(3) David Blaine, Mysterious Stranger–‘The Sunday Times Bestseller: His secrets will become yours’ Pan, £12.99).
I do a mite more surfing, but find out surprisingly little of personal interest about Blaine. The full-on autobiographical detail is sketchy, at best…
Born in Brooklyn, New York, 1973 (no actual date available).
First got ‘into’ magic aged four, when he saw a man performing conjuring tricks on the Subway.
His mother remarried when he was ten (no information about his real father or stepfather–although someone did mention something about his dad having died when he was very young) and the family moved to New Jersey.
As a teenager Blaine became an actor, attending a Manhattan acting school and then appearing in a few commercials and playing some cameo roles in a couple of soaps.
His mother died in 1994, when he was twenty-one.
He started doing ‘magic for the Movie Stars in Hollywood’, so consequently has many ‘celebrity fans’, including Leonardo Di Caprio, Al Pacino and Robert De Niro.
He sent an amateur video of himself to ABC and they responded by offering him a million dollar contract to perform what they called ‘street magic’ on TV (So he didn’t invent that phrase himself? Well this makes Solomon’s theories look a little dodgy, eh?).
Apparently–now I like this–Blaine absolutely loves Tower Bridge. Always has. That’s why he’s doing the stunt here.
(Hmmn. Think this ‘loves Tower Bridge’ thing has that distinctively feculent aroma of a big ol’ pile of wheedling PR).
On one of the fan-sites there’s passing reference to Blaine’s (now almost legendary) ‘public demeanor of vacant detachment’, which strikes me as fairly interesting…I mean is all that very flat yet very deliberate slow-moving, slow-talking stuff just a public persona? (Does he jerk and buzz like Woody the fuckin’ Woodpecker in private?). More to the point: doesn’t everybody talk that way in Brooklyn?
Of course then there’s the reams of people trying to cash in on the whole magic side of his work (i.e. ‘Make all your friends gasp in astonishment…buy this video/ DVD/book…put your hand through a glass window…levitate…do a card trick…bring a fly back to life…’ blah blah).
I also happen across Wakedavid.com, ‘the site dedicated to keeping David awake for 44 days and nights’.
God, I really dig that about the internet: you’re banging through an apparently endless, incredibly turgid pile of fan-shite one minute, then the next–and completely without warning–you’re suddenly entering a world peopled entirely by haters. And yet here they are, rubbing up benignly against each other, almost as if–underneath all that careful packaging–they’re actually just one and the same thing…
Which they are, effectively (i.e, two sides/same coin etc.).
‘Cos that’s Modern Life, huh?
Wakedavid.com…
ENTER
Wow. It’s a flashy old site, though, for something so apparently ad hoc.
And the first thing I notice–apart from the unnervingly detached, yet effortlessly jocular tone–is how incredibly keen these people are to make it clear, up front, that their campaign against David Blaine has nothing whatsoever to do with any kind of racial motivation–
Good God, no!
Never!
Uh-uh!
I call Bly over at lunchtime to take a quick peek.
‘You okay?’ she asks, in passing.
‘Huh?’
‘You look a little pale,’ she says.
‘Did you see this before?’ I ask, pointing at the screen.
She puts her hand on to the back of my chair, leans in closer, and commences reading.
‘I had a boyfriend once,’ she informs me, a short while later, as we share a sandwich, walking along the river, ‘who was really into his four wheel drive Landcruiser…’
Okay…
‘…And you might well think that this has nothing whatsoever to do with the Blaine thing…’
Yes, I might.
‘And you may well be right…’
‘But?’
(Jeez. This girl’s certainly no Jalisa on the information front. It’s like pulling fucking teeth with her.)
‘But when I read that Wakedavid stuff just now it totally reminded me of the kind of tripe he used to download. The general tone,’ she says, ‘and this particular kind of…uh…mindset…’
‘Was the boy a Nazi?’ I ask sweetly.
She slits her eyes at me. ‘At least credit me with more discrimination than that.’
We grind to a halt in front of a dazed if cheery-looking Blaine. I peer down at my half of the sandwich. It suddenly looks quite unappetising. And while there’s a chill in the air, I feel a little…phew…hot.
