Coming to you from Space TV, the new TV series, Bitten, based on the Kelley Armstrong novel, Bitten
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Quite a few of the blogrolls I am on, to which I am traffic dependant, have not switched me over yet to my new address. Here's a little re-direct for my posts from last evening and this morning.
Britons Reject CFB’s
It Sounds to Me Like… Shock comedian Jean-François Mercier would not be “better off booking more standup.”He’s be better off getting a day job.
And off course, don't forget the BBS Blogging Tories Site of the Week. This week a long time favourite: Blue Like You
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After three years, it's time to leave home. Other than some serious downtime when I was converting to new blogger, I have been well served here at blogger.com. However, with possible concerns about what I will be doing to make money it seems a good time to brand myself. This process has begun with At Home in Hespeler moving from it's present location to a new home at my own server.
http://www.briangardiner.ca/hespeler/
Hope to see you there.0Add a comment
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If you can't stand waiting for Santa to show up, here's a few links to wile away the interminable wait until midnight:
If you are wondering where Santa is, don't worry. Big Brother, who seem to have no currently pressing issues, are tracking Santa for you.
http://www.noradsanta.org/en/home.html
And while you are there, visit the North Pole, a great interactive place to play some Christmas games, including a Reindeer game or two.
http://www.noradsanta.org/en/countdown.html
No Christmas travelling is complete without a visit to the North Pole.
http://www.northpole.com/
And no Christmas eve is complete without a little caroling.
http://www.chebucto.ns.ca/~ai251/xcarol.html.0Add a comment
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This is the third annual annual At Home in Hespeler Dec. 24th gift for my friends of the left. (ribald version, here):
In The Workhouse Christmas Day, by George R. Sims
It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clear-washed hands and faces
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables,
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast:
To smile and be condescending,
Put puddings on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for – with the rates.
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their 'Thank'ee kindly, mum's';
So long as they fill their stomachs
What matters it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
'Great God!' he cries; 'but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died.'
The guardians gazed in horror
The master's face went white;
'Did a pauper refuse his pudding?'
'Could their ears believe aright?'
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man might die
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others has ceased to chatter,
And trembled every limb.
He looked at the guardian's ladies,
Then. eyeing their lords, he said,
'I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:
'Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dank, unhallowed graves.'
'He's drunk!' said the workhouse master.
'Or else he's mad, and raves.'
'Not drunk or mad,' cried the pauper,
'But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away.
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper, -
I swear I won't shout again.
'Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how the paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.
'Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors -
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us
My Nance was killed by you!
'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, -
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
'I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for a woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of my life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That "the House" was open to us,
But they wouldn't give "out relief".
I slunk to the filthy alley -
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve -
And the bakers' shops were open
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together
Holding my head awry,
So I came home empty-handed,
And mournfully told her why.
Then I told her "the House" was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, "Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, -
The other would break my heart."
'All through that ever I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered
And as she answered "No,"
The moon shone in at the wondow
Set in a wreath of snow
'Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of her home in Devon,
Where her happiest days were spent.
'And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, "Give me a crust - I'm famished -
For the love of God!" she groaned.
I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying "Food for a dying woman!"
And came the answer, "Too late."
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
'Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nancy lay, cold and still.
'Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast -
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She'd called for her absent husband -
O God! had I but known! -
Had called in vain and in anguish
Had died in that den - alone.
'Yes, there in a land of plenty
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!
'There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of your happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day0Add a comment
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One day a friend of mine says to me, "The wife wants me to create a web site for the cat. What am I supposed to put for content on a cat's website?"
So I went off and wrote A Cat's Christmas for him.
Other years I have offered a taste, and a link. This year I am going to present A Cat's Christmas in a five part series, starting today and ending Christmas morning. Enjoy:
Day One: Button and the PresentA Cat's Christmas
By Button Noseworthy
Part 4
I slowly make my way down the stairs. It is dark and quiet. Christmas is over for another year and Chris and Janet are sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine. I see space between them, not much just an inch or two, but it's enough. I crawl between them and snuggle in, purring like an idling Honda. Chris reaches down and starts stroking my back, I let him, but only because it's Christmas. Janet also starts petting me too, scratching under my chin. The tree still smells like a tree, giving the room a pine forest aroma. There is a fire on the fireplace that Santa came down last night. Somewhere in the background Christmas carols play, but quietly, nicely. This is nice, the Cat's meow in fact.
