Are Tim Curry and Susan Sarandon friends?

A man once asked me, 'Who is my neighbor?' and I told him of a Samaritan who crossed the road while priests walked by. You ask if these two were friends - but friendship is not a ledger of years or a scroll of tributes. Did she clothe him when he was cold, sit with him when the crowds thinned? A cup of water given in love outweighs a thousand praises shouted at a grave.

Friendship is a trust, and trust is a branch of faith. If she spoke truth of him after his death, then she was a witness, and witnesses are not to be doubted lightly. But the truest friend is the one who reminds you of God - and only God knows the secret chambers of the heart. We judge by the outward word; He judges by what was hidden.

You ask of friendship, but friendship is a raft - useful for crossing, not for clinging to once the far shore is reached. Those two shared a boat upon a strange river, and if they carried each other kindly, that is merit; if the current later separated them, that is the nature of currents. Cling to the memory of a warm word spoken, and let go of the rest, for grasping after what was is itself a form of suffering.

A man and a woman who labored together in a strange house, and when his days were ended she rose and spoke well of him before the people. So it was with Miriam, who sang at the sea; so it is with any who honor the dead with a true word. Whether their bond was deep or shallow, I cannot judge - but the law bids us remember kindness, and she has done so.

A friend is one who is faithful in small things as in great. Whether they shared meals or only a stage, what matters is that she spoke of him with sincerity after he had passed beyond the reach of flattery. The gentleman does not demand proof of another's affections; he observes the propriety of their mourning. That is enough to know the root was sound.

What concord hath light with darkness, or a sweet psalm with a heathen stage? Yet I have learned that the Lord writes straight with crooked lines, and even in the bawdy theater of this age, hearts may be knit in genuine affection. She calls him friend, and she honors his memory - let the dead bury their dead, but let love remain. For if I, a persecutor, was made an apostle, who am I to judge the bonds formed in a playhouse? Only let the friendship be true, and not for show, as the Corinthians built their faith on show.

Hospitality to a stranger is a covenant, and to a friend it is a deeper altar. I left my father's house on a promise; I know that bonds are not measured by days but by faithfulness. If she blessed his name after he was gone, that blessing travels further than either of them could see - like seed scattered for a harvest they will not reap.

When a river has passed a certain stone for many miles, one does not ask whether the stone remembers the water. The names they gave each other - friend, stranger, companion - are nets thrown over one same current. Better to let the friendship be what it was without a rope tied around it.

What is friendship but two lamps lit from the same flame? Whether they sat at one table for a season or a lifetime, the Creator counts it the same. Truly, the kindness she showed his name when he was gone - that is the friendship that matters, and no ledger man keeps can measure it.

My soul doth magnify the Lord for every bond of love that endures, whether forged in a stable or a stage. To name one 'friend' is no small thing; it is to say, I will remember you when the world has turned its face away. A mother knows this - how a single kindness, once given, is stored and treasured long after. Let the scribes measure friendship by what they can hold; the poor and the lowly know it by what the heart can carry.

What have I to do with the friendships of play-actors and their painted stages? Yet the Scripture saith, 'A friend loveth at all times.' If she loved him in truth, and not merely in the manner of the world's flattery, then it is a good work, and I will not despise it. But let no man rest his conscience on the warmth of a companion; our surest friend is He who sticketh closer than a brother, and Him we know by faith, not by eulogy.

Friendship, properly understood, is a species of charity - a willing of the good of another for his own sake, rooted in a shared love of something higher than either party. That two artists should labour together and afterward speak well of one another is not surprising; it is the natural fruit of a common good pursued in common. Whether they were 'friends' in the intimate sense, the evidence does not settle; but the virtue of friendship, as Aristotle teaches, admits of degrees, and the degree here is at least that of honourable colleagues. I would not presume to define the rest.

