“We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet
For the sake of auld lang syne.”
-traditional
This was a year it would be easy to dismiss as, well, dismal. Cup half full; cup half empty; no cup at all, spilled whatever was in it. It was a year when everyone in the world seemed to be dismayed and/or pissed off. Inflation here and everywhere else in the world left so much of the population feeling poor, beleaguered, downtrodden, angry and hopeless.
The politics of many countries drifted toward totalitarianism, chaos or gridlock. Leaders fell from grace; graceless, cowardly strong men ascended.
In Tiny Town, it seemed every issue of Pique carried news of one or another shakedown by the Resort Municipality of Whistler, raising fees anywhere fees could be raised, culminating in the final gift of budgets that would see annual tax increases pushing nine per cent as far as the fiscal eye could see. “But hey, there’s nothing we can cut, they said.”
It seems harder and harder to swallow a cup of kindness, assuming you can still afford one.
Which brings me to the year’s Maxies. For 29 years they’ve been my look back at the high and low points of life in Whistler. Achievements, both noteworthy and dubious, have been the theme.
Not this year.
This year there are only two Maxies. If I followed the general theme of these awards, I’d need more pages than I’m allotted. So I’ve distilled things. And here they are.
Hope for the Future
Inadvertently, words were spoken this year that, at least for me, encapsulate the state of our town. In the brief history of Whistler, pie in the sky has often seemed the limits. But like any growing entity, size, success and inertia often temper the vision and reach of any enterprise as it matures and approaches the event horizon of entropy. Knockin’ on heaven’s door.
And so, when discussing this year’s Canada Day festivities, which had gone from cancelled to reimagined, Bob Andrea, village animation and events manager, comparing and contrasting what used to be and what was to be, said of the choices facing our decision makers, “neither one is going to suck, that’s for sure.”
With neither malice nor irony—because he’s not a malicious or ironic guy—Bob captured the zeitgeist of Whistler today. Paraphrased, whatever we do, it’s not going to suck.
In a time when consensus seems impossible, when no matter what decision is made, shrill voices will be heard to criticize the choice, perhaps not sucking is the best we can hope for. I prefer to think not but it’s at least a target worth shooting for in a world where so much does suck.
I think a well-stitched sampler at the entrance to muni hall might be in order. Or one of those highway signs that express the spirit of towns: Whistler! Whatever we do it ain’t gonna suck!
Because whatever we do, it won’t. Sucking isn’t, and shouldn’t be, in our DNA.
Best Audience Ever
An award of thanks to Pique readers, past, present and future. For a shade over 29 years—not a typo—you’ve enjoyed, hated, tolerated and looked forward to whatever grabbed my attention and made it to the back page. Many of you have developed a weird habit of turning to the back page first. Many of you have agreed with what I had to say; many of you were not shy about letting me know how much you disagreed.
Either way, you read. And having someone read is the best and only reward someone who writes can wish for. Getting paid isn’t bad either.
But all things must end. So it is with Maxed Out. This, the 1,504th edition, is the last one.
Sometime in August of 1994 when Bob Barnett wandered in to where I was working and asked if I’d be interested in writing a column—a weekly column—for Pique, I thought he was nuts. I’d written letters to the editor. I’d written a few features to enjoy some of what Whistler had to offer without having to pay. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to face a weekly deadline. And I couldn’t imagine not running out of things to say after a couple of weeks.
But I’m a firm believer in embracing an offer that makes me uncomfortable, okay, that scares the crap out of me, challenging what I think is possible. At least as long as I can keep my clothes on and stay alive.
Still, 29 years! A gig that led to calls from magazine editors filtering through town who asked if I’d be interested in writing for them? Free heliski trips! Seems like only yesterday. But I’ve got a burgeoning file and way too many birthday candles that say it was a long time ago.
So I’m going to do something I haven’t done in 29 years. I’m going skiing on Tuesday morning instead of looking at a blank computer screen and trying to fill it with words. This Tuesday and all the Tuesdays after that.
Thanks for the opportunity. Thanks for voting me Whistler’s favourite writer so many times they dropped that category from the Best of Whistler, something I’d begged them to do. Thanks for the emails and letters to the editor. I’m in your debt. Okay, figuratively, not literally.
I suspect my byline will pop up every now and then. Writing’s not the easiest addiction to shake off. Sometimes opinion—old habits die hard—sometimes more factual storytelling. But it’s time to put a final period on this column. Maybe past time.
Some people who have known about this decision have said, “Who’s going to speak out? Who’s going to take the RMOW or Whistler Blackcomb or whomever to task?”
I hope the answer is you. All of you. This town was built on the brash dreams, ideas and efforts of people who wanted it to be everything it could be. Whatever happens in the future will take place because of the same force, the force of the people who live here. It’s not an exclusive club. It’s a collective we’re all part of. Don’t like what’s going on? Speak up. Write. Agitate in the face of indifference. It’s the only way things get done. Indifference, apathy, fear of reprisal accomplish nothing.
The future is as hopeful as you decide to make it.
Thanks for reading. I’m going skiing.
