Remembering Ricky Jay
Editor’s Note: On November 24, 2018, Ricky Jay—who, in addition to being a noted actor and writer, was probably the foremost prestidigitator of his era and certainly its greatest expert on the history of magic—died at the age of seventy-two. A group of his friends and colleagues, convened by his wife Chrisann Verges, assembled at the Geffen Playhouse in Los Angeles to celebrate his memory on Sunday, January 20, 2019. Reproduced below are five of the many speeches given on that occasion, introduced by a few opening remarks from Eddie Gorodetsky, who served as the Master of Ceremonies.
INTRODUCTION: Good afternoon. On behalf of Chrisann Verges, I thank you all for joining us today to honor the memory of Ricky Jay. I’m Eddie Gorodetsky, and I was lucky enough to be a friend of Ricky’s. Let me restate that because, as you will soon observe, we have people here today who are experts both on the subject of luck and the preciseness of the English language. So, more correctly, I was privileged to be a friend of Ricky’s. All friendships have something that gives the participants a special sense of closeness. For some it is shared interests, which accounts for no small part of the fascinating folks here. For others, it is time spent together under duress. Like the friendships forged on battlefronts. Or film sets, for that matter. Then there are casual friendships, business friendships, friendships of convenience, phony-baloney show-biz friendships, and the thing we are celebrating today—the deep, rich friendships this famed prestidigitator constructed as his finest illusion: hiding a soft warm heart behind the curmudgeon’s façade. I always wanted to be part of a salon. Like Ricky, I was born Jewish, left home early, and would prefer not to talk about my family. I surrounded myself with artists and musicians, but when I met the esteemed Mr. Jay, it went up another level. He and I were introduced in a mediocre diner (owned by the exiled Fredo of the Gotti family) by Chuck E. Weiss, known to the hoi polloi as the eponymous subject of a Rickie Lee Jones hit but to the cognoscenti as a fellow traveler and co-conspirator of Tom Waits. Ricky and I hit it off, sharing a love of oddballs, outcasts, and the unfairly forgotten.
Then my wife and I were invited to brunch at Ricky and Chrisann’s, and I had found my salon. It wasn’t just the typical Hollywood hipsters and celebrities, though they were there too. I sat with Errol Morris and Van
