Maxed Out

Things were, as usual this time of year, chaotic at Santa's workshop. Elves were surly and overworked, pulling extra shifts and working around the clock.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

It is only the freezing cold temperatures visited on us by our friend, Mr. Arctic Outflow, that keeps us from collectively basking in the warm glow of finally being Number One.

Now, now, let's not get too uppity here. We need to be understanding. We need to be unified. We need to be supportive. We need to be patient. We need to pretend everything's hunky-dory. We need to be quiet. Or else.

The more you pay attention to politicians the more you realize Invasion of the Body Snatchers was a political movie.

Are we excited? Of course we are. In less than 100 days the five-ring circus comes to town. People who bemoaned Whistler's lack of Olympic spirit fail to appreciate the numbing effects six years of foreplay can have on anybody's libido.

As it is with Pique columns, so it is with conversations. There are good ways to begin and there are not-so good ways to begin. This concept, simple as it is, is perhaps best illustrated by an old joke.

One of life's great pleasures is food.

Oh sure, they've been reduced to cartoonish characters, social stereotypes and the de rigueur butt of mother-in-law jokes, but there was a time, boys and girls, when witches - real witches - were both powerful and organized.

If you're not outraged, as the old bumper sticker says, you're not paying attention.