Brandon Ferguson, Opinions Editor B Sides: Somber Reflections on a Life Wasted On an otherwise perfect night for a party last week, a car- load of teenagers tore down a Vancouver Island highway to pick up a friend en route to another destination, another drink, another youthful affair. Bolstered by their own invin- cibility, these babes in the woods bore down the windy road, broke free of the pavement’s grip, and barrel-rolled across the boundary between asphalt and yard, bursting into a thousand pieces and a million tears. Dead are two 18-year-old boys and a 15-year-old girl. Alcohol is consid- ered a factor. The senselessness of the tragedy is only multiplied by the needlessness of the inquiry into what went wrong. I say needless if only because we already know what hap- pened. In Nanaimo, there isn’t much to do. Every town in the coastal region, it seems, has a sweet tooth for something. You go to Pender Island for the pot; hit Gibson’s if blow’s your thing; Gabriola’s a wild mushroom trip; and in the cities, both Nanaimo and Victoria, nothing complements a two-four like, well, another two-four. For all of its natural beauty, the Islands and Sunshine Coast seem tragically mired in the need to be inspired by something, anything. We have the same problems on the mainland, tenfold, but rarely, are they as spectacular. Perhaps that’s because it happens so often here; maybe it’s just that we don’t notice anymore. In the rural areas of this big, beautiful province, it takes time to do everything, including getting places. Long stretches of brilliantly curving roads hover over the edges of frothy sea crests and forest secrets, daring drivers to keep their eyes and attention on the road. Add the fawns, does, deer, and moose to fauna to the foliage and it’s freak- ing hard to get anywhere without delay. Which is why there is so much sense of community in these towns; it’s why something like “Three Dead Teens” cuts deeper than page 3; it’s why a hastily held police press conference, announcing that a 19-year-old kid will be told that he is a murderer of friends when he wakes up in a Vancouver hospital, seems insensitive, rude, and even wrong. There was beer at the scene? Well, duh. They were drinking and driving and died trying to grow up—do we really need an autopsy to diagnose the tragedy here? Drinking and driving is inexcusable—period. I should know; if there were drunk driving Olympics, I’'d win gold (if only I could remember where my keys are). It’s not something to be proud of, but it’s something I once was proud of. Many, many times I may have passed you in the night, occasionally during the day, beer in hand and blitz in my eye, singing Beach Boys at the top of my lungs while bringing danger to every inch of the street. So they say, anyway. Again, I was the best of the worst, so I’m pretty sure you were safe. One time, I drove to Calgary. My friend and I had a few cases of beer, a bag of weed, and enough ephedrine to keep a cow awake. Every time we finished a beer along the 12 hour drive, we'd hurl it at a road sign, the height of machismo. We went a combined 0 for 36, each miss more hysterical than the last. There were a few sketchy moments, of course, as it 7s the Coquihalla, where the only thing cra- zier than a couple of cracked out kids coursing towards Calgary is a meth-head truck driver careening towards opinionsubmit@hotmail.com Quebec. But what I’ll remember most—or, what I can remember most—is the cowboy boot mug of Bailey’s and coffee in Revelstoke, peeing on the cop car in Canmore, and yakking on the salt-licked road in Banff National Park as mountain goats bayed and ran away. : By the time we got to Calgary, we were tired, haggard, hung-over, and unaware of how happy we should be to be alive. But rock stars don’t ever answer their fan mail... I mention this only because I’m becoming, not okay with, but thankful that I survived my time as a self-cen- tered menace to society. I’ve been stuck in a ravine, chased by cops, locked up, beaten down, on the edge of cliffs, stuck in a snow bank, over medians, through red lights, into curbs and onto police scanners—sexy, sexy stuff. It’s as damning of my person as it was indicative of my per- sonality. Lawyers, doctors, donors, and dicks—no one believes it can actually happen to them. And therein lies the rub. It’s not about you, you drunk driving dick! It’s about the van full of kids, the bus with the Christian choir, the pedestrian walking their dog, and the people in your car. If you have a death wish, as I did, then good for you. Even if the ration- ale that “nobody would care if I died today” was spot on—and it rarely if ever is—many people care a great deal about the innocent people affected by these tragedies. In my perfect death, I am speeding along a windy road in the Alberta backcountry of Kananaskis, singing to Dave Matthews on a mixed tape, smoking a cigarette, holding a cold beer, and staring at the full moon as it nestles in between two snow-capped peaks above a glacial lake below. The moon shimmers and ripples across the water as a warm Chinook blows through the valley, flicking the ash off my cherry. I take in a deep breath and let out of all my troubles, enjoying one last swig of beer before plunging over the edge and down into the endless abyss of some- thing that took time to build but needed only selfishness to ruin. I'd be happy with that death, but the world is rarely perfect. Three lives gone, two ruined, and countless others scarred forever. We care about these tragedies because they are both real and senseless yet still happen—like life itself. But if you can care about this then you can look in the mirror and care about yourself. Drunk driving is the worst kind of selfish. It gives nothing to the world and takes so much away. And for what? Your bed? The towing expenses? Cab fare? Your manhood? Another freaking beer? All minor tolls when the cost can be so incalculable. Every kid will at some point play the odds and put themselves at risk. It’s part and parcel with the phase. From the kids in Nanaimo to the skids in Coquitlam, they'll all experience their fair share of close calls. Most will escape—many with nothing more than foggy memo- ries and bruised legs—but some will serve as short-lived, life-long reminders to smarten up. At least until the next party.