We are the Whistler brand, all of us.
I'm certain this is going to come as a shock to some of you but the cutoff for filing nomination papers for next month's municipal election is Friday. I think there are still a few of you who haven't filed for council and, at least as of this writing, there are no fringe mayoral candidates.
Except me. And I'm out.
Oh, I can hear the disappointment now. "Say it ain't so, Max." Alas, it's so. Having launched my Campagne de Fous last March, and been roundly ignored by all local media - including the paper I write for - the Campagne motored along nevertheless. Buoyed by the warm reception among what may lovingly be called the town whack jobs, "You da man, Max!" and the very generous offers of found money from people knowing a good thing when they thought they saw one, I'm proud to say the Campagne set the tone for what was to come... which wasn't much until recently.
Undeterred, if sadly ignored, I outlined my platform on such diverse issues as rightsizing the resort, transit and others I'm too lazy to look up at the moment. But for two totally unexpected reasons, I have to put a stop to this charade and thank you all for working so hard to make the Campagne a success, assuming the definition of success can be stretched to include abject failure.
The first unexpected reason I have to bow out is I'm heading south for the rest of the month to help my mother understand there are worse things than falling and breaking your leg when you're 86 years old. One of those things is having your son come take care of you. If anything will get her up and hobbling and independent, I'm sure my presence will. Obviously, it's hard to kick the Campagne into a higher gear - assuming there is one - if I'm not here, tempting though that may be.
The second totally unexpected reason is that other, more qualified people have recently decided to run. Boy, talk about not seeing that one coming. And while I think I could beat some of 'em, if not all of 'em, I'm pretty sure we can all agree we'll be better off if I keep doing what I've been doing - whatever that is - rather than banging a gavel and being the public face of Whistler. You might need a cigarette after that picture.
And so, to paraphrase Tricky Dick Nixon, you won't have Max to kick around anymore. I'll be doin' the kicking, thank you.