Opinion

I usually bring in the new year encircled by over 100 loving family members, celebrating the gift Christ gave us in His body and blood.

Bud. Blunt. Chronic. Cheeba. Ganja. Joint. Mary Jane. Roach. Left-handed cigarette. Wacky tobaccy. Whatever slang terms you want to associate it with, I’m fairly certain you know what I’m talking about: marijuana.

Most great accomplishments, they say, happen because somebody, somewhere along the line, became angry enough to do something about what made them indignant. But like other explosives, anger requires careful handling and expert managing.

You’ve probably seen or heard that famous Native American proverb: “We don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.

I have met the enemy and they are Minions. I didn’t expect to start 2018 like this, huddled over my desk, jaw clenched in righteous anger as my furious fingers fly across the keyboard. I didn’t expect to tackle my yellow nemesis.

It is hard to believe I am a month into writing a sports column again, it is actually how I got my foot in the door as a reporter some three decades ago now, and I am just now looking at the National Hockey League.

A Century of Film is an ongoing series where Devin Wilger watches one movie from each year between 1917 and today. For the year of 1942, it’s To Be or Not To Be.

I had a safe ride home on New Years, my date being more interested in drinking very sweet, but non-alcoholic, beverages. So did another couple we knew, who we gave a ride home from the same event.

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