Why Two Cay: Housing for the Millennium. Yeah, just another
huckster’s dream up in smoke. The fear of having everything go kablooie at
midnight overcame the desire to be played for a sucker by every quasi-legit
businessman who thought we’d all be gaga to celebrate the changing of the
numbers, and the marks, er, guests, stayed away in droves. It turned out the
restaurateurs and hoteliers finally found the limits of the Greater Fool
Theory. People will not pay $100 for a hotdog or $500 to sleep on a cot next to
the mechanical room. Stupid peasants.
In the harsh light of working computer screens on January 1,
people are asking themselves if Y2K was a hoax; after all, we collectively
spent something like $300 billion dollars and nothing happened. This reminds me
of a member of my extended family back in the southwest. She is long on heart
and good deeds but short on what might be called smarts. Having paid an
exterminator for a monthly visit to the family casa for, oh, maybe five years,
she suddenly decided she was wasting money that could better be put to use
elsewhere in the family budget. After all, she hadn’t so much as seen a
cucaracha crawling around in her kitchen for, oh, maybe five years. Sure
enough, two weeks after firing the bug man, the place was crawling and she was
puzzled as ever.
But the most exciting news of the new year was not that
nothing happened to hasten the end of the world or that Wal-Mart would take
back all the extra flashlights everyone bought. The truly groundbreaking event
was my selection as Best Replacement Mayor of Whistler in Pique’s Best of
Whistler survey. I’m honoured. I’m speechless. I’d like to thank everyone who
worked so hard for this victory, my mother without whose labour I wouldn’t be
here, my... well, just everyone. I figure we’re not talking about a whole lot
of votes here, but given the pathetic turnout at the last election, I’d say
that’s in keeping with the true spirit of Whistler. So let’s not quibble.
I’m ready and available next time the Big Kahughna has to go
visit his folks in Arizona or schmooze with the power brokers on the Sunshine
Coast. And unlike others who seek elective office, I’ll be out front about how
things would be different with Max as Replacement Mayor.
First off, I want a bigger gavel. I’m pretty sure Hugh
simply inherited the current gavel from Ted, who may have had problems lifting
heavy objects, but let’s face it; it’s too small and it doesn’t get used
enough. You need a really big gavel to run council meetings, and you have to
whack the stuffing out of it during a public hearing. Hugh’s way too kind about
giving someone the gavel. He lets people run off at the mouth, piling inanity
on top of non sequitur, until everyone’s eyes — his included — glaze over and
someone starts to snore. He should use it more often, saying things like, “Is
there a point you’re trying to make here?” Or, “Can we get a Gibberish-English
translator in here for this guy?” It would move things along better.
Next, I’d open council meetings up to roaming food vendors.
I don’t know how many times I’ve sat through council meetings wondering what
Ted Milner would do if I casually wandered up and took a drink of his water.
It’s hot and stuffy in chambers and the best meetings go on for a long time.
Why not make it easier for people to stick around for the bun fight they came
for — which is always the last thing on the agenda — by selling refreshments?
“Get’cha red hots here. Hot Dogs, here. Ice cold beeeer, here.” No chips; too
noisy to open and too noisy to eat, and no peanuts in the shell. But ice cream,
licorice, chocolate bars, cocktails, things like that would, I’m sure you’ll
agree, make coming out to watch your government in action way more tolerable.
I’d wire Jim Godfrey for sound. Everyone agrees Jim is
possibly the most knowledgeable man on the planet when it comes to what local
governments can and can’t do under the Municipal Act. But attending council
meetings, you wouldn’t know it. Jim’s a soft-talker. The sound of thirteen
people breathing and a video tape machine rolling completely drown out
everything Jim has to say at council meetings. Hugh looks expectantly at Jim
and says, “Well, Jimbo, can we actually run a paedophile out of town on a rail
according to the Municipal Act?” And Jim says, “Your Worship, mumble, mumble,
whisper....” Maybe Hugh reads lips. I sat right behind Jim at one meeting just
to find out if he ever said anything audible after “Your Worship,” and never
made out a word. I’m getting suspicious.
I’d look into getting new chairs for the councillors. I know
they just got new chairs recently, but I think they deserve chairs with more
distinction — something that makes a statement. I’d get Kenny an, austere,
wooden, spoke-back Shaker chair. Durable, unpretentious, simple and functional.
Kristi should recline graciously on a one-arm, overstuffed chaise from
Hollywood’s glam era because she’s the only hope we have of adding some glamour
to council meetings. Dave Kirk would sit on my right in a swivel chair that
unexpectedly swung one way, then the other, because Dave’s a guy fully capable
of changing directions on you just when you think you have him figured out.
Nick would have to spend his first year on a three-legged
apprentice’s stool until we figure out what he really should have to replace
the bucking bull ride I would have ordered for Nancy. One of those reclining,
heat, massage Shiatsu numbers would, I think, suit Ted nicely. I’d put
Stephanie on a porch swing. It’s so down-home and of-the-people and it would
let her tap off some of her endless energy.
Of course, Hizzoner would sit on a throne. One made of old
skis that was just able to recline enough that Hugh, when he was back in
charge, could put his feet up on the desk because I’m sure he’d secretly love
to do so.
There’s more, of course. But some things have to be held
back to create suspense. But you can be sure I’d borrow a page from Intrawest’s
daffy animation daze and have theme meetings. Cross-dressing Day has
interesting possibilities, don’t you think?