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That's how Harry Anderson opened his stage performances when I knew him, the year or so after Hurricane Katrina when he reopened his New Orleans bar and put on variety shows featuring himself, his performance-inclined patrons, and whatever else popped into his head. He had a weekly movie night where he'd screen classic black and white films, many of which I'd never seen before. (I was so taken with "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," that I went out afterward and bought a copy of my own).
Having just learned of his passing, I decided to share a few memories of Harry:
Most of the regulars in his place were magic fans, and I was no exception. The first time I met Harry, I showed him a card trick that involved a move called the "classic force." Of course, he recognized it immediately (any magician would - there's a reason it's called "classic") but he was genuinely impressed all the same. It's a move that seems simple, but is surprisingly difficult to master, and one he'd never managed to pull off himself. He was tickled to discover I'd learned it by training with a parrot who liked to chew up playing cards and happily "picked a card" as many times as I offered (the parrot, not Harry).
I specialized in close-up magic and therefore never had the confidence to take the stage at his place as a magician (stage magic is a whole different animal). However, I had no such reservations about singing, and so, one day I got up and performed an acapella version of Tom Lehrer's "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park." It want over smashingly, and as a result of that performance, Harry hired me to record a vocal track for one of the illusions he was working on at the time. The first version I recorded was too on-point and he felt the character wouldn't be that skilled, so he had me record it a second time with a slight wonkiness of pitch and rhythm, which apparently was perfect for what he needed.
I had a first-edition copy of his book, "Games You Can't Lose," that I'd owned and enjoyed long before I had any idea I'd ever meet Harry in person. Well, one day, my dog decided to chew it into teeny-tiny little pieces of confetti. I told Harry about the incident and tried to buy a new copy (he kept them for sale at the bar), but he refused to sell me one. Instead, he went home, dug up another first-edition copy, and gave it to me as a gift, complete with autograph.
One evening when hanging out at the bar, I was hit by a really nasty migraine. I gathered my stuff to walk home, but Harry, who thought I'd gotten trashed and was, for some reason, making up the migraine thing to cover for it (he's not the first to make a similar assumption - apparently migraines make me look like death warmed over), insisted on calling me a cab and paying for it himself. I remember his exact words, partly because they were quotable, but mostly because he spoke them in the same tone of voice I use when I repeat something I grew up hearing my parents say:
"When a lady has too much to drink, it's the gentleman's job to pour her into a cab and make sure she gets home safely."
And he was more than just a gentleman. He was immensely likeable. I think we've all known a few people like that in our lives - one of those people that makes everybody, even the most timid and anxious among us, feel welcome and comfortable. He was genuinely delighted when someone came up with something new and cool, and he brought out the best in everybody.
That was all years ago, of course. I doubt he retained any memory of me, except maybe as the girl who recorded "Xanthia's Elixer." Other than that, I was just one more of his "poor bar flies: buzz...buzz...buzz..."
Having just learned of his passing, I decided to share a few memories of Harry:
Most of the regulars in his place were magic fans, and I was no exception. The first time I met Harry, I showed him a card trick that involved a move called the "classic force." Of course, he recognized it immediately (any magician would - there's a reason it's called "classic") but he was genuinely impressed all the same. It's a move that seems simple, but is surprisingly difficult to master, and one he'd never managed to pull off himself. He was tickled to discover I'd learned it by training with a parrot who liked to chew up playing cards and happily "picked a card" as many times as I offered (the parrot, not Harry).
I specialized in close-up magic and therefore never had the confidence to take the stage at his place as a magician (stage magic is a whole different animal). However, I had no such reservations about singing, and so, one day I got up and performed an acapella version of Tom Lehrer's "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park." It want over smashingly, and as a result of that performance, Harry hired me to record a vocal track for one of the illusions he was working on at the time. The first version I recorded was too on-point and he felt the character wouldn't be that skilled, so he had me record it a second time with a slight wonkiness of pitch and rhythm, which apparently was perfect for what he needed.
I had a first-edition copy of his book, "Games You Can't Lose," that I'd owned and enjoyed long before I had any idea I'd ever meet Harry in person. Well, one day, my dog decided to chew it into teeny-tiny little pieces of confetti. I told Harry about the incident and tried to buy a new copy (he kept them for sale at the bar), but he refused to sell me one. Instead, he went home, dug up another first-edition copy, and gave it to me as a gift, complete with autograph.
One evening when hanging out at the bar, I was hit by a really nasty migraine. I gathered my stuff to walk home, but Harry, who thought I'd gotten trashed and was, for some reason, making up the migraine thing to cover for it (he's not the first to make a similar assumption - apparently migraines make me look like death warmed over), insisted on calling me a cab and paying for it himself. I remember his exact words, partly because they were quotable, but mostly because he spoke them in the same tone of voice I use when I repeat something I grew up hearing my parents say:
"When a lady has too much to drink, it's the gentleman's job to pour her into a cab and make sure she gets home safely."
And he was more than just a gentleman. He was immensely likeable. I think we've all known a few people like that in our lives - one of those people that makes everybody, even the most timid and anxious among us, feel welcome and comfortable. He was genuinely delighted when someone came up with something new and cool, and he brought out the best in everybody.
That was all years ago, of course. I doubt he retained any memory of me, except maybe as the girl who recorded "Xanthia's Elixer." Other than that, I was just one more of his "poor bar flies: buzz...buzz...buzz..."
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