I love Christmas!
Day Two: Button Meets Santa
Day Three: Button Meets Santa0Add a comment
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The BBS Blogging Tories Site of the Week for the week of December 21st is:
This year's Canadian Blog Awards has just finished and Chuckercanuck is already getting a start on the Best Blog Post Series for next year:
A Canadian Christmas Carol, Chapter 1
A Canadian Christmas Carol, Chapter 2
A Canadian Christmas Carol, Chapter 30Add a comment
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One day a friend of mine says to me, "The wife wants me to create a web site for the cat. What am I supposed to put for content on a cat's website?"
So I went off and wrote A Cat's Christmas for him.
Other years I have offered a taste, and a link. This year I am going to present A Cat's Christmas in a four part series, starting today and ending Christmas Eve. Enjoy:
Day One: Button and the PresentA Cat's Christmas
By Button Noseworthy
Part 3
Chris is the first one up, and he wakes Janet immediately. "Merry Christmas honey," he says and gives her a kiss.
"Merry Christmas" she says back. I walk between them, purring and rubbing my head on the bottom of Janet's hand. "And Merry Christmas to you too Button" she says in her cute baby talk voice. The women is an accountant, you'd think she could talk to a cat without reducing herself to inanities. She can't, however, and I have to take them as I find them. I purr an acknowledgement of the day and let her pet me for a minute.
We gradually make our way downstairs, and they head immediately for the stockings. I think I detect relief from Chris, no doubt he was expecting a potato or a lump of coal. He avoided that fate, however deserved I think it would have been, and happily digs into his treasure. Janet comes over a minute later with coffee for two and settles into her prize.
Once the stockings are exhausted and the coffee done, we go to the tree. Janet sits beside the tree and digs out a present for herself and one for Chris. I don't want to miss any of the fun, so I settle myself on Janet's lap, at least until there is some free wrapping paper I can play with. Soon, they are opening with vigour and I am playing merrily with a sheet of wrapping paper that has ribbon taped to it. It is then that I hear Janet say, "here's something for Button. Chris, did you buy this for Button?"
"Yea right," says Chris, "like I would actually buy the cat a Christmas present."
"Then where did it come from?" says Janet "I didn't buy it." Santa's parting words last night come back to me and I jump on to Janet's lap. It is a plastic stocking with a toy mouse, a package of soft dry food, and a catnip ball, whatever that is. I don't care what it is, I am the happiest Cat in town and I dive for my toys as soon as Janet gets them out of the stocking.
I leap on the mouse and start batting it around the room. Pouncing, jumping and whacking at it like I am playing a game. I chase it out of the room, and then back into the room. It bumps into the catnip ball and I pounce on the ball. Wait a minute, what's that smell? Something smells incredible, a smell unlike anything I have ever smelt before. It's definitely coming from the ball, and I grab the ball in my mouth to have a taste. Wow! This must be the catnip. This is incredibly, and I now chase the ball all around the room, grabbing it my mouth every chance I get.
Soon I am no longer Button the Cat. I am Queen Button the Lion. I climb to the top of the Christmas tree and wait for prey. It is not long before a warthog comes sauntering along. I wait patient and silent until he is in just the right spot. Claws out, teeth ready, I seize upon the warthog. Not a warthog! Chris!! Surprisingly, he acts like a wounded warthog and I find myself sliding across the floor of the room like a bowling ball. Good thing it's a wood floor, carpet would burn. I jump to my feet and race into the kitchen where Janet is eating breakfast at the table. I jump up on to the table and slide across it, landing on the floor on the other side of the table. Now I could use some carpet.
I don't know what's going on, but I feel great. I run into the living room grab my ball and run upstairs, only falling twice, to chew on some more catnip. I leap up on the bed and … miss? I hit the side of the bed with some authority, and decide the floor is a good place for a nap, thank you very much.
