naturally this time. I said nothing about the jam. I wasn’t just listening to the music, I was the music, and it was a shiny feeling that I had only had in a dream, the white candles flickering onto the walls, lightly crackling, my innocence slowly burning off, my identity transmuting, because I was no longer the guy who was impossibly innocent, who couldn’t get the girl, who used Christianity as a buoy in open waters, who doubted his sexual preference, who couldn’t cross boundaries, couldn’t find a route across the Sahara, who was missing the moment, I was the moment, I was burrowed so far into the moment that I was emerging the other side, pushing my way out the other side like Eunice’s mother, when suddenly, as if someone were spearing me like a fish out of a stream, Jacqueline was almost shouting.

“This isn’t right, this isn’t right,” pushing me off her.

It wasn’t an easy thing to stop in the middle, I discovered. Energy wants to go from one place to another. The body doesn’t want you to stop and lay on your back. I was panting and sweating.

“What do you mean?” I said, nearly out of my mind.

She couldn’t immediately verbalize it. Her lips once again wore that ungenerous curl. It looked like she was trying to figure out who to blame.

“Why did you pick that record?” she finally asked in a sharp tone.

“Because I love it.”

“Why do you love it?”

“I don’t know. Why is this important now? I listen to it all the time.”

“Yes, but why did you think it would be good for lovemaking?”

I stared at her. “Because I really, really love it.”

“I think it’s because it’s a live album.”

“What?”

“At the end of every song, it has applause,” she said. “It’s for your male ego. Egoiste. You needed applause while you were making love.”

My father didn’t yell. When he was angry, he became quiet, walked out the door, and took a three-hour drive. I could feel my face tighten while I put on my clothes. I could feel myself become impermeable. I remember a panicked look starting to form on her face, as if she could feel me at the start of never talking to her again. She started saying things, but the sound was turned off. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I was gone.

I didn’t see Jacqueline for years after that. It turned into a story, then a memory, then a static representation of an experience like an icon on my computer. It’s like when I looked into the attic of an old house I was renting and discovered a mouse skeleton in a trap. Nathan told me she was pursuing a master’s degree in poetry. She had married a fellow graduate student in the program. They didn’t move to New York City or Paris or Barcelona. They were having offspring. Apparently, he had brought a studio album.

But I knew what she had meant. I didn’t love her. I couldn’t make myself love her. But she and Nathan had been so insistent. Still, she made me think about things for years afterwards. At 29, I got an invitation to go home with an exotic but slow-witted lady named Tricia. We rolled around on her sofa for a bit, and then, out of breath and all lathered up, she seemed ready to kick it into the bedroom.

“I haven’t slept with anyone in ten years,” she said.

The look in Tricia’s eyes took all the wind out of my sails. It was like she looked into my eyes and saw the route to the next twenty years. I could have commandeered that toy boat, but I didn’t have the heart. I could see the wreckage before it even hit the rocks. So I didn’t let it happen. In the ensuing years, I became increasingly honest with myself. I wondered whether Jacqueline had been only the first in a series of casualties. I had often been so casual about sex. But after Tricia, I stopped sleeping with women I didn’t really want to sleep with. My heart couldn’t take it, and neither could theirs. It was like doing violence to someone.

In the ensuing years, small tragedies befell my friends. Nathan never said a word about what happened between Jacqueline and me. He turned out to have the biggest heart of all of us. His tragedy was that he fell in love with a girl who didn’t enjoy anything but her own misery. It helped him quit THC, but he wrestled with her misery for decades.

Another tragedy: Angelique landed a newspaper gig and never found much time for her fiction. A third: She went into therapy and learned how to be happy. She was never quirky again. In bookstores, I still long for the novel she might have written.

I became a magazine writer. Within ten years, I had written over 500 articles and felt like a writing machine. My religion became just another forgotten border crossing, my virginity, the lingua franca that I finally learned to speak.

But for years, Jacqueline remained a mystery. Then one night, I looked her up on Facebook. It took me a couple weeks before I got up the courage. When she friended me, I began devouring her profile. It took me days to fully grasp it. I walked around thinking about it all the time. At times, I was angry with her. Fucking ballbreaker. She had given up the poetry—given it up! Quel désastre!—to become a short-sale realtor. She had embraced her mother’s Judaism, and was now worshipping at a synagogue along Sunset Boulevard. Her three children were now nearly grown, and her longtime companion Susan was a choral director. In the dark of the night, my face lit up by the computer screen, I laughed. No more expectations, no, never again.

I Came from Somewhere

My grandmother Paula Cruz was from another time and place. Born in 1908 in Leon, Mexico, she emigrated to the States in 1915 with her family to flee a bloody battle that was brewing in the area, and which eventually wiped out most of the population, thanks to the Mexican Revolution. At age 12, she was living in sleepy Azusa, California, according to the 1920 Census.

Through the years, my grandmother had to fight many things—poverty, a violent husband, the pervasive racism of the times, her own low self-esteem. Among the most revealing fight, though, was the one she waged against the Department of Motor Vehicles.

My grandmother Paula (R) with her sister Helen in 1929, when she was still single.

