Harpo, David Blaine and Barbecue

I'm watching Oprah at 1:30 in the morning. David Blaine is attempting to break the world record for holding his breath. He is submerged in a giant $100,000 acrylic globe that apperently weighs more than a Hummer. It's filled to the brim with water, they reinforce Oprah's stage because of the sheer mass that is displayed. I can't decide if I am impressed by this...meaning the feat not the acrylic globe. The acrylic globe is bitching for a heavy duty, transparent globe.

I should have been a magician/illusionist. I had an affinity for magic when I was a kid. In grade school, I even did a presentation about Harry Houdini. Dad took me downtown in Portland to a magic store and to purchase a "kit". Practicing those tricks for a week, I was determined to wow the class. My hair parted in the middle, clad in a bow-tie like Harry, I kill. Like a mini bard, I spin the story of Houdini while performing these little tricks along the way. I have them on the edge of their seats and it all builds to the crescendo of the telling of Houdini's demise. As the story goes, as a feat, Houdini would have strangers punch him in the stomach as hard as they could as a demonstration of his cast-iron gut. It is chronicled that during the final days of Houdini, he was cornered by a couple of what could probably be described as meat-heads that challenged him and before he readied himself by flexing his ab...the guy sucker-punched him in his stomach. His appendix ruptured. Several days later, the master performer was six feet under. Why hasn't anyone capitalized on a Houdini feature film? Maybe, "The Illusionist" with Norton and "The Prestige" with Jackman was suppose to fill that void. I enjoyed both those movies. It's uncanny how in Hollywood, these similarly themed flicks come out in twos.

Blaine commences the displat by breathing pure oxygen from an oxygen tank for 23 minutes underwater before he attempts the feat. The clock starts ticking.

16:26, he floats to the top of the sphere like he is going to surface and give up. The easily excitable Oprah audience shutters and guffaws. "No, David. You're almost there," the well-coiffed ladies tremble amongst themselves. Don't they know this is for dramatic effect? It's textbook showmanship...the hens are gullible. The show is excruciatingly stale, devoid of the desired and expected tension, excitement of this type of performance. Oprah and a full audience are sitting there watching a man in a globe filled with water for almost three quarters of an hour. The show is inter-spliced with equally tepid interviews with David. Blaine has the personality of a doorknob and doesn't have too much to say, mostly answering Oprah in one-word answers. Terrible. I can't believe this guy boffed a specimen like Josie Maran, amongst others. She is so hot, in the classical "I would toss her salad, she's that hot" sense.

17:04.4, Blaine breaks the world record for holding one's breath. Riveted, I shit my pants.

Oprah is a mega-blowhard, but she is a decent interviewer. She makes something out of nothing with Blaine's brief replies. He says he wanted to try for 23 minutes because it was his Mom's birthday and that was his lucky number, but it wasn't realistic, he didn't want his heart and lungs to explode. Go figure. 23 is my birthday and my lucky number also. We're like twins, David and me. 23, a great number. By the way, Jim Carrey needs to stop making movies, retire and spend his millions. We can pinpoint that "sucking" became an artform for him after he started to grow out his hair. I am convinced that there is something to this, let's call it "The Sampson Effect". Hair affects one's psyche, giveth or taketh away. I haven't cut my hair since 'Nam.

Blaine reluctantly reveals to Oprah that his next feat is to attempt to stay awake for 1,000,000 seconds, I think that is roughly 11 days of "awakeness". I made it four straight days without sleep in grad' school in the SCI-Arc computer lab when Nagis and I were working on our project for Hernan Diaz-Alonso's vertical. Cooped up, by the second day, we had the lab smelling like man b.o., dookie and hot Cheetos. People would be afraid to go in and we took advantage of this by commandeering the 15 Dell Desktops to render our heavy-ass Maya model. Nurbs, I miss 'em. It was a trip being clinically insane after the third day of depriving ourselves of any shut-eye.

The first time I saw David Blaine was on an ABC primetime special called "Street Magic" when I was a sophomore in undergrad, more than a decade ago. I became an instant fan. It's on a VHS tape I have somewhere, I even popped the tab off of that tape so it wouldn't be recorded over. I made everyone watch it, like a total queer. This begs the question: What happened with my obsession with magic, figuratively speaking, when was the day that the magic died for me? Heh. In the meantime, "Doorknob" Blaine banged Josie Maran and David Copperfield became a rapist. While we are pondering the death of magic...how in the world is Magic Johnson more healthy, virile and more robust than I am? Abrams recently mentioned an episode of South Park where they discovered that the cure for AIDS was literally shooting cash into your veins. That is a priceless and comical commentary. The last time I watched South Park was in the '90's.

Bally's is calling my name, it's been weeks, months. I'm glad I spent all that money on a personal trainer, last year, like the Angeleno creampuff that I am. If Blaine can hold his breath for 17 minutes, I can drag my little, fat fuck ass to the gym. But, I'm craving barbecue. Thanks Jimmy Kimmel. Seeing Blaine take in oxygen from his respirator makes me want to go scuba diving again. The "Sea Oaf" awaits me.