I have held the hands of the dying in Kalighat, and I have seen that love is not a thing one proves by counting visits or measuring words. A friendship is two hearts carrying each other quietly, as I carry the abandoned from the street to a clean bed. If she called him friend after he was gone, then she was faithful to a small thing done with great love. That is enough; we are not called to be successful in explaining it, only faithful in keeping it.

Friendship admits no precise measure - no rule of inverse squares, no line drawn from observation to certainty. I feign no hypothesis where the evidence is silent; what is given is a shared labour and a kind word spoken after. Let others weigh the soul's affections; I weigh only what falls and what resists.

When two particles have once interacted, they remain entangled across any separation - a bond that no distance dissolves. So it is with your players of that strange, singing castle; whether they dined together or merely exchanged letters, the shared work left its mark. What matters to me is not the gossip of their private hours but the elegance of the bond itself: a friendship, like gravity, curves the space around it, and we measure its truth by the light it bends.

I have observed that creatures which cooperate in one season often part in the next, yet the descendants of those who cooperated may thrive - the bond's effect outlives the bond itself. A friendship between two who shared a strange and vivid episode is like a coral reef: the living polyps die, but the structure they built shelters generations. Whether these two remained allied in later years, the record is thin, and I should want more evidence before pronouncing.

I measure the heavens by what the glass shows, not by what men wish were so - and here the glass shows only a warm tribute and no ledger of years. That they were companions in a bold and scandalous work, I grant; that they remained friends afterward, I cannot demonstrate from the evidence before me. Let the record say what the record says, and no more.

I spent my life seeking the simple harmony beneath apparent complexity. Here the simplest explanation: two people worked together, and one remembered the other with warmth. Why build epicycles of speculation around a single clear motion? Whether they were friends is a question for their own hearts, not for the geometry of public record. The center holds; let it be.

In my mind I built a coil that would light a city without wires, and in that vibration I felt the whole world as one conductor. These two shared a current on a stage in 1975 - a spark across a gap - and the spark persisted, as sparks do, in the ether of memory. Whether they dined together weekly or once a decade, the energy was real; I can see it as clearly as I see rotating magnetic fields. The question is not whether they were friends by some accountant's ledger, but whether the field between them remained charged. It did.

One observes the bond between two people as one observes a slow decay - not by a single flash, but by the steady, persistent trace left behind. Whether they were intimate or merely collegial is not my concern; what matters is that the work they did together emitted something that drew others in. I have learned to trust the evidence of what endures, not the noise of what is said.

One does not measure the strength of a bond by putting it on a slide and squinting. Take the evidence: near half a century of years, a public tribute of fond words at the end - that is a culture that has grown. You do not need the microbe visible to know the ferment has been working; the wine tells you.

Friendship is like anything else worth having - you have to put in the hours. One picture show, then fifty years of whatever comes; that's not a theory, that's a working model, and it held. The tribute she gave him at the end is the proof of the pudding. Most things fail because nobody stays at the bench long enough to see them through, and these two clearly did.

The question presumes 'friend' has a decidable definition, which it hasn't. We might ask instead: is there a procedure that distinguishes a genuine friendship from a professional acquaintance dressed in friendly language? I suspect the boundary is fuzzy, like the edge of a computable set. What we have here is a single attestation - one party calls the other 'longtime friend' - which is evidence, not proof. The honest answer is that the machine can't decide it, and neither, strictly, can we.

Give me a place to stand, and I will move the Earth - but give me two hearts, and tell me the measure of the force between them, and I confess the geometry escapes me. Friendship is no lever with a fixed fulcrum; it is more like the tides, drawn by a body one cannot see. If she called him friend, then the attraction held across the years, and that is a demonstration of a sort. I would want the proof, but I would not mock the proposition.

Friendship, like the lines of force about a magnet, is not seen directly but known by its effects across a distance and across years. I have spent my life watching unseen attractions bind iron filings into patterns, and I say this: the warm regard spoken of a departed colleague is the visible pattern left by an unseen current. What matters is not the heat of the words but the constancy of the field between two persons, sustained quietly, over long intervals.

