Here’s a fun game for your next magic club gathering.
Which one is registering shock, and which one is inviting you to shove your genitals into their mouth?
Bonus Question
One of these pics is Penguin pitchman, Nick Locapo. The other is the Gladiator Full Size Inflatable Doll (With Dong). Can you spot which is which?
Xeno by Marc Kerstein—possibly my most-used app after the Jerx App—just got a major overhaul, adding a bunch of new functionality. I haven’t had a chance to dive into the latest updates yet, so I can’t speak to those, but I can speak to the app as it’s existed for years now.
At its core, Xeno lets you see what a spectator is viewing on their phone (or computer) on your own phone.
I’ve shared ideas for using Xeno in various places over the years, including:
Lucid ACAAN
The Project on Word Transmission
Over on the Facebook page for Xeno, someone asked this question:
“It does not make sense to me!”
Relax, sweetie. I got you. Let’s make this make sense.
Here’s exactly what I do:
Pull out my phone and go into the Xeno app.
As I’m doing this I say, “I’m going to have you look at a list of the most popular boys names.” (Or whatever the premise of the effect is.)
I pause. “Actually, just bring it up on your phone. Go to [I tell them the URL].”
If I need to pair by swiping (which you don’t really need to do anymore), I stand side-by-side with them, looking at their screen and talking about what we’re looking at while I swipe down at my side on my phone.
The phone is now in my hand where it can hang casually during the performance. Or I can put it in my breast pocket where I can get a peek later. Or set it down somewhere. Or place it in my lap if we’re seated. Or pocket it and take it out later if I go in another room while they settle on something.
Notice, initially, you’re seemingly going to have them look at something on your phone.
Then you do something that feels more free and fair and say, “Actually, go ahead and bring it up on your phone.”
This justifies why you brought your phone out initially, but then gets it out of the way in a way adds an even greater lack of guile to the proceedings.
In casual situations, the phone can just be held in your hand at your side the rest of the interaction. That’s perfectly normal. Half the people you interact with during the day are holding a phone. No one cares. Or you can put it away and work a moment into your performance to get the peek. Either way is fine.
Notice how the sequence plays out:
At first, it seems like I’m going to have them look something up on my phone.
Then, in what feels like a freer, more open choice, I pivot:
“Actually, go ahead and bring it up on your phone.”
That shift does two things:
It justifies why I pulled out my phone in the first place.
It makes the whole interaction feel more fair—more hands-off, less guided.
And from there? In casual settings, it’s totally normal to have a phone in your hand. Half the people you talk to every day are holding a phone while they’re talking. No one thinks twice about it. I can keep it at my side, set it down, pocket it, or put it away and work a moment into my performance later to get the peek. Whatever works.
By the way, I know I’ve said this before, but reading Facebook groups for magic apps really makes me appreciate my situation here.
I get to chat with you all, explore ideas, dick around, write a book now and then. People email me to say nice things. Maybe share some ideas. Folks coming here expect they’ll actually have to read something and give it some thought. If I make a mistake, it’s usually easy to fix—even with a book, I can update it in the Digital Appendix. It’s all very chill. Cordial. Friendly.
But magic app creators? That’s a different world. You’re constantly worried about updates breaking the app, being questioned by people who didn’t read the instructions, or getting yelled at because there’s no Android version. Yeah, no thanks.
We passed the 10-year mark on this site recently. If I had started in magic by making apps, I wouldn’t have made it ten months. The people living in my apartment today would still be wondering what that faint pink hue in the living room is from where I took matters into my own hands and my brains splattered against the wall.
So I am currently learning fast math from Secrets of Mental Math by Arthur Benjamin, both the video series and the book. Awesome!
Here's what I'm trying to think about: how can I make the performance of that something besides "Look what a special smart boy I am!" I love the participatory and Carefree nature of having people get out their calculator apps and then give me a math test, but it still feels so mathemagician centric, you know?
Here's a thought: what if it's like a reverse hypnosis routine? "You've heard of people who are naturally really susceptible to hypnosis? I'm one of those people, but what they don't tell you is some people are also natural hypnotists! Now, I can tell that you're a naturally persuasive person..." then they put me under and command me to do crazy multiplication stuff. Something like that?
