So there's quite a few of us, craned necks and all, using our hands to prevent the sun from getting in our eyes and obstructing the view. Quite a few are tourists, but quite a few are locals too. It is Saturday, a beautiful, sunny September afternoon.
The setting is lovely, green grass and the bridge as back-drop, people selling hot dogs and knick-knacks on the pavement.
Photos are taken and filming done, with nifty, little video-recorders. Many people wave.

The man in the box doesn't do much. He's put up a white sheet to protect him from the sun and moves slowly around in his cage, sometimes waving back with a feeble movement of hand.
Nothing happens.

This must be the dullest stunt in the history of stunts, yet I am strangely fascinated by the entire thing. Is he actually up there? Or is it a cleverly devised illusion and he is in actual fact eating hamburgers in Arkansas? Does he have a stack of invisible provisions hidden behind an invisible wall? Is it really water running through the tube? Does he do it for the honour or the publicity? Is he a cleverly cunning business-man or a half-mad idealist, craving for attention?

But nothing happens.
I begin to understand this newfound activity of Blaine-baiting, the English does after all have a history of baiting big, hairy creatures; in Shakespearean times, they used to bait bears before, during and after performances. Suddenly I too fancy throwing something at the man in the box, he just stands there! So boring! Are we supposed to feel satisfied by a wobbly wave? Dance for us! Take your clothes off! Do something outrageous!
But nothing happens.

And so we move on to bigger and better things, me feeling embarassed that I wanted him so to perform (like a hamster), yet feeling strangely ripped off, as if he owes me something, for pestering my life with endless TV adverts and newspaper columns. And somehow he doesn't deliver.
posted by charlotte at 11:09 - comment