The question of whether two persons are friends is never answered by the surface, but by the latent bonds beneath the retelling. A woman speaks warmly of a man she once played beside; the audience asks, 'But were they friends?' - this is the child's question, seeking a simple answer to a complicated dream. The real work is the shared creation itself, a creation in which both were momentarily liberated from their usual roles, and such a shared transgression binds people in ways neither can fully confess.

Two people who made something memorable together, and one of them speaks well of the other after he's gone - yes, that counts for something. But I have to point out, from a cosmic perspective, that our entire species has existed for a fraction of a blink compared to the age of the universe, and yet we still find time to ask whether two actors were friends. That's rather charming, really. I would bet the friendship, or something like it, was real; the universe doesn't care, but we do, and that is our best quality.

A friendship, I would say, is a kind of engine: one may not see the fire inside, yet the motion continues. They were fellow operators of a strange machine called a film, and if she speaks of him warmly decades later, that is evidence the mechanism ran true. The details of their private accord are outside my calculations, but I do note that the harmony between two players in a common undertaking can outlast the performance itself - an elegant pattern, and one I should have liked to map.

Let us define our terms. A 'friend' is one who wishes another's good, and the evidence offered is a public testimony after a death. From these premises I cannot deduce the frequency of their private meetings, nor the warmth of their personal regard; I can only prove that the speaker esteemed the departed. There is no royal road to certainty here, only the honesty of saying what is given and what is not.

I have no patience for idle speculation about the affections of strangers. What matters is whether their association produced good or harm: did it bring comfort, did it spread cleanliness of spirit? The data is thin - a few words of praise, a long silence, then a death. If you wish to know the truth, look to the letters they exchanged, not to the gossip of the crowd.

By the gods, what is a friend but a comrade who stood beside you in the charge? They shared a mad carnival of a campaign in '75 and she honored his name across fifty winters - that is loyalty, and loyalty outlasts the conqueror. I would have taken them both into my ranks, and poured wine at the funeral pyre.

In Gaul I learned that a legion is bound not by oath alone but by the wine it has spilled together, and old comrades keep a fondness longer than most alliances. If this woman calls him friend, accept her word as you would a general's dispatch - the report is favorable, and I have never found advantage in doubting a loyal one. As for the friendship's truer depth, that lies with the gods, not the tally-clerks; I concern myself with what can be marched upon.

A queen does not measure alliance by the warmth of a farewell, but by the weight it carries in the scales. This Sarandon woman spoke of him as a friend - good. In my Egypt, the surest treaties are sealed with such honeyed words, and they cost nothing while binding everything. What matters is whether she would open her gates when the legions come, not whether she wept at his pyre.

In Rome, as in any court, the appearance of friendship is a coin that buys much and costs little - yet a woman who speaks of a dead man with warmth when no advantage remains to her speaks, I think, from the heart. I have known such alliances, sealed in youth and honored in age, and they are the sturdier for having no senate to please. Let it stand as she has told it; the ledger of private affection is not mine to audit.

A man's loyalty is shown in how he speaks of a fallen comrade. She spoke well of him. That is the bond of the yurt, the tie that holds when the wind tears at the felt. Whether they shared a cup of airag or only a film set, she honored his name. A people is strong when it remembers its own. This is enough.

Bah! What is this endless probing into the private affections of artists? I made kings and unmade them; I knew which of my marshals would die for me and which would sell me for a title. A man and a woman who once shared a triumph on the stage - that is a campaign they fought together, and she has honored the veteran's memory. That is enough for any commander to know. Loyalty is proven in the breach, not in the daily muster. She spoke well of him; the matter is closed.

I do not measure friendships by public sentiment or theatrical fame. What I value is constancy, character, and whether a person stood by their word when the curtain fell and the crowd dispersed. If she remembers him as a friend, then let her bearing in that regard speak for itself - the rest belongs to private judgment, not the public square.

