Finally, David Blaine has alighted from the crystalline cage dangling high above the Thames, satisfied that he's fully thrilled the world with his magical hunger and mystical leg cramps. As far as I can tell, the only difference between Blaine's last 44 days and that of the average homeless person is that David's box wasn't cardboard.

I'll set my cynicism aside for a moment and admit that I find Blaine fascinating. I'll even admit that I own his book (though I can't say I've read it.) While I'm at it, I might as well admit that I suffer from occasional hemorrhoids. To me, David Blaine is so much more than the latest in the line of model-fucking illusionists. I never cease to be engrossed by the staggering will he displays when unrelentingly taking himself seriously. I'm baffled by his uncanny ability to remain in the public eye much longer than appears warranted. I'm mystified by his ethnicity.

But, in my estimation, Blaine's greatest feat is his remarkable continued evasion of the clutches of bankruptcy. He continues to clothe and feed himself, despite that his career seems to consist only of staging spectacularly costly stunts with no obvious means of recouping the investment. Remember that fantastic pillar that he stood on for, like, 1000 days? That thing wasn't free. The refrigeration costs of the Central Park stunt must have been staggering, and I don't know what it costs to rent England these days, but after the whole Iraq thing, it can't be cheap. And yet he continues to amaze us.

As I am a big fan, I'm up on even his failed stunts. For example, the one in which he hoped to explode a commercial jetliner using only his shoe.

Analogcabin @ 2:05 PM
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