Joan Rivers sad death, as Remembered by Nocturnalist

Joan Rivers, the pioneering comedian who died on Thursday, was a woman of many firsts. Among the lesser known of these, she was the first celebrity to invite Nocturnalist, The New York Times Metro section’s nightlife reporter from 2010 to 2011, into her home; the first star to help Nocturnalist hatch a plot to interview a different, recalcitrant star; and the first, and only, celebrity to send Nocturnalist a thank-you note for attending a shindig she hosted. Another first: No one else had ever roped Nocturnalist into discussing, at length, a statuette, and its bejeweled nipples.

In person, celebrities frequently seem familiar. They spend time in our homes, after all, albeit beamed in through the television set or computer screen. (Nocturnalist remembers a night at Nobu when she almost hugged Bill Cosby, simply because he looked like an old friend.) Ms. Rivers took that ersatz familiarity and made it real, enveloping guests — even snarky reporters — in hugs at her doorway, and devoting real time to chatting. Acerbic on television, she gave off a menschy gestalt in person that seemed not affected, but sincere.

More than one guest at Ms. Rivers’s parties told Nocturnalist privately of Ms. Rivers chipping in to pay for a veterinary bill, or showing up at a hospital bedside. Indeed, we first met her at a book party she held at her apartment for a friend, Preston Bailey, a floral designer whom she befriended and championed. (Mr. Bailey’s party featured explosive arrangements of orchids, including a pile arranged into a female bust, with breasts that were beaded and that bedazzled. Ms. Rivers could not help pulling Nocturnalist aside to discuss whether her rabbi from Temple Emanu-El, who would be coming over soon for a holiday meal, would approve.)

And what a home it was. She lived in a condominium of such opulence it would make Liberace blush: a gold-tipped, Louis XIV palace tightly packaged in a small but towering triplex on East 62nd Street, just a few paces from Fifth Avenue. Ever the most human of celebrities, Ms. Rivers was the building’s board president, and threw Yom Kippur break fasts in a ballroom that called to mind a Lilliputian Versailles. Guests, including Nocturnalist, got personal emails of thanks, delivered by her friend Judy Katz, a warmhearted publicist, and signed “Joan Rivers xoxo.” It was in that ballroom in the fall of 2011 that Ms Rivers helped Nocturnalist hatch a plan to capture the attention of a celebrity who had, at past events, seemed to deliberately avoid an interview: Martha Stewart. Told of Ms. Stewart’s seeming media-shyness, Ms. Rivers grabbed Nocturnalist by the elbow and marched us across the gilt-edged room, depositing us firmly under the chandelier, and next to Ms. Stewart.

“You must meet Nocturnalist,” Ms. Rivers said brassily, with a wink to us, “she is a dear friend of mine. Tell. Her. Everything.” Then Ms. Rivers, whom we had first met that very night, flounced away. Standing next to that bejeweled and busty orchid figurine, Ms. Stewart obeyed.