Monthly Archives: November 2008

Hoodwinked a success

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Banachek, Todd Robbins, Richard Turner, Bob Arno.

Banachek, Todd Robbins, Richard Turner, Bob Arno.

The Hoodwinked show tour was a resounding success.

I’d like to credit the director, Jim Millan, for his vision and clever construction of the production. And con artist Todd Robbins, the brilliant writer and deliveryman of subtle humor, the best of which is stated under his breath, reserved for those paying attention.

Hoodwinked played at Proctors in Schenectady.

Hoodwinked played at Proctors in Schenectady.

Hoodwinked was reviewed at length here and here.

Someone gave it a nice compliment here.

And on Twitter, I saw: “Sun 23 Nov 08 | 02:56 GMT just got home from Hoodwinked, starring Todd Robbins, Banachek, Bob Arno, and Richard Turner. Fabulous! | twitter.com”

Hoodwinked played at the State Theater in Easton, PA.

Hoodwinked played at the State Theater in Easton, PA.

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Good pickpocket victim is a know-it-all

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A pickpocket steals from a back pocket, aka the sucker pocket.

A pickpocket steals from a back pocket, aka the sucker pocket.

Over-confidence is the enemy of travelers in unfamiliar lands. The know-it-all risks loss and embarrassment. Henry started his story with the wistful remark we’ve heard countless times:

“I didn’t think it could happen to me,” he said, shaking his head. “I never even sensed the other guy was near me.”

Henry and Kathy were world travelers. We met them in the third month of their current foreign travel adventure. Only in their forties, they were quite young compared to others with the time and resources for extended travel. Both were physically fit and mentally sharp. To Kathy’s alert, quiet reserve, Henry radiated self-assurance and arrogance.

On this day, as usual, Kathy carried their cash in the deep front pocket of her tight shorts. Henry carried nothing but the plastic boarding card issued to him by his cruise ship.

Another pickpocket's back-pocket technique.

Another pickpocket's back-pocket technique.

The couple was standing on a street corner near the souk in Casablanca when a large local man approached. Glancing at Henry’s Blue Jays cap, the interloper leaned into Henry, lightly knocking his shoulder.

“You from Canada?” he slurred, in a drunken act. Henry, always on his toes, second guessed the ulterior motive.

“Keep your hands off me, pal,” he said threateningly.

The stranger backed away and glanced across the street. Kathy followed his look and watched as a second man approached them. He was the big guy’s partner.

“Sorry, I have no use for this,” the partner said, and held out Henry’s boarding card. The couple had never even noticed him near them; yet somehow, he had been.

I like this story for its considerate thief. Most, with hopes of snagging a credit card quashed, would drop the worthless plastic in a trash bin, or more likely on the ground. The notion of a quixotic thief appeals to my wispy romantic being. Luciano, that ever-present menace on Naples’ trams, told us that, since he doesn’t use the credit cards he steals, he drops them into a mail box so they can be returned to their owners.

Had Henry Smartypants read the U.S. State Department’s report on Morocco, he would have known that “criminals have targeted tourists for robberies, assaults, muggings, thefts, purse snatching, pickpocketing, and scams of all types,” and that “most of the petty crime occurs in the medina/market areas….” Perhaps he would have thwarted the thief who snuck up behind him; his antennas would certainly have been up.

If misfortune befalls the unwary and swindlers seek the weak, enlighten yourself and raise your awareness.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Two (part-d): Research Before You Go

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Show of cons and scams

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Standing ovation at Hoodwinked.

Standing ovation at Hoodwinked.

Hoodwinked opened Tuesday night at the gorgeous State Theater in Easton, PA. It was the first show of our five-city east coast tour and we couldn’t be happier with it. Spectacular theater, perfect tech, 1,000 people packed in, all of whom shot out of their seats for an enthusiastic standing ovation.

Richard Turner, Banachek, Todd Robbins, Bob Arno.

Richard Turner, Banachek, Todd Robbins, Bob Arno.

It was a huge success.

We’re playing Lyman Center for the Performing Arts in New Haven tonight. The tour is only six shows in five cities in five days. Here’s the remaining show schedule.

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The cozy-up steal

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Cargo pockets are easy to steal from. Buttons or Velcro take the thief an extra second or two.

Cargo pockets are easy to steal from. Buttons or Velcro take the thief an extra second or two.

Sandy and Frances thought little of the gaggle of girls who flopped onto the bench they were resting on. There were more girls than could fit on the bench: half a dozen or more. They were pretty, 15-16-year-olds and with them was an adult woman. Their teacher, perhaps, Frances thought.

