I was very disheartened to read about the passing of one of my dearest old friends, Lawrence Magnolia, this weekend. My heart goes out to his family as I am sure your hearts go out to me during this difficult period of adjustment.
I last spoke to old Mags just twenty six years ago when we bumped into each other in the lobby of some dilapidated theatre which was showing a revival of our mutual friend’s cabaret show, How Not to Get Kicked When Involved in a Street Fight (the arrangements for which were done by a lovely man whose name I can’t just now recall but whose begonias were amongst the best I’ve ever seen). Lawrence looked resplendent in his corduroy suit, though I remember him remarking that he felt a bit overheated and I think now if I only I had insisted that he go straight to hospital to get that checked out, perhaps he would still be with us today.
I wish I could ring his darling wife Margaret to let her know how I am coping with the loss, but I am afraid I’ve misplaced their phone number and also I have never met her. But my thoughts are with her as I struggle with the knowledge that so many of my friends, people I’ve known and greatly influenced for the better part of my life, are proving to be less hardy than I.
Everyone Needs an Algonquin 
My heart does, indeed, go out to you, my dearest Agatha. Magnolia is a loss almost too great for words, just as he was almost a great man during his life. Especially when he wore that corduroy suit. About that we certainly agree.
I felt compelled to post this comment because I’m curious what you thought of my show that night some twenty-six years ago now. You never told me.
I wrote How Not to Get Kicked When Involved in a Street Fight more or less with you in mind, you know — hoping you’d pen the novelization.
And what is it with this “mutual friend” business, you old prude? We were all sleeping with each other and everybody knows. Even Mags’s beloved Madge figured it out.
I’d write more, but rehearsal is calling. My show for this year’s Fringe promises to be my best-reviewed yet. It’s a musical romp called How to Teach a Donkey Gaelic.
Ahh, Hillary, my dear, so lovely to hear from you. And surprising (I am certain I heard a rumour somewhere that you had succumbed to one of your various addictions).
Those were indeed great times, when bonhomie of that sort could be shared without concerns for loyalty or hygiene, when intercourse could be kept in the family, so to speak. So sad those days are gone but so glad I made it through without contracting many diseases.
I look forward to seeing your newest show and would be willing to write a review if connecting my name to it would in any way boost attendance. Fingers crossed you’ve hired old Chalky to choreograph—I believe he is considered the authority in getting the best out of asses, musically speaking, of course.