Inside Magic

It was my mother who first saw the two heading up our walkway. 

They were silent, soft in their steps and deliberate in their mission. 
Her eyes flared at my father, Li'l Tom Hardy, America's Foremost
Psychic Entertainer, and he averted her stare. 

I grabbed my little brother and dove behind the divan.  Tommy Jr.
cried out momentarily when his forehead struck the arm of our faded red
couch. 

I stared at him and held my hand over his mouth.  He was 7 and I was 12.  He was also immature and I was practically an adult. 

Consequently, I was not surprised but was bothered when he started
licking the palm of my hand in an immature effort to get me to remove
it from his mouth.

"Lick all you want," I said with a soft whisper.  "We're out of soap in the downstairs bathroom so it's your funeral."

His eyes darted down towards my hand and then back up at me to see
if I was joking.  He must have assumed that I would not joke like this
at such a dangerous moment.  The licking stopped, I released my grip
and he breathed deep but silently.

I looked from around the couch and saw my mother, still in her
church clothes, pinned against the wall by the doorway and my father
kneeling beneath the window sill.  I could also see one of the
strangers' arms in a long-sleeve white cotton shirt.  It was a hot day
and yet there did not seem to be any perspiration stains on the part of
the shirt I could see.

Like the crew of a hunted submarine, we said nothing.  My mother
gestured her concern for Tommy Jr.'s head and promised to get some
Bactine on it as soon as the visitors left.  Tommy Jr. nodded and
looked at me. 

I wanted to be brave for him but I couldn't.  I knew what was at risk.
If we were caught, if the visitors determined we were secretly hiding
behind the door, they would wait us out. 

My father had two shows later that day and I was going to assist in
both. I knew that if the visitors didn't leave, or worse, if they
caught us, we could miss one or both shows. 

I was angry.

The doorbell sounded for the first of what would likely be a dozen
times.  We remained silent and did not move.  Tommy Jr. indicated to
Mother that his head was really hurting. 

Despite the best maternal instincts, she held her breath and showed sympathy with her frightened eyes.

Ding-Ding, our retarded Siamese cat wandered into the living room and checked out the four statuesque positions we had taken. 

Ding-Ding was stupid but very confused.  She couldn't figure out why
we would be in these poses and why no one would bend down to pet her as
she rubbed against each of us.

She rubbed against my brother's head and then began to lick his
abrasion.  My mother's eyes glared at Ding-Ding.  My brother did not
realize what was happening until he felt Ding-Ding's tail stroke his
ear.

"OH MY GOD!"  Tommy Jr. yelled as he tried push the imbecile and family pet away.

With that shout, we were exposed. My father stood up from his
kneeling stance, waved at the strangers and moved to open the door. 

My mother grabbed Tommy Jr. and rushed to the downstairs bathroom
for medical treatment.  I heard Tommy Jr. wretch as he noticed there
really wasn't any soap in the bathroom.

I stood behind my pop as he opened the door.

"Is this a bad time?" the taller of the two very tall men asked.

"No, not at all," my father lied.  "C'mon in, grab a seat."

They walked in and surveyed the room.  They sat next to each other
on the couch and opened their knapsacks to remove their materials.

My father and mother were always tolerant of other beliefs and
supportive of those who tried to find the correct path, no matter where
that path initially seemed to go.  It was ironic, then, that they would
be harassed by the Friends.

The Friends, short for The Friends of FISM, were missionaries
dedicated to sharing their beliefs with magicians around the world. 
They saw uniformity as strength and disunity as disloyalty to the
greater good of Magic.

These two Friends were tall, as I said, had similar short haircuts,
red ties, white shirts, black tuxedo pants and patent leather shoes.

"Did you have a chance to read the materials we left for you last
week, Tommy?" one of the Friends asked.  I don't recall their names so
I'll call him Frick.

Frick's diction, like all of the Friends, was impeccable.  He may
have been from our community but I knew from the stories down at the
Magic Den that they were usually from other countries.

My father mumbled something about not really studying the four
pamphlets they left the previous week.  To be honest, he should have
told them that he tossed them into the pile of papers used for
Ding-Ding's cat litter area – she had not successfully relieved herself
within the confines of the pan since we found her.  The paper area was
crucial.  We needed plenty of absorbent paper constantly.

"We have some new materials for you, Tommy."  Frack, Frick's Friend, said.

