the death of edgar bronfman, a good guy, brings to mind a night in the mid-90’s when john owen and i rigged 50 or so candle-studded, lace-stencilled pumpkins on chains throughout the ceiling for a party (don’t ask). others were dubious, but after a test run proved the ‘safety’ of our cockamamie scheme, we prevailed. our test, however, took place without the air conditioning on, and when, with 250 guests present, the party heated up and the ac kicked in, great jets of molten red wax sprayed across the room. it looked like the prom scene from ‘carrie’ (ironically, as sissy was also there, emerging unscathed, thank god). mr. bronfman was wearing an heirloom dinner jacket of great sentimental value, which after that night would never be wearable again. his debonair grace throughout, and patient kindness as i jabbed at him moronically with toweling defined a near-impossible standard of gentlemanly behavior, which i from time to time still call on.

a class act, that mr. bronfman.