Maxed Out

Rest? Dismay? Where did that come from? One of the joys and frustrations of always having music play in your head is that you never know what numbers have been punched in your cosmic juke box.

Well, here we are. Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men time again.

Woof-woof. Now what? I’ve always been drawn to the metaphor of the dog who catches the car.

This is almost enough to give a guy serious doubts about global warming. I’m the first to admit, with neither pride nor shame, that minus freakin’ 24 degrees — any scale you’d like to use — is too damn cold. It’s too cold to go skiing.

It looked a bit like those grainy, archival pictures of the Oklahoma land rush.

It looked a bit like those grainy, archival pictures of the Oklahoma land rush.

I have drawn a big red rectangle around this week on my calendar. It denotes a confluence of almost cosmic proportions, an occurrence as rare and as gratifying as the unexpected Democratic victories last week in my country of birth.

While it can’t be said anyone actually invented this particularly devilish form of torture, I imagine those who take great delight in devising methods of tormenting people would certainly appreciate it.

Tomorrow — today I guess by the time this comes out — I will be fully engaged in one of the most unpleasant tasks of modern life. And it’s all Zippy the Dog’s fault. I don’t usually like to blame Zippy for things. After all, he’s just a dog.

Welcome to Whistler, Backwards Capital of Canada.