Motoring to John Luka’s Motor City Close-Up ConventionInside MagicMagic News Updated Daily for the Professional Magician

The morning air was cool but not cold, clear but not stark, as we motored the mighty 1970-1/2 Ford Falcon (original Cobra Jet Ram-Air V8 429 cu. in.) from our estate at the Mystic Hollow Mobile Estates toward the Detroit down-river suburb of Taylor, Michigan.

We moving at a fair clip in a vehicle known for its magical ability to survive the most in-humane winters and neglected needs for fresh oil, clear coolant, and periodic conventional tune-ups.

Although the ride was smooth and powerful, we were not at ease.

Worry flooded our Diet-Coke stimulated consciousness like unleaded $2.79 -per-gallon unleaded rushing into our Holley single-barrel carburetor earlier that morning.

As we were asked by the New York Transit Police last summer, "Where do you think you get off?"

We are not worthy of the Motor City Close-Up Convention.

So where do we get off?

Our self-deprecating answer President Jimmy Carter's rhetorical question, "Why Not the Best?" was simple: because. We're not the best.

We don't even live in the same neighborhood as the best or even those who work for the best. We see the best from afar, either on television or the cheap seats in a Las Vegas theater.

We don't meet them in as intimately as John Luka's Motor City Close-Up provides. At many of the major or even state-level conventions, you can go the entire three days without running into one of the performers.

We like it that way.

Sure, we've been nominated for the Nobel Prize for the genius evidenced by our invention The Quinlan So-Sure Deck^®. (A recent national reviewer paid tribute to our work saying, ". . . far as I know, it is the only marked, stripped one-way forcing deck currently on the market that has the name "Quinlan" in its title . . .") But that's different, inventors with our type of fame never need to leave the basement of their single-wide.

We knew Nate Kranzo and Paul Green would be lecturing today. Both men know their stuff, and stuff their lectures and DVDs with good stuff. We've raved of Mr. Kranzo in the past and when we hear the name Paul Green, we think "Classic Force."

We cleared the windshield with a one-handed swipe of our slightly-soiled McDonald's napkin. Through the clear arc of glass, we found our chance to end our debate. We tried to turn around on I-94 but the power-steering pump on the old Falcon has been leaking a bit and our turning radius depends entirely on our strength and ability to lean into the anticipated curve.

We apologized to our passengers — each one a hitch-hikers we met along the way — and drove on towards Taylor, Michigan.

We moving at a fair clip in a vehicle known for its magical ability to survive the most in-humane winters and neglected needs for fresh oil, clear coolant, and periodic conventional tune-ups.

Although the ride was smooth and powerful, we were not at ease.

Worry flooded our Diet-Coke stimulated consciousness like unleaded $2.79 -per-gallon unleaded rushing into our Holley single-barrel carburetor earlier that morning.

As we were asked by the New York Transit Police last summer, "Where do you think you get off?"

We are not worthy of the Motor City Close-Up Convention.

So where do we get off?

Our self-deprecating answer President Jimmy Carter's rhetorical question, "Why Not the Best?" was simple: because. We're not the best.

We don't even live in the same neighborhood as the best or even those who work for the best. We see the best from afar, either on television or the cheap seats in a Las Vegas theater.

We like it that way.

We apologized to our passengers — each one a hitch-hikers we met along the way — and drove on towards Taylor, Michigan.

The Ramada Inn is just a touch off the highway. In fact, it is very close to the north-south artery of a currently anemic auto industry. In fact, within seconds of starting our bald-tire slide down the entirely too steep and too slick exit ramp, past the stop sign, across a fortunately empty Eureka Road, and into the parking lot of the recently refurbished Ramada Inn.

We took as a karmic endorsement of the decision to attend that our vehicle slid to a gentle rest at the only available parking spot at the Ramada.

Our mental gymnastics were complete; we landed with a double-back and stuck the dismount. We may not be able to keep up, but by golly, we were going to attend.

We walked into the wonderful, tiered-seating area to see that Paul Green had already begun his lecture.

Our eyes focused on his hands. We shuddered and shook. He was apparently teaching the paddle move.

Maybe this was just a dream experienced during our most recent court-ordered thorazine drip. Soon, we'd wake in the comfort of our hospital room, the voices and fears would be gone, and clean clothes and medical release would have taken their place.

The Paddle Move?

We were worried about attending this convention because we thought the magic was too far above our station in the profession and this guy is teaching The Paddle Move?

Our over-confidence faded quickly. He was teaching a wonderful routine that uses The Paddle Move. We briefly tasted the acidic rendering of our breakfast as our confidence lagged once again.

We offer this preamble to you loyal reader (and possible Nobel Prize judge), of what we saw and heard during Saturday's installment of the Motor City Close-Up Convention.

In subsequent posts you will read about Paul Green, Lonnie Chevrie, Nathan Kranzo, John Born, Rick Merrill, John Luka, John Sturk, Mike Powers, and Maria Schwieter.

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