Wow, this piece evokes so many memories for me. I moved to New York City in 1990 and left a decade later after my partner died and I was legally unable to inherit our co-op apartment, despite his willing it to me. (Only married people and children had the right to inherit. Gay couples were excluded, even those like us who had filed domestic-partnership paperwork.)

Anyway, my partner Lenny was a generation older than me, and how I reveled in his stories. He was possibly the world's number one Billie Holiday fan. He was certainly a Gloria Swanson fan. "I'm ready for my close-up," was one of his go-to laugh lines.

We haunted piano bars and cabarets, theater and the opera. Lenny told stories about meeting the Divine Miss M (Bette Midler) in a New York City steam room back before they had all been closed down. He told me about the night Leonard Bernstein cruised him.

He introduced me to Quentin Crisp, who became something of a guide and mentor for a few months. Lenny walked me past the Stonewall Inn and told stories about those nights. He pointed out Marsha P Johnson at the LGBT community center on 13th Street, and explained who she was and why she mattered so much.

After Lenny died, I hung on to our address book, even after I digitized most of the entries.

A few years later, I started counting as I flipped through its faded pages. I started doing math in my head and soon realized that almost 40% of our NYC friends had died of AIDS.

Talk about a lost generation!

But at least I had Lenny for a decade, perhaps my most formative decade when I needed a mentor the most.

I'm pleased to read about your own efforts to mentor and pass on our culture.

Thank you!