What do you think? Any ideas on how I can make my fast math skills work a little more Jerx style?—RG
Yeah, that’s a tricky one. It’s hard to make fast math anything other than show-off-y. And you’re showing off in a way that—in a previous era—would’ve made you the dork of the school. “Oh, you can do math in your head? Great! Now we’re going to dunk your head in the toilet.”
I think your proposed premise is too confusing.
This is something I see a lot when people send me premise ideas: they’ll go from A to B to C to D. But what you really want is a one-step solution to the effect. Just go from A to B.
“I think you might have natural hypnotism abilities.” That’s good.
“I think you might have natural hypnotism abilities, so now hypnotize me to do math”? That’s convoluted. Math isn't something we associate with being hypnotized, so the connection feels forced.
If the goal is to take the power out of your hands—to make it feel like this isn’t just you showing off—then frame the ability as something strange, uncanny external thing that gives you these temporary abilities.
“Oh, I’m terrible at math too. I’m actually thinking about investing in this start-up a friend from college is working on. Let me see if I still have the file… okay, yeah, here it is. So they give you this simple test—like 10 or 12 questions—and use AI to analyze how you solve basic problems. Then it builds this custom sound pattern—they call it…uhm… a ‘sonic key’— that fits the way your brain works. When you listen to it, it opens up this weird little fast lane in your working memory for math. It’s not permanent—just a few minutes—but it’s kind of like hypnosis. Like hypnotizing yourself into being good at math for a little bit. I’ll show you…”
And then you play a file of white noise, or EDM music, or some gibberish or whatever.
Have you considered laying out a path for magic creators in a more serious manner for them to contemplate how to balance the real risk of exposure AI is bringing. Whatever we thought YouTube and social media would do is literally a drop in the ocean relative to what AI is doing and will do. I know you’re done some of this and I realize it’s complicated when the goal of creating and selling is to basically maximize sales. Maybe there’s no solution other than your amateur’s playbook.
I suspect it would be really good for the industry if you really honed back on this and generated pressure/consideration…—SK
This question was prompted after the person who wrote this email put the URL of a magic video into ChatGPT, asked it to explain what was happening in the video, and it spat out a semi-plausible explanation to all the tricks.
Look, there’s going to be a time—and honestly, we’re already at the early edge of it—when everyone’s going to have smart glasses or some kind of implant, and anything they watch, they’ll be able to ask AI to explain in real time.
This would seem to be the death of magic. At least the kind of magic I’m into, where I hope to leave someone with a nagging sense of mystery—of something they can’t fully explain.
But I’m more optimistic than that.
The magician’s job has always been to take the world as it is—and then stay one step ahead of what people imagine is possible. That hasn’t changed. What is changing is the baseline.It will require new techniques and ways of approaching magic, which we’ll develop as things evolve.
If your trick is just a puzzle with one solution, then yeah—AI’s probably going to crack it faster than a layperson ever could.
But the performers who care will find a way around this. Burying a trick in a more immersive, long-form experience is not only going to make it more difficult to unravel and figure out, but it’s going to make people less inclined to want to.
As for how we distribute methods and ideas: yeah, we’ll probably see more print-only material, intentionally vague descriptions, private channels. But I think the more important shift won’t be in how we transmit secrets—it’ll be in how we present them.
The GLOMM needs help from Jerx: Belgium.
I don’t want to throw around names without confirmation, but I assume the Belgian magic scene isn’t so vast that someone there wouldn’t know. Can anyone there confirm that there’s someone behind a magic club in Belgium who is also… this fuckup? A guy whose excuse for raping an 11-year-old was that he “fell in love” with her.
(BTW, “love” requires emotional and intellectual reciprocity. So saying you “fell in love” with an 11-year-old is not the justification for having sex with a child you might imagine it to be. It’s like saying, “Hey, I’m not just some monster. I’m also a fucking moron too.”)
Anyway, I’d like confirmation that this is definitely the same guy before I tee off on him more. From the one person who tipped me off to this, the Belgian Magic Federation is well aware of this guy’s past, and yet he has also been “coaching children” for them. So I’m having a hard time reconciling this information.
