by Steve Spill
Here’s how it worked: A selected card vanished and then reappeared in my shoe. But there was a problem—or so it appeared. The selected card was the King of Hearts with a poster depicting From Beyond and the card in my shoe was the Ace of Spades with the aforementioned Re-Animator. “. . . and, here is your card . . . Re-Animator, a great choice . . . what? You didn’t pick Re-Animator? Too bad, last year Re-Animator was a worldwide winner that returned exhibitors as much as a four to one profit on invested dollars.”
In a panic, “No worries, I’m covered by an insurance policy.” I took out a pamphlet, identical to the one I wrote about in the comedy club chapter, that had “Magician’s Insurance Policy” written on it, unfolded it, and read aloud the conditions of payment as well as the fine print, “. . . covers performing magician against failure from warped cards, faulty fingers, rambunctious spectators . . .” as I read, I kept unfolding until the policy was poster size. When turned around, it showed a big blow-up of the selected King of Hearts advertising Yuzna’s newest, From Beyond.
“Obviously you know what you’re doing, sir. You’ve picked a winner, From Beyond . . . I’m insured for card tricks, and our clients are insuring their success with From Beyond, which is projected to easily equal or surpass Re-Animator profits, and right this very second is the perfect time to get in on the ground floor of Dolls, which is destined to be Yuzna’s next big hit. And now it’s my pleasure to introduce you to the man behind these money-making films. Please say hello to Mr. Brian Yuzna.” And that was how I so naturally mentioned Brian’s name, in the context of the magic trick, of course.
MORE ASIANS
In 1990, shortly after wrapping up my engagement as the token comedy magician in a revue show called Kazzamm, at the Normandie Casino in Gardena, California, I was out of work with nothing on the immediate horizon. I knew I could bounce back, but I had to figure out how. The solution was to continue my employment with the Normandie, a stable, well-paying organization. The problem was that they weren’t offering me another job. Well, I came up with an idea I thought was an absolutely brilliant way to create a little work for myself.
The Normandie is a poker club. There aren’t any slots, roulette, or craps . . . it is pretty much just poker. And this began before poker was a hot TV sport, and before the California invasion of the Indian casinos that have a smorgasbord of games. Besides ponies and the lottery, this was one of only a handful of places in the entire state with legal gambling. And the majority of gamblers seemed to be engaged in a crazy poker game called Pai Gow. It wasn’t long before I’d noticed that, day in and day out, more than half the gamblers in the casino are Asian, and they’re all playing Pai Gow.
Over the years I’ve pitched all kinds of ideas; this was the first one that had any sort of racial component. The Normandie entertainment director and the company’s publicist were on-board with my new idea and through them I got five minutes with the big shots at the weekly meeting.
“You can go in now, Mr. Spill.” I was ushered into the conference room. Around the table sat a dozen men. The casino owner, Russ Miller, rose up from the head of the table and shook my hand. He smiled, “Go ahead Steve, I’m listening. What’s on your mind?” “Well, actually sir, it’s a target-marketing plan. As a goodwill gesture, the casino sponsors me to go out to various Asian organizations each week and perform my one-man comedy magic show. Audience members get a voucher redeemable for chips in the casino and free tickets to the Incredible Acrobats of China in the casino showroom. Through a friend, magician Mark Wilson, I can book the acrobats.”
Nobody spoke for a moment. In the stunned silence I remember seeing the light go on in the dozen pairs of eyes around the board table. It was like, could this thing possibly work? There was a long pause. “Congratulations. I like it. Let’s do it,” said Miller, rising to his feet. I felt exhilarated. It was a sweet deal. The Normandie gets a fresh supply of visitors, and I get a commission on the acrobats and a bunch of one-night engagements that come with decent pay. Miller agreed to an eight-week test—seven weeks on the road for me, and one week in the showroom for the acrobats. A very cool full-color mailer was printed with great artwork, my bio, and details about both my one-man show, which we called Night Magic, and the upcoming acrobat show at the Normandie. When the casino public relations person followed up the mailer with phone calls, the response was good. Suddenly I had four gigs a week for the next seven weeks—the Korean Ski Club, Chinese Chamber of Commerce, National Karate Alliance, Thai Herbalist Conclave, and so on. The shows went great, casino executives monitored what I did, and they seemed to like what they saw. Thousands of acrobat tickets and gambling vouchers were distributed.
