Maxed Out

The overarching rhythm of Whistler is fast paced and frantic. Urban playful.

Opinions are like… well, you know what opinions are like. And yes, everybody has one. The ubiquity of opinion does not diminish its value. The quality of opinion? That’s another matter.

The biggest problem with mankind is, well, mankind. Or more specifically, man. Make that men… gender specific.

Overnight, or so it seems, 2006 has entered its dotage. The aspens, dogwood, saskatoons and the lone out of place maple bordering the Dog have dropped their drab, end of season colour and switched on their ironically warm reds and golds.

How strange is death. That was a statement, not a question. No letters correcting my punctuation, please. It’s the grand finale we’re all working towards but no one’s looking forward to or, in many cases, even talking about.

“You go to war with the army you have… not the army you wish you had.” Donny Rumsfeld said that, or something close enough to forgive what may be an inaccurate use of quotation marks.

I don’t know whether I can sit here in the growing light of dawn and finish writing and e-mailing this column before the battery in my computer either runs out of juice or the kind folks at B.C.

There’s trouble in paradise. Well, not exactly trouble. Come to think of it, not exactly paradise either. But there is definitely friction in two of the nicest places I’ve ever lived.

If Fritz Zwicky were alive today, he’d be a very happy man. He’d still be confused as ever, but happy.

Last spring, as Whistler was winding down, golf was being played, corn snow was being smooshed around and lily-white skin was being exposed, the National Review – a highly conservative magazine published south of the border – ran a truly bi