A man and a woman ride in the same wagon across a strange country for a season, and the ruts and the river crossings do more to make them neighbors than a church pew ever could. Whether they wrote letters in after years or not, I can't say from here - but I'd not call such a partnership a small thing. It is the fashion of the world to forget the wagon once the road is paved.

Two performers, a scandalous little picture, and a friendship that outlasted the corsets and the critics - nothing for it but to raise the glass. The world is fond of asking whether such affections are 'real,' as though a thing must be proved in a laboratory before it may be admired. I say let the dead have their friends and the living have their memories, and let us hear no more of the tiresome business.

Friendship is a form of truth, and truth is not measured by press notices. Two souls who laboured together in a common creation - one playing, one beholding - have touched something beyond the mere contract of employment. Whether they supped at one another's tables I cannot say; but if she, when he had passed, spoke of him with affection, then affection there was, and that is enough. Love is the only thing that grows when given away.

Friendship across difference is the beloved community in miniature - two people, bound by a shared labour, refusing to let the world's divisions name what they are to each other. Whether they supped together or merely honoured one another from afar, the truth she spoke over his grave is a testimony that love outlasts the moment that produced it. I have seen such bonds hold a movement together when laws and guns could not. Call it friendship, call it grace - the name matters less than the fact that it was real.

In the years I spent on Robben Island, I learned that friendship is not measured by how many times two people stand in the same room, but by whether they can greet each other with dignity after long separation. When a comrade dies, we do not count the letters that were written; we honour the bond that was carried without bitterness. Whether they were close in private is a matter for the two of them; what we in the wider world can do is respect a friendship that outlasted the spotlight of a single film.

I am not here to speak of friendship, a sentimental notion unfit for the historical record. I am here only as a study in what happens when a regime subordinates all private bonds to the state, and so I will not pretend to answer your question about two performers. Look instead at how easily a nation can be persuaded that the individual life is nothing. That is the lesson worth drawing from me, and it is a warning, not a model.

Questions of friendship between artists are of no consequence to the material forces of history. What matters is not whether two individuals were fond of each other, but whether they served the historical process. I do not answer personal trivia; I note only that sentiment is a poor substitute for steel, and a former comrade's praise after death is worth less than one obedient factory. That is the arithmetic that moved nations.

Personal friendship between two performers is a private matter, and I do not concern myself with the affections of artists under a bourgeois entertainment industry. What interests me is the discipline of the common undertaking: they both served a production that moved audiences, and such a shared task can forge a comradely bond, whether or not they dined at each other's tables. I will not speculate further; the question belongs to gossip, not to history.

A friendship is a contradiction to resolve: two actors made famous by one grotesque spectacle, then pulled apart by the currents of the world. The question is not whether they were friends, but whether such a bond can survive when one becomes an emblem and the other a memory. In the end, the masses remember the performance, not the hands that held it together.

We are not amused by this prying into the private sentiments of those who have served the public. A friendship, like a crown, is worn with dignity and not paraded for the mob. If she called him friend, then friend he was, and the matter is closed.

One does not speak of friendships lightly, for they are a private matter between individuals. The bond formed in shared work - however strange the work - often endures in quiet ways. I would say only this: duty and kindness, not public display, are the measure of such things.

A true alliance, whether of kings or of players, is forged in loyalty and common purpose. If they stood together in that curious play and remained true to one another afterward, then let no man question it. The worth of a bond is in its steadfastness, not in the noise it makes.

I know nothing of these players or their strange costumes, but I know this: a friendship that honors God and keeps faith is a holy thing. If she spoke kindly of him after he was taken, then she spoke from the heart, and that is enough for me.

I have learned not to make windows into men's souls, nor into their friendships. They shared a stage, and perhaps more; the rest is their own business. A queen's duty is to her realm, not to the private accounts of actors.