‘Oh fantastic,’ Bly suddenly gasps (between urgent mouthfuls of her tomato and mozzarella ciabatta), ‘it’s Hilary, Adie, look…’
I turn to where she’s pointing (somewhat irritably–I mean when does she finally elucidate on the improbable 4x4/Wakedavid connection?) and see that the individual who’s generating such excitement on her part is sitting on Aphra’s bench, two spaces along from a currently blissfully dozing Punk’s Not (doesn’t this guy have a home to go to?).
He’s this slightly overweight, conventionally dressed, smug-looking, bespectacled, 30-something guy who happens to be wearing a preposterous headscarf–red and white, the kind favoured by Middle Eastern politicos (Yasser Arafat probably has the copyright).
To say the scarf looks a mite incongruous would be to dabble in a grotesque world of profound understatement (If he’s not wearing that thing for a bet, then I certainly wanna know why).
The scarf is literally just tossed over his head (like someone threw it at him and he didn’t quite duck in time). Next to him (and I mean directly next to him–in the gap between himself and Punk’s Not) is a small, rather scruffy, home-made sign which goes some way–I guess–to partially explaining this fabulous head-apparel: ‘Fortunes Read’, it says.
‘You actually know this creature?’ I murmur.
(Jesus. The Illusionist is certainly drawing all the freaks out of the woodwork.)
‘It’s Hilary,’ she says. ‘Remember? Worked as Mike Wilkinson’s PA last year?’
Nothing clicks.
‘Fourth floor?’
Nope (This chick isn’t in Human Resources for nothing, huh?).
‘Think he has the gift?’ I ask.
Bly nods. ‘He told my fortune last December,’ she says, ‘and he was really good.’
‘Oh yeah?’
She nods. ‘He said my father would lose his arm. And he did, three months later…’
I jolt to attention. ‘Your father lost his arm?’
She nods. ‘In an accident at work.’
‘And he said that? He said, “Your father will lose an arm?” ’
She chuckles. ‘No, not exactly…’
Ahhh.
‘So what did he say?’
‘He said, “A close, male relative will lose a limb.”’
‘Good God.’
‘I know. Weird, huh?’
She pauses. ‘And the strangest thing was that my mother’s brother, Marty my favourite uncle–lost his toe to gangrene literally a month before my dad had his accident, and I briefly thought he was the person Hilary was talking about…But at the time I just kept thinking, “A toe is not a limb…”’
She gazes up at me, full of emotion, ‘I mean it just isn’t, is it?’
‘Wouldn’t it’ve been awful,’ I interject, ‘if, on top of everything else, Hilary’s linguistic grasp had been found wanting?’
She continues to look up at me, but now more cautiously.
‘You’re harsh,’ she eventually mutters. ‘I’m going over to say hi. Coming?’
Oh yes. Of course. I remember now. He’s put on some weight and he’s changed his glasses, but underneath that baroque headdress he’s fundamentally the same straitlaced, cynical, world-weary, unbelievably punctilious tool f
rom the fourth floor that he always used to be.
We had an argument, once, about photocopying paper. His department had over-ordered, our department had run short, so I ‘borrowed’ a couple of packs without bothering to fill out the relevant acquisition slip and he got all snooty and snitchy and up on his hind legs about it.
Man.
Who needs that shit?
So get this: I am approximately five feet away from this would-be Paragon of the Paranormal when he glances up from the book he’s reading- a particularly lovely (deliciously battered-looking) American paperback edition of the collected works of Richard Brautigan, with a fantastic black-and-white front cover (featuring a charming, old-fashioned photographic image of the author and his hippie-chick girlfriend), and then a beautiful, bright red back cover with only the word ‘mayonnaise’ written on it, in white, dead centre (Wow. So isn’t this itinerant paper hoarder quite the man of the moment now with his independent life-style, mystical leanings and iconoclastic reading matter?)- when he looks up, frowns and yells, ‘Stop!’
(About ten tourists freeze and turn around, in shock. Punk’s Not wakes up from his light doze, with a gasp.)
Bly and I both grind to a sharp halt.
‘Go home,’ the Paragon tells me in shrill, ecclesiastical tones (while pointing, rudely, like Moses on the damn Mount). ‘You have a contagious virus.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say.
