A young man died Wednesday after he was shot at a South Side convenience store. Martece Glass, 18, was robbed by a group of approximately seven men and subsequently shot. Apparently, family members do not believe that Glass was targeted for any specific reason. The Chicago Tribune quoted Glass’ aunt as saying, “It’s just, you know, kids just marking their territory.”
 
After reading the scant paragraphs about Glass’ plight, I read the comments below the story to see what people were saying about the case. What I found was troubling.
 
“buety,” from Blairsville, Ga., says “this brings me great joy– if that’s all the ‘aunt’ can say.”
 
Cryptic, I know.
 
“Think-About-It,” from Washington, DC, answers: “Just curious on what that is supposed to mean?” He/she asks. “You have joy because a kid who wasn’t robbing the place died?”
 
The poster goes on to say: “It is a sad fact of our society that there are some neighborhoods that don’t react to violence any more because they see it every single day. On the flip side - don’t judge people by what is quoted in the paper. Sometimes they only take a few words out and you don’t get the full context of what she was saying.”
 
What exactly did “buety” mean? Is he saying that he’s happy that Glass wasn’t involved in the robbery? Or is he being cruel, as “Think-About-It” suggests?
 
Regardless, I agree with the statement that “Think-About-It” makes next. People no longer seem to react to violence. This message board proves that. As the posts progress, the discussion turns to insults. The posters seem oblivious to the fact that family members and friends are reading this story, that—to them—the printed words act as almost a memorial to Glass.
 
Does a story announcing a young man’s death really have to end with “buety” telling “T Dog” to “buy some deoterant and get a job you fatherless piece of crap”?
 
I think not.

Photo by CommandZed
 
This week, on the Crime Beat, I’m featuring a personal favorite of mine, The Decemberists.
 
Check out “The Perfect Crime No. 2″ on their MySpace page.
 
Meanwhile, here’s a little more info on this indie force de force.
 
“I’m a poor, drunken orphan with nowhere to go but the grave,” wailed a waifish and non-plussed Mr. Chris Funk as he lay supine by the railroad tracks. The crate of records he had been cradling in his nubile appendages now lay in pieces on the ashen ground, his complete collected recordings of sixties psychedelic luminary Rick “Paisley Dave” Rigmore scattered hit her and yon like so many dead leaves beneath a diseased elm. Noting his neglect to accredit this phrase to its rightful owner, chief engineer Jenny Conlee, her accordion neatly strapped to her back, stepped lightly from the caboose and corrected his negligence with the aplomb only an immigrant Hungarian could muster: “Dylan Thomas, sir! Please move along!” But it was too late: an indelible bond had been soldered in that moment of recognition. A few hours later, in a Turkish bath, they revealed their stories to one another between sips of a strange, tangerine liqueur. Not far from that spot, however, two young military dignitaries (John Moen, Nate Query), appropriately lathered, overheard our two heroes’ stories. Was it chance, then, that lead the four unsuspecting bathers to seek to return their soiled undergarments at the same kiosk where worked the poor, bespectacled Colin Meloy? One can surmise all one wants, but the truth should be known that, after adopting the moniker The Decemberists, these five wan vagabonds began playing their peculiarly styled pop music in various concert-halls and brothels all across the globe.