The girls cozied up to Sandy, making room for one more to squeeze onto the bench. They wiggled and squirmed, like impatient students in class, while the woman spoke to them. Sandy and Frances didn’t understand the language they spoke.

The couple didn’t notice that all the other benches were empty. They didn’t wonder why this gang, or “class,” had to crowd onto their bench. They were not the least suspicious of the girls.

“Why don’t we move so they can all fit,” Sandy said after a couple of minutes. He and Frances settled on the next bench.

“We needn’t have bothered,” he said, watching as the group immediately left the bench and the area.

Londoners Sandy and Frances had just flown into Barcelona to take a cruise. They were too early to board, but it was a gorgeous, sunny afternoon and they didn’t mind waiting the ten minutes before the gangway opened.

Although this cargo pocket has buttons, a hand can slip in between them. And did.

Although this cargo pocket has buttons, a hand can slip in between them. And did.

Soon they were in their stateroom, unpacking. Sandy opened a drawer to put away his wallet and, of course, you know: his pocket was empty. He’d had it in the cargo pocket of his pants, “secured” with two buttons. He told us how he went cold all over. How he checked and rechecked his pocket, not believing his wallet was really gone. But from the first instant, he knew exactly what had happened.

Are you groaning? Not another Barcelona story, please! I’m afraid so.

Sandy told us over and over how stupid he felt for letting it happen. There was a lot of money in the wallet, but his insurance would replace it. He just felt like an idiot. Although I’ve never heard of this particular technique, I assured him that this gang was well-practiced in the art of portraying innocence. They knew exactly how to behave, how to avoid rousing suspicion.

The thief hadn’t even unbuttoned the pocket. She didn’t need to. The gap between the two buttons was large enough for a slim hand and a wallet.

They got thousands of British pounds. I don’t think they’ll work for a while. We’re all safe from this gang, at least for the next week or two.

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Laptops lost in airports

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Midnight in the Muscat airport.

Midnight in the Muscat airport.

As a very frequent flyer, I can understand that 12,000+ laptops are lost each week in U.S. airports. What’s shocking is that, according to a study, only 33% of laptops that make it to lost-and-found are reclaimed. My first thought is: insurance fraud. Lose it, claim it, get a new machine.

The point of the study, though, is really data loss, theft, and abuse. Who cares about the hardware? Wouldn’t it be fascinating to know how many of those never-claimed laptops sitting in lost-and-found actually contain sensitive data? And when was the machine last logged into? After the loss?

Having lost a few precious things myself (a special scarf, an autographed book), I know how impossible it is to contact airport lost-and-found, and the runaround you get if you luck out and reach a human. “You have to contact the airline,” “just file a report online,” “the airline controls those gates,” etc. Hopeless.

And I hate to say it but, I’m convinced that airplane cleaners reward their thankless jobs by the old “finders keepers” law. How else to explain a book left between the window seat and the wall, gone without a trace five minutes after I disembarked? Losers weepers.

Who\'s alert after suffering the human maze?

Who's alert after suffering the human maze?

I just re-read the study, Ponemon Institute’s Airport Insecurity: The Case of Missing & Lost Laptops.
I had first read it back in July when its stats were thoroughly discussed on Schneier’s site. One of my own comments there is “no departments try to return property. Look at all the staffing cuts. Who’s the first to go? An individual might try to return something, but not a department. Even if you know you left something on a plane, even if you report it a minute after you get off, you can kiss it goodbye.”

Most laptops are lost at the security checkpoint—no surprise. People think the area is full of “security” personnel, and that makes their stuff secure. Many times, I pick up my own computer, then Bob’s. No one notices or cares that I picked up two machines. No one questions me whether I have two in my arms at once, or pack up mine and walk off with another.

While the report’s stats are interesting, I think the “Recommendations and Conclusions” are unrealistic. They suggest you allow enough time, as if you haven’t just run between terminals as fast as you can to make your “airline legal” but still-tight connection. They suggest you carry less; hey, we carry what we need, and what we don’t trust the airlines (or TSA) with in checked bags. They suggest you think ahead and have a mental strategy at security. That works—as long as you aren’t in a sleep-deprived fog from flying 14 or more cramped hours and now you don’t know if it’s morning or night. And as long as everything at the checkpoint goes smoothly, which is never certain. Someone cuts in front of you and delays you from getting to the other side, where your stuff sits vulnerable. A bossy TSA agent disrupts your strategy because he wants it done his way. TSA needs to rescan half your stuff and your items are spread out all over.

