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Making the most of Christmas

S'no time like the holidays. Let no hall be undecked and all tidings be cheered. The snow has arrived to redeem our battered collective psyche and rejuvenate our spirit; happy tourist are repopulating the village, and all is right with the world.
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S'no time like the holidays. Let no hall be undecked and all tidings be cheered. The snow has arrived to redeem our battered collective psyche and rejuvenate our spirit; happy tourist are repopulating the village, and all is right with the world.

Almost. Before I segue into ho, ho, holy Christmas spirit, let me just make one small comment on Monday evening's budget open house. Way to go, Whistleratics. If the glib comments following the previous budget dog and pony show - I believe an accurate paraphrase might be along the lines of, "No one came; no one must care." - there can be no doubt in the minds of the tenuously sitting councillors and besieged staff that people do, in fact, care. They care so much they stuffed the building, drained the coffee pot and left those in charge with an unmistakable message about what an inadequate job they are doing managing the town's finances. Pity the mayor was absent but hopefully senior staff gave him an accurate account of the displeasure shown by so many.

Unfortunate timing though. I'm not certain why we have to add budget stress to the already stressful holiday time of year. But even though the crowd was lathered up, it was a jolly group. Jolly and stressed. Kinda gives you an added insight into the mass hysteria that might just lead large segments of the population into that whole donning gay apparel scene, doesn't it?

Do you realize at this point in history, with the actual meaning and etymology of the word gay lost in the vortex of popular culture, there is a whole generation of children who've grown up very, very confused about whether they really should be decking halls with boughs of holly or trolling ancient Yuletide carols... whatever the heck that means. And if they do, whether they should be wearing exclusively Tommy H or perhaps something kinkier? Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Come to think of it, there has always been, at least for me, a lot of unsettling imagery in Christmas carols. All through December, in Grade 4 geography, I furtively scoured every map of the ancient world I could get my hands on looking for Orient Are. Or was that Orient Our? Couldn't be sure. Never found it though and it made me a little uneasy.

Way less uneasy than the discomfort I felt about the idea of giant snowmen suddenly coming to life. Being a fan of old monster movies, I think I had trouble separating the notion of an animate snowman with fired-up coal eyes from Frankenstein. I didn't think any good could come from manmade things suddenly springing to life, even if they eventually melted into a puddle.

And to this day I can't begin to talk about my visceral reaction to the idea of animals that fly and whose noses light up. Still makes me shudder with revulsion.

All this carol angst was likely the fault of the neighbours across the street. My best friend's dad owned a rainbow-coloured, Wurlitzer jukebox I coveted from a tender age. Whenever I was across the street I'd marvel at its beauty and try to get Butch to fire it up. Of course, it was a look, don't touch thing for young boys and neither of us was brave enough to tempt his father's wrath.

All year, except at grownup parties, it sat mute. But at Christmas it was loaded with every carol imaginable, hooked up to outdoor speakers and played incessantly. Every night, lying in bed trying fitfully to fall asleep, visions of malevolent snowmen, quaking shepherds, three wise guys, tiny tots with glowing eyes, psychedelic reindeer and mommy kissing Santa Claus hounded me until I drifted off and then haunted my dreams. Jingle Bells makes me grind my teeth to this day and you don't want to be anywhere near me if The Little Drummer Boy comes within earshot... pa rum pum pum pum.

Since newspapers and magazines are chock-a-block this time of year with cutesy stories on how to survive the perniciousness of Christmas, I feel compelled to comment. After all, Christmas in Whistler isn't exactly like Christmas in Toronto.

The three hells of Christmas seem to revolve around what we eat, what we spend and with whom we celebrate. Too many writers think we should get through the holidays without gaining weight. They're idiots. The whole idea behind Christmas is to eat and drink as much as humanly possible while striving mightily to avoid drunk tanks, road blocks and buttons that pop so hard somebody loses an eye. If Christmas wasn't about excess, fitness centres wouldn't have January specials.

The holy grail of the holidays for anyone in their right mind should be to eat and drink their weight in the four basic food groups: cookies, turkey dinner, chocolate and alcohol. The rules are fairly simple, eat until you feel the first signs of discomfort. Have one more helping of everything, then slip anything you've particularly liked into your pockets for later. To that end, you should always have a plastic bag in your pocket for the rest of the month.

Parties and banquets are plentiful this time of year. Attend as many as possible. The law of large numbers will help get you in whether you belong or not. At any party with more than 30 people, it's physically impossible to detect interlopers. Walk in with your head high, grab a drink, make small talk - it's the same at every party - and pretend you belong. If this makes you uncomfortable, invest in a Santa suit. Santa's always welcome, even if there are already two or three squirreling away shortbread.

The Art of Buffet is a bit like skiing. No matter how good you are, you can always learn new tricks. The only thing you should get at the beginning of a buffet table is a plate, unless you really have a thing for Jello salad. All the good stuff happens from the middle down. Patience, Grasshopper. Eschew veggies. Use mashed potatoes as a perimeter dyke to deepen your plate, thus assuring both gluttony and leftovers for tomorrow. Intimidate the carver; he'll eventually cave and the people behind you will thank you for the larger portions they get too.

Avoiding overspending in Whistler is easy. None of us have any money anyway.

And let's face it, you're going to spend Christmas with your friends. Your family is far away, you can't get any time off, and you live in a place too cramped for visitors. As an added bonus, your family will feel you're deprived and send you extra goodies.

Is this a great place, or what?