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The truth is David Blaine used his magical mind powers to brainwash a sting ray into stabbing Steve Irwin in the heart. . . It was a murder driven by jealousy. . . He's the Aquaman of Murder.
David Blaine is an illusionist, which is really just a grown up word for magician - given to old and aging magicians who would otherwise be considered "pathetic" in the already pathetic world of magic. They're too old for simple card tricks, and far too egotistical to perform at kids' parties. They perform "illusions," which are much like the lame magic skits we're all use to, except they require more "skill." They find their work to be an "art form" and in some cases even a commentary on society. They are a different level of pathetic, and David Blaine appears to be one of its most retarded. Now naturally I had all of this in my head when I heard David Blaine's fading voice on T.V. talk about his next trick. He had announced in Vegas earlier in the week that he would be performing a trick, pardon me, an illusion, he called "The Lava Man," and refused to say anything more about it, much to the chagrin of the media.
I had to cover the event. So I did. Vegas baby. It went like this:
*Editors note: The first night the writer apparently got too wasted and couldn't remember the night, save for a few notes he jotted down in between swigs of alcohol. To provide insight on the complete story, and to end any arguments we have had here at the iR offices, we have added his notes, in their original unedited form.
The lobby is a lot emptier at 3 in the morning, wonder where all the drunks are? The casinos are still humming with the slight shuffle of cards and slot machines, symbols spinning, we'll see if we have a winn-ah, a winn-ah, no oh no, not this time around, hang your head - its ok, we're use to it. I never liked the desert. Something about it, nothing but flat dead land unfit for your average person to survive in - perfect location for Vegas, what with all its vultures. Was Vegas made for this desert, or was this desert made for Vegas? No way to be sure really, these people do look like crocodiles. In the casino at 3 in the morning. Nothing but die hard gamblers and ancient women who are probably 70 but look 100 from too many disappointments along the way, chasing the ever deceiving American Dream along The Vegas Strip. They suck cigarettes and doll up their faces like they did back when they were 20, but they know Vegas screwed em, everybody knows it, so they just suck cigarettes and play the slots with only a slight hope that maybe the next pull of the lever will break the bank and end all of their woes. It never comes though. They have these faces - horrible faces, with wrinkles and contortions of flesh - too much time in the Vegas lights melted their skin just like wax, and when the spotlight went out (after many years,) they took to making their fortune with the help of good ole' Lady Luck. Their faces would cool in the casinos, over many years, and an expression of despair would set in that wax. One day it would break, but that would be the day they died.
Fighting man at the bar, khaki shirt, navy blue slacks. In uniform. Workin' the gambling machine at the bar. You can tell when he loses, he slaps the DEAL button harder than usual and shakes his head. Sometimes he'll stir his drink and just stare into it. Damn, they'll even milk a fightin' man, send him off right, with empty pockets. He gives up after awhile, leaves with a hooker. Time to go I s'pose.
Through the casino up to the room, pass the Texas Hold-Em tables, where all the men look up at you and judge you with their eyes: Too small for this man's game, hit the slots with all the other ladies, dip-shit. You probably can't even cover the small blind! Up the elevator, into the hall - the black carpeting got red oval designs that look like red blood cells on it. Red blood cells, drunk fools with money are the life blood of Vegas right? I may be drunk, and I may be a fool, but I aint got money. S'pose I don't belong in this bloodstream - better get to my room. The Luke Perry room, with artificats from his movie career up on the walls, and a yearbook from his high school days encased in a small glass side table. A look out the window. Louis Vutton building being built across the way. A hotel? A modern affair, nothing but glass windows, and is almost a whole block long. What a monstrosity. How much to build that fucker? 120, 000, 000, 000 dollarzez? Doll-hairs.
*Editors note: There are more notes, but the rest seems to be legible only by drunk people. Its nothing but chicken scratches and is stained brown from a Jager spill. Luckily the writer recovered and was able to finish the story.
Keep reading, its good for you!
I woke up hung-over. Had to get downstairs though, to meet up with David Blaine. I had been given the opportunity to interview him before the big night, which was only two days away. I dressed and met him in the lobby, where he was smiling and levitating there in the center of the room. A crowd had gathered, and he seemed to be giving special attention to the children, who he beckoned to come closer and grab on to his legs for a closer view. When he saw me he called me over. They all gawked at him, some of them even frightened, by what they believed was some kind of demonic act against the laws of nature. The children were ecstatic and he gave them all high fives, and even managed to get a hug in with one portly little boy. When he saw I wasn't all that impressed he frowned a little. Like an upset child, he cut through the crowd, making his way towards a little place for some breakfast. We sat at the table - steak and eggs.
"So what's this magic trick you're doing?" I asked. He was entertaining the children behind me, he didn't hear me. "You like kids don't you?"
"Loooove em." He smiled. "Its why I got into magic in the first place. . . All kids love magic, don't they? They're close to my heart."
"Ok M.J. - what's this magic trick you're doin' on Friday?" I asked again.
"Trick? Trick?" His lust gaze on the children had been broken, he was no longer that sweet innocent Blaine. "I'm not a dog, or a dolphin, come now. . . I do illusions my good man, illu-sions." He smiled, and with a slow sweeping motion over the table he turned over his hand and a fork appeared. I wasn't impressed, so he then "bent" it with his mind. . .
"Sorry yeah, so what's this illusion you're doing?" I was annoyed.
"Well its an illusion, well more of an endurance trial, its, its, an endurance illusion." I could tell he was talking out of his ass. "They're feats of amazing endurance, that test the human body and the human mind to almost the breaking point. In a way they're almost super human. I mean I've nearly died doing these things."
"Nearly." I scoffed. "Too bad."