I have long had a strategy. I lay down my things—always the same things—in a strict order. This allows me to pick them up on the other side and reassemble everything quickly and logically. Every once in a while, that bossy TSA employee will rearrange my things, or hold back some of them in order to re-run someone else’s. This tampers with the otherwise reliability of my strategy.

I like two of the study’s recommendations. One is obvious, to label your laptop so you can be easily contacted. The other mildly recommends that airports make it easier for passengers to report losses. That would really help. Fat chance.

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Michael Pollan’s sun-food agenda

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Michael Pollan. Photo from Wikipedia.

Michael Pollan. Photo from Wikipedia.

Last month in the New York Times, Michael Pollan wrote an open letter to the president-elect about the importance of revising our entire food policy. It’s a long letter, but I highly recommend it.

You can read his letter in The New York Times or on Michael Pollan’s website.

You can listen to Terri Gross interview Pollan about his letter on her NPR show, Fresh Air. It’s 40 minutes long.

Or you can download an MP3 of my computer reading Pollan’s letter. It’s 52 minutes of robot speech; a bit unpleasant at first, then no more irritating than reading text in a bad font. Not nearly as bad as reading reverse text (white text on a dark background). Listen carefully and you can even hear the robot take a breath at the beginning of sentences.

I’m trying to make it easy for you to ingest Pollan’s article.

After cars, the food system uses more fossil fuel than any other sector of the economy … chemical fertilizers (made from natural gas), pesticides (made from petroleum), farm machinery, modern food processing and packaging and transportation … [W]hen we eat from the industrial-food system, we are eating oil and spewing greenhouse gases. This state of affairs appears all the more absurd when you recall that every calorie we eat is ultimately the product of photosynthesis — a process based on making food energy from sunshine. There is hope and possibility in that simple fact.

Calves ready for shipping by sea.

Calves ready for shipping by sea.

Besides reverting to old-fashioned, clean, solar-powered farms, Pollan wants to see healthful food made affordable, nutrient-free junk food such as soda lose its “food” status, diversity in agriculture, crop rotation, feedlots opened up to the pastures, and much more.

Pollan’s core message is this: “we need to wean the American food system off its heavy 20th-century diet of fossil fuel and put it back on a diet of contemporary sunshine.” He acknowledges that this is a complex and gargantuan task. He has explanations and ideas for every aspect of feeding America, starting with the Farm Bill and ending with family dinners. It’s hopeful, and hopefully practicable.

Pollan questions some of the wacky food things we do now, such as shipping American raised salmon and chicken to China for cutting up, then shipping the raw stuff back to the U.S. to sell. And he’s got a few wonderfully wacky ideas of his own. For example, he’d like to see the White House front lawn replaced by a produce garden, the excess of which should go to a local food bank. And perhaps forgive culinary-school student loans if graduates cook and teach in public schools for a spell. And committing the White House to one meatless day a week which, he says, if all Americans did would equal taking 20 million midsize cars off the road for a year.

A bull roasting.

A bull roasting.

In his Fresh Air interview, Terri Gross asks Mr. Pollan if he heard from a representative of either candidate after the publication of his article. No, he answered, except that one of the campaigns’ transition teams (unnamed) asked if Mr. Pollan could provide a one- or two-page summary for them. He refused, saying “the reason I wrote 8,000 words is because that’s what I needed to tell the story. If I could have written it in one or two pages, I would have.”

Barack Obama refers to Pollan’s article in an October 18, 2008 interview for Time magazine and appears to take the issues to heart. Good sign. We’ll see.

Michael Pollan has been one of my favorite food writers since I read his article Power Steer in 2002. Now I urge you to read Farmer in Chief.

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The proliferation of Barcelona’s living statues

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Ramblas\' living statues apply their make-up on-site.

Ramblas' living statues apply their make-up on-site.

Adrian has been a statue on Barcelona’s Ramblas for two years. He was a chef in Romania before, and part owner of a small hotel. But economic opportunities are greater for a statue; or they were, before major changes were instituted about two months ago.

No one needs a permit to be a statue on La Rambla, but there are rules and regulations. The statue must design and make an original costume. And the statue must be still, moving only to reward contributors to the hat.

Electric Man used to use pre-existing crowds, collecting coins from diners in Ramblas cafes.

Electric Man used to use pre-existing crowds, collecting coins from diners in Ramblas cafes.