‘You do,’ he says, ‘Australian flu.’
‘Urgh’
Bly takes a step back.
‘But how can you possibly tell,’ I ask, ‘when I didn’t even cross your sweaty, petty, embarrassingly opportunistic palm with silver yet?’
He waves my insults aside: ‘It’s an especially virulent strain,’ he cants (causing shocked inhalations from the small audience which his bogus proclamations have already amassed).
‘Well lucky for me you’re sporting that industrial-sized hanky then,’ I say, pointing (somewhat gratuitously).
‘Done any inter-departmental thieving lately?’ he snarls (Yup. Old wounds).
‘Still have the name of a girl?’ I sneer.
‘I believe you’ll discover,’ Punk’s Not cordially informs me, ‘that Hilary is actually derived from the Latin, hilaris, which means “cheerful”. And up until the late nineteenth century it was used entirely by the male. There was both a pope and a fourth-century saint–’
‘And then it became a girl’s name,’ I interrupt, ‘and that’s all that matters now…’
‘Fuck off, germ-farm,’ Hilary scoffs.
‘…And not even a nice girl’s name,’ I continue, ‘but the name of a pear-shaped girl with no tits and fallen arches, who wears moccasins and tweed, and collects novelty liqueur bottles, and smells of radishes…’
(Novelty liqueur bottles? Woah, there.)
‘You ignorant, pointless, fluffy little fop,’ he splutters (plainly mortally offended for the girl he might’ve been).
I take a step closer, and pant, provocatively.
He cowers away from me, drawing some of his excess scarf fabric across his mouth, like a heavily bespectacled Lawrence of Arabia.
‘I’m going to lick you,’ I announce.
A booted foot kicks out at me.
The crowd steps back.
Then I jump, like a wildcat, and set my tongue to work on him.
What?
Has this man never troubled acquainting himself with soap and water?
Hmmn. Is it just me, or does Punk’s Not have an unexpectedly magisterial aspect from down here?
Six
So I got the flu. Bully for him. And it is virulent (just like he said): I have shooting pains in my head, my chest, my legs, my nuts. Fever, nausea, the runs.
Night sweats (really bad ones). Exhaustion. Chapping. Am skiing through a veritable avalanche of phlegm…
And the Illusionist thinks he’s doing it tough?
(Experiencing ‘A funny taste in the mouth?’ Eh? While I lie shivering, in the foetal position, looking like Marilyn fucking Manson after three hours in make-up?)
Hey. But Bly did end up telling me about the 4x4/ Wakedavid connection (yeah–I know you’ve been literally on the edge of your seat over that one) although I’m far too ill now to know if it’s relevant or not (and if it is, what–if anything–it’s relevant for…).
I guess you could just say that I’m gradually building up some kind of basic, three-dimensional jigsaw inside my head; piece by tiny piece (as if David Blaine, the rage he’s generated, the logistics of his actual ‘stunt’, are some kind of magnificently fractured, profoundly perplexing, antique ceramic pot…
So will it hold together when I’m finally done? Will it be waterproof? Are all the fragments in place? Are my fingers clean? Is the glue strong enough?).
Okay. Okay. Try and be kind, will ya? I’m sickening. I’m gummed up.
Remember earlier, much earlier, before the plague?
‘All this damn rancour,’ Bly grizzles, once she’s hauled me off the pavement, apologised profusely (on my behalf), retrieved Hilary’s (not so ‘hilarious’ now, eh?) headscarf from my frenzied clutch, returned it, and cluckingly dusted down the arms and elbows on my heavy-wear jacket, ‘what’s the point of it?’
‘Rancour?’
I do the wide-eyed act.
(My philosophy: if in any doubt, deny, and deny passionately.)
‘You attacked him.’
She gives me a reproachful look.
‘He kicked me first,’ I squeak, ‘and anyway, I only licked him. In most “advanced” cultures a lick is a sign of overwhelming benevolence.’
‘To a dog, perhaps.’
‘All that bloody piety,’ I growl (conforming to type), and setting my (now, slightly wonky) sights back on work again. ‘I mean who suddenly gave all these skanky New Agers such ready access to the fine, moral high ground? They have no right to it. They don’t pay any damn rent. They’re just Ethical Squatters…’
(Bly neglects to congratulate me on what I feel is my peerless use of morality-based real estate imagery.)