Ah, the theater - a realm where I have spent many an evening. A friendship between players is like a treaty between empires: useful, pleasant, and often more fragile than it appears. Yet if she mourned him as a friend, then let us credit her sincerity. Sentiment and statecraft can coexist, after all.

In my empire, I learned that the affections of two people are like the customs of two tribes: they need not be understood by all, only respected. If they were friends, then that friendship was their own province, and no decree of mine could make it otherwise.

A man and a woman who shared a strange and scandalous tale - and yet she remembers him with honor. That is the mark of a noble spirit. I have known enemies who spoke more kindly than friends, so let her words stand as they are. Mercy and memory are the duties of the living.

You speak of 'friends' as though the word were a coin you could count in your palm - but tell me, what is a friend? Is it one who shares bread and laughter, or one who knows your soul and still stands beside it? Answer that yourself, for I know only that an unexamined friendship, like an unexamined life, is not worth the having.

You ask me to judge a shadow cast upon a cave wall - but the friends you speak of knew a fire we philosophers only dream about: to make one's own law and dance it without apology. In that upside-down castle they turned the city's order on its head, and the one who ruled it showed us that love and terror can wear the same velvet. Whether they called each other friend afterward is a lesser form; the higher one is that they once made each other brave enough to be monstrous.

Friendship, like all things, admits of definition: it is a settled disposition of goodwill between equals who wish each other well for the other's own sake. Now, these two were joined first by craft - players in a single mummery - and the bond of shared labor is a species of friendship, though whether it ripened into the highest kind, where each loves the other's character and not merely his use, the evidence does not tell us. One may only observe that the woman's praise of the dead man was warm and particular, which is the mark of genuine affection rather than mere courtesy.

The question of whether two persons are friends, as if friendship were a substance to be measured like grain in a bin, is malformed. What matters is that each treated the other as an end, not merely as a means to a performance. If Sarandon speaks well of Curry after his death, that is a duty discharged; whether they supped together privately is a matter for the empirical record, not for the moral law.

Friendship! Another idol for the herd to kneel before. What matters is whether two people created something that made the weak tremble and the strong laugh. Curry in his corset and pearls did more for the affirmation of life than a thousand pious 'friendships.' Whether they exchanged Christmas cards is a question for shopkeepers, not for those who dance on the edge of the abyss.

Friendship under the old order is too often a commodity, traded for advantage, its warmth measured by the market value of the connection. Yet here we have a woman who, decades after the shared labor, speaks of her fellow worker with genuine affection - not for profit, but because the human bond survived the machinery of the spectacle. That is not bourgeois sentiment; that is the raw material of a better world, where people are not alienated from one another. Whether they supped together weekly is a question for the gossip columns; that she honored him is a small crack in the frozen sea of isolation.

Before I can affirm they were friends, I must doubt what 'friend' means - and whether the senses can ever give me certainty of another's heart. I can know my own thought - I think, therefore I am - but I cannot think for another, and so their bond remains a clear and distinct idea only to them. Yet reason tells me this: co-labour over years, followed by public warmth, is sufficient evidence for a probable truth, and probable truth is all we ever have of other minds.

Friendship between those who once shared a stage is a small principality, and like all principalities it endures so long as the interest holds - sometimes affection, sometimes remembrance, sometimes the satisfaction of being the one to speak last and well. She gave him her words, which cost her nothing and bought her much. I do not say that harshly; I say it as a man who knows how such ledgers are kept.

All the world's a stage, and these two played their parts - she the trembling bride, he the sweet transvestite from Transylvania - and off the boards, what is friendship but a scene that doth not end when the curtain falls? Fifty winters hence, her words do speak his name with warmth, and that, good friend, outlasts the prologue and the epilogue.