Performance artists are no longer allowed on La Rambla, because they often draw large crowds of spectators. The crowds attract pickpockets. Pickpockets can easily steal from a stationary, distracted victim who expects others to crowd in behind him.

This is a good theory, in general. In practice, many a performer fails to draw a crowd, and quite a number of statues have learned to do so. But there may be something to the new initiative.

It’s not a fair comparison, but I’ll compare anyway. In three days of walking La Rambla last week, Bob and I saw very few “suspects;” i.e., characters we deem worth watching due to suspicious behavior. Quite unlike our previous observations five months ago. See Barcelona Street Crime Today and the articles linked within it. Granted, it was pouring rain two of those days last week. The few brave souls out in the weather wore raincoats or jackets that made pocket access difficult. Anyway, the pickpockets stayed home. Not that rain always stops them! Our third day of tramping the tourist trail was mostly morning hours. This too, is not prime time for thieves.

Rain doesn\'t always stop the thieves. There were five, though you can only see two here.

Rain doesn't always stop the thieves. There were five, though you can only see two here.

Even including a few afternoon hours, the avenida was quiet, perp-wise. Sure, the three-shell pea gamers were out, and we saw one pea crew under arrest, waiting for transport. But the population of thieves has moved on. Not far, I’m sure, but off the main drag.

And while the thieves are fewer on La Rambla, the living statues have proliferated. In some prime areas, near mcDonald’s, for example, and at the intersection of Portafarissa, barely six feet separate the statues from one another, six or seven of them in a row.

Adrian on a smoke break.

Adrian on a smoke break.

While some stand dejected, others have mastered a certain glint in the eye, a beckoning dare: “want to see what I do? Drop in a coin!” The plastic bottle man rarely stands still. The green fairy’s fingers are constantly coaxing passers-by nearer. The black horned creature has enormous curved wings, which he swivels to hide his face from photographers until he gets a coin. The toilet man makes faces. I’m pretty sure that the Michael Jackson statue is the same guy who used to do impressions at the bottom of La Rambla. He used to get huge crowds, and probably pretty good money. Now he stands frozen in costume, bucket begging, but not terribly enticing. His huge talent is wasted here. People walk on by.

This creature doesn\'t always wait for a coin. It moves, illicitly, startling passers-by in order to attract viewers.

This creature doesn't always wait for a coin. It moves, illicitly, startling passers-by in order to attract viewers.

One creature, a strange head resting low in a pile of blue satin, manages to get huge audiences. Like a jack-in-the-box, the head pops out of the fabric with a a growl and a shout, its single hand gesticulating wildly. The crowd screams and backs up, leaving a wide berth around the unpredictable danger. Strange, since it’s fairly obvious that the performance artist is crunched up in a box, non-ambulatory. Anyway, the spectators’ noisy appreciation attracts others to the circle, and the crowd grows.

A portion of the large crowd around a performance artist pretending to be a statue.

A portion of the large crowd around a performance artist pretending to be a statue.

The difference between the large crowd surrounding the head-in-the-box, and the crowd that surrounded the Michael Jackson impersonator, is an important one to the pickpocket. The head-in-the-box has a limited repertoire, and therefor cannot hold a crowd. Michael Jacksonesque performed many songs, holding his audience and giving the pickpockets plenty of time to select a mark and do their dirty work.

People walk right past Michael Jacksonesque, who was previously compelling with music and motion.

People walk right past Michael Jacksonesque, who was previously compelling with music and motion.

Adrian, who stands statue-still then poses for pictures for whatever coin he’s thrown, is in one of those concentrated rows of statues. Beside him is a magician, from Romania, like Adrian. The magician, wearing an ordinary black suit and white shirt, has a bit of a crowd around him. He’s performing with a trick rope, a black-covered book under one arm. He appears nervous, looking up and down the street. When he suspects police are near—perhaps he’s signaled by someone—he steps onto a small, low platform, flips open his book, and stares at it. Poof: a statue.

Adrian’s disgusted by the magician’s cheating way. He empties the small coins from his money-box as he complains about his neighbor. He says the tricks are lousy, just purchased things, performed without soul. Yet the magician gets crowds and Adrian doesn’t. Adrian tips his box and I see that a few one- and two-euro coins are glued to the bottom.

No more Flamenco on La Rambla.

No more Flamenco on La Rambla.

Adrian claims to get eight to 15 euros in his best hours. The magician gets more, he admits, and that makes Adrian mad. Still, he works the hours he wants to work, takes off when it suits him, and is able to send money home to his wife and two daughters.