No, Really Fool Us
I had an idea for a tv show. It would be like Fool Us, but instead of Penn & Teller, the judges would just be two reasonably intelligent adults. The goal would not to be just to fool them, but to perform a trick that left them with no workable theory about what you might have done. So they wouldn’t be able to write it off as sleight-of-hand or gimmicked objects. I believe this would be significantly more difficult than fooling Penn & Teller.
A number of people have written in to suggest something like this for the Twickle trick from Tuesday.
Sets like these can be found on Amazon for just a few dollars, and you could easily melt or glue the hands into the positions needed.
I think it’s a good option. Part of me prefers the visual of the full arm creeping out, as in the Little Hand effect. (You don’t need five of those gimmicks, because you don’t need the embedded magnet and coin. You just need five doll arms, which must be available though some craft store or something.)
But the nice thing about these is they’re readily available, and the number of fingers pointing out would be more immediately obvious than the small doll arm.
Thinking of Tuesday’s post about the little gnome who lives in your pocket and helps you with magic tricks, today I want to give you some advice on how to deliver this kind of premise.
Next week, I’ll talk about why you might want to use premises like this. The “why” I’m going to share has been eye-opening for the people I’ve discussed it with, and I think it offers a fresh way to think about the kinds of presentations you choose. But today is about how to pull them off.
The problem with most magicians is that they just pay lip service to their premises.
“I have a gnome who lives in my pocket. He likes to do a trick with me.”
“I’m going to show you a demonstration of fate.”
“The Ace of Spades is the leader card. And where it goes, the other aces follow.”
These are usually the first lines they say, and then it’s more or less forgotten about.
Some premises, like “The Ace of Spades is the leader card,” deserve to be immediately forgotten. But if you have a gnome who lives in your pocket—or you can somehow “demonstrate” fate—then it feels like you should have more to say about those things. When you don’t, you're effectively telling your audience to ignore the premise altogether. So why bring it up?
The answer is: you’re trying to get them to care. You're throwing a quick line out there to grab attention for something that would otherwise be meaningless. But that move is transparent to people and these presentational hooks are unsatisfying when you don’t commit.
The mistake I feel some magicians make when dealing with an unbelievable premise is that they swing too far in the other direction from the “too little” approach.
Ah… but of course, few believe me when I speak of him. The gnome. The sentinel of secrets. The diminutive architect of astonishment who dwells, as fate would have it, in the left breast pocket of this humble waistcoat. His name? Irrevocably unpronounceable to those not born beneath a waxing moon in the forested cleft of Elderglen. But I call him Norbit.
I discovered him one twilight, crouched atop a discarded spoon behind the magician’s entrance at the Tucson Civic Arts Center, his eyes like twin marbles of knowing mischief, his voice but a whisper upon the wind. He spoke only one sentence: “I behold all answers.” Since that night, we have been bound—man and mythic aide—collaborators in the impossible.
Do not be fooled by his stature! While he may stand but a thimble tall, Norbit’s faculties are vast. When you, dear spectator, make your innocent selection, it is Norbit who scrambles forth—scaling your khaki plains, traversing button canyons, and leaping over the chasm of your belt—to peer discreetly over your shoulder. And then, like a shadow’s whisper, he returns to me, ascending the inner scaffolding of my trousers with breathtaking agility, to whisper your card into the curvature of my ear with a voice like damp cinnamon.
And that, my friends, is how I know.
It immediately feels like, “I am now telling you a story.” There’s a Mr. Rogers-ness to it that ends up infantilizing the people you’re performing for.
Casual/social performers in real-world, person-to-person environments—cannot afford to be theatrical. It ruins the vibe.
The key to delivering an unbelievable premise is to talk like yourself—but like yourself in a movie where the thing you're describing is possible.
Here’s what I mean: If I really found a gnome in my house—like in actual reality—my response would be shock, fear, confusion. Even if it was a friendly gnome who wanted to help with magic tricks, I wouldn’t be able to talk about it casually. It would feel unhinged.
So I’m not saying to behave the way you truly would in that situation.
I’m saying: behave like you—the version of you that your friends and family recognize—but in a slightly different world. A world with its own logic where impossible things happen sometimes. A world where a gnome showing up is weird, but not unprocessable.
