How to Mess Up
A few weeks ago, I had what I consider a weak performance. A lot of things went wrong. The tricks did get brought to successful conclusions, but I made one glaring mistake that, unfortunately, is eating at me more than it should—I memorized someone’s name incorrectly.
I want to be specific about this, not to vindicate myself, but to give you a clear idea of what happened. There are two main ways to mess up memorizing names:
Forget the name. Not much you can do here. It sucks.
Memorize the wrong name. That means I meet someone named, say, Anna, but because the room is loud, I remember “Hannah,” and that’s what I say on stage. Despite the fact that I said what I memorized correctly, I memorized the wrong name.
Situation number two happened last night, but in a way it’s never happened before. I memorized the name “Jessie.” Her name was “Elana.” I don’t know how I did that. I don’t think I ever will. But it’s a bummer.
Ironically, I almost got out of it. I had about twenty minutes between when I messed it up and when I went back on stage, and in that time, I concocted a pretty solid plan to reveal her name. I got about 90% of the way there, and then I botched that part too.
But then, at almost the exact same time, in Buffalo, New York, this happened. If you don’t want to watch—Mark Andrews, a tight end for the Baltimore Ravens, dropped the game-tying ball and the Ravens were eliminated from the playoffs. That’s about as embarrassing and public-facing as sports mistakes get.
My point being—Mark Andrews is one of the best tight ends in NFL history. And despite what I’m sure were his best efforts, he quite literally dropped the ball when it mattered most. It puts missing someone’s name in perspective. I’ll get back to Mark Andrews at the end.
Here’s what I grapple with: I worry that if I make a mistake on stage, and don’t immediately address it to my friends once I get off, it’ll signal that I don’t care. If I don’t immediately say “yeah that was good, but I missed x,” then it’s a sign that that mistake doesn’t mean anything to me.
But there’s a certain way to handle these things, which is, as objectively as you can. The mistake doesn’t need to be dwelled on. It needs to be acknowledged. And then you move on. You don’t need to constantly bring it up. I’m writing this to myself because it’s one of my biggest challenges. A show can go perfect except for one moment, and I’ll dwell on that moment rather than appreciating the rest of what I built.
This particular show was the biggest Stand-Up Magic of all time. Straight-up the largest audience we’ve ever had. The show went great. People left happy. We put good into the world. That’s what I should be focusing on.
Unfortunately, from an evolutionary perspective, we are hardwired to dwell on the negative. To overcome this, we must first accept that that’s how we’re wired, and then do our best to override that tendency and appreciate the positive.
Gratitude practices help. Having friends in the room to put you in your place is a wonderful antidote. And the classic adage to talk to yourself the way you’d talk to a friend is, perhaps, the greatest advice of all.
I’ve memorized thousands of names. And with one major exception, which you can read about here, I can count on two hands the ones I’ve ever missed. Thousands of correct. Less than ten wrong. Ever. I can live with that.
Remember that dropped ball? The one that ended the Ravens’ season? This is how Mark Andrews responded.
He didn’t respond with blame for the weather (it was a complete snowstorm) or his teammates. He responded with full responsibility. That mistake sucks. I can’t even begin to imagine how that feels. But his response is a model for all of us. Even in the most public facing, high pressure situations, we are allowed to be human.
That’s how you mess up.
And then you get back to work.
The best in mentalism know that a miss isn’t the end—it’s an opportunity. A moment of uncertainty adds drama, builds tension, and sets the stage for an even stronger comeback. It’s like the classic “magician in trouble” plot, except in mentalism, the fluke isn’t scripted. Ironically, being slightly off can actually enhance your credibility—audiences tend to give you more credit because it reinforces the idea that what you’re doing is real.
Of course, not every audience reacts this way. I’ve found that Europeans—especially the French and Belgians—are less forgiving across the board. But when something doesn’t quite land, you can easily pivot without losing control. A simple line like, “I’m not quite happy with that. This doesn’t happen often, but let me try something more direct for you” shifts the moment from failure to suspense. From there, diving into a name divination or another personal revelation can still deliver a powerful experience—especially since name work feels naturally intimate and specific.
It’s what makes performers like Peter Turner seem untouchable—he always has his tracks covered with layers of multiple outs. And that’s the beauty of mentalism: Unlike magic, where a mistake can shatter the illusion, a near miss in mentalism can enhance your credibility if you know how to squeeze the drama out of it. It’s about orchestrating that moment of doubt and then delivering a payoff that feels all the more impossible because of the initial uncertainty.
A better parallel is what happens when a comedian feels the audience slipping—not just one joke falling flat, but the momentum fading. The best comics lean into that moment, using self-awareness to reset the energy. For example, “Alright, that one didn’t land. Let’s see if I can dig myself out of this hole—no pressure, right?” The acknowledgment gets a laugh, reestablishes trust, and sets up a stronger comeback. It’s the ability to recover in real-time that wins the audience’s respect.
The key is to look at the piece and ask yourself, “Is this about me or the audience?” I’ve seen you perform this incredibly well, but there might be a way to refine the angle even further. If your goal is to make your audience feel seen, acknowledged, and validated, then it helps to have a backup plan—something you can quickly pivot to for one, or god forbid, two people you might miss. This way, even if the initial moment doesn’t land, you can still deliver a personal, meaningful experience that leaves a lasting impression. A strong closing line can seal the moment: “I can definitely say I will never forget you, and please never forget me or anything you saw here tonight. Take a seat, and everyone, give them an uproarious round of applause.”
In the end, never dwell on a performance error in mentalism. If your audience leaves feeling seen, valued, and connected, you’ve achieved the true goal of your craft.