Karber's Korner

My brilliant friend Greg asked if he could write the occasional guest post. I, not being an idiot who hates creativity, said yes. Check out more of Greg's kickass work here and here.

GREG KARBER’S 2ND-PERSON EXPERIENCES OF BEING TOO DRUNK ON RED WINE

EPISODE ONE:
THE MAGIC CASTLE

You are excited to go to The Magic Castle because it is a historic Los Angeles landmark, and also because of the strict dress code -- coat and tie for men, skirt or dress for women -- and also because of the almost certain guarantee that you will see a celebrity.

One of your friends knows a magician, and she got a pass that will get seven of you in. So you carpool and leave your friend’s car with the valet.

You pay the cover and get the night’s password. You utter it in front of a bookshelf and the bookshelf opens up, revealing a hall. You enter and find yourself in a front of a bar. You grab a glass of Au Bon Climat and begin to drink. It is delicious.

You find a magic show to watch, and grab another glass. You don’t want to finish yours in the middle of a show and just have to watch some of the best magicians in the world.

You drink so many glasses you cannot remember if that is your card.

You wander the serpentine halls in a daze. You learn that legendary sleight-of-hand artist Dai Vernon was the Magician-in-Residence for many years, that he sat at the bar and performed tricks for the guests. You carry on his legacy by making a stranger’s cheese plate disappear.

You stumble into Irma’s Piano Parlor. Irma is a great pianist. She takes requests and requests you tip. The twist: Irma is a ghost. You request “Born to Run.” She nails it. The performance is definitely worth two dollars. As you put the bread in her jar, the room begins to spin.

You mutter a lame excuse and head for the bathroom. You pass a minor celebrity, but you ignore them. You feel like your insides are being shuffled.

You stumble into the bathroom and lock yourself in the stall. The lovely tile provides a cool surface on which to sprawl. Occasionally, you pull yourself up to the toilet and hurl a torrent of grade-red vomit. You slip in and out of consciousness until a friend slides a tray of crackers under the door. You nibble and are revived. Abrakadabra.

Irma and child (both ghosts):