* David Blaine is a talentless clown. For his next “magic” trick, he’s going to hang upside down for 60 straight hours above Central Park. A doctor says this could cause him to go blind. We can only hope.
“Yes, David, that’s a very nice hand-turkey drawing.”
(Ten minutes later…)
“Very good, David. Another nice hand-turkey.”
(Twelve minutes later…)
“Okay, David. Nice turkey. Daddy needs to work now.”
(Five minutes later…)
“David, please leave Daddy alone.”
(Two minutes later…)
“David. I’m going to take the crayons away. No, five hand-turkeys is not magic.”
David Blaine gains notoriety (and incredibly, money) by doing stuff any of us could do. He stands on a platform. He floats in water. He lives in a plexiglass box. That’s not magic. Squirrels have more impressive resumes.
When Blaine pulled the living-in-a-plexiglass-box stunt, he did it in London. Newspapers reported that eggs, lemons, sausages, bacon, water bottles, beer cans, paint-filled balloons and golf balls were thrown at the box; a hamburger was flown around the box by radio-controlled model helicopter; one man was arrested for climbing the scaffolding supporting Blaine’s box and attempting to cut the power and water supply to the box; and Blaine was treated to numerous displays of bare bottoms and breasts.
Bravo, Britain. While this idiot is dangling upside down in New York, I hope vultures come along and peck at his face. I hope some sort of invasive species of insect flies into his ear and lays eggs that hatch and gnaw away at his timpanic membranes. Maybe the U.S. Olympic javelin team can practice in the area.
Why do I know the name “David Blaine”? Why has this marble-mouthed layabout taken up any residence in my brain? I’d be better off memorizing the entire Kentucky Fried Chicken menu in reverse alphabetical order. The brain space that knows anything about David Blaine should be put to better use. But I cannot dislodge his stupid goateed face from that treasure trove of useless information in my head.
Harry Houdini was a real magician. You know how he died? Getting punched in the gut until his appendix burst. When David Blaine decides to tackle that trick, I want to help.
* Today, NBC5 welcomed back our writer, Jenel. She’d been away since something like 1992 on maternity leave. I sit at her desk when crafting my show, so she was nice enough to bring in several additional photos of her growing family. I sit and type, surrounded by pictures of children that do not belong to me. This must be how it feels to get amnesia and show up at a family reunion.
* Mondays are normally weak news days. A morning show leans heavily on stories dug up the night before. Yesterday, all the big stories were sports. It was a struggle to fill the show. It reminded me of typing up a resume when applying for my first job.
(For the record, my first job involved sorting cans and bottles at the Meijer recycling room in Kalamazoo, Michigan. The interview went like this… Boss: “Are you gonna steal from me?” Me: “No.” Boss: “You start Monday.”)
* At this restaurant in the Netherlands, the staff monitor what you eat and how you behave. According to the article, women are prone to choosing meat labeled “animal friendly.” Um, how does that work? Do they wait for the cow to die of natural causes, surrounded by his loved ones? “Animal friendly meat.” I’ve heard everything.
* There are a lot of wonderful things about living in Chicago. I love the food. I love the improv scene. I love the way your women laugh hysterically and spit at me when I ask them out. But the one thing I hate most about Chicago (more than the endless winters and 10.25% sales tax, even) is the fact that I have to watch the Bears every Sunday.
I’m a Lions fan. They are a lousy, no-account, threadbare franchise. But at least watching a Lions game is entertaining. They manage to lose creatively. And they throw the ball. Here in Chicago, I’m stuck watching Division I-AA quarterbacks lobbing underhanded ducks to receivers equipped with prosthetic limbs. Or I can watch Robbie Gould do all the scoring. It’s always three downs, punt, three downs, punt, three downs, punt. Back and forth. Touchdowns are an aberration.
The best quarterback the Bears have had in the last 25 years was a castoff from my sorry team. Erik Kramer could still probably wing it better than Orton, Grossman or Skippy, the “Hold the Clipboard and Collect a Paycheck” contest winner.
* I wish I had more blog fodder, but like I said, Mondays are slow. And by now, I’m feeling self-conscious after hours of having all these baby pictures staring at me.