My grandmother Paula (R) with her sister Helen in 1929, when she was still single.

You see, Nana (we pronounced it Naw-naw) could only barely read and write. Her father had died when she was in third grade, so she and her other 12 siblings were quickly pulled out of school and put to work picking fruit in the fields. Another strike against her was her dyslexia, which in those days went by another name: stupidity.

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As an adult, Nana got a job working at the Wilson meat-packing plant in Vernon. I visited her once when I was four. It was an ugly old factory on a nondescript industrial street south of downtown. If you’ve never driven down those streets, you don’t know how ugly an industrial section can be, because it’s still that way. Last year, I got stuck in a freeway traffic jam, exited below downtown, and had to drive through that hell.

Paula is second from the right.

Paula is second from the right.

Paula Martin with coworkers at the meat packing plant

As a 4-year-old, I remember visiting her at Wilson. I remember being lifted up onto the receiving dock and walking in. Inside the factory, it was dank and reeked of freshly cut meat. In a room with only high windows, I saw a row of workers, my grandmother among them, rolling sausages with her bare hands. She seemed happy to see me, and gave my tiny face a kiss, then went back to the sausages. It was the job she did for 40 years.

My grandmother and I were very different. Take the war.  In 1957, Nana’s third husband died and her war against the DMV began. Suddenly, she had nobody to drive her places and had to obtain her own driver’s license. The written tests were difficult for her from the start. She had to sound out the words phonetically, like a first grader. As the years went by, the tests became increasingly difficult. I don’t blame the DMV. It’s good to have drivers who can read and understand what they’re doing. But it was hell for my grandmother.

Paula and her third husband Leonard.

Paula and her third husband Leonard.

My mother would drill my grandmother on practice tests. She enlisted the help of relatives, asking them to save their written driver’s tests so she could coach my grandmother from them. Nana would sit at the dining-room table and try to read the questions, sounding out each word. Every so often, my mother would help her or correct her. Once the question was read aloud, my mother would reason out the answer with Nana.

We were always worried that she wouldn’t pass, that she would lose her driver’s license and be homebound. My mother would drive her to the test and sit nearby, waiting for her. It wasn’t a quick visit. Nana took a long, long time with those tests, sounding out each question and then trying to “think it good,” as she put it. Miraculously, she always passed. To be sure, she earned those passing grades.

Interestingly, Nana took great joy in her cars. In the 1960s, she started buying Camaros, which were a big deal in those days. There was a yellow one, followed a few years later by a green one, followed a few years later by a red one. Nana would drive around town in that hopped-up car and feel young again. We all called her the “hot-rod Nana.”  Later, my mother bought a Camaro, too. It was kind of the family car.

In her eighties, it was in one of those Camaros that Nana got into a serious car accident. She was turning left against oncoming traffic and was hit broadside. It was clearly her fault. I was called to her bedside, because, my mother said, she might not make it this time. She had some broken ribs and internal damage.

She was lucky though.  She healed up.  We all debated whether we should take away her keys. Her eyes and her reaction time were getting worse. But we were also worried about taking away her independence. We worried that without her independence, she might just wither away and die.

“You have to be more careful when you drive,” my mother told her.

“I will.”

“You’re getting older.”

“I know.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, of course.”

So we never took away her keys, and neither did the DMV. She drove until two years before the end, increasingly cautious.

My Nana was a throwback to a harsher, more complex time. It was never simple. Without the ability to read or write fluently, much was denied to her. The DMV was a house of horrors. Ingredients lists on canned foods were of no use to her. Electronics were impenetrable and users’ manuals were no help at all. Many movies were puzzles ready to be misinterpreted.

Once, I tried to tell her how she was mispronouncing a particular word.

“It’s spoon,” I said. “Say it. Spoon.”

“Spoom.”

“No, spoon.”

“Spoom.”

“No, there’s an n at the end. Like in Nancy. Spoon-nah.”

“Spoom.”

At my first performance at the Magic Castle, Nana sat in the front row. It was a highbrow show, and my grandmother, who never finished the third grade, misinterpreted one of my jokes. In the middle of the show, I saw her urgently shaking her head and shushing me, thinking that the joke was a humiliation for me in some way, or a vulgarity that she thought I might go to hell for, or something, I don’t really know. It wasn’t.

In many ways, I was like the DMV to her, estranged because of my education and difference. She grew up in poverty and violence. I grew up in middle-class comfort. By the sixth grade, I had already had twice the education that she ever had, and the estrangement worsened. By high school, I was the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, and reading my published articles would have been an ordeal, so she didn’t. By my twenties, I was publishing articles in Esquire, Harper’s Bazaar, and Mademoiselle, and we lived in different worlds. I flew in to New York City twice a year to receive assignments from my editors, and was living in a whole different world. Later, I was appearing alone on stages at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, at the Carpenter Performing Arts Center, and on television, as well.

When Nana died at age 90 and three months, I was sad, of course. But in some ways, it was also like an ancestor dying in 1722. At the same time, though, it was like my own mother dying. She had babysat me as a child, rocked me in her arms, stroked my face, kissed my forehead. My most vivid memory of her is of my lips touching her wrinkled cheek. I can smell her makeup even now. I can feel those wrinkles on my lips.  At family dinners, she would sometimes stand in front of the stove and make corn tortillas by hand. She would wink at me and smile. With her very presence, she reminded me that I wasn’t just a television kid with no past, but that I came from somewhere.

