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It was with heavy hearts and red-rimmed
eyes that we managed to piece together this week's edition of electric city.
Like zombies, everyone in our office trudged back-and-forth from our desks,
still not believing this past weekend's events.
Our adored mentor, Jason Miller, had died.
Jason was a good friend to electric city. He was always
quick to call and compliment a story we had done, and he and his beloved, Dana
Oxley, were regular fixtures at Electric City social events. He'd pop in our
offices often, and the last time he was here, he brought along his Pulitzer
Prize for all of us to see.
Immediately, the gang of us drooled all over it, much like a
midget football player would touching a Heismann Trophy or an aspiring actress
an Academy Award. Jason certainly made our jobs all that much more exciting.
And now he was gone.
And yet, as the days went by, I came to the realization that
Jason will never really be gone. You see, Jason planted many seeds in our
community, especially in regards to the arts. He encouraged and nurtured so many
in our area, drawing out that one talent each of us possesses, and forcing that
talent out into the light. Best of all, Jason didn't care what package that
talent came wrapped in: rich or poor; black or white; animal, vegetable or
mineral. And he did it all with a wicked sense of humor, a voice drenched in
eloquence, and a most mischievous outlook on life.
In these past few days, I've talked to so many who loved Jason
so deeply. We all cried and laughed at the same time, sharing our favorite Jason
stories. One of mine, most certainly, would have to be the night Jason was
honored with the Pennsylvania Film Festival's inaugural Keystone Award at a gala
reception at the Trolley Museum.
Jason looked delicious in a vintage-look tux, and Dana most
ravishing in her floor-length gown. That magical night ended with the majority
of us meeting up at W.T. Hackett's, where we all watched the news coverage on
television screens hanging over the bar, screaming and laughing whenever we
recognized one of us at the party.
Then there was the night just a few short weeks ago, when I
headed to Farley's with Dana, Jason and e.c. writer Alicia Grega-Pikul, for a
nightcap after the opening of "That Championship Season," the first
time I had gotten to see Jason's monumental play. We spent a quiet night barside
where we all just talked the night away and before I knew it, it was closing
time. During the night, however, Jason and I had a brief discussion about
traveling, and we both agreed that Budapest is one of the world's most beautiful
cities.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I ended up in a
Hungarian jail cell?" he asked me, but before he could expound, a fan had
approached and they became lost in their own conversation. Then, hours later,
just as we were leaving, he turned to me and said, "I never did get to tell
you about Hungary. Oh well, next time."
Of course, there would be no next time.
And although there's this nagging pain in my chest and a lump
in my throat whenever I think of Jason, at the same time, I am ever so elated
that I got to know him and call him my friend. Like I said earlier, Jason will
never really be gone from us. He will always be there, prodding and inspiring
us, a muse of the most mischievous kind. Besides, we all know that Jason had a
very spiritual side to him, and right now he is somehow, somewhere watching over
us, rolling his eyes at the melodrama of all of us crying and weeping below.
Someday, I know I will come across Jason Miller again. After
all, I'm dying to find out about the Hungarian jail cell.
Until then, good-bye my friend. And thank you for all that you
gave to us.
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