A List of Things

Now That I Have Finally Broken Down and Admitted That Calling a List a List is Probably Not So Bad After All

It's really hard for me to objectively say whether or not my disdain for close-up magician/model-fucker David Blaine stems from my being constantly mistaken for him at parties or a lack of awe at the announcement of his latest stunt. This mix-up isn't so much due to my passing physical resemblance to Blaine as much as it is spurred on by my habit of standing around at parties and stubbing out cigarettes on quarters. So here is:

Tests of endurance to which I will challenge close-up magician/model-fucker David Blaine:

--Spending twenty minutes in the woods with a member of Phish without having our images captured in a Polaroid "art photo"

--44-day suspension in a glass box above the Thames with an intravenous feed of Taco Bell MexiMelts, with a colicky rhesus monkey guarding the adult diaper supply

--Standing in front of the Sacramento Capitol for fifteen consecutive days without declaring candidacy in the recall election (which I am still ignoring)

--Sitting encased in a block of ice for five days playing patty-cake with hotel empress Leona Helmsley while having our every move documented by a crew from E! Entertainment Television

--Ten consecutive sexual encounters with Fiona Apple without even once imagining that we're copulating with a skeleton

--Twenty--four straight hours of doing the close-up magic staple "I got your nose!" with the Special Olympic 100-meter hurdle team without screaming in frustration "Stop laughing! I don't really have your fucking nose!"

--One hour sitting in a room and listening to me wonder aloud as to whether if Ben Affleck's agent ever passed along the t-shirt I had made for him since I have not be deluged in retaliatory, surplus Gigli promotional material

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