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Paula (R), making tortillas, with her daughter Sally.

Paula (R), making tortillas, with her daughter Sally.

Paula holding the author's hand.

Paula holding the author’s hand.

Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy

In high school, Lily was a cute, bubbly girl. I knew her from the born-again Christian youth group to which we both belonged, called Young Life. Kids in Young Life were their own clique of “good kids.” They met monthly in kids’ homes, sang songs together, went on campouts together, and generally tried to channel the energy and humor of youth into something that didn’t involve substance abuse, depression, and lawbreaking, but instead, involved God and Jesus.

http://www.younglife.org/About/Pages/History.aspx

We grew up in Orange County, California. There was a lot of wholesome whooping it up. There was a lot of guitar playing and sing-alongs. There were a lot of Praise the Lords.

“Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy is the people whose God is the Lo-or-o-ord!” went one of our favorite songs. We would clap together while singing it. It was a bright and perky song, and it was great fun to sing.

Lily was the cutest of the bunch, I always thought. A few times, I got the look. You know the one, the one that says, Maybe I like you. But nothing ever happened between us because, in my mind, she wasn’t good enough for me. Through the years, it turned out that nobody was ever good enough for me. But hey, that’s a whole other story.

After high school, my born-againism faded. There was so much that born-againism prohibited me from experiencing. For one thing, sex. For another, poets like Dylan and Plath and, on the music side, Beck.  For still another, thinking for myself. For still still another, doubt.

Happy, happy, happy, happy, now that’s an interesting subject. Within ten years of leaving born-againism, I was much happier. To be specific, I was happier using my own logic to decide whether something was wrong or not, like abortion, or watching violent movies, or whether all indigenous people should be converted to Christianity. I was happier sleeping in on Sunday mornings. I was happier reading pagan literature in bed.

Decades passed. You can live several lives in that amount of time, and I certainly did. I was first a journalist, then a New Yorker, then an uncle, then a famous magician, then “a guy who never married.” I had so many different identities. I was political. I was an exercise fiend. I was a guy who had been with his girlfriend for 14 years and had never married her. I was a world traveler who published accounts of his journeys in the New York Daily News: http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/travel/palau-splendid-view-pacific-paradise-article-1.290314

Then Facebook comes along. This weird free network puts you in touch with people you haven’t thought of in years. And one day, we all “friend” Lily. I was so happy to see her smiling face, which still lit up any room she was in. I started having chats with her, and discovered that she still lived in the area. One day, I called her.

“We should get together for coffee,” I said. “Catch up.”

“Sure,” she said.

And then she popped the question.

“How are you with the Lord?”

Ugh God, she wasn’t still into that, was she?

“I’m not,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, what happened?”

“Jeez, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we get together, if you like.”

I wasn’t interested in being converted, that was for sure. But if all she wanted to do was hear the story, I could do that.

In the end, we never got together. In June, I read on Facebook that Lily was dead. I was stunned. She was far too young. I scrolled through her Facebook page, but nobody was being specific about what had transpired. She died around March 1, but her friends didn’t seem to have been invited to the funeral, if there even was one. A memorial had been promised, but that had fizzled out, too.

There were so many mysteries. To me, it seemed to reek of bad family. I mean, what kind of family wouldn’t invite friends to a funeral? There are so many ways for families to be dysfunctional.

Last night, I went to Lily’s wake. It was held five months after she passed, at a sports bar in Newport Beach.

http://www.clubplanet.com/Venues/124022/Costa-Mesa/Skosh-Monahans

It seemed like a weird place to celebrate someone’s life, more like an Irish wake, with the dark lighting and all the alcohol flowing. The young waitresses wore tight black shorts and skimpy black tops and had lots of weird tattoos and sneered. For the wake, there were lots of middle-aged women, all chatting, laughing, and raising a glass to Lily.

“How did you know Lily?” one of them asked me.

“I knew her in high school,” I said.

“Did you know her as an adult?”

“I hadn’t seen her since high school, but in the last year, we were planning on getting together. It never happened, though.”

“That’s sad.”

I listened hard, trying to figure out how Lily died. It was weird. I wondered if she had died of something that some consider shameful, like AIDS. For example, one of my friends has rectal cancer but finds it embarrassing to talk about, so he just leaves it at “cancer.” But you have to die of something, and nobody was talking about what the cause was in Lily’s case. Finally, I leaned over and asked a woman named April in hushed tones.

“So how did she die? Cancer?”

April locked onto my eyes. She pursed her lips and shook her head no. She became very quiet. I leaned in even closer. I waited expectantly, but she didn’t answer, she just started telling the story.

On a convention trip, April had roomed with Lily. Watching her day in and day out for several days, she quickly realized.

Realized what?

April recounted the conversation she had with Lily that brought it all to a head.

“Lily, you’re going to kill yourself if you keep drinking and doing pills the way you are. I’ve seen this so many times,” April said.

