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Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers (and Other Oaths but Wind)

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http://ramblingfisherman.com/category/comox-valley/ On all grounds, legal and ethical, I should have been murdered for the Rubber Baby Joke.

The Rubber Baby Joke was borne of a documentary I saw as a kid on sharks. The show said that shark skeletons are made of cartilage, the sinewy gristle that comprises our noses and ears. Human baby bones, the show said, begin as cartilage until morphing into bone to cover vital organs like the lungs and heart.

Because I’m a genetic asshole, I immediately trotted to my sister, who would have been a Littler Kid, to tell her that babies were born of cartilage. If fact, I pontificated like a drunk Jon Levitz, if you dropped a baby from a three-story window with the right amount of backspin, it would bounce unhurt up to the window ledge of a first-floor apartment. Er, why that’s why they’re called bouncing babies. That’s the ticket. lovitz

Caroline, who would have made a far better reporter than I, did the smart thing. She never forgot the lie. If ever I windbag a story that begins to wax unlikely — I estimate 137% of the time — she will ask “Is this a bouncing baby story?”

I’ve always wondered from where that jackass humor sprang. I’d like to blame it on a parent. But mom presented me with strong evidence recently that there may be a sonofabitch  gene: The Carbonaro Effect. It’s a show featuring a second-rate magician with first-rate props, a Candid Camera in which subjects are lured on stage, which in the show’s case is anything from a fake crafts shop to a lumber yard.

There, Carbonaro will perform hilarious jokes: floating coffee cups, taxidermy turning real; a great hardware store skit where he suggests he’s been magnetized by an electric mishap; that’s why bikes keep sticking to him. Unlike my sister, suspicion is checked at the door. This, even though 90% of studies are 70% fake, statistics say. People need to believe. People need to know there’s a reason, however unreasonable the reason may be.carb

Like all good reality TV shows, the series works not for the jokes, but the subjects. When played correctly, reality show participants underscore a larger zeitgeist (Tosh 2.0 the prime example). In Carbonarao’s case,  just just a little bit of rubber-baby logic does the trick: The coffee floated because, duh, heat rises. Water a dehydrated mouse, and it will no longer be snake food. He’s discovered: add a little logic, however skewed, and an audience will do the rest.

Perhaps that’s why magic is back. Carbonaro has gone syndicated; Penn & Teller’s Fool Us crossed the pond to American prime time; Now You See Me, an awful Morgan Freeman flick, was one of 2014’s biggest box office surprises.

The opposite should be true. Magic works best up close, without camera editing. Does anyone believe David Copperfield vanishes the statue of liberty?

Then again, perhaps it makes sense. About a third of Americans go to regular religious service, the lowest in history. Politics have become an As Seen on TV minstrel show. Perhaps, unlike pastors and politicians, a magician will tell you a lie is coming.

But, trust me on this, Mike, for your own health. Do not turn a baby to rubber.

E.T. the Extraordinary Terrestrial

 

I met the real E.T. last night.

It was at a birthday party and barbecue at Anthony’s house to celebrate the sixth birthday of Audrey. audrey Anthony, a friend, colleague and baker extraordinaire, had made a massive E.T. cake: a full moon with a chocolate profile of E.T. and Elliott biking through the the night sky in the middle. Friends have urged Anthony start a bakery, called “DaddyCakes.” I told him I support the nagging, as long as he doesn’t forget the little people when he becomes filthy rich.

Being the utter ham, I decided I would do a brief magic act for her. I mean, what more could a child want for her birthday than to see an adult man showboat?

There, I said it. I love magic. Since I was a boy. Magic appeals, to paraphrase Lincoln, to the dorkier angels of my nature. I will buy a magic trick just to learn how it works. I watch anything Penn & Teller do. I have entertained audiences by the several. My favorite audience is kids; partly because they still believe in magic, partly, perhaps, because I have yet to emotionally mature beyond them.the magician-1

And I had no intentions of doing so last night. I thought up a small routine, and grabbed one of my favorite pocket tricks, the D’Lite.

After cake, we settled in for the movie playing in his backyard theater (Anthony’s energy makes me look like a zombie extra from The Walking Dead). The film, of course, was E.T. the Extra Terrestrial. Midway through the movie, Audrey came to the kitchen for a cake refill. I caught her on the patio, set down my cake, called her over.

“Wanna see a magic trick?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ok, well, let me ask you something; are you liking E.T.?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you know I’m like E.T.?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Seriously. I ride a bike like E.T.” I held a wink, to show my ever-webbing crow’s nest. “I’m wrinkly in the face like E.T. et
“And, when I want to phone home to tell the dogs I love them, I just make my finger glow and send them an ‘I Love You’ message.”

I did the simplest of tricks, making the D’Lite glow red and appearing to throw a tiny star into the air. Audrey followed the toss, and opened her mouth a little when it vanished.

If I could ever learn to shut the hell up, I could have ended the trick there, on a note of wonder. But as I said, I’m a ham. Like, Oscar Mayer poster child ham.

So I continued the act. I caught the star. Pretended to breathe it up my nose and pull it from my ear. Pretended to swallow it fart it out. Overdid it enough for Audrey to realize it was a trick I was holding.

The wondrous thing about magic for kids, talking with kids, listening to them, is that they know no limits of possibility. If children watch something disappear, you’ll routinely hear, “Whooooaaaa.” “Where did it go?” Do the same for adults, even impressed ones, and the commentary never varies: “Do that again.”

But all kids are the exception. So I shouldn’t have been surprised by Audrey’s response, the first time I’ve ever gotten one like it, and perhaps the nicest one I’ve ever received.

“Can I have that?”

When I stopped laughing, I told her she could, on three conditions: “One, you show it to your mom and ask if it’s okay. Two, never let your little brother touch it, because he could put it in his mouth. And three, don’t tell anyone how it’s done; that can be our secret.”

She nodded, and I put the tip on her thumb, at least three sizes her own digit. After a brief practice, we went into the kitchen together, where Jill was resuscitating the kitchen after the tsunami of a child’s birthday party.

“Mom!” Audrey said. She put the tip under her nose, lit it, sniffed the star right up her nostril. When Jill stopped laughing, we reiterated the Golden Rules for Audrey. She again nodded impatiently, and ran back to the screening.

I returned, too, but couldn’t watch the movie. My eyes were peeled for a blinking red star, which seemed to float through the crowd as Audrey sparkled her new magic.

I’ve never been big on cliches, but they exist for they are true. And I guess home really is where the heart is. Because she phoned straight into mine.