He was a decorator. His loft in Manhattan was a blend of the exotic and the comfortable. He knew how to use space. He said he made things pretty. He was a painter. His canvasses were neo-Fauvian. He died before he had a show. He was debonair. He loved his friends. They loved him. He was handsome and kind. His goodwill and humor distinguished him. He loved to dance. He had a marvelous dog, Maribou, who is buried with him in Holy Cross Cemetary on Slauson Street in LA. Maribou too was a star in her own right. They were a perfect pair. She got invited to the parties he didn't. She'd always bring him along. Like him she was gracious. I was his lover for six years. He died in my arms. I told him then that I would always love him and never forget him. I miss him. But we didn't have to be lovers, so I'm content with the fact that we met, fell in love and spent a half-dozen zany years together. He loved to shop flea markets, merching. I guess if there are other parallel universes he might be merching in one of them right now.

Submitted by: Herb Spiers