Yet just nine of the tickets distributed at my shows were used. Three vouchers were redeemed for casino chips. The program had been a complete failure. And thus ended my foray into the world of target marketing.
MR. EXEC
Beginning in the nineties, I periodically performed at corporate events. Typically they are after-dinner shows in hotel ballrooms presented to badge-and-briefcase conference types who work at tech companies, investment organizations, and banks. My client list has also included major retailers and pharmaceutical firms. In total, I’ve probably done at the very least a hundred-plus of these forgettable gigs. Food is consumed, coffee is poured, and the show begins. As a rule, nothing out of the ordinary has ever happened, except for some rare exceptions.
One such exception occurred years back, when a company thought it would be a fun idea if the corporate executives performed as entertainers at one of their company parties. I was hired to train one of them to do a magic act. Mr. Exec wanted me to teach him to make a girl vanish on stage, then have that very same girl instantly appear in the audience, just like he’d seen me do in our show at Magicopolis. I told him the vanishing act was doable, but after checking it out, the instantaneous appearance of that very same girl in the middle of the ballroom at this particular hotel wasn’t feasible—unless maybe we could do the trick with identical twins? Mr. Exec thought that was a fine idea, and a fine pair were cast and rehearsed at Magicopolis.
The next morning I was scheduled to meet Mr. Exec for breakfast before our final rehearsal with the twins in the hotel ballroom. Upon my arrival I was informed that Mr. Exec had left a message for me to come up to his hotel room.
I knocked on the door, and there was no answer, but the door was unlocked, so I walked in to an empty living room. Some sound was coming from the bedroom, so tapping on the door I said softly, “If you’re not up yet, I’ll see you later in the ballroom.” He answered, “No, Steve, come on in.”
As I entered, there was Mr. Exec in bed with one of the twins. Not in the mood to watch, I turned to leave, and the guy gasped between moans of pleasure, “Don’t go, Steve, we’ll only be a few minutes.” I quickly left and closed the door, but not before I discovered where the other twin was—under the sheet at the foot of the bed, adding to Mr. Exec’s ecstasy.
Don’t believe anyone who tells you that the lives of captains of industry are all work and no play.
PART SEVEN
MAGICOPOLIS
GROUNDBREAKING TO GRAND OPENING
Whatever small place I have in posterity is due mainly to the creation and operation of Magicopolis and its improbable and amazing seventeen-years-and-counting history. The first time the project popped onto anyone’s radar was back on Wednesday, March 25, 1998. I was at 1418 Fourth Street in Santa Monica, along with members of the media, including CNN, local affiliate NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX news field reporters, and morning show camera crews, including The LA Times, LA Weekly, and Daily Variety—the occasion was the groundbreaking ceremony for a new theater devoted to the craft of magic. “MAGICOPOLIS,” the new sign read, with yellow lettering, shadowed in red, against a black field. My brainchild—Magicopolis.
For years I’ve been asked where the name came from. My stock answer is that “Magicopolis” is the Greek word for “home of the finest magic show on earth.” The trut
h, though, is as follows: I needed a name that hadn’t yet been a registered trademark, and fast. Houdini’s?—taken. Magic Castle?—no go. Wizardz?—sorry. That’s when I got the idea to make up a word. But not just any word would do. It would have to be a word that would mean city of magic. Magicopolis—it was a mouthful to say and not that catchy, but it worked for me.
I had talked to a great many people about my Magicopolis idea, mostly the wrong people. But enough people kept talking about it and the right people began to think it was a good idea. A ton of time was spent coaxing and cajoling, enticing and exhorting, leading and luring, inducing, prodding, tempting, and tantalizing millions of mankind to do millions of things. This was before the era of Internet crowd funding, so, interested or not, each of those millions had to be spoken to personally, individually, and convincingly, to get the millions necessary for the project.