Turns out that April has worked for years as a substance-abuse counselor at a local hospital.

“You’ve got to promise me,” April said, “that you’re going to stop tonight.”

“Okay, okay, I know it’s bad for me, I promise I’ll stop,” Lily said. At this point, Lily was in tears.

April called Lily the next morning.

“Hllo?” Lily said.

And April lost it, because she could hear the pills in Lily’s voice. This wasn’t just a patient, this was her best friend.

“You promised me!” April said.

“I know,” Lily said, “but I had insomnia last night, I had restless legs.”

And that’s how it was every time Lily made a promise to April.

Throughout the evening, I heard other stories from other people.

From a blonde with a determined mouth: “Lily loved my husband. He was her knight in shining armor. We would go on those conventions, and we would go down to the Jacuzzi and she would drink, and it would get to the point where she couldn’t drag herself out of the Jacuzzi. And my husband would always pull her out and help her back to her room. And she was always so thankful, it was, like, ‘Henry, you’re my knight in shining armor.’”

From a woman with long grey hair who was sitting at what seemed to be the alcoholics’ table: “Yeah, I met her here, at this bar, when I moved down the street seven years ago. She met us here every Tuesday for seven years.”

From a brunette: “Oh man, she could do great Blow Jobs—you know, the kind of shot drink where you can’t use your hands? She was the best at Blow Jobs.”

Happy, happy, happy, happy.

You can see a video of anonymous stupid girls doing Blow Jobs at 7:50 here:

April told me about another conversation she had with Lily just a few months before she died. April and her grown daughter were at a party that Lily was at. April’s daughter, who had known Lily since she was ten, was bartending, and her daughter came up to her.

“Mom, I think Lily is dying,” the daughter said. “She looks so bad, with her eyes sunken in and everything and her skin translucent.”

So they walked up to Lily and April’s daughter says: “Lily, you look terrible. What’s wrong with you? I think you’re dying.”

Lily immediately burst into tears.

“I know something’s wrong with me,” Lily said, “but I don’t have the money to see a doctor.”

It was a strange thing to say, because she was working for AAA at the time.  I can’t believe that a full-time employee at AAA doesn’t have medical insurance.

“I work for a doctor,” the daughter said, “and I know I can get him to see you for free.”

But Lily turned down all offers.

“I don’t want to do that,” she said, “I just don’t want to do that.”

Remembering back to high school, I recalled that Lily had had scoliosis and had to have a rod surgically implanted in her back. Perhaps the painkillers were originally prescribed to treat that. Perhaps she still had lots of pain.  Perhaps the alcohol was another form of medication.

Suddenly in April, people were notified that Lily had been admitted to the hospital. April came to see her, and when she entered the room, she saw a woman who was a shell of her former self lying in the bed. Lily’s hands and feet were in restraints so that she couldn’t leave the bed and look for alcohol. Worst of all, Lily had incredibly sad eyes. Almost immediately, though, April was approached by a friend named Samantha and told to leave. April was escorted out with the help of several nurses while Lily kicked against her restraints, perhaps to object wordlessly to ejecting her best friend from the room.

“Samantha is sitting right over there,” April said, pointing at a steely blonde sitting at the alcoholics’ table. “When I leave, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. She had no right to turn away all these people who loved Lily. They stole our goodbyes from us.”

The hospital visit was on a Tuesday. By Saturday, Lily was dead. Her friends never did give a name to Lily’s cause of death, but it was clear by the description. It was cirrhosis. It was liver failure. Or, as one family member kept telling people, “liver cancer.” In essence, it was like a cancer, relentlessly eating away at Lily.

I told April about my phone conversation with her about “the Lord,” and April was shocked.

“I never ever ever heard her talk about ‘the Lord,’” April said. “You mean she was a born-again Christian?”

“Yeah, we all were.”

“And she implied to you that she was still one?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“My God, that’s so hypocritical what she said to you. It makes me mad.”

Everything had been turned around, and I told them about it.

“You know, when I came here tonight, I thought I was going to a memorial for a woman who might have died a virgin,” I said. “I mean, I heard she’d never married and never had children, so maybe she just followed that born-again stuff to its logical extreme.  And she even told one of her high school friends that she was a virgin.”

But April just shook her head solemnly, an ironic twinkle in her eye.

“No, trust me, she wasn’t a virgin.”

It was in that moment that I realized what had bothered me about that song Happy all these years. It was the enforced happiness. It was the denial of any other feelings except happiness, with an emphasis on denial.

When she left, April passed by the alcoholics’ table and had a brief conversation with Samantha, who looked like a hard woman with no illusions and no pity. Since I knew the confrontation was coming, I’d had time to reposition myself so I could hear it.

“We were all wondering why none of Lily’s friends were allowed to see her in her last days in the hospital,” April said calmly.

“Well, it was Lily’s wishes,” Sam said sadly.

“Well you know, all of her friends think it was you.”

“What?”

“They think it was you who blocked all of us from seeing her.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit.”

Sam began to get visibly hot under the collar.

“And you know, I think it was you, too.”

“Well,” Sam said, her voice rising, “I. Don’t. Give. A shit.”

