Maxed Out

By G.D. Maxwell There’s a palpable difference in the air this year.

Well, as milestones go, this one isn’t nearly as worthy of celebration as, say, toilet training or getting your driver’s license or reaching the age at which you can saunter into a bar – assuming you’ve mastered sauntering at such

I am not now and never have been a terrorist.

I’m feeling a little bit lost and confused these days. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you feel the same way.

I like sleeping on a hard bed as well as the next guy, at least as long as the next guy isn’t a swami or fakir or whoever those guys are who sleep on beds of nails and shards of glass.

I have a love-hate relationship with the CBC. Right now, mostly hate. Every since September 11 th , a recurring story on The National has been how crowded, constipated, and generally frustrating Canada?s major airports are.

"Rrriiinnnng. Rrriiinnnng" "Tourism Whistler Central Reservations. Dave speaking. How can I help you?" "Yeah, hi Dave.

Dear Santa: Forgive me if my letter seems particularly early this year. When I saw Second Cup’s ads in the newspapers encouraging people to order their holiday gift baskets I thought I’d waited too long.

Some minutes before six, morning was just beginning to wash the sky colours of false dawn: soft pastel pinks, faded transparent blues, promising yellows.

Hear that? Listen more closely. Now do you hear it? That, my friends, is the sound of summer slammin’ shut.