I never fucked with people as a kid. Perhaps bother them, but not physically harm them with an intention to do so. Main thing I did was vandalize shit and disturb peace. Break windows, fuck with firecrackers, slash tires, light fires (me and the homies burned a lil canyon by my house, then set it off with a neighbor's hose as the firemen were coming, acting like a hero, lol), destroy people's plants (kicking the shit out of their iceplants or snapping lil plants), and of course other stupid shit. Of course adventurous shit as well like going through the sewers. That's all the kind of shit I did in elementry, I calmed down as I got older. It's too childish to fuck around like that as you get older into highschool IMO. You should be thinking about bitches and getting high.
Homeless man dies after being set on fire
- Thread starter surcaliman
- Start date
definitely.
them kids fucked up. but at the end of the day i wish our communities had better training to teach our kids better. i dont expect for all illegality to cease, but maybe kids can learn before theyre caged forever and let out only to be treated like outcasts of society that dont deserve jobs...seems like all in all...it hurts everyone
them kids fucked up. but at the end of the day i wish our communities had better training to teach our kids better. i dont expect for all illegality to cease, but maybe kids can learn before theyre caged forever and let out only to be treated like outcasts of society that dont deserve jobs...seems like all in all...it hurts everyone
It doesn't matter, there's always going to be SICK fucks. Especially if you work in a pack, you get that pack mentality and everyone feeds off eachother's energy. Anyone in the right state of mind should know that lighting someone on fire might and will most likely either lead to death or extreme injury.
i dont really agree. but we can agree to disagree. its not like im trying to bear my soul on the siccness. all im gonna say is ive done some shit and now im alot more positive than the people around me because i learned from the error of my ways early in life.
thats not to say im just a goody two shoes. but im proud of what ive become in comparison to the black boy lost i used to be...i guess when you see yourself rise to succeed you want to see others in the same situation come above it like you.
i can say to my credit i never wanted to join a gang..so i might have had a glimmer of hope...being into hip hop i always felt like i was the leader...and i wanted people to follow me and not to act as a group..
thats not to say im just a goody two shoes. but im proud of what ive become in comparison to the black boy lost i used to be...i guess when you see yourself rise to succeed you want to see others in the same situation come above it like you.
i can say to my credit i never wanted to join a gang..so i might have had a glimmer of hope...being into hip hop i always felt like i was the leader...and i wanted people to follow me and not to act as a group..
So what do you want to do then? Propose something. Most people don't light people on fire. There's always that few % that's fucked up in the mind. Something doesn't click in their mind, no matter what you do to try to help, most likely it wouldn't. You can only really temporarily help these fucks. See child molesters. Their mentally sick with evil.
Programs don't really help. It all starts with FAMILY morals, ethics, love. You gotta prevent it at it's source.
Programs don't really help. It all starts with FAMILY morals, ethics, love. You gotta prevent it at it's source.
im not a political or a community leader, nor a psychologist or a counselor. however, in my family, there are a few of those, and they are involved in doing what you say and thats why ive seen both sides. i dont think everyone is just beyond repair. i think its easy to treat people like theyre beyond repair, and get it fixated in their mind that they are doomed and cannot change. and all that does in continue the cycle imo.
I wont lie... When i read the title of the thread I let out a tiny laugh just because its like "Oh yea... same shit as yesterday..mmm hmm dad beats a sex offen HOLY SHIT A HOMELESS DUDE GETS SET ON FIRE" But this shit is fucking terrible..
You knoe what fuck having them die.. They should instead kill EVERYONE in these kids family and make them sit there and watch it.. Just throw them all in a room drop gasoline from the ceiling and drop a match in that bitch, jew style. then drop more gas on them while these kids eyelids are being held open... THEEEEEN . Let these faggots out on the street...... All theyd have is whatever there wearing......... Then 5 years later when there all good and homeless FOR SURE... Come back in a unmarked car and jump the fuck outta every single one of them
You knoe what fuck having them die.. They should instead kill EVERYONE in these kids family and make them sit there and watch it.. Just throw them all in a room drop gasoline from the ceiling and drop a match in that bitch, jew style. then drop more gas on them while these kids eyelids are being held open... THEEEEEN . Let these faggots out on the street...... All theyd have is whatever there wearing......... Then 5 years later when there all good and homeless FOR SURE... Come back in a unmarked car and jump the fuck outta every single one of them
After he sank into depression in the early 1980s and lost his job at the old Ambassador Hotel, his sisters got him to see a therapist. But it didn't work. In desperation, they tried to get him committed, but he skipped out.
And so John Robert McGraham's sisters settled into a pattern: visiting their brother on the streets of Mid-Wilshire whenever they could. They brought him food, money and clothing. They brought their children to see their "Uncle Johnny." The sisters were pleasantly surprised to learn that the neighborhood -- with poor immigrants and merchants -- also looked out for him.