That’s when April walked away. At that point, Sam turned back to her alcoholic friends, clearly pissed. She took a few sips from her red wine, trying to calm down. Finally, she emptied the glass in a single gulp.

“What?” one of the friends said. “What’s wrong?”

“You see that woman April?” Sam said, pointing at her as she walked out the exit.

“Yeah.”

“Well, they told me she was a troublemaker.”

“That woman over there?”

“Yeah, what a bitch.”

Strangely enough, I believe Sam. It would be just like Lily to block her friends. She didn’t want her friends to see her die from an excess of Blow Jobs. It would have been humiliating. She wanted to just disappear. And that’s kind of what she did.

An Outburst of Pure Irish Passion

There’s a guy in Ireland who bought my book, Be a Street Magician, a few years ago. He gladly paid the extra postage and ordered a couple other tricks, as well, the bill exceeding $100. He was trying to get the nerve to go out on the street and perform magic, which is a kind of dragon that some of us have to slay. But Jack wanted to read up on dragon slaying before he went out to fell the beast.

“After reading your book, I strapped on a set of balls and just did it,” Jack told me.

He didn’t just do it, he’s won awards for it.  It’s gratifying to know that you inspire people to be bold.

Later, when I looked at his YouTube video, I was mightily impressed.

This guy has talent, I thought.

This year, I finally traveled to Ireland, and when I met Jack Wise, I put a face on a reader. He was a muscular fellow with the kind of face women love, but with one Achilles heel: He loves magic. I would’ve hated him if not for that one fatal flaw.

Brian Daly (L) and Jack Wise (R)

Brian Daly (L) and Jack Wise (R) in Murray’s before the lecture.

We were sitting in Murray’s, a traditional Irish pub, having dinner and a pint, and one by one, the Irish magicians wandered in.

Brian Daly, a working pro who is an officer in the Society of Irish Magicians, and who is terribly witty in front of an audience.

Gary Michaels, who had just come from working the streets, where he shocks people for a living.

Gary had the look of someone who doesn’t need to prove himself.

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Gary being Yiked.

Steve Thompson, who is a brilliant inventor of magic tricks, such as Glance.

In fact, Steve invented something astonishing just while we were sitting around chatting.  Steve’s mates were joking about not wanting to hug him when they saw him, and I took the joke a step further.

“I don’t want to hug, but could we just cuddle?” I asked.

It was an excellent joke and everyone laughed heartily, but truth be told, it remained a wall between us for the next hour. It’s a guy thing.

Later, we all crossed over to Cassidy’s Hotel, the lovely Irish establishment where I would be lecturing to the society at 8 pm, and had another pint. They all wanted to see some magic, but nobody wanted to ask. So I just stood up and launched into a trick called Torn and Restored Transposition, a trick that was invented by a wacky Ohio magician named David Williamson. The trick kicks magicians’ asses, not just because the individual sleights are tough, but also because the sleights have a rhythm that is extremely difficult to master.

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Ah, rhythm. When it comes to rhythm, I’ve always had an ear for it, whether it be musical or magical. I love the Irish rhythm of Luke Kelly and Van Morrison and the Chieftains and U2. I was always astonished that someone like Van the Man, who has such a horrific voice, could entrance me with such incredible rhythm, melody, and musicality. The Irish, it seems, are in touch with everything that makes you tap your toe, because sometimes, that’s all the downtrodden have, is some weird beat that the privileged could never imagine because, well, they have everything.

In the case of my magic trick, the rhythm was BAM SWISH RIP BEAT SWISH TURN APPLAUSE SWISH CLENCH OPEN SWISH BAM. It’s a tough one to tap your toe to, I must confess.

After I performed the trick, there was a kind of silence.  Of course, silences mean different things to different audiences. In time, it became clear that this fine Irish silence didn’t mean Meh, but instead, Wow. Later, Jack tried to explain the silence to us, talking about how Irish audiences differ from American audiences. He discovered the difference while performing at busking festivals in Canada, which he does every year.

“You invite an Irishman up onstage and you say hello, and he says hello wit’ his head down, like, ‘Uh….’” Jack said. “But you invite an American or a Canadian up and say hello, and he’s like, ‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ And we Irish t’ink, like ‘What?!’ We can’t understand tat reaction. It’s da result of 800 years of oppression.”

Everybody was laughing about that one, but when the laughing was over, the truth of it remained at the bottom of the glass.

While Claire, my mother, and I were in Ireland, we picked up a boatload of phrases. You tell people that you went into town to see the Irish dancing, and an American would say, Great. But the Irishman takes it one important step further.

Grand, he says.

But it’s not just grand, it’s grawnd, in such a friendly, open accent that makes you feel like a million euro!

Language can unlock a people. For example, whenever they say a word that contains a th, they pronounce it as if the h were a traitor to the Irish cause for freedom, that the h has to be kicked out of the country to connect themselves back to the ancient Celts, which gives rise to such strange sentences as:

Ta ting is, I can’t tank you enough, Teodore, for being so totful wit me tirteen kids.

