It's gonna get sappy up in here.
Is there a magic trick to getting rid of dark circles? I'm going to go ahead and say no, not least of all because the person I know with the worst dark circles ever happens to be a magician.
That's right...one David Blaine:
Okay, so I live in Chinatown now, right? But for the two years before that, I lived in this weird loft in TriBeCa that had a stairway and back door that opened to a mysterious alley! Mad dudes in nice suits were always back there peeing — it was really weird — during the day; rats ruled that shit at night. One night I was moping around the house drunk (I was in an unfortunate Jack-and-milk phase) in a Vera Wang bridesmaid dress I'd bought at the Opera Thrift Store on East 23rd Street when my friend OJ stopped by.
“David Blaine is out there,” he said as he came up the stairs.
"Huh?" I slurred. I staggered over to the window and peeked out — I lived on the second floor overlooking said alley — and there he was: Blaine! And a camera crew and everything. "Is he levitating?" I watched him and his people go back inside a ground floor space I'd wondered about before because there were always fab Ducati motorcycles parked outside. And that's when I realized I was living right on top of David Blaine's magic studio!
Blaine! We sort of had history. For a while, he was the guy that every girl in New York had fucked. (For one alarming summer, James Blunt would replace him in both Manhattan and the Hamptons — and then Paz de la Huerta, years later, would become the hetero female version of these dudes). He likes to party. After all, he was in the Pussy Posse with Leonardo DiCaprio (shout out to my friend Nancy Jo Sales, who wrote that amazing article in the nineties.)
And then, of course, we've all heard the rumors — or at least I have — of what our friend the illusionist was up to in the Nod-dy Nineties...
"David Blaine introduced everyone to ______," an art world friend told me (you can go ahead and guess the substance.) "He's the reason Harmony Korine's house burned down." Say what?
Oh, whatever. We've all done loads of ____. The past is gone! Besides, I'm sure that was just gossip.
Anyway. I never hooked up with him, but he probably would have been down. My first-ever New York boyfriend, Alex, likes to tell the story when Blaine approached me at Pangea — a wonderful post-9/11 nightclub on Lafayette Street — and propositioned me, magician-style. He took a ten dollar bill from my hand and turned it into $100! Then — according to Alex — he offered to give it to me for sex! (I do not remember any of this; Alex swears it happens. DB laughed when I told him the story over ten years later — and said it sounded like something he’d do.)
My point is, Blaine is fun! He still parties. As I was trying (and failing) to write my upcoming memoir my first year in TriBeCa, I'd sit in my window overlooking the alley and observe the comings and goings at his studio. Chauffeured cars would pull up and girls would spill out of them — like circus clowns! Then they’d all go inside to watch David put an ice pick through his hand or something. No, that is not a euphemism for "do hard drugs." How dare you!
Of course, it was only a matter of time before I made it over there to Blaine's studio myself. I was drunk again (same phase) and wearing Diesel bellbottoms from Lot Less and clunky red Calvin Klein wedges, smoking a cig back in the alley. And he called me over. I clomped over there and it was a blur, really... I was twisted. The studio was full of Houdini posters and things — vintage, I guess. There were loads of people there; DB kept insisting that I take a fancy bottle of tequila back to my place... These are hazy memories.
I do, however, clearly remember noticing David’s pronounced undereye circles! They were a little sexy. Goth. I didn't go to bed until five in the morning that night. The next day when I woke up I had bags under my eyes, too. I never wound up going over to Blaine's again. We texted for a while after that, but I was usually asleep when he hit me up to "hang real quick" before he left for the airport...at 7:30 in the morning.
But months later, on a trip to Aruba, I thought of Blaine again when I was watching a magic special with Dynamo on TV — it was slim pickings, cable-wise — and noticed his crazy dark circles. My beauty editor senses prickled. A little Googling revealed a common thread! Check it:
Magicians all have crazy dark circles! Why?
I tried to go straight to the source …
End of conversation. You know magicians! They have to keep things mysterious. But I think they all have dark circles not because of their clandestine dealings in the dark arts, but because they party all the time.
If he ever wanted to ask me for a secret (which he definitely will not, considering this dumbass article), I'd tell him about the best concealer ever: Laura Mercier Secret Concealer.
The one in the jar. Yes, it’s $25, but you don't skimp on concealer. Drugstore concealers just aren’t good. This one is, and you just need a little bit. You know how to apply it. Dab dab dab. And you've read about Laura Mercier concealer eighty thousand times; I know, I know. But guess what — I'm not going to plug another concealer in here just because it’s new to the market. Because I’ve been trying them, and the Laura Mercier is better.
Anyway, I am sorry for wasting your time with this ridiculous article. Talk concealers and magicians in the comments. I'm out!