‘You’re honestly trying to tell me,’ she scoffs, ‘that Hilary offends your “Christian sensibilities” in some way?’
‘Yes,’ I gabble defensively, ‘and fucking Blaine, for that matter…’
‘How?’
Uh…(Now I’m flummoxed. Just give me a second…I’m harbouring the pox, remember?). ‘Well…the adverts, for starters. The TV adverts. And before this whole thing even started, there he was, like the proverbial bad penny, hanging around town and behaving- at every opportunity- like a real celebrity dick. Cutting off his ear at a press conference. Getting tough-nuts on the streets to punch him in the guts. Prancing around on the London Eye. I mean big fucking deal. Is he meant to be an Artist, or some kind of low-rent carnival entertainer?’
I pause and cough.
(Shit, man, I’m pent up.)
‘Is it really any wonder,’ I continue, ‘that people’ve got so confused and pissed-off?’
‘The TV ads…’ she nudges me.
‘Yeah. The TV ads. They were unbelievably provocative…’
‘Not so’s I remember…’ she debunks.
‘You don’t have a problem, then,’ I gabble, ‘with some trumped-up, two-bit American magician–best mucker of those social stalwarts: Uri Geller and Michael Jackson–drawing casual but explicit parallels between his million-dollar, Sky sponsored, money-making antics, and the trials and tribulations of the Son of God?’
Bly merely cocks her head.
‘The dark corridor,’ I twitter, ‘the raised arms, the grandiose music, the portentous voice-over…’
‘So what?’ She throws up her hands. ‘Who cares?’
‘Who cares? Who cares? Lots of people care. Because it’s sacri-bloody-legious. It’s arrogant. It’s outrageous. It’s wrong.’
‘Oh. Fine,’ Bly snipes, caustically. ‘It’s suddenly against the law now, huh, to employ basic Christian iconography in other walks of
life?’
(Iconography?! Man. What’s happening to these females lately?)
‘Yes. Yes. It is. Against the laws of good taste,’ I gurgle: ‘Just look what the Muslims did to Rushdie: a fatwa, for writing some crummy piece of undigestible fiction. But when Blaine compares himself–his so-called “struggle”, his theatrics–to the trials of Jesus Christ, we’re all just meant to go, “Uh, oh, good, yeah…”’
Bly puts up a hand to stop me: ‘How did he compare himself?’ she asks.
‘In every way. The imagery. The whole presentation of the thing. All the “forty-four days in the wilderness” malarkey…’
‘Forty days,’ she chips in.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Forty days,’ she yells. ‘You’re standing here as Christianity’s chief defender and you don’t even know the number of days involved.’
‘So Blaine cocks a snook at Christ by going four days longer!’ I exclaim. ‘Wow. You surprise me.’
We enter the foyer. ‘Okay…’ Bly pauses thoughtfully by the front desk. ‘I’m perfectly willing to concede to your idea that the Christ thing is implicit in what he’s doing…,’ she frowns, ‘but you already told me how it was the Kafka story that inspired the whole stunt. You were burning my damn ear about the subtle ramifications of the so-called “Korine connection” all bloody morning…’
‘So what?’ I shrug. ‘Blaine’s just cherry-picking. He’s trite. An opportunist. A cultural slut.’
‘Uh-uh,’ she uh-uhs. ‘It’s not simply a question of cherry-picking, it’s about experimentation, about pushing buttons, crossing boundaries. He’s transgressing.’ She pokes me in the chest with her beefy finger. ‘He’s making you think.’ Another poke. ‘He’s making you question. He’s being intellectually flirtatious…and–at some fundamental level–I think he’s probably just taking the piss a little…’
‘Maybe he is,’ I squawk (I hate this idea, somehow–to be the punchline of Blaine’s joke? How infuriating is that?). ‘Maybe he is taking the piss, but how can we possibly be expected to tell, when he’s so unreservedly smug and pious and American and humourless about it? Funny?!’ I point, dramatically, in the general direction of the Illusionist’s box. ‘You call this funny? Slumped in a plastic tomb, twenty-four/seven? Waving occasionally? I thought he was meant to be a fucking showman.’
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