The Mayor and City Council were persuaded to proudly proclaim the date of our groundbreaking Magicopolis Day in Santa Monica, I had convinced Penn & Teller to make a special appearance at the event, been granted a permit to demolish the 10,000 square foot interior of this address, and construction plans for my showplace had been approved. Together with the luck of a slow news day, these factors propelled the Magicopolis groundbreaking ceremony into the LA media spotlight.
Me, Penn & Teller, telling lies at press conference announcing the groundbreaking of a theater devoted to the craft of magic.
Reigning Santa Monica mayor Robert T. Holbrook took the podium, welcomed the crowd, and read the proclamation declaring March 25, 1998 to be known as Magicopolis Day in Santa Monica.
Flashback to January 1995. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was amid a blur of gigs, on a plane, staring out at the clouds, when a life-changing notion came to mind. I was forty years old and living my dream, but the thing was, even though my work didn’t require getting up before the crack of dawn every morning it was starting to feel like a nine-to-five job. Working hard was not the problem, but I wanted more independence, to answer only to myself, to not depend on others for work. It was those things, and a couple of little problems that gave me the most important idea of my life.
One problem—I was technically living in Santa Monica, but only spending a handful of nights per month in my own bed. I felt like Santa Monica would always be my home, but unfortunately I wasn’t at home often. Instead of constantly changing cities to find new audiences, I needed a way to stay home more and have new audiences constantly find me.
The other bothersome problem, as sure as my name isn’t Harry Houdini, was that most of my audiences were not coming to see me in particular—or even a magician in general. I was a corporate event entertainment, or doing a comedy spot in a variety or revue show. Even when I was a headliner, it was often at a comedy club where one went to see comedians and might be surprised the show was topped by a magician.
These ideas rolled around in my head constantly—while on planes, in cars, hotel rooms, eating, sleeping, and breathing. I thought so hard my brain hurt. The idea to produce, and perform my own show, in a theater I designed, built, run, and named Magicopolis, was not born suddenly. It grew gradually in my mind, but it was a Tuesday in April, 1995 that I knew that was what I wanted to do. I yearned for the intoxicating freedom of being a servant of nobody.
Day after day the voices rose and the drumbeats tap-danced in my skull. I wanted Magicopolis to be professional, to be imaginative, and to do something people would get a kick out of. Then I’d back down, racked with doubt. What did I know about supervising construction and decoration, plumbing and electrical; organizing suppliers and equipment, staff; arranging publicity and advertising and printing, lights and sound, and all the other thousand-and-one tasks for which I had no previous experience?
There were a million reasons not to do it and I ignored all of them; those million reasons crashed to the floor of my brain with the clatter of tin cans, and there was no turning back. I had the power. I wasn’t so interested in power as I was in doing something the way I wanted to do it. I wanted control. My power was the courage and audacity to believe in the Magicopolis idea, and the stamina to follow it through and make it a reality.
The Rolling Stones are famous for their phrase about how you can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you get what you need. Well, I’m here to tell you that sometimes you can get what you want and what you need at the same time, but it has its trade-offs. Driven and unable to relax, I guzzled triple espressos and gave up a few things I really enjoyed doing to devote all my time to working on the project. You know, things like eating, sleeping, and breathing.
Flash forward to March 25, 1998, the press conference portion of the ceremony commenced, with me describing the project and answering questions. Next, I pointed to a faux brick wall and introduced “the two most important men in magic, Penn & Teller.” There was a puff of smoke, a cymbal clash, and like cartoon characters, the duo burst through the wall leaving holes, exactly the same shapes as themselves, like silhouettes.