 He handed my pop four more pamphlets: Music Is A Must; Sponge Balls Make Spongy Shows;Your Personal Grooming and Your Audience Appeal; and Dancing on Stage Magically.

My father was a gentleman and said nothing in response.  He didn't
even roll his eyes.  He took the pamphlets, looked them over with
courtesy and set them on top of the television.

"So, how about you, young man?"  Frack asked me.  "You intend to do magic like your father?"

I nodded.  My father beamed.

"What kind of magic do you do?" Frick asked me.

I looked to my dad for approval and permission to speak.  He granted both with a nod of his head and a pat on my leg.

"I do escapes and mentalism." If I could have ripped out Frick's
heart and hit it with a tennis racket deep into Frack's throat, I would
not have received a worse reaction.

Frick swallowed deeply and looked at my dad.  My dad still looked
proud.  They knew that my father, Li'l Tom Hardy, America's Foremost
Psychic Entertainer, did mentalism but perhaps figured he was too far
gone to be saved. 

I, on the other hand, was apparently tying my soap box derby car to
the bumper of his Show-Mobile for a out-of-control ride on the Highway
to Hell.

"Do you like other types of magic?" Frick asked.

I nodded.

"Like what?  Do you like to dance on stage and make canes vanish, appear, dance with you?"

I shook my head.

Frack took over, "Is that because you are self-conscious of your dancing; afraid you'll look 'silly'?"

I cleared my throat and looked at my dad.

"No, I just want to be like my pop.  I want to carry on the family name."

My dad smiled. Frick and Frack stared at each other. 

Frack spoke: "No, offense, son, but you're dad's approach to magic is
dated.  You'll never make Vegas or the Lido with that kind of act.  You
need to have polish and dance on stage."

My father took my hand and then turned to Frack. "No offense to either
of you or the whole Friends Movement, but we're happy doing the kind of
magic we've done in the Hardy family since great grandpa got off the
boat."

Frick responded nastily, "Even though you play nothing more than school
assemblies, birthday parties, and an occasional trade show?  I could
see you continuing the tradition but why drag your son down?"

My father looked at me and I took up the argument for the family.

"We don't need to play Vegas, Lido – wherever that is – or fancy
theaters where no one like us can afford to go.  We're happy with our
Blue and Golds and church picnics.  Why don't you leave us alone?"

There was silence. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my little brother and mother
lean their heads out from the bathroom doorway.  They were smiling.

"Why?" Frick asked softly. "Why?  Let's assume you were walking down a
street, any street, and you saw a fire engulfing a home.  On the top
story, you saw three of your best friends screaming for help.  Wouldn't
you find a way to get them down and away from that inferno?"

I couldn't think of three of my friends who would all be in the same
building at any one time.  They were all loners but that was beside the
point.

Frick continued, "That is no different than what we have here.  We see
magicians like you and your father in a building engulfed in flames. 
Sometimes you know there is fire, sometimes you don't, but in either
case, it is our obligation to save your lives."

The metaphor was lost on me but my father got it.

"I think we would prefer to burn to death," he said.

"But that's the problem," Frack said, "It is unethical and immoral for
us to let you burn to death.  You can fight us but that's only because
you don't know how painful it is to live as you are living.  You need
to step from the fire to realize the world can be much nicer."

Silence.  I saw my mother and brother emerge from the bathoom and walk
towards the kitchen.  My brother's head was bandaged but he was
smiling, as was my mom.

My father shook his head. "Are we all done, then?" he asked politely of the guests.

"Will you read our pamphlets?" Frack asked as he pointed towards the television.

"Probably not," my dad said.

They took his rejection in stride. 

"Son, will you look at the pamphlets?  They have pretty pictures of magicians around the world performing in the FISM style."

My father looked down at me and I looked at our visitors.

"No, I don't think so.  I will be assisting my father in his shows.  We have a name to carry on."

Magic Opinion Magic News

 

Continue reading The Visitors – A Hardy True Story

Quinlan’s Inside Magic started with two simple, fundamental objectives.

 We wanted to produce an interesting website about magic as an
entertainment art form and to find cures for Consumption and Dropsy.

To our chagrin, someone had already discovered cures for these 18th Century ailments of the swarthy but unsanitary.

We also found the Internet was not yet developed to the point to allow
connections for more than two or three house-sized computers.

Drawing upon our mastery of side-show stunts, we decided to perform
the classic Window Trance to await the coming of the computer age.

Fortunately, a local merchant allowed us space in his store window to begin our sleep/trance.

