![]() I was here because Harry Houdini lives in the background of my memories, blurry and unreal, and visiting the museum gave me the chance to reconnect with one of my first heroes of art and theater. I felt a slight pressure on my neck, which may have been my body remembering to draw in breath. I could see everything so clearly.Īfter a few false starts to build tension, Dietrich pushed the sword into the collar and out the other end: a toothpick spearing a cocktail olive. ![]() The kids' smiles and energy, the older magic enthusiasts' knowing grins, the confusion and frozen half-smile on my wife's face. I turned and looked directly under the lights at the crowd in front of me. "I'm going to run this sharp sword straight through your neck. "You feel this?" she asked, as she slid the sword through the wooden collar, poking my neck with a cool metal point. "You see this," she said, as she sliced the newspaper with a sword. I clamped the square collar around my neck as Dietrich held up a piece of newspaper. "Great, put this around your neck." The audience howled, and I looked at the brothers sitting in front of me: a prepubescent boy wearing a T-shirt with the faces of Donald Trump and Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood's symbol of Nixonian vigilante law and order and the boy's slightly older, rail-thin brother, sporting a red trucker hat with the message: "Trump. On stage, Dietrich asked me, "Are you afraid of swords or being confined?" Normally, it would depend on the situation, I thought, but I said no, and she picked up a thick square collar of wood, with a rounded-out center and a hinge on one side.
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