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A tough spell for magic shop
Recent newspaper stories reported singer Kelly Clarkson having an in-store meltdown. We’re talking in a very small Brooklyn Heights shop.
Seems she wanted a not-for-sale item in this little magic shop in the middle of the block that gets jammed with people. It’s on Atlantic Avenue. Tinier than my closet. A magic store named Art of Play. It’s wall-to-wall filled with purchaseable trinkets.
Lately, junky stories have been printed about this small shop. I seek no war with talented, respected, well-known singer Kelly Clarkson. It’s just that I personally know this shop. Been in it more than once. My attorney friend Stuart Slotnick, son of the now-retired great lawyer Barry Slotnick, loves card tricks. The shop, depending on availability, books these specialists for in-house gigs. Stuart always takes me whenever a cardshark’s booked there.
For that so-called theater, you first enter the shop filled with magic tricks. Some purchaseable. Some not. The people in charge always polite and friendly. Enter Kelly, who wanted the singing bird that was permanently attached to a wall and that owners say was not for sale. Seems Molly, the one-of-a-kind singing bird, was definitely not to be singing at Kelly’s place. It is never to be moved. I have seen that bird. Kelce’s wife doesn’t have such a sound.
Peace in the cards
My white peace flag flutters only because I happen to know that superb little independent shop. I have recently just schlepped there a second time. I praise it. I marvel at the industry of its management. With today’s fiscal restraints and wormy little tax-happy mayor, problems with many desperate to earn a living and people moving out of this city, for any tiny brick-and-mortar store to do well is a marvel.
Such should be celebrated, patronized — not vilified.
It periodically books one-of-a-kind cardplaying magicians. International specialists. In the front row where we sat, the audience is so close that a reach could touch the star’s golden fingers. The audience of maybe 30 cram together in a small back room on assorted chairs. Not exactly the seats you’d see in Radio City.
So, the joys of being a columnist — or, rather, a column-miss. Will I be back at this wonderful little shop? Absolutely.
Going ‘Overboard’
Another story just came up. An old friend remembered it. Happened light years ago, back in the days when Twiggy dressed the Earth. As did the famous restaurant Le Cirque. Feeding my face there, I suddenly looked up and saw my old friend Twiggy. I ran over to her. We hugged. I say, “Twiggy, you look great. How are you? What are you doing?” She’s talkative. Pleasant. But staring at me. Then: “Twiggy, honey, I’m leaving you flat. I have an appointment.” I leave. An hour later, my phone rings. It’s the restaurant’s maître d’. The patrons. I remember all are magnificent, so he asks, “You OK?” I say, “Yeah. Just had a lovely chat with Twiggy. Why?” And he says, “Because you were talking with Goldie Hawn.”
In the reported — but unconfirmed — remarks of our once partial President Joe Biden, our former leader, from his wife: “When we’re born, we’re naked, hungry, wet and we get slapped on the ass. It goes downhill from there.”
Only in the USA, kids, only in the USA.