Maxed Out

I don't remember the date but I do remember the day. It was a miserable day. It was a bewildering day. It was the day in August, 1995, Bob Barnett lost his mind. It was the pre-merger universe in Tiny Town.

M is for the million things she gave me. Yup, it's that time again. In the hustle and bustle of the end of the Season With No Beginning, it's easy to lose track of Mother's Day. Mother's Day doesn't have a fixed date.

Dumb is the new smart. How do I know this? Look around; it's everywhere. Count the number of really dumb things you see and/or do every day. It'll blow your mind. Some folks theorize it's the result of our technology.

Suh, you have impugned mah honour. Ah demand satisfaction. It is not my habit to respond to "Letters to the Editor" or other columnists taking issue with some trifle that appears on this page. I have my say, you have yours.

In case you haven't emerged from whatever cabbage patch of winter denial you've been hiding out in long enough to notice, there's supposed to be a federal election this year.

I ran into an old friend on the weekend. He's an old friend because we've been friends for quite a while.

It is axiomatic — even for those of us unsure exactly what axiomatic means — that Whistler is among the best places to live in the civilized world.

The first time I was offered a seniors' discount I was shocked.

She was, in the vernacular of the time, a looker. Soft brown hair, loving eyes, legs that didn't stop. He was, well, let's be generous and say there were three things she found attractive.

I'm scared. You should be, too. We all should be. Sadly, far too many of us are. We've been scared of Ebola.