It’s easy to see that the most interactive statues, those with the best costumes, those whose photos are most sought, make more money than the passive ones. Adrian said the best make 40 to 50 euros in a good hour.

The clowns make even more: 50 to 60 euros per performance for the best one, according to Adrian. Of course they no longer work on La Rambla either.

The city seems to be on to something. Or maybe it’s just a temporary lull. Time will tell. Bob and I will report later.

For more photos, Continue reading →

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In memory of Holger Enge

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Holger Enge

Holger Enge

How did I learn to become a pickpocket? That’s the most common question I get after my presentations and during television interviews. They want to know if I started out as a street pickpocket and if I had a thief mentor à la Fagin.

No. I had a comedy mentor.

As a teenager, I had a strong sense of sarcastic observation humor, which later became my stage persona and trademark. But as a young Swedish entertainer, I had a difficult time grasping the finer points of comedy writing. One man helped me tremendously. This post is in memory of a great comedic mind, a supportive buddy, and a long-time close friend.

His name was Holger Enge, and no other creative mind had a stronger impact on my career. Holger will be sorely missed, not just by me but by the hundreds of friends, business associates, and all the comedy acquaintances who came in contact with him at trade shows, business dealings, and in private.

Holger died too young. Only 61, he became a victim of a rather rare illness called Cushing’s Syndrome.

He and I were friends for more than thirty years. In the early seventies most of my engagements were in production shows at various casinos around the world. By that time, I had established myself as a respected …˜specialty act.’ There was no shortage of offers and I was lucky in that engagements usually lasted for a year in each venue. It gave me a tremendous opportunity to experiment with new material.

Although I had my pickpocket act down pat, a twenty-two-minute audience participation presentation that was foremost a mélange of visual situation humor, I craved strong …˜lines’ and clever patter. I was obsessed in my search for better banter. Having English as my second language didn’t make this challenge any easier. I taped comedians on talk shows at every opportunity. My goal was to analyze the structure and the set-ups of the jokes. My heroes were Don Rickles, Shecky Greene, and Richard Pryor.

It was at this time that I met Holger Enge. He quickly became my main writer. While other specialty acts were concerned with buying comedy props, I was dreaming heckler lines twenty-four hours a day. Holger lived in Toronto and I was working in Freeport, Grand Bahamas, when I saw a small ad in Variety newspaper. Holger was offering a comedy newsletter with generic comedy lines for disc jockeys. I bought a few issues and was impressed.

In 1973 I asked Holger if he would write specifically for my show and especially for my watch routines. In those years he charged around $25 for each line I approved. A lot of this was on spec. I would receive a fresh lot of pages every two weeks or so. There was a lot of correspondence back and forth defining material, declining and/or approving structure and re-writes. He nailed it. He really understood my style, but it soon became obvious that he had to come and see my show to take this collaborative effort to a higher plateau.

I invited Holger to come and visit me in Freeport for a week and see what we could do together, as a team, versus a long-distance affair. And so started a long and productive friendship. I invited him to come and stay with me in different places around the world, mostly in the West Indies, and in London. And I introduced him to a few other comedy performers who also liked his style and creative mind. His lines were snappy and fresh, often a tad risqué, but no more blue than other comedians’ lines at the time. I eagerly waited for his envelopes with the usual pages of comedy lines.

This went on for many years. It was a rush to open up the pages, try out some of the lines, and see what hit home and what only got lukewarm response. Eventually my own style changed, and I was finally able to create my own comedy, often at the spur of the moment. The need for an outside writer was no longer as important. But it was Holger who gave me the confidence and the direction I needed to realize my dream of success as comedy performer. I was no longer remembered only for my pickpocketing stunts, but for my comedy attitude, too.

Holger was very much instrumental in this achievement. I wonder how many successful entertainers, or other artists, can attribute their success to one particular individual? Or how many would like to acknowledge the influence of one source?

In the last four months, since the onset of his illness, he wrote some of his best observation humor—about his own health and his many experiences with hospitals, tests, and experts. On meeting his surgeon “with the gravest face you have ever seen,” he said his “palpitations sped up to match the heartbeat of a hummingbird on crack!”

With the swelling in my face, I look a bit like a pink gold fish. Better yet, if you can find some bright yellow hypo-allergenic face paint, you can do up my face like a giant SMILE button, slap a string on my ass, and take me out on Halloween! You’ll get a lot of candy!

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