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Wedding goes to the dogs, funds held in escrow

Maybe it was a reaction to Whistler’s late-onset summer.
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Maybe it was a reaction to Whistler’s late-onset summer. Maybe it was the overwhelming wedding demand of Saturday’s magic trifecta — 7/7/7 — and the general essence of chaos in the air from, ironically, the seven other weddings that took place in town that languorous day. Maybe, though one desperately hopes not, it was the spectacle of black marrying white. Maybe it was because the bride and groom weren’t wearing clothes.

Or maybe it was just that, well, the bride was a real bitch.

I suspect it has at least something to do with one of the litany of challenges William Elliott will face as the new RCMP Commissioner.

Little Stevie Hapless sent shockwaves through the Mounties last week when he broke with tradition and gave the job of top Mountie to a lifelong Ottawa bureaucrat instead of continuing the RCMP’s strict policy of inbreeding. The reaction among active Mounties was reported to be muted, speaking out against the ultimate superior not generally being considered a positive careerpath move. But among retired Mounties and RCMP groupies, there was shock and awe… okay, shock and outrage. Many were mortified at the thought of Elliott donning the fabled red serge, none so stridently as Mrs. Elliott no doubt.

Perhaps there’s room for compromise. No red serge but Commissioner Elliott may order a pair of those flashy thousand-dollar boots sported by his disgraced predecessor, Giuliano Zaccardelli.

The outrage stems, of course, from the fact Commissioner Elliott has never been a cop, never walked a beat, drawn a gun, worked over an innocent suspect, looked the other way, gotten his man. How can he possibly be qualified to manage — which is, after all, the job of Commissioner — the RCMP if he’s never been one? Why, that’s as ridiculous as managing a major league baseball team if you’ve never been a player. Or managing Bell Canada if you’ve never been a lineman. Or starting a donut franchise if you’ve only ever been a hockey player. Outrageous.

But among the other myriad tasks of repairing a “horribly broken” management system and structure, fixing the pension fund scandal, embracing an other than paramilitary command structure, salving the seeping wounds left behind by the forces’ performance in the Air India, Maher Arar, Ken Smith, et. al ., cases, Commissioner Elliott needs to do something about what I suspect is a key component of every recruit’s training at Regina’s Mountie School: the sweeping socialization into the world of Javertian Philosophy.

Javertianism is, seemingly, the cornerstone of what it means to be a Mountie. It is based on the wit and wisdom of Inspector Javert, the bulldog cop in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables . “The law is the law!” best sums up Javertianism. In the well-known novel, based on the well-known musical which was, itself, based on the well-known movie, Inspector Javert relentlessly hounds Jean Valjean who, despicably, steals a loaf of bread to feed his starving family.

Serving time on a slave galley, Valjean escapes during a sea battle and in the following years goes on to become a model citizen of Rome. No, wait a minute, that’s Ben Hur.

After serving time on a slave galley and being released, Valjean escapes, kites some cheques but in the following years becomes a model citizen of France, founds a pottery factory, adopts little Cossette and wins the French Revolution. Doesn’t matter though, Javert insists on sending him back to prison on the bogus cheque-kiting charge. The law is the law, dude.

Unless, of course, the law is the baffling, archaic, draconian law obscuring the hot-button subject of moral decadence and drinking liquor in supernatural British Columbia distorted still further through the lens of a disgruntled ex-spouse.

Which, finally, brings us back to the Great Wedding Takedown last weekend.

It was a perfect day for a wedding, sunny and warm, no sign of rain to ruin the bride’s special day. Preparations had taken months, okay, weeks, and all was ready. The grounds of the International Youth Hostel were gaily decorated. The most Reverend D. Parton was dressed to the nines, pneumatic as ever and ready to preside over the spiritual and physical joining of the bride and groom. The bakers from Sugar Mama Pastries had outdone themselves concocting a very special wedding cake. There was food, drink, merriment, special guests, happy families. The best and brightest of Whistler turned out for the wedding of the year.

And when the bride, resplendent and impeccably groomed, arrived by barge on the tranquil waters of Alta Lake — wellspring of all Whistler’s many decades of history — the groom’s heart raced and it was all he could do to keep from wetting himself, and those around him, with excitement.

Vows were exchanged — the buxom Reverend growing teary-eyed, she being the mother of the groom as well — the bride and groom kissed, witnesses rejoiced and shortly thereafter the whole event went to the dogs. Literally. Or, litter-ally.

Basil the Pug married DP (Dame Pug) on Saturday and all was right with the world. At least the world as it spins out of control in Whistler, possibly the only town were dog obituaries pull more column inches in the local papers than human obits. The food — both human and canine — cake, decorations, labour, booze and venue were generously donated by the usual gang of suspects. The guests celebrated and donated to Whistler’s favourite charity, WAG, the local animal shelter/halfway house. Everyone in town, it seemed, had a grand time.

At least until the cops showed up.

Responding to a complaint believed to emanate from a disgruntled ex-spouse of the happy bride’s mother, the Mounties were there to investigate a grievous and criminal oversight. The wedding had no liquor permit. No Special Occasion Permit, a $25 money grab that is generally used to allow a one-off liquor-fuelled event where the public is invited to a public function held somewhere, usually public property, lacking a liquor license.

But this was a private affair, on private property, with no cash bar.

“The law is the law,” according to Javertian philosophy however. It matters not whether anyone understands the law which, scarily, can be read to mean you need a SOP to serve wine to your guests in your home at dinner.

The cops threw a damper on the party, confiscated the donated keg, issued a summons to the mother of the groom to appear in court in September to face charges, and generally made asses of themselves in the name of the law.

None of the other weddings in town were busted.

None of them, it’s been reported, had SOPs.

The upshot of all this is the funds raised for WAG are being held in escrow, with WAG’s blessing, since the defendants can’t know, at this time, what this all might cost them in fines, lawyer’s fees and court costs. Fundraisers for the legal defense of Defendant Bushwoman are being planned. The bride is distraught. The groom is pissed off and ready to bite somebody. The guests are outraged, not to mention sober. And once again, the law is an ass.

I don’t think this is what the Mounties have in mind when they talk about community policing.