It is, actually, given that (1) I did it before I watched the Macklemore video and (2) Macklemore said it couldn't be done.
The disparity between what people think can be done and what they can actually do (either as individuals or as a species) is, in my estimation, the core of magical art. With physical magic, sometimes our perception of form, space, and time are simply wrong. Magicians learn specific ways in which they're wrong, or can be fooled. They play on our spatial assumptions: I was fooled by Penn & Teller, in their presence, by being foolish enough to assume that if there was a screw head at the junction of two slats, there was a screw behind it that went all the way through.
And then there are people who work hard to be extremely slender, extremely flexible, or to tolerate astonishing amounts of pain, or who -- as individuals -- develop some physical trait that far exceeds the normal person. Thus in this case our expectations for the general population remain valid, but they are violated for just that one case. Indeed that person is very special, but not necessarily in the way suggested by the story he wraps around his special ability.
Human memory seems to be a good bit of stock in trade for the mentalist. We don't bat an eye when actors on the stage recite hours of dialogue without consulting a script. Nor when individual musicians rattle off from memory intricate piano pieces containing thousands of notes. Yet when someone memorizes where each of 52 cards has been hidden on a set -- yes, there's a technique for doing this -- we're suddenly agog. The mentalist tells the rube he's hidden the same card on the set that he's now going to have the rube pull from a shuffled, ungimmicked deck. "Hm, the nine of spades," thinks the magician to himself. "Nine of spades, 'spine of Hades.'" Then he tells the rube, "Go over to that bookshelf and get the copy of Dante's
Inferno. Tell me what you find inside the front cover." Well, duh, it's the nine of spades he pre-placed, and remembered its position with a simple rhyme.
Tyler Henry may indeed be a very remarkable person, indeed perhaps even singular. He could, for example, have an exceptional memory for details that his team of researchers serve up for each guest. More so that I or someone else could possibly keep straight. That would make him able to perform impressive feats of supposed insight, that he can then attribute to ghost-whispering. And that would be a legitimate skill I would be willing to pay to witness.
Except when he says he's going to use this nonsense to help the grieving parents of juvenile suicide, that's where I draw the line. That's grief vampirism, the scourge of what otherwise could be an honest living.
Option 1: The laws of physics are not as we know them, and something that has repeatedly failed when tested under laboratory conditions is now suddenly true.
Option 2: Television shows and television star hopefuls are shady in what they are doing and how they present it.
Frank McLaughlin: Option 1, of course.
I tried to bring up parsimony earlier, to no avail. Here we have lots of people who fake these sorts of readings. Some are passable fakes and others are very good fakes -- they admit to being fakes. There are books and workshops you can consult to learn the techniques, and people to help you practice them. The psychological and analytical principles behind them have been adapted to other areas of human interaction, such as police interrogation, where no hint of necromancy is either present or required. Yet for some reason the notion of parsimony goes out the window when some people want to talk about necromancy. For them the easiest explanation is talking to the dead.
Early books on magic tell how to construct an apparatus that, when employed by a practiced artisan and two flexible assistants can produce observations apparently explained by having sawn a woman in half non-fatally. And then, naturally, restoring her whole again. Once you've been told the secret of this trick, you subsequently look for how the trick is done when you see it again. And so the challenge for modern magicians is to do it in a way that precludes all the ways people become accustomed to seeing through the trick. This requires magicians to become more and more clever, even shifting strategies altogether from clumsy, barely-hidden compartments to, say, mirrors that create the illusion of empty space.
But at no time does the magician ever contemplate actually sawing the woman in half.
When we get to necromancy, the true believers acknowledge some semblance of the various techniques employed. Then they insist that despite the fact that magic (including mentalism) is an ever-evolving field, always one or two steps ahead of the rubes, it must really involve talking to dead people, because the one clunky trick he's thinking of obviously hasn't been applied here. The true believers are always so eager to give the benefit of the doubt to the claim of true necromancy. "Well yeah, Tom and Dick used tricks, but Harry really is sawing a lady in half!" Parsimony is the only real victim of that scenario.
Revised claim: Tyler Henry might be wrong sometimes, but it doesn't prove anything.
Not from the cherry-picked sample of a program produced and edited by his friends, it doesn't. Our own resident fortune-teller, PartSkeptic, refused to keep a tally of his hits and misses, but still insisted he and his Tarot cards could make meaningful predictions about the future. Naturally his skeptical interlocutors here kept track for him. Despite his feeling that he was generally right more than he was wrong, he was statistically quite wrong.
But yeah, back to the topic, you don't get to praise a medium and extol proof of the afterlife on the basis of his win-loss record unless he actually has a win-loss record that significantly exceeds chance.