What happened between the conception of the idea and that day in 1998 is something else I couldn’t have predicted. I fell in love with the stunning, smart, compassionate, talented, Polish actor/writer Bozena Wrobel. She would become my best friend, my wife, my lover, and my partner in crime in Magicopolis. It was a November night in 1997 when we met, and she was celebrating her birthday at Igby’s, a West LA comedy club. My act had gone well, and when I came off stage I saw her at the bar, smiling at me. She looked as though she could give a man something that he needed to quiet his soul and soothe his body. I was saying inside myself, “I am incomplete. She would make me complete. I wonder . . .”
Then Bozena opened her mouth and began talking in her own peculiar brand of broken English, and a great belly laugh came out of me. It’s hard to make me laugh. I observe, I smile, but when I‘m really amused you can hear me a block away. My vanity was tickled with a thousand feathers when she spoke my name. Before her accent became a little more Americanized, instead of Steve, when she said my name it sounded like “Stiff!” Everyone within earshot always thought I was a real stud muffin, which I was perfectly willing to accept.
She stared at me with wide eyes and has been looking at me with wide eyes ever since, except for the many times when she closed her eyes to my errors and my faults. Bozena intently listened to my grandiose Magicopolis scheme. I took her to the empty building on Fourth Street, and with spray paint cans we drew on the floor where the stage would be—we drew the walls, lobby, and dressing rooms. The project was a constant topic of conversation. Besides her physical beauty and inward loveliness, Bozena had intelligence—and brains help in the long-range plan of happiness.
Bozena is the love of my life. I admire Polish women because they speak a foreign language so well.
Just a few months after we met, on a romantic weekend, I pulled a rabbit out of a hat. They say one of life’s most memorable moments is a man asking a woman to marry him. I don’t remember proposing to her; I have no idea how it happened, but I do know it was a spur-of-the-moment, totally impulsive idea that Bozena agreed to. I remember the wedding—it’s etched into my credit card bill forever. We flew to Vegas and were married at a drive-thru wedding chapel, with a drive thru-reception at Jack in the Box. There was no throwing of rice, no clergyman, and no bantering by envious wedding guests. The total time on the taxi meter ran us to thirty-nine dollars. Marrying Bozena was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Now back to March 25, 1998. To conclude the groundbreaking festivities, Penn & Teller cast their hand and footprints in wet concrete and autographed their work. That night, and over the next few days, various media outlets aired clips of the brick wall bit and handprints which put the Magicopolis name in front of the public. Their autographs and prints remain in our lobby today, as does the fake brick wall with the cut-outs of their silhouettes. Six months later, Penn & Teller lent their celebrity to generate even more publicity for Magicopolis by presenting their sho
w at our grand opening.
Now if I can only manage to figure out a way to turn Magicopolis Day into an annual holiday, where there’s no mail, banks are closed, and everyone has the day off to see a show at Magicopolis, I’d be a happy man.
The business at hand, however, entailed a relentless six months dealing with a general contractor and various subcontractors from soup to nuts—mechanical, structural, electrical, plumbing, framers, cabinet makers, curtain makers, general and theatrical lighting, concrete, glass, and others capable of performing the multifarious tasks necessary to bring all the elements together into the final Magicopolis realization. There were a lot of people involved, and I was acutely aware that all their eyes were on me. I had to learn how to deal with having authority over a ton of workers, which was nerve-racking. Dealing with all these different personalities and egos was an eye-opening experience. Essentially I had to be not only a magician but a juggler as well.
The buck stopped with me and I learned the advantage of saying “No.” A negative can be salvaged more easily than an affirmative in so many of life’s affairs. I became extremely careful to look before leaping, and seldom said, “Yes,” or, “No,” but found myself often saying things like “Maybe,” or “I’m not sure,” or “I’ll let you know later.” No matter what decisions I made, it was likely someone would be upset.
Hearing “No” or “Maybe” or “I’ll let you know later” in response was hard for me to swallow. But I wasn’t going to be defeated by a negative or indecisive answer. If I couldn’t convince someone of something, I just accepted it and moved forward. True, I had occasional bursts of temper, but on the whole I was methodically persistent and whenever there was a needed compromise it was done my way.