Last night we watched the Criterion blu-ray of Midnight Cowboy, which I last saw in 1969 with my friend Peter Oberlink. I remembered almost none of the film, only Sylvia Miles, Bob Balaban's confession that he had no money to pay Joe, the Warhol-esque party, Bernard Hughes' beating in the hotel, and Hoffman's death on the bus. I never imagined in 1969 that one day Barney Hughes and his wife would be two of my favorite people or that I would cry like a baby when I learned of his death.