Unfortunately, the shop was in the heart of a major metropolitan
downtown area. We were awakened during a riot some years after our
demonstration began.

Our clear glass sarcophagus was looted ("stolen") and we were pawned with it for just over $200.00.

We revived from our slumber in the back room of Leo & Leah’s
Instant Loans in a small Midwestern town. We broke our fast with Tab
and Beef Jerky before escaping when Leah stepped out to purchase
additional Shell No-Pest Strips.

The world had changed in those intervening years. Gone was the trust
and love with which we once associated shopkeepers, looters, pawn-shop
operators, and the common man. We found however, one thing had not
changed. Magicians still sought to perfect the Perfect Pass; and kids
couldn’t resist balloon animals.

Our course was clear. We would develop an act featuring the Perfect
Pass and balloon animals. We’d take it on the road, make money, and
await the coming of the Internet.

Before our Window Trance, we messed a bit with balloon animals – but
the "messing" was primarily due to our over-active salivary glands. In
fact, some of the old-timers no doubt recall when we could perform an
entire balloon animal routine without using a single balloon — thanks
to our over-productive glands.

Washington Irving wrote, "[n]othing suffices to dry a body’s mouth of saliva than a long, restful sleep of years."

It was Ralph Waldo Emerson and his Transcendentalist School who
proved the compound alum or proper dental hygiene would be as effective
as sleeping for more than a decade with your mouth open.

Mr. Emerson and his pal Henry David Thoreau readily admitted the alum
and daily brushing could not out-perform a decade-long slumber. "The
external touches of brush and chemical do not conquer years of rest but
looks eye-to-eye with it." 

(We’re guessing Emerson would insist on it being an "all-seeing eyeball" – heh, heh).

Balloon modeling is like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it and if you fall, you can be rendered sterile.

In
November of 1978, our touring show consisted of our construction of the
classic Robert-Houdin Chess Player Automaton made entirely of balloons.

The Automaton, once built, could complete the perfect Perfect Pass. The
show was a big hit but only among magicians.

Audiences tired of
watching us inflate, tie, sculpt, and inflate again the 82 balloons
necessary to assemble the Automaton. Because of the intricate gear
works, some of the balloons were less than 100 millimeters in length
yet required seven properly placed twists. In all, the construction
took about an hour to an hour and fifteen minutes.

The horrible squeaking from the balloon sculpting could cause ears to bleed.

Unfortunately,
once the Automaton was built and cards were placed in his balloony
hands, the perfect Perfect Pass was so imperceptible the audience did
not appreciate our genius.

To the casual observer, it looked like the
balloon man held a deck of cards, shuddered, and was still holding the
deck of cards.

We left before the official end of our contract with the Mexican-themed Las Vegas resort, Las Flatulence?s.

(Ironically,
or perhaps not, the "Las Flats" as it was called by regulars, closed a
short-time after we left. It was the first true "theme casino" in Vegas
and pre-dated Steve Wynn’s Mirage by two decades.

It was also an
ingenious method of turning a negative into a positive: the hotel was
built over a sulfur spring and rather than try to eradicate the
sometimes offensive belch of air from the underground, the owners made
it a tourist attraction.

A family could sit in one of the lobbies, sip
their drinks, and wait the invisible but pungent spewing from one of
the many Holes of Plenty drilled into the floor. Vegas has lost so much
of its charm in the intervening years. 

Today’s hotels try to mask foul odors or blame the Craps players.)

Our routine
fit easily within a lecture format and we were in great demand to
appear at conventions and local magic clubs. It wasn’t long before we
were ripped-off, though.

You may not have connected
the spate of advertisements in magic magazines with the theft of our
intellectual property, but you no doubt saw the advertisements.
Remember the ad from a former powerhouse magic dealer?

The
Balloon Buffoon: You assemble this inflated dolt with ordinary latex
balloons and he comes to life and livens up your show! You can assemble
him on stage or before you begin. Your audience will gasp when they see
him attempt and fail to perform a perfect Perfect Pass.

Or how about this one?

Hot
Air Henry (or Henrietta): Do you do kidz show? Do you’re kidz’s shows
lack that certain "Professionel Flair?" You’re kidz are sure to love
Hot Air Henry (Or Henrietta – his sister or friend)!! You blow up
balloons that you can twist not like a dog or a giraffe but like a boy
(or girl) who can use it’s magic power to cut a deck of cards (not
included) in half!"