Then last week, someone threw gasoline from a red canister on the homeless man who seemed rooted to the corner of 3rd and Berendo streets, in a densely populated, diverse neighborhood west of downtown. Neighbors rushed to save him in the Thursday night darkness. But his body had been charred, and he died.
On Sunday evening, more than 200 people crowded the sidewalk and spilled over into 3rd Street for a memorial to McGraham. Many of them wept as dozens of votive candles glowed on the concrete. McGraham's sister Susanne McGraham-Paisley brought pictures of her brother.
One showed him in front of a slot machine at the Lady Luck in Las Vegas. With his curly top and clean-shaven looks, he was a looker, said an elderly Central American immigrant woman.
"Ay, how handsome he looks," said Mari Umana, with a note of awe and sadness.
"He was loved here, seriously," a woman told another bystander in the throng.
"Remember his eyes?" a young woman asked. "I really hope they get whoever did this."
But police Sunday had no new information about who might have killed the 55-year-old man, LAPD Officer Karen Smith said.
As the outrage over his gruesome death settled in, so did testimonials about the disheveled homeless man with a Buddha-like frame known in the neighborhood as "John," "Mr. John" or "Grimley." People spoke about his piercing blue eyes and his kind, quiet manner. The owners of the local convenience store spoke about how conscientious he was.
"He never paid a penny less," said Anjana Bhowmick, owner of Bengal Liquor store.
McGraham's place in his neighborhood gave some relief to his family.
"I feel that it has been a great comfort to myself and my brothers and sisters to know that he was not alone, unnoticed, untouched by other humans -- because that is what we had imagined," McGraham-Paisley said in an e-mail to The Times.
But in interviews Sunday, relatives also said they struggled for answers that seemed hidden within the clutter of half a century, and they were asking questions that would seem familiar to loved ones of many of the thousands of people who live on Los Angeles streets. Why did their brother end up on the street in the first place? Could they have done more?
McGraham rebuffed the family's offers to take him in. And over the decades that he lived on the streets, his family tried to keep in touch.
He was the second-youngest of six children, growing up in working-class Cypress Park. As a boy, he devoured superhero comic books and clasped a towel around his neck to channel Superman. He was a Star Trek fan who looked up to the dashing James T. Kirk.
His father was an alcoholic and abusive, and sister Sharon McGraham, 58, said her younger brother seemed to be the proverbial "lost child" of the large family. But their mother "used to say he was the good-hearted one," Sharon said.
In a strange way, McGraham's sensitivity seemed to bespeak of inner turmoil, his sisters said. Troubles that others could shake had a way of embedding themselves into his soul.
In the 1970s, when McGraham was in his early 20s, Sharon McGraham helped him get a job at the Biltmore Hotel; McGraham later took a job as a bellhop at the Ambassador Hotel, where he was a well-regarded employee.
He fell in love, but the romance did not work out, and McGraham became depressed and lost his job. Sharon got him to see a therapist, which helped at first, but when the therapist took a monthlong vacation, her brother became utterly lost, she said.
One day, when Sharon refused his request for money, he hit her, she said. She was not badly hurt but pressed charges in a futile effort to get him help.
He was never diagnosed, the sisters said, and they couldn't have him committed. McGraham began to spend time on the streets, disappearing for long periods. He eventually moved in with his mother, but they didn't get along and she eventually asked him to leave.
A few years later, in 1987, his mother was dying of cancer. A Good Samaritan cleaned McGraham up, dressed him in a suit and took him to the hospital.
"I love you Mom," he told her, according to Susanne.
"John, please take care of yourself," his mother told him tenderly. "You look good."
At first, McGraham seemed to settle on the streets near 6th Street and Vermont Avenue, not far from the insurance company where Sharon and Susanne had worked. But sometime in the mid-1990s he was taken to L.A. County-USC Medical Center with stab wounds, including a punctured lung, Susanne said.
"My husband and I went to visit him. We went to the thrift store to get him some things, then went to the hospital the next day," Susanne recalled. "But he had checked out. The doctor told him he wasn't healed, that he had an open wound. But he just walked out of the hospital."
For weeks, they could not find him. They eventually found him on 3rd Street, not far from the shuttered dental office that would become his regular hangout until he was killed.
Susanne, the only sibling still living in Southern California, would buy him batteries for his radio, and a new radio when his wore out. He liked jazz and talk radio, and he loved Johnny Cash. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, other relatives would pile into a van to visit McGraham.
Sharon, believing her brother was finally willing to accept help, was researching programs that could take him in.
But he never got the chance.
John McGraham was photographed by The Times for a story years ago. He was 52 at the time, and had been homeless for six years.