You're not aiming for realism. You're aiming for tonal authenticity within the rules of the world you’re inviting them into. It’s the world that should seem unusual. Not you.
So this is crazy. The other day—actually, I guess it was a couple weeks ago…jeez—uhm, so anyway… yeah, a couple weeks ago I go into my kitchen and there’s this little… gnome-like thing…. just sitting on my windowsill. Like this… little guy. Maybe four inches tall. Eating Tic Tacs out of the lid from an old film canister. Like it was a plate or something, I guess?
And I’m like, “What the…?” But he turned out to be pretty chill. And he likes doing magic tricks, so now we get along.
That’s how I think it’s best to set up an unbelievable premise. Not scripted. Not theatrical. Not hyperrealistic. And not something you abandon the moment the trick begins.
Just setting up the world for everyone so they can lean in and think, “Okay… now how is this going to play out.”
Do you love magic?
Has a swamp amoeba eaten more than 75% of your brain?
Then you will love this new product stocked by Murphy’s Magic.
Yes, the Invisible Deck. That classic effect that we’ve all ignored because it requires you to subtract a number from thirteen. Okay, sure, Archimedes… let me just subtract a number from thirteen like it’s nothing.
Well, now you don’t have to do that yourself.
You just have to scan this sticker on the back of your card box to know what card you need to find in the deck.
Surely you—a person who can’t subtract six from thirteen without an abacus and a private tutor—can certainly scan the back of a playing card case in a casual, unstudied manner.
And the best part is, the crib hides in plain sight! If someone sees it, they’ll just assume it’s a standard deck of “Byclone” playing cards with gibberish on the back.
The only thing missing from this product are some warnings that the target demographic will need to hear.
For external use only! Do not swallow the crib.
Put the crib on your card box. Do not affix it to your forehead and then look at in the mirror. It will be backwards.
Do not introduce the deck by saying, “This one has a cheat sheet on it.”
If, during application, the sticker becomes entangled in your pubic hair, apply a small amount of peanut butter to loosen it. If your pubic region is already covered in peanut butter—because you got aroused mid-sandwich-making by the Peter Pan logo and couldn’t help yourself (who could blame you)—try white vinegar.
If you like this product, keep your eye out for their next release. It's a sticker you attach to the heads side of your coins that says, "The other side is tails." This way you have a secret crib that lets you know what's on the other side without turning the coin over.
Here’s an idea that came out of an email exchange with someone who wanted to perform the Mental Die effect but was looking for a more fantastical premise—something beyond a simple 1-in-6 prediction or “reading body language” to divine the number.
Now, this might be too whimsical for some of you—but I still think it’s worth exploring. It sets the stage for something I’ll talk more about on Thursday.
Picture this:
You hand your friend a die and ask her to shake it between her hands. You tell her to let it settle in her palm and, while keeping it covered with her other hand, to peek at the number on top.
You reach into your pocket and pull out your own die. You give it a shake and peek at the result.
“I got a three,” you say. “What did you get?”
Coincidentally, she also got a three.
You do it again. “I got a one,” you say. Oddly, that’s what she got, too.
You do it again and both end up with a four. “Strange,” you say.
You have her roll a number again and take a peek at it. You roll your die between your hands, then stop. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t even have a die.” You open your hands to show they’re empty.
“Sorry. I should be honest. I thought it would be cool if you thought we had some sort of connection and were consistently rolling the same numbers.”
You then go on to tell her the “truth” of what happened.
There’s a little man who lives in your pocket. “He could be a troll, or a gnome. I’m not sure. I know that sounds racist if you can’t tell the difference.”
You explain how, as she peeked at her number, the little guy climbed out of your pocket, ran up the back of her pant leg, up her back, perched on her shoulder just long enough to peek at her die, then scurried back down—across the floor, up your leg, into your shirt, down your sleeve—and into your hands, where he flashed you the number she saw with his tiny fingers.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you before.”
You offer to show her exactly how it worked. “You have your last number in mind?” She does. You cup your hands and make a beckoning whistle sound. A small hand pops up with five fingers extended.
