The closest I ever got to Andy Warhol was on a warm July night in 1978 at Studio 54, which of course was dark all over and very pleasantly air-conditioned. I was standing behind a banquette with a tall, good-looking guy I knew very slightly named Gary Fekete, and he was talking to Warhol — shades, white-blonde wig, Holy Cross blazer, etc. — about, I was later told, some kind of sexual opportunity or possibility or whatever. I was standing to Fekete’s left, half listening but at the same time not wanting to look like an uncool snoop. And that was it. But at least…well, that wasn’t much, was it? For a short while Fekete was an occasional supplier of quaaludes to some of us when I still lived in Connecticut in ’77, so that was the initial connection.