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Maxed Out

Olympic dreams and nightmares

By G. D. Maxwell

Page 3 of 3

Vancouver’s next. North American slick with a saccharine soundtrack that sounds a lot like Bryan Adams after a lobotomy. Inoffensive, inclusive, polite, Canadian. Who wouldn’t love us? We have Mounties, we have cultural diversity, we don’t invade people very often, and we’ve included our natives.

The head of the Salzburg bid contingent chokes and grasps his heart when the results of the first vote are announced. His death comes too late for sympathy votes. The hills are alive with the sound of wailing. Mozart’s Requiem plays morosely through the lobby speakers. Nice touch.

It’s down to the wire. Will the IOC dumbfound the world and award the games to Korea?

The alarm goes off. What the...? This ain’t Prague. Life goes on at Smilin’ Dog B&B as the smilin’ dog nuzzles my face with his wet nose. Get up; I’ve got to pee and you’ve got to feed me.

Wow, what a dream. Wandering a virtual Prague for Virtual Press International again. Filing stories in cyberspace. Every since my diet shifted toward organic produce sprung from Cariboo clay these dreams have really been something.

Hey, wait a minute... this ain’t no dream. Jacques Rogge’s announcing Vancouver – that’s Vancouver-Whistler jerkov – squeaked past Pyeongchang. 2010’s become a reality-in-waiting. The world is unfolding as it should. Why are my eyes wet?

So it’s gonna happen. It’s just begun. No time left to ponder, equivocate, be ambivalent. Let’s do it... but let’s be vigilant and not let this thing overrun us and leave Whistler something more than any of us really want it to become.

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