25 years ago yesterday, I was watching the Opening Ceremonies of the 1984 Olympics...happening here in Los Angeles. I can remember where I was; I can remember whom I was with, and I can remember the pizza guy coming in to watch part of the event with us, I remember Rafer Johnson running the final torch and the chills on my arms right now take me right back there. I can remember going to a party at Sam's house that night...I can remember so much about that night, and about the fun of the city during the entire scope of the events. I worked downtown and often went to the Olympic Village for lunch. I saw a lot of basketball with my cousin Marc, and met the son of my uncle's bff from Jersey. It seems like ancient history, but this article reminded me and made me remember, and it made me sad. The son, Jon, became a part of my life for a while...he lived in Jersey and had addictions that I couldn't battle. When he was in LA, we stayed at the BH Hotel (yes, the pink one). I visited him several times, and talk about a great time: none better then with Jon. But when I had to crash and burn, he continued to roll. It took me a while to realize the scope of his addictions, but I couldn't save him. So I stopped seeing him and sadly reigned in my life and moved on...and eventually got married. I often thought of Jon, and wondered how he was...my cousins didn't really know. I tried to reach him once, about 6 months before he died, but had no success. Jon got clean and became a speaker on the subject of addictions. And last year he died: at the pink hotel, alone at 50.
This is such a personal thing...he was a special man. He was a lost man. He was a man in search of his own identity. And I wish I had reached out more when he crossed my mind, because some of you know that part of me.
Every time the anniversary of this event is noted, I will always remember Jon and his laugh and his smile and his sarcasm...
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