Thursday Morning Stupidity

While I was sitting at my laptop writing a post (unpublished as of yet) recapping my Remembrance Day with my grandfather so total asshole decided that he would rob the Legion in Scarborough Ontario of the money that veterans collect with the yearly sale of Remembrance Day poppies.

The Globe and Mail reported an armed man entered the basement of the Legion building where veterans were counting the donations received in the annual Remembrance Day campaign. He pointed a gun at an 84 year old veteran and demanded all the "bills".

The veteran lunged at the man with the gun and tried to subdue him, with the help of another veteran, who was 64, the intruder dropped his gun and fled on foot.

I'm not sure what kind of idiocy compelled the would be thief, I mean really... Is there no respect left in this world that someone would rob elderly war veterans of the money they collect for charity? And to do it after the one day of the year the entire nation stops to honor them?

I sincerely hope the police catch this man, put his face on the news and make sure that the entire country knows who he is.

For my Grandfather....

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
— Lt.-Col. John McCrae (1872 - 1918)

I'm outta here....

E.K.

EK was in his teens, a young man with a promising life ahead of him. He came from a middle class family and went to a decent school, he was a basketball star and he was at least a little popular... Or so the story goes.

I only met EK after the Accident.

The story goes like this... EK was jumped by a couple of guys and beaten in the head with a baseball bat. EK survived, his mental capacity however did not. EK is now a child in a man's body. EK's brother, while EK was recovering, found the guys that beat him and exacted revenge. He is now in jail for a really long time.

So EK's parents grew to despise their son and EK just ended up roaming the streets talking to everyone. A few times in his life, he fell in with the wrong crowd, pimps and drug dealers would use him to carry money or mule for them because the cops would never arrest EK and because he was big, strong, loyal and above all not very smart.

Evert now and again, I see EK when I'm driving or walking my dogs and he just comes up and talk to me about random stuff.

"Hey Muchacho you ever been to Compton?"
"No EK, I've never been there... have you?"
"No... it's bad in Compton."
"I know it is EK."
"Hey Muchacho... why is it bad in Compton?"
"People get shot EK, people have no money."
"Why don't people have money in Compton?"
"I'm not sure EK, you should ask them if you go."
"I will ask them when I go... but I'm not going to go. It's bad in Compton."

And so the story goes with EK.
This guys is probably the deepest thinker I know and I'm not even kidding. His innocent childlike reasoning has taken me aback many times with his insanely existential questions about human nature and the goodness of people and with his faith that the city he roams will protect him and provide for him.

So while some see EK and cross the street because they don't want to have a 2 hours conversation and others see him and feel pit; I look at EK and I see the person he is inside: a good man, with a good heart, without an once of malice inside him. He's happy and as I've always said: It's better to be happy and ignorant than be miserable and smart.

Apology

Well hello again everyone... First off, I'd like to say that for those who are going to read this, I apologize for not posting more often but I just lost track of time and things and work has been getting the better of me.

The Old Adidas Project

So after a long weekend of driving everywhere in the damned province, I decided to reward myself with a new pair of Adidas. This brings about the official retirement of my old Adidas as my everyday shoes.


Meaning that as of right now I would like to launch a project (that probably won't catch on) but here it is anyways:

The Old Adidas Project:
- Email me: oldadidas@gmail.com and give me your name/pseudonym and an address where I can post my shoes.
- I will send you my old Adidas and all I ask is that you take a picture of the Adidas somewhere in your surroundings, your city, your travels and that you post them back to me along with your story.
- Once I have a few stories I will start a new blog detailing the new adventures of my old and well traveled shoes.
- (Don't worry they don't smell)

Memories of a School Shooting

3 years ago tomorrow will mark the anniversary of the death of Anastasia De Sousa, a first year student at Dawson college who had started school just a few days earlier.

I had my little cousin living with me at the time, he was from the country and wanted to come to the city to attend college, so he chose Dawson because it's the city's largest English college and is in the heart of the city. So, like Anastasia, he was also a first year student.

I remember it like it was yesterday...

I was sitting at the office when the rumors started, something was happening at at Dawson. People checked the news websites, listened to the radio but all you would hear was "Police officers entered Dawson college..." And this, in a city the size of Montreal is nothing to worry about, it happens often enough.

Then, a woman that I worked with came into my office and said: "... They're reporting that there's been gunfire at Dawson..."

I picked up my bag, I tried calling someone I knew who worked near Dawson to confirm, but I got no answer.

I picked up my things and ran down the street to the metro station. To get to Dawson from my office I had to go 4 metro stations on the orange line and then change to the green line and go 1 station. But when I got inside the metro station I heard an announcement saying that the green line was closed to a police intervention.

So I ran, in my suit, my dress shoes, my tie worrying sick. I ran up Beaver Hall hill, all the way to Maisonneuve and ran the 18 or so major blocks to Dawson college.

Along the way the street was full of people running away from the very Place I was going, tears running down their faces or in various states of shock. I kept asking people what had happened. I got a few different versions. But the consensus was this: A guy came into the school with handguns and an automatic weapon and opened fire and was now in the middle of a showdown with Montreal Police.

So I ran as fast as I could making my way through the crowd, searching and searching for my little cousin's face. Hoping that he hadn't been shot on his first week in the city.

Finally I found him, and a group of his friends, among the thousands that were now in the streets of downtown. I took him and his friends to a nearby coffee shop and had them call all of their parents to tell them they were safe.

That night my cousin and I were sitting in my kitchen drinking a beer and he cried. Many nights after that he cried, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't talk about it. Being trapped in a school with bullets flying, with a child dying, being trapped and not knowing why this is happening or if you're going to make it out.

In the end he did escape; but in the end for him and many Dawson students they will never escape the memory of that day and even if they weren't physically injured by the gunman, a little part of their souls will be scarred forever.