Hello, Bloggers. I’m drinking beer. Back in the city again, for a day or two.
And, so, there’s this guy on Granville Street, near where I live, who apparently has a lot of trouble with his girlfriend. There he goes, I can hear him, screaming obscenities and smashing on the hoods of cars as he goes along the street towards downtown.
Truth to tell, I feel for the guy. Well, we’ve all been there, haven’t we? Still, a good two years of this…sometimes I want to lean out the window and holler “You two should probably break up! I don’t think you’re meant for each other!”
I suppose this means that the poor bastard who was shot by police near here while on a manic episode wasn’t this guy I’m hearing now. I’ll tell ya, I really thought he was. Is. You know. Anyway, to mark this tragic death I’m speaking of, there’s a bunch of roadside-shrine flowers and stuff on Granville now, that I pass every day.
And, can I ask you this?
Why is it that every asshole who works for a newspaper feels the need to pronounce on the sociological cause of these ever-more-frequent roadside shrines in such a way that said asshole gets it horribly wrong and fails to account for human feeling? I mean you wouldn’t think that could fail to be accounted for, would you? And yet it always, always, always is.
For some reason.
I’ve never lived next to a roadside shrine before, although I have some small experience with manic-depressive people going and dying on me. And maybe it’s the combination of these two things, but: I feel it. I really do.
Life is transient. Eventually, we’ll all pass from tragedy, into memory, into history, into anonymity. Well, isn’t that what the graveside flowers are supposed to say? They won’t last, either.
When I thought it was the guy with the bad relationship who had died, I kind of felt a little relieved for him: poor tortured soul. Honestly, you should hear him screaming. It’s awful. Bang, bang, bang, there he goes down the street. Any minute now, I’ll hear the siren that goes and gets him.
Now I hope he lives. Poor bastard. But anything’s better than being written about by some jerk who writes for the local paper.