"Huh?" He asked, I didn't acknowledge him, so he continued. "Well yeah, as I was saying, they're amazing feats, most of the time when I'm done I'm shipped off to the hospital. I tell you, they really are trying, but worth it in every way, don't get me wrong. . . Yeah I've stayed encased in a block of ice for a week, did a stint in a giant ball of water for a whole week. . . Stuff like that - you familiar with the glass box stint I did? Suspended over the air in a glass box."
"Yeah, I remember. People started throwing food at you."
"The unbelievers!" The worlds nearly exploded out of his mouth, he seemed embarrassed by how loud and quickly they came out. He was use to being the quiet one, in school he was the creepy kid who took to the corners of rooms and never really had any friends. He's had those bags under his eyes all his life too. After some fidgeting, he calmed himself, continued. "In truth, the only restrictions on our capacity to astonish ourselves and each other are imposed by our own minds." He reached out for his napkin, fluttered it in the air, and it turned into a dove, which flew off through the restaurant. The kids behind me applauded wildly, and Blaine blushed. He often did this where ever he went, like it was some itch he had to scratch constantly. Sometimes he'd pause while walking down the street, and snatch up a man's newspaper, twirl around and come up with roses, and hand them back to the annoyed man who only wanted to read his paper. Other times he'd stop someone and ask to see the time, and when they'd look he'd tap their wrist and the watch would turn into a snake and slither away. He had a real way of pissing people off, but his favorite place to perform tricks was at playgrounds, or outside elementary schools - anywhere children frequented.
"But you know my next illusion?"
"The Lava Man. . ."
"Yeah." He ducked his head so he could talk to me softly, to prevent eavesdropping. "They're gonna put me in a giant lava lamp - large coils on the bottom are gonna heat the liquid I'm submerged in - gonna be hot wax floating all around me, just like a real lava lamp! They're gonna leave it on for a whole week, during which time I won't be able to do anything but simply endure! Endure my friend."
"What's the point in that?"
"The point is I'll be trapped in the world's tallest lava lamp - a Guiness Book Record in itself, and it will be a visual interpretation of the everyday struggle we find ourselves in every waking moment of our lives! But most importantly its yet another example of the great things we as human beings can do, the wonderful feats we can accomplish if we just put our minds to it! Impressive, isn't it?"
"Not really. Sounds retarded. Sounds horrible. Sounds like a bunch of phoney baloney to me. . . It aint phoney baloney now, is it. . . Mister Blaine?"
"If I was a phoney baloney. . . could I do this?" He got up slowly out of his chair and turned his back to me. He started to levitate again. "HUH?! HUH?! . . . Wait wait, you're at the wrong angle, move over the left a little. . . No wait you're too close. . . Is it working? No? Wait maybe its the damn lighting, the damn lighting!"
1. Empty
2. For blowing dudes.
3. Filled with an intense love for Houdini, children
4. Empty
5. Filled with hidden cards and flowers
6. For kneeling (see 2)
The children were no longer cheering, they were in fact booing, and each boo seemed to cut through him like a knife. They soon got up and left with their mom and dad, which made David even more upset. He actually started crying.
"Please, don't leave me. . ." Sob sob sob. "I love you. . . I love you, alllll."
So many thoughts ran through my mind, for in my heart I knew his affection for children wasn't healthy. I thought of perhaps performing a magic trick, justing pulling that trigger and making him disappear forever - Tah Dah! In the end though, I just left him there crying. Soon enough he would get his.
As I was leaving the hotel, I was passed by a man in a hat with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He may have been a ghost: he was wearing an Acapulco shirt, tea shades hid his eyes, and in his right hand he clutched a leather doctor bag. He didn't seem like a doctor, he certainly didn't dress like one. Maybe it was the shorts and the wicked glare that gave him away. Maybe it was the smell as he passed me: bourbon. Turns out he was on assignment too. His piece started like this:
"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."
And it ended like this:
"I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger. . . a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident."
I thought of that ghost, and 2 days later David Blaine attempted his "The Lava Man" stunt. It was well covered, I remember. At the 7 day mark he was taken out. 5 minutes later he was pronounced hopelessly retarded. The stunt had caused severe brain damage, he quit the illusionist game, but got a good job doing magic for kid's parties. He was extremely happy, until a concerned mother phoned police after her son told her Blaine had made inappropriate advances. 2 day later Police raided his house and found a kiddie porn dungeon. Stories then started to come out, from children who had claimed that David Blaine had commited horrible sex acts upon them, and threatened to kill them with his magical powers if they said anything. They were all tragic teary eyed tales like this one:
Little Nathaniel Westbrook, seen here with David Blaine was raped by the illusionist in his hospital bed after the magic star promised him the "magic cure" and a wonderful show, to boot. Nathaniel Westbrook was quoted as saying "He didn't pull a rabbit out of a hat, he pulled a rubber dick out of his ass." The poor boy, a cancer patient is still fighting his disease and is traumatized by his encountered with the magician.
It is for these many reasons that iR declares David Blaine, hopelessly retarded.
FURTHER RETARDATION
Blaine fasted a week before being submerged in a tank of water for an entire week, to prevent having to worry about defecation during the stunt "Drowned Alive." he was given air and nutrients through a rubber tube.
During his "Dive of Death" stunt, billed as a 60 hour endurance trial for Blaine to be hanged upside down from an elevated height in Central Park, Blaine would come down once an hour for medical checks. He also took breaks on a waiting platform, right side up.
Lulz: Voted the 'Biggest Loser' of 2003 in a British poll for spending 44 days in a box suspended over the River Thames in London, without any food.
USA Today called David Blaine "The hottest name in magic right now." What they really meant to say was "He's the only name in magic right now. . . except maybe for Penn and Teller, and nobody gives a shit about them."
The Sun once lovingly called him "Bonkers Blaine."
iR.
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