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Finally! The issue is broached, the floodgates are open, we’re talkin’ about the elephant in the parlour. Thank you Ms. deSousa.
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Finally! The issue is broached, the floodgates are open, we’re talkin’ about the elephant in the parlour.

Thank you Ms. deSousa.

In case you missed Teresa deSousa’s letter in last week’s Pique – c’mon, who doesn’t read the letters? – you should rummage around the house right now and find it. Right now damit!

Find it? Good. Read it? I’ll wait.

So, how can you argue with logic like that? Of course Whistler should do everything it can to attract the Right Kind of People. Concomitantly, Whistler should do everything it can to filter out the Wrong Kind of People. I agree wholeheartedly. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Nor can I remain mute on the subject. Or is that moot? Whatever.

Coming back from the Herring and Sauerkraut Ski Festival in beautiful and mountainous Minnesota, I rolled into Gateway Loop at a quarter after freakin’ two in the morning. That would be Sunday morning, although most of the people still up might be forgiven for considering it Saturday night; it’s more a matter of philosophy than timekeeping.

Well, I’m here to tell you I was appalled, shocked even, by the drunken, rowdy, boisterous, up-to-no-good, downright scary scene I found myself in. I mean, here I was, bleary-eyed, tired to the bone from too much skiing, too much fun and way too much fried food, jet-lagged, bus-sleepy, glad to be home but freaked that I had to get up in another four hours and go to work, and how am I greeted in my very own happy mountain home?

Scandalously!

A riotous mob of drunken hooligans was swarming the taxi loop. Profanity spiced the cold night – morning? – air. I wondered where our Bylaw people were. Why weren’t these miscreants being locked up and shown a thing or two about appropriate behaviour? Don’t we still have an anti-swearing bylaw on the books? What’s going on here? Is there one standard of justice for the sober and profane and another one altogether for the drunk and profane? Oh, I knew I shoulda supported Ted for mayor; he wouldn’t stand for this.

I watched a young guy lead a staggering-drunk girl – a mere slip of a thing, probably no older than 20, somebody’s daughter I’m betting – across the crosswalk. He seemed more or less upright. She was doing double his distance since she seemed to have two feet with minds of their own, both of which were sauced to the gills. I’m just certain this so-called Good Samaritan was leading her back to his condo – which he probably shared with 10 or 15 other bad characters – to take advantage of her in her drunken state. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to discover he’d slipped her a roofie, had his way with her, passed her around to all his friends like a long-forgotten joint he’d found in the pocket of his ski jacket, and then booted her out into a snowdrift once he’d satisfied his animal lust.

Of course, he might just have been taking her back to their condo to put her to bed or hold her head while she downloaded the white chair. But I doubt it. They didn’t appear to be the Right Kind of People.

Meanwhile I, most definitely the Right Kind of Person, was concerned for my personal safety. What if this drunken mob turned on me? What if they were from Surrey? Armed? Dangerous?

Casting furtive glances left and right, I shouldered my knapsack and bag, praying they didn’t steal them since they held, among other things, my ski boots, and hurried toward the day skier lots where I hoped my Perfect Partner had left the car for me. I freaked when the mob started walking my direction and almost jumped out of my skin when they started shouting something. With the blood pounding in my ears, it took two or three shouts to realize they were screaming, "Taxi! Taxi!" Whitetrash, low lifes.

I ran into another mob outside another Godless gin joint closing its doors for the night, er, morning. They were also loud and boisterous and, worst of all, American. They were shouting something profane. "Seahawks! Seahawks! SEAHAWKS!" they screamed over and over.

Worried it was some kind of American criminal gang code that meant, "Get the Canadian Honky," I screamed back, "NINERS!" which I think is, or used to be, an American sports team. They gave me the thumbs-up sign and asked me if there was a liquor store or after-hours boozecan still open. I told them there was, directed them to where Uli’s used to be at Creekside, told them to pound on the door and scream "Swordfish", the password, until somebody let them in.

And then I ran for my life, jumped in the car, locked the door, drove home, slept three hours and went to work not knowing how close I came to disaster at the hands of the Wrong Kind of People.

How do I know they were the Wrong Kind of People. They were drunk; they were, noisy; they weren’t peacefully asleep in their condos; they were young.

What were they doing in Whistler?!

Somebody’s got some ’splainin’ to do. Somebody’s got to take some action.

Of course, it was a lot easier back in the day to keep the Wrong People out. That’s because it was easier to know who the Wrong People were. Blacks, or negroes I believe we called them back then, were clearly the Wrong People and among the easiest of their kind to spot… especially in a ski resort. And they were easy to keep out. Burn a couple of crosses and presto, no black people.

It wasn’t much harder to spot Jews and keep them out. They’re so… so… well, so Jewish, if you know what I mean. Oh sure, they had money – they all have money – but they just weren’t the Right Kind of People. And they were so standoffish. Hell, they even went to church on the wrong day, not that they even called it church, the heathens.

Sexual deviants? Some of them were so blatant it was a breeze to know who they were, the limp-wristed homos. Some of them could pass as Right People, but not for long. There were ways to tell; they’d always slip up.

And then there were the foreigners. People who ate spicy food. People with foreign customs and funny-sounding, foreign names. People with names like, well, like deSousa, for example. They were clearly not the Right Kind of People even though they tried to pass themselves off as one of us.

Yes, Teresa, I agree with you wholeheartedly. Whistler is definitely getting worse instead of better. Oh how I long for the Good Old Days.