LXV. Forget the Go-Kart, I'll Take the Magic Kit
...and not just because Criss Angel is my hero. No, no...when I was a boy, my wish list was meager – a go-kart, walkie-talkies, a BB gun and a magic kit. I was convinced that my life would be godlike and manageable if I only had these four tools.
With a go-kart, I could navigate highways and take long trips in rough terrain; outrunning my bad acid trips and the millions of bats that were always on my tail. With the walkie-talkies, I could communicate with my friends from forward positions and deliver whispery intel about what my dad’s wayward adventures. With a BB gun, I could become an expert marksman for hire, available to certain shadow organizations. And with the magic kit, I could command the attention of the brown-eyed girls from a block over. Chicks dig magic.
After much negotiation, and several years of therapy, I was able to secure two of the four. I got the walkie-talkies and an early education that same day when a trucker with a repeater detailed his methods of pleasing fat women. My friends and I listened with wide eyes and shallow breath until I slowly turned the knob to OFF and decided to postpone puberty for two years.
And by the time the BB gun was placed in my hands, it had been rendered paintless and impotent by my brother. It was a hand-me-down, and the firing spring was so spent that I had to aim a good 25 feet over a target to arc the BB into a hopeful trajectory.
Now my mother, a Southern Baptist because she felt the Apostles were Baptist, had always impressed upon me the idea that magic tricks were vaguely associated with the devil.
"Magic works because the Devil is showy," she would say.
"But Mom, Jesus turned water into wine," I would offer.
"Shut up!"
"OK, Mom, but can I have a go-kart?"
"You want to run up under a car and take your head off?"
"No, just the go-kart."
"Shut up!"
Well, I am in my 20s now, and we put Mom in the ground seven years ago. She crawled out, but I am hell-bent on fulfilling the toy list of my youth. So two days ago, I went shopping. I didn't buy a go-kart because I didn't want to look like Herman Munster zipping through the neighborhood with knees drawn up like a praying mantis, so I bought a magic kit.
I am really excited. This weekend I will put on my very first magic show. My first trick? Making my unfulfilled childhood disappear.
My second? Making it reappear.
With a go-kart, I could navigate highways and take long trips in rough terrain; outrunning my bad acid trips and the millions of bats that were always on my tail. With the walkie-talkies, I could communicate with my friends from forward positions and deliver whispery intel about what my dad’s wayward adventures. With a BB gun, I could become an expert marksman for hire, available to certain shadow organizations. And with the magic kit, I could command the attention of the brown-eyed girls from a block over. Chicks dig magic.
After much negotiation, and several years of therapy, I was able to secure two of the four. I got the walkie-talkies and an early education that same day when a trucker with a repeater detailed his methods of pleasing fat women. My friends and I listened with wide eyes and shallow breath until I slowly turned the knob to OFF and decided to postpone puberty for two years.
And by the time the BB gun was placed in my hands, it had been rendered paintless and impotent by my brother. It was a hand-me-down, and the firing spring was so spent that I had to aim a good 25 feet over a target to arc the BB into a hopeful trajectory.
Now my mother, a Southern Baptist because she felt the Apostles were Baptist, had always impressed upon me the idea that magic tricks were vaguely associated with the devil.
"Magic works because the Devil is showy," she would say.
"But Mom, Jesus turned water into wine," I would offer.
"Shut up!"
"OK, Mom, but can I have a go-kart?"
"You want to run up under a car and take your head off?"
"No, just the go-kart."
"Shut up!"
Well, I am in my 20s now, and we put Mom in the ground seven years ago. She crawled out, but I am hell-bent on fulfilling the toy list of my youth. So two days ago, I went shopping. I didn't buy a go-kart because I didn't want to look like Herman Munster zipping through the neighborhood with knees drawn up like a praying mantis, so I bought a magic kit.
I am really excited. This weekend I will put on my very first magic show. My first trick? Making my unfulfilled childhood disappear.
My second? Making it reappear.
posted by Clubber Lang at 12:18 PM
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