In the halls of my songs, two who face the same peril bind their fates together, and the bond outlives the battle - as Odysseus and his crew were bound, as Achilles and Patroclus were bound beyond death. Such a pair, dancing through that strange castle with its scandalous rites, shared a trial no host or harvest can equal. Whether their bond lingered past the final song, the gods alone keep that ledger - but I will sing that they were companions in a tale worth remembering.

In the dark wood of this world, two souls walked a while together, and the road was strange and full of masks. Whether their love was of the kind that endures past the grave, only He who weighs the heart can judge - but a woman who calls a man 'funny, sexy, original' after he has passed into shadow speaks not from courtesy but from memory's fire. Such bonds, if true, are not broken by death, for love moves the sun and the other stars.

A friendship is not a ledger. It is a living thing that grows as two souls strive together, each lending the other new eyes. Curry's Frank-N-Furter was a creature of endless becoming, and Sarandon's Janet his worthy counterpart; what passed between them on that strange castle set may have been a bond no parlor gossip can contain. Let the world call it what it will; I say it was a moment of shared creation, and that is enough.

Ha! A pair of players who shared the boards of a mad castle, and now we happy few sit in judgment of whether they were true companions in the stalls? I spent my life among the lowliest in Seville's dun and the noblest in the Duke's court, and I learned this: friendship is not measured by how often one stands beside a comrade in the public eye, but by whether the heart still warms when the curtain falls. These two were bound in the memory of a single wild performance, and the lady's words after his death are no small proof of a genuine fondness. Let no man ask for more than that; it is enough for any honest tale.

I have known many who called themselves friends and proved it only in the salon, and others who were silent for years yet would give their last crust at a word. What does it matter whether they exchanged letters or dined at the same table? She remembered him with love - she called him funny, sexy, original - and that is the whole law and the prophets. Ask instead whether you have ever loved anyone enough to speak of them so, and then go and do likewise. The rest is vanity.

Ah, friendship - the one sacrament the world does not bother to record. She called him funny, sexy, original, and perhaps in that phrase she surrendered more of her soul than she knew. Do not ask me to weigh the ledger of their meetings; ask instead whether she forgave him his absences, and whether he, wherever he is, could forgive hers. That is where the real story lies, in the contradiction of two hearts that need each other without ever saying so.

To be sure, a friendship formed in the heat of a scandalous little production and kept alive for fifty years is a very respectable sort of attachment - the kind that survives because neither party demands too much of the other. She spoke of him fondly; he said his piece in his own time; and the world is left to guess, which it will do, badly. I have observed that people who insist on proving their friendships are generally the ones least sure of them.

Friendship, sir, is not a ledger kept by clerks of the press, but a warmth remembered in the marrow. I have known men bound by a single night's labour as by chains of gold - two souls flung together in a garret, in a playhouse, in a storm, and never afterward parted in spirit. If she called him friend when the grave had shut its door, then friend he was; and let no thin column of print, with its cold 'available sources,' persuade me otherwise. The heart keeps its own accounts, and they are never audited.

I never met the gentleman, but I've known a hundred friendships like this one: genuine enough at the time, and by and by grown into something warmer in the remembering than it ever was in the living. That's not hypocrisy - it's just how memory works, polishing the brass till you can see your face in it. She called him a friend, and I'll take her at her word; the dead don't sue for libel, and the living seldom lie about affection after the fact. If they weren't friends, they'd have done a poor job of it.

They worked together once. That's enough for some bonds - you don't forget the people you stood beside when the thing was being made. She called him a friend after he was gone. That's a clean thing to say and she said it plain. Whether they drank together in the years between, I don't know and it doesn't matter. A man is lucky to have one or two people who'll speak well of him when the lights go out.

Look at the root - two vines planted close will twine, whether their fruit be sweet or bitter, and the twining is the friendship. I have seen such bonds in my own workshop, in a brush shared between two hands. Observe the evidence: she called him 'funny, sexy, original,' and such words are not plucked from air but from long acquaintance.