Despite the lousy
proof-reading that seemed to be the hallmark of magic ads in the
1980′s, both effects were exactly our Automaton.

Because they were
advertised as comedy props — neither maker could get the balloon
figures to perfect the Perfect Pass — some magic dealers believed this
was not an infringement of our hard-earned intellectual properties.

The
problem of rip-offs – like the foul smell in certain hotels – remains with us today.

Although, we are more interested
in how things affect us, we note with casual disdain the easy path
chosen by some magic dealers and magic manufacturers. If a trick is
great, it deserves to be priced like a great trick. If a trick is not
so great, it shouldn’t even be sold.

But egos (like
their spell-check suggested replacement "Eggos") are often larger than
one’s plate.

There exists a spirit of entitlement haunting the soul
where a spirit of inventiveness once dwelled.

Like the sulphuric stench
pouring from the floors of the showroom we once called home, this foul
essence retards invention and anesthetizes the souls of those who would
never otherwise consider supporting thieves.

Strat-O-Spheres
was a great trick. We had it, still have it, and loved it. The
principle was not new but the use of the principle and the design of
the props made it worth every bit of the $30.00 it cost back in 1974 as
well as its current price that is well-below $30.00 if one considers
the real-value of today’s dollars versus those three decades ago.

But
if you would rather not purchase the prop from its true owner, you can
buy a functional equivalent from a knock-off artist.

Do
you enjoy the Healed and Sealed effect? Despite the incredibly bad
performance by David Blaine of this miracle, it became the hot effect.

Tim Ellis and Sue-Anne Webster taught the method in special add-on
seminars at some conventions and offered the licensed version to
magicians through their web site.

Their reward for following the rules,
preserving secrecy, and ethically marketing the effect was to be robbed
of sales by magic dealers for whom ethics, secrecy and property rights
were merely costs of doing business for others.

By ignoring these
rules, their costs could be lower and they could sell in bulk to make
their money the old fashioned way, counterfeiting.

We
do not agree, however, with those who would take the classics off the
market under the guise of protecting the property rights of the
masters.

We have heard some argue Cups and Balls, The Imp Bottle, Ball and Vase, should be lumped together with modern innovations such
as Collector’s Workshop’s Badland’s Bob, or Bazar de Magia’s Time Machine.

This specious argument comes from those who would remove protection
rather than to support it.

Their argument is disingenuous: "If we’re
not going to restrict the copying of Cups and Balls how can we draw the
line to protect modern effects based on classic principles?"

Guy "Bug" Tussle’s show is nothing if not original.

We noted a couple of weeks ago his on-going litigation with the Kraft Food Company.  As readers are aware, Mr. Tussle wants a Las Vegas court to lift Kraft’s injunction against his closing illusion Whiz Wizzard.

Mr. Tussle addressed the
slippery-slope argument eloquently on one of the magic forums. "Those
who don’t know how to draw the line shouldn’t be allowed to have pens
in the first place. If you cannot tell why Cups and Balls is
different than an effect like Perfect Pen or The Thought Transmitter, you are either not a magician or not honest."

While
we were in our state of suspended animation, we had a chance to think
of many things.

While most of them dealt with our failed magic and
dating careers, we occasionally gave consideration of Magic’s proud
history.

Unlike many histories, ours is not necessarily written only by
the "victors."

Magicians seem to view magic more as a community than
battlefield. While there may be some who would boost their economic
status by theft, they are never considered the "victors" or great
magicians.

They are seen, we believe, as parasitic enterprises that,
like the red-light districts located by military and labor camps,
fulfill the purile desires of those who seek instant gratification.

Ironically,
when our sarcophagus was looted and pawned, we felt more pity than
animus for the thieves.

While we would see another city and meet new
people when we were pawned, they would return to their unsatisfying
search for the next item to pawn.

Today’s magic rip-off artist sees
margins where we see inspiration and inventiveness. These magic
thieves, like our looters, will never truly enjoy what they have or
what they see.

They are cursed to see only dollar signs where we see
true magic.

Tanya Harding, the nearly famous skater and Quinlan’s Inside Magic "Dream Date" is
alleged to have said:

"If you want to break someone’s leg just to win a
competition, you might win that competition.

"If you’re trying to break
their leg to be the best in the world, that’s a different thing. You
can’t be the best in the world if you got there that way."

You can see why we love Tanya Harding. 

Magic Theft  Tanya Harding  Magic News

 

Continue reading Magic Looting – Today and Tomorrow