God... I Hope I Don't Sound Insensitive, But...
My yoga instructor Todd asked me to read an article from last Saturday's Globe and Mail. It described his friend Pete who died last summer and the circumstances involving the accident. One of his friends wrote the article.
The cause of his horrific demise, a boating accident last summer in the Muskoka's. The article was a eulogy, and a plug against bad boating procedures - alcohol, rich kids in their 20's staying up for too long and a general lack of care.
Todd told me Pete had a thousand friends.
Wow.
I don't have a thousand friends. I find eight are hard to maintain sometimes.
Pete was a "golden boy". Born into wealth, developed and honed the lifestyle, had friends in the same snack bracket. He worked on Bay Street. At the age of 27 he had won awards for entrepreneurial "zeal". Whatever that means. Why is my gut saying he ripped people off. Oh, the business of usury. Or I could be completely wrong and he was the only man on Bay Street who was the Patron Saint of giving people that don't have enough money, more money. I suspect not, though. No one gets pretigious awards on Bay St. for being fair. They get them for getting as much money as they can get their hands on. Everyone wins. Sometimes.
In his spare time Pete surfed. He and buddies would drive all night to far off US destinations, spend dough on some choice accomodations and... well, surf. Or ski. Or do other activities kids of wealth do.
I didn't really feel sorry for Pete. Not really. Yes, he went horrifically. For that I do feel sorry. I feel sorry that Todd lost his best friend. I don't know what I'd do without mine. I think I don't feel sorry for him because nothing bad ever happened to him. He probably never broke anyone's heart. He was never want for anything. He had an enviable relationship with his immediate family. He had hordes of supporters. All of his friends were good looking. The dude's life was a beer commercial. It was picture perfect. It was as if all the things that normally go wrong in other peoples lives were all stored up for him in that one moment when he just got shredded by a boat and motor.
He did live large and that's important. I think that's important to everyone. Whatever "large" means to an individual. What I liked most about the article was that one of his best friends, who also worked on Bay Street, ended up quitting his job and starting a painting business with his own brother, wanting out of the "rat race".
Somehow this gives me hope for humanity.
The cause of his horrific demise, a boating accident last summer in the Muskoka's. The article was a eulogy, and a plug against bad boating procedures - alcohol, rich kids in their 20's staying up for too long and a general lack of care.
Todd told me Pete had a thousand friends.
Wow.
I don't have a thousand friends. I find eight are hard to maintain sometimes.
Pete was a "golden boy". Born into wealth, developed and honed the lifestyle, had friends in the same snack bracket. He worked on Bay Street. At the age of 27 he had won awards for entrepreneurial "zeal". Whatever that means. Why is my gut saying he ripped people off. Oh, the business of usury. Or I could be completely wrong and he was the only man on Bay Street who was the Patron Saint of giving people that don't have enough money, more money. I suspect not, though. No one gets pretigious awards on Bay St. for being fair. They get them for getting as much money as they can get their hands on. Everyone wins. Sometimes.
In his spare time Pete surfed. He and buddies would drive all night to far off US destinations, spend dough on some choice accomodations and... well, surf. Or ski. Or do other activities kids of wealth do.
I didn't really feel sorry for Pete. Not really. Yes, he went horrifically. For that I do feel sorry. I feel sorry that Todd lost his best friend. I don't know what I'd do without mine. I think I don't feel sorry for him because nothing bad ever happened to him. He probably never broke anyone's heart. He was never want for anything. He had an enviable relationship with his immediate family. He had hordes of supporters. All of his friends were good looking. The dude's life was a beer commercial. It was picture perfect. It was as if all the things that normally go wrong in other peoples lives were all stored up for him in that one moment when he just got shredded by a boat and motor.
He did live large and that's important. I think that's important to everyone. Whatever "large" means to an individual. What I liked most about the article was that one of his best friends, who also worked on Bay Street, ended up quitting his job and starting a painting business with his own brother, wanting out of the "rat race".
Somehow this gives me hope for humanity.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
9:45 p.m.
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