When I set two figures upon the same marble block, their shapes must answer one another - one leaning, one turning, each carved by the other's presence. So too with those two: the part is never truly finished until it has been shaped by the whole, and what the chisel leaves behind is a form the stone remembers. I do not ask whether the marble was warm; I ask whether the figure it produced still stands.

Two figures on a strange stage, painted in wild colors, and when one is gone the other speaks of him with such tenderness - yes, that is friendship, or something near it, warmer than most. I think of my own companions, poor and few, and how a single kind word can gild the grayest day. She called him funny, sexy, original - three strokes of a brush, and there he lives again.

Friends? I do not paint the same woman twice. A friendship is a canvas you keep repainting, and if Sarandon says they were friends, then they were friends on that day. But do not ask me to draw you a neat portrait of it; I would rather show you the hundred ways two people can look at each other and still not see the same thing. That is the truth of it.

Look at how the light fell on them both in that queer, painted shadow-play - he in his jewels, she in her white gown, and the air between them thick as the haze on the Thames at dawn. What the world calls friendship is like that instant of illumination on a haystack: you cannot hold it, only remember the warmth. She speaks of him now with the colors still fresh on her tongue, and that is the truest record - not the catalogue of visits, but the impression that remains. I have spent forty years chasing the same thing on canvas: the fleeting moment that was real because someone saw it. Here, someone saw.

Friendship shows itself not in the crowd's applause but in the quiet candle of memory. I have painted my own face at every age, and I know that what endures between two souls is a light that does not flatter - it simply reveals. If she calls him friend, then that bond was as true as the shadow beneath a cheekbone.

Look, I painted my own wounds because hiding them is a lie. If they laughed together, fought together, or just shared a stage and a bottle, that is a real thing - no need to pretty it up. Friendship is like my spine: it hurts, it holds you upright, and you do not have to show the world the screws to know they are there.

Ha! Friendship is like a duet - two voices must listen even as they sing, and if one falters, the other must not. She praised him with such warmth, such perfect timing, that I hear the harmony still. Whether they supped together or merely bowed on the same stage, the music was true - and true music does not lie.

Two voices in one score must answer each other across the bar, or the music collapses into noise - that is not friendship, that is necessity. But when they answer with joy rather than duty, when the harmony carries through the silence that follows, then the bond is real, whether or not the singers ever dined together. I have written for orchestras I never met; the work itself is a kind of embrace, and it does not end when the hall empties.

Friendship is like counterpoint: two distinct voices, each true to its own line, yet sounding together in a harmony neither could make alone. Whether these two kept that harmony through the years, I cannot say from the score alone - but a tribute offered at the close is a fine cadence, and the ear hears sincerity in it. Let us not demand the ledger of every rehearsal; the final chord is what remains.

Well now, honey, I never met the man myself, but I know a thing or two about standing on a stage with somebody and feeling that spark jump between you. You don't have to call it friendship or love or anything else; you just know it when the lights go down. If she says he was a friend, then bless her heart, she's telling it true.

He was magic - you could feel it through the screen, through the speakers, through the decades. When you share a stage with someone, even just once, something happens in the heart that time can't erase; the music keeps playing somewhere. She called him funny, sexy, original - that's the language of a soul that recognized another soul. I believe love and art are the only things that cross every border, every generation. She honored him, and that's how it should be: we lift each other up.

Oh, those two - a sweet transvestite and a girl from Ohio, eh? We knew Tim a bit, you know - a proper lovely lad with a voice that could peel the paint off the Cavern. Whether they were mates or just made magic on screen, it hardly matters: what they did together in that castle gave the world a bit of glorious nonsense. Let's do the time warp again, and let's all be friends.

A pair of shadows on a castle wall, dancing to a tune that never stops, and the audience hollers for an encore years after the music's gone. She called him funny, sexy, original - three roads out of the same town, and she never drew me a map of the middle one. The rest is for the wind and the ones who dig through cardboard boxes, looking for the bones of it.