I had prepared for this trip. Before getting on the plane, I bought a 400-page history of Ireland called The Story of Ireland, the reading of which consumed my evenings and weekends before the trip. One of the tings I learned: By all rights, there should be two-tirds as many people living in Ireland as there are living in England, given the size of the land mass. Strangely, though, Ireland has only 5% as many. The reason, put quite bluntly, is a centuries-long policy of murder and expulsion.

There, I’ve said it.

During the seven years of the potato famine alone (1845 – 1852), approximately 1 million souls died of starvation, which, by the way, is a horrific way to die. Another million emigrated, many of them to America. One may assume that the Irish were responsible for their own famine deaths, but they weren’t. Since the English had centuries earlier made it illegal for the Irish to own land in their own country, or serve in their own legislative bodies, or even benefit from laws outlawing murder, theft, and fraud, there evolved a kind of well-enforced poverty.

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I’m not saying that Americans were any better. We were toying with our own minorities at the time, which included the Africans, the Mexicans, the Chinese, the Jews, the Catholics, the Italians, and yes, the Irish. It was what you did in those days. You slapped weak people around. You shot them. You killed them.  You stomped on their graves.

So when the potato blight arrived (the microscopic fungus that invaded the Emerald Isle and destroyed potato crops wholesale), the poverty-stricken Irish were already on the verge of starving. The Phytophthora infestans simply pushed them over the edge. On top of that, the British government refused to offer adequate help, and crime and other unrest skyrocketed. Carts filled with wheat and oats were looted on their way to market. The Irish countryside descended into chaos. Families huddled in their squalid homes, hungry and desperate, many of them dying there. Starvation ravaged immune systems and a typhus epidemic raged. Villages became ghost towns and every town seemed to have its own mass grave.

The Times of London complained that the Irish were exaggerating, declaring that “it is the old thing, the old malady breaking out. It is the national character, the national thoughtlessness, the national indolence.”

It’s no wonder, then, that the Irish are known for their drinking and brawling. My own Mexican grandfather, who was a mariachi singer in La Ciudad de Los Angeles in the 1930s and ‘40s, could never catch a break from the gavachos who ran the system, and consequently turned to drinking and fighting. His children grew up in domestic chaos, and as a result, I feel the effects of that desperation even now, two generations later.

Mariachi promo pic 1Drinking and fighting. While traveling through Ireland, I took photos of both. The first was outside a pub in Drogheda, a half-hour’s drive north of Dublin, where we caught a staggering, drunken man trying to light a fag.

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The second was in the Dublin Airport, where we were waiting for our flight to Heathrow. There, we saw a man who was trying to blend into the vinyl airport furniture, but who had obviously been in a recent fight.

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I can sympathize with fighters. They refuse to lay down.

God invented whiskey, the saying goes, so that the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.

Finally, at 8 pm, I stood in front of the Society of Irish Magicians and started my lecture. In the room was lots of expensive wood and chandeliers, and the audience was of a healthy size. I was enjoying it, imparting my deep, dark secrets to a group of fellow deceivers, and I could feel them enjoying it, too.

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Then I launched into my climactic piece of magic, The Silence of the Lemons, which involves me raising my voice and haranguing the audience like a Southern preacher.  In their view, I was coming alive, and I could feel them come alive, too. One fine magician named Gary couldn’t stop laughing when I started tearing his 5-euro note, and that expostulation of laughter gave me such joy that I can’t describe. Afterwards, Silence is the trick they couldn’t stop talking about.

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On the left in this photo is Gary, who couldn’t stop laughing when I tore his 5-euro note.

“You can tell that you’ve performed that trick thousands of times,” Jack said. “It’s like you could just turn it on for that trick.”

But I think they were drawn to the trick for other reasons, too. It’s essentially an outburst of pure passion, and the Irish love passion.  It’s what they live for.  The music of Luke Kelly is such an outburst. So is the poetry of James Stephens. So is the drinking of James Joyce, which is the stuff of legend. Many an evening in Dublin, so they say, Joyce ended the night in a passionate embrace of the pub floor.

I may not be terribly religious, but Joyce, now there’s a god to worship. Sacred be his nouns and hallowed be his verbs. Drinking and freedom are intertwined in his pages like vines crawling up the brick walls of Trinity College Dublin. Joyce drank with his countrymen and woke up with the same hangovers. His heart broke when he heard about the deaths at the GPO in 1916 and he mended it in the best way he could. Sometimes, his heart could not be mended. And when Joyce wrote, he remembered it all, he was honest about it all, and it all bled out of that fabulous pen like green Celtic blood.

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“It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.” (from “A Painful Case,” in Dubliners)

True enough, Messr. Joyce, sorrow is everywhere, it’s general, it’s the human condition.  Still, the only sorrow that I feel from my bond with the Society of Irish Magicians was the sorrow of leaving. They were all such a joy, even the old white-haired mage who challenged one of my sleights for being overcomplex, God bless him, even the skinny 11-year-old who looked so forlorn and friendless that his mother brought him to a magic meeting to connect with some kind of something, God bless him, and especially the tall young master magician named Andy who earnestly promised to get me onto cruise ships, God bless him especially, God bless every single minute of his life, that I cannot adequately put it all into words.