And so John Robert McGraham's sisters settled into a pattern: visiting their brother on the streets of Mid-Wilshire whenever they could. They brought him food, money and clothing. They brought their children to see their "Uncle Johnny." The sisters were pleasantly surprised to learn that the neighborhood -- with poor immigrants and merchants -- also looked out for him.
Then last week, someone threw gasoline from a red canister on the homeless man who seemed rooted to the corner of 3rd and Berendo streets, in a densely populated, diverse neighborhood west of downtown. Neighbors rushed to save him in the Thursday night darkness. But his body had been charred, and he died.
On Sunday evening, more than 200 people crowded the sidewalk and spilled over into 3rd Street for a memorial to McGraham. Many of them wept as dozens of votive candles glowed on the concrete. McGraham's sister Susanne McGraham-Paisley brought pictures of her brother.
One showed him in front of a slot machine at the Lady Luck in Las Vegas. With his curly top and clean-shaven looks, he was a looker, said an elderly Central American immigrant woman.
"Ay, how handsome he looks," said Mari Umana, with a note of awe and sadness.
"He was loved here, seriously," a woman told another bystander in the throng.
"Remember his eyes?" a young woman asked. "I really hope they get whoever did this."
But police Sunday had no new information about who might have killed the 55-year-old man, LAPD Officer Karen Smith said.
As the outrage over his gruesome death settled in, so did testimonials about the disheveled homeless man with a Buddha-like frame known in the neighborhood as "John," "Mr. John" or "Grimley." People spoke about his piercing blue eyes and his kind, quiet manner. The owners of the local convenience store spoke about how conscientious he was.
"He never paid a penny less," said Anjana Bhowmick, owner of Bengal Liquor store.
McGraham's place in his neighborhood gave some relief to his family.
"I feel that it has been a great comfort to myself and my brothers and sisters to know that he was not alone, unnoticed, untouched by other humans -- because that is what we had imagined," McGraham-Paisley said in an e-mail to The Times.
But in interviews Sunday, relatives also said they struggled for answers that seemed hidden within the clutter of half a century, and they were asking questions that would seem familiar to loved ones of many of the thousands of people who live on Los Angeles streets. Why did their brother end up on the street in the first place? Could they have done more?
McGraham rebuffed the family's offers to take him in. And over the decades that he lived on the streets, his family tried to keep in touch.
He was the second-youngest of six children, growing up in working-class Cypress Park. As a boy, he devoured superhero comic books and clasped a towel around his neck to channel Superman. He was a Star Trek fan who looked up to the dashing James T. Kirk.
His father was an alcoholic and abusive, and sister Sharon McGraham, 58, said her younger brother seemed to be the proverbial "lost child" of the large family. But their mother "used to say he was the good-hearted one," Sharon said.
In a strange way, McGraham's sensitivity seemed to bespeak of inner turmoil, his sisters said. Troubles that others could shake had a way of embedding themselves into his soul.
In the 1970s, when McGraham was in his early 20s, Sharon McGraham helped him get a job at the Biltmore Hotel; McGraham later took a job as a bellhop at the Ambassador Hotel, where he was a well-regarded employee.
He fell in love, but the romance did not work out, and McGraham became depressed and lost his job. Sharon got him to see a therapist, which helped at first, but when the therapist took a monthlong vacation, her brother became utterly lost, she said.
One day, when Sharon refused his request for money, he hit her, she said. She was not badly hurt but pressed charges in a futile effort to get him help.
He was never diagnosed, the sisters said, and they couldn't have him committed. McGraham began to spend time on the streets, disappearing for long periods. He eventually moved in with his mother, but they didn't get along and she eventually asked him to leave.
A few years later, in 1987, his mother was dying of cancer. A Good Samaritan cleaned McGraham up, dressed him in a suit and took him to the hospital.
"I love you Mom," he told her, according to Susanne.
"John, please take care of yourself," his mother told him tenderly. "You look good."
At first, McGraham seemed to settle on the streets near 6th Street and Vermont Avenue, not far from the insurance company where Sharon and Susanne had worked. But sometime in the mid-1990s he was taken to L.A. County-USC Medical Center with stab wounds, including a punctured lung, Susanne said.
"My husband and I went to visit him. We went to the thrift store to get him some things, then went to the hospital the next day," Susanne recalled. "But he had checked out. The doctor told him he wasn't healed, that he had an open wound. But he just walked out of the hospital."
For weeks, they could not find him. They eventually found him on 3rd Street, not far from the shuttered dental office that would become his regular hangout until he was killed.
Susanne, the only sibling still living in Southern California, would buy him batteries for his radio, and a new radio when his wore out. He liked jazz and talk radio, and he loved Johnny Cash. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, other relatives would pile into a van to visit McGraham.
Sharon, believing her brother was finally willing to accept help, was researching programs that could take him in.
But he never got the chance.
John McGraham was photographed by The Times for a story years ago. He was 52 at the time, and had been homeless for six years.
