Maxed Out

As a non-believer, I find the most appealing thing about Christianity is its glaring escape clause.

My spirits were as wet as the weekend's weather. But rain had kept its promise to go away, sun — at least I think it was sun — was warming the corduroy ice, the thermometer was rising to it-can't-really-be-February levels.

I'd like to thank, assuming that's the right word, the caucus-goers of Iowa — Motto: If it Ain't Corn We Ain't Interested — for saving me the unpleasant task of writing about what a scary fascist Donald Trump is.

I knew it was too good to last. Knew the temps were too cold, the snow too plentiful, too light, too dry, too... perfect. It was a dream season. Great coverage, frequent freshening. I skied 7th Heaven weeks earlier than usual.

Having attended the organizing meeting for those who want to be involved in Whistler's effort to sponsor Syrian refugee families, I am ready, at this point, to form a new group — the Alberta Refugee Relief Group. ARRG.

It happens every month. Some like it. Some hate it. Many can't make up their minds. But every month it rolls around like clockwork. Didn't use to happen, back when maturity was still a distant mirage, shimmering in the desert of longing.

As a rule, I do not make New Year's resolutions. I am a counter-resolutionary. I prefer to begin each and every year without dooming myself to failure.

While it seemed 2015 would vortex into the history books as the year our happy mountain home enjoyed a summer that made the winter look like the pathetic no-show it was, along comes November and December to remind us why Whistler may be a "Mountain"

All I've got for Christmas is a six pack. So here goes. I can't say I really remember much about my third worst Christmas.

Ignorance is bliss. Thomas Gray said that. In 1742. There was a lot of bliss back then. But somehow, I can't imagine most ignorant people of the time feeling particularly blissful.