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Therefore, I will end not with a cuddle, nor with a thrown punch, nor with an embrace of the pub floor, but with a fine Irish toast.

May you never lie, steal, cheat or drink.
But if you must lie, lie in each other’s arms.
If you must steal, steal kisses.
If you must cheat, cheat death.
And if you must drink, drink with us, your brothers in magic.

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150,000 Times

We were sitting around at the Magic Castle on January 2, at the 51st anniversary party.  From out of the blue, Siggie asked if any of us had any cigars.  She’s always been kind of a firebrand.

“My father died of smoking in 1989,” I shot back with a bite in my voice.

My father sitting in his favorite chair, smoking

My father sitting in his favorite chair, smoking

Everybody at the table was silent for a long moment.  Finally, Adam chimed in cheerfully.

“How do you know he died of smoking?”

I shot him a look.  He was wearing a red suit and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Because he was a pack-a-day smoker,” I said.  “He went into the hospital with one of the most advanced cases of undiagnosed COPD and emphysema the doctor had ever seen.  He died of a series of strokes and heart attacks.”

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Smoking at age 21 in Korea.

“Yeah,” Adam said, “but how do you know it was the smoking?  Lots of people these days are dying of lung cancer who never smoked in their lives.”

“My father didn’t die of cancer.  It was COPD and emphysema.”

Clearly, Adam wasn’t understanding my tone, which was filled with venom and warning, or perhaps he was perversely choosing to ignore it, maybe to get under my skin.

“I know that,” Adam said, “but how did you know it was smoking that caused it?”

“Adam,” I said, “the Surgeon General issued a report as far back as 1964 showing a strong correlation between smoking and lung disease.  This is well established.”

“That was a long time ago,” Adam said.  “Our research has come a long way since then.  There are all sorts of reports these days finding different kinds of things.”

“What kinds of things?”

My father approximately age 58

My father approximately age 58, looking quite a bit older and sicker.

Adam floundered for a while trying to answer that one, and I let him flounder.  He was proving himself wrong, although by that time, there was nobody else there to witness it.  Adam has a similar contrarian view on climate change, government regulations, the national debt, and other Fox News lies.

“You can’t tell me what kinds of things,” I finally said.  “But I can tell you that the tobacco companies are evil.  Reagan’s Surgeon General, C. Everett Koop, said that smoking was as addictive as heroin.  And I can tell you that on his deathbed, my Dad said that he had tried to quit 150,000 times.  Those were his exact words, ‘150,000 times.’  And after he died, we went through his stuff and found all sorts of literature about smokers’ rights.  And you know who published it?  Organizations that were funded by Philip Morris and all the other tobacco companies.”

I never did convince him, but he convinced me of something: that he appropriately summed up the dictionary definition of ignorant.

To read my other posts about my father’s death from smoking, click here and here.

How Deep the Rabbit Hole Goes

Last weekend at the Magic Castle, I was performing my closeup magic show at the tables.  At midnight, I was thinking about leaving when a group of Japanese walked up to the table.

Closeup Wonderground merge 2 smaller“You do show for us?” the younger man asked.  I later discovered his name was Masa.

“Of course.”

And so I launched into my main show, which lasts about 20 minutes.  I had to pronounce my words more slowly because of the language barrier.  Sometimes, I would deliver a joke, look up, and be greeted with uncomprehending silence.  Such are the wages of national identity.

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Still, there were heartwarming moments of commonality in my show.

“Morpheus asked, ‘Do you want the blue pill or the red pill?  When you make the choice, you will discover how deep the rabbit hole goes.’”

I was referring, of course, to the moment in the movie The Matrix when Morpheus offers Neo a choice between a blue pill, which will allow him to return to his life, or the red pill, which will allow him to see the whole truth about his reality.  But one man took a different meaning.

“Blue pill?” he asked  “Like Viagra?”

Pharmaceuticals are apparently an international language.

And so is magic.  Whenever I finished a trick, Masa would gaze at me in wonder and express his astonishment.

“I have not seen this type magic,” Masa said.  “Is best I have seen.  Is very attractive.”

When the show was over, though, it was my turn to be astonished.  Masa turned out to be Masanori Takumi, a thirtysomething composer/musician from Tokyo who was in town for the Grammys, which were to be held the following evening.

“I show you my medal,” Masa said, and pulled out a bronze medal with “Grammy nominee” embossed on it.

Turned out the other men in the group were his agent, his producer, and three other business associates.  Apparently, Masa writes a lot of music for anime and video games, and is quite famous in Japan.  After the show, I was so impressed that I gave him a guided tour around the Castle.  I didn’t get home till 2:30 am.

The next evening, Masa didn’t snatch the big prize.  He was entered in the category of “Best Reggae Album” (a song he wrote was included on an album by Sly & Robbie and the Jam Masters called Reggae Connection), and seriously, how can you win against Bob Marley’s son Ziggy, who won for a live album.  It’s like competing against Zeus’s son in the category of Best Roman God.  Not only that, but Japanese reggae is, to be frank, a long shot, like kiwi salsa.  But still, I let him know via email how impressed I was.

“Just being a nominee means that you’re officially one of the five best this year,” I wrote.