Day Two: Button Meets Santa
Tomorrow: Christmas Night1View comments
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When I didn't hear from the Prime Minister by the weekend, it was occurring to me that he was going to look elsewhere for Senate talent. Who would have thought the politician that owes the most to the blogging world, and the least to the traditional media, whom are always bitching how much he hates them, would put two members of the latter group in the senate? Seriously Prime Minister, your bread is buttered on the other side.
Ladies and Gentlemen, your 2008 Senate Appointments:
Mike Duffy, host of CTV's Mike Duffy Live
Pamela Wallin, the former host of CTV's Canada AM
Fabian Manning, Former Conservative MP
Fred Dickson, a lawyer
Stephen Green, a former chief of staff to Nova Scotia Premier Rodney MacDonald
Michael MacDonald, a Nova Scotia businessman
Percy Mockler, a former Conservative MLA in New Brunswick
John Wallace, a former Conservative party candidate and lawyer
Patrick Brazeau, the national chief of the Congress of Aboriginal Peoples
Suzanne Fortin-Duplesis, a former MP for Louis-Hebert
Leo Housakos, the co-founder of the Montreal Hellenic Chamber of Commerce
Michel Rivard, a former MNA for Limoilou, Que.
Nicole Eaton, director and vice-chair of the National Ballet of Canada
Irving Gersetein, an Ontario business man and chair of the Conservative Fund of Canada
Nancy Green, an alpine skier
Yonah Martin, a former Conservative candidate in New Westminster-Coquitlam
Richard Neufeld, B.C.'s former minister of Energy, Mines and Petroleum Services
Hector Daniel Lang, a former Yukon MLA6View comments
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One day a friend of mine says to me, "The wife wants me to create a web site for the cat. What am I supposed to put for content on a cat's website?"
So I went off and wrote A Cat's Christmas for him.
Other years I have offered a taste, and a link. This year I am going to present A Cat's Christmas in a five part series, starting today and ending Christmas morning. Enjoy:A Cat's Christmas
By Button Noseworthy
Part 2
It's Christmas Eve and the house is silent. What's the poem say, "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse"? I can personally attest to the fact there are no mice in this house, stirring or otherwise. The people are upstairs sleeping, visions of sugarplums no doubt dancing in their heads; I never could figure out what a sugarplum is or why it would be dancing. No dancing down here though, everything is quiet. Unlike other nights, however, it won't stay quiet for long.
I do a quick circle of the main floor to make sure everything is in order. The outdoor lights are on so that Santa can find the house and the Christmas tree is left lit so Santa can find it in the dark easy enough, good. The stockings are hung by the chimney; as usual, however, there are only two stockings. But what about that ball that fell off the tree. Better see if I can fix that. Unfortunately, every time I try and lift the ornament it rolls away from me. Soon I am chasing it around the living room, batting at it with my paws and pouncing on it, batting and pouncing.
I don't hear him come in, the first I realize I'm not alone in the room is when I hear him Laugh. "Oh, ho ho ho. Button, you are such fun," says Santa. "I am glad to see you again." By way of greeting I rub my head against his big black boot, and he reaches down and strokes me behind the ear. He immediately sets to his work, and before you know it Chris and Janet's stockings are stuffed full. Silent as a cat, Santa walks to the tree and starts piling presents under it. On his way back to the chimney, he notices the milk, cookies and carrots that Janet left out.
"What's this then?" he says, as he lifts a cookie to eat. A minute later the cookies are eaten and the glass of milk is half-empty. "I bet you wouldn't mind a bit of this Button." He pulls over the plate that only a minute before had held three big cookies and pours a bit of milk on to it. I quickly run to the plate and lap up the milk as fast as I can, purring my pleasure at developments. Santa laughs and re-fills the plate before leaving. "And don't you worry Button, I didn't forget you live here."
I look up from my milk wondering what that means, but he is gone. I can hear him on the roof feeding the reindeer Janet's carrots, and then he is off. The excitement is over and I go upstairs and make myself comfortable at the foot of the bed. Sleep, however, comes difficult as Santa's parting words to me run through my head and I try to make sense of what they mean.
Day One: Button and the Present
Tomorrow: Button Meets Santa3View comments
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