I knew Rusty had been ill, but the last time I saw him in a West Side cafe (sometime before Christmas this last year) and we chatted briefly. He was, as always, the cheerful, happy man I'll always remember. I've been away since January and asked tonight about Rusty, only to find out that he had left us. Sorry for the long delay in letting Alison and Nat know how much my heart is with them. I remember so well many wonderful nights with Rusty at The West Bank Cafe. I feel much of my life in the 1980's was spent there--performing, hanging out, being together. It was, as for many of us, our theatre home. Rusty wrote the hilarious title song and performed it in my play TROPICAL DEPRESSION, as the terribly untalented Jim Dupuis. He played for us and added his great talent to the revue OLD OYSTERS (with Wayne Knight, Diane Kamp and Margo Martindale). I used his wonderful "New York Romance" in a show I did with The Acting Company at the old Ballroom. It remains one of my favorite songs. Rusty was a bright light in our lives and he was loved by so many people. I'm sorry I wasn't in NYC for the memorial. My sympathy to everyone, friends and family...I don't need to tell you what a great man Rusty was. We all knew he was a genius, a damn good man and we're all so much richer for having known him.

This is in response to Scott's amazing message (below).
I just want to tell you, last year, when I was spending a weekend alone with Rusty, just hanging out and trying to help him feel better, we lay on the couch and listened to his CD, Sweet Appreciation. Moment for moment, he told me everything he was thinking at the time, I told him how it all affected all of us, and we just relived it. And here's something he said: "A friend of mine told me that Mozart's best work was probably lost forever, performed at a 'salon' somewhere. But I have this. This is some of my best work, and it's here forever."
That was you, wasn't it, the friend? We all tried, every day and in every way, to think of stuff to say to Rusty to make him feel good, to keep his spirits up, to help him. I just wanted you to know, that Mozart thing really lifted him up. Even if it was meant to be poignant or ironic, Rusty absolutely took it as a reminder ...of his good luck.

Dear Alison,

I was in New York last week and had the chance to talk to Andrei, who told me about Rusty. I must tell you, I’m usually not prone to mourning. I remember when my grandfather died, just a few years ago. At his memorial service (in his Catholic church) someone place a portrait of him near the altar. People all around me were sullen. Some sobbed. But I couldn’t stop staring at his mischievous grin. It was a strange feeling - I was almost unable to suppress my joy. I wanted to shout.

As a naval flight officer I lost a lot of friends to aviation accidents. Some were close and some, acquaintances. And I always felt those deaths were tragic, because their lives were just beginning. Certainly, I was affected.

Still, I can’t describe what I felt to hear this news. It was a curiously new feeling for me, and a devastating one. Of course I will continue to remember Rusty’s talent, his energy, his humor, and - especially - his inspiring joy. I’ve never known anyone who crammed so much into life. But I can’t help feeling that the world has suffered a deep loss.

I hope you won’t find this inappropriate, but I woke in the middle of the night and tried to write about it, so I wanted to send it to you. It’s nothing, really, but I hope you’ll understand that I really needed to make contact, however superficially, with you:

To (the) Genius from (a) Narcissist

New York can be difficult for me
anyway.
Take, for example, my self-esteem
humidity
my sister’s cats, what might have been.
I recognized the pattern
long
before this trip though the
Tunnel.
But I was totally unprepared for Andrei’s call:
“O, God, I thought you knew.”
Think sledge
hammer to the chest.
How could I have known?
For years, my only connection to you, Rusty, has been
Andrei.
had been.
Still, I shouldn’t have been
surprised.
A year ago, last time I saw you, our
hopes
even if you remained optimistic
at least to us
were falling out with your
hair.
(Did you ever wear the hat I sent?)

2:53
a.m.
and I continue to grapple with this curious
inconsistency: death usually doesn’t feel like
loss
to me.
You’re different.
I’m a fool to think my way through this
that my
what? dread?
Emptiness is tied to our only
real
common denominator: I picture my son’s
face
at my
memorial, and my gorge rises.
No, science won’t help.
It’s true
I always loved you
(even if I didn’t use the
word)
(didn’t know)
awed by your (equally) mysterious, enormous
gift.
I reserved
(the) title
for you alone.
Once I watched you
accompanying you
(who else could)
in a rasta wig
improvising your way
through decades of pop music
and I recalled a biographer who claimed the best work of
Mozart was probably
lost
at parties.
It’s true: I’m not poet
enough
to light my
admiration.
But that’s not it either.

No, it’s the
realization
that I didn’t
know.
How could I have gone about
mundaneness
and not feel you
pass? There was

certainly

profound diminishment that day. Maybe my
world
felt it and
shrugged
it off as retrograde.
But Andrei’s voice woke me,
sitting
on a bed (not mine) in Chelsea ,
that day.
Perhaps, these ten years, I stared into the reflecting pool
hoping
to admire you.
Here lies
my (greatest)
disappointment.
Were you ever part of me
as I fancied you were?
My mirror should have looked differently
different that day.
“How could I have known?” I said.
But my pain is, really, how could I
not?