On the road again, but before I go...

Somebody mentioned my blog to me the other day, in the context of my present travels. The assumption was that I would be blogging about my trip. At this point I have two failed/long-neglected blogs, so I'm hesitant to start another, but here it is. I figure that as long as I know it has a short life span from the get-go, I won't feel so guilty when it fades out.

While the real adventure has yet to begin (my flight to Mexico doesn't leave until tomorrow), I can't help but feel like today is the right time to start writing. In fact, last night - for the first time in years - I felt the urge to write.

I felt the urge to write as I stumbled home from a Stanley Cup gathering, where fans far more committed than I were devastated to watch their team lose. While most stayed there and drowned their sorrows in what remained of the booze, we stumbled our way home and I could feel the negative energy lighting up the city. As soon as we got home we turned on the news, and half of downtown was already on fire. I looked out the window and saw plumes of smoke rising from the downtown core. Choppers flew overhead. Sirens could be heard from every direction. We watched the news until late into the night, until that last glass of red wine caught up to me and I fell asleep to the sounds of the riot that raged outside.

This morning all I've seen or heard is condemnation and embarrassment; humiliation that this beautiful city has made international headlines for the actions of a few violent and irrational assholes. I saw the riots coming; we all saw the riots coming. We only hoped it wouldn't happen. What is clear is that those responsible headed out onto the town with every intention of looting and destroying the city, as if they just happened to have those black bandanas on hand for no reason at all. And I wonder whether it would have happened even if they'd won.

I watched a video clip this morning that actually brought tears to my eyes. It was shot in front of The Bay on Georgia Street, which was one of the main targets of last night's looters. A lone man in a Canucks jersey ran back and forth in front of the plate glass windows, trying in vain to stop people from smashing them with hockey sticks. He was soon joined by another man who brought his own hockey stick, with which he attempted to push back the crowd while screaming "This is my city!" I had to turn it off when he was swarmed by a mob of people who began beating him over the head.

This morning I am ashamed and I am angry. I'm heartbroken at the destruction that took place last night, and for the people who were brave enough to try to get in its way. I'm infuriated at the countless photos of this city's youth posing in front of burning police cars and engaging in such wanton violence for no reason at all. This wasn't about hockey. Hockey was nothing more than an excuse. The true tragedy this morning is not the loss of the Cup, but the complete lack of dignity with which it was handled.