“You must have rolled a five,” you say.
This uses Mental Die and—famous shipping box model—Michael Ammar’s Little Hand, which itself was based on an idea by Bob Farmer.
This feels like a weird combination, right? A relatively dry, 1-in-6 mentalism effect combined with Little Hand, which is often treated as a throwaway gag. But together, I think they create something genuinely intriguing.
With Little Hand, people will think, “Well, it’s just a doll’s arm.” That doesn’t mean they’re not charmed and amused by it, they are. In fact, I think the “gag” of this obviously fake arm popping out is part of the charm. But they’re not exactly astonished by it.
Here, though, you get the same silliness and novelty—the little hand popping out still gets a laugh—but now there’s something else for them to grapple with: the idea that the hand was actually flashing the number they rolled on the die which only they knew.
It has the structure and feel of a gag, but it lands like a genuine impossibility.
If you wanted to turn this into a true showpiece for a formal performance, you could take it a step further. Get multiple doll arms and simply modify each one—using heat or boiling water to soften the plastic and press down specific fingers—so you end up with hands showing 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 fingers.
Then, keep a small index in your pocket. After the final roll (assuming it’s not a 6), you’d casually retrieve the correct hand for the reveal. This gives you the freedom to build to that moment deliberately—choosing exactly when to introduce the little creature and let the impossibility land.
The more Carefree approach is to just keep a single hand in your pocket—the one showing five fingers—and wait for a 5 to come up naturally before “coming clean” about how the effect is really done.
If they roll a 5 on their first roll, tell them that’s their “secret roll” and to remember the number—we’ll come back to it later. Then, when you're ready for the reveal, you say, “You’ve had one number in your head since the beginning. Your secret number. But actually, Twickle saw it. Twickle, what number did she roll the first time?” And out pops the little hand (uh, Twickle’s hand) with five fingers extended.
If the 5 shows up on rolls two through five, that’s when you pivot and tell them about the little man in your pocket. It’s not perfect structure-wise if it happens on roll two, but that’s just the way it goes when you’re jazzing like this.
If they don’t roll a 5 even after five rolls, tell them: “Maybe you think it’s a special die and certain numbers come up more commonly or in a special order. So choose the next number yourself. Choose one we haven’t had yet.”
If they choose a 5, great—you finish with the expected reveal.
If they choose something other than 5, and 5 is the only number that hasn’t appeared yet, you continue the routine as normal with their chosen number. Then, introduce the gnome and ask, “What’s the only number we haven’t rolled?”—and the hand pops out showing five fingers.
If they choose something other than 5, and there are still multiple unrolled numbers, the finale shifts tone. You reveal that you never had your own die, you tell the story of the gnome, and when you call for him, the little hand just pops out to wave hello. He doesn’t reveal the number. It’s still a fun combination of effects. Just not as impenetrable a knot of methodologies as it might be otherwise.
If I were doing this regularly, I’d split the difference between the Carefree approach and the full index method. I’d keep two Little Hands—one showing a five, the other a two—each in a different pocket. With those two options, and getting them to roll the dice multiple times early on if the same number comes up (to show it’s “not weighted”) you would be able to have the gnome reveal the number pretty much 100% of the time.
I would not bother getting the little arm until the point where I’m talking about the “little gnome who lives in my pocket.” When I reach in there—as if casually gesturing—I’d snag the arm needed. Then in the process of describing what the gnome was doing, I’d get the hand in the position needed.
You could even use the moment when you step behind them and run your fingers up their back (demonstrating the gnome’s route) as cover for getting set. It’s a theatrical beat that justifies the movement and gives you all the time you need to get ready.
The Mental Die trick, on its own, can be forgettable because it’s kind of dull. Little Hand, by itself, is dismissible because it feels like just a gag. Tying the two together with the gnome story may seem ridiculous to you, but it’s also the sort of premise that people can’t forget.
Not because it’s believable—but because it’s absurdly vivid. A tiny man scrambling up someone’s back to peek at their die, then racing down your sleeve to flash the number with his little hand? That’s such a simple, strange, and compelling visual that it lodges itself in their memory.
I love any trick that leaves a preposterous story stuck in someone’s brain.
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