Eulogy for Brian Edward

I met Brian Edward and Scott Nelson the same day.

We were at a Garden Party, basically a backyard barbecue, but GAY. Very gay.

The veggie platter was called Crudités. The party featured a signature summer cocktail.

Scott, Brian, and I began a conversation that never really ended.

We were only a few sentences in when Brian mentioned “Auntie Mame.” Our friendship was forged over a mutual love of the wacky residents of Number 3 Beekman Place.

I mentioned that I had recently moved from Los Angeles back to Pittsburgh and that, among other things, I was a theater critic. He asked me if I saw a recent show here (it was in this very building), “Amish Burlesque.” I didn’t recognize him out of his Jebidiah clothes. It turned out I was a fan first, then a friend.

A bond was formed that day.

Our first playdate was a trip to the Andy Warhol Museum. We stood among floating silver clouds, and Brian explained to me the concept of ‘Burgh Vivant. I thought, and still think, it was a brilliant idea. I got in on the ground floor, right after Lonnie.

Brian was out there meeting artists, writers, actors, and a plethora of Pittsburghers.

The first time Brian invited me to Rancho Notorious was his annual Day After Party. A party after New Year’s Eve. I remember asking him, “Why the day after New Year’s Eve?”

He said, “Everyone has obligations on New Year’s Eve. Some couples want to spend it alone; there are parties everywhere, there’s First Night downtown, there are too many places to go, but no one is doing anything on January 1^st.”

The logic of a successful party planner.

When I stepped into Rancho Notorious for the first time, I was filled with wonder and delight.

There are three types of collectors.

1. Those who buy a storage locker and hide away their treasures like dragons.

2. Those who pile it up around themselves have to cut pathways through their home to avoid all of the garbage mounting around them.

3. Brian was the third and rarest kind. The kind that curates their collection to a meticulous extent so that every piece looks as if it belongs exactly where it is.

His home was a museum of kitsch. I ate grapes from Carmen Miranda’s head. I watched Queen Elizabeth wave to the sun as it shone down through the kitchen window.

His den looked like Alfred Pennyworth came through with a feather duster. It belonged in the stately Wayne Manor. I was half-convinced that there was a secret entrance behind the bookcase that could take you to the Batcave. Pull the right book and wham.

In the basement, I found a “Murder, She Wrote” board game. Once again, perfectly placed.

All of these things were extensions of the man Brian was.

The bon vivant of ‘Burgh Vivant. The videos introduced me to even more people whom I’ve fanned and friended.

Dashing and witty, with a soupçon of snark.

I will cherish our trip to Provincetown. It was full of magical wonders, and, of course, lobster rolls.

On our way to Provincetown, Brian saw a sign for the Pez Dispenser Museum. Of course, we stopped. The reason? Brian was Brian.

We toured the facility. We even saw how the Pez pellets were made. The Pez Museum had a collection of dispensers dating back to 1927. It was marvelously camp.

After we left, he handed me a package. It was a Pez. He bought me a Muppet Pez. It was Fozzy Bear. He said, “Here

…because you’re a bear comedian.”

Generous. Witty. Charming. And a gracious host. Wherever he was, it was a party.

Goodbye, my friend.