Maxed Out 

Who invited you?


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?


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.

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