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Header: Jess Anderson in Madison Wisconsin
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Lloyd
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Lloyd was a dark spirit, I think. To rely on national stereotypes, he was swarthy in keeping with the Italian part of his heritage and almost militarily rigid in keeping with the German part. Though he was by training a biochemist (he got his PhD at Madison), he was by disposition a musician. He played the flute quite well and was attracted to me in part, I think, because I was a harpsichordist. We did play together in at-home concerts for friends a few times.

But Lloyd would never settle down. In time I got over the deep infatuation, which never really got anywhere anyway. As far as I know, he had only one longer-term love affair (not with me), and that was marked by constant strife. He just couldn't be happy. I know it sounds like pop psychology, but I'm sure this was the result of a deep-seated self-loathing. There was, as is so often the case, absolutely no factual basis for feelings of that sort: he was beautiful, he was intelligent and educated, he was creative and artistic, he was highly successful in his work, and he had invested wisely in excellent biotechnology opportunities that made him a millionaire several times over.

A native of New York City (Staten Island), Lloyd went to work at Sloan-Kettering Memorial Cancer Research Institute after finishing his PhD. I often stayed with him at his very nice apartment at 85th and Columbus when I was in New York, and we remained good friends to the end of his life.

He had a small but comfortable house in Fire Island Pines, where he loved to sail his catamarran and entertain friends with first-rate cooking. He had a flair for beautiful things. But nothing really brought him a sense of being adequate, tragically.

Then came AIDS. Alone of all the people I've known who faced this particular challenge, Lloyd was never able to admit -- I think not even to himself -- that it was HIV that caused his health problems, even at the end. He had some far-fetched idea it was a tick-borne blood infection.

It was one of those phone calls you don't want to get that told me the news, the night I arrived in California for the first-ever national gathering of gay computerists, that Lloyd had died that morning. I miss him. It seems a cruel joke that happiness eluded him all of his short life when he had so much to offer.

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