My pal Danny Appolinar was a fellow singer/pianist working clubs in the sixties. He told a marvelous story on himself: he was booked in a hotel in San Juan, the Dorado Beach, for the summer, and while there he struck up a romance with a good-looking busboy, Carlos, a kid of eighteen with great appeal. They had a hot thing going all season, walks on the beach by moonlight, staff meals together in the hotel kitchen…and hours in bed together. When the summer ended, and Danny had to leave, go back to Manhattan, the kid was all broken up, disconsolate. “But Danny, what will I do without you? You are my sun, my moon, my planets–every night for three months you hold me in your arms, how can I live alone now?” A very Latin temperament, Danny told me. “Carlos, my life is in Manhattan -I wish I could bring you home with me but that’s not possible,” he said. “But I will always remember you -I’ll think of you every night–” Carlos had a request: “You will say a prayer for me? When you speak to the heavens, you will not forget me? Will you give me something I can remember you by -no, no, I don’t want money, give me something personal, something of yours only.” Well, Danny had thirty copies of a record he’d made -an LP- and he took out his pen and signed one to Carlos, with a passionate inscription: “To Carlos, who has been more than my life, more than my passion, my obsession, whom I shall never forget, who has meant the entire universe to me (and who has the most beautiful you-know-what in the world). With all my love, forever, Danny.” And he got on the plane. And six months later, he saw the exact album in the dollar bin at the 69 cent shop.