“And you were the best I seen,” he wrote back.

Meeting Cute Chicks on New Year’s Eve

Yes, of course you can meet cute chicks at New Year’s Eve parties!

David and Angela drunk 1aAbout 20 years ago, I was performing magic on New Year’s Eve at a party at a Hollywood restaurant.  There was lots of noise and partying, and in the performance of a feat of magic, I seemed to establish a connection with a petite young blonde named Sheila.  Meaningful gazes and grins were shot in my direction.  I caught them and pocketed them for later redemption.  When midnight struck, I gave her a nice little kiss and asked for her phone number.  Walking away from the gig at 1 am, I was excited about the prospects, even though Sheila lived way the hell out in Hemet, a desert community in Southern California.

We made a date for the second week in January.  I drove the hour out to Hemet and got off on some godforsaken exit off the Whatever Freeway.  I knocked on Sheila’s door and was greeted with a lovely, smiling blonde.  She didn’t look exactly the same as she had on New Year’s Eve–nobody does–but she looked lovely, nonetheless.

We got into my car and drove to the Olive Garden.

“It’s the only halfway interesting restaurant in all of Hemet,” she said.

The conversation stalled a bit, and I glanced over and noticed she looked a little nervous.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“It’s been a rough week,” she said.

“In what way?”

“Well, okay, I didn’t expect to tell you this early, but I have a confession to make.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling.

I like confessions.  They not only allow people the opportunity to be honest, which is a rare commodity these days, but they also allow you the opportunity to forgive.  Fact is, I’m quite a forgiving person.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

My silence surprised even me.  In fact, I had never had quite that kind of moment on a date before.  Not many people have, I’d venture.  It was kind of like her saying, Do you want to just skip all the good parts of the romance and jump into all the angst, pain, and drama?

Turns out Sheila had slept with a guy a couple months earlier.  The relationship, or whatever you call it after one night, hadn’t worked out.  Then the previous week, she’d found out that she was pregnant.  Apparently, termination wasn’t even a remote possibility.

“I’m from Texas,” she said by way of explanation.

“Okay.”

“On top of that, he’s not the kind of guy I would want as a Dad.”

Then why don’t you consider termination?  I thought.  Why would you want to pass on his loser genes to your own child? 

Oh yeah.  She’s from Texas.

Sheila’s solution, she explained over dinner, was to move back in with her parents back in Shameonyou, Texas.  Okay, fine, whatever.  What does this have to do with me?

We finished our strange meal at the Hemet Olive Garden and then I drove her back to her place and walked her to the door.  That’s when she gave me that look, the one that in normal times, you so desire to receive.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked tentatively, looking at me sideways.

What?!

It was a long drive back from Hemet.

The Twisted Path of the Ming Vase

A few years ago, I attended the wedding of a wealthy friend.  It was held at her father’s house in Woodland Hills, a sprawling home with an elegant backyard worthy of a Julia Roberts romantic comedy.  During the reception, I wandered the grounds at my leisure.  It was lovely.  They had spared no expense, and it was like a labyrinth of beauty.  Finally, in a room that they probably called the primary living room foyer, I came upon a white and blue vase with Chinese markings that was the size of a 50-inch plasma television.  The bride’s sister told me it was a Ming vase.

“Oh, my father’s wife bought it for $40,000,” she said.

It would probably be $500,000 now, since the market seems to have appreciated, as reported in this television segment, below.

[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JkALJbvIeiU]

“He doesn’t know anything about vases or China, but he had the extra money and his wife begged, so he bought it,” she said.

Lately, I’ve been reading about those famous Ming vases.  They were manufactured in Jingdezhen, in the approximate center of China.  Jingdezhen was blessed with the special clays required for the manufacture of porcelain.  It also had dense forest with lumber necessary for running kilns, as well as the Yangzi River, which allowed for easy transport of fragile items, rather than horsecarts.  By the 16th century, Jingdezhen was turning out hundreds of thousands of porcelains, from small plates and bowls to huge ones, like the one I’d seen, which were used in sacrificial ceremonies.

It’s amazing how the period Ming vases have made their way through the world.  After manufacture, they were sold, then kept or displayed or used, and then, decades later, passed down to the children after the owners’ deaths, then kept or displayed or used some more for decades, perhaps sold, perhaps stolen, perhaps being destroyed in or surviving war.  Many vases each century are broken, and the surviving number gets smaller and smaller.  Those pieces that have survived today go for exorbitant prices, though, such as the price paid by my friend’s father.

A year after the wedding, I asked the bride about that Ming vase, and she told me something that made my heart sink.

“Oh, somebody got drunk and knocked it over,” she said, laughing.  “Really, though, I don’t feel sorry for my Dad.  If you’re going to display something like that during a wedding, you’re asking for it, don’t you think?”

That was one of the more interesting stories I’ve heard, so I worked into the plot of my novel, What Happens to Us, available on Kindle for only $3.99, at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DSSN5SU.  I believe novels should be a collection of the most interesting things that have ever happened to people.  I don’t like to bore readers, don’t like it at all.  Give the book a try.  I guarantee you won’t be bored.

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