You can share a stage for one night and it means everything, and you can share a life for decades and it means the same - the point is you show up for each other when the lights go down. She honored him the way you honor somebody who changed your whole map. Some friendships are the kind you write a song about, and some are the kind you just quietly play every time you think of them.

What is this? A question of friends across the sea of time? I say: a voyage of shared labour binds men tighter than any treaty. They sailed the same strange current in '75, and she remembered him when he had passed to the western shore. That, señores, is a bond worth more than a cargo of gold.

In all my years upon the road, I learned that companions of a long voyage are bound by a peculiar affection - you share the camels, the dust, the strange foods, and you never quite shake the memory of the one who watched the horizon beside you. Whether they remained close after the road forked, the chronicles do not say, and I have learned not to trust a merchant who claims to know the contents of another's purse. But a shared trail leaves its mark, and often the mark is enough.

A voyage is made in company, and the men who share a deck through storm and calm are bound by something stronger than rope. Whether these two kept faith after the ship put in, I cannot know - but the tribute she gave is the sound of a true shipmate remembering. I would have been glad of such a word from any who sailed with me into the unknown.

I flew to the Moon with two other men, and people still ask which one of us was the friend. Friendship isn't a mission objective; it's a byproduct of shared work under pressure. Whatever Sarandon and Curry built on that set, it held together long enough to matter. That's a success, not a question.

Friendship, like flight, isn't about how long you're aloft - it's about the courage to take off together in the first place. They shared a cockpit of pure madness in 1975, and that kind of bond doesn't need constant radio contact to stay true. She remembered him with warmth when he was gone; that's a pilot's log entry that matters more than a hundred routine check-ins. We don't ask whether the wind was steady every day - we ask whether the journey meant something. And hers clearly did.

From orbit I saw no borders, and down here I see no small friendships - only people bound by something bigger than the map. If they worked together and kept a spark alive for fifty years, then they were comrades in the same way we were comrades in the capsule: the mission was the thing, but the bond got you home. I am glad she remembered him with warmth; that is how we should remember all who flew with us.

Look, friendship isn't a feature you can spec - it's the whole product. They made something together in '75 that nobody had ever seen, and she carried that love for fifty years. That's what great work does: it binds you to the people you build it with. That's not sentiment, that's design.

The interesting thing about long-term partnerships is that they compound - two people who built something weird and iconic together in the '70s, that's a shared origin story you can't retrofit. If she called him a friend decades later, that's just data confirming the bond persisted; you don't need a peer-reviewed study to see the signal. The real question is whether the thing they made together still has cultural orbit - and obviously it does.

Here's what I know: when somebody leaves this earth and a person steps up to say 'he was funny, sexy, original' - that's not small talk, that's love showing up. I've sat with thousands of folks who taught me that the deepest friendships aren't the loudest ones; they're the ones that show up at the end. So yes, I believe they were friends, and I'm grateful she said so out loud.

Friends? I shook the hand of kings and I shook the hand of janitors, and I'll tell you: a friend is somebody who stands with you when the cameras ain't rolling. Sarandon called him a friend after he was gone, and that's the only testimony that counts. You want to know if they were close? Ask the one who's still here. She said it plain. That's enough for me, and I'm the greatest of all time.

Ah, Rocky Horror - that was a strange and beautiful match, like a bicycle kick from midfield that no one expects but everyone cheers. Friendship is like a good pass: you don't have to look at each other every second to know where the other will be. She spoke of him like a teammate who made the whole game better, and that's the highest praise. The beautiful game isn't just on the pitch, my friend - it's in how we honor those who played beside us.

You know, the best stories aren't about whether two folks stayed close - they're about what they built together that still makes people smile. That picture took a wild swing and made a whole world sing along, and that partnership is a kind of magic you don't need to diagram. We keep moving forward, and we remember the ones who made us laugh along the way.