The third time I met George Pitts, I asked him about the necktie he’d been wearing the second time we met, a few days before — unmistakably a Gene Meyer, except that GM was obscure, had gone bust a dozen years earlier, and George’s tie was pristine. It was one, and we bonded over that. A bit later he used some odd turn of phrase in a meeting, and afterward I learned he was a Roxy Music fiend — we bonded over that too. But we both had an unsettling inkling that we’d known each other before, which took months to pin down. George finally got it: a long, long, enjoyable talk at a party at Ken Schles’s in the mid-’90s, probably some snowy Christmas. George was like that: he carried lots of obscure worlds around, many of them far away, under that strangely low-key foppishness (or was it foppish low-keyness — I never could tell).