When my son Ethan was seven, eight, nine, I would buy magic tricks for him from Misdirections, on 9th Avenue between Lincoln and Irving. The proprietor, Joe, got to know me well enough that he invited Ethan and I to the Miraloma Park Improvement Club for a get together with magicians from all over the Bay Area. Oh my God, what a night. We walked around with decks of cards and magic boxes and silver rings, things appearing and disappearing, aces jumping out of velvet bags, the king of clubs ending up in Ethan’s back pocket, which was impossible but there it was. Everyone had a new illusion, and they couldn’t wait to share. We were treated as fellow magicians even though we didn’t know what we were doing. It was literally and figuratively a magical evening, and not unlike, the six evenings at The Lab. There we were, marginal, in the best sense of the word, I still didn’t know what I was doing. What I do know is that we were writing like madmen and madwomen. We were sharing new illusions, trying them out on one another. I know my heart beat faster.