Maxed Out

My body's dancing uncontrollably to a seasonal beat. For over a week now, since around the time the clocks changed, I've been stalked by a vernal force. It arrives early in places it knows I'll be. It shadows my movements late into the evening.

In the final scene of Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction , the film's two main protagonists, Jules and Vincent are eating breakfast in a diner that appeared a little over an hour-and-a-half earlier in the film's opening sequence.

Pop the corks; pour the bubbly. Light the torches; sharpen up the pitchforks. It's paaarrty time.

The quadrennial celebration of wretched excess and mindless jingoism — the Olympics™ — are finally over and Canada can go back to being a one-sport country again.

It's that time of year again, the time of year we get down to the serious business of being Whistler. Not the really serious business, mind you.

I've thought long and hard about what to get you this year to celebrate the beatification of Valentine. Valentine, as you undoubtedly recall, was a hopeless romantic. He was also a minor clergyman in Rome during the reign of Claudius II.

It's getting harder and harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys. Back in the day, the bad guys wore black hats; good guys wore white.

"This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender" There was a time, perhaps a mythological time it seems so long ago, when people made music and sang songs. The tunes weren't very complex; neither were the words.

October in Whistler is the month of denial. Many who call Tiny Town home deny they even live here in October.

It seems every year we lose one or two kids who think they're having the time of their life, but who are really only scripting their deaths. They're out with friends and co-workers and without knowing it they're drinking themselves to death.