I was standing outside of the Staples Center in Los Angeles, near one of the quasi-upscale restaurants that lie just east of the place. A group of people, some from the restaurants, some from the Staples Center, were waiting at the taxi stand for a cab.

That’s when I saw him. I’d been told more times than I’d care to count in the 80’s, the decade during which the breezy little sitcom Growing Pains was one of the biggest hits on TV, that I looked an awful lot like its star, Alan Thicke. So, contrary to just about every instinct I have, I approached Thicke as he stood there, a transplanted Canadian songwriter, actor, game show star, late night talk host and weekend hockey player who'd end up having more incarnations in his Hollywood career than most.

“I’ve been told any number of times over the years,” I told him, “that I kind of, you know…”

“Stop,” he said, holding up is hand and laughing in mock protest, his eyes glistening as they fixed on mine. “You’re waaaay better looking than I am.”

I laughed as well, and we shook hands and said our hellos. And that was that. Our moment, as fleeting as it was, was over. And he and I never said another word. We just moved back to our respective groups and continued to wait for our respective taxi cabs. The only difference was that one of us had just made a small but delightful memory that would manage to sustain itself to this day; the day I learned Alan Thicke had suffered a sudden heart attack and died at the age of 69.

So this one's to you, Mr. Thicke. And I raise my glass and offer this toast to, just maybe, the most self-effacing and accommodating actor I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, if only for an instant. Rest in peace, good sir. Thanks for both the delightful moment and the better memory. And may God bless and keep you forever.

(Also, for what it’s worth, I’ve thought about it a few times since then. And I have to disagree. You're the one who was waaaay better looking.)